by Emma Wildes
sophistication of his usual paramours that her difference struck a chord.
But he’d continued to think about her. Worse, he’d looked for her at the past few parties he’d
attended. With her rich sable hair and graceful form she was easy enough to find, and he
wondered why he hadn’t paid more attention in the past. The night before, after several brandies
no doubt, he had even considered asking her for a dance.
Luckily, the insanity had been temporary, though he was halfway across the ballroom before he
had realized what he was doing and came to his senses. The gossip sheets columnists would have
had a field day if he’d been seen waltzing with an innocent young lady of unquestionable virtue.
“A small party?” Damien broke into his thoughts. “That suits me better than a large affair. I’m so
very out of touch with society at this time. Please tell me there won’t be eligible young ladies in
attendance, though I feel rather doomed you are going to. What is a house party without
simpering young misses?”
Rebecca would never simper. It was a startling conviction, since Robert really didn’t know her
that well. “None I know of,” he was able to say honestly.
If he admitted it to himself, he did wish he’d stolen that kiss from her when he’d been tempted.
Maybe then his curiosity would have been satisfied and he would be able to put her out of his
mind.
He dismissed the off-limits Miss Marston in favor of another glass of wine.
She agonized—agonized like a ninny—over what to wear. Not just for her arrival, but for every
single minute of the stay at Rolthven Manor. That, of course, was after she agonized over
whether or not her father would agree to her attendance, though in the end, he had acquiesced.
Rebecca wasn’t even sure she should attend, for that matter.
It was a devil’s own dilemma.
“This one, miss?” Her maid held up a silver tissue gown she particularly liked because it was the
most daring dress she owned. Not that “daring” meant much in the context of her wardrobe, so
carefully selected by her mother, but it was the least conservative.
Why not take it? After all, Brianna had worn that scandalous gown to the opera and reported it
drove the Duke to some very unusual behavior. The silver tissue was her best option if she
wanted to get noticed. “Yes,” Rebecca said with what she hoped was nonchalance. “And the
aquamarine silk, too, please. Slippers to match, and my best shawl since the evenings in the
country could be cool.”
“Yes, miss.” Molly carefully folded the silver gown and put it in her trunk.
Five days of being near Robert Northfield. In his childhood home, eating at the same table,
exchanging witty banter . . .
Only, Rebecca thought with a twinge, her banter wasn’t the least clever in his presence, and if he
followed his usual pattern of behavior, he would simply avoid her like she was a plague-ridden
rodent.
Cheery thought, that.
Currently, she was fashionably popular. For a second season. Young men fawned over her, but
those were gentlemen seeking suitable wives. Heaven deliver her from politically ambitious fools
like Lord Watts who valued not just her person, but her father’s influence.
The all too handsome, disreputable Robert Northfield wasn’t looking for a wife.
But she was going to Essex anyway.
“I’ll have the amber lace, the ivory tulle, and the pink muslin. Two of my best riding habits, and
traveling attire for the journey back.” Rebecca fought a twist of nervousness in her stomach. “I’m
sure we’ll find Rolthven Manor most formal.”
Sally merely nodded and set to work.
Packing done, Rebecca checked her appearance in the mirror, straightened her hair, and headed
downstairs to dinner. It was her father’s custom for them all to meet in the drawing room for a
glass of sherry before they dined, and he hated it when she was late. Inevitably that meant a
lecture, and though in many ways she adored him, he could be tedious at times.
She entered the drawing room and said cheerily, “I was packing. Am I late?”
“Almost.” In elegant clothing, even for an en famille dinner at home, her father was distinguished
and imposing. He lifted a small crystal glass and handed it to her with a courtly nod of his head.
“Fortunately, that means no. You are just on time, my dear.”
“Thank you.” She demurely accepted the offering.
“My previous agreement to this outing wasn’t made without reservations.”
Rebecca stifled an inner groan. That was no surprise. He frequently had reservations. “The
Dowager Duchess—” she began.
“Is elderly,” he finished. “Though I mean her no disrespect. Your mother and I have decided to
accept the invitation to accompany you. It’s rather last minute, but I sent word to the Duchess of
Rolthven earlier today. She graciously sent a note back that we would be welcome even at such
late notice. The matter is settled.”
Rebecca’s heart sank. Being accompanied by her parents was mortifying. Truly, she was several
months older than Brianna, but here she was, coddled like a child, while her friend could throw
parties and wear what she wished and . . . oh, it was infuriating in so many ways. Rebecca
straightened her spine and sank into an embroidered chair, the chilly formality of the room only
emphasizing her role as a virtual prisoner.
At that moment, she had a minor revelation. Or maybe even a major one. All she knew was it
shook her deeply because it was knowledge she’d been avoiding for months.
Independence was a precious commodity. She craved it, but the only acceptable way for her to
leave her parents was to go to a husband. Time was running out, plain and simple.
She stared at her glass. “So I am not to be trusted on my own, I take it? Bri can blithely throw
parties and invite whomever she wishes, yet I myself, without the benefit of a male guiding my
every move, am not to be trusted for a moment without my hovering parents.”
“Your friend is no longer an unmarried maiden,” her father said after a brief pause. “Her actions
are governed by her husband. You can’t say the same. When you can, rest assured we will step
aside.”
“This is punishment because I haven’t married?” She lifted her brows deliberately, the glass of
sherry precarious in her hands.
“Your parents’ companionship at a country party is punishment?”
Well, her father was a politician, after all, and a neat turning of the tables was his specialty. But
Rebecca was not looking forward to trying to conceal her awareness of Robert’s presence,
especially in such a small amount of company. Her parents had just made everything more
complicated. “No, of course not.”
“Then we are in accord.”
Not precisely how she would describe the situation. She chose not to comment.
“What about Damien Northfield?”
Rebecca froze, her glass halfway to her mouth, arrested by her mother’s statement. “Damien
Northfield? What do you mean? What about him?”
“He’s returned from Spain.”
She stared, speechless at first.
Her mother looked thoughtful. “I hadn’t really thought about it before, but he is very suitable. For
now, he is even Rolthven’s heir—”
The idea was so ludicrous Rebecca cut in, “You must be joking.”
Oh dear, she never interrupted her mother. Even as her father’s brows knit into a fierce frown,
she hastily relented, “What I meant is, I don’t know him at all.”
Plus he was Robert’s brother. But she could hardly use that as an argument, so she took an
unladylike gulp of sherry instead.
“I was pointing out this might be a chance to make his acquaintance, and who knows? Maybe the
two of you will suit.” Her mother lifted her brows, her eyes taking on a gleam Rebecca
recognized. “It has been a while since he was out in society, but if I recall, he has the Northfield
good looks, and a more than respectable fortune. Think of how delighted Brianna would be if you
developed a penchant for her brother-in-law—and he for you.”
Her penchant was already firmly in place for one of the Northfield brothers whether Rebecca
wanted it or not, and if her parents knew about the infatuation, they would never agree to let her
go to Rolthven, with or without them. “I’m sure he’s a very pleasant man,” she said neutrally,
“but it seems to me he is quite busy as some sort of aide-de-camp for General Wellington, isn’t
he? I hardly think he’s in the market for a wife at this time.”
“There’s talk of a knighthood for his service to the Crown,” her father commented, not helping
matters one bit.
Rebecca shot him a reproachful look that said “traitor.”
He raised his brows. “Whether or not you like Northfield, I am sure other young men will be
there also to dance attendance upon you and pester me to be allowed to escort you to the various
entertainments.” His expression changed from slight amusement to a more serious mien. He
added, “This might be a nice opportunity for you to get to know some of them better outside the
melee of balls and crowded social events.”
His implication was clear: further acquaintance might help her make up her mind. This second
season hadn’t pleased him, but he had endured her adamant refusals of every proposal so far. As
her twenty-first birthday loomed, she knew he would soon issue an ultimatum.
What would she do if he did? It wasn’t in question: both her parents wanted to see her settled and
secure. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said without any inflection at all, not willing to do battle on
the point at the moment. When she really needed to fight—like in the case of Lord Watts as a
possible future husband—she would, but she had no desire to depart for this trip already at odds
with her watchful parents.
Unfortunately, her father was difficult to fool. He said dryly, “I’m always uneasy when you agree
with me so readily.”
She summoned an innocent look. “In this case I really do agree. I confess to being tired of all the
whirl of London, and this outing sounds like a pleasant break. Just being able to visit with
Arabella and Brianna will make it a lovely time, I’m sure.”
“And do not forget the Duke’s younger brother,” her mother said in prim reminder.
As if she could, Rebecca thought with a glimmer of despair, sipping her sherry. She thought all
too often about the Duke of Rolthven’s younger brother, but not the one her mother meant.
Rebecca had a feeling this might be a grueling five days.
Chapter Seven
Desire is a game. One can play it with subtle nuance, or flagrant flirtation.
From the chapter entitled: “How to Run and Be Sure You Get Caught”
Brianna grasped the strap to steady herself as they bumped over a particularly rough patch of
road. Across from her, Colton barely shifted on the seat, his long legs extended so his booted feet
brushed her skirts, his expression abstracted as he read yet another letter from the stack of
correspondence he’d brought with him. A lock of chestnut hair had fallen boyishly over his brow
at some time during the journey and he was too distracted to notice it, but there was nothing
boyish about the width of his shoulders or the clean masculinity of his features.
Finally she yielded to the impulse that had tempted her for the past few miles and leaned across
to brush the wayward curl back into place in a familiar gesture.
He glanced up from the piece of vellum in his hand, and then, to her relief, actually set it aside.
“I’m ignoring you. My apologies.”
“You did tell me you would still have to take care of your affairs during our time at Rolthven, but
I admit the silence is wearing on me.” Brianna didn’t really expect him to understand she was
nervous about her first real foray into playing the grand hostess. He was so used to all the pomp
and grand affairs she doubted he ever gave them all a second thought. For heaven’s sake, Colton
greeted the prince regent by his first name.
“What was your childhood like?” The question seemed appropriate to the moment as they neared
the estate where he grew up, and she was curious.
Colton’s brows went up a fraction. “My childhood?”
“I cannot imagine it is easy, growing up the oldest son of a duke.” She pictured her nieces
running amuck in the garden the other day and gales of childish laughter. Her own childhood had
been wonderful. “Were you allowed to play and ride a pony and learn to swim . . . all those
typical things children love to do?”
“Actually, yes. To a point, I suppose.” Azure eyes regarded her with a look that could only be
described as wary. “May I ask why we are having this discussion?”
“It’s hardly a discussion,” she pointed out. “You’ve contributed two words. And the reason I
asked is because you allow so little time for enjoyment in your day now. I wondered if you were
raised to believe life should be lived in such a manner.”
“I believe you’ve met my brother.” Colton’s tone was dry. “Obviously, we were not raised to
disavow frivolity. Not to say Robert is a frivolous man, but he does not deny himself his
pleasures.”
But neither was Robert an oldest son, Brianna mused, watching her husband from under the
fringe of her lashes.
“I attend musicals, the opera, and other entertainments. I have my morning ride unless the
weather is foul. I visit my club.” Colton extolled the list slowly. His voice deepened. “I especially
enjoy my nights since I’ve married.”
Whatever reply she might have made to that suggestive observation was arrested by the swing of
the carriage into the long drive. The façade of Rolthven Manor was not precisely medieval, but it
somehow managed to convey a sense of that time despite elegant lines and clean, gray stone.
Maybe it was the turrets on either side of the grand front, imposing and tall, flanking the structure
with the grandiose symbolism of an era when the Northfields had been feudal lords. Colton had
explained to her on her first visit that only parts of the original castle remained since the main
hall had been torn down and rebuilt several hundred years ago. A grand set of wide steps led to a
magnificent terrace and the entrance itself was massive, the double doors sporting stained-glass
panels and dark wood. The family coat of arms was carved in the portal so no one could possibly
think this country seat of the ducal holdings was anything but theirs, through and through.
On a gloomy day, Brianna found the place a bit daunting from the outside despite th
e trim
grounds and well-tended flower beds. However, on a gloriously sunny day, it managed to look
warm and inviting, and she hoped her guests felt the same way.
If she was going to do this for Colton, she wanted to do it well.
The equipage rolled up the drive and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered.
His lack of enthusiasm for the event was obvious enough, she thought with only a measure of
resignation. Her resolve to make this enjoyable for a man who had no intention of enjoying it was
strengthened by the list of her current successes. To bolster her courage, she mentally counted
them. Three so far. She’d actually jotted them down and tucked the piece of vellum into Lady
Rothburg’s forbidden book.
One wild, erotic carriage ride.
One evening when he . . . well, she felt flushed whenever she thought of it, but when he actually
had kissed her in a place she never dreamed any man would kiss and it had felt wickedly
wonderful.
One memorable bath and the interlude it had inspired.
On the piece of paper it said: THE OPERA. HIS BEDROOM. MY BATH .
She hardly wanted to take the chance of anyone ever finding the note and interpreting her
meaning to both her and Colton’s mutual embarrassment. Of one thing she was certain; he would
not be happy about it in the least. On the other hand, she needed to chart her progress because at
times like this—when he’d ridden with her in a closed carriage for hours and hours and been so
preoccupied he barely spoke until these last miles when she’d prodded him into it—she needed to
keep a clear idea of her objectives or she was bound to get discouraged.
He enjoyed his nights. Passion was well and good, but not just passion. Friendship, too. And then
love.
The carriage came to a rocking halt.
She hoped she’d have more triumphs to add to the list after this house party.
“We’re here,” she said brightly.
“I hope so,” her husband replied, a small smile curving his mouth, “otherwise we have stopped
moving for no reason.”
He well deserved the withering look she sent him, but he was oblivious to it. Colton got out and
offered his hand to assist her from the vehicle.
A line of servants had arranged themselves on the steps, Brianna noticed, but he acknowledged
