by Mary Brendan
Surfacing from her daze, Elizabeth blurted sharply, ‘I can’t meet you later today, I have an appointment. I’ll meet you tomorrow; at dawn at St Mary’s. Bring Jane and her son and I shall let you have the necklace.’
His mouth pursed in suspicion; he scratched at the mottled skin on his neck while considering, but she could tell avarice was winning. Enticingly she allowed the ring to escape concealment in her skirts, and flashed it back into view. ‘And I require proof Jane’s debts are paid, too.’
‘Fair ’nuf…’ was all he grunted.
Spying, through milling shoppers, Sophie hesitantly approaching them, she slipped past to prevent her coming closer, and under this evil ponce’s scrutiny. ‘Five o’clock in the morning. I shall be with Reverend Clemence so don’t think to try and cheat me or browbeat me, for it will be the worse for you,’ was launched at him, low and fluent, before she finally hurried away.
Now that they were betrothed, Edwina deemed it permissible…nay, necessary…that her granddaughter privately get to know her fiancé. As soon as an elegant hessian trod over the threshold of Number Seven Connaught Street in the evenings, Edwina made herself scarce.
Elizabeth did learn more about the Trelawneys, too. Ross had told her about his brother, Tristan and his sister, Katherine, both of whom she had yet to meet; and of his clutch of nephews and nieces. Each of his siblings had two children and she could tell he was indeed fond of all of them and proud that Katherine was soon to make him godfather to her baby son.
He told her of Melrose, the family’s Cornish estate that spanned the clifftops at Pendrake. With a quiet passion that held her captive, he’d described breathtaking views with such evocative eloquence she was sure she could hear the ocean’s shingle-sucking hiss, its rock-battering roar; she was blinded by the glare of sun on water, by spectral mists rolling in; she could smell and taste the tang of fish and brine.
He was content, he’d said, that their new home, Stratton Hall, had its southerly aspect facing the Kent coast. Elizabeth had been oddly pleased that he already considered it her home. She found herself telling him that she, too, was lulled by the sound and sight of the sea, and had enjoyed trips to Lyme Regis and Brighton with her papa.
When it was her turn to contribute a little family background, she told him of her mother’s premature demise after a fall on ice that fractured her pelvis, and that she still missed her beloved papa dreadfully since his death, a few years ago. She also admitted to seeing little of her father’s relations since his funeral. The very same day he was interred, she had travelled from Thorneycroft to London to live with Edwina. A pause had followed that statement, but she had simply resumed by stating that she missed her young half-brother, Tom, and feared that at seven years old he might eventually forget her. That had left her gruff-voiced and dewy-eyed and, to deflect his steady attention, she’d boldly asked whether he had killed many men and had a partiality for liver for breakfast.
He’d looked unruffled, as he always did, by her impertinence while telling her that in his trade sometimes killing a man was the only way to stay alive, and that, personally he preferred ox kidney for breakfast. With a defeated flounce she’d then taken herself off to bed. But since that first, ice-breaking session, they had settled into an easier rapport. Even when she retreated within herself to ruminate again on his motives for wanting to marry her, and nothing much was said, silences passed comfortably. He’d never again told her that her dowry wasn’t important. He’d never again sought to justify himself at all, and seemed content to remain quiet while she brooded, as though allowing her to privately make sense of it. Inexplicably, that piqued her; as did the lack of any flirtation. He flirted with his sister-in-law, with his friends’ wives, but not with her!
‘I hear you went missing today, whilst out shopping,’ was dropped into this particular cosy quiet, curbing her introspection.
‘Oh…oh, y-yes…that’s true,’ Elizabeth stuttered, thinking that silences were definitely preferable at times as she recalled the reason for that absence. ‘Sophie and I simply spied another acquaintance a way along the street. When we returned to the draper’s, Rebecca and the other ladies had gone. Possibly they thought we had already set off home. For I felt unwell…’ she disjointedly explained. ‘I shall apologise to them. It was rather rude to go off and chatter for so long without saying.’
‘No harm’s done. You’re safely home…and better now?’
Elizabeth bestowed on him a small smile, and nodded, while flicking over pages of the journal on her lap, and wondering how soon she could encourage him to leave. She wanted him gone so she could fly to Hugh, yet every evening when he left at about ten o’clock, she felt restless and wished he’d stayed a little longer. She soon missed him. He could be amusing and interesting company; just as Rebecca said he was. Just as, no doubt, his other female admirers would describe him, she thought acidly. A soundless sigh escaped. Why had she just wasted a perfectly good reason to curtail his visit by answering in the affirmative when he asked if she was well?
Ross settled his powerful shoulders back into the chair, a polished boot raising to rest atop his knee. ‘Did Madame Vallois attend you this afternoon for a dress fitting?’
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said with a spontaneous, sweet smile as she dwelt on the beautiful silk shift that was being prepared for her wedding day. Earlier, with Edwina and the modiste clucking and fussing over her, she had got caught up in the infectious excitement of it all. As Edwina directed first this, then that luxurious fabric be draped about her undergarmented body, she was soon as absorbed as they by embroidery and lace and net covered with seed pearls. The need to steal away and speak urgently with Hugh about their meeting with Leachie early in the morning had soon slipped her mind.
‘What sort of material did you choose?’ Ross enquired casually, his eyes on a newspaper spread open on a sidetable. He sipped from his teacup while awaiting her answer.
‘Is the announcement of our betrothal in the paper today?’
He smiled at her evasion. ‘No; but be prepared for a deluge of attention tomorrow,’ he warned, his smile wryly distorting. No doubt the gentlemen’s clubs were already awash with varying versions of the furore at the fencing academy. Over the years he’d issued or taken up a score or more challenges. All of them had been appointments with worthier opponents than Linus Savage and he’d walked away from each. Yet the Earl was a passable shot, and he was probably not going to wait for the call. It was odd; settling down was having an unnerving effect on him. He’d been confident enough of his technique before when facing cheats.
Elizabeth was also ruminating on a dawn rendezvous: fretting that Hugh might refuse to get involved, and she was certainly chary of meeting the blackguard alone. With a guilty pang, she reassured herself that Hugh was quite easily wound about her little finger. If only this man was…
‘What sort of fabric did you choose?’
Elizabeth started to her senses. ‘Bridegrooms are not supposed to ask such things,’ she demurred. ‘You’re supposed to be totally enchanted with the vision of loveliness I present as I walk down the aisle…whatever I wear.’
‘And so I shall be, sweetheart,’ he said huskily. ‘Totally enchanted…I’ll be surprised if it’s not white silk.’
Elizabeth jerked the journal up from her lap to study a mediocre hat. She lightly laughed, ‘Please don’t probe, for I’ll not tell you.’
‘You don’t have to, Elizabeth. Some things I know…’ he said softly.
‘Were the fencing bouts to your liking? Did you win?’ she blurted.
‘They were very much to my liking, thank you. And, yes, I won,’ he said with such a hint of wry humour in his studied politeness that a violet peep slanted at him from beneath a curtain of dusky lashes.
Her shy look elicited such an affectionate smile that she began agonising again whether to confide in him. Might he be sympathetic if she told him of Jane Selby’s plight? Might he perhaps offer to escort her instead of Hugh in the morni
ng? Certainly, that beast, Leach, was more likely to keep his side of the bargain if this striking man was present… No! it was out of the question! She scathed herself for being swayed by his mellow mood. He was an enigmatic, unpredictable man. He might get angry on learning of this dangerous escapade and again forbid her consorting with East End harlots. She wasn’t sure of him, didn’t quite trust him; yet the idea of returning to fearing and despising him as she once had was also out of the question.
In a way she wished she could resuscitate her passionate dislike; at least it was unequivocal and relatively painless. Now she no longer knew what she felt for him, other than it was bittersweet and frustrating. Her equilibrium was ruined: her thoughts constantly dragged to him, whatever she did, wherever she was. She had reasoned that discovering his opinion of her might help. She wanted to specifically know whether he regarded her as good, bad or indifferent.
He had admitted to liking her and wanting to care for her…but that wasn’t enough. There had to be more to it than that…or less. Horrified, it occurred to her that sympathy might play a dominant part. Perhaps he pitied her still paying for her youthful folly a decade on. She knew he’d been livid on learning of Cadmore’s abuse. Well, she had looked after herself thus far and had no wish to receive as well as bestow charity! Especially not from an upstart! She winced at her unwarranted meanness. Besides, now she knew him, and his fine connections, it was an ill-fitting description.
She stared at the side of his gypsy-dark visage, cocked to one side, as his fingers flicked over the newsprint. She was no longer convinced he was a fortune-hunter who wanted to fritter her dowry on licentious living. He seemed to possess an innate dignity that would disdain something as vulgar as money or revenge dictating whom he married. Or would he? She willed him to look up so she could scour his beautiful green-gold eyes for clues in her hunt for the truth. Before she succeeded in luring them, his mouth tilted, almost as though he could sense her observation…her neediness. She melted contentedly beneath the honeyed caress that bathed her from between long, curved black lashes, for it couldn’t disguise a smouldering neediness of his own. Whatever else he felt for her, he still wanted her. The knowledge no longer alarmed her as it once had. In fact, for the first time in ten years she was exulting in being found desirable.
Blushing, she dropped her eyes to the journal in her lap. It was astonishing they were the same couple who a short time ago had met in this room and traded vicious insults. She’d resentfully given him her necklace and cursed him as a devil. He’d made no attempt to disguise his despising either. She’d been very conscious that he’d wanted to de-mean her; punish her haughty insolence by dragging her to a sofa, and putting her on her back.
Now he’d only need to kiss her once and she’d willingly walk there, she mocked herself, recalling a few days ago reclining languidly on to a hide seat and allowing him unlimited liberties with her person while dusk discreetly curtained them, and birdsong serenaded them, and a patter of drizzle hit the hood of the barouche, contributing an earth-scented ambience.
She had been…a wanton at his mercy that afternoon. And he had been…the perfect restrained and respectful fiancé. It was he who had imposed boundaries on their passion, he who abruptly lifted her upright, straightened her clothes with unsteady hands while muttering it would be prudent to head home. As the memories swept through her, sensations tantalised too. Her flesh fizzled in reaction to the haunting touch of brown fingers on white skin. Her stalwart inhibitions had been no defence against such insidiously sweet sensuality.
Even though he’d not once said he loved her, she’d willingly cuddled up to him on the way back to London. Almost as far as her own doorstep, she’d clung to him, vine-like, with the witless abandonment of one intoxicated. The euphoria endured for some hours after he saw her within doors, then departed.
By the time she was soaking in her tub at bedtime, she was soberly assessing her behaviour and feeling stupid. Randolph Havering had never touched her so intimately, yet he had declared undying devotion at least a dozen times a day. An infamous womaniser showed her a little contrived gallantry and she wanted to believe he was in love with her. She’d believed herself adept at rebuffing amorous males. Pitted against his expertise, hers failed dismally.
He could have succeeded where so many others had failed, but had chosen not to. She supposed it was enough that he now knew he could…and she did too. Of course he would employ a little of his seductive charm to sweep away lingering bitterness and aggression between them. He seemed a gentlemen who would exact a certain civility from his wife and a certain physical compatibility. Thus a harmonious household would be enjoyed, as would getting those many heirs he wanted. It was all very respectable and sensible. Not virtues much previously associated with Ross Trelawney, Cornish hellion. But, now, of course, he had left notoriety behind and was fêted by the beau monde. Such an ironic reversal of her own situation!
‘Why are you sighing so?’
Elizabeth looked up from sightless perusal of the journal, to see he had folded the paper and was watching her. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Oh, nothing!’ she rebuffed with unwarranted sharpness, frantically fluttering pages as blood stained her porcelain complexion. ‘What are you thinking?’ she demanded quickly.
‘The same as you, I imagine…judging by your blush…’ he said, gently amused. ‘It was madness, I know…’
‘What was?’ she snapped, afraid to look up and see mockery in his eyes.
‘Acting the perfect gentleman.’
‘And so out of character,’ she sweetly scoffed.
‘Indeed. But, as I’ve said before, you make me behave oddly, Elizabeth.’
‘So sorry,’ she jibed, still inexplicably smarting.
‘Not nearly as much as I am, I’m sure.’
‘I hope you’re not out for sympathy tonight.’ A page tore beneath her furious fingers and she tossed aside the journal.
‘No…’ He laughed. ‘Actually, I’m out to rectify matters tonight.’
Violet eyes sprang to his face, and she nibbled at her soft lower lip.
‘I want to marry you…’
‘Indeed…I thought you were to, sir…’ was quipped breathily.
‘Now. I’d like to marry you now. I’ve got a licence.’
Elizabeth stared at him. He seemed quite serious. ‘What…what do you mean? Elope? W-why?’ was all she could stutter.
‘I want to marry you tonight…because tomorrow…who knows what tomorrow might bring? I want you as my wife now…tonight. Shall we get married tonight?’ Too late, Ross understood why she looked so stricken. She’d heard something similar before. Havering had probably used much the same pathetic phrases when coaxing her to elope with him…and look where that indecent haste had led. But he couldn’t tell her he wanted her immediately protected by his name, his reputation, because tomorrow if things went awry she might be prey to some lecherous bastard again. Even the idea of it locked his jaw, made him silently vow to exact a promise from Luke tonight that he would always watch over her should the need arise. And way ahead of all the worthy practicalities, was a basic need to possess her…an atavistic urge to impregnate his chosen mate with his seed. He wanted a chance to gift her a legitimate child, because, on some subliminal level, he understood that there was nothing she needed more than a baby.
Elizabeth was in shock. Her good opinion of his recent honourable conduct seemed to disintegrate into dust. He was slipping through her fingers…and the tragedy was she yearned to hold on to him despite suspecting what he was now offering was no better than Jane had got from her colonel; that had been no real marriage either. ‘Are you now proposing the sort of union that reaps you all the benefits and none of the drawbacks?’ she demanded in a voice raw with hurt and loss. ‘The sort of ceremony conducted by a charlatan that might pass muster and get you your money and your wedding night…followed by an annulment at some later date when certain legalities are found to be lacking?’ Her wi
de, violet eyes attacked his. ‘Why do you not simply ask me to sleep with you…as all the other men do?’ She jerked to her feet, tilted her white face, slashes of angry colour accentuating her winging cheekbones. ‘It is late, my lord. I wish to retire.’
‘I want to make love to you, Elizabeth…’
‘Goodnight!’
‘I love you, Elizabeth…’ flowed out low and vibrant.
She hesitated by the door, flung herself about to glare at him, dithering over whether to jeer at the untimely, pathetic lie, or fly back and hit him for daring to stoop so low and use it. She managed neither, simply stared, glazed-eyed, at him. His face dropped and a grunted curse emerged through his fingers, followed by a despairing laugh.
He shook his head back, addressed the ceiling. ‘It’s the truth…but go to bed anyway. I’m sorry I made such a mess of telling you. That’s how you affect me, Elizabeth. I’m barely able to pass muster as a bumbling idiot.’
She had her hand on the door knob behind, felt sure she would quit the room before he reached her, but something in his slow weary pace kept her spellbound. A dark finger traced an alabaster cheek, persevering when she flicked him off. ‘Don’t believe anyone who tells you I’m a practised philanderer, will you? I can be the veriest callow youth about you.’ He lowered his head and she immediately swung hers about so his lips grazed her soft platinum hair.
‘Please…’
She heard the catch of need mingling with his wry humour.
‘One kiss…one for you…’ he cajoled.
She faced him, mouth pursed tight. Invective, battering to be vented, died on her lips as she noticed a suspicious sheen burnishing the gold of his eyes. The anger on her face transformed into a look of mute disbelief. And then his mouth was slanting back and forth with silky heat over her rigid lips. They slackened. Her hands climbed his chest in weak pulls, then linked at his nape and her body pressed reflexively against his. He lifted her abruptly, as though she was featherlight and instinctively her thighs opened, her calves clasped him. And far back in her mind she thought that if only the callow youth she had entrusted herself to ten years ago had been like this one, things might have been so very different.