Lessons From a Scarlet Lady (29 page)

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Authors: Emma Wildes

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Lessons From a Scarlet Lady
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“At least we had lots of lovely sunshine during our stay.” It was a banal remark. She hoped the pretty widow was just making casual conversation, but her subject selection made Rebecca wary. They sat in relative privacy at the end of the long table, two of the last guests to come down for the morning meal. Rebecca was fairly sure she’d slept not more than an hour, not certain if that glorious kiss was something to celebrate or simply destined to become a bittersweet memory.
Loretta reached for the marmalade. “Well, yes, the weather was generous. The company also delightful. The Duchess did an admirable job for one so young and new to her consequence. It is quite an illustrious family to marry into, after all. I’m sure you’d agree, since you aspire to marry into it yourself.”
Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t such a frank comment. Rebecca took a spoonful of shirred eggs to excuse her immediate lack of response. Then she dabbed at her lips with her napkin and murmured, “Lord Damien would make a fine husband.”
“No.” Mrs. Newman shook her head, a sly smile on her mouth. “He would make a fine husband in your
parents’
estimation. Let’s be frank with each other. Robert is the one who draws you.”
So she had a list of people who had noticed her interest in the youngest Northfield son. Her father. Damien. Now Mrs. Newman. How many others? Brianna hadn’t said anything, but then again, she was preoccupied with seducing her duke.
“I am sure,” Rebecca said with as much equanimity as possible, since she was flustered and irritated with Loretta’s presumption at beginning such a discussion, “you understand why, since he also draws you.”
“I see we are now conversing woman to woman.”
“Apparently so.”
There was a pause while Loretta sipped her tea. Then she set it deliberately aside. “You aren’t as unassuming as I first thought. And since we are being so open with one another, I do wish you luck. Admittedly, when we first arrived I thought Lord Robert might be a most pleasant . . . distraction, but I began to see his interest lay elsewhere. For what it is worth, from the way he’s acting, I believe there is hope you might succeed and bring him up to scratch. Now, if you will excuse me, I think my carriage should be ready for my departure.”
More than slightly astounded, Rebecca watched her go.
She simply had to talk to Damien. Hurriedly she rose and left the dining room, leaving the rest of her breakfast uneaten.
Lord Damien, she was informed by the very formal butler, was with the Duke in his study.
Her heart sank. It defied the imagination to picture rapping on the door of the Duke of Rolthven’s study and blithely asking to speak to his brother. Rebecca was fairly certain that even Brianna didn’t interrupt her husband when he was sequestered away and working. It was also perfectly possible Robert had said nothing of the kiss, anyway. Maybe he’d just expressed annoyance over Damien’s subversive matchmaking attempt and let it go.
So what did she do now?
. . . you aren’t like . . .
No, she wasn’t. She was nothing like the experienced beauties the notorious Robert Northfield normally pursued. Yet he was attracted to her anyway. Enough he’d kissed her in a way that would have fulfilled any young woman’s fantasies. She would remember the touch of his mouth, warm and tender on hers, until she took her last breath. It hadn’t been fiery or passionate, nothing designed to sweep her away and overwhelm her—instead it had been
perfect
. Unless she was a complete besotted fool—and she wasn’t sure the description didn’t fit—she thought it had been different for him also. There was a certain reverence in the light touch of his hand at her waist, and she could swear the emotion in his face had been genuine.
In short, she thought maybe he was as confused as she was—and for an experienced rogue, that was saying something.
Rebecca squared her shoulders. “Would it be possible for me to see the Duchess?”
The Rolthven butler, stately and white haired, inclined his head. “I believe she is in the foyer, bidding farewell to some of the guests, my lady.”
She was indeed, Rebecca found a few minutes later, the ticking of the clock echoing in her soul. When Lord Emerson bowed and left the room, she waited until the footman closed the door after the departing gentleman before she said in the same informal rush she’d used when they were younger, “I need a favor, Bri.”
Brianna caught the urgency in her tone. “Of course,” she said simply. “Anything. What is it?”
This was truly taking a chance, but Rebecca was past caring. “Would you mind intruding on your husband and Damien in the Duke’s study for me? I don’t quite have the nerve to knock on the door and ask myself, but I really must speak with him.”
Her friend’s mouth parted in surprise. “Certainly, I will, if you wish. Which one do you need to speak with?”
Rebecca stifled a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, I probably am not making much sense, but my parents will be down directly so we can get on our way, and, well, I
need
to see Lord Damien if possible for a moment.”
There was a slight hesitation when it was obvious Brianna wanted to ask her why, but she proved to be the best kind of friend. She merely nodded. “The morning room will be deserted right now. Colton’s grandmother only uses it to answer her correspondence. Would that suit?”
“Perfectly, thank you.” Grateful did not describe Rebecca’s feelings because she had never really been this rattled before in her life.
All that introspection during the night had brought home some very startling convictions.
The most compelling of all was that she wanted only to marry for love.
And the conclusion if that incident was the only time in her life Robert kissed her, she would be forever bereft.
Following the footman Brianna instructed to escort her, Rebecca found herself in a small, charming space with a delicate veneered desk nestled by a window, the dreary outside scene of rain-streaked glass and wet gardens lightened by pale yellow walls. She paced over and stared out, wondering just what she was going to ask.
When Damien came in a few moments later, she stood there still, looking out over drooping, overblown rose bushes and dripping hedges. There was cool, understated amusement in his voice. “You do realize if your mother hears that you wanted to see me privately before you left, she will start planning our wedding.”
Rebecca turned, a rueful smile curving her mouth. “I was actually just standing here wondering what on earth I even wanted to say.”
He moved into the room, that slight signature smile on his good-looking face. “Ah, that’s the beauty of dealing with a spymaster. We know what you are thinking even before you do.”
Rebecca lifted her brows. “
Are
you a spymaster? I thought you were a tactical advisor or something like it.”
“I wear many hats.” He indicated a chair. “Now then, sit, and we’ll discuss what to do about my stubborn brother.”
She sat down, her legs feeling rubbery anyway. Damien settled on a settee embroidered with butterflies, his blatant masculinity at odds with the feminine décor, and he elevated one brow in a mannerism she’d seen before. “Now then,” he drawled, “I take it from Robert’s surly mood that things went quite well last evening.”
“Define ‘well.’ ” Rebecca plucked at her skirt. “He isn’t interested in marriage. He made that much very clear.”
“My dear Miss Marston, I hate to tell you that few men wake up one morning and decide what they want most in life is to be tied forever to one woman. I will even go on to explain that men like Robert—who don’t need an heir in particular, who have a fortune already, and whom most women find quite irresistible—are particularly immune. At this point in his life, he does what he pleases and he believes he’s happy.”
It was all true. She knew it, and it was pretty much what Robert had bluntly told her.
“
Is
he happy?” she asked, trying to hide the waver in her voice.
“If I thought so, would I have found myself in the ridiculous position of boosting a young lady through a library window?”
He had a point. A laugh bubbled forth, half despair, half real mirth at the dry tone of his voice. “I suppose not,” she conceded. “Even Mrs. Newman told me this morning she thought he might be sincerely interested.”
“Did she now? I suppose I am not surprised, for anyone truly paying attention would notice. Perhaps, then, since his sincere interest has been established, we should develop a plan.”
“A plan?” Her stomach tightened.
“Or whatever it is you wish to call it if we want to make him set aside his misgivings and see what is staring him in the face. I’d hate to have a stubborn fool for a brother. It reflects poorly on my family bloodlines.”
It was a backhanded compliment if there ever was one, and though she’d been showered with enough flowery words from other gentlemen to last a lifetime, Rebecca had never felt so moved. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He waved a hand in a deceptively languid movement, but those dark eyes held a reflective gleam. “Don’t thank me yet. My strategy is not in place. I will have to think on this. Defeating the French is a challenge, but bringing a determined bachelor to his knees might be a greater chore. Here I feared my leave would bore me to death. At last, something of a feat to accomplish.”
There was no help for it; her mouth twitched. “Robert said he pitied Bonaparte if you were against him.”
Damien looked bland. “So he should. Just imagine my brother’s peril. I can taste victory already.”
 
The kiss had been a bloody mistake, but he wouldn’t exchange the error for anything.
And that was about as stupid a sentiment as any man could express. Robert touched his heel to his horse. The damp weather soaked his coat, his hair, and filled the air with the smell of fecund vegetation. Autumn, held at bay by the sunshine and balmy breezes of the past days, was finally announcing its presence.
When he arrived in London hours later he was soaked to the skin, in a foul mood, and more unsettled than he could remember being since his father died. He wanted nothing more than to bathe away the fall chill and forget the entire episode.
Well, except for Rebecca’s moving performances on the pianoforte. No one who could consider himself a true musician would banish those from his mind.
Nor could he forget
her
. She’d pointed out she was no longer a girl, but neither was she yet a woman. Not until she gave her herself in marriage to some lucky bastard who would touch that delectable body, taste her sweet mouth, and experience passion in her arms. . . .
If there wasn’t such a bitter misunderstanding between himself and her father, would he consider being that fortunate man?
Maybe.
That realization was frightening enough to send him right to his club once he was dressed in dry clothes, the memory of her soft lips parting in innocent invitation unnerving. Since when did untutored young ladies exude such irresistible allure?
He walked into his club at just a little after nine, intent on a drink and a hot meal. But it soon became apparent that he was too restive for conversation, so he excused himself after eating only half his dinner, right in the middle of a discussion of the fall race meets, leaving several friends with startled expressions on their faces.
He’d explain his erratic behavior some other time. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He sure as hell was not going to mention Rebecca Marston’s name.
Too restless to go home and get some much-needed sleep, he found himself on Curzon Street. Since it was early yet, he decided to call on an old friend. Knocking on the door, he discovered Sir John was indeed home, and Robert handed over his engraved card before being shown into an informal parlor crammed with all sorts of oddities, including a carved totem from one of the American Indian tribes, brought back after one of John Traverston’s trips to the colonies. In a bizarre way it fit with the Italian marble fireplace, the antique tapestry depicting St. George and his legendary dragon, and all the other sundry items one would never find in a typical London townhouse.
“Young Robert!” At not quite sixty, his face showing rugged lines from the time he had spent outdoors in the course of his travels, Sir John rose from a battered chair where he’d been reading. His thick hair, blending from gray to white, was untidy as usual, and he wasn’t yet dressed for the evening, wearing instead wrinkled trousers and a plain white shirt. The tang of tobacco hung in the air and a smoldering pipe sat in a tray on a small table. “This is a nice surprise. I haven’t seen you in months. Come in and sit down. Drink?”
Robert still had a slight headache from the previous evening and he’d made the mistake of tasting Sir John’s imported liquor before. “Yes, but please, not that revolting concoction made by deranged monks you served me the last time.”
John chuckled. “Actually, it’s from a monastery tucked into a remote part of Portugal and considered a rare find. I take it you weren’t impressed? Ah, well, then, how about a dull glass of ordinary claret?”
“That would be fine, thank you.”

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