by Mary Balogh
She stared at him. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, her eyes widening in shock. “Is that the impression I gave in the letter I felt bound to write you, your grace? It was an accident. Joshua was with Albert before it happened. He was the last person to see him alive. There was never any question, though, that he caused the accident or even witnessed it.”
“Ah,” his grace said. “But there would still be the painful knowledge that the man who married your daughter had also fathered a child on her governess.”
“Oh, not Constance's governess,” she said. “Constance was already out of the schoolroom. Miss Jewell was governess to my other daughters, your grace. It was an unfortunate incident.” She simpered and looked archly at him. “But young men will be young men, as I am sure I need not tell you, your grace. You have several younger brothers, I believe?”
The cold silver eyes regarded her in silence.
“Well.” She dabbed at her eyes once more. “I considered it my duty to warn you, your grace, that your sister may be in danger of having her heart broken. Joshua is such a handsome boy and such a heartless rogue. I do not know why I love him, but I do. Lady Freyja is such a sweet lady. I would hate to see her hurt.”
His grace was fingering the handle of his quizzing glass again and regarding her with haughtily raised eyebrows and arctic eyes.
“Oh.” She smiled brightly and waved to someone across the room. “If you will excuse me, your grace. I see that I am wanted.”
The duke bowed slightly to her, and she hurried away.
What is it, sweetheart?” Joshua asked. “Can't keep your hands off me, can you?”
He was lighting a single branch of candles on the mantelpiece in the small downstairs room his grandmother used as her office and writing room. There were a desk and chair in there, as well as a few bookcases and two matching armchairs with gilded arms and legs.
“Ha!” she said with haughty disdain.
He turned his head to grin at her. She had told him that she needed to have a private word with him, and he had brought her in here. She was wearing a transparent silver tunic over a low-cut pale blue gown with a great deal of silver thread and embroidery and was looking quite dazzlingly handsome. Her hair was threaded with silver too.
“I may well not be able to keep my hands off you,” he told her, perching on the edge of the desk with one foot braced on the floor and the other leg swinging free. “I believe your modiste must have run short of fabric when she reached your bodice. With magnificent results, I might add.”
“Such lascivious talk does you no credit,” she said severely. “I would wager you would not dare talk thus to any other lady.”
“Good Lord, no,” he agreed. “I never enjoy having my face slapped. You will note that I set half a room between us before talking thus to you. I like my nose the shape it is.”
“We have got ourselves into a dreadful coil,” she said.
“We have,” he agreed. “Somehow I suppose I imagined that Mr. King would announce our betrothal, everyone would smile and nod and assure us and one another that that was very pleasant news, and then we would all go about our business more or less as usual until you and I could decently go our separate ways again. I did not envisage this party—or the extravagance of my grandmother's delight.”
“And I did not foresee Wulf's coming to Bath,” she said, frowning. “It has made the whole thing horribly and embarrassingly complicated.”
“Has he tried to persuade you to end the betrothal?” he asked. “I have been under the distinct impression that he is less than delighted with me.” He wondered if her brother had shown her his aunt's letter or told her any of the damning things she appeared to have included in that letter.
She shook her head. “Wulf would not do that,” she said. “He does not give orders. Not to his brothers and sisters anyway. Though I have often thought that he is quite expert at maneuvering us into doing what he wants us to do, apparently of our own free will.”
“Perhaps, then,” he said, smiling at her, “you can allow him to maneuver you into giving me my marching orders. It would be the perfect answer to our dilemma, would it not? Just give me enough warning, though, if it happens before my aunt leaves Bath so that I can flee before I find myself betrothed to someone else instead.”
“I assured him,” she said, “that I adore you and that you adore me. I have promised him that we will be happy.”
Despite himself he threw back his head and laughed.
“You might try frowning less ferociously,” he said. “I might almost believe that you do not mean a word of it.”
“Is everything a joke to you?” she asked, coming closer to him. “I have never lied to Wulf before. I have always scorned lies.”
He reached out and took one of her hands in his and shifted his weight so that he was sitting fully on the desk.
“At the moment,” he said, “I am feeling something akin to adoration.”
“He expects you to accompany us back to Lindsey Hall within the next few days,” she said, “so that you can be presented to the rest of my family and our neighbors. So that our betrothal can be celebrated there. So that our wedding can be planned.”
“Ah,” he said, possessing himself of her other hand too. “We find ourselves in a coil indeed.”
“You are not to agree to it,” she said, glaring at him haughtily along the length of her nose. “You are not to come. You are to make some excuse about another commitment, and then after you have gone I will break the truth to Wulf.”
“Ah, sweetheart,” he said, “I have made life difficult for you.”
“You have indeed,” she said. “But I agreed to your mad scheme and on the whole I am not sorry. This past week has been far less tedious than it would have been if we had not been betrothed. Indeed, it has been downright enjoyable.”
“For me too.” He grinned at her.
She opened her mouth and drew breath to say something else, did not say it, but locked glances with him instead. It was an awkward, unexpectedly silent moment in which it seemed they both simultaneously realized that they were alone together in a small, private room lit only by the flickering light of three candles.
He was very aware of the enticingly bare expanse of her bosom, of the cleavage between her generously rounded breasts, of her gracefully arched neck, of her bold, strangely attractive face, of the shining mass of her fair hair. He felt his temperature rise a notch, his breath quicken, his groin tighten.
He drew her forward until she stood between his spread legs, and drew her arms about his waist until she locked them behind him. He cupped her face with his hands, smoothed his thumbs over her dark eyebrows and then down her cheeks to rub over her lips.
He ran his tongue over his own lips as he lowered his head and then over hers—they were soft and warm and unresisting. He drew down her bottom lip with his thumb, ran his tongue back and forth over the soft flesh inside, and then, when she opened her mouth with a low sound of acquiescence, he kissed her fully, sliding his tongue deep inside.
Desire exploded in him with furnace heat. He wrapped one arm about her shoulders and the other about her waist to draw her closer, and lost himself in sheer carnal lust.
“What are we doing?” she asked suddenly a short while later, jerking back her head and glaring at him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Kissing?” he suggested, rubbing his nose across hers and grinning at her. “We did both just agree, did we not, that it has been an enjoyable week? Why not make it more so?”
“Perhaps,” she said, her hands on his shoulders as if to push away from him, “you need to be reminded that we are not really betrothed.”
“Yet this is our betrothal party,” he said, “and you have assured your brother that we adore each other and are going to live happily ever after together. You never lie to your brother.”
He had better be careful, he thought, or he was going to talk himself into something he could not talk himself out of.
“I do not kiss every handsome stranger I encounter,” she retorted.
“Only the ones you temporarily betroth yourself to?” He grinned and wrapped both arms about her waist. It was very small, a delicious contrast to her bosom and hips.
She stared at him. “Promise me you will not be persuaded to come to Lindsey Hall,” she said. “This needs to be ended now—as soon as possible after tonight.”
“You are afraid,” he asked softly, rubbing his nose over hers again and teasing her lips with his own, “that you will not be able to resist my body much longer?”
She tutted. “I have never in my life met such a conceited man,” she said.
“I am mortally afraid,” he said, “that I will not be able to resist yours.”
He meant it too. Having Lady Freyja Bedwyn in bed, he suspected, would be the sensual experience of a lifetime. Unfortunately, he would never know for sure. She was a lady—an aristocrat. She was out of bounds. But a betrothal, he was finding, even a fake one, was setting severe temptation in his way. In hers too, it appeared—despite her words she was making no concerted effort to get away from him.
“I could begin the feast here,” he said, nibbling at her lips with his teeth, “and work my way down to your toes. Toes are a marvelously erotic part of the anatomy. Did you know that?”
“I did not,” she said firmly, drawing her head back a few inches to glare at him. “And this is quite improper talk. You are laughing at me. Your eyes give you away every time.”
“Do they, sweetheart?” He dipped his head to nuzzle her neck where it joined her shoulder. She hunched the shoulder and tipped back her head. Her fingers twined in his hair and clutched it. “And do they also tell you that I might never reach your toes? I might be distracted by something altogether more erotic halfway down.”
He heard breath hiss into her. This might be the moment to protect his nose from acquiring a bend of its own, he thought, but when he lifted his head he could see that her lips were parted and her eyes heavy-lidded. She did not have fisticuffs on her mind, then.
“We ought not to be here,” she said. “We ought to be with your grandmother's guests. They will wonder where we are.”
“They will think that we are stealing a few moments for ourselves,” he told her. “They will be charmed.”
She moved her head forward then, closing her eyes as she came, and kissed him fiercely on the lips, opening her mouth, opening his, and invading him with her tongue.
She had both arms coiled about his neck and he had both hands splayed over her buttocks when the door opened.
“Ah,” the cold, rather languid voice of the Duke of Bewcastle said as Joshua opened his eyes, lifted his head, and slid his hands up to a more decorous position on either side of her waist, “here you both are.”
He stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him as Lady Freyja spun around, flushed and slightly disheveled.
“Do you ever think of knocking, Wulf?” she demanded haughtily.
He raised his eyebrows and looked faintly surprised. “No,” he said after pausing to give her question some consideration. “A servant directed me here.”
Freyja was horribly embarrassed—partly because she had launched herself with such lascivious intent at the marquess, partly because Wulf had walked in and caught her at it. It was only after the marquess had moved his hands that she had realized where they had been. And of course they would have been in full view to Wulf—she had had her back to the door.
She glanced down hastily but was reassured to find that the low bodice of her gown still covered everything it had been designed to cover. Now, she thought crossly, she was going to look doubly pathetic in a few days' time when this farce was all over.
Wulfric had not come to drag her back to the party by the hair, it seemed. He settled into one of the gilded chairs, rested his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers—a characteristic pose when he had something of some import to say.
“Sit down, Freyja,” he said, indicating the other chair before joining his fingertips again. “I understand that there was a great deal more at play during the infamous ball at the Upper Rooms one week ago than presented itself to general observation.”
Freyja, seating herself and feeling the marquess come to stand behind and slightly to one side of her chair and set a hand on the back of it, suddenly felt no doubt at all that Wulfric knew everything.
“It would appear,” he continued, “that quite unknown to most of the guests present, there was an unseemly rush to win the race over which of two betrothals, both involving the same gentleman, was to be announced first. Am I correct in this assumption, Hallmere?”
There was a predictable thread of laughter in the marquess's voice when he answered.
“Not exactly,” he said, “though according to my cousin Constance, the marchioness was hoping to advance our apparent courtship to such a degree that an announcement would have seemed superfluous. I preferred to defend myself with offense.”
Wulfric leveled upon him the sort of keen, icy look that had most ordinary mortals withering up in the vain hope of disappearing altogether. Freyja did not look to see if the marquess was one of them. She should, she supposed, be feeling enormous relief. The worst part of ending the masquerade—telling Wulf—was to be avoided. She might have guessed that he would discover the truth for himself.
“This betrothal is to end as soon as the Marchioness of Hallmere and her daughter have left for home, I assume?” Wulfric asked.
“With heartfelt thanks to Lady Freyja for saving me from a life sentence and apologies for any inconvenience to her, yes,” the marquess agreed.
“It has not been inconvenient, Wulf,” Freyja added firmly. “Indeed I agreed gladly to the scheme. And the tedium of life in Bath has been considerably alleviated during the past week.”
“During which time you have been enjoying excursions into the hills and surrounding countryside at all hours of the day, alone with a gentleman who is not your betrothed,” Wulfric said. “And embracing him.”
“That was just tonight,” she said. “And on one other occasion,” she added for honesty's sake now that the lies had been dispensed with. “You are not going to be gothic about this whole thing, are you, Wulf? I am five and twenty years old. I do not need to be hedged about with chaperones and guardians as poor Morgan does.”
He transferred his inscrutable gaze to the marquess.
“Your aunt's prediction, made to me not one hour ago, will prove perfectly correct when you abandon my sister within the coming week,” he said. “She will be delighted. Lady Freyja Bedwyn will be humiliated.”
“Nonsense, Wulf,” she said crossly.
But he did not even deign to look at her. His silver gaze was fixed on the marquess, who chuckled softly.
“Neither of which outcomes is to my liking,” he said. “What are you suggesting, Bewcastle? That I marry Lady Freyja after all? I doubt she will have me.”
“That—publicly, at least—should be her decision,” Wulfric said. “Would you not agree?”
Freyja shot to her feet. “Nonsense,” she said again. “I agreed to this scheme because it amused me to do so. I did not do it in order to trap the Marquess of Hallmere into marrying me. I do not want him—or any other husband for that matter.”
His eyes were laughing, she saw when she strode past him on the way to the desk. She sat down on the chair behind it, as far from the two men as she could get. How very stupid all this was.
“Perhaps,” the marquess said, “we can stage another scene in the Pump Room in a few days' time. Have you heard of the first one, Bewcastle? I am afraid Lady Freyja showed to less than advantage on that occasion. On the next, I can assure you, everyone's sympathy will be with her as she punches me in the nose and invites me to go to hell. Everyone will congratulate her for so publicly freeing herself from her betrothal to a rogue.”
Wulfric, Freyja could see as she stared broodingly at him, was not amuse
d.
“The day after tomorrow, Hallmere,” he said, “you will accompany Lady Freyja and me to Lindsey Hall, where you will formally make the acquaintance of our family and neighbors. We will have your betrothal properly announced and celebrated. If by Christmas or the spring she has decided that after all she does not wish to join herself in matrimony to you, then the necessary announcement will be made—by me. She will be frowned upon, of course—that cannot be avoided now—but she will not be pitied.”
“I believe,” the marquess said, turning to glance at her, “Lady Freyja does not wish me to come to Lindsey Hall.”
She compressed her lips. How many minutes had passed since she had assured the marquess that Wulf never gave orders to his brothers and sisters? This all sounded very like a firm ducal command to her.
“Lady Freyja will be glad of an escort for the next week or two,” Wulfric said. “Her brothers and their wives will be coming to Lindsey Hall, having been invited to attend the christening celebrations for the new grandson of our neighbor, the Duke of Redfield.”
Freyja sat bolt upright in her chair. Celebrations for the christening of Kit's son? And she was now trapped into going home, with or without the Marquess of Hallmere? She was going to have to attend? To smile and grin at everyone and pretend to be happy for Kit and the viscountess and the earl and countess?
The marquess had turned to face her fully, his hands clasped behind his back. He was looking far more serious than usual—almost grim, in fact.
“If it is Lady Freyja who is to decide if and when our betrothal is to end,” he said, “then it is she who must decide whether I come to Lindsey Hall or not.”
She should set him free here and now. Indeed, she should march out into the party right at this moment and make a public announcement of the end of their betrothal. It had been a ridiculous farce from the start. At the same time the marquess could make a public announcement that he was not going to marry his cousin Constance. There would be an end of the whole stupid mess.
With the pathetic humiliation of a broken engagement behind her—news of it was bound to drift homeward sooner or later, probably sooner—she was going to have to attend the christening party for Kit's baby and smile and smile until her face felt permanently stretched.