Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal

by Lara Temple

  It was his turn to shudder and he finally gave in and lay down, closing his eyes. The darkness was filling him again, but of a different kind. Right now he would welcome unconsciousness, anything but the great yawning pit of that winter almost two decades ago. Not even the snow had held off the stench of the bodies. He had smelled death so often during the war, rank and tangy in the Spanish sun, laced with the sting of lye. But that was nothing next to the memory of the subterranean, putrid scent of the snow-dusted bodies outside their home that winter as he tried to stave off death inside. He had failed, they had died and that was that. He wouldn’t willingly go there again. He had made a promise to himself.

  Except that now he might have no choice. He played by the rules, and though he had never meant to break them, they were as shattered as Albert’s ugly old urn.

  He would marry her.

  Her scent, roses and something else, told him she was closer. Then he felt the weight of a blanket on him. He wanted to pull her to him. If his fate was sealed, he might as well enjoy it, but he kept his eyes shut. She would probably box his ears and they were already ringing. Perhaps it was best not to put fantasy to the test in his present state.

  ‘Would you like me to read to you?’

  That was neutral. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Mysteries of Udolpho?’

  ‘Goodness, no. There are the books in the library downstairs and I brought a few with me as well. I shall fetch some. It might help you sleep.’

  She nodded briskly and left the room before he could stop her. He closed his eyes again and his body seemed to sink deeper into the bed like a hot air balloon emptying of air. He had truly forgotten how miserable it was to be ill, if he had ever known. He should try to remember this feeling so he could have a little more patience when next he came across someone in this state. He didn’t know if it was better or worse having someone like her as a nurse.

  Someone like her. He couldn’t imagine anyone quite like her. She was like one of those strange beasts occasionally paraded at Astley’s or some village freak. He never knew what she would do next.

  He knew what he would like her to do next and it didn’t involve books, but now that he was coherent again it was unlikely she would touch him. At least until, or if, she married him. He didn’t remember much of the fever, but the physical imprint of her body on his lingered. The soft pressure of her lush breasts against him as she had helped him on to the sofa...

  He turned on his side, his body thudding with heat that had nothing to do with fever. He didn’t know whether to hope she returned or not, but then the door opened and she came in with a hesitant smile.

  ‘I’ve brought a choice.’

  ‘As long as there are none of my grandfather’s sermons among them,’ he managed, levering himself back into a sitting position, too weak to look away from the line of her thigh as she pulled over the chair by the dresser and sat. His hands prickled with the need to feel that line. All he had to do was extend his arm. First above the dress and then, slowly, below.

  He watched the uptilt of her chin, the line of light and shadow down her throat and down further towards her fashionable bodice. She had changed out of her rumpled gown of the previous day and even without her maid she looked cool and elegant. At least in that respect she was like her namesake, though the colouring was far too fiery. But then, Lily could be short for Lilith. It suited her, that ambiguous female who sought life and knowledge with her arms open and was condemned for her audacity. This Lily probably would have an opinion about her, too. He could well imagine it. He would save that conversation for later.

  ‘You choose,’ he said lazily. The crease between her brows deepened as she looked down at the three books, then she gave a little laugh and opened one of them, tucking her feet under her on the chair as she had on Nicky’s bed, the unconscious intimacy another slap to his restraint.

  ‘Here—Nightmare Abbey.’

  ‘That sounds worse than Udolpho.’

  ‘It’s by Thomas Love Peacock and it’s meant to sound worse. He makes fun of all those novels, not to mention quite a bit of fun of Shelley and of Goethe’s Werther and of transcendental philosophy. I thought of him because Mr Glowry’s butler is named Raven and the only ghost is a somnambulist steward named Crow.’

  ‘Too much fowl.’

  ‘Bear with me, I will read just enough to put you to sleep. “Nightmare Abbey, a venerable family mansion in a highly picturesque state of semi-dilapidation...”’

  Alan leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, more to block out the sight of her than out of any weariness. It didn’t do much good because her voice was just as seductive.

  ‘“Mr Glowry used to say that his house was no better than a spacious kennel, for everyone in it led the life of a dog...” I wonder if he would have found Ravenscar Hall an improvement on his Abbey? Sorry, where was I...? Ah. “...disappointed in love and friendship...”’ she continued.

  Her reading certainly missed the mark, if the mark was to put him to sleep. The only salvation came from the fact that the tale was actually amusing—especially when she acted out the voices of the Glowrys and the other characters.

  When it came to a discussion comparing women to musical dolls and lottery draws, he opened his eyes to watch her face.

  ‘“It is only after marriage that they show their true qualities. Marriage is, therefore, a lottery, and the less choice and selection a man bestows upon his ticket the better...”’ She grinned and lowered the book for a moment. ‘I thought you might appreciate how closely your ideas match with Mr Glowry’s.’

  He covered his eyes again against her elfin smile.

  ‘You wrong me. Keep reading. But could you skim over that fool Scythorp’s impassioned proclamations? If I were there, I would probably push him out of his tower rather than listen to another anguished diatribe.’

  ‘I told you—you aren’t in the least romantic. Now, stop interrupting. This is supposed to put you to sleep.’

  He almost pointed out that not even the driest legal document, if read in her husky, humorous voice, was likely to put him to sleep.

  He was still far too wide awake when she closed the book.

  ‘That is enough for now. Did you like it thus far?’

  ‘Better than I would one of Nicky’s. I never understood why those novels are so successful.’

  She touched the edge of the book with its worn spine and corners.

  ‘Because they are about loneliness, our greatest fear.’

  ‘I thought death was our greatest fear.’

  ‘I think loneliness is worse.’

  Loneliness. At least that was a topic he understood. It wasn’t a word he would associate with someone as outwardly confident as she appeared, but then he didn’t know her, not really. There was a whole history in those five words and they just made what had to happen all the worse. There was no possible way he could provide her with what she needed in life.

  Even knowing the disaster that was looming, it was hard to regret this twist in his fate—he had never thought he would be weak enough to allow physical passion to overcome caution, but there was no point in denying the physical pull she had on him was trumping all good sense. Even as weak as he still was, he was so tempted to touch her; he was even envious of the book warming itself in her lap. He looked away, groping for an anchor.

  ‘Cat mentioned you lived on an island in Brazil before you lived in Jamaica. Were you lonely there?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I was, a little. I missed my father because he remained on the mainland, at the mines. I don’t think my mother was lonely. Once, she told me she and my father were far happier together since she had come to the island. Every year she went with my father to Kingston, but she was always so happy to return. I thought it was because she didn’t like seeing or hearing about his mistresses, but I think she felt safe
on the island and she loved the excitement of waiting for him, running down to the docks when they came to tell us his ship was entering the bay. I had this little house...well, a crate on the mango tree in our garden, and I could see down the path towards the port and I would watch her run. She was like a little girl. Towards the end I hated watching her when he came.’

  ‘Didn’t you run when his ship arrived?’

  ‘No. I could never compete with her enthusiasm, so I never tried.’

  ‘You are too smart for your own good, Lily Wallace.’

  ‘So we are back to the crafty vixen.’ She shifted, pressing the book between her palms, her mouth flattening into a tense line.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that being lonely and being intelligent is a brutal combination. Hell, don’t cry, I didn’t mean...’

  She rubbed her eyes.

  ‘I’m not crying, I am merely tired. You made me think of them.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, I wasn’t unhappy. I did have friends even if they weren’t my age and then there was Rupert.’

  ‘Rupert?’

  The tension faded as she smiled at the memory. That was a new expression, too. Wistful, the faint echo of a child’s joyous smile.

  ‘I might not have run when my father’s ship arrived, but I did run down to the bay when I saw Rupert from the mango tree. We would swim together and I would imagine we were an enchanted prince and princess banished to the islands, and when the spell would be lifted, we would be swept back to our kingdom and live happily ever after. There, now you may laugh at me.’

  Her eyes focused again, challenging him, but the image lingered. He could see her as a little girl, tumbled red-brown hair and more freckles than she had now. The light filling her the moment she saw her friend.

  He wasn’t in the least amused, but he did his best to push back at the irrational jab of jealousy. She had been a child, so what if she had run to greet some boy. It was ancient history and none of his concern.

  ‘Well, I hate to drag you out of your fairy tale, but I’m afraid no one is going to lift this particular spell. It is time we put it on the table, isn’t it?’

  ‘Put...’ The last of the light faded and the society miss was back, cool and calm.

  ‘There is no getting around it, Lily.’

  She shook her head. ‘No one knows you are here...’

  ‘I am here. Alone with you. I won’t even start on the sheer and utter madness of what you did...coming here in the first place to an empty house, on your own, lying to everyone...’ He shoved off the bed, ignoring the resistance in his muscles. ‘You aren’t ten years old, Lily. If you throw a tantrum, because that is all this was, then you risk the consequences. You are luckier than you deserve that it was I who came by and not whoever had vandalised the library. My God, do you realise what a risk you took? For what? Just to be alone? Is your clever little mind even capable of encompassing what might have happened to you? Hell, what has happened to you and not just to you. You don’t live on an island any longer, Lily, and you can’t buy your way out of trouble. When I walk out of here tomorrow, if I don’t get struck by lightning, which at the moment is not an option to be despised, we will have spent two days alone together and whether I was at death’s door for that time or indulging in an orgy makes no odds. I may be a rake, as you delight in pointing out, but I play by the rules. We are now betrothed. It is as simple as that.’

  * * *

  Simple.

  Lily stood as well, her cheeks pinched with cold. He had lulled her for a moment with that humourous charm and, worse, that compassion which appeared so real. It might even have been real, but so was this. She had seen him angry before, but not as coldly implacable as an envoy from Hades. He would not negotiate; he would take.

  She could not even hide behind the defences of her own mind. What had she been thinking? What madness had taken her? She had planned it, sending Greene and Jackson away and hiring the post-chaise and spreading lies, but it wasn’t very different from those blind urges that had sent her running from the new house in Kingston ten years ago. A childish denial of her fate. Even then she had known it was futile. She had never been surprised her father found her or that someone delivered her home. She had expected to fail. This time was no different. She had known all along that at the end of her three days of rebellion the post-chaise would bring her back to the Hall, in time for Philip Marston’s return, her engagement, marriage, life. Perhaps her fascination with Alan was no more than another rebellion against that fate.

  Except that she was now betrothed to him. To Lord Ravenscar, rakehell.

  She had never planned this. She should not want this. She should resist it with every fibre of her being. Because unlike Philip he was dangerous to her. It wasn’t merely that he would never be faithful to her, she had no reason to believe that Philip would be, but with Philip she could accept it as long as she had what she wanted—a modicum of independence and a home that was hers. Children. A family. If she married Alan, she would want more. He had given her a taste of something she hadn’t known mattered—passion, honesty. He might be a rake, but he was one of the most honest men she had met and it released something in her, like the moment Greene released the laces of her stays.

  She looked at the chiselled, uncompromising face. He would face his fate just as he would have faced a firing squad in time of war. Angry, but accepting. She must face hers—she was about to become her mother. In love with an unrepentant rake.

  Or she could save them both—she could marry Philip. She would have to tell him everything, of course, and let him choose. But first she would have to choose.

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  ‘You should rest. We will discuss this tomorrow.’

  He caught her hand.

  ‘It is best to accept the inevitable, Lily. Dreaming about some boy you loved years ago is all well and good between the pages of a novel, but this is our reality now.’

  The absurdity of that idea raised her for a moment above the swell of misery that had been roiling in her.

  ‘He’s not a boy. Rupert is a manatee.’

  ‘A...what?’

  ‘A manatee. Sometimes they are called sea cows. They are very big and fat and grey and quite friendly. There were several manatees that lived in the mangrove bay on the island and I used to swim with them as a child.’

  ‘A manatee.’

  ‘They are very gentle and they like being fed. I told you, I didn’t have many friends on the island, so I named them and made believe they were really enchanted princes and princesses who had been turned into manatees and one day their parents would come and find them and remove the spell, but meanwhile they were my friends. Rupert in particular.’

  He let out his breath.

  ‘I still have a hard time realising how lonely you must have been.’

  Not as lonely as I feel right now and that’s your fault.

  ‘Children often create imaginary friends.’

  ‘Would it cost you so much to admit that you were lonely?’

  ‘Didn’t you yourself say something to your grandmother about practising what you preach?’

  His smile was wry as he released her hand to trace the line of her jaw with his fingers, from ear to chin, lingering there, coaxing her face towards him. It wasn’t fair of him, touching her like that. So soft it made her ache for more.

  ‘Life with you is unlikely to be boring, Lily Wallace.’

  She finally managed to stand and move to the door.

  ‘Your compliments leave a great deal to be desired, Lord Ravenscar.’

  He stood up.

  ‘I always preferred actions to words. Shall I show you precisely how flattering I can be? Or would you prefer to leave before I am tempted to show you a very effective antidote to loneliness?’

  She search
ed desperately for some clever retort that would prove how unaffected she was, but when he took a step towards her, she hurried out and closed the door.

  Chapter Nine

  At least this time she wasn’t asleep when the noises began.

  She should have been after the events of the past day, but she remained frustratingly awake, thoughts and images darting around her mind like a school of colourful fish in the bay.

  She had remained resolutely in her room after their confrontation, almost expecting him to barge in and continue their confrontation, or worse...hoping he would. But nothing interrupted her futile attempts to read and resolutely reread the same pages of her book but the flashes of lightning and barking crashes of thunder. Perhaps the tropical storms of the Caribbean had followed her to England except that she was cold despite the fire, inside and out.

  The sound was so soft at first, a faint scratching and clicking. It might have been a branch tapping at her window, the wind outside was high enough, whooping and hissing, except that there were no trees near any of Hollywell’s windows and the sounds hadn’t come from outside.

  Could it be the tabby cat, come to collect its kill? Grateful for an excuse to act, she slipped out of bed and picked up the candlestick when the sound came again. A scratching and something else, just by her door. Breathing? She had no idea, but she knew it wasn’t Alan. And not a cat either. Then it was gone and she let her breath out but didn’t move, every cell focused, waiting.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Lily Wallace. Remember what you told Alan...if there are sounds, they have a perfectly rational, earthly cause. Either go see if there is anything there or ignore it and read your book.

  Oh, blast it.

  She tiptoed to the door and raised the candlestick ahead of her, trying to see into the gloom of the corridor. Perhaps it was Alan after all. Could he possibly be wandering about at night again? He was no longer ill enough to justify such stupidity, was he? Perhaps it was the cat. Now that she had been looking, she had seen the wet marks of its paws in the kitchens. No doubt somewhere there was a window or door that wasn’t quite secure, but she had not yet found it.