Chapter Two
‘April in England. Can’t be bettered.’ The spaniel stopped and looked enquiringly at Avery. ‘You agree, Bet, I can tell. Go and flush a rabbit or two.’
The shotgun, broken open for safety, was snug in the crook of his arm, just in case he did spot one of the furry menaces heading for the kitchen garden, but it was really only an excuse for a walk while the sun was shining and the breeze was soft.
I’m getting middle-aged, he thought with a self-mocking grin. Thirty this year and enjoying the peace and quiet of the country. If I’m not careful I’ll turn into a country squire with a placid wife, a quiverful of children and the prospect of the annual sheep shearing for excitement.
After an adulthood spent in the capitals of Europe, in the midst of the cut and thrust of international diplomacy, he had thought he would be bored here, or that country life would bring back unpleasant memories of his childhood, but so far all he felt was relaxed. The parkland was in good order, the Home Farm and the tenant farms thrived, as his regular rides around the surrounding acres showed him. Piers would have been pleased, not that he had been much interested in farming. Army-mad, he had been since boyhood.
Relaxed but randy, he amended. It was easy to maintain a mistress in the city and keep his home life separate, but a remote country manor and a small child were a combination guaranteed to impose chastity. And decency told him that setting up a London mistress at the same time as hunting for a wife was cynical.
Still thinking vaguely about sex, Avery rounded a group of four beeches and stopped dead. A dry branch cracked under his booted foot.
‘Oh!’ The woman in black sitting on the fallen trunk of the fifth tree jumped to her feet, turned and recoiled at the sight of him, her eyes wide in her pale face. He had an impression of fragility, as much of spirit as of form, although she was slender, perhaps too slender. Her eyes flickered down to the gun and then back to his face and her hands, ungloved and white against the dull sheen of her walking dress, clenched together at her waist.
‘I beg your pardon, madam. I had no intention of frightening you.’
‘I suspect I am trespassing.’ Her voice was attractive, despite her alarm, but there was a huskiness in it that made him think of tears. She was in mourning, he realised, not simply soberly clad, and there was a wedding ring on her finger. A widow. ‘I was told in the village that there was a public path across the estate, but I saw a deer and went closer and then I lost sight of the path... If you will direct me, I will take myself back and cease my illegality, my lord.’ Now she had recovered from the shock her tone was cool and steady.
‘You know who I am?’
The spaniel ran up, ears flapping, and sat at her feet. She bent to run her hand over its head with the confidence of a woman used to dogs, but her dark eyes were still on Avery. ‘They described you in the village, Lord Wykeham.’ There was nothing bold or flirtatious in her study of him, she might as well have been assessing the tree behind him, but heat jolted though him like a sudden lightning flash and was gone, leaving him oddly wary. His thoughts had been sensual, but this was as if a fellow duellist had lifted a sword in warning.
‘You have the advantage of me, madam,’ he said, and knew his diplomatic mask was firmly in place.
‘Caroline Jordan. Mrs Jordan. I have taken Croft Cottage for a few months.’ She seemed quite composed, but then she was not a young girl to be flustered by a chance meeting with a stranger. She was a young matron, twenty-four perhaps, he hazarded. And a lady of breeding, to judge by her accent, her poise and the expensive sheen and cut of the black cloth. Standing there under the trees in her elegant blacks, she looked as much out of place as a polished jet necklace on a coal heap.
‘Then welcome to Westerwood, Mrs Jordan. You are indeed off the path, but I believe I can trust you not to kill my game or break down my fences. You are welcome to roam.’ Now what had possessed him to offer that?
‘Thank you, Lord Wykeham. Perhaps you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of the path back towards my cottage.’ She moved and again he was conscious of a stab of awareness, and this time it was most certainly sensual, even though she had done nothing flirtatious. A disturbing woman, one who was aware of her feminine allure and confident in it to the point where she felt no need to exert it, he surmised. Yet her eyes held a chill that was more than aloofness. Perhaps she was completely unaware of the impact that she made.
‘It falls along my own route, if you care to walk with me.’ He kept his voice as polite and reserved as her own as he skirted the fallen trunk, whistled to the dog and walked towards the path, trodden down by his own horse. He did not offer his arm.
‘Is it you who jumps this?’ she asked, with a gesture to the hoofprints dug deep in the turf in front of the trunk she had been sitting on. ‘Not an easy obstacle, I would judge.’
‘I have a hunter that takes it easily. You ride, ma’am?’ She kept pace with him, her stride long and free with something about it that suggested she would be athletic on horseback. And in other places, his inconvenient imagination whispered.
‘Before I was in mourning, yes.’ She did not glance at him as she spoke and Avery found himself wishing he could see the expression in her eyes, the movement of her mouth as she spoke, and not merely the profile presented to him, framed by the edge of her bonnet. Her nose, he decided, was slightly over-long, but her chin and cheekbones were delicately sculpted. Her cheek, pink with exercise, showed the only colour in her face beside the dark arch of her brow and the fringe of her lashes.
‘Was it long ago, your bereavement?’ he ventured.
‘Some time, yes,’ she said in a tone of finality that defied him to question further.
Well, madam, if that is how you wish to play it, I will not trouble you further! He was not used to being snubbed by ladies, but perhaps it was shyness or grief. He was more used to diplomatic circles than London society and the ladies who inhabited those foreign outposts were no shrinking violets.
‘This is where our ways part.’ The path had converged with the ha-ha where the stone slabs set into its side provided a crude set of steps up to the lawn. Bet, the spaniel, was already scrambling up them. ‘If you take that path there...’ he pointed away towards the edge of the woods ‘...it will take you back to the lane that leads to the church.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Good day to you.’ She turned away as Bet gave a sharp yap of welcome. It made her start and stumble and Avery put out a hand to steady her.
‘Papa! There you are! You will be late for tea and we are having it on the lawn.’
Mrs Jordan turned to look at Alice as she stood on the brink of the drop and the movement brought her into the curve of Avery’s arm. He loosened his grip and for a moment she stood quite still where she was, so close that he could swear he heard her catch her breath. So close that a waft of lemon verbena teased his nostrils.
‘Ma’am? Are you all right? I apologise for my daughter’s abrupt manners.’
It seemed the widow had been holding her breath, for it came out now in a little gasp. ‘It is...nothing. I turned my ankle a trifle when I twisted around just now.’
‘Is the lady coming for tea, Papa?’
‘No...I...’
Damn it, she’s a stranger here, she’s in mourning, she knows no one, what’s the harm? ‘Would you care to join us, Mrs Jordan? Perhaps you should rest that ankle a little.’ When she still stood there, unspeaking, he added, ‘And we are eating outside.’ Just in case she thought he was a dangerous rake who employed children as a cover for his nefarious seductions. He was even more out of touch with country manners than he was with London ones.
‘Thank you, Lord Wykeham, I would enjoy that.’ She tipped up her head so she could look directly at the child above them. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, as serious as if she was addressing a duchess.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’ The girl—my daughter, Laura thought—bobbed a neat little curtsy. ‘I am Alice.’ She was bare-headed and dressed in a green cotton frock with a white apron that showed evidence of a busy day’s play.
‘Allow me,’ Lord Wykeham said before Laura could respond. ‘These steps are more secure than they look. If you take my hand as you climb, you will be quite safe.’
‘Thank you.’ She put her ungloved hand in his, her fingers closing around the slight roughness of the leather shooting gloves he wore. Her fictitious twisted ankle and the awkwardness a lady might be expected to show in climbing such an obstacle would account for her unsteadiness, she supposed, as she set foot on the first step.
* * *
As she reached the top Alice held out her hand, her warm little fingers gripping Laura’s. ‘Let me help.’
The shock went through her like a lightning strike. Laura tripped, fell to her knees and found her fingers were laced with Alice’s. ‘Oh!’ Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back as she fought the instinct to drag her daughter into her arms and run.
‘Your ankle must be more than just turned.’ That man was bending over her. She hunched her shoulder to exclude him from the moment. ‘Let go, Alice, and run and tell Peters to bring out a chair and a footstool for Mrs Jordan.’
Laura could have snarled at him as Alice loosed her grip and ran up the slope of the lawn. Somehow she turned the sound into a sob of pain.
‘Allow me.’ Before she could protest he swept her up into his arms and began to follow the child. ‘I will send for Dr Pearce.’
‘There is no need.’ The words emerged sounding quite normal. Laura tried to make herself relax as much as any lady held in the arms of a complete stranger might. She could not follow her instinct and hit out at him, slap his face, call him all the words that buzzed like furious hornets in her brain. ‘I am certain it will be better for a short rest.’
‘Even so, I will send for him.’
Not a man who accepted disagreement with his opinions, but then she already knew he was arrogant and ruthless.
‘Thank you, but, no.’
‘As you wish.’
I do. Does no one ever say no to you?
Laura dredged up some composure from somewhere and tried a tiny barb. ‘Lady Alice is a delightful child.’
There was a pause, so slight that if she had not been attuned to his every reaction she would never have noticed, then, without breaking stride, Lord Wykeham said, ‘She is not Lady Alice, simply Miss Falconer.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought in the village they said you were an earl. I must have misunderstood.’
‘I am an earl. However, I have never been married and certainly not to Alice’s mother.’ He must have interpreted her small gasp of surprise at his easy admission as one of either shock or embarrassment. ‘I see no reason why the child should suffer for the sins of her father. I will not have her pushed into the background as though she is something I am ashamed of.’
‘Indeed not.’ Laura fixed her eyes on the sharp edges of waistcoat and coat lapels and added, with malice, ‘And she looks so very like her father.’
That went home. She felt the muscles in his arms contract for a moment, but his breathing did not change. ‘Very like,’ Lord Wykeham agreed, not appearing to notice the strange way she phrased the comment.
It was so strange, fighting this polite battle while in the arms of her opponent. With a less-controlled man, and probably with a less-fit one, she might have expected his body to betray his feelings even though he commanded his expression and his voice. He could have no suspicions of her, so this composure must be habitual. And she need not fear betraying anything by being so close against his body, for he would expect any lady to be flustered by such an intimacy.
He was warm and smelled not unpleasantly of clean linen, leather and man. She had missed that, the intimate scent of male skin, the feel of muscle against her softness, the strength that was so deceptive, so seductive. It turned a woman’s head, made her believe the man would keep faith with as much steadfastness.
They had reached the top of the slope. Laura risked a glance forward and found any danger of tears had gone, banished by anticipation of the secret, one-sided duel she had just begun to fight.
The lawn levelled off beneath the spreading boughs of a great cedar. Windows stretching to the ground had been opened to the spring breeze and a table and chairs brought out to stand beneath the tree. A maid set out dishes on the table and Alice was speaking to a footman who stooped to listen, his face turned to see where she was pointing.
‘What a charming house.’ It should have been her home. Her home, Alice’s home. She had never been there, but Piers had described it to her in those brief, breathless days of their courtship. It would be their love nest, away from the smoke and noise and social bustle of London, just the two of them. She had spun fantasies of making a home in this place so that when her hero returned from war he would find love and peace here. She could almost see him now, long legs stretched out as he sat beneath the cedar, so handsome in his scarlet regimentals.
‘Yes, it is pleasant and well laid out. A little on the small side compared to Wykeham Hall and the estate is not large, but it is good land.’
‘This is not your principal seat, then?’ Laura asked as they reached the table.
‘No. I inherited it from a cousin. Here is the chair for you.’ He waited while the footman put down a sturdy one with arms and Alice, staggering a little under the weight, dragged a footstool in front of it. ‘There.’
Lord Wykeham settled her into place with a brisk efficiency that, unflatteringly, showed no reluctance to yield up possession of her. Laura watched him from beneath her lashes as he went to take his own seat. And why should he wish to keep hold of her? She had exerted none of her powers to attract him, all she had done was to suppress her instincts to storm at him with accusations and reproaches.
And if I find it necessary to charm him? Can I do that, feeling about him as I do? Why not? I am a good enough actress to attract many men when all I want to do is play with their hearts a little. It would be no hardship to look at him, that was certain. He was as handsome as Piers had been and more. This was not a young man, still growing into his body and his powers. The earl was mature and powerful...and dangerous.
Laura smiled at Alice and felt the frost that grew around her thoughts when she spoke to Wykeham thaw into warmth. She had every excuse to look at her daughter now and to talk to her. If only I could hold her.
‘Thank you very much for fetching me the footstool.’ She lifted her foot onto it and caught a flickering glance from the earl before she twitched her skirts to cover her ankle and the high arch of her foot in the tight ankle boot. Hmm, not so indifferent after all. Useful... Was that shiver at the thought of flirting with such a man or disgust at herself for even contemplating such a thing?
‘Does your foot hurt very badly?’ Alice stood right by the chair, her hands on its arm, and regarded Laura’s face intently. Her eyes were clear and green. On her, as with her true father, the winging eyebrows made her seem always to be smiling slightly. On the earl they added a cynical air that only vanished when he smiled.
‘No, it is much better now I am resting it, thank you. I am sure it is only a slight strain.’ Was there anything of her in the child? Laura studied the piquant little face and could see nothing that would betray their relationship except, perhaps, something in the fine line of her nose and the curves of her upper lip. Alice had none of her own colouring—dark blonde hair, brown eyes, pale skin. Perhaps, as she grew towards womanhood Alice would develop some similarities. It was dangerous to wish it.
‘Why are you wearing a black dress? Has someone died?’ Alice asked.
‘Alice, that is an intrusive question.’ The earl turned from the table, displeasure very clear on his face.
‘It is all right.’ It was easier to establish her story in response to the child’s innocent questions than to attempt to drip-feed it into conversation with the earl. ‘Yes, Alice. I lost my husband.’ It was true in her heart: Piers had been her husband in everything except the exchange of vows in church. ‘And then my parents died.’
Alice’s hand curled round her forearm, small and warm and confiding; the touch so precious that it hurt. ‘That is why you have sad eyes,’ she said, her own lip quivering. ‘I lost my mama. Really lost her, because she isn’t dead. Papa says she had to go away and won’t come back.’
I can’t bear this. I must. ‘I am sure your mama would if she could,’ Laura said and touched her fingertips to the child’s cheek. ‘I am certain she will be thinking about you every day. But we cannot always do what we wish, even if it is our heart’s deepest desire.’
‘Alice, run inside and ask Miss Blackstock to join us for tea.’
Laura glanced at Alice, but the child did not appear frightened by Wykeham’s abrupt order or the edge to his voice. It did not seem that she felt anything but trust and love for the man she believed was her father. She waited until the small figure whisked through the window and then said what she was thinking without pausing to consider. ‘Why did you not tell her that her mother was dead?’