Lord Deverill's Heir (13 page)

“I was going shooting with friends in Scotland,” the comte said quickly, splaying his hands in the French manner that quite made the earl want to hit him. “But I assure you, my lord, that remaining here would give me the greatest pleasure. And such very lovely pleasure.” From that moment on, the earl thought that Gervaise de Trécassis should be shot.

“Excellent, comte,” Arabella said.

“Ah, please call be Gervaise. Unfortunately, my title is only that—a title that has only emptiness. You see before you a simple émigré, torn from his home by that damnable Corsican upstart.”

“How horrid for you,” Elsbeth said, and there were indeed tears in her eyes.

Oh good Lord, the earl thought. He wanted to puke.

“Yes, but I have survived. I will continue to survive and retake what is rightfully mine after that Corsican is defeated or dead. You have the soul of an angel, my dear Elsbeth, to feel so for me. How like your mother you are. My aunt Magdalaine was a goddess, a lovely gentle goddess.”

It was difficult, but the earl managed to keep his snort behind his teeth. However, his black eyebrows shot up at the caressing tone in the young man’s voice. He thought he read an almost imperceptible calculating gleam in those flashing black eyes as they rested on Elsbeth, and thought cynically about Elsbeth’s ten thousand pounds. The comte was certainly dressed like a rich young dandy, and the earl wondered even more cynically if Evesham Abbey would be descended upon by dunning tradesmen.

“My dear boy,” Lady Ann said, lightly tapping her fingertips on his buff sleeve. “It is nearly time for luncheon. Let me ring for a footman to take up your luggage. We can spend the afternoon getting better acquainted.”

The comte bestowed upon her a boyish grin, calculated, Justin thought, to stir Lady Ann’s maternal instincts. And when he murmured over her hand,

“I am your slave, my dear lady,” the earl thought he would puke again.

By evening’s end, the earl had decided that the young man was no one’s slave. Indeed, it seemed that all the women had quite fallen under his charm. Even his Arabella appeared to accept the comte’s presence without question. She had smiled more in the young man’s presence than she had since Justin’s arrival. He didn’t like it one bit.

During the next several days, the earl was left to wonder if he was still betrothed. He saw little of Arabella. If she wasn’t in long fittings with the seamstress and Lady Ann for her bridal clothes, she was riding with the comte, fishing with the comte, exploring the countryside with the comte, visiting neighbors with the comte, all in all treating the earl—her own betrothed—with complete indifference. Even at his most infuriated, the earl would never fault her with flirting with Gervaise de Trécassis. No, what he saw was a young woman being pulled from her grief.

He watched many times with amazement her exuberance and vitality. It was just a pity that he didn’t appear to be able to bring this out of her.

That Elsbeth accompanied Arabella and the comte on all their jaunts didn’t help. He felt the weight of injustice. However, since he was an earl, a very important man, actually, he felt it important that he remain cool and in control. Thus he tended to treat the three of them like an amused and tolerant uncle. It made Lady Ann arch her fine brows at him, and, had he but known it, made Arabella grind her teeth.

The earl found his only ally to be Dr. Branyon. It was the doctor who said in a measured voice one evening as Lady Ann and the three younger members of the group were playing whist, Arabella partnered by the comte,

“Undoubtedly the young comte is harmless enough, though I do find his sense of timing to be almost suspiciously flawless, shall we say. I ask myself why he did not make himself known years ago. After all, the late earl was his uncle by marriage. Why did he wait to come here after the earl, his uncle, had died? Yes, it bothers me, this timing of his.” The earl said slowly, watching the young man adroitly lose a hand to Lady Ann, which only made Arabella grin at him, “That is an excellent observation. Perhaps the comte’s prior activities bear closer examination.”

“He cannot have much prior experience for he is very young. I asked him his age and he told me he was twenty-three. That is only four years younger than you, Justin. He seems a mere boy to me.”

“And I appear an old man?”

“No, but you are a man. You know who and what you are. As for the comte—” Dr. Branyon shrugged. “I find myself wondering what he is thinking. And he is thinking, mayhap even scheming. I don’t like it.”

“That inexhaustible charm of his, I begin to believe he was born with that. He is very good. Better than most men twice his age. Scheming? We will see.”

The comte suddenly threw up his hands in mock despair at that moment and exclaimed, “Elsbeth, you have trumped my spade. I had not expected it.

Arabella, forgive me for my lapse—but what can I expect when I am surrounded by three beautiful women? I am just relieved that I managed to win two hands.”

“You were too careless, Gervaise,” Arabella said. She was a fierce competitor, but she was still smiling. “Congratulations, Elsbeth, Mother.

Well done.”

“I wonder if you and I will be invited to join them in taking tea,” the earl said. He rose slowly, his eyes on Arabella. “Ma’am,” he called out,

“we are powerfully thirsty. Have you a suggestion?”

“Yes,” she said, walking straight up to him. She went up on her tiptoes.

“Just wait until after we are wed. Then you will see the breadth of my suggestions.”

“Ma’am, you shock me,” he said, inordinately pleased.

“Not yet, sir.”

“Why does he call her ma’am and not Arabella?” the comte asked Lady Ann.

“They aren’t married yet,” Lady Ann said, and winked at the earl.

The earl was pleasantly surprised the next morning to find himself sharing breakfast with only Arabella. “Ah, you’re here. I hoped you would be. How are you this morning?”

“I slept well. I have had no visitations from the ghosts, thank God. Why did you hope I would be breakfasting early?” He sat down and allowed Crupper to serve him.

“I haven’t seen much of you since the comte has come to Evesham Abbey. I see that you are fit, you are smiling, and you look reasonably content.

It is good. Now I must hurry. It is pleasant to see you, sir.” She quickly grabbed a slice of hot toast, downed a quick gulp of coffee, and jumped up from her chair, her eyes on the door.

“Ma’am! There are toast crumbs on your chin. You have lost your last ounce of dignity—if you ever had any—and above all, you don’t want the comte to think you a messy eater.”

Arabella touched her fingers to her chin, rubbed away the crumbs, and said, “Thank you for telling me. Now, I must hurry. We do not wish to be back too late this afternoon.”

“And just where are you going today?” He sounded testy, and he hated it.

He drew a long steadying breath.

Arabella drew up and smiled at him with affection. Yes, he was certain it was affection or something close enough to it. “Why, I am taking Gervaise, and Elsbeth of course, to see the Roman ruins at Bury Saint Edmunds.”

“It didn’t occur to you to invite me?” Now he sounded like a whining ass.

She cocked her head at him. “But, sir, you have already visited the ruins. Do you not remember? You told me that when you arrived in the area, you toured the countryside before coming to Evesham Abbey.”

“Ma’am, we are to be married in two days’ time.” Good God, now he sounded like a wounded dog.

“Something I am not likely to forget,” she said. “if you would like to join us, sir, I’m certain Elsbeth and Gervaise wouldn’t mind. I just don’t want you to be bored.”

The earl rose from his chair, walked to his betrothed, and lightly placed his hands upon her shoulders. “It is just that I haven’t had you to myself at all these past days.” She felt his fingers lightly caressing her shoulders. She liked it. She wanted him to continue. She raised her head, hoping that perhaps he would feel like kissing her. He hadn’t, not since that night over a week before. She said, looking intently at his mouth, “You can have me as much as you wish. Would you like me to remain home today?”

“No.” He wanted to say yes. He wanted to take her down to the lily pond and make love to her. “No, go with the comte and Elsbeth. Just don’t forget me, ma’am.”

“Impossible.” She sighed and nestled her face against his shoulder, her arms moving around his back. “You feel so very nice, sir, all hard and strong and capable.” She started to say he felt just like her father had when she’d hugged him, but decided that perhaps that wouldn’t be just the thing to say to the man she was going to marry.

“So do you, ma’am, all soft and strong and capable. I particularly like the way your breasts feel against my chest.” There, he’d shocked her.

Well, she deserved it.

Instead of acting remotely shocked, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed the cleft in his chin. She pressed against him, then giggled. “I like the way your chest presses against my bosom.” He was immediately harder than the chair leg. He gently pushed her away.

“Go now or else I just might lay you atop the table, between the eggs and the kippers, and have my way with you.” Thank God that fewer than forty-eight hours remained before his lust would be magically proclaimed absolutely proper and he could rightfully claim his husbandly rights.

She hugged him again, kissed the cleft once again, then left the breakfast parlor.

The earl returned to his breakfast. He tried to concentrate on his rare sirloin instead of the exquisite pleasure he knew awaited him on their wedding night.

He planned a regimen designed to keep body and mind thoroughly occupied for the remainder of the day. He met with Blackwater in the morning, shared luncheon with Lady Ann and Dr. Branyon, whom, the earl observed, was now almost a daily visitor to Evesham Abbey, and made the rounds of several of his tenants throughout the afternoon. It was late in the day when he returned to the abbey and stabled his horse. Since there was still sufficient daylight, he decided to make a brief inspection of the farmyard. The cows had not yet been brought back for their evening milking, and only a few desultory chickens pecked lazily about their graveled pen. He neared the large two-story barn, and stopped for a moment to inhale the sweet smell of hay. To his surprise and delight, he saw Arabella come around the side of the barn, slowly pull open the front doors, and disappear inside.

He stood struggling with himself for several minutes, his body very much demanding to follow her, and his mind quickly reviewing all the pitfalls of such an action. “Oh, the devil,” he said to a goat who was eyeing his boot. He could see Arabella on her back, lying on a thick pile of hay. He could see himself over her, stroking her, kissing every white inch of her. What did two days matter? She would be his wife.

He stepped toward the barn, only to stop dead in his tracks. He saw a movement from the corner of his eyes. He turned and saw the Comte de Trécassis striding toward the barn, his natty cloak billowing out behind him.

A deep foreboding, something he could not explain, swept over him. The earl did not call out to the comte. He didn’t move forward to greet him.

Instead he remained firmly planted where he was, his eyes fixed on the elegant young man whom he hadn’t hated until this moment, only despised because he didn’t trust him.

The comte paused a moment before the barn door, glanced quickly around him, tugged at the handle, and as Arabella had done, disappeared into the dim interior.

In a swift military motion the earl clapped his hand to his side where his deadly sword had hung for so many years. His hand balled into a fist at finding nothing more deadly than his pocket. He drew a deep breath and remained standing stiffly, his eyes never leaving the barn door. Arabella was in the barn. The comte had gone into the barn.

No, he wouldn’t believe what he had seen. There was an explanation. One that would make him laugh at himself. But even as he sought for any explanation at all, he felt a black, numbing misery building in his belly. He felt he was losing a part of himself, a precious part, one not yet fully understood or explored. But no, that didn’t have to be true.

Time passed, but he had no sense of it. From the meadow just beyond the farmyard came the insistent mooing of cows. The sun was fast fading, bathing the barn in gentle golden rays of dusk. The day was coming to a close much the same as any other day, yet he felt no part of it.

Even as his eyes probed the barn door, it opened and the comte quickly emerged. Again he looked about him with the air of one who does not wish to be discovered. In a gesture that left the earl shuddering with black rage, the comte swiftly adjusted the buttons of his breeches, brushed lingering straws from his legs and cloak, and strode with a swaggering gait back to Evesham Abbey.

Still the earl did not move, his eyes fastened to the closed barn door.

He had not long to wait, for just as the last light of day flickered into darkness, the door opened, and Arabella, her hair disheveled and tumbling wildly about her shoulders, ventured out, stood for a moment executing a languorous stretch, then turned toward the abbey, humming softly to herself. Every few steps she leaned over and picked bits of straw from her gown.

He saw her wave gaily to the half-dozen farm boys who were busily herding the cows toward the barn for their evening milking.

A gruesome kaleidoscope of images whirled through the earl’s mind. He saw clearly the first man he had killed in battle—a young French soldier, a bullet from the earl’s gun spreading deadly crimson across his bright coat. He saw the leathery, grimacing face of an old sergeant, run through with his sword, the astonishment of imminent death written in his eyes.

He wanted to retch now, as he had then.

The earl had no romantic illusions about killing; he had learned that life was too precious, too fragile a thing to be dispatched in the heat of passion.

He turned and walked back to his new home. His shoulders remained squared. His stride was steady, his expression controlled. But his eyes were empty.