by Anne O'Brien
Before Theodora could react, Nicholas put down the glass, closed the distance between them and pounced with lethal intent. He seized her by her shoulders, wilfully ignoring her sharp cry of surprise and protest, and dragged her into an embrace that contained all the fury and frustrated desire which had built since his reading of the letter. His mouth was hard, ruthless against her soft lips, set to take and ravage, his harsh grasp imprinting the tender skin of her arms.
Thea could do nothing but submit. Simply waited, refusing to struggle.
When he raised his head, but did not release her, there was no softening in his face.
‘Is this what you wanted from me? Kisses and commitment?’ His eyes burned into hers with savage fire. ‘Was this all pretence? Did you feel nothing in my arms but triumph that you had fooled me into believing that you loved me? Damn you, Thea! How could you do it?’ He took her lips again, a wild gesture of desperate love and despair. Then let her go, so rapidly that she almost fell, as if he could no longer bear the contact. He stalked away to pick up the brandy once more, and drank.
Then he laughed, a harsh sound in the quiet room. ‘The possibilities, it seems, are endless. And none of them pleasant or flattering to either of us.’ He took a breath. His voice was now cold, so cold. ‘Forgive me. I suppose I should ask your pardon for handling you with such insensitivity.’
Thea listened as if from a great distance, aware only of the desperate hatred that underpinned Nicholas’s rage. ‘You must hate my brother very much.’
‘I do. By God, I do. If indeed you do not know, I suggest that you ask him yourself.’ Lord Nicholas showed his teeth in a vicious snarl. ‘I am sure that he will be delighted to tell you—but do not wager that very pretty pearl drop that you are wearing around your equally pretty neck on the truth of it.’
‘I think I must indeed ask him. If only to see if his version of events tallies with yours. Or perhaps it will prove that you are as vindictive and vengeful as you claim Edward to be.’
‘I care not what you discover. You are hardly likely to believe my words over his, are you?’
With which words, words that would effectively destroy any hope for a reconciliation between them, Lord Nicholas Faringdon, always a model of propriety and good manners, discovered that his fury could escape his control. He lifted his arm and flung the glass and the brandy at the wall, where it smashed in a shower of crystal to the floor. The brandy ran stickily down the wood panelling to puddle below.
Thea watched the shards of crystal glitter on the carpet, shocked to the core. But not as outraged as Nicholas himself at the violent reaction that had broken free of his determination to remain cold and calm to the last.
Thea was the one to speak. Her words were very simple and from the heart. They hit home as a more emotional response might not. ‘I love you, Nicholas. I cannot believe that you would put your hatred for my brother before your love for me. How shallow your love must be. Perhaps it never existed. It certainly could not stand the test of time.’
‘How can you possibly decry my love for you—’ he rounded on her, eyes ablaze ‘—when our whole relationship was based on a deceit? If you had truly loved me, you would have trusted me with your family history. You would not have kept silent on a matter that touches me so personally.’
‘And you would have believed in my innocence?’ Guilt brought a slight flush to her cheeks, for his words contained a grain of truth—that she had known of the dangers of silence, but had chosen not to tell him. Now she was forced to accept that such reticence was not proof of true love.
‘Of course.’ A flash of uncertainty might have made him hesitate, but he quickly banished it.
‘I think all is plain, my lord.’ Thea took the only course that she could see open to her. A step away from him, at the same time taking refuge in rigid formality, very much Sir Hector’s daughter. She was now shockingly pale, her skin as colourless as the fine wax candles in their chased silver candelabra on the table beside her. She raised her chin and spoke with chilling hauteur. ‘You deem me to be without either honour or veracity, my lord, capable of tricking you into a relationship purely to humiliate and wreak revenge on you. Since you would destroy my character with such unfounded accusations, there is no place for me in your life. I am clearly no longer welcome here. You offered me marriage. I refuse your offer. What a fortunate escape we have both had, to be sure! Now—if you would be so good as to provide a horse for me to ride, I can be gone from your presence and your property within the hour.’
So she would leave, with no further explanation, no need for further association with Lord Nicholas Faringdon.
Nicholas watched her, suddenly struck by the magnitude of the gulf that had widened between them in so short a time. What am I doing? What am I saying? She looked shattered. So pale. So sad. Admiration, albeit reluctant, surged through him that she could stand before him with pride and composure, regardless of his deliberately cruel words and the astounding violence that had reduced him to such a lack of control. He should be whipped for this, his conscience pricked with sharp insistence. What he should do was take her in his arms and kiss that desolate mouth into smiling joy. How could she possibly be guilty of the sins that he had laid before her? When she had sighed in his arms, when she had shivered in newly awakened desire beneath him, when she had allowed and welcomed such intimate possession of her body—surely he must be wrong. And deserve to be cursed to the fires of everlasting hell for such insensitive handling of her. But the vicious memories returned with vivid clarity. Edward Baxendale. Smug, self-satisfied, malicious, manipulative. If he could use his wife and his sister Sarah to feed his own ambitions, so he could use Theodora. And, ultimately, Theodora had lied to him. He must not weaken, must not allow his heart to rule his head.
‘No. You will not ride.’ His response exactly mirrored hers. ‘I will provide you with a post chaise and postilions. I do not want your safety or comfort on the journey on my conscience.’
‘There is no need for your conscience to be involved.’ If Nicholas could be so cold and distant, so could she. ‘My welfare is no longer your concern, my lord.’
‘You have no choice in the matter, Miss Wooton-Devereux. The coach will be waiting at the front steps, for your convenience within the hour.’
The sooner the better! How dare he make her so indebted to him at the last! ‘Then I shall be grateful, for Agnes’s sake.’ There was not the slightest hint of gratitude in her face or her voice.
Of which Lord Nicholas was made painfully aware.
Theodora turned on her heel and stalked from the room before she, too, was tempted into an action of mindless, uncontrolled violence. To sweep the candles, together with their elegant silver stand, to the carpet, with the flat of her hand.
As good as his word, Nicholas arranged for a post chaise and four to be ready before the door within the hour. Always the impeccable host and gentleman, he handed the two ladies into it, ordered a fur wrap for their knees, for their comfort from the chill wind. Promised the return of The Zephyr when her sprain had healed sufficiently for her to make the journey. Added two of his own grooms to Thea’s two henchmen, to ensure their safe passage. They were instructed to keep their pistols primed and eyes alert for any sign of the Maidens.
Throughout the proceedings, Lord Nicholas was as remote as the chill air quality around them, his self-control held on a tight rein. He did not allow his eyes to meet Thea’s, or even to dwell on the expression on her face, afraid of what he might see there. He did not take her hand or kiss her fingers in farewell. His expression remained closed and unemotional throughout the brief leave-taking as if the whole event was a matter of little importance or interest. Thea’s remained pale and set. Agnes, painfully aware of every nuance, made all the suitable farewells and necessary statements of gratitude. She did not dare ask her mistress what had occurred to cause this shattering tension between them.
Finally Lord Nicholas bowed with superb grace as the coach departed—then
stalked back into the Manor without a backward glance.
The occupants travelled in taut silence for the first half-hour, both ladies pretending to admire the passing scenery. Until Agnes was aware that silent tears had begun to track down Thea’s cheeks. She was crying, silently and helplessly.
Agnes sighed. ‘He is hurt, Miss Thea.’
‘But so am I.’ Thea tried to wipe the tears away with one finger. ‘Are all men so stubborn and blinkered?’
‘I imagine.’
‘But not as stubborn as Nicholas Faringdon!’ She sniffed and turned her face away. She did not see Agnes narrow her gaze at a particularly fine sweep of woodland carpeted with bluebells.
‘It’s not my place to say, Miss Thea.’
‘Since when did that ever stop you giving an opinion!’ The bitterness in Thea’s voice was overlaid by a storm of suppressed grief.
‘Very well. If you want honesty from me, you should have told him.’
‘I know.’ An audible sob escaped. ‘And now he does not trust me. With no possible evidence of my guilt. Simply because my name is Baxendale.’
Silence.
‘It is not fair! And I love him so.’
‘I know.’ Agnes could find no words of comfort, but her heart ached for the girl whom she had known and cared for since she had come into the family as an unwanted baby, a mere four weeks old. No, it was not fair, but life was not guaranteed to hand out fairness.
‘I am sorry I snapped at you, Agnes.’ Thea sniffed again and used her handkerchief to great effect. ‘I must not weep. It does no good.’
‘No.’ Agnes hid a little smile. This was more like the Thea she knew.
‘I have decided one thing. I need to know the truth.’ The lady tucked away the damp linen square and, once composed, turned back to her maid. ‘There is only one person who might tell me.’
‘So you will go to Sir Edward. Is it wise? Will you get the truth from him?’
Theodora thought for a moment, weighing the possibilities in the balance. ‘Why not? I am his sister, after all. Certainly no one else is prepared to tell me what happened between Faringdons and Baxendales. I shall visit Whitchurch on our route to London.’
Thea lapsed into silence again, her thoughts taken up with that final interview between herself and Nicholas. Her emotions tore at her and gave her no rest. Guilt that she had indeed embarked on their relationship on a lie, knowing that she had not told him the truth, even when she had been aware of the dangers in remaining silent. Anger that he should believe in her culpability rather than her innocence. And frustration that he would not tell her why he was so hostile, what it was that Edward had done that was so diabolical.
But mostly it was pain that stole her breath. She loved Nicholas—yet she had lost him. And feared that nothing she could do would ever win him back. All she could see was the condemnation in his face, his eyes dark and stormy as he surveyed her with arrogant disdain, and the desolation was a band around her heart. It was a relief when they arrived in Tenbury Wells, to the surprise but casual acceptance of Cousin Jennifer, where she could retire to her bedchamber and indulge in a private deluge of tears until she could weep no more—for herself, and for Nicholas, caught up in the complicated weavings of a net from which there was no escape.
At Aymestry, denied the luxury of a confidant, Nicholas strode directly from the house to the stables, ordered the saddling of a bay gelding and informed his silent and wary staff that he would be at Burford for the rest of the day. His tone denied the need for anyone to contact him there.
‘Will Miss Thea return?’ Furness enquired, risking the storm clouds.
‘No.’
‘Do we send The Zephyr on to London when she is sound?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I continue the poultices or do I turn her out into a paddock?’
‘Do what ever you wish, Furness. I am sure that you know as well as I how to deal with a lame animal.’
Thus ending any conversation about horses or more personal matters. Nicholas ignored the resulting exchange of knowing glances as he rode the gelding out of the stableyard on a tight rein.
He had, he realised, no intention of going to Burford. He simply rode, hard and fast, allowing his fresh mount its head as they hit the rising ground through the park. But there was no joy in it. Anything to rid his mind of Thea’s face when she had finally walked from his library, pale as the most delicate of magnolia blossoms, her expressive eyes veiled by a deliberate downsweep of thick lashes. Was it anguish from a broken heart that had brought the tension to her face, or was it shame that she had tricked him into a fraudulent relationship? How could he possibly know!
At the brow of the hill, he finally drew the gelding to a halt to look out over the acres of Aymestry to where they marched with Burford, usually a scene to soothe his heart. But today he found no satisfaction in it. He had last ridden these lanes and pastures, the shady woodland rides and the path beside the lake, with Thea. Now she had destroyed all his enjoyment in it, the pleasure in its possession and his peace of mind. And he missed her. He wanted her. His loins and his heart ached with the loss of her.
Lord Nicholas cursed fluently and long. He had known that there was some secret, some matter that had presented a barrier between them. But never this. What a stupid fool he had been, to give his heart into the keeping of a woman who, with cruel hindsight, was so clearly not what she seemed and bent on mischief. So much for love! When he married it would be for convenience, a wife to run his household, entertain his guests and carry his heirs. No emotions involved, nothing beyond a mild affection and tolerance. Henry was free to enjoy his grand passion with Eleanor. A cool calm friendship would do very well for him.
Lord Nicholas fervently hoped that he would never again have the misfortune to set eyes on Sophia Mary Baxendale.
Chapter Eleven
Thea was bowed into the entrance hall of the Great House in Whitchurch by an elderly servant who shuffled off to discover the whereabouts of Sir Edward Baxendale, leaving the lady to look about her. It was a lovely old house with mellow stone and graciously symmetrical lines of Jacobean origin. The main staircase and the wooden panelling was imposing enough, but gave the impression of faded grandeur. The house had seen better days. There was heavy dust on the table and settle beside her and the fireplace had not been swept of the debris of any number of fires. Curtains at the windows were worn and faded from an assault by the sun over the years. Outside the ornamental hedges were untidy and unclipped and the hinges of the wrought-iron gates were in need of repair. It spoke of a lack of servants. Thea suspected a lack of money.
But for her the most important, the most astounding, thought was that this was the house where she had been born and spent the first four weeks of her life. How strange it was to return here—and under such circumstances. How strange it would be to meet her brother for the first time in her life that she could recall. Nerves raised a shiver of disquiet along her arms. If her brother was prepared to discuss the Faringdon scandal with her, what would it reveal? And could she trust him to speak the truth?
‘I remember nothing of this.’
Agnes saw the nerves and touched her young mistress’s hand with light fingers. ‘You would not, of course. Don’t fret, Miss Thea. You must use your own judgement—whether what you will hear in this house is true or false.’
Which did nothing to ease Theodora’s anxieties.
The servant returned to show her into a room that looked out over a walled garden to the rear. She sat and waited, determined to retain her composure and her impartiality. Then the door opened and a gentleman entered with quiet dignity. The first impressions for Thea were undoubtedly pleasing. Not over tall, but compact and well muscled. Fair haired with clear, friendly blue eyes, he was clad in a double-breasted coat, breeches and boots suitable for any country gentlemen, of good quality but with no extremes of fashion. His figure was good, elegant even, as was his address.
Sir Edward Baxendale. Her brothe
r.
Yes. An attractive man, but Thea kept her council, and her expression and greeting cool. She did not know him.
Sir Edward came to a halt before her and inclined his head in gracious welcome. So this was his sister. After all these years. He had almost forgotten her very existence. Lady Drusilla had seen to that!
‘Sir Edward.’
‘Miss Wooton-Devereux.’ With a smile as warm as the sunshine that flooded the room, he raised her hand to his lips. ‘Or may I call you Theodora? If I may say—you have the look of our mother. She, too, was acknowledged to be a beauty as a young girl.’
‘I did not know that.’ Thea allowed a light smile in response, but remained aloof and wary. There was much that she needed to learn about Sir Edward Baxendale.
‘Please sit.’ He motioned to the chair from which she had just risen. ‘Allow me to give you a glass of claret. I am sure that refreshment after your journey will be acceptable.’
He poured and handed her a glass, but after thanking him she placed it untouched on the table.
Edward eyed her with mild curiosity as he lowered himself to a chair beside her, close enough for easy conversation, but not so as to be an imposition. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Theodora? I had believed that our relationship was past mending and so have done nothing to make contact with you. My mother and Lady Drusilla had nothing to say to each other. I did not even know that you were aware of the connection between us. And now here you are in Whitchurch …’
