A Dangerous Beauty (7 page)

She felt so underdressed, looking at the colorful fashionable silk and satin surging around her. Her gown wasn’t in the current Greek high-waisted style. Instead it was of the last century, the aged muslin nipping her waist and gripping the length of her arms, a remnant of one of Alfred’s long dead relations.

Suddenly she realized everyone was in the final stages of searching out their place cards and she was one of the last left standing. Oh, it had been so long since she had attended a formal affair, she had almost forgotten things that should have been second nature. She felt the burn of many eyes watching her make her way to the last open seat at the main table presided over by Ata, the duke, the Countess of Shef
field, a beautiful young lady who was the duke’s sister, and the beaming groom. The other ladies of the club had been discreetly sprinkled at the far end of the table.

A short older man rose from his place beside her to help her with her chair. “Allow me to present myself, ma’am,” he said and inclined his head, “Mr. John Brown.” Before the words were out of his mouth the buzz of general conversation covered the silence.

“Mrs. Baird, sir.” There was something about Mr. Brown that was very likeable. Perhaps it was the kindliness she spied in his unremarkable face.

“Well,” hissed Auggie Phelps to her rotund fiancé, loud enough so Rosamunde could hear, “I don’t know why they were seated at the main table.”

Rosamunde hoped she wasn’t blushing. Her sister gave her a halfhearted smile and widened her eyes a little at the sight of so many forks, knives, spoons and crystal wineglasses before them.

Rosamunde shrugged slightly, placed a heavy, lace-edged napkin on her lap, and turned to the gentleman, dressed in clerical garb, on her other side.

“Ma’am, I believe you and your sister are the only two people in the neighborhood I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. I’m the new vicar, Sir Rawleigh.” He offered his left hand to her and it was then she noticed his right sleeve was pinned to his shoulder.

Rosamunde completed the introduction and continued, “Have you been long in Cornwall, sir?” He was a classically handsome gentleman, a blond archangel sent to tempt pious women everywhere.

“Not long at all. Just above a week only.” The vicar looked toward Sylvia and his composure faltered. “The captain—or rather, the duke—was kind enough to give me the living when Mr. Fromley died.” He looked her fully in the eye. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to preside over your husband’s funeral.”

Rosamunde nodded and noticed her sister’s flustered appearance. She turned to take a peek at the duke but became ill at ease herself when she perceived his attention on her. She doggedly continued, “I assume you made His Grace’s acquaintance at sea, then?”

“No. Actually, it was before that. Have you met Peter Mallory, the besotted fiancé?” When she shook her head no, he continued. “I suppose I should use his proper title, Viscount Landry, since he received it for valor and”—he winked—“he likes to lord it over us.”

Mr. Brown chuckled.

This vicar certainly didn’t behave like other men of the cloth Rosamunde had met.

Sir Rawleigh continued, “The three of us were inseparable at Eton”—he leaned forward with a conspiratorial glance—“and our good friend His Grace would have my head if he knew I would tell you how he fared there.”

Before she could try and stop him, he grinned again. “He was abominable in philosophy, kept arguing with the masters, but took firsts in history, English and mathematics. Landry and I followed him to sea when,” he paused, “well, when he decided to join the Royal Navy before the last term. Took ten years off Landry and my
father’s lives, since they’d had other plans for us. But we learned there was something about salt water and French cannon fodder that binds people for life.” He stopped short and shrugged. “But that’s not a topic for a lady’s delicate ears.”

Auggie glanced at Rosamunde and snorted.

Mr. Brown cut in before Auggie could say a word, “Ma’am, are you in need of a handkerchief?”

“No, not at all. I was—” Auggie tried to continue but was interrupted again by Grace Sheffey, the rich countess with not a blonde curl out of place, who sat across from Auggie.

“Miss Phelps, will you be married to the baron in town or in the neighborhood?”

Rosamunde’s breast swelled with emotion. The last few days had been filled with strangers determined to enforce polite behavior. Silent gratitude filled her.

“Why, in town, at St. George’s of course,” Auggie simpered, placing her hand possessively on the baron’s and smiling at her best friend, Theodora Tandy, who kept giggling and batting her eyelashes at the duke. “Everyone will be invited. Well, almost everyone,” she said, eyeing Sylvia and Rosamunde.

“Oh Miss Phelps,” called out Ata from the other end of the table. All clatter of silverware paused. “Do pass the salt, will you?” she asked, sweetly.

Rosamunde looked down to confirm what she knew. There were tiny scallop-edged salt and pepper dishes in front of each place setting. The look on Auggie’s face was priceless as she wavered between pointing out this fact to a grand duchess or not. Silently, Auggie passed
her tiny dish with the miniature spoon up the row of dinner guests. A few grains spilled in front of Sylvia and she discreetly threw them over her shoulder. Rosamunde smiled at the familiar gesture.

The duke leaned forward and said something to his grandmother. Ata muttered, “Well, she hasn’t earned her salt. And she’s been under our roof for nearly a week. I don’t care if she’s a cousin twenty times removed from somebody’s uncle.”

“Magnificent isn’t she?” Mr. Brown whispered softly. He clearly didn’t expect an answer.

“Mrs. Baird,” asked Sir Rawleigh to relieve the tension, “Will you allow me to present you to my sister, Charity?”

“I’d be honored, sir.”

Rosamunde smiled at the lady several places opposite her. The young lady’s carrot-colored curls were a tangle of corkscrews framing her heart-shaped face. Her vivid green eyes were the only things that proclaimed her to be the vicar’s sister.

“So sorry about your recent loss, Mrs. Baird.”

Rosamunde’s whole heart became engrossed in the banality of the dinner conversation. She had forgotten the simple joy of forming original observations on the age-old topics of the ever-changing Cornish weather, the tides, and events. She pushed back her fears of exposing herself to public condemnation. And surprisingly, she almost enjoyed herself.

Until, that is, she remembered the after-dinner entertainment.

Compliments for the fine meal rang in his ears as he watched her beyond the other diners moving into the next room. He was sure he could read her mind. He would offer a solution, or rather a proposition she would sure to like…only slightly more than singing in front of more than four score guests.

“Mrs. Baird,” he said, allowing stragglers to move past and pointedly ignoring Theodora Tandy’s winks. “I perceive a distinct lack of enthusiasm on your part in this musical scheme. You dislike providing amusement for your neighbors, am I correct? We are of one mind.”

She looked at him mutely.

“My last season in London cured me of every desire to hear another Beethoven sonata murdered beyond redemption by the young ladies trotted out by their tone-deaf, marriage-minded mothers.”

She raised her dark eyebrows, which swooped ohso delicately heavenward.

“Not that I don’t think you must sing like an angel, you understand.”

She didn’t appear to understand at all.

“Well, do you or don’t you want to exhibit yourself?” He might have just barked.

“You’ve already proclaimed I dislike it.”

He sighed. Why did he feel like he was winning his object but sinking his ship? “I shall make your excuses if, but only if, you agree to ride with me tomorrow morning.” He raised his hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “To Men-An-Tol, where Ata has arranged for an outdoor picnic. I know you told Ata you would prefer to stay here. But she has her heart set on
this outing. The West Penwith moors are special to her and I won’t have her disappointed.” He paused and noticed the tilt of her proud chin. A pulse point was beating erratically on her long neck and he longed to touch it—soothe it. “The others will follow.”

She looked up at him. “I will go, but only in a carriage with my sister.”

“No. The carriages are all spoken for. And”—he dared her to look away—“your sister tells me you enjoy, or rather,
enjoyed
riding at one time.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps you enjoyed riding or perhaps you will go?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Which you often refuse to answer.”

They stared at each other.

“I cannot leave my sister to perform alone.”

“You worry a lot about your sister.”

“As you do about your grandmother.”

He tried hard not to reveal a smile. “So the lady does know how to defend herself.”

“I don’t need to defend myself. And if you were a gentleman you would stop trying to bargain with me at every opportunity.” She took three steps back.

“Ah, but I keep telling you I’m not a gentleman.”

“But I keep hoping you’re wrong. Perhaps your insistence proves just the opposite.”

He chuckled. “Usually everyone takes my word for it.” He took one step closer to her. “Now I am forced to confuse you by asking politely if you will do me the honor of riding with me tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Only because Ata would like it.”

Ah, she was a contrarian. He adored contrarians.

He reached to touch her cheek and she looked at his hand as if it might burn her.

At that precise, awful moment Theodora Tandy chose to reenter the dining room. She giggled.

The moment shuddered to a stand still. Rosamunde Baird turned and bolted, Luc’s hand still raised in midair.

Ata was right about the giggler. But then, wasn’t Ata always right, damn her wrinkled hide.

Lecturer,
n.
One with his hand in your pocket, his tongue in your ear and his faith in your patience.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

“T
here’s nothing more to be done, Luc. You must sell off one of the unentailed estates or the ship if you insist on buying another cottage for your grandmother.” Brownie scratched his tonsured crown. “You can’t squeeze another drop from what you’ve got, even though you’ve done very well with what was passed on to you at the start.”

Luc looked up from the massive green leather-topped desk in his study. Dusty books and naval ornaments were stacked and scattered everywhere, proving he had been successful in scaring the housemaids with his threats of beheadings should anyone touch a particle within his lair.

He uttered not a syllable.

“And you can’t expect to dower your sister with thirty thousand pounds and continue on as before. You would have done better to offer half.”

“Yes, however, I don’t think Madeleine would’ve been happy with half a husband.” He directed a hard stare at his former ship’s purser, current steward, and most respected friend. “It was only fair to give Landry a decent start.”

Mr. Brown coughed.

“Look, old man, I’ve yet to hear of a new title with real money behind it. Is there such an animal?” Luc sighed. “And my sister is so particular, she has refused two offers from rich, idle suitors. She has the odd notion that the heirs in town lead nothing but pampered, gilded existences. You know she’s had her heart set on marrying a Royal Navy lieutenant since the day she found my bloodied pirate cutlass.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Mr. Brown muttered. “It’s those Royal Navy coats and gold epaulettes that gets them, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“As if I could stop you.”

His aging friend grinned in his usual fashion, which was so huge and gummy his eyes above were squeezed shut.

“All right, then.” Luc paused. “Sell or let the rubble in Yorkshire. It’s too damn cold there anyway. Let someone else freeze his tail off. And by the by, that’ll be the last time I hear you suggesting we sell off
Caro’s Heart
.”

Mr. Brown shuffled documents back into the fat
leather portfolio and then placed a money pouch in the middle of the desk. “Here are the funds you requested, and”—he pushed another purse next to it—“the smaller amount.”

“All of it?”

“Yes,” he paused, “and the dossier on Mrs. Baird’s family you requested.”

“Very good,” Luc replied, accepting the papers.

“Charming lady, by the way.”

He gave Brownie his most bored expression and pushed the smaller pouch back toward him. “Find a way to slip the
charming
lady this. I lost a bet. And make sure she doesn’t know where it came from. She won’t accept it otherwise.”

“Lost a bet, eh?”

“You’ll not go fishing in those waters if you treasure that shiny scalp of yours.”

Mr. Brown cleared his throat, which did little to cover his laughter. “I also thought you should see these.” He pushed some newspaper clippings in his direction.

“What are these?”

“Gossip columns. It seems the first few copies of your book”—he paused when Luc glared at him—“that is,
Lucifer’s Lexicon
, have made their way into some lordly mitts.”

Luc’s stomach clenched but he controlled his voice. “And?”

“They particularly admired your, let’s see,”—he thumbed through the editions—“‘deliciously cynical sense of the absurd.’ People are speculating the author is the same mysterious lady who wrote
Pride and Preju
dice
and that other bit of fluff. Guess it’s because you share the same publisher.”

“They think I’m a
girl?
” He nearly choked.

Brownie’s expression was one of poorly contained glee. The man looked down at one of the newspapers. “It’s running ten to one in the betting books at the gentlemen’s clubs.”

“Are you laughing?”

“Of course not.”

Luc rolled his eyes. “There are days I wonder why I ever employed you.”

“Because I blackmailed you.”

Luc hid his smile. “Right. Well, at least I won’t have to worry about remaining anonymous,” he muttered. “Taken for a bloody female, no less.”

“But you wouldn’t have to sell off the land if I placed a few discreet bets and then you revealed yourself.”

He stared down at his friend. “There is no way in hell I’ll ever admit I wrote that ridiculous book.”

“But just think of the quid—”

“I said no, you stubborn Scot.” He shuffled the papers. “Dukes do not write idiotic dictionaries or dabble in fusty, academic tomes. Nor should they employ cheeky bastards.”

Brownie coughed. “I guess that leaves only one other possibility besides selling off the northerly bits.”

“If you suggest I finish that book about Trafalgar one more time, Brownie…”

“You can’t fool an old fool. I know you’re working on it. Actually, I was going to suggest you reconsider the Countess of Sheffield or look over the other rich
petticoats down from town for the wedding. You could sell yourself off like Landry.” The man had the grace to flinch when he looked at him. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I’m sure you could do better than Landry, maybe even fifty thousand quid. That countess’s husband left her off pretty grand, I hear tell.”

Luc felt the familiar black fury fill him. He restrained his wrath to a whisper. “I would write an epic masterpiece and proclaim it to the world before that, you idiot.”

“It would take about three o’ those things at this point.”

Luc rose from his chair and Mr. Brown made a wise, very swift exit.

Damn his financial troubles. Thoughts of slow ruin, brought about by generations of St. Aubyn pampered living, kept him up more than half the night. No one knew of the never-ending drain he was trying to reverse while secretly helping his grandmother. Ata suspected nothing. Nor his sister. He had sworn to preserve Madeleine’s innocence and Ata’s hard-won late-in-life happiness. But that was not really what kept his eyes closed yet his mind working all through the night.

His thoughts wandered to what lay beneath layers of ugly black muslin just beyond the adjoining door. He had a very good idea. A wicked idea. It had been enough to leave him in a heated, foulish kind of mood.

And what did he have to look forward to today? Feeding and entertaining yet again masses of fashion
able fribble and pretending to be the polite, reasonable man he was not. He would give almost anything to lock himself in his study and write and drink himself into a stupor to try and forget.

Forget the money problems, forget the memories of battleship carnage, but most of all forget the dark anguish of his familial past and his beautiful mother’s face the last time he saw her.

Yes, what he needed was a diversion if he was going to have to entertain a herd of silly houseguests. It was not yet dawn and Luc yanked on the cord to request a tray for Mrs. Baird. If he couldn’t sleep, neither should she. It made perfect sense.

He dressed with the same economy of motions he had used for so many years in his compact ship’s cabin, forgoing his new valet, whose idea of casual dress involved too much lace and too many colors.

A maid soon appeared at his door, tray in hand. He motioned for her to leave it on a table and lifted the top of one of two silver pots. “Chocolate? Not tea for madam’s breakfast?”

The garrulous, hefty maid with the weather-beaten face replied in a Cornish sing-song voice, “Yes, Your Grace. The lady said it were ’er favorite. ‘Adn’t had it forever, Mrs. Simms’, she says to me. Fancy her using my proper name. Never wants toast, only chocolate, this one. Lots o’ it. But then she needs it, wot wif them bony arms.”

Luc contemplated the aroma as he nodded to the servant and tugged on his worn, supple boots. He glanced at the connecting door but dismissed it. He
feared she might fly away if she knew a mere door separated them.

He balanced the tray and made his way through the outer door and into the dark hallway, pausing only to knock on her door.

There wasn’t a sound.

He knocked again. Nothing.

He looked up and down the hallway and then pounded on the door with his boot.

Silence.

Cursing, he awkwardly opened the door with the edge of his hand only to encounter utter darkness. He placed the tray on the floor and fumbled toward a window in the room that had once been his mother’s.

Luc opened one curtain and an early-morning ray of foggy light cut through the room. He turned toward the massive bed, draped in pink and white toile from France, and the wind was knocked out of him.

One long, very long, leg was twined carelessly around the bunched lace coverlet. Her white bed gown had lost its battle with propriety and was wrapped high above the knee. Why an inch or two more and…

He staggered forward.

A tangle of black locks lay sprawled on the pillow. He stared at her even profile, all hard planes and soft skin. With each quiet breath her breasts rose beneath the translucent white linen. A hint of one rosy tip peaked between tiny buttons.

His mouth went dry.

She appeared so innocent and young in white. This
was her color—not black, not jewel tones, not anything except pure white. The almost imperceptible pink of her cheeks was visible instead of the wan color when she dressed in that wretched black.

He forced himself to speak. “Mrs. Baird.”

He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Baird.”

He touched her cheek. “Rosamunde.”

Nothing.

He placed both of his hands on her shoulders and shook her with a force that would wake St. Peter from his tomb. “R-o-s-a-m-u-n-d-e Baird, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” she muttered without batting an eyelash. She sighed and settled deeper under the covers.

He shook his head in disbelief. Relying on the rich scent of hot chocolate, he dipped his finger in one pot and spread a dab of the fragrant liquid on her relaxed lips.

“Mmmmm,” she sighed and her delightful tongue curled along her lips.

It took every ounce of control not to pounce on her.

“Remind me never to count on you as a lookout,” he said dryly.

Her breathing stilled, and one eye opened.

And within a moment she was scrambling under the covers. “My God, what are you doing in my room?” she screeched.

“Such language, Mrs. Baird.” He tsk-tsked.

“If there’s no fire, you’d better have a good reason for not knocking.”

She looked like a young girl of sixteen, her straight
hair around her shoulders and a fast blush staining her cheeks.

He chuckled and poured a cup of chocolate and brought it to her. “Without knocking? Why my dear, I’ll have bruises from the pounding. Do you know you sleep like a drunken sailor on shore leave?”

Her eyes were huge in her face. Smoky blue and green swirled around large black pupils. “I most certainly do not. Why, I always sleep with one eye open.”

He bit back a smile. “Perhaps at—what did your brilliant in-law call it—Bastard’s Cottage? But not here. Must be the change in scenery or”—he cleared his throat—“perhaps the chocolate?”

She seemed to relax slightly when she realized he wasn’t going to touch her. “Why are you here? This is completely inappro—”

He interrupted her. “You’ve forgotten our engagement.”

She gave him a blank stare.

“Our ride to West Penwith,” he prompted.

“But we’re not to go for hours.”

“Correction: Ata and our guests are not to go for hours. We’re to go now.”

“Why this is everything ridiculous. I didn’t promise to go.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But I haven’t a habit, and I haven’t the proper boots, I haven’t—”

“My dear, those boots of yours look like they would benefit from a little rest from walking. A long ride will do them quite well, I’m sure.”

She muttered something.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“It sounded rather blasphemous.”

“You are impossible.”

“Not that I don’t approve of taking the Lord’s name in vain, mind you. It adds enjoyment to this life, and may very well improve our accommodations in the next.” He smiled. “That is, if you like to be warm.”

She shook her head. “If you will please leave, I will meet you in the stables in five minutes.”

“Is that similar to the five minutes Ata and I spent waiting outside your room last night, or five minutes according to my pocket watch?” He glanced down at his timepiece.

“It’ll be five minutes in dog years if you’re not more polite, sir.”

He winked at her and left before she could throw her pathetic excuse for a boot at him.

He had plans for rehabilitating the sometimes demure, sometimes not, Mrs. Rosamunde Baird. Delightful plans for tasting the delectable fruits that lay behind that false nature she used when facing the world. He took curious pleasure in forcing her to throw off her reticence.

So far he had only been able to see her more exuberant passionate nature by provoking her. He would give a queen’s ransom to see it up close without effort.

And what he would give to possess her in that moment.

It was too bad she had such a sense of humor when
she chose to use it. Humor was serious business and made him want her more than he should.

Rosamunde fumbled with the stirrup, swatting away the duke’s offer of a leg up. It was tricky climbing into a sidesaddle. She had always preferred the forbidden pleasures of riding astride when no one was about. The stable boy held firm the girth straps on the other side as she hoisted herself from the mounting block.

She hadn’t had time to get nervous, since there was no question she’d be at the stable within five minutes of his leaving her room. She’d gone on a tear, and taken inordinate pleasure at his look of pure disbelief when she appeared, leisurely strolling down the center aisle, gloves casually in hand.

She hoped her hair wouldn’t fall from its perch under her netted hat. She’d had time to stick precisely three pins in it, pull a gown over her chemise, and gulp half a pot of chocolate.

The duke took the lead, briskly trotting his beautiful black mare with four white hocks past the small field behind the stables. Rosamunde clucked to her mount, a dark bay gelding, who showed great impatience to follow the mare. Surprisingly, His Grace said not a word. Perhaps this was going to be more pleasant than she’d envisioned.