by Janet Woods
Constance had discovered to her expense that Rafe wasn’t a man to be trifled with. He’d been the best of lovers, until she’d wanted to play games. He’d declined, she’d insisted, sure of her power to win him round. On finding another man in attendance one night, he had simply walked away. This was the first time he’d entered her house since. He was not a man to be bought despite his circumstances, and to see him so obviously enamoured by this girl amused her. Despite his poverty, Rafe was a rarity amongst men. Angelina’s wealth would not sit easy with him, and his arrogant pride would get in the way of a match.
As for Angelina Wrey? Her eyes swept over her in disdain. The girl’s air of independence was vexing, as though the objectionable Lady Alexandra had set her in the same mould as herself. She did not look biddable.
Nicholas had shown considerable interest in her, which was a pity. He was becoming independent of late. Constance would prefer his future wife to be less intelligent than Angelina Wrey. Without thinking, Constance shook her head. “Fortune or no fortune, she’ll not do for Nicholas.”
Constance realised she’d spoken aloud when Angelina Wrey gazed at her with an offended expression. She wasn’t given a chance to redress her insult with a lie or a pretty witticism. Angelina’s green eyes narrowed almost cruelly on her when Constance smiled disarmingly to cover her faux pas. Angry rags of colour skimmed the young woman’s cheeks. Her voice was soft, but pitched to carry. Ears were always canted to catch the latest tid-bit of gossip, and the door had been left ajar.
“Your son informs me you were once an actress, Lady Constance.”
Damn Nicholas! “ Anger threatened to choke her. Why didn’t he keep his stupid mouth shut about family matters? She managed a noncommittal smile. “One does what one must to survive. My family came from French nobility.”
“How odd.” Her smile was all sugar. “Nicholas told me they ran a tavern in Bristol.”
Constance gasped at her impudence.
“You must tell me about acting on the stage, Lady Constance. It must be wonderful to have the ability to fool people into believing you’re someone else.”
“There’s a knack to it,” Constance answered, goaded into spite despite intuition warning her that Angelina Wrey was a not one to submit to insult. “Ask Rafe Daventry. He gives every indication of being a man of substance, when he’s actually as poor as a church mouse.” Too late, she remembered that the woman with Angelina Wrey was Rafe’s sister.
When Celine gasped, Angelina Wrey purred. “You’re insulting, madam. Good breeding is something one is born with. The earl has no need to act. His elegance is bred into his bones.”
The battle lines were drawn, and this slip of a girl with her pale complexion and flaming crown of hair was not going to retreat an inch. Her companion plucked at her wrist, almost pleading. “Come Angelina, we must join our brothers.”
Constance itched to slap Angelina when she made a deep mocking curtsy and swept away, marshalling her companion protectively before her. But she’d dared not, for a small crowd had gathered around the door. It took a few minutes and a stiff brandy or two before she could find the courage to face her guests.
Just how much damage had been done was apparent when she finally collected herself enough to leave the antechamber. Many of her more aristocratic guests were drifting towards the door, stiff backed, ordering their conveyances to be brought round and murmuring excuses without quite meeting her eyes.
James Wrey was tight-lipped with anger. He bowed stiffly before curtly bidding her goodbye. It sounded final.
Rafe’s eyes were as cold as winter. He turned his back on her and ignored her completely.
“Three legs?” she murmured, gazing ruefully at her almost empty salon. Her cheeks ached from the brilliant smile she’d kept on her face. “Angelina Wrey probably has a tail tucked under her skirt, horns concealed within her curls and poisoned claws hidden in the fingers of her gloves.”
Chapter Seven
It was early morning. The rising sun warmed the stone facade of Wrey House as Elizabeth was assisted into her coach by her maid. The driver cracked his whip overthe backs of the matched greys and the coach set off down the carriageway.
Rosabelle glowered as she watched from her window. London, she thought, her mind seething with the unfairness of it all. Her mother was going to see Angelina, and it hadn’t even occurred to her that she might have wanted to go with her.
Not that she did. With her mother safely out of the way she could have the dressmaker attend her for the fittings of her ball gown. She’d chosen the colour and style herself, scarlet satin with a flounced petticoat and ruched overskirt. The dressmaker had assured her the style was quite the thing in Paris. Her eyes began to sparkle. Who was her secret admirer?
It must be Rafe. She didn’t believe the Earl was as impoverished as everyone said. How could he be when his father was a Marquis and Monkscroft Hall was one of the largest estates in Kent?
Kent was reputed to be a pleasant county. If she married him she would be mistress of Monkscroft Hall one day, his Marchioness. If Rafe ever offered for her! She scowled when George Northbridge came into her mind. Crossing to the mirror she cupped her hands under her breasts. She’d noticed the way his glance kept lingering on them. She smiled, imagining they were Rafe’s hands.
Her nipples hardened, thrust against the thin fabric of her chemise. Perhaps she’d tease George a little when he took her riding this morning, she mused, allow him to touch her accidentally. She knew the effect it would have on him. Men suffered if they were aroused and did not find release, or so Mary Mellor had told her. That was why her father still visited Mary.
“Men,” she whispered scornfully. “There is only one I’d be willing to surrender my maidenhood to, and he isn’t willing to take it.”
Hearing hoof-beats, she rushed to the window. George, already? She wasn’t even dressed. About to shrink back when he gazed up at her window, some instinct kept her there. Pretending she hadn’t seen him she took a deep breath to outline her breasts against her flimsy chemise then flicked her dark hair back from her shoulders with her hands. She slanted her eyes down to him, widening them in feigned surprise.”Oh!” For a few seconds she allowed him to gaze his fill, then darted back from the window.
Will’s chuckle brought her spinning round.”You have the makings of a harlot, Rosie. If you ever decide to go into business, let me know.”
“Do you intend to become a client, then?”
William ignored the provocation. Instead, his dark eyes lingered on the ripe perfection of her body and he said, “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“My maid must have overslept.”
“I promise you she didn’t.” His smile was smugly calculating. “I kicked her out of my bed just over an hour ago.”
Anger surged into her eyes. “I hate you sometimes.”
He stared down at her. “I know.”
She looked as if she was about to cry. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t my brother.”
“But I am.” He kissed her on the cheek, a dry, brotherly kiss. “You’ll forget what you feel for me once you’re safely married. “
“I hate George, I’d prefer to marry Rafe Daventry, he pays such pretty compliments.” She gazed at him, all smiles. “I think Rafe is paying for my ball gown. “Can I count on your support with him, Will.”
How did the stupid little fool get such ideas in her head? “No. Rafe Daventry has sworn not to marry until he can restore Ravenswood.” He doubted if she would wait that long to satisfy the hot blood surging in her.
Her eyes slanted slyly at him. “Rafe doesn’t look the type of man to keep a woman he desires waiting, and I can make him want me. You might do well to remember that, Will.”
“You remember it, Rosie. Rafe wouldn’t think highly of a girl who harbours warm feelings towards her own brother.”
“You wouldn’t dare -” She sprang away from him when her maid sauntered into the room. Sharp-voiced, she accused. “You’re
late.”
The maid sent him a sly look and a faint grin.
Grabbing up a hairbrush Rosabelle threw it at her. “Be careful slut,” she warned her. “I might have you dismissed.”
Encouraged by his presence, and no doubt the mistaken notion that a night spent in his bed was of some significance, the maid met his sister’s warning with a bold stare.
Rosabelle slapped her soundly across the face. “If you dare look at me like that again I’ll take a horsewhip to you. Go and prepare my bath.”
William laughed, amused by her display of temper. Whoever she married, Rosabelle would be a handful. “I’d better go and occupy George whilst you dress.” Ignoring the unfortunate maid he strode from the room.
* * * *
Elizabeth’s carriage entered the driveway of James’ house the following morning. Only her maid knew that, despite the calm appearance she presented, she’d spent a restless night and was far from serene.
She had not sought permission of her husband to go to London. If Rosabelle had not already been awake, she’d not have bothered telling anyone, such was her mood. Her husband had not sought her company since that last revealing family meeting, and she’d persuaded herself nobody would miss her.
The decision to see her daughter for herself had been made on impulse, fired by curiosity and a pressing need to display her independent streak to her husband. She was not prepared to submit to Thomas’s will on this matter, so had simply allowed him no opportunity to voice a negative answer.
Her thoughts had been in turmoil since she’d learned of Angelina’s existence. She’d decided to be charitable, accepting her husband’s words as truth to what had happened eighteen years previously. But try as she might, Elizabeth could not recall giving birth to twin daughters.
James’ most recent letter had been the catalyst which had brought her in such haste to London. He’d described Angelina as being so much like her in looks and colouring that anyone would think they were sisters. He had written:
Angelina is deprived of social skills after being kept in seclusion in the country. She is however an accomplished musician, and can sing very sweetly. She is also clever and eager to learn. I’m taking her to London for a while where she may acquire some polish, and also a new wardrobe. Lady Celine Daventry has agreed to act as her chaperone and companion. I assure you, dearest Elizabeth, you will most heartily approve of Rafe’s sister. She is a most modest, good and gentle person, and will be a beneficial influence on Angelina, I think.”
James had devoted a great deal of space to praising the virtues of Celine Daventry.
Elizabeth allowed her thoughts to drift back to her daughter’s birth. Strange to think the child she remembered lying in her arms had inherited her looks and colouring. Her stolen infant daughter had been so tiny, sweet, and vulnerable.
She stared at the facade of James’ house, knowing that infant was within its walls, now a woman grown. Uncertainty beset her. Before her courage deserted her entirely she gathered up her skirts, descended from the carriage and made her way to the entrance.
“Tell Lord Romsey that Lady Elizabeth has arrived and will be waiting in the morning room for him,” she said to the footman who appeared. “And please ask the housekeeper to bring me some refreshment.”
The morning room was obviously being used as a sewing room. The place was littered with materials in various colours and designs, patterns, pins and cottons. Two nearly completed gowns hung from a rack. One was of blue taffeta with a striped overskirt and lacing at the bodice. It was very pretty, but it was the other which caught Elizabeth’s interest.
The gown was a froth of lace-covered silk, and changed from the merest blush of pink to pale yellow as she moved its folds. The bodice and sleeves were embroidered with delicate golden flowers. Straight away she knew this gown was being made for her daughter. Her heartbeat accelerated when she heard the sound of voices and laughter outside the door.
“You must be on your best behaviour today, Angelina. If you fidget I’ll instruct the dressmaker to stick a pin in you.”
A quiet giggle lifted on the nape of Elizabeth’s neck. Angelina!
The same voice as before said softly. “I’ve forgotten my embroidery. Will you come back upstairs with me, or wait here.”
“I shall wait inside. I’m eager to see my ball gown again. It’s the most beautiful gown I have ever seen.”
Angelina’s voice was music to Elizabeth’s ears. She smiled at the softness of its cadence.
“You say that about every gown. James thinks you are the most easily pleased woman he’s ever known.”
“James spoils me.”
“He’s a wonderful brother to you, and a kind and good friend to me.”
“I think James is much taken with you, Celine.” There was a teasing quality to the voice now. “He smiles when you are mentioned, and his eyes dream when they’re upon you.” There was a short pause. When no reply was forthcoming there was a sweetly toned enquiry. “You like James, do you not, Celine?”
“We are both lucky to have such agreeable brothers.”
“You have put your prim voice on, Celine. Come,” she coaxed, “I shan’t tease you if you tell me the truth. Tell me, do you not think that James is the sweetest man alive?”
“Shush, Angelina. He might hear you.”
“Then whisper the answer in my ear.”
There was a short whispered exchange, followed by a soft laughter, then Angelina said. “You must not tell Rafe I paid him a compliment in return. He will tease and make me cross.”
“I’ll not say a word if you do not. We’ve agreed that confidences between us will not be revealed.”
Elizabeth smiled as the voice faded away, already liking Celine Daventry. She held her breath when the door swung open.
“Oh!”
The eyes gazing into hers could have been her own, and the surprise in them mirrored the shock she felt at being face to face with someone who was almost the image of herself. The girl knew straight away who she was. A smile of incredulity came and went on her face, her eyes narrowed and her head slanted to one side.
Elizabeth began to tremble. She made a steeple with her hands, supporting her chin to steady herself whilst the inspection took place.
“Mama?” The lilting voice quivered, the eyes became enormous, moist and luminously vulnerable. “Can it be? Why didn’t James tell me you were arriving?”
“My, dear, dear child!” Elizabeth couldn’t trust her emotions. Tears welling in her eyes, she recaptured the heady rush of love that had lodged in her heart so many years ago. “I didn’t inform James I was coming. I could wait no longer to see you.”
“Mama?”
It was almost a plaintive sigh, but how sweet the word from her daughter’s lips. Unable to move, Elizabeth stared at her through her tears, drinking in the sight of her sweet face.
Angelina was crying too, tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks. She was lovely, Elizabeth thought with pleasure. Elegant and dainty, the difference between her and Rosabelle marked. In fact, they were nothing alike.
Somehow, she willed her legs to carry her across the space between them. Her eyes swept across the strange, but familiar face. “You are everything James said you are.”
“And you, mama.”
Angelina gave a shuddering sob when she gently drew her into her arms. “Don’t cry, dearest one. We’re together now.” She experienced relief, as if she’d been waiting all her life for this moment to happen.
Glancing up she saw James staring at them with a oddly tender grin on his face. Elizabeth could have sworn there were tears in his eyes also, but then, he’d always been soft hearted, and for that she was eternally grateful.
“My dear James,” she said, hugging her daughter tight, and determining to get one thing straight right from the beginning. “Alexandra Pakenham may have thought she was doing the right thing by making you Angelina’s guardian, and I agree you are the best person to handle her fortune, but
let me make one thing absolutely clear. Angelina is my daughter, and as such, the woman had no right to dictate terms regarding her guardianship. I insist she be given into my care at once. Do you understand?”
* * * *
James sprawled in his chair watching the minutes tick by. Now Elizabeth had taken charge of Angelina the relief was almost palpable. Half an hour of blissful silence had been broken only by the clip-clop of horses on the road beyond his boundary wall.
Elizabeth had taken Angelina and Celine shopping again. Beginning to think he’d need to hire a coach to convey the women’s trunks and boxes to Wrey House, he gave a wry smile. He’d thought the clothes he’d already ordered were adequate, but no. Elizabeth had declared they were not. Now the morning room was piled high, parcels still arrived by the day and he was exhausted by it all.
Relieved he hadn’t been born a female, he glanced once again at the clock. Only a minute had passed since he’d last checked it. He frowned, wondering if the timepiece was still working properly. He checked it against his pocket watch then nodded to himself.
How quiet it was. He’d got used to the women’s chatter and laughter, the whisper of footsteps and the rustle of their skirts. He rose, and hands in pockets crossed to the window to stare into the garden. The day was humid and cloudy, the air still. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if night didn’t bring a thunderstorm.
About to turn away, a flash of blue caught his eye. On the seat under the shady branches of the elm tree, Celine rested. She had a a book in her lap, but was gazing at the doves fluttering at her feet with a dreamy expression and a faint smile.
What was she dreaming about? he wondered. The calm and quiet demeanour she’d had in childhood hadn’t left her, but of late he’d discovered other qualities. A sense of humour, joy and above all, a sympathetic and sensible nature that struck a corresponding chord from him. He’d grown very fond of her and his heart lifted at the thought of being able to converse with her alone.
She gave him a warm smile when she saw him coming across the lawn. She was still a little on the thin side, he thought, but the sad expression had gone from her eyes and he hoped he’d contributed to the change in some small measure.
