Undesirable Liaison (18 page)

‘You mean Aunt
Phoebe,’ he surmised, with a faint smile.

Almost his
mother returned the smile. At least, he saw her lips quiver at the
corners.

‘She believes
me to be a half-witted thing, wasting my life away.’

A wash of guilt
overtook him. ‘It’s my fault. I should have divorced Letty and made
an end. You might—we both might have returned to the world.’

‘I do not like
the world.’

It was one of
those odd utterances of hers, making no sense. Well as he knew her,
she never ceased to surprise him. His tone was wry.

‘I don’t blame
you, Mama.’

‘She was very
lovely.’

Another
non-sequitur. It was but a prelude, Jerome discovered. But the
trend was disconcerting.

‘This one is
not.’

Lord help him,
had his mother divined his interest? “This one”—as if she was aware
of the riot of need, as potent as his desire for his late wife.

‘Of whom are
you talking?’

She turned to
him a look of surprise. ‘Why, Miss Petrie. They are quite
dissimilar, had you noticed?’

Impatience
claimed him. ‘You go too fast for me, ma’am. I don’t understand
you.’

The dowager
continued as if he had not spoken, becoming positively
animated.

‘The elder has
hair as dark as yours, while little Bel’s—not that she is little
and that makes another difference—is a deal lighter. That is not,
perhaps, so unusual. But their faces are completely different. One
would almost suppose they were not sisters at all.’

‘Good God, are
you talking of Florence and Belinda?’ exclaimed Jerome, relief
flooding him. He pushed his plate away, signing to the butler to
remove it.

‘Of whom did
you think I was talking?’ asked his mother, blinking in
confusion.

‘I have no
notion,’ he said. The echo of her words filtered into his
consciousness. ‘
Not
sisters?’

‘There is no
reason to suppose Miss Petrie is lying. Why should she? And they do
have just the same eye colour. I remarked it particularly.’

With
difficulty—for the image of Florence was strong in his mind—Jerome
conjured up a vision of Belinda. It was apparent that his mother
was right. He had not noticed the colour of the younger girl’s
eyes, but his impression was of a different style of female to
Florence.

‘It does not
end there,’ pursued his mother, ‘for I can find nothing similar in
their characters either. Granted Bel is coltish and her manners are
rough. She is young yet and that will change. I like her warmth,
and the unaffected way she has of saying just what she chooses.
That will remain, I hope.’

Which was as
much as to say she found no warmth in Florence. No warmth in such a
woman? He was so much astonished he did not know what to say. As
for the rest, he must suppose Miss Petrie had been minding her
tongue in his mother’s presence. None could have been more
outspoken in his. As he recalled, Belinda resembled her in that.
Not that the child had a tithe of Florence’s fire.

The thought
caused a resurgence of the unpleasant sensations he had set himself
to conquer, and he cursed inwardly. It was perhaps fortunate his
mother elected to revert to the subject of his late wife. She chose
a moment when the butler, having deposited a portion of almond and
orange tart upon each of their plates, set the port at his master’s
elbow, and assured himself nothing further was wanted, and then
retired, as was his custom, to his own meal.

‘Was it
painful?’

‘Dealing with
Letty’s death, you mean. Less than I thought it might be.’ It
occurred to him that she ought to be warned of his intentions
regarding her remains. ‘I am trying to arrange for her coffin to be
interred in the family graveyard. We will hold a service. That
ought to silence the gossips forever.’

It had silenced
his mother. She darted a look at him, and then returned her
attention to the tart, which she had not touched. Jerome saw the
tremble of her fingers as she picked up a fork

‘I am sorry if
it upsets you, ma’am.’

She shook her
head, toying with the tart. ‘No. But if the neighbours are to be at
this service, I had rather not meet them.’

‘You cannot
avoid them forever, Mama. It is just for an hour or two.’

With an abrupt
and uncharacteristic movement, she dropped the fork, which
clattered to her plate, and slapped the table with both hands.

‘Why cannot I
be left as I am? Why must I be plagued with neighbours—and this
dratted companion you have foisted on to me? I don’t mean Belinda.
I like Belinda. But the other one—!’

She stopped
with a gasp, the little spurt of temper arrested. Her pale eyes
flicked at Jerome, half fearful, as if she expected his anger to
fall upon her. He was indeed angry, but he curbed the feeling.
There was justification for her complaint. Because he knew now he
had brought Florence here to further his own inclination. But that
could not be said. He fumbled for excuses.

‘Do you forget
I owe her my gratitude? If you must have it, ma’am, that is why I
engaged her. She was in need of a position, and with Belinda to
care for, it was not easy for her to find a suitable place. I
thought to reward her for her integrity. You may dislike her, but
you will not deny her honesty in bringing me that ruby.’

The dowager
shifted with discomfort, but she would not look at him. ‘I do not
dislike her. It is just…’

‘Just what,
ma’am? Speak freely, I beg of you.’

It came out in
a plaintive rush. ‘There is
anguish
inside her. She conducts
herself with every appearance of deference, but it is oppressive to
me, for I cannot believe in it. She is like—like an explosion
waiting to happen. It fidgets me, Jerome, and I cannot endure
it.’

Her perception
left him amazed. Had he been asked to describe Florence Petrie, he
could not have found a better manner of expressing it. If it
fidgeted his mother, what in Hades did she suppose it did to him?
But she had set his brain ablaze with conjecture.

In a bang, he
recalled the question that had sent him reeling home in the night
hours. Florence was running away from something, he was convinced
of it. She had been evasive concerning her past. And what of his
mother’s extraordinary recognition of the almost total
dissimilarity between the sisters? Florence had been cagey
regarding Belinda, stressing the importance of the girl remaining
in her charge.

This must all
be connected. Could one but come at the truth of it, Jerome was
convinced it would lay bare the cauldron that was Florence Petrie.
It was tempting. Too tempting, when common sense dictated that he
cut her out of his life—and immediately. But had he the will to do
it?

***

When the
summons came, Florence had half expected it, alerted by the oddity
of Lady Langriville’s manner. The dowager scarcely looked at her,
drawing away on Flo’s entry to a chair removed from her usual
place, where she sat gazing out of the window. She murmured an
indistinguishable response to a general enquiry about her health,
and rejected every offer of entertainment with a shake of her head.
But Florence caught surreptitious glances thrown her way and felt
her ladyship was ill at ease.

The instant
Fewston entered, her heart banged painfully against her ribs.
Through a thrumming that echoed in her ears, she heard him say Lord
Langriville desired her presence in the library. Unable to help
herself, she shot a look at her reluctant employer and saw
consciousness in that lady’s face. Something had been said, no
doubt of it.

The butler was
holding open the parlour door. Feeling like a felon on the way to
execution, Florence pushed herself up from her chair and found her
knees unruly. Pausing, she made a business of shaking out the stuff
skirts, willing herself not to fall.

In the event,
she was unaware of moving, of following Fewston down the corridor
to the gallery and thence down the main stairs, her mind instead
filled with the conviction she was going to be asked to leave
Bedfont Place. A decision she must applaud, despite that it made
her curiously sick at heart. She must start her search all over
again, but it was the safest course—for her.

Lord
Langriville must want her gone. It made sense. She had rejected his
advances. They had been made in drink and could only embarrass him.
And if the dowager had not begged him to be rid of a companion she
did not want, Flo would count herself astonished.

Or was she
altogether wrong, and his lordship meant to offer her precisely
that sort of relationship she had the most reason to loathe? The
thought produced a resurgence of thunder at her breast, warring
with a drag of heat too deep inside for identification, but strong
enough to fling her back into the state of dread that had sent her
fleeing from the Little Parlour a bare four and twenty hours
since.

By the time she
had crossed the sleek expanse of the brocaded blue saloon with its
gilded Chippendale furnishings to arrive at the library door, she
wanted so desperately to be otherwhere she was ready to hand in her
notice on the instant.

As Fewston
knocked and entered ahead of her, Florence was obliged to pause,
seizing at the door jamb and putting a hand to her diaphragm. She
felt wretchedly sick, and in danger of swooning.

Mentally
lashing herself for a spineless ninny, she forced several deep
breaths as she heard her name announced. There could be no more
delay. With a sensation of launching herself into the unknown, she
walked into the library.

Chapter
Seven

Her first
coherent thought was there must be some mistake. His lordship was
not there. Florence glanced about the vast room, her eye falling
upon glass-fronted cabinets gracing every wall and loaded with
bound volumes. A large desk was situated in the area to her right,
and several leather-bound chairs were grouped about the fireplace
on the left. Her eye strayed from there to a copy of the rounded
window embrasure in Belinda’s room, and she froze.

Lord
Langriville was standing with his back to her, one arm resting on
the window’s edge, looking out upon the spacious grounds. The black
hair had been once more tamed and tied behind, and the black suit
he wore accentuated the power in both thigh and shoulder.

Flo’s mouth
dried and a palpitating patter started up again in her chest. She
could not speak. Would not speak, if she could. The sight of him
flung her into turmoil both of mind and body, and she could not
trust her tongue.

The silence
lengthened. She became aware of their isolation, together in this
massive space, for Fewston had said his piece and left them,
closing the door. Her fear began to recede. A sense of familiarity
crept in. Here was not her employer, but the man with whom too much
had already been shared.

As if she read
his mind, it came to her that his emotions mirrored hers. He did
not know what to say to her. She responded with automatic
solicitude.

‘Jerome?’

His name came
naturally to her tongue. Flo was hardly aware of using it, nor did
the impropriety strike her. It brought immediate result. He turned,
and their eyes met.

For a moment or
two, Jerome allowed himself the indulgence of looking at her. He
knew it must be only for a moment. Already her presence was having
its effect. He had it under control, but the string was taut.

Wrenching his
gaze away, he came out into the room, heading for the safety of his
desk. From behind it, he was able to raise his eyes to her face
again. She was frowning now, wariness in the deep blue of her eyes.
They were enhanced by the colour of her lamentable gown, making a
virtue of its unfashionable folds, which failed to draw the eye. He
gestured to the straight chair set a little way away, in front of
the desk.

‘Sit down, if
you please.’

He made the
mistake of watching her as she came forward, mesmerised by the
sensual sway of her hips. She took the chair, and he was thankfully
able to seat himself as well, putting the bulk of the desk between
them.

Florence
waited, beset once again by a horrid sensation of apprehension. The
illusion of familiarity had been brief. In his eyes, she had seen
again all that had occurred between them. But it was masked now,
making of him a veritable stranger.

‘An apology is
in order, I believe,’ he said, his tone cool.

For an instant,
Flo thought he meant she should apologise, and a sliver of anger
threatened to erupt. But his next words flattened it.

‘I behaved
disgracefully yesterday. My excuse is that I had been drinking
deeply. You knew that.’

‘Yes.’

It came out too
sharp. But Florence was in too much discomfort to care.

‘I hope you
will make allowances.’

‘If you mean,
do I accept your apology, you may rest easy, my lord.’

‘The devil I
may!’

It was out
before he could stop it. He looked away from her, down to the big
leather writing-tablet on the desk. A set of quills caught his eye
and he took one up, absently brushing the feather across his
fingers.

‘Was there
anything further?’

He was startled
into glancing at her again. The clip in her voice distracted him.
It accorded ill with what had occurred between them. Was not that
his intention—to distance her? Evidently he had succeeded. He bit
down a frustrated retort.

‘Yes, there is
something further.’

Florence
waited, trying to keep the upset from showing in her face. However
much she might have wished to be free of all this, she had not
bargained for the dismaying effect of hearing him speak in the
guise of an employer, without familiarity. She felt like throwing
things at him, and—to her chagrin—she wanted to weep.