A Baron for Becky (5 page)

“A woman should
have her own house,” Aldridge agreed. “But a woman like you
deserves a town-house in London, rather than a cottage in the
country.”

She would
prefer a cottage in the country, but the Marquis lived mostly in
London.

“London is so
large, though. If I lived in London, would I not need a
carriage?”

“A phaeton,
perhaps, that you could drive in Hyde Park during the promenading
hour,” Aldridge suggested.

“Drive?
Myself?” She did her best to sound shocked, not intrigued, but lost
her next thought as he whisked her into a curtained alcove and
proceeded to kiss her.

She thought she
knew kisses. Rough and clumsy connections, rude invasions of her
mouth, as the man who had purchased the right, violently mauled her
breasts and buttocks. Those weren’t kisses.

This; this was
a kiss. A firm, but gentle, invitation to a duet, patiently coaxing
a response and then turning to a dance, a partnership of giving and
taking that spun music through every vein in her body. Rose forgot
where she was, almost who she was, as she melted against him, lost
in a world of sensation.

Sarah. Campaign
plan. She pulled back, and Aldridge let her go.

“Something on
account,” Aldridge suggested.

“Perhaps.” She
peeked cautiously around the curtain and then hurried away down the
silent hall.

Aldridge next
approached her after dinner, sitting on the other side of the love
seat she’d deliberately chosen in a shadowed corner of the great
parlour, out of the direct view of the earl, who was playing the
pianoforte, and the countess, turning the pages of music for
him.

“I love that
shade of blue on you, Mrs Darling,” he said.

She blushed.
Her lovers seldom bothered to compliment her, though extravagant,
excruciatingly bad, poetry had been written to The Rose of Frampton
by those who didn’t have her in their keeping.

“It needs
something else, though,” Aldridge commented. He pulled out a
tissue-wrapped package. “Not the diamonds and sapphires I thought
of buying, but it is just the colour of your eyes. I had to see it
on you.”

‘This’ was a
shawl in patterns of blue, so fine it was small enough when rolled
to fit into his jacket pocket, but large enough to wrap warmly
around her shoulders. She jumped up to examine it in the mirror,
and he followed, standing inches away, leaning forward to breathe
on her ear as he said, “Exquisite.”

She should
refuse the gift. Proper ladies did not take gifts from gentlemen.
But they both knew she was not a lady, and she was well used to
gifts with a price tag attached.

“Something on
account?” she asked.

“Not this time.
A present, given freely, with no expectation of reward. Because I
admire you, lovely Rose.”

She had to
remind herself of every rumour she had heard about the man. And
even then, if she’d not heard him working his charm on Smite’s men,
she might have unravelled, as he clearly expected. No wonder he had
left such a string of broken hearts behind him.

It would be a
mistake to give in too easily.

“And in
return,” she told him, “I freely give you my thanks, my lord.”

She was
rewarded with a moment’s stunned amazement before the amused look
reappeared. “Well played, Mrs Darling,” he murmured, just before
Lady Chirbury called her to the pianoforte.

She had enjoyed
music above all things, back when she lived with her father. She’d
not had access to a pianoforte for ten years, but when Lady
Chirbury found her mooning over the instrument on the first day of
her stay, she had insisted Rose start playing again.

With Aldridge
watching, she kept to something simple, a country ballad, one of
the earliest tunes her mother had taught her. The appreciation
brightened in his eyes as she played, and later, when she said
goodnight, he whispered, “You are full of surprises, Mrs Darling.
The town-house will definitely have a pianoforte.”

The following
morning, Aldridge caught Rose as she came out of the nursery wing,
and led her into a long open gallery with a barrelled ceiling. She
stopped just inside the door, staring with her mouth just a little
open.

The room ran
the length and breadth of the entire east wing, and was easily the
size of the countess’s private garden. It was a visual cacophony.
The panelled walls were painted, and so was the ornate plastered
ceiling, features and details picked out in reds and blues and
greens and purples and highlighted in gilt. The heavy drapes
hanging in the windows along all four sides were embroidered with
wonderful beasts and flowers.

Somehow, all
the bold, clashing colours worked together to create a thing of
beauty.

Aldridge
recalled her attention. “I’m pleased by your appreciation, Mrs
Darling, truly, though I’d prefer it addressed to myself.”

“I’ve never
seen a room like it,” she told him. “Whatever is it for?
Dancing?”

“Yes, they have
dances. And they walk here when the weather is inclement, or play
games. It is not used on a fine day like today.” He was approaching
her with intent, scattering her wits with his masculine aura.

“I enjoy
dancing,” she said, annoyed when her voice came out in a squeak. In
truth, the only dancing she’d done had been at entertainments
organised by two of her kinder protectors, and both of them thought
‘dancing’ simply a euphemism for upright fornication.

“You’d probably
enjoy opera, too,” he replied. Trying to formulate a reply, she
turned and walked the length of the gallery, stopping to exclaim
over the views from the windows on the three outer walls.

He prowled
after her, content, for the moment, to hold his lusts in check. If
he chose to take her here, she doubted she could stop him. Or that
she would. This game of tag they were playing was arousing her,
too, but she could ignore that. His kindness, though—his
willingness to think of ways to please her—those were fast touching
the heart she had thought turned to stone a decade ago.

She cast about
for something to say. “I am much out of practice on the
pianoforte.”

“A music
master, perhaps? For you and Sarah? It would be a good investment.
I appreciate the sound of music in the evening.”

For Sarah, too?
The thought put a check in her step.

Still, his
assumption that she intended to surrender rankled, for all that it
was true.

“You assume a
great deal, my lord.” She didn’t have to work at making her voice
cold, and a little hurt.

Just then, the
door at the far end of the room opened, and the nursery party
trooped in: Lady Daisy Redepenning hand-in-hand with Sarah, Lady
Meg Haverstock, and a bevy of nursery maids, followed closely by
the countess herself. Sarah had quickly become the leader of the
three. At seven, she was a year older than Lady Daisy, and Lady
Meg—though an adult in years—was younger still in her
understanding.

The countess
waved her over. “We’re going to play Blind Man’s Buff, Mrs Darling.
Will you join us?”

Rose made her
apologies to Aldridge and hurried to the relative safety of a game
with children.

Aldridge next
saw Mrs Darling when the house gathered for dinner. Her borrowed
gown of powder blue intensified the colour of her eyes, echoed in
the more vibrant blues of the shawl he’d given her, which she’d
draped with studied negligence around her waist and over one
shoulder.

Aldridge bowed
correctly over Anne’s hand, and then that of his lovely quarry.
“Ladies, how charming you both look,” Rede said, beating Aldridge
to the compliment.

At dinner, they
did not stand on ceremony, eating in the breakfast parlour around a
table that allowed for easy conversation.

“They’re
sending 2,000 seamen to Denmark to bring back the Danish fleet,”
Rede told Anne, when she asked if the papers had any news of
interest.

Anne frowned.
“I cannot like our bombarding a friendly nation.”

“War makes for
tough choices, Anne,” Aldridge said. “The poor Danes were in a
dilemma. We were demanding they give up their ships before Napoleon
took them, and Napoleon would undoubtedly have punished them had
they complied.”

“And now they
have lost their navy, and Copenhagen lies in ruins,” Anne said.
“Surely there was another way?”

“Their fate was
sealed when Napoleon decided to take their fleet,” Aldridge told
her.

“Their fate was
sealed when they continued to trade with France these last ten
years,” Mrs Darling corrected. “A neutral nation that trades with
both sides? Napoleon’s intent, if true, is only an excuse.”

“Why do you say
‘if true,’ Mrs Darling?” Rede asked. “We were acting on information
received from merchants and French diplomats.”

“What was it
Samuel Johnson said?” she retorted. “...
‘Among
the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the
love of truth.’
”

Clever, as well
as pretty. “Is trade worth going to war?” Aldridge asked, just to
see what she would say.

“Trade brings
power and money. Are these not the reasons nations take up arms?”
she retorted.

Anne disagreed,
“The reasons for one nation to attack unprovoked, certainly. But we
must defend ourselves from invasion, surely?”

“Certainly, I
will fight to protect what is mine,” Rede said, “even if that means
we must take the battle to the enemy.”

Mrs Darling
returned them to the point. “Even if it means bombing a neutral
nation and taking their entire fleet?”

“A fleet that
had been used to supply Napoleon’s war effort.” Aldridge’s voice
grew louder at the prospect of a good argument.

But he wasn’t
to get one. Mrs Darling pulled herself inward, the passion that lit
her face smoothing into the calm mask she usually wore. She looked
down at her plate, and then up again with a small flash of
fire.

“I have never
approved of the Fabian strategy,” she said, quietly. “It may win
wars, but it hurts too many people.”

“Steady on,
Aldridge,” Rede said. “No need to raise your voice. Can I help you
to the parsnips, Mrs Darling?”

Apart from
murmuring his apologies, Aldridge said little for some time. Mrs
Darling was a conundrum. The Fabian strategy? Who had ever heard of
a provincial whore who knew about Quintius Fabius Maximus
Verrucosus, Roman general, whose war of slow attrition to cut off
Hannibal’s supply lines had kept the Carthaginian from Rome and
spelled his defeat.

He would enjoy
matching wits with her. But he would need to be gentle. He had not
missed Mrs Darling’s flinch. He hoped her previous protectors,
starting with the probably-late, unlamented Perringworth, roasted
in hell for hurting a defenceless woman.

Mrs Darling,
too, remained quiet until near the end of the dinner.

Aldridge was
describing a request, received in the mail that morning. One of the
ducal estates in Sussex, short of firewood for the new brick kilns
they were building, was negotiating to cut a neighbour’s woods, but
the neighbour wanted a written contract.

“I’ve never
heard the like,” Aldridge said. “We’re both gentlemen. Is our word
not good enough?”

His cousin
shrugged. “This is your reward for taking the duchy into trade,
Aldridge. We merchants know the value of putting things in writing.
With the best will in the world, people can remember different
things from the same conversation, and not all gentlemen are as
honourable as you and I.”

Mrs Darling’s
murmured comment was clearly not intended for the table at large:
“A written contract would be a very good idea,” she said to
herself.