Barbara Metzger Page 17

  “You told me you wanted a father for the boys. When they asked, I made a paternal decision. The scamps did not tell me you had already refused, and I saw nothing wrong with having the dogs in the nursery, as long as they are confined until they are more convincingly housebroken. I had a dog sleep at the foot of my bed until I went to school.”

  “You did not have a mother.”

  “That does not mean I was raised by wolves.”

  One might gather otherwise from his manners. Still, he had not meant to circumvent her authority. And he was here, looking like Lucifer himself in the firelight.

  “Would you care for a glass of wine?” she asked in conciliation.

  Lud, no. Rockford was befuddled enough at the sight of his wife with hair trailing down past her narrow waist, almost hiding her glorious breasts. A drink and he was liable to start baying at the moon. “No, thank you. I have had enough spirits tonight.”

  Alissa could have used something to calm her disordered nerves, but she did not wish to drink while he did not. He was just standing there, half leaning against the door frame, bare legs crossed at the ankles. The dratted man never lost his poise, while she was almost shaking in anticipation. And he was not making things easier for her, either, not talking, not smiling, just staring at her hair. “I’ll just put this into a braid and—”

  “No! That is, don’t take the time.”

  Oh. Alissa set down the brush. Now he was in a hurry, after weeks of marriage? She was eager too, she had to admit to herself. She had not missed the pleasures of lovemaking until she met Rockford, but now she felt her skin warm in expectation. Now she would have a real marriage; now she could begin to win her husband’s affection. Love was not guaranteed to follow lovemaking, of course, but it was a start. She did not think she had any other way of getting close to this handsome, worldly stranger she had wed.

  Still, he had not moved from the doorway. She licked her lips in that nervous habit she had. “Shall I, ah, leave the candles burning?”

  That got him stirring. He crossed the room, dousing the flames. He would have put the fire out, too, if he had the time. The only way he was going to get through this with his soul intact, Rockford told himself, was to hurry, not breathing in the scent of her, all flowers and ready woman, and in the dark. He closed his eyes so he did not have to see her tongue brush those soft lips so innocently, so suggestively. He put his hands in his robe’s pockets so he would not reach out for the rippling silk of her hair.

  He tripped over her slippers.

  “Are you sure about the candles?” she called from one side of the bed.

  He was sure about nothing, except that he should not be here. He did not want to want anything as much as he wanted this woman. That way lay disaster. But she wanted a daughter. Ah, life did require sacrifices, did it not? He climbed onto the bed, on the opposite side.

  Her hand reached out for him. A small, chill hand touched the skin of his chest, where his robe was open. The fire in his blood would warm it instantly. He could not help himself. He reached out his own hand to spread her hair across the pillow, then to touch the skin of her cheek, her neck, her bare shoulder. Just to make sure she was ready, he lied to himself. His hand moved lower, to her velvet-skinned breast. Hers untied the sash of his robe.

  He groaned.

  She sighed.

  He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the perfume she wore, rubbing his lips against the softness of her hair. She kissed his neck, his shoulder, his earlobe.

  Oh, Lord, Rockford prayed, don’t let him embarrass himself like a schoolboy! He ran his trembling hand down the silky length of her nightgown, then raised the fabric up toward her waist.

  “Shall I…?” she asked.

  He kissed her mouth, to quiet her. Control was taking all of his concentration; he did not need conversation. That was a mistake. Fire raced between them, urgency, hunger, need. If he did not bury himself in her soon he would die, Rockford knew, and she would never have her daughter, only a limp rag that used to be an earl. He slipped his hand between her thighs. She was ready, thank the gods of fertility. He rose above her and joined their bodies.

  And she whispered his name. “Robert.”

  He’d almost been afraid she would call him by her dead husband’s name. This was worse. His body responded to her siren’s call. Once, twice; he sheathed himself a third time, and was lost.

  No, he was still breathing, barely. He raised himself on his arms, kissed his wife on the forehead, and got off the bed, pulling his robe closed before she could see signs of life in his letter opener. “Good night, Countess. Sleep well.”

  Sleep well? Alissa stared at the ceiling. How could she sleep when every inch of her body was on fire, when she wanted to launch herself off the bed, knock him to the floor, and demand Rockford satisfy the cravings he had aroused?

  At least now she knew why his wives had left him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That Austrian princess must have very different prerequisites for a lover, Alissa thought as she washed. And so must all those other women who had labeled Rockford a rake. How else would he have gained a reputation for his beautiful mistresses, his myriad affairs? Surely his title went only so far toward dazzling the ladies of the ton. Like a book’s title, if the pages were blotted, boring, or blank, people ought to stop buying it.

  Unless the problem was Alissa herself. Perhaps Rockford was simply not attracted to her. He could have forced himself to a perfunctory performance, simply to get the deed done. No. He had been ready, and definitely able, if not entirely willing. Alissa had hardly been able to admire her magnificent wedding present before it was spent, but like everything else about Rockford, it was impressive.

  She sighed as she went back to her cold bed. Here she had been fearing comparisons with her late husband’s memory. This…this lightning bolt of an encounter was nothing like the tenderness she’d known with William Henning, nothing like the mutual pleasure they had shared for hours. It was nothing to build a marriage on, either.

  *

  Alissa spent the next day getting her family settled in their new surroundings. The first thing she did was have Rockford’s fragile treasures moved onto higher shelves or to his private office or his bedroom suite, both of which were off-limits to the boys and the dogs. He could break them for himself, there, like the ivory goddess.

  After that she sent Claymore to placement agencies about tutors and a new secretary for Rockford, and Jake to indoor riding academies about the ponies. She met the housekeeper and the émigré chef, whose aid she immediately enlisted for practicing Hugo’s French, for a raise in salary. She consulted the maids about which shops to patronize, and the guidebooks about seeing the sights. She assigned footmen to accompany the boys, footmen to escort Lady Eleanor, footmen to guard her sister. One footman she promoted to kennel master.

  She got the key to the gated park across the street, where the boys had to be taught to play in limited areas and the pups had to be taught to follow on a lead. She gave a handsome tip to the groundskeeper there, in advance of the destruction they were bound to commit, despite the lectures and lessons.

  She helped Aminta reassess her wardrobe, and helped her sister-in-law send letters to former acquaintances and correspondents, some of whom were now matrons of social importance. She oversaw the unpacking, the menus, and the children’s schedules, without ever seeing her husband.

  And she primped.

  She washed her hair, she bathed in perfumed oils, she put cucumbers on her eyes and crushed strawberries on her cheeks. She changed her evening gown two times, her jewelry three, and her mind every ten minutes. Did she want him to come to her room tonight at all? Was she brave enough to go to his chamber if he did not?

  He did not join them for dinner. According to Claymore, Rockford had left in the morning, and left no direction or time of his return. Now Alissa had to decide if she should wait up for him and, if so, where, and wearing what.

  She was trying
to decide hours later, when he was still not home. She was acting like a mooncalf, she told herself, and went to her own room with a book for company. She did make sure her hair was loose around her face and her night rail was loose around her shoulders.

  Just when she was about to extinguish her candle, he came.

  He came. And then he kissed her forehead and left. All Alissa had in return for her day’s efforts was another restless, unfulfilled sleep, and a wet spot.

  *

  Rockford did not come to her bed the next night. He did not even come home. Alissa knew because she stayed up, listening. Heaven knew where he did sleep, but it was not at Rothmore House. She was not happy with that fact, but not unhappy to get a good night’s sleep. Besides, she had not found what she was looking for yet. She could not very well seek it out at the lending library where Hugo had spent an hour that morning, but she guessed Rockford would own the book. Unfortunately, she was too busy to search the extensive library, and too well surrounded with staff and family. Claymore might know its place in the collection, but she could never get up the courage to ask.

  So she rose before dawn and crept down the stairs before the first servants were about. She tiptoed into the library—and gasped when she almost stumbled over a puppy. Hugo was asleep in one of the leather chairs, a book in his lap. Alissa had to pet the dog before it barked and woke the boy and the entire household. She gingerly patted its head, then snatched her hand back when the creature tried to bite her. It tried to lick, she had to admit, but she was taking no chances. The dog tucked its nose between its paws and went back to sleep.

  Alissa wished she had a blanket to cover Hugo. She made a note that one should be kept in the library at all times, and the fire left burning. Of course, Hugo should not be out of the nursery, but exploring the library would have been too much of a temptation for Rockford’s scholarly son. Like her, the boy had been too busy to spend much time here.

  She gently removed his spectacles before they fell, and started to take the book from his lap when she noticed the title. “Why, you little devil.” Now she would have to hire a librarian to remove unsuitable works from the shelves. They would have to go into Rockford’s rooms too, along with his antiquities, but this one went first. She had what she’d come for.

  *

  Rockford was pleased with himself when he got home that evening. He had bedded his new wife twice now, and gone on his way intact, not bending to her will. He spent his days out of the house, and one of the nights, to prove to himself that he could keep away from her, that his well-ordered life could not be disrupted by a contrary countess. She might be under his roof, but she was not under his skin.

  The entryway looked different, the parlor emptier. “What, have we been burgled?” He tried to joke with Claymore, who did not smile.

  The old butler was not amused, likely showing his displeasure at Rockford’s long absence. “Some of the breakables have been relocated for safekeeping, my lord.”

  “The brats are not staying, dash it! There is no need to rearrange my house.” It was still his house, by George! “Where is Lady Rockford? I will get this matter settled once and for all.”

  “My lady is not at home. None of the ladies are at home,” he added, in case the earl wished to shout at his sister again or bring the young miss to tears.

  “What do you mean, not at home? It is eight o’clock at night.” Alissa knew no one in town that he had heard of, and had no connections if one discounted the priggish Duke of Hysmith. Rockford doubted the stiff-rumped peer would acknowledge Alissa’s existence, much less invite a former, unwanted sister-in-law to dinner. As for his own sister, they had made peace, but he doubted she’d show her face out in public until knowing if the recent scandal had been squelched.

  Deuce take it, a wife ought to be waiting when her spouse returned. That was the way it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

  “We did wait dinner last night,” the butler offered, disturbing Rockford’s mutterings.

  So that was it. She—and Claymore, if he read the old man aright—were in a miff because he had not come home last night. Well, Lady Rockford would just have to learn that it was the wife who waited, not the husband, by Jupiter. Or else she could take herself and the traveling circus back to Rock Hill. Heaven knew he would not miss her. In fact, he would miss the Etruscan vase, the ivory goddess, the carved walking stick, and his former secretary more. So there.

  She ought to have sense enough to stay here, however, he thought, at least until his groom returned with a reply from Sir George. The message had been clear: Leave the county or name his seconds. Until Rockford heard a reply, one way or the other, Alissa and her sister would do better at Rothmore House, indoors, under guard.

  “Where the devil did they go, anyway?” he asked, thinking that he might have to go find them, to act as protection.

  Claymore adjusted a fern in a brass planter on the Chippendale table in the hall. It was ugly, but unbreakable. “The countess is attending the opera this evening.”

  “In my box?” Rockford had been intending to use it, as soon as he changed his clothes.

  “Where else should the Countess of Rockford sit but in the Rockford box?”

  Which Claymore would have directed her to. The butler might have been with the family for ages, but that did not entitle him to sarcasm. “Do you know, old man, I think you might be happier in the country after all.”

  Claymore took the hint, cleared his throat, and said, “My lady took Lord Rothmore and Master Kendall, besides the ladies. It was to be their first night out in London, my lord, a special occasion. The countess had never seen an opera performed. Nor had the children, of course.”

  Rockford caught the censorious note in his butler’s voice again. Claymore obviously thought he should be dancing attendance on the woman, showing her about town, introducing her to his friends, taking her to her first opera. Sitting in her pocket. No, he would not.

  He could change into formal attire and go now, just to make sure she had enough attendants, of course. He could go, sit at her side in the dark, place his arm around her shoulders…. No, he would not. Be damned if he would chase after his own wife. He had to start as he meant to go on. In addition, Alissa belonged in the country, not glittering amid the haut monde. He’d married a sensible, honest countrywoman, dash it. London would turn her into another spoiled, selfish she-witch. Then he would find himself leg-shackled to another man’s mistress. No, he would not, not this time.

  None of Rockford’s alternative choices for the evening’s entertainment appealed to him, though. Neither his clubs nor the gaming dens, a rout at Lady Bushnell’s nor a bachelor party at one of the high-class brothels sounded inviting to him. Not as inviting as his wife’s warm body. Botheration.

  His sitting room was cluttered with objets d’art, and the library was too warm, with blankets piled on his favorite chair for some reason. The formal drawing rooms were…too formal, and too quiet with no one playing the pianoforte. He supposed he should look over his correspondence, now that he had no secretary, but it could wait. What time did the opera end anyway?

  Then he heard noises from the upper levels, shouts, screams, the clash of swords. Aha! Just what he needed, murder, mayhem, a masked intruder to beat off! He grabbed up a sword stick from the Chinese urn in the hall and raced up the marble stairs, two steps at a time—in time to be bowled over by a rusty suit of armor bumping its way down.

  He caught himself on the stair rail, thank goodness, but the armor did not. It bounced right into the Chippendale table, sending the brass-potted fern to the floor in a hail of dirt and greenery, then smashed into the antique Chinese urn that was used to hold canes and umbrellas.

  Whatever blasphemy he shouted sent one footman, two little boys, and three puppies scrambling away. The fourth puppy cowered at Rockford’s feet, so he picked it up. “Not your fault, little fellow,” he tried to soothe the shivering pup, which promptly wet his shirtfront.

  After a bath, Rockf
ord went up to the nursery, thinking to demand apologies and issue warnings. Instead he saw the two youngest boys, the Williams, enjoying warm milk and raspberry tarts. His favorites. And he’d missed supper. So he stayed on in the playroom, taking on all comers at marbles, feeding crumbs to the puppies, listening to his son’s endless chatter and Alissa’s son’s shy replies, reading tales of derring-do. He kept them up long past their bedtime, and enjoyed himself more than he had at any of the balls he’d attended that month.

  *

  He was waiting in her room when Alissa came home, in his loose robe, but with slippers on his feet. He rose from the chaise when she came in.

  “I am sorry, my lord, but it has been an exhausting day.” And she did not want another sleepless night filled with unfulfillment. She did not wish another of her husband’s visits, either, not until he had time to read the book.

  He sat down again, when she sat at the dressing table to remove her jewelry. She wore the sapphires tonight, he saw, with a blue gown. “I, ah, thought we might talk a bit. We need to set some rules for the house, for while you are here.”

  She started to take the pins out of her hair, wondering how she was to get out of her dress without the maid he must have dismissed for the night. “That would be good. I have a few rules of my own, too.”

  “I know, I kept the boys up too late.” Claymore must have squealed on him. The disloyal old retainer was definitely going back to the country.

  “No, I mean that you must be a father to them. You cannot disappear for two days. They simply do not understand and think you are angry at them, that you do not want them here.”

  Well, he did not. But he nodded.

  “You have to spend time with them,” she went on. “Get to know them. Take them places. I cannot show them Tattersall’s and Gentleman Jackson’s. For that matter, I cannot guide them through sights I have never seen for myself. Besides, I do not share all of their interests.” Going to the Royal Menagerie had to be worse than having dogs in the house. “Yet I cannot entrust them to mere servants. They need a father. That was part of our arrangement.”