by Lucy Ashford
‘Thank you,’ Deb said to her with an expressive shudder as she leaned out of the carriage window. ‘I really could not have borne staying in the same house as—that man. You will not listen to anything he might say about me, will you?’
The carriage rolled away; Verena and Lady Frances waved them goodbye. ‘Oh,’ said Lady Frances, ‘this is a wonderful opportunity for my girls! The latest fashions will be in stock in Chichester, and they will need so many things if we are to visit London again in the autumn!’
Oh, no. ‘Mama, we have no money! A stay in London is completely out of the question, and in Chichester they will have to window-shop only!’
‘Who says we have no money?’ said her mother, looking slightly pink. ‘Didn’t dear Lord Conistone tell you? I spoke to him just half an hour ago’.
Verena froze. ‘You have no business—’
‘But he is our guest after all, and so obliging; he has money with him, you know! He told his servant to give me ten guineas and said that our families are linked by neighbourly ties, so I am to think nothing of paying it back!’
Verena went white. No. This was impossible.… ‘Where is the money? Give it to me!’
‘Oh, Deb has it. I told her to share it with Izzy, and to buy from only the best modistes—and to get themselves a ready-made gown each. For with Lord Conistone in the house, who knows? One of my daughters might find she does not have to go to London to look for a bridegroom!’
The carriage was disappearing into the distance. Verena watched it go, speechless with dismay.
Her mother gave one last fond wave, then turned with a sigh to go back into the house. But she had not yet finished with Verena. ‘I do wish, my dear, that you, too, would make some attempt with your appearance while Lord Conistone is here! Such an opportunity, even for you!’
Ten guineas. Verena, burning with shame, resolved to dress like one determined on lifelong spinsterhood for the rest of Lord Conistone’s enforced stay. Whatever he is up to, with his insulting gifts and his spying manservant, he will not get round us in such a shabby way. He will not humiliate my family any further!
She hurried up to her own room first, then marched to the kitchen where Cook, she knew, was preparing the thin gruel for Lucas that had been recommended by Dr Pilkington. ‘Is it ready, Cook? I’ll take it to his lordship!’
Cook’s face dropped. ‘Now that’s not right, Miss Verena, and you know it. That servant of his, he said he’d take it’.
‘Then I’ll save him the bother!’ If Lucas was well enough to make condescending gifts to her mother, he was well enough to explain his conduct. Verena picked up the tray and headed towards Lucas’s room, practising her speech. You must realise that we are badly in debt. And yet you come here and lavish money on Mama—for fripperies!
Half-expecting to be barred by Bentinck, she knocked sharply, and, hearing nothing, eased the door open and carried in the tray with its bowl of steaming gruel.
Lucas was alone and asleep.
She put the tray down on the nearby table, rather carefully. He lay back on the pillows with the sheet pulled up to his waist. He wore a loosely buttoned shirt with the right sleeve cut away to make room for the bandaging on his upper arm.
Her heart thudding, she glanced again at his sleeping face; at his thick black hair, just a little too long for fashion; his lean, hard-boned features with the aristocratic nose and square jaw, lightly stubbled now. At the expressive, wickedly curving mouth that had kissed her and made such enticing, false promises. The man is utterly dangerous. Yet somehow he looked so vulnerable in sleep.
She felt a small, tight knot of yearning set up in her stomach that throbbed and grew.
Here was the man who had betrayed her callously. And yet last night he had somehow known that she’d been in danger, and he’d saved her at the risk of his own life—why?
Why had he come here at all?
He was stirring. He was trying to heave himself up, but his eyes were still half-closed, and perspiration gleamed on his high cheekbones. She should leave, now.
‘No one must know,’ he was muttering agitatedly. ‘Do you understand that, Bentinck? No one—’
‘My lord!’ She hurried close. ‘It’s not Bentinck, but Verena!’
‘Bentinck,’ he went on hoarsely, as if she’d not spoken, ‘soon it will be too late, the French are on the trail, damn them, they know it’s here’.
Oh, no. He was feverish; she needed help. Already making for the door, she said, ‘I will fetch your valet, my lord—’
‘Verena’. Suddenly he was awake, and lifting himself again on his uninjured arm; those slate-grey eyes were clear and penetrating. ‘Verena!’
Oh, my goodness. If he knew how she had gazed at him.
She turned round, swallowing on her dry throat, her heart thumping.
He was hauling himself up further. She saw him flinch at the fresh pain in his arm, before he said, ‘I am exceedingly sorry to intrude on your family like this’.
He is not telling the truth. Remember it. Be strong. ‘No, you’re not sorry!’ she broke in, almost wildly. ‘I know now that you planned to come here, Lucas; you even sent your man Bentinck on ahead, to spy on us—and now you’ve given my mother a purseful of money! You treat us as if we were paupers, to be pitied and mocked—why?’
He said quietly, ‘I didn’t plan on getting shot. And your mother came to my room earlier and begged me to lend her the money’.
‘Oh, no…’. She stood stock still, sick with shame.
She remembered the day he’d let her ride side-saddle on his big grey mare. Verena had been both excited and terrified. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said softly, ‘only trust me’. Afterwards he’d helped her dismount, catching her in his strong arms, and she’d found herself straining, exhilarated, towards him, wanting to be pressed against that warm and powerful body for not just a few moments, but for ever.
Now she said, her voice shaking with hurt, and the effort to suppress those and many other sweet, painful memories, ‘Lord Conistone, while you are our guest, I would be more than grateful if you—and your servant—would interfere as little as possible in our lives. And as for my mother asking you for money—I apologise, and here is the money you gave her!’ Defiantly she reached into her pocket and handed him her little purse with ten guineas in it—her entire savings.
He took it and cast it aside. She reached across to grasp for it and his sound arm suddenly snaked around her waist.
‘I don’t want that damned money,’ he said. His hand was relentlessly pulling her closer, so that she had to sink to the bed beside him, her entire being fighting the longing to be held by him, cherished by him, kissed by him.
‘Please,’ she whispered. Her voice was agonised. ‘Please let me go’.
‘Stop struggling,’ he said, ‘or you’ll hurt my injured arm’.
She gasped. ‘How can you use your injury as a weapon, to humiliate me still further? Let me go!’
‘What if I don’t want to let you go?’ he answered softly. His lips were close to her cheek, her ear. ‘What if this is the only way to get you to tell me the truth? Look at me, Verena! Why didn’t you answer my letters?’
Enveloped by the scent of warm male skin, she closed her eyes briefly. ‘I destroyed your letters, Lucas! I burnt them!’
He released her. For a moment she thought he might actually push her away, he looked so angry. ‘In God’s name, why?’
She was backing away from him. ‘You must know!’ she cried. ‘You must know that, thanks to you, your grandfather brought about the ruin of my family!’
For a moment he stared, incredulous. Then he rested his head back against the pillows and said in a dangerously mild voice, ‘It appears I don’t know a damned thing. You’d better tell me’.
Verena remembered, almost sickeningly, that night at the harvest feast when he’d kissed her. The passion in his eyes and voice as he’d begged her to wait for him.
Harlot. Fortune-hunting harlot.
> No more, Verena. No more. To repeat those—abominable insults would achieve no purpose now.
She dragged breath into her lungs. ‘Strange, I thought all of Hampshire knew. Thanks to the Earl, all our creditors, including the bank that holds our mortgage, withdrew their loans. Which is why we now have not a feather to fly with, as the gossips like to say. Why we must sell everything’.
Lucas looked stunned. ‘My grandfather. Verena, you should have told me! I begged you to trust me!’
‘Trust you?’ Again she felt disbelief, confusion, swimming through her head. Harlot. Deb. Her throat tightened. ‘Lucas, I should not be alone with you, like this—’
He was grim-faced. ‘Rest assured I will say nothing of my stay here’.
Of course. She flinched. He was ashamed, of being here at Wycherley.…
She swept towards the door, saying in a bright voice, ‘Naturally. Imagine the shock, my lord, if your friends knew you were reduced to lodging at such a lowly place! If Lady Jasmine knew.…’
‘Lady Jasmine Rowley?’ He looked angry and bewildered. ‘What the devil has she to do with it?’
‘They—they say you are about to become betrothed to her, Lucas!’
‘Am I?’ he said sharply. ‘Then it’s the first I damned well knew about it’.
She stared. ‘But—everyone said…’.
‘Who said?’ His face was tight with anger; he was breathing hard.
Pippa had warned her it was just London tattle. Her stomach lurched. Impulsive, stupid to come out with it.… ‘Does it matter?’ she breathed.
‘It does to me, if you’re listening to damned lies! ‘
A rebuke she deserved. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I had better leave. You have your ten guineas back, Lord Conistone, and I apologise again for my family’.
‘Oh, rest assured,’ he drawled, leaning tiredly back against the pillows, ‘I can deal with your family! And by the way, it was twelve guineas I gave your mother, not ten’.
Her hands flew to her cheeks. ‘Twelve! Believe me,’ she said, blindly, ‘I’m sorry, I will make sure you get it all back’.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he retorted. ‘Pretend you’re charging me for board and lodging. It’s nothing to me’.
‘No doubt’. Already she was pulling from round her neck a tiny gold locket. And she almost slammed it down on the table with the purse. ‘This was from my father. I trust that will go towards covering our debt, my lord, until I can refund you the money in full! ‘
‘Oh, for God’s sake’. Lucas was tired now, tired and in pain. ‘I’m not arguing any more, but I’m not taking it. Verena, listen to me before you march off in high dudgeon. Have you really no idea who your attackers were last night?’
She shook her head stubbornly. ‘I told you, they sounded like Portsmouth men, but I would much rather forget it—’
‘Portsmouth men. Yes, you did say that. But I wondered if you might have changed your mind, because I, personally, found it strange that they had French pistols’.
She stared. ‘How could you—?’
‘Thanks to your lantern, I glimpsed the weapon that was fired at me. It was French. I know quite a lot about guns. I was in the army once’.
He knew.
Just then she heard Bentinck’s loud whistling of ‘The British Grenadiers’ coming nearer along the corridor, and the heavy tread of his feet, and she only had time to say, quite desperately, ‘Please, Lucas, I know the Wycherley men would have nothing to do with anyone who would wish me harm! You said you wanted to help me and my family; if so, please, I beg you, say nothing of this’.
His face was grave. ‘I won’t, believe me,’ he emphasized. ‘In return, you must promise me that you won’t go anywhere by yourself’.
‘But—’
‘If you need to leave the house, tell Bentinck to accompany you’.
‘Bentinck?’
‘I mean it,’ he said in a low voice. The door was opening. ‘I mean it, Verena’.
She bit her lip and left, exhausted by the welter of emotions that surged through her.
She could not trust him again, ever. And she must not let herself be alone with him again, either, because quite clearly she could not trust herself.
You practically threw yourself into his arms, Verena. You can’t stop wanting to feel the sweet caress of his lips on your hands, your lips, your breasts.…
You fool. You stupid fool.
* * *
Her mother was waiting for her at the end of the corridor. Looking—gleeful.
‘Cook told me you were taking in Lord Conistone’s soup!’ Lady Frances pronounced in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘But next time, Verena, wear something more flattering, for heaven’s sake!’ She tugged at Verena’s demure neckline and reached to pat at her few stray curls. ‘A little rouge, perhaps, also; you are too pale. It’s a start, though. A start!’
Verena closed her eyes in despair.
Why had Lucas come here?
She had been resigned to her fate. To the sale of her beloved house. To finding herself some death-in-life post as a governess, or a lady’s companion. And now.
Oh, Lucas. Oh, how unspeakably bereft she would be when he left.
* * *
Bentinck waited until the door had shut behind her, then muttered darkly, ‘She really has no idea at all, milord?’
Lucas lay back wearily.
What in Hades had his grandfather been up to? And why did Verena blame him for it?
His arm was hurting like hell and the encounter had exhausted him. Not least because he’d found himself becoming spectacularly aroused as her luscious breasts heaved beneath the confines of that ridiculously outdated gown and her lovely eyes flashed fire at him.
Hell and damnation, didn’t she realise how he ached for her? Probably not. She was an innocent. A virgin. He replied heavily, ‘She has no idea about many things, including the fact that there are some remarkably dangerous people after her’. Not least of them myself. ‘Did you get over to the steward at Stancliffe?’
‘Old Rickmanby? Aye, and a miserable soul he is.… but he told me the Earl should be back any day now’.
‘Good’. It was time—more than time—for Lucas to tackle his grandfather.
Bentinck, who was busying himself with the fire, suddenly swung round on Lucas again. ‘I know I’m harping on, milord, about those fellows who shot you—’
‘You are indeed, Bentinck’.
‘But Miss Verena, she’s got a sharp brain, as well as bein’ a prime piece, beggin’ pardon—she must surely guess those men who attacked her were Johnny Frogs, so why isn’t she saying anything?’
‘She does know. But she’s afraid that if she confirms her attackers were French, then the villagers will be charged with helping the enemy to land. And we’ll say nothing either, Bentinck. Is that clear?’
‘I suppose so, milord. But—who lit the fire to guide them in?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Lucas, laying his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes.
Bentinck looked dubiously at the cooling dish of gruel. Then he burst out, ‘We should get you to Stancliffe Manor. You’re not amongst friends here’.
Lucas opened his eyes again, narrowly. A visit to Stancliffe Manor was most definitely required. But— ‘While I’m here, Bentinck, I have the perfect opportunity to find what I need. And to discover who else is after it’.
‘The maps and that diary, you mean? Pity you ‘ad to take a bullet in the arm to get yourself in here!’
‘It’s not exactly what I planned, admittedly. But make use of every minute, will you, Bentinck, to search and listen?’
‘She’s on to me. Doesn’t trust me a damned inch. A shame you couldn’t tell her exactly why you left the army—’
Lucas cut in softly, ‘If you whisper one word of it, Bentinck, I’ll have your guts for fancy garters. I mean it’.
‘Have you tried just askin’ her, milord? For the diary and things?’
‘I’ve asked. She’s told me she has no idea where any diary might be. She certainly wouldn’t let me see her father’s private papers—I know that without asking. Questioning her again would seem distinctly suspicious; besides, I rather fear that the diary might give the game away’.
Bentinck made one last try. ‘Would it not be easiest to be honest with her, milord? To kick the blarney and tell all, so to speak?’
‘Two things: firstly, her ignorance is, at the moment, perhaps her greatest security. And, Bentinck,’ Lucas went on softly, ‘if I were—as you say—honest with her, she would pitch me out of this house and aim a pistol at me herself. Straight to the heart. For which I would not blame her, in the slightest’.
And that was the trouble, he thought, lying back with a stifled groan against the pillows. She really did have no idea, about anything. She had no idea that, weak though he was, her visit just now had been a torture of self-control for him.
A prime piece, Bentinck had called her. Yes, indeed, she was as utterly ravishing as he’d remembered, with her clouds of rippling chestnut hair and her amber eyes that gleamed like molten gold in the candlelight. And what made her even more entrancing was that, thanks to that ridiculous family of hers, she had absolutely no idea of her own beauty.
She was lovely, and vulnerable. And though clearly afraid of what life had cruelly thrown at her—not least his damned grandfather—she sought to mask her fears with cool efficiency. But beneath that coolness, he knew, raged tempestuous fires. That autumn she had been full of life, and hope, and love, and at the harvest feast he’d felt her tremble in his arms when he’d kissed her.
And the devil of it was, he knew she had not changed. Dear God, the thought of awakening her to the delights of full passion made his loins throb again, damn it. Last night on the clifftop path, as his mouth caressed hers, and he felt her tender breasts peak against the hard wall of his chest, he’d known she was the same Verena, the girl he had fallen in love with two years ago. Before everything changed. Before the catastrophe that had altered everything irrevocably.
He cursed himself softly. To indulge in any sort of hope that things could be as they were before was impossible. Tiredly he picked up the purse and the gold locket that she’d left on the bedside table and saw that the locket was, in fact, made not of gold, but of a cheap alloy.