One Night of Scandal (30 page)

Richard eased himself quietly down the stairs and opened the door of the house. The night air flooded in, cold and crisp, laced with sea salt and something else that caught his attention. Smoke. Somewhere, nearby, there was a fire.

He was not certain what impulse had made him drag himself from the warm haven of the bed to check that all was secure outside. He had not wanted to leave Deb, not then, not ever.

He trod silently across the yard to the stables. The horses had smelled the smoke too and were bumping nervously in their stalls, but nothing else seemed amiss. Richard walked to the edge of the terrace. The smell of smoke was stronger here, but it was the wood smoke of a bonfire rather than anything else.

Richard paused. Although the idea seemed preposterous, he was almost certain that the privateer they had seen earlier was moored in Kestrel Creek, a quarter-mile to the east, and the smoke was from a bonfire on the beach. It would be unconscionably dangerous for a pirate to drop anchor anywhere near the coast, particularly if he was French. Yet it
was not as unlikely as it seemed. Someone had been to the house since he and Justin had last used it back in July. The bottle of brandy that Deb had found earlier was not the half-drunk version that they had left three months ago, but a new bottle and a very fine one at that. Then there had been the tiny, perfectly made wooden ship that he had found on the windowsill scratched with the initials DDL…

Richard went across to the water butt and doused his face, enjoying the cold shock of the water. He shook his head vigorously, sending the water droplets flying. That was better. He could think clearly now.

He should wake Deb now and escort her home, though he had the deepest of misgivings. Without a pistol it was dangerous to travel through the forest at night, particularly if the smugglers and the revenue might be out, let alone any other nefarious characters. The last thing that he wanted to do was put Deb in danger. He had already created sufficient difficulties for one night. He leaned both hands on the stone wall of the terrace and took a deep breath. Whatever he had been thinking with earlier, it had not been his brain. He had compromised Deb thoroughly with this episode and now he would ruin her if he did not return her to Mrs Aintree’s care immediately. It must be close on midnight.

Richard stretched and tilted his head to look up at the darkened window. Before that night he had thought that he could not possibly love Deb more, and yet now he was fathoms deep in an emotion he had never dreamed possible. He wanted to hold her close and never let her go ever again; he wanted to cherish and protect her, to make love to her again until her quiescent body quivered beneath his touch with all the passion of which she was capable.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would tell her and he would propose marriage to her properly, not as some sort of fleet
ing arrangement to outwit the demands of her father. If she did not like it, then it was too bad. At least he would have been honest with her and told her of his feelings. If he did not, he thought that he might explode.

He went back into the house and felt his way up the stairs gingerly, guided by the moonlight. Deb had not stirred. She was nestled deep into the blankets and he paused to look down at her sleeping face whilst a huge wave of love and longing swept through him and stole his breath. He put out a hand to shake her awake and tell her to dress, but before he touched her she opened her eyes. In the moonlight her face was beautiful and bemused and her eyes deep pools of blue.

‘I love you,’ she said dreamily, and she reached for him, pulling him close. He knew that she was almost asleep and possibly did not even know what she said, but the impulse to wake her properly and take her home died in that moment.

For a second time that night Richard discarded his clothes and slid under the covers beside her. She turned towards him in her sleep, snuggling close with the trusting confidence of a child. Richard obligingly angled his body to accommodate hers. He fell asleep with her head resting over his heart.

Chapter Sixteen

D
eb had no idea of the time when she awoke. The moon was pouring its light into the tower room and the soft hush of the waves was as sweet and soothing as a caress. Deb lay with her eyes open, watching the shadows shift on the ceiling and breathing in the scent of lavender and spent candles. She felt warm and languorous and, for some reason, wide awake.

She sat up, drawing the covers close about her. Beside her, Richard shifted slightly in his sleep and turned towards her, but he did not wake. A small smile curved Deb’s mouth as she looked down at him.

She examined her feelings. One of the things that she had been afraid of was that the feeling of wanton happiness would burst like a bubble, leaving her as disillusioned with herself as she had after Neil’s betrayal. This time, after all, she had knowingly given herself to a man. She had sought his embrace with a brazen disregard for propriety and practically demanded that he make love to her. She smiled a little to herself at the memory of it. She did not feel cheapened, or dishonoured, or immoral. With Richard she felt warm and happy and cherished. She was not sure what constituted the difference, but it was there and she was in no
mood to question it. She slipped from the bed and stole across to the window. The view was so beautiful that it made her catch her breath. The bright light of the moon spilled across the sea, turning the beach to silver and painting the trees in shades of black and white.

‘Deb?’

Richard was behind her. She felt the warmth of his naked body against her, a counterpoint to the chill of the cool night air from the window. He slid his arms about her and drew her head back against his chest.

‘I woke,’ Deborah said. ‘It was so beautiful that I wanted to see…’

Richard’s lips touched her collarbone and drifted along the line of her shoulder. Deb shivered, but not from the cool draught. His hands spread across her bare stomach and she felt her muscles contract beneath his caress. When his hands moved up to her breasts she was already waiting for their touch and arched back against him, helpless in her desire. His cheek brushed hers, hard against her softness.

‘The night is not over yet…’ he reminded her, and her heart leaped at his words and the heated images they provoked.

He turned her into the window alcove, so that her back was against the hard stone of the wall, and kissed her until she was mindlessly adrift and lost in sheer bliss. He lifted her up and held her trapped between his body and the wall. She obeyed without hesitation his instruction to wrap her legs about him, sliding down to find herself impaled, senses utterly ravished at his deep invasion of her body. The stone was cold behind her, but the heat of his body scorched her. His hands steadied her, holding her still to meet his thrust. The shocking delight of what she was experiencing, combined with the insistent tug of his mouth at her breast, was enough to send her mind spinning away into silken darkness
and she screamed aloud, wilting in his arms, shattered and pierced by the devastating bliss.

Then he took her back to the bed and kept her there until she had no notion of what was moonlight and what was breaking daylight, and was so lost in blind ecstasy that she did not care either way.

Olivia Marney was in her bedroom, sitting before the mirror whilst Jenny carefully unpinned the emerald-encrusted bandeau that nestled amongst her curls. It was very late and she felt tired. The evening, a dinner at Saltires, could not be accounted a complete success. Lily Benedict had been in a scratchy mood and had made several sharp remarks about Deb’s absence that evening and the coincidental disappearance of Lord Richard Kestrel. Fending off her barbs had given Olivia a headache, and her spirits had not improved to see that Ross seemed sunk deep in thought and barely made any attempt to join in the conversation. Occasionally he would look at her across the table, a deep impenetrable look that Olivia could not read. Until that evening she had thought that they had been achieving a better understanding. They had talked on a number of topics recently, including Deb’s supposed false betrothal and Richard Kestrel’s honourable intentions. On more than one occasion, Olivia had thought that Ross might even be intending to kiss her, for there was a certain look in his eye. He had not done so, however, and now he was not speaking to her again. She felt utterly cast down.

When they had returned to Midwinter Marney Hall that evening it was to find the servants in a panic for the second time in as many days. A message had come from Owen Chance that the smugglers and the revenue men were out, and they should stay within doors and make sure that all was secure. Ross had muttered something about going down
to the farm to check that the livestock was safe and Olivia had watched him go in bafflement and not a little irritation. She had trailed her way upstairs to her bedroom and rung for the maid.

Now it was twenty minutes later and Olivia was in her petticoats, with a dressing robe over, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Jenny to finish her ministrations. Whilst the maid fussed about her, Olivia’s ill temper grew until it reached epic proportions. All the exasperation she had felt with Ross over the past few weeks was growing into a tidal wave of frustration. What was the point of presenting an exquisitely prepared face to the world when her husband appeared to prefer the company of his pigs? Olivia picked up the pot of rose-scented skin cream from her dressing table and just managed to repress the impulse to throw it into the fireplace. So much for Deb’s aphrodisiac! It may have made her skin softer, but it had had absolutely no positive effect on Ross and what was more, it did not smell of roses at all but of a rather unpleasant hint of goose fat.

There was a discreet knock at the bedroom door. Jenny went across and, after a low-voiced colloquy, brought Olivia a note.

‘Excuse me, madam. Mr Ford says that this has just arrived from Mallow. He did not wish to disturb you, ma’am, but the boy said that it was urgent. He is waiting for a reply.’

Olivia felt a clutch of fear. The combination of Deb’s absence from dinner and the scare about the smugglers suddenly came together as an unspecified dread. She unfolded the note slowly and read it. Then she read it again, biting her lip as she did so.

Mrs Aintree’s words were both discreet and carefully chosen, but there was no denying their underlying message.

Mrs Stratton, she wrote, had sent a message earlier in the evening to say that she had decided to prolong her outing
with Lord Richard Kestrel and that he would escort her back home later that night. She had not returned in time for dinner, nor by eleven, when Mrs Aintree had decided to retire. An hour later they had received the warning about the smugglers, and shortly after that Mr Chance had arrived at Mallow to tell them that there had been a chase and that the villains had opened the sluices on the Winter Race to flood the roads about Mallow and create a diversion. Given both the danger of flooding to Mallow House itself and the fact that Mr Chance wanted to check that none of the Mallow servants was involved in criminal activity, he had demanded—politely, but demanded nevertheless—that the household be mustered. Mrs Aintree had been obliged to comply with his request and summon everyone within the house.

And Deb had not been there.

Mrs Aintree wrote that she had passed the matter off as best she could by claiming that Deb was staying at Midwinter Marney with her sister. Mr Chance had accepted her excuses on Deb’s behalf very smoothly. But the truth was out.

Olivia put the note down slowly. She did not think that Owen Chance would be unchivalrous enough to challenge Mrs Aintree’s claim of Deb’s whereabouts even though he might believe it was not true. But the servants at Mallow knew that Deb was not there, and the servants at Marney knew she was not staying there…And servants talked. Olivia remembered Lady Benedict’s malice with a shiver. The scandal was out and it would ripple through the neighbourhood like a breeze across the river. It would not be long before the whole of Woodbridge would know that Mrs Deborah Stratton had been missing when a muster was called at Mallow in the middle of the night. Soon after that, someone—Lady Benedict, no doubt—would observe that had not
both Lord Richard Kestrel and Mrs Stratton been missing from the dinner at Saltires, and how piquant it would be if they had been together…Engagement or no engagement, Deb’s reputation would be in tatters.

Olivia glanced at the clock. It was almost two in the morning and Ross had been gone a half-hour.

‘Where is Lord Marney?’ Olivia demanded, suddenly furious that Ross was not there to help her decide what to do at a time like this.

Jenny looked startled. ‘I believe that he is still down in the farmyard, milady. Should I ask Ford to send for him?’

Olivia made an exasperated sound. ‘I shall find him myself! Jenny, a pen and paper…’ She scribbled a note and thrust it at the maid. ‘Give this to the boy from Mallow.’ She pulled the remaining pins from her hair with impatient fingers, shook out her curls and thrust her feet into her slippers. Grabbing Mrs Aintree’s note, she made for the door.

‘I am off to find Lord Marney,’ she said, over her shoulder.

The maid looked astonished. ‘But, madam, your hair!’ she wailed. ‘Your slippers! The farmyard!’

But Olivia was gone.

It took Olivia ten minutes to walk from the main house to the home farm, which was close by. During that time she barely thought about what she was doing. She was fuelled by her anger with Ross and her concern over Deb’s situation, and for once she had thoroughly lost her composure. She arrived in the farmyard, panting slightly, and looked around for her husband.

He was not difficult to find. The door of the second pig pen was open and Olivia could see Ross leaning on the wooden rail of the stall. One lantern burned on the windowsill. Olivia did not normally enter the farmyard, for it
was not only dirty but prodigiously smelly as well and the pigs were the worst offenders. Tonight, however, she had no thought for either the dirt or the smell. She erupted through the door, waving Clarissa Aintree’s letter agitatedly.