Undesirable Liaison (24 page)

The convenient
fiction assumed by Belinda allowed her to pass one more day in
pretended indisposition. The physical ravages of his lordship’s
assault faded, leaving in their wake a dull hunger for more.
Florence suppressed it, determining as her strength returned to
deal with her hateful position as she had dealt with everything
else. She kept to her room, secure in the belief his lordship would
not risk loose talk by entering there—at least during the day. Even
had he wished to, which was now unlikely. Which left her free to
plan her removal from his house. A prospect that left her dismal
and unable to think how it could be accomplished—without his
lordship’s intervention.

Her sister
having supplied her, upon request, with something to read, she was
able to distract her mind. The back copies of
The Ladies
Magazine
belonged to the dowager, and had been procured by
Belinda—unbeknownst to Florence—for the set purpose, so she said,
of finding articles to discuss of interest to her ladyship.

It was not an
exercise wholly successful, for Flo’s thoughts kept straying, and
she was obliged time after time to discipline herself not to think.
Of the viscount, of that last distressful exchange,
and—yearningly—of the fateful night of passion they had shared.

That he made no
attempt at contact could not but rankle. After all he had said, he
had little difficulty keeping his distance. Florence could only
suppose her words had hit home. Perhaps he had recognised his
desire for her was but a fantasy, based upon the unrequited and all
too real passion he had felt for his now dead wife.

It could be a
manifestation of mourning, for all Flo knew. One might suppose a
man who had been seven years separated from a thoughtless wanton
would have long ceased to mourn her loss. But what did she know of
the workings of a man’s heart? How might she judge of the
laceration of wounds too deeply embedded for sanity?

Only she wished
she had not been the female appointed Nemesis at the hour when Lord
Langriville learned of his wife’s demise. Oh, that pale pink jewel!
How she hated it and the destiny it had wrought.

She re-entered
upon her duties the following day with determined and fabricated
cheerfulness, and a mind cleft in two by the horrid necessity to
walk away. Her pose was greeted by the dowager with sullen
indifference, and Florence was brought to realise that, having had
almost uninterrupted access to Belinda’s company for several days,
Lady Langriville was in no mood to receive back her real companion.
What she would say when she discovered the two of them would soon
be leaving, was a question Flo did not care to contemplate.

Circumstances
being as they were between herself and Jerome, she judged it
politic to refrain from again going to dinner with the family. No
word came from his lordship, and Florence concluded she had been
correct. He had not truly wanted her. He had used her to assuage
the loss of his wife. A bleak conclusion, and one that reinforced
her determination to be gone from his house as soon as she could
contrive.

Worse was to
come. Much to Flo’s astonishment, it was the dowager, rather than
Lord Langriville, who queried her non-appearance in the dining
parlour.

‘We have missed
you at dinner, Miss Petrie,’ she announced on the Friday
morning.

‘I beg your
pardon?’ uttered Flo blankly.

‘While you were
unwell,’ pursued her ladyship in an uncharacteristically animated
tone, ‘I could understand it. But you are better now, are you
not?’

‘Indeed yes,
but—’

‘Then join us
again, I beg of you. It is so melancholy for Langriville and me to
be always alone. I should like it of all things if you would join
us this evening.’

Judging by her
attitude upon the previous occasion, Florence found this hard to
believe. Reminding herself she was still being paid to please the
dowager, she assented, not without a rising sense of apprehension
at the thought of encountering his lordship.

The reason for
Lady Langriville’s odd change of face became apparent as Flo
entered the dining parlour a trifle late, bracing herself to face
Jerome across the dinner table. She was brought up short by the
sight of her young sister, most unsuitably attired in a floral
damask that had belonged to their mother, seated across from the
dowager.

Belinda looked
gleeful, if a trifle apprehensive. Her greeting was blithe, but she
made haste, Florence noted, to shuffle off responsibility.

‘Her ladyship
asked me to join the family, Flo. Isn’t it capital?’

A flat negative
was clearly out of the question. But Florence had no time to
formulate a response for Jerome’s clipped tone spoke immediately
behind her.

‘If you will
excuse me, Miss Petrie.’

Flo hastily
stepped aside, a flurry in her pulses. She had not realised his
lordship was not yet in the room. But her movement had allowed him
to see Belinda, and he too stopped dead, staring at the girl.
Remembrance—too close to truth for comfort—of the accusation he had
shot at her regarding her sister, drove Florence to intervene
before he could blister Bel with his tongue.

‘I understand
Belinda is here at Lady Langriville’s request.’

He shot her an
enigmatic look, and then turned his gaze upon his mother. The
dowager had turned in her chair, and she was wearing her piteous
expression.

‘I don’t see
why Belinda should have to eat in the schoolroom,’ she said in a
plaintive fashion. ‘She is fifteen, and as much my companion as the
other one.’

Resenting this
form of reference, Florence bit down on a sharp retort. She was
both furious and disappointed—or was it hurt?—by the dowager’s
deception. But there was nothing to be done about her sister’s
presence at this moment. One could hardly banish her. Jerome, did
he know the truth she had denied to him, might well. God send Bel
said nothing untoward! At least she made no attempt to insinuate
herself into the discussion. Perhaps she foresaw the result. She
was looking smug enough.

‘If his
lordship has no objection, ma’am, I am content for Belinda to
remain. Tonight at least.’

She felt
Jerome’s eyes, but she would not look at him. In the periphery of
her vision, she saw him move towards the head of the table, and
went to take her own place.

‘I have no
objection,’ he said on a dry note, and his glance swept over the
newcomer. ‘Good evening, Belinda.’

Belinda smiled
sunnily. ‘I am so glad you don’t mind, Lord Langriville.’

‘Why should he
mind?’ demanded the dowager, throwing a glance at Flo she
interpreted as acute dislike. ‘It’s good for you to learn how to
behave in company.’

‘I know, and
I’m sure the food will be much more exciting.’

‘If that cannot
be said for those who eat it.’

Florence’s
glance flayed at him, but Jerome ignored it. Upon reflection, he
was glad of the addition to his board, for the child’s chatter
might be a welcome distraction from his present discomfort. The
thought proved itself at once, for he was immediately forced to
listen to Belinda’s response.

‘It might not
be precisely exciting, but for my part, I am perfectly happy with
all of you, for I should otherwise be eating alone. I mean, I could
not be other than at ease with Flo, and Lady Langriville and I have
an excellent understanding. Indeed, if anything, you ought to be
the one to make me nervous, my lord, for I have scarce seen you
since we came. But I don’t find you in the least intimidating, so
that—’

‘I should doubt
if you would be intimidated by anything less than a hammer,’
interrupted Jerome, his tone acid. ‘And if you mean to chatter on
in this fashion throughout the meal, I shall be strongly tempted to
request Fewston to fetch one.’

Exasperatingly,
Belinda found the threat excessively funny. Having laughed
uproariously, she invited her sister to share her merriment—a ploy
that had the instant effect of killing Jerome’s reluctant
amusement.

‘Isn’t he
witty, Flo? I must say, I do think you might laugh when his
lordship makes a joke.’

‘Thank you, I
am more than familiar with his lordship’s wit, Bel.’ He received a
fleeting glance. ‘I will agree he has a way with words.’

What the devil
was that supposed to mean? She was plainly still angry. Her sudden
attack that day had for a while thrown him into a hideous confusion
of mind where he could no longer tell whether her accusations were
justified.

Belinda’s
attention, to Jerome’s relief, had been drawn by his mother, who
was busily instructing her in the correct utensils to use for the
cod in shrimp sauce, and exactly how large a serving it was proper
for a young lady to accept. He sneaked a surreptitious look at
Florence, and noted her tell-tale pallor and the jerky movements of
her fingers as she began upon her small portion of fish. A faint
tattoo built up in his chest, and he cursed inwardly.

Damnation, but
he was yet enslaved! Not that he’d had any hope of release from the
thraldom of Flo’s allure. He had compared her mentally with Letty,
the golden goddess he had never fully possessed. Always a part of
her had been withheld, a secretive part of which he would have torn
down the walls, if he could. But Laetitia had inexplicably held him
off with the prettiest of excuses. Ever languorous, half promising
what he could never have, she had made him captive to her charms
and kept him so, until it suited her to fly from him.

But Florence,
sitting there so still and quiet now, had given him a tempest at
the first onslaught. He had revelled in a response he had craved
for years. It had taken little cogitation, in truth, to recognise
the source of his confusion. But he had held aloof nonetheless—with
extreme difficulty.

He knew he had
hurt her that night and she needed time to recover. The tangle of
consequence, though it acted powerfully upon Florence, had little
force with him. Instead, haunted by the expectation of her leaving
his house—for a wonder, she had not done so instantly!—he braced
himself, knowing he would do all in his power to stop her. Futile
to suppose he could tolerate her going. The anticipation of a pain
he knew too well was unendurable.

It had been
hell on earth to keep his distance. Much to his agent’s obvious
amazement, curse the man, he had abandoned his books to attend to
estate business, riding his lands in a restless quest for quietude.
The thought Florence might take flight while he was out of the way
kept him on tenterhooks. Her absence from dinner had thrown him
into panic, until an enquiry of Fewston elicited the information
she had reverted to dining with Belinda. He knew she was
withholding herself, and hurt sent his temper soaring. Fury kept
him from the temptation to break through her barriers. He was
damned if he would sue to her for mercy, but he missed her like the
devil.

But days had
come and gone, and Florence had not tried to leave. Hope crept into
his anger, but the shock of seeing her in the flesh had just hit
him when he noticed Belinda at the table. In the flurry of
discussion, he’d had an opportunity to settle his mind, but the
instant he had leisure to think again, he was lost.

The realisation
sent his pulse rate up again, and the thunder of blood in his veins
made him groan aloud. He found himself the cynosure of three pairs
of eyes, and silently cursed again. Belinda was the first to
express her astonishment.

‘Gracious, Lord
Langriville, what is the matter? Are you in pain?’

In pain? Dear
God! He could have laughed had the machinery to produce it been
working.

‘Jerome?’

His mother
adding her voice. He had best think of an excuse, and think fast. A
frantic sweep of his mind rewarded him.

‘I rode too
long today, that is all. And my mount was restive.’

He could not
withstand a glance at Florence as he spoke, and wished he had kept
his eyes off her. A flush was staining her cheeks, and the tip of
her tongue ran across her lower lip. His own words flashed back at
him, and the double meaning caught at him. Helpless with need, he
sat mumchance, his fixed gaze upon his plate, willing the feeling
away.

At the other
end of the table, Flo seized frantically at her glass, bringing the
wine to her mouth. She was obliged to press the rim hard against
her lip, for fear of her trembling fingers letting it clash in her
teeth. As well might he have shouted his desire to the room! And
Belinda seated a mere matter of feet away.

She tilted the
glass in haste, and its contents rushed into her mouth, splashing
her chin and choking in her throat. The glass went flying, and she
spluttered into a grabbed up napkin. There was no room for thought,
but only a desperate effort to regain control of her breath. She
could hear voices of protest and question, but she could not
respond.

‘What is
it?’

‘She is
choking!’

‘Help her,
Belinda!’

And then a hand
was thumping into her back. In a short time, a freer breath began
to draw into her throat, and the coughing to subside. It was a
little while before she was capable of anything more than pulling
her breath in and out, but she was at last able to take a proffered
glass of water and sip at it.

‘Look, she is
recovered now.’

‘For goodness’
sake, Flossie, you gave us all a fright!’

Flo gathered
herself together. ‘I am sorry. I took too much wine at once. Pray
don’t trouble, Bel, for I am better now. Do sit down again.’

‘Yes, for your
fricassee will get cold,’ put in the dowager. ‘You did well,
Belinda, very well indeed. Miss Petrie is lucky to have a sister
with such a quick mind.’

Belinda
grinned. ‘Well, but it was Lord Langriville who told me to help
her, so I cannot take credit for that, ma’am.’