by Mary Brendan
When Mrs Woodville had flown down the stairs earlier in a high old state Basham had been on the point of exiting the drawing room, having just replenished the hearth with apple-scented logs. Miss Woodville and Mr Chadwicke had been entering the house, having returned from their walk. The ensuing clamour of crisscrossing demands and answers had been cut through by Mr Chad-wicke’s authoritative tone. Within a very short time the guest had got the gist of what ailed the hysterical woman. A moment later Basham had been sprinting after his tall figure as Mr Chadwicke went on the hunt for Luckhurst leaving Miss Woodville with the task of calming down her mother.
‘You must take another sip of your brandy, Mama. It will fortify you.’ Deborah had just returned to the parlour with a bottle of smelling salts that she’d fetched from upstairs. She hurried to where Julia was reclining on the day bed, held out the glass of cognac and urged her mother to take some. The other hand held the dark bottle in readiness to be thrust under her mother’s nose.
Having sipped her drink, and snorted strongly at the salts being waved below her nostrils, Julia coughed, then again collapsed back against the velvet upholstery. ‘That villain is going to try to break in and steal everything we own,’ she cried faintly. ‘He’ll overpower Basham and Fred and ravish the maids…and you.’
‘Hush, Mama,’ Deborah chided, her cheeks heating. ‘You are overwrought.’ She took one of her mother’s hands between her palms and chafed it. ‘Mr Chadwicke has checked everywhere with Basham. If it was Seth Luckhurst, he was probably just…curious about Mr Chadwicke.’ Deborah’s cornflower-blue eyes were angled upwards to tangle with Randolph’s narrowed, watchful gaze. An unspoken message passed between them. ‘We saw Seth Luckhurst earlier when I met Mr Chadwicke in town. You know how the locals are—they are suspicious of strangers. That oaf probably came to get a better look at him in case he’s a Revenue Officer in disguise,’ she gently teased her mother.
‘I did draw his attention, Mrs Woodville.’ Deborah’s innocent quip had caused Randolph’s sensual lips to slant sardonically. ‘Luckhurst seemed a suspicious sort. I expect it was inquisitiveness that brought him here.’
Julia seemed a little reassured by Randolph’s endorsement of her daughter’s theory. She put away her bottle of hartshorn and scrubbed her moist eyes with her handkerchief. A moment later she again looked agitated. ‘Oh…and I have forgotten to tell Mrs Field that you are to dine with us! How bad of me!’
‘It’s of no matter, ma’am,’ Randolph gently stressed. ‘I am staying at the Woolpack in Rye and they do a good roast—’
‘No…no!’ Julia interrupted, flapping a hand. ‘You must stay! You were invited to dine and you will. It is the least we can offer you for all the help you have given.’
‘Shall I…?’ Basham jerked his head in the direction of the exit, miming his willingness to run an errand.
‘Thank you, Basham,’ Julia said. ‘Please tell Mrs Field she must quickly stoke up the range. We shall have game and roasted vegetables and some fruit tartlets and cheeses. Are there pickles? Oh, I suppose I should go and see for myself what we have.’ Julia appeared to have recovered her composure and was soon determinedly heading, with Basham in tow, for the door.
Before she quit the room she turned and looked at the young couple. Her thankfulness for Randolph’s help had momentarily made her forget his intercepted letters. She’d forgotten, too, she’d wanted him soon to leave. His presence now seemed more of a benefit than a threat. ‘There is some brandy and whisky on the sideboard in the dining room, Mr Chadwicke,’ she announced magnanimously. ‘If you prefer, there is sherry or port in the cellar. Deborah will make sure you get whatever you fancy, you have only to ask her for it.’
There followed an excruciating silence during which Deborah’s complexion grew hotter and brighter because a pitilessly amused pair of eyes refused to budge from it. She rather thought she could guess at what it was he fancied and she had no intention of allowing him enough time to bring it to her notice.
‘I’m so sorry you have been embroiled in all this, sir,’ she fluidly said. ‘I’m sure you must dearly wish you’d never stopped to have your horse shod in Hastings today. You have had nothing but trouble ever since.’
‘I’m glad I stopped when I did,’ Randolph quietly contradicted her, a sultry humour still lurking far back in his eyes.
‘I can only imagine your horse was very lame for you to say so,’ Deborah weakly joked. ‘No sane gentleman would welcome being thrust unexpectedly in to the role of protector.’
As her words faded and her blush re-ignited, Randolph gave her a ruthless smile. ‘I’ll willingly offer you my protection, Deborah. As for my sanity…I’ll admit that once I was mad about you,’ he finished with savage self-mockery.
‘And my mother?’ Deborah returned coolly. ‘May I tell her that you are offering to act knight errant for us both?’
‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘Anything you want…’ ‘When did you start to care about what I want?’ she returned sourly. ‘A long time ago.’ ‘For a short while.’
‘I took the hint that you’d prefer it that way,’ Randolph returned in a lethal drawl—he’d heard very well her muttered sarcasm.
Deborah tore her gaze away from eyes that had narrowed to hawkish slits. ‘We appear to be at cross-purposes and talking in riddles, sir. Please do sit down and I shall go and see how long we must wait for dinner.’
She started for the door, but from beneath long, lush lashes she saw him take a lazy pace to block her way. At the first hint of his skin scuffing hers she snatched her hand free of the lean dark fingers encircling her fragile wrist bones.
‘Don’t rush off just as we’re talking, Deborah. You might not be interested in solving this particular riddle, but I am.’
‘Would you like a brandy, sir?’ she asked with cool civility. She raised her icy blue gaze to his. Desire was burning at the backs of his eyes, enlarging the pupils and blackening their tawny depths. He might have changed his mind about proposing to her seven years ago, but it seemed he couldn’t quash his desire for her as easily.
‘Whatever I fancy is what I was offered,’ he reminded her in a voice that was velvety and made her spine tingle.
‘And that is?’
‘If I tell you, I imagine you’ll bring me hemlock.’
‘It might be wise then to let me choose. I’ll fetch you a brandy.’ Despite her intention to act distantly, her lips twitched in amusement. It was a poignant reminder of times, long ago, when he’d made her laugh with his dry, self-deprecating sense of humour. With an exaggeratedly servile little bob she started forwards to run the errand.
‘I’m still not sure I trust you not to poison me.’ Randolph said dulcetly. ‘Can you think of a way to convince me you’ll be kind to me?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. But if it’ll put your mind at rest, I’ll taste the brandy first.’ She’d paused for a moment to answer him, but now resumed walking towards the door. He moved, too, just as she’d known he would. What she hadn’t anticipated was her reaction to his pursuit this time. Instead of altering course to avoid him, she felt overpowered by his confidence. The scent of cool air and cologne that clung to his clothes pleasantly teased her nostrils and the strength of his virility seemed to paralyse her reason.
This time when he arrested her with his hard fingers, her lush dark lashes fell naturally to screen her eyes. When he turned her about so she was facing him, her breath caught in her throat and a heady excitement wedged it there. She felt herself sway involuntarily towards him, her face tilting up at a perfect angle to collide with his as it descended. Their mouths came together in a perfect blend of shape and size.
For a while after he had gone away, whilst still optimistic of him contacting her, Deborah had fantasised about the moment he would return to claim her. He would storm in and insist they waste no more time in becoming man and wife. Then he would kiss her with a courteous yet imperative passion that weakened her bones and made her feel as thou
gh molten honey raced through her veins. For those were the wonderful sensations she’d experienced at their friends’ wedding reception. In a chilly, marble-flagged hallway, dressed in a flimsy silk bridesmaid’s dress, he’d warmed her by fusing together their mouths and bodies until she’d felt she was burning with rapture.
But this was nothing like that magical memory! His mouth had moved on hers with a speed and force that startled her, as did the immediate touch of his tongue as it worked at her lips to prise them apart. When she resisted his probing and her face attempted to jerk free of his punishing assault, his hand sprang from her spine to her nape. Long pitiless fingers speared into her hair, curved on her scalp, preventing her evading him. His other hand caught at her chin so he might artfully manoeuvre her jaw apart and plunge his tongue within.
A mix of anger and humiliation made a small sob break in her throat, and immediately he let her go. Deborah heard the low oath that escaped him as he dropped his fists to his sides, then jammed them into his pockets.
‘I’m sorry,’ he gritted out. ‘That was unforgivable of me.’ He turned and in two rapid paces was at the door. ‘Convey my sincere apologies to your mother,’ Randolph sent over his shoulder. ‘I regret I can’t stay to dine this evening.’
‘But you must stay!’ Deborah reflexively cried through fingers that had sprung to soothe her bruised lips. ‘My mother is expecting you to keep to your word,’ she qualified her frustrated demand as he turned to blast a fearsome look at her. ‘You promised you would again check the grounds for interlopers. If you go without doing so, she will be anxious and not get a wink of sleep.’
At that moment the woman Deborah was fretting over entered the room looking a picture of serenity, until she spied her guest so close to the exit.
‘Are you leaving us, sir?’ Julia asked, a trepidation trembling in her voice that validated her daughter’s fears.
‘Mr Chadwicke was about to go and find Basham and the flares so that he might go on watch.’ Deborah’s eyes were bright as stars as wordlessly she pleaded he at least oblige her with that small favour before he left them to fend for themselves.
‘Oh, you need not go on patrol just yet, sir.’ A happy sigh of relief escaped Julia. She clasped a hand on Randolph’s elbow and urged him back into the room with her. ‘I have told Basham we will eat before you venture again outside.’ She shivered at the thought of the chilly autumn night air, and the reason their guest must endure it instead of remaining close to the fire. Randolph’s arm received a pat that conveyed Julia’s gratitude. ‘Dinner will not be so long after all. Lottie took the initiative and conveyed to Mrs Field that a guest was expected to dine. Mrs Field—God bless her common sense—anticipated what I might choose to put on the menu. They have the meal already underway and Basham is lending a hand preparing the pheasant and duck, which he has a wont to do in any case. He is a real help in the kitchens at Yuletide. Do you like to shoot, sir?’ Julia looked up at Mr Chadwicke. Finding his stern countenance turned in her daughter’s direction, she swung a glance between the young couple. Finally it dawned on her that the atmosphere in the room was thick enough to slice. Julia studied her daughter, noticing her pallor and agitation as she clasped her quivering hands behind her back.
‘Oh…you have not got a drink, sir,’ Julia rattled off. ‘I shall fetch you a brandy—’
‘I shall get the decanter, Mama.’ Deborah swiftly halted her mother’s attempt to diplomatically depart. Her vivid eyes dropped away from a sardonic preying gaze. Gracefully she passed him with, ‘I was just about to do so. Mr Chadwicke has only just let me know what it is he wants.’
Chapter Six
‘What business brings you here to Sussex, Mr Chadwicke?’ Julia asked conversationally whilst slicing in to a chunk of tender pheasant. She daintily chewed the morsel whilst awaiting his reply.
‘Sheep, Mrs Woodville.’
‘Sheep, sir?’ Julia echoed, her mouth motionless whilst she digested that shocking information.
Deborah, too, was surprised on hearing his reason for being in the area. She ceased toying with her food and looked up and, for the first time since they’d started dinner, she allowed her eyes to be captured by his. Throughout the first course of pea-and-ham soup she’d been dodging an agate gaze that seemed to glitter at her through flickering candlelight. But she’d been acutely conscious of him seated opposite, at his ease, eating and conversing so pleasantly that she must have imagined that a few short hours ago he’d been so angry he’d been on the point of storming out of the house.
‘The Kent Marshes have long been famous for the quality of the wool produced from hardy breeds of sheep,’ Randolph started to explain. ‘The animals I’m interested in seem to thrive in bleak conditions. They might suit the pastures close to the Suffolk seaboard where I have property. The landscape is as flat and desolate as the salt marshes hereabouts and the climate in winter similarly harsh.’
Having listened to this information, Mrs Woodville still appeared to be rather startled by it. For a quarter of a century she’d lived a cocooned life in Mayfair as the wife of Gregory, Viscount Cleveland. When she’d remarried she’d found that her second husband possessed a more bluff character than her first. George Woodville had been a country squire born and bred, yet he’d still delegated most estate business to Basham.
Julia had known Randolph’s parents years ago and had liked them very much. When his father had been killed in a carriage accident in early middle age, and Sebastian took the reins, nobody could have guessed what havoc he would wreak on the Buckland reputation and fortune. Randolph had always been a personable chap undeserving of the taint of his brother’s existence. But unfortunately, when they’d lived in London and all were friends, his brother did exist. That connection meant Randolph had not been considered a worthy enough candidate for their only child’s hand and, had he made a formal approach, they would have had to conquer the embarrassment of telling him so.
They had decided that intercepting any communication might be a relatively painless way of protecting their daughter from an alliance with a disreputable dynasty. On that matter Julia and Gregory had been in full agreement. Much as they’d liked Randolph, when his letters had arrived from the Indies they’d known for sure the reason Deborah had aborted her engagement to the Earl of Gresham. They’d had their suspicions for a while; one only had had to look at the two of them together to know where Deborah had settled her heart. But the thought of their beautiful, vivacious débutante daughter being sister-in-law to a fellow who had been known to cheat and lie and engage in all sort of devilish activity had been insupportable, especially when other men of wealth and standing had been offering for her following Marcus Speer’s withdrawal.
However, Julia had continued to deem Randolph a nice enough fellow, and her expectation of him now was much as it would have been then: that he might be brought to a rural area to invest in land or property, not to attend a local cattle market.
‘Well,’ she said, raising her sparse eyebrows and looking a little lost for words, ‘I would not have guessed you to hold farming so dear to your heart, sir.’ She again turned her attention to her plate and set about a crisp roast potato. She encompassed her daughter in a little nod. ‘Being town folk, we know little about livestock. You must excuse our ignorance.’
‘I wouldn’t expect either of you to hold a conversation on animal husbandry, Mrs Woodville.’ Randolph smiled. ‘I admit to having little expertise in the matter myself. Ordinarily my steward would deal with it. He is not well enough to travel at present and to undertake the task.’
‘Is it vital you purchase these animals now, Mr Chadwicke?’ Deborah probed, having listened and carefully considered what he’d said. ‘Will the matter not wait for your steward’s improvement?’
‘It is important, yes,’ he answered smoothly as he placed down his cutlery. Instead his fingers skimmed the fragile stem of his wine glass. ‘Transporting and settling the ewes as soon as possible is best for successful sp
ring lambing. And it is likely Roper will not improve. The physician thinks the lung disease might prove fatal.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. He is quite old?’
‘No, he is quite young—just a few years older than myself, I’d say.’ Randolph’s lips moved in a vestige of a smile as he lifted his glass.
‘Are you quite young?’ Deborah queried with a hint of insolence. ‘I had you for older than Marcus…perhaps near forty.’
‘I expect it’s the hard life I’ve led that makes me appear decrepit at just thirty-five,’ he mildly replied. He put the glass to his lips and before sipping said, ‘Whereas you, Miss Cleveland, seem to have changed very little in seven years.’
‘Perhaps not in appearance, sir…’ Debbie returned sweetly, if with significance. She sensed her mother’s observation and shot a glance sideways. The woman had picked up on the intimate inflection in their conversation and was studying her from beneath her brows.
‘Do you presently rear sheep on your estate?’ Deborah reverted to her line of questioning. She was like a dog worrying at a bone. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt disinclined to believe the tale she’d just heard from him explaining his presence in Sussex. The Randolph Chad-wicke she recalled from years ago had been a sophisticated urbanite, not a country dweller happy to roam far and wide to inspect and purchase livestock. Neither did a gentleman of means usually undertake such tasks. He was dressed smartly. His horse looked to be a magnificent thoroughbred. He hardly appeared to be on his uppers and unable to despatch a knowledgeable hireling to Kent to examine the local flocks if his steward was too ill to fulfil his duty.
She had an idea of her own why he had travelled to the south coast. If she were proved wrong in it, she must acknowledge her conceit. Nevertheless she still gave credence to her theory that he might have come to Sussex to find her. The mystery was what she could possibly have done to stoke in him such enduring vengefulness. Had he waited for seven long years, and for his return to England, before finding out from Marcus her location and setting out with an axe to grind?
