Leslie LaFoy (9 page)

She didn't so much as blink before answering crisply, “That the people of the colonies are divided into three groups: those who urge armed rebellion to effect change, those who wish to remain loyal in all instances to the Crown, and those who have no idea what the others are talking about.”

True, but it wasn't what he wanted to know. Devon rephrased his question. “Why are some of the colonists opposed to paying taxes?”

She smiled sweetly, her eyes sparkling. “Are you testing me, Devon?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his blood warming. “Can you pass?”

Her smile broadened. “In a most basic sense, colonists are opposed to the present taxes because they can't afford them under British mercantile restrictions. If the Crown were to allow the Americans to trade with other nations, profits would be sufficient to make the taxes tolerable and the complaints would end. But the Crown isn't the least bit inclined to let the natural resources of the colonies go to the support of its enemies France, Spain, or Holland, so the restrictions will remain in place and the colonists are left with a choice to smuggle in order to make enough to pay the taxes or to obey the law and politely protest as they go bankrupt.

“On a more philosophical level,” she went on crisply, “the colonists chafe at paying taxes to support a
government that allows them no say in the creation of the laws that affect them. They argue that being a British subject under common law entitles them to representation in Parliament. To be denied representation is to be denied one of the most basic rights of an Englishman.”

Not only did she understand the basic complaints of his fellow colonists, she understood them well. She was a hoyden to the marrow, but she was obviously an exceptionally intelligent one. The combination of traits didn't particularly bode well, though. Especially for a man quite used to being the master of all he surveyed. At that moment he felt a suffering kinship with George Seaton-Smythe. It was an unsettling feeling.

“How did I do?” she asked.

“Quite well,” he had to admit. “I'm impressed.”

“As I intended for you to be,” she allowed, her eyes bright and her grin impish. Sobering only slightly, she added, “Discussing political philosophy is ever so much more interesting than needlepointing pillows.”

“You might be surprised to discover that colonial women are more politically aware than their British sisters,” he ventured, hoping it was true. By and large, however, he knew they weren't any more formally educated. Custom on that point was one of the few things that hadn't been changed on the journey across the ocean. Which made Claire Curran a decidedly odd duck on both sides of it. If she wasn't willing to pretend to be a normal female, his salon was going to be a cold and silent place. He didn't even want to think of the social ridicule
he'd
have to endure once the House of Burgesses actually convened.

“I certainly hope so,” he heard her say. “It would be a welcome change to have an intelligent conversation without having to don a pair of breeches to achieve it.”

Hadn't they just had a conversation that qualified as such? Wasn't she wearing a dress? Even as he framed the questions, he saw the answers. Beneath her skirt she was
still wearing her boy's clothing. And more importantly, he hadn't contributed one word to the discourse beyond prodding and daring her to expound. How—and at what point—had he lost control of the exchange?

“Speaking of breeches,” he began, desperately grasping at the chance to reassert his authority, “you will surrender your boy's costume to me when we reach Rosewind.”

She arched a brow. “I will not,” she declared, her tone implying that the very idea of doing so was the most ludicrous thing anyone had ever suggested. “If you want my breeches, you'll have to physically remove them from my person. And be forewarned. I won't give them up without a struggle.”

She'd fight him? Oh, Jesus. He wasn't the least bit amused by the notion. Stirred, yes, but not at all amused. In fact, the idea of taking her to the floor and removing her clothing was so strongly appealing that it was altogether frightening. But he'd taken the step and was mandated by pride to see the journey through. “Do you think you have any chance of winning the contest?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she replied with a quick shrug. “But if I should lose, I will at least make you pay a price for your victory.”

“And what—other than making me angry—would be the point of that, madam?”

“Remembering the battle,” she quipped, “might give you pause the next time it occurs to you to play the imperial lord.”

“By law, I
am
your lord,” Devon reminded her.

“And why should I feel compelled to respect and obey a law in which I, as a female, had no voice? Colonial men aren't the only ones denied the basic rights granted Englishmen under common law.”

It was a most outrageous, preposterous extension of the Natural Rights doctrine that he'd ever heard. To extend the rights of free men to women?
Women
? He was
beginning to understand why her uncle had sent her off into the world of men. In addition to being stubborn and willful, she was also a most unnatural woman. Seaton-Smythe had probably considered banishing her the only way to preserve what few positive aspects there were to his public reputation. Even then she'd probably managed to wreak havoc with her flagrant disregard for convention. Marrying her off to a distant, desperate colonial planter had been the only hope the man had of ever sleeping well.

“I can see why your uncle was willing to give up two thousand pounds sterling to be rid of you,” he muttered.

“And I, sir,” she blithely countered, “can see why you had no wife.”

“Bachelorhood was my state by choice.”

“Undoubtedly,” she laughingly retorted, her brow arched delicately. “No woman in her right mind and of free will would choose to be bound to you.”

She'd boxed him into a corner as neatly as she pleased. And he'd all but invited her to do it. When he next saw his brother, Wyndom was a dead man. Even as Devon planned his well-deserved revenge, the carriage slowed and eased into a turn to the north. Glancing out the window, Devon recognized both the stately oaks that lined the drive of Rosewind Manor and the approaching end of the interminable journey.

Turning, he caught and held the gaze of his bride. “Before the night is out, madam,” he promised, “you will surrender your breeches.”

Claire sighed. If he wanted a battle, she had no choice but to oblige him. And he would learn in the course of it what her uncle had eventually come to accept: Obedience and respect couldn't be attained by swinging a fist. George Seaton-Smythe had sent her away rather than be confronted by that humbling fact each and every day. She could only hope that Devon
Rivard would come to the same conclusion more quickly than her uncle had.

“It should be a most interesting contest, sir. I look forward to it and wish you the best of luck.”

The fading daylight was still sufficient for her to see the granite planes of Devon Rivard's smooth-shaven jaw, the light in his eyes that wordlessly spoke of a challenge accepted. A shiver raced up her spine, a shiver that owed nothing to the cold and everything to a sudden shadow passing over her confidence.

Unsettled, she deliberately looked away from him and out the window of the rented carriage. Her first sight of Rosewind Manor came in that moment and took her breath away.

HERE WAS SO MUCH
of it to take in that she could only do so in small parts. The drive on which they were traveling curved gently across the front of the mansion—and
mansion
was the only word she could think of to describe it—passing in front of a set of wide steps leading up to a central door that was protected by a roofed and pilastered extension. The main portion of the red brick structure was two stories high with a hipped roof. No fewer than seven mullioned windows broke the face of the second story on the front side; six windows on the lower story, three on each side of the massive front door. And chimneys… Rosewind Manor had four of them in the central part alone, an internal pair of them on each end.

Flanking the main body of the structure on each side were identical wings. Also constructed of red brick, they were single story and comprised of two distinctly different parts. The outermost portion appeared to be octagonal
with a window set in each of the faces she could see. The roof was set in sections, rising and sloping back to abut yet another chimney. Connecting the octagonal portion to the main body of the house was a relatively simple section with a gabled roof and three perfectly spaced windows.

The whole of it was balanced and solid, a monument to a builder who appreciated order and stability. A builder who also possessed great wealth and a determination to display it for all the world to see. Rosewind Manor was positively huge by any standard of measurement. The main part of the house alone was easily half again as large as the Governor's Mansion in Williamsburg. The Seaton-Smythe house in London would have fit into it with plenty of room left over. Their country house would have fit into it twice. As for her own home of Crossbridge Manor… Somehow
Manor
seemed such a pitiful bit of pretension when comparing her home with that of the Rivards. The main house at Crossbridge was only a third of the size of the central portion of Rosewind alone.

Claire arched a brow, remembering the expenses that had been required to maintain her small home. The costs Devon Rivard bore for running his had to be staggering. It was little wonder that he was so generally ill-tempered. And it was equally clear how he'd come by his lordly demeanor; Rosewind was a castle. Claire smiled ruefully, wondering when the man planned to dig the moat and install the drawbridge.

“Impressed?”

She tore her attention away from the house and gave him both a smile and an honest answer. “I'm relieved that I'm not really the mistress of Rosewind. If I were, I'd be slightly overwhelmed by the responsibilities looming ahead.”

“Only slightly?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“And only for a while,” she added as the carriage eased to a stop. “Eventually I'd meet even your most outrageous expectations.”

“I'd be content, madam,” he said as he opened the carriage door, “if someone could meet even the most minimal.”

Claire, wondering whether his words were a confession of impossibly high standards or an admission that the household affairs were largely mismanaged, watched him gracefully unfold his huge frame and smoothly exit the carriage. To her surprise, he turned back and offered his hand in assistance. She took it and tried not to rely on it overly much as she climbed out to stand beside him in front of the snow-covered steps. The wind was whipping in hard from the west, stinging her cheeks and cutting through her cloak to arrow into the center of her bones. The snow came in small, icy pellets that crackled and bounced on the stones at her feet, clung to and melted on the warmth of her wool-covered shoulders.

“Mind your step,” he said, using his foot to clear a narrow pathway up the steps and drawing her along behind him. “It's slippery. And I can't afford to pay a doctor to set broken limbs.”