At Your Pleasure (19 page)

He did not pretend to misunderstand it. He had resolved now on his course. That resolution freed his awareness of her effect on him.

He could not admire her destructive loyalty to her brother. But it was born of the steel at her core. As a girl, she had not disguised that steel, speaking boldly, daring the world to cross her. But now that she carried it concealed, it took on a new element of power, like the hidden stiletto that could save a man’s life when all else was stripped from him. Adrian had never glimpsed such ferocity of will in another woman—or man, for that matter. What man would manage to endure a history of betrayal without letting it corrode his soul? Adrian had not so managed, himself. And then, men too often mistook bravado for courage. Her courage was not wasted on display.

But what a wealth of riches she offered to those who possessed her loyalties. She put her whole self into their defense and never accepted defeat. Even if her wits saw the weakness in a cause, she would sacrifice herself for the sake of honor.

David Colville would be her death.

Softly she blew on her arm. Adrian tensed, but his concern was unfounded; a good number of bees scattered, lazily lurching into the air, milling about, some finding their way back into the hive.

Her glance looked apologetic. “It is a question of patience,” she said. “One must coax them to it.”

He nodded. He did not have the time to coax her. An accident of circumstances had given him a final chance
to have her. That chance would expire the moment her brother reappeared.

She wet her lips to blow again. The dimpling of her lips, the quick glimpse of her tongue, turned his thoughts from cold analysis to hotter strategy.

The interlude in the apple orchard suggested one way to lure her. She was by no means indifferent to him.

It also showed that she would have to be seduced—not only into his arms, but out of her own caution.

Only a single bee now remained on her arm. He stepped forward, ignoring her retreat, and slid his fingers down the warm, soft skin exposed by the cuff of her sleeve. Her inhalation was soft, but he was listening for it—and watching, too, for the slight quirk of her mouth, the shadow at the corner of her lips that suggested she bit the inside of her cheek. Six years ago he had devoted himself to study of her, collecting her every look, her smallest habits and gestures, as miraculous clues to the great wonder that was Leonora Colville.

He still remembered all of them. These signs with which she unwittingly revealed herself, these lessons he had mastered so ardently—now they became unjust advantages that would serve him well in his effort to capture her.

He slid the bee onto his own hand, then blew it to freedom.

Her attention followed its path as it lurched through the air like a drunkard. But Adrian knew her show of interest was a pretext. She was attempting to master her reaction to his touch.

He wanted her overset. “Rather stupid creatures, aren’t they?” he said to draw her eyes back to his.

“No. I find them quite—admirable, in fact.”

“How so?”

She gave him a frown, as though doubting the sincerity of his interest. This hesitance was new to her, and it grated him, for it suggested an unpleasant history—one in which her youthful confidence had been eroded, gradually, by men who took no interest in her thoughts.

“Go on,” he said. “Do you mean to follow Mandeville, and argue that bees show how self-interest and vice might profit the world?”

She laughed. “Oh, no, I was thinking far less philosophically. Besides, Mandeville wrongs the poor bees in his verse. They are quite Christian in their industry, don’t you think? Unceasing in their duties. And yet—one cannot say their docility signifies stupidity, or any dullness of sentiment. When one of their own is threatened, they rouse in unison to defend him. Even the lowliest drone might count on his brethren’s support, and I think—I think there is great virtue, great comfort, in such brotherhood.”

He had meant to continue to speak lightly, to entice her into ease. But the message in her words pricked his temper. “You are no drone, Nora. And unthinking loyalty is no virtue by my account.”

Her mouth flattened. She locked eyes with him for a hard second. “Do not imagine my loyalty is unthinking.”

He did not pretend that she had misunderstood him. “You have weighed the costs of war, then? And the likelihood
of victory as well? You have judged carefully the price of supporting your family?”

She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of argument. “Come,” she said. “Let me give this comb to Harrison.”

Enough politics, he decided as he followed her out. Persuasion would not sway her. Let her believe as she liked; it would make no difference to his course. Though she did not know it yet, a private battle had begun between them. To win it, he would use every weapon at his disposal, of brain and body both. Her injured feelings, her brother’s life—none of it signified if victory ensured her survival.

He would save her from David Colville’s folly—no matter what it took.

11

O
n the path back to the manor, Nora set a quick pace. A childish impulse had driven her to remove the honeycomb. She had wanted to surprise him—to impress him, even. A foolish whim! He was too skilled in turning such displays around on a woman. When he had brushed the bee from her arm, his touch had raced along her skin like a flame, unsettling her completely.

But he would not overturn her so easily in matters concerning her family. Let him harangue her as he liked; she would not defend herself. To protest that she
had
scrutinized her family’s position would be an insult to them. It required no calculations to trust in her father and brother’s judgments.

And yet . . . to trust her family without question was the very definition of
unthinking
loyalty, was it not?

Her irritation sharpened, now divided neatly between Rivenham and herself. She walked faster. Why, to be near him was like to linger near a plague: one constantly risked the danger of infection.

When he started to speak, she forestalled him. “You will not trick me into doubting my family!”

“I never expected it,” he replied.

She kept her eyes on their destination, the path along the lime trees at the edge of the field. It irked her that he did not sound breathless, though this pace was putting a stitch into her side.

After another stubborn second, she slowed. No use in punishing herself if it did not trouble him.

She could feel his attention focused on her like a ray of concentrated light. The cause for his amicable show this morning had come clear to her. He thought to disarm her—and then, no doubt, to persuade her to admit the secrets he had not managed to wrest from her by force.

An even darker possibility occurred to her.
You are no drone,
he had said. “You pity me!” she blurted. Mortification made her face burn. After that intimate, dreadful conversation in her bedchamber, he felt badly for her, the way he might for an orphan or a beaten dog.

“Pity, no,” he said evenly. “That would be very unwise.”

She dared a glance at him. “Then what?”

It emerged as a strident challenge. She realized she wanted to be convinced of the truth of his answer. Anything—contempt, hatred, disgust—
anything
was better than pity.

“Puzzlement,” he said. “I am puzzled by you, Nora. The change in you in London was so profound. Now you’ve given me a piece of the cause, but I cannot make it fit.”

They reached the lime trees. She drew to a stop to face him. The secret of six years ago had been shared, and its
keeping no longer burdened her. But their conversation the other night had changed nothing else, and she would not let his company persuade her otherwise.

Now, here, she would define how it would go between them.

“I am no mystery.” She took a deep, bracing breath. “And you must not address me so familiarly.”

The words seemed to surprise a smile from him. “The birds might object to it?”

“
I
object to it.”

He took one measured step toward her. She held her ground and hiked her chin to keep her stare steady and cold. No further intimacy must pass between them.

She could not bear the false sweetness of it.

“Do you remember,” he said, “the game we used to play? ‘Courage,’ I believe you called it.”

The change of subject disconcerted her. Courage was a silly jape, a game of dares and questions, invented by David. She had taught it to Adrian that drowsy summer, and traded dares with him that no sister ever spoke to a brother. “Children’s nonsense,” she said. “We have gone well beyond that now.”

“We went beyond it even then.” The light played over his face, shadows of leaves sliding over his green eyes like a mask, then lifting away again. “But that did not stop us from playing it very well, indeed.”

“Are you . . .
flirting
?”

His lips twitched. “Yes, I very well might be. As Lord John would point out, the country demands all number of pursuits to stave off tedium.”

She swallowed. “Then find another one.”

“Oh, but there’s no harm in games, I believe, if even children may play them.” His smile deepened, a vertical crease appearing aside his sculpted lips. “So here is your test of courage, Nora: admit that you doubt your brother’s cause.”

Anger roughened her voice. “You have no right to ask it! I would never answer such.”

“Then you are a coward,” he said softly.

“I am a
Colville.
Do not think to make me forget it!”

“Could I make you?” A speculative note now flavored his voice. “Is that what you fear of me?”

“I do not fear you,” she said, though as his next step closed the distance between them, the quickening of her breath suggested something very near to fear. Only, to her horror, it felt too warm and drugging to be fear. It felt like . . . excitement.

She hardened her voice in the hope that her senses would follow suit. “The great Lord Rivenham,” she said mockingly. “You flatter yourself if you think I fear that name.”

“And his touch?” He lifted his hand, laying a single finger against the pulse in her throat as his green eyes captured hers. “Do you fear his touch, or does your heart beat faster from a different emotion?”

She stared into his face and recognized that the slight curve of his lips signified triumph. Her pulses answered to him, not to her brain. Her heart was pounding now.

Be as ice. Be untouchable!
In London it had seemed so easy to produce an appearance of disinterest. She had
been able to pass by him without so much as a sidelong glance. She strove now for the numbness that had allowed it. “I admit,” she said flatly, “that the brain does not govern the body as well as one might wish—else all men would be saints and hell would be empty of lechers.”

He lifted a brow. “So I make you a lecher.” So casually he spoke, as though the possibility intrigued him only mildly.

“I did not say that!” But, God above, he might be right. The mere press of his fingertip was collecting and concentrating all the force of her senses.

“My touch will not disturb your dreams tonight, then?”

“No.
No
.” She spoke as much to herself as him, desperate to believe these words. “For where wisdom has given us medicine, virtue gives us the will to partake. I will sleep very easily.” She caught his errant hand in her own, gratified by the flash of surprise on his face. He was not the only one bold enough to press a question. “And here is
your
test of courage, Lord Rivenham: did memories of me ever trouble your sleep, or did the painted ladies of the court keep you sufficiently occupied?”

The barbed question did not seem to register the proper sting. “You are of two minds,” he replied easily. “You desire me to say I never thought of you, so you may sleep tonight without the aid of medicine, safe in the throes of your anger. But you also know that the ghost of you followed me to my bed every night—and now that I’ve admitted it, you will wish you’d never asked.”

She threw his hand away from her. His honesty felt
like a betrayal. “What are you about?
Why
must you taunt me—”

She bit back the rest of her words and whirled. But he caught her by the elbow at her second step.

Her temper broke open. She laid her hands on his chest and shoved him.

He took a graceful step backward and laughed. “Now here,” he said, grinning, “is the hotheaded girl I once knew.”

“The devil take you! Is it not enough that you come to hound my brother? Why must you trifle with me, too?”

“Because you are no less of interest than your brother,” he said. “No drone, to do others’ bidding and never think of her own aims. No drone to be ignored and expected to carry on.”

“Bold words! What do you propose me to do, then? Shall I once more play the strumpet with you? Such joy it brought me!”

An inward part of her winced at these terrible words even as he visibly recoiled from them—but panic was driving her. He stood so close, and now, suddenly, it was clear what hidden intention had been directing him today. It showed plainly in his face as he recovered himself and stepped toward her.