“I’m having the most marvelous time!” she said defiantly. “This is the best ball I’ve ever attended.”
“I’ve been trying to speak to you—”
“I haven’t been anywhere,” she said and hiccupped.
“Be careful of the punch. It’s strong.”
“It’s the best punch I’ve ever tasted,” she called over her shoulder as she turned, and the bright tune swept her away. What a tyrant he was!
Then she saw a rabbit. A fluffy brown rabbit peeping out from behind a large urn. She blinked, twice, and it disappeared. Maybe she had drunk a bit too much. She looked for Carbury again, but the dance had taken him far away.
Later, when another dance had ended and she was speaking to Mrs. Carrington, her hostess for the night, she saw Wyatt across the room, and he seemed to be heading in her direction. She tossed her head, trying to look both indifferent and enticing, a feat she wouldn’t have attempted without the false courage of the punch, when all conversation ceased with the announcement of His Grace, the Duke of Oxthorpe.
She’d heard the duke described variously: as excessively proud by a couple of ladies; with awe by Nolly’s friends as the man who’d single-handedly fought off a couple of local ne’er-do-wells pretending to be the New Sheriff of Nottingham; and by Sybilla as a very handsome man with a proper appreciation for his rank. For once, Sybilla was correct, at least as far as his appearance was concerned. Not as handsome as Carbury but with dark good looks, not at all the stiff-backed middle-aged man she’d imagined a duke to be. To her astonishment, he asked her to dance and led her onto the floor with a brilliant smile.
*
Wyatt had come to the ball with every intention of being charming, not easy when he felt ever more irritable and churlish as the evening progressed. Finally given the chance to speak to Robina, he’d accused her of being drunk. Not the most charming behavior, but she was tipsy. He wouldn’t put it past Nolly and his irresponsible friends to have spiked the punch.
Wyatt regarded Oxthorpe’s presence with indifference. He’d encountered the duke in London from time to time, but Oxthorpe didn’t travel in Whig circles and held himself aloof from society. He’d hardly given the man a second glance until he astonished the company by condescending to dance. With Robina. With growing disgust, Wyatt watched the pair trip through a set in animated conversation. It was one thing to flirt with boys, but Oxthorpe was another matter entirely.
Damn rake. Wyatt was sure he’d heard stories about Oxthorpe’s perverse proclivities.
Five minutes later, after the dance ended, while Wyatt was vainly attempting to fight his way through the crowd to Robina’s side, Oxthorpe caught her under the mistletoe and kissed her. She curtsied and smiled, and Wyatt wanted to commit murder.
Just as he reached her side, a brouhaha arose about a rabbit loose in the house. The ball degenerated into a hunting party with Nolly’s coterie leading the charge, and finally, at long bloody last, he was able to get her to himself.
“Carbury!” she cried. “Mrs. Carrington’s bunny is lost, and we must help find him. I saw him earlier and thought I must be suffering from visions.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you suffered an hallucination from too much punch. Come.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the nearest door.
“I’m sure he went that way,” she said, resisting his pull.
“I saw him leave by this door.” A useful lie because, having visited Carrington Close on a previous occasion, he remembered a handy little sitting room.
“All right! I can’t wait to see him again. His name is Franklin, and he’s adorable. I hope we are the ones to find him.” She tripped along beside him quite happily, chattering on about nonsense as though she hadn’t been driving him to Bedlam all evening.
*
A waltz would have been ideal, but a rabbit hunt with Wyatt came a close second-best. He seemed to be in one of his impossible moods, but surely even he wouldn’t be immune to the charms of furry pets. And truth to tell, her head was a tiny bit fuzzy. The main thing was that she had his attention at last. He wasn’t stalking bunnies with Sybilla Herbert. The thought of their indolent hostess in such a pursuit made her giggle.
“What?” he barked, tugging her down a narrow passage.
“You’re going too fast. We should be searching.”
“Let someone else do it.” He opened the door to a small parlor, warm from a fire but dimly lit. She didn’t know why he’d brought her here, but they were entirely alone.
“I want to talk to you about Oxthorpe,” he said. “How dare you kiss him.”
He sounded jealous, and the hopes that had been dashed by his neglect reawakened. She fluttered her eyelids. “I’ve never met a duke before, and I was ever so flattered that he asked me to dance. Everyone was so surprised.” And envious, in the case of the ladies. She’d enjoyed a glimpse of Sybilla looking sour as she’d swung by in the duke’s arms. “He’s a charming man. We talked about Conisbrough Castle and other places in Yorkshire.”
A little frisson of anticipation was dampened by the way Wyatt stood with his back to the fireplace, one thumb tucked into the fob pocket of his white silk waistcoat, the other slapping his white gloves against his thigh. He wore a frown like a bishop in an alehouse. Thus he must look when making a speech in the House of Commons, except that his hair was disarranged and her fingers itched to sweep it back from his forehead.
“As for the kiss, it was only the mistletoe. The place is infested with the stuff.” She looked around, but sadly the decorating committee hadn’t penetrated this obscure corner of the house.
“You’re a fool if you think Oxthorpe means anything by his attentions to you. He’s the proudest man in England, and you can be sure he isn’t serious about someone like you.”
Robina suddenly felt quite sober.
“I was dancing with him, Carbury, that’s all. I’m at a ball, and when one is at a ball, one dances. And one is pleasant to people, because it is supposed to be an enjoyable occasion. You don’t seem to understand this simple fact. Don’t think I didn’t notice you scowling at your partners. So enjoyable for them, I don’t think.”
“Better than flirting with bloody Oxthorpe and every grubby-minded boy in the county as well, and giving them ideas too, like the veriest hussy. Don’t you think that I didn’t notice them staring at your bosom and enjoying it far too much. That gown is indecent.” His nostrils flared as his eyes descended to her bosom.
“It doesn’t display nearly as much as your dear Sybilla’s dress.”
“She doesn’t have as much to display.”
Instead of pleasure that he had noticed her charms, she felt cheap and soiled. He was supposed to be jealous, not berate her as a drunken trollop. She put her hands on her hips and glared back at him, refusing to yield an inch. “I’m going back to the ballroom,” she said. “I promised the next dance to Mr. Amblewise, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. He’s a delightful man and quite handsome, and I daresay I shall enjoy a delightful flirtation.” Never mind that the gentleman in question was a very proper clergyman with a doting mama.
She turned her back on him with a defiant sway of her hips. She’d show the pompous ass what a trollop was like. Not that she had any experience of the breed, but wiggling her behind at a man seemed the kind of thing one would do. She reveled in her vulgarity.
“Come back.” Two hands grasped her shoulders. Before she had a moment to object, he’d turned her round, manacled her wrists behind her back with one powerful hand, and used the other to hold her head still while he sealed her gaping mouth with his own.
Shock and anger turned to searing pleasure she had never imagined. Wyatt wanted her! Trapped by his strength, she had never felt more free, free to relish the rough kiss of cloth pressed against her chest and his lips working magic on hers. If he’d done this the day he’d proposed to her, she would have said yes. How could she resist such bliss?
Releasing his hold on her head, his
finger caressed her cheek and then her neck, sending extraordinary thrills straight down her body and making her ache in places she shouldn’t mention. Her theoretical knowledge of relations between a man and a woman became practical as every inch of her flesh, every drop of blood, sent the same message to her brain: want, need.
Her throat croaked a protest when he withdrew from her, but it was only to murmur her name before he took her mouth again, deeper and harder, claiming her for himself and filling her with a fierce joy. No longer a duty, no longer a child, she was a woman who could drive a man to madness.
He let go her hands so that his could cup her derriere, pulling her against the evidence of his desire. His plunder of her mouth grew wilder, and there seemed a desperate quality to his kiss. Then he released her mouth and dragged his down the column of her throat and buried his face in the valley of her bosom.
His tugging at the neck of her gown awoke her from the sensual haze.
He’d called her a hussy.
And now he was treating her like one, and her acquiescence, her very delight, proved him right.
With all the force she could muster in her weakened state, she shoved him away. “No,” she croaked. “No.”
He leaped back as though stuck with pins. His eyes were crazed and his hair truly disheveled. She’d never seen him less contained. “Robina…”
“I am not a trollop,” she cried, and ran out, eyes tight with gathering tears. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear and wouldn’t wait. The joy of the evening had turned to heartbroken misery.
A room had been set aside for the ladies to fix their toilettes, pin up torn hems and lace, and take care of private business. In the rabbit-seeking chaos, it was easy for Robina to reach it without drawing attention to a disordered coiffure teetering on the edge of total collapse. Thankfully, the room was empty, and she was able to repair the damage to her hair. With hands no longer trembling, she stood before the cheval glass and smoothed the creases from her beautiful silk gown. She couldn’t see that she looked different, but she felt it. In the course of her life, she had suffered grief for two parents, loneliness, and anxiety. But she couldn’t ever recall the sensation of self-loathing that filled her now. Fueled by an excess of liquor, her behavior had forfeited Wyatt’s good opinion. Inexperienced as a flirt, she’d made a hash of trying to arouse his jealousy and managed only to disgust him. The things he’d said, the way he’d mauled her, showed he thought her nothing but a wanton jade.
Throughout the years they’d known each other, she had resisted his dominance and resented his occasional disapproval. But never once had he scorned or despised her. His care and affection, sometimes taking a form that chafed her patience, had been unstinted and utterly reliable. Her reasons for rejecting his proposal had seemed rational at the time, but she’d been blind to how much he meant to her. She had lost his respect, and the loss made her heart sore. She didn’t know how she could live without it.
Pinching her lips till they hurt, she relived their encounter this evening. He’d treated her as no gentleman should ever treat a lady. Such a punctilious man would behave thus only under severe provocation. The terrible thing was that she had reveled in his kisses and every shocking touch. Clearly, she was no lady, for underlying her shame and misery was an overwhelming wish that he would do it again.
Chapter Nine
‡
Wyatt couldn’t blame the punch for his behavior. He’d scarcely swallowed a cup of the stuff. Deeply ashamed of himself, he didn’t attempt to approach Robina for the remainder of the assembly. What he had to say to her—and how he would word the apology, he had no idea—needed quiet and privacy. To make matters worse, Sybilla continued her pursuit. On the way home the widow addressed all her comments on the ball to him with a kind of possessive intimacy that set his teeth on edge. How had he failed to notice her designs on him? Meanwhile Robina huddled in a corner, silent and never looking his way, her resentment palpable.
Clearly, when it came to women, he was a complete idiot. To complete his misery, Oxthorpe had become engaged to Miss Edith Clay later in the evening. His overreaction to a mistletoe kiss might have destroyed his hopes.
He fully expected Robina to insist on catching the stagecoach the next day. Luck was on his side when they learned a heavy snowfall ten miles to the north had put a halt to all travel in that direction. She wasn’t going anywhere, by public coach or in his hired post chaise. They were very likely stuck until at least St. Stephen’s Day.
Despite the size of Dinfield, he found it impossible to find a moment to speak with Robina privately. Sybilla kept them all running around, a martinet beneath a veneer of languor. There was a hopeful moment when she ordered Robina into the village shop for red ribbon to festoon the garlands that her guest’s deft fingers had woven. When Wyatt offered to walk with her, Sybilla insisted he needed to speak to a tenant on the far side of the estate and sent Nolly with him.
If he should wed Sybilla, heaven forbid, he’d certainly be under the cat’s paw. The experience made him understand how Robina had felt when he issued orders and resolved that when—if—she married him, he would curb his domineering tendencies.
On Christmas Eve, when the house rang with the excited cries of boys hauling in ever larger barrow loads of greenery, he decided he must again be master of his own fate. So he sat down and made a list.
Memoranda for December 24th, 1817.
1. Tell Sybilla no.
2. Propose to Robina.
3. Make her say yes.
4. Kiss Robina. (Contingent on success of item 3.)
He looked out over the snowy lawn and drifted off into a trance in which items five, six, seven, etc. ad infinitum, became progressively less decent and more delightful. But first, Sybilla.
As an experienced politician, he knew the best thing to do when telling someone they couldn’t have what they wanted was to offer him or her something else.
“I am deeply honored by your regard, my dear Sybilla,” he said. “As Ernest’s widow, you will always be a valued member of my family. But I know I am not the right man for you.” His lips twitched. “I have it on good authority that I am a pompous ass.”
“Good Lord, Wyatt. Who dared say that to you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Miss Weston, I suppose.”
“Your perspicacity amazes me. Now let us speak of your future…not together,” he said, before she started arguing. Or insulting Robina, in which case he might say something that would lead to an irrevocable breakdown in relations. “If you wish to marry again, we must find you someone who will make you much happier than I could.”
“I don’t see how that can happen. There’s no one eligible in the area except the duke, and he’s to marry Miss Clay.” She sniffed scornfully. “I don’t know what he sees in that nobody.”
He played his ace. “You will come to London for the Season, and since you often complain that your house on Brook Street is too small, I will arrange for you—and the boys when they aren’t at school and Nolly isn’t at Oxford—to have the use of my grandfather’s house in Grosvenor Square.”
“Hillforth House.” Her eyes gleamed with avarice, as he’d known they would. He loathed the oversize, overfurnished mansion, preferring a cozy billet closer to Westminster, but he knew she would love lording over such grandeur. “If I give a ball, will you act as host?”
“I’ll have to see if my time allows it.” Every negotiation left a few minor details to be settled later. He hoped Robina wouldn’t have her heart set on Hillforth House, because he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to share it with Sybilla. That was another bridge to cross later. After she’d said yes. If she said yes.
Each time they’d met since the ball, Robina had looked away. It reminded him of the stiff morning calls he’d made to her in London, and finally he understood why he’d been unable to speak for so many months. It wasn’t reluctance to marry her, but uncertainty about the change in their relationship from friends to lovers. He’d better have devoted s
ome of his time over the year to studying women and how to woo them, because he still didn’t know what to say. He watched her hungrily as she conjured beauty out of bits of greenery and red ribbons, and he remembered the exquisite pinecone he’d seen her paint. While devoted to the quotidian business of her father’s estate, Robina hadn’t neglected the finer things that made life a little brighter. When—if—they married, he decided that they would celebrate Christmas with every frivolous extravagance.
He pilfered a sprig of mistletoe from the mantelpiece and slipped it into his pocket. When he got her alone, he would be prepared.
*
Avoiding being alone with Carbury, Robina managed to have a youth or two on hand at all times. She counted the hours until the road north was clear and she could catch the stagecoach. Sharing a carriage with him was out of the question. Thank goodness she wasn’t given to blushing, or she would have been scarlet whenever she caught his glance. She blushed inside imagining his thoughts about her behavior at the ball.
Sybilla assisted her, she suspected deliberately. Mrs. Herbert had got over her aversion to Yuletide decorations and was quite tireless in finding more places for Robina to ply her skills. Guessing that much of her dislike was rooted in rivalry for Wyatt’s affection—sadly unwarranted—her new geniality suggested that she was sure of winning.
“That’s quite lovely,” she said, tweaking the bow on a ball of holly. “You’re very clever, Miss Weston. I was just remarking on it to Wyatt. Did I tell you we have it all settled between us? Nolly is to go up to Oxford, and I will go to London to spend the Season at Hillforth House…” She drifted off, leaving Robina plunged in gloom.
Unable to contemplate the horror of sitting down to dinner with the happy couple, she told the butler that she was feeling unwell and would stay in her room. Claiming herself too fatigued to eat, she asked not to be disturbed.
Chewing her fist, she found herself making a list.
1. Nobly refrain from murdering Sybilla Herbert.
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