Читать книгу How to Disgrace a Lady - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 8

As house parties went, this one was proving to be exceptionally virtuous. There were guests aplenty of just the right ages and gender to make an excellent population for all the different entertainments Lady Folkestone had meticulously planned. But while the girls were pretty and the widows or other unattached ladies of a certain age happy to flirt lightly with their conversation, they were all respectable. In fact, after three days of taking the party’s measure, Merrick concluded the girls in attendance were as notorious for their goodness as the Greenfield Twins were for their badness, a comparison he voiced out loud to the late-night group of gentlemen who’d gathered restlessly in the billiards room after the rest of the company had gone up to bed.

The eight gentlemen laughed heartily at his complaint. It wasn’t that Merrick did not appreciate the house party. The affair was brilliant on all accounts. The entertainments were actually entertaining; there had been fishing for the gentlemen just today in the East Stour River at Postling. There’d been cards and billiards with light wagering on the side that had allowed Merrick to add to his stash of pound notes. Certainly not the sums available in London’s gaming hells, but something all the same. The food was excellent, Folkestone’s easy largesse abundantly displayed on the dining-room sideboards with three meals a day and two teas.

Above all, Merrick was thankful. Whatever was lacking in his usual vices, simply being here offset the loss. Here, he could take double pleasure in having thwarted his father’s attempt to rein him in and in having minimised his expenses. For the next two weeks he was free.

All he had to do was please the ladies in attendance. If that pleasing occurred outside the bedroom door, that was a small price to pay. To date, Merrick had done an admirable job of fulfilling his obligations. He’d made himself available to all the ladies present, from elderly Mrs Pottinger to shy young Viola Fleetham. The only lady he’d been unable to charm was the elusive Alixe Burke, whom he had only caught glimpses of since the first evening. It was too bad, really; he enjoyed needling her just to hear what she’d say.

‘St Magnus, tell us about some of your scandals in London,’ one of the younger fellows present piped up. ‘I hear you had quite the curricle race recently.’

‘I hear you nearly had carnal knowledge of both Greenfield Twins at the same time,’ another rash young pup put in. ‘Tell us about that.’

‘That’s nothing, laddies, compared to his escapade on the way here,’ Riordan drawled, swigging heavily from the ever-present flask. Riordan had drunk far too much for Merrick’s tastes since they’d arrived, but saying anything about it made him sound like a prude so he’d refrained. ‘Tell ‘em about the pond.’

Merrick shot Riordan a quelling look. The man was worse than an old biddy. The last thing Merrick wanted to do was talk about the pond. ‘That’s hardly anything, nothing happened,’ Merrick tried to pass it off.

‘It’s hilarious,’ Riordan protested. ‘Never mind, if you won’t tell it, I will.’ He recognised he had the audience hanging on his every word. Riordan leaned forwards hands on thighs. ‘We stopped by a pond for a bit of a bathe before we arrived.’

‘Which pond?’ one asked before another punched him in the shoulder for being a dolt.

‘The one on the edge of the property, near Richland’s farm.’ Riordan said, idly picking up the story again. ‘Anyway, where the pond is isn’t the real tale. It’s what happened. There we were, stripped down to nothing and splashing away when all of the sudden this girl comes crashing through the woods.’ Riordan paused and clapped Merrick on the back in male camaraderie. ‘Our man gets out of the pond and startles the poor chit senseless. She’s so overwhelmed by the sight of his pizzle she falls over a log and can’t get up, so this good chap here offers to help her up. Mind you, he’s naked as a newborn babe the whole time and there’s more dangling over her than just his hand.’

There was a general uproar of laughter around him, a few of them slapping him on the back with comments like, ‘St Magnus, you’re the luckiest devil ever, women literally fall over themselves to get to you.’ Merrick tried to laugh good naturedly with them. Normally, he would have laughed the loudest. Riordan was a great storyteller—he’d turned the escapade into the stuff of legends. But knowing the girl in question was Jamie’s sister gave the tale a dangerous edge.

Women did fall over themselves for him and what he offered, but they were women who could afford the luxury. The Greenfield Twins were courtesans, for heaven’s sake. That was the kind of woman he dabbled with. They were like him. He never trifled with women who couldn’t afford to play his games, never made them the butt of his wagers. No one suffered for his entertainments. The Greenfield Twins had wanted him to take them both. But Alixe Burke had wanted no part of what had happened at the pond. His code of ethics demanded he protect her. That was where he differed from his father. The innocent deserved protection when their paths crossed with those more worldly.

‘It’s easy to seduce the willing,’ came the words from a handsome but sly-eyed fellow lounging on the group’s periphery. Redfield was his name. Merrick didn’t care for him. He was always watching people. ‘Why don’t we have you prove your reputation? We’ll design a wager for you.’

Merrick raised his eyebrows at that. What in the world could these young rascals design that would actually stump him?

‘We should all get to wager on it. I’ll bet on St Magnus to do just about anything. I’m in.’ Ashe withdrew a money clip from a waistcoat pocket and laid its contents on the table. ‘Shall we split the winnings, old chap?’ Ashe winked at him.

Merrick appreciated the show of support, but not the mounting pressure. Ashe’s finances were no more stable than his own. If Ashe was in, there’d be no backing out. He couldn’t let his friend down. To be fair, Merrick didn’t want to back out. The money accumulating on the table was no small sum. He couldn’t win that sum at the genteel wagers made at cards in the next two weeks. Yet, a very small piece of his conscience niggled him to be cautious.

Merrick drew a deep breath and fixed the young cockerel with a confident stare. ‘What shall you dare me to do?’

‘Well, since the party is so “virtuous” in your own words, I think you should steal a kiss before sunrise.’

‘You can kiss me right now, St Magnus, and we’ll claim victory before midnight,’ Ashe quipped drily from his corner.

‘Rule number one, you must steal a kiss from a lady,’ Redfield qualified. ‘That means no going belowstairs to wake the maids, that’s too easy.’ Redfield looked like the sort who would know; probably spent too much time chasing the maids since he couldn’t catch anyone else. Everyone knew the maids were somewhat obliged to endure such advances if they valued their positions. Merrick didn’t respect a man like that.

‘Other rules?’ Merrick enquired coolly. He was already thinking of who’d be most likely to put up with such a dare. The attractive Widow Whitely, perhaps.

‘Proof, we must have proof,’ one of Redfield’s chums put in. The wagering had created a clear division between the young bucks and the ‘old regime’.

That was potentially dangerous. ‘No, I draw the line there,’ Merrick spoke up. ‘A token might be recognised, thus incriminating the lady. I won’t be a party to that. You’ll just have to take my word as a gentleman.’ That brought a round of laughter as he expected and Redfield had to relent on that account.

Redfield’s eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Since we must keep the game decent, I say St Magnus must confine his efforts to the library. There will be no roaming of the house or sneaking into bedrooms.’

There went the idea of enticing Widow Whitely. Merrick had the distinct impression she didn’t read much. But neither did he. ‘It’s a little past midnight, I doubt there’s much feminine traffic in the library at this hour.’ Merrick shrugged. ‘What happens if I sit there all night and no one suitable for kissing shows up?’

‘Then no one wins or loses,’ Redfield replied too easily for Merrick’s liking. Redfield thought someone would be there. Merrick could see it in the confident tilt of his head. The man was an ass and a pompous one at that. He was a silly man, too, if this wager was the best he could do for excitement. But Redfield clearly had something planned. Did Redfield think whoever would be in the library would be immune to his charms? Merrick was equally as confident. He had stolen far more than kisses for far less than the money lying there on the billiards table and no one had had any complaints. Whatever Redfield had in mind, Merrick wouldn’t know what it was if he didn’t go and find out. With an exaggerated salute to the crowd, Merrick set out for the library.

The library was dark when Merrick arrived. No surprise there. It was late for reading unless someone was having difficulty sleeping. Merrick took his time, lighting a few of the lamps and giving the room some life. It was a well-appointed room with a long reading table that ran down the centre, a green-veined marble fireplace with a cluster of chairs and sofa about it, a few small tables and chairs scattered near the wide windows for reading and walls lined with carefully selected books.

Merrick scanned the titles with modest interest. He could see Jamie’s hand in the selection. Jamie had excelled at history while they were at Oxford and his love for the subject was readily evident in the titles on display. For himself, Merrick hadn’t the aptitude for history like Jamie, or Italian music like Ashe or Riordan’s love of Renaissance art. He’d discovered his own niche in languages, a field where he could excel in conversation.

Merrick plucked a book from the shelf at random and settled into a chair near the fireplace to wait. He’d managed to get through the first five pages when the door opened. The newcomer was definitely female, dressed in a plain-blue robe with the hem of a white nightrail peeping beneath it. Her back was to him, showing off a long thick braid of nut-brown hair as she made great effort to quietly shut the door behind her. Whoever she was, she wasn’t supposed to be here or at the very least didn’t want to be discovered here. He couldn’t help her with that. Any moment now she’d turn around and be surprised to see him.

But then she did turn and the surprise was all his. Damn and double damn, the one person who’d come to the library was the one person he hadn’t seen for days: Alixe Burke. Suspicion flicked across his mind for an instant. He’d hardly got settled, hardly begun to read his admittedly boring tome on the history of French kings, and she’d shown up. If he’d stopped along the way, he might have missed his chance altogether. Had Redfield known she’d be here? A simple wager was becoming suddenly more complex.

Merrick grinned. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’

Alixe clutched the neck of her robe closed at the throat out of instinct. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You sound surprised to see me.’ Merrick waved the book he held in one hand. ‘I am reading up on the French kings.’

‘I’m surprised to see anyone in the library after midnight,’ Alixe retorted.

‘And yet you ‘re here,’ he replied glibly, those blue eyes of his studying her with a disquieting intensity that stirred up a warm flurry of butterflies in her stomach. That look made a woman believe he was waiting just for her. Yet, that was improbable. He hadn’t known she’d be here.

‘Why aren’t you playing billiards with the other men?’ She was surprised, disturbed, dismayed. The list of adjectives was quite long. Three days of avoiding him and he’d still managed to turn her thoughts to incoherent mush in a matter of minutes. She needed him to go away.

She’d hoped to make some progress on her latest translation. She’d promised Vicar Daniels she’d have the translation ready for display at the village fair less than two weeks away.

‘I haven’t seen much of you since the party began. I hope you haven’t been avoiding me?’ Merrick said casually. He kicked his booted legs, very long booted legs, up on the fireplace fender, dispelling any hopes that he might vacate the premises soon. Apparently the French kings were more scintillating than she’d thought.

‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’ Alixe said, hoping her lie wouldn’t show.

Merrick shrugged. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I thought perhaps our encounter at the pond had disconcerted you in spite of my assurances.’ He opened his book and returned to his reading.

Dratted man. Why did he have to pick tonight to read? Alixe began to debate the options in her head: stay or go? This was absurd. Conventional wisdom suggested she leave the room immediately. Unmarried women didn’t entertain men in their nightclothes. Unmarried women didn’t entertain naked men at ponds either and she’d already done that. By comparison, this was by far the lesser of those two evils. She should leave.

But her stubborn nature could not tolerate defeat. The thought of departing the field while her work beckoned galled. No man had ever dictated her choices over decisions far bigger than this. She wouldn’t give up ground over something so minor. St Magnus had already cost her an afternoon. She would not let him steal a night, too. There was always a chance she could outlast him.

‘Are you going to come away from the door? You needn’t worry, I’ve seen ball gowns far more revealing than your nightwear.’ He spoke without looking up from his book, but the challenge was clear. He was daring her to stay.

Alixe made a face at the back of his head. She must look like a silly ninny to him, clutching her old robe and hovering at the door. Is that what he saw when he looked at her? A spinster afraid of being in the presence of a dazzlingly handsome man?

Anger flared. That settled it.

She wasn’t a spinster.

She wasn’t afraid.

She also wasn’t leaving.

Alixe stalked towards the long table in the centre of the room and pulled out a chair. She sat down and did her best to get to work. It was clear she’d have to try harder to avoid St Magnus. She had not fought her battles for the freedom to live her own life only to give up those victories to a pair of flirting blue eyes. Still, it was better to know the chinks in one’s own armour before one’s enemy did. She’d recognised that day at the pond St Magnus’s potent appeal and how she’d responded most wantonly. It would not do to keep putting such temptation in her path if it could be avoided.

She’d managed the bucks of the ton, but they didn’t unnerve her the way he did. St Magnus’s witty and overly personal conversation at dinner had made her feel unique, made her feel that she was beautiful enough on her own merits to attract the attentions of a handsome man without her dowry to speak for her. But he was a rake. Nothing good could come from an association with St Magnus. She was smart enough to know that from the start.

Her efforts to work lasted all of five minutes.

‘What are you working on?’

Alixe looked up from her books and papers. He’d turned his head to watch her. ‘I’m translating an old medieval manuscript about the history of Kent.’ That should bore him enough to stop asking questions. ‘The vicar is putting on an historic display about our area at the upcoming fair and this document is supposed to be part of it.’ She put an extra emphasis on ‘supposed’, to imply that interruptions were not welcome. Usually, such a hint did the trick. Usually there was no need to resort to that second level of defence. Men stopped being interested much earlier. The words ‘translating an old medieval manuscript’ were typically enough.

In this case, the effect was quite opposite. St Magnus uncrossed his long legs, set aside the French kings and strode towards the table with something akin to interest in his blue eyes. ‘How’s it going?’

‘How’s what going?’ Alixe clutched at the neck of her robe again out of reflex, her tone sharp.

‘Your translation? I take it the original isn’t in modern English.’ St Magnus gestured towards the papers.

It wasn’t going well at all. The old French was proving to be difficult, especially in places where the manuscript had worn away or been smudged. But she wasn’t going to admit that to this man who played havoc with her senses.

Three days of assiduously avoiding his company had not met with successful results. All her efforts, and he ended up in her—her—library anyway, the one room where she thought she’d be alone. Her avoidance strategies certainly hadn’t dulled her awareness of him either. Even at midnight, he still looked immaculate. His shoulders were just as broad, his legs just as long, his hips just as lean as she remembered them. She knew for a fact that well-hewn muscle lay beneath the layers of his clothes, providing the necessary infrastructure for that most excellent physique. But all that was merely window-dressing for the arresting blue eyes that had a way of looking at one as if they could see right through a person’s exterior, stripping away more than clothes, making one believe she was, for the moment, the centre of his universe.

She had to remind herself that plenty of women had been the centre of his universe. Jamie’s quiet caution ran through her head. St Magnus was a fine friend for a gentleman, but not for the sisters of gentlemen. She had no trouble believing it.

‘Perhaps I can help?’ He settled his long form beside her on the bench.

Alixe’s senses vibrated with warning. She could smell the remnants of his evening toilette before dinner, the scent of his washing soap mingling with a light cologne, a tantalizing mixture of oak and lavender, with something mysterious beneath.

‘I doubt it unless you have some familiarity with Old French.’ She meant to be rude, meant to drive him off with her high-handed manner. How dare he walk into her life unannounced and stir things up? And not even mean to do it. He was a stranger who knew nothing about her. He had no idea of what his mere presence had done. She’d just reached a point where she was happy with her choices, with devoting her life to her work. The very last thing she needed was to convince herself a man of St Magnus’s ilk appreciated her efforts and not her dowry. In the past, that road had been extremely dangerous, not to mention disappointing, to travel.

St Magnus’s next words stunned her. ‘It just so happens that I have more than a passing acquaintance with Old French.’

This flaxen-haired charmer with azure eyes was conversant in an obscure language? What he did next was even more astonishing. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He slid closer to her, oblivious to their thighs bumping beneath the table. She wasn’t oblivious, however. Every nerve in her body was acutely aware of each move he made.

‘The document isn’t that exciting.’ Alixe tried one last time to turn him away. ‘It’s just a farmer who writes about his livestock. He’s especially obsessed with his pigs.’

Merrick tilted his head and studied her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Just a farmer who writes? In this case, it’s not what he writes about that is important, it’s that he writes at all.’

The import of it struck her with a shocking clarity. In her hurry to translate the document she’d forgotten to look beyond the words on the page and into the context of the times in which it had been written. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘A farmer who is literate most likely isn’t only a farmer or a tenant renting fields, he’s probably of some status in the community.’

Merrick smiled. It was a different smile this time, one full of enthusiasm. ‘What’s the date of the document?’

‘My guess is mid-thirteenth century, about 1230.’

‘Post-Magna Carta,’ Merrick mused more to himself than to her. ‘Perhaps he is a self-made man, an early instance of the gentry class, not a noble or beholden directly to a king, but a man who has determined his own worth.’ He sounded almost wistful as he voiced his thoughts.

‘In pigs.’ Alixe smiled. ‘Don’t forget the pigs.’

Merrick chuckled. ‘Show me the pigs. After all your mentions of them, I want to read about them for myself.’

Alixe passed him the pages on the pigs and he fell to reading them with surprising thoroughness, one long finger moving across the lines one word at a time, his eyes following. Within moments, he was completely absorbed in the reading and Alixe turned her thoughts to the pages in front of her, aware in the back of her mind that something astounding had occurred: she was working on her translation with Merrick St Magnus, London’s most talked-about male. More than that, he’d shown himself to be more than a handsome face. He’d been interested, intelligent and insightful. Amazing.

Truly, it was nothing short of miraculous. No one would believe her if she told them. She was starting to see why a friendship had sprung up between Merrick and Jamie at school. Like her, Jamie loved history and Merrick understood its sociological aspects.

Merrick laughed suddenly, breaking the compatible silence that had sprung up. ‘It’s not his pigs he writes about, Alixe.’ His eyes were dancing with good humour. ‘It’s his wife.’

Alixe furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She reached across him without thinking for the page. ‘There …’ She pointed to a line. ‘That is very clearly the word for pig. More specifically, “sow”.’

Merrick nodded. ‘It is. But you’re forgetting the use of “like”. It’s a simile. I think you were reading it as “she is a big sow”. But we should be reading it as “she’s as big as the sow”.’ Merrick reached around her. ‘Show me the later pages. I want to bear out my hypothesis that his wife is expecting a child in the very near future.’

‘Yes!’ Merrick crowed a few moments later. ‘He’s writing about his wife. Have a look, Alixe.’ He pushed the page towards her and leaned close, one arm on the other side of her to brace himself as they studied the page together.

‘You’re right.’ Alixe enthused, her excitement evident. Her mind rushed forwards. ‘I wonder if there would be parish records. I wonder if we could find him. If we could, we might be able to determine where his land was. We could find out how the story ends, if his baby is born safely.’ Alixe bit her lip, realising what she’d done. She’d said ‘we’. ‘I’m sorry, I’m getting carried away. We’ll probably never know what happened to him.’

Merrick smiled. ‘Maybe we will. I’ll be here for two weeks. Surely that’s enough time to puzzle out how your farmer’s story ends.’ For all purposes, he looked as if he was genuinely enjoying himself. He looked as if he wanted to be here with her instead of downstairs playing billiards.

Alixe looked down at her hands, regretting some of her earlier thoughts about him. ‘I must apologise. I didn’t think it could be like this.’

He covered her hands with one of his own where they lay on the table. It was a gentle gesture and his hands were warm and firm. She didn’t think it was meant to be a seductive gesture, but that didn’t stop a frisson of warm heat from shooting through her arm at the contact.

‘It or me? You didn’t think it could be like this or that I couldn’t be like this?’ Merrick spoke in low tones, his gaze holding hers.

‘You,’ Alixe replied honestly, meeting his gaze. ‘I didn’t think you could be like this. I misjudged you.’

‘I’m glad to have surprised you,’ Merrick said softly, his voice igniting the tiny space between them with a sharp awareness of one another. Their eyes held and in the cocoon of the moment the briefest of thoughts occurred to Alixe: he’s going to kiss me.

That was exactly the same idea voiced seconds later when Archibald Redfield burst into the library with an angry, newly awoken Earl of Folkestone in his wake, still belting his robe and all but bellowing the traditional words of horrified fathers everywhere when discovering their daughters in compromising situations. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

To which Alixe managed the most unoriginal of answers, ‘It’s not what it looks like.’ But she knew what it looked like—Merrick sitting so very close to her, his sleeves rolled up, and she in her nightclothes.

To which Archibald Redfield countered unhelpfully with an arrogant smirk, ‘It’s precisely what it looks like. St Magnus wagered several gentlemen in the billiards room not an hour ago that he’d steal a kiss from a lady before the night was out’, then went on to add as if it would improve matters, ‘I have witnesses.’

Alixe groaned. He’d bet on stealing a kiss. She should have left the room when common sense had demanded it.

‘No, no witnesses, please.’ Her father held up the hand of authority. He had his robe belted now and was in full command of the situation. ‘We are all men of honour here,’ He looked pointedly at St Magnus as he said it. ‘We can sort this out and do what must be done in a quiet manner. There is no need to make an unnecessary fuss.’

Alixe had never seen her father so angry. No one else would guess the depths of his anger. He was one of those men whose voice became more controlled when angered. Then he spared a glance for her, taking in her completely inappropriate attire. There was more than anger in his gaze. There was disappointment, which was worse. She’d seen it before when he looked at her. It seemed she’d spent an inordinate amount of her life disappointing him. But this time would be the last time. She could see in his face he’d decided it would be so and that frightened her very much.

Her father jerked his head at her with a dismissing nod. ‘Go to your room and stay there. We’ll speak in the morning. As for you, St Magnus, I’ll settle with you right now. Put your jacket on and make yourself presentable.’

Alixe shot a parting glance at St Magnus, although what help she thought she’d find there she didn’t know. He’d never been truly interested in her or her work. She’d merely been his most convenient target. He would have kissed whoever walked into the library. He had no reason to help her and, right now, he’d be more worried about trying to help himself.

St Magnus had risen, arms folded, eyes narrowed and burning like hot blue coals. He was a formidable sight, but he spared not a glance for her departing form, she noted. All his attention was directed at Archibald Redfield.