Rules of Engagement (17 page)

With the combination of his irascibility and her dubiety, Pamela didn't know what truths might have been revealed then, but the threatening summer storm finally made its appearance with a flash and a fury. Driven by the wind, the rain smashed into them, plastering Pamela's gown against her, obscuring her spectacles, making her catch her breath at the instantaneous chill. Even the most hardened of gamblers scattered, clutching their top hats and running toward their carriages.

Pamela pulled the spectacles off. "We should go," she shouted, and a gust of wind blew the storm into her face.

"Yes, let's take this fight to more comfortable circumstances." Kerrich smiled at Pamela unkindly. "My library."

She scowled at him. Did he
mean
to invoke the memory of those disquieting kisses? Surely not. He had called them awkward.

Coming to stand behind them, Timothy blocked the wind as best he could and raised his umbrella. The gale immediately turned it inside out and sent him stumbling.

Beth yelled, "Lord Kerrich, tell Miss Lockhart why you brought me to the racetrack."

He glared down at the child through the deluge. "Because you asked."

"But you wouldn't take me at first." She bent her head against the driving rain.

Taking off her shawl, Pamela wrapped it around Beth's head and arms. "We can talk about this later."

For some reason, Beth was obstinate. "Tell her, Lord Kerrich."

"Not now!" Kerrich put his hand in the middle of her back and drove her toward the top of the hill and the eventual calm inside the carriage. "Anyway, Miss Lockhart does the proper no matter what. She isn't going to like me better for crumpling to your blackmail. Footman, take the child to the carriage!"

Snatching up a loudly protesting Beth, Timothy carried her off toward the carriages.

That left Kerrich and Pamela alone. Taking her arm, he propelled her forward. Her eyes stung and she wiped at them. As they topped the hill, the wind and the rain struck them straight on. Far ahead, Timothy was running with Beth toward the rapidly emptying posting area, and the coachman was securing the horses Beth and Kerrich had ridden to the back of the carriage.

"What a bloody damned mess," Kerrich said.

"Your fault," Pamela mumbled, although she knew she should not continue to provoke him. Then, as if in retribution, the gale slipped under the curved wing of her hat. Flipping off her head, it dangled down her back, held only by the ribbon under her chin. Pamela tried to return it to its place on her head.

"Take it off." Kerrich spoke close to her ear, sounding even more aggrieved than before.

She shouted. She had to, he couldn't have heard her above the storm's roar if she did not. "A lady is never seen in public without—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Stopping, he turned her toward him, untied the sodden ribbons, removed her bonnet, and yelled, "Now is not the time to worry about the propriety of wearing that ugly hat."

The rain sluiced down right on her bare head. Snatching her hat out of his hand, she snapped, "It's not ugly."

"You're right." He brushed the water off of her cheek, then stared at his fingers. "It's hideous!"

"It's perfect for a dried-up old spinster like me." She nodded her head at him in final reproof, noting how oddly he gazed at her, then turned and forged on. Her hair straggled down and she shoved it back.

It took her a moment to realize he hadn't rejoined her. For some obscure reason, he remained in the same spot, standing in the mud and the wind and the rain.

Just when she thought the day couldn't get any worse, he was going to prove stubborn. She started back for him, and at the same time he started for her. She came to a halt; he strode forward with such purpose she thought he would walk right over the top of her. She tried to evade him, but he grasped her arms in his fists and held her against him, body to body. She looked up at him. He gave a curse, the kind of curse she had heard in the stables when they'd had a horse trample them.

"My lord," she exclaimed, uncomfortable with the closeness, confused by his fury. "I beg that you remember to whom you are speaking!"

"To whom
am
I speaking?" he demanded.

She didn't understand him. "Wh-what?"

"Miss Lockhart." He shook her, but he kept her so close against him that the punishment was nothing more than discomfort. "Miss Liar!"

Her stomach twisted.

He slid one arm around her waist, then with his other hand he wiped at her cheek and showed her his fingers. "Look at that, Miss Lockhart. Your disguise is all washed away."

"My lord?" Drenched, confused, distressed, Timothy stopped before the open front door and gaped.

Leaping right into a puddle, Kerrich placed the step himself, reached inside, grabbed Pamela's wrist and dragged her out into the gusting rain. The drops splashed against her face, and she wanted to hug herself against the cold, but he hauled her along as if he were a stevedore and she some kind of cargo.

Such handling did not endear him to her. Fiercely, she tugged backward. "What about Beth?"

Beth's voice chimed, "I'm here."

"She's right behind us." Kerrich whipped his head around and glared at Pamela.
"She
can have the umbrella. It's not as if
she
did anything wrong."

Snatching an umbrella from inside, Timothy hurried to lift the cover over Beth as she climbed the stairs.

Kerrich kept his hand around Pamela's wrist as he pushed inside without ceremony. "I suppose you knew about this, too, Moulton."

"My lord? Knew about…" Moulton caught a glimpse of Pamela and his chin dropped. The most articulate sound he seemed capable of was a long, exhaled, "Ohh."

Candles flickered everywhere in the foyer: tall tapers, fat columns, all wax and all burning brightly, and when Kerrich looked back at Pamela he stopped short. She barely avoided sliding into him, and as incensed as he was, she suspected that kind of contact might be hazardous. She thought that if he had to wrap his arm around her to steady her, he might hold her too tight and all the precarious hostility between them would shatter into… well, she didn't know what it would shatter into, but something quite unpleasant. Like his kisses.

He stared at her, examining her bare face. "You can look like this…" His voice trailed off as if fury had made him incoherent.

"I doubt, my lord, that I sport any beauty now."

He loomed over her, a dark, scowling presence. "Compared to what you were before…"

She should have been worried. Instead she was antagonistic. Without hesitation, she told him so. "This whole affair is your fault, not mine."

Moulton's breath hissed between his teeth.

Kerrich did not stir. "You dare."

She drew herself up and gave him her severest Miss Lockhart scowl—only to find it no longer worked.

Impervious, he commanded, "Beth, go upstairs and find your nursemaid, what's-her-name."

"Corliss," Pamela said.

"Yes, sir." Beth curtsied.

Pamela glanced back in time to see the child skipping up the stairs, apparently not a bit perturbed at having her governess hauled off by a hostile lord. "Change out of your wet clothing at once or you will catch pneumonia," she called.

Beth waved and smiled.

Pamela was starting to find Beth's invincible good cheer suspect.

Kerrich towed Pamela toward his study, and she doubted any force in nature could have stopped him.

His grandfather stopped him.

Lord Reynard came out of the study, leaning on his cane, and in one glance took in the situation. "My, my, aren't we looking well, children." Holding out his arms to Pamela, he said, "You are as charming as I remember."

"Thank you," she said faintly.
How long had Lord Reynard known
?

Kerrich's head snapped around. "Where did you meet?"

"At one of my visits to Kensington Palace, son."

"Really?" Kerrich stared at her as if trying to place her.

No, please don't remember that.

Lord Reynard patted her back. "Go on in there and let my grandson yell at you. Don't put up with too much from him, now."

Spying an escape, she said, "I should go and change first."

Kerrich snatched at her and although she backed up, he caught her by the wrist again. "No," he said.

Lord Reynard smiled fondly. "That's right, boy. Hang on to her." And he hobbled off.

Kerrich shoved her over the study's threshold and snapped, "Get out."

For one marvelous moment, Pamela thought he spoke to her. Then she heard the squeak of a chair and saw Lewis, pen poised over the papers spread out on Kerrich's desk,
gaze
shocked and disbelieving. "Devon," he asked, "who is this lady?"

"Who do you think she is?" Kerrich demanded.

"She looks like… she appears to be…"

"For God's sake, man, just say it. It's Miss Lockhart!"

"Oh, my." Lewis rose, shoving the chair back so hard it struck the wall. "Oh, my."

"Yes, my boy orphan is a girl and my ugly old lady governess is a young belle. It seems everyone is a perjurer." Kerrich gestured widely toward Lewis. "Do
you
have a secret you would like to confess? I'm in the mood to be lenient with you. Miss Lockhart is the one who will feel my wrath."

Gathering his papers, Lewis stacked them and mumbled, "I'm leaving. I'll work elsewhere." He sidled around the desk. "I'll… um…" He gazed at Pamela as if he pitied her. "Best of luck, Miss Lockhart."

As he scurried out the door, Kerrich muttered, "Damned fool." Then he kicked the door shut.

Tugging on her captured wrist, she whirled to face him. "We are not circus performers, my lord. We are rational human beings and there is no reason to make a scene such as you have just made."

"No reason?" With his hands on both her shoulders, he propelled her forward to view herself in one of the wall mirrors. Seizing a candelabra from the table placed before her, he held the half-dozen flickering candles so close to her face, each hollow and ridge was revealed. "Look at yourself and risk telling me there is no reason."

Although some of the rouge remained in rosy spots on her cheekbones, most of the powder had washed away. Half of her hair hung loose and dangled onto her sodden shoulder. Her appearance was one of a young woman in distress—but it was that of a
young
woman.

He stared with renewed consternation, his brown eyes radiant with rage, his eyebrows a slashing statement of displeasure, his hair so wet and black it glistened with an almost purple sheen. "This is unbelievable," he said. Then, in a shout, "Moulton!" He headed toward the portal. "Moulton!"

The door opened almost in his face. "Sir?" Moulton still sounded confounded—and gleeful.

"Get me a basin with warm water. Soap. A cloth. A towel."

Moulton bowed. "At once, my lord."

"I have never seen him move so quickly." Pamela leaned against the table before her and examined her face.

"I doubt he's ever been as curious." Kerrich stared out into the foyer as if the answers were written there. "What maggot got into your brain to embark on such a ploy?"

"It's your fault," she repeated. "Do you think I would have done this if you hadn't demanded it?"

With scrupulous forbearance, he faced her. "I demanded it?
I
demanded you wear clothes like… that?
I
demanded you put knitting needles in your hair?
I
demanded you paint yourself white and red like some Oriental bowl?" His lips curled as he gestured toward her. "Do you even knit?"

Clutching the edge of the table, she met his gaze in the mirror and mocked his deep, clipped voice. "Oh, Miss Setterington, I want an
older
woman, an
ugly
woman, one who has given up
all
hope of a match. Miss Setterington, I'll give you
so much
money if you can just get me a woman who is indifferent to my
spectacular
beauty. I'm so
tired
of women
fawning
on me." She sneered right back at him. "And yes, I knit!"

"Virago!"

Moulton appeared in the doorway in time to hear Kerrich's insult and was arrested, foot in the air.

Kerrich took the basin and clothes. "Good. Now get me some blankets and a dressing robe. Two dressing robes."

"My lord?" Moulton's eyes bulged.

"Robes. Get them." Kerrich stepped back and slammed the door with his foot.

Pamela watched him stalk toward her. She was already too familiar with that long stride, that smooth pursuit of information, evidence… confession. He would never admit he was at fault. More than that, he would never even think he could
be
at fault. A resourceful woman would try to appease him.

She said, "I have done nothing more than be what you demanded. I can't help it if you're a conceited rogue."

Placing the basin on the table, he wet the cloth and wrung it out. For the first time, she realized what he intended. She tried to take the wet cloth from him, but he brushed her hands aside and moved so close to her, the table pressed against her thighs behind and he pressed against her thighs before. The wet gown and petticoats were not enough to shield her from his proximity, and she tried to evade him. But he got a grip on her chin and wiped at her face as if she were one of her own charges. Her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her mouth—she could have struggled, but she suspected he would subdue her by any means necessary. That he would enjoy subduing her.

He unpinned her collar and tossed it aside, then washed her neck. Her skin tingled, although whether from chagrin or the scrubbing she'd received, she could not tell. Gripping his wrists, she said, "This is unnecessary."

Stepping back, he looked at her. "I would say it was most necessary." His voice slid down an octave. "Well, look at you."

He was looking at her, and she recognized his expression. She'd seen it in other men; she'd seen it in him. Gaze caressing, nostrils flared, lower lip thrust out as if contemplating a kiss.

"I am wet and I am muddy," she snapped. "My feet ache with cold and my hair is dripping. I am not the kind of woman to attract a connoisseur such as yourself."

He leaned forward and down so his face was just in front of hers and his breath brushed her skin. "It is good, Miss Lockhart, that you occasionally remind me of your teaching background."

She leaned as far back as she could. "What do you mean?"

"You have just informed me of my feelings." His eyelids drooped; he watched her lips. "Thank God, otherwise I might have mistaken this sensation for desire."

"No." Alarmed, she slid sideways and away. "No, it's not."

He didn't chase her, as she half-expected. But then, she was in his richly appointed library in his well-guarded house. He didn't
have
to chase her.

They stood in silence, staring at each other. Him, because he seemed to glean gratification from looking at her. Her, because she dared not take her gaze off him.

When someone rapped on the door, she jumped and gasped.

"It's Moulton," Kerrich said carelessly. He walked toward the door, not coming close to her.

She moved back anyway.

"He's brought the blankets and robes." This time he opened the door only a crack, not allowing Moulton even a glimpse of her, gathered the armload of wool and velvet, and again slammed the door with his foot.

Robes. Two dressing robes. She'd heard him demand them, but the injustice of this ill-timed discovery so overwhelmed her she hadn't realized why he wanted them. She still didn't understand why he wanted them. And she wouldn't do what he wanted, anyway.

"Here." He threw her a blanket and a rich dark green robe. "Go behind that screen. Strip down and dry yourself."

"I will not."

"You will or you'll catch pneumonia." He grinned at her as if he had the gall to be enjoying himself. "That's what you told Beth."

Then the grin disappeared and she realized he might be enjoying himself, but a tempest raged beneath the surface.

"Do as you're told or I'll do it for you."

This was worse than she realized. It
was
his house. She could scream till her throat was raw and no one would come to her rescue. And maybe she was being dramatic, but… there wasn't a male servant in this house who would blame him if he strangled her, much less stripped her naked. Men stuck together. She'd had proof enough of that in her life. "I won't be alone with you with nothing on but a robe."

He reached out for the bundle of cloth in her arms. "Then I'll keep the robe."

She had the good sense to step away. "You are behaving like a swine."

"I am behaving like a man who's been made a fool of." He gestured toward the door. "The servants are in the kitchen chortling right now. Lewis must be hugging himself to see me so humiliated. And my grandfather knew, didn't he?"

"No!"

"Yes! He's been making discreet hints about your age and beauty ever since he arrived."

"If that's true, it's not because of anything I said."

"It's because he knew. He recalled you. Who else recalls you?"

"Not you, obviously."

He sprang to attention, "We've met?"

She cursed her impetuous tongue. Recalling that occasion would be, at this moment, the height of folly. "If we have, it meant as little to me as it did to you. Besides, you don't care what anyone thinks. Remember?" Again she lowered her voice. " 'A man who is ruled by the beliefs of the ignorant is a shadow of a man. In fact, one might call such a man a woman.' " She chuckled in odious imitation of an odious man.