Courting an Angel (16 page)

As her two suitors were shaking hands, Rob stood alone in her chamber and gazed out the window at the rain. The bleakness of the day matched the bleakness within her soul.

I willna weep, she told herself, holding back the flood of tears that threatened to spill. Henry would never forsake her because he’d drunk the white heather wine.

And then she saw him. The Marquess of Ludlow dashed across the lawns toward the quay and the barge that would carry him away from her to Hampton Court.

Her dismal future had arrived. The man she wanted to marry had drunk the magical white heather wine. Now he was leaving without even bidding her farewell.

What did the future hold for her? Gordon Campbell, a womanizer who wanted to hide her deformity with gloves. And yet, more than once, the Marquess of Inverary had pressed his lips to her devil’s flower. Was that a self-serving act meant to lull her into believing that he cared for her?

Rob felt the panic rising in her breast. Gordon had eaten the magical cockle bread. Did that mean he would be beating down the door for love of her?

Rob whirled around at the sound of someone knocking on her chamber door. Had her outrageous thoughts somehow conjured the man?

“Who is it?”

“Gordon.”

“Go away.”

The door swung open slowly, and Gordon walked into her chamber.

“I said, go away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized, casting her his devastating smile. “I thought ye said ‘come in.’”

“What d’ye want?” Rob asked, unamused at the obvious lie.

Gordon held the box of gloves up. “Ye left these in the hall.”

Rob flicked a glance at the hateful box. Then she raised her gaze to his and said, “I dinna want them.”

Or you was left unspoken.

Almost imperceptibly, Gordon flinched as if he’d been struck. All pleasantness vanished from his expression, and his gray-eyed gaze darkened like a storm cloud. Without a word, he set the box down on a nearby table and turned to leave.

“I told ye I dinna want them,” Rob said, steeling herself against the aching regret beginning to swell within her.

Gordon turned to face her and said in a surprisingly quiet voice, “I rode all the way to Londontown in that peltin’ rain to get them for ye when what ye deserve is a tremendous whack on yer arse.”

Ever so slowly, he perused her body from the ebony crown of her head to the tips of her slippered feet. “Ye look like a desirable woman, but ye behave like a willful brat. When ye grow up, angel, yer welcome to come courtin’ me.”

Rob showed him her back and waited for him to slam the door in anger as he left the chamber.

He didn’t. Almost noiselessly, the door clicked shut behind him.

The quietness of that click echoed within her soul, tugging painfully at her already raw emotions. Had she been wrong about him? Had he purchased those gloves to mask her flaw or because she’d so admired his golf gloves?

Rob held her hand up and stared at her devil’s flower. Winking at her from its golden bed was the exquisite emerald he’d said matched her eyes.

Rob sighed raggedly. He’d been kind to her, but she’d been cruel to him.

Was she stubbornly childish to want to marry Henry and to remain in England? Didn’t everyone have hopes and dreams? Aye, they did. Courtiers wished for noble commissions, lawyers longed for high fees, and soldiers dreamed of the glory in battle. Maidens desired handsome husbands while young matrons yearned for healthy babes . . .
 

And then her aunt’s probing questions slammed into her consciousness. Did she want to remain in England because she loved Henry? Or did she love Henry because she wanted to remain in England?

Each passing moment made that answer dearer within her heart, her mind, her soul. No matter, though.

Rob craved acceptance.

Chapter 6

God’s balls, but wooing the MacArthur chit was proving damned near impossible.

With his golf bag slung over his right shoulder, Gordon grumbled to himself as he marched across the lawns. At dawn, after passing a restless night, he decided to take his frustrations out on his golf balls.

The skies had cleared under cover of darkness, and the early morning promised a near perfect day. The rolling mist had already receded from the earl’s grounds but still shrouded the river. By mid morning the fog would evaporate as if it had never existed. The comforting scent of wood smoke wafted through the crisp air as myriad servants along the Strand stoked the morning fires in preparation for a new day.

Gordon leaned his golf bag against an oak tree, withdrew his ash driving club, and walked several paces away. After sticking the tee in the winter-brown lawn, he pulled a golf ball from his pocket and set it down on top of the tee, then readied his stance and swung the club with all of his pent-up strength.

Wham! The ball sailed through the air and disappeared into the Duke of Ludlow’s estate.

What the bloody hell was he doing wrong with the MacArthur lass? Gordon wondered, staring — without seeing — in the direction his golf ball had vanished. Apparently, the saucy angel he’d married preferred a book of unreadable love poems to his own thoughtful gift.

That Rob MacArthur might truly love the Marquess of Ludlow never entered his mind. Henry Talbot was a dishcloth when compared to himself. Gordon was certain that he was the handsomer of the two, possessed greater wealth, and enjoyed considerably more status. While Ludlow played the Lord of Misrule for an ageing queen whose time was nearly past, he had the young king’s ear. When Gordon inherited his father’s dukedom, Rob MacArthur would become the undisputed “Queen of Argyll.” What was so objectionable about that?

Muttering to himself about the folly of women, Gordon took another ball from his pocket and set it down on top of the tee. Keeping his gaze riveted on the ball, he swung hard. This time the ball flew over the treetops and landed in the Thames River.

“Are you hitting balls or killing them?” called a voice from behind him.

Gordon whirled around. The garden was deserted. Had he become so distracted by the MacArthur chit’s rejection that he now heard imaginary voices?

“Good morning, my lord.” Laughter lurked in that female voice.

“Where are ye?” Gordon called, turning in a circle. “Show yerself.”

“I’m perched in the oak tree.”

Gordon turned toward the tree and looked up. His mouth dropped open at the astounding sight that greeted him. The Countess of Basildon, the wife of England’s premier earl, sat on a thick branch.

“What are ye doin’ up there?” Gordon asked, sauntering toward the tree.

“Collecting sprigs of mistletoe.” Lady Keely inhaled deeply of the morning’s fresh scent and surveyed the kingdom other garden from her perch in the tree. “I love the dawn. ’Tis the reason I named my daughter Aurora.”

Gordon smiled. “Can I help ye down?” he asked.

“My twenty-nine-year-old bones aren’t brittle yet,” the countess refused. She leaped gracefully from the branch and landed like a cat on her feet, then remarked, “You’ve risen unusually early.”

“I doubt I closed my eyes for more than an hour or two,” Gordon admitted.

“And what has stolen your peaceful sleep?” Lady Keely asked, reaching out to touch his arm in concern.

“I believe ye already know,” Gordon answered. He flicked a glance at the mansion’s second-floor bedchamber windows and added, “Perhaps abductin’ her would be for the best.”

“’Twould destroy any chance you have of winning her heart,” Lady Keely warned him. “You’ve made such good progress with her. Why ruin that now?”

Gordon stared at the countess in surprise. If anything, the opposite was true. Even before he’d reached full manhood, women had thrown themselves at him. A few wanted his money and his title. Most contented themselves with his body. Now that he’d met a woman singularly unimpressed with him, Gordon had no idea how to go about changing her mind. It was an eventuality for which he’d never prepared.

“I dinna ken what goes on inside that pretty head of hers,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “She isna like any woman I’ve ever met.”

“Trust me, my lord. Rob and you are destined for each other,” the countess told him. “I knew that the very first moment I saw you.”

Gordon glanced sidelong toward the mansion again and said, “’Tis a pity she doesna know it.”

“Today marks the start of the birch tree month, which signifies new beginnings,” Lady Keely said with an encouraging smile. “Besides, a tiny spark can kindle a flame.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Rob worried that the white heather wine might harm you,” the countess said. Then she asked, “Why did you give her those gloves?”

“To hide the birthmark she carries on the back of her left hand.”

His honest answer seemed to anger her. “But why?” she asked.

“Rob’s always been uncomfortable aboot that stain, though I dinna ken why,” Gordon answered. “On the day we wed ten years ago, she hid it behind her back and told me that the monster livin’ beneath her bed had touched her hand. I thought the gloves would give her freedom of movement. Too bad she doesna want them.”

“So, you don’t find the mark repulsive.” Lady Keely visibly relaxed and then said, “My lord, courtship is emotional seduction. Absence has been known to make a reluctant heart grow fonder. It did for me when the earl determined to force me to the altar. You see, I’d rejected his advances, but with my stepmother’s assistance, Richard engineered me into a compromising position which forced me to accept his marriage proposal. No sooner had we signed the betrothal contract than the earl left for court.”

Gordon chuckled. “And what did ye do aboot that, my lady?”

“As I recall, those two weeks were the longest of my entire life,” the countess admitted. “I worried that one of the acclaimed beauties at court would catch his eye and win his heart. I’ve always wondered if Richard purposefully abandoned me because he knew I’d realize how much I wanted him.”

“Ye never asked the earl?”

“Part of life’s pleasure lies in its mysteries.”

“What are ye suggestin’ I do, my lady?” Gordon asked, a smile flirting with his lips. That she had something in mind was all too obvious.

“My husband has documents that must be delivered posthaste to Queen Elizabeth,” Lady Keely said. “Unfortunately, he forgot to give them to Henry. Why don’t you offer to deliver them? You could pass several days at Hampton Court and enjoy a few of the Yule’s festivities. When you return, Rob may have reexamined her feelings.”

Gordon narrowed his gaze on her. “Is this a trick to get rid of me?”

The countess cast him a suitably offended look. Then she turned her back and started to walk away.

“I’m verra sorry,” Gordon said, reaching out with one hand to prevent her flight. “I meant, do ye really believe ’twould help? I’m unused to reluctant females.”

“Modest, aren’t you?” she quipped.

Gordon gave her a sheepish smile and shrugged.

“Making a woman desire something is easy when you lead her to believe she cannot have it,” Lady Keely told him. “Besides, your gray eyes do resemble mountain mist, and only a blind woman could be immune to their mysterious depths.”

In courtly manner, Gordon bowed low over her hand and said, “May the wisdom from yer lips travel directly to God’s ears.”

“You mean goddess, my lord. The Supreme Being is female.”

Gordon grinned at that absurd notion but said, “My lady, ye may be correct.”

“Gather your golfing paraphernalia and breakfast with me,” Lady Keely ordered. “Together we’ll plan your strategy for stealing your wife’s sensitive heart.”

Your wife. Gordon felt strangely comforted by those two words. Could he be developing a fondness for the angel he’d married?

“Ludlow is yer brother,” Gordon remarked as he reached for his bag of golf clubs. “Why are ye willin’ to help me?”

“I desire happiness for all involved,” the countess explained. “My brother could never truly be happy if he married a woman meant for another man.”

“Do ye think Rob loves me, then?”

“The answer to that question hides within the shadows of her heart.”

“How does a woman gain such wisdom in only twenty-nine years?” Gordon asked, escorting her across the lawns toward the mansion.

“The same way a man does.”

“Which is?”

Lady Keely cast him an ambiguous smile. “Either you are born with wisdom, my lord, or you make do without it . . .”

* * *

“. . . a desirable woman, but . . . a willful brat . . .” Rob stared out her bedchamber window and recalled the words Gordon had spoken the previous evening.

Her downcast mood contrasted sharply with the scene outside, a near-perfect day with the sun riding high in a heavenly blue sky and the angelic sound of her five Devereux cousins playing a rousing game of blind-man’s buff. She watched her cousins without actually seeing them, her thoughts fixed on her would-be husband.