Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal

by Lara Temple

  ‘Oh, good.’

  He sighed.

  ‘I surrender. Come, I will sit with Nicky for a while and then I must leave. But we are entering by the back door.’

  * * *

  The sight that confronted them when Cat opened the door to Nicky’s bedroom was not entirely that of a sickroom. Nicky was indeed in her bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, her dark brown hair down about her shoulders and a glass with a viscous liquid on a tray by the bed, but she was laughing and she wasn’t the only occupant of the bed.

  ‘That’s just silly—’ Nicky stopped when Cat and Alan entered the room, crying out joyously, ‘Uncle Alan, you came!’

  Alan directed a wary look at Miss Wallace, who was leaning against the headboard with her feet tucked under her and a book in her lap. He walked around the other side of the bed and bent to kiss his niece on the forehead.

  ‘Of course I came. Not that there seems to be much wrong with you, pumpkin.’

  ‘My head feels like I’m wearing a bonnet three sizes too small and I can hardly hold up my book and I had a fever last night and Lily says fevers often worsen in the evening. Are you staying? Please say you are.’

  Lily. The name was far too whimsical and delicate for the spoilt heiress who had addressed his harridan of a grandmother so impudently. He sat on the bed and took his niece’s hand, wondering why the heiress was still sitting there. Anyone with the least manners would have removed herself. She didn’t even make way for Cat. Clearly she was used to the world arranging itself to suit her rather than the other way around. He focused his attention on Nicky.

  ‘I can’t stay, Nicky.’

  ‘Because of Grandmama? If I ask her, she might let you. Shall I ask her?’

  ‘You saw me last month when I came by your school.’

  ‘That was last month. Just for a little while? You must hear this story. It’s called The Mysteries of Udolpho and it is even funnier than The Romance of the Forest.’

  ‘I didn’t realise Mrs Radcliffe wrote comedies.’

  ‘Well, they aren’t really, but Lily makes them so. Especially the swooning and the groaning.’

  Alan raised his brows and turned to the heiress. Any normal, proper young woman would have been off the bed and out the room like a scalded cat the moment he entered; instead she was curled up like a kitten against the pillows, her fingers tracing the gilded lettering on the leather-bound book, and her honey-brown eyes warm with laughter. The presence of his niece in the bed as well should have made her look less like a very expensive mistress holding court in her boudoir, but his unruly imagination compensated. His mind had already pulled the pins and ribbons from her glossy hair and set it tumbling over her shoulders, cleared the room of his sister and niece, and significantly enlarged the bed. Now he was left to imagine what she might look like under the fine powder-blue sprigged muslin, if the sleek lines of her figure were spare or carried some pliant padding waiting to be warmed, softened.

  Cat’s assessment came back to him—unshakeable. It was a sad trait of his that he hadn’t yet met a cage he didn’t want to rattle and right now the thought of shaking this pert heiress out of her amused condescension was adding fuel to an undeniable physical curiosity. He caught her gaze with his.

  ‘Groaning? Is it that kind of novel?’

  If he had expected to finally shock her, the shimmer of laughter in her honey-gold eyes at his suggestive question sent that hope to grass. Here was the same gleam of mischief in her eyes he had glimpsed in Albert’s library and it had the same impact on his hunting instincts. He reined them in reluctantly. This was a game without a prize.

  ‘I don’t know what novels you are wont to read, Lord Ravenscar, but in this book the groaning and creaking is confined to the castles,’ she answered, and her voice, at least, was prim.

  ‘Still, hardly suitable reading material for a girl of twelve, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, but everyone reads her novels at school, Uncle Alan,’ Nicky interjected. ‘There’s even a girl who swoons when we read them at night.’

  ‘I think it is a very healthy sign that a twelve-year-old finds such novels amusing,’ the heiress added.

  ‘Are you speaking from experience, Miss Wallace? Were you also a voracious novel reader as a schoolgirl, then? That might explain it.’

  ‘Explain what?’ Nicky asked.

  ‘I think your uncle is referring to my flair for dramatics, Nicky.’

  ‘I would amend that to histrionics.’

  ‘Would you? I believe I was rather calm in the face of a ransacked library and an intruder with a punishing left hook.’

  ‘If being calm is brandishing a mace at a stranger, then, yes, you qualify. Besides, you didn’t know about my boxing prowess until your burly protector arrived.’

  ‘That is true. I dare say you would have thought better of me had I shrieked and swooned like a heroine from a novel. Would that have gratified your male pride and preconceptions of proper female behaviour?’

  ‘It would have certainly been less tiring. Conversing with you is like going ten rounds with Belcher.’

  ‘Alan,’ Cat admonished, but without much conviction.

  ‘Who is Belcher?’ Nicky giggled.

  ‘Belcher is someone who would have given your uncle the black eye he deserves, Nicky.’ Lily laughed and again he found himself wondering whether there was anything that could truly unsettle this peculiar young woman. Either her defences were legion or she was truly without any depth and took nothing seriously.

  It shouldn’t matter and he should know better than to treat her laughing dismissal of his barbs as a challenge, but he leaned towards her, his weight on his arm, his fingers just skimming the spread of her skirt where it fanned out on the bed, pressing it into the coverlet, the embroidered blue flowers silky bumps against the pads of his fingers.

  ‘If you are so bent on blackening my eye, go ahead. I won’t retaliate.’

  Lily Wallace’s eyes narrowed, assessing, and he wondered if she might actually try to meet his dare. Her gaze scanned his face, as if she was searching for the right spot to place the invited blow. He should have been amused, but instead he felt a peculiar rise of heat follow the path of her inspection, pinching at his skin, and with a sense of shock he realised he was blushing. It had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything with a spike of undiluted lust thrusting through his body. Until now the heat of attraction had been speculative, familiar, unthreatening. In an instant it flared beyond that, like brushfire after a drought, unexpected and cataclysmic. It took every ounce of his self-control not to draw back from the fire, to keep his breathing even. It cost him, though, both his body and his vanity suffering—he should be well past the age for such conflagrations.

  ‘I would never be so uncouth as to strike a man while I am a guest under his roof,’ she said, but her eyes did slide away from his, her first sign of disquiet. It should have gratified him, but it just added to this unexpected agony. His mind reached for the lifeline of anger at her words.

  ‘This isn’t my roof, thank God. Ravenscar Hall is no longer entailed and I am certain old Jezebel has enlightened you that she would rather see it razed to the ground than left to the profligate Rakehell Raven.’

  There was no amusement in her eyes now, but the emotions in them were anything but gratifying—he needed neither contrition nor pity, certainly not from someone like her. She turned to slip off the bed and for a moment her skirt caught beneath his fingers, riding up her legs, exposing the sleek line of her calf and the shadowed indentation of her ankle before escaping him.

  Just like Nicky’s headache, his skin felt far too small on him. The absurdity of reacting to the glimmer of a smile and the glimpse of a woman’s ankle as if he had never seen an inch of female flesh in his life when just a few nights ago he had seen in full naked glory the whole extent of another woman’s ana
tomy was not as obvious to his body as to his mind. He tried to look away but didn’t, watching as she extended her leg to put on her slipper, like a dancer. What would she be like to dance with, this strange girl? In some dark room, music entering from outside so he could be alone with her and explore those curves under the expensive fabrics, test their softness, whether he could make the unshakeable Miss Lily Wallace quiver...

  ‘We can continue reading this later, Nicky. Enjoy your time with your uncle.’ Her gaze lifted to his from the preoccupation of putting on her slippers. For a moment she stood there and then turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Then it was just the old nursery room that had been Cat’s until her marriage, with her books and now Nicky’s dolls on the shelves. The last time he had been here had been twelve years ago, the very last day he had set foot in the Hall until today. It had hardly changed, but he had. It was important to remember that.

  He gathered himself and smiled at Nicky. She and Cat and his friends and his work were all that mattered in his life. In a few moments he would leave this house and hopefully never set foot in it again at the very least until the witch was dead and buried.

  Chapter Four

  Alan recognised his grandmother’s old landaulet coming up the drive of the Carr property in Saltford before he even saw the occupants and braced himself. Having to face the old witch twice in a week after not seeing her for over a dozen years was surely a punishment not merited by any of his sins, at least not any recent ones. What on earth would she be doing coming to see an empty property up for sale a good forty minutes from the Hall?

  The open landaulet drew abreast, revealing its occupants, but his tension only took a different turn. The fact that it wasn’t his grandmother, but Miss Wallace seated beside Mr Prosper and an older woman who was clearly her maid, was just as unwelcome, but for very different reasons. By the hunted expression on the solicitor’s face he shared Alan’s discomfort at this development.

  ‘I do apologise for my tardiness, my lord.’

  ‘That is quite my fault,’ Miss Wallace interceded. ‘Since I not only insisted on taking up Mr Prosper in the landaulet when we drove from his offices to Hollywell, but then kept him overlong on my business there, I felt it only proper to ensure he arrive here as swiftly as possible rather than wait for his clerk to arrange for a gig to convey him here from the Ship. So I offered to see him here myself while his clerk arranges to bring the gig.’

  ‘You are too kind, but there really was no need for you to put yourself out, Miss Wallace,’ Mr Prosper replied, removing his hat to mop his brow despite the cold wind blowing. ‘My clerk will be here presently with the gig, so you needn’t linger. I assure you I will see to your requests for Hollywell with all promptness.’

  Completely ignoring this polite attempt to send her on her way, Miss Wallace extended her hand and poor Mr Prosper had no choice but to help her descend.

  Alan doubted Miss Wallace had been motivated by kindness. Curiosity was probably nearer the mark. But there was something in the smile she flashed him that put him on alert. Mischief and even anger, which surprised him. She hadn’t struck him as resentful and, if anything, she might be considered the victor in their two previous encounters. His treacherous body was certainly declaring its utmost willingness to surrender if that would get him past her battlements. It was a sore pity she wasn’t already married and disillusioned with wedded bliss. He would have enjoyed broadening her horizons, and his.

  Other than the martial flash in her gold-flecked eyes she exemplified the perfect society miss. She was dressed in a very elegant forest-green pelisse with dark-gold military facings and a deceptively simple bonnet with matching ribbons. It enhanced her warm colouring and was far too elegant for the Somerset countryside. In fact, she looked more elegant than most fashionable women he knew in London. With her money and sense of style, she would do very well once she was introduced to London society. Though she would probably ruin it the moment she opened her mouth. London was not very forgiving towards pert young women, heiresses or not, especially if their background was anything but conventional.

  On the surface she would make Philip Marston a perfect wife, but the more he saw of her the more he doubted whether Philip understood what he was taking on. In fact, if he had had to guess, he would have thought Philip would choose someone more like his own daughter—classically beautiful, well mannered, wealthy and biddable. Of those criteria Lily Wallace fulfilled only the requirement of wealth.

  Not that it was any of his concern. His only concern at the moment was finding a new venue for Hope House, fast, and returning to London. However pleasant it was to watch the outline of her legs against her elegant skirts as she descended from the landaulet, there was nothing to be gained flirting with an heiress who was tangled up with his grandmother and the possible matrimonial target of one of his business partners, no matter how outré and intriguing. She might be different from the usual run of women he enjoyed, but then so would the inmates of bedlam be different. Boredom in the bedroom was no excuse for putting his head into the lion’s mouth...or rather the lioness’s.

  She approached him and her smile widened. It wasn’t a welcoming smile and he instinctively reacted to it with a contrary spurt of determination. His initial look around the grounds of this property and others in the environs had only reinforced his conviction that Saltford would not do and that Hollywell House was still the perfect choice for a new Hope House. The odds were long and getting longer, but he wasn’t ready to admit defeat quite yet.

  ‘Lord Ravenscar.’ Even those two words were a challenge.

  ‘Miss Wallace.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you. Was it The Mysteries of Udolpho that gave you the idea?’

  He frowned, confused. Was she incapable of a normal conversation?

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She cocked her head to one side, walking towards the house, and politeness required he keep pace with her.

  ‘You do innocent very well for someone who has very little connection to that concept.’

  ‘I must be very dense, but I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  A crease appeared between her brows and she stopped at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘The broken urn?’

  ‘The what? Is this some form of biblical charade?’ He had discarded his initial opinion that she was mildly deranged, but he might have to reconsider.

  ‘The creaking door?’ she tried, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Miss Wallace, either you have developed the fever or that rubbish you were reading Nicky is having a dilatory effect on your mind. What the deuce are you talking about?’

  ‘Have you been back to Hollywell House in the past couple of days?’

  ‘No, I have not. Why on earth would I?’

  The society smile had completely disappeared and she was frowning as she watched him, as if waiting for him to slip up.

  ‘It appears whoever vandalised the library has been back. That horrid large urn in the hallway was smashed and the effect was embellished with some atmospheric creaking of doors. The latter part might have been accidental, since the latch on one of the doors from the servants’ quarters doesn’t close properly, but the urn was too heavy to topple over merely because of the wind.’

  Alan’s fists tightened. The image of her standing in the middle of the mayhem of helmets, breastplates and books returned. With a wary look, Mr Prosper hurried past them up the stairs, a set of keys clinking in his hand. Alan took Miss Wallace’s arm and pulled her slightly to one side. Mr Prosper and the house could wait.

  ‘I admit I want Hollywell House, but I don’t usually have to resort to such puerile tactics to get what I want and I assure you my taste doesn’t run to the Gothic.’

  He spoke casually, matching her lightness, but he felt anything but light-hearted. If she had wreaked havoc to the library
the other day and was now breaking urns and hearing noises, she was indeed deranged. If not, someone was actively vandalising the property, which was just as bad.

  ‘I am not fanciful, Lord Ravenscar,’ she said coolly. ‘When such incidents occur in a house that should be standing empty, I presume someone is up to mischief. I admit I thought that you, rather melodramatically, had decided to add not-so-subtle persuasion to other inducements. If it wasn’t you, it was someone else, and not a ghost. But whoever it is, and for whatever reason they may be doing so, it won’t work.’

  ‘If you don’t know why they are doing it, how do you know it won’t work?’ he asked, just to annoy her, but his mind was half-focused on other matters. On who indeed might be behind these pranks and on how cold she could look when she chose to; she looked even more the perfect London hostess like that, but then her roguish smile broke through again.

  ‘Must you ruin it by being clever? I had quite set my mind on you being the villain; it would have been so neat. Maybe you still are being clever. This could still be some devious machination so you could vanquish the ghost and hope to earn my undying gratitude so I would sell you Hollywell House after all. That would be a plot worthy of Radcliffe.’

  ‘I haven’t the imagination or energy for such nonsense,’ Alan replied, thoroughly exasperated. Her laughing dismissal of the situation was even more annoying than a fit of hysterics would have been. What was wrong with this woman?

  ‘No, I suppose not. You are not in the least romantic.’

  She sounded so dismissive he couldn’t resist mounting a defence.

  ‘That is not the general consensus, I assure you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that kind of romantic. The real kind of romantic.’

  ‘I won’t ask for the distinction. I haven’t a strong enough stomach.’

  ‘See? That is precisely what I mean. Well, this is most annoying. If you aren’t my ghost, then who is?’