At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

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At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 13

by Caroline Linden


  Hanging back in the thick cover of a large rhododendron, he waited to see what the female party would do next. Without making out their words, he watched the duke’s sisters dash back to speak to the Lacys in a chorus of giggling excitement. Rosanne laughed at their report. Too far away to make out the words, from the gestures and reactions of the quartet he gathered that she advised against an invasion of the masculine stronghold. After some argument, the younger girls succumbed to her persuasion and she drove them off, scampering away like chickens under the command of a benign mother hen. He liked the way she’d diverted their indiscretion without arousing resentment. But he liked everything about Rosanne, and therein lay his problem.

  And his problem, instead of walking safely away, abandoned her chicks and headed toward him.

  “Lord Bruton?”

  “Miss Lacy.” He stepped forward, embarrassed to be caught lurking in the bushes.

  “Are you joining the ‘phaeton viewing’ party? You too?” Whatever those girls had seen, it wasn’t vehicle inspection. She was clearly amused.

  “I decided even I needed to see this chariot worthy of Apollo.”

  “You must tell me about it. Its splendor has rendered Frank speechless.” She blushed a little, and he knew they were thinking the same thing but refrained from saying it. It was just one in a long list of things that rendered Frank speechless. As she drew closer, he noticed a shadow of anxiety behind the smiles. She didn’t look like a woman aglow with bliss at her first kiss from a lover.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Lacy?”

  “I was looking for Frank, but I shouldn’t intrude on the gentlemen’s fun. Would you give him a message for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have heard almost as much about the Kingstag grotto as I have about Lord Willoughby’s phaeton. If he is able to escape from his other obligations—” She sounded put out. “—I would like him to come with me. Could you ask him to meet me there in, say, half an hour?” A delicate blush tinged her cheeks and she lowered her gaze.

  “I daresay the darkness of the grotto will inspire Frank to eloquence,” he said nastily, pierced by a pang of envy.

  “Exactly.” She looked up, blasting him with the force of her shining eyes. “You are such a good friend to Frank. And to me.”

  “I am at your service, Miss Lacy,” he said stiffly and watched as she tripped off happily. He damned his hopeless yearning and resumed his progress into the stable yard, fingering his scar as he went. Not only was he ugly, but also bitter. A woman like Rosanne might see him as a friend—a testament to her remarkable sweetness—but never as anything more.

  In no good frame of mind, he followed the raucous laughter through the carriage house into a tack room filled with men lounging against walls hung with tack or sitting on upholstered chairs, an array of top-booted legs stretched before them. Not to his surprise, every fellow held a tankard or glass.

  “Welcome, Bruton, to our woman-free refuge.” The Duke of Wessex sat in a corner, brandishing a bottle. Not the sentiment of an eager bridegroom. “Find a glass and let me offer you brandy. Or there’s a keg of beer over there if you prefer it.”

  Christian took a quick inventory of the room, spotting a couple of his former Eton tormenters. It was as bad as the Horse Guards’ mess. “Brandy, please, Wessex.” A nip of spirits would sharpen his tongue. He downed the first tot in a single gulp and accepted a refill. Excellent quality. Trust Wessex for that. The spirit filled his stomach and fired his brain. Almost disappointed when his former classmates greeted him with polite indifference instead of the old mockery, he found a bare patch of wall near Frank and leaned back.

  One of the men was describing, in stupefying detail, a recent horse race at York. “Altsidora won by a mile and I won with handsome odds. Hear Sykes intends to rest her for the St. Leger.”

  “She’ll never beat the colts.”

  “I bet you a pony she will. Never saw a faster filly. What do you think, Frank?”

  “No reason the right one can’t run as fast as the lads. My mare Miranda was the best hunter I ever owned. Lots of bottom, and that’s what’s needed over the St. Leger distance. If she’s all you say, I’ll put a guinea or two on her.”

  “In that case, I’ll lay off. Never won so much a sixpence when I follow you. Do you remember at Goodwood two years ago when Frank backed the second-place horse six races in a row and came away without his shirt?”

  “Good old Frank.” The approving sentiment was accompanied by much backslapping and general bonhomie.

  Christian wished he liked the company of men en masse other than in the course of his military duties, which he did enjoy. Any of these gentlemen—or half of them, anyway—might be rational in a tête-à-tête, but in large groups their discourse degenerated into pointless anecdotes, crude badinage, and raucous laughter. Frank, however, was in his element: friendly, modest, the best fellow in the world. He never changed, except that in a masculine milieu he was relatively articulate. How would a thoughtful, intelligent woman like Rosanne fit into Frank’s world? Yet her father, Lord Warnford, was also present in a group of older men having a very similar kind of conversation. She probably found the average English gentleman normal and acceptable.

  On the day Christian told his father he wished to buy a commission, he tried to explain his notions of honor and service to a greater good. Lord Glastonbury brushed him off with the admonition “not to think so much.” Perhaps he was right: what good did it do him? He sipped his brandy, let dozens of male voices wash over him, and tried not to think about Rosanne’s. But the more he tried to shut off his brain, the more her voice intruded. He closed his eyes and saw hers. And her lips.

  The stable clock struck the half hour, and he remembered. He was supposed to deliver a message, which meant getting Frank away from the company because he couldn’t publicly announce a tryst. Frank would have to hurry to reach the grotto in time. A massive irritation arose that his cousin, who could have spent the morning in the company of the woman he professed to adore, preferred to wallow in beer and racing stories.

  “Frank,” he began...

  Chapter Four

  Rosanne added unpunctuality to Frank’s known list of qualities. Unless Lord Bruton had failed to give him the message—but Bruton didn’t seem like an unreliable sort. She’d have sworn he was a man whose word was his bond, even if he had joined almost every other gentleman at the party in a drinking session.

  In the heat of the midday sun, the circular entrance to the grotto beckoned. Framed by massive rocks draped in ivy, it was set in a wooded hillside and approached by a path lined with wildflowers. Entirely the work of man, the folly mimicked a cave, an ancient and natural shelter away from the elegant elevations of Kingstag Castle and its careful landscaping. The dark tunnel enticed Rosanne with a promise of unseen hazards.

  What nonsense. The place must be kept in a perfect state by Kingstag’s many gardeners and presented no risk to the visitor. It was nothing but a playhouse, and she would play at danger. She stepped inside.

  Almost immediately, a flight of shallow stone stairs led her down into a small chamber, barely lit by the light from the door above. On each side, a dark passage led further into the grotto. She shivered, from the chill air and the illusion of being in a primitive, uncivilized place.

  “Rosanne?” Frank’s call came from outside, repeated louder as he reached the entrance. She dodged into the tunnel on the left, following a bend into impenetrable darkness. She stood motionless, hearing her own breath in counterpoint to Frank’s husky demand. “Are you there?” He paused and then made the wrong choice. She heard his tread take the opposite passage.

  The plop of distant dripping water enhanced the fantasy of having wandered into a gothic novel where a dark, dangerous hero would seize her unawares and sweep her away to his underground realm. How absurd. There was no one who fit the description less than Frank. He was blond and uncomplicated, a creature of sunlight: Apollo, not Hade
s. She felt a twinge of disappointment and smiled at her folly as she waited for him to realize his mistake.

  Her heart skipped a beat at a soft footfall behind her, from inside the tunnel. The passage must be circular. She held her breath and remained still. Let him find her in the dark.

  He did, through luck or a catlike ability to see in the dark. A finger ran down her neck and along the line of her gown, provoking a delicious shudder.

  “Frank?” she whispered.

  “Where you expecting anyone else?” His voice seemed deeper than usual. Every inch of her skin tingled in response, and heat unfurled in her belly. Both his hands rested on her shoulders, and his thumbs descended beneath the muslin to stroke the shoulder blades. She leaned back into a solid body and caught his scent: subtle, clean, and intriguingly unfamiliar. In the absence of light, all her senses seemed heightened. She closed her eyes and emitted a soft moan of encouragement.

  “So beautiful,” he said.

  “You can’t see me.”

  “I would recognize you anyway.”

  “Even in a dark pool?” The question came out in a gurgle of mirth, quickly smothered by another happy gasp when his lips found her nape.

  “You’re never going to let me forget that unfortunate line, are you?” His voice buzzed against her skin. “In a dark pool, a thick forest, a mountain top, or in the crush of a ballroom. I will always know you.”

  “Go on talking.”

  But he busied his mouth another way, caressing the sensitive skin with lips and breath until she thrummed with desire. Wanting more, she turned around and tilted her head, laughing a little until he touched her cheeks with hands neither soft and smooth like hers, nor rough, and found her mouth.

  Ah, yes! This was a kiss. Not too hard, nor too gentle, but just right. Partly open lips moved over hers, nibbling first the bottom, then the top, then the whole, evoking the most wonderful sensations. She opened to his easy pressure, tasting his breath. He’d indulged at the stable drinking party. Brandy. On a daring impulse, she mimicked the most shocking aspect of the fortune hunter’s technique and darted her tongue forward to touch his, with a dramatic result. Their mouths merged into a maelstrom of shared heat, probing, stroking, tangling blissfully.

  Apparently a little practice went a long way when it came to kissing the right man. And when other activities offered themselves, conversation was overrated.

  One hand descended to her breast. Even through undergarments and gown, her flesh felt swollen at his touch. She wanted to touch him back, urgently, but his chest was too well-covered by the sturdier layers of masculine attire and she wanted skin. She raised her hands but before she could find his face he seized her wrists and whipped them down, securing them behind her back in a compelling hold as he enclosed her, pressing his form into hers, chest, hips, and thighs. She was bound and helpless in the circle of his embrace. At the same time, she’d never felt so powerful, for his rapid breathing and the erratic sounds from his throat told her this large man, this fearless soldier, was as affected as she.

  Melting into him, she crushed her breasts against his chest in a frenzy, thrust her hips forward, and felt what must be the ... evidence ... of his desire against her belly. Lord, how she wanted him, wanted to give herself to him in every way and satisfy the new, raging fever that consumed her. The sooner they wed the better as far as she was concerned, and surely he felt the same way. All in good time. She was loath to stop their crazed kissing and let him speak the words of a proposal.

  He was the one to break contact. Keeping her wrists captive in one hand, he stroked her cheek, rested his forehead against hers. “Rosanne,” he said, his voice strained and husky. “Oh, Rosanne. What am I to do with you?”

  She thought the answer obvious but understood that his wits might have gone begging. Her own were not sharp.

  “I don’t know, Frank. What do you want to do?”

  Instead of taking the hint and proposing, he kissed her again, sending her senses whirling and driving away coherent thought, then broke off and almost thrust her from him, leaving her cold. “You should go,” he said through jagged breaths. “Your mother will miss you.”

  “I suppose so.” She groped for the deranged ribbons of her bonnet and did her best to straighten them. Smoothing her skirt with trembling hands, she waited.

  Nothing.

  “Shall we go?” The path through the park included a tall, hedged walk, perfect for private conversation.

  “I have to let you go alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m in no state to be seen. I need time to recover.”

  “Oh. I see.” At least, she thought she did.

  “I shouldn’t have done this. Treated you so.”

  She reached out to caress his cheek, to reassure him that she’d wanted this kiss as much as he. She had, after all, invited him to meet her in this secluded spot. Before she could speak he stopped her hand again, firmly placing it at her side. “Go. I will see you later.”

  Chapter Five

  The day’s entertainment was another impromptu cricket match, stupid game, inspired by the exceptional weather. Thunder, lightning, or a volcanic apocalypse would better have suited Christian’s mood. But this was southern England in June, where there was always a chance of a fine day. He took a book and installed himself with his back against a tree trunk in the farthest part of the field, well out of the way. Out of the way of the ladies and older gentlemen who gathered closer to the action and were served lemonade and biscuits.

  He’d been avoiding Frank, easy enough so long as he eschewed any manly activities. Keeping away from Rosanne was harder. Good manners demanded he attend dinner and a drawing room evening of musical performances. As long as she was in the same room with him, his eyes found her, having acquired a life of their own beyond the control of his will. He tried to tell himself that her piano playing was no better than adequate and her singing voice—in a duet with her sister—weak. But he didn’t give a damn. When she sang she opened her mouth, and he thought only of kissing her again.

  Weakened by brandy, he’d rejected the dictates of honor and persuaded himself that if he kissed her—just once—he could die happy. That had been a huge mistake. Now he knew what he was missing, and he’d never felt more miserable in his life.

  He was going to read Dibdin’s Metrical History of England and he wouldn’t mind if it killed him. He would not look at Frank, reenacting his role as the leading batsman of the Eton eleven. And he would not even glance at the watching ladies to see if she was there.

  So successful was he in keeping his nose in his book, taking in at least one out of every ten words, that he missed her approach.

  “Lord Bruton?” He’d kissed this woman to the point of madness and she still addressed him by his title. “May I join you?”

  He wasn’t sure whether her standing before him, the sun creating a halo about her form, was better than having her sit beside him on the grass, where he could sense her warmth and her fragrance. Where a slight movement would let him touch her. His hands clenched and almost cracked the spine of his book.

  She dropped in a rustle of petticoats and made herself comfortable on the ground with her knees folded beside her, her skirt—blue today—bright against his black Hessian boots.

  “Do you not play cricket?”

  “Not since school.”

  She turned her head to watch Frank, standing in front of the wicket, hit the ball squarely over the boundary. “Frank is very good.” She glowed with admiration.

  “He always was,” he said curtly.

  “But you prefer a book?” She peered at the spine. “A history in verse? That sounds like a very bad idea. How is it?”

  “I haven’t got very far.”

  “I see you share Frank’s tastes.”

  “Not at all.” He was about to deny any interest in The Sporting Calendar when he remembered. “Not usually.”

  “I would never expect military gentlemen to have poetic
tastes.”

  “You must never have read Sir Philip Sidney. He composed a poem while dying from battle wounds.”

  “Wasn’t he the one who gave his water ration to a common soldier because ‘thy need is greater than mine’?”

  “A great poet and a great man. The example of men like him is what drew me to the army. The ideals of honor and selfless service to a need greater than one’s own.”

  The way he’d failed those ideals, by deceiving her and betraying his cousin, haunted him. There was one way to atone for his sin. If it pained him, so much the better.

  “You asked me about my scar—”

  “Frank said you don’t like to speak of it. There is no need.”

  “It concerns Frank, and I wish to tell you.”

  “Surely he wasn’t responsible—”

  “Nothing like that.” He took a deep breath. “It’s ugly now—”

  Again she interrupted him. “It’s not so bad. Now I have come to know you, I don’t notice it much.” She reached out to the jagged line on his cheek. God, how much torture was he expected to bear? “How far does it go down?”

  “Far enough.” He leaned back to avoid the delicious agony of her touch and she lowered her arm with an apologetic grimace. “When I went to Eton at the age of ten, it was much worse. Scarlet and livid, a temptation for every schoolboy wit and bully. It didn’t help that I was small for my years. Without Frank, I’m not sure how I would have survived. He was taller and stronger and backed me up in every fight. Eventually I learned to parry my tormenters with my own wits. And I grew taller.”

  “The two of you are the same height now.”

  “To the inch, though Frank is still the stronger. He used his fists and his popularity with our schoolfellows to defend me.”

  “Everyone loves Frank.”

  “How could they not? He is the best fellow in the world. After Eton, he decided to buy into the Guards and I joined him.”

 

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