by Louise Allen
He nodded and got to his feet. ‘Got to get changed. I’ll see you at dinner, Phyll.’
Left alone, she tried to decide whether she was happy that she had persuaded Gregory of the wisdom of this expedition or not. Five days with Ashe Herriard. Was that going to be Heaven—or hell?
Chapter Nine
‘Good morning, Miss Hurst.’ Lord Clere stood on her top step, looking indecently awake and perfectly groomed, just like the rather handsome bay gelding that was tethered by its reins to the area railings. Also sleek, male and alert was Lucifer, perched on the pommel.
Phyllida, on the other hand, was feeling harassed, wan, decidedly out of sorts and in no mood to be amused by evil-minded crows. It was one thing to agree to hazard one’s reputation in the safety of one’s own drawing room, but two nights in which to fret over it—in the intervals between fantasising most unwisely about the person of Ashe Herriard—was two nights too long.
‘Lord Clere. We are ready, as you see. Come along, Anna, don’t keep his lordship waiting.’ The street, mercifully, was empty. It had only just occurred to her that to be seen getting into a hired chaise in the company of a man not her brother was more than enough to cause scandal, regardless of her motives for doing so.
‘Are you comfortable, Miss Hurst?’ he enquired when she was seated and wishing she had thought to add a veil to her bonnet.
‘Perfectly, thank you. Anna, pull the blind down on your side. If we can depart as soon as possible, my lord, I would appreciate it. I have no wish to be seen, under the circumstances.’
‘Of course.’ He closed the carriage door and the vehicle jerked into motion.
Eleven words. I can hardly convict him of attempting to seduce me with his charm this morning, she thought as she huddled back against the seat and hoped that no one could see through the glass at the front of the chaise between her and the bobbing backs of the postillions. But then, all the thoughts about seduction are in your head, your fantasies. Probably.
Then a rider on a raking bay gelding passed the team and she found herself smiling. Why not have fantasies? The man looked magnificent on a horse and she was not made of stone. Fantasies were safe, much safer than yielding to impulses. In her daydreams passion was safe, romantic, pleasurable. Unreal.
‘This will make a nice change,’ she said to Anna. ‘It is a while since we’ve driven out to the country. I wonder what Lord Clere’s great-aunt is like.’
‘An old dragon, I expect,’ the maid said with a sniff. ‘At least, I hope she is. If she exists at all,’ she added.
‘Are you suggesting that Lord Clere invented her and that there will be no one to chaperon me?’ Phyllida demanded.
‘Could be.’ Anna pursed her lips. ‘Or perhaps that’s what you’re hoping for, Miss Phyllida. He’s the gent you were talking about in the park, isn’t he? Handsome as sin, that one.’
‘Nonsense. At least, anyone who isn’t as blind as a bat must agree Lord Clere is good-looking. But he is on the hunt for an eligible wife, so—’
‘It isn’t marriage I’m talking about, Miss Phyllida, and you know it. What’s his lordship going to say if you come home ruined?’
I am ruined. Phyllida bit her tongue more painfully than she had intended as the carriage bounced over a rut. ‘I’m not a green girl, Anna. If Lord Clere has any intentions towards me other than the friendship he professes, I am quite well aware that they would be dishonourable ones and I have no intention of ruining all my plans for the sake of a risky dalliance.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Miss Phyllida.’ To Phyllida’s relief Anna settled back in her corner and turned her attention to the passing landscape, leaving her to he own, not very comfortable, musings.
What if Ashe did make a move, of any kind? Was she strong enough to resist the temptation? He was attractive, attractive enough to break through all her fears and qualms about a physical relationship, at least at first, she thought with a shiver. Kisses and caresses, so long as she remained in control, would be wonderful. But he was a full-bloodied man, passionate, strong. She had no hope of controlling him and then… Phyllida shuddered. She liked him as well, too much for her own peace of mind.
Her sensible self told her firmly that to become involved with Ashe Herriard risked all her plans, all her practical, prudent schemes for her future. But at the back of her mind a small, seductive voice murmured that if she was never going to marry she ought to experience what she was missing. That as an independent woman she had the right to make her own decisions about her life.
And what would the Millingtons say if there was a scandal? common sense demanded. And I’m probably quite wrong and Ashe has merely been flirting and has no interest in me at all, that way, she added firmly. I am perfectly safe and the only danger is my overactive imagination. Probably.
Lady Charlotte Herriard proved to be a Roman-nosed spinster of formidable assurance and considerable age who had no qualms about saying exactly what was passing through her mind at any moment. Ashe and Phyllida were shown into her drawing room amidst half a dozen lapdogs that skirmished about their ankles.
‘Lord Clere, Miss Hurst, my lady,’ the butler announced. ‘I will have the tea tray brought up immediately.’
‘Plenty of cake, mind, Sparrow.’ She set down the book she had been reading and crooked an imperious finger at Ashe. ‘So, you’re Nicholas’s son by his Indian wife, are you? You’ve got the air of your great-grandfather about you. Come here, Miss Hurst, and let me have a look at you. Who are you, eh?’
‘The sister of Lord Fransham, ma’am.’
‘Ah!’ She raised a lorgnette and studied Phyllida with all the arrogance of age and rank.
‘Those Hursts. Your father always was a fool, even as a child. So you’re a woman of business, are you? Causes a scandal, eh?’
‘No, ma’am. I am very discreet.’ Phyllida kept a bridle on her temper and thought about the significant fee she was going to earn.
‘You’ll need to be, because don’t think I’m going to drag myself over to the house just to act the chaperon all day long! I’ll come to play propriety, but you set out to be independent, my girl, and you’d better be able to look after yourself.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I certainly did.’
Phyllida was digesting that statement and wondering what Lady Charlotte had got up to in her youth as she was waved to a chair, apparently dismissed as a source of interest.
‘Clere, bring those side tables over for the tea and then sit here so I can look at you.’ Ashe did as he was bid and sat down opposite his great-aunt. ‘You going to behave yourself with this young lady or have I got to set a maid to keep an eye on her?’
‘I can assure you, Great Aunt, that I would do nothing that Miss Hurst would not wish.’ Phyllida knew him well enough by now to tell he was amused by the old dragon, but not well enough to tell whether that was a double-edged reply or not.
Lady Charlotte seemed to have no doubts. She raised one thin grey brow. ‘Oh, yes, you do indeed remind me of my father.’
‘Not his son, my grandfather?’ Ashe asked, apparently at ease under the scrutiny.
The tea tray was brought in before Lady Charlotte could answer him. ‘Be so good as to pour, Miss Hurst. And eat some cake and then I can do so and keep you company. My doctor forbids it, old fool.’ She fixed her gaze on Ashe again. ‘No, you do not have the look of your grandsire, for which you may be thankful. Every family mints a bad penny now and again and he was certainly one. Go and have a look at the Long Gallery and the family portraits and you’ll see.’
Ashe rode on from the Dower House after an agonising hour of interrogation, leaving Phyllida’s chaise and his aunt’s travelling chariot to follow him. He told himself that the faint feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach was partly the acerbic questioning of Lady Charlotte and part the consumption of an unwise quantity of excellent lemon cake. It was nothing to do with apprehension over what was waiting for him at the end of the carriage drive as it wound through the shrubberies to t
he front of Eldonstone House.
He had fought in battles in the heat of the Indian sun, he had dealt with palace plots, he had foiled an assassination attempt on his great-uncle and he could outwit a French diplomat. What was there to set his nerves on edge here other than a house that held no memories for him and a straightforward duty to be undertaken?
Lucifer gave a harsh caw and flew down to his shoulder as though seeking reassurance and then the house came into view.
It was an imposing, alien-looking pile of grey stone and red brick, begun, he had learned from his shipboard studies, under Charles II, but owing most of its character from the reign of the first George. Used to small windows, carved grilles and screens and all the details of inward-looking palaces, the expanses of unshielded glass in numerous windows made the house seem almost indecently exposed. Almost as exposed as the English ladies in a ballroom with their revealing gowns, he thought.
The front doors opened as he approached and liveried servants emerged with Perrott in their midst, his red head a familiar sight. ‘My lord! Welcome to Eldonstone.’
Grooms ran to take his horse, the staff lined up to be introduced by Stanbridge the butler and Ashe found himself inside his ancestral home.
He turned a full circle in the hallway, swearing softly under his breath in Persian as he took in the smoke-stained hangings on the walls, the lack of ornament or signs of care, the stack of packing cases pushed partly under the arc of the handsome flight of stairs.
Stanbridge cleared his throat. ‘His late lordship professed himself uncaring about the state of the house, my lord. He refused to waste money, as he put it, on upkeep or even thorough cleaning and, with a skeleton staff, I regret…’
‘I understand. But he lived here?’
‘Most of the time, my lord. This is where he mainly, er, entertained.’ The butler’s face was so expressionless that he might as well have shouted his disapproval.
‘Entertained? In this?’ Ashe opened a door into what must once have been an elegant salon.
‘His lordship’s company was more concerned with drinking, hunting and the young female persons who were hired than with the amenities of the house, my lord.’
‘So I see. Well, there is no way that my mother and sister are going to come and live in this.’ The picture over the mantel was enough to make even Ashe, inured to erotic carving, raise his eyebrows.
‘Quite so, my lord,’ Perrott agreed. ‘However, even the more objectionable items appear to be of some value and I could not undertake to dispose of them on my own initiative. I understand you have brought an expert to assess things?’
‘Miss Hurst, who is coming on from the Dower House with Lady Charlotte. We will start work in the morning. Have bedchambers prepared for the ladies, Stanbridge.’
‘Certainly, my lord. One of the footmen will attend you in the Garden Suite, the traditional rooms for the heir.’ He regarded Lucifer through narrowed lids. ‘I will have a large bird cage sent up, my lord. Dinner will be ready in an hour, if that is acceptable?’
Ashe climbed to the first floor, wondering if the best thing would be to set a match to the entire edifice. And yet… He paused on the landing and looked down the sweep of stairs, the proportions of the hallway. This was an elegant, well-made house that had been ravished and neglected. It could be saved, it could become a home if the ghosts that haunted it could be exorcised.
‘I am glad I came and not my father,’ Ashe said as Phyllida stood beside him in the hall the next morning and stared about her. ‘He will have some concept of it as it should be.’
‘It needs a platoon of scrubbing women, a good clear-out and a family living in it again and then it will be a lovely house,’ she said stoutly, trying not to feel daunted by the gloom, the neglect and the clutter. ‘Where shall we start?’
‘Here and the drawing room, I thought—then it will at least appear more welcoming. Then the master suite and rooms for my sister. I should warn you, some of the artwork is of an indecent nature.’
‘I will avert my gaze,’ Phyllida said and Ashe smiled for the first time that morning. ‘You will trust my judgement?’ Three days to start to bring some order to this was a significant challenge. ‘May I direct the staff to clean and move things?’
‘I leave it entirely to you,’ he assured her. ‘Stanbridge, place everyone at Miss Hurst’s disposal and hire additional cleaning women as she directs. She will doubtless need footmen to help her move things. I will go and inspect the stables.’
Three hours after breakfast the next morning Phyllida felt she was beginning to make progress. She had commandeered a long chamber as a sorting room, had directed the footmen to set up trestle tables and was dividing up items from the hall and drawing room into things which just required cleaning and which could then go back, things that seemed beyond repair, items of poor quality and, forming a dauntingly large section, items of some value, but in dubious taste or of an indecent nature.
The tapestries in the hall were fine Flemish work and were being lowered and rolled to go off for cleaning, maids were scouring the marble floors and washing down the walls and she had found some unexceptional pictures to hang.
Phyllida pushed up the sleeves of her cambric morning gown and rummaged in one of the chests brought in from the hallway. It was a good thing, she decided, swiping dust from her nose with the back of one hand, that she had not come here hoping to seduce Ashe Herriard. Not only had she hardly seen him since yesterday, but she must look a complete fright with her hair wrapped up in a linen towel, a copious apron borrowed from Cook and dust everywhere.
A wrapped object proved to be a charming porcelain figure of a lady, caught in the middle of executing a dance step, her hand raised as though to take her partner’s hand. ‘And where are you, young man?’ Phyllida muttered, delving again. ‘There you are!’ She emerged triumphant and unwrapped the male dancer, tipped him up and studied the base. ‘Meissen. Lovely.’
She set them carefully on the table of items to keep and caught her own skirts up with one hand as she raised her other arm in imitation of the lady. ‘Exquisite.’
‘Indeed.’ Fingers interlaced with hers and she found herself turned to face Ashe. ‘Shall we dance?’
He was teasing her, of course. There was no need for her heart to pound or her cheeks to colour and no excuse at all for letting her fingers curl into his as he kept their hands raised in the graceful hold. ‘A minuet? Sadly dated, I fear, my lord.’
‘You forget, I am lamentably behind the times, Miss Hurst. It might be just the dance for me. Shall we try?’ He turned her under his arm and she found herself toe to toe with him. A little panicky tug and her hand was free, only to find that allowed him to put both arms around her, drawing her close. ‘There are other dances we could enjoy together,’ Ashe suggested, his voice husky.
She could not breathe. There was no mistaking his intent. But was he asking her to be his mistress or simply to indulge in a liaison here for a few days? Either of those possibilities should have sent her fleeing from the room and yet, in the fleeting seconds before he bent his dark head and captured her lips, she could not feel outrage or fear or anything she should have experienced. Only desire. Desire mercifully untainted by fear or apprehension.
Phyllida closed her eyes as Ashe drew her close against him. It was not from modesty, but simply for the sheer pleasure of his hard body against hers, the strength of him, the male heat and scent, the deliciously contradictory sensations of safety and danger. Ashe’s kiss on the quayside had fuelled arousing dreams, but that had been the merest caress, she realised as her lips parted under his and he took possession of her mouth. Then his attention had been half on the man who had made her so afraid, now he was focusing every iota of his formidable expertise on reducing her to quivering surrender.
Did he expect her to respond? She had no idea how to answer this onslaught, although her hands had curled instinctively around his neck, her lips had parted and her tongue seemed to be doing daringly
wicked things without her conscious direction. He believes me to be a virgin, to be innocent, she reassured herself as she wondered dizzily if she was about to faint from lack of air, or simple lust.
Ashe seemed to sense her weakness even as her legs began to give way. He broke the kiss and she opened her eyes to find herself still held in his arms. His heavy-lidded gaze studied her face. ‘I thought I was not wrong,’ he murmured.
Arrogant man. The thought flashed into her head as a deep indrawn breath steadied her. What had she been thinking of? This was madness. Delicious, exciting, infinitely tempting, but completely wrong. Besides, it could come to nothing. She liked Ashe, he took the trouble to kiss with finesse and consideration for her pleasure, but she could not pretend to herself that the delight would last were matters to go any further.
‘You thought me a lightskirt?’ she flashed at him. She would not back away. Phyllida stiffened her spine and her quaking knees and did her best to ignore the clamouring instinct to throw herself back into Ashe Herriard’s embrace and find out if he could, after all, work magic and banish her memories and her nightmares.
‘No. I thought you a passionate woman it would be a pleasure to kiss and I judged you would respond if I did.’ He was watching her like a man confronted by an unpredictable danger, calm but poised to evade both a slap on the cheek or a lashing from her tongue.
‘And now what?’ Phyllida demanded.
‘We could do it again?’ That wicked mouth was serious, but his eyes were filled with laughter.
‘That is not what I meant! Am I to expect kisses whenever you find me alone—or do you have the intention of taking me to your bed, my lord?’
‘My lord,’ he echoed. ‘Am I so in disgrace? Would you come to my bed if I asked you? It is what I hope.’