The English Witch

  He looked up from the letter he'd been reading and stared at her for a moment as though disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes. Then a slow smile lit his handsome face.

  Really, it was most unfair, she thought crossly. He had no right to be so beautiful, draped upon the sofa like some sly Apollo come down among mortal women to destroy their peace. It was positively cruel what that smile did to her. It made her want to do things a lady must not—like hurl herself at him or, at the very least, run her fingers through that tousled, sun-bleached mane. No. A lady, certainly, had better make a dignified—and speedy—exit.

  Grasping the door handle, she turned to leave.

  "Why, you've only just come, Alexandra. ‘They flee from me,’" he quoted. "But no, that's not right, is it? For you never ‘did me seek,’ did you? More's the pity."

  "Do be quiet," she whispered. "Do you want everyone to hear you?"

  "Why, they're all sound asleep, their consciences clear. Unlike yours and mine. But yes, my guardian angel," he went on, dropping his voice to a low timbre that sent a chill running down the back of her neck. "I take your meaning. And if I promise to be very quiet, will you stay a minute and talk to me?"

  Oh, how she wanted to stay, how she'd missed him. For all that he made her uncomfortable physically—and that was mainly the discomfort of trying to bring her desires into harmony with her morals—there was no one else with whom she could talk so easily. Because he knew her better than anyone else did...though she rather wished he didn't know her quite so well.

  She looked down at her scanty attire and told herself to be sensible. "No. I only came for my book. I-I couldn't sleep." She glanced around the room, seeking the wayward volume.

  "This one?" he asked, taking a familiar tome from the table near his head. "Clarissa? The interminable seduction? You are nearly at the end of it, I see." Idly he turned the pages. "Perhaps, as we're both wakeful, you might read to me."

  "Don't be absurd." She was not sure what to do. She could not bring herself to go and take the book from him, nor did she think it advisable that he bring it to her. Nor did she wish to leave the room without it.

  "Ah, I see the problem," he said, his eyes scanning her face. "What a thoughtless creature I am, to be sure. For here it is"—he consulted his pocket watch—"nearly half past one in the morning, and there are you in your dishabille, alone in a dim library with an arrant rogue. But see how simple it is? At this hour there's no one to notice the breach of decorum. There is my coat to protect your modesty. As to the rogue part—well, what dreadful thing do you think I'd dare attempt with the circumstances so very incriminating and my family only a shriek away?"

  Putting the book down, he rose from the sofa. He took his coat from the chair, and held it up with a beckoning gesture.

  She hesitated.

  "Come, Miss Ashmore. Or are you afraid?"

  Yes, actually, she was afraid. His effect on her was always unnerving, always dangerous. Still, he'd admitted that the risks were too great even for him. She put up her chin, crossed the room, and allowed him to help her on with his coat. He gestured towards the sofa, and she sat down gingerly.

  She could not, however, suppress a gasp of shock when she saw him go to the door and turn the key in the lock. Grinning at her obvious alarm, he tossed the key to her. She caught it with trembling hands.

  "That's in case there happen to be other insomniacs," he explained, as he pulled up a chair opposite her. "If we hear anyone coming, I shall crawl out the window while you take your time about going to the door. You would, of course, have locked it for fear of being disturbed by naughty gentlemen."

  If she was uneasy at first, she forgot that as soon as he began talking, because immediately he set to telling her the true story of Randolph's elopement. Her surmises, she learned, had been correct. "But why," she asked, when he'd finished describing the elopement arrangements, "did you insist on going looking for him?"

  "I couldn't rest easy until I was certain they were both in the coach and on their way. If the smallest thing went wrong, Randolph would have been helpless. Also, I was obliged to keep Henry Latham informed. We'd agreed, you see, that he'd handle the business end while I saw to the romance part of it."

  "You mean he knew about the scheme all along?"

  "He knew, thanks to my aunt, about your father's debt to George. He guessed about the romance sooner even than I did and must have dropped a hint to Aunt Clem when he wrote to her, for she dropped hints to me. None of which I picked up, I'm ashamed to admit. But when your Papa spoke that day about Randolph's breaking heart...well, to make a long story short, by the day of the picnic I'd not only got the truth out of Randolph, but also, in exchange for devising a workable elopement scheme, some important details regarding his father's practises. So on I dashed to Westford. Henry saw right off that mine was the best solution. It would have taken ages to reconcile his wife, and meanwhile George could have finally torn himself away from Yorkshire before you left, there to force your marriage to his son. There was no time to be lost."

  "So you had everything in hand,” there was a note of reproach in her voice.

  Basil stared at the carpet. "I know. I should have told you. But the one time we were private—well, it all got driven out of my head. Then I made you hate me...and it was getting late. I should have been on my way hours before...and, well, I didn't tell you. I'm sorry, would have spared you a deal of aggravation. If you'd known, you could have considered this. Kept Will out of your hair easily enough, I'm sure."

  She played with the key as she considered this. “I’d like to think so,” she began slowly. “But it looks as though you’ve taken care of that too, haven’t you?” The green eyes fixed on him. “I should very much like to know what happened when you met up with him.

  Mr. Trevelyan was evasive. He even looked uncomfortable, as he gave a highly edited account of his meeting with Lord Arden.

  "What did you say to him?" she pressed. "Why did he avoid me all day?"

  "I wish you wouldn't look at me that way. It turns my blood quite cold. I only had a serious discussion with him about the responsibilities of marriage, and he finally admitted he wasn't ready for them."

  This, considering Will's impetuosity, she found a trifle hard to swallow. But then, was it so important? Basil had solved all her problems, disposed of all her fiancés. It was churlish to cavil at the means. "Never mind," she said with a small gesture of impatience. "It doesn't matter what you said. So long as I'm free of him."

  "Ah, yes." Basil leaned forward a bit in his chair. "So that you may have your Season."

  "Yes." She dropped her gaze to the key she held.

  There was silence, and then his hand reached out to cover hers. "Then perhaps," he said softly, "we'll meet up with each other from time to time. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to dance with me now and again."

  How easily he held her, his long fingers so lightly folded over her own, and how weak it made her feel. Her voice was brittle as she answered, "Why, yes, of course. I owe it all to you, don't I? And I've sat here all this time and never thanked you. I do thank you—"

  He shook his head. "No. None of that. Not when I was only doing the little I know best."

  She slipped her hand out from under his and stood up. "Well, I'm grateful all the same. Deeply grateful. I've never been free, not in six years at least. Now I am. I can't forget it. And so," she went on rather nervously, when he didn't respond, "I'll be bound to thank you from time to time, and you must endure it."

  When she started to remove the coat, he seemed to collect himself from a daydream. He rose, too, moving to assist her. His hands touched her arms as the coat slipped from her shoulders, and she trembled slightly.

  "Alexandra."

  The sound was like a sigh, and she turned to look at him. The coat fell to the floor as he folded her in his arms. He kissed her, gently and briefly, and he drew away again before it occurred to her to make him do so.

  He did not draw away entirely, howe
ver. His arms still held her, not so very close, but close enough so that she could feel the softness of his lawn shirt through the fragile barrier of her own flimsy garments. Close enough so that she was acutely conscious of the scent of him: clean and masculine and so comfortingly familiar. So comforting after all this time apart that it was quite impossible to break free. She felt so safe, so sheltered, so...right to be there, that any other possibility seemed quite wrong. That thought in itself was wrong, of course. It was only the spell he cast over her, and yet, to remain so...just another moment.

  "I suppose," he said, rather sadly, "I'd better let you go."

  "Yes, I think so," she answered just as sadly as she stared at the ruffles of his shirt front.

  "Otherwise, I couldn't answer for the consequences." He did not release her.

  "Yes." She didn't move.

  "In another minute it would be too late." He sounded rather short of breath, and this for some reason irritated her.

  "You always," she accused, "leave it up to me. But only after you make it—" She bit her lip.

  He held her a little tighter. "Make it what?"

  "So very difficult, Basil." Her green eyes met his.

  Perhaps it was because she was breathless now as well, and because her heart beat so furiously, and because these conditions made it very difficult to think clearly. Whatever the reason, her hand strayed to his shirt, played with the ruffles briefly, then came to rest over his heart. It was thumping and that was somehow frustrating. Still, her hand remained where it was, and she went on, confusedly, "It's wicked of you...and—and unfair."

  "Is it?" His lips brushed her forehead.

  "Yes. And I don't see why I must always be the one to put a stop to—to everything, to get you out of the—the difficulties you get yourself into.”

  "Because I always get you out of yours. Because we've somehow got into the habit of looking out for each other. I wonder why," he murmured, drawing her closer still.

  "Well, I'm not getting you out of this one," she answered with admirable severity, considering that she was talking into his neckcloth while he continued to drop light kisses in her hair. "You can just turn around and take yourself away."

  "Can't," he whispered. "You have the key."

  She was never sure afterward exactly how it happened, but one minute he was kissing her—everywhere, it seemed—and the next they had tumbled onto the great leather sofa. By that time, the notion of escaping was making less and less sense to her. How could one think of getting away from such caresses, when one's body with every passing moment desperately needed more of them? How could one wish to break free of that lean, muscular, beautiful body that claimed one so possessively? She covered his hand with hers. Fear and longing were mingled in the green eyes that searched his.

  "I won't hurt you," he whispered.

  "No." Reason was fighting, desperately, to reassert itself. "No. I can't do this. No—I didn't mean—oh, Basil, please— have a little pity at least."

  He had bent to kiss the hand clasping his, but now raised his head to look at her. His face was flushed, and his eyes, so softly golden before, were now so very bright. "Pity?" he repeated.

  "I’m no m-match for you," she stammered. "You know that. It isn't fair."

  He continued to gaze at her for the longest time, as though trying to interpret this rather inarticulate explanation. Then, very softly indeed, he said, "Ah, yes. My vast experience." His fingers slipped from her nervous grasp and moved to push a tumbled curl away from her eye. "But about you, my love...when it comes to you, it seems I know nothing. I suppose," he added, with a wry smile, "we'll have to deduce everything." His head bent again, this time to the base of her throat, which he kissed very tenderly, sending tremors through her.

  "Please."

  She felt rather than heard his long, shuddering sigh as he moved away from her.

  "Please," he muttered as he rose from the sofa, "to stop on a mere 'please.' How art the mighty fallen. Oh, Alexandra, you kill me with a word. No, don't look at me like that with those great, drowned eyes, or I shall wrestle my conscience down in an instant and we'll both be undone."

  Afraid of what he might have seen in her face, she looked away quickly and struggled up to a sitting position. Only her mind had wanted him to stop. Her heart would have followed willingly, eagerly, wherever he'd led. All she'd offered up in defence of her virtue was "a mere please." For once—and to her shame—he had saved her from himself. No, not even that. "Both," he'd said. He'd saved himself as well.

  "You'd better go," he was saying now. "I can't be a gentleman and help you up because I don't dare touch you again."

  She was up and halfway to the door when she remembered it was locked. "The key," she said, turning back to him in embarrassment and dismay. She was even more dismayed when she noticed the expression on his face. A few moments ago he had appeared...well, troubled. Now his eyes gleamed in a too-familiar, wicked way, and his mouth wore that mocking smile. In the next instant, however, he had dropped to his knees to retrieve the key from under the sofa. In another minute the door was unlocked, and she was being propelled through it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alexandra winced as Emmy pulled the drapes open, and bright sunlight flooded the room. Morning already? But this was her assigned bed, and there was Emmy, pattering about the room, and a cup of steaming coffee on a tray on the bedstand. It all seemed perfectly normal… until, in a great, tumultuous flood, all that had happened—was it only a few hours ago?—came rushing into her consciousness vividly enough to set her face aflame. Quickly she turned to take the tray in her lap, but Emmy beat her to it.

  "There, Miss," said the abigail, briskly. "Only do drink it up quicklike. Your Papa's waiting in his lordship's study to talk to you. And oh, Miss—he's dreadful cross."

  Cross? She flushed again with guilt this time. But he could know nothing of that. It must be about Randolph. Perhaps he'd found out the truth somehow…

  Hastily, Alexandra swallowed the coffee. She was no sooner out of bed than Emmy had hauled her to the wash-stand. In another minute the abigail was upon her again, pulling shift and dress over her head and fastening buttons and hooks with lightning speed.

  The whole business of washing and dressing was accomplished so rapidly that Alexandra had barely, it seemed, opened her eyes before she was downstairs tapping on the study door. When she entered, she woke up quickly enough, for it was not just Papa standing there but Basil as well.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. He'd seemed so different last evening, for a time at least. She remembered him, dishevelled and flushed, covering her with kisses and even laughing happily as he'd fallen onto the sofa with her. He'd seemed rather like an eager boy then.

  Now, even casually dressed in his buckskins, he was so smart and elegant, his cat eyes cool and mocking, his lips pressed into a faint, amused smile. He looked what he was: a sophisticated man of the world who might have any woman he liked. Could any woman, regardless how sensible or intelligent, resist him for long? His gaze met hers then, and the intimate, knowing expression in those glowing amber eyes made her face burn. She looked away, moving towards the fireplace.

  "Deuce take it," the baronet muttered, eyeing his daughter with vexation. "So that's how it is, is it?"

  "How what is, Papa?" the daughter asked innocently. She had, however, to fold her hands very tightly to keep them from shaking.

  "You. Him. Oh, damnation. Why can't a man ever get a little warning?"

  Scrupulously avoiding Mr. Trevelyan's face, Alexandra asked her father what he meant.

  "As if you didn't know. But I didn't, I admit. And when this—this—"

  "Villain?" Basil offered, helpfully.

  "When this villain saunters in and tells me he wants to marry you—"

  Marry?

  Considering the events of recent weeks, Miss Ashore believed herself entirely immune to shock. She was not. She could not have been more stunned if Papa had hit her o
ver the head with the poker she was now studying in numb fascination. Offered. He'd even gone right to Papa. Her mind was just beguiling to resume operation as her father launched into a tirade.

  "Of course, as you confide nothing to your poor Papa, how am I to know? So, once again I'm made a fool of. I say, to, of course you won't have him. He insists that you will, and I tell him you won't. Not my daughter," the baronet went on sarcastically. "Not my Alexandra. She's much too clever to give herself over to the likes of him. And what happens but my brilliant offspring—too clever by half for her ignorant Papa—walks in and blushes like a green schoolgirl at the sight of him. Great Zeus, woman, haven't you any sense at all?"

  In the rush of relief—of exaltation, even—sense had been on the point of deserting her. But her father's words, for once in her life, made an impression. Give herself over to him. Oh, yes...easily, because she loved him so. To be his wife...No, she rebuked herself. Look how jealous and miserable she'd been yesterday, only imagining him flirting with other women. What she could imagine now was excruciating.

  "Yes, of course I have sense, Papa," she answered steadily. "And I was not blushing like a schoolgirl—only flushed from running down to you in such a hurry. Of course the answer, as you said, is no." She turned briefly from the grate to throw Mr. Trevelyan a defiant look, but his expression made her turn away hastily.

  The baronet's features relaxed. "No?"

  "No."

  "Well, then." Sir Charles turned to Basil. "There it is."

  "No, it isn't." Mr. Trevelyan had moved nearer the door as this exchange was taking place. He now leaned back against it, his arms folded across his chest. "No is the wrong answer."

  "I daresay you think it is," Sir Charles retorted with some impatience. "But she won't have you, and I certainly wouldn't consent unless she insisted—and that only to spare myself any more of her infernal wheedling. And so—"