Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (50 page)

Her reply had an acid sting. ‘Why, my lord, what the rest of
the Prince's 10th Hussars have in mind, I suppose. Everybody knows what's on
their
list and I've seen nothing yet to suggest
that you are any different.'

His wide, white smile did little to allay her fears in that
direction, for it showed her that their thoughts had reached dangerous ground
that ladies were usually careful to avoid. ‘Well, for one thing,' he said,
struggling with his smile, ‘the 10th and I parted company some months ago and,
for another thing, there are always some exceptions to the rule, you know.'

‘I suppose you are one of the exceptions.'

‘Most certainly, or I'd not be in the Prince's employment
now.'

‘And the Prince is employing you to purchase a piece of
furniture the owner has no intention of selling. Are you not rather wasting your
time, Lord Verne?'

Mrs Cardew had warned him that he would need to be patient.

‘Lady Golding,' he said, gently, ‘I am standing in a garden in
the sunshine in front of a fabulous building, with the call of seagulls and the
distant sound of the sea in my ears, while talking to the loveliest woman I've
ever seen in my life, and you ask me if I'm wasting my time. Well, if this is
wasting my time, all I can say is that I wish I'd wasted it years ago. Now,
shall we just forget his Highness's pressing need for expensive furniture and
take a look at more interesting things? Then, if you wish, we can go across to
Donaldson's Library and take a cup of coffee, followed by a drive round town in
a curricle. Do you drive?'

‘I used to.'

‘Good. Then we'll find something in here for you to practice
on, shall we?' He offered her his arm and, because he had just said something to
her that scalded her heart with suppressed tears, she placed her fingertips on
the blue sleeve, feeling both the softness of the fabric and the rock-hard
support beneath. It was as if, she thought, he knew what he had done and that
his subdued flow of talk about the decoration, the materials, and the fittings
inside the building was his way of buying time until she could find her voice
again.

It would have been a pity to miss seeing such a place, just to
make a point about not wanting to be in his company. And in spite of her
reservations, and not knowing how best to handle the awkward situation,
Annemarie could find nothing in his manner that made matters worse. Not once did
they mention the bureau or the real reason for his being in Brighton, for it
began to look as if Lord Verne had several good reasons for being there, one of
which was to check on the paintings and ornaments being added to the Prince's
collection at the Marine Pavilion. He had been allowed to use a suite of rooms
there, he told her, usually occupied by the Prince's Private Secretary, so his
acquaintance with the palace and stables staff meant that he had access to all
the amenities, including the Prince's cooks.

No one could have helped being impressed by the accommodation
for the Prince's horses. It resembled a Moorish palace, Annemarie remarked, more
than a stable. Above them, the glass rotunda filled the circular space with pure
daylight that sparkled on to a central fountain where grooms filled their pails.
Carriage and riding horses, some still rugged-up in the pale royal colours, were
led in and out through the fan-shaped arches while, on the balcony above, were
the grooms' cubicles behind a gilded façade. ‘And through here,' said Verne,
smiling at her awed expression, ‘is the riding-house. The horses are trained and
exercised in here, and we have competitions too. The Prince is an excellent
horseman. Always has been.'

‘You admire him, then?'

‘There's much in him to admire, but he's as human as the rest
of us.'

Annemarie thought that the future monarch had no business
trying to be as human as the rest of ‘us', but she held her peace on the
subject, at least for the time being. In a different way, the riding-house was
as impressive as the stables, even more spacious, but lined and vaulted with
timber to muffle the sounds. A thick layer of sawdust thudded beneath pounding
hooves and the occasional bark of an order brought an instant response from the
riders, many of whom were wearing Hussar uniform. There was no doubt that Lord
Verne knew them, and the instructors, for hands touched foreheads as they
passed, and nods reached him across the vast space. Obviously, Annemarie
thought, Lord Verne had the Prince's favour.

‘This is where
you
trained?' she
said.

‘No, this place went up while I was in Portugal with
Wellington.'

‘So you'd have known my late husband.' It was an unnecessary
question dropped into the conversation, she knew, to remind him again of her
background.

‘I knew
of
him,' he replied.
‘Everybody did. He was well regarded.'

‘Yes.'

Another little barrier put in place, he thought. Well, I can
deal with that, Lady Golding. I've managed difficult horses and I can manage
you, too.

One of the uniformed instructors trotted across to greet them
on a sleek and obedient grey gelding, patently pleased to see Verne there, but
equally interested in his lovely stylish companion. Verne introduced him to her.
‘Lady Golding, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Lord
Bockington.'

The pleasant-faced fair-haired officer made a bow from the
saddle with a smile of approval and a grin at his friend, and she suspected that
he was receiving a coded message to suppress what he might have said, had she
not been the widow of Sir Richard Golding. ‘I am honoured, my lady. We always
try to perform better when we have a special audience.'

‘Then I shall watch even more carefully,' she replied, smiling
back at him.

‘Watch this, then,' he said. ‘See if you can see the difference
since last week, Verne. This young lad learns fast. Brilliant potential.' He
trotted away to the side of the arena, reining back slowly before setting off to
dance diagonally across the space. Annemarie had not seen this being practised
before.

‘You were here last week?' she said, without taking her eyes
off the grey.

‘And the week before.
And
the week
before that too,' Verne answered, also watching. ‘A big improvement. Nearly fell
over himself last week.'

‘Oh. I see.'

‘Good,' he said, quietly, without indicating exactly what he
meant. ‘Now, would you care to see the driving carriages while we're here? He
has some dashing phaetons and my own curricle is—'

‘Lord Verne,' Annemarie said, stopping just inside the
coach-house, a cool, spotlessly clean place lined with black-panelled coaches,
shining brass and silver, and padded upholstery. The idea of driving again was
more than appealing, in Brighton where she would not be remarked. But not with
this man, not while she was being used so flagrantly to help him achieve his
purpose. She had had enough of being used and now she was not so innocent that
she couldn't tell when it was happening again. Even if he
did
come to Brighton on weekly visits, that was no reason why she
should be obliged to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. He had kissed her
and today paid her an outlandish compliment and sought her company. She had
better beware, for these were the first signs of something she must avoid at all
costs. And she was one step ahead of him, which he must be aware of by now.

‘My lady?' he said, stopping with her.

‘Lord Verne, I believe our scores are equal now.'

‘Enlighten me, if you will?' He removed his beaver hat and,
pulling off his gloves, stuffed them into the crown and placed it on the seat of
the nearest vehicle. ‘What scores are we talking about?'

‘I showed you my bad manners when I was angry and you
retaliated by showing me yours when
you
were angry.
Now we have both redeemed ourselves, as you said you wished to do. You can go
and get on with whatever you have to do here and I can do the same.
Alone
. Thank you so much for the tour of the stables.
Do these doors lead to North Street?' She had already seen the questions forming
in his eyes. Angry? Me? When?

‘When was I angry with you, my lady? Do remind me.'

She ought to have kept quiet. She had set out the premise of a
debate and now would have to refuse to elaborate. ‘Never mind,' she whispered.
‘If you don't recall it, then why should I? Please, which way is the exit?'

Shaking his head, he tried to hide his smile behind a knuckle
as he came to stand four-square in front of her, lifting her chin to see beneath
the bonnet into her deep violet eyes rimmed with black lashes long enough to
sweep up moonbeams. ‘You thought I was angry when I kissed you?' he said.
‘Really?'

She tried to move away, mortified that she had shown him so
clearly what was in her mind. Secret thoughts, not to be shared. But now her
back was against the cool wall, held there by his hands braced on either side of
her, and she feared he meant to repeat it, after all her denials and
disapprovals.

‘Since you ask, yes! Why else but to...?'

She saw his eyes widen. ‘To what? Humiliate you?'

‘Yes,' she whispered. ‘It was unforgivable, my lord. I am not
to be used so.'

‘If that's what you believed, then it was indeed unforgivable
of me and not at all what I meant. I would never use such means to humiliate a
woman.'

‘Then if that is the case, please don't say any more. We shall
forget about it.'

‘I hope not,' he murmured.

‘I would like to return home, if you please.'

‘Steady, my lady. I shall take you home, but there's no need to
go galloping off like a spooked filly.' His head lowered to hers and she was
compelled to watch his mouth, to hear the softly spoken words, few of which she
could remember later, that sounded like those he might have used to a nervous
horse about to bolt. Gentling. Calming. Words of admiration about breeding and
class and exclusiveness, elegance and loftiness that needed a man's hand, not an
old man's, nor a boy's. She might have shown irritation at that too-personal
opinion, but she did not, for something deep within her kept her still and
listening, as though at last she was hearing the truth for the first time.

‘Come on, my beauty,' he whispered, holding out his arm for her
to take.

Placing her fingers again on the blue sleeve, she walked with
him to the door, blinking at the sunlight.

Chapter Three

G
iving oneself a good talking-to, Annemarie decided, was all very well if there was one talker and one listener. But now, besieged by voices of both reason and unreason, the pearls of wisdom fell on deaf ears. Added to these were other deep beguiling words that echoed round her memory, all the more potent for their lack of finesse: earthy, provocative words that men used about thoroughbred horses and, privately, about women. She ought to have been insulted, disgusted, but she was not. He had not kissed her again, but she felt as if he had. And more.

Impertinently, she thought, trying her best to malign him, he had referred to her late husband. Verne had said she needed a man's hand, not an old man's or a boy's, a risky opinion only a man like him would dare to venture to the widow of Lieutenant General Sir Richard Golding. As he apparently anticipated, she had not reacted at all except that, in her mind, something was released like a moth from a chest of old clothes, silent words thought of but never used. Now, with a cup of tea and a warm scone, her feet up on the
chaise-longue
and the sound of rain lashing at the windows, she glanced across to the side of the white fireplace where hung the painting of her late husband.

To a stranger, he might have been taken for her father. As Lady Benistone had married a man many years older than herself, by coincidence so had Annemarie done the same, believing what she'd been told that wealth, security and a position in society was all a woman had any right to expect. She had been more easily influenced then. As a wedding present, Richard had given her a portrait of himself, a gilt-framed oval showing a silver-haired, black-browed soldier whose imperious gaze was levelled at something over to the left, his mouth unsmiling. Silver side-whiskers encroached like sabres on to his cheeks and covering his red coat were black cords and bright gold buttons, braids and badges, ribbons and stars. He'd told Annemarie exactly what they were, often enough: the army had been his life as well as his death and, innocently, she had seen herself as yet another decoration, another conquest to be prized and shown off like his medals. In the ten months of their marriage, she had accepted that that's what army wives were for, apart from bearing the next heir.

After less than a year as Lady Golding, a whole year of deep mourning had seemed excessive when they had had so little time to get to know each other, several months of which had been spent apart. Ever one for priorities, Richard had told her all about himself and his astounding achievements, his position in Viscount Wellington's trust and the high esteem of his own men, but as for getting to know his young wife, he had assumed that there was nothing much to know, even in bed. Since she knew so little about herself either, in that department, her indefinable feelings of disappointment became a guilty relief when that part of her wifely duties was discontinued, the nightly grunting and groping, squeezing and heaving, the rough irritable directions that made her feel foolishly inadequate. Craving appreciation and tenderness, she had sometimes thought that, if he could have worn his spurs in bed, he would have used them.

So, as a young widow, when she was made much of by a handsome young rake, flattered and soothed with fine words as soft as a perfumed breeze, Annemarie had soaked up the comforts of his attentions like a dry sponge waiting for the tide, not caring which direction it came from or what it brought with it. Warnings from her mother and Cecily went unheeded. All she cared for was to hear words of esteem and praise and, ultimately, of seduction, words never spoken by Richard, but which tripped off Sir Lionel's tongue like honey. With uncomfortable memories still haunting her, Annemarie had never allowed much in the way of intimacies and, to be fair, Sir Lionel never persisted, saying that there'd be time enough for that. They had kissed, just a little, and she believed she might get used to it, given more practice and the right conditions, and several other provisos that, since she'd been kissed by a man rather than a boy, she now saw as being completely irrelevant.

Looking back, she realised it was not so much Sir Lionel and his clever wiles that seduced her, but the contrast. Youth versus age. Fun versus pomposity. Irreverence versus rules and an interest in her for her own sake rather than the obsessive requirements of a soldier-husband that infiltrated every waking hour. Since having the Brighton house to herself, she had changed almost everything: wallpaper and carpets, curtains and furniture. The portrait was kept as a reminder never again to allow any man to control her life, that nothing was half as satisfying as being able to direct one's own affairs.

Thoughtfully, Annemarie sipped her tea and finished off the crumbly scone and strawberry jam while hearing those words again that were neither harsh nor conventionally seductive.
A man's hand, not an old man's or a boy's.
What could be more exciting from one who must have known Sir Richard Golding better than he pretended to? And how much did he know about Sir Lionel Mytchett? Ringing the bell, she thought it was time to set things moving before the situation got out of hand. The letters must be taken up to London immediately and, in one stroke, get them out of her life for ever. The letters
and
the man.

* * *

Perhaps because more people than usual were leaving Brighton for the London celebrations, Mr Ash, the housekeeper's handyman husband, had a hard time of it obtaining a post-chaise with postilions who were willing to drive all that way in torrential rain.

‘But it may not be raining tomorrow, Ash,' Annemarie said, hopefully.

Dripping pools on to the hall floor, he was adamant. ‘It will, m'lady. They know it will, too. I tried all four posting-stables and only one had anything to offer and that's an old clapped-out thing with only a pair of 'orses.'

This was not going to be the quick there-and-back trip she had hoped for. No wonder the Ashes were puzzled by her determination to spend six or seven hours on roads pitted with rain-filled potholes, but there was little choice and she could not afford to wait, not knowing how long it would take to find Lady Hamilton either. Nor did she particularly want her father to know of her mission. Lord Verne had taken her straight home without the slightest direction and she knew that their first meeting in Brighton would not be the last. Next time they met, she would be able to put a stop to his presumed interest by telling him she no longer had what the Prince Regent wanted.

* * *

With the first lurch of the post-chaise through inches of muddy water, her optimism was tested to its limits as the rain thundered down on the flimsy canvas roof that had already sprouted a leak down one corner. Through the front window they had a clear view of the two horses and the postilion riding one of them, huddled in a drenched greatcoat, his black shiny hat throwing off water with each bounce. The horses looked decidedly unhappy, but it was the state of the coach that concerned Annemarie most, groaning unsteadily over roads now awash with hours of heavy rain, one of the doors flying open as they dipped into a rut, then a window that would not stay up until it was jammed with a glove. The two portmanteaux were pressed against their feet, otherwise they might have fallen off before the coach came to grief on the long slow haul up to Reigate.

Some coachmen preferred a different route to this long punishing climb, so it was no particular surprise to the passengers when the coach slowed to a standstill, tilted dangerously, then swerved backwards into the hedge with a ripping crash, dragging the exhausted horses with it. The tilt immediately worsened, throwing them back into a corner of the seat with the floor angled like a wall and the inside waterspout spraying their heads with perfect precision.

The unflappable maid went to the heart of the matter. ‘Back axle gone,' she said, readjusting her bonnet and brushing water out of her eyes. ‘Lost a wheel, too. We shan't reach Reigate, never mind London.'

The postilion's first duty was to his horses, which had suddenly found the energy to plunge about dangerously and to kick over the traces which he could not unhook from the chaise. But as the two passengers watched, helping hands came to hold the horses' heads until they were released. Now they found that the door that would not stay closed would not open, despite all outside efforts to budge it. For such an immediate response, it was obvious that help must have been very close behind.

It may have seemed uncharitable to allow suspicion to take the place of thanks at that critical point, but how else could Annemarie have viewed the appearance of the very person she was hoping to cheat out of the prize they had both set their hearts on, the one in her portmanteau, the one they pretended did not exist? This was something she had not expected and which, in hindsight, she ought to have done. So much for taking control. Angrily, she kicked at the door just as a hand pulled from outside.

‘Lord Verne,' she said, ‘are you making a habit of helping me out of difficult situations? Or is this truly a coincidence?' Even with water running down his face, he was breathtakingly good looking. His buff-coloured fifteen-caped greatcoat was dark with rain and it was obvious he had been in the saddle, not inside.

‘We'll discuss that later, if you please,' he shouted against the roar of the rain and the thumping and neighing of horses. ‘This thing's going to tip over any minute. Be quick and get out, then make a run for the carriage behind. Come on, woman! Don't let's get into an argument about it. Give me your hand.' Grabbing the precious baggage with one hand, she gave him the other while preparing for his objection. ‘Leave that!' he commanded. ‘I'll bring the bags. Let your lass get out.'

If she had thought in her wildest dreams that this might happen, she might have done as smugglers' wives do and stuffed the valuables into pockets around her bodice. As it was, she was determined not to let go, thereby making it clear to him as if it had been spoken out loud that here were the infamous letters and that she was taking them to London, even in a ramshackle coach with the heavens opening above them. His stare at the portmanteau in her hand, then at her grim expression, left her in no doubt that he understood what she was about. Even he could not hide the realisation in his eyes.

‘Valuables,' she said, clambering up the sloping floor with the bulky thing under one arm. ‘Taking them to Christie's. I can manage it, thank you.' As an excuse not to allow the Prince Regent's most trusted aide to hold a battered old bag, it was bound to sound ludicrous, but it was the best she could do, though it hampered her exit from the shattered vehicle and must have tested Verne's patience sorely. He said nothing, handing her out through the narrow door, lifting her and the extra bulk on to the saturated grass verge where the soft mud almost pulled off one half-boot. Thrown off balance, she pitched forwards and would have fallen flat on her face but for his arms across her body, keeping her upright, but as helpless as a child.

‘Here, give it to me while you get your boot back on,' he said with noticeable tolerance. ‘Come on. I'm not going to run off with it.'

‘I'm sorry,' she muttered, passing it to him. ‘I didn't mean...'

Unable to tell whether he squinted at the rain running into his eyes or from laughter, her heart flipped at that moment and the sneaking thought that she might even be glad to see him was pushed firmly back where it belonged, in cold storage. He was the very last person she wanted to see, of course. Wasn't he?

The beautifully appointed travelling coach to which Annemarie and her maid were consigned like two shipwreck survivors could hardly have been more different from the rickety post-chaise and its unroadworthy livestock. At once it was obvious that it was one of those from the Prince Regent's carriage-house that Annemarie had seen the day before, every detail indicating quality and comfort, from the soft green-velvet upholstery inside to the team of four matched bays outside, steaming in the downpour. Twice as roomy, the carpeted interior was like a sumptuous cocoon in which they could hear themselves speak without having to shout. When the carriage moved off, bouncing gently over the verge which set the tassels swinging, Annemarie peered out of the window to catch a glimpse of Lord Verne mounting his horse. ‘So who did he bring this carriage for?' she said. ‘And, for that matter, what is he doing here?'

Their baggage was now stored safely in a rack above their heads, leaving the last mile to Reigate to provide Annemarie with a revised plan of action, for now she had lost not only her private conveyance but also the secrecy that was paramount to the success of her mission. Whatever plan she could come up with would have to include Lord Verne, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

The Swan at Reigate had accommodated the Prince Regent's guests many times before and the businesslike host who might have assigned the occupants of a clapped-out post-chaise to a back room had no hesitation whatever in showing Lord Verne's lady, however bedraggled, to the best bedroom where a boy was even then lighting a fire in the cast-iron grate. Annemarie's whispered objection to Lord Verne as they entered the Swan's portals had received a terse reply. ‘This is not what I had planned, my lord,' she told him, holding the portmanteau away from her damp pelisse. ‘I intended to go straight on after changing horses. I cannot delay, you see.'

Travellers off the stagecoach were stomping in, damp, stiff, crumpled and hungry, and wishing their plans were more flexible. The passageway smelled of wet wool and leather, and Lord Verne's only response was to place an arm across her back to move her on and to say, ‘Yes, we'll discuss it when we've dried off, shall we? Have you eaten since you left home?'

‘No, I intended—'

‘Then come down to my private parlour when you're ready. I've ordered a meal. You can lock your room. Your valuables will be quite safe while we eat.'

Following the landlord up the polished staircase, there was no chance for her to argue before she and Evie were ushered into the best chamber, low-beamed and pine-scented, cosily furnished and creaky-floored. Assured of the Swan's very best service, however slight, the two were left alone to recover from their ordeal.