Lady Rosabella's Ruse (9 page)

She picked it up and let go a sigh. ‘I was reading and didn’t hear the cows approach.’

‘Bullocks,’ he said. ‘Young males who have…er…lost their maleness.’

She looked at him blankly, then lowered her gaze, long black lashes shielding her eyes, but he was sure he saw the glimmer of that lovely smile of hers twitching at the corner of her mouth. ‘Oh. I see.’

A sign she wasn’t so averse to him as she made out. She certainly wasn’t averse to his kisses. He held out his arm. ‘May I escort you back to The Grange?’

She darted what he thought was a regretful glance at the open letter, but nodded and placed her hand lightly on his forearm.

The touch seared through his coat like nothing he’d ever experienced. His blood headed south again. He should find something to do with his hands or he might do more than offer his arm. ‘I’ll take the dog.’ He grabbed the leash halfway down and she let it go.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m surprised they don’t send a footman for the mail,’ he said as they approached the next stile.

‘I have to walk the dog anyway.’

‘And it means you don’t have to wait to read your own mail.’

She bit her lip. ‘My sisters write once a week. I am always anxious for news from them.’

He helped her over the stile. ‘Perhaps you prefer to be alone to finish your letter.’ Now why the hell had he given her the chance to be rid of him? Perhaps it was the anxiety he saw in her eyes.

‘Oh, no, I had just finished when we encountered those…bullocks.’

‘Bad news?’

She glanced up at him from beneath the brim of her ugly black bonnet. Somehow it made her seem all the more alluring. Like a badly wrapped parcel with intriguing hints of the contents showing at the corners.

‘It is not important.’

A lie. He could see it in the flash of panic in her eyes as her thoughts went back to the letter. He hesitated, confused by a wish she would confide in him, by the desire to help. Surely his desires were all physical. ‘If there is anything I can do…’ he found himself saying.

The shake of her head was a disappointment. ‘They are at school in the north.’ Her hand flexed on his sleeve, a small movement, a slight tightening of fingers quickly relaxed, but it spoke of anxiety.

‘Are they not treated well?’

‘Well enough. I went there myself before…’

‘Before you were married,’ he finished. She glanced up at him, her almond-shaped eyes startled and large.

‘I— Yes.’ She swallowed.

Damn it to hell. She was lying again.

Those tears he’d seen had not been from the encounter with the bullocks. They had dried on her cheeks. His gaze dropped to the letter. The contents of the missive had made her cry. His lip curled. Was it sisters who wrote to her, or a lover?

It wouldn’t take much to discover the truth.

‘How many sisters do you have?’

She sighed. ‘Two.’

‘Younger than you, obviously, if they are still at school. Surely your parents…’

‘My parents are dead.’ She bit her lip. ‘I am responsible for their…for them until they are of age.’

For their what?
He frowned at the almost imperceptible change in what she had been going to say. ‘An odd situation for a woman of your age, surely?’ He calculated her age at no more than twenty-three or four. ‘There must be other members of your family better situated to take on such a burden?’

She shook her head. ‘No one I trust.’ If anything, she sounded a little bitter as if there was someone, but they had failed in some way.

This time, she was telling the truth. Apart from that one small hesitation, every word rang true. The anxiety had been there all the time, he realised, a shadow in her eyes when he first saw her, and while she searched the house, but today it had developed into dread.

Bad news had arrived in that letter.

And she wasn’t going to confide in him. Not yet. If ever. He wasn’t the sort of man women trusted with anything important. A bitter taste filled his mouth at what he’d once taken pride in.

They paused while the dog halted to investigate a fallen tree stump. It lifted its back leg and then waddled on.

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and smiled calmly. It was like watching someone draw down a screen, blurring the sharp edges of what lay behind. The smile was a mask. ‘Digger likes you,’ she said. ‘You are honoured. He hates everyone, except Lady Keswick.’

He had no choice but to follow her lead, to step back from her private life and return to civil conversation. ‘He likes you, too.’

‘He tolerates me. He has bitten the ankles of every gentleman who passed through the front door, except you.’

‘Wise dog.’ He bared his teeth. ‘He knew I’d bite him back.’

She laughed. The sound was a punch to his stomach, because he felt proud of that laugh. Because whatever troubled her, he’d managed to dispel the cloud for a moment. He’d felt this feeling before, but not for years. And never as strong.

Saints above, what was it about this woman that had him half-seas over? Dizzy like a drunkard because she had laughed at something he’d said. So what if she kissed like an angel and sang like one, too. There were hundreds of beautiful women in London and he’d sampled a good few of them without wanting to fall at their feet.

In the end, they’d all succumbed to his advances. This one was the only one who’d offered a challenge in years.

They broke into a clearing. Sun shafted down through the gaps in the canopy and bathed the grass and the cornflowers in golden light.

‘How pretty,’ she exclaimed. ‘None of these was open yesterday.’

She let go of his arm and strolled about, picking the flowers, her face glowing.

How on earth could he have thought her akin to a crow, or a nun? Never in his life had he seen anything quite so alluring.

He folded his arms and leaned against a handy oak tree, content to watch.

What on earth was she doing? Rosa picked yet another of the tough fibrous stalks and added the bright blue flowers to her growing bunch. Encountering him on her walk was the worst of luck. It had been ages before she’d been able to fall asleep after their kiss. Every sound outside her door had brought her upright in her bed with the fear he’d somehow arrive in her bedchamber. Fearing…or hoping?

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. A dark presence watching her pick wild flowers with heavy eyelids and a cynical smile. The bunch she had gathered looked scrawny and thin. She could hardly give up now, yet this was the last thing she wanted to be doing.

So why was she? Because he’d made her feel as if her skin didn’t fit, as if she needed to do something with her hands or find them back on his shoulders while she offered her mouth to be kissed. Because it had all felt so wonderful and made her forget.

His kisses made her feel hot all over and dizzy. For those few moments she had forgotten all her worries.

She still didn’t know what he planned with regard to her search of Gorham Place. If he was going to report her to the local authorities, surely he would have done so first thing this morning? At the very least, he would have already spoken to Lady Keswick. He’d done neither, which meant she was safe. For now.

She glanced down at the letter in her basket, the rounded handwriting of her sister, the crossed and recrossed lines spattered with inkblots revealing her agitation. Everything that could go wrong had done so. She’d gone to the post office, hoping Lady Keswick might have heard from her friend and found a terrified letter from her sister instead.

Why, oh, why had she borrowed that money?

Her heart stopped beating. She stared at the flowers trembling in her hand as she fought against the roiling in her stomach. She didn’t want to be picking flowers. She wanted to run. To hide.

But she couldn’t. She needed money. Lots of money.

Mechanically she picked another handful of flowers.

She’d known borrowing money was a risk, but the school fees were due and the doctor had refused to attend Sam without some payment on his account. With Grandfather deaf to her pleas for help and her certainty that Father would leave her well provided for, the decision had been simple.

That was months ago. Now the usurer had gone to the school demanding payment, waving the note she’d signed under the headmistress’s nose and threatening debtors’ prison for them all.

Meg’s letter was frantic.

Why had Father broken his promise? She understood why he’d married again, but he’d promised he’d take care of his first family. She’d looked everywhere in that house. Everywhere.

A flash of something passed through her mind. A long narrow staircase leading down into the dark. The cellar. She hadn’t looked in the cellar. Or the attic.

Could she possibly have missed the most obvious places after all? Grandfather would never go in the cellars or the attics. Father might not have been very practical, but he wasn’t a fool.

The urge to run and look swept through her. She could be there and back in a flash.

‘Are you done, Mrs Travenor?’

She whirled around. Stanford. She’d forgotten all about him. And Digger. She couldn’t go haring off to Gorham Place in the middle of the day; she’d be missed. And she could not for a moment let Stanford know she planned to go back. She had to let him think he’d won. That she was happy with her lot and enjoying his company. It was the only way to allay his suspicions.

She looked down at the flowers. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m almost done.’

She inhaled deeply, drawing in the air for the strength to get through one more day, the way she had when Father left them at the school, the way she had when he died.

Swiftly, she snapped off another stem and another. Added some greenery. Bound the bouquet with a twisted length of columbine. She marched back to the man watching her from beneath lowered lids. Her heart gave a lurch. He was just so blasted attractive. If her life had taken a different turn, they might have met in a ballroom in London. He might even have become her suitor.

Something hot and uncomfortable filled the back of her throat. Tears? Over a man like Stanford? Never. She was worried about her predicament. About her sisters.

And whatever it took, she would get them out of this mess.

Stanford straightened at her approach. He flicked a blossom with a dismissive finger. ‘Pretty enough, but not nearly exotic enough for you.’

A thrill raced through her blood. Unwanted heat, because she knew it meant nothing. He was amusing himself with a drab widow. For now, she’d play his game. She held his gaze and smiled boldly. ‘Flattery, my lord?’

He blinked as if startled, but recovered swiftly, flashing her that suave smile. ‘Never.’

She grinned at him. ‘Save it for Lady Keswick. She loves that kind of thing.’

‘And you don’t?’

The velvet was back in his voice. The soft teasing that drove something inside her into a wild flutter. Calm. She must remain in control, not let him get too close, while letting him think she might succumb to his charm.

And hoping she didn’t.

She cast him an admonishing look and started walking. ‘What woman does not like a compliment or two, my lord?’ she responded airily. ‘Or man for that matter. When it is sincerely given.’

He fell in by her side, leading the dog. ‘Are you saying I am insincere, Mrs Travenor?’

‘With you, I think it is hard to tell.’

His brow furrowed. ‘So you think I am sincere some of the time, or never at all?’

She laughed. ‘I think you reveal very little of your real thoughts, to be honest.’

His expression was arrested, sharp. ‘Nor do you, I think.’

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘We all have things we prefer to keep private.’

‘I suppose you are wondering what I will do about last night?’

His directness startled a gasp from her lips. She shot him a quick glance. ‘I suppose I am.’

They reached the other side of the clearing and entered the cool of the woods.

‘I’m no telltale, Mrs Travenor. You found nothing. You took nothing. You assured me your search is over. So why don’t we forget all about it and enjoy what appears to be shaping up as a perfect summer’s day?’

Her stomach dipped to her shoes. She felt nauseous. He’d said exactly what she wanted him to say and she felt sickened by yet more falsehood.

They emerged on the lawn at the back of the house. She stopped and turned to face him, forcing herself to smile. ‘Thank you.’

Dark eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Gratitude is a good place to start, Mrs Travenor.’ His mouth curved in a sensual smile.

Staring at that mouth, she swallowed, unable to move. He was warning her he wasn’t done with her. Reminding her that she only had to lean forwards a little to experience all those wonderful sensations in his arms.

She turned her head away, seeking to break his spell, but nothing shielded her from his heat, or the scent of his sandalwood cologne, a deep sensual musky scent that teased at her senses. She backed up, stumbling over Digger, who growled. ‘Then we can be friends?’