by Hope Tarr
“I’m glad you approve.” He led her to the end of the long table where two places had been set, a brace of candles between them. “Right now, the thing I like best about this room is that there’s no one here but you and I.” He pulled out a shield-back chair. “So, you see, you shall be quite safe.”
Safe? Alone in a chamber veiled in candlelight and shadows with an unrepentant rake and a brain brimming with foolish fantasies, Chelsea had never felt less safe in her life. Everything about the room and the man standing in its center radiated romance.
Wanting to clear the air before matters got out of hand, she said, “I should tell you that, if you’re planning to seduce me, you’re wasting your time.”
He smiled his mesmerizing smile. “I appreciate your candor, Lady Robin. Now that you’ve broached the subject, I must confess that the thought had crossed my mind, but I assure you that I shall respect your wishes. I meant what I said last night, that it is not my custom to force my attentions where they are unwanted.” He gestured toward the sideboard. “But it would be a pity for all this to go to waste, don’t you agree?”
Disarmed, Chelsea found herself returning his smile. “The toast I had for breakfast does seem rather a long time ago.”
His smile broadened. “Even fierce knights of the road have to eat. Besides,” he added, his connoisseur’s gaze sweeping over her, “you look like someone who could benefit from a good meal.”
She surrendered with a grimace, slipping into the chair he held out. “After such a gracious invitation, how could I possibly refuse?”
She quickly laid her napkin on her lap to cover the smudges on her trousers, the legacy of nights spent climbing garden walls and prowling alleys. She might have no designs on Lord Montrose, romantic or otherwise, but she was woman enough to wish for something pretty to wear. And to think Robert had always cared for clothes far more than she had. How smart he’d looked in his uniform, the creases of his spotless white trousers ironed as sharp as knife blades. Imagining how bedraggled and filthy he must be by now—if indeed he still lived—she felt tears burn the backs of her eyes.
Fortunately Lord Montrose had moved to the sideboard, affording her a moment to compose herself.
“Sending the staff to bed does have one disadvantage—namely, that we shall have to fend for ourselves. This is my first time waiting at table, so you’ll have to bear with me.”
A bottle of wine had been left to decant. Slinging a napkin over his arm, he carried it to the table.
“Reputedly a very fine red Bordeaux. I hope ’tis to milady’s liking.”
He gave a servile bow before bending to pour, and Chelsea couldn’t help but smile. How charming he was, how amusing.
He stepped back. Awaiting her verdict, his dark eyes glinted with mischief. His playfulness was contagious, and Chelsea found her mood lightening. Falling in with the game, she swirled the liquid around her glass before raising the rim to her lips.
“It is rather…wonderful.”
Reminding herself that red wine always gave her the headache, she set down the goblet. She couldn’t afford a muzzy head tomorrow just as she couldn’t afford to become tipsy in his lordship’s presence. He’d promised he wouldn’t force himself on her, and she trusted him to keep his word. Herself she trusted far less.
“I am pleased you like it.” He finished filling her glass, then reached for his own.
“Wellington sent it along to cheer me while I was convalescing. I’ve been saving it for more than a year now, waiting to celebrate a special occasion.”
Feeling as though she had stepped into a fairy tale, she heard a bemused voice, her voice, ask, “What are we celebrating?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He raised his glass, enigmatic smile fraught with possibilities.
“To your health, Lady Robin.”
To Robert’s health. Chelsea touched her glass to Lord Montrose’s, and the crystal met with a soft ting. Even before the soft sound died, she found herself wondering what supper, if any, Robert was having. Was he making do with bread and water at the same time she was about to indulge in—her guilty gaze swept the sideboard—a feast?
Lord Montrose sipped his wine, apparently oblivious to the mental jousting going on between her epicurean self and her contrite conscience.
Lowering the glass, he exhaled. “Very fine indeed.”
His tongue darted over his lower lip. Even battling her guilt, she couldn’t help but recall the strange, heady sensation of that moist member intertwining her own. The temperature in the room spiked. She tugged her collar.
“But I am forgetting my manners.” Setting down his glass, he reached for her plate.
“Allow me.” He carried it to the sideboard.
“Lord Montrose, you must not wait on me.”
With a household staff reduced to two—Jack and the cook—she was accustomed to labor, and to serving herself. Never in her most outlandish fantasies had she imagined being attended to by a dashing viscount. It was almost too much—certainly something to tell her grandchildren about. On second thought, perhaps not.
“Anthony,” he corrected. She caught a flash of white teeth before he turned to lift the lid off a large silver serving platter. “I hope you like salmon in shrimp sauce.” He lifted the lids off two other dishes. “If not, there is also roasted chicken or, if you prefer, Florentine rabbits.”
There was enough food to feed a multitude. Thinking once more of Robert, she bit her bottom lip. “Lord Montrose, are you certain that I am your only guest?”
He grinned at her over his shoulder. His very broad shoulder. “I didn’t know what you would like, so I had my chef prepare several dishes.”
Telling herself that she must keep up her strength for Robert’s sake as well as for her own, she swallowed her guilt. “In that case, perhaps I should have some of everything…except for the rabbit,” she amended, in deference to her childhood pet, Mr. Wiggles.
His shirt strained across his back as he carved the bird. Fascinated, Chelsea watched the ripple of muscles beneath the fabric. Her gaze dropped lower. His buff-colored breeches accentuated every curve of his slender hips, firm buttocks, and muscled thighs. Obviously his self-indulgent lifestyle did not extend to gluttony.
“Jacket potatoes?”
“Yes, please.”
“Gingered carrots?”
“A few.”
He lifted the lid off a porcelain tureen. Bending over it, he sniffed the steam, pulling a face.
Chelsea giggled. “What is it?”
“Creamed spinach, I believe.” Turning to her, his expression registered skepticism. “Care for some?”
She hesitated, and then confessed, “I’ve never been overly fond of spinach, creamed or otherwise.”
“Personally, I detest the stuff. And, because I find myself wanting to please you in all things, I shall remove this offending vegetable from our presence forthwith.”
He carried the tureen over to the open window. Brushing aside the sheer curtain, he called, “Look out below.” His head and shoulders disappeared outside.
He turned back inside with the emptied dish, a schoolboy smile lighting his face.
Chelsea burst out laughing. “Do you always act so…impulsively?”
“No, not always, although I am a great believer in following one’s instincts. Whenever I’ve ignored mine, I’ve usually ended up with the devil to pay.”
His smile faded like a summer sun slipping behind a bank of clouds. He set her full plate before her, and then turned to serve himself. Studying the rigid set of his shoulders, Chelsea wondered what memory had triggered the sudden change.
When he took his seat next to her, at the head of the table, his scoundrel’s smile was securely in place.
“Bon appétit.” He handed her the basket of rolls.
Chelsea barely tasted the succulent dishes that passed her lips. Instead, her hungry gaze devoured every facet of Lord Montrose’s face—the way his auburn hair fell over his high forehe
ad, the sculpted planes of his nose and jaw, the way the tanned flesh at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The knowledge that, after tonight, she would never see him again imbued the intimate meal with a bittersweet poignancy.
He speared a carrot on his fork. “I like your hair that way.”
Hoping that she hadn’t been caught staring at him like a slack-jawed schoolgirl, she fumbled with the white satin ribbon that moored her waist-length hair. “My hair has always been the bane of my existence.”
“I think your hair is beautiful,” he said with conviction.
Her eyes fell to her plate. She shook her head. “Having red hair is a nuisance. As a child, I could never get away with the slightest prank, chiefly because I could be sighted a mile down the road. I was the only one in the neighborhood with hair this color. Not even my brother…”
What am I doing? Agitated, she tugged at a loose curl.
“Permit me.”
He reached over and tucked the renegade strand behind her ear. The memory of the previous night was still achingly fresh, and his light touch turned her insides to pudding.
“There, now you are perfect.” His dark eyes rested on her face. “And, I should add, very beautiful.”
Chelsea didn’t know what to say. She’d aroused her fair share of male admiration, but she’d never felt beautiful before. Until now. The frank appreciation in Lord Montrose’s bold gaze made her feel like a fairy princess.
And damnably self-conscious. She took refuge in humor. “Never say you dress hair as well? Perhaps you should consider becoming a lady’s maid.”
He threw back his head and guffawed. “The prospect certainly presents some interesting possibilities, but I think for now I’ll keep to table service. Which reminds me.” He picked up the wine bottle and refilled her glass.
Sipping the wine, she felt a languid contentment roll over her like the gentle lapping of the sea against the shoreline. Her problems would be waiting for her in the morning, as overwhelming as ever. But for one night—or the next hour, at least—where was the harm in pretending they were solved? Or in taking pleasure in the company of a handsome, attentive…rogue?
Reckless, she put down the piece of roll she was buttering and asked, “If not to seduce me, then why have you gone to all this trouble?”
If Lord Montrose was taken aback by her frankness, he gave no indication of it. “From my experience, the intimacy of sharing a meal is usually one of the better ways to go about getting to know a person.”
“Why would you care to know me?” Especially when you’re about to marry an exquisite, blonde enchantress, the very personification of everything I’m not.
He put down his goblet and stared at her. “Because you are an enigma, Lady Robin, and I’ve always found enigmas to be utterly fascinating. The very idea of a beautiful, intelligent young woman taking up a life of crime piques my curiosity.” His expression sobered. “I’ve been told that I’m a good listener. If you’d care to unburden yourself, I’d try to hear you out with an open mind. Perhaps I could even help?”
Her heart caught in her throat. The dangerous urge to accept his offer, to lean on his male strength, almost overwhelmed her.
Almost but not quite. For all his polished manners and handsome looks, Lord Montrose was a stranger. A stranger who just the night before had threatened to turn her over to the authorities.
“My reasons are my own.” Seeking to steer the conversation into safer waters, she added, “At any rate, I believe it is you who are the true enigma, milord. You’re not at all what I would expect of…”
“Of a spoiled, debauched aristocrat?”
She nearly choked on the bite of salmon she’d just taken. “I might have worded it somewhat more diplomatically but, yes, basically that was the idea.”
He chewed thoughtfully. “What about me surprises you?”
Regretting having gone down this path, she seized on the first innocuous thought that came to mind. “Your complexion for one thing. You’re very sunburnt.”
His smile stiffened. Fine lines bracketed the corners of his mouth. She’d judged him to be around thirty, but he suddenly seemed much older.
“Baking in Wellington’s Peninsular oven has a way of banishing the Englishman’s lily white. And then again, I have always enjoyed outdoor pursuits. It was a great trial when my leg forced me to refrain.”
So that explained the limp. Wondering whether he might be making a bid for her sympathy, she asked lightly, “Were you wounded in the war or shot by a jealous husband?”
“The former.” His mouth softened into a smile. “I make it my policy never to seduce married women—” he winked, “—at least, not ones with jealous husbands.”
What an ass I am. Flushing, she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made a joke of it. How long did you serve?”
“The better part of two years. I purchased my commission in July of ’09, just after Wellington beat the Frogs to a pulp at Talavera. Like my friends, I hadn’t a clue as to what war was really about, but saving Europe from Boney’s Butchers seemed gloriously noble.” Tone shaded with bitterness, he added, “My luck held until Albuera.”
“You were at Albuera!”
He nodded. “I was a captain in the Fourth Division under Cole.”
Chelsea well remembered reading about the battle in the Times and the St. James Chronicle, beneath headlines that read Wellington’s Costliest Victory and Peace with a Price. The grizzly accounts of the survivors and the long columns listing the dead and wounded had chilled her. When Robert had announced his intention to purchase a commission, it was the name of Albuera that Chelsea had invoked in a vain attempt to dissuade him.
“I read about it in the papers. It sounded…” She stopped, afraid any words she chose might trivialize what he’d endured.
Gaze focused somewhere over her shoulder, he said, “We lost almost six thousand men that day, some of them little more than boys.”
They ate in silence, but his pain was palpable. It rippled between them, setting off waves of tension.
“Forgive me,” she said at length, regretting her tactlessness. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
His gaze met hers. “No need to apologize. I’m flattered to be the object of your interest.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “At the time, I assumed I would lose the leg, or at least the better part of it. The field surgeons were a harried lot. There was only one doctor to a battalion, and in the bigger battles there might be two hundred or even three hundred wounded, but that day the casualties were legion. The usual practice was to amputate rather than spend precious time digging out a bullet.”
A tableau of Lord Montrose, bloody and writhing on a makeshift gurney, flashed before Chelsea. She’d always had a soft heart when it came to a fellow creature in distress, but the raw fervor of the feelings welling inside her transcended compassion. Lord Montrose might be a virtual stranger but, dear Lord, she ached for him.
She reached out to touch him. “It must have been awful for you.”
He glanced at her hand, resting atop his. “I was one of the lucky ones. General Beresford sent his personal surgeon to attend me. As a result, I kept the leg.”
Self-conscious, she withdrew under the pretense of reaching for her wine. “Is there pain still?”
He lifted his glass and stared into its ruby depths. “Oh, I suspect that my knee will always tell me when it’s about to rain, but otherwise I have no complaints.” Voice flat, he added, “Most of the lads who fought under me were not so fortunate.”
He drank deeply, and then set his glass aside. “Now tell me, what else about me do you find not quite up to snuff for a peer of the realm?” She was about to demur when he reminded her, “You did indicate that my complexion was one of others.”
She smiled, shaking her head in surrender. The man had a mind like a steel trap. Just when she’d lowered her guard, told herself he was no longer a threat, he’d ensnared her with her own words. She’d been a fool to forget
that Lord Montrose was not the sort of man for whom she could afford to feel compassion—or anything else.
“Pray forgive me. I spoke rashly. I’m afraid I’ve not had much experience of society outside of Upper Uck…”
“Upper Uckfield,” he finished for her, smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary.
She inhaled sharply. Her heart dropped. “Y-you…”
“Yes, I know it. Lovely little parish in central Sussex. Not far from Heathfield Park, if I’m not mistaken.” Pouring more wine into her glass, he continued blithely, “Having a bit of trouble with the roads of late. Pity, really.”
What a dupe I am. “You tricked me!”
He flashed her a beatific smile. “On the contrary, Lady Robin. You volunteered the information.” His grin widened. “I am, of course, honored to be the recipient of your confidences.”
Not trusting herself with a knife in her present mood, she speared a potato on the end of her fork and bit into it savagely.
“If ’tis any consolation, the information you divulged doesn’t amount to much of a revelation. Upper Uckfield is, after all, the nearest hamlet to the road I was traveling when you intercepted my coach. That it is also your home is hardly surprising.”
Chelsea relaxed a fraction, although she inwardly cursed herself for her carelessness. The wine, not to mention the intoxication of flirting with a dashing viscount, had gone to her head. Out in the hallway, a clock struck one. It was time she left.
She set her utensils on the edge of her plate. “Supper was delicious. Thank you.” Even now, after she’d made a bloody fool of herself—and risked Robert’s life—her heart felt leaden with regret.
He pushed his plate aside. “My cook makes a marvelous blanc mange. I hope you saved room?”
“I’m afraid not.” Laying her napkin aside, she pushed her chair away from the table. “I know it must seem churlish of me to leave in the middle of a meal, but I really must.”
Tossing aside his napkin, he shot to his feet. “Don’t go.” His big hands cupped her shoulders, the heat from his palms searing. Her resolve, like her knees, buckled. “I don’t want you to go.” He wrapped one sinewy arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “I can’t let you go.”