Читать книгу Regency Scoundrels And Scandals - Louise Allen - Страница 23

The Duke and the Prussian general rode off ahead, through the orchard gate and into a sunken lane that led up towards the crest. The younger officer drew up alongside and grinned cheerfully across at them. ‘You have chosen a hot day to visit us, ma’am.’

Eva smiled back, trying to make her mind work; it was beginning to feel decidedly bruised, as though it had been hit by little hammers for hours. Pull yourself together, you can do this. What was his name? Ah, yes, Dereham, and he was a viscount and a major. ‘You must all be very wet and uncomfortable after last night, Major.’

Dereham shrugged. ‘I can think of better ways to recuperate between battles, but I have no doubt we’ll all have our minds taken off our wet feet before much longer.’

Eva liked him on sight—with his blond hair, blue eyes and devil-may-care expression he was the opposite of Jack’s dark, serious, hawk-like looks. ‘I hope you have managed to get a good breakfast this morning. The French are frying ham.’

‘Stale bread and cheese, ma’am, washed down with rainwater. I’ll tell the men about the ham, it’ll make them even madder to get at the French.’

‘I should imagine they would follow you anywhere, ham or not,’ Eva said, meaning it. Under his cheerful exterior the major looked like a man who would inspire loyalty and trust.

‘Stop flirting,’ Jack murmured in her ear. ‘I do not want to be fighting duels over you in the middle of Allied lines.’

‘Nonsense,’ she murmured back. ‘Flirting, indeed!’

They breasted the crest as she spoke and the teasing words dried on her lips. In front of them were the massed ranks of Allied troops, muddy, damp, many of them bandaged or weary looking. She could see individual faces as they rode past, read the suppressed fear, the determination, the sheer professional spirit of the men and her heart contracted. How many of them would walk away from this place by evening?

Their eyes followed as she rode past; one or two raised a hand, or called a greeting to the major. Eva was just about to ask him what troops he commanded when there was a sharp crackle of gunfire from the valley below. Dereham swung his horse round and stared down the way they had come.

‘They’re attacking Hougoumont at last. The Duke put some backbone into the troops in the wood when we were down there, I just hope they stand firm now.’ He spurred his horse on, ‘Let’s get you a mount, ma’am—the sooner you’re away from here, the better.’

In the event, when Jack saw the raw-boned, hard-mouthed troop horses that were all that were available, he slid off the gelding and gave her the reins. ‘He’s tired, but I know he’s reliable. I’m not having you carted halfway to the French lines on this brute.’ He swung up on to a massive grey and hauled its head round away from the lines. ‘Come on, you lump, I’m doing you a favour today, taking you off to Brussels and a nice quiet stable.’

‘God’s speed.’ Dereham touched his hat to Eva and stretched out a hand to Jack. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet at a party in Brussels tomorrow night. I deserve one—I missed the Duchess’s ball, after all.’

‘Ball?’ Eva queried as they left him and wove their way through the last of the lines and into the baggage train.

‘Duchess of Richmond, I’d guess,’ Jack said. ‘Brussels was en fête when I came through. The whole mob of diplomats and their wives had arrived from the Congress—picnics, parties, you name it. A ball on the eve of battle would be no surprise.’

Behind them there was the boom of artillery as the guns began to fire. Eva looked back over her shoulder, knowing she was taking a last look at history being made.

‘Come on.’ Jack kicked the reluctant troop horse into a canter. ‘I want you well away from those shells.’

‘Your Serene Highness, welcome.’ A bowing butler, curtsying housekeeper, an expanse of polished marble flooring and a sweep of staircase. She was back. Back in the real world of status and duty and loneliness.

Eva smiled, stiffened her spine, said the right things and searched Jack’s face for any expression whatsoever. She found none. A respectful half-dozen steps to her left, hat in hand, he waited while their host went through his ceremonious greeting.

‘Would your Serene Highness care to go to her suite?’ She dragged her attention back to what Mr Hatterick—no, Mr Catterick—was saying. A wealthy banker, he was apparently part of the network of contacts, agents and safe houses that Jack and his masters maintained across the continent.

Just at the moment Mr Catterick was struggling to keep up the pretence that the Grand Duchess standing in his hallway was not dressed as a man and thoroughly grubby and dishevelled into the bargain. His question translated, she knew full well, into Please go and make yourself respectable so I know what I am dealing with.

‘Thank you, Mr Catterick.’ Eva produced her most gracious smile, then felt it turn into an involuntary grin as Henry emerged from the baize door at the back of the hall. ‘Henry, you are all right! I was worried about you!’

‘Yes, I’m safe and sound, thank you, ma’am, and all the better for seeing you and the guv’nor here. Did you know there’s a battle going on out there?’

‘Thank you, Henry,’ Jack said repressively, the first words he had spoken since introducing her to their host. ‘We had noticed. Are her Serene Highness’s bags in her room?’

‘Aye.’ The groom’s bushy eyebrows rose at the tone, but he took the hint and effaced himself into a corner.

‘I will go up now,’ Eva announced. The housekeeper hastened to her side and gestured towards the stairs. ‘Thank you, Mrs—?’

‘Greaves, your Serene Highness.’

‘Ma’am will do nicely, Mrs Greaves. Have you been in Brussels long?’ Eva maintained a flow of gracious small talk aimed at putting the nervous woman at ease. It carried them up to the bedchamber and she felt her shoulders relax as the turn of the stair took her out of Jack’s sight. She could feel the brand of his eyes on her back as clearly as if he had pressed his hand there.

The room, an over-decorated chamber that was doubtless the best in the house, was a bustle of maids unpacking baggage and pouring water into the tub she could glimpse behind an ornate screen. Eva almost sent them all away, then stopped herself. She was a Grand Duchess, she must behave like one and try to put the dream that had been the last few days behind her.

Sipping hot chocolate while lying in a tub of hot water while twittering maidservants flitted about with piles of towels, soap, a back brush and enquiries about gowns and stockings made such a contrast to how she had spent the morning that it would have been easy to convince herself that she had been in a fever and had only just awakened.

‘There only seems to be one suitable day gown, ma’am,’ Mrs Greaves said dubiously from the other side of the screen. ‘Most of your luggage must be missing.’

That gown was one she had bought in Grenoble with Jack; it was not, Eva thought defensively, anything to be ashamed of, however simple in cut and construction. She remembered him in the milliner’s, his expression desperate as he tried to find the right words to answer her queries—the only time she had ever seen him at a disadvantage. Her eyes swam with moisture for a moment and she pressed a towel to them, pretending soap had made them teary.

‘Indeed?’ she said languidly. ‘Never mind, that one will do for now, although I regret I will not be able to dress for dinner. I trust Mr Catterick will not be offended.’ Mr Catterick, she was sure, would not be offended if she chose to turn up for dinner in masquerade costume, he was so thrilled at her presence.

Clean, dressed and refreshed by a cold collation, Eva drifted downstairs, maintaining an outward calm she was far from feeling. The sound of gunfire was constant, the scene in the street when she had looked from the window was chaotic, the servants were barely concealing their agitation at the closeness of the French, and out there, in country she could picture vividly, the men she had seen this morning, the officers who had been so pleasant, were fighting for their lives in mud, blood and smoke and a hellish din.

Bonaparte had won, so they said, at Quatre Bras. Was he going to triumph again here at Mont St Jean?

And where was Jack? The butler, materialising just as her feet reached the marble of the hall floor, informed her that Mr Catterick and Mr…er…Ryder were in the study, making preparations for her onward journey to England. Could he assist her Serene Highness with anything?

Mr…er…Ryder, indeed! ‘Yes, thank you. I wish to consult an English Peerage if there is one in the house.’

‘Certainly, ma’am. If you would care to step into the library, ma’am, I would beg to suggest you will be comfortable in here while I fetch the volume down.’

Eva sat at a velvet-draped table and waited until the red leather volume was laid before her. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’

Ryder. Rycroft…Riddle…Ribblesthorpe. She made herself stop thumbing rapidly and began to work through carefully. There. Lord Charles Ryder, Earl of Felbrigge, deceased. Married…Children…Lady Amelia Ryder married his Grace, Francis Edgerton Ravenhurst, the third Duke of Allington. ‘Hmm. Dukes might be considered to be top-lofty,’ she mused out loud, recalling Henry’s vivid description of Jack’s father. But surely…

She searched again, this time for Allington. The current duke was Charles, definitely too old to be Jack, and his mother was not Lady Amelia and had died years ago. Ah, there it was, married the second time to Lady Amelia, the previous duke had fathered two more children. Sebastian John Ryder Ravenhurst and Belinda Ravenhurst, now Lady Cambourn.

Jack, she seemed to recall from her days in England, was a familiar form of John. So, Jack was, in fact, Lord…Eva frowned in concentration as she worked out the proper form of address for the younger son of an English duke. Ah, yes, first names. Lord Sebastian, and his wife, rather strangely she had always thought, would be Lady Sebastian.

Only of course he did not have a wife. And he was, by all accounts, at odds with his family. No, that was not quite right. He had spoken with somewhat wry affection of his numerous relatives. It was his father he appeared to have had the strained relationship with. That, and his own position as an English aristocrat.

He was not living this adventurer’s life for lack of money, nor, from the way Wellington had spoken to him, because of any disgrace. He just seemed to enjoy it.

Her lover, she mused, was a lord. A duke’s son. A very respectable position for a lover, in fact. Only she did not care tuppence whether he was a lord or a labourer, she just loved him. And he was no longer her lover. He might come to her tonight, if it could be done without risk of scandal, but it would not be the same. Out there, anonymous fugitives, they had been free, simply Eva and Jack, with only Henry’s sniff of disapproval to remind them of what the real world would say.

Now, when she thought of him, looked at him, she had to guard her expression every second. When she was close to him she must be constantly vigilant in case she reached to touch him. When they were alone they were in peril every moment of being spied upon or overheard. In constant danger of having something that was heartfelt and honest and beautiful turned in to a squalid scandal for the gossip columns to hint and snigger at.

Eva closed the heavy volume and stood up, weighing it in her hands. Then she took it over to the bookcase it belonged in, pulling over the library steps so she could reach the shelf. It slid back easily into its rightful place, but she stayed where she was, seized with inertia.

They had been travelling to such purpose; now they had stopped, if only for a while, and it all seemed strange and purposeless. She had no control, she was simply the queen on the chessboard being moved about by invisible players. Should she even be here now—or should she be in Maubourg? What if Philippe had succumbed to his illness, or Antoine had made his way back? Or perhaps there was no one there in control. She wanted to be with Freddie so much it hurt, but the anxiety over what was the right thing to do nagged painfully.

‘What are you dreaming about?’ Jack was so close beside her that she jumped and almost overbalanced on the steps. He reached up his hands, and, heedless of all her mental warnings to herself, she let him lift her down, sliding down the length of his body, aware that he was finding that contact as instantly arousing as she was.

‘Those trousers are too snug for this sort of thing,’ she remarked, letting her eyes linger on the very visible evidence as she stepped away. ‘I was thinking about chess,’ she added.

‘Indeed. And you are quite right, I had best stay in here studying something dull while you remove yourself.’ He seemed serious under the flash of humour, turning to study the rows of books.

‘No…actually I was thinking that perhaps I should go back to Maubourg, now. What if Philippe has died? Or Antoine has got back there? What if King Louis discovers our troops came across the frontier and invades? The French would love an excuse.’

Jack turned slowly on his heel and regarded her. ‘Are you saying you want to turn round now and go all that way back, into God knows what and with Bonaparte still on the loose?’

‘I think perhaps I should.’ Eva found she was twisting her hands together in her skirt and made herself stop.

‘And your son?’

She shook her head, helplessly. ‘I know what I want, to be with him, but is it right? How can I tell what my duty is?’

‘To hell with your duty,’ Jack said explosively. ‘I do not know, and I do not care, about the Grand Duchy of Maubourg, but I do know what my duty is—and that is to get you back to England and reunite you with a small boy who needs his mother.’

‘Do you think that isn’t what I want?’ she demanded. ‘Do you think I want to meddle in politics rather than be with Freddie?’

‘I don’t know—do you?’

‘No! Oh, for goodness’ sake, can’t you see I love my son more than anything? But Maubourg is his inheritance.’

‘If he loses his mother, that is irretrievable. If something happens to the Duchy, then the Allies will sort it out.’

‘Possibly they will—some time, when all the big, important things have been done. Or they’ll find a good use for it and we’ll be helpless.’ Eva found she had marched down the room in a swirl of skirts and swung round, infuriated by Jack’s lack of understanding. ‘Jack, I think I should go back. I’ll write to Freddie, let him know I will join him as soon as I can.’

She paused, catching her breath on a sob as she thought of Freddie reading such a note, expecting Jack to answer with a solution that would make it all right, but he was silent, watching her. As she glared he folded his arms, casually, as though waiting for her tantrum to blow itself out.

‘Do not stand there like that!’ Goaded, Eva jabbed one long finger at him. ‘Say you’ll take me back’

‘And do not do that,’ Jack retorted, unmoving. ‘I am not your footman to be hectored. I will not take you back, and if you try to arrange it yourself I will take you back to England by force.’ For the first time she saw the full power of his anger turned on her. It was not in his voice, or his tone—both were calm and polite—but it was in his eyes, hard flint that were sparking fire.

‘Oh!’ Exasperated, frightened by what she read in those eyes, Eva acted without conscious intent. The flat of her hand swung for his right cheek, even as she realised what she was doing and that Jack had not even troubled to move to avoid the blow. His hand came up with almost insulting ease and caught her wrist and they stared at each other, so close that the angry rise and fall of her breasts almost touched his shirt front.

Then both her wrists were held tight, she was pulled against his chest, and, as he had in that field above Hougoumont, he punished her with a kiss. But then, as she had known full well at the time, it was a reaction to his fear for her safety, a plea to her to obey and stay safe. This, she realised with the part of her mind that was still capable of rational thought, was pure temper and her own rose to meet it.

Her fingers flexed into claws in his grip, her body arched against his, struggling to be free, yet wantonly provoking his reaction. Her lips opened under the assault of his and his tongue claimed her, thrusting arrogantly in a quite blatant demonstration of intent. Everything in her responded, love and fury and anxiety mingling into molten heat that pooled in her belly, driving her almost wild with desire.

Eva jerked both wrists down, surprising Jack just enough to free herself, then she had fastened her arms around his neck and was kissing him back with all the passion she was capable of, her body burning against his, her hips urging her tight into the hard, aroused masculinity she craved. She rocked, rubbing herself against him in blatant invitation until she was rewarded by the sound of his growl, low in his throat.

Somehow he had pushed her against the bookshelves; hard leather spines pressed into her shoulders and buttocks as his knee worked between her thighs, opening her as flagrantly as if she was wearing not a stitch. And still, neither could break the kiss, the furious, all-devouring, heated exchange that threatened to topple her into utter abandon.

What would have happened if there had not been the knock on the door Eva had no idea. Possibly they would have stripped each other naked and made angry, brazen, heated love on the library’s rich Turkey carpet.

She wrenched herself away, her hands flying to her hair, her décolletage, her skirts. ‘Get out,’ she hissed. ‘Just get out!’ Without a second glance at Jack she ran across to the pair of globes which stood by the desk, turned her back on the door and called, ‘Come in!’

‘Ma’am, Mr Catterick wondered if you would care to join him for tea?’ It was the butler. Eva looked back over her shoulder. Jack was apparently engrossed in a vast folio of maps on a stand that effectively hid whatever state of dishevelment he was in.

‘Certainly. Please tell Mr Catterick I will join him in a few moments.’

‘Ma’am. And Mr Ryder?’

‘I am going out, I have arrangements to make,’ Jack said curtly. ‘I will be back for dinner.’ He looked directly at Eva. ‘Henry will remain here.’ It was a warning not to try to leave.

‘Certainly, sir.’ The butler bowed himself out. Eva stepped across to the over-mantel mirror and surveyed her flushed face and wide eyes. At least the day was becoming uncomfortably hot, that at least might be taken as some excuse.

Grand Duchesses, she reminded herself desperately, do not plump down in the middle of the floor in the library and burst into tears of frustration, they get themselves under control and make small talk over the teacups. She gathered her skirts and swept out without so much as glance towards the atlases. She had foreseen this affaire ending in heartbreak—she had not expected it to fizzle out amidst bad temper and macaroons in a Brussels merchant’s house.