Annie Burrows (11 page)

What she was really like...?

‘Dammit,’ he said, looking around the grounds as though searching for something. ‘Is there not a summerhouse or something where we could go, and just...quickly...well, slake this thirst?’

He might as well have spat in her face.

Her response had not just been physical. She had once cared for this man, even though she’d known he was not at all dependable. And lingering echoes of that affection had driven her to do what she had dreamed of doing, all those years ago.

How could she have been so stupid?

Chapter Seven

S
he wrenched herself out of his arms and set off along the path, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

She could not have an affair with him! Nor any man. What kind of woman did he take her for?

Oh, he might have acknowledged that this would be her
first
affair, but he still thought her capable of jumping into bed with a man to whom she was not married. Which was unthinkable. Outrageous.

He caught up with her, grabbed her arm and yanked on it.

‘Slow down,’ he murmured in an urgent undertone. ‘And for goodness’ sake, let me straighten your dress before we catch up with the others.’

She forced herself to stand completely still while he tugged her bodice back into place, then walked round her, brushing off all signs of their recent encounter against the trunk of a tree. But she had to screw her eyes shut while he did it. It would probably be quite some time before she could look him straight in the eye again. Because if he did think her the kind of woman who was keen to have affairs, then she had only herself to blame for plastering herself up against him, clinging to him, writhing against him, and kissing him as though her very life depended on it.

Although—her eyes popped open to glare at him—he had assumed it
before
the kiss. He’d assumed it in London.

‘And now tell me,’ he added, clamping her hand firmly into the crook of his arm and urging her into forwards motion, ‘when we can carry this thing to its completion.’

She shook her head. ‘I am not...’
the kind of woman you think I am.
But saying it would sound hypocritical after the way she’d kissed him.

‘I cannot...’
just have an affair with you.
But if she said that, he would be furious. He’d got his poor horse all of a lather galloping down here because he was so keen to get started.

‘In a moment, I am going to have to play hostess to Rose’s guests,’ she ended up saying. Decent, respectful young men who would offer marriage, she reflected bitterly, and only beg for a kiss once a betrothal had been announced. She was still trembling from the effect of his kiss. Now a wave of resentment and hurt added to her physical reaction. He still had the power to raise her hopes, then dash them all down. He’d kissed her first, then assumed, because she was so susceptible to him, she would be flattered at the invitation to become his lover.

When he’d told her he was actively seeking a
wife.

‘Please do not press me now,’ she begged him. If he carried on urging her to accept his proposition, when he didn’t consider her fit to become his wife, she might do something even more stupid than kissing him. Like...shout at him. Or burst into tears.

And she didn’t want Rose’s house party ruined before it started by creating either kind of scene.

He just had time to give her a searingly impatient look before they rounded the last bend in the path. He swore softly under his breath as he caught his first glimpse of the area they called the Persian Pools, which comprised a series of velvety lawns surrounding a staircase of rectangular pools, each one overflowing into the next. Rose’s guests were mainly assembled near the pavilion, a building designed to give either shade from the sun, or shelter from the rain, and in which Mrs Broome had set out a veritable feast. And they were all looking in their direction.

It was nothing to do with them, of course, although that did not stop Lydia from feeling extremely self-conscious. It was Robert who was drawing their attention, having not long since emerged from the same path himself.

‘Ladies, gentlemen,’ Robert was saying in a parade-ground voice that bore a marked resemblance to his father’s. ‘Permit me to introduce the remainder of Rose’s family to you.’ He waved a hand towards Michael and Marigold as she and Lord Rothersthorpe began the descent to the lower lawn.

‘This is her sister and mine, Miss Marigold Morgan,’ he said as Marigold dropped a curtsy, ‘and this our young brother, Michael.’ Michael bowed.

‘And this lovely young lady, on my arm, is Cecilia. We usually call her Cissy.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She cannot hear very well, so if you wish to speak to her, please call out
Cissy
in a clear voice and Slipper here will alert her to your intent.’

Lord Abergele’s sister wrinkled her nose in distaste and tried to catch Miss Lutterworth’s eye. Only the girl was leaning over the lower pool in an attempt to spot one of the ornamental fish, which were sheltering from the heat of the sun under the lily pads; and missed it.

But Lydia had not missed it. All her own concerns were promptly swamped by her need to protect Cissy from that kind of look. She was old enough, and tough enough, to look after herself, even against such a one as Lord Rothersthorpe. But Cissy was so vulnerable.

She was just wondering how she might diffuse the slightly tense atmosphere when Mr Bentley strode forwards, his hand outstretched. ‘Cissy,’ he said in a firm voice.

Slipper nosed at Cissy’s free hand, then looked at Mr Bentley, in the manner of a pointer, though she’d always thought there was more spaniel in him than any other breed.

‘I say, dashed clever dog,’ said Mr Bentley, bending down to ruffle Slipper’s ears. Then he looked up, grinned and said, ‘Pleasure to meet you, Cissy.’

Lydia could have hugged him for ignoring Cissy’s impairment altogether and focusing on her dog.

‘That was kind of the boy,’ murmured Lord Rothersthorpe, drawing her a little distance apart from the rest of the family group. ‘I had wondered if Morgan’s introduction was not a little challenging for some of the present company.’

Well, that was typical of Robert—disguising any anxiety he might feel behind a mask of belligerence.

‘Mr Bentley is a good sort,’ said Lydia. ‘I have always thought so.’ Even if she had also thought him a bit lacking in personality. But now she could completely understand why Rose had invited him.

‘Rose did not invite anyone she feared might be unkind to Cissy.’

‘You are all very protective of her,’ he mused.

‘Of course!’

‘My father,’ Robert was explaining to Mr Bentley, and anyone else within earshot, ‘wanted Cissy to be able to enjoy as much independence as she can and so he trained Slipper to be her ears.’

‘Have you never,’ said Lord Rothersthorpe to Lydia, with a frown, ‘considered employing a nurse for her, rather than allowing her condition to dominate the entire family?’

‘Never,’ she snapped, withdrawing her arm from his.

It was as well Lord Rothersthorpe had not come down here with the intention of paying his addresses to Rose. Neither she, nor Robert, would countenance her marriage to anyone who could suggest they relegated Cissy to some darkened backroom of their lives. Especially not now Robert knew what Cissy had suffered when given into the keeping of strangers.

‘Please do help yourself to the refreshments,’ she said coldly, indicating the pavilion which her husband had modelled on a shrine he had once seen on his travels.

He bowed briefly, a mocking smile lurking about his mouth, before he turned and sauntered through the milling throng of Rose’s friends.

What had she ever seen in Lord Rothersthorpe? He wasn’t a very pleasant man
at
all.
She eyed him with disfavour as he climbed the steps of the open-sided structure. When he had been younger, she’d refused to admit that his devil-may-care attitude towards life was a symptom of selfishness. But in the intervening years, it had hardened into a carapace which could not be mistaken for anything else. She could quite see, now, the trace of that original pirate ancestor in him. The man who’d taken what he wanted to enrich himself. Mrs Westerly had warned her that the taint had never been eradicated, not through any amount of generations. The Hemingfords had only survived by plundering the wealth of more sober, industrious families. Admittedly by marriage, rather than actual violence, but still...

So why was she still admiring the elegance of his movements as he made his way through the throng? How could she still want to glimpse the line of his leg as he mounted the steps into the pavilion? And why was it that when he reached for a slice of bread and butter, and folded it into his mouth, she could not help salivating at the memory of what it had felt like to have those lips pressing down on hers?

‘Cissy is enjoying this, isn’t she, Mama Lyddy?’

Lydia jumped. Rose had somehow managed to reach her side without her noticing quite where she’d come from.

‘Yes,’ she said, pulling herself together and her eyes away from Lord Rothersthorpe’s lazy inspection of the tea table.

To judge by the new configurations, Robert had introduced most of the guests to Cissy already.

‘Mr Bentley’s manner with Slipper was good, was it not? After the easy way he spoke to them both she has not been the least bit shy with any of the others either. And most of them took Robert’s announcement about her deafness in their stride. With only one exception.’ Rose shot a scathing look at Mr Lutterworth. ‘Did you see the way he rolled his eyes when she betrayed how much she was enjoying having the ladies curtsy, and the men bow to her? I overheard him saying something not very kind about his own sister, Cynthia, too,’ she added darkly. ‘About how he wished he could train a dog to wake her up whenever she starts daydreaming.’

Lydia clucked her tongue, annoyed with herself for not paying closer attention to what had been going on. Damn Lord Rothersthorpe! She shot him a resentful look.

Rose glanced towards the pavilion herself, then smiled at Lydia.

‘He is the one, isn’t he?’

‘The one?’

‘Now confess...’

Lydia’s heart bumped in alarm. Surely nobody could have perceived they had been kissing?

‘Confess it. He is the one who sent you those violets. And from the way your eyes dwell on him, with the same faraway look you had when you first showed me your scrapbook, I know I was right. He
was
your first love. For even in the aftermath of one of your quarrels, you cannot keep your eyes off him. I am not surprised.’ She pretended to fan herself. ‘He is a very handsome man.’

‘Rose, such talk is not at all seemly,’ she snapped, her cheeks glowing with guilty heat.

As usual, Rose dismissed her attempt at remonstrance with a giggle. ‘Mama Lyddy,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There is nothing wrong with saying that a man is handsome.’

‘Yes, but you are implying—’ She broke off in confusion. Rose could have no notion of the kind of relationship Lord Rothersthorpe wanted to have with her. Surely?

‘Why should you not have a beau, as well as I?’

‘A...a beau.’ She heaved a sigh of relief. For Rose, sheltered from the harsher realities of life, interest from a man would only have an honourable outcome. She probably had no idea what men could be like.

‘You are correct, Rose,’ she admitted wistfully. ‘He is very handsome. But...’

‘And he obviously has feelings for you,’ put in Rose cheerfully.

Lydia made a sound that was not quite a snort, but was expressive of her opinion of that statement.

‘No, truly,’ Rose protested. ‘Otherwise, why would he have been so cross with you? At that ball? You had not seen each other for getting on for ten years, and the very first time he spoke he could barely bring himself to be polite. If he had not cared about you, he would have forgotten whatever it was you did to annoy him ten years ago.’

‘You think he cares about me, because he was rude?’ Lydia shook her head. ‘Rose, really...’

But even as she gave voice to her doubts, she wondered if there might be a grain of truth in what Rose said. She’d wondered why he’d seemed so antagonistic towards her, when he was the one who’d let her down. But perhaps he resented her for having so very nearly lured him into marriage, well before he’d been completely ready for such a commitment.

‘And you like Lord Rothersthorpe, too. So you just need to spend some time together and it will all work out,’ said Rose confidently.

Not the way Rose thought, it wouldn’t. But she did not say so. She had no intention of spoiling her day by explaining the grim realities of her life. Let her keep her youthful belief in happy endings, for now.

Although Rose was the kind of girl who would get a happy ending. She was so sure of her own worth she would not settle for anything less.

But in her own case, Lord Rothersthorpe had already made it quite clear that he only wanted an affair. Today he had even been quite crude about it—talking of going somewhere and slaking his lust for her
in the open air.
He’d implied it would only take a few minutes.

But then, the night of Lord Danbury’s informal soirée, had she not been so aroused by standing close to him, talking about intimate topics, that she’d known that if they had gone somewhere secluded, all he would have to do was hitch up her skirts, and he would have found her ready to receive him?

Her eyes strayed to where Lord Rothersthorpe was talking to one of the naval officers as he piled a plate with food. And something inside her wound up tight, then shot sparks through her bloodstream, rather like some kind of firework going off inside her. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to have the freedom, and the courage, to strip him of all his clothing, so that she could feast her eyes on that utterly delectable body of his, then run her hands all over it while he was running his hands all over her.

And just like that, she was ready for him once again. In fact, if they really did go somewhere secluded where he could take advantage of her readiness, she thought the whole episode might very well reach its natural conclusion within a very few moments.

Gracious heavens. When he’d suggested they do exactly that, she had been shocked. Outraged. Insulted.

Yet she could not stop thinking about it.

At this point her legs became so weak that she only just managed to totter to one of the benches dotted about the edges of the lawn before they gave way under her, depositing her upon the cool stone surface.

However was she going to be able to concentrate on entertaining Rose’s guests, and maintaining some semblance of dignity, when the mere sight of him leaning against the door jamb of the pavilion made her want to slam herself up against him and wind her legs round his waist?