Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (9 page)

“And a devilish bore it was at times. Though,” she added mischievously, “it has occasional reward.”

A true smile touched his lips. “Indeed. You are very good for me, Lady Arradale. A constant reminder not to underestimate women.”

They moved on toward the coaches. “I would have thought the poet Sappho acted as reminder of that.” Instantly, she regretted it.

He didn’t seem disturbed. “Nothing Sappho does surprises anyone. Perhaps I should have said ‘apparently conventional’ women.”

She turned to look up at him, deliberately astonished. “You find me conventional?”

His smile was even more pronounced this time, warming his eyes. “A mistake. I apologize profusely. So, Lady Arradale, what sort of woman are you?”

“My lord Rothgar, turn your microscope on yourself.”

She found the strength to walk away then. As she let a footman hand her up into a waiting coach, she gave thanks that the men were traveling on horseback. She’d rather be riding, too, for the road was not really smooth enough for carriages, but she had accepted the need to act the lady for today and now was grateful.

Conventional? she thought, squeezing in beside her Aunt Mary. He had mostly seen her trying to act her part, but surely he couldn’t ignore their adventures last year, especially the one where she had held him at pistol point.

Oh, plague take the man. She must stop this!

It would be easier to stop thinking about him, however, if she didn’t have the unnerving sense that he was reacting to her just as she was to him. She looked down at the red poppy, particularly startling against her outfit of pale yellow and cream, and touched a frilly petal.

A bold move. One that had to mean something.

What?

He was a man who did nothing without intent.

Lord Rothgar was catlike, yes. But not a domestic cat. Not a domestic cat at all. And big, predatory cats did not sprawl in anyone’s lap, purring.

They devoured.

Rothgar very carefully didn’t watch the coach begin its swaying journey down to Arradale. Really, it had been infernally stupid to play that little game with the flower. Weddings seemed to have a softening effect on the brain, particularly joyful country weddings such as this one.

He looked around for a moment, at smiling, uncomplicated faces, at old friends, close families, and familiar neighbors. This was a different world to the one he moved in, and not for him since birth.

Not for her, either, and yet she had a foot here through her mother who had grown up in this pleasant house.

He shrugged and went over to where the horses were being prepared, but a shrug could not cast off a new awareness of the Countess of Arradale. A pretty, quick-witted woman and, it would seem, an educated one. It had been clear from talk among the men that she played a full part in local affairs. Though some of the men were uncomfortable with it, none had suggested that she ran her affairs badly.

And she had knocked on his door last night.

As he swung on his horse, he acknowledged that Lady Arradale was even more dangerous than he’d thought, but that the real danger came from his own reaction to the woman.

B
ack at Arradale, Diana watched everyone disperse to their rooms to change and rest before a late dinner. Once she was sure all was in order, she retreated to her own quarters.

In her father’s somber bedchamber she reviewed the wedding, going over her conversation with Lord Rothgar, and deciding strategy for the next couple of days.

The problem was, she was no longer sure of her purpose. Oh, she knew what it
should
be, but as if softened by the summer sun, it was reforming into other, dangerous things.

Dinner tonight would be followed by more music and cards. Tomorrow she had a number of outdoor activities arranged. Angling on the river, boating on the lake, and a trip to the local falls for those interested. The day after, they—he—would leave.

Given that he would leave, could she not allow herself to indulge in this fascinating study? Could she not flirt, and perhaps even steal a kiss? What a waste to wave Lord Rothgar off the day after tomorrow without even experiencing a kiss.

Feeling hot and dusty, Diana let her maid take off everything and washed from head to toe before slipping into a loose silk gown for an hour or two’s relaxation.

Just a kiss …

She pushed the idea away. Every grain of sense and intelligence told her she would be playing with wildfire.

On the other hand, he’d soon be leaving. It was an unrepeatable opportunity—

Oh, enough of this! She needed rational occupation, and
marched into her boudoir where a pile of papers awaited her attention. She sat at her desk and made herself concentrate on them, and only them.

She went through them, scribbling her required action on most, but putting a few aside to be dealt with when she had more time. The work soothed her until she came to a personal letter from a second cousin informing her, as head of the family, of engagement to marry. Lud, was the whole world hell bent on matrimony, while she languished hardly kissed?

She let the letter drop.

Just a kiss … ?

When younger she’d permitted the bolder local lads a kiss now and then. Sometimes at a masquerade she allowed some gallant carefully controlled liberties. It had been safe enough.

The Marquess of Rothgar would not be safe, of that she was sure, and that in truth was part of his appeal. Wiser to avoid, of course, and yet … from her chilly eminence, he was a most tempting blaze. And, remarkably, a safe one.

Chin on hand, she allowed herself to consider it.

Despite heat and flame he was safe because he, even more than she, did not intend to wed. A safe blaze, like one confined in a solid hearth.

Could she?

She tidied the piles of papers, then strolled, twirling the wilting poppy, back to her bedroom to relax on her chaise longue by an open window. Amid birdsong and summer breeze, she let her mind return to that minuet a year ago.

“What would have happened, my lord, if I had not objected to …”

“To my kissing your palm? Why, we would have indulged in dalliance, my lady.”

“Dalliance?”

“One step beyond flirtation, but one step below seduction.”

“I know nothing of dalliance then.”

“Would you care to learn?”

Heart beating just a little faster at the memory, she brushed the soft petals of the poppy across her lips.

“If you ever change your mind, my lady …”

If you ever change your mind.

“Clara,” she said to the maid, who was busily laying out her clothes for the evening.

“Yes, milady?”

“Tell Ecclesby that we will offer dancing tonight after dinner.”

Rothgar, down to breeches and open-necked shirt, was in the frilly boudoir that was part of his suite, attending to correspondence sent on by Carruthers. Disguised among routine business lay a coded report on affairs in Paris, and the actions of the acting French ambassador in London. He frowned over the fact that D’Eon was insinuating himself into the queen’s good graces all too well. He needed to get back and deal with that.

He next opened a well-sealed letter and found it was a handwritten one from the king. He quickly assessed that it contained nothing urgent—then he came to a passage about Lady Arradale. After a while, he leaned back, looking out of the window over the lady’s beautifully landscaped grounds.

King George should be paying more attention to his queen and less to the countess, but for some reason he was obsessed with her. This development was going to be somewhat difficult—

Someone tapped on the door.

He folded the letter. “Come.”

He half expected the impetuous countess, but his sister Elf slipped in with a smile that didn’t quite hide uneasiness.

“A lovely wedding, wasn’t it?” she chattered, but then paused to look around the pink and white room. “Oh my.”

“The Countess’s Chambers,” he said blandly. “Pink lightens and brightens my thoughts. If you have come to tell me you’ve plunged us all into poverty with an excess purchase of serge, I will merely smile.”

That made her laugh. “I suppose there was a shortage of grand chambers, but …” She looked around again. “Bey, please may I peep into the bedroom?”

He rose and opened the door for her. She stood in rapt
study of the swathed bed, the pink and cream silk hangings held up by plaster cherubs, the pristine white posts carved with flowers, the coverlet of heavy white lace.

“Could we swap?” she said at last. “I’m overcome by a need to be taken with violent passion upon that virginal bed.”

He laughed. “Perhaps that is the purpose. I have to say, however, that it hasn’t had the same effect on me.” All the same, a sudden erotic vision to do with the countess assailed him.

“It would be very strange if it had,” Elf said, sitting in a spindle-legged white chair.

“Or perhaps I am kept sane by cool liquids,” he replied, pouring himself some from a silver pitcher set in a ceramic bowl of ice. “Lemon barley water?” he asked her.

“Oh, lovely!” She sipped the delicious cold drink. “How did you obtain this?”

“I ordered it. After all, I did bring a gross of lemons north with me.”

“Not expecting the countess to be well supplied?”

“Imagining hot days and my fondness for lemons. So, Elf, what brings you to my feminine bower?”

Elf took time to sip, feeling strangely nervous. Her brother didn’t intimidate her, but then, she’d never tried to meddle in his intimate affairs before. “I have become quite fond of Lady Arradale,” she said at last. “I saw you tuck that flower down her bodice, Bey. You’re not flirting with her, are you?”

His eyes were steady on hers. “And if I were?”

“I’d object.”

“Your objections must always carry weight, of course, but why? You can hardly think I’ll ruin her, and I doubt she would permit herself to be ruined.”

“There are many sorts of ruin.”

“And which do you fear?”

She was feeling more foolish by the moment, and yet more concerned as well. “You could break her heart.”

“I have no doubt she recognizes flirtation, Elf.”

“But why are you flirting with her? I heard about events last summer. She bested you at least once …”

His brows rose. “You think me intent on dark revenge?”

She considered him. “Not dark. And perhaps not revenge. But … retribution, perhaps.”

“By making the poor lady fall in love with me and then leaving with a cruel laugh. Elf, really!”

She smiled, feeling her cheeks heat. “Then why? We leave the day after tomorrow.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps because we leave the day after tomorrow. A wedding creates a spirit of flirtation, and Lady Arradale and I are the only two unattached people here apart from the dowager.”

“Then spend more time with the dowager.”

“But she, alas, wishes me to marry her daughter.”

Elf slumped slightly. “Nothing could be more ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?”

She frowned at him. “Never tell me you are finally looking for a bride, and in that direction.”

“No, I never will. I was merely curious as to why you think it ridiculous.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “If Diana marries, and she swears she will not, she will need a man who can devote himself to her properties and responsibilities up here. You will need a woman who will be a hostess for you in the south.”

“So, you need not fear a match between us. I have nothing but benign intentions toward the lady.”

It should have reassured, but Elf couldn’t banish a gnawing unease. “Then don’t pay her particular attentions, Bey. She’s chosen a hard path, and might be vulnerable to temptation. From the comments of nearly every lady I know, you are temptation incarnate.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

She rose. “Sometimes I wonder if you know your own powers.”

He rose courteously to open the door for her. “I thought I had made them my lifetime’s study.”

“Not all of them if you don’t know how devastating you can be to a woman’s good sense.”

“I will bear that most carefully in mind,” he said, and closed the door between them.

Elf paused in the corridor contemplating a large Grecian urn without really seeing it. Everything Bey had said was reassuring, but still her instincts warned. She walked on to knock on a door a little farther down.

A square-faced plump maid opened it. “Yes, milady?”

“I would like to speak to the countess if she is available.”

“Elf?” Diana’s voice. “Come in, do.”

The maid opened the door wide, and Elf saw Diana rise from a chaise dressed in a loose robe of clear light green.

“I’m sorry, you were resting.”

“The sort of rest that goes best with conversation,” Diana assured her, indicating the cushioned window seat. “Would you like some lemonade?”

Elf looked at an identical silver jug set in an identical ceramic iceholder. “How delightful.”

The maid poured the drink and then Diana said, “You may go, Clara, until it is time for me to dress.”

Elf sipped. “Lemon is so refreshing on a hot summer day, is it not?”

“Wonderfully so. Your brother was kind enough to bring extra supplies north or we would doubtless have run out by now.”

“Bey has a certain ability for planning.”

Diana chuckled. “An understatement. He’s a remarkable man.” It was said casually, but Elf was not fooled.

Diana was her own age—twenty-six—but if anything, she seemed somewhat more mature because of her training and responsibilities. She had avoided suitable and unsuitable suitors for years, and should be in no danger, even from Bey. And yet, though the square chin and steady eyes spoke of strength, the soft lips and the occasional sadness in those eyes told Elf otherwise.

She understood, indeed she did. She knew only too well how frustration, impatience, and wild desire could sweep even a sensible woman out of her wits entirely.

Diana cocked her head. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Last year,” Elf said, abandoning a search for subtlety and throwing out a blunt warning, “I set out to lose my virginity.”