‘But he did, I’m sure, and spent it on Rosanna. Go to her again,’ she urged. ‘Use your charm to make her talk.’
‘I have charm? That is surprising news, but none the less very welcome.’
She walked a little away from him, priming herself to make an apology. ‘I’m sorry that we quarrelled. I’m sorry that I doubted you.’
‘And I am sorry I disappointed you, Lizzie. It grieves me to acknowledge that I might have been wrong, but I will make amends, I promise!’
She liked the sound of her name on his lips and smiled up at him. ‘I will go with you, if you like. We will confront Rosanna together.’
‘You are worried that she will once more cast her spell over me?’
‘I would not blame any man for being entranced by her. She is very beautiful,’ Lizzie conceded.
‘Some may find her so, but my taste is more refined.’
He was looking down at her, his fascinating changeful eyes unusually intent. His hand reached out and with his finger he traced a line down her cheek.
‘You are far more beautiful and infinitely more enchanting.’
She flushed a deeper pink. ‘That is poetic talk for a soldier,’ she teased.
‘When I am with you, I tend to forget I am a soldier.’ He tipped her chin upwards and gazed into her glowing face. ‘You are very lovely and—and I cannot stop myself from kissing you.’
He bent his head and his mouth found hers. At first it was a soft brushing of lips. Then his mouth grew harder and she sensed his body flex. A hand was in her hair, tangling her curls through his fingers, while with the other he pulled her towards him. She went willingly, her lips still fastened to his as though never to be parted. He kissed her over and over again, longer and more deeply with every kiss, until sheer breathlessness forced them apart. They stood for a moment looking at each other, dazed, shy, then his lips were back on her mouth and his tongue delicately probing. They leant against the stone walls of the house, still warm from the afternoon sun, and his body was pressing into hers and hers softening in response. Slowly he lowered his head to her bosom and touched his mouth to the soft skin between her breasts. She felt herself tauten and raised her arms in a gesture of surrender, her hands reaching up to stroke his cheek, to ruffle his wonderful golden hair. Her dress was crushed, but she cared nothing for that. She wanted no dress, she wanted to be naked and to feel him naked against her. It was the most wonderful feeling. Her skin was hot, flushed and prickling with anticipation. Her legs dissolved into water and her stomach was somersaulting wildly. Nothing had prepared her for this torrent of emotion, this overwhelming wave of passion that was opening her defences.
Without warning the library window was flooded with light. A branch of candles was being held aloft and they heard the sound of footsteps coming towards the open door. They stood still and silent in the outside darkness, catching their breath, trying to slow the beat of their hearts.
‘It is Alfred,’ Justin whispered in her ear. Then, at the sight of her bewildered face, ‘The footman. His evening duty is to close the curtains and lock the doors.’
‘Then we should...’ she began, finding it difficult to speak.
‘We should.’
‘And we should not have...’
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘we should not have.’
But she knew that neither of them was sorry, only sorry that they had not finished what they had begun.
‘How good an actress are you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, but shall we put it to the test?’ And with her hand on his arm, they walked back into the library, faces schooled into blandness. Alfred looked up at their entrance, surprised to see them.
‘I am sorry, Sir Justin, I had not realised you were on the terrace.’
‘We have been taking the air,’ Justin said casually. ‘Miss Ingram found the heat of the library a little oppressive.’
They walked in dignified silence past an impassive Alfred, but once in the hall could not stop giggles from bubbling to the surface, as though they were naughty schoolchildren who had been lucky to escape punishment.
Once at the front entrance, though, Lizzie grew serious again. ‘Promise me that you will see Rosanna as soon as you can.’
He took her hands in his and gave them a squeeze. ‘You can depend on me, Lizzie. I will not let you down—and this time I’ll not be deceived either. On the contrary, I have every intention of being the deceiver if I must.’
She frowned. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What is it you intend to do?’
‘That I can’t tell you. Consider it a military secret! But don’t worry yourself. I am an excellent strategist and will do only what I have to, and then only if I am certain it will work.’
‘Are you sure you need no aid?’ She pressed his hands more firmly. ‘I might be very helpful to you.’
He laughed and his eyes, now misty grey in the candlelight, were happier than she had ever seen them. ‘You are helpful to me, more helpful than you can ever imagine. But this might be dangerous work and I would prefer you to be a million miles away.’
‘But...’
‘Sometimes, Lizzie, it is the duty of soldiers simply to stand and wait.’
And with that, she had to be content.
Chapter Eight
Before she tumbled into bed that night, Lizzie took her sketch pad and pencils to the window seat and drew. It was another portrait of Justin, as handsome as ever, but now the eyes were lit with tenderness, the expression was warm and loving. After she had finished she sat looking at the face, touching it softly from time to time, even kissing the full lips she had sketched. She was euphoric, filled with a nameless delight. It wasn’t just that Justin had believed her story. Nor that he had trusted her sufficiently to promise he would finish the job she had started. It was much, much more. That evening on the terrace she had lain in his embrace and felt his lips on hers, felt the heat of his mouth warming her skin, caressing a path to her very breasts. She had melted against him, trembled with every touch and taste of him—and had known herself desired. For he, too, had been overwhelmed in that magical, moonlit world, drowning in a passion he could not suppress.
Eventually she climbed between the sheets, certain that she was too happy ever to close her eyes. True to her prophecy, she slept only lightly, waking just after dawn when the first streaks of grey light crept through her curtains. It was barely six o’clock, yet she could sleep no more and she felt inexplicably downpin. She tried to make sense of her megrims and at length decided that it could not have been happiness that kept her from deep sleep, but the first stirrings of unease now tempering her joy. She slid from the bed and padded towards the washbasin, the euphoria of last night’s lovemaking dwindling as she walked. Why such a reversal? She had succumbed too eagerly to his caresses, that was the problem. She had been without shame, allowing herself to be kissed in a way that no modest woman should. Her face burned at the thought of the licence she had allowed him. For all his quiet courtesy, Justin Delacourt was a soldier and she should never forget that. Soldiers were wanderers, opportunistic by nature, and even the most discerning of their company would take what was on offer. And she had offered herself—openly. She had always suspected that if he kissed her, she would not be able to resist. And she had been right. Had she not slid into his arms, matched him kiss for kiss, wrapped herself around his body and felt her breasts harden to his lips? She had wanted him in a way she had never before known. And it was not simple desire that plagued her, but a desperate aching for him, for his voice, his smile, his laughter. She hardly dared put a name to it, but it felt very like love.
But it must not be; she could not allow herself to love him. Her emotions might skitter this way and that, but her mind was clear: in a precarious world, she must seek a man who was secure and dependable, a man who would cleave
to her and her alone, a stolid helpmeet for the years to come. Yet her mind and her heart were fearsomely at odds. Vaguely she had imagined a day in the years to come when she would resign herself to a convenient marriage, but after last night, how could she ever wed in that way? The image of Piers Silchester had been slowly fading and was now vanquished entirely. If Alfred had not chosen to light the lamps at that very moment...
Disgrace would have followed swiftly, that was certain. She would have been without a home, without a job—without any home, in fact, for Miss Bates would never allow her to return to the Seminary under such circumstances, not after the mistakes she had already made. To allow Justin Delacourt a permanent place in her heart would be the worst of all mistakes. He was an honourable man, she knew, but he would expect her to recognise boundaries and if she chose to flout them, then on her own head be it. He would walk the dangerous path with her, she was sure, and revel in their mutual pleasure, but his life would continue as it always had, his future unhampered by a woman, for his allegiance was first and foremost to the army and to his regiment. So how was she to save herself from certain disgrace, from certain pain? She had only one weapon—to keep her distance or, at the very least, to ensure that she never again met him alone. She could no longer trust herself with him, not even for a minute.
Careful not to wake the household, she washed and dressed and crept downstairs. She would walk, she decided, walk and hope to shake off the thoughts that plagued her. She tripped down the gravel drive, fearing the crunch of her footsteps might wake her employer, for Mrs Croft’s bedroom was at the front of the house and she was a light sleeper. But the road was reached without mishap and she followed it for some way towards Rye. When after some half a mile, it began to wind its way inland towards the town, she branched off to the left, taking the much narrower coastal path which snaked along the clifftop. Far below her the river lay shrunk to a thin, silver thread.
She walked with purpose, pushing her disquiet to the back of her mind. Justin had been adamant that she should not involve herself further in the mystery and she would do as he asked, but she was curious about the excise man who had met his death in this apparently peaceful landscape. The magistrate believed it an accident, the rest of the town did not. Who was right? she wondered.
* * *
When she came upon the spot it was clear that there had been a disturbance, even though many months had elapsed. Bushes had been uprooted and lay sad and withered to one side, a rough patch of earth showed scuffing and stones were piled into an untidy heap as though feet had gouged them from the ground. It might still have been an accident, she thought. The man might have lost his footing—it had been raining that day, someone had said, and the ground underfoot would have been slippery. He could have lost his footing and grabbed at any bush he could get his hand to, trying to get a purchase. If he had, it had been to no avail. He had toppled over the cliff, leaving a trail of destruction behind him.
Cautiously she peered over the edge. It seemed a very long way down to the shingle beach. No wonder the man had broken his neck. But then she looked again—there seemed to be a ledge about ten feet below her. Very carefully, she leaned out further and, yes, there was a ledge which ran immediately below and continued around the next spur of the cliff. The man would have slipped over the edge rather than fallen, she thought, since his grabbing of the bushes would have slowed him. He would have tumbled to the ledge and no further. A broken bone or two perhaps, but from there he could easily have been rescued by a rope. But he hadn’t been; he had crashed to the bottom. Yet surely to avoid the ledge, a body would have to be travelling at speed—it would have to be thrown outwards! Her heart began to pound and blood to thrum noisily in her ears. The excise man’s death could not have been an accident!
Even as she stood quaking from her discovery, a murmur of voices drifted towards her on the air. The noise was coming from below and, taking a deep breath, she plucked up courage to peer over the cliff edge once more. Two men had appeared on the ledge, talking together several feet beneath her. She could catch no words but the conversation was short and sharp. One of them was a rough-looking individual, hair greasily matted, and dressed in patched breeches and a stained leather jerkin. And the other...the other was surely Justin Delacourt. She ducked down behind a small bush, hoping that she was completely hidden, her mind a frenzy of speculation. What on earth was Justin doing on the coastal path at this hour and in such dubious company? It could not be simple exercise that brought him here—he could have walked undisturbed for miles at Chelwood—so why come, and why speak so intently to the unknown man? She was sure their meeting was no casual encounter.
As she watched, the rough man turned to walk away while Justin began to follow the ledge back, climbing gradually upwards until he regained the greensward and was standing only a few feet from her. She held her breath, waiting for discovery. But in a moment he had struck out along the path towards the Rye road, evidently on his way back to Chelwood. No horse, she thought, no carriage and not a servant in sight. He had come to the meeting completely alone. She wondered if he realised the kind of men he was dealing with, the kind of men who could hurl another human being over the cliff to certain death. He would have to be a fool not to realise, and Justin Delacourt was no fool. So what was behind this encounter?
A dreadful thought lodged in her mind. Was it possible that he had become entangled in the same mesh as Gil, that he was not as impervious to Rosanna as he claimed? It was a crazy idea, yet...he was a soldier and nothing about him was certain, no matter how upright and honourable he appeared. For what did she really know of him beyond his title and his house? Only what her heart told her and her heart had proved spectacularly unreliable in the past. Hadn’t it sent her on a fruitless search for her father and put her in danger along the way?
She hurried back to Brede House, trying hard to forget what she had witnessed. Whatever the truth of the meeting, it had nothing to do with her. She must leave Justin to solve the riddle of his friend’s disappearance and dismiss him from her mind altogether. In the grey light of an October morning, last night’s tryst had begun to seem the most foolish impulse to which she had ever succumbed. It was painful to acknowledge, but their lovemaking was something best forgotten, and he must feel the same. Doubtless he had forgotten already.
* * *
In that she was wrong. In the days that followed the party, Justin had ample time to relive the events of that evening. And he did constantly. While he walked his estate with the bailiff, discussing the pastures they might fence, the crops they would sow, the improvements they could afford, he thought of little else. He had lost control of himself that night and he dared not contemplate the likely consequences. He had almost seduced Lizzie Ingram! If Alfred had not appeared from nowhere, he would have made love to her right there and then. Exquisite love, he thought, but utterly wrong. He had been insane to allow things to get so out of hand between them and now he was faced with extricating himself and her from the abyss into which they had fallen. Since that night, he had managed to avoid a meeting, but that would not answer for ever, and then what? She was young and heedless, impulsively throwing herself into life and love. But he was not and he berated himself for his folly. Despite her enticing loveliness, he should have been strong enough to remain aloof. Instead he had been unable to resist and the control of a lifetime had foundered. That must never happen again—there was no future in such a liaison, no future for either of them. In a short while, he would be leaving Rye, leaving England, and he did not know when or even if he would return. But that was not the crux of the problem, was it? Even if he emerged from this endless conflict unscathed, he was incapable of loving a woman in the way Lizzie should be loved. Any feeling he could offer would be a misshapen, half-formed thing—you could hardly call it love—and she deserved a great deal better.
* * *
It was only the arrival of a letter mid-week that for a
few hours cast Lizzie from his mind. He read the missive, read it again in mounting anger and then stuffed the sheet of cream vellum behind the stack of books which littered his study floor. He would not think of it or its contents. He would walk out to his furthermost field and check the progress of the men who had been hired that week to hedge and ditch. In that way he could keep his mind a deliberate blank.
He had passed the bailiff’s office and was following the path which wound along the boundary of the estate, when he almost cannoned into Lizzie travelling in the opposite direction. They both stopped in their tracks, for she was as taken aback as he. His eyebrows rose in silent query and just as mutely she held out the basket she carried, as an explanation.
‘It’s a pie,’ she said, when he had taken hold of the handle. ‘Mrs Croft was insistent I bring it. It contains pheasant—your cook apparently has a great liking for Hester’s pheasant pie.’
The words were delivered dully as though she were finding it troublesome to speak and he thought he knew why. She was regretting their indiscretion as much as he and he must make this encounter as brief as possible for both their sakes.
His greeting was courteous, but formal. ‘It is very good of you to walk so far, Miss Ingram. The pie is a most kind thought of Mrs Croft.’
‘It was Mrs Croft’s express wish that I make the delivery.’ She was making it clear, he thought, that she was not here willingly.
He tried to keep his eyes averted, but could not fail to see that in her green-velvet spencer she looked as lovely as ever. She had tied an emerald-green ribbon through her chestnut curls and he could not take his eyes from their bright sheen.
Fighting to bring his wandering mind back into order, he asked, ‘Would you wish me to take it to the kitchen or perhaps you would prefer to present it yourself to Cook?’
‘It would help me if you could deliver the gift yourself. I have much to do at Brede House. Mrs Croft has been unwell and needs my constant attention.’
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