The muscle in the man’s jaw twitched. “Well, understand this, St. Vrain—you have an appointment with the parson,” he bit out. “It can be your wedding. Or it can be your funeral. I scarcely give a damn.”
“You think me unwilling, sir?” said St. Vrain. “Your niece is lovely, and possessed of every feminine grace. I would account myself fortunate to be bound to her, but…”
“Good God, man, spit it out!” said Rothewell. “What lame excuse do you mean to seize upon?”
“None, save the lady’s reluctance,” said St. Vrain. “I offered to marry her long before your sister turned up with all her indignation blazing. Miss Neville refused me. And frankly, I do not think she means to change her mind.”
“Then by God, I shall change it for her,” Rothewell growled. “Trust me, the chit will be on her knees begging you before this day is done.”
His words sent a cold chill down St. Vrain’s spine. And the bastard meant them, too. The resolve was plain in his eyes. St. Vrain allowed no emotion to taint his words.
“I shall convince her,” he responded, coming swiftly to his feet. “Leave this business to me, Rothewell. This was my doing, and I shall see to the undoing of it.”
The baron made a growling noise in the back of his throat, but the massive fist relaxed, and some of the rage, if not the hatred, went out of him. “Very well,” he snapped. “But there will be no more talk of what the chit will or will not do, St. Vrain. I want a wedding by Christmas. Either you see to it—orI shall. ”
St. Vrain found her in Highwood’s west garden, strolling along the formal tiers of roses, now bare and long dormant. Spindly, naked tree branches clattered above his head, while beneath his feet, the wintry grass was stiff and all but dead. In the garden which rolled out beyond him, nothing bloomed. But Miss Neville was the beauty of May personified. Her warm skin and dark, luxuriant hair were the perfect foil for the rich colors she so wisely wore. Indeed, she looked like no debutante, no virgin, he had ever known. Moreover, there was a sensual sort of self-awareness in her being which simply astonished him—and, unfortunately, enthralled him, too.
For a time, St. Vrain simply watched her from the fringe of trees. If she were cold, or even frightened, one could not discern it. Her head was unbowed beneath the hood of her woolen cloak, her brow unfurrowed by worry. Her narrow shoulders did not hunch against the wind. Indeed, her chin was still up, and her wide brown eyes were clear, if a little dreamy. Perhaps she was dreaming of that love and passion she so determinedly wished to have. She might not settle for less. Yes, Lord Rothewell had found himself a worthy opponent if he wished to do battle.
But Rothewell would not lose, of course. She would. That was how the world worked. And so it fell to St. Vrain to convince her; to save her from her uncle’s wrath. He owed her that, at the very least. A marriage to him was otherwise not much of a favor. He was wealthy, but so was she. He was all but unknown to society, having passed the whole of his adult life in shame and exile on the Continent, whereas her life, and all the benefit which polite society might offer, was yet before her. Those who knew him, for the most part, did not receive him. Only his former acquaintance with Lord Sharpe, bolstered by Christine’s wheedling, had given him entrée to Highwood.
Miss Neville—Martinique—turned and paced the length of the garden, this time away from him. How pretty she was, from every angle. Dear God. She would not have lasted a fortnight on the marriage market come the spring, unless she’d wished to. But his lack of self-control was destined to cheat her of that opportunity. He had ruined his own life, and now he was about to ruin hers, he feared.
Ah, well. It was not the marriage he would have wished for, either. Once upon a time, when life was still a fairy tale, he had been determined to wed Georgina; to make her life happy again. They had only to wait, he had promised her, until his father was dead. Then they would find a priest or a parson somewhere in Europe who was willing enough, or dishonest enough, to do the job of sealing their illicit union.
But there had been no marriage. Georgina had died long before her husband; died in childbed, as it happened, in a futile attempt to bear their forbidden child. And St. Vrain’s blind, youthful love for her had died long before that. He had quickly come to see Georgina for what she was: neither good nor evil, but merely weak and self-absorbed. And he had come to see the unvarnished truth of what they had done. But there had been no going back; no way to undo the horror of what he had done to his own father, and perhaps to Georgina, too. And there had been no future, either.
Until now. Now he was staring at his future—and strangely, it did not appall him as much as it perhaps should have done. He desired Martinique, yes. But it was more than that. She brought a light and a vibrancy to his existence; things he had believed lost to him. And there was an element of comfort in being with her. A peacefulness which settled over him, and made him feel that there was a future yet before him. He had returned to England with no thought of what he would do with the rest of his life, save for rebuilding the estate, and ensuring the welfare of his retainers. And now he was faced with…what? A tragedy? An opportunity? He hardly knew. A little roughly, he cleared his throat, and set off across the garden.
Martinique turned at once, her eyes flaring wide. In a few quick steps, she closed the distance between them, catching his hands in hers. “Ma foi,but you have survived it!” she said, and none too speciously, either. “I feared the worst, but—oh, never mind that! Are you off the hook, St. Vrain? Please say yes.”
St. Vrain smiled warmly. “Yes,” he lied. “I think perhaps I might be.”
She sagged with relief. “Thank heavens,” she whispered. “But what doesmight mean?”
He still held her hands in his, her gloved fingers wrapped tightly within his own. They felt light and warm and almost comfortingly familiar. But how foolish that was. “Miss Neville, I wonder—”
“Yes? Go on.”
He looked at her, narrowing his eyes against the stark, wintry sun. She was damned pretty, with those long black lashes fringing her wide, worried eyes. “Well, I wonder if I am altogether pleased about it.”
She drew a little away from him. “Oh, my lord, but you must be!”
He drew her back. “It was wrong, what we did, my dear,” he said quietly. “What your uncle suggests is not entirely inappro—”
“Suggests?”Martinique cut him off, her tone bitter. “Rothewell never suggested anything in the whole of his life. He orders. Others obey.”
St. Vrain smiled faintly. “Well, in this case, we might,” he went on. “Because I do think, my dear, that you ought to marry me.”
Martinique was watching him assessingly. “But surely, St. Vrain, you’ve no wish to marry,” she said. “And surely not to me.”
Surprisingly, the notion was growing on him. “Why not you?” he murmured. “You are intelligent, you are beautiful, and you are a deeply sensual woman. Have you any notion, I wonder, how rare that is? But all that aside, I need a wife, I suppose. I have my estate to think of, and since I am eight-and-twenty now—”
“Only that?” she interjected.
Again, the faint smile. “Do I look prematurely decrepit, my dear?” he answered. “Please, do not spare my vanity.”
“Well, you look like a man who has seen a vast deal of life in his twenty-eight years,” she said. “As to your vanity, you are quite shockingly handsome, as I am sure you must know. And kindly do not lie, and say you donot know it, for that would be a waste of every-one’s time.”
“And did I mention, my dear, your plain speaking?” he went on. “Such honesty would doubtless be refreshing in a wife.”
“Oh, perhaps it is refreshing now,mon ami, ” she warned. “But in a dozen years, you’ll find it vastly annoying.”
She might be right, he inwardly acknowledged. But there was no backing away from it now. He gave her hands another reassuring squeeze. “Why do you not at least tell your uncle you will agree to a betrothal?”
“What d
ifference would that make?”
He smiled faintly. “Walk with me, Miss Neville,” he said. “There is a little orchard just beyond the garden.”
“Très bien.”She took his arm.
“It is like this, Miss Neville,” he began when they were no longer within earshot of the house. “A betrothal is not binding upon you. And this is, after all, Lincolnshire, which might as well be the backside of the moon so far as the London gossips are concerned.”
“And what is the advantage to me?” she asked sharply. “Or toyou, come to that?”
“A betrothal will quiet your uncle’s anger, and it will give you time to get to know me,” he answered, a little disconcerted by the light, warm hand on his arm. “As to me, well, I shall have the benefit of a beautiful lady’s companionship for a time. And I shall be welcomed here at Highwood, instead of turned off like a leper.”
At that, some of her color seemed to drain. “Do you mean…are you saying that…that if I refuse you, you will be turned away from Highwood? And that I shan’t see you ever again?”
He cut a swift, appraising glance at her. “My dear Miss Neville, use your head,” he murmured as they strolled deeper into the orchard. “In Lord Sharpe’s eyes, I have violated you beneath his very roof; violated his trust and his hospitality. Can there be a worse insult to an old acquaintance?”
Miss Neville jerked to a halt, and set her hand to her forehead as if she felt faint, though she certainly did not look it. “Mon Dieu,I did not think what I might be getting you into last night!” she whispered. “I—I was thinking only of—of…” Her words fell weakly away.
He grinned at her. “Of what, my dear?”
Her color returned in a bright pink flush. “Of my own desires.” Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “Of the way you made me feel. Your touch. Your mouth. Your—well, never mind that! But I—I just wanted you—so much so, that one awful moment, I was willing to risk my future. But I was never willing to risk yours! Please, St. Vrain, you must know that.”
He took her hands in his, and stared at the ground beneath her feet for a long moment. “Miss Neville, I hardly had a future to risk,” he said. “My reputation is less than pristine here in England. Had I chosen to wed, my bride would have been some—”
“But that is just it,” she interjected. “You wouldnot have wed. Admit it, St. Vrain. Men like you may have their choice amongst many women, at any time. And a wicked reputation but deepens their fascination.”
So she had already heard of his reputation. And she certainly was not naive, he admitted as they silently resumed their stroll. She was right, too. After Georgina, he had thought never to marry. So why was he here now, half-hoping she would sayyes ?
Because he wanted to make love to her again.Wanted her more desperately than he had ever wanted Georgina. Even now, just looking at the rise and fall of her breasts as her breath came with a nervous rapidity, he could remember how delightfully she had trembled beneath him last night, and the stirring of desire in his heart and in his loins began anew. He wondered vaguely if one last romp on the mattress would put the chit firmly from his mind. And what if it did not? What would that mean?
The path through the orchard was just gravel now. Abruptly, she stopped beside one of the gnarled apple trees, and leaned back against it as if she were inestimably weary. Only now did she begin to look defeated.
“Miss Neville,” he pressed. “What is your answer? If it is no, I cannot in good conscience linger here, further distressing Lord Sharpe.”
She flicked a quick, sarcastic look up at him. “You have no such compunction regarding my uncle?”
“Rothewell does not look as if his sensibilities are easily wounded.”
She licked her lips uncertainly. “They are not,” she said quietly. “He…he hates me, you know. He is just fobbing me off on you, St. Vrain. Be careful. He is dangerous.”
He did not try to argue with her; she might well be right on all counts. “Why do you think he hates you, my dear?”
Again she cut a quick glance up at him, this time warily. “He resented my mother’s marriage to his elder brother,” she said. He won’t have her name spoken within his hearing.”
He held her gaze gently. “Why did he resent her?”
Fleetingly, she hesitated. “I do not know,” she admitted. “I assume he felt she was not good enough for his fine old English family.”
“You said she was French,” he mused. “Wasthat his objection?”
“No, it was more.” She paused for a heartbeat. “I wish to tell you something, St. Vrain. Something I would insist on telling any gentleman who—well, who proposed any sort of relationship with me.”
Her words seemed carefully chosen. “By all means, go on.”
“My mother was not of noble birth,” she continued. “Indeed, she was not even of legitimate birth—asI am not of legitimate birth.” She paused, and held his gaze with a challenge in her eye. “My mother was a famous courtesan, St. Vrain. And—and asangmêlé. Do you know what that is?”
“I know what a courtesan is,” he said quietly. “What is the meaning of the other?”
“Something like an octoroon, as the English would call it.” Miss Neville’s tone was emotionless now. “Her blood was mixed, and her ancestry uncertain. She grew up on Martinique. Do you know it?”
“In the West Indies,” he said vaguely. “But the French part, not the British.”
“Précisément,”she said. “She lived there in poverty until a rich Frenchman saw her carrying a basket of cane from the fields, and fell in love with her.”
“Was she a slave?”
“She might as well have been. The Frenchman made her his mistress, and gave her little say in the matter. She was just fourteen years old, St. Vrain. Can you imagine it?”
“No,” he whispered. “What a difficult life she must have had.”
“The sad truth is, St. Vrain, it was a far better life than being poor and working the fields,” she said bitterly. “My mother did what she had to do to survive. She sold her beauty to escape poverty. For eight years, she serviced the Frenchman. And in return, he made her into the perfect woman. Elegant, well-dressed and impeccably mannered.”
St. Vrain suppressed a shudder. “Eight years?”
“A lifetime,oui. Or so it must have felt. But eventually, he decided to marry, and we were sent away.”
“You…you are his daughter?”
“Oui,”she said simply. “He gaveMaman a little money and some property. In Barbados, she met Lord Rothewell—not this one, but his brother.” Here, she lifted her chin a little stubbornly, and looked him in the eye. “He fell in love withMaman. She loved him, too, and nothing could keep them apart. Eventually, he offered her marriage, and a name for me.”
St. Vrain rather doubted the courtship had been the fairy tale Miss Neville believed, but he had no wish to distress her by arguing the point. “And it was a happy marriage?”
“Ecstatically.” Her voice had grown quiet. “And I was happy, too—until they died.”
“They died young,” he murmured. “How?”
Her gaze softened, and went distant. “There was a rebellion,” she answered. “A slave revolt. The cane fields were set afire, and their carriage became trapped in the flames. The lanes are so narrow. So treacherous. They could not turn in time. It was…horrible.”
“Dear God.”
She drew an unsteady breath. “My stepfather’s will appointed his brother my guardian.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” he said softly. “I am sorry, too, if Rothewell is indeed ashamed of you.”
“Do you doubt it?” she whispered.
St. Vrain was no longer sure what he thought. There had been something deeper than dislike firing Rothewell’s temper, he could have sworn. “Well, it hardly matters now,” he said. “I think your ancestry concerns you a vast deal more than it does me.”
“You wish this betrothal to go on, then?”
“Nothing you hav
e said alters my argument,” he answered.
She pushed herself a little away from the old apple tree and gazed at him with an odd look in her eye. “Then I will agree, St. Vrain, but on one condition.”
She had been honest with him so far. He crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded. “Go on.”
Again, the tongue darted out to touch the corner of her mouth almost nervously. “I wish…I wish to strike a bargain with you,” she answered. “I wish you to make love to me again.”
“Good Lord!Before we wed?”
“We do not mean to wed at all, St. Vrain,” she said. “Dowe?”
He shook his head, then shrugged. “I’m damned if I know,” he said. “Something tells me we ought.”
“That is just your upper-class British morality speaking,” she said. “Think of it as the French might. I wish to learn how to make love properly. And I wishyou to teach me. Somehow, I do not think you will mind. Besides, you…well, you have that look.”
St. Vrain hated to tell her just how little she needed to learn. “What look?”
Her lashes dropped almost shut, and suddenly, he wanted to push her back against the apple tree and kiss her senseless. “Youknow,” she said huskily. “That soft, somnolent thing you do with your eyes the first time you look at a woman? It’s as if you are offering her an apple in the Garden of Eden.”
He could only stare at her, and wonder what the devil he was getting himself into.
“Well,are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you offering?”
He fisted his hands at his sides, and prayed for strength. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “We are going to your uncle now, and announce a betrothal. And if we decide we suit, we shall marry. Then, my dear, we can negotiate those lessons.”
“But it is said, St. Vrain, that in courtship, a man ought to put his best foot forward,” she murmured, dipping her chin with a mocking modesty.
“But it is not my foot we are discussing, is it?”
The School for Heiresses Page 14