Heather Graham (8 page)

He shrugged, silver eyes suddenly sizzling. “It is a dance, Mistress Woodbine. Nothing more.”

She smiled very sweetly. “Please, my dear oh-so-arrogant Lord DeForte! Let me allow you to rest assured that I find you quite possibly the most irritating human being I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, and therefore, a dance, as little as it might be, is most uncomfortable! My opinion of you can hardly matter, of course, since your own is so very high. But you mustn’t feel the least worry over anything you have heard about my father’s desires. I would not marry you, sir, were you the last man to walk on God’s good earth—solitude would be far preferable. There now, milord. Do you feel less threatened?”

She nearly cried out at the sudden crunch on her fingers. She wasn’t sure if he was amused—or furious. “I hadn’t known that I was threatened. You seem to be the defensive one, Mistress Woodbine.”

“I am not defensive!” she claimed heatedly. “I just wish to assure you—”

“But I need no assuring.”

If she gritted down on her teeth any harder, they would all break, she was certain. “Could we leave the dance floor, Lord DeForte?”

He smiled. What a fool. She should have never let him see her discomfort. He was enjoying it. He meant to make her suffer. His smile deepened. “The draw of a title truly doesn’t mean a thing?”

She lifted her chin. “Not to me, milord. I am anxious for one event only—the day I sail home. Perhaps we are backwoods dwellers, as you people here are so quick to call us! But in the colonies, milord, we have come to judge a man by his actions, by his heart, and by his soul, and not by any title that has come to him by some accident of birth.”

His hold on her eased somewhat. “Ah, so, mistress! What is this fellow’s name, he who holds no title but is so noble in action, heart, and soul?”

Startled, she nearly missed a beat. Then she stared up at him, amused herself now.

“There is no man in my life, milord. And though I’m certain that it must amaze you, I much prefer things that way.”

“But they cannot, and will not, be that way,” he told her.

Tension swept through her once again. “And just what can you possibly have to say about my life, milord DeForte?” she demanded.

“Me?” Dark brows shot up. “I don’t imagine much—only that you seem to be living in some fool’s paradise where you consider yourself as lofty as the king—”

“How dare you!”

“And as you are such an incredible little—brat!—”

“DeForte, there is no reason for you to feel obliged to dance with a brat! Let me go—”

“I’m afraid that I will take great pleasure in trying to explain things to you. Mistress, it is a man’s world. Within this world, you are but a pawn. Perhaps your father has neglected to warn you that he couldn’t possibly allow you to grow old without providing you with male protection. Without matching your fortune to another, thereby assuring your future.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed furiously. Again she tried to wrench from his grasp, but failed. He did not intend to let her go.

“If my father has offended you—”

“Not in the least. I am extremely wealthy, I do carry a title, and I am whole in limb and body. He is a smart man.”

He was so damned arrogant! She longed to tear his hair out! Yet all the while she felt the most curious heat sweeping through her. Anger, certainly, yet more. She wanted to free herself more than she had ever wanted anything in the world, but she was amazed at the forceful power in his touch, the mocking silver in his eyes, and how deeply they warmed her and caused her to tremble. No matter how he infuriated her, he made her feel incredibly alive, ready to do battle on any account, hot, flushed, irritated beyond belief.

“Could we please end this agony!” she demanded.

“I find the music excellent,” he told her.

She tossed her hair back, and smiled. Fine. They would continue.

“As you’ve said, DeForte, I’ve quite a fortune.”

“Your father has quite a fortune.”

“I’m an only child. A very rich one. Where lies the difference between Lady Anne and myself?”

He arched a brow high, perhaps startled by the question. Then he smiled again. “Lady Anne has already inherited her fortune. She must answer only to the king.”

“And to you, I imagine.”

“She does so most willingly.”

“Ummm. So you are just waiting to take her fortune into your hands as well?”

He laughed. If he was offended, he certainly hid it well. Then it seemed that his advice was almost tender. Her name sounded intimate upon his lips. “Poor Rose! So headstrong and assured. Some young man will certainly take your inheritance well into hand as well. I pity the fellow! Yet perhaps this would surprise you. I’d be pleased if things could go as you wished.”

She arched a brow to him. “You’re implying that they will not?”

He hesitated, looking down upon her from his impressive height. There was a brief startling moment when she was certain that she saw a touch of sympathy in his gaze. “Rose, I think that your father has very definite things in mind for you. And Jamison Bryant, being the very thorough knave that he is, will have a full supply of suggestions for your father, since he knows that he will benefit from your marriage to some titled fellow. Maybe things are different in the colonies; I’ve felt it myself upon occasion. But here, Rose, marriages are customarily arranged when a young woman comes from wealth such as yours.”

Oddly, she felt tears stinging her eyes. He seemed to be speaking from some older, wiser point of view, and she wanted none of it.

“Customarily, perhaps. But you’re mistaken. All that I really need is to get home and speak with my father. My father loves me.”

He inclined his head. “Then I wish you the very best of luck.”

“Oh, I can tell you that you do!”

Silver clouds seemed to slip over his eyes, then rise again quickly. The man was amused.

“They will find you some young swain and you will do well enough.”

“Never! No one will find me a husband! When I marry, it will be for love!” she said passionately.

He smiled, with a superior look in his eyes, as if she were a very young and foolish child.

“Do excuse me!” she murmured. “How can I not realize that only men and women of your ancient years might truly realize the depths of affection!”

He laughed ruefully at that, and for a moment she was again aware that there were, perhaps, reasons for the man’s tremendous popularity. When he smiled or laughed, he was indeed handsome. There was the touch of a dimple in his left cheek, his eyes sparked with silver flame, and his mouth curved sensuously.

“Am I so very ancient?” he asked, and she found herself close to him at that moment, very close, though still within the stylized steps of the dance.

“Incredibly so,” she murmured imperiously.

“And you would never love anyone so ancient!”

“Certainly not, milord!” she said apologetically.

“Thank God that there’s an ancient lady to return my affections!”

“Oh, indeed! You should thank the good God above us daily for the Lady Anne.”

“My, my, Mistress Woodbine! Such an angel’s face, to carry such a barbed tongue within it!”

“Ah, but it has been honed by men such as yourself, milord DeForte. The nobility has taught me much.”

“Umm, have they? Well, my feisty little colonial, my Lady Anne is most concerned about you. And for her sake, I will accept many ‘slings and arrows’ from you.”

“The Lady Anne is concerned for me?” she inquired, startled.

“Because of your—guardian,” he said. He spoke lightly. His distaste for the man was still evident in his tone.

Rose frowned. “But he can’t really—”

“I don’t know what he
can really.
His father was a fine fellow. Jamison suffers from his very status in life—and from his penchant for gambling. I don’t think that he can hurt you, or that he would want to, but he is ever anxious to pay his gambling debts, and you, Mistress Woodbine, are worth a great deal of money.”

She shook her head. “Well, my Lord DeForte, Anne need not worry about me. I intend to stay very near the king and sail for home as soon as possible. Just as soon as I can manage it.”

“The king feels he owes your father, and he will certainly look to your welfare. But perhaps you should remember this, Rose. He is a careful man, and a tolerant one. But he is the king. Responsible for you beyond Jamison Bryant. If the king decides that you should marry, then you shall. He will command it.”

“I will not marry!” she said stubbornly.

“No, you will simply lead poor young lads to distraction and go on your merry way, trying to fool both your father and the king.”

“How dare you imply—”

He laughed. “Oh, I’m not implying anything. You will flirt, you will charm, and you will try to have your own way, as you have apparently had for many years. It shall be entertaining to see just where your fate lies.”

“It lies in Virginia!” she said furiously. “You should certainly worry about yourself. You’re wretched and loathsome and carnal—”

“Very!” he laughed. His smile deepened, and despite herself, she felt a trembling again.

“Dammit, let me go. Don’t think about me, worry—”

“I wasn’t particularly worried about you. That would be rather like worrying about a clever great cat—my dear girl, I have been touched by your claws. It is the Lady Anne who worries.”

Claws indeed! She longed to reach out and scratch him. Ah, if only they were alone! But they were not. She smiled as charmingly as she could manage. “What a pair we do make, Lord DeForte. A great cat with glistening claws—and a jackass.”

His brow arched, his lip curved. “Mistress! You called me a horse first, if I recall.”

“But we are becoming such good friends, my dear old fellow, that I feel free to speak the truth of my feelings. Jackass it is!”

The music was ending. She suddenly found herself drawn to him, and tightly so. And his eyes were silver flames as they met hers. “You had best be glad that I was not left your guardian. For I would be tempted to pluck your thorns. To wash a child’s mouth out with lye, or teach you a lesson in a stable with a switch!”

She struggled to free herself from his grasp, yet could not do so, for his fingers were like iron around her hands. She stared up at him, her own eyes flashing an emerald blaze, her fury held tight in the hiss of her voice. “Alas! I do thank God that you are not my guardian, nor anything at all to me! Now, my noble Lord DeForte, if you would be so good as to release me …?”

But he didn’t. There was a look in his eyes that was extremely obstinate. It wasn’t that he was so determined to hold on to her—it was that she was so determined to escape. And he was Lord DeForte, she just a little commoner, a thorn in his side. He wouldn’t be commanded by her.

“Let me go!” she commanded icily.

He waited too long. The music had ended, and men and women were milling about, waiting for it to begin again, talking, whispering, watching them. Rose was painfully aware of the tension and power of his grasp upon her, the heat surrounding her, and the strange lightning that seemed to rip along her spine.

“Let go!” she insisted. She felt a rising sense of panic and lashed out the best she could, kicking him. Her toe connected with his shin.

She heard the grating of his teeth. The action had been a mistake. She nearly cried out, for she feared that he intended to snap her fingers. He drew her even closer.

“Mistress Woodbine …” he began, his tone deep and furious. But then he paused suddenly. And in those seconds Rose became uncomfortably aware of him in very minute detail. She saw how clean-shaven his cheeks were, and the silver gleam of his eyes, felt the powerful beat of his heart. She breathed in his scent, clean, subtle, masculine. Against her flesh she felt the cloth of his coat, the touch of his fingers—fine fingers, very long, strong, somewhat bronzed from the sun. His breath touched her flesh, and she was startled at the heat it created abruptly within her, a heat that warmed and suffused through her.

“Please!” she heard herself whisper.

And in that same breath, he released her, nearly pushing her from him. Perhaps he had felt it, too. Like a flame, lapping at them both, warning of a fire that might burn painfully and bright.

“Go home!” he warned her. “The very first moment that you can!”

“I am anxious to!” she assured him. “But don’t be so certain, Lord DeForte, that I will not do so on my own terms.”

He waved a hand angrily in the air. “Mistress Rose, navigating her own destiny. It will not happen.

“But you are so sure that you are master of your own fate!”

“Because I am,” he said softly and confidently. “I am well of age, and am a powerful peer within this realm, a place I earned with sweat and blood, Miss Woodbine. You are very young, you are your father’s daughter, and you’ve yet to pay a shilling in dues to life. So take heed.”

“I will be mistress of my fate!” she promised him softly. “I will!” She was emphatic because she was suddenly frightened. She didn’t know why.

Whatever the sudden feeling of ill boding that came over her, it seemed that DeForte felt it too. “You’re in danger here, Rose Woodbine,” he said, and he seemed serious, not taunting for once, but truly concerned.

“Lord DeForte, I am no part of your life!” she insisted.

Then she let out a startled cry, alarmed to find herself touched by him again, drawn against him. His hands fell upon her upper arms, and his whisper was harsh and deep. “Dear God, but I pray that is true!”

She braced herself against the force of his hold, once more aware of the tremendous heat that seemed to ripple through her when he came so near. And it was so very odd, for he even seemed to touch her against his own will.

A taunting voice suddenly came their way. “DeForte, if you wouldn’t mind unhanding the girl, she is my ward!”

Jamison. He was standing slightly behind her, watching them both politely.

Pierce stepped back instantly, his hands falling from her arms, his eyes still upon hers.

He bowed abruptly. “Indeed, Bryant. She is your ward. Take great care with her, sir. She seems to have found a place in the king’s affections, and the Lady Anne and I intend to watch after her as well. Mistress Woodbine, enjoy your evening.”