So he drew himself up to his full height and stepped closer, obliging her to crane her neck to look up into his face. He adopted his coldest, hardest expression, the one which had invariably made his subalterns quake in their boots. To demonstrate that he was in command of the situation. That he would be the victor in this, or any other encounter they might have. The manoeuvre worked, up to a point. Because her eyes widened. And she swallowed. But unfortunately that reaction drew his gaze to the delicate column of her neck, where a pulse was beating rapidly, and the creamy mounds of flesh which rose beneath, And fell, and rose again as she drew in several rapid, shallow breaths.
‘You leave me no choice,’ he managed to say, tearing his gaze from her magnificent bosom, of which there was surely more on display tonight than there had been last time, ‘but to tell your benefactress what you are.’
‘She knows it all. So there,’ she said and snapped her fingers at him. Right under his nose, making him jerk away, his heart stuttering in his chest. He went no further than one step, although his legs were screaming at him to run. Far, far from here. Away from the noise, and the seething crowds, and the...hell! He ground his teeth. He was not under attack. There was no danger in this theatre, not of the military kind. Yet he’d reacted almost as badly as if someone had just let off a pistol in his face.
He drew in a deep breath, which smelled of a woman’s perfume, not black powder, and ran his fingers over the buttons on his waistcoat, one by one. With each one he touched, the roar in the background steadily resolved into the voices of men determined to enjoy themselves, not the shouts of the battlefield.
‘Colonel Fairfax?’ His vision fixed upon a pair of dark brows pleated in confusion, above concerned hazel eyes...
He forced himself to remember a different pair of eyes, the eyes of his sister, filled with tears, and then the glazed, open eyes of Gilbey, which enabled him to dismiss the look of concern Miss Furnival was manufacturing. It helped his mind to recall what she’d said just before she snapped her fingers at him, triggering some weird kind of waking nightmare.
‘You claim,’ he said, ‘to have told the Duchess everything? And she has not sent you packing?’
‘She saw no need.’
‘Then you cannot have told her everything.’
‘I can assure you I did...’
At that moment, the lady in question materialised at Miss Furnival’s side, holding out her hand in that regal manner which always obliged a man to take it and bow over it.
‘Colonel Fairfax,’ she trilled. ‘How lovely to see you here. It is so good of you to take time away from your busy life to renew your acquaintance with my goddaughter. I do hope,’ she said with what looked suspiciously like a flicker of amusement, ‘we shall be seeing more of you. You are most welcome to call, whenever you can spare the time.’ She stepped away and headed for the crowd of young men who were starting to cluster round Miss Furnival’s friend.
‘Call?’ Was the woman touched in the upper works? He had better things to do with his time, as she’d just acknowledged, than to hang round Grosvenor Square in the hopes of talking some sense into this stubborn, heartless creature...
Although he wasn’t getting anywhere with her tonight, was he? They couldn’t really remove their gloves and get down to the no-holds-barred kind of fight they would clearly need to have, not with so many people present. What he had to say touched on private matters that the Gilbey family would not want bandied about. And, while most of the other occupants of the box were taken up with gossiping, at least one, Marquess of Devizes himself, was leaning against a pillar, his arms folded across his chest, watching the antics of everyone else in his box with an amused expression.
‘Actually, on second thoughts,’ said Nathaniel, ‘that might be a good idea. We do need to talk. Privately.’
‘You can say whatever you wish to say right now,’ said Miss Furnival mutinously. ‘I have no wish to subject Godmama to a visit from a man with your appalling manners.’
Which raised a good point. What would he be able to say to Miss Furnival in the confines of a drawing room? Very little. It would be even more difficult to speak his mind than it was here, since they would not have the background roar of the crowd in the pit to mask their conversation from inquisitive ears.
‘A fair point,’ he conceded, making her blink in surprise. ‘I shall call upon you tomorrow afternoon to take you driving, instead. You will inform the Duchess of my intent.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Do you expect me to snap to attention and salute?’
‘I expect you,’ he replied calmly, refusing to let her rile him any further, ‘to give me an account of yourself. And I, at least, have the sense to wish to do it in private so that we may shield the Duchess from as much unpleasantness as possible.’
‘That,’ she said crossly, ‘was below the belt.’
‘If you are determined to fight me, then you may as well learn that I do what I must, in order to win.’
She pouted. Then sighed. ‘Very well. I will come out for a drive with you tomorrow so that we can keep everyone else out of the arena.’
Now it was his turn to blink. He would have expected her to carry on defying him, so she could lead him a merry dance. She could have done so easily. She could have hidden from him within crowds, or behind the screen of etiquette which shielded females of good birth, almost indefinitely.
So why hadn’t she?
If he didn’t know better he might think she was, indeed, willing to shield the Duchess from unpleasantness. But he did know better. So she must have some other motive for appearing to fall in with his wishes.
She was up to something. That must be it. Still, forewarned was forearmed.
‘Until tomorrow then,’ he said and turned on his heel and marched out while he could still claim to hold at least the appearance of victory.
* * *
By the time Nathaniel drove his curricle into Grosvenor Square the next day, he was no longer convinced he’d been victorious at all. There was a mountain of paperwork on his desk awaiting his attention. The only good reason for abandoning it would be if he needed to visit a manufacturer of blankets, or tent canvas, or one of the thousands of other varieties of supplies necessary for keeping an army on the march. He’d learned that one man, on the ground, could not make as much difference to the outcome of a campaign as he would wish. But here in London he could at least ensure that Wellington’s army in Portugal had enough boots and blankets and bread to keep them going until they drove Bonaparte’s armies from the Peninsula.
Yet here he was, wasting an afternoon dancing attendance on a slip of a girl who would not simply fade into the background. Worst of all, a part of him was enjoying tooling his own cattle through the streets rather than relying on his grooms to exercise them, was noticing various trees putting forth a brave display of blossom with pleasure. Was savouring the warm, if damp, air filling nostrils that had been breathing in nothing but dusty parchment for months.
And, he admitted with self-reproach, was looking forward to seeing her again.
That was the part of him that had once believed that spring was a season for new beginnings, he reflected bitterly. And had assumed that people were generally decent and dependable, or at least tried to be. Had he really been that naive? he wondered as he drew his curricle up outside the Theakstone town house.
He eyed the facade with determination. It wasn’t just his own inclination he was serving by shirking his work and coming here, he reminded himself. He’d given Issy his word that he’d do what he could to put Miss Furnival in her place. And his word, once given, was his bond. Moreover, he’d made that pledge because he’d sworn, after the retreat to Corunna, that unlike some of the officers, he’d never break faith with the men who’d fallen. At the time, he’d meant to devote his energies and organisational skills to ensuring that such needless waste of so many lives n
ever took place again. But Issy had reminded him that Lieutenant Gilbey was one of those men. That he owed it to his grieving family to ‘do something’ about Miss Furnival. Because they were all, apparently, devastated by the way she was ‘flaunting herself when by rights she should be hanging her head in shame somewhere, wearing sackcloth and ashes’.
And he did owe Gilbey a great deal, if that latest nightmare had any foundation in truth. Whichever way he looked at it, he’d robbed the lad of a chance to find what comfort he could in the arms of his bride during the last weeks of his life.
Nathaniel tossed the reins to a boy who was loitering on the pavement looking for just such a chance to earn a few coppers, got down from the driving seat and trudged up the front steps. The door opened before he had the chance to so much as raise his hand, let alone apply it to the knocker.
‘Her Grace is expecting you, Colonel,’ said the unctuous butler.
‘I am not here to see Her Grace,’ he said impatiently, causing the butler to look affronted. ‘I am here to take Miss Furnival out for a drive.’
The butler cleared his throat. ‘Her Grace gave me to understand that she invited you to call today. Her Grace said that—’
He cut the butler off before he could really get going. He knew what kind of things Her Grace would likely have said. The same kind of thing that so many of these society women were always saying. Timewasters, who wanted him to sit about drinking tea and chatting about frivolous things as they thrust their marriageable daughters under his nose.
‘I do not wish to keep my horses standing. If Miss Furnival is not ready to come out with me yet, I shall drive them round the square while I am waiting.’
‘There will be no need for that,’ came a melodious voice from somewhere above. He looked up to see Miss Furnival descending the staircase, pulling on a pair of tan kid gloves as she came. She was wearing the kind of outfit that probably cost a fortune, if the way it clung to her curves while still flowing about her lower limbs as she moved was anything to go by. All pale greens and yellows, she looked like the embodiment of this spring afternoon. Like sunshine and resurgent life. Like all the things he no longer deserved.
He supposed that, actually, she’d simply chosen colours that set off her dark beauty. Colours that made her skin look full of health, her eyes sparkle and her mouth look even more inviting than usual. What would it feel like, he wondered yet again, to take that full upper lip between his teeth and nip at it?
He checked his lower jaw to make sure it wasn’t sagging, then congratulated himself on discovering that the sight of Miss Furnival, so gloriously arrayed in her determination to conquer any hapless male she got within her sights, hadn’t slain him on the spot.
‘As you can see, Colonel, I am ready,’ she said, reaching the bottom stair where she paused, looking up at him with what looked like the light of battle in her eye.
‘So am I,’ he growled, reminding himself that it was his duty to resist her pull on him. That he was supposed to be persuading her to leave Town. That he must not retreat from that position simply because he found her so attractive, or make allowances for her because she was female and she roused his chivalrous instincts. He only had to remind himself what had happened last time he’d given her the benefit of the doubt when he’d escorted her back into the assembly, rather than yielding to the temptation to kiss her. Look what that had achieved. Nothing! For the next time he’d seen her she’d been in the process of eloping with Lieutenant Gilbey. Making him wish he’d kissed her when he’d had the chance instead of persuading himself she was an innocent, naive girl in need of protection from man’s baser instincts.
The butler opened the front door and stood aside to let them pass.
Miss Furnival checked when she saw the curricle parked at the foot of the front steps.
‘Don’t bother complaining about the lack of a groom,’ he said, before she could utter a word. ‘Or the fact that going out driving in a two-seated vehicle with a man to whom you are not related is likely to cause talk.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said.
‘Just as well,’ he replied, flicking a coin at the urchin who’d been holding his horses’ reins. ‘Or I would have been forced to remind you that causing scandal is nothing new to you.’
She smiled at him as he handed her up on to the bench seat. ‘Such a gentleman as you are,’ she said sweetly, ‘I am sure it would have pained you excessively to have been obliged to say anything so cutting.’
‘Hmmph,’ he observed as he unwound the reins and flicked them over the horses’ backs to set them in motion. At one time he would never have spoken to a lady the way he had spoken to her, it was true. But things had changed. He had changed. Sometimes, a man had no option but to harden himself and do what was necessary.
‘So,’ he said, as she set her hand to the rail to steady herself as they set off. ‘You would have me believe that the Duchess knows all about your association with Lieutenant Gilbey and how it ended, yet she is still willing to sponsor you into society?’
‘I don’t really care what you believe,’ she said, with a defiant tilt to her chin. ‘But it happens to be the truth, yes.’
* * *
Cassy was glad she’d taken hold of the rail. She needed something to cling to. She thought she’d been prepared to face the Colonel today, but the very first sight of him standing there in the hall, glaring up at her, had very nearly made her turn round and run straight back upstairs. How ever did she think she could stand up to a man like this? A man who’d spent so many years fighting real foes? With real weapons?
Yet, if she didn’t, if she turned tail and hid, or let him drive her out of London, then that would be the end of Rosalind’s hopes and dreams. And that, in turn, would make it very difficult for the Duchess to continue the stance she’d taken against her stepson, because Rosalind’s father would stop footing the bills. There was no way she was going to let either of those ladies down, not after the way they’d taken her into their confidence and trusted her, and believed in her.
So she reminded herself that there was nothing he could really do to her in a carriage driving through the streets of London. Apart from utter threats. Empty threats, as Godmama had reminded her last night, when she’d asked her advice about how to handle the Colonel during this drive.
Nevertheless, it did help to have something physical to hold on to. It reminded her that she was safe, really. As long as she didn’t tell him too much about what was going on inside Godmama’s house.
‘Now, darling,’ Godmama had reassured her, ‘I am not going to suggest you make up any stories to fob him off, since I know how much you dislike employing such stratagems. But, Cassy, men can be...’ she’d given an eloquent shudder ‘...unpredictable. We have no idea how he might use any information you give him. We do not know him well enough to trust him, do we? So, just be...cautious. Yes?’
Of course she’d said yes. Because she had to reassure Godmama and Rosalind that she would never betray their trust.
But, oh, how she wished she could simply make a clean breast of things, about her own past at least, so that he would no longer look at her as though she was some kind of...menace to society.
But if she trusted him that far, how much more might he be able to worm out of her? She could not share secrets that were not hers to tell, just because she wanted him to smile at her for once, instead of scowling all the time.
Which meant that her lips had to remain sealed.
About everything.
Chapter Seven
Colonel Fairfax fired his opening salvo as he drove the curricle out of the square.
‘The Duchess of Theakstone,’ he said, ‘is known for not being very wise. Her friends don’t want to see her dragged down by the likes of you and that friend of yours, who, I have discovered, is the daughter of a mill owner.’
‘And where were her friends when—
?’ She pulled herself up short. Godmama had made it clear that she didn’t want her telling him what had really gone on between herself and her stepson. She mustn’t let him goad her into being indiscreet. ‘That is,’ she continued, ‘I am sure the Duchess is well able to take care of herself.’
‘Hah! She is about as able to withstand the wiles of a woman like you as a hen faced with a fox. She is entirely too trusting, besides having the brains of a flea.’
Cassy drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t sure whether she was more insulted at being compared to a fox, or at his assumption that her godmother had no intelligence. Why, if he only knew the complex stratagems Godmama had formed to keep her stepson from evicting her from Theakstone House, the subterfuge she’d adopted to explain the presence of herself and Rosalind without so much as giving a hint that it was all done to thwart the Duke, he’d be more likely to compare her to a general planning a siege. For a siege was what was going on right under her stepson’s nose in Grosvenor Square. No matter what her stepson threw at her, Godmama always came up with a way to defy him.
But of course she couldn’t tell the Colonel any of it. She would rather die than betray her godmama. Or, to a lesser extent, Rosalind.
‘I suppose that is why you latched on to her,’ he observed bitterly as he manoeuvred the curricle round a dray that was taking up far too much of the road. ‘Though how you came to get an introduction to her...’
‘I didn’t need an introduction,’ she seethed. ‘She is my godmother.’
Bother. She hadn’t meant to tell him anything. Still, there could be no harm in telling him that, could there? He could easily find that out by asking anyone.
‘Your godmother?’ He frowned. ‘I was not aware of that.’ And he didn’t look at all pleased about it. ‘Although I do seem to recall her referring to her goddaughter last night...meaning you?’ His frown deepened. ‘How the deuce did that come about?’
‘She and my mother became friends during the years when she lived apart from her husband, the Third Duke. Or, at least, renewed and strengthened the friendship they’d formed as girls having their Season, so I believe.’ Godmama had been rather vague about the details.
The Scandal of the Season Page 7
