Carisbrooke Abbey (12 page)

And why should he? Hilary asked herself. Seeing him with Miss Palmer came as a timely reminder that the young beauty was the kind of woman he was likely to marry. He might not like Veronica, but she was of his world, and would be a suitable match. Perhaps, even now, he was formulating a plan to make her his wife.

A part of her thought that such an idea did not fit with what she knew of his personality - he clearly had no liking for Miss Palmer, and Hilary could not imagine him marrying without it - but another part of her said that she must not let her thoughts degenerate into wishful thinking. If he married a young lady he did not much care for, simply because she was eligible, he would be doing nothing more than leading the life led by most other man of his rank; a lifestyle that did not hold a place for a penniless, plain young woman.

Her spirits sank, because despite the fact that he was above her station in life, Lord Carisbrooke was the most intriguing man she had ever met. He was rude, it was true, and yet beneath his gruff exterior lay something very real. What it was she did not know, but she wanted to find out. What drove him? What troubles had shaped his character? Why was he so curmudgeonly? And why had he let her see something softer that lurked beneath?

Mr Ulverstone addressed a remark to her, and she gave him her attention. She must not let her preoccupation with Lord Carisbrooke show.

It was not long before Lund came in and announced dinner. Lord Carisbrooke gave Miss Palmer his arm, which she took with alacrity, fluttering her long eyelashes at him and favouring him with one of her sweetest smiles.

Mr Ulverstone hesitated. Hilary could see that he was torn. He should, by rights, offer his arm to Mrs Palmer, but clearly he did not want to do so. Besides, having offered his hand to Hilary, he no doubt felt he should offer her his arm as well. Mrs Palmer settled the matter for him by taking his arm without waiting for it to be offered, and almost dragging him into the dining-room, leaving Hilary to follow on behind.

The time spent over dinner was no better than the time beforehand. Miss Palmer continued to simper and flirt, and her mother indulged her, whilst Lord Carisbrooke did nothing to check her. If Hilary could have excused herself, she would have done so. The conversation ranged over people and topics she knew nothing about, and no attempt was made to include her, so that she was glad when dinner finally came to an end.

The ladies rose.

Once in the drawing-room, the full extent of Miss Palmer’s spiteful nature was revealed.

‘You needn’t think to set your cap at Marcus,’ she said, as soon as the drawing-room door was closed behind them. ‘He is not so lost to all sense as to marry you.’

‘I never thought he was for an instant,’ returned Hilary, stung.

‘Oh, didn’t you, though? Your kind are all the same. Scheming, nasty little hussies, on the hunt for a rich husband so that you can force yourselves on your betters. But you have no need to put on airs with me. I know what you are. Don’t I. Mama?’ she asked, appealing to her mother for support.

‘Of course you do, my angel. But you have nothing to fear from this drab creature. Lord Carisbrooke is not such a fool that he would pay her any attention when there is someone so much more beautiful nearby. Pray, do not distress yourself, my cherub. Now, what are you going to wear at the Grants’ ball?’

Miss Palmer became voluble on the subject of her dress, saying to her mother, ‘The white satin, I think, Mama. Or perhaps the embroidered muslin. Which do you think will be most likely to bring him up to scratch?’

Disgusted by the Palmers’ conversation, Hilary slipped over to the door.

‘Aye, about time too,’ said Miss Palmer, as she reached it. ‘Sitting in here, aping your betters. Get back to the servants’ hall, where you belong.’

Hilary left the room with a feeling of profound relief.

Once in the hall, she considered what to do. It was still too early for her to retire and so she decided to repair to the library, where she could continue her work until it was time for bed. She had almost finished organizing the first bookcase before dinner, and she wanted to see how it would look when it was done.

She crossed the cavernous hall and went into the library. The fire was still burning in the grate, but the candles were not lit. By the light of the fire she went over to the mantelpiece, and took a candle from the candelabra. Bending down, she lit it at the fire’s small flames, then used it to light the other candles. They shook and shivered before blossoming into life.

She turned her attention to the bookcase. It now presented an ordered appearance. Although it would most probably have to be rearranged when the other bookcases were organized, for the time being it was almost done. Everything pertaining to the abbey was arranged on the top two shelves, scrolls and manuscripts on the top shelf and books beneath. Then came the works of learning. Previous Carisbrookes had been interested in natural history and science, and books on travel were also well represented. Underneath came the novels.

She turned her attention to the table. A pile of books lay there, waiting to be sorted. Once she had done them she would have completed the first bookcase. Carrying a many-branched candlestick over to the side of the room, and placing it carefully so that no wax could spill onto any of the books by accident, she continued with her work. She had not been working for more than a quarter of an hour, however, when the door opened, and to her surprise, Lord Carisbrooke appeared.

‘What are you doing in here?’ he growled. He stood in the doorway, and the candlelight did not reach as far as his face. It was shadowed, and she could not read his expression.

‘I had some work I wanted to finish,’ she said.

‘Did you indeed?’ He came in. The door swung to behind him. ‘You should be in the drawing-room, entertaining my other guests.’

‘I don’t think I like their idea of entertainment.’

‘Do you not? You surprise me. Two hours ago, you were telling me that you were not fit to share the same table with them. I see your feelings have changed.’

She made no reply.

‘Can it be that you wanted to get away from the estimable Miss Palmer? Or perhaps it is her mother who does not suit your taste. Tell me, Miss Wentworth, which of my guests does not take your fancy?’

‘I really don’t think it is for me to say.’

‘But I am asking you, and I require a reply.’

Still she said nothing.

‘I shall, and will, have one,’ he growled.

‘Very well,’ said Hilary, turning to face him, ‘as you have asked, I like neither of your guests.’

‘And yet you were singing their praises earlier in the day. Elegant, I believe you described them as, and beautiful. Do you find Miss Palmer lacking in elegance, now you have seen her close to?’

‘No, I do not,’ she answered him honestly.

‘Then it is her beauty that is lacking.’

‘No indeed. She is everything that is lovely.’

‘She is, is she not? Those golden curls ...  that rosebud mouth ....She is like a fairy, wouldn’t you say? Tiny and ethereal, with a face and figure that are both enchanting.’

Hilary’s spirits sank, but she could not help agreeing.

‘And yet you do not like her.’

‘No, I don’t.’

He pursed his lips. ‘Do you know why she comes here?’ he asked.

‘No.’ She busied herself with the books, hoping he would leave her. The conversation was proving decidedly uncomfortable.

‘Because she wants to be the next Lady Carisbrooke,’ he said.

Hilary’s hands stilled. She had suspected as much. But to hear the words from his own lips made her grow cold.

‘You don’t approve,’ he said.

There was a strange note in his voice, part mocking, part hopeful, part questioning.

With an effort she roused herself from the deadness that had gripped her and began to sort the books again. ‘It isn’t for me to approve or disapprove. Your choice of wife is your own concern. I would not presume to offer an opinion.’

‘Then you think I should marry her.’

It came out as a remark and not a question.

She stopped what she was doing. She should say nothing. It was not her place. And besides, she could not trust herself to speak rationally on the subject. But something inside her would not be denied. She turned to look at him. Then, folding her hands in front of her, she said, ‘No, I do not.’

‘Oho.’ A gleam of something unfathomable lit his eye. ‘You don’t think I should marry her. Why not?’

There was no turning back. She had started. She must continue.

‘Because she will not make you happy,’ she said. ‘She is selfish and shallow, and she will not help to heal your pain.’ Her spirit spoke to his. ‘She will not dispel the darkness inside you.’

There was a deathly hush.

In the silence she became aware of every inch of him. She saw the hurt in his eyes and the droop of his mouth, the fall of his shoulders and the clenching of his hands.

He stood there like a statue, before her, and she became aware that he was fighting an inner battle. She dare not move. She dare not breathe. If she did, she was afraid of breaking the moment and pushing him back into his private hell.

The logs crackled in the hearth.

Then even they became still.

But it was not peaceful. There was no true contentment. Instead, the silence was ominous, like the calm before a thunder storm.

I should not have spoken, she thought with sudden fear, as the tension began to mount. The air was becoming thick, buffeting her with a force that emanated from him as he wrestled with his inner demons. It grew and grew, until it had become almost unbearable in its intensity.

And then it broke in great tidal waves, and the crusty armour with which he had surrounded himself began to crack. She could see it happening as he stood there in the candlelight. His whole body began to change. The tension that had twisted him was cracking and splitting asunder, and beneath it he was coming to life. The pain was on the surface now, where she could reach it, and heal it ... if he would let her.

‘Do you think a wife could do that?’ he asked.

Her eyes were drawn to his and she felt herself grow weak.

But now was not the moment for weakness. Now was the moment for strength.

Lifting her chin, she said, ‘I do.’

She saw him walking towards her, and she began to tremble. Every inch of her began to shake. She longed for him. For his touch. His caress.

And then he was standing in front of her.

She could feel the heat of him, generated by his body, as it almost touched hers. She could see the lines on his face. They were etched across his forehead. She could smell the musky scent of him. She could see the rise and fall of his powerful chest, and fell the whisper of his breath on her skin.

‘Perhaps there is one who could manage it,’ he said throatily.

Then the air was filled with a new energy, a freshness and vibrancy that made her spirits soar. Her focus sharpened. She saw him with greater clarity than she had ever seen him before. She noticed every hair, every pore, every bristle on his chin.

As he lifted his hand a shiver ran over her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Every one of her senses was heightened, and without him even touching her he made her body react.

She could tell by the look in his eyes that the experience was as new to him as it was to her. It was unexplored territory for both of them, this powerful attraction of body, spirit and soul.

His fingers stroked her face and her shivers intensified. She felt as though no one had ever touched her before.

‘So smooth,’ he said, as he ran his fingers over her skin. ‘So soft,’ he went on, as he turned his hand over and trailed the back of it across her cheek.

She trembled with anticipation.

‘Your skin is like the petal of a rose,’ he murmured huskily. ‘When I brushed your ankle through the tear in your stocking on the day of our first meeting I was aware of it, and I have never forgotten the feeling. I have dreamed of it ever since.’

He ran his fingers over her head. They were impeded by her knot of hair. He pulled out the pins, and let it fall about her shoulders. Then he ran his hands through it.

‘You should not be doing this,’ she protested.

But she made no move to stop him. It felt wonderful to be cherished by him. She cared nothing for the danger, but wanted it to go on for ever.

‘I know.’ He took her face between his hands, and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Better than you can ever do. But for one sweet moment I want to pretend ... ’

His voice tailed away. He bent his head. He kissed her. As his lips brushed hers she trembled from head to foot. The touch of his lips was so gentle that she barely felt it, but she felt its effects as it sent rivers of tingles up her arms and down her legs. She was drowning in the new and wonderful feelings, enlivening, exhilarating, almost unbearable in their intensity. And then, as his mouth moved more firmly over hers, it took her to another world altogether, opening up new horizons she had never even dreamed of. She found herself responding, her mouth moving under his with instinctive understanding, and a passion to match his own.

His arms slid round her waist, pulling her closer, and in return her arms twined themselves round his neck.

They were so close there was nothing between them. The line of their bodies met and held, the front of his jacket merging with the wool of her gown, so that it was impossible to tell where he ended and she began.

She felt him deepen the kiss and her lips parted in unknowing invitation. She was lost to all reason, forgetting that she was a lowly librarian whilst he was an earl; forgetting, too, that a secret still lay between them; knowing only that it felt wonderful to be held by him and that she never wanted the moment to end.

She had never known it would feel like this to be kissed. It was an explosion of senses, an exhilaration she had never even dreamed of, an all-consuming experience that almost overwhelmed her. She revelled in the feel of his mouth, the texture of his lips, the taste of him, a sensation so new yet so right she felt she had been born to experience it. She was locked in the moment, no future, no past, only present, with Marcus pressing her closer and devouring her with his kiss.