Elizabeth Rolls – His Lady Mistress (страница 7)

Reaching the back stairs, she caught up her skirts and took the steps two at a time, only to let out a shriek of fright as a shadow detached itself from the wall and grabbed for her. The familiar reek of stale brandy assailed her. ‘Let me go, Godfrey!’ She hit out at her slightly inebriated cousin and tried to dodge around him, but he caught her easily in the confined space.

‘Just a cousinly kiss, then.’ He leered at her. At least she assumed he was from the slur in his voice. He usually leered when his mother wasn’t looking.

She was trapped between Godfrey above her and the footsteps below in the hall. ‘Stop it!’ she hissed, clawing at his eyes.

He grabbed her wrists as he jerked his face away and dragged her close. ‘Not without my kiss,’ he muttered. Brandy and foul breath surrounded her.

‘No!’ Gagging, she kicked out at him and connected with his shin, stubbing her own toe. It was enough. Godfrey yelled in pain and shoved her away so that she stumbled backwards into the hall with a cry of fright.

Her landing scared her even more. Instead of crashing to the floor, she found herself held safely in a strong grip. A very masculine grip that steadied her on her feet and released her. Dazed, she looked up into a dark, harsh face. Bright topaz eyes burned into her.

‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

Dark brows lifted in mute question. ‘Have we met?’

Her world tipped upside down as she stared up at the one person she must, above all others, avoid. ‘N…no,’ she lied. ‘You startled me. Thank you, sir. I…I didn’t know there was anyone here. I…I slipped.’

‘Did you?’ The deep voice took on a tone of lazy curiosity. ‘And did Faringdon slip, too?’

Verity could not suppress a shudder. Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grip.

‘You may as well come out, Faringdon,’ continued her rescuer. ‘Let’s be quite sure we all understand each other.’

Godfrey emerged from the stairwell and Verity saw with unchristian pleasure that her wild swipe at his face had drawn blood.

‘What’s it to do with you?’ blustered Godfrey. ‘This ain’t your house!’

Lord Blakehurst smiled without the least vestige of humour. ‘The whims of a guest should always be indulged, Faringdon. It appears the wench is less than willing. You will oblige me by leaving her alone. Is that clear?’

Wench? Verity only just choked back the explosion. Safer if he did think her one of the maids. So she swallowed her fury and lowered her eyes. Probably in this clothing she did look like a servant. She had already decided that it was too dangerous to let him know she was here.

Godfrey smirked. ‘Unwilling? Oh, she’s always willing enough—’

Blakehurst seemed to swell. ‘Go. Before I forget that your father is my host.’

Godfrey backed away. ‘Suppose you think you’ll get a leg across, eh, Blakehurst?’ he jibed, settling his sleeves in an attempt to look unconcerned. Then he lifted his hand to his face and stared at the blood in apparent disbelief. The look he stabbed at Verity swore revenge.

Cold fear dripped down Verity’s spine. If this came to her aunt’s ears—that she had landed in Lord Blakehurst’s arms—her situation would be even worse.

‘I suggest that you cease to judge others by your own dubious standards, Faringdon.’ His lordship’s voice descended to outright menace. ‘I have absolutely no need to force my attentions on unwilling maidservants. Now take yourself off!’

Godfrey left, with another vicious look at Verity. Her heart sank. God only knew how he would explain that scratched face to his mother, but Verity didn’t doubt that she would figure largely.

Shivering, she turned to go. If Godfrey didn’t mention Lord Blakehurst’s presence, then she was safe. Relatively.

‘A moment.’

Slowly she looked back. Almost against her will, her eyes lifted to his face. All hard planes and angles, it held the promise of strength and purpose. Something inside her exulted, rioted, even as she stood motionless, trapped in his gaze. ‘My lord?’

‘You puzzle me, girl.’

Swallowing hard, she didn’t say anything, just tried to look vaguely subservient as she fought the attraction of those eyes.

‘Are you a servant?’

Five years ago, three even, Verity would have denied the suggestion without hesitation. Now…now when she knew how easily she could be kicked out, that there was nowhere else to go, now that she understood exactly what her fate would be if they did throw her out, she hesitated.

‘You don’t talk like it,’ he went on.

‘Nursery governess,’ she muttered. It wasn’t quite a lie. She did try to teach the younger girls between paid governesses. The gaps between paid governesses had gradually become longer and longer.

‘Oh.’ He seemed to accept that. ‘I’ll mention this to your mistress and—’

‘For God’s sake, no!’ Shaking, she forced her voice to calm. ‘My—’ She’s your mistress, not your aunt ‘—Lady Faringdon would blame me, not Godf—not him. I’d be sacked. Please, don’t!’

‘What is your name?’

It nearly choked her, but somehow she got the hated name out. ‘Selina Dering, my lord.’ And bobbed a curtsy.

Another voice broke in. ‘And what, may I ask, is going on here?’

Chapter Two

Verity wished she could turn to stone at the sound of Aunt Faringdon’s voice. Or at least to ice so that she wouldn’t feel anything. The soft voice bit deep.

‘You, Selina! Take yourself off. Presumptuous girl! Go to your room!’

Lady Faringdon turned to Lord Blakehurst, all honeyed smiles. ‘I must beg your pardon, Lord Blakehurst. That sort never know their place. I hope you were not too inconvenienced.’ She bore Lord Blakehurst away, casting a look over her shoulder at Verity that promised dire retribution on the morrow.

Verity retreated to the stairs and raced up to her dark, chilly little room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, shaking in the cold blackness. Eyes tight shut, she saw again the face of her rescuer. Familiar eyes stared back haughtily. Eyes that comforted her dreams, that she’d never expected to see again in the waking world. The moonlight had never revealed their colour. Burning amber. He hadn’t recognised her.

Don’t think of him.

Verity prepared quickly for bed in the dark. Shivering, she lit her tallow candle, took her father’s journal from under her pillow and got into bed.

She couldn’t hide from the truth.

Lord Blakehurst, Celia’s supposed suitor, was her Max.

Dazed, she let the book fall open where it would. The start of the Waterloo campaign and her father’s first reference to ‘…my new Brevet Major, Max B. I shall not call him anything else here. His family name and degree have not the least significance in what lies before us. He is, however, a gallant lad, and one I shall be happy to rely on when we finally face Bonaparte. I have good reports of his intelligence and courage from his previous commanders…’

That was the first of many references. Apparently Colonel Scott had become very much attached to the younger officer. Almost like a son. She shut her eyes, remembering that tiny, dead baby sharing her mother’s grave…no, she mustn’t think of it, mustn’t remember her father’s return the next day…

‘I think Mary would approve him and Verity would like him. He has a gentle way with women and children.’

A few of the things William Scott had written about Max’s way with women should have brought a blush to his daughter’s cheeks, but Verity had come to the conclusion that young men were young men the world over. And apparently all the women Max had entertained in Brussels had been more than willing. It did not appear that her father had thought the worse of Max for his youthful sins.

Hungrily she read on through her father’s account of the weeks leading up to Waterloo. Max was mentioned regularly. In the five years since she had first read this journal, he had come alive for Verity in a way she could not quite understand. She knew his expertise with horses and his fondness for dogs. She knew he hated tea and how he liked his coffee. She even knew how he liked his eggs and bacon. And that he was perfectly capable of cooking it himself.

Above all his kindness and thought for an orphaned child glowed in her memory…a gentle way with women and children…

He was as real and precious to her as life itself. And the Max she had found in her father’s journal reassured her that the man who had planted bluebells on a suicide’s grave, guarded her sleep and left her a decent breakfast, was not a figment of her imagination. In the past five years he had been her only friend, his very existence her only comfort as she cried herself to sleep. And now he was here, in the house, supposedly courting her cousin.

Shivering, she replaced the journal and snuffed the candle. She had never thought that he might be of such high degree. She wished she could forget.

An hour later she still lay in the dark, wishing Lord Blakehurst had never come to the house. Then she could at least have held on to her vision of Max. Max who, at least in her dreams, might be able to care for the disgraced daughter of a suicide.

Now the image she had held all these years was overlaid with the disturbing reality. An aristocrat who would never give her a second thought. Bitterly she remembered asking if she would ever see him again.