Lady Iona's Rebellion (2 page)

Although their friendship had been perfectly proper two summers ago, he was now considered a wild rake, one of the worst of the
ton
, living the last two years of his life with no apparent regard for moral constraint. Whispers of his debauched deeds circulated every tearoom and rout.

A hot blush traveled up her fair skin to burn her cheeks. He was not a man a proper lady should be happy to see. She cleared her throat and raised her chin a good inch.

“I beg your pardon. I was about to enter the parlor before you startled me.” She gave a dismissive nod to Myers, the family butler, who stood stone-faced behind the dashingly handsome blue-eyed lord.

Myers gave a deep bow and disappeared around a corner.

“You were eavesdropping,” Lord Nathan countered as playfully as a puppy in search of a game. An untamed blond curl drooped on his brow. He stood with his hand still in possession of her arm and pursed his lips in a wholly unnecessarily provocative manner.

Merciful heavens, two seasons ago, nearly every young lady had been more than half in love with Lord Nathan and Iona had considered herself lucky to be able to call him a dear friend. Until… Oh, why had he turned into an untrustworthy mongrel?

“You-you are mistaken,” she managed to whisper. “I would never—”

“Shhh…” He pressed a gloved finger to her lips and tapped the tip of his champagne blackened hussar boots on the marble floor. “Let’s not add lying to your growing list of sins.”

Her heart thundered in her throat.

It was also two seasons ago that Miss Nancy Harriett had accused Lord Nathan of seducing an unnamed young innocent. The gossipy miss, whose parents lived just a day’s ride from Nathan’s family estate, had doggedly insisted time and again that, several years before Miss Harriett was even old enough to make her comeout, Nathan had ruined a mysterious girl who lived near Miss Harriett’s village. He’d ruined the poor girl so devastatingly that she had no option but to take her own life. Miss Harriett, finding herself suddenly the center of the
ton’s
attention, had swiftly embellished her story, adding that Lord Nathan had also attempted to seduce her in a London hallway. A hallway very similar to this one.

Iona’s gaze flicked across the length of the empty hall.

She could scream but his warm finger was firmly pressed to her lips. It became very hard to breathe. She tore her gaze away from his. Was that a lustful gleam she’d seen sparking in his eyes?

Oh dear, what if the rumors were true? Very few in society had believed Miss Harriett’s wild tale until he’d run off to Scotland with the widow Sharpes. His sudden absence had raised new questions and spawned a string of fresh rumors. Even the refined ladies of the
ton
were caught up in sharing, in parlor room whispers, the sordid details of his thoroughly debauched exploits.

Would an unredeemable rake be able to stop himself from trying to steal a kiss? His lips were dangerously close to hers. She could almost feel his warm breath on her cheek.

What would his kiss feel like? Two years ago she’d asked herself that question more often than she felt comfortable admitting. Two years ago she’d been tempted to fling herself into his arms and steal the first kiss herself.

She struggled to draw a calm breath as a new worry bothered her trembling mind. What if he wanted more than a kiss? He wouldn’t dare try to ravish her here, just outside her father’s parlor, would he?

And to think she once considered him a friend…

His grip on her arm tightened as he drew her toward the heat of his wicked chest.

She whimpered.

“Now, now,” he said, drawing his finger along her tingling lips. “Don’t you swoon on me. I was only teasing about your sins. I’m sure you’re as irritatingly proper as ever.”

He tilted her chin up with his thumb. In place of his usual dazzling smile sat a deep frown. His brows creased with visible distress.

He’d left her lips quivering, longing for a kiss. Instead of breathing a sigh of relief, she only felt an odd sort of empty disappointment twisted in her belly.

“You aren’t planning to seduce me?” she asked.

He set her away from him with lightning speed. “
Seduce you
?” Color drained from his cheeks. “Lady Iona? I-I—” He dragged a hand through his hair.

“Surely you understand. The rumors—” she began.

“I expected more from you.”

“But-but your reputation—”

“I can’t listen to this right now.” He spun on his heel. “Accepting your father’s invitation was undoubtedly a mistake. Good day, my lady.”

A fresh wave of embarrassment rose up her cheeks. She pressed the palms of her hands to her face.

“Oh dear.”

“Iona?” Her mama, a vision of brown, silky hair and a smooth, youthful face, opened the parlor door and stepped out into the hall. “Wherever have you been?”

“I-I—” She stammered, just like when Lord Nathan had questioned her. What was the matter with her? She never stammered. “I was about to enter.”

The Duchess’s cool gaze settled upon Iona’s heated face after taking a critical survey of the pale blue promenade dress Iona was wearing with a royal blue silk sash tied just beneath her breasts.

The Duchess gave a quick nod of approval. “You are late,” she said stiffly, using her rounded, regal tone. “And your father had requested you meet him in his study over an hour ago. You will simply have to forgo the tea and attend to him straightaway.”

“Yes, Mama.” Iona grimaced as she bowed her head. How foolish of her to have forgotten. Rarely did such important matters slip her mind.

Papa had requested the meeting just that morning as she nibbled on toast smeared with a sugary strawberry jam. She’d readily agreed of course and apparently just as readily let the appointment slip from her mind.

What better time to inform her father of her new plans than now?

Oh dear!

She would stand her ground and finally tell him that she would not marry. She would instead become an independent woman. A sculptress, perhaps.

He would understand…wouldn’t he?

She pushed the door open after giving two quick knocks.

“Ah, there you are, poppet,” her father said. He waved away Iona’s rushed apologies and motioned to a leather chair near the fireplace. He turned back to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy.

After running her fingers along her father’s smooth green marble sculpture of a wild horse leaping in the air, she sat with her hands neatly folded on her lap and fought an urge to fidget with the pearly ribbons hanging from her gown. Her stomach twisted. Her nerves were still all jangled from her surprise encounter with Lord Nathan, and now this.

She feared she already knew the purpose for her father’s attention. She wasn’t a ninny, of course she knew. Still, somehow she managed to hold onto her naturally placid composure—at least on the outside.

“You will see, Iona, this is for the best,” her father said, his smile tightened. He hadn’t taken his usual place in the empty burgundy chair across from her. They often sat face-to-face next to the fire to speak on…well, trifling matters.

“The best,” she whispered. Her head turned colder than the wettest, chilliest winter’s day London could ever have offered.

Summer was well upon them. The Newbury family moved from London to their Bath townhouse every summer so Mama’s health could benefit from the water’s restorative properties.

They had barely unpacked.

“You are three-and-twenty,” her father said and paused. His pale robin-egg blue eyes settled on her and a smile creased the corners of his lips. “Three-and-twenty.”

Her father, the rather austere Duke of Newbury, was tall, lean and very blond. Her aunt had often commented—with a deep sigh—how his three daughters were naught but female versions of his handsome self.

His quiet adoration filled Iona’s heart, making what she wished to tell him all the more difficult. A young lady was expected to marry. And the daughter of this Duke was expected to marry a titled gentleman of considerable standing.

She had no desire to disappoint him. Yet—she took a deep breath—she also had no desire to marry
any
man. She opened her mouth to explain her decision when he cleared his throat again.

“Yes,” he said and set to pacing, “three-and-twenty years. A woman grown.”

“And nearly firmly set on the shelf,” Iona’s mother said from the doorway. She slipped into the study and closed the door behind her with a snap.

Several silent, tense glances flew between the Duke and Duchess.

“I have a right to be present,” the Duchess said finally. The Duke gave a sharp nod and turned away.

Iona’s clasped hands tightened, her nails digging into her skin.

Had Papa not noticed how she’d visited the British Museum to sketch the marvelous assortment of marble figures nearly every day of this past social season in London? Had he not seen how she’d become ever more restless in her current life?

Certainly there was no need for her toes to be quaking in her leather kid boots as she watched her mother stride toward her and settle into the empty chair generally reserved for her father while he remained on the other side of the room to splash another goodly amount of brandy into his finely cut crystal glass.

He took a sip. His frown deepened. “This past season in London nine very eligible and well-bred gentlemen each paid me a visit. Each begged for your hand in marriage. I would have been pleased to call any one of them son-in-law.”

Iona’s chest tightened. Her father had never appeared bothered when she’d refused the many offers of marriage presented to her. In fact, she’d sensed he’d been pleased by her stubbornness. Why the change in manner now?

“I fear for your happiness,” he said.

“You are fast gaining a reputation as an emerging spinster,” the Duchess said. “It is most embarrassing.”

Her father sighed. “As much as I wish it, you cannot remain my dear, little poppet forever. Like a baby bird, you have to leave the nest in order to learn how to fly.”

“I agree, Papa,” Iona said. Now was the time. She would tell him all about her newfound love of sculpture. He would understand her decision to move into a modest London cottage and study with one of the local artisans, for her father loved her and truly wanted her happiness. And she would be happy, for she would have her independence and, at the same time, never be too far from her family. “I believe I should—”

He held up his hand. “I know what is best,” he said briskly. He flicked a sharp gaze toward the Duchess before hurrying on. “And I have made a decision that will serve our family’s interests as well as provide you with a stable future.”

“Yes?” Iona asked in the long silence that followed. Her voice wavered. “A-a stable future?”

“Don’t look so worried, poppet. I’m not about to sell you to the highest bidder.” The smile that grew on his lips didn’t go anywhere near his worried eyes. “I’ve contacted Lovington and he’s most agreeable to the match.”

“The match?”

“You and Byron will marry at the end of this summer,” the Duchess said.

Her father waved his hand in a large arc over the expanse of the heavy oak-paneled room. “Lovington will one day inherit all this. And more importantly, you will become the next Duchess of Newbury.”

The light in the room grew willowy white, too bright for her buzzing mind to handle. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and was very glad to be seated.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she muttered. Such matches occurred all the time. They were expected. They made perfect sense. And she loved her cousin, Lord Byron Lovington. But it was a sisterly kind of love. No spark of passion—not at all the kind of heartrending love portrayed in the romantic paintings and statues she’d studied—had ever flared between them. They’d been practically raised together.

Of course, since both of Iona’s brothers had died during the first years of her life, Byron Lovington was legally her father’s heir. The ducal title and estates were destined to one day go to him.

“Lovington is quite busy dealing with his shipping company. What, with Napoleon’s defeat last month, he has had his hands full dealing with all the changes in the import business. He won’t be able to join us here in Bath for a fortnight.” Her father’s comforting hand stroked her back. “We will hold off making the official announcement of your engagement until he has arrived. That should give you ample time to become accustomed to the idea.”

“Of course,” she said, stiffening her spine.

She managed to raise her head from her hands and blink away much of the blurriness. This marriage was what her father wanted. As his daughter, it was her place to obey his wishes. She was the good daughter, the obedient one.

Her parents hadn’t even asked her opinion. They simply expected she’d abide by their decision.

She forced a smile to her lips. “Of course,” she repeated. “This will keep the ducal title within our immediate family.”

“And you will be happy.” Her father clapped his hands together with that announcement. “I almost forgot, poppet. There was something you wished to tell me?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Her dreams of independence drained away like water from a leaky bucket. For a brief moment, Lord Nathan’s face flashed in her memory. There was a rogue brave enough to live as he pleased.

And he was as different from her as night was from day. The thought of what her steadfast obedience had wrought threatened to make her ill. Her fist clenched and unclenched in her lap as her mind raced with agitated thoughts that urged her, nay, compelled her to—

In a blind panic, she snatched a colorful oriental vase from the tiny table beside her chair and smashed it along with its purple lilies against the fire grate. Her mother gasped.

“No, Papa! I will
not
agree to this.” Iona leapt up from her chair and planted her fists on her hips, echoing a stance her younger sister often favored when disagreeable. “I will not be led to the altar like a lamb. I am your daughter! I deserve better!”

Stark silence answered her. Her father had drawn back, his expression empty. The Duchess steepled her fingers in front of her lips and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Why, Iona, where has this come from, child?” she said at last.

Tears flooded Iona’s eyes. Her heart beat a sickly tattoo against her throat. “Papa, I have made plans to use my dowry and move to a small London cottage, to—”

He held up his regal hand. His lips tightened into a grim line as he swallowed deeply. “I daresay you should go to your bedchamber and compose yourself. You have two weeks to become accustomed to the marriage. You will be happy with Lovington.” The last sounded like a royal decree.

“But Papa—”

“This is for the best.” He turned away from her. The discussion was over. She knew from watching him deal with her sister’s tantrums that no amount of tears or pleading would be able to pry another word from her father’s lips.

Head bowed, she crept from the room. There was truly no hope for it—she’d simply have to pack her dreams away. That was what any obedient daughter would do, dash it all.

But still, there had to be another way…

* * * * *

“Let me help you,” Nathan shouted. His stubborn father, the Marquess of Portfry, should—at the very least—lean on his shoulder as they prepared to make their way from the carriage and across the pavement toward the elegant Bath townhouse. The townhouse was one of thirty identical stone terrace houses—the Newbury household being one of them—that formed the exclusive Royal Crescent. Nathan’s father, whose major concern was making a proper impression, had meticulously picked this particular home to rent for the summer.

Nathan had arrived in Bath several days earlier to ensure that all was ready. And despite all his father’s foul grumbling, Nathan truly wanted to help.

His father’s skin appeared shockingly pasty after the long carriage ride. He shouldn’t have been up and walking.