A Rake’s Guide to Seduction (17 page)

Rosalind, dowager duchess of Exeter, was in terrible danger of losing her temper.

The lovely house party she had planned with such hope was entirely spoiled after the wretched debacle last night. Her own daughter, caught in a very compromising situation with a notorious rake! Even worse, a rake she had been forewarned against for over a decade. Rosalind had allowed David to invite the young man to Ainsley Park years ago because David had told her his friend had nowhere else to go on holidays. Although the young Langford—Rosalind simply could not think of him any other way, no matter how he styled himself now—had never behaved any worse than David’s other friends, there had always been something about him that made her wary, a feeling that although he was with David and the other young men, he wasn’t really one of them, that he was somehow a bit removed from them. A lone wolf, she had always thought of him, and she had eventually told David not to invite him again, all for the sake of protecting her growing lamb.

And now…It made her almost ill to see the way Celia watched him. Her daughter was pale and quiet again, as when she had first returned from Cumberland. Not quite the same, Rosalind reluctantly admitted; she no longer looked sad. She looked thoughtful. And that was perhaps even worse, for if Celia set her heart on him…

“I really don’t know why you invited him,” said Harriet Throckmorton.

“You know I didn’t,” returned Rosalind, thin-lipped. “Hannah did. David prompted her.”

“I don’t mean to interfere, but really, Rosalind. He is too terrible. I would have interceded and asked that he not come, not when there were to be so many young ladies present.” Harriet was watching her own two daughters, who sat giggling together and watching Mr. Beecham.

Rosalind sighed. “Fortunately for you, he does not seem interested in your girls. Only mine.” On the other side of the clearing, Mr. Hamilton looked up, meeting Celia’s eyes. Neither looked away until someone spoke to Celia, and even then she appeared reluctant to turn away. Rosalind’s stomach knotted. Oh, dear. Even from across a field she could see the longing that burned between the two of them, and she had to fight back the urge to run across the field and stand protectively in front of Celia.

“I almost count Celia as one of my own,” Harriet was saying. “If Throckmorton were here, I’d set him after that rogue with instructions not to let him out of sight for an instant.”

“Believe me, if I’d any notion of what he would do, I would have insisted Marcus speak to him.” She would have insisted he toss Mr. Hamilton out on his ear. As she watched, the man in question got up and strolled off toward the nearby brook with Mr. Childress, and Rosalind breathed a little easier—for the moment.

“You have more forbearance than I have,” Harriet said. “Now the harm’s done. She’s smitten, I fear. It’s understandable, perhaps, given what the poor dear’s been through.”

Rosalind didn’t reply. Her thoughts were the same. Her daughter still hadn’t recovered from her disastrous marriage, and Rosalind had vowed never to let Celia fall victim to such a mistake again. It was her duty not to. She had been at fault before, for she had been the one to insist that Celia be allowed to choose her husband. She had persuaded Marcus, against his inclination, to grant young Bertram permission to marry Celia. Marcus had thought the boy too young; he had thought Celia too idealistic about marriage. Rosalind had convinced him otherwise, and she had been wrong.

But this time there was even more evidence that this match would not work. Celia had had her heart broken once, so who knew what state it was in now? Rosalind had lost a husband herself, and she knew all too well the loneliness of widowhood, the craving for a man’s touch, the need to be loved and held and desired. The longing not to be
alone.
Mr. Hamilton was certainly capable of meeting the physical cravings, but everything Rosalind had heard of him indicated he couldn’t possibly meet the deeper needs of a woman’s heart. He was not faithful; he was a dedicated gambler; his fortune seemed to rise and fall with the tides. The only family he had had cast him out years ago. There were rumors of every sort of debauchery and mischief, even whispers of murder. He was the last sort of man she would wish for her daughter.

“If only he were respectable,” she said with a sigh. “If he could be the proper man for Celia, I would be very happy for them both—even including the indiscretion of last night.”

“That alone must persuade you he is not.” Harriet moved closer, lowering her voice. “Any man who would tempt a woman into making love out in public view like that must be a thorough scoundrel.”

“It was not in public view, it was in the library,” said Rosalind testily. “Harriet, please.”

“Well, yes, of course, he didn’t seduce her on the drawing room hearth in front of us all, but anyone might walk into the library,” Harriet replied. “I would call that a very public place, in a house full of guests who might want entertainment.”

Rosalind closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Harriet was right—well, she was half right—and there wasn’t a thing Rosalind could do about it.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Harriet. “The earl is coming to us.” Rosalind drew in a deep, calming breath and opened her eyes.

“What—? Oh.” That earl. Not Marbury, but Warfield. Rosalind was not in the mood to speak to him at all today, but her quelling look didn’t deter him. He walked right up to her and Harriet and bowed.

“A grand day for a picnic, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, sir.” She smiled coolly, hoping he would go away.

“I’ve a fancy for old ruins,” the wretched man went on, oblivious as ever. “Would you do me the honor of a stroll through the chapel?”

Her teeth hurt behind her smile. She longed to say no—if he said one word about his abominable nephew, she knew it would be impossible to maintain her composure—but could think of no excuse. Harriet sat quietly at her side sipping lemonade, no help at all. And there was no one else nearby, since she and Harriet had deliberately sat off by themselves to talk. There was only one thing a polite hostess could say. “Certainly, sir.”

He helped her to her feet, and she put her hand on his arm. Harriet gave her a sympathetic glance as he led her away, up the hill toward the ruins. Rosalind returned a pointed look; Harriet might have tried to engage him in conversation at least, and delay the matter until Rosalind could think of a reasonable excuse.

“I must tell you I am not an expert,” she said. “If you wish to know more than a general history, you shall have to consult the library.” She barely restrained a wince as the last word left her lips. Rosalind didn’t want to think of that room again.

“No, no, general history’s more than enough,” he said easily. “I like to discover things myself and not be fed someone else’s opinion.” She glanced at him suspiciously, but he gave no sign of meaning anything deeper. She forced her thoughts away from that. Warfield was a guest. She must be polite. A quarter hour’s conversation, a brisk walk, and she could excuse herself.

“Well.” She collected herself. “The chapel is all that remains of the old abbey that used to stand here. The first Exeter, then an earl, was a patron and gave generously to build it, until the papists fell from power and the abbey was destroyed during Cromwell’s reign. Subsequent generations dismantled and cleared the abbey, except for this chapel. The stained glass alone has somehow survived.” She was out of breath by the time she finished, for Warfield had been dragging her up the hill at a quick pace.

“Ah, yes, I see.” He didn’t stop, but kept going, right across the grass and into the stone nave. Only parts of the walls still stood, providing some shelter from the stronger breeze here on top of the hill. Warfield stopped and looked down at the cracked, sunken slabs of the floor. “Who’s buried here?”

“Mostly priests and prelates, as far as I know. The family crypts are some distance away.”

“Hmm.” He scuffed delicately at some of the stones with his boot, but the writing had been worn away by years of feet and then exposure to the elements. He walked away, into the crumbling shell of the transept where the altar would have been. Here the end wall rose straight and true above them, with a triptych of stained glass windows that miraculously remained almost intact. Warfield tilted back his head to examine the glass.

“Odd to find something so fine out here in the middle of a field,” he said. Rosalind smiled politely. The breeze had picked up, especially here. She was more than ready to return to the rest of the guests. “What is the scene portrayed?”

“Er…St. George, I believe.” Rosalind tucked her lightweight shawl more closely about her and glanced at the clouds beginning to gather on the horizon. “We should return, sir. It may rain.”

“It might rain at any moment of any day,” said Warfield absently, still studying the stained glass. “It’s impossible to see from this side. Come around.”

Rosalind closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The earl was waiting for her. Curbing her impatience, she followed him, taking his hand and letting him help her skirt the rubble. On the other side of the wall, the wind was even stronger. It whipped her skirts around her legs and threatened to tear her bonnet from her head. “We should return,” she said again, raising her voice to be heard above the wind.

“Look.” He pulled her farther around the wall, pointing up at the window. From this angle, the sun shone through the ancient glass; the colors blazed with life, a jewel-toned portrait of St. George slaying the dragon as hosts of angels and saints watched.

“Ah, there I see it. It’s brilliant, from this point of view,” he said, looking down at her. “I couldn’t even guess what it was from inside the kirk. It all depends on how the light strikes it.”

“Yes,” said Rosalind, distracted by holding onto her bonnet. “The wind, Lord Warfield—”

“It seems to me that most things depend on how the light strikes them,” he went on, stubbornly refusing to move. “In one light, they’re black as night. In another, brilliant and colorful. See how fierce the dragon is, how noble St. George—when you see them from the proper point of view.”

Rosalind held back a sigh of exasperation. “No doubt. Shall we join the others now?”

“Aye,” he finally relented, just as a stronger gust of wind lashed the hill, catching the edge of Rosalind’s bonnet and sending it tumbling across the grass.

“Oh!” She took a few stumbling steps after it, clutching at her shawl to save it from a similar fate, but Warfield loped past her, scooping up the bonnet just before it would have gone over the crest of the hill and down toward the brook. “Thank you,” she said as he returned with it. The wind whistled through the ruins behind them, drowning out her words.

“Here,” he said over the wind. “It’s windy out!”

She tried not to show her impatience. “Yes. Indeed it is.” She reached for the bonnet.

He held it out of her reach. “Your hair…” He brushed loose curls from her forehead with his other hand.

Rosalind flushed. Her hair must be a dreadful sight, thanks to the wind. The earl just stood over her, staring, and it was unsettling as well as impolite. “Thank you,” she said again, taking her bonnet from his hand and trying to smooth back her hair so she could put the bonnet back on and they could rejoin the other guests before being blown into the brook.

But the gale did not cooperate. The ribbons slapped across her face, her hair was becoming more unkempt by the moment as she tried to stuff it back into the bonnet, and the long ends of her delicate shawl were filling like sails and flapping about her. “Oh!” she finally exclaimed in frustration as the wind snapped one end of the shawl loose.

“Blast!” The flapping cloth seemed to startle Warfield. He caught the loose end, then the whole shawl as it came out of her arm. “Here,” he said, taking her hand and leading her across the grass to a quieter point, sheltered from the wind between the chapel wall and a cascade of slate that must have once been part of the roof. Then he turned his back to the wind, shielding her from the brunt of it as she repaired her appearance, settling the bonnet as best she could. She reached for the shawl, but he lifted it over her head and draped it across her shoulders himself. For a moment his arms were on either side of her as he plucked it up around her shoulders, clumsily trying to arrange it properly. It was a hopeless task, of course. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly, taking over. His hands fell away. Rosalind looked up to find him watching her with a curious expression in his sea-green eyes. The earl was a tall man, and broad. He loomed over her, sheltering her fairly well from the wind, and for a moment Rosalind did feel protected, blocked in the corner by his body.

“Do you never think,” he said, somewhat humbly, “that perhaps what’s true of the glass is true of people? That it all depends on how you look at them, how they appear?”

Rosalind could not miss his point. “If you refer to your nephew, sir, I assure you I bear him no particular ill will,” she said, her temper flaring again. “I simply find him completely wrong for my daughter.”

“What?” He blinked, and his face fell. “Oh, yes. You’ve nothing to fear from Hamilton. He’ll never harm a hair on your daughter’s head.”

“I never thought he would,” said Rosalind after a moment. What had he meant, if not to defend Mr. Hamilton? Hadn’t that been his purpose in dragging her up here? “I fear for her heart, as you know.”

“He’ll most likely guard it more carefully than his own.” He appeared ready to say more but didn’t; he simply stood there, blocking the wind and looking at her with a strange intensity.

An unfamiliar feeling unfurled in Rosalind’s stomach. “I am glad to hear it. And now we really must return to the party. I cannot leave my guests when it looks like rain.”

He sighed. “Aye. O’ course not.” He moved aside and let her pass. Rosalind hurried back around the ruin, clinging tightly to both shawl and bonnet. The wind died down as she descended the hill, but her heart still thumped. She was imagining things. She had been a widow for fourteen years; men had approached her before. She had turned down marriage proposals from a marquis, two earls, and a baron. It was utterly ridiculous that an uncouth, loudmouthed Scot would even attempt—especially
that
Scot. She must be imagining things, she told herself. Lord Warfield knew very well what she thought of him.