American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “I’ve finished the unpacking, ma’am. Would you like anything else? A cup of tea brought up, or some biscuits?”

  What she really wanted was to be alone. “No, Molly, thank you. I believe I shall take a nap. Why don’t you go down to the servants’ hall and have your tea?”

  “Very well.” Molly gave a bobbing curtsy. “If there’s anything you need, just ring for me. Otherwise, I’ll wake you at the dressing gong.”

  The maid went out, closing the door behind her, and Belinda moved from her seat by the window to her dressing table, pulled out the vanity stool, and sat down. She stared at her reflection, dismayed by the flush in her cheeks brought back by memories of Nicholas’s kiss.

  What on earth was wrong with her? She’d always been a reserved, self-contained sort of person, and life with Featherstone had exacerbated that trait in her, until forever holding in what she felt was as natural as breathing. No other way to be with a man who could bed another woman without a pang of conscience or drop ten thousand pounds on a racehorse without a thought where it had come from. She’d pushed passionate, intemperate feelings like love and desire down a little deeper with each disappointment Charles had given her, smothering them a little more with each thoughtless act he’d committed, until she’d thought she’d snuffed them out completely.

  Where was the cool, proud, implacable Lady Featherstone now? she wondered, staring in misery at her reflection. Where was the sensible woman she thought she’d trained herself to be? The woman to whom fondness and affection meant more than passion?

  Edie was right about her. She did want Trubridge herself, wanted him just as much as the shy, reserved Miss Belinda Hamilton had wanted Charles Featherstone. The reasons why were beyond any understanding, and the fact that she seemed to have learned nothing from her previous experience only made her feel more wretched and muddled up than before.

  Belinda looked away from her flushed face and reached for the soothing mint face cream on her dressing table, but her hand stilled over the jar, her attention caught by the aubergine handbag also on the table.

  She’d had that bag with her that afternoon at Claridge’s, and as she stared at the dark purple leather, Nicholas’s words from that day echoed through her mind.

  Is it really true you’ve no money?

  How startled she’d been to discover he didn’t know anything about her money. But then, why should he? It was her own private fortune, one she’d amassed all by herself, one client at a time.

  Nicholas didn’t know about her wealth, and yet, he still wanted her. That thought brought a tiny, absurd burst of joy, until she remembered that he wasn’t supposed to want her at all. He was supposed to be finding a wife, and any momentary joy she felt was replaced at once by hard realities.

  Yes, for some inexplicable reason, she wanted him. Here, alone, in the privacy of her room, she could admit it. And Nicholas wanted her. But what difference did any of that make?

  All very well for Edie to talk of affairs and lovers. She wasn’t serious, but if she were, if she wanted an affair, she could have one because she was married. Though it was considered morally wrong to commit infidelity, it was tolerated in society, as long as one’s husband claimed any children that resulted. But for unmarried women, even for a widow such as herself, the risks that came with love affairs were enormous. She wasn’t the sort of person who took risks like that.

  Her problem, she realized wryly, was that she knew too much about desire. She knew it was really nothing much at all. Oh, it was glorious while it lasted, but it didn’t last long. When there was nothing deeper, when there was no mutual respect or liking to turn desire into love, desire faded and died, and—for an unwed woman, at least—there was nothing much to show for it afterward except a broken heart, a ruined reputation, a baby, or possibly all three.

  What she’d felt when Nicholas kissed her was as insubstantial as the wind. Featherstone had taught her well. Desire wasn’t love, and if she ever made the mistake of confusing the two a second time, she’d deserve the painful consequences because this time around, she didn’t have the excuse of youth and naiveté.

  Slowly, with sheer force of will, Belinda pushed desire back down into the deep, dark pit where she’d first buried it years ago, and this time, she could only hope it stayed there.

  Chapter 12

  It was nearing twilight, but even though the light was dimming, making it more and more difficult to read, Rosalie could not bear to give up her book and go back to the house. Not yet.

  Instead, she turned a page of her well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice and continued to read. Around her, bees were giving up on the flowers of the garden and returning to their hives, and the finches were no longer squabbling around the birdbath, but that was all right with her. She wasn’t out here to admire the beauty of the duchess’s gardens.

  She’d come out here to enjoy a few minutes of her favorite pastime. Odd how she had longed for the balls and parties of the London season, but now that she was in the midst of it, she was beginning to appreciate how tiring it was. She’d had little time for reading, and given the lavish entertainments planned for the house party, she doubted she’d have much time for it during the week ahead, so she was stealing some time for it now, before the house party really began.

  Ah, she was coming to the best part. Rosalie settled back more comfortably on the garden bench, smiling in anticipation as she turned another page. Though she’d read this book dozens of times, she still delighted in Darcy’s confession of love to Elizabeth as much as she had the first time she’d read the book.

  The dressing gong sounded through the window of the nearby library, and she looked up with a frown. Was it seven o’clock already? Oh, Lord, she was out of time.

  Rosalie stood up and started toward the house, but she kept her book open. With an occasional glance to direct her way, she continued reading as she mounted the flagstone steps and started down the long terrace.

  I must tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

  Rosalie gave a pleasurable sigh, turned another page, and went around the corner, but before she could read another word, she ran smack-dab into what seemed to be a solid wall.

  “Oh!” she cried, as the impact of the collision sent her stumbling backward, and she stepped on the hem of her skirt as she tried to regain her balance. Her book went flying out of her hands, and she would have fallen to the hard, tiled granite of the terrace if a pair of hands had not caught her by the arms and kept her upright.

  She blinked, drawing a shaky breath as she stared into the black-and-white obstacle she’d cannoned into. She realized at once that what she was looking at was a man’s chest sheathed in evening dress, and the hands holding her upright were strong, manly hands.

  “Are you all right?” a deep voice asked, an unmistakable voice that caused her gaze to fly up in disbelief, and when she saw that it was indeed Lord Trubridge standing before her, happiness welled up within her, pressing against her chest and making it impossible to breathe.

  “Miss Harlow?” Lord Trubridge said, his surprise seeming as great as hers. Instantly, his hands released her, and he stepped back with a bow. “How do you do?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but her heart was hammering against her ribs with such force, she couldn’t seem to speak. He was here, he was really here, right in front of her.

  “I didn’t realize you were coming for the house party,” he went on.

  This confirmation of her thoughts made it seem as if the two of them were in perfect mental harmony. What bliss.

  I didn’t realize you were coming either.

  She tried to force the words out, but they remained stuck in her throat, unsaid, and she wanted to kick herself. The handsomest man in the world was standing right in front of her, the man she’d been thinking and dreaming about for weeks, her very own hero, and she could not manage to say a single word. She w
as completely tongue-tied. Even worse, she could feel a hot blush washing over her face, and she always looked awful when she blushed, a bit like a scarlet ranunculus.

  He glanced at the ground around them and spied her book splayed out on top of a terra-cotta pot filled with flowering thyme. He retrieved it, glancing at the title as he did so. “You’re reading Austen, I see,” he murmured.

  She wanted to ask if he liked Austen, but she simply couldn’t do it. She could only stand there in mute, ecstatic agony.

  He started to hand the book back to her, but then he stopped. “We’ve killed a bee, I fear,” he said, and pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe away the remains of the unfortunate insect before he held the book out to her.

  Rosalie stared up at him as she took the book, and the only coherent thought that passed through her mind was that he had beautiful eyes. When he smiled at her, the sweetness of it pierced her heart like an arrow.

  “If you will pardon me, Miss Harlow?” He didn’t wait for a reply—not that she could blame him for that, when she was standing here speechless. Instead, he simply offered her another bow, stepped around her, and continued on his way.

  Dismayed, desperate, she turned around. “Thank you,” she managed to call to his splendid but retreating back.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied over his shoulder, but he did not turn around. He didn’t even stop walking, and as she watched him descend the steps to the south lawns and enter the boxwood maze, the joy in her heart twisted into disappointment. Wretched, she ducked back around the corner and pressed her flushed face against the cool stone of the house.

  “Thank you?” she muttered to herself in a paroxysm of disbelief and self-recrimination. Weeks of imagining a moment such as this, and when it had finally come, all she’d been able to say to him was thank you?

  Rosalie tapped her forehead three times against the wall, grinding her teeth in frustration, and she vowed that before the week was out, she would work up the courage to speak with him. After all, no self-respecting heroine could allow herself to be tongue-tied in the presence of her hero. What kind of romance would that be?

  DINNER WAS AGONY.

  Nicholas sat beside the duchess, who had declared upon walking in with him that she’d heard he was full of wit and that she expected scintillating conversation at dinner in consequence. That declaration forced him to pay attention to those around him so that he could insert the proper clever rejoinder now and again, and this was no easy task. In addition, there was a bishop on his other side, and the man had given him a most disapproving frown upon their introduction, showing that Nicholas’s tarnished reputation preceded him even in ecclesiastical circles.

  To make matters worse, Lord and Lady Wetherford were directly across the table, and both of them seemed to squirm in their seats every time he so much as looked at them, and they winced every time he opened his mouth. He could only guess that they were so embarrassed their son had shot him while in a state of intoxication and terrified he might tell everyone in earshot all about it that they couldn’t seem to string together coherent replies to any of his questions. An inquiry about Pongo’s health and well-being probably would have sent both of them sinking beneath the table in a paroxysm of embarrassment.

  Belinda was so far down the dining table—twelve people away, at least—that it was impossible for him to talk with her. But he could see her quite plainly from where he sat, and that tortuous fact, more than anything else, was making his evening an excruciating episode.

  Her black hair, piled in a gleaming mass atop her head, looked almost indigo blue in the candlelight of the dining room. She wore the same strands of Roman pearls he’d seen at the ball, and below them, he could see the shadowy cleft between her breasts, for the neckline of her lavender silk evening gown was cut far too low for his peace of mind. She seemed more beautiful than ever before. He wanted her more than ever before. He ached with it, he burned with it. He felt as if he must be emanating lust.

  Had she seemed to be in a state at all similar to his, he might have been able to take the situation in a better spirit. Unfortunately, she seemed to be having the time of her life. Unlike him, she was conversing easily with her dinner companions. He knew that because every time he glanced her way—which happened about every six seconds by his estimation—she was talking and laughing with those around her. He never caught her looking at him, worse luck, and by the time the dessert of raspberry fool had been consumed, he was almost at the end of his tether. When the duchess declared that the ladies would leave the men to their port, he decided he’d had enough.

  Once the ladies had gone through, he swallowed down his port in a gulp, murmured an excuse about needing a walk after that delicious meal, and departed for the outdoors, hoping the cool spring air could cool his blood.

  Once outside, he strode along the terrace, passed the open French doors that led to where the ladies were gathered in the music room, and went down the steps to the gardens. He made directly for the boxwood maze on the south lawn, for having been through it before dinner, he was reasonably sure he could remember how to find the center. And the center of a maze seemed an excellent place for some privacy, something he badly needed just now.

  This situation was intolerable, he thought as he walked between walls of tall boxwood hedge. How could he be anywhere near Belinda for an entire week and not break that stupid, stupid promise? How could he not haul her into his arms and kiss her? How could he not pull her into his arms, caress her, and make love to her?

  He took a deep breath, knowing he had to stop torturing himself this way. He focused his mind on finding his way through the maze, forcing out all other considerations, but by the time he reached the center, he was not restored to a rational state of mind.

  Bad enough that he wanted her so much he ached like a randy seventeen-year-old. But the fact that he was here because he needed to find a wife made it all that much worse, for contemplating marriage to any woman when he wanted one he couldn’t marry, wanted her beyond all reason, seemed more than he could bear.

  In the center of the maze stood a small folly of wrought iron covered with climbing white roses that gleamed in the light of the full moon. He made for the stone bench tucked beneath the roses, but he felt far too keyed up to sit down. Instead, he halted in front of it, staring at the thick tangle of rose canes all around him, and wondered what on earth he was going to do.

  What could a man do when he had a passion for a woman who had no use for him at all? Did he write love letters? Compose poetry? He shied away from that possibility and moved on. Send roses? Hell, he didn’t even know if Belinda was fond of roses. Most women were, but Belinda was unlike any other woman he’d ever met.

  Still, he rather liked the idea of roses. Assuming that she did have a fondness for them, what kind would be her favorite? He considered the question, tilting his head back to study the pristine white blooms above him. He inhaled, but there was so little fragrance to the flowers, they might just as well have been daisies, and he knew that if he ever sent Belinda roses, they wouldn’t be like these.

  No, they’d be big, red, velvety roses, the kind that were lush and dark and smelled of summer, because Belinda was that kind of woman. Despite her pristine surface, she was heady and passionate. She didn’t want to be, he knew, but deny it all she liked, she was a passionate woman. Yes, he decided, for Belinda, only red roses would do.

  Nicholas smiled rather ruefully at that. If he sent Belinda roses, he’d probably learn afterward she had a rose allergy. When it came to her, his luck seemed to be running that way.

  “Lord Trubridge?”

  The sound of a feminine voice broke into his thoughts, but he knew the voice was, unfortunately, not Belinda’s. He turned around, and the sight of Rosalie Harlow right in front of him, and the expression of adoration on her face confirmed that his luck was going in the wrong direction, not only with Belinda
, but with all women everywhere.

  “Miss Harlow?” He cast an uneasy glance over her head. “You shouldn’t be out here alone with me.”

  “I—I saw you go past the music room, so I knew you weren’t having port with the other gentlemen. I slipped out and followed you.” Her fingers twined together and untwined again, showing her nervousness.

  He was damned nervous, too, for he couldn’t afford a repeat of the Elizabeth Mayfield episode. He didn’t think Rosalie was that sort of girl, but a man could never be too careful. He glanced at the opening in the hedges, hoping Mrs. Harlow wasn’t about to arrive on the scene, full of righteous indignation and demanding honor be satisfied.

  “You’d best go back at once,” he advised. “The ladies will be wondering where you’ve gone.”

  “No, they won’t. Not for a few minutes yet.”

  “But surely your mother—”

  “Oh, we don’t need to worry about her. She thinks I went to the necessary. I don’t usually lie to Mama, of course. But I knew I must speak with you privately, and I couldn’t think of any other way to manage it.”

  “Speaking with me privately is not a good thing for an unmarried young lady to be doing.” He stepped closer, hoping she would step back and allow him a gentlemanly exit, but she did not move. The thorny branches that lined the sides of the folly prevented him from going around her. “If not your mother, someone else might see us, and it would grieve me if your reputation were damaged because of me.”

  “I know it is far too bold of me to approach you in this way, but ever since we met, I have been in agony that we are apart, and now that I have seen you again, I must confess my feelings.”

  He rubbed his fingers over his forehead with an unhappy sigh. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  She ignored that, of course. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  He wondered if she’d uttered those words with conscious intent. He rather doubted it. Girls memorized Austen’s Darcy speech as a matter of course, and she’d been reading Pride and Prejudice that very afternoon. It was probably stuck in her head as the most romantic words anyone could say.