D uring the week that followed, Deb was obliged to admit that there was something very pleasant about being affianced to Lord Richard Kestrel. It was all too easy to forget that this was only a pretence of an engagement. Richard was extremely attentive to her in company; on the occasions that they were alone together, his behaviour towards Deb did not alter, which made it even more seductive to imagine that the betrothal was real. Never by word or deed did he imply that they were only involved in a deception. Fortunately also for Deb’s peace of mind there was no repetition of the scene in the conservatory. Richard’s mood seemed as light as hers and he made no difficult demands on her emotions.
Ross and Olivia watched the courtship with indulgent eyes and even Mrs Aintree was heard to say that Lord Richard had hidden depths. After a while it seemed to Deb that she was the only one who remembered that they were playing a game, and even she was having difficulty quelling the little voice inside that told her it would be pleasant if the betrothal was more than a charade.
Richard escorted her to the theatre in Woodbridge, took her boating on the River Deben and danced with her at the assemblies and private balls. He never once paid the slightest attention to another woman, other than out of courtesy. Deb marvelled at it. Olivia seemed unsurprised when she confided her surprise.
‘I always told you that you were misjudging the man,’ she said, with a smile. ‘He has eyes for no one but you, Deb.’
It was disconcerting to Deb to realise that this was true. Either Lord Richard Kestrel was an extremely accomplished actor who had no trouble in sustaining the impression that he was in love with her or…But Deb refused to contemplate the alternative. Richard had spoken no words of love and just the thought that he might was enough to create a fear and a longing in her that threatened to overset all her careful plans. The engagement was to be of short duration only; it was a pretence; she had no wish to lose either her head or her heart over such a man. And yet Deb knew that she was already in danger and that every moment she spent with Richard just made that danger more acute. The more she tried to ignore it, the more dangerous it seemed.
‘It is no wonder that you never catch any spies,’ she said one evening, when they were sitting together on a knoll overlooking the Winter Race at sunset. The sky was an angry red that evening and it felt as though there was thunder in the air.
‘You have spent all your time with me these two weeks past, Richard, and given nary a thought to your work. The whole of Midwinter could be bursting with nefarious characters for all the attention that you are paying. You must be the poorest spy catcher in the government’s employ.’
Richard laughed. ‘Justin and Lucas are working on the case,’ he said lazily. ‘It keeps them out of trouble and gives me the chance to do what I like best.’
Deb turned her head slowly to look at him. They had been discussing Shakespeare, for Lady Sally’s reading group was currently studying The Winter’s Tale. Deb’s ancient Shakespearean primer was lying between them and they had had a lively debate in which Richard had defended Leontes for his suspicions about his wife’s infidelity and Deb had argued hotly in favour of trust. In the end they had been obliged to beg to differ, but it had been a stimulating discussion and Deb had been vaguely surprised. It was one thing to buy poetry books and quite another to defend one’s opinions with such wit and clear knowledge.
‘Is spending time with me one of the things that you like best?’ she enquired now, and saw Richard smile at the artless honesty of the question. He answered her quite seriously.
‘It is. And one of the things that I enjoy most about our situation is that, now we are betrothed, I may spend time alone with you.’
A shadow touched Deb’s heart. It was three weeks until they were set to travel to Bath, four weeks-five at the most-before the betrothal was over. Lately she had been thinking about that more and more. She shivered suddenly in the sharp little breeze off the river that heralded a storm.
‘It grows oppressive,’ she said. ‘Let us go back.’
They walked back up to the house in silence. When they reached the door, Richard handed her the book of Shakespeare and bent and gave her a very proper kiss on the cheek.
‘I will call on you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We are to go riding, I believe.’
Deb nodded slowly. She was at a loss to explain the sudden lowering in spirits that she had experienced there on the riverbank, almost as though something that was starting to become precious to her was about to be taken away.
Richard was watching her expressive face and now he put up a hand and touched her cheek. ‘What is it, Deborah?’
‘Nothing,’ Deb said quickly. ‘Nothing but the blue devils.’
She saw the lazy, masculine smile that touched the corner of his mouth. ‘May I help banish them?’
Deb’s eyes widened as she took his meaning. They were on her doorstep, in full view of anyone who chose to pass by. Yet Richard had never been particularly governed by convention and it did not appear that he was going to behave with propriety now…
He put out a negligent hand and drew her close to him. As soon as his lips touched hers, Deb felt her knees start to buckle. Richard kissed her deftly, expertly, with skill and assurance. There was something so seductive about such single-minded passion that Deb was afraid she might crumple to the ground on the spot, pulling him down so that he could make love to her there and then.
Richard drew her deeper into the shelter of the porch. It felt hot and still within the walls and the air was heavy with the burgeoning storm. Richard’s hands were on her waist, where the material of her gown and chemise clung stickily to her skin. As he started to kiss her throat, Deb felt hotter still, as though she were dissolving. She tilted her head back against the wall and felt Richard’s lips on the pulse at the base of her neck and his hand move to caress her breast with the gentlest of touches. Deb made a little sound of despair and longing.
Richard let her go and they stood staring at one another, the desire between them as elemental as sheet lightning.
‘When-?’ Deb whispered.
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I will send for you and we may go off somewhere and be alone together. Go on in, now, Deborah. Before I forget myself completely.’
Deb did go in to the entrance hall, but there she paused, watching through the window as Richard walked away towards the stables. She felt heated and impatient and near to madness. The clouds were massing overhead and the hall was dark.
Deb went into the drawing room, where she found Mrs Aintree arranging some of the late, pale pink roses that Olivia grew in such profusion at Marney Hall.
‘Lady Marney called earlier,’ Mrs Aintree confirmed, standing back to view her handiwork and twitching one spray of blooms slightly to the left. ‘She wished to speak with you, Deborah. Apparently she has had a letter from your papa this afternoon.’ Mrs Aintree nodded towards the mantelpiece. ‘There is a letter for you too…’
The miserable feeling that had plagued Deb before now hardened into something more fearful. She snatched up the letter and took it over to the window. She could see Richard in the stable yard, exchanging a few words with the groom, laughing now, raising a hand in farewell as he turned Merlin through the gates. The groom was watching his departure with good-humoured approval, as well he might…
Deb broke the seal on the letter. After the conventional greetings, Lord Walton moved straight to business.
I am gratified to hear of your betrothal to Lord Richard Kestrel, although I should have been more appreciative had he sought my permission sooner…
Deb smiled slightly. It was the closest thing to approval that her father was ever likely to express. So Richard had been right-marriage to a rake was by no means unacceptable to her family provided that he was rich and well connected. Her heart warmed slightly-until she remembered that the engagement was only temporary.
It would please me if you would still come to visit us at Walton next month, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the cancellation of your brother’s marriage…
The fearful feeling solidified into a block of sheer ice in Deb’s stomach. The hand holding the letter fell slowly. ‘Do you know what this is concerning Guy’s wedding, Clarrie?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Aintree said cheerfully, clipping a blighted rosebud from the stem. ‘Lady Marney was telling me. The most shocking thing! Your brother’s fiancée has eloped with your cousin Harry. Surely your father mentions the circumstances in his letter?’
The closewritten lines blurred before Deb’s eyes. Her father might well have related the entire matter, but she could not seem to make sense of it. All she was able to see was Richard Kestrel riding out of the stable yard, magnificent on his raking black hunter, the epitome of everything that she desired. Richard Kestrel, the man to whom she was betrothed. Except…
Deb licked her dry lips. Except that the wedding was cancelled and with it all necessity of arriving at Walton Hall with her fleeting fiancé in tow. For cousin Harry had run off with the bride, thereby removing both reasons for the betrothal in one fell swoop. Deb reflected with irony that had she known Harry had a penchant for Guy’s intended she could simply have encouraged him to do the deed sooner and save herself the trouble of advertising. If only she had known…
She scanned the letter again, trying to breathe properly.
Living in such close proximity, one assumes that their acquaintanceship developed into a wholly unsuitable intimacy…her father wrote disapprovingly.
Deb sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Poor Papa! Losing an heiress daughter-in-law and the chance to secure cousin Harry’s acres as well.’
Mrs Aintree was shaking her head. ‘The best-laid plans…’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Deb said slowly. She rubbed a hand across her aching brow. ‘Well, I am justly served for my own pretence now, I suppose. I must break my betrothal to Lord Richard as soon as possible and acquaint my father of the fact.’
Mrs Aintree put down her scissors and stared. ‘My dear Deborah, surely you will do no such thing? You have not been engaged above two minutes.’
Deb frowned. ‘What is that to the purpose, Clarrie? I cannot continue to be betrothed to Lord Richard under false circumstances.’
‘But you already are!’ Mrs Aintree pointed out.
Deb struggled with her thoughts. ‘Yes, they are false pretences in the sense that the world believes it to be a genuine betrothal-’
‘And must continue to do so for the time being.’ Clarissa Aintree came round to sit on the sofa and fix Deb with a severe gaze. ‘If you break your engagement now, Deborah, everyone will believe you flighty. Worse, people will talk scandal.’
‘But there is no scandal!’ Deb ran a hand agitatedly through her hair, scattering some pins on the carpet.
‘That has no bearing on the case,’ Mrs Aintree said. ‘People talk scandal regardless. It is a national pastime. Besides, if anyone had an inkling about your advertisement, I venture to suggest that that is scandalous enough to keep the whole of Woodbridge talking for months.’
Deb sighed. She could see the sense in Clarissa Aintree’s argument, but she knew it was impossible to keep the truth from Richard. That would be deceitful and, in the end, pointless, for she would be obliged to tell him sooner or later that Guy’s wedding was cancelled. A deep feeling of gloom possessed her. It was always better to tackle an unpleasant duty as quickly as possible.
She looked at the clock. ‘I was not intending to attend the theatre with Liv and Ross this evening, but it seems that I must go,’ she said. ‘I know that Lord Richard will be there and I must acquaint him with the truth of the matter, and ask him what he wishes to do now.’
Mrs Aintree shook her head. ‘Never ask a man what he wishes to do,’ she said, ‘or you may receive an answer that you do not care for.’
As she trailed up the stairs, Deb reflected miserably that, whatever Richard’s response, she was unlikely to care for it. She could see only two alternatives. They could either break the betrothal immediately or wait a little and break it in a few weeks’ time, and either thought left her with an unconscionably miserable feeling inside. She was the one who had instigated the false engagement, insisting that it be for a limited duration only. Yet now that it had run its short course, she was the one who did not wish it to end. She knew that she should examine the reasons why that was, and she knew that she did not want to do so. Her feelings were immaterial, for soon Richard would know the truth and their short but sweet time together would be at an end.
Tomorrow, he had said. But now tomorrow would not bring the ecstasy of physical pleasure. It would bring nothing but the end of the betrothal and the beginning of a new and more barren period to her existence. She was not sure that she could bear it.
Richard had only gone to the theatre that night on Justin’s persuasion and then under protest. Justin was an admirer of Mr Oliver Goldsmith’s plays. Richard was not. Yet when he saw Deb Stratton in the Marneys’ box, the quality of his pleasure surprised him. He had only parted from her a few hours earlier and yet here he was, so delighted to see her again that he felt like a lovesick boy.
Richard had already come to accept, with resignation and humour, that he was hopelessly in love with Deborah Stratton and was falling ever deeper in love with her with each day that passed. He loved the artless candour that prompted her to say things and ask direct questions that other, more sophisticated women would prevaricate over. He loved the way that she watched him when she did not realise that he was already watching her. He was almost certain that she was falling in love with him, but he did not want to force the process, for he was afraid. He had seen the look on her face that day in the conservatory when he had almost told her that he loved her. She was not yet ready to accept a declaration. He faced the thought squarely. He was afraid that if anything upset the delicate balance between them now, he would lose her and never recapture the happiness that was so close within his grasp. Which was why he had not hurried the physical intimacy between them even when every fibre of his being was demanding satisfaction. He had schooled himself to wait, even though the suspense was killing him.
So when Richard studied Deborah’s face that night and realised that something was troubling her, all his instincts immediately focussed upon her and what the difficulty might be.
She was sitting very tense and upright in her chair and for once there was no trace of good humour in her face. Indeed, she looked sunk in gloom. At one point she looked directly at him with a very speaking gaze, and Richard smiled at her. She did not smile back; instead her frown seemed to deepen and her blue eyes were cloudy with some emotion that he could not read as they rested on him.
The interval did not seem to come quickly enough.
They met in the theatre foyer.
‘Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said scrupulously, conscious of the press of the crowd and the curious eyes upon them.
Deb was not so reticent. It was clear that intense emotion was driving her, although Richard was not entirely sure what that emotion could be. She stepped close to him, one hand coming to rest on his lapel. ‘I must speak with you.’
Richard could read the distress in her eyes. So could others. He glanced round. People were staring a little now. To hell with them. He covered her hand with his own.
‘I will call on you in the morning-’ he began.
‘I cannot wait that long.’ Deb spoke in an urgent undertone. She bit her lip. There was a deep frown on her brow. Richard drew her closer.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Something dreadful.’ Her lips trembled. Her hand clenched on his jacket. ‘Guy’s wedding is cancelled.’
For a moment the words did not make sense to Richard. He was far more aware of the intimacy of her gesture and the appeal in her gaze. He felt a surge of pleasure that she had turned to him when she was distressed. Then the implication of her words hit him hard.
‘Your brother’s wedding is cancelled-’
‘Yes, and there is worse-his bride has run off with cousin Harry!’
Despite himself, Richard’s lips twitched. Rash elopements seemed to be a feature of the Walton family. He leaned closer still. His breath stirred her hair. She smelled distractingly of roses and honey. He was still holding her hand. ‘That is unfortunate, but what in particular distresses you?’
He caught a flash of lavender blue as she looked at him and then quickly away. ‘Our betrothal needs must be at an end.’
‘You mean that as the reasons for our betrothal are removed, you wish to call it off?’
He felt her fingers tremble within his. She had lowered her head now so that Richard could not read her expression. All he could see was the complicated arrangement of curls held up by the diamond slide. He wanted to put a hand beneath her chin and tilt her face up to his, but that was a step too far for the Woodbridge Theatre.
‘I think it would be for the best,’ Deb said in a steady voice. ‘Papa is insisting that we should still travel to Bath so that he may make your acquaintance. Unless you wish to be married off to me in earnest, I suggest that we tell him immediately that it was all a mistake.’
Richard thought quickly. To be married off to her in earnest was precisely what he desired, but he could see from Deb’s panic that it was too soon for her. He cursed silently. Matters had been progressing so well. Too well. He had had a mere fortnight to woo her in form and now it was too soon to make a proposal of marriage. She would run from him and he would lose all the ground that he had so carefully gained.
She was running already. He could sense it. She withdrew her hand from his and it felt as though her presence was slipping away from him.
Richard turned them slightly so that Deb had her back to a pillar and his broad shoulders blocked out the inquisitive glances of the crowd.
‘If you break the engagement, then your father may well insist you return to live at Walton Hall,’ he reminded her gently. ‘He will always be looking to find another suitor for you.’
He felt the shudder go through her. Was the thought of matrimony so dreadful to her that she trembled to even think of it? Richard feared it might be so. Her lashes flickered against her cheek.
‘I shall contrive a way out of the situation,’ she said obstinately. ‘You should not be constrained by that, my lord.’
Richard felt the frustration rip through him. She did not want his help now. He had served his purpose and now he was dismissed. He found he was close to losing his coolness.
‘You will contrive another scheme like this?’ he asked drily. ‘You have seen how well this one succeeded.’
That won him a quick glance. ‘I thought,’ Deb said coldly, ‘that you would be pleased. Matrimony can scarcely be appealing to a man of your stamp.’
Richard stepped closer to her and Deb moved back, instinctively trying to put a little distance between them. She did not succeed. Richard followed her with deliberation until her back was hard against the pillar and he was blocking her escape.
‘And what sort of a man is that?’ he asked pleasantly.
Her blue gaze widened, both at his tone and because of his proximity, which made no concessions to the crowd of people about them. She tilted her chin and held his gaze defiantly. ‘The rakish sort!’
Richard narrowed his gaze. Through his frustration and thwarted desire he was conscious that she was hiding something from him and was trying to distract him. She did not wish him to ask her how she felt about the broken engagement. She did not wish to be honest about her own emotions. It was the one area in which she had always held back from him.
Richard scanned her face, noting the stubborn set to her mouth and the determination in her eyes. He could think of only one way of breaking through that façade-to shock her.
He drew closer still, resting one hand against the pillar so that his arm brushed the curve of her breast. She tried to shift away from him, but was trapped by his body. He pressed his leg hard and most improperly against hers, through the slippery silk of her dress. Immediately he was aware of the heat emanating from her. She felt as though she was burning up with fever. Her face had flushed and he heard her swift, indrawn breath. He bent closer, speaking for her ears only.
‘Since you consider me to be a rake, I have a question for you. You have a habit of changing our agreements after they are made, Mrs Stratton. What I would like to know is whether you intend to release me from my other commission as well.’
He saw her eyes widen to their fullest extent as she took his meaning. She cast a swift, instinctive look over her shoulder. ‘We cannot talk about that here.’
‘Yes, we can. Do you still wish us to be lovers?’
Her head came up with a jerk. There was a silence between them whilst their gazes met and locked. Around them the throng swelled and chattered. Someone bumped into them and apologised. Neither of them spared a flicker of attention.
Deb cleared her throat. Her voice was husky. ‘If you must have an answer now, then I do not know.’
‘Not good enough.’ Richard bent closer and let his lips brush her ear. ‘What is it to be, yes or no?’
He felt the tremor that ran through her. Her eyes did not leave his.
‘I cannot-’
He took his hand from the pillar and caught her wrist tightly. ‘Yes, you can. Tell me.’
Her breasts rose and fell rapidly with the agitation of her breathing. ‘Very well. The answer is yes.’
‘Yes, you wish me to be your lover?’
‘Yes.’ It was a whisper.
‘You do not wish us to be betrothed, but you still wish to take me to your bed?’
‘Yes!’
Several heads turned. Deb, face scarlet, moderated her tone. ‘We should return to the auditorium. I do believe the second act is about to begin, my lord.’
Richard stood back, releasing her wrist. ‘I do believe it is,’ he murmured.
He watched her as she scurried away and up the stairs to the Marneys’ box. He realised that his fists were clenched and he relaxed them very slowly. Damnation. He had not intended to push her so far or so hard. Yet he had had the answer he wanted and he knew there was not a hope in hell of going back now. He would be Deborah Stratton’s lover, betrothal or no betrothal. The time had come.