Double Deception (19 page)

"Athena," he said again, squeezing her shoulder. "Are you all right, love?"

There was no answer except for another deep shudder. Sylvester gently took her by the shoulders and turned her over on her back. She did not protest, so he assumed that no bones were broken. The discovery that she was not seriously hurt brought a sudden rush of pleasure.

"Oh, no," she murmured incoherently, moving her head from side to side as if to escape from the pelting rain.

Sylvester reached out and brushed a soggy strand of auburn hair from her cheek, marveling at the smoothness of her pale skin. She murmured something he could not hear, so he leaned over her, straining to catch her words. He felt the rain beating on his back, running in rivulets down his face, the back of his neck.

Suddenly impatient with his crouching position, Sylvester impulsively gathered the limp form in his arms, attempting to shelter her body from the force of the rain. She moaned again and cringed against him, seeking—or so it seemed to him— shelter from the downpour. He cupped her face, edging it close to his shoulder.

"Athena," he murmured close to her ear. "Athena, my dear, we should get you out of these wet clothes before you catch your death, love." He grinned briefly at the visions conjured by his words. "Do you feel well enough for me to put you up on Ajax?"

She made no reply, but one gloved hand came up to grasp his lapel, clinging to it as though her life depended upon it. Gently, he unclenched her fingers and kissed the cold flesh of her wrist.

Without warning a bolt of jagged lightning slashed across the sky, and Sylvester felt the woman in his arms shudder violently. The thunder that followed caused her to cry out in terror and grasp frantically at his coat.

He leaned down to soothe her, laying his cheek against hers, listening to her ragged breathing, and feeling anger at his helplessness. "There, there," he murmured against her cold lips.

Her mouth was wet with rain, as was his own; rivulets of water ran down his nose and cheeks and dripped onto her upturned face. Instead of protecting her from the downpour, he thought irrationally, he appeared to be adding to the wetness that cascaded over them both. There was a puddle of it collecting in the hollow of her throat, trembling with her breathing. Sylvester found it oddly erotic, and could not stop himself from kissing her there, displacing the small pool of water, sucking up the rest in an impulsive, amorous gesture. It was faintly tepid from her body warmth and he felt instantly aroused.

This would never do, he told himself abruptly. If he were not careful, he would find himself making love to an unconscious woman in the middle of a rainstorm. The possibility only excited him further, a feeling he repressed with difficulty. He braced himself to get up when another flash of lightning slit the sky, followed instantly by a clap of thunder that made the ground beneath them shudder.

Before Sylvester could react, he felt two arms grasp him in a stranglehold, and a female body press itself frantically against him with such force that he clearly distinguished every curve and valley of her. His reaction was automatic and instantaneous. His right arm tightened around her shoulders, and then his hand ran down the trembling length of her, molding her more closely—if such a thing were possible—to his own body.

Athena moaned into his ear, and for a delirious moment, Sylvester allowed himself to imagine she was in the throes of love. And then her trembling began to subside, and his caress became more comforting than seductive. She relaxed her arms, and when he looked at her, he saw two pools of dark amber looking back at him, glazed with fear. Even as he stared, he saw realization flood back and the fear turn to shock, then to horror and finally mortification.

Mrs. Standish had regained her consciousness, he thought with a stab of regret.

Sylvester grinned at her, allowing his amusement to show.

He saw her close her eyes tightly, screwing them up and then popping them open, as though willing herself to be somewhere else, anything but lying there with him in the wet grass.

"Yes, it is indeed me, my dear," he drawled. "And I have no intention of going away. You are not dreaming. I found you here on the grass—"

"What are you doing sitting down here?" she demanding in a weak voice, her eyes dangerous.

He grinned wolfishly. "I should think that must be pretty obvious, my dear," he said, deliberately provoking her. "And since I am quite as wet as you are, Athena, I did not think it would signify."

Athena struggled to sit up, and Sylvester immediately rose to his feet and lifted her—under muttered protests—to stand beside him.

She looked around, evidently unaware that she still rested in the circle of his arm for support. "My horse appears to have disappeared."

"I shall take you up in front of me." He turned to whistle to Ajax, who ambled up to stand beside them, his head lowered under the deluge of water that still fell.

"No," she said sharply. "Thank you, my lord. I shall walk."

Sylvester laughed. "No, you will ride with me, Athena."

"I am quite able to—"

"I said you will ride with me."

Without waiting for further argument, he put his hands around her waist and lifted her up onto Ajax, swinging up behind her before she had a chance to protest.

Settling one arm about her rigid shoulders, Sylvester turned Ajax towards home.

Much later that evening, Athena curled up under her covers wishing that she might remain hidden in the warm cocoon for the rest of her life. She had no desire to remember anything that had occurred on that dreadful afternoon. She wanted to put Peregrine and his disgusting behavior completely out of her mind.

Least of all she wished to recall that Lord St. Aubyn had witnessed her humiliation. He most assuredly had glimpsed Miss Rathbone's naked bosom—full and pink and curved to perfection—rising saucily above the bodice of her riding habit, pulled down around her hips. Athena had the niggling suspicion that the Beauty had intended the earl to see it, but she suppressed this ungenerous thought.

The earl must have seen the disarray of Peregrine's clothing, too, yet—now that she thought about it—he had said not a word to his son. He had not even looked at Perry. Only at her, his face grim, that odd glitter in his eyes.

Had he been amused? she wondered. Had he gloated at the definitive destruction of her betrothal to his son? That was what the earl had wanted, was it not? It was what she herself had wanted, Athena reminded herself bluntly. But never had she expected it would occur so publicly, so painfully.

There was a tap at the door, which opened to reveal her Aunt Mary, bearing a tray of covered dishes.

"His lordship is asking about you, Athena, love," she said in a stage whisper, setting the tray down on the small table beside the bed. "He ordered Jackson to bring up your dinner tray, but I wanted to bring it myself. His lordship wants a full report on your condition, my dear. I believe he would have come up himself had not Lady Sarah pointed out the impropriety of such a visit."

Athena shuddered and snuggled deeper under the covers. "I am not hungry, Aunt. Truly I am not."

Aunt Mary made disapproving noises and uncovered one of the dishes. "It is your favorite, dear. Fricassee of veal with fresh green peas from the garden. His lordship ordered it particularly."

"You may tell his lordship," Athena responded tartly, "that my well-being is none of his concern. And after tomorrow I hope never to set eyes upon him or his son again."

"Never say you will leave the Castle tomorrow, dear?" Her aunt sounded dismayed. "Lady Sarah is anxious that we should stay for Perry's ball, at least."

"You may stay as long as you choose, Aunt," Athena said firmly. "But I intend to leave tomorrow, come rain or shine."

"Very well, dear," Aunt Mary replied, her blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "But I should warn you that you will have to share a coach with Mrs. Rathbone and her granddaughter. They are returning to London tomorrow at first light, and you can hardly expect his lordship to provide a separate carriage for you, dear."

With that parting shot, her aunt left her, promising to bring Penelope in later to say good night.

Since the notion of sharing a coach with the Rathbone ladies was clearly out of the question, Athena reconciled herself to staying on at the Castle for at least another day. This would allow her the opportunity to release Perry from his commitment, she thought, and to return his ring personally rather than enclosing it in the curt little note she had planned.

The abrupt departure of the Rathbones must be Lord St. Aubyn's doing, Athena reasoned. No doubt his lordship objected to Miss Rathbone for his son's bride as much as he had to her, although obviously on different grounds. It struck her as rather odd that the earl had not insisted upon his son's providing immediate reparation to the Beauty by offering her marriage. Peregrine had certainly compromised the young lady beyond any hope of salvaging her reputation by any other means. Unless, of course ... But Athena's mind shied away from the unpleasant thought that had intruded there.

Inexplicably, her appetite seemed to have returned, and after savoring the fricasseed veal, she curled up again, her mind in a turmoil.

The earl had been correct about her daughter. Penny had returned quite safely and Lord St. Aubyn had delivered her personally to Mrs. Easton before setting out to find her mother.

But why had he done so? Athena wondered, quite unable to imagine his lordship's motives. Had he perhaps been concerned about his son falling into the clutches of Miss Rathbone? If so, he had arrived far too late to prevent a scandal. But there had been no scandal. And now the Rathbones were leaving ...

It was all very perplexing, Athena thought. And the most disturbing fact of all was Lord St. Aubyn's behavior with her.

She could clearly hear the patter of rain on her window, but the fury of the storm had passed, leaving her with memories she would much rather not examine too closely.

Resolutely, she turned over and closed her eyes, but the memories persisted. The earl's warm lips on the hollow of her throat, the rain dripping from his face onto hers, the tenderness of his hands cradling her head against his shoulder, his futile attempt to shelter her with his body from the pelting rain, his strong arm about her trembling shoulders as they rode back to the Castle. But perhaps most vividly, the warmth of his body as she curled against him, shuddering uncontrollably every time the heavens opened above them with another flash of lightning.

For some inexplicable reason known only to himself, the earl had treated her as though she were precious to him. He had cradled her and comforted her as John would have done. He had carried her in the kitchen door and up the back stairs to her room-—ignoring the startled glances of the servants—and laid her on her bed, removing her boots and chafing her cold feet until her horrified aunt had banished him.

None of this made any sense. Tomorrow she would find a logical explanation for Lord St. Aubyn's odd behavior, Athena told herself drowsily, but tonight she would only remember the tenderness and dream impossible dreams.

***

Athena came awake slowly, languorously, luxuriating in the warmth of the feather bed. Betsy, the maid Lady Sarah had assigned to attend her, must have already been in to draw the curtains, because the room was filled with sunlight, and Athena could hear the starlings' shrill cries in the eves. The sky was blue and cloudless, and it would have been so easy to blot out yesterday's storm from her mind and pretend it had never happened. That nothing out of the ordinary had happened yesterday at all.

But did she really wish to erase yesterday afternoon from her mind? Athena wondered. Last night she might have said yes, but this morning she was not certain. She could well dispense with the shocking sight of Miss Rathbone's exposed bosom, of course, and with her coarse comments; but catching her sweet Perry
in flagrante
in the arms of another woman had opened her eyes to a reality she had been unable or unwilling to admit even to herself.

The feelings she had for her betrothed were those of a mother, not a lover.

A sobering thought indeed, Athena thought, slipping out of the warm bed and into her robe and slippers. One that explained why she had felt no jealousy for the Beauty yesterday, no real animosity for the female who had made it her business to entangle Perry in a rather sordid seduction. All she had felt was anger at Perry for his thoughtless treatment of Penelope. There had been no outrage at the discovery of Perry's tryst with another woman, and now she understood why.

Her love for Peregrine had been as much an illusion as his was for her. She had
wanted
to be in love with Perry. She had needed to believe herself in love in order to accept his offer of marriage. To make her dreams come true. But what good were dreams if they were based on make-believe?

She had been a hypocrite!

Unlike Perry, who had at least been honest in his infatuation, she had deliberately woven an illusion of love around her heart so that she might become a wife again.

The memory of Perry's startled face, awash with guilt and shame, flashed before her eyes, and Athena knew exactly what she must do. She would break their betrothal—that was now more imperative than ever—but she would not heap the contempt of a jilted woman upon his handsome head. She would be honest with him, perhaps for the first time since they had met. She would take her full share of the blame for what had occurred yesterday. After all, she had never even kissed the poor boy, not as a woman kisses a man she loves. Athena had felt no desire to kiss Perry, she realized with new honesty, because she had not loved him.

So she would definitely not wish to erase yesterday afternoon from her memory, Athena decided resolutely, at least not that part of it that concerned Perry. It had forced her to face an unplatable truth about herself.

As for the other part... She paused, conscious of the quickening of her pulse. The part that concerned his father. No, if she were honest with herself, she would not wish to lose that memory either. It was something she could hold on to in the days ahead. Memories of tenderness, of warm male skin against her cheek, of a man's body pressed close to hers with the urgency of a lover, of his kisses in the hollow of her throat, but perhaps more than anything else, the comfort of his arms around her as they rode back home together.