‘I said we would ride, but that is an approximation,’ he murmured into her ear as the animal slowly lumbered forwards. ‘I hired this beast from the most cunning of farmers—it makes your uncle’s horse seem a veritable Pegasus.’
She giggled. It felt so good to be with him again and cocooned in his arms. In stately fashion they walked along the street and out of the village, the gentle motion of the horse melding them together. She leaned back against his chest and raised her face to what warmth there was from the autumn sun. For a moment her grip slackened and in response his arms tightened and held her closer than ever. She glowed with pleasure; she wanted this journey to go on for ever and wondered if he did, too. But when they came to the stream which marked the southern boundary of the village, he dismounted and turned to help her down.
‘This river must be the very one that flows through the park at Verney Towers.’ She slid from the saddle and for an instant was held in his arms. ‘Let us hope that history doesn’t repeat itself,’ he joked. He set her down carefully on her feet. ‘If you remember, last time we talked by its waters we fell into a stupid squabble.’
His manner spoke a cool detachment that shrivelled the warmth in which she had been basking. But he was right to stay aloof, she thought, just as he had been right to leave the Towers. It was only his kindness to Rupert that had brought them together again. He tethered the horse to a nearby tree and shrugged off his riding jacket, spreading it on the riverbank and helping her to find a comfortable seat beneath a small alder. The river flowed swiftly beneath them, its eddying currents bearing leaves and broken twigs rapidly downstream. An enormous willow on the opposite bank cascaded its branches into the rushing water, trailing leaves into ever shifting patterns of green and gold. And within its protective circle, small fishes played hide and seek beneath the water’s clear surface. They sat watching their games in silence, allowing the soft river sounds to cloak them in calm.
At last she broke the quiet, impatient to express her thanks. ‘I thought you miles away at Lord Merrington’s.’
‘There were things I had to do,’ he said evasively. He would not easily admit to his generosity, she could see. ‘But you must not think I have been wasting my time. You met me as I was returning from the woods or, more precisely, from the clearing. Yes, that clearing! I took Didimus Black—he’s the Runner that Bow Street has sent—and showed him where I suffered the most nefarious of attacks.’
His words sent a riff of fear chasing down her spine, but he smiled encouragingly at her. ‘I have suggested to him that the highwayman haunting the Sussex byways is no more fearsome than a youngster playing games and it is just the kind of spree to tempt a bored youth.’
‘Do you think he believed you?’
‘He didn’t disbelieve me—he is still making up his mind. I pointed out that nothing was taken from me and that it was not a very sensible place from which to launch an attack. No professional highwayman would have gone for a wood. They prefer open land where their escape is more certain. I didn’t mention that it was a perfect choice for anyone knowing every inch of the local countryside.’
She quaked inwardly. ‘Let us hope that he doesn’t think of that for himself.’
‘I made light of the incident and acted as though I thought he should, too. After all, I am the victim and if I don’t take it seriously, then why should he?’
The sun’s rays had strengthened and in the reflected river light it grew warm where they sat. He murmured an apology and began to unwind a badly wilting neckcloth. She saw a glimpse of bare chest before he adjusted the ruffles of his cambric shirt and leaned lazily back against the tree. Just looking at him sent a sizzle of pleasure through her veins. She wished it were not so but her body was helplessly out of control whenever he was near. She must strive her utmost not to show it, pretend to herself that this surge of breathlessness was quite normal.
‘If you appear so unconcerned, Mr Black will think he has been called out on false pretences.’
‘I suggested that in part he was called to allay the fears of an elderly gentleman living nearby, but that in any case the presence of a Runner in the neighbourhood would bring home to local striplings the seriousness of their misconduct.’
‘You have been busy. But if he should hear of the attack on the toll wagons—I doubt you could explain that as the work of a bored youth.’ She was astonished at how collected she sounded.
‘So far he has heard nothing of it and Partridge will not give the game away—it would implicate him in knowledge he is not supposed to have. The Runner is taking a particular interest in our landlord and that, too, is my doing. Mr Black will not want to return to Bow Street empty-handed and the shady activities at the inn should provide him with his just reward.’
‘Are you ever at a loss?’ She closed her eyes to the sun and leaned back, joining him against the alder tree.
‘Not often—though I was astounded to see you running down the village street and nearly killing yourself in the process.’
‘You exaggerate.’
‘I don’t like to see my patients relapse,’ he teased.
‘I wanted to find you if it was possible. I wanted to thank you. No, that is inadequate. I actually wanted to kiss your feet, but Rupert baulked at that.’
‘I think I might, too. But Rupert? He is home again?’
‘You know well that he is. You have arranged it all.’
He did not confirm or deny her suggestion, but she knew the truth. She lifted his hand to her lips. ‘Thank you, Jack, from the bottom of my heart.’
He took her hand, palm uppermost, and kissed it back. ‘Rupert is well?’
‘Well enough. I have left him trying to make his peace with my uncle.’
‘That could be tricky, but it is not your problem,’ he said softly, ‘it is Rupert’s. You must leave him to work it out.’
‘You think me foolish to be so concerned for him?’
‘How could I think that? You have been a most loving sister. I’m sure he is aware of how much he owes you.’
‘I’m not,’ she said bluntly. ‘Rupert has come to expect my aid whatever he does. But it’s not his fault. I have led him to depend on me, ever since we were young children.’
‘And why was that?’
‘He found growing up without a mother or father very difficult.’
‘And you did not?’
‘I did, of course, but I coped. It’s strange,’ she reflected, ‘we are twins. In fact, I believe that Rupert was born first, but I have always felt the elder child.’
‘And so you have shouldered his troubles. Was that wise?’ It was an uncomfortable question but there was sympathy in his eyes.
‘In retrospect, no, but I wanted to protect him. My grandparents treated us both severely, but Rupert particularly so. They hated my father and Rupert is very like him—in looks at least. They worried that he would go the same way and ruled him with a rod of iron. They could be cruel.’
‘To a small child?’
‘That hardly mattered. They saw him as a wicked soul in need of correction. He was imprisoned in his room, denied meals, sometimes even beaten. Our uncle has followed in their footsteps.’
‘It’s difficult for me to picture Sir Francis administering a beating!’
‘He never did, in fact.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But in many ways he treated Rupert as badly. He has meted out punishment differently, that’s all—forbidding my brother playthings when he was young or new clothes as he grew older, or a pony when he was desperate to ride. It was my mother’s godfather who bequeathed Red to him. He was never allowed friends either—instead he was made to do lessons eight hours a day. He had only to sin slightly and he was chastised.’
‘And you were not? You were the golden girl.’ He reached out to smooth away a wisp of blonde hair that had blown acro
ss her face. ‘Quite literally!’
‘I was as naughty as Rupert, naughtier at times, but somehow his punishment was always more severe. It made me very protective—I felt I had to defend him, shield him if I could. I still do.’
‘I understand. But why was your father so hated that his son was made to suffer in this way? He was a military man, I think you said. That is an honourable profession.’
‘He was a soldier, but by the time my mother met him, he had sold out. He existed on what he could win at the gambling tables and from other activities it’s probably best not to dwell on.’ Her mother’s words danced before her eyes. ‘Suffice to say he mixed with some very undesirable company.’
Jack gave a low whistle. ‘It is hardly surprising that your mother’s family was upset by her choice of husband. But how did they ever come to meet? I cannot imagine that Captain Laceys were thick on the ground in the Devereux circle.’
‘I’ve never discovered exactly how they became acquainted. My uncle finds it impossible to talk of his sister. They were very close at one time, I believe, but then Agnes, my mother, met my father and I suspect it may have been through Uncle Francis or rather a friend of his, so perhaps he feels guilt at the outcome. Though knowing him,’ she said fairly, ‘I cannot see him feeling that for long.’
‘Nor me.’ He grinned. ‘Your father’s career, though—before he took up gaming, that is—might be just the thing for Rupert. He is weak at the moment and will need some months to regain his strength, but the military could be a sensible choice. It is a disciplined life and would take care of any excess energy.’
He was looking intently at her, the brown eyes honey warm, and she found herself falling slowly into the heat of his gaze. Neither of them moved and neither looked away. Their eyes feasted on each other, mesmerised by mutual desire. She felt her body flushing and softening and tried to bring herself back to reality.
‘How did you become such a sage?’ She gave an involuntary spurt of laughter and wished her voice did not sound so shaky. If only he did not touch her, all would be well. If only he would.
‘Most of the time, Lucinda, I’m scrabbling for wisdom. Now, for example, I should put you on my horse and walk you back to Verney Towers.’ His voice, too, was hardly his own.
‘But...’
‘But instead I must kiss you. I can do nothing else.’
His hand tipped her chin upwards and in an instant his mouth had found hers. She opened to him, her lips knowing exactly what to do. His kiss this time was immediately possessive, hard and intense; he was claiming her for his own. Again and again he kissed her until her lips felt bruised and her whole being ached with longing. Then his hands were skimming her body, caressing every curve, in an unrelenting embrace. She felt the tremors of fire spreading wider and wider through every nerve, every fibre. He followed her down onto the jacket, his body covering hers, moulding himself to her. The ties of her bodice were loosened and the covering of soft cotton pushed to one side; without a moment’s hesitation she took his head in her hands and pulled his mouth down to her breasts. Slowly and tenderly he kissed her into fierce delight. She felt the cool air on the naked skin of her legs and his hands moving upwards; she longed for him to find her and stay there for ever.
The sound of a coach being driven fast along the nearby road burst upon them. His hand was stopped, her lips released and he pulled them both to a sitting position.
‘That should not have happened.’
‘I have heard those words before, I think.’ Her mouth curved itself to a sensuous smile.
‘You are a witch and I cannot resist you. But this is a public place and we could have been discovered at any time. I must have been mad.’
‘We must have been mad,’ she amended, reaching out to smooth the face that had become so dear. He was right to say that it should not have happened, but she could not feel sorry. She would have one last memory of him to warm her through the years to come.
He helped her to her feet and stood looking into her eyes. He seemed to be going to say something, but then turned and went to untether the horse. She collected his crumpled jacket from their resting place and a sheet of white fluttered to the ground. She picked it up to replace it in his pocket and noticed that it bore a London address. Surely Grosvenor Square was where his sister, Lady Bessborough, lived. The earl was still busy adjusting the girths on the horse and Lucinda could not resist the letter’s temptation. But as she read, her face grew crimson as each line imprinted itself on her brain. Minutes ago she had been lost in the embrace of this man, had longed to surrender herself gloriously to the storm. She had wanted him as she had wanted nothing else in her life. But now—she felt cheated, humiliated and very, very angry.
‘When were you thinking of telling me? Or perhaps you were not,’ she said in cold accusation.
He turned around and looked at her questioningly. She waved the letter at him. ‘It seems that Miss Hayward awaits you at Lord Merrington’s. How very pleasant and perhaps she is not the only one you can look forward to. Perhaps Lady Bessborough is even now busily finding a few more virgins for your delectation.’
‘What the hell!’
‘Tut, tut. You must learn to stifle your curses, Lord Frensham. Other women may be more choosy than I.’
He strode towards her, a tinge of colour in his lean cheeks, and snatched the letter from out of her fingers. ‘Is this a Lacey phenomenon, too—reading other people’s correspondence as well as spending other people’s money?’
He was out to hurt her, she knew, but all she felt was rage. He had been toying with her. She had thought him splendid, the perfect man. She had ached for his touch and, when it came, had been ready to give herself to him in love. And what was her return—a passion that was quickly forgotten and a swift departure to pastures new.
She tried to control her voice, but could not keep the tremble from it.
‘I confess that I had no right to read your letter. But what right have you to make love to me, knowing that in a day you will be charming another woman.’
‘I know no such thing. Whatever is in that letter is nothing to do with me. My sisters are a law unto themselves. They arrange and I ignore—I thought you knew that.’
‘So you intend to disregard Miss Hayward’s attractions?’
‘I have no notion of who Miss Hayward might be.’
‘In the same way as you had no notion of who Miss Lacey might be. It hasn’t stopped you getting to know her quite well!’
‘With her blessing.’
It was Lucinda’s turn to flush angrily. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Simply that I haven’t noticed too many protests on your part.’
‘Is that your excuse for serial seduction?’
‘I need no excuse.’ He was towering over her, his face a study in wrath. ‘Seduction takes two—you have been as eager for me as I have been for you. And you know it!’
The flush died and her face turned a sickly white. She was feeling ill, but when she spoke her voice was steel. ‘Let us hope you find Miss Hayward as eager.’
‘I care nothing for Miss Hayward. How many times have I to say that?’
‘As you have cared nothing for others you have seduced. Your excuses are weak, sir. You are a womaniser, plain and simple, and I have been foolish enough to believe you sincere. But no longer.’
And gathering her skirts together, she walked briskly away, leaving him in a state of seething resentment.
* * *
He was still seething the next morning. It had not been easy to obtain Rupert Lacey’s release, but he had done it. He had pulled strings, paid money. His men had exerted themselves to organise cabs and coaches and accommodation. All for Lucinda—so that she could rescue her beloved brother and know peace of mind. He had not wanted gratitude, nor had he wanted another intimate en
counter. But he had got both and more.
Two days ago she had stunned him with the news that her brother was in gaol and that the thrill seeking he so abhorred had in truth been a purposeful campaign. She was not after all another Julia chasing excitement, but a brave, foolhardy girl who had acted only out of love and loyalty. He had not known how to respond, had said an almost mechanical goodbye, realising that something fundamental had shifted. Knowing the truth had changed his perception, changed the very landscape of his mind. The barrier he had erected against her had been demolished and thrown the future he’d planned into disarray. Since then one question had hammered insistently at him. Could he bear to love again? The past was still so vivid—the shame, the humiliation—and love was a gamble. He had thought to venture there no more.
And what of Lucinda? Would it be fair to involve her any further when he was unsure of his own mind? She desired him, that was certain, but desire would pass. In a year, or less, she would forget him. She was fixed on a very different future. From the outset she had made it clear that her life was to be lived with her brother. Her every thought was for Rupert and on the very day of his departure, her tears in the rose garden had been for her brother and not for him. Now she had her twin home again and the life she dreamed of could eventually be hers. What right had he to step into that dream and distort it?
She provoked the utmost passion in him, but a lifetime commitment could not be built on passion alone. In time the urgency would fade and how could he be the husband and companion she needed and deserved? There was nothing in his life that suggested he could. As a very young man he had loved truly, but after that affair ended in disaster, he had thrown himself into a world of heedless pleasure: fine clothes, fine parties, fine women. Except for his sporting prowess, there was nothing of which he could be proud and that was hardly a basis on which to build enduring happiness! Lucinda deserved so much better and he would not harm her. Once Fielding returned with the carriage, he would go. He would leave her in peace.
The decision had been made, the carriage returned, and he had been on the point of setting out for Hampshire when the business with the Runner had detained him before he could make good his escape. When she had come rushing on to the scene, happiness writ large in every gesture, he should have simply acknowledged her thanks and bid her a final farewell. But he had lingered, riding with her to the river when he should have ridden away. Seeing her again, seeing her lovely face, her smile, had lifted his heart in a way that he could not explain. He had been unable to say goodbye, unable to leave. And despite his very best intentions, he had been unable to resist making love to her.
Unmasking Miss Lacey Page 16