Defiant Angel (12 page)

Tiffany smiled weakly.

Chad turned to Clinton, extending his hand. "Clinton, glad to see you could make it. I heard you were abroad. I see you've made the acquaintance of Lady Courtland."

"Yes, we have met." Clinton turned, smiling at Tiffany, and then back to Chad. "Sorry I was late. I just returned from England this afternoon."

Chad raised an arched brow and asked, "Business?"

Before he could reply, Reginald Stanridge appeared.

"Devonshire, Barencourte." Reginald nodded stiffly in greeting. He turned to Tiffany, bowing. "I believe, Lady Courtland, you promised me the earlier set." He gazed at Clinton. "However, you were otherwise detained. I would seek recompensation with this set." Tiffany laid her hand on Reginald's arm, thankful for his rescue, and accompanied him to the floor. Chad did not miss the cold half smile that crossed Clinton's mouth or the piercing gaze leveled at Reginald's retreating figure.

Chad relieved a passing waiter of two glasses of champagne, handing one to Clinton. After taking a sip of the liquid, Chad asked, "Will I see you at the hunt this weekend?"

Never taking his gaze from Tiffany, who at the moment was surrounded by admirers, Clinton easily responded, "I won't be riding to the hounds. Some loose strings require tying up. I shall be late, but early for dinner."

"Loose ends, you say! As in flaming red hair and green eyes?"

Turning his head slightly to Chad, Clinton lifted a brow in inquiry.

Chad's mouth lifted in a smile. He paused, taking a sip of his drink, remarking, "I might be interested in offering her my protection for services of her body."

A knowing smirk crossed Clinton's face and he remarked, "We go back a long time, Chad; never have I known you to take another's leavings." Clinton lifted his glass, sipping his drink. When he finished, he added, "If memory serves me correctly, you were quite put out whenever we engaged a wench in a menage a trois."

"Ah, true, my friend, but you also cared not for seconds."

Clinton returned his gaze to Tiffany, watching her banter with an ardent suitor, and countered easily, "But I am no longer in the market for used goods, and you are."

"So what I hear is true, Clinton! You've made a large cash settlement and given your mistress the title to the house." Chad rocked back on his heels, ready with his next question. "Have you found a replacement?"

A long moment passed before Clinton answered, and in that moment Chad watched Clinton's gaze follow Tiffany as she was whisked about the floor.

"You might say I have, Chad."

Clinton did not miss the sigh Chad emitted, and turned to him, saying, "Let's cut to the quick, Chad."

"You may not like what I have to say, Clinton."

A crooked smile appeared on Clinton's face. "That never stopped you before, my friend."

Nodding, Chad began. "We have been friends a long time. Shared many an adventure, many a woman, and drank ourselves silly." In a serious voice, Chad continued. "We have never judged or slandered one another." He paused, "Or crossed swords."

Clinton met his gaze, asking, "And you think now we will?"

Declining to answer, Chad explained further. "I find myself in an awkward position thrust between friendship and duty. For the last two years my duty has been to protect Lady Courtland's honor." He smiled roguishly. "A duty most difficult, for often I had to remind myself of my role and exercise extreme self-control." Clinton grinned, knowing his friend's equally strong appetites.

"Tonight, Clinton, I could not help but notice your attention to that ravishing creature who would tempt the devil himself. As a man, I'd say pursue her with all haste! But as her protector, I need to know your intentions are not to dally, for I rue the day we'd face one another across a dueling field over a piece of fluff."

Smiling, Clinton placed his arm across Chad's shoulders, and thinking of the betrothal contract in his breast pocket, confidently replied, "You have my word, as a friend, that day will never come."

Much relieved, Chad suggested, "If you're finished devouring her, we can leave and find something a little stronger and fortifying than this champagne."

They made their way, but Clinton paused, turning back before leaving the room. His gaze rested on Tiffany, who was amidst a group of gentlemen. She must have sensed his gaze, for she looked in his direction. Their eyes met across the expanse of the room; his the cool, predatory gaze of a hunter, hers reflecting the wariness of the hunted. Tiffany quickly looked away. Clinton smiled, knowing she understood the exchange, and left the room.

Chapter Eight

"C
ome, come, mademoiselle, time to get up!" Germane dashed efficiently about the room, opening the French doors, allowing the late morning sun to stream into the darkened chamber.

"Mademoiselle!! Up! Up! The carriages are loaded and awaiting you!"

Tiffany moaned, pulling the pillow over her head, blocking the sun.

"Go away, Germane." Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

Yanking the covers back, Germane scolded, "You have missed the hunt and you will miss the festivities if you don't get up."

Tiffany threw the pillow at Germane, who caught it undaunted, used to her mistress's mercurial moods.

Sitting up, drawing her knees to her chin, Tiffany cried, "I'm tired of hunts, balls, champagne, and waltzes!"

A barrage of servants entered carrying heated water for her bath while Germane laid a small breakfast on the terrace table.

With little energy, Tiffany rose, wrapping her robe around her lush form, and padded out to the terrace. She nibbled on a croissant and sipped her hot cocoa. Her appetite in the last few days had waned. She attributed this and her lack of energy to her coming monthly flux.

Tiffany padded back into her room, heading toward the bathing chamber. The smell of crushed violets, her favorite flower, wafted in the steamy air. She lowered herself into the warm, soothing water, laying her head against the rim of the tub, her raven tresses cascading down to the floor.

I should be happy, she mused. This is Alysse's weekend celebration and most likely the last event of her single life. I should be happy, for after this, I shall return to England, to Alan. Her monthly flux always made her moody, that was it. Well, that's part of it, she thought as she squeezed water from the sponge over a shapely raised leg. And the other part, well, she didn't want to think about it, but Mr. Barencourte's face kept surfacing. And why did Kent have to know the duke of Chablisienne? Why did that lecherous old man offer his estate? Why? Why? Why?

She threw the sponge forcefully in the water, causing droplets to splash on her.

"Oooooh,"
she screeched. Barencourte, Chablisienne, a weekend surrounded by them. No doubt that ass Barencourte, the lackey he was, had dutifully informed the lecherous duke of her refusal of his despicable offer! How would she ever face him? Him! How in God's name would she face Barencourte after last night! What a pickle she was in. A lecherous old duke and a highhanded Barencourte!

Fortunately last night at the ball, any talk about her and Mr. Barencourte had been overshadowed with rumors that the duke of Chablisienne had pensioned off his mistress. Speculation ran rampant as to her replacement. The duke should present no problem tonight unless he was able to hobble down the steps. No, the problem would be Barencourte.

"Mademoiselle!" Germane's impatient voice exclaimed. Tiffany groaned but rose from her bath, restored,

refreshed, and ready to do battle.

Tiffany impatiently slapped her gloves against her hand, tapping her foot nervously, wondering where the duke's ancient butler, Leavit, was off to. God, she thought, the poor man should retire.

While waiting, she took in her surroundings, noting the tasteful blend of architecture and furnishings. It was obvious what the duke lacked in moral fiber was made up for in his estate's decor. "Hummh," she snorted, noting the priceless vases and bric-a-brac. "All his possessions on display," she mumbled unkindly. She shook her head, thinking, what did she expect anyway?

The estate was indeed pretentious, gilded railings, priceless paintings, marble statues gracing the hallways, and rooms upon rooms. Goodness, it was staggering the number of rooms and servants. Her room was lovely ; it faced a southeasterly direction, large and spacious. Rows of French windows let the afternoon light in. Soft lavender paper lined the walls, and much to her surprise, vases of fresh-cut violets filled her room.

Strolling across the foyer in search of the butler, she wondered what Aunt Winnie was doing. "Probably soaking in a hot tub," she said to herself. Aunt Winnie had seen her restlessness and suggested she ride Shalimar, who had been brought to the estate two days ago. Tiffany readily accepted Winnie's suggestion, knowing the others were still out hunting. Fortunately she had missed the hunt. Although she loved to ride, she abhorred hunting. She had never seen a kill but had heard her father and his friends discuss it. It sounded gruesome! She could not abide the slaughtering of animals for food. She certainly could not abide the running down of a fox for sport!

Turning around, not having found the butler, she decided, contrary to Leavit's admonition, she did not need an escort to the stables. With purposeful strides, she crossed the foyer and threw open the door, charging down the numerous steps onto the brick drive, making her way in the direction she thought the stables to be.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!"

She turned, hearing the anguished voice of the butler. Leavit paused, stooped over, his hand clutching his chest.

"Leavit," she cried, running back to the man, thinking him sick. Reaching him, helping him stand, she asked, "Are you all right? My goodness, you should not be running about."

"Mademoiselle . . . please . . ." he gasped between breaths. "Please, I beg your indulgence, the groom was detained." Leavit, catching his breath, stood up. "He will be but a moment."

Smiling down at the old man, speaking softly, she said "Really, Leavit, I need no escort." She waved her hand in the direction of the stables. "See, I am almost there."

Shaking his head, he said, "No, no, His Grace was most explicit; 'an escort,' he said."

At the mention of His Grace, Tiffany stiffened and retorted unkindly, "
His
Grace no doubt has lapses of memory, a condition not uncommon in men of advanced years; however, I have no such affliction."

Turning abruptly from him, Tiffany made her way to the stables. Leavit looked increduously after her, shaking his head. Raising his hand to the sky as if asking for divine intervention, he commented, "No matter how long I live and service the wealthy, I'll never understand them." He made his way slowly back to the manor.

Tiffany leisurely wandered into the stables. The familiar smells of sweet hay, leather, and horseflesh filled her senses. The stables were excellently kept, indicating the duke spared no expense in maintaining them. Well, he wouldn't, she thought; it's another possession of his, another mark of his status.

She aimlessly walked, stopping to pat the heads of horses stabled within, wondering where Xanadu was kept. She began her search, lingering for a moment with a dappled gray mare who caught her eye. A whinnying drew her to a stall where a young stallion was housed. Her experienced eye placed him at three years. His face bespoke Arabian and thoroughbred bloodlines. He had a proud head, strong neck, and fine-muscled legs. Her contemplation of the stallion was interrupted by a voice.

" 'E's a fine beast. Fine an' fast, 'e is."

Tiffany looked up at a man with flaming red hair and merry blue eyes; for an instant she had a feeling of deja
vu.

"Oh, indeed he is, sir. I bet he is a joy to ride." She patted his soft muzzle. "What do you call him?"

"Oh, the duke's named 'im Kubla Khan, 'ady."

"A most noble name." Tiffany observed the stallion, thinking he was much like Xanadu, which prompted her to ask, "Sir, is the stallion Xanadu stabled here as well?"

"No, lady, the duke sold him."

"Oh. Do you . . ."

Her question was interrupted by the frantic appearance of the stable master, who hurried to her, crying, "Mademoiselle, here you are! I was told you had left, but when I did not see you, I became alarmed." He grabbed her arm, leading her outside. Confusion was written across her face at the actions of the man.

Claude, the stable master, relieved he had found Mademoiselle, called out, "I have found Mademoiselle; bring her mount, Franz, on the double!"

Claude made to leave her to see what the holdup was but stopped, turning to say, "Stay right here, mademoiselle. I will see what the delay is." Tiffany had never seen a household of such frantic servants, first Leavit, now Claude. She shook her head. The duke was no doubt an ogre to work for, expecting his every command to be carried out with precision that allowed no margin for error. He probably thrashed them with his walking stick for any infraction, no matter how small.

Shalimar was led out, tacked in a hunter's saddle and not the customary sidesaddle. A surprise look crossed her face, which did not go unnoticed by Claude. He was quick to explain. "My apologies, mademoiselle, but His Grace specifically instructed this saddle."

"No, the saddle is fine." Tiffany mounted Shalimar, and while she was adjusting her skirt, Claude informed her of an intricate course of jumps His Grace thought she'd love.