A Kiss from the Heart (7 page)

“He is in London pursuing a life of idleness whilst his brother, Alec, is running the estate as best he can.”

Miranda shook her head in disbelief.

‘Can this be the same boy I saved when we were children?' she wondered. ‘He was never a coward then, what could have happened to him in India to have turned him?'

“It has been many years since I last saw him,” she murmured. “But I confess that what you say is shocking. His mother must be beside herself with worry.”

She stared into the distance, disbelief clouding her lovely features.

“Come now,” he insisted. “You must not concern yourself with these matters. You have enough troubles of your own. Let us proceed to the drawing room as I have some new paintings I wish to show you – ”

As her father waited for her to rise from the table, Miranda's thoughts were fully occupied.

Now it was not Lord Brookfield and his unwanted attentions she was thinking about or her mother, so sorely absent from The Grange –

But the boy who she swore she would love forever when she was seven years old –

The Earl awoke the next morning with a bad taste in his mouth and a foul humour seeping from every pore.

He could see by the amount of light penetrating the curtains that it was late morning and he groaned inwardly as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.

Constance's rasping angry screams and her vitriolic denouncement of him as a cad rang in his ears and he felt more than a hint of shame at his behaviour.

Pushing it to the back of his mind, he swung both legs over the side of his bed and walked towards the bell push.

The effort made his head thump and he staggered back to the warmth of his comfortable sheets and quickly climbed back in between them.

A few moments later, Monkhouse was in the room, asking what he required.

“Coffee, please and some bacon,” he said, wearily massaging his throbbing temples.

“And a powder, my Lord?”

“Thank you, Monkhouse,” he replied gratefully.

His valet was worth his weight in gold and did not, unlike his mother, judge him.

Was it guilt that was making him feel so off-colour today?

‘I certainly did not drink too much last night,' he murmured to himself. ‘Just the half bottle of champagne in Constance's dressing room.'

He rubbed his tired features and wondered how he might occupy himself today.

As Monkhouse returned with his breakfast tray, the pretty face of Serena de Montfort, so fetchingly attired for the summer, floated in front of him.

He smiled to himself.

Had she not positively encouraged him to call upon her that week? The week when her parents would not be at home?

A new sense of daring coursed through his veins as he hungrily bit into a forkful of bacon.

‘Why should I not pay her a visit?' he pondered. ‘A little amusing conversation and tea – it will just be quite innocent fun.'

As he unbuttoned his silk nightshirt, he grinned to himself in anticipation of a pleasant afternoon's diversion.

‘There can be really no harm in calling upon an acquaintance,' he told himself, quite dismissing any notion that his arrival at the elegant Mount Street residence might be viewed as positive encouragement by Miss de Montfort.

*

The Countess had gone out by the time he came downstairs.

“Where is my mother?” he asked Hiscock.

“She is visiting the Duchess of Londonderry, my Lord.”

“Ah, so she is in London for the Season – ”

He knew that the energetic Duchess would keep his mother fully occupied.

“I believe so, my Lord.”

The Earl nodded and proceeded to the study. The many ominous green ledgers were still there untouched as was the pile of correspondence that seemed to mount daily.

‘Perhaps I should request Miss Jenkins, Papa's old secretary, to come here to deal with all this,' he sighed, having no intention of taking responsibility for it himself.

He sat down in a chair at the desk and slid a gold-embossed invitation towards him. It was from the Marquis of Strathclyde, asking both him and his mother to a ball.

He sighed as he realised that even if they did attend, he would still be under the strict code of mourning that forbade dancing or conspicuous consumption of alcohol.

A cough alerted him to Monkhouse standing on the threshold of the room.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Will you be requiring luncheon today, my Lord?”

“No thank you, Monkhouse,” he answered, thankful that his headache appeared to have disappeared at last. “I am going out shortly and will ring for a cold beef sandwich if I require one on my return.”

“Shall I now arrange for the carriage to be brought round, my Lord?”

“No,” said the Earl, with a hint of a smile playing around his lips. “I intend to walk to my destination.”

The valet backed out of the room and left the Earl to his thoughts. He picked up the invitation once more and idly twirled it round, wondering what the afternoon held in store for him.

*

At a little after two-thirty, the Earl picked up his top hat and made himself presentable in the ornate mirror that hung over the hall table.

He now viewed his reflection with more than a little satisfaction – considering that he had felt terrible when he awoke, the face staring back at him was clean, handsome and attractive.

Brook Street was awash with people, carriages and horses as he strode the short distance to Mount Street. He moved briskly through the throng and hoped that Miss de Montfort would be at home.

If she were not, he had already decided to visit his Club for a pleasant afternoon reading the newspapers.

On his arrival the Earl pulled hard on the bell that he heard ring somewhere in the depths of the house.

His heart began to race unexpectedly as he heard footsteps coming towards him and the door swung open.

The de Montfort butler was an imposing figure with a face like a funeral director.

“Yes, my Lord?”

The Earl marvelled at how the man seemed to have the ability to divine the status of visitors even before they had produced a calling card.

“Is Miss de Montfort at home?” he now enquired, proffering his card.

“Please come into the hall and I shall enquire, my Lord,” replied the butler, looking at the card with obvious relish.

The hall was not dissimilar in proportions to that of the Earl's own London home. There was an oil painting of a rather stern-looking gentleman astride a horse on the far wall and an unlit chandelier hung overhead.

The butler reappeared and immediately bade him to accompany him to the drawing room.

As he walked through the door and announced him, Serena de Montfort, who had artfully arranged herself on the pale-blue sofa to considerable effect, turned her head and dropped the needlework frame from her hands.

“Lord Templeton! Such a delightful surprise!” she cried, her blue eyes sparkling like glazed china. “Morton, bring us some tea and cakes at once!”

The butler disappeared with a bow, leaving the Earl towering over the delicate figure of Serena.

“Please, sit down beside me,” she urged, patting the sofa. “I am so very glad you decided to pay me a call.”

“It was a fine day and I found myself desirous of seeing you again, and I confess, I have not been able to stop thinking about you ever since our chance encounter in Hyde Park earlier in the week.”

She blushed – rather prettily, he thought.

“I did not expect that you would come,” she cooed, shyly casting her eyelashes downwards and then looking up over them.

With her elegant head freed of any decoration, the Earl thought her quite enchanting.

Her hair was so dark, it was almost the colour of a raven's wing, while her skin was just as white as alabaster.

Yet there was something about the arrangement of her features that was not quite symmetrical and as she spoke, the spell she had cast upon him began to pall.

The tea arrived.

“You simply must sample cook's delicious coconut cake!” she urged, gesturing to Morton to cut a slice. “And the raspberry tarts are divine – they are fresh raspberries, you know, from Papa's estate in Hertfordshire.”

The Earl attacked the delicacies on his plate with relish. It was now some hours since he had eaten breakfast and his stomach was beginning to rumble.

“I did not realise that your father owned an estate in Hertfordshire,” he responded, making polite conversation. “As you said he was in Bournemouth, I assumed his estate was in Hampshire.”

“Oh, yes, we have another house at Boscombe,” she rambled on, catching a crumb from her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It belongs to Grandmama. She's frightfully old, but still very active. Papa has some business to attend to and will be staying with her for the duration of his visit.”

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed three o'clock and a silence fell between them.

In spite of himself, the Earl just could not prevent himself from focusing on her slightly off-kilter features.

‘Why had I not seen it before?' he wondered, as she drifted on about her mother's relations in Cheltenham and how disappointing she had found this Season so far.

He finished the last raspberry tart and wondered if he could manage to draw his visit to a close before four o'clock.

“Are you in London for long?”

He stared at her. He had been so utterly lost in his own thoughts that he had not been listening to a word she had been saying.

“Oh, I, er, until Papa's affairs are concluded.”

He knew what she was thinking and it made him uncomfortable and a little irritated.

‘Dash them all!' he ruminated. ‘Why do they all sit in judgement?'

Miss de Montfort set down her plate and took his. As she did so, her fingers lightly brushed his and he realised that she was staring coquettishly into his eyes.

“Will you be attending the Strathclyde's ball?” she enquired, scarcely able to tear her gaze away from his face.

She fluttered her long eyelashes and put her head on one side in what she believed to be a flirtatious manner.

“I have not decided as yet,” he said, as a feeling of being caught in a sticky cake-laden trap swept over him.

“Oh, but you must go!” she chided. “All the most important people will be there!”

“It depends upon how Mama feels about attending such an event when we are still in mourning,” he said in a tone that he hoped would prevent further discussion of the topic.

“Naturally,” she answered, feeling embarrassed that she had pressed the matter so.

The clock struck half-past three and the Earl began to wish he were elsewhere. A deep sense of gloom was now threatening to envelope him.

‘Why is it no one can ever hold my attention?' he thought, as she turned the topic of conversation to their new carriage. ‘No sooner do I find a woman attractive, than I begin to see faults in her that render her unappealing in my eyes.'

At last, at precisely four o'clock, he rose, unable to bear another moment in her company.

“I am afraid I have to leave,” he said in a voice that he hoped was soothing and placatory. “I have an appointment at my Club.”

“Oh,” she remarked flatly.

She rose and moved close to him – close enough, should he desire, for him to tilt the pointed chin and kiss the red lips that he knew would not resist his.

“I do apologise for terminating my visit to you so abruptly,” he continued. “I had not realised the time.”

He gave a thin smile and hoped she would not take offence. After all he could not forget that his mother was friendly with her aunt.

She turned her face up to his in expectation. There was a tense pause and then he took her hand and kissed it. He could see that she was now disappointed that he had not taken what was so freely offered, but the consequences of trifling with Miss de Montfort were far greater than any of his other dalliances.

He bowed and returned her hand to her side. She immediately placed her other hand over it, so as to feel the warmth and moisture left by his lips.

Turning she walked towards the servants' bell and rang for Morton.

“I cannot hide that I am disappointed you cannot stay a while longer,” she said, as they waited for Morton to appear with the Earl's hat. “But perhaps we will chance upon each other again soon?”

“Yes, that would be most agreeable,” he replied, placing his hat on his head quite firmly.

With a short bow he took his leave and bade her farewell. He did not look back as he did not wish to see her in tears. And he felt instinctively that she would weep as soon as he had left.

Upon returning home Hiscock presented him with a letter that had arrived in his absence.

As soon as he glimpsed the flowery hand, he knew who it was from.

“Constance,” he sighed, as he threw himself down onto the sofa in the bright drawing room.

He held the letter and then pulled it open.

“
Dearest Robert,
” it read. “
I have to see you! We cannot leave things as they are –
”

Without reading the rest, he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it on to the floor.

“Damn all women!” he spat with a furious curl of his lip.

*

The Earl spent the next few days feeling as if he was the quarry for a hunt organised by all the women in his life. Instead of going out carousing he spent much of his time closeted indoors away from the hurly-burly outside.

He gave Hiscock strict instructions that he was not at home especially to any lady callers, and he ignored the flurry of letters bearing feminine handwriting that dropped constantly through the letterbox.

Then one morning at breakfast, there came a fateful missive that caused the Countess to drop her cereal spoon with a clatter.