Susan Johnson (6 page)

“If you like, we could discuss the topic when we know each other better.”

“What makes you think we’re going to know each other better?” she replied flippantly, even while she found herself taking curious pleasure in the prospect.

He grinned. “Call it a good feeling.”

She should chastise him for openly flirting; she should make it clear she wasn’t in the mood for seduction. If she wasn’t enjoying herself so, she might have. If her life hadn’t been wrapped in gloom for so long, she might have been more inclined to offer him rebuke. Instead, she said, “How pleasant it is to actually smile and feel good.”

“Amen to that—and ten hallelujahs.” He gestured at the box again. “Open it.”

When she lifted the lid, a set of mother-of-pearl combs handsomely decorated with small sapphires glistened up at her. “They’re gorgeous,” she breathed, lifting one out and turning it to catch the light from the window. “Any curate’s wife would be enchanted,” she said with a smile, knowing full well a curate’s wife would never have anything so expensive. Unless, of course, Darley was bedding her.

“They match your dress,” he observed. “It must be fate.”

She had to agree the color was very close to the shade of blue lutestring she wore. Her brows arched upward. “So—you believe in fate?”

“More than the goodness of man,” he retorted with a raised brow.

She grimaced faintly. “I shan’t argue with you there.”

“I fought in Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon for three years and saw enough inhumanity to man to last me ten lifetimes. It makes one inclined to embrace the life of a hermit,” he muttered, a scowl drawing his dark brows together. Visibly shaking himself a second later, he forced a smile. “Humor a jaundiced soul and take the combs. Put them in your hair for me—if you think they’ll stay,” he added, surveying her curls. Her pale hair was clipped short in the
dernier cri
of fashion, only those women in the vanguard of the
beau mode
capable of carrying off the revolutionary style.

She hesitated briefly, the comb in her hand; and then, with a nod, obliged him, pulling back her curls at her temple and securing them.

“Perfectly lovely,” he murmured, not necessarily alluding to the comb.

“I thank you,” she replied with a faint dip of her head, and lifting the second comb from the box, she clasped back the curls on her opposite temple.

“I thank you more,” he said, an odd note of wistfulness in his voice. “I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed the company of a beautiful woman.”

“Perhaps we’ve both been hermits too long.” It was a spontaneous utterance, but undeniably true.

“In regard to our overlong hermitages, may I say I’m very much looking forward to the views from Monastery Hill,” Duff observed, deliberately keeping his tone light. “I think I shall see them with fresh eyes.”

“I agree. I can’t recall when last I’ve been sightseeing.”

“Forgive me in advance, for I’m already taking advantage of your friendship, but do check with your mother when we get back and see if she’ll give you leave to attend the races.” Not wishing to frighten her off, he refrained from saying he would actually look forward to tomorrow if she were to say yes.

“I’d like that.” She chose not to parse her feelings or worry about what she should or should not say. She could blame the wine if she wished, although she knew better. Her good spirits had more to do with Duff’s charm than alcohol.

The cherry pudding suddenly arrived, reminding them to eat, and putting aside unhappy topics, they enjoyed a hearty meal, a jug of wine, and convivial conversation.

If it had been possible to define contentment, both parties would have agreed their meal at Bedloe Inn offered them an explicit précis of that feeling. Duff couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed so often or felt so joyful, while Annabelle relished their time together as though it were forbidden fruit.

It couldn’t last.

But while it did, she would take delight in every moment.

T
he views from Monastery Hill were more spectacular than either had remembered, the valley below spreading out lush green and fertile as far as the eye could see, the patchwork of fields bucolically dotted with grazing livestock, the river flowing through the flat as blue as the summer sky.

They sat on a horse blanket Duff had spread on the ground and talked of other times they’d sat thusly and seen the exact scene through a child’s eyes.

“Life was simpler then,” Duff murmured.

“Unarguably simpler,” Annabelle said with a sigh.

“Things will get better.” Eddie was too far away to hear, but had he heard, he would have danced a jig.

“I hope you’re right.” There were times she wasn’t so sure.

“Let me help you and your family.” As she opened her mouth to respond, he quickly added, “You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Come, Duff, don’t gull me. If ever a man had everything life could offer, it’s you.”

“Wealth alone isn’t enough.”

She snorted. “Don’t say that to those who struggle every day to put food in their mouths.”

“I understand. But it would give me pleasure to offer your family assistance.”

“I am capable of taking care of my family.”

“I know you are. But we have servants by the score and there must be times when you could use an extra pair of hands to ease the burden for Molly and yourself.”

“Don’t do this, Duff.” She pursed her lips.

“But I want to.”

She shot him a heated glance. “While the last thing
I
want is to be beholden to you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Of course I would. Do you take me for a grass-green girl? Men invariably want something for their favors.”

“I don’t.”

“Have you been emasculated by your wounds?” she said with deliberate rudeness.

He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he said with a smile, “Would you like to find out?”

“There, you see? You’re acting exactly like every other man who pretends not to want what he clearly wants.”

“You’re very defensive.”

She gave him a flinty look. “And I shouldn’t be?”

“Not with me.”

“So I can accept all you offer with no fear of you importuning me for more.”

“Why don’t you say it? Importuning you for sex.”

“Very well. You
don’t
want sex with me?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m only saying I won’t ask for it.”

“Of course you will.”

“No, I won’t.”

Her gaze was mocking. “I don’t suppose you’d care to make a wager on that?”

“You’d lose.”

“I doubt it.”

He smiled. “It’s up to you, but I wouldn’t bet more than you can afford to lose.”

Duff’s utter calm annoyed or insulted her—she wasn’t sure which. But the upshot was she found herself challenging that calm by posing the question, “What would you say to five hundred pounds?” That most of the noblemen she knew could no more control their sexual urges than they could hold back the tides no doubt made her bold.

“What I’d say is, don’t bet so much. Your family could use it more than I.”

“I don’t intend to lose.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Five hundred pounds it is. Do we have some time frame?”

“Forever?” she queried flippantly.

“I’d prefer a more practical limit.”

“Because you have ulterior motives?”

He laughed. “No, because I’d like to collect my winnings.”

“Such arrogance.”

“Not really. I just know what I can and cannot do. And while we’re deciding on the rules, I would like if you would let me help your family in the interim. Why don’t we say—what…two months? Is that enough time to assure you my motives are honorable?”

She didn’t answer for a very long time, not sure she wished to become involved on any level with the Marquis of Darley—scarred by the wounds of war or not. On the other hand, he was offering a type of assistance that would be welcome. And she couldn’t discount the possibility he might be useful to have around should Walingame discover her whereabouts. Lastly, five hundred pounds was five hundred pounds. “Two months?”

“Yes.” He didn’t say
unless you ask me before that
—a thought that took him so much by surprise, he quickly added, “You decide, of course.”

“Very well. I can always use five hundred pounds.”

He smiled. “Done.” He put out his hand.

She clasped it.

And the bargain was made.

He immediately spoke of other things then, as though their wager was incidental. As though he gave no more mind to it than he did the light breeze fluttering the leaves overhead. He spoke of how he used to come to the ruins as a child and play at knightly battle games with his friends. He showed her where he’d tumbled from the highest point on the partially collapsed nave wall and had frightened his playmates half to death by lying there comatose for several minutes. “My parents forbid me to climb that high after that,” he said with a smile, reaching out to touch the moss-covered wall as though recalling those times long ago.

“And did you mind them?” Annabelle asked, as capable as he of bland social intercourse. “I expect not.”

“I tried.” He grinned. “And failed, of course. It was too much to expect from a young boy, in any event. But I was more cautious at least. I don’t expect you played battle games up here?”

It suddenly seemed as though he was standing too close; his male scent, his cologne fragrant in her nostrils, his sheer size stirring provocative feelings she’d rather not feel. She took a step back. “As a matter of fact, I came up here to paint.” It took an extra modicum of self-control to speak in a normal tone of voice, although she’d been an actress too long to let her agitation show. “The ruins were an ideal subject for an impressionable young girl, conjuring up all kinds of romantic fantasies. In fact,” she said with a lifted brow, “I wrote a medieval tale with Bedloe as backdrop.”

“How old were you when you came here?” Her hair was like spun gold in the sunlight, he thought, flexing his fingers against the sudden urge to touch it. Perhaps cued by those golden curls, a sudden image of another blond head sunk into the mud at Waterloo leaped into his brain—Merriman’s death a gruesome, bloody sight. Duff went rigid, every muscle taut and unyielding as he struggled to deal with the harrowing memory.

“Eight or ten. Are you all right?” Duff appeared as though cast in stone, his gaze tormented. “Is there something I can do?” Belle murmured, reaching out to take his hand.

He jerked back.

She cried out.

Whether her shocked cry or her expression of fear restored his sanity, he instantly became conscious of his surroundings. “Forgive me,” he said with as much casualness as he could muster. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Unfortunately, some of my battle memories appear at the most inconvenient times. I apologize if I alarmed you.”

“You needn’t apologize. I sympathize with your plight.” Knowing what agony Chloe’s death had caused, she could only imagine how greatly Duff suffered. War was always brutal and the casualties at Waterloo had been horrendous. “Would you like to leave?”

He wished to say
I won’t harm you
or
Eddie is near so don’t be afraid
. But neither would calm her if his recent moment of delirium had been disquieting for her. “We probably should,” he said politely. “I’ve kept you away too long.”

“No, not at all. I only meant to be helpful if you weren’t feeling well.”

How polite she was. But then, she was an actress of note. She was capable of affecting an effortless urbanity, even under stress. “I’m fine, but thank you. However, if you wish to be helpful,” he said with a small smile, inclined by both birth and personality to be willful, “if you’d go to the races with me tomorrow, I’d be most grateful. Say yes and we’ll leave now.”

She looked startled for a moment, his choices oddly constraining.

He laughed. “You misunderstand. You’re free to go regardless your answer. It’s just that I would like to escort you to the races tomorrow—with your mother’s consent, of course.”

“Your moods are highly changeable, my lord,” she said with just a hint of wariness in her voice.

“I admit they are at times. But in your company, the worst of my demons are held at bay. Not that you’re obligated in any way to be solicitous on that account. I state a fact only.” He shrugged, the light in his eyes playful once again. “So what do you say? If you’re concerned with my mental state, you’ll be quite safe in the midst of the race crowd. And consider, you could win a sizeable sum if you bet with me.”

She smiled, reassured by his honesty, liking the fact that he could openly acknowledge his demons. Most men couldn’t. “Are you saying you know horseflesh better than I?”

He grinned. “I might. Why don’t we see?”

She laughed. “Not another wager, Duff. One is enough.”

“In any case, the racing should be excellent. And if the weather holds, how can we lose?”

“How indeed.” She felt a piquant excitement, something uncommon of late, the thought of the races tomorrow altogether pleasing. “Why don’t I see how Mother is doing in the morning and I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll send Eddie over.”

“Rather than have Eddie ride over, perhaps needlessly, if you don’t hear from me by noon plan on stopping by, say, at one?”

A faint smile played about his fine mouth. “I shall pray for your mother’s continuing recuperation.”

She dipped her head. “I shall as well.”

“Good,” he murmured, taking her hand in his.

She didn’t pull away, although she should have.

A small silence fell.

Bending low, he dropped a light kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for your pleasant company,” he murmured.

She hadn’t been kissed so platonically in years. It was a lovely, beguiling gesture. She smiled up at him. “Thank
you
,” she said.

“Until tomorrow, then.”

“Provided all the stars are aligned,” she noted.

“I’ll see what I can do.” A roguish certitude infused his words.

“Even you aren’t so arrogant, Duff, as to think you can command the stars.”

“You don’t know me very well.”

She should have said she had no intention of getting to know him well, but she said, instead, soft and low, “Nor you me.”

He grinned. “Don’t say you’re flirting with me?”

“I most certainly am not,” she protested, lying to herself as well as him, feeling an unalloyed joy even as she perjured herself.

“Whatever you say, Miss Foster.”

“Belle,” she offered.

“Belle,” he repeated, a delectable enticement in his silken tone.

What was she doing, she thought with alarm. Why was she succumbing to his practiced charm? Who better than she should know better? Pulling her hand from his, she moved swiftly toward their horses. “Do you think your mount has any chance at all of beating my little mare on the ride home?” she asked as though nothing had passed between them, as though she didn’t feel the need to pretend indifference to his allure.

“It depends how well you ride,” he replied drolly, quick to pick up on her altered mood.

She swivelled around. “I can ride as well as you.”

“Ten quid says you can’t.” He understood her need to put more distance between them. He was grateful she was sensible for them both.

She began running toward the mare. “You’re going to lose!” she cried.

If he wasn’t afraid of losing badly, he would have stood there enjoying the view. Her feet were flying over the grass, her skirts billowing out around her, her curls bobbing, her slender form a delight to the eye. He particularly liked that she was wearing his hair combs, the sapphires sparkling in the sun as she ran. He’d have to bring her something more tomorrow—something to make her smile.

Then he broke into a run and shouted, “I’m gaining on you,” just to hear her laugh.

She did.

Somehow he’d known she would.

As though they shared some common bond.

In his new joyous mood, he refused to acknowledge that bond as shared misery.

He much preferred the notion of a spiritual renewal.

Or say, optimism.

And maybe two months from now, it could be something else entirely.