‘Let’s find out. I think they’ve set up a hazard table or maybe faro in the next room. Would you like to watch the game?’
It was a distraction. She would go and watch until her aunt found her. They strolled into the adjoining card room and saw that a game of faro was in full swing. The bank had already amassed what looked like a fortune in rouleaus and the expressions on the players’ faces ranged from boredom through irritation to downright vexation. It took little time for Domino to understand the simple rules with Benedict as her willing tutor. As she watched card after card emerging from the spring-loaded faro box, heard the click of tokens changing hands and felt the building tension as losses and wins followed in quick succession, she began to forget about the interview with Richard. Gambling, it seemed, was the perfect antidote for a broken heart.
‘I want to play too,’ she whispered.
Looking into her glowing face, Benedict stifled any misgivings and deftly inserted her into the circle. Very soon she was in the thick of the play. Her flushed face and sparkling eyes spoke of pleasure, but Benedict began to feel uncomfortable. She had taken to the game rather too enthusiastically, he thought, and now, looking around the table at their fellows, he didn’t like what he saw. To Domino they appeared unexceptional. The women perhaps were showing too much decolletee, but they were sumptuously and fashionably dressed and hardly differed from their sisters dancing just a few yards away; the gentlemen were very correctly attired in evening dress and treated each other with a jokey politeness that spoke of long-term intimacy. But from Benedict’s limited knowledge some of those gathered around the table were hardened gamesters and whispers of compromised virtue swirled around a number of the women. There was at least one wholly disreputable rake in the room.
Lord Moncaster lazed at the head of the table in charge of the faro bank. It was customary for the wealthiest of patrons to take turns in running the bank and Leo Moncaster enjoyed riches enough to run a hundred faro banks and still have plenty left to indulge his every whim. At that moment his whim was turning to Domino. His weary eyes rested gratefully on her, savouring her youthful beauty and unsophisticated delight in this novel entertainment. As his eyes ran over her assessingly, she looked up from the table and caught his glance. She wasn’t sure what to think of him. He certainly made a splendid figure, looking as though he could have stepped straight out of one of Byron’s poems, but there was something in his glittering gaze that disconcerted her and she looked quickly away. Benedict had seen that gaze too.
‘Let’s go back to the salon and find a cold drink,’ he suggested.
‘Not yet, Benedict. Just one more wager. Next time I’m bound to win.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks, and you won’t.’
‘How do you know that? Just because you always lose.’
‘I don’t always lose—well, not all of the time,’ he finished lamely.
‘There you are, then. It’s my turn to win.’
‘I should take you back to the salon. Your aunt will murder me if she knows I’ve brought you in here.’
‘If you’re afraid of my aunt, you’d better go.’
He was getting heartily bored with this recalcitrant girl. Perhaps if he upped and left she would follow. ‘I’m going, then, and if you’re wise you’ll come too,’ he whispered rather too loudly.
Lord Moncaster raised a quizzical eyebrow, causing Benedict to flush with annoyance and make haste to leave. Once out of the room, he shrugged off any qualms at deserting the girl. She wasn’t his responsibility and he wanted to enjoy the rest of his evening.
Chapter Five
Christabel came down to breakfast the next morning still looking pale, but unruffled. She’d spent a difficult night, unable to sleep with any ease. Her mind had for hours refused to stop its constant churning of the past week’s events, but finally she had found some repose. Her decision was made. She had allowed herself to be manipulated, to be too easily swayed by feelings she should never entertain. From now on she must ignore Richard’s behaviour and concentrate on her own. With great severity she reminded herself that she was the only person responsible for her actions. If she could hold to that determination, she would cope with what lay ahead. Sophia’s chatter had alerted her to Sir Julian’s return to town and she knew that it would not be long before he renewed his proposal. She must be ready.
She saw that her mother had taken note of her pallor and was looking at her with gentle concern. ‘Bel, are you well enough to pay that morning call on Lady Blythe?’
‘I feel a good deal better, thank you, Mama, and I will be happy to go.’
It was a lie, for Domino was likely to be present and the thought of meeting the girl so soon after the disasters of the picnic troubled her. But she needed to appear unconcerned and calm in the face of any suspicions her mother might harbour.
Lady Harriet looked relieved. Her daughter seemed not to have been so badly affected by yesterday’s events as she had feared. And she had a mountainous collection of letters awaiting her attention. Christabel’s offer to attend on Loretta Blythe was most welcome.
‘Perhaps Sophia would care to accompany you?’ her mother suggested tentatively.
But Sophia instantly forestalled that notion; she was far too busy this morning organising her steadily increasing wardrobe. Christabel was more than happy to go attended only by her maid, and a walk to Curzon Street would be a pleasant escape from the house. The rain clouds, which yesterday had appeared out of nowhere, had vanished entirely and in their place was the deepest blue covering and a spring sun already climbing the sky and warming the world it shone on.
She sauntered slowly along the tree-lined pavements with Rosa by her side. The slightest of breezes washed over her, catching at the primrose ribbons in her hair and twisting them in and out of the soft tendrils of auburn that framed her face. With each step on this glorious day she felt herself walking away from discord and entering a place of deep calm. The night had brought counsel. Whatever the truth of Richard’s relationship with Domino, it was their affair, not hers. It was immaterial, too, whether the passion he’d poured on her was genuine or simply feigned as part of his plan to punish. Certainly those moments by the lakeside, moments scorched into her consciousness, had not appeared feigned. He had seemed as fevered, as impassioned, as she.
‘Curzon Street is the third turning on the right, Miss Christabel,’ her maid reminded her. ‘What number is Lady Blythe’s?’
‘Number Twelve, I believe,’ she answered absently.
No, it wasn’t important whether or not he’d meant the caresses he’d lavished on her—what was important was how she reacted to them. And so far her reactions had been far from laudable. Twice in the last few days she’d been overcome by desire for a man who should mean nothing to her. The old Christabel, rebellious and passionate, had risen again and exploded into the ardour of yesterday’s embrace. But she was no longer the girl she’d been and instead must be true to her new life. How could she have allowed herself to behave in that fashion when she was as good as promised to another man? And such an upright man who would never give her cause for concern. He would never find himself locked in a fervent embrace with a lover from his past! The unlikely image made her smile.
‘This day is meant for smiling, is it not?’
A male voice cleaved through her thoughts. Richard was there, in front of her, doffing his curly-brimmed beaver, grey eyes smiling and flecked by the sun’s rays. As always his Hessians were polished to a blinding finish, complementing a pair of immaculate, close-fitting cream pantaloons clearly designed to display his legs to advantage. She forced herself to remember the vows of just a few minutes ago.
‘It is a most beautiful morning,’ she agreed, trying to keep her voice steady and her gaze neutral. Trying very hard not to think of their last encounter, their last few minutes together.
A difficult silence began to develop.
‘At least we can be certain that today we won’t receive a soaki
ng,’ he said mildly in an attempt to break it. ‘I trust you suffered no ill effects from yesterday’s downpour.’
‘Indeed, no,’ she responded quickly, relieved at this unexceptional topic of conversation, ‘though I felt very sorry for the Wivenhoes. They had taken so much trouble over the arrangements only to see their plans ruined.’
‘Forces of nature can’t be gainsaid.’
His remark had been lightly meant, but it was not the most felicitous, he thought. A force of nature had destroyed the icy reserve which for years had defended Christabel, and he was responsible. He was not proud of that. In the night watches he’d argued himself into never-ending circles. It was essential that he prove her base, yet she was the woman who warmed him, excited him, entranced him. His plan was a clever strategy, he told himself, yet he felt shame in its tawdriness.
The image of Christabel’s abject unhappiness haunted him, knowing that he was its architect. It turned out that her unhappiness was his also. Yesterday by the lakeside he’d wanted to take her into his arms and kiss the tears away one by one. And he had taken her in his arms. More than that, he’d felt every beautiful curve of her and his heart had sung. When he’d caressed her, she’d responded as ardently as he could ever wish. He could have taken her there and then, he was sure—hotly, urgently, beneath the sheeting rain. What was that but inconstancy! He had surely proved what he’d set out to, proved that she was incapable of being true. By rights he should feel free, released from her spell, so why did he not?
In truth, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he could not believe her a false woman. She had been disloyal once, in a lifetime of loyalty. So why had she behaved so much out of character and to such devastating result? During the endless night, watching the shadows darken into unrelieved blackness, watching the dewy light of dawn creep gradually into the four corners of his room, he too had come to a decision. He had to know why she’d betrayed him. He had to hear it from her lips. If he could understand that, then he was certain that he would finally be able to lay the past to rest.
Silence stretched between them once more and again he was the one to break it.
‘Are you on your way anywhere in particular? May I escort you?’
‘Thank you, but I’m very close to my destination. I am to pay a morning call on Lady Blythe.’
‘Then let me offer you my arm,’ he said briskly, nodding dismissal to Rosa. ‘You may return home, your mistress will not need you.’
Before Christabel could protest, her maid had begun retracing her steps to Mount Street.
She did not take his arm, but stood facing him on the narrow pavement.
‘That was high-handed, Lord Veryan. It is my prerogative to dismiss my maid.’
‘I’m sorry if you disapprove. I have no wish to quarrel with you.’
‘That would certainly be a change,’ she returned acidly. His arrogance had helped her regain her poise.
‘I hoped that I might speak with you alone.’ His tone was level, giving no hint of what he might be feeling. And for a moment he appeared unwilling to go on, unable to find the words he needed to broach the topic burning so brightly in his mind.
‘Shall we walk on?’ The movement seemed to act as a release. ‘After yesterday, you see, I’ve done some thinking,’ he continued quietly. ‘In fact, a good deal of thinking.’
He paused again and Christabel waited, her composure once more in danger of slipping away. What was he about to say? That he loved her after all? That after their impassioned lovemaking, he still cared deeply for her and could no longer consider marrying Domino de Silva? What traitorous thoughts, what stupid thoughts, she chastised herself.
‘I wanted to apologise,’ he began again. ‘I wanted to tell you how deeply sorry I am for any upset I’ve caused since my return to London.’
‘Any upset? You must know that you deliberately set out to distress me.’
‘I won’t deny it, but I am still sorry.’
He was looking contrite, unusually so, and she felt emboldened to question him.
‘I cannot understand why you have been so intent on hurting me. Why?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer with any truth. I don’t know myself. When I disembarked at Southampton, I thought the past was dead and buried for me.’
‘But it wasn’t,’ she said flatly.
‘No, it wasn’t.’ He paused and then said with deliberation, ‘I’ve behaved foolishly, I’m willing to admit, but if I could understand the past, then I think it would finally die for me.’
She wore a puzzled expression and he turned towards her, looking at her directly, his gaze searching and serious. ‘If I knew, if I could understand, why you did what you did.’
She gave a small, uncertain laugh. ‘I could echo your own words. I can’t answer with any truth, I don’t know myself.’
They rounded the corner of Curzon Street and, with an effort, she tried again. He deserved that at least.
‘Put it down to naivety, youthful stupidity, if you will. When you are young and untried, it’s easy to be dazzled by surfaces. I was living in a world I’d never known before, a world heady with excitement.’
‘But to be taken in by a creature such as Joshua,’ he protested.
‘You were equally taken in,’ she reminded him sharply. ‘He was your friend.’
‘And that surely makes it worse. It makes me more stupid and you more venal.’
She flinched at the word. ‘He made me feel special,’ she said defensively.
‘And I didn’t?’
‘I was just part…’ and she strove to find the phrase which would adequately convey her sense of his indifference ‘…I was just part of the furniture of your world.’
‘Never!’ He felt stunned. He had been drowning in love for her and she hadn’t noticed! ‘How could you not know—?’ He broke off, biting back the words of passion he’d been about to utter.
But Christabel, deep in that distant past, had hardly noticed. ‘Joshua made me feel that I mattered to him, really mattered. I know now that I was a fool.’ Her voice was barely more than a murmur and she glanced down at the delicate kid sandals she wore, as though hoping she might be absorbed into the pavement. ‘In fact, I knew that almost immediately.’
‘You parted very soon? I never knew.’
‘Why would you? I can’t imagine you wanted to hear any news from home.’
He grimaced at the truth of the observation.
‘It was never going to work.’ She sighed. ‘Joshua was charm itself, but he was an opportunist.’
‘A here and thereian?’ It was doing Richard good to hear how miserably the affair had ended.
‘If you like.’
‘But someone who wreaked destruction wherever he went,’ he pursued, his tone now one of quiet sympathy.
‘I won’t make him an excuse,’ she said robustly. ‘I caused damage to everyone who cared for me. I recognise that. But as you were happy to remind me just yesterday, I can’t undo it. Any of it.’
‘But you don’t need to compound it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t make another bad choice.’
She bridled. ‘And how might I do that?’
‘I’m hardly the right person to give advice, but you must know that the future you’re proposing is wrong—for you, for everyone. You’ve earned your freedom, so live free.’
‘You’re quite correct,’ she responded tartly, ‘you are hardly the right person.’
They had reached the door of Number Twelve and with this parting shot, she climbed the front steps. His face, as he raised his hat in farewell, was blank of all expression. He turned around and walked away down the road and Christabel was left bewildered. He’d shown himself sorry for his conduct, sorry for the distress he’d caused. He’d conversed seriously, dared to talk about the past with her, and amid the barbs of resentment there had been sympathy. It seemed that he’d had a change of heart. But why? And what did he mean, that
she should live free? How dared he presume to tell her how to shape her life? It was well enough for a man to say ‘live free’. He had the luxury of choice but, as a woman, she did not.
The door opened and she was ushered into Loretta Blythe’s drawing room. She knew most of the faces gathered there and it was an easy matter to smile sweetly and murmur the necessary vacuous compliments. But while she observed the social niceties, her mind was roving through every detail of the recent encounter. Was it just luck that she’d met Richard where and when she had? She thought not. It was clear to her that he’d been visiting at Curzon Street. And he would have come, not to sit drinking tea with Lady Blythe and her intimates, but to see Domino. He’d been visiting Domino, the girl he intended to marry. Naturally they would have wedding plans to discuss for when his period of mourning was at an end, even now perhaps arrangements to make for the girl to visit Madron. Christabel quailed at the thought, but that was something she must grow accustomed to. It was possible that his forthcoming marriage had contributed to a new generosity of spirit, his willingness finally to forgive and forget the past. She should feel grateful for that, she supposed.
That night she slept better than she had for days. Whether it was sheer exhaustion or the fact that she and Richard were no longer enemies, she didn’t know. But his interference in her life appeared to be at an end. So did his interest, another voice whispered unkindly. But that voice was swiftly squashed. She must bury the past as Richard was doing, bury it and move on to a new and different existence. That evening she’d had plenty of time for reflection, the family for once spending it by their own fireside, and by the time she’d crawled into bed, she was ready to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. Not even Benedict’s noisy return with the dawn had the power to waken her.
Benedict’s mission to enjoy himself to the full had been so successful that when the next day, bleary eyed and slumped over the breakfast table, his mother reminded him that he’d agreed to escort his sisters to St James’s Park, his only answer was a heartrending groan.
The Earl Plays With Fire Page 9