The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  Her hand flew to the pink rosebud which she had pinned that morning to her dark blue, velvet redingote. She had done it on impulse, never thinking that he would ever see it. The bouquet of roses had been waiting for them at Portman Square. When she had first set eyes on them and read the simple inscription, “Rathbourne,” she had taken for granted that the gift was for her. But on turning the card over, she had immediately seen her mistake, for the card was addressed to her aunt. Deirdre had been amused, but she had sobered in the next instant. She told herself severely that she had no wish to become the object of his interest yet again. In the five years since their last disastrous clash, she had tried to forget him, but without success. She did not trouble to deny that he had left an indelible impression on her mind. But the primitive masculinity, barely held in check by the fine garments he wore, both fascinated and frightened her.

  “You received my flowers?” he prodded gently.

  Deirdre came to herself with a start. “The flowers were quite lovely, my lord, and the gesture most thoughtful. My aunt was touched by your gallantry.”

  She came under that hard scrutiny again, and Deirdre maintained her passive exterior with no little difficulty.

  “Deirdre.” His tone was gentle. “You must know how deeply I regret what happened between us on the eve of my departure for Spain. It would please me to think that that unhappy memory had altogether faded from your mind. May I assume that it has? For my part, I should like nothing better than for us to cry truce. We could be friends, I think, if you would meet me halfway.” He hesitated only fractionally. “My friendship is not something to be cast away lightly.”

  Deirdre said nothing.

  His voice grew impatient. “Friend or foe, Deirdre, which is it to be?”

  There was something in his eyes which disturbed her. He was too confident, too watchful, too much the hunter who had cornered the hare. When she spoke, she managed a normal, neutral tone.

  “I have no wish to be your enemy, sir. To be frank, such a prospect terrifies me. But this discussion is pointless, surely? Friendship is born of trust, of common interests, of shared ideas and reflections.” She could not meet the intensity of that steady regard and allowed her eyes to flit to her abigail, whose attention was caught by a display of fine gauzes in the window of a draper’s shop. She might not wish to further his acquaintance, but she could scarcely avoid him, not if it was his intention to enjoy the Season. They were bound to be thrown together at various functions. She spoke carefully. “To speak of ‘friend’ or ‘foe’ in our case is unnecessary. There is neutral ground, I think, on which we might meet if we must. Yes, let us be neutral, polite acquaintances, from a distance.”

  “Neither hot nor cold, in fact, but lukewarm?” She heard the smile in his voice.

  “If it pleases you to put it like that, by all means.”

  “Ah, but it does not please me, Deirdre.”

  There was bright mockery in his eyes when she looked up at him. It burned her to think that he was laughing at her. “It has never been my object to please you, Lord Rathbourne. I trust you will not be too distressed if I choose not to indulge this whim which seems to have taken your fancy?”

  His tone of polite sarcasm exactly matched hers. “But it does distress me—deeply. I am afraid I cannot allow it.”

  “You think you can wrest my friendship from me?”

  “If I must.”

  His gall was insupportable. She spoke with slow emphasis as if she were addressing a backward child. “Friendship is not something that can be coerced.”

  “No? I beg leave to differ. Yesterday the French were my enemies, today we are bosom bows. In Paris, at this very moment, many of my comrades are finding a welcome from the French mesdemoiselles that yesterday was unthinkable. Do you wonder, Deirdre, that I consider my case to be far from hopeless?”

  The innuendo, his boldness, left her speechless.

  “Dee! Dee! Where have you sprung from?”

  Armand St. Jean, at that moment catching sight of his sister as he made his exit from Jackson’s Academy, came striding swiftly along the walk. Rathbourne ignored the interruption, his eyes fixed on Deirdre. She had half turned on hearing her name and the aloof reserve was gone from her face. Her whole expression softened and she laughed—a gay, clear melody of unrestrained joy. Her green eyes, which could freeze to ice with cold contempt, were soft and luminous, glowing with an animation Rathbourne had rarely seen. He drew a deep breath and his hand reached out to her, but she was swept into the arms of a tall, broad-shouldered young man with flashing white teeth and velvet black eyes. Rathbourne’s hand dropped to his side and his expression darkened.

  “Armand! Put me down!” she exclaimed, pushing feebly against her brother’s shoulders, her head thrown back, her dancing eyes giving the lie to the reproving tone in her voice.

  Armand became aware of the tall, disapproving figure at his sister’s elbow, and he flashed his teeth in an amused grin. He released Deirdre without haste, and spoke rapidly in a soft undertone in her ear. The words were French, and uttered too softly for Rathbourne to hear, but he noted Deirdre’s dull flush of color and the slight shake of her head as she glanced uncertainly up at him.

  “Lord Rathbourne, permit me to present my brother, Armand St. Jean,” she said with a hint of reluctance.

  There was a moment of electrified silence, then he threw back his head and laughed.

  “So! St. Jean is your brother?” he asked, the amusement lingering in his voice. “I don’t recollect…ah yes, he would have been at school when I first made your acquaintance.” He turned to the young man with the frozen expression and said affably, “How do you do! So you are the young rakehell who has set the ton on its ear? I have been in hopes of making your acquaintance. I don’t suppose that surprises you?”

  Armand St. Jean’s look of astonishment quickly gave way to a furious scowl. His lip curled in a sneer and he spoke stiffly. “I too have been impatient for the honor of an introduction, my lord. My sister has performed a service for both of us, I assure you!”

  His eyes swept the Earl with studied insolence, measuring the perfection of his tailoring, the diamond pin in the fold of the white neckcloth, the muscled legs displayed to advantage in tight pantaloons and hessians polished to a military shine.

  Rathbourne remained unmoved by this show of unprovoked spite, but Deirdre was deeply alarmed and she took a small step forward as if to shield her brother from the Earl’s wrath. Rathbourne observed the gesture and raised one haughty black eyebrow.

  “I see,” he said half to himself, his eyes growing thoughtful as they absorbed Deirdre’s protective posture. “Your brother takes precedence, naturally. But do you think it wise to shield a troublesome boy from the consequences of his folly?”

  Before Deirdre had time to frame a reply to the Earl’s question, Armand broke in hotly. “I am man enough to meet with you, any time or place of your choosing.”

  Deirdre blanched at the challenge in Armand’s words, but the Earl merely held up a restraining hand. “Spare me the rhetoric, St. Jean,” he said with deadly calm. “And you may save the scorching glances for those who are likely to be frightened by them. Troublesome children need to be taught a lesson, in my opinion, and I intend to deal with you at a more propitious moment. At least, have a care for your sister!”

  Deirdre felt her brother coil as if ready to spring and her hand fastened firmly on his arm. “My lord,” she began, her eyes seeking Rathbourne’s in urgent appeal, “thank you for seeing me safely to my brother’s lodgings. It was most kind of you, and should we never meet again, please believe that I wish you every happiness.”

  “Do you so?” asked the Earl gravely, his eyes searching Deirdre’s. His features relaxed as he smiled down at her. “Then I take leave to tell you, Miss Fenton, that we shall most assuredly meet again.”

  He ignored the erect and unbending figure of St. Jean, and drew Deirdre’s fingers to his lips, his glowing amber eyes mesmerizing he
r with the intensity of their expression. As he bent over her hand, she observed the tawny cast of his dark head, and then he turned on his heel and walked quickly away.

  Chapter Three

  Deirdre was scarcely aware of the jumbled disorder amid the elegant furnishings of her brother’s second-floor lodgings. In other circumstances, she would have been highly amused to note that bachelor living had little improved Armand’s incorrigible habit of slovenliness, but at that moment her energies were directed to presenting a mask of indifference to Armand’s keen eye while inwardly her brain seethed with speculation about the scene she had just witnessed between the two men. Only the rapid clenching and unclenching of the gloved hands in her lap gave any indication that her unwavering composure was as fragile as the crystal prisms which hung like teardrops from the glittering chandelier on the ceiling.

  Her veiled glance flickered briefly over the angry young man whose frantic strides carried him to the two long sash windows at the far end of the saloon, and she watched him covertly as he turned in his pacing, his tread muffled by the thick pile of the rug on the sanded floor. She listened with only half an ear to the string of obscenities he uttered which she made not the slightest effort by word or gesture to curb. A thought was growing in her mind which she was impatient to verify, and she waited only for him to give her an opening. At length, he came to a halt in front of her, the worst of his fury spent.

  “It’s Mrs. Dewinters, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice betraying her emotion in spite of her resolve. “Rathbourne is her protector, isn’t he?” she persisted. “That’s why you lost your temper when I introduced you!”

  At the sound of his rival’s name, Armand’s black eyes flashed with anger. “That arrogant cur! Who does he think he is? To call me a ‘troublesome boy’! I’ll deal with him soon enough and make him regret that he ever took it into his head to insult a St. Jean.”

  “Cut line!” Deirdre said wearily. “To him you are a mere boy. He can give you ten years, Armand, most of them spent otherwise than acquiring a little town bronze.”

  “How do you know him?” Armand asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice. He brushed his coat tails aside and took the chair flanking the striped satin sofa which Deirdre occupied, and looked at her closely. “How do you know him?” he repeated when Deirdre did not immediately reply to his question.

  “How does one usually meet gentlemen?” asked Deirdre, her green eyes lifting innocently to meet his. “It was five years ago at some party or other. I can’t remember the details exactly,” she prevaricated. “Why? Does it make a difference?” She steadied herself to give him back look for look.

  Armand was not completely satisfied with her answer. “I trust the man means nothing to you, Dee,” he said at last, a slight frown furrowing his brow.

  “No! Why should he? I scarcely know him.” She managed to inflect a hint of surprise in her voice.

  “Don’t you? I had the distinct impression that Rathbourne was more than a little taken with you. You looked to be on terms of familiarity.”

  Even to her own ears, her laugh sounded convincing. “You are imagining things, Armand. And even if he were taken with me, as you say, what is that to you?”

  Armand’s frown deepened. “He is completely ineligible, Dee. I mean it! I won’t have my sister encouraging a man who is lost to all sense of decency. Rathbourne may be an earl, but that doesn’t make him a gentleman.” His voice softened to an appeal. “Don’t let your head be turned by rank and fortune, Dee. This man doesn’t play by the rules. You’ll only end up the loser.”

  “Take care, Armand!” Her smile was bright and her voice teasing. “You make the man sound positively irresistible! Why on earth should I avoid him? As I understand, Rathbourne has been in England for only a matter of months—scarcely time to become the blackguard you paint him. What has he done to deserve this character assassination?” She flashed him an artless smile. “Are you warning me off because he is your rival for the affections of Mrs. Dewinters, or is there more to tell?”

  “I’ve heard enough to know that I have no wish to see him dangling after my sister,” he snapped. “The man is a barbarian!”

  This was unexpected. She knew Rathbourne to be a dilettante, but it had never been suggested, as far as she could remember, that he had been unprincipled or unfeeling except in his treatment of women, and that minor transgression, in a man, was easily forgiven by his peers.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You must know the man’s nickname!”

  “Le Sauvage? A nom de guerre that the French gave him, as I understand, because he made a formidable enemy. What of it?”

  “A barbarian, in fact, and an epithet that his own men were not slow to take up. I’ve heard stories about his inhuman treatment of the men under his command as well as the enemy that would make your blood run cold. He hates the French, be they friend or foe.”

  “What stories?” Deirdre demanded.

  “They’re not pleasant, Dee. Are you sure you wish to hear?”

  “I’m not a child.” She was past masking the impatience in her voice. “Tell me!”

  Armand’s tone was damning. “Men flogged to a pulp for minor infractions of regulations; the wounded left to die where they fell and their comrades forbidden on pain of execution to go to their aid; and for the enemy, for the French”—here his jaw tightened—“no quarter given! He hanged two of my countrymen, like myself, the sons of émigrés, who deserted to the French lines. He caught up with them, of course. So you see, my dear,” he went on with a bitter twist to his mouth, “my antagonism to the man is based on more than rivalry for a woman’s affections.”

  Deirdre let his words sink in. Something deep inside of her would not admit the truth of what Armand was saying. She had her own reasons for disliking the Earl; she knew from past experience that he set little store by conventional morality, that he gave no quarter to any woman who had the misfortune to fall into his hands. But this was something else. She knew him to be single-minded of purpose, ruthless even. But cruelty had not been in his character. Of course, the war had changed many men. She brought her mind back with difficulty to concentrate on what her brother was saying.

  “I suppose he thinks to find a suitable wife to continue his line. But make no mistake about it, I would not, could not tolerate Rathbourne as a brother-in-law.”

  “A brother-in-law?” Her incredulity was genuine. “Gareth Cavanaugh? He is not the marrying kind! Nor have I any wish to bracket myself with a man who has the morals of an alley cat. But don’t try to turn the subject, Armand! I know perfectly well that the primary cause of your quarrel with Rathbourne has nothing to do with me or his war exploits. It’s Mrs. Dewinters, isn’t it? She’s the real bone of contention between the two of you, isn’t she?”

  Armand did not try to deny the truth of her words. His face relaxed into a sheepish grin. “Wait till you see her, Dee,” he said warmly. “I’ll take you to Drury Lane sometime soon, then you can judge for yourself. She is everything a man could want in a woman.”

  Deirdre clamped her lips firmly together. There was much that she wished to say, but she forbore comment knowing from past experience that overt hostility would have the opposite effect to the one desired. She managed a suitable rejoinder, but her mind was furiously engaged in devising a way to save her impetuous brother from quarreling with a man who would, by all accounts, deal with an adversary in the most ruthless manner. Inwardly, she railed at Armand’s stupidity, but she forced herself to silence and calmly began to strip the kid gloves from her fingers. She removed her plumed bonnet and set it on a small, ivory inlaid table at her elbow and cast an inquisitive eye around the spacious interior. After a moment of quiet assessment, she rose gracefully and strolled around the room, surveying the delicately carved furniture and fine objects with a desultory eye. She picked up a bronze figurine of some Creek deity and examined it closely, then replaced it on its ivory stand.

  “How can you p
ossibly afford to keep yourself in this style?” she asked with an all-encompassing wave of her hand. “Not from your meager allowance, I’ll be bound.”

  Armand’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I came by it honestly, Dee, if that’s what is troubling you.”

  “How?”

  “Need you ask? Gaming, of course! You know I have the devil’s own luck at dice and cards!”

  Deirdre’s look of astonishment seemed to amuse him immensely.

  “Oh, I know I can’t hold a candle to you, dear sister,” he said with a show of modesty, “but fortunately you will never be permitted to challenge me at any of the clubs I frequent. Shame, isn’t it? But there’s a rule against ladies being members.”

  “Good God!” she retorted indignantly. “They must be a lot of old dunderheads if you can best them at cards. I’ve still got a trick or two I have yet to impart to you.”

  Armand threw back his head and hooted with laughter. “I don’t doubt it. Perhaps I should slap a pair of breeches on you and take you with me to the less disreputable of my gaming haunts when next I am short of funds. With your aptitude and my luck, we should make a killing.”

  “Certainly not,” said Deirdre, mildly reproving. “I have no objection to a contest of skill and wits, but gambling for profit is iniquitous. Reverend Standing would be scandalized to think I’d put his harmless knowledge to such a vile use.”

  “D’you still see the old boy?”

  “Well of course. Who else am I to play chess with and so on? Now that you’ve deserted us, there is no one left at home to give me a run for my money, figuratively speaking.”

  “Is that the high point of your life now, Dee? What a dull time you must have in Henley! Don’t you hanker after something different? After spending a year or so in the tropics, I would have thought your tastes might have changed.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” she replied with some asperity. “I have my books and gardening and a few friends to keep me company. Besides, I manage the house and farm, such as it is. I have enough to occupy me for more hours than there are in the day.” At least that was true, and not for the world would she admit to her brother the unmitigated boredom she suffered in the country, where the only acquaintances of her own age were married and apparently content with domestic bliss. The sum of their conversation was of husbands and babies with an occasional complaint about the scarcity of luxuries and fashions from France, an inconvenience occasioned by the interminable war. Deirdre found her spirits suffocated by their blatant provincialism, and their condescension to her single state was more than she could bear. She longed to accept her aunt’s offer to travel on the continent, but anxiety for her impetuous brother crushed the impulse.