Lady Iona's Rebellion

by Dorothy McFalls

  “Your father?” A royal pout he used to find charming creased her feather-soft lips. “Your father? You’ve been sniffing around at his feet for the past year like my damned spaniel.” She wagged her finger under his nose. “And how has he rewarded you? Has he ever done anything other than kick you?”

  “He has been ill. He almost died.”

  “And you’ve been a fool. My patience is running thin,” she said, her voice growing uncomfortably loud. “I am offering you an estate to manage, a fortune to spend and a woman’s body to bed. What is your family offering? Or that young beauty you sent running away from you in tears for that matter? What future can she offer you?”

  “Strive to lower your voice, Jane. I will not have this discussion where anyone might overhear. The gossips are too hungry for my blood as it is.”

  “That is because you are their beloved rogue.” Her sharp tone softened a degree. “That is all you will ever be to them, a rogue to praise on a whim and hate on another. It all depends on the direction the wind blows or some such nonsense. That is the way of the haut ton, is it not? This is not your place. You do not belong with them.”

  She leaned against his chest and drew herself up until her lips caressed his cheek. “You belong with me.”

  Her kiss should have warmed him. But instead it served as a reminder of those uncomfortably frigid mornings he’d spent with her at Dundas Manor.

  He closed his eyes. The image of Iona fleeing with the agility of a skittish colt haunted his mind. Did he have any chance for a future with her?

  Probably not.

  And yet…

  Though his heart might not be engaged when it came to Jane, her marriage proposal was something his logical mind couldn’t ignore, because she was right. She was offering him a stable future and, though she didn’t know it yet, a chance to be welcomed back into the loving arms of his family.

  His attempts to reform his reputation had failed miserably.

  And Iona…

  Pain rippled through his chest. He would do well to put her out of his mind. If not for last night…

  “Wynter!” Talbot’s enraged shout cut through the forest. “Wynter! What in bloody hell have you done to Lady Iona?”

  “Lady Iona?” Jane gasped and pulled away from him. She gestured toward the path Iona had fled down. “That silly piece of fluff with you just now was the Duke of Newbury’s precious daughter? The same silly chit you followed around for a season?”

  “Yes,” Nathan admitted. He turned to his advancing friend. “Talbot, watch your language, a lady is present,” he warned.

  “Oh,” Talbot said as he stepped into the fairy circle. He presented Jane with a deep bow. “A thousand pardons, Mrs. Sharpes. Wynter, if I might have a moment?”

  Jane conjured one of her coquettish smiles and blushed. She had the ability to produce a lovely blush on command. Talbot seemed to lose his train of thought as he took notice of her charms. He stammered and grinned like an idiot.

  “What is it that you want to talk about?” Nathan asked as he tugged Talbot off to one side of the clearing, leaving Jane alone and unhappy.

  “Uh…yes, Wynter.” Talbot shook his head like a soggy dog and then grabbed Nathan’s shoulders. “Lady Iona emerged from the forest in hysterics,” he said in a near whisper. “I have never seen her so discomposed. Hell, I have rarely seen any emotion crease her damnably serene expression and never anything as powerful as tearful hysterics. What did you do to her?”

  Nathan gave his trademark shrug. “I did no more than what she had asked for. I gave Iona her last rogue’s lesson.”

  “And what was that?” Talbot gritted his teeth. He looked prepared to tear Nathan apart. “What did you do?”

  “I showed her who I was. And the callousness with which a rogue treats a heart. If she truly wants to be more like me, she had to learn that tender emotions have no place in the world I live.”

  She would have followed him into hell otherwise.

  Even so, teaching her that difficult lesson had been one of the worst things he’d ever done in his life. Only one other stood above it and that took place on the day he’d entered his father’s leather-scented study and took responsibility for young Miss Posey Hartfield’s pregnancy—his first descent into hell.

  “Good God, man,” Talbot said, slapping his own forehead. “When I warned Lady Iona to be strong against the harsh talk she might hear over the next few weeks, I never suspected I was warning her against you. What were you thinking? I thought you were vying for her hand in marriage?”

  “She has refused me.”

  Jane’s proposal would solve his rift with his family as well as satisfy his need to find a useful profession. He would have plenty of responsibilities with Jane’s estate. He might even enjoy the blessing of raising a family.

  Pursuing Iona, fighting to win her heart and her hand in marriage was impossible. Irresponsible.

  “Catching that siren, Mrs. Sharpes, for your bed had once been an impossibility,” Talbot reminded Nathan. “What makes Lady Iona any different?”

  “The stakes with Iona are vastly higher. With Mrs. Sharpes, our reputations were not important. Neither of us minded in the least what those London tabbies thought of our behaviors.”

  “And now you do?”

  Nathan gave another meaningless shrug. “I shouldn’t make Mrs. Sharpes wait any longer.”

  Talbot held Nathan back. “Have you given up then? Are you simply going to break the poor girl’s heart because you are suddenly worried about what society might say?”

  Nathan shook his head and walked away.

  Was he willing to trade his dream of winning Iona in order for a guaranteed chance to reunite with his family?

  “Shall we?” he asked Jane and offered his arm.

  They strolled back toward where he’d left Jezebel hitched to a post. Jane scolded him every step of the way for leading her out onto such a troublesome path. Her gown would be ruined. Her kid boots were covered with grime. And a pebble must have fallen into her left boot, for there was a devilish pain pressing against her toe.

  Had he given up?

  With Jane’s offer of marriage and stability waving under his nose, Nathan didn’t know what to think anymore.

  * * * * *

  I have always held you in high regard. Even as a child, you were the quiet and reserved one. A treat for your parents and a joy to others. Traits I commend most heartily. I count the days when our engagement can be formally announced and all of society will know that England’s most graceful flower will forever be by my side, supporting me in all my endeavors.

  Fondly yours,

  Lord Byron Lovington

  Tears pricked the back of Iona’s eyes. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she read the short note through to the end for the third time. Blinking hard, she fought against those troublesome tears. She didn’t wish to cry. Not over this. Her throat and temples ached already from having wept all night and long into the morning, thanks to Nathan.

  Had he not realized how much she’d grown to resent the gilded cage he was sending her back to? She was tired of doing what everyone expected, smiling and performing on command like some traveling gypsy circus act.

  Perhaps her dream of soaring through the clouds with her passions had always been an illusion, no more real than a rainbow in the sky. Her wings had been clipped long ago.

  When her maid had first brought Byron’s letter up to her rooms early in the afternoon, Iona had foolishly thought—hoped—the neatly folded foolscap was from Nathan. Her heart had thudded heavily in her chest, with the belief that he was writing her in order to beg her forgiveness and to explain his lies. She had hoped that he had penned in the most florid details how his heart belonged to her and to no other.

  Regretfully that wasn’t to be. And worse, the letter Byron had penned only drove home the unbending nature of her gilded cage’s bars. Her cousin held her in high regard, not because of her spirit or force of personality. But because she
was the obedient daughter and would come into his care as the obedient wife with no desires, no dreams of her own.

  Iona sighed.

  Byron didn’t want a bride to share his life. What he wanted was a well-heeled dog. Or the girl Iona had pretended to be for all these years.

  She’d adopted the role of dutiful daughter in order to please her father. A role she dearly wished someone would finally recognize for what it was—a lie.

  Just as Nathan’s claims to be a rogue were lies.

  She dabbed at her eyes with her damp handkerchief. Society and its expectations may have clipped her wings but, by Jove, she still could sing. Though Nathan might be unwilling to admit his true nature, she knew she could not keep silent a moment longer.

  A daring heart did beat in her chest. She could feel it thudding against her ribs.

  In the three days left before her cousin’s arrival and their engagement’s announcement, she vowed she’d find a way to show the beau monde the heat of the passions that burned underneath the mask she’d spent years creating.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Pinch your cheeks some more, dear,” Iona’s mother suggested. The Duke alighted from the Newbury carriage, jostling the ladies within as the contraption bounced on its springs. “You look dreadfully pale this evening, sick almost. Perhaps you should accompany me to the Cross Bath tomorrow morning. I think I should also send for Doctor Pritchard.”

  “I am fine, Mama,” she assured. Even so, she did as her mother bade, ruthlessly pinching her own cheeks, and followed her out of the carriage and onto the sidewalk in front of the Upper Assembly Rooms. “You need not send for a doctor.”

  Lillian, looking a mite pale herself, joined Iona on the pavement and then turned to help Amelia step down.

  “I would rethink the need for a doctor,” Lillian whispered into Iona’s ear. “You must be sick if you are still longing after that bounder. Forget him. He was never worthy of you. How could he be? He is naught but a second son.”

  “Lawks!” Mr. James Harlow pranced up to them before she could tell her sister how wrong she was about Nathan. Second son or not, he would make her a most worthy husband. Unfortunately, because she was already engaged to her cousin, she couldn’t marry Nathan—even if she wished to. Which she didn’t. She longed to be free to make her own decisions, to follow her passions.

  Mr. Harlow gave a deep, overexaggerated bow. “What a fine gathering of ladies I have before my eyes. I say, I’m so blinded by the beauty in front of me that I don’t know which beauty I should present my arm for escort.”

  “Present it to me then,” Amelia said sharply. She thrust her arm out toward her brother and swatted at him with a dainty fan. “And do try to behave.”

  “Of course, my dear sister.” He rudely left her arm hanging in the air and swept hold of Iona’s instead. “It is a pleasure to see you again and in such a pretty dress too. Do you not agree, Lia? Is this not the prettiest dress you have ever seen?”

  Iona twisted away from Mr. Harlow’s tight grip and rubbed where he’d pinched her. “I do not believe we are well enough acquainted, sir, for you to be taking such a close notice of my apparel.”

  “Please—” Amelia tried to pull her brother away.

  “I meant no disrespect, my lady.” Mr. Harlow said and looked completely nonplussed by their reaction. “Your grace.” He gave a bow to the Duchess.

  “Come, children,” she said, looking straight through him, “let us not dally. Your father will be waiting anxiously for us inside.”

  A liveried doorman swept open the wooden front doors. Mr. Harlow followed on their heels, a look of mischief lighting his eyes that made Iona’s stomach quiver.

  A day and a half had passed since the rumor had emerged, claiming that Nathan had ruined yet another young innocent. All of Bath was still atwitter, anxious to uncover this unfortunate miss’s identity. According to almost all the gossips, Mr. Harlow was the force behind the talk and he claimed rather doggedly that he would reveal her identity in due time.

  She prayed he would not choose tonight to do the unmasking. She had other plans.

  A sharp glare from the Duke, who was waiting for the women in the charmingly decorated octagon-shaped central anteroom, seemed to dampen Mr. Harlow’s shameless bravado. With a pout, he wandered over to inspect the imposing portrait of the first Master of Ceremonies, Captain Wade, who watched over the incoming guests to the Upper Assembly Rooms.

  James King, the current Master of Ceremonies, pounced upon the Duke not a moment later, greeting Bath’s most illustrious residents with booming excitement. Mr. King ran a finger through his graying side whiskers and then shook the Duke’s hand as if he were drawing water from a well.

  “And your family is in fine fettle, this evening, I see, I see,” Mr. King said. “Lady Newbury is looking as young and spry as ever. I say, the medicinal waters must be doing wonders for her health. And your daughters, Ladies Lillian and Iona—the unparalleled beauty and the queen of graces. Well done, well done.”

  “Thank you, Mr. King.” The Duke had to grab the man’s hand in order to pry himself loose from his pumping grasp. “And you look healthy this evening as well.”

  “Do I?” Mr. King groaned. “I do not know how that can be possible. Nearly every matron with a marriageable-aged daughter has bent my ear today. Rumors, rumors and more rumors. It is really most insufferable. Most insufferable indeed.”

  “Indeed,” the Duke said. He took the Duchess’s arm and started to lead his daughters and Miss Harlow toward the tearoom where the concert was going to be held. Mr. King followed along. So did Mr. Harlow.

  “But what could I do?” Mr. King asked. “I cannot ban a man on the basis of a rumor, can I?”

  “Indeed not,” the Duke agreed as he continued into the tearoom without altering his stride. The members of the orchestra, dressed all in midnight blue, were on the upper floor of the Corinthian-columned two-storied colonnade. The sound of tuning instruments filled the space with a beautifully chaotic array of scales and snatches of songs.

  The tables had been removed from the room, replaced with rows of velvet-covered seats. The multitiered chandeliers were fully lit. Their sparkling glass crystals reminded Iona of the stars shimmering in a certain night sky when Nathan had challenged her to take a midnight swim in the King’s Bath.

  She’d proved quite soundly that evening that there was more to her than quiet grace, had she not?

  “Indeed, indeed not,” her father said, repeating himself—a sure sign that he was growing impatient with the conversation. He couldn’t abide gossip and never partook in the sport himself.

  It was Mr. Harlow who urged the Master of Ceremonies on by asking, “Which gentleman were the ladies asking you to ban?”

  “Why? Lord Nathan Wynter of course.”

  Iona tripped.

  “Please, be careful,” her sister whispered as she caught Iona’s arm. “You cannot give anyone cause to suspect.”

  No one seemed to notice Iona’s clumsy feet however—except perhaps Mr. Harlow. He quirked a brow as she hurried to catch up with the Duke’s long stride.

  “He insists on attending tonight’s concert,” Mr. King continued to say. “Oh, it is a terrible bother. He has a nasty reputation, that one. And will surely soon come to a bad end.” He shook his head. “But hasn’t he acted with the utmost discretion while in Bath? I cannot bar him entrance because of a rumor, can I?”

  “No, of course not,” the Duke said in a commanding tone that immediately ended the conversation.

  A furious argument however continued to rage within Iona’s head. She’d not expected Nathan this evening. With nervous fingers she pinched her cheeks some more and tucked an errant strand of hair behind the carefully styled blonde ringlets that framed her face.

  The bounder had no right attending any event she might be attending. What if he brought the widow Sharpes, or worse—a certain actress who had borne him a bastard babe? How would she be able to quietly watch him
play the part of clever rogue, cooing over and patting another lady? Such a thing would truly break her heart. She prayed he would change his mind and stay home.

  No, she thought viciously. Let him come and witness her transformation. A rare smile eased the tension from her lips. Let him come to the concert tonight.

  And Heaven help him, for she would not show him any mercy.

  * * * * *

  A hush descended over the crowded tearoom. The concert was on the verge of beginning. The musicians had, one by one, stopped tuning their instruments and held them at the ready. If Nathan were to delude himself, he might have credited the impending entrance of the orchestra’s conductor for the sudden silence.

  A few at a time, accompanied by hushed whispers, every blasted pair of eyes in the hall eventually turned to gaze upon him.

  He trailed his father and the rest of his family by several paces. The Marquess, with a slower pace than usual and a pair of shaky legs, shuffled through the Upper Assembly tearoom, showing a determination similar to a wounded soldier’s holding the front line with nothing more than an unwavering courage.

  Two sturdy footmen flanked the Marquess, their arms held in ready in case he required assistance. They were careful though not to appear too eager to fulfill their duty. After hearing the rather heated objections the Marquess had pounded against their ears Nathan understood why.

  Nathan’s mother, Edward and Maryanne followed a step behind the Marquess. While Nathan stood apart as if he didn’t quite belong. He wasn’t exactly welcome—not until after his marriage to Mrs. Sharpes would they accept him back within their ranks. His family had already made that fact painfully clear back at the townhouse.

  But since he was set on making this family outing complete, there wasn’t really much any of the others could do to stop him from trailing behind them like an unlovable, starving stray pup.

  The tall, willowy Maryanne appeared especially agitated. Her deep green eyes shifted nervously and with every couple of steps she’d glance back at Nathan. She was no doubt cursing his stubborn determination—determination that mirrored his father’s.