by Emma Wildes
room was one thing, but compromising Sir Benedict Marston’s daughter meant a trip to the
cathedral, all the trimmings . . . and why the devil he was even having this recitation in his head
he didn’t know.
To his infinite relief Damien finally returned, and they hastily made their excuses and left. Once
they were settled in the carriage again, Robert said dryly, “I hate to criticize your legendary
craftiness, but that was a complete disaster.”
“How so?” Damien lounged on the seat across from him, looking unimpressed by the declaration.
“Losing your touch, are you? Is the fair Rebecca no longer interested? I could swear after that
tender kiss—”
“You watched us?” Robert interrupted, not sure why it made him so irritated.
“Not on purpose, you surly fool. I was standing outside in the dark and you were in a lighted
room. Even through the curtains it was obvious what happened. Not to mention her face
afterwards when she rejoined me and I escorted her back inside. That dreamy glow is
unmistakable.”
“You are doing your best to make me feel guilty about this.” Robert shifted, indicative of his
unrest. “It won’t work.”
“It’s working already. Heavens, Robert, why are you being so thickheaded? Everyone else just
falls into your arms at the crook of your little finger, and you have to work for what you desire
just this once. I do not see how that is so terrible. The fair lady is already won. All you have to do
is convince her parents your intentions are honorable.”
“Oh, is that all?” Robert’s voice was wry. “Lady Marston’s very thinly veiled remarks on my
lack of character pose somewhat of a problem. Had she said out loud she thought I was a
scoundrel unfit to court her daughter she couldn’t have been clearer.”
“So? It will take some effort. Is the lovely Rebecca not worth it?”
“How easy it is for you to spout advice when you are not in my place.” Robert hesitated, torn
between resentment and something else. Something he was afraid to examine too closely. Finally,
he said, “Look, Damien, what she thinks she wants and what I am may not be the same thing.
You have a point. So women like the rakish Robert Northfield. But they aren’t interested in the
real me. I love music. I enjoy quiet evenings at home. I adore my grandmother and visit my
father’s friends simply because I like them. There is every chance that Rebecca sees only the side
presented to society. I am not so sure I am proud of that Robert Northfield, but women do like
him.”
“So you worry she is infatuated with the rogue, not the real man?”
He wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation. He’d never had to examine his feelings before
with the idea of permanence hanging in the balance. “I don’t know.”
“Oh please, give her credit for more perception than that. She can separate the man who plays the
cello like a poet creating verse from the rakehell who only now and then shows a glimmer of
sensitivity.”
That declaration made it all sound so simple, when it was anything but. Robert lifted a brow in a
cynical movement. “A glimmer?”
“I said occasionally ‘shows a glimmer,’ ” Damien expounded, unruffled at Robert’s terse tone.
“Quite frankly, of the three of us, you are actually the sensitive one. Colton seeks his solace in his
work, I find it in war and intrigue, and you sought it in the arms of beautiful women. I do not
pretend to be a philosopher, but at least you favored pleasure and human contact. Come now,
brother: please explain to me why it isn’t possible for you to fall deeply in love with an equally
sensitive young woman and find contentment in her arms only. Obviously moving from one bed
to another hasn’t satisfied you.”
“What makes you think I am not content?” Robert realized he’d raised his voice and lowered it.
“I have no interest in changing my life.”
“What about children? It has always been my opinion you will make a remarkably wonderful
father. You have that sort of personality children love. You are very physical also, just the kind to
cavort with your sons on the lawn or twirl your daughters in your arms. With your sentimental
nature—”
“Good God, Damien, would you stop?” Robert said it thickly, suddenly picturing himself holding
a laughing little girl with sable curls and eyes the color of a tropical sea. Nothing of the sort had
ever crossed his mind before, and the surge of panic and emotion that gripped him at the thought
was paralyzing.
“I will be quiet if you will honestly answer me one question.”
Anything to shut him up. Anything. Robert nodded once in brief, unwilling agreement.
Damien sat back against the squabs, his eyes steady. “Can you bear to hurt her? Because, trust
me, if you walk away after that kiss, you will.”
Frustration rose in Robert’s chest and he choked out, “I have no intention of hurting anyone.”
His brother said softly, “Good, then don’t.”
The silence was weighty. Rebecca studied the Grecian urn on the table in front of her with forced
concentration as she felt her palms begin to dampen. Her mother’s gaze could only be described
as both steely and speculative.
Lady Marston finally broke the strained quiet, speaking in clipped tones, “May I inquire as to
what that was all about?”
Rebecca transferred her gaze to her mother’s set face. “What do you mean?”
“I cannot believe it myself, but I think Robert Northfield just called on you. For all I know, he
sent you those gorgeous tulips, which must cost a fortune, because where on earth would one get
tulips this time of year?”
Actually, Rebecca had the suspicion Damien was really the one who had the flowers delivered. It
was just the kind of gesture she pictured the enigmatic Northfield brother making. Her
assumption wasn’t based on the lovely blooms themselves, rather on the cryptic card signed with
a generic surname. That seemed to be a much more Damien sort of thing to do. Robert would
have put his own name. “I very much doubt it,” she was able to say with sincerity.
“He came to see you.”
“He came with Lord Damien. They stopped off merely on their way to another destination,
remember?”
“Rebecca, I am your mother.”
She certainly didn’t need to be reminded of that fact. “I didn’t realize it was in dispute,” she said
unwisely, as resorting to sarcasm was rarely a good idea.
Upright, her hands crossed in her lap, her mother stared at her across the room. “I sat here and
saw the way he looked at you. Moreover, I saw the way you looked at him.”
Well, maybe it was best Rebecca could finally tell the truth. “I’ve been,” she said quietly,
“looking at him that way for quite some time.”
It wasn’t often her mother was rendered completely speechless.
Rebecca went on in a matter-of-fact tone. “Not, mind you, that he noticed me until lately. I might
have been invisible, really. Whatever you’ve heard about him, I am sure you will agree he avoids
young women like me who carry the dreaded label of marriageable. He isn’t interested in
permanence.”
But his arrival this afternoon perhaps meant he was reconsidering. Her hands were definitely
damp, and she felt
flushed. Robert Northfield had come and sat in their drawing room and had
been unable to hold onto his usual debonair nonchalance. Surely that was progress?
“Whenever would you have had such a personal conversation?” Her mother’s fingers fluttered
theatrically to her throat. “I knew I should never have allowed you to walk outside with him, even
for such a short time.”
Rebecca wasn’t going to explain. “Tell me,” she said, “why Lord Damien is perfectly acceptable
as a husband and Robert isn’t? They are both younger brothers to the Duke, both have respectable
inheritances, both are handsome and well-educated, both—”
“Are not womanizing rascals,” her mother interrupted in a choked voice. “Are you seriously
telling me you wish for us to allow Robert Northfield to court you?”
“You do not have to say his name as if it were some kind of a curse,” Rebecca murmured, stifling
a hysterical urge to laugh at her mother’s incredulous expression. “And since you pose the
question, though I doubt it will actually happen, I would like for you to not only allow it, but
encourage it.”
“Encourage it? He’s . . .”
Rebecca lifted her brows and waited politely as her mother obviously sought the right words.
“He’s . . . well . . . promiscuous is the only way to describe it.”
“He has been, or so rumor has it,” Rebecca conceded, feeling a twinge of jealousy. “But then
again, many supposed gentlemen of the ton are, Mother. I am not that naïve. In marrying any man
of our class, I run the risk he will keep a mistress or have an affair.” She thought of Brianna’s
determination about that matter, and Lady Rothburg’s book. “I think every woman carries that
concern when she chooses a husband, no matter how respectable he might seem. For whatever
reason, I believe Robert would be quite the opposite if he should settle on one woman and decide
to wed. There is something about him that tells me he would be loyal.”
“You hardly know him well enough to judge.” Her mother’s voice held a wobble.
“Don’t I? I’ve been in love with him for over a year. If you think I haven’t watched him, even if
it was from afar, milked every possible detail from Brianna, read the gossip columns, and
generally listened to anything said when his name came up in conversation, you would be wrong,
Mother.”
“Rebecca!”
“It’s the truth,” she said simply.
It was an immense relief to say it out loud. Keeping this from her parents had been a strain, and
refusing the offers of marriage had required explanations that weren’t entirely straightforward.
Having everything out in the open was for the best.
Another silence descended, this one not so tense, but more contemplative.
Her mother examined her as if she’d never laid eyes on her before, the outraged expression
fading from her face as the clock ticked on the mantel in a solemn rhythm. Eventually, she said,
“I believe you mean this.”
Rebecca stifled a choked laugh over the echo of horrified realization in that statement. “I do.”
“I wondered once or twice when we were at Rolthven Manor, if you want the truth. When the
two of you played together that evening . . .”
“Yes?” she prompted, curious as to what her mother had sensed.
“One cannot develop a penchant for a man just because he can play the cello beautifully,” was
the prim rejoinder. “You would be particularly susceptible to that talent.”
“I didn’t know that about him,” Rebecca reminded her. “And I just told you I’ve been in love
with him for over a year.”
“So you did.” Her mother massaged her temples. “I’m still assimilating the implications of this—
this—”
“Catastrophe?” Rebecca supplied ironically.
“I wasn’t going to say that, but well, yes. I suppose it fits. You really do think you love that rash,
handsome young man?”
“How many times must I say it?”
“Your father has something against him.”
“I know.” Rebecca looked briefly at her clasped hands. “But I have been informed I am not going
to be told the details. Robert, on the other hand, says he is innocent of whatever accusation is
leveled his direction. But he didn’t tell me what the source of the contention might be.”
“Not for our ears, apparently. Men have an annoying habit of excluding us from their personal
disputes.”
Rebecca hadn’t been expecting sympathy, so the observation made her blink in surprise.
“He isn’t the Marquess of Highton,” her mother murmured reflectively, looking pensive.
“No, he isn’t. But if Robert had proposed like the Marquess, I would have married him.”
“Would you now? I suppose that’s promising. And though he isn’t a marquess, he is the younger
brother of a duke. An excellent match by any standards.”
It was Rebecca’s turn to be stunned into silence.
Her mother straightened in her chair. “What did you think? That I would discount your feelings?
I love you. You are my daughter and my only child. I want you to marry well, but marrying for
love is a special thing. Now, had I not seen Lord Robert here today, I believe I would be more
upset about this. But, quite frankly, he wasn’t really the roguish charmer I expected. He looked
more like a man on unfamiliar ground.”
It was an apt description.
“And he really could not stop looking at you.” Her mother adjusted her skirt with a languid hand,
her expression thoughtful. “You know, bringing him to the altar would be the social coup of the
decade, in a way.”
Making a social splash was the last thing on Rebecca’s mind, but if it made her mother more
inclined to accept the situation, Rebecca was hardly going to argue. “I don’t have any idea if it is
possible. Damien seems to think so, but I don’t know. Robert doesn’t wish to be married.”
“How do you know?”
“Like I said, he told me.”
“Robert Northfield discussed his feelings on marriage with you?”
Right before he kissed her. Rebecca decided not to mention that lapse in decorum. She looked at
the floor, studying the roses on the beige background of the rug. “He doesn’t want to change his
life.”
“Men rarely do.” Her mother lifted her brows in a delicate, ladylike mannerism. “But we usually
know what they want better than they realize themselves. They often need to be guided in the
right direction.”
It sounded so close to the title of Lady Rothburg’s helpful chapter that Rebecca turned her face
away to conceal her expression. Her mother would collapse in a horrified heap if she knew she
shared the sentiments of an infamous courtesan.
Yet the advice was the same.
How interesting.
“Your father is the true obstacle.”
Rebecca didn’t need to be told that piece of information. Her shoulders drooped. “I know.”
A peculiar smile crossed her mother’s face. It wasn’t exactly sly, but hinted in that direction.
“Let’s make a pact, darling. If you manage to bring the roguish Lord Robert to heel, I will take
care of your father. Keep in mind that women have a more understated approach to matters of the
heart, but it usually works beautifully.”
The second almost word-for-word quote from Lady
Rothburg’s Advice rendered Rebecca at a
complete loss for speech. The book had been banned after it was released ten years ago, but it had
sold in record numbers before Parliament declared it too risqué to be sold publicly. Surely her
mother never would have purchased a copy?
Impossible.
Chapter Nineteen
Duplicity always has a price.
From the chapter titled: “What Your Husbands Keep from You”
Colton felt like a liar.
A cheat.
If he was wrong, he was insulting her in the worst way possible. Unfaithful? Brianna?
God, please let him be wrong.
He took a drink of wine and studied his wife across the table. She looked beautiful, as usual. But
there was something about her manner that spoke of unease. For one thing she was quieter,
preoccupied. He was rarely the one to start conversations, but this evening he’d had to make the
effort to fill the silences between them.
Was it because she felt guilty?
He was the one who felt guilty, damn it, for hiring a man to dog her every footstep.
Colton murmured, “This is very pleasant, isn’t it? Just the two of us for a change.”
“I think having a quiet evening at home is a very lovely idea.” Brianna sipped her wine, her blond
hair gleaming in the candlelight. “We don’t do it often enough.”
What they’d done infrequently lately was make love. It was his fault—because he couldn’t get
past his doubts—but he wanted her. Hell and blast, he wanted her. The self-denial had been a
lesson in pure torture.
The first report had been delivered to him that afternoon. Though the words stuck in his throat, he
said, “Tell me, what did you do today, my dear?”
Please, do not lie to me. Please.
“Errands mostly. The milliner, that sort of thing.” She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “I
called on Arabella on my way back home.”
“Oh?” He waited.
“Yes.”
Nothing more. He knew about her visit, of course. He knew in intimate detail her every move.
For instance, he’d been informed an unescorted gentleman had arrived at Arabella Smythe’s town
house twenty minutes after Brianna had entered the building. He knew that the curtains in the
front parlor had been drawn. And he knew that the gentleman remained for over an hour, after
