Gayle Wilson – Raven's Vow (страница 11)

She lowered the hand that now controlled the whip and found, surprisingly, that she was fighting an urge to touch the brutal stripe her father had laid across his face. She knew that the duke’s rage was not really directed against John Raven. This blow had been struck in revenge for another insult to his daughter, for another man whohad been exactly what Montfort had accused the American of being. What had happened here this morning was not what she had wanted, but she knew very well her mockery had played a role in what had occurred. Raven would never know how deeply she regretted that.

“I’m sorry,” she offered softly.

It seemed almost as if he didn’t hear her. Finally the blue flame of his gaze focused again on what was in her face. His lips were white with the pressure he was exerting. The small, throbbing muscle jumped again in his jaw.

“Tell him,” Raven ordered, reading the look in her eyes— the look he had seen there before. He hadnot been mistaken.

“Tell him what?” she asked, truly not understanding what message she was supposed to give.

“That you’re mine. And that he might as well get accustomed to that reality.”

John Raven had disappeared into the street, slamming the door behind him, before she could think of an answer.

Chapter Three

In the ensuing days, her father said little about the confrontation with John Raven. He had grudgingly admitted, knowledge assuredly gained from his friends at White’s, that the “coal merchant” was exactly what he had claimed to be.

“Rich as Croesus,” the duke acknowledged. “They’re calling him the American nabob, but I am led to understand that most of his wealth was accumulated in the East.”

“China and India,” Catherine agreed, remembering their ride.

The old man’s eyebrow lifted. “God’s teeth, Catherine, exactly how well do you know this damned miner? Surely you must realize what you’re doing by this ridiculous delay—making it appear youdesire the attentions of men like this American. Choose a man of your own class, suitable for your birth and position, and do it damned quickly. I’ll not be accosted by any more importunate jackanapes with coal dust under their fingernails.” The duke’s slender, elegantly erect frame shuddered dramatically, illustrating his distaste.

“Importunate?” Catherine repeated. “I should think that would be one adjective that wouldn’t apply in this case. He’s hardly the fortune hunter you called him.” Recalling her father’s fury over the disastrous incident of two years ago, she added, “I should think you’d be glad you don’t have to worry about that with Mr. Raven’s proposal. Actually…” she began, savoring the rather exciting bluntness of that proposal.

“Don’t press me, Catherine. You think to wind me around your finger as you’ve always done, but I warn you, girl, this is no trifling matter. Pick a husband, or I shall do it for you. And be damned sure that I will, Cat. Damned sure.”

The problem was that she knew very well his temper might cause him to do exactly that, regardless of his promise to her. Despite her father’s warning, she had found herself reliving that last encounter with John Raven more times than she wished, mentally watching her crop descend across the high cheekbone. The memory that was most clear and, to her disgust, most often repeated in her mind, was what he had said just before he’d departed.

Tell him, John Raven had said,that you belong to me.

Once more in the midst of a crowded ballroom, Catherine forced her thoughts away from the remembrance of whatever, besides anger, had been in Raven’s eyes that afternoon. She was still not certain of the emotion that had called forth his declaration. Fury at being denied what he wanted, certainly. And at her father’s treatment of his suit. But she had begun to believe that she had seen something else stirring in that blue flame.

Resolutely she broke off her fruitless attempt to identify that fleetingly glimpsed emotion and tried to focus on what her partner was saying. She wished he’d simply let her enjoy the waltz, but he seemed to think thathe must entertain her rather than allowing the flowing movements of the dance and the pulse of the music to do so. She allowed her lids to close over eyes that were beginning to glaze with boredom, and there appeared before her, in her mind’s eye, John Raven’s face. That had happened far too frequently lately, and she had found herself at too many social engagements unconsciously seeking that dark head which she knew would tower above those of the room’s other inhabitants.

Guilt, she had finally decided. Guilt over the role she’d played in her father’s brutality that day. By her mockery she had thrown Raven to the wolves when, she knew, she could have handled the situation differently, perhaps even have mitigated the duke’s fury. Apparently she wasn’t going to be given a chance to explain or apologize. John Raven seemed to have disappeared from London as quickly as he had appeared. Unconsciously, she sighed.

“Bored, my dear?” Gerald asked solicitously.

Good God, she thought, shocked at that familiar voice. She had changed partners in such a perfect fog that she’d been unaware until that very moment that she was floating across the floor in Amberton’s very capable arms.

“Tired,” she offered, wondering what she’d said to him before, while she was thinking of the American’s strong features.

“It’s nearly over. The Season is winding down and—”

“Don’t,” she ordered with something of her old spirit. “Don’t tell me what’s going to happen after that. I assure you I don’t intend to repeat the argument we had two weeks ago.”

She began to take her hand from his, resolving, since he seemed determined to remind her, to move away from him. But his fingers tightened over hers, controlling.

“You really are too accustomed to having your own way. I don’t think public humiliation, my dear, is on tonight’s agenda.”

She turned in surprise at his unexpected masterfulness. Smiling smugly, he ruthlessly swept her back into the rhythm of the waltz, holding her far closer than was acceptable.

“Let me go,” she demanded imperiously.

“Quit behaving like the spoiled chit I called you. We’re in the middle of the dance floor, for God’s sake. Don’t you dare try to walk away from me.”

Furious, she struggled again, and his fingers ground into hers more strongly, hard enough to bruise.

“You’ve had your own way too long, my pet. But I think you’ll not find me so easy to deal with as your ever-indulgent parent. You really have no option here, and you must know it.”

Catherine was forced to realize the unpleasant truth of his assertion. She could literally fight him for her freedom, here under the eyes of the gossiping old tabbies of the ton, or she could give in gracefully and finish the set. She couldn’t imagine what had come over Gerald, but in this instance she recognized the validity of what he had said. As much as she hated the admission, she really had no choice.

Finally the music ended, and with what she hoped was an icy dignity, she allowed him to lead her from the floor. Still furious, she had said nothing after his unconscionable behavior. She was relieved to find that her next partner was an old and trusted childhood friend, Lord Anthony Dellwood. Gerald released her with what appeared to be satisfaction with his mastery, and she nodded coldly before he turned away.

“I’m sorry,” she said as soon as Amberton had moved out of earshot, “but I’m feeling a trifle unwell. Do you suppose you might find my father, Tony? I really would like to go home.”

She dealt charmingly with his expressions of concern and was infinitely relieved when he left her alone in the small sheltered alcove to which he had taken her to wait while he saw to the arrangements. It was not just Gerald’s bizarre behavior, it was everything. The Seasonwas coming to an end, and with its conclusion, her father’s repeated ultimatums for her decision had increased. And the only man with whom she could imagine…

The thought impacted like fireworks in her brain. The only man with whom she could imagine spending the rest of her life was not Gerald, nor any of the other perfumed and pompous members of her set, but… Surely she couldn’t be contemplating marriage to the coal merchant. The words you belong to me echoed again in her brain, causing their own small explosion of sensation. My God, she wondered, could he possibly be right about that? “The bride was conveyed to her wedding by locomotive,” theMorning Post would say.

Catherine’s lips slanted suddenly as she remembered Raven correcting her father. She doubted whether anyone else in his very long and noble life had had the gall to point out the duke’s obvious errors to him. No wonder her father had been so furious that day. John Raven certainly did not play by the rules that had been set down for members of this society to follow.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but your father seems to have been called away. Some unexpected emergency. I’m sure a very minor one, but I’ve ordered your coach brought round and will very gladly escort you home,” Dellwood offered gallantly.