Lord of Scoundrels (Scoundrels 3)

Jessica heard the bitterness and discerned the flush under his olive skin. For a few moments, she fretted that she’d done something to offend or disgust him. But halfway down the incline, he slowed to let her catch up with him. And when she took his hand—the crippled one—and squeezed it, he glanced at her, and said, “I hate crows. Noisy, filthy things.”

She supposed that was as close to an explanation or apology as he could come. She glanced back at the ancient temple. “I collect it’s because you’re a high-strung thoroughbred. He was merely part of the atmosphere to me. I thought it all very romantic.”

He gave a short laugh. “You mean ‘gothic,’ I think.”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “There was I in the arms of a dark, dangerous hero, amid the ruins of Stonehenge, an ancient place of mystery. Byron himself could not have painted a more romantic scene. I’m sure you believe there isn’t a romantic bone in your body,” she added with a sidelong glance. “If you found one, you’d break it. But you needn’t worry. I shouldn’t dream of declaring otherwise to anyone else.”

“I’m not romantic,” he said tightly. “And I most certainly am not high-strung. As to thorough-breds—you know very well I’m half-Italian.”

“The Italian half is blue-blooded, too,” she said. “The Duc d’Abonville told me your mother’s line is very old Florentine nobility. That, apparently, reconciled him to our marriage.”

He uttered a series of words she couldn’t understand, but guessed were curses in his mother’s tongue.

“He means to marry Genevieve,” she said mollifyingly. “That’s what made him so overprotective of me. But there are benefits to the attachment. He’s taken Bertie in hand, which means you won’t be bothered with my brother’s financial difficulties in future.”

Dain brooded silently until they’d reentered the carriage. Then, releasing a sigh, he leaned back and closed his eyes. “Romantic. High-strung. And you think it’s reassuring that your grandmother’s lover means to take your brainless brother in hand. I do believe, Jess, that you are as demented as every other member—and prospective member—of your entire lunatic family.”

“Are you going to sleep?” she asked.

“I might, if you could manage to hold your tongue for three minutes.”

“I’m tired, too,” she said. “Do you mind if I lean on your arm? I can’t sleep sitting bolt upright.”

“Take off that idiotic bonnet first,” he muttered.

She took it off and rested her head on his brawny arm. After a moment, he shifted sideways a bit and tucked her head against his chest. That was more comfortable.

It was also all the reassurance Jessica needed for now. Later, she’d try to figure out what had upset him during their embrace—and why he’d become so very tense when she spoke of his mother’s family. At present she was content to enjoy what felt delightfully like husbandly affection.

They slept through most of the journey, until they reached the Devon border. Despite the delay in setting out, they reached Exeter by late afternoon. They crossed the River Teign shortly thereafter, then wended down to Bovey Tracey, and across the River Bovey. A few winding miles west, Jessica had her first glimpse of the strange rock formations of Dartmoor.

“Haytor Rocks,” he said, pointing out his window at an immense stone outcropping at the top of a hill. She climbed onto his lap to get a better view.

He laughed. “You needn’t worry about missing it. There are plenty more. Hundreds of those things, everywhere you look. Tors and cairns and barrows and bogs. You married me, only to wind up in precisely the ‘remote outpost of civilization’ you wished to avoid. Welcome, Lady Dain, to the howling wilderness of Dartmoor.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” she said softly.

Like you, she wanted to add. In the orange glow of the lowering sun, the rugged landscape was dark and harshly beautiful, as he was.

“I’ll have to win another wager,” she said into the moody silence. “So that you’ll take me to those rocks.”

“Where you’ll contract a lung fever,” he said. “It’s cold, windy, and wet, and the climate changes from brisk autumn to bitter winter and back again ten times in an hour.”

“I never take ill,” she said. “I’m not a high-strung thoroughbred—unlike certain individuals who shall remain nameless.”

“You’d better get off my lap,” he said. “We’ll be at Athcourt very shortly, and the staff will be out in full battle regalia. I shall make a poor enough appearance as it is. You’ve rumpled and wrinkled me past repair. You squirm and fidget even more asleep than awake. I scarcely closed my eyes the entire way to Exeter.”

“Then you must have been snoring with your eyes open,” she said as she returned to her place beside him.

“I was not snoring.”

“On my head,” she said. “And several times, straight into my ear.” She had found the deep, masculine rumble inexpressibly endearing.

He scowled at her.

Jessica ignored it, returning her gaze to the passing landscape. “Why is your home called Athcourt?” she asked. “After a great battle, like Blenheim?”

“The Ballisters originally lived further north,” he said. “One of them took a fancy to the Dart-moor property as well as the daughter and sole surviving issue of Sir Guy de Ath, a powerful fellow in this area. The name, incidentally, was originally Death. It was changed for obvious reasons. My ancestor got the daughter and the estate on condition he keep the quaint name alive. That’s why the males of the family get Guy de Ath stuck on just before ‘Ballister.’”

She’d read his name on countless marriage-related documents. “Sebastian Leslie Guy de Ath Ballister,” she said, smiling. “And here I thought you had all those names because there’s so much of you.”

She felt his body stiffen. She looked up. His jaw was tight, too, his mouth set in a hard line.

She wondered what nerve she’d struck inadvertently.

She didn’t have time to work out the riddle, because Dain snatched up her forgotten bonnet and shoved it on her head backwards, and she had to right the hat and tie the ribbons. Then she had to try to make a dress she’d traveled in since early morning look presentable, because the carriage was turning in to a gateway, and Dain’s ill-concealed agitation told her the drive beyond led to his home.

Chapter 12

Despite the unplanned-for pause at Stonehenge, Dain’s carriage drew up at Athcourt’s front entrance at precisely eight o’clock, as scheduled. By twenty past eight, he and his bride had inspected the domestic army, all turned out in trim ceremonial array, and had been discreetly inspected in turn. With a very few exceptions, none of the present staff had ever clapped eyes on their master before. Nonetheless, they were too well trained and well paid to show any emotion, including curiosity.

All was ready, exactly as Dain had ordered, and every requirement provided precisely to the minute, according to the schedule he’d sent ahead. Their baths had been readied while they reviewed the staff. Their dinner clothes were pressed and neatly laid out.

The first course was served the instant lord and lady took their seats at opposite ends of the long table in the cavernous dining room. The cold dishes arrived cold, the warm, warm. Andrews, the valet, stood near His Lordship’s chair throughout the meal and assisted with all tasks requiring two hands.

Jessica did not appear in the least daunted by a dining room the size of Westminster Abbey, or the dozen liveried footmen waiting at attention near the sideboard while each course was consumed.

At a quarter to eleven she rose from the table to leave Dain to his port. As coolly as though she’d been mistress there for centuries, she informed the house steward, Rodstock, that she would have tea in the library.

The table had been cleared before she was through the door, and the decanter appeared before Dain almost in the same instant. His glass was filled with the same silent unobtrusiveness, and his host of attendants vanished in the same ghostly quiet and quick way w

hen he said, “That will be all.”

It was the first time Dain had had anything like privacy for two days, and the first chance to think properly about the problem of deflowering his bride since he’d realized it was a problem.

What he thought was that it had been a long day and his paralyzed arm was throbbing and the dining room was too quiet and he didn’t like the color of the drapes and the landscape hanging over the mantle was too small for the location.

At five minutes to eleven, he pushed away his untouched wineglass, rose, and went to the library.

Jessica stood at a book stand, where the immense family Bible lay open to a page containing the customary entries of weddings, births, and deaths. When her husband entered, she threw him a reproachful look. “Today is your birthday,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He approached, and his stony expression settled into the usual mocking mask as he glanced down at the place she pointed to. “Fancy that. My estimable sire didn’t black my name out. I’m all amazement.”

“Am I to believe you’ve never once looked in this book?” she asked. “That you weren’t interested in your forebears—when you knew all about Guy de Ath?”

“My tutor told me about my ancestors,” he said. “He tried to enliven the history curriculum with regular strolls through the portrait galley. ‘The first Earl of Blackmoor,’ he would solemnly announce as he paused before a portrait of a chevalier with long golden curls. ‘Created during the reign of King Charles II,’ I would be informed. Then my tutor would expound upon the events of that reign and explain how my noble ancestor fit in and what he’d done to win his earldom.”

His tutor had told him, not his father.

“I should like to be tutored in the same way,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow you will take me for a stroll through the portrait gallery. I collect it must be about ten or twelve miles long.”