Louise Allen Historical Collection (76 page)

He appeared to have absolutely no shame for what he had just done as he undid her laces and eased off the boot, then the other one. ‘Now, can you wriggle your toes? Good. Circle your ankle. Now your hands—fingers, wrists. There, nothing broken.’ He slipped her boots back on and laced them, then got to his feet and held out his hands. ‘Up you come. What was that?’ he asked, his arm coming round her when she gave a yelp of pain.

‘My ribs are bruised. I bounced on those steps all the way down,’ Celina said resentfully. ‘And my bu… My pos… I landed with a thud.’

‘I see. I had better carry you back.’ Ashley stooped and swept her up before she could protest. ‘And do not struggle or I might drop you and then you would land on your bu… On whatever unmentionable part it was you have just bruised so painfully.’

Lina found herself settled against his chest with nothing to do with her right arm but wrap it around his neck. In sensation novels the heroine, when swept into the hero’s masterful arms, was prey to a multitude of sensations, most of them described as fluttering, swooning or joyful.

This did not happen when one was bruised, embarrassed and angry and the man doing the masterful sweeping up was not the clean-cut hero rushing to the heroine’s rescue, but quite obviously the villain of the piece, with libertine tendencies lurking behind a thin veneer of humour and charm.

‘This is entirely your responsibility, my lord,’ she snapped, so close to his ear that he flinched. There was a mark in the lobe—it was pierced for an earring, she realised, shocked. At least he had the decency not to sport it in English society. As a first experience of a kiss, a first romantic encounter, this was not at all what she had dreamed of. It had been anything but tender; in fact, it had been shamefully disturbing and almost violently arousing.

‘How so? I did not tell you to throw yourself down those stairs.’

‘I was escaping from your assault.’

‘You assaulted me,’ he protested. ‘You bit me.’

‘You kissed me first.’

‘I was
trying
to kiss you,’ Ashley corrected. ‘And it was very pleasant—up to a point.’ He was grinning, the wretch. ‘And you tried to hit me.’

‘And that did not tell you anything about my wishes in the matter?’ Lina demanded.
I should be alarmed. I could have been ravished just now.
Or would even the most hardened rake attempt seduction on top of a windswept look-out deep in the woods? It had seemed like seduction just now. It had seemed like madness.

‘I was coming to the conclusion that we were not entirely of one mind—and then you opened those very lovely lips and I was lost. For a few seconds I was completely off guard.’

It was difficult not to smile back. But of course, this sort of disarming behaviour was probably standard tactics for a predatory rake. ‘Lord Dreycott,’ Lina said with all the severity of which she was capable—which, to be frank, she knew was not much, ‘you should not have tried to kiss me in the first place.’

If he only looked like Sir Humphrey Tolhurst or one of the other habitués of The Blue Door, then she would be terrified of him. Because this man was handsome and charming and made her laugh, and left her feeling as though her bones were melting along with her will-power, he was more dangerous than they were, not less. The devil, as Papa was fond of saying, wore a pretty face when he was tempting the unwary sinner.

‘I know. But you were so utterly irresistible. I was intrigued enough by the nun, but when she was suddenly a furious Valkyrie, eyes flashing, that mane of blonde hair flying in the breeze, I was lost.’

‘What is a Valkyrie?’ Lina asked, suspicious that it was another cant term for a loose woman. Ashley began to make his way down the steep path, his muscles moving in intriguing and disturbing ways.

‘A Norse female horsewoman who carries the dead warriors back to Valhalla, the home of the gods, from the battlefield. But never mind Norse legend—why were you so furious when I called you a nun?’

‘Because…’ Lina found explaining was beyond her. ‘Why did you?’

‘The plain gowns, the prim necklines, the scraped-back hair, the downcast eyes.’ He turned his head a little to see her face. His own was amused, but she could read the speculation in his eyes. ‘A perfect little nun. I assume it was your idea to make yourself look older than you are and more suitable as a housekeeper.’

‘Oh.’ So, he had seen right through that! I did think it was more appropriate. And after your great-uncle died and we were in mourning, black was the only proper colour.’ She had thrown gowns into her portmanteaux almost at random when she had fled. One had fortunately been black, another a soft blue grey and the third plain white, so with dye, the coloured trimmings removed and the necklines raised with the judicious use of ribbons and muslin, she had sufficient sombre gowns to be respectable.

‘Great-Uncle Simon would not want mourning,’ Ashley said with decision. His foot slipped, but with a twist he had his balance back, despite the burden in his arms. He was strong, Lina realised, strong and fit and hard. She closed her eyes for a moment and let her head rest on his shoulder before she had the will-power to lift it again. ‘In fact, I think I will forbid it to the entire household. No, you may get out your pretty gowns again.’

‘I have just dyed them all black,’ Lina said, pulling herself together and opening her eyes again. It was not true, she had three more gowns untouched, but she was not producing those, all chosen with the help of Aunt Clara. Quinn Ashley would like them far too well, she was sure.

‘Buy some more,’ he said carelessly. ‘You can afford to now.’

‘Yes, I suppose I can. Mr Havers told me I may have pin money. But in any case, I am the housekeeper.’

‘Do I need a housekeeper?’ he asked. ‘Can you not just act as the mistress of the house and order the servants to do what is necessary?’

Mistress of the house?
There were so many layers of innuendo and meaning in that phrase that Lina could feel herself blushing. ‘Please, my lord, put me down?’ Lina asked as they reached the edge of the wood and level ground. ‘I would be most embarrassed if the staff saw me like this.’ He set her on her feet at once. It jarred her bruises, but she bit back the exclamation of discomfort in case he scooped her up once more. ‘If I had no work to do, then I would feel I was being a parasite, living off your charity.’

He was still holding her, one big hand cupping each elbow, standing far too close. His breathing, she realised with a thrill of awareness, was very slightly uneven. The effort of carrying her? She doubted it, he was very fit. No, he was still aroused by their encounter.

‘You will be living off Simon’s legacy. I am dismissing you as housekeeper, but you may retain your post as companion, if you like.’ He began to stroll back towards the house and Lina, trying not to hobble, walked beside him.

‘To whom?’

‘To me when I am here. I will be lonely with none of the local gentry prepared to receive me.’ He made no attempt to try to sound either lonely or pathetic.

‘But Gregor is here.’

‘He is going back to London once we have sorted some of the books and papers. He will open up the town houses, hire servants, talk to our business agents.’

‘I thought you never came to England,’ Lina queried. ‘How do you—?’

‘That does not prevent me investing or buying property in this country. I have agents and lawyers and customers here. I shall send the library from here to my house in Mayfair once I secure it.’ She glanced up at his face to find it suddenly serious, introspective. I expect to spend more time in London in future—at the libraries, the British Museum, the learned societies.’

‘But are you not a traveller? ’

‘I am also a writer. It is time I wrote more, spoke more at the societies, or I will end up like my great-uncle, having to coerce someone into finishing my work after my death.’

‘You are a scholar, in effect,’ Lina said. She was surprised, she realised; despite what Trimble had said, she had not taken his scholarship seriously. ‘But I thought you a—’

‘Libertine? I am an adventurer, I admit. I am also a traveller and a trader. How very inconsiderate of me to wear so many labels. But we are all multi-faceted, are we not? You seem meek and mild and modest and yet you spit like a hellcat when roused. And you kiss—’ They had reached the stable yard again and he stopped, just past the archway. ‘And you did not answer my question. Why so furious at being called a nun?’

‘Because—’ She could feel herself blushing again. ‘Because of the cant use of nunnery and nun,’ she blurted out and, despite her aching bruises, almost ran from him round the corner and through the service entrance to the house.

‘Cant?’ Quinn stared after Celina. Admittedly he had been out of the country for a long time, but when he was last here the only cant meaning for nunnery was brothel. He had been away from England far too long, that was certain, if young ladies understood the meaning of argot like that. He turned on his heel and went back into the yard where Gregor was lounging on a mounting block in conversation with the head groom.

‘Good day, your lordship.’ The man—Jenks, he remembered—touched his forelock. I was just telling this gentleman about his late lordship’s hunters. Sad day when he decided to sell them, that was. You’ve a fine pair of riding horses, my lord. Arab blood, I can see.’

‘Yes, out of an English hunter mare for size by an Arab stallion for endurance. They are brothers. Tell me, Jenks, I have been coming to the conclusion that I have been away from England so long I am forgetting the language—what cant uses for nun or nunnery are there?’

The man looked incredulous, then grinned. ‘Well, my lord, only meaning I know is for an academy, if you know what I mean, and its young ladies. A cony warren, my lord.’

‘A brothel, in effect? Yes, that was my understanding also.’ So that explained the fury, but it did not explain why a respectable young lady would know what it meant. Gregor was obviously keeping a straight face at the cost of painful self-control. ‘Thank you, Jenks. I have indeed been away too long.’

‘And you can stop looking like that,’ he said to Gregor once they were out of earshot of the groom. I was perfectly aware of
that
meaning, I was simply wondering if there was another I did not know.’

‘It is a good word for a brothel,’ Gregor said, seriously. ‘Your English is amusing, I find. Perhaps I will seek one out when I am in London and perform my devotions with the pretty nuns. A pity you are in disgrace, my friend, or you could give me introductions and I could chase the society ladies as well.’

‘It will take a little while. I can secure invitations around the edges of society to begin with,’ Quinn said. ‘And then I move in.’ He had given this some thought during the long journey back to England.

There had been time to plot his reinstatement into the
ton,
time to think about how uncomfortable he could make those who had tricked and condemned him and whose scheming had left his great-uncle to a lonely old age for the sin of defending him. He had not realised until that last letter just how isolated the old man had become, and guilt at his own absence did nothing to lessen his anger.

‘We could have some fun amongst the less respectable, more dashing, ladies.’

‘Almack’s?’ Gregor asked hopefully. I have heard of Almack’s. Many pretty virgins. Rich ones, also.’

‘Almack’s would not let either of us through the doors,’ Quinn assured him. ‘But I would pay a good sum to see you there, a big bad wolf amidst the lambs.’ No, they would not admit either of them… yet. But the new Lord Dreycott with his reputation as a traveller and scholar could insinuate himself into the world of the men of learning, many of whom were influential members of society. If he played his cards right, he could be accepted back almost before those who recalled the old scandal were aware of his presence. Then he must rely on his wits and his money to stay within the charmed inner circle while having his pleasure with its womenfolk and his revenge on its men.

It would be amusing. The prodigal returns, far from penitent and reformed, but possessing now all the wickedness he was unjustly expelled for in the first place.

He had not lied to Celina; he did intend to spend more time in London in scholarly pursuits, in writing, in the libraries, at lectures, about his business interests. But he had no intention of skulking around pretending to be shamed by a ten-year-old scandal. He was not at all embarrassed, merely coldly determined to enjoy every facet of London life, and that included, when he was in the mood, the world of the
ton.

And this time, if any wives or daughters of the aristocracy threw themselves at his head, he would have not the slightest scruple about taking everything that they offered. A momentary stab of self-disgust caught him off balance. Once he had been the perfect young English gentleman: gallant, virtuous, scrupulous.
Fool,
he thought.
Look where that got you.
Innocence once lost was lost for ever—he was what he had become, the product of hard choices and sharp disillusion.

But meanwhile he had no intention of trying to ingratiate himself with minor Norfolk society. He had Great-Uncle Simon’s memoirs to complete, the library and papers to sort out and the intriguing and mysterious Miss Haddon to… To what? Quinn asked himself as he went upstairs to wash before a belated luncheon. That all depended what she really was. Innocent or something else?