by Jo Beverley
She held it close to her nose and found the perfume was indeed more subtle and to her taste. She glanced at him over the petals. “You think you know me very well, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “No, Deirdre. I don’t know you at all. Otherwise I would be able to make you do just as I wish.”
She shivered. “I’d hate that.”
He smiled. “I don’t think I’d care for it much either. Keep your secrets, querida. It doesn’t take magical powers to see that red is not your color.”
He led the way back into the darker coolness of the house. As Deirdre passed a chaise in the garden room, she noticed that it was quite badly frayed along one edge so that the stuffing would soon start to escape. Distracted by that, she almost tripped when the toe of her slipper snagged a hole in the carpet.
Everdon did not see her stumble, but Deirdre was made strongly aware that his house was, in fact, quite shabby. After a hesitation, she asked, “Why did you mention cost before? You are surely rich enough to refurbish your house if you should wish.”
They had moved into the hall and begun to mount the stairs. “If I wished, of course. But it is a matter of priorities. Foundations and land drainage come first. That ugly picture, by the way, is a portrait of me as a baby by Aunt Jane.”
Though she had not received a satisfactory answer, Deirdre politely paused to study the strange little oil. “How fortunate that your eyes eventually settled in their correct positions.”
“Yes, wasn’t it? And that slightly better painting is her depiction of the park before my father landscaped it.”
In this picture, Everdon Park House stood square in the middle of a small formal garden and flat meadows, peopled by rather unlikely cows. It looked stark.
“I think the changes were an improvement,” she said.
“It’s hard to tell. Don’t forget, Aunt Jane painted that picture, too. The better artwork is along here.”
A corridor with windows along one side formed a small gallery. Deirdre inspected the obligatory ancestors, noting the general trend toward the long, thin Renfrew face. Then she came across a family portrait surely executed not long before Everdon’s father’s death.
The former earl stood proudly behind the chair in which Lucetta sat, a Lucetta unfamiliar to Deirdre. She was some ten years younger, of course, but she fairly sizzled with life. Her gown was white muslin, but she wore a vivid red and black shawl as a sash, and a red rose in her black hair. Her husband had his hand on her shoulder, and her hand covered his.
She was looking up at her sons, who stood close together, smiling at their parents. It was a startlingly cohesive group, and it brought tears to Deirdre’s eyes to think it had been torn apart.
As if he knew, Everdon said, “Within the year he was dead.”
“How?” she whispered.
“Typhus, probably caught from a prisoner when he was serving as magistrate. He cared too much. Sometimes, if he wasn’t satisfied with what happened in court, he would go to the jail to question a felon further. He died in three days.”
Impulsively Deirdre turned and took his hand. He returned her grip, and they stood there, looking at each other.
He drew her along the corridor, swung open a door, and then released her hand. He stood back to let her precede him.
Deirdre walked through, then halted.
“My bedroom,” he said, confirming her fears. He leaned, arms crossed, in the open doorway, not blocking her escape.
Daring her.
That powerful moment of shared grief had left Deirdre shaken and adrift. She walked a few paces farther into the lion’s den but promised herself that if he closed the door, she’d scream.
“A pleasing chamber,” she said, tolerably calmly, “but yet again in the old style.”
“As you say,” he replied, in a tone that did not sound particularly natural. “Lucetta’s suite is, of course, next door. My first wife and I felt no need of separate rooms, but perhaps that is not wise. This time we will knock through a door on the other side. There would be no question, of course, of Lucetta moving out of those rooms, or leaving the house.”
“No, of course not,” said Deirdre. Then she looked at him sharply. “‘We’?” Her heart was running at an alarming rate, which was doubtless why she felt rather light-headed.
“There will presumably be a ‘we’ when the matter arises. Do you want to see the kitchens or the attics? Otherwise, I’m afraid the tour is over.”
Silence fell except for the birdsong floating in through the open window.
Deirdre broke the moment by turning away to look down the wide drive along which they’d raced just a few days before. She was finding it remarkably difficult to think clearly, and yet knew she must. She turned and saw a small bookshelf by his bed. Chaucer, something Spanish, Locke and Southey’s Life of Nelson. She noted that his bed hangings were threadbare in places.
She faced him. “I’ve decided what question I want an honest answer to.”
For once, she noted with satisfaction, she’d thrown him off balance. “Question?” he queried in wary perplexity.
“The billiard game,” she reminded him. “You owe me an answer.”
“Ah, yes.” He moved away from the doorway, and came to stand a few feet away. “And your question, mia?”
Deirdre summoned her courage, for the question was undoubtedly impertinent. “Why is money a matter of concern to you? Are you not as rich as it would seem?”
“That’s two questions,” he pointed out, but then shrugged. “I am, in a sense, not as rich as it would seem. Land is wealth, and I still have plenty of land, but much of the income has to go back into it. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it? You asked why. The answer is, quite simply, the park.”
He gestured toward the view of the beautiful park. “When my father took it into his head to re-create this corner of Northamptonshire, he spared no expense. It became a madness with him. It is very beautiful, but it almost ruined us all. When he died I found immense debts and mortgages. We have reclaimed everything, but there is still not an abundance of ready money. New furnishings have not been particularly high on my list of priorities.”
“I’m not surprised. It must have been hard to cope with all that when you were so young.”
“Yes, but it was losing my father that was harder.”
She felt the strongest urge to go to him and hold him, as if that would comfort him. It was silly, for he was a grown man, and Don Juan, but if it hadn’t been for Howard, she might well have done it.
Instead she moved toward the door. “I must go, my lord. Thank you for the tour.”
“Thank you for your company, Deirdre.”
Deirdre found herself inexplicably frozen, facing him across the faded carpet. “I’m sorry for asking such a question.”
“Don’t be. I give you carte blanche. You may ask me anything.”
“Do you not have anything of which you are ashamed?” she asked in a spurt of irritation.
“Yes.”
“What?”
He laughed. “A low blow, indeed. Your carte blanche has just been rescinded. You can’t go on fishing expeditions. Do you have a precise question?”
Deirdre didn’t, unless it was to ask why she was still in this dangerous room, alone with him.
After a moment, he came carefully toward her. “If you were to hit me, cara,” he said softly, “I’d be obliged to kiss you.”
Oh, so that was why. Deirdre took a deep breath, made a fist, and thumped him in the chest.
His hands settled on her shoulders, gently sensitive to her skin and nerves. “You are a very violent young woman.” He laid his lips softly over hers.
Deirdre stood there, heart racing, wondering what on earth she was doing. This was wrong. This wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. Her lips moved against his.
His hands slid up her neck and cradled the back of her head, turning it slightly to make a more interesting angle, to deepen the intimacy.
/> Her hands were held defensively against his chest poised virtuously to push him away. They lacked all power. Then strength returned, but only to slide up to his shoulders, and from there to the soft edges of his hair and the skin of his neck beneath…
He opened his lips. Instinctively she did the same, as if speaking against him softly of secrets. Their breath mingled, moist and warm, an intimate taste she had never experienced before. Openmouthed, he just brushed his lips against hers, sharing, somehow, more than breath.
She sobbed softly somewhere in the back of her throat.
He drew back, heavy-lidded, and trailed a thumb along her jaw. “You taste of eternity, Deirdre Stowe.”
Deirdre swallowed, trembling. “It’s just expertise. Yours, I mean, not mine.”
“No.”
He made no move, but Deirdre knew that in time he would kiss her again, more deeply, more shatteringly, and she wanted it.
At last she found the strength to push him away. “I must go.”
He did not resist. “You should,” he agreed.
It was like moving against a storm, but Deirdre turned and walked away.
She walked steadily out of the room and down the corridor past the paintings. She steadily made it to the safety of her own bedchamber. Once there, she collapsed, shattered, on her bed.
There was no room in her heart anymore for deception.
Howard would never kiss her like that; she would never experience with him what she had experienced with Everdon. But she was pledged to Howard, he needed her, and this hunger within her was just base lust.
She wept.
When the tears were over, she paced her room, wishing she could leave Everdon Park today. She struggled for ways to force Everdon to end their engagement quickly, but it would have to be achieved without her having to speak to him alone. She was determined never to be alone with him again. She could not think of any way to speed matters, though, except to do as he had once suggested and compromise herself with Howard. The notion was now even more repugnant.
She simply had to trust Everdon to honor their agreement and release her.
Alarmed by the danger, however, Deirdre discarded all notion of encouraging Howard to work, and demanded his almost constant presence. She tried in every way she could to convey to the world—and in particular to Don Juan—that she and Howard were destined for perfect happiness.
“Really, Deirdre,” said Howard three days later, “I don’t know what’s come over you. You’re always hovering over me. It’s almost as if you don’t trust me out of your sight.”
“Of course I do,” Deirdre said with honesty. She never doubted Howard. She took his hand. “It’s just that I like being with you.” Greatly daring, she added, “Don’t you like being with me?”
As Everdon had predicted, he said quickly, “Of course I do.” But he pulled his hand free. “I don’t think we need live in one another’s pockets, though, Deirdre. You distract me.”
They were in the garden, in the shade of a chestnut tree. Howard had some papers, and Deirdre had her needlework.
“I’m just sitting here, Howard. I’m not doing anything to distract you.”
“You distract me just by being there.” Deirdre found this rather touching until he added, “I always feel you want me to talk or something.” He turned back to the papers.
Deirdre rose from the wicker chair. “Very well. I will leave you in peace.”
Instead of arguing, he said, “That’s a good girl.”
Deirdre marched miserably toward the house. As she drew closer, however, she thought she saw someone in the window of Everdon’s study. Was he watching for her, lying in wait? She hurriedly turned and walked off down the drive, tussling with her problems.
Was she wrong to want Howard to lie in wait, to seek her out? He had, after all, given her the most powerful sign of devotion by asking her to marry him.
But then, so had Everdon.
Was she wrong to be hurt that Howard wanted to concentrate on his work while Everdon seemed willing to put his responsibilities aside at any moment? She should value Howard’s dedication, and despise Everdon’s distractibility.
At the gatehouse, Deirdre waved to the gatekeeper, and walked out onto the narrow lane. It felt strangely liberating to leave Everdon Park, and so she strolled along the lane. There was little view here, for the hedges grew high on either side, but it was peaceful. She let her mind go blank.
Soon she came to a place where three lanes intersected, and a neat white signpost directed people to Kettering, Cranston, and Everdon Park. There seemed something strangely symbolic about this parting of the ways, so she stood beneath the post, considering her future.
She had three choices: She could marry Howard, she could marry Everdon, or she could remain a spinster. Not long ago, the prospect of being a spinster all her life would not have bothered her. She certainly did not believe that there was a special place in hell reserved for such women, where they would lead apes forevermore.
Now, however, something had been woken in her that spinsterhood would leave unsatisfied. Was it the companionship of a man, the sharing of work, the caring for his needs? Or was it the touch of a man, the moist heat of his lips, the magic he could work on her senses?
The shiver that passed through her suggested the answer.
Was this wickedness or a natural part of life?
Would Howard ever be able to satisfy that part of her that Everdon had brought to life? Surely, in time…
She was jerked out of her tangled thoughts by the sound of wheels. For a moment she could not decide from which direction they approached, and so she hesitated. Then a gig appeared on the Cranston Road, driven by an elderly, harsh-faced woman with a groom beside her.
The gig halted. “Are you all right, young lady?” the woman asked.
Deirdre blushed, well aware how peculiar she must look wandering about without her bonnet. “Yes, thank you, ma’am. I am a guest at Everdon Park, and I strolled down here.”
The woman’s face pinched. “You’re the next victim, are you?” she sneered. “A fine substitute for Genie, you will be.”
Deirdre just stared, and the groom sat there, arms folded, like a statue.
The woman suddenly thrust the reins into the man’s hands and climbed down. She was thin, haggard, but with very good bones. “You’re only a child,” she said to Deirdre. “What on earth are your parents thinking of?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The woman clucked. “I am Elizabeth Brandon, my dear. Mother of Lord Everdon’s betrayed first wife. I refuse to acknowledge any closer relationship than that.”
Deirdre knew then that she had fallen into a dreadfully embarrassing situation. “I’m very sorry about your loss,” she said faintly.
“Loss? We lost our treasure over ten years ago when that profligate enticed her from her home!”
“But he was only twenty,” Deirdre protested. “And they married.”
“Only twenty? But foreign,” she spat. “We all know how they are abroad. Look at what happened to Genie.”
Deirdre cast another desperate look at the groom, but he was doing an admirable representation of a painted dummy. Did Lady Brandon behave this way frequently? “Lady Brandon,” she said gently. “I know you must be deeply distressed about your daughter, but I am sure it is unfair to place the entire blame on Lord Everdon. Your daughter did leave him of her own free will.”
“What would you know of it, miss? Genie was driven away by his cruelty! He was mad for her, but once he had her, he cared nothing for her feelings, nothing at all. And she…” The woman’s voice broke. “She…she loved him so. It was her love that drove her away! And what did he do or say to stop her, to get her back? Nothing. Nothing!”
Deirdre wanted to ask what he could have been expected to do, but knew it was wiser to keep silence. Her face must have revealed something, however, for the woman carried on. “I see he has cozened you with his fair appearance. But if he was innoce
nt, why did he never seek a divorce?” She stabbed the air with a sharp gloved finger. “Because she would have returned to defend herself, that is why. All would have been revealed!”
Deirdre stood there, appalled, staring at that finger.
“He sent all her possessions back to us,” snarled Lady Brandon. “Just swept her out of his life.”
What was he supposed to do? Deirdre wondered, trying to imagine Everdon at twenty, facing that situation.
The woman suddenly sagged from anger to grief. “Then, just weeks ago, he rode up cool as you please to show us that…that horrible letter…”
Again, Deirdre wondered, what was he supposed to do? She also had some glimmering of how hard it must have been for Everdon to go to his wife’s parents to break the news. She had seen no sign of his distress. As Lucetta said, he was too good at concealing things.
“Dead,” the woman moaned, putting a hand to her head. “Dead so young, alone in a foreign land. And now he is finally free to destroy another young innocent.”
Deirdre could see only one way to escape this horrid confrontation. “I’m afraid you have made an error, Lady Brandon. I am not to marry Everdon. I am promised to another young gentleman at Everdon Park, Howard Dunstable.”
Lady Brandon frowned at her. “But I had heard…”
“False rumors.”
Lady Brandon looked her over. “More than likely. You haven’t the looks for Don Juan. Genie was the most beautiful girl in England. He will marry again, though. He needs to now his family is failing all around him. Serves him right,” she added viciously. “It’s a judgment of God. His brother. Now his cousin. May all the Renfrews rot, every last one…”
Deirdre backed away. “I must bid you good day—”
“You watch out for him,” the woman shrieked after her. “They don’t call him Don Juan without reason. He destroys women for his pleasure!”
Deirdre turned and fled back toward Everdon Park.
Once out of sight of the crossroads, she slowed to catch her breath and steady her nerves. She knew she should have sympathy for a mother’s grief, but she could only think how horrible it must be for Everdon to have that kind of hate living close by all these years, how horrible it must have been to have to face them.