by Joan Smith
“Quite right,” Miss Spencer agreed, and turned back to Felix, to try to tempt him into a second set with her.
Ravencroft looked a question at Amy. “They’re suspicious of you,” she said. “They were asking all sorts of questions.”
“What did you say?”
“I confirmed the story you are using about wanting a haven for your yacht. They asked if I had known you before.”
“They’ve seen us together.”
“Yes, they are a little suspicious of you, but they have no reason to suspect I am interested in their doings.”
“I was right the first time. I should be posing as your suitor,” he said, and used it as an excuse to take her hand and hold it in a warm grip.
“And cast me in the enviable role of not being able to bring you up to scratch when you leave?” she asked, withdrawing her fingers with a cool smile.
“Why no, ma’am. In the enviable role of having turned off the eligible Mr. Stanford. You said you wanted to be a flirt.”
“But that wouldn’t be real flirting. That would be role playing.”
He studied her face, his gaze lingering long on her eyes, before falling to her lips. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a husky tone. “I have a deal to teach you about flirting, Miss Bratty. You would be astonished what guises it can take. Playing the role of flirt for the public doesn’t prevent playing it in private for the benefit of one.”
“It all sounds very confusing,” she said dismissingly. “About the race, the rumor had best come from Felix. I noticed he has struck up an acquaintance with Ford. No one could suspect him of any double dealing. Have you told Felix?”
Raven scowled at her change of subject. He was not accustomed to have his overtures at flirtation dismissed out of hand. “Not yet, but I will. I’ll tell him as soon as supper is over.”
“The race is at five tomorrow?”
“Races. They’re scheduled for five. My friends will see they don’t start any earlier. They’ll last an hour. Then Ford and his friends will be invited to dine with my friends, who will pour the wine freely. Throw in the trip home and I doubt they’ll be back before midnight.”
“What time shall we meet, and where?”
“The abandoned house, around ten. It will be dark and quiet in the neighborhood by then.”
“I’ll be there. “
“In your usual soigné rags?” he asked, smiling to let her know he had no objection.
“Of course. “
“Good. Bring George. I don’t want you out alone.” This proprietarily speech deserved a setdown, but didn’t get one. Amy felt insensibly flattered by it. “And Amy,” he continued, “ride your own mount. If we’re followed, that old jade you rode to the coal yard won’t save you.”
This last admonition did earn him a sharp retort. “You need not speak to me as if I were an idiot.”
It was Miss Spencer’s turn to enjoy Ravencroft’s company. As soon as supper was over, Amy said to Felix, “I would like to leave early, Felix. I am worried about Papa.”
“But the party has two hours to run.”
“I’ll go alone then, and send the rig back for you.”
“Very well,” he agreed, but with an air of injury.
When Amy noticed Ravencroft was listening, she felt he might offer to drive her home. He just turned and left, however. Felix went with her to get her wrap. When he brought it to her, he was accompanied by Ravencroft and the Harpers.
“I am taking the Harpers home,” Ravencroft said. “Let me give you a lift while I am about it, Miss Bratty. No need to have both teams put to.”
“Excellent, Stanford. Excellent,” Felix said, slapping him on the back. “I was worried to see my cousin go home alone.”
Amy turned a hard face on him. “But not worried enough to escort me,” she said curtly, and took Ravencroft’s arm. With Miss Harper on his other arm and Miss Amelia holding on to her sister, the four left.
Chapter Eighteen
The Misses Harper chatted a blue streak until they were let down from the carriage, with many thanks and reminders to come to tea soon. When Ravencroft returned from seeing them to their door, his first words were, “You cannot seriously be thinking of marrying Bratty.”
“I don’t know what I think,” Amy said, and leaned back against the squabs with a sigh. She was grateful for the concealing darkness of the carriage.
“You aren’t penniless. You said your cousin only wants to marry you for your dowry. If you have decided to marry, why don’t you make your curtsey at St. James’s in the normal way?”
“At my age!“ she exclaimed. “My joints would creak if I bent my knees in a curtsey. Good grief, I would be the laughing stock of the town.”
“You are hardly an antique. Even if you are a few years older than the debs, a lady with a good dowry is never a laughing stock.”
“No, she is a piece of merchandise on the Marriage Mart, to be scrutinized under a microscope to see if she is worthy of handing her fortune over to some penniless blue-blooded nitwit like Felix. Better the devil you know. At least I could go on living at the Hall.”
His voice, when he replied, assumed that tone of outrage masked by reason often heard issuing from overwrought parents. “I cannot understand how a brave, venturesome lady like yourself can settle for so little.”
“I am willing to take on a small group of criminals. The whole of society is another matter,” she said reasonably, “And the prize, you know, is hardly worth the trouble. A gentleman who admires you for a month, tolerates you for a year, and thereafter returns to his old way of life, while you rusticate in the country, raising his family. With Felix, I would get down to the serious business right away.”
He listened with frowning interest, then said, “I repeat, I cannot understand how a lady like yourself is willing to settle for so little. “
“What is the alternative?” she scoffed. “Becoming a pitiable spinster like the Harpers?”
“Not all gentlemen are like Felix.”
“No, some are a deal worse,” she replied, and immediately changed the subject. “I believe Jermyn’s having Bransom’s watch removes any doubt that Ford and his friends are the culprits. How can we find out if they mean to attend the races?”
“Anyone interested will be discussing it at the taverns tomorrow. I’ll keep my ears open, and have my servants do the same. Glover, my groom, has large ears.” Then he leaned across the space separating their banquettes, reached for her hands, and added in a different tone, “But not even Glover’s big ears would have heard a whisper of a reason why you are considering marrying your cousin. Of course he is marvelously handsome. Is there at least a physical attraction between you? That essential spark that does seem to occur between the unlikeliest people, and overcomes everything else?”
Amy was surprised, both at the unexpected familiarity of the question, and at his holding her hands – not just in a loose, friendly grip either, but in a proprietary squeeze. If they had been in a lit room, she would have pokered up and withdrawn her hands. The confined darkness of the carriage that concealed his face lent the interlude an air of anonymous intimacy. “There was something, initially,” she confessed. “The first time I saw him, I thought him quite a Prince Charming.”
“The sort of spark I am talking about requires more than seeing. It begins with the eyes, but doesn’t end there. Well, what happened between the two of you? Did he kiss you?” he asked curtly.
She felt a flush warm her cheeks. “He did, once.”
“Was it a good kiss? Did you enjoy it?”
Good compared to what, she wondered. “It was just a small kiss, a peck.”
“On the lips?”
“Yes, but very briefly. Then I made him stop.”
“Maidenly scruples? Did you not want him to continue?”
“No, I didn’t. It was embarrassing. He apologized and started talking about some London scandal and I immediately knew I couldn’t care for him as – in that way,”
she said, flustered. “You have spent some time with him. You know what I mean.”
“I am not a lady, but I do know what you mean. So what you have said about marrying him constitutes an excuse, no more.”
“Lord Ashworth has been good to me. This is a way I could repay him, by seeing that Felix doesn’t ravage the estate.” She tugged her hands free, not without some effort.
Ravencroft didn’t chase after them. He settled back in his seat with his arms behind his head. “Another excuse,” he said, in that drawling voice that suggested superiority, and always annoyed her. “I wager you have repaid Ashworth a hundred times over these past years since his illness, and before that as well, I expect. He was a good father, you a dutiful daughter. Your duty to him terminates with his death. You don’t owe him the rest of your life. He wouldn’t want it. And if he would, then he doesn’t care for you as a father should.”
“It’s so easy for you to sit in judgment,” she charged, goaded by his words. This was an argument she had often had with herself. She knew both sides of it. At what point did duty legitimately give way to self interest? It was Felix who would inherit Bratty Hall. Was it for her to rescue it – or try to – from poor management and perhaps eventual dissolution at the cost of her own life, her own happiness? Yet she loved the Hall, and she loved Lord Ashworth.
“Yes,” he agreed, refusing to take offence. “It is often easier for an outsider to see the larger picture.” Again he reached for her hands. This time he held them more tightly, preventing escape. “What I foresee is you marrying a gentleman you admit you despise and turning into a shrew. If you will pardon my speaking bluntly, you already reveal some incipient signs of the affliction. I foresee Felix spending less and less time at Bratty Hall, but leaving you no authority to run it as it ought to be run.”
“Does your omniscience see a better alternative?” she snipped.
“Yes, my dear, it does – for you. When your papa dies, take your money and run. Find yourself a gentleman you like and whom you feel will admire you for more than a month. One who appreciates your many fine qualities, rare qualities in a lady. In fact, unique in my not inconsiderable experience. See if there is that essential spark, the sine qua non of a real marriage, for I do not think a marriage of convenience would suit your fiery temperament. And perhaps you can exert some influence on Felix to marry someone he loves enough to change him. Men can be changed remarkably by love.”
She listened as the carriage bowled along in the darkness, soothed by his calm, authoritative voice, forgetting that it was the cynical Lord Ravencroft who was saying these flattering things that made her cheeks burn. “I didn’t take you for a romantic, Ravencroft,” she said.
“I’m not, except to the extent that I would never undertake or recommend a marriage of convenience. When I marry, it will be for love. I am a realist about love, realist enough not to expect physical perfection, though I am unlikely to love an antidote. Moonlight and roses are fine, but difficult to achieve in the hurly-burly of real life. I would soon tire of a watering pot or a clinging vine. On the other hand, I would have little patience with a shrew.”
Amy felt constrained to interpret that little hint in her own way, ignoring any reference to their mutual dealings. “I have noticed nagging does no good with Felix,” she said. “I expect I might turn into a shrew if I married him.”
“That would be a great pity,” he said. His voice was no longer soothing. In fact, she detected a note of suppressed laughter.
“Are you making fun of me?” she demanded, trying to free her hands. Ravencroft held on tightly. “You are! You have been laughing up your sleeve at me the whole time. I knew you were hateful, Lord Ravencroft, but I did not imagine that a gentleman would take any pleasure in making fun of a lady in difficulty. And please let go of my hands at once. “
“Shrew!” He released her, but only to move to her banquette and pull her into his arms. “I was not making fun of you! I am not so brave.”
“Let go of me! How dare you attack me!” she cried, her whole body tensing as she pushed against his chest. He released her at once. She sat a moment, breathing hard and feeling foolish.
“I had no intention of attacking you,” he said reasonably, with even an air of offense. “We are not enemies after all.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I over-reacted.”
“That is quite all right.” When he seized her fingers in a friendly-seeming way, she didn’t tell him to let go. “I had hoped we were friends by now.”
“Yes, certainly. I — I consider you a friend.”
“Kiss and make up?” he asked, placing a playful kiss on her cheek. She felt she had revealed herself as either a provincial or a prude by her first objection, and sat still for a kiss on the cheek. It was only a friendly peck after all. But after the friendly peck, his lips lingered, and his arm went lightly around her waist. She was about to object again when he lifted his head and smiled at her.
The disarming intimacy of his warm breaths fanned her cheek. She looked up, and saw the glitter of moonlight reflected in his eyes, with shadows casting his chiseled nose and the planes of his cheeks in relief. But it was at his lips that she looked longest. They were not set in a thin line of mockery, but softly curved, not laughing at her, but smiling in anticipation. “Shrew,” he murmured, soft as a caress, in a voice burred with passion.
The loving tone had a strange effect on her. She felt suddenly hot and breathless. When his lips lowered to hers and brushed softly, she didn’t draw away. Before she knew what was happening, she was being firmly kissed by a man who knew how to pleasure a woman. It was the sweetest, softest, longest, most perfect kiss a woman could dream of. And it left her weak with longing.
The whole embrace was like a dream to Amy, something unreal, that could not be happening. A man, an attractive man, holding her in his arms, kissing her with exuberance. The masculine scent and warm strength of him surrounding her sent strange ripples of excitement up her spine as his lips nibbled at hers.
Amy had very little notion what he meant when he spoke of that essential spark. She was not long in doubt. The spark kindled to a flame, the flame to a roaring blaze as the kiss deepened to passion, awakening unimagined desires. She felt his fingers brush her jaw, then move slowly, possessively along her neck to feel the pounding pulse beat of her throat. His fingers felt like a brand on her skin. His other arm tightened around her, molding and moving the softness of her curves against his hard body.
Overcome with the strange wonder of it all, she gave herself up to the experience and let intuition guide her. One arm went around his waist, the other rose to touch his proud neck, bent to her. As she moved her fingers tentatively through his crisp hair, she felt a flicker of moisture at her lips. Her whole body clenched, then a shudder seized her as he pressed his tongue into her mouth, where it dueled with hers in a glorious, delicious battle for dominance, before claiming victory. Her heart pounded and her lungs swelled until she feared they would explode.
She felt dizzy from the sensuous movement of his tongue mating with hers. Something inside her melted in a golden ease, washing away the troubles and tensions of her life. Her head reeled as his hand moved over her back, pressing her more tightly against him until they were molded into one. When she heard an inchoate moan echo from his throat, she drew back in confusion.
She stared at him, dazed, and he stared back silently, not smiling but looking startled. Then she looked out the window and saw they were home. She hadn’t noticed the carriage stop. When Glover hopped down to open the door and put down the step, Ravencroft released her. She looked a question at him.
“Would you care to come in for some tea?” she asked in a breathless, uncertain voice. She wished Glover was not there. It was hard to act normal, when her mind was all awhirl.
Ravencroft’s voice, when he answered, also sounded strained. “I’ll go back to the assembly and try to drum up interest in the horse race. I have something for you,” he added, and handed her a
book.
As he walked her to the door, holding her elbow but not making any other amorous overtures, he said, “It is a copy of Byron’s Childe Harold. It is considered a necessary aid to any lady considering dissolution – or even flirtation.”
She said, “Thank you,” and accepted the book.
The moment of intimacy had passed, and Amy didn’t know what she should say or do about it. She felt utterly at a loss as to how a lady should behave in this circumstance. She had waited too long to complain now. If she had meant to object, she should have done it sooner; she shouldn’t have kissed him back.
“You remember I am to call on you tomorrow morning?” he said, as they reached the door.
“Yes.”
“Sleep tight.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips to brush a kiss across her fingers. “You will think about what I said?”
“Yes,” she said, although she hardly heard him, and didn’t know what he meant her to think about.
Then he opened the door and she entered. He tipped his hat and went back to his carriage. She watched, more confused than she had ever been in her life, as he walked away.
Once inside, sanity returned and her first guilty thought was to look in on her papa. One lamp burned low by his bed. He was sleeping soundly, with faithful Tombey asleep in the truckle bed beside him. She tiptoed out and went to her own bedroom to relive the strange happenings of that evening.
She gave only a passing thought to having seen Bransom’s watch. The unique occurrence in the carriage overrode everything else. Ravencroft’s little lecture about love and marriage – and most of all, the kiss.
She shouldn’t have allowed it. Such an embrace should only occur between a betrothed couple. And certainly Ravencroft had not intimated by so much as a syllable that he wanted to marry her. The words he had used in parting were dissolution and flirtation.
He didn’t even seem to like her much. Though he called her a friend, he also called her a shrew. “I would have little patience with a shrew,” he had said. So why had he kissed her? And why had it felt so terribly, wonderfully exciting? Had he felt it too?