by Lucy Ashford
‘I remember,’ she said as steadily as she could. Oh, Lord, how could she forget? Just before that kiss. ‘And they’re in Boucher’s early style,’ she went on, pointing. ‘In fact, he served his apprenticeship as an engraver, but moved on to historical paintings and portraits—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, I sound as if I’m giving a lecture.’
‘You’re knowledgeable.’
‘Only because my father was an artist. He painted watercolours and studied the French artists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.’
‘Why French artists?’
‘Because he lived for some years in Paris and married my mother there.’
‘She was French?’
‘Yes. My father died when I was seven.’
There is no hope. No hope at all, I’m afraid, madame …
Memories. The doctor, talking to her mother in Paris, at her father’s sickbed. Her father, holding Rosalie close with what little strength he had. ‘Be a brave, good girl, my Rosalie. Look after your mother and your little sister for me …’
Alec said, ‘Was that when you came to England?’
‘Yes. My father had told my mother, often, about a cottage he owned in Oxfordshire.’
‘And is your mother still there?’
She gazed up at him, her blue eyes wide with loss. ‘She is dead, too.’
Alec tried not to look at the slenderness of her neck. The faint pulse beating there. What had happened to her life next? he wondered. An impulsive early marriage, he supposed, and pregnancy followed by her husband’s early demise, leaving her penniless with a child to support. So she’d decided to come to London to seek her fortune—as a writer? As a courtesan? Whatever, somehow she’d made bad enemies.
Yet he found it so damned hard to believe she was capable of selling herself. She’d looked so innocent when he’d come in just now, wearing that pure white bit of nothingness and intently poring over that book …
He forced himself to remember how she’d been parading on stage at Dr Barnard’s—for sale, or as good as. Unfortunately, the memory did nothing to quell the nagging of harsh desire between his thighs. A French mother—perhaps that explained her grace, her allure, her beauty, damn it all.
‘Being left alone with a child to take care of can’t be easy,’ he said. ‘But you must admit you’ve made some rash decisions.’
She closed the book rather abruptly. ‘I have always paid my own way, I assure you, Captain Stewart. And I have never before been forced to stay in a place like this!’
He was angry now. ‘No one is forcing you. And considering you were dragging a small child round London with nowhere to go except Lord Maybury’s on the night I found you, you can hardly claim to be a model parent!’
She’d risen shakily to her feet, her colour high. ‘I’ve done what I could for Katy. How dare you criticise, when you’ve no idea!’
He stood up, too, to make her sit down again. ‘Hush. Hush, I’m sorry. Everyone can see that you adore her.’
‘Everyone can …?’ His warm hands on her shoulders made her fury melt into something far more disturbing. She was struggling for breath.
‘Of course.’ His eyes, she saw, were concerned, Almost—tender.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘it’s just …’ she swallowed and rubbed her hand across her eyes ‘… it’s just that sometimes I think I will go mad if I have to stay trapped in here another day!’
‘You have been ill. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mrs Rowland.’ He sat next to her and smiled quizzically down at her. ‘Now, I’m going to tell you a secret. Actually, I used to rather enjoy your Ro Rowland articles.’
‘You—you did?’
‘Yes. You have talent and wit. You have—courage.’
‘No. No. I’ve been stupid, I’ve made a mess of everything!’ Bitterly she looked up at him. ‘Oh, if only I had not been ill.’
‘Poor Rosalie. Taking the whole world on your shoulders.’
‘I can look after myself!’ she flared. ‘I—I am in temporary difficulties, that is all.’
He tilted her chin up with his fingers, frowning. Temporary difficulties? The sight of her struggling defiantly against the troubles that life had thrown her way had touched some part of him that he’d long buried. That belonged to a better part of him, perhaps.
But it wasn’t the better part of him that made him ache to kiss her. To feel the softness of her tender body in his arms …
‘Stop fighting the whole world,’ he said quietly. ‘Stop fighting me.’
And he kissed her. My God, he knew he’d regret it, but—he kissed her.
Rosalie went very still at the first brush of his lips against hers. But as his warm mouth cherished hers, her lips parted instinctively, her heart thudded and she felt that in the whole world there was only this man. Only the heady, floating sensation of his slow, deliberate kiss. Only the need to feel his hands, his lips, caressing her body, arousing, promising …
It was as if he cared. ‘Forget it, gal,’ Sal would warn bitterly, ‘forget them all. Once a feller’s got what he wants, he’ll throw you away like rubbish.’
But Rosalie was beginning not to care what Sal had said. This was where she wanted to be, in his arms. It was so good to breathe in his clean male scent and all that mattered now was his mouth on hers, his tongue delicately probing, deliberately possessing her with a skill that was utterly devastating. Her heart was beating quite wildly.
Then she gasped, because he had unbuttoned her dress and slipped aside the shoulder of her chemise and was cupping one breast with his sword-calloused palm, caressing it deliberately, wickedly until the sensitive peak leapt to his touch. She felt an answering pulse at her very core, full of liquid warmth as she realised it would be so easy just to melt into his strong arms. So easy to let him bed her …
A sharp knock, at the door.
Garrett’s voice. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Captain.’
Alec drew slowly back from Rosalie and swore under his breath. ‘Whoever it is, tell him it’s not convenient.’
A pause. Then—’I think you’ll want to see him. Captain. Sir.’
Alec turned to Rosalie, his jaw set. Once more he was tough Captain Stewart, master of a lowlife soldiers’ hostel. ‘I must go. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t even think of leaving.’
He was gone. And she felt desolate. She clutched the bedpost, white-faced. Once more she’d succumbed to this dangerous man—she was surely losing her wits. She pushed herself up from the bed. Despite what he said, she had to get out of here! But—that threat. Stop asking questions, whore …
Talk about being trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. She tried again to get up and walk around the room, but within a few moments she had to sink back on the bed, because her legs felt like cotton wool.
She closed her eyes and surrendered briefly to despair. And the worst thing was—she was just starting to realise how very much she wanted to be wrong about Alec Stewart and Linette.
* * *
Garrett was waiting for Alec out on the landing. ‘Listening at keyholes, Garrett?’ queried Alec caustically.
‘No!’ Garrett looked hurt. ‘No, God’s truth … Captain, Lord Conistone’s waitin’ in the fencing hall for you!’
Lucas. Indeed, this was the first good news Alec had had for a long time. And his friend had called at the right moment, because a few more minutes with Mrs Rosalie Rowland and he’d have been hard put to stop himself seducing her there and then. My God, whether she intended it or not, everything about her was an erotic enticement: the defiant flash of her eyes; the way she tossed her hair to face up to him; the stubborn pout of her full, rosy lips.
Alec was no stranger to female enticements and he’d enjoyed many a willing bed companion. Yet something about her was so damned vulnerable. If she was playing games, she excelled at them, because she was driving him wild.
He’d longed, how he’d longed just then to caress her into submission with his lips and hands.
He was possessed by an image of her naked, her slender legs wrapping around his as he sheathed himself in her again and again …
God, Alec, don’t. She’s dangerous. A whore and a scandalmonger. A dousing of cold water for you, man.
That threatening note had been nasty. Someone vicious was after her—the same person doubtless who’d made her homeless through the fire. She would make enemies easily, with the mixed messages she sent out. One minute all erotic allure, the next, prim as a young school miss …
You can’t take her as your mistress. You mustn’t.
Physical pleasure for a man of Alec’s station was easy to come by, but intimacy of any other sort he’d sworn to avoid for good. His mind wandered back to the painful memories of a spell of home leave when he’d become betrothed to a pretty young heiress who thought herself in love with him. She’d been an innocent, of course, well chaperoned because of all that money. She’d kept asking about the battlefields of the Peninsula, but she’d not wanted to know the harsh reality, so he kept it from her. Kept himself from her, until in a fit of petulance she’d broken their betrothal last spring. Which was as well, considering the dark secrets already unfolding at the heart of his family.
Now Alec’s thoughts ran riot as he made his way to the fencing hall. What the hell was he to do with Rosalie Rowland? He cursed anew when he saw that some of the plaster-and-lath ceiling had fallen in overnight thanks to a spell of heavy rain; cursed again when he had to push aside that great mutt of a dog who leapt up eagerly to greet him. ‘Garrett, I thought I said—’
‘Aye, Captain. I’ll find a new home for him soon enough.’
Alec sighed and went to greet his oldest, his truest friend.
Lucas Conistone, Earl of Stancliffe, looked just the same as ever: effortlessly elegant, his clothes exquisite. Alec clasped his hand. ‘Lucas, by God! I thought you’d become a rustic, never to grace the city again. When did you arrive in town?’
‘Late yesterday.’ Lucas smiled. ‘Even Verena felt it was time to catch up on the gossip of the ton.’
Alec noted how his friend’s handsome features lit up as he spoke his wife’s name. ‘How are Verena and the children?’
‘Well, all well; the children cannot wait to see Hyde Park, and the Tower, and so on. Verena—oh, she pretends, you know, to take an interest in clothes and balls and such, but really …’
‘Really, she’s just happy wherever you are, Lucas, admit it!’
‘Indeed.’ Lucas’s elegant drawl softened. ‘I’m a lucky man, Alec.’
Garrett came in, grinning all over his face because he thought the world of Lucas Conistone. He carried freshly polished glasses and a bottle of burgundy. Alec glanced at the label and whistled.
‘Brought by his lordship, Captain,’ explained Garrett, expertly wielding the corkscrew.
‘Are we celebrating something?’
Lucas nodded. ‘Remind him, Garrett. And pour yourself a drink also, man. You were there, too.’
Garrett lifted his head proudly. ‘Two years ago to the day, the garrison at Bordeaux surrendered to Lord Wellington! There was still Toulouse and Waterloo to come, of course. But Bordeaux was the beginning of the end for Mister Nap!’
‘Indeed,’ affirmed Lucas, lifting his glass. ‘Here’s to victory.’
‘And here’s to those who didn’t make it back,’ added Alec softly. Suddenly serious, all three raised their glasses, thinking of the dead and wounded. Then Garrett, a broad smile once more splitting his face to see these old friends together again, left them with the wine.
They talked for a while about the war and mutual acquaintances. Then Alec wryly indicated Lucas’s fine clothes. ‘You said you were a lucky man, Lucas. You’re also a damned expensively dressed one—now, let me guess—boots by Hoby, coat tailored by Weston? I wonder what it’s worth to keep quiet about the filthy clothes you wore to play the spy in Portugal? My God, you used to go unwashed for days on end!’
Lucas pointed at him, laughing. ‘You, too, Alec—you were with me on some of my most dangerous adventures, remember? We were ragamuffins, both of us! But that’s all behind us. And your father’s not well, I hear.’
‘My father’s not well and I’ve got a brother I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.’ Alec finished off his wine. ‘My father’s gone to Carrfields, though that’s not the solution. Lucas, I’d do anything for him—you know how close we used to be. But he won’t have me near!’
‘Then he’s his own worst enemy,’ said Lucas levelly. ‘Look, Alec, you need a change of scene. We’re opening up our Mayfair house and we want you to visit us—in fact, we’ll be offended if you don’t. Though you seem to have your hands pretty full here, from what I’ve seen …’
They talked on, about Two Crows Castle and a parliamentary bill that was going forwards to secure better rights for the injured soldiers. Then it was time for Lucas to leave, but out in the hallway he paused.
‘Alec, tell me if this is none of my business, but I was in Rundell’s yesterday—you know, the art dealers on Ludgate Hill? And I noticed two rather fine oil paintings there that I’d swear I’d last seen in your father’s drawing room. Were you aware that he was putting some of his collection on the market?’
‘No,’ breathed Alec, suddenly tensing. ‘No, by God, I wasn’t. And I wonder if my father is!’
As soon as Lucas had gone, Alec clenched his fists. That painting, of Blenheim. Sent to specialists, to be cleaned? His suspicions ran riot. But how to go about this? How to tackle this new, damnable problem without letting the whole world—especially his father—know?
His mind flew to Rosalie Rowland.
He’d been a fool to kiss her again; that had helped nothing. If he’d been hoping to breach her defences, he’d learned not a fragment more about the enigmatic little widow from the Temple of Beauty—except that she knew rather a lot about art.
Then Garrett came in. ‘You know you told the lads to ask round careful-like about Mrs Rowland, Captain? Well, they’ve found out that when she arrived in London last autumn, she stayed with that printer friend of hers, in Clerkenwell.’
Alec nodded tiredly. Helen Fazackerley.
‘And she spent most of her time,’ went on Garrett, ‘goin’ round theatres.’
‘Going round theatres! With her infant?’
‘She didn’t have the infant with her then, see?’ said Garrett patiently. ‘The little ‘un—Katy—seemed to turn up some time in December. Mrs Rowland left ‘er then for an hour or two at a time with her printer friend, or a neighbour of theirs. And she carried on traipsing each day from one playhouse to another. Askin’ about someone called—Linette.’
With that, Garrett nodded and left.
Alec frowned, rubbing the tension from the back of his neck.
Who the deuce was Linette?
He’d gone easy on the questions so far, because of Rosalie’s sickness. But now, perhaps, the time for soft-footing it was over.
She’d just told him that she was going mad, confined to her room, hadn’t she? Well, he’d thought of rather an interesting outing for her—and a way to put her secretly to the test.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Alec got back upstairs, Rosalie was sitting by the window, with a drab shawl over her gown and her hair pinned up, and—
‘What exactly are you doing, Mrs Rowland?’
She stiffened. ‘Mending some shirts. Mary came up after you’d gone and I asked her if there was anything I could do.’
‘Mary had no business giving you servants’ work!’
Her blue eyes flashed. ‘Captain Stewart, I’m aware that I’ve been taking up a room, and your time and your servants’ time. That you’ve been feeding both myself and Katy for days now—’
‘And neither of you eats enough to keep a bird alive,’ he retorted, glancing at her slender frame, which was a big mistake, because he remembered with a jolt just how it had felt, spanning that tiny waist with his hands, feeling the feminine swell of her hips, the
sweet warmth of those lips …
Damnation. He clamped down hard on the sudden surge of desire.
He went on, in a voice he strove to make less abrasive, ‘I take it you’re feeling considerably better. Would you care to come out for a while with me?’
‘Out …?’
‘Yes. To look at some paintings. They’re at a private house, to the west of the city. It will take us perhaps half an hour to get there.’
She hesitated. ‘You think I’ll be safe?’
‘I don’t think the coward who sent that note would dare to do anything in broad daylight, not while you’re with me.’
She nodded tightly. ‘But Katy …’
‘Your daughter has already been in Mary’s care for days, with my men watching the house—and her—constantly. I thought you might like a change of scene, since earlier you told me you feared you would go mad, trapped in here.’
Rosalie bit her lip. And then she’d let him kiss her. What a fool he must think her. For all her protests and defiance, she’d surrendered to him yet again, so very easily! No wonder he didn’t question her role as a whore at the Temple of Beauty—she played the part so well. Heat unfurled in her insides just at the thought of his lips once more caressing hers.
It was time, finally, to confront him, but not here. Not in this place where he was master. ‘An outing to look at some paintings?’ she said pleasantly. ‘That sounds—delightful, Captain Stewart!’
He gave her twenty minutes to get ready, then came to lead her downstairs. ‘Why not go and see your daughter first?’ he suggested. ‘She’s out in the garden. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave.’
He’d pointed to an open door and she blinked to find herself in the bright sunlight. The garden was larger than she’d thought, a walled quarter of an acre or so of trees and tangled shrubs that ran quite wild. The sound of children’s laughter drew her around the corner to a flagged terrace, where Mary sat sewing in the sun and watching over the children.
Mary beamed a welcome. ‘It’s so good that you’re up and about, my dear! You’ll see for yourself how happy your little girl is with my granddaughters—there’s Jenny, she’s three, and Amy with the pink dress, she’s four …’