Authors: Mary Nichols
She decided to
forget all the gossip and intrigue, forget why she had been hurried pell-mell
to London and was supposed to be choosing a lifelong partner, and enjoy the
ride for what it was, a chance to fill her lungs with fresh air, to see the
park from a different perspective and exercise her horse at the same time. She
chose to ignore the fact that her companion was the subject of gossip. Her
father did not think it mattered, and that was good enough for her.
And she was
beginning to revise her opinion of him. He was not the boring uncle she had
described to her mother; the frisson of excitement she felt whenever he was
near could never be attributed to an uncle, or indeed to any relation. It was
something that struck at the very core of her, made her feel more alive, aware
of him as a man. It was as if they had always known each other and the thought
of seeing him and being in his company filled her with happy anticipation.
He called at exactly ten. She was ready and dressed in a
dark blue riding habit that set off her shining silvery hair and clear
complexion. He was put in mind of the contrast of the moon against the night sky
and felt a kind of glow inside him, which he refused to recognise as anything
more than pride to have such a beauty at his side. And she rode with an easy
grace as they walked their horses along Park Lane and in at the Cumberland
Gate, with her groom just behind.
For the first time in his life Philip found himself
tongue-tied. Given something specific to do - an order from Lord Martindale, a
game to win, a fox to hunt, even a room full of babbling ladies to entertain,
he knew exactly what was expected of him and he did it with confidence, but now
he was half afraid of saying the wrong thing, of angering her or embarrassing
her, of driving her into the arms of someone else, not least her scapegrace
cousin. He did not know what it was that attracted him to her. She was very
young, possibly too young for a man such as he was, but she had a charisma that
was lacking in other young ladies of her age and gentle upbringing. She had
character as well as beauty. It was as if she had been touched by tragedy and
had become a stronger person because of it. He recognised something of himself
in her, a lone spirit, someone with an inner strength who would not allow
life's little ironies to subdue her. Which was all palpable nonsense, of
course. He had only known her a few weeks, but she had already taken a firm
hold on his heart. Not only was she beautiful and delightfully innocent, she
was forthright and spirited, thoughtful and intelligent. He had never expected
to find all those attributes in one person and having found her, he wanted
nothing so much as to hold on to her. He sat there, jogging along the North
Ride, thinking how pleasurable it would be to have her in his arms, to kiss
her, and a smile played about his lips.
`Why are you
smiling?' she demanded suddenly. 'Have I done something to amuse you?'
`I beg your
pardon.'
`You were
grinning from ear to ear. I should like to share the jest.'
`I am simply
happy,' he said. 'The morning is fine, no hint of rain, and it is good to be
alive, to be free, and in such lovely company. What more could anyone ask?'
`Thank you,
kind sir,' she said, laughing. 'But why did you mention freedom? Were you
perhaps referring to freedom from the constraints of matrimony?'
`No, nothing
was further from my thoughts.'
`But you are
not married?'
`Oh, you are
referring to that ridiculous piece of tattle about an Indian wife?'
`You have heard
it?'
`One could
hardly fail to hear it; it is all round London.'
`It is not
true?'
`Pure
fabrication, I assure you.'
`Then why do
you not deny it?'
`It amuses me
not to.'
`Do you not
mind that people are telling lies about you?'
`Not in the
least. My friends - my true friends - pay no heed.'
`And Papa is
one of them,' she said, determined to find out all she could. 'But it seems
strange to me that you have never visited us at Hartlea, when you have known
him so long.'
`There has been
no opportunity. My work never took me in that direction.'
`Just what is
your work?'
He paused,
unable to give her a put-down but struggling with an answer that would satisfy
her. 'I work for the War Department, as a kind of commissar, locating supplies,
recruiting, that sort of thing.'
`But you are
not a soldier?'
`No. '
`Neither is
Papa,' she said, accepting his explanation equably. 'But that does not mean his
work is not important. It must be the same for you.'
He let out his
breath in relief. He hated deceiving her and yet he could not tell her the
truth. Not now. Not until the war was at an end and there was no longer any
need for secrecy. And by then it would be too late, she would be married and
out of his reach. For the first time he cursed his circumstances and wished
wholeheartedly that Lord Martindale had not asked him to accompany his wife and
daughter to the ball. Then they would never have met and he would not now be
suffering such torment. But if he managed to stop thinking about the possible
consequences, the torment was of a pleasurable kind. He ought, of course, to
withdraw, to take himself off, but he could not bring himself to do it, to
deprive himself of the joy of her company.
`Tell me about
Hartlea,' he said, to change the subject. `You must love it very much.'
`Of course I
do. It is my home, I have known no other and it has always been a happy place.'
`Tell me about
it.'
`The estate
covers a large area, I do not know how many acres, and the house is very
substantial. I believe it was given to our ancestors by Cromwell after the
Civil War as recompense for the support they gave him. Somehow it avoided being
taken back when the monarchy was restored. It has been handed down from father
to son ever since...'
'Only now there
is no son.' He spoke quietly, inviting her to go on, to tell him how she felt
and she found it surprisingly easy to do that.
`Yes. It is
entailed and will go to Mr Martindale when the time comes.' She felt sad for a
moment, then added cheerfully, 'But that will not happen for years and years
yet. It is not something that occupies my mind.'
`No, of course
not, but Mr Martindale seems bent on bringing it to the fore.'
She turned to
face him. 'You do not like him, do you?'
Her bluntness
took him by surprise. 'Does it matter whether I like him or not?'
`No, but I do
not like my friends to be at daggers-drawn.'
`I am flattered
to be considered one of your friends, Miss Martindale.'
She patted the
neck of her horse and smiled. `If you wish to stay my friend, you will refrain
from quarrelling with Mr Martindale. Papa does not hold a grudge against him in
spite of having good reason and he has told me that I may entertain his suit,
if I so wish.'
`And do you
wish?'
His dark eyes
were boring into her again, making her squirm in her saddle. She could not look
away, could not lie to him, could only feel herself melting inside from the
heat in his gaze, so that it took all her concentration to keep her horse
steady. 'That is for me to decide, Mr Devonshire.'
`Of course. But
what about others? He cannot be your only admirer.'
`No, there are
dozens of others. I am free to choose.' It sounded like boasting, but she
couldn't help it. It was her way of defending herself.
`Then choose
wisely, Miss Martindale, choose wisely.'
`I may not
choose at all. I will not marry for expediency, or for a title or wealth, or
even to stay at Hartlea, though I love it dearly. If I cannot marry for love, I
will remain unmarried.'
`I cannot see
you staying single for long,' he said softly. 'You would be remarkably easy to
fall in love with.'
She felt the
colour flood her face. She had not meant to speak of her private dream of love and
marriage, but the words had just come out. His reply had confused her more than
ever. What answer could she give to that? `Tell me, Mr Devonshire,' she said,
deciding she might as well continue being frank with him; he seemed not to
mind. In truth, he was paying careful attention, looking into her eyes as if
what she had to say was important to him. 'Has my father encouraged you to
offer for me?'
He was visibly
taken aback but then chuckled suddenly. 'He has not spoken to me on the
subject.'
`I am glad of
that,' she said, tossing back her head so that the long feather in her tall
hat, brushed against her cheek. It was all he could do to refrain from reaching
out and stroking it away. 'I should not like you to entertain false hopes.'
`Oh, you have
decided against me without giving me the pleasure of pressing my suit?' He was
laughing at her now, his dark eyes full of mischief. 'You know, if you are so
blunt to every young man you meet, you will earn yourself a reputation. There
will be more gossip, not less.'
`I don't
understand it,' she said, suddenly dropping her bantering tone. 'There is so
much going on I do not understand. It is as if some deep dark secret were
pressing down on me, something so dreadful it cannot be spoken of. And we left
Hartlea so suddenly.'
`I do believe
you have been reading too many Gothic novels, Miss Martindale,' he said
lightly.
`I am not a
fribble, Mr Devonshire. I do not have flights of fancy.' She sighed, wishing
now that she had not spoken of her hopes and fears. Put into words, they
sounded so frivolous she was afraid he must think her missish, when she wanted
so much to appear cool and gracious. 'But there, you are probably right.' Then
suddenly, as if she had put it all behind her, she suggested, `The horses are
fresh, what do you say to a canter?'
Instead of
waiting for a reply, she put spur to her horse and drew away from him. She dug
her heels in and was soon galloping, her ears filled with the thunder of
hooves, her body low and eyes down as the ground rushed past beneath her. This
was heaven! She knew she could not outrun him using a side saddle and on this
particular mount, but it was fun to try.
Determined not
to behave as James Martindale had done and lure her away from her chaperon, in
the shape of the young groom who plodded on a sturdy cob behind them, he did
not follow. She would stop when she realised he was not behind her and wait for
them both to catch up. But she did not pull up and he was at an impasse.
`Sir! Sir!' the
groom cried behind him. 'Go after her, sir, for I cannot.'
Cursing under
his breath, he set off after her. She was a fine horsewoman, he noted as drew
closer, but she was riding side saddle and that was not easy at that speed. And
how to stop her safely when he did ride up alongside her, he did not know. He
could not seize her reins, it would be asking for trouble. He could hear her
laughing and he feared for her at the same time as he appreciated her skill.
`Miss
Martindale,' he shouted. 'Juliette, pull up please, I own myself beaten.'
She seemed to
be galloping straight for the lake, but suddenly she drew up and brought her
horse to a blowing, sweating stop beneath a chestnut tree, whose blossom filled
the air with its scent. She jumped easily to the ground and turned to face him.
He threw himself
off his horse and found himself standing so close to her, he could see the
gentle heaving of her bosom and a laughing mouth that simply asked to be
kissed. He took her arms in his hands and pulled her towards him, lowering his
head to her upturned face.
Her laughter
turned to an expression of astonishment, but there was no fear there, no anger,
but that was merely her innocence, he knew; she did not understand what was
happening. Just in time he realised his folly and drew away, dropping his hands
to his sides and stepping back. `Are you hurt?'
`Goodness, no.'
Afraid to admit, even to herself, that she had wanted him to kiss her and was
disappointed that he had not, her voice was unusually hearty. 'Did you think
the horse had bolted with me?'
`Had it?' he
queried with a smile.
`Certainly not!
If I had been on Diablo and riding astride, as I am used to do in the country,
you would not have caught up with me.'
`But this is
not Hartlea, it is London.' He was still so shaken by desire he could hardly
look at her. Of all the stupid things to do, to fall in love at this particular
time! And what was worse, almost to declare himself. He pulled himself
together. 'We must be thankful that no one saw us.'
`Oh, but
someone did,' she said and nodded towards another rider who sat quite still on
another path, watching them.
He followed her
gaze. 'Martindale!' he said as the man turned his horse and trotted away.
`Are you quite
sure? He was too far away to recognise, surely?'
`I am sure.'
Her euphoria evaporated as suddenly as it had come, leaving her deflated and
worried. She had no reason to believe he would not report what he had seen and
what would the tattlemongers say about it, not to mention her mama?