Читать книгу A Bargain With Fate - Ann Elizabeth Cree - Страница 10

Rosalyn stared down at the note, completely dismayed. Lady Carlyn, pleading a sudden headache, would not accompany them to the opera. Since her grandmother developed a headache only to avoid some commitment. Rosalyn suspected Lady Carlyn wanted her to be alone with Lord Stamford. She must have the only grandmother in London who actually encouraged her granddaughter to consort with rakes.

She crumpled the note, resisting the temptation to fling it across her bedchamber. Apprehension made her hand tremble. She had no desire to be alone with Lord Stamford, cooped up in his carriage across from him, forced to make conversation with a man she knew nothing about, a man whose power she was now in.

She was behaving in a ridiculous manner. She rose from her bed and peered distractedly into her looking glass, not really seeing her pale face. He had no power over her. She was hardly alone in the world; she had her family and her own small but adequate income. So there was nothing to fear. She would take part in this absurd charade, Meryton would return to James, and she would return to her safe, well-ordered world.

But nothing, she told herself, could dispel the sense of dread she felt every time she thought of that fleeting kiss. She must make it very clear that she had no intention of engaging in that sort of behaviour with him.

She turned from the mirror in an impatient movement and picked up her gloves and fan. A glance at the small clock on her dressing table showed Lord Stamford was already fifteen minutes late. The least he could do was show up on time.

‘My lady?’

Rosalyn started. Mrs Harrod peered around the edge of the door. ‘Lord Stamford is here. So very handsome he is. All dressed in black. Like one of those heroes in a novel.’

Even her housekeeper was charmed by the man. Rosalyn picked up her velvet cloak from the bed. But Mrs Harrod stepped in front of her before she could leave. ‘There’s a bit of hair that’s come out, my lady.’ With deft fingers, she pulled the offending lock back into place. She stepped back and beamed, her kindly face warm with admiration. ‘There, my lady. You look lovely. No wonder his lordship is so smitten.’

Rosalyn flushed, wishing her housekeeper did not have such a romantic imagination.

She slowly descended the staircase, her heart beating much too fast. She entered her drawing room, the lamps casting a cosy intimate glow about the room.

Lord Stamford stood in front of the fireplace, gazing at the landscape over the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back. He turned at her soft footsteps.

She caught her breath at his dashing appearance.

His black long-tailed coat, contrasted with the stark white of his ruffled shirt, became his dusky complexion and emphasised the lean, aristocratic planes of his face. A diamond glittered in the folds his white cravat. His hair, wavy from the misty rain, gleamed midnight in the lamplight. The black silk breeches and white stockings revealed a pair of muscular calves.

She tore her gaze away, praying he hadn’t noticed her staring. She crossed the room towards him, arranging her features in what she hoped were cool, impersonal lines.

He took her hand and released it. His eyes searched her face. ‘I hope I did not keep you waiting too long, Rosalyn.’

‘Only a mere fifteen minutes, my lord.’

He grinned. ‘Tis some improvement. Usually I am at least twenty minutes late. By the time our association is at an end, you may cure me of my propensity for lateness.’

He removed the cloak from her hands and stepped behind her. She felt the soft velvet slide around her shoulders. And then his hands stilled at the nape of her neck, making her feel as if every nerve had sprung to life.

‘It is really your fault, you know,’ he said.

‘My fault?’

‘You are not like most women. They are always at least ten minutes late to add to the stir their appearance will create. That is what I expected.’

‘I don’t like to waste time.’ His touch distracted her so she hardly knew what she said.

He removed his hands and stepped around to observe her. His eyes took in her gown of black crêpe over a black sarcenet slip and the simple diamond necklace and matching ear drops.

‘Certainly you didn’t tonight.’

A blush crept over her face. Of course, he was a practised flirt who knew exactly how to gaze at a woman, making her feel as if she were especially lovely in his eyes. She dropped her eyes, attempting to get her thoughts in order. ‘My grandmother will not accompany us, my lord. She has the headache.’

‘She has already informed me.’ He continued to watch her with a penetrating look that made her uncomfortable.

‘Perhaps we should depart, my lord.’ She turned away and picked up her reticule.

‘Michael,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Address me by my given name, Rosalyn.’

‘Until we announce our…agreement, I do not think it is necessary to be on such familiar terms.’

‘I think it is. My name is not that difficult. I want to hear you say it.’

He moved in front of her. She recognised that particular half-smile and knew they could be here all night if she didn’t comply with his request.

‘Very well…Michael.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He leaned towards her, his fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. ‘That is a good beginning. My name sounds very nice on your lips.’

She could think of nothing to say as she sat across from him on the comfortable cushions of the coach. Even the weather seemed too difficult to discuss. There was nothing but the sound of the horses’ hooves on the street and the soft patter of rain on the coach. She hardly knew where to look and mostly stared down at her hands. Finally she glanced up at Lord Stamford, lounging in his corner, and found his unfathomable eyes fixed on her face.

‘Must you stare at me in such a way?’

‘What way is that?’

‘As if you mean to memorise my features. Or as if I am some strange creature! It is most unnerving and quite rude.’

‘My apologies, but you have the most expressive features. I find it fascinating to watch your emotions play across your face.’

‘I cannot imagine why you would find that so interesting.’ She’d always disliked her inability to hide her feelings. It made her feel vulnerable and, at times, awkward. And now with Lord Stamford, she wanted more than anything to present a cool, remote exterior. Instead, he was telling her she had a face that displayed her every emotion.

‘Can’t you? Perhaps it is because I’ve known too many women who hide their every thought and feeling under a carefully cultivated veneer.’

‘Sometimes I think that would be an advantage.’

‘It’s not. I prefer honesty.’

She looked away from him, even more disconcerted.

The coach finally halted, and she saw they were near the Opera House. Several carriages waited in line before them. She watched a gentleman followed by an elegantly dressed lady glittering with jewels, and then a younger lady in the dress of a debutante, descend from the coach. The man was dressed much as Lord Stamford in the dark coat and breeches required for admittance to the opera. The young lady stared up at the impressive rectangular building with its façade of columns marching across the row and seemed to bounce in excitement.

It brought to mind her season when she first saw the elegant King’s Theatre. She had been so nervous, in her white muslin gown and pearls, as she accompanied Lady Carlyn up the steps and passed through the portico with all the haute ton milling about. She could barely speak when she was introduced to some of Lady Carlyn’s elegant acquaintances. But she had merely been one among a throng of young girls presented that season and hardly dazzled anyone. No one stared much at her arrival or fixed a quizzing glass on their box. It had been both a relief and a disappointment.

Stamford lightly touched her arm, causing her to jump. ‘Rosalyn, we are here. We cannot spend the evening in the carriage.’

She abruptly returned to Stamford’s coach and saw the footman had flung open the door. Stamford alighted in one swift, graceful movement and held out his hand to her.

She accepted his assistance, but stumbled a little, so he was forced to steady her. She started away from the unnerving contact and then dropped her reticule at his feet.

He retrieved the bag, handing it to her with his characteristic half-smile. ‘Have you always had the unfortunate habit of dropping your reticule?’

‘Only since I’ve met you.’ Thank goodness for the dark, so he couldn’t see the dark blush that she knew stained her face and neck.

‘That is not the usual effect I have on women.’

She coloured even more, and vowed to avoid any further contact with him. But he lightly caught her arm before they entered the portico, turning her to face him. The half-shadows kept her from clearly seeing his expression.

‘Before we go in, there is something I must make clear to you,’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘I think you fear that I intend to offer you another carte blanche as part of our bargain. In light of my conduct at our first meeting, I cannot blame you, but rest assured, I have no intention of doing so. I do not force women to my bed.’

‘Of…of course not,’ she stammered.

He drew her arm through his as they passed through the doors into the crowded entrance hall.

If she had received little attention during her season, it was made up tenfold tonight. Heads swivelled as they passed. Stamford paid no heed, merely nodding to acquaintances without pausing, his hand resting possessively on her arm as he guided her through the elegantly dressed crowd. Heat flooded her cheeks but she managed to keep her head high.

As they reached the circular staircase, a woman stepped away from a small group and clutched Stamford’s arm, forcing him to halt.

‘Dear Stamford! How surprising to see you! You have been so scarce I thought you’d left town. And how remiss of you to not have yet called on me.’

She was tall and well built with a fascinating sultry face. Her low-cut emerald gown revealed a creamy expanse of flesh. Jade-green eyes flickered over Rosalyn, then dismissed her.

‘I have been busy,’ Stamford replied shortly, his face haughty. He began to move away, but she caught his arm.

‘Come riding with me tomorrow, then. I have not seen you for an age.’

‘I cannot. Elinor, if you will excuse me.’

‘You’re always so difficult. At least introduce me to your companion.’ Her smile held a touch of malice.

Stamford looked discomfited. ‘Lady Jeffreys, may I present Lady Marchant?’

Lady Marchant ran her eyes up and down Rosalyn as if she were summing up an enemy before battle. ‘How nice to meet you,’ she finally replied, an insincere smile pasted on her lips.

Stamford nearly wrenched Rosalyn away. ‘We must go.’

Rosalyn eyed his cool face with fascination. She had never seen him at such disadvantage. With sudden intuition, she knew the voluptuous Lady Marchant was or had been his mistress. How very awkward to be forced to introduce one’s mistress to the lady one was to be betrothed to. And how very fortunate Rosalyn was not really his fiancée.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head and look down at her with unsmiling eyes. ‘Do you find fault with my appearance? Is that why you are staring?’

‘Not at all. I was thinking how nice it was to meet Lady Marchant. She is very lovely. Is she a particular friend of yours?’

His eyes narrowed. She met his suspicious gaze with innocent eyes. ‘No,’ he replied shortly.

‘Do you often ride with her in the park?’

This time he openly glared. ‘That is none of your business. That is—’ He stopped and clamped his lips in a tight line. ‘I assure you I have nothing to do with Lady Marchant. She is an acquaintance, that is all. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

She averted her head to hide the smile tugging at her lips. How gratifying to know it was possible to provoke Lord Stamford.

The curtain had already lifted on the singers by the time they took their seats. To her surprise, there was no one else in the box.

He must have noted her puzzlement for he leaned towards her, his breath fanning her cheek. ‘We will meet my sister and her husband later. I did not wish to entirely overwhelm you.’

He settled back in the box; his eyes fixed on the stage. She stared around the theatre; it looked much as she remembered from her season; the tiers of boxes painted cerulean blue and gold filled to capacity with glittering ladies and handsomely dressed gentlemen, the fops strolling in the pit; the stares, the whispers behind fans as subjects for scandal-broth were spotted.

Only this time many of the glances were directed at their box. She felt as self-conscious as if they were sitting on the stage themselves.

She hoped James wasn’t here. She knew she would have to break the news of her agreement—no, betrothal to Stamford, soon. She would rather do it in person than have the news leak to him. She looked around the theatre again and then her gaze fell on Edmund Fairchilde sitting a few boxes away. To her great consternation, he had a quizzing glass fixed on her face. She quickly turned away, only to find Stamford observing her.

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, I…I wished to see if my brother was here.’

‘The thought seems to fill you with dismay,’ he remarked.

Why could he read her so easily? ‘I didn’t tell him I was coming with you.’

His mouth quirked. ‘I see. That is quite cowardly of you.’

She twisted her hands in her lap. ‘I am afraid I am something of a coward.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. Otherwise, you would not be here with me.’

His words were completely unexpected. She glanced at him, taken aback, hardly knowing what to say. She fixed her eyes on the stage.

Concentrating on the performance proved impossible. She was too aware of the man beside her and of how alone they were, despite the filled boxes. More than once his arm brushed hers, causing her to flinch. She was grateful when the curtain finally fell and the last of the opera dancers flounced off stage for the interval.

‘Did you enjoy the performance at all?’ Stamford asked.

‘Oh…of course. It was very nice,’ she murmured, hardly recalling what took place.

‘I am not certain you did. You seemed rather distracted.’

‘I had forgotten how inquisitive people could be in London.’

‘I take it you don’t like being the focus of so much curiosity and speculation?’

‘No, not at all. Do you?’

His mouth twisted in a sardonic half-smile. ‘I am quite used to it, so I pay no heed. Don’t trouble yourself about it. They will soon find a more scandalous on dit to occupy them.’ He held out his hand, assisting her to her feet. ‘But for now, my dear lady, I am afraid you must put up with more turned heads. I am going to introduce you to my sister and her husband.’

He led her past the curious stares and whispers down to the saloon, already crowded and noisy with patrons wishing to procure refreshments. They approached a small group standing in one corner.

‘Michael!’ A stocky fair-haired gentleman turned around and grinned. ‘Here so soon? Didn’t expect you to show before the last act!’

One of the two ladies standing next to the gentleman laughed. ‘That’s too kind! I would have said the—’ She broke off, her eyes wide with astonishment as she caught sight of Rosalyn.

‘I had no idea you were bringing someone,’ the lady said, her voice cool. Her haughty gaze brushed over Rosalyn’s face. Dark-haired with an olive complexion, her relation to Stamford was unmistakable—she could only be his sister, Lady Hartman.

The other three, the stocky gentleman, the red-haired lady standing next to him and a taller man, observed her with polite curiosity.

Stamford took Rosalyn’s hand, pulling her to his side. ‘May I present Lady Jeffreys? Lord and Lady Hartman, my cousin Charles Portland, and his fiancée, Elizabeth Markham.’ He pulled her even more close and said blandly, ‘You must congratulate us. Lady Jeffreys has done me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage.’

The effect could not have been more startling if he had pulled a pistol on them. They froze and stared in stunned silence until Lady Hartman spoke.

‘You cannot be serious. Is this one of your jests?’

‘I am quite serious. She finally made up her mind to accept my offer yesterday.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mr Portland faintly. He exchanged a glance with Miss Markham and then turned a fascinated eye on his cousin.

‘But does Papa know this? Michael, he—’ began Lady Hartman.

‘This is hardly the time to discuss the matter,’ Stamford replied coolly. His hand closed more tightly about Rosalyn’s, who was experiencing the nightmarish sensation of having been plopped down in the middle of a farce without having read the script.

Then Lord Hartman stepped forward and took her hand. Grey eyes twinkled in a pleasant countenance. ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you. We are, of course, surprised, although I have no idea why. We always suspected Michael would waste no time once he met the right lady.’ His smile was reassuring. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting you once a long time ago when I attended a lecture of Sir John’s. I was acquainted with him, and you were there. I was sorry to hear of his death; he was a good man and a talented scholar. But I am delighted you have found happiness again.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosalyn replied, touched by his kind words for John and grateful for his courtesy towards her. She smiled a little shyly. ‘I’m sorry I do not recall meeting you, my lord.’

‘No matter. I am glad to renew our acquaintance.’ He turned to his wife. ‘My dear?’

Lady Hartman’s bright, inquisitive gaze never wavered from Rosalyn’s face. Slender and vivacious with dark hair tumbling about in charming disarray, she resembled a pixie. A smile of pure mischief spread over her countenance. ‘What delightful and unexpected news. But you must tell me, wherever did you meet my brother?’

‘At…’ began Rosalyn.

‘At Lady Winthrope’s rout,’ Stamford replied firmly.

‘But that was only two days ago! I see, Michael, you have tumbled into love at last! Who would have thought this would happen! Lady Jeffreys, you must tell me all about yourself. Where are you from?’

‘Caro, it is not necessary to interrogate Lady Jeffreys.’ His face took on the haughty look Rosalyn was beginning to recognise as irritation.

His sister blithely ignored his black look. ‘Oh, but it is.’ She turned back to Rosalyn with an innocent smile. ‘At least tell me how my brother persuaded you to marry him. I can’t imagine how any woman in her right mind would accept his offer. Did he bribe you?’

Mr Portland, who had been silent, emitted a strangled cough.

‘My dear, Lady Jeffreys is not used to your rag-mannered ways,’ said Lord Hartman.

‘Well, did he?’ persisted Lady Hartman.

It was all Rosalyn could do to maintain her countenance. ‘Not quite,’ she managed.

Lady Hartman crowed. ‘Now I am even more curious. We must have a coze when my brother is not present.’

‘Very pleased for you, Michael. Never thought you could pull it off,’ Mr Portland said.

‘And I am also very pleased for you,’ Miss Markham said.

Mr Portland grasped Rosalyn’s hand and grinned. ‘Best wishes to you, my lady. Welcome to the family. We’re all quite insane, you know. Just keep that in mind and don’t let us eat you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rosalyn, dazed.

‘Charles, what a thing to say!’ scolded Miss Markham.

Her fiancé smiled lazily. ‘You’ve often said the same thing; we’re all quite mad.’

‘Now that you’ve all managed to properly scare her with such an encouraging welcome, I’d best take her back to our box,’ Stamford said coolly.

He first procured Rosalyn a glass of lemonade she did not want, then fixed her with such a fierce stare she felt obligated to force it down her throat. Her temper was beginning to flare over his high-handedness and utter lack of sensibility for all concerned.

Michael was not at all surprised to have Rosalyn round on him once they reached their box. Her hazel eyes flashed fire. She didn’t look a bit like the compliant fiancée he’d envisioned. In fact, he’d seen the same expression in his aunt’s eyes more than once.

‘How could you spring this on them?’

He fixed her with his most bland look. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. They were so shocked. That was hardly kind of you. You might have at least prepared them in some way.’

‘I suppose you wanted me to drop sly hints and be seen in your company an appropriate amount of time before declaring my intentions, is that it?’

She snapped her fan shut. ‘What is wrong with that? It would have been the most courteous thing to do.’

He leaned back in his seat and said in his most annoying drawl, ‘I assure you, my family would be more surprised if I were to be courteous. This is more what they expect out of me.’

‘Indeed. I feel quite sorry for them. And for your future wife if she has to put up with this!’

He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I will make it worth her while in—other ways.’

He was delighted to see a dark blush stain her cheeks, but she rallied. ‘I am certain nothing would be worth it.’

‘Now that we’re engaged, it would be quite proper of me to demonstrate and let you make up your mind,’ he suggested wickedly.

She looked shocked. He must learn to curb his tongue when with her. She was not one of his flirts who would parry his double-edged remarks with an even more suggestive one.

‘Besides, I want to squelch any rumours.’

‘What rumours?’ she asked.

‘Rumours about our association.’ The puzzlement on her expressive face brought him up short. He found himself unable to tell her there were already bets on the book on how long it would take him to make her his next mistress. She would be appalled.

‘I wanted to make certain no one would claim your hand and your affections before we announce our, er…agreement.’

‘Since I plan never to remarry there was very little danger that would overset your plans.’

‘Why don’t you wish to remarry? You are a very lovely woman. I’m surprised you don’t have suitors falling over themselves,’ he said carelessly.

‘I hardly consider that a compliment. Perhaps your only criterion for judging a woman’s worth is her beauty or lack of it, but I hope most men don’t use that in looking for a wife.’

‘You are right, of course, there are more important qualities in a woman than beauty. I do beg your pardon. But tell me, do you consider a man’s appearance important?’

‘Yes, I generally find the degree of handsome looks a man possesses also determines his degree of conceit.’

He grinned. ‘Touché, my lady. Are you perhaps referring to myself?’

‘I didn’t exactly say that.’

‘No, not exactly. But at least you consider me somewhat handsome. How much conceit do you think I possess?’

She glared at him and turned away.

He eyed his betrothed’s profile as she sat concentrating very hard on the performance, ignoring him. Somehow he had entertained the erroneous notion Lady Jeffreys would prove to be quite compliant once he bent her to his will. She appeared so quiet and reserved, which in his experience translated into malleable. He could see now she intended to cross swords with him at every opportunity. A grin creased his face. Suddenly, a betrothal seemed a much more interesting state of affairs than he’d ever imagined.