Briggs scowled at the bottle in his master’s hand. “If I may say so, milord, I think that you…”
“That I’ve had too much to drink? God’s blood, not yet! But ’tis early in the day. And I need my wits about me. I’ve come to try and seduce this charming young thing.” He put down his bottle and moved toward Allegra. “I’ll not need your good offices this morning, Mr. Briggs. In a word, go away.”
Briggs bowed with stiff dignity. “As you wish, milord.” He allowed himself a brief, uneasy glance toward Allegra before he left the room.
“And now, my sweet…” Ridley reached out a languid hand and stroked Allegra’s bare arm.
She pulled away, frowning. Was it to begin all over again? She felt angry and reckless. He might be afraid to duel with blades, but he enjoyed attacking with words, seeking the constant advantage, the weakness that would allow a fatal blow. Well, she would match him thrust for thrust, and devil take the consequences! “I prefer my seducers sober,” she snapped.
He laughed, undaunted. “I’m as sober as I want to be. As I need to be,” he added with a lecherous smirk. “You’ll not find me lacking to satisfy you, when you finally surrender.”
She snorted. “And what do you buy with your bottle?”
“Joy and good spirits.” His mocking smile belied his words.
“And peace?” She could tell by the startled flicker in his eyes that she had hit home. Perhaps now he would go away.
Instead, he turned her words against her. “Peace?” he repeated with a sneer. “What do you know of peace? You, with your burning eyes. My hundred pounds have bought Wickham a year of life. No more. Will you be at peace with your conscience when he’s dead? You would find more peace here. In my bed.”
She flinched and turned away. He would win every pass. She was no match for a tormenting rapier wit that had vanquished every soul in Baniard Hall. But perhaps if she continued with her work and moved around the room, she might succeed in keeping him physically at a distance, at least. She pulled down a small jug of white wine, poured a goodly quantity of it into a shallow earthenware bowl and scraped her crushed herbs into the liquid. “I should have guessed that my story wouldn’t move you,” she said in disgust. “Is gin your armor against sentiment as well?”
“You mean the tale of your lustful squire? I didn’t hear it all. Only that he wanted you, and you refused, and were forced to pay for it. Very touching. But what has that to do with me? He hoped to force you into his bed, willy-nilly. I wish merely to persuade you.” He scratched his earlobe and grinned. “I had thought to be successful by now. More than a month. But perhaps my lack of persistence…”
“For which kindness I am humbly grateful, milord.” There was nothing humble in her angry tone.
He scanned her lazily. “I didn’t spare you to be kind,” he drawled. “In point of fact, I had lost interest. And then I saw the way Richard looked at you. It reminded me of your charms. And that you might be worth the effort after all.”
She bit her lip in dismay at his deliberate insult, then silently cursed herself. She was a fool. Didn’t she want his indifference? And hadn’t she endured the sharpness of his tongue often enough to ignore it by now? Why did she allow him the power to hurt her? She threw him a glance of outrage and cast his venom back at him. “Can it be you are human enough to feel jealousy, milord? Does the green viper gnaw at your cold heart? I think you fear I’ll succumb to Lord Halford while refusing you still!” She waited, anticipating his sarcastic retort.
Instead, his face turned red and his hands curled into fists. “Now, upon my faith!” he cried. “Insolent chit, you are too forward to be endured!” He glared at her, then turned away, seeming to contain his fury only with the greatest effort of will. He growled deep in his throat, like a wounded animal—a long, drawn-out sound that was half rage and half anguish. After a few moments, his heaving shoulders stilled, and the bright flush of color faded from his skin. When he turned back to Allegra at last, the mocking smile had returned to his face, a transformation that left her astonished. “No, girl,” he said. “You’ll not goad me into anger this time. Not this time.”
If she had doubted her instincts before, she was sure of them now. He was afraid of her. In some strange way, there was something in her that managed to reach him, to open doors that he wanted to keep tightly closed. The door to rage. And now—clearly—the door to jealousy. And desire? Could that be why he had stopped pursuing her these past weeks?
She eyed him warily. This was a frightening man; she baited him at her own peril. Best to keep silent and hope he would leave. She turned back to her work table and tried not to make her silence a challenge as she resumed her task.
She stirred her concoction, then put it aside to prepare her still. She removed the cone-shaped lid of the alembic; the bottom, a shallow pan, she filled with several inches of sand. She set her mixing bowl upon the sand and replaced the tin lid. Dipping a linen cloth into a paste of flour and water, she wrapped it tightly around the joining of the two parts as a seal. Finally, she placed the alembic over the burning charcoal stove, and put a beaker under the spout that came from the cone top to catch the distillation as it formed.
She was aware, all the while, that Ridley watched her. His face was dark with hidden thoughts, a brooding intensity that made her uneasy. What was it about him that always made her uneasy? Whenever she was in a room with him, she was conscious of his eyes on her. She found herself moving differently, behaving strangely, saying things that she shouldn’t. Perhaps it was those eyes of his—tawny golden and beautiful—that unnerved her and gave her a thrill of fear. Dear heaven, she thought, feeling as though she were ready to jump out of her skin, would he never say anything? Or leave? She turned away to keep from being burned by those eyes.
“Take off your cap,” he said. She jumped in alarm. His voice was so close behind her that she fancied she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck.
“Milord?” Heart pounding, she turned. His face was inches from hers, his eyes crystal amber, glowing with a strange light.
“Take off your cap,” he repeated. “And let down your hair. I want you to wear it loose henceforth.”
She didn’t know what to make of this sudden odd request. Nervously, she touched her pinned-up hair and the trailing lappets of her linen cap. “But, milord, everyone else…Mrs. Rutledge…” she stammered.
A small muscle twitched along the side of his jaw. “I don’t want you in a cap.”
“Milord, how can I work…?”
“Damn it, I don’t want you in a cap!” he cried, and snatched the offending garment from her head. He plunged his fingers into her hair in a frenzy of searching and pulling. While she cried out in terror and tried to back away, he tore the combs from her head, then tangled his hands in the heavy, cascading curls. He held her tightly, his hands at her temples, and tilted back her head to meet his penetrating gaze. She trembled at the look on his face, at the whirlwind of passion that had suddenly been unleashed. His eyes were clear and alert, but she wondered how much gin he had drunk this morning. If he was more intoxicated than he seemed, there would be no escaping him this time. Not if he chose to take what he wanted. The drink, and the madness that had come over him would vanquish her.
He searched her face. “Who are you? Why do I think I know you?” he said wildly.
She felt helpless, her head imprisoned by his savage grasp. “I’m only your humble servant, milord.” Her voice quaked. “Please let me go.”
He shook his head and groaned. “God’s blood, you’ll drive me mad. You haunt me day and night. I see you in my sleep, like a dark-eyed wraith. I hear your voice in my dreams. As rich and beautiful as a sobbing harp. I ache for you and wake to pain.” His face twisted in anguish. “You’ve bewitched my soul. I can no longer look at another woman. I need you alone.” He groaned again. “Will you never give in? Release me from this torture?”
His distress touched a chord of sympathy within her. She was torn with t
he mad desire to surrender and erase the misery from his face. Then she remembered Mama and Squire Pringle. “Must I lose my honor to quiet your dreams?” she asked bitterly.
He stared at her—the tormented look of a drowning man. “Close your eyes,” he said. “They tear out my heart with their pain.”
She was trembling so violently she could scarcely stand. His mouth hovered above hers, soft and inviting. “Milord…”
“For God’s sake, Allegra, close your eyes,” he whispered.
She sighed and did as he asked. At once, she felt his mouth on hers, soft and sweet. He moved gently, brushing against her lips with his own—a tender caress of warm flesh that sent shivers racing up her spine. She moaned and sagged against him. In response, he slid his hands down her arms to circle her waist and support her quivering body.
His mouth released hers to trail feathery kisses across her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her closed eyes. He moved to her chin and throat, planting kisses in the soft hollows of her neck. He buried his face in the linen neckerchief that covered her bosom; even through the fabric she could feel the heat of his breath.
He lifted his head from her bosom. One hand left her waist, parted her neckerchief, slid beneath her shift to cradle her breast and stroke it with teasing, sensual fingers. She felt as though she were falling, down and down. Lost in the exquisite thrill that followed every kiss and caress. And when he tugged at her shift and gown to release her breasts from their confinement and closed his hungry lips around one straining nipple, she gasped in helpless pleasure. In another moment, she knew, they would be on the floor—she, beneath him with her skirts up, begging him to take her. And she didn’t care. She didn’t care! There had been too much misery in her life. She deserved whatever joy she could find.
“Grey, you Judas!”
Allegra gasped at the harsh voice, her eyes flying open. Instinctively, she pulled away from Ridley and frantically attempted to cover her shameful nakedness, tugging at her tousled clothing and hair with shaking hands.
Lord Richard Halford stood in the doorway, glaring fiercely at the man he had called his friend. “You Judas,” he said again, his mouth curling in bitterness. “Was this what you wanted me to see, when you invited me to the stillroom?”
Ridley frowned and ran his hand through his hair. “Richard, you were only meant…”
Halford laughed sharply. “Don’t trouble to explain. If the wench finds you more enticing than me, ’tis her loss. But you might have told me direct, instead of playing out this disgusting scene. I shall order my coach at once. Dolly and I will leave you to your solitude, and whatever hell you’ve built for yourself. You’ve chosen to destroy our friendship. I’ll not see Dolly hurt further. Let it be ended.” He bowed, his face like stone, turned on his heel and stalked away.
Allegra stared at Grey Ridley, the horrible realization dawning on her. To kiss her like that, to make her think he cared…It had all been pretense, a cynical, vicious game he’d devised to drive away his friends. He hadn’t wanted his visitors in the first place. How simple it had been for him—to play upon Lord Halford’s interest in her, to use her as nothing more than an instrument for his own purposes.
She clenched her fists to her sides to still the shaking of her hands. She felt dirty, used, naked. As humiliated as if he had raped her. She saw his ashen face through a haze of tears.
“You monster.” She choked on the word.
He reached out to hold her. “Allegra…”
“No!” she shrieked, and struck him across the face as hard as she could. The sharp crack of flesh against flesh brought her to her senses. Was she mad? This was the master, and the owner of her bond for a year. No matter what he had done, she could go to prison for lifting her hand against him. She shrank back, fearing the violence of his retaliation.
He advanced on her, but his golden eyes were soft, not filled with anger. What did she see in their topaz depths? Gratitude? Remorse? He reached for the offending hand that had struck him, turned it over and planted a tender kiss on her palm.
“It was all a mistake,” he whispered. He smiled gently—a sweet, painful smile—turned and hurried from the stillroom.
Trembling in confusion and grief, she sank to the floor.
“And Venice turpentine, I think. The coachman is complaining of stones.” Allegra nodded her satisfaction as the apothecary wrapped her purchases and tucked them into the basket she had set on the counter of his shop.
The man smiled and rubbed his hands together. He had the sly face of a ferret beneath his ill-fitting periwig. “Thank you for your trade, miss. ’Tis always a pleasure to serve someone from Baniard Hall. Mrs. Rutledge is well?”
Mrs. Rutledge had insisted that Allegra patronize this apothecary shop in Ludlow, and no other. She smiled wryly. “Mrs. Rutledge is well. And prospering,” she added. She tied her broad-brimmed straw hat over her linen cap and hooked the basket on her arm. She glanced out of the open door of the shop to the sunny street. It would be a long walk in this heat.
“Pardon me, miss,” said the apothecary, “but I see that you hesitate. Do you return to Baniard Hall on foot?”
She shrugged. “’Tis the way I came.”
“But on such a hot day.” The man’s smile was becoming an oily smirk. “Allow me, then, to be of some service to you, miss.” He came around from behind his counter and took Allegra’s arm.
She felt the first stirring of alarm. Would he demand a kiss—or worse—for whatever was this “service?”
He guided her to the door and pointed toward a small wagon with a single mule that waited just down the lane. Beside the wagon stood an old, bearded man, bent with age. “Yonder is Old Bibby,” said the apothecary. “He runs my errands and delivers goods for some of the shopkeepers. I know he goes to Wenlock Edge today. It would please me to prevail upon him to let you ride along.”
He still held fast to her arm. She pulled away and eyed him with suspicion. “And what will it cost me?”
“My dear child,” he said, “I only wish to be your friend. You are new to Lord Ridley’s employ, I think you said. I trust that there will be many, many ingredients you need to furnish the stillroom to your satisfaction. And that when you do, you will remember your friend.”
Allegra could almost have laughed her relief. His interest in her was financial, not carnal. “I thank you for your kindness,” she said. “I shall indeed remember you, sir.” And shop elsewhere, she thought grimly. Still, it would be pleasant to ride today. “Will Old Bibby object, do you suppose?”
“Not at all. But I must warn you that he is very old, and very slow. And he likes to stop now and again on his rounds. To lift a pint with a friend. You’ll not return to Baniard Hall much sooner than if you walked, but at least you’ll be spared that long climb.”
Old Bibby proved to be a cheery companion. Allegra was grateful for his simple goodwill. Her solitary walk down from the Hall in the morning had given her nothing but time to relive the horrors of the day before: Ridley’s kiss and that dreadful scene with Lord Halford, the chaos of their guests’ hasty departure, the shouting and the running about. And—most heartrending for her to see—the desolation on the face of Jonathan Briggs as he watched Lady Dorothy depart.
Allegra had pinned up her black hair again, and gone about her work as though nothing had happened, but she felt the pain of Ridley’s betrayal like a knife to her soul. When she had brought him his cordial last night, he had glanced in silence at her hair and cap, then waved her from his rooms. There had been half a dozen empty gin bottles outside his door this morning.
“Well, now,” said Old Bibby as he came out of a draper’s shop with a large bolt of cloth and tossed it into the back of his wagon. “That be the last of my stops but one. And then us be out of Ludlow. The Edge for me, and Baniard Hall for ye.” He scrambled aboard, spry for his age, and picked up the reins.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as they made their way up Broad Street. “Did you…did yo
u know the Baniard family that lived there?”
“Only met His Lordship but once. A fine man, he seemed. I were to deliver a chair that come from London. A gift for his little daughter. All carved, it were, wi’ a letter wrote into the design. ‘Anne,’ it stood for. So they said, me not bein’ able to read and all. Anne Baniard. That were the little girl’s name.”
She gulped. Anne Allegra Baniard. She had almost forgotten the sound of her own name. But the chair…“I don’t remember a chair like that,” she said without thinking. Then quickly added, “That is, I’ve never seen one in the Hall.”
He shook his grizzled head. “Upon my honor, I give it him. But ’twere the day afore they drug him off to prison. Likely there weren’t no time to give it to little Anne. Poor thing. They be dead now, all of ’em. So said Lord Ellsmere, when he kept the Hall.”
Allegra bowed her head, overcome with memories of the child she had been. Her chair must be long gone by now, tossed into a fireplace to warm the toes of that villainous Wickham, no doubt.
“Here, now, ye be flaggin’, miss,” said Bibby. “’Tis the heat.” He wagged his finger at her like a gently scolding grandfather. “Heed Old Bibby, now.” He pointed to the Church of St. Lawrence, its square tower rising high above the surrounding shops and buildings. “Yonder be the church. And the almshouse. There be a fine garden out back. Shady and cool. Sit ye there, whilst I deliver this parcel. Then, if it be all the same wi’ ye, I’ll just pop ’round to the Feathers on Corve Street for a dram of ale wi’ me old friend Joshua. And then, faster than ye can wink, us be on our way to the Edge.”
The gardens behind the almshouse were dappled with the shade of old, sprawling trees. Gravel walks surrounded neatly tended flower beds, and clipped yews formed a wall of serene isolation. The silence was broken only by the trill of a summer lark and the hum of bees among the roses. Allegra was content just to sit and drink in the sweetness of the day.
“God be with you, Daughter.”
She looked up. A clergyman stood before her, an angelic smile on his face. He wore a long cassock with white bands at the neck, and a lightly powdered wig on his head. Allegra rose to her feet and curtsied. “Good afternoon, Reverend.”
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