Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘How fortunate that this should happen almost within heat of the forge,’ Jane declared, seizing the opportunity to climb down to terra firma. She needed to compose herself, and could do so more satisfactorily under pretence of straightening her clothes and shaking them free of dust. Her heart was pounding, her mouth was dry, and all she could think was that Guy Valmer had the will she’d prayed was lost forever. If he located Beth as well, Jane, Lady Welland was well and truly undone. Snapping open her parasol, she turned to Rowan, who was examining the horse’s off-foreleg. ‘You go on to the forge. I will walk a while.’

  ‘But I thought you wished to inspect Jupiter.’

  ‘I’ll trust your judgement, Rowan. If you think he’ll be an asset to the stud, I’ll pay whatever price you agree. Oh, and by the way.’

  He looked curiously at her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you know that Beth’s former lover, Mannacott, is now blacksmith here?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens, I do. Guy told me.’

  ‘I see.’ Without a backward glance, she turned to stroll across the green in the opposite direction from the forge, and after a moment Rowan persuaded the horse to move on. He was shaken to discover he had a half-brother, and his stomach churned as much as Jane’s. The darkness in the smithy was dense before the flames flared brightly and he saw an old man with a paunch working the bellows as a younger man, tall, muscular and good-looking, held a red-hot shoe in the glowing heart of the fire. A groom waited nearby with a docile hunter. Rowan watched in silence. So this was Beth’s rough lover. It was difficult to imagine Beth Tremoille, so dainty, elegant and refined, rolling in the hay with such a brute, although there was probably a great deal to be said for the fellow’s splendid body. He’d make a good prizefighter.

  As Jake thrust the shoe into a pail of water, he felt the newcomer’s scrutiny. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘My horse has cast a shoe.’

  ‘I won’t be long, sir.’ Rowan nodded and leaned back against a wall. Jake glanced at him. ‘What brings you to Frampney, sir? It’s a mite off the beaten track.’

  ‘My stepmother is interested in acquiring Jupiter.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Jake held his gaze. ‘A fine horse, but I’m afraid you’re too late. Jupiter was sold yesterday to the Duke of Beaufort. I fear you’ve made a wasted journey.’ So that’s that, Stepmama, Rowan thought as Jake finished shoeing the hunter, and then attended to the cabriolet horse. As he unharnessed it the smith recognized the small W branded on its flank. ‘A Welland nag, eh?’

  ‘I’m Lord Welland’s son.’

  ‘Indeed? So, your stepmother is the former Mrs Tremoille.’ The flat tone revealed Jake’s opinion of that lady.

  Rowan seized his opportunity. ‘Do you know where Beth is?’

  Annoyance clouded Jake’s face. ‘Hasn’t the fashionable world got anything better to do than ask questions about Miss Tremoille and her common farrier? No, I don’t know where she is, and as I said to Sir Guy Valmer, if I did, I wouldn’t tell. You wait outside now, sir, for this is no place for a gentleman. Your horse will soon be ready.’ Rowan knew he’d been dismissed, and had to hide a smile as he went back into the sunlight where the cabriolet’s fittings gleamed like silver. He could see Jane in the distance, her parasol twirling slowly, almost thoughtfully, as she strolled near the village ponds, but then a young girl of about seventeen in a rose-coloured dress caught his attention. Her long, straight, blonde hair hung loose beneath her simple mobcap, and she carried a basket over her arm. She walked gracefully, her hem lifting in the light breeze, and there was something about her that completely engaged his interest. She drew nearer, and he realized she was approaching the forge. He cleared his throat and automatically began to fiddle with various parts of the cabriolet, but then a bag of flour fell from her basket and burst on the ground. ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ she cried in dismay, and Rowan ran to assist.

  ‘Let me help,’ he said, as she tried to scoop as much of the flour as she could.

  ‘Phoebe will kill me, flour being the price it is,’ she said, allowing him to help as he could. She spoke well, having recognized him from outside Gloucester Cathedral.

  ‘The ending of the war hasn’t made for a cheap loaf of bread, has it?’ he replied, noticing her diction.

  At last she looked up at him, taking in his cuts and bruises. ‘Oh, dear,’ was all she said.

  He was a little self-conscious. ‘Pugilism isn’t the daintiest of sports, but I promise I’m not as disreputable as my appearance might suggest.’

  ‘Fisticuffs, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. She was so pretty that he was quite captivated.

  Satisfied she’d salvaged as much flour as possible, she straightened, and Rowan did the same. Her glance went past him toward the forge, and he saw the quick nuance of unease that passed through her eyes. ‘I – I must go now, sir,’ she said, managing to give him a shy smile in return.

  ‘Please stay.’

  ‘I daren’t, sir. My father won’t like it. I’m not to speak to gentlemen.’

  As she hurried away he called after her. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rosalind, sir. Rosalind Mannacott.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘I know who you are, sir.’

  Rowan gazed after her until she’d disappeared into the white wisteria-swathed house behind the forge. ‘Rosalind Mannacott,’ he breathed.

  As soon as she was inside, Rosalind hurried to the parlour window to watch as Rowan walked away. How handsome he was, even with those terrible bruises, and to think that he’d wanted to know her name. ‘And what are you looking at so intently?’ Phoebe was in a fireside chair darning some stockings.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Rosalind replied hastily. Too hastily.

  ‘Really? Well, I know a fib when I hear one, especially from you.’

  Rosalind sighed. ‘Well, as I was coming back I dropped the flour, and Lord Welland’s son helped me pick it up.’ She pointed outside.

  ‘Lord Welland’s son?’ Phoebe’s needlework tumbled to the floor as she hastened to the window in time to see Rowan. ‘Yes, that’s him, all right.’

  ‘He’s so handsome,’ Rosalind sighed.

  Phoebe noticed. ‘Oh, no, my girl, don’t you go getting more ideas. Master Robert should have taught you all you need to know. The gentry only want girls like you to lie back with their legs open, so put this one from your mind.’

  ‘Yes, Phoebe.’ But Rosalind glanced outside again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Thick fog shrouded Hyde Park, and the street lamps of Park Lane were barely visible through the frosted gloom of the December night. Guy was asleep in his town house, alone, as he had been every night since ending his liaison with Maria. He wasn’t alone in the house, however, because Rowan had been lodging there since October, and occupied the guest wing facing over the gardens. Guy’s bedchamber, situated in pride of place above the porte-cochère, had gilded dove-grey walls and rich crimson velvet curtains drawn tightly across balconied French windows that looked toward the park. A solitary carriage drove slowly past, and the sound became part of his dreams, taking him back to the stormy June afternoon when he’d become Beth Tremoille’s Good Samaritan. This time she hadn’t fainted by the roadside, but was standing in the pouring rain, the leaf-green muslin gown of the portrait clinging to her body, her dark curls wet and dripping about her shoulders. The carriage halted beside her, and he climbed down. ‘Miss Tremoille? May I offer you the comfort of my carriage?’

  She held out a slender hand, and he helped her up. Her fingers were wet and cool, and the soaked muslin gown cleaved so close that the soft green was blushed with pink where it lay against her skin. The atmosphere changed as he climbed in, becoming as charged as the lightning that shattered the gloom outside. Her beauty was spellbinding, her lips full and sweet, the lines of her jaw and throat as sensuous as the softest tendrils, and the swelling of her breasts as enticing as dew-soaked peaches. She was Oberon’s daughter, an almost eth
ereal presence, otherworldly and translucent, defying him to touch her. If he reached out, if he dared to caress her, would she welcome him? Or would she melt away, like frost before the morning sun? Her hazel-green eyes, captivating and yet unfathomable, were upon him. ‘Are you only pursuing me for my inheritance, Sir Guy?’ she enquired, as the carriage moved on.

  He couldn’t bear the reproach in her voice. ‘No, I want you for yourself as well.’ Did he mean it? Or was he simply saying it to soothe her?

  ‘Why should I accept you?’ she whispered, her voice almost lost in the drumming of the rain on the carriage roof.

  ‘Because you want me as much as I want you.’ He reached across at last, and pulled her into his arms. She was light, almost weightless, and … were those fairy wings he glimpsed folded so delicately down her back? She curled up against him, her lips only inches from his, and the perfume of a summer meadow filled his nostrils. Her mystery and magic twined around him like a delicate vine from the heart of an enchanted forest.

  ‘You must prove you want me, Sir Guy,’ she breathed, her lips now so close that sometimes they brushed his as delicately as a butterfly. Slowly, softly, he kissed that butterfly, and felt its gentle flutter, as if it was trapped by his desire. Her gown was so flimsy she might have been naked in his embrace. She was lithe and supple, slender and exquisitely formed, and he wanted to crush her so close that his body would absorb hers. She was the woodland deity in whose shrine he would offer his entire life force; where he prayed his oblation of love and honour would be cherished.

  There was such a pulsating rod springing from his loins that he felt he would never find relief. Could such intoxicating desire ever be truly sated? Surely the moment of release would lead to fresh need, as urgent and compelling as ever? Was this what was meant by endless love? His hand moved to her breast, confined so loosely by her damp bodice. How perfectly it rested in his hand, and how sweetly her nipple reached toward him, at once hard and delicate, erect and so feminine that he could only take it between his lips and adore it. She gasped as ripples of delight washed through her, and her hands wandered over him tenderly, as if she could not believe that she was in his arms at last. He kissed the fullness of her breasts, and buried his face into the seductive valley between them. He could feel her heartbeats, gentle, rhythmic, quickening with excitement as he undid his breeches to liberate the quivering shaft that now erupted from the forest of hair at his groin. He guided her hand there, and her breath caught as her fingers began a gentle investigation, first sinking into the jungle at his groin, now working their way up the thick, rigid pole to the glistening head, which she massaged with rich enjoyment, her body arcing against him. He kissed the pulse at her throat, the sweet line of her jaw and her eagerly parted lips, and his hand moved between her legs, stroking, stimulating, adoring.

  Ecstasy tingled all around and through him, teasing his desire until he thought he would explode of need. Then she was no longer Oberon’s daughter, but flesh and blood, needing him as he needed her. Caresses were no longer enough, there had to be union. Her hunger matched his as she wriggled until she could kneel over him on the seat. He leaned back, his masculinity erect and throbbing as he pushed the green muslin up her pale thighs until the dark tangle of hair was revealed at her groin, then, slowly and luxuriously, she guided him into her body and sank down upon him. The pleasure was pure bewitchment, an invocation of every spirit of the greenwood, the realization of every hidden yearning. Her muscles enclosed him as she raised herself a little and then sank down again, her thighs taut and firm, her movement fluid and beguiling. He was in her thrall, spellbound by sexual joy, and when he knew he could not hold back any longer, his lips joined with hers in a kiss that laid souls bare and imprisoned hearts. Together they were swept to a peak of euphoria, seemingly soldered together by the heat and intoxication of their excitement. He came with a pulsing joy that made him cry out, and provided even more thrills as he felt her share his climax. Then, as the tide of passion slowly receded, she collapsed against him and they held each other, rejoicing in the echoes of their hearts.

  His lips found hers again, this time in a gentle, lingering kiss that revealed the depth of his feeling for her, but to his dismay, she was becoming hazy and indistinct, as if some unseen force commanded her to leave. ‘Beth?’ But he spoke to the empty air. She’d gone, leaving only the redolence of flowers and crushed leaves, and the imprint of her lips upon his. ‘Beth! Don’t leave me!’ he cried, and this time his own voice was so clear that he awoke. The banked fire glowed in the hearth, and everything was silent. He knew he’d called Beth’s name in his sleep, and knew exactly what he’d dreamed. He breathed out slowly, and closed his eyes. If it was true that one’s dreams revealed the truth, then he was deeply and irretrievably in love with Beth Tremoille. If only he could believe in the truth of dreams. After lying awake for a while, at last he fell asleep again, this time without dreams, and on awakening the next morning had forgotten the erotic fantasies from the hidden depths of the night.

  Going down to breakfast, he paused on the staircase half-landing to look out at the chilly capital, still enveloped in fog and frost. He shoved his hands into his dressing-gown pockets and continued down to find Rowan already at the table. ‘Good God, haven’t you been to bed?’ Guy enquired, selecting his breakfast from the sideboard.

  Rowan looked up from his newspaper. His face was newly bruised and his swollen right eye almost closed, the result of defeat after fifteen rounds with Taffy Hughes on Clapham Common. ‘Don’t be facetious. I’ll have you know I toddled off to bed at a respectable hour last night, and arose at an even more respectable hour this morning. And this in spite of being disturbed by your yelling some time after midnight.’

  Guy paused and turned. ‘My yelling?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t ask me what you said, for I couldn’t make it out, but something certainly bothered you. If I had to guess I’d say you were calling someone.’ Rowan looked at him curiously. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No.’ Guy brought his plate of bacon and scrambled eggs to the table and sat down. ‘I thought I slept rather soundly, actually.’

  ‘Well, I came to your door to listen, in case you were in distress, but you’d clearly gone back to sleep.’

  ‘I might have been lying there with my throat cut and my virtue in tatters.’

  ‘Then you’d have been beyond help and I could go back to sleep.’

  ‘How unfeeling.’ Guy selected the pepper from the cruet set. ‘Well, this being St Nicholas’s Day, I am saddened to find that you have not left me a little present for being such a good boy throughout the year.’

  ‘I didn’t like the present you didn’t leave me,’ Rowan responded.

  ‘How childish, to be sure.’

  ‘My father calls me a beastly spoilt brat, and as he is the fount of all wisdom, I suppose I must be.’ Rowan folded the newspaper and then pushed it across the table and tapped a small notice. ‘I think you ought to see this. It seems Topweather is no more. No, don’t look at me like that, for it’s true. His body was found on the North Devon coast road, west of Porworthy. It seems he was set upon and left for dead. Highwaymen have the blame. Anyway, if he knew where to find Beth, the secret died with him.’

  Guy looked at the brief article. ‘It’s old news, Rowan. He was found in August.’ Breakfast forgotten, Guy sat back thoughtfully in his chair. ‘He must have left London at the very time I collared him about Beth. Would that be coincidence, one wonders?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He knew I was seeking her, and when you and I searched his premises it was obvious a file was missing – the Alder file, I firmly believe. Then he travelled with some haste to the area of Porworthy. My somewhat suspicious nature leads me to conclude that he definitely did know Beth’s whereabouts and was decided on blackmailing her.’

  ‘Which, if true, means she is somewhere in that area.’

  ‘Well, it seems probable, and so I will toddle along to Porworthy
before Christmas and make enquiries. I have to leave anyway to attend to overdue estate and business matters. My search for Beth has made me neglectful of my duties.’

  Rowan’s guilty conscience stirred. ‘Guy, if you do find her, I have to warn you that my dear stepmama will not give up without a fight.’ He was about to say that Jane would say the rediscovered will was a forgery, but realized this would raise questions about how she even knew the will had been found. So he spoke vaguely instead. ‘She’s prepared to say and do whatever she thinks necessary to demolish your case.’

  ‘My dear friend, your father’s second wife has spent her entire life lying. The truth would have to sodomize her to be noticed. Once I have Beth, I will regain Tremoille House and the fortune, a goal that has driven me ever since I learned my father was tricked. It will be Valmer House again, and Tremoille will cease to exist.’

  ‘Except through Beth,’ Rowan reminded him.

  Guy deliberately changed the subject. ‘Will you leave Town as well?’

  ‘Er, well, as it happens I think it best if I go home to sing carols with Papa. It wouldn’t do to be replaced by his bastard.’

  ‘Bastard?’

  ‘It seems I have a half-brother, but no further information is available. I only know of him because my stepmother was imprudent enough to read my father’s diary.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  Rowan nodded. ‘Yes, I do. I want all my inheritance, Guy, not just the title.’

  Guy smiled. ‘Welcome to a rather exclusive club, my friend.’

  Snow drifted from the frozen heights of Exmoor and the morning was very chill as Beth and Harriet drove to Miss Archer’s for a final fitting of Beth’s gown for the betrothal ball the next day. Beth wore cherry-red trimmed with white fur, with a matching hat, and her hands were sunk warmly in a white fur muff. Harriet, in royal blue, was at pains to let Beth know of her happiness with John Herriot. She chattered about the wedding gown she was about to order from Miss Archer, and the arrangements that were in hand for the wedding in February. Then she looked at Beth. ‘Who is to be your bride-maid when you marry Landry?’