Читать книгу Beauty And The Brooding Lord - Sarah Mallory - Страница 9

Chapter One

London—1816

Serena stepped out on to the terrace. It was a warm night and the earlier rain had passed, leaving only a few small clouds scudding across the sky. She hesitated, her heart beating rapidly. She knew she was risking her reputation, but how could she know if Sir Timothy was the man for her unless they kissed? She ran lightly down the steps at the end of the terrace, where a path led away from the house to a leafy arch set between high hedges. A slight breeze ruffled her skirts and she gave a little shiver as she stepped through the arch. Surely there could be no danger in one little embrace?

The rose garden looked very different from when she had been here a few days ago with her brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Hambridge. Henry had been keen to see the paintings Lord Grindlesham was selling and, while the gentlemen went off to the gallery, his wife had shown Serena and Dorothea the gardens. Now, in the moonlight the paths gleamed pale silver and the roses themselves ranged from near black to pale blue-grey. But if the flowers had lost their colour, their scent was enhanced and Serena breathed in the heady fragrance as she made her way along the path, but when she reached the turn in the path she was aware of something else besides rose scent in the night air. A faint hint of tobacco.

Ahead she saw an arbour surrounded by climbing roses and her heart gave a little skip. There, in the shadows, was the unmistakable figure of a man. His upper body was hidden, but his crossed legs in their light-coloured knee breeches and white silk stockings were plainly visible in the gloom. Serena had expected to find her swain pacing up and down, impatient for her to arrive, but here he was, sitting at his ease. She quashed the faint ripple of disappointment and hurried up to him, smiling.

‘Forgive me, I was delayed. I—’ She broke off with a gasp as she peered into the shadows. ‘You are not Sir Timothy.’

‘No, I am not.’

The reply was an irritable growl. The figure rose from the seat and Serena took a hasty step backwards. She realised now that he was nothing like Sir Timothy Forsbrook. This man was much larger, for a start, although his upper body was so broad that he did not look overly tall. Where Sir Timothy’s glossy black locks were carefully styled about his head, the stranger’s hair was lighter and too long to be fashionable. And as he stepped out of the arbour she thought he was not at all handsome. In the moonlight his craggy face appeared harsh, as if he was scowling at her.

He towered over her and she took another step away.

‘Excuse me—’ She would have walked on but his next words stopped her.

‘There was a fellow here, but he has gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Aye. He had the impudence to suggest I should vacate the seat, so I kicked him out.’

She swallowed. ‘Literally?’

His great shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘No. Mere jostling. He retreated rather than have my fist spoil his face.’

She sucked in a long, indignant breath. ‘That is disgraceful behaviour. Quite boorish.’

‘I suppose you would have preferred me to give way. But why should I? I came out here to enjoy a cigarillo in peace. You two will have to find some other place for your lovemaking.’

His voice dripped scorn. Serena’s face burned with mortification.

‘How dare you! It is nothing like that.’

‘No?’

Knowing she was in the wrong did nothing for Serena’s temper. She drew herself up and said angrily, ‘You are odiously rude!’

‘If it’s soft words you want I suggest you go and find your lover.’

‘Oh, I shall go,’ she told him in a shaking voice,’ and he is not my lover.’

He grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. ‘No need to be coy on my account, madam.’

Serena gasped. ‘Oooh, you...you...’

He folded his arms and looked down at her. ‘Yes?’

For a moment she glared at him, her hands closing into fists as she tried to control her rage. It would be most undignified to rip up at him. Resisting the urge to stamp her foot, she turned and swept off, muttering angrily under her breath all the insults she would like to hurl at the odious creature.

* * *

Serena hurried back to the ballroom. It was half-empty, most of the guests having gone in to supper. Those who remained were talking in little groups and she prayed no one had noticed her entry, for her agitation must be evident. She slipped away to the small room set aside for the ladies, where she had earlier left her cloak and outdoor shoes. The looking glass showed that her cheeks were still flushed and her brown eyes sparkled with anger. She made a pretence of tidying her hair, although in truth her honey-gold curls were remarkably in place.

Really, she thought indignantly, it was most frustrating. All she wanted to do was to find an interesting husband, one who would not bore her silly within a week, like the exceedingly correct suitors her half-brothers insisted upon presenting to her. These respectable gentlemen were to be her dancing partners for the whole evening, which was the reason Henry and Dorothea had thought it safe to go off to the card room and allow Serena out of their sight. But a short break in the dancing had given Serena the opportunity to slip out and meet one whom she knew to be a rake and who was therefore much more interesting.

Serena remained in the retiring room until her indignation had died away, then she shook out her skirts, put up her head and sailed downstairs to the supper room where she found her brother and sister-in-law enjoying a cold collation in the far corner. Nearer at hand, Elizabeth Downing and her brother were part of a lively group gathered about one of the larger tables. Elizabeth waved and Serena walked over. Immediately Jack Downing sprang up and pulled out a chair for her, then he proceeded to hover solicitously until Serena had been provided with a plate of delicacies and a glass of wine.

After the incident in the rose garden such attention was balm to Serena’s spirits. Mr Downing was a serious young man whom she had previously apostrophised as stuffy, but at least he was not rude. She now thanked him prettily and allowed him to engage her in conversation until the musicians could be heard tuning up again and everyone began to drift back to the ballroom.

The dancing recommenced and Serena looked around for Sir Timothy. Imagining his ignominious departure from the rose garden, she was not surprised to learn that he had gone home, but she felt no sympathy for him. She wished he had come to blows with the rude stranger and knocked him down rather than walking off and leaving her to endure a most unpleasant encounter. However, when she recalled the size of the stranger, she doubted Sir Timothy would have got the better of him.

* * *

The evening was proving to be exceedingly tedious and after a couple of dances Serena excused herself and went in search of her sister-in-law.

‘What, you wish to leave, before the dancing is ended?’ Lady Hambridge gave the loud, irritating laugh that announced she had enjoyed too much wine this evening. She shook her head at Serena and said playfully, ‘This is most unlike you, Serena! No, no, we cannot go yet, for you are engaged to stand up with Lord Afton. I should be failing in my duty if I were to take you away before he has danced with you.’

Viscount Afton was the highest-ranking bachelor at this evening’s ball. Serena thought him dull, pompous and old enough to be her grandfather, but it would do no good to say as much to her sister-in-law, so when the time came she pinned on a smile and went off to dance the quadrille. As the dance ended she spotted a familiar figure at the side of the room. She touched Lord Afton’s arm.

‘Tell me, my lord, do you know that gentleman, the large man talking to Lord Grindlesham?’

‘What’s that, m’dear?’ The Viscount looked about him and gave a disdainful grunt. ‘Do you mean that great bear of a man? That’s Lord Quinn. Damned unpleasant fellow. No one likes him.’

She was pleased that Lord Afton shared her opinion of the stranger from the rose garden, but curious, too.

‘If that is the case, why is he invited?’

‘Rich as Croesus,’ he replied shortly. ‘He don’t often show his face in town, but Grindlesham is selling off his art collection and that will be the reason he is come. Rufus Quinn is considered to be something of a connoisseur, I believe.’ He huffed. ‘Well, he can afford to indulge himself.’

There was a bitter note in the viscount’s tone, but since it was well known that Lord Afton had little fortune, it did not surprise Serena. As he led her back to join Dorothea and Henry, she took the opportunity to study Lord Quinn from a safe distance. In the blaze of candlelight, it was clear to see that he was no arbiter of fashion. His coat of dark blue superfine fitted well enough across his impressive shoulders, but no servant was needed to ease him into it and the simple arrangement of his neckcloth would not rouse envy in the breast of any aspiring dandy. His brown hair was not brushed into artful disorder; it was positively untidy. His face was rugged, his nose not quite straight and his brow fierce. He looked impatient and she already knew his manners were abominable. All in all, Serena decided, he was a man not worthy of her attention.

* * *

At last the evening was over and Serena accompanied her brother and sister-in-law to the hall. It was crowded and noisy, and the servants announcing whose carriage was at the door were obliged to bellow over the chatter of the guests. There was much pushing and shoving and Henry guided his ladies to one side, away from the throng.

‘It’s like a dashed cattle market,’ he muttered. ‘Whatever persuaded Grindlesham to invite so many? And that reminds me.’ He turned a frowning gaze upon Serena. ‘I saw you talking to Forsbrook earlier. Who introduced you to him?’

Serena spread her hands. ‘I really cannot recall, but it is impossible to avoid such introductions in town.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ he agreed grudgingly, ‘but he’s a dashed Lothario and you’d be advised to stay away from him.’

‘Indeed, you would,’ added Dorothea. ‘He has the most unsavoury reputation.’

‘What of it?’ Serena countered. ‘Most gentlemen in London have an unsavoury reputation. Even Russ, before his marriage.’

Henry scowled. ‘That was different. Forsbrook is an out-and-out libertine. Russ was never that.’

‘The pity of it is that such men are so attractive to a large number of our sex,’ declared Dorothea repressively.

‘Well, they would have to be,’ reasoned Serena. ‘One can only conclude that they are experts at making love to a woman.’

Henry spluttered and Dorothea said in a scandalised voice, ‘Serena, hush. You cannot say such a thing—it is most unladylike.’

Serena begged pardon and closed her lips upon any more unwise utterances. Clearly it would not do to admit that she thought she might like to marry just such a man. She had been out for two years and was still unmarried. Oh, she had had offers, but all the men Henry and Russ considered eligible were so very dull. In fact, Serena was finding life in town rather dull, too.

It had not been so bad when she had been staying with Russ, for although he was ten years her senior both he and his wife were lively and quick-witted. But Russ had taken Molly to the north to await the birth of their second child and Serena was now living in Bruton Street with Henry, who was her guardian and eldest half-brother. Having married off their own daughter very successfully two years ago, he and Dorothea were keen to find a respectable husband for Serena.

She understood perfectly the reason for this. The Russington family history was tainted by scandal and they were anxious to avoid adding to it. Good birth was considered essential, a title an advantage, but respectability was prized higher than a fortune and Serena was kept well away from any gentleman whose reputation was less than spotless, with the result that she had not yet met any man whose company she enjoyed for more than a very short time. Naturally, she wanted her husband to be handsome, but she also wanted a man of wit and intelligence. An educated man with a sense of humour, with whom she might enjoy lively conversation.

Finally, she wanted him to be skilled at pleasuring a woman. Not that she knew a great deal about what went on in the marriage bed, because young ladies were not supposed to be interested in such things. What she had learned was all very confusing. If Dorothea was to be believed, it was a wife’s duty to accept her husband’s attentions with fortitude, whereas Molly had told her that the union, when a husband and wife truly loved one another, could be beyond wonderful. It seemed that love was the answer, but none of the suitors presented to Serena had roused the faintest flicker of interest. She had therefore decided she must take a hand in her own destiny. Russ had been considered a rake before he had married his beloved Molly and Serena thought such a man would suit her very well.

Therefore, whenever she could escape Henry and Dorothea’s watchful eyes at any ball, breakfast or assembly, she sought out the rakes and gentlemen of more dubious reputation. The problem was that it was so difficult to be alone with any gentleman in town. Her flirtation with the dashing Lord Fyfield, for example, had been going well until they were spotted by one of Dorothea’s bosom friends in Green Park and Serena had to account very quickly for being alone with a gentleman. Word of the assignation had soon reached Bruton Street and Henry had lost no time in putting an end to Lord Fyfield’s attentions before he had even kissed her.

It was all most unsatisfactory and Serena’s spirit rebelled against being so confined. She wanted to marry, but not one of the milk-and-water sops that her family put forward. No, she wanted a man who could hold her interest. One who knew how to make love to a woman. Was that too much to ask? Her musing ended when a servant announced Lord Hambridge’s carriage.

‘At last,’ said Henry. ‘Come along, my dears, let us get home.’

Serena followed as he pushed his way towards the door with a word here and there to clear the path. A large, commanding figure stood in their way. Serena could only see his back but she immediately recognised Lord Quinn’s tousled head. A word from Henry and he stood aside, but there was no smile, no word of apology. His rugged face was stony and although his gaze moved over Serena, she had the impression that he was looking through her. However, she did note that those eyes, which had laughed at her so insolently in the rose garden, were a warm brown, the colour of fresh hazelnuts.

* * *

Serena decided she would strike Sir Timothy from her list of prospective husbands, but at the Downings’ party the following day, he sought her out and told her he had come with the sole intention of apologising for his absence from the Grindleshams’ rose garden. He begged for the opportunity to make it up to her and Serena decided she would at least listen to what he had in mind for her entertainment. After all, he was extremely fashionable and very handsome, with his black curls and Grecian profile, and there was no denying that he had about him a dangerously rakish air. She decided to give him another chance.

His proposal that he should escort her to Vauxhall when it opened for the Season was too tempting to resist. He painted an alluring picture of the two of them, cloaked and masked, wandering through the gardens and marvelling at the mechanical exhibits such as the famous waterfall.

The clandestine escapade appealed to Serena’s adventurous soul and she dismissed the tiny voice inside that urged caution. She must allow Sir Timothy to kiss her, just once, for how else was she to know if she would like him as a husband? And from all she had heard there was no better setting for a romantic interlude than Vauxhall, with its shadowy arbours and dark avenues hung with coloured lights.

Serena knew it was one thing to allow a hopeful young man to steal a kiss in a shadowy alcove of a private ball—which she had done once or twice—quite another to go off alone with a gentleman to Vauxhall, but Elizabeth had already told her that she and her family were going to the gardens that night and if it went horribly wrong, if she found she did not like being kissed, or Sir Timothy should become importunate, she would seek them out and beg their protection. That would be humiliating and once Henry knew about it he would probably banish her to the country for the rest of the Season, but one must be prepared to risk all in the search for a husband. All she needed now was to work out a way to slip out of her brother’s house without raising any suspicions.

* * *

Her plans came to fruition two days later, at breakfast, when the butler brought in the post and delivered a letter to Serena. Dorothea looked up.

‘What have you there—is it a love letter from one of your beaux, perhaps?’

Dorothea’s arch tone grated, for Serena knew quite well that correspondence between herself and any gentleman who was not related to her would be highly improper. However, she replied calmly and with perfect honesty, ‘It is from Mrs Downing. She invites me to join her party at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.’

‘Vauxhall?’ Henry looked up from the perusal of his own post. ‘It is not at all the place for young ladies, especially tomorrow, for it is May Day, when all sorts of common folk will be out celebrating. I have no doubt that the disreputable among them will be masked, too.’

‘Mrs Downing sees no harm in it,’ replied Serena. ‘Mr Jack Downing will be with them, too.’ She glanced at her sister-in-law, upon whom the young man’s name acted like a talisman.

‘Henry, my dear, I do not see there can be any harm in it, if she is with the Downings. And I believe Madame Saqui is performing. I confess I should very much like to see her myself. I am told that last Season she ended her display by running along the tightrope with fireworks exploding all around her.’ Dorothea picked up her coffee cup. ‘Perhaps we should go as well, I doubt we would be able to obtain a supper box at this late notice, but we might enjoy the spectacle.’

Serena held her breath. Her own plans for tomorrow evening would have to be drastically changed if Dorothea and Henry decided to go to Vauxhall.

‘To go all that way and not be able to sit comfortably for supper?’ Henry’s mouth turned down. ‘Bad enough that we should be mixing with heaven knows what class of person, but if we cannot sup in our own box it would be insupportable. Besides, I am already promised to dine tomorrow at White’s.’

‘I could report back to you upon Madame Saqui’s performance,’ Serena suggested. ‘Then you may decide if it is worth the effort for another time.’

Henry turned an approving gaze upon his half-sister. ‘An excellent idea, Serena. I am sure, if this rope dancer is any good, you will wish to see her again.’

She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Indeed I shall, Henry. And perhaps you will order the carriage to take me to the Downings’ house tomorrow evening. Since they live en route, I do not wish to inconvenience them by making them come out of their way to collect me.’

With the matter thus settled, Serena breathed a sigh of relief. So far, everything was going to plan. Her hints last night to Elizabeth had resulted in the Downings’ timely invitation, which had aroused no suspicions. Now she must carefully pen a note to be delivered tomorrow evening, regretfully crying off because of a malaise. She sipped her coffee. A malaise called Sir Timothy Forsbrook. She did not like deceiving her friends, but it must be done, if she was to find lasting happiness.

* * *

Serena dressed with care the following evening, choosing a high-waisted evening gown of lemon satin with an overdress of white gauze. As befitted a demure young lady she tucked a fine white fichu into the low neck of her gown. Lemon satin slippers, white kid gloves and a white crape fan completed her ensemble and over everything she wore a cashmere shawl, its wide border embroidered with acanthus leaves. Sir Timothy had promised to provide a domino and mask for her, because for Serena to carry such items would only invite comment from her brother or his wife.

Darkness was already falling when the Hambridge carriage pulled up at the Downings’ house in Wardour Street. Serena stepped down and airily told the coachman there was no need to wait. She stood on the pavement, making a show of fussing with her reticule until the coach was out of sight, then she turned and ran quickly back to the chaise waiting further along the street. Sir Timothy jumped down as she approached.

‘You have come!’

‘Of course, did you doubt it?’ She laughed as he handed her into the chaise. ‘I sent my letter of apology to the Downings this morning. They will have set off for Vauxhall a good half-hour since.’

‘So, no one knows where you are. My clever, adorable angel.’ Sir Timothy tried to take her in his arms, but she held him off.

‘Not yet, someone might recognise us!’

He released her and threw himself back against the padded seat. ‘Little chance of that in this poor light. But there is no hurry.’ He lifted her fingers to his lips. ‘We have all night. Tell me instead what you have been doing since we last met. I want to know every little detail.’

* * *

It was already growing dark by the time Rufus Quinn left London. The meeting at the Royal Society had gone on longer than he had anticipated, but he could not pass up the opportunity to talk with the celebrated astronomer Miss Caroline Herschel, who rarely came to London. After that he had taken advantage of the moonlight to drive home, rather than spend another night in town. He had no time for society, everyone was too set up in their own importance. If people weren’t vying for superiority they were all wishing to line their pockets at someone else’s expense. Quinn hated it, and had only allowed himself to be dragged to the Grindleshams’ ball because he wanted the Titian. In the event, Quinn had merely told Grindlesham to name his price and the painting had been his. He had wasted an evening watching the overdressed popinjays cavorting around a ballroom when he could have been at home enjoying a glass of his excellent claret and reading a good book.

Even when he had slipped away to enjoy a cigarillo he had been interrupted by an insufferable cockscomb who had wanted him to make himself scarce. Quinn had soon sent him about his business, but damme if the fellow had not gone off with never a thought for his mistress! A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered her reaction when she arrived. Spirited little thing, though, the way she had stood up to him. No tears or vapours. Reminded him of his Barbara, God rest her soul. His good humour faded, but he shook off the threatening black mood, blaming it on fatigue.

By nursing his team, Quinn usually managed the journey into Hertfordshire without a break, but tonight he felt unaccountably tired. Another yawn broke from him. Confound it, he would have to stop if he was not to fall asleep over the reins. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he reached Hitchin and spotted the Swan ahead of him, light spilling from its windows. He guided his team into the cobbled yard, where torches flared and ostlers came running out to attend him. The landlord appeared, wiping his hands on his apron.

‘Evening, my lord, trouble with your team?’

‘Nothing like that, Jennings, but I need a short rest.’ He saw the landlord look past him and anticipated his next question. ‘I left my tiger in town. Clem follows on tomorrow in the carriage with Shere, my valet. They have a rather valuable cargo.’

‘Been buying pictures again, my lord?’ The landlord gave him a fatherly grin. ‘I think what you’re wanting now is a bite to eat and a tankard of home-brewed, sir, to see you on your way.’

‘Aye, you are right. Lead on, Jennings. Find me a table and somewhere quiet to sit, if you will.’

‘No difficulty there, sir. It’s fair quiet here tonight, it being May Day. The night mail’s due in later, but there’s never time for the passengers to get out. No, the only other customers I’m expecting tonight is a honeymoon couple, travelling from London.’ Jennings winked and tapped his nose. ‘A servant rode ahead to say they wouldn’t be here ’til late and that they’d take a cold supper in their room.’

* * *

It was gone midnight when Quinn walked out of the inn, refreshed and ready for the final stage of his journey. It was very quiet and the yard was empty save for the ostler looking after his curricle and pair. As he crossed the yard Quinn heard a faint cry.

The ostler looked up towards the gallery and grinned. ‘Sounds like someone’s having a good time, m’lord.’

Quinn grunted. It was no business of his. He merely wanted his own bed. He stopped to pull his gloves on and give the greys a critical glance. They were rested well enough and should carry him home in well under the hour. He was just about to step into the curricle when a shrill scream rent the air. It was cut off almost immediately, but there was no mistaking the terror in the voice.

Quinn did not hesitate. He raced up the stairs. A disturbance could be heard from the first door he reached, but it was locked. Quinn launched himself at the door, which gave way with a splintering crash. The inrush of air caused the candles on the table to flicker, but he took in the scene in one glance. The meal laid out on the table was almost untouched, but the two chairs were overturned and a drift of white gauze lay on the floor, like a wraith.

A man scrambled off the bed and hurled himself at Quinn, fists flying, but one blow to the jaw sent him crashing to the floor. Quinn stood over him, hands clenched, but his opponent was unconscious.

A whisper of silk made him look towards the bed as a figure scrabbled away and huddled in the corner of the room. In the gloom he could make out nothing but a mass of fair hair and a pale gown, and the fact that the woman was shaking uncontrollably.

He untangled a wrap from one of the chairs, a large cashmere shawl, heavy and expensive. This was no drab from the stews picked up for a night’s gratification. He shook it out and approached the woman, who was fumbling to pull together the torn pieces of her bodice.

‘Here, let me put this around you.’ She did not respond, but neither did she shrink away as he threw the shawl about her shoulders. Gently, he led her out of the shadows. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘N-no, not really. I...he...’ Her voice failed and he caught her as she swayed.

‘You need not worry about him any longer,’ he said. ‘Come, I will take you out of here.’

He escorted her from the room, keeping one arm around her, lest she stumble. The landlord met them at the bottom of the stairs.

‘The lads said there was some trouble, my lord.’

‘The lady is, er, distressed.’

‘Ah.’ Jennings nodded wisely. ‘Had a falling out with her husband, has she?’

‘Is that what he told you?’ Quinn was surprised to hear the woman speak. The voice, coming from behind the tangled curtain of hair, was quiet but firm. She put a hand to her head. ‘He is not my husband.’

The landlord regarded her with disapproval and Quinn’s arm tightened protectively around the dainty figure.

‘I came upon the lady defending her honour.’ His tone dared Jennings to dispute the fact that she was a respectable female. The landlord met his eyes, considering, then shook his head.

‘She needs a woman to look after her, my lord, and since the wife died...’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I’ll find a chaise to take her home...’

Quinn glanced down at the hunched figure beside him. She was calm enough now, but he doubted she would endure the long drive back to town.

‘Is there a maid you could send with her?’

‘Nay, my lord. As I told you, they’m all out, it being May Day.’

‘Then I will take her to Melham Court and put her in the care of my housekeeper.’ Quinn guided her to the curricle and lifted her, unresisting, on to the seat. As he took his place beside her he glanced up at the gallery. ‘Her companion is unconscious at present, but when he wakes—’

‘Don’t you worry about that, my lord. We will deal with him. I don’t hold with such goings on in my establishment.’

‘And. Jennings...’ Quinn gathered up the reins ‘...the lady was never here.’

The landlord nodded. ‘My lads’ll do as I tell ’em.’

With that Quinn whipped up his team and the curricle bowled out into the night.