The Incomparable Miss Compton Page 16

  The part of her brain that was evidently connected with her lips protested vehemently. Her conscience shouted it down. “Don’t you understand?” she begged. “I cannot, I will not, sell my life for position or power. Nor will I sell it for passion or companionship.”

  His frown was more perplexed than angry. “Then what do you want from me? What more can I offer?”

  She felt her heart constrict as the last of her passion died away. “You still have to ask?”

  He sighed. “Love. Or rather, that fickle emotion the poets call love. Can you not see that that emotion only leads to trouble? Have Persephone and her suitors taught you nothing?“

  “I do not base my concept on their sorry showing,” she told him, stung by his assessment. “Have you never read the Greek myths? Shakespeare?

  “The bard at least had the good sense to make most of his romances comedy,” he quipped.

  “What of Romeo and Juliet?” she challenged.

  He raised a brow again. “Would you have me die to prove my love? That makes for a lasting marriage.”

  “Do not belittle me,” she cried. “If I’m such an Incomparable, am I not worthy of love? Don’t I deserve to have a gentleman tell me I mean the world to him? How can I trust my heart to anything less?”

  “Would you have me lay my heart at your feet then, Sarah? Wouldn’t that make me as much your slave as you complained I was trying to make you?”

  “If you truly loved me,” she retorted, “it wouldn’t matter.”

  “Then I can only conclude, my dear,” he said, “that you are not in love with me either. If you were, by your own definition, you wouldn’t care about any of this. You’d be willing to risk anything to be with me.”

  His logic stopped her. Was that indeed the ultimate conclusion to her reasoning? Was it after all her own heart that was lacking as she had always suspected? Frowning, she could find no answer.

  “Since neither of us is in love, perhaps we can dispense with that requirement,” he suggested, with a calm that only served to infuriate her. “In every other way, we are imminently suited. Marry me, Sarah. You’d have everything you want.”

  “Except my self-respect,” she replied. “I’m sorry, Lord Breckonridge. I will not spend my life beholden to you for an offer made without love. I thank you for that very insightful demonstration, but I must stand by my decision. I cannot marry you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Malcolm stormed back into the great house. The woman was impossible! Every moment in her company, every look exchanged, every touch of her body to his promised him that they would be perfect together. He’d felt her passionate response to his kiss. His body still surged from it. Did she think he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care?

  He took the grand stair two steps at a time and stalked down the corridor to the bedchamber he had been assigned. Love. To think that such an old-fashioned ideal stood between him and his goal. Logic he could have fought. Misperception he could have overcome. He had too much experience dealing with people to think he could easily overpower a cherished ideal like love.

  He refused to lie to her, though it would have been pathetically easy. He knew any number of gilded phrases. He could have rhapsodized about his tender feelings. He could have sworn by every false god that he was her eternal servant. Certainly he’d read the Greek myths and Shakespeare. He could have quoted her verse for bloody verse. ‘But soft -- what light through yonder window breaks -- it is the east and Sarah is the sun.’ More likely it was Puck’s comment, ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be.’ The more fool he would be to even try such a tactic.

  He could not have lost. Oh, he’d suffered a bitter set back, to be sure. She probably would be twice as wary in his company. He’d have to work hard to regain her trust. But he’d suffered worse in his career and rallied. There had to be some way he could convince her. They had four full days left of the visit. They would be forced to remain in each other’s company. A great deal could happen in four days. He’d ramrodded the Income Tax Abolition Act through the Lords and Commons in less time, with three-quarters against him to start. If he could win them over, surely he could win over Sarah.

  He threw open the door to his bedchamber, yanking on his cravat. Striding into the room, he loosened the buttons on his vest with one hand as he shrugged out of his coat with the other. He’d change for dinner tonight. Change his clothes, change his tactics. He’d be the consummate Corinthian, the man about town, the London gentleman. He’d show Sarah Compton just the kind of fellow she was throwing away on a simple principle. She’d beg him to reconsider. He was about to shout for Appleby when a movement caught his eye.

  Someone was sleeping in his bed.

  He blinked. That couldn’t be right. Yet the lump under the satin coverlet was surely not from an ill-made bed. His heart sunk as he recognized the golden curls cascading across the pillow. Even as he sucked in a breath, his visitor sat up, stretching daintily. Persephone Compton met his gaze, her violet eyes wide with innocence and surprise.

  “My lord Breckonridge,” she murmured. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to Sarah? Why have you come to my room?”

  Her room? Good God, in his frustration, had he blundered into the wrong room? Hers was but a few doors down from his own on the corridor, if memory served. Heart pounding, he strode back to the door and peered out, counting the entrances from the grand stair. Turning back to her, he noticed with a rush of relief his maple-backed brush on the dresser, his teak shaving kit near the white porcelain wash stand, his Bible on the bedside table.

  “This,” he said to Persephone, “is my room.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear,” he heard her murmur behind it. “I was so tired, I must not have noticed. What shall we do?”

  “Nothing,” Malcolm replied, striding forward. “Are you dressed?”

  “Dressed?” she asked, touching the coverlet.

  He paused beside the bed. God, please let her be dressed, he prayed. She shifted under his gaze, and the pink cotton sleeve of her gown showed over the top of the coverlet. He seized her slender arm to help her from the bed, confirming with further relief that she was still wearing the pink ruffled gown he had seen earlier, even if it was hideously wrinkled. He hustled her toward the door. She resisted, her fragile body surprisingly strong, but he couldn’t tell whether she was resisting her removal or merely his touch.

  “What are you doing?” she piped with clear confusion. “If we are caught, if anyone finds out . . .”

  Malcolm paused to peer out the door again, glancing up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight.

  “We have not been caught, and no one will find out,” he assured her, stepping out of her way. “I promise never to breathe a word to a soul. Go, Miss Compton.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, my lord, you are so noble.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a daughterly peck on the cheek. Unlike Sarah’s kiss a moment ago, this one did not raise his passion. All it raised was his sense of impending doom.

  “I will never forget what you did for me,” she assured him, eyes glowing.

  Nor would he forget it if she didn’t leave. Malcolm put a hand on her shoulder to force her from the bedchamber. At that moment, Appleby stepped from the dressing room, Malcolm’s coat over one arm. He stared at Persephone, and Persephone stared at him. Malcolm groaned.

  He shut the door to the corridor with a snap. “Appleby,” he ordered, “you saw nothing.”

  Appleby blinked. “Nothing, my lord?”

  “Nothing,” Malcolm repeated.

  Persephone’s lower lip was trembling again, and this time her eyes brimmed with tears. “Is he trustworthy?“ she begged. “How can you be certain he’ll be circumspect, Lord Breckonridge? Don’t servants gossip?”

  “Not Mr. Appleby,” Malcolm assured her, turning to scowl his man into silence. “He finds the activity morally repugnant.”

  Persephone wrung her hands. “Are you certain? My reputation could be r
uined. I might never find a husband. I’ll be damaged goods. I don‘t know what my poor mother will do. This will surely send her into a decline.”

  Another moment would see her blubbering against his neck. This would never do. Malcolm affixed his valet with a fierce eye. “Mr. Appleby will be silent as the grave, I promise you.”

  Appleby had the temerity to hesitate, licking his lips. “Would that constitute another addition to my duties, my lord?”

  The reprobate wanted a bribe. Malcolm stiffened, gritting his teeth, full ready to refuse. One could only take so much of this, and Appleby was drawling perilously close to that line. But one look at Persephone Compton’s puckered face stopped him. The girl would raise a fuss that would bring the entire household down upon them. Even Anne would be hard pressed not to insist that he marry the girl. He would not be trapped into marriage. He swallowed his bile, his pride, and his temper.

  “Yes, Appleby,” he managed through gritted teeth, “that will be another duty, for which you will be duly compensated.”

  Persephone gasped as if realizing the meaning of their code. Her gaze darted between them as if she could scarcely believe they would barter over her honor.

  “Well compensated?” Appleby pressed.

  “I will buy you a blasted estate,” Malcolm spat out. “Now let the girl be gone.”

  Persephone pulled herself up to her full height, barely reaching Malcolm’s chin. “Mr. Appleby,” she said haughtily, “I am shocked by your behavior.”

  Malcolm could cheerfully have wrung her neck, after he was done with Appleby’s, of course. “As it is my pocket he is picking, Miss Compton, I do not think it your place to bicker. Leave, for God’s sake, while you can.”

  “A fellow must look out for himself, miss,” Appleby put in with a sniff as if Malcolm had not spoken. “It is my duty to give good service where I may.”

  “You call this good service?” Persephone squeaked. “You are completely untrustworthy. I have a good mind to . . .”

  “Enough!” Malcolm thundered. “Miss Compton, you will leave my room now, or I will not be responsible for the consequences.”

  She gulped down whatever she had been about to say to Appleby and backed hurriedly to the door. “Yes, of course, my lord. I’m so sorry. This episode is just so upsetting to me, you see, and I . . .”

  Malcolm used every weapon of intimidation known to a leader in Parliament. He stood tall, puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders, knotted his fists at his sides, glared down at her, and used the voice that could project across the Commons. “Now!”

  Swallowing, she flung open the door and darted down the corridor. To make sure she didn’t stop until she reached her own door, Malcolm leaned out. He had the satisfaction of seeing the pink hem of her skirt disappear into her room. There was the sound of a door slamming shut. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing his tension. Proposing to Sarah was one thing. Being forced to marry Persephone Compton was quite another. He felt as if he had just escaped a firing squad. He was lucky to be alive.

  He opened his eyes to find Sarah in front of him regarding him with upraised brow. He caught his breath, heart slamming into his ribs.

  “Care to explain why my cousin just left your bedchamber, my lord?” she asked coolly. He could see the icy gray in her eyes. She was furious, but with himself or Persephone he wasn’t sure.

  Nor did it seem to matter, for his own temper was rising again.

  “No, Miss Compton,” he replied. “I do not care to explain. If you’re so blasted interested, go ask your cousin. Good day, madam.”

  And he had the momentary satisfaction of shutting the door in her open-mouthed face.

  Chapter Eighteen

  This had to be the worst afternoon of her life, Sarah reflected as she made her way to her cousin’s bedchamber. First Malcolm had proven he could be the perfect husband, then he had refused to honor her ideals of love and proven he could never be her husband at all. She had taken a brief walk about the garden in a vain attempt to calm herself, only to return upstairs in time to see Persephone slip from his room. Her mind informed her they could not possibly have had time to do anything compromising, but the very fact that the girl was in his room was enough to set tongues wagging. Not only had Sarah lost the man she loved, but she had failed in her duty as chaperone.

  She froze in the act of knocking on the door. She did feel as if she’d lost the man she loved. She had been so afraid that her heart was lacking; she had been wrong. Malcolm had accused her of having feelings as shallow as his, but he was quite wrong. She was capable of a deep and abiding love; she simply trusted few people enough to show it. If she were not very much mistaken, her love was now entirely bound up with that impossible Parliamentarian down the corridor. Her heart sank as quickly as it had risen. Knowing he held love so cheaply, how could she have been so stupid as to give him hers?

  She wanted nothing more than to turn to her own room across the corridor and collapse on her bed to think. But she could not abandon Persephone. Inside the room before her, she heard what sounded suspiciously like crying. For all her cousin had done recently, Sarah still loved her as well. Her own emotions would have to wait. She raised a hand and tapped on the door.

  “Persy, it’s me,” she called. At the mumbled permission to enter, she opened the door. Her cousin lay sprawled across the cream satin coverlet of the walnut four-poster bed, head buried in her arms. As Sarah crossed the Oriental carpet to her side, steeling herself to hear the worst of it, Persephone heaved herself up to sit and stare at her.

  “What happened?” Sarah asked gently.

  Persephone swallowed the last of her tears. “I take it you saw me.”

  “Yes,” Sarah replied, going to sit in the rose-colored armchair near the fire so as not to appear to hover over the girl. She said no more, waiting for Persephone to speak. Her cousin merely sat staring at the white marble of the fireplace beyond Sarah.

  “Well,” she said at last with a terseness that surprised Sarah, “what do you intend to do about it?”

  Sarah frowned. “Perhaps if you told me what ’it’ is, I could tell you my plans. How did you come to be in Lord Breckonridge’s bedchamber, Persy?”

  Her cousin waved a hand airily. “I was tired. I came upstairs to nap before dinner, and I must have chosen the wrong room.”

  “The wrong room?” Sarah’s frown deepened. “But surely Lady Prestwick has not done all these rooms in an identical manner. My room is done in blues and greens with Sheraton furnishings, while yours is in cream and rose in an older style. Surely Lord Breckonridge’s room is another color and style as well. How could you fail to notice?”

  “I told you,” she snapped. “I was tired.”

  Sarah decided not to pursue the argument. She hated the idea that was forming in her mind. Persephone could not be so manipulative as to arrange the ruin of her own reputation, particularly with a gentleman who had shown a marked preference for Sarah. There had to be another explanation.

  “Very well,” she allowed. “You were so tired you failed to notice the room was not yours. I take it you fell asleep?”

  Persephone nodded solemnly. “I awoke when I heard the door opening, thinking it was Lucy come to help me dress for dinner. When I saw it was Lord Breckonridge, I thought he had come to tell me something had happened to you.”

  “And what did Lord Breckonridge do?” Sarah prompted, almost afraid to hear. Yet surely a gentleman of Malcolm’s good sense would not take advantage of finding a lovely young woman like Persephone in his bedchamber.

  “He was all that is good and kind,” Persephone enthused. “He assured me of his silence, and he bribed his servant not to gossip.”

  “Indeed,” Sarah replied, unsure how to react. Part of her was pleased Malcolm had been so level-headed as to spot the danger to her cousin and himself. Another part frowned at the idea of a bribe. Was there something that required covering up? “What exactly did he have to pay his servant for? You were on
ly found there by accident.”

  “Oh, most assuredly,” Persephone agreed with enthusiasm. “But still, if people were to find out, my reputation would still be damaged, wouldn’t it?”

  The girl sounded positively wistful! Sarah stared at her. “Persy, you cannot want that!”

  “No, of course not, silly,” she replied with a giggle. “Not if I were still on the marriage mart. But Lord Breckonridge is such a gentleman. I’m certain he’ll ask Papa for my hand if rumors start flying.”

  Sarah rose to her feet, blood firing. “If rumors fly, Persy, I’ll know where they came from.”

  “Lord Breckonridge’s valet,” Persy said sagely.

  “No, Persy, from you. Do you honestly think you have hidden your scheme? You are transparent as the glass in Lady Prestwick’s greenhouse.”

  Persephone tossed her head. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Sarah told her, nearly trembling with the enormity of it. “You tried to ensnare Lord Breckonridge.”

  Persephone gave a laugh, high and bitter. “How silly! I have dozens of suitors. Why would I need to ensnare anyone?”

  “Because for some unknown reason you’ve fixed upon him,” Sarah replied, sure of herself. “From the first you wanted him for yourself, Persy. I thought you’d given that up, but it’s clear that clever mind of yours just took another course. Well, I won’t have it. I will not let you force him into marriage.”

  “I am not forcing him,” Persephone declared, hopping off the bed to face her. “I was caught in a compromising situation, and he is being a gentleman.”

  “You have explained that nothing happened,” Sarah reminded her. “He has no need to be a gentleman.”

  “That is for him to decide,” Persephone informed her, stalking to the wardrobe. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should change for dinner.”

  “I warn you, Persephone,” Sarah threatened, “do not attempt to pursue this. I will stand by his side, against Aunt Belle, against Uncle Harold, against the world if need be.”