Earlier in the day she had looked at her image and felt old and dull. The reflection that met her gaze now was entirely different, with snapping eyes and blazing hair rioting around her shoulders. She looked ... wanton.
The image was even more disturbing than the earlier one. She turned away and yanked her hair back into its usual knot. She had enough hairpins left to secure it, though only just. As the minutes stretched on, she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the spring chill now that she was no longer in the sun.
Why on earth had Dominick abducted her? Certainly not for love, since he had never loved her. And in spite of the way he had hurt her before, it was hard to believe that he was simply being cruel, if for no other reason than that the effort involved was so great. The whole mad affair must be a product of his warped sense of humor.
Presumably he would release her soon, but nothing could prevent the story from spreading all over the British Isles. For the rest of her life she would be known as the spinster who was abducted by the savage. People would speculate in hushed, excited voices about what the Wild Man had done to her.
Would it be better or worse if it became known that "Chand-a-la" was an Englishman? Either way, her father would be furious at the notoriety, and he would blame her for it. She shuddered at the thought.
It was taking him a long time to groom that horse.
Her hands clenched as a horrible new thought struck her. Surely he hadn't become so angry that he would abandon her in this isolated cottage! He might be a wretch, but he wasn't a monster. Yet how much did she know about him? Nothing, really.
She found herself wondering how long it would take to starve. No, she would die of thirst first.
The pantry was just large enough for her to pace.
Chapter 6
After what seemed like an eternity, the door swung open. Roxanne bolted out, her relief boiling into anger. She was about to start snapping when she saw Dominick and her words died in her throat.
The Wild Man was gone. He had taken her at her word and shaved off the disreputable beard, trimmed his hair, and donned the impeccably tailored garments of an English gentleman. He must also have bathed and washed off some of the stain that had darkened his skin, for his complexion had lightened to a less conspicuous shade. No wonder she had been in the pantry so long.
Dominick made a deep, heavily ironic bow. "Is this satisfactory, Miss Mayfield?"
As a savage, he had irritated her. Now, as a gentleman, he terrified her. She had always known that his birth was higher than hers, but it had been easy to forget that when he had laughed and teased and coaxed her into loving him. Now he was the epitome of the arrogant, high-bred aristocrat.
Her jaw set stubbornly. She might be drab and provincial, but she didn't have to admit it. "A great improvement, Lord Chandler." She sailed by him, head high, then settled in a Windsor chair and smoothed her skirts over her knees. "I believe you said something about tea."
The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he was no longer as intimidating. "As you command, Miss Mayfield."
With a flourish he produced an already prepared tray where a fat brown teapot steamed gently. Setting it on the table beside her, he said, "I believe this has steeped long enough. Will you pour, Miss Mayfield?"
She gave a prim little nod. "Very good, my lord."
Like the pot, the cups were simple cottage earthenware, but she poured the tea as if the service was porcelain. "There is no milk, but would you like sugar?"
"No, thank you, Miss Mayfield." Dominick took the chair opposite hers. He guessed that the excessive formality was appealing to Roxanne's sense of humor, for there was a glint of amusement in her eyes as she handed him a cup. That was a good sign. What a pity that she had ruthlessly pulled back her hair again. Ah, well, what went up could come down again.
He took several sips, then set the cup down. Now that the atmosphere was calmer, it was time to talk. "I gather that you never received the letter I sent you after ... that day."
She gave him a quick, startled glance, then looked down at her cup again. "I received no letter." Her voice trembled. "Though I can't imagine what you might have said that could have mitigated what you did."
Dominick was unsurprised to learn that her father had intercepted the letter. No doubt his servants feared the man more than Dominick's bribes could overcome. "It was not a brilliant example of epistolary art," he admitted. "As I recall, I said that I loved you, apologized abjectly for the fact that I had to leave, and promised that someday we would be together. Which is why I am here."
"So romantic," she said mockingly. "But words are cheap. What mattered were your actions."
His jaw tightened. It was time to stop protecting Sir William. "I don't suppose your father ever told you how he blackmailed me into giving you up. "
"He blackmailed you?" She slammed her teacup into the saucer. "Surely your memory is faulty, Lord Chandler!"
"Every word he said is engraved on my liver," he retorted. "Sir William said that my father, Charles, had seduced and abandoned the woman your father loved, and that she killed herself as a result. Your father wanted revenge, and he took it on me by swearing that he would tell the tale to my mother, who was in fragile health."
Dominick's jaw worked. "Believe me, it was the most difficult decision of my life. But as much as I loved you, I couldn't pursue my own pleasure when doing so would cost my mother her peace of mind, and possibly her life. If I had done that, I would not have been worthy of your love."
Roxanne stared at him. "A touching story. It might have convinced me, if I hadn't seen with my own eyes the paper you signed."
It took him a moment to remember. "That's right, your father wanted my renunciation in writing. I was so numb that I did as he asked, though I didn't see the point. The paper was only as good as my word."
He smiled humorlessly. "Which is to say, not good at all since I did not feel bound by a promise extracted by force. What kept me away from you was concern for my mother. When I learned that she was nearing death, I returned to England to say my goodbyes." He drew a deep breath. "When she was gone, I was free to find you."
"Don't lie to me!" she cried, her face twisted with anguish. "You didn't give me up because you were a good son, but because my father paid you a thousand guineas to go away!"
He stared at her, staggered. "That's utter rubbish. There was never any mention of money. If Sir William had tried to buy me off, I would have laughed in his face."
Her hands locked together in her lap, white-knuckled. "I tell you, I saw the paper! Your signature was unmistakable. "
Dominick tried to remember back to what he had signed. When he did, he swore. "Damnation, your father must have added something! He wrote a sentence in the middle of a sheet of foolscap, saying that I promised never to see Miss Roxanne Mayfield again. I scribbled my name below. He could easily have added more."
Roxanne's face went white, leaving a pale, ghostly dusting of freckles on her high cheekbones. "No," she whispered. "No!" She buried her face in her hands.
His heart ached for her. He wanted to take her in his arms, but guessed that she would not welcome his sympathy.
At length she raised her head and said huskily, "It's your word against his. I don't know what to believe. Perhaps it no longer matters what the truth is."
"The truth always matters!" he said sharply.
She shook her head. "Perhaps my father did alter the paper you signed. Probably he believed that he was saving me from a disastrous marriage, and very likely he was right. We thought we were in love with each other, but we were children. What we felt was not love but the hot blood of youth. We both would have regretted our rashness."
"No!" Realizing that he had shouted, Dominick moderated his tone. "Yes, we were young, but the love was real. No doubt we would have had ups and downs as all wedded couples do, but I would never have regretted our marriage, and I would have done my damnedest to insure that you didn't."
She gave him a twiste
d smile. "You really must be a romantic. But can you honestly deny that you've enjoyed your decade of adventuring? You must have done things, gone places, that would have been impossible with a wife and family."
He sighed. "You're right that I traveled wide and far, and there was much I enjoyed. But I went because I needed to occupy myself to numb the pain of losing you."
Her brows arched delicately. "Are you going to claim that you spent ten years without touching another woman?"
He hesitated, knowing that he must be ruthlessly honest if he was to win her belief. "There were women sometimes. I am not a saint, and the years were long. But I never loved another woman, and there was never a day when I didn't think of you."
"You weren't thinking of me, but an idealized vision of me," she said softly. "Give it up, Dominick. Reality can never match a dream."
She looked so somber, so unlike the Roxanne of his memory, that he almost surrendered. Perhaps she was right and he had been cherishing an illusion.
Then he remembered how she had been earlier, with her hair tumbled and her eyes blazing. She had been alive then as he guessed that she had not been for ten years. That passionate wench was his Roxanne, and by God, he wasn't going to lose her go for a second time!
He stood, looming over her. "If we give up without trying, Sir William has won, and I will not permit that."
She grimaced. "This isn't a contest between you and my father. Perhaps you're right, perhaps we would have made a success of marriage in spite of our youth. We will never know, for that time has past. I am not that girl, and you are not that young man." She got to her feet. "It's time for me to go. "
His eyes narrowed. "The only place you're going is Gretna Green."
She stared at him. "Don't be silly, Lord Chandler. You don't want to marry me, and I don't want to marry you. Don't try to hold on to the past from sheer stubbornness. "
"Don't tell me what I want and feel!" He caught her gaze with his. "We are going to marry, and we can sort out the wisdom of it afterward."
After a moment of appalled silence, she began to laugh. "Dominick, Dominick, you're absurd! Marriage is for life. It isn't like going into a shop, then leaving if you decide that the stock is not to your taste."
"This stock is very much to my taste." His slow gaze went over her from head to toes. She felt naked, embarrassed, and . . . aroused.
Suddenly alarmed, she said, "This particular lot of merchandise is not for sale. Take care, Dominick. Remember that this is England and try to avoid felonious crimes in the future."
She moved toward the door. He stepped around her, reaching the door first, then turned and leaned against the dark oak planks, his arms folded across his chest. "You're not going anywhere but Gretna Green." He frowned as he considered. "Though there is really no reason to go so far. You're no longer underage, so we can simply drive to London and get married by special license there. George can come and stand witness."
"This ceases to be amusing," she said in a dangerous voice. "Let me go, Dominick! I am not going to marry you."
"Why not?"
"Because…because the very idea is nonsensical!" she exclaimed. "We have nothing in common."
"It's true that men and women have little in common, but they keep getting married anyway." He smiled wickedly. "The few mutual interests they do have are usually enough."
She wasn't sure whether to laugh or blush. The sensation was familiar, for Dominick had always had that effect on her. For an instant she wondered what it would be like to be his wife. She felt an ache deep inside. To go to bed with passion, and to wake up with laughter ...
But it wouldn't be like that. Obviously he had cherished some romanticized image of her for the last ten years, and that vision was obscuring the plain, bread-and-butter reality of Miss Roxanne Elizabeth Mayfield, spinster of the parish. After taking a deep breath, she repeated, "I am not going to marry you."
"Yes, you are. You promised. Several times, in fact. Remember?" His face was amiable and ridiculously handsome. "We've been pledged to each other for ten years. It's time we marched to the altar. It will be a romantic tale, the wedding of the century!"
"For the love of…!” Clamping down on her exasperation, she said, "Very well, if you want me to make it official, I will. Any engagement that was between us is over. Am I making myself sufficiently clear?"
"Remember the discussions we had about Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin? You liked the fact that I supported the principle of equal rights and obligations for females. I still do. If a man isn't allowed to jilt a woman, then a woman shouldn't be allowed to jilt a man." He smiled angelically. "The betrothal stands."
Chapter 7
Roxanne gasped at Dominick's effrontery. "We are not betrothed! You can't force me to marry you. No vicar will perform a ceremony when the female is gagged and that's the only way you'll be able to prevent me from protesting!"
"Ah, but by the time we reach the vicar, you won't be protesting." His gaze holding hers, he stepped forward and drew her into his arms. Softly, gently, his lips met hers in a warm, thorough exploration.
She gave a tiny whimper and clutched his upper arms. His embrace was as familiar as her dreams, where he had come to her in the depths of a thousand nights.
The kiss deepened and he drew her closer. He was so tall, so muscular. She felt desire rising and her breasts ached with longing. With a gasp she tore herself away, unconsciously wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if that would free her of his spell.
He gave a slow, dangerous smile. "You'll not escape me so easily, Roxanne."
She turned away from him, shaking. It wasn't fair that she had to be reasonable for both of them! If it was left to Dominick, they would plunge into marriage, then make each other miserable. He would leave her, or take mistresses, and she would wish she were dead. If only she didn't love him ...
She stopped and pressed her hands to her temples. Oh, Lord, she did love him, didn't she? Against all sense, she felt exactly as she had ten years before. Even when she had hated him for his betrayal, she had never stopped loving him. She was an utter fool.
She must escape tonight when he was asleep, before she lost what remained of her wits. After swallowing hard, she turned to face him. "And you'll not change my mind easily, my lord."
"It will be interesting to discover which of us is more stubborn. We're well matched, Roxanne. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with you." His caressing expression turned pragmatic. "It's too late in the day to set off for London. I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry. There should still be some food in the pantry. Shall we see what can be made from the supplies at hand?"
Having had ample time to inventory the pantry, she said, "There are eggs and potatoes and a knob of butter, so I suppose an omelet is possible. Perhaps there might be something useful growing in the old kitchen garden."
"Excellent idea." He ushered her outside. The flowering apple trees glowed in the late afternoon sun. "A lovely day, isn't it? England at its best."
She inhaled the blossom scented air, feeling the pulse of spring beat in her veins. She wanted to frolic like a lamb, careen as madly as a March hare. She hadn't felt so alive since ... since that magical season when she had fallen in love with Dominick.
Hastily she examined the long-neglected garden. "There are scallions over there, and a bit of parsley. They'll liven up the eggs."
"We'll have a feast." He knelt and used his pocketknife to cut the herbs. With a mischievous smile he added, "I'll peel and fry the potatoes. I'm not sure I should trust you with a knife."
"Wise man," she said tartly. "I might use it to cut out your heart."
Scallions and parsley in one hand, he straightened to his full height. "You don't need to do that," he said simply. "You already have my heart."
His gaze held hers, his gray eyes utterly without guile. She found that she was having trouble with her breathing. Perhaps ... perhaps it was really possible ....
She pivoted and headed back int
o the cottage. "I warn you, my cooking skills are indifferent."
"No matter," he said cheerfully as he followed her inside. "I have some French wine that could make stewed boots seem ambrosial."
Dropping all references to love, lust, and marriage, he removed his coat and waistcoat, then rolled up his sleeves and built up the fire. To her surprise, they worked together as smoothly as longtime dance partners, sharing utensils and taking turns at the table and the hearth. In spite of his comment about the knife, he passed it to her without hesitation when she was ready to chop the scallions and parsley.
For a gentleman, he was surprisingly competent in the kitchen. Deftly he peeled and cut potatoes, then fried the wedges into a crispy, golden pile. Feeling naughty, she stole one from the old chipped platter. It was hot and savory and delicious.
He grinned and ate a potato wedge himself, then popped one into her mouth as if she were a baby bird. Her tongue touched his fingertips, tasting salt and sensuality.
There was an odd moment of complete, mutual awareness, and she feared that he could see the accelerating beat of her heart.
Nervously she turned and poured her egg mixture into the skillet. While she cooked a fluffy, fragrant omelet, he set the table and ceremoniously poured fine French Bordeaux into a pair of thick mugs.
She was folding the omelet over when he slipped up behind her and removed the pins that kept her hair in place. The whole mass tumbled down over her shoulders again.
She was about to scold him when he pressed a light kiss through the silky strands under her left ear, his tongue teasing the lobe. Her toes curled and she almost dropped the skillet. With a feeble attempt at severity, she said, "If you don't behave, your supper will end up scattered across the floor."
His lips moved down her throat. "If that happens, I'll find something else to nibble on."
Blushing, she slipped away from his embrace, then divided the omelet into unequal pieces and slid the larger onto his plate. The sun was setting as they took seats on opposite sides of the scrubbed pine table.
Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas Page 4
