“No! And—do you lay one hand on me…” she said between her teeth.
“I would not,” he vowed piously, but spoiled the effect by adding with a twinkle, “Two hands, or nothing!”
“Oh! You are without shame! Tell me the message, sir! Stay! Another step and I shall scream for help!”
“Do not, oh, pray do not! I swear I’ll not step,” he said earnestly and, with a lithe bound and one hand briefly placed atop the sofa, stood beside her.
Rebecca uttered a squeal and darted away, barely eluding his grasp. “Lecher!” she gasped, breathless, but anxious to obtain the message he brought. “Horrid libertine! You lured me here!”
“But of course.” He said with an apologetic gesture, “There was no other lady half as lovely, you see, else I’d merely have sent the message to you.” He swung one long leg over the sofa and perched on top of the back, his grey eyes glinting with laughter. “Come, sweeting, you want your message and I ask only a small forfeit, surely.”
“Sooner,” she panted, “would I be dead!”
“You would?” He eyed her curiously. “I wonder why. I think I am not an inept lover. At least I’ve not as yet been told my kisses are repulsive. Now, Ward, on the other hand, is pitifully lacking in experience, and—”
“Oh, base! And he your friend!”
“There—you see? You do prefer experience. Now, as for myself—” Even as he spoke, he sprang with a fluid leap that came with astounding swiftness.
With a gasp of fright, Rebecca tried, too late, to escape. She was seized in a grip of steel and crushed close against him, her little scream muffled against his cravat. His head bowed over her. In his eyes was a new light of tenderness that reduced her knees to the consistency of custard. “Jupiter,” he breathed, “but you’re an exquisite little creature.”
“I,” she whispered without much resolution, “shall … scream…”
“In that event”—his lips caressed her temple—“I must be deafened.…” He was planting little kisses down to her chin, up her other cheek, and upon her half-closed eyelids. “Ah, sweeting,” he breathed, “how delicious you smell.”
A floating sensation had taken possession of Rebecca’s mind. She had a heady impression of drifting among clouds, and at the same time experienced another emotion as shocking as it was unfamiliar: the yearning to return those kisses; the need to feel his lips not upon her cheek, or her brow, or her eyelids, but claiming her mouth.…
Distantly, someone laughed, and the simple sound restored sanity. With a shocked gasp she tore free and uttered an incensed, “How dare you! Oh, how dare you take such advantage of a helpless lady!”
De Villars said ruefully, “But consider, Little Parrish. I did not kiss you on the lips, as I had every right. And—”
“Every—right? Oh! When my brother hears of this, he will—” But she bit back the words, knowing she dared not tell Snowden.
“I had thought you had bought and paid for your message. However,” he shrugged, “do you mean to terrify me with blackmail…”
Much he was terrified, she thought, yearning to scratch him. It was poor Snow who— Her fears for her brother ceased abruptly. Despite his light and teasing manner, The Lecher had shifted his position and now stood between her and the door! Her heart began to hammer wildly. She turned her back on him, her head bowed, but her eyes searching for something to use as a weapon. “You have no right,” she murmured coyly, “to—to force me, sir.”
“And will never do so, loveliest. Come now—” He was moving up close behind her. “Admit,” he said huskily, “that you enjoyed—”
With a pantherish leap, Rebecca snatched up the only article that offered, a large cut-glass bowl of roses. She whirled about. De Villars was in the act of reaching out for her. Without an instant’s hesitation, she dashed the contents of the vase into his face.
He gave a yell and reeled back.
“How right you are,” Rebecca snarled. “I have enjoyed this moment immensely, at the least!”
He dragged a sleeve across his eyes and gasped, blinking at her through the streams of water that ran down his face to soak his blue-and-silver brocaded waistcoat. A rose had become entangled in the sagging wreck of his powdered hair, and a spray of fern hung incongruously over his right eye.
“Lud, but you’re a sight!” giggled Rebecca. “Here—let me help you.” She sprang closer before he could recover himself, and balanced the upended bowl on his head. “I crown you King of the May-have-been!”
He muttered an oath and lunged for her. With a squeak of fright, she ran for the door. De Villars’ attempt to pursue her was foiled as the bowl fell and landed with a thud on his toe. He yelped, grabbed his foot, and hopped, groaning, to the sofa.
Laughing in triumph, Rebecca watched him from the open door.
“Next time … enchanting … vixen!” he warned, nursing his battered toe. “Next time—I shall even the score!”
Rebecca glanced around. The corridor was empty. Distantly, music lilted in the final strains of a gavotte, and happy laughter and talk could be heard. “I foiled your despicable wickedness,” she said proudly. “Own it!”
Sagging and bedraggled, he glared ferociously at her. But gradually, a reluctant grin dawned. “Aye,” he admitted. “You did that.”
Her own anger faded. “If I come back and help restore your appearance, will you swear to behave like a proper gentleman?”
For a moment, he gazed at her, then, a whimsical smile in his eyes, he stood and limped towards her, shaking his head. But as she tossed her own and started away, he called, “Peter cannot be here, for his cousin is to arrive at Ward Marching this night. His carriage will call for you and Mrs. Boothe tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
Rebecca turned back; but even as she started to him, a man and a girl came hand in hand around the corner. De Villars swung shut the door, and Rebecca hurried away.
The balance of her evening was triumphant in a different sense, for no sooner did she reappear in the ballroom than she was surrounded. Eager gentlemen vied for her dance card and quarrelled over the right to put down their names. It was wrenching to have to leave at one o’clock while the festivities were in full swing, but she and Albinia had to be up early. In the carriage, her aunt, echoing Miss Boudreaux’s sentiments, told her that even was she unable to snare Sir Peter, there was no doubting now but that she could achieve a highly respectable marriage. Rebecca said sleepily that she hoped that was so—and thought it did not matter, for she would snare Sir Peter!
Lying in bed an hour later, drowsily content, her cheeks reddened suddenly even in the darkness, as her thoughts turned to that horrid ante-room. How strong the wretched man was! His arms had all but crushed the breath from her. She forced away the recollection of how contrastingly gentle had been his kisses, but then frowned at the canopy. He was strong, so strong he might easily, as he had said, have claimed her lips. Grudgingly, she acknowledged that The Lascivious Libertine had played fair and, irked by that admission, banished him from her mind. In only a few hours they would be en route to Bedfordshire and Sir Peter. Dear Sir Peter, with his haunted, wistful eyes, courtly manners, and gentle charm.
Lady … Peter … Ward.…
Rebecca yawned, smiling.
And fell asleep in the midst of an uneasy awareness that this happiness was to be hers only because The Wretched Rake had so manoeuvred it.
CHAPTER
6
“Oh, but how lovely!” Rebecca looked eagerly from the armful of long-stemmed pink roses Millie held, to the plain card she offered. Taking it, Rebecca unfolded it and read, “One for every kiss, my adored Little Fishwife.” There was no signature—nor any need for one. Her cheeks flaming, she tore the card to shreds and tossed the remnants onto the hall table. “Throw them away,” she said loftily. “We certainly cannot carry them with us.”
“Throw them away? But—Mrs. Rebecca, they’re so pretty. Falk will like to have ’em, if you don’t mind. She loves flowers.�
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They were pretty. A soft, blushing pink. Her own complexion matching the blooms, Rebecca relented and, trying not to notice that her aunt watched apprehensively, agreed that Millie should present the roses to Mrs. Falk. She took up her reticule and gave a twitch to her shawl. “Are we ready at last, Aunt Alby? Wherever is that child?”
“Anthony is outside, admiring Ward’s carriage.” Adjusting her bonnet with the aid of the Chippendale wall mirror, Mrs. Boothe asked with trepidation, “Why did you tear up the card and tell Millie to throw away those lovely roses?”
Rebecca was spared the necessity of a reply, for the front door burst open and Anthony erupted into the hall. Jubilant, he imparted the information that Sir Peter’s coachman was called Todd. “And the right wheeler is a young ’un and full of spirit, so it would be very nice if we might leave afore he kicks over the traces! Can we not go now, Mama? Can we not?”
Rebecca smiled, her heart warmed by his radiance. “Of course we can, dearest. Come, Aunt.” She rang the bell, and Millie and Mrs. Falk bustled along from the kitchen stairs, the former now swathed in a woollen cloak and a black bonnet with a severely curtailed poke; and the latter worrying over them all and muttering subdued remarks anent what she was supposed to tell Mr. Snowden did he come home all of a sudden.
Rebecca hugged her and for perhaps the twentieth time said that she was accompanying Mrs. Boothe only until the lady was comfortably settled in and would doubtless be home long before her brother returned from the north. Seized by a belated thought, she added, “If Lord Fortescue should call, be so good as to tell him that my aunt and I are gone to visit friends. Nothing more, if you please.”
The housekeeper wrung her hands and looked frightened. Millie pursed her lips and uttered a snort. Mrs. Boothe moaned and went feebly outside, prophesying dire consequences. Anthony leapt, whooping, down the steps.
Rebecca followed with hope in her heart. They were off!
* * *
The day was fine, if not warm, the sun playing hide-and-seek with scurrying clouds that were fluffily white, betraying no hint of rain. By the time the first stage was reached, there was no containing Anthony. His prayerful requests granted, he scrambled up to the box and sat between Todd coachman and the guard, his green eyes all but shooting out sparks of excitement.
Rebecca devoted herself to allaying her aunt’s feelings of guilt—no easy task, and one that succeeded only when she was inspired to turn the conversation towards Mr. Melton. Mrs. Boothe blushed like a girl and was soon joining with her niece in dreams of a rosy future.
The miles and the hours flew past. Once, Rebecca’s heart jolted into her mouth as Anthony uttered a piercing shriek. He had not, however, tumbled from the box as she feared, but had seen a deer “with antlers and everything!” grazing in the preserves of an estate.
They came to a stretch of rather desolate open country, and Mrs. Boothe began to fret about the possibility of encountering highwaymen, but they reached Harpenden without mishap and lunched at a bustling posting house where a private parlour and a meal had been arranged for them by the ever-thoughtful Sir Peter. Mrs. Boothe urged that Anthony eat lightly, in view of the long journey still ahead of them, but Rebecca was inwardly elated by the glow in her son’s pale cheeks and the enthusiasm with which he attacked his food, a marked departure from his usual finicking appetite.
The journey was resumed shortly after three o’clock. The carriage rattled merrily through Bedfordshire’s flatter terrain, past neatly hedged fields with crops ripening to the golden caress of summer; past quaint old villages where the women sat in open doorways, weaving their famous lace, and children ran, shouting, after the luxurious coach. The afternoon ticked away, and the view from the carriage windows became routine: sunshine and shadows across the white ribbon of the road; meadows and woods; low gentle hills and dimpling hollows; hamlets, becoming fewer; and, occasionally, the loom of some great castle or manor house. And then, at last, another shriek from the boy, and they were rumbling between great stone gates and passing a gatehouse, neither of which Rebecca had noticed on the first journey.
They had travelled far more swiftly on this occasion, probably because the two outriders were Sir Peter’s grooms, not pleasure-seeking, unhurried guests, and most stops to change teams had been brief, the fresh horses ready, the changes accomplished with swift efficiency under the watchful eye of Todd coachman. At all events, they rolled up the drivepath and halted before the great square grey house at a quarter to seven, with the sun still far from setting.
As before, the butler was on the terrace to see the carriage door opened, two lackeys flanking him, impressive in their green satin and powder. The ladies were bowed into the mansion, and the coachman drove on with Anthony, Millie, and the lackeys, to unpack the luggage in the cottage Mrs. Boothe would eventually occupy. Sir Peter, the butler explained, had not expected quite so early an arrival and was from home, having taken Miss Ashton for a drive, but he would be back directly. Meanwhile, the visitors were conducted to a bedchamber where a petite French maid waited, eager to be of assistance to mesdames. As soon as they were tidied and refreshed they were taken down to a small saloon wherein the butler himself served them with hot tea and shortbread. They were finishing this pleasant snack when the sounds of wheels and hooves could be heard outside.
Mrs. Boothe grasped Rebecca’s hand nervously. “Whatever shall I do if she is an unkind girl and treats me with contempt? After all, she likely thinks I am but a servant!”
That possibility had not occurred to Rebecca, but it was a valid one, and for the first time she comprehended the difficulties that her aunt might have to surmount. “Oh!” she thought, “what a wicked girl I am!” But footsteps were in the hall; it was too late now! Her heart gave a bound as Sir Peter’s deep voice said, “… and with me not here to receive them!” She hissed, “Then we shall leave at once, love! Never fear!”
Mrs. Boothe did fear. She whimpered, “She—she may be a regular harpy! Do not leave me alone with her! I beg of you!”
There was no time for more. A lackey flung open the door, and Sir Peter entered. Eyes bright with pleased welcoming, he bowed and then hastened to stretch forth eager hands to both ladies while conveying his profound apologies for such unforgivable tardiness in greeting them. “Whatever must you think? I am quite disgraced, and would never have left the house save that my cousin is not capable of rational thought and had worked herself into such a condition that I feared lest she fall down in a fit.”
This dismal statement caused Mrs. Boothe to blench and throw a horrified “I told you so” glance at her niece. Even Rebecca was stunned. A spoiled beauty, or a hoydenish tomboy, she had been prepared for. Madness was a possibility that had never crossed her mind. “Wh-where, sir,” she managed, “is Miss Ashton?”
“Why, she is here—” He turned about, startled. “She was beside me. I—Miss Ashton? Where are you gone to? Come here, if you please.”
A portion of Miss Patience Ashton entered the room—the frill of a dainty dress. A strangled snuffling presaged the gradual appearance of more of her. Staring at the red eyes, red nose, and twitching mouth that reluctantly inched around the door edge, Rebecca comprehended at last that there was no possible way for her aunt to groom this person into a ravishing debutante.
Miss Patience Ashton was not quite three feet tall.
“Good … God!” Rebecca gasped. “She is—only a child!”
“Oh, the poor mite!” Her kind heart touched, Mrs. Boothe stretched forth her arms and invited, “Come—sweet baby.”
The tearful eyes overflowed. From the rosebud lips came a wail unutterably forlorn. Little Miss Ashton turned on her heel and fled.
Sir Peter spread his hands helplessly. “That is how it has been all day! She whines, and weeps, and wails. There is no dealing with her!”
Recovering from her momentary stupefaction, Rebecca muttered, “What a shock!”
“I cannot agree more,” sighed Ward. “I’d no comprehe
nsion that one small girl could be so very vexing.”
“Well, that is only because she is frightened, poor little creature,” Rebecca pointed out with a touch of indignation. “Sir Peter, you did not tell us that Miss Ashton was a child!”
He blinked at her. “But of course she is. She is only four years old, you know. Had I not mentioned to you that she is my elder cousin’s child?”
“Yes, but when you said ‘elder’—and you indicated she must be groomed for her come-out—I thought…”
“By Jove! You never fancied her to be a grown girl? But that is not the case at all.” He turned to Albinia and said earnestly, “I do pray you will not change your mind, dear ma’am. I have always held that a young woman’s training begins in the cradle, and with Patience, alas, much time has already been lost.”
“The child will be lost, do we stand here and chat all evening,” said Mrs. Boothe with uncharacteristic acerbity. “By your leave, sir, I will try and find her.”
All contrition, he said, “No, no—do not distress yourself, ma’am. Ecod, but I’d no thought to wish such a difficult situation upon you. I’ll confess Patience appears to have a penchant for hiding under things. She is likely at this moment curled up under the hall table, convinced she is completely invisible. I have found her there twice. Twice! And it is the very—er, deuce, to lure her out again!”
“How very sad,” Rebecca murmured with a sigh. “The dear little soul must feel utterly lost. Have no fear, sir. My aunt is the kindest creature and will prevail upon her, I am very sure.”
Patience was not under the table, however, or under any other item of furniture in that long and elegant hall. They proceeded to search the Great Hall and then the dining room, breakfast parlour, and book room, and the ladies were becoming alarmed when Anthony joined them at his customary headlong pace.
“Mama!” he cried eagerly. “You should only see the stables! And the hunters! Jolly fine bits o’ blood! How do you do, sir? And there is a bay mare has dropped her foal this morning—it is the very prettiest thing! Oh.” He turned to detach a chubby hand from the tail of his coat. “This is Patience. She was running away, but did not know which way to run. I didn’t know either, so perhaps she had better not.”
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