‘I’d like to sit a while,’ she said, ‘and take a glass of water.’
But by the time Lord Rayne had returned with a glass of sparkling pink punch, others had come to talk to her and Lord Elyot was weaving his way towards them, giving her not the slightest hint of his business while she had been dancing. She would not ask, fearing to have her assumptions verified, and he was not about to tell her unless she did, paving the way for all her demons of doubt and anger, jealousy and rivalry to run riot through her imaginings. Already, she thought, he was turning his attention to others. Once a rake, always a rake. What had she expected?
The two ex-mistresses had vanished and Caterina was being returned to her aunt by a partner who showed all the symptoms of being smitten. But the young lady’s eyes, peeping up at Lord Rayne, were to Amelie as transparent as crystal, showing how she longed for his approval, how she yearned for him to take her on to the floor for a second dance, to show her the same warmth as at the beginning of their friendship. But he did not, and the brave resignation on Caterina’s face and the quick sag of her shoulders was pitiful to see.
Catching sight of Amelie’s gentle caress upon her niece’s arm, Lord Elyot spoke quietly to her alone. ‘Have you had enough of this?’
‘Quite enough,’ she said, coldly.
‘Shall we go, then? Home?’
‘If you please.’ She had no need to look at his eyes to know exactly what he meant by home, for it had the same intimate sound as ‘bed’. Her painful anger advocated a rejection of his company to punish him for having led her into this wretched situation, and the plan that etched itself on her mind like a creeping frost was to take him as far as the bedroom door and then to close it, sending him off with a flea in his handsome ear. It was at the same time both attractive and unattractive, for it would certainly hurt her more than him. Which, she recalled, had ever been the way of things.
The return to Paradise Road was not long enough for Amelie’s anger to simmer down, or for her plan of retribution to develop beyond an idea, and Lord Elyot was not so impervious to her mood that he could not tell what was coming. Bidding a curt farewell to his brother, he followed Amelie and Caterina into the house with an authority that took them both off guard. Caterina immediately went up to her room and, ascending the stairs ahead of Amelie as courtesy dictated, he was inside the main bedroom before she could think of a way of keeping him out.
Once she was inside the room, he stood with his back to the door as if she might bolt. ‘Now,’ he said, with an infuriating calmness, ‘tell me what this is all about, if you please.’ Leaning back, he folded his arms and waited, expressionless.
More than ever incensed by her failure to evade him, Amelie pulled off her velvet cape and, with a flourish worthy of a matador, flung it aside, whirling to face him from halfway across the room. Then, because his intrusion into her private space made her wild with resentment after his close physical contact with two of his former mistresses, she tightened her grip on her spangled reticule and hurled it at his head with all the strength she possessed. ‘That!’ she shrieked. ‘That’s what it’s about, damn you! Don’t pretend not to know.’
He caught it in midair with one hand and tossed it across to the cloak. ‘Know what?’ he said. ‘Just tell me.’
She could not tell him. Words had not been invented to describe the paradoxical loving and hating of a man, her insecurity and his command over her, her wanting and not wanting, her agonising confusion. Lacking words, she leapt at him, intending to beat him with her fists before he could catch them. ‘You do know,’ she yelled. ‘You do … you do! Those women … how dared you speak to them … dance with them … smile at them … let them touch you and ask you about me? You are not theirs … you’re mine!’ Tears rolled down her face, the mere mention of her rivals making her distraught while his capture of her hands prevented the assault to his chest punctuating the accusations with pain. ‘You went with them,’ she sobbed, ‘and I needed you … with me …’
‘You were dancing with Seton,’ he said in surprise.
‘I needed you, you oaf! Why did you walk off … to see those …’
‘Hush, lass. I did not walk off to see—’
‘You did … I saw you … and them … gone. Don’t lie to me.’
‘I have never lied to you.’
‘You have! You lied to me about scandal. You lied about how severe your mother is…. and about … oh, helping me … everything!’ she croaked.
‘I think,’ he said, grimly, lifting her into his arms, ‘that this argument … can best be settled…. over here.’ Placing her without ceremony on the turned-down bed, he purposely sat on the long skirt of her evening gown and began to remove his shoes.
After the first few furious tugs and pushes at his unyielding back, she knew it was useless. But, more than that, she wanted him as would any woman who had seen how those two, far from holding a grudge against him, had basked in his admiration as they had done in the past. As she had done. Had she been certain of him, she would have been less concerned, but he was by far the most attractive creature there, exuding an animal magnetism that affected every woman upon whom he bestowed the slightest attention, young and old alike. With one look, he could make her think of nothing but him, of what he was saying, of how he was saying it, of what he really meant by it, and of what it would be like to be taken to bed by him. Amelie knew, and those women knew too, and they wanted him again as if it was written across their foreheads. After witnessing that, how could she now believe that it was only her he was thinking of when he made love? Was she really destined to be only one of many, waiting in line to be remembered with pleasure, as they were?
The thought of it lent a passionate fury to her struggles and a determination not to cooperate in the slightest degree while her fear and rage were at their peak. But his far greater strength wore her down at last, making her ineffective against his control, and her body was soon to feel the dangerously exciting touch of his skin covering her like a softly sensuous blanket. Her aching arms could no longer hold back his great shoulders as they lowered, keeping her still at last.
She could not tell him of her longings or of her greatest fear, nor did she realise how she had already betrayed herself by word and action. But nor did he attempt to explain to her that it was none of his doing, that he was innocent of any impropriety, or that he had every reason to behave the way he had. There was still more that he must discover about her and, while she clung so firmly to unreason, she was in no mood to accept his explanations.
Consequently, to anyone permitted a glimpse, their dynamic loving might have looked more like a conquest in which Amelie fought for her honour, which was the impression she intended. At that moment, it was her pretence, her justification which, fortunately, Nick understood and went along with, using just enough force to hold her, but not hurt her, speaking no lover-like endearments but converting her wild, willing objections into moans of desire with sublime caresses. Teasing, taking, and luring her towards forgetting, he drew from her cries of, ‘Ah … ah, brute!’ as he tormented first one nipple and then the other with lips, tongue and teeth, making her wait upon his slow erotic entry instead of the fierceness she had expected.
Even then, there were no loving words to spoil the illusion of dominance, no sighs or tender compliments to soothe her resentment, for she believed herself to be the injured party and tonight had provided one grievance too many. He would not spoil that for her. She needed to fight someone, to win and to lose, to pretend that it was none of her doing, to add to her injuries while indulging herself, body and soul, in his gloriously expert lovemaking.
She lay quiet under him, panting softly and reeling with the potent rippling plunges of his body that seemed to know intuitively how best to pleasure her until the world slowed to a standstill, waiting, keeping her balanced on the tip of a giant wave that would not break and fall. On and on he went, hearing her pleas and cries that sounded to her like distant sirens calling her to let go, t
o dive and drown in rapture. And she did, wailing and mewing softly into his ear as he bent low into her, taking her over the crest with a renewed surge of energy, buffetting them both on to a long steep shore where they clung, half-hoping to be dragged back into the maelstrom. Thinking of jumbled and delicious things that could not be explained, she slept, rocked comfortably in his enclosing arms. Then sleep overcame them both, but not exhaustion, for she had only to turn her supple body against him for their hands to begin another journey of exploration and discovery as if for the first time. So twice more during that tempestuous night, she demanded from him the full price of her doubts and dreads while his intention, apart from taking his fill of what he desired, was to provide her with every possible reason to stay with him permanently.
Chapter Eight
So few words had been spoken during those intense hours of loving that when Lord Elyot’s absence was discovered next morning, with only Mr Killigrew to see him leave, and no message left to explain it, Amelie was understandably puzzled, then vexed, then deeply fearful. She could have asked Mr Killigrew about the manner of his leaving, but that would have looked odd. If there had been a message, she would have received it by now.
A casual enquiry at the stables revealed that her guest had borrowed her grey hunter and would return it that same morning, but the offhand manner in which the groom from Sheen Court, later on, let slip the information that his master had set out for London ‘‘ell for leather’ caused Amelie the greatest concern. A sudden nausea made her sit down on the mounting-block until it had passed, then with shaking legs she returned to the house to rejoin Caterina, whose puffy eyelids and red nose were not much better than they had been at breakfast.
‘London,’ said Amelie. ‘He’s gone to London.’
‘Without telling you?’ said Caterina, accusingly.
Amelie shrugged, studying the silver top on the inkpot. ‘I suppose he must have mentioned it,’ she said, searching for a convincing line to take, ‘but I really can’t remember. He has duties to perform for his father, you know, like yesterday. London’s not as far as all that. He could be back in no time at all.’
‘Did Lord Rayne go with him?’ Caterina asked in a small voice. She was writing a letter to her father, and the quill she held was about to break under the extreme misuse she was subjecting it to.
‘Er … I don’t know, my dear.’ Blankly, she looked into Caterina’s deeply unhappy topaz eyes, saying more eloquently than words that she knew absolutely nothing about what either of them were doing, that she and Caterina were not likely to find out for certain, that communications appeared to have broken down even after a night spent in the deepest and most personal intercourse of all.
‘What about Tam? No word of him either?’
‘Nothing was said. I didn’t ask.’
‘I would like to know,’ whispered Caterina.
‘Yes, dear. So would I. If I’d realised …’ The sentence was left open. If she had realised how abrupt the end would be, or that the amazing night they had spent together was to be a kind of farewell, she would have been more prepared for his sudden departure. Even now she could scarcely believe that he had gone without waking her, no doubt to avoid any more angry scenes. Yes, that had been a mistake. A spontaneous, but costly, mistake. Perhaps the other women had brought things to an end in the same way. Heaven knows what she had screamed at him.
More disturbing news arrived that morning in a letter from Signor Rauzzini addressed to Lady Chester. The maestro was full of regrets that he had been summoned urgently to Bath, post-haste, and that his visit planned for the day after tomorrow would unfortunately have to be postponed until his return. He did not know when that would be. He had been so looking forward to hearing Miss Chester sing for him, but meanwhile she must take care not to overtax her voice, to take plenty of fresh air, exercise and sleep. ‘Your very obedient servant, Venanzio Rauzzini,’ said Amelie, passing the letter to Caterina. ‘Oh, my dear, this is a bitter disappointment. After all your preparations.’
Caterina’s letter to her father suffered a temporary hiatus until her tears had dried, after which she tried again, telling her father of the great set-back to her singing career with an exaggeration typical of young people in love. She told him that things did not always flow smoothly since Aunt Amelie’s engagement, and although the dinner at Sheen Court had been a great success, the outing to Hampton Court had not, the dance last night had been a great crush and they had come home early. Significantly, Lord Rayne was not mentioned.
It was to be a day of letters, for among the day’s post was one from Caterina’s father and sister, always first to be read and devoured for gossip, congratulations for Amelie and a hint of envy from sister Sara. But hidden in the pile lay one which, in her thirst for news from Buxton, Amelie had not noticed. Her heartbeat raced, and she stifled a gasp of annoyance as she recognised Ruben Hurst’s handwriting. From London, the postmark said. So, he was still there, and still not out of her life, and the one who had assured her of his protection was not here, after all that, to deal with the problem, nor would he even know that Hurst was still pestering her. She would have to deal with it in her own way, as she had done before.
***
An hour later, she took the letter to her workroom where, over by the window, she broke the wafer with shaking hands and stared at the page of neat writing, hating it already. Skipping over the salutation, she read:
At last I am able to give you an address where you may contact me and, if our last sweet meeting had not been so unkindly interrupted, I would have found a place sooner, with your generous assistance. I could see your distress at the dilemma, but I have never given up hope that we shall soon come together for all time, and I pray that meanwhile you will not be so ill-used by that man as you were with the other. You will know who I mean. I need say no more on that painful subject.
As for myself, I am making contacts here of which I am convinced you will approve. Last night, for instance, I met a Manchester couple who, when I mentioned the Carrs of that city, told me that they had known Mr and Mrs Robert Carr very well in the old days, which I found strange—that memories can stay so fresh for so long. What they had to say about your parents made me feel ever closer to you. However, I did lose a substantial pocket to them and would be obliged if you could forward a contribution to my growing expenses. I already owe 200 guineas and am like to need more soon. Keep up your spirits, my dear love, and trust that I am working towards our future together. Your most obedient servant …
For a long time, Amelie stood with the letter in her hand, listening to the thud of her heart, her mind every bit as convoluted as the maze at Hampton Court, but without any simple key to the solution. Two things were clear from Hurst’s letter: one was that his menacing overtones of devotion were meant to distress her while giving Lord Elyot a clear message that, in spite of her denials, there was something between them. This she was able to disregard, since Lord Elyot was not there to see the letter. Indeed, it was a huge relief that he never would.
The second point was even more serious: he had met someone who had known her parents, presumably before she was born. What exactly had he discovered? And what did he propose to do with the information if he did not receive her ‘contribution to his expenses’? One thing was certain; he must be paid before he made another effort to discredit her in Lord Elyot’s eyes and before she could do it herself at her own convenience.
Staring out into the garden, the minutes came and went before she laid the letter to one side. Should she destroy it immediately? No, it had the address of his lodging on it, somewhere. Was she reading too much into it all? No, she did not think so. Should she ask Lord Rayne’s advice? No, she had handled Ruben Hurst on her own before, and Lord Rayne knew nothing of the man, anyway. And why had Lord Elyot gone off to London without explanation? ‘Hah!’ she whispered. ‘I think I can guess the answer to that.’
One hand pressed tenderly upon a certain place just below the gathers of
her bodice where, as if by magic, a memory rose and wound itself around her, melting her limbs, closing her eyes, parting her lips in a deep moaning sigh. That had been a night of nights. Even he must have thought so, with his years of experience and ardent mistresses.
With a last casual glance at the letter, she took it up to put it in a safe place until later, but a tap at her door took her by surprise and, just as Henry opened it to announce her visitor, she turned quickly and slid the letter beneath a pile of paint sketches on the corner of her work table, her mind already on words of greeting to the elegant Lord Rayne.
The distant sound of Caterina’s sweet singing reached them from the morning room across the white landing, then Signor Cantoni’s instruction, followed by another line of melody. Lord Rayne paused as if to catch every note before the door closed. ‘My lady,’ he said, bowing. ‘I hoped I might find you at home.’
Amelie smiled. ‘Yes, my lord. You were away last night before we had chance to thank you for our evening. Have you come to see my niece?’
He glanced towards the door. ‘I came to see you, to explain.’
She waved a hand, inviting him to sit, then took a seat near the window, arranging her skirt of sprigged muslin smoothly over her knees. ‘Explain what, my lord? You mean—about Mr Elwick?’
If he was taken aback, he was careful not to show it. ‘About my brother. His sudden departure for London,’ he said, sitting down.
‘Of course. Yes, he does move with astonishing precipitation at times, doesn’t he? Did he have time for breakfast?’
He caught the caustic overtones, but continued with his errand while his eyes lazily followed the arc of her slender throat and the dark curling wisps of hair that clung to it. ‘No, he was away after only a change of clothes. Well—’he smiled ‘—he could hardly travel to London in evening dress, could he? Though by all accounts he turned a few heads in his way through Richmond on your grey. Nick didn’t think you’d mind him borrowing it.’
Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire Page 19
