The Last Rose Pearl: A Low Country Love Story (Low Country Love Stories Book 1)

by Grace Walton

  “Aurora,” he warned her to quiet her inner turmoil.

  They were here to put on a show she remembered. And she planned to put on one that would not soon be forgotten. Rory's chin lifted.

  “Yes, darling?” Her loving voice was genteel and just loud enough that everyone within ten feet heard.

  Dylan's eyebrow swept up in homage to the amazing recovery, she seemed to have made. He crooked his elbow in invitation. She placed a steady hand on his forearm and allowed herself to be led into the great house.

  Standing within the foyer, Rory decided Irene's parents had out done all their previous ostentatious displays. And there surely had been many in the past few years. In wanton disregard to the steep tax on them, large mirrors were mounted on every spare inch of wall space. These costly decorations multiplied the light from the hundreds of honey-scented candles that seemed to sprout from every table, sconce, and low hung chandelier.

  Wood surfaces had been polished until they too shone. And all the carpets had been rolled up and tucked away so as not to impede the night's dancing. The Avansley's portly black butler announced the guests' arrival in a suitably dignified voice. He named them as they crossed the portal from the entrance way into the heavily crowded ballroom.

  Dylan and Rory waited in a line of partygoers to be announced. As they reached the doorway, the butler bowed low in Dylan's direction. He fairly shouted, “Lord Dylan St. John, and Miss Aurora Windsor.”

  Rory's head whipped around to face her fiancé with shock. Blast the man. She frowned in disgust, when had he become a lord?

  He cocked his head to one side, waiting to see how public her reaction would become. Fortunately, she merely appeared annoyed. Then she gave him a blinding smile at odds with the venom that dripped from her words. “I should have known you were too arrogant for a common mister.”

  Dylan's low dark laughter caused several ladies to whisper to each other behind their fans. “How do you know I haven't created the title from whole cloth for effect?” he mocked. He watched her eyes widen with the possibility, then narrow with scorn.

  “If you were to create a title for yourself, I very much doubt you would stop at one of so low a rank,” she grated through a smile and clenched teeth as they began a promenade of the room in the direction of the Avansleys' long receiving line. “You would style yourself a prince or a duke at the very least.”

  They were stopped then by a curious dowager. Who having never expressed the slightest interest in Rory, though she'd known her since babyhood, suddenly must chat with the chit. And meet her intriguing companion. That's the way the evening began to progress.

  Dylan scrawled in his name beside the three waltzes on her dance card. Then he was content to stroll about in her wake. He was introduced to every curious person standing between them and the family of the honored guests.

  It was, she thought, extremely poor manners to stop someone before they'd had the chance to greet their hosts. But it seemed the crowd was interested in the miraculous change in Aurora Windsor. And they were fascinated by the tall, dangerous looking man at her side. Their good manners fled. Finally, the couple reached the receiving line. Irene gushed the introduction of her parents to Dylan. Rory stood aside amused at the girl’s false and cloying sweetness. As they turned for the silly girl to present them to her well-publicized aunt and the uncle, the famous lord and lady from London, Rory heard a swift and surprised intake of breath.

  Looking instinctively toward the source of the sound, Rory beheld the most perfect and lovely woman she had ever seen. Celeste Avansley was a creature of pinks and gilt. Her complexion was as smooth and alabaster as fine porcelain. Pouting rosebud lips were drawn up in a feline smile. That predatory smile was focused entirely on Rory's companion. Golden perfectly arched eyebrows framed icy blue jeweled eyes.

  “You don't have to introduce Lord St. John to us Irene dear.” Rory heard the woman purr. “We're old friends, aren't we Dylan?”

  Christians didn't hate people, Rory told herself. Especially people they'd just met. This woman must have some redeeming quality. Even though at the moment, she put Rory in mind of a beautiful lethal spider. Delicate and venomous. Dylan bowed low over the spider's gracefully extended hand. Only then did he speak.

  “We are indeed old friends. What a surprise to see you here in Savannah. What brings you to this part of the world Lord Avansley?”

  The blonde woman acted as if she and St. John were the only two people in the room. But Richard Avansley's face was covered with a barely concealed snarl. He didn't seem to be as happy over the coincidence of finding their old friend as was his wife. Where he wondered, was the drunken buffoon he'd known in London. He certainly wasn't this imposing man.

  “Why we came to visit my brother's family.” The pale aristocrat lifted a quizzing glass to his eye. He tried to intimidate the taller man. As a gesture, it failed miserably. “Are we to meet this enchanting young lady?” He took an obscene amount of time studying the Rory's face and body. His eyes lingered upon her bosom.

  Rory felt the muscles in Dylan's arm bunch under her fingertips in response to the awful leer. She stole a swift glance at his face. It was a study in bland friendliness. Yet his forearm felt as hard as iron.

  Irene, who was supposed to be making the introductions, fell into a stunned silence. Her godlike uncle, the pride of her father's family, positively begged to be introduced to that little nobody Rory Windsor. In fact, there was an inordinate amount of interest from most of the men in the room toward the chit. She had a new dress, of course. And someone with talent had dressed her hair. But she was still the same girl surely. This was monstrously unfair, Irene thought. This is my party. I only invited her because she has somehow managed to snare that incredible looking man.

  “Aurora,” Dylan said as his hand closed possessively over the small one on his arm. “Let me make you known to Lord and Lady Avansley.”

  Rory dropped a small curtsy to them both. Avansley held out his hand to take hers. He bent to kiss it. She hoped he would have the decency merely to kiss the air above her hand. But she was disappointed. Greatly disappointed.

  He held her hand fast and covered it with a wealth of wet lover-like kisses. She squirmed. She looked up at Dylan for help. He seemed to notice nothing wrong. In fact, he only had eyes for the gorgeous Lady Avansley. When Rory felt the disgusting Lord run his encroaching tongue across the back of her knuckles, she jerked away with unladylike haste.

  “Are you feeling ill darling?” Dylan seemed to come to his senses.

  “Darling?” Celeste Avansley's surprised word was a squeak.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” he said. “I left out the most important part of my introduction. Lord and Lady Avansley let me make you known to my future wife, Aurora Windsor.”

  The aristocratic faces across from St. John showed very different emotions. Hers was wreathed in unconcealed jealousy. His was lit by an unholy light. Lord Richard Avansley had just stumbled upon an excellent vehicle for revenge. Her name was Aurora Windsor.

  Seeing the look of undisguised carnal hunger on the blonde man's face, Rory unconsciously moved closer to Dylan. So close in truth she could almost fit under his arm.

  “Aurora do you need some cool air?” St. John asked his fiancée solicitously.

  Rory nodded, staring at the floor and answered weakly, “Yes please.”

  “I'm sorry.” He bowed politely to the watching pair. “It seems Miss Windsor and I must step out into the garden for a moment. Lady Avansley, I trust you'll save a dance for me this evening?” he asked the woman hopefully.

  He waited until she inclined her head before he led the pale girl at his side away. No one seemed to think it odd. A betrothed couple would favor the chill privacy of the garden to the heat and noise of the crowded ballroom. After all, they were newly engaged. And if only half the wild stories circulating the dance floor were true, St. John was a man who was a master at the art of luring women.

  Once outside and away from eaves
dropping ears, Dylan's mask of affection dropped. He became, once again, the unkind man from the carriage.

  “Take a few deep breaths. Then we'll talk,” he ordered. He propelled her forward with a hard hand in the small of her back further into the little garden. It was typical of all Savannah walled gardens. Formal knots of herbs and shrubs with tabby walks separating them, in the center sat a bench. The whole was encompassed by a high brick wall. In the dark it was very private. Dylan turned to face the house. He watched intently. He had no intention of letting anyone intrude upon this conversation.

  She nodded and leaned against a wide water oak. He had led them to a far corner of the garden. The street was just beyond the brick wall.

  “He licked my hand.” She shivered with cold and revulsion. She hugged herself and waited. The sympathy she’d expected did not materialize. He continued to ignore her and watch the house. She tried talking again to his back. “Dylan did you hear me? I said Lord Avansley licked my hand.”

  He whipped around, his face a stone mask. He spoke harshly, “Sod it. I saw what the bleeding ape did. What I don't understand is why you jumped like he was about to rape you?” The hands at his side balled into fists.

  “You saw?” She pushed away from the tree in disbelief. “You saw what that awful man did? You could have fooled me. I'd say the only thing you saw was the bodice of Lady Avansley's gown.”

  “I watched every move the slimy maggot made. And I could see every twisted thought as it crawled across his face. What would you have had me do?” His patience was slipping. “Slit his throat where he stood?” He admitted to himself, he’d thought it a viable solution for a few seconds. Before cold reason and obligation had taken over.

  “I doubt that would have made either one of us very popular tonight.” But the more he thought on it, after this whole affair with the guns was taken care of, he might oblige himself and kill Avansley. The black violence was riding him hard. And this time, he let it spread.

  “You could have made him stop,” she argued hotly in defense.

  “How?” There was a tiny muscle jerking along the length of his jaw.

  “You could have gotten me away from him.”

  “I did get you away from him.” His logic was irrefutable. “Rory, it’s not a coincidence that Richard Avansley is in Savannah at the same time I am.” Even if he felt like ripping the man's spine out, duty must come before anything else. Duty, duty, duty, he was beginning to loathe the word.

  “He's the one isn't he?” Rory pushed aside her feelings of disgust at Avansley's behavior. She honed in on the fact that they were so close to the man who was behind the gun running. “Avansley's the one bringing in the guns isn't he?”

  He didn't have time to answer because they both heard the rattle of dry leaves being crushed by approaching footsteps. Dylan swore under his breath. He pinned her to the tree. He began to kiss her.

  She could taste the sting of champagne on his hard lips. This kiss was not one of tenderness or passion. It was like the kiss in the carriage, a ploy pure and simple. She congratulated herself on being able to understand that fact. This time she would not react like the lovesick fool she was.

  They were both aware of someone standing at the edge of the shadows watching. Dylan instinctively moved to protect Rory by presenting his back to the intruder. She could feel the tension mounting in his body. It was as if he was anticipating a violent confrontation and preparing to respond in kind.

  Rory dug into her reticule. She wrapped her hand around the little pistol.

  “Good Evening Your Grace.” The words were deep and mocking.

  She felt the tightness of Dylan's arms instantly relax. He released her to turn and stand blocking her view of the man who’d spoken.

  “Bloody Hades,” Dylan said as he ran a distracted hand through his thick black hair. He asked with disgust. “When did the old relict die?”

  “I got the letter from Arthur two weeks ago. He's looking to hear from you bye the bye.”

  Rory, on tiptoe peeking over Dylan's shoulder, could just make out the man. He was tall, as tall as Dylan. But there the similarity ended. Tawny hair too long for fashion was drawn back and tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. It was an old-fashioned look. But it suited his raffish features. He possessed a loose limbed sort of strength that appealed to her. And the devilish twinkle in his long green eyes just added to that appeal.

  “Do you know him?” she asked Dylan cautiously. She drew the gun out of her evening bag getting ready to defend them both.

  “No,” St. John barked frowning back at her.

  The stranger laughed and said, “Yes” at the same time.

  “Well?” The gun was now propped on Dylan's shoulder leveled at the stranger's head.

  “Put that thing away. Go back into the house. I'll be there soon.” It was an order and a dismissal.

  “No,” she said and lifted her chin.

  Her rebellion set the blonde man smiling in appreciation. He'd never seen a woman talk back to Dylan. Much less one who seemed determined to protect his brother with a pistol. He liked her, whoever she was.

  “I'm not going until I know exactly what’s going on.”

  “You're losing your touch, Your Grace.” The man with the mocking voice bowed deeply. He offered his arm to Rory. “I would be more than glad to escort you back to the ballroom lovely lady, if you put away your pretty gun. I'll even tell you everything I know. Everything.”

  There was more to that promise than met the eye. Rory was sure of it. But she had to admit, he lied almost as well as Dylan.

  His smile totally beguiled the girl. She moved to lay her hand on his arm without thinking. It was caught in midflight by a hard-eyed Dylan.

  “No,” He said and pointed her toward the house. He twisted the gun out of her hand. And he gave her an impolite little shove. “I will take your little toy. You are going back to the party, alone.”

  “I want to stay out here. You can't make me go in.” She felt reckless and defiant. Who did he think he was anyway?

  “If you don't go inside, I'll kiss you again.” He took a threatening step toward her.

  “Is that your answer to everything?” She rolled her eyes in disbelief.

  “On you it works, go.” He pointed toward the French doors. She glared at him, lifted her chin, and stomped off muttering about arrogant mutton-headed men.

  The two men watched her silently until she entered the house.

  “She's a beautiful little armful.” The blonde man gave a low whistle of appreciation.

  “Forget whatever obscenity you’ve got running through your twisted mind. She's my wife Connor.” Dylan turned to his brother, as he mechanically unloaded the pistol. The bullet went in his vest pocket. The gun itself was tucked into the waistband of his evening britches under his coat.

  “Your what?”

  “You heard me. She's my wife. So you are not to touch her. I'm glad to see you can go somewhere without your crowd of Indians tagging along.”

  “Oh, they're here,” he said nonchalantly, still intrigued by his older brother's words.

  “I don't see them.” Dylan scanned the dark garden.

  “They're Indians,” Connor shrugged. “You're not supposed to see them. And the correct term is tribe not crowd. But one can hardly expect a Scottish duke to comprehend these fine points.”

  “You know I've always planned to decline the title.” Dylan mocked.

  “Oh no, you're not,” Connor riposted. “The old man died. You're the heir. That makes lucky you the new Duke of McAllister. You can have the title and the debts. I refuse to be saddled with a cornet. Indian eagle feathers and ducal strawberry leaves do not mix. Besides your new wife, if that's what she truly is, will make an impressive duchess.”

  “No, she won't. Our arrangement is…” He smiled at his brother. “It’s temporary. She doesn't know about the marriage. She believes we're only pretending to be engaged.”

  “Holy Mother, Dylan.�
� His eyes widened. “How do you get yourself into these wild freaks?”

  “Arthur.” It was a one-word explanation.

  “Of course,” Connor grinned. “I should have known. But how does one make a marriage temporary? The only ways I know of to end a marriage are death, divorce, or annulment. I don't think you'll murder her. And seeing her and knowing you, annulment is an impossibility. So that leaves divorce. Those take a fair amount of time and effort to obtain I've heard.”

  Dylan scowled. “It will be an annulment.”

  “Really,” the big blond man said. He looked interested. “In that case, maybe I'll marry her myself.”

  Dylan’s face stiffened. “You will keep away from her.”

  “Just because you don't want her, big brother, doesn't mean I don't.” He tapped his chin. “I wonder how she'd look in an Indian buckskin dress.”

  “Don't push me Connor.” Dylan's face turned to marble. “Leave her alone.”

  Connor had never seen his brother react so possessively toward a woman. Interesting, he mused. “It wouldn't matter what I did. Once she's seen you, she'd scarce pay any attention to me.” He tried to sound pitiful. But he was far too cocky for it to work.

  Dylan snorted. “Just keep your hands off her.”

  “Fine, you've warned me off twice. I think I understand the lady is yours. Now, tell me about the guns?”

  “At the moment the guns are in a cotton warehouse. I found them last night. Sander is going down to the docks tonight during the party. He'll find out if there is any change. I'll need some time to discover when they're being moved. And exactly who's involved. Then I'll contact you.”

  “Sander knows where I'm staying.” He studied the easy grace of his older brother. “Don't you think we ought to go in? Who knows what your luscious little wife is up to without you? She didn't look too happy when she left. I'd watch her if I were you.” Connor ambled off in the direction of the house.

  “Connor,” his older brother hissed after him. “Don't get yourself killed.”

  His tawny hair caught the moonlight as he bowed deeply and said, “I'll try my best, Your Grace.”