Rakehell's Widow (3 page)

These two years without him had been the longest of her
life. Each morning she had awakened alone, reaching instinctively to touch him, but the warm memories had fled when her searching fingers had found the bed cold and empty— But he would have been with her still had it not been for that needless, senseless duel, a duel which could
so easily have been avoided had it not been for the presence
of Sir Piers Castleton.

For a moment her emotions threatened to overwhelm
her and she turned sharply away from the portrait, the
shadows leaping all around as the candle guttered. She felt as if Piers’ mocking gray eyes were watching her from
somewhere beyond the edge of the light, and the anger
which only he could arouse stirred darkly in her heart until she halted suddenly, lowering her gaze to the swaying flame. This would not do, for what point was there in it?
Robert was gone forever, and reminding herself of Piers
Castleton’s guilt would not bring him back again. It was
1802 now and tonight she had accepted a responsibility which would sweep her back into the gaiety of London
society, back into that life which she had once loved so
much. She must try to forget the past and begin again.

Determined not to look back at the portrait, she walked along the gallery, but as she reached the doorway, she
could not help turning, just to take one last, lingering look.
She could not stem the yearning which ached through her still. He had gone, and it was Piers Castleton who was to
blame.

A week later than planned, Alabeth at last set off for
London, her maroon traveling carriage taking the narrow coast road through Oakingham to the main London-to-Dover highway. She chose this route, which was not the
most direct, because she loved the wild scenery and knew it
would be some time before she saw it again. Inland, the
Kent countryside was undulating, a region of hop-growing
and cherry orchards, but here on the coast itself there were
tidal creeks with low islands where there were thousands of
seabirds, and there were miles of flat green marsh inhab
ited only by sheep and cattle. It was perhaps a rather
desolate landscape, but to her it was very special indeed,
for it was part of her life with Robert. How many times had she ridden or driven along this quiet track with him?
Too many to remember, perhaps, and yet remember them
she did, for each one was so precious….

The team’s hooves clattered pleasantly on the dusty road
as she gazed out at the mouth of the Thames estuary where
the water glittered and sparkled in the early May sun. A Royal Navy frigate was beating seaward, her sails very
white against the jade-green waves and her gunports closed
now after being eight years in readiness.

Alabeth’s gloved hands were clasped neatly in her lap
and her reticule rested on the velvet seat beside her. She
wore a brown hat adorned with golden tassels, a neat
spencer of the same brown, and a white spotted muslin
gown, its hem trimmed with several rows of chestnut satin ribbon. She gazed out the window, her feelings mixed. She
had tried to convince herself that returning to London
society would be a sovereign remedy after the despondency
of the past two years, but now that the moment was upon
her, she was once again filled with trepidation.

She had received a hurried note from her father, inform
ing her that Jillian had come around to the whole idea, but there had been no communication from Jillian herself, no
olive branch to offer some hope that the coming months
would be pleasant and carefree. Reading between the lines
of the Earl’s letter, Alabeth had guessed that Jillian had
not been easy to convince, in spite of the imminent
presence in Town of Count Adam Zaleski, and now
Alabeth found herself wishing more and more that she had
refused to have anything to do with her sister’s first
Season. With a sigh she stared out the window. The tide was beginning to come in over the saltings, the water
gleaming among the reeds and mud flats. In summer this
place would be bright with golden samphire, but she would
not see it; she would be enduring months in London which
she feared were going to be odious in the extreme, and not
the new beginning she had so vainly hoped they would be.

The carriage neared Oakingham with its ancient
medieval gateway. In times gone by, the town had been a
thriving port, but now it stood several hundred yards from
the sea because the marsh had filled the natural harbor,
leaving only the winding channel of the River Keble to link the once-busy quay with the open water. Only small fishing
boats could negotiate the river, but in nearby creeks were
to be found the swift smuggling vessels which made Oak
ingham so notorious still. The former Prime Minister, Mr. Pitt, and his government had done much to stamp out the trade in contraband, but here in Oakingham it flourished,
its citizens as determined to defy the law as the revenue
men were determined to enforce it. But today, with the sun
shining brightly over the blossoms in the orchards and the flowers in the gardens behind the weatherboarded houses, it was hard to imagine the little town as anything but law-abiding.

Wheels rattling and harness jingling, the carriage passed
beneath the stone gateway and began the climb up the narrow street, passing tidy shops and inns, crossing a
quiet, leafy square overlooked by the church, and then
soon leaving the little town behind as the road turned
inland to join the busy highway linking the capital with the
important channel port of Dover.

On the main road the coach came up to a smarter pace,
the team stepping high as they trotted along. A mail coach
flew by, posthorn blaring and dust flying as it strove to keep to its strict schedule. Alabeth settled back. She was well on her way now and there was no turning back.

The carriage had not proceeded very much farther when
suddenly it swerved violently and she heard the coachman shouting angrily. The team whinnied and she had to clutch
at the seat to save herself from falling as the carriage
lurched to a sudden standstill, the coachman shouting
again and this time being answered by another, equally
angry, voice from a little farther along the road.

Alabeth lowered the glass to see what had happened. Ahead there was another carriage, a very elegant drag lacquered in olive-green and drawn by the most perfectly
matched grays she had ever seen, and from its position she
could see that it had been about to overtake a carrier’s
wagon and that her own coachman had obviously mis
judged its distance and speed and had almost collided with
it. She glanced at the crest on the olive-green door, but even as a gasp of dismayed recognition escaped her lips, the door opened and a gentleman alighted, pausing in the
road to toy with his frilled cuffs as he glanced up with
some annoyance at his gesticulating coachman, who was
brandishing his fist and hurling obscenities at Alabeth’s
coachman. Alabeth heard nothing, saw nothing, except
that the gentleman was only too well known to her, and
that his name was Sir Piers Castleton.

His tall hat was tipped back on his head and he wore a
charcoal-gray coat which fitted his excellent figure to per
fection, its high stand-fall collar emphasizing the broad
ness of his shoulders. His Florentine waistcoat was pale
blue and his beige breeches clung revealingly to his slender
hips. A sapphire pin shone in the folds of his neckcloth, spurs glittered on his top boots, and all in all he looked
very much a gentleman of rank and fashion. He had
changed little since last she had seen him, except perhaps
that he was a little more bronzed, and was still darkly
handsome with his tangle of almost-black curls and his
clear, penetrating gray eyes. His eyes always caught the
attention the most, for there was a light in them which
warned that he was not a man to be trifled with—as a certain unfortunate Russian diplomat had once found out.
The Russian’s death in the ensuing duel had caused uproar
in government circles; the Czar had been most put out at
the death of one of his favorites, and Piers had been forced
to quit the country for a time until the awkwardness could
be smoothed over, for Piers was as much a favorite with
the Prince of Wales as the Russian had been with the Czar.
Would to God it had never been smoothed over, she
thought, watching him, for then he would never have come
back to England, never have entered Robert’s life, and never have destroyed her world.

She felt quite numb with the shock of seeing him, for she
had believed him far away in Europe somewhere, but then,
as if he sensed the close scrutiny, he turned suddenly to look straight at her, recognizing her immediately even though she drew sharply back. She was thrown into total
confusion, her poise completely shaken, but she struggled
to be mistress of herself and presented a collected
appearance when at last she heard his steps approaching and the door was thrown open.

“Lady Alabeth.” He inclined his head. His voice was
just as she remembered, softly spoken but firm, and
always with that hint of mockery she loathed so much.

“Sir.”

“Am I to glean from your cool manner that your attitude has not mellowed these past two years?”

“You are.”

“Dear me, how tiresome, for I understand that you are honoring society with your presence again this year.”

“I am.”

“Then I trust that either our paths do not cross again or
that you are able to mend your manners sufficiently to behave with some decorum when next they do.”

Her cheeks flamed. “How dare you speak to me like
that!”

“I daresay the talent to be rude comes as easily to me as
it does to you,” he replied, his glance wandering over her.
“You are as lovely as ever, madam. It is a pity that your
character does not match your appearance.”

“And you are as vile as ever, sir,” she breathed, quiver
ing with anger, “deserving nothing but my contempt.”

His smile was cool, a light passing through his gray eyes.
“Indeed? How very determined you are to hate me, almost
too determined, I fancy.”

“I loathe you sufficiently to tell you that had I known
you would be in England after all, I would not have under
taken to come to Town.”

“You have the perfidious French to thank for my
change of plans, for it is obvious to me that they mean this peace to be temporary, and I have no wish to be trapped in some far place when Bonaparte makes his next empire-
building move. I shall of a certainty be in Town over the
coming months, madam, and if the fact bothers you to
that extent, perhaps you should order your coachman to
turn back to Charterleigh immediately—that is, if the dolt can manage such a complicated basic maneuver.”

She flushed at the implication that her man was completely at fault. “I believe your own fellow needs a lesson
or two, sir, for it is but a simple matter to glance behind
and see if anyone else has had the temerity to use the
King’s high road. As to my returning to Charterleigh, let
me tell you that nothing would make me change my plans
to suit you, sir.”

“A change of your attitude would suit me, madam. Your plans matter not one jot.”

“My attitude toward you will
never
change!”

“Then I can only believe that you glory in your misguidedness,” he replied, closing the door on her and turning to walk back to his own carriage.

She was so angry that she could hardly speak, gesturing to her coachman to proceed and then drawing up the glass
with a snap. She kept her eyes averted as she passed Piers,
but she was aware of the derisive way he doffed his hat.

She knew that she had handled the unexpected meeting very badly; she had allowed her emotions to interfere with etiquette and had thus failed abysmally to get the better of him. She had never been able to get the better of him, she reflected, for he always so thoroughly ruffled her feathers that her poise crumbled into nothing, leaving her feeling gauche and uneasy.

Suddenly the prospect of London seemed more awful than ever, for not only would she have to contend with Jillian’s resentment, she would know that every time she
left the house, every function she attended, every drive she
took, she ran the certain risk of encountering Sir Piers
Castleton. She had told her father that Piers had not
crossed her mind, but that was not true, for he had crossed
her mind a great deal, because she could not forget him or ignore his existence.

* * *

Piers stood in the roadway, watching her carriage drive
away. How very lovely she was, as lovely as a rose, and
covered with as many damned thorns! She was obviously quite set upon blaming him for Robert’s fall from grace, and that was tedious enough, but to be faced with the certainty of those thorns throughout the coming Season was
intolerable. Piers Castleton was not a man to endure the
disagreeable for very long, and Alabeth was obviously determined to be as disagreeable as possible. Well, she would
regret it if she persisted, he thought, tugging his hat for
ward on his unruly hair and climbing back into his
carriage. He lounged back on the seat, a pensive smile
touching his lips as he thought of the haughty redheaded
lady in the maroon traveling carriage. He would give her a
little time, but if she showed no signs of changing her tune,
then perhaps he would have to forget he was a gentleman,
and point out to the lady the error of her ways!