How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1) (30 page)

Sin punched him in the nose, sending him reeling back so hard that he hit a chair and flipped over it.

Mr. Stewart gasped.

Fists clenched, Sin headed for Munro, but Lord Cameron grabbed his arm, “Sin, please. He deserved it, but don’t make things worse by causing a scene.”
He gripped Sin’s arm tighter. “Please. We must remember the ladies.”

As if on cue, the door opened, and Lady Charlotte entered with Mrs. Stewart leaning on her arm. They stopped at the sight of Munro struggling to get up, blood running from his nose.

“Don’t block the doorway,” Margaret said, pushing past and taking in the situation in a glance. “MacDougal, bring more port and some sherry for the ladies. We’ve had a stressful day. And have some footmen remove Mr. Munro from the room. I won’t have him bleeding all over my good rugs.”

Mr. Stewart gaped. “Your grace, you don’t understand what happened!”

“Oh, but I do. Mr. Munro clearly made an ass of himself by saying ugly things about Miss Balfour without truly understanding the circumstances, and Lord Sinclair set him right.” She cocked a brow toward Sin.

He returned her look sullenly, his mouth white from holding back his fury. At his side, Lord Cameron nodded. “Yes, your grace. That’s exactly what happened.”

“I thought so. MacDougal, once you’ve removed Mr. Munro, assist him with his luggage. I’m certain he has no wish to remain under my roof after being so rudely handled. I’m sure there’s room in the Stag’s Head, which is but four miles from here. I stayed there
once when my carriage broke down during a rainstorm, and it’s not a bad little inn.”

There was a bustle of activity as the footmen rushed in and did as they were bid. Lord Cameron finally released Sin, who, after sending a scathing glare at Munro, retreated to the terrace window to stare out into the night. Though Mr. Munro murmured a woozy protest, he seemed glad to be taken out of Sin’s presence.

It wasn’t until the sherry and fresh glasses had arrived that Margaret found herself facing Sin.

“Where is she?” His voice was hoarse with anger.

Margaret didn’t pretend she didn’t understand. “You’re just now noticing that she’s gone?”

“This is no time for games. I was out all day and I assumed she was here with you. Has she gone to her room with a headache?”

“No.” Aunt Margaret watched Sin over her sherry glass. “She’s gone, Sin. She left this afternoon.”

A pang went through Sin, so sharp and painful that he felt his head might split open. “She didn’t tell me.”

“She didn’t wish to make any bigger a scene than had already been made. But she’s gone. Because of you.”

“Nothing happened between us that she didn’t actively enjoy.”

Aunt Margaret’s blue eyes blazed. “Miss Balfour’s willingness to participate in your tryst does not diminish the fact that you did nothing last night to alleviate that poor girl’s embarrassment.”

“There was nothing I could do.”

“Oh?”

He flushed under her glare. “You don’t understand the entire situation.”

“I know that you asked her to marry you once you’d discovered your error in thinking her one of your usual flirts.”

His jaw worked. “I am sorry I made that assumption. I told her so, too.”

“Yes. You told her you were sorry you thought so ill of her. But did you ever tell her why you wanted to marry her?”

“No.”

“Why did you wish to marry her? Do you even know?”

“I was doing the honorable thing.”

“If you’d been interested in doing the honorable thing, you’d have never seduced that gel to begin with.”

He glowered.

Her gaze narrowed. After a moment, she sat back, a stunned look upon her face. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Why you asked Rose to marry you.” She leaned closer. “You
didn’t
offer to marry her to save her reputation, because until she opened that door, her reputation was still intact. What’s the
real
reason you asked her to marry you, Sin?”

“Because I had to,” he said stubbornly.

“And that’s the only reason?” Aunt Margaret’s gaze bored into his.

Through a welter of hurt, and whatever other hell churned inside him, he sneered, “Yes, damn it. That’s the only reason.” Then he walked away.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Stubborn, proud boy. Silly, proud gel. The very thing they have the most in common—pride—is now keeping them apart.

I’ve never found a less enjoyable irony.

“Yer grace?” A cacophony of barking answered MacDougal’s knock. He tried again, knocking a little louder. “Yer grace?”

“Wait a demmed minute, will you?” Margaret snapped from where she’d just risen. She slapped a nightcap over her iron-gray braid, swooped up her robe, and marched to the door. She yanked it open and found an apologetic MacDougal standing in the hallway.

The pugs leapt joyfully, mauling his breeches and shoes.

“Stop it, you ingrates!” she ordered.

The pugs stopped jumping, but continued to sniff the butler’s shoes.

“I’m sorry, yer grace.” The butler wrung his hands. “I know ’tis late, and ye’re weary, but ’tis Lord Sinclair.”

“My nephew? He returned?” After their argument in the library he’d ridden off, and they hadn’t seen him in two days. Margaret tried to pretend she hadn’t been worried, but she couldn’t keep a note of alarm from her voice just now.

MacDougal’s expression instantly calmed her. “He’s here, yer grace. Unfortunately . . . he’s demanding to see Miss Balfour.”

“But he knows she’s gone. I told him before he left.”

The butler grimaced. “He’s oot of his mind, then. I didna wish to wake ye, but I was afraid one o’ the other guests might come and . . . Well, we’ve already had enou’ scandal fer one month and I thought . . . ”

“MacDougal, either you will speak a straight sentence and explain what’s going on, or I’ll fetch the fire poker and whack the facts out of you.”

The butler blinked, and then gave a weak grin. “Aye, yer grace. I’m sorry fer bein’ a bit put aboot, but Lord Sinclair’s set me on edge, bangin’ on the doors and demandin’ ‘his Rose.’ ”

“ ‘His Rose?’ Is that what he said?”

“Aye, yer grace. I finally got him into the library and tried to tell him, but he wouldna hear me. Yer grace, I canno’ do aught wit’ him. Ye’d best come, though I warn ye tha’ he’s proper shot in the neck.”

“Ape-drunk, is he?”

MacDougal nodded.

“That boy will be the death of me.” Margaret returned to her bed and stuck her feet into her slippers and then snatched up her shawl from the chair by the fire. She swung the shawl about her shoulders, the fringe swinging madly as she walked past MacDougal, the pugs trotting behind her. “Fix some tea and toast and bring it to the library,” she ordered over her shoulder.

“Aye, yer grace, but he’s in no shape to eat.”

“He will be by the time I’m through with him,” she replied grimly. “We’ll also need some water straight from the pump—icy cold.”

“Yes, yer grace. I’ll bring it with a washbowl and towel.”

“Bring it in a bucket with a blanket.” She reached the bottom of the stairs. “The water first, the tea second.”

“Yes, yer grace.” MacDougal hurried to open the library doors.

She entered the room, the pugs trotting after her as MacDougal closed the doors.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the fire in the grate. Sin was pacing wildly, his hair mussed as if he’d raked his hands repeatedly through it, his face covered with several days’ worth of stubble. His clothing was mussed, his cravat twisted to one side, his coat and waistcoat open. He looked as far from the
fashionable rakehell who’d entered her house three weeks ago as was possible.
Ah, how the mighty do fall.

His gaze locked on Margaret. “I want Rose. I thought MacDougal might know where she is, but he won’t tell.” Sin’s words were slurred, his eyes red. “You know where she is.”

“So I do.” Margaret walked to the fireplace and held out her hands to the welcoming blaze. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell you.”

He looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “She asked you that? Not to tell me?” Sin stalked away and back, pacing like a wild lion in a cage.

Margaret’s throat tightened at the raw emotion in his eyes. She had to take a moment to harden her heart. “Miss Balfour needed to leave. Had you wished her to stay, you would have done something about it.”

Sin’s shoulders slumped as if he were about to collapse. “Damn that woman.”

“That hardly sounds like a man desirous of winning a woman’s affections.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “I can’t want what’s not there to give.”

Margaret came to stand by the fire, wrinkling her nose as she caught the smell of stale ale. “You smell like a tavern.”

His lips twisted into a sneer. “Behold Sin!”

“Behold Foolishness is more like it,” she said in a sharp tone. “You’re drunk.”

She took the chair closest to the fireplace and sat.
“Well, Sin? What brings you banging on my door in the middle of the night, soaked in gin? After the last time I saw you, I’m surprised to see you crossing my threshold.”

“Aunt Margaret, I’m sorry for—” He raked a hand through his hair and laughed shakily. “God, I’m sorry for so many things.”

“Oh?” She reached down and scooped a pug into her lap, patting it as it settled across her knees, warmer than any blanket. The others settled before the fire, plopping like fat snowballs onto the hearth rug. “You may be sorry for many things—God knows we all are. But I suspect that only one of those things is what’s bothering you now, and I don’t think it has to do with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re drunk, disheveled, and you haven’t slept since, hmmm, I’d guess it’s been two days?”

He shook his head. He’d tried to sleep. God, he’d tried. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rose. He saw her laughing up at him as he attempted to beat her at pall-mall, and became so enthralled with the nape of her neck that he got in the way of her mallet. He saw her sputtering as he “rescued” her from the river, and the humorous smile she gave him when he’d slipped into the woods while she was searching for a lost arrow and he had kissed her breathless.

If he closed his eyes right now, he’d see her again. “What I would give to undo those few minutes . . . ”
He sighed and dropped his head. “But I can’t, can I? Aunt Margaret, I—I don’t know what happened to me. But Rose . . . ” He rubbed his forehead. “Damn her for coming back into my life.”

“You can’t blame her. She tried to avoid you, but you would have none of it.”

He scowled. “She’s the most impertinent, demanding, mocking, infuriating—” His voice broke and he clenched his fists before he finished with a husky whisper, “dear.”

Margaret’s eyes widened.
“ ‘Dear’?”

Sin rubbed his neck, his entire body aching from exhaustion. “This whole thing is my fault. I didn’t mean to embarrass her—”

“Poppycock,” Aunt Margaret said. “You planned to do just that from the very beginning.”

“But not after . . . ” He gestured.

She leaned forward. “Not after
what,
Sin? Say it, demme you.”

“Not after . . . ” He splayed his hands, trying to find the words. “Things changed.”

She sighed. “That’s the best you can do? ‘Things changed’?”

“Yes. They changed because I realized that she wasn’t what I’d thought at all. All this time, I thought I knew her and I hated her.”

“And then you met her.”

“And she is passionate and impulsive, full of laughter and curiosity. She can’t say no to a challenge, nor
can she admit defeat.” He gave a sudden, rueful laugh. “We are quite alike, we two.”

“You no longer blame her for your reign as Lord Fin?”

“That was my fault, too.” He raised red-rimmed eyes that were wet with tears. “I love her.”

Margaret almost gave a whoop. There it was.
Finally.
“It’s about damn time you realized that.”

“You knew?”

“Everyone knows except you and Rose.”

“I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t have me. I told her that I wouldn’t allow her to be a ruined woman. That I wanted to marry her and—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Aunt Margaret’s voice dripped with disgust. “Of course she wouldn’t have you if you said it like
that
.”

“How should I have said it?”

“Obviously you didn’t use the word ‘love.’ ”

“No. I thought I’d save that for later. When things weren’t so tense.”

“Which is exactly when you
should
use the word. If you want Rose back, that word is crucial. No woman worth her salt would listen to a proposal without the word ‘love’ in it. And I think Miss Rose Balfour is worth her salt.”

He sighed. “So do I.” He rubbed a hand over his face as if to clear cobwebs. “The real irony is that I’d changed my mind about enacting my vengeance and ruining her.”

“And then you proceeded to do it anyway. Fool.”

“I—I—I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t leave her alone. I just couldn’t
not
touch her.” He rubbed his chin, befuddled and oddly lost. “Aunt Margaret, am I going mad?”

She gave a bark of laughter that made the pugs jump to their feet. “Lud, no. If anything, you’re finally coming to your senses. You’re in love, boy! Head over heels, by the sound of it.”

“I don’t understand how it happened.”

“None of us do. Even under the best of circumstances, it can sneak up on you and smack you over the head.”

He sat and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So what do I do now? Ride up to her house on a white steed, throw her over the back, and ride away?”

Aunt Margaret drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “No. I don’t think that would suit Miss Balfour. She strikes me as a practical sort of woman. I don’t think she’d like being thrown over a horse under any circumstances.”

He considered this. “You’re right; she wouldn’t appreciate it at all.”

They fell silent a moment, and then Aunt Margaret straightened, an awed expression on her face. “Sin! What if I convince Rose to attend my Winter Ball? You could speak to her then.”