by Emma Wildes
and let’s talk about it.”
“Is there some reason we should?” Robert nonetheless dropped into a chair, his moody gaze
accusing. “In case it has escaped your notice, Rebecca’s parents would swoon if I as much as
showed a glimmer of interest. Her father in particular.”
“Ah, you can say her name out loud and confess the fascination. That’s progress.”
If a glower could kill someone, Damien would be writhing in agony, but apparently the method
was ineffectual. Robert said acerbically, “Who knew you could be just as annoying now as you
were when I was ten?”
“I was eleven then, and I’ve improved my technique with age.”
“There are some things that shouldn’t be improved on.”
Damien chuckled. “I’ll concede that. So, tell me, what’s the problem between you and Sir
Benedict? After all, though you hardly have a pristine reputation, you are a Northfield, the
younger brother of a duke, and you have your own fortune. She could certainly do worse. It
would be a prestigious match.”
“I don’t want a match,” Robert said peevishly, his jaw set.
“But you do want her. Therein lies the aforementioned dilemma.” Damien lifted a hand, palm
outward. “For argument’s sake, let’s put forth the idea you honestly wished to woo the fair
Rebecca. That would naturally mean gaining her father’s permission.”
“He wouldn’t give it, believe me.” Robert moodily contemplated the tips of his boots and then
sighed. Heavily. “Several years ago, I was at a less than respectable establishment, full of young
bloods eager to drink and gamble. Sir Benedict’s nephew was also there. He’s young, was in his
cups, and not the most prudent fellow even when sober. He lost a fortune that night, and I do
mean literally. Several of us cautioned him to remove himself from the game because we could
see he had foregone all good judgment, but he was a belligerent fool and refused. The deeper he
got into the mire, the more determined he was to extricate himself. It didn’t happen, I’m afraid.
He ended the disastrous evening in the arms of a prostitute, who apparently gave him a case of
the pox.” Robert glanced up with a cynical twist to his mouth. “Sir Benedict, naturally,
administers his nephew’s inheritance, which was significantly decreased that evening. Young
Bennie, named after his uncle, of course, couldn’t remember which gentlemen were involved in
the game, except myself and Herbert Haversham. We both received scathing letters accusing us
of cheating and leading the young man into debauchery, and though I took the time to reply and
explain the truth, the missive was returned unopened.”
Damien murmured, “I see.”
“To an extent, I do not blame Rebecca’s father, for he was faced with either believing whatever
tale Bennie came up with or facing the fact his nephew had made not only a fool of himself, but
also squandered his portion and lied about it. How much easier to blame us. Neither Herbert nor I
kept the money we won from him, but returned it before we left that evening with a caution that
fell on deaf, drink-befuddled ears. Bennie just lost it promptly in another game. I’ve wondered if
he remembered the two of us because we were the ones who returned the money.”
“Could be. So . . . I think I see things clearly. Besides your rakish reputation, you are now
considered a depraved influence, and dishonorable in the bargain. Is that correct?” Damien had
one of his inscrutable expressions firmly in place.
“I would guess so. The man can hardly bring himself to grate out a polite greeting if we come
face-to-face.” Sir Benedict’s thunderous expression when he saw Robert with his beautiful
daughter came to mind. “To say he has no regard for me is an understatement, but though I have
never claimed angelic status, in this matter, I am entirely blameless.”
“I agree. So, what is your plan then?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have a plan, Dame.”
“To win the object of your desire.” His brother cocked a brow irreverently. “I admit it isn’t going
to be easy. You are going to have to modify your behavior considerably. This is one young
woman you can’t simply lure into your bed. Actually, I get the impression you could lure her into
your bed, but while you aren’t perfect, I don’t see you dishonoring her any more than you would
cheat a drunken man of his money.”
“Such high praise,” Robert drawled sarcastically. “I feel my head beginning to swell.”
His brother ignored him but kept talking as if musing over one of his damned tactical problems.
“So you are for once going to have to rely on something other than your pretty face and a façade
of superficial charm. Luckily, the two of you have one very important thing in common, besides a
mutual physical attraction.”
The problem was, Robert was afraid Damien was exactly right. He was experienced enough to
know when a woman was interested, and Rebecca was too inexperienced to hide it. More than
once he’d caught her watching him and seen the quick turn of her head coupled with the stain of a
blush in her cheeks.
He should find it amusing, but he didn’t, especially because the only reason he’d caught her
watching him was because he’d been watching her.
“My own reservations aside, it’s impossible and we both know it.”
“Not at all.” Damien smiled. “It’s a challenge to be sure, but impossible? Nothing is impossible.
If Badajoz could be taken, this is a mere skirmish. Though I do admit this black mark against you
isn’t ideal for an approved courtship.”
If Robert even wanted to court anyone.
“We have nothing in common,” he objected. “She’s an innocent, marriageable young lady, and I
can’t even remember what the term innocent means.”
“You and Rebecca have a deep mutual love of music.” Damien rubbed his jaw. “Damned if I’m
not jealous of that. Think of how many evenings you could pass discussing it and playing
together—”
“We aren’t passing any evenings,” Robert snarled, against his will sounding like a surly child.
Carefully, he calmed his tone and said more reasonably, “Look, this unfortunate interest will
pass. It’s like catching a chill. I don’t want those either, but they run their course and you move
on.”
“Is this like any other chill you’ve caught?”
It wasn’t, but then again, he’d never been interested in someone like Rebecca. All the other times
he’d just been playing at passion—and played with, for that matter, though he’d never thought of
it that way before. There were no promises, no expectations above the usual casual ones. Those
liaisons were simple. This was not. He clipped out, “I don’t see the point in discussing this
further.”
“I do.” His brother rose. “Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Rebecca glanced up, startled. Damien Northfield’s offer was most unexpected.
“Just a short walk,” he said in his mild way. “Your mother can come with us if she’d like. I was
unable to escort you the other evening and would like another opportunity, if I may.”
Her mother smiled in delight and waved them on. “A short walk alone would be fine, of course.”
Of course. Her mother would love to see them go off alone. The idea of
a developing romance
was firmly planted in her head, but the real question was why Damien would encourage it. So far
he seemed nothing but amused by the matchmaking attempts, though perhaps he wouldn’t think it
so funny if he hadn’t already guessed her infatuation with his brother and so felt safe enough.
In the end, Rebecca inclined her head in acquiescence, more out of curiosity than anything. She
needed to ask him a favor anyway, so this would be a good time.
He had something in mind. She was beginning to realize he always had something in mind. The
minute they stepped outside the door of the drawing room, she took in a breath to make the
request she hoped he would agree to, but he turned and gently touched his fingertips to her lips.
He said in a low voice, “No questions. Not yet. Just come along.”
Puzzled, Rebecca let him lead her off the terrace and around the side of the house. “Lord Damien
—” she began as they rounded the corner. It was dark, the house lit against the night, and the air
smelled like rain for the first time since their arrival.
“Here.” He stopped and turned. “The bush is inconvenient, but not an insurmountable obstacle.
I’ll lift you over it.”
“What?” Rebecca stared, not sure what on earth he intended. The evening breeze brushed past
and stirred her hair.
“I’ll assist you.”
What he indicated, she discerned, was a long window, open despite the cool evening, the
draperies inside billowing in the moving air. “My lord, I’m not sure what you mean.”
He glanced at her, the spilling light doing nice things to his chiseled features. “Miss Marston, let
me boost you inside this window. Then I will stand outside and look nonchalant for a short while
before I demand you rejoin me. That is about all I have to say on the matter until I deliver you
safely back to the drawing room. What happens between now and then is entirely up to you.”
“I’m—”
“You are wasting time. Talk to him.”
He took her arm and urged her toward the open window, stepping through the bush himself and
then turning to grasp her waist and lift her so she could sit on the sill. Since he seemed so
determined, Rebecca obediently swung her legs over, modestly clutching her skirts to keep them
in place before she slid into the room.
And saw him.
Robert, sitting in a careless sprawl in a chair by the fireplace, holding a glass of brandy and
staring at her as if she was some kind of apparition. He muttered an imprecation she didn’t quite
catch as he set his glass on a small, polished table with a definite click. He surged to his feet. “Is
this the type of thing Bonaparte has to deal with? I pity the little Corsican, I really do.”
The room was shrouded in gloom. And empty except for the two of them. In short, they were
alone, she realized, which was exactly what she had planned to ask Damien to help her with in
the first place. Both elation and panic seized her at once. It was well and good for Lady Rothburg
to tell her to use her wiles to tempt Robert, but something else entirely to be faced with the
immediacy of the daunting task. He was scowling also, which could hardly be a good sign.
“We—we went for a walk,” Rebecca stammered out, less than glib as usual in his presence.
“Your brother then insisted on lifting me through the window.”
“Well, I insist on lifting you back out.” Robert came toward her, his handsome face taut and set.
“Of all the interfering, meddling, intrusive . . . well, words fail me. Damien is worse than some
well-meaning, matronly aunt.”
Damien was like a benevolent fairy godmother—in an utterly masculine way, of course—and
Rebecca needed to gather her wits and make the most of his gift.
It was as if time stopped and the scene crystallized, everything coming clear at once.
This was it. Her chance. Their chance, actually.
You Know What He Wants. . . .
Robert wouldn’t be angry if he wasn’t taken off balance. If he had no feelings on the matter, she
imagined he would simply be amused and puzzled as to why his older brother would shove a
young woman through a library window. Besides, what he’d just said implied he understood why
Damien was interfering, and that meant they’d discussed it.
Discussed her.
The surge of hope held her locked in place, her heart beating a sudden slow slam in her chest. “I
missed you this evening,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
That halted him only a few feet away as effectively as if someone had struck him. An
undecipherable emotion flickered across his face. After a moment, he said quietly, “Missed me?”
“I meant I wish you’d played with me again. You have a very skilled touch.” Her voice was
hushed.
He made a low sound, something between a groan and a cough.
Play the vixen. Even the most inexperienced woman can do it, for nothing entices a man like a
woman who desires him in the same way he does her.
Lady Rothburg encouraged boldness, but it was easier said than done.
“Did you wish you were with me?” She couldn’t help the note of shyness in her voice, but for the
first time since she’d first seen him across that crowded ballroom over a year ago, she realized—
no, she knew—that things were not as hopeless as she had assumed.
Well, that was true if she allowed herself to forget about her father for one brief, liberating
moment.
“This is not a good idea, Rebecca.” Robert shook his head, but he looked strained.
“This?”
The helpless gesture he made with his hand was not the movement of a polished rake but of a
frustrated young man. “You here. Us here. This. ”
She took a step toward him. Her knees felt a bit odd, as if they might decide to stop working
altogether. “Why not?”
“It would imply something significant, and you don’t need that connection, not with me.” He
sighed and shoved his hand through his hair, ruffling the thick strands in a way she’d always
secretly longed to do.
“What if I wished for the connection?” That was bold beyond belief. Lady Rothburg would
definitely approve.
“Don’t say that.” The statement would have been more effective if he hadn’t taken a physical step
backwards, as if the distance would help emphasize his words. “My misguided brother seems to
have come to the conclusion we have an interest in each other. We need not act on it.”
Rebecca said nothing, just continued to look at him. He was struggling. Not arguing with her, but
with himself.
“If things were a little different,” he went on, his azure eyes glittering, “then I admit he could be
right, at least as far as I am concerned. I think you’re a very beautiful girl, and exquisitely
talented.”
“I am not a girl.” She said the words carefully, not combative, but unwilling to let him see her as
anything but a woman. “I am almost twenty-one. Old enough to know my own mind,” she added
softly.
Robert seemed lost for words. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Of course. My apologies if
I offended you.”
“No offense. I just wanted to make my position clear. Did I succeed?”
“A little too well.” His breath came out in an audible exhale that sounded like frustration. “Don’t
do this to me. I am trying to avoid temptation. Which, by the way, is a new exercise. What did
Damien say to you?”
Rebecca smiled. It took some effort to look serene when she was shaking inside, but she did her
best. “That I should talk to you. Tell me, how different do things need to be?”
“What?”
“You just said ‘if things were different,’ your brother would be right. What can I do?”
“Nothing.” He stared at her, his mouth tight. “I can’t offer you anything, so whether Damien is
right or not, it doesn’t matter. Your father has a mistaken perception of me.” Speaking a little too
forcefully, as if trying to convince himself of something unpleasant, he continued, “And that
doesn’t even really signify anyway. I don’t really wish to marry. At twenty-six, I’m not ready. I
like my life as it is.”
So much for that fleeting sense of triumph. Her throat felt suddenly tight. “I see. You make your
position very clear, sir.”
His eyes glittered and his voice was hoarse. “Rebecca, you had to crawl through the window to
be alone with me for a few minutes. How do you think your parents would react if I came calling,
hat in hand? Besides, I don’t call, not in the sense we are talking about. You aren’t at all like . . .”
When he stopped, obviously at a loss, she supplied delicately, “All the other women?”
She could swear that even in the illumination of only one small lamp in the vast space of the
Rolthven library, his face took on a dusky color. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes. I don’t
normally pursue eligible young ladies for the exact reasons I just gave you.”
Maybe not, but he’d just spoken of marriage, even if he’d said he didn’t wish it. And the way he
looked at her was telling, especially since now she’d read the book. Desire was a powerful force,
yes, but there was more than that between them. She didn’t have the same turmoil he did. She
knew what she wanted.
“My parents are not completely immune to my wishes, though they are becoming less and less
sympathetic with each passing day. They want me to be happy. Surely that counts in our favor.”
He stiffened. “The implication I have anything to do with your happiness is ridiculous.”
How little he knew. Since they were being honest, maybe she should just tell him everything.