Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) (24 page)

Her fancy for the colonel had ended the moment he crossed her and stopped being polite. Perhaps he now reminded her a little
too
much of her deceased scapegrace husband.

“A bastard daughter, eh what?” mumbled the elder brother, who appeared to be a little slow when it came to keeping up with the conversation.

“It is Christmas,” Diana ventured meekly. “Let us talk of something more cheerful, shall we?”

* * *

Kit and Elizabeth Clarendon left the village that day, returning to their host at Lark Hollow, but Charles remained at the Pig in a Poke tavern. Lucy Bridges’s father was delighted that his fine guest decided to extend his stay a while longer, and other local men were equally pleased that the young gentleman was still around, as he had won quite a lot of money from them during his visit and they wanted the chance to win it back.

Becky’s appreciation of his “harmless” charms had waned considerably since Christmas Day under the arches of the Bolt, but he did apologize to her for his behavior and begged to keep her friendship. Since she did not expect him to stay much longer, Becky accepted his olive branch but kept him at a warier distance.

Mrs. Kenton had soon spread her gossip, suggesting Rebecca was leading two men along in competition. The story of what that woman had witnessed in the Bolt was enlarged upon until it was barely recognizable to Rebecca, who was actually there.

From her bedchamber window early one morning, she saw Luke Wainwright on horseback riding down Mill Lane, with his dog trotting proudly alongside. He sat the horse well, as if he had been born in the saddle. But he did not come to see her.

She stood at the window and wished he might look up and smile. He did not. The last time they had spoken, she had yelled at him that she was off to have fun, wounded that he did not want to play that day. He would have heard about her and Charles in the Bolt by now and must think that was what she meant by “fun.”

It should not be any surprise, therefore, that he rode by their house and did not call in.

Luke called on Sam Hardacre to check on the gig, which was still being mended. Then he headed for the turnpike road and Raven’s Hill. Ness certainly could do with some exercise, for he was growing fat and lazy thanks to Sarah’s pampering. The fresh, crisp air could do them both some good.

“What do you think, Ness? Shall we head for Willow Tree Farm?”

The dog gave a confirming bark and skipped ahead, chasing a soggy dead leaf that blew across the lane from the common.

* * *

“Oh! Elinor,” she cried, “I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.”

“You have said so,” replied Elinor, “almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle.”

“But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.”

Justina paused her reading. “Becky, are you paying attention to this story anymore?”

“Of course.” But truth be told, she was no longer very interested in Marianne, who acted so unwisely with Mr. Willoughby and left herself open to speculation.

At first she had liked the character of Willoughby and thought him a good match for lively, spirited Marianne, but there was something about him that she didn’t warm to.

“If Marianne has indeed given Willoughby a lock of her hair,” pronounced Diana, “she must truly be in love, although I do not think he is half the man Colonel Brandon is. That poor colonel.”

Justina had just turned the page to read on. She made a surprised exclamation, “What is this? Why, it looks like…Becky!” Holding the book open, she turned it to show the others. There, on the edge of the page, where there was no printing, someone had sketched a face. It was carefully done, by an observant artist.

Someone whose mind had wandered while they read. Or tried to read.

“It
is
Becky,” cried Diana. Then, remembering where they were, she corrected herself. “Rebecca, I mean.”

Becky knew who had sketched her image on the page, of course. He had very skilled hands.

Since they were all looking at her, she said brusquely, “How dreadful to doodle on the page like that. Some people have no appreciation for books.”

But when she heard hooves passing, she looked through the parlor window and there he was, riding by, Ness at his side. How fine he looked in the saddle.

Becky leaped up and grabbed her muff from the table. “I must go out. I just remembered…something.”

They all protested her sudden haste to leave in the midst of a meeting, but she was determined.

As she passed through Diana’s front door, the first spots of rain made themselves felt. She looked to see which way the colonel had gone, but he was nowhere in sight. Her shoulders sagged. She wanted to know why he’d drawn her face on the margin.

“My dear Miss Sherringham, where do you go in such haste? Do you look for me?” Charles Clarendon rolled up before the gate in a brand new curricle, all shiny paint and soft leather. “I was just taking this new beauty out for a jaunt. Will you join me?”

She looked again to search for any sign of the colonel. He had been traveling down the High Street, which meant he could turn down Mill Lane to pass over the bridge or back up Drover’s Way toward the manor. But his horse had not been sweating, which suggested he’d only just set off and would not head home yet.

It was raining harder now, but Charles did not seem to mind.
Of
course
not
, she thought, for that was how they met—both of them wandering about on a rainy day. She decided to go with him, hoping she might see Luke further along the road. The need to speak to that man today was overwhelming. She did not want to go another day waiting for a chance, but he seemed to be avoiding her. He was always out when she called at the manor. While he was on horseback, he was too fast for her to catch on foot, and she did not have the luxury of wheels with which to follow him, since her father had recently, quite inexplicably, decided to sell their old carriage and not replace it.

She must, therefore, rely on Charles to chase the colonel down.

“Let’s go over the bridge toward Raven’s Hill,” she said, climbing up beside Charles.

“What a capital idea! We shall retrace our steps and revisit where we first met.”

She gripped her hands together in her muff and stared ahead, not wanting to encourage him into thinking she had romantic intentions about this ride.

The two horses moved smartly forward, manes fluttering in the sharp breeze that had come up with the darkening of clouds overhead.
There
is
not
much
shelter
on
Raven’s Hill apart from an old, burned-out shack
, she thought. If they, or the colonel, got caught out there, they would be soaked.

Soon they were traveling along the turnpike road and then they turned up the rough path to Raven’s Hill. There, over the crest and down in another valley, were the remnants of the little hamlet where her mother was born and raised. When she married, she traveled far away. Becky often wondered whether her mother had been afraid to leave or excited by the prospect of a new adventure. Becky’s life had happened the other way around, of course. She had enjoyed travel and adventure first then settled into a quiet village. She knew which she preferred.

“My darling, Becky.” Charles slowed the horses to a walk, heading for the abandoned shack. Wind whipped at the ribbons of her bonnet. “Will you let me have that lock of hair now?”

He could not be serious, surely. Did he think they were living in a novel?

“I thought you were done with this nonsense,” she said.

His eyebrows rose, lowered, and rose again. “Nonsense?”

“Mr. Clarendon, we cannot—”

“Just because we cannot be married does not mean we cannot share more than a friendship. I have certain needs, Becky. I desire you. I need you! You are everything I know my wife will not be. Cannot be.”

She shifted away from him on the seat. “I sincerely hope you’re not suggesting I become your mistress?”

He gave her a quick frown. “But…why else do you suppose I have spent time here with you?”

“I thought you liked our village. And you came to visit your cousins.”

“Becky, I came for you. I have battled these last twelve months with my feelings, but they cannot be denied. Father insists I make a good marriage, but there is naught amiss with keeping a dalliance on the side, a sensible woman who can be discreet.”

The abandoned stone shepherd’s shack was ahead of them now and he steered the horses toward it.

“I knew the moment I saw you that we were destined to be together,” he added.

Becky was alarmed. She could never have imagined his thoughts to have traveled so far ahead. His flirtation was nothing she took to heart. It confused her sometimes, but she just assumed that was her own fault for being unfamiliar with the habit.

As he slowed the curricle, she readied her skirt to step down and make a run for it. “I fear, sir, you have made a mistake, a misjudgment of my character, if you think I would be content as any man’s mistress.”

He was crestfallen, his voice quite desperate. “But you are my
chère amie
.”

She leaped down and marched into the shack to shelter from the rain.

With dazed eyes, she looked around the interior, at the bottle of Madeira, the lantern, the tapestry pillows that she recognized from Mrs. Makepiece’s parlor. She thought of her friends’ faces watching her leave with Charles, all of them no doubt thinking he was the reason for her sudden exit.

“We can read poetry, if you like,” he exclaimed, darting by her and throwing out his arms. “And I will write countless sonnets to your auburn hair.”

She looked at him, sighed, and tucked her hands in her muff. “Are you in your cups, by chance?”

“No! Well, I had a few at the Pig in a Poke, but I have all my wits about me.”

“I beg to differ.” She suspected the few wits he had were ready to flee in shame as soon as he was sober again.

Rain had begun to fall, spitting spitefully down upon them through the leaky rafters of the roof.

“Damn this weather!” Charles exclaimed, staring out through the open door to where his horses grazed. “The leather hood doesn’t fit right and the seats won’t dry for hours. Well, we may as well stay a while, even if you are being a dreadful, frosty sulk.”

She shook her head. What a fool she had been to think he enjoyed her company and conversation. That he enjoyed walking with her. All the time, she was supposed to read between the lines. This, as Mrs. Kenton would say, was the problem with being raised motherless. She
did
need advice. But she didn’t like asking for it. Or hearing it.

Walking by him, she passed out into the full onslaught of rain. All she could think about now was the long walk back to the village in the rain.

“Becky!” He grabbed her arm. “We’ll stay warm together inside and wait for the storm to pass.”

“That roof leaks, Charles,” she replied dully.

He had not thought of practical matters like the weather when he prepared this secret little love nest for his “
chère amie
.”

He reached for her. It was not really a tussle, but she did pull one way and he the other. To a passing person, it might seem as if he meant to hurt her. Certainly, it must have seemed that way to the irate dog that appeared out of nowhere and launched itself, jaws bared in a menacing growl, at Charles Clarendon’s trespassing arm.

The dog’s fangs made contact and Charles cursed, kicking out at the animal. He released Becky and she stumbled on the wet, muddy grass.

“Ness,” she shouted, recognizing the dog. “Stop, Ness!”

Although the dog had dropped the imagined assailant’s sleeve, Charles was enraged, veins popping out on his neck. He kicked out again and grabbed his whip from the curricle, but Becky leaped in his way, defending the growling dog.

“No. He thought I was in danger. Don’t hurt him.”

“Stand aside and I’ll beat the dog. Teach him a lesson!”

“No! Stop it at once, Charles. I cannot abide cruelty.”

Ness had run up to paw at her skirt and Becky saw that the dog was bleeding.

“Something has happened,” she exclaimed in alarm. “He’s never out without his master.” Squinting through the hard, driving rain, she looked down the hill and searched the road as far as she could see it in both directions, but there was no sign of Luke. Her heart was in her throat, for she knew then that the dog had run up there looking for help.

Charles was too angry to be sensible. He refused to go looking for the colonel. “I think you care more about a dog than you do about me. Look, he made me bleed!”

There was a slight graze on his wrist between glove and coat cuff. No more than a scratch. “Please, let us take the curricle and look, Charles. He could be hurt down there somewhere.”

But again he refused. His face white with anger, he would not let her take the curricle, nor would he leave the doorway of the shack, where the stone lintel kept him partially dry.

She gave up. There was no more time to waste. “Come on, Ness. Show me where he is, boy!”

* * *

The two thugs had come out of nowhere—or more specifically, they had ridden up on him from behind as he walked by the river, leading his horse and tossing sticks for Ness. He heard their hooves and had stopped, expecting them to pass. Instead they reined blows down upon him and he fell into the bulrushes. He blacked out.

When next Luke opened his eyes, he had blood in his mouth and his ears were ringing. But there was Ness, padding around his head, licking at his hair. And there were two feet in soaking wet ladies’ boots.

“For pity’s sake, what have you done now?”

He didn’t know if he was wet most from the rain or the river. Or the blood. They must have beaten him further after he fell, and then they rode off, disturbed perhaps by the fierce attack from his faithful mutt. Ness had taken a few blows himself, but he was a tough little bastard.

His head was spinning, and when he tried to raise it, the sensation was much worse. “Go away, wench,” he muttered, spitting out blood. She was one of the last people he wanted to see him like this, since her impression of him was so very bad already.

“Oh, don’t thank me for coming to help you.” She bent over, grabbed him under the shoulders, and tried hauling him out of the bulrushes, but his weight was too much for her.

“Leave it,” he groaned. “I’m all right. ’Tis only a bit of a scrape.”

“
Bit
of
a
scrape?
”

“I’ve had worse.” He laughed and then winced as that vibration turned to fire scorching in his ribs. “And I daresay it’s not the last time,” he wheezed. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Kit Clarendon had sent those men in retaliation for the well-deserved beating Luke gave him years before. “I think they stole my horse!”

“Men!” exclaimed his Gingersnap. “Good Lord!”

“Could you stop shouting in my ear, please? I hurt enough. And why are you shouting at me? I didn’t beat myself about the head, woman.”

Eventually she managed to get him sitting up and then she found his cane in the bulrushes, wiped it on her coat, and put it into his hands. By leaning on her and the cane, he was able to get up on his feet again.

Fortunately, they had not stumbled far when the blacksmith happened by with his cart, and he took them back to the village.

“I can’t go back to the manor,” he gasped out, holding his side. “I don’t want Sarah to see this. Or my brother, for that matter.”

The woman, for once, did not argue with him, so he knew he must look very bad indeed. She had taken a handkerchief out of her muff and used it to wipe blood and dirt from his face. “You can stay with Papa and me,” she said firmly, taking control of the situation just as he suspected she always had done.