Rules of Engagement (31 page)

For some reason, his confidence snapped the steel back into her spine, and she straightened, gestured down the long line of servants, and in the crisp tones of Miss Lockhart the elderly governess, she asked, "Where is Moulton, my lord? Did he remain in town?"

"Mr. Moulton refused my excessively generous offer to remain my butler and has returned to his investigative firm."

With difficulty, Pamela absorbed that information.

"He did, however, offer me a position there should I ever desire." Kerrich smiled openly. "Which of course I shall accept if my plans do not come to fruition. What is the use of being safe if you're not happy?"

She thought it a rhetorical question, but he paused as if expecting an answer. "I'm afraid I don't know," she replied to him and herself.

What plans?

"Exactly," he agreed. "Now you must come in and tell me what you think of Brookford House."

Two footmen had left their places in line and held the polished doors wide. Kerrich guided her into a soaring foyer whose marble columns directed her vision upward to a blue-painted ceiling decorated like the sky with clouds and a stylized sun.

"The house wasn't originally in the family." Kerrich led her slowly forward, his hand over hers as she craned her neck to look above. "Brookford was built in 1790. When I was looking for a country estate I found it and fell in love. I confess I have changed very little, but perhaps you like a more modern style."

She thought she restrained her enthusiasm admirably. "This is most beautiful. Very calm and welcoming."

"Just what I thought," he said with an irksome contentment.

It was as if he saw through her propriety to the woman beneath. Dreadful man, did he dare think he understood her?

Worse—did he?

"The servants are setting up refreshments in the conservatory," he said, "but if you aren't too tired from your journey and wouldn't mind stretching your legs a little I'll give you the brief tour of the downstairs."

"I would like that." Perhaps it was vulgar curiosity, but Pamela found herself wanting to view the vastness of Brookford House.

They walked along through the door at the end of the foyer and into the picture gallery, another long, high room with huge pastoral landscapes in gilt frames and a few portraits, some darkened with age and some bright with new paint.

"As you may have guessed, we haven't a lot of family portraits." He pointed at one of his grandfather, another man obviously his father and a youthful Kerrich. "Until Grandpapa came along, the family was noble, but poor. Not that my ancestors ever starved, you understand. The old Mathewes estate provided a decent living, and I can safely tell you that the men in my family are excellent providers. We always take care of our wives and children."

Again he seemed to expect an answer, so she said, "An admirable trait." What she really noticed was that he still held her hand trapped between his arm and his palm and showed no indication of letting her go, and the warmth of the contact distracted her from studying the picture of him as she would have liked.

He led her into another room, a library much like the one where he worked in London, with comfortable chairs, bookshelves on either wall that went on forever—and a desk. A wide desk similar to the one where they… without warning she blushed, all over, at once. Not even Miss Lockhart's professional serenity was proof against the sight of that broad, shiny surface.

"My office here at Brookford." He walked her right through, but she thought he must have noticed her discomfort, for he strolled with ever more obnoxious confidence. "This corridor leads to the conservatory."

As he ushered her through, she thought strongly about suggesting that a meal shared between the two of them would be inappropriate and asking that she be led to her bedchamber where she could rest. He would understand then that he knew nothing about her and had no reason to feel confident about anything. He would never have to know that with his help, she had healed from the pain of her father's abandonment and had left the silver watch behind at the Distinguised Academy of Governesses. She would escape with her pride intact and her emotions in shambles.

Drawing herself up, she made ready to annihilate him with her dignity and her indifference—when abruptly, he stopped.

"Matilda!" he snapped. "What are you doing?"

Kerrich dropped Pamela's hand and strode forward. "Bad dog. Bad dog!"

Matilda started crawling toward him, tail wagging.

Pamela was irresistibly charmed. By the dog, and by the master. "She's a darling."

"I've had Jimbo and Bailey—they're my other two greyhounds—for years, but recently I decided I should get a new dog." He picked up the gangly animal and glared into her eyes. "Right now, I can't remember why." The little dog whined and her tongue licked at his face, and he spoke directly to her. "And kissing isn't going to get you out of trouble, Miss Puddles!"

Pamela couldn't control her grin, or the mawkish sensation of indulgence she experienced at the sight of the suave, wealthy, confident Lord Kerrich brought to treacherous sentimentality by a puppy.

"Hey, there!" he shouted.

A footman and two maids arrived on the run.

"Matilda needs to be taken for a walk." He handed the dog to the footman, who bowed and backed hastily away. "Julie and"—he hesitated—"Dora?"

Both maids curtsied.

"Matilda has left her calling card." He pointed. "There." The maids were smirking, too, and Kerrich scowled at the three women. "Stop that!" Striding to the far door, he stood aside and said, "If you would come this way, Miss Lockhart, I believe we have a small repast laid out for your pleasure."

Pamela walked toward him, her plan to bow out discarded, but her dignity intact. She would eat with Kerrich, carry on a conversation with him, and let him know by her demeanor that she didn't mourn their previous intimacy, scarcely remembered his unflattering marriage proposal, and was doing very well without him.

Like the rest of his house, the conservatory glittered with all that was resplendent, a glass-enclosed room where potted flowers bloomed in pots and strawberry plants set small green fruit. A linen-draped table sat in the center covered with an artfully arranged plate of cold meats, cheeses and condiments. A massive marble vase filled with roses stood off to the side. Two chairs were drawn up facing the imposing view from the windows into the garden where chrysanthemums bloomed.

Kerrich held the chair for Pamela. Still enthralled by the view, she walked over, began to sink down—and Kerrich exclaimed, "Stop!"

She half-turned to see him scooping a large, gray-striped, slumbering cat out of her seat.

"I forgot. Luke likes to sleep in here." He held the limp cat as she sank into the chair, and asked, "Do you want to hold him?"

"Of course," she said doubtfully, "if you're sure he's alive."

"He's just old." Kerrich laid him in her lap. "And spoiled. The housekeeper spoils him."

Kerrich looked chagrined enough that Pamela eschewed challenging his blame of the housekeeper. Instead, she petted the cat, who proved himself to be among the living by draping himself upside down across her knees and purring. With the afternoon sun slanting in and the scent of flowers rich in the air, the conservatory exuded peace. She relaxed against the back of the chair.

Then Kerrich placed his hands on her shoulders, and she stiffened.

"I suppose it's pathetically obvious what I've been doing," he said.

She took a careful, controlled breath. "Showing me your majestic possessions."

"Yes, and letting you know that… that without you to share it with, it means nothing."

Her breath caught. She coughed abruptly and violently, and clutched at her shoulder where her almost healed wound now throbbed.

"Are you all right?" He leaped to pour her some wine.

She nodded and took a sip from the glass he thrust into her hand. "Thank you. Sorry." Her voice was choked. "Whatever I'd expected you to say, it wasn't that."

"Why else do you think I had you come to Brookford?"

"To bring Beth?"

"If I didn't have time to fetch Beth myself, I have many trustworthy servants to perform the task." Kneeling before her, he rubbed the cat's wide belly. "No, I wanted you to see that I have all you want. I have a house in the country.

It's not a cottage, but you said you like it and if you wanted, I could build you a cottage. I have cats. Barn cats and house cats. You could take a kitten as a pet. Or two kittens. As many kittens as you want. I own dogs. Greyhounds, good dogs, they have the run of the house." He gestured outside. "I have a beautiful garden. Flowers. A rose garden. Lots of books to read, and for you, all the time in the world to read them."

Confusion buffeted her. Nothing about this day, nothing at all, was as she expected. Groping for understanding, she wanted to be absolutely clear about his intentions. Cautiously, she asked, "Am I to assume you are renewing your suit for my hand?"

"I never withdrew my suit for your hand!" His haughty indignation went ill with his supplicating position on the floor. Then he caught himself. "I just never knew I would willingly beg you to marry me."

She watched him absentmindedly pet the cat as he tried to make himself appear humble. He was very appealing like this. Not particularly believable, but appealing.

When he realized she wasn't going to answer, he said, "Although I know you don't need any of my things, I will bribe you if that will convince you to marry me."

"Do you think I'm the kind of woman who would marry a man for his possessions?"

"If you were, you would have taken me the first time I proposed."

She liked that he realized the truth.

"But there are other reasons for us to marry. Not that I want this in any way to influence your choice, but… I think that you might be going to have my child."

"Of course," she breathed. Of course. Somehow he'd discovered she was expecting and he thought… he thought what? That she would
have
to marry him? If that were the case, he'd be clomping about, arrogant and proud, demanding his paternal rights.

"Of course? Does that mean
yes?"

Her hands fluttered to her waist. "Yes."

His eyes grew large, and he asked, "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

Bewildered, she watched as he stood, went to the window, tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat—and grinned. Foolishly, broadly, as if he couldn't help himself.

After a moment he swallowed, put on a serious face, and came back to kneel before her. "Forgive me." His hands flitted over her and finally settled, one on her shoulder and one over her hands. "I know that sometimes women don't feel well when they are increasing and you might not be particularly happy knowing that if all does not work out well between us you will bear a child out of wedlock, but— I have dreamed my whole life of having a child… with the woman I love."

Oh. Oh. He'd said he loved her. When he looked at her like this, and she felt the slight tremble of his fingers over hers, she thought… she felt… well, euphoric.

When she didn't reply at once, he said, "I know that might be hard for you to believe. My reputation is not good and your experience with your father doesn't incline you to believe me—"

"You're nothing like my father," she said. She might have lately mourned her father, but she suffered no illusions about him. She knew very well that if her father had gotten one of his mistresses with child, he would have left nothing behind but a trail of dust.

"I'm not. I can assure you of that by telling you I have known several women in the biblical sense, but I have no children, because I always, always use a sheath. I didn't with you. Never. Not even the first time." Kerrich moved closer, crowding her knees. "Do you know why?"

"No." Her lips formed the word, but she made no sound. "Because I knew you were going to be difficult. I knew I would need every weapon in my arsenal to keep you, and if that included getting you with child, then I was willing to use it." She tried to jerk her hand away, but he threaded their fingers together. "Despicable, I know, but you're everything I've always been afraid of."

She had no idea what he was talking about. "Afraid of?"

"You're what
every
man is afraid of. And what every man wants. You're so clever that it doesn't matter that you're beautiful. When I kissed the ill-favored Miss Lockhart that first time, I told you I was testing you, checking that you hadn't fallen in love with me and so would present yourself naked in my bedchamber."

"Thus saving yourself trouble," she said bitingly, remembering his rejection and her embarrassment.

"But in truth, I kissed you because I had forgotten what you looked like in the wit of your conversation and the pleasure of your company." He drew a small, wooden, intricately carved box from his pocket and opened it. Inside a ring of pearls and sparkling blue sapphires rested on a bed of black velvet. "For the touch of your hand I would crawl through a horse stable on my stomach. If you wished, you could be the worst kind of tyrant and I would love it, and you. I had to realize that I trusted you not to do that, and submit myself to your rule. Please marry me. I'll always be faithful, and I can never be happy without you."

He had been so sure she was going to say yes. He had groveled before her! But she had taken the ring, the ring he'd spent hours designing just for her, and asked that someone take her to her bedchamber because she was more tired than she'd realized.

He hadn't seen her since. She had sent down an apology and a request for a dinner tray, and of course he'd accepted the apology and sent up the dinner tray and tried to understand where he'd gone wrong. He'd offered to fulfill her dreams. He'd assured her he wanted their child but knew that, without him, she would be able to care for it and herself. He had told her he loved her, which he had never told another woman because no other woman had captured his heart and soul.

Now, Kerrich hoisted himself out of the chair in the library where he'd been brooding, leaving Jimbo stretched out on the floor before the fire. Stopping beside the old dog, he petted him under the chin, thinking how easy life must be when one had been gelded. Unfortunately, that was not a solution Kerrich would consider for himself. Taking a candle, he mounted the stairs and strode along the corridor toward his bedchamber.

As he had tucked Beth into bed, she had told him it was his overconfidence. She said Miss Lockhart must have sensed overconfidence because no matter what he said or did, he still knew himself to be handsome, wealthy and of good character.

He had to admit Beth was right. His confidence was one of the bedrocks of his temperament, and so he would tell Pamela.

With his hand on the doorknob of his room, he stared down the corridor toward the wing where Pamela was sheltered. The temptation was almost irresistible. He wanted to go to her, to take her hand and again beg her to wed him. Then, if she didn't agree, he would strip her naked and make her see sense.

But he feared the trip to Brookford had been difficult for her. She was increasing, she had suffered a gunshot wound and she needed rest. And who knew? Perhaps tomorrow he would wake and go down to breakfast, and she would be there smiling, pouring his tea and proclaiming she wished to marry him.

If not, he would refuse to let her go home.

According to his grandfather's counsel, which Lord Reynard had given freely during dinner, kidnapping was a bad choice of methods to deal with a proud woman. But when pressed, Grandpapa had declared that if Pamela continued to prove difficult, kidnapping might be the only acceptable solution, although he did question how Kerrich would trick her into speaking wedding vows. Kerrich decided he would deal with that difficulty when he encountered it.

With a sigh, he opened the door and slammed it behind him.

A fire burned on the hearth, roses were scattered over the sheets on his downturned bed and someone—a female—rose out of the chair before the fire. He had a brief moment of thinking,
Not the senior upstairs maid again!

Then his brain processes froze.

Miss Pamela Lockhart turned to face him, and she was totally, lushly, starkly naked. She stood with her feet slightly apart, her chin up, and her hands behind her back.

She smiled, a rather tremulously wicked smile that gave hope even as it aroused. "My lord, forgive my intrusion. I know how it irks you to have women arrive in your bedchamber without clothing, and I would not intrude on your hospitality without taking the precaution of trying to please you. So because I am like all the rest, and I'm here only because I love you without cease, I decided to wear this." She extended her hand.

He had to try several times before he could tear his gaze from the body for which he endlessly lusted to a mere limb with five fingers… one of which was decorated with a sapphire-encrusted, pearl-decorated, love-given ring.

"Will that amount of adornment suffice?" she asked.

Her eyes glinted so merrily it was obvious she knew the answer, but she had led him on too long. He had to clarify, "Only if you agree to wear it
every
night in my bedchamber."

"I will wear whatever you like every night in
our
bedchamber."

He allowed himself one moment of relief before snatching her into his arms. "The ring alone will do."