by Liz Carlyle
“Oh, indeed! Most of our family is in Norfolk.”
“Yes, but you have a cousin here, do you not?”
The rector leaned intimately toward her. “Why, yes! Fancy you should know it. My curate, Mr. Rhoades, is a distant relation.” He dropped his voice to a soft, confiding tone. “Poor Basil is an exceedingly fine fellow, Miss de Severs. But rather too bashful, I fear, to do the Lord’s work. Time will tell, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” answered Helene, inwardly wondering if Thomas Lowe had anything more than a passing acquaintance with the term bashful.
“And what of yourself, Miss de Severs? That faint French accent is lovely.”
Helene tried to return his smile. “Indeed, my parents were Parisian, but following my father’s death, my mother and I came to live in England. He died in the aftermath of the Revolution.”
“I am so very sorry,” he said, his expression one of concern.
Helene waved her hand in obviation. “I never knew my father, Mr. Lowe. I feel very much at home here. Indeed, I had two English stepfathers. “
“Ah!” he answered knowingly. “And where were you brought up? Who were your stepfathers? I own, I am inordinately curious about you.” He smiled again.
Helene had been braced for this question since returning from Bavaria. Moreover, she had vowed to be truthful. If the rector now chose to scorn her background, so be it. “I was raised by my mother’s second husband, Captain Henry Middleton, a naval man. We made our home near Hampstead Heath, but he was often at sea, and died when I was a girl.”
“Ah!” he said again. “The name’s familiar! Died in the line of duty, did he not? A brave fellow, as I recall.”
“Yes, I thought him exceedingly brave,” agreed Helene. And it was very true. Though Captain Henry had been dead for almost two decades, Helene had never forgotten his kindness in dandling her on his knee, and in bringing her trinkets from around the world.
Her mother had wed him when Helene was but five, just one year after the death of her second husband, an infamous London blood who had cared more for his valet than for his stepdaughter, and who had quickly died in a notorious dawn appointment defending his new bride’s honor. Helene shuddered to think what her mother must have done to prompt such a challenge.
Marie had been fortunate to remarry after such a scandal, even if Henry Middleton had been a little rough around the edges. But for all his roughness, Middleton had put a roof over their heads, and had welcomed Helene to share his name. Often, Helene could not help but wonder what their lives would have been like had the captain lived. Perhaps no different. Perhaps her mother would have driven Captain Middleton to the sword-point with her indiscreet flirtations.
“I seem to recall hearing someone mention that your mother was a close acquaintance of his lordship.” Lowe’s voice jerked Helene coldly into the present. “The previous Lord Treyhern, I should say.”
Helene forced a taut smile. “I believe they were rather well acquainted at one time,” she answered vaguely, but her heart had begun to hammer.
The rector waved his hand casually. “I was still at university, of course. But for my part, Miss de Severs,” Lowe leaned uncomfortably near, “I think you must account your mother most fortunate. His lordship was not, you know, marriage material.”
“Was he not?” asked Helene stiffly, rising to her feet. “Excuse me. I believe I shall check on Ariane.”
“By all means.” Lowe pointed toward a nest of rhododendron. “I daresay you shall find them engaged in mild girlish mischief just there. Indeed, I saw them not two minutes ago.”
Her face hot, Helene went out the door and through the gardens, only to find Lucy and Lizzie busy poking sticks at an empty bird’s nest which they had managed to drag from the branches of the rhododendron. Behind them, her eyes wide with interest, Ariane watched.
Inwardly, Helene wanted to laugh at herself. Ariane was obviously fascinated by her new companions, and in no need of Helene’s help. She lifted her chin stiffly, then marched back into the conservatory. “They are perfectly fine,” she announced, sweeping back into her seat and forcing herself to smile at the rector.
Immediately, Thomas Lowe leaned forward, and before she knew what he was about, the rector had seized her hand, pressing it ardently between his own. “My dear Miss de Severs, I owe you the deepest of apologies. I meant no offense by my words about the late Lord Treyhern! Indeed, I should not have said them at all! It is simply that—” the rector halted, dropping his long, blond lashes nearly shut, “—you are so easy to talk to, which makes me inclined to share confidences, which I know I ought not do on such short acquaintance, but—but I—”
A rustle in the foliage cut him short. “Oh, there you are, Miss de Severs!” Bentley Rutledge’s voice rang through the conservatory with hearty good cheer. Suddenly, his head popped up from the thicket of potted palms which encircled the low wooden benches. His eyes were alight with an unholy glee. “Been looking all over for you, m’dear! We’ve a backgammon match to set about, if you’ll recall.”
Bentley’s heavy boots rang across the tile floor as he strolled around to the opening in the greenery, then rather ineffectively feigned surprise as he peered into the sitting area. “Why look here! Hang me if it ain’t the padre!” Bentley came forward to stick out his hand. “Beg pardon, I’m sure, Lowe! Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
But the rector was on his feet and looking just a little ill at ease. “Mr. Rutledge! How delightful. I fancy I’ve not had the pleasure of seeing you in church since ... oh, since your father’s funeral.”
Bentley’s grin widened. “Ha! Take your point, old fellow, but I’ve been away at school. One must get properly educated, you know.” The young man rubbed his hands together rather too vigorously. “Now, to what do we owe this pleasure, Lowe?” Without invitation, Bentley flung himself down on the chaise beside Helene.
But the rector was having none of it. “No, and regrettably, I must now bid you both a good afternoon,” he said briskly, taking up his hat and stick. “Mr. Rhoades and I have some church business to which we must attend, and then I’m expected home.”
Smoothly, Helene rose, as did Bentley. “Then I shall see you out, Mr. Lowe,” she said graciously.
“No need to go on my account, Lowe,” added Bentley generously.
Lowe bowed stiffly. “By no means do I go on your account, Mr. Rutledge. Do keep your seat, Miss de Severs. I shall just collect my nieces and return to St. Michael’s by the rear gardens.”
“Of course,” Helene answered quietly. “Do bring the girls again soon.”
“Yes, I thank you. Perhaps the day after tomorrow?” The rector’s smile had warmed again.
Helene nodded, then stood, arms crossed over her chest, as Thomas Lowe strolled out into the afternoon sunlight to take his lively nieces in each hand. Ariane, who had darted into the shrubbery again, peered out rather forlornly, observing their departure.
Slowly, Helene rounded on Bentley. “Now precisely what were you about here, Mr. Rutledge?” She tried to keep a straight face. “We have no plans for this afternoon. In fact, I was given to understand that you had gone to Cheltenham for the day.”
Bentley’s face was red with barely suppressed mirth. “I am now persuaded, Helene, that you really are quite the femme fatale!” he chuckled, ignoring her question. “Poor old Lowe was almost on his knees.”
Helene fought the urge to smile. “Mr. Rutledge, I am Miss de Severs. And I find your terminology mean-spirited. Poor Mr. Lowe was merely—”
“—merely making an ass of himself,” finished Bentley on a choke of laughter. “Now, confess it, ma’am. The old boy was looking pathetically besotted. And you were more relieved than you care to admit, I’ll wager, when you saw me come thrashing through this jungle.” He bent down to stare her straight in the face. “Ah, yes! I see it just there—the light of gratitude in your lovely eyes!”
Helene snagged her bottom lip and bit hard. The impudent puppy was right. Lowe was a pleas
ant man, but at that particular moment, she had wished the earth to split open and swallow one of them. The rector’s questions about her mother’s relationship with Randy Rutledge had troubled her.
“There now,” Bentley said softly, cupping his palm beneath her elbow. “That smile is infinitely more charming than your governess frown! And since Aunt Belmont had no use for me, her loss shall be your gain. Now, come, take a turn about the room with me,” Bentley urged, propelling her through the greenery. “Educate me! For I’ve a sad lack of learning when it comes to horticulture, and I’ll wager you know the names of these hanging vines. And these little potted trees, too, I imagine?”
He bent forward to study a plant, then looked up at her with a sidelong glance as he stroked a soft green leaf between two fingers.
“But you were out of line, Mr. Rutledge,” she insisted, watching his long fingers which looked so very like his brother’s. “Your beguiling ways shan’t deter my argument.”
The young man’s eyes glittered mischievously as he straightened up. “Be wary of our pious priest, ma’am. His intentions may well be no more honorable than mine. Less so, I daresay.”
Reluctantly, Helene strolled a little deeper into the conservatory with him. “Mr. Rutledge, you are incorrigible.”
Bentley gave a harsh, cynical laugh. “Yes, that is one of the finer sentiments my brother uses to describe me.” They were shielded from the garden by a cascade of ferns now. “Tell me, Miss de Severs, do you think me beyond redemption? For I can assure you my saintly sibling does.”
“You are young, sir,” she returned, softening her tone. “You have many years to make of yourself what you will. It was wrong of me to call you incorrigible, even in teasing. Nor should your brother say you are beyond redemption, for you are neither.”
“What if I mean to be, Miss de Severs?” As if unsettled by her kindness, Bentley gave her an insolent wink. “Perhaps I am not as young—nor as inexperienced—as you might think.” His voice held more than a hint of masculine arrogance.
Helene stopped in her tracks. “You overstep yourself, Mr. Rutledge,” she stated coolly.
“Ah! Am I to be hanged for my impure thoughts, madam?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively. “Better a sheep than a lamb, then.” Abruptly, Helene found herself yanked against the young man’s chest, and her mouth crushed beneath his.
Despite her prodigious experience at evading just such catastrophes, Helene was caught totally unaware, her arms trapped by her sides in Bentley’s strong grip. His lips moved sensually against hers in a kiss that was deep, wanton, and shockingly rich with experience. Regrettably, he felt, smelled, and tasted very like his brother, and for the briefest of moments, Helene’s senses overwhelmed her brain.
As Bentley’s tongue raked over her lips, Helene very nearly forgot herself until she heard a soft moan of pleasure in the back of Bentley’s throat, and felt his hand slide farther down into the small of her back to pull her hips into his. Seizing the moment of near freedom, Helene jerked hard, lifting one knee sharply and almost catching the young man square in the testicles.
The result was instantaneous. Bentley pitched forward with a violent convulsion, then shoved her away, his eyes wide and tearing with pain. One hand flew to his mouth, as if he’d bitten his tongue. Just for good measure, Helene caught him across the face with a resounding smack.
“Aathh, Christhh—!” sputtered Bentley, nursing his wounded tongue, one arm lashed tight about his belly. Helene could see that the young man was courageously resisting the impulse to clutch his privates.
Never too faint of heart to add insult to injury, Helene grabbed Bentley by the earlobe and dragged him, groaning and cursing, back through the ferns. Planting one palm firmly against his chest, Helene shoved him backward onto the chaise.
“That was disgracefully done, Mr. Rutledge,” she scolded, staring down at his gracelessly sprawled figure. “Now cease cursing and explain to me precisely what it is that you think you are about here.”
Bentley lifted his gaze to hers as she dropped resolutely into the chair across from his. The young man’s eyes shimmered, and fleetingly, Helene found herself wondering if the tears were entirely pain-induced. Abruptly, he jerked his gaze from hers. “Oh, burn it, Helene!” he grumbled. “I just tried to steal a little kiss.”
Gingerly, Bentley fingered the spot on his face where she had hit him. Helene was dismayed to see that her blow had hurt more than she had intended, for his cheek was already shadowed by an old bruise. “Thought you were enjoying it, too,” he belatedly grumbled.
Helene stared at the boy, utterly certain she was losing her mind, based on what she was about to say. “Well, I did, Mr. Rutledge,” she announced, watching his pained expression shift to one of deep suspicion. “Or, rather, I would have, had I any interest in being kissed by you. But alas, I have none, your inordinate skill notwithstanding.”
Bentley slumped dejectedly in his chair. “Don’t try to cozen me, Helene,” he said softly, his eyes still bright with emotion.
Given the fact that the young man had very nearly had his tongue in her mouth, Helene was hard put to insist upon the formality of surnames. Instead, she sighed a little wearily and made a few quick adjustments to her gown and her hair. Unfortunately, such actions seemed to be necessary with a rather startling frequency when one spent any amount of time in the Rutledge household.
“Bentley,” she finally said, stabbing in a hairpin while gazing at him in exasperation, “you are a handsome fellow. And yes, you are prodigious charming. But I am not interested in making love with you, and you insult me by assuming that because I am a servant in this house, you may have your way with me.”
The young man looked insulted. “But that’s not what I—”
“Hush, Bentley,” interjected Helene, pointing a finger at his nose. “Moreover, I cannot believe that you have any interest in me. Indeed, you do not, do you?”
Bentley dropped his chin. “Well, you’re damned pretty,” he admitted, coloring slightly. “And I know you let Cam kiss you. You cannot deny that.”
Inside, Helene froze, but her composure held. “I shall neither admit it nor deny it,” she hotly insisted. “What I do with your brother is none of your concern, sir. I should set your ears afire—”
“Oh, have done, Helene!” Bentley lifted up his head, the familiar, charming grin spreading slowly across his face. “That just won’t fly! Awoman cannot kiss as exquisitely as you do, and then expect a fellow to take a scold from those very same lips!”
“Bentley, your incessant flirting will not work on me.” Helene relaxed, and chose a different approach. “Indeed, I think you are too much of a gentleman to save me from the rector’s alleged clutches, simply to corner me behind the ferns to sneak a kiss—a kiss which a dozen other women would willingly bestow upon you. Now tell me, just what did you hope to gain?”
He paused for a long moment. “I think not,” retorted Bentley, eyeing her warily while gingerly fingering his jaw. “I have need of my teeth, I thank you.”
“Tell me!”
The young man scowled at her insistence. “I just don’t care for Lowe. Didn’t care for the way the fellow was looking at you, his lashes all lowered, grasping at your hand and panting—”
“Commendable,” she said dryly, “but Thomas Lowe did not drag me behind the ferns and force his attentions on me.”
Bentley reddened furiously. “Sorry,” he finally mumbled. “I daresay you mean to tell Cam, don’t you?”
Helene settled her hands on her hips and studied the boy for a long moment. “Now, why do I get the impression that you’d like nothing better?”
Elbows resting on his knees, Bentley let his head fall forward into his hands, as if an overriding weariness had seized him. “I really don’t give a bloody damn what you tell old Saint Camden. He’ll think what he likes, and do what he likes, anyway.”
“Your brother loves you, Bentley.”
“Ha,” he said scornfully. “Y
ou cannot begin to comprehend my brother, Helene. You have known him but a few short days. I have been saddled with him all my life. Pompous, pious, self-righteous prig.”
Helene was torn by the desire to tell him that not only were his adjectives redundant, they were patently wrong. She wanted to tell Bentley that she had known Camden Rutledge for almost a dozen years, and that even as a boy, Cam had been wracked by worry for his family. The responsibility for them all had been set upon his shoulders, and he had borne it willingly, with a devotion which defied his years.
Gently, Helene reached out to touch him lightly on one knee. “What is it, Bentley? Why are you so angry with your brother? You say I don’t know him, but that’s not entirely true. A long time ago, when you were very young, I knew him well. My mother was friends with your father, and I often came here as a girl. And it was obvious even then how much he loved you and Catherine.”
Bentley looked disinterested in her past. “Really?” he said, sounding unconvinced.
“Yes, really,” Helene insisted. “I know he can often seem stubborn and unfeeling, but in truth, he cares for you. More than you know. Can you not talk to him? Can you not talk to me?”
“No,” he said defensively. “It is nothing, in any event. Nothing you can help.”
“Why do you not try to tell me, and see?”
Bentley vacillated for a moment, clearly fighting some inner struggle. But reticence won. “He just wants to lord his authority over us, that’s all. First it was Catherine. Cam ordered her around, until she married against his wishes.”
“Against his wishes?”
“Aye, to Squire Wodeway’s son. Cam thought she could make a better match, but Cat wanted to move on with her life.”
Little Catherine married a Wodeway? That did surprise Helene, for she remembered all of the widowed Squire Wodeway’s half-dozen sons with perfect clarity; a rambunctious gang of near-ruffians who possessed few pretensions to good manners, or even domesticity, come to that. Little wonder Cam might harbor misgivings about binding his sister to such a fellow, despite the fact that the family was by no means impecunious, and that their mother had reputedly been a woman of connections and breeding.