by Lucy Ashford
Deb found herself almost shaking with humiliation. Of course he wouldn’t want her to meet his sister. He no doubt assumed that the presence of a low-born actress such as her would, after all, contaminate the girl. Her gaze flew to that display cabinet, and her breath caught once more as she saw—weapons. A sabre, with a glittering hilt. A pair of pistols. An officer’s sash, and a row of medals. A watercolour portrait, of a man in uniform...
‘They’re my brother Simon’s,’ the Duke told her quietly. ‘When he was a boy, he always dreamed of being a soldier, and he did indeed join the army for a while. But it didn’t work out as he’d hoped.’
There was something in his voice—grief, regret—that made Deb’s heart turn over. Silently she acknowledged that if this powerful man cared for someone, be they brother, friend or lover, he would doubtless go to the ends of the earth to protect them.
‘We’ll travel to London in a few days,’ he went on. He finished his brandy, then put the glass down and glanced at his watch. ‘You may return to your room. I have to go out now, to attend to some business in St Albans. I’ll summon Mrs Martin to escort you back upstairs—’
‘No!’
He turned to stare at her.
Deb was gazing at the tall window, through which she could see that the sun was shining and the garden was colourful with flowers. ‘I need to get out,’ she said. ‘I need some fresh air. I’m so tired of being shut up in here.’
The Duke frowned, then nodded slowly. ‘You may, I suppose, sit out on the terrace. You could read, or do some embroidery—’
‘I hate sewing.’
‘As you wish. But whatever you do, make sure that you stay in the shade. Since you’re meant to look...’ he paused, to give his words added irony ‘...delicate, and fragile.’
She opened her mouth to argue, but saw his freezing glance and closed it again. He gave a small nod and said, ‘Good. You’re learning. By the way, I’ve asked Mrs Martin to arrange for a hair stylist to come and cut your hair at four o’clock.’
‘But I don’t want—’
‘Your hair,’ he said, jabbing his finger at the loose mass of chestnut curls already tumbling from beneath her widow’s cap, ‘needs taming. Be back in your room at four.’ And with that he walked out, leaving her furious and trembling and terribly afraid of what lay ahead of her. Of what this man was doing to her.
* * *
An hour later Deb was sitting out on the terrace with a copy of The Lady magazine lying on a table at her side, together with a glass of iced lemonade and some chilled grapes from the Duke’s hothouse. A light breeze fanned her cheeks, but she still found the black clothes of widowhood almost unbearably hot. Perhaps there was something to be said for her décolletage after all. At least that part of her anatomy was pleasantly cool, although she would die rather than admit that to the Duke. Hateful, hateful man.
Restlessly she picked up her magazine then put it down again, reflecting that she could write an article of her own for the next issue.
Here is a word of advice for all recently bereaved ladies. In the summer, black bombazine can be the most relentless of fabrics, for it clings to the skin, and absorbs all the sun’s rays. Wear as little as possible beneath it. Avoid exertion, and above all never allow your emotions to become heated...
She sat there in the sunshine, while the Duke’s beautifully kept gardens spread away in all directions, and found herself filled with perhaps the greatest apprehension she had ever known.
All she had to do was be Paulette. Easy, according to the Duke. All she had to do was reinvent herself completely—change her hair, her clothes, even the way she moved. She had to alter everything that gave her individuality and independence. She had to submit to his will.
The problem was that she’d never met anyone like him before. She’d never thought that anyone like him existed.
Physically, of course, he was perfect and he knew it. No wonder society called him the Dangerous Duke. Any woman would have to have iced water running through her veins not to feel at least a flicker of desire on seeing those dazzling blue eyes, set in such a perfectly aristocratic face. On finding herself as close to his lean, rangy body as she had been. On feeling his lips caressing her own...
He’d kissed her twice. Clearly he’d forgotten those kisses. She, unfortunately, hadn’t, and didn’t think she ever would. And she’d put herself completely in his power. How was she going to survive this? Was this really better than being in Newgate? Dear God, she was almost beginning to wonder.
You’re twenty-two years old, she told herself sternly. Your life has been far from sheltered, and you should be able to cope with your situation.
She should be able to cope with Mr Beaumaris—the Duke—in other words. But if Lord Simon Beaumaris had been anything like his older brother, Deb was almost beginning to feel sorry for her cousin Paulette, who had clearly gone straight from the bosom of one hateful family—the Palfreymans—to another.
When she’d first started to act many years ago, she’d had girlish dreams of a handsome hero coming on stage and sweeping her off her feet. Well, she’d met a man who’d swept her off her feet now, all right, and Deb found his carefully laid plans to foil her cousin quite frightening. She remembered how her mother occasionally used to wish aloud that she could buy Deb pretty things—but if this was what wealth did to people, they were welcome to every penny of it.
Deb thoughtfully sipped the last of her lemonade, then stood up and wandered slowly across the terrace, thinking, I do not envy this harsh man at all. I do not envy him his money, his estates or his power.
The Duke had warned her to stay close to the house, but over there on the far side of the garden were acres of cool, leafy woods. And—was that the gleam of distant water?
It took her only a few minutes to cross the perfectly manicured lawns, and after following an enticing path between the trees, with lichened stone statues at every turn, she came at last to a wilder part of the garden, and gasped with delight on seeing, at the end of the path, a lake fringed by a cluster of weeping willow trees.
At the far side of the lake was a stone pavilion. Without hesitation, Deb hurried over to it, opened the door and peeped in. But this was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Everything in it was exquisite, from the marble tiles on the floor to the porcelain cameos of frolicking water nymphs that adorned the walls.
Instantly Deb closed the door and started pulling off her widow’s garb, casting everything on to a rattan chaise longue that stood in one corner. Moments later, wearing nothing other than her thin white chemise, she tiptoed to the water’s edge and experienced the utter bliss of sinking into the cool, cool water of the lake. She floated on her back with her eyes closed and a smile of utter contentment on her face.
* * *
At precisely that moment, Beau was riding back from St Albans, and his thoughts were focused on matters that made him oblivious to the beauties of the landscape around him. He’d been to meet his secretary, Nathaniel Armitage, who’d travelled up from London the night before; they’d had a private sitting room booked in the Bull, where his secretary was staying, and Armitage had, in his usual quiet but efficient way, got straight to the point by setting out a sheaf of papers.
‘I’ve already mentioned to you, your Grace,’ he said, ‘that shortly before her flight abroad in March this year, your sister-in-law—when she was believed by everyone to be in Norfolk—secretly visited a London jeweller who is, in fact, more of a dealer and pawnbroker. This man, Thomas Newman, has premises in Gresham Street in the city.’
‘How do you know that she visited him?’
‘People will talk, if they’re paid enough, and one of Gresham’s clerks recognised Lady Simon. It would appear that she may very well have deposited an item of value with Newman.’
Beau was leafing through the documents Armitage had set before him.
‘So the man is a dealer. I hope you’ve also been investigating if anything else has been heard about the jewels? If there are any rumours about them?’
‘Rumours of them having been sold, you mean? There’s nothing, your Grace.’
Beau put the papers down. ‘Very well. I’m intending to return to London within the next week or so, and it looks as if Newman will be our first target. He doesn’t realise that he’s being watched, does he?’
‘No. Oh, no, your Grace. My men are very careful.’
‘Keep them that way. Keep them looking, and listening. Though of course the only person who can deal with Newman over this particular business is Lady Simon herself. Miss O’Hara, in other words.’ Decisively Beau got to his feet.
Armitage was standing also, but more hesitantly. ‘She’s young, isn’t she, your Grace? Are you quite sure that she’ll be able to emulate a lady of quality?’
‘As well as Paulette Palfreyman did,’ Beau answered drily. ‘The real test, of course, will be when I bring her to London. But wait till you see her, Armitage. Believe me, you’ll be amazed.’
* * *
After riding at a spirited trot through the lodge gates, Beau let his big horse slow down as the crenellated roofs of Brandon Abbey came into view beyond the woods.
He saw, as he always did, how beautiful it all was. Remembered as he always did that he’d been entrusted with the estate by his father; just as he’d been entrusted with the care of his younger brother, and failed.
Beau had been fourteen when their mother died, after giving birth to Laura. Simon had been twelve, and the news of her death had been brought to them by their house master at Eton. Beau had accepted the news in silence. ‘Emotion is weakness!’ their father the Duke used to preach to his two sons as he stalked the corridors of Brandon Abbey. ‘Emotion is the sign of a feeble character!’
Certainly their father had shown little sign of emotion on any occasion to either of his sons, or to his wife. Beau remembered her as a distant, vain, flippant creature, who, he guessed, had found her marriage to the Duke a source of great unhappiness.
So at Eton, when the news came of their mother’s death, Beau was relatively untouched by her loss, but Simon, two years younger, was distraught. Simon had been deeply unhappy anyway at Eton; he was weaker than Beau, and were it not for his older brother’s intervention, he would have been a constant victim of bullying. ‘You must be strong, Simon,’ Beau urged him as he tried to console him over their mother’s death. ‘You must be brave.’
Emotion is weakness, he might have added. Just as their father would have said. Beau had learned the lesson—Simon hadn’t. But...I let you down, Simon, he acknowledged silently. I was supposed to protect my family, and I let you down. But I will see justice done, whatever it costs, whatever it takes.
Beau’s grim expression lightened a little as he turned from the main drive to take a track that wound through the woods. He was trying to picture his clever secretary’s face when he saw Miss O’Hara in her widow’s weeds. How could Armitage be anything but impressed? She would fool everyone into believing she was Paulette—London society, the lawyers, the lot.
And he would keep his side of the bargain. He’d give her the little theatre she wanted. But if she even hinted at wanting any more, he would come down on her with the full force of his wealth and his title, no doubt of that. He would remind her none too gently that her men had kidnapped and imprisoned him. Yet he found, suddenly, that he’d be disappointed if she tried such tricks. Yes, she was a rogue all right, but she had a certain honesty, surely—together with a forthrightness and a courage that he found curiously appealing.
He frowned. Unfortunately, she had quite a lot of other qualities that appealed to him also. Those eyes. Those breasts, that had been deliciously revealed by the low neckline she’d professed to hate. Those lips, that had returned his kiss so sweetly on two occasions that he would be far better forgetting...
He pulled his horse to a juddering stop.
The track Beau had taken was actually a shortcut through the woods, and it was one he often used. But less than a quarter of a mile from the house the track forked, and a much narrower path led down to the woodland lake. When they were young, he and his brother used to swim there often, though to his knowledge no one used the place now. And yet, from the corner of his eye, he realised that someone was in the water.
‘No,’ he found himself breathing aloud. ‘No.’ For a moment he imagined that the past had rolled hideously into the present; he thought that he saw arms threshing in the lake and heard desperate cries for help...
Then he realised it was the girl. She was swimming, and swimming well, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was being observed. Beau urged his horse on down the path to the lake’s shore; but she must have either seen or heard him approaching, because by the time he’d got to the water’s edge the girl was clambering out on the far side, heading for the pavilion, wearing practically nothing.
His jaw grimly set, he set off around the lake to meet her there.
Chapter Eleven
All the way to the pavilion, Deb was only too aware of her wet chemise clinging to her skin and her long hair dripping water down her back. He’d seen her. He was coming after her. Damn the man, she thought as she slammed the door of the pavilion and leaned her back against it, gasping for breath. Wasn’t she safe from him anywhere?
She froze, because she could hear steady footsteps drawing nearer. The nymphs and sea demons on the tiled walls were laughing down at her, and she only wished she could summon up their mythical powers and disappear.
Springing towards the chaise longue, she snatched up her clothes; but already the door was opening. She whirled round and he was there, blocking out the light; then he’d pushed the door shut. And he looked angry. So very angry.
‘If any of the staff or groundsmen should have seen you,’ he bit out. ‘Seen you out there swimming. Dressed in next to nothing...’
‘But no one was there to see me!’ she retorted hotly. ‘Everything would have been completely all right, if you hadn’t come galloping through the woods like that! I thought you wouldn’t be back till much later...’
‘I’d finished my business in St Albans. There’s a shortcut I use through the woods, and from there I could see the lake. I could see you, Miss O’Hara.’
She faltered, then faced him steadily again. ‘How was I to know there was a shortcut? Any man in his right mind would use his...miles of private driveway! But then again, any man in his right mind would not be forcing me to pretend to be his sister-in-law!’
He said, ‘I assumed you were used to being paid for services rendered.’
Deb tried to slap him. He gripped her raised wrist. She lifted her other hand to strike him, but he grasped that one also and marched her steadily backwards until she was pressed against the exotically painted wall.
Water from her loose wet hair rolled down her shoulders and back. Only her soaking wet chemise protected her nakedness. And he hadn’t once taken his eyes off her. Deb was all too aware that even if he wasn’t blocking her route of escape physically, then his gaze would have incapacitated her.
It appalled her to realise once more just how shockingly attractive he was. It appalled her to realise that she couldn’t drag her gaze from him. She should not be in awe of his chilly yet beautiful blue eyes framed by black lashes. She shouldn’t be even noticing the beginnings of dark stubble on his lean jaw. And she definitely should not be looking at his broad shoulders, his long, muscular legs encased in those tight buckskins and riding boots...
Her ribs ached with the need for air. Her stomach pitched. Being paid for services rendered. She’d let him think she was a whore, because of those damned books of Palfreyman’s—and with his damned arrogance, he wouldn’t risk polluting an inch of his aristocratic skin by laying another finger on
her. Would he? Would he?
‘I suppose,’ he was saying softly as his eyes raked her, ‘that I should be compensating you—financially, that is—for lost clients.’
‘No!’ She struggled again to escape, but he still grasped her wrists.
‘Do you miss the pleasure of your trade?’ he went on quietly—cruelly. ‘Is that why you were swimming so energetically? Were you perhaps trying to tire yourself out so you’d forget—what you were missing?’
She could feel the warmth of his body, and her senses were being seduced by the citrus scent of the soap he used. But his blue eyes were cold and menacing.
I am not afraid of him, Deb told herself desperately, pulling her hands from his grip and reaching behind her to find the wall and steady herself. He’s a brute and a bully, but I’m not afraid...
She was deceiving herself and she knew it. There was a raw male quality to him that came close to terrifying her. She didn’t for one minute think that he’d do her physical harm, but being near to him like this made her feel vulnerable in a way she’d never, ever known before—and that was bad, she thought, heaving air into her lungs. Very bad. She should have been cold, in her wet chemise that clung to her skin and her breasts; but the aura of raw sexuality emanating from this man’s powerful body made her feel as if she was standing in a furnace.
She tossed her wet hair from her face. ‘I came in here to get my clothes back. My widow’s clothes, in case you’d forgotten. I’d be grateful if you would leave me alone, so I can dress myself.’
He said nothing, but his eyes were on her breasts. She glanced down at them swiftly. They were shockingly outlined by the clinging wet cotton, and her nipples were hard and protruding. They might as well not be covered at all.
‘I think,’ the Duke said silkily, ‘that you realised I would be able to glimpse you in the water as I rode homewards. Any of the servants could have told you that the lake is visible from the track I often use. And so you decided to swim at the very time you guessed I’d be returning—because you wanted me to find you.’
