Compromised Miss (11 page)

‘Miss Lydyard, you do me an injustice.’ Luke felt the sting of irritation. No, he was not completely altruistic in his motives, and his forthright bride had unerringly homed in on it. Now was not the time to dwell on it. With solemn gallantry, he tucked her hand beneath his arm. ‘Whatever doubts you may have, you may be certain that I need to fulfil my promise to you!’

Her smile lit her eyes, transforming her face with sudden beauty. ‘Good. Then let us do it before we both change our minds! Then we can escape Wallace’s prosing on the sad state of my reputation!’

‘Well, my lady, the deed is done.’

‘Yes.’

Harriette was astonished. Her marriage to the Earl of Venmore was completed, over and done within the time it took to launch
Lydyard’s Ghost
, the gold ring with its circle of sapphires, a Hallaston heirloom, securely on her finger. Wallace had hidden his triumph. Augusta did not try. Alexander stood in dour but silent acceptance. Meggie looked apprehensive. As for the groom, he spoke the required words with solemn composure that soothed her nerves and allowed her breathing to settle. The only time she had felt any reaction from him was when her name was read by the Reverend Dance—Harriette Marie-Louise d’Aspre Lydyard. A sharp acknowledgment in the tautness
of his arm beneath her fingers. He had not known of her French blood, of course, and she had not thought to tell him. Would he object? But then why should he? Though he might, of course, consider a smuggler with French blood too much for a man to accept in the present political climate.

Otherwise Harriette could not fault him, the epitome of fashion and elegance, as far from the dishevelled spy as she could imagine, his good looks enhanced by the understated quality of the striped silk waistcoat, deep blue coat, the impeccably ruffled shirt and the exact arrangement of his cravat. And to his credit the Earl had not decided to overawe them with a fashionable entourage, nor had he brought any members of his family with him. A relief, yet Harriette struggled with the conflict it set up within her own mind. Perhaps he was ashamed of her after all; perhaps he appreciated the value of a wedding far from critical eyes even more than she.

Would anything ever be straightforward again?

This was no good! Harriette had made her vows clearly, with no maidenly modesty, almost in a challenge. All she could do was to be herself. The Earl had agreed to wed her and must take her on trust. They must both make the best of a dubious bargain.

Yet for her it was not a bad bargain at all. At his side in the cool gloom of the little church, she had risked a glance. Sensing it, Luke had turned his head, held her gaze, and smiled. Within the shadows of the church his eyes were dark and fathomless, impossible to read. Dignity made her return the contact despite the flush it brought to her cheeks, but beneath the calm exterior, desire made her heart tremble. How splendid he was. He moved with far more ease now, as his torn muscles healed. The bruising
on his temple had almost vanished, a mere shadow, whilst the scar on his cheek was healing fast. Perhaps it would not even leave a mark to mar his striking looks. For now it made him attractively rakish, and formidably handsome. During his absence she had forgotten a little and had managed to control her fluttering nerves, but now they reappeared, a cloud of butterflies, just when she needed all her confidence for what she must ask him as soon as they were wed.

‘I didn’t know of your French connections,’ Luke commented as they stepped from the church porch out into the sunshine.

So he
had
reacted. Harriette’s regard was firm, steady. ‘My mother was French. Does it matter?’

‘No. Just that you had never mentioned it.’

‘Not everyone is so tolerant since we are at war. My father preferred to forget her when she died. My brother prefers to forget my connection with the enemy.’

‘I’m sorry.’ A little silence that Harriette could not interpret. Then, when it almost became uncomfortable, ‘Do you need to return to Whitescar Hall?’ Luke kept possession of her hand, neatly tucked through his arm so that she was acutely aware of the heat of his body, could feel the steady beat of his heart against her. Such warnings of future intimacy that she could not imagine. She swallowed. Her nerves were returning in force, shivering over her skin that felt sensitive to every movement of the silk of her gown.

‘No,’ she replied abruptly. ‘I have all I need with me.’ She indicated Meggie, who stood, two bandboxes at her feet, beside the Earl’s smart curricle, gleaming dark blue, with a pair of glossy dark bays.

‘Then shall we go? We can rest overnight on the way to London. Have you a warm coat with you?’

Harriette closed her fingers on the fine material of his sleeve, steeling herself. ‘One thing I would ask, my lord. I know you would not want this, but…’

His eyes gleamed quizzically. ‘If I cannot grant my bride her heart’s delight on the day of her wedding…And I will do so if you will call me Luke as we agreed.’

‘Luke.’ She took a breath. ‘I want to stay at Lydyard’s Pride tonight.’

‘You do?’ She could hear his surprise. Why would anyone want to stay in so run-down a house? Except that it had a place in her heart, and tonight, for the last time, before she put it all behind her, it was important that she did. For herself. For those who had depended on her for so long. But she would not tell him that. ‘Then we shall.’ He lifted her hand from where he had held it against his arm, but only to entwine his fingers with hers, so particular a symbol of unity between them. Lifting their interlaced hands, he kissed her knuckles lightly, perhaps an insignificant gesture, but one to set her heart to trip against her whalebone stays. Then, not insignificant at all to Harriette, he bent his head to touch his lips to her cheek.

Such a light kiss, entirely appropriate in public from a groom to his bride, but to Harriette with her heightened senses it seemed shockingly intimate. As the blood rushed to her cheeks, she felt an unaccustomed shyness descend. She would have to learn to deal with this man if she was to hide her emotions from him. What a burden it would be for him to know that a wife, taken for convenience, without either friendship or affection between them, threatened to melt into a puddle at his feet from a passing kiss to her cheek!

‘I’ve had some of the rooms put to rights at the Pride,’ she informed him as if that were the most important thing in the world, not the riotous surge of her blood at the touch
of his mouth. ‘A meal is arranged for us. It’s just for tonight. We can leave tomorrow, as soon as you wish.’

‘Then that is what we shall do.’ If he was surprised he did not show it, but pulled her gently in his wake as he made his way to inform Sir Wallace that they would not, sadly, be staying at Whitescar Hall to take a glass of contraband brandy in celebration of their marriage. ‘I expect it will give me better memories of the place.’

Harriette repressed a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, Luke. I hope it will.’

Lydyard’s Pride, despite Harriette’s assurances, was not much different from the cobwebbed desolation Luke remembered from his enforced stay. He supposed there was a limit to what could be done in a short time with one elderly retainer and two maids. Perhaps there was less dust in the library, a less desolate air with the holland covers removed, but nothing could rob it of the all-pervading damp from the ill-fitting windows and the incessant wind from the sea.

Why did she care for it so much? He did not ask because Luke sensed a careful reticence in his bride on the matter, intriguing in a lady who could be astonishingly forthright in others. He doubted she would have given him a satisfactory answer.

No, it would not have been his choice to spend his wedding night here, where he would, he presumed, have to woo a nervous bride. But was Harriette nervous? He thought that she might be, a virgin anticipating her wedding night with a man who was still very much a stranger to her. When he had kissed her—a fleeting affair—he had felt her retreat from him. But watching her instruct the maids to deliver their luggage to the one ha
bitable bedchamber, he was not sure. Uneasy she certainly was—there was a sharp tension about her that he did not recall from their previous acquaintance—but she was not nervous. What a strange mixture of competence and reticence she was, and he discovered a need to seduce her into revealing more of her thoughts to him, the emotions that drove her.

He would like to feel her relax and soften under his hands.

The evening fell into the twilight of a summer night.

‘We shall eat early, sir,’ she informed him. ‘Luke!’ she added with a glimmer of a smile. ‘Forgive me. It will take me a little while to get used to you!’ Which made him laugh. ‘We don’t keep town hours here, I’m afraid. Perhaps I can offer you a drink. The brandy is excellent. I can personally recommend it.’

They sat in the library, in the uncomfortably upright chairs, the upholstery frayed and mildewed, and made desultory small talk about his journey from London. She asked about his damaged muscles. Luke answered her questions, sipped the brandy, acknowledging its quality. She was waiting for something. But what? Was it something she expected from him? Perhaps he was misreading her and it was merely a case of wedding nerves.

But she looked up, turning her head, listening at every noise in the old house.

From the library they moved to the dining room, where they sat formally at opposite ends of the table, the vast expanse between them polished inadequately for their use and set with a strangely haphazard mix of tarnished cutlery and old china of exceptional taste, but liberally chipped. Only the glasses were fine and old. Luke found himself watching and waiting, every sense on the alert. There was
no doubting it. Harriette glanced up, reacting to every sound. When the door opened to admit Wiggins with a bottle of claret, she fumbled, unusually clumsy, and dropped her napkin to the floor.

She must be afraid of him. He could think of no other reason for her fingers pressed so firmly, white-tipped, against the edge of the table. Such a thought—that she might view an intimacy between them with trepidation—lodged uncomfortably in his chest.

The claret poured, Wiggins departed and Luke could stand it no longer, unsure whether to be impressed or amused. What did she expect of him? That with the blessing of the law he would pounce before their supper was eaten, strip that very pretty gown from her body and ravish her with no thought but for his own pleasure? It was an arresting thought as the candlelight glimmered on the pale skin above the lace-edged neckline, drawing his eye to the swell of her breast and the lovely column of her neck. It would be no hardship for him to do just that, he acknowledged, as his heart picked up its beat at the thought of cupping one of those elegant little breasts in the palm of his hand, but hopefully with some finesse and an eye to the lady’s comfort. So, when once again his bride lifted her head at the sound of a distant owl hoot from the elms, he knew he must tread delicately to put her mind at rest.

‘Harriette.’ He broke into her lengthy description of the quality of the hunting in the vicinity, folded his hands on the polished wood and fixed her with a straight but compassionate look. Waited until her eyes lifted from her glass, widening at his serious tone. A tension, a strange mutual recognition, snapped between them as their eyes met, startling him with its intensity. It was incredible. For a moment he forgot what he had intended to say.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

Luke cleared his throat. ‘There’s nothing to worry you, you know.’

‘I’m not worried.’ She blinked, breaking the connection.

He sighed softly, intent now on reassurance. ‘I’m trying to put you at ease. There’s no need for you to…to be so anxious. I shall treat you with every care, every consideration. Our betrothal might have come about in an unnatural fashion, but I shall honour and respect you as my wife. My demands on you will not overstep the bounds of propriety. I have wed you to restore your good name.’ He almost winced at the formal words, but could think of no other way to put her mind at rest. ‘I am experienced enough to know what will bring you pleasure. You need have no fears that my demands…’ His words dried as he saw the colour rise from the lace at her neckline, her eyes widen.

Harriette looked startled, but replied readily enough, ‘What need I not fear about your demands?’

‘That you share my bed and the physical demands of my body every night.’ How to say it to a nervous virgin? ‘You need not fear that I shall consummate our marriage without…ah, care for your sensibilities…’ Could it get any worse?

‘Oh, I understand.’ She shook her head, an action that made the loose curls dance on her shoulders, and gave a breathless little laugh of, he thought, relief. ‘It’s very kind of you to reassure me.’

‘Good.’ No, it wasn’t. He was still puzzled. So what was it that she thought he would demand from her? He did not think it was terror of his fulfilling his sexual gratification that had tinted her face so alluringly. ‘I just thought I would say it.’

‘Thank you. It was very kind of you. Ah…perhaps you
would like another glass of claret?’ Harriette returned to a description of the countryside and, obligingly, he followed her lead. He could not force her to say what clearly was filling her whole awareness.

At last Wiggins entered with arthritic footsteps and a vast silver tureen as tarnished as the cutlery. He shuffled towards Harriette, removing the domed lid.

‘My lady.’ He had barely dipped the ladle when hard on his heels came the maid that Luke remembered, Jenny. Without pause she addressed Harriette from across the room.

‘Mr Alexander’s boy’s at the door, miss—my lady, that is. All’s clear.’

‘Good!’ Harriette was on her feet in an instant, already moving to the door with the briefest glance in Luke’s direction. ‘Stay, if you will, sir. I shall only be gone a minute.’

The tureen was already on its way back to some distant kitchen. Suspicions, clear and immediately well formed, leapt into Luke’s mind. The tension of minutes ago had quite vanished, leaving Harriette all competence and confident action.