Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Page 9

  Uncomfortably reminded of the events of last year, Diana seized on the children as an excuse and turned to them. “Come. You must return to the nursery. I will have these objects and some of the boxes taken there for you.” She shepherded them out and made the arrangements, then turned to find the marquess behind her, still politely waiting.

  “Are you suggesting a shooting contest, my lord?”

  “Why not? The men will doubtless enjoy it, and Elf is quite skilled. And I wish to see you shoot.”

  As hostess, she could hardly refuse, but as she led the way downstairs, she said, “Why this interest in my abilities, my lord? Last year I had a pistol pressed to your back. I could hardly have missed.”

  “You missed Brand.”

  “I was flustered and he was moving too fast.”

  “You would rather have hit him?”

  “Of course not, but it irritates to have made that mistake. What if he’d been a villain about to shoot me?”

  “You would, I fear, be dead.”

  She cast him a quick look. “Quite. I do not intend to be flustered the next time.”

  Rothgar watched with amusement as the countess organized the shooting contest. She set herself high standards, and was used to meeting them. Most interesting. Unfortunately, everything about the Countess of Arradale was interesting, and much of it was dangerous.

  He had no doubt that in the past year she had been working not just on aim but on the mind. However, he did not believe any skill stayed within bounds. There was a reason to train a boy in weapons and Greek, and in this world, reason not to so train a girl. Perhaps if he’d not let Cyn and Elf grow up together, Elf would not have thrown herself into such wild adventures. It had turned out well, but could have been a tragedy.

  The countess carried the same fizz of frustration and boldness. In some ways, she would make an excellent man, but she was not one. Nor was she the type of woman able to drive out her femininity and live in manly ways. This made her a dangerous, disturbing woman—to him, to others, and to herself. And now he had the king’s commands regarding her.

  Lady Arradale had apparently petitioned the king to be allowed to take her earldom’s seat in the House of Lords. It was, of course, out of the question. Parliament was for men only. Rothgar could see why she would want the tradition changed, but he was sure the king could not. George was very conventional about such things.

  George was so conventional that he’d flown into a rage at the thought. It didn’t help that he’d suddenly become aware that a young, unmarried woman wielded a great deal of power in his realm. That was intolerable, too. The letter commanded Rothgar to study this unnatural creature and report back to him about what could be done to restrain her.

  On second thoughts, this shooting match had perhaps not been a wise suggestion. The last thing needed was for the king to learn she was skilled in such a manly sport. He followed the countess’s straight back down a corridor, disturbed to have been so thoughtless, and aware that it might be symptom of worse.

  He’d have to warn the others not to speak of it.

  By the time they arrived at the long chamber lit by high windows, servants already had four pairs of pistols out and loaded. The targets, he noted, were of human figures, two men and two women with heart shaped “bulls” pinned to their chests.

  “’Pon my soul,” Steen said. “We’re to shoot at women?”

  “Women,” Rothgar pointed out, “are not always harmless.”

  “We most certainly are not,” the countess agreed without a trace of womanly modesty or gentility. “If a woman was firing at you, Lord Steen, it would be folly to hesitate to fire back.”

  “Firing at me?” echoed Steen, clearly at a loss.

  “Portia fired at me,” said Bryght.

  “Elf just threw a knife at me,” said Fort.

  “I did not,” Elf objected. “I aimed at the paper you were holding, and hit exactly where I aimed!”

  “A foolish trick, all the same,” said Rothgar. He turned to the countess. “How will this be arranged?”

  “Closest to the center of the heart wins.”

  Rothgar looked at the pistols. “Are those yours, Lady Arradale?” he asked, indicating a slightly smaller pair.

  “Yes. Elf can use them, too, if she wishes.”

  “But in that case, the gentlemen should use their own, don’t you think?”

  “You have dueling pistols with you?” she asked, clearly startled at the thought. It was oddly pleasant to shock her.

  “One never knows …” he murmured. But then he admitted, “No, but I have my own custom-made traveling pistols.”

  He looked at the other men, and Bryght, as he’d expected, admitted to having his own, too. His brothers were well trained. With a shrug, Elf confessed to having her own pair with her, making Fort roll his eyes, but humorously. That match was turning out surprisingly well without Elf having to try to hide what she was. A Malloren, through and through.

  Servants were sent to bring the familiar weapons, and as they waited, Rothgar asked, “And the prize, Countess?”

  She turned to him, suddenly guarded. “What would you suggest, my lord? I think none of us here would care about a purse of money.”

  “For love, then,” he said deliberately to disconcert her. “We are family, after all.”

  “I am not.”

  “By connection. Do we draw for who shoots first?”

  Her color blossomed interestingly before she turned to pick up a dice box. “We roll for it.”

  He gestured and she rolled the dice, getting eight. He rolled ones so when his pistols arrived and he had loaded them, he went first. He made no attempt not to put a pistol ball in the dead center of two hearts, one male, one female.

  If it came to a contest, he wanted her to know what she faced.

  Among congratulations, he looked at her and saw the spark of true competitiveness in her eyes. Ah, my lady, it is not wise to care so much about mere games.

  Elf, Fort, and Bryght were next in order. Elf took unashamed pleasure in doing a little better than her husband, and Bryght, like Rothgar, made two bulls. Then Lady Arradale stepped up to the mark, back straight, chin set. She might as well have declared her intention to win. Each ball went straight to the center and she turned to meet his eyes as if it were a personal challenge.

  He was not surprised, but was perhaps a little shocked by that degree of skill. Even, in the most subtle sense, aroused. He delighted in excellence.

  Steen was no great shot and amiably waived his turn.

  “What now?” Rothgar asked. “We fire again to settle it?”

  “Into the same targets,” she said, “with white paper behind. We try to make exactly the same hole.”

  “Good lord,” said Steen, and even Bryght looked startled.

  Rothgar, however, picked up his first pistol. “A most intriguing test, Lady Arradale, though such accuracy can serve no purpose in a real situation. A pistol ball in the heart will do the job. In fact, a pistol ball anywhere in the torso is usually effective.”

  “But this is perfection for perfection’s sake, is it not, my lord? As with machines?”

  “Ah. Then by all means let us see who is the most perfect machine.”

  When the white paper had been pinned behind the red heart, he sighted. An interesting challenge, which appealed to his sense of absolutes, of precision. His first shot went very slightly off, he thought, though it was hard to tell at a distance. The second, too. When the papers were brought to him, everyone gathered to study them.

  “The exact mark!” Steen exclaimed. Rothgar was fond of Steen but the man did not think in terms of absolute perfection.

  “No, a trace of white shows,” he said. “Bryght, your turn.”

  Bryght shook his head. “I see no point in this. What good does it do?”

  “You disappoint me. Think of it in mathematical terms. There is right and there is not right.”

  “With figures I grant you, but not with t
his. I bow out.”

  “Elf?”

  Elf shook her head, too. “I know I cannot do it.”

  Rothgar turned to the countess. “I trust you will not disappoint me, my lady.”

  She already had her first pistol in hand. “Of course not. It was my suggestion.”

  She again took that purposeful stance. He wondered who her weapons master was, for the man was good. At the same time, he couldn’t help wishing he had the training of her. She needed to go a little further into the mind, into the soul, to achieve the level she sought.

  But then again, perhaps not. He watched as both pistol balls hit the dead spot. Among cheers the papers were retrieved and studied.

  “A touch of white too,” she said with annoyance.

  “But less, I think,” Bryght said. “Let’s take these back to the house and find some way to measure them. That appeals to my mathematical mind. By gad, Bey, I think she’s bested you!”

  “Which clearly brings solace to your bitter heart. Lady Arradale, do you fence?”

  “Bey—” Bryght protested, but the countess merely smiled.

  “Yes, but not as well as I shoot. I lack a daily training partner.”

  He only just caught himself from offering a bout anyway. His height, reach, and skill would make it no contest at all, but even without that, it would not be wise. All the same, he’d like to test her mettle with a blade, too. He was sure she was devilishly good.

  Chapter 9

  Diana led the way back to the house, outpacing the others deliberately to avoid conversation. Simple matters immediately became complex with the Marquess of Rothgar. She sensed a mix of approval and disapproval in him, and berated herself for caring.

  She did care, however. She cared what he thought of her, and she wanted to win.

  An hour later, after many cups of tea, and the use of measuring sticks and a magnifying glass, the contest was declared to be a draw.

  “Did you notice,” Lord Bryght asked his brother, and Diana thought she saw a glint of amused speculation in his eyes, “that you were both off a fraction to the northeast?” He picked up the four hearts and laid them one over the other.

  Diana took them and riffled through. Not identical, no. That would be beyond reason. But he was right. The error in all four was in the same direction. She took the two that belonged to the marquess and offered them. “A keepsake?”

  “A treasure,” he said, putting them into a pocket with a slight smile. “This time at least I managed to contrive a draw.”

  Elf leaped up. “Diana, I’m told you are skilled at that wretched game of billiards. I am determined to learn, but the men cannot teach me. They have no idea …”

  Diana allowed herself to be swept away on a tide of chatter, and by a very firm grip on her hand. She resisted an urge to look back. There was nothing intimate in his manner. Nothing. It was all her imagination, and she should be grateful to Elf for rescuing her.

  She helped Elf to learn the game then escaped another challenge. She could probably beat most of the men at billiards, too, but she was beginning to feel all the awkwardness of her unusual skills. Worse, there was always the chance that the marquess would be her equal and create that strange connection she was fighting to ignore.

  Intolerable if he defeated her.

  She took refuge again in work. Two peaceful hours with her secretary and paperwork were exactly what she needed. They steadied her, but that seemed to open the way to clearer thoughts. When Turcott left to send the correspondence on its way, she stayed in the sober, masculine study to be businesslike about her personal affairs.

  Fact one. The Marquess of Rothgar was a fascinating man. To deny that would be foolish. If she understood matters, half the world was fascinated by him.

  Fact two. There was something between them that went beyond the ordinary. She had met other attractive men, after all. Brand Malloren had the appeal of a warm fire. Bryght Malloren was more like a glittering jewel. Both attracted, but in different ways, but neither made her skin quiver, her heart speed, her stomach clench, as Lord Rothgar did.

  Was that something he created wherever he went? She didn’t think so. It had to be more particular than that.

  She remembered Rosa last year trying to deny herself one last night with Brand, mind and soul clearly intent on that one thing. Of course, Rosa had been falling in love with Brand, but Diana didn’t think that had been the force just then. It had been lust, but a very specific lust.

  Like a key and a lock.

  A special key for each lock.

  Even though she winced at the sexual imagery of that, she pondered the fact that Rosa and Brand were ideally suited, and yet might never have met. Did everyone have just one special person, and did they not always meet? Or did the fates arrange at least one chance for every couple?

  How many such opportunities were lost, stored on the chilly moon?

  Could the marquess be that special person for her? With a restless shrug she decided she’d much rather think of him as a master key, suited to a great many locks.

  She leaned back in her leather chair trying to assess the feelings that ran between them. Did they run both ways? She’d seen enough cases of unrequited love to know it was not always so. She remembered one young man who had felt so strongly for a woman that he could not believe the object of his devotion felt nothing. He’d thrown himself off Hardraw Force and taken poor Maddy Stawkes with him.

  She would rather die than reveal that kind of unreciprocated need. And she didn’t feel it. When the marquess left tomorrow, she would hardly think of him thereafter. For the moment, however, a certain heat glowed inside.

  Fact three. Lord Rothgar was a possible lover. She often considered men as potential lovers. In fact, it was getting to the point where she considered every man between twenty and forty as a potential lover! But none had seemed so clearly a possible lover as the marquess.

  She was aware of his body in a way she’d never experienced before. Certainly she’d admired men—the width of their shoulders, the muscles of their legs, their elegance, strength, or agility. With the marquess, however, it was as if she could see through his clothes. She was constantly aware of skin, muscles, and shapes that were not actually visible.

  It was an embarrassing nuisance, but it made the vision of him naked in a bed, leaning over her, shockingly easy to create.

  Fact four. Ridiculous as it seemed, he was the safest potential lover in England for her. He did not intend to marry. Even if she lost all sense and willpower and begged him to marry her, he’d refuse.

  Fact five. She need never see him again. He was leaving tomorrow.

  Fact six. He was leaving tomorrow. Which meant that if anything were to happen, it would have to be tonight.

  She rose to restlessly wander the room, hand trailing over desk, along shelf, around globe …

  Tonight.

  She gave a little laugh. No, really. It was impossible.

  Halfway to the door she paused again. Was that wisdom or cowardice? What chance would ever again present itself so perfectly to her? Her perfect, possible lover in the adjoining bedroom.

  Perfect except …

  What would his reaction be?

  Diana worked hard through the rest of the day to appear normal, but she wasn’t sure what normal was anymore. At least the marquess was little in evidence. More correspondence from London had arrived.

  “Is your brother always pursued so relentlessly by business?” she asked Elf when they assembled before dinner.

  “Not always, no. I gather there’s a great deal going on at the moment to do with France and the recent peace.”

  “But the marquess is not in the government.”

  “No.”

  “Or, not exactly?”

  Elf’s lips quirked. “Quite. Bey has a remarkable information-gathering machine, and a trick of noticing everything and holding it all in his mind for analysis. The king finds that useful.”

  “I understand the relationship go
es a little further than that.”

  “The king has an admiration for him, yes, and seeks his advice on many matters.” But Elf then turned the conversation to other matters, and Diana understood that there was a limit to what she would reveal about her brother. It was as well, for the marquess came into the room soon after, and she would have hated to have been caught talking about him.

  After dinner, the little theater was brought down and the children performed a short play to warm applause. When they spoke of the other toys, the magical picture box and the broken automaton were brought to the drawing room, too. The picture box gave great amusement, but the automaton could only be looked at.

  Diana glanced at her mother. The dowager was smiling politely, but she thought she saw a hint of strain in her eyes. She would have gone to offer comfort, but she had no idea what to say. It was probably one of these matters best left in silence.

  She did, however, go over to the marquess. “If you are still willing, my lord, I would like you to take the automaton to London to be repaired. In fact,” she added on impulse, “I would like to make a gift of it to you.”

  It was an extravagant gift, but he did not protest. “You are most generous, my lady. I will see it carefully tended.”

  The evening passed in cards with Diana’s own musicians providing musical entertainment. Diana made sure she did not sit at the same table as Lord Rothgar, but all the same her mind buzzed around and around her wicked dilemma like a bee trapped in a glass jar. The circling did no good, and yet she was powerless to stop it.

  This was the last night.

  Should she, shouldn’t she?

  Would he, wouldn’t he?

  She found herself admiring the line of the marquess’s body as he turned to speak to Lord Bryght. A twinkle in his eye as he teased Lady Steen. His deft, long-fingered hands on the cards.

  She could almost feel those fingers on her skin in the night …

  Oh lud! Missed opportunities, stored on the moon.