Gayle Buck (21 page)

“On the contrary, it was well-meant,” Michele said, thinking of Lady Kenmare’s attempt to accomplish the selfsame goal. She hugged her cousin. “Thank you for caring so much, Lydia.”

That evening the Davenport household remained quietly at home instead of leaving the house to attend a social function. After a companionable dinner they settled themselves in the drawing room. The younger ladies decided upon a game of piquet. As Lady Basinberry embroidered, she expressed herself relieved to have nowhere in particular to go. “But I do not complain at our shocking pace these last weeks. You have managed to attach quite a handful of admirers, Lydia. I have not spent such a busy Season since my last daughter was at home. It has been most gratifying,’’ she said complacently.

Mr. Davenport grunted and turned the page of his newspaper. “You have probably not spent so much blunt in one Season, either,” he muttered.

“What was that, Edwin?” Lady Basinberry asked challengingly.

Mr. Davenport peered around the edge of the newspaper. “I said nothing at all, dear Beatrice. I merely commented on the shocking price of corn.
We shall have rioting one day, mark my words.” Lady Basinberry subsided, mollified.

Lydia giggled, sliding a glance at her cousin. Michele bit her lip. She recommended that Lydia give greater attention to her cards. “For I am already some points ahead of you, cousin,” she said.

Lydia was immediately put on her mettle, and she straightened in her chair. “We shall see who accumulates thirty first,” she said, tossing her head.

There was a stir originating from the front hall, a sharp voice, and swift hard steps. Lady Basinberry looked toward the drawing-room door. “I wonder who that might be,” she said. She was not long left to her curiosity.

The door opened and the butler showed in a gentleman whose overcoat swirled with the impatience of his movements. “Lord Randol, sir.”

Mr. Davenport got quickly to his feet, amazement writ plain upon his countenance. “My lord! I had not expected to see you again. That is to say, this is indeed a most welcome surprise.’’ He found that he still clutched his newspaper, and he tossed it aside so that he could take the hand that Lord Randol had extended.

“Davenport, ladies. I am glad to have found you all at home.’’ Lord Randol turned to make his bows to the women. As he did so, the candlelight shifted across his face, revealing high on his brow an open gash from which came a dark trickle of blood.

Lydia squeaked in alarm. “My lord, you are bleeding!”

“Am I? It is of no consequence,” Lord Randol said with supreme indifference.

“My dear sir, I shall ring immediately for a sticking plaster. It appears a nasty cut indeed,” Lady Basinberry said, moving toward the bellpull.

“Great heavens, man, have you been attacked by footpads? The scoundrels are roaming the street at will, I have been told,” Mr. Davenport said.

“Whatever has happened, my lord? Was it indeed footpads?” Lydia asked.

Mr. Davenport had poured a glass of wine and now offered it to Lord Randol, who politely declined it. “No, nothing so dramatic as that. It was only a rock thrown up by a passing carriage.” His eyes searched out and found Michele. She stood quite still, her face a shade paler than usual. She had not uttered a word since his entrance. Lord Randol firmly turned down Lady Basinberry’s urgent request to seat himself. His eyes still on Michele’s face, he said, “Thank you, but no, my lady. I wish for nothing. I have but come to speak privately with Mademoiselle du Bois.”

There fell a startled silence as several pairs of eyes fixed upon his inscrutable face. Lady Basinberry found her voice first. “Speak privately with Michele? Why, this is a highly irregular request, my lord. Indeed, it is quite shocking,” she said with haughty disapproval.

“Nevertheless, I fear that I must insist,” Lord Randol said. The candlelight flickered over his scarred face and the gash on his brow. He appeared dangerous, and his insistence was strange, coming from one who had rarely shown the least degree of carelessness in his manners.

“I am not certain ...” Mr. Davenport faltered. He looked toward his niece, a doubtful inquiry in his eyes. After the briefest of hesitations, Michele nodded in acquiescence. Mr. Davenport rocked on his heels, and his stays creaked. “Of course, my lord. Perhaps the back parlor will be an appropriate place,” he suggested.

Lord Randol opened the door and with a peremptory gesture invited Michele to leave the drawing room. She went past him with a wooden expression. None of the curious trio left behind could have guessed from her manner that her heart thumped violently in her breast.

When Lord Randol and Michele were safely out of earshot, Lady Basinberry rounded on her brother. “I do not know what you are thinking of, Edwin! Our niece should not be closeted alone with his lordship. It is most improper.”

“I know it, Beatrice,” Mr. Davenport said, perturbed. “But what was I to do? I am not Michele’s guardian. She is her own mistress and she has every right to form her own decisions.”

Lady Basinberry snorted in disgust. “I shall not deign to comment upon
that!
I merely hope that Michele is aware of what it is she dares in agreeing to this most unorthodox meeting. It is shocking, indeed. I tell you, Francois du Bois has much to answer for in his daughter’s handling of herself. A properly schooled young lady would never agree to a
tête-à-tête
for any reason.” She added a few more pithy remarks that drove Mr. Davenport to take refuge behind his newspaper.

Lydia paid little heed to her aunt’s sweeping denouncement of Michele’s upbringing. The romanticism of youth made her hope for something of wonder, but she thought regretfully that she had seen too much of Lord Randol’s chilly nature for such hopes to be practical. But still her curiosity was rampant, and she asked of no one in particular, “I wonder what it is he has to say to her.”

Her question served to silence Lady Basinberry, and Mr. Davenport lowered his newspaper. They all studied one another, but no one was prepared to offer a theory.

Chapter Twenty

Michele could not imagine why Lord Randol had demanded to speak privately with her. She had not seen him since the dinner party given by the Countess of Kenmare, and there had certainly not been any indication then that he wished further concourse with her. She cast a look up at his face as she preceded him into the back parlor. She could read nothing but severity in his expression, and she very nearly regretted her impulse to satisfy her curiosity and go with him.

When Lord Randol closed the door behind him, he stood for a moment with his hand at rest on the brass knob. Michele regarded him from a few steps away, waiting for him to break the silence. At last he left the door, intending to usher her to a chair. But he stopped before he had quite closed the distance between them. He looked at her for several long seconds, then said abruptly, “Since the countess’s dinner party, I have been unable to forget her words about you.”

“Can you not? How odd, to be sure,” Michele said coolly. Her heart was continuing its pounding. She still did not know what he wanted of her, but there was an odd little lift of anticipation within her.

“I have come to demand the truth of you,” Lord Randol said.

His voice was harsh. A tiny muscle jumped in his taut jawline, always in the past a certain sign of some strong emotion. But even so, Michele felt an uncoiling of the tension that had her in its grip. “Have you indeed?” She noticed that the blood that trickled from his brow threatened to mar the pure white of his high shirt collar. She pulled her handkerchief free from her sleeve cuff and reached up to press it against the deep cut on his brow.

With an oath Lord Randol knocked aside her hand. His eyes blazed as his lips curled in an unpleasant smile. “I am amazed, mademoiselle! Do not the sight and smell of blood offend your fine sensibilities?” he demanded harshly.

“Pray do not be stupid! I have tended those who lost limbs, my lord. Why should I faint now at the sight of a little blood?” retorted Michele, not understanding the cause of his blaze of bitterness. She could only guess that it had something to do with his own old wounds.

Lord Randol barked a laugh that was totally devoid of amusement. “Why should you indeed, if that were true? Oh, you hoodwinked the Countess of Kenmare finely. But I have cause to know better, do I not? You could not find the stomach to bear the sight of my wounds. That was why you did not come. Instead you had delivered that nauseating apologetic note to free yourself of any ties to a probable cripple!”

Michele recoiled from the venom in his voice. “What are you accusing me of? I have done nothing to you that you should hate me so!”

“Do you dare to deny it? I have kept the proof of your perfidy, mademoiselle. I have kept the damning letter to remind me of your treachery and your shallow love,” Lord Randol snapped. He reached into his pocket to draw out his leather purse, and from it extracted a much-folded sheet. He thrust it before Michele’s wide eyes. “There, mademoiselle! Your own words are come back to condemn you!”

Michele took the sheet and unfolded what proved to be a letter. Its top was ragged, as though it had been hurriedly torn from a notebook. It was stained and permanently creased by repeated readings. Undeniably the handwriting was her own. Michele read the well-remembered words over and over, her brows drawn in confusion. “But I do not understand. It is my penning, yes. But how did it come into your possession? I had written it to Sir Lionel after he . . .” She looked up quickly, awful comprehension dawning in her eyes. “
Mon
Dieu,
Anthony! I refused Sir Lionel’s offer for me, and this ...” She raised the letter in the air. Her hand dropped slowly as she looked at him in gathering horror.

For a long tense moment Lord Randol stared at her. His very breathing seemed to have stopped. “It was Sir Lionel who brought me that damnable note,” he said hoarsely.

A horrible weight constricted Michele’s chest as she whispered, “He told me that he had seen you die.”

“So he did,” Lord Randol said grimly. “When I read that letter, something within me shriveled away. When Sir Lionel left me, I lay broken in body and spirit. I thought I would lose my mind, until I learned to hate you. It was my hatred for what you had done—what I thought you had done—that gave me the strength to survive. God, how I fought to live! I wanted at least that much revenge upon you for casting me aside.” He smashed his fist against the mantel. “Damn his black jealous heart! Damn him!”

Alarmed by the viscount’s barely suppressed violence, Michele caught at his arm. “Anthony. Calm yourself or you will do yourself an injury,” she commanded quietly.

Lord Randol half-turned. His arms closed tight about her, as a drowning man might grasp a floating spar. His voice was muffled against her sweet-smelling hair when he said, “My God, Michele. When I recall what I have said to you . . . what I have done to hurt you!”

Michele felt tears bum her eyes. She raised her head and laid trembling fingers against his lips. “Hush, my love. It is in the past. We have survived, have we not?” When he attempted to speak, she shook her head. “No, Anthony. We shall never mention again the terrible things we have thought or said to each other. I forbid it.”

Under her fingers, she felt his lips curve in a smile. She took away her hand. Her voice wobbled. “Good. You are not to be an intractable husband, then. I shall like that, I think.”

Lord Randol looked down at her with a gathering light in his eyes. “On the contrary, I plan to be the most demanding of husbands. And I intend to begin this instant.” He caught her up and his lips found hers in a hard, demanding kiss.

His arms tightened about her so that she could barely breathe. With an inarticulate sound she wound her arms about his neck and gave back to him the same fierce passion.

When at last they broke apart, they were trembling with the force of emotion that had been unleashed. Lord Randol raised a shaking hand to brush aside a curl from Michele’s half-closed eyes. “I shall never let you go again,” he said in a low, intense voice.

Michele was shaking. She felt certain she would fall if she did not cling to his strong frame. “I hope that is a vow of the highest order, my lord,” she whispered throatily, endeavoring to smile at him.

“You may rest assured of it, my dearest love,” Lord Randol said. “And I shall make it official as soon as I can procure a special license.”

Michele drew back to the extent that his arms would allow. “We are not going to Gretna Green, surely?”

Lord Randol denied it. “I do not intend that our long-past-due marriage should finally take place under a cloud of scandal. You shall have your uncle to give you away and Lydia to be your maid of honor,” he said.

“I wish that my mother and father could be present,” Michele said a shade wistfully.

Lord Randol looked down at her face, his gaze slowly tracing each beloved feature. “You shall have them with you, then.”

Michele looked at him, startled. “But you spoke of a special license. I did not think that you wished to wait so long. It will take some time for my parents to free themselves of their obligations and journey to London.”

“I have set aside the thought of a special license.” He smiled suddenly, his eyes bright. “My very dear lady, what is another month if it means that I may bestow upon you some measure of happiness? By all means, we shall have your father and your mother at the wedding. Write to them at once. We shall post the banns when you have a reply from them. That will give you time to put together a trousseau. I do not want my bride coming to me in just any old shift.”

Michele blushed fierily. She laughed, a sensation of incredible happiness in her heart. “You are far off in your thinking that a mere month is enough for a proper trousseau, my lord! But I suspect that with Lydia and Lady Basinberry to aid me, I shall manage to pack a proper gown or two.”

“Good. It is settled, then. I, too, have business to finish before we may embark on our honeymoon.” He thought about Sir Lionel Corbett’s perfidy and all the anger and hurt and betrayal that he had endured over the long months of his convalescence crystallized. There was a dangerous, hard expression in Lord Randol’s eyes, but it was quickly gone when he met Michele’s questioning gaze. “Shall we tour Europe for our honeymoon?”