Smuggler's Lady (12 page)

At long last the benediction brought release, and the congregation rose to engage in the other purpose of the morning's exercise in devotion—the opportunity to gather with their neighbors and talk over the events of the week. The vicar beamed at the Trelawneys as he stood in the sunshine, greeting his flock. “Lady Blake, how well you look.” Damian, a few paces behind, shuddered at this shameless hypocrisy on the tongue of a man of the cloth. “And the boys. Splendid, splendid. Such a splendid family! As for you, young man.” He bent a stern look on Rob. “Climbing on roofs, I hear. Roofs that don't belong to you, either.”

Rob, responding to a pinch from Hugo, mumbled something and lowered his head.

“You know what they say, vicar, about boys being boys.” Lord Rutherford stepped into the circle.

“Ah, Lord Rutherford. Delighted to see you. I did call upon you yesterday. Perhaps Harry Perry informed you? You were not at home, but I do like to welcome new parishioners as soon as may be. We are always so excited at the prospect of fresh blood.” He smiled benignly. “Is it not so, Lady Blake? We are such a small community as a rule and know each other so well.”

“Yes, indeed, vicar.” Lady Blake twittered and played with the fringe of her shawl. “We do all seem to know each other so well. There are no secrets in
this
village, Lord Rutherford.”

“I can readily believe it, ma'am,” he said in a voice as dry as dust.

“Ah, vicar, such an inspiring sermon. I do find that text from Leviticus most uplifting.” Mrs. Ansby billowed down the path toward them. “We are expecting you and dear Mrs. Elsbury this evening, you know. And Lady Blake, of course.” Meredith received a condescending smile to which she responded with stammered thanks and fluttering eyelashes. “Lord Rutherford, we would be most honored if you would join us.” Mrs. Ansby's gargoyle smile embraced his lordship. “A simple country evening, to be sure, but you will be glad of something a little more delicate than one of Martha Perry's suppers, I'll be bound, and Ansby has a fine port.”

Rutherford bowed his thanks and grateful acceptance. It was a prospect that offered little amusement except that he would have Meredith under his eye for the evening. She had moved away already, pausing to exchange a few obligatory words with the Barrats. Of her brothers, there was no sign until he passed through the lych gate and onto the street where he found Theo and Rob engaged in adoration of Saracen.

“I wish I could ride him,” Rob said wistfully. “Theo says Walter said he was Mameluke-trained.”

“So he is.” Rutherford lifted the boy into the saddle, much as he had done his sister a few nights past. “I will lead you since you still have only one good arm.”

“Oh, there you are.” Meredith appeared behind them. “Has Hugo gone home?”

“No,” Theo told her disgustedly. “He is talking to the curate and, I'm certain, hopes to wangle an invitation to nuncheon at the vicarage so he can discuss this morning's text.”

“Well, at least he will not then discuss it at home,” Rob piped from atop Saracen.

“It would be as well for all of us if you shared a few of your brother's virtues,” Meredith said severely. “What are you doing on Lord Rutherford's horse?”

“He said I might,” Rob said defensively. “He put me up here himself.”

“He would hardly be up there had I not done so,” Damian pointed out gently. “Theo, do you care to lead Saracen?” He handed the reins over to the eager Theo, then fell into step beside Meredith who could not think of one good reason why she should object to his companionship on the walk home.

“I must thank you for your timely intervention with the mouse.” She shook her head in a gesture of resignation. “I am in the habit of checking his pockets before we leave, but for some reason this morning it slipped my mind.”

“You were perhaps a little fatigued,” he suggested, swishing at the hedgerow with his riding crop.

“Yes, as it happens.” She directed a puzzled frown toward him. “But I cannot imagine how you could know such a thing.”

“If I may be brutally frank,” he replied, “one has only to look at you. You look the very devil, Merrie.”

“That is not very polite, sir.”

“No,” he agreed calmly. “But then you have gone to such pains to appear at your worst, you would hardly be gratified if I denied you had succeeded in your object.”

“I beg leave to inform you, my lord, that I am wearing my Sunday-best gown,” she said loftily, unable to resist the invitation to a little light banter. It was perfectly safe, after all, out in the sunshine on a Sunday morning, along a country lane, with her brothers just a few paces ahead. And it was such incredible relief to be in the company of one who knew the masquerade she played and had an acceptable reason for it, one he would not question.

“You have rendered me speechless, ma'am.”

At that she chuckled, and he could not help his own responding smile even as he said, “I must beg one small boon though.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“The cap,” he said with a visible shudder. “I very much fear that, if I have to see it again, I shall run quite mad.” They had reached the boundary of Pendennis by this time, and Meredith found that she was obliged to halt as his lordship stopped, catching her upper arm. Experience having taught her that resistance would be as undignified as it would be fruitless, she stood still, thankful that Saracen and the boys had vanished around the corner ahead and hoping that the lane would remain empty. Holding her thus with one hand, he untied the strings of the cap with the other, pulling it off her head. “Do you wish to put this in your reticule, or shall I toss it over the hedge?”

“Oh, pray give it to me!” Meredith took the offending garment, stuffing it into her reticule. “I have not worn it before, but I thought it most appropriate.”

“If you are wise, you will refrain from wearing it again.” There was a familiar note of warning in his voice and Meredith's eyes flashed.

“And just what does that mean, sir?”

“It means simply that, if I should see you wearing it again, this evening for instance, I shall remove it again.”

Meredith sucked in her lower lip, regarding him speculatively. “I wonder if you would,” she said thoughtfully.

“You could always put it to the test,” he observed, smiling.

It was a perfectly pleasant smile, but Merrie was not to be fooled. “I think not.”

“You are not wholly without wisdom.”

“I do not think that what I choose to wear is any of your business, Lord Rutherford.” It was simply a token protest, necessary if she were not to feel that she had submitted without a murmur. Clearly his lordship realized this since he made no attempt to respond.

An imperative shout from ahead drew the exchange to a halt, rather to Merrie's relief. Lord Rutherford refused Rob's insistent invitation that he come up to the house for nuncheon and set the boy firmly on his feet again.

“Until this evening, Lady Blake.” He remounted, looking down at her. “May I suggest you try to rest a little this afternoon? Sleepless nights play havoc with the complexion.”

Meredith flushed indignantly. “I did not say I spent a sleepless night, sir. And I find your remarks impertinent beyond bearing.”

“Then I most humbly beg your forgiveness. They are quite true, nevertheless.” With a casual wave, he wheeled Saracen and cantered off down the drive, leaving Meredith both indignant and chagrinned. Regardless of the necessity for the game she played, her vanity was deeply wounded by Rutherford's unflattering truths, and she determined to spend the afternoon upon her bed, with pads soaked in witch hazel to soothe her eyes. Maybe she would wear the green silk this evening. It was hardly a thing of beauty but was a distinct improvement on her present attire or on the brown bombazine, which were her only alternatives.

As she dressed that evening, she found herself wondering if it would cause comment were she to wear her hair a little more softly, enliven the green silk with the elegant shawl of Norwich silk and the Meredith pearls, whose magnificence was known the length and breadth of Cornwall. But she could not do so. It would look most peculiar, particularly on such a modest occasion. Lady Barrat might get away with a degree of overdressing, but the downtrodden Lady Blake, never. She was obliged to be satisfied with what gifts nature had bestowed upon her. A restful afternoon and several hours of sleep had brought the color back into her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. Nan had washed her hair so that it glistened rich auburn under the candlelight although it remained confined in a matronly knot at the nape of her neck.

Meredith drove herself to the Ansbys' in the gig, taking Tommy as a gesture toward the proprieties. The young stable lad was not averse to spending the evening in the Ansby stables with his cronies, so Meredith was relieved of guilt at keeping him from his bed.

She found herself in a strange state of paradox. Normally, the prospect of the evening that lay ahead would have had her yawning with boredom; tonight she was looking forward to it. She did not have to look far for the reason, either. And there lay the paradox. The prospect of an evening in Lord Rutherford's company set her toes tapping with pleasure even as she knew the face of the danger to which she was exposing herself—the danger that she could not keep her own reactions, needs, the nakedness of her wanting under control if she found herself alone with him again and if, again, he took advantage of their privacy.

There was every reason to suppose that he would do so if the opportunity arose. But why? Initially perhaps, because she had angered and challenged him just as he had angered her. The colonel was unaccustomed to challenge or to being bested, and Merrie had certainly succeeded in doing both on more than one occasion. She had paid as a result, but the penalty had backfired as they were both aware. Anything so thoroughly enjoyable could hardly be called punishment!

Besides, how could she possibly hold at a distance someone who treated her brothers with such gently humorous understanding? Since his arrival in Landreth, her days had somehow not seemed complete without an encounter of some kind. This morning, in the churchyard, she could not deny that she had been waiting for him, every nerve seemingly strained to catch sight or sound of his approach. No doubt he found the game amusing, a welcome diversion from the bleak boredom that had brought him to Cornwall. Flirting to the point of danger with an unconventional widow was certainly one way to occupy the idle hours. That he was an accomplished flirt, Merrie was in little doubt. How else had he succeeded in capturing her attentions so thoroughly?

Well, she must remember that she was the author of her own fate. If she was unable to handle the combination of herself and Lord Rutherford, then she could immure herself in Pendennis until he decided to return to London. But how wretchedly poor-spirited that would be! She came to the conclusion she had known all along she would, however many times she rode the carousel. It was the same conclusion she had reached on the beach. Maybe it was dangerous, but to the devil with it.

In this spirit of reckless determination, Lady Blake entered the Ansbys' drawing room to be conscious of instant disappointment when the broad shoulders and teasing eyes of Lord Rutherford were not in evidence. He appeared some twenty minutes later, however, and Meredith had ample opportunity to observe him since he moved around the room, greeting his fellow guests punctiliously, and was clearly not in a hurry to reach the corner where Lady Blake was seated, timidly shrinking behind a tapestry screen. With that delicacy she had noticed before, his dress was simple to the point of being unassuming: plain, dark-gray pantaloons and a blue coat of superfine with modest buttons. He wore neither lace nor jewels, only a perfect cravat with folds of deceptive simplicity. He still stood out amongst his country peers though, Meredith reflected, for all his efforts to appear unremarkable. There was little he could do to disguise the superb tailoring that seemed to accentuate the noble bearing, the air of wealth and privilege that went hand in hand with the soldier's certainty of command.

“Good evening, Lady Blake.” With the slightest lift of his eyebrows, he moved the screen to one side. “You must not hide your light under a bushel,” he said gently. “I was about to miss you altogether.”

Merrie bit her quivering lip. “I would have thought, sir, after your earlier remarks as to my appearance, that you would be glad to have missed me.”

His lordship frowned, one hand resting negligently on his hip. “Hardly the first style of elegance, I grant you, but some improvement on this morning. You do not look quite so fatigued at least.”

Her eyes flashed a warning suddenly and her hands fluttered in her lap. He responded instantly. “Your servant, ma'am.” Bowing, he turned away just as Mr. Ansby, wreathed in smiles, came within earshot. “Lord Rutherford, the young people are desirous of engaging in a game of lottery, but doubtless you'd prefer something a little more stimulating. We are setting up a whist table, y'know—”

His lordship bowed, but before he could offer an opinion on the arrangement, his hostess, in full sail, her lavender skirts billowing around her, joined them. “You will be glad of a game of whist, my lord,” she announced in a tone that admitted no dissent. “I am sure you have had little enough civilized entertainment since you arrived in these parts. And few of life's little elegancies, either, I'll be bound. Martha Perry is not known for her housekeeping. Your cousin, if you'll forgive my bluntness, was not overly concerned with such things so she had little encouragement.”

His lordship appeared momentarily dumbstruck by this forceful speech. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Merrie drop her head abruptly, but not before he'd caught the laughter on her face.