The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (12 page)

Hoofbeats wakened him.

Below, on the towpath, a rider reined in. A splendid, glistening black stallion pointed its muzzle up the hillside. He scrambled to his feet, alarmed until he saw tawny hair flash in the sun—

It was Alicia Parkhurst.

She had evidently recognized him asleep against the tree trunk. Phillipe’s forehead felt warm all at once.

He walked forward as the girl dismounted, holding the black’s reins with one hand. She looked down the hill, then swept the horizon with a glance, as if to make certain she was not being observed. She wore the same fashionable riding costume in which he’d first seen her, and again he noticed the way it emphasized the swelling fullness of her breasts.

“Good afternoon, Master Frenchman,” she said with a coquettish nod. “I’ve never spied you on Quarry Hill before.”

“Oh,” he grinned, “have you looked?”

She feigned annoyance. “You have a saucy tongue.”

“My apologies. Do you ride this way often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. Every few days—if I’m lucky.”

“Well, I’ve never stopped here before. But I’ve seen enough of Tonbridge to last awhile. So I’ve been exploring. May I ask whether there’s any news of my father?”

Alicia Parkhurst shook her head. “The situation’s little changed. That ghoul Bleeker lets more and more blood. But still the Duke seldom wakens. They do fear for his life.”

Phillipe swallowed hard. “I thank you for that much information—they’ve sent us no further word.” He decided to avoid the subject of the attempted bribe.

“Nevertheless,” Alicia said, “Lady Jane is very much aware that you are both still here.”

“Yes, I’ve learned she has—informants, keeping track. I ran into what I presume were three of them on the towpath some days ago.”

“But you haven’t seen Roger,” she countered; it was more of an assertion than a question.

“No, not so far.”

“Because Lady Jane is restraining him. He’d like nothing better than to ride to Tonbridge and thrash you—for a start. You do realize how dangerous he can be?”

Phillipe’s eyes looked bleak as he nodded. “He has what you could call a fragile temper, doesn’t he?”

“And you upset him so, that first day. You positively drove him to the limit!”

He wanted to comment that she’d had some hand in that too. But he refrained, asking instead:

“Why is his mother keeping him leashed? I can’t imagine it’s because she’s concerned about my well-being.”

“Certainly not. I think she’s convinced you’ll give up waiting and go away eventually.”

“She’s wrong. I intend to see my father.”

“I knew you were determined the first minute I looked at you. So did Roger, I believe. Perhaps that’s what prodded him into that awful display at Kentland.”

Again Phillipe held back a comment. Alicia’s brilliant blue eyes slid obliquely across his face. Her next words, couched as a request, were really more of a subtle command:

“Will you walk with me back in the trees where it’s cooler? I love to ride hard but it tires the poor horse—” She stroked the animal’s neck, but looked at Phillipe. “I can’t linger too long. I’m really not ever supposed to ride about the countryside unescorted. But Kentland’s so tiresomely gloomy—and I reach the point at which I’ll gladly bear Lady Jane’s criticism in return for a little freedom—”

She walked under the low-hanging branches, leading the black. Phillipe followed. Alicia seemed to relax the moment they were safely concealed in the green darkness at the heart of the grove.

“You’re staying with the family for an extended period?” he inquired.

“A month or two—into the early summer, at least.”

“Are you making plans for the wedding to Roger?”

“Of course. We’re to be married next year. It’s the way large estates are made larger in England. The Amberly lands added to those of my father will leave an inheritance of increased size to my children. Provided—”

Smiling in a sly way, she tied the sweating stallion’s rein to a branch.

“—provided I can induce—or should I say— seduce?—Roger to carry out his duty. The dear boy has his father’s occasionally hot temper—you share some of that, don’t you—?”

“I hope not to the degree Roger does.”

“—but I do believe he also inherited some of his mother’s coolness toward more—intimate pursuits.”

She didn’t look at Phillipe as she said it, bending instead to touch a patch of emerald moss growing near a gnarled root. The leaves in the grove rustled. For a moment, Phillipe was both stirred and shocked to discover that aristocratic young English ladies would even allude to the subject of sex. The revelation brought to mind one of Mr. Fox’s recent diatribes against the loose morals of the nobility. Mr. Fox was of the relatively new, Methodist persuasion.

Deciding to explore his discovery a little further, Phillipe picked up the conversation with, “Intimate pursuits, you said—are you well acquainted with such pursuits, Miss Parkhurst?”

The sky-blue eyes took on a smoky look. “What is your opinion?”

His cheeks felt flushed. He managed to shrug. “I’m not sure. I’m no expert on English manners. Or English girls—what they do and don’t do. However”—he kept his gaze unblinking, a half-smile on his lips—“I do believe that with your eyes and certain other little—mannerisms—you want to make it seem that you’re quite experienced. Maybe that too is the fashion here—?”

“La, how bold you are!” she said with a bright laugh. “Such perception! How old are you, Master Frenchman?”

“Eighteen soon.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“That accounts for the look of experience,” he joked. Then, more soberly: “How old is Roger?”

“A year younger than you. He should have a splendid career—if he doesn’t fall into some silly quarrel over cards or a bear-baiting wager and get himself killed. Lady Jane worries about that constantly. She’s quite protective—”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“—which I believe is the reason she has imposed her will and forbidden Roger to look for you in Tonbridge. Thus far, she’s been successful. I think she’s the only person on earth of whom Roger is honestly afraid.”

Phillipe plucked a blade of grass, ran it absently between his index and middle finger. “Tell me more about your future with Roger, Miss Parkhurst. What kind of career are you counting on for him?”

“Oh, first I imagine he’ll serve in the army. Purchase a commission, of course. One can’t achieve high rank quickly any other way. The army is a good steppingstone to a political career, so afterward, I imagine we’ll live in London. No doubt Roger will enter one of the ministries. Those in politics have many avenues for increasing their fortunes. The closer they can position themselves to His Majesty, the more numerous become the avenues. I look forward to a fine, prosperous life—”

Phillipe’s curt laugh made her scowl for the first time.

“What do you find so amusing?”

“You seem to have forgotten how Roger humiliated you the day we met. Hurt you, in fact.”

Her lips set. “I haven’t forgotten. But larger considerations make it prudent to show no public distress.”

“Larger concerns.” He nodded. “Roger’s future. Roger’s fortune—”

“Exactly.” The word hung between them, flat, final.

Then, with another of those smoky looks at Phillipe, Alicia seated herself against the trunk of a beech, gracefully settling her skirts. She sighed what sounded like a contrived sigh, remarking:

“Of course, even when Roger and I are married, I shall have to find lovers.”

Phillipe laughed again. “That’s the fashion too? One husband isn’t enough?”

She brushed back a lock of hair, laughing with him. “Poor ignorant foreigner—!” she teased, patting the ground next to her riding skirt.

He sat down beside her, then felt annoyed that he’d obeyed her pantomimed command so promptly. Despite many differences, he saw traces of Lady Jane in Alicia, foremost being her unspoken assumption that, because of her position, her whims would always be gratified.

Still, he couldn’t deny that she was lovely.

Alicia leaned her head against the bark and closed her eyes, musing on:

“Among our class, Master Frenchman, marriage has little if any relation to more diverting pastimes. Except on those occasions when an heir must be gotten, of course. Oh, I shouldn’t say that categorically. Much depends on the quality of the husband.”

Edging a bit closer to her, he asked, “What are your feelings about Roger’s quality?”

“Didn’t I hint at it? He’s cold with a woman. I’ve yet to discover his—quality.”

Her voice lent a shade of vulgar meaning to the final word. Phillipe felt warmer than ever. And aware again of Alicia Parkhurst’s skill in sensual games. He asked:

“Would you like to?”

“What a frivolous question!” She ran her pink tongue over the edge of her teeth. “Shouldn’t the wise person sample an apple before buying the bushel?”

She was leading him down a contradictory path all at once, a path that had little to do with the other one winding, presumably, to wealth and position as the spouse of the next Duke of Kentland.

“Then—” Phillipe’s gesture was wholly French, eloquent. “Why not sample, Miss Parkhurst?”

“Heavens, I’ve already told you that he hesitates to touch me! Besides, it’s really quite impossible on a practical basis. I mean—watched day and night at Kentland by gossiping servants—”

Another wistful sigh; artifice. Layer on layer of artifice—it had been born into her, he supposed; and more of it taught as she grew. Yet her behavior both unsettled and excited him.

“I rather suppose,” she concluded, “that at best, Roger will be a crude lover. Unsure of himself, and therefore crude and rough. Only seeking to be done quickly—satisfy himself—never sensitive to the desires of”—a small catch of breath; the sky-blue eyes pinned him—“a partner. Tell me something, Master Frenchman.” She inclined her head nearer to him. “Would you hesitate to touch me?”

“No.” A pause. “Not if I wanted to.”

“Ah, wicked!” she laughed. “Venomously wicked!” There was a hint of anger in the way she tapped his cheek. It reminded him of Roger’s use of the silver-headed stick. He closed his fingers on Alicia’s wrist, gently but firmly thrust her hand away.

With a pretty pout, she pretended hurt. He let her go.

“I expected better manners from you,” she told him.

“It will take some of my father’s money to polish off the rough edges.”

“Then you and your mother do intend to press the claim?”

“To the finish.”

“Well, you’re liable to cause no end of difficulty—and you’d better stay out of Roger’s way if Lady Jane’s leash ever snaps—”

She left off rubbing her wrist when she saw Phillipe was paying no attention. He was looking directly into her eyes. The smile of the genteel harlot teased at him again.

“But we’ve quite lost the drift of our conversation—”

“I believe you said I disappointed you.”

“Yes. You’re a lord’s bastard—and a Frenchman to boot. I was entertaining the notion that you might be quite unlike your half-brother in the way you behaved toward a woman. Gentler—yet at the same time more impassioned. We’re told that the French are experts in matters of love.”

All at once, Alicia’s physical presence and the intimacy of the rustling grove started a deep, now-familiar reaction in him. He was infuriated by the mannered way in which this haughty girl toyed with him, playing her romantic word games. At the same time, he was tempted.

In no more than seconds, he succumbed:

“Were you also thinking of indulging yourself in the novelty of finding out?”

For the first time, she was taken aback, pink-faced. The subject changed instantly.

“ ‘Indulging yourself.’ There’s yet another pretty turn of phrase. You speak our language surprisingly well.”

“I had a special teacher, because I knew I’d be coming here to claim the inheritance.”

Alicia touched his wrist. The feel of her warm fingertips excited him even more. She, too, hesitated only a moment.

“Have you had special teachers in Cupid’s disciplines as well?”

“A few.”

He placed his own free hand on top of hers, nervous, yet somehow compelled. Her own grip tightened just a little. He looked into those remarkably blue eyes.

“And you?”

“Oh, yes—many.”

Something told him she was lying. But he only said, “Miss Parkhurst—”

“My name is Alicia.”

“The conversation’s wandered a long way down an unfamiliar path—”

“Shall we turn back, Master Frenchman?”

From her expression, her tone, her touch that brought him to stiffness, her meaning was unmistakably clear.

“It depends on the reasons for going on. I don’t want to be used as a means for you to strike back at Roger for what he did to you at Kentland.”

Her quick intake of breath said he’d struck the mark again. She started to pull her hand away, ready to rise and leave, angered. He caught her fingers, felt their heat once more, refused to release her as he finished:

“That is—if it’s the only reason.”

For a moment her eyes darted past his shoulder, full of the fear of chance discovery. Then she looked back to his face. Their gazes locked, held a long moment. A lark trilled somewhere at the edge of the grove. The stallion stamped. Slowly, she leaned her face toward his.

“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t—”

Phillipe kissed her. Hesitantly at first. Her warm, sweet breath cascaded over him. All at once his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her close. Her lips parted. Her kiss became eager, hungry. He thought his tongue tasted wine; through his mind fleeted a memory of Roger scoring her for an excessive fondness for claret—

They tumbled over onto the grass, arms twined, kissing. They began to let their hands explore. Very shortly, he discovered that young ladies of the English nobility wore silk drawers beneath their underpetticoats. Not to mention scarlet garters elaborately trimmed with lace.

The greenish darkness had turned steamy as a jungle. After much fumbling and struggling, Alicia’s shoulders were bare; then her breasts. He bent to kiss the soft valley between. He moved his head to one side, kissed again. She uttered a small cry of surprised pleasure. Was she, then, mostly artifice and little, if any, experience—?