* * *
A restless night did little to soothe Deborah’s nerves and when she learned that Ran and his guest had not gone to bed until dawn she received the news with mixed feelings. Much as she worried for her brother, she was relieved that she would not have to sit at breakfast with anyone. She wondered how soon she might expect to see Gil and was sorely tempted to fetch her spencer and bonnet and wander the grounds until he appeared, but the day was so overcast and blustery that it would be obvious she was waiting for someone and it would play havoc with the curls that Elsie had coaxed to fall so artlessly around her head. Instead she decided to go to the morning room and work on her embroidery. The fact that this would allow her to sit by the window overlooking the drive, where she could see anyone approaching, had nothing to do with her decision. Nothing at all.
* * *
Half an hour later Speke announced Mr Victor. Even though she had seen his tall figure striding along the drive, Deb felt unprepared for his arrival. With hands that trembled slightly she secured her needle in her work and put it aside to rise and greet her guest. She held out her hand, trying to smile politely, but fearing that her pleasure at seeing him must be shining in her eyes.
His lips barely brushed her fingers, but even that light touch was like a burn on her skin and sent white-hot arrows of awareness shooting through her. Her blood was singing and it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and beg him to kiss her.
Instead they stood for a moment, looking at one another, silent and indecisive. It was Gil who spoke first, his voice polite, as if he was talking to a stranger.
‘You arrived home safely, then, the other night.’
‘Yes.’ She added shyly, ‘I thought you would call yesterday.’
‘It was not possible. I beg your pardon.’ He paused. ‘You have no regrets?’
She searched his face for some sign of warmth, but could see none. She wondered if perhaps he was nervous. He was still holding her fingers and she clasped his hand between both her own.
‘None at all.’
Their eyes met and held, his sombre, hard as slate and unreadable, but that did not stop her from smiling at him.
After a long, silent moment he disengaged himself and walked over to the window, staring out across the lawns and winding drive. Deborah invited him to sit down, asked him if he would take refreshment with her. She knew she was gabbling, but there was nothing she could do about that. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she could not. All she had at her disposal were the rituals of polite behaviour.
‘No, thank you.’
* * *
Gil turned and walked towards the fireplace. He had come to say goodbye; he had spent yesterday rehearsing the words, but now they stuck in his throat. She was standing before her chair and watching him intently, as if trying to read his mind.
He thought she had never looked more beautiful and he must say goodbye.
‘You are troubled,’ she said quietly. ‘If you are concerned that I might expect something more of you after—after what occurred, then pray put your mind at rest. You owe me nothing.’
Her quiet dignity tore into him. He said, more roughly than he intended, ‘You are wrong, I owe you a great deal.’ Two strides would have taken him back across the room to her, but he willed himself not to move. ‘At the very least I owe you an explanation for why I have to go away. Why we cannot meet again.’
‘N-not meet again?’ Her eyes flew to his face.
‘No, it would not do…’ He paused to draw a deep breath. ‘That is why it is better that we part now, before it becomes too painful.’
She was staring at him, the colour drained from her face. Slowly she came towards him, standing so close he could feel the heat from her body. His own was crying out to close the small gap that separated them and take her in his arms. The faint trace of her perfume was heady as wine and it was weakening his resolve to leave.
‘Must we part so soon, when we have only just found one another?’ she said softly. ‘I do not think it could become any more painful, but I am willing to take that chance.’
She was gazing up at him, her green eyes so innocent and trusting that the only way he could continue was to move away from her disturbing presence. He swung around and took a few steps towards the fire, but her reflection was in the mirror on the chimney breast. There was no escape from those green eyes, so he turned back to face her. This was proving even more difficult than he had thought.
‘Is it the scars on my shoulder?’ she asked him, her voice not quite steady. ‘Perhaps I am too disfigured, too ugly—’
‘No!’ The word was torn from him. ‘You are beautiful, never let anyone tell you differently.’
‘Pray do not think you need to be kind—’
His hand flew up, cutting her off. He said stiffly, ‘Please, Miss Meltham, you must trust me in this. It is better we part now. If I stay I shall only cause you more pain and I could not bear to do that.’
* * *
Deborah heard his words, but neither they nor his cold tone made any sense. She felt as if she was standing on the edge of shifting sands. She had asked for nothing, demanded nothing from him. Why, then, must he go? Why must they not see one another again?
‘I am sorry,’ she said, struggling to express her thoughts aloud. ‘It was my first time. With a man. I do not understand these things. Did, did I not p-please you?’
He closed his eyes, as if her words pained him. Or perhaps he was embarrassed by her naivety.
‘Exceedingly,’ he said, still with that chilling politeness, ‘but it is best we part now, before something occurs to spoil our memory.’
She frowned. ‘Is something likely to occur? I cannot think—’
She was interrupted by the soft click of the door opening and her heart sank as Sir Sydney walked into the room. When he saw her companion he stopped, his brows going up in surprise.
Deb glanced back at Gil, but he was immobile. He looked as if he had been turned to stone.
‘Well, well,’ drawled Sir Sydney. ‘Viscount Gilmorton.’
Deb’s brows drew together. ‘Viscount?’
Warslow was still speaking. ‘No need to introduce us, Miss Meltham. Gilmorton and I are old, ah, acquaintances.’
‘Viscount?’ she said again, her eyes darting between the two men. Her world was now feeling very unsteady. ‘No, no. This, this is Mr James Victor.’
‘Technically accurate,’ replied Sir Sydney, still in that hateful, purring voice. ‘James August Victor Laughton, ninth Viscount Gilmorton. Have I remembered it correctly, my lord?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘But…’ Deborah struggled to understand what she was hearing. ‘You are known by everyone here as Mr Victor.’
‘Is he, by Gad?’
Warslow lifted his quizzing glass and gazed with cool insolence at Gil, who stared back, silent and impassive. Deb thought he might have been carved from stone, so unresponsive was he. Why did he not speak? She tried to think of some reasonable explanation, but there was none.
‘That is why you said people call you Gil,’ she murmured, beginning to understand at last.
And with understanding came anger.
‘You deceived decent, innocent people like Sir Geoffrey and his family.’
You deceived me!
Inside she was screaming with pain and rage. Tears clogged her throat, but she forced them down. Bad enough that Gil had tricked them all, but she must not reveal the full extent of her own folly before the odious Sir Sydney, who had strolled across to stand beside her. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into the palms to stop herself from shaking.
‘Now, my dear, why should a viscount be masquerading as plain Mr Victor? Shall we ask him?’
To beguile innocent maids. Deborah l
ooked at Gil. His expression was closed, even a little haughty, but the tension in his cheek pulled on the scar so that it gleamed in a white, jagged line down his face. Surely a disfigured viscount would be considerably more acceptable in society than a mere gentleman. So why, if he was intent upon fixing his interest with her, did he hide his identity? Unless he thought she was angling for a husband.
Sigh no more, ladies…
‘No need,’ she said bitterly. ‘Shakespeare expressed it perfectly when he said men were deceivers ever. Were you afraid I might try to trap you into marriage, my lord?’ Her lip curled. ‘I would not stoop so low.’
She saw him flinch, the merest flicker of his eyelids. If she had wounded him she was glad. It could not be a fraction of the pain she was experiencing. She had trusted him, given herself to him, only to discover he had been deceiving her from the start.
‘It is not as it seems, Miss Meltham.’
* * *
Chaotic thoughts were chasing through Gil’s head. What was Warslow doing here? He seemed very much at home in the house, and if he was the guest Deb had mentioned then it bore out everything Gil had learned about Lord Kirkster. By God, the fellow must be dissolute indeed to allow a dangerous villain like Warslow anywhere near his sister.
Warslow had been in the army for a short time, which was where Gil had become acquainted with him. He knew him for a cheat and a bully. A coward, even, but he had sold out before the rising number of allegations against him could be proven. Now he was standing here and Gil wanted to knock the smile off his face, but it was impossible. He was the one in the wrong and Deb was looking at him as if he was the greatest villain alive.
Which he was, to have hurt her so.
‘Miss Meltham, if you will allow me a few minutes, in private—’
‘Oh, no,’ Warslow interjected silkily. ‘I am informed that Lord Kirkster is indisposed, so in her brother’s absence I will take it upon myself to say that it would be most improper for Miss Meltham to see you alone.’
Gil’s jaw was clenched as he suppressed a furious retort. He looked at Deb. Her face was ashen, she looked stunned, only the green eyes were alive, sparkling with fury and unshed tears.
‘There is nothing Lord Gilmorton has to say that I wish to hear,’ she said icily. ‘Please leave this house, my lord. Immediately.’
There was nothing he could say, no way to defend himself, even if Warslow had not been present. He would have to leave and let her think the worst of him. With a stiff bow, he turned on his heel and walked out, knowing that her parting look would haunt him for ever.
* * *
Deborah watched him go, saw the door close behind him. Slowly she unclenched her fists and rubbed the palms against her skirts. She felt nothing. It was as if this was happening to someone else.
‘How long has Gilmorton been in the area?’
‘What?’ She had forgotten Sir Sydney was beside her and struggled to marshal her thoughts. ‘Oh, a little over a month, I think.’
A chill ran through her. She had thrown caution to the winds and would now suffer for it. How could she condemn her brother as weak-willed when she had given herself to a man about whom she had known so little? It was a lowering thought, but she very much feared her craving for Gil would match her brother’s need for laudanum or strong liquor.
‘Why did he come to Fallbridge, I wonder?’ mused Sir Sydney, stroking his chin.
She shook her head, trying to clear the fog of pain and confusion that made it difficult to think clearly.
‘He came here on business, I believe,’ she said. ‘And he was looking to buy a house here. Although why that should require such deception I do not know.’
‘Do you not? I fear he was trying to ingratiate himself with you.’
The look he gave her brought the blood rushing to her cheeks. There was no point in denying it, but she tried to shrug it off.
‘He dined here but once.’
‘Oh, and what does your brother make of him?’
‘They have little in common.’
She would not tell him how the evening had ended, that Ran had embarrassed her by drinking himself into a stupor.
He nodded, apparently satisfied.
‘Well, he will trouble you no more. Now, what say you to a stroll in the gardens before dinner?’
He touched her arm and, suppressing a shudder, she moved quickly away, gracefully declining his invitation and saying that she must look in on her brother.
* * *
Miller met her at the door to Ran’s chamber and told her in hushed tones that Lord Kirkster was out of bed now and getting dressed. Deb stayed only long enough to ascertain that he would be coming downstairs for dinner before she went off to her own bedchamber. If he had been too ill to leave his room she would have left Sir Sydney in solitary state rather than dine alone with him.
When she had brought Ran to live in Fallbridge she had dispensed with her elderly companion, ostensibly because her brother was all the chaperon she required, but in reality it was because Ran had not wanted anyone to know of his addictions. Now she realised how unwise that had been. A companion could have acted as chaperon when Ran was indisposed.
A companion might also have counselled Deborah to beware of plausible rogues.
She quickly shut her mind to such a thought, knowing it would depress her still further, but unfortunately she could not block out the memory of that last meeting with Gil. Learning of his deception had been devastating, made even worse by the fact that Sir Sydney had been present and they had had to pretend they were no more than acquaintances.
If they had been alone she would have ripped up at Gil, battered him with her fists. Her puny strength would have made little impact, but it might have given her some relief from the pain that racked her. Now she could only pace the floor, afraid to indulge in a bout of tears because that would leave her eyes red and puffy. Even if her brother did not notice, Sir Sydney might guess the cause of her distress.
Deborah fought down her unhappiness, summoned her maid and dressed with all her usual care. Looking in the mirror, the frivolous curls and ringlets that Elsie had worked so hard to arrange now mocked at her, but they must remain for the rest of the day. If she brushed them out now, it would be obvious that she had made a special effort for Gil’s visit.
‘No one must ever know,’ she murmured as she made her way downstairs to join the gentlemen for dinner. ‘No one must ever guess what a fool I have been.’
* * *
It was not to be expected that Sir Sydney would refrain from mentioning the Viscount’s visit and Deb could only be thankful that he waited until the end of the meal, when the covers had been removed and the servants had withdrawn, before doing so.
‘So, Mr Victor is in reality Viscount Gilmorton?’ said Randolph, refilling his wineglass. ‘Dashed peculiar, but never mind that. What think you of this claret, Warslow? It’s some m’father laid down and I think it’s pretty good now.’
‘By Gad, Kirkster, ain’t you concerned that the fellow’s been running free in your house under false pretences?’
‘That has not been the case.’ Deb corrected him with icy dignity. ‘Mr—Lord Gilmorton has been inside this house on no more than three occasions.’
Sir Sydney inclined his head.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Meltham, but you cannot deny that he has imposed on you unpardonably.’
No, Deb could not deny it, but she would never confess just how much.
‘Well, no harm done,’ muttered Ran, shrugging. ‘Unless Deb’s lost her heart to him.’
Somehow she managed a derisive laugh.
‘A man I have met only half-a-dozen times? Ridiculous.’
‘There you are, then. You’ve sent the fellow packing, Warslow, so there’s an end to’t. Now, Deb m’dear, p�
��raps you should go off to the drawing room and Speke can bring in the brandy.’
For the first time in her life, Deborah felt thankful that her brother was more interested in his pleasures than in her welfare and she went off without another word. However, sitting alone in the drawing room the silence pressed in on her, taunting her with those final few moments with Gil. She found herself going over every word, every look. He had denied nothing, explained nothing.
It is not as it seems.
Deb closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. It was useless to go over and over everything he had said. It was all lies and deception. She was not the first woman to be betrayed in this way and she would not be the last. She must put it out of her mind and be thankful that no one else knew of it. This was her burden, she must live with it.
CHAPTER NINE
Gil was shrugging himself into his riding jacket when his valet came into the bedchamber.
‘Where the devil have you been, John? I thought I’d have to pack up everything myself.’
Gil scowled. He sounded like the sort of contemptible fop he most disliked.
‘Well, my lord, it isn’t as if you ain’t more than capable of doing so,’ retorted Harris, not a whit put out by his master’s ill humour. He stood, silently regarding the Viscount.
‘So?’ barked Gil, catching his eye. ‘Come on, man, what is it?’
‘Miss Meltham is below.’
‘The devil she is!’
‘That fool of a butler we have here was about to tell her you wasn’t at home, but I managed to forestall him and have her shown into the parlour.’
‘Hell and damnation, John, I would rather you had sent her away!’
Gil buttoned his coat, thinking rapidly. Yesterday, after his disastrous visit to Kirkster House, he had arrived back at Sollom Hall with his thoughts in turmoil. Part of him wanted to warn Deb of the danger Warslow posed to her, but how could he? Why should she believe anything he told her after the way he had acted? At that point he had been tempted to call for brandy and to drink himself into oblivion. Instead he had set the household by the ears, ordering everything to be packed up ready to leave the house first thing in the morning.
Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725) Page 33