by Sandra Heath
But something swept her beyond caution. “Have a care? Why should I? You are beneath contempt, a so-called gentleman who is really nothing of the kind. I think you are the most base and shabby creature I ever met, and if I could turn the clock back, believe me I would not give you a second glance! I wish I could scourge myself free of every vile kiss you gave me!”
Her furious words caught him on a nerve. “So you found my kisses vile, did you? I doubt that very much, my dear, but what I do not doubt is that you are a woman of considerable experience, very far from the innocent widow you purported to be at the Black Lion. How many lovers have you had, Olivia? Or should I call them clients, for that is probably closer to the mark!”
“How dare you!” she cried, raising her riding crop to strike him, but he caught her wrist, then pushed her roughly back to the wall.
“I could almost believe such a fine display of outrage, but unfortunately it doesn’t quite ring true. You’re a whore to your fingertips, my dear, and if I were to take you against this wall, I have no doubt it wouldn’t be the first or last time you’ve known the experience.”
He put a hand to her thigh through her riding habit skirt, and suddenly bent his head to put his lips over hers. He was too strong for her to push away, and although she struggled, he continued the kiss at his leisure, moving his hand over her leg and then gripping her buttock to force her against his loins.
Anger gripped him, but he was aroused by the writhing of her body against his. She felt his virility stiffening like steel, invoking memories she wished to forget, but his lips, harsh and cruel though they were, were almost too much to resist. She wanted him! Even like this, she wanted him! Just as happened in the orchard, she was swept almost, to climax just to feel his masculinity pressing her through their clothes. Then she recalled other things too, like the cold loathing in his eyes as he’d left without speaking to her in the courtyard, and the way he’d called her whore!
With a huge effort she raised her riding crop to strike him furiously again and again until he pulled away to stop the rain of blows. In a trice she’d gathered her cumbersome skirts to run to her horse.
She heard him come after her, but managed to haul herself on to the saddle before he reached her. As she tried to urge her mount away, Brand lunged forward and seized the bridle, but she beat him wildly with the crop until he let go again. The moment his grip loosened, she kicked her heels furiously, and the hunter jerked away at headlong pace. She glanced back, and saw Brand dashing toward his own horse. He was going to give chase!
She flung her frightened mount down the embankment toward the track, then galloped at full stretch toward the road. On reaching it, she didn’t turn toward the gates of Oakhill House, but went in the opposite direction toward the crossroad she knew lay a hundred yards or so beyond a bend. From there, instead of taking one of the other roads, she urged the hunter through an open gate into a field and hid behind a barn.
She heard the clatter of his approaching horse, for he’d seen her turn left on leaving the track. At the crossroad he reined in, and she saw him glancing around. She might have taken any of the roads, and he knew it. For a long moment he remained where he was, controlling his capering mount with consummate ease as before. Anger darkened his handsome face as he decided to choose the road to Berkeley.
As the sound of his horse gradually diminished into the distance, she emerged from her hiding place and quickly returned to Oakhill House. At last she reached the sanctuary of the stables, and on dismounting rested her forehead weakly against the hunter’s neck. She could feel punishment for her wantonness creeping inexorably closer.
Oh, why, why had she been so irresponsible at the Black Lion? She’d known how harmful her conduct could be to Caro, but she selfishly went ahead anyway. And all for a few stolen hours between the sheets with a man who now clearly despised her! She deserved to suffer the consequences of such foolhardiness, but poor Caro didn’t.
Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Caro, I’m sorry, I’m sorry ...” she whispered, but then light steps hurried toward her, and she turned to see Caro herself approaching, looking very sweet and pretty in white-dotted lime dimity.
As Caro’s lips parted to speak, the visit to the past ended, and Summer found herself lying on her bed in the beach apartment.
A key was turning in the main door, and she sat up with a gasp.
Chrissie hurried in. “Summer? Summer, are you okay? Where are you?”
Puzzled, Summer called out to her. “I’m in here, Chrissie. What’s wrong?”
Chrissie almost ran in. Her face was pale and tense as she halted at the bedside. “What’s wrong? Are you having a hypo, or something?”
Summer stared up at her. “Am I what? Why on earth do you think that?”
“Because I’ve been trying for ages to call you on the phone, and you haven’t answered! After you forgot your insulin yesterday, I thought you might be ill, and ...” Tears filled Chrissie’s eyes, and she sat down abruptly on the bed.
Dismayed with guilt, Summer scrambled over to put her arms around her. “Please don’t cry, Chrissie. I’m fine, truly I am. I just came to lie down, and I must have fallen asleep.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t hear the phone at all.”
“I didn’t, honestly.”
Chrissie dabbed her eyes, and then gave a sheepish smile. “Now I’ve mussed my eye makeup, right?”
“Just a tad. Nothing a minute in front of the mirror can’t put right.” Summer felt awful.
Chrissie drew a long breath. “I know I shouldn’t get in such a state over you, but I just can’t help it.”
“You’ll have to help it when I go home to Boston,” Summer pointed out gently.
“I know,” Chrissie got up. “Well, I guess I’d better tidy myself up and get back to the real estate grindstone.” She went through to the bathroom.
Self-reproach flooded through Summer, and she lowered her eyes to the floor. As Olivia she was at fault because of Caro, and as herself she was at fault because of Chrissie! Guilty on both counts.
After a few minutes Chrissie called from the door. “See you later!”
“Okay!”
The outer door closed, and Summer got up to look out at the sea. She could still taste Brand’s contemptuous kiss and feel his body pressing harshly to hers, and shame crept into her heart as she recalled how much she’d wanted him, how much she’d probably always want him from now on. The damage was done; Olivia Courtenay was in love with him, and so, God help her, was Summer Stanway.
Chapter Nine
Summer gave her adventures in time and memory a wide berth for the rest of that day, but by the following morning—in 1807 the day of the annual masked ball at Bevincote—the temptation once again proved irresistible. She knew what she intended to do as soon as Chrissie and Andrew had gone to work, so before they left, she reassured Chrissie she’d be a very good girl. She also said she intended to take a long walk along the beach, so not to worry this time if the phone went unanswered.
The apartment was very quiet as she lay on the bed and pressed the button. Then Andrew’s voice spoke softly into the silence of the bedroom, the music washed over her, and she felt herself drifting pleasurably away into that other world she’d begun to crave so much.
The rattle of wheels on cobbles made her open her eyes this time. It was a sunny but cold morning, and an ox wagon was lumbering along the narrow Berkeley street where she and Caro were laughing happily as they hurried arm-in-arm on the pavement.
Caro was wearing a sea green cloak with a hood that was trimmed with white fur; Olivia wore a royal blue velvet pelisse and a wide-brimmed gray gypsy hat with gray-and-blue striped ribbons. She’d chosen the hat with great care today, because when wearing it she had only to lower her head slightly to conceal her face, which had to be a consideration now she knew Brand was somewhere in the vicinity.
Her greatest fear—or was it secret thrill?—was that he would attend the ball tonight, for although she’d be masked, s
he still felt he might recognize her. She’d certainly know him, if only by his distinctive golden hair.
Uncle Merriam and George Bradshaw had come into town to conduct a little business, and the cousins had accompanied the men in order for Caro to purchase some last-minute trimmings for the Bevincote ball. She had belatedly decided to adorn her mask with little green beads to match her gown, and there was an excellent haberdasher’s shop in the town, so they were en route there right now.
Berkeley Castle dominated the little town. It was a medieval fortress that had not suffered greatly from the ravages of time, and the same family had occupied it throughout the centuries, gradually turning it from stronghold into gracious home. The beau monde of London flocked across its drawbridge, and it was seldom there wasn’t a gathering of very superior guests enjoying its renowned hospitality. The frequent presence of so many persons of quality meant there was a demand for high-class haberdashery, and as a consequence the seemingly insignificant shop nestling in the shadow of the castle walls was filled to bursting with all manner of fashion notions, from ribbons and lace of every description, to the sort of buttons, sequins, and spangles that would have held their own at any Mayfair assembly.
As the cousins hurried along the pavement, they could hear the Berkeley Hunt foxhounds in their kennels about a quarter of a mile along the road to Oakhill. There was to be a hunt tomorrow, so the famous pack was being prepared.
Practically the whole of Gloucestershire society would converge on Berkeley, gentlemen and ladies, although the latter would either keep company at the castle or watch the sport from vantage points. The hounds sensed they’d soon be in full cry across the countryside, and their excited yelps and barking carried clearly on the almost still winter air, but then one hound gave a long howl, and Summer came to an abrupt halt.
Caro stopped too and looked quizzically at her. “What’s wrong?”
“That howl makes me shiver.” Summer gave a rueful smile then and explained about the “werewolf” at the Black Lion, omitting all mention of Brand, of course.
Caro’s eyes widened. “Oh, how horrid.”
“It was,” Summer agreed, beginning to walk on.
Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them, and they saw a carriage and four negotiating the corner from the market square. Summer gazed at it with dismayed recognition, for there was no mistaking the team of four perfectly matched chestnuts, the superb green-lacquered bodywork, and the gleaming brass of Brand’s carriage.
The street was so narrow that the cousins had to press back for the vehicle to pass, and Summer caught a brief glimpse of Brand. He wasn’t wearing his top hat, and his arm was resting along the window ledge, his gloved fingers drumming impatiently.
She lowered her gaze quickly in case he should look out, and as the carriage drove on, she looked quickly at Caro. “Do you know whose carriage that was?” she asked, trying not to sound over-interested.
“I have no idea.”
Summer was both relieved and frustrated. Relieved that her cousin wasn’t acquainted with Brand, frustrated that she herself still didn’t know who he was. “You didn’t recognize the crest on the door?”
“No.” Caro glanced curiously at her. “Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. I thought I saw the same carriage as I was leaving Tetbury, and I was just curious.”
Caro pursed her lips knowingly. “Hm, well, having observed the peculiarly handsome gentleman inside, I can well understand your desire to know his identity.”
Summer colored. “It isn’t like that at all.”
“No?”
“No!”
“You don’t have to snap my head off, you know.”
Summer lowered her eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I forgive you. Now come on, if we don’t get on with my purchase, we’ll be late meeting Father and Uncle Bradshaw to eat at the Crown.”
They reached the haberdasher’s shop and went in. Soon they were poring over the vast selection of beads, and as Summer inspected some particularly pretty pink ones with a view to buying them herself, she glanced thoughtfully at Caro. “What do you think of Mr. Bradshaw?” she asked lightly.
“He’s more disagreeable than ever,” Caro replied, pulling a face. “Do you know, I actually begin to think he doesn’t want me to marry Francis?”
“Oh?” Summer looked intently at her. “Why do you say that?”
“He pours cold water on anything to do with it, but I suppose he pours cold water on absolutely everything.”
“Yes, he does,” Summer murmured. So Caro thought the same as she did. Her brow furrowed a little as she pondered what possible reason George Bradshaw could have for not wishing his niece to marry Francis Lytherby.
They left the haberdasher’s shop and hastened back through the town to the Crown Inn, where they were to meet the two gentlemen. Almost immediately Summer became aware of a change in Uncle Merriam. On the way from Oakhill House he’d been in good spirits, but now he was oddly quiet, as if something momentous were suddenly weighing on his mind.
“Is something wrong, Uncle?” she asked concernedly as they all four sat down at the table d’hôte.
He gave George Bradshaw a surreptitious glance. “No, of course not,” he replied swiftly. Too swiftly, she thought, following his glance.
The meal was hearty—a tasty chicken soup, followed by Severn salmon with oyster sauce, then lamb and all the trimmings, and apple pie. Summer smiled a little wryly as she ate, for as her real self she wouldn’t have dared to eat so much, but as Olivia there were no restrictions on her diet, and did it feel good!
As the two gentlemen took glasses of mulled ale at the end of the meal, something made Summer look up at the smoky mirror above the mantelpiece. To her immense shock, she saw Jeremy Fenwick’s face gazing back at her from the doorway behind her. She whirled about, but there was no one there. For a moment she was too startled to move, but then she murmured an excuse and got up to hurry out. The door led into a passage, and then into the street, but of Jeremy there was no sign.
Caro came out after her. “Aren’t you feeling well, Summer?”
Summer gave her a quick smile. “I’m fine, it’s just...”
“Yes?”
“You’ll think this foolish, but I was sure I saw Jeremy in the mirror.”
Caro was blank for a moment. “Jeremy? Oh, you mean Major Fenwick, Roderick’s friend?”
“Yes.” Summer glanced along the pavement again. “It was him, I’m certain it was, although ...” She paused. “He wasn’t wearing his uniform,” she said then.
“Which means you must be mistaken, for during this endless war with France all soldiers must wear their uniforms, and besides, what on earth would he be doing here in Berkeley?”
“I have no idea.”
Caro linked her arm. “That mirror in the Crown is very smoky; in fact, I doubt if it’s ever been cleaned, so don’t give it another thought. Whoever you saw, it can’t have been Major Fenwick. Come on, I’ve persuaded Father to leave now, for I wish to get back so I can sew all these wretched beads on my mask, and I fear it’s going to take an age.” She drew Summer back into the inn, then through into the yard at the back, where the two gentlemen were waiting impatiently by the carriage.
But as they drove out of Berkeley, Summer’s thoughts returned to Jeremy. Nothing Caro said would really persuade her she hadn’t seen him, for she knew him too well to be mistaken. She also knew him too well not to accurately read the expression on his face when he’d realized she was there. He’d been startled, then dismayed; in fact he’d been very anxious indeed not to be seen!
But why? What possible reason could he have for being in this part of the world without at least speaking to her? She was still mulling over the mystery when the carriage turned in through the gates of Oakhill House, but then the cassette recorder brought her abruptly back to the present.
She lay where she was for a few minutes before getting up to make herself some coffee. Then s
he leaned against a table to dwell some more on the many unanswered questions that had now arisen in her previous existence.
Why was Jeremy in Berkeley, and at such pains to avoid her? What had upset Uncle Merriam? Why did George Bradshaw oppose Caro’s match? Was Lord Lytherby equally opposed to it, or was Caro imagining it? Would Olivia encounter Brand again? Would her indiscretions come to light? The list seemed as endless as it was intriguing, and oh, how she wanted to know the answers!
She glanced at her cup and suddenly remembered it was one she’d seen Jack use when they’d been here last year. Remorsefully, she put it down, for she’d hardly thought of him at all for a day or so now; yet for the last six months she’d thought of nothing else. Now it was Brand who crept unbidden into her waking thoughts—Brand whose smile she longed for, Brand whose lovemaking she needed, Brand whom she loved.
Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry,” she whispered and almost ran to the bedroom to get out all the photograph albums. She took them into the living room and put them on the sofa, but before she sat down to browse guiltily through them, her glance wandered to the bottles of spirits on the corner table. To hell with diabetes just this once, she thought, and poured herself a very generous glass of Chrissie’s vodka, then settled down to resurrect her neglected memories of Jack.
Page after page of cherished snapshots passed before her eyes, and the vodka affected her because she was no longer accustomed to it. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks as she ran a loving fingertip over a favorite close-up of Jack, but even now she couldn’t put Brand from her thoughts.
The photograph album slid from her lap as she hid her face in her hands and gave in to heartbreak. How long she sobbed she didn’t know, but she was still weeping quietly when Chrissie came home.
Chrissie glanced at the albums and telltale empty glass. “Oh, Summer!” she cried.
Wiping her eyes, Summer sat up penitently. “I’m sorry, Chrissie...”
“So you should be! Can’t you be trusted at all? The albums I can sympathize with, but not the vodka! You’re not supposed to have alcohol, so it was a stupid, stupid thing to do!”