The thick tree canopy shaded her from the heat of the sun and the dappled grassy glades were filled with the scent of summer flowers.
A slight figure was sitting on the stone bench beside the lake. With surprise, Lucille recognised Polly Seagrave, her shoulders slumped beneath the gay parasol, one hand shading her eyes against the bright reflected light from the water. She turned at the sound of Lucille’s approach and her melancholy expression lightened slightly into a smile.
‘Have you escaped Mama’s clutches, Lucille? It is too fine a day to be indoors, bridal fittings or no!’
She turned away slightly, but Lucille’s observant gaze had already noticed the betraying tears drying on Polly’s cheeks, the hastily concealed handkerchief that seemed suspiciously damp. Polly had seemed genuinely happy when told the news of Seagrave’s betrothal to Lucille, but Lucille had wondered on more than one occasion whether all the talk of weddings was not putting a strain on her friend. Polly was even quieter and more withdrawn these days.
Lucille sat down beside her on the bench. ‘If you would rather I went away, just tell me,’ she offered. ‘I know that sometimes, when one is miserable, it is far better to be left alone!’
Her words had the desired effect. Polly looked as though she was about to deny that she was in any way unhappy, then she took a deep breath.
‘No, Lucille, please stay! The truth is…the truth is…’ she hesitated, then went on in a rush, ‘You will have heard that Lord Henry had returned to London? I keep telling myself that it must be for the best, but in my heart…’ She burst into tears.
Lucille passed her a dry handkerchief and waited until Polly’s sobs had subsided a little before giving her a hug.
‘I thought that all this talk of weddings would be upsetting to you,’ she said regretfully. ‘Oh, Polly, I am so very sorry! Is there no chance—?’
But Polly was shaking her head. ‘I think not. Yet now, after five years, I can no longer deny that I love him! If he asked me to run away with him now, I would not hesitate a moment! Yet of course, I know he will not!’ She sighed despondently. ‘Enough of this! I do not wish to dwell on it!’
She stood up and took Lucille’s arm, saying with studied brightness, ‘You must come and see the new greenhouses! Mama swears we shall soon be able to feed an army on our own produce! It was Nicholas’s idea, you know—he has become a model landowner! I believe Mr Josselyn is quite overcome!’ The brittle cheerfulness of her tone softened a little. ‘Oh, Lucille, this is all your influence, you know!’
Then, as Lucille tried to demur, she insisted, ‘No, indeed! It is on your account that Nicholas has stayed in Dillingham and found an interest in the estate. He has become much more the brother I remember!’ She frowned. ‘Oh, no! There is Mrs Hazeldine come to fetch us.’ She gave an involuntary giggle. ‘She looks very hot and bothered, rushing around in the full sun!’
In the light of Polly’s genuine praise, Lucille thought a little wryly, her half-formed plan to run away from the wedding seemed rather ungracious. She allowed the housekeeper to catch them up and submitted obediently to dress fittings for the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter Twelve
The wedding was a great success and Dillingham Church was packed to the rafters. A proud Mrs Markham sat in the front row with Hetty on one side and her sister Mrs Pledgeley on the other, that matron puffed up out of all proportion at her tenuous connection with the nobility. Miss Pym was there, celebrating the occasion by forsaking her customary dress of black bombazine for one of grey instead, adorned with a string of pearls. Best of all was Lady Bellingham, magnificent in jet black taffeta and the most outrageous diamonds that the County had ever seen.
Mrs Ditton, already furious at the failure of her daughter to catch the Earl, seethed with envy and outraged respectability across the aisle. She had been silenced totally by the cordial way in which Lady Seagrave had greeted Lady Bellingham, and had only managed to murmur sotto voce to Mrs Elliott that she could not imagine what the County was coming to when an actress was thought fit to grace such an event.
The only absentee was Mrs Mutch, who had been so distraught at Walter’s downfall that she had taken to her bed and not re-emerged. However, her second son, Ben, was there with his young family, and Lucille had made a point of speaking to him, to Mrs Ditton’s further disapproval. Ben Mutch was a pleasant young man, with none of Walter’s unsteadiness, and Lucille was sure that, given time, she might heal the breach with her father’s family.
Lucille had been horribly nervous at the start of the day, but felt nothing but happiness all through the service and the long wedding breakfast which followed at the Court. Just the presence of Seagrave beside her, his attentiveness, the warm approval in his eyes, made her feel wonderfully cherished. At the back of her mind was the thought of the night that was to come, and a shiver of anticipation and awareness went through her as Seagrave’s hand brushed against hers.
It was very late when all the guests left. Lady Seagrave escorted Lucille upstairs and helped her out of the beautiful embroidered dress of white satin and into one of the delicious filmy concoctions from her trousseau which passed as a nightdress. Lucille sat dreamily before the dressing-table whilst the maid brushed her hair, the nervous expectation just starting to stir within her. Lady Seagrave fussed about, picking items off the table and putting them down again, and finally dismissing the maid a little abruptly. She sat down on the end of the bed and fixed Lucille with her bright gaze.
‘With no mother of your own to speak of such matters, Lucille, I feel that I should be the one to broach the subject of the intimate side of marriage—’ Lady Seagrave broke off in annoyance as the maid slipped back into the room and whispered something in her ear. She frowned.
‘Well, tell him that I shall be but a moment! Really—!’
The maid whispered something even more urgently, and Lady Seagrave sighed and stood up. She swooped on a bewildered Lucille and wrapped her in her scented embrace, kissing her soundly. ‘You look beautiful, my love! I wish you very happy!’
It was only as her new mother-in-law’s exit was followed immediately by her husband’s entrance into the bedroom that Lucille realised why Lady Seagrave had left so rapidly. Clearly the Earl had been in a hurry to claim his new bride. Lucille was suddenly gripped by shyness as Seagrave’s intent gaze swept over her, lingering on the diaphanous lines of the nightdress as they softly skimmed her body.
In the candlelight he looked more magnificent than ever. He had discarded his coat and his white linen shirt was open, revealing the strong, brown column of his neck. He strolled across the room with his customary easy grace, and leant one hand against the bedpost, still studying her. Lucille’s tension grew, particularly as Seagrave had neither smiled nor spoken since he had entered the room, had done nothing but contemplate her with that inscrutable, lingering regard.
And then, at last, he spoke.
‘You look…’ The Earl hesitated and Lucille held her breath. Perhaps radiant, or lovely, was the word that he was looking for? But no…
‘You look tired, my dear,’ the Earl of Seagrave said to his new wife, with a chill courtesy that struck Lucille in the heart. ‘I shall bid you goodnight.’
He kissed her forehead gently, passionlessly, and went out of the room.
At the end of the third week, Lucille acknowledged to herself that her new husband appeared to have no interest in consummating their marriage. She had no idea why his feelings for her appeared to have undergone so sudden a change. He had said that he needed her, wanted her, and yet it seemed that that was no longer so. At first Lucille had been perplexed; now she was beginning to feel hurt and angry.
During the day, they appeared to live their lives in charming harmony. They took breakfast together, then Seagrave would attend to estate business and Lucille would continue her instruction with Lady Seagrave on the art of running a great house. There were endless visits to be made about the estate and equally endless calls from their neighb
ours; they dined out or entertained at home; they were seldom alone.
Gradually the warm respect of the servants had given way to commiserating looks; conversations were broken off hastily as she entered the room. The visitors, with an ear for scandal, probed gently but implacably. And through it all, Seagrave was attentive but distant, as impossible to read as he had ever been.
At the start of the fourth week, when it became apparent to Lucille that she was to spend another night alone, she put her book to one side, and slipped out of the huge bed, pulling her lacy negligee on over the entrancing confection of lace and gauze that was her nightdress. Its transparent, silky lines mocked her. Evidently it took more than this to tempt the Earl of Seagrave. To tempt an Earl…For a moment she hesitated, her nerves almost persuading her back to bed—alone. Then she steeled herself and turned to the door.
The landing was deserted. At the bottom of the stairs, the grandfather clock struck eleven-thirty with its melodious chime. It felt like a very long way across to the door of the Earl’s bedroom. Lucille raised her hand and knocked softly on the panels. There was no sound. She knocked again, a little louder. A sound from downstairs made her start, and without conscious thought she turned the handle. The door was unlocked. And the bedroom was empty.
‘I beg your pardon, madam.’ It was Medlyn who was standing behind her, his face its usual impassive mask.
Lucille jumped and spun round. Under other circumstances she might have been embarrassed to be found thus, particularly considering the filmy nature of the nightgown, which Medlyn was studiously avoiding looking at too closely. Now, however, her anxiety over Seagrave’s disappearance overrode all other concerns.
‘The Earl, Medlyn—do you know where he is?’
She waited in an agony of doubt for the shadow to fall across his face, the shadow which would suggest that her husband had left her and gone up to London, or was gambling away his substance to avoid having to face his responsibilities, or, worse still, was in the arms of another woman…
Medlyn looked thoughtful, grave. ‘His lordship went out about an hour ago, my lady,’ he said, carefully expressionless. ‘He did not say where he was going. However…’ he hesitated ‘…I believe he may have gone to Cookes, ma’am. He has been there twice before in the last couple of weeks.’
‘To Cookes?’ Lucille was dumbstruck. ‘But why? The house is closed.’
Medlyn was shaking his head. ‘I do not know, ma’am. However…’ again he hesitated, before putting considerable weight on his words ‘…if you were seeking him, ma’am, I believe that you would find him there.’
Their eyes met. ‘Thank you, Medlyn,’ Lucille said, slowly. ‘I am persuaded that you are right.’
The butler nodded. The faintest suspicion of a smile seemed to touch his lips for so brief a moment that Lucille was sure she had imagined it. ‘Good luck, my lady,’ he said.
Lucille dressed swiftly and donned a warm cloak, before slipping down the stairs and out of the house. A light was still burning in the hall, but she saw no one, not even the man whom Medlyn had instructed to follow her and keep her safe. It was a clear night and she had no difficulty in following the track to Cookes, a journey which took her a mere twenty minutes. She was not afraid. The necessity of confronting Seagrave was the sole thought in her mind. She reached the village green with its slumbering cottages and paused, a little out of breath.
The front of Cookes was all in darkness. Holding her breath, Lucille tip-toed up the drive and around the side of the house. The drawing-room curtains were drawn, but a thread of light showed beneath them. She knew that the French door must be unlocked, for Walter Mutch had tampered with the latch when he had broken in and unless Seagrave had had it mended it would still be damaged.
Her heart was suddenly beating in her throat. She pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.
The Earl of Seagrave was sprawled in one of the faded velvet and brocade chairs before the fireplace. He had discarded his coat and loosened his cravat, and was staring into the fire, an empty brandy glass held carelessly in one hand. As Lucille closed the door behind her with a soft click, his gaze came up and fixed on her with unnerving intensity. With a slight shock she realised that he was not as drunk as she had at first imagined, although the half-empty brandy bottle at his elbow was testament to the fact that he was also nowhere near sober.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he demanded unceremoniously, the mellow voice much harsher than usual.
Lucille took off her cloak and folded it over the back of a chair, trying to ignore the shaking of her hands as she did so. This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined. Sheer determination had brought her this far. She raised her chin. She was not going to let her courage desert her now.
‘I came to find you, my lord,’ she said, with far more calmness than she was feeling. ‘I was somewhat…concerned to discover you from home.’
‘Very wifely,’ the Earl said coldly. ‘Well, since you are here, my dear, you may as well join me in a drink to toast this hollow marriage of ours!’
Lucille began to feel angry. It was the only way to keep out the hurt that she knew would destroy her if she let her defences slip for one moment. She moved over to the table and poured Seagrave another glass of brandy—and a generous one for herself.
‘A pity that you did not discover this aversion to my company before we were married rather than after, my lord,’ she observed sweetly, as she sat down opposite him. ‘Your timing is rather unfortunate.’
Her anger was growing now, warming her. She saw his eyes narrow on her and continued recklessly, ‘Do you wish to be released from this marriage which you contracted so hurriedly? If so, you need only say the word!’
‘Are you suggesting a divorce?’ Seagrave asked, his tone so soft that Lucille could barely detect the thread of anger than ran through it. Her own rage was like a fire in her blood now, its effect as strong as a rush of adrenalin.
‘I thought more in the way of an annulment,’ Lucille waved her hand airily. ‘It would be easy to prove, after all! And think of the speculation, my lord! Why, no one would know which were the greater piece of gossip—to suggest that the Countess of Seagrave was so unattractive that her husband found her repellent, or that the Earl was incapable of consummating his marriage!’
She swallowed half her brandy in one go. It was making her feel quite marvellously uninhibited. Seagrave’s gaze was now a dark glitter focused on her unwaveringly. There was a tension in him that Lucille recognised, the tautness of a man who is barely holding himself under control. He said slowly, ‘I understand that you are trying to provoke me, Lucille. Appearances may be to the contrary, but I am not a patient man. Take care that you do not push me too far!’
Lucille shrugged carelessly, although her frustration and the need to hurt him were consuming her. ‘My words can have no power to move you, my lord, since you do not care for me. At least in that you have been honest! You never pretended to love me! But I would have settled for much less, for what you offered on the night you proposed to me! Now it seems you intend to deny me even that!’ She downed the rest of her brandy with a gulp.
Seagrave’s very stillness was terrifying. His face was inscrutable. ‘It is not as you imagine, Lucille. You do not understand—’
‘Oh, I understand very well!’ Lucille’s bitterness spilled over. ‘It is simply that you regret what you have done!’ She leant across for the brandy bottle. Seagrave moved it out of her grasp. Suddenly infuriated, she got up and reached across him, determined that in this small matter at least, she would have her way.
Seagrave’s hand closed around her wrist. ‘The only thing I regret,’ he said very softly, ‘is not doing this sooner.’ He gave her arm a sharp tug. Lucille was caught off balance and the brandy, which had gone straight to her head, did the rest. She tumbled on to his knee.
‘And now, my Lady Seagrave,’ the Earl said, through his teeth, ‘you will be able to judge for yourself
whether your husband is incapable of consummating his marriage!’
Despite his anger, it soon became apparent that the Earl of Seagrave was in no hurry. The kiss was long, insistent and utterly inescapable. Lucille was immediately assailed by the same treacherous weakness that always invaded her senses when he touched her. She gave a little sigh deep in her throat, the telltale sign of her pleasure. Instantly, the fierce sweetness of the kiss intensified. Seagrave entwined one hand in the cloud of silver hair, holding her face upturned to his so that he could plunder her mouth at will. Still kissing her, he stood up, holding her in his arms. Lucille tore her mouth away from his with an effort.
‘What—’
‘Hush.’ He silenced her again. The searing passion washed through Lucille in a tide that left her trembling. This time when he raised his head she did not speak, simply resting her cheek against his broad shoulder as he carried her out of the drawing-room and up the stairs into her own bedroom. Her eyes were closed, waiting for the onslaught on her senses to begin again, wanting nothing but to touch him, taste him, explore the sensations which she still only half-understood. Seagrave kicked the bedroom door shut behind them.
The curtains were not drawn, but neither of them paid any attention. Seagrave tossed her down into the middle of the big bed and was beside her before Lucille had time to draw breath. His mouth reclaimed hers immediately, but Lucille was aware that his fingers were busy with the buttons at the back of her dress, skilfully unfastening it to slide it off her shoulders and down to her waist. When he realised that she was wearing no chemise beneath, wearing nothing beneath, Seagrave paused, a slow smile curving his lips.
‘Well, Lucille, whatever were you about to forget to dress properly?’
‘I was in a hurry,’ Lucille whispered, and saw his smile deepen as he lowered his head to her exposed breasts.
Virtuous Cyprian Page 23
