A Measured Risk (8 page)

 
Today’s incident had been beyond disturbing and threatened to crush her hopes of ever overcoming her current situation. What was she going to do? What was she going to
do
?

* * * *

Jon sat on the piano bench with Francesca Bourchier, the current Countess of Cranfield. He had been idly turning the pages for Francesca as she played but now that Cherry had come to sit, the two ladies had dissolved into gossiping.

Inside, he kept seeing Anne’s dark, sapphire, glazed eyes staring back at him, unseeing. He knew that look, but had never seen it anywhere, except a battlefield or a barracks.

 
He turned to look at her where she sat on the widow seat. Backlit by the last rays of the setting sun, her skin glowed like rich amber.

 
She’d eaten next to nothing at dinner and, by his count, she was well into her fourth glass of claret. Young Lord Highsmith stood there, obviously enjoying his view of her
dark purple gown, which was far too low cut—the amount of her bosom it exposed was devastating. All day, and now into the evening, Jon’s balls had ached with the memory of his hand pressed close to that velvet-soft flesh. Now blood rushed into his cock, forcing him to shift.

Anne fluttered her lashes and laughed at some remark Highsmith had made. To say she was animated would have been an understatement. He’d never have guessed she could be so unreserved. Then again, in the brief time he’d known her, he’d never yet seen her down so much claret as quickly as she had at supper. Yet her laughter held a hollow note that resonated uneasily in his guts.

She looked up and her reckless eyes met his. As he returned her stare steadily, they hardened to defiance.

Remorse soured Jon’s stomach. Blame for her current state of thin nerves lay at his feet. He had placed her into the position where she had ended up under the desk, trapped. And it had apparently triggered a strong memory of the accident.

After he’d drawn the gentlemen out of the study, he’d fetched Lady Cranfield’s abigail to her. But he’d been distracted by worry the whole afternoon, so that he’d almost lost to Parwick. Unthinkable.

Just three days ago, he’d intended to put distance between them by focusing his attention on others. Well, he’d gained the distance he’d wanted from Lady Cranfield and then some. She’d behaved as if he were invisible to her. As if she didn’t even notice his attentions to the others. He should have been satisfied with her coolness and left it at that.

Instead it had settled like a burr under his skin. He’d wanted to hurt her, to force a reaction out of her—an emotional reaction. The very type of reaction that had made him seek to distance himself to begin with. Illogical, yes. But knowing how illogical his motivations were hadn’t stopped him. And yet once he had achieved his goal, it had given him no joy. Then she had slapped him.

His cock turned to iron at the thought of her sparkling eyes and flushed face.

He did not want the kind of connection she needed. So what was he doing? Treading dangerous waters…

“She’s dark as a Rom.” The affected, lispy voice cut into Jon’s thoughts.

He turned to see Cherry sitting beside him on the settee. Two years had passed since their
affaire
had burnt itself out. Though they remained friendly enough, the end had been disagreeable. It was the way of their class. Romance among the aristocracy might start out sweetly but it always ended badly.
He’d grown up seeing first-hand what marriage between two people of his class meant. Disappointed feelings and expectations. Constant, deceitful manoeuvrings for power and revenge. Polite civility hiding the hatred. He wanted no part of that kind of conflict.

He’d spent his time as an adult pursuing casual liaisons such as the one he’d previously shared with Cherry—frivolous and pretty confections that made life a little sweeter.

Marriage was a business arrangement, not a romantic experience. But ladies always had marriage—along with romance—on their minds.

Something he’d best keep in mind with the lovely Lady Cranfield. She was a duke’s daughter, after all. She would have her pride. He’d better not let his sympathy make him lose his head.

“What are you two prattling about?” he asked.

“We’re talking about Lady Cranfield.” Cherry’s pale brows drew together. “Whose side-slip is she, anyway? The old Duke of Saxby was fair.”

“Don’t you remember?” Francesca asked. “Her mother was a Spaniard.”

“Was she really?” Cherry said.

“Yes, she was the daughter of a Seville merchant. Brought a fortune to Saxby,” Francesca said.

“Probably more like a Creole from the tropics, if you ask me. Impoverished dukes are always the most indiscriminate breeders. They’ll do anything to fill their depleted coffers.” Cherry’s fan strokes grew more rapid as she met his gaze. “Now, what is that look, Ruel?”

“I am trying to decide if I like you with fangs or if they make you look desperate.”

She pursed her lips, then her eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re soft on her—no, do not try to deny it.”

Jon examined her critically. At thirty-eight, with her sky-blue eyes, chestnut hair and yet flawless milk-white skin, she was still considered an Incomparable, but right now she resembled nothing so much as a reptile. “Jealous, Cherry?”

“And wouldn’t that just please your vanity?” She resumed rapid fanning. “Well, one thing
is
certain—she’s soft on you. She’s nearly made a spectacle of herself over it.”

“At least she’s showing some emotion,” Francesca said. “She’s so quiet, like a cat. I never know what she’s thinking.”

“You know, William and I were friendly once,” Cherry said, dropping her voice.

“Dear, you’ve been friendly once or twice with so many gentlemen, I lose track.”

The two women laughed for a moment, then Francesca said, “Is it true what they say about red-haired men?”

Cherry tittered. “What do they say?”

“That they are fiery, absolutely insatiable lovers.”

“Will was never lacking in imagination and he had limitless enthusiasm and stamina. But he was never happy with
her
.” Cherry dropped her voice. “Not in the bedchamber. He said she was so cold she could freeze a man’s prick. Why he ever wed such a crow I never understood.”

Francesca patted Cherry’s hand. “Darling, he married her for her fortune. Everyone knew. After her two abysmal seasons, Saxby was grateful to get her off his hands. Everyone was happy. Even William, believe me.”

Jon let his lips lift in a slight, cruel smile. “Well, well—I never realised what a pair of hissing, snarling cats you two are. Have you even tried to become friendly with her?”

Francesca blinked at him. “To what purpose?”

“She’s the dowager countess of Cranfield, for one thing.”

Cherry grinned and leaned close to Francesca. “Oh, he
is
smitten,” she pretended to whisper. “What a pair they will make—Hades and his ice queen.”

Cherry was trying to provoke him. In the past, he’d have taken her up on that and given her some delightful punishment for her insolence. But now he hadn’t the taste for her. He turned and gave the current Countess of Cranfield a severe stare.

“Francesca, where is your charity?” He stroked a finger over the brocaded velvet piano seat cover. “She is a widow, childless. Her ducal father is deceased and you told me yourself that she isn’t on friendly terms with the current duke. She could use some familial support.”

“You are saying I need to take her under my wing, like some stray nestling?” She grimaced and affected a small shudder.

His voice hardened. “I am saying you should bestow on her the respect due to the dowager countess of Cranfield.”

“She’s no pathetic kitten. Her jointure could buy and sell Richard and myself thrice over,” Francesca said. “Saxby was very wily about that.”

“So that’s what this is really about? Envy.”

“I simply do not like these merchant class women, having their papas buy their way into our families. Then they act so high and mighty, looking down their noses at us.”

Anne’s laugh echoed melodiously through the chamber. Obliquely, he glanced at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes too bright.

“She’s making a spectacle of herself Franny—you should do something,” Cherry said.

“I’ve already warned her she should go to bed and she just stared at me with that superior, frosty stare. Should I create an even larger scene and have her carried off by a footman? I have tried to do my best with that girl but common blood will out.” Francesca sighed. “But, as I say, at least she’s showing
some
emotion. She may catch some gentleman’s eye.”

Jon’s neck prickled as if he could feel Cherry’s gaze cut to him.

“Perhaps she’s not over Cranfield’s death,” he said coolly, returning his gaze to the two women.

Francesca snorted. “It has been almost a year.”

“His death was horrific and she witnessed it.”

“Told you she was there, did she?” Francesca’s brow wrinkled as if she were in pain. “I have warned her repeatedly not to tell anyone.”

“Isn’t it her choice to tell or not tell?” Jon asked.

“As William’s closest kin, it falls to Richard and myself to try to protect his widow’s reputation. Too many men won’t fancy having a wife who has seen something like that. They’ll think she’s been touched in the head.”

Maybe, in a way, she had. Maybe Anne needed more understanding and sympathy than most widows. She certainly got none from her relations. Aggravation tightened his jaw. “For God’s sake, she’s been living here alone but for the servants since Cranfield died. Didn’t that seem an unnatural choice for such a young lady?”

Francesca rolled her shoulders. “She’s always been such a little country mouse.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Highsmith rise and offer Anne his hand. She cast her gaze to her lap, a small smile curving her sensual mouth. Jon’s hand contracted on his brandy glass. He forced it to relax, then he turned the glass slowly in his fingers, pretending to watch the amber fluid slosh about. Anne was on her feet now, smiling up into Highsmith’s handsome, patrician face.

“She’s too haughty and cold to still be affected,” Francesca said.

He looked up from the glass and fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Didn’t her isolation even once provoke your concern?”

“She’s over-proud. You shall find out, too, should you decide to pursue her.” Cunning crept into Francesca’s eyes. “However, if you are of a mind to marry her for her money, you’d better hurry. There have been many enquiries. My cousin would like to match her son with Anne. No matter what, she won’t remain unwed for long—her wealth is just too juicy a plum.”

“You’d throw her to a viper?” he asked curtly, tapping his glass, once again watching covertly as Anne allowed Highsmith to escort her from the chamber. He levelled his stare back on Francesca. “And what does your husband say about that?”

“You know how Richard is—it’s all up to me. It always is.” Francesca’s shifted her gaze away from his. “You can’t know how I look forward to having her off my hands.”

He stood. “I’ve heard enough.”

She slammed the cover down over the piano keys. “How dare you judge me, Ruel? A man who defied and then turned his back on his own grandfather.”

Disgusted, he left his glass on the piano and walked away, as if to Richard’s study, then he turned and took the long way out to the gardens.

Anne was sitting on a stone bench, laughing in the moonlight. Highsmith was standing looking down at her, his stare riveted on her neckline. No doubt he was vastly enjoying his vantage point. At his boots crunching on the gravel path, they looked up.

“Ruel!” Highsmith called, his voice slurring slightly. “I am glad you came along because I have been wanting to thank you for making me three hundred pounds richer today. That was some smart fencing with Parwick.”

Jon fixed him with an unwavering look. “I think it is time Lady Cranfield went inside.”

Highsmith laughed. “Are you her guardian now?” He grinned and glanced back at Anne. “Love, you didn’t tell me you weren’t of age.”

Jon offered his hand to Anne. “Come, now, Lady Cranford—I shall escort you inside.”

She stared at his hand and compressed her lips, the skin pinching around her nostrils. Then she crossed her arms over her chest.

Highsmith inserted himself between them. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t think you have any call to dictate here.”