Miss Henley laughed. ‘We’ll return and you may begin attracting that entourage, soon enough. I, too, wanted some time to talk about what we just heard. What a fascinating land India is and how vividly Lieutenant Williamson describes it! Though I appreciate the beauties of our own country, too. This view, for instance.’ She pointed towards the vista of London, spread below them in the far distance beyond the broad swathe of meadow to the south.
‘Beautiful, yes,’ Temper agreed. ‘But oh, do you not long to view for yourself the forests he described bordering the Ganges River? Imagine, banyan trees, their crowns wide as a town house, supported by not just a thick trunk, but by aerial roots anchored into the soil, or dangling like chains? Or stands of bamboo, the trunks narrow and straight as fishing poles, growing so thickly together that a man cannot walk through them?’
‘Exotic indeed!’ Miss Henley agreed. ‘And his description of the Himalayan country—the vast, huge mountains, wild, lonely, almost mystical glens full of rising mist!’
* * *
For the next half-hour, they strolled along the outer pathway, both recalling parts of the Lieutenant’s stories and descriptions they’d found particularly compelling. Turning back towards the house, Temper said, ‘I suppose I must make myself stop contemplating the thrills of foreign lands and rejoin the company. But before we return, tell me this—was the Lieutenant’s account fascinating enough to tempt you into travelling with me?’
Miss Henley laughed. ‘I’m still not sure I’m that brave. Hearing about exotic places and visiting them in person are two different matters! I was quite enthralled to listen and thought it very kind of Lord Lansdowne to arrange for us to be seated in the alcove adjacent to the library, where we could hear the discussion, but still be apart from the gentlemen.’
Temper smiled wryly. ‘Though Lord Lansdowne didn’t say so directly, I rather suspect that it was only because Mr Newell had intervened in advance that seats were arranged for us where the ladies might listen to the talk. I owe Giff a good deal of thanks. Otherwise, I would have made the drive here to be afforded nothing more exciting than the opportunity to curtsy to the Lieutenant when Lansdowne presented him to the ladies.’
‘And had instead to suffer through conversation about society people and events—while surrounded by an entourage of eager gentlemen,’ Miss Henley said, a twinkle in her eye.
‘An entourage of eager gentlemen? Let me be the first to join their ranks.’
Temper and Miss Henley turned towards the sound of the masculine voice, to see Lord Theo striding towards them. ‘Ladies,’ he said, bowing as he reached them. ‘I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to find you! This garden is like a maze! When Lady Henley decided to stroll and did not see you, she became worried that you might have been lost. I was fortunate enough to have been given the task of bringing you back to her. If I might offer each of you an arm?’
‘How kind of you.’ Blushing, Miss Henley laid her hand on his sleeve.
Temper sighed. ‘Much as I’d prefer to continue discussing the fine points of Lieutenant Williamson’s talk, I suppose it is time to return.’ With regret, she, too, laid her hand on Lord Theo’s arm.
Listening with half an ear to his banter with Miss Henley, as they turned the corner to start down the next pathway, Temper spied a sculptured stone that made her start with delight.
‘Is something wrong, Miss Lattimar?’ Lord Theo asked.
Dropping his arm, she hurried forward. ‘Oh, it is what I suspected!’ Turning back to them, she said, ‘It’s a temple carving—in Sanskrit, I believe. Papa has several that are similar.’
‘Yes, I believe Landsdowne is a collector,’ Lord Theo said.
Temper ran her fingers reverently over the rows of symbols. ‘Ah, that I knew enough to read the stories you could tell,’ she murmured.
Realising her companions were waiting for her, she reluctantly pulled herself away—only to exclaim again when they came upon another stone a few moments later.
And so it continued as they proceeded down the pathway, along which their host had displayed a number of carved stones, some containing simply symbols, others adorned with bas-reliefs of plants and animals. Her companions slowed their pace, Temper grateful for their indulgence, but wishing she had far longer to inspect them.
After passing by several far too quickly, arrested by a stone with particularly interesting carving, Temper couldn’t resist the desire to linger. She trailed her fingers over the vivid rendering of birds and foliage, thrilled to have this tangible glimpse of the world she longed to explore.
In similar fashion, the Lieutenant’s words had given her a tantalising glimpse of her cherished goal, fulfilled. His account fired from dream back to pressing desire the longing she’d felt since her early teens to experience the excitement, and, yes, even danger, of travelling somewhere wholly unfamiliar, where every day brought unusual sights and new revelations.
Bless Giff, who not only appreciated her desire to seek out the exotic, but had gone to some trouble to give her this opportunity to vicariously experience it.
The Lieutenant had mentioned that the wealthy of the Punjab decorated themselves and their ladies with finely worked gold jewellery inset with gemstones, often in fanciful shapes and patterns. Might her papa be interested in collecting something like that?
More likely he’d prefer to acquire weapons from the area, swords and daggers being a particular interest. The wild tribesmen of the north-western frontier were armed with intricately engraved daggers and large, curved swords—salwars, Williamson said they were called. She was almost certain that Papa would be interested in obtaining some fine examples of those.
Still musing about which articles he’d prefer, she glanced up from the stone to discover herself alone. Realising the others must have turned on to the next pathway, she hurried to catch up.
As she rounded the corner, she almost collided with an approaching figure. About to apologise, she recognised the newcomer as Lord Alfred Wendemere and the regrets she’d meant to offer died on her lips.
‘Well, well, look who I ran into,’ he said—looking indeed, as, after a quick glance at her face, his gaze came back to linger at her bosom. ‘Returning from a tryst, were you? Collington told me you were attending this gathering—to listen to some rubbishing lecture, he said, though I’m sure he was joking me.’
With the proximity of their near-collision, she could smell the brandy on him. Craning her neck, she could see no one else on this section of pathway. She must have drifted further behind Lord Theo and Miss Henley than she’d realised.
A ripple of dismay going through her, she took a step backwards, fighting the onset of panic.
But she didn’t mean to let Wendemere sense her unease. ‘Lord Alfred,’ she said, giving him a cool nod. ‘I did indeed attend the lecture and took a stroll to ponder some of the speaker’s points. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my friends.’
‘Oh, but I won’t excuse you,’ he said, giving her an insolent grin and stepping forward, so they once again stood only a foot apart. ‘If you were pondering, it must have been to decide which man you’d meet with in the shrubbery next. Why not me?’
Mind racing, Temper considered her options. Lord Theo and Miss Henley were out of sight, the voices from the terrace still a distant hum. If she cried out, she wasn’t sure they would hear her—or be near enough to intervene.
‘I’ll consider letting you go—after you give me a kiss as a forfeit,’ he continued. ‘I bet you’re giving that watchdog Newell a good deal more. Stringing him along with tastes of your person, just as your mother does all those men sniffing around her, like hounds following a bitch in heat!’
‘If you choose to be crude and insulting, I have nothing further to say to you. Remove yourself from my path, please.’
‘And what if I don’t please?’ He reached, grabbing her wrist. ‘W
hat if what pleases me is to have a little taste of what you’re giving Newell?’
Despite her vow to remain unmoved, she felt her pulse accelerate as his look, his tone, jerked at the bonds imprisoning memories of that other time and place. The sour scent of spirits, his arms forcing her down, his body following to pin her to the ground...
A sudden wave of panic filled her, flooding her with an urgent desire to pick up her skirts and flee. Wendemere tightened his grip and pulled her towards him.
‘Struggle if you like. Pretend you don’t want it, when we both know you do. A prime little piece like you, the exact image of your slut of a mother. Resisting me will make the taking all the sweeter.’
In his hot, greedy gaze she read lust, excitement—and the need to dominate. He wanted her to struggle and cry out. To be afraid.
Desperately she tried to beat back that fear. Struggle and he might immediately try to subdue her. Though she was no longer an unprepared, innocent fifteen-year-old girl, her brothers having taught her how to defend herself, she didn’t think she was strong enough to overpower him with a single punch—or fast enough, hampered by her ridiculously full skirts, to outrun him.
What could she do, then? Never show fear or weakness, her mother’s words echoed in her head. Surely, with her reputation, Mama had faced foxed and threatening men before. What would she do, confronted now by Wendemere?
Temper had no doubt Mama would act as if she were entirely nonplussed by the situation. As if she’d faced threatening, demanding men before—and used their lust to bend them to her will. So that she, not they, were in control, the man inevitably ending up doing her bidding.
Could Temper manage that? She wasn’t sure, but better to attempt it than to give in to panic and cede control to Wendemere. No matter how this ended, it would happen as she directed.
Sudden fury coursed through her, bolstering her courage and hardening her resolve. How dare he presume to dismiss her—and her mother—as mere toys for his amusement? Designed only for the physical uses he had for them, bound to submit to his lusts?
Instead of whimpering or struggling, as he clearly expected, she relaxed her arm in his grip. ‘Really?’ she said, infusing her voice with irritation and faint disdain. ‘You want to show yourself a “man” by manhandling me? How very tedious of you!’
Whatever reaction he’d expected, that wasn’t it. He looked surprised for a moment before retightening his grip. ‘Don’t try to distract me. Whores always want it and you’re just a whore like your mother!’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t want it now. Not if you’re going to be boorish as well as boring, wanting me to struggle, as if dalliance were some sort of wrestling match! And hardly a match—you must outweigh me by several stone! What sort of equal contest is that? If this were a schoolyard, the boys would laugh you out of it.’
She’d thrown him off his script. Before he could recover, she gave an exasperated sigh. ‘If you are so uncertain of your prowess that you don’t believe you can win a kiss without forcing it on me, go ahead, but honestly, I had hoped for better from you. Or—’ she paused, giving him a seductive look from under her lashes ‘—you could rise to a challenge to prove your manliness.’
Still fighting the urge to flee, she held his gaze, using every ounce of will to remain looking bored, faintly disdainful—and in command.
She could see the indecision in him, his confusion. His need to cow and overmaster her compromised by her impatient, slightly contemptuous attitude and absence of fear.
‘What challenge?’ he said after a moment.
‘As I said, a wrestling match would be unequal. Why not a contest to test your mettle, in which we are more evenly matched?’
‘What sort of contest?’
She batted her eyes at him and laughed. ‘Not that sort—yet. First, you need to prove to me you have the...stamina I require. Race me. In the park, tomorrow morning. You on your favourite mount—of the equine variety—and me on mine. If you win, you get your kiss—and whatever else you desire. Wherever you desire it—though I trust it will be a place where we can fully enjoy the encounter, not—’ she wrinkled her nose in distaste ‘some rubbishing bench in a windy park. And if you lose, you will never approach me again without my express leave.’
‘You propose a horse race?’
‘I do. It’s so similar to what you want, isn’t it? The building excitement, the speed, your heart pounding, the rush of breath. The ultimate fulfilment.’
He laughed and licked his lips. ‘Trying to increase my anticipation?’
‘Anticipation always increases desire, does it not?’
‘And all I need do is beat you in a horse race?’
‘But fairly. No tricks. So the race will be in Hyde Park and there will be witnesses. Accept the more manly challenge—’ she forced herself to lean closer and use her free hand to touch his lips ‘and you may gain...everything you wish.’
Deliberately, with neither speed nor haste, she withdrew her arm from his slackened grip. ‘Tomorrow morning, eight of the clock,’ she said and turned to walk away. Feeling the pulse pound in her head, still having to resist the instinct to take to her heels, she forced herself to move at a decorous pace.
Behind her, she heard him laugh. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
Her relief, when it appeared he wasn’t going to follow and try to force her into submission here and now, sent such a rush of sensation through her that she felt faint. She knew she was not equal, yet, to returning to the terrace and chatting as if nothing had happened, nor did she wish to appear before the other guests while she was still so dizzy and depleted, still fighting down the vestiges of panic. As the voices from the terrace grew louder, she switched pathways to skirt around its outside edge and walked instead towards the house, until she came to a side entry door.
With a footman’s help, she found the lady’s retiring room—mercifully deserted—where, in blessed solitude, she was violently ill. Some time later, after recovering herself, she rinsed her mouth, washed her face and straightened her gown. Giving her mama a silent thanks, she waited until her hands no longer trembled, then headed back to the terrace.
She would collect Mrs Moorsby and, after a quiet word to Miss Henley and Lord Theo, pay her respects to her host and hostess, and return to London.
She had a race to prepare for—and, hopefully, a mount with a sore hoof that was now fully healed.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Giff sat in his office in the committee room at Parliament, the draft of the anti-slavery bill lying unseen on the table before him, while he read for a second time the letter he’d just received from his mother.
Dropping it, he wiped a hand across his face, his stomach churning with a familiar mix of resentment, the slow burn of anger, an ache of hurt—and a touch of guilt. Damn it, the work he was doing in Parliament was important and required all of his attention, especially now, when they were at a crucial point in pressing forward the passage of two major reform bills. Why did his mother have to choose this moment to increase the urgency of her harangues?
Before he could decide what to reply, if he replied, one of his fellow members walked into the room.
‘Jolly fine morning,’ Thomas Thetford said, giving Giff a slap on the back, entirely insensitive to the cloud of irritation enveloping him. ‘My, that chit you’ve been squiring about for your godmother—she’s as much a hoyden as you’ve said. Going to race in the park! And with Lord Alfred Wendemere!’ He chuckled. ‘Looking magnificent, of course, but you allow the girl a looser rein than I would.’
It took a moment for the words to penetrate Giff’s abstraction—and once they did, he couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. ‘What did you say?’
Thetford peered down at him. ‘Lost in perusing the draft, were you? Brilliant piece of writing.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he returned impatiently, ‘but what
was it you said about racing this morning?’
‘In Hyde Park,’ Thetford returned. ‘Not me. I was in Pendergrew’s tilbury. Meant to walk here this morning—lovely day—but he saw me and took me up.’
‘About Miss Lattimar!’
‘Ah, yes. Saw the Lattimar girl by Hyde Park Corner, challenging Wendemere. Impromptu match, I suppose, since I doubt you’d have encouraged it.’
‘Certainly not!’ Giff returned, indignant. ‘One would rather shoot Wendemere than permit him to ride with an innocent maid.’
‘Won’t comment on the “innocent” part. Looked like she was leading him on, to me. But they were about to race for certain.’ Thetford shook his head. ‘In high fettle, she was. Looked like one of the Furies, about to deliver vengeance!’
‘It’ll be nothing to what I’ll deliver, if she’s come to any harm,’ Giff muttered, rising. ‘Just for the record,’ he told Thetford as he shrugged into his coat, ‘I didn’t know and I don’t approve.’
* * *
Nearly at a run, he left the buildings, fetched his mount from the stables and set off to Hyde Park as quickly as the throng of handcarts, barrows, wagons and pedestrians going about their morning errands allowed, curbing his fury and anxiety with difficulty as he went.
Heedless, careless, unthinking! he fumed. Not just of her reputation—teasing Wendemere, for the devil’s sake!—but of her very safety! And here he’d thought she’d finally matured beyond her childhood wildness.
Granted, she was an accomplished rider, but if that reprobate caught her alone, especially as he’d believe she had encouraged him...
He bit down an oath and urged his mount faster.
Once through the gates of Hyde Park, he spurred the horse to a gallop, heading down Rotten Row, the most likely venue for a race. Sure enough, as he neared Kensington Gardens, he saw Temper, mounted on her gelding Arion. At least, he thought, blowing out a breath of relief, she was surrounded by a small entourage—not alone with Wendemere. Who, he noted as he slowed his mount to a walk to approach them, was nowhere to be seen.
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