Читать книгу At the Highwayman's Pleasure - Sarah Mallory - Страница 11

Chapter Two

It was opening night and the theatre was packed for the new production of The Rivals. The playbill pasted up at the entrance announced boldly that the role of Lydia Languish was to be played by the celebrated actress Mrs Charity Weston, fresh from her successful season in Scarborough. Ross Durden took his seat on one of the benches in the pit and soon found himself squashed by bodies as the pit filled up.

‘Should be a good night,’ remarked the man in the brown bagwig who was sitting beside him. ‘I read that this new leading lady’s being compared to Mrs Siddons.’ He pulled a nut from his pocket and cracked it expertly between his fingers. ‘We shall soon find out.’

‘Have you ever seen Mrs Siddons?’ asked Ross, mildly intrigued.

‘Once.’ The man cracked another nut and munched meditatively. ‘In York, in the role of Lady Macbeth. Excellent, she was. Never seen the like. Just hope this lass is as good as they say.’

‘But this is a comedy,’ Ross pointed out, recalling that the great Sarah Siddons was renowned for her tragedies.

His neighbour shrugged. ‘A play’s a play and if the lady’s no good then we shall soon let her know!’

Ross said no more. He had come into Allingford on business today, and had bought himself a ticket because he had wanted a diversion before returning home. The Rivals was one of his favourite plays and the fact that Charity Weston was making her debut in Allingford had not influenced him at all.

At least that was what he told himself, yet somehow this evening the familiar prologue and first scene did not captivate him, although the rest of the audience seemed to be enjoying it. He realised he was waiting for Mrs Weston’s appearance in Scene Two.

Then she was there. Powdered and bewigged, but there could be no mistaking that wonderful figure nor the brilliance of her blue eyes, visible even from his seat halfway back in the pit. Her voice, too, held him spellbound. It had a mellow, smoky quality, redolent of sexual allure. It should not have been right for her character—Lydia Languish was meant to be a sweet young heiress—but there was an innocence about Charity’s playing that rang true.

Ross glanced about him, relieved to see the audience was captivated by her performance. Smiling, he turned back to the stage and settled down to enjoy the play.

* * *

The first performance in a new theatre was always exciting, but nerve-racking too, and Charity breathed a sigh of relief when it was over, knowing it had gone well. The audience was on its feet, clapping and cheering. She dropped into a low curtsy, smiling. The applause never failed to surprise her. When she reached the wings, Hywel caught her hand and led her back to the stage.

‘They will not settle down if you do not grant them one last bow,’ he murmured, smiling broadly.

She sank into another deep curtsy. Someone had thrown a posy of primroses onto the stage. She picked it up and touched it to her lips before holding it out to the audience, acknowledging their applause. The crowd went wild, and they were still stamping and clapping and cheering when she accompanied Hywel into the wings.

‘Well, that is the first night over. I only hope they continue to enjoy my performances.’

‘Oh, they will,’ replied Hywel confidently. ‘Now, I must go and get ready for the farce and you must prepare yourself to be besieged by admirers when the show is over!’

* * *

Charity exchanged praise and compliments with the rest of the players, then went back to the dressing room to find Betty waiting for her. Her handmaid’s austere countenance had softened slightly, a sign that she was pleased with her mistress’s reception.

‘Help me out of this headdress, if you please, Betty. Heavens, it is such a weight!’

‘If you’d been born twenty years earlier, Miss Charity, you’d have had your own hair piled up like this for weeks on end.’

‘I cannot believe this monstrous, pomaded style was once the fashion.’ Charity gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as Betty carefully pulled away the wig, which was curled, powdered and decorated with a confection of feathers and silk flowers. ‘Put it aside, Betty, and help me out of my gown, if you please. Mr Jenkin thinks there may be a crowd in the green room once the farce is ended.’

‘Not a doubt of it, madam, the way they was cheering you. Now, I brought the rose silk and your embroidered muslin. Which will you wear to meet your admirers?’

‘The muslin, I think, Betty. And they are not my admirers. Mr Jenkin tells me that it is the custom here at Allingford for all the cast to gather for a reception in the green room.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Betty, ‘but there’s no doubt who will be most in demand!’

Charity was exhausted and longed to go home to bed, but she knew Hywel would expect her to join the other members of the cast and ‘do the pretty’, as he phrased it, talking to those wealthy patrons who were invited backstage to meet the players. She was grateful for the supper that was laid on and managed to eat a little cold chicken and one of the delicious pastries before Hywel carried her off to introduce her to the great and the good of Allingford. He began with Lady Malton, who looked down her highbred nose at Charity and afforded her the merest nod.

‘In a small town like this we cannot rely upon one rich patron like Lady Malton to support the theatre,’ Hywel explained as he led her away from the viscountess. ‘We depend upon the goodwill of a large number of gentlemen—and ladies—of more moderate means. People like the Beverleys. They are a delightful couple and the backbone of Allingford life. Sir Mark is the local magistrate and his lady is very good-natured and likes to fill her house with actors and artists.’

Having presented Charity to Sir Mark and Lady Beverley and spent a few minutes in conversation, he led her away to meet a bluff, rosy-cheeked gentleman in a powdered wig, whom he introduced as Mr John Hutton.

‘Mr Hutton has travelled from Beringham to be here,’ said Hywel.

Conscious of her duty, she gave the man her most charming smile.

‘I am sure we are very grateful to you for coming so far.’

‘And I am glad to see you here,’ replied Mr Hutton, taking her hand and pressing a whiskery kiss upon her fingers. ‘Especially glad to know that you did not take any hurt getting here.’ He laughed at her look of confusion and squeezed her hand. ‘Why, ma’am, it’s all over Beringham that the Scarborough coach was held up.’

‘Ah, yes.’ So that was where she had heard his name before. Her excellent memory recalled the coachman mentioning that a Mr Hutton had been robbed by the same highwayman.

‘There is no doubt that this “Dark Rider” is having an effect on business,’ Hutton continued. ‘Many are afraid to make the journey between Beringham and Allingford.’ The whiskery jowls quivered with indignation. ‘The sooner the fellow is caught and strung up, the better it will be for all of us.’

Such serious talk was not what was needed, so Charity summoned up her brightest smile.

‘I am very glad you were not discouraged from coming tonight, sir. I hope you enjoyed the performance and will come again.’

‘Aye, I did enjoy it, ma’am, very much, and very pleased I am that Mr Jenkin here has seen fit to open his theatre in Allingford.’ He made a little bow towards the actor/manager. ‘By Gad, sir, we need something to distract us from this dashed war.’

‘And there is nothing like a good play to do that, Mr Hutton,’ agreed Hywel. ‘Let me tell you what else we have planned....’

With a word and a smile Charity left the gentlemen to their conversation. She worked her way through the crowd, smiling and charming them all in the hope that they would return to the theatre for another evening. There were a couple baronets and one knight, but the rest were landowners or wealthy tradesmen from the town, many with their wives who were prepared to be jealous of a beautiful actress, but a few minutes in Charity’s company persuaded these matrons that there was no danger of the celebrated Mrs Weston stealing their husbands away from them.

As an actress in London, she had grown accustomed to fighting off the admirers who wanted to make her their mistress. It had not been easy, but with skill and quick thinking Charity had managed to maintain her virtue, generally without offending her admirers, and in the past few years while she had been touring under her own name, she had perfected her role. To the married men and their wives she was charmingly modest and at pains to make them understand that she was interested only in her profession and would take compliments upon her performance, but not her person. She succeeded very well and all the ladies agreed that she was a very prettily behaved young woman, although not, of course, the sort one could invite into one’s home.

However, the single young men who clustered about her were treated to a very different performance. She gave each one her attention for a short time, laughed off their effusive compliments and returned their friendly banter, refusing to be drawn into anything more than the mildest flirtation. Yet each one went away to spend the night in pleasurable dreams of the unattainable golden goddess.

The crowd in the green room showed no sign of dispersing. Charity smothered a yawn and was wondering how soon she could slip away when she was aware of someone at her shoulder. Summoning up her smile, she turned to find herself staring at the snowy folds of a white neckcloth. She stepped back a little to take in the whole man. He was soberly dressed in buckled shoes and white stockings with the cream knee breeches that were the norm for evening wear, but his plain dark coat carried no fobs or seals and he wore no quizzing glass. Yet he carried himself with an air of assurance and she guessed he was one of the wealthier inhabitants of Allingford.

His athletic figure and deeply tanned skin made her think he had spent a great deal of time abroad. His face was not exactly handsome, but it was arresting, with its strong jaw, hawkish nose and those dark eyes fringed with long black lashes that any woman would envy. When he bowed to her she noticed that his black hair was cut fashionably short and curled naturally about his head and down over his collar.

‘May I congratulate you on an excellent performance, Mrs Weston?’ The words were slow and measured, very much in keeping with his sober appearance, but there was something in his voice that was very attractive and strangely familiar. A memory fluttered, but was gone before she could grasp it.

‘Thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it.... Have we met before?’

‘How could that be, when you have only just arrived in Allingford?’ There was an elusive twinkle lurking in his dark eyes that was at odds with his grave tone. ‘Besides, if we had been introduced before, I would surely not have forgotten it.’

She wanted him to speak again, just so she could enjoy that deep, velvet-smooth voice.

‘You live in the town, sir?’

‘Close by. At Wheelston.’

‘Ah, I see. Is that very far from here?’

‘A few miles.’

His answers were annoyingly short. She looked up into his face and felt again that disturbing flutter of recognition.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but are you sure we haven’t—?’

He took out his watch and broke in upon her.

‘You must excuse me, Mrs Weston, it is getting late and I must cut and run. I wanted only to compliment you upon your performance. Goodnight to you.’

With a bow he was gone, leaving her dissatisfied with the brevity of their conversation. Sir Mark and Lady Beverley claimed her attention, but although she responded civilly to their praise and conversation, her eyes followed the tall stranger as he made his way across the room.

‘Tell me, Sir Mark,’ she interrupted the magistrate’s flow of small talk. ‘Who is that gentleman?’

‘Who?’ Sir Mark glanced up.

‘The one by the door.’ Charity felt a slight ripple of disappointment. The man had sought her out, but had obviously not been enamoured, since he was leaving so soon.

‘Oh, that’s Durden, not the most popular man in Allingford.’ Sir Mark turned back to her, his whiskers bristling. ‘He wasn’t rude to you, was he, ma’am?’

‘No, not at all. I was merely...curious.’

‘You are intrigued by his blackamoor appearance,’ suggested Lady Beverley. ‘That comes from his years in the navy, I believe. He was a sea captain, you know, but he came home two years ago, when his mother died.’

‘He is certainly not popular,’ Charity remarked, watching his progress towards the door. People avoided his eye, or even turned their backs as he passed. ‘Why should that be?’

Sir Mark hesitated before replying, ‘His taciturn manner, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Poor man,’ murmured Lady Beverley. ‘I am surprised, though, that Mr Jenkin should invite him—he has no money to invest in the theatre.’

‘Jenkin invited him for the same reason I make sure you send him a card to each of your parties,’ replied Sir Mark. ‘The property may be run down and its owner may not have a feather to fly with, but Wheelston is still one of the principal properties in the area. Unusual for Durden to turn up, though. He keeps to himself as a rule.’

‘Is that any wonder, given what happened?’ said Lady Beverley, shaking her head. ‘But I am not surprised that he should come this evening when we have such a celebrated actress in our midst! Ah, Mr Jenkin—let me congratulate you on your new leading lady. I was just telling Mrs Weston that I have never laughed so heartily at one of Mr Sheridan’s comedies...’

Charity wondered exactly what had happened to make Mr Ross Durden so unsociable, but the conversation had moved on and the moment was lost. Stoically, she put him from her mind and returned to charming the theatre’s patrons.

* * *

By heaven, what a damned uncomfortable evening! Why did I put myself through it?

Ross strode back to the livery stable to collect his horse, still smarting from the slights and outright snubs he had received from the worthy people of Allingford. Apart from the actor/manager, who knew nothing about him, and Sir Mark and his good-natured wife, no one else had made any effort to speak to him. He knew his neighbours thought he deserved their censure, and that was partly his own fault, for he had never done anything to explain the situation, but damn it all, why should he do so?

He turned his mind to the much more pleasant thought of Mrs Charity Weston, and a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. If he had talked to her much longer it was very likely she would have recognised him. Perhaps it was because she was an actress and used to playing parts herself that she noticed the similarities between the quiet, respectable gentleman farmer and the boisterous, lawless Dark Rider. Hell and confound it, he thought the way he disguised his voice and changed his whole manner would fool anyone, but apparently not. He had seen her fine brows draw together, noted the puzzled look in those large blue eyes—by God, but she was beautiful! Aye, that had almost been his undoing. Kissing her when he held up the Scarborough coach should have been enough for him. Why in heaven’s name had he gone to her house? Madness. He put up his hand to rub the white blaze that ran down the great horse’s face.

‘Well, Robin, no harm done this time, my old friend, but we will need to be more careful. We’d best give Mrs Weston a wide berth in future, I think.’

Ross rode back to the farm, the familiar cluster of stone buildings rearing up blackly against the night sky as he approached. A solitary lamp glowed in the yard and he found Jed dozing in a chair in the stables. Leaving the groom to take care of Robin, he went into the house.

Silence greeted him when he entered through the kitchen door, but a cold wet nose pressed against his hand.

‘Back in your box, Samson, good boy.’ He scratched at the dog’s head before the animal padded off into the shadows.

Mrs Cummings, his housekeeper, had gone to bed without leaving a light burning, but the sullen glow in the range showed him that she had banked up the fire against the winter chill. Lighting a lamp, he also noted with a burst of gratitude that she had left a jug of ale on the table and on a plate, under an upturned bowl, was a slice of meat pie.

The woman was a treasure. He must increase her wages—when he could afford it. He poured himself a mug of ale and threw himself down in the chair beside the fire. As he devoured the pie he thought about his situation. That it had come to this—a captain in his Majesty’s navy, decorated for bravery under fire, now struggling to pay his way. He picked up the poker and stirred the coals with rough, angry movements while a quiet, insidious voice murmured in his ear.

What about those coaches you hold up? You could take more than enough to live comfortably.

He shook his head to rid it of the tempting thought. He was no thief; he wanted justice and would take only what had been stolen from him. Why, even the mailbags he searched through were always left at the roadside, where they would be found intact the next day.

Then you’re a fool, said that insistent voice. If you’re caught, you’ll hang for highway robbery—no one will care about your justice.

‘I will,’ he said aloud to the empty room. ‘I’ll care.’

He drained his mug to wash down the last of the pie, then took up his bedroom candle to light his way up the stairs. The echo of his boots on the bare boards whispered around him.

Fool, fool.

* * *

Charity liked living in Allingford. Her fellow players were friendly, as were the townsfolk. Of the more noble families, only Sir Mark and Lady Beverley afforded her more than a distant nod if they saw her in the street, but she was accustomed to that. Actresses were not quite respectable. Her first appearance at the theatre was followed by equally successful performances in the tragedy Jane Shore and another comedy, The Busy Body. Charity knew both plays very well and they did not overtax her at all, so when she was not rehearsing and the weather was clement she enjoyed hiring a gig and driving herself around the lanes. She had grown up not fifteen miles from here, in Saltby, and although she determined not to visit the village, nor to go anywhere within her father’s jurisdiction as magistrate, the countryside around Allingford was familiar and welcoming. Her maid did not approve of these solitary outings and tried to dissuade her, but Charity only laughed at her.

‘What harm can come to me if I stay close to Allingford?’

‘There’s highwaymen, for a start,’ retorted Betty. ‘They still haven’t caught the rogue who held us up on the Scarborough Road.’

‘The Dark Rider.’ The rogue who kissed me in this very house.

Charity had neither seen nor heard anything of him since. She had scoured the newspapers for reports of the mysterious highwayman and had spoken to her fellow players about him, but there was no information. However, she had no intention of explaining any of that to her maid.

‘Surely a highwayman will be patrolling the coaching road and I mean to explore the byways. I shall not see him again.’

Charity was not sure she really believed that and even less sure that she wanted it to be true. Betty tried again.

‘You might meet your father.’

That thought was much more alarming. Charity wondered if she had been wise to confide so much about her past to Betty, but the maid had proven herself a good friend over the years. However, Charity would not be dissuaded.

‘I doubt it. And as long as I stay this side of the county line he cannot hurt me.’

Betty frowned, her usually dour countenance becoming positively forbidding.

‘He must know by now that you are in Allingford. Someone will have told him that Charity Weston is appearing at the theatre.’

‘Mayhap he will think it a mere coincidence that an actress has the same name as his daughter.’

‘And mayhap he is planning some mischief.’

‘Nonsense, Betty. It is more than a dozen years since I left Saltby. Phineas has probably forgotten all about me.’

‘Not he, mistress. From all you have told me of the man, he will not rest while you are in Allingford. Your success will be like a thorn in his flesh.’

‘Well, that is a pain he will have to bear,’ said Charity stoutly, ‘because I am not going away.’

Nevertheless, she made sure that when she travelled north or east she kept within the bounds of Allingford, although she felt confident enough to venture farther afield on the other side of the town, and one sunny March day she set out to explore the land to the west. The air was bracing and a covering of snow on the distant hills told her that winter had not yet gone for good, but the blue sky lifted the spirits and Charity was glad to be out of the town. At a crossroads she stopped, debating whether to explore further or to go back to Allingford. After all, it was the first night of a new play tonight and she would need to prepare.

While she was making up her mind, a pedlar came round the corner, leading his donkey laden with leather packs. The gig’s pony snorted and shifted nervously. Charity quieted the animal and pulled a little to the side to allow the pedlar to pass.

He tipped his hat, his bright, beady eyes alight with curiosity.

‘Good day, missus. Hast thou lost tha’ way?’

‘No,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I am exploring and cannot decide which route to take.’

‘Ah, well, then. I tek it tha’s just come from Allingford.’ He stopped and pushed up his hat to scratch his head. ‘If tha’ teks that road to yer right, you’ll reach Kirby Misperton. The way to the left leads to Great Habton. And that track there—’ he pointed to a wide lane bounded on either side by ditches ‘—it looks best o’ the lot, but leads to nobbut Wheelston Hall.’

‘Thank you, that is most enlightening.’

With a toothless grin the pedlar touched his hat again and went on his way. Charity looked at the three lanes before her. She had an hour yet before she needed to turn back. Kirby Misperton, Great Habton—the names were intriguing, but Wheelston.... She frowned slightly, wondering where she had heard the name before.

Then she remembered the quiet stranger who had attended the opening night reception only to leave after the briefest of words with her. Ross Durden. He had said he lived at Wheelston. Of the three lanes before her, the track to the hall was by far the widest and had been well made, but showed signs of neglect with the ditches overgrown and hedges straggling untidily on either side. A prosperous property, perhaps fallen on hard times? She remembered Lady Beverley’s words. There was clearly some sort of mystery about Mr Durden. She set off again.

You cannot drive slap up to someone’s house just because you are curious!

Charity ignored the shocked voice of her conscience and turned the pony. She had set out to explore, so why should she not go this way? The crossroads had no signposts, so it was not unreasonable for her to take the most interesting route.

After what felt like a good half mile she was beginning to wish she had listened to her conscience. An accumulation of cloud had covered the sun, making the air very chill, and a sneaking wind cut through her fur-lined pelisse. The unkempt hedges hid her view and had overgrown the road so much that it was too narrow for her to turn the gig.

‘I shall turn round in the next gateway,’ she said aloud, causing the pony’s ears to prick. ‘Yes, I know,’ she addressed the animal. ‘You want to go back to your warm stable. And I confess that I, too, am beginning to think longingly of my fireside and a hot drink.’

No convenient gateway presented itself and she was obliged to drive on around the bend, only to find herself at the entrance to a substantial property: Wheelston Hall.

It was a rambling, many-gabled house built of grey stone, with a simple portico over the wide door. A curving drive swept around the front of the building, but it was heavily rutted and covered in weeds. Without waiting for Charity to guide him, the pony turned onto a narrower path leading around the side of the house. It was in much better condition and Charity made no effort to restrain the animal as it trotted towards the numerous outbuildings.

Charity found herself in a large cobbled yard; in the far corner someone was chopping wood, but he had his back to her and was unaware of her presence. She guessed from the man’s size and the curling black hair that it was Ross Durden. Despite the icy wind, he wore only his shirt, buckskins and boots, the shirtsleeves rolled up high to display his muscled arms.

He picked up a large log and placed it on the chopping block, then raised the long-handled axe and brought it down on the log in one smooth, powerful arc. She was struck by the fluid grace of the movement, the slight shift of legs and hips, the flutter of his billowing white shirt as his arms circled, the flash of the blade as it cleaved through the air and the satisfying crack as the wood was split asunder and the pieces fell onto the cobbles. One of the logs had rolled behind him, and as he reached around to pick it up, he spotted the gig. He straightened slowly and turned. Tossing the wood into the basket, he began to walk towards her.

For a brief moment Charity wanted to flee, but she fought down her panic. Not only would that be very cowardly behaviour, she doubted she could turn the gig and whip the little pony to a canter in time to get away. The man looked so much larger, so much less civilised than he had done at the theatre. Untamed and rakish was her impression of the man, but that was curiously at odds with his appearance in the green room.

Another memory nagged at her brain, but it was elusive; she could not quite catch it. She forced herself to sit still and watch as this large gentleman with his wild hair and dark, dangerous eyes approached the gig.

‘Mrs Weston.’

The words, uttered deep and slow, sent a quiver running down her spine. There was neither welcome nor enquiry in his tone. It was a mere statement of fact that she was here.

‘Mr Durden. I, um...I was exploring and took this lane quite by chance.’ She gave him a bright smile, but nothing in that harsh, dark face changed.

Foolish girl. You should have stayed away.

She gathered up the reins. ‘I am very sorry. I did not mean to intrude—’

He put out his hand and gripped the pony’s head collar.

‘It is no intrusion, but you are a long way from Allingford.’

Again the quiver ran down her spine. He was pointing out to her how vulnerable she was.

‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to come in and warm yourself by the fire?’

No! It was not to be thought of. May as well enter a tiger’s cage.

He turned and called to someone in the stable, his voice echoing around the yard, then he stepped up beside the gig and held out his hand.

‘Jed will take care of the pony until you are ready to leave. He will lead it into one of the empty barns, where it may wait for you out of the cold.’

Her conscience clamoured with warnings, but they went unheeded. With his eyes upon her and his hand held out so imperiously, she felt obliged to let him help her down and escort her into the house. The old wooden door opened onto a short corridor and from there into a large kitchen, at one end of which a fire slumbered in the range. A large shaggy dog jumped up and came to greet them, wagging its tail and sniffing at Charity’s skirts.

‘Easy, Samson, don’t frighten our guest.’

Charity leaned down to scratch the animal behind its ears.

‘I am not frightened. Is he a gun dog?’

‘Gun dog, sheepdog, companion. Whatever is needed.’

He snapped his fingers and sent the dog back to its box in the corner.

‘How useful,’ murmured Charity, stripping off her gloves. After the chilly air outside, the kitchen was blessedly warm. He waved towards an armchair beside the fire.

‘Sit there while I make you tea.’ He stirred up the coals and swung the trivet holding a large kettle over the fire. ‘I presume you would prefer tea to ale? I’m afraid there is nothing else here suitable for a lady.’

His voice was perfectly serious, but she noticed the disturbing glint in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Again she had a flash of memory, but he was expecting an answer and she must concentrate on that—and the fact that she was alone with him.

‘Yes, tea, if you please. I confess I am a little cold now.’

‘I, on the other hand, am quite warm from my exertions. I hope you won’t object if I take a mug of ale?’

Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and picked up the blackjack sitting on the table. Charity heard the kettle singing merrily and was a little reassured by the familiar sound. She knew she should keep her eyes averted, but could not resist glancing up under her lashes as her host filled a mug with ale and drank deeply. She watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, watching the muscles of his throat working, noting the strong lines of his neck, the hard, straight jaw and lean cheek. There was power in every line of his body and it seemed to call to her, an attraction so strong she found it difficult to keep still.

As he lowered the mug and wiped his hand across his mouth he met her eyes, holding her gaze with his own near-black eyes. Charity’s heart began to pound and her hands gripped the arms of the chair. The space between them seemed charged, like the heavy air that preceded a thunderstorm. Surely he must hear the thud of her heart, or even see it, since it battered mercilessly against her ribs.

She should say something, but her breath caught in her throat. She was in thrall to that dark predatory gaze, unable to look away. Unwilling to look away. She had to acknowledge that the perilous attraction was all on her side, the man before had not moved or spoken, so how could she blame him for the danger she felt now?

Was it the rattle of the kettle lid and sudden hiss of steam that broke the spell? Or was it the fact that she was no longer subject to that dark stare? He turned to the fire and proceeded to make the tea. With a conscious effort Charity made herself release her grip on the chair arms. She watched as he lifted a rosewood tea caddy from the shelf and spooned leaves into a silver teapot before pouring in the boiling water. She was desperate to break the silence, but when she spoke she almost winced at the inanity of her words.

‘Tea making is more commonly a woman’s role, Mr Durden.’

‘Since my housekeeper is not here it falls to me,’ he said shortly. ‘I could ask you to do it, but I am not in the habit of making my guests work.’

Charity thought his manner suggested he was not in the habit of entertaining visitors at all, but she did not say so. Instead she watched him fetch out of the cupboard a beautiful teacup and saucer.

‘I do not have much call to use these,’ he remarked, as if reading her thoughts. ‘There is sugar, if you want it?’

‘Just a little milk, if you please.’

His strong hands were remarkably gentle with the fine porcelain.

As if he was caressing a beautiful woman.

A hot blush raced through Charity at the thought and she sat back in her chair, away from the direct heat of the fire. She took the cup from him with a murmur of thanks, but did not look up, conscious of an unfamiliar ache pooling deep inside her.

He refilled his tankard and drew up a stool for himself. It was a little lower than her chair, she noted, and thought she would be grateful that he was not towering over her, but when he sat down his face was level with her own, which was somehow even more disturbing. Desperate to avoid his gaze, she looked about the kitchen. The room was large and high ceilinged, big enough to accommodate a cook and at least half a dozen servants. She recalled Lady Beverley’s comment that Mr Durden had no money at all. However, even with a lack of staff, the long table was spotless and on the dresser the copper pans gleamed.

‘I beg your pardon, madam, for bringing you into the kitchen, but it is the only room in the house with a fire.’

‘Oh, no, no, I am very comfortable, I assure you.’ She smiled, forgetting her unease in her eagerness not to be thought critical of his hospitality. ‘I was merely thinking how much work there must be, maintaining a house like this.’

‘It would take an army of servants to do so,’ he replied frankly. ‘Most of it is closed up until I have the funds to restore it. I have an excellent housekeeper in Mrs Cummings, but she can only do so much. She insists on keeping one parlour tidy for me, and my study, but I spend very little time indoors so there is no point in having a fire anywhere but here during the day.’

‘Very sensible.’

Charity sipped her tea. It was good. However poor he might be, her host did not buy inferior bohea. Sitting by the fire, with a hot drink to revive her, she began to relax a little.

‘I enjoyed your performance in The Rivals.’

‘Thank you. It was very well received.’ She gently replaced her cup in its saucer and would have got up to put it on the table, but he forestalled her, reaching out to take the saucer, his fingers brushing hers as he did so.

It was as much as she could do not to snatch her hand away. She was so aware of him that her skin burned at his touch and little arrows of excitement skimmed through her blood. It was like the heady excitement of a first night, only worse, because she had no idea how to deal with this. Nervously she began to chatter.

‘We open in a new play tonight, The Provok’d Husband. Do you know it? I am very much looking forward to it, because I play Lady Townly. Hywel—Mr Jenkin—is to play my long-suffering husband. We have played it together before, but not for many a year. Perhaps you will come and see it.’

‘No, I won’t.’

His response was so blunt she blinked at him, but it also made her laugh.

‘Fie upon you, Mr Durden, I did not expect quite such a strong rebuttal.’

‘I beg your pardon. What I meant was that I rarely go into Allingford, save when there is business to attend to.’

‘Of course, and pray do not think that I shall be offended if you do not come. I am not so conceited as to think people cannot go on quite well without attending my performances.’ Smiling, she rose to her feet. ‘I have taken quite enough of your time and must be getting back. Thank you, Mr Durden, for your hospitality.’

He grimaced. ‘Such as it was.’

Sympathy clenched at her heart. She did not think him embarrassed by his straitened circumstances, but he was most clearly aware of how it might look to others. Impulsively she put her hand on his arm.

‘A warm fire and a warming dish of bohea—I would ask for nothing finer, sir.’

He was staring at her fingers as they rested upon his bare forearm and Charity wondered if he, too, felt the shock of attraction. She could almost see it, a dangerous current rippling around them. Carefully, she removed her hand and began to pull on her gloves. The dog had left his box and was looking up at them, ears pricked expectantly. Glad of the distraction, Charity smiled down at him.

‘Goodbye, Samson.’

Embarrassed by the nervousness that had her addressing a mere animal, she hurried to the door, biting down on her lip as Mr Durden reached past her to open it. He was so close that if she leaned towards him, just a little, their bodies would meet. Stifling the thought and the heady excitement that came with it, she swept past him along the corridor and opened the outer door herself.

Charity was almost surprised to step out into the cobbled yard. Some part of her—the part that remembered her upbringing, she thought bitterly—had almost expected to find the door opened directly into the fiery jaws of hell. She welcomed the chill air; it gave her something to think of other than the presence of the man beside her. She buttoned her pelisse and smoothed her gloves over her hands while he called for Jed to bring out the gig. Anything to fill the awkward silence. Her eyes fell upon the basket and the large pile of unsplit logs by the chopping block.

‘I interrupted your work, sir, I—’

‘It is no matter, the break was very welcome.’ The words were polite, his tone less so. He handed her into the waiting gig and shook out the rug before placing it over her knees. She held her breath, not moving lest he think she objected to his ministrations when in fact it was quite the opposite. A strange, unfamiliar awareness tingled through her body as he tucked the rug about her. She did not want him to stop.

‘It looks like rain.’ He glanced up at the sky before fixing her with his dark, sober gaze. ‘Go directly to Allingford, Mrs Weston. No more exploring today!’

She tried to smile, but her mouth would not quite obey her, not while he was subjecting her to such an intense stare. With a slight nod and a deft flick of the reins she set off out of the yard. The track was straight and the pony needed little guidance. She could easily look back, to see if he was watching her.... No! She sank her teeth into her lip again and concentrated on the road ahead. It was a chance encounter, nothing more. To turn and look back would give Mr Durden completely the wrong idea.

But her spine tingled all the way to the gate of Wheelston Hall and she longed to know if he had watched her drive away.

* * *

Ross stared at the distant entrance long after the little gig had disappeared. He heard Jed come up beside him and give a cough.

‘Who were that lass, Cap’n? I’ve not seen her hereabouts.’

Ross kept his eyes on the gates.

‘That,’ he said, a smile tugging at his mouth, ‘was the celebrated actress Mrs Charity Weston.’

‘Actress, is she?’ Jed hawked and spat on the ground. ‘And were she really explorin’, think ’ee?’

Ross turned and walked back towards the woodpile.

‘She said it was so.’

‘And you invited ’er indoors.’ Ross looked up to find Jed regarding him with a rheumy eye. ‘Never known you to do that afore, Cap’n. Never known you to show any kindness to a woman, not since—’

‘Enough, Jed.’ He beat his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of the cold. ‘If you’ve nothing to do, you can carry that basket of logs indoors and bring me an empty one.’

‘Oh, I’ve plenty to do, master, don’t you fret.’

The old man shuffled away, muttering under his breath. Ross returned to the woodpile and began to split more logs, soon getting into the rhythm of placing a log on the chopping block and swinging the axe. He tried not to think of the woman who had interrupted his work, but she kept creeping into his mind. He found himself recalling the dainty way she held her teacup, the soft, low resonance of her voice, the bolt of attraction that had shot through him when she met his eyes. He had felt himself drowning in those blue, blue eyes.... Ross tore his thoughts away from her only to find himself thinking that the gleaming white-gold centres of the freshly split ash boughs were the exact colour of her hair.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, get over her!’

‘Did ye call, Cap’n?’ Jed poked his head out of the stable again. ‘Did ye want me to get Robin ready for ye tonight? There’s a moon and a clear sky, which’ll suit ye well...’

‘No. That is—’ Ross hesitated ‘—you may saddle Robin up for me this evening, Jed, but no blacking. I’m going to Allingford!’