‘I always told you that you were misjudging the man,’ she said, with a smile. ‘He has eyes for no one but you, Deb.’
It was disconcerting to Deb to realise that this was true. Either Lord Richard Kestrel was an extremely accomplished actor who had no trouble in sustaining the impression that he was in love with her or…But Deb refused to contemplate the alternative. Richard had spoken no words of love and just the thought that he might was enough to create a fear and a longing in her that threatened to overset all her careful plans. The engagement was to be of short duration only; it was a pretence; she had no wish to lose either her head or her heart over such a man. And yet Deb knew that she was already in danger and that every moment she spent with Richard just made that danger more acute. The more she tried to ignore it, the more dangerous it seemed.
‘It is no wonder that you never catch any spies,’ she said one evening, when they were sitting together on a knoll overlooking the Winter Race at sunset. The sky was an angry red that evening and it felt as though there was thunder in the air.
‘You have spent all your time with me these two weeks past, Richard, and given nary a thought to your work. The whole of Midwinter could be bursting with nefarious characters for all the attention that you are paying. You must be the poorest spy catcher in the government’s employ.’
Richard laughed. ‘Justin and Lucas are working on the case,’ he said lazily. ‘It keeps them out of trouble and gives me the chance to do what I like best.’
Deb turned her head slowly to look at him. They had been discussing Shakespeare, for Lady Sally’s reading group was currently studying The Winter’s Tale. Deb’s ancient Shakespearean primer was lying between them and they had had a lively debate in which Richard had defended Leontes for his suspicions about his wife’s infidelity and Deb had argued hotly in favour of trust. In the end they had been obliged to beg to differ, but it had been a stimulating discussion and Deb had been vaguely surprised. It was one thing to buy poetry books and quite another to defend one’s opinions with such wit and clear knowledge.
‘Is spending time with me one of the things that you like best?’ she enquired now, and saw Richard smile at the artless honesty of the question. He answered her quite seriously.
‘It is. And one of the things that I enjoy most about our situation is that, now we are betrothed, I may spend time alone with you.’
A shadow touched Deb’s heart. It was three weeks until they were set to travel to Bath, four weeks-five at the most-before the betrothal was over. Lately she had been thinking about that more and more. She shivered suddenly in the sharp little breeze off the river that heralded a storm.
‘It grows oppressive,’ she said. ‘Let us go back.’
They walked back up to the house in silence. When they reached the door, Richard handed her the book of Shakespeare and bent and gave her a very proper kiss on the cheek.
‘I will call on you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We are to go riding, I believe.’
Deb nodded slowly. She was at a loss to explain the sudden lowering in spirits that she had experienced there on the riverbank, almost as though something that was starting to become precious to her was about to be taken away.
Richard was watching her expressive face and now he put up a hand and touched her cheek. ‘What is it, Deborah?’
‘Nothing,’ Deb said quickly. ‘Nothing but the blue devils.’
She saw the lazy, masculine smile that touched the corner of his mouth. ‘May I help banish them?’
Deb’s eyes widened as she took his meaning. They were on her doorstep, in full view of anyone who chose to pass by. Yet Richard had never been particularly governed by convention and it did not appear that he was going to behave with propriety now…
He put out a negligent hand and drew her close to him. As soon as his lips touched hers, Deb felt her knees start to buckle. Richard kissed her deftly, expertly, with skill and assurance. There was something so seductive about such single-minded passion that Deb was afraid she might crumple to the ground on the spot, pulling him down so that he could make love to her there and then.
Richard drew her deeper into the shelter of the porch. It felt hot and still within the walls and the air was heavy with the burgeoning storm. Richard’s hands were on her waist, where the material of her gown and chemise clung stickily to her skin. As he started to kiss her throat, Deb felt hotter still, as though she were dissolving. She tilted her head back against the wall and felt Richard’s lips on the pulse at the base of her neck and his hand move to caress her breast with the gentlest of touches. Deb made a little sound of despair and longing.
Richard let her go and they stood staring at one another, the desire between them as elemental as sheet lightning.
‘When-?’ Deb whispered.
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I will send for you and we may go off somewhere and be alone together. Go on in, now, Deborah. Before I forget myself completely.’
Deb did go in to the entrance hall, but there she paused, watching through the window as Richard walked away towards the stables. She felt heated and impatient and near to madness. The clouds were massing overhead and the hall was dark.
Deb went into the drawing room, where she found Mrs Aintree arranging some of the late, pale pink roses that Olivia grew in such profusion at Marney Hall.
‘Lady Marney called earlier,’ Mrs Aintree confirmed, standing back to view her handiwork and twitching one spray of blooms slightly to the left. ‘She wished to speak with you, Deborah. Apparently she has had a letter from your papa this afternoon.’ Mrs Aintree nodded towards the mantelpiece. ‘There is a letter for you too…’
The miserable feeling that had plagued Deb before now hardened into something more fearful. She snatched up the letter and took it over to the window. She could see Richard in the stable yard, exchanging a few words with the groom, laughing now, raising a hand in farewell as he turned Merlin through the gates. The groom was watching his departure with good-humoured approval, as well he might…
Deb broke the seal on the letter. After the conventional greetings, Lord Walton moved straight to business.
I am gratified to hear of your betrothal to Lord Richard Kestrel, although I should have been more appreciative had he sought my permission sooner…
Deb smiled slightly. It was the closest thing to approval that her father was ever likely to express. So Richard had been right-marriage to a rake was by no means unacceptable to her family provided that he was rich and well connected. Her heart warmed slightly-until she remembered that the engagement was only temporary.
It would please me if you would still come to visit us at Walton next month, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the cancellation of your brother’s marriage…
The fearful feeling solidified into a block of sheer ice in Deb’s stomach. The hand holding the letter fell slowly. ‘Do you know what this is concerning Guy’s wedding, Clarrie?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Aintree said cheerfully, clipping a blighted rosebud from the stem. ‘Lady Marney was telling me. The most shocking thing! Your brother’s fiancée has eloped with your cousin Harry. Surely your father mentions the circumstances in his letter?’
The closewritten lines blurred before Deb’s eyes. Her father might well have related the entire matter, but she could not seem to make sense of it. All she was able to see was Richard Kestrel riding out of the stable yard, magnificent on his raking black hunter, the epitome of everything that she desired. Richard Kestrel, the man to whom she was betrothed. Except…
Deb licked her dry lips. Except that the wedding was cancelled and with it all necessity of arriving at Walton Hall with her fleeting fiancé in tow. For cousin Harry had run off with the bride, thereby removing both reasons for the betrothal in one fell swoop. Deb reflected with irony that had she known Harry had a penchant for Guy’s intended she could simply have encouraged him to do the deed sooner and save herself the trouble of advertising. If only she had known…
She scanned the letter again, trying to breathe properly.
Living in such close proximity, one assumes that their acquaintanceship developed into a wholly unsuitable intimacy…her father wrote disapprovingly.
Deb sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Poor Papa! Losing an heiress daughter-in-law and the chance to secure cousin Harry’s acres as well.’
Mrs Aintree was shaking her head. ‘The best-laid plans…’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Deb said slowly. She rubbed a hand across her aching brow. ‘Well, I am justly served for my own pretence now, I suppose. I must break my betrothal to Lord Richard as soon as possible and acquaint my father of the fact.’
Mrs Aintree put down her scissors and stared. ‘My dear Deborah, surely you will do no such thing? You have not been engaged above two minutes.’
Deb frowned. ‘What is that to the purpose, Clarrie? I cannot continue to be betrothed to Lord Richard under false circumstances.’
‘But you already are!’ Mrs Aintree pointed out.
Deb struggled with her thoughts. ‘Yes, they are false pretences in the sense that the world believes it to be a genuine betrothal-’
‘And must continue to do so for the time being.’ Clarissa Aintree came round to sit on the sofa and fix Deb with a severe gaze. ‘If you break your engagement now, Deborah, everyone will believe you flighty. Worse, people will talk scandal.’
‘But there is no scandal!’ Deb ran a hand agitatedly through her hair, scattering some pins on the carpet.
‘That has no bearing on the case,’ Mrs Aintree said. ‘People talk scandal regardless. It is a national pastime. Besides, if anyone had an inkling about your advertisement, I venture to suggest that that is scandalous enough to keep the whole of Woodbridge talking for months.’
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