A Roguish Gentleman

by Mary Brendan

  ‘Are you talking about Havering?’

  Elizabeth relaxed a little, not wanting to move. It felt so comfortable, so easy just being warm and close to him. But it wouldn’t last, of course, he didn’t want her comfortable and easy laying against his shoulder. But for guests in the house, he would have her pandering to his lechery. ‘Yes,’ she simply answered his query.

  ‘He’s married now,’ he said in the same cool, neutral tone.

  Elizabeth swallowed, closed her eyes against the soft wool of his coat. ‘Yes, I know.’ She pushed herself back, unwilling to discuss any of it further. ‘You could do it,’ she said. ‘It will be more to your liking and quicker; your guests must be wondering where on earth their dinner is. Edwina said she was most looking forward to her dinner…but then she always does, of course. She guessed fifteen courses or thereabouts and was hoping that pheasant and salmon and syllabub would be amongst them…’ She trailed into silence, a vague smile fading away to nothing, as she stared at his intricately folded cravat, stark white beneath his dusky chin. Suddenly she tipped against him, kissed him full on the lips.

  It was shy, soft and soon done. Then, because she realised how boring and inexperienced it must seem, before breaking contact she touched her tongue tip to his mouth, as she recalled he had done when kissing her. She felt his lips part allowing it to flick inside and she was petrified into stillness, unsure what to do next. She knew if she raised her lashes, he would be watching her, probably in a scientific, calculating way. She had confessed to not having kissed in years; she wondered how long it had been since he had encountered such gauche clumsiness from a woman he desired. She doubted Cecily Booth, the vampish brunette, kissed him this way…

  With that forlorn thought, she pulled back, face flushing. Immediately she walked away. ‘My necklace, please…’ She hoped the request sounded cool and compelling. Inwardly, she was writhing. If he laughed at her, scorned her pathetic effort by saying it came nowhere near to earning her back her jewellery, she knew she might fly from the room…from the house.

  She heard the slide of wood on wood as a drawer smoothly opened, then his footsteps closing with her. The unexpectedness of cool fingers on her febrile skin made her flinch. He moved her hair from her nape, then the sleek coldness of gold and precious stones slid against her throat. He fastened the collar, then carefully smoothed her moonlight-fair hair into place before both dark hands slipped downwards to enclose her pearly upper arms.

  Elizabeth raised unsteady fingers to glide against the gem she had last worn at her début ball. ‘Thank you…’ she whispered, her lids drooping in sheer gratitude that she once more had it.

  He turned her slowly about. A long finger trailed the drape of a silky spiral of hair laying against a fragile jut of collarbone, before sliding to her face. Wordlessly he lowered his mouth to hers, courting her in just the same sort of sweet, seductive way he had before. It was a kiss for her and she was already drowning in it. Her hands raised, unbidden, slid about his neck, into his hair. Her lips opened beneath his, tracked his, sought his when he started to pull away. So it started again, until this time his mouth strayed to freedom across the satin of her cheek and she lay, enervated against him, eyes closed, mouth sleek and lax.

  She felt a large hand stir in her hair, rousing her. ‘Believe, me Elizabeth, I do like you…’ he said softly as, taking her hand, he led her, dazed, from the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elizabeth might have had just the one relation present, but Edwina had been unabashedly joyous enough for a host of family members. Oddly, that had roused her spirits: she’d wanted to please her grandmama. Seeing her so very happy was reparation of sorts for the shelter, the affection she had needed so desperately from the only fond kin remaining to her. Even her anguish on her beloved papa’s death had not softened her paternal grandmother’s attitude towards her. The Dowager Marchioness considered her disgraced granddaughter as contemptible then as she had when she first besmirched the lofty Thorneycroft name.

  Before the announcement, they had feasted on delectable fare. Or so Edwina described it in endless detail the following morning. As the assembly had settled either side of the stately dining table, there had been a scintillating air of expectancy. Elizabeth knew she’d eaten a little, but of what she could not say. Every morsel had turned to ashes in her dry mouth, directly after that brutal look. She had known then, with chilling heart, that kisses counted for nought; she remained unforgiven and still beholden for the necklace she wore.

  She had slighted him again, rebuffed his apology, implied he was incapable of finer feelings. So be it, she’d read in those sardonic, dark-as-molasses eyes that had adhered pitilessly to hers. I can be motivated by lust and greed. Expect that of me and I’ll willingly oblige.

  Thus she had understood, as he’d intended she should, the cruel ambiguity in his speech. Yet it had been sublime…subtle…significant only to her. With an easy eloquence that had demolished for ever her estimation of him as a philistine, he’d conveyed that a bond of deep affection existed between them. Yet never did he actually say so. He’d managed to make her blush and everyone chuckle—she did too in mild shock—with a teasing remark that the fair faces of his children would be attributable to his wife. The ladies had blinked dewy eyes, the gentlemen had looked wise and empathetic. In his mother’s gentle countenance she’d read a profound welcome; a tiny sanctioning dip of her head had held no condescension but a hint of female conspiracy.

  He had publicly aired his aim to get children on her and gloated over his fortunate choice of marriage partner… Only she knew it was a fortune that had been her grandmother’s bequest. The private message was clear: he was happy enough to take her body and her dowry. He had no complaints…yet she might…

  A stab of piquant pain accompanied the realisation that, but for different circumstances, it might have been the happiest day of her life. Could she have chosen her in-laws, it might well have been people just like those who counted him as family or friend. Could she have chosen how her husband might look, how he might deport himself on just that occasion, it might have been as Ross Trelawney had that evening. The devastating irony was not lost on her as she was again put in mind of how perfect he could seem. Strong…handsome…witty…polished: no woman could possibly ask for more in a consort…and yet it was all so false.

  During their bitter-sweet tête-à-tête he had declared he soon expected her to assuage his lust, then kissed her with mocking tenderness. He had professed to liking her, yet constantly tormented her by look or word. He had said money wasn’t his prime concern, yet it didn’t alter the fact that only days previously, he and her grandmother had pored for hours over the terms of transferring to him her dowry.

  And nothing altered the fact that it was the Sabbath. For the first time in over a year, when Hugh Clemence had come to collect her to take her to Sunday School, she had sent him away, pleading a migraine. Or rather, Edwina had; even in that she was lacking valour. Had she spoken directly to him, she would have felt it incumbent on her to tell him of her engagement…and she couldn’t—not yet. She had forsaken the children and Jane and her son because she was an abject coward, she inwardly railed as Hugh’s gig turned the corner of the street and finally disappeared from sight.

  With a hopeless sigh, she let the curtain flop back into place and wheeled into the room. She had not yet vowed to honour and obey. She was not even betrothed two full days, yet already she was dutiful! She was disgusted with herself!

  ‘I’d hate to discover you’ve again concerned yourself with East End harlots against my express wishes,’ had been his quiet parting shot as she and Edwina took a harmonious leave of his guests. She had dismissed the injunction with a low flippancy that it was her express wish he concerned himself with his own harlots.

  She had been determined to carry out her rescue plan…especially since she now had something of equal value with which to barter that would keep safe her mother’s precious necklace. Reflexively, she
moved a hand and the diamond dazzled blindingly, looking enormous on her small finger.

  She had been astonished when he gave it to her. Their short walk back along the corridor to the drawing room had passed in silence. But he had kept her hand in his, as though he had believed she might yet attempt to bolt and embarrass him. Moments before they rejoined the others, he had stayed her; drawn the ring from his pocket and slipped it onto her finger. The ritual seemed to crystallise the enormity of what she had pledged to do. It was serious; it was real; she was to marry this gentleman rogue.

  And it was superb: a pastiche of the style of her Thorneycroft collection. The large central stone was a diamond rather than an amethyst but it was cut octagonally to match her jewellery. The surrounding smaller stones were cabochon amethysts, eight in number. It must have been specially made for her. She had intruded far enough into the life and mind of this itinerant Cornishman for him to have spared time to consider the specific design of the betrothal ring he gave her.

  That evening, at the dinner table, blushing beneath his quiet articulate compliments, branded by the unaccustomed weight on a hand in her lap, she had felt suddenly close to tears at the horrible hypocrisy of it all. Tell them! had throbbed in her mind. Tell them all that my true attractiveness lies in a bank and comes as a lump sum on production of the marriage lines; thereafter as an annuity each January for as long as I survive…

  And the hysterical thought that at least he wouldn’t give in to the temptation to throttle her, no matter how she riled him, had elucidated something else. Such a waste…had been his reasoning for keeping his hands from her throat earlier that evening. Suddenly she had understood what he meant. Such a waste, indeed! Quite absurd, in fact, to lose out prematurely on ten thousand a year…

  Elizabeth irritably twisted the heavy gem on her finger. And now, instead of finding a certain equanimity with Hugh’s poor parishioners and wretched Jane Selby, she was awaiting the arrival of her silver-tongued fiancé. He had yesterday sent a formal note to say he would call today at two of the clock and take her for a drive. How very civilised a courtship it had become. How very confident he was that she would not be at Sunday School but heedfully at home awaiting him. And so she was…

  She ripped the ring from her finger. She would leave it in her room. It was a paltry show of defiance, but a show none the less! And tomorrow…tomorrow, she would go to Wapping instead, seek normality, and concern herself with as many harlots as she pleased!

  ‘Are you not going to get changed?’ burst in on Elizabeth’s fuming thoughts. Her grandmother was gawping her distaste. ‘You can’t go out with the Viscount dressed like that!’ Edwina flicked a scornful finger at her petite figure. ‘That old dun serge is what you wear when you slum visit!’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a…a bedraggled pauper,’ Edwina barked. ‘Ross will be here at any minute. Last time he set eyes on you you looked like an angel in that velvet gown and your amethysts. You can’t venture out with him on your first public appearance together looking like…like…’

  ‘Like a woman ready to teach Sunday School?’ Elizabeth offered sourly. ‘If that’s how I look, then I’m glad. That’s exactly what I intended to do today. It’s what I always do on a Sunday. And how I wish Hugh would return on some pretext and give me another chance to do just that!’

  Her grandmother’s pale eyes widened and she cocked her head. Then she was wobbling to the window. ‘It’s Stratton’s barouche…and what a corker it is, too…and it looks like rain… Good; he’s got the hood up. Quick, get your black silk cloak: ’twill conceal all that tat you’re decked in…hurry! Oh, and find a pretty bonnet, too…’

  Elizabeth felt her heart start to hammer. He was here. He was actually here and she wasn’t ready. Not that her modest garb bothered her, but she had hoped to mentally prepare herself. She uncurled her hand and looked at the jewel on her palm. Her ring finger stretched meekly towards the golden circlet, then abruptly joined the others in forming a fist. She dropped the opulent gem carelessly into a pocket of her old dress.

  A moment later, Harry Pettifer announced in his grand way, ‘Viscount Stratton…’

  ‘I’ll make excuses for you and occupy him while you change,’ was hissed from a corner of Edwina’s stretched mouth.

  Elizabeth barely heard the instruction. Her eyes were drawn immediately to her fiancé’s tall, powerful physique. Despite herself her heart lurched at the splendidly handsome sight of him.

  He was dressed in a black tail coat and buff trousers. The tiger’s eye stone blinked in a cream silk cravat. The snowy, razor-sharp collar of his shirt slashed a stark contrast against his lean, tanned jaw. Black calf-top boots resembled ebony glass. He looked cool elegance incarnate as he strolled forward to bow to and greet Edwina. His inscrutable dark visage turned then towards Elizabeth. Eyes like tawny agate slipped down her slender mouse-coloured body before returning to her exquisite porcelain features crowned by a chignon of sleek ash-blonde hair. Blood suffused her cheeks as she squirmed beneath a look that was pure quizzical amusement. Her chin edged up and petulance pursed her mouth. She didn’t give a fig what he thought of her appearance!

  ‘I’m honoured, Lady Elizabeth,’ he murmured gravely. ‘It seems it was a close-run thing who you graced with your presence this afternoon: me or the vicar. I’m very glad you were sensible enough to let me win.’

  Elizabeth bridled beneath the latent mockery; it barely veiled the threat narrowing his eyes and slanting his mouth. ‘You’ve not won!’ she snapped in a low breath, excluding Edwina from the dialogue. ‘And I’ve not missed my true vocation this afternoon simply to do your bidding.’

  ‘Of course not. I’d never think such a thing…’

  Elizabeth’s small fingers spasmed at her sides at his smooth irony, but as he offered her a suave arm, and a head flick indicated that he was ready to leave immediately, there was very little hesitation before she complied.

  ‘Are you ashamed of me?’

  Ross stretched out his long legs in front of him and settled back more comfortably against the luxurious hide squabs, the reins loosely held in one large hand. The perfectly matched greys were impeccably behaved and the barouche glided evenly on. ‘Ashamed of you?’ he echoed on a frown.

  ‘I thought we were to take a drive in Hyde Park, or perhaps St James’s. We have been out a full hour and still this is not Hyde Park or St James’s. Are we going to Richmond?’ A sideways glance darted to his impassive, dark profile before she resumed sweetly, ‘No? Well, I imagine you are avoiding popular places lest we are spotted by the Town Tabbies. And I understand your fears, my lord. Speculation might start as to why an eligible nobleman would squire a scandal-wrecked spinster…with very poor dress sense.’ She feigned concern. ‘Heaven forbid, but a scurrilous rumour might circulate that said nobleman is in fact a scavenging parvenu out for an old lady’s blunt…’

  The abruptness with which he swung the barouche off the main track and onto a wide grass verge had Elizabeth tipping against him and gasping. She scrambled up, straightening her clothes and looking about nervously. She had been so lost in introspection, castigating herself for deserting Jane Selby, and blaming him for everything, that she had been oblivious to how properly rustic the scenery was becoming. The hedgerows either side loomed lofty and dense; in the distance, up an incline, woodland was fringing the horizon. This didn’t look like a pleasant little pastoral oasis in the sprawling metropolis. This was deep, desolate countryside.

  Elizabeth felt her heartbeat pick up tempo. Quickly, she stabbed an assessing look at him. He swivelled on the seat and leaned back against the carriage, watching her in a way that did nothing to appease the alternating exasperation and anxiety that had engendered her foolish sarcasm in the first place. She ought to be working charitably and harmoniously with Hugh, not baiting this dangerous and unfathomable man. Was he brooding on that undercurrent of antagonism that had simmered between them at their betrothal dinner?
Was he still angry with her for refusing to contribute to the wedding plans? He seemed quite mellow…but then it was hard to tell his mood. From past experience she knew he could treat her with unexpected gentleness at one moment, yet act like a ruthless ruffian the next…

  At one side of his powerful shoulders, she spied a clutter of cattle close to a gate, bovine-ringed noses thrusting through rough planks. ‘Where are we?’ she abruptly demanded.

  ‘Just outside London…’

  ‘Outside London?’ she parroted, horrified. ‘Well, turn about at once. I didn’t give you permission to take me outside London.’

  A white smile transformed into a choke of laughter. ‘Have I your permission to take you inside London, my lady? If so, I’m more than ready to immediately recross the boundary line.’

  She flushed scarlet and rammed herself backwards against the carriage, so they sat face to face. The knowledge that she was still under obligation for the return of her necklace pounded the forefront of her mind. Surely he was not so mean and vile as to have brought her into the wilds today for that? It was yet daylight! ‘Take me…return me home now! This instant!’

  She was aware of his green-gold eyes roving her face, her petite figure, and instinctively gathered the black silk cloak more tightly about her.

  ‘You told me once you weren’t afraid of me…’

  Huge violet eyes flicked up to his. ‘Neither am I… Why should I be?’ she challenged hoarsely.

  ‘I don’t know, Elizabeth. Why should you be? Unfortunately, I get the distinct impression that you are…most of the time…even now when we are soon to be wed. I don’t want that. I don’t want a wife who’s afraid of me.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case I’m terrified…’ she muttered.