Lessons from a Scarlet Lady

by Emma Wildes

  position as the Duchess of Rolthven. Her level of experience with this sort of thing was limited.

  “Mrs. Finnegan, the housekeeper,” he said as tactfully as possible, “has been in our family’s

  service for thirty years, and she would know exactly where to place the roses for the best effect.

  She’s managed house parties often enough before. My mother would have shamelessly stolen her

  away to Italy if she could have persuaded her to go. I think Finnie would be delighted if you gave

  over some of these decisions to her.”

  Brianna said with endearing earnestness, “I do so want this to be perfect. I rather thrust this affair

  upon Colton, and if it is a social disaster, I will not only have wasted his time but caused him

  embarrassment.”

  For one brief moment, as Robert looked into her lovely face and saw the sincerity in her eyes, he

  envied his brother his wife. Not Brianna specifically, though she was beautiful in every way a

  woman could be and he admired her spirit and wit, but the idea that she had gone to the trouble of

  planning this party. Not that his older brother would even notice the roses, much less where they

  were placed, but above all she obviously wished to make Colton happy.

  What a notion. Robert was more than well acquainted with ladies who wished for him to make

  them happy. They craved the pleasure he could bring them in bed, the prestige of dallying with

  the younger brother of a duke, the expected jewelry and other expensive gifts.

  Did they ever think about him? Not the Lord Robert Northfield with his generous inheritance and

  exalted connections. Not whether or not they found him handsome and a skillful lover. But about

  his life and his thoughts and aspirations?

  Never, he had a feeling, did it occur to any of the women he bedded to ponder over his state of

  happiness. It was his fault, too, he realized as he stood there staring at Brianna, breathing in the

  scent of hothouse flowers that filled the air. He deliberately chose companions who desired

  nothing but casual sexual liaisons without emotional involvement. He seduced a specific kind of

  woman and they enjoyed his attentions immensely.

  But was it enough? No woman ever looked at him the way Brianna looked at his brother.

  Colton too, in unguarded moments when he wasn’t locked away, shutting out the world in favor

  of shipping contracts and letters to estate managers, looked at his wife with a singular softness in

  his eyes Robert suspected his older brother didn’t even know was there.

  It was astonishing that at the age of twenty-six, with his level of experience with women, Robert

  had never contemplated the possibility of falling in love with anything but derision.

  “You are nothing but a credit to him in every way, and I don’t just mean his title.” Robert patted

  the hand still holding his sleeve, listening to the hoarseness in his voice with disbelief. He wasn’t

  sentimental . . . at least, he didn’t think he was. “Now, let me go find Mrs. Finnegan for you, shall

  I? Then I suppose I need to go change. I’ve been out riding most of the day.”

  “Thank you.” Brianna released his sleeve with a rueful smile. “I would actually be grateful for

  her help.”

  “My pleasure, Madame de la Duchesse.” He bowed with exaggerated courtesy, which made her

  laugh, and then went in search of the ever efficient Finnie (as he’d called her since he was old

  enough to talk), explained that Colton’s bride could use some guidance, and went upstairs to

  change.

  All the time cognizant that he’d experienced some kind of a profound moment.

  As he adjusted his cravat in the mirror, a grim-faced image looked back at him, very unlike his

  usual devil-may-care expression.

  A knock on the door made him turn. He said curtly, “Yes?”

  Damien opened the door to his bedchamber and strolled in. “I thought we might go down to tea

  together to present a united bachelor front.”

  Robert forced a grin, trying to shake off this unprecedented contemplative mood. “Have you been

  plotting how to survive this?”

  “I’m a military advisor.” His brother shrugged. “It seems like a clever strategy to me, though I

  admit I’m more accustomed to gauging the movement of French forces than eager young ladies

  and their motivations.”

  “Perhaps we are flattering ourselves,” Robert said dryly. “It’s possible none of the young women

  Brianna invited are interested in either one of us.”

  Damien’s expression was resigned. “I haven’t been about in society for a while, but I think you

  are being optimistic. We’re Northfields, Robbie—we could be the most boorish men in all of

  England and we would still be considered eligible bachelors.”

  Robert thought so too. “You’re probably right,” he admitted. “At least Miss Marston is

  charming.” Though it was ill-advised, he added because he was thinking about her specifically,

  “And beautiful.”

  And where the devil had that comment come from? It was disconcerting to think seeing the

  young lady again was in the back of his mind.

  His brother’s brows lifted. “Miss Marston? As in the daughter of Sir Benedict Marston?”

  “Yes.” The reply was clipped. Robert hadn’t told Damien about his disagreement with the man in

  question.

  “We’ve had some communication.” Damien’s face took on the neutral expression it always did

  when discussing his profession. “He has the ear of the War Minister and of Liverpool. Odd, when

  Brianna mentioned it last night, I didn’t make the connection immediately.”

  “She’s quite good friends with Rebecca.”

  “Rebecca, is it? You are familiar enough with the lady to use her first name?”

  Robert thought of a moonlit garden and the brush of his mouth against the corner of soft,

  tempting, rose-colored lips. “No. It’s a liberty I wouldn’t take in her presence. We barely know

  each other.”

  Except he remembered the pliant fullness of her breasts against his chest and the delicate,

  haunting essence of her scent. . . .

  “Well, I might suffer her presence for a chance to speak with her father. Wellington can use all

  the help he can get with Horse Guards, and Marston has influence. I’m glad to hear she’s at least

  passably pretty so my interest seems sincere.”

  Passably? A flicker of irritation ran up Robert’s spine for some unfathomable reason. It was

  unfathomable because Damien, always reasonable and even tempered, rarely irritated anyone. He

  answered in a cool voice, “She’s very striking, actually, and rumor has it her father has turned

  down many offers for her hand. Once you meet her, you’ll understand why. She isn’t one of those

  milk-faced misses who simpers and takes pride in the fact there is nothing but fluff in her head.”

  Damien’s demeanor took on a certain cheer. “That’s welcome news. This party might not be as

  tedious as I thought.”

  “You’d pretend to take an interest in her to gain audience with her father?”

  “Nothing so nefarious.” His brother looked perplexed at his annoyed tone. “I merely meant that I

  assume she’ll be in the company of her parents most of the time and in courting Marston’s

  attention, I am sure I will be required to also court hers.”

  It made sense. Why Robert even cared was a mystery.

  One brief exchange of casual co
nversation and a quick dash into the bushes to help her escape a

  boring oaf like Watts hardly constituted anything but a passing acquaintance.

  “Go ahead and court her.” He lifted his shoulders in a deliberate nonchalant gesture.

  “I didn’t say I was going to—”

  “Damien, do as you damn well please.”

  Had he really just interrupted his older brother with such vehemence? Bloody hell, that moment

  downstairs with Brianna had him off balance.

  He moved toward the door. “Sorry. I hate affairs of this sort. They make me edgy. Let’s go have

  a stiff brandy before it all begins, shall we?”

  If the past hour was any indication, Rebecca would be lucky to make it through the next five days

  with her sanity intact.

  She sat perched on the edge of an embroidered settee, her teacup in her unsteady hand. If she

  lifted the delicate porcelain to her mouth she was sure she’d dribble tea all over her lap, so

  instead she pretended she wasn’t thirsty.

  In short, she faked having tea, which wasn’t something a respectable Englishwoman should ever

  do, but she was rather tired of the rules of respectability. Those selfsame rules had her stuck

  listening as Damien Northfield—who was almost as handsome as his rakish younger brother but

  completely lacking the dashing air and wicked smile—and her father grew engrossed in a

  conversation about the war on the Peninsula. On the opposite side of the room, Robert conversed

  with Loretta Newman, a widow who was both attractive and still quite young.

  Of course, Rebecca thought crossly, the woman had to be fashionably blond and petite and all the

  other things a gentleman might like. As she watched, Robert leaned forward just a fraction too far

  for propriety and whispered something in his companion’s ear. Mrs. Newman laughed and

  fluttered her lashes in a teasing way that made Rebecca want to grind her teeth. What they were

  talking about she couldn’t tell, but they’d been standing there in a cozy corner for the last fifteen

  minutes and—

  “Miss Marston?”

  She tore her gaze away, chagrined. Damien Northfield looked at her with perfect equanimity

  from a nearby chair. She stammered, “I—I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  Dear God in heaven, do not let him catch me staring at his brother. There was a keenness in his

  eyes that spoke of a superior intelligence.

  “I wondered,” he said with particular courtly seriousness, “how you were enjoying London this

  year?”

  At least it wasn’t a difficult question. “About as much as last year,” she said honestly. He had

  nice eyes, she noted, but they were dark rather than an arresting azure blue. His clean-cut

  Northfield features didn’t show Robert’s slightly sinful charm or Colton’s reserve, but were

  something his entirely, something watchful and quiet.

  A quixotic smile quirked Lord Damien’s lips. “I see.”

  Her father frowned at the ambiguous nature of her response. She refused to look apologetic but

  instead focused on Robert’s older brother. Surely she could do

  better. “I meant it is quite a whirl.”

  Apparently she couldn’t do much better.

  Lord Damien didn’t seem to mind. He said in a mild tone, “I find it such myself. Even without

  the war, I fear I am a bit too solitary to spend a great deal of time in London. Robert is quite the

  opposite.” He glanced in the direction where his brother still stood flirting with the desirable Mrs.

  Newman.

  “He does seem to go about in society.” It was a banal comment and Rebecca wished violently she

  could drink her tea to give her hands something to do, but really she was afraid of embarrassing

  herself.

  “He mentioned the two of you were acquainted.”

  That comment got her full attention. How much had he mentioned? Their collision in the

  doorway? The flight through the gardens? That almost kiss she couldn’t stop thinking about? She

  hoped Robert hadn’t detailed the whole story to his brother, and she prayed that if he had,

  Damien wouldn’t choose to repeat it now in front of her father. Surely, as an attaché to

  Wellington, he had more tact than that.

  Everything would have been fine except she blushed. To her horror she felt the rush of blood

  upward and the warmth invade her face. “We’ve been introduced,” she said just a little too

  quickly, not daring to look over at her father.

  “Yes, well, I imagine so. You are a good friend of my sister-in-law, I understand.” Lord

  Damien’s expression was bland.

  Tact indeed. He made it sound very natural that she would be acquainted with a rake of the

  highest caliber, even one her father despised. She nodded, grateful for his explanation. “Brianna

  and I have been friends most of our lives. Our families have estates quite close by each other, and

  we met as children.”

  “Our acquaintance is still brief but she seems like a lovely person.”

  “She is.” At least Rebecca could say that with conviction.

  To her relief, he turned back to her father and asked a question about the upcoming Parliamentary

  session, and she was once again abandoned to her now tepid but still full cup of tea. It was torture

  not to look, but she didn’t dare so much as a glance over to where Robert and the pretty widow

  stood, at least not for a few moments.

  To her dismay, when she did sneak a quick look, they were gone. Both of them.

  A sick feeling curled in the pit of her stomach.

  It was one thing to have a hopeless passion for a known rake, and quite another to be witness to

  his indiscretions. Oh, she’d seen him dance and chat and smile in crowded ballrooms before, but

  there were always a great deal of people milling about, and she’d never seen him leave with any

  of his fawning admirers. When a man and a woman disappeared at a house party together . . .

  well, she read the gossip columns and was worldly enough to know what happened.

  Had they gone upstairs to where the bedrooms were located?

  It was possible.

  It stung, though she had no right to feel upset or betrayed. She just . . . did.

  With only a small rattle of her cup in its saucer, she managed to set aside her tea. If she didn’t

  escape this room she might scream. When she stood, naturally her father and Lord Damien rose

  politely also. Rebecca murmured, “Excuse me. It is so lovely out, and the estate’s gardens

  beckon. Brianna has complimented them so many times. I must see for myself.”

  Damien’s brows elevated a fraction, and to her horror he offered his arm. “Please allow me to

  escort you.”

  No! He looks so much like him . . . that thick chestnut hair, and his profile. . . .

  What she truly desired was to be alone and to compose herself. But if she refused Damien’s

  proffered escort, her father would be immensely irritated and she would seem churlish. So she set

  her fingers on his sleeve and dredged up a smile. “That would be lovely.”

  They left the room together through a set of French doors open to the late afternoon. Damien led

  her around the sweep of the huge terrace toward the back of the house where the formal gardens

  were laid out, at least fifteen acres of them, he informed her in his diffident way, their walk more

  of a stroll. Had she really been interested in the flowers and sculpted bushes, she would have

  been glad
of his company, but not now, considering her mother’s aspirations for her to look at

  Lord Damien as a possible candidate for a husband.

  This was most uncomfortable.

  He selected a path and she walked next to him, hoping she looked composed. Lest he think she

  was a complete idiot without a gracious bone in her body, she murmured politely, “Are you

  enjoying your leave from your duties in Spain, my lord?”

  He looked reflective, a faint smile teasing his lips. “I would be a fool to say I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?

  Who would wish to trade this wonderful place, a chance to see my family and friends, and time to

  relax for the hardships of war?”

  Rebecca wasn’t sure how to respond. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight edge in his tone,

  but she didn’t know him well enough to judge.

  “I am,” he said succinctly, “occasionally foolish.” She blinked. “I take it that means you would

  rather be back in Spain?”

  “I enjoy my duties,” he admitted. “It is a pleasure to align myself against Bonaparte and his venal

  ambitions. The visit home is nice, but though it might sound odd, I am anxious to get back to the

  war.”

  “It’s admirable.” In secret, she devoured the newspaper accounts of the quest to wrest free the

  Emperor’s inexorable hold over Europe. “Everyone, from the Duke of Wellington himself to the

  lowliest soldier, risks much for England and the world.”

  “I relish the challenge.”

  He spoke the truth—she could tell. Rebecca smiled up at him. It was the first genuine smile she’d

  been able to give since she arrived at Rolthven. “I think you do.”

  “I love my family too—don’t mistake me—but I am not Colton, with his estates and

  responsibilities. Nor am I Robbie, with his joie de vivre attitude toward life. Not that my youngest

  brother is shallow in any way. I am not sure if it is common knowledge, but he has a canny knack

  for numbers of any kind, from financial investments to card games. Never pit yourself against

  him in whist, Miss Marston, for I promise you, you will lose.”

  Why were they talking about Robert again?

  Or was she just sensitive to the subject? It was natural enough for him to mention his younger

  brother.

  Rebecca murmured, “I shall take your warning to heart, lest I be lured into a contest of that sort.”