Compromised Miss

by O'Brien, Anne

  ‘Goodnight, Harriette. Sleep well. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  And Luke stood, bowed, enigmatic and reserved, turned away. Only when he had reached the door did Harriette speak to stop him.

  ‘Why did you not tell me about Marcus?’

  He stood motionless, his back to her. Nor did he look round. ‘There is nothing to tell.’

  Then he was gone. She heard his footsteps die away along the corridor to his own room. He might not care about the rift between them, but she did. His instinct, for whatever reason, might be to push her away but it took all her willpower not to beg him to stay and hold her in his arms. It broke her heart.

  Turning her face into her pillow, Harriette wept as she had not done since she was a child.

  Luke closed the door of his room and leaned back against it, head thrown back, eyes closed against the emptiness of the room. The silence round him was agonising. Had he wanted her when he had gone to her room, despite all his doubts? Would he have stayed if she had smiled at him? Yes, he would. The fragility of her arms, her slender hands demanded that he cover them with kisses. The curl of her neatly combed hair, the gleam of pale flesh above the lace of the robe roused an urge to stroke. She had looked lost in the expanse of the elegant bed with its flower-sprigged hangings. Instinct had urged him to strip off his clothes and take her there. To press her naked body into the sheets beneath his, and sink deep, forgetting past and future in her arms as he had at Lydyard’s Pride. To let her surround him with soft arms and thighs. She called to some basic primitive need in his blood to make her his. To awaken her nipples with tongue and teeth, to plant openmouthed kisses all the way down the soft valley between her breasts towards the dark secret place that he could claim for his own by right.

  He had wanted all of that, and did so now. Luke bared his teeth as his erection strained for release. He should have stayed with her and turned her cold words into cries of searing passion.

  But it was better this way. There was too much between them to simply step over and ignore. So this was better. Wasn’t it?

  Then since he was so sure, why did he feel torn, his heart rent in two? It wasn’t as if he loved her or even felt anything more for her than a duty, a heavy responsibility. And yet the urge was there to open his heart to her, to tell her of the coils that trapped him, constrained him. To explain why, in her eyes, he must apparently play the role of traitor and spy.

  He could not, must not.

  He had told Harriette that he had a brother in London. What he had not told her was that he had a second brother, who was now dead. Marcus, fighting with the British army under Wellington in the Penninsular War. Marcus’s death was a raw wound that refused to heal, a death with lasting consequences that no one could have possibly foreseen and that now presented him with the most difficult choices of his life.

  Luke felt alone and without counsel. Pushing himself away from the door, he scrubbed his hands over his face, tunneling his fingers through his hair, and groaned as he tried ineffectually to block out the image of his dead brother’s laughing face.

  ‘Oh, God, Marcus.’ His harsh voice broke the silence. ‘Why did you have to die?’ And then, ‘How do I deal with this woman who pulls at my emotions but whom I dare not trust?’

  Chapter Seven

  Breakfast in Grosvenor Square was a quiet affair and this one, two days later, was no exception. Adam was—well, Adam was wherever a young man might be at that early hour in the morning. Which left Luke and Harriette to share the breakfast table.

  The London Season was well over. The haut ton had decamped en masse to the cooler rooms of its country homes, to rural watering places, or to the coastal attraction of Brighton. All of which Harriette saw as to her advantage. She need not attend Almack’s and exhibit her lack of expertise in dancing. She did not have to curtsy to the polite world at some ball or drum or fashionable al fresco breakfast where she would be under the scrutiny of the blue blood of England. Nor did she have to preside over her own event in Grosvenor Square to stamp her presence on London society.

  No one who was anyone remained in London in August. Except for the Venmore household. Which surprised her. Surely this was not the usual pattern of life for the Earl of Venmore? What could keep Luke in London, as short of company as it was? There was definitely something. Not only secrets hung in the air at Hallaston House, but an unease, almost a sense of waiting—and she thought it was not estate business that kept Luke occupied. Was it all tied up with Luke’s abortive mission to France? She remembered in Luke’s senseless ravings the woman that had caused him such distress, the woman he sought and could not find. Marie-Claude. Was this unknown lady the cause of Luke’s coldness towards her? He had denied it, but did Marie-Claude stand between them? Did Luke actually love this unknown? He had not come to her bed again after her less than elegant rebuff.

  Harriette was lonely and heartsore. She longed for Luke to repeat the intimate demands of their wedding night, but he would not. She considered abandoning her pride, taking his elegant lapels in her hands and pressing her lips to that sternly beautiful mouth, but dare not.

  She sat and contemplated her husband. Across the table from her, Luke buried himself in the Morning Post. Harriette watched him covertly. In her mind she saw herself spread out before him on his bed. She saw Luke kneeling naked beside her, as his hands and mouth began an exquisite exploration…If only it could be so.

  She closed her eyes against the image. For now there were other priorities.

  ‘Luke…’

  Graves brought in a silver salver bearing a single sheet of paper, folded. He bowed, offering it to Luke. A thin line developed between Luke’s brows as Harriette watched him read. He gave an imperceptible nod. A severity touched his mouth, a distinct tightening of the muscles in his jaw, across his cheekbones.

  ‘Harriette…’ Luke folded the note carefully and stowed it in the breast pocket of his beautifully cut coat. And there was the cool, unbridgeable distance between them again, as if his mind was elsewhere. She could see it, sense it, almost taste it, a harsh metallic tang, as if he had withdrawn into some distant place where she had no right to encroach. As if his thoughts were still with the contents of that single page. What had he read there? Was it a woman’s hand—that of Marie-Claude’s? Or was it all connected to dealings that he must keep secret from her? The name of Jean- Jacques Noir flitted into her mind, to lie alongside that of Marie-Claude.

  ‘Who is the note from, Luke?’ she asked, lured by her unhappy suspicions. ‘Is it from France?’

  ‘France? No, why should it be? Harriette, I shall be away for a few days.’

  ‘To The Venmore?’ Would he take her with him?

  ‘No. I’m going to Bishop’s Waltham.’ It meant nothing to her. ‘It will take me from home for two days, three at the most.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointment lodged in her throat. Before she could stop herself she asked, against all her determination not to make demands on him, ‘Can I go with you? I have never been to Bishop’s Waltham.’

  But Luke was already on his feet, throwing down his napkin. ‘No. Not this time and it’s tedious work. I won’t have the leisure to escort you round the town and you might find time heavy on your hands. Much better to stay here. I know it’s flat, but…’ For a moment she thought he would leave with no further explanation, then halfway to the door, he spun on his heel and returned. To lean down to where she still sat, to cradle her face between his hands. Gently, with exquisite tenderness, he pressed his lips against the soft skin between her brows, then to her lips. ‘Forgive me, Harriette. I did not want this, but I have no choice…But when I return…’ He ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip, following the caress with another kiss, prolonged and sure, a firm demand to set her pulse racing, then he released her. A courteous little bow and he strode across the room.

  ‘Luke…’ How driven he was, by some dark and dangerous compulsion.

  He stopped, one hand on the doorknob and looked back almos
t, she thought, with impatience, as if he could not bear to be held back. It left Harriette with nothing to say other than. ‘Take care.’

  ‘Of course.’ His quick smile she considered perfunctory. ‘You’ll enjoy spending money on some new gowns in my absence.’

  Harriette stayed in the breakfast parlour, sinking back into her chair, listening to the rapid sounds of departure. Then he was gone and she had no idea what he was doing. How easy it was to allow hurt to well up and nearly choke her. She would miss him appallingly, yet could do nothing but accept that he would not miss her! All he could do was encourage her to improve her wardrobe! Furthermore, all her suspicions of Luke had been resurrected by the delivery of that one letter.

  Struggling through low spirits that threatened to smother her in an impenetrable fog, Harriette stepped into the entrance hall just as one of the footmen—Charles, she thought—was making his way up the staircase, carefully balancing a tray of food, heartily loaded. It snatched at her attention.

  ‘Charles! Where are you taking that?’

  The young man stopped on the landing, spun round to the danger of the tray, startled as a rabbit facing a huntsman. ‘It’s a breakfast tray, my lady.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes. I am aware. But where are you taking it? Do we have guests staying?’ Would Luke not have told her if that were so?

  ‘It’s—it’s for Lord Adam, my lady.’

  ‘Then don’t let me keep you.’

  Charles, swallowing visibly, continued on his upward path. Harriette was left to consider that she did not believe a word of what was obviously a spur-of-the-moment explanation. So much food. Adam might wade through it, but he would not ask for a tray to his room.

  Harriette considered Charles’s retreating shoulders, then discreetly followed, taking refuge in the first guest room on the corridor, leaving the door ajar, from where there was no difficulty in discovering the destination of the loaded tray. Once Charles had retreated down the stairs, Harriette walked smartly to the now closed door and opened it.

  Who was the more surprised, Harriette could not say.

  ‘Madame…’ A young man, seated at the table in the window embrasure, the tray before him, a fork in his hand, leapt to his feet.

  ‘Who are you?’ Harriette asked in astonishment.

  ‘I…’ He froze, fork in one hand, napkin in the other.

  ‘This is my house and you appear to be staying in one of my guest rooms without my knowledge, eating breakfast from my kitchens, sir. Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Madame…Je m’appelle…’ He stammered to a halt again, eyes widening in dismay. ‘My name is Henri, madame. Captain Henri.’ He struggled with heavily accented English.

  The young man’s obvious French birth stirred Harriette’s already simmering suspicions to a fast boil. ‘We can speak French if you wish it, sir. You will be more comfortable with that. My mother was French.’

  ‘Ah, madame…my gratitude.’ The young man lapsed immediately into his native tongue. ‘But I should say nothing. It is not wise.’

  ‘What is not wise? I should introduce myself. I am the Countess of Venmore.’

  ‘Madame la Contesse.’ Dropping both napkin and fork on the table, the young man executed a neat bow with military precision. ‘Enchanté.’

  Refusing to be distracted by his excellent manners, Harriette demanded, ‘Why are you here?

  ‘I await the return of Monsieur Luke. I am not at liberty to say why.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would be too dangerous. It would not be safe for my presence to be known here.’

  ‘Dangerous? For you or for my husband?’

  ‘For both, I think, madame.’

  Harriette struggled to come to terms with her discovery. ‘But who are you, Captain Henri?’ She knew exactly who—or at least what he was.

  Captain Henri shook his head, his whole bearing beseeching her to have pity. And Harriette took a moment to examine her guest. Young, little more than twenty years, she estimated. And thin. Thin cheeks, a haunted expression. His clothes were of good quality, but hung on his spare frame as if they had not been made for him. Harriette also saw that he stood awkwardly, as if he carried a recent injury to one arm or shoulder. There was a pride there, an innate dignity, as well as impeccably good manners, but at this moment he was fearful and unwilling to be indiscreet. She thought he might have been a handsome lad before war had taken its toll in stark grooves between his brows and tightly stretched skin over sharp cheekbones.

  ‘Were you a prisoner?’ she asked.

  Again he bowed. ‘I was, Madame la Contesse. Regretfully. What use in my denying it? That’s all I will say. Except to thank you for your hospitality. And beg pardon for my ill manners. But in the circumstances, you understand…’

  No, she did not understand at all. What was a French prisoner of war from Napoleon’s forces doing in her guest room? She feared for the answer.

  ‘Does the Earl of Venmore know you are staying here?’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Luke? He does, madame.’

  So what had Luke to do with a prisoner of war? Treachery…treason…spying. The terrible words danced once more before her eyes. She knew that prisoners escaped back to France, slipping into a French port with forged papers, carrying with them news for Napoleon’s ears of England’s defences, English war plans against their enemy.

  The logical explanation—surely the only explanation—was that Luke was involved in the return of this young man to France. But why? Was Luke himself in the pay of France, was he feeding delicate information to Napoleon through the auspices of French prisoners of war? The evidence against him grew stronger. And in that moment of shocked revelation Harriette would have wagered any consignment of contraband that the man Jean-Jacques Noir was somehow involved.

  But Captain Henri was not going to enlighten her.

  ‘Madame la Contesse…?’ His anxiety was self-evident. ‘What do you intend to do with me? Will you hand me over to the authorities?’

  She discovered that she had been frowning at him and forced her face into a softer expression. She could take no such action until the proof was incontrovertible. Her whole being, mind and soul, reacted against branding Luke a traitor.

  ‘You are safe here, Captain Henri,’ she reassured him. ‘Eat your meal in peace.’

  And she left him to his solitary breakfast and closed the door softly.

  Striding round to his stabling to order up his curricle, Luke was far too aware of the sense of desolation he had left behind in the breakfast parlour, and of his own making. Married for less than three days, no understanding between them, rather a deep and threatening abyss, and here he was planning to abandon her. He had read Harriette’s disappointment, wanted more than anything to reassure her and restore that sparkle of happiness he had seen on the night of the hidden contraband, but until this damnable matter that plagued his whole life was settled, he could not. The early morning air cool on his cheeks, he was conscious only of the warmth of her mouth on his and suddenly, shockingly intimate, her limbs entangled with his, her body hot and welcoming. It brought him to halt, a frown between his brows. Harriette called to some basic element in him, yet he was deliberately walking away from her and the hurt he saw in her eyes. With a set jaw, Luke squared his shoulders and forced himself to honour the call of duty before he threw caution to the winds and returned to kiss the colour back into Harriette’s pale cheeks.

  For the next two days Harriette kept her secret. The one certainty in her solitary existence was that, apart from her pleasure in a number of fashionable gowns, she missed Luke with a sharp loneliness she could never have imagined. Her heart was no longer her own, nor her dreams, which were troubled with high storms and shadowy figures that claimed to be Jean-Jacques Noir. Luke, too, was there, but could not hear her when she called to him, but disappearring into the mist over the sea, leaving her alone. Harriette was relieved when daylight gave her an excuse to rise, unrested and anxious. From her bedc
hamber she prowled the rooms, her thoughts constantly worrying over what it was that Luke might be doing in Bishop’s Waltham. Even in the library, Lukes own preserve, she found no sense of his presence. The heavily masculine room was still, silent, with only the scent of lavender polish and the faint aroma of candle-wax. It gave her no sense of Luke.

  It was there she found herself standing before two portraits.

  One, an elegant little Kit Kat, three-quarter length, a younger Luke perhaps, until she saw the obvious differences in the more rounded cheeks, the curl in the dark hair. A young man who lacked Luke’s gravity. So this would be Marcus. The grey-green eyes looked out of the portrait with a direct confidence that she immediately recognised. So lifelike, it seemed impossible that Marcus Hallaston was dead.

  Next to the Kit Kat, the more formal portrait took her eye. This was Luke. Definitely Lucius here, standing before a handsome rambling property, a spaniel at his feet, the parkland and trees of what was clearly The Venmore stretching behind him. Luke stared down at her, stern, handsome, authoritative. Harriette felt that those green eyes pinned her to the Aubusson carpet, knew her, owned her, yet there was no humour in them, no trace of affection. The Earl of Venmore was cold, judgemental.

  Reaching up, she ran her finger down the unblemished painted cheek.

  An excellent portrayal of the man she knew, but she did not like it.

  The door opened behind her. Harriette spun round, almost as if she would see Luke in the flesh, smiling at her as he once had and as he did not in the portrait. Instead Adam halted on the threshold, then came in.

  ‘Harriette. Where’s Luke?’

  ‘He’s gone to Bishop’s Waltham,’ Harriette replied. ‘Did he not tell you?’

  ‘No. Luke tells me very little.’

  She tilted her head, acknowledging the brusque reply, considering how much she might ask. ‘Why do you suppose Luke would wish to go to Bishop’s Waltham?’