Lady Rosabella's Ruse (13 page)

‘Oh, a wisty caster,’ he said with a wink.

She lifted out a diaphanous piece of fabric covered in spangles. At first she thought it must be a shawl, then when she looked closer, she realized it was a gown. Something her mother had worn on stage.

‘Very nice,’ Stanford said, his eyes dancing. ‘Would you care to try it on?’

Mortified, she folded it carefully and added it to the pile beside the chest. She lifted out the rest of the costumes without investigating what they were until the bottom of the chest sat bare before them. ‘It’s not here,’ she said.

‘I see that.’ He glanced around. ‘There doesn’t seem to anything else that might contain a hiding place.

Rosa couldn’t take her gaze from Mama’s trunk. She hadn’t even known it existed. She would love to have been able to keep it. To look through it properly. Reluctantly she put everything back and closed the lid. No doubt Grandfather would throw it away if he saw it and its contents. She had the feeling that once that happened it would be as if Mama never existed.

Sadness squeezed her heart. And not just because Father had forgotten her and her sisters. It seemed he’d also forgotten their mother. The woman for whom he’d been prepared to give up everything. Perhaps in the end he’d decided he’d made a mistake.

With a sigh she rose to her feet and let her gaze sweep the cramped space. ‘I don’t think there is anywhere else to look.’

Saying the words brought her situation home with the force of a gale. Her hopes were built on a foundation of sand and everything was about to tumble down around her ears.

Now what should she do? Write to Grandfather again? Beg him to look after the girls, even if he wouldn’t lift a finger for her? It wasn’t their fault she’d borrowed the money. If he wouldn’t help, they would have to fend for themselves.

She was the one who had incurred the debt. She was the one who would have to go to prison.

Even if she landed a role as an opera singer in London, it might be weeks before she earned enough to pay off the debt unless the moneylender would accept something on account. It was a hopeful thought.

‘Mrs Travenor?’

She glanced up. ‘I’m sorry. Did you say something?’

‘I was wondering if you would like me to unroll the carpets?’

He looked sorry, caring, as if he’d like to help. There was nothing he could do.

She shook her head with a brief smile. ‘The carpets would have been taken up long after we left.’ She squared her shoulders as she thought of the task in front of her. ‘It isn’t here. I’ll leave the back-door key with these others in the kitchen. I won’t need it again.’

Stanford must have seen her distress, much as she tried to hide it, because he gave her an encouraging smile. ‘We could try the other rooms again. I don’t think we’ll be leaving here tonight.’

She stared at him aghast. ‘Not leave?’

‘I told you, the bridge is down.’

She had to leave. Grandfather would arrive in the morning. She could not be found here with Stanford. ‘We will go around by the lane.’

‘We could try,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s a three-mile walk and, if you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining cats and dogs. Who is to say that the lane isn’t flooded? There are three bridges between here and The Grange according to the map I saw.’

‘Three miles? How can it be? It takes fifteen minutes to walk here through the woods.’

His lips thinned as if she’d called him a liar. ‘I assure you it is. The lane goes around the woods to the village, just as the lane to The Grange goes around the fields in the other direction to the village. There is no lane between the two houses apart from the path through the woods and, as I mentioned, the bridge is down.’

‘Well, there is no need to be unpleasant about it.’

He took a step towards her, as if he’d like to shake her, but he’d forgotten the low ceiling. He banged his head. ‘Blast.’

The shock on his face made her giggle. The small laugh released some of the pressure on her chest. Got her mind working again, instead of going around and around in the same old circle.

He gave her a sour look, rubbing his forehead, then he grinned. ‘Trust me, it is a three-mile walk.’

She sighed. ‘Oh, I believe you.’ Well, of course she did. If anything could go wrong, it did. ‘Then we had best get started.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not in the dark in a raging storm.’ As if to confirm his words, a thunderclap reverberated through the house, making her jump. It grumbled into silence, leaving the sound of rain beating against the roof. ‘We will light a fire, get dry and set off at first light.’

Spend the night? ‘What will people say?’

His jaw dropped. ‘What people?’

She twisted her hands together. ‘The owner is due here tomorrow. That is why I came again tonight. What if he finds us here in the morning?’

He glanced down at the hem of her gown, mired in mud and the dust from the floors. ‘We will leave at first light. Long before anyone is on the road.’

‘If you are too fine to get a little damp, I will go by myself.’

At that moment her lantern winked out, leaving only his alight.

‘Good luck in the dark,’ he said. ‘Unless you know the whereabouts of a supply of oil.’

Negotiating a country lane would be hard enough with a lantern when there wasn’t a storm. To do so on a night like tonight would be foolish.

‘Very well, but we will have to leave the moment it is light.’

‘The instant, I promise. Let’s get downstairs to the kitchen before my light goes out. I noticed a stack of wood on the hearth in the kitchen. We can light the fire.’

‘So
now
you want to light a fire.’ She huffed out a breath.

He looked down at her and there was a strange expression on his face. He hesitated, then smiled his devil-may-care smile. ‘After you.’

She hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. In short order they had kindling on the fire and a merry blaze. But there weren’t many logs and they would soon burn through them.

‘I’ll fetch some of that coal up from the cellar while you get out of those wet clothes,’ she said.

He nodded. He looked a bit demonic in the light from the fire, all axe-hard angles and shadowed hollows. Not scary, though. Just terribly wicked. Her stomach gave a funny little lurch.

‘Now there is a suggestion I never thought I would hear pass your lips.’

Uncomprehending, she blinked. Then his words made sense and heat flooded her face. ‘Wretch. This is no time for jokes.’

‘Well, I just thought I’d mention that once my clothes are off, I will be naked.’

Oh, right. ‘Wait a moment.’

She went into the drawing room and pulled the covers off a couple of chairs. She brought them back to the kitchen. ‘They might be a bit dusty, but you can use one as a towel and the other one as a robe.’ She grabbed the coal scuttle beside the hearth, and the lantern. ‘I’ll get the coal before we lose the last of our light.’ She ran down the stairs, trying not to imagine him removing his garments.

She shovelled coal into the bucket. He’d looked fine in his shirtsleeves this afternoon. Naked, he’d probably look like one of the many statues littering The Grange. ‘Really, Rosabella,’ she muttered, ‘have you no shame? Just because you pretend to be a widow, doesn’t mean you should think like one.’ She picked up the heavy scuttle and staggered back to the stairs.

A white apparition stood at the top. She gave a little squeak.

‘Give me the coal,’ the apparition said, running down to help.

When he entered the light cast by her lantern, he looked more like a mummy than a Greek god.

With a nervous giggle she handed him the bucket and went ahead up the stairs. ‘Thank you,’ she said when they reached the top. ‘That bucket was heavy.’

It didn’t look heavy in his hands; his naked arms were beautifully formed. So were his shoulders. She couldn’t take her eyes off their sculpted curves and the way they flexed as he set the bucket down on the hearth. Her fingers longed to touch the swell of flesh on his upper arm, to see if it was hard or soft. His forearms were huge and dusted with dark hair. By comparison her arms looked like twigs. He was…delicious.

Embarrassed, she turned away. ‘I should hang up my cloak to dry,’ she said, then pressed her lips together at the hoarse sound of her voice as if sand lined her throat. She swallowed hard.

‘Take off your shoes and stockings, too,’ he said. ‘Your feet must be as damp as mine.’

Her head jerked around.

He wasn’t looking at her, he was busy placing lumps of coal on the fire with tongs. There was nothing salacious in his voice, just plain practicality, but her heart was pounding like the hooves of a runaway horse.

When she didn’t answer, he turned his head to look at her. Firelight danced in his eyes and lit his full sensual mouth. Lips that had enslaved her body to his will.

He stood up, hands on hips. The fire outlined his shape. She could…oh, saints above, she could see the outline of his legs where he stood with them wide apart. She forced her gaze to move to his face, not to take stock of the way the sheet clung to his hips, or the bulge between his thighs. But even lifting her gaze wasn’t safe when she encountered his broad chest, or the wide shoulders emerging from the white fabric.

He glared at her. ‘Do you think I would take advantage of you?’

Her stomach did a little dance of hopeful glee. She took a quick breath to still it. ‘I— No, of course not.’

She grabbed her cloak from the chair where she had flung it when she came in and shook out its folds. ‘If we move the chair closer, we can use it as a drying horse.’

‘Good idea,’ he replied, though there was a bit of mockery in his voice. ‘It will make a good place to dry your stockings.’

He was right. Her feet were wet. In her anxiety to search, she really hadn’t noticed the physical discomfort, but now there was no hope to buoy her spirits, the damp was creeping into her bones. It was also creeping cold and chill into her heart, but there was nothing she could do about that. Nothing at all.

She went behind the chair and removed her footwear and then her stockings while he continued building the fire. She hung the stockings over the chair back and put her shoes on the hearth. He glanced around and nodded. ‘I’ll get another chair for my things.’ He dragged two more chairs forwards, making a semicircle around the hearth, and draped his clothes over them. ‘Hmm. Something is missing. Sit down beside the fire. I’ll be back in a moment.’ He picked up the lantern and disappeared.

Already the fire had a nice red glow in the middle. Its warmth permeated through her skirts. The scent of burning wood and coal filled the room. Cosy. Intimate. Comforting.

How could she be comforted with a man wearing nothing but a sheet? A man she found far too attractive for her own good. A man renowned for his powers of seduction.

Despite his assertions, given her weakness where he was concerned, she’d be a fool not to think him dangerous.

Forewarned was forearmed. Wasn’t it?

Chapter Eight

‘H
ere we are.’ She looked up to find Stanford with his arms full of red velvet cushions. ‘I remembered seeing these in the library. More comfortable than sitting on the floor.’

He spread them around until they looked like a bed.

Feeling a little foolish, she sat on one edge. He was right, it was more comfortable. She hugged her arms around her knees, careful to keep her feet well covered, and gazed into the fire, while he settled himself beside her.

The lamp wavered and went out. Now all they had was the glow from the fire to see by. There might be some remnants of candles in the library, she recalled, but they wouldn’t last long. And why would they need more light? There was nothing to do.

It was a bit like being in a cave; with the ladder-back chairs draped in clothes behind them and the stone chimney breast with its fire in front, she could almost imagine them spending the night on the side of a mountain, isolated from the world, living in their cave with no one to bother them.

Startled by her odd thoughts, she blinked and broke the flame’s hold on her vision.

‘This is cosy,’ he said dreamily, as if he, too, were caught in another world. ‘Too bad I don’t have a deck of cards.’

‘It is too dark to play cards.’

He grunted. ‘Then what shall we do to pass the time while we dry?’

She shrugged.

‘I know. You can tell me all about yourself.’

‘Nothing to tell,’ she said, suddenly wary.

‘Where did you grow up?’

‘Here. I told you that.’

‘And when you left?’

‘I went to school. I told you that, too.’

‘What about Mr Travenor? How did you meet him?’

Blankly, she stared at him.

‘Your husband,’ he said with a frown.

Good heavens, she’d almost forgotten her invented husband. She struggled to remember the tale she had told Lady Keswick when she applied for the position of companion last month. She’d read that the elderly woman had bought the house next to Gorham Place in
The Times
. Then she’d seen her advertisement for a companion.

‘I’m sorry.’ His deep voice held compassion. ‘If it is too painful for you to talk about him, please don’t think you must. I should not have asked.’

She looked away, unable to look him in the eyes and tell untruths. ‘I do prefer not to talk about him.’ That at least was a half-truth. Who would want to talk about a man who existed only in her imagination? In her mind she’d created the perfect husband, honourable, faithful, the image of her father. Only the image now seemed tarnished.

Father had changed. The man she recalled with such fondness would never have married another woman, never have sent his beloved girls to a school far away in the north, and never have not visited them.

For years, she had waited for him to visit.

She could not put the two men together. The laughing man who had spun her around and who had put her on her first pony—

Stanford muttered something under his breath.

She turned her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I said I’m an idiot. My callous question upset you.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking about Mr Travenor. I was remembering growing up in this house.’

‘More sad memories?’

‘Not at all. They were the best times of my life. My father was kind, my mother adored him. He spoiled his girls, as he called us. We were happy here.’

‘You were lucky, then.’

‘Yes. There was always lots of laughter in this house. And singing.’ She bit the inside of her lip. It was wrong to be ashamed of Mama. She’d been a beautiful woman and had a truly exceptional voice. She deserved her daughters’ pride. ‘My mother was an opera singer before she met my father. She sang on the stage in Venice. My father fell in love with her the first time he saw her.’

Stanford straightened. ‘Good lord, and he married her?’

She smiled. ‘Much to his father’s annoyance. As my mother told it, Grandfather tried to have their marriage annulled because it was celebrated in a Roman Catholic church. My father simply obtained a special licence and married her again.’

She sighed. ‘They didn’t care what people thought. They were happy here, together.’

‘But she died.’

She nodded. ‘She died giving birth to a son. Father was devastated. I think he blamed himself.’

‘You inherited your mother’s voice.’

She chuckled softly. ‘Mother was thrilled. I can remember performing in the drawing room for the few friends who stuck by Father after his marriage. Mother loved to sing and we would all take part in productions.
Rinaldo
was her favourite, for she got to play the man. My voice is very much like hers. I have sometimes thought I might like to go on the stage. Quite shocking, I know.’

‘With that voice, and…’ he hesitated ‘…and your face and figure, you would take London by storm, though it is hardly a respectable profession.’

‘I would make lots of money.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘I’m not sure I am good enough. My voice isn’t trained. I would need to take lessons.’ It would all take far too long.

She really needed to think of something else. It was not what her parents had wanted for her, but then they hadn’t expected her to end up in debt.

If Mama had lived, or Papa had abided by his promise to see them well cared for, then the idea of becoming an opera singer would never have entered her head.

‘Did your husband leave you nothing?’

‘He earned very little as a curate.’

A silence descended. She glanced at his brooding expression as he stared into the fire. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself. Perhaps he also saw the past in the flames.

‘Where did you grow up?’ she asked.

‘Not far from here, actually,’ he said, lifting his head to look at her. Hot hunger lit his eyes and sent a
frisson
of awareness through her body. A longing to be consumed by the fires. Desire. She had no illusions. His powers of seduction were legendary and she had already learned she had no armour against him. Partly because she liked him more than she should. Much more.

He blinked and his eyes cooled, leaving only a smile. The sweet boyish one that pulled at her heart and left her in disarray. It was like a glimpse behind a mask at the real man. Or perhaps it was yet another mask, the one designed for seduction. She wished she knew for certain which, but since she did not, she must remain wary.

‘I grew up not far from Brighton,’ he said.

‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

His face took on a cynical expression. ‘One younger brother.’ His lashes swept down, hiding his eyes. ‘Half-brother, in truth.’

‘Your father married again?’

‘I would that were the case,’ he said rather mysteriously. ‘My brother did well for himself as a shipowner. Recently he married a duke’s daughter and went to America. They are expecting their first child. My mother is in alt.’ He sounded bitter.

‘You aren’t pleased at your brother’s good fortune?’

He drew himself upright. ‘I am delighted for Kit. He’s a good man.
He
deserves all that is good and more.’

‘But you don’t?’ She didn’t know what made her ask that question, except for the emphasis on the word
he
. When his gaze shot to capture hers she truly wished she hadn’t opened her mouth, because the evidence was there in his eyes. A bleakness she’d never noticed before. It chilled her.

‘Do you think you can read minds?’ he mocked. ‘See into other people’s souls?’

She recoiled. Clearly she’d trod where angels feared to go. ‘I beg your pardon. I did not mean anything. Idle chatter.’

‘It seems neither of us is good at small talk.’ His tone had gentled and his brows went up quizzically.

No sense in taking umbrage under the circumstances. They were caught here, together. She should try to get along with him. She smiled. ‘In truth, I can’t say I have had a great deal of practice.’

He chuckled softly ‘You are a surprising woman, Mrs Travenor. Or may I call you Rose?’ He glanced down at himself. ‘It is hard to retain formality when sitting wrapped in nothing but a sheet beside a fire with a beautiful woman. My name is Garth, by the way.’ The seductive note softened his voice. A hot shiver ran down her spine to land low in her belly. The rake had returned. Now she must truly be on her guard.

‘Sheet or no, I expect you to be a gentleman.’

He inclined his head, but amusement played about his lips. ‘I promise nothing will happen that you do not want.’

Want. She was full of wants and all of them confusing. Another hot shiver. She had no way of dealing with him. No quick repartee or double-edged sally. Why had he come here? All he wanted to do was flirt. Or worse. Meanwhile her life teetered on the brink of disaster.

Panic rose in her throat. She’d have to go north. Present herself to the bailiffs. Prison. Meg and Sam would have to find work as governesses, lady companions, teachers. Meg would be fine. She was strong and would manage. Sam was just so sickly.

Perhaps if she wrote to Grandfather again and—

‘I did want to thank you for talking to Lady Smythe this afternoon.’ The sound of his voice made her jump. ‘Did she say why she left London?’

Lady Smythe. She closed her eyes, pictured the tearful woman on the beach. ‘I think she plans to go home.’

He let go a long sigh. ‘Thank God.’ He shifted, angling towards her. ‘Now I can focus all my attention on you.’

His smile caused an ache deep in her chest. ‘I’d really prefer you didn’t.’

‘You are a very beautiful woman, Rose.’

She couldn’t resist that voice or that smile. Yet she should. ‘And your intentions are less than honourable.’ She could hear the smile in her voice.

‘I make no pretence about my intentions.’ His voice had dropped to a low seductive murmur. ‘We would deal well together, you and I.’

Her body hummed in response. With all the worries pressing in on her, somehow, in this moment, he made her feel good. Far better about herself than anyone had ever made her feel for years. What would it be like to have such a man in her life? To share her burdens?

Stanford—no, Garth—wasn’t offering marriage, or permanence or love. Although he hadn’t said the words, she had no illusions. He was offering a
carte blanche
. The kind of relationship Grandfather would have happily accepted between her mother and father. It was the marriage he’d found objectionable.

How would he feel if he discovered his eldest granddaughter had gone down that road? He probably wouldn’t care. Or he’d see it as proof he was right all along about her mother.

It was not the relationship she’d dreamed of for herself. She’d wanted a home, and children, and, most of all, love. The true love she’d seen in her parents’ eyes.

True love was a luxury when you and your sisters were facing debtors’ prison.

She really couldn’t see any other option. And he really seemed to like her. Almost as much as she liked him, though she hadn’t dare admit it.

Something had changed. Garth sensed it across his skin. The heat in the room had gone up as if the fire had doubled in size. Instead of Rose backing away as he’d half expected, she was looking at him the way a cat looked at a plump mouse who had wandered across its path.

Why would he be surprised? She was female, wasn’t she? Worse yet, why the hell was he disappointed? He didn’t harbour naïve notions about any of them. Especially not this one after all he’d learned about her.

He glanced down to discover her feet still primly tucked beneath the hem of her gown.

Prim. Even now, when desire perfumed the air, she was as prim as a nun. Was his hopeful imagination playing tricks?

As if sensing his question, her toes emerged, followed by the rest of her feet. Narrow feet, with high arches and long slender toes, except for the small one on her right foot. That one curled over. A tiny blemish on what were the prettiest feet he’d ever seen. And her ankles were nice, too, well turned and slender.

She brushed one against the other shyly.

His body hardened.

He dragged his gaze back to her face. Her gaze was fixed on his face. She licked her lips, making them moist.

Gently, so as not to scare her, he raised his fingertips to her chin and angled her face for easier access to those sweetly curved lips.

She swallowed and closed her eyes.

‘Not scared, are you, sweeting?’ he whispered against her mouth.

‘No,’ she whispered back, but her voice shook on the word.

A kiss or two wouldn’t hurt. Although if the last kiss was anything to go by, he would have trouble stopping once he started. There was something about this woman that called to his most primal self. And it wasn’t just the sight of her bare feet.

Indeed, they were the icing on an already delicious cake. A cake he should not be tasting if she was unwilling.