Raven's Ransom (5 page)

“The boot is on the other foot, my good man, for in truth though I suspect I
know
who you are, you are certainly also intriguing.”

The amusement crept from striking eyes to an impossibly handsome mouth.

“It is unfair that you have the advantage of me, then. Who are
you?”

Primrose looked cynical. It was not necessary for the coachman to feign ignorance of her identity. She hated above all things dishonesty, and so held herself a little aloof as she replied. When he didn’t answer, she continued. “I am surprised you do not know me, since it is Lord Raven who pays your annual stipend. Go now, whilst my sisters are still dancing.”

She mistook the incredulity in his eyes for hesitation. Her tone became more urgent, though her heart was still beating impossibly quickly and she wondered if he
realized
that his eyes were focused rather improperly on her soft, modestly cased cleavage. She blushed, for her thoughts were straying in a most immodest direction and she had it in her to wish she had chosen something more daring, like Lily. Still, he hesitated.

“I shall not betray you, for I fear my
own
behavior is equally at odds. I cannot comprehend it at all.”

She sounded puzzled, which caused the gentleman to smile a little and at last volunteer a response. It was not the one Primrose was seeking, but it had the effect of causing her to tremble, a little, and close her eyes against the improper suggestion. The rogue had actually volunteered to repeat his actions. “Purely,” he qualified, with a teasing glint to his observant eyes, “in the interest of comprehension.”

At which Primrose regarded him sharply and asked where he had acquired the manners—if not reticence—of a gentleman born. He grinned and regarded her lips unmercifully. Miss Chartley felt her heart hammering, once again, and tried bravely to ignore it.

“You are a rogue, sir, for staring at me like that!”

“Not for kissing you?”

“Oh, undoubtedly for that! Do go away, now, you are unsettling me.”

“But not frightening you?”

She regarded him in silence. Though he was behaving outrageously, had taken unspeakable liberties, and was looking very much like repeating the offense, she was
not
frightened. She must be a very unnatural sort of female, but somehow those eyes, though they spoke dangerous volumes, made her feel safe rather than the more sensible reverse.

“I shall not answer that, for my wits are singularly at odds with my senses. If you were a gentleman, you would leave at once.”

“And deprive myself of kissing you yet again? You must think me a very poor sort of fellow.”

“I shall scream!”

“No, you shall not, for at the slightest resistance I shall stop at once.”

“Very well. Consider yourself resisted.”

He looked so hurt, Primrose felt a gurgle of laughter rise to her throat.

“Oh, don’t look so downcast! Do you read?” She picked up Bayer’s
Uranometria
and handed it to him. He looked quizzical.

“By that I take it you mean ‘
can
you read?’ ”

She blushed. “If you like, I can teach you.
Uranometria
is rather hard-going for a beginner, but I can lend you several more suitable works.”

He hid a smile. “Gothic romances?”

“Good heavens, no! I leave such nonsense to my sisters. But I have some heavenly descriptions of the new railways and the art of ballooning and horseback riding and . . .”

The gentleman wondered if she realized how animated her face had become in the lamplight. He yearned to take her in his arms again and explore the delicious crests that peeped invitingly out from the reams and reams of velvet and organdy.

“You are not paying attention!”

“Oh, but I
am!”
He eyed her impudently and chuckled as the color rose to her delicious cheeks.

“You are incorrigible. I believe I shall withdraw my offer and ask you to wait outside. You really are the strangest of servants, for none, I believe, has ever before been quite as presumptuous! Waiting
inside
my chaise indeed! You are fortunate your garments are not muddy, or my sisters would have fits.”

“But not you?”

“Oh, undoubtedly me too! This gown is hideously modish—I would not have it ruined for the world.”

“And there you are telling taradiddles, my dear, for I do believe it is quite dreadfully crushed and I have heard nary a murmur of complaint.”

“No thanks to you! It is only my singularly good nature that saves you.”

“And there, at last, I believe you speak the truth. About your singularly good nature, I mean.”

Primrose blushed. She had been jesting, but the gentleman’s low tones spoke of a sudden admiring sincerity. She had no patience for elegantly turned compliments and certainly, as compliments went, this was fairly stark and understated. Still, she felt a trifle breathless as her keen eyes met his.

“Spoken like a gentleman.”

The marquis’s eyes twinkled. “That is a relief, my angel, for I
am
one.”

He waited, with interest, for the effect of this pronouncement. Primrose scrutinized him closely, her lips parting just a trifle as she regarded his firm chin and unwavering gaze. She hesitated, a little, for he did look
dreadfully
heathenish in his assortment of ill-fitting garb. Still, despite some entirely reprehensible behavior on his part, the notion that he
was
something other than a common coachman was beginning to dawn on her rather forcibly. She tested him gingerly. “If you are a gentleman, what are you doing in my carriage?”

There was a moment’s silence as the marquis contemplated a succinct answer. Whilst she waited, doubtful eyes assaulted him. Then a terrible thought struck. “Good Lord, you are not seeking to
compromise
me, are you?”

“Why should I do
that?”
He appeared interested, being far more conversant with the reverse. One of the rather intriguing aspects of rank was that many unscrupulous young ladies would do anything to contrive to be alone with him. At first, he’d suspected
this
little maiden of being unusually enterprising, but a few moments in her company had made him revise his suspicions. Now he listened with growing amusement.

“Oh, the same reason Sir Rory Aldershot abducted me yesterday! You wish to gamble on the odds of my being an heiress. But I assure you, sir, you are far off, for Grandfather is the wiliest of creatures and will no doubt change his mind a dozen times before we are wed. Besides, if you urgently require funds, the risk is too high. I could turn out to be quite penniless!”

“That would be a tragedy.” The words were serious, but the tone was too light for Primrose to be fooled.

“Don’t you care?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then why are you ruining my reputation? It seems rather a drastic step, though I must compliment you on the novelty of your idea. Did you bribe my coachman?”

His lordship regarded her with awe. She was quite the most fascinating creature he had ever come across. So self-possessed in the face of danger! He wondered, for an instant, what had become of Sir Rory. A poor sort of fellow. He would cut his heart out when next they met. Still, he had evidently not succeeded. Perhaps
he
should have bribed the coachman, wherever he was.

“My lovely one, you are suffering under a terrible misapprehension. And though I am loath to set you right, for you shall undoubtedly be mortified and quite rightly wish to strangle me for not telling you sooner, I shall take courage in my hands and tell you nonetheless.” He gazed at her intently and took her adorable hands in his own. Too late she remembered she had discarded her gloves. The gentleman’s hands were warm and addled her wits quite unaccountably, so that it took a great effort of will to concentrate on what he was actually saying.

“... so you see,” he concluded, “this is not
your
carriage, but mine. I am not a coachman, though I can forgive your mistaking the matter. I frightened my mother into fits when she first saw my ... uh, enterprising garb. The truth is, I loathe Almack’s.”

Primrose comprehended at once. “So you dressed to be disbarred. How clever of you! Though I must say, sir, that you were excessive! All you needed to do was present yourself in riding clothes or even formal morning dress. Without knee breeches you would never have got beyond the entrance!”

“Mmmm ... that may be so, but I needed to be certain. My mama, you see, is wretchedly popular. I feared she would cajole the doorman into making an exception.”

“Good Lord, sir! You obviously do not know the doorman!”

“Tyrant, is he?”

“Oh, frightfully so! But you say this is not my chaise?”

“No.”

“But how peculiar! Ours is quite noticeable for its color. The wheels are ...”

“Let me guess. Royal blue?”

“Oh! Yours, too?”

“I believe so. Mama likes to keep up with fashion’s little foibles.”

Primrose sighed. “Lily chose the color. I might have known it was in vogue.”

“Lily?”

“My younger sister. There are three of us, you know. I am Primrose. We are all named for flowers.”

“How romantic! What is your elder sister named?”

“Oh,
I
am the elder sister.”

“Never! You are far too dewy-eyed to be the eldest anything!”

“Flummery! It is too dark for you to notice my eyes.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, just a practiced flirt and as such, I had better depart immediately. Do you think we have been seen?”

“I hope so, for then I should have to marry you at once.”

Gareth surprised himself. He never thought he would say those words, even in jest. He felt a moment’s anxiety lest Miss Pretty Primrose should take him too earnestly, but then was chagrined, the next moment, when she did not.

Her chuckle was infectious. “You should choose your compliments more carefully, sir! You would be well served if I were to take you at your word.”

He was intrigued. Most young ladies would need no further encouragement.

He frowned a little as she started fumbling with the handle of the carriage door.

“No! ”

She raised her brows inquiringly.

“You can’t go out. You will be ruined. Everyone knows my chaise. The crest is emblazoned on the door.”

“Really? I had not noticed it.”

“It was dark.” He sounded impatient. “Stay awhile. Perhaps when Mama arrives she can lend you countenance.”

“Lily and Daisy will be anxious if I am not waiting for them.”

“They will think you have returned to the ballroom. Come, don’t quibble with me. I mean to save your reputation, so let us not cross swords.”

Primrose nodded. Ever sensible, she saw at
once
the logic behind the man’s words. It was a pity her heart was not just as sensible. It persisted on hammering unmercifully into her rib cage. She just hoped the wild beating was not audible to the gentleman placed so uncomfortably close beside her. She moved a little and he smiled.

“Not
shy
, are you? I won’t eat you, though I daresay I might be tempted to
taste
you a little more.”

“No!” Alarm crossed Primrose’s expressive face. Then she saw he was teasing.

“You are a horrible flirt, sir! You should mend your ways or ...”

“Or?”

Even in the dim glow of the gas lamps she could see his eyes sparkle dangerously. Then he was moving toward her and wrapping his sturdy arms about her so possessively it felt as if he had been doing it for a lifetime. Then his face dipped, a little, and she felt the touch of his lips upon hers yet again. For once, Primrose’s errant heart behaved itself. It stopped its rapid beat and its loud, impossible stammering. It changed course entirely, in fact, and appeared to come to a halt. Primrose couldn’t breathe, for time had somehow suspended itself in the entanglement of their lips. He smelled heavenly, despite his strange attire. So clean and crisp . . . faint dark bristles pricked at her where Reece had been derelict in his duties and not
quite
shaved as close to the skin as he might have. But then, the marquis no doubt had grabbed the razor impatiently and done the job himself, an act that always
infuriated
his much-suffering valet. Somehow, Primrose drew closer, rather than drawing back, as was her intent.

The marquis laughed triumphantly, though his eyes were blazing. He held her from him a little and waited for the inevitable scold when she was restored to her senses.

It did not come, for her tongue was occupied with shyly exploring her softened lips as her hands went up to her flushed cheeks.

“You must think me a wanton, sir.”

“Not at all. I think you are a very wonderful lady who has probably never before been kissed.” His tone was unexpectedly gentle, and not at all flippant or teasing as she might have expected.

“It is that obvious?” Perversely, she looked mortified.

“Only in the nicest sort of a way.” He did not tell her that his hands were clenched with the effort of not repeating the spontaneous episode. Had it not been so painfully obvious that this
was
Miss Primrose’s first encounter with the opposite sex, he might not have been so forbearing.

“Come, there is no need to look so downcast. It was not
that
bad, was it?”

His tone took on a light, teasing note guaranteed to set her at ease.

“Now you are being absurd!” She smiled tremulously in response.

“Absurdity is my middle name. Cry friends, shall we?”

Primrose smiled. It was impossible to be ill at ease with him. “Oh, very well! But you shall have to be a little freer with your name, sir. I cannot keep calling you
nothing
the whole evening.”

“It is Gareth.”

It had a lovely ring to it. Primrose longed to test it out on her lips, but she had stretched impropriety far enough for one evening. “Now you are being ridiculous. You know perfectly well I cannot call you that either!”

He grinned. “First I am absurd, then I am ridiculous. There is no pleasing you, ma’am! Besides, you are being missish! ”

“Not missish, just sensible. I will not call you by your first name, so don’t, I beg you, even
think
it!”

“Well,
I
shall not be so nice in my proprieties! I shall call you Primrose when we are alone. And I hope, if I may say so, that
that
will be often.”

His eyes lingered upon her face so that Primrose’s heart fluttered like the flibberty gibberts she so abhorred. She dropped her gaze, so he would not see the confusion into which she was cast at this preposterous statement. She adopted her severest tones as she replied.

“And now you are being foolish, sir! Doubtless we shall not meet again under such irregular circumstances. And I still have not your name!”

The gentleman smiled, pleased to tease a little longer. “More is the pity, then, my sweet scolder! Absurd, ridiculous, and foolish. You should meet my mother. It will be a regular marriage of minds, for I assure you she shares your sentiments! Now don’t look so cross, though I swear your features are beautiful even when you pout. No, don’t grin, it spoils the effect.” My lord folded his arms pleasantly and regarded Primrose with amusement. Then, taking pity on her, for she was clearly torn between a laugh and a haughty grimace of annoyance, he relented.

“Oh, very well, then, I suppose you will simply have to start ‘my lording me.’ Very boring, but have it your way. I am Gareth, Lord Rochester.”

Primrose sat up a little straighter. “Then your mama is . . .”

“Gwenyth, the dowager marchioness. Do you know her?”

“Of course I do! She is so vivacious one would be hard-pressed
not
to know her! Besides, she is Lily’s godmother.”

Rochester eyed her doubtfully.

“She is?”

“Yes, although I wager she is hardly aware of the fact! She must be godmama to
dozens
of the debutantes.”

“Indeed, she is. Mama seems to attract friendship wherever she goes. She had so many bosom buddies at school that poor Father quite lost track!”

“Yes, well
my
mother was one of them. Esmeralda Fincham, though it was probably such a long time ago she may hardly remember. Esmeralda married my father, Desmond Chartley, and asked the marchioness to stand godmama on Lily’s birth. I believe our Lily still has the diamond pin she sent for her christening. Most unsuitable of course, and entirely too generous.”

“Sounds like Mama! She is a dear creature when she is not trying to cut one of her wheedles with me. You will love her.” Suddenly, it was important to Gareth that she did. He tried to figure how long he would have to sit in the carriage awaiting her arrival. There was a limit to his patience, after all, and the temptation set before him was rather unbearable.

He wondered what scent she used that could be so fresh and sweet. He bent closer to breathe it once more, then regretted that impulsive action, for the scent was not
only
fresh and sweet, it was provocative in the extreme, like honeysuckle or musk. He had a very masculine desire to taste of its sweetness once more, then stopped himself with heroic forbearance. The lady obviously had no idea of the effect such a fatal scent could have upon the senses. She looked so calm, so peaceful, it was at odds with the erotic impulses she was unwittingly fostering within him. Oh, how much longer, he wondered, would he have to endure this tantalizing form of self-abnegation?

He was not left wondering long, for Lady Rochester appeared sooner than he had dared anticipate. Her eyebrows rose markedly at the spectacle that confronted her, but she waved the footman away languidly, rather cleverly obscuring his view of the interior with her outrageous ostrich feather fan. Slamming the door shut on her gay damask shawl, she tutted a little but abandoned the thing to its fate.

“Well, Gareth!” She chuckled a little as she viewed her son’s sudden discomfiture. She was not at all perturbed by the presence of a lady seated comfortably on her favorite squab. Her sharp eyes detected, even in the lamplight, the crimson cheeks and the demure lashes of copper gold that lowered, shyly, upon her scrutiny.

“You need not look so gleeful, Mama! Miss . . . good heavens, I do not know your name!”

“Chartley.” The words were chorused by both Primrose, and to her astonishment, the marchioness. Lady Rochester chuckled and winked at Primrose, who felt she had never been caught at such
point non plus
in her life.

“I am not
totally
a scatter wit, Gareth! Miss Chartley is one of Esmeralda’s chicks.” She opened her fan then snapped it shut with a sudden click.
“Gracious,
I believe I may be your godmama!” Her smile was so infectious, Primrose lost her rigid bearing and sudden consciousness.