A Breath of Scandal: The Reckless Brides (25 page)

“Jellicoe, you are being too severe upon him.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps I ought to be thanking him for this opportunity to spend the afternoon in your company.”

“Is that why you came? Simply for my company.” The moment she said it she wished the solemn words back. He would respond in his usual manner, indeed in the manner she wished she had adopted—armed to the teeth with lazy wit.

But instead, he said only, “Yes.” He reached out and covered her hand as she held the reins. As if he simply had to touch her. And then he let go.

The small gesture nearly undid her.

She had no shield, no armor against such forthright tenderness. She had no place to hide, no chance of shoring up her defenses. He was an experienced charmer and most likely a rake, and she liked him far, far too much for her own good.

And she had never wanted anything the way she wanted him. He was so overwhelmingly near, his long, lean thigh lined up against hers where they sat on the bench seat. If she turned her attention away from the horses, her gaze would fall just so against the snowy linen of his collar. She could smell the flat smooth scent of starch in his shirt, and see the warm caramel color of his skin.

Whatever it was that lay between them, it was not going to go away, and it was not going to be easily satisfied. She felt that at any moment she might go up in flames, that he was spark to her tinder.

But he didn’t look sparklike at the moment—lounging back against the seat, one booted leg raised onto the mudguard, every inch of his body at aristocratic ease, a carefree son of privilege. She stole a glance sideways at him, and found him regarding her with a strange, soft look in his eye, but with his usual frown across his brow.

“What is it?” she asked directly. “Why do you look so?”

“Because you are a very remarkable woman—did you know that?” He smiled at her, but there was nothing teasing or playful in his expression.

“No! How so?” she answered brightly, determined to keep her own tone light and teasing. It would not do to read too much into his tone or his intentions. It was simply a strong facet of his character to see to others’ benefit. Had he not done as much for his former shipmates on the spur of the moment?

And had he not told them that he was headed to London, away to join a ship? They both had obligations to which they were bound. They each had their duty.

It were better for her to understand fully that he was her friend, and however much she was attracted to him, and he to her, there was no future in it. There was nothing for her but wit. “You must tell me, so I may record my remarkable qualities for posterity in my young lady’s diary.”

“You drive very well, for one thing—although I suspect you know that. But I have never been driven by a female before and you do it better than at least half of the men I know.”

“That’s because you know only sailors,” she said, with a laugh. “And anyway, it’s just a country woman’s skill. It’s not in the least bit remarkable.”

“And you’re very beautiful, as well. All on your own. Astonishingly so.” He said it in a quiet way, his voice devoid of any teasing. Antigone risked a glance, to see the strange, soft light back in his eye.

“Will…” she began, but couldn’t fathom how to go on. Her heart felt full, fuller than it had ever been, leaving her breathless and unsure, robbing her of her usual self-deprecating wit.

But perhaps he felt himself on the verge of that same steep precipice, for he pulled himself back. “I don’t believe for a minute that you write things down in a diary. You seem like the kind of young woman who would prefer to live life rather than write about it.”

Antigone’s face flushed again, for she could only regard that as a compliment. She did not have a diary, and never had. There was simply too much to do, to find the extra time to sit and recount it all when she could be doing more. Just that morning, she had dismissed her work with the accounts so she might leave at dawn to go hunting with Thomas.

And annoy Lord Aldridge.

“You mentioned to the man Moffat that you were headed up to London to see Mr. Allen of the East India Company about taking one of his ships. What about the Admiralty?”

He subsided back against the seat. “I haven’t completely given up on them just yet, but the fact of the matter is that there are too many worthy, experienced men on the lists in front of me. Even were I willing to use my father’s considerable political influence, I doubt a preferment would see me in possession of a ship. So I’ve had to be practical and look elsewhere. To other countries as well as to the merchant fleets.”

“Other countries?”

“Royal Navy men have been known to hire themselves out to foreign navies during the peace. It’s not officially done, but it happens anyway. It’s not as if we can take up the law, or manage an estate after being with the navy our whole lives. The Admiralty knows that.”

And now she knew it, too. He would be going. All their attraction, all their playful pleasure in each other’s company, could never be anything more than that. He would leave, and she would need to deal with Lord Aldridge and her mother on her own. Just as she had been doing.

“Then I will wish you luck and godspeed, also.”

“Thank you, Preston.”

*   *   *

Preston fell quiet, pouring the whole of her considerable concentration into driving them at a sedate but steady turn through the village of Chalton, and northward toward a dense copse he had a vague recollection was called Cockshot Wood. Thomas would know, of course, as such a name was a natural source of vast delight and amusement to any adolescent boy, but Will forbore from asking him. The question seemed just a little too crude for even Will to raise in front of Preston. So he let her drive on in silence and took the opportunity of merely looking at her.

He had embarrassed her before with his regard—a flush had splotched up the side of her neck. And he had no business talking to her like that. As attracted as he was to her, he liked her too much to raise hopes that he knew he could never meet. He was, as she had so astutely observed, soon to go to London—and who knew where else?—in search of employment. His career would take him away, just as it always had, and he would not toy with her any further.

But he could still look. And imagine. And enjoy.

And from his vantage point, reclining back against the seat, he could see the long delicious arch of her back, as she sat forward, poised with impeccable posture on the edge of the seat. In her practical slate-blue riding habit, her spine appeared as long and sinuous as an archer’s bow. At the back of her neck, her hair had escaped the confines of her hat, and one long, dark tendril, shot through with the rich sandy colors of caramel, chocolate, and coffee, wandered its way over her collar and wound down her back. And he could not resist the urge to pull off his gloves, and surreptitiously slide the fine, silky strands through his fingers.

But that was the wrong thing to do, for it made him want to discard her rakish, mannish little hat, and plunge his hand into her hair, and spread it out across her back. It made him want to touch and taste and take. It made him start to think of ways to kiss the soft, sensitive swath of skin visible at her nape, and nibble his way to her ear until she was as soft and languid as a pillow. It made him want to lower her head onto that soft pillow, and lie down atop her lithe body, and feel the agile strength in her as she wrapped her strong, long, beautifully muscled legs around him, and—

Preston had pulled the curricle to a stop in a narrow back lane, and was already fisting up the skirts of her riding habit, and hopping down without his assistance.

She retrieved her mare’s reins from Thomas. “Thank you so much,” she was saying to his brother. “Come quickly and get under the hood before you get any wetter. There.”

Thomas was climbing up to take her seat.

“Thank you both.” She gave him a polite, lovely enough smile. “I’m most sincerely obliged to you.” And she was moving away from the curricle, back down the lane behind them.

He vaulted out of the seat. “Preston, you know I’ll see you in. I’m—”

“No. Please. Don’t come, I beg you.” She held out a hand to stop him. “Suspicions have already been raised with the trip yesterday—for Cassandra is not much good with lying. Suspicions that my mother might be happy to set aside for the sake of seeing Cassandra with a viscount, but not for me to throttle around country lanes with a second son.”

When he would have objected again and pressed his point, she held up her hand. “Please, Jellicoe. If you don’t care to find yourself snared in the parson’s mousetrap, and kept from your ship, then I beg you would leave me be.”

“All right.” He acquiesced in the face of such determined desperation. “I understand. I—”

She cut his explanation off. “Please. Thank you. Now go. Before anyone sees you.” And without waiting for him to take his leave, she ducked through a gap in the hedgerow, and led her mare off across the field, her long hems gathering mud and moisture in the damp grass.

And left him utterly bemused and bereft.

Chapter Fifteen

She took her time, carefully untacking and rubbing Velocity down before consigning her to the care of their only stable lad, the ancient Billy, who was happy to ramble on about the prime pair of movers he’d taken care of that very afternoon, when his lordship the viscount had come calling.

“Pair o’ grays, miss. And the phaeton all dark blue lacquer. Walked them, he asked us to, and gave me a vail. Fifteen minutes to the second, he stayed, as punctual as Saint Peter, and then out he come, and away he did go.”

All traces of the viscount and his high-flyer were unfortunately long gone, but Lord Aldridge’s well-enclosed traveling chariot was still very much in evidence in the central bay of the stable, his horses waiting patiently in their traces, casting her reproachful glances, as his lordship continued to take his ease inside, and his postilion grooms passed their time with a game of draughts.

“Get blankets on them, Billy,” she ordered. “Though I hope Lord Aldridge won’t be staying much longer.”

There was nothing for it but to face his crabby lordship, and be glad of it. Glad that she would no longer have the threat of the engagement hanging like the sword of Damocles over her head.

But her endurance had been worth it. Viscount Jeffrey’s visit must mean that he had decided to court Cassie in earnest, and with the accomplishment of her mother’s primary goal, Antigone’s duty was complete and she could retire from the field in satisfaction. Yes, it was all for the best.

If only Will Jellicoe were not retiring from the field, as well. If only …

No. How many times in the past few months had she told herself, or Cassie, that there was no use wishing for what could not be?

But perhaps she might write to him, sailing his ships over the faraway Indian Ocean. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could still be her friend.

Mrs. Little met her at the kitchen door where Antigone stopped briefly to scrape the mud from her riding boots. “They’re asking for you, miss. In the drawing room. Shall I tell them you’ll be in once you’ve been up—”

“No, I thank you. I’ll go straight in.” She took the dry cloth Mrs. Little so thoughtfully offered and brushed off her damp skirts as best she could. “That’s the worst of my dirt, I think, but I’m not going to take the time to change.” Unsavory tasks that could not be avoided ought to be tackled head-on. “His lordship has already kept his horses waiting long enough.”

“Yes, miss,” Mrs. Little agreed doubtfully. The poor woman was too much of a countrywoman not to agree with Antigone, but too much of a good servant to ever let criticism of her betters ever pass her lips. “I’ll send in another pot of hot tea.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Little.” Antigone took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and let herself into the drawing room.

Mama and Lord Aldridge were seated in front of a low fire, though Lord Adlridge’s very apparent frost was enough to dim the warm yellow room’s usual brightness.

Antigone refused to be cowed. “Your lordship.” She addressed him forthrightly as she made her curtsy first to Lord Aldridge and then to her mother. “Mama.”

His lordship did not rise from his chair, though her mother stood hastily. “Antigone, at last. Lord Aldridge has been waiting for quite some time.”

“My apologies. I’ve had rather a long day of it myself.”

“Yes.” Mama’s lips were pruned tight with disapproval. “So I see. His lordship would like to speak with you, Antigone.” Her mother’s dark frown told her that it would not be pleasant. “I’ll just see to some refreshment while … Yes.”

And with that she disappeared out the door.

Antigone had no doubt that her mother went no farther than the back of the door, where she would press her ear to the panel and listen to every word, but if Lord Aldridge felt he needed the appearance of privacy in which to deliver his denouncement, then by all means, Antigone was prepared to let him have it. Anything to speed the thing along. Anything to help bring the painful association to its inevitable, rightful end.

“I fear your lordship has been waiting some while. Your horses have grown cold in this wet weather. I’ve ordered them blankets. It’s a raw day.”

“I thank you for that particular courtesy.” His lordship’s tone held the cold, clear chill of ice. “Though you might have spared me another.”

“Sir?” Antigone decided to remain standing while he sat. It gave her some semblance of position. And it subtly infuriated him when she wouldn’t act as he expected.

Lord Aldridge spoke as if it pained him to have to do anything so obvious as enlighten her. “I had a most alarming report from a friend. That not only were you seen out with the hunt in Ditcham country—gallivanting across the countryside, and desporting yourself over fences and ditches in a most unbecoming and alarming manner—but that you were also seen very publicly at a meeting of political agitators in Hampshire.”

Even without trying, it was all exactly as she had projected. For once society’s addiction to gossip had been of use in her favor, however inadvertently.