Читать книгу The Property of a Gentleman - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 8

L ater, feeling drained of all emotion and extremely tired, Eve sought the sanctuary of her room, curling up in the large winged chair by the fire and closing her eyes, unable to cast Marcus Fitzalan from her mind. Falling into a fitful doze, she found her mind drifting back over the years to the time of Atwood Fair, when she had been seventeen years old, amazed that she should remember every detail and all the words he had said to her, which, because of the humiliation it never failed to evoke, she always refused to do.

She remembered that it had all begun as a silly, girlish prank on the day of the fair—although it could be said that the nature of the prank was not the kind any respectable, well brought-up young lady would have indulged in.

Knowing how much the townspeople looked forward to seeing them, normally her parents showed their faces for just a little while, allowing Eve to accompany them, but this time her mother was not feeling well so was unable to attend. However, knowing how much Eve loved the fair and not wishing to disappoint her, she allowed her to go in the company of Mrs Parkinson, a good friend and the wife of a reputable local squire, whose own daughter Emma was Eve’s closest friend. She was confident that she would be well chaperoned and that Mrs Parkinson would see that she did not get up to any mischief.

Atwood Fair was a tremendous social event and the highlight of the year, when the close-knit families of Atwood and the surrounding countryside came together to enjoy and revel in the two days of festivities. It was also of economic importance, for livestock and farm produce were brought in from nearby farms and villages to be sold. Drovers also brought in flocks of sheep and cattle from considerable distances, and wandering gypsies came in gaily painted caravans, positioning them in fields adjacent to the fairground.

There was always so much variety, with so many delightful attractions such as puppet shows, waxworks, shooting galleries and bowling, but also what Eve considered the less attractive events, such as bear baitings, cockfights and prize fights, which always attracted large crowds but which she never went near, finding such spectacles quite revolting.

Traders and merchants had set up stalls to try to tempt visitors to part with their money, and children romped about while lovers strolled hand in hand among the many colourful booths. The appetising aroma of cooking food filled the air, and Eve’s father always donated an ox to be roasted on a spit above an open fire, the fat sizzling noisily as it dripped into the hot charcoal embers.

It was mid-afternoon when Eve arrived with her friends Emma Parkinson and Angela Lambert. Eve and Emma were friends of long standing, but she had never got on really well with Angela, who rarely lost an opportunity to embarrass her. She was single minded and forever in pursuit of her own interests. Normally Eve would ignore her, although it did not occur to her that Angela might be jealous of her family’s wealth and superior standing in the district, and envious of her popularity with the local young men, selfishly wanting all their attention focused on herself.

Angela and Emma were so very different. Emma was as slender as a wand and had nut-brown hair with eyes to match, and while she was of a gentle disposition with a placid indolence, Angela, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, was quite the opposite, being rather voluptuous, lively and full of energies she found hard to repress. There was also a jealous, malicious streak to her nature that often challenged Eve’s own.

Sitting on the grass on the edge of the crowd beneath a warm July sun—where they were being watched over by a sharp-eyed Mrs Parkinson as she conversed with a group of ladies—they were discussing Eve’s imminent betrothal to Leslie Stephenson, the good-looking eldest son of a baronet who lived in the area, who had taken little persuading to come to the fair, although he had soon taken himself off to watch the wrestling and boxing matches in progress.

Leslie seemed to find Eve quite enchanting and she couldn’t believe her good fortune that she had made such a conquest, although he did seem to be taking an awfully long time in applying to her father for her hand in marriage, which was secretly beginning to worry and vex her.

Eve and Emma sat listening as Angela enthused at length about a young man from her home town of Little Bolton, which was situated halfway between Atwood and Netherley. She considered herself an authority on everything—especially men, positively thriving on their attentions; she was already an expert at knowing how to attract them.

‘There are more important things in life,’ Eve commented, bored by the fervour with which Angela insisted they know all about a young man they had not met.

Angela scowled crossly. ‘You can say that when you’re almost betrothed to one of the most eligible men in the north, Eve,’ she said, reaching into a box of bonbons Leslie had brought them before disappearing.

‘And you will find as big a catch one day, Angela. Men flock round you in droves. You know how to flirt, how to say what pleases them. You’ll soon have yourself a husband—although if you carry on eating those bonbons like that you’ll become so plump you’ll put them off,’ she said as Angela popped another into her mouth. She watched as Angela’s soft pink lips closed around the sugary sweet, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about the way Angela always attached herself to Leslie, who, to her anger and dismay, seemed flattered by it and not to mind in the slightest.

‘If he’s half as rich and good looking as Leslie, then I’ll be well satisfied,’ Angela replied, softly and serenely, licking each sticky finger, her mouth as pink as a rosebud and her eyes lighting with sudden interest when they came to rest on a man riding by on a powerfully built chestnut stallion, the man in the saddle exuding virility and a lazy confidence.

His head was bare, the sunlight shining on his hair, which was as black as ebony, his body in complete proportion as he moved as one with his horse. His shoulders and hips were firm, his booted legs long and his thighs powerful as they gripped his horse.

‘Good Lord,’ gasped Angela, agog with excitement. ‘It’s Marcus Fitzalan.’

As he rode past Angela and Emma stole long, lingering looks at him—but not so much Eve, who remained unimpressed. He was well-known and people moved out of the way to let him pass. Eve merely glanced at him with idle curiosity, because although they had never met—she had caught only a brief glimpse of him when he had called at Burntwood Hall once—she knew him to be a business associate and close friend of her father’s.

He seemed oblivious to the mayhem he caused within the breasts of two of the young ladies, his mind being on other things, but on hearing Angela’s unrestrained girlish giggles he condescended to look their way. The blast from his eyes acted like a douche of cold air as they swept over the group with little interest.

‘Goodness! What a handsome man,’ Emma exclaimed, sighing ecstatically as her eyes followed the delectable Mr Fitzalan, watching him become swallowed up by the crowd.

‘And he knows it,’ said Angela.

‘I wonder what he’s doing here.’

Eve shrugged. ‘I really do not care,’ she said, trying to sound indifferent, although the wave of excitement that had swept over her when she had watched him ride by told her she was not as indifferent to his masculine allure as she appeared.

‘I wonder if he’s staying for the dancing later,’ said Emma.

‘Maybe he will—although I’m sure he won’t dance,’ said Eve. ‘He’s far too superior—and I’m sure he wouldn’t be seen dead dancing with any of the local girls.’

Angela’s eyes narrowed, suddenly filling with mischief as an outlandish scheme came to mind. ‘But we’re not local girls, are we? At least not in the sense you mean, Eve—and I think we should have some fun with Mr Fitzalan—see if we can’t melt that ice-sculptured exterior he’s so fond of portraying to the world.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That one of us should ask him to dance.’

‘Angela! That’s quite outrageous,’ gasped Emma.

‘Yes—but it’s fun—and I think it should be you, Eve,’ she said decisively, her eyes coming to rest with a sly, faint challenge on her friend.

Eve sat up with a jolt and stared at her in disbelief. Normally nothing Angela suggested either shocked or amazed her, but this was something quite outrageous—even by Angela’s standards.

‘Oh, no. I couldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘What you suggest is preposterous, Angela—and besides, if I am to dance at all—should Mrs Parkinson permit it—then I shall be dancing with Leslie.’

‘That’s if Leslie feels inclined to dance,’ Angela commented flatly, piqued. On seeing Eve shoot her a cross look she sighed, not to be deterred. ‘Oh, Eve—think about it. Leslie has paid you such scant attention today that I shall be surprised if he finds the time to seek you out at all—and he seems to be in no hurry to approach your father to ask his permission to marry you. He’s been dithering for weeks and you know it.’

‘That’s not true, Angela,’ Eve replied hotly, hating it when Angela took her to task over anything, but she could not deny that what she said was true. The manner in which he was dragging his feet in making any kind of commitment to her was being noticed by everyone.

‘Just think, Eve,’ Angela went on, smiling with enthusiasm, her eyes regarding her sardonically, ‘if he sees a man of Mr Fitzalan’s distinction paying you particular attention by asking you to dance, it’s bound to make him jealous and increase his intention to marry you.’

‘But if I am to do as you say, it will be me asking Mr Fitzalan to dance, not the other way round,’ she said drily.

‘Nevertheless, it could be just what Leslie needs to sharpen him up a bit. Mark my words, if he thinks Marcus Fitzalan is interested in you he’ll insist on seeking your father out immediately to ask for your hand in marriage.’

Eve frowned, uncertain. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course he will.’

‘But I could just as easily make him jealous by dancing with someone else. It doesn’t have to be Mr Fitzalan,’ she said, the very thought of approaching the formidable Mr Fitzalan making her stomach churn and her spirits sink.

‘But that wouldn’t have the same effect. Besides, everyone knows what good friends he and your father are. You’re far more likely to succeed with him than Emma or I. Unless, of course, you don’t think you can charm him into dancing with you—or anything else, for that matter,’ she said, in a deceptively casual way, lying back on the grass and closing her eyes with a sigh, giving the impression that she wasn’t really interested one way or the other.

But Eve was not deceived. The challenge had been tossed down and unless she wanted to look a fool she had no alternative but to take her up on it—but she had the uneasy sensation of being the victim of some secret plot. Goaded into action, she was determined to prove Angela wrong.

When a group of fiddlers started to play and the dancing began, that was the moment when Eve, having escaped the watchful eye of Mrs Parkinson, found herself walking in the direction of Marcus Fitzalan, unaware as she did so of the smug, self-satisfied smile curling Angela’s lips, and the malicious, ruthless gleam in her slanting eyes as she watched her go—like a lamb to the slaughter.

Observing the scene with his brooding gaze, Mr Fitzalan stood where a large crowd of spectators gathered. Dressed all in black, apart from his startlingly white neckcloth, he reminded Eve of a predatory hawk. She stopped short, becoming nervous suddenly, for what had started out as a silly prank no longer seemed like fun and already she was beginning to regret her silly impulse to call Angela’s bluff.

She was tempted to walk past Mr Fitzalan but, aware of Angela’s watchful gaze and the challenge she had thrown down, her pride forbade it, despite being intensely conscious of the impropriety of her actions and that her parents would be furious and deeply shocked if they were to find out.

And so it was that against the dictates of her better judgement she hesitantly stepped into the arena, feeling rather like Daniel stepping into the lions’ den, blessedly unaware as she did so that the situation she was about to get herself into would alter the entire course of her life.

She looked up at Mr Fitzalan with her heart in confusion, gazing into a pair of ice blue eyes, having no idea of the bright-eyed picture she presented to Marcus Fitzalan—a dainty, lovely image of fragility. He observed the healthy glow of her skin, how demure she looked in her high-waisted pale pink sprigged dress with its scoop neck, the delectable mounds of her young breasts peeping tantalisingly over the top.

He had seen her with her friends when he arrived, all of them in high spirits. Taking her for one of the country girls who had come to enjoy the fair—for no properly brought-up young lady would be seen watching what was about to take place—his eyes raked over her.

Eve looked up at him, taking the bull by the horns, for she would have to speak to him now. He would think it odd if she just walked away. ‘Have you only just arrived at the fair, Mr Fitzalan?’ she found herself asking.

He stared down at her in fascination, both repelled by the cool manner in which she had approached him and attracted by her physical beauty.

‘Yes. And you? Are you enjoying the fair?’ he asked politely.

She smiled. ‘Very much, thank you.’

Marcus was the kind of man who understood flirting and always found it distasteful—except when it happened to be from the right woman. But this was not a woman, this was a girl, and if she had not chosen that moment to smile he would have moved on, but it melted his bones to water and he found himself wanting to know more about her and enjoy her company a little longer. He was intrigued. Perhaps a little dalliance wouldn’t go amiss before he had to return to Netherley.

Eve felt herself begin to relax, turning to observe the event that was about to start. ‘What is going to happen?’ she asked innocently.

‘Another prize fight,’ he answered, his attention drawn to a brute of a man with a bare chest and massive shoulders prowling in the ring before them.

Eve paled suddenly when she realised she was close to the ring where pugilists were displaying their skills, accepting bets from amateurs who fancied their chances in fighting them. If she had known this was to be the attraction, she would have waited until Mr Fitzalan had moved away. Her eyes became riveted on the fighter awaiting another challenger. His fists were clenched and bloodied, his last challenger having retired with a broken jaw and bloody nose. He was powerfully built, rippling with muscles, his head covered with black patches to hide his scars.

Eve turned to speak to her companion, about to move further away, but the excited crowd closed in around them, forcing her to remain where she was, the roar that rose from a hundred throats as another challenger stepped into the ring rendering her speechless. She became dismayed and nauseated when she realised she would have to stay and watch the brutal slaughter.

Swallowing hard, she was determined not to waver, remembering Angela would be watching her mercilessly. ‘Oh—on whom do you place your money, Mr Fitzalan?’ she heard herself asking tentatively, wondering if he approved of this crude and violent sport. ‘Will it be the reigning champion, do you think, whose last opponent looks to be in a sorry state,’ she said, indicating the poor man holding his broken jaw and having a wound on his cheek sewn up at the ringside, ‘or the challenger?’

‘Neither. I’m not a gambling man. I would never bet on the obvious for I fear the challenger is destined to be the loser.’

‘I disagree,’ said Eve, studying the man who had stepped into the ring to try his luck. ‘I suspect the challenger is about to make his reputation. The champion is strong and lithe, I grant you, while his opponent is stout and not so great in stature—but he is full of fire which will give him added strength.’

Marcus looked down at her with slight amusement. ‘You speak like an expert. Do you enjoy prize fights?’

‘No,’ she replied, wincing, unable to hide her repugnance as the two men began hitting each other with their bare fists, a man holding a long staff standing by ready to separate them should blood flow. ‘I confess it is the first time I have seen one at close range. It’s horrible.’

‘My feelings entirely. The public taste for violence always appals me. Come, we don’t have to stay and watch two men knock the sense out of each other—if they had any in the first place for believing it wise to indulge in such brutality,’ he said, taking her arm and drawing her back, the crowd parting to let them through. He paused where his horse was tethered to a tree, beginning to loosen the reins.

Free of the constriction of the crowd, Eve breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. I don’t believe I could have watched them fight to the bitter end. What a magnificent horse,’ she said, her attention caught as always when she recognised good horseflesh, reaching up to slide her hand along its silken neck.

‘Yes. He’s very special. You like horses?’

She nodded, about to tell him her father had a stable full of superb horseflesh, but thought better of it. Better that he didn’t know who she was. She became alarmed when she suspected he was about to leave.

‘You—you’re not leaving?’

‘I must. It’s a long ride back to Netherley.’

Panic washed over her as she turned briefly, seeing Angela with a smug expression on her face, watching her like a cat watches a mouse, reminding her what it was she had to do. ‘Oh—but—but I…’ she faltered, acutely embarrassed and unable to go on.

Marcus raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for her to continue, enjoying her confusion.

Eve looked towards the fiddlers and the laughing, dancing swirl of people, acutely conscience of Angela’s challenge and knowing she would have to ask him now. ‘I—I—thought you might like to dance.’

Unable to believe that she had said those words she watched him, unconscious that she was holding her breath or that her eyes were wide open as she waited expectantly for him to reply, seeing neither shock nor surprise register on his carefully schooled features at her bold request.

‘No.’

‘Oh—I see.’

Eve stepped back, ashamed and filled with mortification by his blunt rebuff, wanting to extricate herself from the awful embarrassment of the predicament she had created in the first place as quickly as possible, but she felt a stab of anger that he could have been so rude as to refuse her in such a brusque manner, and a dull ache of disappointment in her chest that Angela would crow with delight at her inability to tempt the high and mighty Mr Fitzalan to dance with her. Making a conscious effort to escape from the situation with as much dignity as she could muster, she stepped away from him.

‘Very well, Mr Fitzalan. Since you seem averse to my company I will bid you good day. Please forgive me for troubling you.’

Marcus’s hand shot out and gripped her arm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her friends not twenty yards away watching expectantly, giggling and nudging each other in anticipation of what might happen next. His eyes narrowed and he nodded slightly, looking down at his delightful companion whose face was flushed with indignation.

He was no fool. He knew exactly what she was up to. For some reason known only to her and her friends she was playing some kind of game. He smiled slightly with bland amusement, determined to give little Miss Whoever-she-was a shade more than she had bargained for. But not here—he had no mind to be watched by two giggling girls.

‘I did not say that. On the contrary, I find your presence pleasing. Come—it’s just that I am not inclined to dance, I never do at these occasions. But perhaps you will take a walk with me along the path by the river?’

Eve stared at him, feeling her heart turn over at his unexpected request. His voice was incredibly seductive, his eyes smiling and compelling her to say yes. She felt a warmth creeping throughout her body which made her doubt her earlier conviction that she was not attracted by him. How could she not be when he looked at her like this? She was confused, the situation having become one she had not anticipated—one she was unsure how to deal with, not being experienced or worldly enough to grasp the type of man Marcus Fitzalan was.

‘Why—I—I shouldn’t—I…’

He smiled invitingly, his voice low and persuasive. ‘Come—you must say yes. It’s rather like the enticer becoming the enticed, is it not?’ he said softly, lifting a knowing eyebrow.

Eve expelled her breath in a rush, her eyes registering shock, horror and disbelief, for his look told her that he knew exactly what she had been about. ‘Oh—I wasn’t—I mean—’

He laughed softly, his teeth gleaming white from between his parted lips. ‘Does it matter?’ and he sensed victory when she began to follow him as he led his horse along the path by the side of the river, long before she realised she had been defeated.

The fact that Eve’s absence might have been noted by Mrs Parkinson, and that Leslie had returned to the group, was the last thing on her mind just then. As they walked the sun, warm and benign to lovers—and yet they weren’t lovers—slanted through the trees that lined the river bank, showing them the way as Marcus drew her farther and farther away from her friends. The air was warm and sultry, with tiny insects darting along the surface of the water, the sound of revelry and music growing ever fainter.

They talked of inconsequential things, of Atwood and the people who lived there, until Eve realised how far they had walked and began to panic. Her behaviour was completely irrational and she wondered what her parents would say if they were to find out about this. Their code of behaviour was strict and must be adhered to. She should not be alone with a man who was not her betrothed—and certainly not walking alone along a river bank, half-hidden from everyone by a curtain of trees.

They paused and Marcus let go of the reins to allow his horse to drink from the river. Leaning negligently against a tree he folded his arms across his chest, watching Eve in speculative silence through narrowed eyes. He had removed his coat and loosened his neck cloth, and beneath the soft linen shirt his muscles flexed with any slight movement he made. He exuded a brute strength and posed with leashed sensuality, a hard set to his jaw and a cynicism in his ice-cold eyes. But then he smiled, lazily and devastatingly, his teeth as white as his neckcloth.

The breeze blew Eve’s hair across her face and she reached up and absently drew it back, combing her fingers through it and sweeping it behind her ears, unconscious of how seductive the gesture was to Marcus. He stood absolutely still, watching her with a look that was possessive, and, looking at him, something in his expression made Eve flush and catch her breath, dropping her arm self-consciously. The moment was intimate, warm and vibrantly alive. His vitality at such close quarters alarmed her.

‘I—I must go back,’ she said, thrown into sudden panic, biting her lip nervously and keeping her face averted from his. She wanted to escape, to run away, and yet, at the same time, she could not move. ‘My friends will be wondering what has become of me.’

Marcus reached out and placed his fingers under her chin and turned it round to face him.

‘Look at me.’

She glanced up at him, breathing rapidly from between parted lips so moist, so soft, her wonderful liquid eyes wide and luminous, her small breasts thrusting against the bodice of her dress. She was the perfect picture of alluring innocence, but Marcus was not to be deceived. To a lustful man those magnificent eyes were proving to be far too alluring and inviting.

‘You know it’s wrong to be alone with me—that no decent young lady would dream of taking a walk with a total stranger. What makes you think you are safe?’

Eve flushed, her glorious violet eyes mist bright, knowing that now was the time she should tell him who she was, that she had never intended things to go this far, but somehow she couldn’t. She found his presence vaguely threatening and just hoped he would allow her to leave and return to the others, and in so doing forget all about her. But his eyes had taken on a whole new look, one she neither recognised nor understood, one which seemed to scorch her with the intensity of his passion, making her wonder if she was strong enough to withstand him. They burned into her, stopping all motion.

‘Clearly I am not one of the decent, well-bred young ladies you are acquainted with,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘You already know by my forward behaviour when I asked you to dance that my knowledge of protocol is negligible. I—I assumed that because of who you are—your elevated position— I would be safe. This has all been a terrible mistake,’ she said lamely, alarm bells beginning to scream through her head. ‘I—I must return to my friends. I should never have come. I—I don’t know why I did.’

Eve watched in wary alarm as Marcus moved closer, driven by an uncontrollable compulsion to possess her, her behaviour from the very start telling him that the last thing she wanted was to return to her friends just yet. ‘Don’t you? You’re here with me because you want to be. You want what I want. Don’t deny it because I will not believe you—and don’t be too eager to run away back to your friends.’

Marcus should have seen the panic in her eyes, heard the slight catch in her voice, but all he could think of was her lips and how soft and inviting they looked. Sweeping the tangle of her hair from her face, he took it firmly in both his hands and lowered his head, feeling an explosion of passion the moment he touched her. His mouth clamped down on hers, snatching her breath from between her lips before she could protest, feeling the blood pounding through his veins with the scorching heat of desire.

Eve was too stunned to do anything except let him kiss her, but when he did not feel her respond he raised his head and frowned, puzzled, slipping his hands about her waist and pulling her close, their bodies touching full length.

‘I want no chaste kiss, lady,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘I think you know how to do better than that.’

His hand slipped behind her neck as again he lowered his head, and with tantalising slowness he caressed her lips with his own before kissing her deeply, surprising, but not shocking her. Naïve and inexperienced, she acted purely on instinct, responding naturally to his tender assault on her lips—and it was not just her lips that began to open and respond, but her whole body as they clung to each other, becoming caught up in a wave of pleasure.

Eve was seduced by his mouth, becoming captive to his touch, his caress and the promise of things to come, secret, mysterious things that set her body trembling. She didn’t know what was happening to her. No one had told her what happened when men and women were intimate together. An inexperienced girl could not have imagined such a kiss. She had never been kissed by a man in her life, and to be kissed like this for the first time was devastating. The feelings he aroused in her, with his lips, his touch, his eyes, were irrational, nameless. But she was not so overcome with passion to know that what she was doing was wrong, very wrong, and she must put an end to it.

‘Please—you must let me go,’ she whispered, her lips against his. ‘You must not do this.’

Marcus seemed not to hear her plea and continued to seek her lips, his inquisitive fingers caressing the soft swell of her breasts. She pushed her hands against his chest and stood back, breathless, gazing up at him in helpless appeal, while wanting what he had to offer with a physical intensity which was like no other need she had ever known or imagined.

‘Please—this is not right—we shouldn’t. If anyone should find out that I’ve been alone with you—the—the proprieties—the conventions…’

Jolted back to his senses, Marcus stared at her. ‘What the devil are you talking about? Why should rules of social etiquette affect you—a doxy?’

Eve’s cheeks burned at the insult. ‘How dare you! I am no doxy.’

‘You gave a pretty good imitation of one.’

‘I am not,’ she flared, trying to still the wild beating of her heart.

‘Then who the devil are you?’

For a brief second Eve considered telling a small lie but thought better of it, knowing she would be found out—besides, she did not tell lies, preferring to tell the truth no matter what the situation. She turned as if to walk away but fury and dread at what she might tell him made him reach out and pull her round to face him. She tried to shrink away, but he held her firmly.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded coldly.

Taking a deep breath, Eve met his gaze squarely, all coquetry gone as her spirit rose to grapple with this unpleasant turn of events. The air between them had become tense and charged with an entirely new kind of emotion.

‘I—I am Eve Somerville,’ she whispered, forcing herself to look directly into his eyes. ‘Sir John Somerville’s daughter.’

Marcus stared down at her as though he had been felled. His jawline tightened, his eyes became steady and glacial, his face going as white as his neck cloth. ‘Dear Lord! What folly is this? Is this true? Are you Eve Somerville?’

She nodded dumbly, lowering her gaze, flinching before the exasperation in his voice and the cold glitter in his ice blue eyes. Never had she felt such humiliation.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded.

Unwillingly Eve raised her head and met his eyes, defiance and perturbation on her face. He glared down at her, embracing her in a look that was ice cold.

‘I never thought to meet Sir John’s daughter in a mad escapade of this kind—but it seems I was wrong. Have you no sense?’ he said, thrusting his face close to hers, the line of his mouth cruel. His hands shot out and clamped down hard on her shoulders and he shook her so forcefully that she thought her head would come off. ‘Can’t you see that it was the height of dangerous folly to embark on such a madcap scheme as this?’ he admonished severely.

‘It was a mistake,’ she said desperately, wishing he would release his vicious hold on her.

‘A mistake of your doing. The responsibility for your being here is your own. What made you seek me out?’ he demanded. ‘Come—don’t keep me in suspense.’ He fumed with growing impatience, thrusting her away from him and raking his hand in sheer frustration through his hair. ‘Why did you not tell me who you were?’

Full of shame and mortification Eve wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Never had she felt so wretched. He watched her with a deadly calm.

‘I—I meant to—but somehow—it—it was a hoax, a charade, that is all—my friends dared me to ask you to dance—’

Marcus looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘A hoax? Do you actually have the impertinence to tell me this was a hoax? My God, are you shameless? Can’t you see? Has it not occurred to you that by your foolishness it is not only your own reputation that might be ruined, but also my own? And you are betrothed, are you not—or about to be—to Leslie Stephenson?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. His face was frightening, but feeling wrath and indignation rising inside her, she tossed back her head and glared at him defiantly.

‘Then let us hope he does not hear of this, otherwise any expectations you might have of him asking for your hand in marriage will have been dashed. Now go home to your mother, Miss Somerville, she must be wondering where you are. If I were your father and I heard of this little episode—and you can be assured he will for I intend seeking him out at once—then you could be sure of a sound thrashing.’

His stern rebuke inflamed a smouldering resentment towards him inside Eve. ‘Then I can only thank God that you are not my father,’ she flared.

‘You may, Miss Somerville. You may. In my opinion you are a self-indulgent, spoiled brat—the type I hold in contempt. You behaved like an accomplished flirt. You didn’t know what you were doing—what you were asking for when you so outrageously made sexual overtures to a gentleman of my years and experience with women. Perhaps you will think twice the next time you want to play games—and I strongly advise you to learn the rules.’

Eve stared at him, her mind trying to adjust to his words. No one had ever spoken to her like this before or insulted her so severely. Fury blazed in his eyes as they locked relentlessly on to hers, but she stood before him, full of youthful courage, spirit and pride. Her mind was no longer in control and she had no idea how adorable she looked with her face flushed with ire and her eyes blazing furiously.

‘And what of your own conduct? You should have known better than to take advantage of me, regardless of who I might be—unless this is how you normally behave,’ she accused him.

‘I never take advantage of defenceless young ladies—but you did not give me the impression of being defenceless. If you, Miss Somerville, are under the impression that you may sport with me in any manner you please, then let me tell you that you do not know me.’

‘And after your insulting attack on my person I have no wish to know you. It would be interesting to know how much of a gentleman you are, Mr Fitzalan—had you not found out in time who I am.’

‘Were I not a gentleman, Miss Somerville, it would not matter a damn who you are. I would behave much worse and take advantage of your delectable charms here and now. And I know by your response that, if I had not released you when I did, with a little gentle persuasion you would have yielded to me completely, flinging all caution to the four winds with no thought of the consequences. Let me tell you that I rarely refuse that which is so flagrantly offered to me, but considering your age and that you are Sir John’s daughter—who, as you know, is an extremely good friend of mine—I must decline your offer.’

Eve was infuriated. ‘Oh—how dare you speak to me like this? I know what you must think—’

‘I don’t think so, lady. If you did you’d turn and run,’ he said with menacing, murderous fury. ‘Now return to your friends before they send out a search party and accuse me of compromising you. Having met you, I cannot think of anything that would upset me more than your father insisting that I do the gentlemanly thing and marry you myself.’