“Yes, indeed.” The conviction in her voice was unmistakable, and it seemed to him she wanted to say something else, but instead she fell silent.
The air smelled like fall, he decided, trying to force himself to focus on anything besides the young woman next to him. Like gently decomposing leaves and wet earth overlain with a hint of chimney smoke. The fragrance of autumn in the country. London was redolent of less appealing odors most of the time. When he was younger, he couldn’t wait to leave Rolthven for the city, but he found the peaceful setting more appealing than he remembered. Maybe some of his youthful male restlessness was fading with age.
Could it be he was maturing into a less reckless, more settled man, even to the extent he had a legitimate interest in an unmarried young lady?
No. He instantly banished the thought, as visions of primrose paths and cathedrals full of wedding guests and smiling, plump babies danced before his eyes and gave him pause. Miss Marston brought all those things with her, and he wasn’t
that
ready to give up his freestyle existence.
Besides, he clearly recalled the aghast look on Lady Marston’s face when Damien had maneuvered a switch in escorts for her daughter. Maybe she knew of the rift between Robert and her husband, or maybe it was just his reputation in general, but whichever it was, Robert’s suit—if he ever contemplated such insanity—would not be welcomed.
“So, how long before your mother invents an excuse to join us?” he asked in amused cynicism, a realist at heart, but still admiring Rebecca’s pure profile.
“I’m surprised she isn’t out here already.” She shook her head. “We are in plain sight, though, and I suspect she is watching us.”
He liked the honesty. Perhaps that was what drew him to her. Beauty coupled with a refreshing lack of duplicity. She was genuine. Not vain, not simpering, not superficial.
“Maybe we should allay her anxiety. I’ll take you back inside before she falls into an apoplexy.” He cast a glance at the vast stone expanse of the terrace, a smile twitching on his lips. “Though this really would not be a comfortable place to ravish you, I have the feeling she is worried I might try anyway.”
Perhaps Lady Marston should be worried. . . .
Rebecca gave a choked laugh. “Surely a rake of your standing shouldn’t find stone floors a deterrent.”
It could be done, of course. He’d had quite a bit of experience in utilizing less than ideal locations, but he was hardly going to say so out loud.
“Do I have a standing?” he asked, fully aware he did, offering his arm.
“I don’t listen to gossip much,” she demurred, contradicting her previous statement.
Everyone listened to an extent, he reminded himself.
The sound of a deep voice with an unmistakable icy edge interrupted them. “Rebecca. I understand you aren’t feeling well. Perhaps, after all, you should go upstairs.”
Rebecca jumped. Not much, but Robert felt the sudden clutch of her fingers through the sleeve of his jacket.
He turned and sent her father a cool smile. “I was just about to escort her back inside.”
“No need.” Sir Benedict stood framed in the doorway, his face impassive. “I’ll see her in myself.”
Rebecca hesitated one moment, looking both uncomfortable and bewildered at the sudden—but very palpable—tension, and then she whispered, “Good night, Lord Robert.”
“Good night.” He watched her go in a graceful swirl of silken skirts, followed by her father’s derisive last glance before he ushered his daughter inside.
He’d just been warned off.
“If you have some sort of absurd romantic inclination toward Robert Northfield, you may put it aside.”
Each terse word was like a small lash. Rebecca fought both indignation over being treated so summarily like a child in front of someone else—much less Robert—and a sense of confusion. Being practically dragged up the stairs toward her room wasn’t exactly dignified either. “It was merely a stroll on the terrace. Mother can tell you he didn’t even ask me. His brother suggested it.”
“Don’t think,” her father said in the same chill tone, “I haven’t noticed your reaction to that young man.”
That left her at a loss. If she could deny it, she would, but she couldn’t, so she simply fought to not trip over her skirts as she tried to keep up with his long strides.
“He is entirely unsuitable.”
The set of her father’s face did not invite questions. Yet Rebecca ventured one anyway, since she felt entirely in the dark over what precisely was going on. “You dislike him. Why?”
“I dislike him,” her father confirmed. “And I will
not
tell you why.”
“You like the Duke. You accepted his hospitality. And obviously Lord Damien has your approval, for you are embarrassing me with your enthusiasm for me being in his company.”
“Neither of them have anything to do with this. Robert Northfield is his own man, and this is none of your business.”
“How not?” she asked incredulously. “Since you are issuing ultimatums after nothing but a simple conversation in plain sight of the whole party.”
They had been given rooms in the left wing, the long, elegant hallway full of carved doors and lamps left burning on small, polished tables. His face like granite, her father fairly stalked to her door and opened it for her. “I will see you in the morning, my dear.”
Chapter Eleven
As the chase begins, remember you are the prize to be won. If you relinquish the power, he will gladly take it back. If you choose to hold it, as I strongly recommend, do so in the most subtle and pleasurable of ways.
From the chapter titled: “Things Every Woman Should
Know”
T
he whimsical hunt wasn’t Colton’s idea of a pleasant way to spend a morning, nor was it very dignified, but he agreed because Brianna had asked him in such a way it would have felt churlish to refuse. The other guests seemed to enter into the spirit of the event with enthusiasm, and truthfully, it was probably more entertaining than sitting in his study with his secretary.
Especially at moments like this one, he thought, strolling along behind his wife and catching a glimpse of her shapely ankles as she bent over and triumphantly scooped a prize from beneath an ornamental bush. Brianna straightened and turned around, extending her hand. “Look. I think this one is rather nice.”
“It’s a rock,” he said mildly.
“A pretty one, though, don’t you think?”
“I must admit I don’t sit around thinking about their aesthetic properties very often.”
Brianna gave him a mock glare. “Your Grace, do you not wish to win this contest? I would think someone of your exalted rank would show a little more spirit of competition. We are supposed to find the most interesting rock. If this one doesn’t impress you, let’s carry on until we find one that does.”
While he found the game absurd, he couldn’t help but admire the way the sunshine lit her fair hair. This morning she looked wholesome and fresh, dressed in a simple cream muslin gown trimmed in pale green satin ribbon, the slightly puffed sleeves emphasizing her slender arms, a matching ribbon holding back her fair tresses. Youthful feminine beauty personified, Brianna fit the bucolic setting of garden and park, healthy, young, alive . . . and fertile?
He wondered. It was a little early to question her on the matter, but he was fairly sure her courses were late by at least a few weeks. Not that he kept a calendar, but he did notice when he couldn’t share her bed. It had been awhile since she’d admitted it was an inconvenient time for him to make love to her. They hadn’t been married long enough for him to know if this was unusual for her, but there was no question the sexual part of their relationship was most satisfactory and he exercised his rights often. It would not astound him if she was pregnant already.
A child.
He liked the idea—and not just because it was his blasted responsibility to get an heir, either. It surprised him, because he’d always viewed the concept of children as an abstract one. Yes, one got married and in the natural course of things, offspring were created. But Brianna ripe with his babe,
their
child: unexpectedly, the idea moved him.
“Is something wrong, Colton?” His wife cocked her head to the side, a faint frown between her fine brows. “You have the strangest look on your face. I know you aren’t much for this kind of game, but—”
“Games in general are not my usual fare, but I don’t mind.” He smiled. “And I think that’s a fine rock. Quartz, I believe.”
“Is it?” She looked at her hand and brightened. “Rather lovely, if I say so.”
“Dazzling,” he agreed, looking at her, not the damned rock.
His pretty wife blushed, catching the inference and the direction of his gaze. “You are not going to participate in this hunt, are you?”
“I’ll carry the rock, how is that?”
One dark gold brow inched upward in challenge. “What about the caterpillar?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The list is in your pocket. I believe we are supposed to find one. I would prefer you pick it up.”
“The list or the caterpillar?”
“Definitely the latter. Stop teasing me. What else do we need to find?”
Teasing her? Well, he supposed he was. Odd. He didn’t tease. Bemused, Colton obligingly dug out the piece of vellum and studied it. “ ‘A red flower. An admirable stick’—how the devil can a stick be admirable, anyway?”
“How should I know? Your grandmother made up the list and it is her wording.” Brianna laughed. “I do know it is a glorious day, the sun is shining, and our guests are scrambling all over themselves to beat us in finding the selected items. Shall we continue now that we have settled the matter of the rock? It would hardly do for us to come in last.”
The term “come” took on a whole new meaning when spoken by his luscious wife, but the sexual inference was hardly appropriate to the moment, and she clearly had no idea she’d brought an erotic image to mind. Colton took the piece of quartz, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and followed her across the lawn. They managed to collect the whole list, including an unhappy bright green caterpillar he had to cradle in his hand and prevent from crawling all over him. When they finally returned to the terrace, his grandmother sat there in all her glory, presiding over the hunt with more animation than Colton had seen on her face in years, and her cane actually set aside.
Robert, who had been paired with one of the Campbell sisters—Colton couldn’t tell them apart—also held a wooly worm. The resigned look on his face suggested that he, too, thought the game ridiculous.
However, for their grandmother and her delighted expression, Colton would have collected a dozen such creatures and carted them around.
Damien joined them, muttering under his breath, “How rude would it be of us to retire to your study for a brandy, Colt?”
“It isn’t even noon.”
“So? Aren’t you holding an insect? How often does that happen before noon—or ever, for that matter? I, for one, need a drink.”
His brother had a point. Colton said austerely, “I don’t think it can be actually classified as an insect. Aren’t they required to have six legs? This definitely has a great many more.”
“This isn’t the time to debate over trifles.” Damien’s specimen was definitely the smallest and least attractive, covered in mottled spots and bristles.
In the end they did have their brandy, escaping into his haven. Colton dismissed Mills with a casual wave and a request to finish what they had discussed and report the next morning. His secretary seemed astonished at the idea that Colton was going to take the rest of the afternoon off work, he noted.
Maybe he did devote a bit too much time to business. Not all of it needed his individual attention. Inside him still existed the unsure young man who’d had a dukedom and the responsibility of his family thrust upon him, and he wasn’t sure how to let go of the compulsive need to see to each and every detail. Maybe if his father had fallen ill and gradually wasted away he would have been more prepared. One day his parent had been there, hale and hearty—and then he was gone.
It had shattered Colton’s world.
Taking a hearty gulp of brandy, Colton brought his attention back to the conversation at hand. Such deep introspection unsettled him.
“. . . had to have the best damned red flower.” Robert was still grumbling about his partner for the scavenger hunt. “I swear she examined every rose on the estate. Then we lost to Lord Emerson and his partner anyway.”
“Grandmama had a grand time picking the winners,” Damien remarked. “Though I think her selection has a great deal more to do with matchmaking than color and scent as she claimed. Emerson and the oldest Campbell chit seem to have that particular starry-eyed glow when together that makes me want to run straight back to Spain.”
“Rather difficult, that,” the Earl of Bonham—who had joined them—drawled, a small smile spreading across his face, “the ocean being between here and there and all.”