Susan Johnson (27 page)

She laughed. “And modest, too. How can I refuse?”

“How indeed, when I know everything you like.”

She put her hands to her cheeks. “Behave. You’re making me blush.”

“But then, I so enjoy it.”

And into this charming scene Roxane’s majordomo entered with a message.

“A Mrs. Barrett is here to see you, my lady. She wished to see the earl as well. I’m afraid we had to lock her in the drawing room. She’s quite unruly.”

“Thank you,” Roxane blandly said. “We’ll be there
directly.” Once the servant left the room, she turned on Robbie and coolly said, “Are they going to be joining us for breakfast now?”

“I have no idea why she’s here. I haven’t seen her since before I left for Holland. And there’s no need for you to talk to her. I’ll take care of this.”

“You don’t
want
me to talk to her?”

Not in this lifetime, he thought, but Roxane’s tone of voice wasn’t allowing any latitude in that regard. “Talk to her if you wish, but she’s a volatile woman.”

“Should I go armed?”

In a full suit of armor, more like; he still had scars from the lady’s nails to remind him. “We’ll go together. That should prove daunting enough for her.”

“Whatever did you see in her?”

It wasn’t a question that could be answered in polite company. “I was bored,” he said, pushing away from the table, standing, wanting to get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible.

“And I’m assuaging your boredom now?”

“No, Lord, no,” he protested. “It’s not the same, and you know it. I’m sorry she’s here. I can’t imagine what she wants.”

They weren’t long kept in the dark about the reason for Mrs. Barrett’s visit. As soon as they entered the room, she spun around from the window where she was agitatedly tapping her finger on the pane and hotly said, “I’m pregnant with your child, Robbie. Now what are you going to do about it?”

Roxane gasped and turned to go.

Robbie’s fingers closed around her wrist and, ignoring Roxane’s struggles to escape his hold, he mildly asked their visitor, “Why did you come here?”

“Because you weren’t at home, and gossip had you at the countess’s house. I didn’t want to wait.”

“When is this child due?”

“Your child.”

“When?”

“November.”

“Really. Why come to me? You’re married.”

“You heartless cur,” Roxane spat.

“He’ll do the same to you, my lady,” Katharine Barrett said. “He’s an infamous rogue.”

“The child isn’t mine, Roxane. Believe me.”

“How original.”

“Let me talk to her,” he said softly to Roxane, not wanting the scene to escalate into a melodrama. “There’s no need for you to be party to this. I’ll explain later.”

“Fine,” Roxane crisply replied.

“I’ll be upstairs shortly.”

“Don’t hurry.” She shook her hand free.

He let her go, understanding her anger. But he sighed inwardly, knowing whatever his explanation, her response would be stormy.

Once the door closed on Roxane, he gazed at his ex-lover. She was out of character in her demure gray gown, although her warm smile was familiar. “My compliments on your staging and that gown. The Countess Kilmarnock’s drawing room was a nice touch. Dramatic, likely to have the gossip mills in full swing within the hour.”

“I rather thought the setting was good,” the small blond woman agreed. “Your new true love seemed aggrieved. You’ll have to soothe her temper in your usual way.”

“Tell me why you’re here, as if I didn’t know.” Robbie was not about to discuss Roxane with her. “And tell me whose child it is. It’s not mine. You and I both know that.”

“But then think how hard it will be to prove, darling Robbie, with so many red-haired men in Scotland.”

“Mackenzie won’t pay?” Robbie had never asked nor expected exclusivity in their liaison, and she’d been seeing Ian Mackenzie intermittently for years.

“His wife holds the purse strings. As an heiress, she has that prerogative.”

“And I’m supposed to pay for Ian’s child? Has your husband cut your allowance?”

She snorted. “As if that old miser even understands what it costs to live my life. And you’ve plenty of money, darling. You won’t miss a little. If you indulge me, I’d be more than willing to tell the countess it was all a mistake.”

“That I want you to do.”

“For a price, my sweet.”

“You should have been a shopkeeper.”

“Or a lawyer, like you. Where would you like to begin?”

“Does Ian like the apartment I gave you?” Robbie sardonically asked.

“He finds it ever so cozy, and you know as well as I do that the price was no more than a wealthy man like you wagers on a hand of cards. Poor Ian has to beg his penurious wife for every shilling.”

“I should add him to my tenant list.”

“I’d be more than happy to oblige you—in other ways, if you wish,” she murmured.

“I don’t wish. Look, I’d rather not haggle about this
with the countess in a pet upstairs. Go and talk to Coutts at White Horse Close and tell him what you want. But I
will
require a written disavowal of my paternity. And it’s not November, is it?” he blandly said, his gaze drifting over her plump form.

“I don’t intend to give away all my secrets without payment, darling. Ill tell you later.”

His liaison with Mrs. Barrett had been brief—six weeks at most, in the period before he left for Holland. It wasn’t possible for a pregnancy relating to his affair with her to be so obvious yet. And he’d known better than to take the risk of ejaculating into so mercenary a womb. “Give Ian my congratulations. He must be pleased.”

“Since his wife is barren, he
is
rather excited.”

“I want the countess informed of this deceit as soon as possible.”

“She won’t listen to you, I presume, my bonny stud. It’s the price you pay for your licentious reputation.” Her smile was open and innocent, as though she’d not just extorted money from him.

“Just send the note.”

“Of course, darling. And you tell your lawyer I want cash.”

“I’ll tell him, and I hope you haven’t fucked up my life.”

“Now, if you were a pious cleric, who would believe me? So consider, dear Robbie, you may have done your own fucking up.”

“I hope like hell not,” he softly said. “Or I might have to come and exact a pound of your flesh.”

“Any time, darling. Ian is out of town quite often.”

“Acquit me,” he bluntly said. “I’m not sure I can afford another child of yours.”

“Of course you can. You could afford a dozen with your banks and fleet and trading posts.” She stopped his protest with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m not completely without scruple.”

“Take my advice. Invest the money.”

“I will, and thank you. You and your brother are terribly sweet.”

“My brother?” His eyes flared wide at the disclosure. “Then why didn’t you go to him?”

“Because he’s in love. Who would believe me, when he’s been head over heels for his wife for so long?”

Robbie laughed despite himself. “Who else is in the running for father?”

“No one as rich as the Carres, darling. Or as generous,” she added with genuine sincerity. “I could name the baby after you.”

“Lord, no. Although I’m flattered,” he added with a smile. “And I wouldn’t advise you to name the baby after Ian, either. His wife will make his life a living hell. Why not name it after your husband? Or isn’t he that benevolent?”

“With luck, he’ll die soon.”

“I see. This is an awkward situation for you.”

Her pretty mouth quirked into a smile. “I’ll be visiting Holland soon, to give birth to the—awkwardness. And I
will
send the countess my apologies.”

“Thank you. Make them very specific. I’m going to
need
your disavowal. I’ll have my valet take a message to Coutts immediately.” He wished her good fortune in her travail. Ian’s wife kept him on a tight curb, and he
wasn’t so certain Katharine wouldn’t tire of him if someone better came along. She was a self-indulgent little fortune hunter for all her cheerful, unabashed sexuality.

“Thank you, Robbie,” she said, her gaze downcast like that of some undefiled, trembling virgin.

“Save that precious pose for Ian. He’s more gullible. But you’re welcome so long as the countess gets her explanation with all speed.” And with a pointed look indicating he expected prompt compliance, he left the room.

N
o
,
NO, NO, NO, NO!” ROXANE CRIED AS HE ENTERED
her apartments and began explaining. “No more excuses, no more explanations. I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want to hear a single one. Don’t you see,” she hotly insisted, “this won’t ever change. The women aren’t going to go away if you marry me. And I’m too selfish. I don’t want that constant frustration in my life. I can’t deal with it. I’m sorry.”

“The child isn’t mine. She’s going to send you a note of explanation.”

“How much did that cost you?”

“It’s the truth. The child is Ian Mackenzie’s.”

“Or so she says, for a price. Don’t look at me with that bland expression. I’m not stupid. That woman wouldn’t leave without being paid. So any note from her really doesn’t mean much.”

She’d had time alone to consider whether she could face another disaster like this, and the painful realization was that she couldn’t—or wouldn’t. She knew from agonizing experience that no matter how fervent,
love eventually faded. Because if it didn’t, she never could have loved again after Jamie. So this, too, would pass, this tumult of loving Robbie. She particularly didn’t want her children drawn into a relationship that might end in misery for everyone.

“You’re not being reasonable.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be reasonable when my breakfast is interrupted by one of your paramours.”

“I apologize for that.”

“I wish an apology was enough, but this isn’t going to work out for any of us. I’d like you to leave. I don’t mean it in anger. I’m just not capable of dealing with any more friends of yours.”

“Because you don’t care enough.”

“Because I care too much.”

“It doesn’t sound like it to me. If you cared, you’d try to understand.”

“Don’t put the onus on me,” she retorted, unwilling to be put on the defensive because of the women he’d slept with.

“Why does it seem as though I’m spending my life apologizing to you,” he said, chafing in his role as supplicant.

“Do you think it has something to do with the indiscretions of your life?”

“Roxane, don’t go moral on me. You’re hardly in a position to take on that virtuous pose.”

“I beg your pardon?” she coolly pronounced.

“You know what the hell I mean. You’ve indulged your passions like the rest of us.”

“Not quite like ‘the rest of us,’ if you’re speaking of yourself. Acquit me of that style of dissipation.”

“Are we arguing degrees now?”

“We’re not arguing about anything. There’s nothing to argue about. You live your life as you please, and I’ll live mine.”

“That’s it? All because Mrs. Barrett came calling?”

“You don’t understand, do you?” she incredulously murmured.

“No, I don’t. I wasn’t at fault.”

“Maybe you never will be, and that’s what worries me.”

“So you’ll throw away our love?”

“I’m just realistic about my ability to accept all the changes you’d bring to my life.”

“You talk as though they’re all horrendous.”

“No, but too many are. Maybe I’m set in my ways. Maybe I’m too selfish. Blame me if you wish. But passion isn’t enough to overcome all the other obstacles.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have only myself to think about.”

He strode away in disgust and stood at the windows overlooking the garden, his hands braced on the frame. “You want this to be over?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He pushed away from the window. “Thank you for your time. It was … pleasant.” With a faint bow, he walked toward the door.

She watched him, already feeling the pain.

But then he turned at the threshold and said, “You’re a damned good fuck, Roxane.”

And her pain was engulfed by so monstrous a rage, she was glad no weapon was in sight. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she coolly replied.

It gave her pleasure to see the flaring anger in his eyes.

“We try,” he softly said and, pulling the door open, he left.

The soft click of the latch felt like a knife to her heart. She forced herself not to cry, because she couldn’t afford reddened eyes before her children. Finding her wrap, she composed her face and her thoughts as best she could and went to take them shopping.

Her explanation of Robbie’s leaving was bland, and so fabricated even the children looked startled for a moment, but when she said, “If everyone wishes, we can go riding on the downs when we’re finished shopping,” the conversation immediately turned to everyone’s favorite mount.

And her life went on.

T
HE VERY WORST TIMES WERE WHEN THEY MET
in public, at some social event—a ball or dinner, a levee or political soiree. With Parliament in session everyone was in town, and the social calendar was so filled with events, some evenings required attendance at several entertainments. And on the nights the sessions lasted late, the men would troop in at all hours, still contesting their divergent views.