Lady Drusilla's Road to Ruin

by Christine Merrill

  ‘If I might be so bold as to ask a question?’ John Hendricks’s voice was polite and proper, carrying the subtle undercurrent that had led her into trouble in the past.

  Dru put up her guard, but Priss responded, ‘Oh, do. Ask anything at all, Mr Hendricks.’

  ‘Lady Drusilla has mentioned that you are out, Lady Priscilla.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I expect I shall be married by the end of the year. Of course, I am quite without suitors at the moment.’

  ‘Really, Priss,’ Dru hissed. ‘You are barely clear of Gervaise.’

  Hendricks ignored the tension, and went on. ‘But Lady Drusilla has said nothing of the results of her Season. And she is the older of the two of you, is she not?’

  ‘At twenty-three, I am hardly an ancient,’ she snapped, feeling as faded and rough as a dog rose in a hot house.

  ‘She is bitter about it, because she did not receive a Season.’ Priss put the truth bluntly, and yet there was sympathy in her voice. ‘Mama died and Papa and I were distraught. Dru was brought home from school to take charge of me. And after a year of mourning, we were both old enough for the marriage mart. But she put me in her place.’

  ‘At the expense of herself?’ Hendricks asked, as though she was not even there.

  ‘To have both of us out at the same time would only have divided the attention of the ton,’ Dru informed him, to remind him of her part in the decision.

  ‘Other families have managed to launch two marriageable daughters, even when they are not as wealthy as yours. Did you not wish for your chance to shine?’

  It was an impertinent question, made all the more painful by the presence of her sister. ‘We cannot always have what we want, Mr Hendricks. If there are two daughters in the family, one must needs be married first.’

  ‘It is normally the elder daughter who experiences that honour.’

  ‘But not always,’ she said firmly. ‘Sometimes, one child is more vivacious, more popular, more sought after. And when it is known that this is likely to be the case…’ After four years, she could say it almost by rote.

  ‘You sound almost as if the decision was made before you were brought home.’

  ‘Priscilla was clearly the more eager of the two of us…’

  ‘Because Mother filled my ears with talk of dancing and parties, Dru. You were sent off to school, to learn reason.’ Priss looked directly at John, with none of her flirtatiousness and added, ‘There is little mystery why we turned out as we have, sir. One of us was discouraged from being sensible. And the other was required to be.’

  ‘Aptly put, Lady Priscilla. But you give yourself far less credit than you deserve. I suspect, in your own way, you are as astute as your sister.’

  Now it felt as though the other two were passing messages between them that she was not privy to. Once again, she was on the outside, just as she had always been, looking hungrily at the green grass on the other side of the fence. But she was not hungry at all, really. She just wished that this horribly awkward conversation could be over. She nudged the food about on her plate and waited for Priss to declare herself ready to continue the journey.

  Priss was still staring down the hill at the rosebush again. ‘It is a rare man that pays me the honour of calling me astute, Mr Hendricks. Probably because I would much rather be thought pretty. And now, I think I would very much like a flower,’ she said, scuffing the toe of her slipper in the dirt at the edge of the blanket. ‘But I could never get it for myself, for I should certainly prick my finger upon it.’

  Mr Hendricks gave a little sigh of amusement and put aside his meal. ‘Then let me be of service.’ His voice was as bland as if he were performing any other task put to him by a member of the family that employed him.

  But he no longer worked for them. What he did now was merely a courtesy. And it angered Dru to see him scraping and bowing, especially to her sister, who was trying to get a rise out of him, to see some kind of reaction that would prove his true feelings for her.

  ‘Oh, do leave off, Priss,’ she said, her patience nearing an end. ‘Let the poor man finish his meal, so that we might get back to our journey.’

  But Hendricks was going for the flower, and Priss gave her a sharp nudge with her shoe. ‘Nonsense. He didn’t mind at all, did you, Mr Hendricks?’

  ‘Of course not, Lady Priscilla.’ And, as she had a hundred times when chaperoning her sister, she watched his manner for the eagerness or amusement, or a sign of hesitation that would make the flower a token of affection.

  Mr Hendricks reached into his pocket for a penknife and cut through a stem, wrapping it carefully in his handkerchief to protect Priss’s fingers from the thorns and offering it to her.

  ‘It is so lovely. Thank you, Mr Hendricks.’ The smile practically blazed from her sister’s face in a way guaranteed to melt the reserve of even the most proper gentleman. Then she pulled a small mirror from her reticule and used the thorns to their best advantage to fix the blossom in her hair.

  His name is John. Dru held the words in her heart, wanting to blurt it out to prove that, even for a moment, she’d had him all to herself. She felt her cheeks burning with something other than the coy charm that her little sister could manage. How did Priss make it all look so easy, wrapping a man around her finger just as she wrapped her curls around the rose? And leaving her, with a blank look on her face and straight dark hair that would not hold flowers, any more than she could hold the attention of a man.

  She stood up too quickly, muttering something about needing a moment’s privacy, and turned to step behind a nearby bush, praying that they would think she needed to relieve herself of anything but a foul mood.

  ‘Dru.’ He had caught up to her in a step or two, saying her name so low that no one but she could hear. But there was no blandness about it. It was a low growl of command that touched her, making her head snap back to look at him. He had cut another blossom from the rosebush and was examining it carefully to make sure there were no cankers. He turned his back so that Priss would see nothing, skinned the thorns from the stem with his knife, and held the bloom to his own nose, as though admiring the scent, brushing it gently against his lips as he did so.

  Then he presented it to her with a flourish, touching it lightly to her cheek as though he could transfer the kiss he had given the flower.

  She gasped in surprise; when she took the flower from him she held it so tightly that she feared she might break its stem.

  ‘We must talk.’ His voice was rough and urgent.

  And do so much more than that. For she was sure she could feel the touch of his lips still. And then she remembered the much more earthy kiss he had given Priscilla, just that morning, when her bed was hardly cold. ‘Go back to my sister. For I am sure that she is most eager to speak with you.’

  He stifled an oath that was delivered so quietly that even she could hardly hear it, though she stood close by. ‘I come to pour my heart out to you, to offer apologies for my shameful behaviour. And I find you are jealous of your sister?’

  Her cheeks were burning now. She gave her head a little shake, as though to deny the obvious.

  He looked her in the eye, and his molten-gold eyes turned hard behind the lenses. ‘It is unworthy of you. And unnecessary.’ Then he spoke, even more quietly and more urgently, as though there were a great many things he wished to say, and no time or place to unburden himself. ‘What you saw this morning was no fault of m—’ As though he realised how it would sound to her, he stopped. ‘It was of no importance; I will see that it does not happen again. But whatever your feelings towards me, we need to talk, and there is too little time for it. The things that must be said cannot be blurted in the open where anyone might hear them. When we have stopped for the night, if you can get away unobserved, come to my room.’

  ‘I most cer
tainly will not,’ she whispered furiously. ‘What must you think of me, that you believe I would even consider…?’

  ‘Please.’ He grabbed her hand, rose and all, and brought it up to touch his face, rubbing the back of it against his cheek, pressing his lips against it, breathing in as though her skin was some sort of rare perfume. ‘Please. I will not risk coming to you again. Someone might see. But you will know when it is safe to get away.’ He pushed her hand away and half-turned from her, as though he had been balancing precariously on the edge of a cliff, and had only just managed to step away. Then he looked up into her eyes. ‘You must be the one to decide if I can be trusted. After what happened last night, I am not fit or able to make that decision. But if there is anything left to say between us, then come to me. I will wait.’

  ‘Mr Hendricks?’ Her sister’s voice cut the thick air between them, and his head turned in the direction of the sound. Then he took a hurried step away from her, guilt plain on his face and searched the cover they stood behind for another exit. He went around the far side of a nearby tree, working his way through a small copse, to return to her as though to pretend that he had been nowhere near Dru.

  She peered through the leaves of the hedge that hid her, to see Priss glancing over her shoulder in his direction, eyes alluring and the rose he had given her tucked into the curls at the side of her head.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He went to her. Attentive, obedient. Dru watched him closely. And nothing more than that. Though her sister tried with enthusiasm to evoke a stronger reaction, he stood politely to one side, well out of reach of her.

  Dru’s heart beat fast in her chest, and she put her hand against it, wishing that it would calm and let her think. What did he mean by that? What did he mean by any of it? Had he seriously kissed the rose in her hand or was it merely a wish on her part? And to ask her to his room was every bit as improper as coming to hers. How was she even to find it, without asking someone and revealing what she was searching for? And would she have the nerve? If he came to her, they both knew that she could pretend she had no part in the meeting. But if she went to him? Then it sent a clear meaning that she had gone where she had gone willingly and with intent.

  Stuff and nonsense, she told herself. She had shared lodgings with the man for almost a week and had no such qualms. She had even slept in his arms.

  And that experience had not been the least bit innocent, no matter what she might pretend. She could not speak of it, should not even think of it. Going to his room tonight was out of the question. It would be better that every moment of the last week be forgotten. Not that she could ever forget—but perhaps she could try.

  She shuddered, for she could still feel his hands on her, his body in hers and his breath on her skin. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to capture the feeling and still the trembling. Then she stepped out from behind the bush and back towards the place where the footman was gathering up the remains of the picnic.

  From across the clearing, Mr Hendricks’s head turned, as though he had sensed her response. His eyes were innocently blank. ‘Lady Drusilla?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she assured him. ‘A momentary chill.’

  He nodded. ‘They come on sometimes, even in the heat of the day. Do you wish me to get your shawl?’ Ever the attentive servant, willing to see to her comfort and meet her every need.

  The thought made her shudder even more. ‘No. Thank you, Mr Hendricks. I think once we are on the road again, I shall be fine.’

  And hardly thinking, she turned to catch his attention and slipped the rose down the front of her dress, letting the petals crush against the skin of her breast and release their scent, turning everything about the day from innocent sunshine to something hot and lush and exciting.

  And she smiled as the man before her watched, stumbled and caught himself again, taking a moment to remove his spectacles and wipe at them, as though eager to focus on anything but the place the rose had gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  John Hendricks waited patiently behind the partially open door of his room, as still as a man waiting at a springe to catch a hare. He had dropped a few rose petals on the threshold. Should Dru come to look for him she would guess their meaning and enter.

  Anyone else who stuck their head in could be sent off with a curse and the slam of the door. But after last night, and the way she had looked at him today, there was little more he could do for her than to wait patiently for her to come to him.

  He silently damned her sister for the trouble she had caused, hanging about his neck like an albatross and creating no end of trouble. But what could he say to Dru about it that would show him in a good light? I am sorry, darling, but your sister is no better than a grasping whore.

  But a shrewd one at that. It was possible that Priss had taken Gervaise away from her older sister. And if she suspected even a modicum of affection between Dru and himself, she might try the same trick. But today, as they had eaten she’d been most candid in her assessment of Dru’s place in the family and the unfairness of it. This evening, she had taken herself off to bed at an early hour and insisted that she have her own room, so that her sister would not bother her.

  At first, he feared it was meant as an invitation to him. But Priss had given her sister a pointed look, as if issuing a last warning before turning a blind eye. It gave him some small hope that he had an ally in the winning of Dru’s hand.

  But now, there was a hesitant scuffling on the threshold, and a whispered, ‘Mr Hendricks?’

  John, he thought fervently. By now, you are entitled. ‘Yes.’ He rose quickly, opened the door and pulled her inside, closing it behind her.

  In the candlelight, she was as lovely as he remembered. And all his plans for a rational conversation evaporated. She had a woman’s body, ripe and curved, to match those full red lips. It was a body a man could sink into, hot and rich, heady and intoxicating like a good wine. He tried not to think about it. Instead, he touched her face, cupping the softly rounded cheeks in his hands, pulling the lips to his for a kiss. He had meant it as a chaste greeting, as gentle as the kiss he had given to the rose. But her lips parted to accept him and he could not resist.

  She had been innocent, he reminded himself. Still was. To presume less was to insult her character. But still, it was amazing that such a gem had gone undiscovered. And that he had been the one to touch her. Now, she was willing and here in his room. And he wanted her, just as much as he had the previous evening.

  The circumstances of that bit into his conscience. She had not fought him, but she had hardly given him leave to do what he had done to her. And now he was ready to do it again without a word of consent.

  He pulled away from the kiss with a groan, feeling her lean after him as though she did not want to give him up. But when he tried to read her mood, her head dipped so that he would not see her expression. Her heavy black hair was unbraided and hung down past her shoulders, covering her breasts. He touched her chin, lifting her face to look into his eyes. Big, brown, liquid.

  And fearful. She did not shrink from him, for her arms still clung to his waist as though she was afraid to lose him. But she was not smiling. And as he watched, her lower lip trembled and the first tear coursed down her cheek.

  He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and damned himself for his hasty actions of the previous night. ‘Sweet?’ he said, brushing the drop away with the back of a knuckle, only to see another take its place. She closed her eyes then, and the heavy lashes grew wet. And then her lips moved, as though murmuring a prayer.

  ‘Drusilla?’ he asked again, more clearly. ‘Speak to me.’

  She gave a little shake of her head and he felt the pain of hurting her, sharp inside him, and a hunger to take back the last hour, to a time when she was not crying. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.’

&
nbsp; ‘Last night, you were upset,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not at you, love.’

  ‘But you will be.’

  He smoothed a hand over her hair. ‘And why would I have any right to anger? It is you who must hate me, for I have been a brute, with no sympathy to your feelings, no consideration for your innocence. I should never have touched you. I had no right.’

  ‘It is not that,’ she whispered. ‘It is that you did what you did with no understanding of who I am.’

  And for a moment, the strange idea leapt in him that she was about to make some dark confession about being a governess or a serving girl, masquerading as Lady Dru. He almost crossed his fingers in hope of it, for it would make life so much easier if they were in any way equal. He would offer, she would accept and nothing would stand between them, ever again. ‘If I do not know who you are, then you must tell me. I want to know, Dru. I want to know you.’

  ‘No, you do not,’ she was shaking her head again. ‘My sister…’

  ‘Priscilla?’ he asked, hoping for a different answer. But she nodded.

  ‘It is she who loved Mr Gervaise, however unwise that might be. And I came after her and her alone. She did not understand the damage she might do to her reputation.’

  Damn fate. And damn Priscilla as well. Dru was as great a lady as he feared and had lost her own reputation in the flight to save her sister. ‘You have rescued her. And there is an end to it.’

  ‘Last night, you seemed to think that I held some feeling for Gervaise. That there was a penchant, perhaps.’

  ‘And there is not?’ That was some small scrap of good news. ‘But when we first met, you said that you and he had an understanding.’

  ‘It was not that sort of understanding. When he first came to the house, I saw the way he looked at her. But he was a very good dancer and only in the house for a few hours each week. So I paid him twice what he was worth and told him that the money would continue as long as he caused no trouble, but that he would get nothing but trouble if he tried anything more adventurous than a waltz.’