The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) (11 page)

* * *

‘I’m confused.’ Gabe lounged into the dining room, where Cris, decently washed, dressed and combed, was waiting for the rest of the household.

‘
You’re
confused? I can’t imagine what you are doing here—and don’t give me that line about curiosity. You are never so curious as to put yourself out with a journey of over two hundred miles to one of the most inaccessible parts of England.’

‘I told you, I’m removing myself from temptation and telling myself I am not quite such a rogue as to ruin a respectable young lady.’ He shrugged when Cris lifted an eyebrow. ‘And Kate is worried about you. She thinks you are in love and moping. But the timing is awry, unless you met Mrs Perowne earlier this year.’

‘Kate said...’
Hell’s teeth.
Had he been that obvious when he and Gabriel had visited their old friend Grant Rivers, Lord Allundale, and his new wife, Kate? He had thought he had concealed his heartache over Katerina very effectively behind his usual cynical exterior. Apparently not.

Thinking about Katerina did not bring the jab of pain he had become used to. The shock of that realisation almost took his breath away. Was he so shallow, so hard-hearted, that he could shrug off the heartbreak of true love, simply because he was distracted by a lovely woman and a mystery?

Unless, of course, he had not been in love in the first place. Cris moved down the length of the room, away from the door and into the deep window embrasure to absorb that thought.

‘Kate was mistaken,’ he said quietly. ‘There was a woman I could not have. It preoccupied me for a while, that is all.’ It occurred to him that there had never before been something that the Marquess of Avenmore wanted badly, yet could not have. Was that all that had been wrong with him? An attack of pique, added to sexual frustration and a heady dose of forbidden romance and he had thought himself in love? If that was the case, he was not at all sure how that made him feel.

The doubt made him almost dizzy. Ridiculous. He was never doubtful, certainly not to the extent of rocking on his heels as though he had drunk too much. Cris steadied himself with one hand on the window frame. He was always in command of his emotions, clear about his motivation. But now... Had he almost drowned himself out of sheer inattention because of the
delusion
he was in love?

Gabe, card-player
extraordinaire
, was watching his face, his own expressionless. He did not have to say anything. It was obvious he thought that Cris had ricocheted from one unsatisfactory
amour
to another.

‘I was not in love.’
I think. Perhaps. Damn it, I should know, surely?
‘I am not in love,’ he repeated more firmly. ‘And I do not intend to find myself in love. I intend to leave here when I am confident that the ladies are no longer in any danger and I am then going to find myself a suitable, sensible wife. Kate hardly knows me. What she calls moping was merely the gloom brought on by contemplating matrimony.’

Gabriel’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, but he did not respond to the attempt at levity. ‘So what, pray, was going on in the summer house just now? And what is this I hear about you almost drowning yourself?’

‘If I have to explain to you that Tamsyn and I are verging on the edge of an affair, then it is you we need to worry about, not me. As for the near drowning, I underestimated the power of the currents off this coast. I was not paying attention, that is all.’

‘You always pay attention, Cris,’ Gabriel murmured. ‘And you are never transparent. Now I can read you like a book and you lose focus almost fatally. I think—’

Whatever he thought was, mercifully, interrupted by Aunt Rosie being helped into the dining room by the footman, Isobel and Tamsyn behind her. Cris let out the breath he had not been aware of holding and set his face into the blandest and most neutral of all his diplomatic expressions.

Chapter Eleven

C
ris ate and smiled and kept up his share of the conversation, which was not difficult when the two older ladies could talk of little else but the wonder of the sedan chair and all the expeditions they could take with Isobel riding her hack and Rosie being carried, safe and comfortable at her side. He had taught himself to carry on a dinner-party conversation in three languages while puzzling over a coded letter, planning a meeting and thinking about a new pair of boots. This cheerful domestic meal, even with Gabriel’s sardonic eye on him, was child’s play.

It gave him the opportunity to think about the self-revelation Gabe had forced on him. He had, somehow, deluded himself that he had fallen in love with Katerina and that was inexplicable. Yes, she was an attractive, intelligent woman—what he knew of her, which was very little. Yes, she had been attracted to him. But that was all. He had never been in love before, he was not in love now. There was no point in trying to convince himself that he had not lost temporary control of his reason over a woman.

It could have been a disaster. If he had not been so strong with himself about duty, honour and the need to protect both their reputations, the whole affair could have blown up into a diplomatic scandal, meant ruin for Katerina and probably someone dead on the duelling ground. And he would be a disgrace, tied to a woman who was quite intelligent enough to see through whatever protestations of devotion he made to her once their ruin had been accomplished.

What had come over him? He was not some green youth talking himself into love with an unobtainable beauty. He was, on the other hand, a mature man facing the prospect of making a suitable marriage and resenting it. He had always prided himself on his detachment and his independence and the only relationship that he had ever allowed to become personal, to matter, was his friendship with Gabe, Grant and Alex Tempest, Viscount Weybourn.

Was that what this was about? Had he armoured himself against the faceless, unknown, woman he was going to marry by telling himself that his heart was already taken, that marriage was a matter of form, of convention and of convenience, something that would not get close to him, could not hurt?

‘Mr Defoe?’

It took him a moment to remember that was who he was, that someone was speaking to him. It seemed that he had been over-confident and his dinner-party skills had disintegrated along with everything else. ‘I am sorry, I was distracted for a moment.’

‘I was just remarking what a spectacular sunset there is this evening,’ Aunt Rosie remarked.

The wall behind her was suffused with pink and those with their backs to the windows turned to admire the sight as the hot red disk of the sun dropped into the sea.

‘You almost expect to hear it sizzle,’ Tamsyn said as the colour faded. She rang the little hand bell by her side plate and when Michael came in, she gestured to him to light the candles. ‘There will be a full moon tonight.’

‘A smugglers’ moon?’ Gabriel asked.

‘Certainly, if there is a big run, then moonlight helps, especially if they are going to load it straight on the ponies and head inland,’ Tamsyn explained, surprising Cris with her lack of reticence in talking about the subject. ‘But the men know the coast so well that they can land with only the aid of a few dark lanterns on shore.’ She sent him a quizzical look. ‘You don’t want to take any notice of what that Riding Officer said. That’s just some foolish rumour. There’s no serious smuggling going on around here these days. I would know.’

She kept them entertained with tales of the last century when the gangs ruled the coast, then teased the two men with local ghost stories.

‘I’ll be safe riding back tomorrow, will I?’ Gabriel demanded with mock alarm. ‘No fear of finding Old Shuck loping at my heels, or headless horsemen or drowned sailors or any of those other horrors in broad daylight?’

‘Surely you are not leaving us so soon, Mr Stone?’ Isobel asked. ‘Do stay a little longer. I am sure you cannot have had time to discuss your business with Mr Defoe yet.’

‘This evening after dinner, ma’am...’ Gabriel began.

‘Not after the long day you have had,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘You relax this evening and see to your business tomorrow morning, then we can all take a picnic up on to the clifftops to celebrate my wonderful new sedan chair.’ When he hesitated she reached out her twisted fingers and touched the back of his hand. ‘Won’t you indulge me with your company? We are so quiet here that a charming and intelligent guest is too precious to lose.’

‘Ma’am, you overwhelm me with your hospitality. I would be delighted.’ It brought Cris out of his uncomfortable thoughts to see Gabriel succumbing to the charms of a woman old enough to be his mother, if not his grandmother. He normally avoided respectable older women like the plague and confined his conversation, and his attention, to high-flyers and dashing society matrons.

Tamsyn rang the little bell again and got to her feet as Michael came in. ‘We will leave you gentlemen to your port and nuts.’

Amidst the minor flurry of helping Rosie from the room Cris drew Tamsyn aside. ‘Where can we talk?’

‘Talk?’ She looked up at him and blushed. ‘The summer house at midnight.’

‘That is too close to the house—and uncomfortable for...conversation,’ he said, making her blush harder.

‘Uncomfortable for talking? I think not. But I will take you on a walk, if you are not frightened of meeting Black Shuck. Wear good boots for rough ground. Coming, Aunt Izzy!’

When he turned back Gabriel had returned to his seat and was pouring ruby port into the pair of fine Waterford crystal glasses Michael had set out for them. He raised his glass and sniffed. ‘Excellent port, duty paid or not.’

Edgy, Cris picked up the other glass and walked round the room to study a pair of sketches in the alcove by the fireplace. ‘They’ve some nice pieces here. I like the ladies’ style—Miss Isobel in particular will take some earthenware jar from the local potter, fill it with wild flowers and stand it on an exquisite Sheraton side table and it will look perfect.’

‘Stop fidgeting, it isn’t like you.’ Gabriel watched him, lids half-lowered over his gypsy-dark eyes. ‘I like your fierce little widow.’

‘She isn’t mine.’ Cris dropped into the nearest chair and reached for the wine. ‘We may have a...thing. For a short while, that is all.’ That was all it could be, of course. He knew exactly the sort of wife he needed, his father had explained that to him, young as he was. Marquesses married for dynastic reasons—connections, land, bloodlines. Tamsyn stirred his blood, but she was an obscure widow of a scandalous marriage without any of the attributes that would make a permanent connection acceptable in his world. But, as a widow, then a discreet
affaire
was perfectly acceptable.

‘A
thing
.’ Gabriel rolled his eyes. ‘Are you quite certain that my friend Cris de Feaux has not been kidnapped by smugglers who put you in his place? I am missing the articulate, smooth, cynical man I know.’ Cris lobbed a walnut at him. He caught it one-handed and cracked it between his long card-player’s fingers. ‘Joking aside, if there is something wrong, tell me, I’ll help.’

‘I know. And there’s nothing wrong with me.’

Liar. My brain is scrambled eggs, all the blood in my body is heading straight for my groin
and I have no idea what I’ve been thinking for the last few months.

‘But there is plenty amiss here. I’ll be interested to hear what you found out about Chelford tomorrow. Meanwhile, pour me some more of that excellent port and tell me the latest London news.’

* * *

‘You are here already?’ Cris followed the thread of lamplight across the grass to the dark lantern that was set on the step of the summer house.

‘I am always prompt.’ A hint of laughter, a suspicion of a nervous tremor, a suggestion of excitement. He could not see Tamsyn’s face in the shadows, but he knew, quite certainly, that they would be making love that night.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Follow me.’ She picked up the lantern and handed him another, its shutter closed so that only the heat of it and the smell of burning tallow told him it was alight. She crossed the lawn, heading away from the lane, opened the shutter of her lantern a little to show him the stones sticking out of the wall to make a stile and climbed nimbly over. ‘We can open the lanterns more now,’ she said as the ground began to rise. ‘This sheep track winds around the side of the headland, we’ll be out of sight of the house in a moment.’

She walked steadily up the steep path, moving with the confidence of someone who was both fit and familiar with where she was going. As they climbed the moon came out, full and brilliant, painting the short turf with abrupt black shadows. They gained the top and Tamsyn strode out, not waiting to see if Cris followed her, then turned abruptly, right on the edge.

‘Take care!’ He reached for her as she dropped out of sight, then relaxed as he saw she was on a lower path, cutting down below the lip of the cliff by about the height of a tall man. Once they were down it became flat and smooth, just wide enough for one person. Tamsyn ducked, moved sideways and, with an unexpected creak of hinges, vanished into the cliff face.

Cris opened the shutter of his lantern to show a squat hut, built back into the face of the cliff. From what he could see in the flickering lamplight it had been constructed from sea-weathered wood, perhaps hauled up from the beach below. The roof was turf and in the moonlight he could make out the needle-point leaves and round heads of sea thrift, sharp against the midnight sky.

He bent to get under the low lintel and found a square space, long enough for a tall man to lie down in. Across the back was a platform of crude planks. Tamsyn dragged a metal trunk out from under it and Cris crouched to help her, inhaling the scent of old lavender as she opened the lid and hauled out a thickly padded quilt.

They spread it on the planks, then added the pillows she took from the trunk along with a pile of blankets. Tamsyn patted the bed they had created. ‘Close the half-door and come and sit here.’

It was divided like a stable door and he did as she asked. All that was visible as they sat there was the sea, filling half the view with the sky above and the reflection of the moon trailing silver across the waves. Tamsyn sighed and leaned into his side, so Cris put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in snugly.

‘An old haunt of yours?’

‘It must have been a looker’s hut once.’ He made a questioning sound and she explained. ‘A watcher for the Revenue service. But it was long abandoned when Jory and I found it as children. Later, when things were...difficult, I would sleep here sometimes because it is so peaceful.’

‘Difficult? You mean when your husband died?’

She was silent for a moment as though thinking his simple question through. ‘Yes. It was my special place when I wanted to be alone and being alone helped sometimes.’

‘Tamsyn.’

‘Hmm?’

It had to be said. ‘You know I am not staying, that I will be gone in a week or so.’

‘Of course.’ She wriggled upright and the air struck cool where she had been pressed, warm and soft, against his side. ‘We are about to have the conversation about not getting attached and do I really want to do this and you respect me, but...’

There was a trace of amusement in her voice, so he let himself be frank. ‘Yes, that was exactly it. You may rely on me to be very careful, but if there are consequences, I also rely on you to let me know.’

‘Of course,’ she said abruptly. ‘I am not worried about that.’ The shimmer of amusement had gone now, she sounded almost sad. This businesslike discussion was neither erotic nor romantic, he supposed.

‘Tamsyn, if this does not feel right to you, we will go back now. And don’t think I am going to sulk, or leave immediately or be less anxious to help you and your aunts.’ He turned on the hard bed, reaching to caress her cheek. ‘This matters to me, my mermaid. I’ll not hurt you.’

‘Mermaid?’ She laughed, low and husky, the sound like an intimate caress. ‘I thought you were a merman, coming out of the sea like that. If you wish to make a woman cautious, you should not appear looking quite so desirable.’

‘I was ice-cold, half-drowned and probably covered in goosebumps.’ He began to nuzzle her neck and she tilted her head to give him better access.

‘I did not notice the goosebumps. I noticed the muscles and how blue your eyes were and your...proportions.’ Her hand slid to the fall of his breeches in graphic demonstration. Her breath was coming in little gasps now as his flesh rose to meet her hand.

Cris lifted his head to look at her in the dim lantern light. ‘My proportions? It was freezing, I doubt I had any proportions to speak of.’

‘Oh, yes, you did. I was most...ah
...
impressed.’

‘Hussy.’ Ridiculously flattered, he stood and closed the half-door, then fully unshuttered both lanterns. ‘If we are going to take any clothes off, I want to keep warm, regardless of how well I stand up to the cold.’

‘You first.’ She was sitting with her legs drawn up, her arms wrapped around them, her chin resting on her knees, those great dark eyes watching him. Cris stripped as fast as he could, given that he had to stoop under the low ceiling. It was not cold, but it was cool enough not to want to prolong undressing. And besides, he was beginning to desire nothing more than to be skin to skin with Tamsyn now, to discover whether her body was as tempting warm and dry as it had been wet and shivering.

He sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots and she reached out to run her hand down his spine, lingering over each bump of vertebrae. ‘I love your back.’

It was difficult to pull off a pair of Hoby’s boots when a desirable woman was beginning to twine herself around you. Cris persevered, resisting the temptation to tear off her clothes, rip open his breeches and take her with his boots on. It was an arousing prospect, but he did not know her well enough to judge whether she would find that exciting or insulting.

Barefoot, he stood up to pull off his breeches and she came up on her knees, her hands sliding over his torso, her mouth trailing down his ribs. Cris stilled, breathing hard, his hands arrested on the fastenings of his falls as he tried for some self-control. Much more of this and she would have him spending like a green youth. He could not remember when a woman had made him quite this aroused so fast.