by Sophia Nash
Beloved, indeed. She struck through several key words and chiseled a few new ones, leaving a much more interesting version of the original headstone.
Roxanne Vanderhaven née Newton
Countess of Paxton
1784 – 1818 The not so
Beloved wife of the
Sixth Earl of Paxton
Taken all too soon from
his grand lordship’s side,
leaving him broken-hearted.
She died a noble, courageous
death and she will not
be missed by all who knew her.
Forever may she her hat
rest in peace.
In the beginning, she had been nervous as she furtively attacked the stone. By the end, though, she flouted her movements and gave herself over to the giddy madness of the moment. However, she would never admit to cackling like an insane witch.
“You know . . .”
Roxanne jumped to her feet, the mallet and chisel flying behind her. She knew that voice.
When, oh, when was she going to remember to be on the lookout for this handsome devil who apparently loved skulking about more than anything else?
Chapter 9
“I was wrong about you earlier,” Kress said, a grin marring his attempt at a disinterested expression.
“Of course you were,” Roxanne said, failing miserably at composing herself. She prayed he had not heard her mad laughter.
“You are not insane at all.”
“Of course not,” she replied, a little out of breath.
“That was a compliment, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like compliments.”
“False compliments. You know, like your eyes are the color of the sea at sunrise. That sort of nonsense.” She quickly gathered the tools that had shot out of her hands upon his approach.
“Right. Well, is your work finished here?” He was staring at the headstone, amusement coloring his dark features.
A curious feeling of pride wound through her. “I think so. Wouldn’t want to overdo and draw too much attention.”
He quirked his brows. “Oh no, this is hardly noticeable at all.” He coughed. “One has to be at least two hundred yards away before noticing stone fragments in every direction.”
He offered his arm and she placed hers on top of his, as gracefully as she could, which was not very graceful, considering she had stone dust covering her arms, and tools clanging in Mémé’s reticule.
She forced herself to continue talking. “You followed me here?”
“No, I just have an odd fascination for cemeteries,” he said as innocently as a pickpocket in front of a judge.
“You followed me, yet you didn’t stop me. Why is that?”
“You were having too much fun.”
She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “I don’t care for the idea of you thinking you have the right to follow me.”
He guided her through the irregular maze of headstones toward the upper path. “Yes, well, you have a history of not doing what you are supposed to do.”
“Are you always going to bring up the funeral?”
“No, I’m bringing up your more recent effort concerning Lady Christine.”
“You are going to have to learn to forgive and forget. It is the Christian thing to do.”
“Are you always this much trouble?”
She smothered a smile. “Yes.”
“Fair enough. Then I shall always follow you.”
“Well, as long as it does not involve any more kissing,” she replied tartly. “But then, we’ve already discussed that issue.”
He stumbled over a tuft of grass. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was strained and she liked that.
“You know,” Roxanne continued, “you might not be taking this marriage business seriously, but I am.”
“Are we talking about my future marriage or your past one?”
“I’ve said we’re even, and you’ve made it perfectly clear that you would now prefer to make your own mistakes. I only ask that you allow me to make a muddle of my own future too.”
“But you are already married.”
“Yes, but as you have pointed out on numerous occasions when it suited your purpose, I am also dead.” She nodded toward the cemetery.
“Oh, so now you are going to find a new husband?” His voice sounded the merest bit odd before he chuckled. “One would think your experience with the first one would put you off entirely from the notion.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to marry again. But theoretically, just because you refuse to open your heart to the possibility of love, doesn’t mean I would do the same.”
“I was wrong.”
“Again?”
“Yes. You are just like every romantically minded female. You are mad.”
“Do try to make up your mind.” She inadvertently dropped the heavy reticule, and the chisel fell out. “Do you want to know what I think about you?”
“No,” he said and ungallantly continued on without her as she stopped to retrieve her affairs.
She scampered after him, his ground-eating strides equaling two of hers. “I think you’re . . .”
He had clamped his hands over his ears like an infant and began humming the French national anthem.
She swirled in front of him to block his path. He took one giant step to the right and she mirrored his action. She jerked one of his hands from his ear. It was a good thing that the path was now deserted.
“I think you’re afraid to love,” she stated.
“Love? Afraid to love?” He sighed, lowering his lids in a fine display of cool, male boredom. “Well, at least I will give you this . . . you’re bold enough to say the one thing every female I know is secretly thinking or plotting to cure.”
“Why would I ever hide anything from you? You’re as harmless as a goat to me.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“We’ve no expectations from each other, and soon we’ll part. By the way, you have an excellent talent.”
“Talent for what?”
“For dodging questions and subjects at hand quite nicely,” she replied.
“I’m not dodging anything,” he continued. “You want to talk about love?”
“Yes.”
“You have imagined that I am afraid to love.”
“I’ve not imagined a thing. You are afraid to love. It’s quite obvious.”
“The only thing that’s obvious is that you’ve made the mistake of listening to Mémé, who has made the mistake of conveying to you her favorite thoughts on her favorite subject . . . me. You think I have not heard her dance around maudlin sentiments a thousand times before?”
She tried to interrupt him without success. He plowed through her stuttering. “She always paints the same melodramatic picture. A sensitive, carefree boy, who watched his parents, and almost his entire family, perish in the flames surrounding Mont-Saint-Michel. Then she hints very badly that this boy—i.e., me—stoically wallowed in grief, which haunts me still, making me irreparably damaged. Of course, my younger brother was spared this tragic affliction as he was too young to fully understand his loss.”
She fidgeted her hands as they continued walking in the heat of the afternoon. “You never speak of your brother.”
“Are you going to suggest that I’m incapable of an attachment to my brother, too?” He made an inelegant sound. “I would have thought you knew gentlemen don’t gush.” He intently stared at her. “Of course I’m partial to my brother. He is a brilliant fellow, married to a charming heiress, and he’s making his mark in life by creating a new sort of financial institution that will help others and lead to a fine fortune of his own. He has the particular notion that it isn’t proper to feed off of one’s wife. Imagine.” He pulled her around the huge trunk of a chestnut tree as an old man with a bunch of flowers clutched in his bony hands drew close.
Alex gripped her shoulders. “You can do me one favor, thoug
h. Can you explain why females are so entranced by the notion of a tortured man? Why does this make him beautiful? Why does this make a lady instantly want to nurture, and even admire him? And worse yet, fall in love with him and imagine he will fall in love with her if she is only allowed access to his heart, which the woman believes she alone can mend?”
“You think all females who learn your history think these things, do you? I assure you most of them just want your title.” Roxanne could not keep the pretense of a smile on her face.
“Perhaps that is true now that I’ve the duchy, but that was not the case before this summer.”
“Boasting is not attractive. You do not need to remind me of your prowess with the feminine sex.”
“You think I’m boasting?” His face colored with emotion and it was easy to see the trouble he had keeping a jumble of responses from his lips. “Hell and damn, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Put me on the defensive. Most ridiculous. I’ve never felt the need to defend myself.”
“It only shows that I am right.” She rearranged the folds of her damp gown.
“You know the only reason I tolerate these idiotic conversations is that I know which camp you’re in.”
“Ah, so you place females who want to marry you in an enemy camp and those who do not in a different camp, an ally camp, so to speak?”
His chocolate brown eyes searched hers. “Precisely.”
“Well.” She inhaled. “You do realize, I hope, that there’s nothing wrong with wanting to nurture someone. And you yourself are an excellent caregiver. I am living proof of it. But I still say you are afraid to love. And I assure you that to have a satisfying marriage, there needs to be love.”
“And what if I tell you I’m not afraid of love at all. I just don’t need it or want it, and it’s never been part of the marriage equation, especially when I have the Prince Regent breathing down my neck as well as his faithful watchdog, Candover.” Sunlight, filtering through the branches of the chestnut tree, lit his handsome face.
“Sometimes one doesn’t know what one needs.” She caught her lip between her teeth to keep from smiling. “And you’re still defending your position, by the way—something you just told me you don’t do.”
His warm, large hands gently cupped her face. “And you do not know how to quit when you’re ahead.”
She could see the depths of his brown eyes, and she didn’t want to melt like every stupid female before her. He didn’t need saving and he certainly wasn’t interested in a deep, passionate love, not that she had any interest in it herself at this point in her ridiculous life. But she at least knew that the only true chance at happiness involved leading a good life, service to others, and giving and receiving love, even if it was not romantic love.
His face was too close to hers when she finally continued. “There’s only one thing we agree on, then.”
“Dare I hope it is a bit of innocent nurturing at this moment?”
His whispered nonsense warmed her insides. “Call it anything you like. I have no designs on you, as you pointed out. And who am I to enlighten you?”
“Exactly so,” he breathed. In the next instant, his lips descended to meet hers.
All the fight went out of her. She tried to remember that wonderful list of all the reasons she should not be doing this. She was almost coherent enough to recall all the things he had just uttered.
But she just could not deny herself. And perhaps, she finally admitted to herself, she was the one who needed coddling, even if it was of short duration. As long as she could keep her sensibilities at bay, and not read anything into his actions, she would be safe. She could lock away these few impassioned occasions and take out the remembrance of them during the many bone-chilling winter nights she would spend in some tiny hamlet far, far north of here.
His lips were slightly salty, and yet beyond he tasted of warm, delicious spirits. He gently bit her lower lip and groaned. His hands protected her back from the bark of the tree trunk as he leaned into her body. For the first time ever, she felt petite, breakable. It was the overwhelming strength with which he held her close that left her dazed, so unlike the perfunctory sensibilities she had felt in Lawrence’s limpid embrace.
He made no effort to hide his body’s desire to take her. He was hard where she was soft, and they fit together as snugly as two puzzle pieces in the game of life. He refused to let her come up for air; his breath fanned her cheeks as he rolled his head to the other side, tasting every inch of her.
Oh, he kissed so expertly he made her feel like she was the only woman he would ever want. His lips trailed to her ear.
And then one silly romantic word he had never dared to utter to her before brought her back to her senses . . .
“Darling . . .” he murmured slyly, a slight French accent marring his speech.
Oh, she was being played like the ten leagues of females who had found beauty in his tragedy and tried to mend his heart, which did not need mending. Roxanne pulled away suddenly. She would not be like those other females. She had more important things to do, and she would not let a half-French nobleman seduce her and tug at her heartstrings.
“Well,” she said as she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her lips. She hoped he didn’t notice her shaky breath. “That was lovely. But I think that is your allotment of nurturing today. There are others to tend to, you see.”
He pursed his lips in frustration. “If you dare utter his name, I shall . . .” He trailed off, uncertainty crossing his features.
She leaned close to his ear and chanted, “Sussex, Sussex, Sussexxxxxxx.” And then she forced a smile she did not feel, and turned away to dash toward the horses. She did not want him to see how much he affected her.
The last thing he saw before she ran were those blue, blue eyes of hers sparkling in merriment. He didn’t try to catch her. Instead he turned his face to the wind and ignored her escape. She had a penchant for running away from him. It was a first among the ladies he had known.
She was paving the descent to madness. It was that voice of hers. No, it was a combination of things. It was her throaty voice and laugh. It was the taste of her, and her unusual physique. She was tall, yet small of frame, and had none of the soft padding he preferred in his bed partners. He sighed and finally admitted the truth of it. He was attracted to her because of the absurdities she wasn’t afraid to utter during any and all occasions. She would not kowtow; she would not flirt. She was two parts utterly female to two parts friend and, one last part, enchanting, annoying witch.
He also found it vastly confounding that she alternated between taking seduction into her own hands and allowing him to take the lead. It was reducing him to infantile-like behavior whenever Sussex or Barry’s name came into play. It was absurd. He had thought the two gentlemen decent enough sorts when they had caroused London’s dens together. Nothing had changed since then. He would just have to regain control of his thoughts and immediately stop acting like a fool.
He stalked to the place Roxanne had retrieved the gelding and ridden off. She was out of sight now. Alex went after his own horse, who was munching on a patch of withered grass nearby. Bacchus turned his magnificent head and gave him a baleful stare as Alex threw his leg over the stallion’s back. His horse looked like he wanted to nip him for being forced away from his shady respite.
Blast it all. He could not stop thinking about Roxanne. So much for his new resolve. And now he was reduced to lying to her. He had never had to do such a thing. He had absolutely no idea who he was going to ask to marry. The lead mare was Isabelle, of course. Beautiful, amusing, intelligent Isabelle—a very rich duchess in her own right.
There were only two problems. First, of course, Isabelle was convinced she was in love with bloody Candover, and second, she was not the sort who would allow him the freedom he required. Isabelle was a true lady who would have to be pampered, and squired about by a husband like the long-sufferin
g sods he saw at events in Town. Yes, if he married the pretty duchess, he feared he would feel guilty, God rest his soul, at the idea of pursuing any of his former solitary late-night pleasures: clubs, gaming, and flying to a ladybird’s nest on occasion.
It would be a marriage in a lovely, hellish prison. The alternative was to choose . . . Hell and damn, there were no alternatives . . .
Two hours later in his own study at the Mount, a host of alternatives were placed before him by the very man Alex wished least to see.
“It’s been well over a week. Surely you’ve narrowed the possibilities.” Candover studied the latest express from the Prince Regent. “His Majesty is insisting upon a name. He’s gone so far as to promise an important announcement to the public in less than a fortnight. He is being heckled at every entertainment he attends, and has been reduced to staying in his gold-dipped apartments most every day given the unruly crowds.”
“He’s one to make promises. Has he given up Lady Jersey and Mrs. Fitzherbert? Has he invited Princess Caroline to return to her rightful, wifely place by his side at Carleton House?”
Candover stared at him and replied not.
“Of course he hasn’t,” Kress retorted for the both of them, while wearing a path on the new Aubusson rug, paid for with the Prince Regent’s money. Candover had had the audacity to install himself at Kress’s own desk this morning. “And what of Barry and Sussex? Are they not required to give names?”
Candover returned his attention to Prinny’s missive and studied it without meeting Alex’s eye. “No, they are not. Although that has not stopped Sussex from making his choice.”
Alex’s blood ran cold in his veins, and a sudden pain bloomed in his chest.
Candover pursed his lips. “It seems you can’t take the romantic fool out of a man after all. I tried to tell him—”
“Tried to tell him what?” Alex interrupted in a rush when his mouth finally began to work properly.
