A Scandalous Connection, page 21
The movements became less subtle. Amy peeked out from Mr. Hartford’s grasp and gasped. She could swear she could see the face of Hitchins, Mrs. Murgatroyd’s groom, peering at her over a bale of hay. Yes, there it was, a definite snicker, and the pointy nose was unmistakable. Her sense of well-being evaporated as nose and cap disappeared out into the snow. If she could strain her ears enough, she would have heard low voices and shocked tones and much talk of butlers and ladies “wot don’t know their station.” Amy could not hear a thing, but she was not such a scatter-wit as to not make the obvious inferences.
“Good Lord, now we are in the suds! The news will be floating about the castle in five minutes!”
The gentleman did not seem to mind. He fiddled with the bow of her bonnet. “Good. No one can then complain about the entertainment.”
“Very flippant, Mr. Hartford! It is I who will have to explain just how the butler came to be kissing me.”
“He came to be kissing you because he is terribly discerning and you are undoubtedly the prettiest maiden available to him.”
“Nonsense! Amelia Corey—”
“—is an antidote.”
“You are funning when you should be serious!”
“Nonsense! I am merely trying to recall . . . how did the butler come to be kissing the delightful Miss Mayhew?”
“By gross impertinence and outrageous levity.” Despite the seriousness of her circumstance, Amy could not help responding with a tart reply. Mr. Hartford’s lips twitched in that delightful manner which she found so hopelessly irresistible.
“Shall I remind you of the circumstances? Just in case, you know, you have forgotten the exact details.. . .”
“Yes, immensely funny!” Amy replied, straightening out her gown, and conscious, once again, of the low-cut nature of the front.
“You shall set a new rage in morning gowns.”
“You are obviously not an arbiter of feminine fashion, sir. The gown is hardly respectable. I had none other with me, however.”
“A fortunate circumstance, for you look positively delightful. When we are married—if you will marry someone as impoverished as I—I shall insist on such attire.”
“Bully! You give me second thoughts.”
“Then you admit to having first thoughts?”
“How could I not, when you look so . . . ravishing with your cravat askew and your hair tousled. You have lost your hat, by the way.”
“A pox on my hat! We need to talk. I have something to tell you.” Demian looked suddenly serious.
Amy, her eyes on the stable door, shook her head. “Not now! Not here! Mrs. Murgatroyd will be creaking into her corsets, desperate to catch a whiff of scandal.”
“What a wretched woman! How came you to be in her company?”
“Aunt Ermentrude, remember?”
“Ah, yes. The plot to throw you in the way of the duke.”
“Yes, and I was to rob his heart and ride away forever on his steed.”
The duke regarded her speculatively for a moment. She seemed quite unconscious of her charm, or of the fatal truth her words had for him. She had certainly robbed his heart. Now it was simply a matter of his steed. . . . He grinned.
“Not a bad notion. Can you ride, Miss Mayhew?”
“Ride?” She looked at him blankly.
“Ah, but I forget. You can, of course. Come. I will show you my pride and joy. Then we shall escape our various servants and chaperons and take a mild trot over the snowy downs.”
Before Amy could say anything, her hand was tucked firmly into Mr. Hartford’s confident grip. The kid gloves were thin, so she could feel the warmth of his hands through them. Amy tried to keep the flush from her face. His hat was evidently not all that had gone astray in the straw.
“Your gloves . . .”
“I have another pair. Come.”
So Amy obeyed the imperious tone instinctively. Again, she had that startling sensation that despite his claims, Mr. Hartford was a man of consequence. She peeked at him, but he was striding quickly, and apart from murmuring to her that the floors were damp and to have a care, he did not glance back.
Nineteen
It was several moments before they stopped at a remote stall. Mr. Hartford released her hand and unlatched the door. Amy gasped. Staring at her was the most magnificent beast of an animal she had ever seen. It was pitch black, gleaming with health and radiating energy.
“An Arabian.”
The duke nodded. “A beauty. He rode like the wind all day yesterday, but see how he strains to be let out again? Yes, and so you shall, my friend.”
Expertly, His Grace reached for the saddle and bridle hanging close by. The horse seemed pleased, for he pawed the ground and nuzzled Demian’s capes.
“What is his name?”
Amy asked the question idly, for she was bathed in a haze of euphoria. She did not seem to care that doom, in the shape of bony Mrs. Murgatroyd, was shortly to befall her. All she cared for was the fact that in the most unlikeliest of places, she had finally met a man who touched at her heartstrings, a man whom she could esteem. He was neither rich, nor noble, but he was respectable, upright, well-connected and spirited. She could not ask for more, especially since he was liberally endowed with such impeccable good looks, and charm and grace. Even fussy Aunt Ermentrude would not complain.
How could she, when he would silence her with his address, his smile, his brazenly cozening humor and his wheedling wiles? Aunt Ermentrude, Amy thought, would be clay in his memorable hands. Like her. A smile hovered about dreamy lips.
Demian wondered if such a creature could possibly realize how infinitely kissable she looked. He would spend his days telling her—and his nights. But he must not dwell on the nights, lest Miss Amy think him entirely reprehensible. Which in truth, he was.
And how to tell her? How to tell her that he had been leading a double masquerade? She had uncovered the one, but he fancied she had not the other. Perhaps he would say nothing until his betrothal with Lady Fortesque-Benton was scotched by her own hand. He would find a way down to the sentry cottage today. He must.
Matters were untenable to him. They must be a hundredfold to the Lady Raquel, isolated with no one but Thomas for company. But then, Thomas could be such good company. . . . Demian smiled. He wondered if there was any truth in naughty Caro’s wild imaginings. Perhaps she had interpreted Thomas’s interest wrongly. But then, knowing Thomas, she had not. And Thomas had sent that cryptic message to him. He only hoped that Mr. Thomas Tyrone Endicott was acting with his traditional languid good sense. If he was not, he would naturally have to run him through with a sword. Oh, how complicated life could get!
But His Grace had no notion of how much more complicated it was about to get. Still reeling from Miss Amy’s unwitting assault upon his masculine senses—it should be illegal for a young lady to have such delectable eyelashes, or to reveal quite such a delicious cleavage in the presence of susceptible noblemen—he stroked his horse’s nose. Then he answered her question.
“His name, Miss Mayhew, is Season’s Glory. Season’s Glory, meet Miss Amy Mayhew. She, you will perceive, is my season’s glory.”
But Amy did not notice this elegant tribute to herself. Instead, she rather foolishly said, “Oh!” and looked from the horse to its master.
Both were dark, tall and impossibly handsome. But the man’s possessive poise seemed suddenly the more marked. The horse nuzzled into his hands with a familiarity that confirmed Amy’s suspicions. Mr. Hartford, far from being the eligible young man that she had taken him for, was the duke himself. How stupid of her not to have puzzled it out before!
There was a marked resemblance between himself and Lady Caroline. His attire was elegant far out of the ordinary way and his carriage, though not in the least stiff, was nonetheless regal. Oh, Amy could think of a hundred things. . . .
She felt tears sting at her eyes. Season’s Glory was the duke’s exclusive mount. There could be no mistake. What a jest he must think it, contriving to conceal his identity even in the face of her first suspicions. He had fobbed her off with the distant relative explanation and she had believed him implicitly. Worse, she had actually abetted him in this deception. It was really quite unbearable. Amy’s thoughts wandered to further unbearable matters that had transpired between them. She grew crimson in the process. Her eyes, glittering like stars, became suddenly stony. It was an acute transformation from the melting of moments before.
If he had confided in her, she would have kept his secret. There had been no need to take such elaborate pains to deceive her. Worse, it had gone far worse than deception. Amy’s horror was now quite palpable. She stood rigid with shock, staring at the stallion. She could look no longer at the man who had called himself Mr. Hartford.
Demian, puzzled at this sudden change of mood, stepped forward and took her hand. She dodged his grasp, though his warmth still seared at her skin.
“How could you, Your Grace?” Amy half spat the words at him. Demian realized that Miss Mayhew had finally uncovered that which he had been about to confide. What he could not understand was her distress.
“I am sorry. I had meant you to discover the matter quietly—”
“Quietly? What would it matter, the manner in which I discovered such a gross deception? Would it break my heart less, or make me feel a smidgen less foolish if you whispered the matter in my ear? Or were you rather hoping I would be so utterly compromised by the time I made the connection—the scandalous connection—that it is I who would be quiet? Yes, I would surely never dare to whisper to my circle that it was His Grace himself who served at table or who masqueraded as a common house servant. Think how such a knowledge would be interpreted! Very clever, but quite unnecessary for all that. I may be a dullard, I may even be too free with my kisses, but I am not a tattle bearer! Your betrothed—the Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton—shall hear nothing from me. So much tedious effort for nothing.”
Demian would have seized her in his arms and told her what fustian she was talking, but his guilt at the mention of Lady Raquel’s name cut him to the quick. Still, he might still have said something had Season’s Glory not pawed the ground restively. He was afraid the animal might bolt. Simultaneously—and he wiped his brow with frustration—the shrill voice of Mrs. Murgatroyd could be heard calling in ferocious tones.
“I shall excuse you your dalliance, my lord. No doubt you considered me in the same category as Miss Amelia Corey. I take leave to tell you, however, that you were mistaken. I should also, strictly speaking, slap your wickedly wonderful countenance. But that, I find, I cannot undertake.”
“Amy—”
“Miss Mayhew, though I ask you not to address me again. As I have always maintained, I should never have come. Now I shall leave you to the tender mercies of Honoria Murgatroyd. If she still thinks you are the butler, she will doubtless rip you to shreds. Good-bye. You shall not be troubled by me again.”
With that, proud Amy turned on her heel and pushed past the contingent making their interested way into the stables. They would have stopped her, but she veered to the left, behind a trap laden with firewood. Beside it, a donkey ate contentedly.
Amy pushed past a half-eaten bale of hay, patted the friendly creature and watched as the contingent moved onward. His Grace looked positively trapped. And unbearably handsome. Amy schooled herself not to linger over his familiar, dear features, or wonder why he looked round after her, rather than making good his escape. The spectacle of the butler must have been infinitely intriguing, for five ladies at least were advancing toward him. Mrs. Murgatroyd’s lips began speaking long before she reached him. Whatever she said, Amy could not hear.
It would not be long, Lady Raquel thought, before His Grace came to fetch her. And what a spectacle she would make, in her borrowed petticoats, with hair tumbling from her shoulders to her waist. If he examined her closely, he would see hands reddened from labor and dark smudges under her eyes, for she had not slept. No one, she decided, needed to know she had tended Thomas when she might have slumbered herself. Certainly, all her manual efforts would have indicated that a reviving sleep was necessary.
She dreaded the knock that would indicate that this curious state of limbo was at an end.
She was currently the recipient of two offers. She should be humming tunes and frowning over fashion plates and playing one suitor against the other. But, oh! How ridiculous was her curious sense of honor, that she would now accept neither. Not Demian, because she was ruined—hardly the bargain she had always prided herself on being. Nor Thomas, because he had ruined her. No, she would care not a fig for that if he would declare he loved her. How the proud had fallen! But Thomas did not love her. One did not enter into a marriage contract without that key ingredient.
How foolish that she had not realized this before, when she’d had the whole of London at her feet and been swathed in honor, rather than ruined. She would not have agreed to become the duchess of Darris, she would not have undertaken this fateful trip; and she would not have explored Thomas’s complexities. This last gave her pause, for truly a life without the rogue now seemed sterile and pointless.
The duke was out of the question. The marquis of Somerford and his precious rank could go hang. She would not do it. She would never sell her soul for some precedence at table or crest on a carriage door. Thomas had shown her that. Thomas had shown her many things she had never known about herself. She pitied that whey-faced creature who had recounted endless points to His Grace of Darris and expected him to be grateful. That was not who she was.
She was the creature who trembled in Thomas’s arms, and yearned most humbly for his kisses. She was the person who needed no maid to light a fire, or nurse a fever, or even undress ninety-nine shining buttons. Only Thomas . . . she needed Thomas. Damnation! She needed him, but though he lusted after her, he did not love her. How could he, when she had shown him nothing but arrogance and spoiled pettishness? But that could change. . . . Slowly, a smile crept onto those beautiful bow-shaped lips.
She set down the mug of cocoa she had prepared over the fire. Then, with immense fortitude, she opened the door between them.
“You are not sleeping.”
“No. I am watching my back. Have you come to murder me, yet? I must warn you that I believe I have recovered more than half my strength.”
“How fair of you! I take back my earlier words.”
“About murdering me?”
“No, not those. I believe I shall suffer that as a recurring inclination.”
Thomas was suddenly alert. He sat up in bed and Raquel tried to ignore his smooth, muscular and distinctly naked chest.
“Then you have reconsidered my offer? You will stay with me? You must mean that, if you are seriously going to suffer these recurring pangs.”
“ ‘Must’ is not a word that should be used lightly, Mr. Endicott. But since your fever seems to have abated and I am about to reject His Grace’s kind offer, I have been thinking, yes.”
“That you shall marry me.”
“No, not that. Far too noble, Thomas. And you will be bored in a day.”
“I begin to think not. Lady Raquel, you intrigue me.”
“Excellent, for I propose to become your mistress.”
“Now you shock me.” But a definite gleam of amusement crept into those alert sapphire eyes.
“Good. I believe that is the role of mistresses.”
“What in the name of heaven do you know about the role of mistresses?”
Raquel regarded Thomas steadily. She was beyond amazement at her own audacity. She actually felt lightheaded with exhilaration. And of course, there was no going back. If she was not ruined before, the very suggestion was ruining her. There was no going back.
“What I don’t know, you are going to teach me.”
“And what if I won’t?”
“You will, Thomas Tyrone Endicott. You owe me that at least.”
“Very well. Climb up here for your first lesson. There is plenty of space.”
Raquel flushed. “In the daylight?”
“Good Lord, woman! We are going to have to start, I see, right at the very beginning. Hop on in, the syllabus is enormous.”
Raquel fingered the petticoat skirts.
“Perhaps I shall just kill you, after all.”
“I preferred your second, rather novel, alternative. But feel free to try. Here, it is my neck you desired, was it not?”
Thomas made a sudden movement and lifted Raquel up onto the tattered petticoats-turned-sheets. He was warm, but she noted that the fever had abated, and the eyes, mocking and disastrously compelling, were clear. She also noticed that his lips were too close for comfort. The wretch knew it, too. Her heart beat wildly but she did not complain. This madness was of her own doing, after all. Thomas pulled her a little closer, wriggled from the horse blanket and obligingly lowered his head.
“You can suffocate me, but I fear I might struggle. Strangle me, rather. If you use your petticoats it will be pleasant. They smell sweet. Like you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. And you are mocking me. I had not expected that.”
Raquel swung her legs from the bed. Thomas halted her with a lithe movement of his forearm.
“No? My foolish girl, I have mocked you the very first moment I laid eyes on you. Do you not remember?”
“Yes. But you had not then deflowered me.”
There was a silence between them. Mr. Endicott loosened his grip but used his fingers to stroke her chin. Then her mouth. Raquel had to bite her tongue not to taste him. He would be salty and warm. . . . He was speaking.
“Nor have I now. Have the goodness to credit me with a little sense, if not decency. And before you swoon, I might add that when I do deflower you, I would prefer you to remember the occasion.”
“Then . . .”
“Then you are still a perfidiously attractive maiden.” He dropped his arm and swung off the bed. He was naked to his waist, and Raquel could not help but stare. He threw the remains of Demian’s shirt on his back and paced over to the window. There was a woman struggling through the deep pile of white. She looked cold. Crying. Mr. Endicott felt empathy.
