Defiant Angel (37 page)

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T
iffany felt as if she were in a dream. Her legs, though moving, seemed to drift, never closing the distance that separated her from him. She drifted over to him as he broke from the crowd, moving toward her. Like in a dream, the rest of the world ceased to exist, as if they were the only people who inhabited it. When they did meet, only a breath away, they feared to touch and awaken, they feared to speak and shatter the moment.

For Tiffany, the world came to a halt. Nothing existed save him! Nothing mattered but this moment! Yet in that moment two thoughts intruded: I remember him taller, and, Why doesn't he kiss me?

Thoughts also raced through Alan's mind: God, she is exquisite! What the hell is she doing here dressed like that!

Blue eyes misted with tears of love; a love of yesterday, of years gone by. Her heart sang, for nothing could diminish this moment.

Alan, on the other hand, asked sharply, ' 'What the hell are you doing here, Tiffany? Why in God's name are you dressed like this?" He grabbed her arm with the intention of removing her from the track.

Clinton, acutely conscious of Tiffany at all times, noted her absence immediately. Looking up from the group of men, he scanned the crowd. His hand, which idly rubbed his chest, stopped when he saw a young man grabbing her arm. He felt an uncontrollable urge to throttle the man who dared lay a hand on her. He broke from the group abruptly, crossing the distance separating him from them, removing his jacket.

Both Brent and Rory swiftly followed.

"Uh . . . uh." Tiffany could not speak. She flushed feeling Alan's eyes fall to her breasts, which were partially revealed by the subtle opening of her shirt, but before she could respond to his questions, she felt a coat dragged over her shoulders. Turning in confusion, she found Clinton standing by her side, his arm possessively about her shoulders, pulling her against him.

Alan stared up at Clinton and released Tiffany's wrists, seeing the ominous glimmer in the gray eyes and the twitching muscle in the lean, hard jaw. Tiffany unconsciously rubbed her wrist. Clinton leveled his gaze to Alan. "Is there a problem, Tiffany?"

Tiffany stood speechless watching her dream vaporize into a living nightmare, then stammered, "I. . . ah, no."

Clinton drew her closer. Tiffany balked and stiffened at his highhandedness, wanting to explain, but unable to speak or move. "Why are you here? Who is this man? What is the quality of his life?" Alan demanded, stepping forward.

Clinton, filled with cold rage, answered in a voice that held a thread of challenge, "I am the man who brought her here. The quality of my life, sir, depends on the position she holds in it. I am her husband."

Realizing his folly, Alan lowered his eyes. He looked at Clinton and nodded his head, replying, "Excuse me, sir; if you require satisfaction for my error, I will choose my seconds."

Tiffany was slapped right out of shock and cried, "No!" Her eyes lifted to Clinton's, a plea of understanding in them. "He . . . he is A1 . . . Marquess Thurston." She placed her hand on Clinton's chest, feeling the pounding of his heart. Clinton broke his stare from Alan and looked down at her, seeing her plea etched across her face.

He saw the lines of tension at her mouth and brow, the look of concern in her eyes, and he briefly wondered, Me or him? Clinton wanted nothing more than to ease her worry, erase her fear, reassure her. Lightly he fingered a loose tendril that fell on her cheek, then, cupping her chin tenderly in his warm hand, said "Do not fret, love, I concede!" Raising his eyes, holding Alan's, he added pointedly, "This time."

Brent and Rory slowly let out a collective sigh of relief.

Alan merely nodded in recognition.

Tiffany closed her eyes and sighed.

"Come, love, it is time we go. The carriage is waiting." Tiffany yielded.

"Goodbye," she whispered to Alan before turning, letting Clinton draw her away from her lost love.

Clinton placed a booted foot on the seat and the other on the carriage floor. Tiffany rested between his legs, glumly staring out the window. She felt the hard, unyielding muscle of his raised thigh as the carriage rocked over the terrain.

Rory and Brent sat across from her regarding her from lowered lashes as they carried on a quiet conversation with Clinton.

Brent produced a flask of brandy, pouring out three glasses, which he distributed to his brothers. Clinton leaned over, accepting the glass. Tiffany caught the clean, manly scent of him and shivered. His strong, warm hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to him. He offered her the brandy and she accepted, sipping the strong brew, seeking the soothing effect it offered. The fiery liquid rushed through her veins. She took another long sip, handing the glass back. He smiled at her as a rush of color stained her face. He lifted and drank from the same spot her lips had touched. Tiffany settled back between his legs and stared off. The rocking motion of the carriage was a balm to her, and the brandy soothed her. She worried at her slender finger, unmindful of those in the carriage. Her thoughts, far from the conversation in the carriage, dwelled elsewhere. She had always imagined their meeting, and in her wildest of dreams, she never thought it would be so disastrous.

She had wanted to see him again, to talk to him . . . Well, she hardly spoke at all, she never had a chance, everything had somehow gone awry. She felt Clinton press the glass against her lips; she allowed him to hold it as she drank deeply from it. She did not see Rory's cocked brow or Brent's incredulous look when Clinton silently requested a refill.

What did Alan mean by her being there and dressed like that? Of all the words she had dreamed he would say, those were definitely not ones she anticipated.

She snuggled closer to the warmth emanating from the body she rested against and continued her musings. Well, you ninny, what else would he say? she thought in his defense. He was as surprised to see her as she had been to see him. After all, he last saw her in England, and now to find her in France and married, of course he'd be shocked. She nodded. Yes! of course.

The brandy snifter appeared magically before her, and again she indulged herself, catching snatches of the soft conversation about her. "Great bloodlines, good form, excellent time and confirmation." She paid scant attention to it, for at the moment she felt so overwhelmed by the brandy, she could hardly think straight, let alone follow the conversation. Instead she allowed her thoughts to ramble.

I wonder why I thought he was taller? Now, Clinton . . . She smiled appreciatively, and sighed. Now, he is tall and so broad and so . . . Clinton! Why, he is the root of all my problems!

She frowned, marring her brow, and with a determined set to her jaw, she stubbornly concluded that Clinton was the reason for Alan's response. She snorted aloud, a most unladylike sound, which caused Rory to draw his brows together and turn to her. Brent shook his head wondering at Clinton's wisdom of plying her with brandy.

Tiffany's thoughts continued. What the hell was all that nonsense about the quality of his life, and her position? He was an arrogant, domineering, highhanded man! Why, he had just about ruined her reputation today. Quality of life, my ass! She hiccuped, drawing another frown from Rory. She giggled, for some reason finding the whole situation at the moment funny.

The carriage's sudden lurch almost toppled her, save for the three pairs of hands reaching out to brace her. She gazed about at her brothers-in-law, seeing an assortment of looks etched on their handsome faces.

She recovered herself, feeling strong, warm arms encircled her, holding her securely. She awarded Rory and Brent with a lopsided smile, then shook her head in an effort to clear her blurry vision, and focused on Rory's face. She spurted out, "Rory, you look positively awful when you frown. Not fierce, like you think, just ghastly. Are you miffed that you lost two hundred pounds to me?" She hiccuped, laughing merrily.

"You know, Rory, Clinton said I could challenge you to a race." She turned her head quickly, bumping Clinton's chin. "Didn't you, Clinton?" she asked, her words slurring.

Clinton smiled down at her, "Yes I did, Princess."

Turning back to Rory, her movement caused yet another jar to Clinton's chin. "Sooo, what do ya say, Rorry?" She smiled smugly, snuggling against Clinton, hiccuping loudly. She giggled delightfully at Rory's frown. Brent drew his breath in sharply and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Rory seethed inside, his face devoid of the anger he felt. He leaned forward and lifted her chin with the tip of his finger. "I accept, any time; you name the date and place."

"I'll ride Duchess!" she squealed, suddenly turning to face Clinton, who dodged, avoiding the top of her head.

"And you--" she pointed a slender finger at Rory as she wavered back and forth, closing one eye, zeroing in on his blurry face "--can ride that redhead. I mean the roan you're so partial to."

Brent, Clinton, and Rory nearly spat out their brandy at her comment, knowing Rory did indeed have a preference for redheads in a more tender saddle than Tiffany referred to. All three laughed heartily. Tiffany looked befuddled.

The carriage came to a halt and the door was opened by a footman. Brent and Rory descended, followed by Clinton, who carried a giggling Tiffany through the foyer of Chablisienne. As he ascended the steps, still holding his wife, he turned to his brothers, asking, "Are you accompanying us to Richilieu's this evening? We are spending the weekend, and tonight is Tiffany's birthday dinner."

Hearing her name, Tiffany piped up. Holding her hand high and with a finger pointed to herself, a wide, lopsided grin on her face, she cried out delightedly, "I'm nineteen today, ya know?"

Clinton continued his ascent, with Tiffany leaning over his arm crying out to Brent and Rory, "Do you know what that means? I'll tell you. I am a woman."

Brent and Rory stood at the bottom of the broad, curving staircase. Brent regarded her, an eyebrow cocked, in humorous surprise, a smile tipping the corners of his mouth, when she exclaimed, "A woman of means, position ..."

Shaking his head, Rory leaned against the baluster, hearing Tiffany's words, "A woman quite capable of controlling her own future, answering for her own actions ..."

And as they disappeared out of sight, Rory, his mouth turned up in a slight smile, his left eyebrow raised a fraction, added, "And a woman quite drunk."

T
he well-sprung coach, bearing the Chablisienne coat of arms, traveled at a leisurely pace down the well-worn road. Tiffany sat quietly across from Rory and Brent, Clinton at her side, puffing slowly on a cigar.

Tiffany's headache, from which she had suffered all afternoon, finally ceased, but only after taking the snifter of brandy Clinton presented to her, remarking, "You always bite the dog that bit you." She had been unable to sort out the events of the afternoon, for there had been little time. Before she knew it, she was dressed and off to their host, who was renowned for the parties he gave.

She asked softly, "What type of parties does he host that are so legendary?" All eyes turned to her, for she had been, up to this point, silent.

Smilingly, Clinton regarded her, catching the glimmer of her diamond necklace, which he had presented to her this evening, the nineteenth stone added.

"He offers a variety of entertainment, an array of food, and a weekend filled with festivities. I believe, Princess, you will enjoy our stay."

The coach pulled up the long drive, the clattering of the horses' hooves echoing over the cobblestones. The coach drew to a halt and four livery-clad footmen appeared, opening the door and assisting the occupants in their descent.

While the butler procured her cloak, Tiffany took note of the opulence of the foyer. While she thought it beautiful, it in no way compared to Chablisienne or Wentworth. For some reason, she was pleased by this fact.

"Ah, Clinton,
mon ami. "

Tiffany watched a tall, slender man with the lightest hair, almost white, approach them. His eyes were dark as currants, and his bronzed skin provided a striking contrast. Richilieu was taken in by the vision Tiffany presented. She was an alluring sight in white silk and satin. Her gown was trimmed with double ruffles at its base. Her shoulders and the graceful curve of her back were bare, and a white ruffle ran from off the shoulder across the plunging bodice, where the full, soft swell of her breast rose. The exquisite diamond necklace was the only jewelry to adorn her. Her raven tresses were dressed so they cascaded softly down her back; gardenias were arranged within the simple coiffure, with one pinned lovingly behind her small, shell-shaped ear.

Richilieu, a sophisticated man of reputation and experience, never lacking female attention and who, at the age of thirty-two, had managed to avoid the matrimonial state, was impressed with Tiffany.

In a low, smooth voice which sent shivers down her spine, he said, "Ah, so the rumors do not lie, you are indeed exquisite." He took her hand and bent over it, placing a kiss upon it. Clinton smiled at his friend's reaction, then introduced Tiffany.

"May I present our host, Tiffany, Robar Richilieu."

She smiled and curtsied prettily.