by Eva Devon
“No,” Derek denied casually. At least, he hoped he sounded casual. It was hard to be certain, given the sound of blood and fury pumping in his ears.
“You are.” Charles let out a booming laugh. “And because I found her bosoms to be impressive, you made a terrible move. You’re lucky I didn’t turn you into a stuck pig.”
“That would be impossible. You’re not that skilled.”
“I don’t have to be when you’re that distracted. . . And emotional.”
Derek blew out a breath. “I—”
Charles tsked. “Just admit it. You met the lassie in Scotland and you haven’t plowed her, you’re dying to, and the idea of anyone else getting to her untouched earth first is driving you mad.”
Plowing?
Derek felt a level of rage role through him that caused him to see blank for a long moment. He liked Charles. Indeed, he did. The man was intelligent, witty, and loved a good debauch. But anyone who talked of plowing Ros, as if she were something as inanimate as a field, was going to die.
Charles seemed to sense his mistake, strode from the dueling strip, and put his blade up.
“Come back here,” Derek snapped.
“No. Not while you’re love struck.”
“I am not—”
Charles snorted. “Look, I’m not going to touch the girl. Virgins aren’t my style. Even fiery ones. But from the way she’s behaving, I don’t think she’ll be a virgin long.”
A snarl rippled form Derek’s throat. Good Christ. What was wrong with him? He was acting like Rosamund belonged to him.
“Look here,” Charles said, shrugging. “You can’t hold me responsible for the young woman’s clear eagerness to have a good time. A very good time, if you get my meaning. She dances every dance and the rakehells love her.”
Charles paused for a moment. “You know your son is acting as her guard dog, don’t you? I thought perhaps he was in love with her. . . But now? I think he’s protecting your property.”
“She’s not my property,” Derek said coolly.
“No?” Charles nodded, slowly then he gave him a slow, calculated smile. “Then you don’t mind if I have a go at her then? She looks wild enough to make an exception for her innocence.”
Derek glared. “You do realize you’re unarmed.”
“You’d never kill an unarmed man,” Charles replied factually.
“I don’t have those standards.”
“Yes you do. It’s why you didn’t plow the girl in Scotland. Now, I don’t have standards. But you clearly do. Hence your outrage.”
Derek tightened his grip around his sword. Charles was largely correct. He didn’t sleep with his friends’ wives, he didn’t seduce virgins, and he didn’t stab empty-handed men. But given the onslaught of emotion coursing through him, Charles was taking a damned dangerous chance that he was incapable of swaying from his own moral compass.
“She’ll be at a ball I’m attending tonight,” Charles suddenly offered.
Derek lifted his sword, suspicious Charles was about to go off and try to seduce Ros just to irritate him.
“Put away your nastiness. Green is not a color that suits you, old man. I tell you this so you can go and seduce her yourself. It may be winter and the gardens are all closed off, but I’m sure you can find a quiet corner to—”
“You clearly wish to die.”
“Yes,” Charles shook his head in mock dismay. “But my God, you’re sensitive. Kill me if I seduce her. Kill me if I suggest you seduce her. Have you condemned our wee Scot to the life of a nun? A life on her knees sounds acceptable, but untouched? A sin in itself.”
“You really do wish to die.”
Charles gave him a hard smile. “Yes. So, are we going?”
“I need a drink.”
“You need a bandage.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Your scratch is leaving a puddle on my floor.”
Derek looked down. A red pool had, indeed, formed on the polished wood. “Bloody hell.”
“Tonight is going to be damned marvelous, Aston. After all, I do love to see a man dance to the tune of a woman. He looks so absurd the company has to laugh.”
“I’m going to rip your gullet out.”
“No more messes on my floors, if you please. Let’s go find your young woman instead.”
Derek didn’t reply but he knew Charles had won. Tonight, he was going to see Rosamund again. A thrill went through him and the moment it did, he knew he should have sailed to the farthest Indies. After all, there was nothing as dangerous as Lady Rosamund out there at the end of the world.
Chapter 11
Rosamund laughed. She’d been laughing for days and she’d never felt so light in her life. Her feet hurt, too. Hours of dancing every day did that to a young woman. How had she never known such bliss existed?
Tony handed her a glass of champagne.
She took it, sipped, and then let out a delighted sigh as Lady Gemma gave her a saucy look.
Her school friend had proved to be the answer to her lonely heart. Or at least, Lady Gemma had managed to help her pretend that there was naught amiss in her life.
Every night had been similar to this one. They’d gone to card parties, balls, the opera and due to the penchant of the Hunts for a good time, none of these events had been staid. Oh no. They were all filled with the most interesting and entertaining of people.
“Your bodice is slipping,” Tony said from the corner of his mouth.
“It looks marvelous,” Lady Gemma said quickly, her own bodice covered in lace and pearls. It was a trifle frothy but also a bit daring.
Not unlike Rosamund’s. She’d embraced the new fashions the moment she arrived in town. And while her gown was not nearly as scandalous as many of the married women, it was perfectly a la mode. With virtually transparent fabric slipping over the finest ivory silk that billowed about her limbs. There were still yards and yards of fabric, but somehow she felt naked. If a good light shone behind her. . . Well, she’d appear naught more than a female silhouette.
It was de rigueur and the vast majority of young women were wearing something similar.
“Tony, don’t be a nanny goat,” Rosamund replied.
“Nanny goat?” he echoed. “Nanny goat.”
“Yes. For someone who prides himself on his ways with the ladies you are acting like an old chaperone.”
Tony’s lips pressed together. “If you bend over, your person will be exposed.”
Rosamund sighed and looked down. Her bosoms were rather exposed. The fabric had inched down a trifle in the last dance. Perhaps a quick trip to the cloak room was just the thing. She didn’t wish to appear vulgar.
She flashed Tony a smile. “Well done, you. I’d hate to create that sort of scene.”
Tony nodded, pleased she’d heeded him.
She couldn’t bear to annoy her young friend too much. Tony truly was a lovely young man. She was grateful beyond all measure that she’d met him.
While his father had not been her fate as she so hoped, Tony clearly was meant to be in her life. She couldn’t quite help but feel as if she’d found a younger, cheeky brother. And he was her friend. In fact, she couldn’t help but feel as if suddenly the dark skies had parted and she was surrounded by agreeable companions.
Lady Gemma whipped open her fan and waved it quickly which sent her lace, and the russet curls about her face, fluttering. “He’s here! He’s here!”
“Who?” Rosamund asked absently.
“The Duke of Aston!” she crowed.
“What?” Rosamund gasped.
For some impossible and extremely annoying reason, she felt her heart slam to a stop in her chest.
A groan of despair came from Tony.
Aston was here? Inexplicably, she’d been certain she wouldn’t see him again in a social capacity. He wasn’t known for attending ton balls or other socially acceptable affairs and when he did attend them, there was always the danger that someone would be ruined.
In fact, much like Lady Gemma’s brother, Lord Charles, Aston had a very dangerous reputation, indeed.
Oh, he was merry and he’d never hurt a woman. Not physically or intentionally. But his debauchery was so well known, so spoken of, that if a young lady were to dance with him three times or spend too much time in conversation, she was irrevocably and entirely ruined.
It didn’t seem to stop the mamas and young ladies from trying for him. After, all he was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country.
However, from what she’d heard, the young ladies who went after Aston were quickly married off to minor barons and cits with fistfuls of gold looking for ties to the ton.
Because, well, frankly Aston was a fish who had no desire to be caught. . . He’d never even been on the hook. No amount of enticing bait could trick him into biting.
It was a good thing she had no wish to catch him. In fact, she’d no wish to see him.
It didn’t matter that her skin tingled and that stopped heart of hers was now beginning to beat wildly. Haphazardly even, making her feel terribly lightheaded.
“Rosamund,” Tony whispered. “Draw breath. You’re turning red.”
She gasped. Oh, good lord. Had she been holding her breath? How humiliating. Well, it should be humiliating she supposed. She’d offered herself to Aston and he’d summarily rejected her.
Granted, the results had been pleasant. . . But it had hurt. There. She could admit it. His behavior had hurt. She’d thought they’d had some sort of accord. Some unspoken bond from the moment they’d met.
She’d been mistaken.
She lifted her glass and drank quickly to the dregs. She then snatched another crystal flute off a passing tray as she stared at the crowd parting and gossiping in excited tones as two exceedingly tall men made their way into the packed ballroom.
She gulped half her drink back, the bubbles stinging her eyes.
Tony stared at her then said carefully, “Rosamund. . . I. . . I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She tossed the other half back. “Why?”
“We don’t make the best decisions when three sheets to the wind,” he hissed.
Rosamund squared her shoulders and gave him the eye. “I thought you didn’t care for good decisions.”
Tony tensed under the fierce gaze then blew out a frustrated breath before finally saying, “Well, I don’t care for idiotic ones.”
She nibbled her lip. She’d already had two glasses and, well, the effects of the third seemed to race straight through her blood. She giggled. “Don’t worry, I shan’t ruin myself.”
Tony winced. “You promise?”
“Oh yes,” she replied gravely. “But I am going to have a bit of fun.” She held her hand out so there was no chance he could refuse without publicly making her look a sight. “Dance with me.”
Tony let out another groan. “If only to save you from yourself.”
Tony led her to the floor for a sprightly, twirling dance.
It was one of her favorites and she was determined to shine. But just as she was about to reach the floor, another gentlemen stopped them.
An exceedingly handsome young man.
“Lady Rosamund, I do believe I have this dance.”
Rosamund teetered, her hand slipping out of Tony’s as she reached for her card. “Do you?”
As she studied the writing she realized that, yes, this dance did belong to someone. She smiled. “Mr. Basingstoke?”
“Yes,” he replied in positively delicious tones.
My, his voice was just like a hot brandy. Rich and tempting.
“Delighted,” she said, a genuine smile tilting her lips. “Do lead on.”
Mr. Basingstoke bowed to Tony.
Tony’s jaw hardened into a fierce line but he inclined his head.
Rosamund took the man’s beautifully big hand. Though covered in a white glove, it didn’t feel like the hand of a gentleman. It felt like the hand of a stonemason. Or so she imagined, having never held such a man’s hand before.
Mr. Basingstoke strode onto the polished floor and as soon as the sugary notes of the dance began the correct measure, he led her about, twirling her with the best of them.
In fact, she’d never had such a splendid dance. Within just a few bars of music, she couldn’t hide her enjoyment. Mr. Basingstoke was astonishingly tall. At least six foot three and his black hair and tawny complexion was a relief from the austere and somewhat lilified gentlemen of her recent acquaintance.
And despite herself, she felt herself sneaking a glance to see if Aston had noticed her yet.
He had.
Oh dear God, he had!
Just out of the corner of her eye, she saw him standing like a hellfire preacher, glaring as she whirled about the room.
She tripped. On her own frock.
Mr. Basingstoke caught her and quickly placed her back on her feet.
“Is there a reason why you keep looking away?” he asked, sounding more curious than possibly offended.
She bit her lip. To be honest or no? She’d had just enough champagne to make her say, “Unfortunately, there is.”
“A gentleman?” Basingstoke asked.
Her brows rose with her astonishment. Was she that transparent? Apparently. “Why, yes.”
“Are you hoping he sees you in my arms?” he asked directly.
She contemplated lying but she found herself answering honestly. “Yes.”
Her dance partner laughed softly. “Tragic for me, since I do find you to be lovely beyond compare. But I wouldn’t mind coming to the aid of a lady ready to infuriate her amour.”
“He’s not my—”
“Let’s give him a good show.”
“What?”
And with that, Basingstoke beamed down at her.
The smile was so beautiful, so seductive, even she who felt generally immune to such things, melted a little. My goodness. Who was this man?
Not only did this strange man beam down at her, he gazed at her with a sort of hunger which was almost disconcerting. It wasn’t frightening. It simply made her feel as if she were the center of the universe.
Truly, who was he?
As he spun her beneath his arm then helped her to turn and do a series of elaborate hops meant to show off her flowing gown, each touch seemed reverent.
She snuck another glance towards Astonsn direction. His hellfire glower had gone from fiery to a look so cold she shivered.
“Is he watching?” Mr. Basingstoke asked but then he laughed softly again. “Of course he is.”
When the music came to an end, her partner bowed over her hand. “So, what poor mortal man are you trying to drive mad, oh goddess divine?”
“The Duke of Aston,” she replied.
Mr. Basingstoke coughed then laughed again, a long, deep, rather beautiful laugh. “I wish you luck. Now, you seem the sort who can take care of herself, just the sort of lady I like, but since your heart clearly belongs—”
“My heart does not—”
“Clearly, belongs to the duke, I shall lead you his way and let’s see if we can cause him a bit more distress.”
She was about to suggest they walk in a different direction but then she realized that, no, she did wish to walk by Aston. She wished to show him how popular she was, how happy. How his rejection hadn’t sent her running home to the quiet hills of Scotland.
“Mr. Basingstoke, I know nothing about you,” she said at last as they edged to the lords and ladies packed about the dance floor.
“I’m the Duchess of Hunt’s brother and I enjoy a lovely young woman,” he replied factually.
“That’s not saying terribly much,” she replied as they made their way towards the other end of the room. Towards him.
“I spend most of my time digging in the dirt.”
She was beginning to feel her nerves tingle as they approached Aston, so she blurted, “That explains your hands.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She cleared her throat. “Very strong.”
“I’m an archaeologist.”
She shook her head. “I’m unfamiliar—”
“It’s a new field,” he informed with a sudden note of enthusiasm. “I travel abroad. I spent most of life in the East and I discover things from the past.”
That gave her pause and she stared up at the strange man. “You don’t read about them?”
“No,” he replied.
It was astonishing. Discovering history through practical means? “You use your hands?”
“What does Basingstoke do with his hands?” The Duke of Aston demanded.
She jumped. How the devil had he snuck up behind them? He’d been in front just a moment ago.
“Ah!” she said with a bit too much forced pleasure. “You know each other.”
Aston’s lip curled. “We’ve met.”
“Aston is friends with my sister and her husband.”
“What a small world this is,” she proclaimed. Was she over doing it? She didn’t want Aston to think she’d been moping about since they’d last met. Nor did she wish him to think she’d turned into a mindless sheep.
“Far too small at this moment,” drawled Aston.
Basingstoke merely smiled.
Aston narrowed his eyes. “Lady Rosamund, may I have this dance.”
There it was. He wanted her. He wanted to dance with her. He wanted to hold her in his arms. Even if it seemed like it might be to give her a scolding. But he’d rejected her. He’d sent her away. And he didn’t get to just pick her up like a stone and drop her and pick her up again when he felt like it.
So, she gathered a strength which she wasn’t entirely certain she possessed. It came from somewhere deep inside. Some place which demanded she be proud of herself. “Your Grace, you do me great honor to ask. But I fear for my reputation.”
Aston’s eyes bulged. “Your reputation?”
She widened her eyes then batted her lashes with faux innocence. “Ladies are ruined by your mere presence, Your Grace. Or have you not heard.”
Basingstoke made a choking sound, which barely hid another laugh.
“Lady Rosamund,” Aston hissed. “If you worry so vastly for your reputation, perhaps you should pull up your gown. Or are you wearing a skirt?”