Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (69 page)

‘Then I should take you with me, young lady. With that kind of diplomacy, you can stop me flying off the handle, can't you?' Since none of them had ever seen, or heard, Lord Benistone so much as raise his voice before he horsewhipped Sir Lionel Mytchett, this excuse sounded implausible, though they were heartily in favour of Marguerite escorting her father on this delicate mission. It was testament to her transformation that she was now being given the role of diplomat when, only a few days before, she might have been their last choice.

‘Yes, Papa. I'll go with you. We'll bring her back together,' she said.

‘But not until you've had something to eat, Elmer,' Cecily said, observing the arrival of plates of food. ‘Come on, there's enough here to feed an army.'

‘But I'm not dressed for dinner,' his lordship said with a sideways glance at Annemarie. ‘Nor is Verne, I see.'

‘Papa,' said Oriel, severely. ‘Let this be the last time, then.'

* * *

With the issue of Lady Benistone's return taking precedence, the astonishing drama at Vauxhall Gardens had been pushed to one side of the discussions that passed between mouthfuls at the informal dinner table. For Annemarie, however, her father's violence towards Sir Lionel Mytchett was just about the most uncharacteristic response she could ever have imagined when, for a whole year, his manner had been more quietly grieving than boiling anger. Which made her aware, yet again, of how she had misjudged his feelings on the subject and how deeply he had been affected. Before Oriel, Cecily and Marguerite returned to Park Lane, she managed to have a quiet word with them while Papa was talking to Lord Verne.

‘Something will have to be done about Montague Street,' she said. ‘We cannot allow Mama to see it as it is, can we?'

‘Well, how
is
it?' said Cecily. ‘Have you been there lately?'

‘No, I've been busy at Curzon Street and so have you. Then the four days in Warwickshire.'

‘So while Papa and I are away, why not go and see if you can make it habitable?' said Marguerite. ‘Make two or three rooms fit for their use, at least. And the kitchens. There won't be any food. There never is. And I don't suppose she'll have much in the way of luggage, except what Lady Hertford has provided.'

‘That's what I thought, too,' said Oriel. ‘We should go round there as soon as you've gone and see what's to be done. Cecily?'

‘Certainly, dearest. I know your papa has moved some stuff out, but no more than that. I could hardly bring myself to look at what he's left behind. We'll go. If he can persuade her to return, things will have to change.'

‘I'll persuade her,' said Marguerite, quietly. ‘She'll come.'

Oriel hugged her sister. ‘Of course she will, love. Of course she'll come.'

* * *

Verne was not quite as astonished by Lord Benistone's merciless punishment of Sir Lionel as Annemarie was. Nor was he as surprised as she was to discover that the father who had allowed his marriage to deteriorate so badly should suddenly have found the energy and motivation to retaliate. ‘It's as if he's been thinking about it all this time,' she said, ‘to see how long he could bear it.'

‘It takes some men longer than others to realise what they must do about it, sweetheart.' In the peace of their bedroom, shuttered but still curtainless, they rolled towards each other between herb-scented sheets to seek the warm comfort of arms, soft skin and accommodating curves.

‘You don't think the authorities will start asking questions about what happened that night, do you?' Annemarie said, snuggling into him.

‘They'll do their best, I expect. But I would not be too concerned, if I were you. For one thing, Sir Lionel was found well downstream of Vauxhall, so they have no way of knowing exactly where he fell in. For another, even though they believe he'd been at Vauxhall, they'll never find anyone to witness it in a crowd like that. They were all watching the fireworks, weren't they? I don't think your father is in any danger of being questioned. Accidental death, they'll call it. Like the others.'

‘Mama could hardly believe it. Sir Lionel's death, I mean.'

‘So wait till she hears what part your father played. I'll wager she's never seen that side of him.'

‘I think, dear heart, that at least four of the Benistone family have revealed a different side of themselves recently. Don't you?' she said, sleepily.

Verne slid his warm hand over the silky skin of her buttocks. ‘So might there yet be another side of this particular Benistone to be revealed, do you think? Or have I seen it all?'

Teasingly, she smoothed the sole of her foot down his leg. ‘I have no objection to you investigating further,' she whispered, ‘just to make sure. If I'm to be the new Lady Verne, it's only fair that you should know these things before you commit yourself.'

‘Sweetheart,' he said, lifting himself up to rest on one elbow, ‘I was committed on that first day, even before you'd stopped snarling at me. Nothing's changed. Nor will it.'

Despite the late hour, their tiredness and the highly charged emotions of the last few days, their loving was raised to yet another level of ecstasy that night, with so many of Annemarie's personal dilemmas now solved, easily, gracefully, as if there had never been a good reason for them in the first place. Released from the debilitating revenge which had drained her zest for life and kept her friends at arm's length, she saw how foolish and unnecessary her plans had been, how unfair and unworthy. Verne was everything she had ever wanted and now she was able to tell him so in words of love and in the liberal giving of her lovely body. After such lavish generosity, he could not have doubted for a moment that her love for him was genuine, all-consuming and free at last from self-imposed obstacles.

* * *

There was still much to be done at Curzon Street for which Annemarie had expected to have plenty of time between shopping expeditions, excursions and visits to exhibitions and, in the evenings, dinners, theatres and balls. It now looked as if she might have to spend two or three more days at the family home on Montague Street in order to restore some kind of order before Lady Benistone's return, though she could not resent the effort that would be needed to achieve this. With Evie beside her and two housemaids trotting behind, she reached the newly painted, red front door at the same time as Cecily and Oriel.

Inside her former home, Annemarie found herself being one of an awestruck group who wandered slowly through room after room to admire and wonder at the space and light, the fashionable colours and handsome furnishings, the tasteful paintings of flowers, the sumptuous cushions, polished surfaces not seen for years and graceful ornaments that until now had been hidden behind the conglomeration of years. The spaciousness was almost overwhelming after the claustrophobic surroundings and the uncomfortable invasion of Lord Benistone's treasures into their rooms. Her parents' room had been transformed into a white haven of flowing curtains, lace, linen, brocade and silk, like a new page of a diary waiting to be written upon. A large bowl of white, cream and apricot roses stood on a low table by the sash window where the light caught the velvet petals, and Annemarie knew that this must have been described in detail by her father, for the colour scheme was Mama's favourite, until it, too, had been swamped.

She felt a lump form in her throat and, glancing at her sister, saw tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Oh, Oriel,' she whispered, ‘I never...ever...thought he'd do this.'

Oriel's voice trembled. ‘He's done it for Mama,' she said. ‘Perhaps he thought that if he actually
did
something, something would happen for him, too.'

‘And it has,' said Cecily, ‘hasn't it? Have you ever seen him so full of energy? It's as if clearing his house out has cleared his mind at the same time. I would never have thought he'd thrash a younger man the way he did. And then threaten to do the same to Lord Hertford. He really does care, doesn't he?'

‘We just didn't know what lengths he'd go to, to prove it. We may as well go home now. We're not needed here.'

‘More flowers?' said Oriel. ‘She loves flowers everywhere.'

‘Shall we go and interfere in the kitchen?' said Cecily, impishly.

‘Just to check the menus? Well, someone has to do it,' said Annemarie.

As it happened, they stayed the whole of the morning to check on things, to note the more personal details: soap, tissue-lined drawers, hangers in the wardrobe, her left-behind jewellery that needed a polish, her favourite tea in the caddy, her bone-china tea set, her music on the piano. They cast their eyes around Marguerite's room, too, which she had not occupied for some time and which now had a beautiful Wilton carpet and matching curtains.

The three of them went into town to buy her a new white quilted-satin bedspread, a very daring pink satin negligee and slippers to match, and new towels embroidered with M and pink butterflies that seemed to represent a passing phase in her young life..

‘In Brighton,' Annemarie said, ‘I met a rather dashing young cavalry officer. I think I shall ask Verne to invite him up to London. I would not be at all surprised if he took a shine to our new Marguerite.'

Cecily was not so sure. ‘I cannot see Lord Verne going along with
that
plan,' she said, pulling on her gloves. On this point, however, she was mistaken.

* * *

‘He's already here,' said Verne that evening.

‘What, in London?'

‘In London. Shall you invite him to dine with us? I owe him a favour.'

‘By all means, if you think he'd regard it as a favour to dine with us. I could include him with the family,' she added, with a studied nonchalance, ‘to chat with Marguerite? That would be doing
me
a favour.'

The smile that had been held back suddenly broke. ‘Little schemer.' He laughed. ‘You think they might get along together, don't you? Well, I think so, too. Bock's a very level-headed chap. He'd be better company for her than those niffy-naffy types she was with at the theatre. He's been around a bit, too.'

‘By which you mean he knows about women,' said Annemarie, rather primly. She made as if to move away from his side, but was prevented by his arm slowly pushing her back into the sofa cushions, helplessly unbalanced, his body keeping her there.

‘You have a problem with that, my lady? Men knowing about women?' he said, taunting her with a serious face much too close for argument.

‘No,' she whispered.

‘Good.'

Hazily, at the back of her mind, she recalled how his own obvious experience had antagonised her, made her afraid and determined to be an exception to his rule, whatever that was. At the same time, it was useless to deny that his arrogance had excited and intrigued her, even while she tried to make it appear otherwise. And though she had never wished to know the details of his conquests, there was something tantalising about a man who had ‘been around a bit' that had made her want to be the last one, the best, the hardest to catch. The prize. ‘Arrogant man,' she said, just before his mouth slanted across hers, sending wave after wave of desire down to her womb, melting it, readying it for him.

‘Confident,' he replied, allowing her a breathing space. ‘I had to be confident or I'd have got nowhere near you, would I? I knew you'd be difficult. Volatile. Defensive. Worth all the effort, though.'

‘Effort?
What
effort?' she scoffed, anticipating his response. She had expected to be lifted up into his arms and carried upstairs, but not to be swung along the sofa with her legs somehow enclosing him, her head upon the tasselled bolster from which there was no escape. As she twisted and writhed under him, her struggle was used as fuel to feed her challenge, to move on past the tender preliminaries towards the effort she had just derided.

Without a word, he contained her flailing arms in one hand, his other hand knowing the quickest route to the softness of her thighs and the shadowy moistening folds whose ache demanded instant satisfaction. His kisses emptied her mind as his deft and skilful fingers worked their magic, preparing her to the last possible moment before his entry, causing her to mew at the sweetness of it and the urgency they were sharing. He released her hands only after the last wild surge of power and the shuddering climax, the directionless rapture, his groan of emptiness and her long sigh of completion. Then it passed through his mind, no more than that, how she had once suffered such impulsive lovemaking at the hands of her late husband, and how much she had learned since then about love in all its forms, from him. He did not remind her of it, the moment being too delicate to hold such unhappy recollections.

* * *

After three days and with no communication from Lord Benistone concerning the success of his mission, or otherwise, they could only wait patiently, and hope, and make what small last-minute preparations they could without in any way changing those made by his lordship. But by mutual consent, Annemarie and Lord Verne, Cecily, Oriel and Colonel Harrow gathered at Number Eighteen Montague Street in the late afternoon on the off chance that, if they were coming at all, it would be about then.

Their prediction was astonishingly accurate for, as the grandfather clock in the hall struck five, the sound of hooves and wheels rattled on the cobbles and came to a stop. Mr Quibly would have had the—mostly new—staff lined up to greet their master and mistress, but had been persuaded that Lady Benistone would prefer to be seen only by the closest members of her family, until later. It was Marguerite who emerged first with the happiest of smiles. In marked contrast to her previous childish manner, she stood back to allow them to see how Lord Benistone almost lifted his wife down the steps on to the pavement, setting her feet down safely, crooking his arm for her support and smiling like a bridegroom with his new bride.