The Earl Next Door

by Amanda Grange

  ‘That’s going too far, Marianne.’ His eyes were molten. ‘If you knew how hard I’ve had to fight not to ruin you. From the first moment I saw you I wanted you. When I found you were a lady – even worse, when I found you were Kit’s sister – it cost me all my self-control to hold back. You’re the most bewitching creature I’ve ever met, Marianne; intelligent, beautiful and desirable. I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I met you, and perhaps I should have done. You need it.’

  The good he had done with the first part of his speech, the understanding he had started to win from her, was completely destroyed by these final words, which did nothing but incense her.

  ‘I don’t need anything from you,’ she flashed, jerking away from him.

  ‘Oh, don’t you?’ he demanded. Then, pulling her roughly towards him he kissed her.

  I must resist, she told herself. He ruined Kit. I must resist. But the most delicious sensations were coursing through her body and her senses were swimming as he tumbled her to the ground.

  The cold earth jolted her to her senses. She had no intention of embarking on such a perilous and life-changing journey with a man whose feelings she did not understand. And how could she understand his feelings when she could not even understand her own?

  Feeling her resistance he pushed himself onto his elbows, looking down into her face. His eyes were glittering with unsatisfied desire, his breathing was coming in short gasps. ‘Damn it, Marianne, why did you have to be so lovely?’ he demanded.

  Shakily, Marianne sat up. The action pushed him away from her. He sat, one leg bent at the knee, some way away from her, watching her, as though he could not take his eyes away from her.

  She felt the breeze on her cheek. It was cooling. Slowly her heartbeat began to resume its normal even pace. When she had calmed down sufficiently she stood up. Her legs were still a little shaky, but already they were gaining strength. She looked down at her riding habit. It was covered with grass. Brushing the stems from the soft blue cloth she retrieved her hat, which had fallen onto the ground, picking a final piece of grass from its plume.

  She walked over to her mare, who was grazing nearby.

  ‘I’ll see you back to the Hall,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, but I prefer to ride.’

  Gathering up the reins she led the animal a little further down the road to where a stile led into a field. Using the stile as a mounting block she settled herself in the saddle. Then, holding the reins softly in her light hands, she turned the mare’s head for home.

  Lord Ravensford did not follow her, but stood looking after her, his long lean body in an attitude of frustration; a frustration that was not entirely physical.

  As Marianne followed the country road she saw almost nothing of the countryside around her. For once her thoughts were turned inward, and those thoughts were painful and confusing. Why had Lord Ravensford really come to Sussex? Why had he ruined her brother? And why had he then denied it? Why had he started to make love to her and then been prepared to stop, when stopping had cost him such an enormous effort, especially if he was really the wastrel and rake rumour painted him? Why had he been concerned for her reputation if he was so disreputable? But then again, if he was not disreputable, and if he was really concerned for her reputation, why had he kissed her in the first place? Was it possible that he, too, was driven by conflicting desires? And if so, what were they? Why had he been so callous towards Kit? And worse, when she knew him to have ruined her brother, why had she responded to his kisses? She couldn’t possible have feelings for the man who had ruined her brother – could she? No, of course not. And yet . . . Whichever way she looked at it, it didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense.

  She shook her head in frustration. Her thoughts were far too confusing to dwell on and she turned them into other channels, forcing herself to concentrate on the spring that was burgeoning all around her. There was so much that was good in the world. She would be a fool to dwell on something that was both painful and perplexing.

  Soon the Hall came into sight. She took her mare round to the stables and then went into the house. She was hoping she could get to her room unobserved. She did not feel equal to holding a conversation, and planned to spend a quiet half hour upstairs before getting on with the housekeeping. But to her dismay, Trudie greeted her as soon as she walked in the door.

  ‘I’ve been getting a few things together for your weekend,’ said Trudie with a pleased and satisfied air. Marianne had told her about the proposed party and, pleased that Marianne was going to have some fun, Trudie had spent the morning making preparations.

  Marianne’s shoulders drooped. ‘There isn’t going to be a weekend. At least, not one I want to attend.’ If she hadn’t been so emotionally drained she would not have said anything of the kind, but as it was she did not have the energy to pretend an enthusiasm she did not feel.

  Trudie fixed her with a shrewd eye. ‘Lord Ravensford hasn’t . . . ? Because if he has, then, Earl or no, he’ll answer to me. Your Papa may not know what’s due to you, Miss Marianne, but there’s others in this house who do.’ There was a sympathy and concern behind the bravado that almost undid Marianne. She was lucky to have such a devoted protector.

  ‘No, Trudie, nothing like that,’ she said tiredly. ‘It’s just that I have too much to do here.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ said Trudie, regarding her searchingly. But then, seeing the droop of Marianne’s shoulders, she relented. ‘Well, we’ll say no more about it.’

  Marianne went into the drawing-room and threw her hat onto a Sheraton chair before sinking wearily onto the chaise longue. She ought to be changing out of her riding habit, but her energy had left her and she felt in need of a few minutes’ peace.

  She lay back and closed her eyes. It had all happened so quickly . . .

  But she did not want to think about it. It was too fresh, too raw.

  After a minute or two she opened her eyes. The drawing-room was familiar, comforting. She began to feel more herself.

  She had almost decided to go upstairs and change out of her habit when there came a scratching at the door and Henri came into the room. He was carrying a silver salver, with a silver teapot and a plate of warm scones.

  ‘Trudie, she says you are tired, Miss Marianne,’ he said with a kindly air. ‘And so I say to ’er, ‘What can you expect, after being out riding this morning. Miss Marianne, she needs a – ’ow you say? – “a smack”?!’

  ‘Snack,’ said Marianne, smiling despite herself at his mistake; a mistake which she suspected had been deliberate, to make her laugh.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Henri comfortably. ‘A snack.’ As he spoke he poured out a refreshing cup of tea and set it down on the pie crust table next to Marianne, then offered her a scone. ‘They ’ave just come out the oven. See, the butter, it is melting, is it not? You ’ave one, Miss Marianne?’

  Marianne hesitated.

  ‘To please Henri?’ he tempted her.

  ‘Thank you, Henri,’ said Marianne. She felt somewhat revived by the sight and scent of the tea and scones. ‘That will be lovely. It was a lucky chance that brought you to us,’ she remarked as she took the scone he offered her, arranged appetisingly on a china plate. ‘Not that it was lucky for you to get your leg caught in the trap, but –’

  ‘I understand.’

  He waited for her to eat the scone, then his eyes became more intelligent. He lost the look of a kindly servant and became more of a definite character. He stood up properly and his speech lost some of its obvious Frenchness. ‘But you see, Miss Marianne, luck ’ad nothing to do with it.’

  Marianne paused in the act of putting her plate back on the table. She looked at him curiously. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it? Henri, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I was coming ’ere on purpose. That is, I was coming to Billingsdale Manor.’

  ‘You know Mr Billingsdale?’ asked Marianne in surprise, putting the plate down with a clatter.


  ‘Non, Mademoiselle. I do not know the good Mr Billingsdale. Or the bad Mr Billingsdale, I think I should call ’im, as ’e allows ’is manager to lay traps to catch men.’

  Marianne wiped her fingers on her napkin and her eyes narrowed slightly in puzzlement.

  ‘Tell me, Mademoiselle,’ asked Henri gently. ‘When you came in just now you were upset. Yes?’

  Marianne nodded, a slight frown on her forehead. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it is because, I think, of Lord Ravensford?’

  Marianne dropped the napkin onto her plate and leant back in her seat, rubbing her hand over her eyes. ‘Henri, it isn’t something you’d understand.’

  ‘Oh, me, Mademoiselle, I understand many things. I understand that you are ’urt and angry, and I understand that Mr Windham came here to bid you farewell. And when ’e didn’t find you, I think ’e met you returning from the churchyard.’

  Marianne was looking at Henri in perplexity. He had changed in the last few minutes. He was not the simple chef she had thought him to be.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Marianne, what did ’e say? That Milord Ravensford is Luke Somerville? The man ’oo ruined your brother?’

  ‘How could you know that?’ asked Marianne, sitting upright, her tiredness vanished.

  ‘Because me, I know Luke Somerville –’

  ‘You know him?’ Marianne’s voice was incredulous; and then she remembered the feeling she had had when the two men had met in her drawing-room – that they already knew each other. ‘You should have told me at once,’ she said with a frown. ‘He disgraced my brother and –’

  ‘Non.’ Henri’s voice was definite. ‘Luke, ’e disgraces no one, least of all your brother.’

  ‘He led him into temptation, gambling –’ began Marianne angrily.

  ‘Non. Your brother ’as not been gambling, Miss Marianne. He ’as gone to France.’

  ‘France?’ Marianne looked at Henri in astonishment.

  ‘’e as gone to rescue Adèle.’

  The sound of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece could be heard. A bird trilled just outside the window. Far off, Trudie dropped something in the kitchen.

  And then, as Marianne took in what Henri had just said, everything began to fall into place: Kit’s supposed gambling debts, when Kit had never gambled in his life; his unexplained absence; his apparent indifference over the fate of Adèle . . . yes, it all fell into place. ‘But my father . . .’ she asked curiously. ‘Why did Kit tell him – us – that he had been gambling? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle, it does. Because your father would not ’ave given Kit the money ’e needed to mount an expedition if ’e ’ad told ’im what it was really for. ’e would not ’ave wanted ’is only son to risk ’is life.’

  Marianne let out a long sigh. ‘That’s true. So Kit has gone to France. He hasn’t lost a fortune in gambling and loose living. He has gone to rescue Adèle.’

  Her face lit; and then fell. In a way, she wished he had been gambling. Because going to France was dangerous . . .

  Seeing her expression, Henri nodded. ‘Oui. It is dangerous, what Kit does, but what will you?’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Your brother, ’e is in love.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Marianne sat deep in thought, trying to reconcile herself to what Kit had done. ‘But . . . ’ She looked up at Henri. ‘That doesn’t explain your place in all this.’

  ‘Me, I ’elp Kit. And so does Kit’s good friend Luke. We ’elp ’im to set up the expedition and then we come down ’ere, Luke renting the Billingsdale estate so that ’e can put out to sea if ’e needs to go over to France and ’elp Kit, and me pretending to be ’is chef – only, me, I get my leg caught in a mantrap, and Luke, ’e say, Miss Marianne, she needs ’elp with the estate. You stay with ’er, Henri. Watch over ’er. ’elp ’er, until ’er brother is safe. So we watch and we wait, and when Kit ’e returns to England, we will ’elp ’im land unseen on Mr Billingsdale’s beach.’

  ‘So that’s why Luke was on the rocks, looking out to sea.’ Marianne nodded as yet another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  ‘Oui. ’e waits for news from your brother, and whilst ’e waits, every day ’e looks out to sea.’

  ‘So Luke . . . ’ said Marianne.

  ‘’e is ere to ’elp your brother; to ’elp ’im land safely, or to set out for France and look for ’im if ’e does not return.’

  Marianne gazed deep into the fire, taking it all in.

  'Then, the rumours about him leading Kit astray . . . '

  'Were just that. Rumours. They spend a lot of time together. Then it is given out that Kit 'as run up gambling debts. It is not like 'im, so the blame is put on Luke's shoulders.' He gave a wry smile. 'Luke, 'e is a good friend to Kit, but 'e 'as a wild reputation. And now, Miss Marianne, you ’ave another cup of tea? Henri, ’e pours it for you. You ’ave ’ad a shock.’

  Marianne took the tea gratefully. But as she put the porcelain cup to her lips she could not help wondering what now would become of her relationship with Luke.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Is that everything?’ asked Marianne, as Trudie folded the last of her clothes into an old and battered trunk.

  ‘It is. It’s a pity you won’t have any new frocks to wear,’ said Trudie. ‘Lord Ravensford’s seen all of these.’

  ‘And so has everyone else,’ Marianne pointed out.

  She was pleased that Trudie had not asked her too much about her change of plan regarding the weekend party. What conclusions Trudie had drawn she did not know, but fortunately the redoubtable housekeeper had for once decided that least said was soonest mended, and Marianne was soon in the coach and heading on her way. She had made arrangements for her father to be visited by the rector in her absence, and was confident that Papa would not miss her. He thought of little but his grievances these days; grievances that, had he but known it, were not real.

  She had considered telling him the truth, that Kit had gone to France, but had decided against it. In his present state he would worry about it, and as he could not do anything about it his worrying would be pointless. And so she had left him under the illusion that Kit had fled in disgrace; nonetheless hoping that, if all went well, she would soon be able to tell him the truth.

  As the carriage bowled along the country roads she felt pleased with her decision to attend the party. Now that she knew Lord Ravensford was a friend of her brother’s it would have been churlish of her to stay away; even though spending two nights beneath his roof, after what had passed between them in the country lane, was going to be difficult.

  What were his feelings for her? she wondered. There was a strong streak of protectiveness, she now realised, but that was most probably occasioned by the fact that she was Kit’s sister. That, no doubt, was why he had been so concerned about her running the estate, and why he had offered to help her. But beyond that, how far did his feelings go? She did not know. His passion was real, that much she knew; but then, passion was no more than the embodiment of physical attraction; and physical attraction fell far short of the feelings Marianne was beginning to realise she had for Luke.

  The carriage made a detour to collect Miss Stock, and by the time Marianne and the rector’s sister arrived at the Manor the party was already under way. Figgs looked surprised to see her; a surprise that was echoed on Luke’s face when Marianne was announced and walked into the drawing-room. But nevertheless he came forward to greet her, albeit with a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘Miss Travis, how delightful you could make it,’ drawled Mrs Kilkenny from her place by the mantelpiece. Her words dripped with insincerity.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jennifer Cosgrove enthusiastically. ‘Lord Ravensford wasn’t sure whether you’d be coming or not. He said he thought you might be having problems with your father. It’s such a shame your papa's health is so bad.’

  ‘Dear me, yes,’ said Miss Stock sympathetically. ‘Such a trial for him! And such a shame for dear Marianne. She cannot always call h
er time her own.’

  ‘But for the weekend it is ours,’ said Lord Ravensford, looking at her curiously.

  Was he pleased to see her? She thought he was. His hands, as they touched hers, conveyed an unmistakable warmth.

  Accepting the explanation he had given to his guests for his doubts about her ability to attend – after their encounter in the country lane it seemed he had thought she would stay away – Marianne greeted everyone politely.

  ‘We were just about to have some music,’ said Mr Cosgrove enthusiastically. ‘Mrs Kilkenny was going to sing for us.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . ’ Mrs Kilkenny began, with a shrewd look at Marianne; thinking, no doubt, that it may not be wise to retreat to the pianoforte now that Miss Travis had arrived.

  ‘But I insist.’ Lord Ravensford’s voice was polite, but brooked no argument, and the guests, laughing and chattering, went through to the music room.