A Dangerous Beauty (4 page)

Her steps faltered as they wended their way through the pea-gravel footpaths toward the tiered upper levels. A group of people was gathered at one end of the property near the castle, and they appeared to be playing some sort of—

“Hallooo!”

A tiny, wizened lady dressed in the severest of mourning crossed toward them, a profusion of black lace in her wake.

Rosamunde whispered to her sister, “Well, brace yourself, dearest, this could be very embarrassing.” She whipped her bags behind her and sent up a prayer.

“Heavens,” the lady said breathlessly, bustling up to them. “You must be—” She let the question hang in the stillness.

“Mrs. Baird, ma’am. Rosamunde Baird, and my sister, Lady Sylvia Langdon. We’re lately of Barton’s Cottage.” She bobbed a small curtsy. “We’ve come to call on Her Grace.”

The older lady’s eyes flashed with humor and a magnificent smile made Rosamunde blind to the lady’s wrinkles. Why, she looked like a mischievous gypsy, with her dark eyes and olive complexion.

“La! You’re looking at her. Delighted to make your acquaintance, my dears.” She smiled shrewdly. “I’m Merceditas St. Aubyn.”

Both Rosamunde and Sylvia swooped into deferential court curtsies, and Rosamunde felt the flush of embarrassment. She had already offended the one person who had offered their only chance of escape. “Your Grace,” she whispered, her gaze on the ground.

“No, no, my dears, we’ll have none of that here.” The dowager grasped her arm and tugged her to regain her footing. “I’m delighted to have you join us.” She peeked at the bandboxes. “I take it you will both honor us with a nice long visit, then?”

“If your invitation is still open, Your Grace.”

“For as long as you like, Rosamunde. I may call you Rosamunde?” She linked arms with her. “I’m too old to remember titles and surnames and the like. I find multiple hyphenated names the worst sort of pretension, don’t you? I do believe the gentry invented them to irritate the rest of us. You may call me Ata, as all my friends do.”

“Yes, Your—Ata.” Rosamunde stared at the little lady. She had never had anyone become intimate with
her so quickly. In fact, never had anyone invited her to friendship other than in her girlhood.

“Come along, then. You can leave your possessions here. I’ll send a footman. Now tell me, Sylvia, are you adept at archery? I have a divine bow made of—”

Rosamunde’s mind blocked the banter between her sister and the duchess as they crossed the vast gardens. She still had so many questions, but was too polite to voice them. She tried to quiet her inner turmoil by breathing deeply. She should tell the duchess about her notorious history before her courage failed her.

“Your Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I must tell you a little about my past before we join the others,” Rosamunde said hesitantly.

“Your past? Why I refuse to dwell on sadness, my dear. Tragedy doesn’t last—that’s its chief charm. You’re only to think of the future here. It’s the primary rule of my little group.” She paused and looked at her sideways. “You haven’t forgotten that discretion is one of the other guiding principles, have you?”

“No, of course not,” Rosamunde replied. “But, I must tell you—”

“No, you must not. Not now, we’re almost upon them. I shall introduce you to the other members of the club. There are four ladies who chose to join us here. You probably haven’t made their acquaintance as they are from other parts.” She paused. “And there are others to meet as well.”

Rosamunde inhaled sharply and wondered, not for the first time, if the new Duke of Helston was anything like his father. The former ruthless peer of the realm
and his family had left Amberley soon after the scandal, never to return. Until now.

She had heard five years ago that the duchess had taken ill and preceded the old duke in death a scant month or two before the duke had suffered a fatal carriage accident. Lord Sumner—Henry—it had been a long time since she had allowed herself to think of him—had been lost at sea two years later.

It was rumored that the new duke, a former commander in the Royal Navy, had returned to London after assuming the title. Not that she knew anything more about the mysterious gentleman. Her unreliable reports came from Cook, who parceled out daily doses of weak tea and village gossip.

They approached a vibrant green lawn littered with several archery targets near a small bridge strangled by overgrown wisteria vines. A large crowd of guests, gathered to cheer on the competitors, turned their attention toward them and Rosamunde felt mortification trickle down her spine. Any hope she had held of not being recognized after her long absence from society was extinguished by the many shocked and outraged expressions of the local gentry upon her arrival.

Oh, this was every bit as ghastly as she had known it would be. The utter silence turned to sputters of disgust from those who knew her. Inquisitive strangers pressed closer. She heard again all the whispered vileness of before.

Wanton…slut…soiled goods…whore
. The words swirled ‘round and ‘round her brain just as they had so long ago when she had last entered the village church.
Rosamunde forced herself to take shallow breaths. She gripped Sylvia’s hand when she felt her trying to shrink away.

The tiny dowager duchess pursed her lips. “Goodness me,” she bellowed, “I’m certain I misheard the most outrageous thing. Certainly none of the guests here to attend my granddaughter’s wedding would ever breathe a word against one of my dearest and oldest friends.” She glanced at Rosamunde and winked. “I’m certain of it.”

Silence.

“I thought not. Come along Mrs. Baird, Lady Sylvia. I must introduce you to my grandson.” She tilted her head toward a lone gentleman who was too distant to have witnessed Rosamunde’s embarrassment.

As they walked toward him, the fickle-natured crowd turned their attention to the duke, allowing her the chance to regain a modicum of composure. She concentrated on the dark figure who wore his black hair tied in a severe queue, a fashion of the last century.

Rosamunde could only see his profile, but the tinge of gray in his sideburns proved he had passed his early thirties. He wore none of the more vivid colors of the gentlemen down from town. Clad in unrelieved black with the exception of a white shirt and cravat, he appeared in deep mourning as well.

He tossed aside a tall beaver hat, fastened an arrow in the long heartwood bow, and toed the chalk mark on the grass. The severe line of his rugged physique suggested a sort of predatory power and raw masculinity.
He squinted under the noonday sun and took aim, his arm steady and sure. But at the same moment he let fly his arrow, Rosamunde caught a feminine voice behind her tittering, “Why he’s the infamous Lord Fire and Ice, don’t you know.”

It was clearly enough to ruin his concentration and he missed the target’s center by a hand’s width. He cursed under his breath and turned his black gaze to her. Did he think she had said it? A stream of pure awareness swept through her and she inhaled roughly. She could feel the blood pulsing through every vein in her body as she stood rooted to the spot.

A dangerous, shadowy expression perched above his long aristocratic nose, which showed the effects of a round or two of physical altercations. His dark complexion stood out among the rest of the crowd of standard-issue pasty-faced, blue-eyed Englishmen. And while he held not a hint of his deceased father’s or his brother Henry’s looks, if not for his height, he resembled the kindhearted dowager duchess more than anyone. Why then, did Rosamunde have the oddest desire to flee?
Or was it to rush toward him?

Rosamunde clenched her hands when she became aware they were shaking. He had stared at her too long and the tension was nearly unbearable..

The low hum of conversation halted, everyone noticing his impolite glare. He handed his bow to one of the ladies and crossed the short distance to his grandmother.

“Ah, another one, or is it two?”—he leaned to catch a glimpse of Sylvia—“of our fallen doves, I see.”

“Luc,” his grandmother hissed. “Your metaphor is about as misplaced as your aim.”

He ignored her. “Quite a little covey we have. And few dogs to enjoy the hunt.” He smiled, revealing large dazzlingly white teeth, one just crooked enough to make him appear even more devilish, if that was possible.

A few titters drifted from the audience and Rosamunde felt anew the embarrassment of her situation. Why, every Cornish family of noble mien was here. And while they dared not say another word against her lest they incur the dowager’s disfavor, they could and would all stare at her and remember her downfall. Eight years would seem like yesterday to the gossips, who could recite every last major scandal from the last two centuries with a clarity that would astound fusty historians.

“Ladies, I beg your forgiveness.” The dowager turned to her grandson. “Luc, may I present Mrs. Baird and her sister, Lady Sylvia Langdon? My dears, Luc St. Aubyn, the Duke of Helston.”

He leaned close and grasped Rosamunde’s hand before bringing it to his lips. “Your servant,
madam
.” His heavy lidded eyes glanced up from her hand and he murmured, “I do so hope you are the widow, as opposed to your sister?”

It was then that Rosamunde realized his eyes were not black at all, just a very deep, arresting midnight blue. But his manners—
abominable
. His grandmother was of the same mind, if her expression was any indication.

“I am, Your Grace.”

He eyed her shrewdly.

“Care to join our little entertainment? The other ladies have had a turn.” He dusted off the edges of his hat and donned it. “Amusing little activity, really. Provides diversion for both spectators and participants.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. But,”—she glanced at the ground—“I’m in mourning and must decline your invitation.”

“That shouldn’t stop you. Why I’m in mourning too, Mrs. Baird,” he muttered. “Mourning the loss of my solitude and freedom.”

His grandmother stamped a cane perilously close to his right boot. “And I’m mourning the loss of your manners.” She harrumphed. “It’s unfortunate that I’m in perpetual mourning because of you.”

He threw back his head and laughed before offering his arm to Rosamunde. “Come, Mrs. Baird, I invite you to explore the joys of throwing off the shackles of good manners. Let us engage in serious foul play. Devil’s rules.”

She cocked her head in misunderstanding. “Devil’s rules?”

He placed her hand on his arm and drew Sylvia to his other side. A frisson of heat snaked through his linen shirt and coat to race through Rosamunde’s arm.

“All’s fair, and extra points for poor sportsman-ship.” He leaned forward to whisper wickedly, “Perhaps Elizabeth Ashburton will teach you a few tricks.” He glanced at the demure lady who had distracted him earlier.

She was not going to play. She had taken a lifetime oath to forsake all manner of tomfoolery soon after she married, and this audacious gentleman was not going to make her break her promise to herself, even if he was their host. “Perhaps my sister shall join you.”

“No, no, Mrs. Baird. You’re here to have fun. Grandmamma insists upon it for her
special
friends.” He looked at her knowingly. “Now then, the object of the game is to impress everyone with the beauty of one’s form.” He winked. “Two points if you can make someone swoon.”

“I doubt I can make anyone swoon, sir.” She dropped his arm when they reached the small group of archers. She was not going to let them convince her to—

“Come now, Mrs. Baird. You would deny Her Grace the pleasure of watching you enjoy yourself? Or are you the rare female who hates to exhibit herself?” He paused and examined his fingernails. “You don’t look the sort, if I do say so.”

“I kindly thank you for your invitation, however, ladies of a certain age, such as mine, should engage their time more usefully and leave the delights of youth to the younger set.”

“Are you suggesting I am too old to—?”

An elegant lady with blonde tresses stepped forward and interrupted him. She was as delicately beautiful as a porcelain doll bedecked in pale blue lace and pearls, but her claws were as sharp as a barnyard cat’s. “Why, is it…why, fancy that. Lady Rosamunde Langdon, or it’s plain Mrs. Baird now, is it not?”

Augustine Phelps
. A prime example of the many rea
sons Rosamunde chose to bury herself in one of the most unfashionable corners of England. She glared at her but held her tongue. Her old rival had recently affianced herself to a Hanoverian baron of questionable pedigree and unquestionable stupidity.

“How you’ve changed, Rosamunde. But then I suppose one can hardly be surprised.”

Sylvia faded into the crowd as fast as a pickpocket on payday. Confrontation had never been her sister’s forte.

Auggie took a deep breath and a joyfully evil gleam lit her eyes. “Many a lady has lost her looks after undergoing half of what you’ve endured…or rather,
earned
.” The last was whispered and a giggle escaped at the end to lighten the tone.

The duke cleared his throat and turned to his grandmother. “And I always thought brides-to-be were”—he cupped his hand near his mouth to smother his voice—“innocent chicks…or rather
hens
as the case may be. But clearly they are buzzards in waiting. And why, I ask you? Don’t they know only widows have a chance at true domestic bliss? It’s the brides who have everything to fear.”

Rosamunde choked on her laughter.

Augustine blanched and sputtered most endearingly. “Well,” she continued, “I wouldn’t count on her to join the game. She doesn’t mix with—with people of our stature.”

“Heaven’s no,
Auggie
. We peasants know our place.” Rosamunde regretted her audacious words and was shocked by her rash comment. She had thought a life-
time of repentance and withdrawal from society had ruthlessly cured her from almost every instance of impetuous behavior—until now.

Her Grace yanked her grandson’s arm and he leaned down. In a very rude stage whisper, the little dowager motioned toward Augustine. “She is not one of us.”

“Well, I say—” Augustine breathed, aghast.