A Roguish Gentleman

by Mary Brendan

  Elizabeth tilted her chin. She didn’t care, in any case, which of his piffling friends were due to attend! If they liked him, that obviously cast their own characters under grave suspicion! She didn’t care, either, whether they knew about her disgrace. She had no intention of playing the pariah for any parvenu cits! In fact, she had had no intention of playing along with this foolishness at all. She found herself travelling to Grosvenor Square this evening not primarily to dine or meet his friends and family, but to retrieve her necklace.

  She had been quite certain that, once the Viscount’s temper cooled a bit, he would make contact during the week. After all, they were now unofficially betrothed. But he had not. She had not seen or heard a word from him. Thus there had been no opportunity to revile him for keeping her necklace. And she had balked at the idea of again scandalising all concerned by visiting him to demand he return it. Which left just writing a note: which he would doubtless ignore, for he must still be very angry with her for again snubbing him. He hadn’t even contacted Edwina; her grandmother had been a little chary of the absence, lest he was brooding on breaking the contract, and this dinner date. Elizabeth, too, had been moderately relieved he had not, for she needed to accost him tonight and wrest her jewellery from him.

  In direct contrast to the Viscount’s absence had been Hugh Clemence’s many visits. The first one had her inwardly groaning, wondering how to deflect questions over her odd disappearance from home that had occasioned him being twice roused from his bed by Pettifer. Edwina had unexpectedly come to her rescue. Usually the vicar’s arrival prompted her grandmother to disappear in the opposite direction. This time, she was all affability.

  ‘Sorry about harrying you the other night, Reverend,’ she had barked. ‘If you must tick us off, blame m’granddaughter. She has this habit of secreting herself in odd corners of the house. And m’eyes aren’t all they should be. Can you wonder at m’fears when she wasn’t in her bed, but potting ferns in the conservatory at such an hour? I think this business with the slum dwellers is badly affecting her.’ The dark hint and head tapping that accompanied the remark had been laden with accusation.

  Hugh had looked mystified at being obliquely to blame for his own disturbance. On seeing his hurt bewilderment, Elizabeth had comfortingly mouthed, ‘Eccentric…’ with a couple of meaningful grimaces for good measure.

  Whatever her grandmother said, she was determined to go as usual with Hugh to Sunday School. And she would make it her business to track down Jane Selby and rescue her. So she would need a valuable item to take with her…

  Her musing was curtailed as she realised the carriage had stopped. Elizabeth noticed two flare-toting footmen, resplendent in their dark livery and moth-bright powdered wigs, approaching their carriage door. Her final reflection, before disembarking, was that the cheating, lying host she was about to be presented to presently held that necessary valuable item. But not for much longer. It was hers! And she was determined to have it!

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I’ve always been a tiny bit in love with Ross…’

  The confession emerged in a conspiratorial sigh. Rebecca wrinkled her neat little nose at her friends, then glanced across the opulent drawing room at their darkly handsome host talking to her beloved Luke.

  ‘I think we all feel that way about Ross, Becky,’ Emma Du Quesne admitted, but her exquisite topaz eyes were on her tall, blond spouse, grouped with the Trelawney men, and no doubt discussing their copper-mining consortium. Sir Richard Du Quesne had propped a negligent elbow on the magnificent Adams’ chimneypiece, while emphasising some point to his Cornish colleagues with the crystal goblet he held. His silver gaze slid sideways, merged with his wife’s; it was a second or two before a private smile passed between them.

  There was a third lady, resting comfortably between Rebecca and Emma on a plump-cushioned gilt-framed sofa. Viscountess Courtenay trailed an oval fingernail across delicately painted cherubs on her gauzy fan. ‘It’s as well our husbands trust us so much,’ she contributed to the romantic debate. Victoria slanted a fond look at her dear David, chivalrously bringing to Demelza Trelawney a glass of ratafia while her sons socialised by the hearth.

  All the people in the room were joined by family or deep friendship. All were enjoying this fine opportunity—while awaiting the arrival of Ross’s other guests—to catch up with news on subjects as diverse as business and babies, as well as airing all the other myriad little domestic matters that were gladly heard by people whose opinion and advice were valued.

  ‘They trust Ross, too. That’s why they let us flirt with such a dangerously attractive bachelor,’ Emma said. ‘They’ve all been acquainted such a long time. Richard told me that Ross has ever been a successful charmer. I doubt it’s exaggeration! In the short while I’ve known him, I’ve witnessed all manner of females fighting quite immodestly over him.’

  ‘I feel privileged to have had his escort on occasions,’ Rebecca added. ‘It’s been very agreeable. I’ll miss his teasing remarks and wicked glances…I shall make Luke take over where his brother has left off!’

  ‘That was quickly achieved, Lady Ramsden!’ Emma drolly announced, noticing Baron Ramsden’s dark eyes targeting his vivacious, blonde wife.

  ‘What makes you think Ross might now deprive us of his delightful gallantry, Becky?’ Victoria interjected. ‘The few days I’ve been here in London, I’ve noticed no change in him.’

  ‘Oh, it’s hard to be specific,’ Rebecca bubbled, very conscious of her husband’s ardent gaze. ‘He just seems different: a little preoccupied and impatient at times. He lacks his usual devil-may-care attitude to every single thing. I think perhaps he is at last taking his responsibilities seriously: he did tell me there is a mountain of work to be done at Stratton Hall before it is properly habitable. And then again he seemed very…interested in a fair lady we saw when out shopping. I think he is possibly in the process of…’ Her voice became whisper-soft. ‘Delicate negotiations with a new chère amie. We also came face to face with a brunette he had just put off! The blonde is so much lovelier…refined, too. I believe Ross called her Lady somebody or other. Mayhap she is a young widow. But I couldn’t prise out of him much at all. And you know how he usually yields to a little coquetry.’ She nodded meaningfully at Emma and Victoria, and as one, they all slanted a speculative look at Ross who was consulting his gold hunter.

  Irritably, the case was flicked shut and he looked at the clock on the mantel, as though checking the time.

  ‘Is Guy Markham late?’

  Ross stared blankly at his brother for a moment.

  ‘Is Markham late for dinner?’ Luke repeated with slow stress. ‘Dammit, Ross, you’re acting like a blockhead. You’ve had your watch out three times in three minutes. Who are you waiting on? Markham or this Mrs Sampson you’ve invited?’

  ‘More likely to be Mrs Sampson, I’d have thought,’ Dickie Du Quesne chipped in drily before sipping from his glass.

  ‘Mrs Sampson is a very old friend…in more ways than one: she’s over sixty years of age,’ Ross informed Dickie with a grin.

  Dickie choked into his aperitif. ‘Over sixty?’ he gasped. ‘Good God! That’s a little too mature even for your all-encompassing taste. You mentioned her granddaughter might accompany her. Perhaps she has you on tenterhooks. Is she squint-eyed and stalking you?’

  It was Ross’s turn to choke on his drink. He grimaced while soothing his furrowed brow with hard, dark fingers.

  Reading nothing positive in his friend’s skewed expression, Dickie guessed gloomily, ‘Oh, perfect! She’s not just out of the schoolroom and liable to get all giggly if anyone attempts conversation with her, is she?

  ‘Well, whoever it is we’re waiting on, I wish they’d hurry up,’ Luke growled. ‘I’m ravenous!’ Barely pausing, he continued, ‘And Mother is signalling at you…for the second time. By her look, I’d say maternal advice is in the offing. First, a little brotherly advice,’ Luke continued soberly, with a staying hand on Ross’s
arm. ‘Tell her what she wants to hear. For some reason, she’s been more anxious than usual over you, of late. She was determined to come to London and see how you do. And you know how much she hates to travel…’

  With a sigh, Ross retrieved his goblet from the mantel and dutifully strolled towards Demelza Trelawney’s chair. As he hunkered down beside it, Lord Courtenay removed himself from where he’d been perching on the arm. With a parting smile, David strolled to squeeze onto the sofa beside his darling wife, Victoria, and her friends.

  Demelza placed a delicate hand on her youngest son’s lean, tanned face. ‘Are you happy?’

  Green-gold eyes lifted to hers, gazed deep into their gentle brown depths. He smiled. ‘Of course…yes, I’m a Viscount, in favour at court. I’ve this fine townhouse and a magnificent estate—or at least it will be when I’m done with it. You must come and see it; next week, if you feel like a carriage ride to Kent.’

  ‘You’ve told me what you’ve achieved, Ross, not what I asked,’ his mother mildly reproved. ‘Being a Viscount with a grand home is nice. Being content with that would make it wonderful. You’re still not content. You’ve craved danger and excitement all your life and I’ve watched you indulge it way too much. Now I feel I should have been firmer with your father…with you all…and curbed it when you were younger. Oh, very well, tried to curb it,’ she amended with a little moue as she read his ruefully amused expression. ‘But it’s gone on too long now; restlessness…inconstancy…seem natural to you.’ She angled her head, attempting to lure her son’s evasive feral eyes.

  She gazed at his dear profile until it wavered out of focus and in her mind’s eye stood a child; wild as the rugged Cornish coast, as the wind that cowed the grass along the cliff tops. Never still, never sated, never hurt. Sometimes he would come to her, out of childish duty, raise torn elbows and knees, while fidgeting to be free again. Momentarily, he might tolerate her fingers forking into his thick, sleek hair, her lips kissing better his wounds, before his wiry little body wriggled away. And then he would be gone, running…running…long dusky locks tangling with the briny breeze, his beautiful dark face once more animated…laughing…always laughing. And now…now Ross was hurt again and it was nothing a mother’s kiss could soothe. Ross was in love.

  Aware of her eyes on him, Ross glanced up, humouring her with a crooked smile.

  ‘You helped Luke discover tranquillity and I know you’d like to find it, too,’ Demelza resumed slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘But its lack never worried you, before. It only worried me.’ She punitively waggled his square, shady jaw, emphasising her vexation. ‘But now…you’re different, my love; there’s melancholy in your eyes. I think perhaps you finally know where it is, but still it’s eluding you…’

  Ross removed his mother’s cool palm from his face. He looked at it, fleetingly pressed his lips to it, before linking their fingers and skimming her pale cheek with the back of his dark hand. He smiled at her appealing, fine-boned features. Her skin looked as soft as it felt: little marred by the years of coastal living, and her raven’s-wing hair shining with silver skeins, rendered her still strikingly attractive at sixty years old. About to give spurious reassurance while inwardly cursing her maternal perceptiveness, Ross suddenly became aware of her eyes slipping away from his and a static silence crackling in the room around him. It was the serene curve to his mother’s lips that snapped his head about.

  ‘Mrs Sampson and Lady Elizabeth Rowe…’ Dawkins, his butler, droned nasally.

  Elizabeth sensed herself rooting to a spot barely a yard into the drawing room. Blood drained from her complexion until it prickled icily, and those old, terrifying demons that she thought conquered and long banished to her past, danced with devilish abandon in the pit of her stomach.

  The scene was a decade old, yet frighteningly familiar. Parvenu cits? Her disparaging description returned to mock her as she gazed, panic-stricken, into a room that was all dignified elegance…as were its occupants. One skittering, scouting look had impressed on her these were charmed people; people of influence and gentility…and fabulous wealth. And they were all staring at her…and she couldn’t bear it.

  She was obliquely aware that only a few seconds had passed since she and Edwina were announced; the butler was still in the process of bowing sedately out of the room, pulling closed the enormous doors as he went. Only seconds had passed! But in a moment she would hear the whispers, see the sneers, and squirm beneath their scorn as she strove not to turn and flee.

  As though Edwina sensed she might bolt, a preventive hand grabbed her elbow, attempting to urge her forward. Encouragement was hissed warmly against her ear. But her legs felt stiff and leaden, her chest too tight to drag in breath. Her violet eyes began flitting agitatedly over blonde…brunette…male…female…sparkling gems…sleek silk; never lingering long enough to register anything or anyone clearly, yet scouring, desperately seeking. Where are you? wailed plaintively in her head. More than anything in the world, she wanted to locate his strong gypsy face, his broad, brown-clad body. She needed him…now…so much…

  Her bated breath whimpered out between her compressed, chalky lips as his movement amid the stillness arrested and held her eyes. He rose slowly, sinuously, from the side of a chair and was walking towards them. His eyes never once relinquished hers and she held to that comforting, honeyed gaze as a castaway might cling to a piece of driftwood.

  ‘Mrs Sampson…Lady Elizabeth…I’m very glad you could come…’

  The welcome was warm, sincere. His attention was courteously with Edwina as she addressed him, but his touch was immediately with Elizabeth. Slowly, discreetly, he drew her towards him, his firm familiar fingers on her cold, quaking arm. She felt the warmth of a thumb smooth back and forth, back and forth, and another shuddering little sigh escaped her. He shifted casually closer, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to move to meet him, seek the lee of his large, solid body.

  Within a few seconds of listening to discourse about the changeable weather, in particular the rainstorm earlier that had knocked the petals off Edwina’s favourite crimson rose, and the ensuing sunshine that was so welcome but did nothing to repair the damage; Elizabeth was calm enough to again be fretting. This time her fears were that he would think her a socially inept nincompoop to be standing so mute and trembly, and so clingingly close to him. She took a very small step back; it was the most she could manage.

  Another superbly attired, handsome gentleman strolled to join them. Ross introduced she and Edwina to his brother, Luke. She believed she murmured an adequate response to a convivial greeting from this stately aristocrat who looked older than Ross by some years, but so resembled him, that the family connection would have been obvious. Then Baron Ramsden was gallantly leading Edwina away to meet the other guests.

  Elizabeth blinked rapidly at Ross’s shoulder, unable to look anywhere else. She was sure they were the focus of many pairs of eyes, and that she was foolishly engendering further interest, and thus her own uneasiness, by her obvious reluctance to quit his side. She despised herself for her timorousness, but it was far too soon to relinquish the relief and security she found stationed so close to this man.

  ‘Don’t be nervous, sweetheart,’ he encouraged with such husky affection in his tone that Elizabeth’s head jerked up.

  There was amusement gleaming in his tawny eyes but it wasn’t scornful; it was gentle, understanding…and prompted an immediate defensive indignation. She wouldn’t be pitied! Not by him! About to retort that she wasn’t nervous and he had no right to suppose she might be, the words withered, unuttered, on her lips. The discreet caress on her arm was again working its lulling magic; also she read from his wry expression that he was anticipating the rebuttal. But primarily she remained silent because she recollected him calling her sweetheart and, even if it was mere meaningless cajolery, she liked it.

  His smile strengthened into a throaty chuckle that acknowledged the piquant mingling of belligerence and vul
nerability purpling her eyes. ‘Good; I can tell you’re now a little more relaxed, Elizabeth. You look almost the shrewish little madam I’ve come to know and love…’

  Elizabeth stared at him, unable to draw breath, drowning in his golden gaze replete with a mockery that wasn’t quite genuine. Her eyes dragged away and her tongue tip moistened her lips. ‘I…I’m sorry if I seemed a dumb idiot just then when you introduced me to your brother.’ Desperate to appear confident and capable, she flicked her bright, burnished head, setting her curls dancing, while rushing on, ‘It’s just…I rarely socialise in…I’m a little out of practice with people of…I rarely go out now.’ She tailed off, feeling her complexion heat. ‘I don’t like to be stared at…’ she defensively concluded her justification.

  ‘There’s not a soul here who means ill by it, Elizabeth. It’s just that it’s impossible not to stare when you look so outstandingly lovely. When you arrived, you stunned me into gawping at you, too, for a moment. And I’m acquainted with your ravishing looks.’ His eyes became heavy-lidded, a veiled honey gaze flowing over her lush, petite body sheathed in taut plum velvet.

  A hand instinctively fluttered to her low neckline as though she could shield from view the frantic rise and fall of her pearly, satin-skinned bosom.

  He took the fingers, placed them in the crook of his arm, as he turned them into the sparkling warmth of his opulent drawing room. As far as her little reconnoitering glances could detect, nobody was staring, or even looking their way now.