The Bride Price (12 page)

An unwilling smile tugged at her lips. “Wretched indeed.”

“Pierced.”

“It is doubtful anything could pierce that shell of arrogance.”

“Dance with me.” Not a question. A command.

Her heart quickened. “No.”

He stepped in front of her, blocking her from the view of the others on the terrace. His fingers curled around a lock of her hair, and she forgot how to breathe, how to move. “Dance with me, Caroline.”

Heavy tendrils of spice and desire echoed the plaintive hum of a violin. The low note of the answering viola wrapped an intoxicating brew of longing around her limbs. To let go, to be free, to let him bind her in his grip.

She broke the spell and pushed away from him, stumbling inside among the dancers moving toward the floor.

A hand spun her. Her breasts pushed against his chest, connecting them, as the rest of her body roughly pulled against his. His fingers wrapped around hers, the touch exploding through her, shooting up her arm, down her spine, coiling below.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Her intended hiss came out on a caught breath.

“Dancing with the loveliest woman in the room.” Strong arms pulled her onto the floor, leading her skillfully as the tempo increased.

“I’m not dancing with you.”

“I think you’ll see that you are.” He twirled her, keeping her close to him inside the other couples on the floor.

She swallowed, looking at the haze of faces as they moved past. She could pull away from him. Leave him on the floor. Cause a scene.

His lips lowered to her ear. “Would you?”

She concentrated on the colored shapes and animated faces whirling by.

“Ignoring me. I’m offended.”

“I didn’t want to dance with you.” She didn’t want to be this close to him
at all
.

“But you do, Caroline.” His lower half connected with hers, sending alert signals to all parts of her body.

Just because her body was attracted to his, it didn’t mean anything. His fingers stroked the back of her hand, causing her to catch her breath. Desire was entirely different from true emotional feeling.

“You think all can be solved with a tup and a smile, don’t you?”

“Mmmm…that is certainly a naughty way to put it.” Mercurial eyes rapidly changed—she caught none of the emotions, only their changing nature. “I think we’d solve one of your problems, Caroline, with that approach. Thaw you out a bit.”

“I need no thawing.”

“You are melting right here.”

“I’m a puddle from your limp leading.”

“Limp?” He pulled her against him again, hardness pressing.

She stepped on his foot.

“Your actions wound me, Caroline.”

“That was the intention.”

“My poor, forsaken heart,” he drawled.

“You are the last man in this room who I would say has a heart, Mr. Deville.”

He pulled her fingers to his chest, the steady beat thumping beneath her pads. She cursed herself for not wearing thicker gloves.

“No?” The whispered words caressed her ear.

A break in the music came, and she tore herself from his arms. “No.” And with that she bid a hasty retreat.

She strode away, hips swaying. Her posture, her actions in dismissing him, fired his blood. The icy exterior hiding the fire beneath.

He was reacting in a way that wasn’t his usual style, but then she wasn’t his usual mark. He hadn’t had a true challenge in so long—that was all. And the farther they fell, the more they pleased him.

Benedict stepped next to him on the edge of the floor, breathing hard, smirking. “Someone you can’t get, Deville?”

Sebastien smiled lazily, wondering how much Benedict had overheard—he’d obviously been dancing. Quite possibly near them the entire time, because for once Sebastien hadn’t paid a whit of attention to his surroundings. He had been concentrating on
her
. He watched her strong walk as she disappeared into the crowd. “That person doesn’t exist, Benedict.”

He smirked at his half brother, turned, and walked through the terrace doors, Benedict close on his heels.

“You rely on women, Deville, because your lack of respect gets you nowhere. Once you lose your looks and charm, well, then where will you be?”

“About the same place the duke is, don’t you
think?” The duke was consistently surrounded by admirers and mistresses. “Seeing as I, at least, look exactly like him.”

He turned in time to see the rage poorly hidden behind Benedict’s superior expression. Slow boy had walked right into that one.

“How about a bet, Deville?”

“Don’t you think there has been enough talk of betting tonight? Poor little ralph spooner, you were terrified of not receiving Daddy’s love earlier.”

Benedict didn’t take well to the reminder of their card game, or to being called an idiot. Which was too bad, really, as he excelled in defining one.

“Street language. You belong in the gutter, Deville. I doubt you can even get that woman to kiss you of her own will.”

“You bore me, Benedict, as usual.”

“Scared, Deville?”

Timtree and Everly sidled up to them, a few of the others who had gathered on the terrace following. “What’s this?” Timtree asked.

“I’m asking Deville to make a bet. On a woman.”

“Which woman.”

“The blonde.” He pointed to her through the huge glass panes as she stepped next to the heiress.

“A fine piece, that one, though sharp-tongued,” Everly said, his face crinkling.

“I saw how well you handled her earlier,” Sebastien drawled.

Everly’s eyes narrowed. “I’d bring her to heel soon enough. Perhaps we should include her in the overall stakes.”

“Yes, a mistress to the winner,” another man added.

“And how exactly does that work? I believe the woman gets a choice in the matter,” Sloane said. Sebastien knew there was a reason he liked the man.

“Damn, man, leech all the fun away.”

“She’s a widow. No young ones hanging on her skirts. Maybe she’s barren.”

“Perfect mistress, if so. A rounded belly on a woman is fabulous, but you don’t want to have to climb a hill. And the damn emotions. Last one nearly broke my head with a vase. No, a barren mistress is a godsend,” another man said fervently.

“No more extra mouths to feed either. Deville probably can’t handle any more bastards.”

He sent the man a condescending look. “I don’t have any bastards, Petrie. Unlike you, I prefer to avoid the squalling pukes and the pox.”

“Right, as if you care where you stick your rod.”

Sebastien lifted his glass, ignoring him.

“So are we going to include her in the overall bet? I’d love to see where else that blonde hair grows,” Everly said.

The grip on his glass became painful. He made his fingers relax. He had already marked her as his prey; that was the only reason for his anger. “No. The bet was for me alone.”

“Come now, more interesting for all of us. A side bet to the competition.”

Benedict was watching him. Sebastien had to
be careful in his handling of this or else Benedict would have a weapon to use against him.

“Benedict is putting up the money for the bet,” he said casually. “What does he have to say?”

Benedict tried to hide a grimace at the word “money.” Perfect.

“A bet between the two of us; sorry, fellows.”

There were a few groans. Timtree looked between them, a knowing look on his face. “Why is that?”

“It’s for a Grandien heirloom.”

The group quieted, a queer tension gripping the space. Sebastien took another drink, flexing his fingers again. He let his empty glass hang between his fingers.

“And what are the terms of this bet?”

“You have to bed her, of course. And we’ll require proof.”

“How schoolboyish of you, Benedict. Requiring proof that I’ve had her.”

Timtree raised a brow. “As if we need proof that Deville can toss a skirt.”

The other men laughed, and Benedict’s features tightened. “Make her fall in love with you then.”

The laughter stopped, a few of the men looked intrigued, a few looked cheated out of their voyeurism.

Sebastien lit a cheroot to hide his unease. “What an interesting proposition, Benedict. Love? Who would have thought you a romantic?” The last syllable clipped from his tongue. “What do you get out of this, young Eros in the making?”

Benedict could barely contain his anger, but
there was something manic in his expression as well. “Ten thousand pounds. A mere pittance. The great joy and real prize will be in watching you fail.”

Sebastien lifted a brow as he blew out a stream of smoke. “Imprudent of you. What makes you think I’ll fail?”

“No one could ever love someone like you.”

The tension heated.

“Interesting. I know a great many women who would disagree.”

“I don’t see any of them running off to the altar with you.”

He smiled darkly. “I’ve never asked nor wanted any of them to.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Sebastien flicked ash to the side. “Believe what you will, Benedict. I don’t much care.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“What heirloom?”

Benedict tapped his finger against his hip. Sebastien understood the message. The Patiere watch. It wasn’t worth ten thousand pounds, but the intrinsic value of the heirloom and how the duke valued it made it worth more. He had given it to Benedict when he’d reached his majority. Sebastien had received a fine bottle of claret on reaching his—a disposable gift that he’d summarily tossed to a beggar he’d passed on the street. The duke’s third son was obviously at the end of his rope if he was extreme enough to bet the watch. Either that or very sure of himself.

The silence stretched. The other men broke into
side conversations, but Sebastien smoked and contemplated Benedict.

Benedict ran a hand along the rock wall and leaned forward, his head parallel to Sebastien’s. “I suppose I can open the competition back up to everyone,” he whispered.

Caroline swished by the windows with another man, flanking the heiress. Everyone watched her. Benedict leaned back, once more a part of the circle. There was something in his eyes, something that didn’t sit well with Sebastien. As if he knew a secret. But he didn’t want to countenance that Benedict could concoct so much as half a cunning plan.

“Are you in?” Benedict asked.

Sebastien took another drag. If he claimed her now, it would keep the rest away. It was unacceptable for the rest of them to be after his prize.

And love? What did Benedict know of it anyway? Desire would suffice. He could easily accomplish that. And there was little downside. Benedict might need the money, but Sebastien could afford to part with ten thousand pounds—not that he planned to.

It would be sweet to have the watch, to take one more thing from Benedict. For Benedict to disappoint the duke yet again. And seducing Caroline was already in his plans. Desire was so often confused for love. In every instance of observing people in “love,” he had seen focused desire instead. And desire waned. True love? He nearly snorted.

“Yes. Prepare to part with your treasure.”

It has come to our attention that foul deeds are afoot. We are quite speechless that someone would try to poison half the field of competitors. Equally abhorrent are the reports regarding the destruction of personal property, kidnapping, and even one stabbing! A stabbing, Dear Reader! What will be next? With the first cut of the tournament approaching we can only imagine that truly appalling times are ahead for those who cling to the edge. What might they be driven to?

It is a fact, Dear Reader, that some people will do anything to win a game or a bet…

C
aroline carried her supplies into her yard and stopped abruptly. A man was lying on her garden bench, one bent leg up.

She knew that leg. She might never have seen it before two weeks ago, but she well knew it now.

A paper lay on his stomach, and a forearm covered his eyes.

She crossed her arms and tapped her foot. He didn’t stir. What on earth was he doing at her cot
tage? She snorted. No, silly question. He was obviously there to make her life miserable.

She cleared her throat. No response.

She put her supplies down and stepped toward him. Still he didn’t move. His left arm hung loose, fingers touching the tips of the blades of grass there. Something was clutched in the hand attached to the arm covering his eyes.

What was it?

She changed tactics, tiptoeing around the bench in a wide swath, checking that he didn’t wake. She couldn’t discern what was in his fist. The paper, though, was free. She crept closer and crooked a finger beneath the paper’s edge. Slowly she lifted the corner, peering beneath.

And found herself flat on her back on top of him.

A gurgle worked its way up her throat as his arm formed a band across her breasts.

“If you had just told me that you fancied yourself on your back, I would have been much obliged to help,” he whispered in her ear.

She struggled, and after a few seconds of maneuvering found herself free. She pushed off, not even thinking about where she placed her hands as a soft “oof” issued from him, her hand sinking into parts better left untouched.

She whirled around to see his hand protectively covering himself. “Very close there, Caroline. I’ll start to think you really do fancy yourself on your back.”

He pushed himself into a seated position, the paper quickly crumpled in his fist and tucked
into a trouser pocket. He scrutinized the ground briefly before returning his attention to her, smiling charmingly. “Good afternoon.”

“What are you doing in my garden?”

“Just finding a beautiful spot to relax and think.”

“Think? What does a man such as you have to think about?”

“The beautiful woman who owns this lovely spot?” he waved his hand expansively.

She refused to let him charm her even as the words did funny things to the inside of her stomach. “What do you have there?” She pointed to the paper, the edges sticking out of his pocket.

An angelic expression overtook his face. “I have no idea.”

“That paper in your pocket.”

“What paper?”

“That one.” She pointed more ferociously.

He looked down, eyes moving over his trousers, over the paper. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I don’t. You’ll have to show me what you mean.” He leaned a hand on the bench and cocked a brow.

Her lips pinched. “Why are you in my garden, Mr. Deville?”

“Call me Sebastien. ‘Mr. Deville’ is quite formal for a man who has had his hand up your skirt, don’t you agree?”

She was speechless for a second. And thankful that her day maid from the village had left earlier.
She shuddered to think what the villagers would have said to that juicy piece of news. “No. And the formality is precisely why I plan to continue its use. I hardly know you, Mr. Deville, despite where you might have placed your digits. And what I do know of you hardly entices me to use your given name.”

“You wound me, Caroline. A near-mortal thrashing.”

“Well, then you should make haste to bandage it. Hup, Mr. Deville. The midwife will be happy to see you.”

“Perhaps later.” His lazy gaze took her in, an entire cataloging of her body that left her out of sorts and irritated. “Just back from your tasks? Dealing with the commoners?”

“I
am a commoner, in case it failed your notice.”

The cataloging of her body continued. “Nothing common about you, darling.”

“What do you
want
, Mr. Deville?”

She expected a smart rejoinder, but something passed over his face that might have been vulnerability, had she thought him capable of such emotion.

A smile split his face, the moment gone as if it’d never happened. “How about a cup of tea?”

“No.”

The wounded look on his face was so overdone that she almost smiled. Almost.

“Please, Caroline. I’m a dying man just looking for a cup of your regard.”

She was ten kinds of a fool to be taken in by that
look, especially after he had purposefully tried to shock her, and had succeeded. He turned up the expression, the pleading in those aquamarine eyes.

A phrase of refusal was on the tip of her tongue, but a watchfulness appeared just behind the sheen of color in his eyes. As if he was already prepared for her rejection.

No structure is
just
a building. Just like no man is
just
a man. There is an identity to everything. Look at the loneliness in the peak. The way it tips toward a lost support. Calling for that which is missing. Rubbish to call it just a structure.

This was the same man as the one she’d encountered at Roseford, the one who had shown a glimpse of something beneath the smooth veneer.

“Fine. One cup,” she said, already unnerved with herself for giving in. She pivoted and entered her cottage, half expecting him to follow her inside, to push his way in. But he was still sitting calmly outside when she returned. He held out a hand to take the cup, long fingers curving around the base.

She sat primly on the other garden bench, another cup clutched in her hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”

Her head shot up at the address. Terminal innocence cloaked him.

A smile broke unwillingly across her face. “You are such a rascal.”

“Yes. And I need to be brought to heel.”

She shot him a look over the edge of the cup. “You do at that.”

“I throw myself upon your mercy. If you will
but teach me the way.” A lock of hair fell across his eye and he flipped it back, the strands arcing.

“I think you get by purely on the way you flip your hair back sometimes, Mr. Deville.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “It’s a truly magnificent head of hair, is it not?”

“It is not.”

“Now I know you are simply being difficult.” He stretched, watching her. “What are you making?” He motioned to the supplies.

She pulled the colorful banner into her lap. “Trimmings for the tournament. Nothing very exciting.”

He examined them more closely, causing her to ball them tight. “Something secret? They look like medieval decorations.”

“They are nothing for you to worry about.”

“But I may lose a fair amount of sleep now wondering how on earth I’m going to sew a banner before Lord Benedict completes his. I daresay he has more skill with a needle than I.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “I don’t believe you need to worry on that score.”

Her clock chimed inside, indicating the late hour. She had thought to do a bit of work on the banners in the warmth of the garden sun before her appointment in the village, but had underestimated the time. “You must excuse me, Mr. Deville, but I’m needed elsewhere.” She started to rise.

“I could say you are needed right here over my lap—”

She stumbled in her skirts. Hands suddenly gripped her waist, steadying her.

“—but I know when to return to fight another day.” The words brushed over her hair as he held her against him.

She expected him to use their position to his advantage, but he stepped back, eyes wide and guileless, only the slight curl of his mouth proclaiming his dearth of innocence.

“Until later, Caroline.”

His fingers slipped away from her waist, the rounding of her hips. He smiled enigmatically, a promise in those sinful eyes, before he sauntered off down the cottage path.

She looked down, baffled to see smudges across her dress. Just as at Roseford. Her head whipped up. She watched Deville pass from view. Watched the paper sticking out of his pocket disappear with him.

A quick search uncovered a chunk of black chalk lying near the bench. She picked it up. What had been on that paper?

The next week passed in a haze of games and verbal fencing—both with Deville and among the other guests. Sarah and William sat together more often than not to watch the proceedings. Caroline was in full havoc-wreaking mode and often needed to excuse herself to initiate a new maneuver or to find a solitary retreat in which to release her laughter. Games proceeded apace both for the competition and within the ranks of the houseguests.

The archery game had been an especially fine work of art with bows splitting, targets falling
apart, arrow feathers bent and misshapen. Deville’s pure determination in shooting, even with a broken bow, had almost made her feel guilty. Almost. Damned if he didn’t come close to winning that game anyway.

The cautious, edgy looks that the contestants—and some of the fathers—wore made her feel quite smug. The sabotage couldn’t be laid solely at her feet though. And that allowed her to stay out of the earl’s eye. She had been with him twice when timely mischief had taken place.

Other pranks out of her control had been purely diabolical—multiple poisonings had resulted in each contestant using a servant to test his food. One man had been locked in a cupboard for hours in some barely traversed wing of the house. Another had been systematically stripped of his wardrobe—one piece at a time until there had been only a few changes of clothing left. The last she had observed of that debacle was the man’s valet running down the drive as if the devil nipped his heels.

Rumors swirled about some property of Deville’s being ruined. Lord Benedict had conspicuously sported a black eye when the tale had circled. No one had been disqualified yet, but as a result of those types of occurrences, eyes were firmly focused on the men as the responsible parties.

The boxing matches weren’t to her taste, but she was given an excuse to see the results of her latest handiwork as the women gathered to watch, titillated at seeing the men dressed in fewer clothes in the summer heat and speculating about their lack
of clothing beneath. Someone had tampered with the men’s drawers—itching powder or some such thing—causing most of the men to go without. Or so the rumor went. She didn’t think anything could be more perfect.

“Such a true test of character and strength,” one woman said, fanning herself under the shade of the large umbrellas placed outside for the guests.

Caroline exchanged a glance with Sarah.

“A manly pursuit,” another agreed.

“Only the bravest and truest men can prevail.”

Rip
. The sound of stitches straining and tearing echoed through the courtyard around the constructed ring.

The man’s trouser mishap—split right down the middle of his backside in a neatly executed fashion—saved Caroline from retching into the bushes over the woman’s fawning.

The crowd gasped. The man’s eyes widened, and his hands flew to his backside. His opponent took full advantage of his lack of concentration, and a small spray of spittle shot to the side as his head whipped from the blow to his cheek. The struck man seemed to barely register the blow though as he hobbled over to the sidelines, hands glued to his back seams.

He hastily stepped from the ring and into a long coat that his valet violently shook in encouragement.

“Forfeit!”

Another ten minutes elapsed before the crowd was so gifted again.
Rip
. The man’s trousers must have been a bit more used, as the path of the tear
zigged off in a new direction from the seam. The hapless man looked equally mortified at exposing his glowing wares and ran to his valet on the side. The other valets were wildly searching for garments to cover their masters.

“Forfeit!”

Snickers began like small sparks turning into a raging brushfire. A few men tried to unobtrusively feel their rears. Two of the contestants, who were to fight later in the lists, sprinted off toward the open doorways of the manor, likely trying to avoid the others’ fate.

Caroline smiled smugly as Deville entered the ring

The women’s laughter was replaced by widespread ohs and ahs as he bounced from side to side lightly on his feet, jabbing the air, and warming his muscles.

Minutes after the bout began, Deville’s trousers made a tearing sound much worse than the others.
Riiip
. One entire white cheek blazed through under the afternoon sun. The tittering of the ladies reached new heights. Instead of darting to the side, stepping from the ring, and forfeiting, Deville just flashed a smile to the ladies. He bowed away from them, his eyes still focused on his rival, allowing the women to see even more cheek; and then promptly knocked his opponent to the ground in a spurt of spit and ungentlemanly blood.

Caroline’s mouth dropped, and the snickers turned into admiring whispers and a few yells of encouragement.

After Deville’s display the men made it a sport. They seemed to find it a boon to hear the sound of tearing linen, smiles lighting their red, sweaty faces. They made a game of flashing their unsightly wares in every direction, and Caroline was just glad that the younger women had been hustled off after Deville’s show. The men who had forfeited were noisily trying to reenter the lists, modesty for some reason not an issue anymore. She thought it might be best if she gouged her eyes out afterward.

The boxing matches took on a more serious tone as the clothing stopped tearing. Caroline tried to watch with detachment as Bateman pummeled his challenger with far more force than a gentleman usually employed, a gleeful smile on his face as he landed each swing. Disgusted murmurs swept the crowd. With a strong right hook his opponent crumpled to the ground.

The man stayed in the soil for a few seconds, his face pure white, but for the blood staining it. He picked himself up, hands shaking as he did so. Caroline wondered on it until she saw the older men clustered together, shaking their bent heads. One of them, the man’s father, looked at his fourth son, disappointment etched in every line of his face.