The Temptation of Torilla

by Barbara Cartland

  “I want to talk to you.”

  ‘P-please – leave me alone, – you cannot come into my – bedroom!”

  “Ha! But I am in! What do you intend to do about it?”

  “You have no right – I shall scream for help if you don’t – leave at – once!”

  “I doubt if the innkeeper or anyone else will hear you. They are very busy downstairs.”

  “Will you please – go? I have – gone to bed – and I have – nothing to say to – you.”

  “But I have a great deal to say to you! You are very lovely, Miss Clifford. You see, I have learnt your name, even though you would not give it to me.”

  “Y-you must – leave – it is wrong, you know it is wrong – to force your way into my – bedroom like this!”

  “I see nothing wrong about it and if you will stop putting on these airs and graces we can enjoy ourselves.”

  “I don’t – know what you mean – please go – please, please leave me – alone!”

  “That, my dear, is something I have no intention of doing. Now come along and be sensible. You attract me. I have not seen anyone so lovely for a long time.”

  The man must have moved and now there was a scream that was unmistakably one of fear.

  “No – no!”

  Quite suddenly the Marquis sat up in bed.

  It was intolerable, he thought, that not only should he be disturbed but also that any woman should be insulted in this disgraceful manner.

  He realised from the conversation after the man had entered her room that he was in fact a gentleman. The way he had spoken to bring her to the door had been the assumed voice of how he thought a servant would speak.

  Now his tones were cultured, although at the same time slurred, which told the Marquis that he had been drinking. The Marquis was no prude and, if he desired a woman, he pursued her. But he would not have considered it sporting to foist his attentions on any woman who was clearly unwilling. Certainly he would not have approached one who was travelling alone and was therefore unprotected and extremely vulnerable.

  There was another scream and now the Marquis jumped out of bed and, pulling on his robe, opened his own door and went into the passage.

  The door of the room next door was closed and he opened it without knocking.

  As he entered, he saw as he had expected a woman struggling desperately in the arms of a man.

  The Marquis recognised him immediately as a habitual race-goer.

  Known as Sir Jocelyn Threnton he was to be found at the bar of any Racecourse and his associates were those whom the Marquis suspected of evading where possible the rules of the Jockey Club.

  Sir Jocelyn was so intent on trying to kiss the woman in his arms he did not see the Marquis enter.

  Torilla therefore saw him first.

  “Help me! Help me!” she cried out.

  In two strides the Marquis crossed the small room and taking Sir Jocelyn by the shoulder pulled him round to face him.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted at him.

  Sir Jocelyn started to say furiously,

  “What the hell’s it got to do with – ?”

  Then as he realised who he was speaking to, his voice died away into silence.

  “Get out!”

  There was no need for the Marquis to say any more.

  Sir Jocelyn opened his lips as if either to explain his behaviour or query the Marquis’s authority to give him orders, then thought better of it.

  With a look of defiance on his face, but at once and without dignity, he slouched out of the room and there was the sound of his footsteps clattering down the oak stairs.

  The Marquis looked at the woman he had rescued and realised she was very young and very lovely.

  Her fair hair fell almost to her waist and her eyes, wide and terror-stricken seemed to fill the whole of her small face. She was standing only a few inches from the wall of the small room and now she moved forward a step to say in a low and frightened little voice,

  “Thank you – thank you for – saving me, sir, I did not – know what – to do.”

  “It is intolerable that you should have been subjected to anything so unpleasant,” the Marquis said. “He will not return, but lock your door and do not open it again.”

  “I – it was very – foolish of me to have done so – but I never thought – I never dreamt – there were – men like him in the world.”

  The Marquis could not help smiling.

  “Now you know there are, be more careful in future.”

  “I – will,” she answered, “and – thank you again. I am – very grateful.”

  “You are safe now. Go to sleep and forget about it,” the Marquis said as if he was speaking to a child.

  He went out closing the door behind him and, before he reached his own room, he heard the key turn in the lock.

  As he got into bed, he thought he could understand Sir Jocelyn taking a fancy to the very pretty girl who was sleeping next door.

  He had said it was a long time since he had seen anyone so lovely and the Marquis thought he spoke the truth.

  He wondered who she was and why she was travelling alone.

  Then he remembered that Sir Jocelyn had called her ‘Miss Clifford’.

  ‘It is not an unusual name,’ the Marquis thought, ‘but she is obviously a lady. Her hair is the colour of spring sunshine.’

  Then he laughed at himself for being so poetic and fell asleep.

  *

  It was a long time before Torilla’s frightened heartbeats began to subside and, when she was back in bed, she lay trembling.

  Never had she expected that a gentleman would dare to force his way into her bedroom.

  She had seen him looking at her in the coffee room while he sat there with a number of other gentlemen.

  They had grown noisier and more uproarious as the dinner progressed and Torilla quickly realised that they were drinking too freely.

  At the table in the far corner where she sat with the other passengers on the stagecoach, a few of the men drank ale, but the ladies primly asked for glasses of water.

  Since the coach party was served last, the food was getting cold and they were not given a choice of the more luxurious dishes that were served to the other diners.

  Torilla had been too tired to be hungry, but felt impatient at the long time that elapsed between each course since the servants were not interested in their requirements.

  She was thinking it was hopeless to wait for a dessert when a man’s voice asked,

  “May I introduce myself?”

  She had looked up to see standing beside her, the gentleman who had been staring at her in an embarrassing manner all through dinner.

  “I am Sir Jocelyn Threnton,” he went on, with an air that told Torilla he expected her to be impressed. “Will you join me in a glass of wine?”

  “No – thank you, sir,” Torilla replied.

  “I never take no for an answer,” Sir Jocelyn retorted. “Now come along and let’s get to know each other.”

  “I can only – repeat – no thank you,” Torilla answered.

  Sir Jocelyn was just about to argue further when one of his friends called him from the other side of the room.

  He turned away from Torilla and with a swiftness born of fear, she slipped from her chair and out of the room without Sir Jocelyn being aware of it.

  With her bedroom door locked, she had thought she was safe from him.

  She had been in bed for some time when she had heard the occupant of the next room speaking to someone she thought must be his valet.

  He must have attended the races, she told herself, otherwise it would be unlikely that anyone of any great distinction should stay in this country inn.

  When she had travelled North with her father two years before, the inns had been almost deserted.

  What visitors there were, were commercial travellers, professional men or farmers and not particularly interesting either to look at or to talk to.<
br />
  Torilla could not help staring wide-eyed at the elegance of some of the gentlemen who had come from the Racecourse. It was a long time since she had seen intricately tied muslin cravats, champagne pantaloons that clung as if their wearers had been poured into them and hessian boots polished until they reflected like mirrors.

  Her father in his black clerical garments and the miners in their dirty rags were all she had had to look at for two years.

  What she had never imagined was that a man with any pretentions to being a gentleman would behave as Sir Jocelyn had done.

  *

  The stagecoach travellers were called at five thirty in the morning and a maid knocked perfunctorily on Torilla’s door to announce,

  “Yer breakfast’s a-waitin’, miss.”

  Torilla had in fact been awake for some time.

  She had dozed a little in the early hours of the morning, but kept waking with a start imagining that Sir Jocelyn was putting out his arms to catch hold of her and she could not escape.

  ‘The sooner I am away from here the better!’ she told herself.

  She dressed and put her nightgown into the small valise, which contained the other things she needed for the night. She knew it was very unlikely that any of the race-goers would be up so early.

  Nevertheless, while she ate the rather unpalatable breakfast that had been provided for her and her fellow travellers, she kept watching the door of the coffee room in case Sir Jocelyn should come in.

  Only when the stagecoach rolled away from The Pelican Inn did Torilla heave a sigh of relief and tell herself that she had learnt a lesson she would never forget.

  The Marquis, having breakfasted from a plentiful selection of well-cooked dishes in his private room, left the inn at nine-thirty with a new team of horses, fresh and fidgeting because, like their owner, they wished to be on the road.

  It was a clear, sunny day. The air had had a bite in it, but as the sun came out there was a warmth that told the Marquis summer was not far away.

  When he was dressed and Jim was just putting his night things into an expensive leather holdall, the Marquis had gone onto the landing and looked at the next room.

  The door was open and he saw that it was empty. Vaguely at the back of his mind he remembered while he was still half-asleep hearing soft sounds very early in the morning.

  They had in fact been so soft that they had not awakened him completely and he told himself now that the girl he had rescued the previous evening must have been a stagecoach traveller.

  The stagecoaches left at six o’clock, but the rest of the visitors at The Pelican Inn, the Marquis was sure, would be spending another day at the races.

  He had no wish to meet Sir Jocelyn again, so he did not linger in the yard, which was even busier than it had been when he arrived.

  Horses were being brought from the stables to be put between the shafts of phaetons, chaises, barouches and gigs.

  The ostlers and private grooms were shouting at each other and the innkeeper was running backwards and forwards with bills that must have taken half the night to tot up.

  The Marquis tipped generously, then drove off anxious to be on the road before there was much traffic, as he had quite a considerable distance to travel before his next port of call.

  The whole day went well.

  The luncheon which he enjoyed at another posting inn, having been arranged by Harris, was not only to his satisfaction but he also found the landlord had some excellent claret.

  The Marquis bought several dozen bottles and ordered them to be sent South, to add to the enormous amount of wine he had already in his cellars.

  He thought it so good that he decided he would ask the Prince, who fancied himself a connoisseur, to taste it.

  As he journeyed on, he planned a small but amusing dinner party at which they could sample a variety of different wines, which of course would include champagne, the Prince’s favourite beverage.

  It was only when he had chosen the guests and even the menu that he wondered if his future wife Beryl would expect to be present on such an occasion.

  He thought it a bore to have women at a dinner where the wine and food were the first objects of interest.

  And he told himself that the sooner Beryl understood that if he wished to have a bachelor party she must make other arrangements for herself, the better.

  As he thought of his intended, he realised how disappointed his mother had been in his choice of a wife.

  He had known that was inevitable as he drove North to break the news of his impending marriage, but he found himself remembering the sadness in the Dowager Marchioness’s eyes and the wistful note in her voice.

  ‘She will be happy enough once I am married,’ he told himself optimistically, ‘and when we have children she will both love and spoil them.’

  It occurred to him for the first time that the life Beryl had lived up to now was hardly conducive to contented motherhood.

  She was, as he had described her, the life and soul of every party. She was also always surrounded by a crowd of admiring swains who laughed at everything she said and extolled her as being wittier than she in fact was.

  As if he wished to reassure himself, the Marquis thought,

  ‘We like the same sort of things, we lead the same sort of life.’

  That, he was sure, was the right foundation on which to build a commendable marriage.

  It was growing late in the afternoon but there was still a little way to go before he reached The George and Dragon where he intended to stay.

  As he drove his horses round the corner of a narrow hedge-bordered road, he saw a commotion ahead.

  The Marquis, who was travelling fast, pulled in his team.

  “An accident!” he remarked briefly.

  “It’s the stagecoach, my Lord,” Jim replied.

  They drew nearer.

  The stagecoach, which was lying at a drunken angle on the left-hand side of the road, had obviously just come into collision with a chaise drawn by two horses, which were plunging about out of control.

  The stagecoach had been prevented by the hedgerow from turning over completely and the luggage piled on top had fallen into the road. A number of white chickens, which had been contained in a coop, were fluttering about squawking loudly.

  Their cries were augmented by the bleat of a sheep sewn into a sack, which was lying upside down on the grass verge. There were feminine screams and masculine oaths, while the owner of the chaise, a middle-aged and furious gentleman was hurling abuse at the driver of the stagecoach.

  The latter, ably supported by the guard, was shouting back at him.

  The Marquis looked at the turmoil with amusement.

  Then, as it was impossible to pass and it seemed unlikely that anyone intended to clear up the mess, he handed his reins to his groom.

  Without haste he stepped down onto the road and walked up to the combatants, his voice clear and authoritative cutting across their furious interchange.

  “Go to the heads of your horses, you fools!”

  Both the gentleman who owned the chaise and the coachman turned to stare at him in astonishment.

  “Your horses!” the Marquis called out again and surprisingly they obeyed him.

  He then turned to the men who had been scrambling down from the roof of the coach and pointed to those who had their heads out of the windows being unable to alight owing to the angle at which it lay.

  “Get everyone out!” the Marquis ordered. “Then you can right this vehicle, unless you intend to stay here for the rest of the night.”

  There was a sharpness in his tone that galvanised the men into activity.

  A fat farmer’s wife was helped out first, crying as she did so,

  “Me chickens – me poor little chickens – they be all crushed!”

  She insisted on her rescuers taking from her first a basket in which remained a few of the day old chicks she was doubtless taking to market.

  As she reached the gro
und, she declared stridently,

  “’Tis a disgrace the way these coachmen drive! Sommat should be done about it – that it should!”

  “I agree with you, ma’am,” the Marquis said.

  Then, as the woman went on worrying about her chickens, he turned his attention to an elderly gentleman who, quivering with anger as he was assisted from the coach, was swearing that every bone in his body was broken.

  He was followed by three more men, then last of all the Marquis saw a little oval face with two large frightened eyes framed by a somewhat battered bonnet.

  Torilla stepped out so lightly that she hardly touched the hands of the two men who were only too anxious to help her. Then, as she reached the road, she looked up and saw the Marquis.

  Her eyes widened and the colour rose in her pale cheeks as he swept his high-crowned hat from his head, saying,

  “We meet again, Miss Clifford!”

  It seemed as if she had no words to answer him and after looking at her beneath lazy eyelids he returned to the task of sorting out the accident.

  The horses in the chaise were now under control and in a somewhat peremptory manner he told the middle-aged owner of them to be on his way.

  “I intend to sue the company for the damage that has been done to my vehicle,” the gentleman grunted angrily.

  “I doubt if you will receive any compensation,” the Marquis replied. “But you can always try.”

  “The driver is drunk – that is perfectly obvious,” the gentleman averred.

  “They invariably are,” the Marquis answered and walked away, obviously bored with the subject.

  Now that one side of the road was clear, the Marquis could proceed on his way. But first he set the men who had been on the coach to work pushing and pulling the unwieldy vehicle back onto the highway.

  “Drive more carefully in future,” the Marquis ordered the coachman.

  The man was crimson in the face and there was some truth in the accusation that, even if he was not drunk, he had certainly imbibed more freely than was wise.

  To mitigate the severity of his words, the Marquis gave the driver a guinea and he was instantly all smiles and pleasantries.

  The coach was righted, most of the chickens had been collected and returned to their coop, the sheep still bleating plaintively was placed the right way up on the roof and the passengers began to take their places.