by Jane Feather
“I don’t know what I thought. But as far as I’m concerned you led me to trust you and I was too much of a simpleton to realize that you were simply amusing yourself.” She uncurled from the sofa and crossed to the sideboard to refill her glass.
“Then I can only say how sorry I am,” Guy said slowly. “I promise you it was never my intention to hurt you. I still don’t quite understand. . . .” He let the words fade, realizing that they were only going to make things worse.
She shrugged, turning toward him with the decanter raised in mute invitation. Despite the dismissive shrug, Guy saw the stricken vulnerability in her hazel eyes, the remembered pain of a long-ago hurt. Impulsively he set down his glass, crossed to her in two long strides. He took the decanter from her and replaced it on the sideboard. “I am so sorry,” he murmured, running a finger across her lips before lowering his head and brushing light kisses on her eyelids. He caressed the curve of her cheek, then lifted her chin on his forefinger.
Petra was frozen, she wanted to slap his hands away, thrust him from her, and yet she couldn’t seem to make the necessary moves. His mouth touched hers, gently at first, his tongue tasting her lips. And when she didn’t object the kiss became stronger, more demanding. He wasn’t holding her, except for the fingertip beneath her chin. The slightest move would put distance between them and yet she couldn’t make that move. Until abruptly she took control of herself and moved her head sideways, breaking the contact.
Guy raised his head, a smile playing over his mouth. “Just as sweet and delicious as I remember.” He reached for her hand, enclosing it between his palms, twining his fingers with hers, saying with a wickedly inviting smile, “All-grown-up Petra . . . I can’t think why I’ve allowed you to drift out of my life, but I intend to make up for lost time.” He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. “Will you have dinner with me on Wednesday?”
Petra struggled with her composure. She was outraged that he thought he could kiss it all away just as he had done once all those years ago, when he’d picked her up after her horse, balking at a difficult jump, had unseated her. Although, as she recalled that incident with the clarity of hindsight, as soon as he’d picked her up off the ground and dusted her off, he’d immediately turned his attention to her horse . . . and spent a lot longer checking the animal’s forelocks for swelling and sprains than he had on Petra’s bruises. And she hadn’t minded at all, so intoxicated was she by Guy Granville’s attention, however cursory.
The elegant image of the French vicomtesse abruptly popped into her mind and her anger surged anew. How dared he think he could start up a flirtation with her again, after everything she’d said, and particularly now, when he was in an open liaison with another woman? She inhaled sharply and immediately caught the scent of him, a hint of lemon verbena, a musky earthiness beneath. It flooded her with sensual memory and absently she touched her lips, feeling the residual sensation of his kiss.
“Wake up,” Guy said, still smiling. “I seem to have put you to sleep.”
Petra gave herself a vigorous mental shake. “Of course you haven’t,” she stated. “But I’ve been ready for my bed this last hour. Let me show you out.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” he prompted, not moving as she walked to the door.
“What question?” She looked at him blankly, deliberately keeping all expression from her countenance.
“I asked if you’d have dinner with me on Wednesday.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“No,” she said shortly, and then realized how very rude she sounded. Behaving like an ill-bred schoolgirl would merely increase her present disadvantage. “No, I’m sorry. I’m otherwise engaged on Wednesday.”
He bowed in acceptance, picking up his hat and cane from the pier table. “Another time, then.” He walked past her as she held the door for him. “I suggest you soak your feet in warm water before you put them between the sheets.”
Petra’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You are all condescension, my lord.”
He laughed, opening the front door. “Don’t forget to lock up behind me.” His laughter drifted back down the street as he strode toward Berkeley Square.
Petra shot the bolts on the door with almost vicious satisfaction and taking her cognac with her limped her way upstairs. Her bed was turned down, the gas lamp throwing a soft golden glow over the comfortable bedroom. She peeled off her ruined stockings, discarded her dress and petticoat and sat on the edge of the bathtub in the adjoining bathroom, turning on the hot tap, wriggling her toes under the soothing stream as she sipped the cognac.
She was all at sixes and sevens, she thought crossly. The purity of her dislike for Guy Granville was now sullied with unwanted responses to his physical presence and a host of memories of the good times that summer. Oh, she could still conjure the bad aftermath, but now the good intruded on the clarity of that long-ago hurt. But he was still arrogant, still condescending, still too sure of the effect he had on women, all women, she remembered now. It had been the same ten years ago, but she had been so flattered to be the focus of his attention she hadn’t given a second thought to his flirtations with anyone else. And there had been plenty of them, she thought with the inconvenience of hindsight.
Gingerly Petra stepped onto the bath mat and hopped to the dresser stool to dry her feet. At least they were now clean, although still sore. She brushed her teeth, shrugged into her nightgown, unpinned her hair and pulled a cursory brush through the chestnut tangle, drained her glass, turned out the gas and slipped into bed.
* * *
“Lordy, Miss Petra, what ’appened to your stockings?”
Petra opened her eyes onto her now sun-filled bedroom and struggled up against the pillows. “I had to walk home without my shoes, Dottie,” she mumbled to her maid, who was looking aghast at the strips of shredded silk she’d picked up off the floor.
“Whatever for?” the girl asked, discarding the ruined stockings and picking up the apple-green gown Petra had dropped over a chair.
“Heels,” Petra said succinctly, leaning sideways to take the cup of tea on her bedside table. “They hurt my feet.”
“Not made for walking.” Dottie pointed out the obvious as she hung the dress in the wardrobe. “Will you go downstairs for breakfast?”
Petra glanced at the pretty ormolu clock on the mantel. It was gone nine o’clock and Diana and Fenella would be here at eleven. “No, I’ll have an egg and some toast and coffee up here, please. Could you run my bath?”
She sipped her tea, considering the events of the previous evening, and found that she was still as confused by her feelings as ever. When she thought of how he smiled that condescending smile, of the lightly patronizing tone of his voice, she felt only the familiar intense dislike, but then her body let her down. Her body remembered the feel and the scent of him, the warmth of his eyes when they were fixed upon her, as if they saw only her, and no one else existed outside the charmed circle of his gaze. And she went all gooey, Petra thought disgustedly, setting her empty cup aside.
She pushed aside the covers and stood up, wincing a little as her feet hit the ground. She wriggled her toes experimentally against the carpet. How stupid could she be, she reflected with the same disgust. Of course her feet were bruised even if they weren’t cut. And that was bound to affect her plans for the day.
“Dottie, do we have any witch hazel or arnica?” she asked, going into the bathroom. “My feet are a bit bruised.”
“I’ll bring you some, miss.” Dottie straightened from testing the temperature of the bathwater. “I think there’s arnica in the still room. What clothes shall I put out for you this morning?”
Petra considered. “The bronze silk shirt and cream skirt, I think. I’m expecting guests later this morning so I won’t be going out until this afternoon.”
She lay back in the hot water, reflecting on how much about the previous evening’s encounter she wanted to share with Diana and Fenella. Not so long ago the question would n
ever have arisen, she’d have told them everything, down to the smallest detail, but things were a little different now. They would still want to know, still be interested in whatever was going on in Petra’s life, but now there were aspects of their own married lives that they would not share with one another. Petra understood that, and she would never pry into those marital nooks and crannies, but she felt that her own life was still an open book for her friends; she had no one whose secrets with herself were sacrosanct.
And that made her wonder if her own affairs seemed trivial now to her friends. But they could still amuse themselves, still play the games that had always given them so much fun. Developing a plan of well-deserved revenge on Guy Granville would be a happy diversion. After that kiss, which he’d treated with such careless flippancy, the baron deserved everything they could come up with.
Petra rose dripping from the water and reached for a bath towel. Her spirits were restored and she was hungry. She dried rapidly and, pushing her arms into the wide kimono sleeves of a silk negligee, went back to the bedroom.
Dottie was setting a round table in the bow window that looked over the small walled garden at the rear of the house. The fragrance of fresh coffee mingled with the heady scent of wall flowers rising from the bed beneath the open window. A bee buzzed lazily in the wisteria framing the window. Petra sat down and shook out her napkin. “Thank you, Dottie. I seem to be ravenous.” She tapped the top of her egg to crack the shell.
“I found witch hazel,” Dottie said, shaking a small bottle. “Mrs. Evans said it’s better than arnica for bruises.”
“Mrs. Evans is always right,” Petra said with a chuckle. The housekeeper had been with the Rutherford family since she and Jonathan were children and her word was always law.
“If you rest your foot on this stool, Miss Petra, I’ll put some on for you.” Dottie pushed a velvet stool to the table, drew the cork on the bottle and sprinkled some of the liquid onto a gauze pad.
Petra obliged, offering up first one foot and then the other for her maid to daub with the soaked gauze. “That feels so cool and soothing. Thank you, Dottie.”
“They don’t look too bad to me,” the girl said, peering closely at the soles of Petra’s feet. “Why’d you go and do something daft like that, Miss Petra?”
Dottie, who was about the same age as her mistress and had been looking after her since Petra had first put up her hair, never stood on ceremony and Petra never thought twice about the informality of their relationship.
“Maybe I’d had a glass of wine too many,” she offered with a grin, buttering a slice of toast. “It seemed perfectly logical at the time.”
Dottie laughed, shaking her head as she began to lay out undergarments on the bed before turning to the wardrobe for the shirt and skirt. “I went along to the meeting at Caxton Hall last night, miss. Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst was speaking. She said we was a suffrage army in the field. I never thought of it like that before . . . an army . . . means fighting, don’t it?” She paused in the act of smoothing the folds of the skirt. “Makes me a bit uneasy, miss, if I tell the truth. Don’t see meself marchin’ into battle.”
“No, and you won’t have to, Dottie. No one will have to do anything they don’t want to do,” Petra reassured. “There are other ways of supporting the cause. Leafletting, joining a parade, going to meetings.”
“Well, I don’t mind doing any of that,” the girl said, laying the skirt carefully on the bed. “But there was talk of throwin’ things at the police an’ stuff. I don’t hold with any o’ that. It’s as much as my job’s worth.”
“Your job’s always safe, Dottie,” Petra said. But she knew what the maid meant. Working-class supporters of the cause were particularly vulnerable if their support became known to their employers, who were more likely to be against the idea of women’s suffrage than in favor of it. Petra wasn’t even sure where her mother stood on the subject, or indeed her father. Her best guess was that they were probably totally indifferent to the whole issue. Politics had never engaged either of them. Their only son’s political aspirations were a puzzle and when Joth was elected to Parliament they had offered bemused congratulations, thrown a dinner party in his honor, and as far as Petra knew never mentioned the matter again.
Chapter Five
“Interesting choice of footwear, darling,” Diana declared as she entered the small parlor in Brook Street that Petra had appropriated as her own.
Petra laughed, extending a leg and wriggling her toes in the soft furry slippers. “My feet need coddling,” she explained. “I abused them badly last evening.”
“Oh, tell me more.” Diana, sensing a good story, cast aside her straw hat and gloves and took a seat in a deep armchair opposite the sofa where Petra sat.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Petra said ruefully. She reached behind her for the bellpull on the wall beside the fireplace. “Let’s get coffee.”
Fenella arrived with the parlor maid and the coffee. She too looked askance at her friend’s slippers.
“Thank you, Mary. Leave the tray here and I’ll pour,” Petra instructed the maid. “Well, here’s the story of my stubborn idiocy,” she said, taking up the silver pot and pouring a fragrant stream into the three cups.
“I suppose, if Guy hadn’t inserted himself so autocratically into the situation, I would have hailed a cab sooner,” she finished. “And if he hadn’t forced me into the cab I probably would never have accused him of lack of chivalry and opened that whole can of worms.”
“Are you sorry you did?” Fenella asked, leaning forward to refill her cup.
Petra shook her head. “Not really.” She had told most of the truth of the previous evening’s events, but not quite all. She couldn’t bring herself to discuss her inconvenient physical reaction to the baron’s kiss and the host of sensual memories it had evoked. “It’s actually a relief to have let it go finally. It was a rancid resentment that I’d been holding for too long.”
“Mmm,” Diana murmured. “So you’ve given up thoughts of revenge?”
“Not exactly,” Petra confessed. “But it doesn’t feel so grimly vengeful. I just feel like giving him a taste of his own medicine, but more as a game rather than something deadly serious. If you see what I mean.”
“Absolutely,” Fenella said. “And a little gentle payback seems a much healthier plan, rather than a full-blown Shakespearean vengeance.”
Petra laughed. “That was never my intention. I’d just held on to my anger too long. But now it’s gone, or the historical anger anyway. I still resent his condescension. It’s as if he still sees me as the besotted schoolgirl on her summer holidays.”
“Well, we can soon put a stop to that,” Diana stated. “We need to—” A light rat-a-tat on the door interrupted her.
Petra knew her brother’s knock and was not surprised when he pushed open the door. But she was surprised to see his companion. Guy Granville came in just behind Jonathan.
“Ladies, good morning,” Joth said cheerfully. “I met Granville on the doorstep. He was coming to ask after Petra and her feet. I can’t imagine why, but looking at your slippers, sister dear, I’m guessing there’s a good reason.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Petra said, unable to conceal her exasperation. “There’s nothing the matter with my feet. I’m wearing slippers because I’m not going out this morning and they’re comfortable.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Guy said, taking her hand and lightly brushing it with his lips. “Mrs. Lacey, Mrs. Tremayne.” He bowed to Diana and Fenella.
“Granville and I are going to lunch at the Savoy. We’d be delighted to have your company, if you all have no other plans,” Joth said with an expansive gesture. “I have a meeting in the House later this afternoon and Granville is going to offer his support for my Levels drainage bill in the Lords this evening, so we need a good lunch for fortification.”
Petra smiled. Jonathan was always so enthusiastic and uninhibited. He never tried to conc
eal his pleasure, his enthusiasms, or his angers, she reflected. He had no artifice about him at all. Sometimes she worried he might be hurt by his openness, particularly in matters of the heart, but so far he seemed to have had smooth sailing in that regard.
“May I second the invitation?” Guy said, taking a seat on the sofa next to Petra as she gestured faintly in invitation. He turned toward her. “If you’re sure your feet are up to wearing ordinary shoes.”
“If you don’t stop talking about my feet, Lord Ashton, I shall retreat to my bedroom, wrap myself in a cashmere shawl and soak them in a mustard bath for the rest of the day,” she retorted.
He laughed. “Very well. I shall never mention them again. Do say you’ll come for lunch, Petra?”
The personal feel of the request in front of her friends took her aback. It seemed as if he was somehow staking a claim to her personal consideration. A general invitation, supported by her brother, was one thing, quite unexceptionable, but there was implied intimacy in his voice that bordered on the particular.
Diana coughed discreetly and Fenella said somewhat hesitantly, “I have a play reading to go to this afternoon.”
“But you have to have lunch,” Diana stated, catching Petra’s urgent glance. “I have an appointment later, but I can certainly join you for lunch.”
“Yes,” Fenella agreed. “I’d be delighted.”
“Good.” Joth pulled the bell rope. “Sherry or claret, Granville? I know these three will have sherry.”
“So predictable,” Petra said with a mock sigh. “Come upstairs with me,” she gestured to her friends as she uncurled herself from the sofa and stood up, glad that she could do so without wincing. “I need to find shoes.” She walked to the door, showing no sign of discomfort. Although she was aware of her bruised soles, she would not give Guy the satisfaction.
Fenella and Diana followed her. “Foster, could you send sherry up to my room,” Petra asked as the butler appeared in answer to Jonathan’s summons.
