Rebel Waltz (15 page)

Rory made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Wonderful. And the men who marry Clairmont women?”

Lifting his coffee cup in a slightly mocking toast, Jake said, “They roll with the punches, my boy. Rather like the Lady and the Tiger. You've heard of that? Well, a man married to a Clairmont woman—if he knows his woman— would be damned sure there'd be a tiger behind the door she told him to open. So he'd pick up a big stick and open the door.”

Fighting his way through the analogy, Rory managed to ask, “Why wouldn't he just open the other door?”

“Well, he could do that, of course,” Jake agreed dryly. “But his woman would make sure there was a second trip into that puzzle. And this time—there'd be a tiger behind each door.”

After a moment, Rory looked at Banner and
said severely, “If you ever tell me to open a door, I'm picking up a gun!”

“Better make it a big one,” she advised serenely.

Rory sighed.

“Coffee?” Jake invited cheerfully.

“Hell. Why not.” Tucking his makeshift toga more securely about his lean form, Rory slid into his chair and reached for his coffee cup. And he didn't even wince when Conner came back onto the veranda and subjected him to a detached gaze.

“Y
OU'RE NOT GOING
to confess, are you, Rory?”

“Are you kidding? After seeing what you did just because I wouldn't confess, I dread what you'll do when I tell you what I actually did.”

“That's a tangled explanation. Besides, don't you realize that my imagination's conjuring terrible horrors?”

“I'm not an ax murderer.”

“I wonder.”

“Or a felon of any kind, for that matter.”

“Then tell me.”

He kissed her. “I have other things on my mind right now.”

“Like how you looked in that sheet?” she asked, unmoved.

He winced. “My darling love, can we discuss this later?”

“How much later?”

“Um… after your show? No need to get you upset before then, is there?”

Banner looked at him suspiciously, then relented at his hangdog expression. “I suppose not. But you're going to tell me… right?”

“Of course,” he assured her instantly.

“My mother told me never to trust a Yankee. I should have listened.”

“I'm only half Yankee.”

“That's the half I don't trust.”

Rory sighed. “Why don't we go for a ride?”

They were standing alone on the veranda, both dressed in jeans and casual shirts, and Banner had just returned from replacing the cottage's lost sheet.

“All right.”

“Meet you at the stables,” he said. “I have to make a quick call.” When she looked at him again suspiciously, he said dryly, “I've been here longer than I planned, you know; I need to rearrange a couple of appointments.”

Only partly reassured, Banner headed for the stables. But halfway there she remembered she'd left her riding crop on a table in the foyer, and doubled back to the house.

She couldn't find the crop in the foyer and, muttering to herself, crossed to the partially open library door and went in, wondering if she'd left the whip in this room the day before. But she instantly forgot about that.

He had his back to her, but his end of the conversation reached her. Loud and clear.

“No, David; you won't reimburse me for the cost of the party! I threw the thing for fun as much as to get you down here without arousing Banner's suspicion. Having you see her work was the main objective, but not the only one. Are you set up for the show yet? Good. How
about that list I sent with you? They're all going to attend? Great. Well, they're all collectors of Southern artists; you ought to make some dandy sales. Yeah. Maybe it'll convince her she's really good. Sure. Okay. See you then.”

Banner closed the door soundlessly by leaning back against it, and stared across the room at his back while he cradled the receiver. She had thought that loving Rory and trusting him had set her pride behind her; she discovered in that instant how wrong that thought had been.

Generations of proud, stubborn Southern blood ran hot through her veins and floated redly across her eyes.

He had arranged it. He'd thrown his weight around deviously in order to get a New York gallery owner down here to just happen to stumble across her studio and see one of her paintings. So that was the “horrible crime” he'd been reluctant to confess—and no wonder!

In a flash she knew why he'd done it, and a part of her was instantly warmed by the love that had driven him deviously to help her to save
her home herself. She loved him too much, by this time, to suspect that he was merely making sure he got both her and the Hall; their nights and days together had convinced her that she was on top of Rory's list of priorities, just as he was most important to her. So she didn't suspect his motives.

But she was furious at the way he'd gone about helping her—assuming, at any rate, that the show would help her to save the Hall. She was furious, and calm descended over her in an impenetrable veil of serenity, behind which her mind worked methodically.

Rory turned away from the phone and halted abruptly, staring toward the door, just scant feet away. She leaned against the solid wood panel calmly, arms folded beneath her breasts and her lovely face wearing a gently inquiring expression. She appeared about as unthreatening, he thought, as a woman could possibly be.

And the memory of his toga-clad dash across the garden made him wince inwardly.

“Uh… how long have you been there?” he asked carefully.

“Long enough.”

Her voice, he reflected, was as quiet and musical as always. No temper flashed in her green eyes, and her lips were curved slightly in a faint smile. He began to get nervous.

“Banner, I can explain.”

“Really?” she asked politely.

“It isn't what you think. All I did was to ask David to come down here and look at your work. The show was his idea, I promise you.”

“You know him quite well, then.”

“Yes.” Rory admitted reluctantly. “He's a friend of my mother's.”

Banner nodded as though a strong suspicion had been confirmed. “I should have known. When he asked if you'd sat for the blond gent's portrait, he used your first name—as if he'd used it for years.”

“Your memory's too good,” Rory complained.

“Oh, my memory's excellent.”

He winced openly now. “I should have told you. I should have asked you if I could invite David down here. But I was afraid to get your hopes up, so—”

“My hopes?” she queried lightly.

“About the likely results of your show. You'll be able to keep your Tara, milady. If the show goes the way David and I think it will, you'll have enough capital to turn the Hall into a paying proposition in some way.”

“Your loss,” she commiserated gently.

Rory knew very well that the last thing he needed to do was to lose his own calm; he also knew, after this morning, that her smiling calm was a danger signal. So he took a deep breath and tried to make his own motivation very clear to her.

“Banner, I love you. And I couldn't stand the thought of seeing your home taken away from you—even by me. It was an underhanded thing to do, I admit, without telling you, but I wasn't sure enough of my own knowledge of art to take the chance of disappointing you.”

“I see.”

He stared at her warily. “And understand?”

“Of course I understand, Rory.” She smiled. “I love you too.”

After a moment, he said guardedly, “You loved me this morning—but you still stole my clothes.”

“Temporary aberration,” she said dismissively, and casually waved her hand.

“From what Jake said, that's a common thing with Clairmont women,” Rory reminded her, still uneasy.

“Oh, he was just talking through his hat. Testing the steel, so to speak, of his prospective grandson-in-law. Always assuming that's what you're going to be, of course.”

Rory frowned at her. “You aren't mad enough at me to refuse to marry me over this, are you?”

“Did I say I was mad?” she asked innocently.

“You didn't have to. And answer the question!”

“Actually,” she said in a contemplative tone, “I haven't heard a real, honest proposal. I've
heard a lot of promises, mind you. You even said I'd come to you—which, in a manner of speaking, I did. But I'll be damned, Rory Stewart, if I'll do your proposing for you.”

He blinked. Then he purposefully crossed the space between them and took both her hands in his. Lifting them in turn to his lips, he said huskily, “Will you marry me, milady? Marry me and share my life? Marry me and let me help you to preserve this lovely home?”

Banner freed her hands so that she could slide her arms around his waist. Smiling tenderly, eyes glowing, she said, “I've just been waiting for you to ask, love.”

“Is that yes?” he murmured, his breath warm on her lips.

“Very much yes.”

He kissed her gently, relief flowing through him. Then a sudden realization tempered that relief. “You haven't said you forgive me,” he managed to say, his body rather bent on things other than conversation.

“No, I haven't, have I?” she whispered.

Rory drew back and stared down at her. “Banner?”

She was busy tracing the curve of his lips with one thoughtful finger. “Yes, love?”

“What've you got up your sleeve?” he asked warily.

She sounded wounded when she said, “What a nasty, suspicious mind you have.”

“Banner.”

“Darling, do I seem mad to you?”

The endearment forced words to lodge in his throat for a moment, but then with determination he forced them out. “No, and that's what worries me.” He stared into green eyes that glowed with a newly seductive and vastly distracting light. Fighting distraction, he forced out more words. “Jake said that Clairmont ladies get even when they're mad. Just what've you planned in that devious mind of yours?”

“But, Rory, what you did was for me and the Hall, wasn't it?”

“Yes—”

“Then why should I have anything to get even for?”

“I schemed behind your back, remember?”

“Maybe you'd better not keep reminding me.”

He looked toward the ceiling for help. “Now it's really like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She stepped back, smiling at him. “I thought we were going riding.”

Rory gave up… for the moment. “Instead,” he challenged, still not entirely convinced she'd agreed to marry him, “why don't we drive into Charleston and pick out a ring?”

“All the trappings, huh?” she teased softly.

“You betcha. I'm going to marry you, milady—even if the other shoe doesn't drop.”

She grinned at him suddenly as she turned to open the door. “I'll drop it on our honeymoon!”

“You wouldn't dare!” he yelped, remembering too late that daring her was entirely the wrong thing to do. He followed her hastily from the library and caught her hand as they headed
for the front door, adding anxiously, “Would you?”

“Thinking of the ‘Sorry, love, I've got a headache’ ploy?” She stopped in the foyer and smiled up at him, but both her smile and her eyes were very serious. “That's one promise I'll make you right now, Rory. I'll never use sex as a weapon— or a reward. That would be cheating the both of us, and twisting what we feel for each other. I'll never do that.”

“Neither will I,” he promised softly, his fingers twining with hers. “Now let's go pick out that ring, milady.”

They were halfway to Charleston before he remembered she still had reason to get even— and that her heritage was crammed with ancestral ladies with a creative talent for that sort of thing—but by then he lacked the nerve to open the subject again.

They made a day of it in Charleston, returning in time for dinner. And Jake was delighted to be shown the flawless oval diamond solitaire adorning his granddaughter's left hand.

“We'll have an engagement party,” he decided happily.

“After the show, Jake,” Banner said in a firm tone. “I can only handle one crisis at a time.”

“Thanks a lot,” Rory told her.

“You're welcome.”

After their meal, Banner left Jake and Rory alone with brandy in the library, explaining that she had things to take care of with the staff, since the family would be leaving for New York in a few days. And it wasn't until then that Rory sought advice of a man experienced in Clairmont women.

He explained his deception even though he was reasonably sure Jake had guessed most of it already, then finished with, “Do I expect her to try to get even, or not?”

Amused, Jake said, “She won't try, my boy. She'll either get even or she won't.”

“You think she will?”

“She's a Clairmont,” Jake murmured.

“Oh, great.”

“You can't say you weren't warned, Rory.”

“I know, I know. But what do I expect this time?”

Jake sipped his brandy thoughtfully. “My boy, I have sixty-some-odd years of experience with Clairmont women. I've seen them mildly insulted, faintly irritated, slightly angry, and mad as hell. I've seen them relieve those feelings within seconds and I've seen ‘em wait months to get even. I've seen revenge that was quick, just, fitting the crime, damned embarrassing, and hysterically funny. I've never seen cruel or hurtful revenge.”