Barbara Metzger (22 page)

Both her sister and his had refused to attend the dinner party. Eleanor claimed they were always dull affairs, while Amy swore she’d go off in spasms if she had to sit with visiting royalty. Rather than letting them escape entirely, and leaving her entirely on her own, Alissa insisted they both accompany the boys down to the drawing room while sherry was served before dinner. They would not have to stay, she told Amy and Eleanor, but the guests had to see that Rockford was not embarrassed by their presence, was not hiding them from view.

Eleanor had rudiments of German, and so could speak to one of the princess’s ladies in waiting. The archduke’s privy councillor had some English, so complimented Alissa on her beautiful home, of which she had seen almost nothing, and her handsome children, shepherded by Aminta. As always, Alissa was gratified at the praise to her boys and smiled at the Austrian count, until she saw Rockford scowling at Hugo.

“Excuse me, Herr Minsch,” she said. “My husband needs me.”

He needed her to go home, and take her blasted brood with her. “What is the boy doing, bothering the Austrian prince?” He spoke for her ears only, keeping a careful smile on his face for the rest of the company.

Alissa glanced in Hugo’s direction. “The last I heard, although I could not understand much of the conversation, of course, they were discussing Euclidean geometry.”

“His Highness does not speak English.”

“No matter. Hugo is quite fluent in German, including several dialects. Also French, Italian, and Spanish, although he believes his pronunciation might need polishing, since he has heard so little of it spoken. There is Latin and Greek, naturally. Romany, from when a band of Gypsies passed through near his grandparents’ home. He has a smattering of Russian, now that we found him an alphabet primer, and I believe he located a Norwegian textbook in your library. I have no doubt he will have mastered it soon,” she said, pride in her voice. “Of course, the proper tutor would help.”

Rockford was no longer listening. “In my library? That is, Hugo? I mean Rothmore?”

“Naturally. He is your son. I am sorry to say he seems to have inherited your ancestors’ nose along with your skill at languages. Did you notice his resemblance to Lady Eleanor?”

The Ziftsweig prince was smiling, patting the boy on the shoulder. By Jove, Rockford thought, perhaps Hugo was his son after all.

The dinner went well, considering that the hostess could converse with only one of the guests, and that haltingly. Smiles seemed to suffice, especially after Claymore served a magnificent meal. Her dinner partners were more interested in the food than conversation after that.

Afterward, the Austrian ladies gathered at one side of the long Adams parlor, pointedly ignoring Alissa, following Princess Helga’s example. Alissa kept her smile fixed, her spine straight, and took a seat at the pianoforte. She had never played such a superb instrument, and had not owned one of her own since before her marriage, but had kept her skills honed by playing at the vicar’s house and for local assemblies. She was no virtuoso, but did not embarrass herself either. When the men returned, they nodded approvingly and went on conversing over state matters while she played softly. Her husband, the most handsome man there, did not smile.

Rockford was stunned. His son. His wife. The congratulations of everyone except her highness. He had never made so many miscalculations in his life. He could not wait for the guests to leave so he could go upstairs—and quiz Hugo on his studies. No wonder Alissa could not find him a proper tutor. And the boy did not seem sickly either. The young viscount had withstood a hearty clap on the back from the archduke in farewell.

His son.

His blue superfine coat almost burst its seams as his chest expanded. His heir. His wife.

Alissa was managing superbly, his little country mouse, without speaking a word. She played well, without drawing attention to herself, and looked finer than any of the other women present. She wore the Rothmore rubies as if she were royalty, and the frowning princess were a mere overweight Teuton in a tiara.

His wife. Rockford could not get over it. His first wife, the one who was born and bred to be the perfect political hostess, had found such dinners too tedious to endure. As soon as she became pregnant, having done her duty, she’d fled back to her parents’ home. To have the child with her mother nearby, she had said. To reunite with her lover, he still believed.

Instead of helping his career, as he had expected, his second wife much preferred her own literary salons, where the men wore their hair longer than the women, and they all pretended to understand the latest poetry that never rhymed.

He had had no expectations of Mrs. Henning at all. Had never conceived of her in this room, in this house, in this company, yet here she was, shining like the
purest
moonbeam on a cloudless night. She was wearing his rubies, his ring, and a clinging silk gown that left nothing to a man’s imagination, except how he was going to get her out of it.

Rockford could not go visit his son in the nursery whenever the guests left. He had a previous commitment, and was half-aroused at the idea. The other half was outraged that he was being so manipulated by an encroaching female, and by his own body. He was no youth to surrender to ungoverned lust, by George. He just hurried the Austrians out of the house an hour early, that was all.

*

On her wedding night—her wedding to Rockford, that is, for she was already carrying Kendall on her wedding to Henning—Alissa had spent agonizing ages preparing for his arrival, selecting the nightgown and the flowers, having everything in her bedchamber laid out just so. Now she did not care, she was so angry. She did not care if her hair was left unbraided or the fire went out. She did not care if he came at all, the overbearing ape.

He came, naturally, while she was swiping the brush through her hair with quick, angry motions. He watched from the connecting door a minute, until she became aware of his presence in the mirror of her dressing table. Alissa did not care that her sheer gown was backlit by candles, nor that the view caused her husband to take a sharp breath. She did not even care that he was wearing nothing, it appeared, but a paisley silk robe and chest hair.

She glared at him and kept brushing. “How dare you?”

To say Rockford was confused would be an overstatement. His body was crying in disappointment. His brain was sighing in relief. He could go back to his own room, she would leave, he would be his own man. Without getting to touch that waterfall of soft brown curls. “Damn it. I thought this was a command appearance. Decide what you want, woman, once and for all.”

“How dare you countermand my orders to bed the dogs in the stables?”

“That’s what this tempest is about, who sleeps in the boys’ beds, not who sleeps in yours?” His blood raced south.

“I do not like the animals near my sons. They could carry disease or vermin. I specifically said the creatures have to stay in the stables.”

He shrugged, unconsciously letting the lapels of his dressing gown fall open more. “The dogs appear healthy enough. And I thought that a better arrangement than having the boys run back and forth to the mews. This is London, not the country. If you recall, the country is not entirely safe either. London is worse.”

“Heavens, I never thought Sir George would come after my sons.”

Rockford damned his tongue. “Of course he would not, not at Rothmore House. But there might be other villains or vagrants about. With luck one of the pups will turn out to be a watchdog to warn if anyone comes near the nursery.”

Alissa never thought of a dog as protection, only as predator. Perhaps Rockford was right. “Still, you should have consulted me.”

“You told me you wanted a father for the boys. When they asked, I made a paternal decision. The scamps did not tell me you had already refused, and I saw nothing wrong with having the dogs in the nursery, as long as they are confined until they are more convincingly housebroken. I had a dog sleep at the foot of my bed until I went to school.”

“You did not have a mother.”

“That does not mean I was raised by wolves.”

One might gather otherwise from his manners. Still, he had not meant to circumvent her authority. And he was here, looking like Lucifer himself in the firelight.

“Would you care for a glass of wine?” she asked in conciliation.

Lud, no. Rockford was befuddled enough at the sight of his wife with hair trailing down past her narrow waist, almost hiding her glorious breasts. A drink and he was liable to start baying at the moon. “No, thank you. I have had enough spirits tonight.”

Alissa could have used something to calm her disordered nerves, but she did not wish to drink while he did not. He was just standing there, half leaning against the door frame, bare legs crossed at the ankles. The dratted man never lost his poise, while she was almost shaking in anticipation. And he was not making things easier for her, either, not talking, not smiling, just staring at her hair. “I’ll just put this into a braid and—”

“No! That is, don’t take the time.”

Oh. Alissa set down the brush. Now he was in a hurry, after weeks of marriage? She was eager too, she had to admit to herself. She had not missed the pleasures of lovemaking until she met Rockford, but now she felt her skin warm in expectation. Now she would have a real marriage; now she could begin to win her husband’s affection. Love was not guaranteed to follow lovemaking, of course, but it was a start. She did not think she had any other way of getting close to this handsome, worldly stranger she had wed.

Still, he had not moved from the doorway. She licked her lips in that nervous habit she had. “Shall I, ah, leave the candles burning?”

That got him stirring. He crossed the room, dousing the flames. He would have put the fire out, too, if he had the time. The only way he was going to get through this with his soul intact, Rockford told himself, was to hurry, not breathing in the scent of her, all flowers and ready woman, and in the dark. He closed his eyes so he did not have to see her tongue brush those soft lips so innocently, so suggestively. He put his hands in his robe’s pockets so he would not reach out for the rippling silk of her hair.

He tripped over her slippers.

“Are you sure about the candles?” she called from one side of the bed.

He was sure about nothing, except that he should not be here. He did not want to want anything as much as he wanted this woman. That way lay disaster. But she wanted a daughter. Ah, life did require sacrifices, did it not? He climbed onto the bed, on the opposite side.

Her hand reached out for him. A small, chill hand touched the skin of his chest, where his robe was open. The fire in his blood would warm it instantly. He could not help himself. He reached out his own hand to spread her hair across the pillow, then to touch the skin of her cheek, her neck, her bare shoulder. Just to make sure she was ready, he lied to himself. His hand moved lower, to her velvet-skinned breast. Hers untied the sash of his robe.

He groaned.

She sighed.

He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the perfume she wore, rubbing his lips against the softness of her hair. She kissed his neck, his shoulder, his earlobe.

Oh, Lord, Rockford prayed, don’t let him embarrass himself like a schoolboy! He ran his trembling hand down the silky length of her nightgown, then raised the fabric up toward her waist.

“Shall I…?” she asked.

He kissed her mouth, to quiet her. Control was taking all of his concentration; he did not need conversation. That was a mistake. Fire raced between them, urgency, hunger, need. If he did not bury himself in her soon he would die, Rockford knew, and she would never have her daughter, only a limp rag that used to be an earl. He slipped his hand between her thighs. She was ready, thank the gods of fertility. He rose above her and joined their bodies.

And she whispered his name. “Robert.”

He’d almost been afraid she would call him by her dead husband’s name. This was worse. His body responded to her siren’s call. Once, twice; he sheathed himself a third time, and was lost.

No, he was still breathing, barely. He raised himself on his arms, kissed his wife on the forehead, and got off the bed, pulling his robe closed before she could see signs of life in his letter opener. “Good night, Countess. Sleep well.”

Sleep well? Alissa stared at the ceiling. How could she sleep when every inch of her body was on fire, when she wanted to launch herself off the bed, knock him to the floor, and demand Rockford satisfy the cravings he had aroused?

At least now she knew why his wives had left him.

Chapter Seventeen

That Austrian princess must have very different prerequisites for a lover, Alissa thought as she washed. And so must all those other women who had labeled Rockford a rake. How else would he have gained a reputation for his beautiful mistresses, his myriad affairs? Surely his title went only so far toward dazzling the ladies of the
ton.
Like a book’s title, if the pages were blotted, boring, or blank, people ought to stop buying it.

Unless the problem was Alissa herself. Perhaps Rockford was simply not attracted to her. He could have forced himself to a perfunctory performance, simply to get the deed done. No. He had been ready, and definitely able, if not entirely willing. Alissa had hardly been able to admire her magnificent wedding present before it was spent, but like everything else about Rockford, it was impressive.