Regency Debutantes (39 page)

The amber liquid swirled around Ravensmede’s balloon glass. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no such understanding between Miss Marchant and myself.’

‘Absolutely not.’ An enormous grin erupted on Cadmount’s face.

Ravensmede smiled in return. ‘You are the most infuriating man when you’re in your cups.

Cadmount’s grin deepened, and he hiccuped.

‘Brooks’s betting book—what does it say with regard to me?’ There was no hint in Lord Ravensmede’s voice that he had drunk the same quantity of brandy as his friend.

A smile. ‘That you’ll be wed before the summer is out.’

Ravensmede laughed as a wave of relief swept through him. ‘They think I’m on the hunt for a bride because of my attendance at Almack’s? Seeking some precious chit just out of the schoolroom? I think not. You know me better than that, Caddie.’

‘Indeed I do, sir,’ avowed Lord Cadmount. ‘Thirty-two years old, heir to an earldom, no wife, no nursery, old man breathing down your neck. Thank God I’m only a younger son. No such pressure.’

‘Are you always this philosophical when you’re foxed?’ Ravensmede demanded somewhat sourly.

‘Always.’ Another gulp of brandy. ‘If Kathryn Marchant’s
not your girl, then why have we been trailing round one blasted place after the other in search of the little lady, and all the while missing out on the finer things in life? Beats me why you’re behaving like a green lad over her. She’s not your type at all!’ Even the worse for several glasses of brandy, Archibald Cadmount knew exactly how to nettle Ravensmede.

In return, Ravensmede slowly and deliberately set his glass aside. ‘You’re quite right in thinking that I would like to make Miss Marchant my mistress.’ He recollected vividly those soft supple lips beneath his, the gentle swell of her hips, and the sound of her wicked chuckle of laughter when he plucked her from beneath Amanda White’s nose. ‘However, she’s an innocent and,’ he added drolly, ‘I haven’t stooped quite so low as to start deflowering virgins.’

‘You could always make an exception in her case.’

Silence followed the scandalous suggestion.

Cadmount waited to see if things were bad enough for Ravensmede to take the bait.

‘Perhaps …’ Ravensmede’s eyes flicked shut. A vision of Kathryn Marchant’s pale face arose. His mind meandered to imaginings of just how soft and white her skin would be beneath that hideous grey dress. Temptation loomed large. He quelled it with impatience. ‘But then again, maybe not. She’s made her feelings quite clear: a no-show at any of her cousin’s outings this week. I’ve never forced a woman, and I don’t intend to start now.’

‘Glad to hear it, old man. Had you made an arrangement with her?’

Ravensmede thought of his promise to dance with Miss Marchant, and of her conspicuous absence from her cousin’s side. ‘Of sorts.’

Cadmount looked impressed. ‘By Jove, this must be a first. A lady that turns you down. She won’t have you. Hah! Well, it’s about bloody time!’ A snort of merriment resounded throughout the library. His eyes closed, but not before they had alighted on Lord Ravensmede’s wry smile.

The clock ticked upon the mantel. Logs crackled within the grate.

A flicker of Cadmount’s heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Are you for Lady Campbell’s gathering tonight?’

‘I think not. I’ve other fish to fry.’

This time Cadmount’s eyes remained shut and within a few minutes the soft sound of a snore was upon his lips. Ravensmede rose without a noise and left the library.

A sleepy whisper murmured behind him, ‘Chit might as well as thrown down the gauntlet. Twenty guineas he’ll have her in his bed before the month is out, whatever the right or wrong of it.’

But had Archibald Cadmount known Miss Kathryn Marchant, he would have wagered very differently.

T
he street was thronging with bodies as Kathryn wove a path through the crowds. Although the afternoon was well advanced, the street vendors were still plying their trade, which was fortuitous, as it was on an errand of procurement that she was employed. Despite the dusty heat and the overpowering smells arising from the pigs and piles of rotting rubbish nearby, she was glad to be free of the house in Green Street, no matter how short the duration. The week had passed slowly, with Aunt Anna and Lottie taking delight in meting out Kathryn’s punishment. No doubt it somehow acted to salve the snub that Lottie felt Ravensmede had dealt her at the ball. Kathryn had endured without complaint, and indeed had striven to appear positively cheerful. There was nothing like it for irritating Lottie, or Aunt Anna for that matter. Little did they know how she enjoyed her brief excursions from the house. It was only twenty minutes since Lottie, on overhearing that there were no potatoes left, had demanded a dish of potato pudding for dinner. Upon Lottie’s insistence, Kathryn had been dispatched to fetch some more. It was supposed to be a degrading experience, and one that would teach her a lesson.

A while later, and overhead the dazzling sun still shone down from a cloudless blue sky. A soft humming sounded from Kathryn’s
lips as the notes of the music danced through her head. Her feet neatly avoided a pile of fresh horse manure and, as the tempo increased, she skipped over the stream of bloodied water running down from a nearby butcher’s shop.
The noisy street had vanished. A cooling breeze fanned her face as she breathed in the fresh country air. She was beautifully composed as the gentleman swept her into his arms and they began to glide with effortless grace across the neat lawns of the country mansion. One two three, one two three, she counted the beats as her delicately embroidered slippers scarcely touched the ground. Lord Ravensmede was smiling, his green eyes twinkling in the sunlight…Ravensmede! Kathryn banished the thought and the noisy bustle of London reappeared. She adjusted the sack of potatoes balanced on her hip and continued her steady pace.

Ahead she could see the golden glint of the railings surrounding St James’s Park. The green grass and the cool sparkle of the canal beckoned enticingly. It wouldn’t take long, just to shelter beneath the cool dapple shade of the trees, to feel some little sense of space. Without a moment’s hesitation her dusty feet padded up the street and into the park. Carriages containing fine ladies rolled by. Smartly dressed gentlemen astride their horses trotted past. The grass was fresh and springy beneath Kathryn’s shoes. Ahead the air rippled with a heat haze.

She had just paused to watch two swans upon the water when a small family group passed close by. A familiar voice caught her attention. Glancing round, she saw, with some consternation, Miss Dawson walking arm in arm with her younger sister. Kathryn became suddenly all too aware of her situation. There could be no hiding the large and conspicuous sack of potatoes, and Miss Dawson was sure to mention any such meeting to Lottie. And then Lottie would know exactly what Kathryn had been up to during her errand. Quite deliberately Kathryn averted her face and walked in the opposite direction. She needn’t have worried. With half her hair escaping from her bonnet, a smear of dust on her chin, a soil-stained dress, and
the presence of the exceedingly dirty sack on her hip, she appeared more like one of the inhabitants of St Giles’s Rookery, and not anyone connected to the respectable household of Mr Henry Marchant.

A close shave. Without further ado she disappeared behind the breadth of a large oak tree. It was only here that she laid down her burden. Hidden quite well as she was from view, she not only sat herself comfortably on the grass and leaned her back against the gnarled bark, but also dispensed with her bonnet and set about repairing the worst of her hair.

Lord Ravensmede reined his horse to a standstill, unable to quite believe his eyes. Surely that could not have been Miss Marchant he had just witnessed vanishing behind that oak? The slight figure certainly bore a striking resemblance to her graceful form, even bowed as it was with some large and weighty object. Perdition, he was becoming obsessed with the chit. First, she had been in his thoughts for the past week. Now, he was imagining that he saw her at every turn. It did not sit well with his lordship. His hand moved to twitch Rollo’s rein, then stilled. What if it really was Miss Marchant? He had a thing or two to say to that young lady. No matter how much Ravensmede might deny it, he felt aggrieved by her snub, especially in view of the effort he had made to silence Amanda White. His leg slid over the saddle and he jumped down to the ground.

Having securely tethered the gelding to a nearby tree, Ravensmede proceeded on foot with some caution. Thus, he walked directly to the opposite side of the massive oak without the slightest noise. He heard the hushed melody from her lips before he saw her: ‘Ach! Du lieber Augustine.’ It had been playing when he danced with her at Lady Finlay’s ball. The memory tugged a smile at his mouth. He moved leisurely around the trunk.

She was sitting on the grass, her legs drawn up beneath her, intent on scraping her mass of red-brown hair up into a chignon. The hairpins were held at the ready between her lips. And all
the while her soft humming filled the air. At her side lay a lumpy and rather grubby sack. Ravensmede stared, intrigued with the sight. What an earth was the girl up to?

He stepped forward. ‘Miss Marchant, a pleasure to make your acquaintance once again.’

Kathryn jumped, dropped the hank of hair she was attempting to secure, and almost inhaled one of the hairpins. The remainder of the pins scattered on the ground as she exclaimed with undisguised horror, ‘Lord Ravensmede!’

Ravensmede watched while she scrambled unceremoniously to her feet, brushing any remnants of grass from her skirt. In one glance he took in the worn shoes caked in dust, the soiled dress, and the fatigue in her eyes. The bridge of her nose and cheeks were smattered with freckles that had not been there a week ago, and dirt streaked her chin. He held out his hand to take hers. Kathryn stared at it as if it held a dagger. ‘Miss Marchant,’ he said with the utmost politeness, and with slow deliberation touched her bare fingers to his lips. Not only was she gloveless, but her hands were reddened and rough, almost as if she had been scrubbing floors or laundering. A frown flitted across his brow at the thought.

Kathryn saw the look and, snatching her fingers away, clasped her hands behind her back. ‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted, then, remembering her manners, ‘I mean…I didn’t expect to meet you here.’

‘Apparently not.’ Ravensmede’s gaze dropped to the sack and wandered back to her face. Crimson washed her cheeks and he thought he saw a flash of anger in her eyes before it was masked.

She held his gaze boldly. ‘Please don’t allow me to interrupt your walk, my lord.’ Her cheeks burned hotter.

Ravensmede smiled lazily. He was not to be dismissed so easily. ‘I assure you it’s no interruption. Perhaps I could join you.’

The girl seemed speechless for a moment at the audacity of his suggestion. He was fully aware that it was rather inappropriate. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lord.’ As he knew it would not be. Her voice was firm, her body poised for flight.
‘Indeed, I must be getting back to Green Street. I’ve been away too long as it is.’ Her eyes scanned for the pins, and, having located them in the soil by an exposed tree root, she bent to retrieve them.

Ravensmede saw her purpose and, with surprising agility for a gentleman wearing such tight-fitting buckskins, stooped to reach them first. Their fingers brushed; an intense awareness tingled in the air between them. He stared into the widening clear grey eyes. Realised that he wanted her, even dressed as she was in the guise of a servant. A determined interest stirred. Jaded boredom faded. His gaze dropped to her lips.

Kathryn withdrew her hand as if she had been burned. ‘I do b-beg your pardon,’ she stuttered, and rose swiftly to her feet.

Ravensmede followed, his eyes still trained on her face. The pins lay forgotten in the dirt. He closed the distance between them and reached out for her.

A woman’s laugh sounded from the other side of the oak. ‘Come along, Mary, we mustn’t be late.’

It was enough to burst the growing bubble of tension.

Lord Ravensmede recovered first, dropping his hand to his side, and did not move. He was so close he could see the dark sweep of her eyelashes and the glitter of perspiration on her cheekbones.

One step back and then she halted, an expression of confusion on her face. ‘I should leave.’

Ravensmede was not fooled by the small gruff voice.

She stepped aside and bent to retrieve the sack.

‘Wait.’ His hand stilled her outstretched arm. Neither the material of her dress nor his fine leather gloves dampened the arc of excitement that sparked between them.

She looked pointedly at his fingers; only when he removed the offending articles did she raise her gaze to meet his. ‘My lord?’

‘May I be so bold as to enquire the nature of your burden?’ His horsewhip flicked towards the sack.

Her eyes lowered only momentarily before her chin raised a notch, as if in challenge. ‘Potatoes.’

‘Potatoes!’ That would explain the preponderance of sandy soil about her person. ‘You’ve been sent to buy them?’ His lordship asked the question with a nonchalant air, as if lugging a huge sack of the damn things was an everyday occurrence for a gently bred companion.

She nodded once, that fierce little gaze never faltering for a minute.

‘I see,’ murmured Ravensmede with a sudden clarity of perception. The sinister hand of Mrs Marchant loomed large. ‘And this is one of your usual chores?’

‘No.’ Her fingers plucked nervously at the material of her skirt.

Ravensmede waited in silence, a look of expectation upon his face.

‘I’m assisting Mrs Moultrie in the kitchen this week.’

‘And last week too?’ he asked in a gentle tone. He suddenly understood why Kathryn had not accompanied her cousin and aunt on any of their recent outings.

More plucking at the material. ‘Yes.’

‘Surely Henry Marchant is not so strapped for cash that he cannot employ a kitchen maid?’

She said nothing, just looked at him.

‘It seems that you are out of favour with your aunt of late.’