Page 12 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Twelve

Trixie gave a soft, warning growl, and flustered, Roseanna bent to pick her up. Then, swallowing nervously, she increased her pace until she was mere feet away. To her consternation, Tristan neither spoke nor moved, but simply stared at her, unsmiling.

‘What did you wish to speak to me about?’ she asked, not knowing what else to say. In answer, he closed his eyes briefly and bent his head. Was he about to send her away? Unexpectedly, Rosie felt sheer panic swamp her. She somehow knew that if he sent her away now, the two of them would never again be alone together.

Then she almost gasped out loud with the realisation that she actually wanted this. This, and so much more.

Holding the little dog to her, she took a hesitant step forward and his head snapped up, his eyes now glittering in the candlelight. ‘I need to take Trixie outside,’ she whispered. For a second, he didn’t move, then with a faint sigh that almost sounded like a groan, he opened the door wider and stepped aside.

Swallowing again, Rosie slipped past him and continued towards the kitchen garden without looking back. Her heart was slamming against her chest as though she’d been running. As she put Trixie on to the ground, and unclipped the lead, there was silence behind her. Had he gone back inside?

Then, seconds later, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching and almost sobbed in relief. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ The voice, when it came, was low, anguished - and so close, she could feel the heat from his body against her back.

‘It’s a little late for that now,’ she responded shakily, determinedly watching the little dog as she nosed along the path.

His silence spoke volumes, but he didn’t step back, and she closed her eyes, imagining the feel of his lips against her neck. Dear Lord, what on earth was wrong with her?

‘What the devil have you done to me?’ he breathed, almost echoing her thoughts.

Unaccountably, Roseanna felt her breasts tighten, the nipples hardened to points at his heated whisper. A slam of sensation caused a liquid heat at the juncture of her thighs and underneath her heavy skirts, she clamped her legs together, fighting the sudden urge to twist round and press herself against him.

Swallowing, she struggled to get her raging emotions under control. She’d been introduced to several eligible gentlemen, but none had left her with even the slightest urge to throw herself into their arms. She clenched her nails into her palms, her breath coming out in short pants, as she tried to rid her body of the unwelcome sensations.

Of course, the principal problem was that Roseanna was deceiving herself. The sensations might have been unexpected, but they weren’t unwelcome. Not even a little bit.

‘What did you want to speak with me about?’ she managed to repeat eventually, her voice a hoarse whisper. Truly, she felt as though there was an invisible string, dragging her backwards towards his heat.

His indrawn breath was the only sign that he’d heard her question, but moments later, he finally stepped back, leaving Rosie with the abrupt feeling that she’d lost something precious.

Shivering, she forced herself to turn round until she faced him. Even though he was now standing a good two feet away, she could sense the tenseness radiating from his body.

In the dim light, she couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, but his voice, when he eventually spoke, was impassive. She had no idea how much it cost him.

‘I don’t wish to see you hurt,’ he stated. ‘Make no mistake, the man who calls himself Pierre d’Ansouis is a dangerous man. At the very least, he has no morals. I do not yet know his motives, but I do know he will kill to protect himself and his secrets. From the information you overheard, we cannot discount the possibility that he already has something afoot.’

‘My uncle has made it clear that I am not to involve myself in anything other than Dougal Galbraith’s amusement.’ She grimaced, well aware that the coming weekend was going to be challenging, even without the inclusion of a possible murder conspiracy. ‘The rest I will gladly leave to you.’

Tristan stared at her for a second before nodding his head. ‘If something untoward happens – anything – promise you will tell me.’ His voice was low but fervent, and Roseanna suddenly realised that he truly was concerned for her safety. This hadn’t all been an elaborate ruse to get her alone…

She became aware that he was waiting for her answer, and she gave him a swift nod. ‘If I hear anything at all, I promise I will get word to you.’ She meant it too. Though she knew her family would move heaven and earth to protect her, she also realised there was too much at stake for any of them to focus attention on the possible imaginings of a young woman with a fertile imagination.

‘I have to go.’ The words sent a shard of ice through Rosie’s heart. She took a deep breath, quashing the urge to protest. They’d not had nearly enough time together.

‘When can we meet again?’ The words came out unbidden, and she could have bitten out her tongue.

Tristan didn’t answer at once, but even in the darkness, she could see his jaw tense as he gritted his teeth. Did he want rid of her?

‘I have to meet with your father and uncles,’ he answered tersely at length. ‘D’Ansouis will arrive tomorrow, and the other guests - including Wellington and Grey, the day after. We cannot afford to take any chances.’

Roseanna bit her lip and nodded her head. He was making her no empty promises. His role was to fool d’Ansouis and infiltrate the Revisionists. Given what she’d overheard in the library, his success could well mean the difference between life and death.

This meeting had been foolhardy in the extreme – on both their parts. But she held on to the knowledge that he felt something for her, and once it was all over… She reigned in her thoughts. Now was not the time.

‘Go,’ she murmured, fighting a sudden urge to cry. Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned back to watch for Trixie. She may have been gone from her bedchamber for less than twenty minutes, but in that time, her life had changed irrevocably. When all this was over, she was determined that Tristan Bernart would not escape her so easily.

But that meant keeping him alive in the meantime.

Nicholas’s brothers-in-law did not hide their frustration at being kept in the dark about the Comte d’Ansouis. Adam especially favoured him with such a flat, stony stare that the Duke wondered for one horrible moment whether he’d be forced to name his seconds. Of course, Nicholas knew well that the Earl was simply furious that such a deadly secret had been kept from him by the man he considered his closest friend. The others, too, expressed varying degrees of anger and did not hesitate to voice their opinions. Even though Roan and Jamie had also been privy to the plan, it was Nicholas who received the brunt of their annoyance. Unfairly, Nicholas thought privately.

Still, he bore the censure stoically without retaliating and allowed them to have their say. And, when they’d finally finished their combined diatribe, Nicholas asked for their help.

To be fair, once the men had properly voiced their resentment, they all offered their assistance with commendable enthusiasm and by three a.m., they’d come up with a strategy Nicholas hoped would work.

By the time Rosie woke the next morning, the time she’d spent with Tristan felt like some fantastical dream. Staring up at the counterpane above her bed, she went over their whole meeting again. Had she made a complete cake of herself? Mayhap she’d imagined the longing in his whispered words. The small voice in her head persisted in going over and over every second of their time in the garden, but there was never any simple conclusion.

In truth, she knew that now was not the time to be casting lovesick eyes towards anyone, let alone a pretend footman. Despite the intensity of the short time they’d spent together, she still knew almost nothing about Tristan - who he was really and how he’d come to be involved in the conspiracy. From the things they’d let slip whilst in the study, she understood he had a connection to her Uncle Roan. But what it was exactly, she still had no idea.

And tempted as she was to ask her cousin Henrietta, Rosie realised that even suggesting the possibility that one of Blackmore’s servants had some kind of secret connection to her father would likely create a whole new set of problems. No, for the time being, her role was to keep Dougal Galbraith away from the whole smoky business.

‘Thunder an’ turf, what the deuce is that you’re eating?’ Reverend Shackleford stared in horrified fascination at the unidentifiable lump of something that Dougal was chewing on.

‘Ah dinnae ken tae be honest. It tastes a bit like ma old da’s boots.’ Dougal eyed the lump in his hand, then shrugged and bit off another piece.

‘I really don’t think you should be eating that, Mr Galbraith,’ Roseanna advised with a wince. ‘I actually think it might have been left by one of the dogs.’

‘I’m not even going to ask how you know what your father’s boots tasted like,’ the Reverend muttered. ‘For pity’s sake, man, throw it away.’

Dougal grinned, took another bite and threw the offending piece of whatever it was over the side of the barouche. Only Roseanna’s quick reflexes prevented Trixie from launching herself after it. Flossy, on the other hand, didn’t bother to move, having far more experience when it came to unidentifiable edible objects.

They’d left Blackmore twenty minutes earlier in the Duke’s brand-new, up-to-the-minute barouche. It was wonderfully comfortable, and the open top meant that passengers could take in the surroundings as they passed. Rosie had never really had a tour of the vast estate that comprised the Duke’s country seat, and she was enjoying it immensely. She’d had no idea quite how big the Blackmore estate actually was – it entirely dwarfed her father’s estate at Northwood.

As they bowled through the parkland, she caught sight of a herd of deer. When she was younger, Rosie remembered crying after catching sight of a deer carcass after the gentlemen returned from a hunt. Her uncle had not dismissed her tears as histrionics and had taken the time to carefully explain that if the herd was left to get too large, it could cause a great deal of damage to the environment. It was the only time he allowed hunting on Blackmore land.

Rosie also knew that after culling, unless the animal was diseased, the resulting meat was shared with the villagers, which helped to discourage poachers.

‘How is grandmama this morning?’ Rosie asked her grandfather after the herd disappeared from view.

‘She was still abed when I left,’ the Reverend answered. ‘She likes to take her physic an hour before breakfast.’

‘What exactly is in it?’ Roseanna asked curiously.

‘I have no idea,’ the Reverend sighed, giving a small shudder. ‘In truth, I dread to think. Foul stuff it is.’ He paused, then gave a small chuckle. ‘I remember once, before your Aunt Grace married the Duke, she attracted the interest of a young teacher...’

‘Was he handsome?’ Rosie interrupted, interested.

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ the Reverend retorted.

‘De ye nae ken, Augustus? A lad may be a tumshie heid as long as he haes a pretty face.’

The Reverend sat thinking for a second. ‘If by tumshie heid you mean dull-witted, I can only say that on this occasion, Mr Carruthers was possessed of neither intelligence nor looks. As I recall, he was particularly overweight with a face full of pimples.’

Rosie gave a shudder. ‘He sounds dreadful. How on earth could you have considered him for Aunt Grace?’

‘I’d have considered the devil himself back then if old Nick had come courting. Suitors for a hoydenish bookworm who spoke her mind at the most inconvenient moments were not exactly ten-a-penny.’

Roseanna blinked. She knew her Aunt Grace was not the most conventional Duchess, but it was hard to imagine her as a wild outspoken young woman – especially being married to a stern man like Nicholas Sinclair. ‘So, what happened?’ she asked, intrigued.

‘Well, as you can imagine, the vicarage was full to bursting with bickering females,’ her grandfather answered with a small grimace. ‘It was enough to make a grown man weep. Young Mr Carruthers fancied himself as South Devonshire’s Lord Byron.’ He snorted, shaking his head. ‘The truth was, he was a pompous bore, and Grace would have none of him. Agnes thought it a good match and invited the fellow for dinner.’ He paused and looked into the distance, lost for a second in his memories. ‘It was around the time Percy arrived, if I remember rightly.’ He looked at Roseanna with a sudden grin. ‘When I introduced ‘em, Grace thought he was a suitor and deuced well swooned – went straight to the floor.’

Rosie tried to imagine the spindle-legged, balding curate as a young man and failed.

‘Anyway,’ the Reverend went on, ‘Mr Carruthers came for dinner, but unbeknown to me, the girls had pilfered Agnes’s physic – though they never admitted which of ‘em did the deed. One of the chits laced the poor fellow’s pudding with the stuff. I reckon they must have used the whole deuced bottle because the bum brusher spent the entire night on the privy.’

Though it was unseemly to find humour in another man’s misfortune, Roseanna couldn’t help giggling, while Dougal slapped his leg and guffawed.

‘So, the tumshie haed the back door trots? I’ll wager ye nivver seen him agin.’

‘Agnes was up in the boughs for weeks. Said she’d never be able to show her face in church again. Fortunately, the Duke of Blackmore happened to be looking for a bride not long after that, so all’s well that ends well…’ The Reverend paused and sighed before adding, ‘Though it has to be said, Grace made a mull of that in the beginning.’

‘Really?’ Both Dougal and Rosie leaned forward, the scenery completely forgotten. At the sight of their identical captivated expressions, Augustus Shackleford caught himself. Tare an’ hounds, what the devil was he doing indulging in such prittle prattle? He could almost feel the Almighty glaring down at him.

He leaned back with a self-conscious cough, before muttering, ‘Well, naturally, you’ll have to ask the Duchess herself about that…’