‘Good morning, Lord Richard,’ she said, trying to speak through an odd constriction in her breathing. ‘No, there is no problem at all.’ Seeing his quizzical expression, she improvised wildly. ‘I am merely trying to collect some mail on behalf of Ross, but it appears that the expected letters have not arrived…’
Lord Richard raised his brows. ‘Surely there is no need for you to play the postman, ma’am? Does Lord Marney not have a private mail box at home?’
Deb felt the familiar rush of exasperation. ‘Do you have an interest in the way in which the mail service operates, my lord? Perhaps you could recommend some improvements. I hear that they are always open to new ideas.’
Richard smiled and stood aside to allow her to go out on to Quay Street. Woodbridge was busy that morning.
‘I have no interest in the mail service,’ he said easily, ‘but as always, I do have a great interest in you, Mrs Stratton. It is a pleasure to see you again so soon.’
‘Usually we contrive to avoid each other for far longer periods of time than this,’ Deb said. ‘I cannot understand how we have managed to bump into each other again.’
‘As to that, I engineered it,’ Richard said easily. ‘I warned you I would. I saw you entering the Bell, so I followed you.’
‘To what purpose?’
Lord Richard looked amused. ‘My dear Mrs Stratton, to have the pleasure of your company, of course! May I escort you somewhere?’
‘No, thank you,’ Deb said, determined to be strong.
Richard looked enquiring. ‘Are you then intending to stay rooted to the spot here in Quay Street? I do believe that you are in the way of the other passers-by.’
‘How absurd you are,’ Deb said. ‘I was not refusing to move, merely refusing your offer of escort, my lord.’
‘Ah.’ Richard took her arm and steered her expertly out of the path of a large lady with an even larger marketing basket. ‘That is a pity, for I have a gift I wished to give to you.’
Deb was taken aback. She did not want to accept gifts from Lord Richard Kestrel. It seemed too intimate a gesture and she was sharply aware that if she were to give him any latitude he would take advantage with shocking speed. He had demonstrated that on more than one occasion. Yet despite her determination to withstand his advances, it felt rather as though they had already made the first moves in a game of chance and the game was becoming complex and unpredictable. She had no certainty that she could win.
Richard was proffering a brown paper parcel that was tied neatly with string. ‘I remembered our conversation about poetry,’ he said, ‘and that you were studying the work of Andrew Marvell in Lady Sally’s reading group. Please take it.’
Deborah reluctantly put out a hand. The parcel was the right shape and size to be a book. She enjoyed receiving books more than anything, and she felt a sudden rush of pleasure followed by a rather alarming urge to rip the paper off. She held the present stiffly out to him.
‘I do not believe that I can accept this, my lord.’
‘Please try, ma’am,’ Richard said persuasively. ‘I chose it especially for you.’ He waited, watching her. ‘Are you not going to open it?’
Deb was in two minds and she knew that he could tell, for he was smiling at her. She tried to resist, but willpower had never been her strong suit. With a little sigh of abandonment she tore off the paper.
As she had thought, it was a book of poetry, with a marbled cover and a beautiful leather binding trimmed with gilt.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ She could not help her involuntary exclamation.
Richard looked pleased. ‘I was anxious to demonstrate, Mrs Stratton, that my interest in seventeenth-century poetry was not merely assumed. There is a bookmark in the poem that is my favourite.’
Deb opened the book. The wind off the river riffled the pages a little and then the book fell open at the point where Richard had inserted the bookmark. Deb read the title of the poem, then looked up, caught between amusement and exasperation. ‘I might have guessed!’
The poem was ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell.
Lord Richard spoke softly. “‘Had we but world enough and time,”’ he quoted, “‘this coyness, lady, were no crime.” How very appropriate, Mrs Stratton.’
Deb shut the book with a decided snap, knowing that she had to depress his pretensions here and now. ‘There is nothing appropriate about it at all, Lord Richard.’
‘How so? Do I not admire you, and you in turn spurn my advances?’
Deb frowned. ‘I do not wish to debate literature with you.’
‘No? Must I then join Lady Sally’s reading group if I wish to have a literary discussion?’
Deborah’s steps quickened. He kept pace with her easily as she headed down the road towards the quay. ‘I am sure that the ladies of the reading group would be happy to benefit from your literary insight,’ she said. ‘Alas that I am not so eager for your company.’
Lord Richard did not seem cast down. In fact, Deb could not help but notice that he seemed amused and encouraged by their apparent discord.
‘Is that so? The other night you were persuaded to stay and talk to me, yet now it seems that you do not wish to discuss anything with me, Mrs Stratton, never mind literature. I wonder why that might be?’
Deb shot him an irritated look. ‘It must be painfully obvious to all but the most limited intellect,’ she said, ‘that I do not wish to speak with you, Lord Richard, because I do not trust you. I do not trust you, I do not like you and I do not enjoy your company!’
Richard took her hand in his, perforce requiring her to stop walking. Deb was vaguely surprised to see that they had come as far as the waterfront and were now in the flower gardens that bordered the edge of the river. The air was keen here. The breeze tugged at the brown wrapping paper, making it crackle. Deb held on to the book a little more tightly to prevent it blowing away.
‘Mrs Stratton,’ Lord Richard said, ‘at least two of those three statements you have just made are false.’
Deb looked at him. She raised her chin a little haughtily. ‘Indeed, my lord?’
‘Yes. If you must have me spell it out, you neither dislike me nor my company.’ Richard paused, thoughtful. ‘Probably it is true that you do not trust me.’
‘And with good reason!’
‘Ah, you are thinking about our kisses last week.’
‘I am not!’
‘Yes, you are. I saw it in your face when I came through the inn door and was hard put to it not to kiss you again there and then.’
Deb bit her lip, trying to repress the jumble of words that were clamouring to escape.
‘And I feel rather inclined to do it now,’ Richard added, his gaze going to her mouth.
Deb took a hasty step away from him, pulling her hand from his grasp. ‘Lord Richard—’ She cleared her throat. Her voice did not sound convincing enough. ‘Lord Richard,’ she said again, more strongly, ‘it seems to me that I have tried to be civil to you—’
‘Have you?’ Richard enquired. ‘I confess that I had not observed it.’
‘I have tried to be civil to you,’ Deb soldiered on, ‘but now I shall have to be more blunt. You are a scoundrel—an untrustworthy scoundrel—and I do not seek your company. What woman of sense would do? If you approach me again in future, I shall be obliged to cut you dead.’
‘Will you?’ Richard said with the greatest admiration. ‘I shall look forward to that immensely.’
Deb wrinkled up her face with frustration. Why could the wretched man not take her point?
‘You are not a stupid man,’ she said wrathfully, ‘although I am still unsure whether or not you are a shallow one. On this occasion, however, I am aware that you are merely being deliberately awkward! I do not wish to associate with you.’
Lord Richard did not look cast down. ‘You associated with me last week and it was delightful.’
A tinge of colour crept into Deborah’s cheek. It was monstrous difficult to summon up the resol
ution required to dismiss him. A part of her—a large and perfidious part—enjoyed his company immensely, and the more time that she spent with him the more attractive he seemed to become to her. It was like an inverse equation. Whilst she was telling him how little she cared for him, she found that she was making a liar of herself.
‘You are a rake, my lord,’ she said, rallying.
‘My dear Mrs Stratton, I do not think that anyone disputes that. What is your point?’
Deborah glared at him. ‘That is the point, my lord! I do not seek the company of rakes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You have made no secret of the fact that you wished me to be your mistress last year. Your intentions were entirely dishonourable!’
Lord Richard smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot dispute that either,’ he said.
Deb felt a confusing mixture of emotions. Uppermost was the need to tell him to withdraw his attentions to her, but beneath that was a guilty sense of enjoyment. She knew that a respectable widow should not be having such feelings when speaking to a rakish gentleman. She pushed the feelings away.
‘Let me construe for your further, my lord,’ she said. ‘I am a respectable lady and females of good reputation do not consort with rakes—not if they wish their reputation to remain intact, that is.’
‘And you feel that neither your reputation nor your virtue could remain…intact…were you to spend some time in my company?’ Lord Richard queried softly.
‘Precisely!’ Deb had agreed before she thought that one through properly. ‘That is…’
‘You do not think that you could withstand the onslaught of my charm?’ Lord Richard asked whimsically and Deb blushed.
‘I did not say that,’ she said hastily. ‘I did not mean to imply that I thought you could seduce me—’
‘Would you care to wager on that?’ Lord Richard asked.
Deb felt a surge of anticipation. Yes, she would like to wager on it. Very much. And she would like to lose…
She bit her lip. ‘Certainly not!’
‘Then you do have doubts over your ability to withstand my seduction. Otherwise why refuse the bet?’
‘Because I do not gamble!’ Deb said. ‘You are the most provoking man!’
‘And you prefer the companionship of more sober gentlemen, I assume?’
‘No,’ Deborah said. ‘I do not seek male companionship at all.’
Now Lord Richard looked even more interested. Deb could have kicked herself for the unwary comment.
‘Tell me why that is,’ he said.
‘No,’ Deb said again. She was gripping the book so hard that her fingers cracked. ‘You ask too many questions. In fact, you are impertinent, my lord.’
Lord Richard laughed. He thrust his hands into the pockets of the green jacket.
‘And you enjoy crossing swords with me, Mrs Stratton. Admit it!’
‘I…’ Deborah hesitated on the very point of denying it. This was the perfect moment to dismiss him, to tell Lord Richard Kestrel that she did not wish to see him ever again. But the only problem was that it was not true and she had always had terrible trouble with lying. Even simple social untruths were a problem for her, such as telling her hostess that she had enjoyed an evening when in fact it had been a dead bore.
It was impossible to lie now, for Richard had drawn closer to her so that his body shielded her from the attention of those who passed by. His very proximity demanded the truth from her. Looking up, Deborah saw the expression in his eyes, dark and intense. It frightened her, but it also struck an answering chord deep within her and that she could not deny.
‘There are some things,’ she said, with difficulty, ‘like…like riding too fast across country, or eating too many truffles, that are enjoyable but vastly dangerous. One should always try to avoid them. I would place you in the same category, my lord.’
She saw the hard light in Lord Richard’s eyes soften into something more tender at her words and she felt as though her insides were trembling. He took her gloved hand in his and pressed a kiss on the back of it.
‘Oh, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, ‘if you think that after that I could possibly withdraw my attentions to you, then…’ he shrugged ‘…well, I cannot.’ The laughter lit his eyes again. ‘I am unreservedly looking forward to you cutting me dead at Lady Sally’s ball tonight, for I fear I shall approach you once again.’
He let go of her hand, sketched a bow and sauntered off up Quay Street. Deb waited until she was sure that he would not turn around and then sank nervelessly on to the nearest bench. Damn her honesty and her runaway tongue! Why had she had to tell him the truth? Why could she not simply have allowed a lie to suffice this time?
She felt shaken and confused. Her elopement, which had ended in the most disillusioning manner possible, had led her to take a private vow never to entertain the thought of love again. Further, it was against all common sense to become entangled with a man who was a reprobate. Put the two together and she had the recipe for a full-scale disaster.
Deb knew that she was impulsive and fatally outspoken. She had worked very hard in the years of her widowhood to try and achieve a coolness and composure of which even Olivia would be proud. Feeling a treacherous affinity to a dangerous, rakish gentleman was in no way part of her plan.
She put her hand to her head. It was best to forget the entire incident and to concentrate on the reason that had brought her into town in the first place. The letter from the mail office was burning a hole in her reticule. But next to it was the book of poetry that Richard had given her and when she took it out it opened not at the work of Andrew Marvell, but earlier, with a quotation from Shakespeare: ‘Then come kiss me sweet and twenty, youth’s a stuff will not endure.’
With an exasperated sigh, Deborah stuffed the book under her arm. Was even the wretched book bewitched, that it had to taunt her with the same sentiments that Lord Richard had voiced himself?
She walked slowly up the road to the inn where she had left the carriage. There was no sign of Lord Richard Kestrel in Woodbridge’s narrow streets, even though she had had a definite feeling that she would bump into him again. If she had, she knew that she would have to snub him. Even so, she searched the vicinity very carefully indeed and was disappointed that he was not there to ignore.
As soon as she reached home, Deb hurried into the study, threw herself down into a chair and opened the only reply to her advertisement. Dangling her bonnet from her hand, she read the letter once, frowned, then went in search of Mrs Aintree. She found her companion settled in the drawing room with her netting frame set up beside her. Mrs Aintree looked up and smiled. Deb handed the letter over without a word. Mrs Aintree fixed her glasses more firmly on her nose, cleared her throat and read aloud: The odd conciseness of your style pleases and intrigues me. If I should like you as well as I like your advertisement, I think I could venture to help you. If you wish for further communication, address to Lord Scandal at the Bell and Steelyard Inn in Woodbridge.
She put the letter down in her lap and looked at Deborah with great reproof. ‘I knew you would not take my advice and tell your father the truth. But advertising for a gentleman—have you run mad, Deborah?’
‘Never mind that!’ Deb said impatiently. ‘What do you think?’
‘Saucy,’ Clarissa Aintree said, shaking her head. ‘Very saucy indeed. What character did you anticipate in your…um…betrothed, Deborah?’
‘I thought of someone moderate, agreeable and open to my guidance,’ Deb said. ‘He would need to be quite biddable.’
Clarissa Aintree made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a cough. ‘Then Lord Scoundrel cannot be the man for you.’
‘Lord Scandal,’ Deb said.
‘Whichever. He cannot be the right man for this role, for every line of his communication screams arrogance.’ Mrs Aintree put the letter down on the little table beside her. ‘Throw the letter in the fire, my love. Better still, throw the entire paper, advertisement and all, into the flames. Advertising for a fianc
é indeed! Outrageous!’
‘I need to find myself a gentleman most speedily,’ Deb argued. She got to her feet and walked across to the drawing-room window. ‘My father expects me to arrive at Walton Hall with my betrothed.’
‘Really, Deborah, was there ever anyone like you for getting yourself into a scrape?’ Mrs Aintree said, not quite managing to eradicate the reproach from her voice. ‘Instead of solving the problem, you come up with a solution that creates a further difficulty!’
‘You do not think that Lord Scandal could be the answer to the problem?’
‘With a name like that?’ Mrs Aintree enquired drily.
‘I thought that it might be his real name.’
Mrs Aintree raised her brows. ‘And are you called Lady Incognita?’ she asked, drier still. ‘Now I consider it, I do believe Lady Incognita to be the sobriquet for one of the most notorious courtesans in London. No wonder that you have Lord Scandal answering your advertisement!’
Deb sighed and pushed the curly fair hair away from her face. ‘I suppose that you are right. No, I know that you are right. I was merely clutching at straws. Lord Scandal will not do. I shall have to wait a week or so for other replies to my advertisement.’
‘No,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘I do believe that you should give up this silly notion of a temporary fiancéat once, Deborah. No good will come of it. No gentleman of respectable means would ever respond to such a notice. This is not like advertising for a butler, you know.’
Deb sighed again. She knew that Mrs Aintree, the epitome of common sense, was absolutely right. But she had hoped—expected—that there would be so many more replies from which to choose. She had been certain that there would be at least one sensible gentleman whom she might select from the crowd. Alas, it seemed that the gentlemen of Suffolk were far too conservative, too stuffy, to respond to an intriguing invitation. All except for Lord Scandal, who was clearly a rogue of the first order.
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