Page 18 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Eighteen

Readying herself for dinner, Roseanna was only half listening to her twin prattling on. Francesca seemed little perturbed about the possible ramifications of having a potential traitor staying in the same house. She was far more focused on the fact that the King was coming to stay. The danger seemed to have largely gone over her head.

But then, she would very likely have been the same if it hadn’t been for her unexpected encounter with Tristan Bernard and the subsequent temptation to eavesdrop.

She wondered what he was doing now. Was he still with the Comte since he was to act as the nobleman’s valet? She knew Tristan’s role was to try to draw the man out as quickly as possible, and that made his position especially dangerous. He might as well have drawn a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead and written shoot here underneath it.

Feeling a clutch of fear, Rosie turned towards her sister, determined to put such worries aside - at least until dinner. She couldn’t imagine that any of them would be seated anywhere near the Comte. That burden would undoubtedly be left to the older members of the family. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that her aunts and uncles were so accomplished at weaving Canterbury tales.

‘Do you think these pearls look a little insipid against the orange taffeta?’ Francesca was asking her. ‘I had thought to wear the emerald gown, but once I realised the King would be here tomorrow.’ The two women had elected to help each other get ready since Doris and Emily, their two lady’s maids from Northwood, were now being shared with Aunt Faith and Henrietta.

‘You look gorgeous,’ Roseanna responded. And she meant it. Francesca might not be conventionally beautiful, but her vivaciousness drew people to her.

In response, Francesca threw her arms around her twin. ‘I’ve missed you these last days and I’m so pleased you no longer have to spend all of your time with Grandpapa minding Mr Galbraith.’

Roseanna opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it again. Presumably, since the stakes were now so high, the Duke and Duchess believed they could rely on Dougal to keep out of trouble without supervision. Having spent the last few hours with the old Scot, Rosie admired their optimism. If the opportunity arose, she’d have a quiet word with her grandfather after dinner. She absently clipped on her earrings.

‘Oh, they look perfect, dearest.’ At her sister’s words, Roseanna creased her brow in confusion. Then she realised she’d been wool-gathering again. Zounds, she really needed to gather herself together. She looked down at her pale lemon gown. In all honesty, she’d chosen it because she always felt it helped her fade into the background. It certainly wasn’t one of her favourites. But the daffodil earrings she’d paired with it always felt so cheerful.

She smiled and picked up her reticule. ‘Would you take this down for me? I have to take Trixie out and I know I’ll simply forget it when I come back up.’

Francesca nodded. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think Uncle Nicholas wishes us to walk around the house alone… just in case. And I know how prone you are to wandering off.’

‘I’ll be perfectly well, sweet. Please don’t worry. I have no intention of lingering. As soon as Trixie’s seen to her ablutions, I’ll bring her back here and join you.’ She clipped the little dog’s lead on while she was speaking

‘Well, don’t take too long,’ Frankie warned. ‘You know very well that Mama wishes to speak with you and since you’ve got back this afternoon, you’ve been fudging.’

Roseanna winced, then sighed. ‘I’ll speak with her as soon as I come down,’ she promised, linking her arm in her twin’s. Francesca gave her an arch look. ‘I don’t think you’ll have much choice dearest. Mama is determined to corner you, and the last thing we want is for her to raise her voice…’

For once, Rosie did not linger in the kitchen garden. Although the hour was still relatively early, the shadows already hid large swathes, intensifying her unease. Despite Malcolm’s reassurance, the thought that she might be recognised was terrifying. Trixie too picked up on her disquiet and didn’t waste time sniffing before squatting down to water the dandelions.

Picking up the little dog, she glanced up at the faceless house. She could see candlelight through many of the windows, and in any other circumstance, she would have found it welcoming, but now she couldn’t help wondering about the unseen hands holding the flickering candles. Was somebody standing out of sight, watching her?

Gritting her teeth, Roseanna hurried back towards the open door, only for a figure to step out of the shadows just before she reached it. Stumbling back, she only just managed to stifle a cry as the urgent voice of Tristan Bernart whispered, ‘My lady, don’t scream.’

Trixie grumbled in her arms but didn’t begin barking, and Rosie calmed her with shaking fingers before placing her back down on the ground.

‘His grace told me what happened today,’ Tristan whispered. ‘I wished to make sure you weren’t harmed.’

‘You scared me half to death,’ Roseanna accused, ignoring his question. ‘What are you doing out here? I thought you were with the Comte.’

‘I’ve just left him,’ Tristan answered. ‘I was hoping you’d bring your dog out here.’

‘I wasn’t hurt,’ she admitted. ‘More scared than anything. My foolish impulse could have ended in disaster.’

‘But you found the plans they had of Blackmore,’ the footman argued. ‘We suspected d’Ansouis intended something for this weekend, but now we know for sure. We just need to catch the bastard in the act.’ He didn’t apologise for the expletive.

‘What is the Comte like?’ Rosie asked curiously. ‘Do you think him dicked in the nob?’

Tristan eyed her for a second, wondering at the question. Then he remembered she knew nothing of his former life and had no idea he and Babin had shared a cell together.

‘He’s a charlatan,’ Tris answered shortly. ‘And an arrogant one at that.’

‘Do you think he is planning something for this weekend?’

‘Most assuredly. But it’s not just d’Ansouis we have to stop. We need to smash the whole conspiracy wide open before they get the chance to do something heinous.’

He stepped forward, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. She gazed up into his face, inscrutable in the twilight, and suddenly felt a longing so acute, it nearly brought her to her knees.

‘I… I… do not think you should stand so close,’ she murmured, staring directly his chest, inches from her face.

‘I have a house,’ he declared abruptly, his voice almost gruff. She lifted her head, finally allowing her eyes to meet his. Why was he telling her this?

‘It’s in Torquay, close to Redstone House. Roan Carew and I are neighbours.’

‘That’s nice,’ she managed after a few seconds, trying to make sense of his words. ‘I like Torquay.’ For some reason, her answer elicited a rueful smile. Then he briefly closed his eyes.

‘I have to get back,’ he murmured when he opened them again. She nodded, then for some strange reason, felt a desperate need to touch his warmth. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and pressed it against his chest. The reaction was instant.

His hands came up to grip her shoulders and, with a soft expletive, his lips came down on hers. For a second, she remained still. The feel of his full lips pressed against hers was like nothing she’d ever felt before. Indeed, she’d never imagined a man’s lips could feel so soft. He did not move. Did nothing but waited, holding her pressed against him. She knew he would not force her, though she could feel his body, taut and hard underneath the stillness. She sensed his restraint, his need . And she could not have stepped away if the devil himself had appeared.

Instinct told her what to do next. Hesitantly, she opened her mouth and with a groan, he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping in to tangle with hers, his mouth plundering, demanding. She should have been afraid, but when his hands slipped from her shoulders to splay across her back, she willingly allowed him to press her against that most intimate part of him, sliding her own hands up around his neck as she stood up on her toes, better able to ride the hardness she could feel pressing between her legs.

Her whole body felt on fire. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, but as she moved, her nipples tingled as they rubbed against the roughness of his jacket.

Then suddenly, shockingly, it was over. It took him seconds to slide his hands from her back, grip either side of her waist, and set her from him. They were both panting hard. Unconsciously, Roseanna took a step forward. ‘Don’t,’ he groaned harshly, and she stopped uncertainly, wondering if she’d done something wrong.

‘If you come any closer, I will be tempted to lift your skirts and take you where you stand,’ Tristan murmured crudely. But instead of horrifying her, his words sent a stab of longing directly into her core. Roseanna didn’t move, but stared wordlessly into his silver eyes, heavy lidded with desire.

‘Your family will be waiting for you,’ he growled, and she gasped as reality finally came rushing back. How long had she been out here? Frankie would be worried sick about her. And damn it, where was Trixie? A stab of fear dissolved the last of her ardour and she swung round, desperately looking for the little dog, only to spot her seconds later sitting next to the door, nonchalantly scratching behind her ear.

Almost crying with relief, Roseanna rushed to pick the animal up. Now that reality had intruded, she hardly dared to look at Tristan. Truly, he must think her a harlot.

She was aware that he was saying something, but in her agitation, she had no idea what. All she wanted to do now was escape. Clutching the little dog to her, she pulled open the door. She vaguely heard him call her name, but without looking round, she stepped through the opening and fled down the passageway, the door clanging shut like a death knell behind her.

Tristan cursed as he walked back towards the kitchens. What the devil had possessed him? It seemed to be a question he was asking more and more frequently when it came to Roseanna Atwood.

He now knew who her father was, but it was no comfort really. What was the likelihood of a viscount accepting an offer from a French orphan – even if he did have a bloody house in Torquay.

Abruptly, Tris found himself chuckling. What a bacon brain. He cringed, thinking back to his words. Clearly, his verbal intimacy needed practice.

But would she entertain any kind of intimacy when this was over? Perhaps she thought him a cad of the highest order, and in truth, his actions had been inexcusable.

God’s teeth, now was not the time to be agonising over a woman. The problem was, no matter how many times he told himself that, still she occupied his thoughts, almost to the exclusion of all else. For the first time in his life, he’d found himself imagining what it would be like to have a wife and a family. He might own a house, but in truth, he’d hardly spent any time there. What was the point in him rattling round an empty mausoleum alone?

Sighing, he pushed open the kitchen door and was immediately assailed by the hot, steamy air. The room was bustling, though doubtless things would be far worse after the King arrived.

‘’Ows ‘is ludship settlin' in?’ Mrs Higgins asked him in between directing the kitchen staff from her chair. She reminded him of a conductor with his orchestra. Tristan fought the urge to chuckle.

‘He seems comfortable enough. I left him putting the finishing touches to his hair. Apparently, my touch is not quite deft enough when it comes to creating a Brutus .’

Mrs Higgins gave a hearty laugh, slapping her thigh. ‘Lawks, these toffs,’ she chortled. ‘I bin ‘ere fer thirty years, an’ they never change. I’m jus’ glad the Duke ain’t got the same airs and graces.’

Tristan nodded with a grin of his own. ‘I’m returning upstairs to put his nibs’ clothes away and turn down his bed. I’ll be back as soon as I’m finished.’

Although the plan had been for him to try to gain d’Ansouis’ trust over four days, they clearly no longer had that luxury, so it had fallen to Tristan to be a little more obvious in his disgruntled servant act – but not so much as to arouse suspicion. A fine line indeed.

The first few minutes of the Comte’s arrival as Tristan had shown him to his room had been particularly nerve-wracking. Although Tris had changed beyond measure, there had always been an outside chance that the real Babin would recognise a fellow inmate of Mont Saint Michel. Fortunately, there hadn’t been even the slightest flicker of recognition in the bogus Comte’s eyes.

But though Tris had prattled on about the state of the nation, d’Ansouis hadn’t taken the bait. Indeed, his lordship had spoken very little, and when he did, his tone was guarded and clipped. Hardly surprising given that the bastard was likely preoccupied planning his assassination attempt. The only change had come when he confided the news about the King. The Comte’s surprise had been genuine, and when Tristan had daringly shared his opinion of the monarchy, d’Ansouis had regarded him thoughtfully. It was shortly after that he’d been dismissed.

At which point, of course, he should have been reporting back to the Duke, not kissing one of his grace’s relatives in the kitchen garden. Tristan sighed. In truth, Nicholas Sinclair would only expect to see him when he had something to report.

Naturally, he intended to search the Comte’s bedchamber while d’Ansouis was at dinner, though the chances of the nobleman being foolish enough to leave some incriminating evidence lying around were slim.

Tristan was all too conscious that they were running out of time.