Lessons from a Scarlet Lady Read online

  insists she wore the blasted thing because she thought I would like it.”

  “Did you?”

  Colton sent a sardonic look across the table. “If worn only for me in private, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Well, yes, I thought it was becoming, but from the most primitive male point of view only. As

  my wife, she shouldn’t have worn it.”

  “Ah.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  His brother struggled to hide his smile and failed. “She has thoroughly rattled the prim and proper

  duke in you, I see. Good for her.”

  Being called prim was annoying as hell. It brought to mind images of disapproving white-haired

  old ladies or dour Presbyterian ministers, and he wasn’t either one. Yes, Colton believed in at

  least some measure of decorum, but after all, he was a Peer of the Realm, and his position in

  society warranted a certain level of behavior. “Not all of us, Robbie, embrace notoriety,” he

  observed, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Nor can we all skip from the bed of one lovely

  lady to the next, never looking over our shoulders. I do take my responsibilities seriously, and

  that includes my marriage.”

  Robert, who had a reputation as a rake of the first order and was infamously opposed to

  permanence, hardly looked chastened. Instead he chuckled. “I am sure you do. Everything you

  take on, from estate matters to your seat in the House of Lords, you handle with the same

  efficiency and expertise. But, let’s face it, Colt, you have never taken on a human being before.

  Not just another person, but a woman at that. She isn’t going to act as you wish, simply because

  you wish it. She might not act as you wish even if ordered to do so. Brianna isn’t only beautiful,

  she is intelligent—and, I am sure, confident she can make her own decisions.”

  Stung, Colton retorted, “I know that. Who better? I had no interest in marrying an empty-headed

  doll. I admire her spirit and her intellect.”

  “Then I caution a more subtle approach to this issue than telling her dressmaker you wish to

  approve her gowns from now on. That is insulting to Brianna, and since you abhor gossip, most

  ill-advised. It is an indication you disapproved of her attire and will get everyone talking about it

  again. You cannot count on your instructions to the modiste being kept quiet.”

  It was galling to think his younger brother might be giving him sage advice—on the subject of

  marriage, no less, in which Robert had exhibited very little interest. But then again, his brother

  was right. Robert knew women—or should, for he had certainly sampled the charms of many of

  them.

  Colton finished his brandy and poured another. He rubbed his jaw and sent his brother a narroweyed look. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I agree with you in principle. I naturally prefer

  diplomacy over being autocratic, but neither do I wish her name to regularly be on the tongues of

  the gossipmongers.”

  Robert’s handsome face quirked into a thoughtful frown. “I’d say persuading her to your point of

  view is preferable to issuing dictates. If she chooses to wear another daring gown, change your

  mind at the last minute about going out. You just said you would be happy to appreciate it in

  private. Show her you do. This way, if every time her clothing is too outré for you to want to

  share her with all of London, you just stay in. She will get the message at once. If she wishes to

  go out, she will dress more demurely. If you are lucky enough she wants to stay at home, that, I

  suspect, will be even more pleasant. As I see it, you can’t lose.”

  To Colton’s surprise, Robert’s advice made sense. At least he would not find himself making

  rash, uninhibited love to his wife in a moving carriage but could take her properly upstairs and

  close the bedroom door. Not that the interlude hadn’t been gloriously pleasurable, but he really

  hadn’t enjoyed almost being caught in the act. He much preferred to take his time, especially with

  a woman as alluring as Brianna.

  He stared at his brother over the rim of his glass, the fragrance of the fine brandy drifting upward

  in a tantalizing waft. “That actually sounds like a viable solution.”

  Robert spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture, a cheeky grin on his face. “I enjoy

  discussing this subject much more than the dust-dry politics that usually occupy you, or worse

  yet, the latest meeting with your solicitors over some financial arrangement. What could be more

  intriguing than talking about women?”

  Spoken like a true rakehell. Colton didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and daydreaming

  about how to placate his latest paramour like his younger brother, but quite frankly, since Robert

  had just exhibited such educated insight, Colton might have to consult him again.

  “I don’t suppose I have ever thought of it that way, but I don’t have your latitude,” he murmured

  and then drained his glass.

  “True enough,” Robert agreed cheerfully, reaching for the decanter. “Being the Duke sounds like

  a dreadful bore. It’s infinitely preferable to be third in line. When you get an heir, I won’t even be

  that.”

  Now and again it was a bore to carry the burden of title and responsibility that went with having a

  great deal of influence, of course, but all of life was that way. His lighthearted younger brother

  hadn’t discovered that reality yet.

  “Some day,” Colton speculated, his mouth curving as he imagined the event, “the time will come

  when a young lady brings you to your knees and I will enjoy the moment immensely.”

  “Perhaps.” Robert looked unfazed and more than a little smug. “But until it happens—and I am

  not convinced it ever will—I’ll be around if you want to discuss again how to handle your

  beautiful bride.”

  Chapter Two

  Intrigue is as essential to the relations between men

  and women as the air is necessary for us to breathe.

  Our subtle dance with each other is what makes it

  all so interesting.

  From the chapter titled: “They Are All the

  Same and Yet Different”

  The image in the mirror wasn’t displeasing. Rebecca Marston smoothed one last brown curl into

  place and studied her appearance with a critical eye. Yes, the pale rose gown was a good choice,

  for it went well with the ivory of her skin and set off the dark gleam of her hair. There was one

  advantage to not being fashionably blond: her more dramatic coloring stood out from the other

  popular debutants vying for the attentions of eligible males. While she did wish she wasn’t quite

  so tall, her height wasn’t so pronounced it discouraged many suitors.

  No, her real problem was her age, her prominent background, her very marriageable status, and

  her formidable father.

  Actually, that was quite a list of problems—but problems that mostly applied to one man.

  Rising from her dressing table, she picked up her fan with a sigh and left her bedroom.

  Downstairs she found both her parents waiting in the foyer. Her mother looked splendid, draped

  in emerald silk and a fortune in diamonds, a glittering diadem in her intricately coiffed dark hair.

  Her father was also dressed handsomely in his elegant evening wear, a ruby stickpin in his snowy

  cravat, his graying hair brushed neatly back. His impatience showed in the way he r
an his gloves

  through his hands, his gaze settling on her with approval as she descended the stairs.

  “There you are. I was just going to send up someone to get you, my dear, but it was well worth

  the wait. You look stunning.”

  Rebecca smiled, but it was a little forced. She wasn’t looking forward to the next few hours.

  Another ball, another evening of eager men dancing attendance on her while the man she

  desperately wanted to show even a flicker of interest was laughing, charming, and dazzling other

  women, without even a passing glance in her direction.

  It was a depressing thought.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmured, turning her back so one of the footmen could settle her cloak

  over her shoulders. “I couldn’t decide what gown to wear.”

  How frivolous that sounded, though she didn’t think of herself as superficial in the slightest. If

  anything, she was quite the opposite. Music was the true passion of her life, and though her

  parents discouraged her from mentioning it when out in company, she wasn’t just a talented

  pianist and more than adequate on the harp, flute, and clarinet—her real interest lay in

  composition. Already, at the age of twenty, she had composed two symphonies and countless

  other smaller works. It felt as though a tune played continuously in her head. Putting it down on

  paper seemed only natural.

  That, of course, was as unfashionable as the color of her hair.

  The carriage was waiting and her father escorted them outside, handing her mother in first and

  then Rebecca. She settled on the seat and braced herself for the usual lecture.

  Her mother lost no time. “Darling, Lord Watts will be at the Hampton’s this evening. Please

  favor him with a dance.”

  Boring Lord Watts with his staged laugh and wispy mustache. Rebecca didn’t care if he was the

  last man on earth—a potential earldom and fortune aside—she would never enjoy his company.

  “He’s a pompous oaf,” she said truthfully. “A philistine with no interest in the arts and—”

  “Handsome, wealthy, and the son of a friend of mine,” her father interrupted firmly, his gaze

  holding a flinty look. “Dance with him. He’s thoroughly besotted with you and has asked for

  your hand in marriage twice.”

  Why she would encourage a man she had no intention of ever marrying was a reasonable

  question, but she declined to argue. Instead she murmured, “Very well. I can spare a dance.”

  “You might want to reconsider his suit. I am in favor of the match.”

  She didn’t, couldn’t, and never would it be a possibility. Rebecca didn’t say a word.

  Her mother gave her a reproving look as they clattered along the cobbled street. “You will have

  to choose at some point.”

  And since many young ladies her age were already engaged or wed—her two closest friends,

  Arabella and Brianna among them—she needed to make up her mind. She well understood her

  parents’ position on the subject. Rebecca had chosen, actually, but it was a wildly impractical,

  impossible, entirely scandalous selection.

  No one knew about her secret infatuation.

  The mansion glittered with lights, and the long line of carriages in the circular drive gave an

  indication of the popularity of the event. They alighted finally and were ushered inside amidst the

  other arriving guests. Immediately Rebecca scanned the crowd in the well-lit ballroom, unable to

  help herself. Would he make an appearance tonight? He attended most of the prestigious

  entertainments because his brother was a duke, and . . .

  There he was.

  So tall, so masculine with his nicely chiseled features and light brown hair that always managed

  to look well-groomed and yet endearingly tousled at the same time, his face lighting in an

  animated smile as he greeted a friend. Lord Robert Northfield was a charming rogue, suave,

  sophisticated, and as uninterested as any man could be in a marriageable young miss. Which,

  Rebecca thought with a sigh, left her out in the cold. A certain part of her wished she wasn’t

  friends with Brianna so she would never have had the opportunity to meet the Duke of

  Rolthven’s youngest brother, but another part—a treacherous one—was glad she had.

  Falling in love could happen in an instant, Rebecca had discovered. One look, one fascinated

  moment in which he bent over her hand and brushed her with one of those legendary smoldering

  looks . . . and she was lost.

  Her father, at the moment at her side, would be horrified if he could read her thoughts. Robert

  had, she needed to face it, a wicked reputation. A very wicked reputation for enjoying cards and

  women, and not in that order. As respectable as Colton might be with his political influence and

  grandiose fortune, his youngest brother was just the opposite.

  Her father disliked him intensely—he’d mentioned the Duke of Rolthven’s younger brother with

  bitter derision more than once—and she had never dared to ask why. Maybe it was merely his

  notoriety, but she suspected there was more to the story.

  Even as she watched from across the crowded room, hoping no one noticed the direction of her

  stare, Rebecca saw their hostess sidle up and touch Robert’s sleeve in a gesture that was both

  playful and intimate. Rumor had it Lady Hampton had a distinct preference for wild, handsome

  young men, and the Duke of Rolthven’s brother certainly qualified. The two duels he’d fought

  already didn’t enhance his respectability.

  When it came to Lord Robert, the only signs of respectability were his family name and his

  brother’s prominent place in society.

  Yet here she was, hopelessly fascinated. It was hopeless too, because even if by some miracle he

  ever noticed her, overcame his infamous aversion to marriage, and approached her, Rebecca

  knew her father would never allow it.

  Too bad she didn’t write romantic novels instead of composing music. Then she could pen a

  melancholy tale about a bereft young heroine who pined for a handsome, sinful lover.

  “Miss Marston. How delightful to see you. I was hoping you would attend.”

  The interruption tore her gaze from the sight of Robert Northfield leading Lady Hampton onto

  the floor for a waltz, his head bent as he listened to whatever the brazen woman had to say, a

  faint smile on his face over what was undoubtedly clever flirtatious banter.

  Were they lovers? Rebecca wished she didn’t care, didn’t speculate over something that was

  essentially none of her business, because Robert didn’t even know she lived and breathed, and if

  Lady Hampton wanted to look at him with that particular brand of possessive longing, there was

  nothing Rebecca could do about it. . . .

  “Miss Marston?”

  Rebecca jerked her attention away from the striking couple on the dance floor with a dismal

  sinking feeling. A beaming Lord Watts stood in front of her, wispy mustache and all. “Oh, good

  evening,” she murmured without enthusiasm, earning a frown from her father.

  “Dare I assume you will consent to a dance?” The young man looked irritatingly eager, and his

  pale blue eyes held an imploring light.

  If only his eyes were a deeper pure azure, framed by long lashes, his hair not the color of pale

  straw but instead a vibrant golden brown—if instead of a rather weak chin, he had clean-cut

  masculine features and a seductive
mouth that could curve into a mesmerizing smile.

  Even then, if that was all true, he still wouldn’t be Robert Northfield.

  “Of course she will,” her father said smoothly. “Rebecca mentioned earlier she was looking

  forward to just that. Didn’t you, my dear?”

  Since she had never been one to tell falsehoods, she simply smiled. Or she tried. It might have

  come out more as a grimace. It was going to be a long, dismal evening.

  “You seem distracted.”

  The implied intimacy in Maria Hampton’s comment grated a little, and focused Robert’s

  attention once again on the woman in his arms as they whirled across the floor in time to the

  latest popular tune. “I am tired, actually.”

  “Oh, I see.” Maria smiled, a salacious gleam of interest in her green eyes. “Do I know her?”

  “There’s no ‘her.’ ” Robert replied, irritated. “Or well, I suppose it is due to a woman—but not

  what you are thinking right now.” He swept her into a turn and felt a sardonic twist touch his

  mouth. “It was my grandmother’s birthday today.”

  Maria, all vibrant red hair and luscious full curves, looked puzzled. “So?”

  “So,” he explained softly, “I rose at dawn and rode quite a distance to make sure I could be at the

  family estate for luncheon in her honor.”

  “You?”

  “Is it such a surprise I would make the effort?”

  At least Maria didn’t patronize him with a simpering denial. She merely said, “Yes, darling, it is.”

  He didn’t suppose he could blame her for her view. Given Robert’s reputation, London’s gossips

  would be surprised to learn that he adored his grandmother. Despite the aftereffects of a little too

  much wine the night before, he’d made the journey gladly. Colton, of course, had already arrived

  at Rolthven with his lovely wife in tow, and Brianna had looked particularly fetching in a day

  gown of sprigged muslin adorned with tiny pink rosettes, her flaxen hair caught up simply with a

  twist of matching pastel ribbon. In direct contrast to the insinuations in the paper and the

  whispers over her scandalous attire of the other evening, she was dressed in the style of a fresh,

  innocent schoolgirl. But Robert did notice two interesting things.

  The first was Colton seemed to treat her a little differently. Robert wouldn’t go so far as to say