Читать книгу His Lady Mistress - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 12

Three days later Max left the breakfast parlour in a thoroughly disgusted frame of mind. Lord, what on earth possessed him to remain at this house party? If he had to endure much more inane conversation and blatant toadying, he was likely to brain someone. Probably that simpering chit, Celia. Thank God the wench was too self-indulgent to appear for breakfast. No doubt she sipped weak tea off a tray in her bedchamber and made some housemaid’s life a living hell.

Like Selina. He gritted his teeth. He’d not seen her since the night he went to her bedchamber. Plainly she meant her refusal and had taken pains to avoid him. He should forget her, return to town. But the thought of that cur, Godfrey, forcing himself on the girl… Max found his shoulders growing tense and his fists clenching. So he’d put off his departure time and again, telling himself that while he remained she was safe and hoping to see her so that he could ask again, persuade her with a few more gentle kisses. His body ached at the memory of her mouth opening shyly under his, the small, shocked gasp as he tasted her deeply and caressed the tender breasts pressing against him…

He was just as shabby as Mr Faringdon, his conscience informed him. Why shabby? he argued. If Faringdon’s been forcing himself on her and she has nowhere to go, then she might have welcomed the opportunity.

You lousy bastard! his better self protested. What choice has she got?

Oh, rubbish! After all, she’d be far better off, and it’s not as though I’d leave her destitute afterwards. In fact, I could set her up with an annuity. A little something in the three percents to make her independent. She can always say no. It’s not as though I’d force her.

She did say no. His conscience pointed that out with unwonted zeal. It also reminded him of another girl he’d failed to save. Unlike Verity Scott, Selina had had her chance and refused it. There was nothing to hold him here. He’d leave tomorrow. In fact, he’d find Faringdon right now and tell him before going riding.

The day passed wearily for Verity with no prospect of rest until evening. She could only thank God for the house party. At least her tasks were still limited to those away from the family and their guests. And maybe tonight she could hide on her stairs again and watch for a glimpse of Max going past on his way to bed.

That was the only time she permitted herself to see him, the only bright spot in a very bleak outlook. And it gave her more pain than pleasure. The temptation to go to him, accept his offer, tore at her.

She shivered. Better that she told him who she was. He’d never take her then. The temptation would be gone. She didn’t dare. He’d try to force the Faringdons to treat her better. But what could he really do? She was under twenty-one, a pauper, wholly at the command of her legal guardians. He was Blakehurst, society’s darling. The night they had met he had said it was better they did not meet again, that he could offer her nothing.

She had seen him. That was better than nothing. And if he found out the truth she’d be worse off than ever. Aunt Faringdon would see to that.

During the afternoon she was sent to Celia’s bedchamber to do the mending. At least it meant she could sit down. She curled into a tight little ball, shivering despite the warmth of the day, as she stitched at the gown Celia had torn the night before. She wouldn’t mind the mending and other tasks if her aunt and cousins would just treat her like a member of the family, if they had not stolen every vestige of dignity from her, down to her very name.

Did Verity Scott even exist any more? Or had she died years ago and been replaced by the silent, unassuming Selina? She was nineteen, for heaven’s sake, nearly twenty. She’d had more courage at fifteen. Desperately Verity tried to remember the child who had crept out in a blinding downpour to try and give her father’s burial some honour.

Would she dare to do it now? Shame and self-loathing lashed at her. How could she have become so subservient? Grimly, she tied off her thread and snipped it. She had stood up for Sukey. What if she stood up for herself? Now? What if she refused to be Selina any more?

She rose and took the mended gown to the armoire. She had become Selina in order to survive. So she would have to make a decision. Survival, or self-respect.

The next item in her mending pile was a shirt of Godfrey’s. A button had come off. Even after laundering, the shirt still smelt of him, reminding her of what was likely to happen after the conclusion of the house party. Sick fear clenched her stomach. She had thought she had nothing left to lose. Apparently she did: survival, or self-respect. She doubted that she could have both.

Celia came up to change for dinner in a foul temper and Verity learned that Lord Blakehurst had disappeared straight after breakfast and gone riding all day. By himself. Again.

Stepping out of her afternoon gown, Celia sat down at her dressing table in her chemise and petticoat and said, ‘He was at breakfast, they told me, and then he simply vanished. Oh, and Mama is furious.’ She turned to Verity with a sneer and said, ‘Something to do with you, I believe. You’re for it when she comes up. She said you had tried to intrigue Lord Blakehurst.’

Fingers suddenly numb, Verity dropped the slipper she had just picked up. Someone had seen them.

‘Imagine,’ continued Celia, ‘you! Attempting to intrigue a connoisseur like Blakehurst! They say all his mistresses are stunningly beautiful and that he flaunts them all over London. But it is all of a piece, I dare say. Obviously cowardice runs in your family and now you have attempted to become a whore.’

Beyond the churning fear something stirred deep inside Verity. Something that had stayed chained for years.

Celia pouted at her reflection and caught up a handful of hair, twisting it this way and that. ‘I think I shall have a new coiffure tonight. I’m so bored with my old one. See to it, girl.’

Verity’s self-control shattered into a thousand gleaming, deadly fragments and her temper stepped free. ‘Certainly, cousin,’ she said, sweeping up the sewing scissors on her way to the dressing table. ‘How about this?’ She snatched up a section of hair and slashed with the scissors. ‘And this!’ Another bunch of curls joined their fellows on the floor.

Celia’s shrieks and screams, as she clutched the shorn patches by her left temple and ear, had their inevitable aftermath.

Verity turned calmly enough as Lady Faringdon rushed in. Her ladyship took one look at the ruin of Celia’s hair and rounded on her niece. ‘Get out,’ she shouted. ‘Return to your room. I’ll see to you in the morning, after I bid farewell to Lord Blakehurst.’

Verity drew in a horrified breath which her aunt observed.

‘Yes, that’s right. He’s leaving. Did you think that you had caught his attention? No doubt your attempt to insinuate yourself into his notice has disgusted him. Now go!’

Refusing to be cowed, Verity said cheerfully, ‘Goodnight, Aunt, Cousin. I dare say one of the maids can brush your hair before bed, now that I’ve lightened the task for her. Enjoy your evening.’

Tearing herself from her mama’s enveloping bosom, Celia leapt at her with a shriek of rage, but Verity stood her ground with a little smile and lifted the scissors again. ‘Do you want me to even it up a trifle, Celia?’

Celia shrank back. ‘Mama! She threatened me!’

‘Yes, well,’ said Verity, ‘after all, what else could you expect of a coward and a whore?’ She dropped the scissors and stalked out, slamming the door.

She barely remembered reaching her chamber. Vaguely she noticed several guests appear from their rooms, excitedly wondering what all the commotion was about. One or two even asked if she knew, but she was too shocked at the enormity of what she had done to respond.

Eventually she lay on her narrow bed, staring into the darkness, trying to hold back despair. There was no time to think of a plan for escape, or try to find a position. She had to leave. At once. She’d burned an entire armada of boats to the waterline.

But, oh! It had been worth it to see the look on Celia’s face! Despite her fear, she giggled. And Aunt’s face! As though the silent, cowed poor relation had suddenly gone mad.

Enough. Now she had to think what to do. Shivering, she faced the truth. If she remained, she was ruined. After this, her aunt would look the other way while Godfrey debauched her. If she left and sought shelter in the workhouse, it would only be a matter of time before some other man took her.

A whore.

Whichever way she turned, she was trapped. Unless…unless she accepted Lord Blakehurst’s offer. She couldn’t! She didn’t dare…did she? Carefully she thought it over. If she took some precautions, misled him a little about her intentions, he would never realise who she was. If he took her, she would be free. Even if they realised who she had gone to, they wouldn’t dare take her back, because to do so they would have to admit who she was. The risk of scandal would be too great.

She would have to remain Selina Dering. With a queer sense of foreboding, she realised that, to all intents and purposes, Verity would cease to exist. There would be only Selina. Max must never know the truth. Any of it.

Straight after dinner Max excused himself, muttered something about an early start and went up to his room. Not even the prospect of finding out what had caused the explosion of feminine hysteria shortly before dinner tempted him to remain for longer than was absolutely required by the dictates of courtesy.

That Celia Faringdon had been at the centre of the outburst was evidenced by the fact that she had not appeared at dinner. Lady Faringdon’s explanation of a sensitive and easily cast-down temperament, Max translated as spoiled brat who didn’t get her own way over something trivial.

Once in his room, he rang the bell and when Harding arrived, said, ‘We’ll leave first thing. Have you packed?’

Harding nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Everything’s ready. Will there be aught else tonight?’

Max shook his head, and then reconsidered. ‘On second thoughts, send up a bottle of brandy, and then get an early night.’

Harding hesitated. ‘Brandy, sir? You’ll have a devilish head in the morning.’

Earl Blakehurst raised his brows. ‘I beg your pardon, Sergeant?’

Holding his ground gallantly, Harding repeated, ‘You’ll have a devilish head, sir. The brandy’s damned awful!’

Max managed a disclipinary sort of stare. ‘In which case you have my full permission to say “I told you so” and gloat. Just do it.’

‘Yes, sir. One hangover coming up, sir.’

Max’s mouth twitched. ‘Impudent dog! God knows why I bear with you!’

Harding grinned. ‘Probably, sir. Omniscient, isn’t He?’

Max burst out laughing and sat down on the bed to pull his shoes off.

‘Sir?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Dessay it’s not my place to ask, but did you hear anything about the Colonel’s lass?’

The laughter drained away. ‘I’m sorry, Harding, I should have told you,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s dead. Faringdon hinted that she took her own life. I was too late. Again.’

Harding blanched. ‘Oh, Gawd! I’m that sorry, sir.’

‘So am I. Goodnight.’

When the brandy came Max uncorked it and faced his failure. Five years. Why the hell had he left it so long to assure himself of Verity Scott’s well being? Not knowing the Faringdons beyond a nodding acquaintance, he’d assumed that they would take care of Verity, that she would be safe with them. Damn it, he’d been relieved when he discovered that her relations were wealthy.

Not until Lady Faringdon came to the fore this past spring in launching the fair Celia had he begun to wonder.

His fingers tightened on the wine glass and he took a large swallow, feeling the brandy burn its way down. He had thought that the child was better off not being reminded of that ghastly burial, that he should leave her to recover in the care of her family. He hadn’t even worried when they didn’t bring her up to London for a Season. After all, launching a girl was an expensive business and Verity, as far as he knew, was destitute. All her father’s property had been sequestered. They might have provided for her much less expensively.

But closer acquaintance with Lady Faringdon had all his instincts on point. This was not a woman to whom he would have consigned a dog with a thorn in its paw, let alone the shattered, grieving orphan of a suicide.

He piled up his pillows and, sitting back, linked his arms behind his head to stare up into the shadowed canopy of his bed. Too late. Just as he had been too late for the man who had saved his life at the ultimate cost of his own.

William Scott had deflected the sabre that should have killed or maimed him. It had been William Scott whose wound had festered and turned gangrenous. It had been William Scott whose arm had been amputated in a stinking field hospital after Waterloo. And William Scott who had eventually sunk into despair and destroyed himself.

Bitterly he took another swallow of brandy. He should have visited soon after Verity came to live here. Or written to her. Then she might have known that she had one friend who cared for her and remembered her father with gratitude rather than shame. It might have made the Faringdons look after her.

He shuddered, forcing the ghosts away. He could do nothing for them now. They were both at peace. Tomorrow night he would be back in London. Hopefully his twin, Richard, would have returned to town and he could wash the bitterness of failure from his heart. Better to turn his mind to the living and keep on drinking to banish tonight’s ghosts. A hangover in the morning was a fair price for that.

About halfway down the bottle an image of Selina flashed into his mind. She had refused him. Twice. There was nothing more he could do for her. He clenched his fists. No doubt if she had to contend with young Faringdon’s attentions whenever the distempered cub chose to grace his ancestral seat, then she had good reason to fear what a man might do to her.

Lord, but she’d be sweet though. Those great dark eyes and dusky curls. Her slender figure would be all delicate curves when she filled out a trifle. She had spirit, too. He grinned, remembering the yell of pain from Faringdon, just before Selina had tumbled out of the stairwell—and the marks on his face. Faringdon had endured any number of witty remarks about wildcats the next morning. And she had defended that maidservant.

All of which would go hard against her when he left. Max lifted the glass to his lips and swore again when he found it empty. He reached for the bottle and carefully poured another tot. And another.

Selina had refused his offer. There was not much he could do for the poor girl, unless… Unless he could persuade his Aunt Almeria, Lady Arnsworth, that she needed a companion. That Miss Selina Dering would fit the bill admirably. He could go up to her room now and suggest it to Selina. Give her his direction in town and some money for the fare. Almeria would have her if he offered to frank, say, her box at the opera.

Contemplating the level in the brandy bottle, he hesitated. Perhaps he ought to leave it until morning. Business matters were best undertaken with a clear head. And he had a horrible feeling that he had reached the limits of his control on his previous visit to her bedchamber. It had been damn near impossible to release her then. Now…his whole body hardened, just thinking about the sweetness of her response, the way her body had melted in his arms. If he went now, he’d probably find himself attempting to seduce her into accepting his original offer.

She refused you.

He was still battling with his conscience when he heard a soft tapping on his door. Frowning, he fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and stared at it in disbelief. Who the devil would come visiting past midnight? Mentally he ran over the list of guests, wondering which of the bolder married ladies might have decided to live dangerously.