The handwriting could be none other than Miss Powell’s, and the mocking smile returned to his lips as he wondered how much coaxing it had taken Cassandra to persuade her to pen it.
* * * *
Naturally they accepted the invitation, and at eight o’clock they arrived at the building which was becoming so familiar to them all. As it was the same company which they had been keeping for the past few weeks, there was no variation of scene and nothing profound in the conversation. The dinner was the plain but filling fare to which they had become accustomed in this house. It was a far cry from the London soirees, the gaming hells and boxing matches which were the usual haunts of the gentlemen; yet nobody seemed in danger of succumbing to the megrims.
For Mrs Plummer it was probably a more exciting social life than she was used to in her small cottage near the coast of Kent. She was in raptures over everything, could find fault with nothing, and generally determined to grasp whatever mite of pleasure came her way.
But even St George had to own to himself that he was not in the least bored and looked forward as eagerly as any to the time spent at the abbey. Tonight they played a short game of charades. Cassandra produced a tolerable one:
‘While my first is the sky on a clear summer day,
And my second a sheath for a young lady’s ankle,
The whole is oft thought to be much in the way
And, to eager young suitors, may rankle.’
The answer was ‘bluestocking,’ which was perhaps all the more poignant since the young lady had never seen the sky by day or night.
St George himself could not resist the following:
‘My first is to pull through muck and through mire
And my next the reverse of the phrase to be “off”.
Yet the whole, if one meet her unquenchable fire,
Even St George himself would not scoff!’
It did not take Miss Powell long to discern that the two halves of the word in question were ‘drag’ and ‘on’. The whole, of course, spelt ‘dragon,’ which drew a laugh from all concerned except the young lady at whom it was so clearly directed. Nonetheless, the evening passed remarkably swiftly. The room became increasingly warm and the three ladies plied their fans briskly.
‘The moon,’ Julian said at last, ‘is full tonight. Shall we take a turn outside?’
‘I should love to see your gardens by moonlight,’ Cousin Priscilla cried, ever eager.
‘A wonderful idea,’ St George agreed.
‘Let me but fetch two shawls for us,’ Rosalind was quick to say. There was no need for one for Mrs Plummer, who already sported a thick wool scarf in a bright shade of blue quite at odds with the purple gown she wore.
* * * *
Rosalind hastened upstairs to search for the necessary items. It was but a few minutes before she returned to the drawing-room, and yet upon her return she discovered only one member of their little party present.
‘Where are the others?’ she demanded, with a degree of apprehension quite disproportionate to the situation.
‘They are gone on ahead into the gardens,’ St George explained. ‘Miss Woodford remembered that she had left a shawl on the chair over against the wall there.’
He gestured in the direction of a shadowed corner where Cassandra often liked to sit while Rosalind read to her. She now remembered that they had done so earlier, and that she had indeed been wearing a shawl at the time. Perhaps she was too eager to ascribe ignoble motives to the gentleman. Not all his actions must be calculated and cunning, she supposed.
‘But they need not have left so quickly,’ she complained. She felt the faintest tingle of apprehension down her back. The room seemed much darker and more intimate suddenly. She almost jumped when the gentleman moved towards her.
‘They were eager for a little fresh air,’ he said reasonably. ‘It is rather close in here, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you need not fear for the reputation of your charge,’ he added, that mocking smile playing at the corners of his lips. ‘Mrs Plummer is with them. And I assured them that I was perfectly content to wait here for you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The conventional response did not come easily.
He held out his hand and took one of the shawls from her, depositing it on a nearby sofa. Then, turning back towards her, he offered his arm. She felt obliged to accept it.
‘Shall we follow their example?’
* * * *
The garden by moonlight was a strange, unearthly landscape. Whatever was not hidden in soft folds of darkness seemed starkly etched in steel. The paths were of polished stones, the roses silver gilt and dew-encrusted in beds of black velvet. The statues were weird wraiths rising out of the foliage.
Rosalind followed St George into this enchanted yet oddly forbidding world, hoping that they would soon catch sight of the trio who had gone on ahead. There was no sign of them, however, and Rosalind soon grew impatient.
‘Are you certain that they came this way?’
‘No,’ he answered, not a whit perturbed. ‘They went in the opposite direction.’
‘Then why have you brought me here?’ she snapped, quite out of patience.
‘Because I wanted to be alone with you.’
She caught her breath, wondering if she could have heard him correctly. There was an air of deliberation about him tonight. She felt that the mask he had been wearing was slipping and she was about to find out what was behind it.
‘Why,’ she enquired between clenched teeth, ‘should you wish to be alone with me, sir?’
‘Can you not guess?’ The note of sardonic humor in his voice made her uneasy, but she refused to be intimidated.
‘I presume your intentions to be everything of the most dishonorable.’
They were standing beneath a vine-covered arbor, the moonlight filtering through in patches of quivering light and shade. Between them was an armillary sphere which offered little in the way of protection against him.
‘How well you understand me, my dear dragon.’ He moved to the right and so did she, circling about the armillary. ‘I knew that subterfuge would be useless with you.’
‘You are playing a deep game,’ she said, wondering how far away the others were, and whether they would hear her if she screamed. ‘But you cannot fool me. I am well aware of your — your machinations.’
‘What do you suppose the others would think,’ he asked, completely ignoring her words, ‘if they were to find you in my arms, being thoroughly kissed?’
‘There is little likelihood of such an eventuality,’ she flung at him. But in the semi-gloom she had underestimated how near he was, for suddenly his hand shot out around the edge of the armillary and grasped her own hand with punishing force.
‘On the contrary.’ He sounded as though he were discussing the weather. ‘If they come upon us a minute from now, that is precisely what they will see.’
While he spoke, he was moving around until he stood directly before her. A stray shaft of moonlight illumined his face for a brief moment. There was a dark, dangerous glitter in his eyes.
‘Why are you doing this?’ She was amazed by the steadiness of her own voice. Her knees felt about as steady as a blancmange.
‘Because I am a man.’ He pulled her against him, her soft breasts against his rock-hard chest, her face looking up into his. ‘And you, my lovely Rosalind, are the most beautiful and desirable woman I have ever known.’
She should have screamed. She should at least have swooned. There could be no doubt that he meant what he said, and everything she had been taught cried out that it was sinful and wrong. Unfortunately, her body was sending a very different message to her very confused mind. Being so near to him, hearing his voice grow husky with passion, something stirred inside of her that she had never before imagined. So when he lowered his mouth to hers, she behaved in exactly the opposite manner from what she should have. When his tongue parted her lips, she was already beyond resistance; wh
en his hold tightened and that first kiss was repeated with renewed excitement and pleasure, she matched his desire with her own. His hands caressed her and her arms slid around his neck. She buried her fingers in his thick dark hair, holding his mouth against her own while she stroked his neck.
For the merest instant he raised his head and their glances met, fire stoking fire. She could scarcely breathe.
‘Shall I stop now?’ he asked her, his own breathing ragged, as if he had just been running.
‘No,’ she whispered.
He needed no further encouragement. With a groan half of victory and half of animal hunger, he pressed his mouth to hers again. She was out of her senses with his kisses, his touch. It did not even matter that he did not care for her. All that mattered was this moment, and the unbearable pleasure of their shared desire.
How long this lasted, or what the end would have been, Rosalind did not know. As if from a long distance away, she vaguely heard a sound — shrill, piercing, ripping through the veil of passion with the sharp thrust of grim reality.
‘Hallooo! St George! Miss Powell! Where are you?’
With a strength born of desperation, Rosalind pushed herself away from him. He looked down at her, appearing dazed and dishevelled in the moonlight.
‘If we are silent,’ he whispered at last, ‘she may go away.’
‘Here we are, Mrs Plummer!’ Rosalind called out. She was but too tempted to be silent. The taste of him was still on her tongue, more sweet than she could ever have dreamed. But she knew it to be only wormwood.
He released her with such abruptness that she nearly fell. But his right hand remained around her left wrist. With a start, she realized that he was trembling. They both were. For her, it was hardly surprising, since her world had just been turned thoroughly upside down.
‘Coward!’ he chided her, beginning to regain his own composure.
‘“Conscience doth make cowards of us all,”’ she quoted, attempting a lighter tone.
‘Except for those of us fortunate enough not to possess a conscience.’
‘I am not one of the fortunate few.’
‘You cannot deny that you were tempted.’
‘I am human.’ She swallowed. ‘I was weak. But it will not happen again.’
“Some rise by sin,”’ he quipped, ‘“and some by virtue fall.”’
Rosalind pulled her arm from his grasp and tried to tidy her hair and her gown. Her shawl had fallen to the ground and Richard bent to retrieve it.
‘Ah! There you are.’ Cousin Priscilla descended upon them. ‘We have been looking for you this age. Cassandra was growing quite worried.’
‘Have you left her alone with Julian?’ Rosalind was near hysteria, wondering whether the young girl was being treated to the same kind of sauce that she had just been served.
‘They are right behind me,’ Mrs Plummer reassured her, and indeed at that moment the other two appeared out of the darkness.
Richard, meanwhile, placed Rosalind’s shawl carefully about her shoulders, deliberately trailing a finger along the nape of her neck as he did so. She stepped away at once.
‘We were having such a delightful conversation,’ he told the others, ‘that we quite forgot the time.’
‘What was it that engrossed you so completely?’ Julian raised an eyebrow, as if well aware of the nature of their discussion.
‘We were speaking of temptation — and of conscience.’
‘Forgive me,’ Rosalind told Cassandra, eager to turn the subject. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’
‘It is quite all right.’ Cass hugged her friend. ‘It was an inspired idea of Julian’s, was it not?’
‘Inspired,’ Rosalind repeated, barely suppressing a shudder at how near to ruin she had come because of it.
‘Of course,’ Cassandra continued, with her usual self-deprecating wit, ‘day and night are the same to me.’
‘But one can feel the difference in the night air,’ Julian reminded her. ‘The moon’s light is more gentle, the breeze caresses rather than invigorates.’
Cassandra had to agree with this. ‘Even the smells and sounds of the night are more subtle. There is a stillness, as though the world itself were resting.’
Rosalind felt as though she herself would never rest again. She could hardly wait for their guests to be gone. It was growing late, however, and her torment was short-lived. The party from the lodge soon departed. Rosalind knew that Cassandra would want to have a long coze with her, but she excused herself at once with the plea of being over-fatigued. Cass cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive bird. But if she doubted her friend’s veracity, she did not press the matter. Perhaps she understood something of the feelings inside the older girl’s breast — which was more than Rosalind herself could claim.
Shutting the door of her bedchamber firmly behind her, Rosalind went over to the small writing-desk in the far corner and sat down. With her elbow on the desktop, she leaned over and rested her forehead on her open palm. She felt ill. She felt wonderful. She felt changed in some indefinable way, and almost feared to face a mirror lest she not recognize her own countenance. What was she to do? She had worried so much that Cassandra might not come out of this adventure heart-whole. It had not really occurred to her that her own heart might be at risk — until now, when she feared it was already too late.
Sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders, she looked at the familiar, comforting objects on the desk: a small knife, some sealing wax, a fresh quill and an inkwell. It came to her then that she must do now what she should have done from the very first. Her only regret was that she had delayed for so long.
Chapter Thirteen
Mrs Plummer and the two men called at the abbey the next day. Cassandra and Welly greeted them enthusiastically. Of Miss Powell, however, there was no sign. Miss Woodford apologized for the absence of her companion, explaining that ‘poor dear Lindy’ was laid up in bed with a headache.
St George would have wagered that Rosalind had been perfectly well until she heard them arriving at the front door. Under other circumstances, he might have quizzed Cassandra upon this subject, but this time he refrained. In truth, he was conscious of a sensation of relief at the news.
Last night had revealed something of Miss Powell’s feelings for him. More importantly, however, they had shown him something of his feelings for her, which was far more disturbing. To begin with, everything had gone just as he planned: he had manoeuvred her into the garden with the skill of an old campaigner. He had handled her just as he ought, he judged: his candor had disconcerted her and caused her to let down her guard. Then he had kissed her — and his coldly calculated plan had flown out of the window.
Never had he encountered such a bewitching combination of innocence and passion. Not since his salad days had he known such ardor within himself. He lost all sense of time, of place, of the reason for his pursuit of her. Holding her in his arms, tasting the incomparable sweetness of her lips, he was aware only of his own growing desire. Not the most beautiful of his mistresses had ever moved him so. Normally, he was in complete control of his emotions. His conquests had been mere trophies, which ceased to interest him as soon as they were won. But there in the abbey garden, he had felt his self-control slipping away like a boat cut loose from its moorings in a hurricane. Indeed, there had been a tempest within him which raged with a fury beyond all he had ever experienced.
Perhaps it was best that he did not see Rosalind Powell again. Something in his mind flashed like a light warning sailors of a shoal ahead. There was more danger in this enterprise than he had at first imagined. With persistence, he might yet win that wager. Whatever else was true, he knew that he had stirred Rosalind Powell’s desire as much as she aroused his. On the other hand, he could afford the loss of a thousand pounds. It was a mere trifle compared to — to what? What did he stand to lose if he continued with this madness? His soul? He had quite forgotten that he possessed such a thing. He did not wish to be reminded
of it now.
‘I do hope,’ Cousin Priscilla’s voice interrupted his musings, ‘that Miss Powell is not very ill. I knew a lady who went to head with a grievous bedache, and was dead within the hour.’
‘Miss Powell is perfectly healthy, I am sure.’ Richard frowned, more irritated than ever at his cousin’s ill-considered bibble-babble. ‘Perhaps she stayed awake too late last night.’
‘I fear that we have infected you both with our wicked London ways,’ Julian quizzed Cassandra. ‘Waltzes and moonlight walks ... such dissipation!’
‘Dear Julian!’ Nobody could mistake the warmth and sincerity in the lady’s voice. ‘You have no notion how much knowing you both has meant to Lindy and me. These weeks have been some of the happiest and gayest we have ever spent, and I am sure that neither of us will ever forget them — or you.’
‘You do not think, then, that we have caused the exhaustion of the long-suffering Miss Powell?’ It was St George’s turn to quiz her now.
‘She has an excellent constitution,’ Cassandra asserted. ‘I have no doubt that she will be up and about by tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps even sooner,’ he suggested.
‘Do you think she might be persuaded to join us for another outing?’ Cousin Priscilla enquired. ‘Julian and I have put our heads together and come up with the most delightful scheme.’
‘Oh!’ Cassandra cried. ‘Do tell me about it.’
‘But be warned,’ St George intervened, ‘it is most unlikely that the redoubtable Miss Powell will approve.’
‘Nonsense!’ Cassandra contradicted him with a laugh. ‘You may call her a dragon, sir, but I assure you the warmest thing about Lindy is her heart. Like Welly here, her bark is much more alarming than her bite.’
‘Nevertheless, I think you will find it hard to persuade her this time.’
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