When eventually she jabbed a look past Lord Devane, this time she recognised, with a stab of despair, the two other men who were witnessing her distress. The short, elderly butler was quietly talking to a tall, fair-haired man. Jason Davenport was looking at her too. His attention never left her. Rachel felt her stomach coil in to knots and in a sudden panic she tried to rise. Her legs were stiff, awkward from sitting so long, and she grabbed behind for support from the chair as slowly she straightened.
Connor was rising as she did, keeping pace with her, close to her and, as cramp made her sob and stumble, he steadied her with a firm grip on her arms.
His soft Irish accent penetrated her torpor, the first clear words she understood. ‘Come, it’s time to go home, Rachel…’
‘What time is it?’ was all she could croak on a sniff in response.
‘One-thirty…’
‘One-thirty?’ she echoed back. ‘You’re late…so late…’ she accused on an indrawn, shivering breath.
‘I know…I’m sorry…’ he soothed in that honey, silky voice that could so easily have drawn her back to rest.
Without another word he moved her close, an arm about her shoulders absorbing the force of her uncontrollable quaking. He took her over the polished wood floor in a way that barely necessitated her feet touching it. She was aware of the butler going that way too. He opened the door, looked at her with great intent, and then she was into balmy night air and lifted, floating, dreamlike, down the steps.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world, as she was rocking gently in his carriage, that he would shift to sit by her, still keeping her close as she drifted in and out of dozes…resting against his chest.
Chapter Eight
‘Will you be after wanting me to pour, Miss Rachel?’
‘No…I shall manage. That will be all, thank you, Noreen.’
Noreen Shaughnessy looked at her mistress, then slanted a bold stare from beneath her rusty lashes at the tall, distinguished gentleman lounging at his ease by the mantel. After a low, deferential curtsy that caused tufts of springy hair to escape her neat cap and spoil her view of his handsome self, she withdrew.
Rachel remained facing the closed door for a moment. Of course…someone else who approved of him, and a country-woman to boot. Her full lips took on a decidedly disapproving skew, before she quickly went to the tea tray Noreen had placed on the morning-room table. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly, sir…my lord.’ She slipped over the mistake in his address with slick brevity. ‘First, I must apologise for requesting your presence so shockingly early in the day, but I thought it seemed sensible, for propriety sake as much as anything, to get this over between us as soon as possible…’ Again, her soft, shapely lips pursed; this time in regret at not having more tactfully phrased her preliminaries. After all, her aim was to exploit that show of warm indifference that this man had first established between them at the Pembertons’. Time enough in the months that would follow for him to discover just how hostile she really felt. For now she was willing to curb her emotions and prepare the ground for the seeds of her plot. In fact, she was willing to do anything within her power to safeguard June a happy and harmonious wedding day at Windrush. Regaining her inheritance was another matter: a feat she was willing to work towards more slowly and stealthily.
A flitting glance reached his face. As she feared, behind his mild expression lurked faint amusement. He also looked disturbingly impressive. His attire was understated elegance: a gilt-buttoned tail-coat of navy blue, and fawn buckskin breeches that seemed moulded to his powerful physique. A crisp shirt looked spotless; a snowy cravat faultless in its fuss-free folds. Tasselled Hessian boots had obviously provided his valet with hours of toil: the one stubbed lazily on its toe, bridging the other, was reflecting the Greek-key design bordering the carpet. She hadn’t before felt inclined to notice that he wore his hair unfashionably long and uncurled: a thick pelt of sable appeared to obscure his collar and weak sunlight, stencilling through the lace curtains, was dusting his head with an ebony patina. Her teeth set a little. So, what if he looked well? He’d ever been an attractive man, there was no need to make so much of it now.
Those startlingly blue eyes were not fully open as he surveyed her, but he didn’t have the debilitated air of one deprived of rest. In fact, beneath his languid demeanour, she guessed the Earl of Devane was depressingly alert. Her summons for him to come to Beaulieu Gardens at eleven o’clock this morning—a time when no self-respecting member of the ton would be out of bed, let alone out of doors—must have reached him at the dawn-like hour of nine. Yet here he was, arrived on time, looking so immaculately turned out that he must have roused himself to be punctual as soon as Ralph handed in her message at his residence.
Not that she was a stranger to a meticulous toilette: having yesterday made an utter fool of herself in every way, starting with presenting herself at his home looking for all the world like a sloven, and finishing the fiasco by blubbing like a baby, she had undertaken to be dignity personified today.
Every possible advantage must be hers when receiving him on home ground. So, in contrast to last evening’s unkempt brat, she hoped that, this morning, she once more resembled an elegant, mature woman.
Her sprig-muslin morning dress was of demure empire line, yet fitted snugly to her bosom thus endowing her moderate bust with a maximum amount of cleavage. The skirt flared little and a hint of curvaceous hips was revealed beneath barely opaque gauze. Her complexion was white with fatigue, yet she’d forgone rouge; she knew that, oddly, the pallor suited her, as did the bruise-like smudges colouring the translucent hollows beneath her eyes for they accentuated their blue. This morning she had taken pains to appear quite interestingly ethereal and in need of a strong man’s care and protection—which was what she’d received from a most unexpected quarter last night. She was willing to play up to the concern he had shown her then. It was hardly surprising he’d pitied her considering the pathetic spectacle she had made of herself. It would have needed to be a callous rogue, indeed, who’d remain unmoved while she snivelled like a lost soul. So, against all odds, she had gained something from the débâcle and learned that even the stormiest cloud might turn up a silver lining.
Not that conquering her chagrin had been easy. Three quite presentable gowns were strewn, screwed up, on her bed upstairs where she had lobbed them in roiling pique. She had been still buttoning this one, finally opted for in a panic, with Noreen hopping and skipping around her, plying the tongs to her hair, when his curricle drew up outside at five minutes to eleven. But the furious preparations had been worthwhile: Rachel was sophisticated enough to understand that a lot of her jilted fiancé’s studied impassivity derived from the fact that he was not unmoved by her fragile, womanly charms. And she did mean to charm him into submission…for what else, initially, had she to use? Just a hope he might be tempted to oblige her with a favour because once they’d been just hours away from becoming man and wife…
Aware she had been dithering with cups and saucers whilst all this registered in her mind, Rachel made a brisk show of agitating the tea in the teapot. Immediately the utensil was tilted and the brew was streaming into a cup. In a rather thin voice she hastily enlarged on her previous blunt comment. ‘I thought it best for both our sakes that we meet early, before any of our acquaintances might be up and about and spy your vehicle outside. I’d hate to give people further cause to speculate over dealings between the Merediths and the Earl of Devane.’
‘I understand…’
‘Yes…I thought you would. Cream and sugar?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Wordlessly Rachel concentrated on being a competent hostess. With a final extra drip of cream added to his cup, she was satisfied it looked just so, and carried it towards him. She had barely covered half the distance when she realised she’d been overgenerous and the tremor in her fingers was likely to send a quantity of the beverage slopping into the saucer. She halted with a tut and a frown
, and stared dismayed at her hot, wet fingers. ‘Oh, how clumsy. I’m sorry. I shall get you another…’
‘There’s no need—’
‘No. I shall pour a fresh one,’ Rachel insisted, a hint of obstinacy shrill in her tone. ‘It is no trouble. There is still plenty in the pot.’ She backed away a pace, the cup held out rigidly in front of her as though she feared she might upset the rest on the way back to the table. Why had she not let Noreen perform this stupid ritual? she silently berated herself.
Although her eyes were riveted on the delicate floral porcelain, she was aware of the moment he relinquished lounging against the mantel. She increased her pace backwards as he advanced, the crockery rattling in her damp hand. Firm fingers coiled about her wrist, making it steady so he could relieve her of what remained of his tea.
She watched a hateful rivulet of orange pekoe tracing a delicate blue vein on the back of her hand while wending its way towards him. He dammed the flow with a dark thumb, then, placing down his cup, dried her skin with a handkerchief idly extracted from a pocket. When the linen had disappeared whence it came, still he held her and still her eyes were fixed to the manacle of brown fingers on her wrist. His closeness, his light administering touch, reminded her, undeniably, of last night. Her complexion lost its appealing pallor to a remorseless surge of blood as she remembered cuddling up quite shamelessly to him in his carriage when he brought her home. But they had spoken little, other than for him to tease out of her the necessary information that, yes, she was staying at Beaulieu Gardens, and, yes, but for servants, she was alone…
From settling herself uninvited in his hallway to plunging into a deep dreamy sleep that necessitated him waking her to eject her, she had behaved outrageously. The awful irony was that she could clearly recall being on the point of making ready to fly away home. But before she could act, Isabel had called to her, as often she did when she was upset and weary and, with her eyes heavy and her heart heavy, she had wanted to go to her…just for a short while.
Heaven only knew what his stepbrother must think of her, having seen her thus. No, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly what he must think of her. He had never liked her. Now, instead of classing her a shallow little flirt of nineteen, he would brand her a calculating spinster out to filch this noble bachelor’s attention from worthier females. Jason Davenport and Mrs Pemberton probably had one solitary thing in common: they both imagined she was desperate to once more insinuate herself into Connor Flinte’s good books, and any shameless method would do. And they were right…but not for the reason they thought. ‘Thank you for bringing me safely home last night,’ she blurted out. ‘Also, I owe you an apology and an explanation for my…my bizarre behaviour.’
‘I’m sorry you had such a long wait and received such poor hospitality in my absence. I’ve to speak further to Joseph about that.’
‘Joseph? Your butler? No…you must not scold him,’ she hastily interjected. ‘Considering how…bold and presumptuous I was, it is a wonder he allowed me over the threshold at all. And he served me a little refreshment. I intended at first only tarrying a while in case you returned for your dinner. It is my own fault I stupidly lingered so long, then fell asleep. You weren’t to know of my visit, so mustn’t feel guilty that you did not appear sooner.’
‘You’re right. I won’t,’ he drawled with a silky softness. ‘On reflection, it seems only fair that you should have wasted one evening hoping I might come home. I recall several times kicking my heels in this very room waiting for you, even though we’d a prior engagement.’
Rachel swallowed, tentatively rotated her wrist in his grip, hoping to free it. So, his sympathy was as transient as her sophistication this morning. But then she should have known his memory was not so short.
‘Why did you do it so often, Rachel?’
‘Why did you put up with it so often, Major Flinte?’ she hissed back, goaded to ungovernable recklessness by his mild words. She threw back her golden head to clash an icy glare with eyes of cerulean blue. A glint of satisfaction made his eyelids heavy, and was endorsed by a slight tilt to his ruthless lips.
So he wanted her to acknowledge the reasons for his revenge. As if she ever would forget! Well, she had a long memory, too! She wasn’t about to play this out on his terms. She was calling the tune. And he would dance to it…as he always had!
‘I imagine your servants were suspicious of admitting me to your house because of my bedraggled appearance,’ she remarked with admirable fairness as, with an abrupt manipulation, she forcibly liberated her wrist. She went to attend to the vase of full-blown yellow roses in the centre of the table, straightening the stems and collecting loose petals from the polished mahogany.
There was no response to her gracious blame-taking, but she was aware of the blue flame of his regard on her face as she roved the carpet, idly searching for somewhere to dispose of the perfumed debris cupped in her palm. ‘I expect you noticed I had mud on my clothes…my hair was everywhere…’ she added with a self-deprecating little moue, and a wave of her free hand illustrating how today’s sleek coiffure had yesterday escaped its pins to drape her shoulders.
As silence reigned unabated, she realised he was deliberately withholding his participation from a tentative rapprochement, and that by doing so he was successfully eroding her confidence. She needed to quickly bring matters to a head, for she meant what she’d said about not giving any inquisitive individuals cause to tattle over spying the Earl of Devane’s carriage outside her address. Once it was known she had been in residence alone, the town tabbies would soon put two and two together and make a salacious scandal. And no whiff of anything untoward must be allowed, by association, to spoil June’s good name with her wedding imminent. She tried again. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you this morning. I realise that, having kindly escorted me home, there was little of the night left for you to properly rest. I would not have roused you so early had it not been pressing that I speak to you urgently. I know you’d rather be abed…’
She got her response, and a hard laugh that chilled her. ‘I don’t object to you rousing me, Rachel…but you’re right…I’d rather be in bed…’
Connor’s smile was sardonic as he watched her cease her perambulating. The fistful of bruised petals were abruptly tossed on to the table. Their powdery scent permeated the room as she clattered a spoon into a saucer. Nervously she poured more tea, and immediately sipped at it.
He walked back to the hearth and propped an arm against it, hoping to God the full extent of just how well she roused him wasn’t obvious. Hoping, too, the full extent of his coarse vulgarity wasn’t obvious either. But he knew it was. He’d disgusted her and he wasn’t surprised. What did he think he was doing, talking to her like that? As though she were some auditioning courtesan? His fingers drummed in irritation against the white-painted wood beneath them. He was talking to her like that because a paramour was what he wanted her to be, and God knew he could be forgiven for confusing the issue. Gently born and still chaste maybe, but she’d given him every reason to treat her with contempt. He wouldn’t, of course; it was as far from his mind to despise her now as it had been six years ago when she’d jilted him. Yet she’d acted like the veriest trollop yesterday. It was hardly surprising his manservant had imagined she might be a cast-off mistress brazenly determined to air a grievance.
He knew exactly what she wanted with him and had been expecting her. But he’d underestimated her urgency and her audacity, which made him ponder again that her father must have played his cards close to his chest on certain aspects of this ridiculous pantomime. She obviously wasn’t aware of all that had passed between himself and Meredith. First he was handed a fine estate on a plate and now the same man served him up his daughter. It was all too obvious…too easy; but he was intrigued to find out just how far she would go to get back what she wanted. And how far he would let her go…before he let her go…
His jaw ground in self-loathing. He had a mistress who lavished on him a repertoire
of patient, ingenious sensuality; to little proper appreciation, at times. He watched his knuckles rapping out a barely audible tattoo against the wall. In a way he felt sorry that Maria had to work so hard to earn her position in his life.
This icy blonde made his blood boil without even trying. Why was he surprised…annoyed? She’d had that effect on him before. Then she’d been confident of handling him like a pet dog, keeping him tame. And he’d let her have her way because he’d known it was a temporary imbalance of power.
At nineteen, Rachel Meredith had been flighty, petulant and infuriating. She’d also been beautiful, vivacious and steeped in nascent sexuality. And he’d recognised the signs…recognised the erotic prize he’d won. And at twenty-four he had had his masculine priorities: he could be dunned by every merchant in town, his household could disintegrate about his ears while she shopped for stockings, so long as he had Rachel, hot, permissive, in his bed. Then, in moments of lust-free rationality, he recognised that despite her failings, he actually loved her, too. And it wasn’t all to do with her alluring body or her alluring dowry. It was just her. Rachel! God, he’d been some kind of besotted fool! But not now. Not ever again.
He could have had his pick of debutantes that year, but he’d chosen her on condition the engagement was short. He had his military commitments to back his stipulation that a wedding be soon arranged. He’d recently increased rank from a captain in the Life Guards to a major in the Hussars. And he was keen to promote his career because, as his wife, her social life, which had seemed so central to her existence, would be controlled by his status. So, in the few months of their betrothal, he’d decided to let her have her head. He’d had every expectation of her soon being his wife…and he could be tolerant of her capricious, childish ways; he’d enough experience with women to feel confident she’d grow up on their wedding night…
Mary Brendan Page 11