Ann Cree - A Bargain With Fate

She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze. ‘Quite, but I will not pretend to be in love with you. And I want you to understand I have no intention of engaging in idle flirtation with you when we are alone.’

They faced off for a moment like a pair of duellers, eyes locked. He finally shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

He moved away from the door. ‘I will escort you to the opera tomorrow. You will meet my sister and her husband. I will ask Lady Carlyn to accompany us.’

‘Very well, my lord,’ she replied.

‘You had best begin to practise using my given name.’

‘I have no idea what your given name is.’

‘It is Michael.’

She said nothing, merely continuing to regard him as if she wished he would go away. He stepped towards her, causing her to put her hand to her necklace, and retreat a step back. He captured her slender hand and lifted it towards his lips, then pure devilment shot through him as he looked down at her. Without warning he pulled her to him, his lips brushing over hers.

She tasted cool and surprisingly sweet. He had a sudden urge to crush her to him. His hands dropped away.

‘Until tomorrow, Rosalyn.’ He dragged out her name with deliberate, intimate slowness. Her gaze flew to his face. There was no mistaking the apprehension in her eyes.

Rosalyn stared down at the note, completely dismayed. Lady Carlyn, pleading a sudden headache, would not accompany them to the opera. Since her grandmother developed a headache only to avoid some commitment. Rosalyn suspected Lady Carlyn wanted her to be alone with Lord Stamford. She must have the only grandmother in London who actually encouraged her granddaughter to consort with rakes.

She crumpled the note, resisting the temptation to fling it across her bedchamber. Apprehension made her hand tremble. She had no desire to be alone with Lord Stamford, cooped up in his carriage across from him, forced to make conversation with a man she knew nothing about, a man whose power she was now in.

She was behaving in a ridiculous manner. She rose from her bed and peered distractedly into her looking glass, not really seeing her pale face. He had no power over her. She was hardly alone in the world; she had her family and her own small but adequate income. So there was nothing to fear. She would take part in this absurd charade, Meryton would return to James, and she would return to her safe, well-ordered world.

But nothing, she told herself, could dispel the sense of dread she felt every time she thought of that fleeting kiss. She must make it very clear that she had no intention of engaging in that sort of behaviour with him.

She turned from the mirror in an impatient movement and picked up her gloves and fan. A glance at the small clock on her dressing table showed Lord Stamford was already fifteen minutes late. The least he could do was show up on time.

‘My lady?’

Rosalyn started. Mrs Harrod peered around the edge of the door. ‘Lord Stamford is here. So very handsome he is. All dressed in black. Like one of those heroes in a novel.’

Even her housekeeper was charmed by the man. Rosalyn picked up her velvet cloak from the bed. But Mrs Harrod stepped in front of her before she could leave. ‘There’s a bit of hair that’s come out, my lady.’ With deft fingers, she pulled the offending lock back into place. She stepped back and beamed, her kindly face warm with admiration. ‘There, my lady. You look lovely. No wonder his lordship is so smitten.’

Rosalyn flushed, wishing her housekeeper did not have such a romantic imagination.

She slowly descended the staircase, her heart beating much too fast. She entered her drawing room, the lamps casting a cosy intimate glow about the room.

Lord Stamford stood in front of the fireplace, gazing at the landscape over the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back. He turned at her soft footsteps.

She caught her breath at his dashing appearance.

His black long-tailed coat, contrasted with the stark white of his ruffled shirt, became his dusky complexion and emphasised the lean, aristocratic planes of his face. A diamond glittered in the folds his white cravat. His hair, wavy from the misty rain, gleamed midnight in the lamplight. The black silk breeches and white stockings revealed a pair of muscular calves.

She tore her gaze away, praying he hadn’t noticed her staring. She crossed the room towards him, arranging her features in what she hoped were cool, impersonal lines.

He took her hand and released it. His eyes searched her face. ‘I hope I did not keep you waiting too long, Rosalyn.’

‘Only a mere fifteen minutes, my lord.’

He grinned. ‘Tis some improvement. Usually I am at least twenty minutes late. By the time our association is at an end, you may cure me of my propensity for lateness.’

He removed the cloak from her hands and stepped behind her. She felt the soft velvet slide around her shoulders. And then his hands stilled at the nape of her neck, making her feel as if every nerve had sprung to life.

‘It is really your fault, you know,’ he said.

‘My fault?’

‘You are not like most women. They are always at least ten minutes late to add to the stir their appearance will create. That is what I expected.’

‘I don’t like to waste time.’ His touch distracted her so she hardly knew what she said.

He removed his hands and stepped around to observe her. His eyes took in her gown of black crêpe over a black sarcenet slip and the simple diamond necklace and matching ear drops.

‘Certainly you didn’t tonight.’

A blush crept over her face. Of course, he was a practised flirt who knew exactly how to gaze at a woman, making her feel as if she were especially lovely in his eyes. She dropped her eyes, attempting to get her thoughts in order. ‘My grandmother will not accompany us, my lord. She has the headache.’

‘She has already informed me.’ He continued to watch her with a penetrating look that made her uncomfortable.

‘Perhaps we should depart, my lord.’ She turned away and picked up her reticule.

‘Michael,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Address me by my given name, Rosalyn.’

‘Until we announce our…agreement, I do not think it is necessary to be on such familiar terms.’

‘I think it is. My name is not that difficult. I want to hear you say it.’

He moved in front of her. She recognised that particular half-smile and knew they could be here all night if she didn’t comply with his request.

‘Very well…Michael.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He leaned towards her, his fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. ‘That is a good beginning. My name sounds very nice on your lips.’

She could think of nothing to say as she sat across from him on the comfortable cushions of the coach. Even the weather seemed too difficult to discuss. There was nothing but the sound of the horses’ hooves on the street and the soft patter of rain on the coach. She hardly knew where to look and mostly stared down at her hands. Finally she glanced up at Lord Stamford, lounging in his corner, and found his unfathomable eyes fixed on her face.

‘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.