by Trisha Telep
He gave a shake of his head, and a lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead. She longed to touch it, to thread her fingers through the thick mass of it.
“It will be far cooler outside the carriage,” she said. She did not want to spend the next half-hour in such close quarters with him.
“You aren’t afraid of having me near, are you, Angel?”
“Of course not.” It was a lie. Even with Minerva present, Angelique could not dispel her ridiculous longing for him.
“Very good. Shall we?”
He helped her into the carriage and off they went. Angelique tried to keep her attention on the passing scenery outside her window, but she felt his gaze on her and, whenever the carriage went over a rough patch, his knees bumped into hers, sending shivers of longing through her.
“Will you attend the race tomorrow, Your Grace?” Minerva asked.
“I doubt it,” he replied, and Angelique looked up at him, puzzled by the contradiction. “I have other plans.”
“Oh? Will you be returning to London?”
He looked right into Angelique’s eyes. “I don’t think so. Not just yet.”
“There’s no reason for you to stay any longer, Your Grace,” Angelique said, in spite of the conflicting emotions churning within her. “Once you release the funds my aunt and I will need to live on—”
“That was done before I came down to Berkshire.”
The world shifted suddenly. “What?”
“I had my solicitor transfer control of your funds yesterday morning. A letter was sent, but it seems you left London before it could be delivered to you.”
“But then why—”
“Angelique, do not badger His Grace,” said Minerva. “’Tis perfectly clear that he came all this way to tell you personally.”
That could not be true. He’d sent her a letter. Angelique bit her lip in consternation. If he hadn’t come for the horse race, or to talk to her about the annuity, then he must have come specifically because of their broken engagement.
Had he changed? According to Lord Rathby, a certain Mrs Dumont was a frequent recipient of Heyworth’s attentions. At least it had been a Mrs Dumont two years ago. Did she dare hope that he’d changed his ways? That he was ready to become a responsible, faithful spouse?
She took in the strong line of his jaw and his intense green eyes and wished it were so. She feared she still loved him, and knew that marriage between them could be wonderful.
Or a complete disaster.
When they arrived at Tapton Manor, Angelique was quite surprised to encounter Lord Rathby. Yet his presence made perfect sense, for he had an estate nearby where her father had often gone shooting. Of course he was on friendly terms with the Stillwaters, but Angelique had not seen or spoken to him in the two years since the fateful conversation that had resulted in her abrupt departure from England.
She felt awkward facing him now, but the same was not true of Heyworth. Obviously, the Duke was unaware of Rathby’s part in her abrupt departure and the cancellation of their wedding, or he would not have been quite so cordial with the Earl.
And yet his cordiality had a strange edge to it, something Angelique could not quite define.
Heyworth took her elbow, as he drew her into the house. Angelique allowed herself to enjoy his innocent touch, nearly as comforting as the caresses he’d given her at the lake. She had never felt more attracted to him than she did at that moment.
When she was in Italy, it had been far easier to deny everything she’d felt for him. It was nearly impossible now.
She’d wanted him during their engagement, had lived for their stolen kisses and the promise of pleasures she could not even imagine after they were wed. Angelique tried to curb her longing for his touch, but feared she still loved him. She feared she did not have the strength or the will to reject him again. If he took her into his arms, or kissed her . . .
She would quite possibly melt.
Mrs Stillwater embraced her lightly. “You look pale, my girl. Come inside and sit down.”
“I’m quite all right, Mrs Stillwater,” Angelique said. “’Tis very good of you to invite us.”
Lord Rathby came and bent over her hand. “My sincere condolences, Miss Drummond, and my apologies as well, for my absence at your father’s funeral. I was in York and did not hear of his passing until it was too late.”
“’Tis quite all right, Lord Rathby. You were a good friend to my father.”
“Aye,” he said quietly and, when he slipped away to the far side of the room, Angelique suddenly wondered why he had bothered to seek her out two years before, to tell her about Heyworth’s perfidy. He’d been so earnest . . . and yet now, he was not quite so bold in his demeanour. His gaze darted towards Heyworth, as though worried that the Duke would suddenly divine who had tattled on him two years earlier.
Angelique made a study of him as the conversation flowed around her. It wasn’t as though Rathby himself had been vying for her hand, for he had not been one of her suitors during that season. What difference would her marriage to Heyworth have made to him?
Would he have had some reason to lie to her?
A leaden feeling of dread centred in the pit of her stomach. She’d never had any reason to doubt Heyworth before Lord Rathby’s tale of loose women. Rathby might have held a grudge or had some other reason for wanting to damage Heyworth. And yet Angelique had jumped to the conclusion that her betrothed was just as unprincipled as her father. She’d been afraid to trust him, afraid to trust that he was different.
Her mind reeled with possibilities.
“Do you plan to stay at Maidstone for very long, Your Grace?” Mrs Stillwater asked the Duke.
“No. Only until tomorrow.”
“Then back to London, is it?” the Squire asked.
“For a short while, then I plan on travelling.”
“How lovely. Where will you go?”
“To Greece. My agents are en route now, securing lodgings and a cruising yacht for my use.”
A little wave of panic came over Angelique. He could not go. She needed to speak to him, to ask him some pointed questions, something she should have stayed and done two years before. She’d been a rash and headstrong fool.
“Such a romantic trip,” said Mrs Stillwater. “I would have enjoyed travelling at one time, but now I’m quite comfortable in our old house, and glad to have our grandchildren nearby.”
“How do you find Maidstone, Ange—Miss Drummond?” asked her childhood friend, Caroline. “It has been some time since you were here last, has it not?”
Angelique nodded, swallowing her agitation and turning her attention to Caroline – now Mrs Gedding, a vicar’s wife. Caroline was only a year older than Angelique, and yet she and her vicar husband already had two children. Angelique felt yet another troubling emotion, a pang of longing for what she’d foregone when she’d left England. Left Heyworth.
She needed to speak to him alone, to ask him . . . Dear heavens, there was so much to ask, starting with his forgiveness. “Primrose Cottage is just how I remembered it,” she said, looking for an opportunity to take him aside, but finding none. “’Tis a lovely respite from the close confines of London.”
Caroline glanced at her father. “There is quite the crush in town, isn’t there, Papa?”
“Aye, but we will not be part of it, thank heavens.” He turned to Heyworth. “Your Grace, will you escort the elder Miss Drummond in to supper?”
“Of course,” Heyworth said, taking Minerva’s arm. They all retired to the dining room, where Angelique was directed to a seat beside the Duke.
She’d had no good reason to doubt him two years before. He was far too kind to her now, and his civility towards Rathby rankled.
The Duke hardly looked at her, though his eyes flashed with intelligence and awareness. He seemed tense, his powerful body poised for action, while Lord Rathby remained nearly silent all through the meal. When it was over, Squire Stillwater invited the men to re
tire to the veranda to smoke, and Angelique resigned herself to waiting until they returned to Primrose Cottage for the private moment she intended to have with him.
It would be now or never. Heyworth was counting on the Squire to make sure that he and Rathby were left alone for a few minutes. And Mrs Stillwater was to bring Angelique into the small sitting room adjacent to the veranda. From there, she would be able to hear the men’s conversation.
Heyworth sensed that Rathby was about to bolt. The Earl had done all that etiquette required after discovering that the Duke would also be dining at the Stillwaters’ and now he could leave. He wouldn’t want to spend any more time than necessary with the man who had not only witnessed his attempt to rig a horse race, but seen to it that he was censured by the jockey club and banned from the races for a full two seasons.
Heyworth hoped Mrs Stillwater had had time to bring in Angelique. He stood in front of the door, blocking Rathby’s path of escape, and blew out a plume of cheroot smoke. “Have you got a favourite tomorrow, Rathby?”
Rathby hesitated, eyeing Heyworth with a measure of extremely justified mistrust. It was mutual. “I certainly wouldn’t tell you. I don’t want you betting against me.”
“You don’t ever want to bet against me, Rathby.”
The man’s complexion darkened. “Oh? My bet that Miss Drummond would believe my tales of your duplicity destroyed you, did it not?”
“Nearly, Rathby. You lied to Miss Drummond, but I am about to rectify that matter.”
The door burst open and Angelique came through, her expression one of heated astonishment. She looked at Rathby with complete disgust. “You . . . you lied to me?”
Rathby tossed his cheroot to the ground and started to walk past, but Angelique grabbed his sleeve. “Tell me the truth now. When you came to me and told me about Heyworth’s mistress . . .”
“Aye. You heard me admit it.” He cast a hateful glance at Heyworth, looking more like a petulant schoolboy than a peer of the realm. “’Twas a lie. All of it. I wanted my revenge, and I got it, by God.”
He made an abrupt turn and walked round the outside of the house, leaving Angelique and Heyworth alone. Angelique was speechless. Heyworth approached her and took her gently into his arms.
“I was such a fool,” she finally said against his chest.
“No.” He slid his hands down her back, pulling her closer. “He was your father’s friend. You couldn’t know—”
“I should have known.” She felt tears fill her eyes for the second time that day. “I should have trusted you. You were always honest with me, but I was afraid – afraid to trust my own judgment.”
“’Tis all right, Angel. Rathby’s lies are in the past.”
A well of despair opened up inside her. “B-but you’re leaving for Greece—”
“Not without you, love.” He stepped back and, keeping her at arm’s length, looked into her eyes. “Marry me now. Tonight. It seems impossible, but I love you more than I did two years ago. I don’t want to go another day without you as my wife.”
Angelique sniffled. “I have no dowry. And I’m in mourning.”
“You had no dowry two years ago, either. It didn’t matter.”
Angelique was shocked. He’d wanted her – a disreputable viscount’s daughter – even without a dowry? “But the banns—”
He pulled a folded sheet of vellum from inside his coat and showed it to her. Angelique read the special licence quickly, then looked up at him, gazing deeply into his eyes.
“I love you quite desperately, you know,” she whispered.
“I know. That’s why you had to flee England.”
She raised her brow in question.
He caressed the side of her face. “Because I had the power to hurt you quite dreadfully. I promise I never will, my darling.”
“Oh, Brice, I love you. These past two years without you have been abominable.”
He tipped his head down and touched his lips to hers in a light kiss that held the promise of so much more. If only they could leave the party and return alone to Primrose Cottage.
“We ’re together again. ’Tis all that matters, Angel.”
Angelique slid her arms round his neck and kissed him deeply. He growled and pulled her against his body, claiming her as his own, finally.
“Shall we go and see if Squire Stillwater’s son-in-law will perform the service?” he asked when they finally broke apart.
“Oh yes, my love,” Angelique whispered. “’Tis all I’ve ever wanted.
Like None Other
Caroline Linden
One
Number 12, George Street was a lovely home. It was new, built only in the last ten years, and contained all the modern conveniences, with well-fitted windows and floors that only squeaked a little and chimneys with impeccable draw. It was part of a row of terraced houses, with a neat little garden out back and smart marble steps with a blue-painted iron railing in front. Emmaline Bowen loved her little home, even though it wasn’t nearly as grand as the country manor where she’d once lived as Lady Bowen. Unlike Bowen Lodge, this house was all hers. She liked being able to paint the walls any colour she liked, from the bright yellow of her small dining room to the vivid turquoise of her bedroom walls. It was a joy to open her eyes in the morning and see that blue, brighter than a robin’s egg. She often lay still for a moment, thinking that heaven must be such a colour. She said as much to her maid one morning, when the girl brought her morning tea.
“Heaven, milady?” Jane blinked suspiciously.
Emma waved one hand, leaning back against her pillows and sipping the hot tea. “Just look at the sky! Can’t you see what I mean?”
Jane peered out the window. “I see clouds. Great, rolling grey ones. The blue won’t last today.”
“You’re old before your time,” Emma told her, putting down the tea and rising from the bed. “If there are clouds on the horizon, I’d better get out and enjoy the sun while it lasts.”
“Won’t be long, from the looks of it,” muttered Jane.
Emma ignored her, going to the wardrobe and opening the doors. She took out her favourite dress, the yellow-striped morning gown with pale-green ribbons. “I’ll finish my breakfast in the garden,” she said. Jane merely nodded, with one more jaundiced glance out the window, and left. Emma shook her head as she unbuttoned her nightgown; poor Jane, to be so dour at such a young age. She must not have had a chance to learn one of life’s hard truths – that sometimes the only way to keep from raging in bitterness was to smile and laugh, even if you must force yourself to do it.
By the time she went downstairs, armoured against any greyness of the day with her bright yellow dress, Jane had put together a tray with breakfast. Carrying her own small tea tray, Emma led the way into the garden, where the sun was blindingly bright. Only if she shaded her eyes and squinted at the horizon could she see the line of grey lurking in the distance. Like the sun, she ignored those dark clouds. She set down her tray on a small table in the dazzling light.
“You’ll want a parasol, ma’am,” said Jane. “And a shawl.”
“I shall want neither,” replied Emma firmly. “I mean to enjoy the sun this morning. But since you dread the coming rain, please go open the windows to air the house before the deluge comes.”
Jane peered at the sky. “Before dinner,” she said grimly. “Thunderstorms, with lightning and flooding.”
“Go on,” said Emma, trying not to laugh. The maid cast her an aggrieved look before heading back inside. Emma settled into her seat and picked up her tea. She raised her face to the sun. Just a few minutes couldn’t freckle her complexion too badly, and she would regret missing the chance if Jane’s predictions of thunderstorms came true.
As she sat in peaceful solitude, her ears caught the clink of china and the rustle of a newspaper from over the fence. Her neighbour must also be enjoying his breakfast outdoors. A moment later a deep voice called, “Is that you, Lady Bowen?”
“Yes, C
aptain Quentin,” she called back. “Good morning.”
“Indeed it is, although my man assures me it will rain later.”
She smiled. “My maid predicted the same thing. Perhaps they are comparing notes before we wake.”
The sound of his chuckle drifted across the high fence. “Ah, but Godfrey looks forward to the rain. It will wash the steps so he does not have to sweep them.”
“He must mention it to Jane, who does not.”
“He will be sure to tell her about the hurricane we encountered in the Caribbean Sea.”
“Perhaps he had better not speak to her, then,” Emma replied at once. “She will be certain it is a hurricane approaching, and wish to board up the windows.”
The Captain laughed. Emma felt the rich, deep sound right through her body. Captain Quentin had a very nice laugh. It went well with his voice. It was a lovely coincidence her neighbour liked spending as much time in his garden as she did in hers. He had done so many things she had never dreamed of: sailed around the Horn of Africa, been to India, seen the fantastical creatures who lived far out at sea, weathered storms and pirates and all manner of adventure. When he asked – very politely – about her own life, Emma had to laugh, a little embarrassed. She’d had no adventures. She had married sensibly, not very happily, and never travelled more than fifty miles from Sussex. They often talked over the wall that divided their properties. The Captain would tell her about his adventures, and she would sit and listen, letting herself drift out of her quiet little life and imagine seeing what he had seen.
And if the sound of his voice sometimes seemed to weave a spell over her, and made her think he was taking her with him to these fantastic places . . . She didn’t let herself think too much about that. He was being polite and friendly, sharing his tales, and she was being an idiot, wondering what it would be like to swim in the tropical ocean. To feel the warm water – as warm as any bath, he said, and as clear and blue as the sky – sluicing over her skin. To lie on the sand and stare at the stars on a moonless night. To feel the wind on her face as they sailed into the unknown.