“What do you think, Lord Bruton? Don’t you think every man should marry?”
“Certainly,” he said. Even he wasn’t rude enough to ignore a direct question. “I agree with Socrates. If you get a good wife you’ll be happy, and if you get a bad one you’ll become a philosopher. I have always aspired to be a philosopher.”
The girl wrinkled her sweet little forehead, not sure how to take it. “How interesting,” she murmured. “I do like quotations.”
“You should embroider that one on a sampler,” he said. “Or how about this: Marriage is a desperate thing. Or, if you prefer the highest authority: O curse of marriage, that we call these delicate creatures ours.”
“Is that from the Bible?”
Before he could say something cutting, one of the older ladies, perhaps the ingénue’s mother, claimed to see an acquaintance across the room with whom they needed to speak immediately. The trio scurried off in a swish of petticoats. Having scared off the flock of nervous hens, he folded his arms and glared, daring anyone else to approach him. Then he heard a voice. A musical voice, low and lush, with a lilt of laughter.
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.”
He swiveled to discover a young woman peering at him from behind a vase of flowers. A very beautiful young woman. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you’re going to quote Shakespeare as your authority on marriage, I don’t think it’s fair to use Othello. I present a different point of view. You insulted that poor young lady, you know.”
“By quoting poetry?”
“No, by suggesting she sew a sampler. Only schoolgirls do that. She is undoubtedly out.”
“I don’t pretend to comprehend the subtleties of female education. Or the female mind.”
“That explains why you are standing alone and scowling instead of mingling with the company.” Quite a bold piece, she was, and apparently unalarmed by his repellant appearance and demeanor.
“I don’t see you doing much mingling yourself, hiding behind those flowers. Are you shy or merely avoiding someone?”
Why was he bandying words with this girl? He never bandied, especially not with women, even pretty ones. She was smiling at him, a big, generous smile. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed the scar. He turned to squarely present the ruined left side of his face so there could be no mistake. His reward was a discernible flinch.
“I’m not avoiding anyone except my mother,” she said, recovering quickly from the horrible sight.
“A good decision. I always avoid mine.”
“Not that I’m not fond of her, but I have a particular reason at the moment. I’m also looking for someone. Do you know Lieutenant Newnham?”
It couldn’t be. It must be.
“Are you Miss Lacy, by any chance, Miss Rosanne Lacy?”
Frank was an idiot. Her eyes weren’t dark at all. They were a smoky blue with darker circles about the center. And he, Christian, had been unwittingly right. A man could drown in them.
“I am,” she said with obvious surprise.
“I thought you didn’t much care for poetry.”
Those fabulous eyes widened. “Shakespeare doesn’t count. He’s in a category of his own. But how did you know?”
“Frank told me. He is my cousin.”
“You must be Lord Bruton, then. I had no idea.” She flushed, a faint tinge of rose on creamy cheeks, and he knew why. She hadn’t expected the scar. “Frank has written so warmly of you. He says you are the very best of men, a true friend whom he can rely upon to the end.”
That must have been in one of the recent letters, after Christian resigned as his alter ego. He was rather touched to have inspired his cousin, with his scores of friends and intimates, to such praise. Christian hadn’t thought he held the same place in Frank’s regard as Frank did in his.
“I’ve heard about you, too,” he said, “and I must say that Frank is no hand when it comes to describing a person.” He hadn’t expected her tall, slender grace, the fine features beneath shining brown curls, the eyes. And yes, she had a spectacular bosom, which, like any gentleman, he had the skill to examine without being obvious about it.
“Frank’s eloquence is saved for the written word,” she said with a fond smile.
“If you say so.”
“Oh yes! He writes the most wonderful letters.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, schooling his features to hide any hint of gratification. “Since we live in the same quarters, he doesn’t have much occasion to write to me.”
“Are you in his regiment? I’m surprised a gentleman in your position would be in the military.”
“My father wasn’t pleased when I decided to join the Guards, but a man must have something to do.”
She nodded with obvious approval. “Were you injured in battle?”
Men had been verbally eviscerated for asking such a question; ladies avoided the subject. He took a deep breath to dislodge the instinctive lump of anger in his chest.
“I beg your pardon if I upset you,” she said. “I tend to ask too many questions. Please be frank with me if would rather not discuss it.”
He had indeed been Frank with her, but she must never know that he was the author of those “wonderful letters.” The irony would slay him.
An anxious little frown, forming a pair of faint creases between her brows, did nothing to diminish her beauty. His own discomfort dissipated, and he realized that the tension he usually felt in this kind of social gathering had disappeared in her presence. They’d corresponded with some intimacy for months and he knew her well, knew her curiosity wasn’t inspired by malice or a desire for sensation.
“The Royal Horse Guards remain in London to guard the King. Mere Hyde Park soldiers.”
“I’m sure Hyde Park offers many dangers. I know I was alarmed by all those disapproving ladies at the fashionable hour.”
“Anyone who had the temerity to disapprove of you, Miss Lacy, deserves to be run through with a saber.”
His compliment elicited a new kind of smile, a wry pursing of the lips. Riveted, he stared at the generous mouth and thought about kissing her, a startling idea and one that could never be acted on.
“You are kind, Lord Bruton, to offer to slay my dragons.”
“Frank will do that for you,” he said firmly before he got any ideas about protecting her from mythical monsters or more mundane perils. He had no right.
“Where is Frank?”
“A group of men went to the stables to look at Willoughby’s new phaeton.”
“Oh. I thought he would be here.”
He lied to spare her disappointment. “He believed you hadn’t arrived yet. He’ll be devastated to miss even a few minutes of your company.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll be here soon.” Her eyes roamed hungrily about the saloon.
Look at me, he wanted to say. Give me your attention for a little longer before my handsome cousin usurps me.
“Oh, look! There he is.”
And there he was. Tall and fair, exuding good-humored confidence as he strode across the room. A dozen people, men and women, spoke to him, and he gave each a smile and a word or two before continuing his determined progress toward them. Frank might not be articulate, but he possessed the social ease and popularity Christian lacked. Rosanne observed his approach with adoring eagerness and radiated joy as she held out her hand. It was impossible to imagine a handsomer or better matched pair. Christian backed away a step. His grotesque face and dark mind had no place in such luminous company.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said without a hint of missish restraint. She wore her heart on her sleeve. “I’ve been waiting for you for ages.”
“I see you’ve met Chris.”
“Chris? Oh, Lord Bruton. Yes. I was happy to meet your cousin. And even happier now that you are here.”
“Splendid,” Frank said. “You look splendid.” He flushed, opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Di
d you have a good journey?”
“Splendid.”
“How was the phaeton?” she asked after a silence that was only a few seconds short of awkward.
“Splendid.” Apparently months of correspondence hadn’t rendered Frank any less mute in the presence of the adored one. He darted a panicked look at Christian, who offered only a lift of the eyebrows. Perhaps realizing his cousin could hardly speak for him in the flesh as he did on paper, Frank made a visible cogitative effort and found inspiration. “I saw your father at the stable. Spoke to him.” He touched a forefinger to his nose. “If you know what I mean.”
Christian did, and so did Rosanne. She blushed becomingly and made no effort to disguise her satisfaction at the imminent proposal of marriage. The besotted pair stood and gazed at each other. Perhaps it didn’t matter if they couldn’t speak.
Christian had enjoyed satisfactory, though temporary, liaisons with mistresses in which conversation was the lesser component of the relationship by a long way. His own parents rarely exchanged more than a few words in passing when they happened to run into each other at the huge London house and the even more expansive spread of Bruton Hall. Not that they were exactly pattern cards of wedded bliss. Still, he could imagine a marriage that was both happy and largely silent. Unlike the marquess, Frank was a good man and would never give his bride reason to doubt him. He adored Rosanne and would do anything for her. In fact, he would let her do whatever she wanted.
Yet he would have expected Rosanne to expect more.
Women. They were either drearily predictable or completely incomprehensible. And in the case of this particular house party, far too numerous. A couple of them, Rosanne’s mother and sister came over to be introduced.
Lady Warnford wasn’t bad. A pretty woman who looked too young to be the mother of two grown-up daughters, she greeted him without shock at his scar or excessive deference to his rank. She was far more interested in Frank, who merited a delighted smile very like her elder daughter’s.
“Mr. Newnham! How charming to see you again.”
The demands of good manners restored Frank’s voice, at least beyond total incoherence. “Your servant, ma’am. I hope you had a good journey.”
“Quite comfortable, thank you. It’s a mere step. We were sorry when you had to leave Leicestershire so soon. I hope you intend to remain in Dorset longer.”
“And this is Kate,” Rosanne said hastily. Christian wondered why she seemed anxious to put a stop to her mother’s conversation with Frank.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Kate,” Frank said.
“And I’ve heard a lot about you,” the girl said with a saucy smile and turned her attention to Christian. “How do you do, my lord. I look forward to hearing a lot about you, too. As Mr. Newnham’s cousin, of course.” She was exactly as her sister’s letters had conveyed: chirpy
Rosanne broke in again. “I’ve been longing to hear what you thought of Kean’s Shylock.”
Frank, who had been dragged to Drury Lane by Christian the previous week, gulped. “Very fine performance. I liked the farce better.”
“Really? You never told me you enjoyed comedy.”
“Er...”
“Frank loves all drama,” Christian said helpfully. “But a discussion of Shakespeare is more likely to impress a lady.”
“Oh Frank! There’s no need for that. You must always tell me exactly what you think. Besides, I love to laugh, too. I’m sure I would have enjoyed the farce.”
Christian’s unholy amusement at his cousin’s discomfort was quelled when Frank, showing unwonted presence of mind, offered to escort the ladies to the refreshment table. But instead of leaving him in peace, Miss Kate Lacy hung back. She had that look in her eye Christian sometimes encountered and interpreted as the desire to catch the heir to a marquisate, no matter how hideous. She seemed a nice enough girl and resembled her sister, which was a point in her favor—a shorter, darker, curlier, less beautiful version of Rosanne. But she was seventeen years old and, my God, did she chatter. All the time.
Christian wasn’t in the market for a noisy child bride, or any other.
Chapter Three
Frank was the perfect suitor: attentive, devoted, and oh so handsome. Whatever she needed—be it a glass of ratafia or an arm to lean on during a walk—he leaped to provide. His only drawback was his general popularity. Young ladies crowded around him and didn’t seem to understand that the most attractive man at the house party belonged to her. He was also much in demand among the gentlemen, who kept disappearing together to do Lord knew what. All in all, the first two days of their much anticipated reunion disappointed her.
Distinctly disgruntled at the discovery that he’d left her to take part in a game of battledore and shuttlecock on the main lawn, Rosanne set off for a different part of the gardens, where she met Lord Bruton.
He was often alone, appearing to regard the entire wedding and its attendant festivities with a dismissive scorn demonstrated by a sinister curl of the lip. She had spent quite a bit of time in his company. Frank always invited his cousin to join their group and Kate, not easily repelled, tagged along too, chattering. Even her irrepressible sister was beginning to lose interest in the face of Bruton’s patent lack of interest. She claimed to prefer a few smiles with her silence. But Rosanne rather liked him, and not only because he was Frank’s friend.
“Miss Lacy,” he said with a bow, his graceful bearing in contrast to his harsh face. “You are alone this morning.” He looked warily at the path behind her.
“Kate has become great friends with the duke’s sisters,” she said. “She is busy with them.”
“Oh good. That she has made friends, I mean.”
“I’m afraid it means you will be deprived of her presence this morning.”
“I am devastated,” he said gravely, but his lips twitched. She liked the fact that she could make him smile. “Will you walk with me?”
“I warn you I won’t be good company. When I’m in a bad temper I don’t inflict myself on others.”
“I am the same way, which is why I spend so much time alone. You can either join me in taciturn discontent or I’ll let you go on your way.”
“That’s an invitation I can’t resist,” she said, taking his arm. “How pleasant to meet someone who understands me. There’s nothing more tiresome than making polite conversation when one isn’t in the mood.”
“I’m rarely in the mood.”
They set forth along a tree-lined path that meandered toward the lake, and in ten minutes of brisk walking she felt her irritation slip away. She was wondering whether it would be intrusive to break their companionable silence when an unusual sight caught her eye: a gentleman attempting to manage a huge armful of flowers while warding off an attack by a bee.
“Why are you laughing?” Bruton asked.
“I don’t often see gentlemen gathering their own bouquets.”
Bruton shielded his eyes from the sun and frowned. “It’s Willoughby.” They watched the man wrestle with the stem of a peony, sending up a shower of pink petals, then heard a sharp oath as he pricked his finger on a rose thorn. “I trust whichever of his flirts is destined to receive this tribute appreciates what the poor fellow is suffering.”
“Perhaps he’s picking them for his own bedchamber,” Rosanne suggested. “I’m sure there are some men who prefer the fruits of horticulture to more sporting pursuits.”
They looked at each other and smiled. “No,” they said in unison.
As Willoughby swore again and dropped a thistle, they continued their walk.
“I feel comfortable with you, Lord Bruton,” she said. “I have come to value your friendship.” At once she felt a tensing of muscles beneath her hand and it occurred to her that he was just as strong as Frank, despite a less brawny physique. She noticed a tightening around his mouth. “I’m sorry. Do you find me forward?”
“Not at all, Miss Lacy. I am honored to have won your esteem.”
�
��Honored, perhaps, but you do not seem pleased.”
“Not true. I’m not a charming fellow like Frank. I have a good deal of sympathy for Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.”
“I loved that book! Did you read it, too? Did Frank lend it to you.”
“I believe I read it first.”
“In that case I must thank you for the recommendation. The park here makes me think of Pemberley. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a place so beautiful.” She felt a little flustered, recalling the meeting between Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy at the latter’s house. Lord Bruton could easily be a Darcy, whom she’d found quite wonderful. So upright and proud, with an affectionate heart buried by reserve. A sudden thrill of attraction to her companion must only be the result of remembering the book. “Perhaps Lord Willoughby would lend us his phaeton for a tour,” she said, striving for lightness.
“I am told it has yellow wheels. I wouldn’t be seen dead in such a vulgar conveyance. Especially one with a name.”
“Hippolyta! He must be a classical scholar.” Her laughter sounded forced to herself. She was suddenly terribly aware of Lord Bruton’s nearness and couldn’t account for her jumpiness.
She retreated ignominiously to the topic of the weather. “Isn’t it a glorious day? I’m feeling rather warm even though I am wearing muslin. You poor gentlemen must feel the heat badly. Wouldn’t you like to strip off and dive into the lake?” Oh, God! Had she really said that? What would he think?
“Another time, Miss Lacy.” His voice sounded strangled.
“Much as I love this park,” she said, steering the conversation into less provocative waters, “the size of the house daunts me. It sounds silly, but I believe that I prefer Little Mickledon Manor. Where is your home, Lord Bruton? Is it very large?”
“My father’s principal seat, Bruton Hall, is in Somerset, and it is neither as big nor as grand as Kingstag. I’m fond of the place, I suppose, though I spend little time there.”
Rosanne regarded him curiously. It wasn’t the first time she’d detected a caustic note in his voice at a reference to his family. “I’ve been trying to count the number of guests here,” she said, “but it’s impossible. I do believe the duke must have invited everyone he ever met, right down to distant connections like us. I’m glad we were invited because it gives me a chance to see Frank.” Her sense of ill-usage returned. “When he isn’t at the stables looking at that phaeton again. What can be so fascinating about a carriage? My father has been spending a good deal of time there, too. I suppose he can get up to no mischief among the gentlemen guests.”
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