At Your Pleasure by Meredith Duran Page A

mean power, last held by the dukes of Beaufort and St. Albans.
    Her death had foreclosed that future. But he was not dissuaded. Having gambled with his soul, he would not rest until he realized his ambition—and the matter of David Colville could be as helpful in that regard as dangerous. Bringing new shame upon the Colvilles would cement the friendships of those in Parliament who had brought about Lord Hexton’s downfall earlier this year. And then there was the simple fact that the Colvilles’ land adjoined his own. Any disturbance of their making would provoke and trouble his own people sorely.
    What reason to scruple, then? This task recommended itself in all aspects. Even had Adrian foreseen that she would be here, it would have made no difference to him. He had achieved indifference to her in London. Why not here, too?
    But here was where he had loved her.
    Here was where she came alive.
    Encountering her in the woods, Adrian had seen beneath the mask that London life had forced upon her. Flushed, breathless, her black hair coming loose of its pinnings, she had stepped from behind the tree and his breath had gone.
    In that moment, she had seemed a girl again. And for a fleeting length of heartbeats, he had felt . . . alive. Vibrantly, ferociously aware.
    Womanish . She had called him womanish, and it blackly amused him to realize she was right. When he had come down from his horse, she had cringed in expectation of a blow. But striking her had never entered his mind.
    Cold logic, he reminded himself.
    It faltered in her presence.
    Her voice came at his ear. “I must see to the running of the household, Lord Rivenham. I cannot do so from my chambers.”
    How coolly she spoke after kissing! It showed how his memories could not be trusted. He remembered soft sighs, soft lips, warm hands, laughter.
    He also remembered how such interludes had ended: furtively and hastily, in fear of discovery.
    He had always been only a diversion to her—a temptation and distraction from the men whose opinions mattered most, and from the role she was determined to play for them. That had been made clear enough, the day he had arrived at Hodderby to ask for her hand, and found her father and brother waiting, forewarned by her—and forearmed.
    He still wondered if she had watched from a window above as David Colville had tried his hand at murder.
    She spoke again. “I must—”
    “One of my men will attend you in your duties,” he said. “But your days of roaming are over.”
    That seemed to satisfy her, for she made no further protest. The only noises now came from the buzzing of bees and the wind whispering through the tall grasses through which they rode. A butterfly danced across their path. Above the pink sandstone face of Hodderby, the sky was so brightly blue that it seemed to ripple and shiver.
    “I will consent to an escort,” she said at length—as though she had a choice in it. “But he must not interfere with my decisions regarding the management of the estate.”
    A laugh slipped from him, no humor in it. “And have you thought on the cost to be exacted from your estate by the war your family is plotting?”
    He felt her stiffen but she made no reply.
    Her silence was its own form of rebellion. Another man would have struck her.
    He was fit for this task, was he not? Or was he a great joke? Having abandoned his own faith, he found himself flummoxed by a woman of idiotic devotion. One might understand the appeal of such devotion—it might have proved very convenient and comfortable—if only it were to him.
    But it had never been to him. She had let him walk into Hodderby with a marriage proposal, knowing that her family intended to see that he never left it alive.
    Ah, well. He had loved and then detested her for the selfsame cause: the ferocity with which she did as she must for those whom she loved. Now he was going to have to break her of that trait. That was his duty. He should try to find pleasure in it. It