The Highwayman (18 page)

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As he rode towards the Hall, St. Clair’s mood was far from amiable. As if he did not have enough problems, what with Lydia finally chasing him down—and apparently bringing a houseful of company with her— now he must worry about that old reprobate making up to Jane.

Jane might say what she liked, but he had seen the way Sir Alfred looked at her, and God help him, St. Clair was fully aware of just how desirable she was. He only hoped that he had given her food for thought so that she would not unwittingly lead the old squire on.

As he drew nearer to Ethridge Hall and the woman awaiting him there, another thought struck him. What would happen when Jane and Lydia met?

He gritted his teeth, cursed under his breath and rode on.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was with some trepidation that Jane called at Ethridge Hall the next morning to see Mr. Davies. Despite St. Clair’s parting words, she had begun to feel that she was on shaky ground with these casual visits to his home. She was well aware that some people might view them as improper.

In addition, although she was still curious about St. Clair’s guests, she had decided that they must all be very witty, worldly, interesting, and stylish. In short, all the things she was not. It had also occurred to her that, since he was such a notorious rake, his friends might not move in the first circles of Society. Whatever the case, she feared that he would see her in a less favourable light by comparison.

The house seemed remarkably quiet when she was admitted by the butler and shown up to Mr. Davies’s chamber. She wondered at this until she recalled that members of the fashionable world did not seek their beds till dawn and seldom rose before noon. Even St. Clair, who was usually there to greet her, was nowhere about, and she could only assume that he had reverted to London hours.

She tried to ignore her disappointment as she fussed over Mr. Davies, changing his dressing and seeing to his comfort. Her patient still displayed a strong tendency towards blushing, but he was gradually becoming less reserved in her presence, which made it easier to prolong her visit with him. Even so, it was far short of noon when she made her way back downstairs, and she was resigned to the unlikelihood of seeing St. Clair or his friends today. It therefore came as a most agreeable surprise to find him awaiting her in the entry hall.

Doing her best to hide her pleasure at the sight of him, she said, “Good morning, St. Clair. I have just come from seeing Mr. Davies.”

“And how did you find him this morning?”

“Very well,” she told him. “He is even beginning to lose some of his shyness with me.”

St. Clair merely smiled, and taking her arm, asked, “Shall we go?”

“Go?” she repeated blankly.

He cocked a brow at her. “Have you forgotten our project? I was to acquaint you with the basics of estate management, was I not?”

“Yes, but I shall not hold you to that now that you have guests to entertain.”

“Oh, I think I can spare you an hour or two. Besides, I feel no obligation to provide them with entertainment, since they came without invitation.”

Jane was not going to argue with him. She was too delighted to discover that her lessons were not to be discontinued after all.

They rode for a time without speaking, but it was not the easy, companionable silence they had sometimes shared. In fact, he seemed so preoccupied that she finally said, “A penny for your thoughts, St. Clair.”

Smiling ruefully, he answered, “I fear they are not worth even so much as that.”

After a brief hesitation she asked, “Do they concern your friends?”

A slight frown appeared on his brow. “I believe it would be more accurate to describe them as acquaintances.”

Jane did not know what to make of that but, since she did not wish to display a vulgar curiosity by questioning him further, she said nothing.

For a time, St. Clair, too, refrained from speaking. Then he suddenly pulled Achilles to a halt and turned towards her.

Jane drew up beside him and looked at him enquiringly.

“Jane,” he began, “about these guests of mine...”

“Yes?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Actually, what I wish to tell you concerns one of them in particular. She—” He stopped abruptly, and they both turned at the sound of a rapidly approaching horse.

Jane thought she heard him mutter, “Damnation,” under his breath, but she was too stunned by what she saw to heed his reaction.

The rider of the horse was a female. An extremely beautiful female, with red-gold hair, vivid green eyes, and a flawless complexion. Her figure, too, was superb, and it was shown off to great advantage by her modish riding habit. To make matters worse, she was petite. Looking at her, Jane suddenly felt like a homely giantess.

This piece of perfection reined in beside Achilles and said playfully, “For shame, St. Clair! One would almost think you were attempting to avoid me.”

“I hardly expected you to be up and about so early, Lydia,” he replied.

“Usually I am not, but I find it quite difficult to sleep when in the country. The appalling quiet keeps waking me.”

He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps I should hire a hackney coach to drive to and fro beneath your window as Alvanley once did for a friend with the same complaint.”

“Oh, what a delightful notion! Yes, I think you should do that for me, St. Clair.”

Suddenly seeming to recall his manners, St. Clair said, “Lydia, you must allow me to introduce you to my neighbor, Jane Lockwood. Jane, this is Lady Cathcart.”

“How do you do, my lady,” Jane said politely.

After quickly taking in Jane’s appearance from head to toe, Lady Cathcart offered her a condescending smile. “Do call me Lydia,” she said. Then, glancing from St. Clair to Jane, she added, “I hope you will not mind if I join you for your ride.”

“As a matter of fact...” began St. Clair.

At the same time, Jane exclaimed, “Oh, I was merely consulting with St. Clair on a matter to do with my own estate, but as we are finished, I really must be going. It was lovely meeting you, Lydia. And thank you for your advice, St. Clair.”

Having already turned her horse before the last words left her mouth, Jane rode away as quickly as she could without giving the impression of undue haste.

From the first, she had known that her love for St. Clair was hopeless, but now that truth had been brought home to her more forcefully than ever. And it was surprisingly painful, given that she thought she had relinquished all expectations save those of friendship. Well, apparently she had been wrong. Obviously she had still been entertaining impossible dreams, but she could no longer delude herself. What man in his right mind would choose plain Jane Lockwood over the beautiful Lydia Cathcart?

She arrived at Meadowbrook in a state of despondency which she did her best to hide upon entering the house. There she discovered Sir Alfred in the midst of another argument with Agatha.

The two broke off their dispute to greet Jane, and Agatha demanded, “Well? Did you discover who St. Clair’s guests are?”

Jane sat down before answering, “No, but I did meet one of them—a Lady Cathcart.”

“Ah,” said Sir Alfred knowingly. “Heard she was after him, which goes to prove I was right. A man can be forgiven anything if he has enough blunt.”

“Who is she, Alfred?” asked Agatha.

“Old Algernon’s widow. Married the earl when he was at his last prayers and did very well for herself.”

Agatha sniffed. “I suppose she is no better than she should be.”

“No, no,” he assured her. “A trifle fast, but very good ton for all that. No, ‘tis marriage she’s after, though there’s no saying but what she might settle for less if she fails to bring him up to the mark.”

Jane stood abruptly and asked in a slightly strangled voice, “Where is Alice?”

“She is in the garden, practicing her water-colours,” said Agatha.

Jane was already halfway across the room as she told them, “I believe I shall go and see how she is coming along.”

Agatha merely nodded before saying, “Now tell me this, Alfred...”

Thankfully, Jane heard no more. She longed for a period of solitude in order to untangle her chaotic thoughts but, knowing that she had been neglecting Alice of late, she dutifully made her way to the garden. She spent what remained of the morning with the girl, and it was not until early afternoon that she was able to find time for herself.

She had scarcely entered her chamber, however, when Melrose came to say that Lord St. Clair was below, asking for her. Her first impulse was to deny herself to him but she quickly decided against that. She must face him sooner or later and she doubted that postponement would make their meeting any easier. Her best course of action would be to treat him in the same friendly manner as always, no matter how difficult that might be.

In fact, it proved to be easier than she had expected. “St. Clair,” she said upon reaching the entry hall. “This is a surprise. I did not think to see you again today.”

Taking both her bands in his, he replied, “No, but I contrived to send everyone off to Leeds for the remainder of the day, so we may take up where we left off this morning.”

She hesitated but could think of no excuse that he would not easily counter. Besides, unwise though it was, she wanted to be with him. She finally said, “Very well. I shall only be a few minutes,” and she hurried upstairs to change back into her riding habit.

They ended the afternoon on the very spot where they had held their picnic. And if, when he lifted her down from her saddle, he left his hands on her waist a trifle longer than necessary, it was not long enough for her to take exception to. Not that she would have done so in any case, she admitted to herself.

To banish that thought, she said brightly, “Oh, what a perfect ending, St. Clair. You remembered that this is one of my favourite places.”

He merely smiled as he removed his coat and spread it on the ground for her to sit on. And, though Jane made a token protest, she accepted without comment his avowal that it was an old garment which would not be harmed.

He sat down beside her then, and Jane scarcely noticed the silence which fell between them, for she was hearing her own words of a few minutes earlier repeated in her mind.

When she had spoken, she had meant that it was a perfect way to end the day, but she knew that more than just their day together was ending. That would be true even if Lady Cathcart had not arrived on the scene.

St. Clair had taught her all that it was necessary for her to know, and she could no longer use Mr. Davies as an excuse for visiting the Hall. His mind was as clear as a bell, and he had not complained of the headache since that first day. Even she could not continue pretending that his wound was anything other than a scratch.

Moreover, St. Clair had discovered that, having been reared on his father’s estate, Mr. Davies knew a great deal about estate management. So, when the position at Meadowbrook was offered to him, he had accepted with alacrity and gratitude. There was no further excuse for Jane to seek St. Clair’s company. Besides, she had been neglecting her own chores at Meadowbrook quite deplorably, and really should get back to them.

Knowing that now was the time to stop procrastinating, she licked her suddenly dry lips, turned her head to look at him, and said, “St. Clair—”

She stopped abruptly when she discovered him staring at her lips intently. Her heart suddenly seemed to be beating quite erratically.

Before she could even think, he grasped her shoulders, pulled her hard against his chest, and brought his mouth down on hers almost angrily. But, in the next instant, the hint of anger disappeared, and his kisses became all that she remembered them to be.

Gently his mouth moved over hers, shaping and moulding. Then his tongue came seeking, and with her welcoming co-operation, plunged into her mouth, exploring, teasing, inviting, until she finally followed his lead. Tentatively at first, and then more daringly, she allowed her tongue to learn the sweet taste of his mouth.

It was heavenly, but it was not enough. She longed, as she had before, to feel his hand on her breast, and instinctively she pressed herself closer against his chest. He made a sound deep in his throat, and when one of his hands left her shoulder to move downward, she was filled with a sense of fierce joy, breathless expectation, and all manner of wildly wonderful sensations. Once again she was completely unprepared when he abruptly pulled away and, with a muffled oath, turned from her.

Blessedly, for a moment at least, her mind was numb, but not so numb that she did not hear him mutter, “Damnation!”

She waited for him to continue, feeling as if her whole fate hung in the balance, but he did not continue.

Instead, he gave a harsh laugh, and said with mocking formality, “Well, it seems I must beg your forgiveness once again. Miss Lockwood. My only excuse is that I must have spent too long rusticating away from London.”

Jane could not mistake his meaning, nor could she answer him. She was too busy berating herself, attempting to swallow the lump in her throat, and fighting the tears in her eyes.

And something else, which she could not yet identify, was trying to push its way up through all her misery.

He spoke again, and this time his voice sounded gentle and apologetic. And worse—far worse—she could detect a note of pity in it. He said, “I fear I would make a most unsuitable husband, Jane. More to the point, marriage has never interested me, and you, I know, would settle for nothing less.”

And now Jane could identify what that something else was. It was anger. At herself, certainly, but this time the anger extended to him, too. She had behaved brazenly but he was not blameless. She might have unwittingly instigated that first incident, but he had, without doubt, begun this one. And now, he had added insult to injury.

Before he could stop her—if he had even wished to, which she doubted—Jane jumped to her feet, strode to her horse, and pulled herself into the saddle.

Coldly, she said, “If you will excuse me. Lord St. Clair, I really must be going now.’’