A Most Regrettable Incident in Hyde Park
De Rohan could hear the two men murmuring behind the
shrubbery. With a calm sense of certainty, he circled
around so that he might approach at a point rather less
obvious. By God, he’d nearly sell his soul to the devil if
he could just get a good look at the both of them. Better
still would be an opportunity to watch money change hands.
It would be proof of his suspicions.
The exhilaration thrummed through his blood. But halfway
through the knot of high shrubs, he realized he was not
alone. Further along the path was a bench, tucked neatly
into a roughly sculpted niche. On it sat a woman—damn it,
the woman. This time, she was reading a bloody book! De
Rohan felt a moment of alarm. It worsened when the voices
suddenly rose. Through thinning veil of greenery, he saw
the woman jerk to her feet. Had she heard him? Or the
bribery which was occurring not a stone’s throw past her
shoulder?
His greater fear was confirmed when he rounded the corner
near elbow. She was not looking at him. Instead, her head
was cocked to one side, and she was staring in the
direction of the murmurs. Murmurs which now seemed to be
moving nearer . . .
Disconcerted, de Rohan set a foot wrong and the gravel
shifted noisily beneath his shoe.
With a soft, startled cry, the woman dropped her book and
spun toward him, her dark red skirts whirling about her
ankles. A broad-brimmed hat with a long red plume helped
obscure her identity—but not from him.
"Wot the ’ell—?" came the Cockney voice from the other
side of the bushes.
A gloved hand flew to her lips, and she opened her mouth
as if to speak. But heavy footsteps were striding toward
them. So de Rohan did the quickest—and the stupidest—thing
he could think of. What he’d burned to do for the last
seven days. In one swift motion, he dragged the woman hard
against his chest, spun toward the shadows, and covered
her mouth with his.
Catherine had meant to scream. She really had. Right up
until the instant that the square yard of rock-solid chest
thudded against hers, sending her bonnet askew and melting
her knees to jelly. But instead, she hesitated. This,
despite the fact that the dark stranger had jerked her
into his arms and was forcing deeper her into the
shrubbery. In that moment’s hesitation, his mouth came
down hard over hers, hot and demanding, urging her lips
apart. With one arm banded tight about her waist and his
fingers curled into her hair, the man drew her to him in a
crush of red merino and cascading brown hair.
"For God’s sake, kiss me," he hissed, barely lifting his
mouth from hers.
Catherine gave a small, indignant gasp, but her good
intentions exploded into flame when he seized the moment,
sliding inside her, his tongue insistent. Desperate, it
seemed. Quite inexplicably, she answered. He kissed her
more deeply, with the expertise of a man who knew women
well. Though his touch was gentle, he held her with a
violent intensity. As if he were truly afraid to let her
go. His male heat and extraordinary scent filled her
nostrils. Her heart pounded in her ears. The men arguing
in the bushes were but a vague memory. Dizzy with
confusion, Catherine barely heard their footsteps on the
graveled path behind her.
"Christ!" murmured a disgusted male voice. "A friggin’
lovers’ tryst!"
Catherine should have screamed for help—struggled harder
in his arms—exploded with rage. Oh, yes—should have. But
the man jerked his head up like a startled animal. His
dark gaze held hers, commanding her silence. Over his
shoulder, he spoke, his words harsh, angry barks. "Go.
Away. Now."
The warning was meant, Catherine knew, for the men on the
path. Clearly, he’d not realized that their footsteps were
already retreating. For a long moment, the stranger’s hard
mouth lingered over hers, his eyes still black, but no
longer cold. He dipped his head again, an awkward,
uncertain motion, and Catherine didn’t make a sound. But
slowly—quite reluctantly, it seemed—he stopped and stepped
away, his gaze falling to a spot somewhere near her boots.
Absent the strength of his arms, Catherine’s knees began
to buckle. Unsteadily, she thrust out her hand to touch
the edge of the bench, and his gaze flicked up in mild
alarm. At once, a strong, steadying hand slid beneath her
elbow.
"I daresay you’d like to backhand me for that," he said,
his voice low and thick, his unusual accent more
pronounced.
"S-should I?" she managed to ask as he drew her just a
little nearer.
"Slap me?" His mouth quirked into an uncertain
smile. "Yes, soundly." But he was as shaken as she.
Catherine could hear the merest hint of it in his deep,
raspy voice. But his eyes were as steady as his grip.
Strangely, she had no wish to strike out at him. Instead,
she forced a smile. "Did you enjoy it enough to make it
worth a good wallop, then?" she asked, tilting her head to
one side to study him. "I’ve a rather strong right arm,
you know."
The man cut a quick glance away. "Oh, I enjoyed it," he
admitted, his voice rueful. "Enough to be drawn and
quartered, instead of merely knocked senseless."
Catherine started to laugh, but it faltered. Good heavens.
This wasn’t funny. It was . . . she didn’t know what it
was. But she knew his hand beneath her elbow was warm and
strong.
"Tell me your name," she softly commanded, stepping
slightly away from him. "Don’t just tip your hat and walk
off again."
As his fingers slid away, his expression seemed to harden,
and he said nothing.
"You’ve taken some rather blatant liberties with me," she
reminded him, thrusting out her right hand. "So perhaps we
should be introduced? I’m Lady Catherine Wodeway."
Reluctantly, he took the proffered hand and instead of
shaking it, bowed elegantly over it. "De Rohan," he
responded, his tone quite formal. "Maximilian de Rohan."
Catherine did not immediately draw her hand from his. "You
were trying to hide me from those men, were you not?"
Surprise lit his eyes, then vanished so quickly she might
have imagined it. He was, she thought, a man who was
rarely surprised by anything. "They did sound as if they
might be unsavory characters, didn’t they?" he lightly
agreed, bending down to pick up her book and his walking-
stick.
Catherine did laugh then. "Oh, come now, Mr. de Rohan!"
she said as he pressed the book back into her hands. "Do I
look such a fool as that? Why don’t you tell me what
you’re up to?"
De Rohan felt himself bristle at the woman’s persistence.
She—Lady Catherine Wodeway—had no more business being
involved in his affairs than he had in knowing her name.
Still, he did know it. He’d learned a vast deal more than
that, in fact. But she was right, damn it. He had taken
liberties—abominable liberties—with her person. The fact
that she had not strenuously objected did not obviate her
right to an explanation.
"I am with the police," he finally answered. "And those
were the sort of men who often discuss matters which they
do not care to have overheard. By anyone."
"Oh." Lady Catherine’s color drained. "I begin to
comprehend."
For a moment, she stared down at the book she now held. It
was, he noticed, a rather tattered copy of The Female
Speaker. Unable to resist, and very much wishing to change
the subject, he reached out and lightly touched it. "You
are an admirer of Barbauld?" he asked, intrigued.
She looked up at him uncertainly. "Yes. No. I . . . oh, I
don’t know—! I took it from my brother’s library. I
thought it might . . . oh, improve my mind—?"
"Why?" De Rohan lifted one brow and took her by the elbow
again, as if to lead her from the shrubbery. "Does it need
improving?"
Lady Catherine shook off his hand, her lips thinning in
mild irritation. "Do not change the subject, sir. Tell me
about those men. Do you know their names? You were waiting
for them yesterday, were you not? That is why you warned
me away. That is why you . . . you pulled me into the
shadows and kissed me today, isn’t it?"
Uncharacteristically, de Rohan hesitated. The woman was
even more beautiful up close than at a distance. Her
coloring was far warmer than that of most Englishwomen;
her heavy hair and intelligent eyes were a perfectly
matched shade of deep, rich mahogany. High cheekbones set
off a jaw which was firm and elegant. A stubborn woman, he
thought. But her mouth was wide and good-humored, and far
too voluptuous to be considered beautiful. But then, de
Rohan had never favored the delicate, bow-shaped look
effected by most ladies of fashion.
"Yes," he finally responded. "Yes, that’s why."
"The only reason—?"
De Rohan felt a spike of irritation. "The only reason
what?"
"Why you kissed me," she persisted, her dark eyes
relentless.
"I did not wish them to see your face," he gruffly
explained. "Nor did I wish to be recognized, for that
matter."
Lady Catherine cast him a skeptical glance. "Why do I
wonder if you mightn’t have managed it some other way?"
At that, he took her a little roughly by the elbow and
hauled her away from the bench. He did not like being seen
through so easily. "I have already apologized, madam, for
my gauche, unconscionable behavior, so—"
"Actually, you haven’t," she interjected, jerking to a
halt again.
He released her arm, whirling about to stare at her
incredulously.
"Apologized," she clarified, standing toe-to-toe to glare
up at him. "You never did, you know."
"Then I apologize!" de Rohan growled. "Now where, madam,
is your mount?"
"Perhaps I walked?"
"You always ride." He snapped out the words without
thinking.
"Do I?"
Lady Catherine ran a surprisingly steady gaze down his
length, and de Rohan was shocked to realize that despite
his irritation, he rather liked her. She was a strong,
capable sort of woman. And sensible, too, he thought. He
had kissed her, and yet instinctively, she’d known he
meant her no harm. A more missish sort would have flown up
into the bows just for the attention.
But now he had revealed a bit of his knowledge about her.
What would she say if she knew how often he had waited for
her? If she suspected for one moment the fanciful thoughts
that went tripping through his head each time he watched
her ride through the park? For a long moment, silence held
sway in the shadows of the rhododendron.
Suddenly, she spoke, words tumbling from her mouth. "Mr.
de Rohan, would you . . . or perhaps I should say that
I . . . Yes, strange as it sounds, I think that I should
like to know you better. Would you care to—to perhaps
become better acquainted—? W-would you care to dine with
me some evening?"
Dine with her?
De Rohan couldn’t believe his ears. Couldn’t believe his
absurd reaction to her invitation. He would not allow
himself to fall into that trap again. Of wanting what he
was no longer destined to have. Of desiring, even briefly,
someone who thought herself far above him. And whose
values and motivations were undoubtedly quite different
from his own. "I don’t think you understood," he said
harshly. "I am with the police."
Apparently, Lady Catherine did not take his point. "But
surely that fact does not preclude you from accepting
dinner invitations? From women who are grateful for having
been rescued from—er, unsavory characters?"
De Rohan stared at her open countenance and bottomless
brown eyes, hating the surge of renewed hope which coursed
through him. Hating her for making him feel a moment
regret, an instant of doubt, about the choices he’d made.
Perhaps, he abruptly decided, she was just a little too
strong and capable. Most likely she was just another bored
society wife looking for some sycophant to ease her ennui
between the sheets. There was a quick way to find
out. "And is dinner all you require, Lady Catherine?" he
asked, his voice seductively soft. "Or is there some
other, more intimate sort of companionship you seek?"
"I beg your pardon?" Color flooded her face.
Ruthlessly, he pressed on. "In my experience, when a
highborn lady asks a man like me to dine, she usually
intends to indulge in something a little more decadent
than a good meal and a fine bottle of wine."
The woman hadn’t exaggerated about her strong right arm.
But despite the warning, he failed to see it coming. The
blow caught him square across the face, sending him
reeling backward, one hand pressed to his mouth.
Gracelessly, he stumbled, flailing backward with his
walking-stick, and catching himself up against the edge of
the bench. Good God, she hit like a man! More shoulder
than wrist, more wrath than petulance. He looked down to
see the smear of blood on the back of his hand, then he
looked up to see the blazing visage of Lady Catherine
Wodeway staring at him across the narrow clearing.
"Well, here’s some intimate companionship for you, Mr. de
Rohan," she snapped, stalking off in a swish of red wool
and hot temper. "Take that fancy stick of yours and go
bugger yourself with it."