Twelve
The delicate strains of the pianoforte floated through the air, adding a pleasant backdrop to the muted conversation. Not that Philip found himself particularly enjoying Bella’s performance. For some reason, the sight of her seated before the instrument while LeMont stood beside her to turn the pages was less than pleasing.
It was not that he did not wish the two to become better acquainted, he assured himself. After all, they would soon be wed. And he was relieved that they had not taken an instant aversion to each other. The aggravating chit was just stubborn enough to treat her fiancé with the sharp edge of her tongue.
But for all his stern reminders that matters appeared to be progressing even better than expected, he could not dismiss the flare of distaste at the air of intimacy that appeared to have bloomed in such a rapid fashion.
For goodness’ sakes, LeMont was nearly draped over her side with his hand upon her shoulder, and more than once he had leaned down to whisper something in her ear.
They were not yet wed, Philip told himself with an unconscious frown. And he had not averted his ward from one scandal only to have her plunge headlong into another.
With an effort, he turned his back on the two and attempted to concentrate on Madam LeMont and Lady Stenhold seated upon a small sofa.
“It is so lovely to have music in the house again,” Lady Stenhold was saying with a faint smile.
Although Philip had not yet had the opportunity to speak with Lady Stenhold and apologize for his less than gentlemanly behavior, it was obvious she had already forgiven Bella for her deceit. There was nothing but admiration in her expression as she regarded her young guest.
Madam LeMont, however, was not quite so admiring. Her long face was instead set in rather critical lines. “Yes, although I fear Miss Lowe is only an adequate musician. Luckily, I am quite talented upon the pianoforte and shall endeavor to improve her skills.”
Lady Stenhold instantly bristled at the disparagement of her friend. “I think she plays quite lovely. What about you, my lord?”
“Yes,” Philip retorted in ominous tones. He did not care for Madam LeMont’s words any more than Lady Stenhold.
As if sensing the disapproval about her, Madam LeMont gave a forced laugh. “Oh, do not imagine that I am complaining,” she protested. “Miss Lowe is quite a charming girl. But like all maidens, she will need the guidance of a more experienced lady. Without a mother, poor dear, it falls on me to lead her on the proper path.”
Philip forced himself to grit his teeth at the condescending tone, but Lady Stenhold was not so discrete. “I fear that Miss Lowe does not care to be led upon any path. She can be quite headstrong.”
Madam LeMont’s features hardened. “That is a failing that will quickly be mended.”
Lady Stenhold pursed her lips. “By you?”
“Well, Andre is of far too sweet a nature to mold a wife to his suiting,” Madam LeMont retorted. “Indeed, he is often imposed upon in the most infamous manner.”
“Yes, I can well believe it,” Lady Stenhold said dryly.
A smug expression settled on Madam LeMont’s countenance. “It shall be my duty to ensure that she is a comfortable wife.”
If Philip had not been so infuriated by the vulgar woman’s presumption that she was in any way qualified to school a lady of genuine breeding, he would have laughed aloud. Bella, a comfortable wife? It was absurd. She might be clever, adorable, spirited, and utterly aggravating, but she would never, ever be comfortable.
Lady Stenhold’s expression echoed his own disgust as she rigidly studied the large woman. “Tell me, Madam LeMont, do you intend to reside with your son?”
Madam LeMont instantly summoned a martyred air. She even raised a lace handkerchief to dab at her nose. “Unfortunately, I was left with only a pittance of an income after the death of my beloved husband. Such a tragedy for a poor widow. I could not possibly support my own establishment and depend upon the generosity of my only son.”
Philip was well aware that she was being far from truthful. He had personally investigated the LeMonts before choosing Andre, and he had discovered that Madam LeMont received a dowager’s income from her husband’s estate. She was more than capable of living in comfort, if not an extravagant manner. She was clearly greedy enough to wish to live on his dowry while feathering her comfort with her own income.
“How tragic,” Lady Stenhold murmured, although her tone was far from sympathetic.
“And of course, Andre would be quite lost without me near,” the woman continued, unaware of her audience’s growing distaste. “I know precisely how to arrange his household for his comfort.”
“Of course,” Lady Stenhold muttered.
Philip could endure no more. Although he had realized that Madam LeMont was something of a bully, he had not allowed himself to accept just how ghastly she truly was.
How dare she presume that he would stand aside while she moved into Bella’s home and played the petty tyrant? And to suggest that she could train Bella to be a lady. The sheer audacity stole his breath. Bella was a lady from the top of her golden curls to the tips of her tiny feet. While Madam LeMont was . . .
Reminding himself that he was a gentleman, Philip did not allow the thought to form. Besides, a far more disturbing thought began to wiggle in the back of his mind.
Had he not considered Madam LeMont’s boorish manner because he had not been concerned with whether or not Bella was happy in her new home? Had he indeed been so anxious to rid himself of Bella that he would have offered her to Napoleon?
He drew in a sharp breath. Dash it all! It was too late for regrets. The match was made, and there was nothing he could do now.
Wishing that he could somehow retrieve the confident assurance in his infallibility that he had once accepted as his right, Philip gave a shake of his head.
Blast Bella Lowe.
“Excuse me,” he muttered before turning and moving toward Lord Blackmar who had staked a place beside the tray of brandy.
Perhaps his friend could ease the peculiar sense of dissatisfaction that seemed lodged in the pit of his stomach. Coming to a halt, he accepted the brandy that his friend held out.
“You are looking particularly grim for a gentleman who has won the battle,” Pudding drawled.
“Madam LeMont could make any gentleman appear grim,” he muttered.
Pudding shrugged. “Once you have Miss Lowe wed, you can wash your hands of the harridan.”
“I suppose.”
Something in his tone made his companion regard him closely. “You are not having second thoughts, are you?”
“I merely forgot how excessively vulgar she is.”
If he had not been so preoccupied, Philip might have noted the sly glint in Pudding’s eyes. As it was, he was far too busy with his disturbing thoughts.
“At least the son appears to be a remarkably pleasing young man.”
Philip slowly turned to regard the two in the corner. His mood was not lightened at the sight of them laughing at some private comment. “Yes, it is difficult to believe that they are related,” he grudgingly conceded.
“And you must be pleased that Miss Lowe appears quite taken with him,” his friend prodded.
Pleased was not at all what Philip was feeling. Still, he was in no mood to discuss his strange reaction. “They appear friendly enough.”
“At least you no longer have to fear that she will bolt in the middle of the night.”
Philip gave a sharp laugh. “I do not believe for a moment that Miss Lowe has so abruptly conceded defeat. She is too contrary for that, no matter how taken she might be with LeMont.”
Pudding lifted his glass and pretended to study the amber liquid. “Then why do you not simply take them to Scotland and have them wed?”
Philip gazed at his friend in shock. “Do not be absurd.”
“It would be a swift end to your troubles, and we would be free to return to London.” Pudding turned to regard him squarely. “Miss Ravel is no doubt anxiously awaiting your return.”
At the moment, Philip did not care if the actress had to wait until her hair turned gray. Or even if she waited at all. “Miss Ravel will simply have to wait,” he said indifferently; then as a movement flickered in the corner of his eye, he abruptly turned his head to discover LeMont calmly escorting Bella through the open French doors and into the garden. “What the devil?”
Without even glancing toward Pudding, Philip was stalking across the room and through the doors. How dare they simply quit the room in such a fashion? Did they believe their disappearance would go unnoticed? Or was Bella once again attempting to goad him into Bedlam?
He discovered the pair just about to step onto a narrow path that would lead them to a rarely used section of the garden. Philip felt a flare of annoyance at their lack of propriety.
“Monsieur LeMont,” he said loudly, watching as they halted and reluctantly turned to face him.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I must beg that you return to the others. I have need to speak with my ward alone.”
“Of course.” Seemingly indifferent to Philip’s narrowed gaze, Andre lifted Bella’s slender hand to kiss her fingers. “We will speak later.”
A silence fell as the young man slowly strolled back to the house. Then, once they were alone, Bella turned to regard him with her familiar dislike. “What do you want?”
Want? He gazed down at her mutinous expression. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until her anger melted and she pressed that delectable form next to his own.
As soon as the treacherous thought entered his head he was scrubbing it away. He was dearly losing what few senses he still had left. “Although it should not be necessary, I thought it only prudent to remind you that it is hardly proper for you to be wandering through a dark garden with a young gentleman.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Improper to spend a few moments with my fiancé? I thought you wished me to be with Monsieur LeMont in a far more intimate setting than a dark garden.”
His gut twisted at her direct thrust. No, he would not consider such things. He could not. “You are determined to create a scandal,” he gritted.
“I am alone with you now. Are you not terrified of a scandal?” she taunted.
“I am your guardian.”
“You have yet to act like my guardian.”
He was uncomfortably aware of that fact. No matter how good his intentions, he always seemed to end up behaving badly. He regarded her with frustration. “What would you have me do?”
“I only wished to be treated as a young lady with a bit of intelligence, not as a piece of property to be disposed of.”
“I have never considered you a piece of property.”
“No?”
Philip refused to consider whether the scent of lavender came from the garden or Bella’s golden curls as he stepped closer.
“Most guardians wish to see their wards suitably married.”
“To complete strangers?” she demanded.
“Would you prefer a season in town to meet eligible gentlemen?” The words were out before he could halt them. For goodness’ sakes, the last thing he wanted was to play escort from one dreary affair to another. Still, he made no attempt to detract them.
She appeared unimpressed by his impulsive words. “Once I would have been happy to come to London for such a season. All I have ever desired was to fall in love and have a family.”
“Love?” he said in startled tones.
“Yes? Is that so surprising? I have had precious little of it in my life.”
“Nonsense. Your father loved you.”
She gave a restless wave of her hand. “Did he?”
“Yes. He often spoke of you when we were together.”
“My father did not even know me. On the few occasions he was home, he barely recalled that I was about.”
It was all too easy to imagine the lonely little girl forlornly awaiting a bit of attention. Colonel Lowe, after all, had been away from home a great deal, and he certainly was not an overly emotional sort of gentleman. He would not have found it easy to reveal his love to his daughter. Philip’s expression unknowingly softened. “Perhaps he merely found it difficult to express his feelings.”
She gave a sudden shrug. “It hardly matters now.”
Instinctively, his hand raised to brush her soft cheek. “Bella . . .”
With a jerky movement she stepped away. “I am tired, sir. Please excuse me.”
She slipped away before he could halt her, and with a heavy sigh, Philip turned toward the dark garden.
Colonel Lowe had a great deal to answer for.
* * *
Awakening early the next morning, Bella deliberately chose the servant’s stairs to make her way out of the house. It was not that she feared encountering Lord Brasleigh, she assured herself. She simply wished to enjoy a walk without the company of her guardian or even Andre. And of course, no one could fault her for wishing to avoid the poisonous company of Madam LeMont.
Entering the kitchen garden, Bella made a direct path toward the distant woods. Thankfully, it was another lovely day, and she soon found her spirits lifting as she strolled through the outdoors, sunshine warming her skin.
How could anyone fail to appreciate the deep blue of the sky and the warmth of the morning sun—even if she had lain awake most of the long night? Determined to enjoy her brief privacy, Bella absently began to gather the wildflowers along the path. Suddenly, a faint sound behind a nearby bush caught her attention.
Attempting to convince herself that it was nothing more sinister than a small animal, she pushed her way forward only to halt in horror.
Lord Brasleigh. Heaven above, was he everywhere?
Quite prepared to turn and flee, she was halted as he lifted his head and stabbed her with a glittering gaze. “Come here,” he commanded.
At first she had presumed that he had been sitting upon the mossy ground to enjoy the tranquil morning, but Bella slowly realized that he was leaning over something on the ground. A flare of curiosity made her ignore the tiny voice that warned her to dismiss his imperative order. “What is it?” she demanded.
“Someone has laid a trap,” he informed her in clipped tones.
With a puzzled frown, she slowly rounded his form to discover a large hound stretched upon the ground with his back leg caught in a savage trap.
“Oh.” She gave a small cry and sank to her knees. “The poor dog.”
“I want you to try to keep him calm while I free him.”
Bella for once offered no arguments. Instead, she reached out her hands to gently stroke the dog’s head. Her heart twisted with pain as the animal attempted to give a wag of his tail.
“Such a good boy,” she murmured, her fear deepening as the dog barely moved despite Lord Brasleigh’s efforts to pry open the trap. “He is so weak.”
“A curse upon poachers,” Lord Brasleigh muttered as he struggled with the trap. ‘’Just one more moment.”
“Please hurry.”
“I do not wish to injure him further,” he warned.
She held her breath as Lord Brasleigh battled the evil trap. For the moment, she forgot that she intensely disliked the man at her side. Nothing mattered but that they save the poor creature. “Who would do such a thing?” she demanded.
“I shall certainly be sure the magistrate discovers that with all possible speed.” He gave a sudden murmur of satisfaction as the trap sprang free. “There.”
Bella studied the battered leg that was seeping blood in an alarming quantity.
“Will he live?” she whispered.
“I do not know.” Shrugging out of his coat, he handed it toward her; then with a rueful smile, he determinedly began unfastening his linen shirt. “Forgive me, but I must stop the bleeding.”
“Of course.”
Bella attempted to concentrate on the dog that lay dangerously still on the ground, as Philip tugged off his shirt and gently tied it about the wounded leg. Not that she was wholly successful. How did any maiden ignore a large male form stripped to the waist? Particularly when those firm muscles rippled in such a disturbing fashion beneath the silken skin.
Still, her concern for the dog allowed her to rise to her feet as Lord Brasleigh gathered the animal in his arms and straightened.
“We must get him to the stables,” he commanded, already thrusting his way through the bushes and onto the path.
Bella was swift to follow in his wake. Together they silently moved toward the main building, skirting the house and heading directly for the stables. They had barely stepped into the shadowed interior when the head groom met them.
“My lord.” The rather battered old servant with gray hair and a heavily lined face regarded them with a frown.
“He was caught in a trap,” Lord Brasleigh said in clipped tones as he brushed past the groom to place the dog upon a pile of straw in an empty stall.
Bella and the servant followed the distracted lord.
“A trap?” the groom growled, his frown only deepening. He lifted a hand toward a hovering groom who instantly hurried forward. “Duncan, go fetch the magistrate and then organize a search of the grounds. I won’t have a bloody poacher on my land.”
“At once.” The under groom gave a nod of his head before turning and hurrying out of the stables.
Clearly satisfied that his commands would be obeyed, the groom kneeled beside the dog and carefully removed Lord Brasleigh’s hasty binding.
“A nasty wound,” he muttered.
“He has lost a lot of blood,” Lord Brasleigh agreed.
Once again rising to his feet, the groom scratched his head. “We’ll wrap the wound with a poultice. There is little more we can do.”
He left the stall to retrieve the wrapping, and Bella moved to kneel beside Lord Brasleigh. Her arm brushed the silken heat of his bare skin, but she grimly ignored the tiny shivers it sent through her blood.
Turning his head, he regarded her with a faint sense of surprise, as if he presumed she had scurried from him the moment she was able. “You should return to the house,” he murmured.
Her expression became stubborn. “I want to stay.”
He arched a raven brow. “I did not think you wished to spend a moment more in my company than absolutely necessary.”
“I am not remaining for you. My only concern is for this dog.”
He gave a low chuckle. “I am flattered.”
Before she could retort, the groom was returning and efficiently kneeling down to grasp the wounded leg. The dog stirred enough to try to kick from his grasp.
“Hold him steady, my lord.”
Lord Brasleigh pushed gently on the dog’s side. “Bella, talk to him.”
Leaning down, Bella began to coo soft words into the dog’s ear, feeling a pang of sympathy at the faint whines that drifted through the straw-scented air.
At last the groom sat back on his heels. “It’s done.”
Lord Brasleigh gave a nod of his head. “If we can avoid an infection, I believe it will heal.”
“Aye, although I be more worried about his loss of blood.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go to the kitchen and get some scraps from Cook to tempt him,” the groom offered, rising to his feet and once again disappearing from the stall.
With the immediate danger over, Bella was suddenly conscious she was quite alone with Lord Brasleigh. And more disturbing—he was nearly half naked. A most potent combination.
She straightened, feeling strangely awkward.
“You did well,” Lord Brasleigh commended, his gaze stroking over her pale features.
“So did you,” she grudgingly conceded. Whatever her feelings for this gentleman, she could not deny that he had reacted with more gentle concern for the dog than any other gentleman she knew. “If he lives, it will be because of you.”
His hand slowly rose to stroke the full curve of her lower lip. “Perhaps I am not the unfeeling beast you have labeled me.”
A scalding heat raced through her body and with awkward haste Bella surged to her feet.
Why, oh, why did she long to trace the firm line of his broad chest? To press her lips to the heat of his mouth? It made no sense. No sense at all.
“I am not so easily convinced, my lord,” she assured him in breathless tones.
Then, turning on her heel, she forced herself to march away without a backward glance.