by Trisha Telep
“But this is a silhouette. It takes very little time. Lady Kelly was telling me all about it at her ball. There is nowhere else we need to be, right?”
Jack glanced at Roan. He nodded, and Jack shrugged.
An older woman met them at the doorway.
“We would like a shade of the three of us,” Addy said, a wide smile on her face.
“How long will it take?” Jack asked, already looking impatient.
“Actually, it takes very little time for a shadow painting, sir. The sitting takes mere minutes, and the picture itself will be ready in an hour’s time.”
“Very well,” Jack agreed.
“Please, come in.” The woman motioned for them to follow her into a small parlour. She arranged three chairs in a row, placing Jack in the first, Addy in the middle, and then Roan in the last.
Next she closed the draperies and lit several large candles, placing the waxy pillars in front of a large screen.
The lady repositioned the lighting several times, and then took a seat on the opposite side of the screen. “Now please try to be as still as possible.”
Roan was left with no choice but to stare straight ahead at Addy’s beautiful auburn curls, the long swan-like neck, the slender shoulders. Gold hoop earrings hung from her ears. He wanted to buy her anything she desired . . . like the dress in the shopfront window. If she belonged to him, he would never stop spoiling her.
An image of her kissing Seeton came to him again, and he wished it far away.
“You on the left, quit fidgeting,” the woman said, and Addy laughed under her breath, which made Jack and Roan laugh, too.
He was glad they were there, glad that for a few minutes the tension had been lessened and that they were once again relaxed. Friends whom he trusted and loved more than life.
The entire ride home, Addy stared at the shadow portrait and smiled.
“We cut quite dashing figures, do we not, Roan?” Jack said, surprising him.
Roan looked at his friend, glad he was finally talking to him. “Lucky for them, they captured my good side,” he said cheerfully, and Jack grinned.
But Addy frowned at him. “Not everyone sees your scars, Roan. When I look at you, I see . . . you. The same Roan I have always known. The Roan who will always live here,” she said, placing a hand over her heart. “You are perfect just as you are. Do not let anyone ever make you feel differently.”
He stared at her, shocked by her declaration and sincerity.
Jack’s gaze shifted between them.
“Thank you, Addy,” Roan said, and she pressed her lips together before looking down at the picture again.
Four
“A package for you, my lady. Where shall I put it?”
Addy, who had been sitting in the parlour drinking tea and watching the clock move excruciatingly slowly, looked at the large white box with its pink bow in both excitement and trepidation.
Setting her cup aside, she motioned to the spot beside her. “Right here, Nelly.”
Was this a gift from Seeton? Aside from flowers on their first meeting, he had not been prone to gift-giving, but then again, he seemed to have grown more affectionate since Roan arrived.
Addy slipped the ribbon from the box, and removed the lid. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the scarlet gown she had seen in the shopfront window yesterday.
“How lovely,” Nelly said, and Addy nodded in agreement, her throat tight with emotion. It could only be from one of two people.
“Here is the card,” Nelly said.
With trembling hands, she opened the envelope and pulled the card out. “To Addy . . . just for being you. Your friend always, Roan.”
Nelly sighed. “How very kind of Lord Drayton. What a lovely man he is.”
“Indeed, he is,” Addy replied, her heart nearly pounding out of her chest.
“He’s always looked upon you as a little sister, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, yes, he has.” But she didn’t want to be looked upon as his little sister any longer, but as someone who was far more important and dear to his heart.
“Have Lord Drayton and my brother returned from their ride yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good. Come, Nelly. I need your help.”
Roan and Jack arrived back at the manor and were surprised to find Seeton standing on the veranda, smoking. Seeing them, the younger man dropped the cheroot and crushed it beneath his heel.
“Have you been waiting long?” Jack asked.
“No, I only just arrived.”
“Is Addy not here?”
“Actually, I’ve come to speak with you, My Lord.”
Roan’s stomach clenched.
“Do come in,” Jack said, motioning for him to follow him into the house.
Roan promptly excused himself. He walked in long strides to his chamber, shut the door and closed his eyes.
Damn it!
At this moment, Stephan was asking for Addy’s hand and, knowing Jack, he would heartily agree to the match.
The wheels were set in motion and there was nothing Roan could do to change their course. After all, he was but a family friend. Stephan had been courting Addy for weeks while Roan had been convalescing at his home in Essex. He had no business to be as furious as he was . . . or so intensely jealous.
The younger man did not deserve her. Stephan had no idea how to make a woman like Addy happy.
Dearest Addy, with her love of the outdoors, her free spirit and outspoken nature.
And those lips – good Lord, those lips – lifting in that coy way, promising things she had no right to.
He removed his jacket and waistcoat, and tossed both items over the back of the chair. Reaching behind his head, he lifted his shirt, but stopped short upon hearing a knock at the door.
No doubt it was Jack, come to tell him the good news. Or perhaps he’d realized that Roan was worthy of Addy. He ran his hands through his hair and, with a steadying breath, opened the door.
Addy stood before him, dressed in the gown he had bought for her. The scarlet gown fitted her like a glove, the shade doing incredible justice to the colours of her eyes and hair.
“Beautiful,” he said on a whisper, his gaze wandering down the length of her and back up again.
She was absolutely breathtaking, the kind of woman any man would be proud to call his wife.
“Thank you so much, Roan. I cannot believe your kindness,” she said, stepping into the room and shutting the door.
“It fits you beautifully.”
“Indeed, it’s perfect.” Her eyes shifted from his to his chest, reminding him that his shirt was open. He lifted his right hand and touched the scar at his neck. His skin was rough, puckered, a mixture of pink and purple – a gruesome sight for one so fair.
“Do not hide from me, Roan. Never from me,” she said, her hand covering his at his neck. Her fingers slid between his, and then she did the most extraordinary thing – she kissed his neck and the thick scar there.
“Addy,” he said her name on a groan.
She didn’t stop. She kissed his scarred cheek, his jaw, his throat, his shoulder, made a pathway of kisses all the way to the burn on his hand, and then she kissed each of his fingers. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever known, and will ever know, Roan. Don’t hide from the world. Don’t hide from me. You are not changed. If anything, you are a better man for the things you have suffered through, for now you have a greater understanding of what real trials are.”
Her words eliminated the last of his will power.
“Addy, we shouldn’t be alone.”
Her lips curved. “Why is that, Roan?”
“You know why,” he replied, his voice husky.
She lifted her face to his, their breath mingling.
He should put her at arm’s length. He knew that. Everything within him told him to do so and, yet, he could not bring himself to deny her, not when she had bewitched him body and soul.
He reached for her with his injured
hand, his thumb brushing over her soft lips. She didn’t pull away, did not flinch in the least. Instead, she smiled; her eyes warm and full of desire. A desire he understood all too well.
She turned her head the slightest bit, pressed her soft lips into his scarred palm . . . and he was lost.
He pulled her into his arms, held her close, felt the tears burn the backs of his eyes as he inhaled deeply of her scent, felt her arms come around him, holding him tight, embracing him. Comforting him.
“Adelaide!” The call came from downstairs.
“It’s Jack,” she whispered, a mixture of frustration and irritation in her voice.
“You had better see what he wants before he comes looking for you.”
“You are right,” she said, kissing him softly. “Thank you again for the gown. You didn’t have to.”
He smiled. “Yes, I did.”
Addy entered her brother’s study and was stunned to see Stephan standing there. Dressed in a tailored dove-grey suit, he looked the epitome of the English lord. His golden hair was swept off his forehead, the ends curling at his collar.
How very different he was from Roan in every way. His shoulders were not wide like Roan’s, nor were his features quite so fine.
“Lord Seeton, what a surprise.”
“Adelaide, you look absolutely stunning,” Stephan said, taking her hand in his and kissing it.
If Jack recognized the dress from the shop window, he wasn’t letting on. He folded his hands behind him. “Stephan would like a word with you . . . alone.”
Her stomach dropped to her toes. Oh dear, this was not good. “Oh?” she said, forcing a smile she did not feel.
“I shall give you two a moment alone together. I’ll be right outside.”
Her eyes widened, but Jack did not see her distress. Instead, he slipped out the door.
Stephan squared his shoulders and released a breath, treating her to a whiff of brandy. Good gracious, it was barely four in the afternoon and he smelled like he’d been drinking all day.
“Dearest, Adelaide, we have only known each other for a short time, but I feel as though it has been forever, and I feel we are well suited. Indeed, we are so very similar.”
Similar. In what way? They didn’t seem to like any of the same things.
“I asked your brother for his permission to marry you and he has agreed.”
She pressed her lips together, and couldn’t form a reply to save her life. The awkward silence continued as she struggled for something to say.
“Well, do you have an answer?”
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she replied, “I just did not expect a proposal so soon.”
His eyes widened. “Are you refusing me?”
“No, I just . . . am surprised, that is all.”
“Take the evening to decide then, my dear,” Seeton said, the smile returning in force. “I am sure you will have a clear head come morning.”
A clear head? She could not be thinking more clearly.
The door opened abruptly and Roan stood there. He looked just as he had when she’d left him five minutes before – save that his shirt had been tucked into his breeches. But his hair was even more unruly, as though he had been running his fingers through it time and again.
“Lord Drayton?” Seeton said, his brows furrowing as he glanced from Roan to Jack, who appeared at Roan’s shoulder.
“I am afraid Addy can’t marry you,” Roan said matter-of-factly.
Seeton frowned and puffed out his chest. “Why is that?”
“Because I love her, and I want her to marry me.”
Addy’s heart soared to the heavens.
“Do not be ridiculous,” Stephan said, lifting his chin a good two inches.
Jack glanced at Stephan, his eyes narrowing. “Why is Lord Drayton asking for my sister’s hand ridiculous?”
“He is . . . scarred. What woman would want—”
“I would,” Addy said, rushing into Roan’s arms. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
She saw the surprise in Roan’s eyes, the intense relief. A relief she felt herself.
Stephan’s face turned bright red. “I cannot believe what I am hearing. Good God, Adelaide, you would have this . . . this monster for a husband over me?”
“Indeed, I would,” she replied.
“The two of you deserve each other.” Stephan whisked his hat off the desk and rushed out of the room.
“I’ll give you two a moment alone,” Jack said, clapping Roan on the back. “I can think of no one else I would rather lose her to than you.”
“Thank you, Jack,” Roan said, smiling as he turned to Addy. “My beautiful Little Miss Independent.”
Addy grinned, and cupped Roan’s face. “I love you, Roan. I always have, and I always will.”
The Devil’s Bargain
Deborah Raleigh
One
London – June 1814
Contrary to many of the fine homes currently being built in Mayfair, the townhouse near St James’ was a plain three-storeyed structure made of red bricks, with a columned portico that was hidden from the road by a walled garden.
At a glance, it could be easily dismissed as an old-fashioned, increasingly shabby structure, but upon closer inspection there was an undoubted charm in the weathered stones and an air of solid respectability.
And once inside . . . well, those fortunate enough to receive an invitation to Countess Spaulding’s home were astonished by the recent renovations that had transformed the dark, cramped rooms into airy spaces with marble columns, ivory walls and coved ceilings that were vibrantly painted with Roman gods.
On this night, the crimson drawing room was filled with elegant guests who were busily arguing the merits and faults of the Treaty of Paris. There were those who thought that the House of Bourbon should be returned to rule France, while others feared another revolution that would tear apart the Continent.
Amelia, the Countess Spaulding, allowed a faint smile to curve her lips as the arguments became heated and a young Prussian waved his hands in violent protest. As a hostess, she invited only those guests who were capable of stirring her intellectual interest: artists, philosophers, inventors and a smattering of politicians.
She had no patience for most of society and their frivolous gatherings, which were no more than an opportunity for the vain idiots to preen and primp for one another – no doubt because those idiots had made her life a misery during her years as an unwelcome wallflower. Even now she shuddered at the memory of being tolerated solely because her father was related to the Duke of Devonshire and her mother’s father had made a fortune in the West Indies.
She thrust aside the tormenting memories as she hovered near the door of the drawing room and sipped her champagne. No one could mistake her for a wallflower tonight.
Now a married woman, Amelia was no longer a victim of her mother’s unfortunate lack of style. Her dark-red hair was smoothed into an elegant knot at her nape, rather than teased into frizzy curls around her face, emphasizing her bright green eyes and the tender curve of her mouth rather than her rounded cheeks and too short neck. She had also shed the white, frilly muslin gowns that had made her appear overly pale and as round as a dumpling.
Instead she was attired in a silk gown of rich green that was cut to celebrate her lush curves, and perfectly matched the magnificent emeralds that dangled from her ears.
More importantly, having endured the humiliation of being caught in Lady Granville’s conservatory half-naked, in the arms of the Earl of Spaulding, not to mention their hasty marriage by special licence despite her discovery that he was nothing more than a brazen fortune-hunter, she had developed a hard-earned maturity. She was a sword forged in fire, she wryly acknowledged, and nothing was allowed to penetrate her aloof composure.
She was now a confident woman in command of her life, not the timid child she had left behind a year ago.
Draining the last of the expensive champagne, Amelia watched as a slende
r gentleman in a purple satin coat and white knee breeches minced across the Persian carpet to stand at her side.
Mr Sylvester Petersen could claim ten years more than Amelia’s four and twenty, with handsome features and blond curls that had taken hours to tousle to his satisfaction. It was not his male charms, or his decidedly dreary poems, however, that allowed him a place among Amelia’s select circle of friends. No, it was his biting wit and his ability to imitate the fashionable elite that made him an amusing companion.
“A charming evening as always, Lady Spaulding,” her companion drawled, a glint of sly humour in his blue eyes. “How ever did you manage to lure Czar Alexander to your elegant gathering?”
Amelia shrugged. “I was introduced to Alexander Pavlovich when I attended his sister, the Duchess of Oldenburg, at the Pulteney Hotel. He was kind enough to suggest that I include him during my next salon.”
Sylvester waved a delicate lace fan, his lips curling into a cruel smile.
“The Prince Regent will be furious, of course,” he drawled. “It is said the Russians have flatly refused to attend several of the shockingly expensive entertainments he has planned to celebrate his grand victory over the Frenchies.”
“Considering that our rotund Prince’s only contribution to the war was marching his regiment up and down the streets of Brighton, it is hardly surprising that the Czar is unimpressed.”
Sylvester leaned forwards, a hint of a leer on his face as his gaze lowered to her full bosom.
“And, of course, Alexander Pavlovich does not desire to bed the Prince.”
Amelia stiffened in distaste. Over the past month she had noticed an unwelcome familiarity from Sylvester. Indeed, there had been several gentlemen who had made unwanted advances, perhaps assuming her husband’s continued absence from London meant she was in need of male companionship. She would have to put a swift end to such nonsense.
“Behave yourself, Sylvester.”
“My dear, I could hardly miss Alexander Pavlovich’s languishing glances and awkward attempts to lure you from the crowd,” Sylvester drawled. “He desires to make you his mistress.”
“I have no interest in the Czar.”
“Do not be so hasty, my dear. Czar Alexander is handsome enough, and taking him as your lover would only heighten your position among London society.” The lace fan fluttered. “You would be infamous.”
