Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (15 page)

“Ata, that is not true. And honestly, it doesn’t seem to matter what anyone suggests to me. I fear I’m incapable of following advice.” She looked at the edge of her hem. “At least I can only blame myself when everything falls to pieces, as it always seems to do.”

“Well, I can assure you that admitting any possible error does not change anything,” Ata said with a small voice. “I have tried it. Even Mr. Brown tried it. And we are proof that it does not work.”

Elizabeth searched the older woman’s forlorn face. “You spoke to him?”

“In a letter last spring. Begged his pardon for all our old arguments—my past behavior,” Ata murmured. “I begged him to return. And now I regret it, for he is here and quite obviously indifferent to me. It appears disaster is to be the cornerstone of my life no matter what I do.”

Elizabeth gently squeezed Ata’s hand. “How can you call the last two years a disaster? These many months have been the happiest of my life. Ata…your friendship means more to me than I will ever be able to properly express.”

“Oh, my darling. I did not mean to suggest…Ah, I have muddled this too. What I mean to say is that it is I who is grateful to you and the others for your friendship. I shall never forget any of you, as you forge your young lives.”

“You make it sound as if we will not see each other in future,” Elizabeth said with anxiety.

“That is not so. It is just that time presses on and each of you will have husbands and children to attend to—and all the mysteries of your lives will unfold. I shall eventually retire to Cornwall. But, fear not, I am too curious to go yet. First, I must see who shall win your hand.” Ata continued before Elizabeth could respond, “Come…let me help you with your hair ribbon.”

As she quickly donned the newly pressed blue silk gown laid out for her, and Ata finished dressing her hair with a blue satin ribbon, Elizabeth wished she had a hint of how her life would unfold. She was so tired of mystery—so tired of choosing the wrong course.

Ata was of the same mind.

That very evening, Ata took her decision. She had watched Mr. Brown and the Countess of Home laugh and converse all through the endless formal dinner. And she had endured watching them dance twice, the countess flirting with John each time the intricate steps brought them together. And yet, when he had finally come to claim a set with Ata, he had not uttered more than two sentences. It was the outside of enough.

When the last notes of the music faded away, Ata tugged John Brown behind the nearest potted palm.

“Do you want to marry me or not?” she asked, fuming.

He took far too long to form a reply. “Are you asking?”

“Are you refusing?” She loathed her defensive, tinny tone.

“Lass…” His voice was tired.

A cool trickle of hurt filled her. “You
are
refusing.” She really was the stupidest woman in all of creation. She had chosen to love a man who was determined to break her heart twice in one lifetime. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’re asking for the wrong reason,” he said gently.

“What do reasons have to do with this? Either you want to marry me or you do not. You’ve had five decades to consider it. I had rather thought you were inclined at one time.”

“I was. But I won’t marry you just because you are jealous of the Countess of Home.”

“Hang the countess and her fawning ways.”

He sighed.

Her temper got the better of her. “I should have known you would back down when it came to the point. Nothing has changed. I’m the fool for thinking it could.”

His lips were stiff. “I’ve explained my actions many times. I refused to allow you to throw in your lot with a poor, young man without prospects at the time. I knew your parents would refuse your dowry. You would not have enjoyed living in a crowded house with my parents and all my numerous siblings.”

“You’re absolutely correct. I vastly preferred living in an enormous glittering castle with one tyrant,” she nearly shouted.

“I know you will never forgive me for the choice I made—and I understand why. I’m sorry, lass. I truly
am. And your anger is entirely justified. I am sorry for so many things. I don’t want to bring you any further pain or heartache. I—”

“Oh, Mr. Brown,” purred the Countess of Home, coming around the palm with a knowing smile. “There you are! The quadrille you claimed on my card is next. Shall we? Your Grace, do excuse us.”

Paralyzed, Ata stared after John Brown as her nemesis led him away.

She had won their old argument. Finally. Why then, did it feel as if she had lost everything?

For so many years she had blamed John Brown for her misery. In the past, she had never placed herself in his shoes to understand his reasons. But now she saw they were both of them wrong.

Neither one of them was to blame.

And now…it felt as if it was very much too late. There was too much history between them—too much to regret, and too much to forget.

And so Merceditas “Ata” St. Aubyn, the Dowager Duchess of Helston, watched the great love of her life dance away from her.

Rowland Manning leaned against a pillar of the folly in the formal gardens, beyond the open doors of the royal ballroom. He was behaving like a bloody fool.

In the end he hadn’t trusted himself to attend the dinner. A cloud of disgust permeated his conscience. The cool fortitude he had formerly possessed was slipping fast from his fingers.

He could no longer idly stand by as Pymm tried to solidify his hold on her. The next time he saw the gen
eral touch any part of her, he would pound the living daylights out of him. And so he thought it better to remain in the darkness. Perhaps she would appear, and he could make a spectacle of himself privately instead.

Occasional voices drifted from the ballroom and from the balcony nearby. They all chattered about the race, and of the mysterious jockey. Some insisted it was a man, others—the more romantic-minded—insisted it was a girl.

“Thank God that Manning fellow didn’t accept His Royal Highness’s invitation to dine with all of us tonight,” a grim voice floated down from the balcony’s steps. He could just make out the silhouette of a fat young man taking a pinch from his snuffbox.

Two ladies stood on the step above him. One of them tittered. “Speak for yourself, Ronald.”

“Yes, I see how it is. You enjoy the scent of manure.”

“Oh, off with you, cousin. Louisa and I have something far more pressing than horses to discuss.”

“You and your sister don’t fool me, Pamela,” the portly man replied, mounting the stairs with a sigh. “You all flutter about like magpies before men like Manning. Well”—he stumbled over the top step and righted himself—“see that you stay far away from a man like that. He’s not one of us, and I’m sure your husbands would hate to dirty their hands to protect your honor.”

The two ladies giggled and watched him depart. “Oh, Pamela, I heard Mrs. Lockwood
and
Lady Loudan had liaisons with him
at the same time
four years ago.”

“And Lady Rothbyrn the year before. It is said they
paid
him.”

“Well,” the other replied, “I would too, if I had enough pin money.”

The two of them dissolved in a gale of titters.

Rowland shook his head in disgust. Where did they learn to make that god-awful sound?

Finally, they departed, and Rowland closed his eyes, grateful for the coolness of the marble pillar at his back. After a long while, he sighed and bent to pick a few stems of lavender beyond the lip of the folly. He raised his eyes to the balcony and froze.

It was a good thing his half brother appeared at his side in the darkness a moment later. It was even better that Michael applied a stranglehold on him that would have held an enraged bull.

Dinner had been agony. The ball worse. Pymm crushed her to his chest at every opportunity in the movement of the waltz. He seemed to steer them toward other couples for the opportunity to grip her more firmly to him. And each time her eyes flew to his, she would see that same smirk on his face, daring her to say a word.

“My darling, you are exquisite tonight,” he murmured in her ear.

She shivered involuntarily and he pressed her closer to him.

“But then again,” he paused, “you are not nearly as beautiful as you were this morning.”

She stared at him, speechless.

“What? Did you think I would not recognize you? Your friends tried to shield me from the truth. The
fools. I daresay they thought I would berate you for it. But they know nothing of my admiration for you, darling.”

She did not know how to respond.

He pulled her closer again as they edged the ballroom. “It is the very reason I desire you. Your verve. Just think how daring my heir will be off of you. Tell me, how did Manning convince you to do it?”

“It was wholly my idea, General.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Well, just remember that while I enjoyed the display, I only could because no one recognized you.” His voice possessed a harsh turn to it. “Soon—very soon—you will have to curb such antics and become a proper duchess. A duchess befitting my station.”

She dared not part her lips lest she defy his order just as Ata had defied her husband. She had learned long ago that Pymm’s moods shifted on terrifyingly trivial whims.

Without realizing his intentions, Elizabeth found herself waltzing beyond the French doors to the open and deserted balcony. He halted in the cool night air, tightened his grip, and in a half second, his thin lips drew closer.

Good God. He was going to kiss her. Heat and sour perspiration mixed with his overly sweet perfume. She stopped breathing and turned her face away. His lips pressed against the corner of her mouth and cheek.

He chuckled. “You’re going to have to do better than that in less than a fortnight, Elizabeth. I think you’ve forgotten how much you enjoyed it the last time.”

She clenched her teeth and forgot to bite her tongue. “That was when I thought you an honorable man.”

“I beg your pardon? Tsk, tsk. I am nothing if not an honorable man. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m a living monument to British valor.”

“You are blackmailing me into marriage,” she dared, unable to stop.

With another smirk, he released her. “My dear, how dare you suggest something so distasteful? You are lucky I make allowances for females. Your reasoning is not as fully developed as a man’s. You mustn’t tax your brain with such things. Darling, I’m merely protecting you from the dishonorable actions of your father.”

She stared into Leland Pymm’s eyes, and was certain she spied the depths of madness. It was pointless to argue with him. And so, she played to his lunacy. “Of course. I see your point,” she agreed through gritted teeth. “General? It’s so very hot tonight. Would it be too much to ask for a glass of punch?”

His doubt warred with an obvious desire to please her.

She would do or say anything to free herself from him for the rest of the evening. She batted her eyes. “Please, sir?”

He bowed. “Of course, Elizabeth. But, I shan’t be amused if you are not here when I return.”

The moment he disappeared into the mass of guests in the ballroom, Elizabeth lifted her skirts and dashed down the steps to return to the tiny, ancient cloisters as she had planned.

Just beyond the garden, she saw Michael step from
the evening shade of the folly and look at her before turning toward the balcony.

And then, the most poignant apparition rounded one of the small structure’s columns, his hands clenched, his face twisted.

He was the man she most wanted to see
. The man she feared to see. And yet, she did not pause. Within an instant she was in his arms.

His hands were hard on her shoulders, gripping her to him. And then his lips joined hers, as if he knew how much she wanted to erase the memory of Pymm’s mouth. She gave in to the luxury of his strong arms coming about her and she felt him tremble against the desire to crush her to him.

“Come, we’ve got to go away from here,” she whispered. “He’s going to return in a moment.”

“No,” he said, his voice strained to breaking. “I have something I must say to—something I must
do
to that sodding, bloody animal.”

Despite his great height, she shook him, barely able to make him budge an inch. “Please…no. Please, just help me go away from here.”

He finally focused on her, his pale green eyes darker in the moonlight, like a feral animal looking for the kill. His lips tightened and it was as if she could feel the indecision in his body. He wrestled for self-control for a long moment before he recollected himself. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Elizabeth—somewhere far, far away.”

His words stunned her. It was so unlike him. She knew he was furious with her for racing today. And yet, he appeared far more angry with Pymm for simply kissing her cheek.

He offered her his hand and she grasped it to pull him toward the cloisters. Neither said a word as they rushed along the grassy edges of the walkways, avoiding the crunch of the gravel.

Heart pounding, she eased past the heavy arched door and bolted it. She led him up the winding stair to the small octagonal chamber that had probably been reserved for a monk, under an oath of silence, in medieval times. Indeed, it felt like they were cut off from the rest of the world here.

He dropped her hand and stood as still as one of the marble statues flanking the walls of the gothic hallways in the castle. His sun-darkened skin was pale in the moonlight streaming from the two arched windows opposite each other.

“I wanted to rip off his arms,” Rowland whispered, his tone hoarse with tension. “I don’t want you near him ever again.”

“I thought you were angry at me. Angry for this morning.” She crossed and held onto her own arms.

“I was.” He exhaled. “I still am.” He gripped his temples, his dark hair spilling over his trembling hands. “I shall never forgive you for it. What were you thinking?”

“That I wanted one last chance to do something right before I bowed to the inevitable.”

He shook his head, and half turned to stare beyond the window to the starless night.