She waited, refusing to break the silence. It felt like a battle of wills, as though the first one to yield, to speak, would somehow be the loser. Even moving about in the water seemed an admission of weakness. But surely he would tire of the game and leave. In his present condition, he would soon crave his tipple back at Baniard Hall. She could be patient.
The gentle, rhythmic splash of the whip was the only sound in the shady stillness. Grey Ridley smiled like a mocking devil, clearly enjoying the state of affairs. Curse him! she thought. She fought the sudden wild urge to reach out and pull him into the icy pool. That would sober him right quickly, the wicked rogue! But it would also put him into the water beside her naked body—a proximity that could lead to unwelcome consequences. No. She would wait for him to leave.
She began to shiver with the cold, and still he would not move or speak. This was madness. Her foolish pride. She glared at him. “The water is very cold,” she said with reluctance.
He grinned in triumph. She had surrendered first. “And?”
“I wish to come out. Please go away.”
“No.”
She sighed. He was determined to stay. To look at her nakedness, to disconcert her as much as he could. Ah, well, what did it signify? Was it better to risk her health than her dignity? As though there was a loss of dignity in dealing with a man like Ridley! She moved to the far edge of the pool and stepped up onto the bank, her chin held high and proud. She would dress as though he were not even there. As though his presence meant no more to her than the dragonflies that hovered above the surface of the water. She picked her way across a pebble-filled clearing to reach her clothes.
Considering his state of intoxication he was surprisingly agile. He jumped to his feet and barred her way.
The villain! By heaven, she would serve him the most vile-tasting cordial tonight! “’Tis cold, and I am very wet, milord,” she said, fighting to contain her anger.
Nothing seemed to daunt him. “So you are.” His eyes ranged her body, a searching appraisal that made her feel as though he could see clear through to her bones. She shivered with the cold…and the look in his tawny eyes. “Very wet, and very beautiful,” he went on. “I had not guessed that you were so lovely.” His voice was a sudden rasp of passion. “I want to see all of you.”
She eyed him warily as he began to circle her. If she made a move toward her clothing, he might be tempted to stop her. And if once he put his hands on her body…who knew what would happen? She stood still and allowed him his examination.
He laughed softly behind her. “Yes. You do. Have dimples, as I surmised. Captivating. Just here.”
She gasped as she felt the touch of his whip on the small of her back, a gentle stroking that felt like the flutter of a bird’s wing on her naked flesh. She whirled in alarm and anger, glaring at him with an outrage that came as much from an awareness of her own weakness as from his taking advantage of that weakness. “If you try to rape me,” she cried, “I swear I’ll make you pay!” She cast her glance wildly about. There was not even a large enough rock or branch to strike him down.
His eyes widened in surprise. “Rape? I told you, long ago, that was not my way. But you want your freedom, no doubt. And I’m still willing to negotiate. And to see you like this…so beautiful…” He ran his tongue across his lips. “You have the advantage at the moment. I think I’d grant you anything in exchange.”
“Only let me return to the Hall in peace,” she said with a sigh. She was exhausted. There had been more than enough drama today. She had seen him at his best, and at his very worst. She couldn’t play out another scene.
He ignored her words. He touched the tip of his whip to the outside of her ankle, and ran it slowly up her calf to her knee. He stilled his movements for a moment watching her intently, then stroked her thigh and her rounded hip. “A charming limb,” he murmured.
She trembled, wondering why her flesh was so weak, so soft and vulnerable to his caresses. Even his voice seduced her, deep-pitched and rich, throbbing with desire.
“Would it be so difficult for you to surrender?” He returned the whip to her foot. But this time he sought the inside of her ankle. She held her breath as he moved the whip upward. Surely he wouldn’t be so bold…he couldn’t!
“Oh, Lord,” she breathed, and shuddered in terrified, wonderful expectation.
Slowly he moved the whip to the juncture between her legs, stroking, gliding, rubbing against the delicate, sensitive flesh. Again and again, each stroke more insistent, more impatient, more tantalizing than the last.
She trembled in an agony of joy, her body on fire with strange and thrilling and frightening sensations.
He watched her through half-closed eyes. And still his whip did its work, rousing her to the verge of madness; she could no longer think clearly. “Would it be so difficult?” he repeated in a whisper. “Your body is willing, is it not? ’Tis only your pride that rebels. Is it that you fear to surrender to a coward?”
She felt herself crumbling in a helpless confusion of longing and fear. He was drunken and cruel, and this was not the way it was supposed to be. She moaned softly. Dear God, if he was sober, tender, kind, she would fall into his arms in a moment. But when he could only behave like this…
With a despairing cry, she pushed the whip away and covered herself, one hand flying across her breasts, the other protecting her loins against further assaults. “Do you want me to hate you?” she choked.
He stepped back at the harsh word, his eyes wide and bewildered.
She stared at him in sudden knowledge, filled with the most extraordinary notion. Perhaps it was his stillness. Perhaps it was the odd, haunted light in his eyes. And perhaps it was that intuition that had been in her from the very beginning, that had seen something more in him than the angry, cruel face he presented to the world.
“Yes,” she said in wonderment. “Yes, you do! You’ve always wanted my hatred. You’ve courted it from the first. Was that what you saw in me? Was that why you bought me? You were jealous of Wickham! Did you hope that some portion of the hatred I feel for him could be yours?”
“What nonsense is this?” he muttered.
“You treated me in a vile manner. You used me to drive away your friends. You torment me like this, play your games of seduction, shame me with my weakness. Not because you want me. But because you want me to hate you.”
He glared at her. “Hold your tongue, girl.”
She shook her head. Her growing awareness gave her the strength to defy him. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Why hadn’t she realized? “My God, it isn’t only me. You court all the world’s hatred. Every servant, every tradesman, every friend. Your sharp words, your insults, your careless cruelties. All with the same end. To make them hate you. You waste your money like a fool, you let Mrs. Rutledge and all the others cheat you. And you know they do. And you welcome it—their scorn and their laughter, behind your back.”
His eyes were beginning to glow with a dangerous light. “Be still, I say. I shall not tolerate such treason. Such wild ravings! Why should I care if I’m despised? I live my life. If they hate me, if you hate me, it matters not a whit to me!”
“Are you blind as well as cruel? Or do you drink to hide the truth from yourself?” She was starting to weep, though she couldn’t begin to understand why. “And poor, honorable Mr. Briggs. You reserve a special hell for him. And reward all his goodness with venom. Is his hatred the most precious of all to you? Does he remind you of what you could have been? And are not?”
“By God, I’ve heard enough!” he roared. “You will be silent!”
She was fearless. The angrier he became, the more she guessed that she had touched on the truth. A truth, perhaps, that he himself hadn’t faced. She remembered his dreadful humiliation in the market, his cringing cowardice. She remembered, as well, “Mr. Morgan,” who abased himself to work as a menial. The poor tormented man. How filled with self-loathing he must be.
She sniffled, fighting to stem the bitter t
ears. “You take all that hatred, I think, and lay it against your soul. For a healing poultice. Does it help to draw out the pain, the one hatred you cannot live with? The festering sore?”
“What do you mean?” he growled.
“The hatred of the one person who despises you the most,” she said, brushing at her tears, which now flowed unchecked.
His lip curled. “You?”
“No. Yourself.”
He flinched as though she had plunged a knife into his heart. Then his expression hardened and he raised his whip. “Now, by God,” he said, “I’ll give you cause to hate me, girl.”
Despite his savage words, there was desperation in his eyes. She spread her arms to receive the blow, open and willing. “Strike me, if you must. If you wish. If it will ease your suffering. But I’ll not hate you, Grey Ridley.”
The tears had turned to sobs. She knew now why she wept. “I shall pity you, Grey. And weep for your tortured heart. But I’ll not hate you. If hatred is your absolution, you must find it elsewhere.”
The whip wavered, dropped from his hand. “Damn you,” he said in a strangled voice. Haggard, reeling, he staggered to his horse, mounted and vanished into the woods.
She covered her eyes with her hands and shook with wrenching sobs. How could she hate him, when she saw his pain and ached to comfort him? How could she hate him, when his torment broke her heart and she was powerless to help? How could she hate him, when she…
No. No! She shook her head. He had no right to draw her into his life, to trouble her heart, to tear her apart with longings. Until the Wickhams were dead, every last one of them, she had no life of her own. She had no right to it. She had sworn an oath.
Weeping, she gathered her clothes to her bosom. If only she could run, hide, escape.
She saw his face, his haunted eyes. She felt again the press of his burning lips on hers. “Leave me alone, Grey,” she whispered. “In the name of mercy, leave me alone.”
Chapter Ten
“About time you got here, girl.” Humphrey, the gatekeeper, scratched his ear under his wig and scowled at Allegra.
She glanced up at the rising moon, a pale, silvery disk against the still-light sky. “I’m sorry,” she said. Where had the time gone? She had wandered through the woods, and sat and wept and thought about Grey Ridley.
Humphrey grunted. “Sorry? Hmph! And all the while a body’s waiting to lock the gate and be done for the night.”
Allegra knew from Barbara’s gossip that Humphrey abandoned his lodge almost every night to meet a farmgirl—one of the cottagers’ daughters. She shook her head in disgust. Another servant who took as much as he could from Lord Ridley, and gave back as little. “She’ll wait, Humphrey. Even for you.”
“Don’t get saucy with me,” he growled, “or I’ll tell Rutledge. She’s fairly itching to take you to task.”
“Fortune preserve me, what have I done now?”
“You’re far too thick with the master, to her way of thinking. And I’m not the only one is wanting to finish his chores. Andrew fed the dogs long since. He’s only waiting on you before he gives ’em the run of the park.”
“His Lordship came home, I take it.”
“Hours ago. And drunk as David’s sow. With his sleeves all bloody, and swearing like a sailor. There’s been the devil to pay all evening. And Mr. Briggs!” Humphrey rolled his eyes. “He’s sent Verity down here every quarter of an hour to find out if you come back yet. He and His Lordship seemed to think you run off.”
She sighed. “Perhaps I wish I had.”
He shrugged. “’Tis all one to me.” He beckoned impatiently to Allegra. “Come inside.” When she complied, he leaned against the large gates, closed them behind Allegra, and threw the heavy iron bolt. He nodded to her, disappeared into the lodge, emerging a minute later on the side that faced the road, his cocked hat atop his peruke. He locked the outside lodge door, pocketed the key, and ambled down the road toward Diddlebury, whistling as he went.
Mrs. Rutledge nearly pounced on Allegra as she came in at the kitchen entrance. “Where have you been, girl?”
Allegra held out her hat filled with flowers and herbs. “Gathering plants for the stillroom.”
“You’ve missed supper. Mr. Briggs told Cook to put aside something for you. I wouldn’t have. You’ve given yourself far too many airs in this household—you and your high-flying ways.” She sniffed her disdain. “Well, go along with you.”
Allegra sighed. “I’m not hungry.” She had supped on a few berries in the woods, but the long, torturous day had robbed her of her appetite. “I’ll just go and fetch His Lordship’s cordial. He’ll be wanting it soon.”
Mrs. Rutledge smiled, her eyes crinkling. She reminded Allegra of a cat about to pounce. “His Lordship doesn’t want to see you tonight. He was quite specific about that. He wished to be informed when you came in, but he didn’t want to see you. ‘Keep that wench out of my sight,’ he said. His very words. ‘Out of my sight.’” The sly smile deepened. “Have you fallen out of his favor at last?”
She was tired. She had had enough grief without having to deal with this jealous old dragon. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want your position, Mrs. Rutledge.”
The older woman’s face twisted into a sullen pout. “He might give it you, willy-nilly. The way he looks at you. Men are always fools for a pretty face—even when they’re sober. And that one…” she tossed her head in the direction of Ridley’s rooms, “he hasn’t been sober in ages.”
Allegra chewed at her lip. Between his shameful display of cowardice in Ludlow and that dreadful scene at the pool, Grey Ridley must be in a low state by now. “Is he drinking heavily tonight?”
“Like a condemned prisoner on his last day. His arms are all scratched up, as well. Barbara saw them when she brought his supper.” Mrs. Rutledge snorted. “No doubt he had a tussle with some doxy in a tavern.”
Allegra felt a rush of anger at the woman’s disdain for her master. The housekeeper was growing very rich at Ridley’s expense; the least she owed him was respect! “Mrs. Rutledge,” she snapped, “he saved a boy’s life today in Ludlow! At great risk to himself. You might tell that to the others when you’re all sniggering behind his back.” She turned on her heel and stomped toward the stillroom. “His Lordship will need a salve for those scratches.”
She worked quietly in the stillroom for hours, glad to be alone. She chopped a quantity of herbs and leaves, using the freshest of those she had gathered in the afternoon, then mixed them with a pinch of saffron and chopped suet and put them to the boil. When it was done, she took the mixture—it had turned a lovely golden color—and strained it through a fine linen cloth, then set it to cool. While she waited, she busied herself with the rest of her day’s pickings. She hung some of the herbs and flowers from the beams to dry, and distilled the rest into infusions that she could use at another time.
When her amber liquid was cool enough, she added yellow wax, a bit of Venice turpentine and olive oil, and beat the mixture with a whisk until it had become a smooth, creamy salve, which she scented with oil of roses.
No matter how hard she worked, however, she couldn’t still her troubled thoughts. He didn’t want to see her. Surely the words she had spoken had cut him to the soul. Sharp words and accusations she had no right to utter. He was the master, she the servant. But he was also a man who could bleed, and she had attacked him when he was most vulnerable. She cursed her intemperate tongue, wishing she could take back all the things she had said.
She packed the salve into a small, covered crock and climbed the stairs to Ridley’s rooms. She would knock on his door and ask Jagat Ram to take the salve. She found herself hoping—wildly, foolishly—that Grey would receive it as a peace offering and ask to see her tonight.
The minute she stepped into the passageway leading to Ridley’s apartment, she knew that something was dreadfully wrong. There were more footmen about than there ought to be at this time of night, standing silently a
nd shuffling their feet—small gestures of helplessness and unease. And Mrs. Rutledge stood at the door to Ridley’s drawing room, her ear pressed to the paneling.
Filled with dread, Allegra hurried to her. “Godamercy, what is it?”
The housekeeper sneered. “I knew he would drink too much tonight. He’s having one of his fits. Listen.”
She didn’t need to put her head to the door. Ridley’s agonized shouts and cries drifted out to the corridor. The sounds wrenched at her soul, and she moaned in sympathy. It was no surprise, of course. Not tonight. Not after today. But her heart ached for him. “The poor devil,” she whispered, putting her hand on the doorknob. “Perhaps I can be of help.”
“No!” Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes flashed. “Do you hope to insinuate yourself once more into his good graces? I told you, he doesn’t want to see you!” She peered intently at Allegra, her expression filled with sudden suspicion. “Did you have aught to do with this, miss?”
Allegra blushed, the hot flush of guilt. “I…I don’t know,” she stammered.
Just then, the door burst open and Jonathan Briggs rushed out, nearly colliding with the two women. “Good!” he cried, grabbing Allegra by the wrist. “You’re just the one we need. Perhaps you can recommend a soothing water for Lord Ridley.”
She thought quickly. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Briggs. But I should like to see His Lordship first. To judge his state. A soothing water is useless if he’ll not drink it. Perhaps a narcotic plaster, bound around his temples to ease him into sleep, would be better.”
Briggs nodded and indicated Ridley’s drawing room. “I leave him to you and Jagat Ram.”
“Let me help, as well, Mr. Briggs,” simpered Mrs. Rutledge.
“It isn’t necessary. See that the rest of the servants go about their business. ’Tis late. Let them seek their beds. I have work of my own.” He returned the housekeeper’s sour frown. “Lord Ridley scarcely needs idle observers to his distress! See to your duties, woman, and leave the man in peace. I’ll do the same.”
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