If Ever I Should Love You

by Cathy Maxwell

  “But she plays dirty,” Cassandra said. “I’m warning you.”

  “Dear Cassandra, the voice of doom,” Leonie teased. “But don’t worry. The sticklers might be upset about our little game, but really, what harm is there? Very little. And they look down their noses at us as it is. If I had my way, I’d have every debutante participating. Think what a romp that would be.”

  They had reached the ballroom. Everyone was crowded inside with no one lingering in the hall. Willa shot Leonie a look as if to say this was strange to her as well.

  “Follow me,” Cassandra said, using her height and femininity to push her way into the room. They moved toward the front door when the crowd around them parted and Leonie had her first look at this new duke.

  Camberly was young and tall and prodigiously handsome. Broad-shouldered, obviously athletic, and completely confident. It was there in the way he held his head and the ease in which he greeted those being introduced to him. And yet he did not give off an air of arrogance. His smile appeared sincere and had the power to charm even the most miserly of souls.

  Such self-assurance was a powerful aphrodisiac.

  Cassandra, who was the pickiest of the three of them when it came to men and just about everything else, made a soft, “Oh, my,” that exactly summed up Leonie’s reaction.

  Nor did Leonie need to look at Willa to know she was charmed. The Duke of Camberly had all the physical virtues Willa had claimed she sought. In validation of that thought, Willa nudged Leonie and whispered, “This shall be a good game.”

  “Game?” Cassandra answered. “He’s mine.” There was no jest in her tone. Without waiting for her friends, she began moving in the direction of her stepmother, presumably to have the woman organize an introduction.

  Willa’s eyebrows raised. “Was that Cassandra Holwell who just spoke? I mean, I’ve never heard her so direct. She sounded serious. And he is a wonder. Excuse me, my dear Leonie, but not only do we have a wager at stake, I believe I’d like an introduction to the new duke as well. I can only pray he favors petite women.” She left without waiting for Leonie’s permission to search out her own chaperone.

  And Leonie was once more standing alone.

  She noted that Lady Bettina had secured an introduction. She made a lovely curtsey to the duke, whose eye wandered to Bettina’s décolletage. They had not assigned points for eye wandering. Perhaps they should?

  From the company all around where Leonie stood, there seemed to be only one word and that was “Camberly.” The duke had quickly made his mark on London.

  She started moving in search of her mother’s friend Lady Dervish, who knew everyone and could secure an introduction for her. She knew better than to bother her father at cards over such a matter. He wanted results from his daughter, but he didn’t want her to pester him while achieving those results.

  Leonie was competitive. A touch of excitement replaced her earlier ennui. And, she reflected, wasn’t courting really nothing more than a game? One with high stakes?

  She might as well enjoy the moment. After all, once a woman was married, well, her life was mapped out for her, babies and then death . . . unless she took on lovers. Then she could play the courting game until no one wanted her.

  Leonie rejected the idea. She had no desire to follow in her mother’s steps.

  The first dance pattern was setting up.

  She glanced around to see where Camberly was and saw him lead Cassandra to the dance floor. Three points and one for a glance and two for the introduction. Well done, Cassandra.

  Leonie had best hurry if she wished to score even one point for the evening. She spied Lady Dervish talking to some friends and began weaving her way toward her—but then stopped.

  Thoughts of scoring points vanished. She was struck by a strong premonition that something momentous was about to happen. Leonie had lived too long in India to not pay attention to such a sudden stirring of her senses. Her soul wakened with the keen certainty that her life might be about to change.

  Perhaps this explained her earlier restlessness? Could it be Camberly? Was he the force that made her too aware of everything outside of her own skin?

  She knew this feeling.

  Leonie turned to where she’d last seen the duke. He was on the dance floor with a beaming Cassandra. He wasn’t thinking about Leonie. He didn’t even know who she was.

  The hair at the nape of her neck tingled as if she was being watched. Leonie scanned the people around her—and then her gaze met the intent stare of a gentleman.

  For a second, she stared without recognition, but that was not quite true. She’d known him the moment she’d felt the disturbance in her orderly world. Here he was, her Past come back to haunt her.

  Leonie’s first inclination was to run. She’d struggled too long and hard to forgive herself for what had happened those years ago to give it up now. And yet, running had never helped.

  In a strange way, Leonie realized that she had been waiting for Lieutenant Roman Gilchrist, ambitious and loyal officer of the King’s forces in India. She’d known he would appear sooner or later.

  Years ago, at another ball, he’d asked her to dance and her whole life had changed. He’d been leaner then, younger, and more uncertain.

  Now, he appeared forceful, assured. Evening clothes did him justice. His was not a classically handsome face like Camberly’s but an interesting one with slashing brows, a strong nose, and gray eyes that saw too much.

  Her young world had been simple before meeting him. He had made it complicated.

  Without a doubt, he had shattered all she’d believed of herself.

  He could do that again.

  The lieutenant made his way to her. Leonie waited as if rooted to the floor. He stopped in front of her. He did not bow. “Miss Charnock, we meet again.”

  She did not move, did not offer her hand. “What do you want?”

  “The honor of the next dance.”

  His was not a request but an expectation, just as it had been those years ago on that fateful night in Calcutta. Their dance had set into motion a series of events that had led to another man’s death.

  However, this time, her answer to his request was different. She reached up and slapped him across the face with all the force of her being.

  She anticipated a loud, satisfying sound and a moment of vindication. Instead, his jaw was like hitting granite. Despite gloves, pain reverberated from her palm down to her arm. She grabbed her wrist to help the throbbing subside.

  He blinked at her in surprise. An angry, red strike mark in the shape of her hand formed on the side of his face—so she hadn’t been completely ineffective—and Leonie had the distinct thought that now might be a good time to leave.

  She took off running, shoving her way through the crowd.

  Chapter 3

  The good news was Leonie Charnock obviously remembered him.

  Roman wasn’t quite certain what had caused such a strong reaction from her. But then, he’d never understood Leonie. Even at seventeen she’d been mercurial.

  Nor was she some delicate English flower. That was one of the things Roman had always admired about her. She was the sort of woman who would carry on no matter what.

  What he hadn’t known was that she had quite a bit of strength in her arm. He knew men who could not hit as hard.

  Placing a hand against his jaw, his eye met that of a woman whose raised eyebrows and deep frown told him she’d witnessed Leonie’s attack and was quite shocked. No one else around him seemed aware of the contretemps. They were more interested in the newly named duke. They eyed him on the dance floor, commenting on his courtly grace and other such nonsense that no decent man would appreciate.

  “Did you deserve it?” the woman asked.

  “Does any man?” he countered.

  A rusty laugh gave him her opinion but he didn’t linger to banter. He was off to find Leonie. He had an idea of where she was headed.

  Working his way through the crowd,
steadying a gent who’d already sampled too much of the punch, avoiding a lady who gestured wildly with her fan, and generally avoiding eye contact with everyone around him, Roman made his way to the card room.

  Or at least he hoped she would run to her father. If she’d thought to escape to the women’s necessary room, he would have a devil of a time talking to her.

  And it was as clear to him as the stinging burn on his jaw where she’d slapped him that they needed to talk, preferably without making a further scene.

  He strode into the side room filled with tables of men and women playing cards. He quickly spied Leonie. Her father was still at the table where Roman had left him some fifteen minutes ago.

  She hovered behind her father’s chair. She appeared desperate and greatly imposed upon but Roman and everyone else in the room knew Charnock wouldn’t have time for his daughter until his hand had been played.

  Leonie caught sight of him in the doorway. Her chin lifted. Her nostrils flared and her eyes lit up, reminding Roman of nothing less than an angry mare ready to kick. Little did she know her defiance only enhanced her beauty—and she was lovely.

  Maturity had added character to her face, but all the attributes Roman remembered—the generous mouth, the high cheekbones, the thick and glorious hair—all of those were the same. Well, save her breasts. They seemed larger, fuller, and certainly more enticing.

  God, he was a fool.

  Charnock played the last pair in his hand, throwing them on the table with a grand gesture and then quickly scooping the money toward him.

  He had to crow a bit as he did, saying to one of the players, “I knew you were going to lose that round. You played the wrong cards, my lord. But then I had the right ones.” He chortled as if he had been very clever.

  Leonie’s gaze had never left Roman. As he approached the table, she tapped Charnock’s shoulder. “I would have a word with you, Father.”

  He looked up from his winnings. “Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy? I have a run of luck.”

  “Yes, now, Father. Please.” She leaned close to whisper furiously in his ear.

  Roman stopped a few feet away, waiting.

  He’d dealt with men like Charnock most of his military career, so he was not surprised when her father said petulantly, “Of course I know Gilchrist is here. And that is the former Lieutenant Gilchrist. He’s an earl now. Rochdale, an important title. Very important.”

  Leonie shot Roman a look of such disbelief it was almost insulting. Her dark eyes took in every inch of his bearing. The downturn of her mouth said louder than words what she thought.

  However, her father was in no mood to argue, especially when one of the players at the table, a lace-capped dowager, asked, “Are you playing, Charnock, or do we have to sit here and listen to you jabber to your daughter?”

  “Of course I am playing.” Charnock frowned at Leonie and gave a nod to Roman. “Dance with him. The two of you are old friends—”

  “You are jesting—”

  “No, I’m not,” Charnock said. “Do the pretty and mind your manners. Rochdale is an important title, and Gilchrist has already asked my permission to court you.”

  “Court?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “And you said yes?”

  “Aye.” Charnock then leaned in and said something to his daughter that straightened her back. “Now,” he continued, raising his voice, “I am going to sit for this round because it is a poor winner who takes his winnings and leaves.”

  “That is the truth,” the dowager said. She downed her sherry neat and signaled for another before slapping the table. “Let us play.”

  Charnock obliged, gleefully stacking his coins in front of him as the cards were dealt.

  Leonie stood a moment as if carved of stone. She was not happy, but then she slowly turned in Roman’s direction, the gesture reserved, tight. Her gaze met his.

  How many times in the past had he caught her watching him and wondered what she was thinking? Her dark eyes could be remarkably expressive, or as cold and unrevealing as coal.

  She moved toward him.

  Roman braced himself. Was he about to receive another slap?

  Instead, she walked right by him. “The dance floor is in the other room,” she murmured without breaking step. Apparently, she assumed he would follow.

  He’d be damned if he would.

  Roman might not have money but he had pride. He also knew better than to dance to the pipe she was playing. He’d learned that lesson once. He watched her leave, wondering when she’d realize he wasn’t following.

  Charnock looked up from his cards. “I thought you said you wanted her, my lord?” He referred to the conversation Roman had managed before Charnock had sat down at his table.

  Roman had been blunt about his intentions. He had a historical and respected title; Charnock had a daughter and a pot of money. Before Roman had even wasted time talking to Leonie, he’d wanted to know where he’d stood with her father.

  And what he’d found out was that Charnock would have sold his daughter to Beelzebub if it would gain for him what he wanted. He liked the sound of “Earl of Rochdale” and had even taken the time to sound out his gambling companions as to the heraldry around the family name. He’d approved Roman’s suit on their verdicts.

  “Go on. Give chase,” Charnock said, his tone bored and his fellow card players amused. “It is what we men do. Or have you changed your mind about her fortune?”

  “Mayhap I have,” Roman responded coolly.

  After all, he was a bloody lord now. And Charnock was one of those Roman suspected had been involved in his demotion and military humiliation in India. The bastard could wait on him—and his daughter could learn some manners.

  With a nonchalance that he was far from feeling, Roman began walking in the opposite direction of Leonie. The far door of the card room opened onto the main hallway. He wasn’t clear in his intentions but he was beginning to think he’d rather be home in his rented rooms with a good book and a hot toddy than playing lapdog to a spoiled heiress and her greedy father.

  He’d almost reached the door when he heard his name called.

  Roman stopped, turned—and saw Lord Erzy working his way around the tables toward him. Erzy clapped him on the back as if they were congenial colleagues, but then he lowered his voice to speak. “I hope you aren’t in this room placing wagers without seeing that Malcolm and I are paid for what your uncle owed us.”

  “Some would say that a man’s debts die with him.”

  He knew his argument would not fly but he had to try.

  Erzy answered, “Not a debt of honor. It never goes away. Of course, you may not have the decency to pay but I’ll see you are put beyond the pale by everyone of importance. Doors will be closed to you, even in the Lords. Is that what you wish, Rochdale? This early in the game after inheriting your title?”

  No, Roman had no desire to be on the outs with anyone. He’d been there too long.

  “I haven’t been gambling,” he informed Erzy. “I’m not a betting man.”

  “Pity. There is much sport in it.”

  “Not from where I stand. Now, if you will excuse me? Or do you intend to hound me like a gullgroper?” Gullgropers were money lenders of the worst sort.

  Erzy didn’t like the term. His lip curled, but he stepped aside.

  Roman cast one longing look at the hallway where he’d planned his escape and instead headed for the door leading to the ballroom. This had been the devil’s own night. He’d been slapped, mocked, and dunned—and he’d be damned if he would put up with more of it. He intended to claim his dance with Leonie Charnock and she’d best behave because he wasn’t in the mood for any more nonsense.

  Out in the ballroom, the crowd seemed to have doubled in size. Roman worked his way through the milling mass of overdressed, overperfumed, and overdrunken guests, searching for Leonie.

  He didn’t have to look far. She was on the dance floor, and her partner was no one less than the penniless
Duke of Camberly. The man everyone talked about this evening. The man who needed a wealthy duchess.

  Camberly was not paying attention to his steps. Instead, he was using his height to look down Leonie’s bodice. He practically licked his lips as if she was a lamb chop for his taking.

  Roman had forgotten the power of jealousy. He remembered it now as it ripped through him, releasing a molten stream of seething discontent.

  No, he did not have a reason for this reaction. Leonie was not his.

  Yet.

  He started for the dance floor.

  Leonie knew how to master a dramatic exit. Women had few resources available to them to rebel.

  Well, daughters had few resources. Her mother made cuckolding her father an art. She did it every chance she could—although he didn’t seem to care.

  And Leonie knew her father would not be moved by her stiff back and head held high to show her displeasure as she left to do his bidding, but Gilchrist would.

  Let him trail in her wake. At the first opportunity, she planned to launch into him. She’d make him regret ever approaching her or daring to ask for a dance. She’d lash him with her tongue so hard he would go running back to wherever he’d been all these years.

  However, first she would have to dance with him.

  The next set was forming on the dance floor. Couples were taking their places. Usually, the gentleman led the way.

  Leonie turned to haughtily inform Gilchri—Rochdale, he now had a title. Earl of Rochdale. Huzzah.

  “My lord,” she started, ice around each word, “you should be—”

  Her hauteur broke off.

  He wasn’t there.

  Gilchris—no, Rochdale—had not followed her. He’d asked her to dance, made an issue of it with her father, and he hadn’t followed?

  For a dangerous moment, Leonie thought her eyes would pop out of her head with her very self-righteous and completely justified anger.

  She took a step back toward the card room, her hands curling into fists as she thought to find him and drag him to the dance floor. But then she stopped. She could not go after him. Not even if he’d lost his way.