The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (17 page)

In his sleep, his face relaxed from its usual lazy, mocking mien, he looked somewhat younger. His lashes were long and dark, resting against high, aristocratic cheek bones, and his nose was slim and elegant. His mobile mouth was relaxed and she blushed when she remembered how soft it had felt against the skin of her hand. Shaking herself from her reverie, she hastily looked away as soon as he stirred, as if he were about to wake up.

Jasper could feel her tentative gaze warm on his face. He knew she was taking advantage of his apparent slumber to look at him, and he let her continue for a while, before making as if he were about to wake. His own eyes opened just slightly, and he regarded her delicate profile. It was composed, as if she were completely entranced by the story, but her slightly ragged breathing and the pink spots on her cheeks betrayed her.

He felt a rush of tenderness come flooding as he noticed that Charlotte was beginning to fall asleep, her head cushioned on Araminta’s lap in childlike trust. He felt a strange constriction in his throat, and his heart seemed to twist at the sight of Araminta’s delicate, pale hand stroking Charlotte’s hair with the tenderness of a woman naturally inclined to motherhood. For a moment, the image of Araminta as a mother stole into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. He pictured her sitting by the hearth at his own estate, a babe in arms and another playing merrily nearby. A boy perhaps, and a girl to keep Charlotte company. Her children.
His children.
He imagined that she would be a patient mother, strict and indulgent in turns. The image twisted his heart further and he had to push it forcefully away. It was a cruel vision of a world that could never be. He had no desire to marry. He
would
not marry. And when had he even started to think of marriage? He had meant only to seduce Araminta Barrington. To have a taste of whatever it was about her that kept drawing him to her against his better judgement, to unravel her mysteries, and understand the determination that he had seen in her that first night at the Snowe ball.

Still feigning sleep, he watched Araminta as the story wound to a close.

At last, the story was finished, and Charlotte, full of sandwiches and cake and warm tea, was asleep on Araminta’s lap.

“Gracious, Miss Barrington, you’ve sat like that the entire time!” exclaimed Kingston softly so as not to wake Charlotte.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself, Mrs Kingston. It’s nothing. She’s a sweet child and I don’t mind.”

“That’s good of you, Miss. The poor child is quite exhausted. I imagine all the excitement’s finally caught up with her.”

“Then perhaps it is time we began heading back,” Chestleton’s cultured voice cut in, as he carefully rose to his feet. Araminta’s eyes darted to his face and quickly away as she wondered how long he had been awake.

Jasper came near her and stretched out his arms, as Kingston called for the servants to pick up the picnic and follow them. Araminta carefully moved the child into Chestleton’s strong arms, trying to ignore the strange intimacy of the moment.

“Kingston, will you stay and direct efforts? I think we had better go ahead. Come, Miss Barrington.” Holding Charlotte in one arm, he extended a hand to Araminta, but she waved him off merrily, motioning to the sleeping child, and rose from the blanket. Charlotte mumbled something in her sleep and snuggled closer to the marquis, gripping the fabric of his coat in one little fist.

They made their way towards one of the waiting chaises in silence, and Araminta found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the tender way Chestleton placed the sleeping girl inside the vehicle before helping her up.

She thanked him warmly, the light in her eyes matching her tone.

One of the grooms came up to drive the vehicle, and they were on their way.

Back at the manor house, Araminta found herself standing face to face with Chestleton, who still held Charlotte.

“Thank you for the picnic, Lord Chestleton. I’ve had a wonderful time.” His name on her lips sounded to him like a tender endearment, and he wondered how he had fallen so far as to feel gratified by it.

He nodded at her, giving her a rare, unnuanced smile. “I am happy to hear that, my rose. Perhaps you will join me in the library once you are refreshed. I would feel very honoured if we could read together,” he said, against all instinct and his better judgment.

Her eyes were deep and unreadable, and her smile spoke volumes. “I would like that.” With those simple words and a curtsey, she was gone into the house, and he watched her leave for a few heartbeats, before following her and taking Charlotte up to her room, where a servant waited to put her to bed.

Something had changed. Unimaginably, irrevocably, changed. Araminta was as aware of this as she was aware of the fact that the sky was blue. She knew it as surely as the flower knows the warm rays of the morning sun, even though it cannot see it.

As she untied the green ribbons of her hat and pinned up the rogue tendrils of hair that had escaped her attempts at keeping them bound, she could not help the feeling of warmth that had taken residence in her stomach, the butterflies that seemed to be flitting around inside her.

Araminta changed her dress for a more demure gown appropriate for wear in the house, and felt a momentary flash of glee at the memory of the effect her picnic dress had had on the usually unreadable lord. She had not missed the way his eyes clung to the curves hinted at by the delicate muslin, the way they seemed to caress every inch of flesh that the dress revealed. Araminta tried to hide her embarrassment at such risqué thoughts, in case Lucy, who had come to help her dress and was enquiring about the picnic, should guess at the direction her thoughts had taken.

Araminta knew she should be careful. She had always been a sensible girl, and she could hardly fail to understand the meaning of the marquis’s own warning at the picnic. She had not forgotten her family’s dire straits, or the sweet, devoted, Sir Timothy Stanton, who had been so very attentive to her. Duty hung over her happiness like a funereal shroud over wedding flowers. No, she could not afford to lose herself in a childish game of romance. She knew what she had to do.

And yet, for the first time since the loss of her beloved father, she felt joy, irrational and unreasonable, but so overwhelming that she knew she could not obey the cool, logical part of herself that sought to urge her onto the path her life must take. Urge her away from the handsome marquis. Araminta thought of Chestleton’s face, so peaceful in respite, and she thought of the way he had looked at her when he had asked her to join him in his library. His look had not been the expected one of wicked temptation or carnal desire, although that dark promise was never far from his conversation or his features. There had been something else there, a riddle she had not been able to solve, something greater and stronger, altogether more lasting, but also something desperately restrained, as if he were afraid of letting it loose. Afraid of what might happen. There was promise in him yet, she was sure, if only someone were to take a chance and believe in him, when he did not believe in himself.

There was much more to Jasper, Lord Chestleton, than the decadent rogue he appeared to be at first glance.

Araminta was sure that, however long she lived, she would never forget the look in those steel grey eyes. Perhaps the sensible thing would be to run while she still had any chance of escaping with her heart intact… But when she thought of those eyes, Araminta knew that that time had long since past.

She knew that the real world would intrude eventually, that the cruel demands of reality would once more assert themselves, but she had been seized by a reckless abandon, and she found that she could not care. Sir Timothy and London, and even her duty, were all part of some other world that she had left behind the instant the marquis had swept her up in his arms. For now, just for this perfect moment of blissful insanity, she would allow herself to live in a world she had never imagined possible.

Araminta wasted no time in descending the stairs again, her mind full of wild, impossible fantasies. Her small hand had just alighted upon the ancient brass door handle of the library, when the poignant sound of a piano made her pause. She drew back, listening, attempting to locate the source of the sound. Every note played seemed to pluck at her heartstrings. Who could be playing such a soul-rending melody? Tears came unexpectedly to her blue eyes as she was overwhelmed by the deep-rooted despair that the musician had to be feeling to produce such a sound. She had to know who was playing so beautifully, but with such infinite sadness. Moving quietly, she followed the sound until she was so near that the music seemed to resonate in her very bones.

Araminta took care to tread lightly, glad that her soft slippers of embroidered velvet made no sound upon the ancient oak flooring. She was careful to avoid creaky floorboards as she inched closer to the music room, even though she could not possibly been heard over the ringing notes of the piano. She felt furtive, as though she were intruding on something intimate.

She had almost reached the door of the music room, which stood ajar, when a maid came out of a door on her right, which led to the blue morning room. The girl shut the door gently, and turned around to find Araminta hesitating in the hallway. The maid looked surprised, and Araminta felt a blush creep into her cheeks, feeling as if she were somehow trespassing somewhere where she had no right to be. She chastised herself for her silliness. She was no trespasser: she was a guest in the house. And, after all, it was only a bit of music, and she had every right to hear it and to compliment the player on their skill.

“Good afternoon, Miss.”

Giving the young maid a polite nod in return to her curtsey, and trying to look as if she needed no permission to be there, she strode over to the door. With a confidence she decidedly did not feel, Araminta opened the door and strode through, leaving it ajar behind her.

The sight that greeted her eyes surprised her, and made the feelings of sadness and compassion that had been assailing her since she first heard the strange piece even more intense.

Lord Chestleton was seated at Lady Dillwood’s grand piano, looking out of the tall, French windows at the lawn, which had begun to darken with the first shadows of dusk. His fingers danced over the keys but his thoughts seemed to be far away. There was no music open before him, and Araminta assumed that he was playing from memory. Or perhaps, and the thought seemed to fill her with tenderness, this was even a piece of his own composition. She had never heard its like before, nor seen a pianist exhibit such searing passion, as though plumbing the very depths of his soul for a melancholy that no words could ever hope to express.

She only had a profile view of him, and Araminta dared neither to move closer nor leave as she took in the transported expression on his aristocratically handsome face. He might have appeared to be looking out into the carefully tended garden, but he was seeing something else entirely, lost in some private memory which she had no business being party to. Suddenly, she wished she was not there to see it, that she had not succumbed to her curiosity and followed the music. She felt like a voyeur, watching his shoulders rise and fall, his body sway slightly with the haunting melody, the crashing rhythm of the chords. She wished very much that she was safely in the library, minding her own business, ignorant of the scene that was now before her. She wanted to flee, but she dared not move for fear of alerting him to her presence.

Araminta stood for what felt like an eternity, watching the enigmatic marquis pour out his soul into the cold ivory keys of the piano. Of their own accord, her eyes were drawn down to his long slender fingers, almost as pale as the ivory keys themselves. She watched, as if hypnotised, as they danced and flitted over the keys, with an expert ease that seemed almost unbelievable, as though the marquis was, in that instant, more spirit than man. Araminta’s own skill at the instrument was only passably good, enough to have satisfied her tutors and her father’s expectations, but she had never advanced beyond that. Now she understood why. As she watched Chestleton, she knew that she had always lacked the passion to make the instrument sing so, to lament and seduce the soul.

The piano was an extension of the man, a vessel for the emotions that burned and smouldered within him. Before she realised it, Araminta found herself wondering what it would be like to be the receptacle of all that passion, all that burning need, to smooth away that unspeakable despair. She pictured his pale fingers dancing upon her skin as they danced upon the keys, so expert and confident, compelling and strong — drawing ardour from her with every confident touch.

Araminta was just wondering how long he meant to continue, and how long she could stand to listen, when the music suddenly resolved in a sustained chord that rang all around them, seemingly echoing not only off the walls of the music room, but also off the walls of her heart.

In the sudden, ringing silence which followed, she hardly dared breathe, as if even the slightest inhalation would draw his eyes to her. No longer held captive by the magic of the music, Araminta’s veins seemed to flow with ice. She should not be here. As quietly as she could, she began to move towards the door, but it was too late. Suddenly, his head turned and his eyes flew to hers, freezing her in place. For a moment it was as if he did not recognise her, but then, in a terrible instant, his eyes bored deeply into hers, and she was lost.

It was as if for that moment there were no barriers between them, as if a higher connection existed between their two hearts. The last chord surrounded them, locking them in a private world of their own. As his eyes locked on hers she read in them all the emotions she had felt echoing in the music, and she was sure he was able to read exactly what she had been thinking, as if he could see into the very depths of her heart. As if no secret would remain her own.

Involuntarily she took a step back, and just as suddenly he was on his feet, crossing the room in only a few brisk strides.