by Allison Lane
Penelope shook her head. Youthful innocence. How were they to weather this crisis? She glanced heavenward. Please help Alice survive when Terrence’s interest shifts elsewhere. She knew too well how painful the rejection would be.
She shivered. Carrington’s compelling presence still ruled the drawing room, driving away most of the air and all of the warmth. His words continued to reverberate. Inferior breeding … farm wench … sluttish… She had heard the charges before, of course. They formed the core of Lady Avery’s claims. Even an arrogant lord would accept as gospel anything his own aunt uttered, regardless of his normal judgment. What would it take to bring him to his senses?
She snorted. Did she want to correct his misconceptions? On the one hand, making him see reason might deflect him from resurrecting Lord Avery’s plots, especially if Terrence’s affections were honest. But if he recognized Alice as the jewel she was, might he not decide to promote the match himself? Alice would be good for Terrence – she had spoken truly about that – and Carrington’s backing might even deflect Lady Avery. But Terrence would not make a good husband.
Did Terrence know why Lady Avery despised the Wingraves? The woman’s hatred had first surfaced on Penelope’s tenth birthday. The housekeeper had taken her into town to buy ribbons for a new gown – her stepmother had been confined to childbed at the time. They had shopped, giggled over a traveling puppet show, and eaten cakes at the pastry shop. Then Lady Avery had spotted her, turned stark white, and uttered an awful epithet before deliberately crossing the street. Others followed suit, but Penelope would not have recognized the cut without the verbal insult. The housekeeper had been furious, but she could do nothing but hurry the girl home. No one could imagine the cause, but Lady Avery’s antagonism had not waned in the seventeen years since.
Sighing, she headed for the bookroom. Somehow she must find the money for the next mortgage payment. It was due in barely a month. The corn harvest would not begin until afterward, but with Carrington’s vow to break her family, she could not afford to ask for a postponement. Thus she would have to sell something, a stratagem she had employed before but which she had thankfully abandoned six years ago. What must go this time? Another Shakespeare first edition? The Chinese vase Uncle Oscar had brought home from his travels? Her mother’s pearls?
She heaved a deeper sigh and picked up her pen. The pottery was showing ten pounds more profit than she had counted on. But the slight increase in the price of peaches did not offset the weather damage, canceling the pottery gains. If only they did not live so close to the edge that a few pounds could destroy them.
* * * *
Richard vaulted into his curricle and sprang the horses. If he did not escape Winter House, he was likely to do something unforgivable – like break a few windows, burn the place to the ground, or choke the life out of Penelope Wingrave. Never had he been so furious.
Insufferable wench! How dare she continue her lies even after he had discovered the truth? Did she think she could seduce him into ignoring facts?
A picture of flashing blue eyes and a heaving bosom blocked his view of the drive. Heat poured over him. His groin tightened. Today’s gown had also emphasized every inch of her bosom. His hands could feel the weight of each breast, feel the tips hardening into his palms, feel the…
Harlot! How could she incite such lust in a man who never lost control of his emotions? At least he had not done so in the past. But he had needed all of his strength and backbone to keep from throwing her to the floor and ravishing her on the spot, which would have given her even more power over him. The image of her gloating in victory was what had tipped the scales in favor of restraint.
Cursing, he wrenched his curricle back onto the drive, narrowly missing a tree. What kind of spell was she casting to turn him into a witless, rutting bull? Somehow he must discover a counterspell, for the effect was too potent to ignore. Her sister must have done the same to Terrence. How often had the lad succumbed to his lust? The pain in his groin increased as his mind conjured up images of Terrence and a younger Miss Wingrave in meadows, in haylofts, on the floor of the Winter House drawing room…
He groaned.
Whipping through the Tallgrove gates, he drove directly to the stables. His groom looked at him askance, taking in the grays’ heaving sides and foam-flecked mouths.
Richard’s anger inched up another notch. Never had he abused an animal in his life. Yet if the distance between Winter House and Tallgrove had been any greater, he would have foundered his best team.
Turning away without a word, he strode to the house.
“This arrived just after you left, my lord,” said Barton. A small package lay on the butler’s silver tray.
“Thank you.” He frowned as he entered the library, unfamiliar with the writing that addressed only ‘Terrence’s guardian,’ but as he scanned the note, fury again choked him.
My lord,
If you had remained another five minutes, you would have discovered that the damage you inflicted was worth but fourteen shillings. Your change is enclosed. I will never accept charity, especially from so arrogant a man.
Sincerely,
Miss Wingrave
Despicable wench! She must have hoped that this gesture would hide her poverty. The enclosed coins bounced off the wall, scattering in all directions.
She had made a mistake by invoking Diogenes. That archetypical cynic would be sure to recognize her inherent dishonesty. Oh, but he would love to expose her vices to the world!
Chapter Five
“I must regain control.”
Hours later, Richard’s whispered words reverberated around the library, seeking out nooks and crannies before bouncing back to batter his ears. He shivered. Shafts of afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, but he remained hunched over the desk, his head in his hands, ignorant of the warming rays.
Had anything gone right since he had received Lady Avery’s summons? Bad weather. Poor judgment. More emotional confrontations in two days than in his entire life. Where were his logic, understanding, and good sense hiding? Why had his perceptivity and finesse fled? He had been swept along by events with no chance for reflection or analysis. Yet even Miss Wingrave’s provocation did not excuse his own mortifying behavior. And she was not his only problem. The day had gone from bad to worse.
Kesterton had regaled him with complaints. Servants were normally even more conscious of status than their masters, but Terrence’s valet had refused to concede his place at the table despite Kesterton’s higher rank – not only did he serve a marquess rather than a viscount, but Carrington was Terrence’s guardian. Richard soothed his man’s ruffled feathers, but not before enduring a diatribe on the Avery household’s shortcomings. The housekeeper was inept. One of the maids was carrying on with the head groom. The butler was shirking his responsibilities. Cook ran a slovenly kitchen. Lady Avery exerted no oversight on the staff, having abandoned even the pretense of caring before Millicent’s birth.
But the servant problem was not what had sent him into seclusion in the library. Terrence was nowhere to be found. The boy must have slipped off to meet Alice despite orders to avoid her. He could not recall when anyone in his charge had flouted him.
Terrence’s absence had triggered another of Lady Avery’s hysterical monologues. She had decried the unscrupulous Wingrave girls, imploring him to halt their plots, and bemoaning the death of Lord Avery, who would never have allowed the liaison to begin. Millicent parroted every charge against Terrence even as she goaded her mother for rewriting the past. By the time he’d escaped, his head was pounding.
So he slumped in the library, cursing his uncle for dying when his household was so disordered. Lady Avery was worthless. Her solution to any crisis was hand-wringing, hysterics, and tearful exhortations that somebody do something. She was incapable of conducting even her own business. His trusteeship promised to be as onerous as his guardianship. First he must hire a new housekeeper and cook who could whip the staff into
shape. Then he must check the steward. That overgrown hedgerow stood on Tallgrove property.
But that could wait until tomorrow. Today he must confront Terrence. He had left orders that his ward attend him immediately upon returning. And this time, he meant to control his temper and enforce his will with precise logic and immutable fact.
His thoughts had swung full circle, back to his own inexplicable conduct. Scenes were so foreign to his nature that his recent loss of control frankly terrified him. A gentleman governed his emotions at all times, regardless of circumstances. A perfect example had occurred the previous Season. A lord had arrived home to find his wife entertaining a lover. He’d issued a challenge, the lover had accepted, and the wife had departed for the country, all without any loss of composure. Richard had seconded the duel, which had proceeded smoothly to a satisfactory conclusion.
Nothing at Tallgrove embodied even a fraction of the passions that had arisen during his friend’s confrontation, yet he had exploded into rage four times in twenty-four hours.
His head shook as he reviewed the incidents. A minor accident that had done little damage; an unexpected betrothal announcement; a dinner table argument; a confrontation with a fortune hunter. Why had any of them prompted him to abandon his training?
Her charges echoed. Mad … a laughingstock… She was the one who was mad. His reputation embraced propriety and sober sense, though he winced at how stuffy that sounded. Surely he did not wish to become a loose-screw! Insufferable … stupid… Never! How could she expect him to ignore society’s standards? One could not countenance a mésalliance. Nor could one allow the blood of the merchant classes into the aristocracy. Coward … craven coward … I dare you… The taunting voice would not go away. Why should he waste time verifying facts he already knew? Her challenge was nought but manipulation, directing him to men who had already succumbed to her wiles.
Yet that did not excuse abandoning his breeding. Not even unbridled lust could pardon his behavior. Fate had tested him and found him wanting. His position among the highest of the land seemed almost fraudulent. Not that it should. He was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy being asked to mediate disputes between people old enough to be his grandfather. He had felt like an impostor when his family first feted him as a modern Solomon, but that had been understandable. By the time he’d turned eighteen, all doubts had faded. He truly was the only man capable of handling his family’s affairs. More than once he had returned control to incompetent relatives only to face resuming his oversight when they bungled even trivial tasks. He had learned to trust only himself. So why did he suddenly feel like that lad again?
Terrence finally rapped on the door.
Richard drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly to force relaxation on his tense muscles. This time he would conduct a gentlemanly discussion.
“Enter.”
“You wished to speak with me?” Terrence asked, barely controlling a raging temper.
“Yes. Let us forget that yesterday’s meeting took place. None of us managed it with aplomb. Serious discussion is difficult when emotions are high, and Lady Avery’s hysteria did not help. I hope that today we can acquit ourselves like responsible gentlemen, for we need to clarify the facts.”
“I thought I was perfectly clear.” His voice was sullen.
“If you wish to be treated like an adult, you must first act like one,” Richard stated coldly. “Tantrums, pouting, and threats are hardly mature behavior. As I was in a temper myself, I will overlook your lapse of decorum, but do not expect me to do so again. Have a seat.”
Terrence appeared ready to explode, but he drew in several deep breaths. “Very well.” He took one of the leather wing chairs that flanked the fireplace.
Richard poured wine for both of them before settling into the other one. “You have little experience of the world, Terrence,” he began, forcing calm into his voice. “One of the lessons you have not yet learned is that poor country lasses constantly look for any opportunity to marry up, even if they can do so only through trickery. Thus they lie and scheme. You cannot trust them for a moment.”
“I fail to see your point, my lord.”
“It should be obvious to even the meanest intelligence. The Wingrave chits are far beneath your touch. You are too young to see past the sweet face girls are so adept at showing the world.”
“You are misinformed.” He set his glass on the table with a sharp click. “Alice’s father may have lacked a title, but he was the younger son of an earl. Her mother was the daughter of a baronet. I fail to understand how that puts her beneath my touch. Nor would Alice ever indulge in pretense. She is the most honest, sensible girl of my acquaintance, seconded only by her sister.”
“Even if such breeding proves true, it matters not,” he replied, mentally shaking his head. Terrence was too gullible for his own good. His delusions proved the strength of Miss Wingrave’s hold. Lady Avery had lived at Tallgrove for twenty-two years and would certainly know the background of her nearest neighbors. “One cannot trust women,” he continued firmly. “Especially those whose finances are suspect and who have little access to society. They will do anything to better themselves. Do not deny my superior knowledge,” he added as Terrence raised a hand in protest. “I have encountered many such stratagems in the past and know whereof I speak. Now that you have a title and fortune of your own, you will be in the same situation.”
“But you do not know Alice,” protested Terrence.
“Nor do you,” he countered. “Trust me in this, Terrence, for I long ago earned a reputation for infallible judgment. You have been home for barely a month. How often had you seen her before this summer?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “I spent the last several breaks with friends. I saw her occasionally when we were children, but paid little attention.”
“As I expected. You know next to nothing of the girl, yet you believe every word she says.”
“I have known enough women to detect insincerity,” he objected. “Schemers cannot help but overplay their hand. Like Sir Alfred’s daughter. She is all fawning adoration and willingness, taking every opportunity to accidentally brush against me, but all she wants is to escape a tyrannical father.”
“I know that sort well.” He was impressed in spite of himself, for he had spent last Season saving Cousin Reggie from several such chits. In his brief time on the town, the boy had fallen into the clutches of more than one determined miss. Terrence wasn’t quite as green as he’d thought. “But not all schemers are so blatant. Miss Wingrave has learned that subtlety works better.”
“Why must you insist that all women are schemers?” he demanded hotly.
“Because they are. I have yet to meet a female who does not put her own interests first. Eventually you will learn to translate their words so you can deduce their motives for yourself. Praise for the cut of your coat means they admire the purse that can afford fine tailoring. Compliments on your looks are a request to admire hers. A comment on your efforts in Parliament hides a desire to share your title. Complaints about tradesmen are a wish that you escort her on her next shopping trip. Mention of a jealous husband means you cannot conduct the affair in her home.”
Terrence laughed, interrupting the lesson. “What a jaded circle you cultivate, Cousin. Never have I heard such cynicism. You would not recognize honesty if it bit you on the ankle. And you have forgotten that country folk believe in simple truths.”
“Only when it is expedient. Examine the facts, Terrence. Open your mind and think. You know that her family is in financial difficulties.”
“Not particularly. They are not wealthy, it is true, but neither are they starving.”
“How would you know? I have known many people over the years who were outrunning the constable. None revealed that fact even to close friends, and each one went to great lengths to appear comfortably circumstanced.”
“But you have not met Alice,” he repeated.
“That is true. Yet I can describe your
acquaintance in great detail.” The realization that Terrence had not even recognized the poverty that existed at Winter House underscored the boy’s naïveté. “You came home for long break, unaware that Alice had grown to womanhood since your last visit. Within a day you met her about the countryside in an unexceptionable way. She smiled sweetly and told you what a fine gentleman you had become. When you protested, she complimented your appearance and some other appropriate attribute – horsemanship, driving, duty to your tenants, and so on. You turned aside from your errand to walk or drive with her. She flirted lightly, but coyly refused to do more than lay her hand upon your arm. She expressed trepidation about the lack of chaperon and begged to return home alone, which you allowed. But her shapely figure stuck in your mind, so when you encountered her again a short time later, you were happy to see her and voiced that delight. Again she played the shy maiden, uncertain about your motives and fearful of your exuberance. But despite her protestations, she spent at least an hour in your sole company. Have I got the story straight?”
“Yes, but you needn’t sound so sarcastic. It is true that I ran into her the first day I was back, but since we were both coming home from the village, it was hardly surprising. She cannot have known I would be there, for I had not decided to go until after I left for a ride in quite another direction. I encountered her again the next day along the boundaries of our two estates. Again, it was purely by accident. After that, I looked for her because I enjoy her company. Never has she done the least thing to encourage me. She is only seventeen, completely innocent, and genuinely sweet. Even you must agree when you meet her.”
“You have fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book, Terrence,” he declared with a sigh. “It is a trap every titled gentleman must constantly look for. I have avoided it more than once. My first encounter with a serious fortune hunter was ten years ago when I visited an estate in Yorkshire. The neighboring estate belonged to a baron and his four very sweet daughters. The eldest spent a great deal of time out and about the countryside, accidentally encountering me on numerous occasions. She always had a valid reason for being where she was. Most were also commendable, and her behavior was gentle and exceedingly proper. Yet she knew all the subtle wiles for attracting a gentleman’s attention that you have not yet had time to learn. She shared my every interest, enthusiastic even over subjects normally eschewed by females. She wore enticing perfume and close-cut gowns that displayed her figure to advantage, then drew attention to her charms with protestations of innocence and constant concern for her reputation. I thought myself in love with her.” He squelched the image of Penelope Rissen’s voluptuous body, passionate red hair, and sapphire eyes. What a fool he had been. And still was. The similarities between her and Miss Wingrave were what had triggered his current attack of lust. “Fortunately, fate prevented me from making the biggest mistake of my life.”
