DEVILISH

by Devilish (lit)

  Among congratulations, he looked at her and saw the spark of true competitiveness in her eyes. Ah, my lady, it is not wise to care so much about mere games.

  Elf, Fort, and Bryght were next in order. Elf took unashamed pleasure in doing a little better than her husband, and Bryght, like Rothgar, made two bulls. Then Lady Arradale stepped up to the mark, back straight, chin set. She might as well have declared her intention to win. Each ball went straight to the center and she turned to meet his eyes as if it were a personal challenge.

  He was not surprised, but was perhaps a little shocked by that degree of skill. Even, in the most subtle sense, aroused. He delighted in excellence.

  Steen was no great shot and amiably waived his turn.

  “What now?” Rothgar asked. “We fire again to settle it?”

  “Into the same targets,” she said, “with white paper behind. We try to make exactly the same hole.”

  “Good lord,” said Steen, and even Bryght looked startled.

  Rothgar, however, picked up his first pistol. “A most intriguing test, Lady Arradale, though such accuracy can serve no purpose in a real situation. A pistol ball in the heart will do the job. In fact, a pistol ball anywhere in the torso is usually effective.”

  “But this is perfection for perfection’s sake, is it not, my lord? As with machines?”

  “Ah. Then by all means let us see who is the most perfect machine.”

  When the white paper had been pinned behind the red heart, he sighted. An interesting challenge, which appealed to his sense of absolutes, of precision. His first shot went very slightly off, he thought, though it was hard to tell at a distance. The second, too. When the papers were brought to him, everyone gathered to study them.

  “The exact mark!” Steen exclaimed. Rothgar was fond of Steen but the man did not think in terms of absolute perfection.

  “No, a trace of white shows,” he said. “Bryght, your turn.”

  Bryght shook his head. “I see no point in this. What good does it do?”

  “You disappoint me. Think of it in mathematical terms. There is right and there is not right.”

  “With figures I grant you, but not with this. I bow out.”

  “Elf?”

  Elf shook her head, too. “I know I cannot do it.”

  Rothgar turned to the countess. “I trust you will not disappoint me, my lady.”

  She already had her first pistol in hand. “Of course not. It was my suggestion.”

  She again took that purposeful stance. He wondered who her weapons master was, for the man was good. At the same time, he couldn’t help wishing he had the training of her. She needed to go a little further into the mind, into the soul, to achieve the level she sought.

  But then again, perhaps not. He watched as both pistol balls hit the dead spot. Among cheers the papers were retrieved and studied.

  “A touch of white too,” she said with annoyance.

  “But less, I think,” Bryght said. “Let’s take these back to the house and find some way to measure them. That appeals to my mathematical mind. By gad, Bey, I think she’s bested you!”

  “Which clearly brings solace to your bitter heart. Lady Arradale, do you fence?”

  “Bey—” Bryght protested, but the countess merely smiled.

  “Yes, but not as well as I shoot. I lack a daily training partner.”

  He only just caught himself from offering a bout anyway.

  His height, reach, and skill would make it no contest at all, but even without that, it would not be wise. All the same, he’d like to test her mettle with a blade, too. He was sure she was devilishly good.

  Chapter 9

  Diana led the way back to the house, outpacing the others deliberately to avoid conversation. Simple matters immediately became complex with the Marquess of Rothgar. She sensed a mix of approval and disapproval in him, and berated herself for caring.

  She did care, however. She cared what he thought of her, and she wanted to win.

  An hour later, after many cups of tea, and the use of measuring sticks and a magnifying glass, the contest was declared to be a draw.

  “Did you notice,” Lord Bryght asked his brother, and Diana thought she saw a glint of amused speculation in his eyes, “that you were both off a fraction to the northeast?” He picked up the four hearts and laid them one over the other.

  Diana took them and riffled through. Not identical, no. That would be beyond reason. But he was right. The error in all four was in the same direction. She took the two that belonged to the marquess and offered them. “A keepsake?”

  “A treasure,” he said, putting them into a pocket with a slight smile. “This time at least I managed to contrive a draw.”

  Elf leaped up. “Diana, I’m told you are skilled at that wretched game of billiards. I am determined to learn, but the men cannot teach me. They have no idea…”

  Diana allowed herself to be swept away on a tide of chatter, and by a very firm grip on her hand. She resisted an urge to look back. There was nothing intimate in his manner.

  Nothing. It was all her imagination, and she should be grateful to Elf for rescuing her.

  She helped Elf to learn the game then escaped another challenge. She could probably beat most of the men at billiards, too, but she was beginning to feel all the awkwardness of her unusual skills. Worse, there was always the chance that the marquess would be her equal and create that strange connection she was fighting to ignore.

  Intolerable if he defeated her.

  She took refuge again in work. Two peaceful hours with her secretary and paperwork were exactly what she needed. They steadied her, but that seemed to open the way to clearer thoughts. When Turcott left to send the correspondence on its way, she stayed in the sober, masculine study to be businesslike about her personal affairs.

  Fact one. The Marquess of Rothgar was a fascinating man. To deny that would be foolish. If she understood matters, half the world was fascinated by him.

  Fact two. There was something between them that went beyond the ordinary. She had met other attractive men, after all. Brand Malloren had the appeal of a warm fire. Bryght Malloren was more like a glittering jewel. Both attracted, but in different ways, but neither made her skin quiver, her heart speed, her stomach clench, as Lord Rothgar did.

  Was that something he created wherever he went? She didn’t think so. It had to be more particular than that.

  She remembered Rosa last year trying to deny herself one last night with Brand, mind and soul clearly intent on that one thing. Of course, Rosa had been falling in love with Brand, but Diana didn’t think that had been the force just then. It had been lust, but a very specific lust.

  Like a key and a lock.

  A special key for each lock.

  Even though she winced at the sexual imagery of that, she pondered the fact that Rosa and Brand were ideally suited, and yet might never have met. Did everyone have just one special person, and did they not always meet? Or did the fates arrange at least one chance for every couple?

  How many such opportunities were lost, stored on the chilly moon?

  Could the marquess be that special person for her? With a restless shrug she decided she’d much rather think of him as a master key, suited to a great many locks.

  She leaned back in her leather chair trying to assess the feelings that ran between them. Did they run both ways? She’d seen enough cases of unrequited love to know it was not always so. She remembered one young man who had felt so strongly for a woman that he could not believe the object of his devotion felt nothing. He’d thrown himself off Hardraw Force and taken poor Maddy Stawkes with him.

  She would rather die than reveal that kind of unreciprocated need. And she didn’t feel it. When the marquess left tomorrow, she would hardly think of him thereafter. For the moment, however, a certain heat glowed inside.

  Fact three. Lord Rothgar was a possible lover. She often considered men as potential lovers. In fact, it was getting to the point where she cons
idered every man between twenty and forty as a potential lover! But none had seemed so clearly a possible lover as the marquess.

  She was aware of his body in a way she’d never experienced before. Certainly she’d admired men—the width of their shoulders, the muscles of their legs, their elegance, strength, or agility. With the marquess, however, it was as if she could see through his clothes. She was constantly aware of skin, muscles, and shapes that were not actually visible.

  It was an embarrassing nuisance, but it made the vision of him naked in a bed, leaning over her, shockingly easy to create.

  Fact four. Ridiculous as it seemed, he was the safest potential lover in England for her. He did not intend to marry. Even if she lost all sense and willpower and begged him to marry her, he’d refuse.

  Fact five. She need never see him again. He was leaving tomorrow.

  Fact six. He was leaving tomorrow. Which meant that if anything were to happen, it would have to be tonight.

  She rose to restlessly wander the room, hand trailing over desk, along shelf, around globe…

  Tonight.

  She gave a little laugh. No, really. It was impossible.

  Halfway to the door she paused again. Was that wisdom or cowardice? What chance would ever again present itself so perfectly to her? Her perfect, possible lover in the adjoining bedroom.

  Perfect except…

  What would his reaction be?

  Diana worked hard through the rest of the day to appear normal, but she wasn’t sure what normal was anymore. At least the marquess was little in evidence. More correspondence from London had arrived.

  “Is your brother always pursued so relentlessly by business?” she asked Elf when they assembled before dinner.

  “Not always, no. I gather there’s a great deal going on at the moment to do with France and the recent peace.”

  “But the marquess is not in the government.”

  “No.”

  “Or, not exactly?”

  Elf’s lips quirked. “Quite. Bey has a remarkable information-gathering machine, and a trick of noticing everything and holding it all in his mind for analysis. The king finds that useful.”

  “I understand the relationship goes a little further than that.”

  “The king has an admiration for him, yes, and seeks his advice on many matters.” But Elf then turned the conversation to other matters, and Diana understood that there was a limit to what she would reveal about her brother. It was as well, for the marquess came into the room soon after, and she would have hated to have been caught talking about him.

  After dinner, the little theater was brought down and the children performed a short play to warm applause. When they spoke of the other toys, the magical picture box and the broken automaton were brought to the drawing room, too.

  The picture box gave great amusement, but the automaton could only be looked at.

  Diana glanced at her mother. The dowager was smiling politely, but she thought she saw a hint of strain in her eyes. She would have gone to offer comfort, but she had no idea what to say. It was probably one of these matters best left in silence.

  She did, however, go over to the marquess. “If you are still willing, my lord, I would like you to take the automaton to London to be repaired. In fact,” she added on impulse, “I would like to make a gift of it to you.”

  It was an extravagant gift, but he did not protest. “You are most generous, my lady. I will see it carefully tended.”

  The evening passed in cards with Diana’s own musicians providing musical entertainment. Diana made sure she did not sit at the same table as Lord Rothgar, but all the same her mind buzzed around and around her wicked dilemma like a bee trapped in a glass jar. The circling did no good, and yet she was powerless to stop it.

  This was the last night.

  Should she, shouldn’t she?

  Would he, wouldn’t he?

  She found herself admiring the line of the marquess’s body as he turned to speak to Lord Bryght. A twinkle in his eye as he teased Lady Steen. His deft, long-fingered hands on the cards.

  She could almost feel those fingers on her skin in the night…

  Oh lud! Missed opportunities, stored on the moon.

  When the party finally broke up and she could seek the sanctuary of her room she felt mentally exhausted.

  But not physically.

  No, her body seethed with restless and demanding energy.

  Once she was ready for bed, dressed in just her loose silk nightgown, she dismissed Clara and stood facing the adjoining door. She hadn’t noticed noises from the other room, but surely the marquess was there by now.

  She paced for a moment or two then grabbed the wrap that went over her gown. The gown was light, but the wrap was ivory damask and covered her as well as a day gown.

  Still, it was nightwear, and no one could deny that.

  Even so, she walked over to the door and knocked.

  After a moment it opened—to reveal the marquess’s middle-aged manservant. “My lady?”

  A flicker of the eyes showed no one visible in the room behind him. Perdition! She wanted to instantly slam the door and hide under the covers, but she had to rescue some trace of her dignity. “I had a question about the plans for Lord Rothgar’s journey. Tomorrow.”

  The man was studiously impassive. “Shall I give him a message when he comes up, my lady?”

  Nerve crumbling to dust, Diana said, “No, no. It will wait.”

  She closed the door, then staggered to fling herself on the bed. Why, oh why, had she given in to that lunatic impulse? It gave her away!

  Could she hope the man would not mention her visit at all? She prayed for it, cursing her hungry body which had pitched her into such an embarrassing situation.

  She rolled to lie spreadeagled on the bed, looking up at the gray silk underside of her bed’s canopy. Dark gray, like his eyes… She’d always feared this—that her fiery obsession would lead to embarrassment.

  She should conquer her wicked urges. She should resign herself to true, eternal chastity. Like a nun.

  Through the window, she could see the growing moon.

  What a terrible, terrible waste it was, though.

  A knock had her suddenly upright. She stared at the adjoining door as if it had become the portal to hell. She’d imagined it. She must have—

  Another sharp rap.

  She slid off the bed and walked forward, heart pounding. If he was coming to her with lascivious intent, what should she do? Why did everything suddenly seem different?

  Swallowing, she opened the door.

  He was still completely dressed, which made her clutch her wrap around her. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I apologize for the intrusion, Lady Arradale, especially at this late hour. But I request a few moments of your time.”

  Diana swallowed again, this time swallowing disappointment. No, he hadn’t come with lascivious intent, and he hardly seemed aware that she was dressed for bed.

  She stepped back and gestured him in, countess to marquess. “Of course, my lord. Some matter I can assist you with? I have port here if you would care for some.”

  He declined, which meant she couldn’t seek courage in a bottle either. After a moment she indicated the two chairs that bracketed the empty fireplace, and they sat.

  Like husband and wife.

  Stop it, Diana—

  “I am commanded to take you to London, Lady Arradale.”

  Snapped out of foolish fancies, Diana sat upright. “What? By whom?”

  “The king, of course. By way of the queen.” He handed her a folded, sealed letter.

  She opened it and read an invitation from Queen Charlotte to spend a short time as a lady-in-waiting.

  “Why?” she demanded, then added, “I will not go, of course.”

  “It would not be wise to defy the king.”

  “He has no right—” She stopped, forcing her tangled and startled wits into order. This was far from any expectation she h
ad had of this night.

  “Why?” she asked again, a germ of real fear stirring inside. Some of her ancestors—northern rebels—had been commanded to London, never to return. The powers of the kings of England had been restricted since then, but they still could be turned on enemies and rebels.

  “You brought yourself to his attention, Lady Arradale.” Perhaps her confusion showed, for he added, “You petitioned him to allow you to take the earldom’s seat in Parliament.”

  “And why not?” she demanded, though she felt some embarrassment. She’d always known it was hopeless, but it had irritated her so much that she’d had to try. “My lands are unfairly unrepresented. The earldom has a right to a seat in the House of Lords, and I have the right to demand it.”

  “Children think in terms of rights and demands.”

  “Are you calling me a child, my lord?”

  “In this, yes. Or perhaps undereducated.”

  Anger began to burn. “I have had an extensive and thorough education.”

  “You have stayed too much in the north.”

  “I like it in the north.”

  “Because here you can play childish games without consequences.”

  She glared at him, but beneath anger fear lurked, fueled by his obvious seriousness. “What does the king intend?” She forced out the terrifying words. “The Tower?”

  “I do hope not. I would have to invoke habeas corpus on your behalf.”

  “Would he respect that?”

  “He has just been forced to do so in the case of Mr. Wilkes. Here, unlike in France, a person may not be confined at the king’s will, but must be brought to trial. However, the troubles of Mr. Wilkes serve to remind us that the king has sharp teeth and can bite.”

  Wilkes had written a piece for the North Briton critical of the king. He had ended up in the Tower for it, and was still only protected by his position as a member of Parliament.

  Diana steadied her nerves. Ironhand, she chanted to herself. Her great ancestor would not be cowed by a monarch even younger than herself. “There is no similarity, my lord. I have not written articles criticizing the king. In fact, I have done nothing illegal or offensive at all.”