by Sandra Heath
The color still stained her cheeks. ‘Please, sir, I really don’t wish to discuss it.’
‘Humor me, Miss Cherington,’ he said softly, giving her not an inch. ‘Name the black sheep.’
She knew he had no intention of dropping the subject. Perhaps it would be wiser to say. ‘It was my brother, and please don’t call him a black sheep.’
‘Your brother, eh? And is this disreputable sibling still with us? Or has he passed into the hereafter as well?’
‘He’s still alive, sir, and he most certainly isn’t disreputable.’ She was stiff and on the defensive.
‘Why, I do believe you’re still fond of the wretch. My dear Miss Cherington, the knave doesn’t deserve your affection, he deserves to be castigated for his sins, because instead of protecting you, he’s failed in his duty in every way.’
‘That isn’t so!’
‘No? Does he visit you? He doesn’t, does he? I’ve made it my business to inquire about you, and I’ve ascertained that you haven’t received a single visitor in the year you’ve been here.’
Her eyes flashed at that. ‘Sir, you had no right to pry into my affairs.’ Her anger made her forget for a moment that she was only the governess, whereas he was the son of the house.
‘On the contrary, Miss Cherington, I had every right. You are, after all, employed in this house.’
She colored, looking quickly away. Another echo of thunder rolled in the distance.
He watched her. Dear God, how tempting she was, so virginal and fresh, just waiting to be aroused. And that spirit, oh, how satisfying it would be to master it, to master everything about her….
She made to go on down the staircase. ‘Please, sir, I must get the glass of milk.’
He remained firmly in her way. ‘We haven’t finished yet, Miss Cherington. I believe we were discussing your brother. Why doesn’t he visit you? Is he ashamed of having reduced you to this?’
Her tongue passed nervously over her lips. How was she going to escape from him? She glanced back up the staircase.
‘My sister’s asleep, I’m sure of it,’ he said. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Miss Cherington. Why does your brother ignore you?’
‘He doesn’t ignore me, sir; we write regularly and meet in Brentford whenever we can. We hope to meet in two days’ time, if Lady Lawrence will allow me to.’
‘Which is hardly likely, under the circumstances.’
‘The circumstances aren’t my fault, sir,’ she replied stiffly.
‘Oh, but they are, Miss Cherington. You shouldn’t be so desirable, should you?’
Her cheeks were aflame, and her heart was beating more swiftly again. Please let someone come. But all was silent, except for the distant rattle of thunder.
‘Don’t look so frightened, Miss Cherington. I’m a gentleman and would no more dream of thrusting unwelcome attentions upon you than I would of flying.’
‘You’re forcing your attentions upon me now, sir, by not allowing me to pass.’
‘But I only wish to talk to you, Miss Cherington,’ he said reasonably, spreading his hands innocently, but nevertheless remaining squarely in her way. ‘We haven’t finished discussing your brother.’
‘I don’t intend to discuss him, sir, not with you or with anyone else.’
‘Why not? Have you something to hide?’
‘No!’
‘Then tell me about him. Does he reside in luxury in London while you exist here in a miserable room on the top floor?’
‘He’s sharing a friend’s apartment in New Bond Street.’
‘Ah, so the cad’s living at someone else’s expense. No doubt he’s still frittering things away at the green baize.’
‘Don’t judge others.…’ She bit the words back.
‘By myself? Why not, for it’s my experience that others are like myself, willfully going their own sweet way no matter what the consequences.’
‘My brother isn’t like that, he didn’t willfully lose everything; it just happened, and there’s no one more saddened by his dereliction of his family duty than he is.’ Her eyes were angry as she met his. ‘Did you willfully bring about the situation that now requires you to sell the Cyclops or risk imprisonment for debt?’
He seemed to find this amusing. ‘Of course I did, Miss Cherington. I continued to play even when I knew my hand couldn’t possibly win, just as your worthless brother continued and thus lost you everything. He thought only of his own pleasure, and family duty couldn’t have been further from his mind.’
Who was Captain Geoffrey Lawrence to pronounce upon family duty? He didn’t even begin to understand what it meant. She was suddenly determined to end the conversation, making once again to pass him. ‘Please let me go, sir, Emma will be—’
‘Emma’s asleep,’ he replied, moving to bar her way. ‘Come now, it isn’t often that we’re at liberty to talk like this.’ Without warning, he put out his hand to touch her cheek.
With a gasp, she recoiled. The candle fluttered and smoked, and some hot wax splashed onto her wrist. She was a little frightened now. ‘Captain Lawrence, we aren’t at liberty at all to speak like this,’ she cried.
‘This is 1811, Miss Cherington, not the Middle Ages.’
‘That makes no difference, sir, for there are barriers between us. Now, will you please allow me to pass?’
‘Only after you’ve paid a small forfeit,’ he replied. It was time to remove the kid gloves.
Her heart almost stopped. ‘F-forfeit?’ she asked very warily.
‘Just a little one,’ he said softly, reaching out to touch her cheek again.
With a quick intake of breath, she pulled sharply away, but he reached out swiftly to put his other hand to her waist, pulling her roughly toward him. The light in his eyes frightened her, as did the force he used, and momentarily her strength seemed to desert her. She was so shocked that she simply couldn’t move; he had her completely at his mercy.
As another roll of thunder growled through the night, he was oblivious to everything but the soft, pliant warmth of her body through the thin stuff of her gown. Desire rose sharply within him, arousing him to the point of madness. He had to possess her, he had to be the first to know the secret delights of her body. He succumbed to passion, forcing his lips down upon hers. He kissed her hungrily and without finesse, intent only upon slaking the desire that consumed him.
At last she began to struggle, trying to thrust him away, but he was too strong for her and nothing she did deterred him from his purpose. The candle slipped from her hand and the flame was immediately extinguished, engulfing them both in darkness. Still she struggled, trying to beat him with her fists, but then a new sound penetrated her fear – the patter of childish footsteps and muffled sobs as Emma Ieft her room and came tearfully to look for her.
‘Cherry? Cherry, where are you? I’m frightened!’
With a savage curse, Geoffrey started back from her, just as another flickering light appeared at the head of the staircase. Emma stood there in her white nightgown, a candle in her hand as she peered down toward them, calling Louisa’s name again.
Louisa needed no second bidding; she turned to dash up to the child, kneeling to gather her into her arms. ‘It’s all right, sweeting, I’m here.’ Her heart was thundering, her senses still in turmoil.
Emma saw Geoffrey. Her fear evaporated and she hurried down to him. ‘Geoffrey! You came back just like you promised!’
He was in no mood to be pleasant. ‘You should be in bed, Emma,’ he said shortly, his eyes furious still as he looked past her toward Louisa.
Emma’s steps faltered. ‘Are you angry with me?’
‘Yes, I am. Get back to bed, or I’ll tell Stepmama that you’ve been disobedient behind her back.’
The child’s eyes were wide with hurt.
‘Didn’t you hear me? I said you were to get back to your bed!’
With a choked sob, Emma turned to run back up the staircase, the candle streaming and smoking. She dash
ed past Louisa, who lingered a moment, looking contemptuously down at him. ‘I find you abhorrent and totally despicable,’ she said in a low, shaking voice.
He gave her a mocking, derisive bow, turned on his heel, and strode back toward the main doors. God damn Emma for interrupting. A few minutes more and he’d have succeeded. Now he’d have to wait, for he wasn’t deterred by the way it had gone; on the contrary, he was more fired than before to possess what was being denied him.
He emerged beneath the portico, where the approaching storm had brought a light breeze that whispered between the columns. Searching in his pockets, he took out a Spanish cigar and some lucifers, and a moment later the sweet smoke was curling up to be snatched at by the night breeze. He gazed down through the park toward the river, where a flash of lightning fleetingly picked out the mast and rigging of the Cyclops. Louisa faded from his mind as his thoughts turned to his financial difficulties. A plague on the old man for choosing to make a stand! Geoffrey drew on the cigar. Cowes had an added enticement this year, for Lord Rowe’s champion yacht, the Mercury, had foundered on rocks off the island earlier in the year after taking foolish risks against Lord Highclare’s brilliant challenger, the Spindrift. Rowe’s vessel had gone down like a stone, taking five of her crew of ten with her, and Rowe’s bitter thirst for revenge was no secret – he’d voiced it many a time. Geoffrey gave a thin smile, pondering what might have been, for in the Mercury’s absence he’d intended to challenge Highclare’s Spindrift himself and thus maybe snatch the crown. That had to go by the board now, for the Cyclops had to be sold.
He raised the cigar to his lips again, but then paused. What a fool he was! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The answer was obvious: Rowe must be persuaded to buy the Cyclops, one of the few cutters in England capable of tackling the Spindrift. Rowe was still in London, at his house in Berkeley Square, and could be approached the day after tomorrow, when an appointment at the War Office with Lord Palmerston would be taking Captain Geoffrey Lawrence to the capital.
He dropped the cigar and crushed it with his heel. And in the meantime, there was the delicious Miss Cherington to provide a diversion. She’d be his before he went to London, he promised himself she would.
Turning, he went back inside. Behind him the first heavy drops of rain began to fall and another roll of thunder echoed across the night.
3
There were thunderstorms all over the south of England that night, and Cowes didn’t escape their attention. The Isle of Wight lay about two hours’ sailing time due south from the mainland, across the stretch of water known as the Solent. Before the battle of Trafalgar had made the high seas safe for British merchantmen, the Solent had been a collecting place for convoys awaiting a Royal Navy escort, but now these waters were peaceful and each August society had begun to descend upon Cowes, on the island’s northern shore, for a regatta and private yacht racing.
The town nestled around the mouth of the Medina, the river that flowed from south to north of the island, almost dividing it in two. On the mainland opposite, across the Solent, was the wide mouth of Southampton Water, the seven-mile-long inlet that had since Roman times made the port of Southampton one of the safest and most important in England. The Solent and the waters around the island were ideal for yacht racing, and this year, for the first time, the regatta had the royal seal of approval, in the presence of Prince William, Duke of Gloucester, and his sister, Princess Sophia; as a consequence there were more stylish persons to be seen on the island than ever before.
Cowes’ new fashionability had seen great changes to the town, with many fine villas appearing on the rising hills on either side of the Medina, and several new Gothic castles standing grandly against the skyline. But there were great houses on the island that had been there before the regatta, and foremost among them was Highclare, some two miles west of Cowes, facing across the Solent toward Southampton Water and the New Forest. It was an elegant property, set in a noble park, and had been the seat for nearly two centuries of the Earls of Redway, aristocrats of proud lineage. The present earl, the sixth, was a reclusive old gentleman who’d shunned society since the deaths in a carriage accident some five years before of his beloved wife, son, and daughter-in-law. He very rarely left Highclare now, although he occasionally had houseguests, and the family was represented in society by his handsome grandson, Christopher, Lord Highclare, known as Kit to his many friends.
Kit was most definitely not a recluse; indeed, he was much sought after because of his wit, charm, and considerable eligibility. He was a leading light in yachting circles, and was master of the celebrated racing cutter, the Spindrift, which vessel had emerged victorious when Lord Rowe’s reckless sailing had led to the sinking of the Mercury. There were many gentlemen who aspired to the Spindrift’s new crown, and foremost among them was Lord Grantham, who’d issued a challenge to a race around the island. Now Cowes talked of little else but this forthcoming event, on the outcome of which there was much wagering.
But on this rain-washed, thundery night, yacht racing was far from everyone’s mind as society crushed into the Fountain Inn to attend a concert in the presence of the Duke of Gloucester and Princess Sophia. Very few cared to stay away, for to be seen with royalty was de rigueur, and so the town’s narrow twisting streets were quiet, with lantern light reflecting dismally on the wet cobbles. The Medina was windswept, and the elegant yachts rocked at their moorings on the choppy water. Growls of thunder rolled over the lowering skies, and the darkness was punctuated now and then by stabs of brilliant lightning.
There were some yachts tied up at the harbor wharves, their sleek, costly shapes a sharp contrast to the sturdy ketches and wherries that were to be found at Cowes all the year round. On the quayside the Mermaid Inn was bright with lights, and the sound of male laughter issued from its doorway as a lone fisherman staggered out into the night, his sea boots ringing unsteadily on the cobbles as he began to make his way home. The nearby shipyards were dark and silent, but a lantern swayed on the corner of a warehouse, lit especially to illuminate the deck of one of the racing yachts moored nearby. The fisherman hardly noticed the yacht as he wended his uneven way past, but had society witnessed the vessel’s hasty preparations to sail on the night tide, it would have been very surprised indeed, for the yacht was the Spindrift and it was quite unthinkable that she should leave while the regatta was at its height.
Kit was on the deck with his small crew. His fair hair was ruffled by the blustering wind, and his voluminous cloak flapped around his tall, athletic figure. He knew the hazards of sailing in weather like this, but felt he had to respond to the urgent note he’d received from a close friend in distress in London. Storm or no storm, the Spindrift would cross the Solent tonight and be in Southampton as quickly as possible.
Kit only hoped his mistress would be able to slip away from the concert at the Fountain Inn to see him before he left. He’d sent a message, but maybe it wouldn’t reach her in time; maybe, too, she’d choose to ignore it, for he was supposed to be with her right now and there was nothing she disliked more than being let down. As he worked to make the Spindrift ready, he pondered what society would say if it knew about the liaison, because the lady was none other than Lady Rowe, wife of the man who already had so much cause to loathe the future Earl of Redway.
Rowe wasn’t a man to cross; he was a ruthless duelist who’d dispatched a number of opponents to the hereafter, and so Kit knew his affair with Thea was unwise in the extreme. But there was no place for wisdom where love was concerned, and Kit was very much in love. He hadn’t entered lightly into the affair – it went against his principles to put horns on another man, even such a man as the unpleasant Rowe – but because he loved Thea so very much, he’d thrown all caution to the winds. She was the love of his life, the woman he wanted as his wife, and his commitment to her was total; he only wished he could be certain she felt the same way.
Tonight he knew he’d somehow reached a crossroad. His honor forbade him
from continuing with the affair if she wouldn’t leave Rowe and come finally to him, and so she had to decide which man meant more to her: the husband who treated her with cold possessiveness, or the lover she professed to adore. Kit’s heart was heavy as he worked, for Thea had no idea that he’d finally reached this stage; what her reaction would be to having such a decision forced upon her without warning was in the lap of the gods.
At that very moment, Thea was sitting impatiently in the crush in the Fountain Inn. Her fan tapped irritably against her white-gloved palm, and the plumes springing from the golden circlet around her head quivered with barely suppressed anger. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman, with warm honey-blond hair cut into fashionably short curls, and violet eyes that were both haughty and challenging. Her figure was full and slender-waisted, and her skin alabaster clear. The spangles adorning her damson silk gown flashed in the overheated air, and her face was as stormy as the night outside. Where was Kit? He’d promised to be here by now after spending the day out at Highclare with his grandfather. It wasn’t often that she and Rowe were so providently apart so that she could spend so much time with her secret lover, and Kit chose now to absent himself without reason!
The orchestra continued playing, and her fan tapped ever more impatiently. She glared at the musicians, among whom a certain Mr Griesley was distinguishing himself on the hautbois, or at least was endeavoring to do so above the disgraceful chatter of the audience.
A plague on Mr Griesley, she thought uncharitably, and the devil take his wretched hautbois! Kit had never let her down before, and it was an experience she resented very much indeed.
A footman approached her discreetly. ‘My lady?’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘I’m charged to give you this.’ He handed her a note and then quickly withdrew.
To the strains of the hautbois and the loud drone of conversation, she read the brief communication: ‘My darling, forgive me for not being with you, but I must see you as quickly as possible on board the S. Don’t delay, I beg you. K.’