Romancing the Rogue (5 page)

Why Rum Is Henceforth Banned At Rougemont

Lord Devon still
hadn’t said a word. He lounged in the window seat overlooking the west courtyard. Long minutes, perhaps a quarter hour — a long time for silence. It seemed he hardly blinked or even moved.

Sophia reclined on a settee, studying the sitting room fit for a queen.
Scarlet velvet drapes framed tall windows, and
marble tile veined in black and red peeked beneath gorgeous Persian rugs like the ones she admired in the music room. Dramatic mahogany furniture gave the room its somber Rococo style. Elegant but serious, a space she could relax in. The enormous canopied bed called to her.
Feather stuffed — hallelujah!

The painted friezes of Roman goddesses and their lovers chasing each other across the ceiling put her in a maudlin mood. Sophia was all too aware of the far door of the bedchamber connecting to Lord Devon’s —
Wilhelm’s
, she corrected herself —
dressing room. Of course it would stay locked, but she would think far too often of who slept on the other side.

Finally he turned and stared, and she felt conspicuous. His gaze raked over her, a slow study with a hint of erotic interest belying his even expression. Why did he do that? She stared back, blatantly studying him in return, but the brazenness seemed lost on him.

Wilhelm looked striking, cast half in light and half in shadow. His coloring was subdued, as though God had not dared paint such a grim, ferocious man with frivolous colors. Storm-grey eyes, sharp rather than brilliant. Careless waves of collar-length hair a sandy blond that had probably grown darker as he matured. And
mature
was the word. His thirty-some-odd years had not been kind. He looked excessively weather-beaten and scarred for a lord. He was essentially too much. Too handsome, domineering, far too interesting.

“I feel wary of you as well, Rosalie.”

“You see too much, Wilhelm.” She shifted, and he tracked the movement.

“I am often told that, in variations.”

“What were you thinking of just now? You seemed deep in concentration.”

He shook his head. “We deal in secrets, you and I. Tell me one of yours, and I’ll tell one of mine.”

“All right. Well, I once ran naked down Rue de Jardinet at midnight. I was drunk and lost a wager.”

Oh, that beguiling half-smile! One side of his mouth pulled up, carving a dimple in one cheek while the other side set in a smirk. It made him look like a mischievous pirate. She could grow accustomed to teasing that smile out of him.

“Interesting, Rosalie, but it must be the one I ask for.”

Returning his smirk kept a flush of embarrassment at bay. “What do you want to know?” His gaze bore into hers, and she felt as naked as she had that wild night in Paris, but painfully sober.

“What sort of foe do I protect you from?” Before she could object, he added, “The truth, please, or I will know. And if you won’t give names, at least tell what we are up against.”

We.
We? Since when had they become
we
?

Wilhelm unfolded himself and stalked to the settee, kneeling before her where she couldn’t escape the cold fire burning in the facets of his eyes. Up close he was mesmerizing.

“You are hiding from the law… No. You’ve been wronged. Betrayed. Ah, yes — a truth. By your husband? No. Someone else in your family.” His gaze scanned her face as though her entire history was written there. “And you are frightened. But I see such ruthlessness in you. You are ready to fight. You expect it. And that resolve was instilled in you by a great deal of hardship.”

Sophia turned away before he guessed everything else. “Stop that.”

“I apologize.”

What, are you a gypsy fortune teller? How did you do that? I didn’t say a word.”

“Your face did. Your eyes hardened when I mentioned betrayal. You swallow when you are angry. And your pupils dilate when I guess the truth, but you blink when I am wrong. Otherwise, you are admirably demure. Never fear, you would fool all but the best.”

“And you are the best?”

Wilhelm smiled, and she hoped he wouldn’t do it often — it was blinding. Wearing a true smile, he went from roughly handsome to devastating. “You said so, not me. Now your turn. Ask.”

“Why do you offer me such freedom? To a stranger?”

“Some reasons I may tell you later. But primarily, I like you. I suppose I trust you.”

“You
suppose
?”

“Instinctually — I am seldom wrong. Why, should I not trust you?”

“Not for a moment.” She tried to smile but couldn’t manage it.

“Now that,” he leaned in to peck a kiss to her temple, “was honest. Do come down for dinner at the bell. Half past six, but I suppose you already know that. And wear something fit for a lady.”

And then he was gone, leaving her left temple aflame with the memory of his lips on her skin. For the first time in her life, she found herself interested in a man who clearly didn’t want her at all. Surprising how that stung. Petty that she reassured herself,
He prefers men — it must be true.
Wasn’t that the way of it, the most appealing being out of reach?

She’d met scores like him among the demi-monde in Paris, Athens, Venice, some overtly deviant and others, like Lord Devon, who seemed entirely masculine. The alternative possibility, that he consorted with women but she simply didn’t inspire his passion, bothered her far more than she would admit.

~~~~

“Whatever is the
matter, dear?”

Sophia desperately wanted to scramble from the dining room in a panic and barely registered Aunt Louisa’s flat tone. She couldn’t eat a single bite of the cake before her. Cold shivers froze her blood, numbing her limbs.

Cornered. Dewy glass at her back and her escape blocked. The sharp bloom of panic exploding in her chest. Restrained and powerless as he slammed her against the wall, again and again until her vision blurred. Grasping, scratching, desperate to defend herself — her fingers slid on sweat-slicked flesh, hairy strong limbs. Futility. Sickening dread. His panting and grunting in her ear. Gagging with every gust of his putrid rum breath, the horror of choking when everything depended on being able to scream—

Maple rum, maple rum… mixed with the stench of congealed blood, manure, and crushed petals.

Her stomach heaved and her ears told her someone had given her a dish just in time. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she could banish the tactile sensations of the memory if she pushed them farther from her mind.

“Rosalie. Breathe.” A gentle hand rubbed warm circles down her back.

“Oh, damn it all,” she muttered despite herself. Sophia forced her eyes open and saw the bottom half of furniture and a curtain of gold damask — the tablecloth. She sat under the dining room table, cradled in Lord Devon’s lap. He called out and another voice responded, and as he leaned forward she realized he was handing a sorbet dish filled with rather disgusting contents to a footman, who retrieved it and left the room. By the sound of the quick footsteps following, Aunt Louisa fled the scene as well.

Sophia squirmed and he let her go. Instead of crawling out, Lord Devon shifted and leaned his back against the thick column of the table support, sliding down and ducking his head so he fit. His outstretched legs framed hers as she sat between his knees, but it was hardly the most inappropriate or bizarre aspect of the situation.

“So you don’t like rum. Or was it Monsieur Girard’s maple rum cake? I must agree it was a bit soggy.” He reached his hand past the tablecloth, blindly palming the surface of the table. He knocked something over before producing her wine glass.

She pulled deep swallows, trying to chase away the bitter aftertaste in her mouth as well as the residual horror still kicking her heartbeat into double time. She tried to take the glass from Lord Devon and hold it herself but found she was shaking, and his help prevented her from spilling wine down the front of her dress.

“Breathe deeply, Rosalie, and your pulse will calm,” came his mesmerizing low voice. “When your heart calms, your hands will stop shaking.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. Sophia covered her face with her hands and slumped over. “I have a very sincere apology on the tip of my tongue, but it sounds inadequate and I haven’t even begun.”

“Forget it.” Then he simply sat, doing nothing. The silence ticked by without expectation or tension. That soothed her, too.

Finally she blurted, “I am so sorry, Wilhelm. I had no idea I would be stricken in such a manner, or I wouldn’t have put us all in such an embarrassing position.”

“You froze and started gasping — symptoms of poisoning. I am only glad it’s not that.”

“This sounds absurd, but the scent of the rum touched a foul memory and sent me reeling.”

“And I thought it was some elaborate scheme to get rid of Aunt Louisa.” He nudged her knee with his. “It worked. Well done.”

“In case forty-five minutes of stiff conversation hadn’t already done it, I’m sure I have won her over now.”

“Well, that is the last time we serve rum dishes at Rougemont. Care to explain your trouble?”

“No.”

“Very well. Why don’t you join Aunt Louisa in the music room?”

Sophia would’ve thought he was punishing her, but Wilhelm handed her out from under the table and supported her so gently, she sensed no ire. In fact, he’d been remarkably sanguine about the entire episode.

In silence, he escorted her to the east wing, then paused at the doorway and smoothed stray tendrils of her hair. “We are more alike than you know, Rosalie. I am also… haunted. I would never mean you harm. But at times I don’t know where I am. That is… I believe I see one thing, but it’s, ah…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Run away. When I seem not myself, or if I frighten you, leave me be.”

“Run away? What—”

He sighed. “I have a poor way with words.” Wilhelm kissed her temple again and left her inside the music room to fend for herself with an incensed Aunt Louisa.

“Are you quite recovered, Mrs. Cooper?”

“Yes, thank you.” She expected no quarter from Aunt Louisa.

She expected correctly.

“What are you about, Mrs. Cooper?” Aunt Louisa’s hands perched on the arms of a wingback chair, her posture like a portrait of an arrogant King Henry sitting on the throne.

“I am sure I do not grasp your meaning.”

“What do you want with my nephew Lord Devon?”

Sophia carefully kept her inflection even to avoid the impression of sarcasm. “Nothing at all, to be quite clear.”

“Balderdash. You are his mistress?”

“I am whatever Lord Devon says.”

“And what does he say?”

“Today, I am the governess.”

Aunt Louisa looked her over with an arched brow. “Are you breeding?”

“N—no!” Sophia choked. “Good heavens, no.”

“Good. Because no babe in your belly, not even his own, would snare him. Years ago Lord Devon entailed all his titles and lands to Philip Cavendish, whom he loves like a nephew.”

The urge to say, “
Is that so?”
nearly won out, but Sophia managed a nod with her mouth closed and her expression set in polite interest. “That is none of my business, of course, but I presume Lord Devon manages his affairs with acuity.”

Aunt Louisa leveled her penetrating stare at Sophia. “You are strange, Mrs. Cooper. I shall figure you out anon. Meanwhile, allow me to warn you: Lord Devon is a good man, but he is not your
Mr. Darcy.
I guarantee you will not abide the symptoms of his suffering. I predict you will run afraid before the month is out. The sooner the better.”

Before Sophia uttered a word, Aunt Louisa leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But if you injure him, play him false — wrong him in any way, I shall see to it personally that you regret it.”

Lord Devon barged through the doors of the music room. Judging by his expression, he hadn’t heard his aunt’s threat. He kissed Aunt Louisa’s hand, and Sophia assumed his gesture for her would be the same, but instead he pulled her out of her seat and onto the sofa then sat next to her. Right next to her, with his thigh pressing along the length of hers. He leaned back in a casual pose and draped his arm across the back of the sofa, framing her shoulders. Perhaps she was playing the mistress tonight.

“Wilhelm, darling,” Aunt Louisa chimed, all trace of fire-breathing gone. “Just now Mrs. Cooper and I were engaged in a fascinating discussion about Naval history. Remind me, when was the Battle of the Sluys?”

“June the twenty-fourth, the year thirteen-forty.”

Sophia was completely lost, but sensed an attack from Aunt Louisa.

“What day was that?”

“A Tuesday.”

“And the lunar phase?”

“Waning crescent moon.”

Her voice was guileless, but her eyes snapped with the dragon-fire Sophia had imagined earlier. “And who fought? I cannot remember.”

“Edward the Third defeated Hugues Quiéret and Nicolas Béhuchet of the French Navy. What put you on the topic?”

“Oh, I was just wondering who the great-grandson of Béhuchet was.”

Without hesitation Lord Devon answered, “Nicholas dePuis Béhuchet, the third marquis of—” His eyes narrowed and his face fell, as though he just now realized he’d played right into his aunt’s demonstration. It went without saying he had an uncanny ability to remember obscure historical facts. But what was the point?

“Oh, dear. It seems the button on my cuff has come undone. Do you mind, Wilhelm?” Aunt Louisa held up her arm, gesturing to her sleeve. Lord Devon didn’t move from his seat. She sounded so genial that, without Lord Devon’s furious expression, Sophia wouldn’t suspect her simple request.

“He will not. Cannot, to be precise.” Aunt Louisa fastened the button herself with one hand and looked at Lord Devon, then Sophia. “I mean that quite literally. He is incapable of manual function requiring contrary motion, as you might have noticed.”

“I certainly have not,” Sophia protested, disturbed by Lord Devon’s silence.

“My nephew is indisputably a genius. Mathematics, chess, music. He reads in one night what a competent scholar does in a week.”

“That I did notice.” Sophia smiled and turned to Wilhelm, but his downcast eyes seemed to be studying the rug. “And he is present…”

Aunt Louisa sniffed. “He will thank me for explaining in his stead. He is a proud man, but he is not well; you do not know the least of it. Despite his standing, it is the work of a trusted few who protect his power, his freedom. Do you understand? There are those who would manipulate my nephew—”

“You make Lord Devon out as an imbecile,” Sophia protested.

“Far from it! But his history is such that he has enemies. I would give anything to spare him from harm.”