Courting an Angel by Patricia; Grasso Page A

hesitated. She knew the heartache of rejection better than most and felt reluctant to cause the marquess any unnecessary pain. On the other hand, she could never live happily with him in the Highlands. The choice was a smidgen of heartache for him now or a ton of heartache for herself later.
    “Henry Talbot — the Marquess of Ludlow — and I love each other,” Rob blurted out. “We wish to marry.”
    “The English marquess isna the man for ye,” Gordon said, his voice and his expression colder than a Highland blizzard. “Ye’ve already got yerself a husband.”
    “Why are ye bein’ difficult?” Rob cried, determined in spite of his forbidding expression. “There must be dozens of women in Scotland who’d love to call ye husband.”
    “Naturally. However, yer my wife and I want ye,” Gordon said. “Tell me, does Talbot usually run aboot courtin’ other men’s wives?”
    Rob stared at the hands she was wringing in her lap and refused to meet his gaze. She peeked at her ruby and saw that its color remained surprisingly placid.
    “And which popinjay was Talbot last night?” Gordon asked.
    “Henry is away at Hampton Court,” Rob answered, summoning the courage to meet his gaze. “Can ye not be reasonable aboot this?”
    “If I wasna a reasonable man, angel, I’d dispatch the dirty Sassenach.” His lips turned up into a ghost of a smile. “And ye too.”
    Rob swallowed nervously and dropped her gaze. Though her demeanor appeared pathetically meek, her thoughts veered toward mutiny.
    How dare the arrogant lout ride into England and threaten her! How dare he . . .  
    Gordon rose from his chair so abruptly its legs scraped the wooden floor. He tossed a few coins on the table and said, “I’ve had enough tourin’ for one day. Let’s go.”
    In miserable silence, they retraced their path through London’s crowded streets toward the Strand. The marquess’s profile seemed chiseled in stone, frightening Rob too much to speak. She refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her voice quaver like a coward’s.
    Rob realized she needed to make the marquess understand that her rejection was nothing personal. How could she do that without revealing that her own MacArthur kinsmen had made her an outcast in her native land? Her happiness hinged on remaining in England, but she would never share that supreme humiliation with the marquess. She wanted no man’s pity.
    Afternoon aged into long shadows as the sun drifted westward on its eternal journey. At Charing Cross, Gordon and Rob veered to the left and rode down the Strand, London’s most elite section, where the English nobility lived in their stately mansions.
    Reaching the circular lane that led to Devereux House, Rob flicked the marquess a sidelong glance filled with regret. Bitter rejection had dogged her life for eighteen years because of the fear and the mistrust Old Clootie’s flower evoked in others. Now Rob understood that hurting another caused the perpetrator pain. She longed to recall her hasty outburst and to begin again, this time to speak more gently.
    Two Devereux grooms rushed forward to take their horses when they reached her uncle’s courtyard. Gordon dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the men. Then he turned and, without a word, lifted her out of the saddle.
    “I’m sincerely sorry for hurtin’ yer feelin’s,” Rob apologized, determined to make amends for her unpardonable behavior.
    Gordon gave her a measuring look, an unrecognizable emotion flickering in his gray-eyed gaze. “Only a man who loved ye would be hurt by what ye revealed,” he told her. “True love — if there be such a thin’ — takes time. I scarcely know ye, lass.”
    “Why are ye angry?” Rob asked, strangely disgruntled that he cared not a whit for her.
    “Yer my wife,” Gordon answered. “No man takes what’s mine.”
    “I belong to myself.”
    “Ye spoke yer vows before God and man, lass. And, ye shouldna have played the English marquess