Violet v-5

by Jane Feather

  “You poor dear, it must be so strange for you, and so sad to have to leave your own country.”

  “Perdon?” Tamsyn looked up inquiringly at Julian, who through gritted teeth translated.

  “Ah, muy amable,” Tamsyn gushed, taking the offered hand and shaking it heartily. Too heartily, judging by the recipient's startled look as her fingers were gripped with unusual firmness by this diminutive creature.

  “Tamsyn has made a remarkable recovery,” Julian said. “Sit down, nina.” He pushed her into a chair, hearing her swift indrawn breath with silent satisfaction. “She actually speaks and understands English perfectly well, but she's afraid to make mistakes.” He smiled at her with his mouth, but his eyes promised retribution.

  Tamsyn looked suitably flustered. “The… the senor is… is… muyamable.”

  “Oh, I believe you overstate the case,” Julian said smoothly. He turned to his visitors. “If you speak slowly, she has no difficulty following you.”

  Hester Marshall nodded her comprehension and articulated slowly and loudly, “Do you ride, senorita?”

  “Ride?” Tamsyn frowned. “A caballo? Oh, SI… I like it much… very much, but the Senor, St. Simon, he say I don't do it well.” She cast a doleful look at the colonel.

  “Oh, I'm certain Lord St. Simon will be able to find you a quiet horse to practice on,” Hester said warmly. “We must ride together. I don't care to do more than trot gently around the lanes myself, so you needn't be afraid we'll do anything you're not ready for.”

  Tamsyn gulped and Julian said, “That would be very nice for you, nina. I'm sure you'd enjoy that, now the weather has become so much pleasanter.”

  “Yes, it has been so dreary,” Mrs. Marshall agreed.

  “The farmers are at their wits' end about the harvest. How long is your leave from the Peninsula, Lord St. Simon?”

  “I have some negotiations to conduct on Wellington’s behalf at Westminster,” Julian said. “And the duke is also anxious that Tamsyn is well settled in her new country before I return. He was also acquainted with her father. I'm hoping that when the Season begins, I can prevail upon Lucy to sponsor Tamsyn.”

  This was news to Tamsyn. “Perdon?” she said.

  “Please… nocomprendo.”

  By the time I've finished with you, buttercup, you're not going to understand the time of day, Julian swore silently. “My sister,” he reminded her, without a trace of emotion.

  “Ah, si.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, smiling sunnily.

  Lady Pendragon stared in shocked disbelief, but Julian moved swiftly, crossing in front of Tamsyn to refill the vicar's glass. As he did so, he kicked her ankle sharply, and Tamsyn hastily sat up straight, clasping her hands in her lap.

  “Where were you educated, Senorita Baron?” Lady Pendragon asked slowly.

  Tamsyn blinked and frowned, as if trying to understand. Then she nodded and beamed as if finally comprehending the question. She rattled off a stream of Spanish, nodding and smiling, gesturing eloquently while her audience stared uncomprehendingly until she'd fallen silent, when six heads turned as one to the colonel, who was now leaning against the mantelshelf, arms folded, an expression of sardonic resignation in the bright-blue eyes.

  “In a mountain convent, ma'am,” he said. “A very strict order in a convent perched on a mountain peak. It could only be reached by mule, so the pupils saw very few people other than the sisters. Tamsyn's mother died when she was ten, and she was sent there after her death. Then, when she was eighteen, her father sent for her to Madrid. She was to be presented at court.”

  Tamsyn nodded, twisting her hands in her lap, her violet eyes· brimming with emotion throughout this translation.

  “Unfortunately, Senor Baron died very suddenly and consigned his daughter to the care of his good friends the Duke of Wellington and myself”

  “Si… Si,” Tamsyn said, now smiling radiantly at Julian before rattling off another stream of Spanish.

  “It was thought best she should come to England, at least until the war in Spain is over,” Julian translated without a flicker of emotion. Despite his annoyance with this playacting, he had to admit that Tamsyn was providing an immaculate background cover.

  “Quite so,” Lady Pendragon said faintly. “How very unfortunate for you, Miss Baron.”

  “Forgive me, my dear, but have you been ill?” Mrs. Thornton asked, leaning forward to pat Tamsyn's knee with her mittened hand.

  Tamsyn looked blank for a minute, then responded cheerfully; nodding at Julian to provide translation.

  “She says she is never ill, ma' am,” he responded obediently.

  “I just wondered… her hair… most unusual.”

  Now, how was she going to explain that one? He threw her the question.

  “Oh, that was the convent,” Tamsyn invented without missing a beat. “The sisters insisted we have our hair cut very short… to prevent the sin of vanity, you understand.”

  “Very commendable,” Mrs. Thornton said with a nod at her husband as Lord St. Simon finished translating, his voice devoid of expression, his face a mask. “We have often commented at the vicarage how young girls these days think too much of their appearances. Not Hester, of course.” She smiled at Mrs. Marshall and her daughter. “Hester is a paragon… so helpful around the parish.”

  “Lady Fortescue will sponsor Senorita Baron at court, Lord St. Simon?” Mrs. Marshall inquired, accepting the compliment for her daughter with a complacent nod.

  “I trust so,” he said dryly, sipping his wine. “I'm anxious to return to the Peninsula, as you might imagine.”

  “What's your feeling about the way it's going, St. Simon?” Lord Pendragon asked, and the men drew apart, becoming involved in war talk.

  Tamsyn sat demurely in her chair while the, ladies chatted among themselves, nodding at her occasionally so she shouldn't feel completely excluded from a conversation that was as incomprehensible to her as if she really. didn't speak English. They talked about recipes for calfs-foot jelly, blonde lace for trimming a gown, and the intransigence of parlor maids, while Tamsyn strained to hear the men's conversation, constantly biting her tongue to keep from contributing to a discussion that touched her much more nearly.

  “I trust your… your ward… will accompany you to church on Sunday.” Mrs. Thornton drew on her gloves as the visitors finally rose to leave.

  “Tamsyn will worship in our church for want of her own,” Julian said coolly. “Won't you, nina?”

  “Perdon?” Tamsyn said sweetly, fluttering her luxuriant eyelashes as she gazed up at him in innocent inquiry. His responding glare scorched a warning, and she fell back discreetly as he escorted his visitors to their various carriages.

  “Does the child have a duenna?” Mrs. Marshall asked as Julian handed her into her barouche.

  “Oh, yes, a most fearsome Spanish lady,” Julian assured her solemnly. “And if she isn't enough, Tamsyn's also accompanied by a bodyguard-a veritable giant of a Scotsman, whose task, it seems, is to keep all strangers at bay until they've been duly vetted. I'm sure the village will be talking about him soon enough. Gabriel's a hard man to miss.”

  Mrs. Marshall considered this for a minute, then nodded as if satisfied. Her daughter stepped up and took her place beside her.

  “Good-bye, senorita.” Hester leaned over, holding her hand out to Tamsyn. “We must have that ride soon.”

  “Yes,” Tamsyn said bravely, taking her hand rather more gently this time. “And please… please call me Tamsyn. It is muy bien, more pleasant, si?”

  “Tamsyn,” Hester said, smiling. “Such a pretty Cornish name. Lord St. Simon said your mother's family came from these parts many, many years ago. You must call me Hester. I know we shall be good friends.”

  The carriages rolled down the driveway, with Tamsyn waving energetically at Lord St. Simon's side.

  “All right, you, inside!” Julian turned on Tamsyn once the carriages were out of earshot. His arm went around
her waist, and he swept her into the house. “Just what the devil was all that about?”

  “It seemed the perfect solution,” Tamsyn protested in wide-eyed innocence as he propelled her back to the library and the door shivered on its hinges under his vigorous slam. “I was afraid I would say something accidentally indiscreet or perhaps offend them, because I don't know anything about English society, so I thought if I didn't say anything very much, then it would be safe, and you wouldn't have cause to be vexed.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “You were so ferociously threatening, Colonel.”

  “Don't give me that mock innocence,” he said.

  “You were making game of them… and of me!”

  “No, I wasn't,” Tamsyn declared. “If you think for a minute, you'll see what a perfect solution it is, so long as I can remember to keep it up. If I don't speak, I can't say the wrong thing, and everyone will expect me to be different, so no one will look askance at any strange behavior. While you're teaching me not to make mistakes, I can be pretending to learn English properly, so when I make my debut… or whatever you want to call it… when it's safe to let me loose, then I can speak English without its seeming peculiar.”

  “Safe to let you loose?” Julian murmured. “Dear God!” He ran a distracted hand through the burnished lock of hair flopping on his forehead. “You're about as safe as a cobra in a mouse's nest.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Tamsyn. “What a horrible image! And what's wrong with my plan? It's a perfect cover.”

  Julian shook his head in defeat. He was obliged to admit that she was right, but he couldn't bring himself to say so. He went over to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of wine, regarding her in fulminating silence for a minute.

  “I'll tell you something else,” Tamsyn said with sudden trenchancy. “If you ever call me nina again, St. Simon, I'll cut your tongue out!”

  “My dear girl, for the role you insist on playing, it's the most suitable form of address,” Julian said airily. “A mute little girl, struggling to accustom herself to the customs of a strange land, trying to adapt to the terrors of the wide world after all those years sequestered in a mountaintop convent, fighting the sin of vanity.”

  “I thought it was a piece of very fast thinking,” Tamsyn said defensively.

  “Oh, you are nothing if not inventive, nina,” he said.

  Laughter trembled on his lips as, infuriated, she bared her little white teeth at him.

  He caught her round the waist as she leaped toward him, and lifted her off her feet. “An inventive, fast thinking brigand who's now going to have to trot decorously along the lanes on a fat pony because she says that the Senor St. Simon says she doesn't ride very well.”

  “Oh, no!” Tamsyn wailed, kicking her legs.

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a grin. “Inventive little lies come home to roost, muchacha. You can't possibly show yourself atop Cesar.”

  “Then I'll ride only at night,” she declared disgustedly. “Put me down.”

  He let her slide slowly through his hands, his mocking smile fading as his fingers brushed the swell of her breast. The indignation died out of the violet eyes at the touch. Her feet reached the carpet, and he moved his hands to run his knuckles over her breasts beneath the delicate sprig muslin. The nipples rose instantly, supremely sensitive as always, and her lips parted on an eager, expectant breath.

  “Here?” she whispered, a catch of excitement in her voice. “Now?”

  It was the middle of the morning, in the middle of his house. Domestic sounds reached them through the closed door. Julian glanced through the window to where a gardener was weeding the parterres in direct line of sight.

  He looked down into Tamsyn's upturned face, glowing with desire and reckless invitation. She moved against him, a lascivious wriggle of her hips sending a jolt through his loins that took his breath away.

  “Against the door,” he directed, his voice clipped and stern in its urgency. “Quickly.” He pushed her backward until she was pressed up against the door, his body hard against hers. Roughly he pulled her skirt up to her waist.

  “Is this what you want, Violette?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And this?” His hand slipped between her thighs, pressing the dampening material of her drawers into the moist furrow, his touch burning into the soft petaled flesh beneath.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes luminous, her skin translucent as she stood still for him, for once making no moves of her own.

  It was lunacy. He was swept up on the crazy tide of this foolhardy passion. Her drawers fell to her ankles, her legs parted under the pressure of his impatient palms. His fingers moved within her, on her, until she was lost in a swirling crimson fog, her head thrown back against the paneled door, her hips thrust forward for his probing, questing hand.

  His mouth brushed against the soft curve where her neck met her shoulder, and his teeth nipped where his mouth had been. She cried out, a soft female sound in the back of her throat, and then his flesh was within hers and she braced herself against the door, gripping his hips as he drove deep within her and her blood roared in her ears and he stopped her mouth with his own, suffocating the wild cry of delight before it could leave her lips.

  And then it was over, and she stood trembling, her knees week, her gown clinging to her sweat-slick skin. Julian smiled a long, slow smile of sensual satisfaction. Lightly he ran his fingers over her mouth so she could taste the scents of her own arousal.

  “What would they say in that convent of yours?” he murmured. “That strict order in the mountains?”

  Tamsyn merely shook her head. For once Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon had defeated her, rendered her speechless.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “ST. SIMON'S BACK AT TREGARTHAN,” CEDRIC PENhallan announced, sniffing the claret in his glass. He took a considered sip, then nodded to the butler, who proceeded to fill up the glasses of the Penhallan twins sitting opposite each other at the oval table. The last rays of the setting sun caught the sapphire signet ring as the viscount raised his glass.

  “We saw him this morning, sir.” David helped himself to a dish of squab.

  “Stark naked, playing in the sea with a doxy,” Charles expanded with a throaty chuckle.

  “You were on Tregarthan land?” Cedric's black eyes were agate, a white shade appearing around his fleshy mouth.

  Charles turned scarlet. “Just on the cliff top above the cove. We were shooting crows and accidentally strayed-”

  “You did not accidentally stray, sir,” his uncle pronounced with deadly calm.

  “We didn't know St. Simon was at home, Governor,” David put in, a sulky note in his voice. “He's been out of the country for two years… except for his sister's wedding.”

  “And two years ago you were warned off St. Simon land,” Cedric stated with the same venomous calm. “And why were you so warned?” He looked between the two, his black eyes seething with contempt.

  There was no response. The two young men bent their heads to their plates. The butler moved discreetly into the shadows.

  “Well?” Cedric demanded softly. “One of you must remember, surely.”

  The twins squirmed; then David said with the same sulkiness, “She was a whore. We played with her, that's all.”

  “Oh, is that all?” His uncle's eyebrows lifted. He regarded a platter of brook trout swimming in butter, selected the largest, and slid it onto his plate. He ate for· a few minutes in a charged silence where no one but himself moved, and the squab on David's plate congealed in its gravy.

  “Is that all?” he said again in a musing tone. “You waylaid a child… how old was she? Fourteen, I believe?” He looked between the two again, politely waiting for a response.

  “She was ripe for it,” Charles said. “Her mother was a whore. Everyone knew it.”

  “Oh, I thought her mother had died the year before,” Cedric said questioningly. “I was under the impression that the child lived alone with her
father… a man much respected by St. Simon people. One of St. Simon's favored tenants. But perhaps I'm mistaken.” He gestured to the butler to refill his glass.

  “Am I mistaken, sir?” His black glare arrowed into David, who stared down at the table, concealing the naked hatred in his eyes.

  “No,” he muttered finally. “But we weren't to know that.”

  “No, of course you weren't.” Cedric sounded almost soothing. “When you raped and beat her and left her naked on the beach, barely alive, you weren't to know that you had interfered with one of St. Simon's tenants on Tregarthan land.”

  The viscount took another deep draft of his wine and with seeming placidity allowed the silence to build around them. He cut into the pigeon pie, and if he was aware that only he had any appetite for dinner, he gave no sign of it.

  “Of course you weren't to know that,” he reiterated in the same tone. “Just as of course it wouldn't occur to you that the girl might tell someone… might even know who it was who had assaulted her throughout one long summer afternoon. It wouldn't occur to you, of course, that everyone knows you in these parts. You've only lived here since you were infants.” His voice was suddenly sharp, spitting his angry derision.

  “I don't give a tinker's damn what you do, you pair of bumbling idiots. You can rape a regiment of women if you wish. But not even dogs soil their own turf!”

  The two inhaled sharply, flushed, and then paled in unison. Cedric smiled. Their anger at this public humiliation pleased him, and the fear that made them swallow their anger pleased him even more, although it increased his contempt.

  Only Celia, of all the Penhallans, had stood up to him.

  Suddenly he lost interest in tormenting his nephews.

  The image of Celia filled his head. And the girl he'd seen yesterday. The girl who for a minute he'd mistaken for Celia. It was absurd, of course. His memory was hardly accurate after all these years. He'd been fooled by the fair hair and the slight frame. Nevertheless, it had been an extraordinary resemblance. The girl was probably about the same age Celia had been when he'd sent her away. That was what had given him such a start.