Amanda Scott (36 page)

“Nonsense, Newton,” declared a new and much deeper voice from the shadows of the threshold, drawing everyone’s attention to the tall broad-shouldered figure standing there. “Not all men recoil from healthy young females, I promise you.”

With a squeal of horror and a resounding clatter of metal against china, Pamela dropped her fork and clasped her hands together at her bosom. “M-Marcus!”

L
ADY LYFORD BLINKED MYOPIC
blue eyes at the newcomer. “You’re back,” she said flatly. “Set another place for his lordship, Frythorpe.” Then she added in the same colorless tone, “Not only do you show your poor manners by contradicting Spenser, Marcus, but he is perfectly right. Though good health may well be one of the greatest blessings of life, one ought never to flaunt it, or make a boast of it, or discuss it at all, for that matter. One simply enjoys it in grateful ladylike silence.”

Sir Spenser lowered his quizzing glass, nodded, and said with pontifical approval, “Very true, Almeria.”

Lyford stepped forward from the shadow of the doorway, revealing himself more clearly as he said on a note of irony, “I will accept your superior knowledge of the subject, Grandmother.”

Gwenyth stared, fascinated, for Lyford, like his grandmama, was nothing like what she had imagined. She had expected to find just another ordinary man, but he stood as tall as her brother-in-law Antony, who was very large indeed, and Lyford’s shoulders were even wider than Tallyn’s. His hair was so black it glinted with silver highlights in the glow cast by the chandelier above the table, and at first his eyes looked black too, until a gleam of light showed them to be a deep blue instead. He bore not the least hint of a man of fashion, for he wore riding dress, and his coat was cut so loosely as to seem at first that it must be someone else’s. Even his buckskin breeches were loose-fitting, though not so much so that may hid the hard muscles in his thighs. Only his snow-white neckcloth and his boots, polished to perfection, showed any sign of particular care.

“Leave the man be, Almeria,” Lady Cadogan interjected when the countess demanded to know why the earl had stayed away for so long. “He must be wanting his dinner.”

Sir Spenser coughed delicately. “Wants to change his dress first, I expect.”

Lyford glanced at him, his face expressionless. “I’ve ordered a tray sent to my library, I’m afraid, for I’ve a number of letters to write. I’d intended to return yesterday, but”—his glance, hardening noticeably, shifted to Pamela, who still watched him in wide-eyed shock—“other matters requiring my attention were drawn to my notice. Pamela, you will oblige me by coming to me when you have finished your meal.”

Her eyes grew even wider, and she nibbled her lower lip. Then, as he turned to leave, she stammered, “M-Marcus, please, you must—” The sternness of his expression when he turned back stopped her mid-sentence. She gulped, visibly.

When he was certain that she would not continue, he said gently, “Do not be all night about it, if you please. I have a number of things I want to say to you.”

“Lyford is her guardian, you see,” Lady Cadogan explained in an audible aside to Sir Spenser.

“Good gracious,” exclaimed Lady Lyford. “Of course—Beckley! Why did I not recall the name at once, I wonder? Marcus’s mother was a Beckley, was she not?”

“She was my father’s sister, ma’am,” Pamela said, throwing another anxious glance at Lyford, who had not yet left the room.

“Then you are certainly the schoolgirl to whom Marcus stands guardian,” declared Lady Lyford on a note of satisfaction, having at last made the final connection for herself. “But surely,” she added before Pamela could speak, “you are too old for school, my gel. You look to be twenty at least.”

“Only just nearing eighteen, ma’am, but”—sensing allies at hand, she shot a defiant look at Lyford—“definitely too old to be kept in school.”

“That remains to be seen,” he said. “Don’t dawdle. I will be waiting for you.” He turned and left the room, at which point Pamela’s bravado deserted her completely, and she looked quickly down at her plate.

Lady Lyford, turning to Sir Spenser, went on to describe in exact detail the relationship of Pamela to Lyford, and thus to herself and to her late husband. Under cover of that steady discourse, Gwenyth watched as Pamela struggled to regain her composure. When it looked like being a losing battle, she decided to take a hand, thinking it would not do to have the younger girl’s behavior elicit more revealing questions from the countess or her gentleman friend.

“Pamela,” she said gently at the first lull in Lady Lyford’s monologue, “you have been fighting fatigue all day long, and now you look ready to drop. Perhaps you will forgive us, ma’am,” she added, looking at the countess, “if I take Miss Beckley up to her bedchamber now and see her quietly settled.”

Lady Lyford glanced at Pamela. “She does look interestingly pale, to be sure, but first you must take her to Marcus. He will be vastly displeased if she just slips off to bed, which will make everyone uncomfortable. But, Gwenyth, I trust you won’t desert us too, for I’d hoped to take advantage of your presence, and Sir Spenser’s, for a rubber of whist before I retire.”

“I shall be happy to play, ma’am,” Gwenyth said, “as soon as Pamela has spoken with her cousin and I see her tucked up in her bed.” Glancing at her aunt and noting that the speculative gleam had returned to that lady’s eyes, she stood up and laid her hand upon Pamela’s arm. “Come, dear, you must get some rest.”

Pamela stiffened, and it seemed for a moment that she would resist, but when Gwenyth’s hand tightened, she sighed and said, “Very well, but this is not at all what I wished for, you know.”

Before Lady Lyford or anyone else could demand to know what Pamela meant by such a statement, Gwenyth whisked her out of the room. It was necessary to ask one of the footmen to show them the way to his lordship’s bookroom in the east wing, but when the proper door was indicated, Gwenyth dismissed the man, assuring him that there was no need to announce them.

“Oh, Gwen,” Pamela said, dissolving into tears, “I cannot go in there. I simply cannot. He will send you away, and then he will … Oh, gracious, I do not know what he will do. But he is so angry. You could see that much. Anyone could. And he is so big. I had forgotten how big! Oh, how did he know I was here? He will make me do what he wants me to do, and I shan’t be able to stop him. I wish we hadn’t come!”

“I will stop him,” Gwenyth said tartly. “Now, no vapors, Pamela, and do not argue with me. He will hear you, and then matters will go precisely as you have predicted. If I can talk to him first, perhaps I can throw a rub in his way.” Glancing swiftly around the hall in which they stood, she indicated a door across the way. “Do you go in there and wait for me.”

“What is in there?”

“Well, how should I know, for pity’s sake? Just go in there and wait. He can’t eat me. Indeed, he has no authority over me, so even if he chooses to express his feelings, that is the most he can do, and I have learned to manage Joss, after all. Heaven knows he has a terrible temper and is perfectly capable of reacting violently when one least expects him to do so, but even Joss would not lay hands on a woman to whom he is unrelated, so I’ve nothing to fear from Lyford. Just leave him to me.”

Pamela insisted that Gwenyth accompany her into the room, to be certain that it was empty and to light the lamps so that she would not be left sitting in the dark. Though Gwenyth did so gladly, once she returned to the hall, she found herself standing in some trepidation before the bookroom door, remembering his lordship’s size and undoubted power. Assuring herself that what she was doing was not the least bit unusual or dangerous, that she was merely helping a friend in need, she squared her shoulders and opened the door.

Lyford looked up expectantly from the letter he was writing at the large lamp-lit leather-topped desk set at an angle to the fireplace, where a healthy fire crackled, sending flames leaping high, with an occasional noisy burst of sparks. When Gwenyth entered and shut the door behind her, the earl put down his pen and got to his feet with a frown.

“Where is my cousin, Lady Gwenyth?”

“You know my name?” she said, remembering that during his brief visit to the dining room, no introductions had been made.

“Miss Fletcher suggested that Pamela would go to you,” he explained, “and it was a simple matter to learn from your butler that you had come here. I suppose I must thank you for restoring her to my care, but I had rather you had returned her to school.”

“There was no point to that, sir,” Gwenyth said steadily. “Your plan will not answer, you know. ’Twould cause a dreadful scandal, for too many people will know your purpose.”

His eyebrows lifted in puzzlement. “Plan? Purpose?”

Gwenyth stepped lightly to a tapestry armchair near his desk and sat down. “Pray, sir, do not attempt to prevaricate. It does not become you. Moreover, Pamela has told me everything.”

As he slowly took his seat, she looked directly into his eyes, challenging him, and when he did not attempt to look away, but steadily returned her gaze, her breath caught sharply in her throat. She had never seen eyes of so dark a blue, nor had she ever felt so strong a physical response from her body to a simple exchange of looks. Not only was it difficult to breathe, but her mouth was dry and her hands felt damp upon the mahogany arms of her chair. She wished he would speak, though she suddenly experienced a thrill of fear at what he might choose to say to her. Surreptitiously she moved her hands to her lap, attempting to pat them dry on her skirt.

For a moment Lyford looked as stunned as she felt, but he did not take his gaze from hers. Then his lips twitched a little, as though he might smile.

Gwenyth’s attention was drawn by the tiny movement, and when she realized that she was staring at his mouth, thinking only how full his lower lip was and how soft it must be, her cheeks grew hot. What it must feel like when he … With a start, she said sharply, “Have you nothing to say for yourself, sir?”

His mouth twisted then into a wry grimace. “I can scarcely defend myself when I know not the charge, my lady. Perhaps you would care to speak more to the point. What is this ‘everything’ of which I stand accused?”

She spoke quickly—too quickly. “You have kept poor Pamela incarcerated at Miss Fletcher’s for no purpose other than to suit your own convenience. Do you dare to deny the fact that she is a considerable heiress?”

“Not at all. ‘Considerable’ would be an apt description.”

The calm reply steadied her, gave her confidence. “Do you dare deny that the estate you inherited is heavily encumbered?”

His expression changed then, dramatically, and Gwenyth shivered at both its harshness and the glint of steel in his eyes. He folded his hands on the desk, but she did not believe for a moment that the gesture was a casual one; it was as though each hand restrained the other in order to keep him from strangling her. She found that she could not look away from them; neither could she speak or swallow.

He said softly, “I do not believe that my affairs are any concern of yours, Lady Gwenyth, so we will not continue this discussion. It is of no use for you to champion Pamela, in any event. She has disobeyed me, and she will return to school because it is my considered opinion that it is the safest place for her to be until I can turn my attention from more important matters to provide for her future.”

Goaded by the note of dismissal in his voice, Gwenyth said, “Until you can arrange to marry her yourself, you mean.”

He stiffened. “Until what?”

Determined not to let him frighten her more than he already had, she said firmly, “You heard me, sir, and you need not think that I shall remain silent on the subject if you attempt such an odious stratagem. I move in the very best circles, as I am sure you must know, and I promise you that if you try to force that poor young woman to marry you, I will see your name trampled in the mud. I can do it, Lyford. She is not for the likes of you.”

More than anything just then did she want to look away from him, to fix her eyes upon nothing more dangerous than the brass oil lamp aglow on his desk, but she would not give him that satisfaction. She forced herself to look directly at him, meeting the dark and angry glare, commanding her body to behave itself no matter how fierce he became.

To her astonishment, the hard line of his mouth softened and his eyes began to twinkle. “Pamela is scarcely the wife I would choose for myself,” he said, his amusement audible in his voice. “I do not customarily dangle after self-centered schoolgirls, Lady Gwenyth. Indeed, you are much more the sort of woman I should look for to warm my bed and to care for me in my dotage.”

She stood up swiftly, indignantly, and stamped her foot. “I should be much more likely to snatch your hair from your scalp, sir, than to warm your bed. Don’t you dare to make mock of me!”

“Acquit me,” he said, also rising, albeit with less haste, and stepping around his desk to confront her. “I should much rather make love to you than mock you.”

“Stand where you are, my lord,” Gwenyth said, white-faced with anger. “If you cannot discuss Pamela’s situation with me without spouting nonsense, I shall take my leave of you.”

He moved nearer, saying softly, “If I send Pamela back to school, will you have to go away too?”

“Well, of course …” The thought of leaving Molesford Abbey was suddenly, despite her anger, a most unappealing one. Collecting herself, she repeated firmly, “Of course I would go. I only came with Pamela.” Then, realizing that he was almost upon her, she swallowed her pride and said quickly, “Please, sir, stay where you are. You are beginning to frighten me.”

He stopped at once, with a rueful grimace. “I confess, I meant to do so, but only a little. Whatever were you thinking of to come in here alone? You don’t know me. Indeed, from the sound of it, you believe me to be some sort of villainous beast. Yet you traipse unchaperoned into my lair. Are you mad?”

Ignoring the strange feeling of disappointment that colored her relief when he stopped moving toward her, Gwenyth said, “Not mad, sir, only angry and concerned for Pamela. Think how you would have felt had your people left you to kick your heels at school once you were old enough to leave. Not that you would have stayed, of course.” She sighed. “Everything is different for men.”