Ann Elizabeth Cree - A Bargain With Fate

‘Must you stare at me in such a way?’

‘What way is that?’

‘As if you mean to memorise my features. Or as if I am some strange creature! It is most unnerving and quite rude.’

‘My apologies, but you have the most expressive features. I find it fascinating to watch your emotions play across your face.’

‘I cannot imagine why you would find that so interesting.’ She’d always disliked her inability to hide her feelings. It made her feel vulnerable and, at times, awkward. And now with Lord Stamford, she wanted more than anything to present a cool, remote exterior. Instead, he was telling her she had a face that displayed her every emotion.

‘Can’t you? Perhaps it is because I’ve known too many women who hide their every thought and feeling under a carefully cultivated veneer.’

‘Sometimes I think that would be an advantage.’

‘It’s not. I prefer honesty.’

She looked away from him, even more disconcerted.

The coach finally halted, and she saw they were near the Opera House. Several carriages waited in line before them. She watched a gentleman followed by an elegantly dressed lady glittering with jewels, and then a younger lady in the dress of a debutante, descend from the coach. The man was dressed much as Lord Stamford in the dark coat and breeches required for admittance to the opera. The young lady stared up at the impressive rectangular building with its façade of columns marching across the row and seemed to bounce in excitement.

It brought to mind her season when she first saw the elegant King’s Theatre. She had been so nervous, in her white muslin gown and pearls, as she accompanied Lady Carlyn up the steps and passed through the portico with all the haute ton milling about. She could barely speak when she was introduced to some of Lady Carlyn’s elegant acquaintances. But she had merely been one among a throng of young girls presented that season and hardly dazzled anyone. No one stared much at her arrival or fixed a quizzing glass on their box. It had been both a relief and a disappointment.

Stamford lightly touched her arm, causing her to jump. ‘Rosalyn, we are here. We cannot spend the evening in the carriage.’

She abruptly returned to Stamford’s coach and saw the footman had flung open the door. Stamford alighted in one swift, graceful movement and held out his hand to her.

She accepted his assistance, but stumbled a little, so he was forced to steady her. She started away from the unnerving contact and then dropped her reticule at his feet.

He retrieved the bag, handing it to her with his characteristic half-smile. ‘Have you always had the unfortunate habit of dropping your reticule?’

‘Only since I’ve met you.’ Thank goodness for the dark, so he couldn’t see the dark blush that she knew stained her face and neck.

‘That is not the usual effect I have on women.’

She coloured even more, and vowed to avoid any further contact with him. But he lightly caught her arm before they entered the portico, turning her to face him. The half-shadows kept her from clearly seeing his expression.

‘Before we go in, there is something I must make clear to you,’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘I think you fear that I intend to offer you another carte blanche as part of our bargain. In light of my conduct at our first meeting, I cannot blame you, but rest assured, I have no intention of doing so. I do not force women to my bed.’

‘Of…of course not,’ she stammered.

He drew her arm through his as they passed through the doors into the crowded entrance hall.

If she had received little attention during her season, it was made up tenfold tonight. Heads swivelled as they passed. Stamford paid no heed, merely nodding to acquaintances without pausing, his hand resting possessively on her arm as he guided her through the elegantly dressed crowd. Heat flooded her cheeks but she managed to keep her head high.

As they reached the circular staircase, a woman stepped away from a small group and clutched Stamford’s arm, forcing him to halt.

‘Dear Stamford! How surprising to see you! You have been so scarce I thought you’d left town. And how remiss of you to not have yet called on me.’

She was tall and well built with a fascinating sultry face. Her low-cut emerald gown revealed a creamy expanse of flesh. Jade-green eyes flickered over Rosalyn, then dismissed her.

‘I have been busy,’ Stamford replied shortly, his face haughty. He began to move away, but she caught his arm.

‘Come riding with me tomorrow, then. I have not seen you for an age.’

‘I cannot. Elinor, if you will excuse me.’

‘You’re always so difficult. At least introduce me to your companion.’ Her smile held a touch of malice.

Stamford looked discomfited. ‘Lady Jeffreys, may I present Lady Marchant?’

Lady Marchant ran her eyes up and down Rosalyn as if she were summing up an enemy before battle. ‘How nice to meet you,’ she finally replied, an insincere smile pasted on her lips.

Stamford nearly wrenched Rosalyn away. ‘We must go.’

Rosalyn eyed his cool face with fascination. She had never seen him at such disadvantage. With sudden intuition, she knew the voluptuous Lady Marchant was or had been his mistress. How very awkward to be forced to introduce one’s mistress to the lady one was to be betrothed to. And how very fortunate Rosalyn was not really his fiancée.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head and look down at her with unsmiling eyes. ‘Do you find fault with my appearance? Is that why you are staring?’

‘Not at all. I was thinking how nice it was to meet Lady Marchant. She is very lovely. Is she a particular friend of yours?’

His eyes narrowed. She met his suspicious gaze with innocent eyes. ‘No,’ he replied shortly.

‘Do you often ride with her in the park?’

This time he openly glared. ‘That is none of your business. That is—’ He stopped and clamped his lips in a tight line. ‘I assure you I have nothing to do with Lady Marchant. She is an acquaintance, that is all. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

She averted her head to hide the smile tugging at her lips. How gratifying to know it was possible to provoke Lord Stamford.

The curtain had already lifted on the singers by the time they took their seats. To her surprise, there was no one else in the box.

He must have noted her puzzlement for he leaned towards her, his breath fanning her cheek. ‘We will meet my sister and her husband later. I did not wish to entirely overwhelm you.’

He settled back in the box; his eyes fixed on the stage. She stared around the theatre; it looked much as she remembered from her season; the tiers of boxes painted cerulean blue and gold filled to capacity with glittering ladies and handsomely dressed gentlemen, the fops strolling in the pit; the stares, the whispers behind fans as subjects for scandal-broth were spotted.

Only this time many of the glances were directed at their box. She felt as self-conscious as if they were sitting on the stage themselves.

She hoped James wasn’t here. She knew she would have to break the news of her agreement—no, betrothal to Stamford, soon. She would rather do it in person than have the news leak to him. She looked around the theatre again and then her gaze fell on Edmund Fairchilde sitting a few boxes away. To her great consternation, he had a quizzing glass fixed on her face. She quickly turned away, only to find Stamford observing her.

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, I…I wished to see if my brother was here.’

‘The thought seems to fill you with dismay,’ he remarked.

Why could he read her so easily? ‘I didn’t tell him I was coming with you.’

His mouth quirked. ‘I see. That is quite cowardly of you.’