A Dangerous Beauty (9 page)

His eyes danced with amusement. “Really? And here I was hoping you’d lead the way.”

“Don’t mock me.”

Luc St. Aubyn looked at the sensuous curve of her lips and had a horrible thought. “Just how many times have you been kissed?”

She blanched, then raised her chin. “Twice. No, three times.”

Before he could stop himself, he continued, “And dare I hope your husband didn’t insist on exercising his other rights?”

If it was possible, she lost what little amount of color remained in her face. He hated forcing her to speak, but like a perverse voyeur he had to know the full horror of how she’d lived.

“No,” she whispered, her eyes full of pain.

With that one small word, he knew. Knew she had suffered more than she would ever reveal. If Alfred Baird was anything at all like the oily lizard of a cousin, then it was a miracle she hadn’t jumped off the cliffs above Perran Sands.

It was due, no doubt, to his father, once again. As the ranking member of society in the district, he could have banded with her family to do everything in his power to try and restore a portion of her standing in the parish. Instead he had denounced her entire family and spread vicious rumors to boot. And his father’s
ham-handed dealings were obviously the reason Henry had changed so much the last years of his life, traveling endlessly on sea and on land always searching for something he couldn’t name.

Luc felt like tearing something apart. It was that suffocating, long-ago feeling of being powerless. He had never been able to protect things dear to him.

All those churchgoing fools who pretended to worship good in the world were deluding themselves. Evil always triumphed in the end; the sooner they accepted it, the happier they would be. Hadn’t he tried to explain it to his beloved brother? And look where Henry’s optimism had left him. At the bottom of the sea.

Well, he would do something to repair the repressed look he saw in Rosamunde Baird’s eyes. He might not be able to completely restore her standing in the
ton
, but he could lead her down the path of delicious, unbridled pleasure.

He looked deep into her stormy eyes, the same color of the warm waters off the West Indies, and he forced back the bitterness that pervaded his life. “Well, I’ve formed a plan. First off, chocolate three times a day. Then, an adventure, like today’s, which you shall endeavor to endure. You shall just have to learn to love idleness and leisure, my dear. I assure you it has its merits. But first, I do believe we should correct one deficiency before the adventure begins in earnest.”

She stared back at him mutely.

“Kissing. The deficiency in kisses. You know, the thing that separates us from the beasts.”

“I had thought that was reason or compassion.”

He ignored her. “Good. I didn’t hear a ‘no.’”

“But this is impossible. I’m in mourning.”

He defused her with a steady look.

“And besides, perhaps I don’t even like you.”

“Me? You don’t like, me?” he raised his quizzing glass to his eye.

Her eyes sparkled with laughter. “Your Grace—”

“Luc, if you please, in private.”

“I—I just can’t afford to risk—”

He interrupted her, “My dear, what have you to lose that you haven’t lost already?”

He could see in her eyes that there was something more on her tongue, but wild dogs wouldn’t tear it out of her.

She finally sighed. “Only my mind. But, what have you to gain from this…this ridiculousness?”

“Why, bragging rights. I shall best you at every turn. Let me show you.” He lowered his lips to hers, and she tentatively kissed him back. It was such an innocent, young girl’s kiss that it was all the more poignant, and his gut twisted like a sail caught between shifting winds.

He forced himself to hold back, to entice her slowly, gently, with infinite patience, his lips touching hers over and over with the barest of pressure.

She began to relax against him, still unsteady and unsure. And then gloriously he felt the moment of her indecision pass. He deepened the kiss, seeking entrance beyond and almost smiled when he tasted the warm chocolate of her. It almost made him consider forgoing brandy for breakfast on a regular basis. Her
light breath feathered the hollow of his cheek, and it inflamed him. When her tongue tentatively touched his, he was swept into a swirling maelstrom of longing.

He pulled back before he drowned in the exquisite sensations, but then couldn’t resist trailing a line of kisses down her neck until he encountered the prim and itchy high neckline of her gown. “Isn’t there some rule that ladies with revolting husbands don’t have to wear mourning for as long as you have? Twelve months should only be reserved for the husbands who deserve it,” he murmured against her lips. “This truly is the most hideous rag. I’m sure Ata has a white muslin gown stashed away somewhere. Much more appropriate.”

She tilted her forehead to rest against his. “I’m not a young lady anymore.”

He leaned back to look down at the thick spray of lashes against her cheeks. “Somehow I can only picture you climbing trees, running races, and generally getting into trouble.” He paused. “Especially after watching you ride like a hellion just now.”

The sound of light raindrops on leaves came from the branches above. “I can’t deny my family despaired of my ever learning to be a lady. I think they gave up when I was sixteen.”

“Thank the Lord for small favors.”

He watched her lips purse and then she broke out in the widest smile he had ever seen. It transformed her face. “That’s exactly what I used to tell them.” She laughed with unfeigned enjoyment and he wanted to
take her right there. Under the dogwood tree. Kiss her senseless and see her laugh like that again and again.

His arousal was deep and hard, and he instinctively pressed her lightly against the tree. Unerringly, he fit into the juncture of her thighs and an intense jolt of desire burned through the itchy, ink-colored layers of his clothes and hers.

She made a sound and pressed her hands against his lapels.

He instantly released her.

She was gulping air.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His head spun at the look of panic in her face. He forced back a promise never to hurt her. Words would mean little to a lady with a past littered with broken promises.

He should have never cornered her. It was quite obvious she was terrified of being touched. As just punishment, the heavens loosed the watery goods of one of Cornwall’s most oft-heard proverbs: Where there is mist, rain is sure to follow. When there is no mist, it is raining already.

Ata’s plans for an outdoor picnic were now ruined. And perhaps, he thought, dashing for the horses, his plans for Rosamunde Baird were as well. But then, he did have the ride back to convince her to accept a season of adventure. Only from now on he would keep his blasted paws off of her.

Conversation was the answer. Although how that would remotely warm his cold Cornish bed at night was the damned question.

Idleness,
n.
A model farm where the devil experiments with seeds of new sins and promotes the growth of staple vices.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

H
e had promised to wage a campaign of adventure and he had lived up to his word, Rosamunde thought, four days later.

While she sat sipping divine chocolate, she closed her eyes and remembered every moment of those wicked amusements. He had barraged her each and every morning with his plans of idleness, her favorite being hours on the back of a magnificent horse, while the rest of the vast house party slept. Every muscle in her legs screamed from the time spent in the saddle again.

And he had kept his other promise. The unspoken one.

He hadn’t touched her again. Not in greeting, not to
help her onto her horse if they dismounted, not even to escort her from the mansion. And because of this, she had been able to finally relax and enjoy their folly to the fullest.

Rosamunde had been very careful to have a maid wake her well before each invasion,
well before dawn
. It had not been difficult. Years of fear and unhappiness in her last life had always driven her early from bed if she had wanted to grasp at small, quiet moments of peace.

But at Amberley, he would not let her think about anything except the moment. They were to have adventures, even if sometimes he did not seem to be enjoying himself at all. Especially the morning they had ridden to a beach near the ruin of an ancient church, where parishioners of Sundays past were said to haunt the grounds.

On that particularly hot day, he hadn’t been able to hide his distaste for her idea of scaling a large rocky ledge to get a better view of the waves pounding the huge boulders.

“Second thoughts?” she had asked, laughing. “You know, you promised me amusements to erase years of—”

“Only a madwoman would enjoy climbing in such heat,” he had grumbled before a flurry of stones cascaded down the cliff. “I told you we would have been better off swimming.”

She had laughed at the look of disgust on his face.

“I’ve created a monster,” he had muttered.

She could not believe she had been so free with him, so unafraid to speak her mind. It was something she
hadn’t done in so long. Even with Sylvia, the layers of guilt made it impossible to be lighthearted together. A great lump in her throat formed and she replaced her cup in its saucer.

And yet, when they were in company with others the duke had been cool, his haughty condescension mocking, while she was forced to endure the varying looks of disdain or pity from the houseguests.

The difference between his character when he was alone with her and with others made her wary. Was he just dallying with her in private? She had no experience with these things. When they were among others, he erected a cold barrier making her and almost everyone else hesitant to talk to him. Even Theodora Tandy had stopped giggling around him. It was comical at times, and she almost felt sympathy for the sycophants who tried to curry his favor, only to be shredded by his cynical responses. Some knew not that they had been skewered. Perhaps it was best that way. But most of the time he was locked away in one of his private domains.

She went to pour another cup of chocolate and found the pot empty. Well, that was a first. He apparently wasn’t coming to demand an outing today. She started at the light tap on her door before her sister entered, breathless with excitement.

“Her Grace has asked a group of us to go for a day of sailing. You’re to come, Rosa.”

“Sailing?”

“Yes, the duke has some sort of sailing ship anchored at Penzance.”

“Who’s joining the party?”

“I’m not certain. The duchess muttered some very strange comments about muffins and early birds, and then a gleam came to her eye and she announced it was a perfect day for a sail. I think it’s to be mostly the Widows Club, but Charity was to be invited as was…her brother,” Sylvia’s words trailed off.

Rosamunde tilted her head to try and read the expression on her sister’s face. “Sir Rawleigh seemed quite taken with you last evening.”

Her sister plunged forward. “You are mistaken, Rosa. I was delighted to form an acquaintance with his sister. Charity is kindness and sweetness itself. I should never say it, but I am glad the old vicar is gone. He brought nothing but division and rancor to the parish.”

“Why that’s the most unkind thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Rosamunde murmured. She took up one of her sister’s hands in her own.

Sylvia could not meet her gaze. “I still shudder to remember the pious look on your husband’s face each Sunday before he set off for church, when he reminded you that you weren’t allowed to go with him.”

Rosamunde took her sister in her arms, and closed her eyes. “Well, at least I had you to comfort me, dearest. Truly, I enjoyed Sunday mornings alone with you better than any other day of the week. It was the only time we could walk about unfettered by anyone else.”

Sylvia pulled away and walked to the window to stare out to the sunny day. “Rosa,” she said quietly. “You are going to join the boating party, aren’t you?”

Rosamunde hesitated. There was something in her
sister’s tone that made it obvious this was important to her. It must involve the vicar, and Rosamunde would swim the seven seas if it would bring happiness to her sister. She hadn’t the heart to needle her again. It had been so long since Sylvia had shown excitement in anything. “Of course, I will.”

One hour later, the dowager duchess bustled a handpicked group to the port before any of the more boorish guests, as she called them, caught wind of the plan.

They approached the crescent bay in an open carriage and Rosa gazed at the beautiful, crumbling edifice on St. Michael’s Mount. The spire of the ancient Benedictine monastery pierced the low-lying mist in an obvious effort to rejoin its heavenly inspiration.

The shifting winds of dawn had, indeed, foretold a grand day for sailing. Small clouds scudded in from the west and the coolness of morning sneaked beneath Rosamunde’s thin shawl while the morning haze muted the colorful houses flanking the bay. Seaweed lay tangled about the beach and the mount’s shingle path, which was revealed only at the vast low tide.

Rosamunde’s breath caught in her throat when she spied Luc St. Aubyn high in the knotted rigging of a magnificent cutter, which dwarfed the fishing vessels around it. At least sixty feet of solid English oak floated below him.

His imposing wind-whipped figure was every inch a commander despite the informality of his rolled-up shirtsleeves and long dark hair that the breeze had forced from the confines of his queue.

As she boarded, Rosa noticed
Caro’s Heart
in gold lettering on the black stern and she wondered if the lady in question had captured his heart or if he had captured the lady’s. Her own heart constricted and she wondered what sort of woman the duke had loved or still loved. She had overhead whispers in the garden yesterday between two married ladies, who spoke of
Lord Fire and Ice
and the wake of broken hearts he had left in town. One of the ladies, the more ravishing one, had not been smiling.

The duke’s beautiful sister, Madeleine St. Aubyn, joined Rosamunde at the varnished oak railing while the others converged on the picnic baskets, brought forth since the duchess had hurried everyone through breakfast.

“My grandmother tells me you and your sister will be visiting for the season, Mrs. Baird.”

“Yes, she has been very kind to us.”

The young lady, who could not yet have reached her twenties, had dark brown hair and the same color eyes as her brother. But that was where the similarity ended. Her expression was everything open and innocent, while his was guarded and shrewd. Discomfiture tumbled inside Rosamunde when she glanced at his handsome profile.

“Grandmamma is only nice to those who deserve it, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I’m counting the days before she tosses the baron and Augustine Phelps on their ears. Indeed, it’s a wonder it hasn’t happened already. I guess she doesn’t want any unpleasantness before the wedding.”

Well, in one way the St. Aubyns were all alike. They spoke their minds and did not suffer fools lightly. Rosa wished she were in a position to do the same. It seemed a long time ago, those days when she had spoken without a care.

“Have you ever been to London?”

“No, never, Lady Madeleine.” She knew it sounded odd, but refused to explain further.

“Please, you must call me Madeleine. And will you allow me the same informality?”

“If you wish,” Rosamunde breathed.

The ship shifted portside as they cast off and the wind caught the sails. Three deckhands nearby coiled the docking lines.

“You shall have a lovely time when you go with Ata and the others. You must force my brother to take you to see the sites, especially the Tower, and the theatre. But Vauxhall at night is my absolute favorite. You must do it right, eat strawberries with champagne and dance under the stars and lanterns threading the trees.”

“I hadn’t thought we would go to town.”

“Why, certainly. Luc never stays long in our country estates. It brings back…Well, he prefers town. And Ata will not stay anywhere without him for very long,” Madeleine continued.

Peter Mallory, Lord Landry, came up behind his fiancée and caught her in his arms and swung her around, oblivious to the impropriety. The young lady giggled and her look of pure happiness caught at Rosamunde’s heart.

Lord Landry raked back sweat-streaked hair and replaced his tarred straw sailor’s hat. “Here I am doing all the work, already. Is this how our marriage will be? Tell me now so I’ll be forewarned.”

Madeleine looked at him coyly. “Why, yes, Mrs. Baird was just explaining the importance of setting ground rules for wedded bliss.” Madeleine winked at her. “The first of which is that the man is to do all the work and the lady is to lounge about and act the part of a delicate flower to make the husband feel manly and protective.”

Lord Landry hooted with laughter. “So your brother forbade you to climb the rigging again and help with the sails, did he? Don’t worry, my dear, I shall always
order
you to do your full share of the work when we’re married.”

She pouted. “Luc told me the only man I was ever to obey was him. He reminded me for the hundredth time that I am to return home if you ever dare order me to do anything I don’t like.”

“Well, I like that. The scoundrel still thinks he’s my commander. I’ll soon put a stop—”

Luc St. Aubyn came out of nowhere and drawled, “You’ll never do anything to make her want to come home if you know what’s good for you.”

Lord Landry rolled his eyes. “God knows I’d rather face the press gang than endure the wrath of an over-protective brother.”

“I’ve always nursed the belief that marriage turns decent men into brutes. I daresay Mrs. Baird would agree with me.” He glanced at her sideways for a mo
ment before he turned back to his friend. “Let us hope you prove the exception, Landry.”

“Well, since I’m the only one between us who will ever agree to willingly become a beast, I would think you would at least take pity on me.”

The duke snorted. “I’ll keelhaul you until you drown if you don’t keep her insanely happy. You might as well order your headstone now, for I doubt you’ll have time to do it later.”

Rosamunde bit back a smile. Why was he so cynical about the marriage state? She had every reason to be, but his disgust ran much deeper than her own, if it were possible.

“Power always does breed insanity,” Lord Landry replied, shaking his head. “How soon one forgets the bonds of fraternity. Was it not I who willingly and bravely joined you after you decided a lark at sea facing floating gun platforms would be just the thing to thwart your father?”

Rosamunde stood stock-still. She didn’t need to look at the duke’s face to know that his friend had crossed the line. Perhaps Lord Landry could talk to the duke in this manner in private, but not here, not now, in front of her.

“Actually,” Luc said quietly, his voice coated with frost, “you’ve twisted it as usual to suit you. If you will remember, my father was delighted to see me off to war. He had purchased a pair of colors for me to join the Horse Guards. I don’t think he really cared that I chose the sea over the land. If you and Rawleigh hadn’t drunk enough Blue Ruin to fell an ox, you wouldn’t
have been stupid enough to stow away with me on the first ship bound for battle.”

Only the sound of the rig cutting through the waves could be heard.

Madeleine’s quick thinking broke the silence. “Well, I think both of you had the better lot. I was the one packed off to Miss Doleful’s—”

“Miss Dilford’s,” Luc St. Aubyn gritted out.

“Miss Dilford’s School for Young Ladies. It seems that while Father thought you’d learned enough, I was to be improved by a daily dose of Johnson’s sermons, embroidery, and horrid lessons on the pianoforte.”

“I shudder to think of the waste of money,” the duke said dryly.

“I would have much preferred facing the cannonade with you both.”

The wind rustled through the duke’s hair, a wild halo of black locks surrounded his angular, hard face. He was completely ignoring her presence and Rosamunde felt the self-consciousness of the unwanted. A shout from one of the deckhands interrupted them.

“The devil, Rawleigh’s heading us toward the shoals,” Luc said, then hurried to the helm.

Madeline spoke softly to her fiancé, seemingly unaware that Rosamunde was still there. “You must be kind to him, Peter. Father always taunted him, said he was weak, and spineless, with his head in the clouds and his nose in a book. I remember it well even though I was but a child when Luc disappeared with you both. Father was determined to take the poet out of him and toughen him up, he reminded us constantly.”

“And what did your mother have to say?”

“My mother? Why, I can’t remember.” Madeleine paled. “My mother was always very quiet.”

“Really?” replied Lord Landry, who smiled. “So like you, my love.” He kissed the tip of his beloved’s nose.

She swatted him playfully and regained her smile.

Rosamunde turned away from the couple, feeling every inch the intruder in a conversation that had become much too personal. The entire outing was leaving her ill at ease. She didn’t belong here, didn’t belong anywhere. That was the worst part of it. She had taken for granted her place in the world as a young girl, but as a mature woman she knew security was a silly illusion.