Her heart fluttered at the riley thought. To think she had ever cared for the devil. That she had once believed he cared for her. Secretly loved her, even!
She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Rotten tears! How could she still cry for the dastardly man? Better yet, how could she have been such a dunce in the first place? For years she’d thought Sebastian was a hero. Where had the foolish fancy come from?
“Henry, my boy, you look flushed.”
Henrietta glanced sidelong to find the baron approaching, and smiled. It was a rather shaky smile, but still, she was glad to see her papa.
Depressed at the loss of his “son,” Baron Ashby had spent the last few days in seclusion, barricaded in his study. It had taken quite a bit of coaxing to get him out of the doldrums: she’d had to promise to visit him often after she was wed. And there was no reason that she couldn’t keep the vow. Ravenswood clearly didn’t want anything to do with her; he didn’t give a fig about the engagement bash. So Henrietta might just be free of the rogue once she married him. Perhaps Ravenswood wouldn’t care if she spent all her time at home with Papa? She could always hope.
“I’m fine, Papa. It’s a little too warm in here, I think.”
“Quite. Quite. Too warm.” The baron locked his hands behind his back. “You and I shall play a game of billiards, Henry. How does that sound? We’ll get away from all this ruckus?”
“Thank you, Papa, but I think we must stay and host the celebration.”
However wretched it might be, she thought. An engagement party without the groom? The society papers would be awash with speculation. But Henrietta wasn’t going to cower and dash off to play billiards. She was going to stand there with a fixed smile, and brave the curious looks and whispered words. She wasn’t going to dishonor her family even more by disappearing in a scandalous fashion.
The baron made a sour face. “It’s a curious night, Henry. Indeed it is. Ravenswood isn’t here to enjoy the festivities. You don’t want to play billiards.” He sighed. “It’s all so peculiar.”
“Not so peculiar,” she murmured.
Ravenswood was a scoundrel. It was just like the man to be so ruthless, to dishonor his duty by deserting her. But Papa wasn’t privy to the viscount’s true character. The baron disliked idle gossip, so rumor of Sebastian’s immoral ways had never reached his ears. He thought the viscount a gentleman—one who happened to be “stealing” her away—but still a gentleman.
If only Papa knew the truth…but perhaps it was better if he didn’t. Why trouble the aging baron with thoughts about Sebastian’s wicked pursuits? It would only grieve him, unnecessarily so. She had to marry the viscount; there was no way to cry off and still salvage the Ashby name. So let the baron think the groom a noble man. What harm would it do?
“Nicholas, get away from the girl!”
The baroness was approaching, her deportment stern.
“Nicholas, shoo!” Lady Ashby flicked her wrist. “You look cross. Don’t scold the girl in public.”
“What rubbish!” The baron snorted. “Why, I was just having a friendly chat with the boy.”
“Well, the guests are beginning to think you are unhappy about the forthcoming wedding.”
“I am unhappy, Lara,” the baron huffed. “The boy’s too young to be leg-shackled. Nasty business, I say. Nasty.”
“Yes, nasty business.” Lady Ashby offered her youngest offspring a pointed look. “But the girl’s made her choice, Nicholas.”
Henrietta winced. Her mother was referring to the letter she had written to Sebastian. A sultry letter of apology that the ton believed was part of a lover’s quarrel. But since Ravenswood wasn’t at the party, the blasted man, the ton was beginning to suspect it all a matter of unrequited love, that she had dreamed up the affair in her head. And since Henrietta had dreamed up the affair in her head, it was all the more embarrassing.
“Come along, Nicholas.” The baroness tugged at his arm. “We have guests to greet.” As the couple moved away, Lady Ashby whispered to Henrietta, “And you, my dear, had best get back to smiling.”
The baron looked over his shoulder. “Billiards, Henry. Billiards!”
Henrietta watched her parents disappear amid a throng of guests. Alone again, she took in a deep breath to soothe the tumult in her head.
“Have you forgiven me yet, Henry?”
Henrietta pressed her lips together.
“I didn’t think so.” Peter was holding two glasses of chilled champagne. He offered her one, which she accepted. “Please understand, Henry, I wanted what was best for both of you. You cared so much for Sebastian, and I was so sure that he cared for you…”
Henrietta’s heart throbbed at the words. She, too, had believed that very thing, that Sebastian had cared for her. Heavens, she had believed the rogue loved her!
“I made a mistake, Henry. I should have told you about Sebastian’s ‘habits’ from the start. Will you forgive me?”
She sniffed. “Yes, Peter, I will.”
There was no sense in being mad at Peter anyway. It was her own wretched fault for being such a ninny. A stubborn ninny at that. Her sisters had warned her about Ravenswood’s wicked ways. She should have listened.
“A toast.” Peter lifted the flute. “To new beginnings.”
They clinked glasses.
“And it’s getting off to a charming start, that new beginning,” she said dryly. “It’s almost midnight, Peter, and he still isn’t here.”
Peter glanced at the grandfather clock. “So it is.” He looked back at her. “But he will be here, Henry. Trust me.”
“And how can you be so sure of that?”
“Because I have to believe there is a little good inside my brother.”
Henrietta could admire that, familial devotion. But she didn’t have to believe in it herself. “You have more faith in your brother than I do.”
“Yes, I suppose that is my failing.” He smiled. “Would you care to dance?”
“Thank you, Peter, but no. Why don’t you dance with your wife instead? Penelope looks like she needs a respite from all the pestering guests.”
They both looked across the room to see Penelope fending off a gaggle of matrons, all looking for a juicy tidbit of gossip about the viscount’s absence. Loyal Penelope, however, was deft at deflecting the nosy inquiries. She simply retorted the viscount was delayed by a pressing matter of business; he would be there as soon as time allowed. It was the story they had all agreed to tell until the viscount made his fashionably late appearance. If the scalawag ever bothered to show up, that was.
Peter offered her a tender smile. “Will you be all right, Henry?”
Henrietta gathered her valor. “Yes, I will. Now off with you, Peter. Go and rescue your wife.”
Peter nodded and set off.
Alone yet again, Henrietta sipped the chilled champagne, perusing the guests, letting her mind wander.
It was a deuced wonder, really. Peter and Sebastian. Both brothers. Both so alike in looks. Yet both so different in temperament.
She watched as Peter and Penelope waltzed in the anteroom. How odd to see one brother so content, so at ease with his wife, so happy, even. And to know that the other brother was so dark in spirit? It was all so peculiar, as Papa would say. How had Sebastian drifted so far into the shadows of life?
“Good evening, Miss Ashby.”
Henrietta looked up at the handsome young man, and returned his smile. “Good evening, sir.”
He bowed. “Lord Emerson. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He was a tall man, slender in frame. A cap of blond curls covered his head. He had an air about him. An aristocratic air. Not haughty, per say, but bold, perhaps impudent at times. Still, he was gracious. He spoke well. He was dressed immaculately, that was for sure, in his embroidered dress coat and matching green silk breeches. And he had a genuine smile; that was a welcomed respite, indeed.
“I have come in place of my father,” he said,
“the Earl of Ormsby.”
Henrietta had heard the name before, but she had never met the earl or his son. Was Mama inviting strangers to the party? It wouldn’t surprise her. The woman was determined to make a good show of the engagement bash; make it the talk of the ton and not the scandalous letter Henrietta had penned.
“Is the earl unwell, Lord Emerson?”
“One might say so. The dear old man loathes the cold. He insisted I take his place at this gathering.” Lord Emerson gestured to the guests before he returned his attention to her. “Might I congratulate you on behalf of my father and myself on your approaching nuptials?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, my lord.”
Henrietta tried to sound like a cheery bride, but it was a deuced bother, the façade. Yet she had to go along with the charade. It was her responsibility, after all, to make right the mess she had made.
“It is a splendid match, Miss Ashby.” The young lord’s smile quivered. “If I might be so bold, Ravenswood is a very fortunate gentleman.”
There was something familiar about Lord Emerson. Henrietta wondered if perhaps she had met him somewhere before. There was something in his manner, his smile that triggered a sense of déjà vu. A chilling memory.
For all his charm, there was a quality about Lord Emerson she suddenly did not like. His eyes?
What rubbish! She was a dreadful judge of character. She’d deemed Ravenswood a noble hero. Clearly her intuition was flawed. Emerson was every bit a gentleman, she was sure. And yet…
At length, Henrietta scrunched her brow, and said, “Lord Emerson, have we met before?”
“It is possible, Miss Ashby. We move in very similar circles.”
“Well, I distinctly remember you from somewhere.”
“Perhaps I remind you of someone?”
Henrietta was not satisfied with that explanation. “There is something familiar about you.”
“Such as?”
“Your eyes.”
He lifted a brow. “My eyes, Miss Ashby?”
“Something about the color…purple feathers!”
Emerson started. “Pardon, Miss Ashby?”
“Purple feathers. I remember now. You had a mask of purple feathers. We must have met at Papa’s masquerade ball. Last summer, I believe.”
“You are right, Miss Ashby.” He smiled. “The masquerade ball. I do remember, now that you mention it.”
There, she had solved that mystery. And now she could get on with her assessment of Emerson. He had good family connections. He was easy to talk to. He was a handsome fellow, albeit dull. But he was pleasant. He was the sort of man she should have set her cap for all those years ago. Not the dashing rogue Ravenswood.
Oh, why hadn’t she had the good sense back then to partner herself with a more dependable dandy? A trustworthy and respectable husband who could not break her heart? She would not be in this muddle, then. But she had learned her lesson far too late.
“When is the happy union, Miss Ashby?”
“On Twelfth Night.” One long and dreadful week away. “We will be married at the chapel in town.”
“I can not wait to attend, Miss Ashby.”
How distressing that the guests were more eager about the wedding than the bride!
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it myself.”
Lud, she sounded so insipid!
“Well, Miss Ashby, until the joyous day, I bid you good evening.”
Emerson bowed and wended through the crowd.
Just then the grandfather clock struck the hour of twelve.
Midnight! And the rogue Ravenswood was still absent.
Henrietta downed the rest of her champagne. She’d had enough. She was going to bed.
Three. Four. Five chimes.
She skirted across the room. She had made a good show of it. But her betrothed was still detained by “business.” There was no sense in her standing there anymore, under the scrutiny of the guests. She was utterly fagged.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve chimes.
It was after midnight.
The assembly room door opened.
Henrietta gasped.
“Ravenswood!”
He looked like a fallen angel, dark, yet still sinfully beautiful. And those eyes! The deepest shade of blue—and so full of intent.
Sebastian headed straight for her.
Henrietta clutched her belly, for it was in a whirl. He had come, the blackguard. And dressed in the most striking attire. Dark breeches and boots. Form-fitting coat, tailed. A sharp blue waistcoat, so snug against his strapping chest.
The incredible flutters of her heart quickened even more. For four days she had cried and cursed his black heart, so determined to loathe him. And now here he was, a formidable devil. And she could not utter a word of resentment. Oh, it was there in her gut, the fury. But she was having a deuced hard time voicing her dander aloud.
“Happy New Year, Henry.”
He whispered the words.
Her toes curled.
And then he kissed her soundly.
Chapter 20
The sweet taste of champagne on Henrietta’s warm lips had a besotting effect on Sebastian. Not the buzz from the guests, nor the music in the anteroom distracted him from her balmy kiss—only the sharp cut of her teeth was rather jarring.
He let her go and licked his lips, tasting blood. The wily chit. She had snatched away his bachelorhood by writing that scandalous letter, and now she had the brass to bite him—her betrothed. “Is that any way to greet your fiancé?”
“Why did you kiss me?” she hissed, breathless.
“It’s New Year’s Eve. Isn’t it the way I’m supposed to greet you?”
Henrietta lifted her darling chin, took in a deep breath, and said quietly, “Go to the devil.”
Sebastian quirked a mordant grin.
The feisty little hoyden. He was going to thoroughly enjoy bedding her. Already, looking into her rebellious eyes, absorbing the energy of her defiant spirit…aroused him.
“You look bewitching tonight,” he whispered, eyes dropping to the sweeping cut of her fashionable frock. “Red suits your passionate nature.”
“And black suits your dark and twisted heart.”
“Touché, Henry.”
“My name is Miss Ashby.”
How very formal, the appellation. Cold and haughty, too. She had pestered him for years to call her by her nickname, and now she preferred their former, proper rapport? Very well, he would play along—at least until he got the fiery chit into his bed.
“I apologize, Miss Ashby.”
“Rot!’ she snapped. “You’re late.”
“Am I?” He glanced at the clock. “So I am. How dreadful. I hope I didn’t cause too much of a stir.”
The deep swell of her lush breasts was hard to miss. She was trying to keep a cap on her temper. Had he ruffled the chit’s feathers with his tardiness? Capital. He was determined to wrest back some control of his miserable life. And since he could not choose his bride, he was damn well going to choose what time he showed up for the engagement party.
“Where have you been?” she gritted. “That vile club of yours?”
The chatter around them had dwindled. Many meddlesome guests circled the couple, eavesdropping. But there was still the lively music in the anteroom—and the duo’s hushed voices—to keep the curious onlookers at bay.
He lifted a brow. “Jealous, Miss Ashby?”
“What rot!”
He had never liked her possessive tendencies before. But now…now he was not quite so averse to them. She had to care for him—even a little—to be jealous. And he liked the thought of that, as well.
“I rather think you’re jealous,” Sebastian murmured with a wolfish smile.
“I rather think you’re a scoundrel.”
“I am, Miss Ashby.” He lifted his hand to brush the smooth texture of her rosy cheek. “And you are jealous.”
“I loathe you.”
She shivered under
his touch, indicating otherwise, warming his blood. He had prepared himself for the chit’s contempt. But now to feel the quiver of her arousal did his roguish heart much good.
“I’m flattered, Miss Ashby.”
“I’m tired.” Henrietta turned her cheek away. “I’m going to bed.”
“Would you like me to join you?”
She gasped. “Why, you rotten—”
“Something the matter, Miss Ashby?” He slipped his arm around her waist and caressed the low curve of her back, insensible to the spectacle he was making in front of the guests. “You and I are about to be married. And since you’ve welcomed me into your bed before…”
“I will never welcome you into my bed again.”
“Is that so?” he drawled, unconvinced.
“Our marriage will be in name only. I will never let you touch me, Ravenswood—ever!”
Sebastian frowned. He delved deep into her bay brown eyes, searching for truth. And he realized the chit was serious!
Now he was really livid.
“What about an heir, Miss Ashby?”
“Peter’s will do just fine.” She bumped his hand off her midriff. “You’ve always said so yourself.”
The muscles in his jaw and neck stiffened. “And if Peter doesn’t have an heir?”
She looked perplexed, as if she hadn’t thought about that possibility. But she quickly gathered her features to say, “Why don’t we wait and see what happens in the next…oh, five years? If there is no heir by then, we’ll discuss the matter again.”
Five years! Did she think to keep him from her room—her bed—for that long? Even the whole of their marriage?
Like hell! It was already insufferable, being forced to wed. But he damn well wasn’t going to marry a cold fish!
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