The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (13 page)

The two women were just at the edge of the rose garden, when they heard voices coming from within. Araminta turned to look at Mrs Becker in surprise, because one of the voices was that of a child, a little girl, evidently being berated by an older woman. Mrs Becker ushered Araminta through the gate, and she stared at the sight that met her eyes.

“Now, Charlotte, that is quite enough. What has come over you?” a middle aged woman was saying to a little brown-haired girl of no more than ten years old. The girl was holding Jasper Devereaux’s hand, and she seemed to be staring up pleadingly at Araminta. It was the expression on Chestleton’s face more than anything else in the strange tableau that seemed to capture Araminta’s breath.

She had seen him mocking, seductive and aloof, but she had never seen such a softness about his eyes and mouth as he wore in that moment. He looked younger, she realised, and not at all like the ruthless nobleman his reputation painted him to be. It clashed with every conclusion she had drawn regarding his character. Could a man with his reputation for ruthlessness and debauchery ever look so doting and tender? She could not reconcile the stranger in the rose garden with the man who had threatened her with blackmail at the Huston ball.

He seemed to sense her presence and his eyes shot up to hers. She read surprise on his face for an instant, before his eyes closed to her and the familiar mocking expression descend.

“Oh, please, can I not stay a little bit longer? It is so pretty here, and my lessons are so dreadfully dull,” the little girl was saying, to the obvious displeasure of the older woman, whom Araminta took to be her governess. The child followed Chestleton’s gaze, however, and the roses were forgotten as she noticed the startled young woman accompanied by Mrs Becker.

Araminta’s mind raced as she tried to determine who the child could be. Could she be Chestleton’s? But if so, why had she never heard that he had a little daughter? And where was the child’s mother? Chestleton was unmarried and she would have known if he were a widower. Looking from the child to the marquis she tried to spot some resemblance.

“My Lord, Miss Barrington is here. Good morning, Mrs Kingston, Charlotte.”

“Lord Chestleton.” Minta curtsied politely and he replied with an elegant bow, and returned Mrs Becker’s greeting.

“Ah, Miss Barrington, I see you decided to accept my invitation to see your horse. Allow me to present Mrs Kingston. And this young lady is called Charlotte.”

Araminta smiled at the girl and the governess, nodding as they curtsied. The girl looked at her curiously. A gust of wind ruffled her curly hair, held back from her face with ribbons. There was no obvious resemblance yet something about the child reminded Araminta of the tall man across the garden.

“You are the injured lady who fell off her horse,” Charlotte observed, despite Mrs Kingston’s attempts to hush her.

Meeting Chestleton’s eyes for a fraction of a second, Araminta approached the child, smiling warmly. “Why yes, I am. His lordship rescued me, you know. It was very brave of him.”

Charlotte seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding. “Yes, it was. I do not like going out when it storms. It is so very loud. It frightens me, though I try to be brave.”

“I am sure that it frightened his lordship also, when he was a boy,” the young lady replied gently.

“Hmm. Unlike you, Miss Barrington — I’m sure you were as impetuous then as you are now,” Jasper observed.

Araminta looked unruffled as she replied, “A right terror. I am told that I drove my poor nurse and governess quite to distraction.”

“That, I can well believe. Now, Charlotte, it is time you return to the schoolroom. Mrs Kingston.”

With a nod, the governess led the little girl away, and Araminta was startled to realise that Mrs Becker had also gone, leaving them alone in the garden, though she had been sure that the housekeeper would stay.

“I am told that Mrs Becker has some domestic emergency to attend to,” the marquis said, appearing to read her mind. “She will return as soon as she can, no doubt. I guarantee that your virtue is safe until then, my dear. Shall we?” He extended an elbow to her and Araminta found herself accepting, despite her better judgement. She knew it would be prudent to insist on waiting for the housekeeper, or return to the house to avoid any semblance of impropriety, but she did not. Despite her very real fears for her reputation, she was drawn to Chestleton like a moth to a flame. She knew that he was just as dangerous as ever, and yet something in the expression on his face as he had looked at the child had softened her mental image of him. It intrigued her.

She noticed that when he walked it was with a predatory grace, the way she imagined tigers to move, poised and dangerous. She could feel the strength in his arm, through the sleeve of his coat and her own kidskin gloves.

“I must say, Miss Barrington, your horse is a magnificent animal. Very powerful.”

Araminta’s lips curled up. “Thank you.”

“He is also a most unusual choice for a lady’s horse.”

“He was meant to be my brother’s. Poor Charles had no chance, really — I pleaded until he surrendered Nightstar to me. My father was quite against it at first, but I am a skilled rider, and he could not argue the fact.”

Araminta’s mind was still on the little girl, Charlotte, as they walked towards the stables, and Chestleton did not seem inclined to talk, and so they walked in what was an unexpectedly comfortable silence. Araminta was surprised by this. She felt sure that her imagination must be getting the better of her.

She wondered who Charlotte was, for she was certainly
some
relation of Jasper Devereaux. A sister perhaps, or a cousin. She knew nearly nothing of the marquis’s family, and so could not even begin to make an educated guess. Perhaps, she thought reluctantly, though the thought nearly made her blush at the impropriety of it, the girl
was
his own daughter. She had heard whispered stories of unmarried men secreting away illegitimate children, the offspring of mistresses, often from the Continent. Chestleton certainly had the sort of reputation which would appear to validate this. Araminta was desperately curious, but there was no acceptable way of subtly phrasing the question, and it would certainly never do to ask him outright.

Most of all, her thoughts kept returning to the strange tenderness that had overcome his sharp face when he had been speaking to the little girl.

“You are very introspective this morning, Miss Barrington,” he said at last, breaking the silence.

Araminta looked surprised and abashed before replying, as if she had been caught doing something she had was not supposed to have been doing. “Oh, no, my lord. It is nothing. I am merely lost in my memories of the house.” She felt sure that the faint flush in her cheeks would betray her, but Chestleton accepted the lie without question.

“You spent a lot of time here?”

“As a child. The Joscelins are friends of my family, and so Miss Joscelin and I grew to be quite close. We were at school together a short while.”

“Yes, I recall your brother mentioning something about a school,” Chestleton said, carefully watching her face.

***

The marquis had been expecting Araminta to ask about Charlotte. He was sure that she had to be curious — all young ladies were. He was surprised when she brought up her brother instead, despite the fact that the subject obviously pained her. Chestleton was once again aware of the curious protectiveness he often seemed to feel around Miss Barrington.

A strange expression of sadness seemed to overcome the young woman at his mention of school, and, catching it, Chestleton felt quite taken aback. Some instinct told him that there was more to the sadness than just the loss of a beloved sibling. Once more he felt as though he did not understand Miss Barrington at all, and this certainly threw him, for he had always been very good at reading women and their intentions.

“Yes. I quite hated it there, you know. I was so dreadfully homesick. Charles knew. He always wrote me, and whenever he could, he would sneak away from Oxford to come down to the school and visit me. He would even sneak in treats, books and candies, to make my days there a little easier.” Her voice was gentle, and far away, as if she were recalling memories to which Jasper was not privy. He tried to reconcile this picture of a doting brother with the his own memory of the late viscount, a cheerful fellow who had always been good company at the club, and who had often joined him in causing havoc on the Grand Tour when they had been boys.

“I am sure he was the best of brothers, Miss Barrington,” he replied with surprising gentleness. Chestleton glanced down at her little gloved hand where she held on to his elbow, and suddenly felt an inexplicable tenderness for the young woman. “He was certainly a worthy friend. Did he ever tell you of the time he stole the Dean’s finest barouche at the university, to take a wild ride about town?”

This seemed to startle Araminta out of her melancholy, and she looked up at him with bright eyes. For a moment, he feared he had caused her offence, but then she chuckled softly. “He did not. That is so very like him. And was the Dean very angry? Oh, I don’t suppose that he was. No one could stay angry with Charles.”

“No, indeed.”

They were silent for a moment longer. “Thank you, Lord Chestleton,” Araminta said softly. “It is a comfort to remember Charles like that.”

Chestleton tried not to think about the strange warmth that enveloped his heart at the sound of her soft chuckle. It was as if, for a moment, her amusement made him feel young and innocent too, erasing years of jaded bitterness. If a chuckle could make him feel like that, he wondered what it would be like to hear her laugh properly and unreservedly. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to be the only person able to bring such a beautiful sparkle to her eyes. These were dangerous thoughts, he reminded himself. She affected him more and more every day. He knew that he could not let it continue. He would have to increase his methodical seduction, if only to get her out of his head.

The stables at Dillwood Park were a roomy outbuilding, and the stalls were a comfortable size for the horses. A pile of dry hay lay on the far side of the stone and wood building, and there was a hayloft which could only have been reached by a rickety-looking ladder. Araminta couldn’t help smiling as they entered the stables. She had always loved horses and she would often sneak out to the Fanshawe stables as a child to visit them. Just being here lifted her spirits.

A young man was busy in the stall nearest the door, brushing a large, dappled stallion. He glanced up from his work at their approach then bowed courteously upon recognising Lord Chestleton.

“My lord. I am just about finished with Dante,” he said, patting the horse, and stepping away to hang the horse brush on one of the hooks near the stall. Then he stopped, as he noticed Araminta.

“Miss Barrington!” the young man exclaimed. “What a surprise to see you. You appear to have recovered from your fall. We were all very worried.”

Araminta’s face lit up in a friendly smile as she regarded the young man. “Why, hello, Robert. Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say. It has been a long time. I trust that you are well?”

Jasper felt an unexpected stab of anger when he saw the way Araminta smiled at the groom. “If that is all, Robert, perhaps you have other duties to attend to,” he said with a hint of gruffness in his voice, which earned a look of surprise from Araminta.

“Ah, yes milord. If you will excuse me, Miss Barrington.” He nodded to her, and quickly retreated, not wishing to risk his master’s volatile temper.

“Well, that was rather abrupt of you, Lord Chestleton,” said Araminta primly, once the stable groom had gone. She was acutely aware of the unsuitability of their current location, and her feeling of discomfort was only intensified by the knowledge that Chestleton could hardly have failed to be aware of the same thing. She tried to focus on anything but the warm piles of hay nearby. Chestleton seemed to catch her nervous glances, because he chuckled at her.

“You may relax, my dear. Whatever my reputation may have led you to believe, I certainly have no intention of ravishing you in the hayloft. It would be very gauche of me.” His voice dropped lower and his eyes seemed to glint in the dim light of the stables, “I am no stable boy. I assure you, I am capable of setting a better scene for seduction than
that
.” He stepped close behind her as he spoke, and his warm breath ghosted over her ear, sending involuntary shivers down her spine, and making her own breath catch in her throat. His hand had begun to draw slow circles over her lower back and Araminta had to fight off the sudden urge to lean back into his touch.

His touch was like an unspoken promise, a whisper of silk sheets and forbidden passions, warm lips travelling over trembling skin, and sensations Araminta could not begin to name or fully imagine. So lost in this forbidden fantasy was she that it took several moments for his words to register. Horrified, Araminta leaped away as though she had been burned.

“Stable boy?” she cried, the haziness of desire fading from her eyes to be replaced by an entirely different kind of fire. “How dare you! I assure you, Lord Chestleton, that I am not the sort of woman who would dally with stable boys. Or, for that matter, with their masters.”

He stepped away to lean insolently against the dappled stallion’s stall, arms folded carelessly across his chest. “Really? Then I wonder at the friendliness with which you greeted my groomsman.”

Araminta fought down a desire to slap him, refusing to lower herself to his level of impropriety. He might not be much of a gentleman, but she was determined that she would behave like a lady. “
Robert
is in Lord Dillwood’s employ, and has been for a number of years. He is a good man, and
he
would never compromise a lady’s virtue. His
wife
, Lucy, is one of the maids up at the house, and attends Miss Joscelin whenever she is in residence.”

Her vehemence sent a look of surprise across his face — Chestleton found that he was impressed despite himself. She was magnificent in her fury. For a second, she was like an avenging goddess, with all the fury of a lighting storm, beautiful, dangerous and untameable. Jasper found himself lost for words as he watched her eyes flash ferociously up at him.