by Louise Allen
Subtly reminded of the extent of his dealings with the Duke, Mr Pethybridge hastened to usher them both back into his office. ‘Allow me to send for some refreshment. Do sit down, Miss Dane, and permit me to explore the details further. His Grace is no doubt correct that in your understandable inexperience you have omitted to mention something germane to the case.’
In his desire to please his important client he was all unctuousness now, Antonia thought bitterly. ‘Doubtless,’ she replied with a smile that felt as though it was congealing on her lips. ‘I am sure His Grace is never wrong.’
To her intense embarrassment, the banker took this as permission to review the facts she had laid before him, exhibiting every detail of her financial circumstances to Marcus, who sat at his ease in a wing chair. He seemed unsurprised by what he heard.
Antonia scarcely attended to what the banker was saying. What was Marcus Renshaw about, promoting her cause? Yesterday he had made it plain he thought her foolish in the extreme. Why should he do anything so prejudicial to his own interests in acquiring her lands as to help her to a loan? That was not the way to snap up her property and expand his own.
Her speculation was cut short as Mr Pethybridge announced, ‘In view of these facts, I see no reason not to advance you the sum you request immediately.’
Antonia was so astonished at this complete about-face that it was as much as she could do to thank him civilly. What had Marcus said to sway the man? But she could hardly ask now and prove she had paid no attention to the proceedings. They would think her a perfect fool. I am a complete fool to allow my attention to wander for a moment with that man around.
The banker bowed them out with renewed protestations of his desire to assist Miss Dane in any way he could.
As she stood on the pavement, drawing on her gloves, she realised that Marcus was at her side. Startled into directness, she demanded, ‘What game are you about?’
‘What can you mean, Antonia?’ he enquired as he offered her his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you to your carriage, the pavements are so slippery.’
‘You may escort me to the King’s Arms where Jem is waiting for me with the gig,’ Antonia snapped. ‘And you know what I mean perfectly well. Pethybridge had no intention of granting me the loan until you intervened. Nothing whatsoever had changed and yet he reversed his decision, as you knew he would.’ The effort of quarrelling in public with a man who retained his infuriating calm only fuelled her anger. ‘Surely you do not expect me to believe you have no ulterior motive in securing me this loan, Your Grace?’
‘Indeed I have, Miss Dane.’ The more angry she became, the smoother his manner was.
Antonia was taken aback. ‘Well, what is it? It seems to me to be an action quite against your own interests.’
‘I have no intention of telling you that. And you must allow me to judge what my own interests are, Antonia.’
‘I have no desire to be beholden to you.’
‘Your desires are not the only ones at issue, and I have no intention of gratifying your curiosity.’ Marcus glanced sideways at her, a small smile on his lips. It was very tempting to wipe it away… somehow.
‘You were not paying a great deal of attention in Pethybridge’s office, were you?’ he added.
He was quite right and the fact did nothing for her mood. Antonia contented herself with a silent glare.
‘That is understandable,’ he said without waiting for the reply she was reluctant to give. ‘It must have been an ordeal for any lady, and I can understand you being distracted. But it is not sensible to undertake business with only half your mind on the matter.’
He was right, the patronising, infuriating creature, and she had no defence. None.
Marcus guided her through the cobbled entry to the inn. ‘Ah, your carriage awaits, complete with chickens in a coop and straw upon the boards, I see. Is it too much to hope that you will spend some of your loan on a conveyance more suited to your station in life?’
‘Your Grace, I have never in my life been tempted to strike another human being,’ Antonia hissed in a low voice, aware of an interested audience of Jem and two lounging ostlers. ‘But I am sorely tempted now. You are quite the most insufferable, patronising, arrogant individual it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. I must be grateful that you have helped me to obtain the funds I need, but do not think I do not harbour the deepest suspicions as to your motives.’
‘Your imagination is too vivid, Antonia.’ He steered her to one side as a farmer’s gig swept through the yard. ‘As I observed the other day, your addiction to Gothick novels has much to answer for. I bid you good day, Antonia.’ Before she could upbraid him for using her first name in public he had tipped his hat and had gone, striding through the archway into the High Street.
Jem prattled cheerfully as they drove home, very pleased with himself for the bargain he had struck over the coop full of chickens. Antonia made admiring noises, her mind still puzzling over Marcus’s extraordinary behaviour.
What had he meant by telling her she should have paid more attention in the banker’s office? Had she missed some vital point? Antonia racked her brains, but in vain. She opened her reticule and unfolded her copy of the paper she had signed. Yes, she had mortgaged the house and land against the loan that she had taken out for a maximum term of one year. There was no explanation there of why the banker had changed his mind.
She sat and stared out over the burgeoning hedges already white with May blossom, mentally editing a version of that morning’s events for her companion. Donna would only say, ‘I told you that you should send a man upon the business,’ in her most governessy tone, Antonia thought. But that was not what was so irksome about the matter. If her man of business had been easily available, she would have employed him.
No, it was because it was Marcus Renshaw. She had no desire to be beholden to him for his intervention with Pethybridge, because the more she thought about it, the clearer it was that the banker had accepted Marcus’s intervention as a guarantee of the loan, however informal. But it was too late to remedy that now.
Nor did she want Donna to harp endlessly on about his possible motives. She wouldn’t put it past her companion to conclude that the Duke was attracted to her.
‘Too ridiculous for words,’ she exclaimed aloud, then had to apologise to Jem, who had taken it as a comment on his commercial triumph and was most put out.
Donna was sitting by the open back door, engaged in turning a worn sheet edge to edge, her work basket at her feet, but she dropped the linen unregarded as she heard Antonia’s step on the path. ‘Back already. Did you have a nice drive?’
Antonia could see the anxiety which lay behind the bright words. Donna was steeling herself for disappointment and was already braced to offer soothing words and encouragement.
She put her arms around her companion and hugged her fiercely. ‘We have the money, Donna. Every guinea we need.’
‘Hooray!’ Donna threw her pincushion up in the air, seized Antonia’s hands and proceeded to jig around the kitchen, much to the consternation of the charwoman who emerged from the scullery to see what all the noise was about.
Donna subsided into a chair in a billow of skirts, pink-cheeked and seemingly unperturbed by the amazement of Mrs Brown, who hastily took herself off to the kitchen garden, shaking her head – presumably over the unaccountable ways of the gentry. ‘Tell me all about it, every detail,’ Donna demanded.
Antonia produced a highly edited version of her interview with Mr Pethybridge, carefully omitting any reference to Marcus Renshaw, then reached for the commercial directory to search for builders and carpenters. It would be prudent to obtain at least one more estimate for the work
‘I cannot believe the thing was so easily accomplished,’ Donna persisted. ‘I thought you would have the most enormous difficulty going unaccompanied.’ She looked beadily at Antonia who knew she was blushing. ‘Antonia, why are you looking so self-conscious? Have you been employing feminine wiles
upon the banker?’
‘Upon Mr Pethybridge? Really, Donna, as if I would! Why, he is quite a middle aged gentleman.’
‘Hmm.’ Donna was really far too perceptive sometimes. Or perhaps she believed that even elderly gentlemen had an eye for a young woman.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of activity as Antonia began to put her credit to good use. The house seemed full of workmen repairing the roof, reglazing windows, unblocking drains and repainting woodwork neglected for many years.
Donna thrived amid the chaos. She was in her element supervising the polishing of panelling and staircases and was all for redecorating the entire house from attics to cellars.
‘Donna, the bank loan is not bottomless,’ Antonia cautioned. ‘And I intend spending some of it reroofing the tenants’ cottages – they’re in a scandalous state. If all is sound and clean, but plain, then the new tenant will be able to put his own stamp upon the decorations. I have had a most encouraging response from a Mr Blake, the agent for the gentleman who advertised in The Times. I will suggest he comes down to see the house and, if he’s interested, we can discuss such details then.’
Lying in bed that night, kept awake both by the smell of fresh paint and the moonlight flooding in through the window, Antonia stretched luxuriously in the half-tester bed. They no longer had to share a room and Antonia now occupied one of the chambers at the side of the house overlooking the pleasure grounds. Restless, she got out of bed and crossed to the window, admiring the greensward, newly scythed by Old Johnson after much grumbling.
The moonlight was almost as bright as day and even reflected off the river, a curve of which cut across the grounds. It was calm, still and almost unseasonably warm for April and Antonia felt no desire to go back to bed. Her days were very full, but at night, unless she managed to fall asleep at once, her mind kept turning to thoughts of her provoking neighbour.
She managed to curb unruly memories of being in his arms, of the touch of his lips on hers, but when she closed her eyes she saw his face as clearly as if he were standing before her. It seemed more than just a few weeks since she had last seen him.
She gave herself a brisk mental shake. This would not do. The more she thought about him, the worse it became. If she could not sleep she should do something useful, or even go for a walk. The light was good enough for a stroll around the lawns, or perhaps to venture as far as the river.
Something her brother Howard had told her years ago when she was still living at Rye End Hall and he was just a schoolboy came back to her. It was better to fish at night, he had declared, for then the fish rose more easily to the lure.
It was a mad idea, but why not try a cast tonight? It seemed a very simple business when she saw other people do it and she knew where the rods and lines were. How surprised Donna would be to find a nice fat perch on her plate for breakfast.
Antonia dressed hastily in a plain gown and pulled on a stout pair of shoes, then tiptoed downstairs before reason could reassert itself and send her back to her bed. The rods were in the store-room where she had last seen them. She pulled them out and found they were all different, which was confusing.
Antonia tried a couple for weight, then selected the smallest before remembering she would need bait. In the pantry, she cut rind from the bacon, lit a horn lantern, then, feeling quite an old hand at the sport, crept out and across the lawns.
The night was almost completely still. There was no wind and, other than a faint rustling as a night creature slipped through the grass, no sound. Antonia found a patch of dry gravel to stand on, set down her lantern and attempted to bait the hook. This proved more difficult than she expected, the hook was sharp and the bacon slippery. Eventually, she succeeded and, throwing her arm right back, cast the line over the water. Nothing happened. Antonia peered at the rod in the lamplight and fiddled with the reel until it was running smoothly, then tried again. This time the bacon shot right across the river and snagged on the rushes on the opposite bank.
After several attempts, Antonia’s arm was aching and she was realising that there was more to fishing than met the eye. ‘One more try,’ she muttered. To her great surprise, the line landed in the middle of the river with a satisfying plop.
Despite this triumph it was soon clear that fishing was a less stimulating activity than she had been led to believe. The silence stretched on, broken only by an owl hooting as it drifted over the meadow. The line hung in the scarcely moving water and Antonia stifled a yawn.
She was just wondering idly what time it was and when the fish were going to start jumping when the rod in her hand gave a jerk and the line began to run out. She had caught something! Antonia grasped the handle of the rod firmly and began to reel in the line until the squirming silvery fish was clear of the water. She landed it clumsily on the grass, dropped the rod, then realised she had no idea how to proceed now.
She pounced on her catch, grabbed at it with both hands, alarmed to discover just how slippery and muscular a live fish was. She turned and twisted as it leapt in her hands then found herself thoroughly entangled in her own line as it wrapped around her ankles.
‘Oh, keep still,’ she pleaded with the fish, but it did not oblige, lashing its tail to cover the front of her dress in water and scales.
‘I should have known it would be you.’ A voice half-weary, half-amused, sounded almost in her ear.
Antonia shrieked in alarm. As her hand jerked, it freed the hook from the perch, which leapt from her grip into the river. Antonia spun round to face Marcus Renshaw. Of course. He was quite at ease, leaning against the trunk of a willow that bent over the water.
‘Is there no end to your talents, Miss Dane?’ he enquired, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter.
‘Do not dare laugh at me,’ she stormed. ‘You scared me half to death and you made me drop my fish.’
‘A very respectable perch by the look of it. A shame you let it slip through your fingers.’ The angrier she became, the more amused Marcus appeared.
‘I let it? lf you had not crept up behind me like some thief in the night…’ She took a hasty step forward the better to berate him and felt the fine line wrap itself more firmly round her ankles. ‘Oh, bother this line, it has a life of its own.’ She clawed at it, making it tighter and more knotted in the process.
‘Stand still and I will untangle you.’ Marcus sauntered over and dropped to one knee beside her. Antonia stood looking down on his bent head, telling herself that of course he must touch her ankles. She shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do with her hands, and he admonished sharply, ‘If you wriggle you will make it worse. Come, this is no time for maidenly modesty, Miss Dane – do you want to be here until dawn?’
‘Well, hurry up then,’ she snapped, glad that at least the moonlight would leach the colour from her flushed cheeks. ‘Can you not cut it?’
‘Cut a line?’ He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, his eyes glinting in the subdued light. ‘Really, Antonia, I can see you are no true angler. lf you had not dropped the hook in the folds of your gown I could be quicker, but I have no intention of running its barbs into my thumb.’
‘Well, do your best.’ She subsided, quivering with a mixture of emotions ranging from indignation and embarrassment to a strange excitement and a terrible compulsion to let her hands run through the thick hair on the bowed head before her.
Chapter Eight
It seemed forever before Marcus rose to his feet, the hook held securely between finger and thumb, the line trailing free on the grass. ‘There you are, now you can begin again. Where is your bait?’
‘Over there, but I think I have fished enough for one night.’
‘Bacon?’ He peered into the dish. ‘What were you intending to catch with that, for goodness’ sake?’ The amusement was back in his voice.
‘Perch, of course. Bacon is excellent for perch, as you just witnessed.’
‘A veritable Izaak Walton,’ he teased. ‘Here, take your hook and line.’
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br /> He held both out to her and the act of stepping forward to take them brought her disturbingly close to him. She held out a tentative hand for the hook, but he shook his head, ‘No, on second thoughts, you are right, you have fished enough tonight.’ He secured the barb onto the reel and dropped the rod, then stood regarding her so intently that she became acutely conscious of the plain, worn gown, her hair all awry, the unruly curls falling about her cheeks.
'What are you looking at me like that for?' Antonia asked, her mouth suddenly dry. Encounters with this man in broad daylight were unsettling enough, but under the influence of the full moon she felt anything might happen.
There was amusement in the look he was giving her, but he was not laughing at her expense she sensed, rather the look was tender and appreciative and transformed his face, making him seem less harsh, more approachable. ‘Oh, I was just thinking how charmingly you smell… of fish.’
‘You – ’ She raised one hand, only for him to catch it lightly by the wrist.
‘Please, do not slap my face, not when you are covered with fish scales and slime.’ His voice was warm and insidious as he pulled her gently towards him, as if she too were a fish on a line.
Antonia found herself moving. ‘I really ought to wash my hands,’ she muttered ridiculously, irrelevantly.
‘No need, we can manage if you only keep them at your sides,’ he remarked dispassionately before bending his head to kiss her.
His mouth was moving around the curve of her upper lip, gently nibbling. Antonia gasped with the intimate shock of the sensation, but, to her own bafflement, made no attempt to break free. When he reached the fullness of her lower lip she capitulated utterly, tipping her face upwards. His hands still held hers captive at her sides, which made the embrace seem somehow more shocking, more disturbing.
‘I must come night fishing again. I would never imagine I would catch such a prize,’ Marcus murmured into her hair.