Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1 - Louise Allen, Christine Merrill - Страница 73

The slam of the door echoed in the sudden silence.

After giving him a speculative look, Ellie walked over to her daughter. “Let me ring for Mary, sweeting. She can help you take your kittens out for some air. Beau, if you would please wait, I’d like to speak with you.”

While his sister took her daughter away, Beau tried to master his anger and make sense of his disordered thoughts.

How could Mrs. Martin leave now, when he had so little time left? He understood why the events of last evening might have upset her, but why flee from him, as if he were the perpetrator of that scene? It shocked—and he had to admit, hurt—him that she apparently had so little trust in his honor. When had he ever attempted to push or coerce her into doing something she didn’t desire?

It hurt, too, that she seemed so willing to give up the little bit of time they had left together—time that had become increasingly precious to him.

But if Mrs. Martin wanted to ignore the connection between them and return home, so be it. Given a few moments to accustom himself to this unexpected development, he’d be able to deal with it. ‘Twas only natural, having had his self-esteem unexpectedly bashed, that he’d succumbed to that rare fit of temper.

An uncomfortable tweak of conscience jabbed him. He’d have to pen her an apology after that gibe about her being childless. The idea of reaching out to her, even via the impersonal medium of a letter, suddenly lightened the sense of … dismay he’d experienced when she’d refused to be dissuaded from leaving.

Perhaps he’d call on her and deliver the apology in person. As that thought warmed him even further, the fact finally registered, too glaring and inescapable for him to evade the truth any longer.

He couldn’t lose Laura Martin. The idea of going through a day without experiencing her smile, her wide-eyed sparrow look of inquiry, the jolt of pleasure that excited his nerves just to be near her, was simply unthinkable. Beyond the ever-present physical pull, she had become that rare friend who challenged his opinions and resisted his commands even as her wit invited his laughter and her quick intelligence piqued his mind.

He’d been looking forward with impatient anticipation to becoming more than friends. Exactly what form their long-term relationship should take, he hadn’t yet figured out, but there would be time enough later for them to determine that together. First he had to ascertain what had so upset her, and coax her back.

Beau paced the room, trying to make sense of her behavior. Given the strength of the connection between them, despite her innocence he simply couldn’t believe a mere display of lust would have horrified her into retreat. He’d given her no reason to suddenly fear he’d try to coerce her into similar behavior.

A radical thought popped into mind, a theory that would settle all the jumbled pieces into place so neatly, he halted in midstride.

What if Laura Martin wasn’t what she claimed? What if she was not Lieutenant Martin’s wife—but rather his cast-off mistress? A gently born girl who’d been seduced, disgraced and abandoned to bear alone a bastard child who later died?

Having forfeited through indiscretion the life of comfort and the respect that had been her birthright, estranged from everyone in her family save a kindly aunt, naturally she would wish to live quietly, zealously guarding the tiny niche she’d carved out in this rural society. Betrayed by a man she loved, with neither family nor dowry to protect her, she might well distrust the motives of men, and deliberately seek to discourage their interest.

And certainly she would flee if tempted to commit once again the folly that had led to her ruin. Seeing the writhing couple last night might have shocked her into remembering all she risked by allowing Beau too close.

There’d been too much raw pain in her tone for him to doubt that she’d lost a child. But what of the rest of what she’d revealed about herself in Merriville?

His analytical mind already speeding, Beau determined to send word by return pouch today to have his secretary launch an immediate inquiry into the family background of Lieutenant Winnfield Martin of the Thirty-third Innisford Greys, the man the squire told him had been her late husband.

Whether or not Laura Martin had suffered such a disgrace mattered not a groat to him. The woman who enthralled him had honor, intelligence and character written into her bones. Nothing that had occurred in her past could dissuade him from wanting her by his side.

Whatever the truth of her story—and well-honed instinct told him there was much more than she’d yet revealed—he must somehow persuade her she had nothing to fear and everything to gain by confiding in him, a man who regarded his family and close friends as both gift and sacred trust. He must seize another chance to convince her he would never betray her, that he wished instead to hold, protect and care for her the rest of her days.

He was still trying to decide the best way to approach Mrs. Martin when Ellie reentered the room. With his return to London imminent, he couldn’t afford to wait for answers to an inquiry.

“An illuminating conversation, brother dear,” Ellie said as she walked to his side. “And don’t pretend you don’t understand. You were very severe with Mrs. Martin.”

He gave her a rueful grin. “You are right. I was … surprised. I shall have to apologize.”

“I should think so.” She pointed a reproving finger at him. “You do so hate it when someone within your purview makes a move without your consent.”

“A despot, am I?”

“Absolutely.” She kissed his cheek. “A benign one, but a despot nonetheless. Still, in this instance I think Mrs. Martin is being wise.”

“And why is that?” he demanded, surprised and more than a little affronted.

“I’ve seen the … attraction between you. Not knowing you well, she might be fearful of what you mean to do about it. After all, Laura Martin is a woman living all alone, without family or defenders. Unlike that demirep of a sharp-spoken bitch, Lady Ardith, she’s not the sort to indulge in idle bedsport. If you’ve dalliance in mind, brother dear, I recommend you confine your attentions to that one. She’s eager enough.”

“Such language, sister mine,” Beau replied with a quiver of amusement. “And thank you for kindly advising me to take myself off to someone you’ve just pronounced to be an acid-tongued witch.”

“She’s beautiful enough, I’ll grant. And quite suited for the casual interludes you men seem to enjoy.”

“Is that what you think I seek?” Beau clapped a hand to his heart. “How wounding that my own sister holds my sex in such low esteem. I assure you, idle dalliance is of little interest to me.”

“Then your intentions toward Mrs. Martin are more … serious?”

Careful, Beau cautioned himself. Being not quite sure yet just what form his long-term intentions for Mrs. Martin might take, he had no intention of revealing anything to his deceptively disinterested sister. “Minx!” he said, tapping her on the nose. “Suffice it to say that I would never allow the lady to come to harm.”

Ellie’s air of detachment dissolved. “You value her that much? Oh, splendid, Beau!” She took her brother’s hand and kissed it.’ ‘I cannot tell you how relieved that makes me. Serene and competent as Mrs. Martin appears, there’s about her an air of such … fragility. I worry about her future, alone in that little cottage with no kin to assist her. But if you, dear brother, have decided to watch over her, I can rest easy. Who knows better than Kit and I how safe and comfortable you make those lucky few you commit to your protection!”

“You like her very much, don’t you?”

“Yes. And Catherine adores her.” At his grin, she added severely, “You’ll say a mama would dote on the devil, were he sufficiently attentive to her child, but I assure you, children are fine judges of character. Laura is so good with Catherine. How tragic that she lost a babe!”

Ellie paused, sighing. “What a sad life she’s had. No surviving family, apparently, and widowed so young.” She shook her head. “From time to time I’ve made reference to Arthur, how I miss him when we’re parted. Not once has she ever volunteered a word about her late husband.”

“Prying, dear sister?”

“Certainly not,” she retorted with some heat. “You men are close as monks about your feelings, but women often speak to each other of such things. That Mrs. Martin does not, leads me to believe her union cannot have been a happy one. As far as it lies within my power, I intend to see that her future holds the promise of better. You’ll assist me in convincing her to come to London next Season?”

Beau laughed. “If you can persuade the very independent Mrs. Martin to accompany you to London,” he offered, sure her future would have been decided in much different fashion by then, “you may tell your husband I’ll frank the expense.”

“We shall see her settled for certain.” Ellie gave him an impish grin. “But given the interest hereabouts, if you refrain from appearing to dally with her, I may well not need a London Season to achieve that goal.”

Did his sister mean the vicar? Instantaneous irritation ignited at the thought. Having Laura Martin wed the well-connected reverend was certainly not in his plans. Suppressing the sharp remark that vision engendered, he replied instead, “No matchmaking schemes, Ellie. Let the lady choose her own way.” Our way, he added mentally.

“Yes, brother,” she replied with deceptive meekness.

Best to depart before Ellie tried to tease any more reactions from him. “Tell Catherine I’ll ride with her before dinner.” After kissing her cheek, he escaped to his room.

It being absolutely unavoidable, he’d work through the day on his papers, he decided, pulling out the first of several document satchels. Though he had a strong desire to confront Mrs. Martin again before she left, prudence said it might be better to let her depart unopposed. Allow her to regain the tranquility of her safe haven—and carefully prepare his approach before seeing her again.

Despite that resolve he paused, paper in hand, a bleakness invading him as he envisioned the long expanse of afternoon and evening which, for the first time in more than two weeks, would not be brightened by the sight and voice of Laura Martin.

As soon as he’d processed this stack of documents, he’d set about figuring out how to change that. If you think me easily discouraged, you are mistaken, Sparrow.

Figure it out and act upon it. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he sorted the papers on his desk, as early as he could reasonably expect her to be up and about, he’d pay a call on the newly resettled Mrs. Martin.

Wiping her muddy hands on a rag, Laura sat back on her heels and surveyed the weed-free herb bed. Misfit dozed in an early morning sunbeam nearby, a hot pot of tea and a fresh loaf of bread waited her in the kitchen, and she ought to be quite pleased with the results of her first morning home in over a se’ennight.

But she’d found upon arriving yesterday that the snug cottage she’d regarded for two years as a welcoming haven had somehow lost its power to comfort. Though she could still sense the presence of her beloved Aunt Mary, the small rooms echoed with emptiness. The conviction that her guardian angel watched over her yet had as little effect in raising her sagging spirits as the sputtering fire had in driving two weeks of chill from the room.

Another voice whispered through her dreams now, bringing her to wakefulness time and again awash in poignant longing. Another face appeared before her eyes as, weary of attempting sleep, she rose early to busy herself with weeding, gathering and replenishing her supply of herbs.

She missed the earl, missed even more sharply the energizing possibility that she might at any moment encounter him—at breakfast or tea or out walking with Catherine. ‘Twas the height of foolishness to mourn the loss of a friendship which had never really been hers, yet she could not seem to banish the deep sadness that dogged her. Nor could she, to her mingled chagrin and shame, deny that the one spark of pleasure in this gloomy day was the knowledge that she would return to Everett Hall this afternoon to check Kit Bradsleigh, walk with Lady Catherine—and perhaps catch a glimpse of the child’s uncle.

Soon Lord Beaulieu must return to London, beyond the possibility of a chance encounter. Her foolish partiality, she assured herself, would then wither and die, as it must. She should be proud she’d had the sense to tear herself away before she committed some irretrievable folly.

She wasn’t.

A lick on her hand startled her back to the present.

Tail wagging hopefully, Misfit nudged her. With a short bark, he bent to pick up the stick he’d dropped at her feet.

Laura sighed. “Since you were the only one to enthusiastically welcome me home last night—even the cat having deserted me—I suppose I owe you a game.”

Prancing in agreement, Misfit released the branch, then stood eyeing it avidly. He tensed as Laura held it aloft and swung it behind her back.

The instant she released it the dog tore off. She laughed, thinking ruefully how simple a dog’s needs were: food, affection, an occasional game of fetch. Why could human vessels not be equally reasonable?

When after several moments Misfit did not return, she frowned, certain he could not yet have tired of the game. Then she heard his bark—the short, sharp one that meant he’d discovered something. Fervently hopeful that it wasn’t another from a litter of skunk babies he’d tracked several weeks previous, she set off in pursuit.

She rounded the corner of the cottage—and stopped short. Smiling down at the prancing dog, who offered him up a stick, stood Lord Beaulieu.

Beau looked up to find Laura Martin staring at him from behind the gate that separated her herb garden from the country lane. Though she wore another worn gown faded to nondescript gray, the strengthening sunlight transformed that prosaic garment, outlining her slender figure in a halo of light and turning the stray curls that escaped the confines of her shapeless mobcap to copper fire.

Even with a smudge on her nose and mud on her apron, she looked beautiful, he thought, his heart swelling with gladness at the sight of her.

Were those shadows under her solemn eyes? Had she slept as little as he, tossing with impatience for the day that would bring him back to her?

He realized suddenly they’d both been standing, silently gazing at each other for some moments. Evidently she did, too, for she jerked her glance from his.

But not before he’d seen the surge of gladness in her face turn to wariness.

“Don’t!” he cried, brushing past the dog to approach her. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

For a moment he thought she’d retreat back into the garden without even permitting him to speak, but at the last moment she stood her ground. She even managed a tremulous smile.

“Good morning, my lord. And—I’m not afraid of you.”

He offered his hand. After a small delay, she extended hers. He savored the small courtesy of bringing it to his lips. “Are you sure? I’ve been much dismayed, worrying that somehow I drove you away.”

“Not you. Prudence. Did … did you need something?” Sudden alarm crossed her face. “Kit has not suffered—”

“No, Kit is fine. Awaiting a rematch at chess this afternoon, he bade me tell you.”

Her face relaxed. “Good. Did Dr. MacDonovan send you for supplies?” She tilted her head up, giving him that inquiring Sparrow look he’d come to treasure.

How fiercely he’d missed her after just one day. “No. I came to apologize.”

A blush stained her cheeks. “There is no need—”

“There is. But I should do a better job of it seated. If we might?” He gestured toward the cottage.

He held his breath as alarm, indecision—and longing played across her expressive face.

Yes, she still cared for him. Exultation mingled with restraint and a fierce desire to embrace her, kiss away the caution in her eyes, seize the opportunity here, far from prying eyes, where they might recapture and deepen the wordless intimacy they’d found in the moonlit garden.

Too soon yet, he told himself, stilling fingers already curled with anxiety to hold her again. “You are too kind to deny me that opportunity, aren’t you?”

Before she could reply, the sound of galloping hooves approached. Beau looked up to see Lady Ardith, resplendid in a fur-trimmed riding habit, bearing down upon them, and cursed under his breath.

The lady drew rein and smiled down at him. “Lord Beaulieu, good day to you! Is it not a brilliant morning for a ride?”

Did a grin flit briefly across Mrs. Martin’s lips? Before he could be sure, she curtsied. “Lady Ardith.”

The blonde regally inclined her head. “Mrs. Martin.” Her horse danced sideways and she tightened the reins, her trim posterior bouncing against the sidesaddle.

A deliberate move? Beau wondered cynically. With Mac departing this morning, was the wench already trolling for a replacement?

It won’t be me. “Fine indeed, Lady Ardith. Do not let us keep you from your ride. Mrs. Martin, shall we?” Beau gestured to the cottage.

“If you should wish me to delay a few moments until you finish your business with Mrs. Martin—” Lady Ardith plied her long lashes and gave him a smoky glance “—I could be persuaded. ‘Tis so enjoyable to ride with a partner.”

Mrs. Martin made a choking sound, which she turned into a cough.’ ‘I can bring any necessary supplies with me when I call on your brother,” she volunteered.

“No need for you to tarry then, my lord,” Lady Ardith said. “Have you ridden the trail by the river? ‘Tis wonderous scenic once you reach our land. My husband had several little grottos constructed that are charming and quite … private. Shall we race?” She inclined her head to the stallion he’d secured to the fence. “Your beast looks quite fresh, and my mare—” she sidled him a glance “—is nearly the best mount in the county.”

“Do go, my lord,” Mrs. Martin said, her innocent tone at odds with her suspiciously twitching lips. “I shouldn’t wish to you to miss Lady Ardith’s kind offer.”

He shot her a sardonic glance. The grin she returned looked entirely unrepentant.

“Another day, perhaps,” he told the horsewoman.

“Come now, I dare swear you’ve time for a little sport,” Lady Ardith persisted. “I promise you’ll not regret it.”

Beau had no desire to conduct his business with Laura Martin while this lightskirt lay in wait for him outside the cottage. Giving Mrs. Martin an indignant glance that caused her to choke down another gurgle of laughter, he turned his attention to the necessity of getting rid of the annoying Lady Ardith.

“A short ride,” he said.

“Excellent.”

Ignoring the lady on the sidesaddle, he turned back to Laura Martin. “I shall see you later, ma’am.”

A devilish twinkle lighting her eyes, she dipped a demure curtsey. “My lord, Lady Ardith.”

Not bothering to acknowledge Mrs. Martin, Lady Ardith brought her horse closer. “Can that stallion of yours perform as well as my mare? Let’s see!” With that, she spurred her mount.

“Soon,” he warned Mrs. Martin, and set off.

Half an hour later Beau brought his stallion to a halt at the shed behind Laura Martin’s cottage. He was not, he thought smugly as he dismounted and tied the horse to a post, the only person who could fob off an unwanted escort.

Leaving his mount hidden back here, where no passer-by could see it and decide to interrupt his visit, Beau stealthily traversed the garden, intending to enter by the back porch door.

Memories of the vision he’d stumbled upon the last time he’d silently approached down these herb-lined pathways kindled a flicker of heat in his stomach. Unbidden, the feel of her waltzing in his arms under the spangled stars, the taste of her lips meeting his eagerly, welled up in him, fanning the flicker.

Not yet, he told himself, curbing the memories. He’d not have the wit to calm her fears and win her trust if he walked in with his body aflame.

He paused by the door and raised his hand to knock.

And heard something—Mrs. Martin’s high clear voice interspersed with deeper tones.

Not again. Frustration humming through his veins, he paused on the threshold, debating whether to wait out the annoyance of a second visitor or to slip away and return later.

He’d first determine who her caller was, he decided. Silently he eased the back door open and crept down the hallway until he could see into the front parlor.

The scene he spied there paralyzed both thought and movement. In front of Mrs. Martin, who sat on the sofa by the window, he saw Reverend Blackthorne down on one knee.