Rogues Gallery (8 page)

"Are the deer here often? I am quite thrilled at that, since they are not so commonplace in London."

"They like to nibble on the roses, I'm afraid."

"Could we try to see it?" she pleaded, tugging at Edmund's arm. "I have never seen one so close."

Edmund halted, for the briefest of moments. "Soon," he answered, his voice less tolerant than just minutes previously. "First I must see about something."

"But I would like to see it before it is gone."

She lifted a hopeful countenance to Edmund, her breathing slow and deliberate, and even at this distance Gabriel could appreciate the rise and fall of her bosom.

Edmund's tongue darted out, moistening his lips, while his eyes lingered on her bodice. When two bright spots of color appeared on the woman's cheeks, Lord Westbrook cleared his throat and lifted his eyes to hers.

"I think the deer awaits us, my lord."

He blinked, as if her words had broken the spell that held him in thrall. "Come, then," he said at last, tossing one last look over his shoulder. "We may as well see if we can find the creature. Although I am certain it may be too late.

"Perhaps it is not too late after all." The young beauty set off after the deer, and Gabriel wondered if the animal was entirely illusory. She shivered, clutching the throat of her riding habit. "If you do not hurry, my lord, I fear I shall catch a chill."

Edmund's grim expression melted away, to be replaced by a protective one. He hurried to his bride-to-be, his hand outstretched.

"It was not wise for you to ride so early, my dear. The air is too damp. Let us return home, and get some tea to warm you."

Edmund placed his hand at the small of the young woman's back, in an unmistakably proprietary fashion, guiding her toward Westbrook Hall.

Gabriel jabbed his boot in the stirrup, swinging himself up into the saddle. He spun Eclipse around for another glimpse of the quick-thinking miss. She had ensured he would live to see another day, giving him another chance to implement his revenge. He could not help but be grateful for her cooperation.

As the pair strolled to the Hall, Edmund kept the spirited lass close by, clearly determined to guard his prized possession. Watching them, Gabriel found himself staggered by an entirely unexpected emotion. In different circumstances he would think it akin to jealousy, yet there could be only one reason for such a riotous reaction.

His long-dormant feelings of vengeance were at last surging to the surface.

"Yes, my lord," Marisa answered with automatic courtesy, and not for the first time that tedious afternoon.

She gazed at the expanse of gardens, and freedom, outside the casement window. The hours in Lord Westbrook's library had dragged by a great deal more slowly than she had anticipated. She had only endured the wearisome moments in her betrothed's company by contemplating what to do next in her bid for liberty.

If only she had not lingered in the highwayman's company. She had been dazzled by his attention, not to mention his ardent kisses. That moment of weakness had cost her dearly.

And then she had chosen to ensure the highwayman's escape rather than her own.

But after seeing Edmund's grim expression when she asked about the highwayman's fate, she knew he would have suffered a great deal worse if he were captured. Her tender heart could not bear such a notion. Since she still had opportunities to escape, she was willing to forfeit that one in order to assure his continued wellbeing.

Still, she needed to redouble her efforts, until she had ensured Aunt Althea's safety was also secured. She would ride early on the morrow, hopefully before Daphne could alert Edmund again, and before the highwayman could waylay her and distract her with kisses.

Lord Westbrook coughed.

Marisa turned to see the last rays of sunlight slanting across Lord Westbrook's face, throwing the other half of his visage into shadow. Still, it was easy to discern his lips were pursed with impatience.

"Are the details of the betrothal ball becoming too tiresome for you, my dear?" He clasped his fingers together, resting them on the leather-topped desk between them. "I want it to be all that you desire."

Marisa plucked at the white cambric of her morning dress, fearful she had somehow divulged her secret longing—freedom from this man seated across from her. She saw instead Lord Westbrook's patent desire, in his eyes and faintly trembling lips, much the same as when he had burst into her bedchamber, and when he had guided her back to Westbrook Hall.

Desperate to distract him, Marisa responded with the first thought to come to mind. "I should like to have a masquerade."

"A masquerade? I am afraid it is not quite the thing for a betrothal ball."

Marisa let her shoulders sag, as though she were disheartened by his denial. She added an expansive sigh, and let her eyes drift toward the window once more.

"A masquerade," Edmund hastened to add. "Why not? It will make this a truly memorable event. For all of us."

Marisa's heart lightened. Perhaps she had underestimated her ability to persuade Lord Westbrook to do her bidding. She stifled the giddy thought of inducing him to call a halt to the wedding entirely.

"I should like to have it outdoors, as well," she added in a bright tone of voice.

Lord Westbrook frowned. "The weather is so unpredictable, my dear. I do not believe it would be wise."

"Are you certain?" she pressed, tantalized by the glimmer of hope his acquiescence had provided.

He shook his head, his tousled light brown curls scarcely moving. Marisa wondered for an uncharitable moment if Lord Westbrook used curling papers to achieve the fashionable style.

"I am confident it would make the occasion quite stunning," she added. "We could have paper lanterns—"

"No," he barked, slamming his hand on the desk. "I said it is out of the question."

Marisa blinked, shocked by the vehemence of his response. A tiny shiver of fear danced up her spine, and she drew her paisley shawl more closely around her.

"You are no doubt correct, my lord," Marisa conceded.

It mattered little, since she would find some way to be absent by the time the event occurred, no matter what sort of festivities they planned.

"Miss Dunsmore, perhaps you should leave the rest of the details to me and the staff," Lord Westbrook suggested, his more customary velvety voice in place. "You have so little experience in such matters, and it involves a monumental effort."

Marisa stared at him, nonplussed. He spoke to her so solicitously, as if his earlier outburst had never occurred.

"I would not care for you to toil over each mundane task," he continued, "and then be too weary to enjoy such a momentous occasion in your life."

He reached across the desk and clasped her hand. He caressed her skin with his thumb, an expression of pure bliss on his face. Marisa's heart tumbled to her toes. There was no doubt that what little he gave for her compliance she would be expected to return fourfold.

She pulled her hand away from his, slowly, so as not to arouse his ire. She exhaled a ragged breath and pressed her fingers to her temple. Better to play the assigned role of vaporish female. More could be plotted elsewhere if he believed her unable to make decisions over such a trifling affair as a betrothal ball.

"See what I mean," Edmund crooned. "You have given yourself a megrim. Unnecessarily, I might add."

He rose and walked around the desk, until he was standing next to her wingback chair. He put his arm about her shoulders and gently, albeit firmly, made her rise.

Her shawl dropped to her elbows, and her thin chemisette was not enough to prevent his skin from coming into contact with hers. She barely stifled a shudder.

"And now you have taken a chill. As fetching as your morning gown is, I fear it offers little in the way of warmth." He tightened his arm, bringing her body closer to his. "You should lie down, my dear. And do not concern yourself about dinner. I shall have a tray sent up for you. How does that sound?"

"It sounds more than sufficient, my lord. I would call it utter heaven." She hesitated for a heartbeat, intent on convincing him her head was filled with the most vacuous of thoughts. "Would you also permit me some apple tarts? I fancy them so much."

"Anything you wish, my dear. You have only to ask. You know that," he chided, giving her shoulders a light squeeze. "Your happiness is my fondest concern. Send your request to the kitchens and I will ensure it is fulfilled."

He pressed his lips to her cheek, lingering for a moment longer than a mere kiss of concern warranted. He inhaled deeply, as if her scent was the essence of life itself. In the next instant she felt him turn his head, and his hot breath was at her ear.

Marisa shivered. She curved her trembling body away from him, pulling the shawl up around her shoulders. Her cheeks blazed, and she ducked her head in an attempt to feign maidenly modesty. It would not do to expose the revulsion his attentions elicited.

"Thank you, my lord," Marisa rasped, her stomach bouncing with agitation. "You are too kind."

She forced herself to saunter to the library door.

"Miss Dunsmore."

Marisa spun around, her hand clutching the door latch.

"I do not wish you to ride in the mornings."

"My lord," she protested. "I had plans to paint a pretty watercolor for you."

"I prefer that you rest. It is important for you to regain your stamina," he said.

"I am certain I shall be right as rain on the morrow," Marisa insisted, unwilling to lose the opportunity to escape.

"You are no doubt correct. Still, it is not wise to take any chances at present."

He stepped forward, intent on joining her. There was a gleam in his eye that caused her skin to tingle with fear. Would he attempt another embrace? Since they were betrothed, they were permitted certain liberties. However, Marisa much preferred taking those liberties with the highwayman rather than Lord Westbrook.

"Miss Dunsmore. Your health is of prime concern to me."

"And riding is an integral part of my health. Surely you can agree with that."

Edmund strode toward her, and somehow Marisa quelled the urge to hike up her skirts and run as far away from him as possible.

"And surely you can accede to my wishes." Edmund stopped in front of her, a mere whisper away. He focused on her lips, leaving no doubts as to his desires. "Since I have only your best interests at heart."

Marisa dropped her gaze, forced to admit that Edmund had sealed off her once-perfect avenue of escape. Still, she was not willing to concede defeat. Instead, she would retreat, and devise a new strategy, an even more successful one.

She lifted her eyes, and flashed Edmund a flirtatious smile. "I shall agree with you this one time, my lord, although I find it rather disagreeable to do so. I must warn you not to expect it to be a common occurrence in future."

He tossed his head back and roared with laughter.

Marisa whisked through the library door, closing it with an emphatic click. Thankfully, the encounter was finally over.

Now she had to discover how to evade a lifetime of such encounters.

***

E
dmund forced himself to return to his desk, but he could not stop his blood from racing through his veins. She had been so close. Yet he had been unable to touch her in the way he truly wanted.

Soon
.

She would be his bride soon, and then he could let his hands roam her delicate skin as often as he liked.

He caressed the silver inkstand, his hand quivering at the thought of stroking Marisa's silky skin instead. His hand dropped to the smooth leather topping the mahogany desk. His eyes roved from the ceiling-high bookcases filled with rare tomes to the costly paintings in their gilded frames hanging from damask-covered walls.

His chest expanded with satisfaction. Everything—indeed the entire house and all its contents—were his. As they were meant to be. As they always had been.

There had been a time when his rightful inheritance had seemed in doubt. His brother Charles had been fifteen years older, so Edmund was well aware that children could appear late in a marriage. But Charles and his wife Elizabeth had spent so many years without a child that Edmund had been groomed as the heir, and rightfully so.

But then Gabriel had come along.

Edmund pounded his fist on the desktop, still enraged after twenty-five years. After all his careful planning, Gabriel should not have been born.

Edmund had prevented any of Elizabeth's other pregnancies from reaching fruition. A concoction he had devised to soothe her nausea had dispensed with one unborn child. A loose rug in the hallway had seen to the next.

But to Edmund's utter dismay, she had managed to conceal her last pregnancy, justifiably afraid to announce it until she was quite past the early stages.

From that point on Charles had cosseted his wife, and Edmund could do naught but grit his teeth and exclaim his delight that Elizabeth's dream of having a child was coming true at last. Inwardly he seethed at the injustice of being disinherited from his rightful place.

Mercifully, the doctors insisted Elizabeth have no more children, although Edmund knew he would have gone to whatever lengths necessary to enforce those orders. He had hoped the child would succumb to one of the more common childhood diseases. However, he was to be disappointed in that as well. Edmund would swear his nephew had been the most disgustingly healthy child ever born.

He had even schooled the brat in archery, and fencing, and wrestling, all in the hopes that Gabriel might fall prey to a legitimate, and fatal, injury. But the child was both adept, and lucky.

Worse, the unduly long wait for Gabriel's appearance had made him that much more precious to his parents. His parents doted on him as if his miraculous birth outshone that of the babe in Bethlehem. Not only was Gabriel the heir to all his father's lands and title, he was the sole proof of his parents' love for each other after so many years together.

Yet Edmund had seen to it that the child had not displaced him after all. There was still that niggling little worry about the lack of a body. But over the years the solicitors had assured him the stories of a "sighting" of a now-grown child were mere fancies, the result of simple minds enthralled with an unsolved mystery.