A Dangerous Beauty (8 page)

Rosamunde tried not to take too much delight in riding again. But it had been so many years and this had been her favorite pursuit. She attempted to feel guilty about breaking her vow, but could not call up
any sentiment except a well of exultant joy bubbling inside her.

She looked at the beauty of the flowering shrubbery and only then noticed the overcast sky. She smiled to herself. Living in Cornwall taught everyone that if you didn’t like the weather, just wait awhile, for it was sure to change.

With horror, she realized there was no groom for propriety’s sake. She stopped.

He looked over his shoulder.

“I’m not going without a groom.”

“Rosamunde, do you really think I would allow the chance for you to ruin my reputation?”

“Your
reputation?” His absurdities knew no bounds.

“Yes, you have a history of compromising gentlemen.” He cleared his throat. “My brother, to be precise.”

“Why, I—”

“Yes, why did you?” His eyes burned into hers.

A deep stab of embarrassment coursed through her. She held firm to her dignity. “I’m going back.”

“The groom is on the other side of the hedgerow, pretending to ignore us.”

She turned, and indeed the young stable hand who had curried the horses was partly visible beyond the hawthorn and dog-rose leaves.

“Shall we go on?” He motioned for her to precede him under the low branches of a passage. “I shall give you plenty of time to think of an answer to my question, madam.”

She pretended not to hear him and trotted past. She couldn’t stop herself from speeding up or slowing down each time he attempted to ride beside her. It was childish, but she hated being forced to play a game she didn’t know.

The pastures teemed with green blades poking past the shorn brownish winter wheat. Overhead, gulls screeched their displeasure at being disturbed when they reached the coastlands. They turned inland at Penzance, past the ancient stone circles, home to legend and lore of mysterious people long gone.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamunde noticed the duke breaking past to lead her away from the track. A quarter hour later they came to an enormous oval pond, at least a mile around, its wavelets making lapping sounds. Hoofprints and a few obstacles abounded the course, its purpose revealed.

He looked at her and raised a single black amused eyebrow, in a silent dare.

“Absolutely not,” she said quietly.

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Certain,” she replied.

He paused. “You know, my dear, sometimes it’s almost as if you’re looking for an argument.”

“Almost
?” she countered.

He grinned a most devilish expression, then surveyed the circuit. “Actually I rather like that about you. Usually no one ever dares.” He leaned over, murmured something to his horse, and then gathered his
reins. “It truly is as amusing as your predictable reaction to every challenge.” His mare pranced and balanced on her hindquarters before sprinting forward into a dead run.

Caught unawares, Rosamunde muttered something and had but a moment to collect herself before her horse whinnied his intent and strained against the bit. She was not going to take the bait.

Absolutely not going to.

The gelding was very keen to follow and snorted his annoyance at her tight grip on the reins. She held fast, but coiled desire unfurled in the pit of her stomach.

She longed to let him go.

Longed to feel the wind on her face and the exhilaration of soaring over a split rail fence.

She spied the white tail of a rabbit hopping along the hedge line. A gray fox slinked around the corner and dashed after it. Her horse shied, took the bit between his teeth and bolted.

Afterward, Rosamunde halfheartedly tried to convince herself she hadn’t been able to hold him, but in her soul she knew she’d given in to temptation. She might be repentant, but it had truly felt wonderful to fly again, into the teeth of her beloved Cornish salt air.

The wind whined past her ears and the long familiar rush of excitement shot through her as she leaned forward and tried to ignore the brittle sidesaddle. There was no chance she could overtake him. For the only time in her life it didn’t matter. The mare, far in front, was kicking up sodden chunks of turf. Rosamunde
guided her horse to the extreme inside curve in a daring maneuver to cut the distance.

Once or twice, he looked over his shoulder at her. He was doing it again, crinkling his eyes in an extremely vexing, knowing fashion, when she watched his horse hesitate and falter in front of a wide ditch.

In a remarkable feat, the duke lost his balance and began to fall to one side, almost tumbling into the muddy edge. At the last moment he righted himself.

Rosamunde swallowed a giggle and trotted up, the young groom a few paces behind her.

“Yes, well, that worked out nicely for you,” the duke said dryly and came to a halt.

She bit her lip to control a gurgle of laughter.

The groom stopped his small white horse alongside and jumped off, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Boney here’s pulled a shoe.”

“Boney?” she asked.

“Short and arrogant like Bonaparte,” the duke replied, then stared hard at her while addressing the boy. “Tom, lad, take him back.”

“Do yer want me to return, sir?”

“Of course,” he said coolly. “Come back on old Posey, why don’t you.”

The boy tipped his cap and grinned, and led the small horse toward home.

“Well, as my sister always reminds me, white horses bring ill fortune.”

He threw one leg around the front of the saddle and slid down the side. Without a word he reached for her; his warm hands encircled her waist almost entirely.
She flinched slightly. The strength in his arms and his nearness left her discomfited.

“Your sister is very superstitious.”

“Not really. We’re both just cautious.”

“And yet…”

“And yet what?”

“I hesitate to say,” he said.

“You’ve never hesitated before.”

He chuckled. “Quite right.” He took her horse’s reins and led them both to a patch of clover near a small stand of trees.

He stared at her shrewdly.

“You want me to tell you what I should’ve told you when I arrived the first day,” she said quietly.

He had that annoying way of remaining silent, making her feel even more tongue-tied.

She forced herself to say what she most wanted to hide. “You want me to deny that I was with your brother.”

She looked down at her hands and saw that she was pulling at one of the knotted threads of her string-backed gloves. She leaned against a small tree, and tried to ignore the rough bark digging into her back.

Not a whisper of a sound could be heard.

“Well, I can’t,” she said, looking him straight in the eye as she had never done before. “I brazenly offered myself to him.”

He took a step closer to her and she could see the muscle in his cheek working. “Henry had talent. Women were always throwing themselves at him. I had to work a bit harder at it.”

“Stop. You act as if it was nothing.”

“Well, was it?” he asked in that deep baritone voice that licked her insides.

She ignored his question and looked down at her ugly boots. “We were caught.”

“I see.”

He couldn’t possibly see at all.

“And this was where?”

“On the beachhead at Perron Sands.”

“That must have been uncomfortable. Never could understand the allure of sand and rotting seaweed. Should kill any desire.”

Anger gripped her. “I don’t doubt you know nothing about it, locked away in your library day and night. They say…” She stopped short, horrified.

His mocking smile appeared. “‘They’ being of course the razor-sharp intelligent Auggie Phelpses of the world? Tell me what
they
say.”

“That you’re a rake and a recluse with a notorious past,” she said, looking away. “But being somewhat of the same ilk, I don’t hold it against you.”

He chuckled. “Really? Why that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far, Rosamunde.”

“Thank you.” She played with a strand of her hair that was starting to come undone. “Pray, what do you do in your study all day? My sister tells me you’re almost never at any of the meals or entertainments.”

“You’re changing the subject quite expertly, my dear. After you were caught, what happened next?”

She looked away. “I refused his offer.”

“Why?”

“You may ask all the questions you like. But I might choose not to answer them.”

“Why,” he demanded.

“You’re determined to humiliate me. I’ve accepted my punishment. It’s enough.”

He stared at her. “Why?”

“Because he didn’t love me,” she nearly shouted. “There. Now you know it all, the full humiliation.”

He turned his back on her, leaned a hand against another tree and bowed his head.

He obviously found her repugnant in her shameless, ugly ways. She tried to find some comfort in it. At least he wouldn’t continue to single her out to amuse himself for some reason she couldn’t fathom.

“And did you love him?”

“Oh, not at all,” she said wryly. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve no moral fiber whatsoever.”

He growled, “You loved him.”

She spun away from him and picked at the mottled tree bark.

She heard him come up behind her and sensed his arm casually grasping one of the branches above her.

“And do you still?”

“Of course. How could I not?” She crossed her arms and squeezed the flesh at her elbows so tightly it hurt. “I lured him to ruin me, and he was obliged to reluctantly offer for me. Our fathers dared us to resist. But”—she paused—“as you know, I can never resist a challenge. And so I refused to follow convention.” She heard a branch break when she mentioned his father. She turned to see the broken piece in his hand.

“You refused to repair your own reputation out of pride?”

“Pride? Is that what it is when a woman refuses to marry a man who’s admitted he loves someone else?”

“Rosamunde,” he said softly. “Ah, Rosamunde. Well, at least you were not as blind as most. Only fools think marriage can be anything more than a complete and utter descent into madness.”

She glanced quickly at him. “We’re of one mind, sir.”

“And yet, you’ve been punishing your good sense ever since.”

“Not at all. Every lady who can must marry, unless they want to become a burden on their family. And I got exactly what I wished. A husband who wasn’t forced to ask for my hand.” There was a long pause. “And now, you’re justified in asking me to leave your property. I realize I’ve no right to mingle with your guests. Your father”—she swallowed—“said no Langdon was ever to set foot on St. Aubyn property again. I’ve trespassed. My sister and I will leave no later than tomorrow.”

She finally had the courage to meet his gaze again and it nearly took her breath away.

“Where do you propose to go?”

“I have friends in London.”

“Liar.”

A gust of wind rustled the new leaves above them.

He continued, “Immoral I might be, but not stupid. Do you think I don’t know you would’ve never come here unless it was the very last resort?”

“I have money, and I’ll start anew in London.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured doubtfully. “Well, before you go you must pay penance for your deception”—a rush of coldness swept through her—“by allowing me to give you back a portion of the girlhood my
idiotic
family took from you.” He put up his hands. “No, you can’t refuse me. You’ve been so long from society you’ve forgotten dukes aren’t to be refused anything for any reason. Actually, it’s one of the few privileges that gives me any joy.”

He was so odd at times that Rosamunde could not make out his character. Why was he doing this? Gossip implied he was inconsistent in his actions at best. An absolute scoundrel at worst. Well, in her eyes he had only ever been noble, even protective, even if it was sometimes in a high-handed, loutish sort of way.

But if the talk was true, she could not count on him. He went through life on a whim, she suspected, and woe to anyone who dared cross him. The dark blood running in his veins promised a nasty bit of temper. And she had seen enough of that.

But standing in front of his penetrating, heavy-lidded gaze she found it difficult to defy him, especially since it appeared he was trying to be attentive, in his own absurd, distant manner.

He spoke when she didn’t respond. “You’ll allow me to give you a season full of pleasure, and it will be far away from the dirt and weeds my gardeners tell me you’re so all-fired fond of.”

“Really, you owe me nothing. If you’re looking for
pleasure,
Lord Fire and Ice
, perhaps you should look toward Theodora Tandy.”

He chuckled and scratched his head. “Are you jealous?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, fearing she sounded flustered. “It’s just that you’re not playing by your favored rules.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, my dear. I might be giving the appearance of doing you a good turn, but really, you know my character well enough by now to know that I must certainly have an ulterior motive. If I were you I would consider your answer quite carefully.” He leaned in and brushed his fingers near the corner of her lips.

Her eyes widened. “I would prefer you didn’t—”

He interrupted, “—remove the chocolate from your face?”

There was something about him that left her vulnerable. Maybe it was the deep baritone burr in his voice, or his eyes as they focused so intently on her, becoming a purer sapphire blue the nearer he got. Whatever it was, she was determined he would not see how he affected her. While he looked nothing like his brother, she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself, especially not with another St. Aubyn.

He looked down at her. “My brother was a fool. My father was worse. I must be allowed my own way of making up for your wretched beginning with the St. Aubyn family.”

“But, I can’t do this. I’m not even certain what you’re suggesting,” she stammered. What she really meant is
that she would never, ever,
ever
trust another man, especially one who kept staring at her lips and talking about pleasures. But she would never be so rude as to say it aloud.