Читать книгу Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal - Lara Temple, Lara Temple - Страница 12
ОглавлениеAlan recognised his grandmother’s old landaulet coming up the drive of the Carr property in Saltford before he even saw the occupants and braced himself. Having to face the old witch twice in a week after not seeing her for over a dozen years was surely a punishment not merited by any of his sins, at least not any recent ones. What on earth would she be doing coming to see an empty property up for sale a good forty minutes from the Hall?
The open landaulet drew abreast, revealing its occupants, but his tension only took a different turn. The fact that it wasn’t his grandmother, but Miss Wallace seated beside Mr Prosper and an older woman who was clearly her maid, was just as unwelcome, but for very different reasons. By the hunted expression on the solicitor’s face he shared Alan’s discomfort at this development.
‘I do apologise for my tardiness, my lord.’
‘That is quite my fault,’ Miss Wallace interceded. ‘Since I not only insisted on taking up Mr Prosper in the landaulet when we drove from his offices to Hollywell, but then kept him overlong on my business there, I felt it only proper to ensure he arrive here as swiftly as possible rather than wait for his clerk to arrange for a gig to convey him here from the Ship. So I offered to see him here myself while his clerk arranges to bring the gig.’
‘You are too kind, but there really was no need for you to put yourself out, Miss Wallace,’ Mr Prosper replied, removing his hat to mop his brow despite the cold wind blowing. ‘My clerk will be here presently with the gig, so you needn’t linger. I assure you I will see to your requests for Hollywell with all promptness.’
Completely ignoring this polite attempt to send her on her way, Miss Wallace extended her hand and poor Mr Prosper had no choice but to help her descend.
Alan doubted Miss Wallace had been motivated by kindness. Curiosity was probably nearer the mark. But there was something in the smile she flashed him that put him on alert. Mischief and even anger, which surprised him. She hadn’t struck him as resentful and, if anything, she might be considered the victor in their two previous encounters. His treacherous body was certainly declaring its utmost willingness to surrender if that would get him past her battlements. It was a sore pity she wasn’t already married and disillusioned with wedded bliss. He would have enjoyed broadening her horizons, and his.
Other than the martial flash in her gold-flecked eyes she exemplified the perfect society miss. She was dressed in a very elegant forest-green pelisse with dark-gold military facings and a deceptively simple bonnet with matching ribbons. It enhanced her warm colouring and was far too elegant for the Somerset countryside. In fact, she looked more elegant than most fashionable women he knew in London. With her money and sense of style, she would do very well once she was introduced to London society. Though she would probably ruin it the moment she opened her mouth. London was not very forgiving towards pert young women, heiresses or not, especially if their background was anything but conventional.
On the surface she would make Philip Marston a perfect wife, but the more he saw of her the more he doubted whether Philip understood what he was taking on. In fact, if he had had to guess, he would have thought Philip would choose someone more like his own daughter—classically beautiful, well mannered, wealthy and biddable. Of those criteria Lily Wallace fulfilled only the requirement of wealth.
Not that it was any of his concern. His only concern at the moment was finding a new venue for Hope House, fast, and returning to London. However pleasant it was to watch the outline of her legs against her elegant skirts as she descended from the landaulet, there was nothing to be gained flirting with an heiress who was tangled up with his grandmother and the possible matrimonial target of one of his business partners, no matter how outré and intriguing. She might be different from the usual run of women he enjoyed, but then so would the inmates of bedlam be different. Boredom in the bedroom was no excuse for putting his head into the lion’s mouth...or rather the lioness’s.
She approached him and her smile widened. It wasn’t a welcoming smile and he instinctively reacted to it with a contrary spurt of determination. His initial look around the grounds of this property and others in the environs had only reinforced his conviction that Saltford would not do and that Hollywell House was still the perfect choice for a new Hope House. The odds were long and getting longer, but he wasn’t ready to admit defeat quite yet.
‘Lord Ravenscar.’ Even those two words were a challenge.
‘Miss Wallace.’
‘I’m surprised at you. Was it The Mysteries of Udolpho that gave you the idea?’
He frowned, confused. Was she incapable of a normal conversation?
‘I beg your pardon?’
She cocked her head to one side, walking towards the house, and politeness required he keep pace with her.
‘You do innocent very well for someone who has very little connection to that concept.’
‘I must be very dense, but I have no idea what you are talking about.’
A crease appeared between her brows and she stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘The broken urn?’
‘The what? Is this some form of biblical charade?’ He had discarded his initial opinion that she was mildly deranged, but he might have to reconsider.
‘The creaking door?’ she tried, her eyes narrowing.
‘Miss Wallace, either you have developed the fever or that rubbish you were reading Nicky is having a dilatory effect on your mind. What the deuce are you talking about?’
‘Have you been back to Hollywell House in the past couple of days?’
‘No, I have not. Why on earth would I?’
The society smile had completely disappeared and she was frowning as she watched him, as if waiting for him to slip up.
‘It appears whoever vandalised the library has been back. That horrid large urn in the hallway was smashed and the effect was embellished with some atmospheric creaking of doors. The latter part might have been accidental, since the latch on one of the doors from the servants’ quarters doesn’t close properly, but the urn was too heavy to topple over merely because of the wind.’
Alan’s fists tightened. The image of her standing in the middle of the mayhem of helmets, breastplates and books returned. With a wary look, Mr Prosper hurried past them up the stairs, a set of keys clinking in his hand. Alan took Miss Wallace’s arm and pulled her slightly to one side. Mr Prosper and the house could wait.
‘I admit I want Hollywell House, but I don’t usually have to resort to such puerile tactics to get what I want and I assure you my taste doesn’t run to the Gothic.’
He spoke casually, matching her lightness, but he felt anything but light-hearted. If she had wreaked havoc to the library the other day and was now breaking urns and hearing noises, she was indeed deranged. If not, someone was actively vandalising the property, which was just as bad.
‘I am not fanciful, Lord Ravenscar,’ she said coolly. ‘When such incidents occur in a house that should be standing empty, I presume someone is up to mischief. I admit I thought that you, rather melodramatically, had decided to add not-so-subtle persuasion to other inducements. If it wasn’t you, it was someone else, and not a ghost. But whoever it is, and for whatever reason they may be doing so, it won’t work.’
‘If you don’t know why they are doing it, how do you know it won’t work?’ he asked, just to annoy her, but his mind was half-focused on other matters. On who indeed might be behind these pranks and on how cold she could look when she chose to; she looked even more the perfect London hostess like that, but then her roguish smile broke through again.
‘Must you ruin it by being clever? I had quite set my mind on you being the villain; it would have been so neat. Maybe you still are being clever. This could still be some devious machination so you could vanquish the ghost and hope to earn my undying gratitude so I would sell you Hollywell House after all. That would be a plot worthy of Radcliffe.’
‘I haven’t the imagination or energy for such nonsense,’ Alan replied, thoroughly exasperated. Her laughing dismissal of the situation was even more annoying than a fit of hysterics would have been. What was wrong with this woman?
‘No, I suppose not. You are not in the least romantic.’
She sounded so dismissive he couldn’t resist mounting a defence.
‘That is not the general consensus, I assure you.’
‘I didn’t mean that kind of romantic. The real kind of romantic.’
‘I won’t ask for the distinction. I haven’t a strong enough stomach.’
‘See? That is precisely what I mean. Well, this is most annoying. If you aren’t my ghost, then who is?’
She frowned at the ground, scuffing at the gravel with the toe of a fine kid slipper. Why couldn’t she act like a normal young woman and be scared? Not that he enjoyed hysterics, but it would be a nice change if she would look at him with something other than disdain or amusement. Those were not the emotions he ordinarily evoked in women. Not that trust or confidence were emotions he tended to evoke in women either, thank the gods, but at the moment he would prefer she not be quite so...unflappable.
‘Aren’t you in the least bit concerned? At the very least you should avoid going there until the source of this vandalism is uncovered.’
‘I have requested that Mr Prosper put it about that the new tenants of the house are moving in, which I hope will discourage any further incidents. Why don’t you go a step further and try to convince me that it is after all in my best interest to sell you the property?’
Alan gritted his teeth against the urge to tell her what she was welcome to do with Hollywell.
‘I admit I want Hollywell, but I am perfectly capable of separating the two issues. Are you?’
She sighed.
‘I don’t know what I’m capable of any more. Come, I’m curious to see this house.’
‘You aren’t invited. Thank you for delivering Mr Prosper, but now you had best return to Lady Jezebel before it begins to rain.’
He wasn’t in the least surprised she ignored him and turned towards the stairs.
‘You are, without doubt, the most aggravating woman of my acquaintance. Barring my grandmother and that only by a very narrow margin.’
She turned on the top stair, her eyes narrowing into slits of gold, but the tantrum he had almost hoped for didn’t materialise. For a moment she didn’t answer, just stood there, her eyes on his dreamily, as if lost in an inner conversation. He couldn’t remember ever being so disconcerted by a female who was doing absolutely nothing. Young women either fled behind their mama’s skirts or used all their wiles to engage his interest, sometimes from behind their mama’s skirts. He didn’t mind either reaction. He very much minded being scolded, threatened, laughed at or ignored, all of which appeared to be this young woman’s repertoire in her dealings with him. If she was doing it on purpose, he might have appreciated her tactics, but though she was clever, she was also peculiarly transparent and it was very clear she was not playing with him, not in that manner at least. Her gaze finally focused and she continued inside.
‘I hadn’t realised I had such power to provoke you, Lord Ravenscar. I am honoured to receive such an epithet from someone who has undoubtedly met more women than he can properly remember. I believe I read an adage somewhere that notoriety is preferable to obscurity.’
‘You misread, then. The phrase is that notoriety should not be mistaken for fame.’
She wrinkled her nose, inspecting the empty drawing room Mr Prosper indicated. They entered and Mr Prosper hovered in the doorway, clearly uncertain whether his role included chaperon services. The maid, surprisingly, merely occupied a chair in the hall and took out a small skein of wool from a bag and began knitting.
‘That sounds very stuffy and English. Was it from a morality play, perhaps? One of your grandfather’s charming tomes?’
‘Greek. Aesop.’
‘Ah, that explains it. Wasn’t he the one with the tale of the vainglorious Raven?’
‘The same. And the crafty fox. How fitting. Your colouring does have a rather...vixenish hue.’
‘Thank you. Most often the references are to lionesses, tigresses and other felines. It is a pleasant change to elicit associations to other animals, and a resourceful, intelligent one at that. I dare say given your colouring and name you are only too used to Raven and other fowl references.’
He laughed, crossing the room to where she stood by a window overlooking a scrappy lawn already giving way to the weeds and the weather.
‘Especially foul. But I don’t mind. Here’s another quote for you: “Censure acquits the Raven but pursues the dove.” So are you certain you wish to be practically alone with me in an empty house? What if I am overpowered by licentious and lustful urges?’
He didn’t really expect her to be shocked, nor was she.
‘I thought I was a vixen, hardly a dove, but in either case I at least am not so vain as to believe I am capable of evoking overpowering urges in anyone, let alone in someone as jaded as you, and certainly not under the watchful and censorious eyes of Mr Prosper and Greene.’
‘You are quite right you are no dove. Doves are soft and padded and coo when petted. What do you do when petted, Lily Wallace?’
Finally a blush. But getting a rise out of her came at a cost of triggering an unwelcome reaction at the thought of petting her. First of peeling away those fashionable layers to the fine cotton muslin underneath. Such expensive fabrics would be near transparent once he stripped away the stays and chemise, a gauzy cobweb of a dress, like wearing the morning mist. Her hair would be a wavy tumble of warmth, a mass of shades, darker than her eyes. She might be no dove, but her body would still be soft...
‘Shall we see the other rooms, my lord?’ Mr Prosper asked from the doorway.
Alan nodded.
‘Yes. Let’s start with the bedrooms.’
* * *
Within fifteen minutes of their arrival Alan knew the property wasn’t suitable. The only reason he didn’t call a halt to their exploration of the old house was Miss Wallace—her curiosity and her attempts to manoeuvre him into disclosing his agenda were too amusing to curtail. Curiosity seemed to work on her in the same way greed worked on some people. In that way she reminded him of his friend Stanton—he could never abandon a problem until he had cracked and subjugated it. But if she was like Stanton, once her curiosity was assuaged, she would be off in search of the next challenge and Alan was rather enjoying her persistence and the effect it had on her natural wariness.
She still didn’t trust him an inch, but she was showing a surprising degree of faith in his honour merely by being with him for so long with only a timid solicitor as chaperon. There was an aura of dismissive superiority about her that was worthy of the most spoilt of heiresses and yet she had none of the calm ease of entitlement that women like Penny Marston had. She was no pampered house cat, but a prowling half-wild feline, used to fending for herself. Catherine must have misunderstood—there was no possible way someone like Philip Marston would contemplate marriage with a woman who would challenge his authority at every level, not even for a fortune.
Mr Prosper opened the door into what had probably been an attempt at a library and stood back to allow them to enter. ‘This is the last of the rooms,’ he announced from the doorway, his eyes darting from them to the darkening window, where the sun was still battling with the clouds lying heavily on the trees. ‘We really should leave before it begins to rain in earnest. Shall I find your maid and have the landaulet ready for you, Miss Wallace?’
‘Thank you, Mr Prosper, that is very kind.’
Alan waited until the solicitor left the room and went to stand by Lily, where she was inspecting the moulding on the fireplace, her long fingers tracing an elaborate engraving that had long since been worn down to runic incomprehensibility.
‘You should have fled while you could, Miss Wallace. I’m afraid your curiosity is about to be repaid with a soaking.’
‘I have survived worse.’
‘So have I. Even during the last hour.’
She laughed and began pulling on the gloves she had removed while inspecting the carvings.
‘What, the house or my presence? Was it so very terrible?’
‘It could have been better.’
‘How?’
‘We could have been alone.’
Finally there was a little surprise and even more wariness. But as he expected, she gathered herself and ploughed forward rather than succumb to the momentary confusion.
‘Is Keynsham proving so thin of female company, then, my lord?’
‘Not in the least. We are close enough to Bristol to provide for all matter of needs. But variety is the very spice of life and my fare has been somewhat bland recently.’
‘Oh, you poor, poor rakehell, are you bored? How simply awful for you.’
Her tone dripped mock-concern, her eyes wide in a wonderful parody of tragic distress, and he tried and failed to restrain his grin. He kept playing into her hands and the worst was he didn’t mind it in the least. The only thing he minded was that this flirtation could not be carried to its natural conclusion. Society’s mores and rules might be hypocritical, a bore and a nuisance, but up to a point he abided by them simply because it was less of a bother to do so than flout them.
It was rare that his mind parted company with his body so categorically, but as he watched her concentrate on securing the glossy pearl buttons of her glove, her lashes lowered, fanning shadows over the faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, he felt the distinct separation of those two entities.
She was not the kind of woman he enjoyed and she was not the kind of woman who enjoyed him, but his thumb very much wanted to brush over her long dark lashes and those freckles and down the soft rise of her cheek. He could almost feel it just watching the way those dark spikes, touched with gold at the tips, dipped and rose as she secured her gloves.
The urge became a distinct ache as his gaze descended. Despite her humour, her lips were pressed together, betraying a tension he had sensed from the moment he met her. She might be an indulged heiress, but she was not some frothy confection one could sink a spoon into and taste with impunity. He had never liked syllabub anyway. He preferred spice and this girl was definitely on the spicier end of the female scale. He wondered what she would taste of...if he could coax those tightly held lips into relaxing...
‘I counted ten bedrooms and four larger rooms downstairs and two smaller parlours. Smaller than Hollywell House. Does that meet your needs?’
He could almost see her mind working away at the problem, taking every piece of information he had dangled in front of her and trying to shove it into place to create some conclusive picture. It was so tempting to throw in a few red herrings and watch her grasp at them with that mix of puzzlement, suspicion and determination, like a kitten pursuing a dangled string as if it were a lifeline.
‘Do you know what you remind me of?’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’
He laughed.
‘Probably not. Forget I said anything. What do you think of the gardens?’
She looked out the window.
‘I wouldn’t precisely call that a garden. Would you need a garden?’
‘A ferret.’
‘You need the garden for a ferret?’
‘No, you remind me of a ferret.’
He waited for the inevitable outrage to darken her eyes before he continued.
‘Not physically, of course, though ferrets can be quite elegant in appearance. It was a reflection on your tenacity and curiosity. Ferrets are also very hard to catch.’
‘They also bite. Hard.’ Her teeth snapped shut and steam practically rose off her in waves, her fingers unfastening and refastening the last few pearl buttons on her left glove like prayer beads. He removed her hand from the maligned buttons and pressed it between his. It was warm and vibrating with the energy caged inside her, a tingling force.
‘I’m surprised any of your buttons survive to the end of the day, the way you worry at them.’
She surprised him again. He had expected her at the very least to pull away and more likely to slap him or resort to the verbal attacks she had engaged in at Hollywell, but instead she smiled and for a moment he had the sensation of the sun thrusting conclusively through the clouds. It certainly had the same effect—a need to narrow his eyes to protect himself.
‘They often don’t,’ she admitted. The tension seeped out of her hand, but she didn’t remove it from his grasp. She was doing absolutely nothing, but the sensation of her gloved hand in his was spreading through him like dye in water, swirling and expanding. It hadn’t occurred to him his teasing would circle back and take his flank with a full attack of lust. He waited for it to peak and settle into place as all surges of physical attraction did. These pleasant sensations came and went and meant very little in the end. He had outgrown the need to pursue and indulge them, preferring to find physical release with a few very select female friends who knew the rules of the game as well as he and who could be trusted to be discreet and clean and emotionally detached from the act. He had nothing against window shopping, but he no longer bought anything on a whim, certainly nothing as expensive and impractical as a malapert, opinionated heiress.
He dropped her hand and returned to the gargantuan and very ugly fireplace, seeking a mental rope with which to haul himself out of this particular pit, something that would categorically drive her away.
‘What do you think? Is it big enough for my harem?’
* * *
Lily watched as Lord Ravenscar ran his hand along the dark marble mantel that topped the oversized fireplace, his fingers rising and falling over the moulding. She clasped her own hands together, quashing the tingling heat that lingered from his clasp and made her gloves feel too tight. She had needed just this kind of comment to centre her. It was her fault for initiating the game in the first place. It took her three breaths to find her place again in the order of things. Lily Wallace, heiress. Needs no one and no one tells her what to do. Certainly not a rakehell like Lord Ravenscar.
Almost an hour had passed since they had arrived in Saltford and so far every one of her attempts to uncover his objective had run aground. The only thing she had learned was that he enjoyed dangling decoys and watching her twist to his taunts. She turned resolutely to inspect the fireplace.
‘The fireplace? If you like your women short and round, it might fit three.’
He smiled and she felt petty, like a child who was being ignored by her elders and who had just thrown something merely to draw attention to herself.
‘Do you like it?’
The change in his tone shoved her further off balance. He had done that before, reach inside her with his voice, set her insides reverberating like the cavern of a bell.
‘What?’
‘The house, Lily. Do you like it?’
She turned away from the focused force of his eyes and the taunting intimacy in his use of her given name. She was being ridiculous. For the past hour she had trotted after him, provoking and needling, and now that she had his full attention on her, she felt a panicked need to deflect it. She could hardly imagine he was being serious about a harem. He was just poking fun at her thwarted curiosity. But those questions had rumbled, no, purred through the cold room and shot heat through her just as that short clasp of her hand had. She could feel it in her cheeks and in her chest, like brandy swallowed too fast.
Do you like it?
She went over to the window just in time to see the sun lose its battle against the clouds, casting the overgrown lawn into shadow with the suddenness of a dropped blanket. It made the world, the house, the room, smaller. Maybe these peculiar sensations were a sign she, too, was falling ill. It would almost be a relief. No one would expect anything of her if she were ill. She could hide in her room and embrace oblivion, and maybe when she came out the other end of the tunnel, this discomfort would be gone and by some miracle her fate would be decided for her.
‘It’s not a complicated question, Lily. Do you like the house?’
He was standing directly behind her now.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
She breathed in and answered only the question.
‘It feels sullen. Everything is a little too small, a little too low. I would stifle here. The only thing generous here is the fireplace.’
‘You need space.’
Yes, so move away, you’re crowding me. She didn’t say the words aloud because that would be to pander to his vanity. She frowned up at the clouds. They were gathering in the east. That way was Bristol and ships heading out towards the West Indies and what had once been home but could never be that again.
‘Don’t you?’ she asked.
‘I am used to making do with what is at hand.’
‘I see. We are back to that. I’m spoilt, I suppose.’
‘Most heiresses are. It’s not a matter of choice. Or rather it is a matter of too much choice. They can’t help themselves from expecting more than they need.’
‘How kind of you to be so understanding of my flaws.’ Lily thought of the life she had led until her mother’s death and wondered what he would have made of their spartan existence on the island or in the mining towns in Brazil. As far as he was concerned, she was the product of the life she had led in Kingston.
He moved to her side, looking out over the grass and weeds as they snapped back and forth in the rising wind. He was so close she felt the fabric of his coat against the sleeve of her pelisse. She wouldn’t turn to look because that would give him the satisfaction of knowing how aware she was of him. How many times had she played this game in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of Kingston? She was good at it. It was just another tactical game. His move, hers, his move, hers. In the end she always won because for her it was merely tactics, she had no strategy, nothing she wanted to gain. What she wanted from life had no connection to that game any more than it had to a game of chess. Less. But now that her father was gone she knew those games were over. Now, when Philip Marston returned from Birmingham, she would likely concede and start her new life.
‘Since I have so many flaws myself, it would be rather hypocritical to be intolerant of others,’ he answered. ‘Besides, perfection is vastly overrated. My closest friends are deeply flawed and much the better for it.’
‘I will hazard a wild guess there are no spoilt heiresses among them.’
He laughed and his coat brushed against her arm, raising and lowering the fabric against her arm, and her skin bloomed with goose pimples.
‘Not one. One very unspoilt heiress, but she is married to one of my closest friends.’
That was a good excuse to turn towards him and put some distance between them. She was also curious. There was something in his voice. The same tone as he employed with Nicky—intimate and affectionate; a combination that didn’t match what she knew of him.
‘So you admit the possibility of an unspoilt heiress?’
‘There are always exceptions to the rule. In this case Nell wasn’t spoilt by being society’s darling for years.’
That struck home. She couldn’t deny that that was precisely what she had been since her father had brought her to Jamaica after her mother’s death when she was fourteen and especially since she had been introduced to Jamaican society four years after that. Not that she had ever believed it meant more than an avid appreciation of her father’s fortune.
‘Once you start admitting exceptions to rules, you rather undermine the whole point of having them. How do you know I’m not an exception as well?’
‘Are you?’
‘That is hardly a fair question. Even if we aren’t special, we all want to believe we are. Otherwise how could we believe we are worthy of being loved?’
A gallant man would have entered through that wide-open door, but he merely smiled and changed direction.
‘I think I’ve seen enough of this house. We should leave before the weather turns against us completely.’
She didn’t move, piqued even though she knew that was precisely what he intended. They were unevenly matched—he was much more experienced in this game, especially since his livelihood probably depended on his performance. She flirted out of boredom and resentment against the constraints society imposed, while he did it for survival. The tales of the Wild Hunt Club that Nicky had delighted in might be grossly exaggerated, but not this man’s skill at the game she merely dabbled in. She would hardly sit down with him for a game of cards and put her fortune at risk even if she had control over it, and she should adopt the same caution when it came to the game of flirtation.
It was clear he wasn’t really interested in her as an heiress; he would hardly be showing his cards so generously if he was. Well, she wasn’t interested in him, not in any way that mattered. She would never marry a man she didn’t trust and she would never trust a rake; a fortune-hunting rake famed for his wildness was just adding insult to injury. At least she knew Philip Marston was at his core a man of honour.
But whether it was intelligent or not, the truth was she didn’t want to leave yet. Just another sip of champagne before teatime.
‘Was your friend who married the heiress part of the Wild Hunt Club as well?’
He leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms.
‘Is that nonsense still circulating?’
‘Is it nonsense? It was Nicky who told me. Quite proudly, in fact.’
At least she had managed to catch him by surprise.
‘Nicky? What on earth would she know about it?’
‘You would be surprised what one hears at a girls’ school. It’s not all Gothic novels and sighs, you know, even though her version of your exploits did sound rather Gothic. Apparently association with you is quite a cachet for her at school.’
‘Good God. Does Cat know about this?’
‘I don’t know, but I presume she does. Your sister may be quiet, but she’s no fool. You didn’t answer my question.’
‘You see, this is precisely what I was talking about. You seem to think you are entitled to answers simply on the strength of asking a question. Life doesn’t work that way.’
‘I know that. Everything has a price. I can’t force you to answer. I am merely inviting you to do so.’
‘Inviting. I see. Tell me what Nicky told you—I’m curious what nonsense they are allowing in that very expensive school of hers.’
‘Nothing too outrageous. Merely some nonsense that you and your friends always win races because you made a pact with the devil for that privilege. Oh, and that when the three of you ride at night, virtuous women must hide indoors or be swept up in the wild hunt, never to return.’
She didn’t know what the amusement in his eyes signified—a male appreciation of his potency or a reaction to the absurdity of the tale?
‘Nicky told you this? What nonsense you women subscribe to. I assure you virtuous women are probably the segment of your sex most likely to be safe from the members of the so-called Wild Hunt Club. We prefer responsiveness from the subjects of our midnight raids and virtue is... What is the opposite of an aphrodisiac?’
‘Marriage, apparently.’
He burst out laughing.
‘Damn, you’re wasted as one of that group. You would have made an excellent courtesan.’
He meant to shock her and in a way he did, but it wasn’t her virtue that was shocked, but her body.
The thought of being free from all the restraints that held her, body and mind. The possibility of being free to walk up to this man and demand what she wanted...
She shook free of the foreign urge. Because his words also raised the unwelcome memory of that house in Kingston, of the shocked faces of the women who had faced her after her father’s death, aware their fate was now in her hands, scared and defensive and even pained. Some of them had truly cared for her father. As far as society was concerned, those women were worse than nothing; they were succubi who destroyed the lives of good men. She hadn’t seen that when she stood in that opulent room with its red velvet sofas and lewd paintings. She saw women...some of them younger than she, whose fates had never been their own, at her mercy as they had been at her father’s mercy and at the mercy of men like him. As long as they were young and performed their duties, they were adored and then... That night had been the first time she had cried for her parents and especially for herself.
In a less fortunate life she might have had no choice but to become one of those women who had nothing to trade but themselves. Then she, too, would have been at the mercy of men like her father and the members of this Wild Hunt Club, who thought they were somehow redeemed because they didn’t pursue virtuous women.
‘I don’t think so, Lord Ravenscar. No one could ever pay me enough to endure the life those poor women have to endure. Now, as you said before, we should leave before it begins to rain.’
He stopped her by moving to block her path.
‘I didn’t mean to insult you. Believe it or not, that was a compliment.’
‘I do believe it, which is precisely why I find it so offensive that you would assign any positive value to a fate where women have to sell their bodies to survive. It might be a better fate than many women have to face in this world, but it is no compliment. As someone dependent on the frailties of others to make your living, Lord Ravenscar, you should know that better than others.’
There, she had crossed a line and she was glad—finally Rakehell Raven was beginning to show his true colours. The transition from amusement to contrition to fury was as rapid as the explosion of a tropical storm, and the complete collapse of his façade fed her own anger and pain.
