A Scandalous Request

by Micki Miller

  On their easy ride, Burke kept to the open areas. Much of the beauty on his property lay within and beyond the mass of woods. But he would not take her anyplace that didn’t afford him a long, clear view.

  They rode at a slow pace around the house so she could get a thorough look at her surroundings from atop his tall horse. Burke pointed out the hill where as a boy he sledded, and his favorite climbing tree from which he once fell and bloodied his head but good.

  “I have a difficult time picturing you as a carefree child.”

  Burke did not tell her little of his childhood was carefree. The few untroubled times he had, though, he had here at his ancestral home.

  For the first few days after he and his parents arrived here, his mother would brood. She missed London’s activities as soon as they left the city. The ride here was always gloomy and tense. His mother unhappy, snapping a complaint at every opportunity. His father ever angry at her, at his miserable marriage, and at the child fate forced him to feign fatherhood to in order to maintain his dignity. Eventually, however, things would improve.

  Maybe it was the country air. More likely, the distance from everything that took his mother’s attention away from their small family. With his wife in sight, his father was calmer. After a few days, his mother’s mood evened. Visitors would come to call, and his mother eased into a slower-paced life. Occasionally, happiness would grace them with a few precious dribs.

  They once built a snowman, the three of them together. The uniqueness of the moment made remembrance of it quite clear. They worked as a team, rolling snow, patting it, stumbling over each other. Their laughter echoed in the great expanse of the snow-glistened land. It was his most cherished childhood memory.

  By the time the snow started melting, his mother would grow restless, his father disgruntled at his wife’s short-lived contentment.

  Burke thought of those as the empty days. The days when the snow no longer beautified the land and spring had not yet come to replace it. The days when his father’s drinking and aggravation escalated. The days when the boy he was, if fortunate, became invisible to the people who hated him for ruining their lives.

  “Oh look! It’s a blue holly,” Rose shouted, drawing his attention from more bitter than sweet remembrances. They’d entered a vast field of wildflowers. Rose almost leapt from the horse before he managed to grab her.

  “Hold on,” he said, dismounting. “You’ll break a leg if you jump from way up there.”

  He helped her down, his hands lingering too long on the feminine bow of her waist as he set her on her feet. Did she notice?

  Her gaze shifted up to meet his. Yes, she noticed his grip, as well as his man’s desire for her. But she did not back away, as he would have expected at this questionable borderline of his vow. Instead, Rose met his steady regard with one of her own, and something else.

  Desire heated the meaningful gaze beneath her long lashes. The clear beckoning delved past his vision and wrenched his core, striving hard to rip him from his damned vow.

  A flash of uncertainty flickered across her face. Rose hadn’t any experience in seduction. More than anything, Burke wanted to teach her, in slow, thorough lessons. He would not, though. Not unless she released him from his vow. An inner sigh rattled around his taut insides. It was just as well, this painful test of his honor. It was a long stride in his affirmation to prove he meant what he said.

  Burke let go of her and stepped back. He almost smiled at the vexation that passed over her exquisite features before she pivoted away from him, for he too was quite vexed. Vexed, frustrated, and burning for Rose as he had no other woman before.

  She knew not how to proceed further, and he, shackled by his word, could do naught but let it go. Burke set his attention on what had drawn Rose there to begin with. After a moment, she did the same.

  Rose tiptoed toward the butterfly, careful not to frighten it away. She lowered herself to her knees a few feet from it. Delicate, blue wings with black trim fluttered in Burke’s peripheral. It was Rose who brimmed his vision.

  She looked adorable with her graceful hands clasped before her, a smile of fascinated admiration lighting her face all the way to her sapphire eyes. Sunlight caressed her candescent skin, touched her golden hair, envious, without doubt. The glowing effect encompassed all of her like a celestial corona.

  It was an effort to wrench his gaze away. Only his deep concern for her safety made it possible.

  “So, you’re fond of butterflies,” Burke said, standing off to the side, keeping a watch on her a bit less than their surroundings.

  “Oh, yes. In fact, I’m reading a book from your library about them right now.”

  “Dutfield?”

  “Yes. You’re aware you have that particular book in your library?” she asked, shooting him a quick glance.

  “I am. I enjoyed that book very much. Why do you look so surprised?” he asked when she continued to gape at him. “A man can appreciate the beauty of nature’s most dainty creatures.”

  Her eyes lingered on his face. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. He caught sight of an expression he couldn’t quite name, contemplative, pleased, maybe, before she turned her attention.

  “Butterflies are spectacular beings,” Rose said, watching the delicate blue wings hinge as the butterfly settled upon the seed head of a dandelion. “They’re graceful, they resonate with splendor, and they’re completely free.”

  Like you. Burke took a few steps to see her better. He scanned the area from this different angle, though his eyes always curved back to Rose.

  “It infuriates me when people want to capture them,” she said, a hard wrinkle forming between her brows. “Once, when I was a child, I saw a boy confine a butterfly to a jar. It broke my heart. Some things are not meant to be possessed.”

  Yet possessing her, Burke mused, at some point had become his obsession. Last night, when his body at long last eased enough to fall asleep, it was only to dream of Rose. The morning found him more wanting, and more frustrated, than ever.

  “I’ll talk to my head gardener about installing more plants that attract butterflies,” Burke told her.

  Rose stood to face him. Her expression of joy and gratitude only made him want to please her further. But then her face fell somber.

  “I won’t be here that long,” she said.

  “Perhaps I’ve learned a new appreciation for butterflies.” And other things that are beautiful and free.

  The corners of her lips tugged upward into a dubious grin. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” he said in all seriousness. “Of late, I have learned an entire new realm of appreciation.”

  Her smile faltered, hesitated, and then it brightened in all sincerity. Standing in a field of wildflowers, Rose appeared not a visitor to the wonders of nature, but rather, a part of it. She was Gaia, personification of earth. She was Inanna, goddess of love, wisdom, war, fertility, and lust. Rose was all of that and more.

  Burke died a thousand deaths, knowing he’d hurt her, that he had not only shunned her tender heart, but had done so in the cruelest of manners. He’d crushed her spirit with his vicious bile at a time when she needed him most.

  “We should go now,” he said, clipping his words to keep from unleashing his self-loathing in front of her.

  Without further conversation, without touching her any more than was necessary, Burke returned Rose to the house. He secured her promise she would remain inside. As soon as the door closed behind her, Burke leapt onto his horse, tugged on the reins, and gave the horse his head.

  He rode, as fast as his stallion’s long strides could carry him, across fields, through the beaten trails of the woods, along a brisk-running stream. He rode hard, as if he could outride his grievous wrongs and find fresh ground on which to start anew. He rode until fear of pushing his horse too far forced him to slow.

  ****

  Coffee-colored eyes peered through the shrubbery. It had been two days of waiting, waiting for that whore
to take one of her walks. Frustration tightened dirty fingers around the wooden handle of the knife. It was a fine knife. The blade was as clean and as sharp as it had been when grandfather owned it. Soon, Rose’s blood would cover the shiny steel. The thought was calming.

  Today was a good day, for it was the first sighting of Lady Rose Sennett. He rode as her private guard, but eventually, that would change. They would all grow more comfortable with their perceived safety out here in the country, with their stupid guards on patrol. People were foolish that way. They knew naught of patient danger.

  Lost in satisfying images, the knife had been plunged deep into the rich earth. Upon withdrawal, damp soil marred the well-honed blade. Cleaning it would not be a problem at the small camp erected not far outside the property of Lord Burke Darington, third Earl of Blackwood, keeper of whores.

  Chapter 21

  Rose took a long, critical look at herself in the standing mirror. She was dressed appropriately for dinner, if the main course was seduction. She slanted a questioning glance toward the amber pig on her bedside table.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Getting no answer, she faced the mirror again to make her own assessment. Cora had styled her hair up in a mass of soft curls, with several left out to hang long down her back. It was an elegant style. One she’d never worn. She wondered if it made her appear more mature, more…womanly. Cora had said so. Rose was going to have to take her word for it.

  Her gaze shifted downward then, at her brazen dress.

  Ashton had designed and commissioned the silver gown. The last time she had it on was so he could see the fit of the finished product. No matter how many times he and Lewis told her it was a glorious gown and flattering beyond compare, Rose never wore it for anyone but them, and just the one time. She thought it would molder in her wardrobe because she would never have the courage to wear such a thing out in public. She was surprised Cora even brought it.

  The neckline plunged dangerously low, especially the way the fabric cinched under her breasts, forcing them upward for shameless display. The snug fit of the dropped waist gave a clear view of her form. Starting at her hips, the seamstress had sewn to the skirt countless swatches of silver gossamer layers. The flounces were so light they floated with even the smallest movement.

  Ashton had wanted her to wear the gown the night of their soiree, the night he’d introduced her to Burke. At the last minute, she’d not been able to summon the daring needed to wear such a garment. Even now, with what she had in mind, it took great effort.

  “My lady,” Cora said, freezing in place as soon as she entered the room. She held in her hand the cup of tea on a saucer Rose had requested. “You look lovely. Claude could serve empty platters and his lordship wouldn’t even realize it with you at the table wearing that gown.”

  “You don’t think it’s too…provocative?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Cora said, setting the cup and saucer on the dressing table. “Unless I miss my guess, provocative is the look you were striving for.”

  Shocked at the obviousness of her ploy, Rose stared at her maid. Cora sent back a knowing expression with a hint of sympathy.

  “Is it so evident?” Rose asked, second thoughts about the evening poking at her.

  “From the moment you met him.”

  Rose plunked down on the padded stool at her dressing table and sipped her tea, too embarrassed to face her maid.

  “Oh, now, you’re a lovely young woman, he’s a fine gentleman. With the way you two peek at each other when you think the other isn’t looking, it’s clear even to your little pig over there.”

  Rose glanced at her stoic pig, and then set her cup back in the saucer.

  “I had no idea,” Rose said to Cora. “He truly looks at me so?”

  Cora nodded her head. With a warm smile she said, “You both have the same besotted longing in your eyes.”

  Rose faced the mirror once more. The idea of seducing Burke had come to her last night. Yet this morning when he’d taken her out for a ride, she was at a complete loss as what to do even when the opportunity to make her desires known presented itself. If he did indeed find her as appealing as she found him, it would make things much easier.

  Well, she would find out tonight. This afternoon she sent a message to Burke while he was out on patrol, requesting he join her for dinner. She’d not received a reply and doubt picked at her. Chances were, she’d be dining by herself tonight. She dressed for the occasion anyway. If nothing else, it helped set her state of mind. But if what Cora said were true, perhaps she would not be dining alone this evening after all.

  Her fingers fluttered a nervous skim along the gown’s plunging neckline before squaring her shoulders and smoothing down the gossamer flounces. Be bold. Well, the gown was a good start. Burke said he wouldn’t touch her unless she said different. Tonight, she would say different.

  ****

  Burke stood at the dining room window staring out into the night. In the distance, trees ascended like towers, darker against dark. The mere sliver of a moon gave but a trace of stingy light to the great expanse of his land. For all he could see, anything sinister could be prowling about this night.

  It was very possible the villain, likely Edwina Rutherford, had slipped from her home as well as the authorities and followed them here. Was Rose’s sister lurking there in the mass of growth around his property at this very moment, watching him stare into the night? Or had she paid an assassin to see to the ugly task for her?

  Perhaps they were wrong in their assumption of guilt, and someone other than Edwina had committed murder and assaults. There were several viable suspects. There could be others with ill intent they’d not even considered. The array of possibilities and worries was maddening.

  Though he couldn’t see them, Burke knew his guards were patrolling. He’d personally interviewed and chosen each and every one. Still, a determined killer could always find a way. He drew in a steadying breath, scanning the darkness yet again. Fear for Rose’s safety plagued him beyond reason.

  Earlier, he’d sent a missive to Arness. He hadn’t heard from the constable and he insisted the man kept him apprised of the goings-on. And then he received Rose’s message requesting he join her for dinner.

  Making an excuse would have been easy enough. In an instant, he conjured up half a dozen. He discarded them all. Rose should not have to eat every meal alone. As it was, she spent all of her time indoors and most of it in solitude. And as far as his appetites for other than food, well, it was just a meal shared. They both had to eat. He would excuse himself as soon as they finished, though. There would be no card games tonight.

  At the sound of rustling skirts, Burke turned around. If his chest was tight with concern a moment before, he must be close to losing consciousness now. For whatever breath his lungs held, left him in a rush of desire so powerful his entire body went rigid.

  The gown was audacious. Rose wore it with equal defiance. His gaze scanned her from top to bottom, and then he took his time on the return climb.

  The skirt appeared covered in a thousand silver butterfly wings. Her bodice fit so snug, it begged for the sensuous glide of a hand. The neckline, designed to suite the bewitching approach of a temptress, plunged to heavenly depths from which no man could look away. Rose was a vision in silver with spun gold atop her regal head.

  “Rose,” Burke said, his voice a distant sound to his own ears.

  There were compliments due, a litany of praises. It was all lost in her intent. Yes, he understood she meant to do this night what she had not been able see through this afternoon, or last night. The design of her dress was naught but for seduction.

  And he was but a man.

  “Rose. You are…exquisite.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  A slight blush added a touch of innocence to her look. It only aroused him further. Burke gathered his manners as best he could and seated her before taking his own chair. Timmons served their
artfully prepared dinners, which sat before them with little more than a bite or two taken. If asked on a hundred-pound wager, he couldn’t have named a single item on his plate.

  They talked about the weather, even though it was clear neither one cared a wit what the skies offered this night. Rose told him she spotted the blue holly again through the library window. Mention of the butterfly had him lost in remembrance of the feel of his hands on her waist. From there it was but a short leap to thoughts of what they once shared in the bed of his London home.

  Burke picked at food that would not slake his hunger. He surrendered his weak effort to eat and set down his fork. Rose did the same.

  “Would you care for some wine?” Burke asked her after Timmons removed their plates.

  “I believe I would enjoy a brandy.”

  They withdrew to the blue room, a cozy parlor with blue-cushioned furnishings. The draperies matched the cushions, tied back with broad swatches of gold damask. A middling fire burned in the hearth. Along with several candles, it provided a low, serene flow of light.

  Burke poured fine brandy into two crystal snifters and handed one to Rose. She raised the glass and sniffed, and then set it down on the polished table. Almost immediately, she picked it up again and took a gulp. For a moment, she froze. Her eyes widened and she commenced a rough bout of coughing.

  Burke took her snifter and set it on the table along with his. At the sideboard, he poured a glass of water and put it in her hand. Rose managed to swallow some. He took the glass and set it with the others. Her coughing subsided, but she still appeared to be a bit stunned.

  “Are you all right?”

  Glaring at the glasses on the table, she said, “That’s vile.”

  He laughed, and then his brow furrowed. “I just remembered, you told me you don’t drink. In fact, I believe you told me you’ve never had a drink in your life.”

  “Yes. That was my first. I believe it shall be my last.”

  “And what made you change your mind tonight?” he asked, knowing, teasing. Lightening the mood might relax them both, and perhaps the brandy would muster her courage. He would give her no more liquor, though. He needed clear consent from her, and he wanted it to come from her soul, not from the brandy.