Whereas she would have found such a look from Flint to be arousing, she couldn’t deny that the shiver snaking down her spine was one of distaste. But, she reasoned, if Wolf carried the tale of his attentions back to Flint, perhaps the man would be moved to see reason with regard to their entanglement.
Feeling childish at using such a tactic, she nonetheless found herself encouraging Cunningham. With an awkward titter that grated on her own ears, she flirted with him. “I must admit I had worried about whom I would be paired with for the evening meal. I was pleased to discover a familiar face.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught Julia rolling her eyes as Wolf choked on his wine. A moment later, the first course, a lovely cream of asparagus soup, was served.
By the time the fish course, merely the third course in what was to be a long procession of food, was placed before them, Ros was full of regret and guilt. She felt like an awful person for encouraging Lord Cunningham when she was still thinking of Flint. Determined to push the ornery man from her mind—and heart—she focused all her attention on her dinner partner.
By the time they reached the ice course, a welcomed palate refresher of sorbet that came mid-meal as the sixth course, she found herself genuinely liking Lord Cunningham.
“So, when my governess found me, I was knee-deep in mud, and my younger brother was splattered head to toe from my efforts.” Cunningham grinned.
It was difficult to remember that she had earlier been so suspicious of the man. In truth, she was certain she had not given him a fair shake, having had her perception tainted by Flint’s acerbic comments and her own sister’s sour observations. Determined to reserve judgment until she had gotten to know him better, she encouraged his sharing. “I do love hearing such stories. It reminds me of my own childhood.”
The stories of her, Jules, and Wolf’s adventures were legion, though perhaps not appropriate for her current audience.
“You must have been a model child. I cannot imagine you traipsing about the countryside or knee-deep in mud.”
She cast a conspiratorial glance at her dinner partner. “Oh, it was not I who was often knee-deep in mud. I was simply the lookout for Julia and Wolf.”
Clearly surprised by her revelation, Lord Cunningham slid his gaze across the table to her beautifully coiffed sister. “I see. I had no idea someone so refined as Lady Wolfington would participate in such hijinks.”
Ros sighed. “Indeed, she not only participated, but she often instigated. I was never so brave as she.”
“Impossible,” he declared. “You married an officer and followed him into battle. Do not minimize your courageousness, Mrs. Smith.”
Resisting the urge to preen a bit, after all, she was quite accustomed to being overlooked in favor of her sister, she waived his comment off. “Doing one’s duty as a wife is not courage but simple necessity.”
Although, she had never had that feeling of invisibility when Flint was about. The man had a keen eye that seemed to always find her no matter who else might be in the room.
But he no longer wished to spend time with her.
Flint had made that painfully clear, she reminded herself once again.
Lord Cunningham shook his head. “I disagree entirely. But, I shall defer to the lady for the moment. Perhaps another time, I might be able to persuade you to see my perspective?”
Julia and Wolf each fell silent, as though they had been listening in on her conversation with her dinner partner. And yet, she highly doubted that was the case. Nevertheless, her stomach knotted as she forced herself to smile. “Perhaps you might.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder at her sister and brother-in-law and saw that they were deep in their respective conversations once more. Obviously, it had been her imagination that they were listening. But it was easier to focus on that question than address her own distress at the notion of spending time with a man other than the one she…absolutely not. Flint was gone from her life. It was the way he wanted it.
Cunningham—quite oblivious to her inner struggle—grinned cheekily. “Perhaps a drive through the park would sway your thinking?”
The sorbet seemed to swirl in her stomach along with the fish course that had come before. Her head spun a bit, and for a moment, she was certain everything would re-emerge. Then, with a strength of will she had only discovered after following her husband to the front lines, she took hold of herself. She clamped down on the wayward desire to be sick, put a stranglehold on her errant emotions, and marshaled her face to go along with it all. “A drive would be lovely.”
“Excellent.” Cunningham beamed. “I shall pick you up tomorrow afternoon. We shall drive Rotten Row, and I shall persuade you of your courage.”
Ros nodded, no longer able to speak for fear of what might slip past her lips. With an unsteady hand, she picked up her wine and took a sip. Then another. After her third overly large sip, she set the glass down and stolidly ignored the sympathy she saw in her sister’s eyes. Lord Cunningham was right. She was courageous. She had to be, or she’d be home curled up with a pot of tea, a spot of whisky, and a book to help her forget. Because she absolutely, without a doubt, did not love Lord Flintshire. She simply couldn’t.
Chapter 11
Flint sipped the whisky in his glass and stared at the amber liquid. It had been weeks since Ros had done as he asked and broken with him. Ignoring the dull ache in his chest, he focused on the alcohol and his upcoming fight. The who was of no consequence, but the why was…everything. Every fight helped him keep his deviance at bay. How he spent his winnings also helped ease his conscience, not that he would not—
A sharp knock broke into his thoughts before the door of his study opened. Wolf walked in and promptly settled on a couch across the room. “Hello there, Flint.”
Feeling surly, he chose to grunt an acknowledgment of his friend.
“Ah, I see you are reverting to form.” Wolf sighed. “Well, that’s probably for the best, considering the news I bear.”
Flint let his bulk rest against the woodwork of his library. “What news might that be?”
“That, my friend, would be the news that Lord Cunningham is taking Mrs. Smith out for a drive tomorrow afternoon.”
Wolf sat with his arms stretched out along the back of the settee, appearing for all the world as if his news was not intended to disturb him. Flint knew his friend was making a point, was goading him. “Is he?”
He ignored the rush of anger that thrummed through him. The need to storm out of his house to find Ros and demand she stop encouraging Cunningham. Instead, he absorbed the pulse of anger and stored it for later. Saved it for when he could release the buildup, excise his demons once again. Instead of acting, he swirled his whisky in his glass.
Wolf tipped his head to one side. “Indeed, she seemed quite pleased by his attentions.”
Flint’s fist curled as he fought to temper the rage that threatened to break loose. “She is better off with someone society is able to accept, someone who will not bring chaos—and danger—into her life.”
Wolf let one brow lift. “Do you really believe that?”
“I do.” Flint pushed off the wall and set his glass down. “Now, I believe I am expected elsewhere.”
With clipped steps, he left his friend sitting in the library as he headed out for his late evening appointment.
The next afternoon as Flint swung up into the saddle, he groaned. His ribs ached, but overall his opponent had inflicted little damage. For once, Flint had been more focused on hitting than being hit. By the time he’d finished pummeling the other man, he’d resolved that he would keep an eye on Ros and Cunningham. He knew the man couldn’t be trusted, and certainly not with someone so precious as Ros.
Which was why he was currently sitting in a saddle when he should have been doing literally anything else.
He made his way to Ros’s home and waited for Cunningham to appear. Standing down the lane in the shadows of an oak tree, he glanced at his watch as a r
ather ostentatious landau pulled up to the curb. With its gold gilt trim and surplus of cherubs, it was a wonder passersby weren’t blinded by the sight. Flint rolled his eyes. At least, he was courteous enough to be prompt.
In short order, Ros appeared dressed in a fetching concoction of rose and white. He was not close enough to see, but it was not hard to imagine how the color would make her cheeks glow and her red-gold hair vibrant as though lit from within. By God, I’ve become fanciful. He shook his head and started off after the pair. If he was lucky enough, he might be able to catch a bit of their conversation. Failing in that, he would at least be able to ensure that Cunningham comported himself as a gentleman should.
They clopped along through the city streets until Hyde Park came into view. Once on the busy path, he was able to move a bit closer to the vehicle.
Cunningham’s voice carried on the light afternoon breeze. “About our conversation…last night…you must…acts of daring…”
Flint growled low and angry. It sounded as though they had already become intimate—friends. Could she have so quickly found a replacement for her affections? No. The Ros he knew was loyal and trustworthy. She was not so fickle as to settle her attentions on a new man already. But, by all appearances, she was making an effort to do just that. He frowned as her laughter floated back to him.
“I cannot think…” She laughed again. “Oh, there was one…with my feet above my head…I’d never had such fun!”
Flint wanted to charge ahead and yank Ros bodily from the carriage. The bits and pieces of their conversation were outside of enough! If he could hear its entirety, he was sure he would go mad with—realization loomed over him like an angry green specter. He was jealous? Impossible. Pushing the notion aside, he focused on staying close to them.
The pair’s laughter continued to torment him, almost more than his ribs. Though that at least offered sweet bliss with the bite of pain. With each passing moment, it grew harder to ignore the fact that though he wanted her with every fiber of his being, she would never be his. Despite that truth, he refused to sit by and watch Lord Cunningham use her as little more than yet another way to inflict pain on him. If he believed for a moment that the cad had any interest in her beyond her connection to him, he would back away and leave them be. But in his heart of hearts, he knew this was another barb thrown at him.
Determined to not miss anything, he risked edging closer in hopes of catching their full conversation.
Ros tipped her parasol so that her face was mostly blocked from his vantage point, though he couldn’t help but stare at the gentle curve of one cheek. “Tell me, Lord Cunningham, how are you acquainted with Lord Flintshire?”
“Why, I’ve only met him in passing a time or two.” The man looked positively sallow at the mention of Flint.
It pleased him to know how disquieting his nemesis found her mention of him.
Ros turned to look at Cunningham more fully. “Do not think I shall believe such balderdash. It was quite obvious at the Halpern’s ball that you two know each other. I thought we were becoming friends.”
At her obvious displeasure, Cunningham cracked a laugh. “You are a no-nonsense sort, are you not?”
“Indeed. I’m far past the age where nonsense is welcome. I am no green girl, and I have no time to entertain such business.”
Cunningham sighed. “Very well. Yes, I’ve known Lord Flintshire since we were boys.”
Ros remained silent, merely staring at her companion.
“Though we were never friends, nor do I expect we shall ever be such.”
Flint nodded in agreement. There was little chance of the pair ever being chums. Not when Cunningham thrived on other people’s pain.
Flint thrived only on his own. Even reveled in the orgasmic bliss that came with the manifestation of his own physical pain.
“No. I dare say that is unlikely.” Ros tipped her head away from Cunningham, as though regarding him more closely. “Though I won’t deny I’m curious as to why.”
He, too, was curious. How would Cunningham explain the nature of their relationship?
“I would lay that at the door of different approaches to life. He and I simply do not see eye to eye on most things.” Cunningham shrugged.
Ros hummed as though she might not fully accept his explanation. But Theo and Stone pulled up going the opposite direction, slowing briefly.
“Good afternoon, Lord Cunningham, Mrs. Smith.” Theo smiled, and then her head tipped up just a bit higher. Flint’s stomach cramped as Theo’s grin grew impossibly brighter, and he suddenly knew she was going to out him. “Lord Flintshire.”
Utterly exposed, Flint tipped his hat and swung past the two vehicles to make his escape. As he rode down the lane, he could feel Ros’s angry stare boring into his back.
Flint knew he needed to talk to Ros about her choice in suitors. But after having been caught trailing her in the park, he was not looking forward to the prospect. Nevertheless, he returned to Ros’s townhouse after riding around a bit and waited for her to return. He’d been standing down the street for twenty minutes when Cunningham’s equipage pulled up. Flint grit his teeth as the cad climbed down from the landau and then assisted Ros. Watching the other man’s hands linger where his own had once touched caused a ferocious burning sensation to spear through his chest. His limbs trembled as though he’d suddenly contracted a palsy, though that was obviously not the case. The need to plant his fist in his rival’s face nearly overwhelmed his self-control much as it had when he was young.
In the blink of an eye, Flint was a boy of thirteen again. He’d just emerged from the boy’s dorm, having found one of the younger scholarship boys in a bloody heap in a corner. He’d seen Cunningham—for though a boy, he’d borne one of his father’s lesser titles as a courtesy even then—and two of his lackeys strolling out of the same hall where he’d found the boy. Enraged by the callousness of the act and the pure viciousness of the abuse, he’d settled the boy in his bed and summoned the school nurse. Then he’d promptly stormed outside and found the trio harassing yet another victim. It was outside of enough.
He’d marched up to Cunningham and spun him around so they stood face to face—or as close to that as they could, considering the older boy had probably a foot on Flint at that time. “Why don’t you try picking on someone who can fight back?”
Cunningham looked him over and sneered. “And who might that be? You?”
The lackeys laughed along with Cunningham as Flint trembled with fury. In his mind’s eye, the bully who’d taunted his twin brother appeared looming over the broken body that lay at the bottom of the well.
Close to losing the battle with his anger, Flint jutted his chin out. “That’s right.”
Again, the trio laughed. That was when the rage broke free. With a cry of anger so ragged that he could barely speak for days after the fight, Flint had swung and landed a solid jab to Cunningham’s chin. The older boy reeled, stumbling back a few steps. But he recovered quickly and stepped forward. The problem was, he had no idea what had been unleashed. Flint swung again, landing another blow to his face, and sending the taller boy to the ground. Still screaming bloody murder, Flint dropped on top of his opponent and continued to pummel his face until the headmaster snatched him off the struggling form.
Leaving Cunningham bloody and crying in a heap on the ground, Flint stood next to the headmaster who had a firm grip on his arm as he jerked him once and then a second time. “Enough you two!”
Flint straightened up, the fury receding until he could see the damage he had wrought. In the end, they had both been expelled, at least for a short time. Cunningham’s father had eventually convinced the school’s board of trustees—by way of a very generous donation—to allow his son to return. Flint’s father had offered no such mitigation. Instead, Flint had been forced to live with the consequences of his actions, resulting in a lonely pursuit of his education with a personal tutor under his father’s disappointed, yet watchful eye.
Cunningham’s carriage clattered by, pulling him out of his memories.
Drawing on his courage, Flint approached Ros’s front door and knocked. Johnson answered, greeted him, and bade him wait a moment. In very short order, he returned to deny Flint entrance. “Tell Mrs. Smith, that I shall not go away until she sees me. I shall happily stand on her front stoop like some besotted suitor.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes.” Ros appeared from around the corner where she had clearly been listening to her butler send him off. “That will be all Johnson. I shall speak to the man here.”
Flint steeled himself as her soft floral scent tickled his nose and reminded him of how delicious she smelled. Suddenly, the need for violence and confrontation slipped away, only to be replaced by a gale-force wind of desire. But she stood feet away, aloof and no longer his. One question pealed through his mind as he struggled with his control once again. What have I done?
Chapter 12
Ros stood at her front door, violating every rule of etiquette she knew, and she was sure a few she had never heard of. Yet it was all for a good reason. Possibly the best one—self-preservation—because she was positive that if she allowed Flint to cross her threshold, she would instantly lose all her resolve, all of the fury that simmered deep inside, and beg him to reconsider their split.
Instead, she turned up the flame on her anger, coaxing it to a rolling boil as she stared at the too-handsome lord on her front steps. The man had had the nerve to send her packing only to slink behind her as she tried to move on. And now, he’d presented himself to…what? Why was he there? Curiosity got the best of her. “Why is it that I find you on my doorstep?”
Flint’s dark brows slashed downward as he frowned. “What do you mean why? I should think that would be obvious.”
“Unless you’ve come to beg my forgiveness—which I am not inclined to grant at the moment—I have no idea why you have come.” She glared at him. She could only think of one other reason he would be there—and it seemed the most likely, considering what she knew of Flint. He was there to warn her off Lord Cunningham.
His Not-So-Sweet Marchioness Page 9