The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (18 page)

There was a wild look in his eyes, and Araminta’s knees suddenly went weak, so that she wondered if she was going to fall. His polished black hessians sounded loudly on the bare wooden floor, matching the pounding of her heart in her ears, so that she could not tell where one ended and the other began.

She wondered what he meant to do once he reached her. For a brief moment of madness, she wondered if he meant to ravish her right there on the music room floor, and she wondered if she had it in her to object. Surely no woman could ever be that strong.

In one breathless instant he was beside her, so close that they were inches away from touching, looking down into her beautiful, startled, pale face. She wondered if he would kiss her. She could feel heat radiating from his body. Silence hung between them, laden with a world of things that could not be spoken aloud. He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek, and then seemed to catch himself at the last moment.

They both knew that with just that one touch all would have been lost, though neither fully understood what it was the other stood to lose.

“Lord Chestleton… I’m sorry. I intruded. I didn’t mean —” she tried to explain haltingly, even as words failed her.

He regarded her for one tense second, no longer than a heartbeat, though to Araminta it felt as if no less than a decade had passed. A frisson of danger passed through her as she awaited his next move.

At last, he broke the tension.

“Come, Miss Barrington,” he said, his tone casual and polite, as though they were talking together at the Assemblies. Yet his voice brooked no argument, and she let him take her arm without protest in a firm, warm grip. She could feel the heat and strength of his fingers through the fabric of her sleeve.

They emerged into the deserted hallway, and Araminta was aware of the music room door shutting behind them with a soft click as the mysterious marquis steered her towards the library.

She desperately wanted to ask about the music, and yet she found that she could not. It was too intimate, too utterly personal to be cheapened by trivial questions. And how would she phrase such a question, even if she dared ask? Something told her that such an enquiry would be akin to playing with fire.

She did not think she could have spoken even if she’d wanted to.

***

The library had comfortable leather chairs and a warm fire, kept small in the summer, but still merrily crackling away against the chill that settled over the big, old manor house in the evenings.

They had come in without a word, and Chestleton had immediately selected a tome he had obviously already been in the process of reading, before settling in an armchair. Araminta, still in shock from their earlier encounter, wandered along the length of the nearest bookshelf, fingers running along the spines of the books, some new and others faded, with lettering she had to struggle to read. Of course, just then, Araminta struggled to read any of the titles at all, her mind wholly caught up in the memory of the scene in the music room. Forcing herself to concentrate, she at last selected
Cecilia,
of which she was very fond. She felt that she could relate to the eponymous heroine’s struggles to gain love and fortune. The familiarity of the beloved novel was a comfort to her.

Taking the book with her, Araminta moved to settle on a sofa which was a good distance from Lord Chestleton, feeling that distance was a prudent choice just then, when so much seemed to hang between them. She opened the book with great care and tried to force herself to pay attention. At first, she could not focus her mind on what she was reading, but at last the familiar words began to filter out her real-life concerns, and she was lost in the story.

They must have sat like that for over an hour, the library silent but for the faint rustle of pages. The door to the room was open for propriety, and also for reasons of which Araminta forced herself not to think.

She had just snuggled deeper into the comfortable sofa when there was a polite knock on the open door and Mrs Becker arrived, flanked by Lucy and another young maid. They bore cups and a pot of tea, along with sandwiches and cakes, and warm, freshly-baked, ginger biscuits covered in powdered sugar. There was enough food for an army.

“My lord, I hope everything is satisfactory? May I bring you anything else? Miss Barrington?” asked the old housekeeper, though she did regard them with a mite more curiosity than the situation strictly required.

When Chestleton declined, Araminta did the same. “No, thank you, Mrs Becker. This is more than enough. Those biscuits smell divine,” she complimented, setting aside her book and moving to pour herself tea and take one of the biscuits. “The ginger ones are my favourite, you know.”

“I am glad to hear it, Miss. I shall pass your compliments on to Cook.” With those words and a curtsey, the housekeeper and the maids withdrew.

Somehow, the arrival of the food had broken the tension, and Araminta found herself pouring tea for them both, while Chestleton confessed his own fondness for the biscuits in question.

“And what it is that you are reading, Miss Barrington?” he asked once they were working their way through the treats Mrs Becker had brought them. “You seem very absorbed by it. Is it a novel?”

“Why, yes.
Cecilia.
I am quite fond of it, it is very distracting.”

“No doubt, with all the obstacles the heroine must undergo. Though I cannot help but feel that it is all somewhat unbelievable.”

Araminta was surprised that he had read it. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Lord Chestleton,” she said, smiling enigmatically. “And what is it that you are reading?”

What followed was an enjoyable evening, full of lively debate about their books of choice and other books which they had both read. Once they had returned to the reading, near-complete silence resumed, though now they would pause occasionally, to read each other particular passages, and discuss the twists and turns of the plot.

***

Araminta felt as if she were dreaming. She must be, for the man before her could not possibly be the arrogant, disreputable rake from whom she had been so persistently warned away. A few weeks ago, she could not have imagined that they might have had such a comfortable time together, that he would not scorn to discuss novels with her, to banter and to laugh.

Chestleton was a man with many facets, each more unexpected than the last.

Over supper, their eyes said things which their words did not —
could
not — give expression to. Instead, they discussed the enjoyable picnic, their food and their mutual acquaintance among the
beau monde
. Neither made mention of Sir Timothy or their encounter at the Huston party, nor the scene in the music room, nor… Araminta could not even bring herself to admit the thoughts that ran through her head.

Chestleton found that he could no longer bring himself to blackmail the girl into his bed, as he had intended to do. And yet, at this point, seduction seemed imminent, and he knew that that goal should be foremost in his mind. Instead, he spoke about Charlotte, telling Araminta of her cleverness and liveliness, and the promise that was in her future.

“She is a delight,” Araminta agreed, “she is so very sprightly. A more precocious child I have never seen.” She hesitated a moment. “If I might be so bold as to ask, her mother —”

“Her mother is dead. She died many years ago, when Charlotte was born,” Chestleton found himself answering, the words slipping out before he could check them. There was something behind his words, a hidden emotion that suggested that he had had great admiration for his niece’s mother. The young woman wondered at that.

Minta nodded thoughtfully. “I am sorry to hear that. I, too, had to grow up without a mother. Though, of course, I had Kitty, so I cannot complain. She was very good to me. And yet, it is never quite the same. One cannot help but wonder at how things might have been otherwise.” For a moment, she felt choked up and her voice faltered.

Chestleton anxiously noted her obvious distress, and instinctually reached out to place his hand warmly atop hers. Watching the sorrow flicker across her delicate face, he fought the urge to take her in his arms, and hold her till her sadness was forgotten, to keep her safe. On their first encounter, and every time since, he had been struck by her determination and strength, the unspoken challenge her bright eyes seemed to issue to the world, and he could not bear to see such melancholy come upon her.

“Miss Barrington.
Araminta
. I feel it is my fault that you are so distressed. Please, accept my apology for causing this distress.”

Araminta was startled by his use of her Christian name, which upon his lips sounded like the most tender of caresses.

“Oh, no, not at all. It is I who beg your pardon, Lord Chestleton. I am not usually so sensitive when speaking of my mother. It has been many years. I was little more than an infant when she passed… I’m afraid that recent events have somewhat shaken my reserve.”

“Of course. You have recently lost your brother. It cannot have been an easy burden for anyone to bear.” He released her hand and picked up his glass of wine, white this time, and dry, which seemed to suit the current mood. Her own wine sat untouched.

“It was not,” she agreed, shifting, and began to pick at her chicken, although he noticed that she made no move to eat it. “I have told you before that Charles always looked out for me, whenever he could. And now his own son and wife are left helpless, and it is my responsibility to return the favour and look after them. You know, of course, about the sorry state in which my family’s finances have come to be, so there is no sense in playing at pretences.”

At his uneasy look, she shook her head and continued, “My father was a good man, kind and warm, but where money was concerned, it ran like water through his fingers. Charles did all he could to fix matters, but he died before anything could be accomplished. We have nothing left but our estates, and have no way of paying the loans and buying back the mortgage on the house. My own inheritance from my mother, even when combined with Harriet’s independent portion is not enough. My brother, you see, married for love. I do not begrudge him the happiness, but Harriet has been distraught since his passing, though she does her best to hide it, and so it is up to me to save matters. But time is growing short, and I must do all it takes to save my family home. I could not bear to lose it. It would be like losing them all again, only this time I will have nothing to link me to them, my connection to them will be severed for good. I cannot let my brother down.”

There was nothing more to say: nothing more that needed to be said. They both knew what options were left to her, and the lengths to which she would go to save her family. What she was willing to sacrifice. Her words from the picnic came back to him, this time accompanied by haunting clarity. He remembered the unshakable determination in her eyes, fuelled by desperation and guilt.

I believe, Lord Chestleton,
that you’ll find my mind to be from rotted with unrealistic expectation of any nature. I’m afraid that whatever detriment novels may have had on me in that regard, the real world soon corrected.

Araminta Barrington, however mercenary her intentions might be, had been robbed of the luxury of harbouring unrealistic dreams and romantic ideals. She had had no chance of marriage for love, unless that love happened together with the money she needed to save her family home. It tore something in him to see her so disillusioned, so hopelessly determined upon her course.

An unfamiliar sensation assailed him, which he attributed to guilt at trying to hold the issue over her, when she had been attempting to selflessly sacrifice herself on the altar of mercenary marriages in the name of saving her family and home.

“Miss Bar —” he began, but she interrupted before he could speak.

“No, please. I am not asking for your pity. You have no reason to give it. I fear I made it sound more tragic that it really is. We all do what we must. Forgive me, my lord. I appear to have spoiled our conversation. Please, tell me more about your time with Charles in Europe.”

His eyes carefully scanned her troubled face, not missing her desperate attempts to regain control. He wanted to help her. Unexpectedly, he felt an overwhelming urge to save this woman, though he knew that if he were to offer her money, she would refuse. Araminta was a proud young woman, and she would likely misunderstand and take offense, be unwilling to place herself in his debt. Some instinct told him that it would do no good to speak further on the matter.

And so, Chestleton obliged her, embarking upon a tale of her brother’s escapades and his own, as they made their way around the Continent. He skilfully called up all of his famous charm and an ability to narrate that he had not been aware he even processed. Before long, Araminta was much cheered, laughing at his tales, and her appetite appeared to have returned.

He felt a spark of satisfaction that he could distract her from her troubles, however fleetingly. Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and he knew in that moment that, though he could not have been able to explain how if pressed, he was completely and irrevocably lost.

They sat late over their supper, so late that Araminta had dismissed the maid waiting to help her undress and unpin her hair, determining to do so herself.

Chestleton walked Araminta to her door.

There was no denying the attraction between them, it made the air difficult to breathe. She was acutely aware of the warmth of Chestleton’s body next to hers as they walked, and as she held onto his arm, she felt the steely strength there. She had no way of knowing if he knew of the effect he was having on her by his mere nearness, or if - her heart fluttered at the thought — perhaps she was having the same effect on him!

His tone betrayed nothing. His voice crisp and unruffled, he sustained polite conversation all the way to her door.

“Well, Miss Barrington, and who is this rather grim fellow?” He asked, stopping at the top of the stairway to indicate a portrait of a glum, auburn-haired man dressed in the fashions of a hundred years earlier. Araminta had spent enough time at Dillwood Park to be familiar with the family’s history.