Until You (16 page)

When the marquis stopped one of the girls, handing Tiffany and Ashleigh each a glass of champagne, they glanced at each other with raised brows, but remained silent.  As they sipped their drinks and slowly made their way toward the Marlowe’s box, the marquis was stopped repeatedly by acquaintances.  Everyone seemed eager to meet Tiffany and Ashleigh, and several people that she had met during the
Sethe’s
hunting weekend approached her as well.  Unfortunately, Nicholas wasn’t among them.  She couldn’t help noticing that Tiffany's father seemed tremendously pleased by their seeming popularity, especially Tiffany’s, and again pondered why he had agreed to bring them to London. 

Tiffany was a beautiful young woman, though her coloring was far different from Ashleigh’s.  Tiffany’s eyes were a soft shade of blue and her hair was the palest of blonde.  In comparison to her own bold, vibrant coloring and striking beauty, Tiffany’s features were more classically beautiful, almost ethereal really.  As they had been told before, they complemented each other perfectly.  Eyeing the marquis out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help wondering again what his intentions were regarding Tiffany’s future.

She was distracted from her musings however, when they arrived at the entrance to their box.  As they entered, Ashleigh's attention was immediately drawn to the immense stage below.  In spite of her anxiety, she could hardly wait to see her first theater production.  As a resonant voice announced fifteen minutes to curtain, Tiffany's father seated them, procured additional refreshments from a nearby attendant, and then excused himself to go and speak with an acquaintance in a nearby box. 

“Isn't this marvelous?”  Tiffany asked, her face glowing with excitement.

Ashleigh was about to respond in kind when her gaze fell upon the occupants of the box located at the direct center of the theater.  Seated near the front of the box were Lady Isabelle
Taryton
and another woman whom Ashleigh didn't recognize, and directly behind them stood Nicholas and the Earl of Chesterfield.  Though she had anticipated it, the reality of seeing Nicholas with the beautiful countess made Ashleigh’s stomach drop. 

Noticing Ashleigh’s sudden pallor and fixed gaze, Tiffany's eyes swung in the direction of her stare.  “Oh dear.  Is that him?” she asked, glancing back toward Ashleigh.

At her nod of assent, Tiffany turned to take another look at the occupants of the box.

“That’s Lady
Taryton
, on the right,” Ashleigh pointed out, her tone disconsolate.  “The brunette in the purple gown.”

“Well, she isn’t nearly as pretty as you are,” Tiffany stated with loyal conviction.  “And that horrible dress makes her look like an overripe plum.” 

Her dress wasn’t at all horrible, but Ashleigh smiled at Tiffany’s atypically derisive comment nonetheless.  Just then, Nicholas' restless gaze swept the crowd, drifted over Tiffany and Ashleigh and then instantly swung back to focus solely on her.  He froze, his expression stunned and disbelieving.  Their gazes met and locked.  There was a significant distance between them, but not enough to prevent Ashleigh from seeing his features grow hard.  Clearly he wasn’t happy to see her.

“The duke is handsome to be sure,” Tiffany murmured, though her eyes shifted to the man beside him, lingering for a moment upon the Earl of Chesterfield’s handsome face, before returning her gaze to the duke.  “Good heavens, he looks positively furious,” she noted in the next instant.

As they watched, Nicholas turned away and apparently said something to the others in his box, as moments later they too turned their gazes in she and Tiffany’s direction.  The Earl of Chesterfield’s surprised expression, quickly turned to one of amusement as he nodded in Ashleigh's direction, a wide grin upon his handsome face, a grin that seemed to grow even wider when it next landed on Tiffany.  The woman she didn’t know regarded them with subtle interest, while Lady
Taryton
shot Ashleigh a look of extreme annoyance.  As Ashleigh watched in absolute fascination, Nicholas turned and strode from the box.  She knew exactly where he was heading.

As Nicholas made his way toward Ashleigh’s box, he was stopped at least a half dozen times.  Forcing himself to appear calm and composed, he exchanged polite, but brief greetings with several friends and acquaintances, while internally he fumed.

When he finally reached his destination, his temper was near to exploding.  Both girls rose when he entered their box, and while the young lady he didn’t know sank into a flawless curtsey, Ashleigh merely stood still, gazing at him in silent anticipation.  He cast only the briefest glance in the blonde’s direction, his gaze riveted on Ashleigh.  She wore a gown of green and ivory silk, the green an almost perfect match to the brilliant shade of her eyes.  The sleeves were comprised of three, half-inch wide straps, that delicately encircled her upper arms, displaying the creamy whiteness of her rounded shoulders, while the bodice clung enticingly to her full bosom, pushed high by the tight corset she wore underneath.  She looked incredible, and he was furious.

Just as Nicholas was about to speak, the Marquis of
Melborne
returned to the box.  Immediately he turned to vent his fury on the luckless man who had brought Ashleigh to London. 

Clearly unaware that he had made a grievous error by bringing Ashleigh to Town, the marquis smiled courteously and offered the duke a polite greeting.  “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, woefully ignorant of the tension within the box. 

“It started out that way,” Nicholas ground out, barely disguising his mounting rage as he pinned his gaze on the hapless marquis, who regarded him in obvious confusion.  “I was not aware,
Melborne
, that I had granted my permission for Lady St. John to travel to London, or to attend the theater.”

Ashleigh watched horror-struck as Tiffany’s father was rendered momentarily speechless, caught completely off guard by the duke's obvious anger.

“I assume that you are aware the Lady St. John is currently under my care,” Nicholas said, glaring at the marquis.

“Yes, of course,”
Melborne
responded, finally finding his voice.

“Then
why
is she here?”  The steely tone of his voice had the bite of a whip as he turned his eyes toward Ashleigh. 

Although she wasn’t particularly fond of Tiffany’s father, he certainly didn’t deserve to be treated so rudely.  “Your Grace,” she interjected, before the marquis could respond.  “Your grandmother gave her permission for me…”

“While you are residing under
my
roof, you will abide by
my
rules, Lady St. John,” he stated tersely, cutting her off mid-sentence.  “And
I
did not give you permission to journey to London, nor did
I
give you leave to attend the theater.”  Returning his gaze to the marquis, Nicholas’ expression brooked no further discussion.  “If you will excuse us, I shall return Lady St. John to your townhouse and trust that you will see to it that she is delivered to
Sethe
Manor no later than tomorrow afternoon.” 

Ignoring Ashleigh’s indignant huff, Tiffany’s sharply indrawn breath, and the marquis’ affronted demeanor, Nicholas reached out and grasped Ashleigh’s elbow.  “Good evening,” he snapped discourteously.  With those parting words, Nicholas abruptly propelled Ashleigh out of the box and headed toward the front of the theater.

As they entered the lobby, Ashleigh seriously contemplated digging in her heels and jerking her arm from his grasp.  However, she couldn't help but notice several faces staring in their direction, all in rapt attention.  She was certain that she could very well die of humiliation at any moment, as she was led, or dragged rather, from the theater.  She then had to stand at his side for several minutes in silent outrage as the duke ordered his carriage brought around to the front of the theater.  Her wrap had been left behind, but her anger helped keep her warm in the cool night air. 

Once they were safely ensconced in the opulent conveyance and moving away from the theater, Ashleigh hit Nicholas with the full brunt of her fury.  “How dare you treat me like…like some miscreant child!” she demanded hotly. 

Nicholas reached out and grabbed Ashleigh's arms, pulling her face to within inches of his own.  “I have yet to strike a woman in anger, Lady St. John, but if you say one more word, so help me God, I will not be held accountable for my actions!” he declared, emphasizing each and every word, his anger scarcely held in check.  He wouldn’t of course, but she didn’t know that.
 
Then, with a slight shove, he released her arms and she fell back against the seat.

Ashleigh was so astonished by the suddenness of his action that she couldn’t have spoken another word at that moment, even if she had wished to.  Amazed that Nicholas' anger had reached such an alarming degree, she shrunk back against the velvet seat cushion, wisely remaining silent as the carriage gradually picked up speed.

As they traversed the cobbled London streets, Nicholas stared moodily out into the darkness, completely astounded by Ashleigh's daring.  It was unbelievable.  The tenacious little vixen had actually followed him to London.  Did no one have control over the brazen young woman sitting across from him, he wondered?  He turned and caught her eyes upon him, a mutinous expression evident upon her delicate features, before she quickly averted her gaze out the window.  By God, she would try the patience of a saint, and he certainly was no saint.

The ride was nerve-wracking, the air seeming to crackle with tension as the silence between them grew thick and heavy.  Aside from their quiet breathing, the only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones.  Ashleigh longed to break the tense silence, but she knew she didn’t dare.

Before long, the carriage came to a halt, with Nicholas opening the door and pulling her out before the driver had barely set the brake and the startled footman having only just lowered the steps.  Ashleigh was then forced to race to keep up with his long strides as he marched her up the steps, and then rapped loudly upon the Marlowe’s front door. 

A moment later it swung open, and after curtly introducing himself, Nicholas brushed past the startled butler and guided Ashleigh into the Marlowe's front parlor, pulling the wide double doors shut behind him with an ominous thud.  Leaning back against one of the thick wooden panels, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers.  He stared at Ashleigh for one long moment, the air fraught with the unrelenting tension between them. 

Ashleigh eyed Nicholas warily as he suddenly pushed himself away from the door and advanced toward her.  She took an automatic step backward, the look in his eyes telling her that things did not bode well for her at that moment. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, the muscles in his neck taut, his expression as dark as a thundercloud as he moved to stand directly in front of her. 

He was standing so close that she could feel his warm, brandy scented breath on her face as he leaned toward her.  “It is not what you are thinking,” she claimed, trying to think of a plausible explanation for her presence in London.  She knew he wouldn't believe that she had been just as surprised by her unexpected trip to London as he had been to see her at the theater.

“Is it not?” he snapped, his tone disbelieving.

“No.  I swear, I…”

“Save your breath.”  He held up his hand, stopping whatever excuse she had been about to give.  “I am tired of your games dammit.  So, for the last time, allow me to make myself perfectly clear so that there will be no future misunderstandings between us,” he said, deliberately enunciating each word.  “There can be nothing between us, not now, and not ever.
 
I am
not
interested in whatever it is that you have in mind.
 
Do you understand?” 

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that is so!”

Ashleigh’s trepidation was quickly turning to outrage in the face of his harsh, angry words.  “As I am sure you well know; actions speak louder than words,
Your Grace
.” 

“Just what the devil is that supposed to mean,” he demanded, incredulous at her sudden boldness in the face of his mounting fury.

“I think you know very well what it means,” Ashleigh fired back, nearly as incensed as he was now.  “As I recall, you have proven your
lack
of interest on more than one occasion.”

He clenched his jaw in anger, furious at being reminded of his damnable physical weakness when it came to her.  It made it easier to be deliberately unkind.  “As I explained yesterday, I am only a man,” he said, insolently raking her up and down with his eyes.  “If you do not wish to be treated like a common trollop, perhaps you should stop acting like one.”
 

His contemptuous sneer was as insulting as his words and angrily she lashed back.  “Stop it damn you!  Stop punishing me for the sins of others!”

“Excuse me?” 

The sudden frigidness of his tone nearly gave her pause, nearly.  “I am not like those other women, the women in your past.  I am not like your mother.”

He moved with the speed of a coiled snake, grabbing her and hauling her forward so that she slammed against his chest.  “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I-I j-just meant that…” she stammered, alarmed by the growing anger she saw in his face.

“Once again, you go too far,” he ground out, furious that she dared to bring up his mother, but even more so by the shocking accuracy of her assessment.  How was it that she seemed to see into his very soul?  Damn her!  She was getting too close, too familiar, and it absolutely terrified him.