A Countess by Christmas (12 page)

‘Oh, thank heavens!’ Helen cried as Swaledale spun round, letting her go. She wiped her face and neck with the sleeve of her nightgown. Her arm was shaking, she noted. As were her legs.

And she felt sick.

‘Having a little bit of sport,’ said Swaledale defiantly, ‘with a game pullet. Where’s the harm in that?’

‘The harm,’ said Lord Bridgemere coldly, continuing to mount the stairs, ‘is that the lady does not appear to me to be willing.’

‘She’s no lady,’ Swaledale sneered. ‘Just some jumped-up servant…’

‘All the more reason for you to keep your hands off her!’

Helen could not believe how much that hurt. He had not denied Swaledale’s assumption that she was a menial. No, his retort only went to confirm that he really did think of her as a sort of servant.

‘I will not have my house made unsafe for females whatever their station in life!’ Bridgemere continued. ‘And if this is an example of what my staff may expect if you take over the reins…’

‘Whadya mean,
if
? I’m your heir! When you’re gone it will all be mine…’

‘
When
I’m gone, and not before!’

He had reached the landing, which now seemed very crowded. Helen was already flat against the wall, and the two men were standing toe to toe.

‘I thought I made that quite clear this afternoon,’ said Lord Bridgemere in anger. ‘You cannot keep running through your allowance, assuming I will mop up all your debts! If this is the way you repay my generosity, then I shall have to think very carefully about doing so again.’

‘This is all
your
doing,’ Swaledale muttered, giving Helen a dirty look.

‘It is nothing to do with Miss Forrest! Oh, for heaven’s
sake, go to your room and sleep it off!’ he said, running the flat of his hand over the crown of his head. ‘We will talk again when you’ve sobered up.’

To Helen’s relief, Swaledale turned and lurched off up the stairs.

But then Lord Bridgemere rounded on her.

‘As for you, Miss Forrest, what the devil do you think you are doing, loitering about the backstairs in your nightgown? Have you no sense at all?’

‘Loitering?’ she retorted, unbelievably hurt by his accusation of deliberate immodesty.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled the way Lady Thrapston had made her feel earlier, when she had accused her of setting her cap at Lord Bridgemere. It was so unfair. She might have been a little reckless, but she had never deliberately set out to lure anyone.

‘I assumed that as a guest in your house I would be perfectly safe. I never dreamt I would be accosted and mauled about like that!’

‘Well, now you know better.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘That was just a sample of what you can expect in a devil of a lot of households.’ He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘You stay in your room at night, with the door locked,’ he grated, shaking her.

He was furious to discover
any
female being subjected to this kind of treatment under his roof. But to think of her going off to some household where there was nobody about to check her natural exuberance, to watch over her, to keep her safe, was ten times worse. He had to make her see that she must modify her behaviour.

‘You can never assume anything about men when they have been drinking,’ he warned her, ‘except that
you need to steer clear of them. If you will go prowling around in a state of undress you will have only yourself to blame when some drunken buck helps himself to what is on offer.’

‘On offer?’ She batted his hands away, her candle guttering as wax splashed down the front of her nightgown. ‘How dare you? You make it sound as though what happened was my fault!’

He stepped back and sighed. ‘Just get back to your room,’ he said wearily. ‘And take this as a salutary lesson.’

He was doing it again. Talking down to her as though she was an imbecile…or a child.

‘I will not go back to my room,’ she said defiantly. ‘I have not got what I came down for.’

‘If you do not stop acting like this, even I might be tempted to give it to you.’

It was an insult too far. Oh, he might well have commended her frugality to his heir. But only, as the obnoxious toad had said, as a rebuke to a spendthrift youth who seemed to think the world owed him a living.

He really did think she was a…a designing hussy. That she was here on the backstairs in her nightgown for some nefarious reason. And if he could believe that, then he did not know her at all! With a wild sob, she slapped him as hard as she could across the face.

He went very still. Though the breath hissed through his teeth, he said nothing. Merely stared coldly down at her as the marks of her fingers began to bloom across his cheek.

That glacial self-control told her all she needed to
know. Her slap had not hurt him anywhere near as badly as his words had wounded her.

Her breath hitched in her throat as tears streamed down her face.

She felt her self-esteem shrivel to nothing. It was pointless to argue that she had done nothing wrong. In the eyes of the world, a woman who wandered around a house at night in a state of undress, as he had put it, was inviting the wrong sort of attention.

‘I d…didn’t mean to…’

‘I know,’ he said, and suddenly he pulled her into his arms and held her. Just held her close while she wept all over his dinner jacket.

It was just what she needed. Someone to hold her and comfort her after the horrible way Swaledale had treated her. Even after the horrible way Lord Bridgemere had spoken to her.

But after only a short while she became aware of the danger of drawing such comfort from Bridgemere, of all men. She knew he would bring Swaledale to book for this night’s work. But he would not always be around to fight her battles for her. She was going to have to stand alone. This feeling of security that being in his arms produced was deceptive.

Besides, clinging to him like this when he already thought so poorly of her could only be confirming all his worst assumptions.

Shakily, she pulled herself away, and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

‘
Now
will you go back to your room, Miss Forrest?’

He looked completely exasperated. To him, she
must seem like a tiresome child, always blundering into scrapes that he was tired of rescuing her from. Or a servant who did not quite know her place and constantly needed reminding of it.

Not as an equal.

And not, by the way his face had shuttered, as a woman—a desirable woman who might stand a chance of success if ever she
were
brazen enough to attempt a spot of luring!

It felt as though a door had just slammed shut in her face, locking her out, leaving her forever in the cold. Alone.

With a sob, she whirled round and pounded back up the stairs.

The next morning, gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, Helen stumbled outside to the stableyard. She had promised Junia she would help her learn to skate or, to be more accurate, slide about on the ice, and nothing was going to make her break her word to a child.

‘Good morning, good morning!’ chirped Reverend Mullen, rubbing his hands together for warmth. ‘A fine, frosty morning. Perfect for the children’s outing,’ he beamed.

Helen managed to muster a polite smile as she clambered up into the back of the cart that was already half filled with excited children, all bundled up warmly, with hats and scarves concealing most of their faces.

She had seen them going off in this cart on her first morning here, she remembered, with a pang of nostalgia.

Back then she had felt like an unwelcome intruder. Now, although she was caught up in Lord Bridgemere’s
plans for his guests, she still felt painfully aware that she did not belong. He would be glad, no doubt, when she left, considering all the trouble she had caused.

She sighed as a groom slammed the tail of the cart closed. Reverend Mullen leapt up in front, next to the driver, and they lurched off, out of the cobbled yard and round a winding drive towards the copse.

The ride through the estate was like rubbing salt into a raw wound. Alvanley Park was just so beautiful this time in the morning. Every bush, tree and lacy spider’s web was gilded with frost, which sparkled as the sun caught it. As they swept round the lake she saw tendrils of mist rising from its surface, as well as from the grassy slopes upon which the sun’s rays beat down. And she could not help recalling the walk through the woods they were approaching now by the lane. The fleeting feeling of intimacy she had known with the owner of all this magnificence.

Which had melted away like the frost in the sunlight. Leaving behind, as he had predicted, a black mire of misery.

The cart could not get right into the grove in which Lord Bridgemere had created the ice slide. They all had to clamber down from the cart and walk the last few yards.

When they emerged from the last stand of trees Helen was astounded by the transformation that had been wrought on the place overnight. There were coloured lanterns hanging from the overhanging branches, so that what had been a dank, dark place now looked festive and inviting. The door to the tower stood open today, and inside she could see a fire burning in a massive
great hearth, so that anyone who got too cold could go and take shelter there.

And, she noted with tears in her eyes, what looked like horse blankets had been draped over the offending brambles, so that if anyone else was careless enough to overshoot the slide they would not get scratched.

Lord Bridgemere had thought of everything, she sniffed. He had taken as much care over this treat for the children as would be given to an entertainment arranged for adults on such estates. He cared equally for all his guests, be they high-born or low, be they young or old.

Why did more people not see this? Why had her aunt described him in such terms that she had thought he was a total misanthrope? He was nothing of the kind!

‘Miss? Miss?’

Junia was frowning up at her. ‘You said you would teach me…’

Blinking away her tears, Helen saw that some of the boys had dashed straight out onto the ice and were already sliding around, whooping and hollering at the tops of their voices.

Reverend Mullen strode out after them, waving his arms like a shepherd with an unruly flock of sheep, shooing them all to one end so that the smaller ones, and those who were more timid, would have a space where they need not fear getting knocked down.

‘I did,’ she said, taking Junia’s hand. ‘Let’s show these boys how it’s done!’

It was impossible to stay feeling sorry for herself for very long. Soon she was having as much fun as the children. Even Junia forgot her starchy manners and laughed
happily as she mastered the art of staying upright whilst sliding about.

Some while later Helen heard the unmistakable sound of Esau’s deep throaty bark, carrying to her from the pathway where they had abandoned the cart.

Her heart began to pound heavily. If Esau was there, Lord Bridgemere would not be far behind. Indeed, the moment she lifted her head to gaze in the dog’s direction she spotted him, astride a glossy bay stallion, his brows knit in a ferocious scowl as he called his hound to heel.

Esau stood for a second or two, his tail waving in the air, his nose well up, as he watched all the activity on the ice. He would have loved to join the children. But he was so boisterous, and so big, he would be bound to frighten the little ones. Lord Bridgemere called him again, and the dog bounded back to his master’s side.

He looked up then and saw her, standing stock still, staring at him.

Her cheeks flushed, remembering the last time she had seen him. How little she had been wearing. And how wonderful it had felt when he had put his arms round her.

And how exasperated he had looked at her clinging to him and weeping all over him.

He had not repulsed her, though. He was too kind for that.

She began to raise her hand, to wave a greeting, but quickly perceived how such a gesture would be interpreted. People already thought she was setting her cap at him. Even such an innocent gesture as waving to him would give them more fodder for gossip. Besides, he had
not come down here today to see her. He would want to check for himself, considering all the trouble he had gone to, whether the children were enjoying themselves.

Sucking in a sharp, painful breath, she deliberately turned her back on him, gripped Junia’s hand a little more tightly, and pushed herself and her charge in the opposite direction.

Lord Bridgemere felt as though she had slapped him all over again. Last night he had assumed it had been Swaledale she had wanted to strike, that
he
had been the one who had made her so angry.

But now he was not so sure.

The reproachful look on her face before she had deliberately turned her back on him had made him wonder if she could possibly have discerned the effect she’d had on him last night. But, hell, what man could hold a woman like her in his arms and
not
become aroused? She was so warm, so soft, and so very much alive! And as he had held her it had been as though her life force had flowed into him, making him feel, making him want…

If she had not run upstairs like a frightened little girl she would have discovered he could behave every bit as badly as Swaledale. And there would have been nobody to stop him.

Who would dare? They courted him, fawned over him, said
yes, My Lord
, and
no, My Lord
until he could barely stomach the sight of them. All except this proud, vibrant girl, who had barely stopped challenging him from the moment she had set foot in his house. Effortlessly breaching the walls he had built up so painstakingly. Dull but safe bulwarks comprised of duty,
cemented together by plentiful application of steady routine. She made him act upon impulse. Brought him back to life…

But with life came pain. He felt it now, in the wake of her reproachful rejection. Almost as badly as he had felt it last night when she had slapped him.

His face twisting in self-disdain, he turned his horse away from the clearing and cantered away into the woods.