Читать книгу The Rake's Inherited Courtesan - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 9

Chapter Four

‘If you are wise, you won’t cause any more trouble,’ he said and pulled out to pass a slowly moving town coach.

Sylvia gripped the side of the curricle and shot him a glare designed to freeze ‘Without your interference, there would have been no trouble.’

‘I suppose you didn’t almost cause a mill back there, cosying up to some namby-pamby, titled puppy with more hair than wit.’ He fired her a hard glance. ‘And just what were you doing there, anyway?’

The mill, as he called the altercation, was entirely his own doing. ‘My affairs are not your concern.’

A muscle jerked in his jaw and his anger sparked across the space between them. ‘Really? We’ll see about that.’

Prickles raced down her back. Until his resentment subsided, she risked more than sharp words from the bristling male at her side. And if he overturned this ridiculous vehicle, it would be the perfect ending to a perfectly awful day. She sat back, determined not to say another word.

The carriage bowled along at a smart clip, his strong hands grasping the ribbons with practised assurance. The spirited team ate up the road, passing everything in its path.

The traffic thinned. Signs of habitation dwindled to the occasional farm along the road. The clouds rolled away and the horizon disappeared into hazy dusk, while sunset gilded the tops of distant trees. She nibbled her bottom lip. Just how far did he intend to travel? If they went too far, she would not get back to Tunbridge Wells in time to catch the morning coach.

Her trunk. How could she have been so stupid? She clutched at Mr Evernden’s sleeve.

A stony expression met her gaze. ‘What?’

‘I left my luggage behind.’

‘You can collect it in the morning.’

The savage edge to his tone and the vicious flick of his whip above his horses’ heads gave her but a moment’s pause. ‘We must go back. What if it is stolen?’

‘Miss Boisette, if you think I would set foot in that place again… I have never in my life been ejected from anywhere, let alone a common inn.’ Anger vibrated from him in waves.

She quelled a sudden urge to laugh at his injured expression. ‘Then you have me to thank for a novel experience.’

He scowled.

She’d gone too far. She edged away a fraction.

‘It’s an experience I could have done without,’ he said. ‘And I’d liefer not go through it again. If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate your behaving with suitable decorum at this next inn.’ Despite his repressive tone, he no longer sounded furious.

A sideways glance revealed his lips in a slight curve. ‘Gad,’ he muttered, staring straight ahead. ‘A novel experience.’

Her lips twitched. She pressed them together, but not before she knew he’d caught the beginning of her smile.

‘Don’t worry about your trunk,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘It will be safe at the Sussex Hotel. The landlord appears to run a tight ship.’

‘As we found to our cost.’

He smiled. ‘Indeed.’

Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. The grin made him younger, almost boyish. His eyes crinkled at the corners and danced with green pinpricks of light. Unable to resist, she smiled back.

The travelling must have sent her wits to sleep. Signs of friendliness posed risks she dare not entertain. Men were dangerous enough without encouragement. She straightened in her seat and braced herself for what might lie ahead.

At a crossroads, he slowed the horses and turned them off the London Road. Sylvia tried to read the signpost, but the faded letters flashed by too fast. High hedges and overhanging trees cast deep shadows in the rutted, twisting lane. A flutter of disquiet attacked her stomach. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere we will be welcome, of that I can assure you. It is not far now.’

Did he have to be so mysterious? This stiff young man at her side thought her a wanton. So he should. She’d behaved like a strumpet, gambling everything on his desire to be rid of her. What if he changed his mind? Alone with a young and virile man, who-knew-where, tasted of risk.

Better him, than one of those other men at the Sussex Hotel. Better? A sudden tremble shook her limbs. She clenched her fingers around her locket, a familiar anchor to her past in the storm-tossed ocean of an uncertain future. If it came to a confrontation, somehow she had to make him understand she was not like her mother.

The Bird in Hand’s mullioned windows flickered with warm light, a lighthouse in the deepening dusk. Wood smoke scented the cool air and the front door stood open in welcome.

Christopher hadn’t been here since his grandmother had died, but it looked the same as always. The blackened Tudor timbers breathed permanence, despite the green of new thatch and a recent extension to the adjoining stables. A plaque over the weathered oak door boasted of hosting Good Queen Bess in the year fifteen hundred and fifty-six—along with half of England’s other inns. He brought the horses to a stand.

A balding groom ran out from the stables and grasped the team’s bridles.

A wonderful aroma of roasted meat filled Christopher’s nostrils and set his mouth watering. If he could count on one thing, it was Mrs Dorkin’s cooking.

‘How pretty,’ Miss Boisette said.

‘Yes.’ Christopher rolled his stiff shoulders. ‘And I can guarantee we won’t be turned away.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Strain edged her voice.

The paleness of her countenance startled him. Now she felt nervous? She should have been a little more concerned back at the Sussex, a great deal more worried, based on his judgement of Lord Albert’s intentions. The prancing ninny had his hands all over her. His gut churned.

But she had stood up to him, held her ground. He couldn’t but help admire her courage, when it would have been so easy to flee, or to give in to the lordling’s blandishments. And beneath the courage, he’d sensed a very real fear.

Thrusting the recollection aside, Christopher climbed down and reached up to help her alight. He caught her by the waist. Slender and lithe beneath his fingers, the heavy wool of her drab gown and grey cloak did little to disguise her womanly curves. The urge to bring her close and let her slide down his body shortened his breath.

Hell. He was no better than the popinjay at the inn.

Arms rigid, he placed her on the ground away from him, once more surprised by her small stature. For some reason, he imagined her taller. Something about her innate dignity and solemn demeanour added to her height. She had more pride than a duchess when she wasn’t playing the wanton.

‘Mr Christopher.’ Gladness rang in the voice calling out through the door and Christopher turned to greet the generously proportioned matron who burst into the courtyard. She wiped her hands on her snowy apron and held them out in welcome.

He winced. Heaven knew what she’d say about him turning up with an unchaperoned female. He smiled. ‘Mrs Dorkin. How are you?’

‘Why on earth didn’t you write and tell us you were coming?’ she said in mock-scolding tones and her forefinger wagging. ‘I would have aired the sheets special, just like your mother always ordered at the big house.’

Bloody hell. As if he needed more tender care than he’d suffered already. ‘Mrs Dorkin, this is a friend of the family, Miss Sylvia Boisette.’ He turned to Sylvia. ‘Mrs Dorkin cooked for my grandparents at their estate near here.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Sylvia murmured with a smile.

Relief washed through Christopher. At least she wasn’t giving dear old Mrs Dorkin her frosty face. In the old days, the cook had been his only ally against the army of doctors who insisted he eat nothing but gruel. Fortunately, she believed a lad needed his nourishment.

‘We were supposed to lodge at the Sussex Hotel tonight,’ he said, opening his arms in a gesture of regret. ‘But somehow they let our rooms go. I do hope you can accommodate us?’

Mrs Dorkin placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘The Sussex Hotel, is it? And you no more than a stone’s throw from the Bird? I’m surprised at you, Mr Christopher. Come in, do. It’s late and you must be tired.’

She waved a hand in the direction of the front door. ‘I’ve a nice bit of roast pork on the spit and there’s some cottage pie and I think a capon or two—cold, mind—left over from Sunday. Now then, Mr Christopher, I know that finicky appetite of yours, I’ll expect you to let me know if none of it takes your fancy.’ She shook her head. ‘Mercy me, I am sure to find some cheese somewhere and I baked bread this afternoon.’

The warm chatter eased his tension, the way it had calmed him as a boy racked by fever. He gestured for Miss Boisette to step inside. Shadows like bruises lay beneath her huge cornflower eyes. She looked exhausted and scared.

Damn it. The wench had been bold enough an hour ago in the face of the innkeeper’s rudeness and Lord Albert’s obviously dishonourable intentions.

Christopher clenched his jaw. He couldn’t entirely blame the young rakehell. He’d acted like any other hot-blooded male faced with an irresistible opportunity. And Miss Boisette certainly was all of that. Why the hell had she not stayed with her friend? Suspicion reared an ugly head. Perhaps she had followed him, thinking him an easy mark after his generosity.

Mrs Dorkin pitched her voice into the back of the house. ‘Pansy! Dratted girl, never around when you need her.’

A scrawny wench came at a run, her cheeks as red as if she’d been roasting her face instead of the pork.

‘Show the young lady up to the second-floor bedroom.’ Mrs Dorkin smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll find that’s the best room, miss. Quiet.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

Christopher grinned at the plump matron, much as he had when he had lived at his grandmother’s house. ‘Mrs Dorkin, we are starving. Anything you could do to hurry dinner along will be much appreciated.’

‘Dinner in half an hour, don’t be late.’ Mrs Dorkin’s voice faded away as she travelled into the depths of the old inn. ‘Maybe I have some of the nice fruitcake I baked for the vicar last Sunday. You always liked fruitcake…’

Shoulders slumped, Sylvia started after the maid.

Christopher put a hand on her arm. ‘I should have warned you. She’s a dear, but she loves to talk.’

‘She seems very kind. I hadn’t realised just how famished I am. All that talk of food…’

The faintness of her voice, weary posture and attempted smile caused him a pang of guilt. Curse it. No wonder she looked ready to wilt, she’d eaten almost nothing at lunch.

Unwelcome sympathy stirred in his chest. This was the first time today he’d seen her control slip. His questions would wait until after dinner.

He caught a glimpse of a well-turned ankle as she followed the maid up the stairs. Even worn to the bone, she radiated female sensuality. No wonder men rushed to her aid, lust burning in their eyes.

The low-beamed room with overstuffed chairs and easy country atmosphere comforted Christopher like hot punch on a cold night. Half-empty serving dishes cluttered the sideboard against the wall.

Pleasantly full, he set down his knife and fork and stared at the woman across from him. The warmth of the fire and her few sips of red wine had dispelled her earlier pallor. The faint glow in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes rendered her utterly lovely.

Mrs Dorkin hadn’t asked him any pointed questions about Miss Boisette’s presence under his protection. No doubt she’d seen and heard enough about the Evernden men and their dissolute ways not to be surprised at Christopher’s arrival with one of the world’s most beautiful women on his arm.

Despite her assertions, Miss Boisette needed proper male protection. The scene at the Sussex proved it.

He ran an appraising glance over her and frowned. Her severe brown gown couldn’t be drearier. Come to think of it, the nondescript grey cloak and black poke bonnet she wore to travel in were also exceedingly dowdy. To all intents and purposes, she dressed like a governess or lady’s maid.

Christopher wanted to see her in something more elegant, lighter, perhaps the colour of sapphires to match her brilliant eyes. Something lacy and filmy that left little to the imagination. Something like Lady Delia, Garth’s last fling, had worn when Christopher had dropped in on their love nest one afternoon.

The image of Sylvia Boisette’s curvaceous form clothed in a wisp of silk stirred his blood.

Her small white teeth, with their adorable tiny space in the centre, bit into a petit-four. What would that moist, soft mouth feel like against his lips or on his…?

Bloody hell. He didn’t need this. He pushed his plate away.

Her wanton behaviour yesterday and in Tunbridge Wells had his thoughts in the gutter. If she had stayed where he had left her, they wouldn’t be in this fix. If she had dressed like a lady, the young lordling might not have been so ready with his insults and the landlord might have given her a room without question.

‘Don’t you have something smarter to wear?’ he asked.

Blue heat flashed in her eyes. Quickly repressed, it hinted at higher passions beneath her cool distant beauty. His groin tightened. Mentally, he cursed.

‘Why would I?’ she asked. ‘I plan to become a shopkeeper, not a courtesan.’

Her flat tone delivered a dash of cold water to his lust. He watched an expression of satisfaction dawn on her face. She intended to disgust him. What game was she playing?

He’d been billed enough for expensive clothes by the last woman in his life to know quality when he saw it. ‘The mourning gown you wore to my uncle’s funeral was well cut and in the height of fashion. Made from the finest silk, if I’m not mistaken.’ He waved his glass in her general direction. ‘I’m sure my uncle preferred you in something more attractive.’

Pain shadowed her eyes before she shuttered her gaze. ‘That part of my life is over.’

He took a deep swallow of wine. ‘Really? Then what were you doing at the Sussex Hotel?’

‘Seeking a room for the night.’

‘With Lord Albert, no doubt.’

Outwardly unruffled, she did not shrink from his gaze, but her hand clutched the locket at her throat. ‘No.’

A low blow, he silently acknowledged, remembering the panic in her eyes when Lord Albert slobbered over her hand. Damn it, every time he thought about it, he wanted to throttle the snivelling fribble.

What the hell was the matter with him? He never let a woman distract him. Miss Boisette had caused him nothing but anxious moments. ‘While we are on the subject, perhaps you would like to explain why you tipped me the double?’

‘Tipped you the double?’ She wrinkled her nose.

The urge to kiss away the furrow on her brow swept through him. He wanted to do more than that. Even with a frown, her incredible beauty numbed his mind and shortened his breath. His blood thickened. Never had a woman tempted him like this one.

He drew in a deep breath, crushing his desire. Dalliance with his uncle’s ward or mistress—which he no longer believed—remained out of the question if he wanted to preserve a grain of family honour.

Hell. He needed to get rid of her and continue on his way to the Darbys’. He set his glass down, the chink loud in the quiet room. ‘Come clean, Miss Boisette. Why did you not stay with your friend? You took money to go into business and within an hour of my leaving you, I find you at a common inn hanging on the arm of some young coxcomb.’

Arctic chill frosted her gaze. ‘Are you implying that I took the money under false pretences?’

‘I demand an explanation.’

‘You have no right to demand anything. You brought me here against my will and if you try to touch me, I will scream bloody murder.’

It seemed he now had her full attention. This beautiful young woman, who behaved like a trollop one moment and an ice queen the next, needed a good shaking. ‘Do you really think the Dorkins will pay any attention?’

Stark terror leaped into her eyes, bleakness invading their clear, cold depths like a plea for help. Fear hung in the air as thick and choking as smoke.

What did a woman like her have to fear from him? She had tossed more lures at him than a falconer to an ill-trained hawk. And he’d almost come to her fist, jessied and hooded.

Enough. He would do his duty and see her settled and he would see it done his way. Calmly, logically. The methods he used in his business dealings.

He poured a glass of wine from the decanter at his elbow and schooled his face into pleasant cheerfulness. ‘I must apologise. My anger is directed at Lord Albert and that damn innkeeper.’ Hell, the recollection caused his blood to simmer all over again. ‘However, we did have an agreement, one you proposed and appear to have broken.’

She didn’t speak, but stared at her empty plate as if trying to weave some new web of lies.

He pushed a plate of comfits in her direction. ‘Here.’

A pathetic peace offering, yet it eased the palpable tension.

Sylvia gazed from the heaped pink-and-white sugared almonds on the blue dish to his face. Emerald fires burned deep in his hazel eyes, not the usual blaze of a lusty male, but a deep slow burn that fanned the embers in the pit of her own stomach to flame.

A tremor she could only identify as fear quivered in the region of her heart. Without him she was stranded. All her money, apart from the few coins in her reticule, had been left behind in Tunbridge Wells.

Trapped. A shiver shot up her spine. And he was right. She did owe him an explanation. She took a deep breath. ‘My friend, Mary Jensen, moved her business to London.’ She hoped he did not hear the hitch in her voice at her lie.

He frowned at his glass, then stared her straight in the eye. ‘I thought she expected you?’

She sighed. Obviously, he had paid attention. ‘There was some error in our communication. She left a forwarding address with the new tenant. The woman forgot to mail on my letters, therefore Mary did not know about your uncle’s unexpected demise.’

His intense scrutiny made her shift in her seat. She had the strong sense he did not believe her.

‘And?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I must now go to London.’

‘You have her address?’

‘I do.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t see why—’

His mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure you don’t. But you are mistaken if you think I am going to drop you off at a coaching house in the morning without knowing your proposed destination.’

‘You agreed to drive me to Tunbridge Wells. Your obligation ends there.’

‘I offered to drive you to the bosom of your friend and that is where my duty ends.’

The quiet emphasis in his voice made it clear he would not listen to further argument. She hesitated. It would do no harm to give him Mary’s directions. Once she reached London, she would never see him again.

‘Very well.’ She dived into her reticule and handed him the dog-eared paper with Mary’s new address.

He gazed at it silently for a moment. ‘Dear God. The Seven Dials. Do you have any idea what sort of place that is?’

Her stomach plummeted. ‘Not good, I assume.’

‘I wouldn’t worry if it were just not good, as you put it. It couldn’t be worse. It houses London’s worst slums and most dangerous criminals.’

‘Mary Jensen is of a perfect respectability,’ she flashed back. Incroyable. She’d lost her grip on her English.

‘Not living in that neighborhood, she isn’t.’ He tossed the paper on the table next to a hunk of fruitcake.

His innuendoes wearied her; the whole day had tried her patience, and the strange, nerve-stretching awareness between them exhausted her most of all. She was an idiot for leaving Tunbridge Wells in his carriage. She would have been much better off at the damned Hare and Hounds.

‘What does it matter? I am not of a respectableness enough for you or your most esteemed family. The sooner we make our own directions, the better, n’est ce pas?’

‘Do not raise your voice to me, mademoiselle.’

‘And do not dictate to me.’

She stood.

He followed suit with easy grace, looming over her, green pinpricks of anger dancing in his eyes. ‘I would not have to dictate to you, if you had been more forthright in your dealings with me. It is my duty to see you safely established somewhere and I will not brook an argument.’

Golden in the firelight, he stood like a knight of old surrounded by the armour of righteousness. Trust him, her heart murmured with a little skip. Let him enfold you with his strength, urged her body with a delicious shiver. An urgent warning clamoured in her mind. You are no better than your mother.

‘I do not accept your right to give me orders.’

He bowed. ‘I suggest you go to bed. We will discuss what is to be done in the morning, when your nerves are less overset.’

She almost laughed in his face. Monsieur Jean must have lost his mind putting her in the hands of this dutiful and stuffy Evernden nephew.

‘Nerves, Mr Evernden, are for pampered darlings with fathers and husbands to protect them while they lie about on chaises with vinaigrettes and hartshorn complaining of headaches. I don’t have the luxury of nerves.’ She headed for the door. ‘We will certainly discuss this further en route to catch the mail in the morning.’

She turned in the doorway. ‘We will need to be up at five. I hope that is not too early for you?’

His open mouth gave her satisfaction enough as she swept out of the room and up the stairs.