Читать книгу Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 21

Chapter Eleven

On the morning of the twenty-eighth, while they were still eating breakfast in the kitchen, the back door flew open and a middle-aged couple burst in, bringing with them the inevitable gust of rain-laden wind.

‘My lord, I’m that sorry,’ the woman began to apologise. ‘Had we any idea you was coming, we’d not have gone away. To think of you having to make do, at Christmas of all times.’

‘My Lady Havelock,’ drawled Lord Havelock icily, ‘allow me to present, finally, Mr and Mrs Brownlow. The caretakers of Mayfield.’

She managed, but only just, to follow her husband’s lead and not get to her feet and welcome the couple into the home as though they were guests. But she felt most uncomfortable when the one bowed while the other curtsied to her.

‘You look as though you’ve done very well, considering,’ said Mrs Brownlow, her eyes darting about the kitchen before coming to rest on Mary, who suddenly became very aware of the shabbiness of her gown and the fact that she’d not bothered taking off her apron when she’d sat down to breakfast. It felt as though Mrs Brownlow was sizing her up for the position of cook, rather than lady of the house. And that, given the choice, Mrs Brownlow wouldn’t have granted her either position.

‘But now we’re back, you won’t need to bother yourselves with all this sort of thing any longer,’ she added with a sniff, before going to the stove, opening the doors, rattling the poker about inside, then shutting them with more noise than was anywhere near necessary.

‘I notice you’ve decided to make use of the green-silk room,’ said the woman, taking the tea caddy from the shelf where Mary had left it and restoring it to the higher one where she’d first found it, but which was so awkward to reach. ‘Saw the smoke from the chimneys as we was coming up the drive,’ she added, which explained how she’d worked out where they’d slept, without anyone telling her.

But then Mrs Brownlow stilled, catching the full force of Lord Havelock’s scowl.

‘We was that relieved,’ she said, veering from her display of competence to ingratiating sweetness, ‘you hadn’t tried to take over the rooms what used to be his late lordship’s and his wife’s. None of the rooms in that wing have been touched since I don’t know when. Need a real good spring clean before they will be fit for use.’

Mary could have told her, had she paused to draw breath, that she could tell exactly how competent she was, from the state of the larder, the kitchen and the wing that had been let out to raise revenue. And that she didn’t have anything to worry about. Lord Havelock might have a ferocious scowl, but he wasn’t the kind of man who’d turn someone off for not somehow sensing he was about to marry and descend on his ancestral home.

‘And we’ll need to get the chimneys swept before anyone attempts to light a fire in any of the rooms. Probably got several years’ worth of birds’ nests in them by now.’

At her side, Lord Havelock froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. From the way his face paled, and the muscles in his jaw twitched, she guessed he’d just had a vision of setting the chimney on fire and burning his house down around his ears on the very first night he took up residence.

‘Now, you don’t need to sit in the kitchen any longer, not now we’re back,’ said Mrs Brownlow, laying her hand on the teapot, then whisking it off the table with a rueful shake of her head. ‘Mr Brownlow will light the fire in the drawing room.’ She shot a speaking look at her husband, who scurried off in the direction of the coal store. ‘It will be warm as toast in next to no time. And I’ll bring you a fresh pot of tea in there.’

Lord Havelock set his cup down and got slowly to his feet.

‘See that you do,’ he drawled. His attempt at nonchalance was good enough to deceive the Brownlows, but not Mary. She could tell he was still reeling from that casual reference to highly inflammable nests, which often did get lodged in chimneys.

‘Lady Havelock,’ he snapped. ‘Remove your apron and leave it behind. I sincerely hope never to have to see you in it again.’

Well, he had to give vent to his feelings somehow, she supposed. Lowering her head, in token meekness, she untied her apron strings. But she had to press her lips together to stop a smile forming. She kept her mouth firmly shut all the while Lord Havelock led her to the drawing room.

But once they were standing in the middle of the cold, inhospitable room, it struck her that they were behaving more like two naughty children caught out by their governess, than the lord and lady of the house.

And the giggles that had been building finally began to bubble over.

‘What are you laughing at?’

Lord Havelock turned to her, his brows drawn down repressively.

‘N-nothing,’ she managed in between giggles. ‘E-everything,’ she admitted, dropping on to the nearest sofa and pressing her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to stop.

‘There’s nothing funny about nearly burning the house down.’

‘Y-you didn’t, though. There must not have been,’ she said in a vain struggle to both reassure him and bring herself under control, ‘any n-nests up the ch-chimney, after all.’

‘Don’t say that word!’ He planted his fists on his hips and glared down at her.

‘Which one? Ch-chimneys? Or n-nests?’

She was laughing so hard by now that she had to wipe away the tears that had begun to run down her face.

‘Neither,’ he snarled, though his eyes had lost that dead, hollow look. ‘Both.’ As though coming back to life, he began to stalk towards her. ‘Do you hear me, woman? You are never, ever, to mention birds’ nests, or chimneys, to me again.’

His words were firm, but his lips were starting to twitch, too.

‘Or...’ she said, gratitude that he was a man who didn’t take himself too seriously surging up within her on a tidal wave of joy. ‘Or what?’

He was almost upon her now and his eyes were smouldering with such heat it made her want to lean back into the sofa cushions and open her arms to him.

‘Or,’ he growled, ‘face the consequences.’

With a little shriek, she leapt up off the sofa just before he lunged for her. For the next few minutes, he chased her round and round the sofa, uttering dire threats of what he would do if he caught her, which he could have done any time he chose since she was laughing too hard to properly control her movements.

And then the door opened and Mr Brownlow appeared with a full coal scuttle. And came to a dead halt at the sight of his master and mistress playing chase.

‘Dashed cold in here,’ panted her husband as Mary froze in place. ‘Just keeping warm, with a little exercise.’

The look on Mr Brownlow’s face, the knowledge that had he come in a few seconds later he would have caught them rolling about on the sofa rather than running round and round it, was too much for Mary. With a shocked little cry she darted past the scandalised caretaker and out into the corridor, where she made for the stairs.

She heard her husband’s footsteps pursuing her, but this time she wasn’t playing. She really did just want to run away and hide. Without thinking, she made for the only room in the house where she would feel safe. The bedroom in which they’d slept the night before. The embers still glowed in the grate, making the room less chilly than any other, except the kitchen.

Lord Havelock reached it only a few seconds behind her. Before she could even turn round, he’d grabbed her by the waist.

‘Got you,’ he cried, propelling her across the room and flinging her down on to the bed.

‘Now, my girl, we’ll see how long you can keep on laughing at me,’ he growled. Not that she felt like laughing any more. All the humour had gone out of the situation.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

She hadn’t realised she’d communicated her chagrin to him. But she’d definitely tensed up and he’d noticed.

‘I...I’m sorry,’ she said, tears starting to her eyes as he reared up and looked down at her in confusion. ‘It was just...’ She gulped. ‘I can’t believe I forgot Mr Brownlow was on his way to make up the fire in there. A few more moments, and he would have found us... He would have found us...’ She couldn’t go on. Her face flamed though, at the knowledge she’d been about to let her husband catch her and tumble her to the sofa he’d been chasing her round. And let him commence the perfectly thrilling punishments he’d been threatening.

He started to chuckle.

‘It isn’t funny.’

‘But it is, though. Far funnier than almost burning the house down around my ears. And you, madam...’ he gave her a squeeze ‘...couldn’t stop laughing about that.’

He kissed her brow in a comforting sort of way. And then her mouth, as his fingers sought the ties of her bodice.

‘Surely you cannot still be thinking about...about...’ Oh, but he most definitely was. And the minute he slipped his hand inside her gown, she was thinking about it again, too. Not just thinking about it either, but wanting it.

‘Since we’ve been married,’ he groaned, pushing aside an inconvenient swathe of material so that he could get at bare skin, ‘it seems to be damn near all I can think about.’

‘B-but we can’t.’

‘I don’t see why not. Mr Brownlow already knows what we’ve come up here for.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘Of course he does. He almost caught us at it in the drawing room, don’t forget.’

‘As if I ever could,’ she cried in mortification.

‘Mary,’ he said more gently, stroking the hair from her forehead. ‘You don’t really want me to stop, do you? Not...now?’

He ran his hand up the outside of her leg, pushing her skirt out of the way. A thrill shot through her, making her heart beat faster, her insides melt and her hips squirm.

‘It would be a positive crime to disappoint Mr Brownlow.’

‘Oh, don’t speak to me of him,’ she whimpered, torn between giving way to the delicious sensations he was rousing and the notion that she oughtn’t, she really oughtn’t, behave like this any more, not now they had indoor servants.

‘Not another word,’ he agreed affably. ‘In fact, I’m sure I can put my mouth to much better use.’

He did. He set about making love to her with such skill that before long her world shrank to the size of one bed, and the only two people left were the two people on it. What had started out downstairs as playful rose swiftly again to a crescendo of desperate need. The urge to scream when her release came was so overwhelming she didn’t know how to deal with it. In the end, she pressed her mouth into his shoulder to muffle the cry.

Afterwards, they lay together panting and just looking into each other’s eyes in a kind of mirrored awe. She was shocked at herself for responding to him with such ardour, in spite of her awareness that the servants must know what they were doing.

And he must be wondering what kind of a woman he’d married. One minute she’d been saying she felt self-conscious. That she really couldn’t...do that. The next she’d been tearing at his clothes in a kind of frenzy, wrapping her arms and legs round him, and coming to such a cataclysmic release she’d...she’d bitten him. She could see the teeth marks on his shoulder!

‘Oh, what have I done?’ She raised trembling fingers to his shoulder. Then pressed penitent lips to the reddening crescent.

* * *

She’d made him feel like a god, that’s what she’d done. He’d never been with a woman who responded to him the way she did.

‘It’s nothing.’ He shrugged with feigned nonchalance, whilst desperately trying to stifle the unfamiliar, and slightly disturbing, emotions welling up inside him.

‘It isn’t nothing. I’ve left a bruise....’

‘A mark of passion. Such things happen between lovers all the time.’

He winced at the look on her face. He’d been trying to make light of a moment he was damn sure was going to live in his memory for a lifetime. Instead he’d made her think of her wondrous passion as something...tawdry.

Sitting up, he turned his back on her and thrust his fingers through his hair in annoyance. He should have just admitted he liked it. He could have done so in a teasing kind of way, so that she wouldn’t guess how deeply she’d moved him, couldn’t he? And then she would have smiled and...

God, but it was damn complicated, being married. The good moments got all snagged up with darker feelings until he couldn’t unravel the tangle.

‘Look, Mary...’ He sighed with exasperation. ‘If ever you do anything I don’t like, I will be sure to tell you. No need to get worked up over such a little thing.’

‘I...I’m sorry.’

The tremor in her voice made him turn to look at her sharply. Her little face was all woebegone.

Damn. Why wasn’t he more adept with words? His explanation of how his mind worked had come out sounding more like a reprimand. And he’d hurt her. Which was the very last thing he ever wanted to do.

‘Look, I warned you before we got married that I’m a blunt man.’ In lieu of smooth words, he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So this is the truth. I like being married to you.’ Far more than he’d thought possible.

‘Oh. Well, I like being married to you, too,’ she said shyly, returning the pressure of his hand.

He lifted her hand and kissed it.

‘There. That’s all right and tight, then.’ He got up and reached for his clothes. ‘Think I’ll go for a ride.’ Clear his mind. And let her recover.

Because if he stayed he was bound to end up saying something that would make this awkwardness between them ten times worse.

* * *

All of a sudden, it seemed to Mary, the place was teeming with servants. When she’d eventually plucked up courage to go downstairs and face Mrs Brownlow, the woman had told her exactly how many she would need to run a house of this size efficiently, then brought them all in. She didn’t even go through the motions of letting Mary interview them. She just hired the people she always hired on whenever Mayfield had tenants.

Not that she could fault any of them. Each of them knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing—and each other, too.

She was the only one who seemed to feel like a stranger here. Who wasn’t totally comfortable with their role. She was used to doing housework, not ordering others to do it, that was half the trouble.

So, as the spring cleaning commenced, even though the new year had not yet come round, Mary took to walking about the rooms with a rag in her hand, and a scarf tied over her head, desperate to find some dirt, or a cobweb, Mrs Brownlow’s team might have overlooked.

While her husband rode out early to avoid, she suspected, all the bustle, even though he muttered vague excuses about tenants. And only making love to her at night, behind the closed doors of their bedroom.

‘There’s a carriage coming up the drive, my lady.’

Mary looked up from the skirting board behind the sofa—where she’d found a satisfyingly thick layer of dust—to see that Mrs Brownlow herself had come with the news, instead of sending her husband.

‘You’ve got visitors. So I’ll take that,’ she said, snatching the duster from Mary’s hand. ‘You shouldn’t be doing it, anyway,’ she grumbled.

Though what was she supposed to do all day, now that her husband didn’t seem inclined to chase her round the furniture any longer? Sit on a sofa and twiddle her thumbs?

‘I’ll have Mr Brownlow...’ who’d taken on the mantle of butler ‘...show them to the drawing room while you go and change into something more suitable.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mary, fumbling the strings of her apron undone and making for the door.

Change? Into what? She supposed she would look slightly better in a clean gown, rather than one she’d been crawling around on the floor in, but not much. Neither of the other gowns she owned were in all that much better condition, after serving as bedding, then withstanding her time as cook and housemaid.

There was her wedding gown, of course. Only was it suitable for receiving callers?

What did the wife of a viscount wear for receiving callers, anyway?

Oh, what did it matter? Surely the most important thing was to make them feel welcome?

And it was no use, she decided—snatching the scarf from her head and stuffing it into her pocket—trying to pretend she was something she wasn’t.

She stifled a pang of guilt as she hurriedly tidied her hair before the mirror. Lord Havelock had said he wanted her to be well dressed when the local gentry came calling. He’d said she would have to buy a lot of new clothes.

Only, somehow once they’d got down here, the topic had never come up again. And she hadn’t liked to mention it.

With any luck, whoever was calling on her today would be able to tell her where she could find a reliable dressmaker, locally. In fact, it would be a very good topic of conversation. Anyone who knew her husband would have no trouble believing he’d swept her off her feet, and down here, without giving her a chance to buy any bride clothes.

Feeling much better about her gown now she could look upon it as a conversation opener, rather than a personal failing, Mary made her way to the drawing room.

She had only just reached it and taken a seat on one of the chairs by the fireplace, when Brownlow opened the door again.

‘Lady Peverell,’ he intoned. ‘And Miss Julia Durant.’

‘Oh!’ She leapt to her feet, her hand flying to her throat. She knew that her husband had written to invite Julia to come and live with them, but as far as she knew, he hadn’t received a reply.

Lady Peverell, a stylishly dressed blonde who didn’t look much beyond the age of thirty, flicked Mary’s crumpled, grubby gown a look of scorn, drew off her gloves and made for the chair she’d just leapt out of.

‘Oh. Of course,’ said Mary, moving out of her way. ‘Do come and sit beside the fire,’ she said a moment too late. ‘You must be dreadfully cold after your journey. Such weather. I expect you’d like tea.’

It was all she could do to cross to the bell pull and ring for a servant, rather than run down to the kitchen and put the kettle on herself. With one withering look, Lady Peverell had made her feel as though she had no right to be in the room. Let alone pose as lady of the house. And as for presuming to the title...well!

‘And you, too, Ju—’ She pulled herself up, remembering she had no right to address her husband’s sister by her given name, just because they’d been used to speaking of her that way. ‘I mean, Miss Durant.’

She sent the girl a timid smile. Which wasn’t returned. Miss Julia Durant remained standing just inside the doorway, scowling at her.

Oh, but she looked so very much like Lord Havelock, when things weren’t going his way! She had the militant stance and the determined chin. She had the same-shaped hazel eyes, too. And from what she could see of her hair, which was fighting its way out from under her bonnet, the same thick mass of unruly curls that graced his head, too.

Though, she frowned, he had described her as a beauty. A girl at risk from a predatory older man.

Julia could certainly become very attractive, once she’d outgrown the spots that marred her complexion, learned not to pout and glower at strangers, and had her hair styled by a professional.

Julia responded to her smile with a look of scorn and a toss of her head. She flounced over to the window and flung herself on to the sill, turning her shoulder to the other occupants of the room.

‘You see?’ said Lady Peverell, waving the riding crop she held in one hand in Julia’s direction. ‘You see what I’ve had to contend with? I have a houseful of guests, but does she care? No. The minute she gets that letter from her brother nothing will satisfy her but instant removal to this godforsaken pile. Won’t even wait till Twelfth Night.’

Well, that was very like Lord Havelock, too. He didn’t see the need to wait once he’d made up his mind to do something, either.

‘And now she is here,’ Lady Peverell continued, her voice rising both in volume and pitch, ‘she’s no better pleased. Not that I’m taking you back, miss, so don’t you think I will.’

Julia shot her a look of fury over her shoulder, before folding her arms and glaring out of the window again.

‘That is the only thing that made me give in to her badgering. The knowledge that at long last I would be able to wash my hands of her! Even though I can see that we’ve taken you by surprise, turning up unannounced.’

‘Oh, no, not at all....’ Mrs Brownlow could have any of the bedrooms in the guest wing ready in a trice. ‘It doesn’t matter in the least that we didn’t know the exact date she would arrive—’

‘Stuff,’ snorted Lady Peverell. ‘And this is how it will always be once you have her under your roof. Well, I just hope you have a very strong constitution. The girl is a complete hoyden. Selfish and self-willed. Totally impossible.’

Mary didn’t believe it for one second. From what Lord Havelock had told her, the poor girl had spent her life being passed around like a parcel. The few weeks during which Mary had undergone such treatment had given her a very good idea of how Julia must feel. Especially since her current guardian was doing what her own relatives had done—talking about what was to become of her as though she had no say, no brains, no will of her own.

And no feelings.

She had just taken a deep breath, to explain, calmly and rationally, that Julia would be a welcome addition to the household, when the door burst open and Lord Havelock strode in.

‘Gregory!’ With a heart-rending cry, Julia leapt to her feet, flew across the room, flung herself into his outstretched arms and dissolved into noisy sobs.

‘There, there,’ he crooned, rocking her in his arms. ‘No need to cry. You’re safe now. You’re home.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ muttered Lady Peverell. ‘No wonder the girl is so wild. Nobody can ever do anything with her, because she only has to pour out some tale into your ear and you come rushing in to take her side. She’s a spoiled madam and it is all your fault.’

Lord Havelock’s arms tightened round his sister’s heaving shoulders. He glared at Lady Peverell.

‘Then you can have no qualms about leaving her in my care, can you?’ He jerked his head towards the door. ‘Have a safe journey home. I heard you say how busy you are with your house party. Do not let us detain you.’

Mary’s jaw dropped. She knew he had a temper. But was he really going to throw Lady Peverell out, after travelling so far, in such horrid weather? She hadn’t even had any tea.

But the peevish Lady Peverell didn’t appear the least surprised by his attitude. She just got to her feet and gathered her things together with an air of magnificent disdain.

Shooting the siblings one look of sheer loathing, Lady Peverell turned to Mary.

‘I wish you luck,’ she said. ‘Oh, and before I forget, I brought you a small gift. Here,’ she said, thrusting the riding crop into the hands Mary had stretched out, impulsively, to implore her not to leave without at least having a cup of tea.

Mary blinked down at the riding crop in confusion. She couldn’t ride a horse, so had no need of such a thing. Of course, Lady Peverell couldn’t know that. She raised her eyes, trying to form a polite smile of gratitude.

‘I’ve found,’ said Lady Peverell, shooting Julia a look of pure malice, ‘it’s the only way to keep that creature in line.’

With that parting shot, she strode from the room, her nose in the air.

The smile froze on Mary’s lips.

There was a beat of silence.

Lord Havelock was looking at her with cool, assessing eyes. And with a start, Mary realised she was still clutching the riding crop in her hands.

With a cry of disgust, she flung it away. It landed on the floor by the window with a clatter that caused Julia to lift her head from her brother’s shoulder and look up.

‘I would never,’ cried Mary, ‘ever use such a thing. Not on an animal, let alone a person!’

* * *

‘I know,’ he snapped.

There was no need for her to say it. She was such a gentle creature—too gentle for her own good, sometimes.

He’d heard Lady Peverell’s tirade well before he’d reached the room, her voice was so strident. And though she’d spoken venomously, he couldn’t deny there was an element of truth to what he’d overheard. Julia could be...a bit of a handful. She was a Durant, after all, with the Durant will and the Durant temper.

And he could just see her running rings round Mary, given half a chance.

Well, he’d just have to make sure she didn’t get a chance.

He stilled as it struck him that Mary’s happiness was now just as important to him as Julia’s had ever been. Which was ironic, considering he’d only married her so he could provide a home for Julia. Yet now this had become Mary’s home, too. She loved it here. He’d watched her blossom in it. Delight in it.

And he didn’t want Julia’s moods to ruin it all for her. It would be totally unfair to expect her to deal with Julia—in this frame of mind, anyway. Not even Lady Peverell could exert any sort of control over his sister, so how could he expect Mary to take her in hand? Why, she couldn’t even keep Mrs Brownlow in her place. The dratted woman had promoted herself to the position of housekeeper and was running Mayfield just as she pleased.

‘You needn’t be afraid of Mary,’ he said to Julia. ‘She has the kindest heart imaginable. Honestly,’ he said when she continued to cling to him, whilst looking at Mary as though she was some kind of ogre. ‘I made sure of it before I married her.’

Mary flinched. Made sure of it? How? They’d only known each other a few days before he proposed.

And yet he’d made that list, hadn’t he? A list that ensured the woman he picked would provide a home for his beloved, treasured sister. The girl he was holding in his arms. The girl who’d flown to him. Who called him by his given name without thinking, when so far Mary had never dared be so familiar....

She always had to call him my lord, or husband, or occasionally, when she felt very daring, Havelock. Because he’d never invited her to share the intimacy his sister naturally took for granted.

Though she was sure Julia hadn’t meant to, the girl had given her a very brutal reminder of what her place in his life really was.

A means to an end.

‘She’s been very busy,’ said her husband to his sister, ‘putting this old place to rights, so you could come home.’

‘C-can I have my old room back?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ju. The family wing hasn’t been used in such a long time it’s still a bit of a mess. But there are any number of rooms in what used to be the guest wing you can choose from.’

When she didn’t stop pouting, Lord Havelock chucked her under her chin. ‘How about coming and having a look? A couple have good views over the stables.’

‘The stables?’ Julia stopped crying abruptly. ‘I...I suppose that would be...’ She sniffed and wiped her tear-stained face with the back of one hand.

‘And even better,’ he went on, before she had the chance to form her thoughts into words, ‘I’ve got something inside the stables that will put a smile back on your face.’

‘A new horse? For m-me?’

‘Welcome-home present,’ he grinned. ‘Saw Panther at Tatt’s and knew he’d be just the thing to put the roses back in your cheeks. Want to come and meet him?’

Julia shook off her angry, tearful demeanour the way a dog shakes off water after a dunking.

‘Oh, yes, please.’

All smiles and arm in arm, brother and sister left the room without a backward glance. As though Mary didn’t exist.

And then Mrs Brownlow came in, with a tea tray. Behind her came Susan, who was the chief housemaid, with another tray, laden with cakes and other dainties.

‘Where has everyone gone?’ Mrs Brownlow looked most put out to find that her efforts to whip up a tray of refreshments for their unexpected visitors had all been for nought.

‘Lady Peverell has gone home. And Miss Durant and his lordship have gone to the stables.’

‘And what are we to do with miss’s luggage?’ said Mrs Brownlow, plonking her tray down on the nearest table with a clatter. ‘There’s boxes and trunks all over the hall. I can’t just leave them there. One of my girls will be tripping over them and breaking her leg, I shouldn’t wonder. What room shall I have them taken to?’

‘You could have them taken up to the guest wing and placed in...oh, I don’t know. How about the room that has all that crimson brocaded wallpaper?’

‘It’s not really suitable for a young girl, my lady. Far better to put her—’

‘Well, one of the rooms that overlook the stables, if you please,’ she said more firmly. ‘And if she doesn’t like it, she can pick another one. You needn’t unpack anything. Just move her luggage up there, so it is out of your way.’

‘Hmmph,’ said Mrs Brownlow, before bustling out with Susan in tow.

Leaving Mary in sole charge of an enormous pot of tea, half a dozen cups and more cakes than she could eat in a fortnight.