by Sandra Heath
Was there any truth at all in what Rafe said? She would not have doubted Geoffrey for a moment if it had not been for his freely expressed admiration for the French cause. Had there been more to that admiration than mere words? Why had he really gone to Temford Castle? The gambling was an attraction, certainly, but had the political company been of even more interest? Had treason been his true purpose?
If only she knew the truth. She wanted to believe him innocent, but there was a sliver of doubt, a tiny splinter that had begun to fester amid memories that were otherwise entirely good. Well, maybe not entirely, for there had always been the pressure and worry of finding the money to meet bills.
As she stood there, her dream echoed once again, reminding her that in spite of all the pleasure—more pleasure than she ever recalled in fact—something had not been quite right. It wasn’t to do with Geoffrey’s possible treason, but something else completely. Her brow wrinkled as she tried to recall, but it eluded her.
The staircase creaked, and she whirled about in time to see a man’s silhouette draw swiftly out of sight. “Who’s there?” she cried in alarm.
Jack hesitated, in half a mind to hurry back to his room and have done with it, but he knew he’d frightened her, so he continued up the staircase. “It’s only me, Mrs. Fairfield.”
“Mr. Lincoln?” She was relieved to know his voice.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I saw your candlelight coming up here and thought I should investigate in case it was an intruder.” His gold necklace caught the light from her candle as he paused at the top of the stairs.
Her alarm subsided. “No intruder, sir, just a widow dwelling on the past,” she said, looking at the portrait again. “This is my late husband,” she explained.
Jack joined her, and became conscious once more of the lavender scent she wore. It was fresh and delicate, as she herself was. He studied Geoffrey Fairfield’s likeness. “He was a very handsome man.”
“Yes.”
“You obviously loved him very much.”
She nodded. “I did.” Even a short while ago she would have corrected him to the present tense ... but that had been before she accepted Rafe Warrender’s offer of marriage. It wasn’t love for Rafe that now tempered her heart toward Geoffrey, but the feeling of trapped helplessness that had grown steadily worse over the past twelve months. The match with Rafe had made the entrapment complete, and—heaven help her—she blamed Geoffrey. Perhaps that was what had been wrong in her dream. There could not possibly be such pleasure now because she had fallen out of love. The realization shook her.
The candlelight revealed the emotions passing through her hazel eyes, and Jack became concerned. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Fairfield?”
“Wrong? I...” Her breath escaped gently. “No, not wrong, just rather sad.”
He wanted to touch her, but suddenly she seemed beyond his reach.
“Mama thinks I made a mistake when I married Geoffrey. Maybe she was right. Maybe not. He had many faults, but are any of us perfect? I know I am not.”
Jack tried to interpret the light in her eyes as she gazed at the portrait. Was it anger? Bitterness? No, perhaps neither of those. Just reproach. He felt awkward, and knew he was intruding. “Forgive me, Mrs. Fairfield. This is your home, and you came up here to be alone with him. I am encroaching upon your privacy.”
She smiled. “I can hardly find fault in your presence, sir, for you came to check that there wasn’t an intruder in the house.”
“And now that I know there isn’t, perhaps I should return to my bed.” Lavender drifted seductively over him. It was a fragrance that had never affected him before, but on her it was almost unbearably arousing.
She glanced at him. “You are a very tactful man, Mr. Lincoln.”
“My thoughts are not tactful, I assure you.”
“Your thoughts?” She looked curiously at him.
“It’s none of my business I know, but I cannot help wondering if you will be happy in a marriage of convenience with Sir Rafe Warrender.”
“You have been listening to Mama, sir. And probably to Peter as well. They do not care at all for my decision, as was made only too clear at the dinner table.” She moved away, and the candle flame fluttered in the draft so that shadows leapt and shrank. “Sir Rafe and I will do well enough together,” she said then.
Jack remained by the portrait. Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself? “But do you love him?” he suddenly found himself asking.
The question reached a nerve, and she turned quickly, defensively. “You go too far, sir.”
“Perhaps because I am concerned for your happiness.”
“You hardly know me, Mr. Lincoln.”
“I realize that, but—”
“And my happiness is none of your business,” she interrupted quietly.
He flushed in the candlelight. “I stand corrected,” he murmured.
“I do not wish to sound rude or ungrateful, sir, but on less than a day’s acquaintance I can hardly be expected to ...” Her words died away, then she met his eyes again. “Suffice it that you do not know me, Mr. Lincoln, nor do you know Sir Rafe.”
The moment was perfect for telling her he knew Rafe better than anyone, but even as he hovered on the brink of confession, she walked along the gallery to the easel at the other end, then held the smoking candle up to the unfinished canvas. "This is Sir Rafe, Mr. Lincoln. Come, tell me what you think.”
Jack went to her and looked at the likeness of his cousin. Candle shadows moved over the despised face, making it seem almost demonic. Geoffrey had picked out the essence of the man, making him no less real for being in oils and pencil outline instead of the flesh. It was Rafe to the very “T.” Sly, untrustworthy, and scheming; the serpent in the Garden of Eden. And for Jack Lincoln, the supreme touch was the Agincourt ring. Except that it wasn’t a very accurate rendering of the rose badge ... The thought was severed as Emily spoke again.
“Mama wishes I would wait for some imagined true love, but if I wait, all I will be united with is bankruptcy. The Hall and this estate are Peter’s birthright, but both will have to be sold, and still there will be debt.”
She looked away. And scandal of a magnitude I cannot bear to consider ... She inhaled deeply. “You know about losing your birthright, Mr. Lincoln, so you of all men must understand the implications for Peter. It is for his sake that I have accepted Sir Rafe. But to be frank with you, there is much I am not telling you.”
“Do you wish to tell me?” he offered quietly, guessing that whatever it was had as much—if not more—significance than anything mentioned so far.
“I cannot, sir. Shall we just leave it that I have overriding reasons, things that even Mama does not know. And I do not simply speak of debt.” She put the candle down on a nearby windowsill.
Jack sensed Rafe’s manipulative hand in things. He longed to coax her into confiding more, but knew the subject was closed. So he moved to a different tack.
“But what if Mrs. Preston is right, and true love does indeed come your way?” In his mind’s eye he could see her surrendering to that love. He felt his body begin to awaken, responding to the erotic images his thoughts were conjuring. Oh, that it could be Jack Lincoln she surrendered to, Jack Lincoln that she loved...
“If it comes my way at all, sir, it will do so far too late, for I will be Lady Warrender. And grateful for it.”
She couldn’t help glancing at his necklace as it shone in the moving light. The gold looked so rich and vibrant against his tanned skin. She was aware of his lean but muscular figure, of the broadness of his shoulders and slenderness of his waist, of the softness of russet paisley cloth against his hard contours. Naked contours, virile, exciting, and masculine.
“Grateful, but discontented,” he murmured, willing his loins not to betray him too visibly.
Their eyes met, and she looked away first. “I perceive that Mama has made an ally of you, sir.”
“My words a
re my own, Mrs. Fairfield. From all you have told me tonight, I too think you will be making a mistake if you proceed with this marriage. You will be settling for less than you truly desire. You knew love once, and in your heart you wish to know it again. On your own admission, you have not found it with Sir Rafe Warrender.”
“On my own admission I haven’t yet found it with Sir Rafe. When we are husband and wife, who knows how things may turn out?” But the words were hollow, and she knew it.
Things will turn out horribly, Jack thought, wanting to tell her all about dear Rafe, but not knowing how to now that he had allowed so much to be said. Everything he had done since coming to this house had been based on things unsaid, and right now it was made all the worse because suddenly she looked back toward Geoffrey’s portrait again and tears sprang to her eyes.
“Why must everything be so complicated, Mr. Lincoln? Why did Geoffrey have to die and leave me like this? I need to speak to him again, need his reassurance that...” Her voice broke, and she bowed her head.
It was too much for Jack to bear. He went to pull her into his embrace and held her close. She began to push him away, but the comfort was too welcome. She needed a man’s strength and tenderness, and Jack Lincoln gave both.
He could feel her trembling through her nightgown and wrap; he could also feel the sweet pliancy of her body. His own body told tales on him, refusing to remain quiescent. Desire ached at his loins. To make love to her now would be to enter Paradise itself! He closed his eyes as he struggled to quell his rising virility. He must think of something else, anything else...
For a moment—the mere span of a heartbeat—Emily clung to him, femininity cleaving to masculinity, need to need. Such intimacy hid no secrets, and she pressed to his arousal. She couldn’t help herself. It was the starving response of a warm-blooded woman who had been without physical love for the past year. Wild sensations darted over her, making her feel more alive and essential than ever before. She longed to raise her lips to his, so close, so temptingly close. The pleasure ... oh, the pleasure ...
Suddenly, she knew what had been wrong in her dream. The man with whom she had been making such abandoned love had not been Geoffrey, for he did not have long, sun-bleached hair, or eyes as blue-green as the sea. The knowledge snatched her breath away, and she wrenched free of his arms and ran from the gallery.
Chapter 16
When Jack awoke the next morning, his first thought was of Emily. And his second, and the one after that. She filled his senses as he washed and dressed, and she was still lingering pleasantly in his mind as he paused to look around the room before going down to breakfast.
Situated beneath the long gallery in the west wing, it was a pleasing chamber that was so very Tudor in atmosphere that he almost expected to find fresh herbs strewn on the floor, or hear a madrigal being sung. Rich paneling clad the walls, and an old livery cupboard stood next to the stone fireplace. Apart from all the dark oak, the predominant colors were gold and white, from the painted design on the beamed ceiling to the hangings at the window and on the bed.
Through a low doorway and down a steep step that had become necessary because the house had shifted so much over the years, there was another room containing a wardrobe and washstand. The floor of the dressing room was surprisingly level, but that in the bedroom had a definite downward slope from the door to the window.
This meant that at some time the feet of the great tester bed had been raised on one side to keep it comfortable for anyone who slept there. Jack was thankful for this because it meant that he had eventually been able to sleep quite well. Eventually was the appropriate word, because after his encounter with Emily in the long gallery, it had been some time before he’d been calm enough to sleep.
Morning sunlight filled the room, and the air was warm as he went to look out of the north-facing window. A horseman was riding along the drive toward the house. For an awful moment he wondered if it was Rafe paying an unexpected call, but as the rider drew closer, it was clear he was too ordinarily dressed—and mounted—to be the master of Temford Castle.
Jack thought no more of it as he left his room and walked toward the staircase, nor did he remark anything amiss when he saw that Cora had descended just ahead of him. She was crossing the entrance hall toward the dining room, but halted and turned when a serving girl hurried in from the courtyard with a note that the horseman had just brought.
“For whom is the message, Betsy?” Cora inquired.
“It is for Mrs. Fairfield from Sir Rafe, madam,” the girl said, dipping a curtsy.
“I will see that she receives it.”
“Yes, madam.” Betsy surrendered the note, then hastened away.
As soon as the maid had gone, Cora glanced cautiously around without observing Jack on the staircase, then broke the seal on the note and read it. After a moment she refolded it and pushed it into the bodice of her cinnamon-colored morning gown. Then she caught up her skirts and walked on to the dining room.
Jack followed in her footsteps, and was in time to hear her greet Emily and Peter, who were already at the table. “Bonjour, mes enfants!”
Peter’s chair scraped as he rose. “Bonjour, Grandmère,” he replied in a commendable French accent.
“I trust I find you both well?” Cora was saying as Jack entered.
Peter had been about to sit down, but hastily straightened again as Jack appeared. “Good morning, sir,” the boy said. He was wearing a maroon waist-length coat, gray breeches, and top boots, and his neckcloth was knotted as neatly as an adult’s.
“Good morning, Peter. Ladies.” Jack bowed, his glance drawn to Emily as if by a thread. Her short golden brown hair caught the light from the window, and she was neatly dressed in a high-throated gown made of blue-and-white striped muslin, with full sleeves gathered at her wrists. Self-conscious color marked her cheeks, and she avoided his eyes. Awkwardness beset him as well, and he made much of assisting Cora to sit down.
Breakfast at Fairfield Hall was all Jack could have wished of an English country house. The food was excellent, and the helpings generous. Cora made no mention at all of Rafe’s note, and at first Jack thought she had forgotten it, but then he saw her fiddle a little with the folded paper because it was digging into her. She hadn’t forgotten at all; she simply wasn’t going to mention it!
But she rattled on about anything and everything else under the sun, including religion. “Are you a churchgoing man, Mr. Lincoln?” she inquired.
“Er, not really. At least, I haven’t been in recent years. Why do you ask?”
“Well, today being Sunday, morning service is of course required. Fortunately, this being the first Sunday of the month, the Reverend Johnson will come here after his service in Temford.”
“Here?”
“Yes. We have a small chapel off the courtyard, and morning service is held there once a month. It is a way of keeping it in use—a tradition, if you like. Everyone in the house attends, as well as all the people on the estate. I trust you will join us?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent.” Cora’s attention then moved smartly on to Peter’s education, or lack of it. “Eh bien, mon petit brave! After service, I shall be attending to you,” she warned, deftly slicing the top off a boiled egg.
Peter looked up warily. “Me?”
“Yes. You are at a loose end, young man, rambling aimlessly in the park every single day when you should be keeping up with your lessons.”
He scowled, thinking it wasn’t his fault that he was here instead of Harrow!
Cora was undeterred. “I have therefore decided to help you with your studies, commencing today, directly after morning service.”
Emily lowered her cup in astonishment. “You? Mama, you are many things, but certainly not a scholar.”
“Maybe not, but I consider myself fluent in French.”
Peter gave her a look. “I think Mr. Lincoln has probably noticed,” he said dryly.
Emily frowned at hi
m.
Cora turned to Jack and explained. “I spent a year in Paris a long time ago. Les jours les plus heureux de ma vie.”
Emily smiled. “They may have been the happiest days of your life, Mama, but I still cannot picture you instructing Peter in French. Fluent or not, you are too much of a scatterbrain.”
“I will make you retract those words, ma petite,” Cora said tartly. “Peter and I will commence directly after breakfast.”
Peter was keen to avoid any such thing. “But what of your harpsichord practice, Grandmama?” he reminded her slyly.
“Mm? Oh, no dear, not on a Sunday.”
He knew there was no escape, although why French lessons were acceptable on a Sunday but music practice was not, he failed to understand.
Emily was suspicious. Her mother was scheming at something. But what, that was the question.
Cora obliged her curiosity by suddenly gasping, as if something of import had just occurred to her. “Oh, my! How remiss of me!”
“Remiss?” Emily inquired, stepping innocently into her mother’s trap.
“I will be teaching Peter, and cannot therefore attend to our guest. We cannot neglect Mr. Lincoln after morning service, my dear, so I will place him in your capable hands.”
Jack felt a little awkward. “I’m sure there is no need to worry about me, for I am quite able to amuse myself.”
“Nonsense!” Cora declared. “Emily will look after you in my stead, sir. She has nothing pressing to occupy her time, and it will do her good to get out and about more.”
“Out and about?” Emily repeated. “Clearly you have something particular in mind.”
“Yes, my dear. I was going to take Mr. Lincoln to see the rapids. I know our little River Teme cannot compare with the majestic falls he was no doubt accustomed to in Peru, but I think it pretty enough for all that. I would like you to take him there, Emily.”
Seeing Emily’s expression at the prospect of having to ride alone with him, Jack spoke up hurriedly. “Much as I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mrs. Preston, I fear that I do not have any riding clothes with me. When I arrived in Bristol, I only possessed my Peruvian garb, and although I managed to acquire two sets of togs, this one and the evening garb you saw last night, neither of them are suitable for riding.”
