It was his responsibility to escort her, not her job to shepherd him. She should never have been left alone. Weren’t unmarried women considered delicate flowers to be chaperoned and watched closely?
Of course, her mother and father had their own pursuits, but a gentleman like the newly minted Earl of Rochdale should have been right on her heels from the moment she had agreed, albeit unkindly, to dance with him.
And she would not hunt him down and lecture him on the responsibilities of a gentleman because she’d rather pick up one of the papier-mâché pots around the room and crash it on his head.
The image of Rochdale bashed in by glue and paper gave Leonie great pleasure, but it didn’t conjure his presence from the card room.
No one had ever just left her on the ballroom floor before.
Well, save for her parents. They ignored her all the time. They had expectations of her but they didn’t trouble themselves overmuch with her welfare.
Then there was the last time she had been with Gilchrist. He’d left her then as well, hadn’t he? Delivered her home and walked off—
“Leonie.”
The sound of her name brought Leonie back to the moment. Lady Dervish, her mother’s friend, was hurrying toward her, pushing her way past the other guests with all the excitement of a hen about to lay eggs. “Leonie, I have been looking for you. He is begging an introduction to you.”
“He?”
“The Duke of Camberly. He specifically asked for you and since we couldn’t find your mother—”
“Of course,” Leonie murmured.
“And why disturb your father?” Lady Dervish continued.
“He is undisturbable,” Leonie agreed.
“I thought to bring you to our latest duke myself.” She hooked her arm in Leonie’s. “My dear, he is delicious. And so well mannered. He said he saw you across the ballroom and is most anxious for an introduction.”
To both her and her dowry, Leonie could have added but held her peace. The duke had noticed her. She had scored her first point in this Season’s game.
Let Rochdale wonder where she’d gone off to.
Let him stew about her whereabouts.
Of course, she could not resist, as Lady Dervish guided her to the dance floor, a backward glance at the card room.
Rochdale wasn’t to be seen, and Leonie cursed herself for having looked.
So, it was that she was introduced to Camberly at just the moment when she was ready to defy convention.
He had finished leading Lord Vetter’s daughter in a dance. The chit was practically hyperventilating from the experience and Leonie could understand why. Up close, the Duke of Camberly was even more handsome. His features were classic and even in contrast to Rochdale’s rough masculinity.
Camberly had eyes so blue they reminded her of a summer sky. His nose was strong without overpowering his face. His lips were well formed and full in the best spirit of a romantic noble.
He was young, perhaps only four years older than Leonie’s three and twenty years. He was muscular and strong and had a ready smile as if he was enjoying himself fully.
What was not to like?
In addition, if he asked her to dance, she would score three more points and let Rochdale know she didn’t give two snaps of her fingers whether he honored his request for a dance or not. She had other admirers. Ducal admirers.
“Your Grace,” Lady Dervish fawned. “May I introduce you to Miss Leonie Charnock?”
Leonie was never fond of curtseying but she did so now. A deep curtsey, one that she knew allowed the very tall duke an excellent view of her assets. She was usually not one to flaunt herself, but her feminine pride had been stung.
His response did much to restore her hurt feelings. “Miss Charnock.” His voice was deep and warm. He took her gloved hand, helping her rise. “Those who have praised your beauty as more sparkling than the stars did not lie.”
Leonie quickly stifled a laugh at his blatant flattery, which seemed false and silly, especially considering his age. Old men garbled nonsense like this to her, and yet he seemed sincere. Perhaps he was shy? She then remembered Cassandra saying he fancied himself a poet.
“Your Grace is too kind,” she answered, wanting to take back the hand he still held.
“It is not kindness at all, but truth. I have heard much about you.”
And my fortune.
Leonie attempted her best to look demure and affected by his praise, reminding herself that men rarely expected an answer, especially of the cynical sort. Her mother had warned her long ago that, when around gentlemen, it was always best to say nothing. They would form their own conclusions.
“Will you do me the honor of this next dance?”
The one that she should have had with Rochdale? “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
He had never let go of her hand and now placed it on his arm. He led her to center of the floor. Such was the weight of an important title, the couples there made room for them, even switching groups if necessary.
The music started.
The men bowed; the ladies curtsied—and Leonie wished fervently that Rochdale could see her dancing and be eaten alive with despair for his blatant disregard for her.
That would be a great moment.
She was so caught in her imaginary and vehement triumph she mistakenly gave the duke’s hand a little squeeze.
His brows rose. The keen glint of a hunter came to his eye, and the next time they came back together in the pattern of the dance, he gave her hand a squeeze in return, as well as a clench of the fingers.
Leonie shot him her most dazzling smile, knowing that somewhere in the ballroom her friends were thinking: one point for the glance, one for the introduction, three points for the dance . . . and did they notice the hand squeeze? There were no points for that, but it spoke well for a call—
She almost tripped over her feet, and not because she was clumsy, but because the Earl of Rochdale stood right at the edge of the dance floor and he was not happy.
In fact, he watched her as if he was willing some extremely nasty curse upon her person. No wonder she had tripped.
In response to his sourness, she leaned in more than proper to the duke and let her hip brush against his. Did Rochdale notice her advance? Good!
The pattern changed direction, calling for the men to place a hand on their partner’s waist. The duke’s hand held her waist with the weight of possession. His grin said he was enjoying himself and was eager for their dance pattern to bring them close again.
Normally, Leonie would be alarmed. She liked to keep a bit of control on the men in her sphere. Distance was a good way to keep them at bay.
However, anger and pride combined to make her flaunt the rules, just as she had that fateful night in India so long ago.
Back then, Roman Gilchrist had scowled as he watched her dance with another man.
Suddenly, past became present. Memories, mistakes, and the horror of one fateful night roiled inside her with such force Leonie stopped dancing.
The debutante next to her didn’t notice and almost tripped over her with a small cry of alarm.
Leonie looked at the girl in confusion, her mind lost in a moment no one could see save herself. She took a step back and almost ran into the dancer behind her.
The duke came to a halt and, therefore, so did everyone else around him despite the music merrily playing along. There was chaos on the floor and it was all Leonie’s fault.
“I’m so sorry,” Leonie said to Camberly. “I don’t feel well.” She placed her hand to her abdomen and, without waiting for a response, she tore off the dance floor, and away from Gilchrist’s disturbing presence.
The crowd parted for her. The duke called her name. She escaped to the hallway.
There, lifting her skirts, she ran as far from the ballroom as she could, opening a door and finding the marquis’s library.
The room was thankfully, blessedly empty. A lamp was burning and there were chair
s in front of a cold hearth. Leonie didn’t think twice about closing the door behind her. She leaned against it, praying no one saw her come into the room, and then slowly sank to her knees.
She could not go back out there. The humiliation was too much to bear. Everyone would be talking about her and her father would be furious.
Minutes passed with the only sound being the pounding of her heart and her frantic breathing. Her mind would not shut off. She did feel sick. She did.
She lifted her hands to feel her forehead—and then gave a small gasp. In the lamp’s light, they appeared covered with blood.
Dear Lord, there had been so much blood that night. She’d tried to staunch its flow and yet it kept coming . . . and she’d begged Arthur not to die, even though she’d just shot him.
The worst had been watching the light of life fade from his eyes. She could even remember his last words to her—
A knock sounded on the door. “Miss Charnock.”
It was Gilchrist. Panic sent her to the other side of the room. “Leave me alone.”
In response, just like that night long ago, the door opened and Gilchrist entered the room.
Gilchrist, who knew what she had done.
Chapter 4
Despite the expensive appointments of the Marquis of Devon’s library, entering it eerily reminded Roman of his entrance into another room half a decade and half a world away. That room had held the meanest of furnishings and the air had smelled of the wild and of sex and blood. In this moment, the past foreshadowed the present.
With the wisdom he’d gleaned from the East, Roman knew he had always been meant to be right here, right now.
He closed the door.
“Open it,” Leonie ordered, her tone imperial, but there was another edge to it, one of fear.
So. He wasn’t the only one experiencing this awareness of the past. She’d been frightened of him that night as well.
She backed another step into the far corner. Tension radiated from her. She did not look well.
“Leonie, he deserved to die.”
She shook her head so vehemently a few curls escaped their careful pins.
“What Paccard did was wrong. You were protecting yourself.” He’d spoken these same lines the night he’d found her with Arthur Paccard’s body in the abandoned ruins of some raja’s hunting palace in the deep forest. Roman had tried to catch her and Paccard in time, but had failed.
Not every rescue in life was successful.
She looked at her hands as if she could see something he didn’t. She rubbed them together. “He didn’t die right away.”
“I know.”
“It took a long time, or so it seemed. I tried to stop the blood.”
“I remember.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You do, don’t you? And you told everyone that you had found me safe before there was harm. You told them you shot Arthur. That the two of you had dueled over me.”
That, too, was true.
“If I was in the right,” she challenged, “why wouldn’t you have told them that I was the one who shot him? Why did you claim he died in a duel?”
“It was easiest.” It had also saved her reputation.
“But they blamed you. Everyone thought you did it because you were jealous that I favored him. That he died because you wished him dead.”
The room suddenly closed in around Roman. So, she knew.
“Leonie, we don’t need to talk about this.”
“Yes, we do,” she said. “I knew what they said and I didn’t speak up. I didn’t have the courage—”
“You had just turned seventeen. You were young—”
“I was old enough to know better,” she countered, “as my father told me repeatedly after it was all over. He swears my being involved with the whole incident is the reason he has never received a knighthood. If he knew the truth, he’d disown me. My only worth to him is marrying the title he could never have. No one would touch me if they knew what had really happened.”
“Then we won’t tell them.”
“You don’t understand. It is not that simple—”
“Yes, it is.”
When Roman had entered the library, releasing her of her guilt had not been his plan. She owed him a debt and he intended she pay up. Otherwise, he could lose Bonhomie.
However, faced with her shame, he found himself softening toward her. She’d been so young back then. He and Paccard had also been young and randy and frustrated to find themselves in India. Their feud over Leonie’s affections had been intense and heated and it really hadn’t had anything to do with her. It had been about keeping a step ahead of the other.
What would she say if she knew Paccard had left Roman a note that night bragging that he’d won her?
And that Roman had set out to prove him wrong?
“You rescued me,” she said. “If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“Actually, you rescued yourself.”
She had rescued herself.
Leonie had never considered the matter that way.
At the time, all she had wanted was to stop Arthur from hurting her, and he had been going to do it again. She’d made a terrible mistake in trusting him. She’d wanted to go home but he wouldn’t let her.
When she had felt the small pistol that he’d usually carried in his coat pocket buried in the folds of the blanket, she hadn’t been thinking of murder. She had just wanted him to leave her alone. She had been trying to give herself room to think, and then everything had gone wrong.
Years ago, she had misjudged Arthur. Of the two men, Arthur and Roman, she’d believed Arthur to be the better. He’d had more polish, had been places she could only imagine, and paid more attention to her.
Roman had treated her as if she was seventeen and pretending a sophistication she didn’t have. He’d been right.
Once her family returned to London after spending most of Leonie’s life in Calcutta, she learned how little she knew about the world. Her life in India had been a protected one. As one of the few white women close to a marriageable age, she’d been the center of attention. She had assumed everyone had her best interests at heart. She’d been that naive.
Arthur had taught Leonie that there were dangers everywhere, even on the dance floor.
She reached out and touched the marquis’s heavy velvet drapes covering the window. “Was it hard for you in India after my family left? Father said that you would be fine. He said officers dueled all the time but I heard rumors with your name. And don’t say something noble such as you were happy to be of service or some other such rot. I know you were accused of shooting Arthur in a jealous rage.”
“I said he had issued the challenge. I could not back down. You and I were the only two there.”
“And I had left for London.”
He nodded, conceding her point. “I said I had no choice. It was self-defense.”
There was a tightness in his voice. She sensed all had not been as easy as he seemed to wish her to believe. “I wanted to speak at your hearing but my parents had me on the first ship out of India.”
“It was just as well you didn’t speak on my behalf. You wouldn’t have been invited to this ball.”
Heat flooded Leonie’s face. He was right. Both of her parents had warned her not to confess to a living soul that she had eloped with Paccard.
Occasionally, the story would float around but a word from her father usually quashed it. Of course, he couldn’t control Leonie’s memories or the horrid dreams that haunted her. Only a nip of brandy could do that.
She wished she had some right now. She looked around the room. There were decanters on an ornamental table—but she’d not take a sip in front of Roman. She couldn’t imagine what he’d make of her lifting the bottle to her lips and having a quick taste. He wouldn’t understand.
No one did.
He was watching her, his gaze intent as if he weighed an important matter in his m
ind, and it made her nervous. She realized she knew very little about him. Even back then, he’d been a mystery.
She smiled, anxious to take her leave, but before she could speak, he said, “You and I are going to marry.”
Leonie gave a start, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me, Leonie. I came to this ball to seek you out. I had the intention of wooing you. However, I don’t have that kind of time.”
“Whoa, whoooo . . .” Leonie said in confusion. “Marriage? You want to marry me? Are you still carrying an affection for me after all these years? You don’t appear to be a smitten swain.”
“I’m not,” Roman admitted.
“Are you suddenly overcome with desire?”
“You are lovely.”
“You say that with the same passion that our family butler announces dinner is served.”
“It is widely acknowledged that you are a beauty—unusual in your features, even exotic, but attractive, all the same.”
“Attractive. I’ve moved from lovely to merely attractive? I can imagine the love poetry you would write to me—’Your eyes could have been compared to the stars but now they look like two pebbles in the village garden.’ ”
To his credit, a hint of a smile lifted his lips. “I don’t write poetry. You need not worry about being compared to garden pebbles by me.”
“Reassuring.” Her breathing had returned to normal; her heartbeat had steadied. The room around her no longer held horrors.
She’d faced the worst, she realized. She looked to Roman. “I’ve always feared that someday I would have to atone for that night. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t taken the blame. You understood the price I would have had to pay.”
He bowed, acknowledging her remark.
“And it means a great deal to me to see you faring so well,” she continued. “An earldom is not enough of a reward for what you did for me.”
The words sounded pretty to her ears. They were kind, benevolent, humble. “However—” She kept her voice gentle. “—I cannot accept your offer of marriage.” If his informing her they would marry could be considered an “offer.”
If Ever I Should Love You Page 4