Lady in Red

by Karen Hawkins

  Marcus pretended to read. “I don’t know what difference having a footman or two about would make. I have no intentions of attempting to make love to you while your housekeeper is in easy range. For all I know, she’s already seen the new cook stove and is now on her way back here.”

  There was a moment’s pause as Honoria absorbed this. Marcus watched her from under his lashes, noting every emotion that flickered over her face.

  Finally, she sighed. “I wish you’d come to see me when I first asked, as it would have been much simpler. May I ask why you refused?”

  Because he’d thought to protect himself from the raging lust she seemed to cause just by breathing. A goal he was beginning to question. Why should he avoid her? The legend of the ring was just that—a legend. In reality, every time he saw her while she had the ring in her possession, it was further testament to the fact that the talisman had no powers, for he had not the slightest impulse to wed her—just to bed her. “Miss Baker-Sneed, you may ask me anything you desire, although that does not guarantee an answer.”

  She lifted one delicately winged brow. It was a peculiarity of hers, the ability to look so incredibly disbelieving without saying a word.

  Marcus chuckled and stood, coming around the desk and making his way to the two chairs by the crackling fire. “Perhaps we should just have this conversation you’ve been wishing for.” He gestured toward a chair. “My dear, sit.”

  The other brow joined the first, and with this simple movement, instead of looking disbelieving, she now looked supercilious, as if he’d insulted her parentage.

  “What?” he asked.

  “‘Sit’ is what one orders one’s hunting dogs to do. I, my lord, am not a hunting dog.”

  No, she wasn’t. What she was, was an all too tantalizing package of brain and lace. She was a full-breasted, trimwaisted, long-legged, russet-haired wildfire that alternately fanned his desire and heated his ire. But Marcus was not about to admit anything to her. “Very well, then. Miss Baker-Sneed, please have a seat?” He placed his hands on the back of the chair and turned it ever so slightly in her direction.

  “That is much better, thank you.” She regally marched to the chair and took a seat.

  He looked down at the top of her head, admiring the silky sheen of her chestnut braids and that unusual streak of white, aware of a deep desire to reach down and lift her into his arms. “So…” He forced himself to turn away and take his place in the seat opposite hers. “What do you wish to say?”

  “I came to tell you that…” She bit her lip, then fisted her hands at her sides. “Treymount, you did not lose our wager.”

  It took a long moment for the words to sink in. Did not lose the wager? Then what—Marcus slowly leaned forward. “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me. You didn’t lose our wager.”

  “But…we both shot two arrows, and—”

  “My sisters had a string tied to the target and they moved it when you shot.” The words tumbled from her, almost running one into the other.

  “What did you say?”

  She took a quick breath. “My sisters thought that—”

  “Which ones?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  “Portia and Olivia. They are a bit romantic, you know, and never thought—”

  “Bloody hell. If they did it a-purpose, then…” He sat back in his seat, a deep sense of pleasure rippling through him. No wonder the target had seemed to move at one time—it had. And had he not been so hot to stare at Honoria while she was shooting, perhaps he would have noticed the irregularities better on his own. “So I won after all.”

  She blinked. “You—What? No, you did not. No one won. Neither one of us.”

  She looked so outraged that he had to rub a hand over his mouth to stop from grinning. “I don’t know,” he said after he composed himself. “I rather think that if you cheated—”

  “I did not cheat. My sisters cheated.”

  “On your behalf.”

  “Without my permission!”

  “Hm. I rather think the rules of honor would be in my favor in this case.”

  She lifted her chin. “Nonsense. There is only one thing we can do. I propose a rematch.”

  “Well, I don’t. In fact, Honoria, I believe we should—”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He raised his brows, attempting an innocent look. He wasn’t quite sure if he attained it or not, since it wasn’t something he usually tried to do. But it seemed necessary and he was willing to spare no expense. “Yes?”

  “You do not have permission to call me by my given name.” Irritation darkened her eyes to deep hazel. “It is Miss Baker-Sneed to you.”

  “And it’s Marcus to you. If we’re to engage in a year long battle of wagers, we might as well skip the formalities.”

  “It will not take a year to settle this.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” He regarded her for a long moment, noting that the line of her leg showed very much to advantage through the simple gown she wore. “Very well,” he said. “A rematch it will be. But this time I get to name the contest.”

  She brightened. “Excellent! But…what will you choose?”

  Marcus considered this. He was good with pistols, but he’d thought himself an excellent archer as well. He rubbed his chin and eyed Honoria for a long moment. “Have you ever shot a pistol?”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Oh…once or twice.”

  “Somehow I get the impression that you know a pistol as well as you do a bow and arrow.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “I believe that I’ll choose…” An imp of madness tickled him. There was only one thing to say…just one. “I choose horses.”

  She blinked slowly, incredulously. “Horses?”

  “Yes, horses.” He waited a moment, then asked, “What is the matter? You seem somewhat pale.”

  “Nothing,” she said, biting her lip. “I was just…no. Never mind.”

  Marcus looked at her for a long moment. “You don’t ride.”

  Her cheeks colored. “No. It’s just that…I don’t have a horse, not one that I can ride. We just have a carriage horse and he pulled his fetlock the other day and cannot be ridden.”

  “That’s not a problem. I have a stable full of horses. You can take your pick when you come tomorrow for the wager.”

  “I—I couldn’t do that!”

  “What? Have the wager tomorrow? Shall we make it Saturday, then?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that—” She took a deep breath, pressing her hands to her cheeks as if to cool them down.

  Marcus continued, his gaze on her face. “I propose we take a ride through the park. And whoever handles his or her mount with most decorum, wins.”

  “B-But…I don’t—” She pressed a hand to her temple, a dazed expression on her face. “Horses. I never thought you’d say horses.”

  He noted that her lashes were so long that they tangled at the corners. It was an unusual combination, those hazel eyes combined with dark, russet lashes. And he was quickly deciding that it was one of his favorites. “Are you comfortable with tomorrow, then? The quicker we end this, the better.”

  “Tomorrow? No. No, I couldn’t possibly—” She caught his gaze and colored adorably.

  He leaned over and traced the line of her cheek with his hand, lingering at the place where her dimple occasionally flashed. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid?”

  She jerked her head away, her cheeks flushed even more deeply. “Of course I’m not afraid. It is just a horse.” Despite her bravado, her voice quavered the tiniest bit on the last word, an unconscious plea for assurance.

  “Exactly,” he agreed smoothly. “Horses are friendly creatures, as a whole.”

  She looked unconvinced.

  “They rarely bite, you know.”

  Unconsciously, her
hand went to her arm. Oh ho, Marcus thought. So Honoria had a story to tell, did she?

  She swallowed, the elegant line of her throat moving as she did so. “I know they rarely bite, but when they do—”

  He nodded. “Indeed. It can be most severe. You should ask Lord Estersham about that.”

  Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “Lord Estersham who has but one arm?”

  Marcus nodded, struggling to keep his expression solemn. “Yes, that Lord Estersham.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m many things, but an alarmist is not one of them. A horse did not bite off Lord Estersham’s arm.”

  He pretended surprise. “I never said that, did I?”

  “No, but you implied it.”

  “I apologize. Lord Estersham but lost a finger from a horse’s bite, not his entire arm.”

  She blinked. “A finger?”

  “From his good hand, too. He was most grieved when it happened, though it was years ago.”

  “Ye gods,” she said softly, looking at her splayed hands for a long moment.

  From beneath his lashes, Marcus watched her expression. Would she admit her fear and ask for another wager? He rather thought she would, but now…seeing her pale face, he began to wonder. She had more pride than any woman he knew.

  She took a slow breath and then managed a cool nod. “Very well, then. Horses it is.”

  “That was very impressive.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “What was?”

  “The way you said that. Almost as if you meant it.”

  “Oh. Well. I am grateful for the chance to redo our wager. It’s just that—”

  He waited. Would she admit her fear? Would she ask for the wager to be lessened? Changed?

  Not her.

  She stood, her bonnet in her hands. “I suppose there is nothing more to be said.”

  “No. I shall call on you tomorrow and we will see this wager to its end.”

  She nodded absently, her mind obviously moving forward to their meeting. He could almost smell her trepidation. Her hands trembled just a bit as she attempted to pull on her gloves.

  After watching her struggle for a moment, he grasped her wrist and removed the mangled glove. “Permit me.” With those simple words, he took the glove, shook it out, then began to work it over her fingers.

  Honoria watched, almost mesmerized. His hands were firm and warm against her bare skin, his fingertips brushing her inner wrist. She started as the touch burned through her, sending tremors of fire and a deep ache through her.

  She yanked her hand free and stepped back, her breath heavy in her throat. “I—I can put on my own gloves, thank you.”

  His eyes darkened, a smile touching his carved mouth. “What’s wrong, Honoria? Do I frighten you?”

  No, he didn’t frighten her. But she frightened herself. There was something between them, something heated and raw that flared like a newly lit fire. It sped her heart, melted her insides, and clouded her thinking with images best left alone.

  And now, looking up into his face, that heat linking them, tying them together with an invisible thread…she wanted to kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until they were both mad with desire.

  The realization didn’t shock her as she’d thought it would. But it did nothing to help her shaking hands. She pulled away and bent her head so she could focus on getting her blasted gloves fastened.

  She fumbled with the pearl button at her wrist, relieved when it was finally buttoned. “There!” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Are you cold? Your hands are trembling.”

  “No, I’m not cold. I’m—” Hot. That’s what she was. She was hot. Her skin burned, her spirit yearned, and her mind stumbled with eagerness to follow where her body might lead. But she’d be damned if she would admit such a thing to Treymount. Let him laugh at someone else; she wasn’t yet ready to be made sport of. “I am a little cold.”

  Some of the sparkle left his eyes, replaced by concern. He glanced at the roaring fire. “Perhaps you should stand nearer the fire.”

  “I’m leaving—”

  He grasped her arms and pulled her toward the warmed hearth. “Not yet, you aren’t.”

  “But I—”

  “Stand here.” He positioned her before the fire, his hands warm through the thin sleeves of her gown.

  “Treymount, I really must leave, and I—”

  “Bloody hell, must you talk so much? Just stand there and get warmed.”

  But she was already warm. Too warm. “I appreciate your kindness, but—”

  Mrs. Kemble’s voice could be heard in the foyer, raised in happy excitement. A tremor of relief flooded Honoria. She was mad to escape, but not from the marquis. Rather she wished to escape her own desires for they threatened her composure more and more.

  The marquis took her hand and placed a kiss to the back of it. “One day, my lovely Honoria…one day there will not be a talkative housekeeper about to save your virtue.”

  She stiffened. “Was my virtue at stake?”

  He leaned down until his eyes were at a level with hers. She could see the smoldering heat, feel it, even. “Oh yes. It was indeed.”

  “But—the door was open and the footmen—”

  “Are well trained to come when I call them and no one else.”

  “Oh! And you said—”

  “Never trust a man. I said that, too, at one time. And now perhaps you will remember it.” He turned away then and faced the door. “Ah, Mrs. Kemble! There you are. What did you think of the cook stove?”

  Honoria seethed as the lout charmed her housekeeper with a few choice words. Mrs. Kemble was so flattered, she didn’t even realize that there were no footmen in the library as the marquis had promised.

  Fuming, Honoria stole a look at him, wondering what it was about this man that set her heart to tumbling so. Whatever it was, she wished it would quit. It was difficult enough having a conversation with him in the midst of his palatial residence without succumbing to a maelstrom of heated feelings she had no business having.

  Taking a calming breath, Honoria decided that now was the time for a retreat. She’d have to find a way to deal with this newest development. She might have been able to refurbish her rusty archery skills in one day, but overcome an aversion to horses? That would take more than one night.

  Fighting the sinking feeling that she had already lost the battle, she briskly cut off Mrs. Kemble’s disjointed thanks for the tour she’d enjoyed, and bid a quick farewell to the marquis. It wasn’t until later, as she and Mrs. Kemble entered the waiting hackney cab, that Honoria realized that Treymount had not set a time for their wager.

  Sighing, she looked out the window of the cab and watched as the imposing line of Treymount House faded into the distance. She could only hope it was in the morning; the quicker it was over with, the better.

  Chapter 15

  Without consulting Mother, Father invited his aunt Beatrice to our ball. Mother is now forced to allow the old bat to attend, though everyone knows Aunt Beatrice hates Mother with a passion and will do whatever she can to embarrass her. So that is why Mother is not speaking to Father. Woe betide the man unwise enough to force a woman into actions not of her own choosing. She will make him pay for it every time.

  Miss Suzanne Welton to her younger sister, Miss Charlotte Welton, as that young lady watched in awe as her older sister dressed for a ball

  “I would tie myself to the saddle when the marquis wasn’t looking. Ned says that’s what they do on ships, tie themselves off whenever there’s a great storm.”

  Portia frowned at Olivia. “But how would you dismount when the time came? It wouldn’t do if he discovered your duplicity.”

  “That’s true,” George said from where he sat trying to tie a makeshift saddle made of scraps of cloth from Portia’s sewing to the poor, beleaguered Achilles. “If the marquis catches Honoria cheating again, he will certainly call off all wagers.”

  “Which is why we mu
st do something to help her,” Juliet said staunchly.

  Cassandra looked up from where she sat by the fire, working on some delicate needlework. “I think you’ve all helped enough.”

  “More than enough,” Honoria said, entering the room, her arms full of books. She made it to the table by the window without dropping a one.

  “What are those?” Portia said, getting up and coming to the table. She picked up the first one and read, “The Equestrian; Points to Remember for the Proficient Rider.”

  Juliet hopped up. “Oh, that is an excellent one! I read it twice.” She made her way to the table and began reading the other titles. “You will not like this one.” She set a rather small volume to one side. “It has the most outrageous suggestions for dealing with an aggressive horse. It’s complete balderdash.”

  Olivia craned her neck from where she sat by the fire. “Honoria, where did you get all of those books?”

  “From the lending library.” Honoria took a book out of Juliet’s hands and replaced it on the stack on the table, then seated herself. She adjusted the curtain to let in a bit more sunshine, then picked one up and began to flip through the pages.

  “Honoria, you can’t learn how to ride a horse from a book!” Olivia shook her head. “You’re only at half sail with that daft idea.”

  “I know how to ride. I just need to learn how to ride better.” Honoria turned the page, looking for…well, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. Something about dealing with horses that might bite.

  The thought sent a shiver up her spine, and she absently rubbed her arm where the scar lingered still. She’d never thought to ever have to ride a horse again—especially not now.

  Juliet frowned. “You haven’t ridden in years—”

  “It has not been years. It has only been—” Honoria frowned.

  “Years,” Cassandra said softly.

  “Oh. Well, years then. But still, I might find something in one of these books that could help make things more manageable.”

  Portia exchanged glances with Juliet, who shook her head, answering the unspoken question. “Highly unlikely. I mean, if she had the basics down, I could see her getting something from a book, but she was never any good at riding. Remember the time Honoria rode the parson’s old mare and it got away from her and she—”