Читать книгу Compromised Miss - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 9

Lucius Hallaston spent the slow passage of time whilst his strength returned alone, considering his situation. It was not an operation that encouraged optimism, although he tried. His body was sore as if trampled by a team of his blood horses, his head hammered, a sharp pulse of pain just behind his eyes, but he was not incapacitated. It could have been much worse, he supposed. He could be dead. True, lifting his left arm and shoulder was an excruciating movement, but if someone could find him some clothes, he could take control of his life once more. Or could he? The desperate failure of the enterprise in France was hardly evidence of his controlling the events of his life!

He pushed aside that bitter memory because to worry at it would achieve nothing but make his head pound more. All that would be required of him in the near future was to wait for further communication from Jean-Jacques Noir—and there would be one for sure—and explain away to his brother a bullet in his arm and a hole in his head with as much plausibility as he could dredge from the debacle.

His brows settled into a solid bar. It shouldn’t be too difficult to smooth over the immediate problems. But as for Monsieur Noir…It was a damnable situation! Lucius bared his teeth in what was not a smile and fell to contemplating the array of cobwebs that festooned the curtains and the scurrying antics of a spider, trying not to allow the disdain he had read in the eyes of Captain Harry Lydyard to disturb him.

But it did. The young man’s stare had been contemptuous, scornful of his obvious sliding round the truth. By what right did a common smuggler pass judgement on him, Lucius Hallaston?

By the same right you pass judgement on yourself. You deserve it for allowing yourself to get into this mess! his conscience sneered in his ear.

He must have dozed. When the door to his bedchamber opened again later in the morning, disturbing a quantity of dust, a sturdy individual, more appropriately clad for a day’s work in a fishing smack than a period of duty as a gentleman’s valet, entered. A bundle of clothes in his arms, he was followed by an equally robust woman with a determined air and lines of profound censure on her broad features. She carried a tray with a bowl, a ewer of hot water and a dish of something steaming that smelled—well, good.

‘Morning, y’r honour.’ The fisherman lost no time, depositing the bundle on the bed. ‘I’ve been sent by Cap’n Harry to take care o’ you.’

‘My thanks.’ Lucius pushed himself up on the pillows.

‘Some rare bruises, I’d imagine.’ Without hesitation, the fisherman thrust an arm around Lucius’s shoulders and heaved. ‘You’ve a tighter hold on life this morning, y’r honour, I’ll say that. Thought you was a gonner—all the blood an’ all. George Gadie, y’r honour. Fisherman.’

‘And smuggler?’ Lucius’s memory was vague at best, but some aspects of his rescue were clear enough.

‘Aye, sir…’ Wariness flitted across the man’s face but there was a glint in his eye. ‘And you, y’r honour?’

‘Lucius Hallaston.’

‘Well, Mr Hallaston, the Cap’n says you’re to drink this.’ A mug of ale changed hands.

The woman who had been bustling round the room nudged George aside with bowl, spoon and napkin. ‘I’ll say one thing, though some would say it’s none of my business. The sooner you leave here, the better for all our sakes, sir. Especially for—’

‘Take yourself off, Meggie,’ George broke in. ‘Let the man drink and get his breath.’

‘All I was saying was…’

‘Least said, soonest mended,’ George growled.

With a smile of thanks to Meggie that was ignored as she stomped to the door, Lucius gripped the bowl as best he could with his injured left arm, dipped the spoon and drank. It was good, deliciously aromatic to enhance the flavour of chicken. He realised how long it was since he had had anything to eat.

Meanwhile George sat down beside the bed, leaning forwards with arms on stalwart thighs as if anticipating a conversation. Much as Harry Lydyard had done. Lucius cocked his head, continued to spoon up the broth and waited.

‘Are you a spy, then, y’r honour?’

Lucius abandoned the spoon and wiped his mouth with the napkin as he struggled against impatience. ‘Why does everyone presume that I am? No, I am not a spy.’ He read the patent disbelief in the smuggler’s seamed face, but said no more. What proof had he but mere denial—but no point in dwelling on what could not be changed. ‘Can I get to Brighton?’ he asked, the uppermost thought in his mind.

‘Expect so. When you can get to your feet.’

‘I can do that. I don’t want to impose on you more than I have already. The maid—Jenny, was it?—I must thank her. I think she sat with me during the night, when I was restless.’

‘No. Not Jenny. It would be the Cap’n.’

Was there the slightest hesitation. Did he detect some disfavour in the gruff announcement? Impossible to tell. And why would the fisherman have any opinion on it? The beat of pain in his head made it not worth considering. ‘Then I must thank the Captain. Lydyard, I think he said. A local family?’

‘Aye, sir. The Capn’s brother—he’s the local landowner. Sir Wallace.’

‘Then I must thank Captain Harry for his hospitality before I go.’ Lucius carefully placed the bowl on the nightstand.

‘Don’t think he’s around.’ There was that scowl again, the brusque reply. ‘Shall I shave you, y’r honour?’

‘No need. You hold the bowl and towel, but hand me the razor. I can use my right arm well enough, although the left’s pretty useless. Have you a mirror?’

‘Aye, sir.’ George wiped the square on his thigh and held the smeared glass. He chuckled. ‘You mightn’t like what you see, though.’

It was a shock.

‘By God! That’s a mess.’ Lucius looked at the reflection in the mirror. Ran his fingers over the growth of beard and then, gently, down the livid scar on his cheek, flinching at the soreness. If vanity was an issue, if his looks mattered as much to him as it did to his younger brother who was in the throes of incipient dandyism, he would be cast into despair. Together with the purple bruising on his temple and jaw, and the matted hair stuck to his head with God knew what, he looked a criminal fit for Newgate. ‘It’ll heal, I expect.’ He winced as he once again pressed his fingers against the knife wound.

‘So Capn Harry said. He cleaned it up as well as he could.’

‘Hmm. Then let’s see if we can put the rest to rights.’

Within the next half-hour Lucius had to admit to looking relatively more respectable. Shaving complete, he struggled into boots and breeches—fortunately his own, if hopelessly stained—and a linen shirt that was not his, but of good quality.

‘Best we could do.’ George gave him a helping hand to pull on the boots. ‘Meggie’s trying to find you a coat. Yours isn’t in a fit state. Until we do—what do you think of this, y’r honour?’ He held up the dressing gown with a rough flourish, unable to repress a guffaw.

‘Hell and the Devil! Now that’s an eyeful.’ Lucius grinned as he shrugged his right arm carefully into the vibrant glory of rampant dragons. The other he couldn’t manage so allowed the magnificent beasts on the left to simply hang.

‘Sir Wallace’s.’ George smirked. ‘We borrowed it. Like the shirt. He’s an eye to fashion.’

‘Has he now?’ Looping the belt, Lucius was willing to tolerate it for the sake of respectability. ‘My thanks. Now, if you can find me a coat and a horse, I’ll be out of your hair. If I can get to Brighton…’

George shook his head. ‘Don’t think you should ride, y’r honour. Not with the blood you lost. I can arrange a pony and trap easy enough from the Silver Boat to get you to Brighton. If you had money,’ he added slyly.

‘And there’s the rub. But we’ll work something out.’ Lucius rubbed his hand over his newly shaven cheek. ‘I had a gold hunter with me when I went to France.’

‘Not any longer, sir. Gone the way o’ the rest o’ y’r possessions.’

A peremptory knock on the door.

It heralded the entrance of a man driven by righteous anger and blunt discourtesy. His accusation followed without introduction.

‘So the tales in the village were right enough.’ The visitor slammed the door behind him, eyes narrowed into a glare. ‘What’s this? A nameless ruffian dragged from the high seas, and wearing my dressing gown?’

Lucius resisted the inclination to raise his brows at the intrusion, struggling to keep a civil tongue in his head. Nothing to be gained by taking the offensive. The man—a gentleman despite his lack of good manners—was perhaps thirty-four or -five, around Lucius’s age, clad in a fashionable greatcoat of indeterminate drabness reaching to his ankles, with innumerable shoulder capes, the whole magnifying his rotund appearance and short stature. His face was broad, his complexion florid, telling of a close association with Free Trade liquor. Lucius heard George clear his throat uncomfortably. So this was Sir Wallace Lydyard, owner of the dubious taste in garments. But Lucius did not appreciate the overt hostility, the sheer lack of good manners or breeding.

‘My apologies, sir,’ Lucius replied as he rose slowly to his feet. A cool chill, the curtest inclination of the head, a deliberate lack of recognition. He would not be reduced to such discourtesy but, by God, he would not ignore such rank ill manners. ‘The rumours you were so quick to take at face value are incorrect. I was an innocent traveller in France, injured and robbed through no fault of my own. Fortunately I was rescued by some gentlemen of the Free Trade.’ Now, deliberately, he allowed his brows to lift infinitesimally. ‘I was not aware that that entitled me to be painted as a ruffian of the high seas.’

‘No?’ Sir Wallace was not to be discouraged. ‘What is any law-abiding Englishman doing in a French port if not to England’s danger, when the French are our sworn enemies, even at this moment engaged in battle with our brave forces in the Peninsula?’

‘Urgent business of a family nature that can be of no possible interest to you, sir.’ The raised brows were superb in their arrogance. Lucius had had enough of slurs on his character. ‘If I am making use of your splendid garment, then I must offer you my thanks. My own coat is ruined or I should not have taken such a liberty. Perhaps you would be so good as to advise me of your name, sir?’

‘Lydyard. Sir Wallace Lydyard.’

Again Lucius managed the slightest inclination of his head, icily polite, a barbed and poisonous weapon to depress pretension and boorishness. ‘Lydyard. Let me make myself known, to clear any misunderstanding between us. I am Lucius Hallaston. Earl of Venmore.’

‘Venmore!’

‘That is so.’

Sir Wallace was flustered. ‘My lord…’ For once Lucius enjoyed the effect of his consequence with not a little malice. ‘Perhaps I was hasty.’ An unattractive flush mantled Lydyard’s features. ‘You’ll understand—the circumstances, your presence here at the Pride…’

‘I was unconscious when I was brought ashore. A bullet wound.’

Lydyard’s eyes suddenly acquired an unpleasant reptilian gleam, and his glance snapped to George Gadie. ‘Did you spend the night here, Gadie, to care for his lordship?’

George shuffled. ‘No, Sir Wallace. I did not.’

‘You were not here at the Pride?’

‘No, Sir Wallace. The Cap’n sent me home.’

‘So I heard correctly.’ Sir Wallace’s voice was soft, a slyness sliding across his features. ‘My sister stayed here last night, then.’

‘Aye, Sir Wallace.’

Lucius remained silent, unable to follow this line of exchange, even more when Lydyard’s speculative appraisal was turned on him.

‘You look much restored this morning, my lord.’

‘Well enough to take my leave,’ he replied curtly, yet with restraint. There were suddenly undercurrents in the room that made no sense to him, but his patience was at an end. No man addressed a Hallaston of Venmore in such an impertinent manner!

‘Knowing my sister, I suppose she spent the night at your side, in this room.’

A warning flitted across his skin, like a draught from an ill-fitting window. ‘Your sister, sir? I have no knowledge of your sister.’

With a grunt, Sir Wallace promptly turned on his heel and marched to the door. Opened it. ‘Jenny?’ he bellowed, followed by a distant reply of assent. ‘Tell my sister I wish to see her here immediately.’

Then he continued to stand beside the door, arms folded.

Lucius rummaged unsuccessfully through his incomplete recollections. He recalled Jenny, the dark-haired maid. But Lydyard’s sister? ‘As I said, as far as I have any memory of last night, I am not acquainted with your sister, sir.’

But Sir Wallace’s lips curled in marvellous disbelief. ‘Do you presume that your birth and title will allow you to compromise my sister? She spends a night here with you, in this very bedchamber, and her honour is besmirched.’ He lingered on the word. ‘However well bred she might be, however excellent her connections, she is unwed and, apart from myself, defenceless. What will her reputation be now? I had a marriage in line for her, but the bridegroom will surely cry off when he gets wind of this, my lord.’

‘As far as I am aware, my care was undertaken by the Captain of the smug—the sailing vessel that rescued me. Harry Lydyard, your brother.’

‘Ha! Such pretence does not become you, my lord!’

Light footsteps echoed on the stairs. Sir Wallace flung the door back.

‘Come in. Come in. There’s scandal in the air, with you at the centre of it, my dear sister. I should have known!’ His tone, Lucius noted, despite his expressed concern, was not that of a compassionate brother, but rather that of a hanging judge. ‘Once again you have put the Lydyard reputation in jeopardy, leaving me to smooth over the unpleasantness.’

A young woman stepped into the room.

So this was the Lydyard sister. Lucius cast a briefly appraising eye over her. Nothing like her brother in looks, thank God, but nothing more than a country girl with no hint of town bronze. Tall for a girl, her hair was dark, unfashionably long, tied carelessly with a ribbon to cascade in a thick mass of curls to her shoulders and beyond. A neat figure, fine boned and well proportioned. Pleasing enough features in an oval face with well-marked dark brows and a straight uncompromising nose. Her lips as this moment were tense and unsmiling. He would never have guessed at the relationship between the two, except that she did not refute her brother’s harsh welcome. Her dress was unfashionably full-skirted and high-collared, drab and plain in an unflattering shade of green. As Lucius was forced to admit, he would not have given the young woman, who looked nothing more than a lowly governess, a second look in a crowded salon in Mayfair. Yet she bore herself with a confidence and an elegant simplicity at odds with her garments. Perhaps because she was no schoolroom miss, but a lady of more than twenty years. She stood just inside the door, calmly waiting for whatever would happen next, her eyes firmly on her brother.

‘Miss Lydyard. It is an honour to meet you.’ Lucius bowed as gracefully as he could manage despite the torn muscles. He smiled bleakly. ‘As I have informed Sir Wallace, we have no prior acquaintance. Any accusations on his part are misinformed. Your honour is without blemish.’

Sir Wallace waved the apology away, his attention on his sister. ‘Your guest at the Pride is Lucius Hallaston, Earl of Venmore,’ he announced with relish. ‘Were you aware of that?’

Entirely composed, Miss Lydyard ignored her brother and curtsied, eyes now lowered. ‘My lord. I see you are much recovered.’

It was the voice that did it for Lucius. Cool, low tones, carefully controlled, calmly confident. Astonishing in the circumstances. And then the eyes confirmed it as they rose to meet his across the room. Oh, yes, he could not mistake those eyes. As cool as her voice, grey, almost silver in the morning light, like the flash of sunlight on water at daybreak. And her hands, now clasped firmly before her, her knuckles white, if he were not mistaken. So perhaps she was not as composed as he had thought. Longfingered, capable hands, able to pull on a rope or manoeuvre a barrel on a moving deck. Or bathe a man’s forehead with cool water and bind a wound…

The suspicion transformed itself into a certainty. This was Captain Harry. The knowledge, the memory of the Captain’s intimate ministrations, lurched uncomfortably in Lucius’s belly.

‘So Harry Lydyard tended to you, did he, my lord? I fail to see how you could be unaware.’ The words burst from Sir Wallace. ‘A foolish notion that no man of sense would believe. This is my sister, Miss Harriette Lydyard. Whom you, my lord, have dishonoured!’

Seeing a chasm opening up before his feet, Lucius viewed the occupants of his borrowed bedchamber with distaste. Miss Lydyard continued to make no response to her brother’s recriminations, a matter that earned his reluctant respect, except for the little line that had dug itself between her brows and a tinge of colour to her cheeks. She was not afraid of her brother, nor of the situation, even though her brother was accusing her of immodesty and him of some form of lascivious seduction, remarkable given the condition he had been in! As for the brother…Had he imagined it or had Lydyard’s interest grown as soon as he knew his title? Lucius’s head might ache, but there was nothing wrong with his wits. Here was a situation that had the makings of a trap set to catch a man of wealth and consequence and some degree of honour. How to snap up a prize for a spinster sister who was not in the first flush of youth or blessed with obvious beauty. And he, the Earl of Venmore, was to be the prize. Lydyard had said he already had a marriage arranged for his sister. Like Hell, he had! Lydyard had an eye to the main chance and had leapt to secure it.

Well, he would not be caught in that trap. Lucius’s nostrils flared at the audacity of the man. And at the same time caught the eyes of the lady. Grave and solemn, they touched his and held there, and if he were not mistaken there was a plea in their silver intensity. But for what? Perhaps that he should not make it worse for her than it already was. He set himself to do his best. He owed her that much.

‘As I recall, Lydyard, not that I recall much of it, I was unconscious for most of the night. I could have spent the night with an entire gang of smugglers in the room, together with their contraband and an invading force of Preventive officers, and been unaware of it.’

But Lydyard’s smile widened to show an array of unpleasantly discoloured teeth. ‘And would the gossipmongers of London society believe that? That Earl Venmore spent the entire night with my sister in his room, in an empty house, with her honour still intact at daybreak? Hardly, my lord. My sister will be disgraced. Nor, I hazard, will it do much for your own reputation, robbing an innocent girl of her good name. We may be distant from London, but news and gossip travels. One of the biggest catches in the marriage market as you are, if I am not mistaken, reduced to seducing and abandoning innocent girls. Will the gossips believe the innocence of all concerned? And your presumed unconsciousness throughout?’

The chasm not of Lucius’s making yawned wider. ‘No, probably not.’

‘For certain they will not! You have rendered my sister unmarriageable, sir!’

And Lucius saw Harriette Lydyard grow pale, as she had never done when she had his blood on her hands. He saw horror dawn and spread over her face in a tightening of the skin along her cheekbones. Still she made no reply. On her behalf as much as his own, anger bubbled up, enough to make him light-headed in his weakened state. He had been neatly trapped, had he not, one disaster following upon the next, but if he read the girl’s reaction right, she was as much a victim as he.

So he would take control of this situation. He had had quite enough in recent weeks—more than any man could tolerate—of being outmanoeuvred and manipulated, outwitted and outgunned. Jean-Jacques Noir might have got the better of him in France, but he was damned if he would allow Sir Wallace Lydyard to do so in—where was this God-forsaken place?—Old Wincomlee! Nor would he allow the man to take such a bullying tone of voice with his innocent sister. A vulnerable, gently reared girl did not deserve that.

Hell and the devil! Did he not have enough to plague him without this? But those grey eyes were suddenly dark like a winter sea, wide and anxious.

Harriette continued to stand where she had stood since the beginning of this appalling scene, a mere step into the room, wishing with all her heart that she could remain Captain Harry for just a little while longer. Or that the rotten floorboards of the chamber would collapse beneath her feet and swallow her down into a black hole. Her heart sank to the depth of her scuffed satin shoes. She had hoped to make her escape back to Whitescar Hall with no one being the wiser, certainly without any further conversation between herself and her wounded spy. And here she was, summoned by her brother as if she were a servant. She had managed, if nothing else, to dispose of her breeches, which would have added kindling to the flames, but Wallace, damn him, had come hotfoot. Wallace was furious. She slanted a look towards his unappealing features and her attention was caught. Perhaps Wallace was not so furious as he might wish to appear. Manipulative was more the order of the day. Her half-brother had seen an opportunity and was intent on making the most of it. Harriette did not know whether to descend into hysterical laughter or weep from the sheer incongruity of the whole situation

An earl! Her spy was an earl! Ridiculous. And was, furthermore, accused of dishonouring her. As if her private dreams had blossomed into reality. What arrant nonsense was that?

No point in her arguing the case with Wallace. When he was in this mood, he would listen to neither excuse nor reason, so she might as well keep her silence until he ran out of foolish accusations and the exquisite Earl had made his inevitable rapid escape from Lydyard’s Pride.

She risked another glance at the Earl.

The ripple of laughter almost won despite the horrors. Because the Earl of Venmore was a Corinthian. All that Wallace wanted to be, tried so ineffectually to ape, here was his heart’s desire in the flesh. Wallace had the ambition to be a sportsman, proficient and lauded for his abilities in the saddle, with pistol and rapier. To be admired for his splendid physique, his handsome looks. To be recognised as a leader of fashion. He never could. And here standing before him was the epitome of all his dreams.

And hers.

Washed, shaved, his hair settling into shining, elegant dishevelment, the Earl cut a splendid figure. He was taller than she had thought, more than six feet, his shoulders impressively broad beneath the lurid monstrosity, and did she not know at first hand how the muscles ran sleek and smooth, as water over a rock, beneath his skin, the athletic moulding of his strong thighs and firm belly? Did she not know the smooth satin of his skin beneath her palms when she had washed and bound his wounds? And Harriette felt her face and her blood heat at the memory.

How degrading that he should look at her with such arrogance printed on his features, as if she were of no consequence to him. But then why should she be? If he were a man of intellect, the Earl of Venmore would have quickly detected Wallace’s disgraceful plotting to catch a husband for her.

Her concentration was dragged back as her brother’s anger filled the room.

‘You have dishonoured my sister, Venmore. I demand retribution.’

‘No…! There was no dishonour,’ Harriette gasped, a knot of ice forming in her belly.

‘Be silent!’ Wallace rounded on her. ‘This is not for you. Although many would say you brought it on yourself, cavorting as you do with the Free Traders. I will settle this. What hopes for a suitable match if this gets out—as it surely will?’

‘Then there is only one remedy, is there not?’ A cold interjection in the heat.

The Earl walked across the room towards her, slowly but steadily enough. His eyes were on her face, and Harriette saw banked fire there and recognised a lethal fury at her brother’s wily methods. Even so, he bowed before her with inestimable grace.

‘Miss Lydyard. There is one solution to restore your good name in the eyes of the world. Would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’

Marriage! To become the wife of this man? The knot of ice melted in a rush of heat. If she could choose her heart’s desire, would it not be this gift that was being offered to her, as in a childhood fairytale? A precious jewel on a silk cushion? She might have damned him as a traitor, but now she must acknowledge the depth of honour that he should come to her rescue, much as a knight of old would ride to slay the dragon—Wallace—and carry off the damsel in distress.

Would not this miraculous offer make her heady dreams come true?

But Harriette heard herself reply, her voice as distressingly matter of fact as his. ‘No, my lord. There is no need. As we both know, my brother was ill informed. I am grateful and will never forget your kindness in making so great a sacrifice, but I must refuse your generous offer.’

She saw him react. That was not what he had expected. The muscles along his jaw tightened. ‘Perhaps you do not quite understand the situation, Miss Lydyard.’

‘I am not a fool, my lord.’ A flash of impatience, which she strove to temper, but without much success. ‘I understand the situation perfectly. As I see it, there is no situation between us.’ And gasped as her brother grasped her wrist with painfully hot fingers.

‘Show some sense, girl—’

‘Sir Wallace,’ the Earl interrupted icily, raising a peremptory hand as Harriette tugged ineffectually for her release, ‘I need a moment’s private conversation with your sister. Alone, if you will. Is there a library or drawing room in this establishment that we can use?’

Sir Wallace drew himself up to his most pompous. ‘I’ll not allow it. It’s not appropriate that you—’

‘Sir,’ the Earl interrupted bitingly, without finesse, ‘if I spent the night with Miss Lydyard behind locked doors as you imply, luring her into my bed and proceeding to destroy her reputation by the physical demands of my body on hers, five minutes in a library in the full light of morning will not make matters any the worse.’

Harriette froze at the brutal description of what had not occurred. And for the length of a heartbeat wished that it had.

‘Five minutes, then.’ Sir Wallace allowed Harriette to pull her wrist away. ‘Take his lordship to the library, miss, and try to keep some sense in your stubborn head.’

They descended the stairs, Harriette leading the way into a library as dusty and disused as the rest of the house, what furniture there was shrouded in Holland covers. The leather spines of the few books on the shelves were dull, clearly unread. Immediately the door was closed behind them, a swathed form of a sofa strategically positioned between them, Harriette swung round to face the Earl. Her eyes were clear and bright and very determined. She might have been proud of her earlier reticence, but she could remain silent no longer, even if it meant rejecting the heartstopping image painted in her mind by the Earl’s savage words.

‘There’s no need for this, my lord. I know what my brother is about. I’ll lay odds he didn’t suggest marriage until he heard you were an earl!’ She saw her sharp cynicism cause a slash of high colour along the Earl’s magnificent cheekbones—whether from anger at her brother’s presumption or disapproval of her lack of discretion she could not tell—but she would not simper and prevaricate.

‘I wouldn’t take your odds, Miss Lydyard. Sir Wallace certainly saw the opportunity.’

‘I’ll wager the Lydyard’s Ghost he did! To get me off his hands, and to gain a connection with a man of wealth and consequence.’ Harriette made no attempt to bury the bitterness. ‘My brother is nothing if not ambitious. And I should tell you, I won’t do it, just to further Wallace’s ambitions. Not even if you were the Prince Regent himself!’

‘Fortunately for both of us, I am not!’ the Earl responded, taken aback. What was the impression he had gained not ten minutes ago? Here was no innocent, vulnerable, gently reared girl, bullied by her brother. Here was a highly opinionated young woman actually refusing his offer of marriage. And with a forthrightness that, quite frankly, he resented. His lips thinned. ‘Would marriage to me be such an anathema, Miss Lydyard?’

‘That’s not the issue here. What possible advantage could there be for you in such a mésalliance? I think you must be all about in your head to even consider it, my lord!’

‘The blow from a club might have rattled my senses as a temporary measure,’ he snapped back, ‘but I think I am sane enough.’ What possible advantage…? The kernel of an idea began to form in his mind. That such a marriage might just bring him a glimmer of light, an unforeseen advantage….

‘We know nothing about each other. How would I fit into your elevated social circle in London? I have no notion how to go on there. I have never been to London, not even further than Brighton. Why would you possibly wish to marry me? A beautiful debutante? No. A wife skilled in the social mores of London? Not that. A rich wife with powerful connections? Not that, either. So why? I am no fit wife for you.’ Harriette kept her voice unemotional, ignoring the weight of regret that lay on her heart. He would never know how difficult it was to reject him. ‘I am twenty-three years old, my lord!’

‘And I am thirty-four, if that is of any interest to anyone but myself.’

She saw the flash of proud temper as she resisted him, but would not retreat. ‘I agree your age is irrelevant. Mine is not. I did not think you obtuse, my lord.’

‘Obtuse?’ His eyes hardened, unused to being challenged.

‘I am firmly on the shelf, with nothing to recommend me as a wife, fit for nothing but to be governess to my brother’s children.’ She stated the uncompromising truth without a quiver, her chin raised.

His face remained stern. ‘I commend your shining honesty, Miss Lydyard, but marriage can be the answer—if you are not determined to be so stubborn.’

‘What will your family say with a plain nobody like me for a bride, trailing behind you on your expensive doorstep, somewhere I expect, in Mayfair?’

‘I have no idea, nor do I care,’ he replied, struck by the sad little image. ‘It seems to me, Miss Lydyard, that you sell yourself short. You are hardly a nobody. Your family is perfectly respectable.’

But Miss Lydyard did not retreat. ‘Respectable! How damning a word is that? Compared with the Hallaston family, the Earls of Venmore, we are parvenus indeed. It takes no intelligence to guess the on dit of the Season. A common smuggler as the Countess of Venmore! As bad as Lady Lade. I can’t wed you, my lord.’

At which he smiled, for the first time with some level of genuine humour. It lit his face, softening his mouth, rendering her instantly breathless. ‘Not as bad as Letty Lade. She, as I recall, before she was elevated to society, was a servant in a brothel and mistress of Sixteen-String Jack, who ended on the gallows. I doubt you, Miss Lydyard, have any such claim to fame.’

His face was alight with laughter, atrociously handsome despite the disfiguring bruises and the vicious path of the knife on his cheek. Harriette was forced to look away, forced to take a steadying breath as her dreams shattered before her eyes. He was not for her. To know that he had offered for her under duress, driven into an honourable gesture by her despicable brother, was entirely shaming for her. Without Wallace’s spiked accusations, the Earl of Venmore would never have noticed her, much less invited her to share his life and his bed. She took another breath against the sharp dejection and wished with all her heart it could be otherwise, but she could not, would not, let him be a sacrifice for her brother’s greed. It would humiliate her—and him. Marriage on such terms, when all he had shown her was kindness, would be beyond tolerance for both of them.

‘Why did you do it?’ His soft question surprised her.

‘What?’

‘Take on the appearance and identity of Captain Harry?’

‘A family obligation.’ She walked away to look out towards the cliffs where seabirds wheeled and dived in a joyous freedom, finding it easier not to face him.

‘It’s a hard burden for a family to ask of a young girl.’ To her dismay he followed her to stand at her shoulder, a solid physical presence so that she was immediately aware of the heat of his skin against hers, the sheer dominance of his tall figure. But she would not allow herself to feel vulnerable.

‘It’s not just an obligation.’ She felt an inexplicable need to defend herself to him. ‘It’s the excitement, too. Lydyard’s Ghost is my own. So is Lydyard’s Pride, this house that I love but can’t afford to keep and where my brother refuses to let me live.’ Unaware, animation coloured her words and her face. ‘The smuggling runs have become part of my life. Without them, what do I have before me? I am unwed and unlikely to be so, whatever my brother might say. So I must die of boredom—a neverending round of embroidery, painting, sedate walks under my sister-in-law’s caustic eye. When Zan first took me on a run…’ She flushed, regretting having laid herself open to his interest. ‘It’s in my blood, I suppose.’

‘Zan?’ he asked.

‘Alexander Ellerdine. My cousin. My friend. He showed me the…the satisfaction of it. And since Wallace would not, I took on the family connection. The sea is in my blood, too. Lydyards have always had an interest in the Free Traders.’

The idea that had crept into Luke’s mind blossomed into a fully fledged possibility. To rescue Miss Lydyard from dishonour—a matter of duty in itself—and at the same time…the cutter, Lydyard’s Ghost! He turned to lean, careful of his shoulder, against the window shutter so that he might look directly at her, obliging her to raise her eyes to his.

‘Since you don’t appear to value my offer of marriage overmuch…’his mouth curled in a touch of self-contempt ‘…allow me to suggest a contract that might appeal to you Miss Lydyard. A business deal, if you will.’

‘A business deal?’ That she had not expected.

His eyes narrowed as if he contemplated some distant plotting. ‘I find I might have the need for a fast cutter to give me easy access to the French coast. You own such a cutter.’

‘Well—yes. But if you need one, would it not be simpler to just buy one?’ Harriette’s brows rose in blatant disbelief. ‘Why saddle yourself with a wife?’

He thought fast of the advantages that he might just make use of. ‘I need a trustworthy crew and an experienced captain with knowledge of tides. A captain with knowledge of the French coast and a connection there. And speed would be important—might be crucial in my planning. You could offer me all of that.’

Harriette folded her arms. ‘I could. Why?’

‘A matter of family business. It need not concern you.’ And Harriette watched as a grimness settled about the Earl’s mouth. It was like a shutter closing, she thought, masking any emotion.

‘So you get use of the Ghost.’ She pursed her lips. ‘What do I get?’

‘Simple enough.’ He lifted a hand, palm spread. ‘My title and consequence. My purse strings. I can give you comfort, luxury if that is what you would enjoy, social standing, independence. There will be no compulsion on you to paint or embroider from me! You will no longer be under the eye of either your sister-in-law or your brother. Is that not at least tempting? I own a number of houses that you might like. You might find that you enjoy a London Season.’

‘Ha! With nothing to think of but what I wear and what I say, and if I can manage the steps of a country dance at Almack’s without tripping over my feet? You should know that I have never been taught to dance, either!’ She let the ideal filter through her mind. ‘You think that money would matter to me?’

‘As a smuggler, I imagine profit is an important consideration for you.’

‘You would think that,’ she replied enigmatically. If that is what he thought of her…But how should he not since he did not know her? ‘Why would I choose to escape from my brother into your controlling, my lord?’

‘You would not find me too rigorous a husband. Will you do it?’

Harriette studied the unsmiling, masterful features and was not sure, not sure at all. The Earl of Venmore did not seem to have the makings of an easy, tolerant husband. There was suddenly no similarity between this man and the helpless figure who had been tumbled broken and bleeding at her feet. This man who insisted on her striking this remarkable bargain with him.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

‘Why not? Consider what a profitable catch I turned out to be.’

There was no mistaking the edge of a sneer in his voice. What a low opinion he appeared to have of her. Well, she would reply in similar vein. ‘So there’s something in this for both of us. Youw ould be as self-interested as I in finding an advantage in this match.’

‘Yes. Why not?’

Harriette dragged in a breath. Here was honesty between them at least. And it was tempting; she felt herself weakening. The Earl of Venmore was clearly a devious man, knowing that independence would be a priceless gift to her. What would it be like to share his life, to share his bed? She shivered at the thought of the Earl’s physical ownership of her. It was an image that would destroy her resolution, she admitted in her heart, if she allowed it.

‘You said you could not afford the upkeep of this house.’ His words brought her back to the present. ‘It obviously means much to you. If you wish to spend money to put this place back in order…’

Harriette stared at him.

‘…then I could enable you to do it.’

Was he actually offering to pay to resurrect Lydyard’s Pride from dilapidation to its former glory? Why would he put himself out to be so persuasive? There was no debt for him to pay. Harriette could find no words to reply between what her heart desired and what her mind informed her was only right and proper. Her mind, of course, had the victory.

‘You don’t have to, my lord. We both know my honour was not compromised.’

‘I know it, as do you. But unfortunately the polite world is not kind to even the veriest whisper of scandal. It can be cruel and malicious. If you have any ambition to attract a husband, you must be aware of the dangers for you if gossip wags its spiteful tongue.’

He watched her as she thought over his words with utmost seriousness. She frowned a little as she replied, as if her words were painful to her, as they were. ‘It seems to me, my lord, that there are far more advantages for me in this arrangement. All you get is an unsuitable wife and the Ghost.’

‘And it’s important to me.’ Surprising her, and perhaps himself, the Earl took her hand in his good right one and Harriette felt an arresting sparkle of light ripple through her blood. His clasp was firm around her fingers, strong with more than a hint of possession. Never in her life had she felt so dominated by a man. She was intensely aware of his forceful presence and their seclusion, of the strength of his will when he had set his mind to a course of action. His words confirmed it. ‘Let us have plain speaking between us, Miss Lydyard. Is there someone whom you love, to whom you are promised?’

Harriette shook her head.

‘Then we are both without entanglements and of an age to enter into this agreement of our own free will.’

‘But that isn’t so. I think there is a lady close to your heart.’

His brows twitched together. ‘I don’t…’

‘A lady named Marie-Claude.’

His eyes flashed a warning. ‘No. Whatever I said in delirium, you misunderstood, Miss Lydyard. She is nothing to me.’ His response held a hard bite. ‘I promise to be an attentive and tolerant husband. I will defend your name and your honour with all the power I have. I will not make more demands on you than you are willing to give—and in return you will allow me use of the Ghost. Miss Harriette Lydyard, will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’ His proposal held none of the warm emotion that might be expected in a bridegroom towards the woman who would put her future into his hands, but he kissed Harriette’s fingers, lips cool on her skin, that stirred a hot little flame in her heart. ‘It would please me, restore us both to the good graces of polite society and solve all manner of problems for you.’

A proposal of marriage. Harriette floundered in a morass of indecision. How remote, how austere he was, as if it meant nothing to him. And perhaps it didn’t. She could not do it. It would bring her more sorrow than happiness.

Then the Earl smiled at her. What an impossibly charming smile he had, making him too dangerously attractive. And suddenly Harriette found herself tottering on the edge of forgetting all her clear reasoning as to why she should not take this step. It was so very appealing. Her gaze was caught by his so that she felt as if she were pulled along as by waves in a strong tide. If she were not careful, she would be dragged inexorably below the surface and then she would be lost…

‘Miss Lydyard? My future hangs on your reply.’

‘Really?’ She looked askance.

‘Really, Miss Lydyard!’ His mouth firmed into an impatient line.

She must give him an answer of course. And did so with dry appreciation. ‘Your tongue is as smooth as French silk, my lord. The only thing I regret is that, if I do agree, it will please my brother.’

‘He is no longer of any concern to you. For you, Miss Lydyard, if you will accept my offer, you now belong to me.’

It was outrageously proprietary. Intensely possessive. Very male and very confident. Harriette’s heart leaped within the confines of her outmoded bodice. And again, a harder beat, when his clasp tightened and he pulled her slowly towards him. Was he intending to kiss her? Fear struck.

‘I should tell you, my lord, that not only can I not dance, but I have never been kissed, either.’

‘Then it will be my pleasure to show you how it is done, to consolidate our agreement.’

As a kiss it surprised her. It was very gentle, the softest of meetings of lips, hardly more than a sharing of breath between them. Harriette felt he had made an effort not to frighten her, but now fear was not in her mind. She sighed, taking a step closer, and, sensing it, the Earl slid his good arm around her waist and drew her closer still, firm against his chest, his thighs, whilst his lips warmed and teased. Enveloped by his arms, it was as if all her senses became startlingly alive so that his scent, his touch stroked her, to fill her with a delight that she could never have imagined. Gentle as it was, it reduced her to a shimmer of liquid pleasure. Until he released her, tilted his head as if struck by a thought, before placing a final caress between her brows.

‘So we are agreed? It would not be appropriate for me to kiss a lady who was other than my betrothed.’

And Harriette, hopelessly entranced, gasped at his slide into light humour. How could she possibly tell him that he had stolen both her breath and her heart in that one simple undemanding gesture? ‘Then I must accept, mustn’t I, for I am not in the habit of allowing any gentleman to kiss me. But one thing I would ask.’ She lowered her eyes so he would not see the anxiety that began to build in her chest again.

‘Since you saved my life, I think I am duty bound to grant whatever you request, Miss Lydyard.’

‘I don’t want a society wedding. Not at some fashionable church in London under the eyes of the ton. Not in the midst of your Corinthian set.’

‘Very well. Then where?’

‘Here. With a special licence.’

‘Then it shall be so.’

Relief swept through her, and astonishment that he would agree so readily. He had not even asked her to explain, something she did not wish to do. ‘If I am to escape, then let it be quick. Do you know a bishop, my lord?’

‘I think I can lay claim to it.’ Then, ‘My name is Lucius,’ he prompted.

‘Lucius.’ She tried it on her tongue. Heavy. Classical. Aristocratic. She must have frowned.

His mouth was a touch sardonic. ‘If you don’t care for it, try Luke.’

‘Is that what your family call you?’

‘My brother, Adam, does.’

Harriette tried it in her mind. Luke! She liked it. It suited his dark good looks. ‘Then I will.’

‘So we are decided. As long as I don’t have to wed you in this garment.’

‘I doubt your own coat will be redeemable—although I’m sure you have any number of such fashionable garments. I should tell you I took a knife to the seams. I thought you were bleeding to death.’

‘Then I must thank God you did. Although Weston might not be too happy at the destruction of his masterpiece.’

‘Whoever Weston might be, he did not have to deal with an emergency! I promise I won’t wed you in boots and breeches.’

‘I can ask for nothing more, Captain Harry.’

‘I am very grateful.’

Reaching out, he startled Harriette by running a finger along the edge of her jaw, lifting her chin so that she must look up at him. Then with a swift movement belying his bruising, Luke swooped and kissed her again, hard and sure.

His demeanour might be cool, but his mouth held the heat of a searing flame. His previous kiss had warmed her with pleasure. This was a brand that scorched her, fire consuming every inch of her body. It stirred a hunger in her of which she had no experience. It turned her limbs to water. Harriette pressed her hands against his chest, not to make a distance between them but simply to savour the warmth of his body, the solid beat of his heart under her palm.

Then, as quickly as he had taken her, he released her.

‘I don’t need your gratitude, only your acceptance, Miss Lydyard.’

He took her hand to lead her back to break the news to Sir Wallace, the only sensible thought in Harriette’s mind—What have I done, offering to wed a man whose way of life might be totally immoral? followed quickly by—Why would the Earl of Venmore need the use of a fast cutter to get him to France? A question that lodged, hard and heavy as a stone, in Harriette’s chest. For if the Earl intended to use the Ghost in some nefarious practice with the enemy—and did all the evidence not point to that?—how could she be attracted to a man who might very well be a spy?

A smuggler. A smuggler as Countess of Venmore? By God! What had he done?

Whilst George Gadie set to work to negotiate the hire of a horse and gig from the tight-fisted landlord of the Silver Boat, Luke was left to juggle a range of unpalatable thoughts, all centring on Harriette Lydyard. For most of them he had no answer. Such as, why had he fought so hard to get her? And what had happened to his legendary charm, his ability to conduct an elegant flirtation, that he had made so ham-fisted an attempt, stricken into damning silence when she had listed her faults and accused him of not wanting a bride such as she? He had simply stood there like an ill-educated and mannerless boor, all his presence of mind buried beneath a cold dose of honesty, skewered by the lady’s forthright stare. The fact that all her observations were a fairly accurate reading of the situation was by the by. What had she said? Unfashionable, no fortune, no looks to speak of, past the age of a débutante with no inclination to come out into society.

Dispassionately, the Earl reconsidered his bride. Miss Lydyard had sold herself short. Blinding honesty was certainly one of her attributes. That’s what he would get. An honest, outspoken wife, a capable woman who did not faint at the sight of blood with the courage not to retreat before her brother’s bullying and intimidation. His wealth, his title, his entrée into society held no apparent attraction for her. He smiled sardonically at her reaction to his prestigious tailor. Unfortunate Weston! She did not even know who he was.

And, no, she was not unattractive. There was an elusive charm about her, of which he thought even she was unaware. When she had explained about this ruin of a house, full of vital energy, her features had lit, her eyes—and what remarkably beautiful eyes they were—had glowed. No, she was not unattractive at all. When she had smiled, she had been transformed. He thought that he had not seen her laugh, and wished he had. Instead there had been that sudden shadow of fear when she had asked for a discreet wedding. What had that been about? What woman of his acquaintance would resist the chance of a society wedding, to be the envy of the haut ton when she became the Countess of Venmore? He was not so naïve that he did not appreciate his own worth as a bridegroom. But there had been a lingering sadness there.

Who would have thought any woman would have tried so hard not to marry him? A harsh laugh escaped him. A wise man, he decided, would make a fast escape and thank the gods for it—but an honorourable man would not. Luke had no intention of allowing Harriette to suffer through the strange workings of fate that had tumbled him into her boat. Nor of his name being coupled with her dishonour. His family name deserved better than that, as did her own.

Would he regret this further complication in his life? He shrugged the thought away abruptly, until his bruised shoulder caused him to hiss through his teeth at the pain. Probably he would. Did he not have enough troubles at the moment with discovering the present whereabouts of Mademoiselle Marie-Claude? He frowned, not seeing a way forward there, and contact with Jean-Jacques Noir was becoming hazardous. Should he tell Harriette about that? No. Not yet, at least. Better to keep his mouth tightly shut and his fears to himself—as he had been warned that he must.

For now he had the prospect of a wife, the last thing he wanted at this point in his life when he was living a lie and burdened with guilt, but in all honour, he could not abandon her. A strange alliance. A smuggler and a…what? Spy? Traitor? Some would undoubtedly say the latter. An unscrupulous pairing, but Miss Lydyard had the Ghost, too good a chance to miss it if it allowed him to save an innocent young woman from harm.

And whatever happened, he would make sure Miss Harriette Lydyard did not suffer for her compliance.

Would Harriette Lydyard enjoy being a countess? Somehow he doubted it. He would wager she would rather face a gale-force wind in the Lydyard’s Ghost than a dress ball. But she wanted freedom from family restrictions; he saw the value of a fast ship to France. Both had an eye to a main chance, as she had observed in those cool tones of disdain, pure self-interest for both of them.

And what did he think of a girl who wore breeches and boots, evaded the law and ran the gauntlet of the Revenue men without any hint of fear? He ought to be outraged. Luke smiled wryly. Somehow he could not summon that emotion in his dealings with Miss Harriette Lydyard. He ought to be thoroughly outraged, condemning her morals and her sense of propriety. Even now, their final exchange in the library remained to echo uncomfortably in his mind.

As he was about to open the door, Harriette had stopped him. ‘If I am to wed you, does this mean that you would prefer me to give up smuggling?’

‘Yes,’ he had replied in some surprise, without hesitation. ‘How could I wish my wife to be involved in criminal activities? Ah!—that’s to say…’

‘I suppose you think it’s a vicious, damnable trade.’ She must have seen him searching for a tactful response. ‘Most people do, you know, even though it puts food into the mouths of poor women and children in fishing villages, who might otherwise starve.’ She raised her hand when he might have replied. ‘I understand—you don’t have to hide your condemnation of it, or me. I will just say this, my lord. I will consider retiring from the Trade, because it is your preference.’

And that was as much as she would promise. Now he must live with the consequences. Was it possible to build a future on a fleeting and wholly inexplicable admiration for Miss Lydyard, simply because she had rescued him and saved his life? An admiration because she had faced him and flung his offer of wealth and consequence at his feet as so much dross?