by Lara Temple
‘This here’s Hunter House, miss.’
Nell inspected the house as the postilion opened the chaise door. It looked like the other houses on the road—pale, patrician and dark except for faint lines of light sifting through the closed curtains in the room on the right. The hood of Nell’s cloak started sliding back and little needles of rain settled on her hair. She tugged her hood into place, wondering how on earth she was going to do this. She turned to the driver.
‘Will you wait a moment?’
The driver glanced at the sluggish drizzle and a little rivulet of water ran off the brim of his hat onto his caped greatcoat.
‘We’ll see if there’s someone in, but then we’ll have to get the horses to the Peacock Inn, miss. You can send for your trunk there.’
She almost told him to take her to the Peacock as well, but the thought of asking for a room in a London posting house without maid or companion was as daunting as bearding the lion in his den.
Not a lion, she mused, trying to recall what Lord Hunter had looked like. Too dark for a lion. Too tall and lean for one, too.
Whatever the case, he was unlikely to be happy about her appearing on his doorstep at nine in the evening. However, if he had a hand in this outrageous stratagem, he didn’t deserve to be happy. She still found it hard to believe the handsome and wealthy rake described by Mrs Sturges really wanted to wed her at all, especially after her shocking behaviour four years ago, but it was equally hard to believe a columnist would dare fabricate such a libellous faradiddle.
She climbed the last step, gathering her resolution, when the door opened and golden light spilled out and was immediately obstructed by a large shadow. She stepped back involuntarily and her shoe slipped on the damp steps. She grabbed at the railing, missed and with a sense of fatality felt herself fall backwards. She instinctively relaxed as she would for a fall from a horse, adjusting her stance, and she managed to land in a crouch on the bottom step. She pushed to her feet and brushed her gloved hands, glad the dark hid her flush of embarrassment. The figure at the top of the steps had hurried towards her, but stopped as she stood up.
‘That was impressive.’ His deep voice was languid and faintly amused and she glanced up abruptly. Apparently she did remember some things about her betrothed.
‘Lord Hunter...’
‘Impressive, but not compelling. Whatever is on offer, sweetheart, I’m not interested. Run along, now.’
Nell almost did precisely that as she realised the driver had been true to his word and was disappearing down the street at a fast clip. She drew herself up, clinging to her dignity, and turned back to the man who was thoroughly confirming Mrs Sturges’s indictment.
‘That’s precisely the issue, Lord Hunter. I am not interested either, and the fact that you don’t even recognise the woman that according to the Morning Post you are engaged to only confirms it. Now, may we continue this inside? It’s cold and I’m tired; it was a long drive from Keswick.’
At least that drew a response from him, if only to wipe the indolent amusement from his face. The light streaming past him from the house still cast him into a shadow, but she could make out some of the lines of his face. The dark uncompromising brows that drew together at her greeting, the deep-set eyes that she couldn’t remember if they were brown or black, and the mouth that had flattened into a hard line—he looked older and much harsher than she had remembered.
‘Miss Tilney,’ he said at last, drawing out her name. ‘This is a surprise, to say the least. Where is Sir Henry?’
‘I don’t know. May we talk inside? It is not quite...’ She paused, realising the irony of suggesting they enter his house to avoid being seen on his doorstep. His lips compressed further, but he stood back and she hurried into the hall, her heart thumping. Everything had been much clearer in her mind when she had been driven by frustration and anger and before she had made a fool of herself tumbling down the steps.
‘This way.’
He opened a door and she glanced at him as she entered. She went towards the still-glowing fireplace, extending her hands to its heat and trying hard not to let her surprise show. How had she managed to forget such a definite face? Had she remembered him more clearly, she might have reconsidered confronting him alone. She had vaguely remembered his height and the bruised weariness about his eyes; even his irreverence and his tolerance of her skittishness. But she hadn’t remembered that his brows were like sooty accusations above intense golden-brown eyes or the deep-cut lines that bracketed a tense mouth. If she had grown up he had grown hard. It was difficult to imagine this man being kind to a scared child.
‘Lord Hunter,’ she began. ‘I—’
‘How did you get here from Keswick?’
She blinked at the brusque interruption.
‘I came post. What I wanted to say was—’
‘In a post-chaise? With whom?’
‘With a maid from the school. Lord Hunter, I—’
‘Is she outside?’
‘No, I left her with her family in Ealing on the way. Lord Hunter, I—’
He raised a hand, cutting her off again.
‘Your father allowed you to travel from the Lake District to London and come to my house in the middle of the night, unattended?’
He spoke softly but the rising menace in his voice was unmistakable.
‘My father knows nothing about it. Would you please stop interrupting me?’
‘Not yet. What the...? What do you mean your father knows nothing about it?’
‘My father sent me a letter on my birthday informing me I have apparently been betrothed for four years. I wrote back and told him I most certainly wasn’t. His response was to send me this clipping from the Morning Post.’ She fumbled inside her reticule for the much-abused slip of paper and shoved it at Lord Hunter. He took it, but didn’t bother reading it.
‘And rather than communicating your...distaste in a more traditional manner, you chose a melodramatic gesture like appearing on my doorstep in the middle of the night?’
Although his flat, cold voice shared nothing with her aunt’s deceptively soft but vicious attacks, Nell felt the familiar stinging ache of dread and mortification rising like a wave of nausea. She gritted her teeth, repeating for the umpteenth time that Aunt Hester had no power over her and that she was no longer a child. She was twenty-one and very wealthy and she was done being treated like chattel.
‘Do you find it more melodramatic than concocting this engagement behind my back and keeping it from me for four years? You have no one to blame but yourself!’
That might have been going too far, Nell told herself as his stern face lost some of its coldness, but she couldn’t tell what the increasingly intent look on his face portended.
‘Clearly,’ he said, still maddeningly cool. ‘Where are you staying in town?’
Some of her bravado faded at the thought of the disappearing post-chaise.
‘Nowhere yet. I thought Father was in town, but the house is empty and the post-chaise is taking my trunk to the Peacock in Islington.’
The gloves jerked in his hands again.
‘I see. And now that you have delivered your message in person, what do you propose to do?’
Nell had no idea. She was miserable and confused and hungry and she wanted nothing more than to sit down and cry.
He moved away from her and for a moment she thought he might just leave her there and her shoulders sagged, almost relieved. But he merely strode over to the bell-pull and gave it a tug. At least in this her memory had been accurate—he walked lightly, unusually so for someone of his size, but it just added to that sense of danger she had not associated with him at all from their meeting all those years ago.
‘Sit down.’
He tossed his gloves on a table and took her arm, not quite forcing her, but
it was hard not to step back and sink into the armchair. It was as comfortable as it looked and for a moment she contemplated unlacing her shoes and tucking her cold feet beneath her, leaning her head against the wings, closing her eyes... Perhaps this would all just go away.
He stood above her, even more imposing now that she was seated. Neither of them spoke until the door opened.
‘Biggs, bring some...tea and something to eat, please.’
‘Tea?’
Nell almost smiled at the shock in the butler’s voice. Lord Hunter glanced at him with a glint of rueful amusement just as the butler caught sight of Nell. All expression was wiped from the butler’s face, but something in his stoic expression reflected the brief flash of amusement in his master’s eyes and Nell didn’t know whether to be relieved by this first sign of some softer human emotion from the man she was engaged to.
‘Tea. Oh, and send Hidgins to the Peacock and ask him to retrieve—’ He broke off and turned to Nell. ‘Let me guess—you gave them your real name, didn’t you? I thought so. To retrieve Miss Tilney’s baggage. Discreetly, Biggs. But first have him drive by Miss Amelia to tell her to wait up for me; I will be by within an hour with a guest for the night.’
Nell started protesting, but the butler merely nodded and withdrew.
‘I can’t stay with you!’
‘Don’t worry; I never invite women here and certainly not my betrothed. I will take you somewhere a damn sight more respectable than the Peacock is for a country miss with no more sense than to try to stay at one of the busiest posting houses in London without a maid or chaperon. You may not want to marry me, but I’m damned if I am going to have the woman whose name has just been publicly linked with mine create a lurid scandal through sheer stupidity. I admit your father and I agreed on the engagement four years ago, but I understood he would discuss it with you and inform me if there was any impediment to proceeding and that in any case it wouldn’t be relevant until you came of age.’
‘Because I wouldn’t inherit Bascombe until then, correct?’ she asked, not concealing her contempt.
He breathed in, clearly clinging to his calm.
‘Correct. I don’t see anything outrageous in wanting to ally the Bascombe and Hunter estates. I admit I should have probably discussed the matter with you myself, but since you disappeared from Tilney and since I was in mourning at the time, it seemed sensible to let your father discuss the issue with you. I had no idea he hadn’t done so and I had nothing to do with that gossip in the Morning Post. Believe me, I am suffering as much as you from that nonsense.’
Nell shrugged, her anger dimming, but not her depression.
‘That was probably my father’s heavy-handed way of trying to force my submission, but it won’t work. If I have to personally demand the Morning Post issue a retraction, I shall do so.’
‘No, you won’t, not unless you wish to escalate this into a full-scale scandal, which I, for one, prefer to avoid. We will deal with this discreetly and that means if you want my co-operation you will go to my aunts and once you are rested we will discuss our options. Until then I suggest we put a moratorium on this discussion. I never decide on important matters when I am tired, hungry and upset. I suggest you adopt this policy, at least for tonight.’
Nell didn’t answer and the tense silence held until the butler entered with a tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches.
‘We don’t have any sweetmeats, I’m afraid, sir,’ he said as he placed the tray in front of Nell and she smiled gratefully.
‘Never mind. I don’t like sweetmeats. This is perfect.’
The butler’s brows rose, creating a row of arched wrinkles on his high forehead. Again she saw the glimmer of amusement in the glance he directed at his master.
‘You don’t like confectionery, miss?’ he asked as he poured the tea, and both the action and the question surprised her. ‘Such a distaste is uncommon in young women, if you pardon the impertinence, miss.’
The scent of steaming tea was heavenly and her mouth watered. It occurred to her this particular servant was allowed a great deal of latitude, which surprised her given Lord Hunter’s controlled demeanour.
‘If my aunt is to be believed, my not liking sweetmeats is the least of my peculiarities. Thank you.’ She took the cup and saucer he held out to her.
‘You’re welcome, miss. But eat those sandwiches, do. Anything else, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Biggs. That is more than enough.’
Nell once again heard the mocking note in Lord Hunter’s voice.
‘Very good, sir. Shall I also send a message that you are...otherwise engaged?’
A flash of annoyance crossed Hunter’s face.
‘Yes, do that.’
Biggs bowed and withdrew.
‘I’m sorry I ruined your plans, but really there’s no need...’
‘It doesn’t matter. Eat something and I’ll take you to Amelia.’
‘I really don’t think...’
‘We’ve established that already. Eat up. And next time you plan to stay alone at major posting houses, use an alias. I suggest “Mrs Jones, widow”. Widows are granted more leeway.’
Nell was tired in body and soul, and disheartened, and miserable, and his brusque, matter-of-fact approach pushed her over the edge. Even the sight of the food wasn’t enough to counter the fury that caught her. She put down her cup and saucer with more force than grace and stood up.
‘What useful advice. I will apply it at the next hostelry. In fact, I will try it right away. Goodnight, my lord. Have a lovely life and when you speak with my father tell him to have a lovely life as well.’
He blocked her path, his hand closing on her arms firmly but without force.
‘Don’t be a fool. Come, I will take you to my aunts and tomorrow we will figure out what to do with you.’
‘You will not figure out what to do with me. I am not a...a witless dummy to be manipulated. I promised myself years ago I will never again be bullied and I don’t care how tired and hungry and upset I am, because if you say just one more nasty thing to me I will walk out of here and if you try and stop me I will scream at the very top of my lungs and enjoy every second of it!’
Once again his fleeting smile flashed.
‘I’m certain you will, for a moment. But it’s not very practical, is it? You would probably call the Watch in on us and you look done in and I don’t think you want to spend the next hour explaining the whole story to magistrates and strangers, do you? Can we compromise?’
‘Compromise how?’
‘You eat up and I take you to my aunts and then tomorrow we discuss this. Calmly.’
‘That isn’t a compromise since I still do what you want,’ she said, well aware she sounded like a resentful child.
‘Yes, but tomorrow you can send me to the devil and I will not lift a finger to stop you.’
‘That’s still not a compromise.’
‘Well, it feels like one to me. What on earth are you thinking of doing? You can’t go to the Peacock, especially now I’ve sent Hidgins for your baggage, and if you are contemplating doing something so rash, I just might choose to communicate some interesting information to the landlord that will make your stay more uncomfortable than it already appears to be.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Try me. I’m damned if I’m going to have someone whose name has been tied with mine in an unfortunately public manner make a fool of herself in one of the busiest hostelries in the city.’
‘So you are threatening to compound my folly with yours? That doesn’t make much sense.’
‘Don’t start preaching sense to me, young woman. Well?’
She raised her chin, trying to find a better solution and failing.
‘Fine. For one night. Your aunts will probably
think you drunk or mad and I won’t blame them.’
He smiled.
‘Not them. They’re used to my eccentricities.’
Nell felt a snide comment wavering at the edge of her tongue, but held back and sat down again. It felt so very good to lose her temper, a luxury she rarely indulged, but the truth was that he was right—she was hungry and tired and upset and more than willing to postpone coping with the consequences of her actions until tomorrow.
‘Fine. And please stop swearing at me. It is very improper.’
‘Fine. Eat up.’
* * *
Hunter watched as she finally did as she was told and took one of Biggs’s bread and cheese creations. He walked to pour himself a glass of port so she wouldn’t see his smile. Admittedly when he and Sir Henry had agreed on the betrothal four years ago he hadn’t been at his best, but he wondered how his memory could be so seriously flawed. He knew people changed a great deal in four years, he certainly had, and not for the better, but the contrast between this young woman and that girl was extreme. Despite her height she had struck him as rather mousy, all long limbs and very little else, her pale hair showing a distinct tendency to fall out of its pins and obscure her face. She hadn’t been ugly, just...awkward. He remembered her expressions more than her face, from the joyful light after that incredible gallop on Petra to the sheer terror when she had come under her aunt’s attack. Then, in that last minute when she had marched out of the drawing room, there had been something else—for a moment she had taken full advantage of her height and looked almost regal.
She wasn’t a beauty, but mousy or gawky were definitely not the right words to describe her. He wasn’t quite certain what words were applicable, but those blue-grey eyes, sparked with the fire of temper and determination and with a faint catlike slant, were anything but plain, and though she was still lean and athletic, as her limber recovery from the fall on his steps indicated, even under her countrified cloak he could see that her girlish slimness had filled out quite nicely.