by Emma Wildes
When Damien came in a few moments later, she stood there still, looking out over drooping,
overblown rose bushes and dripping hedges. There was cool, understated amusement in his voice.
“You do realize if your mother hears that you wanted to see me privately before you left, she will
start planning our wedding.”
Rebecca turned, a rueful smile curving her mouth. “I was actually just standing here wondering
what on earth I even wanted to say.”
He moved into the room, that slight signature smile on his good-looking face. “Ah, that’s the
beauty of dealing with a spymaster. We know what you are thinking even before you do.”
Rebecca lifted her brows. “Are you a spymaster? I thought you were a tactical advisor or
something like it.”
“I wear many hats.” He indicated a chair. “Now then, sit, and we’ll discuss what to do about my
stubborn brother.”
She sat down, her legs feeling rubbery anyway. Damien settled on a settee embroidered with
butterflies, his blatant masculinity at odds with the feminine décor, and he elevated one brow in a
mannerism she’d seen before. “Now then,” he drawled, “I take it from Robert’s surly mood that
things went quite well last evening.”
“Define ‘well.’ ” Rebecca plucked at her skirt. “He isn’t interested in marriage. He made that
much very clear.”
“My dear Miss Marston, I hate to tell you that few men wake up one morning and decide what
they want most in life is to be tied forever to one woman. I will even go on to explain that men
like Robert—who don’t need an heir in particular, who have a fortune already, and whom most
women find quite irresistible—are particularly immune. At this point in his life, he does what he
pleases and he believes he’s happy.”
It was all true. She knew it, and it was pretty much what Robert had bluntly told her.
“Is he happy?” she asked, trying to hide the waver in her voice.
“If I thought so, would I have found myself in the ridiculous position of boosting a young lady
through a library window?”
He had a point. A laugh bubbled forth, half despair, half real mirth at the dry tone of his voice. “I
suppose not,” she conceded. “Even Mrs. Newman told me this morning she thought he might be
sincerely interested.”
“Did she now? I suppose I am not surprised, for anyone truly paying attention would notice.
Perhaps, then, since his sincere interest has been established, we should develop a plan.”
“A plan?” Her stomach tightened.
“Or whatever it is you wish to call it if we want to make him set aside his misgivings and see
what is staring him in the face. I’d hate to have a stubborn fool for a brother. It reflects poorly on
my family bloodlines.”
It was a backhanded compliment if there ever was one, and though she’d been showered with
enough flowery words from other gentlemen to last a lifetime, Rebecca had never felt so moved.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He waved a hand in a deceptively languid movement, but those dark eyes held a reflective gleam.
“Don’t thank me yet. My strategy is not in place. I will have to think on this. Defeating the
French is a challenge, but bringing a determined bachelor to his knees might be a greater chore.
Here I feared my leave would bore me to death. At last, something of a feat to accomplish.”
There was no help for it; her mouth twitched. “Robert said he pitied Bonaparte if you were
against him.”
Damien looked bland. “So he should. Just imagine my brother’s peril. I can taste victory
already.”
The kiss had been a bloody mistake, but he wouldn’t exchange the error for anything.
And that was about as stupid a sentiment as any man could express. Robert touched his heel to
his horse. The damp weather soaked his coat, his hair, and filled the air with the smell of fecund
vegetation. Autumn, held at bay by the sunshine and balmy breezes of the past days, was finally
announcing its presence.
When he arrived in London hours later he was soaked to the skin, in a foul mood, and more
unsettled than he could remember being since his father died. He wanted nothing more than to
bathe away the fall chill and forget the entire episode.
Well, except for Rebecca’s moving performances on the pianoforte. No one who could consider
himself a true musician would banish those from his mind.
Nor could he forget her. She’d pointed out she was no longer a girl, but neither was she yet a
woman. Not until she gave her herself in marriage to some lucky bastard who would touch that
delectable body, taste her sweet mouth, and experience passion in her arms. . . .
If there wasn’t such a bitter misunderstanding between himself and her father, would he consider
being that fortunate man?
Maybe.
That realization was frightening enough to send him right to his club once he was dressed in dry
clothes, the memory of her soft lips parting in innocent invitation unnerving. Since when did
untutored young ladies exude such irresistible allure?
He walked into his club at just a little after nine, intent on a drink and a hot meal. But it soon
became apparent that he was too restive for conversation, so he excused himself after eating only
half his dinner, right in the middle of a discussion of the fall race meets, leaving several friends
with startled expressions on their faces.
He’d explain his erratic behavior some other time. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He sure as hell was not
going to mention Rebecca Marston’s name.
Too restless to go home and get some much-needed sleep, he found himself on Curzon Street.
Since it was early yet, he decided to call on an old friend. Knocking on the door, he discovered
Sir John was indeed home, and Robert handed over his engraved card before being shown into an
informal parlor crammed with all sorts of oddities, including a carved totem from one of the
American Indian tribes, brought back after one of John Traverston’s trips to the colonies. In a
bizarre way it fit with the Italian marble fireplace, the antique tapestry depicting St. George and
his legendary dragon, and all the other sundry items one would never find in a typical London
townhouse.
“Young Robert!” At not quite sixty, his face showing rugged lines from the time he had spent
outdoors in the course of his travels, Sir John rose from a battered chair where he’d been reading.
His thick hair, blending from gray to white, was untidy as usual, and he wasn’t yet dressed for the
evening, wearing instead wrinkled trousers and a plain white shirt. The tang of tobacco hung in
the air and a smoldering pipe sat in a tray on a small table. “This is a nice surprise. I haven’t seen
you in months. Come in and sit down. Drink?”
Robert still had a slight headache from the previous evening and he’d made the mistake of tasting
Sir John’s imported liquor before. “Yes, but please, not that revolting concoction made by
deranged monks you served me the last time.”
John chuckled. “Actually, it’s from a monastery tucked into a remote part of Portugal and
considered a rare find. I take it you weren’t impressed? Ah, well, then, how about a dull glass of
ordinary claret?”
“That would be fine, thank you.”
“For a young lad
who is adventurous in some ways, you have an ordinary palate—but very well.”
His host moved to select a glass from a mismatched collection on a nearby bamboo table, some
of them probably irreplaceable pieces from only God knew where. Sir John, his father’s lifelong
friend, loved to roam the earth and returned from each adventure with a new collection of
peculiar treasures, the vile beverage among them.
Robert accepted the glass and sat down. He wasn’t sure what had brought him to seek out Sir
John.
No, not true. He needed to talk to someone. Someone older and definitely wiser. Colton was the
head of the family now, and Robert loved and respected his brother in every way, but the threeyear age difference hardly made him a father figure, duke or not. For as long as Robert could
remember, John Traverston had been a part of his life, like an eccentric uncle. Now he
represented what Robert had lost that fateful night of his father’s death. John had thankfully been
in England at the time, and had lent his gentle support to a shocked widow and her young,
bewildered sons.
If ever Robert needed sound, unbiased advice, this was the time.
“How was Colton’s birthday?” John picked up a bottle of opaque green glass and poured a brown
substance into his glass. “I was sorry not to make it, but quite frankly, house parties are for the
young. It is the privilege of getting older that one can refuse to attend certain events. Can you
picture me doing charades after dinner?”
It was a perfect segue, but still Robert hesitated. He wasn’t even sure he’d come to talk about the
tempting Rebecca. “It was pleasant enough,” he said in an offhand voice, which, it turned out,
was not very effective.
“Oh?” John’s white brows lifted. He drank some of the liquid in his glass with obvious relish and
Robert stifled a grimace. He remembered how he’d nearly choked and inelegantly spit it on the
rug when he’d been served the nasty stuff.
“Brianna did a wonderful job in her first real foray as hostess. Grandmama helped, and, I believe,
enjoyed herself immensely. She pretended to be stern, but I could see the sparkle in her eyes the
entire time.”
“Your grandmother has always been a perfect matriarch in every way: regal, and yet warm. I
remember when your father and I were boys she had the ability to terrify us with a single look,
but if we got into mischief, she was the first to defend us. Even your grandfather deferred to her.
They had a good marriage, which is refreshing in a society that all too often places more
emphasis on bloodlines and wealth than affection.”
Marriage.
That word seemed to haunt him. Robert nodded and stared at his glass. “Yes, I know.”
“Your parents also were lucky in that regard. It was an arranged match that blossomed, but I
don’t need to tell you that.”
Robert shifted in his chair. “I remember. Now Colton and his bride seem to share the same . . .”
He couldn’t think of how to finish the sentence. Not that there wasn’t still some
misunderstanding between his older brother and his beautiful wife, but when they were together,
there was an unmistakable bond.
Therein lay the problem. Robert wasn’t sure he wanted that sort of a commitment. It entailed a
great deal of responsibility.
“The ‘same’?” A gentle prompt.
Silence. Damn all.
“Whenever you care to tell me why you are really here, feel free. I have no plans that can’t be
changed.” John sipped his vile drink and simply sat there, a benign look on his weathered face.
Oh well, hell, Robert told himself in mocking reproof, he might as well blurt it all out. “There is
someone. A young woman.”
“My dear, Robbie, I am not surprised. With you, there is always a woman.”
“No,” Robert said tightly. “Not like her.”
“That I gathered, so forgive the facetious remark. Go on. What about this young lady?”
“She’s unmarried.”
“I see.” John merely looked vaguely amused. “Some of them are.”
This was foolish. Why was he even thinking about it, about Rebecca Marston, whose father
would toss him out on his ear after her mother fainted if he arrived on their doorstep? “Very
unmarried,” he expostulated, rubbing his jaw.
“I was unaware there were degrees, but do continue. So there is a very unmarried young lady out
there. Why does she bring you to my sitting room on this dreary night?”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
“I see. Can I venture a guess, then?”
Robert laughed out a choked sound of assent and John furrowed his brow. “I am going to say this
young lady has captivated your interest and you—despite your determination to ignore it—can’t
quite get her out of your mind. So, with casual seduction not an option—if it were, we wouldn’t
be having this discussion—you are forced for the first time in your life to ask yourself if
permanence is as frightening as you have always considered it to be.”
His mouth tightened, and Robert said more curtly than he intended, “Frightening? Excuse me if I
resent the word choice. I do not think I am a coward.”
“Robbie, my boy, one’s fears do not evaporate when one becomes a man.” John contemplated the
worn tip of his unpolished boot. “We are challenged by our emotions our whole lives. I think
very few people who know you well are unaware of your wariness of emotional commitment.
You were young when your father left this world so unexpectedly. All focus shifted to Colton
because of the pomp and responsibility of the title. He felt the need to suddenly become a pillar
of respectable behavior, maybe to a degree not necessary in a man of only twenty. Damien, also,
became a direct ducal heir. He dealt with it by absorbing himself in the intrigue of the war at the
first opportunity. You, on the other hand, decided to handle your life by indulging in as much
pleasure as possible, be it women, wine, or a throw of the dice. You’ve followed your chosen
paths a little too well, all three of you.”
The assessment was not necessarily flattering, but it was insightful. Robert nearly choked on his
mouthful of wine. “Is that so?”
“You did come here for my opinion, correct?” Amusement glinted in John’s eyes, but it was
benevolent. “Why don’t you tell me who this young woman is who has finally tugged at your
formerly inviolate heart?”
Good God, he was reluctant. But Robert had the growing fear that for the rest of his life he would
remember the touch of her lips parted beneath his and the telltale catch in the soft exhale of her
breath.
. . . I did not marry because of you. . . .
More than anything he wished she had never told him. Maybe, if she hadn’t, he could have just
walked away.
But it was too late for that. He knew, and moreover, she knew he knew.
“Rebecca Marston,” he confessed heavily. “Sir Benedict Marston’s daughter.”
His father’s old friend leaned back, his drink suspended in his hand. After a moment, he said
heavily, “I believe I now understand your dilemma. I know him fairly well. Benedict is not a very
flexible man, and I know he thinks ill of you.”
“Don’t think I don’t realize that.” Robert said with a hint of bitterness. “There is virtually nothing
<
br /> to stand in my favor. Correct or not, he despises me as a cheat, my reputation as you know is far
from pristine, and though my finances are solid, his well-dowered daughter could have anyone.
He doesn’t need my money, I bear nothing but a courtesy title, and even the Northfield name isn’t
enough to ease this situation.”
“Are you sure? You’ve spoken with Sir Benedict?”
“No. The lesson in futility doesn’t appeal to me. Take my word, he’d never let me approach his
virginal daughter.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Colton wields considerable influence, and Sir Benedict is an ambitious
man.”
“Given my reputation, I’m not sure that fine breeding makes a difference.” Robert rubbed his
temple. “Damn all, if I could really blame the man, John. If the story he thinks is true were true, I
wouldn’t be fit to touch her hand. I don’t know that I am anyway. Before now, I hadn’t
considered the ramifications of carrying around a certain brand of notoriety.”
“Our pasts do have an uncomfortable habit of dragging along behind us. Wait until you get to be
my age.” John regarded him with slightly uplifted brows. “Tell me, what does she think?”
“Rebecca doesn’t know the whole story, but she is aware of her father’s disapproval of me.”
“Ah, you’ve spoken with the young lady, then.”
A pair of aqua eyes, hair silken as a moonlit midnight, intoxicating lips, soft, warm, and
willing . . .
“We’ve talked,” Robert bit out, unwilling to discuss the kiss. “She claims she didn’t marry last
season because of her . . . her absurd infatuation with me.”
He’d just stammered. Robert Northfield did not stammer.
“Is it absurd?” John twitched up a bushy brow. “If it is mutual, I mean.”
Robert gave him a moody look. “It could just be lust. She’s quite lovely.”
“But you understand lust quite well, Robert. If this young lady has such a grip on you, perhaps
this is different.”
“One does not change one’s entire life on a perhaps.” Robert really could not stay seated one
more moment, so he shoved himself to his feet. He walked over to the totem and stared into one
of the grinning faces. “What if it isn’t in me to stay faithful? I would hurt her and—”
“And you couldn’t bear to do so,” John finished for him when he hesitated. “That says quite a lot
