A Little Deception

by Beverley Eikli

  A tantalizing offer she dare not accept. ‘I can’t possibly leave Aunt Alice on her own….’

  ‘Your Aunt Alice looks very pleasantly diverted by that notorious gossip, Lady Rodham. She’ll keep her entertained for hours. Now, if that’s the best excuse you can come up with …’ Caging her hand on his arm, he led her off the dance floor as if he would countenance no refusal.

  And why not? Rose thought, fearful and excited as she followed him, uncertain as to what she felt about the liberties he might take.

  Heart pounding, she justified her lack of resistance. What could be the harm in taking a married woman to view a collection of old paintings in a house filled with hundreds of people?

  Nevertheless, when they found themselves in the annexe Rose was concerned to discover no evidence of any of the hundreds of guests who had thronged the ballroom as her lack of experience kicked in. She was an inexperienced, unmarried woman with a reputation to protect, after all.

  She turned to leave but his grip on her upper arm was firm and, as he drew her almost languidly back to him, she felt her defences crumble amidst a myriad of other emotions, not least self-condemnation.

  This lasted little more than a second. Now was no time to act the coy maiden. There was Lord Rampton’s good will to retain, and the knowledge that discovery would render her a fool, not to mention endangering their good standing with the gentleman to whom they owed so much.

  ‘Helena…?’ he murmured, as if savouring the sound of her name. Placing one finger under her chin he tilted her head so that she was gazing into his eyes, hooded as they lingered on her face. ‘You don’t mind if I call you that?’ His voice was a sensuous whisper. Rose felt her insides turn to jelly, a sensation accompanied by all the other hallmarks of what she increasingly realised denoted melting desire.

  She closed her eyes while she felt herself enslaved by sensation. His proximity was driving her wild. Heat prickled the surface of her skin and she was conscious of her ragged breathing. She sucked in air sharply at the disconcerting feeling of her nipples puckering beneath her stays; opening her eyes in time to see his beautifully shaped lips moving closer towards hers.

  Sense prevailed: she stepped backwards and out of his grasp, affecting a polite, amused smile as she wandered over to stand before one of the paintings. She was a single young woman. Yes, she was mad with desire right now but she also had no desire to be married. Should someone who knew or discovered her real identity walk into this room to find them kissing her reputation would be compromised and his lordship would be under an obligation to marry her.

  It was as simple as that.

  Oh, but how she longed to feel his arms around her and his lips pressed to hers. Never in all her twenty-six years had she felt like this.

  ‘I daresay you can call a woman who owes you a thousand pounds anything you like,’ she responded, relieved she managed to effect the mantle of cool experience. ‘I have always admired Lely, haven’t you?’

  ‘I must confess to a preference for Van Dyck.’ Dropping the intimate tone he appeared at her side to study the painting that had caught her apparent interest. ‘A noble calling, don’t you think? Committing the world as you see it to canvas, and preserving it for posterity.’ He pointed to a portrait. ‘The Duchess of Conway. Warts and all. To have painted her as a beauty would have made a mockery of the artist’s talent. My brother paints, you know.’ He fixed Rose with an appraising look. ‘I feel sure that if I asked him he would paint your portrait.’

  ‘And why would you do that, my lord?’

  ‘Because, my dear Helena,’ Lord Rampton extended a hand towards her and gently traced the line of her cheek with his forefinger, his words dripping with suggestiveness, ‘apart from the fact that such a painting would add to your husband’s consequence, it would mean I could spend a great deal more time with you.’

  ***

  ‘Cousin Helena!’

  Startled by the youth who stepped in front of her, blocking her progress, Helena’s momentary confusion was replaced by derision as recognition dawned.

  ‘Master Oswald, I did not recognize you. A common highwayman.’ With a curt nod she made to brush past Aunt Alice’s stepson, adding, ‘And I am not your cousin Helena.’ The lad was a spoilt brat, at least three years her junior, and here he was trying to play the swaggering sophisticate. She did not appreciate such forwardness.

  Unless it came from a real man like—she licked her lips and felt desire tingling her nerve-endings at the thought of him—Lord Rampton.

  ‘Ah yes, Mama told me! Nevertheless, you are married to my cousin, Charles.’ Oswald took a step backwards, impeding her progress. ‘Perhaps you would honour me’ - slate-grey eyes glittered at her through the slits of his mask - ‘with the next dance?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dance with a highwayman if my life depended upon it.’ Removing his gloved hand from her arm, Helena made no attempt to mask her distaste, but after a couple of steps she faltered, discovering to her dismay and irritation that her husband had disappeared, and there was no sign, either, of her sisters-in-law or Aunt Alice. Or, regrettably, his lordship.

  ‘The lady is abandoned?’ Oswald’s voice sounded in her ear. ‘Perhaps, indeed, it is an opportune moment for a dance. Ah, a waltz. Not too daring, I trust?’

  He was a good dancer, she allowed him that after he had led her on to the dance floor. After several more glasses of champagne Oswald didn’t seem quite so insufferable, especially as he was so fulsome in his admiration of her.

  Obviously he enjoyed talking about himself, like most puffed-up popinjays, and it amused her enormously when he suddenly burst out, irritated, ‘What you are looking at?’

  Raising her head to look into his eyes, she broke into a peal of laughter. ‘My reflection in your hessians!’

  Oswald, who had been about to respond angrily at the slight, found himself, instead, steadying Helena as she swayed on her feet. ‘It would appear the lady is foxed. Come, Cousin Helena, we must find somewhere where you can sit down.’

  With little show of gratitude she accepted the orgeat he procured for her as he led her to a small sofa in a secluded annexe between the card room and the ballroom.

  ‘I’d rather have what you’re having,’ she complained.

  ‘And I’d rather return you to the company at large without besmirching my reputation.’

  She hiccupped. ‘Your reputation is nothing to be proud of, if what your dear mama says is true.’

  ‘Oh ho, tales from home.’ Oswald sounded more amused than angry. ‘Incidentally, she’s not my mother. She’s some addle-brained fool my senile old father married before he jumped ship for the Far East, and now I’m stuck with her until Papa gets called up. Sadly, his Maker appears to be in no hurry.’

  ‘Just as I’m stuck with that addle-headed fool I married until he slips off this mortal coil.’ Helena studied the trompe l’oeil on the ceiling while Oswald regarded her with greater interest.

  ‘So the novelty of becoming Lady Chesterfield has lost its lustre …’ He moved a little closer. ‘You realize, madam, that there are other avenues for disillusioned married women to pursue?’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea not to be Lady Chesterfield,’ said Helena petulantly, slapping away Oswald’s hand which he had insinuated on to her thigh. ‘Your cousin Rose hatched the ridiculous notion that she could do a better job than I of petitioning Lord Rampton for a little favour.’ She gave another hiccup. ‘Now he’s decided not to go to the Continent after all and I’m stuck playing the innocent virgin. I’m sure your mama has exacted the promise of silence from you under pain of death.’

  The champagne was having its effect and Oswald’s persistent questioning soon ferreted out the details his mother had omitted.

  Helena smoothed the silky folds of her diaphanous gown. ‘Your mother hinted that she knows how to lay hands on the funds to repay Lord Rampton. I think we’re just waiting for someone to die … though she said she’s prepared to lend an advance if that takes t
oo long—’

  ‘Oh, she is, is she?’

  ‘Well, it seems only fair, since your stepmama inherited a fortune while nothing went to Charles and Rose’s mama—’

  ‘Because of their late father’s faro habit, I believe,’ Oswald interjected drily.

  ‘Anyway,’ Helena bit back defensively, ‘Aunt Alice has no children, for you don’t count.’

  ‘Though she has reared me since I was ten years old.’ Oswald smiled. ‘So Mama is aiding and abetting this wild charade with her usual childish enthusiasm.’

  ‘Yes, although she doesn’t quite know the size of the debt owed to Lord Rampton. She just thinks Rose has lost her head to him. Which of course she has. And while I don’t care a fig about Rose’s reputation, I do care about securing the funds.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Charles says if Rose can find a way of absolving us of the debt, he’ll buy me a diamond collar.’

  The corners of Oswald’s thin mouth curled up. ‘A diamond collar,’ he said, as if much impressed.

  ‘Yes, a diamond collar,’ repeated Helena, avarice making her eyes sparkle.

  ‘Well, my dear, I would hate to stand between you and a diamond collar.’ His gaze strayed from her face to her décolletage, then back again. He scratched his pointed chin, appearing to ponder the matter. ‘In effect, you want to dash your sister-in-law’s chances of making good out of this so-called ridiculous charade and win yourself a diamond collar.’

  ‘Yes, and I can’t decide which is more important to me.’

  Daringly, Oswald plucked at the sheer fabric of Helena’s costume, as if to smooth it, and gave a low chuckle. The lovely Helen of Troy was clearly lost in a reverie of sparkling diamonds and heady revenge. Putting his lips to her pretty, seashell ear, he murmured, ‘Have you not considered that both might be possible?’

  ***

  Rose returned to find Aunt Alice deep in conversation with Lady Rodham.

  ‘Where’s Arabella?’ she asked.

  The women jerked their heads up almost guiltily.

  ‘She’s in safe hands, dancing with Yarrowby,’ Aunt Alice reassured her.

  ‘Dancing with Lord Yarrowby – again?’ The concern in Rose’s voice caused the women to break off their enthusiastically resumed conversation.

  ‘She’s made a fine impression on him.’ Aunt Alice looked smug.

  Rose glanced across the floor and saw Arabella, a fairylike creature in palest pink, supported like a fragile flower in Lord Yarrowby’s embrace as he waltzed her around the room.

  ‘We really know very little about Lord Yarrowby, Aunt Alice,’ Rose cautioned. ‘He appears charming, but …’

  ‘Only son, set to inherit a vast fortune, and a title that goes back to Henry the Eighth’s time. Like Rampton, he’d be a catch of the season. What else do you need to know, my girl?’ asked the Lady Rodham. ‘A simple lass from the West Indies would struggle to do better.’

  ‘Yes, but what about other … well, you know … other associations?’ Rose floundered.

  ‘Ay, there’ve been mistresses. Noble women and dancing girls, alike. What of it?’

  Rose felt embarrassed for reacting like the cloistered colonial she was. Of course, many married men of their rank kept mistresses; it wasn’t as if Lord Yarrowby had a wife as well.

  ‘Miss Celia Baxter was the most notorious,’ Lady Rodham said thoughtfully. ‘An opera dancer. Dark-haired, round, ripe and pretty. I saw her at Covent Garden the night London was buzzing over the famous altercation between Rampton and Yarrowby.’

  Rose concealed her distress. ‘Altercation?’

  ‘Yarrowby was set upon by Lord Rampton in Regent’s Park, of all places. In the middle of the afternoon. Quite a scandal it caused, I need not tell you! Pistols at dawn – now that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow. But common street brawling!’

  Aunt Alice ventured a surreptitious glance at her niece before quizzing her friend in what was clearly intended to be a tone of no more than casual interest, ‘I am shocked. I had heard only good reports of Lord Rampton.’

  ‘Men are brutish by nature.’ Lady Rodham made a noise of disgust. ‘I’ll wager it was over nothing and certainly nothing I’d be worried about if I was planning to throw my daughter Rampton’s way.’

  ‘Yes, but what about Lord Yarrowby?’ Rose asked with an anxious glance at the gentleman in question, who was now leading Arabella towards them. The thought of Lord Rampton being driven by strong passions for a woman made it hard to breathe.

  ‘A charming man,’ Lady Rodham assured her without qualification. What does it matter if their quarrel was over some common little opera dancer? If Yarrowby stole her from Rampton, I’m sure Rampton had fixed his interest elsewhere within a day or two. That’s men for you.’

  ‘Your Lord Rampton has a long and shady past,’ Helena said brightly, as she swept up to Rose. ‘There was even a rumour that he locked one of his mistresses in his tower for seven days before the fair lady’s husband discovered her whereabouts. There was a duel over that little scandal, too.’

  ‘Spurious gossip-mongering,’ Rose muttered, though her voice lacked conviction. Of course Helena would blithely say the first thing that came to her if she knew it would rattle Rose. She did not like the tumultuous feelings that overcame her, however, when Lady Rodham replied, ‘What your sister-in-law says is perfectly true, my dear. Not that it has done his lordship’s reputation any harm.’

  ‘Ah, Oswald,’ said Aunt Alice, forestalling Rose’s reply. ‘I’m sure Rose would be delighted to partner you in this set.’

  With an ironic bow to Helena, Oswald offered Rose his arm, brushing suggestively against his raven-haired cousin before putting out his hand to steady her.

  ‘Forgive me, Cousin Helena,’ he apologized, his eyes raking her salaciously.

  Helena tossed her head, only to catch the yearning look her husband sent her from where he was engaged in conversation a few feet away. As Charles took a step towards her Helena lanced him with a look of contempt before feigning sudden interest in Aunt Alice’s description of her new bonnet. Tiring quickly of the discussion, and having successfully deflected Charles, she allowed her eyes to stray across the ballroom thronged with exquisitely garbed, rich and titled people who knew not a care in the world while she, Helena …

  Oh, but she was wasted on a sugar plantation far from the world’s real excitement with a husband who was as exciting as a yam supper. And oh, how Helena detested yams, though Rose claimed she missed the food of their island home.

  Well, Rose was welcome to the West Indies—and Helena fully intended that’s exactly where her sister-in-law would be returning. As for herself… Helena was still working on the conundrum as to how she could engineer remaining in England. Certainly for longer than the remaining several months scheduled.

  It was in the midst of such ruminations, as she affected the right facial movements in response to Aunt Alice’s puerile chatter, that the glimpse of a familiar sardonic leer sent her heart free-falling.

  She spun round, her heart plummeting all the way to her slippers as, with a laugh, he excused himself from his portly companion, a clergyman, and stepped into clearer focus. For a moment Helena thought she might faint.

  There he was.

  William the Conqueror.

  She sucked air into her lungs. Conqueror, indeed! After all these years.

  She didn’t know whether to be filled with joy or fury. Her vision blurred and she had to blink several times.

  Geoffrey Albright stood alone by a stone plinth, broader and even more handsome than she remembered. His light-brown hair was a little longer than he used to wear it but his look was just as she remembered: confident, tinged with arrogance, as he surveyed the crowd.

  He turned, shock and recognition flaring in the depths of his cool grey gaze. Geoffrey Albright, the man she loved and hated in equal measure, right here in this ballroom, exuding all the familiar dash and heady danger he had all those years ago.

  Helena sucked in air as s
he gripped Rose to steady herself. And as her world spun out of control she swore that someone would pay for all she had sacrificed.

  Chapter Five

  ‘YOU’RE WHAT?’ Rampton looked at his brother as if Felix had just announced a trip to Outer Mongolia.

  ‘I said I’m spending a few days in Kent. With the Kenilworths.’ Felix helped himself to more kippers at the sideboard. Returning to his seat, he smiled blandly at his brother. ‘I take it you’ve no objection?’

  ‘You’ve declined their last three invitations. I don’t know why you suddenly choose to accept now. How long will you be out of town?’

  Felix grinned. ‘You must have noticed that sweet Cecily is no longer a child. I actually failed to recognize her at Lady March’s masquerade.’

  ‘You realize, of course, that if you accept this invitation, you’ll be expected to have offered for sweet Cecily before the Season’s over.’ Rampton didn’t know why he suddenly felt so angry. No, of course that wasn’t true, he amended as he poured himself more coffee. He’d assumed Felix would be on hand to paint Lady Chesterfield’s portrait and the fact he’d have to wait until his brother had returned from his jaunt to the country was more than Rampton’s already-tried patience could endure.

  Felix scarcely paused as he shovelled the food into his mouth. ‘No, I won’t,’ he mumbled between mouthfuls. ‘Your problem, Rampton, is that you think that when you’re handsome and titled, everyone is setting their cap at you. Sweet Cecily could do far better than me, and she knows it. But the glint in her eye told me she’d enjoy my little visit just as much as I would and for exactly the same reasons.’ He dabbed delicately at his lips with his napkin and offered his brother a saccharine smile. ‘Who knows, perhaps I will offer for her before the Season’s over. I certainly don’t want to wind up a miserable old bachelor like you. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I don’t know when it’s ever been of any concern of yours what I do.’ He fixed his brother with a studious look. ‘Why, what other plans had you in mind for me?’