The Romany Heiress (4 page)

“I’m his godfather. It’s my job. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will take a walk before dinner and enjoy some much earned solitude.” Giles said with a
joviality he did not feel.

A walk would clear his head and let him sort through
the revelations racing through it. Away from the demands of the party, he could put his thoughts in order and gain a
perspective on his current situation.

He chose his favorite path, a bridle trail that ran along
the creek to the north of the property. The trail would
loop back to bring him up on the south side by the gardens where the evening festivities would take place.

Already the burble of the creek and the shade of the
trees soothed him. He breathed deeply of the summer
scents of the forest around him. How he loved this land!
The abbey and its extensive grounds had never failed
to thrill him, to fire his blood, to define his purpose.
Strolling under the green-leafed bounty of the summer
trees was a potent reminder that he had been born to
this land, born to be the Earl of Spelthorne.

His whole life had revolved around becoming
Spelthorne. When his father died two years ago, Giles
had been ready to take up an earl’s considerable responsibilities with his trademark competence.

How could he doubt the direction of his life when it
had followed its pre-ordained course and achieved the
desired results? He was master of the place he loved
most in the world. He nurtured it, protected it, like a
parent does a beloved child. His mind veered in that
direction.

Children. Eventually there would be children here to
take up the banner of Spelthorne’s legacy. Giles knew
that with certainty. Just as all else had followed in due
time in his well-ordered life, so would the taking of an
appropriate wife and the getting of heirs.

Giles stopped and skipped a handful of pebbles in
the stream. The serenity he coveted slipped away at the
notion of setting up his nursery. Family and a spouse
should have reassured him. The thought of acquiring a
dutiful wife, as well versed in duty and order as himself, did not fill him with satisfaction. Watching Tristan
and Isabella, and Alain and Cecile, he knew more than
compatibility in marriage was possible. His friends had
all managed to find great passion as well.

He had been promised a great passion once upon a
time. Unbidden, the lovely fortuneteller’s prediction
came to mind. She’d spoken of overcoming challenges
and finding passion. For a moment in that bleak garden
he had thrilled to her words, feeling like a conquering
knight of old at the thought of facing down challenges
and claiming a lady fair for his own. Then she’d slipped
through the gate and into the night. The moment
passed, and he became Giles Moncrief the unexceptional again.

He should have acted on his impulses that night. He
should have given his hands the free rein they ached for
and let them run through the silky darkness of her hair.
He should have gathered her to him and kissed her
soundly on the full, inviting lips of her luscious red
mouth. Even now, his body roused to his mind’s image
of her perched on the low bench, hair tossed back,
skirts swirling about her, her sharp green eyes studying
him, not quite able to hide the reckless streak within
and promising him the chance at a great passion.

Giles threw the last pebble forcefully, hoping to exorcise the potent memory. Well, there was still time
for his fortune to come true. Anything could happen.
Of course, he didn’t really expect it to. Nothing simply
“happened” to a man who did not make a habit of living life spontaneously. He was not Tristan or Alain,
whose penchant for adventure had catapulted them
down several unplanned avenues in their day. He was
the Earl of Spelthorne. At the age of thirty-one, he had
achieved his life’s desire. That should be enough. He
should not wish for more. Many men lived entire lives
achieving less.

Giles clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra
until the south lawn came into view. Down on the grass,
activity reigned. His footmen were setting up a wide,
raised platform for the performers. In a different section of the lawn, finishing details were underway on the
white-clothed tables where the guests would dine alfresco amid his prized flowers and summer candlelight.

Giles drew a deep, steadying breath. Yes, this should
be enough for any man. Armed with that fortifying
knowledge, he strode toward the activity to see what
had transpired during his short absence.

What had looked like organized activity from his vantage point looked more like chaos close-up. As soon as
he neared the stage, Giles knew something was wrong. A
brightly painted gypsy vardo was parked behind the
stage and a dark-haired woman dressed in deep purple
skirts stood toe to toe with the footman Giles had left in
charge.

An argument was in progress by the time Giles was
within earshot and growing more ridiculous by the moment given that the woman couldn’t have been more
than three inches over five feet and his footman was a
robust six foot if not a bit more-a point that was heavily emphasized by their proximity to one another. His
footman should know better. The first rule of any encounter was discretion. The pair was beginning to draw
a crowd.

With practiced ease, Giles clapped a strong hand on
the footman’s shoulder. “Reginald, what is the problem here?”

“My lord, forgive me. This gypsy claims to be the
entertainment you’ve hired for this evening. I told her
you were expecting the acting troupe from Staines to
travel over for the entertainments.” His tone carried a
hint of superiority as he laid out his information, obviously expecting his answer to be collaborated.

“That is correct” Giles agreed, noting that the affirmation brought a near sneer of victory to Reginald’s face.
He would have to remind Reginald that one did not gloat
in the face of the defeated. Rule two of any encounter was
to claim victory with humility. No one liked a conceited
winner. It made for future antagonism and enemies.

“Gentlemen, if I may have a moment to explain the
circumstances before you decide between yourselves to
have us thrown off the property without hearing all the
evidence?” The woman said in a tone that indicated her
displeasure over being treated as invisible.

Giles turned to the woman, taking her in for the first time since he’d come down the slope. The world
stopped. The bustle around him faded into a dull whir
and nothing mattered but the apparition before him,
conjured directly from his ruminations at the creek.
Midnight curls spilled to her waist. Jade-colored eyes
sparked with the thrill of the fight. High cheek bones
added an aristocratic element to her face that was tempered by the fullness of cherry lips. If the Snow White
of children’s tales came to life, she was this woman
incarnate.

Only this woman was more sensual, more mature
than any child’s princess, and much more to his liking.
He’d never given much attention to the young debutantes that flooded London every spring. His tastes ran
to the more sophisticated woman.

There was no mistaking that she was a vision from
his past, the one fantasy he’d allowed himself. The
woman was undeniably Irina Dupeski.

For the sake of maintaining good form in front of the
servants, he could not admit he knew her. For the sake
of not looking like a foolish school boy who couldn’t
control his body, he could not give away the effect she
was having on him.

Giles crossed his arms over his chest and said in his
best authoritative tones, “My man is right. You are not
the people I hired.”

She gave him a long stare that belied her recognition
of him. “Spelthorne?”

“I am” Giles held her gaze, somewhat mollified that
she shared some shock as well at seeing him again. It was gratifying that she remembered him. Still, he found
himself willing her not to say anything about their previous association, as innocent as it was.

“My man is right. You are not the troupe I hired. I
suggest you explain yourself.”

“The acting troupe has eaten tainted food and is unable to perform tonight. We have offered to come in
their place,” she said simply, her gaze never leaving his.

Giles gave a cold smile, the romanticism he’d felt
earlier disappearing in the face of reality. Along with
her beauty, he now recalled how well she’d worked his
friends that night on the verandah-flirting with Alain,
teasing Chatham, and coaxing Tristan.

At the time, he’d been mesmerized by her efforts,
finding her behavior simply vivacious. But later, goaded
by Isabella’s skepticism over the event, he’d wondered
if it had all been calculated persuasion on Irina’s part.
Making him and his friends happy would certainly be
more profitable than disappointing them. She was probably working him now, in an attempt to grab a quick
purse. She would find he was no country simpleton.

“I see. How commendable that you should perform
in their place. I suppose the size of the promised purse
or the opportunity to enchant an audience of peers had
no impact on your decision? Tell me, did you pay the
innkeeper to feed them tainted food or did you simply
sour it yourself?” His logical mind was comfortable
with such an approach. His heart was not. It preferred
to remember the tender chemistry that had sprung between them on the stone bench when no one had been around to see. It preferred to believe neither of them
had been acting then.

She bristled at the accusation, color rising gloriously
in her cheeks. “How dare you make such assumptions!”

“How dare you assume I can be fooled” Giles ground
out, holding to his logical line. “Remove your vardo and
your companions at once, and I won’t involve the law.”

The woman did not budge. “If we leave you won’t
have entertainment for the evening. Regardless of the
methods involved, the troupe is not going to perform. It
is us or no one, milord”

Giles noted she did not deny his charges of trickery
further.

She tossed her black curls and cocked her head in a
pretty gesture Giles remembered. “Call a truce, milord,
you cannot prove your claims nor can I prove my innocence. We’ll take your pay. You’ll take our services, and
the vardo will be gone in the morning.”

In the distance the dressing bell for dinner sounded
at the house. The green-eyed minx had him at a disadvantage. He had no time to engineer a counter plan for
the evening’s entertainment.

Giles gave a curt nod. “We are agreed” Especially
the “gone in the morning” part. Irina Dupeski with her
tantalizing beauty and shrewd ways was a dangerous
combination.

As the evening went on, Giles’ concerns took a new
avenue. The dinner was spectacular under the summer
stars; Cook having outdone herself with the stuffed duck in aspic and the tender summer asparagus covered
lightly with cream sauce. The gypsy troupe amused his
guests with juggling, comic skits, dancing, and music.

It was only when it was time for the fireworks, signaling the evening’s finale, Giles realized Irina hadn’t made
an appearance. He had not caught sight of her in any of
the acts. Her absence left him uneasy. What was she up
to? It was too simple to assume she’d been unnerved by
their encounter and left. No, she was here somewhere.

The prospect of ferreting out Irina Dupeski filled him
with an awkward mix of excitement and anxiety. Further
encounters with the Rom beauty could serve no practical
purpose. He could not pursue her. She was not of his social class, and he was far too responsible when it came to
relationships with women to engage in the only sordid
option available to him where Irina was concerned. Besides, based on their heated exchange on the lawn, it was
not even clear that she held that kind of interest in him.

The crowd oohed and aahed over the pyrotechnics that
arched over the lake and the summer house visible in the
distance from the lawn. Lady FoxHaughton squeezed
his arm under the cover of darkness, as the last of the
show faded from the sky. “Giles, you’re a genius. People
will talk about this party for ages” She gushed, elegant
and proud to be at his side during his moment of triumph.

He accepted her congratulations with a benign smile
that masked his inner turmoil and dismissed her as politely as possible. He had no appetite for what she offered tonight.

Finally, having seen all his guests settled for the eve ping and bidding goodnight to Tristan and Alain, Giles
climbed the stairs, eager for the solitude of his chambers where he could decide what to do about Irina’s absence. He was torn between giving into the temptation
of going to find her and the rational choice of staying
safely ensconced in his rooms until the vardo was gone
and Irina was out of his life once more.

Giles stepped inside his chambers and stilled. The
lamp his valet usually left burning low was turned up
high, illuminating the room and the obvious fact that he
was not alone.

The object of his unrest sat in the overstuffed chair
by the open window, her feet tucked beneath her skirts
and her attention claimed by the book which lay open
in her lap. She looked utterly beautiful with the lamplight catching the dark hues of her hair and accenting
the gentle curve of her jaw.

For a moment Giles could only stare. What would it be
like to have such a woman waiting every night? He was a
man of culture and breeding, unaccustomed to primal instinct, but the need to possess and protect surged through
him at the sight of her. She turned the page of her book,
unaware of his presence.

“Can you read?” Giles asked. He had not meant to
speak the thought out loud.

She startled at the sound of his voice, snapping the
book shut and glared. “Yes, I can read. Not all gypsies
are illiterate. Does that surprise you?” She was hard
and cold, much like she’d been on the lawn. The vision
of gentle femininity evaporated.