The Darkest Sin (20 page)
Authors: Caroline Richards
Chapter 14
T
he first night at Alcestor Court, Rowena slept fitfully, desperately missing the warmth and security of Rushford beside her. They had arrived late Friday evening, and their host, Baron Sebastian, had not made an appearance to welcome them to his country residence but rather preferred that his butler show his guests to their appointed bedchambers. Rowena and Rushford had been placed at opposite ends of a long hallway, in the tradition of country house weekends, where couples were encouraged to play elaborate games of sexual
rondeau
.
he first night at Alcestor Court, Rowena slept fitfully, desperately missing the warmth and security of Rushford beside her. They had arrived late Friday evening, and their host, Baron Sebastian, had not made an appearance to welcome them to his country residence but rather preferred that his butler show his guests to their appointed bedchambers. Rowena and Rushford had been placed at opposite ends of a long hallway, in the tradition of country house weekends, where couples were encouraged to play elaborate games of sexual
rondeau
.
The Baron had clearly attended to the disposition of the bedrooms, having each guest's name written neatly on a card and slipped into a tiny brass frame on the bedroom door so male guests would not blunder into the wrong rooms. Or so Rowena had guessed, insisting to Rushford that they sleep alone in their appointed bedchambers, so as to fit seamlessly into the weekend's baroque choreography.
“Lock your door. And keep the key in the lock,” Rushford had growled, reluctant to let her out of his sight. But Rowena had pushed him away, needing some time to regain her equilibrium after having spent three scorching days in Rushford's bed. She wished to clear her head and her heart, to focus on the matter that was her only concern. Faron.
She awoke before the maid brought the tea tray. Springing from the bed, she flung open the curtains and looked out on a perfect early-spring morning with a pale sun already sparkling on the green expanse of lawn beneath her window. She turned away from the window as the maid knocked and entered with her tea. She shivered in her thin nightgown, gossamer threads held together with satin ribbons and delicate lace.
“Shall I lay out your riding habit, madam?” The maid straightened from arranging the tray, and Rowena recalled the butler's announcement the previous evening that the day would begin with a hunt.
“Please do.” Rowena poured her tea in a rich aromatic stream from a silver pot, her pulse jumping at the thought of riding again. She blocked out images of Montfort and Dragon and instead observed the maid holding her new riding boots of cordovan leather up to the light, examining them for marks. The maid proceeded to bustle around with jugs of hot water, then laced Rowena into her new riding habit. Leaving her fair wig in the bottom of the armoire, she fitted a snug hat over her hair, a clutch of trembling feathers its sole decoration.
An hour later, with the maid leading the way, Rowena proceeded along a deserted hallway and entrance hall to the breakfast room, where a footman jumped to open the door. Momentarily startled, she found herself alone with Rushford.
“Good morning,” she greeted him with a casual smile and as if they had not recently spent days indulging in the heights of passion. There was a studied coolness in her tone, an affectation she had thought best to rehearse and adopt, at least in public, in an attempt to mimic Miss Barry's easy sophistication and
sang froid.
sang froid.
“I've been up since the early hours of the morning,” he said shortly, barely looking up from his place setting.
“Quite unlike you from what I've seen these past three days,” she said cheekily, lifting the lids of the chafing dishes on the sideboard. They were entirely alone aside from two footmen who studiously avoided looking at them. The guests were obviously still abed, and Rowena wondered how many would actually make it to the hunt.
Rushford's response was a grunt.
“You did not sleep well, I surmise, judging by your tone and lack of conversation.”
He looked up at her from his empty plate. “I think this is a mistake,” he said abruptly. Rowena knew exactly to what he referredâher presence at Alcestor Court.
“We agreed,” she said briefly, helping herself to a dish of eggs and a slice of toast. “There is nothing to discuss. We're here now. Together.” She sat down at the far end of the table, as far away from Rushford as possible.
“You can return to London. It's not too late.”
“I'm sorry, Lord Rushford.” She looked up in innocent inquiry. “I didn't quite catch that.”
“Your hearing is quite selective.”
“Enjoy your breakfast as I'm certain the hunt will be demanding. I quite look forward to it. It has been sometime since I've ridden,” she said with a serene smile. “And while you're about it, my lord, could you please pass the teapot?”
Rushford pushed back his chair with a deliberate scrape against the polished floor, picked up the heavy pot, and marched the length of the table, depositing it beside her tea cup. “At the very least, follow my lead,” he said, staring down at her. “And we are sleeping together in the same bedchamber this evening, twisted conventions be damned.”
Rowena tried to contain her physical response to his nearnessâand his proclamation. He was already in his riding attire, his stock snowy white against the hard planes of his face. He'd taken her breath away when she'd first seen him in the breakfast room, although she trusted she hadn't given him the satisfaction of seeing it. He was older. He was experiencedâthe hours spent in his bed were a testament to his finesse as a lover. And he had saved her life. All the more reason she needed to ensure she didn't lose her head over a man who held the fate of those she loved in his hands.
“I suppose,” she murmured, taking a bite of her toast, “that we should not appear too possessive. It's clearly not the thing. Particularly if we are meant to engage with the Baron.”
“Stay away from him.” The words were stark.
“Isn't that precisely the point? To spend time with the man?” She would not let Rushford know how the Frenchman's voice alone sent shudders down her spine.
“Only if you are at my side,” he amended unhelpfully, his eyes darkening.
“And leave everything to you, of course,” she said. She rose from the table so they were almost at eye level and she could lower her voice. “You have yet to share with me your strategy for finding your way to Faron, never mind your intentions regarding the Rosetta Stone. And I have a feeling that you intend it to stay that way.”
He placed his hands palms down on the table, his face bending toward hers. For a moment, she imagined that he would lower his lips to hers, but his expression was unforgiving. She blocked out a sudden urge to throw her arms around his neck and to kiss him deeply, to move her hands up through the thickness of his hair, to devour him and transport them back to Miss Warren's bedchamber in Knightsbridge. His next words stopped the madness and brought her back to reality with a decisive jolt.
“I promised to apprise you of whatever I discover about your family, Rowena. That is all. Anything more is entirely too dangerous.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “Just because we have shared a bed, Rushford, does not mean that anything at all has changed. I am not a child but a capable woman. You are not responsible for my well-being.”
“Then why did you approach me in the first place?”
“For your expertise at solving crimes. Nothing more.” She paused to straighten the dark emerald pin securing the white muslin cravat at her throat. Loathe to admit to him or to herself that there was more binding them together, she sat back down at the table. “You saved my life, and I'm grateful. Forever,” she said quietly. “But that does not in any way make you responsible for my safety in perpetuity.”
“Let me decide that,” he muttered darkly, turning on his heel and leaving the breakfast room.
Rowena Woolcott was correct in her assumptions, Rushford thought later, when the blasting horn of the hunt interrupted his dark ruminations. He saw her immediately when he stepped through the front door of the grand eighteenth-century Palladian country house, and stood looking down at the half dozen riders and dogs congregating on the circular gravel in front of the house. Rowena wore her hat with its feathers caressing her shoulders, auburn hair tucked away. She sat on a roan hunter, her skirts swept to the side. As if aware of his observation, she turned slightly and looked directly at him. He was too far away to see her expression clearly, but he could imagine the questions in her dark blue eyes, her lush mouth turned down in concern. For an instant, he thought that she was holding him with her gaze, robbing him of his will, this young woman who had so suddenly become a seductress. Then she broke the spell, curving from her waist to adjust a foot expertly in the stirrup. Each of her movements expressed the sinuous vitality of a woman in control of and at ease with her body. She looked at one with her horse; her face, as Rushford approached, glowed with suppressed excitement.
A groom brought Rushford a gray hunter, and he mounted swiftly, easing his horse to Rowena's side. Guiding her mount to the edge of the circular drive, she deliberately looked away and cast her neighbor a quick glance. A man with heavy muttonchops was laughing with the Baron at something he had said. Introductions had obviously been made.
“So you are an experienced rider, Miss Warren,” Sebastian chuckled, resplendent in a dark brown riding jacket with bronzed braiding.
“Guilty,” she said, her gloved hands resting comfortably on her mount's neck. “I've ridden all my life.”
“You were raised in the countryside, if I might inquire? Your accent seems to hold a shadow of the north country.”
“Well done, Baron,” Rowena responded calmly and as though she had nothing to hide. “And if you would permit me, I should say that your accent, slight though it may be, is distinctly Parisian.”
Sebastian bowed his head in assent. “It is indeed, Miss Warren. Although I am an anglophile and have spent many years in England and outside France. As well, my late great-uncle was an Englishman, and it is to him that I owe a debt of gratitude as he bequeathed me Alcestor Court upon his death.” The house loomed in the background, rising up from the parkland below. Classical in style, with a large portico and strong vertical lines on the exterior, it was built of pink sandstone and gray granite.
“Will Miss Barry be joining us?” Rushford heard Rowena ask.
Sebastian and the other guest, familiar to Rushford as Lord Braemore, laughed heartily. “Miss Barry won't see noon, I shouldn't think,” he said. “Besides which, she is not an equestrienne.”
“Hers is a sport of a different kind,” Sebastian added drily, gathering up his reins in his gloved hands. “This evening's diversions are more to her liking.” He turned to Rushford. “Good morning, my lord.”
Rushford nodded briefly, irritated by the Frenchman and his proximity to Rowena and even more so by the emotions she engendered. Lust and passion and protectivenessâthat was all, he had convinced himself. The last thing he wanted to do was understand her or know anything more about the workings of her soul, of her favorite pastimes, her politics, if she had any, her love of riding, or her fondness for poetry. He had thought, mistakenly, that taking her to his bed once more would banish such inclinations and reveal the origins of his responses for what they were, pure physical desire for a beautiful young woman who had appeared in his path at a difficult juncture in his life. Nothing more.
The huntsman blew for the start, and the dogs set off in a howling exuberant mass, the grooms encouraging them. The group of riders moved down the long drive. Rowena expertly positioned herself in the front, directly behind the hounds, as Rushford watched expectantly, not in the least surprised to discover that Rowena Woolcott was an aggressive and accomplished rider who was perfectly familiar with the sport. He drew alongside her mount, offering a brief nod of greeting.
“I realize I've already broken the first rule in daring to converse with the Baron without you,” she said without preamble but with a sideways glance and a hint of challenge. Clearly, the prospect of physical exertion agreed with her. The statement was delivered in dulcet tones above the baying of the hounds.
“And you will break many more before the weekend is done,” he said, and found himself smiling.
“I never promised to be biddable, except of course, for the benefit of Miss Barry,” she admitted with a smile of her own. “And for now, I'd like to forget about all this skullduggery and focus on the hunt, on the thrill of moving and galloping through the forest on this fine specimen.” She leaned forward to give her horse a firm pat.
“We can't let down our guard.”
“The first rule of skullduggery, I suppose,” she said, urging her horse into a trot and forcing Rushford to keep up.
“Remember, someone wants you dead.” His exclamation was low but nonetheless forceful. He did not want to add that she had been abducted when riding on the grounds of Montfort.
“But not right now,” she continued as if she hadn't heard him. “They know me as Miss Frances Warren. I think it's best not to have these conversations in public. Besides, I wish to have a little sport and some amusement for a change.”
As though he needed reminding how young she was. And how vulnerable.
“You know I'm correct, at least for the moment,” she said. “Nothing can happen when we're in this melee,” she added, gesturing with a gloved hand to the riders and hounds around them.
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