Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (32 page)

Eventually he lowered his head and leveled his hazel gaze at her. “All right—let’s try for a broader perspective. You’re a Cynster, well bred, well connected, well dowered, and more than passably attractive.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re also opinionated, willful to a fault, argumentative, and at times irrationally stubborn. Be that as it may, for some reason I don’t comprehend, we managed to rub along reasonably well through the last week or so, when we had a common goal. I take that as an indication that, were we to marry and jointly take on the common goal of managing my father’s estate, the estate that will in time be ours, we would again find ourselves on common ground, enough at least to make a marriage work.”

He’d surprised her.

Leaning back, she looked at him. He’d angled his shoulders into the curve of the wall, stretching one arm along the upper edge, long legs stretched out so that his boots brushed her hems. At ease, relaxed and debonair, he appeared the epitome of the sophisticated London rake, which, of course, he was.

He was also an enigma.

At some point during their hike through the mountains, she’d realized that no matter what he allowed her to see, there was something different, something even more attractive, beneath his polished veneer.

“You’d share the responsibilities of running the estate?” She hadn’t expected him to speak of such matters.

“If you wished to involve yourself with it.” He studied her face. “There are, for instance, the usual number of children to be rescued in and around the estate as you’d find anywhere else in the country.”

She humphed. “So I would remain at Baraclough, overseeing the household, while you swan about in the capital?”

Glancing down, he brushed a leaf from his breeches. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t spend all that many weeks in the capital these days—I’m mostly at Baraclough.”

“Hmm. All right.” She nodded. “That’s something for me to consider. So what else can you tempt me with?”

Breckenridge hid a wry smile; he’d guessed that, in common with her female Cynster mentors, she’d be drawn to the prospect of managing a large household and the estate’s people. Organizing ran in the blood. “I believe I mentioned that I’m under sisterly edict to marry. Unsurprisingly, a large and pertinent motive behind my sisters’ prodding is the desirability of me begetting an heir, or more, thus securing the succession. Perish the thought the estate might ever revert to the Crown, so you could view your role as my future countess as in part holding the ton line against King George and his cronies.”

She narrowed her eyes on his. “That’s the most inventive way I’ve ever heard of saying you want children.”

His lips curved, then he let the expression fade. “I do—but do you?”

She looked forward. “Yes, of course.” After a moment she added, “I can’t imagine not wanting children, truth be told.”

“Well, then, we’re in agreement on that.”

“Don’t get carried away—you haven’t yet convinced me we should wed.”

He hesitated, then said, “Perhaps it’s time to examine your reasons for refusing.” He fixed his gaze on her face, once again in profile. “You’re not hesitant because of my . . . for want of a better phrase ‘irregular paternity,’ are you?”

He’d thought he was asking not because he imagined she would hold that against him—he didn’t—but because it was an excellent gambit to elicit her sympathy . . . yet as the words left his lips he realized that, somewhere deep inside, that question of belonging, of being seen as him and still accepted in his role, lingered.

To be banished by the look she turned on him—a frown that conveyed mystification along with incipient offense.

“Don’t be daft!” Her frown deepened. “That hadn’t even entered my head. Why would it? It’s not as if you’re not as well-born as I, and you are Brunswick’s heir, after all.” Waving back at the manor, she faced forward. “And just think of Richard.”

Heather paused, honestly stunned that he’d even imagined . . . but perhaps that wasn’t it. Wasn’t the real reason he’d brought up what had to be, for him, a sensitive subject. Eyes fixed unseeing on the river, feeling her way, she went on, “You’re you—you’re too old, too experienced, too worldly to be judged by any other criteria than who and what you
are
.” She glanced briefly his way, encountered his customary unreadable façade. “On how you behave.”

Gazing again at the river, she tipped her head his way. “And much as it pains me to acknowledge it, you’ve been nothing but protective and honorable—indeed, throughout our adventure you were close to a pattern-card of the gentlemanly virtues.”

“Close to?”

“You argued too much and you’re far too stubborn.”

“You can talk.”

“Precisely—I can.” She glanced at him again, this time met his gaze. “You might be an expert in seducing women, but if there’s one thing
I
am an expert in it’s arrogantly aristocratic gentlemen and how they behave—I’ve been surrounded by the cream of the species since birth—and you are readily recognizable as one of their number.”

With a nod to emphasize her conclusion, she looked back at the river again.

She wasn’t too surprised when he didn’t immediately speak, didn’t rush to push any further point.

It didn’t last, of course.

“All right—so it’s not my birth, and clearly you don’t feel overly challenged by me or my station. You don’t feel out of your depth dealing with me.”

When she made a scoffing sound and flung a dismissive glance his way, he caught it, held it.

“So what, then”—his voice deepened, softened, the suave tones sliding over her skin—“will it take to convince you that you should—indeed, ought to—marry me?”

He let her look into his eyes, for once didn’t keep his mask between them.

Let her see he was in earnest, sincere in wanting to know.

She drew in a long breath, then looked back at the river and let out a long, slow sigh. Wondered why she was bothering. If he truly didn’t know . . .

Perhaps she should tell him.

“Very well. As you’re so determined to hear them, these are my reasons.” She’d never voiced them before, not all of them, yet if Catriona was right and he might be her hero . . . it behooved her to try to find the words. “I long ago decided that the one element I would never agree to marry without was true . . . affection.” Recalling Catriona’s views, she substituted the less specific, less, for men, frightening word. “An affection strong enough to last the years, powerful enough to guide and inform, deep and broad enough to be the foundation of a shared life. I want passion and laughter, interest and inclusion, a partnership at least on a practical level, and something even deeper on the personal.

“I want . . . to be wanted, to feel necessary and needed, to know I fill a role that only I can fill.” She paused, then forced herself to go on. “But even more than that, I want that depth of affection to be offered to me, Heather Cynster, not because I
am
Heather Cynster, well-connected heiress and”—she flicked a glance his way—“considered by some to be more than passably attractive, but because I’m
me
.” She tapped her chest, felt the pendant beneath her bodice. “I want to be wanted, needed—and married—because of who I am, not what I am.”

Suddenly seeing the parallel, she caught his gaze. “In light of your query regarding your birth, you should understand how I feel—how important to me it is to be valued for myself, and to know it.”

Breckenridge held her gaze—and wondered how he’d managed to let her maneuver him into such a position. Into the narrow gap in a cleft stick. Because he did understand—more than that, he felt the resonance of her words reach deep, to the man he truly was. Felt his true nature react, respond, effortlessly drawn forth by a compulsion to satisfy her need.

To blurt out words he had no intention of saying, to lay before her the assurance, the capitulation, she was searching for—a vow that she would forever and always be the focus, the fulcrum of his life . . . the admission hovered on his suddenly reckless tongue.

He’d had no idea his probing might precipitate such a link, that her answers might deepen his susceptibility even more. He’d been looking for a way to avoid stirring his emotions. Instead . . .

She wanted him to tell her he loved her.

But that meant he’d have to hear the words himself.

Words he’d sworn never again to utter. He’d sworn to never again open himself, his heart, to that much pain. . . .

He knew the pain, still carried the scars.

Never ever again.

Their gazes remained locked. He could almost feel her willing him to open his mouth and speak. . . .

Time suspended, lengthened, and he started to suspect she knew, had seen, at the very least suspected what he himself was pretending to be blind to.

The prospect shook him, helped him keep his lips firmly shut.

When he didn’t speak—when she accepted he wasn’t going to—her lids lowered, then she drew fractionally back, tipping up her chin as she turned to face the river. “Regardless of any arguments you or others might proffer, I will not marry without that particular affection.”

A declaration, a ringing challenge.

He stirred, muscles tensing, then forced himself to relax again. “This ‘affection.’ ”

The terse words were on his lips before he’d thought, placed there by that elemental male who considered her already his. Who heard her intransigence as a clarion call to action, who interpreted her challenge as an affront.

But aggressive insistence wouldn’t trump her stubbornness. Wouldn’t prevail.

He had other weapons at his disposal, ones he’d honed over decades in the ton.

“Yes?” Brows arched, she glanced at him.

“Perhaps . . .” Resuming his rake’s persona, investing every movement with languid grace, he shifted forward, closer. Held her gaze. “You could teach me what it is you need.” He let his gaze drift from her eyes to her lips. “I’ve always been considered a fast learner, and if I’m willing to learn, to devote myself to the study of what you truly want . . .”

Her lips parted slightly. He raised his gaze once more to her eyes, to the stormy blue. Read her interest, knew he had her undivided attention.

Inwardly smiled. “If I swear I’ll do all I can to meet your requirements, shouldn’t you accept the . . . challenge, if you like, to take me as I am and reshape me to your need?”

Holding her gaze, resisting the urge to lower his to her tempting lips, he raised a hand, touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek in a tantalizingly light caress. “You could, if you wished, take on the challenge of taming the ton’s foremost rake, of making me your devoted slave . . . but you’d have to work at it, make the effort and take the time to educate me—arrogantly oblivious male that I am—all of which will be much easier, facilitated as it were, by us marrying. After all, nothing worthwhile is ever attained easily or quickly. If I’m willing to give you free rein to mold me to your liking, shouldn’t you be willing to engage?”

She was thinking, considering; he could see it in her eyes. She was following his arguments, her mind following the path he wanted it to take.

Shifting his fingers to lightly frame her chin, he held her face steady as if for a kiss.

“And just think,” he murmured, his eyes still locked with hers, his lips curving in a practised smile, “of the cachet you’ll be able to claim as the lady who captured me.”

Her focus sharpened. She looked into his eyes, studied them.

Then she rolled her eyes and lifted her chin from his fingers. “You’re really very good, but that’s not going to work.”

He stared at her. He’d had her; she’d been with him, following, coming around. . . .

Facing the river, as if she could hear him she shook her head. “There were an awful lot of ifs and buts in that, and none of them changed anything.” She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing, her gaze sharpening. “You didn’t expect to charm me into marrying you, did you?”

Yes, I did.

Lips pressed tight, he slumped back against the wall, looked up at the sky. Few women were immune to his persuasive charm, but, of course, she had to be one. Inwardly swearing, he rapidly canvassed his options.

Dropped all pretense and sat up. “Listen—we cannot go on as we are with absolutely nothing decided.”

“On the contrary, there’s nothing to decide. You made an offer motivated by honor, and I refused.”

“That’s not the end of it.”

“Yes, it is—and if all you have to say is simply a restatement of what you’ve already said, then I believe we have nothing more to discuss.” Nose in the air, Heather tensed to rise.

Breckenridge’s hand clamped heavily on her arm. “No, you don’t—just sit still and listen.”

His growl, the possessive grip, spurred her temper. She whipped around and glared at him. “Why? So you can browbeat me into agreeing?” She shook off his hand and surged to her feet.

He stood, too, quickly facing her, blocking her way. “Heather—”

“No!” Temper in the ascendant, she poked a finger at his chest. “It’s
your
turn to listen—and listen well. If you don’t feel the degree of affection for me that I require in my prospective husband, then I will not marry you—and I am not about to agree to a wedding on speculation!”

His face decidedly grim, his expression for once some indication of his temper, he glared at her. “Damn it! There’s only so much I can give—that I can offer you.”

“You can give whatever you want—if you truly wanted to!”

He shifted closer, looming nearer, his eyes agate hard boring into hers. “We need to get married. That’s an inescapable fact. We have to come to some arrangement so our wedding can proceed—which means you have to grow up, set aside any rosy, starry-eyed notions, and deal with the realities of our world. You need to reassess, you need to be reasonable, then you need to tell me what I can give you that will enable you to agree to become my wife.”

She held his gaze. And felt fury burn.

Because she was starting to suspect that Catriona might be right, that behind his smooth, polished façade, Breckenridge might actually feel for her everything she wanted him to feel.