He stepped away from her as Clarissa, escorted from the piano by Jeremy, drew near. Before Rose could gather her wits and slide around the opposite end of the chaise, Duncan turned and smiled, in a languid, general fashion, at his mother, and her.
“Perhaps Rose would care to play next?”
Lady Hermione immediately swiveled to beam up at Rose. “Indeed. Rose, dear, I haven’t heard you play for an age—do oblige us.”
Rose knew a trap when she saw one, but, as others turned to her and added their pleas, she had to smile and graciously agree. She looked at Jerermy. “Would you turn the pages for me?”
Jeremy smiled warmly and offered his arm. Rose took it, quelling a twinge of guilt; she’d only asked him to ensure that Duncan wouldn’t hover at her shoulder while she played. If he did, she was quite sure her fingers would tie themselves into knots; if that had been his plan, she’d spiked his guns.
With barely muted pride, Jeremy led her to the piano stool. Duncan, with Clarissa on his arm, followed more slowly. Rose quickly selected her piece—a sonata, one of Lady Hermione’s favorites. She settled the music on the stand; Jeremy took up his stance beside her.
Rose drew in a deep breath, then laid her fingers on the keys and let them free. She kept her eyes on the music, yet she played from memory; she had no need of the sheets to guide her. Which was just as well.
Duncan had led Clarissa around the piano; they now stood directly before her, watching her play.
To Rose’s immense relief, the music protected her, acted as her shield as she lost herself in it. The delicate, haunting air, so evocative of the wild country surrounding them, rose up and wreathed about her, then wrapped her in its spell. She let her lids fall and gave herself up to it, to the magic of the wildness, the compelling beauty of the sound.
About the room, not a whisper was heard; not a cough or shuffle marred the magic. Rose held the entire company in thrall, effortlessly harnessing the power Clarissa, for all her technical perfection, had not been able to command.
For Duncan, his gaze fixed on Rose, the comparison was inescapable. Without thought or consideration, Rose gave her heart and soul; she played with an emotional abandon which, he inwardly acknowledged, was an inherent part of her, the Rose he had known quite literally since her birth. The realization affected him powerfully.
His jaw hardened—all of him hardened; possessive lust ripped through him. He wanted her—desired her—driven by the sure knowledge that Rose would love in exactly the same way. With her heart and soul. With complete and utter abandon.
He dragged in a tight breath and found it insufficient to deaden the sudden pounding in his blood. He set his teeth and tried to wrench his gaze from her—and failed. Beyond his will, his eyes devoured her—the rich abundance of her coiled hair, the warm cream of her complexion, the soft, suggestive curves so temptingly arrayed in amber silk.
Mesmerized, he let his gaze linger; under the fine fabric, her nipples peaked. He glanced up and saw her lashes tremble. Lust roared again; with an inward curse, he swallowed it whole and fought to unfocus his gaze. They were in his mother’s drawing room, under the eyes of more than thirty of his relatives, as well as his no-longer intended and her parents, and Rose’s prospective husband and her father.
She was driving him demented, but for the first time in their shared lives, it wasn’t—entirely—her fault.
Duncan gritted his teeth and endured.
Eventually, the sonata came to an end. Rose struck the last chords lovingly; a sigh rippled through the room. As she lifted her fingers from the keys, the company returned to life.
So did Rose, thankful that she didn’t blush all that readily. She smiled and looked around, everywhere but at Duncan.She even managed to exchange a mild glance with Clarissa without focusing on him.
“Rose, dear!”
She swiveled on the stool to face Lady Hermione.
Who smiled beguilingly. “If you would, dear—The Raven’s Song. There’s four of you to sing it.”
Rose blinked, then inclined her head. “Yes, of course.” Swinging back to the piano, she looked at Jeremy. “Do you know it?” Her gaze moved on to include Clarissa; both she and Jeremy nodded. Rose didn’t bother asking Duncan; his mother’s favorite song was as imprinted on his brain as it was on hers. At the edge of her vision—where she carefully kept him—she saw him shift, drifting around the piano to her left. Clarissa drifted right, until she stood beside Jeremy.
Rose set her teeth and reached for the keys. If Duncan ogled her breasts again, she would hit him. A second later, the introduction rolled out. They all started in time and went carefully through the first verse, all listening, gauging each other’s voices. Jeremy’s was a mild tenor, restrained and light; Clarissa’s soprano was thin and reedy, wavering a little on the sustained high notes.
Duncan’s singing voice was as she remembered it: a deep baritone, rich and powerful, capable of imparting a surging cadence reminiscent of the sea. Rose heard it and, for the life of her, could not stop her own voice, a warm contralto, from merging, interweaving, soaring above, then sliding into the resonance of his.
They’d sung this song, together, in this very room, for years; as memory was overlaid by new experience, Rose could hear the difference, the added depth and power in Duncan’s voice, the softer, more rounded, more sensual tones of hers, melding into an even finer, richer, more compelling aural tapestry than they’d previously managed to create.
She concentrated on the notes, and sensed him following her. By the time they started the final verse, their voices dominated, stronger, more assured, more enduring.
They held the final note, then, by perfect, unspoken, mutual accord, let it die.
The room erupted with wild applause.
Rose laughed; smiling, she glanced up—and met Duncan’s eyes. His lips were curved, but his eyes weren’t laughing—they were focused, intently, on her. A thrill streaked through her and left her lightheaded—she told herself it was simply exhilaration, compounded by breathlessness. Turning toward Jeremy, she swung about on the stool and stood.
Giddiness struck—she swayed.
And Duncan was there, by her side, steadying her, shielding her from the room. His fingers gripped her elbow—and burned her like a brand. Rose sucked in a breath and looked up. And was trapped in his eyes, in the cool blue that now burned with a million tiny flames.
Flames?
Rose blinked and looked away. She’d never seen fire in Duncan’s eyes before. Drawing a determined breath, she steeled herself and looked again.
He met her gaze with a look of limpid innocence.
Not a flame in sight.
Rose resisted the urge to narrow her eyes at him. Instead, keeping a firm hold on her curiosity, she retrieved her arm and, with an airy nonchalance that was entirely feigned, glided away from him.
She tried not to notice how fast her heart was racing.
Two
Duncan’s prediction proved accurate; the next day dawned drizzly and gray. Drifts of fine mist shrouded the mountains, enhancing the aura of isolation, of being cut off from the world.
Gazing out of the parlor windows, Rose drank in the sight, the atmosphere, the deep sense of peace. Behind her, in the cozy parlor, the ladies had assembled to pass the morning in gentle companionship, some setting the odd stitch in their embroideries, others too idle to even bother with the facade. Murmuring conversations drifted up and down the room, mirroring the drift of the clouds outside.
For her, it was a comfortable gathering; all those present, bar Jeremy and the Edmontons, had known her for years, most since her birth. Already that morning, she had spoken with each of Duncan’s six aunts, catching up with the exploits of his cousins. The older ladies were now exchanging social gossip, mostly of Edinburgh society, with a few relevant tales from London thrown in. She had little interest in such stories; if truth be told, she had little interest in society at all.
To her left, some way from the house, sh
e saw a group of gentlemen heading out for a walk along the path about the loch. Her father was there, as was Jeremy—it wasn’t hard to pick him out; he was the one wearing the brand-new deer-stalker and a many-caped cloak. Despite his connection with the dukedom of Perth, he’d lived all his life in Edinburgh.
Rose watched the men enter the trees. The sight of Jeremy, striding along among them, was a pointed reminder of why she’d come to Ballynashiels at this particular time, with him in tow. He wanted to marry her. At twenty-seven, having turned down so many young men, to have a candidate of Jeremy’s caliber go down on his knees was not something she could dismiss with a smiling laugh. Jeremy deserved consideration. Aside from anything else, she actually liked him, in a mild sort of way. She could, she supposed, imagine setting up house with him. He would be a kind and considerate husband; of that she had not a doubt, but still . . .
She’d answered Duncan truly: she hadn’t married because she’d yet to meet a man she wanted to wed. She had a very definite idea of how she would feel if the right candidate appeared—swept away by some force greater than her own will. For years, she’d rationalized that this had not happened because she was so willful, so strong-willed. It hadn’t happened yet, and it wouldn’t with Jeremy, but at twenty-seven she had to consider her options. Which was what had brought her here.
Lady Hermione’s invitation had been a godsend, giving her a reason to bring Jeremy to Ballynashiels, to the one place on earth she felt most alive, most truly herself. Most clearly, strongly sure of herself. She’d reasoned that if there were any possibility that she and Jeremy could make a match of it, she’d know it here, at Ballynashiels.
Rose smiled wryly, resignedly. She’d promised Jeremy she would give him her answer on Midsummer’s Day, but she’d already made up her mind: Jeremy made less impression on her here than he had in the ballrooms of Edinburgh. It was not he who had captured her interest, focused her attention.
She stood at the window, gazing unseeing outside, for a full five minutes before she realized where her thoughts had gone. To whom they’d gone.
Duncan the perfect.
He’d always effortlessly captured her attention—he still did. She’d always been interested in his exploits, his thoughts, his achievements—now, after twelve years absence from her life, he intrigued her.
After last night, however, intrigue was tempered by caution. He’d seriously unnerved her; as she’d climbed into bed, she’d promised herself she would avoid him for the rest of her stay. He’d changed. He was no longer the boy she’d teased, the youth she’d taunted—all with ab-solute impunity. The boy, the youth, had never struck back; this Duncan did. With a weapon she did not precisely understand, and against which, it seemed, she had no defence.
Which was definitely not fair.
That had been last night. This morning, she was bored. Teasing Duncan had always enlivened her life; she’d always felt excitement in his presence. As she had last night. Rose stared at the cloud-shrouded crags. Perhaps she simply needed a little experience to become used to the sort of excitement Duncan now evoked.
Her normal response when faced with a new challenge was to confront it, overcome it. Dealing with Duncan at thirty-five was certainly a new challenge, but, very likely, all she needed to do to overcome her silly susceptibility, to conquer that unnerving feeling that had assailed her yesterday evening, was to confront him. Face him.
Tease him as she used to.
Except, of course, they weren’t children anymore.
Shifting, Rose glanced down the room to where Clarissa sat in an armchair, industriously embroidering. She was the only woman in the room so engrossed, the very picture of maidenly occupation.
Rose inwardly grimaced. She was not the sort of woman to interfere in another’s life, but Clarissa was clearly not a suitable wife for Duncan. If he didn’t already know that, he should, so she could tease him with a clear conscience. And while in wider society her teasing might be seen as something else, all those gathered here would know there was nothing in it—that it was simply the way she and Duncan had always dealt.
Vivid memories of the excitement she’d experienced last night, the sharp, tingling tension that had laid seige to her nerves, slid through her mind and beckoned. Abandoning the window, Rose crossed to where Lady Hermione reclined on a chaise. Her ladyship looked up inquiringly.
“I need a distraction.” Rose smiled ingenuously. “I think I’ll fetch a book.”
Lady Hermione’s smile was serene. “Indeed, dear. An excellent idea.”
Duncan was deep in a ledger of accounts when the library door opened. Assuming it was one of the guests looking for a book, he did not look up. Then he realized which guest it was, and looked up—quickly.
His heart stopped—just for a second—long enough to bring home the danger. Rose sensed his gaze; she turned her head and threw him a teasing smile. Then, with airy grace, she wandered along the wall lined with bookcases, fingers lightly trailing along the spines.
Duncan set his teeth, shifted in his seat—and tried not to think of how those teasing fingertips would feel trailing across his bare chest. She was wearing a muslin morning gown; the fabric clung lovingly to her hips and thighs as she strolled slowly down the room. For long, silent minutes, he watched her search for a book. And gave serious thought to the question of whether she really wanted to read, or if she was deliberately baiting him. He wasn’t sure those alternatives were mutually exclusive.
Whatever, he could not take his eyes from her. At least part of that compulsion derived from their past, from deep-seated self-preservation. He’d learned from experience that Rose could be startlingly inventive; keeping an eye on her whenever she got close had always been wise.
Keeping an eye on her now might not be so wise, but he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t wrench his gaze from her. He still couldn’t get over her transformation. In years past, keeping a wary eye on her had been a necessary chore; keeping an eye on her now was no hardship at all. The only hard-ship involved was in keeping his hands off her—he’d only just succeeded in toeing the line thus far. Heaven help him if he lost that fight.
God only knew what she would do to him then.
The thought froze his mind—and freed his imagination. He was deep in salacious fantasies when a crackle of paper to his right recalled him to the present. He glanced fleetingly at Henderson, his steward and old friend; seated on a chair by the side of the desk, Henderson was poring over another ledger. They’d been there for two hours; all the important business was done.
Henderson had barely glanced up when Rose had entered. As she’d visited every summer, his staff had presumably become used to her as she now was; Duncan was the only one who’d been shaken to his toes.
He looked back at his nemesis-turned-siren, and shifted in his seat again.
He’d spent all night thinking of her, thinking about all she now was. Lusting after all she now was. And brooding about where that might land him. For despite all else, she still was Rose—the woman who’d made his life hell from the moment she’d first entered it.
She was and always had been a thorn in his flesh. If he gave rein to the compulsion that gripped him every time she swanned into his sight, would he exorcise her, pluck her out of his life forever, or simply drive her deeper in?
Watching her perusing the first pages of a novel, Duncan inwardly cursed. He was in agony as it was; he might as well discover what fate had in store for him—the pain couldn’t be any worse.
Pushing back his chair, he glanced at Henderson. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.” He stood, then considered. “On second thoughts, let’s leave it until after Midsummer.” When his mind might be free of its present distraction.
Henderson readily acquiesced and gathered up the ledgers. Duncan waited until he was headed for the door before strolling around the desk. And setting out in the wake of his nemesis.
By any rational standard, he should have spent at least some time in the last twelve h
ours considering Clarissa, de-tailing his arguments and making his final decision. Instead, his decision seemed to have been made for him, by some part of his mind that he couldn’t override. He would not marry Clarissa.
Who he would marry was a different question, one he had not, yet, dwelled much upon. With Rose about, distracting him, attracting him, he couldn’t think clearly enough to even focus on the point.
The door shut softly behind Henderson. A second later, when Duncan was still ten paces from her, Rose glanced up—too quickly—from her book. Duncan suppressed a feral grin. She swung to face him; he stopped directly before her. Ducking slightly, he checked the title of the book she held, shieldlike, between them. “You’ve already read that.”
She blinked at him. “That was years ago.” She paused, then added, her eyes on his, “I thought I might revisit old playgrounds.”
Duncan held her gaze. “Indeed?” Propping one shoulder against the bookshelves, he looked down at her. “You need to be wary of old playgrounds.”
“Oh?”
There was just enough teasing laughter in her voice to bring out the rake in him. Duncan let his intent infuse his eyes. “The ground might have shifted—and even if you do stay on your feet, you might find the rules of the games changed.”
A light flush touched her cheeks; he half expected her to fluster—instead, she arched a brow at him. “I’ve always learned quickly.” Her throaty purr slid under his skin, heating him. She searched his eyes, then that teasing brow rose higher. “And I doubt there’s anything I need fear.”
She turned away on the comment—one he would have believed was expressly designed to tempt him to some act of madness, except that Rose knew him not. She did not know what he was, what he had become, how he had changed over the last twelve years. She did not know what his principal recreational activity now was. If he told her it was riding, she’d probably imagine horses.
Duncan watched her return the book to the shelf and considered how best to break the news to her.
Scottish Brides Page 9
