Joan Smith (26 page)

“She would, of course,” Luten said, but in no condemnatory way. There was something suspiciously like a smile about his lips. “I suppose you told her my opinion that he would be at one of the cheaper watering holes?”

“I did, I believe. She perked up when Tunbridge Wells was mentioned, but as Nick pointed out, there’s no way O’Kelly could know your love nest is standing empty.”

“Unless she told him,” Luten added doubtfully.

“Said she hadn’t. They must have gone home. Norman is involved with a girl there—Miss Halley, a fubsy-faced lady.”

But Miss Barten was opposed to that match, and Luten didn’t think she had catapulted her brother off home, no matter how fevered she was to show him a lesson. No, out combing the countryside for O’Kelly was more like it. He wrote Trudie a letter and addressed it to Walbeck Park, feeling that if she were visiting neighbors in the vicinity, the new tenant would know it and forward it to her. But really that was just insurance; in his heart, he felt sure she was finally paying a visit to the cottage he had hired on the park. Of course the hoyden would have told O’Kelly. The two of them had probably had a good laugh over it.

He regretted the head start the Bartens had on him. It was fortunate Norman’s team couldn’t match his own. He learned before he left Newmarket that the Bartens’ carriage had gone south, not west to Walbeck Park. He knew then that he was on the right track, and whipped his bays to a faster trot. They would not attempt to make the trip in one day, and his hope was to catch up with them before nightfall; but as they had left so early, and he so late, he was obliged to pull in for the night before overtaking them.

Inquiries along his route the next morning told him he was gaining ground. At Hornchurch he was three hours behind; at Tilbury the gap had narrowed to just over two. Unfortunately, he had to hire a fresh team at Tilbury, and from there on, the time between their passings held steady at two-and-a-half hours. He was on thorns by nightfall, when he reached Tunbridge Wells and drove straight to the little cottage on the park.

He saw the lights burning downstairs and didn’t bother to hide his carriage. He hopped down and ran to the house. Like the Bartens, he decided to take a peek in the window first, to see just what he had to deal with. When he saw the outline of O’Kelly on the sofa with his arms around Trudie, a nauseating revulsion came over him. She was alone! She hadn’t come with Norman at all but had arranged somehow to fly to her lover. Common sense fled, leaving a blind, surging fury in its wake. Hardly aware what he was doing, he lifted his fist and smashed it through the window. The shattering of glass was accompanied by a lusty and accomplished oath.

O’Kelly jumped up first and looked at the window, then Trudie flew up from the sofa. She ran to the grate, lifted a poker, and dropped it when it burned her fingers. Undeterred, she raised her skirt and used it for a pad. Luten still couldn’t figure out exactly what was going on. Had she taken up that weapon to use against the intruder—him? He watched, his heart pounding painfully while O’Kelly darted to the window, calling, “Who is it? Is that you, Rooney?” Trudie wasn’t a step behind him, and their relationship was no longer in doubt. Through the broken window Luten heard her say, “Be thankful it’s not your face, you brute!” just before she slashed the red hot poker against O’Kelly’s arm. The next sound was an agonized howl from her tormentor.

By that time, Luten was already on his way to the front door. Trudie was still brandishing the poker when he pelted in, for she had an awful premonition that it was O’Kelly’s groom she would have to deal with next. Luten took one look to see she was not noticeably damaged, then lunged at O’Kelly. His only regret was that he couldn’t give him the thrashing he deserved. His sportsman’s instinct forbade him from beating up an injured man, so he merely bloodied his nose and sent him to the floor with a fist in the gut.

He turned to Trudie. At the sight of him, she dropped the poker, which burned a deep black gash in the carpet, and burst into tears. Luten rushed forward and pulled her into his arms.

“You foolish, darling girl,” he scolded fiercely in her ear, but even while he spoke, his lips were beginning to skim across her wet cheeks, to find hers. He felt her small, soft body tremble in his arms and drew her more tightly against him, to protect this cherished hothead from the world.

The trembling from fear subsided, and a new shaking began deep within her as Luten’s lips firmed on hers. It was really very much like his first rough embrace in the carriage, but frequent memories of that moment had accustomed her to it now, and it no longer felt repulsive. It still felt a little frightening, but at the same time reassuring and exciting and a host of other delicious things. When he stopped kissing her, a jumble of angrily loving words poured from his mouth, while his handkerchief brushed her tears away with infinite tenderness.

“Are you sure you’re all right, darling? Why the devil did you
...
Dammit, Trudie, have you no sense at all? You’re quite sure he didn’t hurt you?” And before she could reassure him, he kissed her again, as though he would never stop.

It was sometime later that she withdrew and looked shyly at him. Her eyes looked nearly black tonight, in the dim shadows of the saloon. “Luten,” she breathed, “I am so glad you came. How did you know?”

He ignored the question and asked again. “Did he hurt you?”

O’Kelly moaned on the floor. “Not as much as I hurt him.”

“He didn’t
...
”

Her eyes flashed dangerously to the moaning body. “No, but he intended to. He said he was going to
tame
me,” she scoffed. “Whoever heard of a jackass taming anyone? We had better call the constable. I daresay
now
he will come, when we no longer need him. You’ll have to lay a charge of trespassing to hold that mawworm till Peter can get here and swear out a warrant against him for the other things.”

“Why did you and Norman run off without telling me?” Luten asked.

“Norman!” she exclaimed.

“Where is Norman?”

“In the stable, I think. Rooney cracked him and our groom over the head and hauled them away. Oh, Luten, it has been such a horrid night. Such a horrid spring,” she added on a sigh.

“And it’s all my fault,” he said humbly.

“Oh, no! Not all!” she assured him, for she was magnanimous in victory.

“It is. If I had taken proper care of Peter, all this never  would have happened. I want you to know, I have mended my ways.”

“In any case, it’s over now. We shall be going to Warwick immediately from here. We shan’t even return to Northfield,” she added, to hasten along anything he might want to say in that regard. She cast an inviting peep at him from the corner of her eye.

“Surely
you
don’t have to leave Northfield.
You
aren’t marrying Miss Halley.”

“I can hardly stay alone!” she pointed out. When he just stood frowning, she tossed her curls and said, “We’d better go to Norman.”

“Yes,” he said, and turned to leave. She followed him through the dining room. “You could stay with me at Sable Lodge,” he pointed out.

“Luten! Good God, you’re as bad as O’Kelly! How could I batten myself on a bachelor?” He opened the back door, and they went out into the chilly night.

“I mean after we are married, naturally,” he said angrily. It wasn’t the proposal he had intended making, nor the one she had dreamed of receiving, but it was what popped out, and she made do with it. “Well?” he asked sharply, to hide his concern.

“You’ll have to speak to Norman,” she said modestly, while hurrying to keep up with his long strides.

“Since when have you put yourself under that gudgeon’s protection? You may rule the roost at Walbeck Park, milady, but there’ll be no Latin lessons, and no hanging around the tracks with the likes of O’Kelly when you are married to
me!”

“That sounds very dull; just when I was becoming interested in racing too,” she said, and tossed him an arch smile that didn’t deceive him for a minute.

His scowl gave way to an anticipatory smile; he stopped walking and pulled her to him by the hand, just in front of the stable door. His fingers stroked her cheek, which glowed in the moonlight. “Any hanging around the track must be in my company. I’ll even teach you the difference between an unmanageable jade, like Sheba, and a winner,” he said, but in a voice that had nothing to do with horses.

She drew a glorious breath of night air. “I have the most ravishing wedding gown in mind,” she said softly.

Luten pulled open the door, and as the sharp stench of the stable assailed their nostrils, he said, “Good, but first let’s see if Norman will be attending our wedding.”

Rooney lunged from the shadows, a raised stick in his hand. Norman Barten achieved one bit of glory to clear his reputation of softness. He flew up from the straw and pulled the stick from Rooney’s hand, allowing Luten to flatten him.

* * * *

The law was much more biddable when dealing with Lord Luten than with the Bartens. Mr. O’Kelly was held on a charge of trespassing, while Clappet and Sir Charles came bounding down to Tunbridge Wells to lay charges, miffed that they had missed out on all the fun. They never would have thought Norman had such pluck. They all gathered in the cottage on the park, where Luten had decided to stay, since he had hired the place.

“I say, Uncle,” Peter said, “now that I have got Fandango back, I will be able to enter some races this season after all.”

His uncle shook his head. “No, cawker, you will sell that cribber and pay for the damages Sheba has caused at the Golden Lion. A carriage and several stalls smashed, a groom with a broken thumb, to say nothing of the bill for all that ale!”

“Yes, but I am rid of Sheba now. Rooney has gone to bring her back to O’Kelly, thank God, and Fandango really is a sweet goer. Nick is sure I can sublet my flat on Poland Street in London in two minutes—there’s fifty guineas right there—and I shan’t have any expense living with you at Sable Lodge.”

“I’m not at all sure Lady Luten will want such rowdy guests when we are on our honeymoon,” Luten said with a caressing smile at his fiancée, whom he caught nodding and winking at Peter.

“But Trudie is going to coach me in my Latin, remember?” Clappet tempted.

“On the contrary, she has given up coaching,” he said firmly. “You will remember it is those Latin lessons that have caused all our problems. I will have enough problems convincing Lady Clappet my wife isn’t a lightskirt, without you and Sir Charles forever dragging at Trudie’s heels to remind her. At least it is Mrs. Harrington she has fingered as the wicked woman in the affair. Which reminds me, Trudie, we must write to your aunt and inform her of our plans.”

“I already have,” she said, and smiled luxuriously.

Not half an hour later, Mrs. Harrington ripped open that same missive and went flying down to discuss it with the Bogmans, who were busily packing up to remove to Warwickshire. “The shatter-brained chit! Can’t she see it is another of Luten’s freakish practical jokes, like taking Latin lessons? And he never paid her the crown either.”

Copyright © 1986 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Fawcett Crest [ISBN 0449208427]

Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.