Lady Sarah's Redemption (39 page)

Babbage had not lied
when he had called Lady Chesterfield a beauty. His use of the term ‘exotic’
was, perhaps, a little off the mark. ‘Classic English Rose’ was a more apt
description; although perhaps Babbage had been referring to the young lady’s
unusually sun-kissed complexion and taste in attire, for the gown that barely
clothed Lady Chesterfield this evening was considerably less modestly cut than
the type of evening gown most English women favoured. Not that Ashley was
complaining. It was always a pleasure to dine with a beautiful woman,
especially one not too shy to display her ample charms to best advantage. It
might explain, too, the reason her husband didn’t look very happy, although
that could, just as likely, be due to the nature of the business which had
brought them together.

Rampton raised his glass
to his guests and fixed Lady Chesterton with an appreciative look as he
proposed the toast.

“To a pleasant evening
and the satisfactory completion of our business.”

It was unlike him to mix
business with pleasure. Boredom, had been to blame. When his friend Babbage had
sworn he would repay his loan to Rampton within the sennight, then reneged with
the surprising excuse that he was reluctant to press the lady who owed him the
necessary means to do so, Rampton had been unsympathetic. But when Babbage had
elaborated upon the evening he and the ‘exotic’ beauty had spent together,
Rampton had, despite himself, been intrigued. To his surprise, he had found
himself absolving Babbage of his debt by taking on Lady Chesterfield’s debt in
lieu ... For no better reason than that he wanted to see for himself whether
this apparently fascinating young woman would enthral him as much as the
notoriously difficult to impress Babbage.

“I hope you are enjoying
your visit to London, Lady Chesterfield,” he said, conversationally. “My
friend, Adrian Babbage–whom you will no doubt recall,” he added, his
smile sly, “tells me you have spent your life in the West Indies and this is
your first visit to your father’s home. You must still be adjusting to the
climate.”

“I daresay I will not be
here long enough to get used to it, Lord Rampton,” said Rose, coolly. She
disliked the way her host’s eyes travelled languorously from her décolletage to
her face when he spoke. Certainly they were very fine eyes: a piercing blue,
but the supercilious arch of the eyebrows disconcerted her. And while his
unconcealed admiration was certainly balm to her self confidence, the collusion
in their depths hinted at a whole world of which she knew nothing.

She forced a smile. It
was important not to put him off-side. “Once this unsavoury business has been
attended to, and my sister–” she caught herself just in time– “-in-law
launched, we will return home.”

Fighting the urge to
slump and hide as much of herself as possible beneath the table Rose held
herself proudly. Self conscious though she felt in Helena’s outrageously
daring, diaphanous silver and white evening gown, she knew any attempts at
appearing coy or modest would only look contrived and draw further attention to
what she wished, heartily, was not quite so obviously on show. She must not
look down and frighten herself with the sight of how much bosom was revealed,
although the faint breeze that ruffled the curtains and caressed her bare skin
was a constant reminder. Edith had assured her that although she looked every
inch the seductress, she was not, actually, indecent. It was small consolation.

Unaccustomed to male
attention, Rose was unnerved by Lord Rampton’s lazy, confident smile. He looked
like a man used to getting his own way.

Well, Rose knew how to
get her own way too. Success depended upon managing Lord Rampton in the same
artful manner she managed her stubborn brother and her volatile, unpredictable
sister-in-law. She must play the seductress, as naturally and consummately as
Helena, the catalyst and inspiration for this whole charade.

Leaning slightly across
the table, she contrived a faintly seductive pout, surprised at how easily it
came ...
 
and disconcerted by how
much she enjoyed the results.

Charles had tried,
several times, to interject. Characteristically he had allowed himself to be
quelled by an impatient response from Lord Rampton. Rose felt vindicated. Of
course she had had no choice but to have come this evening. Her brother was
completely out of his depth.

And he looked it. But
was he, Rose wondered, aware of the almost collaborative smiles their host continued
to direct at her? Her skin tingled.

Rose had always been
surprised that Charles was not firmer with Helena on the subject of wardrobe.
Until now she had never realised the licence marriage gave one to behave as one
chose, rather than as one ought. An unmarried woman, dressed and behaving as
she was now would have been labelled ‘unconscionably fast’.

Dropping her eyes
beneath Lord Rampton’s admiring gaze Rose encountered her reflection in the
highly polished silver epergne that formed the table centrepiece. Edith had
worked wonders with her appearance. She had never realised she could look so
good. Heightened expectation coursed through her.

For the first time she
questioned whether a life of subsistence was the only future? With the kind of
confidence that now buoyed her she felt capable of anything. Then she
remembered the size of the debt owed this man would suck the lifeblood out of
even their marginal existence. What was she doing dreaming of gilded futures
when it was not too extreme to say a life in debtor’s prison or the workhouse
was a distinct possibility if she could not appease this man?

She took a deep,
sustaining breath, flicking her tongue over dry lips. Lord Rampton, she
realised, was waiting for her to broach the subject which had brought them to
his dinner table.

“I realise, Lord
Rampton, you are owed rather a lot of money. Mr Babbage, however, indicated
that ...”

The beautiful Lady
Chesterfield’s hesitation, and the sudden colour that flooded her cheeks piqued
Rampton’s curiosity. He waited for her to finish, recalling Babbage’s colourful
account of this young woman’s conduct one wild night the previous week. It was
all the more intriguing for, while Lady Chesterfield was certainly as beautiful
as she had been painted, her demeanour did not accord with Babbage’s
description. In surprising contrast with her gown there had been lapses
indicating Lady Chesterfield’s confidence was not as iron-clad as she would
have him believe.

“What did Mr Babbage say
he was prepared to be, Lady Chesterfield?” Rampton prompted, unconcerned that,
to his own ears, he sounded condescending. His efforts were rewarded as he
watched the blush deepen and noted the difficulty she had in responding. He had
not expected such sport when he had asked the beautiful Lady Chesterfield and
her lily-livered husband to dinner.

“Patient, Lord Rampton.”

“Ah, but there we
differ, Lady Chesterfield. You see, Mr Babbage is a very patient man. At least,
he is where beautiful women are concerned.” Rampton took a sip of his wine, savouring
it, and the moment. “I, on the other hand, am not.”

With amusement he
observed the way her fingers clenched the stem of her wine glass and the
obvious effort with which she forced herself to relax. She toyed with her glass
before glancing at him over the rim, flirtation in her tone as she murmured,
“Mr Babbage is a gentleman.”

His lips curled at the
inherent implication. “Whereas I am not?”

The seductive gleam that
lit up her large blue eyes, and the curve of her mouth ─ shaped more like
a rosebud than the full, sensuous look he generally preferred ─ went a
long way towards explaining the effect this young woman had had on Rampton’s
erstwhile debtor. He felt a moment’s exultation as he held her gaze. He could
read complicity in their depths. Yes, he thought with satisfaction, with the
Chesterfields as hard pressed for ready funds as rumour had it there would be
no difficulty coming to some mutual agreement with the beautiful Lady
Chesterfield whereby no money need be exchanged. Unconsciously he ran the tip
of his tongue over his top lip as he returned a somewhat wolfish smile,
motioning to the footman who hovered at the sideboard to bring more wine. Here
was the return on his investment this evening, considering the other diversions
he had sacrificed.

“A gentleman?” repeated
his lovely guest with evident amusement. “I am forced to reserve judgement,
Lord Rampton. Time alone will tell.”

It could be an
entertaining season, thought Ashley, anticipation surging through his loins. He
was without a mistress and she was an exquisite looking creature, long married
and clearly disenchanted with the husband no doubt chosen for her.

“Yes,” he considered.
“But Mr Babbage has no head for business. Which is why he is perpetually in
debt and I am not. Nevertheless, Lady Chesterfield–” He inclined his
head, smiling, ignoring Charles. “I am confident we can come to some
arrangement.”

Yes, he was sure of it.
He would not call in the debt. Once Lady Chesterfield had launched her
sister-in-law, she and her husband would return to the West Indies. All that
differed from the original plan was that, between now and then, he and Lady
Chesterfield would have enjoyed a little more pleasure than anticipated. One
only had to spend five minutes in their company to see that neither Lord or
Lady Chesterfield were likely to object.

Beverley Eikli wrote her first
romance novel when she was seventeen. However, drowning the heroine on the last
page (p550!) was, she discovered, not in the spirit of the genre so her romance-writing
career ground to a halt and she became a journalist.

Throwing in her secure job on a
metropolitan daily to manage a luxury safari lodge in the Okavango Delta, in
Botswana, led her into a new world of romance and adventure: living in a
thatched cottage in the middle of a mopane forest with the handsome bush pilot
she met around a camp fire.

Seventeen years later, after
exploring the world in the back of Cessna 404s and CASA 212s during low-level survey
sorties over the French Guyanese jungle and Greenland's ice cap, Beverley is
back in Australia living a more conventional life with her husband and two
daughters in a pretty country town an hour north of Melbourne

She writes traditional Regency
Romance as Beverley Eikli and sensual or erotic historical romance as Beverley
Oakley.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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