Heather Graham (7 page)

Mary Kate, finished with her coiffing, stepped back to survey her young mistress critically. Perfect. He hair was neatly dressed in a coil at her nape, while little tendrils in shades of fire and gold curled softly around her face. Her eyes, certainly her greatest glory, blazed their emerald color in sharp contrast to the deep, dark auburn of her hair. Her gown was a rich blue velvet, the bodice rounded and laced, the skirt gathered twice to display the beauty of the petticoats beneath. It had been whispered that she was the greatest beauty to have come to the king’s court, and Mary Kate thought that it might well be true. There were wonderful whispers, too, that the girl would fall into a fairy-tale romance, that the exquisite commoner might find herself a titled lord, and live happily ever after.

Rose didn’t want a lord, Mary Kate reminded herself. But then, the good God in heaven sometimes seemed to see to those things people needed, and didn’t even know that they desired.

“I think you’re ready, my pet,” Mary Kate told her.

Rose nodded, still seeming distracted. Then she blurted out, “Truly, Mary Kate, you should have met him! He’s such a lout!”

“Are we speaking now of Lord Bryant or Lord DeForte?”

Rose grinned, wrinkling her nose. “We could be speaking of either. But I meant Lord DeForte.”

“Well, I shall try to get a glimpse of him tonight,” Mary Kate assured her. “Does he look like an ogre?”

“He—no,” Rose murmured. She was surprised to feel a flush rising over her cheeks. No, he had not looked like an ogre. He had spoken like one, but he hadn’t looked like one. With his jet hair and amazing silver eyes, he was an exceptionally striking individual. When he had stood by her in the stream, he had been commandingly tall. When he had touched her, she had felt the wealth of power and muscle within him. She had to admit that his physical appearance might have drawn the admiration that seemed to fall his way.

“No, he does not look like an ogre, but if he were to open his mouth and speak, you would know instantly that he was one!” she told Mary Kate.

“Well, I shall keep my eyes open.”

Rose glanced at the lovely French clock that sat on the dressing table in her room. “I had best get to dinner. The king will be down soon, and the entire company must sit when he does.”

“I shall accompany you down to the hall, and I shall be with the servants, supping, very near, should you need me,” Mary Kate said.

They left Rose’s room behind and started down one of the long corridors. Rose had stepped on ahead, deep in her thoughts, when she heard a little cry of pain. She swirled around quickly to see that Mary Kate had tripped over a break in the stone flooring.

She started back, but saw that a tall man in a very fashionable long coat and frilled shirt had stopped beside Mary Kate, bending low to touch her hand and speak softly with her. “Are you hurt there, good woman? Is your ankle well enough for you to stand?”

Mary Kate was fluttering, staring up at the man’s face. “I’m—I’m not hurt. M’lord. I can stand.”

The man helped her to her feet. Mary Kate continued to stare at him with awe.

And Rose gritted her teeth, seeing that their kindly benefactor was none other than the loathsome man who had been so rude to her earlier. He had yet to see her.

“You’re quite all right?” he said to Mary Kate.

Mary Kate nodded dumbly. He started on his way down the hall once again, and so saw Rose. His brow rose curiously, and his lip curled into a singularly mocking smile. “Why, Mistress Woodbine!” He swept her a low, courtly bow. “What a pleasure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she murmured sweetly.

It was anything but—she was very well aware of his true feelings. Yet they were at court, where good manners had to be maintained.

“If you are going to the dining hall, I shall be honored to escort you,” he told her.

Rose felt her spine stiffening. She couldn’t seem to find words to speak.

Mary Kate found them for her. “Oh, she is, she is!” Mary Kate called out happily. “Please, do escort her!”

Rose cast Mary Kate a stern frown, but Mary Kate seemed to be entirely too enrapt with the man to notice. Impatiently Rose inhaled deeply, staring at Lord DeForte. He didn’t wait for her reply, apparently impatient himself now that he had been waylaid by her once again. He took her arm and started down the corridor quickly.

To her surprise and irritation, she found herself growing breathless. “M’lord DeForte!” she murmured. “I can understand our hurry, but we’ve not all got legs like a horse!”

He slowed his gait. “Ah, but remember! You ride better, Mistress Woodbine. I do apologize. I was certain in my heart that you must race with greater speed on foot as well. Yet how kind! You compare me to a horse! I was so afraid that you might have another animal in mind. “

“In truth, I was thinking of some relative of the horse, and that relative the jackass,” she said sweetly. “But my father did teach me to be kind.”

“Didn’t your father ever teach you to mind your manners?” he inquired deeply, his dark head bent, his whisper falling very close to her ear, and bringing with it a startling heat. She discovered that her heart was pounding fiercely and fast, and to her great annoyance, she was shivering inwardly. Her temper seemed to burn whenever he came near her. When he spoke. When he touched her.

But that strange shivering began, too.

“My father would not expect much from me, m’lord, in the matter of extending courtesy to you, if he were only more familiar with your manners.”

“Oh, but your father is familiar with me.”

Despite herself, she felt a furious flush rising to her cheeks. “I am afraid, Lord DeForte, that due to the king’s continued kindness to you, you are a well-known figure. Most Englishmen, in England and abroad, are aware of your closeness to Charles.”

“To Charles, eh? You refer to our monarch as just Charles?”

She fought to control her temper. He’d already reduced her to the behavior of a child once; she would not allow him to do so again. “To His Majesty, Charles, the king,” she said smoothly.

“I see. So it is nothing but my friendship with the king that might make me—appealing?” he inquired.

She paused, extracting her arm from his, smiling sweetly. “What else could there be?” she asked politely.

He smiled, amused. “Well, I do have a title.”

“So does many a fool!” she replied pleasantly. They had reached the doors to the large banqueting hall where the king and his guests gathered for the evening meal. People were flocking around them now, the highest in the land to join the king at the head table, and downward in rank from there—earls, dukes, counts, and barons first, followed by knights and their ladies, and then those whose merchant sensibilities and rich purses bought them entrance to any gathering. It was time for Rose to separate from Lord DeForte. She was surprised to realize that she did feel a brief bitterness, realizing that this man with whom she was carrying on a disturbing war would quickly leave her to join his peers—the very beautiful Lady Anne among them—while she hurried down the long plank tables to sit with the wealthy, but still common gentry folk.

“If you’ll excuse me—” she began, but before she could go any further, she realized that she was blocked from a smooth exit away from this man. They had been joined by others.

“’Tis DeForte! And with your young ward, Jamison!” a male voice stated with amusement.

Rose turned swiftly. She knew the two men who had pinned her into this uncomfortable position. The first, as she had already surmised, was the new Lord Bryant, Jamison, with his curious pale blue eyes. The second man, the one who had spoken, was Jerome Cherney, Jamison’s closest friend and gaming partner—and the Lady Anne’s half-brother. He had a way of looking at her that made her flesh crawl.

“So the two of you have met!” Jamison said, his glance falling swiftly from DeForte’s hard gaze to Rose’s eyes. “I am very glad, dear Rose. I shall be able to tell your father that I have done my duty, seeing that you and Lord DeForte become acquainted.”

“My dear Lord Bryant—” Rose began.

“Call me Jamison, Rose. We are, in a distant way, kin, you know.”

“Jamison then,” she said, her voice carrying just an edge of warning. “There was truly nothing my father wished of yours, other than that he keep a watchful—paternal—eye upon me. As your dear father is now deceased, I pray that you not feel responsible for me in any way. I am not planning on remaining in London long—”

“But, Rose!” Jamison interrupted her. “I have indeed inherited my father’s charge! And I believe your father intends that you remain here several months now, if not at court, then as a guest at my estate. Your father does not wish you to leave London—alone.”

Rose didn’t think that she had ever so longed to strike anyone. Jamison was baiting her—and making a fine fool of her before Pierce DeForte. She had never, in all her life, felt so keenly like an object that was for sale—and one that might well have a nick or a mar, since she was an untitled colonial and it seemed that all the world was aware that her father considered Pierce DeForte the finest match she might make. And since there was no real secret about the fact that he and Anne were lovers, it was humiliating that Jamison should put her in such a wretched position.

“Let me just say then, Lord Bryant,” she said swiftly, “that I do intend to sail home very soon—and completely alone.”

“Now, my dear—” Jamison began.

“Come now, Jamison!” DeForte said sharply, entering the conversation. “I do believe that you’re distressing young Miss Woodbine. Perhaps she is upset over the loss of your father. There are those among us who are! And I hardly think, sir, that you’ve really any say over the girl.”

Rose might have been grateful for the quick way that he came to her defense were he not such an arrogant, detestable rogue.

“Oh, but I do!” Jamison advised them. Rose didn’t care about any of it anymore. She just wanted to escape.

“Perhaps we’ll discuss it at a different time,” Rose said. “If you’ll excuse me—” she began again.

But this time they were interrupted by the Lady Anne. Beautiful, blond, and elegant—and looking just a trifle uneasy—she descended upon the group of them. “Pierce!” she murmured, coming to his side. Her eyes fell upon her brother, and then Jamison Bryant. “Jerome, Jamison, what is going on here? Rose, you are looking greatly refreshed. Are these knaves giving you some difficulty? You mustn’t let them disturb you.”

“Thank you so much for your concern!” Rose told her swiftly. “But I am really quite all right, m’lady. I was just trying to excuse myself—”

“But you mustn’t!” Jerome said suddenly. “You must sup with us.”

“I’m afraid that I—”

“You needn’t worry about status or position, m’lady,” he whispered, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “You’ll be with us—and with the very great Lord DeForte, His Grace, the Duke of Werthington. Who would think to challenge him?”

“I have made other arrangements,” she tried to tell him, but Lady Anne was touching her sleeve.

“You must come with us, Rose. I’d like you at my side!”

The last thing that Rose wanted to do was dine with Pierce DeForte, yet she found herself being summarily led along with the men and Lady Anne. When they were seated, she was not far from the king, pressed very closely between Jamison and Jerome. She found the meal greatly uncomfortable, for both men gave her the most uneasy feelings, and seemed to assess her with every breath she took. She felt shivers each time she reached for her goblet and brushed fingers with Jamison, and she lost her appetite when she and Jerome reached for the same piece of fowl from a tray offered by a servant.

Thankfully, Charles was holding a spectacular banquet. He sat with his queen, the ever attentive husband, kind and solicitous throughout the meal. But for her entertainment, and his own, and that of his guests, he had gathered a fine group of players. A masque came first, a quick, somewhat ribald play about a husband who had wronged his wife, and tried to come back within her fold. Then a singer sang and played a plaintive tune upon a lute, and when she finished, it seemed that the banqueting was done. From high atop the minstrels’ gallery, musicians began to play. The king rose, and helped up his queen, then led her past the tables to the floor. And there he bowed to her, low and courtly, and the two began to dance.

Soon they were being joined on the floor. It would be extremely rude for Rose to refuse Jamison or Jerome if one of the two invited her to dance, and she was poised for the possibility.

But to her relief, Jamison asked Anne to dance. But as she rose, Anne paused, looking back.

“Pierce—” she murmured. She hesitated, and Rose watched her a moment, wondering what was going on in her mind. Then she spoke quickly. “Pierce, you and Mistress Woodbine must join us on the floor.”

“Oh, no!” Rose exclaimed swiftly. Pierce merely cast daggers at her—and then at Anne—with his vivid gaze.

But despite his apparent annoyance, he stood to the suggestion. “Come then, Mistress Woodbine,” he said. It was a command, not an invitation. She stared at him, feeling a strange cascade of trembling come sweeping down her back.

No, she couldn’t dance with him. She didn’t want him touching her again. She didn’t want to feel his hands, his fingers, his eyes upon her …

But Rose had no chance to offer a refusal. He took hold of her hand and nearly dragged her out to join the others who had already lined up for the stylish dance.

It was too late! she thought with panic.

What was too late?

She didn’t know. Only that something had begun that day.

Something over which she had no control …

H
E BOWED TO HER
in the proper manner; she fell back in a slight curtsy. The minstrels in their gallery above the floor continued playing.

Their fingers touched, and she moved about Pierce DeForte. So far there had been little held back between them. Rose could see no need to do so now. “You might have refused!” she said angrily.

Dark brows arched. “And what difference would it have made?”

“It would have kept us from one another’s company.”