The reluctant cavalier (25 page)

He stared at her. So, she had guessed. He wondered how long she had known. Perhaps Caroline had told her. Had she been playing with him all this time, luring him along? Embarrassment cut him like a cold wind. Dashing, she had said. But it was the Cavalier who was dashing, not him. She had never truly seen
him
at all, just the illusion the costume had cast over him.

"So, you know. I daresay you've known for quite a while." He let out a mirthless laugh. "You are fond of that word—dashing—are you not?" He leaped down lightly from the tree and approached her slowly. She stared at him and did not move. "And who are you in love with, Annabella? The dashing duke, the dashing Cavalier, or me? Or perhaps even Geoffrey, who is very dashing, or so I've heard?"

"You are the same—you and the Cavalier are the same man."

He was but a handsbreadth away from her now. She looked up at him, and she drew in a shaking breath.

"Am I? You live in a dream, Bella. The Cavalier is a made-up man—a hero from a fairy tale that will never come true." He was tired of it all—tired of the gibes of his family, tired of wishing and wanting and never measuring up. Anger welled up in him again.

"Do you want a dashing man, Bella? You will never have it with me, you know." He moved closer, and she took a step back against the trunk of the oak tree. "I'm not the sort to come to anyone's rescue, whatever you may think of the Cavalier. I'll not come to you perfumed and pomaded." He put his hands on either side of her, against the tree, trapping her. "I'll smell of earth and water, and maybe even horses and stable. My hands are rough with work and will catch and tear on your silks." He ran his finger on her skin on the edge of her bodice, and it did indeed catch on the fine silk lace there. She looked away from him, her breath coming faster.

"Your duke will never step on your toes or on your sensibilities, but I'm a clumsy fellow—too stupid to even know what I am doing." He took her chin in his hand, so that Annabella had to look at him. His fingers were hard and callused against her skin, and his eyes were filled with deep and angry sadness. "You can't wish to marry me, Bella," he said and kissed her.

His lips were fierce on hers this time, but now she was not afraid. He
had
frightened her at first with his anger, but he had been rightfully angry. Yet though his kisses were hard against her mouth, they soon softened, and she put her arms around his neck and held him close.

"You are wrong. I do want to marry you," Annabella whispered. "I was stupid not to tell you and refuse the duke immediately. I was afraid of hurting him—he had done me no harm, after all, and has been very gentlemanly. But I have hurt you worse, you who have been beyond gentlemanly—so very kind." She tenderly pushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead and stared into his still distrustful eyes. "You'll see! I shall tell the duke straightaway, I promise you! He cannot persist after that, I am sure." She looked at him steadily. "You will have to trust me, though I should not expect it."

Parsifal stared at her and touched her cheek with his finger. "I do," he said slowly. "But I think it is not something I am accustomed to—trusting. I did not know that before now."

She smiled at him. "Kiss me again."

He sighed before he touched his mouth to hers, and there was a longing ache in the sound. This time the kiss was gentle at its start, but then grew stronger, parting her lips with the strength of it.

"I love you, Bella," Parsifal murmured, kissing the corner of her lips, her cheek, then descending to the soft spot just under her chin.

Annabella's heart came open, as if it had been a door long shut. He said the words as though they had been pulled from him, his voice harsh and low in his throat, like a last rush of rain against the earth. She realized he had not said this before, that he loved her. Perhaps this was behind her hesitation, too .. . and she knew it was, for none of her suitors had said this. They had admired her, they had said they desired her, wished to marry her. But none of them had said they loved her.

It almost hurt her, this joyful opening of her heart. But his kisses were ardent, his hands upon her waist and hips a soothing balm that at once healed and excited her. She could not help herself. She pressed herself against him, and he groaned, his knees bending.

They tumbled to the ground upon the moss at the foot of the oak. Annabella landed half on top of him, and she let out a slight laugh, soon smothered by his kisses, her breath taken away from her when he rolled her beneath him and kissed the sensitive skin at the edge of her bodice.

Parsifal moved upon her, his mouth drinking of her lips as if they were the sweetest wine. It made him dizzy with wanting her, and he could not help touching the soft skin of her breasts—soft like the petals of the rarest rose in his gardens. He touched his lips to them, and she rose against him, and it was like his daydream, but real now, for her flesh was firm against his mouth, and the sweet scent of her came to him as it never would in a dream.

Ah, how he wanted her! He ached with it, allowed himself one touch and another, waiting after each one to see if she would refuse him. But she did not, and only sighed and trembled beneath him, giving and taking kisses more fervently than before. Something urgent at the back of his mind pushed at him—but one more touch, one more caress—

He groaned and rolled away from her.

"What—is there something the matter, Parsifal?" Annabella sat up, her gaze bewildered and a little bereft. He looked away from her, for it made him wish to kiss her again, and more. He let out a breathless laugh.

"No, yes—" He sighed, then smiled at her. "You don't know—I... want you." He reached out and caressed her cheek, and watched as she closed her eyes briefly at his touch. It brought an ache to his heart and more heat to his loins, and he moved away, closing his hand tightly against the feeling that he must touch her again. "I suspect if we had done more, it would have ended in our doing what should properly be done on one's wedding night." He stood up and held out her hand to her.

"Oh!" She took his hand and rose to her feet, but her face grew pink. "I... I suppose we should not, then." She cast a hesitant glance at him. "How ... how much more?"

He grinned widely. "You need not worry." He pulled her into his arms. "I
am
certain that one must go far beyond kisses, though."

She looked up into his eyes. "I am glad," she breathed, then blushed more pink than before.

Parsifal let out a laugh and kissed her lingeringly once more, then put her from him. "Enough. I can wait, but you make it difficult, Bella, my love."

She looked at him, and it seemed as if her soul glowed from behind her eyes, looking more beautiful than ever. His heart ached within him, and he wished he were married to her now, so that he could show her how much he loved her, with his body and his words.

"I will tell the duke, Parsifal, I swear it! And then we shall be married, soon," Annabella said, her words rushing from her.

"I imagine your parents will have something to say about that," Parsifal replied. "They will not like it when you refuse the duke . . . and I can understand their reasoning. They wish only the best for you."

She looked at him solemnly. "Stratton does not love me. He has never said it, though he could have. I do not want to marry a man who does not love me, or whom I cannot love. Even my parents can understand that."

"He is a fool, more so than I, it seems." Parsifal took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He gazed at her, hesitating, then pulled the ring from his finger. "Here. This is my pledge to you. In my heart, at least, I am already married to you." He smiled self-consciously. "A foolish thing."

Annabella tiptoed and kissed him. "No, not foolish at all."

A long sigh came from Parsifal, and his smile turned wry. "I suppose I can be patient and wait. No harm can come from that."

The Duke of Stratton gazed at the note he had in his hand and admired his self-control. Any other man would have trembled in rage, would have thrown the letter into the fire as soon as he read it. But his gloved hands were steady as he carefully, meticulously, tore it into tiny pieces. The sound of tearing echoed in the large and silent dining room. He placed the pieces in the silver salver on which his butler had given it to him. He did not let any of the paper flutter to the floor, or even on the table.

Miss Annabella Smith wished to speak to him, and he was sure it was not to accept him as her husband, but to refuse him. A fire burned in him at the insult... but it was to be expected. She was not worthy of him. Had he not watched her carefully? And had he not seen her enter the Wentworth woods to seek out her lover—no better than a whore on the London streets?

He curled his lip. No, she was not worthy of him, though she had fooled him at first, luring him into thinking she was. He could understand if she had looked upon a man of more wealth or lineage than his own. But she had chosen a man without a title, a man with dirt under his fingernails, who was little better than the gardeners he worked beside.

The duke looked at the small pieces of paper on the silver plate and smiled suddenly. Miss Annabella Smith should not have deceived him, and so deserved to be punished. He would make sure she was punished quite thoroughly.

****

Annabella stared out of the drawing-room window at the gardens beyond and twisted her handkerchief in her hands. She realized what she was doing and smoothed out the silken cloth upon her lap. The Duke of Stratton had sent her a short missive in reply, asking that they drive out together in his curricle so that they could discuss the matter of their betrothal without any chance of interruption. She had agreed—it was the least she could do. But she was anxious nevertheless, for she knew it would be an awkward interview. A knock at the door made her jump, and she turned. " 'Tis His Grace, the Duke of Stratton, miss," the butler said.

"I shall be down shortly," Annabella replied, twisting her handkerchief again. The butler left. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes for a moment, then rose and went downstairs. It will not be very bad, she told herself. She regretted causing the duke pain, but it could not be helped,after all.

The duke smiled at her and kissed her hand when she arrived, but she could only nod and give her best curtsey.

"Is there something the matter, Miss Smith?"

Annabella glanced at him—his face was smoothly polite. "I... no. Or rather—Oh, heavens! Perhaps we should proceed to the carriage."

The duke merely nodded and took her arm, helping her up into the carriage before he ascended himself. He took the reins and the horses moved forward.

"It is a pleasant day," the duke said.

"Yes it is," Annabella replied, feeling that the sky should not be so obliging as to be bright and sunny. She wished it were dull and rainy, so that she could have stayed indoors. She glanced at the duke again, taking in his still, emotionless face as he concentrated on guiding the carriage around a bend in the road. An awkward silence fell between them—awkward for her, for it seemed that the duke was unmoved.

They talked of commonplaces for a long while—he easily, she clumsily, as if her tongue had become stiff and unresponsive to her thoughts. She shook her head slightly at herself. How boorish she must seem! Ah, she could not stand it!

"Your Grace—" Annabella hesitated, then rushed on. "Your Grace, I sent you the note—That is, I am sensible of the honor you have accorded me in asking for my hand in marriage, but I cannot—I know I agreed to give us time in which we might become more accustomed to each other, but I cannot marry you."

There, she had said it. She should have been relieved, now that she had said her part, but she was not. Her shoulders tensed, and she felt as if every nerve was on edge. She glanced at him, and saw him smiling slightly, but was still not relieved. His smile was cold, and a queer sensation twisted her stomach.

"And why, may I ask, do you not wish to marry me?" the duke asked.

Annabella swallowed. "Please believe me when I say I am sensible of the pain my refusal must give you. You are known as a good man, and I could not wish to hurt you. But I know I would hurt you worse were I to marry you while I loved another. I believe love should exist between a husband and wife, or at least a true affection. But my love for another would always be between us, and I cannot think that you could wish for that."

"How do you know that, Miss Smith?"

She gazed at him uncertainly. Did she hear a cold edge to his voice? Little wonder if there was! If he was angry, he had cause. It could not be pleasant at all to have one's proposal of marriage refused.

"I know you must be angry with me, but—but why are we here?" Annabella looked about her . .. the duke had driven .the carriage to the gates of his estate. The gatekeeper opened the gates, bowing deeply, and they went through.

"I thought perhaps we should talk inside my house," the duke replied calmly.

"No! I cannot! I should not be here with you. I thought we would merely go for a short drive, or else I would have brought my maid!"

"I do not see why you should object, Miss Smith," the duke said calmly. "You did not take your maid with you when you met Mr. Wentworth in the gardens, did you?"

Annabella's face flushed hot with both embarrassment and anger. "You have been spying on me!"

"And why should I not? You were as good as betrothed to me. Should I not watch over my own interests? I do not let the fox enter my henhouse. I keep my affairs in order. Neither do I let what I consider mine go to any other."

"I am
not
yours," Annabella said firmly, though a chill fear shot through her and she began to feel ill. The duke's expression never changed. It was still coolly polite, and he still smiled, as if contemplating something quite pleasant. Did he not understand what she had been saying? "I have just refused your proposal of marriage. Therefore, you have no claim on me."

The Duke of Stratton gazed at her for one moment, and Annabella wet her suddenly dry lips. For that one moment it seemed utter hatred flashed in his eyes. But then it was gone—she had imagined it; surely, she had imagined it.