Too Scandalous to Wed (16 page)

Big mistake. One look at the sinfully striking viscount, and her breath hitched. Her heart pattered, too. And that all too familiar sensation—desire—started to warm her belly. She might not like the rogue, but she still found him tempting to look at.

Henrietta had to keep her voice from squeaking. A dratted effort it was, too. “Won’t it ruin your roguish reputation, visiting with your intended bride?”

“It will ruin my roguish reputation even more if my own bride despises me.” Then in a gruff voice: “Come, Miss Ashby, let us forget about the past.”

She was strapped for words. The gall of the man to suggest she overlook his wrongdoing. It wasn’t as if he was remiss and had neglected to pull out her chair at dinner. The bounder had broken her heart! How was she supposed to forget
that
?

“You and I are to be married, Miss Ashby. Let us begin anew.” He stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

She gawked at the offered truce. Was the cold seeping into the man’s brain, freezing all his good sense? “You and I are not friends, Ravenswood.”

“Why, Miss Ashby? Because we had a tiff?”

Tiff?

“Friends do quarrel, you know?” he said. “And a good friend will always forgive another’s transgression.”

“Then I must not be a very good friend,” she said tightly.

He tsked. “Don’t say that, Miss Ashby. You are a very dear friend…and a soon-to-be wife.”

Her heart throbbed. Something was ringing in her ears: a shrill voice telling her to sweep up her skirts and run. She didn’t, though.

“I asked you a question back inside the house, Ravenswood, but you never answered me.”

“And what question would that be?”

“Why are you so late?”

“Ah, so you’re still jealous,” he said with aplomb, then softly, “I rather like it when you’re jealous, Miss Ashby.”

“I am
not
jealous,” she hissed. “I just want to know the reason for your tardiness.”

“Well, it is winter, Miss Ashby. The roads are terrible.”

She humphed. “I don’t believe you. Every other guest arrived on time.”

“Bravo for every other guest.”

Oh, the maddening man! “You left me alone on purpose, admit it.”

“And why would I do that, Miss Ashby?”

“To humiliate me, you blackguard!”

He tsked again. “Such language, Miss Ashby. How unseemly.”

He dared to lecture her on polite behavior? A lecher of the highest order? She was desperate for a rock.

“You were at the Hellfire Club, weren’t you?” she charged. “Dallying with a
nun
!”

He lifted his deep blue eyes to stare at her with scrutiny. “And what if I was?”

She gasped. “So you admit it?”

“I admit nothing, Miss Ashby. I only ask: what
if
I was there? Would you be jealous?”

“Rot! I don’t care if you romp around with a skirt.”

“Is that so?” he drawled.

She gathered her shaky breath. All right, perhaps she cared a little. But not in the way he was suggesting. Jealousy, her foot! She was thinking about her respectability, that was all. The respectability of her family. She didn’t want the Ashby name disgraced by Ravenswood’s wild behavior.

She huffed, “I expect you to be discreet about your affairs.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning to have any affairs, but if you insist…”

She gnashed her teeth. “If you have even a dash of honor in your soul, you will not disgrace me—a
friend
—in public.”

“Miss Ashby, I would never do anything so shameful.” He brushed his thumb across the ridge of her brow in a feathery stroke. “Would it please you to hear I was not at the abbey?” He traced the
pad of his thumb across her frosty cheek, down the rigid length of her jaw. “Would it please you to hear I haven’t been back to the abbey since the night we quarreled?”

She shivered under his oh-so-ginger touch. Breathless, she said, “I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, believe me, Miss Ashby. For the past four days I’ve been shut up in my room, thinking about you—and our pending nuptials.”

It took her lips a few moments to catch up with her bewildering thoughts. Was the daft man talking about the wedding night? As if she would ever consider letting him near her in
that
way again.

“A pity you squandered away your nights daydreaming,” she quipped.

“Do not pity me, Miss Ashby. My time was pleasantly engaged with thoughts of you.”

Oh, drat her treacherous heart for pulsing so! “I’m privy to your charms, Ravenswood. You will not win your way back into my bed with a few whispered words and an artful touch.”

He reared his head—and hand—back, aghast. “Why, Miss Ashby, is
that
what you think of me? I’m hurt, truly I am. I was only thinking about our marital life together.” He lifted his eyes heavenward, as though deep in thought. “I suppose I will have to buy a home in the more fashionable part of London, give up my bachelor residence for good. And you shall want to decorate the abode, I’m sure, so I’ll summon an interior designer posthaste.” His smol
dering eyes met hers once more. “But I’ve no intention of bedding you, I assure you.”

“Oh.”

Why the devil did her heart hurt so? She had no desire to carouse with the viscount, even if he should woo her. He was a villain, remember? A fiend. Good riddance!

“You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear, Miss Ashby. Our marriage is to be in name only. I respect your decision.”

Henrietta eyed him shrewdly. “You do?”

A curt nod. “Of course I do. I’m not a devil through and through, you know? I do have a ‘dash’ of honor.” A dark fire sparked in his eyes. “And I shall prove it to you. We will settle this matter once and for all.”

She shivered. A good sort of shiver. The kind that made her feel all warm and tingly. “Settle what?”

“Our strife, of course.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“We shall have a contest.”

“Gamble, you mean?”

He nodded. “It is the only reasonable way for two members of the peerage to settle a dispute. If I win, we start anew. Wipe the slate clean, if you will. And as forfeit…I can ask anything of you I wish.”

Henrietta took in a sharp breath.
He
would request another kiss, she was sure. Or some other sexual favor, scoundrel that he was.

“And if I win?” she said.

“Then I suppose we don’t begin anew, and as forfeit you can ask anything of me in return.”

“A house, for instance?”

“Yes, I already mentioned—”

“No, I mean a house of my own, where
you
cannot visit.” She smiled at the perky thought. “And you can keep your bachelor residence to boot.”

Now
that
was the perfect way to spend the rest of her married days with Ravenswood—apart.

There was a dark gleam in the viscount’s eyes. He was quiet for a moment. She doubted he would accept her terms. But at length, he nodded slowly.

“Very well, Miss Ashby. A house it is.”

She scrunched her face in misgiving. He was much too cavalier for her liking. What was the man scheming?

“I think I’d rather face you on the dueling field, Ravenswood.”

“Miss Ashby, you are a woman…whatever your father might say.”

“Rot! I’m a good shot. It would be a fair fight.”

He said gruffly, “You would shoot me?” The fire in his eyes burned bright. “You hate me that much?”

She stared at his mesmerizing eyes, forgot her words for a moment, then said, “Shoot you, yes. Kill you, no.”

But she’d like to wound the blackguard, make him feel some of the pain he’d made her feel.

“Well, Miss Ashby, while you might be able to shoot me, I could never shoot you.”

She huffed. He was playing the gallant knight again. But she’d indulge his peculiar request. Anything to be rid of the man’s sultry touches and whispered words. She trusted even a knave like Ravenswood would honor a challenge loss. And if she won the wager, she intended to buy the biggest house she could find and bankrupt him furnishing it.

“A contest it is then,” she said.

“Wise decision, Miss Ashby.”

What decision? It’s not like she had a choice in the matter.

“So what shall we wager?” she said. “Who can irk the other the most?”

“Touché, Miss Ashby.” He even offered her a little smile that made her heart jump. “I was thinking more along the lines of a duel—with snow.”

“Snow?”

Sebastian hunched down and gathered a lump of snow into his hands. “Do you see that tree?”

Henrietta cast her eyes over the land. “The gnarled one by the marble urn?”

“That’s right.” He squashed the snow into a hard ball. “Whoever hits the tree wins.”

Henrietta eyed the tree. About forty paces, she reckoned. She could do it.

“Can I hit any part of the tree?” she wondered.

Sebastian aligned himself with the target. “The center is preferable, but any part will do.”

Henrietta nodded. “Very well, then.”

She tucked her arms into Sebastian’s coat, to keep
the garment in place, then she, too, hunched down and collected the fresh fallen snow. Rolling it in her hands, she watched her opponent.

Sebastian was first. He took a step forward, brought his arm back, paused, then pitched the snowball across the green.

It hit a sagging branch.

Sebastian didn’t look too happy about his flimsy shot.

Henrietta, on the other hand, was tickled.

“I think I can beat that,” she said with a smug air, and flounced over to the spot opposite the tree.

Sebastian took a step back.

But she could feel his hot stare on her the entire time.

Well, he would not intimidate her. In just a second she was going to be rid of the man for good. No more smoldering looks or spicy scents or toe-curling smiles. Not that she yearned for any of that anymore. Certainly not.

Henrietta eyed the tree trunk. She was a skilled marksman with a gun or arrow. Papa had made sure to teach her—well, he had hired someone to teach her the skill. Papa didn’t have very good aim himself. But Henrietta was a brilliant shot. Always had been. This should be as easy as pilfering pastries from the cook’s pantry.

She swung her arm, let the snowball fly…and watched it miss the tree entirely.

Henrietta stared, dumbfounded.

She had lost.

How the devil had she lost?

A triumphant smile slowly curled the viscount’s lips. “Well, Miss Ashby, it looks like you’ve lost.”

She gnashed her teeth. “So it would seem.”

“That means I am the winner.”

The conceited blackguard! “Yes, Ravenswood, I know.”

“And I can ask anything of you I wish.”

She huffed. “So ask.”

He took a step back and made a sweeping bow. “Will you do me the honor of a dance?”

“What, no kisses?”

Drat! She had
not
meant to say that aloud. Her cheeks quickly warmed.

Sebastian quirked a mischievous brow. “No kisses, Miss Ashby. I am a gentleman, after all.”

It took all her strength to keep from snorting.

He held out his hand. “Shall we?”

Henrietta stared at the large, muscular hand. Tickles of warmth spread through her. She was being a deuced ninny about this. She had lost the wager. Fair was fair. She needn’t be squeamish. She just had to dance with the bounder and be done with it. She would find some other way to oust the knave from her life. There was no sense idling. She would not let the viscount intimidate her. She had more valor than that.

Henrietta slipped her hand in his. She shivered. He had such a strong hand. It very nearly oozed virility.

The music from the anteroom seeped outside, soft waves of sound intruding on the quiet terrace.

“You and I have never danced before.” He gathered her in his arms for a waltz. “Why is that?”

Henrietta gritted, “Because you’ve never asked me to.”

“Ah, yes.” He swept her across the terrace. “But we were not betrothed back then. We are now, though, and I think this is a splendid way to begin anew, don’t you?”

She didn’t say anything. She was too busy trying to keep her footsteps in sync, for the bounder was making her forget her thoughts, her very sense of self.

Curse him! He was arousing feelings inside her she would rather have stomped asunder. Feelings of warmth and security, even. Since girlhood she had known she would feel safe in the viscount’s arms. That the rogue could still inspire her foolish childhood fancy was intolerable. Henrietta wanted to wrest free of his hold and dash back into the house; to barricade herself in her room, against the viscount’s wicked charms.

“It’s starting to snow,” he said softly.

Henrietta lifted her eyes to the heavens. Powder puffs drifted from the night sky, a light flurry sprinkling the earth.

She whirled beneath the falling snow, a horrendous sorrow washing over her. It was so perfect, she thought. The romantic night, the viscount in her arms—and it was all an illusion. Four days ago, she would have laughed with joy to have been in such a moment. Now she only wanted to weep. The viscount in her arms was a fallen hero. The night was cold and dark, so like the sentiments in her heart.

She resented Sebastian asking her to dance. The playful waltz only reminded her of her childish foolery. And she wanted so much to forget.

“What’s the matter, Miss Ashby?”

He whispered the words. Henrietta almost wished he’d said the name “Henry,” instead.

“I’m feeling dizzy,” she fibbed. She wanted out of the viscount’s arms. She wanted out of the illusion he was only helping to sustain.

Sebastian stopped. But he did not let her go.

“Come,” he said. “We’ll go inside. You can sit down in there.”

“No.” She shrugged off his coat and handed him the garment. “I’ll return to the house alone. I think I will retire to bed. You have a game of billiards to play with Papa.”

She headed for the terrace doors.

“Good night, Miss Ashby,” he said quietly after her.

Henrietta paused, then quickly skirted back inside the house.

A figure lurked in the shadows.

Emerson was in hiding from Ravenswood. He did not want an encore of their last row, so humiliating for him. He had come to tonight’s festivity to rejoice in his machinations, to see the viscount wallow in agony…but something had gone awry.