Alex was shocked. “I can’t believe you took her dog! That’s just sick, Julian.”
“I know.”
“I told her I saw her dog with the twins this morning.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Julian demanded angrily. “That dog’s the only leverage I have.”
“Leverage! Will you listen to yourself?”
“I don’t care,” said Julian. “Where are the twins now?”
“I don’t know,” said Alex.
Julian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why are you blocking the window? What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“Move,” Julian commanded.
“No. Why should I?”
“Have you ever heard the story of Cain and Abel?” Julian asked.
“Yes,” Alex answered. “The elder brother killed the younger.”
“Are you going to kill me, Alex?” Julian laughed.
Alex sighed. “The twins are on the south lawn with Miss Rampling and Miss Andrews,” he said, resigned.
Julian chuckled. To Alex’s ears, it was a foul, lecherous sound. “There she is,” he said, looking out the window. “It looks like she’s giving young Henry a very large dose of what he’s in for. Shall we go down and rescue the boy?”
“Excuse me,” Alex said coldly. “I must speak to my sister.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry and Elizabeth had never seen anything quite as splendid as Viola.
“Who is she?” Elizabeth whispered, staring in helpless admiration as Viola strode across the grass in her beautiful scarlet riding habit.
“Who is she?” Henry scoffed at her ignorance. “She’s only our new governess!”
“She doesn’t look like a governess,” Elizabeth said doubtfully. “She looks like a queen.”
“Times are hard,” Henry shrugged. “Even queens must have something to live on. She probably lost her kingdom in the war.”
Viola took no notice of the twins. “I see you did not find my poor Bijou,” she said irritably to Lucy. “How I’d like to murder that man!” she added furiously.
“What man?” Henry and Elizabeth wanted to know.
Viola wrinkled her nose at the children. “Who are you?” she demanded, her riding crop at her hip.
“Viola, this is Miss Elizabeth Cheviot, and this is Mr Henry Cheviot,” Lucy said, shouldering her mallet to make the introduction. “Children, this is…well…You may call her Miss Andrews.”
Inspired by Viola’s noble appearance, Henry planted his mallet on the ground and made a sweeping bow. Not to be outdone, Elizabeth sank all the way to the grass in a solemn curtsey.
“Master Henry knows where Bijou is,” Lucy told Viola quickly. “He’s promised to give her back…if I can beat him at croquet.”
Suddenly Viola was very interested in Master Henry. Like most naughty little boys, he was unduly attractive, with big blue eyes and a crop of thick chestnut hair. “This handsome young man here? You know where my dog is?” she asked, tickling Henry’s nose with her crop.
“Is it your dog?” cried Henry. “Uncle Julian said it was his dog.”
“Your Uncle Julian is a very bad man,” Viola told him. “She’s my dog, and he knows it. Her name is Bijou. I want her back, Master Henry. Will you help me?”
Henry grinned at her, his blue eyes glinting with admiration. “I never heard of a governess with a dog,” he said.
“My goodness,” said Viola. “Aren’t they adorable when they’re small? How old are you, Master Henry?”
“Almost seven,” lied Henry. “You’re beautiful!”
Viola was amused. “Thank you, Master Henry.”
Elizabeth plucked at Viola’s skirts. Like her brother, she had big blue eyes. Her chestnut hair hung down her back in ringlets. “Did you lose your kingdom?” she asked timidly.
“I suppose I have, in a way,” Viola answered. “You see, I wouldn’t marry the nasty, old nobleman my father picked out for me, so I’ve been disinherited.”
“I knew it was something like that,” cried Henry, delighted. “Would you like to play croquet with us?”
“Now, Henry,” she scolded him. “Aren’t you playing with Miss Rampling just now?”
“Oh, Lucy’s no good,” he said. “She’ll never get your dog back. I’ll let you win.”
Viola smiled. “You don’t have to let me win, Master Henry,” she said, taking the mallet from Lucy. “You just have to let me go first.”
By the time Julian had found his way to the south lawn, Viola had run all thirteen hoops and struck the peg in a single turn. Seated on a nearby bench, Lucy and Elizabeth applauded. Even Henry was impressed.
“My turn, I think,” said Julian, striding onto the circuit. Stripping off his coat, he rolled up his sleeves and plucked the mallet from Henry’s hands. Henry, naturally, objected. “Sorry, Harry,” Julian told him without a shred of remorse. “But I’m afraid you’re way out of your depth with Miss Andrews. She’ll eat you alive. Better leave her to me.”
“Don’t call me Harry,” Henry snarled, retreating to the bench to pout.
“That is my ball, Mr Julian,” Viola said sharply as Julian approached her yellow ball.
“No. That is your ball, Miss Andrews,” he argued, indicating the red ball that had just struck the peg. “You can’t possibly have two balls.”
“We each have two balls, Mr Julian,” she said with asperity. “Mine are red and yellow. Yours are black and blue. Do you even know how to play the game?”
“Of course I know how to play the game,” he scoffed, moving on to the black ball. “I invented croquet. I was simply testing you. Now, if you don’t mind, Miss Andrews, I’ll have absolute silence while I take my first stroke. In life as in bed,” he added for her ears alone.
With consummate skill, he put his ball through the nearest hoop. “Ha!”
“I really must ask you to be quiet while I take my turn,” Viola said coldly.
Julian scowled. “It’s still my turn,” he objected. “I ran the hoop!”
“You ran the wrong hoop at the wrong time,” she explained sadly. “In life, as in bed.”
“No, I didn’t. What do you mean as in bed?” he demanded roughly.
“You’re not that good,” Viola explained. With a sharp swing of her mallet, she sent her yellow ball rolling toward his black ball. The two balls clicked and came to rest side by side.
“You hit my ball,” he complained, enraged. “Foul play, madam!”
Ignoring him, Viola walked over to the two balls, placed her foot firmly on her own ball, and gave it an excellent whack. Julian’s ball flew across the lawn and disappeared into the hedges.
“That’s cheating, you baggage,” he complained.
“That’s croquet,” she sweetly replied, using her last stroke to return her ball back to its original position. “Now it’s your turn. Ah-ah-ah,” she chided him as he went to his blue ball. “You cannot play your blue ball until your black ball is finished. Your black ball is somewhere in the hedges,” she reminded him helpfully.
“Harry!” Julian called to his nephew. “Go and find my ball, would you? There’s a lad.”
“I won’t,” said Henry. He seemed to be holding a grudge against his uncle. “And don’t call me Harry!” he shrieked.
“This is a stupid game,” Julian declared as he plunged into the hedges after his ball.
“You invented it,” Viola reminded him, even as she found his ball with her foot and nudged it under her skirt.
“No,” he retorted. “The game I invented is much better. It’s called sexual intercourse.”
“I suppose the man who invented the pianoforte wasn’t much of a pianist, either,” she mused. “One never hears of him, at any rate. His music must have been quite forgettable.”
Julian poked his head out of the hedge to glare at her. “You were singing a different tune last night, as I recall, madam. You went off three times, at least.”
“I’m heartily
sorry if I gave you that impression,” she apologized. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, so I may have fudged a little.”
Julian stood nose to nose with her. “Your foot is on my ball, madam.”
“So it is,” she admitted.
In the next moment, the black ball shot across the lawn and struck the yellow ball, knocking it out of place.
“You threw that ball,” Viola accused him, striding after him back onto the circuit. “You picked it up and threw it.”
“Prove it,” he invited her. With his next stroke, he hit her ball again.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You can’t win like this.”
“Neither can you,” he retorted, hitting her ball again.
“This is stupid,” she said, tossing down her mallet. “I forfeit. Congratulations on your splendid victory, Mr Julian! Well done.”
Julian caught her arm. “You can’t blame me for wanting to postpone the inevitable, Miss Andrews,” he said. “Nobody likes a broken heart.”
“If you had a heart,” she said, glaring at him, “you would not have taken my dog.”
His expression hardened. “Well, you know what you must do to get her back!”
Viola laughed. “I certainly do. Oh, Master Henry!” she called. Picking up her skirts, she ran lightly to the boy and knelt down to look him in the eye. “Master Henry,” she said, her eyes pleading, “may I have my dog back, please?”
“Don’t do it, Harry!” Julian shouted.
“She’s in the tree house,” said Henry, hopping up from the bench to seize Viola’s hand. “I’ll take you to her.”
“Judas,” Julian growled.
Lucy caught his arm. “I must ask you again to leave my friend alone, Mr Julian. You have a remarkable ability to discompose her!”
“Really?” Julian said, flattered. “What does she say about me?”
“Nothing of a complimentary nature, I assure you. Where are you going?” she cried as he disentangled himself from her.
“To the tree house, of course,” he answered, laughing. “To discompose your friend.”
“Oh, he is a scoundrel,” Lucy groaned, stamping her foot.
“Uncle Alex?” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“No, dear. Your Uncle Julian,” Lucy said absently before she realized that the elder of Elizabeth’s uncles was upon them.
Alex caught Elizabeth in his arms and easily swung her up to rest on his shoulder. “Who’s a scoundrel?” he asked cheerfully.
Lucy blushed. “Forgive me. I should not speak so of your brother.”
“He should not give you reason to speak so,” Alex replied. “Now, where is young Henry? His mother would speak to him of a very serious matter.”
Lucy was eager for some good news. “Were you successful, Mr Devize? Is Miss Shipley to be allowed to stay?”
“I think so.”
“Oh no!” cried Elizabeth. “We don’t want Miss Shipley. We like our new governess.”
“Elizabeth!” Alex rebuked her. “Miss Rampling is not your governess.”
“Not Lucy,” Elizabeth said scornfully. “Her!”
Viola was coming toward them from the far side of the lawn, a squirming bundle in her arms. Clearly, she was trying to outstrip Julian and young Henry, but, as she was hampered by the heavy skirts of her riding costume, they had no difficulty keeping up with her.
“You can’t leave!” wailed Henry. “You’re the new governess. You can have any room you want in the whole house,” he promised wildly. Then, even more wildly: “I’ll be good!”
“I am not your governess, you beastly boy,” Viola stopped to hiss at him.
“I’m afraid she’s had a better offer, Harry,” said Julian. “She’s going to be your aunt.”
“How?” Henry demanded suspiciously.
“Your uncle is making a joke,” Viola said coldly.
“No, I’m not,” said Julian. “You see, Harry, I’m going to marry Miss Andrews. That will make her your Aunt Mary.”
“We’re no longer engaged!” Viola shouted at him.
“It’s a very big secret, Harry,” Julian went on calmly. “I wanted you to be the first to know, but you mustn’t tell anyone until after we are married. Then you can tell everyone that you knew it first.”
“Mr Devize, this is unpardonable!” Turning on her heel, Viola crossed the lawn, calling to Lucy. “Look what they’ve done to her,” she cried, showing Lucy the bundle in her arms.
Lucy gasped. As Alex had predicted, the little white dog was white no more. She had been caked in black mud and stuck all over with turkey feathers.
“They tarred and feathered her, the little monsters!”
“It’s not real tar!” Elizabeth assured her anxiously. “It’s only mud.”
“It will wash off,” said Julian, chuckling as he joined the party. “Look! She’s wagging her tail. Look, she’s licking my hand.”
Viola slapped his hand away angrily. “She’s having a spasm,” she corrected him.
“I’ll give her a bath myself,” he offered. “She’ll be good as new.”
“I think you’ve done quite enough, Mr Julian,” Lucy said coldly. “We will look after Bijou. Good afternoon! Good afternoon, Mr Devize,” she added in a more civil tone to Alex.
“I’ll walk you to the stables,” Julian said cheerfully. “I feel like a ride myself.”
“I’ll go with you,” cried Henry.
“No, Henry,” said Alex. “Your mother wants to see you.”
“The Shipley is staying,” Elizabeth whispered to her twin.
Viola and Lucy hurried toward the stable, Henry’s howl ringing in their ears. Julian kept up with them easily, announcing his intention to accompany them on horseback all the way back to Gambol Hall. Not even the fact that Lucy did not jump could dissuade him.
“I adore trudging along muddy country lanes,” he declared.
Deliverance came in the form of Lord Cheviot himself. As the party neared the stables, his lordship came out of the building and verbally attacked his brother-in-law. “What the devil do you mean by taking Sultan out last night? He’s lame this morning.”
“He threw a shoe on the way home, but he ain’t lame,” Julian protested.
“He’s got a big knee!” Lord Cheviot cried, red in the face. He was not passionate about many things, but he did love his horses.
“It was like that when I got on,” Julian said mulishly.
“Rather like the crack in the dining-room chimneypiece,” said Viola.
Tony was taken aback. “Er…yes,” he said, miffed by the lady’s interference. “Look here, Julian, how long do you propose to stay here in my house, spilling lemonade on my best clothes and laming my horses? That’s right! I know about the lemonade!”
“Calm yourself, Tony. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“You are?” Viola said, startled.
“Yes,” Julian said. “I’ve been away from London too long as it is. It would be folly to stay here another day, would it not?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Folly.”
“Good-bye, Mr Julian,” Lucy said, pulling Viola away as the groom brought the ladies’ mounts.
“Good-bye, Miss Rampling,” Julian said cheerfully. “Au revoir, Miss Andrews.”
“Poor Bijou,” Lucy murmured as she pulled the wet, shivering bichon out of her bath some time later. “What sort of a man would kidnap a sweet, devoted little creature like you?”
“A bad man,” said Viola, wrapping her now-white puppy up in a rose-colored damask towel. “A very bad man. I will certainly take him to task when I see him at the Folly.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open. “When you see him at the Folly!” she repeated incredulously. “You have not consented to meet him, surely!”
“I must,” Viola said simply.
“Have you taken leave of your senses? Viola, you cannot be serious.”
Carrying Bijou to the rug by the fireside, Viola began rubbing her down with the towel. “We have s
ome unfinished business,” she said. “That’s all.”
“You cannot meet him,” Lucy insisted. “What unfinished business? You have Bijou.”
“You said yourself, I must give him his ring back.”
“You don’t have his ring,” Lucy pointed out.
“Then I must give him something of equal value.” Viola shrugged. “I have a lot of rings. I’ll just give him another one.”
“Send your servant,” Lucy exclaimed.
“And have Julian claim he never received it?” Viola shook her head. “No, Lucy. It’s my responsibility. I must face him.”
“Let me go in your place,” Lucy offered.
Viola scowled at her. “Why should you go in my place?”
“Because it would be folly for you to go!” said Lucy. “Mr Julian is by no means a respectable young man. You would not be safe with him, I am persuaded.”
“Oh, but you did not hear what he said to little Henry,” Viola protested. “Lucy, he told his nephew that he was going to marry me! It could not have been plainer.”
“Oh!” said Lucy, aghast. “That is too much effrontery, even from him! To use his nephew—a mere child—for his own devious ends…!”
Viola looked up, frowning. “But, surely, he would not say such a thing to his own nephew if he did not mean it,” she said. “He would not tell Henry that I was going to be his aunt if he had no intention of marrying me. That would be unconscionable.”
“Mr Julian is the sort of man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants,” said Lucy.
“True. But I don’t think he would lie to little Henry,” Viola protested. “And if what he wants is to marry me, after all—”
“Viola! Have you forgotten that this is the man who tried to sell you to Lord Simon?” Lucy demanded. “Of course he would lie to his nephew. He wants you to run away with him to London, doesn’t he?”
“Well, yes. But he loves me, Lucy. That is, I believe he loves me.”
Lucy sighed. “That is not love, Viola. It is lust.”
Viola shrugged. “Is there a difference, really?”
Lucy was shocked. “Of course there is!”
“For men, I mean,” Viola clarified. “They’re not terribly sophisticated, you know. They want what they love, and they love what they want.”
The Heiress In His Bed Page 34