Anne Herries

by Rosalynand the Scoundrel

  After some hands, her place was taken by another lady, and, seeing that Damian appeared to be enjoying himself, Rosalyn got up and wandered over to the window. She was staring out at the night, and a sky that was sprinkled with stars, when she became aware of someone standing close behind her. Turning her head to look, she saw it was the comte: the look in his eyes was speculative and sent a shiver down her spine.

  ‘You do not care for cards, madame?’

  ‘Not very much,’ she admitted. ‘I was taught chess by a master and much prefer the challenge of pitting one mind against another, instead of relying on the cards one is dealt.’

  ‘Ah, I see…you like to take your destiny in your own hands.’ He nodded, seeming pleased with the interpretation. ‘Then perhaps you would care to see one of my special treasures? I have a rather splendid chess set in my own private parlour. If you wish, we could go there now.’

  Rosalyn hesitated, not wanting to offend him, yet determined not to be lured into an obvious trap. She glanced towards Damian, who had just won the game he had been playing. He had turned in his chair to look at her, his expression unreadable.

  ‘You must forgive me, sir,’ Rosalyn said to the comte. ‘I believe I shall ask my husband to take me home now. I have a slight headache.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ The comte arched his brows. ‘Perhaps another day you will favour me with a game of chess? I have seldom found an opponent worthy of my time—but perhaps you…?’ He left the question open, inviting her comment.

  Rosalyn merely smiled. Damian was rising as she walked to join him.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please. If you are ready. I have a slight headache. I have explained to the comte.’

  ‘You should have said something earlier.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to play cards?’

  ‘I felt obliged once asked,’ he replied. ‘But I do not care to continue. Gambling is something I can take or leave.’

  Rosalyn said nothing. His father had been ruined at the tables. The fever might be in his blood for all she knew. That evening he had played for small stakes and risen a modest winner, but in other circumstances he might not have been so prudent. How could she know?

  There was so much she did not know about him, and his recent moods had made her feel there was an invisible barrier between them.

  Their carriage having been sent for, they took leave of their host and fellow guests. Damian helped her into the carriage and settled into the seat beside her, leaning his head back against the squabs and closing his eyes.

  He did not speak once during their journey home. She sensed he was angry about something, but did not feel inclined to ask what was wrong. If he was jealous of the comte paying her attention, it was his own fault. She had done nothing to court that attention, but had been forced to respond politely to her host’s civility. Besides, Damian had been in a mood even before they left the house.

  He was perfectly civil as he wished her goodnight before she went up, but he did not kiss her and he made no attempt to follow Rosalyn to their bedroom. At the top of the stairs, she paused to look back and saw that he was staring after her, his face set in an expression that chilled her.

  What on earth could be wrong with him? Damian had once said that she might regret marrying him—was he beginning to have regrets himself? Had he discovered he was still unable to forget Helen, despite his marriage? Was that the reason he left her bed while she slept, because he wished she was Helen?

  It was a bitter thought and one that, despite all her efforts, refused to leave her.

  Rosalyn slept alone that night. It was the first time since they had left her home in England that Damian had not come to her. In thinking about it, she realised with a shock that she had not seen her womanly flow since before that time.

  Could she be carrying Damian’s child? It was surely too soon? And yet she had always been so regular.

  Rosalyn thought about the very real possibility. She was not sure whether she was pleased to have fallen so quickly or not. It might have been better if she and Damian had had more time alone, before all the complications that childbearing must bring.

  Would Damian be pleased? She was uncertain, not of his love for her—but of his needs and hopes for the future. He did love her, she believed that, of course she did. She must believe it or she was lost! Damian cared for her, but something was playing on his mind, giving him no peace. Or perhaps it was just a part of his nature to be restless?

  Rosalyn decided to keep her suspicions about the child to herself for the moment. She could not be sure that he would welcome her news, and she might be wrong. No, no, better to be certain before speaking of her hopes to Damian.

  Why had he not come to her that night? Why had he seemed angry? His mood had started before they left for the comte’s dinner party—after they had parted, Damian to write some letters and she to meet Jared on the beach.

  What had annoyed him? Rosalyn could find no reason for it. They had been happy enough earlier, playing at croquet. Why had that haunted look come back to his eyes?

  What was it that worried him so? The thoughts went round and round in her mind, tormenting her.

  Damian went for a long, hard ride before Rosalyn was awake the next morning. He had stayed up late, drinking alone in his study, cursing himself for his foolishness in allowing his jealousy to show. Rosalyn’s headache was surely a sign of her displeasure? She had always valued her independence, she would not take kindly to having her freedom questioned.

  He had behaved like a heavy-handed husband, when he ought to have been amused by Devere’s attempts to seduce her—attempts which had been given the dismissive treatment they deserved. He was well aware that Rosalyn had given the man no encouragement; he had nothing to blame her for…nothing to cause the foul mood which had come over him when he’d noticed her standing near the window with Devere and seen the predatory look in the other man’s eyes.

  It was not unexpected from such a man. Devere wanted her the way he desired one of his rare objets d’art. He was attracted by her beauty—and because she was out of reach. The comte had become accustomed to taking his pick of pretty women; they fell over themselves to please him—the girls looking for marriage to a wealthy man and the bored wives who were flattered to be invited into his bed.

  Rosalyn was different; there was something exciting about her, something that made men want her. She had aroused the comte’s hunting instincts. Damian had sensed danger from the beginning. One part of him had wanted to carry her off immediately, back to the safety of their home: the other, saner side knew that she was quite safe as long as she did not allow Devere to lure her into a compromising situation.

  Damian laughed at himself. What a fool he was to worry! Rosalyn’s quietness of late meant nothing. He was wrong to think she was brooding, regretting the impulse which had made her throw away all that she held precious for his sake.

  Rosalyn was not Helen. She would not fall victim to abduction or seduction as that innocent child had all those years ago; she would not take her own life because she was unhappy. He had no need to fear it. Yet he could not quite rid himself of the idea that she might be in danger, that he might lose her.

  ‘Damned fool!’ Damian cried aloud. Would he never rid himself of the past? Of his feelings of guilt…the nagging fear that he did not deserve to find happiness, that any attempt to do so would be punished by the fates who ruled man’s destiny.

  It was not Damian’s fault that Helen had taken her own life, but he had never been able to forgive himself for not preventing the tragedy. Although he had learned to live with his failure, it had remained at the back of his mind—and the business of Bernard Harrington’s murder had made all the old sores fester once more.

  He knew that he had been given something infinitely precious. Rosalyn was all that he had ever desired in a woman and more, but he was haunted by the fear that it would not last: that she would grow tired of living in exi
le and long to return to her old life, a life that was now denied to her. He was afraid that she might already have begun to regret her hasty action in leaving England with him.

  Damian had the previous afternoon, when looking through his wife’s writing box for a stick of sealing wax, accidentally discovered the papers relating to Rosalyn’s capital, which was released on her marriage under the terms of her father’s will. They had not been signed by her, but the date stamped in the official wax seal told him that she must have seen her brother in Paris. Why had she not mentioned it to him?

  It seemed to Damian that she had deliberately kept the meeting with Freddie a secret. Why? Had her brother agreed to see her, providing she met him alone? The thought rankled, bringing a bitter taste to his mouth. Rosalyn had a perfect right to see her brother if she wished—but he would have preferred it if she had mentioned it.

  Now he was being stupid! Damian was angry with himself for allowing such a small thing to matter. This business of the Comte Devere was far more important. He must warn Rosalyn to be vigilant…and yet she had shown herself well able to handle the comte. Perhaps it was better to say nothing. They would in any case be leaving France for Spain in a few weeks…and yet he carried a nagging fear that would not let him be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rosalyn discovered the prettily wrapped package on her dressing table. Another gift! Damian gave her presents all the time, but she was growing used to it and had discovered that she enjoyed being spoiled. After all, why should she mind that the husband who loved her liked to buy her things?

  She picked up the box, turning it over in her hands, speculating on the contents. Could it be yet another piece of jewellery? It felt a little too heavy. She smiled as she untied the ribbon and took off the outer wrapping, looking for a card and failing to find one. That was unusual. Damian normally wrote funny, tender messages of love, slipping them inside the paper, but this time there was none.

  She frowned as she took the lid off the box and saw what was lying inside. It was a delicate object made of gold and some kind of pink crystal, which she thought might be quartz. The stem was of twisted gold wire and bore a cluster of flowers made from the pink stone; the centres were studded with rubies and the leaves were probably jade, she thought. It was an exquisite thing, and quite different to anything Damian had given her previously. She set it down on the dressing table as the door opened and he came in.

  ‘Damian,’ she said, holding out her hand to him. ‘Thank you for your gift, my darling. It is exquisite—’

  ‘Gift?’ Damian saw the pretty trifle amongst the discarded wrappings on her dressing table and frowned. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Did you not leave it for me?’ She looked at him in surprise. ‘It was on my dressing table when I woke. I thought you must have left it there.’

  ‘That did not come from me,’ he said, a little nerve flicking at the corner of his mouth. ‘You must realise who sent it, Rosalyn. Did you not see other similar pieces last night?’

  ‘Comte Devere sent it?’ She stared at him in dismay. ‘One of the maids must have brought it up while I was sleeping. I cannot accept such a gift from the comte. It is far too valuable. I shall have it packed and returned immediately.’

  ‘You would certainly be well advised to do so,’ he said. ‘Unless you wish to encourage his pretensions?’

  ‘Damian!’ Rosalyn had risen at his entrance. She took a step back, shocked that he could even suggest such a thing. ‘You must know that I do not? I am your wife.’

  ‘Which would make it all the easier for you to have an affair with the comte if you wished, would it not?’

  It was accepted that married women sometimes had affairs, whereas the same behaviour in single ladies was frowned upon—but the idea that Damian should think she might be willing was so distressing to her that she could only look at him in horror. Surely he could not mean that? How could he insult her so?

  The pain whipped through her. Why was Damian being so harsh towards her? He could not imagine she wanted the comte’s gift?

  ‘That is a wicked thing to say,’ she said, eyes mirroring her hurt. She raised her head, looking at him proudly. ‘I cannot believe that you have said such a terrible thing to me.’

  Nor could Damian. The words had come out of his jealous confusion. He knew them to be both cruel and unworthy and regretted them the instant they left his tongue.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, his manner stiff and reserved. He wanted to apologise abjectly, but pride—or jealousy—held him back. ‘You are right to be angry, Rosalyn. It was wrong of me to say that. I know you would not consider…but you must realise that the comte intends to make you his mistress if he can?’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ she retorted, angry in her turn. Did Damian imagine that because she had gone to him before marriage, she had no morals—that she would contemplate being another man’s mistress? How could he! ‘The comte was merely being a polite host last evening—and this gift is the thoughtless impulse of a generous man.’

  Even as she spoke, Rosalyn knew she was being untruthful. The gift was bait to lure her into a gilded trap. She had no intention of accepting it, none at all.

  ‘Then keep it,’ Damian said coldly. ‘It seems to please you more than anything I have given you.’

  He turned on his heel and left the room. Rosalyn stared after him, feeling stunned and disbelieving. What was wrong? Damian had never been like this with her. It was their first serious quarrel and it hurt her, it hurt her so much that she felt as if he had struck her.

  What had she done that he should be so distrustful of her? Rosalyn blinked back her tears. It was not her fault that the comte had decided to pursue her; she had given him no encouragement: indeed, she had done her best to make him see that she was not interested in him.

  Hot tears stung her eyes, but she held them back. She would not give way to her emotions.

  Rosalyn rang the bell, summoning a maid. She gave instructions for the box to be wrapped and returned to the comte—and that any further gifts from him should be sent back immediately.

  The maid dismissed, she began to brush her hair. She was about to ring for her personal maid to help her dress when the door opened again and Damian came in. He hesitated in the doorway, giving her a look full of contrition.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘I am a jealous fool. It made me angry to see the way Devere looked at you last night. When you were pleased with his gift, I lost my temper. I have behaved stupidly—will you forgive me?’

  ‘Of course. I sent his gift back. You could not think I meant to keep it?’ She rushed to his arms as he shook his head, a surge of relief rising in her. She was not sure she could have borne it if their quarrel had continued. ‘I love you, Damian. No one else. You must know that?’

  ‘Yes. I did not truly doubt you.’ He touched her cheek, a rueful look in his eyes. ‘Forgive me. I cannot help my jealousy, Rosalyn. It is a demon I must try to control in future—but you will take care? Devere is not to be trusted. If anything were to happen to you…I should not be able to answer for my actions.’

  She gazed up into his face. His expression frightened her. He looked almost desperate. It made her wonder what he might be capable of if the comte attempted to seduce her…would he kill for her sake?

  Had he already done so?

  She had been so certain he could not have shot Bernard Harrington, but now she had begun to wonder…

  Rosalyn kept her thoughts to herself. Over the next two days, Damian was very attentive and concerned for her. He put himself out to please her, taking both her and Jared to an English fair that had come to the district.

  It was a warm, sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. They wandered around the stalls, Rosalyn delighting in the various trinkets and games that were on offer. She watched Damian bowling in vain for a pig, laughing as all his efforts failed to win the prize—but when it came to the shooting range, it was a different matter.

 
Each shot struck its target in the exact centre. Jared was excited and applauded enthusiastically.

  ‘Damian was the best marksman at my father’s palace,’ he told her. ‘Everyone knew that he would always win if there was a competition. And when a tiger attacked the villages, he was always the one who was called upon to kill it. He was fearless, and he saved my life when the assassins tried to kill me. There were three of them, and he shot them all…’

  Jared’s tale sent shivers down Rosalyn’s spine. What did she really know of the man she loved?

  Damian was obviously skilled with guns of all kinds. Rosalyn smiled and accepted the china fairing he won for her, but she could not help wondering if he would kill a man as easily as he shot at a target.

  He had killed Roderick Harrington because of what he had done to Helen, but it was truly Bernard who had shamed the innocent girl. Had Damian killed him because of that…had he taken his revenge coldly and without mercy?

  Rosalyn had believed him innocent of the crime. She had been almost sure that she knew the identity of the real culprit, but now she was not sure. Damian’s moods could come so suddenly, and while they lasted he was capable of anger.

  If only she could understand what it was that haunted him. She longed to ask him, and yet she was afraid that she might not like the answer.

  Their quarrel had been soon mended, but she sensed Damian’s growing frustration and it made her afraid.

  She woke one night from a dream…the dream she had had once before. She was running in a mist. Damian was there, just ahead of her, but she could not reach him. She cried his name aloud, but when she opened her eyes and turned, needing to touch him, to feel the reassurance of his arms about her, he was not there.

  ‘Oh, Damian,’ she whispered into the darkness. ‘Do not leave me, my darling. Come back to me. I need you…I need you so much.’