Page 5 of Redemption

“I used to before…when I was a child.” She forced a smile as Lord Foxworth’s gaze narrowed at her.

“Then I’d like to offer you one of the horses from my stables. I have far more than I could possibly ride.”

“That’s exceedingly generous of you, my lord, but I couldn’t accept such an extravagant offer,” she said with surprise as her aunt gasped.

“Lionel, you can’t possibly—”

“Possibly what, Beatrice? I’m a wealthy man now. I can afford to be generous.”

There was almost a note of anger in the viscount’s voice as he eyed her aunt with an arched look that was difficult to read. The tone of the conversation had become a silent exchange of something completely different than the words being spoken out loud. Lord Foxworth looked back at Rhea and smiled.

“Well, Miss Bennett? Will you give me the pleasure of presenting you with a mount suitable for riding?” There was a gleam in his dark brown eyes that said he was determined to have his way. Rhea understood the unshakeable resolve in his gaze. She possessed a similar trait.

“Perhaps a compromise,” she said with a smile. “I shall accept the loan of one of your horses.”

“Excellent,” Lord Foxworth said with satisfaction. He looked at her aunt again. “Naturally, I expect you to accept one of my animals as well, Beatrice. I know how much you always enjoyed our afternoon rides.”

“But I…it’s—”

“I no longer accept no as an answer when it comes to something I want, Beatrice,” he said with a quiet authority that even Rhea would have felt compelled to obey.

The older couple stared at one another, and despite the stubborn look that had settled on her aunt’s face, Beatrice Fremont gave way beneath the viscount’s inflexible gaze. Her aunt silently agreed to his demand but not without a sharp nod of defiance. Beatrice’s blatant display of resistance didn’t appear to trouble Lord Foxworth as a look of triumph crossed his distinguished features. A wicked smile tilted his mouth, as he extended his hand to Beatrice in a commanding gesture.

“I believe you still owe me a dance from the last time we saw each other,” the viscount murmured. Her aunt looked in her direction in a silent plea for assistance. With a smile of amusement, Rhea shook her head.

“Go, I’ll be quite all right on my own.” Her encouragement earned her a scowl from her aunt, and a chuckle from Lord Foxworth.

“It appears you’re out numbered, my…dear Beatrice.”

The viscount’s slight stumble over his words made Rhea think the man had been about to express a more fervent endearment. His earlier mention of afternoon rides only reinforced Rhea’s suspicions that her aunt and Lord Foxworth were more than old friends. Now, as she watched the couple’s silent battle of wills, she saw something more than determination in the man’s gaze as he studied her aunt. Lord Foxworth’s fingers flicked in a commanding gesture for Beatrice to accept his hand. Rhea almost laughed at the flush of color filling her aunt’s cheeks as irritation swept across her features. The viscount merely arched his eyebrows at her obstinate glare as he waited patiently for Beatrice to place her hand in his. With obvious reluctance, her aunt accepted Lord Foxworth’s hand and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor.

Rhea watched the jovial throng of guests dancing and mingling in the room. When she and Arianna had been reunited with their aunt less than a year ago, it had taken Rhea time to feel comfortable at the few soirees her aunt insisted they attend. She still found social occasions somewhat off-putting.

In the little more than three months since arriving at Green Hill House, the vicar and his wife had been their only callers. It was an arrangement Rhea was quite content with, but she’d seen how much her aunt had enjoyed visiting with the older couple. The soiree at Melton Park had presented the perfect opportunity for her aunt to enjoy the company of people other than Rhea.

The only reason Rhea had agreed to attend the party at Melton Park was because of her aunt. She’d witnessed how much the invitation had excited Beatrice, and she’d not protested attending for fear her aunt would not go all. But there was something different about tonight’s soiree. She couldn’t tell if it was the party’s relaxed atmosphere or the fact that she wasn’t in town and constantly on her guard for some wayward encounter that would reveal her past.

But for whatever reason, tonight the past seemed far behind her. One or two men glanced her way, and she quickly averted her gaze. Even in this relaxed atmosphere, she was unwilling to engage in small talk. She wasn’t interested in fending off the unwanted attentions of a man.

In one corner of the room, she saw two men flanking a woman of medium height. Rhea eyed the trio with curiosity. It was obvious they were standing guard over the woman, but she couldn’t discern why. Like Lord Melton, both men were dressed in formal Prince Charlie jackets and kilts. Tonight was the first time she’d ever seen any man wearing formal Scottish dress, and it was impressive.

Aunt Beatrice had briefly mentioned the other day that the earl’s family was descended from the Stewart line of Highlanders. The woman standing between the two men wore a pale yellow gown with a dark red tartan sash attached to her left shoulder. The two men exuded a commanding, protective nature as they greeted several guests who’d approach the trio. As the man closest to her turned his head to speak with someone, Rhea saw his face fully and sucked in a sharp breath of horror as she froze. Dear Lord, it was him.

A relief unlike anything she'd ever known spiraled through her. He was alive. In the next breath she dismissed the notion. She’d already thought the earl was the man in the museum. She was far too given to fancy tonight. London was more than two hours away by train. The man Ruckley had shot was dead. She bore as much responsibility if not more for the man's death because he might have survived if she'd stood up to Ruckley. It was a deed she would regret for the rest of her life. But she was allowing an over-active imagination to get the better of her. The likelihood the man across the room was the man Ruckley had shot in the museum a year ago was an outrageous thought. Almost as outrageous as when she’d thought the Earl of Melton was the man she’d left to die. She dragged in a deep gulp of air as she tried to dismiss the notion, but with each subsequent breath she found herself questioning her rejection of the idea. The more she studied the man, the more convinced she became he was the man she’d left to die on the British Museum floor.

Rhea remember her arrival and how she’d found herself staring at the Earl of Melton. The resemblance between the two men was uncanny, and she was certain they were related. But it wasn’t just this man’s face that was so familiar. It was the way he moved. Everything about him reflected a fluid power she’d observed in him a year ago in the museum’s dark hall.

As it had that night, every bit of his tall, well-built frame resonated with a raw, masculine strength. It made her realize how easily he could have subdued her if he’d not had a gun pointed at him. A tremor rocked its way through her body. Even when he’d been rendered helpless by a bullet there had been something strong and powerful about the man. The memory of him falling into her arms made her mouth go dry.

His body had been hard and solid against hers, and she’d been stunned by the connection she’d felt with him. She had been no more capable of explaining the sensation then as she could now. As she studied him, she was amazed the bullet from Ruckley’s pistol hadn’t killed him, let alone allowed him to walk. She’d seen what a bullet wound in the back could do to a man. Almost as if he were aware he was under scrutiny, the man swung his gaze across the room. He reminded her of a dangerous predator ready to strike in a blur of motion that would leave its prey incapacitated.

The moment their eyes met an arrogant amusement curved his firm lips as he studied her with blatant curiosity. The expression on his face said he was accustomed to women falling at his feet. She tried to look away from him, but there was something hypnotic in his gaze. It was suddenly difficult to breathe, and as his eyes narrowed, panic lashed out at her.

Dear Lord, had he recognized her? No. That wasn’t possible. She’d been wearing a mask that night in the museum. In the back of her head, a small voice reminded her of that heart-stopping moment when he’d looked into her eyes. The haunting memory of his exclamation that he knew her still had the ability to make her tremble. She had to have misunderstood. He’d just been shot. It was reasonable to believe he'd been in great pain. He could have easily thought she was someone else. He'd been dying.

It was the only explanation she’d ever been able to rationalize and accept. There wasn’t any other way he could have recognized her that night or now. Fear crashed through her as she dragged her gaze away from the stranger. What was she going to do?

Suddenly, her panic was gone, and a calm serenity wrapped around her like a warm cloak. It was the same collected composure she’d learned to maintain while she’d been at Ruckley’s beck and call. It subdued her fear and panic. Her mask had never come off her face during those few short moments in the museum. There was no reason this stranger might connect a street criminal and Miss Rhea Bennett, let alone think they were the same person.