by Mira Stables
“I would advise you to discuss your difficulties with my aunt,” he said coldly. “I assume that you are acquainted with her. She would be better able to help you to a suitable establishment than any mere male.”
Clemency coloured furiously. “Lady Eleanor has already been kindness itself,” she said. “I will not impose further upon her good nature.”
“May I ask if your father has any notion of your intentions, or indeed, of this visit?” he enquired.
The downcast eyes were answer enough.
“I thought not. Let me assure you, Miss Longden, that a man would rather suffer the direst poverty than cast his daughters upon the world. And if his circumstances do not permit all the extravagances of fashion,” with a sardonic glance at her rich silk gown and expensive, if ill fitting, bonnet, “his children must accept this in good part. If you really wish to spare your father’s purse, it would better become you to study the domestic arts and practise economy.”
His tone was cold and critical. Clemency’s heart sank. Clearly it had been a mistake to wear Mama’s clothes. And how could she bring herself to tell this unsympathetic stranger that it was not a case of mismanagement and extravagance, but of actual hunger?
After all the effort the visit had cost and all the hopes that had been built on its success, she could see herself going home to admit failure. Bitter resentment overwhelmed the years of careful schooling, and she flared out at him. “I regret having wasted your time, Sir. I had believed, foolishly it would appear, that a gentleman never forgot an obligation, and so was misled into the belief that you would welcome the opportunity of serving my father’s children. I acknowledge my mistake and will bid you good morning.”
She rose with an energy that set the bonnet perilously a-tilt, accorded him an infinitesimal bow, and moved swiftly to the door.
“One moment, Miss Longden,” snapped the voice behind her, and the rasp of command checked her impetuous haste in spite of herself. “What talk is this of obligation? I am aware of none. You will kindly explain your meaning.”
He, too, had risen, and now he came round the writing-table towards her. She was dimly aware that he limped a little. Scarcely a limp, rather a slight inequality in his gait that she promptly forgot as she faced the anger in his blue eyes.
It was a little frightening, she acknowledged, but exciting too, and since the odious creature had obviously no intention of helping them there was no reason why she should allow herself to be browbeaten. She curled her lip at him.
“It is no part of my duty, Sir, to explain to you the code of behaviour customary among gentlemen. In any case,” she elaborated with relish, “it would clearly take far too long, and my time is too valuable to be squandered so,” and she curtsied again, defiantly, as her fingers closed on the door handle.
A powerful grip closed over hers. “You little spitfire!” said the deep voice, amused now, and very close to her ear. “Let go that handle at once and answer my question.”
There was no option but to obey the first part of the order, since the iron grip on her wrist was forcing her to release her hold and swinging her round to face him. Clemency had never been so roughly handled in all her sheltered life. She had spent a very trying morning, and now, between pain in her maltreated wrist and fury at the man’s calm assumption of authority, lost her temper completely. Her left hand flashed up to deliver a resounding slap across that smiling mouth.
The action was purely instinctive and repented even as it was made, but the damage was done. The dark head jerked upward at the blow, then the smile deepened as he stooped to catch the impetuous hand and hold her prisoner by both wrists.
“Now what do you think you deserve for that, Miss Longden?” he asked gently. “You would have done better you know, to stick to the use of your tongue, which seems to be perfectly adequate to the infliction of insults. But since you are so well versed in the code of behaviour appropriate to gentlemen, you will be aware that since you struck the blow, I am entitled to demand satisfaction. However, I will be generous to youthful folly and accept an apology.”
Apology — sincere regret for a most unbecoming action — was actually trembling on the tip of her tongue, but at this provocative speech the soft lips folded together in resolute defiance.
“No?” enquired her tormentor, now definitely enjoying the situation. “Not even to have your hands released so that you may set your bonnet straight?”
Insult upon insult! The wretched bonnet had descended over one eye as she raised her hand to strike, and she knew only too well how ridiculous she must look. She subdued a strong impulse to kick, even bite: anything to crack that imperturbable, deeply amused façade. Dignity — so far as the bonnet would permit — was the only possible role. She assumed an air of calm detachment, allowing her wrists to lie limp and passive in his grasp, her eyes to gaze pensively at that intriguing plume of white that marred his dark head, and only her tight-pressed lips betrayed her seething fury.
“I am waiting, Miss Longden,” reminded the inexorable voice. “Your apology, if you please, or I shall resort to stronger measures.”
An empty threat, that. There was nothing he could do. No need as yet to submit meekly. She managed a sweet, if artificial, little smile.
“Indeed, Sir?” she said politely. “Then I trust you have no pressing engagements this morning, for you are like to have a long wait.”
Privately Piers was inclined to admire her spirit, though he considered that she stood sadly in need of schooling. Papa had certainly neglected his paternal duties. The young minx would be all the better for a sound spanking, but he could scarcely take it upon himself to administer that form of correction. If he were not to lose face by tamely releasing her there was only one thing to be done, and he wasted no time on thinking of possible repercussions. A swift jerk on the captive wrists and she was in his arms, his kiss pressed ruthlessly on the soft young mouth. For a moment, taken utterly by surprise, she lay unresisting against his breast. Then realisation came and she strove with all her puny strength to break free of his hold, writhing and kicking out furiously.
Piers had meant only to teach the girl a sharp lesson on the unwisdom of intruding upon strange men with requests for help. That one kiss had been the limit of his intentions. But the feel of the soft little creature struggling so frantically in his arms aroused a primitive desire to conquer and subdue. Not for worlds would he really hurt her, but she should learn that he was master. He simply held her caged in the steely strength of his arms until she grew breathless and exhausted and her struggles ceased. Then he gathered her closer, holding her in the circle of one arm while his free hand loosed the ribbons of that unfortunate bonnet and tossed it aside. He kissed her again, a kiss that even the frightened untaught girl in his arms recognised as very different from that first swift punitive one. He kissed her firmly, demandingly, but there was nothing greedy or brutal about it. His mouth was warm and beseeching, and despite her rage and shock Clemency felt herself yielding to its beguilement. She was too weary to fight any more and not even sure that she wanted to, held in a dream that brought new and delightful sensations and innocently unaware of the desire that was leaping to life in the man who held her.
It seemed an age, a blissful age, before he raised his head and looked down at her, an odd expression in the blue eyes, an uncertainty, a questioning that was quite new to him. Clemency sighed a little, aware that the dream was over. She looked up into the hard masculine face so close to her own and shivered at the impact of its vigorous reality. No dream, but fierce, exciting, frightening fact.
Piers felt the shudder that shook the slight frame and took it for revulsion. At once he released her, only keeping one hand beneath her elbow for support as he guided her to a chair, for she was white and shaken now that reaction was setting in. He himself had undergone a shattering experience. He had teasingly demanded an apology from a pretty and foolishly behaved girl, but no apology could possibly cover his own subsequent conduct. He coul
d not understand how the situation had suddenly snapped from the trivial and light hearted to the vitally important. He was no believer in pretty romances founded on love at first sight, and in any case, at first sight he had thought his visitor a plaguey nuisance. The quite different emotions which now filled his heart were much too new-born to be reliable. Conscious of a strong desire to gather the little creature into his arms and pet and soothe her back to confidence, he marched firmly to the fireplace and rang for Beach, leaving her to recover her composure as best she might.
Having desired the servant to bring coffee and cakes he picked up the ill-fated bonnet, absently smoothing and folding its crushed ribbons as he sought for words to bridge the embarrassed silence. The girl sat with drooping head, a pathetic little image, her childish pride humbled, her newly emergent womanhood bewildered and astray. Mercifully Beach was swift in returning with the coffee. Piers dismissed him with a nod of thanks and poured out the powerful brew which was made to suit his tastes before recalling that a girl might prefer a milder beverage. He added cream liberally in an attempt to mellow the bitter stuff and carried the cup to her side.
“Do you take sugar in your coffee?” he enquired politely, in such ludicrous contrast to his recent behaviour that even he perceived its oddity yet was too disturbed to smile.
Clemency saw the cup as something normal and homely in a world gone suddenly crazy. Her hands came out to take it as a man struggling in deep water clutches at any support. But the cup chattered on its saucer in her shaking fingers and she was quite incapable of answering his simple question. She managed somehow to lift the cup to her lips and sipped gingerly at the mess of cream floating on the surface. The potent scalding brew certainly revived her so that she was able to focus on her host standing attentively beside her with the sugar bowl in one hand and a plate of sponge fingers in the other. “Or would you rather try a macaroon?” he offered. “Mrs. Beach makes them and they are really very good.”
Clemency had a vague notion that she ought to refuse to break bread — or in this case, sponge fingers — in the house of a man who had behaved so shockingly, but she was suddenly aware that she was exceedingly hungry. She had been too wrought up to eat breakfast and the long walk to the Dower House had tired her. Then had come that unreal interlude with this very strange man who was now treating her rather as though he were an anxious nurse tending a sick child. She had not tasted coffee for several poverty stricken months. It was ambrosial. It seemed that she was totally lacking in the sensibility proper to a delicately bred female. Her hand was stretching for a cake almost of its own volition.
Captain Kennedy heaved a sigh of relief and his grim countenance softened almost unbelievably as she stripped off her glove and bit into the sweet morsel, quite unaware of the creamy rim about her mouth that gave considerable substance to the nursery image. He left the cakes strategically to hand and retired to the table to pour his own coffee, taking his time about the business and noting in some surprise the inroads that his frail little adversary was making on the cake plate when she thought he was not watching.
Silently he saluted her courage. She was not going to treat him to a fit of the vapours, though heaven knew she had sufficient cause. He would let her drink her coffee in peace and then make some attempt to put their relationship on a better footing. It had become important that she should forgive him — not just at once perhaps — that was scarcely to be expected — but quite soon, if he worked hard on his apologies and promises of future good behaviour; which brought him up with a round turn, for there was nothing he desired so much as to kiss her again, and that ridiculous creamy rim on the adorably curved upper lip was a flagrant invitation. Hastily he averted his gaze and passed her the neglected macaroons.
He was hesitating between frank apology, casting himself entirely upon her mercy, and the more risky course of pleading irresistible temptation, when an interruption occurred that denied him the opportunity of doing either.
A pleasant baritone voice was uplifted in cheerful song outside the window, bidding dull care begone. It broke off abruptly to be succeeded by a peremptory tapping on the glass.
“My cousin, Giles. You will know him, of course. Shall I bid him begone with his song, or may I admit him?” said Piers in rapid explanation, inwardly cursing his cousin’s inconvenient timing.
But Clemency obviously welcomed the interruption and said, in some surprise, “But of course you must admit him. Why not?”
Piers had not the heart to suggest that there was anything questionable about a young lady being found alone with a gentleman in that gentleman’s residence, even if she had an abigail — whose presence he had forgotten until that moment — in attendance somewhere about the place. If the events of the past quarter of an hour had not taught her the danger of such behaviour he no longer had any desire to ram the lesson home.
The rapping on the window was repeated, embellished now by sundry hails which Giles fondly believed to be of a nautical nature. “Hey there, Captain! Ahoy! Open up! Permission to come on board?” And as Piers at last acceded to the repeated demands, “What are you doing skulking ’tween decks on as fine a morning as we’re likely to get this month? I looked for you over Taviston as I came down. But what’s all this?”
His eye lit upon that fatal bonnet, now reposing demurely on the gleaming oak of the writing-table. “Piers! You old devil! Who’ve you got hid —” His voice failed and died completely as he spied Clemency. For just one second he gaped visibly. Then as she smiled her greeting he made a swift recovery. “Clee! I scarce recognised you. Why the sartorial splendour? Surely not to call on this crusty old sea-dog? It’s wasted on him promise you. Doesn’t know nainsook from nunsveiling. Did your father send you to do the polite to the lord of the manor? My poor girl! You have all my sympathy. No wonder friend Piers was loth to unbar to me. Keeping you all to himself. Permit me to inform you, cousin, that I’ve been first-oars with all the Longden girls ever since I cut my wisdoms and I’ll not have you stealing a march on me in this underhand manner.”
He offered to escort Clemency home when she was ready to leave and exclaimed in horror on hearing that she had walked all that way. A very slight detour from his intended route would permit him to take her up in the gig, “And Betsy, too, for you’d not be without your watchdog would you, Miss Clee?” He then added in an audible aside to his cousin, “There you are, my lad. That’s how it’s done. As neat a cutting out operation as ever you’ve seen at sea. Let that be a lesson to you!”
Clemency said that Betsy would be dreadfully cross at being kept waiting so long, whereupon Giles advised his cousin not to risk a brush with the formidable Miss Love if that was her mood. “Our Betsy-love is a bit of a tartar when roused to ire, but I am quite one of her favourites and may hope to escape with a mild scold. She would have you reduced a quivering jelly inside two minutes.”
Piers directed a glance that would have quelled a mutiny at his irrepressible cousin and ignored the kind advice, performing the necessary courtesies with a grave air that lent them a touch of old world chivalry. Miss Love, studying him with a critical regard that she made no attempt to conceal, found him quite a personable young man. Further than that she would not commit herself until she saw how he dealt with her darlings. Piers, for his part, met her fierce scrutiny with outward composure despite his guilty conscience. Viewing the wrinkled old face and noting its doting fondness as the faded eyes turned to the girl at his side, he was thankful that Mistress Love did not know that she had cause for complaint against him far more serious than the minor inconvenience of being kept waiting.
He informed Clemency that he would certainly do himself the honour of calling upon her Papa at an early date, a remark that caused her to open her eyes in surprised fashion but earned a nod of what might almost pass for approval from Betsy, and watched the gig bowl away.
His hearing was acute — the air very still. Clearly across the intervening space he heard Giles say, “Now, young Clee. You’ve be
en up to mischief, I know. Confession please.” With a wry little grin he wondered how far confession would go.
Chapter Three
WHEN Piers put in an appearance at his aunt’s dinner table that night it was to find that Miss Longden’s morning call was the main topic of conversation. Perhaps the girl had felt bound to give some explanation of her unorthodox behaviour. At any rate she had spoken quite openly of the reason for her visit.
Giles was outraged, declaring that he had never heard anything so preposterous, and trusting that his cousin had scotched so crazy a start at the very outset. But before Piers could explain that he had done just that, Lady Eleanor struck a doubting note.
“I cannot believe that Clemency would have made such an approach unless the case had been really desperate,” she said gravely. “For a child so gently bred to have taken so reckless a step, to approach one who is all but a stranger, she must indeed have been hard driven. One cannot help being aware that the Longdens have been in very straitened circumstances this past year, and lately I have heard hints that John is deeply involved in this South American business. Naturally they never plead poverty, but it is perfectly obvious that it is make and scrape with them. None of the girls has had a new gown since I don’t know when.”
“Well, Clee was wearing a very smart rig this morning.” retorted Giles. “As fine as fivepence in silk and velvet, and feathers in her hat.”
“Clemency was?” exclaimed his mother in horrified accents. “In the morning? In the country? Oh! Indeed something is very much amiss. Is this really true, Piers?”
Her nephew grinned. “The young lady was certainly very expensively clad,” he acknowledged, “but not, I would say, fashionably. Indeed I was left with the impression that bonnet and dress had been made for an older lady. The bonnet, in particular, was too large for its wearer,” and he could not restrain a soft chuckle at the memory.
