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Authors: Sophia Nash

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BOOK: A Dangerous Beauty
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He was so close to her, the closest he’d ever been, and it—specifically, the mysterious, masculine look in his eye—was scrambling her wits. She longed to grasp his neck and tug him down to her, her—well, to be honest, she just wasn’t sure. She knew the mechanics of kissing, but wondered how they wouldn’t end up bumping noses. Would he twist his face left or right? Or maybe straight on?

“Well then, madam,”—his dazzling smile was entrancing—“what shall be your prize?”

His lips were a mere few inches from her own. She gazed into the depths of his eyes and swallowed painfully. “A—a kiss,” she whispered. Oh God, what had she said? She closed her eyes in embarrassment. She hadn’t really just suggested he kiss her? She reopened her eyes, sure to see him laughing at her.

But he wasn’t. His eyebrows rose and a flush of scarlet stained his cheeks. It seemed he leaned toward her slightly, so she met him more than halfway. Placing her arms around his neck, she pecked him quickly on the lips.

“Why, how very generous of you, Lady Rosamunde. Not that I’m not delighted to accommodate—but surely”—he tugged at his neckcloth—“Surely you must know that…well, my heart is otherwise en—”

Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach and she whirled away from him, willing herself not to hear another word. She threw herself into the saddle without later knowing how she managed it without his help. But she had to get away—as far and as fast as possible—to lick her wounds in private.

Henry—Lord Sumner to her forevermore—was in love with someone else. He thought her a mere child to be amused. She would never, ever be so embarrassed again in her entire life.

Or so she thought.

She rode along the cliff paths from the edges of the duke’s property toward her beloved Edgecumbe feeling sorry for herself and then thoroughly disgusted by her self-pity.

For goodness sake, hadn’t she watched her handsome brothers make complete fools of themselves over this jumped-up notion of love? It was supposed to be a strong, mutually held sentiment that made one a better person, not a blithering idiot, when it knocked on one’s heart. But surely, her feelings were much stronger than her silly brothers’ sensibilities. Surely, she hadn’t made such a cake of herself.

In her heart, she knew she had.

She had been more foolish than the lot of them.

She could only take comfort in knowing that she would at least be able to play the wise older sister
when Sylvia came to cry on her shoulder with natterings of love.

The fields were at their most bountiful, the harvest process just begun. Rosamunde crossed into her father’s lands many hours after leaving the scene of her disappointment. She turned the stallion over to the stable master, who was deep into the long process of polishing the crested family carriage.

“Why, Lady Rosamunde, you’ve missed all the goings-on. Your father’s returned from town. And the visiting bishop and the two Miss Smithams came to call.”

Rosamunde shuddered and prayed she wouldn’t have to face the three biggest gossips in all of St. Ives, Penzance and Land’s End combined.

Jones must have seen her expression. “Don’t worry, miss, they’ve gone now. Back to their ministerin’.” He coughed and she could swear she heard him mutter, “or tittle-tattlin’ if you were to ask.”

Rosamunde admired the stable master’s handiwork on the carriage and beat a hasty retreat to the back entrance of her family home. Within a trice she was in front of her washstand, the tepid water soothing away the traces of tears on her dusty cheeks. She glanced at the looking glass and saw what appeared to be the loneliest, plainest girl in the world. It was not often that her desire for a mother overwhelmed her, but this was one of those times. She fingered her mourning locket engraved with a rose. She always wore it. Beneath the gold oval and a thin glass lay a lock of her mother’s flaxen hair intricately woven with her own
black strands. Glancing at the miniature of her mother near the washstand, Rosamunde shook her head. She looked nothing like her.

She knew she must speak to her father. He was the only one who understood her, and would know what she should do to stop making such a fool of herself. Maybe he would suggest a grand tour or her first trip to London. Then she would be able to store away this ridiculous obsession and return to some semblance of normalcy. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about losing her heart again. It was lost somewhere on Perran Sands.

The sounds of clinking harnesses and carriage wheels on pea gravel drifted in from the window. Curiosity got the better of her and she adopted the pose every female knows from birth, falling into the shadows to peek through the curtains.

The Helston bronze-and-silver crest were emblazoned on the doors of a black town carriage with a Salisbury boot. No less than four outriders flanked the elegant carriage, the riders’ dark purple livery and tall powdered wigs bespoke of elegance wasted this far south of London. They must be deadly hot inside. Why hadn’t they taken an open landau instead of this boxed-up funereal equipage?

A small, hard ball of ill ease formed in Rosamunde’s stomach. What was going on? The duke’s family had never condescended to visit before. Her father had even joked that apparently an earl wasn’t high enough in the instep for the Helston duchy. Her curl of fear blossomed into glacial foreboding as the duke, a large
man, jumped from the conveyance without bothering to wait for the step to be lowered. His heir emerged and stood deferentially behind his father like a well-trained king’s page.

So focused was she on Lord Sumner and his father that she almost failed to note the small withered hand that appeared at the shadowed doorway of the carriage. The haughty duke looked down at it and barked some sort of order. Rosamunde stiffened. One of the duke’s servants closed the carriage door, forcing the lady within to remain ensconced.

Rosamunde had never felt cowardly in her life. But the urge to run away was upon her and it was as primal as the desire an animal has to escape a well-oiled trap. For a quarter hour she paced, disordered thoughts jangling through her mind.

A sharp rap on the door followed by the footman’s message that her father required her presence in the library erased her plans of escape. She would never disobey her father.

While she knew the servants wouldn’t openly stare at any member of the family, she felt the weight of every maid and footman’s gaze on her back as she passed them. This was ridiculous. She had nothing to fear. She calmly smoothed the wrinkles from her favorite dark blue velvet riding habit and knocked once on the library’s carved oak door.

Four pairs of eyes trained their attention on her as she crossed the length of the room, her short riding boots’ heels clicking loudly on the intricate parquet floor. The duke, Lord Sumner and Phinnius framed her
father, who bore the blackest expression Rosamunde had ever seen on his erstwhile handsome, kindly face. Lord Sumner was pale and refused to meet her gaze.

She pushed back her shoulders. She hadn’t done anything atrocious enough to merit this. Lord Sumner would never have revealed the embarrassment of that kiss. It was just her father’s expression—it made her feel guilty even when there was really nothing to confess. Well, maybe he was justifiably annoyed about her taking the stal—

“I never thought I would see the day when a child of mine would bring such dishonor to our family,” her father said quietly.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” she started. “I won’t ever take out Domino without your permission a—”

“Domino? You rode my stallion?” Her father covered his face with his hands and dragged them down his visage, leaving angry red marks. “Who cares about Domino?” His voice was dangerously calm.

“Wha—” Rosamunde began.

“Don’t say another word,” her father interrupted. “You’re to listen and only respond ‘yes’ at the obvious places.”

“I really don’t think—” said Phinnius.

“You’re not here to think, Phinn. As my heir, you’re here to witness a change to our family,” her father responded.

Rosamunde felt a weight drop in her stomach and she stood stock-still. The Duke of Helston’s face wore an impressive mask of stone, and his son appeared on the verge of tears. What, dear God, was going on?

The duke gave an almost imperceptible nod toward his son. Lord Sumner turned and made two long strides to face her. He caught up her bare hand in his gloved one and held it firmly. He closed his eyes tightly for a long moment, then breathed in deeply. “Lady Rosamunde, would you make me the happiest of men by consenting to become my bride?”

Rosamunde had the strangest urge to slap him. She had never lifted a finger to a soul. Her free hand balled into a fist. He had made a mockery of her greatest desire. She scanned the deadly serious faces in the room.

“Lord Sumner, sir, you cannot be serious. You certainly don’t seem happy. You look more like a man facing the gallows, if you were to ask me.” She snatched her hand back. “And you scarcely know I exist. Really. I could never—”

The long squeal of chair legs dragging along the floor coincided with the sound of her father’s palm slamming his desk. “I told you we did not want to hear another word from you with the exception of ‘yes.’ After which you shall go upstairs, have one bag packed and prepare to leave for London. I’ll not have you waste another moment of His Grace’s time.”

The duke replaced his hard expression with one of boredom, disgust and a banked anger that made Rosamunde’s nerves desert her.

“Your Grace,” said her father, “I must apologize for my daughter’s behavior—again.”

The duke turned his cold gaze on her father. “It is rumored she is the most spoilt female in the county.
I do hope you will have her better trained before she is under my roof. There is little tolerance for coddled females there. Ah, but my son knows well how to mete out lessons in good behavior.”

A chill swept through Rosamunde. The duke’s pale green eyes looked like the dangerous thin ice on the pond during winter. She glanced down at his hands and they appeared peasantlike, brutish and thick-skinned. She shivered once.

“But what has happened? Why is Lord Sumner being forced to ask for my hand?” she whispered, her eyes trained on the corner of her father’s desk.

His Grace banged his walking stick on the floor. “I’ll tell you why, you thoughtless girl. Your chance to say ‘no’ was left on the beach. If you had had the sense to say ‘no’ then, and hadn’t lured my son to that private cove, and enticed him with your wiles, then he would not be here now, forced to solicit the hand of a conniving chit. Do you think I will enjoy seeing the Helston bloodlines tainted by a—a gel of such questionable character? Do you?” His voice had grown in pitch until the last was said with a roar.

“But, noth—nothing happened. We raced, and I’m sorry if it was slightly improper. It was just a race…” Her voice trailed off as she watched a large vein in the center of the duke’s forehead beat a wild tattoo.

“And did you not ask him to kiss you?”

She jerked her face toward Lord Sumner and saw him close his eyes and shake his head.
The coward.
What had he done? Why wasn’t he coming to her defense? He didn’t want her, he implicitly told her he lov—

“Well?” her father demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself, Rosamunde?”

“But, he doesn’t like me—”

“Not according to the Miss Smithams and the bishop,” her father interrupted.

The blood in her head rushed to the ends of her fingers and she thought she might just faint for the first time in her life.

“Are you actually suggesting you did not behave with the utmost lack of propriety whilst hiding yourselves near the beachhead?” asked the duke from behind her.

She whirled to face him. “Of course we didn’t, Your Grace.”

“Your impertinence is insupportable.” He stepped so close to her she could smell traces of stale cheroots and overly sweet cologne.

Her father’s eyes narrowed and she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She had chewed her inner cheek to ribbons.

“Then why is there sand and wrinkles on the back of your gown, and your hair tumbled down?” His Grace demanded.

Rosamunde instinctively touched the back of her head and felt the tuft of a sea oat in her hair. Bile rose in her throat.

“I’ve been riding along the downs, and stopped to rest a little before returning home.” She brushed the back of her blue velvet riding habit. “It’s just a bit of dirt from the place I chose to sit.” She wasn’t going to admit to crying for long minutes in a small hollow.

The duke snorted and turned to face her father. “I thought you said your daughter was a well brought up, clever thing who would be able to adjust to her new role. The chit cannot even lie intelligently.”

Rosamunde turned to Lord Sumner and hoped he would see her desperation. He turned away.

“But, he—he loves another.”

Lord Sumner twisted back toward her, his face contorted in agony.

“My son knows his duty. He doesn’t love anyone except his father, girl. And you would do well to learn by his example.” The duke sighed impatiently. “Enough of this. You should be thankful I’ve decided to save your reputation, if only because it’s time my son takes a wife. Why, if your father were not who he is—I assure you we’d leave you to your fate. A thank-you would be in order, actually. But I see you’ve not learned your manners yet. Well, we shall meet at St. George’s in a month’s time. There your lessons will commence. I shall arrange for the archbishop—” said the duke.

“No,” Rosamunde interrupted in a whisper.

“What”—the duke’s mouth was an inch from her own “—did you say?” He was stooped and she could see his hands shaking with rage.

She stepped back and almost sat on her father’s desk. “I said
no
. I won’t marry him.”

An ominous silence crawled in on hot feet.

“Your Grace,” said her father. “Please excuse us. We will of course meet you as discussed. Rosamunde is most honored by your son’s offer and accepts. I shall
have my solicitor draw up the marriage settlements in London while you procure the special license from the archbishop. On behalf of my family, I thank you for the courtesy of your visit.” Her father bowed deeply.

BOOK: A Dangerous Beauty
8.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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