Wedding Night Revenge (7 page)

'Well, they shall have to settle for a gossip over you and your...your friend who sings very well, I'm told. I should like to listen to her,' Rachel announced briskly and, gathering her skirt in one hand, she renewed her flight up the stairs. Before she'd achieved three steps, her way was barred by a dark arm fastening on the polished mahogany a mere inch in front of her bosom. She seemed to sway dangerously backwards on the spot.

'Be sensible, Miss Meredith. It need take only five or ten minutes; a little polite conversation, a smile or two.. .perhaps we might even manage to dance together and really confound them.'

Rachel swallowed, then pivoted back to face him. It was sensible advice.

Even in her agitation she knew that. They would never be left alone; speculation as to the one's high or low regard for the other would always prevail until the matter was finally laid to rest by a display of indifference.

What had she to lose by making an appearance of casually chatting to this man she had once callously jilted on the eve of their wedding? She moistened her full soft lips. 'I believe my father was kind enough to present you with the opportunity to quash rumours of any lingering bitterness between us...by attending my sister's wedding next month.'

'That's next month. This is now. Why wait so long?'

'Why, indeed?' Rachel rejoined softly after a long pause. For an awful moment she thought he might make no more of it and go. But his expression suddenly softened from an impassive study into a smile. In a move that seemed oddly conciliatory to Rachel, he stepped down to join her on her lower step rather than expecting her to rise to meet him. His bow might have been a little mocking, though, she supposed, as he held out an arm. It was the least she could expect. After a tiny hesitation her long, elegant fingers hovered on his sleeve, and for the first time in six years she allowed Connor Flinte to escort her to polite society at play.

The first people Rachel noticed as they walked in silence into the music room were her parents. Through a chink in a curtain of stirring bodies she saw that her mother was facing her, her father was presenting his solid squat back to the entrance. And Mrs Pemberton was, it seemed, still their good friend.

Rachel observed the moment that her mother caught sight of them: she abruptly ceased talking. After a stupefied second, Mrs Meredith's neat little jaw sagged further, making her appear a deal more dull and double-chinned than she actually was. Her expression, so severely altered, prompted Pamela Pemberton to inquisitively crane her neck about to locate what was so astonishing. Fortunately, the human shutter was already closing. Rachel was grateful for being spared her hostess's immediate attention. But it would come. Oh, it would certainly come.

Her father, of course, was oblivious to it all, for he was not attending to the ladies' chatter, but to his own. Despite standing with his wife, Edgar Meredith was actually conversing with a man in another group. Positioned like bookends, rigid-backed and with hands in pockets, they were talking with their chins jutting parallel to their shoulders, eyes darting up and down to the ceiling while they jigged from foot to foot. Edgar's interlocutor seemed equally bored with the company, even though the ladies in his circle looked considerably younger and rather glamorous. It was a moment before she realised that the man was in fact her father's brother-in-law. It was a long time since she had seen Nathaniel Chamberlain and she barely recognised him. Never a handsome man, in the interim he had become quite podgy and quite bald.

Nathaniel was married to her papa's sister, Phyllis, who had refused to have anything to do with her brother, or his family, since Rachel scandalously jilted Connor. Phyllis had been quite happy to bask in the glory of having been the one to bring together her niece and the son of one of her acquaintances. For Phyllis and Lady Davenport had once moved in the same circle. Rachel wondered, as she had many times before over the years, if they still did...

As Rachel peeked at her papa and his brother-in-law, she was stabbed with an ache of remorse: it was because of her jilting the man beside her that these once good friends must make conversation in such a clandestine fashion.

It had been at one of the Chamberlains' mediocre little dances that Rachel, then nineteen years old, had first been introduced to the handsome young Major. In common with the other young debutantes present, she had found him wonderfully attractive with his glossy black hair and sapphire eyes and that soft southern Irish brogue that so swooningly honeyed his tone. When he singled her out for particular attention that evening, she had been unbelievably flattered and so pleased. Not least because so many of her peers could barely contain their bitter-eyed envy. Yes; she had to admit that, at nineteen, beating her rivals to him had considerably boosted Major Connor Flinte's appeal.

Determinedly, she looked about, took in her surroundings. At present she was a bystander to the action; soon she would be its nervous protagonist.

Her senses seemed heightened in anticipation of that time as she absorbed all manner of minor detail from the threshold of the plush, aromatic room.

Verbena and lavender from cologne, and spice from perfumes and buffet foods mingled in the sultry air, infiltrating her nostrils like incense.

On a small raised dais Signora Laviola had been idly shuffling sheets of music in her hands, presumably in readiness to start her performance.

Rachel noticed that Lord Harley and one of his cronies were loitering about the foot of the stage, like faithful puppies. Sporadically a rewarding smile was tossed their way. One such flashing look from the diva darted directly from her lapdogs to her lover. Rachel watched the flash of recognition narrow Maria's eyes. Probably she remembered her from their brief exchange of glances in Charing Cross during the rumpus with the vehicles '

locking wheels. Rachel sensed the dark almond eyes slide over her. The woman's suspicion was quite legitimate; twice this week the
signora
had watched the Earl pay her obvious attention. She met the hostile appraisal challengingly for a second or two, then with a toss of butter-coloured curls turned her head.

And that was just the start! It seemed that everywhere she then looked she was subjected to a shrewd scrutiny.

Ruefully, she wished that, on the stairs moments ago, she had declined to take part in this singular scheme to secure them both a quiet life. And it had only been moments ago, despite the fact she felt as though she'd hesitated here for hours instead of minutes. A spurious show of concord no longer seemed such a good idea at all!

Pamela Pemberton's eyes had finally homed in on their quarry, resulting in a comically astonished grimace. That was the final straw! Rachel's facade of composure crumbled. An irrepressible choke of laughter had her quivering helplessly against her escort.

Connor looked down at her, then angled his raven head to see her demurely averted face shielding a tortured expression. She heard him swear softly in relief, then drawl, Tor a moment there I thought you were crying again.

What's so funny it's transformed tears to laughter?'

His unwanted perception was exactly what Rachel needed. Her hysteria was immediately stifled. She put up her chin; indeed, it lifted so high her eyes skimmed the ceiling before flitting over a sea of watching faces. Some people she recognised and knew would recall the scandal; others, fairly new to the social scene, had simply sensed the atmosphere engendered by their appearance and had grasped something gossip-worthy was afoot. Yet she managed to reply coolly, Tm not...I wasn't ever crying. You're mistaken, sir, I'm afraid.'

'Fine. You've not been crying. Let's not bicker and dispel the myth too soon.'

With a sideways look, he added mildly, 'We've been well and truly spotted, so try not to look quite so downcast. We're aiming for harmony...carefree...remember? Now, do you want to join your parents?'

'No! Not quite yet, sir, if you don't mind.' The first word was barked; in mitigation, the others emerged in such a meek whisper he had to stoop to hear them. Rachel cleared her throat and endeavoured to think of something else to say, so that she could converse in a properly modulated tone and prove she was quite able.
Then
she caught sight of her papa...and his wide smile...and his wink!

A small involuntary groan escaped her and her eyelids dropped in exasperated embarrassment. Oh, she knew how much her father liked this man...had always liked this man. She might very soon be on the receiving end of any amount of his unsubtle praise and innuendo. That horrifying realisation made her blurt gruffly, 'Might we sit over there? Just for a few moments, if you please, sir?' She indicated a quiet alcove by staring pointedly at it. If they headed that way they need pass very few people, yet it wasn't quite a retreat either.

As Connor steered her towards the small table and a few chairs set adjacent to the door, Rachel was aware that their progress was being closely monitored by sharp eyes and sibilant voices.

Rachel settled gratefully into the chair her escort politely pulled out for her.

She thanked him as, nonchalantly, he rested a hand the colour of mahogany on its ' rosewood rail.

'Well, let's start with the weather,' Connor drawled in his easy, Irish tone.

To an observer, his expression must have looked pleasantly bland; only Rachel understood the ironic amusement in the blue between his thick black lashes.

'Now, would you say it was hotter today than yesterday? Do you think it might rain later this week?' He looked off into the middle distance, for all the world adopting the idle attitude of a man doing his duty bya female acquaintance. With a ghost of a smile, he murmured to a burnished crown of golden hair, 'By the time we get to the likelihood of a storm brewing, I imagine our hostess might be upon us. She looks to have already covered some ground there. Several lordly folk have been skirted about en route.'

'Perhaps she momentarily finds you so much more diverting, my lord...being new to the ranks.'

Connor idly examined his nails, then spoke to them. 'That sounds pretty much like sour grapes, Rachel. Now, does the fact that I'm an earl bother you?'

'Nothing about you
bothers
me, my lord. Why on earth would it?' Rachel shot back honey-voiced, yet the emphasis on his formal title dripped rebuff.

She'd not given him leave to be so familiar and use her given name.

He seemed unaffected by the reproof and laughed. 'Oh, I don't know...

Perhaps now I've risen in the ranks I imagined there might be certain things you regret...'

Rachel's sugary smile turned coy. Slowly her face lifted to his, mock enquiry winging her eyebrows. Pretty blue eyes peeped up at him through a nest of silky brunette lashes. It was a charming pose...but a wasted effort: his attention was elsewhere. Without taking a proper look to verify her suspicions, Rachel immediately identified the reason behind his steady, discreet regard for the opposite end of the room. She had twice before this evening been an unwilling witness to a smouldering-eyed man, captivated by his lady-love. She even knew when his mistress was satisfied with his wordless reassurance, for he remembered her again, and the trifling little charade in which they were co- starring.

'Don't look so tense, Rachel...Miss Meredith,' he corrected himself with studied solemnity. 'People will think I'm keeping you here with a concealed weapon pointing hard at you.'

On immediate reflection his words seemed to disproportionately amuse him.

He choked a private laugh at the ceiling, which only served to make Rachel feel increasingly wretched. But it was her own behaviour that disturbed her the most. With a flash of insight she realised she had been on the point of mimicking the behaviour she had seen her sister and her friend use.

Unbelievably, she had wanted to flirt with a man who had every right to despise her. Naturally, he'd been oblivious to her scheme. Had his boredom been feigned, as a deliberate snub, it would have been easier to bear, but he'd simply been distracted, far more partial to his present love than his past.

At nineteen, she had managed to twine a respected Major in the Hussars about her little finger. For months he had danced obediently to her tune...

whichever she demanded be played. Now he ignored her! For a few vital seconds she'd hovered on the brink of desiring a little rapport with him...and he had ignored her! And why should he not? And why should she care? Or feel humbled?

But she did.

People never ignored her; especially not men. She might not be liked very much, but she was never overlooked. A knot of angry humiliation was writhing in her, threatening to eject her from the chair and propel her, childlike, to find her parents. But she mustn't run away, not just yet, for through the blinding heat of her indignation she realised that Pamela Pemberton was indeed hovering very close.

For appearances' sake the woman was exchanging a few perfunctory sentences with each new group she happened upon in the meandering course of her beeline towards them. Once she joined them, others would, too. Then any further opportunity to talk privately with this man would be unlikely.

Tomorrow she and her mother and sisters were returning to Windrush with their wedding clothes, to begin earnest preparations for June's nuptials. Her papa was following a day or two later when he had concluded his business in the City.