The Perfect Princess (25 page)

“And what if she won’t say ‘no’?”

He decided to put Lord Caspar out of his misery. “There’s nothing between Rosamund and me. The question of marriage has never come up, nor will it.”

And with that, he stalked off.

There was no escaping the Deveres. When he entered his own chamber, he found a footman waiting for him with a message from Rosamund. Her ladyship wished to speak with him, the footman said.

Fine, because he had a few choice words he wished to say to her ladyship as well.

“Where is she?”

Her suite of rooms was at the end of the corridor. He pushed into a little sitting room and came to an abrupt halt.

“Richard,” she breathed out, making a sigh of his name.

“Rosamund?”

He hardly recognized the vision who came toward him, she looked so different now that she’d exchanged her boy’s clothes for female garb. Her rose-tinted gown clung to her womanly form and revealed far more than
he wanted to see. He could tell that she’d washed her hair. It fanned around her shoulders in a frothy veil. There wasn’t a trace of the jaunty boy who defied him at every turn. This was a siren made to break men’s hearts.

Rosamund grasped Richard’s hands and smiled into his eyes. “Did Caspar give you a hard time?” she asked.

The mention of her brother brought him out of his stupor faster than a douse of ice-cold water. He dropped her hands and put some distance between them. “What,” he asked, striving for patience, “did you tell your brother about us?”

She took in the hard jut of his jaw, his brows slashed in a frown, and she said haltingly, “I told him that we loved each other and were going to be married. Now, don’t look like that. I had to say something. After Caspar saw that I was all right, when I came out of the bothy, his mood turned ugly. I was afraid of what he would do to you, so I told him—”

The flow of words dried up when he turned his back on her and walked to the fireplace. With one hand resting on the mantel, he turned to face her. “Marriage,” he said, “is not in my stars, not to you or any woman. As for love, I may have played the gallant when I thought my last moments had come, but I don’t remember using the word ‘love,’ and it’s something I would remember.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “You see—”

He held up his hand and went on more gently, “Listen to me, Rosamund. What happened to us was natural. We were caught up in a life and death situation. In the little time we had together, we ran the gamut of every emotion known to man. We came to depend on each other. That’s all it was. These circumstances no longer apply. In another week, you’ll forget all about me. You’ll take up your old life, and I’ll have plenty to keep me occupied. Let’s not end this on a sour note.”

At first, she was amused, but by the time he had finished his little speech, she veered between mortification
and outrage. He’d completely misunderstood the situation. Marriage to him was the farthest thing from her mind. But that he should dismiss her as though she were a love-struck adolescent was the worst cut of all.

Pain spread through her in waves, and with the pain, the awful realization that she wouldn’t be hurting like this if she did not truly love him.

Pain was too weak a word to describe what she was feeling. She was devastated. Everything he had told her in the bothy was a lie. He had only been playing the gallant because he thought his last moments had come.

She wouldn’t cry, she promised herself, wouldn’t show him how much he had hurt her. She searched for her pride, found it, and tossed her head.

“Marriage! To you!” She laughed lightly. “It never once entered my head. Now you listen to me, Richard Maitland. When I came out of the bothy, Caspar was all for teaching you a lesson for abducting me. He wanted to kill you, but because of my father’s bargain with Mr. Templar, he said he would be satisfied by giving you the beating of your life, and nothing Mr. Templar or Harper said could make him change his mind. So I took a hand in things. I knew you were on the point of collapse and couldn’t defend yourself, so I told my brother that I loved you and that we were going to be married. I also told him that if he laid a hand on you, I would never speak to him again. And that’s why you’ve been treated with kid gloves.”

She forced a chuckle. “Poor Richard. It never occurred to me that
you
would be taken in by my little ploy.”

When he looked at her doubtfully, she gave another light laugh, and crossed to him. “I have no intention of ending our friendship on a sour note,” she said with a smile, and he would never know how much that smile cost her. “In fact, I shall always regard my adventure with
you as something to treasure, and one day I shall amaze my children when I tell them all about it.”

She held out her hand. “This is goodbye, then, Richard. We won’t be seeing much of each other at Twickenham House.”

There was something about this easy dismissal that rubbed him the wrong way, something about her mention of children that did not sit right with him. Whose children? Not Prince Michael’s. She’d told him that the prince was not only a dandy, but also a libertine. Was there some other gentleman waiting in the wings to claim her? But what rankled most of all was that he was to be reduced to an anecdote to amuse her children.

The hell he was!

He looked down at her outstretched hand. “Why so formal?” he said. “After all we’ve been through together, don’t I deserve a good-bye kiss?”

With some vague notion of making a lasting impression on her that couldn’t be laughed off, he yanked her against him and covered her mouth with his.

For a moment, she went as rigid as a marble statue. That was on the outside. Inside a fire ignited and licked along her veins. This was nothing like those sweet kisses in the bothy. There was desperation here, and heat, and something that was gloriously primitive.

She went on tiptoe and wound her arms around his neck.

In a purely reflexive movement, his hands fisted in her hair, and he dragged back her head so that he could kiss her chin, her throat, the swell of her breasts. The scent of gardenia wrapped around him like a soft, sinful mist. He didn’t think, wouldn’t allow himself to think, because then this would have to end, and he was starved for the taste and touch of her.

It wasn’t her passion that shocked him or even his own. He was no stranger to passion. But needs he had
never imagined existed and could not articulate acted like a powerful narcotic on his unfailing control.

She had melted against him so that he could feel her soft breasts pressing against his chest. As for his wound, it might never have existed for all the attention he paid to it. And her hands were everywhere, threading through his hair, stroking his neck, testing each bunched muscle as she slid them from his shoulders to his flanks.

Was she trembling or was he? It didn’t matter. He kissed her hair, her eyes, her ears. He murmured something, he didn’t know what. Then he sucked at her lips, swallowing her little cries of arousal like a drunkard with his first drink after a long drought.

She was so soft, so giving, so right for him. His hands slipped to her bottom, kneading, pulling her flush against his hard groin.

It wasn’t enough for him, not nearly enough. He wanted her naked beneath him; he wanted to be inside her. He wanted her long, shapely legs to lock his body to hers as he took her on a wild ride to rapture.

She should stop him. He should stop her. Why couldn’t they stop?

This shouldn’t be happening. She had provoked him and he had responded in typical male fashion. This had to stop. This had to—

He jerked back, frantically groping for what was left of his sanity. Rosamund reached for him, but he had just enough control to take another step back. Her eyes were still heavy-lidded; her lips were parted.

“Richard, what’s wrong?” she cried.

He didn’t want to hurt her. God, he didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t have a choice. If there was anything between them, it had to end right here. And it would have ended if he hadn’t lost his head. He marveled at her power over him. What was it about this woman that made her so different? He’d never lost his head over any woman.

When his breathing had evened a little, he scratched his chin, trying to look casual. “What’s wrong,” he said, “is that our harmless good-bye kiss got out of hand. It happens that way sometimes between a man and a woman. I should have known better.” He managed to sound both amused and apologetic. “Don’t build it up to something it wasn’t. It didn’t mean anything.”

He wanted her to slap him, rant at him, spit on him—all of which he knew he deserved. She did none of those things. After a frozen silence, she tipped up her chin and said quietly, “Good luck, Richard. I hope everything works out well for you.” Then she went through the door that gave onto her dressing room.

He felt like a worm.

In the hallway, he came face-to-face with Hugh Templar. Hugh took one look at Richard’s scowl and chuckled.

“Good grief, Richard,” he said, “what has the Amazon been saying to you?”

“She gave me my just deserts. And don’t call her the Amazon.”

Hugh’s brows rose speculatively. “So what did you do to earn her displeasure?”

“What do you think?” he said, snarling the words. “I behaved like my usual, charming self.”

“And she annihilated you with her sharp tongue?”

“No. She did just the opposite.”

Hugh looked baffled.

They walked down the corridor. At Richard’s door, Hugh put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “Harper is waiting for us in my room with a bottle of your favorite cognac, and whiskey for me. We have plenty to celebrate, Richard. In fact, I think things have turned out rather well.”

“Better than well,” replied Richard without enthusiasm.

They walked on. After a moment, Hugh said carefully,
“I hear that Prince Michael is still a prime candidate for Lady Rosamund’s hand. Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? He has the right bloodlines; he knows the right people. They have much in common and—”

Richard halted. He said dryly, “Cut the lecture, Hugh. I’ve only known the girl a week. Give me credit for some intelligence. And your warning is unnecessary. There’s nothing between us.”

Hugh’s lids drooped to half-mast. “Of course there isn’t,” he said.

“All the same,” said Richard as they continued walking, “you’re wrong about Prince Michael. She won’t marry him. He’s as thick as a door.”

“She told you that, did she?”

“He doesn’t appeal to her,” he replied, avoiding a direct answer.

Hugh was highly amused. “That won’t matter, not to women of her rank. They marry for a title and to establish a dynasty. They’re not like us lesser mortals. She’ll marry where she is told.”

Again, Richard halted, and he gave his friend a direct stare. “I hope you’re wrong, Hugh.” His voice was pleasantly modulated. “Because I wouldn’t feel comfortable if Rosamund’s family made her unhappy. In fact, I would feel obliged to do something about it.”

Hugh was left staring as Richard walked on.

T
he caravan of carriages—there were three of them—arrived in Twickenham late on the following evening, after a ride that Richard could only describe as bruising. But that was the least of his aggravations. He had expected that he would have to wear the Devere livery, but he hadn’t known that it came with a powdered wig and a tricorne hat.

“I wouldn’t be seen dead in that get-up,” he’d told Harper that morning when Harper arrived, just after the doctor left, to help him get ready for the journey.

His words fell on unsympathetic ears. “Now, you listen to me,” said Harper. “I’m getting tired of your black looks and frowns. By a stroke of good fortune, you’ve won the favor of the Duke of Romsey. You have Mr. Templar to thank for that. But all I’m hearing is complaints.” He made a gesture with one hand, indicating his own livery. “This is a disguise. Think of it as a uniform, just like your dress regimentals. There will be sixteen coachmen and footmen dressed like us, so if we’re
stopped by the militia, no one will notice you.” Then, in his best sergeant’s voice, “So move your arse!”

Richard moved.

As Harper helped him dress, he went on, “Remember, we’re servants, so don’t go drawing attention to yourself by speaking out o’ turn or flashing them black looks. Servants don’t have no feelings. Just remember your place.”

“Yes, sir,” Richard answered meekly.

They were in the last coach, along with all the boxes, and, in spite of the garish uniforms, had the deadly earnest job of keeping their eyes peeled for an attack by highwaymen. In Richard’s opinion, which he kept to himself in the interest of harmony, there wouldn’t have been the least risk of an attack if they had traveled with less show and more decorum. As they drew closer to their destination, however, he saw the logic in Lord Caspar’s mode of travel. The militia they met on the road recognized the duke’s livery and coat of arms emblazoned on each gilt-trimmed carriage, and let them pass unchallenged. In fact, they saluted and some of them even cheered.

As they swept up the long, curving drive to the house, Harper gave Richard some last-minute instructions. “Remember, your name is Patrick Doyle, on account of your accent.”