Leonie didn’t want to think about what she meant. She stood abruptly. The hour was too late for her spend it watching her mother moon over Roman. She’d received the answer to her questions—her parents would not support her living on her own. And she would probably not escape marriage.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mother.” Leonie bent to give her mother a dutiful peck on the cheek. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“I enjoyed myself.” Her mother stood and moved toward the bed. Leonie was almost to the door when she said, “Remember, daughter, a woman’s power is between her legs. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
A picture rose in Leonie’s mind of Arthur over her, his hand smelling of horses and leather a weight across her mouth to stop her screams, his “cock”—see? She could use adult words—tearing her to pieces inside.
That was power?
Her smile felt frozen. “Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, lamb.”
Leonie escaped the bedroom. She started for her own room, but then stopped and walked to the study. Just a nip would help ease her anxiousness. She made her way to her bed.
She climbed onto the plush feather mattress and pulled sheets of the finest linen over her. She stared at the bed canopy, wishing her mind would stop its frantic working.
A woman’s power is between her legs.
After Arthur was done with her, she’d never felt so abused or powerless. She remembered her fingers finding the pistol that had fallen from his coat pocket. Then she’d had power.
Dear God, she wished she’d never shot him, and yet, what would have become of her if she hadn’t?
This time, the brandy was not successful at chasing the “what ifs” from her brain . . .
If she had to marry someone, she’d rather it be Roman. He was right: she did owe him that much. But on what terms?
Hugging her pillow to her, her mind was suddenly alive with possibilities. She came from a long line of merchants and traders. She’d been taught that money had power . . . if she knew how to use it.
A plan began to form in her mind.
Roman punched down the hard pillow beneath his head. The hour was well past dawn and he hated not having a good night’s sleep. He’d had few of late. Money worries ate away at his serenity. Money worries and thoughts of Leonie.
He reimagined the scenes between them the night before. They had unfinished business and he would have no peace until they had a meeting of the minds.
That would be difficult because Leonie had made it very clear she would not consider his marriage offer. She probably wanted what all women seemed to desire these days—love.
Roman didn’t have time for love. He had people depending upon him. He had an estate to rebuild. He had so many dreams, he didn’t have time for courting.
By the time his man, Duncan Barr, knocked on the door of his rented rooms with his breakfast, Roman had worked himself into a foul mood. It was too bad Erzy and Malcolm had presented their vouchers for pay yesterday rather than today. Yesterday, Roman had been intimidated by the weight of taking his seat in the Lords.
Today, he was ready to act out his frustration.
Duncan had been Roman’s orderly when he’d first arrived in India and had remained loyally by his side throughout the fluctuations of his career. He now served as valet and secretary. He was a crusty Scot, twenty years older than Roman, and as ready as his master to return to Bonhomie and build a peaceful life. He was as close a friend as Roman could ever wish and didn’t cater to Roman’s moods. He carried a tray with covered dishes for Roman’s breakfast along with a pot of tea brewed so strong a man’s whiskers would pop out of his face with just one sip.
“Rough night, sir?” Barr set the tray on the desk, using the space Roman had just cleared by moving unread papers out of the way.
Roman grunted his thoughts, rubbed his eyes, and rose from bed. He reached for the offered mug of tea. It was hot as hades. The first drink woke him. The second fortified him. Roman knew by the time he reached the bottom, there wasn’t any challenge he couldn’t face.
He smiled his pleasure and then noticed a sealed envelope next to his silverware.
Seeing where Roman’s eye had landed, Barr said, “It arrived this morning. A servant delivered it. He said no response was needed.”
Roman picked up the envelope while Barr busied himself around the room, preparing to help his master dress. The handwriting on the address was decidedly feminine. There was no signet to the seal. Roman cracked it open and literally took a step back in surprise.
“Good or bad news, sir?” the unflappable Barr asked. He set impeccably polished boots out for Roman to wear.
“I don’t know.” Roman reread the words written in a surprisingly mature hand. He’d always imagined Leonie as one of those women who made wide loops on her “l’s” and “e’s.” “Miss Charnock has requested I call on her concerning a matter of mutual interest to us both.”
Barr froze in the act of laying out Roman’s shaving instruments. “Miss Charnock?”
“Aye, the one and same. I didn’t mention her last night because I thought she was done with me.” He looked down at the note. “Apparently not.”
Straightening, Barr said, “I would think you would give a wide berth to that creature. Even without her past, it is a bold, forward move to send a missive to a single gentleman.” Duncan was not one to hold back his opinion.
“If I was wise, I would do as you suggest,” Roman agreed, aware that while moments before he’d been tired and irritable, he now experienced a surge of energy.
He sat at his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote an answer: I beg leave to call upon you at four o’clock. He sanded the letter, blew it off, and sealed it. He offered it to Barr, who did not make a move toward him.
“Are you arranging an assignation with that creature?”
“Her name is Miss Charnock, and yes.”
“Do you not have a brain in your head? She ruined you the last time you helped her.”
“Deliver it, Barr. This may be my only hope. Or . . . you can visit me in debtors’ prison.”
Duncan took the letter.
Chapter 7
Ten minutes until four.
Leonie sat in the side room located off the receiving room, waiting, her least favorite task. This was a cozy room with painted wood paneling and upholstered furniture in contrast to the larger room’s formality. There was a solid double door between them. She chose to wait for Roman here rather than upstairs.
She wore a day dress of emerald-green cambric with a high-necked bodice trimmed in a lace ruffle. It was the most modest dress she had in her wardrobe. She’d chosen it because she wished to persuade Rochdale into saying yes to her proposal, but for the right reasons, not the wrong ones. She did not wish to tease him.
Still, she knew the color complemented her eyes and brought out the golden highlights in her hair, which she had styled high upon her head. She’d spent hours over her toilette. For this meeting, every detail had to be perfect.
Leonie picked up the glass of brandy she had been sipping and glanced again at the clock on the mantel over the small hearth. Usually, she didn’t use a glass. She had no desire to leave any evidence of her occasional nips, but today was different. For what she planned to do, she needed fortification and a “nip” wouldn’t be enough.
On that thought, Leonie drained the glass and set it on the side table. The swiftness of her swallow burned her throat, but the feeling was fleeting. It was replaced with the blessed awareness and confidence that she had come to trust.
Leonie had not told anyone of her planned appointment with Roman. Her mother had wanted her to accompany her to a dress fitting but Leonie had cried off, saying she had a headache. Her father usually spent the afternoon at his club, so she was alone.
During her first Season, Leonie’s afternoons after an important rout had been filled with calls from gentleman admirers. Flowers had come through her door in
wagonloads. It was telling that after the Marquis of Devon’s ball, no one had called, not even to leave a card. No flowers graced the tables in the receiving room—which was what she’d wanted, no? Hadn’t she believed herself tired of all the courting and silliness?
Funny, but she’d never stopped to think of those young women who made their debut and received little interest. Now she knew how peaceful their lives were. Of course, they probably didn’t think of it that way.
Leonie wondered how Willa and Cassandra were faring? Had the Duke of Camberly called? That would be four points in the game.
Or was he visiting Lady Bettina? Cassandra would be eaten up with envy if he did. It would also mean, to Leonie’s thinking, that Camberly was not “the one,” if such a paragon existed—
A firm knock on the front door echoed in through the house just as the mantel clock chimed four.
Leonie rose to her feet. She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. She pressed them against her skirts.
She heard the door open and Yarrow’s deep voice. She couldn’t hear what was being said or the answer. She listened for footsteps and could imagine Yarrow leading Roman the few steps to the receiving room. She could see him offer the gentleman a seat before he sent a footman to search out his young mistress. She knew that Yarrow, being the guardian he was, would go in search of Mrs. Denbright, the housekeeper, to serve as chaperone since Leonie’s parents were not present. In fact, she had counted upon his doing so.
She waited for footsteps to go up the stairs. She opened and closed her hands and walked to the double doors, throwing them open.
Roman stood looking out the front window. He appeared every inch the Corinthian with his buff breeches, shining boots, and a midnight-blue coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He was not a terrible choice for a husband. Certainly, there was something about him that attracted her, something that had made Arthur Paccard jealous.
At the sound of the doors opening, he’d turned, and did not seem surprised to see her. Amused gray eyes took in every detail of her appearance, including her well-covered bosom.
He approached, stopping a discreet three feet from her. He gave a short bow. “Hello, Miss Charnock.”
She didn’t waste time on niceties or offer her hand. If she did, she’d lose her courage.
“I need to speak to you alone and I don’t have much time before Yarrow or Mrs. Denbright join us. Were you serious about your marriage offer last night?”
He schooled the surprise from his eyes. “I was.”
“Then here are my terms.” She’d spent most of the day thinking how she wanted to phrase her demands, but words that had sounded confident in her bedroom now seemed a bit unwise in front of him. Still, with the careless defiance of the brandy, she forged on.
“I will accept your offer and you may have my dowry and eventually my inheritance, provided I am your wife in name only. And,” she hurried to add, “you will not set me aside but support me, in London, in the manner I wish to live.”
There, she’d gotten it all out.
She squared her shoulders, ready for his acceptance or rejection. She’d prepared herself for both.
Instead, there was silence, and then he said, “Name only? What exactly does that mean?”
His query annoyed her. “It means what I said. Now will you take my offer or leave it?”
“Have you been drinking spirits?”
That was not a response Leonie had anticipated. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because I’m catching a hint of brandy breath.”
Brandy breath? Was there such a thing? Or was he toying with her? Roman Gilchrist had an alarming ability to throw her off guard. Suspicious, she lifted her chin. “I don’t know why you would ever make such an accusation.”
He gave a half laugh as if he was somewhat sorry. “I have been in His Majesty’s Service for a long time and I know when someone is foxed.”
“Foxed?” Leonie literally trembled at the charge. She was in complete control of her senses. “How dare you accuse me of such?”
Roman leaned back as if to both avoid her breath and savor it as the same time. “Vanilla. A hint of raisins. Yes, I believe you have been tippling the brandy. Please tell me, my lady, that this isn’t a regular occurrence? Because if it is, we might have a problem.”
Leonie could stomp her feet in outrage. “How dare you—” she started, only to be cut off by the sounds of hurried footsteps and the appearance of her maid, Minnie, in the doorway.
“Here you are, my lady,” Minnie said, looking somewhat confused. “I needed to tell you there was a gentleman caller—” She’d been so focused on finding Leonie she had failed to register Roman’s presence until that moment. Like a frightened mouse who had just discovered a cat was in the room, her lips closed and she slipped inside, taking the nearest chair closest to the door. She folded her hands in her lap, pretending not to be present or notice anything the way she knew Leonie preferred, and yet serving as a chaperone because her mistress should not be alone with a gentleman.
Yarrow, too, appeared outside the door. He hovered there, the frown on his face saying he knew Leonie had managed to avoid proprieties and was most annoyed—and not necessarily with her but with her parents. He’d be truly appalled if he knew she’d been tippling. She resisted the reflex to place her hand over her mouth as if Yarrow could catch a hint of her breath from where she stood.
However, her worries were unfounded because Roman took control.
“You are right on time,” he said to Minnie, including Yarrow in his buoyant declaration. “Miss Charnock has accepted my offer of marriage.”
Thoughts of covering her mouth with her hand vanished from Leonie’s mind. “I . . . what—I—?”
“You said you would accept it,” he argued.
Well, what she’d meant is she would accept his offer if he accepted hers—but she couldn’t make that statement in front of Yarrow.
“This is grand news, my lord,” Yarrow said approvingly. “Congratulations, Miss Leonie.”
“Yes, congratulations,” Minnie peeped up, rising from her chair.
Yarrow took charge. “I must send word to your father. He will wish to be here.” He snapped his fingers for one of the footmen. “Go fetch the master at his club—”
“No, wait,” Leonie said, moving toward him with her hand up. “Let us give this a moment—”
She tripped over a footstool that she hadn’t noticed in her path in her alarm to stop Yarrow from sending for her father and would have gone crashing to the ground save for Roman’s quick action. He caught her and swung her back on her feet, the movement bringing them chest to chest, thigh to thigh.
“What ho! Good save, my lord,” Yarrow said approvingly, although Leonie barely registered his words.
Instead, she found herself immersed in the strangest sense of being both off balance and yet safe. Of needing to push away and yet yearning to be closer. Roman’s body heat surrounded her. He smelled of shaving soap and of something else she couldn’t quite define. It was spicy and masculine, and she liked it very much.
It reminded her of that moment when he’d entered the room where she had murdered Arthur. She had thrown herself at him, burying her face in the fold of his coat, wishing he would whisk her away and save her from what she’d done. He’d smelled good to her then, too.
In that moment, Leonie knew she had no choice. She would marry him.
Perhaps her capitulation was the brandy . . . or how she rather liked his shaving soap . . . or just the fleeting understanding that she fought a losing battle. She did have to marry. She would not be allowed to be left alone until she did.
And as she’d decided last night, if she must trust someone, then let it be Roman Gilchrist, who had proven himself once.
He knew her secrets, even down to her taste for brandy.
Granted, all he needed her for was her money, but standing this close to him, looking up into those gray eyes that he
ld a hint of laughter over how easily he’d outmaneuvered her, she saw something else. It wasn’t Arthur’s angry lust born out of jealousy, or the hungry one of those admirers who had trailed after her in the past.
It was something else.
He did want her. She could feel his manhood against her.
But there was something deeper, almost alien to her, in his expression that she couldn’t quite define, and then it came roaring into her awareness—he felt sorry for her.
Leonie jerked out of his grasp, almost stumbling over the footstool again as she broke the spell between them. No one noticed her angry movement. Yarrow was ordering footmen around and Minnie had left the room in search of her mother’s maid to track their mistress’s whereabouts.
Rubbing her arm where Rochdale had held it, Leonie lashed out at him under her breath. “How dare you do this? When my parents come, and they will, then I shall tell the truth. There will be no marriage between us.”
His response was a shrug.
If Leonie had been a Harpy, one of those mythical birds that ate men alive, she would have flown at him with her talons bared. Instead, she retreated to the far side of the room, taking a seat in an upright, wood-backed chair, and warned him with her eyes not to take one step toward her. She clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing her knuckles, because he knew she wouldn’t protest to her parents.
He’d gleaned that her feelings would be of little consequence to them, and they weren’t.
In short order, her father barged into the house with one of his rare smiles across his face. He shook Roman’s hand vigorously and called for Yarrow to bring whisky. “We must drink to our young countess’s health!”
Which he did, several times. Roman nursed one glass, Leonie noticed. A pity. No one offered her a drop.
Her mother danced in, the footmen following her carrying boxes of purchases.
If Ever I Should Love You Page 7