The rose-lined cloud upon which Gwenda floated dissolved from under her feet. Ravenel did indeed bear a most heroic cast to his countenance at this moment, but it was more of the nobility of one about to bravely embrace a firing squad than his lady. She squirmed free of his grip.
"Oh. I see," she said, surprised by the keenness of her disappointment. "How utterly honorable of you. But as a Vickers, I didn't think you believed I had a reputation worth saving."
The baron looked momentarily shamefaced, but he recovered himself. "We are not discussing any remarks I might have made previously about your family. When we are wed, I assure you I would not be so ill-bred as to utter any further criticisms. No matter what should happen, I would never be so uncivil as to blame you—"
"Please." Gwenda groaned. "Do not start making any speeches. You presume entirely too much, my lord. I have no intention of accepting your generous offer."
"I was not offering. I was telling you. You have to marry me. As a Ravenel—"
"Exactly whose good name are you trying to protect?" she interrupted acidly. "Yours or mine?"
"Yours! If you but had the wit to know it. And though I do not expect you to feel in the least grateful."
"Grateful!" Gwenda's own voice became successively more shrill. The sound of their quarrel roused Bertie enough so that he opened one eye to regard them sleepily.
She shouted, "How dare you talk of gratitude when you inform me you must marry me, with your face looking grim as death."
"Forgive me if my manner offends you," Ravenel bellowed back. "But in the past eight hours, I have been thrown from a carriage, nigh drowned in a thunderstorm, given indigestion from overcooked meat—"
"I told you not to eat it!"
"—which is not calculated to put a man in the most gallant frame of mind."
Gwenda rubbed her arms where her flesh had recently felt the strong pressure of his fingers. "Well, I will say one thing. At least this proposal is somewhat of an improvement over the one you made to Miss Carruthers."
The dangerous spark that flared in Ravenel's eyes should have caused Gwenda to fall silent. But Thorne had always told her that her besetting sin was never knowing when to hold her tongue. She continued, "I would never marry you, not even to save my reputation. No, not even if I was to be branded for a trollop and dragged to the pillory tomorrow."
A muscle twitched along Ravenel's jawline. He approached her with an ominous deadly calm that was far more alarming than any outright show of anger. Gwenda had enough sense to retreat behind the tea table.
"So you would never marry me?" he said in accents of soft menace. "I daresay you don't find me romantic enough. A most boring, stuffy man."
"I never precisely said that," she replied, wondering exactly what he intended to do when he got his hands on her.
"Old Sobersides Ravenel. Not in the least like any of those dashing heroes you write about."
"I never said that either."
Indeed, if Ravenel only knew how exactly like one of her heroes he did look at this moment, stalking her around the tea table in his weather-stained white shirt, his undone cravat revealing the bronzed flesh of his neck, his dark eyes raking her in a manner that both threatened and tantalized How often had Roderigo appeared thusly in her dreams, only moments before he would attempt to bestow upon her that elusive kiss that never seemed to materialize.
Gwenda stopped in her tracks, tracing the sensual outline of Ravenel's mouth with her gaze. What was she doing? Here might be the perfect opportunity to find out about that kiss, and she was nearly flinging it away by retreating. But no. What a scandalous notion! She couldn't possibly demand of Ravenel a thing like that. But if she didn't, she might never in her life have such another chance.
The words seemed to spill from her lips of their own accord. "Ravenel. Have you ever kissed a woman before?"
"Have I what?" Her question brought him to an abrupt halt, bare inches between them. "Of course I have." He added bitterly, "Though I daresay you'd tell me I don't do that right, either."
"I have no way of judging unless you do so." Despite his angry mood, Ravenel looked a little taken aback.
"And you can hardly expect me to marry you unless you kiss me first," Gwenda said, entirely forgetting that she had just told him she would never marry him on any account.
Ravenel appeared far more likely to box her ears. But he grabbed her by the shoulders, hauled her forward, and planted a kiss on her lips that was swift, hard, and far from satisfactory. But as he was pulling back, their eyes met and some lightning awareness seemed to spark between them.
He drew her into his arms more gently this time. Gwenda came without resisting until she was pressed so close to his chest, their bodies seemed to melt together. His head bent toward hers, his hand cradling the back of her neck. The moment stretched out forever, as in one of her dreams, and as Gwenda stared deep into the dark pools that were Ravenel's eyes, she was certain she would wake too soon, as she always did.
But then his mouth covered hers, tenderly at first so that she could savor the warm texture of his lips. Gwenda tried to capture her feelings at this moment, but it was impossible. As Ravenel deepened the kiss, all thought slipped through her mind until she was aware of nothing but Ravenel and the wondrous, fiery sensation of his lips on hers.
He pulled back, his mouth parting from hers with a lingering reluctance. His voice was husky. "My dear Gwenda. I should not. I am taking the most shameful advantage of you."
"Don't waste time apologizing," she begged. "Just kiss me again." She flung her arms about his neck. Ever a quick study, Gwenda proceeded to demonstrate to Ravenel just how much she had learned from their first embrace. She pressed her mouth to his in an ardent kiss that was even headier than the last one had been. Ravenel crushed her hard against him, returning her passion with fervor, when suddenly he wrenched himself free.
"Miss Vickers!" he gasped. This time it was the baron who retreated around the tea table. When Gwenda murmured in protest and attempted to follow him, he held up one hand to ward her off.
"No, no more of that," he said, panting. "Not until we are married."
She could not tell whether he appeared more shocked by his own behavior or hers. The warm glow enveloping her faded, leaving her overcome with feelings of shame and misery.
She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. "We are not getting married. I have been kissing you under false pretenses b-because you look like him and—and he looks like you. I never knew how Roderigo ought to kiss before, but I never imagined…And how could one begin to describe such an overwhelming experience in a book, anyway?"
Since she concluded this rather incoherent speech by bursting into tears, it did not surprise her that Ravenel should look thoroughly confused. He kept a wary distance between them.
"We are both more than a little overwrought from the day's events," he said. "You should retire. I'll just go and inquire if your room is ready, and we'll settle this matter in the morning." The baron spun on his heel and retreated briskly from the room.
"It is settled now! I am not mmarrying you," Gwenda cried, but the door had already closed behind Ravenel.
Bert stood up, stretched, yawned, and ambled over to nuzzle Gwenda's hand sympathetically. She gave a doleful sniff and patted the dog. "Oh, Bertie! If he had any doubts before, now I have thoroughly convinced him that I am a lunatic. But as if I give a fig for his opinion or his beastly honorable proposals!"
She wiped her eyes angrily on her sleeve and managed to compose herself by the time his lordship returned with the young waiter, Rob, bearing a candlestick to light her way.
Ravenel bade her a curt good night. "And be sure to keep your door locked" were his final words to her, before retreating to the fire and presenting her with the rigid line of his back.
Gwenda glared at him and followed Rob from the sitting room, Bertie trailing after them. As they mounted the creaking stairs to the upper floor, the candle flame cast eerie, flickering shado
ws upon the inn's ancient, gloom-shrouded walls. Under other circumstances, she would have permitted herself a delicious shiver, allowed her mind to conjure up all sorts of sinister images. But at the moment her thoughts were too full of the recent tempestuous scene with Ravenel.
The boy indicated the door to the chamber that was to be hers, but when she moved to sweep past him, Rob suddenly blurted out, "His lordship never said a truer thing!"
"What?" Gwenda asked, wanting only for the boy to be gone so that she could be alone.
"About keeping your door locked, miss." Rob leaned forward, lowering his voice to a frightened pitch. "And not venturing out of your room tonight, not under any circumstances."
It was the kind of dire warning she had often used in her books, but she took little heed of what Rob was saying.
"Of course," she said, giving the boy an impatient, weary smile. Taking the candle, she whisked into her chamber and shut the door in Rob's anxious face.
Chapter Seven
"That woman is going to marry me," Ravenel muttered, clenching his jaw.
"Of course, my lord," Jarvis said. He had lost track of the number of times he had uttered that soothing phrase since his arrival at the Nonesuch a half hour ago. Never had he seen his master in such a pelter. From what few mumbled words he caught, Jarvis supposed his lordship to be fretting over Miss Carruthers and her rejection of him. But why, in the wake of everything else that had happened, should such a thing now be preying upon Master Des's mind? The only likely explanation was that his lordship was overwrought. It behooved Jarvis to get him into bed as quickly as possible.
The valet rolled back the coverlet and eyed the sheets with great disfavor. Yellowed, threadbare, they appeared apt to come apart at the slightest touch. He clucked his tongue. "This bed is very likely full of vermin, my lord."
"Good," his lordship replied in abstracted fashion. "Make sure there are at least two. I shall never get to sleep otherwise."
Jarvis swiveled his head to stare at Ravenel in astonishment, then realized that his lordship had not heeded a word said to him. By the light of an oil lamp, its glow obscured by a dusty globe, his lordship pawed through one of his trunks. He found his dressing gown, which he proceeded to don inside out.
You have had a very long day, Master Des, Jarvis thought. He had been worried about his lordship and Miss Vickers ever since he had watched the young couple vanish down the road and saw the rain coming on. But his anxieties would have been tenfold worse if he had known they had fetched up in this dirty, tumbledown inn.
"It would have been far better if I had come and rescued you, my lord." Jarvis could not help voicing this opinion for perhaps the dozenth time. A grunt was his only reply.
Jarvis felt he had fared much better than Lord Ravenel and the young lady. The rain had barely begun when a farm cart had happened by. If only they had known there was a snug cottage within walking distance a bare quarter of mile beyond the field where his lordship had been flung.
After hailing the cart, Jarvis had soon had the drunken coachman and the poor young footman comfortably settled in the cozy farmhouse with plump Mrs. Ladbroke fussing and plying them with hot tea. With her help, Jarvis had bandaged James's ankle and sobered up the coachman. Jarvis would have been well content if not for his nagging fears over Lord Ravenel's continued absence. When the carriage from the Nonesuch had arrived in search of him, Jarvis had been most eager to leave. Not so Fitch or James, he thought with disapproval. They were too selfishly concerned with their own ailments to stir a step for their mistress. These young servants nowadays. It would have taken more than a sprained ankle or a raging headache to keep Jarvis from Master Des.
Through all this Jarvis was ashamed to feel a twinge of smugness. The young master oft seemed so sure his poor old valet was beyond coping with any disaster. Jarvis thought he had done rather well today, shown his lordship he was not completely past it. Had he remembered to tell Master Des with what foresight he had left a note pinned inside the wrecked carriage, otherwise the groom from the Nonesuch never would have found him at Mrs. Ladbroke's cottage?
"Yes, Jarvis. You told me. Several times," was his lordship's disgruntled reply.
While Ravenel took to pacing again, Jarvis hunted for a warming pan to take some of the dampness from the sheets, then he thought better of it. Any friction would likely cause that worn linen to disintegrate entirely.
The baron brushed past him, grumbling under his breath, "Blasted woman. Not one grain of common sense beneath all those curls. But I know my duty."
Jarvis paused in his efforts to plump up the pillows to study Ravenel anxiously. It was always a bad sign when the master began to pace. And was the look in his eye a trifle feverish?
"I trust you have not taken a chill, my lord."
"No, Jarvis," Ravenel said with barely concealed impatience.
If not ill, Jarvis concluded, the master was in a devilish bad skin over something more than all these traveling mishaps or the conditions of this dreadful inn. Jarvis knew his lordship and Miss Vickers had not set out today on the most amiable terms with each other. Still, Miss Vickers was such a good-natured young lady. Jarvis could not believe she had plagued his lordship with either tantrums or hysterics.
He cleared his throat and ventured sympathetically, "It has been a most trying day, my lord. I daresay you and Miss Vickers had a monotonous time of it, waiting here at this rundown inn."
"Monotonous!"
To Jarvis's surprise and alarm, his lordship halted in his tracks and emitted a bark of laughter. "No, Jarvis. Miss Vickers might inflict many torments upon a man, but monotony would never be one of them."
The words were no sooner out of Ravenel's mouth than he wished he had returned a more noncommittal answer. Jarvis was regarding him with renewed uneasiness, the scrutiny of his still keen blue eyes probing deep enough to render the baron mighty uncomfortable. He felt himself coloring and returned to rummaging through his trunks, demanding what had become of his tooth powder.
Jarvis located it for him in a trice. "I am glad to hear my lord was not bored. I trust you at least passed your evening with some degree of comfort?"
The valet's concern and curiosity irritated Ravenel's taut nerves to the snapping point. He straightened, brandishing his toothbrush. "If you must know, Jarvis, Miss Vickers and I spent our time inspecting the food for poison and waiting for ghosts to whisk down the chimney That is, when we weren't engaged in shouting matches and chasing each other around the tea table."
To say nothing of the kissing, he added to himself, an surge of heat rushing through his loins at the memory. And to think nothing of it, either, if he wished to get any sleep at all tonight.
He continued, not giving Jarvis time to register his dismay. "But I suppose these events will become everyday occurrences when Miss Vickers and I are married. I shall soon grow to regard them as commonplace."
If he had expected to shock the imperturbable Jarvis, Ravenel was disappointed. Although the old man exclaimed, "Marry Miss Vickers?" he appeared more worried than startled. "But, my lord, what about Miss Carruthers?"
"Miss Carruthers? What the deuce does she have to do with any of this?"
"I thought that you were wanting to marry her only yesterday morning."
Yesterday morning? Ravenel marveled. Aye, so it had been, and yet the scene with Miss Carruthers seemed as hazy in his memory as though it had taken place in another lifetime. The only part that remained clear to him was bending over that settle and finding tumbled brown curls, abashed green eyes, a pixieish smile. Was it truly only yesterday that Gwenda Mary Vickers had erupted into his life? It seemed more like years since he had bade good-bye to a sane existence.
He said curtly, "I asked Miss Carruthers and she turned me down. So now I am going to marry Miss Vickers."
Jarvis's fine white eyebrows jutted upward in disapproval. "Miss Vickers is indeed a charming young lady, but it would seem your lordship's decision is rather sudden."
"Damnation, Jarvis. You of all people should understand why I am doing this Honor demands it. I could not allow her reputation to be ruined owing to this little escapade."
"Is not your lordship being a trifle rash? Chances are that matters might be arranged so that no one would ever know about this mishap."
Ravenel found himself unexpectedly irritated by Jarvis's well-meant comments. "No, the affair is quite hopeless. I must marry her, and that's flat."
"And what is Miss Vickers's opinion?"
As usual, Jarvis had an uncanny knack for cutting through to the heart of the matter. The baron thought of Gwenda's insistence that she would never wed him, and his mouth set into its former obstinate line.
"Miss Vickers's impractical opinions are of no consequence. She has no more choice than I. I will make her marry me. I see my duty quite clearly."
With that, Ravenel flung down his toothbrush. There was no water in the chipped porcelain basin, anyway. He stalked toward the bed, the silence into which Jarvis had lapsed becoming more unnerving with each passing second.
"Well?" Ravenel rounded on his valet. "You never liked Miss Carruthers in any case. So are you not going to wish me joy?"
"Not yet, my lord." Jarvis's cryptic remark and sudden smile were both equally annoying. Ravenel decided he had had all he could possibly endure for one day.
When Jarvis helped him out of his dressing gown, he flung himself into bed. Catching the edge of the sheet, he gave it an angry jerk and rolled over in accompaniment to the sound of tearing linen.
"I am not going to marry that overbearing man, Bertie," Gwenda declared to her dog, who was attempting to arrange himself on the window seat. Silhouetted against the glass, Spotted Bert issued a mournful whine like some hound of dire prophecy.
Beyond the latticed panes, the moon made a ghostly glow cresting the night-beclouded sky. Upon the nightstand, a candle burned low in its socket. A draft whistled past the window, causing the flame to waver, sending shadows leaping up the dark-paneled walls of the chamber.
Brighton Road Page 12
