Chapter Four
He despised her.
There was no other explaining it. And at the height of unfairness, she should love him so, and he should see her as nothing more than a sisterly extension of James that he wished to be rid of. Her stomach clenched. She’d but a handful of days to open his eyes to her being there…and of him loving her…and—
“Mustn’t look so glum, dear. You simply mustn’t.”
Winnie blinked and looked about the confines of her family’s crowded carriage. Her gaze landed on her mother seated across on the opposite bench. Plump, given to prattling and having her head in the clouds, this would choose to be the moment her mother would properly note just what had her daughter so very glum? She opened her mouth and closed it several times.
Her mother made a sympathetic sound and then leaned over. “There, there. We’ll be there but two hours.” She patted Winnie on the knee.
Two hours?
“Infernal recital,” James muttered and shifted his large frame on the crowded bench.
The recital. Relief ran through her. Her mother thought she lamented the annual recital hosted by Trent’s mother, the Marchioness of Hollingbrooke.
“Perhaps this will be the year the marquess finally takes note of our girl, eh, Pamela? Imagine both of our families’ good fortune if that match came to be? Each with a child wedded off.” The Earl of Portland affectionately kissed his wife’s hand and the still-besotted-after-thirty-years couple chuckled.
Mother giggled into her other palm. “Tsk, tsk, what of Agatha’s boy Stephen, my dear? A future earl would do nicely for our girl.”
Winnie grimaced; put out by her parents’ improper display and their grasping attempt to wed her off to Trent’s brother, or any titled gentleman, for that matter. Cold, polite, and more than slightly condescending, she’d rather wed Prinny himself than Trent’s brother. She pursed her lips. Having attended intimate family dinners and recitals at the marquess’ home, he’d proven himself to be condescending in his address of each one of his siblings.
From the opposite bench, James caught her eye and gave a slow, commiserative wink. She managed a weak smile. Of course, he’d feel that kindred connection to Mama and Papa’s awkward whispering and prattling. He certainly could not expect that she sat here lamenting Trent’s total lack of regard.
Their barouche rocked to a halt. At last. “We’re here.” Papa’s jovial voice boomed off the carriage walls.
“Thank God,” she and James muttered under their breath in unison.
The footman pulled the door open and she eagerly stuck her hand out, accepting his assistance down from the stifling carriage. Her parents’ nauseating displays of affection aside, her heart picked up a beat.
“I suspect I’m wearing the same silly grin at having that repugnant exchange at an end,” her brother said at her side, his voice a hushed whisper.
She started and then looked up. “Er, yes, indeed.” James held out his arm and she hurriedly placed her hand on his extended elbow, allowing him to guide her forward.
The butler pulled the door open and permitted them entry.
“Next year, perhaps the Countess of Weston could arrange her holiday party four days earlier so we might avoid the whole infernal affair, eh?” her father said on a too loud whisper as they were ushered inside. The bewigged butler frowned.
Winnie winced at her father’s unintended rudeness. Her parents were perhaps one of the most loving couples in the kingdom, but it was certain they were not the brightest lit candles.
Her mother shot a frown up at her husband. “Do behave.”
They were summarily helped from their cloaks, and then escorted to the recital room. The marquess’ other guests had already assembled and milled about the expansive parlor with its sweeping ceilings. The esteemed Duke of Barnesworth and his two marriageable daughters, as well as the Marquess and Marchioness of Dundley and their also marriageable daughter, served as this year’s guests in what was to none present a subtle indication of the point of this year’s Christmastide recital—marry off the as of yet unwedded Marquess of Hollingbrooke. And Winnie’s parents would throw her into that sorry lot.
With her brother muttering something at her side about needing a drink or seeking out his clubs, she did a quick search of the smattering of guests gathered for the recital. Her breath caught.
Trent stood alongside the grand piano, while his youngest sister, Henrietta, occupied the bench. Pale, bespectacled, and plump, the girl appeared one wrong word away from casting up the accounts of her stomach at the prospect of performing—just as she did every year. And Winnie only knew as much because three years earlier, the girl had, in fact, gotten ill. Quite ill. Very publically, before the then assembled guests. The duke’s flawless golden-haired daughters giggled, and she cast a look back. Those two perfect English ladies, with their gazes trained on Henrietta, tittered behind their hands.
“…blind…no one will ever wed one such as her.”
Fury, potent and real, raged through her at the cruelty of those ladies. As long as Winnie had known Trent, his sister had been without vision in one eye. To be gossiped and mocked for that spoke to the vileness of their glittering world of pretend perfection.
She glowered in the ladies’ general direction, but they were too consumed with their disparagement of Lady Henrietta. Winnie fisted her hands, fueled with anger for the girls’ family. The ton might take umbrage with the Countess of Portland’s flightiness and her nervous tendency to stuff her mouth with pastries, but she was a loving mother, and she’d never publically shame Winnie, James, or Thomas, her brother off at Oxford.
“Nasty creatures,” she muttered.
James glanced about. “Who?” Winnie discreetly motioned to the perfect pair. He furrowed his brow. “Why?”
She blinked slowly. “Why?” she repeated. He could not be so very obtuse?
Her brother, nay, her very much obtuse brother, scratched at his head, dislodging a black curl. “Err…didn’t know you knew the Hallock sisters.”
Winnie rolled her eyes. She didn’t doubt James’ love, but she did doubt how much he attended his family. Then, given her fascination and long-time love of his roguish friend, she was no doubt better off with his lack of awareness. With his over-protectiveness and expectations that she make a proper match, he’d proven himself far more difficult than even their father in terms of his coddling. Dismissing her brother, Winnie focused on Trent who stood, his face in profile. With his towering, well-muscled frame and broad shoulders, the gentleman with his too-long golden locks roused a fluttering in her belly. The dimple in his right cheek hinted at his grin. A soft, wistful sigh escaped her lips. Society saw a rogue, and yet, if he was that man who delighted in collecting and then abandoning a string of hearts, he’d not be stationed at that pianoforte, alongside his sister, a kind of faithful avenger.
Periodically, Trent would say something, and his seventeen-year-old sister would nod. She tried to make out his words with the distance between them. He layered his palms on the top of the instrument and said something that raised a smile to Henrietta’s rounded cheeks. The girl hopped to her feet, the chair scraping noisily along the hardwood floor, and flung her arms about him. Winnie’s heart pulled as Trent ignored the pointed frowns shot his way by the more proper peers present and hugged her back.
“Egads, will they not begin this infernal performance?” James mumbled.
She forced her attention momentarily from Trent and frowned. “Must you be such a curmudgeon?”
Her brother at least had the good grace to flush. He rocked on his heels and shifted his gaze about. Winnie returned her focus to Trent and her breath caught.
He eyed her from across the room, through thick, dark lashes; lashes she’d spent the better part of five years hating him for because of their beauty. And even with the space between them, there could be no mistaking that burn in his eyes that threatened to singe her. Except, that was madness. Trent didn’t like her. Not truly.
She was James’ bothersome sister he sometimes schooled in matters no proper lady should be schooled in, such as throwing fisticuffs or billiards or—
“Why is your mouth agape?”
“Hmm?” Her brother’s perplexed words had the same effect as if he’d tossed a bucket of foul Thames water over her head.
She was saved from answering by the marchioness urging the collection of guests toward their respective seats. Studiously avoiding Trent, so as to not rouse any further notice from her often-inattentive brother, she filed into the last row alongside her family.
“May I?”
Winnie paused. Trent. He stood, motioning to the last seat in the row—the seat beside her. A dizzying happiness ran riot through her. He wanted to sit next to her. Of all the seats in the recital hall, he would have the one—
Trent cleared his throat and again motioned to the shellback chair. “I pledged I would sit at the back row so Henri can best see me.”
Henri. As in Henrietta. As in his sister. As in, his request had absolutely nothing to do with Winnie herself.
Her brother leaned over and nudged her in the side. “For the love of God, Winnie, slide over so Trent might have the blasted seat.”
Heat blazed across her cheeks. Trent quirked a blond eyebrow. “Er, right…” She hurried to take the seat beside her brother. He sat and his knee brushed hers, crushing her pink satin skirts. Through the soft fabric, the weight of his leg burned her skin and sent shivers of warmth spiraling through her. Surely this pull was something he felt, too? Winnie stole a sideways peek at him. Or surely not. He passed his bored stare over the recital room, and then he yawned. She narrowed her eyes. By God, he actually yawned. She ground her teeth so hard, pain shot up her jawline. How could he be so coolly unaffected by her or the feel of their legs pressed just so?
“Are you all right?”
She stiffened, and then met his amused gaze. “Never better.” Or worse, rather. “Why do you ask?”
“You are gritting your teeth.”
“I always grit my teeth,” she bit out between…well, gritted teeth.
“Yes,” he said with humor underscoring his words. “But only when you’re upset.”
Oh, blast him. Must he remember everything about her the way an older, bothersome brother might? Could he not be one of those besotted gentlemen instead and know the scent she dabbed behind her ears or the texture of her tresses? “I am not upset.”
He opened his mouth, to no doubt argue the point, but James interrupted with a low chuckle. “You fight more with Ballantine here than you do with me, your own brother.”
Winnie frowned, but then James proceeded to speak in hushed tones about a visit to White’s after the evening’s entertainment. Summarily dismissing Winnie, the two men proceeded to speak over her. Regret churned inside her. For this stilted relationship hadn’t always been between them. At one long-ago time, Trent had been teasing and she’d been laughing, and then she’d tease him, and they’d carry on without any of this stiff rigidity better reserved for strangers.
She folded her hands demurely in her lap and fixed her gaze to the front of the room, where Henrietta shifted on her bench. Sympathy pulled at her for the torture Trent’s family would put the poor girl through. And Winnie focused on these safer thoughts that had nothing to do with him. Or his thickly-muscled thigh; of which no gentleman had a right to.
Lady Henrietta depressed the keys, and the hint of the melody to While Shepherds Watched their Flock at Night filled the parlor and Winnie gave thanks for the welcome distraction.
*
His sister was rubbish on the keyboard. To be more precise, both of his sisters were rubbish on the keyboard. And even with that, his mother, the esteemed Marchioness of Hollingbrooke, insisted they put on this painfully drawn-out Christmastide recital as they had for the past three years.
The only thing worse than their playing was their singing. Henrietta’s voice cracked and Trent winced. His sister looked frantically about the room, and then found him with her gaze. He promptly schooled his features and inclined his head in silent support.
Yet, through the horridness that was his sisters’ seasonal performance, Winnie listened on as she did every year, with her lips silently mouthing the words of the song. As long as he’d known her, she’d loved to sing. And hers was the clear, lyrical soprano that could reach to the heavens if she so chose to send it there. With her attention directed on Henrietta, he studied her out the corner of his eye. Her lips moved in time to the discordant singing.
“While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around,
And glory shone around.”
With the dancing silver specks in her eyes coupled with the heightened color on her cheeks, something pulled at his chest, something that moved far beyond the hungering he’d known while instructing her in the game of billiards yesterday afternoon. And somehow, more strangely terrifying than the shameful desire he carried for his best friend’s younger sister.
She furrowed her brow and then lifted her gaze. A question lit her eyes.
Trent leaned down slightly and whispered against her ear. “I would wager you are the only one who enjoys this particular performance.” Less polite Society members had made little effort to conceal their disdain for his sisters’ showing.
“I enjoy the performance.”
He strained to hear those softly-spoken words and searched her face. Had any other person uttered the reply, they’d have been nothing more than false protestations. Despite himself, a small grin tugged his lips up. “You always enjoyed music, though, didn’t you?”
“What is not to enjoy?” she shot back, earning a quick look from down the row by Lady Portland.
Trent caught the plump older woman’s gaze and gave her his most charming smile. She returned his greeting with a wave, and then promptly returned her attention to the performance. If one was generous enough to call it as much. “Tsk, tsk. You are so indignant,” he continued in a quiet murmur.
“Not indignant,” she said from the corner of her mouth. “Annoyed.”
Of all he’d been charged with through the years where ladies were concerned, annoying them had never been one of them. Did Winnie ever suspect his was nothing more than a façade to keep her at arm’s length? “Never say annoyed with me.” His breath fanned one of those crimson curls he dreamed of being spread upon a satin coverlet.
“Good will henceforth from Heaven to men
Begin and never cease,
Begin and never cease!”
His sister concluded her first piece and the small collection of assembled guests politely clapped with Trent belatedly joining in. As his other sister, Georgette, came forward to claim the piano bench, Henrietta hopped to her feet and carefully picked her way to her seat so she might await her next performance.
Georgette pressed the keys, and the strains of Adeste Fideles filled the recital hall.
“I am always annoyed with you, Trent Anderson Ballantine.”
His lips twitched. Winnie would dig into any argument between them with an impressive tenacity. It had long aggravated James who’d moaned about having a truculent, not at all malleable sister. For Trent, such spirit in Winnie had the opposite effect—he’d been hopelessly intrigued by her shows of temper.
“Have I said something to amuse you?” By the fire snapping in Winnie’s eyes, he was one wrong word away from earning a very public walloping from the lady.
He leaned close and whispered against her ear. “Yes, you have, Winnie.” Trent braced for the outrage to line the delicate planes of her face, and yet… She froze, her lips parted on a soft moue, drawing his gaze inextricably lower to the plump, red, forbidden flesh he’d really no business hungering for. He swallowed. With her brother seated at her other side, no less. And her mother and father and his mother and entire family seated nearby. Yes, there was nothing else for
it. He was going to hell.
What manner of maddening hold did she have upon him? “Don’t you know you always,” captivate, “amuse me?”
She wet her lips and desire coursed through him. Hell. He was going straight to hell with no other path between. “I would n-not know that.” What accounted for the faint tremor to that breathless whisper? Nervousness? Desire? Did she even now hunger for him, as he did her? A wave of lust slammed into him. “Y-you have made it a point to avoid me these past two years and when you are around me, you’re really quite surly. Why, most days I’d wager you do not even like me.”
He’d have to be deaf to fail to hear the hurt, accusatory edge to that last part of her statement. Guilt sliced through him. “Winnie, I—”
James leaned over and frowned at the both of them. “Will you two stop arguing?” he asked on a low whisper. “Even I have manners enough to not argue during the performance.”
Heat scalded Trent’s neck and he turned his attention to Georgie’s playing. Her voice cracked on a soaring, too-high note for her natural contralto.
And Trent tried to attend her efforts. He really did. He stole another glance at Winnie.
To anyone else present, her forward focus on the two ladies at the front of the parlor spoke of a lady engrossed. Only, he’d come to know her body’s nuances so very well, he suspected he knew her better than he knew himself. The pinched set to her mouth and the rigid set to her shoulders hinted at her upset. With him. As she should be. After all, she had indeed been correct. He’d made it a point of adopting an aloof distance from her, treating her as more of a bothersome sister. No, she’d never suspect or know that his was a weak attempt at emotional survival where she was concerned. He should feel a sense of triumph in his deception these years; he’d proven himself a master dissembler. As such, the flash of hurt in her eyes just moments ago should provide some semblance of relief. It had ended her questions and kept his insufficient façade properly in place.
Her Christmas Rogue Page 5
