‘I believe you’ll find it’s a fine instrument,’ said Lord Ravensford, as Mrs Kilkenny sat down to play.
If Mrs Kilkenny had been afraid of him neglecting her she need not have worried. Lord Ravensford was very attentive, turning over the pages of her music and standing slightly behind her with a look of rapt attention on his face.
Marianne did her best to appear composed, but she was finding it hard. So his feelings had, after all, been nothing more than a desire to protect her, laced with a passion which, being so profoundly masculine, he no doubt felt towards every female.
She felt her spirits sink. The evening dragged. Lord Ravensford laughed and flirted with the elegant Mrs Kilkenny, whilst Marianne did her best to take an interest in her fellow guests, but she was not sorry when it was time to retire. As she climbed the stairs to her bed chamber, her candle in hand, the last thing she heard was Mrs Kilkenny’s musical laugh as Lord Ravensford charmed her yet again.
Was I wrong to come? Marianne asked herself the next morning, as, throwing back the green damask curtains, she saw Lord Ravensford walking along the terrace arm in arm with Mrs Kilkenny.
But no, it would have been childish of her to stay away. Now that she knew Lord Ravensford to be Kit’s friend she could not be at outs with him and besides, it would have caused comment if she had failed to attend. Her father’s querulous nature might have been given as an excuse, but her absence would have caused comment nonetheless.
Even so, it was going to be difficult for her to be in his company for the rest of the weekend; particularly as he was so blatantly pursuing Mrs Kilkenny.
It surprised her just how much it hurt. Of course, she had known all along that he was anything but a gentleman. Even Trudie, who had at first encouraged her to see him as a suitor, had said hesitantly to Marianne only the day before, “Some men are best not taken seriously, Miss Marianne. They don’t have it in them to be faithful. They like all women too much to settle for one.”
But Marianne had still been surprised and hurt at how quickly he had taken up with Mrs Kilkenny, and how he seemed to be flaunting the woman in her face. She realised now that she had been a fool to think that what had passed between them in the country lane had been driven by anything but lust.
She admitted to herself that, after everything that had happened between them, she had thought there had been more to it than that; that the episode had also been driven by the friendship and the strong rapport they shared, two unconventional people being drawn to each other by a compelling force.
Certainly for her it had been the result of a much deeper feeling, an emotional attachment which, seeing his pursuit of Mrs Kilkenny, she dare not acknowledge. But to him it had been nothing more than the natural reaction of a lusty man, and if she had any sense she would school herself to forget it.
But how to forget the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her; the most exhilarating, disturbing and exciting moments of her life?
A knock at the door gave a welcome break from her thoughts and Nell, Mrs Cosgrove’s maid, came in.
‘Mrs Cosgrove’s compliments, miss, and would you like some help to dress?’
Marianne thanked Nell, and with the help of the maid was soon ready to go downstairs. The morning was to be spent riding. Marianne, in common with the rest of the guests, had her own mare at the Manor, brought over tethered to the carriage the previous day. The morning was bright, and Marianne was looking forward to the ride. At least out in the open she would be able to avoid Lord Ravensford without seeming to do so, and be spared the sight of him paying court to Mrs Kilkenny.
Hardly had the ride begun, however, when Lord Ravensford hung back on his black stallion and made the magnificent beast fall into step beside Marianne’s mare. The other guests had found their own preferred surfaces and speed, and whilst some were cantering along the grass others were walking their horses at a sedate pace along the gravel paths.
‘You decided to come,’ said Lord Ravensford, looking magnificent in a green coat, snowy white stock and tight cream breeches. He gave her a sideways glance, the early morning shadows casting sharp angles on his face. ‘I thought you wouldn’t.’
‘I . . . think I owe you an apology,’ said Marianne quietly.
He looked at her enquiringly.
‘Since I saw you last I have been speaking to Henri.’
He frowned, and his mouth tightened. ‘Henri?’
‘He told me everything. About you, and Kit, and –’
‘He should have kept his mouth shut,’ he snapped.
‘And let me believe Kit was a gambler and you were the man who ruined him?’ demanded Marianne.
‘You believed what Henri told you, then?’ asked Lord Ravensford obliquely.
Marianne nodded. ‘Yes. I did. I’d always found it difficult to accept that Kit would run up gambling debts. He didn’t like games, for one thing, and was never interested in dice or cards. And he never did things to excess. Perhaps he might have lost a few sovereigns at a game of chance, that I could believe, but thousands of pounds? And then to ask my father to pay his debts? No. Kit would never have done that. He has too much pride.
If he had run up gambling debts he would have taken great pains to make sure news of it never reached my father, and he would have found a way of paying them off himself. I never believed it – except that, as he told me of his debts himself, I felt I had no choice. Why else would he say it if it wasn’t true?’
She shook her head. ‘Even then, somewhere underneath, I still didn’t really accept it. So that when Henri said he had needed the money to go to France, things began to fall into place. In normal circumstances Kit would never have asked my father for money, but to rescue Adèle? Yes, I believe he would do anything for Adèle.
And then again, going to France to search for her is exactly the sort of hot headed thing he would do. He is not the kind to gamble, but risking everything for the sake of someone he loved? Yes, that is the sort of thing he would do.’
‘And was it only your knowledge of Kit’s character that led you to believe Henri, or may I hope that it was in part an understanding of mine? That you realised I am not the sort of man to lead an innocent young person to perdition?’
A sudden tension filled the air. Marianne’s thoughts went to their encounter in the lane; the feel of his mouth on hers and the touch of his hand.
She fought down her unruly thoughts and, forcing them to focus on his question, turned to look at him. Strong, dangerous and implacable as he was, she did not believe him to be capable of such a thing. ‘No. I don’t think you are.’
‘As I have told you before,’ he remarked, ‘you are a good judge of character. And so, what do you think of Kit going over to France?’
Marianne frowned. ‘I’m concerned for him. And afraid —’
‘Which is why he didn’t want to tell you.’
‘ — but I’m pleased that he’s gone. I always suspected that he loved Adèle. I pray he finds her and brings her safely to Seaton Hall.’
‘Amen to that.’
They had now fallen significantly behind the rest of the party.
‘I think we had better join the others, my lord,’ she said.
He threw her a tempting smile. ‘I think, now that you know who I am, instead of calling me “my lord” you should call me Luke.’
‘No, I couldn’t do that,’ she said, feeling a small shiver wash over her at the intimacy of his suggestion. ‘Come, we are falling behind.’
She spurred her horse, putting the animal into a gallop. He followed suit and she thought he meant to ride beside her, but he reached over and caught hold of her bridle, forcing her mare to slow, until at last the animal came to a snorting halt. He swung his own horse out in front of her.
‘I would like to hear my name on your lips,’ he said, his eyes trailing across them with barely-disguised longing.
‘I . . . don’t think it would be proper,’ she said. His glance was having a profound effect on her
, and her voice came out as a whisper.
‘Nothing between us has ever been proper,’ he said huskily. ‘Why should this be any different?’
‘I don’t . . . ’ She felt a pulse beating in her throat.
‘Marianne . . . ’
‘You shouldn’t call me that.’
‘But I am going to. I’ve been fighting it for long enough. Miss Travis and Lord Ravensford won’t do for all we’ve been through.’
‘And just what have we been through?’ she asked, her voice throaty, trying to keep him at a distance.
‘If you’ve forgotten, perhaps I should remind you.’ The glance that roved over her face was burning.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her voice low, as she had a sudden memory of him walking arm in arm with Mrs Kilkenny.
‘Why am I doing this?’ he repeated softly. Murmuring, a moment later, ‘Yes, why am I doing this?’ as though speaking to himself.
She danced her mare back a step. ‘I think, my lord, we ought to join the others before Miss Stock begins to grow concerned.’
He gave her a searching look and then nodded. ‘Of course, Miss Travis.’ He moved his horse aside. ‘Perhaps you would care to lead the way.’
It was with relief that Marianne found herself once again riding next to Miss Stock. With that kindly lady on one side of her and Jennifer Cosgrove on the other she had some measure of protection against Lord Ravensford, a protection she seemed to need. Because somehow their relationship had not been simplified by the removal of the secret that had, unbeknownst to her, stood between them. Indeed, it now seemed more complicated than ever.
‘ . . . warm for March,’ Miss Stock was saying. ‘I am truly enjoying the ride.’
The conversation was general, and Marianne willingly joined in, praising the early spring sun, the beauty of the grounds and the newly-burgeoning blossom that was appearing on some of the ornamental trees. Trying not to notice that Lord Ravensford had fallen in beside Mrs Kilkenny.
During luncheon, rain set in. It began as a drizzle and then became a downpour, lashing the trees and scattering the blossom so that it looked like falling snow. Far from dampening everyone’s spirits, however, the rain made everyone feel pleasantly smug, for they had beaten the English weather and had returned to the house before it started to rain.
‘I know,’ said Jennifer, when they were all assembled in the drawing-room after lunch was over and an air of lethargy had started to set in. ‘We must play charades! Can we?’ She turned appealingly to Lord Ravensford, who sat, dark and amused, in a Sheraton chair.
‘Jennifer,’ said her mother warningly.
‘Why not?’ asked Mrs Kilkenny, finding the idea stimulating. She turned to Lord Ravensford. ‘It would be a good idea for a wet afternoon, would it not?’
He smiled lazily. ‘If it pleases you.’
Mrs Kilkenny gave an arch smile. ‘Indeed it does.’
‘But what shall our charades be about? I know. Plays!’ Jennifer burst out.
‘Plays?’ asked Jem, his enthusiasm caught. ‘Dash it, Jenny, that’s just the thing.’
‘Why, yes, that is a good notion,’ said Mrs Kilkenny. ‘And do you know, I believe I already have an idea.’ She turned to Lord Ravensford. ‘I shall need your help, my lord.’
His regarded her mockingly. ‘I thought you might.’
Mrs Kilkenny chose to take this as a compliment and fluttered her fan. Then, turning with a show of kindness to Jennifer, she said, ‘We shall need you, too, if you would be so good.’
Jennifer beamed mightily at having been chosen, and carried away with an excess of high spirits asked, ‘Can we look in the attics, Lord Ravensford? For props, I mean?’
He gave her a look of amused tolerance. ‘Are there any props in the attic?’
‘There are sure to be,’ said Jennifer confidently. ‘All attics have props. And Figgs can bring them down for us.’
‘Really, Jennifer, it isn’t up to you to arrange Lord Ravensford’s household,’ said her mother reprovingly.
But Lord Ravensford was in a mood to humour his young guest. ‘Figgs shall bring down anything you require.’
‘We’ll have to practise somewhere. I know. The music room,’ Jennifer said.
‘The very place,’ agreed Mrs Kilkenny. ‘And Mr Kent, Mr Havers, may we have your help as well?’
‘Delighted,’ they agreed, caught up in the scheme.
‘And we will make a second group,’ said Marianne, seeing Jem’s crestfallen face: he had always been fond of charades. ‘That is, if everyone wishes to play?’
Jem’s face lit up. Mr and Mrs Cosgrove expressed their willingness, as did Mr Pargeter and Miss Stock, and before long everything was a bustle and confusion. Mrs Kilkenny’s group retired and Marianne asked her own companions for suggestions. They settled in the end for The Winter’s Tale, and began to think of the tableaux that would illustrate their choice.
It had been arranged that the gong would ring in an hour and everyone would partake of tea, after which the charades would begin. There was much laughter in Marianne’s group as the tableaux were rehearsed, and after tea her group was the first to act out the title of their chosen play.
Lord Ravensford’s group sat in a semi-circle around the performers and the charade began.
It opened with Jem and Maurice Pargeter sitting by the fire, rubbing their hands and puffing and blowing.
There was much conferring amongst the other group. Mrs Kilkenny’s fair head was almost touching Lord Ravensford's dark one as she talked over with him the meaning of the scene. Marianne, watching from the side of the room, felt her spirits sink. Mrs Kilkenny was making an obvious play for his attention; something he was only too willing to give. Surely Mrs Kilkenny was too shallow for him? She gave a start as she realised that that was the complaint she had levelled at Lord Ravensford on their first meeting; that he was shallow. But she had learnt since that he was anything but. Anything but shallow, anything but a gentleman, anything but a man who should make her melt inside . . . And yet he did.
At last, after several vain tries, Mr Kent guessed the word was winter, and the second tableau began.
This one involved Mr Cosgrove senior, marvellously entering into the spirit of the thing, galloping around the room with a skein of Miss Stock’s knitting yarn hanging from the back of his breeches. After much merriment, the word tail was guessed.
The final scene showed the whole word. Marianne took her place by the fire with a book on her lap. Mrs Cosgrove and Miss Stock sat on low stools at her feet, turning expectant faces towards her.
‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs Kilkenny to Lord Ravensford, wafting them both with her fan. ‘What can it be?’
‘It’s perfectly clear,’ said Lord Ravensford, his eyes tracing the bright highlights in Marianne’s hair, painted there by the leaping light from the fire. ‘It’s The Winter’s Tale.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Kilkenny. Adding, to display her learning, ‘One of my favourite of Shakespeare’s plays.’
There was a round of applause, and then the two groups swapped places. Jennifer eagerly tried to lift a desk, which had been brought down from the schoolroom by Figgs and was now standing against the wall, but Lord Ravensford took it from her and carried it into the centre of the room. He gave her an indulgent smile and Jennifer, delighted to be mixing with such handsome adult company, flushed scarlet before applying herself to her rôle. She seated herself at the desk and began scribbling away on a piece of paper. In front of her, Mr Havers turned a globe.
‘Lessons,’ shouted Jem.
Jennifer rolled her eyes in disgust, her expression saying clearly, “Trust Jem to get it all wrong!
‘Learning,’ ventured Mr Cosgrove.
Jennifer sighed, then taking her piece of paper she scrunched it up and threw it at Miss Stock. Marianne laughed, remembering all Kit had told her of his schooldays. ‘School!’
Jennifer curtsied, making the most of her part, and then ran to t
he side of the room, whereupon Mr Kent strolled into the middle of the floor and held up four fingers. Despite the simplicity of the scene, or perhaps, rather, because of it, it took some while for the audience to guess that in fact he did mean four, and then the final scene began.
Mrs Kilkenny, looking conscious, reclined elegantly on the chaise longue. She held a handkerchief delicately to her nose. Then Lord Ravensford, looking suitably handsome, appeared from behind the curtains and strode over to her, dropping to one knee beside her and taking her hand. He bent over it and kissed it, and at that moment Mr Kent strode into the scene. He started, looked horrified, and made a dumb show of hitting Lord Ravensford across the cheek with a glove.
The Earl Next Door Page 12