The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  Rathbourne evinced surprise. “Punishing? You are mistaken, Wendon. Say rather ‘determined.’ If you will excuse me?”

  Deirdre sensed his approach rather than saw it, and her shoulders tensed, but her conversation continued unabated, and the smile on her lips became fixed. She saw her aunt’s surprised glance become focused on a point above her head, and she carefully half turned in her chair to look dispassionately into the familiar face which had persistently tormented her waking and sleeping hours since he had flung away from her on their last, never to be forgotten encounter.

  He loomed over her, a menacing masculine presence, and Deirdre had to force herself not to shrink from him. His eyes, coolly polite, met hers briefly then he ignored her as if she did not exist.

  “Rathbourne at your service, ma’am,” she heard his deep baritone say gravely to her aunt. She had forgotten how husky and liquid his voice could be—soft, soothing, or seductive, as he chose to make it. “I believe this article of feminine apparel belongs to you? You dropped it as you entered, I collect.”

  Deirdre’s aunt, Lady Fenton, examined the friendly gentleman who stood towering over her. His presence compelled attention. His dark hair shot with auburn was cut long on the collar; broad shoulders encased in restrained black superfine; the flash of white teeth in a deeply tanned face; but it was his eyes which arrested her—amber eyes, flecked with gold—tiger eyes, but gentle as he waited patiently for her response.

  “Thank you kindly, sir, but it does not look familiar.” She turned it over in her hand to examine it more carefully. “Perhaps some other lady…Deirdre, is it yours?”

  Deirdre’s nostrils detected the stench of stale scent on the lace handkerchief and her eyes flickered in annoyance. “I think you should try some other lady,” she said coldly and pointedly.

  Her aunt glanced sharply at her niece with questioning eyes, but Deirdre looked steadfastly at the shining, silver cruets on the table.

  “Then I apologize for the intrusion, Miss…?” He waited expectantly.

  Deirdre preserved a stony silence, but her aunt, now startled by her niece’s lapse of good manners, hastened into speech.

  “Permit me to introduce my niece, Miss Deirdre Fenton. I am Lady Fenton.”

  “Charmed,” responded the Earl, raising Lady Fenton’s fingers to his lips. “Miss Fenton? I recall that name. Yes…come to think of it, I believe I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance prior to my embarking for Spain. That would be about five years ago. Your mother, as I recall, was undertaking your come-out at the time.” He captured Deirdre’s hand and brought it to his lips. “And who could ever forget the dazzling emerald? You still wear it, I see.”

  Lady Fenton was conscious of the charged atmosphere. Deirdre, who had been sitting throughout as if frozen in her place, her pale cheeks as white as the linen covers of the table, brought her head up and looked at the Earl with a flash of temper.

  “I regard it as my good luck piece,” she said, snatching her hand away.

  “Indeed?” The Earl deliberately fingered the scar on his cheek and Deirdre’s defiance seemed to crumble. Her gaze reverted to the cruets. “Superstitious, Miss Fenton?”

  “Hardly that, sir. I wear it because it was my late father’s. That is all.”

  “Touching, I’m sure. But I have already taken up too much of your time. Lady Fenton, I hope I may call on you in town? Miss Fenton, your servant, ma’am.”

  It was the longest hour that Deirdre could ever remember. Hardly aware of what she ate, or the pleasantries she exchanged with her aunt, she concentrated on keeping her back turned rigidly against him, checking her unwilling eyes from roving from table to table. She knew when he took his leave, for her aunt’s smiling eyes followed him out and she nodded her head in silent salute. Deirdre breathed more easily again, relieved to be rid of his threatening presence.

  Chapter Two

  As Deirdre walked the short distance across the White Swan’s pebbled courtyard to the waiting carriage, she glanced stealthily over her shoulder, half expecting him to be lying in ambush, ready to pounce on her and—and what? she asked herself breathlessly, unwilling to finish the thought. Even he would not dare assault her in broad daylight with her aunt at her elbow and ostlers and grooms standing by. But she could not shake herself of the conviction that Gareth Cavanaugh, Earl of Rathbourne, was capable of anything.

  Five years had made a remarkable difference. His face was leaner, more weathered, no longer so boyishly handsome—tempered, she supposed, by his years of active service. The familiar fire was still present, close to the surface, but less unpredictable, held in check by a strength of will which, if anything, made him appear more formidable.

  But the eyes were unmistakable—those unusual amber eyes which could quickly flame to gold and intimidate her with a look, or convey a message too transparent to be misunderstood. He always had the power to compel her to a self-conscious awareness of all that was feminine in her nature, and it irritated her beyond bearing.

  She knew that he had returned to England. She had, in fact, covertly kept herself informed of his whereabouts, slightly bemused at her own perversity. Really, he meant nothing to her! And she had supposed that should their paths ever cross again, he would not acknowledge the acquaintance, perhaps not even remember her. That he had remembered her was very evident, and Deirdre could not suppress the thought that she was glad of it.

  Of course, she had given him something to remember her by—the scar which he had deliberately fingered, evoking memories she wished to forget. Deirdre shivered as the carriage swayed into motion and her aunt solicitously patted her knee.

  “Are you chilled, my dear? Would you like the rug? Are the bricks at your feet still warm?”

  Deirdre forced a wan smile to her lips. “Everything is fine, thank you, Aunt Rosemary. Just a draft from the window. There, now I’ve shut it properly. You are a dear to fuss over me so.”

  A smile warmed Lady Fenton’s eyes. “Nonsense,” she said emphatically. “You deserve a little coddling. Your uncle agrees with me. My dear, I hope we can make you change your mind and stay on with us. It’s not every girl who is given the opportunity to travel on the continent. Think of it, Deirdre—Vienna, Paris, perhaps even Brussels. Sir Thomas is uncertain as yet where his diplomatic mission will take him, but it’s the chance in a lifetime for you. Won’t you reconsider, my dear? Of course, I know I’m being selfish. But you would be such a help to me. You know how I dread mixing with strangers.”

  “As though you could ever be accused of selfishness,” Deirdre chided gently. “I wish with all my heart that I might accept your offer, Aunt Rosemary. But don’t you see, I cannot consider my own wishes only. I promised myself that I would try to persuade Armand to return home with me. If things were different, you know that there is nothing I should rather do than accompany you. But at present, it is impossible.”

  Lady Fenton’s eyes assumed a guarded expression. She gazed unseeingly at the darkening landscape of the Thames valley for a moment or two as if trying to frame the words which would be most acceptable to the thoughtful girl sitting opposite. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision.

  “Deirdre, how much longer are you going to act as wet nurse to your brother? You have a life of your own to live. You are neither Armand’s mother nor his guardian.”

  The criticism in her aunt’s words stung Deirdre. “Aunt Rosemary! That’s not fair! Armand never had a guardian—not in the true sense of the word! My stepfather’s brother has no notion of how to guide a young man! He has never exerted himself in the least on Armand’s behalf, but cuts himself off like some old recluse dreaming of all that might have been if things had been different for France. Other émigrés have made something of their opportunities in England. But the St. Jeans never had any ambitions to speak of.” She clamped her lips together as if she had said more than she ought, then went on more reasonably. “Armand reaches his majority in less than a year. It is natural for me to worry about him
. You know our circumstances. My income is adequate but scarcely extravagant. What is to become of him?” Her voice took on a desperate edge. “He must look to the future and settle in some respectable position which will at least put bread on the table. I cannot turn my back on him. I have to try to make him change his ways.”

  “Armand? Respectable?” The incredulous note in her aunt’s voice brought a rosy glow to Deirdre’s complexion. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, my dear, but be realistic. He is a notorious womanizer; he frequents the worst sorts of gaming hells; he fights duels at the slightest provocation and he is only twenty years old! If your uncle had been appointed Armand’s guardian, as he was yours, he would have purchased a commission for him and persuaded one of his military friends to take him under his wing. It would have been the making or breaking of him. But you could never be persuaded to such a course of action. If Armand is ever going to mend his ways, it is going to take something catastrophic to bring him to his senses. Happy as I am to have you spend a month in town with me, my dear, I cannot see that your intervention will make the slightest dent in Armand’s mode of living. There, there, I’ve said too much,” she said consolingly as she observed the stricken look in Deirdre’s face. “I’m an interfering old busybody. I know Armand is not related to the Fenton branch of the family, but in spite of everything, I cannot help liking the exasperating boy, and whatever touches you, touches me. Please forgive an old woman for speaking out of turn.”

  Deirdre reached across the coach to clasp the older woman’s hand. “Aunt Rosemary,” she began earnestly, “what you say of Armand may be true, but as long as I have breath in my body, I will try to protect him. He isn’t bad. Don’t you see? I grant that he is wild, unthinking, unmanageable even, but he isn’t bad! Mama, before she died, was an invalid so much of the time as we grew up. He never had a strong hand to guide him. I have tried to be a mother to him, but I suppose I indulged him more than I ought.”

  “You were four years old when he was born, as I recall,” retorted Lady Fenton dryly.

  Deirdre continued, heedless of her aunt’s interruption. “Perhaps Mama and I did spoil him, but with Mama widowed twice by the time she was only four and thirty, surely what she did is understandable. We were everything to each other. I think I can make him listen to reason. At any rate, I must make the attempt! I must!”

  Lady Fenton examined her niece with shrewd eyes. “There’s some particular reason for your coming to town at the present, isn’t there? It’s not just Armand being Armand. Has he fallen into a more serious scrape than usual? What are you up to, Deirdre?”

  Deirdre’s thoughts flew to the letter she had received from an old school friend, Serena Bateman, now Mrs. Reginald Kinnaird, and the tidbit of gossip she had imparted, namely that her darling Armand had stolen the affections, if not the virtue, such as it was, of a Drury Lane actress, the toast of the demimonde, a certain Mrs. Dewinters. Her protector, a noble peer of the realm and, by all accounts, more than a match for the hotheaded Armand, was still in ignorance of the unchivalrous conduct of the foolhardy boy. The betting books in all the gentlemen’s clubs in town, from which source Mr. Kinnaird had gleaned the information, were odds on favorites for Armand to be soundly trounced in the expected duel, if not permanently eliminated. It was this alarming piece of news which had induced Deirdre to accept her aunt’s open-ended invitation to take up residence for a month in Portman Square. Since Lady Fenton, at the time of the letter’s arrival, had been on the point of returning to London after spending a few days at Henley with her favorite niece (Sir Thomas fortuitously being with the British delegation in Vienna), Deirdre concluded her arrangements to make for London and her brother without delay. But she thought it prudent to conceal Armand’s latest folly from her aunt since that dear lady would without a doubt forbid her to consort with her delinquent brother.

  Deirdre hesitated, then embarked on a subject which she was sure would be pleasing to her aunt. “I am thinking of getting married.”

  It wasn’t true, of course. She had made up her mind long since, that marriage, that men, could be no part of her life. Still, she had of late been flirting with the idea. Somewhere, there must be some man who would treat her with respect, with reverence, with loyalty. And there was Armand to consider.

  “Married?” Her aunt was startled. “To whom, may I ask?”

  Deirdre burst out laughing. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve led you astray. What I should have said, dear Auntie, was that it has occurred to me that it is time I was wed and I am hopeful of finding a suitable parti in town.”

  Her aunt was interested. “Indeed? And what, may I ask, has brought about this change of heart? As I recall, you have rejected past suitors, many of them most eligible, with the excuse that you wanted to devote your energies to the care of your brother.”

  Lady Fenton had a shrewd idea of what was at the bottom of Deirdre’s aversion to the estate of matrimony and it was not merely devotion to Armand St. Jean. It went deeper than that. Deirdre was a confirmed cynic. As a young girl growing up, she had watched her mother endure the humiliation of marriage to an attractive but improvident philanderer who wasted his wife’s small inheritance on a succession of loose women. Lettie St. Jean’s bitterness had instilled a deep distrust of men in her daughter, and now Armand looked to be in a fair way to following in his father’s footsteps.

  “Marriage? Are you serious, Deirdre?”

  Deirdre looked thoughtful. She sighed. “I don’t know. I am almost resigned to the thought of marriage. And if I found the right sort of man, undemanding but with character of course, strong yet…persuadable, I think it would work out for the best. Oh Auntie,” she said on impulse, “if only I could find someone who would be a moderating influence on Armand. Don’t you see, he’s never had a father’s guidance? The right man might work a salutary change in him.”

  “Armand! Armand! That’s all you ever think of. Child! This is idolatry. Don’t you see it? One doesn’t choose one’s life partner for such a frivolous reason. Armand is a man. You will never change him. Why, if anything, Armand would make mincemeat of such a one as you describe—yes, and you would too—‘undemanding and persuadable.’ You would never respect such a specimen, Deirdre, and you know it!”

  “You misunderstand! Of course I shouldn’t wish for a husband who can’t stand up to me!”

  “Oh don’t you? I am glad to hear it, for I shudder to think of the fate of any poor, gormless creature who thinks himself qualified to manage a filly like you. You would make his life miserable!”

  Deirdre laughed self-consciously. “Auntie, you don’t really believe that of me, do you? That I could be so…well…unfeminine?”

  “Of course you’re not unfeminine! Did I say so? I am not finding fault with you, Deirdre, merely stating the obvious. You are a headstrong girl, and it is the law of nature for the strong to master the weak. I am merely suggesting that if you are serious in your intention to wed, you cast around for someone with a little gumption, a man of some substance who comes up to your weight.”

  After an uncomfortable interval, Lady Fenton spoke in more moderate tones. “Deirdre, what think you of the gentleman we met at the inn? Rathbourne? That would be the Earl, as I recall. Sir Thomas has spoken of him on occasion. He is a seasoned soldier, and most eligible in every respect. I would not even think of him in normal circumstances—too exalted by half for a mere gentleman’s daughter—but I thought he showed some…interest.”

  “I disliked him on sight, and further acquaintance has merely confirmed my opinion,” asserted Deirdre flatly.

  Lady Fenton’s eyebrows elevated a fraction at the heat of Deirdre’s words, but she wisely forbore comment and soon turned the conversation into more convivial channels, and the two ladies became happily occupied in discussing the various outings and parties which a month in London might reasonably offer a provincial miss on the hunt for a husband.

  The following morning, Deirdre set off with abigail in tow for the lodgings of
her brother, which he had but newly acquired. In company of many young bucks aspiring to fashion, Armand St. Jean had rooms above one of the innumerable shop fronts lining the elegant district of Bond Street. Since Portman Square was north of Mayfair and Armand’s rooms were close to Piccadilly, the southern boundary of the most exclusive residential area of London, Deirdre had a good half-hour’s walk ahead of her, but since most of that time would take her on a slow stroll through the most prestigious shopping district of England, if not Europe, Deirdre was nothing daunted.

  She knew from Armand’s infrequent letters that he lived hard by “Gentleman” John Jackson’s “Academy,” that gathering place for more than a third—so it was rumored—of the pugilistically inclined male members of the aristocracy who self-styled themselves “Corinthians.” Such gentlemen vigorously embraced the manly sports and virtues, eschewing the indolent life and effete manners of the despised fop. Nevertheless, Deirdre harbored the hope that Armand St. Jean, Corinthian or no, could be reasonably expected to be still abed after a late night of dissipation.

  As she entered Old Bond Street, her eyes began to scan the numbers above the shop doors. She heard her name called in a soft baritone at her back, and her pulse began to race. She paused, taking a moment to compose herself. He said her name again and she turned slowly and looked steadily into his eyes, meeting his gaze squarely.

  He seemed relaxed, almost gracious, his eyes regarding her warmly, as if the sight of her gave him pleasure, and Deirdre wondered at the change in him.

  “I would recognize that back anywhere,” said Rathbourne without the least trace of malice. “You have a way of carrying yourself and of walking. I remember, you see.” He took her arm to lead her a little apart from her abigail so they might be private.

  Deirdre hardly knew what to say. If he noticed her surprise, he gave no sign of it. “Ah—I see that my flowers arrived safely.”