Chapter Eight
“And, after all, what is a lie?
’Tis but the truth in masquerade.”
(Byron)
“I was only trying to assist you in your romantic endeavours,” Jack rasped as Miggens yanked his cravat into a bountiful L’orientale, nearly wrenching noggin from socket.
He squinted at the morning sunshine which impudently peeked through the pale-green curtains. It was so damn…bright in the country.
“Well desist, my lord. And I do not wish to hear any more of your absurd rogue’s rules either.” He knotted the cloth till Jack could scarcely prattle.
Well, there was gratitude for you.
Adherence to his rules had resulted in four weddings thus far and seeing his half-brother settled would be the coup de grâce. Of course, there was the small matter of a class disparity to solve between Miggens, a by-blow manservant, and Miss Treherne, a gentlewoman with titled cousins.
Nothing could be done about Oliver’s ignoble birth – excepting forgery of church documents – but a marquess’s acknowledgement of his brother, together with the lumping unentailed estate in Somerset he’d offered him, could make anyone acceptable.
However, the stubborn fusty guts had stated he didn’t want a Winterbourne’s charity…despite being half a Winterbourne himself.
Pride and all that balderdash.
Jack surveyed his riding attire in the tall oval-framed mirror, frowning at the mud-brown waistcoat and crow-black jacket Miggens had chosen whilst in his humps and grumps. The boots were likewise polished to the highest sheen but without the slightest adornment. He appreciated Miss Penrose appeared immune, but how did Miggens expect him to woo a female with his appearance so lacklustre?
A little sartorial elegance never went amiss. Rule nine.
Today, he’d harangued the daughter of the house into showing him the estate as conversation with Miss Penrose was nigh impossible within the manor: Professor Pilkinghorne constantly stumbled about, Mr Sewell lurked in corners, and Mrs Pencally’s all-seeing eye quite put a rogue off his stride.
It might also be a way to gain Miss Penrose’s trust, considering their first encounter had demonstrated her love of riding…at speed.
She’d acted coy at breakfast and had instead sought to extract from him the purported depth of local china clay veins – three hundred feet in case anyone had missed it.
With Sir Jago’s support, however, Miss Penrose’s reticence had been in vain.
As such, he was due to convene in the stables upon the hour of ten sharp with both ladies of the house – but it would help if the companion Miss Treherne was occupied.
“Come with us, Oliver. I can claim you are also my groom, and no one gainsays a marquess. Likewise, it might aid your ill-humour as there’s nothing like a hard ride to alleviate friskiness.”
Miggens bared his teeth. “I loathe horses, am not frisky, have five cravats to iron, have the rest of China Clay – The Geology, Geography and Industry to abridge on your behalf, have Helston to visit with your London post, have not yet breakfasted, and have no blasted ill-humour!”
“Miss Treherne will be there.” And with a satyr’s smile, Jack flicked a curl. “Naturally, I could entertain her myself. She has the most adorable dimples and a bevy of beauties holds no trepidation for one such as I.”
His valet’s brow furrowed in the mirror, green eyes mossed with annoyance.
The rogue’s rules weren’t so absurd now, were they? Rule one. A little jealousy never goes amiss.
∞∞∞
From atop her mare, Tamsyn scrutinised the azure sky. She inspected the polished saddle. She even eyed old Ruan, the stable master, who returned a wink and toothy grin.
She gawked at everything except Lord Winterbourne’s backside as he bent down to adjust his boot and then, without assistance, mounted his horse in one agile motion, his dark coat flicking like swallows’ tails.
Desire.
That was the feeling. And she’d thought desire had been ousted years back, leaving nothing but deadened scars. It was more than a little disconcerting to realise she was just like any other woman.
Desire for a heartless, handsome rogue.
To be fair to her baser instincts, he did appear exceedingly fine this morning. Even in subdued apparel, he carried an air of polished refinement yet striking sensuality.
“The hoss has been grizzling like a badger this morn, my lord. Bit overgone, ’tes,” warned Benjamin as he tightened the girth, and assuredly, Jowlik chomped at the bit with a wild roll to his eye.
Lord Winterbourne smoothed a hand over the gelding’s frolicsome cinnamon-coloured head. “No matter, my lad. Now, where’s Miggens? He’s coming along too.”
A loud screech accompanied hurried footfall and low curses until a panting figure in brown hurdled the low beech hedge that surrounded the stable yard, skidded on the gravel and came to an abrupt halt, eyes flicking in unease back to the inadequate leafy barrier.
Behind prowled Petrok the resident peacock, who bristled in full aggressive stance, metallic eye feathers all scowling with dislike. He pecked at the hedge in search of latent gaps, debating if his quarry would be worth the hassle of flight.
“Miggens,” called the marquess, “try feeding the blighter nuts. He seemed to quite like me.”
“Birds of a feather will flock together,” groused Tamsyn before she could halt her wicked tongue.
Why did she say these things? She hadn’t uttered such bold words for years, preferring to go unnoticed. Reserved. Colourless and unassuming.
Lord Winterbourne ought to have glared at the very least, but he laughed, damn it, a growl of utter delight.
“Doubtless it was the nuts,” he confided, leaning close to her saddle, lemon fragrance tantalising her nostrils, “or the threat of being plucked for a hat.” His lips curved and her own tugged in response.
But on no account did she allow a smile.
Odious rascal. She wanted him glib and false and he was undermining all her efforts to dislike him.
“Petrok is a tough old bird,” she murmured as the peacock stalked off with a victory shriek, content to have defended manor and gardens from vagrant valets. The unfortunate Mr Miggens straightened his creased jacket, dusted off his breeches and tentatively took the reins of a docile mare.
“Talking of which, I encountered your butler’s grandmother in the herb garden and she announced my future would be one of purges and tooth loss if I didn’t sew up my…fribblesome breeches.”
Tamsyn winced. “You overheard me,” she said miserably. “At the Helston assembly ball.”
A wink conveyed his lack of animosity and she couldn’t help but return a rueful smile.
“I have good hearing,” he explained. “As boys, my brother and I used to see how low we could whisper down the hallways and still be heard.”
Gracious, she hadn’t known there was another Winterbourne. How did London ladies cope? “Very useful for rogues, I expect.”
“Only one rogue now. My elder brother died of the lung disease at fourteen years. He’d cough that graveyard cough till he had no breath, so we’d speak in whispers, thus he didn’t feel left out.”
Oh.
The man constantly upended her. Why couldn’t he be the perfect dandy she’d read about?
Surreptitiously eyeing him, she recognised it was the first time she’d seen anything but affability upon his features. He appeared…grief-stricken, even after so many years.
“I am so sorry, my lord. I understand the pain of losing someone dear. You were close?”
Those endless eyes of onyx burned, and he hesitated, lips parted.
She waited for the droll quip as was usual.
“I was away at Eton when it happened.” His black pupils briefly vanished behind tight lids. “The day had been sunny, yet during that hour of Latin, the clouds rolled in, the light dimmed, and I knew… We were friends, not just siblings.” The leather saddle creaked as he shifted to gaze away. “Vincent was always so damn happy, despite his ill-health, and I seek to emulate, to find joy in life no matter the circumstance.”
A clatter within the courtyard stole their attention and Lord Winterbourne’s mount skittered.
Lowdy stood untwisting her skirts, having tripped over the mounting block, mouth agape at the sight of Mr Miggens on a horse.
Tamsyn blinked to clear the moisture in her eyes and shook her head to dispel the sadness.
The marquess now chuckled as Jowlik nibbled Benjamin’s messy hair – as if but a moment before, he’d not dwelled on such anguish.
What an unusual rogue.
At a slow trot, they departed the stables and Tamsyn inhaled with pleasure. The morning still held a freshness, with sky a translucent sapphire – vast and without a single cloud to mar its perfection.
They ambled over the headland, enjoying the distant sea views of rippling white horses, lustrous in the bright sunshine, and then east towards Treloor Village, the scent of crushed heather and purple betony rising beneath stout hooves.
Lord Winterbourne cast her a lazy smile and she squinted over her shoulder, noticed Lowdy and Mr Miggens engrossed in conversation with reins slack.
Had the ladies been divided…and conquered?
The path that led into Treloor village narrowed, descending gently and presenting a view of thatched roofs, bored weather cocks and twisting lanes.
Bridleway turned to cobble, stones worn smooth by hoof and wagon. Whitewashed cottages lined the way, dazzling in their summer-painted coats, leading them on down to the bustling harbour and shingle beach.
Tamsyn pointed out the Treloor Inn although she wasn’t sure if a London marquess would enter the den of rough-handed fishermen, the scent of cider and tobacco reeling within.
Seine boats lay forlorn upon the shingle in the becalmed weather, but fishermen busied themselves with patching holes and folding nets whilst children played tag amongst the winching sheds and empty pilchard barrels.
“It’s all so idyllic,” said the marquess with a slight scrunch to his brow and Tamsyn smiled – only a man from Town would describe it thus.
“Fishing is a perilous occupation and you should be here on a stormy night. The bay tenders some protection, but the wind can deafen and without that harbour wall, we’d all be washed away.”
Lord Winterbourne squinted at the sparkling sea, no doubt unable to imagine that today’s gentle ripples could cloak such danger.
“I noticed most roofs are thatch. Is that not a problem come winter?”
“The slate is too far and thatch is easily mended.” She directed his gaze to a recently limed cottage, a sign dangling over the door denoting its given name of Chylan. Heavy stones hung down from the eaves tied to nets crisscrossing the roof. “When storms blow in, they attach weights.”
As their horses climbed from the harbour, Tamsyn greeted tenants and introduced a shuffling Mrs Sedgmore, the oldest woman in Treloor, who blushed and curtseyed as the marquess jumped from his mount and insisted on kissing her wrinkled hand.
Whatever Lord Winterbourne’s moral failings, he could charm the gulls from the cliffs.
The four of them headed inland, meandering the deep-sided twisting tracks that divided golden fields, timeless corridors amongst an ancient land. Many of the Penrose estate tenants were busy harvesting, shirts loose and throats bare, singing as they toiled.
The last few years had been hard with short cold summers but for now the wheat was heavy and dry. Lord Winterbourne seemed intent on pointing out to his valet the various farming techniques and the value of crop rotation on one’s estate. Perhaps Mr Miggens was being trained as estate manager?
With the two men side by side, she was all at once struck by their similar noses. Wasn’t there a saying about manservants resembling their masters?
After following the river up the valley, they hit open moorland, pink heath softening the earth, a few gorse bushes still bearing yellow blooms.
“Would you care to see Lowena’s Pool where a ghostly ship sails at full moon? I bathe there in fair weather.” She laughed at his wide-eyed expression and set Spriggan to a gallop, let her dash over the moor with a wild snicker, preferring to traverse this flat wide-open ground nowadays rather than the beach, where rocks held danger and caves hid secrets.
Solely when riding did Tamsyn feel like her old self – unburdened and boundless like the land.
Lowdy and Mr Miggens were left far behind – by speed or design, she wasn’t sure, but Lord Winterbourne kept pace, coat-tails aflutter, hat lost to their swiftness, and he tousled his curls as though daring her to gawk…which she did and to hell with it.
The marquess, she had expected to be no more than a fair rider, more used to bumbling around Hyde Park in a yellow phaeton, but she’d been so very wrong – and not for the first time.
On horseback, he stole her breath. A man that controlled the wild creature beneath him with merely a touch, their movements as one. With no need of whip, he allowed the romping gelding its spirit but often murmured caution, reining in when Jowlik’s hooves might have stumbled on rocky ground.
Fleetingly, her childhood sweetheart Jonathan came to mind. The two were so different and yet in some ways alike. Jonathan had never used harshness either – never needed to as the horses had always bent to his persuasive voice.
Tamsyn slowed to a canter, then a trot, let Spriggan shake off the lather, thirst driving her mare to the water’s edge.
Lowena’s pool looked as flat and dark as any scrying mirror but this late summer heat had taken its toll. Crows dipped their feathers in the shrunken edge, squawking displeasure at being thus disturbed, and a few moorland ponies drifted away to bury their amiable faces within the gorse, searching for the sweet grass beneath the prickles.
She made to dismount, placing the reins in one hand and unhooking her foot, but from nowhere, Lord Winterbourne appeared, arms outstretched.
Her guarded side cautioned she ignore them. Her old wild nature commanded she leap into them.
Taking a middle ground, Tamsyn grasped his hand but slid down the horse’s flanks. Spriggan skittered, deciding she didn’t wish to be used in such a way, and Tamsyn fell firmly against the marquess’s rather broad chest.
Honey and almond. The scent flooded Jack’s senses.
As Miss Penrose slithered down his body, he realised how lush she was. Full breasts and slender waist pressed. Rounded hips and light-cotton-clad legs slid.
Brunette wisps of hair stirred his chin as boot-shod feet hit the ground and his larger frame smothered hers.
Desire flared.
He could…skim his hand lower, curving fingers around her rump.
Pull her yet tighter. So tight they’d struggle for breath.
Lick the delicate lobe of her ear.
Nip that tantalising throat, inhale her sweetness.
Kiss those memories from her lips.
But he couldn’t hurt her. His hold loosened.
A rogue he may be, but rules guided these hands and a taste of Tamsyn Penrose would break every single one.
“Unusual ponies,” he murmured, turning and scrutinising the chunky little things.
A delicate cough left her reaction unclear. Had he scared her? Or pleased her? He wasn’t sure he sought the answer.
In the study, Sir Jago had mentioned her continued struggle, how in trying situations a tightening in her throat still caused her voice to fail. He didn’t wish to be the reason for such distress.
She straightened ash-grey skirts, a flush hinting at her discomposure. “Goonhilly ponies,” she pronounced, husky but firm. “As packhorses they are useful on this land which is often rutted or claggy. Strong but light of limb, they have an affectionate and obliging temperament.”
“Must be tough buggers to stay out here all weathers.”
An amused grin spread across her features, eyes competing with the sky for splendour. “Yes, one can’t mind a little mud and salt spray to live in Cornwall. This current dry spell is unusual.”
Indeed, the grassland spread before them like a sun-singed mat, and a shimmer of heat lay above, seeming for all the world as though a coverlet one could fall into.
A desolate, barren place and yet it held a rough beauty he’d never encountered before. Flowers he had no name for cowered beneath prickly stuff and wind-stunted trees huddled together in the distance like wallflowers at a ball.
It all caused him to feel slightly despondent, or maybe it had been the earlier mention of Vincent. He’d thought to witter on as he usually did, asking innocent questions before delving deeper, but instead it had been he who had revealed a sorrow.
“I couldn’t live in the countryside – such silence would drive me to Bedlam.”
“And I couldn’t live in the city – such noise would silence me.”
They stood gazing into the endless distance and Jack was aware of something…lost, but he wasn’t sure what, only that a sadness lingered.
He shook it off – bloody ridiculous.
It must be this place – not natural all this emptiness, and the swelter didn’t help.
The playful gelding nudged his shoulder and so he pulled off his gloves, searching for the crab apple he’d picked.
Miss Penrose released a soft gasp and he glanced down.
Ah.
Scoring the back of his left hand was a wound courtesy of a knife fight with a villain who’d turned his coat to France, now safely locked up and bleating like a sheep.
The resulting scar was a little inflamed from the leather seam of his glove, a stark contrast to the rest of his unblemished skin and obviously a little too authentic for delicate maidens.
“Why are you here, Lord Winterbourne?” she asked, that rasp back in her voice.
Jowlik gobbled the sour apple in one bite, and Jack tugged at his throttling cravat.
“I am here for knowledge.” Dreading the next question, he sought a change of subject. “Is Captain Lynch courting you?”
Where had that come from? And he silently cursed. Caused him to sound…jealous.
“Well, he’s not asked Father officially but he…gives me presents and so forth.”
“He didn’t attend the assembly ball.”
“The captain does not enjoy crowded events. He prefers more reserved pursuits.”
“You have much in common then.”
Tamsyn ached to scream her denial. That she used to love dancing, singing and sheer life. That he had her all wrong. Yes, she disliked the city, but it was the smells, the lack of green and crammed rush which wore her down.
He’d rendered her dull. Dull and grey and tedious.
Is this what she had become? Hiding away in the shadows, not living.
It was fairly maddening that this London fop should reveal such a truth, but so it was.
“We should return,” she said. “I don’t know where Lowdy and your man have got to.”
His lips curved into a wicked grin as the suave seducer returned, ruby signet ring glinting in the sunshine, the scar as incongruous as his embroidered copper silk waistcoat in this land of slate and tor.
A misplaced peacock.
“Do you know, I think they lost us on purpose, Miss Penrose. Perhaps I’m not the only rogue in town.”