A Bargain With Fate

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by Ann Elizabeth Cree


  Rosalyn could hear the men teasing Michael. She had best escape now. Completely forgetting her shoes, stockings and straw hat, she nearly ran across the lawn in the direction of the house. No footsteps sounded behind her. Not that she could have heard them anyway over her pounding heart and laboured breathing.

  But what would she do when she reached the house? How to explain why she was alone, without her shoes, hat and gloves, and soaking wet? Her footsteps slowed to a walk. She gazed down at her ruined gown and flushed. No wonder Michael called her improper. The damp muslin revealed every curve. Mud splattered her arms. Her bare toes were every bit as dirty and now had pieces of grass clinging to them.

  She limped towards a clump of trees edging the lawn. Her tender feet were bruised from the stones in the lake bottom. Her toe hurt. She leaned against an oak, thankful for its cool shade and closed her eyes in relief, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. It was all she could do to keep from sinking down on the ground beneath the tree. Grass stains would only compound the damage.

  Her relief was short-lived.

  ‘Rosalyn!’

  Her eyes flew open. Michael stood near the tree, barefooted, his breeches still wet from the lake, his damp shirt clinging to his chest. Droplets of water dripped from his dark hair. He looked wholly masculine and completely dangerous.

  Rosalyn snatched up a branch and clutched it protectively across her chest. ‘Don’t come near me!’

  He laughed and held up his hands. ‘Put down your arms. What do you think I am planning to do to you?’

  ‘Strangle me, perhaps. Or drown me.’ She eyed him warily.

  He came a few steps closer. His eyes danced. ‘No, no. Have no fear, you are more valuable to me alive. I would hate to go to this much trouble for another fiancée. Shall we call a truce? I will promise not to harm you if you promise not to hit me with that stick—or push me in the next body of water we come across.’

  Rosalyn dropped the branch, her heart thudding as he approached. That devilish glint in his dark eyes was much more worrisome than his anger. He stopped in front of her.

  ‘I think we both need to go up to the house. I don’t want you to catch your death from a chill.’ He moved closer. She attempted to back around the tree only to find his two hands pressed against the tree on either side of her shoulders, effectively imprisoning her.

  ‘It is far too warm for that,’ she said, her heart pounding again. ‘Michael, please let me go.’

  ‘I think I should extract a price for your shoving me in the lake.’ His eyes strayed to her lips. His voice was low and seductive. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you deserved it…I mean being shoved. You were being most objectionable.’

  His hand cupped her chin. ‘Are you certain?’

  She slapped his hand down. ‘Stop it, Michael! You are being absurd. I am not going to flirt with you! It is not part of our bargain.’

  He stepped away. ‘Ah, yes. The bargain. I had almost forgotten. Let me see if I recall your terms. I am not to flirt with you. We are to address each other by our titles in private. And of course, I am never to think of kissing you.’

  Her breathing returned to normal. ‘No, most certainly not. I am not one of your women, my lord.’

  ‘My women? How many women do you think I have, Rosalyn?’ A lazy smile played around his mouth but his eyes held a dangerous glint. He leaned against a tree.

  ‘I…I have no idea. It is none of my business.’

  ‘None of your business? You do not care whether the man to whom you are betrothed keeps a mistress? It does not matter to you at all?’

  She backed away. ‘Since we are not really engaged I cannot object…that is, I have no claim on you, no claim over what you do.’ Apparently that was not the right thing to say for his brows knit together alarmingly.

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘We are betrothed, my dear. You do have a claim on me. But for the moment, let us assume you are to be married to a man you loved. Would you care if he had a lady under his protection?’

  ‘Yes, of course I would,’ she whispered. ‘I would not like it at all.’

  ‘I did not think so.’ He shrugged. ‘For all it matters to you, I would not insult you by keeping a mistress. Nor, if we were married, would I be unfaithful to you.’

  It was the careful indifference in his voice that told her she had somehow hurt him. Without thinking, she moved to his side, touching his hand. He stared at her in shocked surprise.

  ‘Michael, I am sorry. I did not mean to insult you. It is only that everything has become so very complicated. I…I hardly know what we are to be any more.’ She feared her words made no sense. ‘But thank you for telling me this. I feel very honoured that you would think of me in such a way.’

  He dropped her hand as if it burned him.

  ‘Michael? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair, mussing his locks further. ‘You are right. This whole bargain has become incredibly complicated. Much more so than you realise, my dear.’

  He suddenly seemed to recover himself. ‘But I must take you back to the house. You need dry clothing before you catch a chill.’

  ‘I don’t think that is likely. The day is so warm that my dress is nearly dry now.’

  He held out his hand, and she hesitated, then placed hers within his firm clasp. She winced at the first step. He instantly stopped.

  ‘What is wrong? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, not really. My feet are a little sore,’ she replied and then blushed as his gaze fell on her bare toes peeping from under the crinkled, dirty hem.

  ‘No wonder. That lake bottom is enough to cripple anyone.’ Before she knew what he was about, he had swung her up in his arms.

  ‘Michael! Put me down. I can walk!’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid if I let you walk now you won’t be walking for the next week. No arguments, Rosalyn. I am carrying you to your room.’ His mouth quirked at her expression. ‘I won’t drop you if that is what concerns you.’

  That was her last fear. Cradling her against his chest, he headed towards the house. She had never been carried in a man’s arms before. His heart beat strongly under her ear, his masculine scent enveloped her. The fine linen of his shirt caressed her cheek. He had rolled up his sleeves; the bare skin of his arms was warm against her own. She felt completely helpless and very, very vulnerable.

  She made one last feeble effort to escape him. ‘I am getting mud all over your shirt. You had best let me walk before it is ruined.’

  He laughed. ‘It was ruined from the dunking you gave me.’ He tightened his hold, gazing down at her, his dark eyes lit with a hint of amusement and something else she shied away from naming. ‘I like having you in my arms. I have no intention of letting you go.’

  Rosalyn flushed and buried her face in his chest. He mounted the terrace steps as if she weighed nothing at all and strode through the drawing room. Lady Spence was just descending the grand staircase when they reached the hallway. She hustled forward, followed by the housekeeper.

  ‘Whatever has happened?’ Lady Spence asked. ‘Dear child, you are soaked to the skin! And where are your shoes and stockings?’

  Rosalyn wanted to disappear. Not only for her missing clothing but because she realised her skirt had become tangled, exposing most of her leg to the knee. ‘It is nothing at all and entirely my own doing. I was merely wading in the lake and…’

  ‘And nearly fell in. I am carrying her to her bedchamber.’ Michael’s arms tightened around her.

  ‘I suppose wading was one of Caroline’s ideas,’ Lady Spence said resignedly. ‘I will send a maid to help you change. I shall also have her draw a bath for you.’

  ‘No, I…’

  Michael frowned down at her. ‘An excellent idea.’ He started up the long curved staircase.

  The trip to her room lasted an age. He finally put her down inside the door. She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass over t
he chest and was dismayed at the sight. Her wavy dark hair hung past her shoulders in wanton disarray. A small streak of mud marred her right cheek.

  ‘Oh, dear. I look so disreputable.’

  Michael stepped around so he was facing her. He brushed her hair back from her face with gentle fingers. ‘Hardly that. You look utterly charming. I like your hair down about your shoulders in such disarray. You are a very beautiful woman, Rosalyn Jeffreys. Did you know that?’

  ‘No…I scarcely think so. I am really rather ordinary.’

  He laughed shortly. ‘Hardly that, my dear.’ He turned on his heel and quit the room, leaving her staring after him.

  Rosalyn stood in front of one of the tall bookshelves in Lord Hartman’s library. She had never seen such a magnificent collection of books. After dinner, while the ladies had gathered in the drawing room, Caroline had pulled Rosalyn aside. ‘I know you adore reading, for Michael has told me. I must show you Giles’s library; it is mine too, of course, but he is the one who is always searching for old books. I would rather read another tale by Maria Edgeworth myself.’

  Caroline had shown her to the library and then left, telling Rosalyn to enjoy herself. And Rosalyn had, pulling out old volumes and settling down in the comfortable wing chair near the fire to leaf through the pages.

  Her gaze settled on a familiar title, A Treatise on Rome and the Punic Wars. The author, Sir John Jeffreys. She pulled the book from the shelf, running her hand over its leather cover. It had been the last book John had completed before his untimely death in a carriage accident. He had worked for months on the manuscript, often forgetting to eat unless she reminded him. Most nights, she went to bed alone, while he stayed up working, sometimes until streaks of morning light crept across the sky. He had promised they would take a trip together, perhaps to Scotland, when he had completed the work. Instead, he had died.

  Tears pricked her eyelids. She hugged the book to her chest, not wanting to cry. She had barely been able to cry when he was killed and now she seemed to erupt into tears at the least provocation.

  ‘Rosalyn?’

  She stiffened. Oh, no, why must Michael come upon her now? He’d think she did nothing but burst into tears like some wretched heroine in a novel. And he’d probably be nice to her again. The thought made her straighten her shoulders. That was the last thing she wanted. ‘What is it, my lord?’ she said without looking at him.

  ‘My lord? Are we quarrelling again?’ She could almost imagine his sardonically raised eyebrow.

  ‘No.’ She turned and gave him a feeble smile. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Yes, you, my dear.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He peered more closely at her. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  His gaze fell to the book in her hand. ‘Another torrid tale?’

  ‘Hardly. One of my husband’s books.’

  ‘I see.’ His face lost all expression. ‘I wanted to ask you to walk with me in the garden. But perhaps another time.’

  His tone of voice held the same studied indifference it had this afternoon when she’d told him his private life was none of her concern. She couldn’t imagine what she’d said now that could possibly insult him. ‘Michael? Did you wish to discuss something with me?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was clipped. ‘I will leave you to your books. I beg your pardon.’

  ‘A walk would be very nice,’ she found herself saying against all her better judgement. ‘That is, if your offer is still open.’

  ‘Yes.’ Some of the tension left his face. He waited while she replaced the book on the shelf. ‘Do you need a shawl?’ he asked when she joined him.

  ‘No.’

  He opened one of the tall French doors leading on to the terrace running the length of the back of the house. A light breeze, sweetly scented from the pots of flowers along the terrace, brushed her cheeks. Instead of taking her arm as a proper gentleman should, he curled his fingers around hers in a firm, warm clasp.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she finally asked.

  He smiled down at her, the tension gone. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘It is rather dark.’

  ‘On the contrary, there is a full moon tonight. Most romantic, don’t you think?’ He was leading her down the terrace steps.

  Romantic? They had no business even mentioning the word between them. She tried to draw her hand out of his clasp, but he held firm. To make matters worse, they encountered Caroline and Giles, standing at the bottom of the stone steps, locked in a passionate embrace. At their approach, the couple slowly drew apart. Caroline’s lips curved in a knowing smile when she spotted her brother, not the least bit disconcerted to be caught in such an embrace with her husband.

  ‘Are you taking Rosalyn to the maze garden? Don’t keep her away too long, Michael, or I shall send Giles to rescue her. We don’t want the other guests to be scandalised.’

  Lord Hartman let out a low laugh. ‘You should first ask Rosalyn if she wishes to be rescued. She may not. And anyone who is mad enough to marry into your family must expect a certain amount of scandal.’

  Rosalyn’s cheeks flamed. It was obvious Caroline and Giles thought they were escaping for a bit of dalliance. Michael merely laughed in passing. ‘Don’t scare her off, Giles. She is too prone to bolt as it is.’

  ‘Michael! Please let go of my hand,’ she said as soon as they were out of earshot.

  ‘No.’ His fingers closed more tightly around hers.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Her voice came out more desperately than she’d intended. They seemed to be heading much too far away from the house for comfort.

  ‘Only to see a garden.’ His voice held laughter. ‘Rosalyn, you need not be afraid. I assure you, I am not leading you to some secluded spot where I intend to rob you of your virtue. I do have some scruples. Particularly where you’re concerned.’

  She bit her lip, chagrined he could read her so easily.

  Michael seemed content to say nothing as they passed through a small rose garden and then through an adjoining flower garden. The moonlight, the scents, the warmth of his hand through her glove, enveloped her in a seductive velvet cloak.

  The maze lay beyond the wall of the flower garden. By now only the moon provided the least light. Except for the soft sound of their footsteps on the grass, there was silence. They could be alone on their own private continent.

  The twists of the maze only increased her sense of wandering into mysterious, unreal territory. And when they finally came through a wooden gate leading to the interior of the maze, she stopped, transfixed.

  The light of the full moon bathed the garden spread before them in a soft magical light, touching the pale-hued flowers with silver fairy dust. Cherubs appeared to cavort among the shrubbery and next to a small shimmering pool. Behind the pool stood a summerhouse, built in the style of a small Grecian temple. Two goddesses in ageless marble robes flanked the entry, half-hidden by a curtain of vines.

  Michael broke the silence, dropping her hand. ‘Caro calls it her fairy garden. Most of the flowers are white or cream, chosen to reflect the light of the moon. If you will observe, many of the shrubs are grey or silver-leafed.’ He touched her arm. ‘Come and have a look.’

  She followed him along the small grassy path dividing the beds. He paused next to some shrubbery and bent down to touch a tall plant with lacy silver leaves. ‘See, here is an artemisia. Next to it grows a white rose. And here is a…’

  ‘Gillyflower, my lord.’ Any fear she’d entertained he had seduction on his mind evaporated. She suppressed a giggle.

  ‘Gillyflower. Of course.’ He glanced at her face, and his lips twitched. ‘Is something amiss, Rosalyn?’

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing at all. Do you always come here to discuss the shrubbery?’

  ‘I’ve never been here with a woman, so I had no idea what I should discuss, particularly with such a lovely woman as yourself.’

  ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ she
teased, inexplicably happy to learn he had never brought another woman to this lovely place.

  He caught her hand again and drew her towards the temple. Near one of the statues, he stopped and pulled her around to face him. He gazed down at her, the laughter in his face evaporating. ‘Of course there are things I would rather discuss. Such as how you resemble a beautiful, untouchable goddess yourself in this white gown. And your eyes; they are so wonderfully expressive, but tonight I believe I could almost see into your soul.’ His gentle hands slid up her bare arms, coming to rest featherlight on her upper flesh.

  She trembled, mesmerised by his touch. Perhaps she was a goddess, but he was a sorcerer, bewitching her with his hands, his voice, his words. His own eyes were dark and mysterious and wholly seductive.

  ‘What…what else did you wish to discuss? Perhaps we should return to the drawing room.’ Her voice was oddly breathless. She shivered, and it was not only from the slight wind that fluttered her gown.

  ‘You’re cold. We should sit.’ He led her to the temple and then pulled her close down beside him on the stone bench. ‘Are you warmer now?’ His warm fingers trailed down her arm.

  ‘Michael, did you have something to say to me? Something serious, that is?’ she added hastily in an attempt to bring the conversation back to sane, practical matters.

  ‘I cannot remember what it was. Your presence is much too distracting,’ he murmured.

  ‘I pray you will not flirt with me, my lord.’ She stared straight ahead, hands knotted in her lap. Perhaps if she did not look at him, she wouldn’t be so susceptible to his dangerous spell.

  He sighed and settled back on the bench. ‘Why not? It is a very enjoyable pastime.’

  ‘I hardly consider it a pastime. I fear I do not know how to flirt anyway.’

  ‘It is not such a difficult skill. I should be delighted to instruct you, if you would like. I am considered something of an expert.’

  ‘Thank you, but I must decline your offer. I fear any lessons you give would be far too advanced for me.’

  ‘We can begin with the most simple techniques and then progress to more advanced lessons.’

 

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