One Night of Scandal (9 page)

‘Good morning, Lord Richard,’ she said, trying to speak through an odd constriction in her breathing. ‘No, there is no problem at all.’ Seeing his quizzical expression, she improvised wildly. ‘I am merely trying to collect some mail on behalf of Ross, but it appears that the expected letters have not arrived…’

Lord Richard raised his brows. ‘Surely there is no need for you to play the postman, ma’am? Does Lord Marney not have a private mail box at home?’

Deb felt the familiar rush of exasperation. ‘Do you have an interest in the way in which the mail service operates, my lord? Perhaps you could recommend some improvements. I hear that they are always open to new ideas.’

Richard smiled and stood aside to allow her to go out on to Quay Street. Woodbridge was busy that morning.

‘I have no interest in the mail service,’ he said easily, ‘but as always, I do have a great interest in you, Mrs Stratton. It is a pleasure to see you again so soon.’

‘Usually we contrive to avoid each other for far longer periods of time than this,’ Deb said. ‘I cannot understand how we have managed to bump into each other again.’

‘As to that, I engineered it,’ Richard said easily. ‘I warned you I would. I saw you entering the Bell, so I followed you.’

‘To what purpose?’

Lord Richard looked amused. ‘My dear Mrs Stratton, to have the pleasure of your company, of course! May I escort you somewhere?’

‘No, thank you,’ Deb said, determined to be strong.

Richard looked enquiring. ‘Are you then intending to stay rooted to the spot here in Quay Street? I do believe that you are in the way of the other passers-by.’

‘How absurd you are,’ Deb said. ‘I was not refusing to move, merely refusing your offer of escort, my lord.’

‘Ah.’ Richard took her arm and steered her expertly out of the path of a large lady with an even larger marketing basket. ‘That is a pity, for I have a gift I wished to give to you.’

Deb was taken aback. She did not want to accept gifts from Lord Richard Kestrel. It seemed too intimate a gesture and she was sharply aware that if she were to give him any latitude he would take advantage with shocking speed. He had demonstrated that on more than one occasion. Yet despite her determination to withstand his advances, it felt rather as though they had already made the first moves in a game of chance and the game was becoming complex and unpredictable. She had no certainty that she could win.

Richard was proffering a brown paper parcel that was tied neatly with string. ‘I remembered our conversation about poetry,’ he said, ‘and that you were studying the work of Andrew Marvell in Lady Sally’s reading group. Please take it.’

Deborah reluctantly put out a hand. The parcel was the right shape and size to be a book. She enjoyed receiving books more than anything, and she felt a sudden rush of pleasure followed by a rather alarming urge to rip the paper off. She held the present stiffly out to him.

‘I do not believe that I can accept this, my lord.’

‘Please try, ma’am,’ Richard said persuasively. ‘I chose
it especially for you.’ He waited, watching her. ‘Are you not going to open it?’

Deb was in two minds and she knew that he could tell, for he was smiling at her. She tried to resist, but willpower had never been her strong suit. With a little sigh of abandonment she tore off the paper.

As she had thought, it was a book of poetry, with a marbled cover and a beautiful leather binding trimmed with gilt.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ She could not help her involuntary exclamation.

Richard looked pleased. ‘I was anxious to demonstrate, Mrs Stratton, that my interest in seventeenth-century poetry was not merely assumed. There is a bookmark in the poem that is my favourite.’

Deb opened the book. The wind off the river riffled the pages a little and then the book fell open at the point where Richard had inserted the bookmark. Deb read the title of the poem, then looked up, caught between amusement and exasperation. ‘I might have guessed!’

The poem was ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell.

Lord Richard spoke softly. “‘Had we but world enough and time,”’ he quoted, “‘this coyness, lady, were no crime.” How very appropriate, Mrs Stratton.’

Deb shut the book with a decided snap, knowing that she had to depress his pretensions here and now. ‘There is nothing appropriate about it at all, Lord Richard.’

‘How so? Do I not admire you, and you in turn spurn my advances?’

Deb frowned. ‘I do not wish to debate literature with you.’

‘No? Must I then join Lady Sally’s reading group if I wish to have a literary discussion?’

Deborah’s steps quickened. He kept pace with her easily
as she headed down the road towards the quay. ‘I am sure that the ladies of the reading group would be happy to benefit from your literary insight,’ she said. ‘Alas that I am not so eager for your company.’

Lord Richard did not seem cast down. In fact, Deb could not help but notice that he seemed amused and encouraged by their apparent discord.

‘Is that so? The other night you were persuaded to stay and talk to me, yet now it seems that you do not wish to discuss anything with me, Mrs Stratton, never mind literature. I wonder why that might be?’

Deb shot him an irritated look. ‘It must be painfully obvious to all but the most limited intellect,’ she said, ‘that I do not wish to speak with you, Lord Richard, because I do not
trust
you. I do not trust you, I do not like you and I do not enjoy your company!’

Richard took her hand in his, perforce requiring her to stop walking. Deb was vaguely surprised to see that they had come as far as the waterfront and were now in the flower gardens that bordered the edge of the river. The air was keen here. The breeze tugged at the brown wrapping paper, making it crackle. Deb held on to the book a little more tightly to prevent it blowing away.

‘Mrs Stratton,’ Lord Richard said, ‘at least two of those three statements you have just made are false.’

Deb looked at him. She raised her chin a little haughtily. ‘Indeed, my lord?’

‘Yes. If you must have me spell it out, you neither dislike me nor my company.’ Richard paused, thoughtful. ‘Probably it is true that you do not trust me.’

‘And with good reason!’

‘Ah, you are thinking about our kisses last week.’

‘I am not!’

‘Yes, you are. I saw it in your face when I came through
the inn door and was hard put to it not to kiss you again there and then.’

Deb bit her lip, trying to repress the jumble of words that were clamouring to escape.

‘And I feel rather inclined to do it now,’ Richard added, his gaze going to her mouth.

Deb took a hasty step away from him, pulling her hand from his grasp. ‘Lord Richard—’ She cleared her throat. Her voice did not sound convincing enough. ‘Lord Richard,’ she said again, more strongly, ‘it seems to me that I have tried to be civil to you—’

‘Have you?’ Richard enquired. ‘I confess that I had not observed it.’

‘I have tried to be civil to you,’ Deb soldiered on, ‘but now I shall have to be more blunt. You are a scoundrel—an untrustworthy scoundrel—and I do not seek your company. What woman of sense would do? If you approach me again in future, I shall be obliged to cut you dead.’

‘Will you?’ Richard said with the greatest admiration. ‘I shall look forward to that immensely.’

Deb wrinkled up her face with frustration. Why could the wretched man not take her point?

‘You are not a stupid man,’ she said wrathfully, ‘although I am still unsure whether or not you are a shallow one. On this occasion, however, I am aware that you are merely being deliberately awkward! I do not wish to associate with you.’

Lord Richard did not look cast down. ‘You associated with me last week and it was delightful.’

A tinge of colour crept into Deborah’s cheek. It was monstrous difficult to summon up the resolution required to dismiss him. A part of her—a large and perfidious part—enjoyed his company immensely, and the more time that she spent with him the more attractive he seemed to become to
her. It was like an inverse equation. Whilst she was telling him how little she cared for him, she found that she was making a liar of herself.

‘You are a rake, my lord,’ she said, rallying.

‘My dear Mrs Stratton, I do not think that anyone disputes that. What is your point?’

Deborah glared at him. ‘That
is
the point, my lord! I do not seek the company of rakes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You have made no secret of the fact that you wished me to be your mistress last year. Your intentions were entirely dishonourable!’

Lord Richard smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot dispute that either,’ he said.

Deb felt a confusing mixture of emotions. Uppermost was the need to tell him to withdraw his attentions to her, but beneath that was a guilty sense of enjoyment. She knew that a respectable widow should not be having such feelings when speaking to a rakish gentleman. She pushed the feelings away.

‘Let me construe for your further, my lord,’ she said. ‘I am a respectable lady and females of good reputation do not consort with rakes—not if they wish their reputation to remain intact, that is.’

‘And you feel that neither your reputation nor your virtue could remain…intact…were you to spend some time in my company?’ Lord Richard queried softly.

‘Precisely!’ Deb had agreed before she thought that one through properly. ‘That is…’

‘You do not think that you could withstand the onslaught of my charm?’ Lord Richard asked whimsically and Deb blushed.

‘I did not say that,’ she said hastily. ‘I did not mean to imply that I thought you could seduce me—’

‘Would you care to wager on that?’ Lord Richard asked.

Deb felt a surge of anticipation. Yes, she would like to wager on it. Very much. And she would like to lose…

She bit her lip. ‘Certainly not!’

‘Then you
do
have doubts over your ability to withstand my seduction. Otherwise why refuse the bet?’

‘Because I do not gamble!’ Deb said. ‘You are the most provoking man!’

‘And you prefer the companionship of more sober gentlemen, I assume?’

‘No,’ Deborah said. ‘I do not seek male companionship at all.’

Now Lord Richard looked even more interested. Deb could have kicked herself for the unwary comment.

‘Tell me why that is,’ he said.

‘No,’ Deb said again. She was gripping the book so hard that her fingers cracked. ‘You ask too many questions. In fact, you are impertinent, my lord.’

Lord Richard laughed. He thrust his hands into the pockets of the green jacket.

‘And you enjoy crossing swords with me, Mrs Stratton. Admit it!’

‘I…’ Deborah hesitated on the very point of denying it. This was the perfect moment to dismiss him, to tell Lord Richard Kestrel that she did not wish to see him ever again. But the only problem was that it was not true and she had always had terrible trouble with lying. Even simple social untruths were a problem for her, such as telling her hostess that she had enjoyed an evening when in fact it had been a dead bore.

It was impossible to lie now, for Richard had drawn closer to her so that his body shielded her from the attention of those who passed by. His very proximity demanded the truth from her. Looking up, Deborah saw the expression in his eyes, dark and intense. It frightened her, but it also struck
an answering chord deep within her and that she could not deny.

‘There are some things,’ she said, with difficulty, ‘like…like riding too fast across country, or eating too many truffles, that are enjoyable but vastly dangerous. One should always try to avoid them. I would place you in the same category, my lord.’

She saw the hard light in Lord Richard’s eyes soften into something more tender at her words and she felt as though her insides were trembling. He took her gloved hand in his and pressed a kiss on the back of it.

‘Oh, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, ‘if you think that after that I could possibly withdraw my attentions to you, then…’ he shrugged ‘…well, I cannot.’ The laughter lit his eyes again. ‘I am unreservedly looking forward to you cutting me dead at Lady Sally’s ball tonight, for I fear I shall approach you once again.’

He let go of her hand, sketched a bow and sauntered off up Quay Street. Deb waited until she was sure that he would not turn around and then sank nervelessly on to the nearest bench. Damn her honesty and her runaway tongue! Why had she had to tell him the truth? Why could she not simply have allowed a lie to suffice this time?

She felt shaken and confused. Her elopement, which had ended in the most disillusioning manner possible, had led her to take a private vow never to entertain the thought of love again. Further, it was against all common sense to become entangled with a man who was a reprobate. Put the two together and she had the recipe for a full-scale disaster.

Deb knew that she was impulsive and fatally outspoken. She had worked very hard in the years of her widowhood to try and achieve a coolness and composure of which even Olivia would be proud. Feeling a treacherous affinity to a dangerous, rakish gentleman was in no way part of her plan.

She put her hand to her head. It was best to forget the entire incident and to concentrate on the reason that had brought her into town in the first place. The letter from the mail office was burning a hole in her reticule. But next to it was the book of poetry that Richard had given her and when she took it out it opened not at the work of Andrew Marvell, but earlier, with a quotation from Shakespeare: ‘Then come kiss me sweet and twenty, youth’s a stuff will not endure.’

With an exasperated sigh, Deborah stuffed the book under her arm. Was even the wretched book bewitched, that it had to taunt her with the same sentiments that Lord Richard had voiced himself?

She walked slowly up the road to the inn where she had left the carriage. There was no sign of Lord Richard Kestrel in Woodbridge’s narrow streets, even though she had had a definite feeling that she would bump into him again. If she had, she knew that she would have to snub him. Even so, she searched the vicinity very carefully indeed and was disappointed that he was not there to ignore.