The Uncatchable Miss Faversham (5 page)

    Or someone so unutterably arrogant – nay, insolent! – that he believed he could wander at will about her grounds without permission?

    Her cheeks hot and suffused with temper, Eleanor gave a little cry and started forward instinctively, bent over like a hunter following a wild beast’s tracks. She pursued the footprints round the lakeside, up a narrow track into woodland, and as far as the boundary stile, heavily shrouded in ragged gorse and brambles.

    There she stopped, biting her lip. The wooden step on her side was cracked straight across but still usable, she suspected, as long as one did not put one’s full weight upon it.

    Out of breath after her steep climb, Eleanor allowed herself to rest for a moment, leaning her hot face on her arm.

    In truth, she was torn between a strong desire to jump down onto his land in a childish act of revenge, and fear of what might happen were she to be seen on Sallinger land. Not that anyone would dare to question her presence there except him, of course. But the very possibility that he might hear of it was enough to cool her raging blood.

    Eleanor straightened, ordering herself to behave in a more ladylike fashion and return to the house immediately. Seconds later, she gave an audible gasp as she looked up into the eyes of the man whose fury had driven her from this place five years before.

    ‘You!’ she managed, then gave a choking sound as she realised how badly she had given herself away.

    Years of training forced a polite smile onto her flushed face and a courtesy into her voice that she was far from feeling. But there was no disguising her breathlessness.

    ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon. How … how do you do, Lord Sallinger?’

    Seated on a magnificent black stallion, Lord Sallinger looked down at her with an unfamiliar mixture of hostility and icy politeness. His gloved hands barely bothered to pull on the reins, his powerful thighs controlling the animal with consummate ease.

    ‘I am well, Miss Faversham, thank you,’ he replied, and jerked his head in what passed for a nod of recognition.

    His mouth, which she did not want to remember pressed hotly against her throat, was a straight line of disapproval. It had been five years since she had rejected his offer of marriage. Could he really still hate her so much?

    The horse shifted slightly under his touch, and suddenly she was looking up at the scarred side of his face. An odd thrill ran through her and her hands clenched into fists. She remembered touching those scars for the first time and being astonished by their strange smoothness, how much less forbidding they seemed at close quarters. Today though, the sight of them did nothing to calm her nerves.

    ‘I must apologise for my behaviour last night,’ Nathaniel continued coldly, breaking her train of thought. ‘My sister was unwell and we were forced to leave rather suddenly. I understand you are only recently arrived from London. It was not too arduous a journey, I trust?’

    He did not meet her eyes as he spoke but gazed an inch or two above her bonnet, as though he found her presence in Warwickshire intolerable. Her cheeks grew even hotter at this unspoken insult; she barely recognised the intense young man she had left behind in this stiff, proud male who could not even look her in the face.

    ‘Not at all, sir.’

    No doubt he was eyeing her bedraggled state, the coarse muddied pink of her gown, and congratulating himself on a lucky escape all those years ago.

    Why, oh why, had she not worn the lace-trimmed, blue velvet gown that Suzanna had laid out for her this morning?

    In such elegant walking attire as she might have worn in London, she could have faced Lord Sallinger with confidence and dignity; in this shabby get-up, she must look more like an understairs maid than mistress of a considerable fortune. The knowledge that he was paying court to one of the village women only made her feel less armoured for this encounter.

    She thought of her own past behaviour with this man and wondered if Lord Sallinger now saw her in the same light as he obviously saw his tenants’ wives – an incorrigible flirt, easy sexual prey. Not a woman to force him into marriage for the sake of an illicit night’s passion.

    There was an uncomfortable pause. No doubt his lordship had run out of polite conversation, she thought, watching him from under the brim of her bonnet.

    Then he gave an odd kind of grimace.

    ‘I forgot – my sister charged me with a letter for you.’

    He reached inside his coat, producing a fold of white paper and bending to hand it to her. As their gloved fingers touched, she shivered, the echo of some lost emotion whispering in her ears.

    ‘Thank you,’ she managed huskily, then realised that he was waiting for her to read it. She broke the seal and scanned the short letter as rapidly as possible, biting her lip at its contents. ‘Your sister is too good –‘

    ‘Charlotte is not in the best of health at the moment. But she would be delighted if you could honour us with your presence at Sallinger House tomorrow evening, if you are free.’

   
Us?

   
Barely able to speak, breathless and light-headed at the prospect of dining with this man, Eleanor grasped the brambly wooden stile in her gloved hand for support. After all her careful plans to avoid him ...

    It took a horrifyingly long moment for the sensation of faintness to pass, but she thought her demeanour remained creditably calm and unruffled throughout. She must not forget everything she had learned over five years of London society just because she had been caught off her guard by this
mistake
from her past.

    ‘That’s very kind, my lord. But – ’

    ‘Good. Shall we say six-thirty, then?’ Lord Sallinger drew himself up in the saddle, his jaw set hard as though prepared for an argument and determined not to give way. ‘An unfashionable hour for you, I have no doubt, come straight from Town. But my sister makes an early night most evenings and I would not care to see her fatigued.’

    Eleanor could not respond at first but nodded, then managed a muttered ‘Good day, my lord,’ wishing she could be at the opposite end of the earth.

    He did not move but sat on his horse, watching her careful descent of the steep muddy track towards the lake.

    Her feet slipped a few times, and she steadied herself on the slope, listening for the sound of his horse departing. But there was nothing but silence from above.

    This was the final indignity, Eleanor thought, to feel those dark eyes burning into her back at every step and know she must look like the simplest country maid, out on a jaunt in her third-best gown!

    Then, just as she thought herself safe, her booted foot slid over a particularly muddy patch and she tumbled backwards with a cry, unable to save herself. Landing in an undignified position in the mud, red-faced and half on her side, she attempted to right herself again.

    Before she could even lever herself into a sitting position, Lord Sallinger was suddenly there, kneeling beside her.

    ‘Are you hurt?’

    ‘Not seriously. My ankle is maybe a little…’ she began with dignity, trying to rearrange her mud-stained gown to better conceal herself, then sucked in her breath as his intentions became obvious. ‘No!’

    Nathaniel paid no attention to her modest protests but stripped off his gloves and pushed the hem of her gown roughly aside.

    Swiftly, his hand slid beneath the damp petticoats to find her ankle. The heat of his hand there left her breathless and shocked by her own reaction, pulses leaping in a traitorous body that had not forgotten his touch.

    What on earth was the matter with her? She knew as many as two dozen handsome, charming men in London, and not one of them had ever had this effect on her.

    Now his fingers played along the delicate bones of her ankle, gently manipulating her foot, leaving her uncertain where to look. Damn the man for his impudence! If only she could stop the blood gathering in her cheeks and recover a little composure.

    His dark gaze moved inexorably up the coarse, muddied gown, lingering on the tight swell of her bodice, before coming to rest on her face. He pressed her stockinged ankle with infinite care, taking in her flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes.

    ‘Tell me where it hurts,’ he insisted, frowning at her silence. His eyes narrowed on the twitching line of her mouth. ‘Here? There?’

    ‘No,’ she muttered, rebellious. ‘There’s a man with a cart up on the drive. If you could just summon him - ’

    The next thing she knew, he had stooped and lifted her off the muddy ground without further preamble. ‘Place your arms about my neck,’ he instructed her curtly.

    Eleanor’s face grew hot and she struggled in his arms. Her plain bonnet fell off, abandoned to its fate in the mud as he began to stride purposefully forward.

    ‘My lord, put me down. This is not seemly conduct.’

    Sallinger’s face was like stone; it was as though he had not heard a word.

    ‘My lord!’ Something like panic stirred inside her, and for a moment she forgot her decision not to drop her guard with him. ‘Someone will see us!’

    He looked down into her face then, the dark eyes veiled by his long lashes, and for a moment she was reminded of the old Nathaniel. His voice was deceptively soft.

    ‘Does that worry you?’

    ‘You know it does,’ she hissed, then caught the glint of what looked suspiciously like amusement in his eyes, and stiffened.

    If Nathaniel wanted to bait her, to punish her in some way for what had happened between them five years ago, she could not stop him. The man knew her weaknesses, knew them too well by far. Her best defence lay in acting the role she knew best, that of the flirtatious Miss Eleanor Faversham, the Uncatchable Heiress.

    That role had saved her from many awkward situations in the past five years, allowing her to turn aside the most ardent of suitors with a laugh and a delicate compliment.

    Eleanor forced herself to lie still, and allowed her arms, hitherto clutching at his shoulders in panic, to drape themselves languidly about his neck.

    ‘What, will you carry me all the way back to Faversham Hall?’ Shakily, she managed a flirtatious laugh and looked up at his face through lowered lashes. ‘Indeed, my lord, you are too chivalrous. Rushing to my aid like the Good Samaritan! Though who could condemn such an action on the part of a neighbour?’

    ‘Who indeed?’

    She heard the light contempt in his voice and fought the urge to break free of this man’s embrace. She refused to let Lord Sallinger see her vulnerability where he was concerned; who knew how he might use such knowledge against her?

    ‘You must think me very foolish, my lord, to have slipped and fallen in the mud like that.’

    ‘I think you have ruined your gown.’

    His voice was back to icy formality. She hated it, yet was oddly thankful to hear that note. She preferred contempt to the burning dark gaze he had shown her a few moments before.

    ‘That doesn’t signify at all. I have many gowns. But my ankle …’ She bit her lip in mock-dismay. ‘Now that is a serious blow indeed. I have a mountain of engagements planned this spring. Will my ankle be strong enough for dancing by the time I return to London, do you think?’

    Nathaniel’s arms tightened about her and he glanced away, looking across the valley as he began the slow, treacherously slippery descent to the lake.

    ‘Regretfully, I am no doctor and cannot give you an answer. Better lie still now,’ he replied.

Dancing, indeed!

    Nathaniel took care not to slip with Eleanor in his arms, much as he now repented that impulsive, unthinking decision to leap the stile and rescue her from the mud. Eleanor might be beautiful, but her beauty was marred by her light, flirtatious character. The rumours were certainly true; Miss Eleanor Faversham had changed since making her home in London, and not for the better. He had seen proof of it last night, her peacock-like appearance in that silk gown, and now all she could think of was whether this tumble might have ruined her chances of enjoying herself in the arms of some smooth-tongued London beau.

    His voice hardened as he added, ‘You know of my old injury. You would not wish me to drop you, I think.’

    ‘Indeed, sir, I would not.’

    Her laughter grated at his nerves. How much of it was aimed at him and his weak leg?

    Oh yes, Eleanor was the catch of society now, a stunning piece, even in this old, muddied gown, her hair quite wild without a bonnet. He risked a swift glance down into her face, then fervently wished he had not. She looked as though she needed to be kissed, and kissed fiercely, her body brought back to life in his arms.

    Yet for all her flirting and easy ways, he would stand no chance with her. Not any longer. Eleanor had learnt to scorn men, her standards so impossibly high that no man had found himself able to please her enough for marriage.

    He could only imagine what such a beautiful woman must think of the countrified Lord Sallinger with his ugly scars and limping gait.

    The pain of those grim thoughts ate away at him. Nonetheless, he controlled himself, keeping all emotion out of his voice. ‘I trust this will not prevent you from dining with us tomorrow night, ma’am. My sister is most eager to see you again.’

    ‘Prevent me, sir? I vow it cannot happen.’ Eleanor smiled up at him invitingly and then, apparently unaware of the effect she was having on him, rested her head against his chest. Her tone was lightly teasing. ‘I shall not fail your sister, even if I must be carried from carriage to table like a Persian queen.’

    Nathaniel looked down at her untidy chestnut hair in silence. He was used to schooling his expression to betray none of his thoughts, but he struggled to ignore the softness of her body against his.

    Was this how she behaved with the young
ton
in London? In this flighty, alluringly unconventional manner?