Anne Herries

by Rosalynand the Scoundrel

  ‘Yes, I see.’ She had known it instinctively, but it still hurt her to hear it from his lips. She blinked back her tears, looking bravely up at him. ‘Give me a little time, Damian. I must be certain.’

  For answer, he kissed her again. Such a tender, loving kiss that her resolve was almost broken, her body racked with a sharp longing for the pleasure she had never known but sensed she would find in this man’s arms. Why wait? For what? She was seven and twenty, unlikely to meet another man she could love. She would be a fool not to take her one chance of happiness while it was offered, regardless of how long it might last.

  ‘Damian,’ she began breathless. ‘I think—’

  ‘No, do not say it.’ He placed his fingertips to her lips, halting the reckless words she would have spoken. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, smiling at her puzzled look. ‘To take such an advantage would be unfair of me. You must have time to consider, my love. I shall be at your dinner party tomorrow evening. You can give me your answer then.’

  As if to underline what he had said, Sheba came bounding up to them, barking and leaping around them as if she had made some miraculous discovery at finding them together.

  ‘I must go in before that wretch wakes the household,’ Rosalyn said and reached up to kiss his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Damian. I want you to know that I do care for you and always shall…whatever happens between us.’

  He seized her, holding her pressed hard against him as he kissed her once more. He felt her surrender, felt the way her body moulded to his, the need and vulnerability in her—and he let her go, giving her a little push to send her on her way before it was too late.

  ‘Go, my Amazon,’ he murmured huskily. ‘While I still have the strength to let you.’

  He watched as she walked away from him, fighting the fierce desire leaping in his blood and cursing the sense of fair play that was forcing him to let her leave. If she came to him…if she gave herself to him…it must be right for them both. He wanted her so desperately tonight, but cared for her too much to take her when she was so vulnerable.

  As he turned, he caught sight of a face at an upper window of the house. Rosalyn had only just gone inside the parlour so it could not be her. Someone must have been watching them—but who?

  Damian cursed his own carelessness as he called the dog and began to retrace his steps through the shrubbery. He and not Sheba had determined their course tonight. Something had drawn him here, tugging at that inner core…the part of him he had thought dead long ago.

  He had hardly believed his eyes when he saw Rosalyn come out into the garden wearing only a flimsy dressing robe, almost as though his spirit had called to hers. He doubted she had even been aware of the way the lovely shape of her body was revealed by the silky material, of the sensuous perfume of her warm skin…of what it had done to him. The temptation to hold her, to kiss her, had been overwhelming—but if someone had seen them together? Had jumped to the wrong conclusions!

  He knew only too well what certain minds—and tongues!—could make of an innocent kiss, how cruel gossip could destroy a tender soul. It was in defence of a woman’s honour that he had called out Roderick Harrington. Only after the man was dead had he discovered that another man had been most to blame.

  Roderick Harrington had enticed the girl, snatching her as she walked alone down a country lane and bundling her, screaming and terrified, into his carriage—but it was his brother who had raped and shamed her. It was Mr Bernard Harrington who had broken her heart, causing her to take her own life because she could not face the scandal she feared would shame her family.

  And it was also Mr Bernard Harrington who had ruined Damian’s father at the card table, and hastened his death. It was because of him that an old man had died alone, lonely, regretting the loss of his eldest grandson. It was Bernard Harrington he was determined to bring to justice…by challenging him to a duel, if he could find no other way.

  Rosalyn did not expect to sleep after her chance encounter with Damian in the gardens, but once her head touched the pillow, she fell into the sweetest dream. Although she could not recall the details on waking, she knew she had dreamed of being with Damian—and that it had made her feel very secure and happy.

  She was relaxed as she took her mare out for a brief gallop across the fields, before returning to the breakfast room to find Maria and Mrs Jenkins already there.

  ‘Has Freddie come down yet?’ she asked, then turned to Mrs Jenkins. ‘I gave instructions that Beatrice should have breakfast carried up to her room. You need not have come down, ma’am. Maria and I prefer it, but you are welcome to have your tray upstairs if you so choose.’

  ‘I do not care for the habit of sleeping in late,’ Mrs Jenkins said, giving her an odd look. ‘As it happens, I sleep very little. I always keep a book at my bedside. Last night I borrowed a book of poems, though I do not approve of Lord Byron’s work. I believe he shows a lack of propriety, both in his work and his morals. Scandalous!’

  Such a forbidding stare accompanied her words, that Rosalyn was at a loss to understand her meaning.

  ‘I am sorry you do not care for Lord Byron’s poems, ma’am. However, I am sure my father’s library contains much that will please you.’ Rosalyn turned to her cousin, who was looking decidedly dejected. ‘Will you walk down to the greenhouses and beg a few flowers for the house from Tom, Maria? I am not sure what he has, but I am certain he will find us something—and you always arrange them so beautifully.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Maria glowed at her praise. ‘I shall go at once.’

  ‘Only if you have finished your breakfast.’

  Maria assured her she had, and seemed in a hurry to leave. She had clearly been upset. What could the odious Mrs Jenkins have been saying to her earlier?’

  ‘Maria is always so obliging,’ Rosalyn remarked after her cousin had gone. ‘She has been such a help to me since my father died.’

  ‘I imagine you could not have continued to live here alone,’ Mrs Jenkins remarked sourly. ‘Though whether it was wise for you to have done so, with only Miss Bellows as your companion, remains to be seen. You might have protected your reputation more securely had you lived with a married lady—someone with a little more standing in society.’

  ‘Protected my reputation more securely?’ Rosalyn stared at her, too astonished to think what she could mean. ‘I really do not understand you, ma’am.’

  ‘Do you not?’ Mrs Jenkins gave her a false smile. ‘I shall say no more for the moment, but you would be unwise to think me a fool. You may not care what others think of you, Miss Eastleigh—but my concern is for Beatrice. I shall do all I think necessary to protect her good name.’

  Rosalyn was struck dumb. What on earth was she hinting at? Unless she had seen…? A horrid thought struck her. Mrs Jenkins’s bedchamber overlooked that part of the garden in which she had chanced to meet Damian the previous night! Had she seen them together? Had she seen them embracing? If she had been unable to sleep…it was quite possible that she had been at the window.

  Recalling that she had been wearing a flimsy wrapping gown over her night-chemise, Rosalyn could not help blushing. It must have seemed to a casual observer that she had gone out on purpose to meet her lover.

  ‘You have no need to be concerned either for Beatrice’s or my own good name,’ she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. She stood up, knowing that she must escape before she lost her temper and said something rude. ‘If you will excuse me, ma’am, I have guests coming this evening and must speak to Mrs Simmons urgently.’

  Rosalyn walked from the room with dignity, head high, back straight. Of all the unfortunate things! Naturally a woman of Mrs Jenkins’s order would assume the worst. She would think that Rosalyn had gone out deliberately to meet a lover—and in her night-clothes!

  She felt very angry at having morality preached at her in her own home, but knew she was to blame. Living alone for years, she had become accustomed to wandering about the house in her night-attire. An
d she had given into temptation the previous night. Indeed, if Damian had not shown restraint, she might have given herself to him there and then.

  Last night in the moonlight, her reputation had not seemed to matter very much. Now she realised that any relationship between her and Damian would have to be discreet. She would not want to cause a scandal that might reflect badly on Freddie and his young wife.

  How unfair it was! If Rosalyn had been born male she could have taken as many lovers as she chose without causing a ripple of scandal—and as the firstborn she would have inherited this house!

  A little worm of resentment worked inside her. She did not care about the title or the money, but it was upsetting that she could no longer call this house her own—that she must think of leaving her home.

  Rosalyn’s thoughts went round and round in her head, chasing each other like a puppy dog after his tail. She longed to be in Damian’s arms again, yet knew how much she risked. If she gave herself even once without marriage, she would have no chance of making a decent match—and if the affair became public knowledge, she would be finished in the first rank of Society, despised by all decent women.

  Yet what did she care for any of these things? She had never needed more than a few close friends, nor had she met anyone else whom she would wish to marry—so what would she really be giving up?

  She felt frustrated and uncertain, unlike her usual positive self, perhaps because she had never been faced with such a conundrum before. Oh, bother! She had too much to do to think of this now. Once her brother was married, she would be in a better position to decide.

  She would in any case be leaving this house. If she were to leave England, perhaps the scandal would not be so terrible. Rosalyn had always longed for travel and adventure—and since she must leave her home, why should she not follow her heart?

  Would Damian be prepared to take her with him when he left the country—to share his life with her?

  She would be his mistress, something she had been taught was beneath contempt for a respectable, unmarried lady—but if he loved her she might find something precious, something that made the sacrifice of her reputation worthwhile.

  It was a frightening proposition, because she would be cut off from all that she had ever known and loved—and yet, what was the alternative? To sink into a lonely and disappointed old age? No! No, her rebellious heart cried. She wanted so much more. She wanted Damian Wrexham.

  Rosalyn’s pulses raced wildly. Suddenly the future held many possibilities. She felt recklessly alive. She would tell Damian they must be patient for a while—and then, if he still wanted her, she would go away with him.

  Rosalyn’s dinner guests were surprised but pleased to learn of Sir Frederick’s betrothal. His bride-to-be was such a shy, pretty child that her arrival in the neighbourhood was thought to be a definite asset. She and Sir Frederick would naturally entertain more frequently and more lavishly than a spinster lady, and that was generally welcomed.

  Rosalyn was aware of Damian’s dark eyes watching her from across the table. She smiled at him, ignoring the narrowed, hostile stare of Mrs Jenkins. She could not possibly have seen Damian clearly enough the previous night to be certain of his identity, though she might suspect it.

  Rosalyn hardly cared. Mrs Jenkins would surely say nothing of what she suspected outside this house, if only for her niece’s sake. And once the wedding was over, it would not matter. Besides, she had gone beyond caring. It was an age since she had felt so excited…so alive!

  Rosalyn’s wide, clear eyes shone as she met Damian’s quizzing gaze. She was sure that he had read her mind—that he could guess her thoughts. Now that her decision was made, she felt as light as air, floating on warm currents like a bird.

  In a month she would be free to go to him!

  ‘You look extremely well this evening, m’dear.’

  Rosalyn turned to the vicar, who was placed at her left. She smiled at him, seeing the kindness in his eyes. He was a good man, genuinely caring but not overly critical of his parishioners’ failings, being all too human himself.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am feeling very well.’

  ‘It is good news about Sir Frederick, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  The vicar looked thoughtful. ‘I hope you and Miss Bellows will not be leaving us?’

  ‘Not immediately,’ Rosalyn replied. ‘Lady Eastleigh will want to be mistress of her own house in time, of course. I have assured Maria she may be sure of a home with me—wherever I go.’

  ‘Oh…’ He seemed concerned at this. ‘So you might not be living near by. I see… Dear, dear me, that would be a sad loss. Miss Bellows has always been a tireless worker for the church. We shall miss her very much—and you too, Miss Eastleigh, of course.’

  Clearly he was most distressed by the thought of losing Maria’s help. Rosalyn was struck by his expression. She had known Maria often helped at the church bazaars, of course, but until now she had not believed it was anything other than a way of passing the time. Now she wondered if there was more to her cousin’s devotion to church matters than a desire to be of service to the community.

  Later that evening, when she saw the two of them talking earnestly together, her suspicions began to harden into certainty. How blind she had been! Why had she never noticed how much more animated Maria became when she was with the vicar?

  ‘A penny for your thoughts?’

  Rosalyn felt the warmth of Damian’s breath on her bare shoulder as he leant across the arm of the sofa to whisper in her ear. She glanced back at him, pulses racing as she met his challenging gaze and the message he was sending her. How she wished they were alone! Her eyes sparked with mischief and her lips parted slightly, revealing far more of her feelings for this man than she knew.

  ‘I was thinking it would be nice if I could push Maria and the vicar into declaring their affection for each other before I leave here.’

  ‘Are you thinking of leaving?’ Damian looked at her intently.

  ‘Yes, I believe I shall—after the wedding. I could do nothing before then, of course.’ She smiled as she saw understanding in his eyes. ‘I had thought of finding a country cottage, or perhaps a small house in Bath—but now I think it might suit me better to live abroad. I have often wished to travel, you know. And after the wedding, I shall be free to live my own life.’

  ‘Ah!’ Damian’s eyes seemed to smoulder with heat: the heat of desire. She could almost feel his lips on hers, almost taste them. If he continued to look at her that way she would grow faint with longing. ‘Yes, I understand. After your brother’s wedding? Many things may have happened by then. I too may be thinking of leaving England.’

  They understood each other perfectly. Rosalyn’s heart fluttered. She had given her promise. There was no going back now. Indeed, she had no wish to retract. She yearned for the moment they would be together as one.

  ‘Mr Wrexham?’ She was jerked rudely back to the present by the strident voice of Mrs Jenkins. ‘Are you by any chance a relative of Lord Edward Wrexham?’

  Damian looked at her, and by instinct moved away from Rosalyn. Something in the older woman’s manner alerted him to danger. He had met her type in the past, and knew what to expect.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied in a cool, steady tone. ‘He was my father.’

  ‘Your father?’ Mrs Jenkins gave a shriek of outrage. ‘Then you are Damian Wrexham—the devil who murdered my youngest brother! Deny it if you dare! You killed Roderick! You are a murderer!’

  The accusation was made in such a shrill tone that it attracted the attention of every person in the room. Damian was silent, his eyes flicking to Rosalyn as if in apology, but his expression did not change, nor did he give any sign of being disturbed by Mrs Jenkins’s charge.

  ‘Do you deny that you murdered Roderick Harrington, sir?’

  ‘I do not deny that he died from a wound I inflicted,’ Damian replied, not a flicker of emotion in his face. His body was stiff with pride
, his eyes colder than the northern sea in winter. ‘It was, however, a fair fight.’

  ‘A fight you forced on him,’ Mrs Jenkins accused. Her large bosom swelled with indignation, her face going puce with temper so that she resembled a large, purple-clad toad with popping eyes. ‘I do not know how you have the effrontery to force yourself on decent people. Had I known you were a welcome visitor in this house, I should not have brought Beatrice here.’ She turned her baleful gaze on Rosalyn. ‘I can only think that you were not aware of this man’s shameful past, Miss Eastleigh.’

  Silence had fallen over the room. Rosalyn was so angry she could have struck the woman’s spiteful face. How dare she? Oh, how could she create such a scene? The malicious expression on Mrs Jenkins’s face sent a shiver down her spine. What a truly unpleasant woman she was!

  ‘Well, have you nothing to say?’ demanded Mrs Jenkins as Rosalyn remained silent. ‘Will you kindly request this person to leave—or must I take Beatrice and return to Huntingdon?’

  ‘Take Bea—’ Freddie was stung into life. He took a protective step towards his fiancée, a look of alarm in his eyes. ‘What’s all this? I don’t understand. Rosalyn…Wrexham, is this true?’

  ‘Damian…’ Rosalyn whispered, her face pale with shock. She felt unable to do or say anything, torn between her love for him and loyalty to her brother. ‘I…’ Words failed her—only her eyes conveyed her distress.

  ‘It is true that I killed Roderick Harrington in a duel,’ Damian said, his eyes narrowing to contemptuous slits as he recognized the weakness in Freddie’s character. It was clear that he would not stand up to his fiancée’s aunt, would not defend his sister. ‘There were, however, reasons—which I shall not go into at this moment.’

  ‘It was murder,’ insisted Mrs Jenkins, addressing the room at large. ‘The charge was quashed, of course. He got away with it because his grandfather was the Earl of Marlowe, but it was murder. Either he leaves this house now or I shall take Beatrice—and the wedding will be cancelled!’