Читать книгу Historical Romance March 2017 Book 1-4 - Louise Allen - Страница 17

Chapter Seven

The mouthful of bread and butter Sara had so unwisely taken turned to sawdust in her mouth. She swallowed and took a sip of lemonade. ‘You made it my affair.’ She let that sink in, then added, ‘And I like your sister, I would like to be her friend.’

Lucian’s mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘I am beginning to wonder if that is a good thing. All I wanted was for her to be encouraged to develop a few interests, to get out and about and not be moping inside.’

‘Moping inside? She is mourning a lost baby, frantic with worry about the man she loves and racked with guilt because she has disappointed her brother and you call it moping?’

‘I want her to forget him,’ Lucian said stubbornly.

There was more than anger in his expression now. There was pain and frustration and something very like despair. He had always been able to make the world right for his little sister, Sara realised, and now he had come up against something that was outside his experience, something that money and power and intelligence could not knock into submission. She had seen it in the faces of her brother and father when Michael died and they could do nothing to put it right for her except kill his killer, as if that would help—and Francis had fled out of their reach.

She trampled on the surge of sympathy. ‘She will never forget and there is nothing you can do about it except promise her you will not call Gregory out, will not hurt him—and then go to Lyons and find what happened to him.’

‘I cannot promise that.’

‘Then you risk losing your sister,’ Sara stated bluntly and saw the involuntary grimace at her harsh words. ‘She wants to understand why you acted as you did, why you are still so obdurate, and she wants to forgive you for it, but I have no idea how long that will last.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, you stubborn man! I am warning you.’ Her temper snapped like a dry stick. One moment she was sitting there with a glass of lemonade in her hand trying to reason it out, the next she found herself striding across the lawn between the scattered tea tables under the curious gaze of the other visitors. Behind her she heard raised voices, presumably the waiter demanding payment from Lucian.

‘Your help to mount, if you please,’ she said as she approached the grooms watching over the horses. ‘The gentleman will pay you in a moment.’

One of them tossed her up into the saddle and Twilight began to sidle, catching her mood. ‘Thank you. Come on, my lovely.’ She gave the mare her head towards the track up to the clifftop, riding on a loose rein. They both knew the way and the ground was sound.

If she thought that unfamiliarity with the track and a natural caution would hold Lucian back, she was mistaken, she realised, as she heard the hooves pounding behind her. Of course, no gentleman would allow a lady to ride unaccompanied, she fumed. Goodness knows what dangers might await her. Rabid rabbits, Sara muttered as they emerged from the woods and on to flat ground. Sex-crazed smugglers, unhinged hedge-layers...

The hoofbeats behind her were getting closer, much closer. She risked a backwards glance and realised that the only danger to her just at that moment was the Marquess himself. He looked as though he wanted to throttle her.

Sara twisted back round, wishing she was riding astride and not wearing this so-fashionable habit with its trailing skirts and broadcloth that slid on the saddle. As she thought about sliding a buzzard flapped up out of the long grass, a rabbit in its talons. The mare jinked, stiff-legged, swerved back and Sara lost her stirrup, lost her balance and went over Twilight’s shoulder down to meet the turf with a thud.

Instinctively she rolled, tucking herself up into a ball as her great-uncle the Rajah’s syce had taught her. The clifftop was almost as hard as the sun-baked Indian plain, she thought as she tumbled, arms around her head, braced for the hooves of Lucian’s horse.

There was the sound of furious, inventive, swearing, then she came to a stop, untrampled, and lifted her head warily in time to see Lucian dismount from a rearing horse in a muscular, controlled slide.

‘Sara!’

He was by her side and she closed her eyes strategically to postpone his anger and in sheer self-preservation. He had looked like a god just then and she could put no reliance on her own self-control. ‘Mmm?’ she managed.

‘Are you hurt?’

Yes, was the honest answer. Her left shoulder hurt, her right wrist stung and her pride as a horsewoman was severely dented. ‘No,’ she said and opened her eyes.

‘Excellent,’ Lucian growled. ‘Because I fully intend wringing your neck.’

‘Why?’ Indignant, Sara moved too quickly, found several other things that hurt and was hauled into an upright sitting position. ‘Ow! What are you doing?’

‘Checking.’ His hands worked along her collarbone, wriggled her fingers and prodded her ribs. ‘Move your feet. Let me see your eyes, your ears. What day of the week is it?’

‘Thursday.’

‘Correct.’ Then he kissed her.

It was probably less life-threatening than having her neck wrung, but as she found herself flat on her back on the turf again Sara was hazily aware that it was probably more dangerous. Lucian was angry with her and she was not very pleased with him, but that only seemed to touch a flame to the tinder of feelings that had been simmering inside her ever since that kiss on her balcony.

They were both wearing far too many clothes, she thought as her hands slid into his hair to hold his head so she could kiss him back with as much fervour as he was kissing her. His mouth moved from her lips to her cheek to her ear and she arched her neck to give him better access, shifting so he was lying fully on her, his pelvis cradled against hers, the heat of his erection like a brand.

She opened her eyes on a sigh as his hand slid between the buttons of her jacket, seeking her breast, blinked against the sun dazzle and gave a yelp of alarm. ‘Lucian!’

‘What?’ He came up on his elbows, which felt alarmingly wonderful as his hips pressed down tight into hers. ‘What’s wrong?’ He looked distracted, but then she felt more than distracted herself.

‘Wrong? We are in the open, on the clifftop. There is no cover. This is a public bridleway. You are undoing my clothes. We agreed we were not going to do this! Is that enough wrong for the moment?’

‘Hell.’ He rolled off her, sat up and looked around. ‘I am sorry. We do appear to be alone, if that is any consolation.’

‘There is no need to apologise, I kissed you back. It seemed preferable to having my neck wrung.’ Which was untrue. She had just wanted to kiss Lucian, have his hands on her, put hers on him, and she hadn’t been thinking at all.

‘I’ll get the horses.’ He rose to his feet and walked towards them. Twilight was well trained enough to stay when her rider fell off and the hired chestnut was standing nose to nose with her. They allowed themselves to be caught with no trouble and Lucian led them back as Sara fumbled her jacket closed and tried to make some order out of her tangled hair.

‘Your hat.’ He held it out as he jammed his own back on his head, then held out his hand to pull her to her feet.

Sara hissed with pain and Lucian moved close to take her arm. ‘You said you were not hurt.’

‘I am bruised. I fell off a horse. Naturally it hurts.’

‘Can you ride?’

‘Of course. If you will just give me a boost.’ She settled into the saddle and managed not to wince, or to look at Lucian as he swung up on to his own mount.

‘Why did you run off like that?’ he demanded as they set off again at a walk.

‘I lost my temper with you and rather than ring a peal over you in a public place I decided to leave.’

‘I was perfectly in the right—’

‘You were perfectly within your rights as an autocratic male head of household. But you are certainly not right about how to deal with your sister.’

‘She has to accept that Farnsworth abandoned her. I refuse to believe that an able-bodied, educated young man could meet with some fate so severe that he could not get a message back to a woman he cared for, one that he had left totally vulnerable.’

‘You might feel quite secure wandering around a French city, my lord. You have wealth and power and experience. Gregory was near-penniless and, however good his French, I would wager it was his first time in that country. How could he have coped if he had ended up under arrest for some innocent misunderstanding? Or in the charity ward of a hospital after being set upon by footpads?’

* * *

Lucian could hardly throw up his hands in exasperation, not with both of them holding the reins, but he could feel his shoulders twitch with the desire to do just that. Somehow he managed to get the desire that was burning through him like a wild fire under control, but his body held the memory of hers under him, of her softness and heat where his erection had burned and throbbed. Focus. ‘You will not encourage my sister to hold on to these hopeless dreams.’

The frustration and guilt were beginning to undermine his control, he thought grimly as they rode in frigid silence. He had failed Marguerite by not protecting her against the wiles of an unsuitable man, which meant he had failed in his basic duty to his family, to protect them. Now, somehow, he had to restore her lost honour—and his—and Sara’s inability to understand that, let alone sympathise with it as she should as a well-brought-up lady, was wreaking havoc with his temper. He must be mad to think of taking her as his mistress, of allowing her any deeper into his head, destroying his single-minded concentration on his sister.

It must have been her unconventional upbringing in India, he supposed. Her father and brother had seemed normal enough in their attitudes, from what little he had seen of them and from what Sara had said, but her mother was a different matter. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with an imperious manner who struck him as more than likely to take the defence of her own, and her daughter’s, honour into her own hands. And those pretty hands, he rather suspected, would be holding something as sharp as the knife Sara had drawn on him the other evening.

But that definition of honour must be very different from his if Lady Eldonstone had calmly allowed the newly widowed Sara to take herself off and set up as shopkeeper like this.

‘What am I to say to her, then, if Marguerite speaks of Gregory?’ It sounded as though Sara’s teeth were gritted.

Lucian forced away the memory of how that mouth, now so tight-lipped, had softened under his, how her tongue had felt, impudent and demanding in his mouth. ‘You will tell her that I have forbidden discussion of him and that if she wishes to keep you as an acquaintance that subject is out of bounds.’ His mother had never defied his father, Marguerite had never disobeyed either parent. His father had acted as though opposition to his will was unimaginable and, without uncles or elder brothers to model himself on as a youth, Lucian had tried to follow his example in everything except his womanising. So, was he lacking in essential authority to have lost control of the situation like this?

The unladylike snort that greeted that pronouncement was answer enough. And I do sound damnably pompous, he thought. Good God, if looking after a sister was difficult, what would it be like when he had children of his own?

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Sara demanded.

‘Like what, exactly?’ Now the conversation was descending to schoolroom levels. Somewhere there were beautifully behaved, elegantly minded young ladies who behaved with perfect decorum at all times and would be charmingly deferential to the men in their lives. Why was he surrounded by the complete opposite?

‘Speculatively,’ she said, after a moment’s frowning thought.

‘I have no idea why I should have been looking at you speculatively, which leads me to assume that you are reading more into my expression than was there.’ Pompous again. He had been trying for authoritative.

‘Very well. If Marguerite mentions Gregory, I will tell her what you say. She has heard my views on the matter already, so my silence now will make little difference.’

As olive branches went that one was decidedly shrivelled, but he decided to accept it. ‘Thank you. A lack of encouragement will have to suffice.’ That appeared to have effectively flattened all conversation. After five minutes, as they entered the lane down from the cliffs into the town, he added, ‘I will take your mare back to the stables.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ When they reached her house she permitted him to help her down, then hesitated with one foot on the lower step up to the front door. ‘There is an early evening concert at the Rooms tonight. Just a short one of light, popular pieces with refreshments afterwards. Marguerite might enjoy it.’

He felt his irritation with her vanish like sea fret in the sunshine. He did not want to be at outs with this woman. He wanted...to be what...to be friends? Surely not. He was never friends with his mistresses. They had a civilised, cordial, passionate business relationship and that was all. ‘Thank you, I am sure she would like that very much. Will you be attending?’

‘I expect so. Until later then, Lucian.’ And her smile was as warm as that sunshine he had been imagining. Sara, it seemed, did not hold grudges.

He found he was looking forward to an evening of undemanding music and tepid tea. His brains were obviously addling in the sea air.