The Rake of Hollowhurst Castle (13 page)

‘You're planning to disown your grandmother, then?' she asked, carefully ignoring the warm glow in his eyes as they rested on her, giving his light-hearted flirtation the lie by silently conveying the message he had honourable intentions whether she liked them or not.

‘No, although she says she'll disown me if I can't persuade you to marry me.'

‘Oh, hush, Sir Charles!' she urged as she looked about to see who might be listening and would forever be eyeing her with eager speculation from now on. But had his comment been careless or cunning? She was inclined to believe the latter and glared at him militantly.

‘I don't think anyone else heard him,' Stella declared, looking very interested while she pretended she wasn't really listening.

‘You could always say “yes”, and then we could announce it straight away,' he offered, as if it were a
real possibility, though she had no intention of being stampeded into marriage by him or his grandmama.

‘And I could also have the good sense to hope you're joking.'

‘When I never was more serious in my life?' he quipped, but could that possibly be the faintest hint of hurt in his cerulean gaze? Most unlikely.

‘I very much doubt it, sir, and this is neither the time nor the place for a serious discussion, even if you were.'

‘No, indeed, but it's high time I put my name down for the supper dance, before your besotted swain tries to mill me down in his desperation to claim it.'

‘Tries?' she asked with that useful, ironic raising of her eyebrows she'd learnt from him.

‘Oh, yes, I'm not too gentlemanly to resist planting him a facer before either of us are very much older, Miss Courland, but I think we'd both prefer it if I didn't have to do so as his host.' She shuddered at the very thought and silently held out her dance card. ‘Very wise,' he teased as he initialled away.

‘Only two,' she warned.

‘Do you think me a country clodpole as well, my dear?' he murmured as he handed her card back, making very sure their fingers met and she felt the spark of desire run through her at the contact, just as he did if the sudden heat in his eyes was anything to go by.

‘I doubt you were that simple even when you were in short-coats,' she replied and tried not to feel pleased with herself when he laughed. The real laugh she loved, the one that lit his eyes with humour and lured her into a world of intimacy she'd not dreamt of in many long years, not since he ignored her at her come-out party,
she reminded herself, and removed her hand from his as if he'd stung her.

‘Until later, then?' he said, standing back and watching her cautiously, the lovely possibility that flashed between them so briefly suddenly gone.

‘Later,' she echoed with a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature in the blue saloon Lady Samphire had very sensibly decided to use for her party, rather than the loftier great hall that would take whole tree-trunks burning in each of its huge hearths to even take the chill off it now winter was so well on its way.

‘And just what was all that about?' Stella demanded as soon as they were comfortably seated on an elegant
chaise longue
that certainly hadn't come with the castle furnishings.

‘Nothing,' Roxanne said, fervently wishing it were true.

‘Then that's the most interesting piece of nothing I've heard in a very long time,' her friend replied with a resolute look in her grey eyes that she'd probably be horrified to hear made her look very like her great-aunt. ‘Ah, Mr Longborough, here we are, hardly sat down and you already want me to get up and dance with you. What a very energetic young gentleman you are, to be sure.'

For once Roxanne blessed Joe as she watched him reluctantly carry off his chattering partner to join the first set forming at the end of the room, where the carpets had been removed for safekeeping and safe dancing. She didn't want to dance, and she certainly didn't want anyone else to know about that disgraceful episode in the garden that she could now see outlined in the darkness by a bright blaze of candlelight and flambeaux. Sir
Charles surely couldn't have set them there for the very purpose of keeping it in the forefront of her mind?

It surprised her to find that what she really wanted at this moment was privacy. She imagined dancing by that golden light among the statues with Charles Afforde and him alone. Maybe just an orchestra shut away in the blue saloon where they couldn't see her and she couldn't see them. And Charles, of course—he could even wear a greatcoat in return for her best evening cloak if he didn't like the chill of the November night biting through that rather fine black evening coat and his immaculate evening breeches. She shivered, but again not from any feeling of coldness, and told herself not to be an idiot.

‘Good evening, Mr Huntley,' she greeted her promised dance-partner with such a fine impression of delight that his eyes brightened and she gave an internal groan.

Now look what she'd done; soon she'd have three gentlemen proposing to her at every turn and not a one of them she could accept, unless Sir Charles underwent a complete about-face and decided he might be able to love her, after all.

‘Miss Courland, you look so very beautiful tonight,' the young man said with such devastating enthusiasm she had to fight a fit of the giggles.

‘Oh, no, I was never considered a beauty even in my younger days, and if you'd witnessed my come out all those years ago, sir, you'd certainly never classify me so,' she said in an effort to dampen his enthusiasm.

‘Surely not so many years ago?' he asked archly.

‘Seven,' she informed him flatly.

That made him pause, but the Huntleys were evidently made of stern stuff and he rallied. ‘Then you must
have been a very young débutante, Miss Courland,' he said gallantly, and she almost smiled at his ingenuity, but that would only encourage him and she truly didn't want to bruise his feelings, even if she doubted his heart was engaged.

‘I was seventeen, sir, but that's no excuse. I made a spectacularly unsuccessful début and don't have the slightest desire to endure the London Season ever again,' she said, hoping her unsociable leanings would put him off angling for such an unsuitable, and ancient, bride.

Another mistake, it seemed, for he smiled with relief and looked at her as though she'd suddenly gone from acceptable to nigh perfect as a potential wife. ‘Neither have I; in fact, I hate doing the pretty,' he assured her earnestly, then looked a little uncertain as he realised that might not be the most tactful thing to say to a woman he was attempting to court. ‘Except when I mean it, of course,' he added, trying to rescue himself from a dangerous quagmire.

‘Oh, of course. Now hadn't we better join your friend on the dance floor?' she admitted in a reasonable imitation of delighted anticipation.

‘Not sure he's my friend any more,' he replied and Roxanne wondered how her life had become so complex, when until recently it'd been so simple.

‘Young gentlemen have the habit of falling out, so I'm sure you'll very soon make it up with your friend, Mr Huntley,' she said encouragingly.

Once they both realised she had no intention of marrying either of them, any reason for continuing bitterness between them would fade as rapidly as it had appeared, wouldn't it?

‘I don't mind telling you I've seen another side to Joe these last few weeks, Miss Courland,' he said uneasily, and Roxanne wondered exactly what had passed between them to turn this delightful young man from Joe's steadfast friend into such an uneasy rival.

‘Well, here we are at the floor, sir, so let's forget our worries in the dance, shall we? I do like a merry country dance, don't you?'

‘Of course, nothing can rival it,' he gallantly agreed, despite the fact that its measures ensured he spent very little time in conversation with his partner.

Roxanne spared him the occasional glance as he worked his way down the line of ladies, and her heart lightened to see him greet a good many with a far easier smile than he ever gave her. When he'd grown up a little, Mr Huntley would make some lucky girl a fine husband. What a shame he couldn't see how unsuitable a match they would make of it if she was fool enough to encourage him. Not only was she three years his senior, but she'd never make him a docile little wife, ready to adore him for the rest of their days and defer to his superior judgement. No, what he needed was a pretty girl who was ready, willing and able to fall in love with an uncomplicated gentleman with a kind heart. She'd gone past that before she even made her début, thanks to a certain gentleman she was doing her best to ignore as they wound down the measures of the same set.

‘You know,' Sir Charles murmured in her ear as she tried to slip past him without any but the most casual contact, ‘I'm not sure if I prefer dancing with you, Roxanne, or watching you move so enchantingly while some other idiot does so.'

‘You categorise yourself as an idiot then, Sir Charles?
Surely you're being a little harsh on yourself?' she muttered back and whisked away before he could retaliate, but soon there would be that first waltz and doubtless he'd have his revenge.

‘S
o
are
you going to marry my cousin, Roxanne?' Stella asked her relentlessly, as soon as she'd dispatched Mr Huntley and Joe Longborough to fetch lemonade, never mind that they didn't appear to be speaking to one another and neither she nor Roxanne was particularly thirsty.

‘No,' she replied as softly as she could when her instinct was to shout it as loudly as possible, in the hope it would then become an irrefutable truth before she began to wonder at herself for turning him down as well.

‘I can't imagine him ever meeting anyone who'd suit him better,' Stella replied mournfully. ‘Won't you reconsider, Roxanne?'

‘Certainly not.'

‘Oh, very well then. I suppose he'll have to take his chance with some silly débutante who lacks the sense to ever be his equal.'

‘Yes, he will.'

‘Such a waste though, don't you think?' Stella said, using her fan to direct Roxanne's attention toward Sir Charles's superbly male figure by the door where he was gracefully waving aside a latecomer's self-reproaches.

He wasn't in the least overawed or out of place in this huge room, designed to trumpet its owner's wealth and position to all comers from royalty downwards. He'd stand out if he'd contented himself with living in a hovel, Roxanne decided despairingly, and little wonder her younger self had only had to set eyes on such a dominant, masculine warrior to decide he must be hers one day.

Now Roxanne watched him with every bit of the fascination Stella might wish for. He bowed to the gruff wife of a neighbouring squire and endured being slapped on the back by her husband with good-humoured patience, and she thought that, yes, he would make an excellent husband, as long as his wife wasn't in love with him. If she were, and Roxanne feared she might very well be, then he'd make her deeply unhappy, because he didn't seem at all willing to entertain the notion he might love her back. Yet wouldn't it also be agony to see him wed another? A question she'd done her best to avoid considering while he was away and might be meeting a paragon who wouldn't demand he loved her before she considered marriage.

‘Not all débutantes are stupid,' she protested weakly, unable to tear her gaze from the tall figure of Charles Afforde, whose starkly elegant evening attire only added to his manly attractions, rather than having the grace to make him look just like any other man present tonight.

‘But even the ones who are intelligent still have matchmaking mamas, who'll make very sure their daughters don't refuse a handsome baronet with a handsome property and an even more handsome fortune.'

‘Rather a lot of handsomes there, don't you think?'

‘No,' Stella insisted ruthlessly. ‘Most females would tread on the faces of their friends in their eagerness if he danced with them twice, mamas or no, and you won't even consider marrying him when he begs you to.'

‘He always dances with
me
twice,' she pointed out rather childishly.

‘Yes, because he actually wants to marry you,' Stella pointed out with merciless patience. ‘Charles was never one to raise false hopes.'

‘But I've never harboured any,' Roxanne protested.

‘What, never?'

Roxanne blushed and recalled the headlong, romantic girl she'd once been. Young though Lieutenant Afforde was at the time, he'd have been a fool
not
to notice her blatant adoration when they first met. She'd made sure he fell over her every time he turned round that Christmas when she'd confidently decided he must be her adult fate. Then she'd made her come out at a ridiculously young age, because he might not wait for her if she didn't badger Uncle Granger into arranging her début as soon as possible. Could any girl's hopes have been wilder or more unrealistic than young Rosie Courland's had proved all those years ago?

‘Certainly not from the moment I realised at the tender age of seventeen that your cousin was a rake and hadn't the slightest intention of settling down with a wife, or at least not with one of his own.'

‘How scandalous of you to have known such liaisons existed at so young an age.'

‘Yes, wasn't it? Now can we talk of something else? I find myself growing weary of endlessly speculating about your cousin's wife.'

‘As you just pointed out, dear Roxanne, he doesn't actually have one for us to speculate about.'

‘No, and long may that situation last, for I pity the poor girl who takes him on when he does find one.'

‘I think he already has,' Stella insisted stubbornly.

‘Then you're wrong.'

‘So does Great-Aunt Augusta, by the way; I can tell that by the way she keeps nodding and winking at me to hint I should leave you alone in order for my cousin to swoop down and claim you,' Stella said, attempting to rise to her feet as Lady Samphire was indeed indicating she should with almost comical contortions. Comical if they weren't aimed at Roxanne's public embarrassment.

‘Then she's wrong, too, and don't you dare,' Roxanne said, holding on to Stella's midnight-blue skirts so that she had to pause halfway between sitting and standing, then plumped back down with a rueful shrug at her formidable aunt.

‘So undignified,' she protested virtuously.

‘Yes, isn't it?' Roxanne replied candidly, and Stella's eyes fell before the resolve in her own not to be manoeuvred into a
tête-à-tête
with Charles.

Dancing with him would be quite bad enough without being forced into his heady company for goodness knew how long while the company gossiped about them and Lady Samphire spread rumours with joyful abandon.

‘I won't be trapped, tricked or persuaded into mar
riage with Sir Charles, Stella. Indeed, I'd choose scandal and opprobrium rather than let that happen.'

‘I'm not trying to trick you, it's just that you're so right for each other,' Stella excused herself apologetically.

‘Thank you, but excuse me if I disagree.'

‘Why?'

‘What do you mean, “why”? Of course it's a silly notion.'

‘I don't see why it's such a ludicrous idea.'

‘Because Sir Charles and myself are opposites in every way. He's just weary of raking and travelling the world, and I'm a novelty to him because I've never been anywhere much or even had a serious suitor. I also know his house and estates better than he does himself, and could run them for him while he's busy elsewhere, and there you have his reasons for marriage.'

‘He's made a fine mess of that, then, hasn't he?' Stella said with what looked oddly like satisfaction from where Roxanne was sitting.

‘He did his best to seduce me into it as well,' she admitted with a blush.

‘How comforting to know some of his famous sangfroid hasn't deserted him, poor Charles.'

‘Poor Charles?' Roxanne demanded. ‘Family feeling must count for a lot, I know, but why should he be “poor Charles” when I'm the one being bombarded like some foreign citadel he's been ordered to conquer?'

‘Because he'd do anything to avoid admitting to himself that he's head over heels in love with you, of course,' Stella explained, as if explaining the obvious to a very slow three-year-old.

Roxanne just sat there with her mouth open, staring at her companion with such astonishment that her ears
buzzed with shock and hid the sound of approaching footsteps, if he had made any sound, of course.

‘I believe this is our dance, Miss Courland,' the subject of it all observed urbanely, looking far more innocent than he'd any right to.

‘Is it?' she asked him idiotically and blushed ridiculously as he met her eyes with an ironic question in his.

‘Well, if you doubt me, I suppose we could always take a look at your dance-card,' he offered, but the prospect of having him come even close enough to do that made her wonder if she might lower herself to faking a fit of the vapours—how on earth was she going to endure a waltz in his arms?

‘No, I recall it now,' she mumbled, fixing her eyes on the top button of his immaculate grey-silk waistcoat. Maybe if she refused to look at him, she'd be able to pretend to herself that she was dancing with just any gentleman.

‘Whatever has my cousin been saying to you, Roxanne?' he asked as they joined the other couples on the dance floor and waited for the musicians to launch into the latest waltz tune from Vienna.

‘Nothing very much,' she replied, just managing to avoid his acute gaze by focusing instead on his shoulder as he relentlessly adopted the position required, and her body reacted as if she'd been shocked by Signor Galvini's electrical machine.

‘I thought we knew each other better than this, Roxanne,' he murmured, refusing to be the handsome marionette she would have preferred to dance with while she settled her nerves and examined Stella's outrageous assertion that he loved her for any grains of truth.

‘Better than what?' she asked incautiously and cursed her body for twining itself as close to his as the dance and propriety would allow.

‘Than avoiding my eyes as if you hate the very sight of me, or pretending we're polite acquaintances enduring a duty dance,' he insisted relentlessly. ‘I'd rather you refused to take the floor in my company in the first place than this, Roxanne, for your behaviour informs me you regret our kiss and our intimacy, and that's like finding out the world's flat after all, and don't forget I'm a seaman, will you? That would hold serious implications for a man who might sail off the edge if he ever returned to his old occupation.'

Torn between finding him irresistible for his weak attempt at humour and hating the very idea of him sailing away from her, she flinched. Constant fear for his safety had been hard enough to live with when she was a silly girl infatuated with a handsome face, but now she was a grown woman and truly loved him, it would be close to hell.

‘Don't,' she urged tensely.

‘Don't what? Don't speak of such ridiculous things, or don't refuse to pretend all's well and it doesn't matter that you turn your eyes away from mine as if I might turn you to stone if you meet them? I'm sorry, but I can't oblige you, my dear; we've come too far for me to allow it.'

‘Allow?' she asked haughtily, meeting his intense blue gaze with queenly dignity and nearly causing a collision by unconsciously halting to recruit all her energies to recover from the effort it had cost her.

‘Come, you're clearly in no mood for all this flim-flam,' he informed her in a gruff voice and with a polite
apology and a dazzling smile for the lady they'd just nearly caused to trip, he murmured something about the heat and swept her off the floor in the crook of a powerful arm.

‘I suppose this must be your best commodore's manner?' she asked, as she obligingly wilted into his embrace to lend colour to his tale.

‘Well, someone needs to take control,' he informed her angrily.

‘I have an aversion to being controlled.'

‘That much is self-evident, Miss Courland. You're so stubborn that you're in danger of cutting off both our noses to spite my face.'

‘That doesn't even
sound
right,' she muttered darkly and surprised a bark of laughter out of him that nearly undid their whole story of her being overcome by anything but his presence.

‘Slight cough,' he explained to Mrs Longborough in passing as he swept Roxanne towards the sofa where Stella was waiting.

‘Lot of it about, young people today lack stamina,' she replied blandly.

‘Not stamina, just good sense,' he replied with an openly condemning glance in Roxanne's direction.

‘Must be catching,' the Squire's wife said with an abrupt nod at her own son that told them succinctly how few of his faults and foibles she'd missed.

‘And therefore probably curable,' Charles said, a rueful smile at last eclipsing his unusually savage temper.

The very fact that she could infuriate him so easily made Roxanne pause and consider again Stella's startling declaration that he loved her. She certainly had
it in her power to break through the cynically amused façade he used to fend off the world in general. Quite what that meant she hadn't yet worked out, but it meant something. Whatever that ‘something' might be, she refused to embroider his story by drooping elegantly at Stella's side while he went to fetch yet more lemonade to revive her when she didn't need reviving.

‘I should vastly prefer a cup of tea,' she informed him truthfully as she sat straight-backed in contravention of his fairy story.

‘I'll inform Mereson; no doubt he'll produce it in the midst of an evening party with all the air of an archbishop asked to perform conjuring tricks, but he'll produce it all the same if I tell him it's for you.'

‘He's always claimed to like a challenge,' Roxanne replied blandly.

‘Don't we all?' he answered inexcusably, then strolled off to bother his butler with his impenetrable, ridiculous statements instead of her.

‘Speaking of challenges, how
are
you intending to explain your exit from the dance when you now look as if you never had a day's illness in your entire life, Roxanne?' Stella asked curiously.

‘Simple,' she explained grandly, ‘I'll take a leaf out of Lady Samphire's book and refuse to justify my actions by pretending they didn't happen.'

‘Oh, Lord, will you? The prospect of two of you marching about the neighbourhood manipulating all and sundry for their own good very nearly terrifies me enough to make me return to the Dower House and endure Mama and Great-Aunt Letty's endless moralising.'

‘I only said a leaf, not the entire volume with appendix and addenda.'

‘There are never any addenda to Great-Aunt Augusta's pronouncements for she simply
never
makes mistakes,' Stella declared solemnly, and Roxanne laughed. ‘That's better, you look less likely to eat the next person who asks how you are now,' Stella added—how could she stay angry when her friend, companion and possible future relative was so witty, warm and caring?