“Why are you hounding me like this, sir? It seems I cannot escape you, wherever I go.”
“You can hardly say I’m hounding you when I was here first. I could complain that it is you who are dogging my footsteps rather than the other way around.” He was talking nonsense, stalling for time. How was he to get out of this coil?
“Fiddle-faddle. You may think me a foolish young chit, but I’m astute enough to recognise when I’m being told fibs.”
If he pulled her just a little nearer, he’d be able to feel her breasts against him. But then she’d be able to feel his unexpected, unwelcome arousal. It would disgust and offend her. Or… or, it might just provide a reason for his being here she would believe, and about which she would remain silent. Thus keeping his presence hidden from Addyman.
“The truth then. Firstly, my real identity. I’m an impoverished heir, taken as a child to Italy and brought up by the family steward. I have but one surviving close relation, a sister—brother Frederick is an invention.”
“Why should I trust what you tell me now if everything you said before was a lie?”
“It’s the absolute truth, I swear. If you were to search for Mr Robert Bligh, perfumier, amongst the list of tradesmen in Venice, I would be there. Our former steward, Fanbridge, died a couple of years ago, which made me re-evaluate my life. That is why I am now returned to England.”
“A perfumier?”
He could hear the disbelief in her voice. She was finding his real identity harder to understand than his invented one. “Yes, a perfumier. I have as good a nose as any woman. And I rather enjoy testing out my scents on beautiful ladies.”
“That I can well believe.” He felt her sigh, and noted, with masculine pride, she made no attempt to remove his hands from her waist.
“But wouldn’t snuff spoil your sense of smell?” she asked.
“Oh, no, I only use it very occasionally, for show.”
“So why are you no longer in Venice? What did this re-evaluation of your life involve, that it brought you all the way to England?”
He’d have to be careful what he told her. He didn’t want anything getting back to Addyman that might arouse the man’s suspicions.
“Perfume makers keep their ingredients closely guarded. I wanted to come to England and work on some new recipes, but without my rivals knowing what I was doing. Hence the alias.” It sounded a good enough story. If one was going to tell a falsehood, it was best to base it on truth.
“I understand. But that still doesn’t explain why you keep crossing my path and seem to want to kiss me at the least provocation.”
He gnawed his lip. His thoughts were leading him into very deep water indeed. But at this precise moment, with his hands splayed on either side of her slender waist, his lips aching to kiss her again, and his body urging him to do a whole lot more, he said the only thing that came to mind.
“It is because I have fallen in love with you.”
Chapter 8
Those were the exact words Phoebe had hoped to hear at some point in the next few weeks, but not from his lips. No matter how desperately she needed a lover, needed a husband, she could not trust herself to this man of artifice.
Although, would there be any harm in keeping him in reserve, just in case no one suitable could be found? Maybe he would accept a marriage of convenience—but would that work for the lawyers, or would her inheritance be forfeited should her marriage be dissolved?
A tense silence stretched between them. Goodrich had declared himself, and whether or not he meant it, was expecting a response.
“I am quite overset by your revelation.” She tried to make her voice sound fluttery and feminine. “Am I to understand you wish to marry me?” There, that should call his bluff.
“Ah.”
A telling pause. He hadn’t expected her to be so blunt, had he? His announcement had been nothing more than flirtation—or maybe it was how he went about seducing women into his bed. With empty promises and pronouncements. She’d done the right thing when she swore off men as a twelve-year-old, after catching her best friend Peter trying to put his hand down the milkmaid’s bodice.
Goodrich cleared his throat. “I’m not currently in a position to marry, but I hope very soon I shall be. Forgive me—I was intemperate. My passions got the better of me. I must remember to make no promises I’m unable to keep.”
“So, you don’t truly wish to marry me?” Why should she feel disappointed? His reply was what she’d expected.
“Trust me, I desire you very much.” He sounded sincere, and his kisses suggested the desire was real.
“But?” Wasn’t there always a ‘but’?
“But I have my eyes on a particular prize. I hope it will be mine in a matter of months, weeks even. As soon as it is, I can do some reorganisation of my life, and at that point, the position of spouse will be available.”
Not a very passion-inspiring answer. It sounded more like an offer of employment. Anyway, if he couldn’t marry her now, he was no use at all. She’d best forget her incomprehensible attraction to him and avoid his acquaintance hereafter.
“I think it best we forget ever having had this conversation, Mr Goodrich. Or Mr Bligh, should I say.”
“Please, I would much appreciate it if you continued to call me Goodrich.”
“Why?” She was angry now. “Do you still need to be incognito? Am I to believe your rival perfumiers decided to follow you all the way from Venice and steal your scented secrets? A likely story.” Pulling free from his grip, she turned and stumbled out of the chamber.
“Phoebe. Wait.”
The tone of command in his voice was unexpected and brought her to a stop. Hating herself for her weakness, she muttered, “You can have nothing further to say to me. I have been taken advantage of, and do not intend to fall for any more of your tricks.”
“Very well.” He sounded resigned, tired. “All I want to say is that should you ever have need of a friend, I will oblige you. You have my word on it.”
Why might she need a friend? She was perfectly happy with her lot, knew exactly what to do in order to achieve her ends. Goodrich had been an obstacle en route, but she’d learn from that.
“Your sort of deceitful friendship is unwelcome, sir.”
“I understand. But I don’t give up easily. I cannot let you vanish from my life when I know how I feel, even though you don’t believe me. Please, accept my offer of assistance, should you need it. I live close by and am often in the area. If you ever need anything from me, place my handkerchief where it can easily be seen—in your window, perhaps. Every day, I will look for it, and if I see it, I’ll be here in an instant.”
A weightiness infused his tone and unsettled her. Was he unhappy because she’d rejected his affection? Or did he seriously believe she might find herself in trouble?
“I don’t know—”
“Here.” He turned her around to face him and put a large lawn square with lacy edging into her hand. It smelled of the pomade he used, powerful but alluring. Was it made to his own recipe? Perhaps he really was a perfumier.
That was hardly relevant now. “How do you know this is different to my usual handkerchiefs? I might put them on the line to dry, but it won’t mean I’m summoning your assistance.”
“It will be much larger than yours and has my initials, RGB, embroidered in one corner. It’s perfectly clean, I assure you. Mr Goodrich always carries several.”
“I won’t need it. But I’ll accept it. One can always find a use for a spare handkerchief.” She’d keep it as a reminder of him, and of her folly in letting him come so close. “Farewell, Mr Goodrich.”
“Au revoir, Miss Phoebe Duvall. I hope, in time, you may unbend a little towards me, and forgive me for revealing my feelings so precipitously.”
She turned away and hurried towards the grotto entrance, determined to escape any further, painful, confusing discourse with the unnerving Mr Goodrich.
Would she unbend towards hi
m? Not if she could help it.
Would she forgive him for leading her on?
Never.
Chapter 9
Phoebe spent the rest of the next two days trying to forget about Mr Goodrich and his ludicrous declaration of love. He’d flattered, kissed and held her, but only to prove his masculinity. She’d done nothing during these encounters to inspire his passion—at least, not as she understood the meaning of the word.
She buried herself in activity, researching the names of local dignitaries to find out who was likely to contribute to the foundlings’ charity and to discover on her own account who was married and who was not.
Addyman, of whom she saw but little, gave her a generous purse with which to buy provisions for both herself and Molly, but also so she could purchase extra items for the house. These were comestibles Addyman and his steward, Grant, wished to sample, so they could help decide from which merchants future provisions should be bought.
“How wonderful it is to be able to buy what one wants for a change,” she said to her aunt, as they sat down to a generous supper at the Dower House.
“We seem to have landed on our feet, as they say. I had my concerns about you accepting this post, but all seems to have turned out rather well. Shall you marry him, do you think?”
Phoebe nearly choked on her mouthful of brisket, an image of Goodrich’s shadowy figure in the grotto flashing into her mind. How did aunt know about him? Not only did Phoebe recall in vivid detail the feel of his lips on hers, but she could also remember the firmness of his muscled chest as she’d brushed her fingers over his body, thinking him a statue. What a shock it had been to find the statue warm, living, speaking, as if animated by some god or goddess of old, bent on creating mischief in the human domains.
“You do like him. I can tell by your blush. I can’t make him out, though. Something of a mystery, our Mr Addyman.”
Her aunt’s mistake brought her thoughts crashing back down. Addyman. She was talking about him, not Goodrich. Obviously.
“At this late stage, I can’t expect more than a marriage of convenience, with the trust fund as an incentive—a dowry if you like. However, I don’t think Mr Addyman would find marriage convenient at all. He is such a private person.”
“Ssh. What’s that?” Her aunt sat up, suddenly alert, looking towards the window. Outside, the shadows of evening had fallen, and it was becoming hard to distinguish individual shapes. Night came early to the Dower House at Donhead, enclosed as it was by mature trees and thick shrubs. The only clear view was from one of the bedrooms whence one could see right across to the tower on the opposite slope.
“What did you hear, aunt?”
“What sounded like footsteps crunching on gravel. The footsteps of several people.”
A knock on the door had Phoebe nearly jumping from her seat, while her aunt paled worryingly.
“You look ill. Shall I fetch one of your powders?”
“No, no. It was just a shock to my nerves. Dare we answer the door?”
How could a pleasant, relaxed supper turn so rapidly into a moment fraught with danger? The whole atmosphere of the house had changed, and the outside world had become a living, frightening darkness, concealing who knew what horrors. Phoebe’s hackles rose as she tiptoed towards the door and called out, “Who’s there?”
She was pleased her voice sounded so normal—much calmer than she felt.
“It is I, Grant. Please close your shutters and lock the door, ladies—there are poachers on the loose tonight, and the men and I mean to catch them.”
Poachers? These must be the cutthroat kind if Grant had gathered together the other male servants to repel them. She imagined moonlight glinting off pistol barrels, and shuddered. She turned the key and slid the bolt home.
Grant’s voice came from outside. “Thank you. Please shutter your upstairs windows as well. Should there be any shots fired… well, you would be advised to keep away from all the windows until morning. I will watch and wait while you do it.”
“Very well, Mr Grant,” she called back. “Did you hear that, Aunt? I shall go and close the shutters upstairs if you do the downstairs ones.”
Responding to the command in Grant’s tone, Phoebe hurried up the stairs and pulled all the shutters closed, too anxious to peep out the window. A couple of the openings had drapes, so she pulled those across too—no real defence against projectiles, but comforting all the same. When she came down again, it was to find her aunt huddled close to the kitchen fire.
“Well, I never. Who would have thought we’d find ourselves in the middle of an armed siege after only our third day here?”
Who indeed? “We’ve enough provisions to see us through a siege. They have at the house as well, so let all the poachers in the county come—they’ll never starve us out.”
Her aunt smiled wanly at her attempted levity. “I do hope there won’t be any shooting. So many poachers are poor, hopeless men with families to feed who, for one reason or another, cannot provide for them.”
“Addyman won’t want anyone shot if it can be avoided. He’s a charitable man.” At least, she hoped he wouldn’t give orders to shoot anyone. It was hard to tell.
Her aunt pulled a face. “What if they’ve put those awful man traps down? Can you imagine going for a bracing morning stroll and coming across some wretched creature having been caught in one of them and bled to death?”
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you now. We must let the men take care of the situation. This is probably an isolated incident—the poachers will move on to another estate when they find this one so well protected.”
But what of Mr Goodrich’s home? He lived close by. Would he be able to protect himself against a band of armed, ruthless, hungry men?
Bother. She’d promised herself not to care about him at all, but here she was, concerned for his safety. He didn’t deserve it.
“Anyway, Mr Addyman would have told us if there were man-traps set about the place, so we didn’t accidentally walk into one. So, there won’t be any bloody legs tonight, and no gory sights to greet us on our perambulations tomorrow.”
“Hush.” Her aunt put a finger to her lips, then got up and crept towards the kitchen. “I can hear voices.”
Alarmed, Phoebe picked up the carving knife, then pressed her ear against the closed shutter.
Molly was right. There were voices, whispering rapidly to one another. She couldn’t work out what they were saying. “Can you make anything out?”
Her aunt shook her head. “I think it could be the poachers themselves. I don’t understand a word—there must be a really thick accent in this part of Dorset.”
There was nothing to learn from the unintelligible mutterings, and being close to the window could prove dangerous if any shots were fired, so Phoebe backed away and signalled Molly to do the same.
She remembered Goodrich and the large, effeminate handkerchief he’d made her take. This was just the sort of crisis when one might want the aid of a friend—when one’s house was surrounded by vicious poachers, and one had no idea where the gentlemen of the estate had gone to.
But now the women had shuttered themselves in, there was nowhere she could put the handkerchief where Goodrich would see it. Especially not in the dark. And even though he had confused and disappointed her with his false proclamation of love, she didn’t want him rushing, unarmed and alone, straight into the middle of a battlefield. There was only so much damage a man could inflict on an enemy when he was armed with no more than a silver-topped cane and a box of snuff.
The handkerchief was an impractical idea. She may as well use it to blow her nose.
“There’s nothing we can do now, Aunt, so let’s clear away the supper things and get ready for bed. As Mr Grant said, everything will have been dealt with by morning.”
When the crockery had been rinsed and put away, Phoebe went upstairs, doing her best to conceal her worries. It was awful being barricaded in so she couldn’t tell what
was going on outside—one needed to be able to see one’s enemy, to know how to deal with him should the need arise. It was so frustrating, being shut in like some princess in a tower from a French fairy tale.
French? She froze, her candle flickering in a hand that trembled.
The muttered words she’d heard, the thick accents—what if it hadn’t been English at all? But there was no likelihood whatsoever the poachers they’d heard could be speaking French.
Was there?
Chapter 10
Today Robert hoped to take a significant step closer to his goal. Two days previously, he’d received an invitation from his neighbour, Charles Addyman, to an early dinner, at which sponsorship of a charity for foundlings would be discussed. All the neighbourhood was invited—or, at least, those considered wealthy enough.
Miss Duvall must be behind this—she’d wasted no time. How long had she been at Donhead? Little over a week. And the dinner was scheduled for six o’clock this evening, in the old banqueting house.
A fortnight ago, he’d ordered a new outfit from his tailor, so he didn’t have to wear the appalling yellow affair all the time. Nonetheless, it pained him to continue with the charade of emulating a macaroni in front of so many influential people. Especially in front of Miss Phoebe Duvall. He had to hope she would play along. He hadn’t yet come up with a plan for how to cope if she didn’t. Unless, of course, it was to lay the whole truth before her, and open her eyes regarding her employer.
Having almost convinced himself this was the best action, he was both confused and disgruntled to receive a note saying the whole affair had been postponed, to a date yet to be decided. He stared at himself in the mirror. Fully made-up, smartly dressed in sky-blue, which brought out the colour of his eyes—a strapping figure of a man, albeit an effeminate-looking one. But a man with no party to attend.
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