Wedding Night Revenge (14 page)

But she had the means to purchase a ride home later and hackneys were readily available. It had been early still; just seven-thirty and the evenings so light at this time of the year. It had only fleetingly crossed her mind that it might be pitch dark when she finally got to find her bed at Beaulieu Gardens...

Rachel leaned her heavy head back against the wall, watching through the fanlights over the double doors the silver crescent and trio of spangles placed like fancy patches on midnight-blue velvet. A wispy cloud dimmed their mesmerising shimmering, and with a sigh she looked away from the heavens. Her head fell sideways, loosening yet more golden tresses to drape her cloaked shoulders, and she glanced at the clock. It was a superfluous checking, for each sonorous hour chimed away by the magnificent time-piece in the corner had roused her from her troubled thoughts.

Ten-fifteen was the time. Those fifteen minutes had dragged like fifty since last she'd been startled into straightening in her hard, inhospitable chair.

After being presented with a little refreshment at eight-thirty—a glass of lemonade and some cinnamon biscuits—she'd remained ignored in the hall, except for a phlegmatic look from the butler on each hourly vigil that took him to the front door to needlessly check and rattle the locks. Even on collecting her empty plate and tumbler an hour later he'd said nothing to her.

During the lonely quiet with just her thoughts to keep her company, an unavoidable introspection had produced nothing inspiriting. Instead, a disquieting certainty was plaguing her that she had acted with a total lack of sense or maturity after arriving at this illustrious address. Adamant she would not be worsted by servants who had insinuated she was unworthy of their attention, never mind that of the Earl of Devane, she had insisted on forcing upon them her presence and demanding an audience with their master.

Six years ago, when she had been engaged to Connor Flinte, their social standing had been fairly equal. He had been a catch, no doubt; but then so had she, with her beauty, her youth and her heiress status.

Now she was past her prime and the heart of her inheritance was gone; a chasm seemed to yawn between their conditions. How her pride was pricked by knowing it! And by recalling how her adversary had been fawned over at the Pembertons'
musicale.
At thirty, he was more eligible than ever; he was obviously well-liked, not only by her partisan father, but by the fashionable set. His London residence, she could see, had some costly, stately appointments, and his servants were naturally charged to vet his callers. Had she not been feeling so very defensive, she would have accepted that his butler was simply attending to his duty, not taking a personal dislike to her.

In fact, as she had not requested refreshment, that was an unexpected kindness on his part.

Grudgingly, she realised she had been treated with more respect than perhaps her petulance allowed. As the hour grew late and it became obvious the master was not returning to dine...or to see his visitor, his manservant could have insisted she leave...but he had not.* More and more, as the minutes dragged on, was she beset by an urge to slink away. Yet she couldn't. For her own peace of mind she must remain where she was. It seemed pointless staying, yet equally ill-advised to leave. If she fled, details of her bold intrusion would be recounted to the master when he arrived home.

Arriving here like a whirlwind, acting like an unkempt harpy, in the hope of impressing on him that she didn't give a fig how she looked for he was not worth the courtesy of a clean dress and a scrubbed complexion, had been the sort of tempestuous conduct that would better befit a child Sylvie's age. She had wasted over two hours that could have been put to such good use. She yawned, let her lids flutter low over her drowsy blue eyes. A bath, a proper meal...a nap. All those alluring comforts she had missed. She could have chosen oblivion for a few hours. She could have opted for the opiate of blessed sleep...

Words were whispering in her brain like malicious ghosts, slowly penetrating her cosy dream, spoiling it. She turned her head fitfully trying to recapture the magic of laughing with Isabel, chatting with Isabel...being with Isabel.

Isabel raised her hands; pale fingers were outstretched to her, teasing, as though they might beckon, not wave farewell as she dreaded. They did neither; she felt a gentle human touch on her cheek, stroking. She was being soothed because her sister would soon be gone again...lost to her and far...far away. The fair oval of Isabel's face, the gleam on her long fawn hair were becoming indistinct...fading, even though Rachel called to her...demanded she stay with a sob cracking her voice.

Rachel sought those hands, wanting the comfort of the embrace, but a redolence of masculine scent, a hard male body, frightened her senses out of their coma. She jerked upright in her seat, then tried to press backwards into it. She stared through misty, sleep-blinded eyes at a man. His dark, frowning face was close to hers and she realised he was squatting close to her chair.

Beyond him were fuzzy silhouettes of two other men. She blinked and swallowed, blinked and swallowed, already fearful of the dreadful embarrassment which was building just beyond the blanking residue of her daze. For on the periphery of her mind still tormented the anxieties that had hounded her into sleep. Oh, she was aware that shame was creeping closer to cow her and she closed her eyes tight, hoping to hold it at bay.

When eventually she jabbed a look past Lord Devane, this time she recognised, with a stab of despair, the two other men who were witnessing her distress. The short, elderly butler was quietly talking to a tall, fair-haired man. Jason Davenport was looking at her too. His attention never left her.

Rachel felt her stomach coil in to knots and in a sudden panic she tried to rise. Her legs were stiff, awkward from sitting so long, and she grabbed behind for support from the chair as slowly she straightened.

Connor was rising as she did, keeping pace with her, close to her and, as cramp made her sob and stumble, he steadied her with a firm grip on her arms.

His soft Irish accent penetrated her torpor, the first clear words she understood. 'Come, it's time to go home, Rachel...'

'What time is it?' was all she could croak on a sniff in response.

'One-thirty...'

'One-thirty?' she echoed back. 'You're late...so late...' she accused on an indrawn, shivering breath.

'I know...I'm sorry...' he soothed in that honey, silky voice that could so easily have drawn her back to rest.

Without another word he moved her close, an arm about her shoulders absorbing the force of her uncontrollable quaking. He took her over the polished wood floor in a way that barely necessitated her feet touching it.

She was aware of the butler going that way too. He opened the door, looked at her with great intent, and then she was into balmy night air and lifted, floating, dreamlike, down the steps.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world, as she was rocking gently in his carriage, that he would shift to sit by her, still keeping her close as she drifted in and out of dozes...resting against his chest.

'Win you be after wanting me to pour, Miss Rachel?'

'No...I shall manage. That will be all, thank you, Noreen.'

Noreen Shaughnessy looked at her mistress, then slanted a bold stare from beneath her rusty lashes at the tall, distinguished gentleman lounging at his ease by the mantel. After a low, deferential curtsy that caused tufts of springy hair to escape her neat cap and spoil her view of his handsome self, she withdrew.

Rachel remained facing the closed door for a moment. Of course...someone else who approved of him, and a countrywoman to boot. Her full lips took on a decidedly disapproving skew, before she quickly went to the tea tray Noreen had placed on the morning-room table. 'Thank you for coming so promptly, sir...my lord.' She slipped over the mistake in his address with slick brevity. 'First, I must apologise for requesting your presence so shockingly early in the day, but I thought it seemed sensible, for propriety sake as much as anything, to get this over between us as soon as possible...'

Again, her soft, shapely lips pursed; this time in regret at not having more tactfully phrased her preliminaries. After all, her aim
was
to exploit that show of warm indifference that this man had first established between them at the Pembertons'. Time enough in the months that would follow for him to discover just how hostile she really felt: For now she was willing to curb her emotions and prepare the ground for the seeds of her plot. In fact, she was willing to do anything within her power to safeguard June a happy and harmonious wedding day at Windrush. Regaining her inheritance was another matter: a feat she was willing to work towards more slowly and stealthily.

A flitting' glance reached his face. As she feared, behind his mild expression lurked faint amusement. He also looked disturbingly impressive. His attire was understated elegance: a gilt-buttoned tail-coat of navy blue, and fawn buckskin breeches that seemed moulded to his powerful physique. A crisp shirt looked spotless; a snowy cravat faultless in its fuss-free folds. Tasselled Hessian boots had obviously provided his valet with hours of toil: the one stubbed lazily on its toe, bridging the other, was reflecting the Greek-key design bordering the carpet. She hadn't before felt inclined to notice that he wore his hair unfashionably long and uncurled: a thick pelt of sable appeared to obscure his collar and weak sunlight, stencilling through the lace curtains, was dieting his head with an ebony patina. Her teeth set a little. So, what if he looked well? He'd ever been an attractive man, there was no need to make so much of it now.

Those startlingly blue eyes were not fully open as he surveyed her, but he didn't have the debilitated air of one deprived of rest. In fact, beneath his languid demeanour, she guessed the Earl of Devane was de- pressingly alert.

Her summons for him to come to Beaulieu Gardens at eleven o'clock this morning—a time when no self-respecting member of the
ton
would be out of bed, let alone out of doors—must have reached him at the dawn-like hour of nine. Yet here he was, arrived on time, looking so immaculately turned out that he must have roused himself to be punctual as soon as Ralph handed in her message at his residence.

Not that
she
was a stranger to a meticulous
toilette:
having yesterday made an utter fool of herself in every way, starting with presenting herself at his home looking for all the world like a sloven, and finishing the fiasco by blubbing like a baby, she had undertaken to be dignity personified today.

Every possible advantage must be hers when receiving him on home ground.

So, in contrast to last evening's unkempt brat, she hoped that, this morning, she once more resembled an elegant, mature woman.

Her sprig-muslin morning dress was of demure empire line, yet fitted snugly to her bosom thus endowing her moderate bust with a maximum amount of cleavage. The skirt flared little and a hint of curvaceous hips was revealed beneath barely opaque gauze. Her com- ' plexion was white with fatigue, yet she'd forgone rouge; she knew that, oddly, the pallor suited her, as did the bruise-like smudges colouring the translucent hollows beneath her eyes for they accentuated their blue. This morning she had taken pains to appear quite interestingly ethereal and in need of a strong man's care and protection—which was what she'd received from a most unexpected quarter last night. She was willing to play up to the concern he had shown her then.

It was hardly surprising he'd pitied her considering the pathetic spectacle she had made of herself. It would have needed to be a callous rogue, indeed, who'd remain unmoved while she snivelled like a lost soul. So, against all odds, she had gained something from the debacle and learned that even the stormiest cloud might turn up a silver lining.

Not that conquering her chagrin had been easy. Three quite presentable gowns were strewn, screwed up, on her bed upstairs where she had lobbed them in roiling pique. She had been still buttoning this one, finally opted for in a panic, with Noreen hopping and skipping around her, plying the tongs to her hair, when his curricle drew up outside at five minutes to eleven. But the furious preparations had been worthwhile: Rachel was sophisticated enough to understand that a lot of her jilted fiance's studied impassivity derived from the fact that he was not unmoved by her fragile, womanly charms. And she did mean to charm him into submission...for what else, initially, had she to use? Just a'hope he might be tempted to oblige her with a favour because once they'd been just hours away from becoming man and wife...

Aware she had been dithering with cups and saucers whilst all this registered in her mind, Rachel made a brisk show of agitating the tea in the teapot.

Immediately the utensil was tilted and the brew was streaming into a cup. In a rather thin voice she hastily enlarged on her previous blunt comment. T

thought it best for both our sakes that we meet early, before any of our acquaintances might be up and about and spy your vehicle outside. I'd hate to give people further cause to speculate over dealings between the Merediths and the Earl of Devane.'

'I understand...'

'Yes...I thought you would. Cream and sugar?'

'Yes, thank you.'

Wordlessly Rachel concentrated on being a competent hostess. With a final extra drip of cream added to his cup, she was satisfied it looked just so, and carried it towards him. She had barely covered half the distance when she realised she'd been overgenerous and the tremor in her fingers was likely to send a quantity of the beverage slopping into the saucer. She halted with a tut and a frown, and stared dismayed at her hot, wet fingers. 'Oh, how clumsy. I'm sorry. I shall get you another...'