by Mary Balogh
"Diana and I are going to ride by the castle," he said, raising his voice so that the whole group would hear. "It is not far off our course, and she has been promising for days to show me the moat by daylight."
He had judged her right. She said nothing.
"The four of us will ride on to the Salmons', then," Lord Wendell said. "Be careful on those stone stairs, Diana, if you do any climbing."
"Yes," she said.
Lester gave the marquess an exaggerated and conspiratorial wink before following Nancy and the viscount and viscountess.
* * *
Allan Turner was clever, Lord Crensford was thinking rather grimly. But not clever enough. He might not be quite as intelligent as Clarence and Teddy—he had grown accustomed to being compared unfavorably with his two brothers—but he had not been born yesterday either. And he had lived in London for a number of years and had learned something of life.
They had made the two visits, to the Flemings first and then the Pierces. Miss Pierce and Simon had been about to leave for a walk into the village. He and Miss Wickenham would walk with them, Allan had suggested casually, and later walk back again to collect their horses.
That would not do, Lord Crensford had been quick enough to say. Mrs. Wickenham had specifically said that her daughter was to be back well before luncheon so that she could write a letter to her papa in time to catch the day's post. There would be no time for her to walk to the village and back. But Beatrice would doubtless be delighted to go while he himself rode home with Miss Wickenham.
Allan had frowned at him and had clearly lost interest in the walk, but what could he say? He had gone walking off with the Pierce brother and sister and Beatrice.
And so Lord Crensford found himself in the unlooked-for-position of being alone with Angela Wickenham. For he had not maneuvered to have her alone. He had no wish whatsoever to be alone with her. He merely felt it his duty to protect her from being alone with Allan. Or Michael, or Lester, or Jack.
"Why did you say that?" she asked as they began their ride home, alone. "About my writing to Papa, I mean. Mama merely suggested that I write if we were home in time. She would not mind if I were late."
"Parents are meant to be obeyed," he said with a frown.
"Nonsense," she said. "I am eighteen years old. And besides, Mama did not give a command. It is just that you did not want me to go with Mr. Turner. You don't like to see me enjoy myself."
"Enjoy yourself?" he said. "With Allan Turner? You are just a green girl. You don't seem to realize the danger you might be in while enjoying yourself, as you put it. Haven't you seen how the man has been drooling over you for the past two days? And some of the others too?"
"He has been attentive," she said. "As have Mr. Decker and Mr. Houndsleigh. I see nothing wrong in that. It is pleasant to be appreciated."
"Appreciated!" He looked at her in some disgust. "It was that dance that did it all. I should never have allowed it."
"Oh," she said crossly, "what was wrong with the dance? Everyone clapped most politely and commended me warmly. And who are you to allow or riot to allow anything I do? My tnama is here with me, and she does not say I should not dance or I should not go walking with certain gentlemen."
''Perhaps your mama does not know them as I do," Lord Crensford said.
"And yet," she said, "it seems that it is perfectly unexceptionable for me to ride alone with you."
"I am not like to say improper things to you," he said, "or to make improper advances."
"Oh, no," she said bitterly, "you are not, are you? I am just a child as far as you are concerned."
"If you were a child," he said scornfully, "you would not have to be protected from men like Allan Turner."
"Well, Mr. Turner has been very kind to me in the last couple of days," she said. "And I am eighteen years old and I enjoy his admiration. So there! I used to think you were very dashing and heroic, but I was mistaken. You are bad-tempered and stuffy. And I am going to gallop home."
She suited action to words, and soon Lord Crensford was swearing at empty air, not merely with exasperation, but with real fear. This was rabbit country. The little pests had their burrows everywhere. She would fall and break her neck for sure, and he would have her death on his conscience for the rest
of his life.
By the time he caught up with her, they were almost across that particular field. But she would not, of course, take any notice of his shouted warnings or commands to stop. He had to reach across and grab her bridle and slow the horse to a walk.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?" he barked at her when both their horses had stopped. He still grasped her bridle. One of his knees was pressed against hers. "Don't you have a brain in your head?"
"You would not believe it if I said yes," she said. "Let go of my horse, please. I want to go home. To write my letter."
He was still glaring at her. "I want your promise first," he said, "that you will not deliberately try to kill yourself again."
"Let me go," she said again. "I don't like you anymore, my lord. I used to like you, but no more. And I would be obliged if you would stop following me about as you have been doing ever since I came here. You should have gone riding with Mrs. Ingram this morning, instead of with me. You are never cross with her." There were tears in her eyes as she swung her horse's head away and made for the gateway leading into the next field.
''What the deuce?" Lord Crensford was left frowning after her. He followed her a few moments later, but stayed somewhat behind her for the remainder of the ride home.
13
"I did not say I wished to go to the castle with you!" Diana had stopped her horse and glared indignantly at the Marquess of Kenwood.
"True," he said, smiling at her, "but you did not say you did not wish to go (here with me either, Diana."
"And I have never suggested that I show it to you by daylight," she said.
"Are we going to stay in this one spot in the middle of nowhere indulging in a lovers' quarrel?" he asked. "Or are we going to move on to the castle and more picturesque surroundings?"
"A lovers' qu—? Well!" Diana was speechless.
Why, then, did she find herself a few minutes later trotting along meekly at his side in the direction of RotherhamCastle? Had she lost all her willpower? All her sense of independence? All her common sense? She had the uncomfortable feeling that the answer to all three questions was yes.
And a mere ten minutes had passed since he had bidden his ex-mistress good day, lifting her hand to his lips as he did so. And he had disappeared with her into the garden for as many more minutes while the rest of them sat sipping tea and making polite conversation. And now he talked of a lovers' quarrel. Was he mad? Was she?
' 'We will tether our horses here,'' he said, when they were close to the castle. He lifted her to the ground, his lips forming a whistle though he made no sound. "You must show me the courtyard today, Diana. I have not seen it, you will remember, since the countess thought it would be far more romantic for me to see the moonlit moat in your presence. She was undoubtedly right, too. Had Ernie not decided to play zealous sentry, it might have been a very romantic moment indeed."
"You would have had a stinging cheek to remember it by," she said coolly.
"Ah, but I believe we disproved that theory later in the music room," he said.
They strolled toward the causeway, and he took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.
"I am quite capable of moving of my own volition, I thank you," Diana said, staring straight ahead.
He looked down at her in feigned astonishment. "I am quite sure you are," he said. "I would have swung you up into my arms if I had thought you were not." He retained his hold of her hand.
But this was ridiculous. Her mood of earlier that morning and of the last two days was ridiculous. The man was a rake. He was out for only one thing. And it did not particularly matter to him which female would grant him what he wished.
What was she doin
g here all alone with him? It would be highly improper even if he were a perfect gentleman. But then, of course, if he were a perfect gentleman, they would not be here in the first place.
"Ah, quite ruined," he said when they stood on the grass of the courtyard. "It is amazing, is it not, that the outer walls are so well preserved when the inner ones have been obliterated. One can only imagine what it must have been like."
They gazed about them at the outlines of rooms and keeps, but only the very lowest stones of the walls remained in place.
"Hundreds of people lived here once,'' she said.' 'It must have rung with sounds and bustle."
''Including your handsome knight galloping up to the drawbridge," he said.
"Yes." She felt a wave of nostalgia, almost as if she had lived in those times.
"And including the knight who slunk around to the back during the evenings to cuddle his lady."
"Oh," she said crossly, looking to find, as she had fully expected, that he was grinning at her, "must you spoil everything?"
They strolled, still hand in hand, around the perimeter of the courtyard.
"If Ernie's word is to be trusted," he said, "and it usually is on such matters, the staircases are not safe."
"No," she said. "The stone is crumbling. Though Teddy did take me up once."
"Did he?" he said, stepping inside one of the great round bastions and peering up the stairwell.
The stone steps spiraled upward around a massive central pillar. Lord Kenwood set a hand on it. Diana shivered.
"It is cold inside here, is it not?" he said, turning to set his back against the pillar. "Do you need warming, Diana?"
It was inevitable, of course. She knew herself to be naive and inexperienced, but she was not that naive. It had been very clear as soon as he had mentioned the castle that it was not his interest in medieval architecture that took him there. She had known all along that she was being brought for just this reason.
And she had come anyway.
He did not use force. She might have pulled away from him. And though he would have teased and cajoled, he would not have forced her. No, she could not blame him. She knew that even as she went into his arms and lifted her own over his shoulders and about his neck.
It was a hot embrace, hotter than any other she had experienced except on one certain night. But this was no fantasy. She did not think for one moment that it was. With her mind quite clear and her eyes wide open—the eyes of the mind, that was; her physical eyes were closed—she allowed his hands to roam her body and his mouth and tongue to caress her own and the rest of her face and neck and throat.
She had no excuse. None. She felt the muscles of his shoulders with her own hands, and his face, and the slight roughness of his jaw. And she twined her fingers in his dark hair.
"Diana," he was murmuring against her throat, against her ear, against her mouth. "So beautiful. So sweet. So very sweet, love. Diana. Diana."
He wanted her. He did not say so, but the evidence was there for her, and it was indisputable. He wanted her. And she wanted him, with an ache that drugged her mind again. It had been so long. So very long. And it had never been exciting. Never anything but briefly and mildly pleasurable. But she ached to be possessed again, to feel her femininity affirmed again. And with him. With him it would be good. Very good.
Her forehead was pressed to his cravat. She could feel him drawing deep breaths and having some difficulty letting them out again. She lifted her head from him and looked into his face. His head was thrown back against the pillar, his eyes tightly closed, his teeth clamped onto his lower lip.
But he felt her eyes on him and looked down. His eyes were mocking, and he raised one eyebrow. "Diana, Diana," he said, "must you always tease me witless when circumstances are not at all ideal? A music room that might be invaded at any moment, a forest with a hard and uneven floor, a cold stone tower. You could not possibly be available when there is a soft feather bed at our elbow, I suppose?"
She could think of not a single thing to say. There was soft grass just beyond the doorway, and warm sunshine. And solitude. And he must have felt her desire. And her surrender. He might have made her his.
Oh, gracious heaven, she would have become a number on the Marquess of Kenwood's list. She would indeed. Willingly, without even a token fight.
"No," she said, "I am not available. Not to you."
One corner of his mouth lifted, and he lowered his head to set his forehead against hers briefly. "Liar, Diana," he said. "What a brazen liar you are."
He kept one arm about her shoulders and led her out into the courtyard. The sun seemed suddenly very bright and very warm.
"If you feel as I do," he said, "you need to do some recovering before riding back to Rotherham Hall. Let's sit down and soak up the warmth of the sun, shall we?"
She stiffened. "That sounds like the beginning of seduction to me," she said. "I think I would prefer to ride."
"Diana," he said, his voice amused, "I think that moment has passed, don't you? Let us just sit and talk for a while. I want to know more about you."
"What?" she asked cautiously, sitting down on the grass beside him nevertheless and arranging her skirt decorously about her. She leaned back on his arm, which he had stretched out to cushion her against the hard stone wall against which he leaned.
"Why do you not have children?" he asked.
"I don't know." She looked down at her hands. "I think perhaps it was . . . Teddy was very sick as a child, and he was never robust. I don't know. Perhaps it was me. We never talked about it." And how strange to be talking about it now with the Marquess of Kenwood.
"Did you wish to have children?" he asked.
"Yes. Always." She turned her hands over to examine the backs of them. "They would have livened up the parsonage. I used to cry about it—sometimes. I always feel so very envious when I see a woman with a newborn baby. I can never understand how so many women leave their children shut up in a nursery while they carry on with their own lives as if they had never had mem."
"You are still very young," he said. "I will hope for your sake that the fault was in Teddy and not in you."
She laughed rather self-consciously. "I have never talked about this with anyone before," she said.
He hunched his shoulder so that her head slipped against it. "People so rarely talk about anything that matters," he said. "We fill silences and so often live with a deeper silence and a greater loneliness."
She was too close to him to look up into his face. But she was startled into silence. He sounded very serious. There was no trace of the usual teasing mockery.
"My father was a philanderer," he said. "All his adult life, it seems, until his death. I am like him, Diana. I come by my way of life honestly. I was only sixteen years old when he died, still too young to understand what drove him or to know if he had any redeeming depths to his character. Perhaps he did. I only knew that he hurt my mother almost daily. She used to come to the nursery or to the schoolroom when she was most upset. I suppose it comforted her to be close to her children."
Diana sat as if frozen. She felt him swallow awkwardly. "She did not realize how it affected us. My sisters are suspicious of men. They do not expect happiness from any relationship. I have learned a wiser lesson. I have learned never to get close to any woman. Never close enough to destroy her."
"It is not a wise lesson," she said.
He chuckled, but there was no amusement in the sound. "You shared a very private feeling with me," he said. "I have merely returned the compliment, Diana. Let's forget it now and enjoy the sunshine."
They sat quietly side by side for perhaps five minutes, her head resting in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, his arm about her shoulders.
"So, Diana Ingram," he said at last, looking down at her face. His voice sounded more normal again. "We have a little more than a week left at Rotherham Hall. What is going to happen between you and me in that time? Are we going to do what we both want to do?"<
br />
She looked back into his blue eyes, only inches from her own. "No," she said.
"Why not?" He looked down at her lips.
"Because it's not enough," she said. "You would merely be proving your power over yet another woman—or your own worthlessness to yourself, perhaps. I would merely be satisfying a physical craving. It's not enough. There has to be something else. And there is nothing else between you and me."
He gazed back into her eyes, his own without their customary mockery again. "Isn't there?" he said before kissing her softly and lingeringly on the lips.
He looked quite his old self when he lifted his head again. "Well, Mrs. Ingram," he said, getting to his feet and reaching down a hand to her, "I think this has been a satisfactory morning, don't you? The countess will be ecstatic when she knows we left the group to come here. She will imagine that we have kissed and cuddled, and she will not be wrong. And Ernie and Lester and a few of the others will be convinced that our embrace was not nearly as chaste as the countess imagines, and they will be right too. My reputation will be intact."
