Читать книгу Scandal At The Christmas Ball: A Governess for Christmas / Dancing with the Duke’s Heir - Marguerite Kaye, Bronwyn Scott - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Friday, 25th December 1818, Christmas Day

Christmas morning began, as tradition dictated, with a church service, then an elaborate champagne breakfast followed by a stroll to the village green, now carpeted with a thick blanket of snow. The local children had gathered, and were crowding excitedly around the huge horse-drawn sleigh which accompanied the Brockmore party. On Boxing Day, food baskets would be delivered to tenants and those in need, but today was all about distributing treats to the children of the estate. The Duke and Duchess, aided by some of their guests, handed out wooden dolls and horses, lead soldiers, tin drums, skittles, balls, skipping ropes, hoops, spinning tops and penny whistles, and soon the air was filled with whoops of glee. The frenzied beating of tin drums was soon interspersed with the shrill sound of penny whistles being blown, as if some miniature marching band were tuning up.

Percival Martindale was making a terrible hash of the gift-giving, Drummond noticed as he watched from the sidelines. The poor man got it wrong every time, handing dolls to small boys, skipping ropes to toddlers, and a tin drum to the perplexed mother of a swaddled baby. Heaven knew how he would cope with his new wards. Perhaps he would find a wife to help him bring them up. Or hand them over to a governess. Martindale was smiling gratefully now at Joanna, who had tactfully intervened, swapping Martindale’s choices for something more appropriate, earning herself a grateful smile and a pat on the arm.

For some reason, Drummond did not appreciate this over-familiarity. On impulse, he headed across the snow, waiting patiently until the last gift had been dispensed, then stepping quickly between Martindale and Joanna, offering his arm, and sweeping her away before the other man could protest.

‘I was not in need of rescue, you know,’ she said, as Drummond steered the pair of them away from the revelry. ‘Mr Martindale seems a pleasant but rather melancholy gentleman.’

‘I take it, then, that you are not aware that he has recently been obliged to take in his sister’s two children? Both their parents were killed in a carriage accident, apparently.’

Joanna’s smile faded. ‘I had no idea. How very tragic. But what then, is Mr Martindale doing here at Brockmore? Surely his place is with his new charges, especially at this time of year?’

‘According to Edward Throckton, who is a positive mine of information, the Brockmores were close friends of the deceased couple. They felt the chap desperately needed a break after all he has been through. Apparently, the children have been packed off to mutual friends who have a large brood of their own. They will be well cared for, I am sure, and most likely better able to cope with the loss than poor Martindale, for children, as you must know, are actually very resilient.’

Joanna’s mouth tightened. ‘I never knew my mama, she died giving birth to me, but I have known several children lose a parent, Drummond, and whether they are five years old or fifteen, what they need more than anything is security.’

‘Martindale strikes me as someone who knows his duty. I am certain he will do his best by them—better, perhaps, when he’s had this break to distance himself from his grief.’

‘I hope so, for the poor mites deserve nothing less.’

‘I’ve some experience in this field, you know. I’ve had lads—and I mean lads, Joanna, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—lose a parent. Sometimes, when we were on campaign, word came months after the death, and often it would fall to me to break the news. I happen to agree with you, security is what they need the most. In such cases, it is the army routine which provides that.’

‘And so as an officer, you also acted in loco parentis, just as a teacher does at times—though I do not mean for a moment to compare the two. For you, so far away from home, it must have been so much worse.’ Joanna pressed his arm. ‘Though not so bad as to have to inform a parent on the loss of a child.’ She covered her mouth, aghast almost before the words were out. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, what a tactless thing to have said. I cannot imagine...’

But it was too late. ‘No,’ he said, his voice sounding hollow, as if it did not belong to him. ‘No, you cannot.’ So many such carefully crafted letters, full of kind words and platitudes, glossing over the terrible reality of death in battle. And that one, last letter he had not been permitted to write, despite it being the most important of all. Drummond squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to dispel the memory.

Joanna’s face was pale, her expression horrified, but he felt as if he was looking at her from afar. It was the deafening silence he remembered most. The sudden, shocked silence like that which followed a cannon’s roar. The disbelief writ large on the faces of his men, that must have been reflected in his. Followed by a blood-curdling roar of anguish. His own voice, emanating from the darkest, deepest recesses of his soul.

‘Drummond?’ Joanna gave him a little shake. ‘Drummond?’

He dug his knuckles into his eyes, pushed his hair back from his brow. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

‘It is I who should apologise. I did not intend to evoke whatever terrible event it was you recalled. I am so very, very sorry.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, relieved to hear that his words had a deal more conviction.

‘Do you want to tell me...?’

‘No!’ he barked, making Joanna flinch. ‘No,’ he repeated, more mildly. ‘Some things which happen during conflict are not for the ears of civilians—they would not understand.’

‘I am truly sorry.’

‘Forget it. We have talked enough about my occupation, tell me about yours. What is it you love so much about teaching?’

To his relief, though she hesitated, she accepted the crude change of subject. ‘Not beating Latin and Greek into my pupils, for one.’

‘Men teaching boys, that is a very different thing.’

‘Did they succeed?’ she asked, eyeing him quizzically. ‘Or might a gentler approach have been more effective?’

Drummond shrugged. ‘It is simply how things were, and no doubt are still. Masters on one side, boys on the other, the one pushing, the other resisting.’

‘You don’t think that a little encouragement, some interest in the subject matter would have helped bridge the gap? How can one expect to imbue a child with enthusiasm for a subject when it is patently obvious to the child that their teacher does not share it?’

‘A good point. Perhaps if my teachers had been more like you I wouldn’t have been so eager to finish school.’

‘I was lucky, I had an excellent example to follow. My father was a botanist as well as a tutor, and taught me to think of pupils as flowers, some blooming easily and showily, some needing to be gently coaxed. I have a weakness for those who need coaxed, I must confess,’ Joanna said with a tender smile. ‘There is nothing quite so rewarding as helping a child to find their own particular talent—and every child is gifted in some way, you know.’

‘That has been my experience too,’ Drummond said, ‘though I’m not too sure any of my raw recruits would have taken to being likened to a flower. I take it, from the way you talk of him, that your father is no longer with us?’

‘He died very peacefully, a few weeks after my twenty-first birthday, almost seven years ago.’ Her eyes were misty with tears, but when Drummond made to apologise, she shook her head. ‘No, you’ve not upset me, I have nothing but lovely memories of our time together.’

‘May I take it that it was the loss of your father which required you to take up teaching for a living?’

‘In a way, that is how I have always earned my crust, as they say, for latterly, I took over the youngest of Papa’s pupils but, yes, his passing changed things. For a start, the house was only a life rent, and though I could have negotiated to take it on...’ Joanna grimaced. ‘A man can command a great deal more fees than a mere woman, no matter how well educated she is. I simply couldn’t afford it.’

‘That seems damned unfair.’

‘So many women would agree with you, and so surprisingly few men,’ Joanna said wryly. ‘Right or wrong, it is how it is, there is no point in getting angry about it.’

‘I’m not angry. Well, yes, I am. To be forced from your home and into—where did you go?’

‘I found a good position as a private governess to two girls. My education and Papa’s reputation made it astonishingly easy—not that my education was much called for. A smattering of French, literature, history, enough to make an adequate conversationalist, was all that was required along with the usual singing and sewing.’ Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Young girls who are destined to marry well care little for learning.’ Her brow cleared, and she smiled. ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of my current position in a positive light until now, but there is a great deal to be said for being a school teacher, even when one is not being paid, and is treated as a drudge.’

‘Then what on earth are you doing at such a school, when it is clear...’

‘On the contrary, the situation is far from clear. It is a decidedly complicated matter, and one that I am not in a position to discuss until I have spoken to the Duchess.’

The cold air had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks. Her plain poke bonnet framed her face. Her countenance was heart-shaped, with a most decided chin. Her mouth was set, and her eyes met his unflinchingly. It was not only curiosity which made him want to press her further. He liked her. He had an absurd wish to help her, though what he could do—and besides, it seemed help was already on hand in the form of the Duchess. What’s more, he could hardly press her to talk when he’d so steadfastly refused to confide in her himself.

Drummond sighed, holding up his hands in a gesture of mute acceptance. ‘It is Christmas Day, and we agreed only last night, didn’t we, to forget all about reality and to enjoy ourselves.’

‘We did. We aren’t doing very well are we?’

‘Well, we must remedy that forthwith.’

She smiled with her eyes. A silly phrase, but in this case it was true, her eyes were smiling. The snow was falling thickly now, swirling around them. A snowflake fell on to her cheek. Drummond gently brushed it away. Joanna stood stock-still. Their eyes locked. There was a stillness in the air, a muffled silence enveloping them as the snow fell softly on to the existing carpet of white. He trailed his fingers down her cheek, to rest on the soft wool of her scarf. Her breath formed a wispy white cloud. Another snowflake landed on her cheek, and this time he used his lips to melt it. Her skin was cold, and so very soft. He wanted to kiss her. Her lips were parted so temptingly, and it had been so very long since he had wanted to kiss anyone.

But a gentleman did not go around kissing ladies he was barely acquainted with, no matter how much he wanted to. Making a show of brushing the snow from Joanna’s shoulder, Drummond looked up at the sky, blinking as a flake of icy snow landed on his eyelash. ‘They’ll be sending out a search party for us, if we do not make haste.’

‘Yes,’ Joanna said, making no move.

Her breath was rapid, her cheeks bright. ‘When you look at me like that,’ Drummond said, ‘I find it very hard to think of anything but kissing you.’

‘Only think? I thought you were a man of action.’ She smiled at him, and that smile heated his blood beneath the icy cold of his exposed skin. ‘There is nothing to think about, Drummond, for this is not real, and no one will ever know. Our paths have crossed for a few days, but when we leave Brockmore, we are very unlikely to meet again. Are you afraid I will slap your face?’

A laugh shook him. ‘It would be what I deserved.’

‘Are you prepared to take the risk?’

He wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hand under her scarf to the warm skin at the nape of her neck. ‘I most certainly am,’ he whispered, putting his lips to hers.

* * *

Joanna owned only one serviceable evening gown. Purchased ten years ago, in the days when she had a little spare cash, it had started life as a simple tea gown of pale blue satin. As a governess, she was occasionally required to accompany her charges to soirées, and with no funds to purchase a new gown had been obliged to adapt this one, shortening the sleeves and lowering the neckline. When the invitation to spend Christmas at Brockmore Manor had arrived, she had upgraded her evening dress for the third time, layering panels of sprigged muslin over the skirt, using the same material to put a new trim on the neckline and sleeves.

Standing in front of the long mirror in her bedchamber on Christmas night, she was pleased with the result, though she couldn’t help wishing that she, like the other female guests, had brought a different gown for every night. Which was as silly a wish as ever could be made, for it was highly unlikely that she would ever have an opportunity to wear any of them ever again. Unless she was able, once again, to take up a governess position in another household similar to Lady Christina’s, once her name had been cleared. Perhaps this was the form the amends the Duchess had referred to would take. Eighteen months ago, she would have given anything to be able to do so but now—the conversation with Drummond this afternoon made her question whether that was still what she wanted.

The Duchess had made no attempt to speak to her yet. Until she did, there was no point in her speculating, though she assumed that removing the terrible stain on Joanna’s reputation would be a pre-requisite. Mind you, if the Duchess had seen her this afternoon, kissing Drummond with shocking abandon, she’d have another, very different blot on her copybook. One which, moreover, she’d been very, very careful to avoid, for whether governess or teacher, she could not afford to be branded a brazen hussy. Yet she’d behaved like a hussy this afternoon, and what’s more she’d thoroughly enjoyed it.

The gilded shepherdess on the ornate ormolu clock on the mantel marked the half-hour by raising her crook to strike a goat bell. It was time to assemble for dinner but Joanna, who normally had a horror of being late, sat down on the footstool by the fire. She was not paired with Drummond for dinner tonight, the seating plan had placed him further down the table, between Lady Beatrice and Miss Burnham. Later, games were due to be played in the ballroom, and she would have the opportunity to speak to him then, if she wished to do so. That he might not welcome her company was a possibility she must consider, given her shockingly forward behaviour. She had practically demanded that he kiss her! Mind you, he had needed little encouragement, and he had seemed to enjoy kissing her every bit as much as she had enjoyed kissing him.

No, there was no denying it had been an extraordinarily nice kiss. Not a bit like Evan’s kisses, and Evan’s kisses were the only ones Joanna had for comparison. She hadn’t seen Evan for seven years, but she most certainly didn’t remember his kisses making her feel like she might melt. She had liked them, they had been pleasant, but she’d been content when they were over, and she didn’t recall ever replaying any of them over in her mind, and ending up all hot and bothered and—and wanting. Yes that was the correct word, the teacher in her thought, wanting.

When Drummond had rubbed the snowflake from her cheek, kissing him was all she’d wanted, and when their lips had met, her only thought was that she didn’t want it to end. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes and indulged herself by remembering once more. The soft leather of his gloved hand on the nape of her neck, beneath her scarf. The slumberous look in his eyes. Close up, the hazel of his iris was tinged with green. Close up, she could see the faint slash of a scar slicing neatly through his right brow. Close up, he smelled of soap and wet wool and cold, crisp winter air. He had not crushed her in his embrace, there were so many layers of warm clothing between them she could not feel the heat of his skin, but she could test the breadth of his shoulders with her hands. His lips had been warm, gentle, careful. It was an amuse-bouche of a kiss, Joanna thought, smiling at her own fancifulness. A tasting kiss, a foretaste, enough to tease, to tempt, to entice. It was a perfect kiss as the prelude to another kiss. The question was, whether there should be another.

The shepherdess chimed quarter to the hour with her crook. Startled, Joanna leapt to her feet. There was no time to be posing such questions, and no point either, for the answer was a very emphatic yes! Quickly threading the silk ribbon which matched her gown through her hair, she stabbed a few more pins randomly into her coiffure. Her turquoise necklace and matching earrings, her last gift from Papa, were the finishing touch to her toilette. Placing the guard in front of the fire and draping a shawl around her shoulders, Joanna gave her reflection a final check and, satisfied with what she saw, headed down to dinner.

* * *

After an elaborate meal of countless courses, the guests were invited to assemble in the ballroom, which was a grand affair, running the full length of the house from front to back, opening out on to the terrace and the south lawn, which could be glimpsed, glittering with frost, through long French windows. The ceiling, twice the height of the other reception rooms, was painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness. The pilasters running down one side would give the room the look of a Roman forum, were it not for the garlands which had been twisted around them. The greenery and mistletoe which they had so enthusiastically hung yesterday had been festooned with silver and gold paper formed into stars, lanterns and snowflakes, which caught the light from the three huge chandeliers which blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor.

The striking of a gong announced the emergence of their hosts on to a small balcony set above the assembled guests dressed, as Joanna was beginning to realise was their custom, in co-ordinating evening wear of silver and dove-grey.

The skin on the nape of Joanna’s neck prickled with awareness.

‘They are fond of a little theatricality, are they not?’ Drummond spoke softly, for her ears only. ‘I’ve been waiting all day for the opportunity to speak to you.’

She bit back a smile of relief. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. Our hosts are about to address us.’

Which was no lie. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Duke of Brockmore began, ‘as you can see, we have laid on some festive games. We hope that there will be something to suit everyone.’

Joanna listened distractedly as, between them, the Duke and Duchess explained the various activities laid out in the ballroom, all the time acutely aware of the man by her side. Drummond, like the rest of the gentlemen, was wearing country evening dress. A pale blue waistcoat almost the exact, original shade of her own gown. Dark blue pantaloons which clung to his legs. He had very long legs, and they were very nicely shaped too. Not many men looked so well in tightly knitted pantaloons, but Drummond’s legs showed them to perfection. Not flabby, but certainly not too thin either. Muscled, she was willing to bet. Though who would take on such a wager, and how she could be so certain, when she had never seen a pair of well-muscled legs in the flesh before, she could not imagine. She dragged her eyes away from the perfect legs and her thoughts away from their shocking trend, only to discover that the owner of said legs was gazing at her quizzically. ‘Your coat,’ she said distractedly. ‘I was just thinking how exactly it matched the panels of my gown.’

‘We have inadvertently copied Their Graces,’ he agreed, ‘in co-ordinating our attire.’

Joanna laughed. ‘‘Do you think they will be flattered by our imitating their style, or consider us presumptuous?’ The Duke and Duchess, having concluded their little speech, were now descending from their Olympian heights to join their guests.

‘I am inclined to think the former, in which case we should continue to co-ordinate each night, for their good opinion, as you know, is essential to my future happiness.’

His tone was light, but there was an underlying edge to his words that made her turn to face him. ‘You do not sound overly enthusiastic about achieving that.’

‘I am as enthusiastic about it as I am to bob for apples. Though perhaps you wish to have a go?’

It was the lightest of brush-offs, but it still stung. ‘I have no intention of bobbing for apples,’ Joanna said tartly. ‘This is my only evening gown, and I cannot risk ruining it with water stains. Which means, I’m afraid, that unless you plan to wear that same coat and waistcoat every evening, you’ll have to come up with some other method to impress our hosts. If you will excuse me.’

‘Joanna, I did not mean...’

But she turned her back on him, making for the French windows at the furthest point in the ballroom from the laughing guests gathered around the huge copper bath of water where apples bobbed on the surface, beguiling the innocent into thinking them easy to capture between their teeth.

She was not, however, the only guest to seek this secluded spot. Lady Beatrice, dressed in a deceptively simple gown of puce figured silk with piped satin trimming, was standing in the shadow of the long curtains. ‘A wise decision, Miss Forsythe,’ she said coolly. ‘If one is set upon eating an apple, there are plenty in the fruit bowl to be taken without destroying one’s coiffure.’

‘Or making one’s gown virtually transparent.’

‘Neither dilemma seems to have occurred to Miss Canningvale,’ Lady Beatrice said, eyeing the flame-haired beauty disdainfully. ‘Though if her objective is to draw the attention of every male in the company, she is succeeding. Just look at Aubrey Kenelm, he is positively mesmerised.’

‘Perhaps he has made a wager on her success,’ Joanna said drily.

‘More likely he has made a wager on the probability of her bosom falling out of that dress, and if she leans over into the bath one inch further—oh, please, do not pretend to be shocked, Miss Forsythe.’

Joanna laughed. ‘I am surprised, not shocked, and Mr Kenelm is about to lose his bet. Look, Captain Milborne has come to the rescue with a towel and an apple.’

‘A practical man, and a thoughtful one,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘Much underestimated qualities, don’t you think? I can’t imagine Captain Milborne lisping poetry and sending flowers, and treating one as if she were a feather-witted piece of Sèvres that might fracture in a summer zephyr. Why is it, do you think, that so many men believe beauty and brains are incompatible?’

Joanna laughed nervously. ‘Clearly not in your case.’

Lady Beatrice shrugged. ‘It would be much better for me if it were so. I am nearly thirty, Miss Forsythe, yet I cannot bring myself to play the vacuous ninny the men who court me desire in a wife.’

Joanna, who hadn’t thought of Evan in years, now found herself thinking of him for the second time in a day. He had not thought her a vacuous ninny, but he had not been much interested in any of her thoughts. ‘Perhaps you have not met the right man,’ she said.

‘Your words lack conviction, Miss Forsythe,’ Lady Beatrice replied sardonically. ‘I think you are as cynical as I. I wish I was a man,’ she confessed with a heartfelt sigh. ‘If I were a man, I could enter politics, and that is what I wish above all. The power to influence events, Miss Forsythe, not what passes for love, that is what would make me truly happy. Have I shocked you?’

‘You have reminded me it is wrong to make assumptions based on first impressions.’

‘Talking of which, I think the rather intimidating Mr MacIntosh assumed he would be spending what is left of this evening in your company. He has scarce taken his eyes off you. He is looking over at you again now. What did he say to you, may I ask, to make you seek refuge here by the window?’

‘I asked him an impertinent question and he lightly slapped me down. I suspect I overreacted.’

In the centre of the room, a narrow wooden beam had been suspended from the roof by two lengths of rope. Aubrey Kenelm was removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, amidst much cheering from the other guests. Shoeing the wild mare, the game was called, the amateur farrier expected to mount the wooden horse and to hammer the underside on a marked spot, four times in eight blows. It did not look particularly difficult, but Mr Kenelm was struggling to get on to the beam, which swayed alarmingly, and was just far enough off the ground for his legs to be unable to gain purchase on the ballroom floor when he was positioned in the ‘saddle’. Drummond had joined them now, standing next to young Mr Throckton.

‘I kissed him,’ Joanna confessed abruptly. ‘Drummond—Mr MacIntosh—I kissed him, and now I think that he might think—I don’t know what he thinks,’ she admitted, her cheeks flaming.

‘What do you think, Miss Forsythe? Did you enjoying kissing him?’

‘This is becoming a very personal conversation. Yes, if you must know, I did enjoy it. Very much.’

Lady Beatrice raised her brows. ‘I’ve always found kissing a rather insipid pastime.’

Joanna laughed, part scandalised, part in admiration. ‘That has been my limited experience, until today.’

‘Then you need a rapprochement with Mr MacIntosh, if you wish to experience more of it. If you do desire such a thing?’

Aubrey Kenelm, having finally succeeded in mounting the wild mare, was ignominiously thrown tumbling to the ground as he leaned over with his hammer.

‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘I rather think this game will provide much entertainment,’ she added, with what in a lesser-bred person would surely be called glee. ‘Let us go and enjoy the spectacle.’

* * *

One male guest after another had dismally failed to ‘shoe the wild mare’. Watching with trepidation, knowing he could not refuse his turn, Drummond was extremely relieved when Captain Milborne, exhorted by Miss Canningvale, finally achieved the feat.

‘You do not feel the need to try to equal the Captain?’

Drummond turned to find Joanna at his shoulder. ‘I have no wish to steal his thunder. Look, I shouldn’t have brushed you off as I did.’

‘There is no need to apologise. We have known each other for little more than a day. It was presumptuous of me to question you, and silly of me to take offence when you chose not to confide in me.’

‘I would like to explain, all the same,’ Drummond said sheepishly. ‘Our acquaintance may be short, but I don’t feel—I find that I would like you to understand. If you would like to...’

‘I would.’

He saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. And something else too. Not only liking. She too thought them alike, he’d not misunderstood. Drummond looked around anxiously for a way to escape.

A game of Blind Man’s Buff was getting underway. The majority of the guests were shouting out and running around while poor Miss Creighton as ‘it’, a silk cravat tied around her eyes, stumbled about in pursuit. At the other end of the ballroom, the Duke and Duchess were supervising the setting up of a huge shallow punch bowl filled with raisins. The Duke was pouring brandy from a decanter over the dried fruit. The Duchess was tugging at his sleeve, obviously concerned that he was utilising too much spirit. Later, the brandy-soaked raisins would be lit, the ballroom dimmed, and in the dark the foolhardy would try to snatch the ‘snap dragons’ from the hot punch. It had been a popular game in the Mess at Christmas. Drummond was very good at it, but he wasn’t in the least bit interested, at this precise moment, in demonstrating his prowess.

A round of applause signalled Miss Creighton’s success in handing over the mantle of ‘it’ to another. Drummond grabbed Joanna’s arm and rushed the pair of them through the nearest door. It led to a small retiring room lit by a single lamp on a round table, two low-backed chairs set opposite each other by the grate. ‘The Duke and Duchess’s retreat, I suspect,’ he said. ‘I wonder if there’s a spyhole into the ballroom? It wouldn’t surprise me. His Grace has a reputation for being all-seeing and all-knowing.’

He waited for Joanna to seat herself, then took the other chair. ‘When you asked me if I was in two minds about being here...’ He smoothed his finger over his brow, feeling the tiny indent of the scar. ‘Ach, the truth is that I am.’

‘You sound very Scottish when you say that. Akk.’

‘Ach,’ he said, accentuating the accent for her benefit, enjoying the way she smiled at him, the soft curve of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, the flush in her cheeks, the glint of red that the firelight reflected in her hair. He leant over to touch her hand. ‘Though I am glad I came, for if I had not I would not have met you, the reason I’m here in the first place is because the Duke of Wellington more or less commanded me to come.’

‘Wellington! You do have friends in high places.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call us friends,’ Drummond said, thinking of the deafening silence between them since Waterloo. ‘He wants me to serve him as an aide, but unless I can persuade the Duke of Brockmore that I’m worthy of his support I’ll be of no use to Wellington.’

It was a convoluted enough explanation. Judging by the frown on Joanna’s face, it was no explanation at all. Her words proved him wrong. ‘A word in the right ears from the Duke of Brockmore will establish you with the right people, you mean?’

Re-establish more accurately, but to admit that was to encourage questions he could never, ever answer. ‘That’s the gist of it.’

‘But if you have the support of the Duke of Wellington, isn’t that enough?’

Drummond’s fingers strayed once more to the scar on his eyebrow. He jerked them away, knowing the habit betrayed his discomfort. ‘Two dukes are better than one,’ he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘When Wellington acts, he likes to be sure he will succeed.’

‘He has cause to believe he will. He is a national hero. What a privilege to serve directly under him—what an opportunity for you though...’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Is the position not to your liking? Are you—I don’t even know how you’ve been occupied in the period since you left the army. What have you been doing in the—what is it, three and a half years, since Waterloo? Or did you remain in the army for some time afterwards?’

Wednesday, the fifth of July, 1815, a mere two weeks since the battle had been fought, had seen his final day of military service dawn, preceded by what had seemed an endless night. A day that was over in a matter of minutes. Drummond hauled his thoughts back from that overcast parade ground, for Joanna was waiting patiently for an answer to her questions.

‘I’ve been in the country,’ he said, staring into the fire. ‘I have a small estate in Shropshire. When I took out the lease, it was sadly run down, the tenanted farms in great need of modernisation, the house itself in a state of disrepair. But it is astonishing what one can achieve in a relatively short period, when one has no other occupation to distract one. And how little effort it takes, when things are in fine fettle, to keep them ticking over.’

‘You mean you are bored?’

He gave a gruff little laugh. ‘To distraction.’

‘And so this offer of a post with the Duke of Wellington...’

‘Is a godsend. So I ought to think.’ Drummond winced. ‘That sounds damned ungrateful, and I’m not. You can have no idea, Joanna, what this would mean to me.’ He hunched forward on the chair, his fingers curled into his knees. ‘I have served my country for most of my life. My father bought my first commission when I was fifteen. It was all I’d ever wanted.’

‘Then it isn’t surprising that you’re finding life as a country squire frustrating,’ Joanna said, leaning towards him, close enough to cover his hand with hers. ‘Even if I did not have to earn my bread, I think I would still want to teach. It gives my life a purpose.’

Drummond nodded. ‘A purpose. Aye, that is exactly what I need.’

‘Yet you have mixed feelings about the one which is on offer?’

‘It is not so much the position itself, it is...’ He thumped his thigh with his other hand. ‘One of the reasons I can’t bring myself to talk of it is because I know I’m being so contrary. I should be grateful that Wellington is willing to take a chance on me, that the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are willing to open the right doors for me. It is more than I deserve, I know that.’ He stared down at his clenched fist, slowly, deliberately unfurling it, his mouth set, his eyes narrowed. ‘All the same, it sticks in my craw that I’m reduced to depending on others to do what I can’t do myself. But I have no other options, I’ve proved that beyond doubt.’ Drummond heaved a huge sigh, managed a very twisted smile. ‘It just feels so bloody unfair, but there it is. If I wish to end my seclusion, I must do so on their terms. And so here I am.’

‘Reluctantly willing,’ Joanna said, with a twisted smile of her own.

He laughed softly, getting to his feet and pulling her with him. ‘You’ve a way with words.’

‘I should hope so.’ She was still frowning. The wheels were turning furiously in that clever mind of hers. There were gaps, he supposed, in his explanation, and she’d find them quickly enough. He tried to smooth the furrow between his brows with his thumb.

She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. ‘Don’t worry, I can see you’ve had a surfeit of weighty talk for tonight. I only wish I could help.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing to be done, it is all being done for me, providing I behave like a good wee laddie. You must be thinking I’m a right misery guts.’

‘I’m thinking no such thing.’

‘What is it then, that’s going on behind those big brown eyes of yours? Though they’re not actually brown.’ He trailed his fingers down her cheek to tangle in her hair, caught up loosely at the nape of her neck. ‘They’ve a sort of golden light to them, did you know that?’

‘No.’

She was staring, as one mesmerised, into his eyes. Was he imagining the passion smouldering there? ‘And your hair,’ Drummond said, gently easing her closer, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘I thought that was brown too, when I saw you first, hiding yourself away in the gloom, but brown is far too dull a colour to describe it. Chestnut maybe, or chocolate.’

Her laugh sounded breathy. ‘One cannot describe hair as chocolate.’

‘Yet it is permissible to describe lips as cherries?’

She shivered as he caressed the back of her neck with his thumb, and her shiver set his pulses racing. ‘Ridiculous,’ Joanna said, twining her arm around his neck, closing the gap between them, her skirts brushing his legs.

‘You’re right,’ Drummond said softly. ‘Not cherries, but rose petals.’ His lips touched hers. ‘Soft pink, warmed by the sun, with a promise...’ He groaned, pulling her tight up against him. ‘With a promise I cannot resist.’

This kiss was just as delightful as the first one, only more so, for their mouths moulded to each other without hesitation. Not a tasting kiss, but something more raw, more sensual. He closed his eyes, a frisson of desire shooting through him as the tip of his tongue touched hers, and angled his head to deepen the kiss. With a soft moan, she leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his chest, sending the blood rushing to his shaft.

When they broke apart they stared at each other, eyes clouded, cheeks flushed, lips parted, astonished by the passion which had swept them up. From the ballroom, he could hear the Duke ordering the servants to dim the lights. ‘Would you like to play with fire?’

‘I thought we just had.’

He laughed. ‘That is not what I meant. Come with me.’

Drummond opened the door, edging them both through the darkness to the crowd gathered by the flaming bowl of hot punch and raisins. He eased them to the front. ‘Do you trust me?’

Joanna eyed the flaming bowl. ‘Implicitly.’

‘Good.’ In the crush, no one noticed that he slid one hand around her waist, that she pressed herself back into his embrace, that he pressed his lips fleetingly to the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Now take off your glove, and do exactly as I say, and I’ll show you that it’s possible to play with fire, without getting your fingers burnt.’