Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1)

by May Burnett

  Half running, they reached the dilapidated wooden building. They were both damp, but not wet through.

  When Jonathan had first seen the folly, he had decided that it should be converted into firewood. Yet now, looking at Mrs. Jones’s damp red curls and those long dark lashes, he realised that this might have been a mistake.

  The rain was becoming heavier outside, forming a noisy curtain, as they stared at each other.

  ***

  “It looks like this shower might last for at least fifteen minutes,” Cherry said prosaically, once she was able to tear her eyes away from Mr. Durwent’s. They were a dark blue, – why was their gaze so mesmerizing? And what was Durwent’s first name? Something solid and manly, no doubt.

  “I do not mind,” he said, his voice deep. “But I am worried about the dampness of your clothes and shoes. You could catch an ague. The open walls of this structure do not offer any protection from the wind.”

  “It is not much of a wind, more an air current,” she protested. “I assure you I have lived through worse than getting a little wet. And so have you, I am sure.”

  He caught her hand in his, rubbed it a little. “Your hand is colder than it should be,” he claimed, and pressed a kiss on the sensitive inside. She pulled her hand away, clenched it into a fist.

  “That is not the accepted way of warming it.” To her annoyance, the words sounded more like a coy challenge than rejection.

  “Maybe this will help,” Durwent said, and put his arms around her in a hug. She felt his lips on hers, and this time when her own lips opened, he accepted the tacit invitation. Heat flowed into her and warmed her all over. His kiss was electrifying, beyond any previous experience of this rather simple act. The rain, the wind – colder than she had admitted – the disguise, all vanished from her consciousness, focused only on this man, his hands caressing her boldly, his tongue tussling with hers in delicious battle. Other parts of her body changed and softened, as though readying themselves for the next logical steps of such intimacy. She shuddered involuntarily.

  When they broke apart, her heart was racing. She had long known she could render men confused and helpless with desire; but it was not supposed to happen to her. She could never have retained her virtue for all those years in London, had she felt this attracted to any of the men tempting her.

  Yet she might be making an even worse mistake than with Max, who at least had been bent on marriage. Would she never learn?

  “We don’t know each other, this is wrong,” she protested. “You know it is wrong.”

  “How can it be wrong if it feels so perfect?” And he was right, confound it – that had been the most perfect kiss she had ever received, even better than that last one. Not that she had a very wide basis for comparison.

  “Sophistry.” She caught hold of the central wooden pillar of the folly for steadiness. “I don’t even know your first name.”

  “It is Jonathan, and you are welcome to use it.” His blue eyes stared into hers in puzzlement, as though trying to understand what was happening here. No wonder – she didn’t understand it either. Waves of dizziness threatened to crash over her again, seeing him so close.

  Falling back on long-practiced defences, she tried a cool smile, a flippant tone. “Jonathan suits you. Doesn’t it mean ‘gift of God’?”

  He ignored that, took a deep breath. The next words came out as though torn from him against his will. “I could not stop thinking of you. You have invaded my dreams, even when I am awake.”

  She had heard many other men say so, and it had never mattered to her. Why did it matter this time? Hiding her reaction, she made herself shrug.

  “I can take no responsibility for your dreams, Sir. This is just a mad moment out of time, and we’ll be going on with our mundane lives as soon as the rain stops. I should not have come, even had the weather been dry.”

  “No, and neither should I, but I could not keep away. Now we are marooned in this folly by the rain. As you say, we don’t know each other well, though it’s clear we are attracted to each other. That can be remedied easily enough. Why don’t you tell me a little more about you, Sophia? And I will tell you more as well, if you like.”

  She hated that he used the false name. “I am not an interesting person, a very ordinary woman, really. I married a number of years ago, and now I find myself alone in the world.”

  “Has your husband really been impressed by the Navy? How did that happen here, so far from shore?”

  She shrugged, not in the mood to invent more elaborate lies. She should have told him the truth, as Prune had recommended, but how did one say, my name is false, I am the widow of a disgraced suicide, hiding from creditors? She had best find out more about him first, while he was so willing to talk.

  “Are you really buying this estate? I thought at first you were merely using that as a pretext for some other, nefarious purpose.”

  “Why nefarious? Did I make such a bad first impression?” He sounded almost hurt. “I am indeed buying Lobbock Manor, and within days should be able to take possession. The former staff members are already asking for their positions back.”

  “I hope you take them on,” she said, “times have been so hard lately.”

  “Have they?” he asked, sending her a penetrating glance.

  “How can you afford such an estate, when you are still a young man? Did you inherit your wealth?”

  “No, my parents were rather poor. I grew up in a vicarage, smaller than the one here in Bellington. Whatever fortune I have made, I own to my own efforts, as well as good luck. No matter how well you plan and how hard you work, without a measure of luck it is impossible to prosper.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she said a little bitterly. “I also know what happens when good luck deserts a man at last, and he faces ruin and disgrace.”

  He frowned. “That does not happen to everyone. It will not happen to me.”

  “How can you be sure? Fortunes quickly won have often been lost just as quickly.”

  “I do not gamble more than I can afford to lose. At the beginning, years ago, there were times when I had to take great risks, but these days I have put aside enough to be secure, even if several ventures should go awry at once.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Why are we talking about business, Sophia?”

  “I want to know more about you, and I believe business is an important part of you.”

  “Yes, it is,” he admitted. “But it can hardly be of interest to you. Women find business boring, an unfortunate necessity to finance their gowns and jewels, but not something they want mentioned at the dinner table.”

  Cherry had never minded talking about his business with Max. It should have been a warning sign when he stopped doing so.

  “I heard that you are thinking of taking a wife,” she said idly. He recoiled and frowned. “How could you have heard that? From whom?”

  His reaction made her feel the cold wind all of a sudden – what had she been thinking? She was only a momentary distraction, after all, some chance-met stranger, attractive enough for a short affair, nothing more.

  And she had made a stupid slip. He must not learn that the information came from Prune, who had sat next to him at dinner the night before. “You know these little towns. If you mention something in front of three people, everyone will talk about it by the next day. As the buyer of this estate you are a person of great interest to many who are still strangers to you.”

  “They should mind their own business. None of that has anything to do with you – with us. And I am not married yet, though it is true I plan to wed some eligible young lady within the year.” It should not hurt to hear his words; after all they hardly knew each other. What he said only confirmed her theory about his life and plans. It was as well to be recalled to her good sense, before she did something really stupid, even if it gave her a momentary pang. After all she had endured, what was one more disappointment?

  “That means we should not meet or kiss,” she said. “Cannot
you see that? Playing with another person’s emotions can easily lead to tragedy, and is an unworthy pastime for a gentleman or lady of honour. Not that it matters: I only came today to tell you goodbye. I shall be leaving this town in the near future, and you will never see me again. Mrs. Sophia Jones will cease to exist.”

  He stood staring at her, wordlessly, breathing hard. Cherry tossed her head in irritation, remembering too late that she was wearing the wig. Fortunately it was securely pinned under the bonnet.

  Since Durwent seemed disinclined to speak, wrestling with emotions she could only guess at, she added, “I wish you and your future wife, whoever she may be, all happiness as the master and mistress of Lobbock Manor. I am sorry I permitted liberties I should not have, and probably gave you a mistaken impression; but I am not the kind of woman who can be kept hidden, or unacknowledged. Farewell, Mr. Durwent.”

  It detracted from her dramatic good-bye that the rain was still pouring down, even more heavily than before. Still, she had always had a strong constitution. The risk of pneumonia was small enough. She turned to leave.

  “Stop!” He cried, blocking the exit of the folly. “I beg your pardon, Sophia – Mrs. Jones - if I have erred, and insulted you. That was certainly not my intention.”

  “It is also quite immaterial, as I am leaving this town. By the time you move into Lobbock Manor, I shall be far away.”

  “Because of me?” There was a strange look in his eyes. “Not for the world would I want to drive you away –“

  “No, I was already planning to leave before we ever met. Your conscience may rest easy.”

  “That is not likely. And it would never be easy if I allowed you to depart in this rain, and catch your death. Since you decree that we should part – and I admit it is for the best – I shall go myself.” He cast an eye on the clouds overhead. “In half an hour or less the rain should stop, I believe. It goes against the grain to leave you here all alone, but you leave me no choice. I am sorry that we should part like this, Mrs. Jones.”

  So he was back to the more formal name. She made an elegant curtsy, and said nothing as he bowed and left, the rain immediately flattening his hair to his skull, and the pants and jacket to his muscles. She watched him recede through the trees, annoyed with herself for staring at his trim anatomy, like a weak-minded ninny. She had done the right thing. It could only lead to humiliation and heartache if she had let this misplaced attraction go any further.

  But, Lord, could the man kiss. Where would she find another man with such mastery, whose kisses felt, as he’d said himself, exactly right?

  Chapter 16

  Jonathan did not return straight to the inn to change into dry clothes, as common sense might have dictated. He strode through the rain, under the trees, thinking dark incoherent thoughts, angry with himself and the red-haired woman for confusing him so. It was not until he reached the deserted saw mill that he became conscious of his sodden state. Just then the rain finally let up, but his boots made sloshing sounds and his shirt and linens were clinging to his equally wet skin. The wind which had driven off the remaining rain clouds was still strengthening. Jonathan was shivering by the time he finally arrived back at the inn.

  He knew he should order a hot bath, but felt too dispirited for the effort, and contented himself with asking for a bowl of punch before climbing upstairs to his room.

  When this warming drink arrived, he had dried himself off as best he could with the two thin linen towels, and dressed in fresh clothes. His supply of these was dwindling, but he could not bring himself to care just now.

  “Would you also like to order dinner, Sir? It is already close to five,” the servant who brought the punch asked. Jonathan hesitated; his appetite had quite deserted him.

  “I shall come down to the common room when I’m hungry.” He slipped the man a coin and served himself a large portion of the punch. It did not taste as good as he had hoped, for lack of lemons, but at least it was sweet and hot.

  He sank down in the room’s one armchair. There was no reason, none at all, to feel guilty and confused. An attraction to a married woman was nothing unusual. In London it often meant the chance at a discreet and pleasurable affair, though Jonathan preferred to avoid entanglements with married women. His strict parents would have been shocked enough at his affairs with widows, or now and then, liaisons with expensive courtesans. Besides, you could never be sure that the supposedly complacent husband you had just cuckolded did not suddenly change his mind and challenge you to a duel. That would not only be ridiculous, but also bad for business.

  Jonathan was slow to empty his cup. By the time he had finished, his head had begun to pound in a most unpleasant fashion, as though the hangover to be expected by indulging in several glasses of punch had decided to arrive prematurely.

  He would lie down on the bed for an hour, until his head felt better. The prone position did not ameliorate the headache, however, and neither did closing his eyes. Surely he could not feel that bad from a mere hour out in the rain….?

  ***

  In the early afternoon of the next day Paul Selbington arrived at the inn half irate, half puzzled.

  In the common room he found Matthew Spalding quaffing a pint of ale with a morose expression. “Good-d-day, Paul, what bee has got up your b-bonnet?”

  The innkeeper also drew near at seeing Paul’s expression.

  “Durwent was supposed to meet us this morning in Norwich, at my solicitor’s office. I was there in time with my three sisters. We waited and waited, and the man did not come, or send any excuse! Mabel was close to tears.”

  “F-father said at breakfast that he didn’t t-trust the man. Nobody knows anything about him.”

  “With due respect, Matt, your father trusts nobody. His opinion is not exactly unbiased. I came here as soon as I’d driven sisters home, to find out the reason for Durwent’s inexplicable behaviour.” He turned to the landlord. “Binnock, have you seen Mr. Durwent today? Has he left, by any chance?”

  “No, Mr. Selbington, Sir, I haven’t seen him all day. He didn’t dine last night, either. But as far as I know he has not departed. The maid who went to make up his room this morning said he was still asleep, she’d do it later when he went out.”

  “S-strange,” Matt commented.

  “I shall go up to his room, and see for myself,” Paul decided. “You’d better come also, Binnock, with the key.”

  “Very well, Sir.”

  They climbed to the first floor, Matt Spalding trailing behind. Paul knocked on the door the innkeeper pointed to, receiving no reply. After a momentary hesitation, he tried the handle, and found it open. The three men entered.

  “At least he’s still h-here,” Matt said.

  Paul approached the fully dressed man stretched out on the bed. He did not like that red bloom on the cheeks. Putting his palm against Durwent’s neck, he found his suspicion confirmed.

  “I owe him an apology,” he said, “Durwent failed to appear from a raging fever. He’s burning up. Binnock, send for Dr Wentworth at once.”

  “It’s that bad, is it?” The landlord cast a jaundiced eye on the sick man. “I hate it when guests fall ill and die on me.”

  “He’s not dead, and if you hurry, may yet survive.” Paul frowned at Binnock, who caught the message and left, not nearly as quickly as Paul would have preferred.

  “He had p-punch last night,” Matt said, regarding the cold remains of the concoction with interest. The whole room reeked of rum. “But f-from the amount l-left over, he can’t have been very drunk.”

  “We’d better undress him. Help me, Matt.”

  With joint effort they pulled off the tight jacket. Stockings, pants, and shirt followed. Paul found a fresh nightshirt among Durwent’s neatly folded clothes that they put on the patient, not easily, though they were both strong enough. Matt left afterwards, while Paul waited with growing anxiety for the physician.

  “What’s this I hear of a dying traveller?” Dr Wentworth asked when h
e was finally ushered in by the landlord. “Is this the man who is supposed to buy Lobbock Manor?”

  “I am in hopes that Mr. Durwent may yet do so, if you can cure him,” Paul said. “He seems to have a high fever. When I saw him yesterday, he showed no symptom of any sickness.”

  “Have you tried to rouse him?”

  “He did not wake up when we undressed him, though he grumbled a little in his sleep.”

  The physician proceeded to touch, palpate, and prod the insensate body of the patient, then sat in the armchair and started to rummage in his bag.

  “How bad is it?” Paul asked apprehensively. Now that he finally had the means to marry Patience all but secure, for this to happen!

  “He has a high fever, but the lungs seem to be clear so far,” the physician said. “I suspect that his constitution has been weakened by overwork and lack of fresh air. He comes from London, I understand?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “That reminds me, we must send word to his family.”

  “Do you have their direction? Or his own?”

  “No,” Paul admitted. “I will have to look though his things; surely he has a card case, a letter with the address, or something of the kind. But what are his prospects, and what must be done for him?”

  “Will you take care of him?”

  “There is no one else,” Paul said, “and I suppose I know him as well as anyone in the place. It is a good thing I have no pupils to attend right now.”

  “Very Christian of you. There is no danger of contagion, in my judgement. I will leave this tincture. Twenty drops should be given with water every three hours until the fever abates – if it does.” The physician’s countenance was grave. “If he wakes, even if he is delirious, it is important to make him drink. Have barley water ready and try to make him get down as much as he can. With fever as high as this, within two days we should see the outcome – he’ll either defeat it and survive, or succumb.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Paul had nursed one of his pupils the previous year, and had a rudimentary understanding of sick care. He hoped that Durwent would be a less fractious patient than young Peregrine had been.