Chapter Two
Some noblemen are so swelled with their own consequence that they expect the opposite sex to fall swooning at their feet.
—Roslyn Loring to Fanny Irwin
Chiswick, June 1817
It was a perfect day for a wedding—the morning sky bright with hope and promise. Yet Drew Moncrief, Duke of Arden, could summon little enthusiasm for the occasion as he waited with his two closest friends before the church entrance.
Primarily because he believed the groom was making an irrevocable mistake.
Lounging against a pillar on the church portico, Drew watched as Marcus, the new Earl of Danvers, restlessly paced the drive below in anticipation of the bridal party’s arrival.
“Devil take it, Marcus, will you calm down, man?” Heath Griffin, the Marquess of Claybourne drawled from his own similar position on the portico. “Your nerves are seriously wearing on mine.”
“He’s suffering from a case of bachelor terrors,” Drew murmured with sardonic amusement. “I told you he would succumb.”
Marcus cast the two of them a dismissive glance. “It isn’t fear, it’s impatience.” But to satisfy his friends, he climbed the short flight of steps to rejoin them on the portico. “I want an end to this waiting so I can make Arabella my wife. This last month has been interminable.”
Marcus and Miss Arabella Loring, the eldest of his three wards, had been officially betrothed a month ago, but now the moment finally was at hand. The village church was filled to overflowing with guests and flowers. The vicar was standing by to conduct the ceremony. And Marcus looked the part of the noble bridegroom—blue superfine coat, gold embroidered waistcoat, white lace cravat, and white satin breeches.
Drew, who was dressed similarly for the occasion, let a sad smile curve his mouth as he shook his head. “I never expected to see you so hopelessly besotted, my friend.”
“Your time will come someday,” Marcus predicted in a sage tone.
Drew flicked an imaginary speck of lint off the lace of his cuff, his half smile turning to one of pure cynicism. “Oh, I will eventually do my duty and wed to carry on the ancestral line, but I won’t ever lose my head over a woman as you have obviously done.”
“I don’t know,” Heath interjected. “I think it would be intriguing to find a woman who could make me lose my head.”
His blithe tone, however, suggested that he wasn’t entirely serious. While Heath loved the fair sex in general, he was convinced he would never encounter the woman who could cause him to willingly relinquish his cherished freedom and settle down in staid matrimony.
Drew was even more determined to retain his bachelorhood, as Marcus knew very well.
“Before meeting Arabella, Drew, I was nearly as cynical as you,” Marcus remarked amiably. “I fully understand your reticence to marry. You see all eligible females as the enemy.”
“They are the enemy. I have yet to meet the eligible female who doesn’t view me as prey.”
“Arabella’s sisters won’t. You will find them refreshingly indifferent to your rank and consequence.”
Drew’s gaze narrowed on Marcus. “You aren’t possibly thinking of playing matchmaker, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, old sport,” Marcus said jovially. “Even if Arabella’s middle sister does have the qualifications to make an admirable duchess.”
Drew uttered a mild curse at the deliberately provoking jibe, while Heath laughed out loud.
His eyes glinting with amusement, Marcus ended his baiting. “Never fear, Drew. I know nothing I could say would persuade you to give love a chance. But if you are supremely fortunate, you will discover the joys for yourself.”
It most certainly wouldn’t be with Marcus’s wards, Drew rejoined silently. He was determined to steer clear of the two remaining Loring sisters.
Just then they finally heard the sound of carriage wheels announcing the bride’s arrival. Shortly, three vehicles swept up the drive. Drew recognized Arabella Loring in the first one, but not the two young ladies who accompanied her.
Beside Drew, Heath straightened, his gaze focused on the beauties sitting with Miss Loring in the open barouche. “Those are Arabella’s sisters?” he asked Marcus.
“Yes. The dark-haired one is the youngest spitfire, Lilian. And the blonde is the lovely Roslyn.”
Drew’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he caught sight of the golden-haired Roslyn. There was something vaguely familiar about her…the graceful shoulders, the elegant bearing, the slender, delicate figure with the high, ripe breasts. And her face…He had glimpsed those perfect, fine-boned features in the moonlight not so very long ago.
Drew slowly straightened from where he was leaning against the column, his stomach muscles clenching in recognition. What in blazes?
At his irrepressible start of surprise, Marcus smiled with knowing amusement. That, however, was the last consideration he gave his friends for some time. As soon as the cavalcade rumbled to a halt before the front entrance, Marcus bounded down the steps and went to meet his bride and her sisters.
He assisted first Miss Roslyn and then Miss Lilian from the barouche, then offered his hand to Arabella. Accepting it, she stepped down into the circle of his waiting arms, her expression radiant with love as she gazed back at him.
But while Marcus only had eyes for his bride, Drew couldn’t take his gaze off the fair-haired Roslyn. He would never forget that exquisitely memorable face, even though he’d been afforded only a fleeting glimpse of it in the moonlight.
She was the same woman. The mysterious beauty who had turned down his offer the night of the Cyprians’ ball.
Hell and the devil!
She kept her eyes carefully averted from him as she stood to one side, waiting for the rest of the bridal party to alight from the other carriages. But when Drew slowly descended the church steps, she stole a glimpse at him. The faint blush that stained her cheeks would have confirmed his suspicions, yet he didn’t need that telltale sign to know he wasn’t mistaken.
Miss Roslyn Loring indeed was his mystery woman.
She was currently garbed in an Empire-waisted gown of rose-hued silk, not a provocative shepherdess’s costume. But her distinctive loveliness couldn’t be disguised by a wig or a mask. And even if he hadn’t seen her entire face that night, he would recognize that luscious mouth anywhere. He had kissed that delicious mouth, tasted those ripe breasts, felt that slender, arousing body pressed against his….
His loins stirring in remembrance, Drew slowly advanced upon Roslyn, while annoyance and anger warred with surprise inside him. The elusive Cyprian who had left him intrigued and enchanted that night was not only a genteel lady, but the ward of his best friend.
What the devil had she been doing at a notorious ball for lightskirts? Was she merely kicking up a lark or searching for more sinful pleasures?
Whatever her purpose for attending, it could have spelled disaster for him. He damned well would have compromised her if they’d simply been discovered alone together in such a place. And if he had succeeded in actually seducing her as he’d wanted…It didn’t bear thinking on.
Drew clenched his jaw. At least her identity explained why she had run from him the moment she saw him—because she didn’t want him to recognize her later. At his approach now, Roslyn pressed her lips together stoically, apparently resigned to formally meeting him.
He was saved from having to request an introduction when Marcus stepped forward to present the bridal party: Arabella’s two sisters, her mother and stepfather, and some of her close friends and neighbors, including the patroness of the Freemantle Academy for Young Ladies where all the Loring sisters taught.
Drew was interested in only one person, however. He stopped before Roslyn, deliberately holding her gaze as he took her gloved hand to offer her a bow.
At the contact, tension, hot and rapid as summer lightning, arced between them. Giving him a startled look, she withdrew her hand quickly, while Drew cursed under his breath. His damned loins had tightened in response to merely touching her. Utterly inappropriate, given her status, but the instantaneous spark of desire he’d felt for her that moonlit night was still deplorably potent.
He kept his own expression cool when he said, “You look familiar, Miss Roslyn. Have we met before?”
Her chin lifted slightly at his mocking query, yet she didn’t reply directly. “I believe I would remember meeting you, your grace.”
Her voice held the same honeyed warmth he recalled, but Drew fought the allure, just as he tried to ignore her startling beauty. In the morning sunlight, Roslyn looked fresh and lovely as a dew-speckled rose. Of course, the last time he’d seen her, she had looked deliciously wanton.
When her gaze dropped to his mouth, he knew she was recalling precisely what had happened between them that night, as he was.
Her eyes were blue, he noted—a warm sky blue—while her face was a classically shaped oval.
“I’m certain we must have crossed paths before,” he mused.
“Surely you are mistaken.”
At her prevarication, his patience faded. Lightly grasping her elbow, he urged Roslyn aside a few paces, so as not to be overheard by her relatives and friends. “Does Danvers approve of your dangerous escapade?”
The flush returning to color her cheeks, she conceded the futility of denying their meeting any longer by giving a small sigh. “Lord Danvers doesn’t know about my escapade…and I don’t intend to tell him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t wish to distract him when he and my sister are celebrating their nuptials.”
Drew favored her with a piercing look that had been known to make most mortals quake. “I expect an explanation, sweeting.”
Roslyn arched a slender eyebrow. “Do you indeed?” When he remained sternly silent, she responded pleasantly, “My reasons are my own, your grace, and none of your affair.”
“Perhaps so, but when the ward of one of my closest friends is offering herself for sale, I think he has a right to know about it.”
Roslyn’s blue eyes flashed at him. “I am not in that particular trade, I assure you.”
“You will understand if I take leave to doubt you.”
“You may doubt all you like, but my conduct still is not your concern.”
“But it is definitely your guardian’s concern. And I collect I have an obligation to tell him about your subterfuge.”
“Oh?” Her gaze was a challenge. “Are you in the habit of bearing tales then, your grace?”
“Are you in the habit of kissing perfect strangers?”
That took her aback. “You kissed me, you should recall.”
“But you allowed it.”
“I couldn’t very well protest without giving myself away—” Roslyn stopped suddenly and took a deep breath, then managed a disarming smile. “I don’t intend to spoil my sister’s wedding, and I won’t allow you to do so, either. Perhaps you would condescend to continue your interrogation at some more convenient time?”
Drew felt a surge of annoyance tinged with amusement at being so summarily dismissed. “You may count on it, Miss Loring. We shall resume our discussion after the wedding service.”
Her smile never faltered. “I fear I will be extremely busy afterward. We have six hundred guests attending the wedding breakfast, and I am responsible for seeing that everything runs smoothly. Now, pray excuse me, your grace. The ceremony will be starting shortly.”
Surprised to discover that he was enjoying sparring with her, Drew was reluctant to let her go. “Allow me to escort you to your seat.”
“I can manage on my own, thank you.”
“One might think you are eager to avoid me,” he said dryly, repeating the words he had used when she had tried to escape him on the balcony.
Her answering smile was just as wry, although more charming. “One might indeed. It is perfectly understandable why you are so full of your own consequence, your grace, but you shouldn’t expect every woman to fall at your feet. I certainly won’t.”
Leaving him standing there staring after her, Roslyn turned to accompany her sister Lilian into the church. Drew eventually followed them up the front steps and along the center aisle to the front pews, which held the only remaining empty seats.
To his surprise, he recognized Fanny Irwin among the honored guests on the bride’s side. He hadn’t expected to see a famous courtesan sharing the family pew.
The sisters embraced Fanny warmly and then settled beside her. Drew took his own place on the right side of the aisle, next to Marcus’s younger sister, Eleanor, and her elderly aunt, Viscountess Beldon.
When Eleanor caught Drew watching the opposite aisle, she leaned toward him to whisper over the hushed murmurs of the crowd, “You remember when we first met Arabella, she told us that Fanny was their longtime friend? Well, Fanny remained loyal to them during all the years of scandal, and they aren’t going to snub her simply because she is no longer received in polite circles.”
“There is a vast difference,” Drew remarked in an under voice, “between supporting a friend and courting notoriety.”
“I beg your pardon?” Eleanor asked.
“Never mind, love.” He didn’t intend to discuss the last time he had seen Fanny Irwin. But it seemed curious that Marcus would allow her intimate connection with his wards to continue.
Drew knew all about the Loring family scandals, which had undeservedly made the sisters social pariahs. He also knew that Marcus had done his best to improve his wards’ standing in society, but those efforts would only be undermined if Roslyn’s brazen antics became known.
She was half turned away from him now, and Drew found his eyes fixed on her slender back, a variety of emotions warring within—curiosity, pique, disapproval. He was intrigued and perturbed at the same time.
“Roslyn is quite beautiful, is she not?” Eleanor whispered. “She would be considered an Incomparable if not for the disgrace her family suffered.”
She was indeed beautiful, Drew had to admit. Her hair was pale gold, the color of fine champagne. And with her tall, willowy figure and exquisite features, she was as lovely and delicate as gilded crystal.
Eleanor evidently took his silence as agreement. “You cannot tell simply by looking at her, but Roslyn is the most clever and studious of the three sisters.”
“Studious?” Drew replied with skepticism.
“Yes, indeed. She even knows Latin. She has read nearly every tome in her late uncle’s library, and Marcus has begun sending her books from his own library in London. Her delicacy gives one a false impression. Lily, on the other hand, is quite the hoyden. She is the passionate one in the family.”
Heath joined them just then, in time to overhear Eleanor’s last remarks. Bending closer, he murmured with amusement, “Marcus was right, Drew. Miss Roslyn looks suited to the role of duchess.”
“Stubble it, you old bleater,” Drew murmured.
Despite their attractions, he wanted nothing to do with marriageable young ladies of the Loring sisters’ ilk. For much of his life he’d been hounded and harassed by avaricious mamas and daughters who had only one goal in mind—the taming and matrimonial capture of a wealthy duke. The thought of being shackled for life to that sort of covetous, grasping female made him shudder.
Roslyn Loring might not be so material-minded, but he most certainly didn’t want to find himself strangled in the parson’s noose with her as his wife, which likely would have happened had he made love to her that night.
Drew was vastly relieved by his near escape from potential disaster. Because of his mistaken assumption regarding her identity, he might have been honorably compelled to offer for her hand in marriage.
Indeed, if Roslyn hadn’t been so set on escaping him, he might have thought she’d purposely contrived to entice him out onto that balcony. It wouldn’t be the first time a scheming husband-hunter had plotted to entrap him by luring him into a compromising situation.
But whatever her reasons for attending the Cyprians’ ball, he intended to discover them. If his friend’s ward was courting trouble and risking scandal, or worse, actual danger, Marcus needed to know about it.
His thoughts were interrupted as the bride and groom took their places before the altar. A hush fell over the crowd, and a moment later, the vicar began the service.
“Dearly beloved…”
Drew sat back in his seat, girding himself to endure the proceedings. He did not like weddings. In fact he loathed them, for they signified the entrapment of a man in marriage. And this particular wedding was especially regrettable, since Marcus was shackling himself to a young lady he had known for a ludicrously short period of time. Marcus had been a devout bachelor before meeting Arabella and completely losing his head over her, swept up in an infatuation.
Drew shook his head. He cared deeply for his friend and hoped he wouldn’t be bitterly disappointed in love, but suspected it was inevitable.
As the vicar prosed on, he found his gaze straying across the aisle to the lovely Roslyn. She sat tall and straight, watching the ceremony with solemn interest.
Eventually his thoughts drifted back to the night they met. He remembered her scent, soft and tempting. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her sweet, tentative response when he kissed her the first time.
Perhaps she truly was as inexperienced as she’d claimed. If so, that explained why she kissed so innocently.
She’d responded fervently to their second kiss, though, and to his more erotic ministrations afterward. He was an expert at reading his lover’s responses, and he could tell she wasn’t feigning passion.
He’d responded with an unanticipated fervency of his own, Drew acknowledged. He rarely was that swiftly, that intensely, attracted to any woman. In truth, he couldn’t remember ever feeling such a sudden fierce spark of desire as he had that night. The urge to sweep Roslyn up in his arms and carry her to the nearby chaise longue had been overwhelming. He’d wanted to make love to her for hours, to arouse her to pleasure and to experience his own, to prove to her they could have a supremely enjoyable liaison while it lasted.
Thank God he had taken it no further.
But how damned ironic that the first woman he’d been interested in for months was off limits. Roslyn Loring was completely untouchable. No honorable gentleman would pursue her without marriage in mind. And he had no intention of winding up here in this church with her.
She had remained in his thoughts for days afterward, however. Hell, she was still captivating his thoughts. He couldn’t forget her lush nakedness, her sweet, ripe breasts. Couldn’t forget how her dusky nipples had felt in his mouth, how they tasted….
The ceremony was thankfully brief. A short while later, Marcus was given permission to kiss his bride, which he did with obvious tenderness.
Beside Drew, Eleanor sighed and wiped a tear from her eye.
Seeing her action, Heath leaned over to tease her. “For someone who has jilted two suitors, Nell, you are strangely romantic.”
“Simply because I don’t wish to wed doesn’t mean Marcus shouldn’t. He and Arabella are made for each other.”
Drew refrained from scoffing, but barely.
Eleanor saw his expression and eyed him curiously. “You don’t believe they are in love, do you?”
“I believe Marcus thinks he loves her, which is not the same thing at all.”
Heath’s mouth curved. “Such a cynic.”
Drew smiled. “Just so. But I’ve never seen a union that was formed so precipitously last beyond the first flush of infatuation.”
“Neither have I,” Eleanor said wistfully, “but I know they must exist. All the poets say so.”
She rose then and went to join her brother, where she gave him a long and heartfelt embrace. Heath and Drew followed but contented themselves with shaking hands with Marcus.
For once, Drew kept his cynical thoughts to himself. Through much of their boyhood and all of their adulthood, the three of them had been inseparable, having attended Eton and Oxford together and then come into their vast fortunes and illustrious titles the same year. Like Roslyn, Drew didn’t want to spoil the momentous day for Marcus, even if he was troubled by his friend’s reckless rush into matrimony.
Nearby, the Loring sisters were engaged in an emotional embrace of their own, their tears and smiles a clear indication of their fondness for one another.
Shortly, however, the vicar intervened and urged the newly wedded couple to the rear of the church to sign the documents officially making them man and wife.
Meanwhile, the guests spilled out of the front entrance, most heading for their carriages. The company would repair immediately to Danvers Hall for the wedding breakfast—although breakfast was a misnomer, since the festivities would last all afternoon and evening, culminating with a grand ball.
Marcus had warned that the guest list would be huge, for he wanted much of the ton to take part, to pave the way for his bride to be received in the highest circles. Marrying an earl would go a long way toward restoring Arabella’s tainted reputation, and by association, her sisters’, but Marcus was set on having her fully accepted as his countess.
Drew was not looking forward to the wedding celebrations any more than the wedding. Heath had escorted Eleanor and her aunt, Lady Beldon, to the church and would return them to London this evening once the ball ended, but Drew had brought his own carriage so he could leave early if he wished to.
Yet now he had to deal with Miss Roslyn Loring.
He glanced over the crowd as he descended the front steps, searching for Roslyn. He wanted to get her alone for a private word, but it didn’t appear as if that would happen anytime soon, since she stood with Arabella, who was surrounded by well-wishers, including their once-estranged mother.
After fleeing to the Continent, the scandalous Lady Loring had eventually married her French lover and was now simply Mrs. Henri Vachel. Rather admirably, Marcus had recently arranged for the sisters to be reunited with their mother, and for the moment at least, her disgrace was apparently forgiven.
While Arabella spoke to her, Roslyn was engaged in animated conversation with Fanny Irwin, as well as a fellow teacher at the academy, Miss Blanchard, and the academy’s matronly patroness, Lady Freemantle.
Standing beside Roslyn also was a dark-haired gentleman whom Drew recognized as the Earl of Haviland. When he saw her laughing up at Haviland, Drew’s eyes narrowed.
Eleanor joined him just then and saw where his gaze was fixed. “Are you acquainted with Lord Haviland?” Eleanor asked.
“We have met briefly at various clubs.”
“I should like to meet him. He is said to be a very intriguing man. Supposedly he was a brilliant spy for Wellington and was repudiated by his family for such ungentlemanly behavior. But he was compelled to return home last year when he inherited the title. His country villa is adjacent to Danvers Hall.”
Which explained why Roslyn was on such good terms with him, Drew thought. They were neighbors.
Or perhaps more than neighbors, if her laughing demeanor was any indication.
At the sight of her gazing up so admiringly at Haviland, Drew felt an odd little kick to his stomach. Yet he promptly dismissed the sensation.
He was merely feeling impatience, nothing more. He wanted this interminable day over with. And before it ended, he wanted to question Roslyn Loring about why she had attended an infamous Cyprians’ ball without her guardian’s knowledge or approval.
To Roslyn’s relief, the wedding breakfast and ball proved a splendid success. She was chiefly responsible for overseeing the lavish celebrations, a daunting challenge for the sheer size alone. An army of servants had prepared frantically for days, ensuring that Danvers Hall sparkled and the grounds gleamed.
The enormous throng of guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, if their laughter and gaiety was any indication. The crowds had spent the afternoon feasting at banquet tables beneath colorful tents, playing various games on the lawns, boating on the River Thames behind the manor, and strolling in the terraced gardens.
In the past half hour, the merry company had removed indoors to the ballroom and parlors to partake of dancing and cards. Roslyn had watched with delight as Marcus led out Arabella for the opening quadrille, but when the orchestra struck up the first waltz, she settled gratefully in a chair in the far corner of the ballroom. After the frenetic activity of the past few weeks, she was glad for the respite.
She was gladder still to have avoided the Duke of Arden thus far. Thankfully, her hostess duties had kept her occupied and afforded them no opportunity for private conversation. She didn’t want to be alone with Arden so he could grill her about her attendance at the Cyprians’ ball a fortnight ago.
She’d felt his eyes fastened upon her more than once during the course of the afternoon. Those vibrant green eyes were cool and critical, and Roslyn had done her best to ignore him. Yet he clearly comprehended her tactics. Moments ago when he’d spied her across the ballroom floor, he had offered her a smile filled with lazy charm, but his keen gaze promised an eventual accounting.
Roslyn was remembering that unnerving look when Fanny settled beside her. “You appear spent, my dear.”
Roslyn smiled. “I am indeed a little weary, but any discomfort I feel is utterly worthwhile. I have never seen Arabella so happy.”
“I know.” Fanny gazed wistfully toward the ballroom floor where Arabella was waltzing with her new husband. “I’m thankful that you and your sisters allowed me to take part in the celebrations.”
“You didn’t expect anything less, did you?”
“No.” A trill of Fanny’s musical laughter followed. “You all place such high value on loyalty and friendship that you are willing to flout society for my sake. But I only hope your defiance doesn’t prove too detrimental to your own matrimonial prospects.”
Roslyn shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t want any husband who cannot value loyalty and friendship as I do. And Lily doesn’t wish to wed at all, so the issue of your jeopardizing our matrimonial prospects is immaterial.”
The two women shared a moment of amiable accord before Fanny spoke again. “You aren’t dancing?”
Roslyn’s smile turned to a wry grimace. “My feet hurt too much in these new slippers. Marcus insisted on funding completely new wardrobes for us all, and I had no time to break them in.”
“I noticed you haven’t spoken to the duke since the church service.”
The observation elicited a rueful sigh from Roslyn. She’d given Fanny an abbreviated recount of what had happened the night of the Cyprians’ ball, although leaving out the fact that she’d shared more than a kiss with the duke. “No, we haven’t spoken, but I must eventually, I suppose. Arden has demanded an explanation and threatened to tell Marcus if I don’t comply. He thinks I have betrayed his friend’s trust, which isn’t quite true, since when I attended the ball with you, Marcus had already granted us our legal independence from his guardianship and I was no longer technically his ward.”
“Why don’t you simply tell Arden the truth? Your motives were not so devious, after all.”
Roslyn laughed outright. “I doubt he would understand my desire to make Lord Haviland fall in love with me. And the less I have to do with the Duke of Arden the better.”
Her lips pursing in amusement, Fanny waved a hand airily down the sidelines. “Clearly not everyone feels the same as you do.”
Following her gaze, Roslyn saw Arden in conversation with a half dozen of the other wedding guests. Not surprisingly he was the center of attention—and not merely because he was a scion of the nobility. His magnetic, commanding presence drew the eye. That, along with a breathtaking virility, made every member of the female sex take notice.
“The ladies are obviously eager to shower him with attention,” Roslyn agreed.
“Not just the ladies,” Fanny countered. “The young bucks in London all try to mimic his sporting exploits. And he is well respected for his political views by the Whigs and many of the Tories as well. Arden takes his seat in the House of Lords quite seriously.”
She raised an eyebrow. That the duke was a sportsman was obvious, to judge by his well-muscled shoulders and limbs, but that he would be interested in governing the country did indeed surprise her.
Roslyn shook her head. “No doubt he is a perfect paragon, but he is a trifle too arrogant for my tastes. The night of the Cyprians’ ball, he clearly expected me to fall swooning at his feet.”
“Arrogant, perhaps, but handsome, you must admit,” Fanny prodded.
It was true, Roslyn thought, the duke was devastatingly handsome. His hair was dark blond, a rich shade of amber, and he had the aristocratic, beautifully carved features of a fallen angel.
But physical beauty had never impressed her much. Appearance had little to do with the true measure of a man. She herself had been misjudged far too often because of her looks, for many people automatically assumed she had no brains or substance of character.
Indeed, Roslyn had always seen her beauty as something of a curse. And she suspected Arden might have been subjected to a similar prejudice. With his dark gold hair, his lithe elegance, his polished address, he was the model of masculine perfection. Roslyn had to admit, however, that she found his sardonic smile more appealing than any of his other physical attributes, since it made him seem a little less perfect and more human.
Of course, she had experienced several of his other devastatingly masculine attributes firsthand. She could remember with startling vividness the hardness of his body, his magical hands, his hot, searching mouth….
Scolding herself, she sat up straighter in her chair. She had vowed to drive those erotic images from her memory and never dwell on them again.
Unquestionably, however, she wasn’t the only female here tonight to find Arden appealing. One of the most flirtatious and troublesome pupils at their academy, Miss Sybil Newstead, was gazing up at him admiringly—ogling him, in fact—and hanging on his every word. Yet when the girl brazenly reached out to touch the sleeve of his elegant coat, he slowly lifted an eyebrow and stared down at her clutching fingers until Sybil snatched her hand away.
At the deep flush staining her cheeks, Roslyn couldn’t help but smile at how his cool hauteur had depressed the little hussy’s pretensions.
“You should take note of her miscalculation, Roslyn,” Fanny remarked sagely. “There is an art to dealing with experienced noblemen of Arden’s stamp, and that bold young minx is an utter novice.”
“I am very much a novice also,” she said thoughtfully, “despite what you have tried to teach me.”
Fanny’s mouth curved in a teasing smile. “Perhaps you should ask the duke to advise you. If you could learn to attract a man like him, you can be sure the ploys would work on Lord Haviland.”
Her suggestion made Roslyn laugh again. “I cannot imagine the illustrious Duke of Arden sinking so low as to help me capture a husband.” Her friend was jesting, of course, although no doubt Arden could teach her more than a thing or two about the attributes he found desirable in a mistress.
She was precluded from further considering the possibility when her sister Lily joined them.
“Please, you have to save me,” Lily lamented, sinking into the seat next to Roslyn.
“Save you?”
“From Winifred’s infuriating attempts at matchmaking. I vow she is driving me to distraction.”
By Winifred, she meant Lady Freemantle, the patroness of their academy.
“What has she done that is so terrible?” Fanny asked curiously.
“She is set on throwing me at the Marquess of Claybourne.”
Fanny’s brows drew together. “How so?”
“She practically begged him to dance with me and then prosed on and on about what an exemplary young lady I am. His lordship could scarcely keep a straight face.”
“That is a crime indeed.”
“It is no laughing matter, Fanny!” Lily said in exasperation. “It is utterly mortifying to be dragged before an eligible nobleman and exhibited like a heifer at a fair.” Lily shifted her attention to her sister. “I came to warn you, Roslyn. Next, Winifred will be trying to arrange a match for you with Arden, for she hinted as much.”
The prospect of enduring Winifred’s machinations unsettled Roslyn, while Fanny found it highly amusing. “I doubt she will have much success,” Fanny said. “Matrons have marked Arden as a target for their unwed daughters for years. He’s been chased mercilessly by designing females of all ages since he left off short coats, yet no one has come close to catching him. Trust me, he is aware of every trick and stratagem. Not even Lady Freemantle could ensnare the elusive duke unless he wishes to be caught. Or the marquess either.”
“Even so, I don’t mean to let her carry her wretched intrigues any further,” Lily declared.
Roslyn quelled a smile at her sister’s earnestness. Lily would rather have her fingernails torn out than play the mating game that was eagerly embraced by most young ladies of quality.
“It would be impolite,” Lily added, “to abandon the celebrations before the late supper is served, but afterward…I hope to convince Tess that we should leave early. I trust you don’t mind, Roslyn. I will be happy to return tomorrow to help you put the Hall to rights again, but you will have to excuse me tonight.”
The two sisters planned to spend tonight at the house of their close friend, Tess Blanchard, to give the newlyweds privacy on their wedding night. It would only be for this one night, since Arabella and Marcus would embark on their wedding trip tomorrow morning. “I don’t mind if you go home early with Tess, Lily, but I will need to remain until the last guests depart.”
“Perhaps you can ask Winifred to take you to Tess’s in her carriage. Her ladyship will stay till the last dance, if I know her.”
“Winifred won’t mind, I’m certain,” Roslyn said. “But you and I should say farewell privately to Arabella before you go.”
“Of course.” Lily offered her a smile of gratitude and relief and then rose to her feet. “Pray excuse me. I need to find Tess and ask her to sacrifice for me just this once. She was so looking forward to this evening, and I hate to spoil her enjoyment. But now the pleasure is entirely spoiled for me, too. At least Tess will likely sympathize with my plight, since she has been the victim of Winifred’s maddening matchmaking schemes before.”
Fanny rose also. “I had best go myself, since I have promised dances to several gentlemen, and I cannot afford to disappoint them. May I bring you some punch or a glass of wine first, Roslyn?”
“Thank you, no, Fanny. I need to check in on the kitchens shortly to be certain the preparations for supper are proceeding smoothly, but for the moment, I only want to sit quietly.”
When her sister and friend were gone, Roslyn found her gaze returning to Arabella and Marcus. Along with utter delight, she felt a wistful stab of envy at their remarkable happiness.
Oh, she enjoyed her current life, to be sure. Even before Marcus’s generous settlement, the income she earned from teaching at the academy had given her adequate financial freedom. And preparing young girls to become refined young ladies who could compete in the glittering world of the ton was very rewarding. Yet she felt something vital was missing in her life. Her sisters were infinitely dear to her, but they couldn’t fulfill her yearning for love…for a husband and children of her own.
And now that Arabella had found happiness in marriage, Roslyn’s resolve was only bolstered. She wanted to find that kind of true love for herself.
Roslyn hoped it would be with Rayne Kenyon, the Earl of Haviland. The black sheep of his illustrious family, Lord Haviland had unexpectedly inherited the title and fortune last year, which made him an extremely eligible bachelor, despite his nonconformist nature and his distaste for the trappings of the peerage.
As a rebel, he had more in common with Lily than with herself, Roslyn knew. In looks he was also very different from her. He was tall, as she was, but dark-haired, and handsome in a harsh sort of way, with a bold, masculine virility that commanded attention and respect. Yet Roslyn found herself attracted to his rugged appeal, as well as his forthright manner and his wicked sense of humor.
Because he disdained the frivolity and supercilious pretenses of the ton, Haviland had never bothered to learn the exalted social graces expected of an earl. Yet for his family’s sake, he had begun making an effort to establish himself in society.
It was his regard for family that had most impressed her. She’d seen his affection for his nephews recently when he began teaching them to swim next door. And he was quite busy these days, squiring his elderly grandmother around London. Such kindness was just the quality Roslyn wanted in a husband.
More important for her, Haviland was said to be in the market for a bride, although chiefly at his grandmother’s urging.
Roslyn’s gaze moved over the ballroom, unconsciously watching for Lord Haviland. She didn’t see him among the dancers. Perhaps she should go in search of him….
Roslyn looked up just then to see Winifred bearing down upon her with the Duke of Arden in tow. Deplorably, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. But then she pressed her lips together in vexation. After Lily’s warning, she knew precisely what Winifred intended. Regrettably, though, there was no escape.
Rising to her feet, Roslyn stood reluctantly waiting for her ladyship’s assault.
A large, ruddy-faced woman, Winifred had a booming voice and accent that betrayed her lower-class origins, but she was a kind soul and very well meaning. She’d been their dear friend and supporter for four years, ever since the disgraced Loring sisters had come to live at Danvers Hall with their step-uncle. In fact, she had been more of a mother to them than their real mother.
The summer previous to their arrival, Winifred had been widowed, a misfortune that had left her heartbroken—which was rather odd considering that hers had been an arranged marriage where she had wed far above her station. Her father, a wealthy industrialist who’d made a vast fortune with his manufacturing and mining enterprises, had purchased a baronet for her in hopes of elevating his daughter to the gentry.
Seventeen years later, Sir Rupert Freemantle had unexpectedly suffered heart failure, yet Winifred still wore the willow for him. She was dressed in the height of fashion now, but her gown of lavender crepe was the color of half-mourning. And she rarely was seen without a certain silver-enameled brooch pinned over her ample bosom in memory of her late husband, for inside was a miniature portrait of Sir Rupert. To anyone’s knowledge, Winifred had never considered remarrying, even though she was barely middle-aged now, no more than forty.
She was fingering her brooch absently when she reached Roslyn. “There you are, my dear,” Winifred exclaimed jovially. “Why are you hiding yourself away like a wallflower? You should be dancing.” Without waiting for a reply, Winifred gestured at the nobleman beside her. “Allow me to present the Duke of Arden. His grace will make you an ideal partner, so I have brought him to you.”
Trying to hide a wince of embarrassment, Roslyn offered Arden a polite curtsy, then murmured in an exasperated undertone, “Winifred, I am certain his grace can find his own dance partners.”
“But none as beautiful or charming as you, dear. The duke will be well pleased to become better acquainted with you.”
Since the music had just ended, her ladyship’s voice carried over half the ballroom. Roslyn felt color flood her cheeks at her friend’s obvious attempts at matchmaking. Lily was right; it was indeed mortifying.
She stole a glance at the duke. His expression was enigmatic, so she couldn’t tell if he was feeling the same vexation that she was at being cajoled to dance with her.
Indeed, he was all politeness when he bowed and said, “Will you do me the honor of dancing with me, Miss Roslyn?”
Roslyn managed a strained smile. “You are all kindness, your grace. But I was just on my way to the kitchens to confer with our housekeeper about the supper buffet. I hope you will understand if I beg to be excused.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” he replied, a gleam in his green eyes that said he knew very well why she didn’t wish to be alone with him.
Winifred looked unhappy, but Arden merely shrugged his elegant shoulders. “By all means, don’t let me keep you from your duties.”
“Thank you, your grace.”
Curtsying again, Roslyn turned away and tried not to hurry from the ballroom as she’d done the night of the Cyprians’ ball, yet she could feel his penetrating gaze boring into her back all the while.