Seduced by the Scoundrel (15 page)

Unless Lord Bradon rejected her. The cold shiver came back. He was not going to be pleased, that was certain. But he might be a wonderful, warm, understanding man who would forgive her adventure and she would forget Luc. No, never forget him. He would always be part of her memories: his courage, his pride. His lovemaking.

‘Time for bed, I think, Waters. Please ring for the hot water.’ On an impulse, she said, ‘What is your first name? Waters seems so stiff.’ Probably it was how Lady
Bradon should address her maid, but it was not comfortable.

‘Grace, miss.’

‘How pretty. I will call you that if you do not feel it lowers your dignity.’

‘My
dignity, miss? I think calling me by my surname is because you’ll be a great lady and I’m supposed to be a
superior
servant.’ She said it with such a comical expression that Averil laughed. ‘Only I don’t think I’m cut out for being a superior abigail.’

She was rather dumpy and snub-nosed, Averil thought, thinking of her aunt’s descriptions of how a suitable dresser would look and behave. But she was warm and sensible and cheerful. Averil decided she would do her best to keep her—warmth might be in rather short supply at Bruton Street.

‘I think you will do admirably, Grace. I cannot promise anything, because Lord Bradon may already have employed someone as dresser, but if he has not, then I hope you will stay with me.’

‘Oh, Miss Heydon, thank you.’ Grace beamed. ‘Oh, and, miss, that means I’ll sit with the upper servants, right up at the top!’

And so she would, Averil thought with an inward smile. Ladies’ maids and valets took their employer’s rank as far as the hierarchy of the servants’ hall was concerned.

Grace was still bubbling with excitement as they took their seats in the post-chaise at just past seven the next morning. The yard was busy already with two private coaches ready to leave and another post-chaise with the ostlers backing the horses between the shafts.

Averil made herself as comfortable as possible and wondered if she would be able to sleep, something that she had signally failed to do the night before, except in snatches. Long intervals, marked by the church clock—which might as well have been the church bells tolling—were spent tossing and turning in an effort to stop imagining scenarios for her arrival in Bruton Street.

What would it be? A warm, understanding welcome, chilly reserve but acceptance or downright anger and rejection? She rehearsed, over and over, what she would say, how she would explain those nights in the company of a gang of condemned men and a half-French officer.

Then, when she did fall asleep, her dreams were full of Luc who was making love to her, fully. And then he appeared in the Bruton Street drawing room and explained that he had to do it, even though she was so inept and naïve in bed and then, somehow, he and Andrew Bradon were standing facing each other with duelling pistols raised and … And Grace had shaken her awake because she was having a nightmare.

The breakfast bacon was sitting uneasily in her stomach. It would be best to be very careful what she ate on the journey, she decided as the postilions swung up and the chaise lurched into motion. It would not do to arrive in fashionable Mayfair travel sick as well as crumpled and uneasy.

As she thought it they passed the other chaise and its occupant who was just settling into his seat. Luc. ‘Goodbye,’ she mouthed and lifted her hand.

He said something in response and she tried to read his lips. ‘
Au revoir.’

March 29th, 1809—Bruton Street, Mayfair, London

L
ight flooded out as the front door opened. Luc slowed to a stroll on the corner of Berkeley Square and watched the post-chaise drawn up at the kerb. Averil walked up the steps, paused. There was discussion, too far away for him to hear, then she and the maid went in and a pair of footmen ran down to take their bags.

She was inside, but he had expected that. How long would she stay? That was the question. If she was determined on being utterly frank with Bradon, then what would the man do? He could ship her straight back to India, he supposed, although that would involve cost and Luc suspected that the family was not given to paying cash on the nail for anything if they could avoid it. He might simply throw her out. Or he might accept her.

That would be the action of a trusting, forgiving man. Or a man who wanted Averil’s money more than
he was concerned about her honour. Luc paced slowly around the periphery of the big square, past Gunther’s, past the huge old plane trees, back up the eastern side to the corner.

Well, she wasn’t out on the pavement with her bag at her feet so he should take himself off to his chambers in Albany, five minutes’ walk away, and try to be pleased about it. Best not to walk along past the house; she might be looking out and feel pursued.

Which was exactly what he was doing, although he did not want to distress her by doing so. Somehow he could not keep away. Perhaps Mere had been a mistake, or simply unkind. He had wanted to help her, make the long, fraught, journey easier. But he had also wanted to see her, touch her, steal a kiss if he could. Like an infatuated schoolboy, Luc thought with a wry twist of his mouth as he strode up the slope of Hay Hill and right into Dover Street.

Bradon would be a fool to spurn Averil. She was rich, lovely, intelligent and patently honest. He would believe her when she told him she was a virgin, surely?

Luc turned left out of Dover Street into the bustle of Piccadilly, his mood sliding towards grim. Averil was not going to be his, it was not right that she should be, and to wish that she would be forced into that position was selfish.

All right, I’m selfish. But I didn’t cast her up on the beach at Tubbs’s feet. I didn’t keep her bedridden for days. Yes, but I could have locked the damned door and slept with the men;
his conscience riposted.
I needn’t have slept in her bed, kissed her, shown her what lovemaking could be like, taught her desire. But I did not
take her virginity,
he thought.
I could have done, and I did not. I could have seduced her.

It was the same conversation he’d been having with himself since he had left Plymouth. He supposed it was partly mild euphoria to blame for his reckless decision to try to find her on the London road. But the admiral had been enthusiastic about the mission, he was assured of a good reception at the Admiralty; his life, it seemed, was back on course, his honour restored. Porthington, he had been informed by a secretary with a very straight face, would be offered a posting in the West Indies. A long way away, and unhealthy with it, the man had added.

So now Luc would have more than enough to keep himself occupied until their lordships decided where to post him next. There would be work to be done to tie up the Isles of Scilly leaks, news to catch up on and the Season was in full swing. He could make an effort and start a serious quest for a wife. And he would wait and watch Averil as she ventured into her new life, his hands outstretched to catch her if she slipped from Bradon’s grasp.

The image of Averil tumbling into his arms was enough to make his mouth curve into a smile. He walked into the cobbled forecourt of Albany, nodded to the doorman and climbed the stone stairs to his chambers to see what was awaiting him after more than two months away.

At the door he paused, hand on the knob, as a shiver ran down his spine. He was tempting fate, instinct told him—the same instinct that had saved his life at sea before now. He thought he was stepping back into his old life, but in a better, more purposeful way. But now
there was someone else to consider—he was not alone any more.

She isn’t yours,
he told himself and opened the door.
You have to let her go.
The pain was sharp, just as he knew it would be if he was ever careless enough to care about someone.
Too late now …

‘Hughes! Send out for a decent supper. I’m back.’

‘Miss Heydon. The earl and Lord Bradon are expecting you. Her ladyship also,’ the butler added. His eyes flickered over her travel-stained, borrowed gown, the two small valises, Grace’s dumpy figure. ‘This way, if you please. The family is in the—’

‘I would not dream of going to them in my dirt,’ Averil said. ‘Perhaps someone could show me to my room and have hot water sent up. And please tell the family that I will be with them directly.’

The butler’s gaze sharpened into something like respect. ‘Very good, Miss Heydon. This is your woman?’

‘Waters is my dresser, yes. When I have something other than borrowed garments, that is,’ she added. ‘Doubtless there is a room for her?’

‘Yes, Miss Heydon. John, show Miss Heydon to the Amber suite. Peters, water at once and have Mrs Gifford send one of the girls up to assist Waters.’

‘Thank you.’ Averil straightened her shoulders, sent a firm message to her wobbly knees and followed the footman up the stairs.
Start as you mean to go on,
she told herself. And being intimidated by the upper servants would not be a good beginning. Nor would appearing before her future mother-in-law looking like a hoyden.

‘‘Strewth, miss,’ Grace said as the footman left. ‘It’s a bit grand, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ Averil turned on her heel to admire the heavy golden-brown hangings, the tassels, the gilt-framed pictures, the marble overmantel. None of it was new, she could see that, and all of it, in her honest opinion, needed some loving care. It was not exactly shabby, but it was definitely worn.

Hot water came with exemplary speed, brought by a pretty maid with freckles who confided that she was Alice and would Miss Heydon like a cup of tea?

‘We both would,’ Averil said firmly as Grace attacked her dusty hem with a clothes brush. A large glass of wine would be even better, she thought as she washed her hands and face and began to unpin her hair. But she was going to need all her wits about her now.

‘Thank you, Rogers, I am ready now.’ The butler looked up as she came down the stairs and she congratulated herself on thinking to ask his name.

He opened a door and announced, ‘Miss Heydon, my lady.’

Averil found herself in cool, glittering elegance. White silk walls, gilt details, marble, a pale lemon-and-cream carpet that stretched like an ice flow across dark glossy floorboards towards the chairs and a sofa arranged in a conversation-piece setting at the far end.

Two men got to their feet from the armchairs as she began the interminable walk across the carpet. The taller must be the Earl of Kingsbury, she realised. His brown hair was grey at the temples, his thin face lined more with experience than age. Beside him was his son Andrew, Lord Bradon. Her betrothed. The man
she was going to spend the rest of her life with—if he would take her. Shorter than his father, plumper, with the same brown hair and brown eyes. A comparison with another man of the same age flickered through her mind and she forced a smile.

She arrived in front of the sofa and the woman who sat on it. Small, birdlike, dark-haired and dark-eyed: the countess. Her steady regard changed suddenly into a bright smile. The two men bowed. Averil curtsied.
We ‘re like automata
, she thought wildly. A clock would chime at any moment.

‘My dear Miss Heydon! What an adventurous journey you have had to be sure. Come and sit beside me. Bradon, ring for wine—we must drink to Miss Heydon’s safe arrival.’

Averil sat, expecting an embrace, a kiss or at least a pat on the hand. Nothing. The men resumed their seats, the countess sat beside her, straight-backed, hands folded in her lap.

‘You left your family in good health, I trust?’

‘Yes, ma’am. My father sends his good wishes and regrets that he was unable to accompany me.’

‘Business pressures, no doubt,’ the countess remarked and the earl smiled. Rogers brought in a tray with champagne already poured. Averil curled her fingers around the fragile stem of the flute and made herself focus on not snapping it.

‘Er. Yes.’ No one appeared about to make a toast so she sipped the wine. It fizzed down into her empty stomach.
Mistake. I don’t care.

‘And it was an uneventful voyage until the shipwreck, I trust.’

‘Yes, ma’am, thank you.’ She doubted that her
future mother-in-law wanted to hear about mad dogs in Madras, Christmas festivities on board or a joint attempt by the younger passengers to write a sensation novel.

‘And the ship was wrecked on the fifteenth of last month, I understand?’

Why were the men so quiet? Averil addressed her answer to Andrew. ‘Yes, that is correct. At night.’

‘But the letter from the Governor was dated the twenty-first, six days later.’ The countess frowned. ‘That was very remiss of him, I fear.’

‘I was unconscious for three days, on one of the outlying islands. They did not know who I was.’ The Governor would have told them that already—her skin began to prickle with apprehension. They were already suspicious. She would tell Andrew what happened tomorrow; she could not blurt it out now, not in front of his parents like this.

‘Oh. I see. You were cared for by respectable people, one hopes.’

‘A secret navy mission. They rescued me when I was swept on to the beach.’

‘Men?’ The countess might as well have said
Cockroaches?

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Averil took another sip between gritted teeth. She had known this was not going to be easy, but why did her betrothed not utter a word? The earl was watching her from under hooded lids: a calculating, predatory stare. ‘I really cannot say much more about it just now—it was very confidential. I will explain all about it tomorrow to Lord Bradon.’

He spoke so suddenly that she jumped. ‘I am sure you will.’ He might as well have been referring to
details of a shopping expedition to buy a new hat. ‘Ah, here is Rogers. Dinner at last.’

‘You slept well, my dear?’

‘Thank you, yes. My lord.’ Andrew Bradon had not asked her to use his given name, so she did not presume. The study was very masculine, very
English.
Was it his taste, or his father’s? The earl had excused himself after dinner and she had not seen him since. She suspected that he was not much at home.

The chair Brandon offered her was comfortable, they were alone, his expression was pleasant. What, then, was making her stomach tie itself into knots? This was much worse than she had imagined when she had woken that morning in a bed that seemed far too large and soft and lonely.

‘I believe there is something you need to tell me about the shipwreck.’ He settled back in his own chair behind the desk and nodded encouragingly. Why, then, did feel she had been called in to explain breaking the best china?

‘About the aftermath and my rescue, yes.’ This was the right thing to do. Averil took in a breath. ‘I was washed up on the beach of an island that is normally uninhabited. I was found by a group of men who were part of a secret mission to intercept messages being sent to the French by a traitor in the islands. Their captain assisted me to shelter in the old isolation hospital on the island.’

‘And why did he not return you immediately to the main island?’

‘Because I was semi-conscious. He had no way of knowing whether, when I awoke, I would say anything
about their presence there. At that point no one could be trusted.’

He did not say much, this man. No exclamations of sympathy or anger, no reaction at all save for a pursing of his lips. Averil guessed he was waiting for her to prattle on out of sheer nervousness and rather thought he was succeeding. ‘I was unconscious for two days.’

‘Three nights.’ Of course, he had to pinpoint the number of nights. ‘Who nursed you?’

‘He did. The officer.’

‘Did he rape you?’ Still the same calm, pleasant tone.

‘No!’

‘Really? Are you certain? You say you were unconscious.’

‘I would be able to tell. And besides, he is not that kind of man.’ She tried to keep the passion out of her voice, offer an objective assessment, but she was not at all sure she succeeded.

‘Did he take liberties of any kind?’

‘He kissed me. I slept in his bed.’ There, she had said it.

‘In his bed?’ Everything about Bradon’s rounded features sharpened as though he had suddenly come into focus. ‘In his bed?’

‘It was that or sleep outside with the men who were a rough crew sleeping in makeshift shelters.’

‘And you kissed him. Did you enjoy it?’ He was coolly objective again.

‘I have nothing to compare it with. I am a virgin, my lord.’
And I am blushing like a peony and ready to sink.
It was so much worse than she had expected, even though he was so calm and dispassionate. Perhaps because of that. Why was he showing no emotion?

‘So you say.’

Averil found she was on her feet. ‘I give you my word! Why on earth should I tell you this if it was not out of a desire to be honest with my betrothed?’

‘Because you fear you may be with child, of course.’ He steepled his fingers and regarded her over the top of them.

‘With child?’ For a moment it did not make sense. What was he talking about? She could not be pregnant because Luc had not … Then the anger came. He did not believe her. ‘It would have to be an immaculate conception then, my lord.’

‘Do not blaspheme!’ Finally, some emotion.

‘I am not lying. I am not pregnant because it is impossible that I should be.’

‘Indeed, I hope you are telling me the truth. I will not tolerate a lying wife.’

He was going to throw her out. Something very like relief flooded through her. Averil shook her head. Relief? This was a catastrophe. ‘I understand that given the possibilities for scandal you would wish to reconsider the marriage contract. But it was a secret mission, you may rely on nothing of my presence coming out. The Governor gave his assurances that he would say nothing.’