Lessons From a Scarlet Lady (16 page)
“Well, I might suffer her presence for a chance to speak with her father. Wellington can use all the help he can get with Horse Guards, and Marston has influence. I’m glad to hear she’s at least passably pretty so my interest seems sincere.”
Passably?
A flicker of irritation ran up Robert’s spine for some unfathomable reason. It was unfathomable because Damien, always reasonable and even tempered, rarely irritated anyone. He answered in a cool voice, “She’s very striking, actually, and rumor has it her father has turned down many offers for her hand. Once you meet her, you’ll understand why. She isn’t one of those milk-faced misses who simpers and takes pride in the fact there is nothing but fluff in her head.”
A flicker of irritation ran up Robert’s spine for some unfathomable reason. It was unfathomable because Damien, always reasonable and even tempered, rarely irritated anyone. He answered in a cool voice, “She’s very striking, actually, and rumor has it her father has turned down many offers for her hand. Once you meet her, you’ll understand why. She isn’t one of those milk-faced misses who simpers and takes pride in the fact there is nothing but fluff in her head.”
Damien’s demeanor took on a certain cheer. “That’s welcome news. This party might not be as tedious as I thought.”
“You’d pretend to take an interest in her to gain audience with her father?”
“Nothing so nefarious.” His brother looked perplexed at his annoyed tone. “I merely meant that I assume she’ll be in the company of her parents most of the time and in courting Marston’s attention, I am sure I will be required to also court hers.”
It made sense. Why Robert even cared was a mystery.
One brief exchange of casual conversation and a quick dash into the bushes to help her escape a boring oaf like Watts hardly constituted anything but a passing acquaintance.
“Go ahead and court her.” He lifted his shoulders in a deliberate nonchalant gesture.
“I didn’t say I was going to—”
“Damien, do as you damn well please.”
Had he really just interrupted his older brother with such vehemence? Bloody hell, that moment downstairs with Brianna had him off balance.
He moved toward the door. “Sorry. I hate affairs of this sort. They make me edgy. Let’s go have a stiff brandy before it all begins, shall we?”
If the past hour was any indication, Rebecca would be lucky to make it through the next five days with her sanity intact.
She sat perched on the edge of an embroidered settee, her teacup in her unsteady hand. If she lifted the delicate porcelain to her mouth she was sure she’d dribble tea all over her lap, so instead she pretended she wasn’t thirsty.
In short, she faked having tea, which wasn’t something a respectable Englishwoman should ever do, but she was rather tired of the rules of respectability. Those selfsame rules had her stuck listening as Damien Northfield—who was almost as handsome as his rakish younger brother but completely lacking the dashing air and wicked smile—and her father grew engrossed in a conversation about the war on the Peninsula. On the opposite side of the room, Robert conversed with Loretta Newman, a widow who was both attractive and still quite young.
Of course, Rebecca thought crossly, the woman had to be fashionably blond and petite and all the other things a gentleman might like. As she watched, Robert leaned forward just a fraction too far for propriety and whispered something in his companion’s ear. Mrs. Newman laughed and fluttered her lashes in a teasing way that made Rebecca want to grind her teeth. What they were talking about she couldn’t tell, but they’d been standing there in a cozy corner for the last fifteen minutes and—
“Miss Marston?”
She tore her gaze away, chagrined. Damien Northfield looked at her with perfect equanimity from a nearby chair. She stammered, “I—I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
Dear God in heaven, do not let him catch me staring at his brother.
There was a keenness in his eyes that spoke of a superior intelligence.
There was a keenness in his eyes that spoke of a superior intelligence.
“I wondered,” he said with particular courtly seriousness, “how you were enjoying London this year?”
At least it wasn’t a difficult question. “About as much as last year,” she said honestly. He had nice eyes, she noted, but they were dark rather than an arresting azure blue. His clean-cut Northfield features didn’t show Robert’s slightly sinful charm or Colton’s reserve, but were something his entirely, something watchful and quiet.
A quixotic smile quirked Lord Damien’s lips. “I see.”
Her father frowned at the ambiguous nature of her response. She refused to look apologetic but instead focused on Robert’s older brother. Surely she could do
better. “I meant it is quite a whirl.”
Apparently she couldn’t do
much
better.
much
better.
Lord Damien didn’t seem to mind. He said in a mild tone, “I find it such myself. Even without the war, I fear I am a bit too solitary to spend a great deal of time in London. Robert is quite the opposite.” He glanced in the direction where his brother still stood flirting with the desirable Mrs. Newman.
“He does seem to go about in society.” It was a banal comment and Rebecca wished violently she could drink her tea to give her hands something to do, but really she was afraid of embarrassing herself.
“He mentioned the two of you were acquainted.”
That comment got her full attention. How
much
had he mentioned? Their collision in the doorway? The flight through the gardens? That almost kiss she couldn’t stop thinking about? She hoped Robert hadn’t detailed the whole story to his brother, and she prayed that if he had, Damien wouldn’t choose to repeat it now in front of her father. Surely, as an attaché to Wellington, he had more tact than that.
much
had he mentioned? Their collision in the doorway? The flight through the gardens? That almost kiss she couldn’t stop thinking about? She hoped Robert hadn’t detailed the whole story to his brother, and she prayed that if he had, Damien wouldn’t choose to repeat it now in front of her father. Surely, as an attaché to Wellington, he had more tact than that.
Everything would have been fine except she blushed. To her horror she felt the rush of blood upward and the warmth invade her face. “We’ve been introduced,” she said just a little too quickly, not daring to look over at her father.
“Yes, well, I imagine so. You are a good friend of my sister-in-law, I understand.” Lord Damien’s expression was bland.
Tact indeed. He made it sound very natural that she would be acquainted with a rake of the highest caliber, even one her father despised. She nodded, grateful for his explanation. “Brianna and I have been friends most of our lives. Our families have estates quite close by each other, and we met as children.”
“Our acquaintance is still brief but she seems like a lovely person.”
“She is.” At least Rebecca could say that with conviction.
To her relief, he turned back to her father and asked a question about the upcoming Parliamentary session, and she was once again abandoned to her now tepid but still full cup of tea. It was torture not to look, but she didn’t dare so much as a glance over to where Robert and the pretty widow stood, at least not for a few moments.
To her dismay, when she did sneak a quick look, they were gone. Both of them.
A sick feeling curled in the pit of her stomach.
It was one thing to have a hopeless passion for a known rake, and quite another to be witness to his indiscretions. Oh, she’d seen him dance and chat and smile in crowded ballrooms before, but there were always a great deal of people milling about, and she’d never seen him
leave
with any of his fawning admirers. When a man and a woman disappeared at a house party together . . . well, she read the gossip columns and was worldly enough to know what happened.
leave
with any of his fawning admirers. When a man and a woman disappeared at a house party together . . . well, she read the gossip columns and was worldly enough to know what happened.
Had they gone upstairs to where the bedrooms were located?
It was possible.
It stung, though she had no right to feel upset or betrayed. She just . . . did.
With only a small rattle of her cup in its saucer, she managed to set aside her tea. If she didn’t escape this room she might scream. When she stood, naturally her father and Lord Damien rose politely also. Rebecca murmured, “Excuse me. It is so lovely out, and the estate’s gardens beckon. Brianna has complimented them so many times. I must see for myself.”
Damien’s brows elevated a fraction, and to her horror he offered his arm. “Please allow me to escort you.”
No! He looks so much like him . . . that thick chestnut hair, and his profile. . . .
What she truly desired was to be alone and to compose herself. But if she refused Damien’s proffered escort, her father would be immensely irritated and she would seem churlish. So she set her fingers on his sleeve and dredged up a smile. “That would be lovely.”
They left the room together through a set of French doors open to the late afternoon. Damien led her around the sweep of the huge terrace toward the back of the house where the formal gardens were laid out, at least fifteen acres of them, he informed her in his diffident way, their walk more of a stroll. Had she really been interested in the flowers and sculpted bushes, she would have been glad of his company, but not now, considering her mother’s aspirations for her to look at Lord Damien as a possible candidate for a husband.
This was most uncomfortable.
He selected a path and she walked next to him, hoping she looked composed. Lest he think she was a complete idiot without a gracious bone in her body, she murmured politely, “Are you enjoying your leave from your duties in Spain, my lord?”
He looked reflective, a faint smile teasing his lips. “I would be a fool to say I wasn’t, wouldn’t I? Who would wish to trade this wonderful place, a chance to see my family and friends, and time to relax for the hardships of war?”
Rebecca wasn’t sure how to respond. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight edge in his tone, but she didn’t know him well enough to judge.
“I am,” he said succinctly, “occasionally foolish.” She blinked. “I take it that means you would rather be back in Spain?”
“I enjoy my duties,” he admitted. “It is a pleasure to align myself against Bonaparte and his venal ambitions. The visit home is nice, but though it might sound odd, I am anxious to get back to the war.”
“It’s admirable.” In secret, she devoured the newspaper accounts of the quest to wrest free the Emperor’s inexorable hold over Europe. “Everyone, from the Duke of Wellington himself to the lowliest soldier, risks much for England and the world.”
“I relish the challenge.”
He spoke the truth—she could tell. Rebecca smiled up at him. It was the first genuine smile she’d been able to give since she arrived at Rolthven. “I think you do.”
“I love my family too—don’t mistake me—but I am not Colton, with his estates and responsibilities. Nor am I Robbie, with his
joie de vivre
attitude toward life. Not that my youngest brother is shallow in any way. I am not sure if it is common knowledge, but he has a canny knack for numbers of any kind, from financial investments to card games. Never pit yourself against him in whist, Miss Marston, for I promise you, you will lose.”
joie de vivre
attitude toward life. Not that my youngest brother is shallow in any way. I am not sure if it is common knowledge, but he has a canny knack for numbers of any kind, from financial investments to card games. Never pit yourself against him in whist, Miss Marston, for I promise you, you will lose.”
Why were they talking about Robert again?
Or was she just sensitive to the subject? It was natural enough for him to mention his younger brother.
Rebecca murmured, “I shall take your warning to heart, lest I be lured into a contest of that sort.”
“He’s a brilliant cellist too. Did you know?”
Why would he think she knew anything at all about a rogue like his younger brother? “Of course not,” she said too brusquely. “We are no more than passing acquaintances.”
“I just wondered,” Damien said in his quiet, amused way, “if Brianna might have mentioned it. Robbie doesn’t advertise it, naturally, for music isn’t such a manly pastime, but he has a true talent for it. Once again, I think it is the mathematician in him. He can easily glance at a piece of music and understand the meter and measure without even having to think about it like the rest of us might.”
Rebecca felt as if her heart had stopped beating. Robert was a musician? Briefly, she shut her eyes. It was nothing, just a small flutter, but it happened against her will.
The lover of her dreams was a kindred soul. She pictured his long, graceful fingers holding a bow—and
then
she envisioned them sliding over her skin.
then
she envisioned them sliding over her skin.
So she could now add a new daydream to her repertoire. Wonderful. This would be her undoing.
“How clever of him.” The inadequate mumble was decidedly
not
clever, so she deflected the conversation away from the possibility of any more disconcerting revelations about Robert Northfield. “What about you, my lord? What are your talents?”
not
clever, so she deflected the conversation away from the possibility of any more disconcerting revelations about Robert Northfield. “What about you, my lord? What are your talents?”
His face took on an enigmatic expression. “I do not know if it is a talent, but I can think like the enemy. I am sure genteel young ladies do not need to concern themselves with such matters, but it does aid our effort to thwart the French now and again.”
Long shadows had lengthened over the path and the crunch of their passage along the gravel mingled with the twitter of the birds in the ornamental trees and beyond, in the huge elms in the grassy park. Rebecca took in a breath and let it out gently. “I feel confident it is a talent England needs. Make no mistake, some genteel young ladies also worry about the war, my lord.”
“Do they?” He glanced down and she thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes over the firmness of her tone. “I take it you are one of them. Forgive me, then, for my underestimation of your interest in our struggle against Bonaparte.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” She made a small face. “My mother finds my interest in politics unladylike.” An understatement. Talking about the war was placed into the same category as admitting one composed music.
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