Читать книгу One Night with a Regency Lord: Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady / The Return of Lord Conistone - Isabelle Goddard - Страница 11

She stirred restlessly as the bedroom door shut. There was a thin streak of daylight showing between the badly hung curtain and the window sill, but otherwise the attic room remained dark. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read the battered clock face on the table beside her and saw that it was only five-thirty. She must have been woken by the maid, leaving for her unenviable duties downstairs. She supposed she ought to rise herself and be on the road to Wroxall as early as possible. There’d be no way of getting to the town at this time of day other than by walking and it would take many hours. She’d have to beg a strong pair of shoes from Betsy.

She tried to work out what time she would reach Wroxhall and if it would be possible to board a coach that afternoon for Bath. It might be that mail coaches also stopped in the town. They were much faster than the lumbering stage and would get her to Bath before nightfall. But the cost of a ticket was also much higher and her remaining funds were modest. She might even miss whatever coaches were passing through the town and be forced to spend a night there. That was something she dared not contemplate.

She’d embarked on this adventure nervous, but confident, that she would succeed in reaching her grandmother within hours. Complications such as Gareth Wendover had never entered her head. And he was a complication. By any measure he’d treated her callously and yet she felt a strong thread connecting them, a thread she was finding difficult to break. But there was no doubt he’d brought added danger into her life and she was well advised to be leaving him. Between them, the landlord and the doctor would do all that was necessary to guarantee his well-being; such a vigorous man would not be laid low for long. And if she left the inn this early in the morning, she could forgo a farewell visit. It would be unmannerly, but much easier to walk out of the door right now. If she saw him again, she might be tempted to stay. Her thoughts went round and round in circles until her tired brain gave up the struggle and she once more slept.

‘Miss Wendover, can you hear me?’ The landlord’s voice penetrated her slumbers. It had a note of urgency and she wondered for an instant who he was calling and why, when she realised it must be herself. She was the mysterious Miss Wendover!

‘Miss Wendover, can you come quickly, please?’

She hurried out of bed and hastily donned her travelling clothes from yesterday. At the door Mr Skinner looked apologetic, but very worried.

‘Sorry to wake you betimes, miss, but Mr Wendover do seem bad. He’s feverish for sure and don’t respond. Will and me have tried to give him the doctor’s medicine, but he won’t let us near.’

She forgot her resolution to leave the inn as soon as possible and ran down the stairs to Gareth’s bedroom. The scene before her struck her with dismay. A smoky candle still spluttered on the bedside table, but the curtains remained drawn. In the half-light she could see the bedcovers in disarray, half of them trailing on the floor and the other half heaped untidily on the bed. As for the patient, he was tossing and turning constantly, unable to get comfortable, first throwing off the sheets and then grabbing at them with hot dry hands while all the time muttering incoherently. She went forwards to the bed and laid her hand fleetingly on his forehead. It was burning to the touch and his eyes, glancing unrecognisingly at her, were blurred with fever.

‘Have you sent for the doctor?’ Amelie questioned, thoroughly alarmed.

‘Not yet, miss, we weren’t sure to do it, without your say so.’

‘Why ever didn’t you call me earlier?’

‘We did think to,’ Mr Skinner conceded, ‘but he weren’t too bad seemingly.’

‘He’s certainly bad now.’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

‘Ah, mortal bad.’ The landlord looked gloomily down at the threshing figure and shook his head.

She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. It looked as though she would need all the help she could get.

‘Please send Will for the doctor immediately and ask Mrs Skinner to bring a sponge and some lavender water.’

‘T’would be best if I get it for you, miss.’

‘I really don’t care who gets it, just bring it please,’ she snapped, her nerves frayed by this frightening turn of events.

There was no help for it—she would have to stay. The Skinners believed her to be Gareth’s sister and there was no way she could simply up and leave. And seeing him lying ill and alone, she knew that she wouldn’t abandon him. When Mr Skinner returned with the bowl of lavender water, she asked him to raise the patient up while she attempted to plump the lumpy pillows into a more comfortable resting place. Then she sat down by the bedside and gently sponged his face. This seemed to soothe the fretting man and for a while he became calmer. But when she rose to move away from the bed, his hand, which had been aimlessly brushing the sheet, shot out and grasped her wrist.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he muttered fiercely.

The doctor was not long in coming and did not seem overly surprised that his patient had developed a fever. He had, after all, been lying in a wet ditch for a number of hours and, by the look of him, Dr Fennimore thought, he’d probably already travelled a considerable distance and spent much of his strength. But his agitation appeared extreme.

The doctor rose from the bedside and looked thoughtfully at Amelie, his face shrewd and enquiring. ‘His fever is unusually severe. Apart from his physical ills, he seems unquiet in his mind. You wouldn’t know, I suppose, if there is something disturbing him?’

She avoided his question. She could not imagine that the events of the previous day had seriously bothered such a cool, audacious man. But Gareth Wendover was certainly a mystery and she sensed that there were dark shadows in his life which might complicate his recovery. She sat down by the rickety table, troubled and very pale.

The doctor clasped her hand warmly. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Wendover. I’m sure this fever is only temporary. Your brother looks a tough man, certainly not one that a few hours in a ditch will finish off.’

He continued bluffly, ‘I’ll leave you with a stronger remedy. Give it to him every three hours. If his condition worsens, send for me immediately. Hopefully, he should be back to his normal strength within a few days. His ankle is already showing signs of improvement.’

As Gareth’s supposed sister, Amelie had also to be his nurse. Pitchforked into intimacy with a man she hardly knew, she could not protest without drawing attention to their false relationship. Fanny’s horror would know no bounds, she reflected, but this was no time to be missish. Gareth needed her constant attention.

Throughout the next two days she bathed his forehead, administered medicine and kept his bedclothes as comfortable as possible. All the time his fevered ramblings punctuated the endless routine. He seemed greatly exercised about escaping from a room and needing to find a boat, but none of it made any sense to Amelie and she was too busy to worry over his words.

Mrs Skinner was invariably difficult, grumbling incessantly about the additional work Gareth occasioned. At times Amelie nearly came to blows with her. Fortunately, her husband was of a different disposition. He took Amelie’s place by the bedside at nuncheon and dinner to allow her to eat and to stretch her limbs; at night he insisted on taking over Gareth’s care and sent her to bed in the early hours of each morning. By then she was too tired to protest and retired gratefully to her little attic room, not caring that Betsy beside her was snoring heavily. She was so weary that she could have slept in Gareth’s ditch.

On the third morning Mr Skinner reported that the fever had broken around dawn and that the patient was at last sleeping peacefully. After a hasty breakfast, she tiptoed quietly into Gareth’s room with a bowl of chicken broth that the formidable Mrs Skinner had been persuaded to make. He lay supine, a still-powerful figure, but the days fighting fever had taken their toll. She felt a sudden surge of tenderness as she saw the leanness of his face and the pallor beneath the tanned skin.

At her approach, he opened his eyes and a puzzled look flitted across his face. He appeared to be in a bedroom, but it was certainly nowhere he recognised. He felt amazingly tired and cursed himself for his weakness. The events of recent days slowly began to filter through his brain—a nightmarish ride, exquisite pain and a pair of gentle, soothing hands in the midst of the threatened inferno. He recalled some kind of accident an age ago, or so it seemed; this ravishing girl had been there, she’d ridden away on his horse. So what was she doing in this room? For a while he considered the matter dispassionately but it remained inexplicable.

‘You’re still here,’ he murmured.

She bent over him, gently arranging the pillows to support his shoulders. He was sharply aware of her soft warmth so close to him and her fragrance drifting on the air.

‘Take some of this excellent broth Mrs Skinner has made for you. You haven’t eaten for days.’

He gave up the challenge of trying to make sense of the world and meekly sipped from the spoon she held out to him.

A few days later he was well enough to leave the stuffy bedchamber and make his way with Will’s help down the stairs to the inn garden. Amelie brought up the rear of the procession with a stool and blankets in case it was chilly. But the sun shone blithely from a cloudless blue sky and Gareth, his ankle supported by the stool, lay back in his chair and gratefully soaked up the warmth. Beside him Amelie savoured the perfume of apple blossom and the rich smell of new grass.

He looked disparagingly at the glass she handed him.

‘The doctor said you should drink as much milk as you can,’ she chided. ‘It will help you regain your strength.’

‘You need strength to drink the stuff,’ he protested. ‘I think I’ll settle for my present state of health.’

‘You’re a stubborn man.’

‘And you’re a stubborn woman. Why are you still here? I seem to remember sending you on your way.’

‘You did and more than once—but it would be strange behaviour for a sister to abandon her brother.’

‘Ah, yes, I’d forgotten that I’d acquired a new relative. Quite a surprise for me—though entirely beneficial.’

His blue eyes held the warm glow that she found so unsettling, but instinctively she returned his smile.

‘It can’t have been pleasant for you, forced to tend a sick man you barely knew and with no help from that bracket-faced termagant.’

She wanted to say that she knew him a great deal better now, but instead limited herself to murmuring neutrally, ‘Even less pleasant for you, I fear. But Mr Skinner has been so very helpful. He’s watched over you constantly and even persuaded his wife to cook for us.’

‘Has she been very tiresome?’

‘Shall we say she’s not best pleased to be entertaining two vagrants.’ Amelie grinned, remembering the skirmishes she’d endured while Gareth lay helpless above.

‘One thing does occur to me,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The Skinners must be wondering why no one has come from our supposed home to look for us.’

‘I told them that I’d sent the local carrier with a message when he passed here the day before yesterday.’

‘And they believed you?’

‘Mrs Skinner probably didn’t, but then she wouldn’t believe anything. She decided from the outset that we were impostors, and of course she’s right.’

For a moment he was startled, wondering how she could possibly have guessed that he was not the man he appeared.

‘I mean,’ she explained seeing the surprise on his face, ‘that we’re playing this charade of being brother and sister.’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do you have a sister, in fact?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any family—won’t they be wondering where you are?’

‘No and no,’ he said shortly, then added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘My only relation was my grandfather and he’s now dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The compassion in her voice touched him on the raw.

‘Don’t be,’ he said roughly, ‘it’s a matter of indifference to me.’

But she was not to be deterred. ‘If you have no family in Bristol, why do you want to go there?’

He shifted his position, but remained sitting in silence.

‘While you were suffering from the fever you mentioned taking a boat and escaping,’ she persevered. ‘What did you mean?’

‘I’ve no idea. When people are feverish, they talk a lot of nonsense,’ he retorted.

She had the distinct impression of an iron gate being swiftly clanged shut; she would learn no more. And in a trice he’d deftly turned the tables on her and begun to probe her own story.

‘And why were you determined on travelling to Bristol?’

He must know that she’d been less than honest with him, at the very least that she’d lied about her destination.

‘A family there are advertising for a lady’s maid and I intended to apply for the position.’

‘They must have advertised days ago. The situation might already be filled.’ He’d evidently decided to maintain the pretence.

‘I daresay you’re right,’ she replied airily. ‘They’re sure to have hired another girl by now.’

‘So when you get to Bristol, what will you do?’

‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘I shall try my luck in Bath. There’s any number of retired dowagers living there and one of them is bound to need assistance.’

‘I wish you luck. Would you like a testimonial from me?’ he joked. Then his face took on a more serious air.‘Without a reference from your previous family, you’ll find it difficult to get work.’

‘I shall manage. I’ve no reason to feel ashamed. I shall tell the truth about why I had to leave.’

‘Will they believe you, though? As an employer I might find it difficult to accept your situation was so desperate that you had to climb out of the window on knotted sheets. Things like that only happen in novels. If you’d simply told your mistress what her son was up to, she would have intervened.’

‘No, she wouldn’t. He’s spoilt and pampered and no one gainsays him, least of all his adoring mother. She’d never have believed me. She’d have accused me of plotting to ensnare him and I’d have been turned off without notice.’

‘How has your situation improved? You’re still without a job and still without references.’

‘But I haven’t had to endure lies and false accusations.’

He looked a little conscious at this. ‘Until you met me, I suppose.’

‘Yes, until I met you.’

She was looking directly at him and he was caught by her gaze. How could a pair of eyes sparkle with such militancy and yet drown a man in their allure?

‘Was there nobody else in the family that you could turn to?’ he said quickly. ‘What about your young mistress?’

‘She was a good friend to me,’ Amelie admitted, happily weaving her fantasy, ‘but she’s to be married to a wealthy man against her wishes. She’s powerless to offer me protection.’

‘You could always marry. You’d receive ample protection then. You must have enjoyed plenty of attention from your fellows—beautiful and intelligent maidservants aren’t two a penny.’

‘I will never marry,’ she declared resolutely.

Gareth smiled indulgently. ‘You’re not much more than a child—far too young to know how you’ll feel in the future.’

Nettled by his mocking tone, her response was sharp. ‘On the contrary, I shall feel in the future just as I do now. I intend to stay a single woman if I can.’

‘Then you are vastly unlike the rest of your sex. Why so definite?’

‘I don’t wish to be subject to any man.’

‘The right man can be a powerful defender.’

‘Not those I’ve known—they’ve been either dissolute or vain and shallow.’

‘There are men who are none of those things.’

She raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘You, for instance?’

Damn her, he thought, why was she forever putting him in the wrong? He’d behaved appallingly, he knew, and for no other reason than a desire to master her, to ruffle that beautiful surface. She was just too lovely.

Aloud he admitted to his offence. ‘I behaved stupidly when we first met, more than stupidly.’ He shook his head at his folly. ‘I made a bad situation worse by getting extremely drunk.’

She looked enquiringly at him, but it was evident he had no intention of disclosing the cause of his erratic behaviour. She wondered if it had anything to do with the grandfather for whom he’d just professed the utmost indifference.

Trying another tack, she said quietly, ‘You may not have relatives in England, but what about friends?’

‘None of those, either,’ he muttered roughly. ‘I’m a wanderer, Amelie, and friends and family play no part in my life.’

She sensed that beneath his grim detachment, there lurked a vulnerability he would not admit. Her eyes clouded with sympathy and without thinking she reached out towards him, gently stroking the tanned forearm that showed beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

His hand closed over hers and held it tightly. He looked directly into her concerned face, hard blue eyes meeting soft brown, his gaze intent, wondering. For a long moment they sat thus. Then he reached out and slowly caressed her cheek. Her pulse began an erratic dance as his touch warmed her face. He let his hand slide from her cheek to tangle itself in the glossy curls which tumbled to her shoulders. Turning his body towards her, he cupped her face in both his hands and tilted it upwards. She watched as his mouth came closer and without thinking offered up her lips. His kiss was hard and warm and lingered long.

How long they would have kissed she had no idea, if Mr Skinner had not suddenly appeared from the depths of the inn leading the doctor behind him. She jumped back, flushed. Gareth looked annoyed. If Mr Skinner had seen that embrace, they would be in trouble. How to explain now that they were brother and sister! Jumping up from her seat, she nodded briefly to Dr Fennimore and quickly ran up the stairs to her bedroom in the eaves. She poured water from the jug into the chipped white basin and bathed her heated cheeks. She must truly have run mad. What on earth was she doing kissing a man of whom she knew nothing or at least nothing creditable? She sat down on her bed and stayed there for a very long time, trying hard to still her racing heart and erase the feeling of Gareth’s hard, warm mouth on hers.

The doctor’s visit was brief. He was evidently well satisfied with his patient and needed to come no more. She heard him call out his farewells followed by the sound of Will helping Gareth up the stairs from the garden to his room. Until she could leave the inn, she must make sure that they were rarely alone together. He could not be trusted; she’d allowed herself to show sympathy and his response had been immediate—an assault, an assault that she’d made no attempt to escape. She could not trust herself either. His gaze had sent her heart racing, a simple touch had left her breathless. And that kiss. No, she would not think of that kiss.

As the sun slipped from the sky, Mr Skinner appeared at her door with a message. ‘Your brother would like to know if you will dine with him tonight. He’s feeling a good deal better and would like to celebrate his recovery.’ The landlord enunciated the phrases painstakingly, relieved that he’d remembered Gareth’s precise words.

I’m sure he would, she thought crossly, and I can imagine the kind of celebration he intends.

‘Tell my brother that I regret I have the headache and I will not be dining tonight,’ she said, adding diffidently, ‘It would be very kind of you, Mr Skinner, if you could bring a bowl of soup to my room.’

For the first time since she’d come to the George, she found it difficult to sleep that night, her mind endlessly roaming the day’s events, but finding no peace. She could not banish the attraction she felt for Gareth Wendover. Her heart was forever pulling her towards a man with whom it was madness to embroil herself. He was arrogant and capricious. He was reserved and unforthcoming and she strongly suspected that unfortunate secrets lay hidden in the depths of his past. Yet she, too, was equally guilty of dissembling. From the outset she’d told him a pack of lies and ever since had spent considerable effort in embroidering them.

What was certain was that she must leave for Bath as soon as she could. She must not become any further entangled; she must not fall in love with him. If ever she were forced to marry, Lord Silverdale’s daughter would be expected to look a great deal higher than a mere Mr Wendover of unknown and possibly disreputable lineage. And she wasn’t going to be forced to marry. She would not emulate her mother’s sad fate; her security and peace of mind lay in an unmarried life and that meant eschewing dalliance, no matter how attractive the man.

After breakfast she repaired to Gareth’s bedroom to tell him she was leaving. It was another beautiful May morning and the leaded windows were flung wide to welcome the sun. A warm breeze gently lifted the curtains. He was sitting by the window fully dressed and smiled mockingly as she came through the door.

‘I hope I find you recovered?’

She looked blank for a moment.

‘The headache? I understand it was so painful that you could manage only a bowl of soup for dinner.’ His tone was ironic.

‘I’m well, thank you,’ she replied, not meeting his eyes. ‘And you?’

‘I’m well, too—my old self, in fact. Does that strike terror into your heart?’

‘Indeed no, why should it? I’m well able to take care of myself.’

He shook his head in some irritation. ‘Let’s stop sparring, Amelie. Come and sit with me instead.’

She moved towards the window and the empty chair. For the first time she met his eyes directly and her body warmed instantly beneath his gaze. But she ignored the answering pull and disregarded his welcoming hand; she was still on dangerous territory and must step carefully.

‘When do you intend to leave for Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I presume you’re still going there.’

‘Maybe,’ he uttered shortly. ‘I haven’t yet made up my mind.’

‘If you don’t continue to Bristol, where else will you go? Back to London?’

‘Possibly.’

‘So you’re as free as a bird?’

‘It would appear so.’

Frustrated at his stonewalling, she went on the offensive. ‘Are you saying that nobody in the entire world will miss you, if you don’t soon put in an appearance?’

‘That about sums it up.’

She didn’t understand him. Her questions were innocent enough and his bald refusal to answer demonstrated clearly that he didn’t trust her. She was good enough to kiss but not to confide in. Sensing her anger, he smiled that warm, entrancing smile.

‘Why don’t we just enjoy this morning? I imagine you’ve come to tell me you’re leaving soon.’

‘Now that your ankle’s better, I must be on my way.’ She was annoyed with herself that she sounded almost apologetic.

‘Of course you must, and I can’t detain you. You’ve kept your bargain, after all.’

For a moment she looked uncomprehending; she’d completely forgotten their old quarrel. Then she gave a half smile. ‘Yes, I’ve kept it—but not quite as you planned.’

‘Better, in fact. You’ve seen me through some very trying days, so don’t let’s spend our last few hours arguing.’

She remained mute and stared fixedly through the window at the untended orchard beyond. When he spoke again his voice was tender and caught at her heart.

‘I have you to thank for the good shape I’m in. You must know that I’m deeply grateful.’

‘I don’t want your gratitude.’

‘What do you want?’ he asked quizzically and once again reached out for her hand.

Mindful of her overnight resolution, she jumped up quickly and said, ‘What I want is to leave tomorrow. But in the meantime I’m sure the George can supply us with some entertainment. I’ll go downstairs and see what they have to offer.’

And with that she disappeared rapidly from view. Gareth looked after her, a slight flush creeping into his lean cheek. Tendering his hand in friendship to a woman was a new experience for him and being rejected was equally novel.

She returned half an hour later, having searched high and low for dominoes or Chinese chequers. Will had helped her for a while until Mrs Skinner, catching sight of the two of them, had ordered him angrily to fetch water from the pump. Then she’d stood coldly over Amelie and demanded just what Miss Wendover might be wanting. Her attitude was one of unconcealed hostility. Amelie was sure now that the landlord had seen her spring back from Gareth’s kiss yesterday and had confided this unsettling news to his wife. She blushed deeply at the thought of their conversation.

‘I’m looking for dominoes or chequers,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘My brother is feeling a good deal better and it will be a way of passing the hours.’

Mrs Skinner snorted as though she knew well enough how they intended to pass the hours, but reluctantly led the way into an inner sanctum, opened a tall oak dresser in the corner of the room and shuffled around inside. The reek of mothballs floated out into the already malodorous room.

‘There’s some cards and a game of spillikins.’ The landlady thrust the items roughly at Amelie and stood glaring at her.

Understanding that she was dismissed, Amelie made to leave. She couldn’t picture Gareth playing the child’s game, but she could always leave the spillikins in her bedroom. With hurried thanks, she gathered up the games and ran up the stairs.

‘I’ve found something,’ she called out gaily. ‘A pack of cards! Or rather Mrs Skinner found them, tucked at the back of an enormous dresser, which I don’t think has been opened for at least thirty years. Unfortunately, they smell of mothballs, but then this room isn’t exactly fresh, even with the window wide open.’

As she was speaking, she cleared the small table between them of empty glasses and medicine bottles. ‘There, a perfect card table. What shall we play? I know very few games, but I imagine you can teach me.’

‘No.’ The brusque monosyllable startled her.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said no. I can’t teach you any card games, nor do I wish to play.’

She looked puzzled. ‘How difficult am I to understand?’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t wish to play.’

‘But it’s only a game of cards—an amusing diversion,’ she protested.

‘For the last time, I don’t wish to play.’

The familiar bleak expression had returned to Gareth’s face. His eyes were once more stony and the straight night-black brows threatening. He leaned back in his chair, detaching himself from the proceedings and refusing to meet her earnest look.

‘That’s all right,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t. Just learn to take a refusal when it’s given.’

She bit back a retort. After tomorrow she would never see Gareth Wendover again. It was hardly worth quarrelling with him despite his extraordinary rudeness. But it was difficult to accept that he was the same man who had kissed her with such ardour only yesterday. He was transformed and she felt deeply wounded by the change.

‘I’ll find something else to play,’ she stammered a little shakily.

Minutes later she returned with the spillikins. The hard look on Gareth’s face had disappeared and when he saw the spillikins he laughed out loud.

‘I know you’ve been my nursemaid these past few days, but have I regressed that badly that you need to play a child’s game with me?’

‘That’s all they have downstairs, and we must make the best of it.’

She held upright the bunch of thin sticks and allowed them to fall at will. They scattered wildly across the table top.

‘The sticks coloured blue score most highly, red next, then yellow, and green are the most lowly,’ she explained.

‘I shall be lucky to pick up one stick cleanly, never mind its colour. I’ve suffered an accident, after all.’

‘You’ve sprained your ankle, not your wrist.’

‘But women are so much more dextrous, it’s hardly fair.’

‘Surely, Mr Wendover, you’re not saying that a woman can outdo you.’

‘Gareth, please. If we’re to be serious competitors, we must use first names. That way our insults, when they start flying, will be nicely personal.’

‘I’ve no intention of trading insults. It’s just a game, not a competition,’ she said carelessly.

Nevertheless, she tried very hard to win. When it came to her turn she took minutes to weigh up the arrangement of sticks before deciding which one she would try to extricate from its place without dislodging the others. Gareth had gone first and could begin with the easiest stick to lift, but once into the thick of the game, they were both forced to concentrate intently when their several turns came round. At one point, he appeared to disturb one of the sticks he was trying to avoid and she called foul.

‘I merely breathed on the stick and it moved of its own accord,’ he disputed, shaking his head in bewilderment.

She burst out laughing. ‘That’s certainly original. I’ll give you the excuse if only for sheer invention.’

He laughed back at her, his heart filled with a strange happiness. So the game went on until there was just a small pile of sticks left in the middle of the table, all thickly entangled. They were neck and neck in the number they’d managed to acquire and, faced now with the most difficult moves, they both studied the table keenly, trying to decide their best approach. In the event it was Gareth who managed to extricate his last spill without disturbing the one other that was left.

‘Voilà!’ he exclaimed.

‘Magnifique,’ she unconsciously rejoined, responding spontaneously to his skilful play.

‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ He looked searchingly at her.

‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation on to less dangerous ground.

‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes, I would take you for a lady.’

From the bottom of her heart, she thanked the absent Fanny for donating her wardrobe, then set about allaying his suspicions.

‘My young mistress made a great friend of me and I learned from her how to go on.’

He considered this for a while. ‘You may have learned conduct from her but not, I think, your courage.’

‘What do you mean?’ She was disconcerted.

‘Didn’t you say that your mistress was being married off against her will?’

‘She is, but courage won’t help her. Her brother has gambled away the family’s fortune and marriage is the only way to restore it. She’s expected to make this sacrifice for her family.’

‘Quite a sacrifice! Would you make it, I wonder?’

‘I would not,’ she declared ringingly and with a vehemence that surprised him.

He looked at her as she sat across the table. Her creamy skin glowed translucent in the shadowed sunlight that filled the room and the velvet brown of her eyes blazed a fiery spirit. She had never looked more enchanting.

‘Nor should you,’ he said, his voice husky with feeling.

The atmosphere was suddenly charged with tension, their bantering mood dissipated. He should defuse the moment, he thought, make a joke, turn away. She’d already chosen to put distance between them and she was right. Instead, he rose quickly from his chair, taking no heed of the damaged ankle, and took both her hands in his. Slowly he raised her up and encircled her in his arms.

Crushed against his hard frame, she felt the same foolish impulse to melt into him; she began to tremble beneath his hands. He touched her face, her arms, and brushed across the warm silk of her breast. He gently kissed her hair, her ears, her cheek. In a moment his tongue had parted her lips and was slowly exploring the softness of her mouth. His body moved against her and she groaned softly with pleasure. She wanted to dissolve into this nameless delight, yet some voice of wisdom pulled her back to consciousness. This was a man who had come from nowhere and would go to nowhere. She would never see him again once they parted. He’d made her vulnerable, created a desire in her that she’d never before known. And desire meant weakness; she had only to think of her mother’s fate to know that. Impelled by a new urgency, she hastily pushed him away and began to tidy the scattered sticks, barely able to see them for the emotions churning within her.

‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

He was still standing close to her, his breathing ragged and his voice rough. He seemed furious with himself.

‘After yesterday I vowed I’d never again touch you.’

Distractedly, she smoothed her tumbled hair and then began to pack the last of the spillikins in their box.

‘Forgive me if I’ve distressed you.’ His harsh tones grated, breaking through her silence.

‘It’s of no importance. I don’t wish to talk of it,’ she managed. Her outward calm belied the turmoil within. ‘It must be time for nuncheon,’ she continued smoothly. ‘I’ll fetch some refreshment from the kitchen.’

She glanced fleetingly out of the window, as she turned to leave. A carriage had pulled up outside. In itself this was unusual but this was not any carriage. It was a lightly built curricle drawn by four high-stepping greys and the curricle door had a well-known crest on its panel. It had to be Rufus Glyde. He had traced her after all. He was here. She turned sheet-white and the box dropped from her suddenly lifeless hand.

‘Excuse me,’ she gasped, ‘I have to go.’

And with that she dashed from the room, leaving Gareth baffled and infuriated.