Undesirable Liaison (17 page)

‘What is this
about your mother and a new companion, old fellow? Why in the world
are you so interested in her?’

Damnation, was
that real? A growled response curled into his mind. His own?

‘Mystery,
that’s why. She wouldn’t tell me. Got a—’

His mind froze.
Had he said it? Got a
past
. No, his tongue could not have so
betrayed him. Except his tongue had been a slave to drink, the more
fool he. A reckless plunge, if his memory served him now.

He did recall a
hasty farewell to his cousin, and an argument: about his purpose in
setting off for home. Theo and others had objected, he thought.
What urgency had driven him he could not tell, though there had
been moments of regret when the rocking of the coach had threatened
to dislodge the contents of his stomach.

There were
inexplicable gaps, doubtless due to the quantity of liquor he had
imbibed. But what it was that had set in motion the sequence of
events eluded him, until he recalled his arrival in the grey dawn
and a memory sprang full-blown into his head.

Dear God, it
was
about her! Florence Petrie—swathed in a garment that
clung to sinuous curves before invisible, a fall of black hair
tumbling about her face. Lord help him, had he kissed the
wench?

Without
warning, reaction kicked in. Heat streamed down his body, pumping
through his veins. The memory, sharp and etched deep within his
senses, gave him again the taste of her lips. His vision clouded
and he closed his eyes, a deep groan issuing from his throat.

Not again. Hell
and damnation, not this again!

‘Is your
lordship’s head paining you?’ came Digmoor’s concerned tones.

Unable to
respond with words, Jerome made a slight negative gesture, and an
instant throbbing set up at his temples, warring with the insidious
ache of his body’s need. But the hideous recognition of his
recalcitrant desire was to Jerome a worse torture. Had he been
freed of his obsession for Letty merely to fall victim to a fresh
object? What had
she
to invoke such responses?

His mind—all
too eagerly—showed him the woman in a number of poses: defiant,
smiling, withdrawn, angry and bewildered. In none could he find the
least vestige of attraction to compare one tithe with the golden
Laetitia. Nor had he received the identical clap of thunder that
had afflicted him within seconds of setting eyes on Letty. Himself
raven black, Jerome had ever eschewed dark-haired women, preferring
his females fair of head—and of complexion too. What was there to
admire in her olive tainted skin? Nor had she Letty’s voluptuous
breasts.

As if he sought
to conquer the unnatural trend of this unexpected need, he searched
his images for negatives that might inspire disaffection. Yet the
more he dwelled upon imagined defects, the more Florence Petrie’s
sensuality inflamed him in a way he had not felt in years.

With
difficulty, he mastered the urge that had broken out from the
hidden recess in which Jerome had attempted to conceal it. From
himself, caught in a trap he had unwittingly set.

***

The unseen
presence in the house pervaded Flo’s senses. She had not slept
again, how could she? Instead she had lain in her bed, reliving the
hideous reality of her treacherous soul. She had known it. Oh, she
had known, deep inside! But she had blinded herself, too grateful
for the convenient excuse that permitted her to follow the secret
yearning and yet refuse to recognise it. From the instant of seeing
him!

He had
distracted her with his base suspicions, with his tongue all too
ready with harsh words and criticism. She had taken refuge in
anger, loosing the vials of her wrath upon his head. Because she
could not in conscience reveal her own attraction?

Fear, insidious
and deadly, grew in her by the hour. Of Lord Langriville, of
herself, of the pattern she knew too well. It had sent her flying
from the home she might have kept to all her life, had she been a
willing party to the heinous sin of which Cousin Warsash would have
made her guilty.

But that,
pleaded an insistent little voice, had been vastly different. There
had been no mutual passion, and the bargain would have been purely
a business arrangement. If, that was, one looked at it in the cold
light of reason. Only Florence could not regard it with reason,
tied as it was to the sufferings of her mother.

She shivered in
remembrance. How could he have expected it of her? At such a time
too.

She thrust the
memory away, only to be confronted with the present dread and the
all too revealing warmth flooding her veins at the memory of what
had set it off. Flo cursed her own weakness and tried vainly to
overcome it.

There was no
relief, she decided, but in action. She rose betimes, dressing
herself in the plainest of her home-made gowns, of blue stuff,
close-fitting and laced from bodice to waist, with long sleeves, a
modest neckline and full petticoats. Not content with this, she
dragged her hair severely back so it was largely concealed by the
white cap. She practised her blandest expression in the looking
glass, but she could not be satisfied with the vibrancy of her blue
eyes. The only safety, she decided, lay in the demurest of conduct.
She would not meet his gaze, tempting though it might be.

In the event,
Lord Langriville put in no appearance in his mother’s parlour, nor
did Florence meet him elsewhere in the house. The resulting
sensation of flatness made her furious with herself. A condition
exacerbated by Belinda’s unadulterated excitement.

‘Did you know
Lord Langriville came home in the middle of the night? He was
foxed! He’d been carousing all night, and—’

‘Have you been
gossiping with the servants?’

Belinda looked
conscious. ‘Not gossiping precisely. But I overheard two of the
maids talking about it, and so naturally I—’

‘You asked them
for more information, is that it?’

‘Certainly
not,’ declared Bel, through a mouthful of buttered crab. ‘I
listened, if you must know, though I knew you would say I ought
not.’

‘I do say you
ought not. Really, Bel, you are the limit. When will you learn
discretion?’

The exchange
was taking place in her sister’s chamber over dinner, which they
took earlier than her ladyship for the convenience of the cook.
Recalling that Bel spent her afternoons in company with the
dowager, a fresh spectre rose in Florence’s head.

Feeling like a
spare part, she had taken to absenting herself from these sessions,
in favour of walking energetically in the grounds in a bid to
dissipate her restless energy. Fruitlessly, she now recognised, the
reason not far to seek. But had her sister’s indecorous tongue been
at work?

‘Pray tell me
you did not discuss this matter with Lady Langriville, Bel.’

Belinda looked up from
her plate of crab, scorn in her eyes. ‘What do you take me for? Of
course I said nothing.’ A trifle of guilt crept into her face.
‘Well, that is to say, I didn’t say anything. It was Lady
Langriville who mentioned it.’

‘What
precisely?’ enquired Florence with foreboding, neglecting her
preferred choice of a slice of ham pie.

‘That his
lordship had come home very early this morning.’

Flo eyed her
doubtfully. ‘And?’

Her sister’s
nonchalant air was far from reassuring. ‘Oh, she didn’t know he was
foxed, if that is what you are afraid of.’

Florence was
scarcely aware herself just what she feared. But where Belinda was
concerned, one could never be too careful. The last thing she
needed was for her sister to get wind of her part in his lordship’s
advent.

Having disposed
of the rest of the crab, Bel spared a glance for her elder sister,
and frowned.

‘What? You look
as though you don’t believe me.’

‘You haven’t
yet told me just what was said.’

‘Not much,’
shrugged Belinda, eyeing a dish of jam tartlets with a predatory
air. ‘Lady Langriville was a bit puzzled why he had travelled in
the night, that’s all.’ She reached for a tart. ‘But I soon
reassured her.’

‘How?’ asked
Flo, not without misgiving.

Belinda bit
into the tart. ‘Mmm, this is excellent. You should have one,
Flossie.’

‘Bel, will you
please answer me!’

Her sister
swallowed the portion of tart and grinned. ‘I said he must have
been impatient to get home.’

‘Is that all?’
Relief swept through Florence. ‘Did the dowager accept it?’

‘Well, she
looked a bit confused—you know the way she does when she doesn’t
understand a thing—but she didn’t say anything more, so I suppose
it satisfied her.’

Flo doubted it.
She’d had time enough to learn that the Dowager Lady Langriville
was a good deal more acute than she appeared. For one thing, she
had no difficulty in keeping up with Belinda’s studies. Indeed, she
was far more adept than Florence at explaining in a way her sister
might understand. Further, Flo had noted her habit of glancing
sideways at people, in a fashion that indicated she knew more than
she revealed. Florence suspected her air of bewilderment, if not
her physical weakness, was largely feigned. It was instead a shrewd
method of inducing people to do as she wished.

She had
succeeded in winning Belinda for her companion by just this means.
Flo would permit only the one session a day. Her sister was too apt
to forget her position. Let her have her head, and there was no
saying where it might lead. And now, with the dreadful turn of
events in this morning’s early hours, it was a question whether the
two of them might be forced to leave Bedfont Place altogether. If
Lord Langriville were to attempt to resume where he left off,
Florence could see no alternative.

***

Jerome thought
it politic to make an appearance at dinner. Though he had never
felt less like eating, his mother would expect it. But having
braced himself to face Florence without allowing his feelings to
get the better of him, he was inordinately disappointed to find she
was not present. His reaction preceded thought.

‘Where is Miss
Petrie? Does she not dine with us?’

His mother’s
vague gaze lifted from her dish of white soup. ‘Dine with us? Oh
no.’

‘She is your
companion, Mama. Is she not to be with you most of the time?’

The familiar
air of bewilderment overtook her wan features, and Jerome contained
his impatience with difficulty. But her words shook him.

‘Yes, but I
have no use for a companion, Jerome. I do think you might have
asked me first.’

One of his
harsh laughs escaped him. ‘Had I asked you, Mama, you would have
refused it.’

Her attention
was apparently taken up with her broth, for she fiddled with the
spoon, stirring unnecessarily.

‘Yes, I think I
might have done.’

‘There you are
then.’ He hesitated, eyeing her restless fingers. ‘Surely you must
find it of some comfort?’

She looked up
at that. ‘I find Belinda of some comfort.’

‘What, the
sister?’

Agitation
showed in her features. ‘Pray do not say I may not have her to
visit me, Jerome, for I like it of all things.’

‘I am not going
to say so, but I don’t understand. Has not Florence been good to
you? You will scarcely tell me she is unkind, or—or anything of
that nature?’

‘Oh no, no,’
uttered his mother, waving distracted hands. ‘She is amiable, if a
trifle… But I do not take to her as I take to Belinda.’

Jerome wondered
what the “trifle” might be, but he did not question it. He imagined
Florence’s forceful nature might well dismay his more delicate
mother. But what was to be done? The obvious course—for her sake as
well as his—was to be rid of Florence Petrie as swiftly as
possible. Why had he not seen it instantly? He might use the excuse
that the dowager did not after all wish for a companion. But if the
wretched Belinda had inveigled herself into his mother’s
affections, dismissal would not answer. Or would it? It had been
but a few days. His mother likely would not miss her for long.

He ignored an
instant thought that it was a question how long he might miss
Florence Petrie. Were he to be rid of her. Were it possible to be
rid of her—from under his skin, where she had crawled
unbeknownst.

It then
occurred to him that it was Florence, and not Belinda, who was
being paid to succour his mother. If she had relegated that duty,
what was she doing all day? Suppressing the thought that if she was
not otherwise occupied, he might more readily find occasion to seek
her out, he determined to enquire further. He refused to
acknowledge the notion that it would give him an excuse to talk to
her alone. What it could do was determine how best to eliminate the
danger of her presence in his house.

Raw from the
previous encounter, he dared not attempt to see her tonight.
Besides, he felt dreadful, and it was with difficulty he remained
at table. Rejecting the broth, he partook of a mouthful of stewed
chicken and merely toyed with the buttered crab. He waved away the
Burgundy with a gesture of loathing, and drank only water.

It was not to
be supposed that his abstinence would go unnoticed. At length his
mother, who had watched from time to time as he pretended to pick
desultorily at the meal, was moved to comment upon it.

‘You have no
appetite, Jerome.’

‘None at all, I
fear.’

She was silent
for a space, eyeing him with the doubtful expression that always
reminded him of a wild bird who, having landed on a perch, could
not make up its mind whether or not to remain. She spoke at last,
with diffidence.

‘Is it
Letty?’

Jerome was
startled. ‘What?’

The dowager’s
gaze dropped. ‘I do see things, though some may think me wholly
self-absorbed.’