An Unkissed Lady: A Historical Regency Romance (The Evesham Series)

by Audrey Ashwood

  “You have promised me a short walk through the garden, have you not?” she reminded him and linked arms with him before he could avoid her. She sent a maid to fetch coats for her and Richard and breathed a sigh of relief when they were finally, finally standing on the terrace.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” he inquired, still polite but noticeably impatient.

  “Kiss me,” Rose said, no, she told him to.

  “Have you gone completely mad?” Stunned, Richard stared at her. His blue eyes, which she had once found so attractive, seemed cold and hard as pebbles.

  “Yes, quite possibly,” Rose replied. She pulled him away from the terrace and further into the garden. After a few yards, his resistance became so great that she had to stop so that she did not suddenly find herself alone in the dark.

  How different this night was compared to the one two years ago! Not only was it cold, but she had to admit, it was also completely unromantic to be standing under the starry sky with a man who looked at her as if she belonged in Bedlam rather than at a dinner reception. “Tell me, why do you not want to kiss me?” she asked. This time, she would not be satisfied with an evasive answer – oh, no. If he refused to answer her with words, then it was time to let actions speak!

  “It is not proper as long as we are not married.” With a sullen glance, he pulled her to him. His hands held her, but it was not a tender touch at all, and instead of kissing her mouth, he kissed her on the forehead. The touch was fleeting and fraternal rather than passionate or loving. Rose was relieved when he let her go. Never was this the man who had kissed her two years ago!

  His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “I do not know what has gotten into you, Lady Rose, but I have my suspicions.”

  “Would you be gracious enough as to share them with me?” Even her ironic request provoked nothing but a shrug.

  “You will refrain from associating with that loose wench and her family from now on. She has a bad influence on you.”

  “I certainly will not. The Marquess of Cavanaugh is my friend, and I also cherish his sister very much.”

  “As my future wife, you will do as I tell you.” Lord de Coucy turned his head towards the house. In the brightly lit windows, Rose saw the guests talking to each other. On the right side in the salon were the women, on the left in the smoking room were the men. The two groups differed not only in size and outlines, but also in their movements. While the gentlemen spoke almost motionless with each other, the women performed plenty of gestures, from tilting their heads to fluttering expressions of their hands in order to accentuate what they said.

  “Are you even listening to me?” His flaunted serenity gradually dissolved.

  “Every word,” Rose assured him, her gaze fixed on a broad-shouldered silhouette that stood out in the salon amongst the much smaller women. Her heart jumped as the man spoke to a woman whom she believed to recognise as her mother. The way he bowed his head to the woman so as not to miss a word was familiar to her. It was the marquess, who had appeared as a late guest – she had no doubt about that. To see him only as a silhouette and yet to know that it was him did not seem illogical to her in the least. She knew him well and … Rose blinked. It was more than that. She closed her eyes. She remembered his aftershave that she had sensed more than once and that had seemed so familiar to her. His sonorous voice that deepened when he spoke softly. His strange behaviour when he had first seen her again two years after that evening, as de Coucy’s fiancé, of all things!

  Everything fell into place. The Marquess of Cavanaugh was the man who had kissed her two years ago. Her mind could no longer refuse to accept the truth. Rose knew it as surely as the sun rose every morning, that she had felt Cavanaugh’s lips on hers.

  All of a sudden, she no longer felt the need of proof. She looked at Lord de Coucy, who had followed her gaze and was now staring at her. “I will talk to your father tomorrow and set a date for the wedding. Then this whole nonsense will come to an end.”

  Rose thought that she had misheard him. “My Lord, I will not marry you.”

  “Oh, you will.”

  “No, I will not. Consider our engagement herewith dissolved.” Was that really shock that she saw on Lord de Coucy’s face? He seemed to have turned pale. Against her best instincts, she felt a hint of pity for him. “Listen,” Rose said. “I know that you do not love me, and I am sure you will soon find a wife worthy of you, one, who will be happy by your side. But, I am not that woman.”

  He stared at her as if she had begun to speak in tongues. Then he threw back his head and laughed. It was such a misplaced sound that Rose involuntarily took half a step back and made sure that other people were within earshot.

  “That is just too delightful,” he said, wiping the supposed tears of laughter from his eyes in a grand gesture. “Love? A woman worthy of me?” Lord de Coucy shook his head, and suddenly, it was he who looked at her pityingly. “Lady Rose, you are really too naïve. Surely I am not going to marry you because I am hopelessly in love with you.”

  “You are not going to marry me at all,” Rose clarified, though she was beginning to suspect that her fiancé – her former fiancé – was either drunk or fatally attracted to opium.

  “Oh, yes, I will. You will be in front of the altar in a few weeks and saying I do.” He smiled victoriously.

  “But not with you” were the words on her lips, however, she managed to control herself. “This is getting too silly. I will not repeat again that I will not become your wife. I shall say goodbye now.” Rose wanted to push past him, but he blocked her way.

  “Let me make one thing clear,” he said so softly that she had to listen carefully to understand him. “I will not allow you to end our engagement. Whether you love me or not makes no difference to me, as long as you are discreet after the wedding, you can enjoy yourself with any old thief that crawls out from the gutter. I want your dowry, and I need an heir. I do not care about the rest.”

  “You are a degenerate character.” Rose could think of many other terms for him, although none of those were nearly bad enough. “How could I ever have believed that I loved you?”

  He lowered his eyelids. “Because that is what you wanted, I suppose.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Now, be a good girl and come back to the house. I will inform your mother that we are looking forward to setting a date soon.”

  “Are you deaf?”

  “You listen to me now, my dearest.” Lord de Coucy grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath. Still, she did not think it was the alcohol talking. His eyes were not blurred enough. “We will stand in front of the altar or I’m going to …”

  “What?” Rose interrupted, despite panic rising in her chest. “Do me harm?” Now, she wished that the duel had taken place and that the marquess had put this miserable, dishonourable coward in his place, once and for all.

  “I do not have to.” Richard looked as if the mere thought of physical pain was making him feel nauseous. If Rose had not been so afraid of him, she would have found his apparent dismay humorous. “It is sufficient to say that I had you. That is all it takes to ruin your reputation. Who would want you then?”

  “Me,” spoke a voice next to her.

  Rose cried out softly. Her fright turned to relief and then back to fright when she saw the face of the marquess. Faster than she could blink, he had grabbed Richard by the collar. His knuckles turned white. Richard had to stand on tiptoe in order not to suffocate. The marquess shook him until she thought he was going to break Richard’s neck. No matter how much de Coucy deserved to be punished, she could not let the Marquess of Cavanaugh get into trouble on her account.

  Chapter 28

  Red-hot anger filled Gabriel from the tips of his hair to his toes. The bloody miscreant dared to threaten Rose? Hearing de Coucy’s words and grabbing him happened within a matter of seconds. Gabriel heard his own rapid breathing. The blood throbbed in his temples as he let Richard de Coucy go. T
he man stumbled and caught himself before he landed in the dirt where he belonged. Gabriel leaned over to him. “Tomorrow morning, Battersea Fields.” He whispered so softly that it was impossible for Rose to hear him. “If you choose not to appear a second time, I will personally drag you there by the hair.”

  De Coucy had to be crazy. His only reaction was to brush off his collar where Gabriel’s hands had grabbed him to remove the imaginary dirt. “I do not fight with riff-raff,” he said loud and clear. “If you insist on challenging me, I will tell the world that you not only have a whore for a sister, but also intend to marry one.”

  “Gabriel, no!” Rose’s voice rose stridently in panic as he lashed out with his fist and slammed it straight at de Coucy’s nose. He heard the nasal bridge break, Richard’s whining moan, and watched with great satisfaction how blood soaked his white tie. Good. Gabriel had always thought that white ties were not just silly, but also a highly unpractical fad.

  A door was opened. The murmur of voices could be heard. He turned to Rose whose gaze flitted back and forth between him and de Coucy. He thought he saw the flash of a satisfied smile and allowed himself a moment to reply. “Go back to the house,” he commanded her, as individual words formed from the approaching murmur. “Hurry, before anyone sees you. When asked, you just powdered your nose. Stay out of people’s way and sight. I will distract them.”

  He watched her retreat without a word of resistance and smiled at de Coucy. Gabriel waited until he was sure to be seen, then he grabbed the man by the collar again and shook him like a terrier shakes its prey. “I demand satisfaction,” he roared, loud enough for a collective sigh to rise from the people around him, partly through sensationalism and partly through consternation. De Coucy, who had figured out the game, looked at him with hate and tried in vain to loosen Gabriel’s hands from his collar. “One word about Lady Rose or my sister and, tomorrow morning, I will not shoot into the air, but directly into your heart,” Gabriel hissed in his ear and gave his words an emphasis by grabbing harder. “Do you understand?”

  His opponent achieved only a gurgle. Gabriel loosened his grip. “So? I am listening?”

  “Yes,” gasped Richard de Coucy.

  Gabriel let go of him abruptly and caught the man just before he could, de facto, land face down in the dirt in front of the assembled guests. Over the heads of the spectators who had gathered in a semicircle around the two brawlers, he saw a delicate, golden figure flit towards the house.

  “One more thing,” he said, suppressing the urge to put de Coucy into a headlock and give him a head-butt like he used to do in the scuffles with Elijah. Most of his anger had recognisably dissipated now that he knew Rose was safe. “Listen to me carefully.” One did not kick a man who was already on the ground, but, in Richard’s case, there was no harm in making his intentions clear again. “There is nothing to see,” he called out to the onlookers, putting his arm around the smaller man as he led him deeper into the garden. “I know your real reasons for wanting to marry Rose, de Coucy.” He lowered his voice.

  “Her dowry is majestic,” Richard said harshly but avoided Gabriel’s eyes.

  “Stop with the rubbish,” Gabriel snapped at him. “Her dowry is of as little interest to you as it is to me. I saw you looking at her, Richard. The way you look at all women.” Richard de Coucy grew pale, and Gabriel knew that he had guessed correctly. “What is more important, I saw you looking at other men.” He suppressed the pity he felt for the little weasel. It could not be easy to meet the de Coucy family’s expectations to produce an heir when the very thought was despicable to him. Well, all the better for myself that de Coucy couldn’t care less about the girl, Gabriel thought.

  He wanted to slap himself for not noticing de Coucy’s preference earlier. But many things made sense in retrospect: De Coucy’s refusal to kiss her two years ago, and the fact that he had not kissed her once, as Rose had confided to Gabriel. Even the ostensible visit to the dog fight to make him appear tougher, more masculine, fit into the picture. “This is what we will do. Tomorrow morning, we will duel, and both shoot into the air. Rose breaks off your engagement. I marry her. This way, not only is your reputation unharmed, but for a long time, you have no need to worry that the truth about your affectations will surface.” Was Richard whimpering? Oh, God, should he feel sorry for this darned man? Gabriel hardened his heart. “Pull yourself together,” he hissed. “You will be seen as a man who duelled with another for the sake of a woman, without even getting a scratch.”

  “Rose was perfect,” Richard interjected at some point, when Gabriel no longer believed that he would say anything at all. His statement sounded bitter. “She would never have known why I no longer visited her bed from the moment she bore me an heir, and I would have been a married man, suspected by no one. But then you had to get entangled in her life.”

  Gabriel looked at Richard, long and hard. “Yes, I had to. I love her. Should you not accept my offer …” He did not finish his sentence but contented himself with a cold smile.

  Richard shrugged his shoulders, but it was nothing other than a final rebellion. He had lost and he knew it.

  Rose was sitting next to him in the carriage. Her mother had joined them and seemed to have nodded off, although Gabriel would not have bet on it. He suspected that the duchess just wanted to know what exactly had happened in the garden, but he could live with that – very well, in fact. Maybe, he acknowledged to himself, her support could not hurt, when he finally confessed to Rose who had kissed her two years ago.

  However, Rose surprised him by addressing the incident herself, but in a whisper. “It was you in the garden back then, am I right? Who kissed me?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he eventually said, and she glanced at him with a wry smile.

  “If I am ever to forgive you for this deception, you will have to expend a few more words. Well? Why did you kiss me?”

  Gabriel looked over at the duchess who still had her eyes closed. “I could give you a thousand reasons, and each one would be right – but still not enough,” he said softly. She acknowledged his reply with a little nod, although did not seem quite content with his flowery answer.

  “Did Richard ask you to take his place?”

  They were on tricky ground. After some inner contemplation, he decided on the bare truth, hoping she would not force him to explain de Coucy’s reasons for rejecting her delicate feminine lips. He would rather wait until after their wedding night. “Yes, he did. When I came to you, I was determined to serve you a sweet lie and to invent a reason for his absence, but then …” He swallowed. Rose slid a little closer to him. Gabriel took her hand and felt her fluttering heartbeat under the delicate skin where her glove ended, leaving a tiny patch of skin between the glove and her sleeve. The lamp that illuminated the interior of the carriage swung to and fro, throwing a wavering light on her beautiful face. “Then, I saw you standing there. Your head was bowed, your neck was bare, and you looked so tremendously vulnerable. I approached you from behind, wanting to make myself felt, and in the next second, I knew that I would never get closer to having the opportunity to kiss you.” He remembered exactly the moment his resolve had collapsed. “Maybe, if you cannot forgive me for my deception, you can understand it?”

  Her breathless voice drowned out the rumble of the coach wheels. “I will have to think about that some more, my Lord.” He lowered his head to be even closer to her, enjoying the challenge in her voice. “But I demand proof. Kiss me, my Lord.”

  How could he resist a second time, especially when, this time, she really meant it to be him?

  Rose raised her head the instant he lowered his by a tiny fraction. Gabriel’s intent had been a gentle kiss, one that betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil, however, the moment he felt the delicate flesh of her lips on his, he knew that this would be no delicate trifle. He needed her as urgently as he needed air to breathe. To kiss her was not a matter of desire, but sheer necessity. She pressed her lips on his, inexperienced, yes, bu
t no less driven by emotion than he was. “It is you,” she whispered, tight against his lips. “You and nobody else.” It was the realisation that she loved him as much as he loved her that made him halt. Also, the presence of her mother, whom he had forgotten about for a few seconds. A quick glance revealed that she had actually fallen asleep. Nobody, not even this lady, could pretend so convincingly to be asleep.

  The carriage came to a stop. The duchess opened her eyes. Gabriel cursed the man who had driven at twice the speed – at least, that was how it felt. He got out, helped the duchess from the coach first and then Rose. Her mother went ahead, but before Rose could follow her, he held her back a moment. There was one more question he needed to resolve before officially asking her parents for her hand.

  “Rose Carlisle, will you marry me?”

  She closed her eyes. Gabriel’s heart beat hard against his ribs. An eternity seemed to pass. When Rose opened her eyes, they sparkled, but she was not crying. “Yes, I will,” she whispered. “But on one condition.” She made a dramatic pause. “I will only marry you, if the king of the fairies will attend personally. No Oberon, no wedding.”

  “I shall weave a wreath out of your favourite flowers and put it on him,” he promised with laughing eyes.

  It was the only promise to Rose that he should ever regret.

  Chapter 29

  In the end, Oberon was decorated with a wreath of laurel leaves, which he wore around his neck and not on his head. This was partly due to the season, as the late English autumn was extremely cold, and flowers were rare. Also, Oberon had the unfortunate tendency to eat the tender leaves. After the third attempt with roses from the greenhouse, Gabriel refused to spend hours (or days, according to him, but Rose suspected he was exaggerating excessively) plaiting wreaths of the cream-coloured flowers. “But he seems to like the petals a lot,” Rose protested smilingly when Gabriel went to see her the day before the wedding, supposedly to discuss some organizational issues. “Do you not think his breath has been much more agreeable since devouring the rose petals?”