by Lauren Smith
He chuckled. “Wayward? Steady on, Lady Melbourne, I should like to prepare myself for your sharp tongue. I was warned by Lonsdale, you see.”
Rosalind huffed. “My tongue is not so sharp. The earl is exaggerating because he enjoys trouble.”
“And are you trouble, Lady Melbourne?”
Rosalind stared deep into his eyes. “Not as much as you, I suspect.” And then she let him sign her dance card. It would be the best way to see if Rafe was in fact the highwayman she’d shot in the storm. If he was, she was going to demand her money back, and she wanted to make sure he never stopped another carriage like that ever again.
Her card was nearly full by the time the festivities began. She peeked at Ashton from behind a row of couples set to dance and saw he hadn’t moved from his place against the wall. He was still staring at her.
“Ready?” Pembroke returned to her, claiming her for the first dance, and they joined the others. “I promise you shall have an excellent partner.” He then leaned in to whisper, “I rarely step on toes.”
Rosalind took her position across from him as the dance started. He was certainly a wonderful gentleman, but each time the dance let her spin to face the wall where Ashton stood, she was momentarily lost in the intensity of his gaze. It pulled her in, promised dark, delicious things. If only she could bed the man and walk away like many other widows seemed to do, but he was marriage-minded and intent on controlling her life.
“He looks very upset, your wicked oppressor.” Pembroke chuckled as the dance ended, and they clapped for the musicians who finished the lively tune.
“Yes, he does,” Rosalind replied, pleased by Ashton’s obvious displeasure.
“This next is a waltz.” Pembroke brushed his dark hair out of his brown eyes before bringing her closer to him. “Shall we make him furious?”
Rosalind placed her hand in his and smiled when he curled an arm around her waist, holding her too close for propriety. But given Pembroke’s motives, she allowed it. She grinned wickedly.
“Let’s make him very furious.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lord Pembroke was as good as his word. By the time the waltz had ended, with Pembroke pressing himself as close to Rosalind as he could for every turn, Ashton had pushed away from his wall and was stalking toward her, eyes blazing. But before he could speak to her, Rafe slipped in between them.
“Sorry, brother, but I am next.” Rafe flashed a wolfish smile at his brother.
Ashton attempted to take Rosalind’s other hand to pull her away. “Surely you should not be dancing after your fall.”
“Nonsense,” Rafe replied. “I’ve been resting too long. Some activity will do me good.”
Rosalind bit her lip to hide a smug smile as she walked past Ashton to follow Rafe out onto the dance floor. “I’m sorry you shan’t have what you desire, Lord Lennox.”
Ashton visibly clenched his fists.
Rafe glanced at his brother with a chuckle. “So, Lady Melbourne, tell me, are you going to marry my brother? The talk of the house is that you will, which makes little sense to me. I noticed a tension between you two that isn’t at all bouquets of flowers or kisses in the dark.”
There was little point in hiding the truth. In fact, given his and Ashton’s opposing natures, Rafe might be the sort to enjoy defying his brother and offer her advice on how to escape him. She hadn’t yet given up hope that there could be some way to win her life back without resorting to devil’s bargains and seduction.
“He’s put me in a position of financial ruin in order to obtain me in marriage.”
Rafe’s eyes widened. “Devil take it—that’s low even for my brother.”
“Yes, well, you know what sort of man he is as well as I do. I’ve agreed to marry him, but in truth, I would love to find a way to secure my property and remain my own woman.”
They spun around another couple in the dance and had to briefly separate before they could come back together.
“Lady Melbourne, would you take my advice if I offered it?”
“I may, if your intentions are honorable.”
“Lady Melbourne, you strike my heart with such a remark. Of course my intentions are honorable. I don’t like to see my brother push anyone into doing something they don’t willingly agree to, and I freely admit that I should love to see him punished for his scheming.”
He seemed honest enough with that answer. “Very well. What is your advice?” She had to wait another moment as they stepped back to let two couples dance between them.
Rafe gave a conspiratorial grin as they came together. “Are you any good at games of skill, such as cards, or perhaps chess?”
“I’m awful at cards but quite good at chess.” Being alone in a castle with only her brothers, she’d learned that game very well.
The dance ended, and Rafe curled her arm through his to lead her off the dance floor to an alcove where he leaned in close to speak to her.
“Then I suggest this: wager him your marital and financial freedom. My brother is useless at chess. He understands the fundamentals only and none of the finesse. You could beat him if you make it a matter of honor.”
Surely Ashton would not allow her such an easy way out. He’d promised to return her property in time, but then again, he’d also threatened to keep it if she didn’t consider marriage to him. And she feared that threat would become more pronounced the longer she refused. Perhaps something like this would make it a matter of honor he couldn’t ignore.
“I don’t think he—”
“Play into his vanity. Challenge him to a game of skill, one where you start on equal footing.” Rafe glanced around. “Blast, he’s coming this way, and he looks ready to throttle me.”
Sure enough, Ashton was making his way toward them. On the surface he seemed as calm as ever, but the way he pushed past those in his way made Rosalind see why his brother sounded concerned.
“Rafe, why don’t you fetch Lady Melbourne a glass of arrack punch?” Ashton suggested with a precision that could cut through bone.
“Of course.” Rafe winked at Rosalind and left for the refreshment tables.
Ashton captured Rosalind’s wrist and tugged the little card up close so he could inspect it. “I don’t suppose you have any dances left open?”
“The last dance,” she said, watching him, trying not to smile as he continued to glare at the names. He might think he was maintaining his composure, but he would be lying to himself if he did. He used a slender pencil to inscribe his name at the bottom and then let go of her.
“Good. You’re mine for the last dance then.” He sounded far too smug about that.
“You should dance with someone else before me, my lord. It’s inappropriate for you to dance with one lady only. People will talk.”
His blue eyes blazed as he leaned down close to her. “Does it look as though I care?”
Rosalind tried to retreat, but not because she felt overwhelmed by him. Several couples were watching now, and she didn’t wish for Mr. Merton’s ball to become a scene of scandal and gossip.
“My lord, please step back. People are staring.”
He reached up and brushed a loose curl of her hair away from her neck. “Let them.” The touch sent heated tingles through her. It was torturously sweet and sensual as his fingers lingered against her neck a moment too long.
Was this what it felt like? To be loved and cherished as a woman? She knew Ashton did not love her, that his overtures were always focused on the practical and advantageous, but there was affection in that touch. Some part of this ruthless baron cared about her. It should not have mattered to her, but it did. She wanted someone to care about her, even if it had to be her business rival.
“I look forward to our dance.” He let his hand drop from her neck and walked away.
“Heavens,” she muttered, fanning herself.
The last dance was to be a waltz. Something so intimate was not a good idea. Not that she had control over what the orchestr
a played. Perhaps fate would be on her side for once.
*****
This night was hell on Ashton’s control.
Watching Rosalind, his Rosalind, going around the dance floor from one man to the next…it was going to kill him. Every time someone touched her hand or made her smile, he flinched.
“Two more dances. That’s all I have to endure.” He forced his attention to the rest of the room. His mother was laughing as she huddled in a corner with the other married ladies. A dozen or so ostrich plumes bounced as the ladies bent their heads to gossip. It was his mother’s element: the social scene.
She was the daughter of an earl, one with a vast fortune, and despite having had her pick of eligible bachelors had married his father out of foolish notions of love. His father’s decline had hurt his mother by association. It was only in the last few years that she had entered back into society.
He’d helped arrange that, of course, using the fortune he’d built for their family to buy their way back in with wealth and influence. Not that his mother had any notion of the lengths he’d gone to in order to secure her happiness and Joanna’s future. No, she thought he was a heartless bastard, no better than his father.
But he’d always looked after his family, seeing to Rafe’s education as well as Joanna’s and assuring that his family had every comfort they could need.
When the League had formed at university, it had been forged in the aftermath of tragedy. But it had also forged bonds of friendship that were unbreakable. Those bonds had saved him from himself. He had not been able to let go of that part of him that obsessed over money and power, trying to rebuild his family’s wealth and status after his father’s ruination. But the League had reminded him that life was about more than those things. It was about friendship and loyalty.
Love was not part of his equation, but it did not change these yearnings he had that left an ache in his heart when he watched his three married friends with their wives.
“You are in my debt, dear brother,” Rafe announced as he sidled up beside him. He removed a slender hip flask out of his coat and took a quick swig.
“What’s that?” Ashton asked, nodding at the drink.
Rafe tapped the flask. “Courage in a bottle. You should try it.” He pressed it into Ashton’s hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Rosalind dancing with another man, laughing at something her partner said. His blood burned beneath his skin, and he raised the flask to his lips, only to gag. It tasted like sour brandy.
“What in blazes is in this?” He wiped his mouth on his gloved hand.
“It’s not important. You’ll thank me when I tell you how I’ve just secured you your future wife.”
Ashton took a long drink of the dreadful swill before handing it back to Rafe. “What are you on about?”
“When I was dancing with that lovely Scottish lady, I convinced her she would be able to win her freedom from your notorious clutches.”
He grabbed Rafe and forced him against the wall. “What?”
Rafe muttered a curse, and the color drained from his face.
“What’s the matter? I didn’t shove you that hard.”
“Have a care, brother. It’s my shoulder.”
Ashton pressed a hand into his brother’s shoulder. “Ah yes, your wound. A wound from your fall, or a bullet, perhaps?”
“What?”
“Rosalind was robbed by a highwayman on the way to Lennox House. She thought at first that this man was me. Admit the truth to me now and I will decide how to deal with your foolishness another time.”
“I…” Ash pressed harder on the shoulder when he hesitated too long. Rafe sent a venomous glare toward Rosalind. “Hell of a shot it was too, through the dark and rain. I don’t know how she managed to hit me.”
Ashton groaned. His fool of a brother was really playing the part of a highwayman? What was next? Would levelheaded Joanna run off to Gretna Green with a stranger?
“Do you want to end up on the gallows, you fool?”
The sudden silence surrounding them made him and Rafe look around. To Ashton’s dismay, quite a few people had stopped in their conversations and had turned to stare at them. He’d lost sense of where he was in the midst of this argument.
“We shall discuss this tomorrow. Now, what were you saying about Rosalind?”
Rafe’s smile was cold. “If she asks you to play chess tonight, I’d take her up on it. Lie about how proficient you are.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Must I explain everything? You’ll figure it out.” Rafe shoved away from the wall and stalked off into the crowds.
“What was all that about?” Jonathan walked over to him, his face flushed.
“Nothing. Rafe is being irritating as usual. You’ve been dancing?”
A flicker of guilt passed over the young man’s features. “It’s my first real ball as a guest rather than an attendant. I find I rather like them.”
Ashton felt like a selfish fool. The last few months had been a seemingly endless whirlwind of dangerous threats thanks to Hugo, and in the midst of it all, Jonathan, as a newly recognized member of the ton, had only now attended his first ball at the age of twenty-five. He should have been providing the young man with advice—Lord help him if he had asked Charles instead—but he seemed to be doing well enough on his own.
“Is it the dancing or the ladies you fancy?” Ashton asked.
“The dancing,” Jonathan replied without hesitation. His gaze sharpened. “Why?”
Ashton waved a hand to dismiss Jonathan’s suspicious look. “You don’t have to marry Audrey, you know. Simply because she took an interest in you does not mean you must return it. She takes interest in many things, then moves on to something else just as quickly. I wanted to make sure someone told you. None of the other League members would think to tell you because they assumed you knew. But you have a right to choose your wife.”
Jonathan was silent a long while, his focus on the whirling couples on the dance floor. There was a prickle of annoyance in his features.
“I’m no green lad. I have had my share of lovers. But the last few months, when I’ve had the opportunity to bed a woman, I’ve let the moment pass because none of them is her. I do not know if it’s mere lust and fascination or a strange inescapable pull, but for now, I cannot see myself with anyone but Audrey. She’s young and so…”
Ashton chuckled. “I’m sure there aren’t enough adjectives in the English language to describe the girl.”
“No, there aren’t.”
“Just have a care. With that one, if there is a heart that ends up being broken, it might not be hers.”
Jonathan ran a hand through his sandy hair as the music died down and prepared to start up again. He turned to face Ashton. “Last dance. Are you finally going to take your woman for a waltz?” He nodded at Rosalind, who was fanning her face.
She looked positively radiant. Dancing suited her. If there was one thing Ashton knew, a woman who loved to dance often equally enjoyed lovemaking. Rosalind curtseyed to her partner and then raised her dance card, still smiling.
He waited, watching her face as she realized there was only one dance left. One name left. Her face flushed and she glanced around, then found him and froze. Her breasts rose and fell slightly with her breaths, but everything else about her was still. He approached her.
“Rosalind.”
He held out his hand and lost himself in the silver pools of her eyes. Such lovely eyes, so full of emotions. Not the blank, sweet eyes of a young woman who’d never lived, but the eyes of one who had fought for everything she had.
A fellow warrior.
When she placed her hand in his, with anticipation. He led her back onto the floor as the musicians started to play a waltz. If he was to dance, he preferred a slow, measured one designed to seduce a woman. He was in no mood to hop about like a silly fool.
Ashton slid one hand around her waist. “I’ve been watching you
. You are an excellent dancer.”
“But you haven’t danced with me yet.” Rosalind’s lips curved into a smile. “What if I tread upon your toes?”
“You won’t,” he assured her. “Because I dance even better.”
“A bit full of oneself, are we?”
“Not at all. It’s merely a fact.” He tugged her a little closer to him, and they began.
For the first time in his life, he was captivated by a simple waltz with a lovely partner. He had not been bragging about his dancing skills. Dance was math and motion combined. It was something that could be studied and perfected. It was an art, but one he was able to execute with an academic’s precision.
But this was different. Rosalind moved with him as though they’d danced together for years. She made the steps effortlessly and followed his lead without any urging. The chandelier light illuminated her alabaster skin, making it glow.
Too damned lovely.
“Have you enjoyed the ball, my lord?” she asked. Her tone was light, but her lips were a thin line as she waited for his answer.
“It has been fairly agreeable.” Aside from watching you dance with every man but me.
“My lord, I—” She stopped short, and he saw her raise her chin and square her shoulders.
“What is it? Please speak. I should hate to think I frighten you into silence.”
A fire sparked in her eyes. “I’m not frightened of you.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“We need to resolve this…matter between us. Mere discussions have led nowhere, and I grow impatient. What if we instead made a wager? A win would be definitive. We could make a binding contract, of course, to keep it fair.”
“A wager on whether you’ll marry me?” For some reason, his heart beat against his ribs hard enough to make his breath catch. Had this been Rafe’s idea? Could he win Rosalind’s submission this easily?
“Yes. We would both be bound by our mutual sense of honor. If I lose, I marry you. If I win, you return my property as promised by the end of the week, sell my debts to parties of my choosing and allow me to return to London.”