The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (20 page)

She considered asking a footman to summon Mrs Becker to her, before deciding that that would negate any attempt at affecting nonchalance. Glancing out of the window, Araminta spotted the housekeeper’s steely bun as she stood next to the flower bed. Judging by her stance she was giving instructions to the gardener, though the young woman could not guess what business the housekeeper might have with a gardener, who was under command of the estate’s grounds keeper.

Deciding that she might as well put her plan into play, Araminta spun away from the window and hurried out towards the grounds. She slipped out of a side-door, and then did her best to appear as if she were merely taking a morning constitutional about the grounds. She hoped she would not be too late and miss the housekeeper.

Mrs Becker heard the young lady’s approach and turned around, smiling warmly. The old housekeeper had taken a liking to Araminta. “How are you this morning, Mrs Becker?” Araminta asked with a bright smile.

“How can I be anything but well, Miss Barrington, when the day dawned so sunny?” chuckled Mrs Becker. “But, come my dear, what can I do for you? Surely you did not come all this way to chat to an old housekeeper.”

“Why, Mrs Becker, you sell yourself short. I was taking a morning constitutional when I glimpsed you. But, by the by, did you happen to see Lord Chestleton this morning?”

Mrs Becker gave her a knowing, contemplative look before replying, “His Lordship went into town early this morning, Miss. To meet with his man of business come down from London.”

Araminta felt a sinking disappointment that she would not see Chestleton that morning, the light-headed sense of anticipation she had felt since waking beginning to dissipate. She was careful to smile with well-practiced polite disinterest. She talked to Mrs Becker for a while longer, on causal topics such as the weather and the fortunate lay-out of the Joscelin grounds, before excusing herself.

Araminta again felt a longing for her journal, wherein she might let loose all her conflicting thoughts concerning the enigmatic marquis. Retreating into the library, Araminta picked up the volume she had been reading a few days earlier and continued it, though she found that she could not really focus. The trouble was that she had situated herself in the window seat which looked out over the sweeping drive towards the house, and, quite despite every effort to the contrary, she could not resist glancing over at the drive every few minutes, and starting every time she imagined that she heard the sound of Dante’s hooves on the pebbly drive.

Mrs Becker was kind enough to bring Araminta a repast of sandwiches and tea in the library, and shortly afterwards, with Araminta’s permission, Mrs Kingston let Charlotte down to speak to the young lady. They played at riddles, which Charlotte was not very good at, though she
was
enthusiastic, and Araminta taught Charlotte a game of cards she had played with Kitty as a child.

Araminta moved to sit on the thick rug next to Charlotte, and they spent a happy afternoon playing games.

“You shouldn’t excite the girl, Miss Barrington,” said Kingston, when Charlotte boisterously demanded another game of cards. “It’s not good for children to be over excited.”

Charlotte was a sweet girl, and Araminta was sure she was every bit as lonely as she had imagined. Araminta, who had grown up with her brother’s noisy games, could not imagine what it must be like for a child who had no one to play at pirates with, or climb trees or steal apples from the pantry, all of which could be downright dull when done alone, but were instantly raised to the height of adventure when shared with a friend. She doubted that Charlotte saw much in the way of excitement.

“Stuff and nonsense, Mrs Kingston,” she said, smiling. “Why, when else is one to have fun and excitement if not in childhood?”

It was when Charlotte grew over-tired and began to doze off on the divan that Araminta proposed that she be taken upstairs for her nap, a proposition with which the governess was in full agreement. The young lady had just settled back with her book, when she heard the horse come galloping into the courtyard.

Araminta shot up in unladylike agitation, her midnight blue eyes fixed on the dark shape beneath the window. In his dark blue cloak, he cut a striking, fashionable figure astride his stallion. Her breath caught as she watched his easy control of the powerful animal as he dismounted, and strode briskly into the house.

Spinning around, Aramnta was half-way to the door before she recollected herself and stopped short, vacillating. The urge to see him had only grown in his absence over the course of the day, but she had to retain her dignity and not go rushing down to greet him the very second of his arrival. After all, she did not want him to imagine her attachment to him to be so very strong.

It took a great effort of will for the young lady to turn around and walk over to the nearest divan, where she sat staring at the chestnut grandfather clock, which ticked away the minutes. A delicate frown appeared on her forehead as she glared at the clock face, refusing to let herself rise any sooner than in five minutes’ time, but feeling certain that the clock must be incorrect, stretching out the passage of time just to spite her. Her heart fluttered with anticipation as she heard the bustle in the entrance hall which signalled the master’s arrival.

At last, the painfully slow hand marked off five minutes, and Araminta rose from her seat, crossing to the library door. Her heart was racing in her chest, but she forced herself to move languidly, with every appearance of being completely at her leisure.

She could hear his voice coming from the direction of his study. There could be no mistaking the masculine timbre, which even now sent forbidden shivers down her spine, though she could not make out what was being said. She supposed he was giving orders to one of the servants or Mrs Becker, and continued in the direction of the study.

Araminta wondered what she would say when she saw him. After the inconclusive, bewildering and marvellous events of the previous night, the thought had not been far from her mind all day. At times it woke a sense of anticipation in her. At others it evoked a sense of sinking dread. At last, she resolved that no solution was to be had, and that she must rely on providence and instinct to supply her with the words she would need.

She rounded the corridor to the study, paying no heed to the beautiful paintings decorating the walls, both landscapes and portraiture, the works of many varied artists. It seemed to her now, when words still failed to appear, that both providence and instinct had abandoned her.

I will simply look him in the eye, smile and ask whether he had had a pleasant ride into town,
she finally resolved.
Then it will be up to him to take the conversation wherever it may lead.

The door of the study stood ajar, and Araminta could hear voices coming from within. Araminta raised a slender hand to knock when she caught the tail end of the conversation and stopped short, all her resolutions flying clean out of her mind. Her blood seemed to run cold within her veins and her eager heart, which had been dancing in her chest, came to a complete halt and seemed to drop into her toes. Somewhere at the back of her mind, years of breeding informed her that she ought to knock, make her presence known, or simply to retreat.

Her brain, however, refused to answer to this instinct and kept her frozen outside the door, the terrible words washing over her like the grey winter waves in Brighton, as her world cracked and shattered around her.

“And my daughter?” his familiar voice asked.

“Miss Charlotte has had her supper and her evening glass of milk, and she has now been put to bed,” answered an older, female, voice which Araminta easily recognised as Mrs Kingston’s. “She’s a good, obedient girl, my lord.”

“She is that. And her health?”

“She seems much improved, though I feel there is still a trace of melancholy about her. No doubt the vestiges of her illness. I must say, Lord Chestleton, that she has shown a marked improvement of late. Why, this evening she was quite excited playing at games with Miss Barrington.”

“Was she?” His murmur was thoughtful and indolent, as if he were not quite speaking to the governess.

“Oh yes. Charlotte has taken a liking to the young lady, your lordship.”

Araminta took none of this in. Her mind had come to an abrupt, screeching halt on that one word: the girl was his
daughter
! She felt her world come crashing around her in an instant. She felt frozen in place, her insides utterly chilled, roiling with a sense of shock and betrayal.

Her mind was racing. He had lied to her! When she had bared her innermost feelings, when she had just allowed herself to trust him, to trust
in
him. It was as if her fragile heart lay shattered at her feet. She tried to understand why he had lied. He had no wife, and she knew he was not a widower.

That left only one possibility. The girl was illegitimate! The daughter of a mistress perhaps, or some poor dishonoured creature, the likes of Violet Grey. Ladies of delicacy weren’t supposed to know what happened behind closed doors between men and their kept women, and Araminta was quite vague on that point. However, though such ladies weren’t even meant to know about the existence of mistresses, some gossip was impossible to keep from delicate ears.

Did he keep Charlotte’s existence a secret to avoid further scandal? Was he perhaps trying to protect her mother, or maybe Charlotte herself? But no, she decided, steeling her wounded heart — he had clearly proven himself beneath such paltry things as sympathy and concern. Araminta could feel tears approaching and wiped angrily at her eyes. She would not cry over this, over him! She had been so full of joy at the thought of seeing him again, but now she knew that her feelings were not reciprocated. He did not, could not, love her. His betrayal of her trust proved that as clearly as if he had said it. No doubt, he’d meant the same sort of fate for her as his other conquests. A roué always stayed a roué, and she could not keep fooling herself into believing otherwise any longer.

Araminta felt ashamed, embarrassed that she had let herself be so bamboozled. And to think that, just last night, she had come so scandalously close to throwing away her honour on him! She had been about to sacrifice everything, to ruin herself for a moment of wanton desire, when everything between them had been nothing but a lie. A voice inside her head tried to remind her that he
had
stopped them before they had gone too far, but Araminta angrily pushed it aside. No doubt that had just been another step in his game of cat-and-mouse. He had meant only to lure her further in! And then he would have ridden back to his club and bragged about his latest conquest. She was nothing more to him than another bit of muslin to be used and discarded.

She had been so naïve, so cork-brained! Araminta realised that the only choice left to her was to leave Dillwood Park immediately, while her honour was unstained and she could cling to what was left of her dignity.

As Araminta stood frozen outside the doorway, her hands twisting a bit of the fabric of her lovely day dress, crystalline tears flowed unconsciously down her pale cheeks, dropping onto the floor and staining her dress, though she neither noticed nor cared.

So absorbed was she in the cocoon of her heartbreak that she did not hear the heavy footsteps approaching the door, which slowly opened.

It was as if they were frozen in time.

Chestleton’s eyes fell upon her form standing motionless by the door, as if she had been about to knock. His confused eyes registered the expression of utter grief on her face, the broken despair in her eyes, and he extended his hand, as if to move towards her, to offer her comfort.

Araminta flinched away from him and took a step back, her eyes still locked on his. It was as if she had slapped him. Confusion melted away from his eyes and he looked stricken. Chestleton blanched as understanding dawned. She had heard everything. But surely finding out that Charlotte was his daughter was not such a frightful thing! She seemed to like the little girl. Had it all been an act? What could she have hoped to gain?

Before he could fully follow this line of thought, he was taken over by a sense of horror at watching the woman who had awoken such unaccountable warmth within him cry as if her whole world had just shattered about her.

“Miss Bar — ” he began, taking another uncertain step towards her, “Araminta. Please, let me — ”

“No,” she managed to interrupt him in a choked voice, holding her hand out before her, as if to ward him off. Instinctually, he froze in place, noticing that her hand was shaking.

It took a moment longer before Araminta felt she had the strength to go on without falling apart right before him. Seeing his face, which she had thought so beloved, had been the final blow.

“No, don’t you dare try to explain! I heard it all. You
lied
to me. How could you? When last night — ! When I — ! When we — ! I suppose you think me a naïve little fool for believing there was some thread of honour left in you, some honest feeling. But you have disabused me of this absurd notion, my lord, and for that I should thank you.” Her voice was rising with her rage, despite her efforts to keep it low.

“You do not understand,” he tried to interrupt, but she overrode his would-be explanation. Some part of Chestleton could not help admiring her, in all her fury — her face flushed, her bosom heaving prettily, and her hair escaping its neat chignon to stand wildly about her. She looked simply ravishing, and it was all he could do not to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and carry her to his bedroom. Chestelton overrode this part of him, however, to address the matter at hand.

“I understand perfectly! I know exactly why you saw fit to lie. You, sir, are the lowest form of scoundrel and villain. Your plan from the first was to lure me here…
That
is why you took the house so close to Fanshawe Hall. I was blind not to have seen it sooner. And you meant to seduce me, to ruin me and toss me aside like you did Miss Violet Grey, and no doubt countless others. I will never be your
chere-amie
. You have set your bait for the wrong woman. Whose daughter is Charlotte, Chestleton? What poor wretch did you leave in the family way? Or do you even remember which one she was?” snarling those cruel words, she spun around to run back to her rooms.