Chapter Two
"A fine shot, Scarcliffe," said the Duke of Beaumont reluctantly, observing the billiard table with a displeased expression. Robert Hartley, Earl of Scarcliffe, gave him a brilliant smile and leaned down to take aim once more.
"Don't be sour, Beaumont."
"Who wouldn't be sour, after the nasty trick you've played?" asked Robert's brother, Lord Jonathan Hartley, who was lounging on the rug in front of the fire with his booted feet cocked up on a chair, pretending to read.
Beaumont's eyes narrowed. "What trick's that, Hart?"
Jonathan rolled over onto his belly to let the fire roast him evenly. "Why, if you haven't realised it by now, Beaumont, your brains must be more addled by the brandy than I thought. The fact is that my dear brother has been deliberately losing at billiards whenever you happen to be in the room for over a year now, with the sole intention of bleeding you dry this summer."
"Is that true, Scarcliffe?" Beaumont demanded, turning to Robert with fire in his eyes. Robert pocketed another ball and shrugged nonchalantly.
"You placed your bet of your own free will, Beaumont."
"It's your own fault," said Jonathan lazily, closing his eyes in the raw orange heat. "Everyone knows Robert's a crack shot."
"I thought that applied only to hunting!" Beaumont protested. There was a satisfying clack from the table as Robert pocketed his final ball.
"That's the game, Beaumont. Pay up."
"It's awfully unfair of you not to have spoken up sooner, Hart," grumbled the Duke, handing over his money to Robert. Jonathan cracked open an eye, irritated.
"The curse of the younger son strikes again. Am I always to be blamed for my brother's sins? None of you chaps know what I suffer."
"Yes, Scarcliffe," interrupted the fourth member of their little party, who was nursing a large brandy in an armchair in the corner. Ralph Morton, Baron Northmere, was a notorious stickler for fairness. The other gentlemen found it by turns amusing and admirable. "I think you owe Beaumont an apology."
"On the contrary," objected Robert, seeing no need to be gracious in victory, "it's Hart who ought to apologise to me. I had intended to maintain the ruse until at least September."
"I am not so gullible as all that, Scarcliffe!"
"That remains to be seen, Beaumont." Robert pocketed his winnings and began collecting up the billiard balls once more. "Care for a rematch? Double or nothing?"
"I'd like to retire with at least some of my dignity intact," said Beaumont, heading to the drinks cabinet. "Not to mention some money left in my purse to see me through till winter."
Robert laughed merrily. The Duke of Beaumont had a fortune so bottomless it was difficult to see that a few tricks on the billiard table would make a dent in it.
"Northmere, then?" he suggested, tossing the cue stick to the baron, who caught it deftly with barely a glance up from his brandy.
"Not for money, Scarcliffe. I'm not a fool." Northmere grimaced as a peal of thunder seemed to rattle Scarcliffe Hall to its foundations. "I say, the weather's taken a turn for the worse."
"It'll be too muddy to hunt tomorrow," sighed Jonathan, dropping his head onto his book and giving up all pretence at reading.
"Only if you're such a dandy that you can't stand to get your boots muddy, Hart," said Robert, knowing full well that his brother took such care of his appearance that nothing would induce him out until the paths were dry.
"Take a look at that lightning!" said Beaumont, walking to the window. "You promised us a summer of sport and fine weather, Scarcliffe. What do you call this?"
"Mother nature topping up the fishing lake is what I call it," said Robert, joining him in gazing out over the storm-tossed forest that lay beyond Scarcliffe Hall's gardens. "I dare say you'll be able to out-fish me, Beaumont, even if you can't beat me at billiards."
"I don't think you'll be able to induce me to lay another bet this summer, Scarcliffe," grumbled the Duke. He went to take up Northmere's vacated chair and top up his brandy. "More to drink, anyone?"
"Not for me." The hunting season had just begun. Robert intended to hunt the following morning, whether the skies had cleared or not, and he wanted a clear head for it. He was perhaps a little too proud of his reputation as a brilliant shot, and he meant to maintain it.
The weather outside was certainly impressive. Robert felt a shiver of exhilaration watching the grey sheets of rain lash down over the trees.
Scarcliffe Hall and its lush estates were the jewel in the crown of his father's possessions. Once upon a time, the Hartley family had made it their primary residence – but the proximity of their enemies had driven them away for the past few generations.
It suited Robert very nicely to have his father, the Marquess, kept at a distance from Scarcliffe Hall. Robert might not have inherited yet, but he was very much his own man.
Hart could complain all he liked about the plight of a younger son, but he had never aspired to much beyond lounging in cafes and idling away at card tables. Robert, on the other hand, was Earl of Scarcliffe, and he took it very seriously.
A fork of lightning split the sky above Scarcliffe Forest. Robert felt a sudden urge to run outside and open his arms to the pouring heavens. A good storm – particularly those violent, incongruous storms which crack open the heart of a hot summer – always filled him with a sense of anticipation, of near-longing. The sensation that, when the rain cleared, the world would be revealed anew, and full of more marvels than he had dreamed of.
As the thunder followed the lightning, Robert's eye was caught by a flicker of movement at the edge of the trees.
"Are you ready, Scarcliffe?" asked Northmere, behind him. "I'll take first shot, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead," Robert called, narrowing his eyes at the window. Was it real, or simply a mirage brought on by the inclement weather? He could have sworn he saw a flash of white muslin darting across his grounds.
The white-clad figure reached the shed where the head gardener stored his tools. It – no, it was now unmistakably a she – began tugging at the door. Robert had no doubt that it would be locked.
"Hart, is your cloak handy?" he asked. Jonathan had a habit of tossing his things onto the furniture whenever he came into a room, and leaving them where they fell. "You won't believe this, but there's a woman out in the storm."
"Now, now, Scarcliffe, let's have no more of your nonsense," Beaumont warned him. "We all swore to have a bachelors-only summer – I won't allow you to sneak a lover in under false pretences."
"For goodness' sake, man, she must be soaked through!" Robert leaped to snatch the cloak from Jonathan's hands, the urgency of the situation hitting him in a rush. "We can't leave her out there to catch her death!"
"He's right," said Northmere, peering out of the window. "There seems to be a woman attempting to break into one of your outbuildings."
"What on earth?" asked Hart. "Where did she come from?" He pointed an accusing finger at Northmere. "You've not picked up a girl from the town, have you? I know what you get up to when you think you can get away with it."
"Not me!" Northmere protested. In the meanwhile, Robert had forced his boots back onto his feet.
"Off to play the dashing hero, I see," remarked Hart dispassionately, as Robert ran from the room.
"Call yourselves gentlemen!" he shouted back. "Leaving a woman out there to freeze to death!"
He didn't stop to hear the responses they shouted after him, but ran down the corridor and wrenched open a side door. He allowed himself only a moment's hesitation before plunging out into the rain.
Who on earth would be foolish enough to be out and about on an evening as miserable as this? More to the point, why had she not come to the house to seek shelter?
Robert knew that his crowd of bachelor friends might not seem the most appealing prospect to a country girl caught out in a storm, but was their reputation really as bad as all that?
The answer became clear as he ran, one arm spread out to keep his balance in case he should slip on the muddy lawn, and the other clutching his brother's cloak to keep the worst of the rain from his head. The woman standing, soaked and shivering, in the paltry shelter of the little outbuilding was none other than Lady Cecily Balfour.
He had seen Lady Cecily before, of course, though he had never stooped to seek an introduction. Even if he had been so inclined, on account of her not-inconsiderable beauty, he was under no illusions that she would actually accept him as an acquaintance.
The girl was a Balfour, and therefore beneath Robert's concern. Only the fact that he was quite certain she was on the verge of catching pneumonia in her present state prevented him from turning on his heels and running back into the house.
That, and the fact that he could not deny the allure of heroically rescuing a beautiful damsel in distress – even if she was only a Balfour. Robert had his pride – some would say he had a little too much of it – and it was chiefly that which led him to sprint to Cecily's side, fling his cloak about her shoulders, and scoop her up into his arms.
"Don't worry," he said, as more thunder boomed overhead. "I'll have you safe and dry in moments."
He was expecting a sigh of relief, a cry of gratitude, a feminine collapse against his strong shoulder. Now that Cecily's face was close to his own he could fully appreciate how fine-boned and pretty it was, even with rain dripping from the end of her nose.
What he did not anticipate was the blow of a balled fist to his shoulder, so unexpectedly forceful that he almost staggered down to one knee, and a cry of:
"You filthy scoundrel! I demand you unhand me at once!"