A Dangerous Beauty (6 page)

Her mind blurred under the onslaught. His teeth nipped at her lips and it sent a long shiver through her. His tongue gently traced the seam of her lips, and finally she understood he sought entrance, sought knowledge of her. She unclenched her jaw and relaxed only to have excitement burst through her. His tongue curled about her own, making her feel as though she might faint from the intimacy of it.

No one had ever kissed her like this. Not that she knew much about kissing. She knew more about cold, hard pain, not pleasure. But surely this was wickedness incarnate.

She breathed in the mysterious scent of cheroots and woody cologne. He smelled of old elegance and permanence. And of sadness hiding behind a thin veneer. But most of all, she sensed a strange stoicism coursing beneath a long tunnel of dark experience.

He drew back and before she could gather her wits and breathe, let alone think about the magnitude of what had just happened, he opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Baird.”

Algernon stood by the bow window in his Sunday finery, only a shred of mourning evident in the form of a scrap of black material tied about one arm.

All the smoldering embers in her body were sucked out to be replaced with the familiar icy dread. Her ability to cover her fears with a cloak of indifference, a skill honed over time, stood her well.

“My dear cousin.” Algernon bowed deeply.

“Algernon.” Rosamunde dipped a miniscule curtsy.

The duke motioned them both to a settee before the vast fireplace, intricately carved from a single slab of white marble tinged gray from many generations of use. He propped himself against it with casual elegance, rather like a great falcon watching his prey. Or was it a vulture?

“Ah, this is a sad state of affairs is it not, my dear?” Algernon’s question was more of a statement.

She sat still and mute.

Algernon darted a glance at the duke. Beads of moisture covered his forehead and the skin above his upper lip. Like his first cousin Alfred, Algernon Baird was always overheated in hot weather and in cold. His hair, a thinning, oily mixture of gray and red was combed forward à la mode Brutus. It was uncanny how much he looked like her late husband with the exception of his greater height.

“Well, enough of the niceties,” the duke said dryly. “You’ve requested an audience with Mrs. Baird and have proposed to me that she and her sister return to…”

“Barton’s Cottage,” Algernon filled in.

“Right. Barton’s Cottage, clearly a place much more appealing than this pile.” The duke brushed invisible lint from his coat lapel. “And this is to be done today.”

“This afternoon, Your Grace,” Algernon insisted. “We shan’t burden you further.”

“You show a forgiving nature, sir, toward a runaway grieving relation. It warms the heart,” the duke said.

Rosamunde could not move or speak for the life of her. Her world was crashing in around her yet again.

Algernon preened before him.

“It’s obvious any woman would be
delighted
to accept your charity.” The duke examined his pocket watch and clicked it shut. “I, however, find a slight—mind you, very slight—problem with your proposal.”

“Your Grace?”

“I’ve never subscribed to gothic scenarios. You understand me, I am sure. A grieving dependant female or two at the mercy of a”—Rosamunde was sure he was going to say licentious idiot but was mistaken—“
gentleman
,” the duke continued after a long pause.

Algernon’s face paled. “Are they not in the same situation here? Why, I am family to these two girls.”

“Girls?”

Algernon blinked. “Ladies.”

“Do we really need to belabor the point, Mr. Baird? I
would be willing to endure the tedium of an argument, but only if you could find it within yourself to provide just a bit more entertainment along the way.”

Algernon appeared confused. “Are you insulting me?”

“I see you’ve no gloves with you, would you care for my handkerchief?” He reached for his pocket. “I’ve always found challenges quite amusing.”

The first hint of real panic appeared on Algernon’s face. Years of desperation prevented Rosamunde from taking any pleasure in it.

“No?” The duke continued after a short silence, “Well, you can take comfort in knowing there are at least three dozen guests here to save Mrs. Baird from, ahem, me.”

A bubble of disbelief tinged with hilarity floated in Rosamunde’s throat. Where had all those visitors been moments ago, outside the door?

The duke slowly raised a quizzing glass, dangling from a gold chain about his neck, to his face. It enlarged one of his eyes to ridiculous proportions.

“Have you nothing to say about this,
Mrs. Baird
? We’re talking about your fate, after all.”

“No,” she said quietly.

“No?” He looked at her with indifference and her heart grew smaller. “I keep forgetting females have no say in the matter of their futures. And here you have such a tempting offer on the table from Mr. Baird.”

“Offer?” she echoed, barely able to speak. Couldn’t he divine that the long years with Alfred had instilled in her the importance of remaining compliant and
still?

“Why, yes. Mr. Baird explained to me not one half hour ago that he blames himself for your
hasty
departure, that you had not given him the chance to explain his ideas for your happy future.”

What was he talking about? She turned to consider Algernon’s frippery and slippery words and the sweaty, earthy awful core of him.

“He has suggested that within a month your year of mourning will be over and he would make you his bride. Or was it the sister you wanted, Mr. Baird? Or perhaps both? Yes, that must have been—”

“No,” she interrupted quietly.

“No?” the duke considered her answer for a moment. “No to what? No to marrying Mr. Baird, no to your sister marrying him, or no to both of you marrying him?”

She looked at him but couldn’t make the muscles in her mouth work. She hated the person she’d become…submissive, acquiescent, obedient.

“Ah, finally we’re getting a glimmer of an answer. Personally, I think men should never overtax the female mind by asking them to think. Don’t you agree, Mr. Baird?”

“Well, I—” Algernon began.

“Excuse me,” Rosamunde forced herself to speak. “I must decline all of my cousin-in-law’s proposals. And I know I speak on my sister’s behalf as well.”

Algernon’s delicate chair creaked loudly when he rose. “Well, that’s the thanks I get for offering to house you, protect you and your sister? I would think you
would show a little more gratitude. My offer is surely the only one you will receive, considering the well-known state of your reputation. Why, it is surprising His Grace has allowed you to stay here and mix with respectable people,
Rosie
.”

Oh, how she hated that name. The name of the village tavern maid who dispensed her favors freely. But then, was that not how the two Bairds had treated her for so long?

“Algernon, I thank you for your offer but I cannot accept it.” She said it with an enormous effort of will.

“I see. So you think to pass yourself off here as a member of good
ton
, do you? I’m curious about one thing. How ever did you wrangle an invitation to stay here…at the family home of the gentleman you seduced and then refused to marry?”

The duke’s hand, rubbing the stem of his quizzing glass, stilled for the slightest moment.

Algernon stepped closer. “She didn’t tell you, Your Grace? She had relations with your brother, but her fickle nature took over afterward. She must be kept firmly in hand.”

The Duke of Helston’s bored expression took in everything and gave away nothing in return. “A most accommodating female. I’m more and more intrigued. In my experience a lady will use every feminine wile to clamp a leg shackle on a gentleman. But in this case, it seems Mrs. Baird enjoyed the role of a jilt. How odd.”

“How odd indeed,” she whispered, sure no one had heard her.

“But it was
your brother
, Your Grace.” Algernon
tugged at his lacy cravat. “All your neighbors and wedding guests are talking about her being here. And as usual, Rosie is taking pleasure in her bold, reckless ways, leaving a wake of damage wherever she goes.”

“And you are so kindly willing to take on this brazen piece of baggage, and her sister too?”

“It’s the charitable thing to do.”

The duke slowly perused the length of Algernon Baird and then coughed. “How illuminating. Your generosity does you great credit, sir.” There was the suggestion of a smile about his lips as he continued casually, “And now that I have the full story, I shall have Mrs. Baird’s bags packed and tossed off Amberley’s grounds before she taints the happiness of everyone gathered here.”

“And her sister?”

His Grace lifted one supercilious brow. “Oh, her sister is equally to blame, obviously.”

An icy ball of fear grew in the pit of Rosamunde’s stomach, but she resisted the urge to lick her dry lips.

Algernon pursed his mouth, trying to conceal his delight. “With your permission, Your Grace, shall I signal for a maid to begin packing?”

“Rosie
,” the duke said. “This is what you want?”

“Go to the devil.”

Luc St. Aubyn, the eighth Duke of Helston, laughed long and loud.

“You see?” Algernon smirked. “Observe the vulgar woman behind the façade.”

The duke smiled shrewdly. “Mr. Baird, it pains me greatly, but I fear I must insist on being allowed to take
on the reformation of this wayward woman’s character. She’s damaged my family in the past and so it’s in my purview to exact repayment.” The duke crossed the room and gave a swift yank on the bell cord. “I’ll satisfy your notions of divine retribution by promising to house both sisters in a cobweb-filled garret without a fire in the grate, where it will be perpetually too hot or too cold. Shall I have them forced to work in the kitchen as well?”

Algernon, flustered beyond measure, allowed his sycophantic nature to take over. “Well, of course, Your Grace. I shall abide by whatever you decide. But really, I hate to burden you with this. I think it is best for her nearest and dearest relation to—”

“Say no more.” His Grace turned to indicate something to the able-bodied footman who had slipped into the room. “A man can tolerate only so much sympathy in his lifetime and I fear I shall use up all my supply if you stay another minute longer.”

By the look on Algernon’s face, it was clear he was utterly confused by the duke’s words. Still reeling, Rosamunde was herself unsure which gentleman deserved more pity.

But there was no doubt in Rosamunde’s mind what the swarthy footman’s mission was as the manservant advanced toward her brother-in-law. Thank goodness for muscle and brawn.

Guilt,
n.
The condition of one who is known to have committed an indiscretion, as distinguished from the state of him who has covered his tracks.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

A
mid a clutter of discarded sheets of precious paper, Rosamunde sat at an escritoire in the ridiculously large apartment in Amberley into which she had been moved. The housekeeper, a robust Cornish-woman with a strong accent, had insisted she remove from her old room, and for a moment Rosamunde had wondered if she was being escorted to the attics. But apparently not—it was simply that new guests were arriving. And then she froze and worried for the hundredth time if her family members had been invited to the wedding and any other festivities. Fate couldn’t be so cruel as to force her to face them.

She gazed at the odd bouquet of flowers she had gathered this afternoon. There had been few blooms from which to choose, the gardens having been somewhat neglected with the family from home for so many years. But already, new gardeners had been engaged. Rosamunde had had to stop herself from joining the under gardener in pulling up weeds surrounding the mignonette and phlox in the lower garden.

She would have stayed there all day if she could have, wandering the gardens, which were wonderfully silent save for one large droning bumblebee. It was a bittersweet remembrance of her garden at Barton’s Cottage. By herself. Always by herself very early each morning, when she could escape.

But she’d been unable to find solace here. She’d kept turning at every sound, fearful she’d be found and compelled to rejoin the others. She’d managed to avoid everyone after yesterday’s horrendous interview with Algernon and the duke. Just thinking about His Grace made her struggle to breathe.

What must he think of her? Surely he considered her a scandalous woman, pushing herself where she was universally despised. And she had refused to defend herself. It would only have made her appear false. He was probably disgusted by her, sure she had withheld her past to gain entrance. Why hadn’t he immediately dismissed her from Amberley?

But most of all she wondered why the duke had kissed her. Surely he had done it to divert her. And he had accomplished it.

She had relived his kiss a hundred times in the past
day and a half and each time she was sure she must have dreamed it. She kept picturing those magnetic eyes turning a dark, mysterious blue as they gazed at her and the heat and strength of him as he had leaned into her, his ironlike thighs pressed against her own. He had kept his hands behind his back, giving her the precious chance to back away at any moment.

Her heart raced yet again, and she looked down to see her hands shaking, the ink from the quill spattered across the sheet of parchment. Oh, what was the point? She knew she would never send a letter to her father pleading for him to send a carriage. Begging just wasn’t in her nature. She would rather starve to death.

A little voice inside also reminded Rosamunde that if Father refused her supplication, she would know forevermore they could never, ever go home. Not knowing was better.

In her most optimistic moments she liked to dream it was only her wounded pride that stood in the way of reconciling with her father—but really, there was so much more. There was her father’s pride, too. Overcoming the mountains she and her father had built between them would require a glacial age to erode them.

The movement of an ant crawling on one of the flowers caught her attention. The bouquet’s fragrance wafted in the air. Rosemary, signifying remembrance, joined the symbolic pleasure and pain of dog rose, the grief and despair of marigold all wrapped up in the perseverance of ground laurel and sorrow of purple hyacinth. The bouquet was hideous in its significance,
yet beautiful in the last of the day’s rays streaming in from the window. Was it not like the last few days had been? Wonderful yet shockingly dreadful.

There was a light tap on the door and Sylvia slipped into the room. “Rosa, you’re not ready? The dinner bell shall sound any minute.”

“No, my love. I…” She had never been any good at lying. “I shall send my regrets.”

“Again?” Sylvia picked up their mother’s ancient silver-backed hairbrush to arrange Rosamunde’s hair. “The duchess said she would send for the apothecary if you hadn’t improved by tonight.”

When Rosamunde didn’t respond, Sylvia continued to dress her high chignon, breaking off small flowers in the bouquet to add to the coiffure. “You don’t have a headache, do you?”

“Not really.” She twirled a flower that had dropped from Sylvia’s hands. “Has His Grace said anything to you?”

“No.” Sylvia paused. “He’s very strange, don’t you think? Several ladies have warned me to stay away from him. They said he’s called Lord Fire and Ice because he’s a notorious rake with an unpredictable temper. Auggie’s friend keeps flirting with him on the sly.”

“And does he flirt back?” she asked, not really sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“I think it’s gone beyond that, by the way he looks at her.”

Rosamunde didn’t know if she was more annoyed learning this or more irritated at herself for being annoyed.

“He’s even rumored to have killed someone,” Sylvia said in a hushed tone.

“That’s ridiculous. You know how gossip grows. The man was in the Royal Navy. He probably did kill while fighting the French, but I highly doubt he killed anyone here in England. Lord Fire and Ice indeed,” she snorted.

“Well, I’m afraid of him. He’s nothing at all like…”

Rosamunde swallowed. “You’re right, he isn’t anything like his brother.”

Sylvia fiddled with a flower. “It isn’t fair, you know. You’re forcing me to face everyone alone again tonight when coming here was your idea.”

“Has it been that bad?”

“Worse than you can imagine. The ladies stare at me and whisper. And the gentlemen just gape and sometimes smile ever so slightly”—her gaze dropped—“knowingly.”

“I’m so sorry, Sylvia. I had hoped my past wouldn’t taint you here. At least the wedding is next week and then they will all leave. In the meantime, we can stay to ourselves and try to figure out our future. You don’t have to go down for dinner either, you know.”

Rosamunde turned on her stool and took her beloved sister in her arms, not sure who was comforting whom. The balm of sisterly love had been the only thing that had sustained her spirits for so long.

Sylvia’s muffled voice floated to her ear. “I’m so glad. I just can’t face Auggie Phelps and her circle of friends again.”

Rosamunde brushed a limp, ebony lock from her
sister’s face. Neither of them had ever been able to force a curl to stay long in their thick straight hair.

“But, Rosa, Her Grace asked me to play her harp as entertainment after dinner. And—”

“And what?”

“And you know how hard it is to disappoint her. I told her I would, but only if you accompanied me with your voice.”

“You didn’t. You would never—”

A loud rap at the door interrupted her and their gazes flew to it.

“Yes?” Rosamunde called out.

The last person she wanted to see entered first. Then Ata pushed passed His Grace, elbowing him viciously.

“Those should be certified as weapons,” he said under his breath.

“Well, if you’d stop gawking, I wouldn’t have to use them now, would I?” she said sweetly.

His Grace glanced at the ceiling for help.

This time it appeared the dowager was undecided in her dress. She wore a conservative dark aubergine gown, but a petticoat rustled underneath and Rosamunde was sure she had seen a hint of dark rose lace at the edge.

“My dear, Luc and I thought we must look in on you. I do hope the infusions helped. They must have, since the gardener reports you’ve been strolling the gardens this afternoon. Shall we all go down for dinner, then?”

She had such an innocent goodness in her expres
sion Rosamunde didn’t have the heart to offer an excuse. Funny how Rosamunde’s old governess had used the same trick and she’d succumbed every time.

“Well, of course, Your Grace. I would—”

“Ata, please.” She’d said it with so much sadness Rosamunde knew she would never err again.

“Ata…Sylvia and I are almost ready. We’ll descend in an instant.”

Luc had decided he wasn’t going to let her hide anymore. It hadn’t taken his grandmother’s incessant questions to make him act.

Standing there in the doorway made him wish he had proceeded sooner. The two sisters, so similar in appearance with their glossy hair and pale complexions but differing eye color, sat at their toilette, a study in Botticellian attitudes. He could barely maintain his careless demeanor looking at the elder.

She was not the beauty of the two, except for those eyes. She was all angles and harsh splendor as opposed to her sister’s soft elegance. The pretty blooms in Rosamunde’s hair contrasted with the wildness he sometimes spied in her eyes and in her heart.

She had gained some sort of hold on him. A hold that he revolted against with every fiber of his being. He had no desire to become entangled with a lady. A casual joining of bodies for mutual pleasure was one thing, caring about another being’s future was another.

In the few times he had interceded in the affairs of the widows in Ata’s club, he had done so with imper
sonal efficiency. It annoyed him intensely that he had wanted to do more than that for this woman. He had wanted to smash Algernon Baird’s sweaty, garrulous face in and present it to her on a platter.

He gazed at her firm jaw and remembered the soft sweetness he had discovered beyond those lips that became plush when she let them. With a rush, he cursed himself again for the monumentally stupid impetuous moment outside the door where Algernon Baird had waited.

He had meant to innocently kiss her to shock her out of her fear. Instead he had been struck dumb by an explosion of emotions and unparalleled desire. He exhaled sharply. She had bewitched him—of that there was no question. He could only hope she knew how to play the game, since he had obviously not only forgotten the rules but had lost his mind as well.

“We shall wait outside your door.” He glanced at her dull mourning gown. It was as hideous as ever. “Shall we say five minutes, then?”

She bowed her head in acquiescence.

Ata dipped out of the room and he followed, closing the door behind them.

“Luc, why did you order her moved to this suite?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She harrumphed.

“The housekeeper mentioned something about drafts on the third floor,” he said. “Or was it mice?”

She shook a wrinkled, pointed finger under his nose. “Ha. You can’t fool an old fool. You’re up to something. Does she know this room adjoins your own?”

“I certainly hope not.”

Ata sniffed. “Highly improper, Luc. I’ll not have it. I’ll have Phipps install a bolt tonight. Better yet, a bolt on her outer door as well. And, and—”

“Yes?” He rose to his most imposing height.

“And you’re to be less obvious with that other chit. She giggles too much when she’s around you and it grates on the nerves.”

His lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

She stomped her cane on his foot. “Don’t you dare condescend to me, young man. Now, I really don’t like the idea of Rosamunde Ba—”

He grimaced. “Give me that. You’ve never limped a day in your life.”

“I carry it to keep gentlemen away from the ladies in my club. Do I need to remind you that Mrs. Baird is recently bereaved?”

“Bereaved? Don’t you mean
relieved
?”

“Luc—” she pleaded.

“It’s high time the lady has a bit of fun in her life.”

“But it can never lead to anything, Luc, except heartache for her. I know you too well.” Ata snatched back the cane, and tried to appear indifferent when she continued. “By the by, I understand your Mr. Brown has come down from town.”

“He’s not
my
Mr. Brown.”

“Well, he certainly isn’t
mine
,” Ata muttered.

“
Really
?” he asked, hiding a smile.

Ata sputtered. “Why, the very idea—”

“Enough,” Luc interrupted. “If I can’t escape this end of the world, my man of affairs must join me here.”
He shrugged. “I had Phipps put him in Mrs. Baird’s room, and no, I see that look.
In her old room
. Couldn’t have Brownie in this adjoining room. Why, I’d never have a moment’s peace.”

Luc glanced at the door and willed it to open.

“Well, I’ve placed him next to that nasty Miss Phelps during dinner,” she said.

“Lucky dog.”

Luc knocked on the door. “Come along, Mrs. Baird. Your audience awaits,” he said dryly. Damn all females and their machinations. Before the last knock the door swung open and his fist was left hanging in the air. She was wearing the same appalling gown.

She cast down her gaze at his stare.

This demure act was killing him. He could tolerate it in insipid females but deplored it in this woman who had demonstrated there was something hiding under all those layers of ugly false mourning. Especially since he had tasted what lay beneath her cool exterior.

Ata nearly pounced on Rosamunde’s arm in her rush to escort her instead of allowing him the honor. He settled for the younger sister and bowed before her. “Lady Sylvia.”

Luc led the foursome past the burnished oak railings of the upper staircases. Clearly a former shipbuilder had built this solid wreck. There was something about this manor that was magical and permanent. He had never cared where he had lived before, since he knew it was the people who made a pile of stones a home. It wasn’t until the last few years, when he had relinquished his naval command and insisted Ata and his sister join
him under the primary ducal roofs, that he had ever called a place home. For now, that was Amberley.

Candlelight reflected off every gleaming crystal and silver surface in the elegant dining room. Rows and rows of candelabra flanked the three long tables covered with lace, slightly yellowed from age. White roses intertwined with ivy graced the tables in honor of the wedding couple.

When Rosamunde dared peruse the flow of guests, she refused to stop at any one face for fear of the looks of disgust she might find. There were at least a hundred guests gathered tonight to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. One thing was obvious. Ata liked a good party. The duke and dowager duchess abruptly disappeared into the masses when the butler claimed their attention.