The Pride of Lions Page 2

  She drew a slow breath. “I would say you were a nuisance and a trespasser, as impudent and lacking in scruples as any man I have ever had the misfortune to meet. And one who no doubt has had thoughts of poaching, even if he has not done so already.”

  He edged closer, and Catherine felt the heat of the midnight eyes rake her again.

  “Indeed, I am beginning to have thoughts, Mistress Ashbrooke,” he murmured. “But not of poaching.”

  She stumbled back a step and came up hard against the roan’s warm flesh. The stranger moved with her, placing his hands on the horse’s neck, effectively trapping her between. He was near enough that she could smell the sunshine and sweat on his skin; she could see the beads of water glittering in his hair, dropping onto the white linen of his shirt and dampening it so that it clung to the broad shoulders in darker patches. The top of her head barely reached his chin, and she felt small and insignificant and terribly vulnerable in the lee of his imposing frame.

  “S-since you refuse to leave, sir, then I shall,” she stammered, shocked by her total lack of control over the situation. There was hardly a man in Derby who would dare accost her in such a way, nor was she accustomed to dealing with anyone not instantly overwhelmed by her position, wealth, and beauty. She was the daughter of a Member of Parliament, not some coltish serving wench to be waylaid and frightened into submission. No gentleman who laid any claim to the title whatsoever would dare speak to her the way this creature was speaking. Or presume to stand so close. Or stare so boldly.

  And yet, a glance up into the dark eyes warned her that despite his fine clothes and implied gentility, he was not a man who would follow any rules other than those of his own making. There was something raw and primitive about him. Something reckless and sinful that made her heart pound within her chest and sent the blood singing through her veins.

  She swallowed with difficulty. “If it is m-money you want, I’m afraid I have nothing of value on me.”

  She saw the flash of strong white teeth above her and felt the heat of his breath on her temple.

  “So, now I am a highwayman rather than a poacher? I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

  “P-please, I—”

  “As for you possessing nothing of value”—he shifted even closer, and Catherine’s heart throbbed up into her throat—“you underestimate the temptation of a silent forest, a bed of soft pine needles, and a fresh young minx sorely in need of a hard lesson in reality.”

  “A lesson that you, of course, feel capable of delivering?”

  The sarcasm in her rebuttal only brought forth another laugh and deepened the roguish cleft that divided his chin. “My services are yours to command, Mistress Ashbrooke.”

  A golden tendril of her hair stirred against her throat, and she realized with a start that his long fingers were toying with several shiny strands. She tried to pull away again, but his hand was suddenly cupping her chin, tilting her face abruptly up to his. His eyes held a shuttered watchfulness as he studied the play of sunlight on her skin and hair, and their midnight intensity, combined with the contact of his hand on her flesh, sent a shiver of cold fear trickling down into her limbs, numbing them.

  The intense scrutiny drifted down to the opened collar of her blouse, and she felt as if the layers of silk, linen, and lace were being stripped away until there was nothing left to shield her from his burning gaze. She would not move, could not even close her eyes to escape the mortification, and with a growing sense of horror she realized she was entirely at his mercy. She could scream, but he could easily silence her. He could as easily rip off her clothes, throw her onto the forest floor, and use her until she had no more breath or strength left to fight him.

  His hands descended to the narrow indent of her waist, and Catherine suffered a sickly wave of light-headedness. Her mouth went slack as he drew her slowly against him, crushing her close to his chest. The pressure from his hands increased and be began to lift her, making her shockingly aware of the friction of silk and lace against his heated skin. Her own hands were braced on the bunched muscles of his upper arms, and as he lifted her higher, her fists closed around the loose fabric of his shirt, nearly tearing it at the seams.

  She drew a breath, tensed to scream, but instead of ravaging her, as she so fully expected him to do, he continued to lift her until she was suspended high above his shoulders. With a mocking twist to his lips, he plumped her unceremoniously onto the roan’s saddle and bent to gather up the reins.

  “I am truly sorry to have to disappoint you, but I am a little pressed for time today … and not really in the mood for disciplining children. Should we meet again, however, and should the circumstances be more … advantageous … I daresay I could rouse the inclination to oblige.”

  Catherine’s jaw dropped. “Why, you arrogant, insolent—”

  He laughed and slapped his hand across the roan’s flanks. Catherine jerked back in the saddle, her hair flying, her skirts whipping up in a froth of lace petticoats, blinding her until the mare had spirited her away from the clearing. Her cheeks were on fire, her hands trembling as she sought to grasp hold of the reins and slow the startled charge through the woods. She could hear the deep resonance of his laughter following her, and for the first time in many long years, her eyes flooded with tears of humiliation. Too late she remembered she had left her hat and gloves behind, but she was not about to turn around and go back. If she’d had a gun she might have been tempted. In fact, if she’d had any weapon more threatening than a short leather riding crop, she would surely have gone back and used it with the greatest of pleasure!

  Catherine rode into the courtyard of Rosewood Hall, the roan’s hooves beating an angry tattoo on the cobblestones. A groom, alerted by the sound, came rushing out of the stables and arrived by her side in time to catch the tossed reins.

  “See that she is given an extra rasher of oats,” Catherine ordered. “And walk her well: She has had a hard run.”

  Still bristling over the encounter in the woods, she barely heard the groom’s muttered response as she strode toward the main house.

  Catherine’s furious pace slowed as she followed one of the many garden paths around to the front of the house. Rosewood Hall was built in the Elizabethan style, a two-storey manor with white plastered cornices and pilasters accentuating the rows of tall, multipaned windows. Columns of ivy and lichen clung to the red brick walls and climbed as high as the steeply sloped gray slate roof. There was no porch or terrace fronting the main entrance, but the double doors were housed between two massive turrets consisting of floor-to-ceiling bow windows. The pediment over the doorway was engraved with the family crest, a testament to the noble lineage of the Ashbrooke name.

  Catherine was feeling anything but noble as she neared the porticoed entrance. One of the carved oak doors swung open just as she was about to reach for the latch, and her brother stepped out into the dazzling sunlight, his lean form looking especially handsome in a chocolate-brown broadcloth coat and fawn breeches.

  “Whoa up there. Has the hunt run the course and left you behind?”

  “No, it has not. I simply decided it was not worth all the sweat and bother. The sound of braying dogs leaves me with a migraine, as does the sight of grown men cheering while a pack of blood-crazed hounds tears apart a cornered fox.”

  “My sister the humanitarian,” he chided wryly. “The same one who goes quail hunting and shoots helpless little feathered creatures full of lead shot.”

  “Those helpless little feathered creatures provide us with dinner, brother mine, while hapless little foxes only provide bloodthirsty men with a morning’s diversion. And why are you not in your scarlets? Has Harriet Chalmers had the good sense to snub you again?”

  Damien Ashbrooke offered up an easy smile. He was of medium height, not much taller than Catherine, with pale blue eyes and a shock of long, wavy chestnut hair worn neatly clubbed at the nape of his neck.

  “No, the lovely Mistress Chalmers has not
snubbed me. If anything, I was hoping to use these few brief hours of solitude to catch up on my reading.”

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “She will have you wed, regardless of how you try to avoid her company.”

  “Is that so? Well, unless I have missed something along the way, the man is still the one who does the proposing.”

  She stuck out the tip of her tongue and pertly misquoted, “Thou dost protest too much, methinks. I have seen the way you ogle Harriet: like a wide-eyed lapdog, oblivious to everything but the wealth of charms that pour over the top of her bodice.”

  He arched an eyebrow as he took in the tumbled state of her hair and clothing. “Can that be the voice of jealousy I hear? Or just envy over her sense of proper fashion?”

  Catherine followed her brother’s gaze and swatted at a fold of velvet that had become stuck in the cuff of her boot. “And just what should I be envious of? The way her bosoms threaten to spill out of her gowns at every breath? Or the fact that they probably already have, and your hands have been most willing to catch them?”

  Damien’s cheeks darkened beneath a flush, and she huffed. “There, you see? And you still insist you have some control over your fate? A month, brother dear, and five gold sovereigns say she will have you so frustrated you will be dragging her to the altar.”

  “You’re on,” he murmured. “But only if we can set the same time limit and stakes on your conquest of Lieutenant Garner.”

  “Have your money ready,” she said tartly, “because he has already proposed. He intends to speak to Father tonight at the party so we can make the announcement official.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He was genuinely impressed. “I thought for sure he was only playing at courtship.”

  “Only because you sadly underestimate the extent of my own charms—spilling forth or not.”

  “Does Mother know?”

  Catherine’s smile turned bitter. “A better question might be: Does Mother care?”

  “She cares enough to have been conspiring with Father to marry you off to Pelham-Whyatt for the past three years.”

  “Him!” Catherine wrinkled her delicate nose in distaste. “He is an absolute boor. He wears clothes ten sizes too big and ten years out of date. He speaks with a lisp and smells suspiciously as if he hasn’t bathed since I pushed him in the duck pond when we were children.”

  “He is also in line to inherit the land that borders ours. He is rich, and not too dreadfully ugly—”

  “Not ugly! He’s missing most of his teeth, and his skin is so badly pocked it is a wonder he can shave it. The last time he rode to hounds, he fell headlong into the pack of dogs and they started to chew on him, mistaking him for the fox! Marry him? I would sooner marry myself to a convent, thank you very much.”

  “You should not speak in haste, darling Kitty. Father has promised that and much more besides if you dare involve the good family name in any further scandal.”

  “Scandal? It is usually considered an honor when one man duels another for the sake of his lady’s reputation, is it not?”

  “Not when her champion gives the distinct impression he enjoys running a man through with his saber.”

  “Good heavens, you talk as if Hamilton killed Charles Waid. The fool isn’t dead, he merely suffered a scraped cheek.”

  “Only because Lieutenant Garner knew a novice when he saw one and had no desire to be brought up on charges of murder.”

  “Charles challenged Hamilton. What choice did he have?”

  “He could have waited until the fool sobered up and realized the gravity of his error.”

  “His error was to offer me an insult within Hamilton’s hearing,” she countered primly.

  “Brought on by your trying to make the good lieutenant jealous. Well, it worked. And even though I know you were suitably repentant, I shall still warn you to be careful around Father until you are safely wed and away from his parliamentary eye.”

  Catherine’s anger prickled warmly in her cheeks, as it usually did when she was caught at fault and boxed into a corner. “Since you seem to show such concern for my well-being, perhaps it would interest you to know I was accosted in the woods today. That is why I am home from the hunt so early, and why my appearance invites such sarcasm.”

  “Accosted?” Damien’s features hardened instantly. “Where? By who?”

  “By whom, my Oxford-graduate brother. By a poacher, that’s who. A vagrant. A trespasser. A cutpurse hiding in the woods. An arrogant brigand who had the nerve to accuse me of being where I should not have been.”

  Damien relaxed slightly. He knew his sister well enough to recognize the bright flecks of indignation in her eyes and to know it was only her temper that had been accosted. It explained the cutting edge to her wit and the sharp remarks directed at Harriet—her best and closest friend since childhood.

  “He sounds interesting. Was it anyone I know?”

  “I would not doubt it for a moment. He looked the exact type who would keep your company in gaming houses and … and other places a lady would be no lady if she mentioned. On further consideration”—her eyes slitted vindictively—“I believe five gold sovereigns would be a small price to pay to save Harriet from committing a horrendous error in judgment. I shall speak to her the instant she returns from the hunt. By tonight, Damien Ashbrooke, you will be able to count yourself among the fortunate if she so much as glances your way.”

  With a toss of her long blonde hair, Catherine walked past him into the foyer and began mounting the wide, massive wooden stairway to the upper floor. Damien followed her to the bottom step and rested his hand on the carved mahogany newel post, his thoughtful blue eyes admiring the agitated swing of her skirts. He had no fear of Catherine’s threat coming to pass—she had schemed too long and too hard to awaken him to the fact that Harriet Chalmers had outgrown her pinafores and developed into a beautiful young woman. What she could not know was that his and Harriet’s commitment to each other had already gone well beyond the stage of casual flirtation, and it was only because there were so many other houseguests staying under the same roof that Harriet was forced to share Catherine’s bed, not his. A moment here and there had been all they had managed to steal so far, and with everything happening so fast …

  “Kitty?” He half-expected her to ignore him and keep climbing, but she didn’t. She stopped on the first landing and glared down at him over the dog-gate, a delicate eyebrow raised askance.

  “I was just thinking—” He hesitated and offered her the smile she knew was reserved for her and her alone. “We could make it a double announcement tonight. I think I could scrape up five gold sovereigns from somewhere.”

  Catherine stared at her brother’s handsome face. He did not approve of Hamilton Garner—what brother would? He considered the lieutenant pompous and overbearing, cruel to his junior officers, and indifferent to anyone not directly beneficial to his career. Be that as it may, Damien loved her dearly. He had been more than just a brother to her; he’d been father, confessor, adviser, and friend when it seemed as though she was growing up all alone in the vast emptiness of Rosewood Hall. He wanted her to be happy, and if winning Hamilton Garner—if becoming Mrs. Hamilton Gamer—would make her so, then he would support her choice all the way.

  She took a deep breath and released it on a wistful sigh. “That would be wonderful, a double announcement. I could not wish for a happier way to welcome in my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Then it shall be so,” he whispered. “Happy birthday.”

  2

  The festivities at Rosewood Hall progressed through an afternoon of croquet and archery contests. The younger ladies squealed with delight and vied for attention as their chosen champions displayed their skills. Heavily corseted matrons and chaperons hovered nearby like a swarm of blackbirds, for although scarcely able to breathe without the ominous creaking of whalebone ribs, they would sooner be dead from suffocation than miss a single word of gossip.

  By four o’clock the
bustle moved indoors, where preparations began in earnest for the banquet and evening ball ahead. Corsets and stomachers were loosened to permit a few hours of normal respiration. Huge vats of water were supplied for the dozens of slender hands that needed to dip and splash away the effects of the day’s heat. Hair was crimped and curled and tortured into elaborate pilings. Some added enormous wire contraptions to existing coiffures and then had false curls of horsehair pinned and woven in place before faces were shielded by funnels while clouds of flying white rice powder were applied to the whole. Artful additions of flowers, ribbons, jewels, even small artificial birds and animals were set to roost in the heights, making the ability to balance such a headdress an essential skill for a young woman of substance and fashion.

  Catherine took her sweet time in the upper chambers, adjusting curls that required no adjustment, fussing over a smudge of rouge or a faded line of kohl. She was moderately pleased to see that no one had dared attend her birthday party in a gown anywhere near as sumptuous as her own. The rose-colored watered silk, cut in the latest Paris style, molded snugly to her narrow waist and pushed her breasts high enough to mound impressively over the bodice. The sleeves were tapered to the elbow and from there flared to allow the falling cuffs of her chemise to spill forth in a delicate profusion of creamy lace. The skirt was full and bell-shaped, spreading its width sideways over panniers, while the front and back panels fell in straight, shimmering folds to the floor. The hem of the skirt was pinned up in scallops to display the richly embroidered petticoats beneath, which consisted of more tiers of exquisitely delicate French lace.

  She had chosen to wear few adornments that might detract from the effect of the rose silk. A single strand of blazing white brilliants circled her neck, drawing attention to the long, slender arch of her throat and the two soft half-moons of her breasts. Free of horsehair curls or dull dustings, her hair shone with gold and silver threads in the glow of the candlelight. Studying it critically in every mirror she passed, Catherine was almost thankful for her intolerance to rice powder; even the lightest coating caused her eyes to start weeping and her nose to leak and—horror of horrors—her skin to break out in a spiny rash of itchy red bumps.