Midsummer Eve at Rookery End (12 page)

Verity watched as George and Amelia, then Lord and Lady Allingham left the library. She and Sir Tristan were alone once more.

Verity stole a look at him from under her lashes, only for her heart to quicken as she did – he looked more attractive than ever. She resolved to remain calm and a little aloof. No doubt he wanted to talk about recommending her for another governess post and Verity did not want his pity.

She watched as he stripped off his greatcoat in one lithe movement. He came towards her, that endearing slow smile curving his lips. Her resolution to be calm wavered and then fractured into a million pieces. Every fibre of her being seemed attuned to this man and as he approached, looking the epitome of a nonpareil, her heart beat rapidly and her breathing grew fast and shallow. To cover her reaction, Verity hurried into speech.

“Sir Tristan, as Amelia will soon be married, I shall be looking for another position. You mentioned that you might know of something suitable.”

“I might. First, though, I’m intrigued to know how Amelia described me. When we met, you were about to tell me before you thought better of it.”

“Oh, that,” said Verity, in a hollow voice. “Must I? It hardly matters now.”

“I insist. It may have some bearing on what I am about to say.

“I can’t see how but if you must know, she considered you to be old.”

The corner of his mouth quivered. “Indeed? And what is your opinion?”

“Why, it’s quite ridiculous!” she cried. “You are not old at all, in fact you are just the right age for—” Verity hesitated.

“Do go on, Miss Brook,” he prompted, in a silky voice.

“I was about to say just the right age for marriage,” she said, blushing vividly. “Please, Sir Tristan, this is very awkward! May we return to the matter in hand? I would be grateful for your help in finding a new position, but don’t feel obliged to assist me – I can manage perfectly well on my own. ”

“I’m sure you can,” he murmured, pulling off his driving gloves and tossing them aside as he advanced further, “but the role I have in mind needs careful consideration.”

“Oh? Is it potentially difficult then?”

“That depends on your point of view,” he said. “I pray that you will accept it – more than anything in the world do I wish for that – but it’s only fair to let you know in advance that there are several facets to this role.”

“I can manage children, even spoilt brats,” said Verity, with a wavering smile.

Now standing very close, he laughed at this. “I hope I’m not one of those. And if you accept my offer, I don’t believe there will be any spoilt brats in our nursery.”

Bemused, she gazed into his smiling eyes. “I don’t understand.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Verity, the position I have in mind is that of Lady Millforte – I’m asking you to be my wife.” Sir Tristan sighed ruefully. “Oh dear, all my address has deserted me when I need it most! I’m a clumsy oaf to make a mull of my one and only proposal of marriage, but I must speak out. My darling, will you marry this decrepit old relic of three-and- thirty who loves you to distraction?”

Verity clasped his fingers tightly. “You love me,” she whispered in wondrous accents. “Can it be so with you too?”

He nodded. “From the moment you upbraided me so delightfully. I couldn’t resist the entreaty in your eyes or your spirit. Did you know that your eyes sparkle like gems when you are angry?”

“B-But your godmother, Sir Tristan! Your family….” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I am a mere governess … a nobody.”

“Don’t ever say that again!” he said, pulling her none too gently into his arms. “Verity, you are the woman I love and I want to marry you – if you’ll have me. My family will adore you; my mother in particular will welcome you with open arms. As for my godmother,” he paused and grinned, “if you accept, she will be obliged to stop her meddling. But perhaps I’ve been too hasty and you need time to consider?”

“No, oh no!” averred Verity, her eyes and cheeks aglow. “Indeed, I very much want to marry you, but—”

The observation was cut short by Sir Tristan capturing her lips in a long and sensual kiss. When this was completed to his satisfaction, his mouth drifted along the delicate line of her jaw.

She gasped. “Tristan! I-I- Oh! Tristan….”

“What?” he murmured innocently, as he pressed exquisite kisses over her throat. “Do you need further convincing, my love, or do you want me to stop?”

Verity exhaled on a wanton moan of pleasure. “Don’t stop,” she begged, “I need much more convincing yet.”

Love’s Thorne

As he dressed in his room before breakfast, Captain Simon Russell reflected moodily on his lack of appetite.

Bacon, devilled kidneys and soft poached eggs held no appeal. Not this morning. Not after last night. He had no heart for it. He was more than half inclined to make some excuse and get away from Rookery End for good.

It was not his hosts Lord and Lady Allingham who had driven his thoughts to flight. Miles Allingham was one of his oldest friends and he liked Lady Allingham equally as well. He also had cause to be grateful to them, since it was at one of their London house parties eight months ago that he had met Helen Chesney, a childhood friend of Lady Allingham and the girl who had brought him ecstasy and to the brink of desperation. Simon, his brow creased in a troubled frown, mused on how things had come to this.

It had started well. Perfectly, in fact. Every detail of that first evening was branded into his memory. There was no rational explanation for the way he – a practical, grimly intense man whose mind still had the horrors of battle rattling around in it – had behaved that night.

He was used to being alone and, as far as he ever considered it, content to be so. Love was not something on his horizon. He had no hope or expectation of falling for any woman and yet, without even being aware of it, Helen stole his heart.

He remembered it all.

Catching sight of her across the Allingham’s London ballroom and then catching his breath. Thinking how she outshone her namesake, Helen of Troy. Noticing how the candlelight gave golden highlights to her brown hair. Limping over to Miles and demanding he introduce them at once. Then, looking into her clear hazel eyes for the first time and seeing her smile back even though he was staring and grinning
–
yes,
grinning -
like a half-wit. Dear God, he hadn’t grinned for a very long time.

Talking to her, dancing with her, holding her so close the poor girl had probably been struggling to breathe. Her scent had evoked paradise and her alluring curves had aroused feelings more fitting to the bedroom than the ballroom.

The air between them had seemed charged with intent. It had been an unforgettable evening and afterwards, he’d spent the whole night dreaming about her.

And as he came to know Helen better, that blinding initial attraction burgeoned into something even more profound. He grew to love her quirks and her flaws as much as he loved everything else about her. Her beauty wasn’t confined to the outside.

At last Simon understood what it what it meant to be in love. Past brief affairs paled in comparison. This was something new, something precious. She made his soul soar and set his body aflame with longing. He missed her fiercely every moment he wasn’t with her. He craved her touch, her kisses and her happiness above his own.

Weeks passed by in a blur of deepening passion and desire. Only one thing blighted his happy state, and it was a grave problem. Try as he might, he couldn’t find the right moment and the right words to tell her how he felt.

Helen was so damned lovely the entire male population of London seemed to have laid siege to her. And when their number included a duke and an earl, it was perhaps not surprising that Simon’s habitual restraint and taciturnity were choked into silence on the few occasions he found himself alone with Helen.

They’d talked at other times, of course, but not about love. He was a soldier, not a seducer with words. He wasn’t a smoothly spoken man. He’d never been able to make pretty speeches or quote poetry. The deeper his feelings, the less he could articulate them.

And for Helen, they were as deep and endless as the night sky.

The situation wasn’t helped by Mrs Chesney.

Helen’s mother guarded her cub like a lioness. She hadn’t warned him away precisely, but the prospect of her daughter marrying into the aristocracy was behind the discouraging looks she shot in Simon’s direction, and her cool manner.

Yet he couldn’t blame Mrs Chesney. He wasn’t much of a catch. What could an ex-Dragoon Guards captain with a permanent limp who was the third son of a baronet and of modest means have to offer the celebrated Helen Chesney? Very little, when compared to an obscenely rich if elderly duke who owned a London townhouse, three enormous country estates and stables full of thoroughbreds and sumptuous carriages. Along with two mistresses he kept in fine style in Mayfair.

Just the thought of the duke or any of the others touching Helen made Simon’s heart twist in his chest. They could never appreciate and love her to the edge of reason as he did.

For her part Helen had not singled any of her admirers out for special attention. She was an intelligent girl who knew her reputation was at stake, so she was charming to all while being careful not to overstep the line.

But Simon knew he hadn’t imagined the glow in her eyes when he caught her looking at him. The way the two most gorgeous dimples in the country deepened when she smiled at him. How her gaze held his a few moments longer than was strictly necessary. And he thought – hoped - he heard her sharp intake of breath when he’d kissed her hand instead of doing what he really wanted to: catching her in his arms and plundering her sweet, lush mouth until she moaned with pleasure.

He was as sure as he could be that she felt something for him. But what?

Damn, damn, damn!

If only he were more used to whispering words of love than barking orders.

If only she could see the raw hunger in his eyes or discern the pounding of his heart.

If. Only.

Two of the smallest but most frustrating words in the English language.

If only he could put his feelings into words.

He had to. Somehow he had to find a way. No matter how much he craved to press fierce, hard kisses over her mouth, her jaw, the pulse in her throat … everywhere … it wouldn’t do. If he’d misread things, then it would be incredibly embarrassing. If not, she might be still shocked and then all his dreams could be shot to pieces in an instant. No, a girl like Helen deserved to hear words of love and for that they needed to be alone.

Opportunities were scarce, however. He always had to fight through a crowd of admirers to get near her which made him curse his limp for slowing him down, and then, when he got to her side, Mrs Chesney was usually hovering with menace.

When a chance to be alone with Helen did arise, his efforts to tell her how he felt followed a depressingly familiar pattern.

For a soldier who had fought on the Peninsula and at Waterloo with distinction, been mentioned in dispatches and served as aide-de-camp to Sir William Ponsonby, an astonishing thing happened - Simon lost his nerve.

Invariably, their exchanges went something like this…

“Miss Chesney?”

“Yes?” She looked at him, eyes sparkling and her voice carrying an eager lilt.

He came closer. “Would you care to, ah, go to the theatre one evening?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “Yes, of course, Captain Russell. I will look forward to it. That will make three times this month.” She sighed. “Mama will have to come too, of course.”

He screwed his courage up and cleared his throat, ready to go once more unto the breach. He stepped forward. He was close enough for his breath to stir the tendrils of hair at her temples.

“Miss Chesney?”

“Yes?” She raised her brows and smiled encouragingly.

“Er, the new exhibition at Somerset House opens next week. Would you like to attend?”

She bit her lip. “Indeed. I have heard it is even better than those we’ve already visited.” Her gaze fixed on him intently. “Mama will have to come too, of course.”

Simon stifled an oath. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs Chesney returning, heading towards them as purposefully and unswervingly as the Scot’s Greys in full charge.

It had never occurred when he had been on the battlefield, but the combination of Helen’s nearness, Mrs Chesney and the loud ticks of another opportunity slipping away made sweat break out on his brow and his brain go numb. At last he hurried again in speech, making an even bigger hash of it.

“Miss Chesney?”

“Yes?” She stared up at him imploringly. A blush tinted her cheeks and a desperate note seemed to have crept into her voice.

“Helen!”

Her breathing quickened. “Yes … Simon?”

His eyes roamed over her lovely face. His every nerve ending crackled with tension. He dragged in a laboured breath.

Just say it, man! Get to the point!

He groaned softly. “I wonder … that is, could you ever consider …? No, no, confound it, that’s not what I mean! What I want to say is do you think … would you do me the h-honour of—”

Too late.

“Helen, the duke is asking for you!” boomed a dreaded voice. “You must go to him at once. Captain Russell will not mind, I am sure.”

Oh, he minded. Dreadfully. God, how he minded!

And after a long hesitation, Helen, now pale-cheeked and silent, was ushered away.

… And that was that until his next toe-curlingly awful attempt, the recollection of each episode increasing his dread for the next.

After his fourth failure, Simon came to a decision. Enough was enough. He might be less of a man physically due to his leg wound, but he’d be damned if he’d be less of a man in any other way in future.

He didn’t lack courage, he lacked confidence. He didn’t think he was aristocratic enough, charming enough, rich enough or undamaged enough to offer for Helen, let alone marry her but he was who he was and, as the saying went,
faint heart never won fair lady
. It was time he re-discovered his mettle, Mrs Chesney notwithstanding. Helen deserved better than a proposal from a gabbling idiot.