Stunned by the pain of undiluted jealousy, Annemarie gave no thought to how it would look for her to leave, just as the play was beginning. Uppermost in her mind, apart from being alone, was the thought of having to meet Marguerite at Park Lane and either to suffer more details of their evening together, or strangle her.
A hand held her arm as she stood. ‘No, dear,’ said Cecily. ‘You mustn’t. Stay. It’s nothing. I can explain.’
‘I’m leaving. Let go. I cannot stay.’
‘I’ll take her back,’ Lord Verne said, recognising the determination in her voice. ‘It would be best. I’ll send the carriage back for you, ma’am.’
‘I don’t want you to take me back,’ Annemarie retorted, ‘I prefer to be alone.’ But Verne’s arm was across her shoulders and, as their exit was already being noticed, Annemarie saved her tirade until the curtains closed behind them, with only a few latecomers to overhear.
‘Not now,’ said Verne. ‘Not here. Come. You must hold your peace a while.’
‘For pity’s sake, leave me alone,’ she said, furiously striding ahead of him. ‘I want nothing to do with you, my lord.’
‘Too late,’ he muttered.
* * *
But without making a scene, she was obliged to suffer Verne’s company all the way back to Park Lane in his barouche where she sat trembling in silence in one corner, her lovely eyes brimming with tears that caught the moving reflections from outside. He could see how she shook with the effort of containing her distress, yet felt certain he could explain, once they were able to speak freely and at length.
He was mistaken. Annemarie turned on him, white-faced, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘You waste your time, my lord. I don’t want to hear what you say and I have nothing to say to you except that I wish we had never met. If you want to flirt with my young sister, go ahead. I ought to have seen that you would try that angle, too, to get what you want. What a pity the elder Miss Benistone is out of bounds, or you might have tried your luck there. Don’t follow me. I’m going to my room.’
‘Annemarie, listen to me...please? It was not like that at all.’
She refused to listen. Before he had said no more than a few words, she was almost at the top of the stairs and there was nothing to be done but for him to go into the library and await the return of the others. In his own home, he would have pursued her. In hers, he might have done the same. But here where they were guests in Mrs Cardew’s house, he was not prepared to risk the gross impropriety of it.
Knowing better than to ask what the matter was, Evie fielded the clothes that flew across the bed, but felt helpless to do anything more to help her mistress when she crumpled into a velvet chair, head in hands, and gave way to loud rasping sobs that Evie had heard before, a year ago. It was then that the maid had suspected the depth of Annemarie’s heartache and the intense desire that had come too soon and unexpectedly, taking her unawares. More than anyone, she had seen the change in her mistress, the bloom in her cheeks that was not only for the return to London life but also for the man at her side, demanding her attention. Evie was now sure that Lady Golding was deeply in love and that Lord Verne was somehow responsible for this latest torment. Did it, she wondered, have something to do with the theft of the portmanteau contents?
It had not taken Evie long to come to the conclusion that, since none of Lady Golding’s valuables were missing from her collection of jewellery, and that the portmanteau would have been much heavier if it had indeed contained such items, something else had been stolen by that silver-tongued valet that Lady Golding could not speak of, even to her trusted maid. Faced with Mrs Cardew’s instructions to say nothing about it, Evie decided that now was not the time to ask. Not until she could get a quiet word with Mr Samson, who had probably never suffered the humiliating experience of being savaged by an irate lady’s maid. Not yet.
* * *
Verne’s wait in the library was not as prolonged as he’d expected, none of the party having enjoyed the highly charged melodramatics of Mr Keane in the title role of The Merchant of Venice, especially after Annemarie’s abrupt departure. Nor was Marguerite sorry to make her excuses to her long-suffering hostess either, since she’d nursed hopes of being taken to a masquerade party rather than the theatre. Her poorly timed request to be taken there by Cecily, however, had resulted in the sharpest set-down she had received in many a month. From both Oriel and Cecily.
‘Sit down, miss! And don’t say another word till we reach Park Lane.’
‘And even then, you may find you’ve said too much!’
In the library, Verne stood as they entered. ‘Ma’am, I hope you don’t mind...’
‘Not at all, my lord. This is a sad business. Where is she? Upstairs?’
‘Wouldn’t discuss it. I’m afraid she has badly misconstrued the situation.’
‘Thanks to Marguerite,’ said Oriel, angrily. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said to her betrothed, acknowledging the gentle hand on her arm, ‘I know it’s bad form to rake one’s sister down in company, but I think it’s time she began to understand how her behaviour is affecting other people’s feelings. Your discomfiture at this moment,’ she said, turning to her sister, ‘is nothing compared to the distress you’ve just caused Annemarie by your silly boasting. Have you no discretion?’
‘I didn’t know...’ Marguerite faltered, blushing, turning a beseeching glance upon Lord Verne.
‘So why did you think we were all sitting in Lord Verne’s box? Didn’t that tell you something? No, don’t answer that. Clearly, it didn’t.’
‘I’m...I’m sorry, my lord. I’ll go up to her and explain.’
‘You’ll do no such—’ Oriel began, ready for the next salvo.
Hastily, Cecily intervened. ‘Not now, Marguerite. Tomorrow. Go upstairs.’
Marguerite’s lower lip trembled as she made her escape. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
The colonel had never seen his gentle Oriel so furious and was inclined to think that this was an interesting side of her character. Opening his mouth to speak, however, was no guarantee that he would be listened to. ‘That little madam,’ Oriel said to the closing door, ‘needs taking in hand. Her silly behaviour is becoming an embarrassment to us all.’
‘Perhaps you’re being a little harsh, dear,’ Cecily said. ‘I’m sure if she’d known how things stand between Annemarie and Lord Verne, she’d not have—’
‘She knows how vulnerable Annemarie is,’ said Oriel, uncompromising. ‘If she bothered to think about anyone at all other than herself, of course.’
‘Mrs Cardew,’ said Verne, ‘I wonder if I might have your permission to go up to Annemarie? If she’ll allow me to explain, I may be able to repair the damage.’
‘In the circumstances, my lord, I can hardly refuse. But you’ve seen for yourself how fragile her emotions are and, knowing her as I do, I’d be surprised if she’ll see you. You may try, though.’
Oriel was also doubtful, but still held out some hope. ‘She won’t,’ she said to Verne, ‘but don’t be put off, my lord. Cecily and I will work on her when she’s calmer. She’s not seeing things too clearly at the moment, you understand.’
‘Thank you, Miss Benistone. I shall not give up, I can assure you.’
Verne’s attempt to gain access to Annemarie’s room met with the refusal Oriel and Cecily had predicted. The door remained locked against him in spite of prolonged entreaties to let him explain.
* * *
When he at last returned to the library, Cecily was alone and waiting to comfort the one who had hoped to be the comforter. ‘Come and sit down, my lord. A little brandy? Don’t despair,’ she said, noting the tension in his face. ‘We might even use this moment profitably to share what we know about the letters, do you think? It’s sure to prevent more misunderstandings, isn’t it?’ Secretly, she took some pleasure from watching for that spark of alarm in his eyes and equally from finding out how well he hid it from her.
His hand was perfectly steady as he accepted the brandy glass, his first sip leisured and appreciative. ‘Ah!’ he said, studying the amber swirls. ‘So they’ve been discovered. I wondered, of course. That might help to explain matters.’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Cecily. So, with one wary eye on the door, she gave Verne the information he required while assuring him that Annemarie’s extreme reaction to her sister’s boast had nothing to do with the letters directly, but to her distrust of his motives where she was concerned. ‘She still believes, you see, that all you want is the letters.’
‘Then she’s mistaken, isn’t she? I don’t want the letters. I have them.’
‘Yes. Quite. So might it be best, do you think, if she was told?’
Verne disagreed. ‘No, I think not,’ he said. ‘I think it’s best if Lady Golding continues to believe that they’re safely where she wants them to be, with Lady Hamilton. I don’t mind at all if she wants to think I’m still waiting for her to dispose of them. This is a game she’s chosen to play for her own good reasons and I don’t propose to end it for her yet. She must attempt to do that in her own way, in her own time.’
Cecily was sorely tempted to tell him more, particularly about the exact nature of the game her beloved Annemarie was playing. A wicked game of revenge in which he would be hurt, but Annemarie even more so. But this was a confidence she could not disclose. Rather she would have to hope that Verne had enough wit to work it out and extricate himself before the damage was done. It was a pity. She liked and admired the man. ‘You don’t see it as ended already, then?’ she said.
‘Good heavens, ma’am, not at all. Much as I hate to see her upset and angry, it gives me a good indication of where I stand in the scheme of things.’
‘Somewhere at the bottom, I’d say.’
He smiled at her pessimism with a flash of white teeth. ‘On the contrary. When the game does end, I dare say we shall all be too old to remember what it was.’
‘Really? As long as that?’
‘As long as that, ma’am. Now, may I trespass on your wisdom further by asking what you predict Lady Golding will do in the immediate future?’
Cecily stood up in a billow of white lace. ‘Wait here, if you will, my lord. I’ll go and find out what I can.’
‘She’ll see you?’
‘Oh, yes, she’ll see me.’ She paused at the door. ‘By the way, my lord, something I found out only this morning. Lady Hamilton has left the security of the debtors’ prison and disappeared with her daughter. Isn’t that interesting?’
‘Then Lady Golding’s generosity came just in time.’
‘Sure to have helped.’
* * *
Although not quite as luxurious as the Prince Regent’s carriage, Cecily’s well-equipped town coach served the same purpose in every respect, which was to convey Annemarie and her maid safely and comfortably to Brighton. Any attempt to persuade her not to flee London at quite such an early hour had met with an obduracy typical of a broken-hearted young woman who could see nothing but her own dark unhappiness. She had accepted, up to a point, Cecily’s reason to keep the news of the vexatious dance with Marguerite to herself, since the appearance of Lord Verne there that night had been only to speak to the Prince Regent, whom he’d known would be there. Naturally, he’d had no option but to change into evening dress for that, but he had been ready to leave immediately had not Cecily pleaded with him to stand up with Marguerite. If she’d suspected how the silly child would embroider the facts, she would never have done so. As for there being any more to it than that, Annemarie was much mistaken.
In her present state of mind, Annemarie could hear the sense of it, but did not want to find it a place in her view of events. He had danced with Marguerite. He had partnered her, been seen with her, smiled at her, softened her stupid little heart, pandered to her self-centredness and given her a weapon with which to damage Annemarie’s new confidence. So easy to inflict and so effective. And the only way to nurse the pain was to return to obscurity. Why had she ever thought any different?
Forget the town house on Curzon Street.
Forget the imaginary bed, his arms, his kisses.
Forget the tender way he’d talked to her, wooing her with sounds.
Forget it all.
By this time, the tears had changed to a cold numb fury that disturbed Evie as much as the tempestuous sobbing of last night had done. ‘Coming into Reigate,’ she said. ‘Here, m’lady, let me pull your veil down. There, no one will notice. I’ll go in and secure a private parlour while they change the horses and we can have breakfast. Just leave it to me. Ready?’ Having heard no word since leaving Park Lane, Evie did not expect one now, though it seemed that her plan met with some approval when she was allowed to take charge, accepting without a moment’s hesitation that the parlour had been prepared for them as arranged.
‘Arranged by whom?’ Annemarie said, frowning at Evie.
‘I don’t know, m’lady. Mrs Cardew, perhaps?’
Not wishing to argue the point, they followed the landlord into the cosy room that, flooded with bright daylight, appeared quite different from their last eventful visit. But before Evie could request a tray of food to be brought, the bowing Mr Hitchcock had taken his leave with an ingratiating ‘m’lady...m’lord’ that caused m’lady to twirl round on one heel to face the tall man who, while not exactly lurking, had not until then done anything to make his presence obvious.
‘You! This is intolerable!’
Annemarie made a quick stride towards the door, but Verne was there first, too large and too determined to be pushed aside, booted feet planted firmly apart and not a crease in either buckskin breeches or dark-grey cutaway tailcoat to suggest that he had travelled at all that morning. Although he had. ‘Yes, I know. But could you tolerate it long enough to listen to me?’ he said.
‘I’m heading for Brighton, my lord, with the express intention of avoiding exactly that,’ she said, her voice unsteady with past hours of weeping. ‘Now stand away from the door, if you please, and let me pass. I told you last night I have no wish to be in your company, and nothing has changed.’
‘M’lady,’ Evie whispered, ‘ought I to...?’
‘Yes, go and see if the horses are put to. We need to be away from here immediately.’
Bobbing a curtsy, Evie was allowed to slip through a gap in the door that Annemarie knew she herself would not be permitted to use. Yet even then, after running the gamut of every emotion concerning his duplicity, his untrustworthiness and disloyalty, Annemarie experienced a sneaking surge of desire as they faced each other, equally resolute but totally unequal in the stamina needed to win an argument. She had hardly slept. Now the unexpected appearance of the one who had drifted and woven himself through her dark hours seemed almost like a taunt, reminding her of what she stood to lose. Every handsome inch of him. She was to have used him, mercilessly, to salve her pride. He might have helped to find her mama. And already, damn him, he’d taken hold of her heart-strings. She would have to snatch them back before it was too late.
‘Lord Verne,’ she said, forcing an energy into her voice, ‘I can guess who informed you of my intention to make this journey, but I can assure you that, whatever your plans are, they won’t affect mine. Nothing you can say will prevent me from going on to Brighton.’
‘Good. So when we’ve had breakfast, we’ll proceed, shall we?’
‘Proceed?’
‘Yes, to Brighton. That is what you said, isn’t it?’
‘I did, my lord. But alone. I shall be going nowhere with you.’
‘That point,’ he said, gravely, ‘is one upon which we may disagree. You are, remember, my mistress and mistresses always try to please their lovers. Did you not know that? We shall go on to Brighton together.’
‘Wrong. Allow me to mention another small point, my lord. I am not your mistress and you have no control over my movements. It was a mistake. We shall not suit. Indeed, we never did suit. What’s more, since Mrs Cardew and you appear to be in cahoots, she will no doubt have told you that your ridiculous pursuit of what was in my portmanteau can now be called off. The contents have been safely returned to their owner, as you probably know, so they can be of no more concern either to you or the Prince Regent. So, having got that out of the way, you can see that there is no reason at all for you to pretend any interest in my affairs. You need keep secret from me no longer your flirtation with my younger sister, either. What a pity I had not learned of your strategy sooner. It would have saved...’ She turned away from him to hide the crumpling of her face and the pain in her eyes caused more by her imaginings than by the facts. Cecily had explained. To continue doubting was a way of justifying her own excessive reaction and to disbelieve him would mean dismantling every esteem and approval he had won from her so far.
A tap on the door introduced trays of food borne by straight-faced servants who might have been able to sense the tensions that quivered like bowstrings between the tall powerful man stopped in mid-stride and the willowy lady whose veil was still in place, even after several minutes. It was not the first time they had witnessed such anomalies, inn-parlours being what they were. Setting the table to rights, they withdrew smartly at the tip of the landlord’s head, their ears straining to catch a word before the door-latch clicked.
There was no word. Instead, Verne came to take hold of her sleeveless pelisse by the shoulders and slip it down her arms without encountering the least resistance. ‘Shall we sit, sweetheart, and discuss this over coffee?’ he said, laying the garment aside. ‘And your hat? One cannot eat breakfast through a veil, can one?’ Before she could object, his fingers had deftly removed the hat pin that anchored the drum-shaped creation to her hair, revealing in one quick sweep the full extent of her ravaged face, the swollen eyelids, pale cheeks, pink nostrils, the lovely mouth distorted by misery. He felt the tiredness in her shoulders. ‘Oh, my sweet girl,’ he whispered. ‘What on earth is all this about? Eh?’
She turned her head aside so as not to see the pity in his eyes which she knew would quite undo every one of her resolutions. ‘Don’t,’ she replied. ‘Don’t try to talk me out of it. My mind is quite made up. Irrevocably.’
‘Irrevocably,’ he said, moving a tendril of her hair away from her eyes. ‘So why not let it rest for a while, and sit down and eat. I don’t suppose you had anything before you set out, did you? Come. It’s indecently early for arguments, I agree.’
His conciliatory tone was hard for her to fathom, though she was not deceived into thinking he would accept a word of her refusal. But she could find no more to say as he steered her bodily towards the table where the warm aromas of bread, bacon, sausage and eggs reminded her that it was over twelve hours since she had touched any food. Her weak protestations were gently ignored as, little by little, he plied her with morsels of food and watched as each mouthful disappeared. Not for years had she experienced such personal and particular tenderness. Not since her childhood, in fact. ‘I don’t think,’ she said, watching him cut up her bacon, ‘that this is what people do when they’re about to part company, is it?’ At that point, she was obliged to open her mouth as the forkful was presented to her. ‘Well,’ she mumbled, ‘not in my experience, anyway.’
Returning his attentions to his own plate, Verne also broke with good manners to reply while he chewed. ‘In my experience, sweetheart, there has never been a single occasion,’ he said, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, ‘when I’ve cared a damn about parting with any woman’s company, until now. And certainly not enough to feed her at the expense of my breakfast getting cold. No, I can safely say that you, Lady Golding, are an exception in every sense and I have no intention of parting with you for any reason you can offer me, and certainly not for the pathetic reasons you’ve offered so far. Eat the fried bread, it’s delicious. You may pick it up in your fingers, if you wish. Just this once.’
With a resignation that bordered on the verge of laughter, she did as she was bidden, savouring the bacony taste and crisp texture, and for some moments it would have been hard to guess that all was not right with their worlds. ‘Well, my lord,’ she said at last, ‘I suppose I must feel honoured to be an exception in your life. But are you truly telling me that you have never been saddened to lose a woman’s company?’
‘Not for more than half an hour. Relieved, usually. And before you refer to your younger sister again, my lady, allow me to tell you that, if Mrs Cardew had not particularly wanted it, nothing in the world would have persuaded me to stand up with her. Relief when the set was over hardly does justice to my feelings, for I was never so simpered at in all my life. And let me tell you also, while I’m about it, that I had to promise to line my friend Brummell’s pockets to get him to take my place while I escaped. Handsomely, I might add. Those are not the actions of a man with a strategy, amorous or mercenary.’
Without actually saying so, she was bound to agree that his flight from her simpering sister was totally at odds with the heroism towards the French women at Vitoria. The comparison made it all the more believable. And human. She watched him mop his plate with the last of his bread roll, place his knife and fork together and sit back in his chair, satisfied in one department, at least.
‘Where’s your maid got to?’ he said. ‘Won’t she want to eat?’
‘She’s being diplomatic,’ Annemarie said. ‘She’ll find something.’
‘I expect she will,’ he agreed, thinking that Evie might also find his valet in the process.
‘Lord Verne, there is something you ought to understand before we go any further.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Yes. About—’
‘About my intention not to part with you.’
‘For any reason. Yes.’
‘You’ve discovered another reason?’
‘If you continue to interrupt me, I shall—’
‘Lose the thread of your argument? Easily done when the argument is unsound to begin with. But do go on.’
‘My argument is as strong as ever it was, my lord, and although I thank you for your hospitality—’
‘Not at all.’
‘I am quite determined that our former agreement cannot continue.’ There, she thought, now I’ve said it. ‘You will have to reconsider, I’m afraid.’
‘Running away again. It really won’t do, my lady. You cannot solve this kind of problem by running away from it, cancelling it, pulling the blinds across.’
‘Coming from you, that’s rich, isn’t it? Haven’t you just told me of your flight from Lady Sindlesham’s ball?’
‘Not the same at all. There was no agreement or commitment there. With you and me, there is. Listen to me, sweetheart,’ he said, noting the quick frown of irritation cross her face. He leaned upon the table, forearms and hands projecting towards her like swords. ‘I can sympathise with your change of heart. I expected it. You’re like a nervous filly spooking at your own fancies, ready to bolt for home.’
‘Not fancies!’’ she flared. ‘I’ve seen the obstacles.’
She could not tell him how, seeing him again so unexpectedly after an interminable night of longing, jealousy and despair, she could see an obstacle she had never anticipated, that the longer she allowed this relationship to continue, the more severely she herself would be wounded, much more than him. He could walk away, apparently, without a moment’s regret, even though he’d quoted her as an exception, and she would be left without the bitter sweetness of revenge, once again her heart in pieces. This would bear no comparison to those other losses. Any affection she might have found for Richard had quickly been smothered and the infatuation for Mytchett’s charm paled into insignificance against the overwhelming mind-consuming emotions she’d begun to feel for this man who insisted he would not let her go. Had she not heard that before somewhere? Was that not what all men said, in hot pursuit? It would be best to end it now, before they became lovers.
‘If you’re referring to our being seen together yesterday,’ he said, ‘surely that lends credibility to my argument rather than yours. True, society will make its own assumptions about that and about our exit from the theatre, too, but to part company now would do nothing but give the scandal-mongers a field day. They don’t give a hoot when a woman takes a lover, even when it’s unexpected, but you’ll have to suffer some very wounding remarks from your peers, once they see you can’t stay the course for more than twenty-four hours. Are you prepared for that? Will the elder Miss Benistone be? And your father—does he deserve another scandal?’
Until his last rhetorical questions, Annemarie had been of a mind to dismiss the socialite gossip as something that would eventually die down. Again. But now she heard a different tone to his argument, a harder line, less to do with wanting her, needing her, and more to do with how it would look to others. She had thought he would not care about that, of all things.
‘And you too, my lord? Is that what concerns you?’
‘For myself, you mean?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Not at all. Anyone who attaches himself, for whatever reason, to his Royal Highness had better not be too concerned about the possibility of scandal. It follows him everywhere. Few of his friends are left unscathed by it, even if only by association.’ His hard line was intentional, meant to reveal another side to the discussion that might work on her pride more than her pain. She was still highly suspicious of his motives for wanting her, despite the letters that had ceased to be an issue, and she was not likely, he thought, to believe that his feelings matched her own. Her extraordinary fury at her sister’s behaviour and of what she saw as his part in it had convinced him that she had begun at last to open up her heart. But to her, a man’s heart was not to be trusted, especially not a man who had made no secret about his original quest.
‘So if your pride is not at stake,’ Annemarie said, ‘and you cannot now have what the Prince Regent sent you for, why are you so concerned about what happens to me? I suppose by now you’ll have earned yourself a reputation for getting any woman you want—indeed, you implied something very similar early on in our acquaintance—but you can hardly expect me to help you out with that, can you? If your friends rib you for failing, this once, that’s hardly my concern. I know that yesterday I showed my pleasure at the idea of having a private house in London and someone to escort me. It was no pretence. I did enjoy it. But after what has just happened, you can see for yourself that I’m a bad risk. I think that, after all, I may not be ready for...er...a close relationship with you, my lord.’
He leaned further forwards, speaking quietly as if he did not want her to miss the implication of what he was about to say. ‘And I think, my lady, that you are handing me an escape route that I have no intention of using. I’m not about to make it so easy for you. But I shall remind you of something I said only yesterday. I hold the reins. And I shall not be made a fool of. For a man to lose a woman he’s set his mind on because of a misunderstanding as flimsy as this would suggest that her intentions were unkind from the beginning. Is that how you want it to look?’
‘So it is about how it would look, after all. How can you deny it?’
‘How it would look for you, sweetheart, not for me. Could you survive it? Would it be worth it, to lose the chance of finding Lady Benistone, regaining lost friends, being mistress of your own home, having a man...a real man...in your bed to teach you what loving is like? I shall take you in hand, Annemarie. I shall accept no more of your reasons. You are my mistress, and we shall spend our days and nights in each other’s company, as we agreed, because you need me and I need you. That’s all there is to it. The outcome will take care of itself.’
She ought by now to have been prepared for some plain speaking from him, but although his words brought a fiery glow to her cheeks and neck, she could hardly complain that he treated her like a schoolroom miss. Like a skilled fencer he had found her weaknesses, even the one she thought was concealed from him: her longing for his arms, his control, his companionship, which she professed not to want. He had not believed any of it. He knew exactly what she wanted.
Busy bustling noises from outside leaked into the silence between them. While Annemarie scanned the table for just one more line to her argument, Verne’s eyes remained on her face watching for the tired acceptance and the accompanying sigh of defeat. She had too much to lose, he knew, to turn her back on the advantages he offered. She was a passionate woman, damaged and still vulnerable, and he’d known how little it would take for her to react to the slightest doubt of his sincerity. He did not suspect Marguerite of malice, but the sooner the silly chit was found a husband, the better it would be for all of them. ‘Shall we go?’ he whispered.
The sigh came, accompanied by a barely perceptible nod. ‘To Brighton?’
‘To Brighton, my lady. Two or three days, perhaps, just to show that we planned it, then a return to London. We have to be there for an event, I’m afraid, but you can be in the house by then. It’s being prepared as we speak.’
Her eyes locked with his in surprise and indignation. ‘Oh, you great...arrogant...overbearing...fiend!’ she said, snapping the words out like a whiplash. ‘It’s being prepared, is it? Are you not running ahead of yourself, my lord? Did it not occur to you that I might change my mind?’ She had half-risen from her chair, exasperated by his laughter and cocksureness, yet secretly flattered by his determination to keep her as his mistress and to suffer no setbacks.
Across the table, her wrist was caught in a tight grip that prevented her from flouncing away and, before she could utter another word of protest, she was being pulled towards him and into his arms. ‘Steady, my beautiful filly,’ he said, holding her wrists behind her back. ‘Steady! Did you think I’d let you go so easily? I never believe a woman who says she’ll never change her mind, as you did.’
‘You will, eventually,’ she growled. ‘You’ll be glad to, brute!’
If she had hoped he might argue the point, she was to be disappointed, for he only smiled at her helplessness. ‘Then we’ll deal with that when we come to it, shall we? Meanwhile, you deserve a reward,’ he said, lowering his mouth to hers.
After all the hours of anguish in which she thought never again to be held in his arms, to taste his kisses and to feel the melting of her knees, the warmth of his mouth upon hers drew a comforting blanket over that intimate world where sensations soared beyond their reach in seconds. At their first touch, desire flared like a dry torch, its flames seeking higher and more fiercely until, with hands freed, they clung and searched as if to make up for time lost, showing by their instinctive path the places to which they desired access most urgently. She moaned as he held her breast, his strong but tender fingers stroking through the high bodice of silk as if it were her skin. ‘Tonight,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘I shall come to your room. No excuses.’
There was no need for her to agree, but her heart leapt with excitement. ‘My hat...pelisse...we should go. No, no more, my lord. My carriage will be ready.’
‘Your carriage, sweetheart, is already on its way back to London.’
‘What!’
‘You’ll be travelling with your maid in the Prince’s coach, as before. That’s the reward I spoke of.’ His pretence of innocence was not entirely successful in the face of Annemarie’s astonishment. ‘Well, what did you think I meant?’
‘You are insufferable, my lord. Where did you put my hatpin?’
* * *
Evie, trying to keep out of the way of shouting passengers, was relieved to see her mistress emerge in what appeared to be a calmer mood than her entry. Evie’s own demeanour, however, caused Annemarie to take a second look at the very pink cheeks and flashing eyes that suggested either a fury or a fever.
‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘Did you manage to snatch a bite of something?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Which?’
‘Both, I thank you. But I don’t know what’s happened to the carriage. The ostler told me it had returned to London, so...’
‘It has. We’re to go on in the one Lord Verne brought. But were you not here to speak to Mrs Cardew’s coachman before he left?’
‘No, m’lady. I was...er...elsewhere.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, no matter. Shall we go?’
For Annemarie, that small hiccup was explanation enough for Evie’s high colour, though if she had taken a look at Samson, Lord Verne’s valet who stood in shadow some distance away, she might have observed how his face was red only on one side with the distinct imprint of four fingers running from brow to chin.
‘What happened to you?’ said his master, unsympathetically.
The direction of Samson’s resentful glance towards the pert lady’s maid spoke volumes. ‘Tell you later, m’lord, if you wouldn’t mind,’ he said.
Verne nodded. ‘You’ll be riding on the box outside with Levens for the rest of the way. I shall be sitting with the coachman.’
The command appeared to do nothing for Samson’s chagrin. There had never been any love lost between Verne’s cheeky young groom with a high opinion of himself and the valet, whose services were just as indispensable and more select. ‘Can’t he sit with the coachman?’ he said, grudgingly.
‘Would you rather walk?’
‘No, m’lord. Indeed I would not. But nor do I want that young fly-by-night asking me ’pertinent questions either.’
‘Then you should have ducked, shouldn’t you?’
‘I told you there’d be trouble, m’lord,’ Samson said, holding his cheek.
‘So you did. I can’t imagine how I ever managed without your vast store of advice. If you sit him on your right, he won’t see. Come on, lad, we don’t have all day.’
* * *
Feeling both piqued and relieved at Verne’s understanding of women’s minds, Annemarie gave in to the inevitable and tried to enjoy the rest of the journey as she was meant to do. Contemplating her earlier insistence that she was committed to being his mistress, she forgave herself for being forced into an about-face because, for one thing, she’d had good reason and, for another, because it had resulted in a very satisfying airing of views. It had also moved things in a different direction to place their first night together as lovers well away from the curious speculation of friends and family. That was something she was pleased to do without.
* * *
Mrs Ash, the housekeeper, and the aptly named Mrs Cookson were not overly surprised by their mistress’s return, since she had expected to be away for two or three days, which she had been. What astonished them was the handsome coach with the Prince Regent’s cypher on the panels and the resplendent coachman perched on a tasselled velvet-covered box. Mrs Ash was equally taken aback that Lady Golding’s acquaintanceship with Lord Verne had developed in so short a time enough to allow immediate arrangements to be made for that evening. Together.
‘And Lord Verne will be having dinner here,’ Annemarie told her. ‘At seven. The two of us. Inform Mrs Cookson, if you please.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Ash. ‘Just the two.’
Annemarie watched the questions pile up behind the pale enquiring eyes. ‘Yes. It’s all right, Mrs Ash. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Oh...oh, of course, m’lady. I didn’t mean to suggest...’
‘And Lord Verne likes to have a cooked breakfast, too.’
‘Certainly, m’lady.’ Mrs Ash was beginning to understand, making a mental note to place extra towels in the mistress’s room and to find a few large coathangers. ‘Will Lord Verne’s valet be staying, m’lady?’
‘Probably not, Mrs Ash. Evie doesn’t like him much.’
‘Oh, I see. Well then.’ More baffled by this information than the rest, Mrs Ash hurried off to share the news with her husband and the cook while Annemarie went up to change into a walking-dress. She had asked to be shown round the Royal Pavilion after lunch, for which a more stylish gown would be appropriate.
* * *
But whether as a result of her release from the anguish of the last hours or whether because of Lord Verne’s outspoken intentions concerning the evening, Annemarie was quite unable to give the Royal Pavilion the attention it deserved. At any other time she would have reacted to its magnificence with due amazement. Taking her by the hand, Verne drew her to a halt in a deserted saloon, noting the remaining shadows of suffering still etched around her eyes. ‘Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?’ he said. ‘I can think of better things to do than this, sweetheart.’
She thought he meant to take her home. ‘I’m sorry. I did want to see the improvements. But another time, perhaps.’ The crazy red-and-gold ornament crowded in on every side, tiring her eyes and making her yawn behind her hand.
‘This way.’ Through a maze of bare passageways and anterooms littered with decorators’ ladders and rows of firebuckets, Verne led her towards the west-facing wing and the opulent royal chambers where soft carpets muffled the sound of their footsteps. ‘The Prince’s private suite,’ he said. ‘His study. And here is where his Private Secretary stays when they’re in residence. I use it when they’re in London.’ Opening an adjoining door, he showed her into a green, gold and white room with windows on three sides draped with green velvet, reflecting the light from the garden beyond. ‘This is one of the tower rooms, like the one upstairs,’ he said, closing the door. ‘Would you care to see it, my lady?’
She ought to have shown some reluctance at the invitation to visit a gentleman’s bedroom, but being unchaperoned in his living room was a venture only a mistress would risk and fatigue was quickly taking the place of argument. Too tired to bother with explanations, she leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes. ‘No, thank you,’ she whispered, enigmatically.
Nevertheless, some kind of explanation was what Verne required if more misunderstandings were to be avoided. He thought he knew, but he also wanted the problem, if that’s what it was, to be aired. Knowing better than to be flippant, he took her gently round the waist and eased her towards him, sliding a hand towards her neck. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What is it you don’t want to see, sweetheart? Can you tell me?’ Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, he eased it away from her head.
‘I used to keep my eyes closed,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t want to see...anything. I didn’t want to feel anything either. But I did.’
‘He hurt you?’ Verne was well able to imagine how her late husband’s legendary impatience and unkind manipulative hands would have been enough to turn her against lovemaking for ever. Sir Richard’s known preferences were for the experienced whores who followed the army, rather than innocents like his wife. Yet Verne had discovered for himself how, in the right hands, her smouldering fires of passion still waited to be rekindled.
In a corner of her eye a glittering tear lingered. ‘I never learned to enjoy it with him. He was always in a hurry. He didn’t even take time to undress.’
‘You? Or himself?’
‘Oh, he never undressed me,’ she said. ‘I was usually asleep when he came to bed, hoping to be left alone. He would throw off his coat and boots, that’s all. I’ve never seen a naked man. Not even him. I think I must have been out of my mind to suggest that you and I might be lovers, my lord, yet I still think I may be able to do it with you, somehow. I’ve never been kissed the way you do it. I’m willing to try again if only...you will...perhaps...’
‘I know. We’ll take it slowly, sweetheart. What happened before is not how it should be. I shall never do anything to alarm you. Just tell me what you want.’
‘I don’t really know what I want. I was never given any choices. You will have to show me.’ At last the beautiful black-lashed eyes opened, spiked with repressed tears, and she was able to see the concern in his, as well as the desire. She had not intended to confide in him to this extent, wanting him to believe in her confidence rather than her fears.
‘From what I’ve seen,’ he said, ‘there’s little you don’t already know. It’s all here, waiting for the right moment. But I want our first time to be special for you and I don’t think one of these narrow sofas is the best place to begin. Let me take you to my bed. No one will disturb us there.’
As he lifted her into his arms, Annemarie knew that she had revealed too much of herself and that compliance was not a part of her plan. Her seduction ought to have been lengthier than this, in her time, her place, at her choosing, when she gave the word. Now, after the drama of the last twenty-four hours, he would have little doubt that her feelings for him had intensified. And after this...what then?
The bedroom was partly shaded against the sunlight, though Annemarie saw few details as she was laid gently on the blue quilted coverlet to sink gratefully into its softness, her fingers searching for the sleek silky coolness as if for a last link with reality. She wondered if she ought to undress herself, but Verne had already decided what to do about that by sitting beside her feet to slip off her shoes, then to caress her ankles, calves and knees so gently that, before she knew it, her silken stockings were released from their garters into his hand. It did not stop there, for the delicious surprise of watching his dark head bend to kiss the inside of her thigh made her catch her breath in an audible gasp as the sweetness of it stole upwards into her body. Her other leg received the same attention, but with an even greater boldness, his warm hands venturing well beyond the remaining garter. Before this, legs had been no more important than an appendage to be shoved roughly out of the way. Under Verne’s attention, they became the source of a yearning she had never known before.
He sat up to observe the progress of his hands smoothing over the slender thighs and shapely calves, deriving as much pleasure from the exploration as she was. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I just knew it.’
‘Knew what?’
‘That under those flimsy gowns there’d be two glorious legs as long as my bed. I cannot believe he never bothered to look. You are a vision, woman.’
Without shoes or stockings, she felt liberated and almost wanton, and although he had alluded to the husband he wanted her to forget, his informal and rather irreverent description of her legs and his curiosity regarding them released the remaining tensions of the day into a shy smile. ‘And I’ll wager you’ve never even noticed them, have you?’ he said, recalling the nonchalant grace of her movements and the unstudied elegance of her dress.
‘Only to put stockings on,’ she admitted, ‘and to keep me upright.’
‘Huh!’ Lingering, as if she had been a mare he was examining before deciding to buy, he ran one hand down her leg from crotch to toes. Then he stood and began to unbutton his coat as a half-smile played about his mouth.
Annemarie watched the businesslike disrobing with a greater enjoyment than she might have expected to, having also wondered what lay beneath the perfectly fitting coat and the tight breeches. From three sides, triangles of light played upon his torso as each part was revealed to her interested gaze, the rippling muscles of his back as the white shirt fell away, the smooth skin still faintly tanned by Spanish sun, the rounded bulge of shoulders and the powerful swell of his chest, the tapering waist and hips more beautiful than anything she had imagined, in her ignorance. Usually hidden by the tailcoat, his buttocks were now an area of particular fascination, so different from a woman’s, so much neater than the wide flabbiness whose weight she had once dreaded. As he turned towards her, those same memories could not help but compare this strong virile creature with past nightmares of unseen invasion and the assault upon her senses.
Before she could continue her study of him, he was beside her on the bed, drawing her into his arms as she raised herself to meet him. Willingly. Eagerly. Fiercely, their mouths met as if even the shortest preliminaries were too long. Verne was exultant. For one who had not wanted to see, she had responded in every way as he’d hoped, shedding the inhibitions that had plagued her. Although he expected to encounter others, her softening body and questing hands told him that her curiosity would overcome any latent fears, as indeed it was already doing.
Over the undulations of his shoulders and back, her fingertips and palms made expeditions which, as well as adding to her limited knowledge, heightened the spellbinding sensation of his lips upon hers that nudged, nibbled and consumed, carrying her closer than ever to the core of him. The sense of no turning back swamped her, making her oblivious to the unbuttoning, untying, loosening and unwrapping that went on behind her, or the slipping of soft fabric from her shoulders and hips, the release of arms and breasts. As they entered a new phase of intimacy, Annemarie became half-aware that her naked body was being warmed by his skin, seductively, sending small shivers of delight along each surface as they moved in each other’s arms, their mouths still wordless and hungry.
Sealed within his embrace, she surrendered herself to the new experience of being held against his chest, then of his hand cupping the luscious fullness of her breast, fondling it, passing his palm provocatively across the sensitive tip to alert her to a sudden exquisite tingle that rushed down to her secret parts, taking her completely by surprise. With a gasp and a mewing cry, she eased her mouth free of his with a hand on his chin.
Verne waited, saying nothing, understanding that this could well be in memory of some earlier rough treatment. Tenderly, he resumed the caress, adding, as she watched, another kind of delight that he knew would not have been part of her previous experience, showering the delicate skin with moist kisses that eventually took the aching nipple into his mouth. Teasing with tongue and lips, he felt the sharp impression of Annemarie’s fingernails on his back and heard her staggering breath, and knew that her fears were being replaced by ecstasy.
Constantly intrigued by this amazing woman, Verne soon realised that this occasion was going to be no exception. He had promised to take their loving slowly in response to her brutish husband’s haste, but now he began to sense that it was not so much a lengthy preparation she required, but a lover who treated her with consideration and skill, with mastery as well as affection. He had brought a smile to her lips, too, which he was willing to wager Sir Richard had never done. He had overcome some of her objections and fears, and already she had attained a level of desire he’d not expected for quite some time, though her previous behaviour ought perhaps to have prepared him. Wavering between certainty and doubt, the lady was not always easy to predict.
He did not regret the leisurely pace, his self-control being what it was, for she joined him in every caress with versions of her own, enjoying his nakedness as he did hers, unashamedly seeking sensations through hands, lips, and the soles of her feet. At the same time she allowed him free access to the most hidden parts of her self, showing by her trembling stillness that her mind and body had, for those moments of bliss, parted company. For Verne, it came as a revelation to him which he could not have anticipated, having half-expected his wooing to be interrupted, now and then, by a restraining hand and the need for some reassurances, at least.
But none were necessary. His courteous unhurried lovemaking, which at first had been encouraged with sighs of pleasure, was soon goaded into something more energetic by her grasping fingers in his hair and a series of almost savage kisses that were anything but maidenly. He needed no other urging, nor did there seem to be any need, in view of her wildness, for him to enquire if she was ready. With a hand beneath her back, he pulled her under him and watched the dark gemstone eyes lock with his, reminding him that here he must proceed with care past the hurts that could not so quickly be forgotten. Her eyes remained on his as he took her that first time, searching for any indication of selfishness on his part which might imply that her enjoyment was not his first concern.
There was no such sign. Skilfully and with tenderness, he accepted her silent invitation by slipping effortlessly into her warmth accompanied by the fluttering of eyelids and a soundless gasp that might, he thought, have been a combination of relief and pleasure. For her reassurance as well as his own, he watched her face for the smallest sign of discomfort but saw, with a growing sense of elation, how her sighs became moans, how her glossy hair frayed across her face as she tossed and how she continued to caress him intimately in a way, he thought, she had probably not been used to doing.
Incomprehensible murmurs escaped her, sounds of delight mingled with deeper throaty tones as the flames of her passion soon roared out of control, and here his intention to delay fell apart, for she was ahead of him, urging him with her body to satisfy some fast-growing need. Her heavy eyelids drooped over the former wariness, and now as he mastered her demands with an increased energy he saw once again the magnificent angry woman who had chosen to cross swords with him on sight. This was what he had dreamed of since that first encounter, to see her beneath him writhing in ecstasy and calling softly to him to take her without delay to a place he could swear she’d never been before. If she forgot everything else that had ever happened to her, she would remember this.
Recalling those moments, as she did many times later, Annemarie was never able to compare the experience with anything life had offered so far: to try a comparison with what Sir Richard had offered was absurd. Exactly why her late husband had always redoubled his efforts at the conclusion of his performance, mercifully not a protracted one, had never made much sense to her. Now she understood. She remembered the incredible sensation of being overcome by wave after wave of rapture, of being swept along by her lover’s fierce encouragement that shook her with its force, tumbling them both at the same time into a whirling oblivion, their cries mingling in the distance. She remembered his power and exciting energy which, rather than leaving her bruised and flattened, left her satiated, melting, trembling with a unique kind of exhilaration. She remembered his breathless words, too, while she was still wondering what had happened, yet knowing instinctively why it had not happened before.
His face was buried in the silky black tangle covering her neck, the pillow being somewhere on the floor. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you are the most desirable and sensational woman I’ve ever met. You’re in a class of your own, my beauty. I think I shall keep you in a cage.’
‘No,’ she whispered, though her lips smiled the word. ‘That would not suit. I have just been set free, my lord.’
He turned his head towards her, dark locks of hair falling over his forehead. Annemarie’s heart melted at the sight of him, at the triumph in his eyes, at the heat that flowed over her from his possessive body. Could she knowingly hurt him after this, when he’d taken her to such heights? Had he not just bound her to him and caged her, if not in his heart, then at least in his command? Was she truly freed now, or would she crave more and more of him?
‘Set free, are you?’ he said, resting on one elbow to look down at her. ‘Just now, you mean?’
He would know, she thought, how the balance of her life had now tipped and how she would need to review the quality of her new independence as a woman and as his mistress with well-laid plans. What he would not know was that, after this, she might need him more than she’d planned and more than he would need her, despite the compliments. And then who would need caging? Her? Or him? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just now. But have no fear, my lord. I have no thoughts of another escape at the present.’ Softly as a feather she touched his cheek, brushing her fingertips over the strong thick hair that shielded his ears, drawing his head towards her to place a lingering seal upon her words.
She was relieved to discover that Verne did not intend to leave the decision to her. Lifting his head, he moved a strand of her hair from his chin. ‘May I remind you, oh mistress mine,’ he said, ‘that you were not allowed to escape on previous occasions nor will you be allowed to in the future. Thank you for your acceptance, however. That simplifies matters for me.’
‘Like not having to build a cage?’ she said, facetiously, sensing a deepness she preferred not to fathom.
Rather than answer with words, Verne kissed her again, suspecting that she already knew the cage was built and that she had just entered it.