by Mary Balogh
He had not—he had certainly not—intended kissing her that way. And he had not anticipated her own wild outpouring of passion. Which was foolish of him really. Despite all her haughtiness, he had had ample evidence that she was a woman of forceful character and uncertain temper and impulsive nature.
She would, he suspected now, be all wild, unleashed passion in bed.
It was something he would have been altogether more comfortable not suspecting at all since the only way he could verify such an enticing idea was through marriage, and marriage was just not in his immediate or medium-term plans.
It was fortunate indeed that it was not in hers either.
He escorted her all the way to Lady Holt-Barron's door in Bath and took her horse back to the livery stable from which it had been hired. Then he stabled his own horse and arrived back at his grandmother's in the middle of the afternoon, feeling windblown and full of energy and determined that he must leave Bath within the next few days before he was tempted to step into some further indiscretion with Lady Freyja Bedwyn that perhaps he would not be able to step out of so easily.
His grandmother was entertaining in the drawing room, Gibbs informed him. She had asked that Lord Hallmere call on her there immediately after he returned from his ride.
Joshua followed the butler up the stairs, checking to see that his riding clothes were at least marginally respectable for a brief appearance in the drawing room. But his grandmother had said immediately. He had better not take the time to go to his room to change.
There were two ladies with his grandmother. Joshua had seen neither of them in five years, but there was no mistaking his aunt, the Marchioness of Hallmere. She was of medium height and slight build and looked sweet and frail and even sickly. She had always looked the same way. But the outer appearance, as he had discovered to his cost during his years at Penhallow, hid a steely, domineering will, and a mean, humorless disposition. The younger woman with her, less plump, less plain than he remembered her, was Constance, her eldest daughter.
His aunt never left Penhallow. It was her domain and she ruled it like a private fiefdom. Even the desirability of taking her daughters to London when they reached a suitable age for presentation to the queen and an introduction to the beau monde had not coaxed her away. It must be something of immense importance that had brought her to Bath.
Himself, no doubt.
He had ignored her invitations to come home to Penhallow. So she had taken the extraordinary step of coming to him—informed of his presence here, no doubt, by her friend Mrs. Lumbard. His heart landed somewhere in the soles of his boots.
“Aunt?” he said. “Constance?” He bowed to them both before greeting his grandmother with a stiff smile.
“Joshua,” his aunt said, getting to her feet and coming toward him, both slender hands outstretched. Her voice shook with emotion. There were tears in her eyes. “My dearest boy. We have been living in anxiety for too long, my poor girls and I. Hallmere—the late Hallmere—is gone, and Albert is gone. We are entirely at your mercy. You were raised at Penhallow just like one of our own, of course, but the young often forget the debts they owe to those who loved them and sacrificed for them during their growing years.”
Good Lord! Could she look him in the eye and utter such nonsensical drivel? But of course she could. Joshua took her offered hands in his—they were limp and cold—and squeezed them before releasing them.
“I am not about to toss you out on the street with my cousins, Aunt,” he said briskly. Besides, even if he did just that, she had her more than adequate widow's settlement from the estate.
“But you are certain to marry soon,” she said, “and we will be in the way of your marchioness, much as I would welcome her to Penhallow with open arms. No, I have come to Bath to arrange matters with you to the satisfaction of all of us. I have brought Constance with me.”
Of course she had brought Constance with her. And one glance at his cousin's pale, set face assured him that she knew the reason as well as he did—and liked it as little.
Why had she not spoken up, then? Why had she not refused to come with her mother? Refused to comply with the scheme his aunt was obviously concocting?
But to be fair to Constance, he knew how near impossible it was to thwart the Marchioness of Hallmere when her mind was once set upon a particular course.
She had obviously decided that her best chance of keeping her home and her dominion over it was to marry her eldest daughter to her nephew.
Lord help him!
CHAPTER VI
It was raining heavily the next morning, and Lady Holt-Barron decided against going to the Pump Room. Freyja spent the morning writing letters to Eve and Judith, her sisters-in-law, and to Morgan. She described yesterday's ride, including the Misses Darwins' fear of riding at anything faster than a cautious crawl and the Earl of Willett's fussy insistence upon treating ladies as if they were delicate hothouse plants. She described her own escape with the Marquess of Hallmere and their race across country, jumping hedgerows as they went.
She did not describe what had happened after their race was over, of course, but she did sit and think about it for long minutes, brushing the feather of her quill pen absently back and forth across her chin.
It had been a scandalously lascivious kiss, and she feared that perhaps she was the one who had made it so. He had had her face cupped in his hands when he started and then he had kissed her lips. No other part of his body had been touching any other part of hers. The whole thing would probably have ended sweetly and chastely if she had not clutched his waist for balance and then leaned right against him and then wrapped her arms about him. And then . . .
Well.
And then.
She frowned fiercely.
But she must not assume all the blame. It was he who had started licking at her lips and putting his tongue into her mouth and doing things there that he must have known very well would drive her to distraction. She felt no doubt that he was well experienced with such tactics of dalliance—and doubtless far more too. He had instigated all that had followed.
But there was no particular comfort in the thought. As usual, she had danced on his string like a brainless puppet. He had probably laughed at her all the way home and all through the evening. He was probably still laughing this morning and dreaming up ways of provoking her into making an idiot of herself again today.
Lady Freyja Bedwyn did not take kindly to being made to look a fool.
But, oh dear—she sighed aloud as she dipped her pen in the ink and prepared to resume her letter to Morgan—that one kiss had awakened hungers she had thought only Kit capable of arousing. Perhaps it was not so much Kit she had been in love with all these years as the exuberant passion of her own nature that had burst into glorious life when she had been with him four summers ago.
Now there was a thought.
Being a twenty-five-year-old virgin was really a rather dreary thing to be, she decided, and she debated with herself for a minute or two longer whether to add the advice to her letter that Morgan look seriously about her for a husband when she made her come-out next spring. But Bedwyns were notorious for never taking advice, even—or especially—from one another. And Morgan would think Freyja was sickening for some deadly disease if she did anything as uncharacteristic as advising her sister to participate willingly in the marriage mart. Besides, there was something mildly lowering about the thought of Morgan marrying before she did.
Her mind touched again upon the Earl of Willett as a prospective husband but she dismissed the thought without further consideration. She really would not be able to bear it. He would insist upon treating her like a lady every minute of every day—and of every night too, most like. She would expire of boredom and frustration and ire within a month.
She bent over her letter again.
The rain had eased to a light drizzle by the afternoon. Lady Holt-Barron still did not like the idea of their getting their shoes and hems wet or of having
to carry an umbrella rather than a parasol, but the Upper Rooms were little more than a stone's throw away, and staying at home was an unattractive alternative to the prospect of tea and conversation with their peers. They walked to the Rooms.
The tearoom was fuller than usual, probably because the weather discouraged outdoor exercise, but they found an empty table and nodded politely to various acquaintances while the tea was set before them. Within five minutes the Earl of Willett was seated with them. He had come, he explained, to assure himself that Lady Freyja had taken no harm from her dash across country yesterday.
“Hallmere really ought not to have encouraged you,” he said. “He ought to have remembered that you are a lady and are therefore compelled to ride sidesaddle.”
Freyja regarded him with haughty disdain—and noticed that the subject of his complaint was just then entering the tearoom, looking handsome and distinguished in brown and fawn. She was thoroughly alarmed by the mode of heightened awareness into which her body immediately launched.
Hallmere really ought not to have encouraged you.
No, he ought not. But she had not needed much encouragement, had she?
She set about pointedly ignoring him. He was escorting three ladies—Lady Potford and two strangers, the elder of whom was wearing mourning and smiling sweetly about the room while she leaned heavily on his arm. But although Lady Potford soon sat down at a table with a few of her acquaintances, the marquess and the other two ladies remained on their feet and circulated slowly about the room. He was apparently presenting them to Bath society.
The earl stood and bowed when the group approached their table. Freyja looked up and met the marquess's eyes, her own cool and—she hoped—very slightly disdainful. His smile was looking somewhat more strained than usual, she noticed.
“Lady Holt-Barron, Miss Holt-Barron, Lady Freyja Bedwyn, the Earl of Willett,” he said with great formality, “may I have the honor of presenting my aunt, the Marchioness of Hallmere, and my cousin, Lady Constance Moore?”
The aunt was the one on his arm.
“How do you do?” she said. “It is a wonderful pleasure to be in Bath and to meet all of dear Joshua's friends.”
She clung to his arm as if she were too frail to stand alone. She smiled sweetly and spoke in the sort of high-pitched whine affected by ladies who fancied themselves permanently indisposed. In Freyja's experience they almost invariably outlived all their more robust relatives—and drove them near to insanity while they still lived.
Lady Constance, a neatly clad and coiffed, sensible-looking girl, curtsied and murmured a how-do-you-do.
“How do you do, ma'am, Lady Constance?” Lady Holt-Barron said graciously. “You have come up from Penhallow to take the waters, have you?”
“Perhaps they would improve my health,” the marchioness said. “My spirits have been low since the passing of my dear Hallmere. But I came with the purpose of seeing my dearest nephew, ma'am, and of enabling him to become reacquainted with his cousin. Constance was little more than a girl when Joshua left home to seek adventure five years ago. Five weary years,” she added with a sigh that sounded weary indeed.
Ah. The woman had come with the intention of marrying off her daughter to her nephew and so securing her home and her place in it, then, had she? Freyja looked more closely at Lady Constance Moore. And then she transferred her gaze to the marquess. He was looking steadily back at her, his lips pursed, a suggestion of laughter in his eyes. It was an expression that acknowledged his awareness of her understanding of the situation.
“We are staying at the White Hart Inn,” the marchioness was saying in answer to a question Lady Holt-Barron must have asked. “I was told it is the best.”
“Hallmere,” the earl said, “I must commend you for escorting Lady Freyja home safely from your ride yesterday. I must confess that I was filled with trepidation on her behalf when you took her away from the party we had formed and went galloping across the hills with her. But you returned her safely to Lady Holt-Barron's and so no great harm was done.”
Freyja was caught between amusement and exasperation.
The marquess raised his eyebrows. “Actually, Willett,” he said, “to my everlasting shame I must confess that it was Lady Freyja who won our race by a full head, and so it might be said that it was she who brought me safely back from our ride. I am much obliged to her for that.”
“I am only thankful,” Lady Holt-Barron said, fanning herself with her linen napkin, “that I knew nothing of this race until after it was well over. I do not know what I would have said to the Duke of Bewcastle, Lady Freyja's brother, if she had fallen off her horse and broken every bone in her body.”
“Oh, never say it, ma'am,” the marchioness said, sounding on the verge of a fit of the vapors. “Horse racing is extremely dangerous, especially for a lady. I hope you never persuade Constance to go galloping across country with you, Joshua, dear.”
Her voice was faint, but her eyes were fixed sharply upon Freyja and bored into her like twin needle points. Freyja raised her eyebrows with quelling hauteur.
Gracious heavens, she thought, I am being warned off. How very diverting!
The Marchioness of Hallmere, she decided, was a lady who liked to have her own way and would get it by any means at her disposal. It would not be a comfortable thing to have such a person as a mother—or as an aunt. It would be interesting to see how successfully she was able to maneuver the marquess.
The group moved on to the next table.
“The marchioness is a very genteel sort of person,” Lady Holt-Barron said approvingly.
“It is highly commendable in her to have come all the way from Cornwall to pay her respects to the nephew who has succeeded to the title of her late husband,” the earl said. “It would be very proper for him to offer for his cousin.”
Freyja met Charlotte's glance across the table, and her friend half smiled. Charlotte had wanted to know yesterday after the ride what had happened. And of all the things she might have spoken of—and had written of this morning at great length to her relatives—Freyja had blurted just three words.
“He kissed me.”
Charlotte had clasped her hands to her bosom, her eyes dancing with merriment.
“I knew it,” she had said. “From the very first moment—that hilariously awful scene in the Pump Room—I recognized the attraction you feel for each other. And now he has kissed you. I might feel mortally jealous if it were not for Frederick, even if he is very ordinary-looking and quite unromantic, the poor love.”
“And I kissed him,” honesty had forced Freyja to add. “But it meant absolutely nothing, Charlotte. We were both agreed on that when we spoke of it afterward.”
Charlotte had merely chuckled and whisked herself off to change her dress.
Despite the heavy rain that had kept his grandmother at home during the morning, Joshua had walked to the White Hart and escorted his aunt and cousin to the Pump Room, where he had introduced them to the few people who had braved the elements and where Mrs. Lumbard and her daughter had greeted them with obsequious enthusiasm. Afterward, he had escorted them back to their hotel and had breakfast with them. He had taken them shopping on Milsom Street and returned them to the hotel after two hours, empty-handed. The prices in the shops were outrageously high, his aunt had complained. He had taken luncheon with them before returning to his grandmother's.
But he had promised to take them up again later to convey them to the Upper Rooms for tea. Afterward, although it would have been more convenient to drop them off at the White Hart and return to Great Pulteney Street in the carriage with his grandmother, his aunt invited him in, explaining that there was some business she really must discuss with him. And so his grandmother returned home alone.
It had been a wearying day for Joshua. His aunt had always been a tyrant and had ruled even her own family with an iron will, but she had reserved all her worst venom for the nephew who had arrived at Penhallow at the age of six, a bewildered
, unhappy orphan, who had just lost both his mother and his father to a fever within three days of each other—though he had not even known it at the time. As he grew older, he had understood that her hatred for him was due in large part to the fact that out of four children she had been able to produce only one son. Albert was the heir, but he, Joshua, was the spare, so to speak.
There had been no love lost between him and Albert either. Albert had been smaller, weaker, and a year younger than Joshua. He had liked trying to flaunt the one great advantage he had over his cousin—and had been infuriated to discover that Joshua really had no interest in inheriting the title.
It had been a severe trial to Joshua to be forced into spending a full day in his aunt's company, shepherding her and Constance about Bath, introducing them to everyone of any social significance, his aunt's endearments and complaints in his ear every step of the way. But he could hardly abandon them to finding their own way about. They had come with the sole purpose of seeing him. Besides, he would not deliberately shun Constance even if he could. He had always been rather fond of his girl cousins.
He wondered how long they intended to stay, how long courtesy would oblige him to dance attendance upon them. There were, after all, the Lumbards with whom they could consort after today.
His aunt sank into a chair as soon as they had arrived in her private sitting room at the White Hart and her maid had borne off her bonnet and gloves and other outdoor garments.
“I am weary beyond words,” she said, making Joshua wonder why she had been so insistent that he come inside, then. “And so are you, Constance, my love. Go and lie down on your bed for an hour. Joshua will excuse you.”
“But, Mama—” Constance began.
“You are tired,” her mother informed her. “Go and lie down.”
Constance went obediently after Joshua had smiled sympathetically at her.
“I should leave you to rest too, Aunt,” he said hopefully, but she waved him to a seat.
