by Amanda Scott
“Me!”
“Yes, you, and don’t look so wide-eyed,” he said grimly. “Why do you think I sent your groom away? I mean to say a few, things to you, Miss Lindale, that I am quite certain you would prefer to hear privately.”
“Well, I cannot think what you might wish to say, sir,” she replied, concentrating on the back of her horse’s arched neck as she turned him uphill. “Nor can I stop you from saying whatever you like. However, your horse should not be kept standing while we talk. Shall we start back?”
“We will ride to the elm grove at the top of the hill. By then Jack will be ready to rest for a few moments.”
“But we must get back to town, sir! Everyone will begin to wonder what has become of us.”
“Then they must wonder. I have a good deal to say, and I desire your full attention while I say it. You had no business to come up here by yourself, you know.”
“You have no authority over me, my lord,” Nell retorted.
“We’ll just see about that.”
Silence fell between them, although Nell wanted very much to tell him to his head that he could just keep his tongue between his teeth. She had no wish whatever to hear what he had to say to her, for she knew only too well that she had acted rashly in letting her anxiety over Rory’s well-being make her forget about her own. It had seemed such a simple matter merely to ride up here, find her, and take her home again. And Peter had seemed sufficient escort for such a purpose. It was not until the possibility had arisen that she might have to be separated from Peter that she had recognized any difficulties, but they had been brought home to her in full force then. When she had seen Huntley riding down the hill toward them, she had felt as though a full cavalry regiment was coming to her aid. Though she had seen his anger and had briefly thought it aimed at her, once he had begun speaking of Rory’s escapade, she had assumed his temper was the result of that and nothing else. Now, it appeared that there was a good deal more to the matter than that.
They reached the grove of trees, and Huntley dismounted, dropping Jack’s rein to the ground, men turning to help Nell from the saddle.
“Truly, my lord, there is little to be served by stopping here. We must—”
“You are coming out of that saddle,” he said, favoring her with a stern glare. “It would be wise for you to cooperate.”
She returned the glare. “Very well, sir. I can see that you are quite determined upon this course.”
He grasped her around the waist and lifted her easily from the saddle. When he released her, it was only to replace his hands upon her shoulders, and Nell feared from his grim expression that he meant to shake her. That is, she suspected the little shiver that raced up her spine must be one of fear, but even as the thought occurred, she knew she was not afraid of him. Whatever he might do, whatever he might choose to say to her, she was certain he meant her no harm. She stared up at him, waiting for whatever would come next, and when he simply released her and turned away, she felt a wave of disappointment that startled her. Before she had time to examine the extraordinary feeling, he turned back. She watched him, interested to note that his teeth seemed to be clenched. Certainly, his hands had curled into fists.
“Damn it, Nell,” he said softly, his voice obviously under rigid control. “You must know how stupidly you behaved today.”
“I was worried about Rory,” she said, amazed that her own voice seemed so steady. “If I didn’t stop to think properly, surely, under the circumstances, no one can blame me.”
“The devil they can’t!” he snapped, his quick temper not eased in the slightest by her studied calmness. “One idiotic action can scarcely excuse another. You had no business to go haring off like that, and you know it. What would your father say to all of this?”
“Since he is in no position to say anything—”
“Don’t quibble, damn it! I’m having enough difficulty to keep from shaking you, or worse.”
“Very well, sir!” she replied in the same tone, placing her hands on her hips. “Eight years ago my father would have said very much what you are saying now, but that was eight years ago when I was a girl like Rory. And I promise you, sir, I had planned a number of such things to say to her when I found her. But Clarissa, Crossways, and you as well, Philip, chose to make me responsible for her. And since she is my responsibility, when she disappeared, I came to find her. It is unfortunate, perhaps, that it did not occur to me she might ride anywhere but here—”
“It was damned foolhardy not to consider other possibilities!” he declared, unimpressed. “But it was even more foolish of you to go in search of her without so much as informing anyone other than a housemaid of your purpose. Before you can accept responsibility for Aurora’s behavior, you must learn to act responsibly yourself, Nell. Your actions today indicate that you have not grown much wiser than the green girl I met eight years ago.”
She opened her mouth, but the words she meant to utter stuck painfully in her throat. Having accepted the fact of his anger, she had expected that he might say things she would as lief not hear, but she had not expected anything he said to hurt her. And his last words had hurt. Her throat closed up even more, and the tightness seemed to creep up the side of her face and behind her eyes. She felt her chin tremble and realized with some astonishment that she was on the verge of tears. Her hands, placed as they were on her hips, felt suddenly ridiculous. I must look like a fishwife, she thought bitterly. But she seemed unable to move them. She could only stand there, staring at Huntley, fighting back the stupid tears.
“Nell?” He said it twice before she heard him, and then she only tilted her chin to a more defiant angle, glaring at him through tears that sparkled on her lashes. Huntley took a step nearer, anger replaced by concern. “What is it, Nell? What did I say to make you look like that? Damn it, don’t cry!” He reached out a hand and laid it gently upon her shoulder, as though he would draw her nearer, but she pulled away from him, her hands dropping to her sides at last.
“I won’t cry,” she said grimly, clutching at her skirts. “I am not a stupid watering pot. Nor am I as silly as Rory, damn you!”
He made no immediate reply, and if there was amusement in his expression, Nell was too angry and too concerned with controlling her tears to notice it. After a moment he asked gently, “Did that hurt so much?” Angrily she turned her back on him, but he stepped closer, his hands upon her shoulders again. “I never meant I thought you as silly as your niece, Nell. Only that you did not act very wisely today. Now, turn around, look me in the eye, and tell me, if you dare, that I’m wrong.”
Her shoulders shook a little under those gentle hands, and two wrenching sobs escaped her before she forced herself to breathe deeply in an attempt to regain control of her ragged emotions. Huntley said nothing at all, nor did he move, and after a moment or two her breathing steadied, though her nerves did not. He was too close, yet she did not want him to move away. It was almost as if she hoped to gain the very strength to face him from the warmth of those hands upon her shoulders. Realizing the thought was an absurd one, she took another deep breath, wiped her hands on her skirts, and turned, looking up at him through her damp lashes, the picture of contrition.
“You are not wrong, my lord.” She spoke gruffly, but his gaze held hers for a long moment, and she could not seem to turn away. The tension thickening between them quickened her pulse, but more than that, she was aware of a look in his eye that she had seen a time or two before, almost as if he felt some pain or other. Whatever it was, she was conscious of a need to comfort him. “I may not be as silly as Rory,” she said quietly, watching him closely, “but I deserved a trimming just as surely as she did. If your words upset me, ’twas only because I knew I had acted foolishly and was annoyed with myself. I own, I have often ridden up here with only Peter’s escort, but never so near to the camp as this. That was indeed foolhardy.”
“You are not to come here alone at all, Nell,” he said sternly, reaching into his waistcoat pocket
for a handkerchief, with which he began to mop at her cheeks. “And do not dare to tell me I have no authority over you,” he added when her mouth dropped open as though she would protest. “It is my belief that, in your father’s absence, you have become as fond as your niece of having your own way, and if no one else will take it upon himself to curb your high flights, as your friend I must. I don’t mind telling you that this little escapade of yours frightened me witless. Here, blow your nose.”
She had been holding her tongue only until he had quite finished, intending to declare her independence, her maturity, and anything else that might be necessary to convince him that, while he might be in the right of it over the way she had dealt with things today, he still had no right, even as a friend, to dictate to her. But his last words put a period to that little speech before it was begun. Instead, she took the handkerchief from him and obediently put it to good use. Then, clutching it in one hand, she looked up at him again, her head tilted a little to one side. “Did I truly frighten you, sir?”
His jaw tightened, and he turned slightly away, drawing in a long, slow breath. Thinking he was exerting himself in order to keep from treating her to the benefit of a few more blistering words, Nell touched his arm.
“Please, Philip, I—” Whatever else she might have said was lost as she found herself suddenly crushed against his broad chest. She struggled briefly, but it was useless. He was too strong. With a little sigh she relaxed, putting her trust in fate. He was muttering into her curls now, something to the effect that she had frightened the very liver and lights out of him. The phrasing tickled her sense of the absurd, and she chuckled against his waistcoat, only to find herself thrust suddenly away, his grip bruising her shoulders as he peered anxiously down at her.
“Here, you aren’t crying again, are you?” Her eyes twinkled as her lips parted slightly, and he groaned as if he could stand no more. “Damn you, Nell,” he muttered, pulling her into his arms again and lowering his head to claim her lips in a ruthless kiss.
Astonished, even stunned as she was by this sudden display of passion, it never once occurred to Nell to resist him. The feelings coursing through her would have made such a response seem entirely ridiculous. Instead, she followed her instincts, meeting his demands with a passion that matched his own, offering no resistance, even when his tongue moved against her teeth, demanding entrance. She seemed to know instinctively what he wanted from her, and she responded willingly, trusting him still to do nothing that would harm her.
If she had been capable of rational thought, she might have been amazed that she could respond so easily to Huntley’s passion, for although she had been frequently in his company of late, she had continued to think of him primarily as a comfortable escort, a dear friend. If she had begun to turn to him more and more for advice, she would have said—had anyone remarked upon it—that it was only because he was so readily available to her.
Her thoughts on that or any subject, however, were not rational at the moment. Indeed, as Huntley’s hands began to move over her body, following the curve of her waist and hips before moving upward again, Nell was lost, suspended in a world of wondrous sensations. The roughness of his coat seemed unique and somehow fascinating beneath her fingers, and her hands began to roam just as his were doing, seeking new textures, delighting in the feel of his hard, muscular body. She was hardly aware of the actual course they took, however, for her senses were overwhelmed by the magical feelings his kisses and the touch of his hands stirred throughout her own body. His hands moved gently over her soft breasts, and she gasped, pulling slightly, involuntarily, away from him. At once his arms encircled her, crushing her against his chest again, and she felt the stirring of his warm breath against her curls.
“Oh, Nell, forgive me,” he murmured. “Or send me to the devil for a hypocrite. To think I dared to preach responsibility to you! I ought to be horsewhipped.”
She drew in a long breath, not daring to examine her own upended sensibilities, but forcing all her energies of concentration onto his dismay instead. He was her best friend, and he must not be allowed to castigate himself. Not for something which had seemed, incredibly, to have happened quite naturally and which had clearly been pleasurable for them both. Not that it wasn’t rather pleasant to have the boot on the other foot for once, to see him angry with himself instead of with Rory or with her. The thought steadied her still-reeling senses.
When she moved a little within his arms, he loosened his hold, thus enabling her to look up at him. It took some effort to appear calm, but the hint of a mischievous twinkle lurked deep in her eyes. “If I were the green girl you accused me of being some moments ago, sir, you might indeed deserve to be punished. Although,” she added musingly, “I cannot think who might attend to the matter for me. Kit, perhaps? Or, no, that would be if there were to be a duel, in which case you would, of necessity, delope, and all would be well, because although he is expert with a shotgun, poor Kit could not hit a mail coach at ten paces with a pistol. But for horsewhipping, one is supposed to send one’s lackeys. Is that not so?”
His lips twitched slightly, but he managed to answer evenly enough. “It is the recommended procedure.”
“Well, then, what are we to do?” She tilted her head. “Peter has already shown a detestable willingness to obey your slightest command without so much as asking my leave, which, you will admit, hardly encourages one to believe he would support any effort to effect your punishment. Moreover, there is the difficulty of your size. His head scarcely reaches your shoulder. And if you are thinking Kit’s groom might be more equal to the task, let me tell you, you are quite out, for Ned is a mere scrap of a fellow. And Trilby, my coachman, as you know perfectly well, is well past the age mark. So we are at a stand, I’m afraid.”
He laughed, tweaking one of her curls. “Nell, are you never serious?”
“Yes, of course I am, but not when others talk fustian.”
He grimaced again. “It’s not fustian, and you know it. I had no business to do what I did, but oh, I wish that I had and that Fate had not served us such a devilish trick.”
The last few words made her tremble, but she forced herself to ignore their possible meaning as she placed her hand upon his arm and looked him straight in the eye. “Dear friend, you did nothing that I did not allow you to do, and I never once feared for my honor or my dignity. Indeed,” she added, managing a nearly roguish smile, “I must be an abandoned woman, for I enjoyed myself hugely. And if I do not regret what happened, why then should you?”
“Ah, but you are still an innocent, my dear, regardless of the fact that you think yourself such an old cat. The fault is mine. I should not have let it happen.”
“But it did happen,” she pointed out. “Between two good friends, and it is over now and done. We should be thinking ahead now to how you mean to deal with Rory, should we not?”
“Deal with Rory?” He seemed puzzled.
“Well, surely this proves that you must not marry her, Philip.”
He cast her a pain-ridden glance, but she said nothing further, and at last, staring at a point beyond her shoulder, he spoke. “I have realized for some time now and for several reasons that my betrothal was an unfortunate mistake. However, that knowledge, though frustrating, makes little difference. I am contracted to her. Had I known after my brother died—But it is so senseless to look back, to wail over what might have been. Indeed, it is pointless. My honor is at stake now, so there is nothing to be done.”
“How Gothic!” Nell did nothing now to conceal the sudden anger she felt, but when he only regarded her with that expression of helpless pain, she realized it would be fruitless to debate the matter with him. A gentleman of honor, such as she knew him to be, could never call off his betrothal. It was a simple enough thing for the lady to do—ladies being considered a fickle lot—but it was never an acceptable act for a gentleman. Privately Nell thought that a stupid custom, for certainly a gentleman could make a mistake (as, indeed, Huntley had
done) just as easily as a lady might.
Pressing her lips together she let him help her back into the saddle and, during the ride back into Brighton, made little effort to respond to his occasional conversational gambits. Her mind was too busy for desultory chitchat, and though he looked as if he could use some more comforting, she had no wish to offer him soothing words. Her emotions were too much in turmoil.
Where she had once thought marriage to Huntley would be the making of her niece, now she knew it would be total disaster for both of them. And for others, as well. Herself, in particular. The thought showed an alarming tendency to linger, but for the moment and despite her still-tingling senses, Nell made every effort to repress it. It was not in her nature to dwell upon what might have been, but it was certainly in her nature to attack present difficulties head-on in order to clear the way for what might be. Therefore, it made better sense to deal with the situation at hand than to attempt to make sense of Huntley’s cryptic references to the past. A little resolution was clearly required if matters were to be rearranged satisfactorily.
She thought at first that Huntley himself, if he truly wished to be free, might simply make a push to discuss the matter with Rory and convince her to agree to a mutual dissolution of the betrothal. But upon thinking it over, she realized it would be useless to suggest such a course to him. He would refuse, insisting that to make the suggestion would be every bit as insulting to Rory as it would be to jilt her without discussing the matter. And in the normal course of events, of course, it would be. But from what she had seen of her niece lately, the events were anything but normal. She had a suspicion that, with very little encouragement, Rory would welcome an end to her betrothal, that she had already discovered a preference for men—perhaps even for one man—nearer her own age.
Clearly, then, Nell herself would have to discuss the matter with her. Briefly, she considered the possibility of informing him of her intention, but she discarded the notion almost the moment it entered her head. He would forbid that course as well, and then she would be at a standstill. And Nell meant to do something. She could not simply let matters take their course, for if she did, Huntley would end up married to Rory, and they would all be miserable.