Midsummer Eve at Rookery End (6 page)

Deborah shook her head, a smile trembling on her lips as she reached up to caress the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. “There has only ever been you, Benedict. I received several offers of marriage, but I could never forget the way we loved each other once and I was unwilling to settle for less. When I saw you earlier, I knew in my heart that I loved you still.”

A long, shuddering breath escaped him.

Gazing into her eyes, he wiped away the tear trickling down her cheek. Then, he dragged her into a crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair and savouring the feel of her body next to his. His arms tightened around her and he sighed deeply.

“The past is done. The future – our future – starts here, my darling,” he murmured, his voice wavering with emotion.

When Deborah’s sobs had at last abated, he whispered into her ear. In reply, she smiled and lifted up her face to welcome the covetous way his lips claimed hers. His hands slid over her body and his kiss deepened. Warm and sensuous, his mouth plundered hers with tender desperation until Deborah was left breathless and shivering with desire.

“I love you,” he repeated softly against her lips. “I love you so much.”

Aware of the fierce tremor that ran through him as he uttered these words, Deborah twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all the ardour years of longing could evoke.

“Quickly, my lord,” urged Charlotte, as she hurried towards the conservatory. “Oh, I hope that creature has not upset Deb while I have been away soliciting your help!”

Lord Allingham, following with a quizzical look on his handsome features, replied in some amusement, “My dear Miss Tonbridge, if he has, do you expect me to call Catesby out? I must say I find the notion unappealing. He’s a deuced fine shot for one thing. For another, my wife would be displeased if I were to challenge one of our guests to a duel. Shocking bad
ton
, you know.”

“Well, no, of course not, Lord Allingham. N-Not exactly,” she stammered, in blushing confusion. “How can I explain? Well, let me say this: because of things that happened in the past, Deborah has a particular desire to avoid Sir Benedict Catesby and yet still the brute demanded to see her. They are in there together and goodness knows what he has said to dearest Deb by now!”

“I see,” mused Lord Allingham. “Very well, it seems that I must intervene and see if Miss King requires assistance. I think it unlikely though – Catesby is a gentleman.”

With Miss Tonbridge trying to peer over his broad shoulder by standing on tiptoe, Lord Allingham pushed open the door and entered.

Sir Benedict, who only turned his head when his host addressed him, reluctantly released Deborah when he realized they were no longer alone.

Miss Tonbridge, observing at once Sir Benedict’s cravat lying discarded on the floor and Deborah’s tear-stained face and the curls now cascading in wild disarray down her back, exclaimed, “I knew it – you have upset her, you unprincipled scoundrel! You shall answer to Lord Allingham for this.”

She looked expectantly at his lordship, only to be disappointed when she saw his expression was not one of annoyance. Instead, a half-smile curved his mouth as his knowing gaze surveyed the occupants of his conservatory.

“Catesby,” he began, “I’m afraid I have to ask – have you been foisting your unwanted attentions on Miss King?”

“Allingham,” replied Sir Benedict in a solemn voice, “I admit to foisting my attentions on Deborah–”

Miss Tonbridge cast a triumphant look towards Lord Alling ham.

“–but I venture to suggest,” concluded Sir Benedict, now regarding his love adoringly, “that they are not unwelcome.”

Miss Tonbridge’s expression changed from triumph to puzzlement. She glanced from Sir Benedict to Deborah. “Deb?” she murmured, thoroughly perplexed.

Smiling brilliantly, Deborah laced her fingers through Sir Benedict’s. “Oh, Charley,” she cried, a catch in her voice, “be the first to wish us happy!”

Blue Figured Silk

The notorious fifth Marquess of Shaftesbury had found his amusement for the evening.

Celeste Draycott was a consummate flirt and the Marquess, who had reached this opinion after watching Lady Draycott for the last half hour, concluded she was exactly what he needed to enliven his Midsummer Eve. The play at the gaming tables had been too tame for his tastes and it was time he engaged in more pleasurable pursuits.

At that moment, Lady Draycott’s gaze met his and her provocative look confirmed she was a peach ripe for picking. The Marquess’s mouth curved into a smile; she was as brazen as she was beautiful and obviously well up to snuff in the art of dalliance. He also judged that her heart, if she had one at all, would be as hard as the diamonds adorning her elegant neck. He shrugged as he came to this conclusion. What did it matter if she was a woman of easy virtue and incapable of affection? He was not looking for love, merely to while away the rest of the evening in her embrace.

The Marquess began to make his way cross the crowded ballroom, his height and long stride making his progress easier than it would have been for a less well-favoured man. He cut an impressive figure. Carelessly elegant, his great shoulders set off his evening coat to perfection and silk breeches encased shapely muscular thighs. Dark hair fell over his brow and a mien of languid boredom was belied by a firm mouth, intelligent grey eyes and a resolute chin.

But there was something else apart from his physical presence which made the collected members of the
ton
move wordlessly aside for him – an air of danger surrounded the Marquess of Shaftesbury. His reputation meant gentlemen treated him with a deference tinged with awe, while ladies regarded him with a fascination laced with desire.

He was renowned as a rake, a sportsman and a gambler; a man who was set fair to rival the excesses of his father, the infamous Duke of O’ffray. The genteel young ladies present might have been warned by their mamas about the Marquess, but many could not help sighing over his handsome features and envying the lady who had excited his interest this evening.

Unaware of the female hearts he had set a-fluttering, the Marquess came to stand at Lady Draycott’s side. The two gentlemen who had been dancing attendance on the young widow quickly departed when he raised his brows at them in a meaningful way.

His gaze drank in her appearance. Lady Draycott’s blonde hair was arranged in careful disarray and a pair of cat-like green eyes gleamed up at him out of an exquisite little face. A beaded pale blue silk gown clung to her curves, the low décolletage revealing more of her breasts than was strictly acceptable. She was a strikingly lovely woman and yet, even as he admired her, he knew that nothing stirred in his heart.

Taking her hand, he raised it slowly to his lips. “Lady Draycott, I believe?”

“I am Lady Draycott,” she murmured, looking at him through her lashes, “but I should not really speak to you until we have been introduced, sir.”

He felt a flicker of impatience, but he made the effort to smile. “Come, my dear, you know who I am so why should we care for the proprieties? Let us not waste time by being obtuse. We have been exchanging glances for some time and we both understand what we are about. You are as eager as I am to become acquainted and, since no one can overhear us at present, you do not need to behave like an ingénue.”

“But people are watching, Lord Shaftesbury,” she replied, not bothering to feign misunderstanding. “Being a gentleman and a Marquess, you may do as you wish and not be upheld for it. I, on the other hand, am only a widow and must take care to be discreet.”

“Ah, yes. Discretion – always a tedious consideration, but one that must be taken into account to avoid the tabbies’ gossip. Very well, we will appear to be discussing our fellow guests while in reality we converse on more, er, stimulating topics.” Lifting the quizzing glass that hung on a black ribbon around his neck, he surveyed the assembled company with a dispassionate air. “I have not seen you in London, I think, Lady Draycott,” he began in a low voice.

A seductive smile hovered on her lips. “I have been living in Bath, sir.”

“I see,” he mused. “That explains why I have not encountered you before – I detest Bath.”

“So do I,” declared Lady Draycott, with feeling. “It is a rain-soaked, dreary place and now I have control of my dead husband’s money, I am moving to London.”

“Indeed?” He glanced down into her cold green eyes. “In that case, our connection could extend beyond this evening, if it proves mutually satisfying.”

“My terms are straightforward and very reasonable, my lord – pleasure without obligation on both sides, and the occasional gift from you while we conduct our liaison. Diamonds,” she added, bestowing another smile on the gentleman who was leering at her from the dance floor, “are a particular favourite of mine.”

The Marquess arched a sardonic eyebrow before returning to his scrutiny of the crowd. “You have expensive tastes.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not in the least,” he said, drily. “Just as I anticipated, you are a woman who is experienced in this particular game.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “A liaison between us would be well worth your while. I am considered amusing company, as well as skilled in the art of lovemaking.”

The quizzing glass fell from his fingers. He turned back to face her and, noting her triumphant expression, he drawled, “A word of warning, Lady Draycott – do not hope to engage my affections. That will never happen, however enticing you prove to be.”

Her pretty mouth formed into a pout. “La, my lord, I was seventeen when I married Draycott, a rich fool more than twice my age! Do you think I want to be trapped again? No, indeed! Like you, I lack sensibility and merely wish to enjoy myself.”

“And I merely find it advisable to clarify such details at the outset. Now, what say you to meeting in the garden shortly? Those delectable lips are wasted on speech.”

“Where and when?” she said, a note of anticipation in her voice.

“Lord and Lady Allingham have a charming Greek temple near the lake which should prove ideal for our purposes. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

“I will look forward to it, my lord,” she murmured, before giving him another enticing look and moving away.

He watched her leave with a self-mocking sneer on his face. Was this all his life would consist of: interminable boredom, interspersed with gambling and assignations with lights o’ love?

In truth, there was little else.

As a sensitive child starved of paternal affection, he had learned from an early age to conceal his emotions. This had continued into adulthood, when society had expected him to emulate his sire. He had duly obliged, trying to gain his father’s approval by indulging in increasingly wild behaviour. When this had failed, he had hidden his disappointment, hardened his heart against the world and continued with his hedonistic lifestyle. With his mother long dead, his reprobate father either drunk or chasing his mistresses, and with no wife, offspring or even siblings to consider, Lord Shaftesbury could do exactly as he pleased. He had done so, proceeding to live up to his reputation and filling his days, and his nights, with diversions to block out the aching loneliness in his soul.

These reflections made him ashamed of his vacuous existence. His life had little purpose or direction and no one cared if he lived or died. His gaze fell on Sir Ralph Vesey, the man who had ogled Lady Draycott earlier. Vesey was an utterly immoral creature with a plethora of vices, to which even the Marquess could not subscribe. He at least held to certain principles, confining his dalliances to high quality bits of muslin who knew the rules. Sir Ralph had no such compunctions; any woman was fair game in his view and he would ruin a girl in her first season as eagerly as he pursued an affair with a seasoned lightskirt.

Vesey’s looks were as yet unaffected by his dissolute lifestyle and he was able to attract plenty of unsuspecting victims. But the Marquess noted the lady he was dancing with at present looked anything but pleased. In fact, she seemed anxious to escape.

The girl was not Sir Ralph’s usual type and against his will, he found himself studying her. She was a pale-looking slip of a girl, dressed in an unbecoming gown with jewellery that was not of the first stare. Her hair, although luxuriant and prettily arranged, was an unremarkable shade of brown. She moved lightly over the floor, but her steps were awkward, perhaps as a result of nervousness. The dusting of freckles across her nose gave an impression of youthful innocence, until he perceived that she was slightly older and not fresh out of the schoolroom. Her proud, well-formed mouth suggested that she did not want for spirit.

He was jolted out of this idle study when he looked into her eyes. Huge and brilliant in her heart-shaped face, they were a vivid blue – almost violet – and framed with long dark lashes.

Yet it was not only their beauty that startled and held his attention, but the emotion in their depths. Anger, disgust, desperation and a trace of fear – he read them all in that moment, as surely as if she had spoken the words to his face. Unlike other women he had encountered, this lady’s eyes held astonishing candour.

Confused by his intense reaction, he continued to stare as she moved down the room. Distress was evident in every line of her body and for reasons he could not fully understand, he wanted to put his hands around Sir Ralph’s throat and shake him until his teeth rattled. The girl did not look up again and when the music ended, she turned on her heel, abandoning Sir Ralph as quickly as good manners allowed and melting into the crowd.

Still mesmerized and feeling bereft that she had gone, he had an overwhelming urge to follow her. Then he remembered his arrangement with Lady Draycott. The prospect had lost its appeal, but he was obliged to meet her at least. Determined to seek out the girl with violet eyes the instant he returned, he made his way to the doors that opened onto the garden.