What decision? It’s not like she had a choice in the matter.
“So what shall we wager?” she said. “Who can irk the other the most?”
“Touché, Miss Ashby.” He even offered her a little smile that made her heart jump. “I was thinking more along the lines of a duel—with snow.”
“Snow?”
Sebastian hunched down and gathered a lump of snow into his hands. “Do you see that tree?”
Henrietta cast her eyes over the land. “The gnarled one by the marble urn?”
“That’s right.” He squashed the snow into a hard ball. “Whoever hits the tree wins.”
Henrietta eyed the tree. About forty paces, she reckoned. She could do it.
“Can I hit any part of the tree?” she wondered.
Sebastian aligned himself with the target. “The center is preferable, but any part will do.”
Henrietta nodded. “Very well, then.”
She tucked her arms into Sebastian’s coat, to keep the garment in place, then she, too, hunched down and collected the fresh fallen snow. Rolling it in her hands, she watched her opponent.
Sebastian was first. He took a step forward, brought his arm back, paused, then pitched the snowball across the green.
It hit a sagging branch.
Sebastian didn’t look too happy about his flimsy shot.
Henrietta, on the other hand, was tickled.
“I think I can beat that,” she said with a smug air, and flounced over to the spot opposite the tree.
Sebastian took a step back.
But she could feel his hot stare on her the entire time.
Well, he would not intimidate her. In just a second she was going to be rid of the man for good. No more smoldering looks or spicy scents or toe-curling smiles. Not that she yearned for any of that anymore. Certainly not.
Henrietta eyed the tree trunk. She was a skilled marksman with a gun or arrow. Papa had made sure to teach her—well, he had hired someone to teach her the skill. Papa didn’t have very good aim himself. But Henrietta was a brilliant shot. Always had been. This should be as easy as pilfering pastries from the cook’s pantry.
She swung her arm, let the snowball fly…and watched it miss the tree entirely.
Henrietta stared, dumbfounded.
She had lost.
How the devil had she lost?
A triumphant smile slowly curled the viscount’s lips. “Well, Miss Ashby, it looks like you’ve lost.”
She gnashed her teeth. “So it would seem.”
“That means I am the winner.”
The conceited blackguard! “Yes, Ravenswood, I know.”
“And I can ask anything of you I wish.”
She huffed. “So ask.”
He took a step back and made a sweeping bow. “Will you do me the honor of a dance?”
“What, no kisses?”
Drat! She had not meant to say that aloud. Her cheeks quickly warmed.
Sebastian quirked a mischievous brow. “No kisses, Miss Ashby. I am a gentleman, after all.”
It took all her strength to keep from snorting.
He held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Henrietta stared at the large, muscular hand. Tickles of warmth spread through her. She was being a deuced ninny about this. She had lost the wager. Fair was fair. She needn’t be squeamish. She just had to dance with the bounder and be done with it. She would find some other way to oust the knave from her life. There was no sense idling. She would not let the viscount intimidate her. She had more valor than that.
Henrietta slipped her hand in his. She shivered. He had such a strong hand. It very nearly oozed virility.
The music from the anteroom seeped outside, soft waves of sound intruding on the quiet terrace.
“You and I have never danced before.” He gathered her in his arms for a waltz. “Why is that?”
Henrietta gritted, “Because you’ve never asked me to.”
“Ah, yes.” He swept her across the terrace. “But we were not betrothed back then. We are now, though, and I think this is a splendid way to begin anew, don’t you?”
She didn’t say anything. She was too busy trying to keep her footsteps in sync, for the bounder was making her forget her thoughts, her very sense of self.
Curse him! He was arousing feelings inside her she would rather have stomped asunder. Feelings of warmth and security, even. Since girlhood she had known she would feel safe in the viscount’s arms. That the rogue could still inspire her foolish childhood fancy was intolerable. Henrietta wanted to wrest free of his hold and dash back into the house; to barricade herself in her room, against the viscount’s wicked charms.
“It’s starting to snow,” he said softly.
Henrietta lifted her eyes to the heavens. Powder puffs drifted from the night sky, a light flurry sprinkling the earth.
She whirled beneath the falling snow, a horrendous sorrow washing over her. It was so perfect, she thought. The romantic night, the viscount in her arms—and it was all an illusion. Four days ago, she would have laughed with joy to have been in such a moment. Now she only wanted to weep. The viscount in her arms was a fallen hero. The night was cold and dark, so like the sentiments in her heart.
She resented Sebastian asking her to dance. The playful waltz only reminded her of her childish foolery. And she wanted so much to forget.
“What’s the matter, Miss Ashby?”
He whispered the words. Henrietta almost wished he’d said the name “Henry,” instead.
“I’m feeling dizzy,” she fibbed. She wanted out of the viscount’s arms. She wanted out of the illusion he was only helping to sustain.
Sebastian stopped. But he did not let her go.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll go inside. You can sit down in there.”
“No.” She shrugged off his coat and handed him the garment. “I’ll return to the house alone. I think I will retire to bed. You have a game of billiards to play with Papa.”
She headed for the terrace doors.
“Good night, Miss Ashby,” he said quietly after her.
Henrietta paused, then quickly skirted back inside the house.
A figure lurked in the shadows.
Emerson was in hiding from Ravenswood. He did not want an encore of their last row, so humiliating for him. He had come to tonight’s festivity to rejoice in his machinations, to see the viscount wallow in agony…but something had gone awry.
It was obvious the little slut didn’t want the viscount anymore. But the viscount so earnestly wanted her.
Peculiar.
His diabolical mind whirling, Emerson started to think it might work out even better this way. If the hussy Miss Ashby resented the viscount, it would make the lovelorn Ravenswood miserable. All Emerson had to do was keep the girl at odds with the viscount, make sure she crushed the ogre’s heart to bits. Disgraced him, even.
Now that was an even better form of revenge.
Chapter 21
The little bell chimed as Sebastian opened the door. He stepped inside the shop and perused the shelves of knickknacks: porcelain dolls, ceramic vases, china figurines. He just might find a treasure of some sort in here, he mused. He had already been to three other establishments, but had failed to find the right gift for Henrietta.
He grumbled. Last night’s seduction had not gone as well as he had hoped. For a man accustomed to getting what he wanted from a woman, that was very discouraging. At one point during last night’s waltz, Henrietta had looked positively green!
It was time to amend his approach to courting. The chit was smitten with him. She wanted his kisses, he thought with a wicked grin. But she was fighting her attraction to him. He needed something with which to soften her ornery disposition. And a gift should redeem him nicely, get her to surrender to his charms. It had always worked for him in the past. After a row with a mistress, he’d flash a pricey trinket, and all her tears would magically disappear.
Behind the ornate wood counter was a
n elderly gentleman. “Good morning, my lord.” He smiled. “How may I help you?”
Sebastian eyed the trinkets along the wall. “I’m looking for something special.”
“For your wife, my lord?”
A tight knot formed in the viscount’s belly at the word. Yes, Henrietta was going to be his wife. But it was a brutal business, getting used to the word.
“My soon-to-be wife,” said Sebastian.
With a sage nod, the elderly shopkeeper moved away from the counter and headed for a nearby cluttered shelf. He picked up a shiny box with opal inlays.
“How about this, my lord?”
The shopkeeper opened the box and turned the tiny key.
A quaint tune escaped. Charming…but not charming enough. He was looking for a unique present, one with veiled implications mayhap. The chit had given him such a gift on Christmas Eve: a ring with a Celtic love knot. Now he had to find something equally significant with which to woo his stubborn Henrietta.
“What else do you have?” said Sebastian.
Beside the window was a table filled with trinkets. The elderly shopkeeper lifted a small clock with hand-painted daisies.
Sebastian eyed the piece. Pretty. But Henrietta was never on time for anything. She might think such a gift an ill-mannered gesture on his part.
The viscount shook his head. “Anything else?”
As the shopkeeper shuffled about, a reflection skimmed Sebastian’s eye. “What is that?”
“My lord?”
“Over there.” He pointed across the crowded room. “Inside the glass display.”
The shopkeeper pushed aside a gold birdcage to reach the display. He opened the case and removed the trinket. “This, my lord?”
“Yes, that’s it.” A slow smile spread across the viscount’s face. “It’s perfect.”
A soft touch…a sinful smile…sensuous lips.
“Ouch!
Henrietta’s sultry reflection was dashed to bits by the sharp pain in her arse.
“Forgive me, miss,” said the seamstress.
“Stand still, Henry,” the baroness reproached. “There’s just a few more pins.”
Henrietta sighed. One more fitting and then she wouldn’t have to think about the wedding dress anymore…not that she was thinking much about the wedding dress at all. Rather, a certain rogue was keeping her thoughts engaged, filling her head with erotic memories.
“Ouch!”
“Forgive me, miss,” burbled the seamstress, pins trapped between her teeth.
“Stop squirming, Henry,” from the baroness. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
How about a rush of wicked thoughts storming her weary brain?
Oh, Henrietta had to get off the stool. She had to get out of the room. She had to get out of the house! All the wedding buzz was making her harebrained. It was a faithful reminder of her betrothed, Ravenswood. She needed a breath, a moment of repose from all the preparations…from the thought of her roguish fiancé and his sweet and kissable lips.
“Ouch! Drat!”
The seamstress plucked one last pin from between her teeth and jabbed it into the back of Henrietta’s dress. “Finished, miss.”
Well, thank heavens for that! Henrietta’s poor rump was bruised, no doubt.
“Now be careful, Henry.” The baroness offered her hand for support. “Don’t tear the lace.”
Henrietta took her mother’s outstretched hand and stepped off the stool. The seamstress unfastened the buttons, and gingerly, Henrietta slipped out of the white glacé silk and fine lace garment.
In a few minutes, she was draped in a sage brown day dress and scurrying from the bedroom, leaving Mama and the seamstress to quibble over stitching details.
But the rest of the house was full of activity, too. There was so much to do before Twelfth Night. Flowers to arrange. Cakes to bake. Linens to iron. Silverware to polish. So much to think about. Thank heavens her sisters and Mama insisted on helping. Henrietta didn’t think she could do it all alone—but the preparations could wait a few minutes, surely?
Henrietta moved through the house, searching for Papa. Perhaps he’d like to play a game of billiards now? She hoped so. She needed a respite.
Henrietta tiptoed through the passageways so as not to attract the viscount’s attention, for he, too, was sheltered somewhere in the house, the dratted man. The family had insisted Ravenswood stay at the house until the day of the ceremony. Despite all his charm, it seemed no one trusted the rogue to show up for the wedding. The arrangement had put Henrietta in high dudgeon. But ironically, it had pleased the viscount.
Odd. The man was acting so peculiar, spouting fresh starts and clean slates, wanting to spend time at the house. It wasn’t like Ravenswood at all. And it made her wonder all the more what the viscount was scheming. She certainly didn’t believe he had changed into a gentleman, that he respected her decision to marry in name only. The wily devil was up to something, she was sure. But what?
“Sneaking about, Miss Ashby?”
Not quiet enough, her tiptoeing.
Henrietta squared her shoulders and turned around to confront the viscount, a retort ready on her lips.
But one look at the sinfully handsome rogue, and all thoughts of a rejoinder deserted her.
He had a mischievous look in his eye. More of an imp than a fiend. He was smiling, too. And she didn’t like the fact that his charming grin could still curl her toes. It made it deuced hard to hate the man.
“I’m not sneaking about,” she said firmly, even though her belly was in a knot. “I’m looking for Papa.”
“The baron is in his study.”
With a curt bob of the head, Henrietta pivoted on her toes and headed for the study.
She had to get away from Ravenswood. One look at the dashing viscount, and it was hard to keep her anger in place. He had such a devastating smile…and a sensual glow in his eyes.
“But he is asleep, Miss Ashby.”
Henrietta paused.
“I was just there myself,” he said. “The baron is napping, I’m afraid.”
Drat!
“Perhaps I can assist you, Miss Ashby?”
Now why the devil did that sound so…wanton?
Henrietta turned around once more. “I highly doubt that, my lord. I wanted to play a game of billiards with Papa.”
“Well, I might not be as savvy as your Papa, but I daresay I’d make a fair opponent.”
He was smiling. Not with his lips, but with his eyes.
She pinched her brow, fearing his proposal some sort of trick. Besides, she didn’t want to spend more time with the dastardly viscount. She wanted him to leave her alone.
Wait! Perhaps a game of billiards was the ideal opportunity to get the viscount to stay away from her. She was a skilled billiardist. If she made another wager with the viscount—and won, this time—she could wrest from him another promise for a home of her own. Separate apartments would be grand, the best solution to this dreadful predicament.
After a thoughtful pause, she gave a brisk nod. “Very well, Ravenswood.”
A few minutes later, Henrietta was hunched over the billiard table, eyeing the ivory cue ball. “Shall we make the game more interesting?”
Sebastian quirked a black brow. “What did you have in mind?”
“Winner gets to make another wish.”
He perused her for a moment, his eyes smoky. “All right, Miss Ashby.”
Henrietta dismissed the shiver tickling her spine, and returned her attention to the cue ball.
With a loud crack, the white ball struck the red ball. One point for her.
She moved around to the other side of the table. Again she positioned herself, struck the red ball and nicked Sebastian’s cue ball. Two points for her.
She was very good at three-ball. In a short while, she’d have that fashionable apartment in Town.
“Magnificent,” he breathed.
Henrietta felt a measure of satisfaction at his words. S
he was good, true. But magnificent?
“A rump to satisfy a man’s hunger.”
Henrietta balked. Heat invaded her belly, stormed her breast. She missed the red ball and the cushion, forfeiting a point. Drat!
She stood up and glared at Ravenswood, indignation roiling in her gut. “How dare you…”
But Sebastian wasn’t staring at her. He was looking out the window. Apparently, hers was not the rump being admired.
Henrietta followed his gaze to the workers outside, bringing in a boar. Tonight’s dinner, no doubt.
She quickly swallowed her outburst.
Sebastian glanced back at the table. “Is it my turn?”
Oh, the haughty knave! He’d done that on purpose, she was sure. To unnerve her, the wily bounder.
Sebastian arched his splendid form. Henrietta could not help but note the hard muscles in his calves as he stretched forward. Or the brawn surging through his arms as he positioned the cue. The black curl that dropped over his eye just then only made the man more irresistible. Blast it!
Sebastian struck the red ball, knocked her cue ball, and scored two points.
Henrietta twisted her lips.
The viscount moved around the table for another shot. “How did you sleep last night, Miss Ashby?”
“Terribly.” Thanks to you, she thought.
He scored another point. “I figured as much.”
The game at hand dismissed from her mind for a moment, she demanded, “And how did you figure that?”
Another loud crack as the red ball rolled across the table. “I was out for a walk late last night. I saw the candle burning in your window.”
Henrietta took in a sharp breath. He was watching her through her bedroom window! Did he see her undress?
“Fret not, Miss Ashby. I was a perfect gentleman.”
She wanted to snort, but instead composed her features. Her pursed lips and pinched brow clearly betrayed her ire. The man could read her thoughts.
What was happening to her? Days ago, she’d have made a ready quip and retained her cool deportment. To think the scoundrel could unravel her guard with a little banter and a dashing smile, after months of training with Madam Jacqueline, was very disquieting.
Alexandra Benedict - [Too 02] Page 17