A Gentleman and a Scoundrel (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (13 page)

“I am relieved to hear it!” he said. “There is a good deal of difference between
feeling
love and
making
love I assure you. You do yourself no favours in speaking about things which you do not understand.”

“I
do
understand. I am not a child.”

He laughed scornfully. “No, you’re not a child…not much…if I made love to you right now you’d run a mile.”

“Would I? How do you know I would?”

He appeared momentarily lost for words.

“Do I shock you?” she taunted. “Are your aristocratic sensibilities offended?”

“Hardly,” he replied. “It would take a good deal more than that I assure you.”

“So speaks the man of experience. For you have a hundred years more experience than I, don’t you? You are a man of the world who has loved many women and I am just a child; you had better confine me to the nursery where I belong. Which makes a match between us more than ridiculous, it makes it sordid. Everyone thinks you are old enough to be my father.”

“Thank you for that!” he replied caustically.

“Well, you are! And you treat me as if you
are
my father,” she cried. “You ask me to take a ride on your horse and go out for a drive with you as if it’s a high treat. I wonder that you don’t buy me dolls and hoops and offer to show me my sums too. You look upon me as your niece or your daughter when all I want from you―”

She broke off in confusion, blushing profusely.

“All you want from me is what?” he demanded, scowling.

“Nothing,” she said in a small voice, playing with the ribbons on her gown.

“Tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well you did, so come on, tell me. All you want from me is what?”

“Is…is…oh hang it all…is to be kissed!” she said, her voice shaking with passion. She moved away to the other door which had been opened to let some of the heat out and marched through it. She found herself in the kitchen garden, her feet striking against the red brick path that led her through beds of carrots and beetroot and long curly beans, their pods swollen with beans like beads on a string. She got as far as the hothouses before he caught her arm.

“Louisa, if I have not touched you it is because I was afraid of frightening you, not because I don’t wish to,” he said, staring at her.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me, or are you incapable of it? Are you afraid you might get a hair out of place?” she retorted. “You owe me three forfeits, remember? But I only need one. I claim it now. Kiss me.”

The Duke seized her by the shoulders. She stared up into his eyes at once fearful and excited. She had goaded him, pushed him into losing his temper. His eyes were dark and sultry like melted chocolate. Louisa felt herself melting into him.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, shaking her, his lips a hands-breadth away from hers.

She was desperate for him to close the distance between them, to feel his mouth on hers, to feel the hard muscles of his arms around her. She parted her lips in open, wanton invitation and she saw his eyes slide to her mouth. He was going to kiss her, he was, she could feel it. Her heart pounded hard and heavy inside her chest.

“Your grace, my lady,” said a voice from behind them, coughing discreetly. “Can I move past you to the hothouses? The path is a bit narrow here and I need to pick a melon for cook and there’ll be a might deal of trouble if she don’t get it.”

They sprang apart, the Duke every bit as red-faced as the sun-burned gardener before him. Fullerton tipped his flea bitten hat and shuffled away, his footsteps punctuated by the handle of his hoe touching the path like a walking cane.

The gardener’s sudden interruption was like the release of a pressure valve and Louisa felt the tension ebbing out of her. She watched Fullerton go with his uneven gait, embarrassed and disappointed and slightly ashamed of her behaviour now that the heat of her frustration had died.

“You are leaving tomorrow,” she said at last, her voice expressionless.

“You know I am.”

“And you have said that you won’t be back.”

“It is unlikely, I think. I have much business to attend to in London, which will keep me there indefinitely―”

“Go then! I want you to go. I wish you had never come here,” she sobbed.

He glared at her, his eyes searching her face. “Do you?”

“You may tell my father that all is at an end between us.”

“I am not your servant madam, you may tell him yourself,” replied the Duke icily.

“There are any number of eligible ladies in the country who would be more than happy to become your Duchess. Unhappily for you, I am not one of them.”

He bowed. “I count myself fortunate to have escaped from an alliance which can only have made us both profoundly unhappy. I bid you good day and wish you every future happiness.”

With that he bowed and strode away.

* * *

“Louisa, there you are,” exclaimed Emma. “Malvern has had to go away on important business. I tried to detain him for half an hour so that you might have the chance to wish him goodbye but he would not wait any longer than the time it took to bring his curricle round.”

“He has gone?” Louisa asked, tears gathering in her eyes. “I thought he wasn’t leaving until tomorrow?”

“He said he had spent too long here already. Are you alright, my love? You look a trifle out of sorts.”

“I have a headache.”

“Oh. Strange that he left in such a hurry. Well, I am sorry that he has gone for he is such good company and I am sure that Uncle Ned will miss him too. Now that I think of it, it
is
strange that he left in such a hurry for there was no letter or express to call him away.” Emma paused, observing her sister’s white countenance with a suspicious eye. “You did not argue with him did you?”

“No I did not argue with him. Why does everyone automatically think it is my fault?” she asked hotly.

“I was only asking, love. You did tell him that you never wanted to see him again, and there’s no use denying it for I heard you say it.”

“And I meant it. We are at an end, he and I.”

“Oh no, Lou, what happened?”

“I do not wish to talk about it. He―he is far too old and serious for me and I am far too passionate a creature for him. We are decided we should not suit. Now pray do not pain me by ever speaking of him again.”

Emma regarded her sister with a good deal of surprised concern. “But my love, I thought you and he were fast becoming the best of friends?”

“If I were five again, I am sure that a friendship of that kind would suit me. But I am a woman and I need more from a husband than day trips to the seaside. I don’t know why I ever thought our relationship could be any different. I have said a thousand times that I will not marry Malvern and I say it again now―oh, Papa…”

The Earl came into the room his hands clasped behind his back. “You needn’t look so forlorn, Louisa, I am quite well aware of the situation. Malvern has just told me in no uncertain terms that he has changed his mind and is no longer prepared to wait for you―you will
listen
, Louisa! His actual words were something like hell will freeze over before he willingly sees you again. I congratulate you! You have managed to insult one of the greatest men in the country and I will add, one of the most decent men of my acquaintance. Oh clever girl! I hope you are proud of yourself.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I am! I told you I would not marry him and you would not believe me. I will marry Nicholas Ashworth.”

“Over my dead body,” muttered the Earl. “I’d rather you married Deverill than that young fool! You will marry Robert, Earl of Marcham.”

Her mouth fell open. “But he is older than Malvern!”

“Eight and thirty, I believe.”

“Twenty years older than me!”

“Seventeen actually.”

“And a―a hardened gamester! They say he bet his whole estate on the turn of one card!”

“That he did. Lost it too and then won it back. And he’s a womaniser to boot. You’ll have your hands full with him and it will serve you right. But he is handsome as any man I have ever seen so that should be enough to satisfy your maidenly desire for a pretty face.”

“I will
not
! They say he has orgies!”

“He may well do. But he’s richer than Malvern.”

“Papa, please, you do not mean it…”

“Undoubtedly, I mean it. I have been kind and have let you take this fence at your own pace and look at the way you thank me! You have made it virtually impossible for your mama and me to ever invite Malvern to Haymarsh ever again. He is a good man, Louisa, and he worships you. Why do you think he’s been staying here for a fortnight when he has that giant estate of his to run and business to attend to? For
you
Louisa, you ninnyhammer! Well it doesn’t make hide nor hair of difference now because it is all too late. I will leave on Monday and travel up to see Marcham. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy with the alliance. His reputation is such that no eligible female of rank or birth will have him.”

“Papa…no!”

“You have made your bed, miss and now you will lie on it!”

“Marcham!” cried Nicholas, later that evening, thoroughly outraged by his love’s news.

“Yes,” replied Louisa.

“But he’s nearly forty.”

Louisa bit her lip. “I know.”

They were sitting by the small ornamental lake and the clouds flew across the sky. The sun had disappeared a few moments ago behind a bank of grey clouds and it did not seem that it was to return that day. Louisa shivered involuntarily.

Nicholas picked up a piece of gravel from the path and hurled it into the pond, scattering the goldfish from where it plopped through the surface. “God…it’s…it’s indecent, that’s what it is,” he said. “Marcham’s a gambler and a womaniser and a…a scoundrel. They say he all but killed a man in a duel when he was seventeen. And he’s a drunk to boot.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s won whatever fortune he possesses at the gaming table.”

“I won’t do it, Nicky,” she declared. “I swear I won’t.”

“No, by Jove, you won’t. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

“But what am I to do? Papa is threatening to ride over to see Marcham next week.”

“He doesn’t mean it. He’s bluffing.”

“Oh, do you think so?” cried Louisa, pulling a strand of hair from her mouth that had been blown there by the wind.

“Of course I think it. Do you honestly think Crowborough would see any daughter of his married to such a man? Don’t be such a goose, Louisa.”

“But what if he isn’t bluffing?”

“He is.”

“But what if he isn’t?”

“Then there’s nothing for it, you’ll have to marry me,” declared Nicholas gallantly.

Louisa bit her lip, swiping away the tears in her eyes. “Oh but, Nicky, you don’t really wish to be married to me, do you?”

“What a shabby thing to say! Of course I do.”

“Really?”

“Well, I’d sooner marry you than see you sacrificed to a man who would make you miserable, at any rate.”

Louisa ripped a petal from the rose in her hand and tossed it into the stream and was silent. That wasn’t
quite
the answer she was hoping to hear. She watched the water take the bright red petal and suck it into a long dance as it tumbled over the rocks and was eventually lost from sight.

“Well you might at least sound pleased about it, or grateful at least,” complained Nicholas.

“I
am
grateful. But I wouldn’t want you to do anything you didn’t really wish to do.”

“I
do
wish to,” he insisted. “The question is do
you
want to?”

“I am fond of you, truly I am…”

“But?”

“And I don’t wish to be like those horrid females who are forever changing their minds, but…but I think that you don’t really love me. Oh don’t look so sulky, Nicky! I meant no insult. But I think you are as much in love with Caroline Hinchcliff as you are with me.”

“Unjust! Since when have I mentioned her name to you?”

“Never,” she replied with a smile. “And that, I think, is the problem. If you were completely indifferent to her you might have spoken of her given that you danced with her twice at one ball and have spent a good deal of time in her company. But you told me she was only reasonably pretty when everyone knows her to be a great beauty. Oh don’t be cross, dear, dear Nicky! I am not in the least bit upset, which I think means I cannot have been in love with you very much at all, can I?”

“I suppose not,” he replied, sulkily stubbing the toe of his boot against the rock she was sitting on.

“And I really think that I should release you from our engagement. Noble as it was, I don’t think you really meant to offer for me at Vauxhall, did you?”

He shrugged, looking up at the sky and the threatening black clouds that were beginning to gather. The breeze stirred the tails of his coat and the ribbons of Louisa’s bonnet and dandelion seeds flew past them like flakes of snow. A storm was coming.

“So what now? You’ll marry Malvern I suppose,” said Nicholas, eyeing the clouds with misgiving.

“I? Marry Malvern?” she demanded, immediately firing up. “I will not!”

He blinked at her and spread his hands. “What did I say?”

“Why does everyone assume that just because he is a Duke that I will fall at his feet? He is old and serious and dull and I don’t like him above half,” she said crossly. “I would rather marry Mr Biggleswade than him!”

“Who?”

“Oh never mind! I have a headache.”

“Of course you do,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And when you have stopped being such a goose and have decided that you
do
wish to be married to Malvern after all, be sure and let me know. Come on let’s go in. I just felt the first raindrop and I think it’s going to blow a storm.”

* * *

The storm raged loud and lustily through much of the morning, hurling shards of much needed rain at the windows and lashing the ground with hailstone the size of ice cubes. Lightning struck the fence at the boundary with the moor and rendered it into matchsticks. Within two hours the storm had blown itself out leaving a wake of destruction behind it.

“I think Louisa must have argued with Malvern,” Emma said, setting a stitch in her embroidery. “The reason is unclear but all I do know is that everything is at an end between them. Malvern could hardly wait to have his curricle bought round before he was off and he would not stay for luncheon before he left. I don’t think I ever saw him so vexed. As soon as I saw Louisa’s face I knew that they had argued.”

Her father gave a snort of disgust and flung his book down upon his desk. “Not exactly a surprise. Your sister could start an argument in an empty room.”

“Yes, she is a little excitable…”

“A little?”

Emma glanced over at him. “She thinks Malvern is too serious for her. She’s young and her head is full of romance novels.”

He stood up and walked away to the window and looked out at his brother-in-law’s parkland, bracing his hand high against the casement. “She thinks anyone over thirty has one foot in the grave and anyone who has a brain is dull.”

Emma smiled. “I hope she changes her mind. I heard that you were thinking of the Earl of Marcham for her instead.”

Lord Crowborough turned around to face her at that with a short laugh. “Robert Marcham? Do you really think I would choose that loose fish for my daughter? God help us. He’ll whip her into shape alright. If you think she and Malvern fight like cat and dog…you will hear the fights she and Marcham will have in the next county. The man would gamble away his own grandmother if he thought he’d make some money out of it. Well, my dear, you wanted excitement at Haymarsh and now you have it. A notorious rake in the family will make us a hit with our neighbours, will it not?”

“Do you know him then?”

“Marcham? A little. Malvern knows him better than I. They have neighbouring property in Worcestershire―” he broke off as a thought occurred to him. “Oh lord, that will set the cat amongst the pigeons, won’t it? Jasper would be neighbours with Louisa as Marcham’s wife. Poor Jasper.”

Emma sank back into her chair. “Can we not do something?” she asked.

“About what?”

“But only think! Poor Malvern. How humiliating for him! To have the woman who he was destined to marry living right next door as another man’s wife.”

“Humiliating? That’s certainly one way of putting it,” he said, leaning his hips against the window sill, his back to the glass.

“What do you mean?”

“I would imagine that humiliation would be the very last of his feelings on the subject. He’s about as deeply in love with your sister as any man I’ve ever seen.”

“He never shows anything but the utmost politeness to her as he does to anyone. I have never seen the look of the lover about him when he is with her.”

“That, I suspect, is the problem,” her father replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Louisa is romantic and Malvern ain’t. If I know anything about ladies, she’s waiting for him to sweep her off her feet. And she can wait in vain for
that
to happen. Malvern’s more likely to offer to show her how to feather a corner than offer her pretty compliments.”

“Feather a corner?”

“Driving to an inch, my dear. Our Duke is never happier than on the seat of his curricle.”

“I must do something,” Emma said, contemplating the carpet at her feet. “I know Louisa likes him. I know it. All she needs is a little push.”

He put his head on one side, watching her with a smile playing about her lips. “Shall I invite the Earl of Marcham to stay, my dear?”

She looked at him, knowing what he was thinking. “Do you think he’d come?”

“No, I think he’d find it intolerably dull. But if Louisa were to
think
he was coming…”

* * *

In the event, the Earl of Marcham had no intention of visiting the neighbourhood of Foxhill or even journeying as far south as London and was settled to stay at his house in Worcestershire for the foreseeable future.

This was just as well, as Lord Crowborough never wrote to him. He picked up a folded tailor’s bill and pretended that it was a letter from Marcham; a faint smile touched his lips as he waved the paper in the air and looked under his brows at his youngest daughter.

“He will be here next Friday,” said he, lying glibly. “If he can tear himself away from the Faro table at Whites for long enough, that is.”

Louisa blinked. “He’s coming here? But I thought you were going north to see him?”

“I was,” replied her father. “I saved myself the bother of a northward journey by writing to Marcham in London. I heard that he was staying there with friends and wrote him to come to us for a few days before he journeys north again.”

“I wouldn’t have thought Marcham
had
any friends,” muttered Nicholas gloomily into his wineglass.

The Earl threw the letter down upon the table. “It appears he does have some friends. But for how long they remain his friends is another matter.”

“But…oh but sir, is it certain?” cried Louisa.

“Of course Your engagement with Nicholas is at an end and you have refused Malvern so I am running out of options. You must marry someone, you know. Marcham is not so very bad…at least he’s not as bad as he
was
…he has sobered with age. I believe he still intends to wed someone, if only he can find a willing bride of rank who is not too fussy where he has been.”

Louisa went white. “But he…he’s debauched…and a drunk…and a womaniser. He is not as young as…as…some people.”

Crowborough contrived to hide a smile. “Malvern isn’t exactly a saint, you know.”

Her eyes flew upward. “I was not talking about Malvern,” she said crossly.

He bowed his head. “No, of course you weren’t. Apologies. I misunderstood you.”

“Yes, you did. And I wish everyone would stop mentioning his name every five minutes.”

“Whose name?”

Louisa rolled her eyes. “
Malvern’s
.”

“Oh…I didn’t think I
was
mentioning his name every five minutes,” commented her father.

“You are all of you doing it. If I’m not hearing about his wealth and his estates, then I’m hearing what a fine gentleman he is, and his kind, polished manners. And if it’s not that then it’s how handsome he is, or how clever he is or it’s how he can turn a four-in-hand upon a sixpence. On and on it goes until I am thoroughly sick of hearing about him.”