Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2
Page 13
He could privately fantasise all he wanted about the way she fitted so perfectly in his arms, silently lust in complete solitude at the way her lush body had felt against his or the way her eyes had sparkled as he had drowned in them. He could suffer the same fevered dreams as he had all last night for an eternity, but he had to be crystal clear on the pitfalls anything which extended beyond basic politeness would entail.
Women like her weren’t for men like him.
He knew that so well he could write a book on the subject. A cautionary tale which might help other mundane and average men from reaching for the extraordinary. Warn them that, like Icarus flying too close to the sun, such foolish aspirations were always destined to fail.
If he did miraculously find himself another woman to share his life with, and he was so wary of that it seemed implausible in the extreme, he needed to find one just like him, cut from the same plain cloth and most definitely not another exotic creature who came from a different species of human being altogether. You only had to observe nature to see the absolute logic in that, because ultimately birds of a feather always flocked together.
At his most scintillating, Piers was a blackbird or a common pigeon, while she was a dazzling peacock. Or perhaps one of those flamboyant pink flamingos he had seen in one of his nieces’ picture books about Africa. The kind-hearted Miss Brookes might make do with a pigeon for a while, but just like Constança, she would always crave another peacock. Although Edward Tate was obviously a peacock of the highest order and she had the full measure of him so perhaps…
And clearly he was indeed stark staring mad to even be thinking such rot!
He had wasted the entire morning already on outrageous flights of fancy, barely listening to the briefing on the current state of the Sixth Coalition and their steady advance towards Paris. It did not appear to matter that they appeared to be days away from finally winning the war, or that thanks to the uncharacteristically helpful Master of the King’s Household, Piers had to organise a state banquet in honour of the Portuguese in under seven weeks. All he could apparently focus on was the image of a siren in scarlet with a rose in her hair. Her perfume. Her skin. The dusting of freckles on her nose and her mouth-watering and daring neckline which had made him yearn to know what lay beneath it. Piers needed to concentrate on his mountain of important government work—not fill his valuable hours daydreaming about Miss Brookes’s soft freckled skin and fine pert breasts!
It was one thing to compare Miss Brookes to Constança, another entirely to imagine their brief acquaintance stood an iceberg’s chance in hell of developing into anything more than what it was.
At least to Constança, for a very short period of time, his sedate Englishness had seemed exotic. That same Englishness was run-of-the-mill mundaneness for a fellow countrywoman like Miss Brookes. His awful new reputation aside, with nothing else but his dull blandness to fall back on, there was no earthly reason a rare jewel like her would look once, let alone twice at him. He might well have been thoroughly seduced by just one waltz, but she had simply been being kind. And he was still procrastinating like an idiot in his own hallway!
Before his brain decided to mull over any more pointless twaddle, he squared his shoulders, tapped briskly on the door before he marched through it, then simply stood and stared while his eyes drank her in.
She had her back to him upon a slightly raised scaffold, her body swaying as she worked. Even the capacious smock which covered two thirds of her vibrant turquoise day dress could not disguise the lush curves beneath. Several stray, heavy curls bounced in time to her movements while her right arm swept in a wide arc as she painted a faint outline of what appeared to be a hill in a dark wash.
It was an arresting sight, one he could have happily stared at for hours, but some sixth sense told him they weren’t alone.
‘Good morning, Lord Eastwood.’
Augustus Brookes had apparently set up shop in the farthest corner by the French doors. ‘What brings you here this morning? I did not think you could spare me any time to pose this week.’
The artist might well be smiling but Piers sensed the undercurrent in the man’s tone. Hardly a huge surprise when his daughter was being maligned by the press thanks to him. And he had probably just witnessed him ogling her to boot. To make the situation just that bit more awkward, Miss Brookes had also turned around and there was a tightness to her smile which wasn’t there last night either. He recognised bitter regret when he saw it. Constança had worn the same expression near constantly.
‘I came to apologise…for all the fuss that I have inadvertently caused you and your family today.’ It was probably better this way, he realised. It drew a decisive line in the sand in his ridiculously spiralling attraction to a woman he categorically did not want to be attracted to. ‘All the rumour and speculation… I feel dreadful about it.’
‘But not dreadful enough to have refused my daughter’s offer last night though?’
‘Papa!’ Faith hopped down from the platform and moved towards the centre of the room, closer to her father while still maintaining a good distance from him. ‘You know I gave him no choice in the matter. If anyone is to blame for the flurry of silly gossip it is I. Lord Eastwood tried to warn me and despite knowing exactly how things would spiral, I practically dragged him on to the floor.’ Her eyes flicked to his filled with remorse. ‘If anyone should be apologising this morning, my lord, it is I. I allowed my stubborn determination to teach Edward a lesson to embarrass both you and my family.’
There were a great many things he wanted to say, not least of which was the overwhelming desire to take at least half of the blame because the uncomfortable truth was he could have dug his heels in harder. He could have thanked her for the well-meant sentiment, politely declined and then bade her a goodnight before quietly slipping away. But saying as much would only throw more fuel on the fire when her father was quite obviously intent on guarding her like a sentry and would likely see it as the frank admission of guilt it was. Augustus Brookes was no fool and he knew how the male mind worked. In fact, he had just said as much. He, like every other man in the Renshaw ballroom last night, knew without a shadow of a doubt that Piers hadn’t dug his heels in far enough for one simple reason—because he had wanted to hold her in his arms.
He had seen an opportunity and he had seized it.
Just as he had been trying to create another opportunity this morning by coming here.
‘Even so…’ The strategist in him knew his foolhardy campaign was lost before it had started and the diplomat urged him to embrace the status quo. That was not only the safest, but the most sensible option. In fact, it was the only option. ‘I am sorry for the embarrassment and hope the gossip subsides quickly. If you would like me to write to the newspapers concerned and refute their unsavoury implications and demand they immediately publish retractions, I am more than happy to do so.’
That offer seemed to impress the artist while entirely flummoxing his daughter.
‘That is very decent of you, my lord,’ Augustus said, ‘but I fear it may only serve to make the situation worse. This nonsense will blow over soon enough, as nonsense always does, and will likely go away much faster if you both avoid doing anything in the future which unintentionally might be construed as evidence to the contrary. The absolute last thing we want now is to fan the flames, especially when it truly was just one dance.’ Her father’s stare was unyielding and spoke volumes.
Stay away from my daughter.
Because he really didn’t blame him and knew, for the sake of his own sanity, he had to, Piers couldn’t argue with that. ‘You have my word, sir.’ Even though it pained him to give it, and even though the recently awakened reckless and romantic part of him still wished for more. ‘And I thank you for your understanding.’ He bowed curtly, wondering why he was already grieving the loss of her when he knew he could never have her. ‘Good day.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The theatre was packed. The stuffy auditorium filled with the excited buzz of patrons waiting expectantly for the lights to finally dim, the heavy velvet curtains to part, the orchestra to play the first notes of the second half of Così fan Tutte and for her brilliant mother to step back on to the stage.
Few sopranos could ever hope to attempt the difficult vocal range required to play Fiordiligi, fewer still could ever hope to do it justice, but Roberta Brookes’s powerful voice was unique and had left everyone dumbfounded by the end of the first half. Faith too had come to the theatre excited, immensely proud of her dear Mama’s achievement and eager to hear her sing the role she had been born to play, and excited too for Charity, who was making her stage debut in the chorus. But thanks to the snake Lord Rayne and his snide and inappropriate comments during the interval, she now felt queasy.
Dangerously so.
At every society function they had collided at in the five years since their short-lived romance ended, although he never directly referenced it he always gave her a knowing look, making sure she was constantly reminded of her own youthful stupidity at her willingness to offer herself to him lock, stock and barrel. With no more than a mere few weeks of heady flirtation, no firm promises and her own wanton, untutored passion, she had assumed her overwhelming love had been reciprocated and she had dived head first into a physical affair. It was, to her most intensely private mortification, the biggest mistake of her life and the snake had never allowed her to forget their brief and shameful dalliance. Even without the smug looks, his presence in the same room always made the bile rise in her, but tonight he decided to take it a step further.
Tonight, he had renewed his offer to rent them a little love nest in Bloomsbury. A place where he could sate his apparently enduring passion for her well away from the prying eyes of his wife or the gossip of the ton. And he had proposed it as if he was doing her a huge favour. Even after she had spat that he could go to hell, he had smiled and asked her to at least think upon it. He even named an allowance, as if she could be bought in pounds, shillings and pence, treating her like a common prostitute and making her feel more wretched about her own youthful stupidity than she ever had before.
Which Faith hadn’t thought was possible—yet apparently, once again, she was wrong.
Even now, she could still feel him staring at her from his box above, so intense and blatantly lustful that she felt thoroughly violated and dirty by the scrutiny. And hideously nineteen all over again.
To cover it, she stared at her programme rather than attempt to converse normally with her sister sat beside her. Hope would realise something wasn’t right and Faith didn’t want to have to invent another pack of lies to cover her discomfort whenever Viscount Rayne was close by. As she forced her eyes to focus on the running order of the second half, she sensed another pair of eyes on her too, only these made her flesh tingle with awareness rather than disgust. She did not need to turn towards them to know whose they were, because she knew already they were Lord Eastwood’s, but did anyway. Then wished she hadn’t when she saw beyond his subtle smile to the sympathy in his astute green gaze. Even from the other side of the theatre, he clearly knew something wasn’t quite right.
Oddly, his perceptiveness warmed her, and she smiled back, wishing she wasn’t always so attuned to him when she had been making such a concerted effort not to be. Since the worryingly charged waltz and the flurry of stories about it in the gossip columns a week ago, they had avoided one another by tacit agreement. But on the rare occasions he was home and they collided in a hallway, or he wandered into the morning room while she was giving Isobel her daily painting lesson as he had yesterday, they said a brief and polite good day and passed like ships in the night.
Yet, each time they did, she instantly regretted the brevity and yearned for more of the meaningful, easy conversation they seemed to share, which in turn hardened her resolve to maintain her distance. Then she had used the snake ruthlessly in that quest, reminding herself they were two men—two well-connected and politically ambitious future Earls—cut from the same cloth despite the fact her silly heart was almost entirely convinced that they weren’t.
But tonight, because she needed it, she decided to lose herself in his eyes until the darkness hid her rather than think about the other ones which made her feel ill. Something she almost managed as the auditorium dimmed and, feeling strangely better, she made the mistake of turning away. Which meant she saw Lord Rayne’s blatant heated stare once more, then watched him lasciviously and pointedly lick his lips slowly with the tip of his tongue as his box went black.
For several minutes, everything was a blur.
She heard her mother’s voice but could not focus on her performance. Her skin grew clammy and hot as her stomach roiled, and then even breathing became difficult. All the while, Faith’s mind whirred, frantically trying to fathom why there was such a marked change in his demeanour when she never gave him anything other than short shrift any more. But there had been a change. One which felt like a seismic shift, and it frankly terrified her.
‘Are you all right?’ Hope’s concerned whisper made her panic some more.
‘I’m just a bit hot and dizzy.’ Very dizzy. ‘It’s so warm in here.’
‘Warm is an understatement. It’s an oven. Maybe you need to splash some water on your face? Would you like me to fetch some?’
‘No…’ But she couldn’t ignore the excuse to escape. ‘I’ll go. The fresh air will do me some good. I shan’t be long.’ She squeezed her sister’s arm in reassurance and quietly slipped out of her seat, thanking her lucky stars she was sat on the aisle.
Only once she had exited the sturdy door to the dress circle did she quicken her pace, taking the stairs downwards almost at a run before she burst out into the near empty foyer below. An usher started towards her, his face a picture of concern at the tears she hadn’t been able to prevent, and she stayed him with her hand, then plunged out of the ornate front doors into the night.
Outside, she gulped in several fortifying breaths, welcoming the chilly night air on her fevered skin and the freedom to unleash her emotions. In case any of the late-night passers-by saw her and came to assist in her obvious distress, she hid behind one of the Theatre Royal’s four soaring Doric columns and fought for calm. It was a losing battle.
Oh, how she loathed it that Rayne still had this power over her! Loathed too the petrifying realisation that it would only take one spiteful comment from him to the right pair, or pairs, of ears to completely ruin her and scupper any chance she might have to follow in her father’s footsteps. While society might well forgive a man for indulging in the sins of the flesh outside of the marriage bed, they might even turn a blind eye to an older, married woman discreetly pursuing her passion elsewhere. But none of them would ever forgive a young and determinedly single woman for it in case such immorality was so contagious she might sully their womenfolk with her wayward badness. Yet there was no denying the snake had seen her naked, kissed parts of her that only a husband ever should and had heard her urgent, mindless words of encouragement as he had plunged into her needy body on more than one occasion.
There had been seven in total.
All fast, reckless, passionate and illicit.
Seven separate memories she could never erase.
Seven permanent stains on her soul.
‘Have you changed your mind yet then?’ His voice, out of nowhere, made her jump. ‘I could buy you the house, if that’s what you are holding out for. I could have the deeds dr
awn up in your name so it would always be yours, Faith. No matter what.’
‘How dare you!’ She tried to storm past, but the snake blocked her way back into the theatre. Because she would rather die than let him see her tears, she turned her back to him and tried to angrily blink them away.
‘Come now, Faith, can’t we be civilised about this?’ She jerked away from his fingers as they grazed her sleeve.
‘Civilised!’ She wanted to scratch his lying eyes out. ‘I doubt you know the meaning of the word!’ She strode around the column and down the steps in a wide arc to avoid him, but he followed.
‘We used to like one another. We used to enjoy one another…’ She could feel his breath on her bare shoulder as his long legs quickly caught up with hers. ‘A great deal as I recall.’ He had the audacity to touch her arm and she tugged it back, then spun to face him allowing every bit of her disgust and hatred to show.
‘Stay away from me! I want nothing to do with you! You’re nothing but a vile…’ A hackney drove past, and she seriously considered hailing it just to escape him, a move he must have guessed because he caught her arm again, roughly this time, and held on tight.
‘What, Faith? A vile seducer? When we both know it did not take much seduction on my part to get you to hoist up your petticoats and spread your lovely long…’ The fist came out of nowhere, knocking his jaw sideways and sending Rayne tumbling down the remaining three steps to the mucky pavement below. It was closely followed by the large and enraged shape of Lord Eastwood, who loomed over the snake, his face a mask of dark fury as he bent to snarl directly in his face.
‘If you ever touch her or speak to her like that again, you will have me to deal with!’
A mewling, bleeding Rayne cowered as he clutched his gushing nose. ‘I didn’t realise she was yours now! I apologise!’ He used his feet to shuffle backwards on his bottom. ‘Had I known Faith was already your mistress, I never would have chanced my arm with her tonight.’