by Jo Beverley
But she wanted him. She could not believe how she wanted him. She walked the three miles home berating herself furlong by furlong for being a foolish, wanton woman.
Rachel would rather not have had anything to do with the third earl’s papers, but her father regarded them as a treasure. As his eyesight wasn’t as clear as hers, she had to transcribe the faint scribbles, but in the end they learned little more.
“There’s nothing here, pet,” her father said, “except that something deprived the earl of a large part of his wits. A likely effect of being hit on the head.”
“The earl said his ancestor was assaulted because he tried to rescue Meggie. Rescue her from what?”
Her father nodded. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll tell us more.”
The next day, however, they learned that Lord Morden had returned to London. Rachel conquered bitter disappointment and offered a prayer of thanks on her knees. May he find his true level, in the stews and hells of that place.
Chapter 3
In December, the Proudfoots received an invitation to dine at Morden Abbey during Chrismastide. Rachel suspected that a wise woman would refuse to go, but she told herself such a flattering invitation could not be refused, and that her own private demon would have lost all interest in her by now. It was two months since their last encounter, after all, and she’d shown him that his tricks wouldn’t work with her.
Once she decided to attend she accepted that she couldn’t do so plainly dressed. That meant she must wear her pink silk sacque, even if it was a little skimpy in the bodice for a winter evening, and her mother’s pearls, and the matching earrings her father had given her.
Rachel prepared for the event aware for the first time that a virtuous and generally sensible person could defy their conscience and rush headlong toward the fires of hell.
She entered the drawing room at Morden Abbey almost aquiver with anxiety and longing, then froze when she saw the earl.
She had no reason to be dumbstruck to see him, so it must be his grandeur that halted her. It was the first time she’d seen him in the full elegance of silk and satin, with his hair neat and powdered, gold and jewels glinting as he moved.
He turned his head and saw her, something suggesting that he’d been alert for her arrival.
Another rakish trick, she warned herself.
He smiled, his knowing gaze wandering lightly over her, seeming to approve of gown, hoops, and pearls, and the embroidered stomacher done by her own hand.
Oh foolish, she berated herself. He’s fresh from London, where they doubtless give such as this to their servants!
One of his brows rose, and he raised the wine glass in his hand in a secret toast before coming forward to greet her.
The other guests were already well known to the Proudfoots: Sir George and Lady Pritchard; Mr. and Mrs. Home-Nowlan and their son and daughter; elderly Mr. Cathcart and his sister, Miss Diana; and an ancient great-aunt of the earl’s, Lady Ida Brandish, who made her home at the Abbey.
Rachel greeted each in turn, hoping she appeared more composed than she felt. She took a seat by young Lady Pritchard and engaged her in talk about her children, which could always be relied upon to avoid silence.
As the lady’s rambling discourse of teething and gripe washed around her, Rachel wondered what the earl was doing and thinking. She refused to look in his direction.
She caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye and turned just as he sat beside her with a flick of his mulberry brocade coattails and a discreet waft of perfume.
She couldn’t help but admire his magnificence.
His breeches and stockings were pristine ivory silk, his waistcoat a masterpiece of embroidery that cast her efforts in shame.
The flow of lace at wrist and neck was the finest Mechlin, and every fastening of his garments seemed to be made of gold and jewels. Not only was his hair powdered, but there was a light dusting of powder on his skin as was the fashion. It merely made his blue eyes more jewel-like. His long-fingered pale hands carried a gold signet and a large ruby.
He looked not one bit like the young man of the portrait, or the wild rakish seducer who had twice assaulted her. Tonight he looked the aristocrat he was, and that aristocrat could have no decent interest in prosaic Rachel Proudfoot.
Of course, he’d never claimed his interest was decent.
“It’s novel to see you at the Abbey, Morden,” said Lady Pritchard without any particular awe. “London must be a mighty fine place, the way you like to stay there.”
“It is indeed, Lady Pritchard. You should persuade Sir George to bring you. I guarantee to squire you about to any number of novel amusements.”
“None of that, Morden,” said Sir George, coming over hastily. “We don’t need such foolishness.”
Sir George was of an age with the earl, but much more rotund—a different type altogether. A more worthy type, Rachel told herself firmly, though her heart was already racing just from Morden’s presence beside her.
“Assuredly we don’t,” said Lady Pritchard cheerfully. “There’s nothing to London but time-wasting and frippery, if you ask me.” With this amiable dismissal, she turned to talk to Lady Ida.
Rachel sipped her Madeira. “And that for you, my lord,” she remarked to her demon.
“Do you too see only frippery?” Morden produced a silk and ivory fan from his pocket and wafted it.
“And after I dressed like this just for you.”
Her eyes flew to his—and found his teasing. He turned the fan on her. “That pink becomes you. It brings the roses to your cheeks.”
Rachel cast an alarmed look around. “Please don’t. . . .”
“Did you wear the gown just for me?”
Rachel pulled herself together. “Certainly not. Being a simple person, I have only one fine gown.”
“That for me indeed. . . . “He stood. “May I show you the portrait gallery, Miss Proudfoot?”
“No,” Rachel said, purely on instinct.
“It’s merely around that corner. Impropriety would be virtually impossible.”
He was standing there, hand-outstretched and attracting attention. Rachel must either comply, or create a scene. She put down her glass, placed her hand in his, and rose.
Capturing her eyes, he raised her hand and brought his lips much closer than propriety allowed, so that his breath warmed her fingers. Then he led her from the room with a distinct air of challenge.
Rachel was aware of speculative looks from all quarters.
Once around the corner and in—as he had promised—the portrait gallery, she pulled her hand from his. “I do wish you would stop playing this game, my lord. You embarrass me.”
“Game? Perhaps I am serious.”
“Serious?” Her heart was doing a mad dance in her chest. “Can there be such a thing as a serious seducer?”
“Oh, assuredly. It’s generally devilish hard work. But I was referring to my more honorable intentions. I am considering you as my bride.”
“Bride?” Rachel echoed, knowing her ready color was flooding her face. “Don’t make a May game of me, my lord. I’m no bride for an earl.”
“Are you not? Why shouldn’t any healthy specimen with wits and virtue intact be acceptable as an earl’s bride? It would do the aristocracy a great deal of good.”
It should have been possible to take that as a compliment, but his tone made it into an insult. Rachel stamped on an urge to lose her temper for it seemed to be his intent.
Instead, she assumed boredom. “Enough of this, my lord. Everyone hereabouts knows you consider marriage a fate worse than death.”
“Been asking about me, have you? I’m sure that if it came to a choice between death or wedlock, even I could be persuaded into the trap.”
Rachel turned to stroll along the gallery, studying the pictures. “Why do you find marriage so repugnant, my lord?”
“Because women are the very devil.”
She turned
. “Well, really!”
“Excluding the delightful company in which I find myself, of course.” He gave her a distressingly charming smile.
Rachel felt her foolish heart quiver again. Oh, how perilous he was. A rake, after all, must have a host of tricks at his disposal. “You must intend to marry one day, my lord.”
“Must I?”
“It is your duty.”
“To the devil with duty.”
She stared at him, aghast.
“Do you always do your duty, Rachel?”
“To the best of my ability, my lord.”
“Then perhaps I will make it your duty to marry me.” The glint in his eyes told her exactly what he meant.
“Cease this! You will not seduce me, even with talk of marriage. The very clothes you wear would doubtless pay my father’s stipend for a year.”
“Then think how advantageous it would be to wed me.”
Rachel called his bluff. “Should I consider that a proposal, my lord?”
To her astonishment, he said, “Why not?” He offered an elegant, bejeweled hand. “Marry me, Miss Proudfoot.”
Rachel stared from hand to sardonic face, her heart thumping madly. “Repeat that invitation in public and I might accept. It would serve you right.”
“You tempt me greatly. . . .”
“I doubt that.” Rachel turned sharply to study the closest portrait before she allowed him to tangle her wits entirely. Marriage! Though she knew it was a trick, the notion caught at her, and not for rank and riches.
The youthful picture she’d seen in his drawing room still ensnared her.
He wasn’t that young man, however, and even were he serious about marriage, to be wife to an unrepentant rake would be misery.
Then she felt his fingers brush lightly at her nape.
After last time, Rachel knew where this would lead, and yet, despite all good intentions, she remained where she was, allowing the sounds of nearby conversation—promise of aid if needed—to deaden her conscience. She stared at a portrait of a gentleman in a long, lush periwig, as first fingers then lips tantalized the very top-most layer of her skin.
“The gentleman who so enthralls you is the third earl,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin.
“Another rake and scoundrel. True follower of his friend, Charles II.”
“Oh.”
His lips were traveling down her spine, exposed as it was by the low cut of her gown. Then he blew against her heated skin.
She felt his lips move as he said, “The one who was bashed on the head for Meg Brewstock’s sake.”
Rachel was snapped out of her dream state. She moved forward to better study the florid, hook-nosed man. He certainly wouldn’t tempt her to wanton irresponsibility, but tastes differed.
“He was a rake, you say?”
Like you, she reminded herself.
“So one gathers.” Lord Morden’s voice was rather strange. “May I ask how you can possibly find him so much more attractive than me?”
Suddenly amused, Rachel turned on her high heel to face him. “He’s safely dead, my lord.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. His hand snared her carefully-arranged curls, so she couldn’t move without pain. “Have claws, do you, my Rachel? I can show you better ways to use them.”
She gripped his strong wrist. “Release me or I’ll scream.”
He made no move to obey. With only this to face, Rachel couldn’t create a scene and he knew it.
“Then I will use my claws,” she said, and began to dig her nails into his skin.
He didn’t flinch. Instead, smiling, he tightened his grip on her hair, meeting her eyes without flinching. Rachel held his gaze, digging her nails harder, though she was struggling not to cry out from the pain on her scalp.
He changed, suddenly looking very like the youth in the portrait. He released all the tension in his hand, but didn’t remove it. Rather, it seemed now to caress her skull. “You are, as I said, magnificent. I will marry you.”
“Not without my consent.”
“Not even after bloodying me?”
Rachel released her claw-grip on his wrist. A horrified glance showed dark nail marks, one of which oozed blood.
“You’ll consent,” he said softly, “just as you’ll consent to this.”
He pulled her slowly toward him and she went, recognizing that their battle had roused her passions and that he knew it. He seemed to know her better than she knew herself. She would never have thought that Rachel Proudfoot even had such passions.
His lips brushed softly over hers, arousing in her a brutal desire to be kissed with violence.
What kind of a woman was she?
A woman who wanted more, despite the sound of conversation so close by.
Without satisfying the need he’d stirred, he released her and turned her to face the portrait, his hands resting on her shoulders. “So, what did you make of the third earl’s insane ramblings?”
Rachel closed her eyes in despair. She’d been vanquished by one of far greater experience and skill. But at least she’d managed not to follow her true desire and impose a violent kiss upon him. Trying to be grateful to be spared, she told him of their deductions about Meggie’s death.
“So, my ancestor seduced the maid, and for that her family killed her, disguising the murder by throwing the body into the flames?”
“It’s the better explanation.” The shadowy corners of the room were creating entirely the wrong atmosphere for this discussion.
“What other is there?”
Rachel could not speak the words.
He turned her to face him. LM” ‘SNOPtruth. Is my practical Miss Proudfoot truly envisioning human immolation? Little Meggie Brewstock with her throat cut on an altar, thrown onto the fire to appease the angry god? What god? Of course.” He dropped his voice to an eerie level. “Waldborg, the ancient one, raised on Demon’s Night.”
“Don’t jest about it!”
He laughed. “Why not? We live in a modern age, and the old gods are dead. I fear you have a romantic imagination after all, my sweet, but that gives me hope. I find it hard, however, to imagine the third earl riding to the rescue of a dairy maid just because she’d warmed his bed.”
“Your ancestor, sir,” she pointed out. “Your blood.”
“I’ve never seduced a maidservant in my life.”
Rachel tried to move away from him. “We must return. . . .”
He captured her hand, and raised it to his mouth. “I’m willing to turn over a new leaf for you.”
“What?”
He had turned her hand and was kissing her palm.“Reform. Try new ways. . . .“He tickled her skin with his tongue.
Despite her better instincts, she was tempted. “You will become a sober, virtuous citizen?”
He captured her other hand and held them both against his heart. “Of course not. I mean that I’m willing to try seducing a maid, a maidenly lady. . . .”
Rachel dragged her hands free. “Never!” she snapped, and fled down the gallery. At the last minute she stopped to compose herself, hand on unsteady chest. She glanced back and found him strolling after her, appearing unmoved by their time together, and unimpressed by her rejection.
He escorted her back into the drawing room with perfect propriety. Rachel avoided the earl by sitting by his elderly relative, Lady Ida.
“He’s a rare rascal,” the raddled old woman said.
“I fear he is, ma’am.”
“Needs a good wife. In my day he’d have been shackled when he was too young to fight it.” Lady Ida grimaced at Rachel, though she supposed it was meant to be a smile. “I can tweak his chain, though. You’ll see. You’ll see.”
Rachel had no idea what this was about. What a fool she had been to come to this affair. She was heartily relieved to find that she was to go into dinner on the arm of young Mr. Home-Nowlan. This was completely appropriate to her lowly station and she could be comfortable in his company.
In time, the ladies left to take tea, but the gentlemen soon joined them in the drawing room, bringing the port with them. Morden didn’t attempt to pester her, but she caught him looking at her with disquieting amusement. She felt horribly like an animal being stalked by a very patient and sure-footed predator.
The conversation soon touched on the various local Christmastide superstitions, and moved from there to the long memories of country folk.
Sir George said, “My people are still in a fret about their lost eleven days.”
“Indeed,” said Reverend Proudfoot with a chuckle. “Only the other day, James Crowbourne’s widow told me that he’d have lived another week and a half if the government hadn’t taken to fooling with matters best left alone. The resentment lingers here, more than in other places. Back in Somerset, I’d hardly heard the matter mentioned in years, but here it has come up again and again. Why only the other day the gardener was pressing me as to when Easter would have been in the old style.”
“Simple enough question, I’d think,” said Lady Ida.
Rachel was having difficulty ignoring the earl, especially as he was sitting in her line of sight, wielding his absurdly beautiful fan, and watching her. . . .
“On the contrary, my dear lady. It is a very complex calculation to do with the phases of the moon. I am not sure that I could do it correctly. I am happy to follow the liturgical calendar sent out by the bishop.”
“If you want my opinion,” said Sir George, “they’re still fretting about Dym’s Night.”
Rachel’s attention snapped to the baronet.
“So you know of Dym’s Night, Sir George?” her father asked, eyes sharp.
“Course I do,” said Sir George with some affront. “Family’s been in these parts forever. Can trace the line back before the Conquest.”
“And Dym’s Night goes back that far?”
“That or farther. Back before . . . well, just before. Everyone knows that.”
“Can you tell us what you know, Sir George?” Reverend Proudfoot asked, looking around. “If no one else objects to my indulging my curiosity.”
“Not at all,” said Morden. “I too am very interested in the subject.”
