The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (7 page)

Watching Araminta stare off into the distance as she walked, Kitty thought she recognised that look. There had to be a young man involved, to throw a lady into that much turmoil. Not that Araminta had mentioned any such thing, of course — Kitty knew that her mistress could clam up completely when the mood struck her, and there had been no getting a single shred of information out of the girl. Still, the older woman was confident about her guess, though she was surprised, for Sir Timothy, who had shown such pronounced interest in the young Miss Barrington, did not seem at all the type to create turmoil.

The walk continued very uneventfully, and they met few acquaintances on their way. Though Araminta had stopped to exchange polite greetings and pleasantries with the people she knew, she did not linger long over the conversation. They had been just about to go back, when a polished black phaeton drew up beside them. The horses pulling the vehicle were a handsome, dappled pair. Kitty looked up in surprise at the driver, who lifted his hat in greeting to the ladies.

“Good morning, Miss Barrington, madam. You’re up early, I see. I must say I am surprised. And how lovely you look, Miss Barrington. You remembered your promise to ride with me in the park today, perhaps?” His voice was like velvet, with a promise of sin, Kitty noticed, and his striking dark looks matched it perfectly. She took in his slender build, strong shoulders accentuated by the cut of his dark blue coat, his thin expressive mouth, high cheekbones and dangerous grey eyes below dark, curling hair — and instantly decided that he was exactly the kind of man mothers lived in dread of. He was also, most certainly,
not
Sir Timothy Stanton.

Kitty shot a disapproving look at the man, and nodded a chilly greeting before looking over at her charge. Araminta had mentioned no arrangements to meet disreputable-looking men. In fact, Araminta seemed to blanche, while her eyes flamed with something Kitty couldn’t read.

“Lord Chestleton,” Araminta greeted stiffly. “I found I had trouble sleeping and so I came for a walk.”

“Is that so? How curious,” he murmured, mouth curling in wry amusement.

“Indeed. Allow me to introduce my duenna and former nurse, Mrs Catherine Wakefield.” There was a very pointed note in her voice, which the marquis chose to ignore, while he took in the pinched, disapproving expression on the older woman’s face.

“How do you do, Mrs Wakefield?” he asked, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“I am well, thank you, my lord.” Kitty’s voice held a very distinct chill, but Chestleon ignored that as well, his appreciative eyes returning to Araminta, and lingering in a way that made her squirm.

“Now then, my dear Miss Barrington, I do seem to recall a promise made while we danced last night, that you should take a turn with me in my phaeton. Since we happened to meet so fortuitously, now seems as good a time as any.”

Araminta was about to deny any knowledge of making such a promise, angry that he would dare use the same trick twice, when his exact words came to her attention.
Last night while we danced
, he had said. She had a very clear memory of their conversation during the dance — the implied blackmail, the way his eyes had lingered over her form. It had replayed endlessly in her mind while she lay in bed, unable to snatch a moment’s sleep. Was this it, she wondered bleakly to herself, was this the moment he asked the price of his silence? And how would his request reflect on her?

“Very well, my lord. I will take a turn in the phaeton with you. But only a very short one. It would not do, otherwise. Sir Timothy would not approve, you know.”

Chestleton chuckled lazily in a way that made her give him an offended glare. “I am sure that he would not, Miss Barrington. But has he any grounds to disapprove?”

He was mocking her, she realised, and chose to ignore that remark. “Kitty will, of course, accompany us,” she coldly informed the handsome nobleman. Jasper shot the former nurse a look before shrugging and motioning for his groom to descend and help the ladies up onto the vehicle. The groom handed Araminta up first, who carefully adjusted her skirts on the seat next to the Marquis, hoping that no one would see her in a phaeton with such a disreputable man. The groom had just turned to help Kitty up, when the Marquis snapped the reins held in his gloved hands and the horses shot off.

Jasper Devereaux had excellent taste in horses, and this pair had been a particularly fine purchase. They were strong and built for speed, as highly sensitive to his whims as well-bred race horses. Araminta Barrington learned of their speed first hand as she gave a yelp of surprise. The unexpected burst of speed had torn the parasol clean out of her hand, and she turned, horrified, to watch it fall to the paving stones behind her, meeting Kitty’s equally surprised and horrified eyes.

Araminta clutched onto her seat as the carriage flew down the path, while Lord Chestleton sat next to her, in complete control and obviously enjoying himself.

“Lord Chestleton, what are you doing? Stop this carriage this instant!” She demanded, her voice coloured in equal parts with fear and outrage. “Stop! Before someone sees us, or you turn us over and kill us.”

“Nonsense. I am in perfect control, my dear. And I can hardly have been expected to enjoy my time in your company with your harridan of a duenna looking over my shoulder, could I?”

“I demand that you stop this vehicle and let me off! How dare you take such liberties. This is abduction!” her eyes were flashing furious fire at him as her voice became stronger in her anger.

“Abduction? I think not, Miss Barrington. We are merely taking a turn about the park. Now, do cease with the dramatics. The turn will do you good. You are much too tightly wound.”

“I assure you, I am getting no enjoyment out of this
turn
, my lord, and I request that you keep your opinions to yourself.” Araminta found that she was lying — the exhilaration of driving at such high speed, the derring-do of being seen behaving so scandalously sent a certain thrill through her. It was a thrill which she knew she had no business feeling and to which she would never admit. Her heart was pounding in her ears, the wind on her face was invigorating. She was a little disappointed when Chestleton slowed the horses to a reasonable trot.

“Now, Miss Barrington, that I have you all to myself, whatever should I do with you?” His voice seemed to caress her. His inflections twisted around Araminta as he turned to look at her, and she was lost in his wickedly suggestive eyes. Her breath grew shallow, and she had to forcibly shake herself out of the inexplicable daze, sternly reminding herself of the identity of the smouldering man next to her.

“I assure you, sir, that whatever impropriety you have planned for me, I will not succumb to it willingly,” she informed him with icy primness, looking away from his eyes. They were on a shaded drive now, out of view of other carriages and walkers. She wondered how much more of this proximity she could withstand before descending into madness.

His chuckle was a dark rumble in his chest. A leather-encased hand left the reins to take a gentle yet persistent hold of her chin, turning her face to meet his eyes once again. His eyes were dark as he looked her over intently, and she struggled to utter a single word of breathless protest as a gloved hand stroked her soft lips.

He leant closer to her and her eyes fluttered closed involuntarily. She was transported. She was no longer in the middle of a public park with a man dangerous to both her reputation and her sanity — she was somewhere else, a different world with all the usual rules suspended and forgotten. She let herself imagine she was a heroine in one of her adventure novels: a captive princess, and he the handsome pirate who had captured her. She waited for the feeling of his lips on hers, felt his warm breath ghost over face and a shiver pass through her. There was a strange warmth in her stomach at his proximity.

“I am not so sure,” he murmured, inches away from her lips, as she trembled slightly in anticipation.

It was like a bucket of icy water thrown over her, realisation as cold as snow down the back of her neck. She gasped and flung herself away, retreating to the furthest corner of the seat and pressing herself against the side of the vehicle. Her dark blue eyes wide with disbelief and shock, she stared at him as though expecting him to turn into a monster before her very eyes. Her breathing was laboured, her cheeks pink, and she felt as if her whole face was on fire where he had touched her. As if he had branded her, or laid some sort of claim she could not quite understand.

He regarded her with steady, impassive elegance as she gathered her wits about her. Araminta had just come face to face with the reason why this man had the reputation that he did. The phaeton had come to a halt. She looked about them, expecting to see gawking, outraged faces, but was met only with greenery. Allowing herself to sag with relief, she still stared up at him warily.

“I am,” she replied, the slight hitch in her voice counter-productive to the steady confidence she had hoped to convey. Chestleton had the good grace not to remark on it, though she found his impassive expression particularly humiliating. She
would not
become the next Violet Grey, even if his steely eyes compelled her to throw all propriety to the wind.

“You must think me a devil, Miss Barrington,” he remarked, and only the slightly bitter note in his voice betrayed him. Araminta shot him a look of surprise. She had not expected him to speak as he had done. A jibe perhaps, or a snide, suggestive comment. Those were becoming familiar territory to her, unsettling as she still found the man. But she was not sure how to reply to the bitterness. Twisting her fingers in the folds of her pretty walking gown, she looked at him, at the sadness that flickered momentarily in his eyes, only to vanish the next moment, like a dream upon waking.

“It… it is a reputation of your own making,” she replied, quietly and unsteadily, unsure that her reply was the correct one, but refusing to bow down under his inscrutable gaze.

“Hah. So it is.” Chestleton announced, once more the remorseless rogue.

Araminta felt confused at his changeable demeanour. “What is it that you want from me, Lord Chestleton?” she asked him, deciding that she was too overwhelmed to dance around the issue.

“Nothing that you do not want from me, if only you’d admit it. You should cease the absurd game you are playing with that baronet. How long do you think you can deny what is between us?”

Her lips thinned in disapproval and her gaze became frosty. “I want nothing but peace from you, Marquis. Sir Timothy is a good man, and I am playing no games with him. None that will matter, anyway. I do what I must, and I need not explain myself to you. He will give me affection and a solid marriage. What is between
us
, as you put it, is nothing but a momentary insanity. It is flimsy and fleeting and you can offer me nothing but dishonour and infamy. You
will
offer nothing more, and I will not be some man’s mistress.”

“You cannot deny — ”

“Ah, but I can. You might exist in your own little world of hedonism,
my lord
, but in my world, my decisions affect the lives of others, of people I love, and I will not gamble with that. So there is nothing between us and never shall be. Now, I suggest you take me back. Kitty must be beside herself by now. And do so at a respectable pace, if you please.”

Jasper Devereaux was struck by the steady determination in her voice, even more so now that he knew some of what was behind it. He had intended merely to have a light flirtation with the pretty girl, to chase away the boredom, until the mystery of her was resolved and he found himself tired of her. He had seen the desire written across her face. But Araminta was like a puzzle box. He may have solved one riddle, uncovered one answer, but a hundred new questions now presented themselves before him.

He had thought her little more than a fortune hunter, keen on getting her own wish at the expense of others. Yet what he found was strength and love for the people she was set on protecting. As she lectured him, her delicate face was lit with a sadness and purity, like dew drops on a rose. A light shone out of her eyes, and he found himself wanting to have her, to kiss her, more than ever, as his stomach twisted at her words.

They drove back in silence, and Jasper forced himself to push away such absurd, fanciful notions. What he felt was nothing more than fascination for an imagined idealisation of the woman, a mirage that could not exist. He would rid himself of this momentary lapse of judgement by claiming her for his own, and proving to himself that she was nothing other than what he had first believed her to be.

Araminta was lost in her own thoughts. All this time, she had labelled the Marquis of Chestleton as nothing more than a callous, hedonistic rake. Yet for the briefest moment she had glimpsed something in his eyes — something greater,
more
than the image he always presented. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget what she had seen, and she could not stop mulling over it, wondering what it was. Her thoughts felt scrambled inside her head and her feelings were all a shambles. She sneaked a few glances at his stony expression as he drove them back to Kitty and the groom, ignoring the curious glances from the handful of people they passed on their way.

Kitty had been looking anxiously all around her, and relief flashed across her face as they drew up beside the old woman. She shot a look of fury at the nobleman, who leaped down from the phaeton to help Araminta descend. His groom stepped aboard, and the marquis bowed over her hand, ignoring the outraged noises made by her duenna.

“Good morning, Miss Barrington. I thank you for the honour. Doubtless I shall see you again.” His voice was perfectly polite but his eyes appeared almost to devour her. In an undertone he added, “We have not quite finished discussing your situation, after all.”

“I think we have,” she replied, wondering if he still meant to blackmail her. “Good morning, my lord.” With a curtsey she walked away, in the direction of her aunt and uncle’s home.

As they walked, Kitty voiced her outrage, enquired whether she was unharmed, who the marquis was, and what had happened during their ride.