But then Kit had admitted it himself, and if he had admitted it, it must be true. Even so, it was not like him. It must be, as rumour said, that he had been led astray. He had certainly been seen in town in the company of Luke Somerville, and Luke Somerville was, by all accounts, exceedingly wild.
Marianne sighed. Whatever the truth of the matter she wished it had not happened. She missed Kit. And now that he had fled, in shame or disgrace, she did not know when she might see him again.
She was now nearing Billingsdale Manor. She could see it in the distance, away to her right. In another minute she would have to turn off the road and follow the long drive up to the house.
She slowed Hercules as she came to the gateposts. They made an imposing entrance. She carefully guided both horse and cart through the narrow opening and then made her way up the drive. The drive was long but fortunately straight, so that it was an easy matter to negotiate it, and some five minutes later she arrived at the house, cold and tired, but glad that she had come. If she went home with her mission accomplished she would rest easier, knowing the woods would once again be made safe.
She slowed her horse at the bottom of a flight of imposing steps, expecting a groom to rush out at any minute, but none came. She frowned. The house was occupied, Tom had told her; but what if he was wrong? What if there was no one at home?
There was only one way to find out. Looping the reins over the front of the cart she stepped carefully down. She smoothed the full skirt of her blue carriage dress and re-settled her plumed hat on her glossy black ringlets before arranging her cloak around her and then mounting the imposing flight of steps. Still no one came to greet her. She hesitated for a moment and then knocked on the door. She heard the sound echo inside the house, but the door did not open. She glanced back at Hercules, who was standing dejectedly with his head hanging down. The poor horse was cold, and she did not want to leave him standing – certainly not for any length of time - but she was loath to go with her errand undone. She hesitated again but then tried the door. It swung open. She went slowly into the hall, looking around for signs of habitation. There were none.
She was just about to leave when she thought she heard a sound coming from the direction of the drawing-room. Squaring her shoulders she walked bravely forward. Just as she reached it the door opened and she stepped back in alarm; to feel a flush of annoyance a moment later as she saw the gentleman she had earlier unseated.
‘Well, well,’ he said with a slow smile, ‘what have we here? The beauty who travels the earth in her cart, as the goddesses travel the stars in their chariots? You must forgive me, I did not know who – or what – you were before, or I would have given you more attention. I take it that you have not come to apologise for unseating me. It is more, what shall we say? – personal – business this time?’
He drew closer to her as he spoke until his long, lean body was touching hers. She tilted her head back so that she could see his eyes, instead of being forced to look at his strong shoulders, which would otherwise have been the extent of her view. She took in his mocking smile and his regular teeth, noticing that they were extremely white. But it was not only his wolfish smile and gleaming teeth that unsettled her, it was the strange aura he seemed to generate. It threatened to rob her of rational thought. She felt her legs going weak. She tried to step back but she was held fast by some force she had never met with before.
Nonsense, she told herself hazily, trying to fasten her mind on his words, as they were easier to understand than his aura of power. He’s talking nonsense. The beauty who travels the earth in her cart? He must have escaped from Bedlam!
‘Come, don’t be shy,’ he said. His gold eyes fastened on her own as one long, strong finger traced the line of her cheekbone. ‘There is no need, my dear.’
‘I . . . ’ She gulped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She tried to free herself from his spell. Not only did he somehow seem to be taking the strength from her legs, he also seemed to be taking the breath from her body, and her reply came out in a gasp.
‘No?’ He looked down at her with a tantalising smile.
He has mistaken me for someone else, thought Marianne; either that or he has run mad!
But somehow, he did not have the look of a madman. His wild black hair was neatly tied at the nape of his neck, and his clothes were not unkempt, as she felt sure they would be if he was not quite sane. But if he was not a madman, then who . . . ?
Of course! She stirred in relief. Lord Ravensford’s secretary! That’s who he must be. Come to open up the house before his master arrived. It would explain a lot, even if it would not explain everything – his strange behaviour, for one.
She made a determined effort to break his spell and stepped back, out of reach. Once away from him her head began to clear, and she continued. ‘I have come to see Lord Ravensford on a matter of some urgency. Pray tell him I wish to speak with him.’ She thought it wiser to ignore what had just happened. She was alone with this strangely disturbing man and was by no means sure she could control the situation if she made any mention of it. ‘Oh, and whilst you are about it, my horse is outside,’ she went on with unusual arrogance. Her tone was meant to remind him of his station in life, in the hope that he would remember hers. ‘He will need attention. Kindly arrange for one of the grooms to see to him.’
Instead of looking abashed at her tone he continued as bold as ever. He ran his eyes over her face as though she hadn’t spoken, tracing the gentian-blue eyes that formed such a striking contrast to her black ringlets, her straight nose and the line of her cheek; before dropping them to her body, where they lingered on her subtle curves. She had the feeling he was undressing her in his mind, removing first her cloak and then her carriage dress and leaving her in nothing but her chemise. And then not even that . . . .
She blushed, and he smiled; a wolfish smile.
Then, making her a low bow he said, ‘I will see to it right away. Please, go in and make yourself comfortable. The house has only just been opened, but there is a good fire in the drawing-room. I will rejoin you directly. And then we will discuss your – business - my sweet.’
Marianne hesitated. Should she really stay? His behaviour was odd, decidedly so. However, strange as his behaviour may be, it wasn’t threatening and, feeling that as soon as Lord Ravensford arrived he would dismiss his secretary, Marianne decided to stay. With a brief nod she went through into the drawing- room.
The drawing-room was large and elegantly proportioned. It was decorated in delicate shades of pale green and had white mouldings adorning the walls. A confidante, together with a sofa, a number of x-frame stools and a variety of gilded chairs, were scattered about in a pleasing if haphazard manner. To her left was an Adam fireplace, containing a blazing fire, and directly ahead of her large windows gave splendid views over the garden, which was covered in sparkling white snow.
Marianne went over to the fire. Its cheery blaze soon began to thaw her out and she undid the strings of her cloak. Before many more minutes had passed she decided to remove it, so that she would feel the benefit of it then when she faced her journey home. She laid it carefully over the back of one of the chairs.
The secretary returned, but to her consternation, his behaviour showed no sign of improvement. In fact, it became even worse!
Walking straight over to her he took her hands. ‘Now, my dear.’ He rubbed her hands with his long, strong fingers - to restore her circulation? she wondered, looking up at him uncertainly. Perhaps. She was certainly becoming warmer! And not just because he was rubbing her hands. His mocking expression had the peculiar effect of heating her insides. ‘Let us waste no more time,' he said. 'I can guess what has brought you here —'
‘You can?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Of course.’ He let go of her hands and, with one powerful finger, lifted her chin. 'There is only one reason a young woman would visit a man without a chaperon, especially when they have not been introduced, and that is to o
ffer him the . . . comfort and companionship, shall we say? . . . a beautiful woman can give. And I am very pleased you’re here. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement which will be - beneficial - to us both.’ He gave her another wolfish smile.
Marianne blinked. ‘Do you mean to say . . . ?’ She took a step back as she tried to take it in. ‘Am I to understand that you think I have come here to offer you myself?’ She didn’t know whether to be outraged or utter a contemptuous laugh. He could not possibly have thought she was that sort of woman! Bedlam was the place for him after all.
‘But of course, sweetheart.’ He was amused. ‘And I am very glad you did. It’s been a long time since I’ve been offered such tempting wares. I’m looking forward to the pleasure you’ll give.’ His eyes ran over her figure as he spoke, lingering on the tantalising curves that were revealed by the smooth fabric of her carriage-dress. Then his eyes snapped back to her own. ‘And receive.’
‘This . . . ’ She had meant to declare it , but for some reason her voice came out in a whisper ' . . . this is the grossest insult.' She steadied herself, and then with a steely glance she said forcefully, ‘Lord Ravensford will hear of this, make no mistake.'
‘He already has done.’ He took in her sparkling eyes and heightened colour with a look of admiration. ‘Who else do you think you are talking to, my sweet?’
‘Your sweet?’ she demanded; before regaining her wits. ‘Lord Ravensford?’ she asked. She looked him up and down, taking in the broad shoulders and firm body encased in, admittedly, expensive clothes. But then she said contemptuously, ‘You are not Lord Ravensford.’
It was his turn to look surprised. ‘And what makes you say that? As far as I’m aware, you’ve never met him.’
‘I don’t need to meet him. Lord Ravensford is, by all accounts, a gentleman,' she said. 'Whereas you are anything but a gentleman. You are some jumped-up servant who thinks he can pose as his master, no doubt. But you are mistaken, and you will regret your impudence when Lord Ravensford arrives.’
‘What will it take to convince you that I am Ravensford? And that I have the means to make you the most generous recompense for your favours?’ He took her hands once again and lifted them to his lips.
She could feel the heat of his mouth even through her gloves and had the desire to pull her hands away. Though not because the sensation was unpleasant, but because, disturbingly, it was quite the opposite.
‘Nothing you can say will convince me that you are Lord Ravensford, for the simple reason that you are not.’ She struggled to remove her hands from his, but he would not let them go. ‘Lord Ravensford would never treat one of his neighbours in this insulting fashion, and —’
‘Neighbours?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Yes, sir. Neighbours.’
The amused light left his eyes, and they became searching. ‘But you are alone,’ he said, letting go of her hands. ‘And you were travelling in a cart.’
‘It is light and convenient to drive. Besides, my horse is unwell. As for being alone, we do not feel in need of chaperones in the country,’ she retorted, ignoring Trudie’s warning words as they echoed in her head. ‘The people in this neighbourhood are gentlefolk, not barbarians, and are not in the habit of insulting young ladies, even if they do not have a chaperon in tow. If you intend to stay here – whoever you may be – I suggest you don’t forget it.’
And then, anger and confusion having temporarily driven the reason for her visit out of her mind, she turned on her heel, and sweeping up her cloak she crossed to the door. She had no intention of staying to be insulted, whoever the gentleman turned out to be.
‘It seems I have made a grave mistake. You must let me make amends.’
She did not falter. ‘No.’
But he was not prepared to take “no” for an answer. Reaching the door before her, he planted himself firmly in front of it, forcing her to confront him – and forcing her, for the first time, to really look at him.
She had not realised quite how tall he was. He was at least six inches taller than she herself, which made him a little over six feet, and his shoulders were broad. His body was well toned - which she found surprisingly at odds with his fashionable clothes, until she realised that it must have become well toned through riding and fencing, occupations that were as fashionable as his outfit. She took in his clothes: a tight-fitting pair of breeches which disappeared into top-turned boots - she could not help but notice the length of his legs - a high-collared shirt and a cutaway coat, beneath which was a striped silk waistcoat. Then she turned her eyes up to his face. His gaze was fixed on her, but his look was not admiring as it had been earlier. To her annoyance she discovered it was appraising.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ he asked, reading her expression.
Something about him challenged her. ‘Correction,’ she said. She was now fully back in control of herself. ‘I don’t like you at all. Now kindly let me pass.’
He did not move. He was still planted in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest. ‘Not until you give me a good reason for leaving so soon.’
She almost gasped. Surely he could not be serious? Was it not obvious? There were so many reasons she hardly knew where to begin! ‘Only one?’ she demanded.
An amused look flitted across his face. ‘As many as you like. Pray don’t stint yourself.’
She smarted at the mockery in his tone. It left her in no mood to mince her words. ‘Very well. I am leaving because I find you rude, arrogant and unscrupulous,’ she said.
‘Oh, do you?’ he said. But this time there was an undercurrent to his words. The mockery was still there but there was an edge to his voice, as though he did not like what he was hearing. ‘And is that all?’ he asked, quiet but dangerous.
‘No, it is not,’ she replied. She was determined not to let him control this situation as he had controlled the earlier part of their encounter. ‘I find you boorish, and . . . and shallow.’
‘Shallow?’ he asked with a raise of one eyebrow. Then repeated, more softly, ‘Shallow.’ The anger left his face, and the mocking look was back in his eyes. ‘It’s the first time I have ever been described as shallow.’
‘There is a first time for everything,’ she said. She cast him a look that dared him to make a joke out of her use of a cliché. And then, as he refused to move, she swept round him and out the door.
‘It can’t have been very serious,’ he remarked as she set foot over the threshold.
She stopped; then almost walked on.
‘Your business,’ he said.
She hesitated. Then turned. Slowly. And took him in. There was no more mockery in his eyes. He looked, for a moment, as though he might be someone to whom she could talk.
‘You said you wanted to see me on a matter of some urgency,’ he said.
A perplexed look crossed her face. She would rather sweep out of the room, reclaim her cart and head for home, putting the whole disastrous visit behind her. But the matter of the mantraps had not been resolved, and it was a matter of such importance that she knew she should swallow her pride and stay; at least long enough to put her case before him and hopefully persuade him to speak to Lord Ravensford about having the traps removed. For she did not believe for one minute that he was who he claimed to be.
‘I did. That is, I do.’
He nodded. The mockery had left him altogether, not just his eyes. ‘If I have offended you, I apologise,’ he said, seeming to remember that she was a guest. ‘I have no wish to be on bad terms with my neighbours. Will you not let me offer you a glass of Canary wine, and tell me what has brought you here, on icy roads and in all this snow?’
She gave a sigh. She could wish the circumstances were different; that the butler had shown her in and that Lord Ravensford, a kindly old man, had listened sympathetically to her plea. But the circumstances were not different. The man in front of her may be Lord Ravensford, as he claimed, or Lord Ravensford’s secretary, as she suspected; but what
ever the truth of the matter, she could not refuse the opportunity of having the mantraps removed.
‘Very well. That would be . . . most welcome.’
Having decided to stay, she walked over to the duck-egg blue sofa and sat stiffly on the edge of her seat, her cloak folded in her lap. She might have agreed to stay, but that did not mean she wanted to make herself comfortable. As soon as her business was over she would be on her way.
He pulled the bell rope that hung next to the fireplace, and after a few minutes – awkward minutes for Marianne, though not, she suspected, for him, as he continued to look at her with an amused smile playing round his lips – a butler appeared.
‘Canary wine, if you please, Figgs.’