Susan Johnson (30 page)

The baleful state of his affairs, both public and private, made Robbie seriously consider the life of a hermit. And while, by turns, the caustic and mournful discussion continued around him, he contemplated
moving to one of his remote estates, far away from the ruinous events in his life.

When he finally rose toward morning to take his leave, Johnnie glanced up. “When are you traveling north?”

Cryptic as was the question, Robbie understood. “Later,” he evasively said.

“When later?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It requires a solution.”

David looked up at Johnnie’s tone, as did several others.

“But perhaps not
my
solution,” Robbie murmured, an acerbic edge to his words.

Johnnie’s glance flickered in the minutest warning, but when he spoke, his voice was mild. “If I don’t see you before you go, I offer you Godspeed.”

“I’m going home to bed,” Robbie murmured, “but thank you for your good wishes.”

But he didn’t go home directly; his thoughts were too disordered, too intense for repose. He walked instead, up and down the streets and byways of the city, trying to sort out the chaos, or at least separate the possible from the impossible, no longer sure he wanted to see her, debating his options—whether he had options. Would she even see him if he went to her? Did he want to? Did he wish to prostrate himself again? And if he did—an uncertainty at the moment—what guarantee did he have that Roxane would respond favorably? If he were to ride north as ordered by his brother, make his proposal of marriage to save her from scandal, would she accept?

In the weeks of their separation, she’d appeared in society in her usual fashion, on the arm of one man or another, Callum more than most, but not exclusively. She’d not looked particularly distressed or brokenhearted. And how miserable was he without her?
Merde.
He wished he was more sober to deal with some unfathomable scale of emotion—or perhaps more drunk. That was it, he decided, as he had so often of late. He needed a drink.

Directing his path toward his lodgings, he proceeded up High Street as the sun began lightening the sky, still as irresolute as when he’d left Steil’s tavern. Not sure what to do. Not sure what his brother would do if he did nothing.

Not sure he cared.

H
E LET HIMSELF IN, QUIETLY WALKING PAST THE
porter asleep in his chair, picking up a fresh bottle of whiskey from his study before ascending the stairs to his bedchamber.

Opening the door to his apartments, he stood arrested on the threshold for a moment, his grip tightening on the whiskey bottle. A pulse beat later, he quietly closed the door behind him and, leaning against the paneled oak, uncorked the bottle and took a much-needed drink.

The liquor burned down his throat while a similar heat ignited his temper. What the hell did the little bitch think she was doing? he wondered, gazing at the nude, nubile Delphine Lauder asleep in his bed. The white-on-white embroidered linen quilt partially covered only her legs in the warmth of the late summer
morning. If he was interested, he would have appreciated the fulsome beauty of her blushing nakedness.

But he wasn’t.

Nor had he ever been.

The question now was how to extricate himself from this unprincipled trap.

First he locked the door. He wanted no witnesses to the scene. Or at least no further witnessess. Then he moved to the foot of the bed and, lightly running a finger down her ankle, waited for her to wake.

Her lashes fluttered open and when she saw him, she smiled.

When he didn’t smile back, she pouted prettily. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Rolling on her back, she offered him an unobstructed view, stretching lazily, like a practiced courtesan.

“Who saw you come in?” he brusquely asked, ignoring her coquetry. He had no intention of joining the Lauder family.

She shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, some of your servants. I didn’t think to ask their names,” she pettishly replied. “Mama said you’d be
pleased
to see me.”

Warning bells had immediately sounded when he’d walked into his room, but her “Mama said” signaled a more foreboding menace. He wasn’t dealing solely with a naive young girl; Caroline Lauder had set out to capture him as a husband for her daughter.

“I’m never pleased to find a young virgin in my bed,” he softly said.

“What if I
wasn’t
a virgin?” she murmured, offering him a seductive smile. “Would you like it better?”

A chill ran down his spine at Caroline Lauder’s duplicity. “What I’d like is for you to quietly leave.”

“That’s not very friendly.”

“I’m not feeling very friendly at the moment.”

“You’ll have to marry me, anyway. Mama said so. I spent the night in your bed, and you’re obliged to do the respectable thing.” She sat up, lifted her chin, and regarded him with an open gaze. “Everyone knows that.”

“Except me,” he bluntly noted.

“You won’t marry me?” she gasped, her blue eyes wide with shock.

“Never.”

“I’ll tell Mama,” she threatened, pursing her lips in displeasure, “and she’ll make you marry me.”

“She can’t.” The Carres had been wealthy too long; they did as they pleased. “Now, as I see it you have two choices,” Robbie offered, wanting her out of his house as quickly as possible. “You can leave, or I can throw you out. It makes no difference to me.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“In a minute.”

“Think of the scandal!”

He almost laughed. “Only for you, Delphine. Scandal is common to my life. Now be a good girl, put your clothes back on, go home, and tell your mother to find someone else to marry you.”

“You’re not very nice,” she grumbled.

“I’m surprised your mother thought I might be.” And then, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the young girl manipulated by her mother, he offered a small recompense in lieu of his hand in marriage. “Pick out some jewelry from that box over there.” He indicated a rosewood-and-ebony box on his bureau. “As a parting gift.”

Her expression brightened and she scrambled from the bed. Watching her walk across the room without regard for her nudity, he decided Delphine had had considerable experience in the bedroom. Not that he cared. Strangely, for a man of libertine habits, she had no effect on him.

The array of jewels in the large box drew a cry of delight from her and, turning to him, she slyly said, “Are you sure you won’t marry me? I’d love a very rich man for a husband.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to settle for jewelry. I’m not inclined to marry. But take what you like,” he generously added, just wanting her to leave.

Avaricious by nature, she took advantage of his magnanimity and selected the most expensive items—a diamond necklace and earrings sumptuous enough for a queen, two rings of emeralds, a ruby bracelet of great value. She displayed the jewels on her pink flesh for him to admire. “I’m
ever
so grateful,” she purred.

He smiled at her attempt to seduce. “And I’d be grateful if you’d get dressed. I’ll have a footman see you home.”

“Mama’s going to be angry,” she warned.

He shrugged. “This wasn’t very original.”

“I
told
her it wouldn’t work,” Delphine frankly admitted. “You never even tried to kiss me.”

“She should have listened to you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry.”

He kept his distance while she dressed, but once Miss Lauder was fully clothed, she came up to him, stood very close, lifted her doelike eyes, and whispered, “Kiss me once before I leave.”

“I’d rather not.” Wary of the Caroline Lauders of
the world, he didn’t want to give her the slightest excuse.

But Delphine kissed him anyway, and moments later as she untwined her arms from around his neck, she murmured, “If you should ever tire of Roxane, remember me, darling Robbie….”

H
OW DID SHE KNOW? HE THOUGHT. HOW DID SHE
know when he didn’t? But the sound of her words echoed in his ears after she’d gone, and images of Roxane filled his mind—all tempting and lush, imbued with desire and memories. And abruptly, he decided to travel north.

Exactly why was unclear, nor did he give himself time to further ruminate on the capricious motives impelling him. He promptly called for his valet, gave instructions for his journey, scooped the jewelry box under his arm, and, bounding down the stairs, paced curbside, waiting for his carriage to be brought round.

H
E SLEPT IN HIS TRAVELING COACH, TOSSING
and turning on the cramped seats for the greater part of the journey, waking intermittently, at the rough patches, at a post stop or inn, for food, for whiskey once. But after he had the whiskey, he found he’d taken a dislike for liquor and tucked the bottle away.

Although when his driver shouted, “Glenroth in sight!” he wondered if he might need fortification for the meeting with Roxane.

A prescient consideration as it turned out. For he found Roxane entertaining a house party—with Callum Murray playing host.

The large, fair-haired man immediately rose from his seat beside Roxane and came up to Robbie, who stood in the doorway surveying the vast number of people surrounding the woman he’d come a great distance to see.

The two men took measure of each other as though they were calibrating the exact length of each other’s coffins.

“You’re a long way from Edinburgh.” Callum’s gaze was chill.

“And you’re a long way from Cardhu,” Robbie countered with the same bad intent.

“I came down for the race meet.”

“So did I,” Robbie lied.

“Without stopping, from the look of you.” Callum glanced at Robbie’s rumpled attire.

“I thought I’d wait for Roxane’s … hospitality,” Robbie insolently replied, “before refreshing myself.”

“I’m not sure her hospitality extends to you.”

Robbie’s brows rose in challenge. “Are you going to try to throw me out in front of all these people? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Not everyone has your penchant for scandal.” There was a bulldog truculence to the set of Callum’s mouth.

“Least of all you.” Robbie knew how Callum Murray prided himself on respectability. And without waiting for further leave, he moved around him and strode into the room.

He looked out of place in the summery room filled with vases of colorful asters and dahlias, the furniture covered in white linen, the floor bleached pale; even the ladies’ beribboned frocks were pastel in tone. He looked intensely masculine, tanned a deep brown, his disheveled red hair tumbling on the shoulders of his tobacco-colored coat, the dust of the road evident on his boots and his formfitting chamois breeches.

“Good afternoon, Countess,” he said, his bow well-bred and polite. “I was in the neighborhood, and thought I’d stop by to visit.”

The blatant audacity if such cool deceit drew everyone’s attention.

“Would you like tea?” She forced the ceremonial response, steeling herself against his powerful masculinity,
the shock of his arrival posing a danger to the particular reason she’d come to the country.

“Id prefer whiskey.” He moved around the small table and seated himself beside her on the settee before she could protest or take issue, before Callum could. “Is everyone enjoying the delightful weather?” he blandly inquired, his gaze taking in the group at large.

Lady Balfour found her voice first; the presence of Robbie Carre at the countess’s tea table was titillating in the extreme. “At this time of year, each warm day is fully appreciated. Have you come for the fishing?” she archly inquired.

“Among other things,” Robbie pleasantly replied. “I thought Roxane might like the news from the city.” As if his long trip from Edinburgh was casually undertaken to bring the latest gossip.

A messenger had preceded him, so the basic elements of Hamilton’s betrayal were known, but numerous questions were directed at him concerning the details. He explained at length the events of that night, a hush descending on the room as the nefarious drama unfolded. “So we all might as well repair to our country homes and see to our gardens,” he finished, pouring himself another drink from the bottle brought for him. “The politicians from London will be orchestrating everything from now on. Queensberry and Argyll will have their English dukedoms, and all will be right with the world,” he sarcastically finished.

“Will it be so different from Johnstone’s reign?” Callum asked. “He, too, ruled Scotland under the court’s instructions.”

“Not so different, perhaps, just more galling, since there was hope at last that liberty might be ours.”

“A pipe dream.”

Robbie’s gaze struck Callum with the full force of his patriotic zeal. “A real possibility, if not for men who would sell their country for gold.”

“You sound as radical as Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun.”

“I’m
more
radical than Andrew Fletcher. While the Murrays chose to hedge their bets and wait to see who would win.” The remark was pointed and rude. And he waited—
wished
—for Callum to defend his position so he could escalate their disagreement, and by extension establish his right to the Countess of Kilmarnock by armed combat.