“I’m listening, but there is little I can add to the conversation.”
“Honestly, Richard, you’re not nearly as much fun as Farthingham.”
He snapped his head around. “Is that what a woman wants, Anne? A man who is fun? A man who prefers play to work, a man who would allow others to carry him through life rather than determine how he can best carry himself?”
“I meant no offense,” she responded rather tartly.
“None taken.”
“You certainly didn’t sound as though none were taken.” Leaning toward him, she placed a comforting hand on his knee. “I realize the management of all our estates and holdings is quite a burden. I don’t know how you manage to do it all, I truly don’t. You will require a special woman to become your wife.” She straightened and looked out the window, as though like him, she thought all the answers resided outside the coach somewhere.
“It’s a shame Miss Robertson is taken,” she finally commented.
Holding his tongue, he joined her in gazing out the window. A shame indeed. Although the forfeit he would require of Farthingham could very well alter Kitty’s status in that regard.
Kitty had only recently finished eating a late breakfast and was on her way to change into her lawn tennis dress when the two dozen yellow roses arrived. Even without the note, she might have guessed who they were from.
My dear Miss Robertson,
Please accept my sincerest apologies, but pressing business concerns prevent me from attending the match between you and Lord Farthingham this afternoon. I have little doubt that you shall give him a sound thrashing, but should he prevail, rest assured that I will hold no ill will toward you. My yacht is insignificant when compared against your happiness. Still, I wish you good luck and a skillful hand.
Yours most devotedly,
The Duke of Weddington
Releasing a tiny growl, she spun away from the flowers. She wanted to give him a sound thrashing. His intended absence would add considerably to her dilemma—because he wouldn’t be standing at one end of the court holding her to the moral high ground. She could purposely miss a ball, and his keen eyes wouldn’t take note of the intentional blunder.
She wanted to shriek. Had he really been called away to business, or was his absence part of some grander game, bedeviling her with indecision? Or was he being considerate, not truly wanting to burden her with the loss of his yacht? Was he placing faith in her to win, or placing faith in her to try with all her might even if she couldn’t win?
Or was he offering her an easy way to do neither? Did he think she had the ability to win, but fully expected her to lose?
She studied the flowers before reading the note again. It seemed simple and straightforward enough. He had more important matters to attend to. Fine. So did she.
She certainly had more important things to consider than his true motives. She had a tennis match to win.
As she headed toward the stairs, she cursed Farthingham for placing her in this unconscionable position. Then for good measure she cursed Weddington for being so damned understanding should she lose. Damnation! She’d show him. She’d win.
She staggered to a stop. He’d achieved his purpose. He’d made her angry enough that she wouldn’t even consider losing.
Surely not. He couldn’t be that clever, couldn’t know her that well. Oh, he was the most infuriating man. She’d show him. She’d purposely lose. Yes, indeed. Let him sacrifice his yacht.
She started up the stairs and paused. No, no, no. He’d sent his letter, expecting her to lose and wanting to remove her guilt. She would have no guilt to suffer. She would win. Yes, that’s what she’d do.
Two more steps, and she stopped again. Why in thunderation did he have to be so understanding and infuriating? If she won, what would he ask of Farthingham? Would it be something as simple as a dance at the next ball, her company at the theater, or a stroll through Hyde Park? Or would the forfeit concerning her involve much more?
It didn’t matter. She had no intention of winning. There. The decision was made. The only forfeit that would take place that day was the giving up of a yacht.
With a lighter step, she headed up the stairs.
Richard had not planned to attend the tennis match. Indeed he had business matters that needed to be seen to, but more he’d wanted to relieve Kitty of the burden of being forced to put her best foot forward. In retrospect, he regretted accepting the wager, because he realized too late what a heavy obligation it had placed on her.
On the other hand, it pleased him immensely that she did not take lightly the possibility of his losing his yacht. He’d expected a woman with two hundred gowns in her wardrobe not truly to understand the value of money, the true worth of objects. But she was concerned with them, as well as with fairness and honor.
Another aspect to her which fascinated him. He so enjoyed discovering the little things about her that made her the person she was. He could spend the remainder of his life searching for the differing aspects of her character. She was not flighty or dull. When any other woman—particularly Anne—spoke, he tended to drift off into his own thoughts. With Kitty, he listened to every word, wishing he were better skilled at memorization and recall.
And so it was that as the time for the match had drawn near, he’d been unable to resist making his way to Kitty’s garden, standing unnoticed off to the side, and observing the game that truly was quite well matched.
As most ladies tended to do, Kitty held her skirt with her left hand to prevent herself from tripping over it, and she batted the ball underhand. She was such a delight to watch, skipping over the lawn, elegantly enticing.
Anne stood at the net, while Montague and Lady Priscilla were at opposite corners, watching the lines in order to judge accurately when the shots went out of bounds. With so much at stake, it seemed no one was willing to take the game lightly.
And it really should have been simply a game, a bit of sport, a bit of fun. He was surprised that Farthingham had never revealed to Kitty the full extent of his sporting skills. Normally, he was a competitive sort—or at least he’d always been so with Richard.
Perhaps Richard was wrong to think that a woman would welcome competition as much as a man—although Kitty had certainly indicated that she appreciated his views on the matter. Not enough that she’d cast Farthingham aside, however.
What was Farthingham’s appeal? Surely for the long haul, a woman desired more than laughter, fun, and parlor games.
Richard cut his musings short and focused more intently on the game. Kitty had but to score once more in order to win. It was a situation in which she’d frequently been since he’d been watching. It seemed each time victory was within her grasp, Farthingham snatched it away with a well-executed shot. She returned the favor the next go-round, so that it was making for a most exciting game.
Perhaps Anne was right. Perhaps women should be allowed to play at Wimbledon.
He considered moving closer to the court, so he could more readily cheer Kitty on. But he decided he would serve as a distraction rather than as anything positive. He was terribly pleased that she was putting forth such a tremendous effort to win…and he was left to wonder if it was because he’d indicated the forfeit would have something to do with her—and she was curious to determine what it might be—or if she simply played well for the thrill of the victory.
The ball traveled back and forth between the two: Kitty, Farthingham, Kitty, Farthingham, Kitty. Farthingham reached out, the ball tipped the edge of his racquet, and rather succinctly plopped to the ground as though suddenly weary.
One hand on his hip, Farthingham stared at the ball. Anne was the only one to release a jubilant shout of joy, then looked quite embarrassed for having done so. Hand extended, Kitty walked to the net as Richard imagined one might walk to the gallows.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, her voice traveling softly to where Richard stood.
“No need to be, my sweet. It was a game well
played. I shall find another means of acquiring a yacht. Lady Anne, I suppose you’ll carry the good news to your brother and inform him that I shall pay the forfeit of his choosing at his convenience.”
“Yes, of course,” Anne said. “I’ll relay the message. Don’t look so incredibly sad, Miss Robertson. I’m certain my brother won’t be too harsh with Lord Farthingham.”
Richard turned on his heel and made his way back to where his coach waited. He wondered if Farthingham would have played with a good deal more determination to win had he realized that the forfeit would involve the relinquishing of his claim on Kitty.
Chapter 12
The Harrington ball had been lauded as the social event of the Season. Richard could certainly understand the reasoning behind the claim. The Harringtons’ London residence had always been grand, equal to Richard’s in size and stature, but now it possessed a gaiety that it had been lacking in it before. The newest anointed duke and his American bride of almost two years were quite adept at making people feel welcome. It was also equally obvious that they were madly in love, because they seldom took their eyes off each other—even when the width of a room separated them as it did just then.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to pop upstairs and take another look?” Harrington asked.
Richard slanted his gaze toward Harrington. As the second son, Rhys Rhodes had thought it highly unlikely he’d ever inherit his father’s titles. Some falling-out with his family years earlier had made him scarce in Richard’s circles. As a result, Richard hardly knew the man, but he was pleased to discover that Rhys did not seem to have much in common with his older brother, who had drowned, leaving the way clear for the second son to become the heir.
Upon being introduced to the firstborn, Quentin, some years before, Richard had felt an immediate aversion to the fellow and had gone to great lengths to avoid him whenever possible. He couldn’t explain exactly what it was about the duke’s firstborn son that he’d disliked. Something in his eyes, however, had made Richard think the man would enjoy pulling the wings off flies and watching them struggle with their unexpected limitations.
“Your daughter is a beauty, but far too young for my tastes,” Richard said.
“Good God, man, I wasn’t suggesting you consider her for marriage. She is but a babe, still in the bassinet. I simply thought you might enjoy spending more time in the company of Lady Katherine. She has a way of lifting a man’s spirit, filling his heart, and bringing a smile to his face. You seemed in need of all three.”
“I apologize if I appear somewhat distracted. I’ve much on my mind these days. Tell me, how do you find it, being married to an American?”
Harrington grinned. “Much to my liking. Much to my liking, indeed.”
“They seem somewhat more independent than many of our ladies.”
“Indeed they are. Do you know I once had to rescue a chap from Lydia’s scathing rebukes? She is magnificent in her fury. I think it might have been at that moment that I fell in love with her.” Harrington finally shifted his attention away from his wife and looked at Richard. “Why the keen interest in how it is to be married to an American?”
“Not interest really. More like morbid curiosity.” A curiosity that had been rekindled the moment he’d spotted Kitty arriving earlier with Farthingham, Montague, and Lady Priscilla. They were becoming quite the foursome. Anne was there as well—somewhere. He did wish he could find someone who interested her. “Your wife seems to fit in nicely with this crowd.”
“She thrives in all this glitter.” He glanced around, as though he sought to encompass not only the room but all of London. “She studied diligently to prepare herself for her dream of marrying an aristocrat. Her place is well earned, well deserved.”
“If she was so set on gaining a title, do you ever doubt her sincerity in regard to you?”
“Never. She stood by my side when no one else would.” His gaze homed back onto his wife as though he’d never lost sight of her to begin with. “I would do whatever necessary to keep her happy, regardless of the cost to myself.”
Strange how Richard experienced the same strong determination where Kitty was concerned. He allowed his gaze to circle the dance floor until it settled on her, waltzing with Farthingham. He couldn’t deny that they made an attractive pair: she the brightest star within the room; he wearing his aristocratic lineage as though it were still as powerful and respected as it once had been. Perhaps they possessed enough love between them to see them through, because she certainly appeared elated.
Was he arrogant to be so utterly convinced that he knew what was best for her? Was he being guided by his heart or his head? She was a worthy prize, and he was not a man who gave up easily. But more was at stake, so much more. He couldn’t help but believe that marriage to Farthingham would eventually dim her smile and wither her joy.
The music drifted into silence, and Richard turned to his host. “If you’ll excuse me, I have the next dance with Miss Robertson.”
“Of course. I believe I’ll run up and see that my daughter is sleeping peacefully.”
Richard left him, surprised the man didn’t bring the babe down and introduce her into the party. He’d never seen a more devoted father or one showing quite as much interest in his child—as though she were a miracle to be revered as though he thought no one else possessed children save he.
Then thoughts of Harrington and all else faded away. Kitty stood before him, and for the next few moments, she would be in his arms and none other’s.
From the moment she’d arrived at the ball and dispensed with the social niceties of making the rounds, she’d danced. Every dance. The first one with Farthingham. The one before this one with Farthingham. And in between the two, a steady stream of men whose names were etched on her dance card had each taken a turn and guided her through the various dances.
But it wasn’t until she waltzed within the circle of Weddington’s arms that she truly felt as though she attended a ball. Farthingham gazed into her eyes, but Weddington held them captive. She couldn’t have turned away had she wanted to.
Unfortunately, she had no desire even to contemplate doing so. With him, the music was a little sweeter to her ears, her step seemed a little lighter, her body hummed, her breasts tingled, her lungs craved more air, her blood thrummed between her temples…her nose was more sensitive to his scent, her fingers to his warmth.
It was as though all else faded away until only the two of them remained, their senses heightened and attuned only to each other. She was intensely aware of him: the way each strand of his hair stayed in place as though he would tolerate nothing less than complete obedience. The obsidian darkness of his eyes, which never strayed from hers. The chiseled features of his face, where wind, sun, and surf had each left its mark, forcing tiny furrows to appear at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
As aware of him as she was, she was more alert to her own body’s reactions to his nearness. Not a weakness, really, but a melting. As though she might become fluid and pour herself into him. She could hardly believe the incredible sensations he invoked. Carnal images flashed through her mind, images that never teased her when any other man was near.
How did Weddington manage with nothing more than a touch or a searing look completely to undo her world and the respectability she’d tried so hard to obtain?
“You look remarkably lovely this evening,” he said quietly.
“Are you implying that I do not always look remarkably lovely?”
His smile traveled from his lips to his eyes. “Sparring will not save you from me.”
She almost remarked that she had no desire to be saved. Where he was concerned, her heart, body, and mind could not come into agreement. Confusion ruled, and the harder she tried to sort out her feelings, the more lost she became.
“Accept the compliment,” he said, “and do not read more into it than I intended to deliver.”
“Very well, Your Grace. Have you decided what forfeit you’ll
ask of Farthingham?” She was surprised he’d not gloated when he’d greeted them earlier. He’d not even mentioned the match, although she was certain Lady Anne had told him of its outcome.
He shook his head slightly. “I am in no hurry to claim it. I do, however, owe you for placing him in my debt.”
How difficult it had been to accept the win, but despite all her earlier arguments with herself and her determined resolve to lose—honor had dictated that she not allow defeat if she was fully capable of winning.
Although Farthingham had played an excellent game, and his skills had matched hers better than he’d ever demonstrated in the past—which irritated her no end when she thought on it too long—the decisive points had gone to her. “I took absolutely no pleasure in scoring more points than he did.”
“I never, for one moment, thought that you would. You are a remarkable woman, Miss Robertson, to have held on to your integrity when I believe everyone would have forgiven you for a moment’s lapse.”
“Would you have forgiven me?”
“Do you truly care?”
She found herself nodding, surprised by the depth of her feelings, of her need to know how he might have viewed her had she purposely lost. “Yes. Strangely enough, I find that I do care what your opinion on the matter would have been.”
“I would have forgiven you.”
Disappointment stabbed her. And she couldn’t explain its origin, unless it was because she wanted him to value the win as much more than a means to gain a forfeit.
“Then I would have walked away,” he continued, “and we wouldn’t be dancing now.”
“Because you would have lost your yacht?” she asked pointedly.
“Because I would have lost all respect for you.”
She despised that his sentiments meant so much to her. Farthingham wouldn’t have minded at all had she lost purposely. He would have relished the victory, no matter how he’d gained it. He didn’t truly comprehend her competitive nature. He only wanted to have fun, and she so enjoyed having fun with him, but sometimes she recognized that more was at stake. All of life was not a game to be played at everyone’s whim. Actions carried consequences, and sometimes more was to be lost than the stated wager.
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