Days Of Rakes And Roses. Anna CampbellЧитать онлайн книгу.
been alert to what Simon and Lydia said to each other. “Your brother is happy to step aside in favor of an old chum.”
The most bizarre element of Cam’s conniving was that he flirted so heedlessly with scandal. Camden Rothermere always trod carefully, as if to prove that he was a man of unwavering principle and decorum, whatever the circumstances of his birth.
Lydia’s glare branded her brother a traitor. She’d have plenty to say to him after the ball. He shrugged with a hint of apology that didn’t mollify her at all.
Gritting her teeth and consigning all Derbyshire men to Hades, she turned to Grenville. At her side, she sensed Simon’s avid interest in her interactions with her fiancé. She fought back the urge to jab her childhood love with her elbow and tell him to take himself and his curiosity elsewhere. Preferably Outer Mongolia.
“Grenville, we’ve hardly spoken a word to one another all evening. I’m sure Mr. Metcalf will renounce his claim.”
“I’d hoped to discuss Grenville’s plans for the next session in the Commons.” With unlikely enthusiasm, Cam clapped his hand on Grenville’s stocky shoulder. No chance now to divert her betrothed, curse her brother’s stratagems.
“My love, His Grace’s interest could be vital.” Grenville’s eyes brightened at the prospect of enlisting Cam’s political influence. Lydia had never deceived herself that at least part of her appeal to her fiancé was her kinship to a major powerbroker. “You go and enjoy yourself.”
“In that case, this dance is mine.” Simon’s hand snaked out to circle her arm in a ruthless grip. Had she imagined that he’d become unnaturally still when Grenville called her his love? Surely she had. Simon had never been the jealous type. She couldn’t picture him getting het up about a woman he’d known a decade ago.
Quickly her eyes raked the room. To her surprise, the reunion of rakish Simon Metcalf and punctilious Lydia Rothermere hadn’t created a stir. She had no wish to alter that state of affairs by making a scene, so with ill grace, she nodded. “Very well.”
Lydia had become so involved in her unspoken battle with Simon that she hadn’t paid attention to the music. She would have preferred to hear a cotillion, which presented little opportunity for private conversation. But the tune playing now was undoubtedly another waltz.
“Your enthusiasm warms my heart,” he said drily, stepping closer. In comparison with Grenville who only had an inch or two’s advantage on her, Simon seemed dominatingly tall.
“I can imagine,” she snapped, even as her own heart skipped a beat when he slipped one hand around her waist and took her hand firmly in the other.
His touch shouldn’t still retain this power. Not after ten years. But every inch of her skin prickled with response. She drew herself up to her full height and regarded him with what she hoped was cold indifference.
“I see you still favor roses.” His blue gaze rested on the flowers in the elaborate coronet of braids. “No matter where I went, whenever I saw roses, I thought of you. Do you remember I gave you a rose on that last day?”
“Did you? I don’t recall.” She lied, but he provoked her pride, pretending he still cared. Did he imagine he merely needed to smile and ask her to dance to turn her back into a complete henwit? Her voice hardened. “Just what asinine caper are you and Cam up to?”
“Up to?” he asked with theatrical innocence as he swept her into a turn that left her dizzy.
The moment she’d glimpsed him on the staircase, the wall of glass between her and the rest of the world had shattered. Ten years without seeing him and still he made her heart sing. It was absolutely unacceptable. She would not tumble back into infatuation with this intriguing scoundrel. He’d left her without a word and had spared her nary a word since. And she was betrothed to a worthy man who deserved her loyalty.
The reminder of her duty made her straighten a backbone that showed a lamentable tendency to bend in Simon’s direction. “Don’t play games.”
To his credit, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Cam thinks you’re making a mistake.”
The handsome face above hers had settled into uncharacteristic austerity. He’d been a lighthearted, easygoing young man. That was one of the reasons she’d loved him. For all its luxury, life at Fentonwyck had been bleak, even before her mother’s death when Lydia was ten. Simon came from a large, loving family where nobody scrutinized the children’s every move for the risk of the world’s disapproval.
“Cam has no right to interfere,” she said sharply. “And neither do you.”
“Consider it a privilege of old friendship.”
“Dead friendship.” She told herself that the description roused no pang. “If you expect to call on our childhood affection, you should have dropped me the occasional note.”
“Now your father has passed on, it was safe to come back.”
“Oh, valiant,” she said sarcastically. In spite of their argument, their bodies moved in perfect accord. She followed each subtle nudge of Simon’s lead as if they’d danced together a thousand times. The heat of his touch throbbed through her blood like a symphony.
His expression turned wry. “Leaving seemed the best solution back then. You know the duke would have ruined the Metcalfs if I’d so much as squeaked in your direction after he caught us … kissing.”
They’d veered close to doing more than kissing, she recalled with renewed mortification. Her father had been so livid to catch his daughter offering her maidenhead to a penniless commoner that he’d threatened Simon’s family. As Duke of Sedgemoor, he was capable of destroying a mere knight, even if the Metcalfs had held estates in Derbyshire since the Norman Conquest.
“My father’s plans didn’t include marrying me to a man without title or fortune.”
An uncharacteristic expression of guilt settled on Simon’s spectacular features. “Nonetheless, I hope you’ll accept my condolences on his passing. I’ve been out of touch with affairs in England or I’d have written at the time.”
“And of course my father’s death five years ago was the only matter you could possibly want to communicate about.”
He winced under her gibe. “I hadn’t played the man of honor with you. I should have stayed to protect you from your father’s temper.”
“You tried.” To be fair, he had. He’d stood up to the duke until six stout stable hands had hauled Simon away, still protesting that Lydia bore no fault for what had happened.
“Without succeeding. Was it very bad?”
Yes, it had been awful. Unbearably, excruciatingly awful. Her stomach still tangled into knots at the memory. For the only time in her life, her father had beaten her. But worse than the physical pain and humiliation had been the prospect of never seeing Simon again. “I learned the error of my ways.”
“I thought you might. I tried to as well. Then, when I finally mustered courage to ask some stray travelers about you, the gossip was that you were to marry Leath.”
Startled, she tripped. Only Simon’s quickness saved her from an embarrassing tumble. Dear Lord, she’d have to pay for dancing lessons at this rate, or warn any partner he risked his toes when he stood up with her.
“My father wanted the match.” But she hadn’t. The only man she’d wanted to marry had been kicking his heels on the Continent by that stage.
“Even if you hadn’t agreed to marry the Marquess of Leath, I knew there would be a line of men begging for your hand. I was astounded when I received Cam’s letter saying you’d waited so long to make your choice.”