No Man's Mistress (17 page)

D
rawing her into the cricket lesson had been a
m m
mistake. So had teaching her how to throw a ball overarm, especially cozying up behind her to demonstrate the correct motion of the arm with her. Suddenly it had felt like a mid-July day during a heat wave. But even more dangerous than her sexual appeal had been her laughter and her exuberant glee when she had finally hurled the ball correctly. When she had turned her sparkling smile on him, he had only just stopped himself from picking her up, twirling her about, and laughing with her.

And now he had invited her to walk with him.

She was wearing a straw bonnet when she came back outside. It fit snugly and attractively over her coronet of braids. The pale turquoise ribbons, which matched the color of her dress, were tied in a large bow beneath her left ear. She looked purely pretty, Ferdinand thought.

They conversed about trivialities until they were on the avenue behind the house. It was already Ferdinand's favorite part of the park. Wide and grassy, it was bordered
on both sides by straight lines of lime trees. The turf was soft and springy underfoot. Insects were chirping in the grass, birds singing in the trees.

She walked with her arms behind her back. He could scarcely see her face beyond the poke of her bonnet. The devil of it was, he thought unexpectedly, he was going to miss her after she left.

“You have been helping teach at the village school for some time,” he said. “Where were you educated?”

“My mother taught me,” she said.

“I understand from Paxton,” he said, “that you have been keeping the account books.”

“Yes.”

“And have taken an active role in the running of the estate.”

“Yes.”

She was not going to be forthcoming on that topic, he could see. Or perhaps on any topic. But she turned her head to look up at him just as he was thinking it.

“Why do you want Pinewood, Lord Ferdinand?” she asked. “Just because you won it and believe it to be yours? It is not a large estate and it is far from London and the sort of life you appear to have been enjoying there. It is far from any intellectual center too. What is there for you here?”

He breathed in the smells of nature as he considered his answer.

“A sense of fulfillment,” he said. “I have never resented my elder brother. I always knew that Acton Park and all the other properties would be Tresham's and that I would be the landless younger son. I considered various careers, even an academic one. My father, had he lived, would have insisted on a commission with some prestigious cavalry regiment. It is what Dudley second sons
have always been expected to do. I have never known what it is I want to do with the rest of my life—until now. I know now, you see. I want to be a country squire.”

“Are you wealthy?” she asked. “I think you must be.”

It did not occur to him to consider the question impertinent.

“Yes,” he said.

“Very
wealthy?”

“Yes.”

“Could you not buy land elsewhere, then?” Her head was angled away from him so that he could not see her face.

“Instead of remaining at Pinewood, do you mean?” he asked. Strangely enough, buying land and settling on it was something he had never considered. “But why should I? And what would I do with this property? Sell it to you?
Give
it to you?”

“It is mine already,” she said.

He sighed. “I hope within the next day or two that question will finally be settled beyond doubt,” he said. “Until then, perhaps the least said, the better. Why are you so attached to Pinewood? You grew up in London, you told me. Do you not miss it and your friends there? And your mother? Would you not be happier back there?”

For a long time it seemed she was not going to answer at all. When she spoke, her voice was low, her head still averted.

“It is because
he
gave it to me,” she said. “And because the difference between living here and living in London is the difference between heaven and hell.”

He was startled—and not a little disturbed.

“Is your mother still in London?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She was not going to elaborate on that monosyllabic answer, he
realized
. But going to live with her mother seemed to be another solution.

They were almost at the end of the avenue. The hill rose steeply in front of them.

“Shall we climb?” he asked.

“Of course.” She did not even break stride, but lifted the hem of her dress with both hands and trudged upward, her head down, watching where she set her feet. She paused for breath when they were still not quite at the top, and he offered a hand. She took it, and he drew her up the rest of the slope until they stood on the bare grassy top.

He made the mistake of not immediately releasing her hand. After a few moments it would have been more awkward to let go than to hold on to it. Her fingers were curled firmly about his.

“When I stood on top of the highest hill in Acton Park as a boy,” he said, “I always imagined it as the roof of the world. I was master of all I surveyed.”

“Imagination is the wonder and magic of childhood,” she said. “It is so easy to believe in forever when one is a child. In happily-ever-afters.”

“I always believed happily-ever-after could be earned through honorable deeds of heroism and derring-do.” He laughed softly. “If I killed a dragon or two, all the treasures of the universe would be mine. Is not childhood a gifted time? Even though disillusion and cynicism must follow?”

“Is it?” she asked, gazing about at the wide view over fields and river and the house below, centered perfectly between the trees of the avenue. “If there were no illusions, there would be no disillusionment. But then one would
have no fond memories either, with which to fortify oneself against the pain of reality.”

Her hand was soft and warm in his. A light breeze fluttered the poke of her bonnet and the ribbons that dangled from the bow beneath her ear. He wanted desperately to kiss her and wondered if he was in love with her. Or was it the tenderness of pity that he felt? Or merely lust? But he did not feel particularly lustful at the moment.

She turned her head to look at him. “I have wanted to hate and despise you,” she said. “I wanted you to be all the nasty and dissolute things I thought you must be.”

“But I am not?”

She answered with another question. “Is gaming your
only
weakness? Even if it is, though, it is still a serious one. It was the vice that ruined my mother's health and happiness and destroyed my life. My stepfather was a compulsive gambler.”

“I never wager more than I can afford to lose,” he said gently. “Gaming is not a compulsion with me. It was only because a friend of mine was called away by his wife's confinement that I played against Bamber that night.”

She laughed, though there was no amusement in the sound. “And so the last of my illusions must be abandoned?” It was not really a question.

He gazed into her eyes and then raised her hand and held it to his lips. “What am I going to do with you?”

She did not answer, but then he had not really expected her to. He bent his head closer to hers, his heart thumping painfully, not so much with the knowledge that he was about to kiss her as with the realization of what he was about to say and seemed powerless
not
to say. There was really only one solution to this situation he had found at Pinewood, and at the moment it was looking like
a rather desirable one. It was time perhaps to trust again, even to love again, to take a leap of faith.

“Miss Thornhill—” he began.

But she snatched her hand from his and turned her back on him.

“Gracious,” she said, “luncheon must have been ready ages ago. I forgot all about the time when you invited me for a walk. I suppose it was because of the chocolate and biscuits. I am glad you thought of refreshments. Some of the children have a long walk home from the village.”

She did not want to be kissed. She did not want to listen to any sort of declaration. That was perfectly clear. Perhaps she would feel differently once she knew she had no other option except to leave Pinewood. But he felt a certain sense of relief, Ferdinand admitted to himself. A huge sense, in fact. He had no wish to marry. He had always been very firm in his intention never to do so. And pity was not a strong enough reason for changing his mind. It must be pity that had impelled him. It could not be love.
Love
was a word his father had always used with contempt—it was for females. His mother had used the word all too frequently. For her, Ferdinand had learned in his formative, impressionable years, love was self-absorption and manipulation and possessiveness.

He must avoid being alone with Viola Thornhill in the future. He had just had a narrow escape. Yet a part of himself gazed at her with a certain yearning. He would miss her when she left Pinewood. She was the only woman he had come close to loving.

“Shall we return to the house, then?” he suggested. “Do you need a hand?” The slope down to the avenue seemed even steeper when viewed from the top.

“Of course not,” she said, gathering her skirts above
her ankles with both hands and beginning a gingerly descent.

Ferdinand loped down ahead of her and turned close to the bottom to watch her progress. She was running with small steps, and even as he watched she came faster, shrieking and laughing. He stepped in front of her and caught her as she came hurtling down. He lifted her off her feet, both arms about her waist, and swung her around in a complete circle before setting her down on her feet. Both of them were laughing.

Ah, he was a weakling indeed, he thought a moment later as he kissed her, first lightly, then fiercely. He was a man who could not force his emotions and behavior to his will. But she did not resist him as she had done at the top of the hill. She clutched his shoulders and kissed him back.

They released each other after a while, their eyes averted, their laughter gone, and began the walk back to the house side by side, not talking. Ferdinand's mind was in turmoil again. Should he or should he not? Did she wish him to or did she not? Would he regret it or would he not?

Did he love her?

It was on that question that his mind stuck. He knew so little about love—about
real
love, if there was such a thing. How could he recognize it? He liked her, he respected her, admired her, wanted her, pitied her—ah, yes, he
pitied
her. Pity was not love. He knew that much, at least. But was pity the dominant emotion he felt for her? Or was there more?

What was love?

He was still pondering the question when they circled the house to enter by the front doors. Jarvey was in the hall, looking important.

“You have a visitor, my lord,” he announced. “From London. I have put him in the salon.”

Ah, at last! Was it Bamber's solicitor or Bamber himself? Finally the question of ownership was to be settled. But even as Ferdinand turned toward the salon, the door opened and the visitor stepped out into the hall.

“Tresham!” Ferdinand exclaimed, striding toward his brother, his boots ringing on the tiles, his right hand extended. “What the devil
are you
doing here?”

His brother shook his hand, raised his eyebrows, and grasped the handle of his quizzing glass with the other hand. “Dear me, Ferdinand,” he said, “am I not welcome?”

But Ferdinand was not to be cowed by the ducal hauteur, which could have almost every other mortal on the face of the earth quailing in terror. He squeezed his brother's hand and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Did you come alone?” he asked. “Where is Jane?”

“In London with the children,” the Duke of Tresham replied. “Our younger son is a mere two months old, you may remember. Being away from them is a severe trial to me, Ferdinand, but your need sounded greater than mine. What
is
this coil you have got yourself into, pray?”

“No coil at all,” Ferdinand assured him heartily, “except that it did not occur to me when Bamber lost the property that there might be someone already in residence here.”

He stepped aside and turned to make the introductions. He noticed that Tresham was already looking at Viola Thornhill across the hall and even raising his glass to his eye, the better to peruse her.

“Miss Thornhill,” Ferdinand said, “allow me to present my brother, the Duke of Tresham.”

Her face was an expressionless mask as she dipped
into the slightest of curtsies. “Your grace,” she murmured.

“This is Miss Viola Thornhill,” Ferdinand said.

“Ah.” Tresham spoke with faint hauteur. He inclined his head but did not bow. “Your servant, ma'am.”

There!
Ferdinand thought indignantly. Now if only he could have behaved like that on the very first morning, she would have been gone within the hour. But at the same time he felt annoyed. This was
his
house and
his
problem. He did not need Tresham coming here to bedeck the poor woman with icicles at a single glance.

She was half smiling, Ferdinand saw before he could step into the breach and create a more civil atmosphere. It was a strangely chilling expression and made her look quite different from usual.

“Excuse me,” she said. She disappeared upstairs with straight spine and uplifted chin, very much on her dignity.

Tresham was gazing after her with narrowed eyes.

“Dear me, Ferdinand,” he muttered, “what
have
I walked in upon?”

Viola went straight to her room and rang for Hannah. She stood at the window while she waited and gazed along the avenue where she had walked just a few minutes ago.

She felt cold through to the very heart.

As soon as she had known who Lord Ferdinand Dudley was, she had thought he resembled his brother. She had met the Duke of Tresham once. They had been at the same dinner party—it must be four or five years ago. Both brothers were tall and dark and slender and long-legged. But there the resemblance ended, she realized
now after seeing them side by side. While Lord Ferdinand was handsome, with an open, good-humored countenance, the duke was none of those things. His face was harsh and cold and arrogant. It was easy to understand why everyone feared him.