The music came to an end, but before Rowan could make his way to Claire’s side, another gentleman got there first, and Rowan lost his chance. Rowan was forced to return to his place near the vicar, who presented him to a young lady named Miss Dunlop.
Reading the vicar’s expression, Rowan could see that if he didn’t want to be considered an utter boor by the locals, he needed to dance with the young ladies of the neighborhood. Another thing that wouldn’t have happened to the Duke of Starlingham. As a duke, his choosing to dance with a woman was generally looked on as a mark of great and unexpected favor.
In the end, it was hardly torture to dance with the ladies of Lesser Puddlebury. Miss Dunlop was sweet and quiet, Miss Cathcart was serious, and Miss Flint was curious about the duke and whether Rowan thought he would ever come to Foxtail.
“I shall certainly advise him to do so,” Rowan told her seriously.
The whole time, his gaze sought Claire.
The last dance of the night was a waltz, and Rowan simply shut out the other men approaching her with an assertive movement that would have caused jaws to drop had the duke done it.
“Miss Beckett,” he said, “I believe this is my dance.”
She gave him a look. “I think you know perfectly well that Mr. Parker was already on his way to claim this dance.” Parker was limping away from the dance floor with a dark expression. “Did you step on his foot?”
Rowan barely shrugged. “He was in my way.”
* * *
Claire wasn’t certain what Rowan was up to, but it looked like courtship. His singling her out would appear to everyone present as though he had intentions toward her. But though she was more than a little smitten with him, he couldn’t court her.
Rowan pulled her closer. Wickedness gleamed in his dark eyes, and Claire’s heart fluttered in excited reply. No man had ever looked at her like Rowan did.
He placed a hand on her waist, and she surrendered to the moment and put her hand on his shoulder. It was what she dearly wanted to do—how was she to resist? Beneath her hand was hard muscle, leashed power.
“You are the most outrageous man,” she said. She could smell his soap, which she’d caught hints of in the carriage. It was very nice, expensive-smelling soap. “You always do just as you wish, don’t you, with no concern for others.”
“I don’t give a fig about your other suitors,” he said, and something flickered in his eyes, “but I do care very much what you think, Claire.”
Her other suitors. So he did want to court her. Her foolish heart leaped at the knowledge, and a little voice tried to tempt her, insisting that Rowan could be kind and thoughtful and funny, and that she desperately wanted to know him better. She ignored it.
“What I think is that you will have a very nice holiday at Foxtail, sir, and return to London ready for much more exciting society.” She made herself smile, determined to keep this light.
“I’m not looking for more exciting society than I have right here in my arms.”
His words, spoken in that deep, masculine voice, made her forget to breathe. His eyes held hers as the two of them glided around the room, and a feeling of enchantment settled over her, as though they were on the cusp of something magical.
It was only an illusion, she told herself. Simply attraction and desire. Lust.
She did want Rowan; she wanted to touch him, and she wanted to kiss him as they’d almost done in the hut folly. And she wanted to explore… whatever else there might be with him. She’d lived a sheltered, circumscribed life, and in just the short time since she’d met him, he’d made her feel as though she was coming alive.
But she couldn’t allow this attraction. Desire might dazzle them both now, but eventually his forcefulness would overwhelm her.
“Rowan,” she began, knowing she must discourage him.
The music was coming to an end, the dancers completing the final steps. And then everything else fell away as Rowan’s dark eyes pierced hers. “Just give me a chance,” he said.
Something shifted within her in mute reply.
She was saved from having to speak by the sudden applause of the guests acknowledging the musicians who’d played so well all night. But Claire was alight inside with the knowledge that Rowan wanted her, and she wanted him.
Their attraction was utterly foolish. She needed a man like Mr. Rutledge. She would consider herself very, very lucky if Mr. Rutledge, who was infinitely preferable to Lord Haight, liked her enough to propose. What she dreamed of for her future was contentment and peace, a cooperative union of two people who wished always to be considerate toward each other. The kind of union she’d never have with a commanding man like Rowan.
His eyes burned into hers as if willing her to respond.
Just give me a chance.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
A dark look came over his face, but Mr. Dixon appeared then, his cheeks rosy and his white hair damp with perspiration.
“Why, I haven’t danced so much in years!” he said, dabbing his flushed face with his handkerchief. “And if only the duke could have seen how well his cousins look together.”
She felt Rowan’s eyes on her as she excused herself to collect her wrap. She joined the men outside.
A coach stood in front of the assembly rooms, waiting for several slowly moving elderly ladies who were approaching it. Behind that was another coach, which left Rowan’s coach far to the back, out of the circle of light from the building. As the vicar stopped to assist one of the older ladies into her coach, Rowan silently took Claire’s elbow and led her toward his.
He opened the coach’s door and they moved into its shadow, but instead of handing her up, he put his hands on her shoulders. She looked up at him, and his head lowered to hers.
It was a stolen kiss, full of heat and urgency and claiming, a physical riposte to those two words she’d just spoken: I can’t.
He was insisting she could.
Nearly breathless, she responded as she had so dearly wished to do, lifting her arms to the sturdy breadth of his shoulders and welcoming the heat of his mouth on hers.
It was over too soon. They heard the sounds of someone approaching and quickly stepped apart. But as Rowan handed Claire into the coach, his gaze fell on her like the heat of a furnace.
* * *
Rowan was wishing propriety to the devil as he sat across from the vicar and Claire in the carriage. Dixon was an imp; Rowan guessed he’d sat next to Claire purely to tweak Rowan.
Never mind that Rowan was better off not sitting next to her, since after that kiss he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.
“I can’t,” she’d said when he asked her to give him a chance. Why, damn it? She was looking for a husband, so why was he so objectionable? He knew he’d been overbearing and brusque with her, but she’d held her own and more. Between them already was desire and mutual respect and enjoyment in each other, so why didn’t she want him to court her? He had to hope her resistance had to do with the lie she’d told about being the duke’s cousin.
It was time to put their charades aside.
“I suppose,” Dixon said, “as you are often in London, Mr. Fitzwilliam, this is a much earlier night than you’re accustomed to.”
“It is. When a ball ends near dawn, the next day is mostly lost.”
“Would you agree, Miss Beckett?” the vicar asked.
“I’ve never attended an event that ended at dawn, so I couldn’t say.”
“Surely every young lady ought to attend a ball that continues into the dawn hours at least once in her life,” Rowan said, his gaze seeking hers. “Perhaps even once a year.”
She returned his gaze unflinchingly, not dropping her eyes meekly to her lap as so many young ladies would have likely done after being kissed soundly. But then, he would have expected no less of her. Her inner strength was one of the things he so admired about her, along with the joy that seemed to be always bubbling just beneath her calm surface.
“She doesn’t mind,” Rowan said.
Claire shot him an annoyed look. “I’m sure that will be fine, if you deem it appropriate, Mr. Dixon.”
“It concerns Mr. Rutledge. He spoke to me this evening of his wish to make you an offer of marriage.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “He did?”
“Rutledge has asked,” the vicar continued as Rowan ground his teeth, “that I act as a go-between and gauge your interest. He would not wish to intrude upon your sensibilities.”
Rowan barely managed to stifle the curse that rose to his lips. What kind of shabby fellow employed a go-between with a woman instead of taking the risk of being rejected like a man?
“That was thoughtful of Mr. Rutledge,” Claire said. “I… er…”
The vicar held up a staying hand. “Take some time to consider. You can let me know what you think of Mr. Rutledge’s interest in the next day or so.”
She nodded slowly.
So Rowan had little time. He could see that Claire was affected by what the vicar had said, but he was almost certain it wasn’t happiness he saw on her face but relief. He had to believe he was right. And there was no time to lose.
Chapter Six
* * *
In her bedchamber late that evening, Claire took down her hair. She knew she should be savoring what the vicar had said about Mr. Rutledge’s intentions, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Rowan’s words.
“Just give me a chance. ”
If only she could.
There had been a reply from Stephen awaiting Claire on her return, assuring her that he wouldn’t tell the family she’d decided to take a holiday with Louisa and telling her that he looked forward to her imminent return home.
You’ll be excited to know that Papa talks of nothing, Stephen wrote, but plans for your wedding. This marriage will be such a good thing for you, dear Claire—and for all the family.
It hurt to think that her family cared so little about what her own wishes might be for her future, but how could she truly fault them when she’d never spoken of any hopes, or even acknowledged to herself that she had them?
She must guard against ever finding herself in another situation wherein she’d be tempted to make herself into a mouse to please others. A situation like allowing herself to be courted by an overpowering man such as Rowan.
She must not even allow herself to think of him, and how the time they’d spent together had stirred feelings she’d never known before. Of how he’d kissed her as though it was urgent, and something within her had agreed profoundly and kissed him back. It was not just something, though, she admitted now to herself. It was her heart. Her heart, somehow, knew him.
The moment that she found herself wishing she could give him a chance to see if they might suit, though, she told herself sternly to stop being fanciful, blew out the candle, and climbed into bed. He might be the perfect daydream of a strong man to sweep her off her feet, but that was only a fantasy.
Some minutes later, a soft click jolted her upright in the darkness, her heart racing. The door to her bedchamber had opened!
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
“Shh, it’s me.”
“Rowan?” she asked in a loud whisper. “What’s going on?”
Another click as the door closed. She heard the rustle of his footsteps as he approached the bed. “You can’t come in here!” she hissed. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “Dixon’s asleep. I heard him snoring on the way here. And Mrs. Firth’s gone to bed as well.”
Since Louisa would probably think it a great thing that Rowan was apparently intent on compromising Claire, whether Louisa was awake or asleep hardly mattered. But it wasn’t just propriety Claire was worried about.
“You really can’t be in here.”
There was a fumbling sound, as though he was putting something on the vanity by the hearth. “And yet I am.”
If he had been closer, she didn’t know whether she would have wanted to kiss him or shake him. Probably both.
She heard him walk over to the hearth. The fire had burned down to a low flame, and the next moment a candle brightened the darkness. He stood by the vanity, where he’d set a tray with a wine bottle and a plate of biscuits.
He put the candle next to the wine and looked at her. The firelight cast him in bronze, glowing on the bare skin of his forearms—his coat was gone and he’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows—and casting a giant’s shadow from the breadth of his shoulders and chest.
“I know it’s appallingly inappropriate for me to be in here, Claire, but I had to talk to you privately.”
He poured a glass of wine and lifted it. “Won’t you join me on the settee?”
For a private tête-à-tête complete with wine? Of course she should do no such thing. No good could come of his being there, and she ought to speak up firmly and order him to leave. She knew he would go if he understood that was her wish.
And yet, she very much didn’t want him to leave. That was the truth, whatever sense or propriety would dictate. How had he become so important to her so quickly?
She reached for her robe, which she’d laid across the empty side of the bed, and pulled it on. “Just talking,” she said.
“Of course,” he said meekly, which she didn’t credit at all. This man didn’t have a meek bone in his body.
She took a seat on the settee and accepted a glass of wine from him. He held out the plate of biscuits, whose batter she had sampled earlier in the day while talking to Louisa, and she took one. They’d come out well, but then, Louisa’s cooking skills were legendary, and she liked to make biscuits on Cook’s half-day.
The fire crackled quietly—a peaceful sound, though her heart was beginning to thud. Rowan took up so much of the settee that there was barely room for any empty space between them.
He demolished several biscuits and a good half-glass of wine, then put his glass on the vanity. He draped an arm over the back of the sofa, as relaxed as a lord in his manor, and said, “You can’t marry Rutledge, you know.”
“I can’t conceive what’s given you the idea you might speak to me this way.”
“That kiss, for one thing.”
Her lips burned at the memory. As if she’d forgotten a second of it. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“You don’t really believe that. We both felt the attraction that’s between us.”
He was right, but she couldn’t let him speak for her. “We shouldn’t have done it,” she insisted.
“What is it with you, Claire?” he asked softly. “Why are you so determined to say no to everything I propose?”
“Because I must make my own decisions and be responsible for them.”
He shifted, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. “I know you’re not the Duke of Starlingham’s cousin.”
Her breath died in her throat.
“I—” she began, utterly lost as to what she could say. Her heart thundered with the knowledge of certain disaster, but he seemed remarkably calm. He still rested on his forearms, and his expression held no signs of outrage or censure. Surely he was angry—so why didn’t he seem so?
“I know you’re not the duke’s cousin,” he continued, “because I’m not his cousin either.” He paused. “I am the Duke of Starlingham.”
She simply gaped at him for several moments. “You’re the Duke of Starlingham?”
And yet, it would explain so much. But why on earth would he pretend to be a relation?
He smiled a little at her skeptical tone. “I really am. It’s why I looked so much like
the man in the painting at the hut—he was my father, John Mackenzie Fitzwilliam, seventh Duke of Starlingham. I have the signet ring in my valise if you’d like to see it.”
“No,” she whispered, reeling. But she knew it must be true. No wonder he’d seemed so potent and domineering and haughty, so inclined to order her about. He was a duke, a man possessed of vast estates and accustomed to commanding armies of servants. He was the Duke of Starlingham. The eighth one, apparently.
But why had he come to her room tonight, and why was he sitting here talking calmly to her? Why didn’t he seem angry about her deception? Her face flushed as she realized that she’d kissed the Duke of Starlingham.
“It was something of an accident that I came to Foxtail,” he said. “My coming here was due to a friend needing to lie low for a while, so I felt it best not to reveal my identity. No one knows me here because I haven’t visited since I was thirteen.” He chuckled. “And actually, I’ve discovered that it’s quite pleasant not to be the duke for a while.”
Anger stirred in her. “How you must have wanted to laugh when I declared myself to be your cousin.”
She felt nearly ill. Of course she was anxious that, however relaxed he seemed, she was doomed to imminent disaster because of her deception. But there was more to the emotions washing over her.
His dark eyes glimmered with what looked like mirth, and this seemed like yet another shock, that he might be mirthful. “I was quite surprised at first to find that I had a ‘cousin’ here of whom I’d never heard, but I soon decided that, given your manner and person, you were not up to anything terribly dubious. I suspected you of being a governess fleeing a bad situation or some such, until you revealed that your family expected you to marry an objectionable suitor. That gave you a very good reason for needing to hide at Foxtail, even if I didn’t know why you’d chosen my hunting box to do so. Though I suspect your arrival here had something to do with Mrs. Firth.”
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