by Mary Brendan
‘Would you like to have a cup of tea and a bite to eat, sir, before you set on your way again?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Why…thank you, Miss Cleveland, I should very much like that.’ Randolph’s answer was ironically formal and suited to a light dialogue conducted in a drawing room rather than one addressed to the back of her head as she perched, rather windswept, atop his trusty steed. Overhead, branches of a stout oak tree formed a canopy of drily rustling leaves. The breeze strengthened, causing a few scraps of curled russet foliage to drift down and settle on her skirt. In front of her Randolph’s hand brushed them idly off, then refastened on the reins. She stared, as one fascinated, at long brown fingers intertwined with leather, feeling suddenly shyly conscious of her hips snugly settled between his muscled thighs. She could feel her cheeks becoming warm from the intensity of his scrutiny; she knew his eyes were constantly on her. There was so much more to be said. She owed him an apology and her gratitude, for, without him…She dared not think what might have happened to her.
During the gallop home, safe in Randolph’s arms, she’d come to appreciate just how fortunate she’d been. But for his presence by her side today she might be lying beaten and abused in a ditch by the wayside. She felt deeply ashamed that earlier she’d implied that, if he visited her and her mother at Woodville Place, he’d be unwelcome.
‘You will say nothing to my mama of what went on, will you?’ Over a shoulder she slanted up an appealing look at him. It was the first time she had properly studied him for any length of time. Earlier her sliding glances had quickly darted away. But now she gazed and, whilst waiting for his answer, she realised that he wasn’t so very changed in looks from the man she’d thought she’d marry when a tender eighteen years old. The grooves bracketing his mouth and radiating from his feline eyes weren’t extremely ageing, she decided. His hair was now long and light and his visage far darker and leaner, but he still resembled the handsome gentleman she’d wanted to be her husband.
‘I’ll not tell your mother Seth Luckhurst has designs on your virtue.’ Randolph’s tone sounded quietly ironic.
‘His design is to keep me quiet,’ Deborah stressed on a blush. ‘He has no liking for me.’
‘He doesn’t need to have a liking for you, Deborah,’ Randolph returned as one explaining something that ought to be obvious. ‘Don’t ever go out again without a chaperon.’
Deborah limited her mutinous response to making a tight little pout of her mouth. Of course she knew his advice was sound and sensible. Still it rankled that, if she took it, her freedom and independence—things she cherished—would be lost to her. The lout who’d forced her to change her habits deserved no such victory.
‘Does your mother know that your driver was beaten today?’ Randolph asked abruptly.
A forceful shake of the head preceded her words. ‘I told Fred to avoid her and go straight away to his quarters and rest. If Mama finds out that Seth is threatening me, she will suffer very badly with her nerves.’
‘What did Luckhurst say about you that caused your driver to remonstrate with him?’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘I think you are,’ Randolph contradicted. ‘What did Luckhurst say?’
Deborah twisted her fingers in her lap. ‘Fred truly would not repeat it and, as he was in pain from his injury, I did not insist he tell me. I guessed from his embarrassment that it was something lewd.’
‘I imagine you’re right. So are you going to promise to heed my warning and only go out accompanied in future?’
Deborah looked up and, as their eyes held, she felt a sudden yearning to have him again put his arms about her and comfort her. For all her bold talk of standing up to the bullies, she felt a coil of fear unfurl in her belly. Soon Randolph would again be gone from the area and she would have no champion to scare off the likes of Luck-hurst for her. She sensed rather than saw his amber eyes drop to her softly parted mouth and her breath caught in her throat as she realised he need only incline forwards a little to lock together their lips.
‘Will you soon be gone from here?’ she whispered, her eyes riveted to the shady chin just a few inches away.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What business…?’
Her query was curtailed by the finger he put to her lips to silence her.
‘Promise you won’t go out alone,’ he demanded harshly.
She nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘Promise,’ she muttered with bad grace.
The finger that had hovered a fraction away from her lips returned to gentle a reward on her plump pink skin. Abruptly he took up the reins. A second later he’d urged the horse in to a sedate trot towards the house.
Chapter Four
‘I’ve brought a guest home today, Mama.’
Julia Woodville had been tackling a Gothic tale with some apathy so was happy to hear someone novel might brighten her mundane routine.
Usually she spent the mornings at her sewing and taking a constitutional in the garden. The weather was now too fresh to spend a lengthy time outdoors so today she’d limited her stroll to the paths on the southern side. The spare time till luncheon had been whiled away at her writing desk. She liked to keep in touch with her friends in London. She better liked having their replies to learn what was going on in the beau monde, although their gay news always made her sadly yearn to be a part of it.
The afternoons were customarily employed in reading. She enjoyed scanning the ladies’ journals and appreciated a good book. But the romance Deborah had got her from the circulating library this week was not one to hold her interest. Julia Woodville gladly let it drop to her lap. Myopically she squinted at her daughter and at the fellow stationed behind her.
Deborah approached her mother’s chair positioned close to the log fire. Having removed her straw bonnet, she tossed it to the sofa and combed a few fingers through her tangled flaxen locks to try to bring some order to them. She was conscious she probably looked unattractively dishevelled after the thundering pace Randolph had set on the short ride to Woodville Place. Her other chilly digits were held out to the glow in the grate. It was a gloriously bright yet invigorating day in mid-October. Draughts were stirring the curtains at the casements, making warmth from the flames very welcome within the parlour’s solid stone walls.
‘Who is it, dear?’ Julia hissed in an undertone. ‘Is the vicar again come for tea?’ Julia Woodville’s failing eyesight allowed her to see little more than a gentleman’s silhouette. Yet she could read the print in her books very well. She peered past her daughter again, feeling a mite deflated. The vicar was a nice enough chap, but his sister was better company and this fellow seemed to be alone.
‘No, it is not Gerard. It is an acquaintance from London. He is presently in Sussex on business.’
Julia’s interest re-ignited with the information. It was her constant wish that they might return to the metropolis and live a mean approximation of the wonderful life they’d once known. She’d accepted that they could never recapture the sumptuous existence her first husband had provided for them both, but a small neat villa on the fashionable outskirts would suffice, she’d told Deborah. Unfortunately their funds would not suffice, Deborah constantly told her, even for that modest dream to be realised.
Now that the visitor had come closer Julia could see that it was indeed not the vicar. Gerard Davenport was nowhere near as tall and broad as this gentleman seemed to be. But she couldn’t fathom his identity. His features were still indistinct, although he seemed to have a good head of light-coloured hair.
‘It is Mr Chadwicke. I expect you must remember him. He is a friend of the Earl of Gresham.’ Debbie introduced him rather breathily. ‘I expect you remember that when we lived in London with Papa he would sometimes visit us with Marcus.’ Deborah knew that mention of the Earl of Gresham was likely to disgruntle her mother. Julia Woodville had never quite come to terms with the fact that her daughter had spurned an earl. Even knowing
that Marcus had been as keen as Deborah to end their betrothal had remained a minor setback to a grand match in Julia’s mind.
‘Yes, I do remember him,’ Julia whispered after a long pause. She picked up her book rather agitatedly, then put it back in her lap. It was opened once again.
Deborah turned and gave Randolph a rather apologetic smile. She knew her mother tended to suffer with her nerves depending on her mood, but that didn’t excuse this rather rude reception. When they’d lived in town Randolph had been a visitor to their Upper Brook Street mansion. At times he’d arrive alone, but more usually he’d call with his friend, Marcus. She could only recall her mother greeting Randolph charmingly in the past. Surely he could have done nothing in the interim to upset her?
‘How are you, Mrs Woodville?’ Seemingly unperturbed by her inhospitable welcome, Randolph approached Julia’s chair to courteously offer her a hand, ‘I’m well enough, thank you, sir.’ Having given a limp shake to his firm fingers, Julia drew her shawl closer about her. ‘You are back, then, from foreign lands.’
‘I am,’ Randolph concurred. ‘It is good to be home.’
‘And that brother of yours? Is he home too?’ Julia once more looked agitated and the book was picked at with fidgeting fingers.
‘Sebastian is dead, Mrs Woodville.’ The information was given tonelessly.
That news caused Julia to look thoughtful. ‘Must we remember to address you as Lord Buckland? Or did your brother get himself a son?’
‘I have a nephew and a niece,’ Randolph informed her in the same neutral, polite way.
‘So you ended up with nothing at all, then…’ Julia appeared not to require a response to that. She flicked pages in her book as though hunting for an interesting excerpt.
Deborah had listened to this exchange with her jaw dropping in astonishment. Her mother seemed to be acting very oddly this afternoon. But it was not just her mother’s unfathomably churlish attitude that had startled her. In just a few short minutes she’d learned a good deal about Randolph’s relations that had come as a shock.
When they had been close friends years ago, Randolph had been happier to speak about his sister than his brother. At the time Emilia Chadwicke had been a schoolgirl of about ten. Deborah guessed that she now would be about seventeen and preparing for her début. His father had long been deceased but, as far as she was aware, his mother was still alive and living in Suffolk with her daughter.
As for Randolph’s older brother, she’d heard rumours that Sebastian Chadwicke constantly caused trouble for his family. Randolph had confirmed his brother existed and was a nuisance, but Deborah had discovered very little else about him—Randolph had always seemed reluctant to discuss him. Deborah’s friend, Jemma, was married to Randolph’s friend, Marcus, so little snippets had come her way over the years to add to her suspicion that the fellow must be a very bad sort. In contrast to his errant sibling, Randolph had always been sought after in society and had been known as a personable gentleman. Debbie could recall feeling glad that Randolph had not been unfairly treated because of his brother’s notoriety. Yet now it seemed her mother was doing just that.
The news that Sebastian Chadwicke had died had not come her way, neither had she been aware that the fellow had at some time married and produced children. But then, after seven years apart, she no longer had any right or reason to make enquiries through their mutual friends about Randolph’s life or his kin. Neither had it been very right of her mother to pry. But having done so, at least she should have offered a brief condolence on learning of Randolph’s loss, no matter that the deceased was rumoured to have been a rogue. It was very out of character for her mother to overlook etiquette.
‘I bumped into Lottie in the vestibule and asked her to bring some tea, Mama,’ Deborah brightly announced to break the quiet. ‘And Mr Chadwicke has kindly agreed to stay and dine with us later.’
‘Yes, indeed he must,’ Julia agreed, as though feeling a little guilty over her previous lack of manners. In a quite sprightly manner she got up from her chair and smoothed her pearl-grey gown. ‘It is nice to see people from the old days. Sometimes I think I should love to have a chat with a friend about Almack’s or the latest rage drawing audiences at Drury Lane. Such wonderful parties we would attend! Vauxhall! Now there was a treat! Although it could be a little…scandalous.’ She gave a meaningful nod, her features momentarily animated by mischief. ‘Did you enjoy visiting the pleasure gardens, Mr Chadwicke?’
‘I did, Mrs Woodville. I remember having a very enjoyable evening there with you all.’
‘Indeed, we did have a good time!’ Julia corroborated. ‘Of course, your chum, Marcus, didn’t accompany us when he should have done. He was newly engaged to Deborah at the time,’ she remarked with a faraway smile at the fire. ‘But you were kind enough to take his place and escort us on that occasion.’
‘It was my pleasure to do so, ma’am,’ Randolph said, his eyes gliding to Deborah and lingering there.
‘It was bad of Marcus to stay away—’
‘You cannot blame him for that, Mama,’ Deborah interrupted on a constrained laugh. ‘At the time he was falling in love all over again with his future wife,’ she softly reminisced, very aware of a pair of predatory eyes on her.
‘At the time you were his future wife,’ Julia reminded her daughter pithily.
‘But I was glad that he didn’t want me!’ Deborah’s tone was sharpened by impatience, as usual, on hearing her mother snapping at her for having turned down the chance to be the Countess of Gresham. Her eyes darted to Randolph and for a moment were engulfed by a warm, honeyed look.
Lottie appeared, bearing the tea things. The young maid slid the tray on to polished mahogany and looked expectantly at Deborah. A small gesture from Deborah indicated that the girl was not needed to carry out the ritual of pouring.
‘Have you lately been in London, Mr Chadwicke?’ Julia asked, her tone bright with anticipation. She enjoyed hearing the newest on dits.
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Woodville,’ he answered.
‘Oh…’ Julia murmured with patent disappointment. ‘Well, never mind. After you have had tea you must take Mr Chadwicke to see the gardens, Deborah,’ she said. ‘We have a sunken garden, you know, sir. My late husband, Mr George Woodville, was a keen gardener. He knew the names of every shrub and there are acres of them to choose from. There is a pond, too, with a fountain and fish the size of pheasants.’
‘Are you not having tea, Mama?’ Deborah watched as her mother continued past her to the door.
‘I shan’t; I had some tea and seed cake not long before you arrived home and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. We must give our guest a good dinner this evening. I shall go and see what our Mrs Field has got in the still room.’ She paused. ‘I believe Basham was out shooting earlier this week. There should be plenty of game if the beef is all gone.’
Had Deborah cared to take a look into the corridor whence her mother had just disappeared, she would have seen the woman heading for the stairs rather than the kitchens. But she was too conscious of Randolph’s overpowering presence, and the apology owed to him for her mother’s bizarre behaviour, to follow her parent and find out what on earth was troubling her this afternoon.
‘I…I’m sorry my mother seemed a little unwelcoming at first,’ Deborah blurted as soon as the door had closed on Julia Woodville’s departing figure. ‘I assure you she doesn’t mean to give offence.’
A crooked smile acknowledged Deborah’s plea on behalf of her mother. Randolph had his own suspicions why the woman might not want him around without his friend, the Earl of Gresham, rendering him acceptable.
People of Julia Woodville’s age knew that the Chad-wickes had for generations regularly turned out a few reprobates. She knew, and no doubt her first husband, Viscount Cleveland, had also known, that a number of his paternal ancestors had been to blame for passing bad blood on to his brother, Sebastian. Had his great-great grandfather not been such a scoundrel, the b
arony, and the thousands of Suffolk acres that came with it, would have stayed with the crown.
‘You will have some tea, sir? Oh…and there are some cinnamon biscuits, too,’ Deborah said, spotting that Lottie had had the foresight to include them. Having received Randolph’s wordless assurance that her mother’s attitude had not bothered him, Deborah approached the tray and occupied her nervous hands with cups and saucers.
‘Thank you,’ Randolph said. He approached the fire and held out his palms.
‘Oh…please sit down if you would like to, Mr Chad-wicke.’ Deborah pointed a silver teaspoon at the twin fireside chairs. Once he had settled his large frame in one of them she handed him his steaming tea. Solicitously she moved a small circular table closer so she might put the plate of biscuits within his easy reach.
She took the chair that her mother had vacated opposite him, so that the fire was between them. Having taken a sip of her tea, and a nibble at a biscuit, she placed both down in a rattle of crockery. It was a good while until the hour to dine. Usually she and her mother would eat dinner at eight o’clock and it was not yet five. On those days they were not particularly hungry they might ask Mrs Field to simply prepare a buffet supper to be set out in the cosy parlour.
Deborah turned her face to the mellow autumnal light filtering through the glass, thus escaping a gaze that was as relentless as midsummer heat. ‘Would you like to take a stroll in the gardens after tea, sir?’ she asked politely whilst watching a blackbird on a branch cocking his head at her.
‘I’d like you to stop calling me sir and Mr Chadwicke,’ Randolph said softly. ‘Have you forgotten my name, Deborah?’
‘Indeed I have not, sir,’ Debbie returned coolly as she turned to look at him. ‘Neither have I forgotten that using it would imply a closeness that we no longer have. Many years have passed since we were friends.’
‘I’d like us to again be friends.’ When his gentle remark made Deborah appear to resume her interest in the garden, he continued suggestively, ‘I remember very well the last time we met. It was at Marcus and Jemma’s wedding.’
