Anything But a Gentleman
Page 5
‘But tell me, have you met Lord Ravensford yet?’ asked Jennifer, as Mr Windham turned his attention back to his own party.
‘Yes.’ Marianne was amused at the excitement in Jennifer’s voice.
‘Is he as wildly attractive as everyone says he is?’
‘Everyone?’ asked Marianne, using a teasing tone to covering up the fact that she was uncomfortable talking about Lord Ravensford. She was not sure what her feelings were towards him, and she was unwilling to talk about him until she had decided. On the one hand he had been very rude to her at their first meeting but on the other, he had seen to the matter of the mantraps, and he had taken care, whilst in her own home, to be polite; although even at his politest there was something distinctly unsettling about him.
‘Well, the Lenton girls, at least,’ said Jennifer, blissfully unaware of Marianne’s thoughts. ‘I’m just glad they aren’t here tonight, otherwise they would be simpering and flirting in the most dreadful way’
Then, remembering her duties as a hostess, Jennifer led Marianne over to a long table covered in a snowy white cloth and offered her a glass of fruit punch.
‘But is he?’ asked Jennifer, returning to her earlier theme. ‘Lord Ravensford. Is he as handsome as Mr Windham?’
Marianne glanced at Mr Windham again, and was disconcerted to find he was looking at her. But he quickly looked away.
‘His features are not so perfect,’ said Marianne. ‘But I don’t think it would be possible to grow tired of looking at Lord Ravensford’s face, in the way it would be with Mr Windham’s.’
‘Oh, here is Lord Ravensford!’ exclaimed Jennifer, going bright red as he crossed the room towards them. She gave a long sigh. ‘Oh! He looks like a dream.’
Marianne felt her heart begin to beat more quickly, for he did indeed look like a dream. His wild dark hair was pulled back from his face, accentuating the masculine line of his cheek and jaw, before being tied in a black ribbon bow at the nape of his neck. His dark green tailcoat, cut away to reveal a heavily embroidered gold waistcoat, clung effortlessly to his broad shoulders, and his knee breeches fit his long legs like a second skin. White silk stockings revealed the firmness of his lower leg and then disappeared into black pumps.
Marianne opened her fan and began to waft it to and fro, creating a cooling breeze, for not only was her heart beating more quickly at the sight of Lord Ravensford, but she could feel herself growing hot. She did not know why, but Lord Ravensford seemed to have this effect on her. She was not sure whether she liked the feeling. It was unsettling; disturbing; but she felt that, before she had experienced it, she had only been half alive.
His eyes met hers with amusement, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking, and she found herself blushing. Really! She was behaving like a débutante, instead of a twenty-three year old who ran a country estate.
Giving a sardonic smile, as though satisfied with the effect he had had on her, he turned his attention to Jennifer.
‘Miss Cosgrove,’ he said politely.
‘Lord Ravensford!’ Jennifer gave a long sigh.
He smiled, but there was no mockery in the smile, Marianne was pleased to see; no double edge, as there was when he smiled at her. It was a kindly smile; the sort of smile a brother might bestow on a younger sister.
‘Miss Travis,’ he said, turning to her once more. ‘I have come to remind you of your promise. You owe me the first dance.’
Marianne accepted his hand, feeling her skin tingle through her glove, and as the musicians struck up the chords for one of her favourite country dances, they took their places on the floor.
The Cosgroves’ house was lacking a ballroom, but the double doors between the dining-room and drawing-room had been thrown open to make a tolerably large room and the dancing began.
Lord Ravensford proved to be a good dancer. After years of having her feet trodden on, and her dresses torn, it was a pleasure for Marianne to dance with a man who was in control of his body. And that was one of the things that set him apart from the other men, she realised, his degree of control. There was a tension about him, as though he were controlling himself all the time; as though he could not afford to reveal his true self; and it deepened her feeling that there was something mysterious about him.
‘I thought you would like to know that all the mantraps have been cleared,’ he said as they came together, touching hands as part of the dance. ‘Now that the snow has melted, it has been possible to check that none remain.’
‘Has Jakes given you dire warnings about poachers, now they have gone?’ asked Marianne.
‘He has. But I told him that a good manager didn’t need pieces of iron to do his job for him.’ He smiled. ‘Jakes was not amused.’
Marianne laughed. ‘I should think he wouldn’t be. But you must not tease him too much. Good estate managers are hard to find, and Mr Billingsdale won’t thank me if I lose Jakes for him.’
‘It won’t come to that, never fear. Jakes was simply testing my mettle.’
Marianne felt the smallest of shivers, knowing instinctively how strong that mettle was.
They were parted by the dance, walking away from each other before meeting up again further down the line.
‘And how are you enjoying your time down in Sussex?’ asked Marianne. ‘This is rather a dead time of year. I hope you are not too bored?’
His eyes roamed over her face. ‘No,’ he said with a meaningful smile. ‘I have not been bored.’
‘Have you relatives in the area?’ Marianne asked, conscious of her heart beating quickly, and trying to keep the conversation within normal bounds.
He threw her a curious glance. ‘No.’
‘I simply wondered whether that was why you had decided to rent an estate in this neighbourhood.’
‘Ah. I see.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘I wanted a large estate in the south of England, and Billingsdale Manor was the most suitable one I was shown.’
His words were polite enough, and his tone good-humoured. Even so, Marianne felt as if a constraint had somehow entered the conversation. It was as if the tension she had earlier felt coming from him had now extended to their conversation. He continued to talk to her, but it was as though he was merely making polite conversation, saying the sort of things he might have said to any young lady at a ball, instead of talking to her about things which mattered to them both. He talked to her about the size of the room, the number of couples, and the assembled guests, determinedly avoiding any more personal subject.
At last the music came to an end. He escorted her back to the side of the room, but any hopes she might have had that their rapport would be re-established were dashed as he immediately asked a delighted Jennifer to dance.
Marianne was unsettled. Why should he be so unwilling to talk about his reasons for staying in the neighbourhood? she wondered. Or was it just that she had read too much into his manner, and the things he had said?
She had no time to ponder on it, however, as Jem Cosgrove quickly claimed her hand. There was no formality here tonight. The ladies did not have cards on which they wrote the names of their dancing partners, arranging their evening before the dancing had really begun. Instead they accepted partners from dance to dance, and Marianne, in the spirit of the evening, readily accepted Jem as a partner - despite the fact her gown would suffer!
From there onwards she had no chance to think of Lord Ravensford’s constrained manner any further. She was much in demand, and had no chance to sit down. After dancing for almost an hour she was completely worn out. She had not danced so much in months, and she took herself into the sitting-room where, the dining-room being used for the dancing, refreshments had been laid out. The Cosgroves’ cook had laid on a lavish spread. Silver dishes covered the snowy white table cloth, and silver candlesticks ensured plenty of light. There were tureens of spiced mulligatawny soup, dishes of boiled fowl, and plates of tongue and ham. Pies and pasties were set on silver salvers, and a pyramid of fruit took pride of place
. Marianne was just helping herself to a venison pasty – the pastry, alas, being not as light as Henri’s – when she heard a voice at her shoulder and turned to see Mr Windham.
Unaccountably, she felt uncomfortable. Her gaze swept the room, hoping for the reassurance of familiar faces, but there was no one else there. They were quite alone.
‘Miss Travis, is it not?’ he asked as he helped himself to a slice of veal pie.
Marianne nodded.
‘I thought that is what Mr Cosgrove said. A delightful family, the Cosgroves.’
‘Yes,’ Marianne agreed.
‘You were dancing with Jem earlier, I noticed. A fine young man. And his sister a jovial girl.’
Marianne agreed again. The conversation, whilst being unexceptionable, struck her as slightly odd. It seemed forced; not natural; as though it was leading somewhere. But where, she could not guess.
His manner, too, made her feel uneasy, although she could not think why. He was perfectly polite – charming, even – but there was something smooth about him, something uncomfortable and unnerving. If she had not been in the middle of eating a pasty she would have excused herself and returned to the dancing. As it was, she had no choice but to remain.
‘Have you any brothers or sisters, Miss Travis?’ he asked.
He gave her a reassuring smile, but somehow it had the opposite effect and she felt her skin prickle.
‘One. A brother.’ She spoke unwillingly. She did not know why, but somehow she did not want this man to know about her family.
‘Ah. You are fortunate. Me, I have no family. It must be a great comfort to have a brother. He is here tonight?’
‘No.’ Marianne’s answer was brief.
‘A pity. I would have liked to have had the honour of meeting him. He is in London, perhaps?’
‘I – yes.’ Marianne frowned. She did not actually know where Kit was, and she wondered why she had just lied. She was usually a very truthful person, but somehow she didn’t want to tell this man anything about her brother.
‘He is there long?’
The questions, whilst trivial, seemed pointed, and Marianne had just decided that she would excuse herself, no matter how odd it may seem, when Lord Ravensford entered the room.
She felt a tide of relief wash over her.
Lord Ravensford had his own depths but somehow they were intriguing rather than murky, like Mr Windham’s.
‘Ah! There you are, Miss Travis,’ he said, going over to Marianne. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. You have not forgotten your promise to dance the minuet with me, I hope?’
And without giving Marianne the chance to object he took her plate from her, put it down on the table, and steered her out of the room.
The tension in his hand conveyed itself to her through her long glove. She could not deny the fact that she was grateful to him for rescuing her from Mr Windham, but even so she did not take kindly to being treated in such a way. She was about to wrest her arm free when he opened one of the small doors leading off from the hall, and to her surprise he steered her into a small room. Because she had visited the house many times she knew, even before she entered the room, that it was Mr Cosgrove’s study, but she suspected that Lord Ravensford had simply picked a door at random.
He dropped her arm, but before she could speak he said curtly, ‘I want you to keep away from Windham, Marianne. Do you understand?’
He had shed his careless air like a sloughed skin, and the effect was electrifying. Marianne could not protest at his use of her name, she could not even remember that she ought to protest, because the atmosphere had become charged with a force so powerful it drove all normal considerations from her mind. Instead of railing against him she found herself fighting a flood of new and unwanted images that had invaded her mind: images of him kissing her hands before pulling her into his arms and kissing her passionately on the lips.
She stood stock still for a moment, overcome by the highly charged atmosphere and her own ungovernable imagination. Where had such images come from? And how had they taken control of her? She shook her head angrily, driving the pictures away. This man had taken charge of her; had steered her out of one room and into another; had told her what she could and could not do, had laid down the law by telling her who she could and could not speak to, and all she could do was imagine herself in his arms?
‘I will decide who I talk to,’ she said, quickly regaining control of herself and redirecting the anger she had built up against herself towards him. ‘If I choose to speak to Mr Windham I will do so. Perhaps it is your custom to cut people you dislike, but it is not mine.’ She ignored the part of her that said she had been about to do exactly that, too angry to be fair. ‘Mr Windham is a guest at this ball and I would not dream of insulting him, or the Cosgroves either, by refusing to make a little polite conversation.’
‘Polite conversation?’ he asked. ‘Was that all it was?’ His eyes were darker now that he was angry, she noticed. In fact, his whole body had changed. It seemed to have grown, and his presence filled the room. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, ‘what was your conversation about?’
For one moment she nearly told him. So strong was his presence, and so unsettled was she by Mr Windham’s pointed questions, that she longed to talk to him about it – though why she should think of talking to Lord Ravensford, when Mr Cosgrove was older and wiser, and an old family friend into the bargain, she did not know. But she was angry with Lord Ravensford for thinking he could order her life, and the moment passed.
‘Your manners haven’t improved,’ she told him, angered by his high-handed attitude. ‘I will talk to whoever I choose.’
‘Marianne.’ He used her name again, and crossing over to her in one stride he gripped her by the arms, looking intently down into her eyes. ‘This is too important a matter to trifle with. I want to know what he said.’
His eyes bored down into her. He was so close to her that she was made forcefully aware of everything about him: his angular cheekbones, golden eyes and exciting lips. Her own parted in unknowing invitation and she gazed up at him. She had never felt like this before. She had never lost control of herself. But now she seemed to be melting. The Miss Travis who ran her family’s estate and who spent her life on her duties seemed to be liquefying, dropping away, until all that was left at the centre was Marianne. Marianne, who wanted to forget her duties and be free again; Marianne who, innocent though she was, knew there was a world beyond the one she had already experienced and wanted Lord Ravensford to take her there, leading her by the hand. No one had ever made her feel as he made her feel. Not once in her three London seasons had she met a man who made her pulses race, or even made them stir. But Lord Ravensford, newly arrived in the country, made her forget everything else – everything except the fact that she was a woman and he was a man.
It can’t be allowed to continue, she thought. Lord Ravensford might have an enormous effect on her body, but he was overbearing and dictatorial, and must be made to realise that he could not order her about.
She wondered briefly what he had against Mr Windham: he had been very adamant that she must not speak to him. She knew instinctively that it was not jealousy – Lord Ravensford, she felt, was, without being conceited, too sure of his own powers ever to be jealous of Mr Windham, or any other man - but she could think of no other possible reason for his reaction. True, she had not liked Mr Windham either, but she would hardly have ordered someone else to keep away from him. No, there must be some reason for it, she thought, as she looked deep into Lord Ravensford’s eyes.
And then she saw them change. The gold light burned out of them and he let go of her arms, taking a step back.
‘You are right,’ he said in clipped tones. ‘I have lost my manners completely.’
He gave her one more searching look and then, making her a curt bow, he strode towards the door.
He was almost out of it when Marianne called, ‘Lord Ravensford?’
He turned round.
His eyes remained hard. ‘Yes?’
‘I . . . didn’t like the man. I was trying to free myself from him when you arrived.’
‘Then why . . . ?’
‘Because I don’t take kindly to being ordered about. I am not a child. I have a mind of my own and I use it. I will not allow you or anyone else to tell me who I can and can not talk to. But all the same, there was something about Mr Windham I very much disliked.’
His eyes were shrewd, and there was an unmistakeably glimmer of respect in them. ‘Your instincts are good. You told me, at our first meeting, that I was anything but a gentleman – and no, don’t tell me again,’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘because I am not about to disagree. You are right. I am not a gentleman. I was born a gentleman and have been raised as one, but the blood of the first Earl runs strongly in my veins and he was a wolf of a man. Earldoms are won by predators: men with ambition, men who take what they want. And so yes, Miss Travis, you were right: I am anything but a gentleman. But Windham . . . Windham is something much worse.’
She nodded. ‘I sensed something devious about him,’ she said. ‘Underhand.’
‘Windham is a vicious man.’
A vicious man. Yes, there was something about him that had seemed vicious, in a cold and calculating way. And the questions he had asked her had been about Kit. Marianne sat down suddenly, as vague yet alarming possibilities forced their way into her mind. ‘He is after my brother.’
He looked at her penetratingly. ‘What makes you say that?’ Then, as the sound of a distant door opening and closing reminded him they were alone in an out-of-the-way corner of the house, he said, ‘No, don’t tell me here. We must not stay or our absence may be remarked.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘I am enough of a gentleman, you see, to protect your reputation: education has done something to civilise my instincts.’