A Dangerous Beauty (5 page)

“Yes, and altogether too much,” the duke interrupted her with a glare.

Augustine Phelps, ill suited to the task of true aristocratic pretension, blushed and walked away to join the large flock of luncheon guests.

His Grace appeared completely bored by such caterwauling. He thrust a bow into Rosamunde’s hands. “Your turn, Mrs. Baird. Widows first, then buzzards and everyone else—including peasants.”

The satinlike finish of the hardwood caressed the palm of her hand. It had been years since she had felt the weight of a bow in her hands, and yet it felt so familiar. The almost forgotten excitement of childhood competition filled her belly along with guilt for forsaking her promise to herself. Everyone knew the path to hell was paved with…oh, but she would appear ungracious, she reasoned, if she refused again.

The bell signaling the start of the late picnic nuncheon clanged and the spectators’ interests proved fickle. Bows and fine figures held nothing over cold lobster and warm strawberry tarts.

“Well, Mrs. Baird?” he asked, perilously close to her ear.

“I don’t perform before an audience, Your Grace.”

His expression was mocking when he leaned down to his petite grandmother and whispered something. Ata immediately began clapping and ordering the lingering guests to the small tents on the other side of the gardens.

“Now, Mrs. Baird, this is becoming tedious. Do let’s get on with it. Your refusal to play has left me aquiver.” He sighed in ennui. “I’ve promised to engage in one round with each of the widows and one round it will be. Then you may retire to your room for the rest of your stay if you desire. To embroider. Or whatever it is you do.”

Rosamunde narrowed her eyes.

What the devil was she doing? Her stance was perfect, the arch of her back forming a graceful slope in contrast to the astonishing strength she possessed in her arms. She stood as he had always pictured Diana the Huntress, steady and sure, confidence emanating from every pore while a slight breeze teased tendrils of her raven black hair around her face. Her starkly pale complexion held not a hint of rosy glow to offset her strangely haunting eyes. Not blue, not green, but some otherworldly color between the two. He had only ever seen eyes like that in a remote corner of Wales, where it was said the sea and the sky were captured in the eyes of the natives.

But now, at the last second before she released her arrow, she closed those troubled eyes—not one but both of them. Surprisingly, her arrow missed the center by less than a foot. But still…

“It would help if you kept your eyes open,” he drawled. “Perhaps you need an incentive? I’ve found prizes are remarkable at improving aim, Mrs. Baird.”

“With your strange rules, Your Grace, I’m astonished you’re offering advice to better my game.”

“Touché.” He paused. “But you’ve piqued my interest.” He faked a polite yawn. “I long to see how well you do with your eyes open. So what shall it be? Everyone has a price, Mrs. Baird,” he murmured. “Everyone.”

A hint of a breeze played with a wisp of her hair, covering her lush lips for a moment. She said not a word.

“Come, come, Mrs. Baird. What is your fondest wish?”

Her eyes darted to her sister, sitting apart from the throngs of people. Lady Sylvia’s lovely profile was in relief against the lush verdure of the willow tree behind her.

“Ah, selflessness is your goal. A common flaw of my grandmother’s destitute widows. Too bad it’s not more of a passionate turn, but then I suppose we don’t know each other well enough for you to confide in me.” He was determined to provoke her. He didn’t know why her cool nature inflamed his outrageousness. Usually, it took more than an unusual face to roust him from his world-weariness. It had been a long time since he’d had an interest in anything except his sister, grandmother and his clandestine writing.

She raised her chin but was silent.

“A hundred pounds says you can’t hit the bull’s-eye
in—let’s see—shall we say five tries?” He watched anger war with pride in her expression.

“A hundred pounds for
each
arrow in the center?”

Oh, she was intriguing. “Always willing to up the ante for a lady, Mrs. Baird. Let us be clear, then. We shall each have five chances. Any of yours that remain in the center, after all play, will be eligible.”

“All right.” Her voice might have been quietly warm and inviting, but her eyes were as cold as a kitchen maid’s hands in winter.

“Don’t you want to negotiate the terms should I best you, madam?”

She lifted her chin and stared at him.

“Hmmm, no help from you again, I see. I think I would fancy a bit of your embroidery should I win. It’s sure to be exquisite.”

Her lips twitched just the slightest bit before she assumed her stance. The line of her figure was as rock steady as before. There was a sort of animal-like sleekness to her form as she concentrated on the target. And then, with a speed that astounded, she shot five arrows in rapid succession. Only one fell short of the mark.

“A pity, Mrs. Baird.” He shook his head and nudged a case open next to the bows and arrows on the ground. As he fingered the hinge, he heard rather than saw a single shocked intake of breath from her direction.

Without glancing at her, he picked up his unusual-looking ivory inlaid double-barreled long gun and tucked it to his cheek. With a single well-powdered shot, more than half the quills in the center were rendered into a tangle of broken shafts and charred feathers.

“Cheater.” Her voice was so low he barely made out the word.

“Devil’s rules, Mrs. Baird, devil’s rules.” He turned to her as he checked the smoldering flint and priming pan. “Or perhaps just bad manners. Shall I take another shot or shall you concede, then?”

She ignored him as she placed the bow she had been clenching on the stand. “I suppose your rules include reneging on debts of honor too?”

“Naturally. That is the beauty of them. They constantly evolve as necessary.”

“Your logic is as sinful, I think, as you, sir.”

“We understand each other perfectly, madam.”

As he watched her tall form retreat toward her sister under the tree, he contemplated this thorny new dilemma. How was he to arrange a surreptitious small windfall for this, this—he could feel the blood pounding in his chest—mesmerizing witch? It had been a long time since he felt anything moving in the vicinity of his heart. Perhaps it was just the deviled eggs. They had appeared a bit questionable, sitting in the sun.

Reneging on a debt of honor, indeed.
Why, even Lucifer had a code of conduct.

Piano,
n.
A parlor utensil for subduing the impenitent visitor. It is operated by depressing the keys of the machine and the spirits of the audience.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

“N
ow, my dear ladies”—an immediate hush fell when Her Grace uttered the words—“we finally have a moment to ourselves. Rosamunde, would you be so kind as to pour the tea?”

The tiny dowager was uncanny in her ability to read people. Rosamunde had needed something to occupy her hands to relieve the tension. She sat stiffly on the edge of an embroidered gold settee in the music room, surrounded by Sylvia and four other ladies in varying shades of full black to palest lavender—with the notable exception of Her Grace. Today the dowager had switched from deepest mourning to, well, it could
only be described as marigold yellow. She looked like a merry, petite canary. Only the tips of her tiny slippers showed. The lady simply refused to allow anything or anyone to dampen her lighthearted spirit. His Grace was just the opposite, if Rosamunde was to hazard a guess. Why, yesterday, the mysterious man had seemed to welcome disharmony. Well, she had had enough mystery and discord in her life.

As she poured, Rosamunde said not a word. It had been so long since Rosamunde had socialized with strangers she feared saying the wrong thing and so she offered nothing to the conversation. The other ladies, who had the advantage of prior acquaintance, chatted amongst themselves. She glanced sidelong at the happy faces and felt like a marauder.

“I’m not certain if all of you have had the chance to meet our newest member of the Widows Club, Mrs. Rosamunde Baird, as well as her sister, Lady Sylvia Langdon.” The dowager turned to her. “Rosamunde and Sylvia, may I present a long-standing family friend, the Countess of Sheffield, Grace Sheffey, recently out of mourning, as well as Georgiana Wilde, Elizabeth Ashburton, and Sarah Winters. We will of course dispense with certain formalities since we are all sisters here.”

Each lady nodded slightly as her name was mentioned.

Ata continued. “Since the weather doesn’t seem to be cooperating with my plans today for a nice long march to Cudden Point, we shall have to amuse ourselves indoors. I know most of you find that revolting.”

A few coughs and smiles proved the ladies were too polite to disabuse the dowager of her notions.

“However,” she continued, “before the week’s end we shall go on an expedition to Godolphin Cross to explore their marvelous horse stables.”

Horse stables? Why, none of these ladies looked the sort to care a fig about horseflesh. But just the thought of a sleek, equine beauty brought a shiver of excitement down Rosamunde’s spine. She would, of course, tamp down her feelings and beg off somehow. Riding horses had been the first thing she had given up in the name of punishment for her impetuous behavior of so long ago.

“Well, now that’s settled, shall we have some music? Rosamunde and Sylvia, do you sing or play?”

Before Rosamunde could answer, Ata continued, “Elizabeth, dear, will you favor us with a sonata, perhaps one from Mr. Mozart?” She motioned toward the pianoforte.

“Your Gr—or rather—Ata, you know I play wretchedly. Georgiana plays much better than I,” Elizabeth insisted.

Well at least she was not the only one struggling to address the duchess so informally, thought Rosamunde with a smile.

“Elizabeth,” said Georgiana with the beautiful eyes, “that is most unfair. You know I play wretchedly.”

“Oh dear.” Ata laughed. “Well there must be some—”

Rosamunde saw Ata turn her way. She raised her hands and shook her head. “I’ve never played the pianoforte. But”—she hesitated and looked at her sister’s
anxious face—“Sylvia is accomplished on the harp.”

“Rosa!” Sylvia’s eyes widened.

“But it’s true.”

“But—”

“My dear, Sylvia”—Ata’s eyes had misted over—“why, the harp is my favorite.”

“But Rosamunde is the one with the great gift. Her voice is…” Sylvia paused, unable to continue after glancing at the dowager’s pleading expression. “Oh, but it’s been many, many years since I’ve—”

“Please? I used to play long ago for hours at a time. It brought me the greatest joy.”

In that moment Rosamunde noticed the old lady’s hands were trembling before she quickly hid one of them, which appeared thin and wasted, beneath her shawl. Rosamunde inhaled sharply. It reminded her of the lady’s hand extended from the Duke of Helston’s carriage those long years ago. Her stomach churned in remembrance. Surely…

All eyes turned to the restrained beauty of the Countess of Sheffield when she spoke. “You would do us all a great honor by playing, Lady Sylvia.”

By the look of desperation bordering on terror on the rest of the widows’ faces, it was clear none of the ladies enjoyed performing.

“Well—” Sylvia began.

“Oh yes, please do,” Sarah begged.

Sylvia crossed the patterned parquet floor toward the harp near the pianoforte and various other instruments. There were enough wood, bows and strings to make up a small orchestra.

Sylvia tentatively settled onto a gilded stool and cradled the harp on her right shoulder. She posed her delicate hands on the strings and all at once achingly familiar notes of ancient Welsh music rippled through the room. It was like a warm spring rain flowing around Rosamunde, feeding the depths of her soul.

Rosamunde couldn’t stop herself from humming and only wished she had the courage to stand up and sing like she used to do in her father’s house.

Sylvia played for many long minutes, never missing a note, never hesitating when she moved toward the lilting conclusion. She appeared in a state of bliss, her face nuzzling the wood of the crown. Rosamunde felt the ache of tears at the back of her throat. It had been a long time since she had seen her sister so happy. Sylvia had given up so many years of her life to comfort Rosamunde in her miserable marriage. And how had she been rewarded? Alfred had forbidden any music. She should have never allowed Sylvia to live with them. She should have insisted she return home. Guilt made her hollow inside.

The harp fell silent, the last two notes ill played. There was not a sound in the room for long moments until someone cleared his throat.

Oh Lord, it was he.

The Duke of Helston stood by the door, dressed in the same austere fashion as yesterday. Rosamunde had hoped to avoid him since his outrageous ways unnerved her. There was something about the way his piercing blue eyes rested on her after his gaze swept the room, as if he knew what she was thinking and
could see the chemisette under her gown. Or perhaps, even beneath her underclothes. She forced herself not to squirm.

“Lady Sylvia, you play like an angel,” he drawled. “Almost as well as Grace Sheffey.”

The countess burst out laughing. “Luc, you of all people know I’ve no talent whatsoever.”

“Hmmm, perhaps I’m confusing you with Elizabeth Ashburton, then.” His lips held the suggestion of a smile.

“Well, I do have a superior ear to Lizzy’s,” the countess confided.

“Whatever are you saying, Grace? You just told Her Grace I play better than you,” Elizabeth retorted.

“Too many Graces,” His Grace muttered.

Sarah Winters, who possessed a slightly older and wiser mien, chuckled. “Perhaps we should ask you both to play a duet, then we can be the judges.”

“Sarah, I believe you’re forgetting your own turn,” Georgiana Wilde said with a sly smile. She sat perched on the edge of her seat in a frayed gray silk gown, looking as if she knew how to fortify her defenses with a well-honed sense of humor.

They all turned to the duchess. She was staring at Sylvia, transfixed with happiness and with traces of tears on her cheeks. For once, she seemed at a total loss for words.

The duke cleared his throat again.

It brought the dowager from her reverie. “My dears, I know how much you’re all loathe to play.”

“That’s never stopped you from forcing them to in
jure our eardrums in the past,” His Grace murmured.

“Luc! How dare you sug—”

“I dare it because their eyes are begging me to stop this insanity and I’ve none of your fawning ways.”

“And don’t we know it,” the dowager harrumphed.

His Grace ignored his grandmother. “Mrs. Baird, will you join me in the front salon? You have a visitor.”

Blood pooled in Rosamunde’s fingers and she felt very cold. Please let it not be Algernon Baird. She knew he would eventually find her. She had just hoped it would be later, when she was more at ease in these new surroundings. She rose unsteadily and looked at Sylvia, whose face had turned ashen.

Her Grace looked at her grandson. “Luc, you’re not to leave her alone.”

“Finally an order I can obey to the letter.”

“Luc!”

“Your agreeable orders are so rare.”

“The better for you to enjoy them when they are given,” Her Grace said, annoyed.

Rosamunde, surprised anew by their banter, looked at the faces of all the people surrounding her. The Countess of Sheffield looked ready to burst out laughing. Apparently this was modus operandi at Amberley. It had been so long since she had witnessed the freedom of speaking plainly, of thinly disguising love with humor, that Rosamunde almost forgot the visitor.

The duke raised his forearm in invitation. “Mrs. Baird?”

His deep baritone voice heated her insides but it
was nothing compared to feeling the coiled strength of his arm beneath hers as they removed from the music room. At the doorway, he released her briefly and she sensed the warm glide of his hand at her waist as he guided her through the narrow frame. For the first time in her life she felt petite, compared to the great stature of the gentleman next to her.

“Your Grace—”

“Oh no,” he interrupted. “If I’m forced to endure season after season of weeping widows, I’ll not tolerate such formality in private.”

“I’m certain your grandmother suggested informality among the ladies only.”

He ushered her through a long portrait gallery filled with likenesses of presumably generations of St. Aubyns—each of whom appeared more unyielding than the last. There was not a single female to be found among the austere paintings. Apparently, she thought peevishly, St. Aubyn females were considered negligible broodmares.

“Since the interview with your curious relation will require a special brand of fortitude on both our parts, I had hoped you’d become a bit more comfortable as our guest.”

The mention of Algernon sent an icy tingle down her legs, but she tried to appear calm. “I suppose you may use my given name in private, then.”

“Ah, fair Rosamunde.” He urged her into the shadowed corridor past the portrait gallery.

“I’m anything but fair,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “Better and better. I can’t abide people
who are fair. Can’t trust them by half.”

“Your character, sir, shows little variation.”

His wicked smile revealed the slightly crooked tooth, and she had the urge to smile back, but did not. He was such a mystery. Humorous evil hardness prevailed one moment, and yet she wondered if there was not something much deeper, much more compassionate beneath everything.

For the moment, there was no question he was trying to divert her. And for that she was grateful, but still petrified. Algernon would force her away from here, reveal all her secrets. And she would watch the look of cynical humor drain from the duke’s face, to be replaced with disgust and fury. And then she would be compelled to flee. Compelled to take her thirty-seven guineas, saved over the long years, and find a post carriage that would take her as far away as possible. She would probably have to sleep in a hedgerow and find employment. She shivered. But she would not tell Sylvia this time. Her sister would have no choice but to return to the home of their childhood, Edgecumbe.

“What are you thinking about? You look like all the demons of hell are chasing you.”

They were already in front of the drawing-room door. Rosamunde looked up and he was so close she could see the comb marks in his dark hair severely pulled back in the queue.

“Rosamunde.” He pulled her gently into the shadows.

She tried to hide the jolt his touch ignited. What on earth was he doing? Oh, he was probably going to try
to reassure her again. But there was something about the touch of a man’s hands that always made her feel confined and ill at ease. She looked at his fingers and he pointedly removed them from her arm as if he’d been burned.

“I’d not guessed you were so chickenhearted to meet this Mr. Baird.” He looked down at her through half-closed eyes and she tried to steady her breathing.

“But I—”

He continued softly, “If he is anything at all like the former Mr. Baird, which is my guess after wasting time with him this morning, then you’ve two appealing options before you. You can either remain with us here and be hideously happy, or go with him and wish you were dancing with the devil.”

“I think I should prefer singing with the angels.”

“I thought you’d no musical talent, Mrs. Baird.”

“So we’re back to formalities, Your Grace?”

A long pause hung in the rays of light coming from a single small window in the hall. He seemed to be weighing some sort of decision.

“You’ve left me no choice, Rosamunde. There seems to be only one last thing to do before choosing your ghastly future.”

“I find your optimistic view of life inspiring, sir.”

“Perhaps I’m not always so happy. But when faced with the pleasure of a second meeting with one of the stupidest men I’ve yet to meet, my disposition improves greatly.”

He’d taken a short step closer during the exchange and Rosamunde could only focus on his blue eyes.

“Now, as I was saying, only one thing remains…”

Suddenly, shockingly, he bent down and touched his lips lightly to her forehead. She felt the heat of a thousand winter night fires blaze as she held her breath in the face of such a small spark of tenderness. It was the first glimmer of true intimacy she had had in all her life.

He pulled back and looked at her for a long moment, his eyes becoming dark with mystery, and then lowered his mouth again, only this time to her own.

Every sense in her body ignited into exquisite self-consciousness. She heard a low sound, or was it a growl? Every inch of her skin turned to gooseflesh, as if she had leapt from a snowbank into a hot bath.