Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  His eyes would touch hers …

  And she would know that this night was indeed the night, the most beautiful of all summer nights—no, the most beautiful of all nights.

  He would thread his way through the crowd to her, and he would capture her hand, and soon she would be on the dance floor with him. But his need to speak would be great, and he would sweep her away, out to the garden, into the maze. And she would run behind him laughing; all the way to the statue of Venus, and there he would set her upon the bench and fall down upon one knee and beg her to be his wife. She would smile, and clasp him to her to breast, and—

  “Amanda! Amanda! We’ve guests arriving! Come down here immediately.”

  Her dream dissolved in a shimmer of gray ashes as her father called her harshly.

  “Yes, Father!”

  “I’m going down; the guests are already filing in. Amanda!”

  “I’m coming, Father!” she called in return. She swallowed down a touch of pain that he should always be so brusque with her. She was his only child, and though he provided for her in all things, he never displayed the slightest affection. She wondered sometimes if he despised her for not having been born a son, or if he despised her for bringing about her mother’s death with her birth. She didn’t know, and she learned over the years to harden her own heart and not to care. Danielle had been with her always, and Danielle showered affection upon her. Harrington, the butler and head of the staff, was proper in public and affectionate in private. At least she knew what caring was.

  And now …

  Now there was Robert. Lord Robert Tarryton. And she believed that he intended to ask her to be his wife this very night. She was so in love with him.

  There had been other men in her life. In fact, she thought with a rueful smile, there had been many. She was accomplished, she was beautifully clad, and she was her father’s daughter. Dozens of the most influential young men had called themselves her suitors, and she had laughed with them and flirted with them, but she had never given her heart away and, for all of his coldness, her father had never forced her hand. Even when John Murray, Lord Dunmore, the royal governor of the colony, had teasingly suggested that she was of an age, her father had shrugged and said that she had a mind of her own, she was not quite eighteen, and there was plenty of time for marriage.

  She did have a mind of her own, and she enjoyed life. Before leaving the Colonies for her schooling in London, she had ridden with Sir Henry Hershall, sipped spiked lemonade on the balcony swing with the Earl of Latimer’s second son, Jon, and played golf with the Scottish commander of Lord Newberry’s Highlanders. And even Robert she had teased mercilessly until she had returned home in November last year and discovered that she was in love with him, wonderfully in love, at last.

  “Amanda!”

  “I’m coming, Father!”

  She rushed from the balcony, and through her room to the hallway, and from there, to the top landing of the winding stairway. Once there she paused, breathing deeply.

  The great hallway below was already filling with guests. She hurried down a few steps and then paused again. This was her grand entrance. She was supposed to move slowly and demurely. She inhaled again, resting her fingers delicately on the bannister. She felt her heart beat. Robert should just be arriving. She should glance to the entryway and find him, and his eyes should be upon her.

  Perhaps he had already arrived. She quickly gazed out over the room, smiling to friends. The dream was too real, and so she looked on to the entryway.

  A man was just entering, handing his gloves and hat to Harrington, smiling and offering the man a word.

  Suddenly he looked up, just as if he had sensed that she was there. She discovered his eyes upon hers.

  Just as she had imagined …

  Except that the man was not Lord Robert Tarryton.

  It was her nemesis—Lord Eric Cameron.

  God! What right did he have to be there? In her very house? Yet she stared at him, unable to draw her gaze from his.

  His hair seemed very dark, almost black that night. He had not worn a wig and he had not bothered to powder it. He seemed exceptionally tall, towering in the doorway. His eyes, she thought, were even darker than before, indigo blue, with just that touch of taunting silver. He was dressed fashionably enough in a frock coat of royal blue, and white laced shirt, and breeches in a light-blue silk. His hose was white, and his shoes were adorned with silver buckles. Somehow he still didn’t look quite civilized. Perhaps it was the way he wore his hair, defying fashion. Perhaps it was the structure of his face. He was tanned, as if he spent much time outdoors, and his features were bold and strong, his cheekbones were high and his chin was quite firm and squared. His mouth was full and wide, and as his eyes met hers, she thought that perhaps his very smile gave him the look of something just a bit savage, for his lip curved with a slow and leisurely ease that caused little shivers to race down her spine.

  She realized that her hand had fluttered to her throat, and then she decided angrily that it was his eyes that gave him such an uncivilized appearance, for they danced then with startling silver humor as if he knew that he had somehow affected her, somehow caused her breath to catch. And she couldn’t even seem to look away from him.

  And neither did he look away from her.

  Eric Cameron stood in the entry and stared up at the girl, his hostess, and he was both amused and entranced.

  He saw in her eyes the same little vixen with the dark red hair and emerald eyes who had bit him with such certainty and vengeance all those years ago.

  He almost pitied Lord Tarryton, if the man hadn’t made sure to tell her the truth as yet. Eric had heard word from the governor himself that if Tarryton had not jumped with joy at the prospect of the young duchess, he had been quick to covet the title and property that came with her. Yet from the look of Amanda this evening, he surmised that she did not know. She had dressed to entrance a lover, but the excitement in her eyes was a greater attraction than any lace or velvet could create. Eric thought that she might well be aware of her femininity and her assets, she had confidence, but he wondered if she knew just how beautiful she was, standing upon the landing, her fingers trailing delicately over the bannister and brought softly against her throat. She was a woman of medium height, but so slim and delicate that she appeared somewhat taller than she really was. Her neck was long and graceful, and her breasts rose provocatively high and round against the embroidered bodice of her white gown.

  Her hair was truly her glory that night. It was flame and it was dark, a deep auburn that framed the ivory of her perfect complexion, in ripples and waves. It was caught high above one ear with a golden comb just to tumble and cascade over the opposite shoulder like a deep burning fire.

  Everything about her that night was glorious. Her beauty was startling. Her face was such a fine oval, like something exquisitely carved. Her cheeks just now burned with a touch of pink. Her eyes were deep green, like the land at its most verdant, Eric thought. He smiled slowly. Flame hair, green eyes. And though she stood motionless, he felt her vitality. She would fight, he thought, for what she wanted.

  She raised her chin slightly. She was determined to look away. Her will had not lessened a bit, nor, it seemed, had she had occasion to learn much about humility.

  She had been looking for a man, Eric thought with amusement. And most obviously he was not that man. Tarryton. She did not know that she been cast aside for riches.

  He bowed to her deeply. When she barely acknowledged him, he realized that she was still furious about the night in Boston. He hadn’t had much choice about his actions, but it was unlikely that she would ever understand or forgive him. She arched a delicate brow, caught up her skirts, and hurried on down the stairway. The perfect hostess, she began to greet her guests. She offered her cheek for the most delicate of kisses, she regally offered her hand to those she knew less well, and men and women flocked to her, eager to greet her.

  “Why, Mandy, Mandy
, dearest! Don’t you look just heavenly!” someone gushed to her. Eric looked through the crowd. It was Lady Geneva Norman, one of the richest heiresses in the area with countless estates in England. She was a beauty in her own right, but Eric had never found her any more than amusing and he was careful to keep his distance from her—she was a cunning witch who delighted in trouble and in dangling her worth before her suitors. She would, Eric thought, acquire a husband, for not many a man could forget that life was a harsh game that must be played well.

  He was grateful then for his own position, for he was not dependent upon making a fortunate marriage. His forefathers had acquired some of the finest land in Tidewater Virginia, and he retained estates in England he had seen but once. He could play Geneva’s game. He could delight in her bald humor and her coquetry and laughter, and he did not need to feel the sting of her temper at all, for he had nothing at stake. He could enjoy her beauty and walk away.

  His land in the colonies and his estates in England gave him so very much.

  Of course, those estates might not remain his for long, he realized solemnly. Not if he continued with his present course of action. Ever since Boston, he had become more and more deeply involved with men whom the Crown would call questionable associates.

  Some of his friends were calling it suicide, but he could not turn back. He believed in what he was doing.

  “Lord Cameron!” a voice bellowed, and Eric saw that his host, Lord Nigel Sterling, had come up before him, reaching for his hand. He thought briefly of the things that Anne Marie had told him about the man. Still, Amanda did not seem to show any signs of abuse.

  “Eric, my man, I’ve been most anxious to talk to you. I’ve been hearing the most fearful rumors.”

  Eric took Lord Sterling’s profferred hand and smiled. “Rumors? How intriguing. I shall be interested in hearing them.”

  “Come with me, and we’ll take a brandy into my office. I would have a word with you in private,” Sterling said.

  Eric shrugged and smiled, looking over his host. He was a squat man with heavy jowls and beady brown eyes. How he could have taken part in the creation of the thing of beauty upon the stairs, Eric did not know. Nor was he particularly fond of the man’s personality. He was forceful, rude, and often abrasive, a great believer in his own nobility. Still, he was Eric’s host this evening, and if they had been prone to great dissent when they had sat together in the Governor’s Council, by every rule of polite behavior, Eric owed him a moment of his time.

  “As you wish, Nigel. But I warn you, it will not change anything.”

  “Come, I’ll take my chances.”

  They moved through the room. Eric nodded to some of his male friends and acquaintances and bowed to the ladies as he followed. He could already hear whispers as he did so. He smiled more deeply. So much for polite society. He had become a black sheep already.

  “Ah, my dear! Amanda, there you are. Have you met Lord Cameron? Ah … yes, of course, you have, but that was years ago. Amanda was in a young ladies’ school in England for several years, and since then she has been in South Carolina with relatives. Do you remember my daughter, Lord Cameron?”

  “We met recently, Nigel. At Thomas Mabry’s, in Boston.”

  “What? Oh, so you were at Mabry’s fête that evening, were you?”

  “Yes.” Eric kept his eyes upon Amanda. She was flushed, despite her determination to ignore his knowing smile.

  “Yes, Papa, Lord Cameron was there.”

  Eric took her hand and bowed over it deeply, just brushing the back of it with his lips. He felt the pulse race at her wrist. As he raised his head, he looked into her eyes, those passionate, telltale eyes, and he moved his thumb slowly over the delicate blue veins that he could just see beneath the surface of her porcelain skin.

  “It was a night I shall not forget,” he said pleasantly.

  Her eyes widened slightly. She nearly snatched her hand away, but then she spoke softly and with poise. “Lord Cameron. How nice to see you again.”

  It was anything but nice for her to see him again, he thought, somewhat amused and somewhat sorry. She was even lovelier up close. So much of her beauty lay in her love for life, something vital and warm that seemed to sweep about her in a golden light. Well, she was passionately against him, he realized.

  “Milady.” He bowed to her. These were passionate times. He was determined in his own course of action, and it was natural that tempers and spirits would soar high.

  “Save a dance for Lord Cameron, my dear,” her father said. “Come, Eric, please, so that I may have my word with you.”

  Eric bowed to Amanda once again, then followed Sterling toward the doorway to his office.

  Cameron! Amanda thought, watching his broad back disappear in the wake of her father. Cameron!

  He had come to taunt her! On this magical night, he had come here! Well, he had nothing on her! If he ever dared to implicate Damien, she would call him a traitor in no uncertain terms! He laughed at her, she saw it in his smile, he dared her with every glance!

  She tightened her jaw, thinking that the man had really changed little. He had always been less than cavalier, supremely confident and assured. So arrogant. She would never forget the day of the hunt. Perhaps she had been too eager to catch the fox, but he’d had no right to spank her. She hadn’t thought that he would dare, but he would dare anything, she had learned. Perhaps it had been as much his fault. He had been about seventeen, and eager to return to one of Lord Hastings’s pretty chambermaids. She’d already heard his name whispered in various households. His appeal was legendary.

  Oh! Cameron was a traitor. Just two weeks ago he had stood up in the governor’s chambers, a member of the prestigious council, an honor set upon one for life, and he had suggested that perhaps he should resign because he disagreed with various actions being taken. Everyone had been speaking about it. The governor had refused to accept his resignation, demanding that he think it all through. The colony had been abuzz with it! Last night Robert had talked of it, calling the man a fool and a traitor. It was amazing that he hadn’t been arrested on the spot, hanged, boiled in oil, or drawn and quartered.

  Well, perhaps nothing so dramatic. And perhaps it was true that the governor would be hanging men from dawn to dusk if he had to start with the men who had spoken so in the lower house, the House of Burgesses. But Cameron was not a member of that society. He was a lord. His duty was to support his king and his governor.

  It was said that he had given a fine speech with a wonderful elocution—learned at Oxford, so she had heard—and agreed to wait, but suggested that time would make little difference. His heart was with the men who had gone to Bruton Parish Church for their day of prayer—just as his heart was with the men who had dumped the tea into the sea. His heart was not with many of the decisions being made, and therefore he did not think that he could serve the governor to the best of his abilities.

  He was listening to radicals. Men like Patrick Henry. He was far more interested in the lower House of Burgesses than he was in the goings-on of his own council chambers. He met with radicals at the various taverns in Williamsburg. He was dangerous.

  “There goes the most arresting man in the colonies,” a soft voice mused behind her.

  Amanda swirled around to see Lady Geneva standing behind her, batting her fan, her dark eyes following Lord Cameron.

  “Cameron?” Amanda said incredulously.

  Geneva nodded knowingly. “Lord Cameron,” she said, as if she tasted the name as she spoke and found it very pleasing. Her gaze shot to Amanda again. “He’s dashing, don’t you think? Bold, a rebel. He bows down before no man. All heads turn when he enters a room. Don’t you feel it? The tension … why, darling, the very heat! Oh, but I do just feel ignited!”

  A sizzle of warm rushing liquid seemed to trail down the length of Amanda’s spine with Geneva’s words and she shivered, remembering how it felt to have her eyes locked with his, to feel his lips against her flesh. She shoo
k her head, though, denying the sensation. She didn’t even want to think about the man, she wanted to find Robert.

  “Lord Cameron is a traitor and nothing more. And I can’t even imagine why Father would want him here.”

  “He might prove to be an invaluable friend one day,” Geneva said. “He is trusted by the radicals, and, oddly enough, he is even trusted by those very men he spurns. Your father is no fool, my pet. I’m sure he intends to stay very good friends with Lord Cameron.”

  “And you, Geneva, do you intend to become very good friends with Lord Cameron?”

  “Ah”—Geneva laughed—“the little tigress shows her claws! Me? Ummm. I am good friends with him. I don’t know about a lifetime commitment, for I like balls and pageants, I love royalty, I adore the finer things in life. Our fierce and proud Lord Cameron is casting his path in a different direction. He might well come to hang one of these days, and should he not, he might well find his bed to be one of hay. And still, I have danced with the man. I’ve felt his arms around me, and sometimes I do wonder if lying with him in a bed of hay might not be preferable to lying with any other man upon silk. But don’t worry, pet—the competition is still wide open.”

  “You needn’t worry, Geneva,” Amanda said sweetly. “You’ve no competition from me. I’ve no interest whatsoever in a traitor to the Crown.”

  Geneva batted her fan prettily, smiling to someone across the room. “Because of Lord Tarryton, I believe?”

  “Believe what you wish,” Amanda told her, but Geneva was very smug, obviously ready to tell a secret that she was finding most amusing.

  “I know things, Amanda. I’ll tell them to you if you like.”

  “All right, Geneva. Tell me what you will.”

  “Lord Tarryton is engaged to marry the Duchess of Owenfield back in England. She’s a widow and as her dear departed husband left no heirs, young Robert will gain the title of Duke of Owenfield.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Amanda gasped, so stunned at the news that she could not pretend nonchalance.