Anne Barbour (17 page)

What must he think of her? It had been he who bent his mouth to hers, but instead of delivering a stinging slap, or at least a freezing, “Sir, you forget yourself!” she had participated with a most unbecoming enthusiasm in her own imminent ruination.

And why? She certainly had not formed a
tendre
for James Win-canon. She respected his intellect and enjoyed his company, but...

Oh, very well. If truth be told, it was the man himself who attracted her. That was no reason, however, for her completely unexpected response to his kiss.

And what of James? He had heretofore displayed not the slightest interest in her of a carnal nature. Which was not surprising, of course. He had been courted by some of the most desirable women in the country. Why would he suddenly become smitten with a skinny dab of a woman with carroty, fly-away hair and eyes like pennies? Yes, he had come to display a certain respect for her intellect, and, yes, despite his autocratic demeanor toward her, she believed he was beginning to feel a certain friendship for her. But— There had been nothing of friendship in the passion of his kiss or the fever of his embrace.

Ah, well. She sighed. She had undoubtedly angered him with her offer to find him a wife. And gentlemen often displayed their anger most unaccountably. She supposed she must simply—

“Hilary! There you are!”

Hilary jerked her head up to observe Mrs. Thomlinson bearing down on her.

“You disappeared with Mr. Wincanon right after Mary Bellamy’s performance, and I was wondering if you were ill.” The vicar’s wife gazed anxiously at Hilary. “Are you all right?”

Hilary pinned a smile to her lips. “Of course, Mrs. T. I was just resting for a moment.”

“Resting?” asked Mrs. Thomlinson dubiously. “But it’s almost time to leave. Actually, some of the guests have already departed.”

“Oh!” Hilary jumped to her feet. “I must have been air dreaming. Goodness, Father will be looking for me.”

Mrs. Thomlinson glanced oddly at her young friend, but said nothing further, merely leading the way out of the room.

Hilary looked about her as unobtrusively as she could, but could not find James among the throng of guests who still drifted aimlessly in the corridors and salons of the Strindham home. She discovered her father in the card room, just finishing up a final hand of whist.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” he said, smiling. “Are you ready to depart?”

Hilary was more than ready, and a few moments later they bade their host and hostess farewell. In the carriage. Lord Clarendon dozed lightly, leaving Hilary ample time for further reflection on the astonishing confrontation that had taken place in the garden just off the Strindham’s south terrace.

Why had she not seen James upon her emergence from the ladies’ withdrawing room? she wondered. Had he fled the scene immediately after that soul-searing kiss, or had he returned to the house to mingle with the guests as though nothing had happened there in the magic of an autumn night?

Hilary was correct in both her assumptions—and very wrong. For some minutes James had simply stared in the direction she had taken to the house. He had not felt so angry, so confused, so baffled, so shaken—or, for that matter, so aroused—in a very long time, and he could not recall ever having experienced any of these emotions so sharply or all at once.

When he had placed his hands on Hilary’s shoulders, his intention had been to shake her until her teeth rattled. He had been suffused with outrage at her temerity in trying to dictate his life. This action, unfortunately, had involved touching her. It was this, and her nearness in the shadowed garden, with the scents of night all about him, that had compelled him to draw her to him. Still, he had experienced a sense of shock and astonishment when he found himself actually bending to kiss her. He did not
want
to kiss her, after all. Lady Hilary Merton was an irritating little chit whose presence in his life he tolerated only because of her knowledge of the subject that was his primary interest in life. That, and her ability to handle Rufus.

True, he had come to enjoy her company. He had come to cherish her intelligence, her humor, and her sparkling wit. In addition, he found that he simply liked to look at her. He liked the way her fiery hair danced in elfin splendor about her cheeks, and her amber eyes with their dancing, golden flecks seemed magical in their ability to mesmerize him.

But, devil take it, he
liked
a lot of women. He wasn’t too keen on their single-minded determination to marry well, but he could not dispute their need to be practical in such matters—as he had learned to his cost a long time ago. No, he had nothing personal against women, and he had from time to time availed himself of the pleasures of the body. Nothing he had ever experienced, however, had prepared him for the shattering wonder of kissing Hilary.

He drew a deep breath. This must not happen again. He did not wish to raise any unwarranted expectations.

Squirming, he reflected on this concept. Damn! If he were plain James Dash, without his blasted string of noble relatives and his damned money, he would not be indulging in such ridiculous puffery.

He could, of course, be rid of the problem if he were to marry. But he didn’t want to. Marriage meant confinement, an obligatory consideration of the wishes and needs of another, and the unending, petty frictions that grew inevitably between two people thrown together for a lifetime of discontent. He had only to look at his parents’ marriage. He turned from that thought, sickened, only to find Serena’s lovely face dancing before him. He closed his eyes tightly. He had not thought of the seductive Serena Cheatham for years, and he had no desire to contemplate her image now.

Of course, there was his good friend, Ashindon and his wife. Married three years, with a fine, stout son and another child on the way, the two obviously doted on each other. Their relationship was lively, and the genuine passion they felt for one another was displayed every time they so much as exchanged glances. Moreover, James recalled, Amanda had been ready to sacrifice her own opportunity to marry a nobleman for the sake of Ash’s happiness. Altogether, she was most unusual, with the most free-ranging mind he had ever encountered in a woman—except for one, perhaps.

Still, Lord and Lady Ashindon were an exception and the thought of Hilary’s machinations on his behalf sent a cold shiver down his spine. The second half of that corollary, that she might envision him in her own, personal future, he found even more disturbing. She had given no indication of any hopes in this direction, of course, and in fact, had—

He became aware that the carriage had stopped. Looking up, he discovered that he was home and was surprised at the brief pang that skittered through him at the thought of entering his empty house. He snorted. Empty, indeed. The place was full of servants, to say nothing of Robert and, of course, Rufus. Somehow, though—the thought tickled irritatingly at the back of his mind— that wasn’t the same.

The same as what? he wondered, as he hurried up the steps.

Hilary awoke at an early hour after a restless night. The sun’s rays, sliding through a crack in the curtains of her bedchamber, seemed stabbing in their intensity and she rolled over, groaning.

At length, chiding herself for her unwillingness to face the day, she flung away her covers and forced herself from their nested comfort.

She was interrupted in the act of drawing back her curtains by Emma, entering with chocolate and biscuits, and she ate slowly before rousing herself to begin dressing. It was almost two hours later that she joined her father for breakfast, only to be interrupted once again, this time by Dunston, informing his lordship that Mr. Wincanon had come to call. The butler betrayed by only the slightest lift of his eyebrows that he was aware of the solecism being committed by their closest neighbor in calling at what was virtually the crack of dawn.

Puzzled but affable, the earl greeted his guest and offered eggs and toast. Declining both, but accepting a cup of coffee, James took. a seat at the table and the three chatted inconsequentially for some minutes before the earl, as though sensing something in the air, excused himself.

There was a moment’s awkward silence before James spoke.

“We have a matter of unfinished business between us.”

“Oh?” Hilary retreated into a protective air of offended dignity.

“I owe you an apology for my behavior last night. I have no excuse for what I did.”

Hilary said nothing, merely staring at him expectantly.

James rushed on. “I was extremely angry—understandably so, I think. Or no,” he amended hastily. “Forget that, please. No matter what the provocation, I had no reason to-to—”

“To maul me like a tavern maid?” finished Hilary waspishly.

James flushed to the tips of his ears. “Well—well, yes, although that is not precisely the phrase I would have chosen.”

Hilary found that, ignobly, she was beginning to enjoy herself. Never had she seen the eminent James Wincanon so discomfited.

“You have a strange way of displaying your anger, James,” she said, an errant twinkle appearing in her eye. “I suppose I am fortunate you were not truly enraged. You might have proposed marriage.”

James flushed even more hotly. Devil take the woman! he thought, sure that steam must be rising from his collar. Had she no sense of propriety?

“That eventuality,” he grated, “is the farthest thing from my mind. I hope, therefore, that in the future you will refrain from attempting to arrange my affairs to suit your own deluded ideas of how a man should live his life.”

Hilary said nothing, but looked provocatively through her lashes at him. Lord, James thought, startled. This was the first time he had seen her use that age-old trick of enticement. With Hilary, however, there was no trickery involved—it was as innocently accomplished as though she had giggled. He had seen the gesture employed by any number of beautiful, elegant women, but none with the unknowingly erotic effect displayed by Hilary.

It was odd, he mused yet again, when they had first met, he thought her coltish and plain—except for her hair, of course—and those eyes. When had he come to see her as absolutely enchanting? Or at least, he amended hastily, uniquely attractive. Her slender body, which he had thought awkward, he now perceived, moved with the grace of a young animal. Her eyes, which he had at first considered too large for her face, were, he realized, pure magic, set in the face of an elfin enchantress with wide, delicate cheekbones and pointed chin.

He shook himself. Good God, was he taking leave of his senses? She might be possessed of a certain, gamine charm, but it was her brains, of course, that he found attractive.

And he really did not want to pursue this line of thought any farther.

“Were you planning to come to Goodhurst today—to dig in the villa?” he asked impersonally. At her nod, he said stiffly, “Then, perhaps we should be on our way.”

Since James had ridden over on horseback, it was decided that Hilary should accompany him on the return trip in the same fashion. Excusing herself, she hurried upstairs to change.

“You want the Devonshire brown just for a ride in the country?” asked Emma, startled. “You haven’t worn that since you were in London last. What’s the occasion?”

The occasion was, of course, thought Hilary, her chin lifted defiantly, the fact that it was her most becoming habit. The rich chocolate made her hair look almost auburn, and the jaunty feather in the matching hat lent her a look of elegance notably lacking in anything else she owned. There was absolutely no reason she should wish to appear at her best before James, but on this particular morning, for some reason she preferred not to dwell on, she wanted to impress upon him her more worldly aspect. And she really didn’t want to pursue this line of thought any further.

She was, however, inordinately pleased at the expression on James’s face when she returned to the breakfast room.

Conversation on the way to Goodhurst was at best desultory. Jasper galloped at their side, romping through ditches and into the fields, and taunting the horses as much as he dared. The day had inexplicably become overcast and the air was chilly. The only warmth, it seemed to James, emanated from the flaming mass of curls peeping from beneath Hilary’s bonnet. He felt that there was much he had left unsaid during his more than somewhat graceless apology earlier, but he kept his remarks confined to innocuous comments about the possibility of rain later in the day, and when they were likely to receive the first snow of the season.

He was relieved, and at the same time disappointed when they arrived at Goodhurst. As they entered the house, he was even more dismayed at the unpleasant intelligence conveyed by Burnside, that Mordecai Cheeke had come to pay a call and was even now awaiting the master in the library.

Chapter Fifteen

Hilary and James exchanged startled glances. James, muttering under his breath, seized Hilary’s hand and hurried her from the room. Entering the library, they were greeted by the horrifying sight of Mordecai and Rufus seated cozily together near the fire, chatting together like old friends—in Latin.

“Cheeke!” James exclaimed, pushing into the room. The word sounded like a curse.

Mordecai, on hearing his name, swung about easily in his chair. He rose, hand outstretched. “Ah, James, you are returned to hearth and home. And the Lady Hilary.” He executed a polished bow. “I was devastated to find you away from home, dear boy, but your friend has been entertaining me—most satisfactorily.” He smiled widely. “I was, of course, surprised to discover him here—reading Latin, but then, I should have realized that it would not be surprising that a guest of yours would be fluent in that ancient tongue.”

“How fortuitous,” said James, with an aplomb that Hilary could only admire, “that you found a common language in which you could converse.”

Rufus chuckled and sent James a look of veiled triumph. “I’ve already told Mr. Cheeke,” he said before Mordecai could reply, “that I’m a teacher in—what is it? Spain.”