The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  Under this hail of vituperation, Deirdre’s remorse had gradually given way to outrage, and she halted in her tracks and looked up at him with eyes glittering like crystal prisms. “Then you should thank me, Lord Rathbourne, for bringing you to a sense of your folly. It would seem that you have had a a lucky escape.”

  “Have I?” he drawled, and forcibly took her by the elbow, compelling her to continue their walk. “That is one point on which I need some reassurance. Should I choose to marry in the near future, I must know that you have no claims upon me.”

  At the end of the pavement was a small walled garden which belonged to the hotel. He led her through the gate toward a stand of trees which were just coming into leaf. Deirdre noticed with some unease that Rathbourne and she were quite private.

  “I make no claims upon you,” she said coldly, trying not to show that she had been affected by the remark that he might soon marry. “How could I? The engagement was broken.”

  She suffered his intent scrutiny for a moment or two, then repeated, “I make no claims upon you.”

  A small, cynical half smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes remained watchful, searching, and never wavered from Deirdre’s puzzled expression. “Not even a little one? I am prepared to pay for the consequences of my pleasure should there be any,” he baited.

  Intelligence dawned in Deirdre’s eyes, and a slow flush suffused her cheeks. “No, I am not pregnant,” she said bluntly through clenched teeth, “and even if I were, do you think I would throw myself on your mercy?”

  “Even the intrepid Miss Fenton might balk at being saddled with my by-blow,” he responded with infuriating calm.

  “Your by-blow? Do you mean your bastard? How many unfortunate women have been faced with the disgrace of bearing your bastards?”

  His eyebrows elevated in mild surprise, as if slightly pained by her use of such strong language, but he smiled with amused tolerance and said amiably, “None, to my knowledge.”

  Deirdre found his air of studied detachment offensive in the extreme, and sought for some way to shake him from it. “In my case,” she said, injecting as much scorn as she was capable of into her words, “you need have no anxiety. You might well have fathered a child on me, but do you suppose that I would ever have allowed you to be a father to any child of mine? I’d sooner give myself to the first man who would have me and let him think he had sired your bastard than allow you to gain control of my child.”

  His whole body went rigid with fury and his hands fisted at his sides. She thought for a moment that he meant to strike her, and knew herself to have been sadly wrong to provoke him to such lengths. It was something in his expression, however, which shattered her mood of anger.

  “That was unforgivable. I beg your pardon,” she said in an altered tone. Her knees had begun to buckle and she extended a hand against the nearest tree to steady herself. “I didn’t mean it, Gareth. I hope you believe me. But you baited me so unmercifully that I retaliated in kind.”

  “I should beat you for that,” he said tersely.

  “I thought you meant to.”

  “Next time—”

  “But you provoked me beyond endurance.”

  “I meant every word I said.”

  She came erect at the insult. “Thank you,” she said tonelessly. “And now that you have ascertained that you are free of obligation toward me, there can be nothing more for us to say to each other.” She made as if to stalk past him but he detained her easily with one hand.

  “There is one obligation I am honor bound to execute, and that is my guardianship of your brother, or had you forgotten that he is my ward?”

  She turned back to him, making no move to escape his loosened grasp. “But that cannot signify now, surely? What possible motive could you have for wishing to be Armand’s guardian?”

  “None whatsoever, now that you are not to be my wife. However, the thing was done in good faith, and in good faith I will fulfill my responsibilities. In this you have no ordering. I warn you now, I shall not tolerate your interference.”

  “But the boy is no—”

  “He is not a boy. He is a man. Oh don’t look so stricken, Deirdre. There is a war going on and I have more than enough to occupy me at present. Who knows? Perhaps I shall not survive the forthcoming battle, then all your troubles will be over. But if I do, make no mistake about it, St. Jean will find me a very hard taskmaster.”

  That Rathbourne thought she could wish for his death seemed the worst insult of all. It brought to mind the careless words she had flung at him before his departure for Spain, “I hope a bullet finds you and you never return.” If he meant to punish her, he had succeeded admirably.

  “You can be very cruel,” she said in a chastened voice.

  “I might have known that you would take that attitude. St. Jean has been coddled past redemption. Too much petticoat government, I don’t doubt. Any discipline I impose must be regarded as one more evidence of my depraved character.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she protested. “You are always determined to misunderstand me. Please, take me back to the hotel. My aunt must be wondering what has become of me.”

  Rathbourne returned her to the hotel foyer, but as there was still no sign of the dilatory Lady Fenton, he determinedly seated himself beside her and continued their conversation under the speculative glances of the desk clerk and a few of the English hotel patrons who were returning from their morning constitutional.

  “I shall keep the emerald. I think I earned it.” Deirdre remained silent. “Think of it as payment for services rendered. I’ve often given such trifles but never been in a position to receive one before.” He extended his left hand as if to admire the large stone glittering on his finger. “Cat got your tongue. Miss Fenton?” he asked sotto voce, leaning over so that his warm breath fanned Deirdre’s cheek.

  Deirdre struggled to hold on to her temper. “Keep it by all means,” she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “The ring means nothing to me.”

  “Who are Marie and Alexandre?”

  Deirdre looked at him blankly for a long moment, then comprehension slowly dawned. “You’ve read the inscription. Armand’s grandparents, I suppose. Why?”

  Rathbourne looked faintly surprised. “I thought you said the ring belonged to your father.”

  “I was used to think of my stepfather as my father before…before I came to know that my own parent had died when I was a babe.”

  “Strange,” he mused, his tawny eyes resting on her thoughtfully. “I understood that you despised your stepfather.”

  Deirdre was shaken. She had confided her feelings on the subject of her stepfather to only two people, her aunt and her friend Serena. The circumstances of his desertion were almost forgotten except by a few who had been closely connected with the events of that dreadful episode. Even Armand had been kept in ignorance. She wondered how much the Earl knew.

  “You are mistaken,” she said with crushing finality.

  Deirdre came under the hard scrutiny of eyes alert with intelligence. “Don’t gammon me, my girl. I know the whole story,” he said flatly.

  After a moment, she managed to speak with some composure. “You have been prying into what does not concern you, my lord. If your vulgar curiosity must be satisfied, then let me tell you that Papa, Armand’s father, gave the ring to me when I was a child. I never pretended that I did not love him or that he was cruel to us children. In many respects, he was an exemplary father. Unfortunately, he had the taint which is natural to your gender. Passion overcame every other obligation when his mistress gave him an ultimatum. He deserted us and he never gave us another thought. The ring means nothing to me now. I should have discarded it years ago.”

  Her expression was not encouraging, but he did not let that deter him. “You are determined to let a wretched episode from your childhood destroy your life. Grow up, Deirdre. The man was only human. I’ve no doubt he was as wretched and remorseful as it i
s possible for a man to be. I know the hell Uxbridge went through when—”

  “Enough!” she cried, putting her hands over her ears. No one in her life had ever spoken to her so before. That he had the temerity to pass judgment on her and make excuses for the cruel neglect of the man who had robbed her of a childhood was more than she could endure.

  “I might have known where your sympathies would lie,” she said tersely, lowering her tone. “Your unsavory reputation does not bear scrutiny either. I won’t argue the point with you about Lord Uxbridge, although there is much I might say. Frankly, I don’t wish to converse with you at all.”

  She rose in one fluid movement and made to glide past him, but he was up before she had taken a step. She stiffened, shrinking back slightly from the menace of his towering form. Her eyes swept over his broad shoulders and she was forced to tilt her chin to meet his eyes. She was immediately reminded of the last time they had been in such proximity, and her breasts rose and fell rapidly as she remembered the masculine power that was concealed beneath his fine cambric shirt.

  Rathbourne read her expression correctly and a glint of satisfaction flickered briefly in his eyes. “Nevertheless, Deirdre,” he said with deceptive mildness, “you will converse with me on any and every occasion we happen to be thrown together. Not to do so would cause comment and the kind of speculation I am sure you would wish to avoid. Someone of my—how did you phrase it?—unsavory reputation can weather such vulgarity with impunity, but you are a different case entirely. Well,” he added with quiet menace when Deirdre said nothing, “do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.” Her voice shook a little, and her eyes slid away from the threat she read in his.

  He stepped aside to permit her to pass, his mocking grin deliberately adding insult to injury. Deirdre’s withering look from the safety of the staircase only seemed to increase his amusement.

  She went in search of her aunt and found her in her chamber, reclining on a sofa with unshod feet negligently propped against a small table, and in her hand, a cup of chocolate, a beverage Deirdre knew her aunt detested.

  “Oh for a nice cup of tea!” Lady Fenton complained wistfully. “But these foreigners have no notion of how to boil a kettle of water. Is it any wonder that the tea leaves float on the surface like dead bodies? No strainers either, of course. What do they expect us to do—strain the leaves with our teeth? And if one complains, they only tell one to try the coffee.”

  Deirdre had heard this complaint from many of the English patrons, and she merely smiled with fond forbearance. “But you are partial to coffee and you detest chocolate, Aunt Rosemary.”

  “What of it? I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of fobbing me off with their famous Belgian brew! As if it could compare to a cup of good English tea.”

  “Uncle Thomas would not approve of such prejudice,” Deirdre teased. “Relations between Bruxellois and the English are sensitive at the best of times. Such unguarded comments might be considered seditious in some quarters.”

  “Here, take this dreadful stuff away from me and hand me my shoes, Deirdre. You certainly took your time with Lord Rathbourne.”

  “You saw us?”

  “Certainly. When I descended the stairs, I saw you leave the hotel together and I thought it prudent to allow you to sort out your differences without interference.”

  “Did you know that Rathbourne was in Brussels?” asked Deirdre suspiciously, setting aside the cup and saucer on the carved oak mantlepiece.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. But he particularly asked me to say nothing to alarm you until he had the opportunity of speaking to you himself.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Didn’t I just say so? And found him most reasonable. Really, Deirdre, I think Sir Thomas is right. Two females on their own are apt to let their imaginations run riot. What ninnyhammers we were to let our groundless fears chase us out of London as if the devil himself were after us. Rathbourne is a gentleman. We should have trusted to that fact. You have made your feelings very obvious by running away from him. He won’t trouble you again.”

  “And yet he has contrived to become Armand’s guardian,” Deirdre pointed out with quiet persistence, irritated to find that Rathbourne had somehow won her aunt’s confidence.

  Lady Fenton dismissed Deirdre’s suspicions with an impatient wave of her hand. “He explained that circumstance to Sir Thomas’s complete satisfaction. And no bad thing, either! Armand needs a firm hand. Sir Thomas was only sorry that he had not thought of the scheme himself.”

  “Sir Thomas approves? But I had hoped that he would use his influence to have the guardianship set aside.”

  “What would be the point in that? A court case could take months to decide, perhaps longer. Armand would reach his majority before the thing was settled. No, Sir Thomas is satisfied that Rathbourne will deal firmly but fairly with the boy.”

  Deirdre stared at her aunt in disbelief, watching idly as she drew on her gloves and picked up her parasol in readiness for their shopping spree. It was impossible to argue with such logic. Rathbourne was the epitome of the best that England had to offer. There was no higher compliment than to give a man the simple epithet “gentleman.” His unsavory reputation with women of a lower order counted for nothing in her circles, as long as he was discreet. Deirdre pursed her lips together. She could destroy his character with a word, but in so doing she must expose her own conduct to censure. Her lips were sealed and he knew it. Gentleman indeed! She knew better!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Deirdre and her aunt were not present when Lord Uxbridge and his aides arrived late in the afternoon to take up their lodgings at the Hotel d’Angleterre, but the gentlemen’s presence on the floor above soon made itself felt, for the ladies were forced to tolerate the incessant tramp of spurred boots on the ceiling overhead well into the early hours of the morning. This aggravation was dismissed as of little consequence by the aunt, a sentiment not shared by her niece, and Deirdre was hard pressed to conceal an irritation that she could scarcely explain to herself.

  She awakened the following morning feeling cross and rather out of sorts, but she came to herself gradually as she sipped the excellent cup of coffee which was brought to her by a chambermaid. Private parlors were no longer to be had at any price, and the ladies were in the habit of taking a solitary breakfast on a tray in the privacy of their bedchambers. Occasionally, Sir Thomas was in attendance, but very infrequently, since the press of work at the Embassy necessitated long stretches in his office where a cot had been set up for the odd times when he might snatch a few hours’ sleep. As a consequence, the ladies scarcely saw Sir Thomas except at official functions, and they were obliged to make their own way in society without reference to anything or anyone but their own personal preferences, a circumstance which discommoded the ladies in no wise.

  Lady Fenton was at her morning ablutions when a note was delivered with an invitation, which included Deirdre, to share a bite of breakfast with Lord Uxbridge in his private parlor. Her ladyship accepted with alacrity and lost no time in dressing and walking the length of the corridor to Deirdre’s room to apprise her niece of their good fortune.

  “How does he come to have a private parlor?” asked Deirdre pettishly as she struggled into a white muslin morning dress which buttoned high at the throat.

  “How should I know?” asked Lady Fenton sharply. “Who cares?” She adjusted Deirdre’s dress across the shoulders and fluffed out the gored skirt. “I really must make a push to engage an abigail as long as we are in Brussels.” Her critical eye surveyed Deirdre from head to toe. “How old is this dress?”

  “It’s new.”

  “I thought all your new frocks had long sleeves?”

  “Oh that,” said Deirdre dismissively. “That was Serena’s doing. I’ve altered all three of them. Serena is always ahead of herself. Nobody here has caught up with that particular fashion yet.”

  “Oh well, take a silk shawl with you, or somet
hing. And do be quick. Lord Uxbridge is the man of the hour and we mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  “I thought Wellington was the man of the hour.”

  “Really Deirdre! What’s got into you? One would think you didn’t like Lord Uxbridge, and that can’t be so. Everybody likes him. He’s the most amiable young man.”

  “He’s middle-aged!” retorted Deirdre.

  “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’s a regular beau, and in his prime. But you young people are all the same. Let me tell you, Deirdre, that age is relative. I suppose you think that I am in my dotage?”

  Deirdre dimpled. “You, dear aunt, are the epitome of all that is elegant,” she responded handsomely.

  Lord Uxbridge, looking every inch the Commander of Cavalry, cut a very fine figure in his dark blue dolman with its yards of gold lace braiding across the chest. Deirdre quickly scanned the faces of the other gentlemen present and the muscles which had knotted tight at the base of her neck relaxed by degrees when she ascertained that Rathbourne was not among them. She made a curtsy to Uxbridge’s aides who, in their tunics of scarlet and gold, made no less favorable an impression than their commander. In the presence of such masculine finery, Deirdre thought that the ladies, in their pale muslin frocks, came a very poor second best. So taken was she with the color and cut of the gentlemen’s scarlet jackets that she formed the notion of making up a short kerseymere spencer in the same color and with gold frogging for her own use. She mentioned as much to Captain Ogilvie, who had beaten out the competition to sit next to her at the table, and he warned her, in a bantering tone, that it would be disastrous to don such a piece of apparel in Brussels, for she might be mistaken for one of the aides and be forced into running errands for any number of generals and commanders.