Some Enchanted Evening Page 17

  Larissa realized what she’d done—showed only too clearly her cruelty and pettiness to the man she had declared she would win. Being Larissa, she tried to pass the blame. “Princess Clarice was insolent to me.”

  Gradually Hepburn straightened away from the door frame, dominating the scene more and more as he abandoned his indolent pretence. “Miss Trumbull, among the things I detest is the obvious display of feminine charms better hinted at than revealed. But above that, I find rampant jealousy vulgar to the extreme. You are guilty of both, and until you learn a more appropriate behavior, I would suggest you return to the schoolroom.”

  As Larissa stared at Hepburn, the blood drained from her face. She took a breath to respond, but nothing came out. Finally she turned and, with a pathetic attempt at dignity, tottered away.

  Clarice stared after her, uncomfortably aware she’d allowed her temper full rein and had hurt someone in the process. “That was badly done by both of us.”

  “What do you mean?” Hepburn took her arm and led her into the library. “Miss Trumbull’s an overgrown, insolent lass and she deserved to be slapped down.”

  “Yes, but forever after she’s going to be embarrassed to look you in the eye.”

  “I would hope so.”

  He didn’t understand, and he didn’t care, so she said the thing he would understand. “Overgrown, insolent lasses like her have a tendency to make trouble for humble peddlers like me. I should have played the toady.”

  It appeared Clarice had forgotten what passed between them last night. Robert didn’t like that. “Perhaps you think I should have been less dismissive?”

  “Yes!”

  What a little goose Clarice was, to worry about Larissa, when he stood only two paces away. In a sensual growl he said, “But I do as I like.”

  Her head snapped around, and she stared at him with her full, pretty mouth hanging ever so slightly open.

  He almost laughed as sexual awareness flooded her face. Now she remembered. Her gaze dropped. She blushed and took a step back.

  He followed, impatient to move the conversation to a topic of interest to him. A topic like whether she had regretted giving herself to him. Or did she long to try him again? “Forget Larissa. She’s not important to us.”

  “Yes. I mean no.” Clarice edged past the bookshelves, a vision in a simple pink gown that gave a glow to her cheeks. “I mean, she might not be important to you, but I’ve suffered the kind of humiliation she just suffered, and it’s painful.”

  “She’ll recover. That kind always does.” He wondered how many buttons he would have to undo before the gown slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the floor around her feet. He would enjoy undressing her, making sure he didn’t frighten her with the flash of his passion. He did know how to take his time…last night had been aberration, a rash and unique desire. Next time would be different.

  And now…he would court her. Show her he wasn’t always a savage who lost himself in a fight, then found himself in a woman’s arms.

  Stopping at the cabinet, he poured two glasses of pale golden wine and extended one to Clarice. “Tell me about yourself. What have you done that was so bad, it brought you humiliation?”

  She stared at the glass as if it were bait in a snare. Which it was. The kind of bait that brought her back in contact with him and at the same time loosened the restrictive corset of her caution. He didn’t smile when she snatched the wine from his fingers and sprang back, but he wanted to, and that in itself was interesting. It had been a very, very long time since he’d been so amused so often.

  “Humiliation occurs. One does everything one can to forget the circumstances, and that doesn’t include relating them to a gentleman who…” Her voice trailed off in a satisfying confusion, and she took a hasty sip of the wine. Her startlingly dark brows winged upward. “A good wine! From Germany, I think?”

  “Yes, very good.” She knew her wines. Taking her arm, he led her into the part of the library with oversize, comfortable chairs, large windows, and carvings set artfully on shelves and tables. “Please, won’t you take a seat? It would be most advantageous for us to discuss the evenings ahead.” He was surprised to see a smile on her lips. What about the evenings ahead diverted her so?

  Then he followed her gaze, and saw her examining the replica of a small marble statue of Hermes about to spring into the air. “What?”

  She sank into the chair he’d indicated. “I was remembering one of the occasions of my humiliation.”

  Ah, a confidence, freely given. Matters were proceeding very well. Taking the bottle, he stepped close to her chair. “You’re not distressed by that memory?”

  “No. No, it was more hilarious than distressing.” Shaking her head, she passed her fingers in front of her eyes and smiled as if she could see the scene before her. “When I was nine, Grandmamma decided that all the statues in the palace—fine art, mind you, collected by my ancestors from the time of the Renaissance—were obscene.” Clarice gave a gurgle of laughter, her piquant face alight with remembered glee. “She ordered them draped in togas to protect our delicate, princessly constitutions.”

  Her sisters. She was speaking of her sisters. He topped off her glass. “Did your constitutions feel protected?”

  “Until then we hadn’t even noticed the statues. They were nothing more than part of the palace. But once she made a fuss about them, we spent a great deal of time twitching the togas aside to examine the…er…evidence.”

  “But of course.” He leaned against the wing of her chair. “Forbidden fruit is always the tastiest.”

  She looked up at him. She stared for a moment too long, and her smile faded. Forcibly she brought her smile back. “My older sister, Sorcha, was to be made crown princess and at the same time become betrothed to Prince Rainger of Richarte.” Clarice made a face. “An obnoxious boy. I felt very sorry for her. So she and I and my younger sister rigged it so that when Papa made the announcement, we pulled a rope and all the togas fell off.” Clarice started to laugh, a merry laugh of pleasured memory.

  Robert watched her in silence, his groin tightening under the renewed pressure of desire. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was too short, too winsome…too guarded. She was also silky-smooth, golden-tanned, and excessively soft-hearted. He’d had her, and he wanted to have her again. And again. And again, until all the world had disappeared and only Clarice, with her soft arms and soft heart, was left.

  Not suspecting his thoughts, Clarice continued. “Some of the togas got caught on certain body parts, if you know what I mean—”

  He did know what she meant, and he couldn’t help it. He grinned.

  “—and that made it so much worse,” she went on. “The ambassadors were dreadfully offended, and Grandmamma was shaking with fury.”

  She reminded him of a time when he was young, confident in the ultimate goodness of mankind, secure in his superiority and his position. He had believed in family, in love, and that the good were rewarded and the bad were punished.

  Now he didn’t believe in anything. Nor did he fear anything. Not even death.

  Clarice burbled on, unaware of his melancholy reflection. “But Papa…I would swear he was laughing too.” She took a sip of wine. “We went to bed that night without supper, even the newly betrothed crown princess.”

  On a swift silent breath Robert realized he believed her. He believed Clarice was a princess. The memories were too ingenuous, the mixture of her sadness and her amusement too real. She tried to hide the glitter of her tears as she spoke of her lost family, and she smiled, but her lips trembled.

  She was a princess, a princess in exile, and he would use her as he wished, and take her as often as he could. Because, in the end, no matter what else was between them, the passion could not be denied. He had been with a lot of women, some beautiful, some mysterious, some earthy, some experienced, but none had tugged at his senses as Clarice did. Something existed between the two of them, something so rare as to be
a treasure, and he would capture it if he could.

  She said, “Of course, you think I’m a liar, but nevertheless, my memories are gold.”

  “No.” He shouldn’t confess this. “I do believe you.”

  She blinked at him. “My lord, I don’t understand…you said…what?”

  He didn’t blame her for the confusion in her amber eyes and the way her hand trembled as she placed her wine on the table beside her.

  She couldn’t imagine that the man who had bullied and derided her could now profess faith in what he had emphatically denied.

  He reiterated, “I believe you. You are a princess. You can be a fraud with your creams and your unguents and not be a fraud about being royal. I don’t know all the circumstances that brought you to this place, but everything about you shouts nobility. You are a princess.” His mouth twisted in self-derision, and he paced away, melting into the shadows of the library. “And I don’t give a damn, because I still desire you.”

  Clarice wanted to spin, to dance, to shout her glee to the sky. After so many years of exile and coldness, to have anyone else say they believed her would make her skeptical about their motives. But to have this man, hardened and cynical, say he gave credence to her claim…she could scarcely believe her own reaction. She knew he didn’t lie. This man didn’t have to stoop to such chicanery to achieve his goal. Why would he? He had already obtained her cooperation in his masquerade.

  He had already possessed her. Now he gave her the greatest gift he could give her. He gave her his trust.

  Gliding across the faded carpet, she went to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “I desire you too.”

  His eyes were inscrutable. His body felt hot beneath her grip. Slowly he lifted his hands and grasped her wrists. “So?”

  Her chest rose and fell in quick, silent breaths. “So…my lord, if you want me, I’ll have you. For now. Until your charade is over and it’s time for me to leave.” She twined their fingers together. Lifting one of his hands to her mouth, she kissed it, then bit one knuckle.

  He jumped as if she’d hurt him, and his eyes blazed with sparkling sapphire warning. Cupping her chin in his hand, he lowered his head. With his mouth hovering above hers, his warm breath caressing her face, he whispered, “Since you’re giving yourself to me, could you call me by my name?”

  “Robert.” She tasted the syllables and found them, and the intimacy they implied, sweet. “Robert.”

  He brushed his lips to hers. Greedily she welcomed his tongue as it slipped inside her mouth, wanting to experience the harmony he gave her when they melded and sang the song of passion. No two people had ever kissed as they did, with this glorious sliding and tasting, the tenderness and the violence. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held his head in place, demanding everything he could give her, each thrust of his tongue, each heated breath.

  Then he drew back. Turned his head. “Listen. The carriages are at the front door. The gentlemen have started to arrive.” His gaze came back to hers, but as abruptly as if it had never been, the passion was gone. Instead, his eyes calculated and weighed her. “I must explain exactly what I require of you in this masquerade. Are you ready?”

  Ready? Yes, she was ready. But he wasn’t speaking of that, and she didn’t care. Right now she would do as he wished for no more reason than that he wished it. Yet she wouldn’t confess that to him. She might be infatuated with his lovemaking, but she knew his ruthlessness all too well, and she wouldn’t give him leave to walk on her. In a steady voice, one that didn’t betray the traces of want that lingered in her, she said, “Tell me exactly what you wish of me, and I’ll tell you if I can do it.”

  “I have faith in you, my princess.” His lips moved, his voice was deep and low and made promises he did not speak. “And when you’re done, I’ll ensure that Blaize is completely yours, forever.”

  She was thinking of more than a horse when she echoed, “Forever.”

  Nineteen

  Ye don’t find cream in a ditch.

  —THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS

  Colonel Ogley had waited his whole life for this. To arrive in triumph at MacKenzie Manor. To revel in the flattering glances of the ladies, the admiring comments of the gentlemen. To have Brenda, his wide-eyed, wealthy wife, clinging to his arm.

  To savor the well-hidden chagrin of the earl of Hepburn.

  Oh, Hepburn said all that was proper. He welcomed Ogley into the grand foyer of MacKenzie Manor with every appearance of gratification.

  But Ogley knew the truth. Hepburn hated him. Ogley had made sure of it during their years together on the Peninsula and in all the days after. Ogley had made sure that the snot-nosed lordling who had been given to him as a subordinate officer had grown into a bitter, disillusioned man. In fact, the only goal Ogley had failed to achieve was Hepburn’s painful death.

  But actually, having Hepburn live to host this celebratory ball was proving even more satisfying. Moreover, having him see Waldemar, Hepburn’s own former aide, standing straight and still behind Ogley gave him a feeling of power unmatched by any act of war or brutal massacre. There was nothing Hepburn had that Ogley had not taken. Well, except his title, and Ogley expected to receive a barony soon enough. How sweet it was to know Hepburn hated his guts, yet was forced to pretend respect.

  “Colonel Ogley, Mrs. Ogley, we’re so privileged to host a ball in your honor.” Lady Millicent, who looked somewhat like Ogley’s own wife, hurried forward to greet them. “I read your book, Colonel Ogley, and I’m in awe of your exploits on the Peninsula. I hope that if you’re not too tired from your journey, you’ll join us in the drawing room this evening and tell us of your heroism.”

  The guests gathered around produced a spattering of applause.

  “Yes!” Brenda clutched his arm. “Please, Oscar, you know how I love to hear you speak.”

  Ogley patted his wife’s hand and smiled benignly at Lady Millicent. “Isn’t Mrs. Ogley wonderful? She’s heard the stories countless times on our victorious tour of England, yet still she urges me to tell them once more.”

  “Oh, Oscar.” Brenda blushed with delight. “How could I not love to hear the tales you tell? To know you willingly rode into such danger, time after time—why, it’s almost like a fairy tale.”

  Ogley stiffened, but Hepburn said nothing. He looked not even faintly sardonic. It was as if he had forgotten the truth, and that Ogley did not believe. The arrogant bastard never forgot anything, and that was the one reason Ogley had tried so hard to get him killed. That he hadn’t succeeded spoke the world of Hepburn’s luck—and skill.

  But, really, what could Hepburn do now? If he tried to tell the truth, no one would believe him. He’d be perceived as a petty glory-seeker. His jealousy would add luster to Ogley’s fame. Ogley smiled in self-congratulation. He had trapped Hepburn in a hell tailored specifically for his outdated sense of honor, and Ogley reveled in Hepburn’s misery.

  “Colonel Ogley, Princess Clarice asked to meet you.” Hepburn stepped forward, a woman of uncommon beauty on his arm. “Your Highness, this is the colonel whose heroics you’ve admired in the pages of his book. Princess Clarice, Colonel Ogley and his wife, Lady Brenda.”

  “Please,” Brenda said, “I prefer to be called simply Mrs. Ogley.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Ogley.” Princess Clarice’s oddly colored amber eyes were admiring as she gazed on Colonel Ogley. “What an honor to be the wife of such a hero!”

  “So I believe.” Brenda didn’t have the sense to worry about the pretty princess or Ogley’s reaction to her. Brenda believed only the best of him, including that he remained loyal to his wedding vows.

  It was not his intention to enlighten her.

  But he smiled seductively at the princess. “Of course I’ll be speaking of my exploits this evening in the drawing room. To do so will be my greatest pleasure.” He didn’t know where Princess Clarice was from and he didn’t care. She was a fine piece of woman flesh, and he would gladly share the source of hi
s heroism with her.

  She looked startled at his brash admiration, as if he had misunderstood her interest in him. Which he hadn’t; he’d been an officer long enough to recognize the glow a female exuded when she wanted a man.

  His gaze shifted to Hepburn, who frowned and watched them. Better yet if Hepburn had an interest in her. Taking Princess Clarice from Hepburn would be the final cannon blast in a battle that had begun as soon as Ogley had heard Hepburn would be placed in his regiment, and such a disappointment would blow Hepburn all the way to hell.

  “Colonel Ogley, Mrs. Ogley, if you’ll come this way.” Lady Millicent interrupted before he could do more to secure his case with the princess.

  Which, as long as Brenda stood there, was a good thing. But no doubt Princess Clarice would make herself available later.

  As Lady Millicent led them up the stairs, Ogley waved to the crowd of nobles and servants gathered below. God, he loved being a hero. He gave a special wave to Princess Clarice and smiled as Hepburn’s gaze narrowed in suspicion.

  Then Ogley turned his attention to Lady Millicent, who said, “We’ve put you in the master’s chambers, and anything you wish, anything at all, you have only to ask.”

  Taking his wife’s hand, Ogley patted it softly. “You’re so weak and tender. The trip has exhausted you. Let me order you a tray so you can lie down before the evening’s festivities.”

  “Really, Oscar, I feel fine. To be with you on this victory tour doesn’t weary me.” Brenda touched his cheek. “It invigorates me.”

  He allowed a weighty frown to slip over his features. “Please indulge me. You know how I worry about you.” He lowered his voice so Lady Millicent couldn’t hear. “Especially since you could possibly be in a delicate condition…”

  He almost felt guilty about the expression of pain on his wife’s face. She had avowed her intention to give him the gift of a son, not realizing that he took precautions to ensure no children came from their union.