Page 7 of A Rogue's Downfall
“Dress for riding,” he said. “You do ride?”
It was strange too that he did not know that about her. She rode for an hour or more every morning andalways refused an escort, even though the elderly headgroom constantly fussed over her and asked her rhetorically what she would do if she took a tumble whenshe was far from home.
“Yes,” she said.
“Half an hour, my valentine,” he said, and she was very glad suddenly that she was lying down and hadnowhere to fall. He leaned over her and kissed herfull on the lips. His lips were firm and closed andtasted of bacon. He had eaten already. He was goingto have a second breakfast with her. Or else he wasgoing to embarrass her by watching her eat. He prolonged the kiss for a few seconds and then lifted hishead and smiled at her. That was the moment whenshe knew the truth of what she had suspected as soonas his head had come down to hers. Her legs wouldnot have supported her if she had been standing onthem.
“Yes,” she said.
He straightened up and looked down at her for several silent moments, his smile gone. Then he turned and left the room. Amy closed her eyes and touchedher fingertips to her lips. And swallowed against whatfelt like a lump in her throat. And fought tears.
He had made a ghastly mistake, he thought, waiting for her to join him at the breakfast table. His handplayed absently with a fork. She was not ready for aday of valentine’s romance with him of all people. Heshould have allowed her to go to Hester Dryden’s andhave some fun with her friends there. He should havestayed far away from her on this, the worst possibleanniversary. He had made an idiot of himself and haddoubtless ruined her day even before she had got outof bed.
God, she had looked inviting in bed—warm and flushed and rumpled. He put the thought ruthlesslyfrom him.
There had been no response. None whatsoever. Merely the blank stare that had suggested she thoughthim out of his mind. And the monosyllabic answers.Even when he had kissed her, her lips had remainedstill and quite passive. All very different from the lasttime he had kissed her, when her lips had pressedeagerly back against his and her mouth had openedunder the insistence of his own, and her body hadleaned invitingly into his. And she had been hot withthe desire to be possessed. She had been quite, quitedrunk.
How had he thought it would be possible to woo her now?
He could remember the scorn with which she had greeted him when she had been sent to him the morning after, his remarkably uncomfortable interview withher father at an end. Scorn and defiance.
“You owe me nothing, my lord,” she had said with more bravado than truth. He had owed her his name.No one in the kingdom would have disputed that except her. “Certainly not marriage. I will not marryyou.”
She had remained adamant even when her parents had joined them after ten minutes. She had been onher way into the country before the day was out.
He closed his eyes. And he remembered the icy hatred with which she had greeted him after he hadbeen summoned back to her father’s house, wonderingwhat awaited him there. Both her father and hermother had been in the room, but she had been theone to speak to him. She had been standing beforethe fire, her back to it.
“If you can see fit to renew your offer of marriage, my lord,” she had said with no preamble, “I will accept it. There is to be a child.”
He had renewed his offer in front of their silent audience. He had never felt more uncomfortable inhis life. She had accepted. She had added somethingbefore her father took up the conversation with a discussion of the practical aspects of the wedding, whichmust take place with all haste.
“I could bear the disgrace,” she had said very quietly. “But I would not have my child live his life as a bastard.”
And he hoped less than one year later to make her his valentine, to woo her?
He stood as she entered the room, looking pretty and elegant in a moss green velvet riding habit andblack boots. The habit looked comfortable and well-worn, though by no means shabby. She must ride frequently, he thought, and realized again how little heknew of her. He seated her at the table and motionedto Morse to bring her coffee.
“Oh,” she said, staring at the long-stemmed rosebud that lay across her plate. She darted him a glance.“They are in bud already?”
“Gold,” he said, “for the start of the day. For sunshine and beauty.” He nodded to the butler to leave the room. Morse’s lips were pursed.
“For me?” she said. “Did you cut it yourself?”
“For you,” he said, noting the flush along her cheekbones. “I did. What may I fetch you from thesideboard?”
She looked startled. “Toast,” she said. “And a glass of milk, please.”
“For my son?” he asked, walking across to the sideboard, where sure enough a tall glass of milk had been prepared for her.
“For James,” she said, and he winced at his faux pas.
“For our son.” He set the glass down beside her coffee and set the toast rack on the table in front ofher. She was holding the rose by the stem and hadthe bud against her mouth.
“Thank you,” she said, but it was not clear whether she thanked him for the milk or the rose. “Are younot eating?”
“Coffee only,” he said. “I ate earlier.”
“Bacon,” she said.
