The Ton's Most Notorious Rake Page 13

  ‘But Prospect House cannot afford to be the subject of any such speculation. Your friend’s attentions do Mrs Dellafield no good at all.’

  ‘Hmm. Is she pretty?’

  ‘Extremely pretty.’

  ‘Then I cannot blame him for flirting with her.’

  He heard her gasp of indignation, but she did not rip up at him. Instead she clasped her hands tightly together, as if suppressing her anger.

  ‘He is inveigling himself into her affections,’ she told him. ‘He goes there supposedly because he wants to learn more about the farming methods.’

  ‘It may well be true. He has certainly expressed that desire to me and it is common knowledge that Prospect Farm is one of the most productive in the area. Perhaps you are being too harsh upon Sir Gerald.’

  ‘No.’ She stopped and turned to look up at him. ‘He could learn all he needs to know from Moses, who runs the farm, if that was his true intention.’

  ‘And Mrs Dellafield could advise him to do so, if that was her wish.’

  He spoke gently, but even so her eyes darkened with distress and a silent acknowledgement that he was right. She shook her head and began to walk again.

  ‘She is besotted and cannot be made to see that he is trifling with her.’

  Russ considered the matter. Gerald had certainly been rather preoccupied recently and the fact that he had said nothing about this liaison made him think it might be more serious than a mere flirtation.

  He said abruptly. ‘What do you know of Mrs Dellafield? What is her birth?’

  ‘She is a gentleman’s daughter and perfectly respectable, but like so many unfortunate women, she was obliged by circumstance to leave her home and seek refuge.’

  ‘I take it she is not married?’

  ‘No, but it is not unusual for housekeepers to use the appellation. She is an innocent, Mr Russington, and I will not allow her to be hurt.’

  ‘I take it you have spoken to the lady about your concerns?’

  She nodded, her hands twisting themselves even tighter. ‘She does not see the danger.’

  ‘Perhaps there isn’t any danger.’ He caught her swift, incredulous glance and smiled. ‘Despite what you think, madam, Sir Gerald is a gentleman. He would never force himself upon any woman.’

  ‘Perhaps that is so, but he is a very engaging, extremely attractive man and he could break her heart without realising what he has done. Can you not talk to him, dissuade him from his pursuit of Fleur?’

  ‘My dear Molly, why should he listen to me? If the lady is willing—perhaps he is merely passing the time of day with a pretty woman. What does your brother say of the matter?’

  ‘Edwin says I should not interfere.’ She bit her lip. ‘But you could speak to Sir Gerald. He respects your judgement. I have heard him say so.’

  ‘And in this instance my judgement is that your brother is right. Let the affair—if it is an affair—run its course.’ He looked up. ‘We have almost reached the track that will take me back to Newlands. Unless you wish to come with me, and talk to Kilburn yourself, then we must part here.’

  She was silent and he could almost feel her anxiety. The colour had quite gone from her cheeks, and as they stepped on to the track, she spoke again.

  ‘What will it take for you to keep your friend away from mine?’ Her voice was low, but the meaning was quite clear. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Is that an offer, Mrs Morgan? Knowing my reputation, you should be wary of asking such a question.’

  ‘Fleur is a virgin, an innocent. She has a great deal to lose if your friend seduces her.’

  ‘And you have not?’

  She shrugged. ‘One night with you would not harm me quite so much. I would survive.’

  One night. She was offering herself to him for one night. For a heartbeat he allowed himself to imagine having her in his bed. Undressing her. Making love to her. The sudden jolt of desire scorched him, but it was quickly cooled and washed away by a wave of fury. How dare she think he could be bought in such a way? Even more galling was the fact that he cared about her opinion!

  Blinded by rage, he grabbed her horse’s bridle and brought the creature round on to the path.

  He said, his words biting, ‘Your less-than-flattering proposal does you no credit, Mrs Morgan. You had best leave before I show you just how badly a rake can behave.’

  ‘I—I beg your pardon.’ Her face was crimson. ‘I did not mean to offend you. I thought—’

  ‘I know exactly what you thought. That Gerald and I would take any woman for sport. I do not know what sort of life you have had, madam, what sort of men you have known, but I can tell you now that we are not all savages.’

  Without waiting for her approval he put his hands around her waist and threw her up on to the pony’s back. It was roughly done and for a moment he thought she might topple off again, so he kept his hands on her, holding her firmly in the saddle until she had found her stirrup.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said icily. ‘I have control now.’

  ‘Good.’ He stepped away. ‘Then I suggest you go home, Mrs Morgan, and we will forget we ever had this conversation.’

  He turned away and strode back towards Newlands. How dare she? How dare she think he would take her as payment of some debt? He had not yet met a woman who did not think she could use her body to get what she wanted. In his stepmother’s case it was his family money and, not content with marrying his father, she had sought to gratify her lusts by seducing Russ, too. That had shown him just how grasping and avaricious women were. He had thought Molly Morgan was different, but no. She was the same as the rest.

  But was she? The black rage abated slightly. She was by no means eager to throw herself into his arms. He thought back to that time in the church. She had panicked then at the mere idea that he might kiss her. And today, the thought of spending the night with him had been—he could not avoid the word—repugnant to her. His furious pace slowed. With the exception of her brother she did not appear to trust any of his sex. She was a widow—perhaps she had not enjoyed the marriage bed, but his instinct told him it was more than that. Someone, some man, had made her think they were all villains. Whoever it was had hurt her very badly.

  He remembered holding Molly in the saddle, his hands almost spanning her tiny waist, and the thought of anyone hurting her made the bile rise in his gorge. Not that it was his problem. Molly Morgan was more than capable of looking after herself. And, it seemed, she had taken on the task of looking after the women of Prospect House, too.

  ‘Well, I wish her well with that,’ he muttered, lengthening his stride again. ‘Let that occupy her time and keep her out of my way!’

  Chapter Seven

  Russ was still simmering with anger when he reached Newlands, and he made his way directly to his room to change. When he emerged some time later he learned that his host was still at breakfast, and he went downstairs to join him.

  ‘So you are back!’ Gerald was helping himself to more ham from a platter and waved his fork at Russ. ‘I thought perhaps you had seen some particularly interesting species on the moors.’

  ‘I did, but not the feathered kind.’

  Russ dismissed his friend’s enquiring look with a shake of his head and took his place at the table. A silent-footed servant appeared with a basket of warm bread rolls and he took two, suddenly realising how hungry he was. He wondered if Molly had yet broken her fast. She must have risen very early to ride out and find him. The decision could not have been the work of a moment. She must be very concerned for her friend.

  He waited until the servants had left them alone and then said, at his most casual, ‘Are you calling upon Mrs Dellafield today?’

  ‘Ah.’ Russ glanced up. Gerald was looking almost sheepish. ‘How did you learn of it?’

  ‘Did you think you could keep such a thing secret in a small
town like this?’ Russ countered.

  ‘I have been meaning to tell you, when the time was right.’ Gerald leaned forward, his eyes shining. ‘She is an angel, Russ. Beautiful, innocent—’

  ‘So I have been told.’

  ‘No, no, it is true. She has confided in me. She was obliged to flee her home when her stepfather began to show an unnatural interest in her. Mrs Morgan is an old schoolfriend and took her in. Then, when Prospect House was set up, she became its housekeeper and has been there ever since, hiding from the world.’ He sighed. ‘Like Perrault’s story of Sleeping Beauty in the wood.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like a fairy tale.’

  ‘I would have told you,’ said Gerald, ‘if circumstances had been different, I would have introduced you to her, but after Aikers and Flemington caused such a stir I did not want to suggest bringing another gentleman anywhere near the place.’

  Russ reached for the coffee pot. ‘How did it start?’

  ‘You remember the day we were to ride to Knaresborough and my horse cast a shoe? It was such a fine day I decided to take a stroll on the far side of the valley—just exploring, you see—and found myself quite by chance beside the Prospect Farm orchards and that is where I first saw her. She looked such a picture that I could not help but stop and speak.’ He laughed gently. ‘She all but ran away from me, but I persuaded her to stay and talk. After that, well, I found myself riding that way quite often. I never go near the house but send a message, and if she is free, she comes out to meet me.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘It is no mere flirtation, Russ, if that is what you are thinking.’

  ‘What else am I to think?’

  Gerald smiled at that and Russ was startled to see the soft glow in his friend’s eyes.

  ‘She is like no other lady I have met before, but I assure you we just...talk. When she learned I really was interested in improving Newlands she was more than happy to discuss the running of the farm with me. She surprises me constantly. Her knowledge of the farm and its workings is almost as great as that man of theirs, Moses, who runs the place.’

  ‘The devil she does!’ Russ gave him a searching look. ‘So you are not trifling with her.’

  ‘Trifling! Good God, I should think not. But, it is a delicate situation. I need to be sure of my feelings and Fleur’s before I introduce her to Agnes. I thought we were secure enough, for her friends at Prospect House would not say anything, I am sure. However, if tongues are beginning to wag—’

  ‘They are not,’ Russ cut in. ‘I had it in confidence from a most discreet source. Nevertheless, I would urge caution, my friend. Many a man before you has been taken in by a pretty face.’

  ‘If you think Fleur is trying to trap me into marriage then you are very far off,’ retorted Gerald, bridling.

  Russ put up his hands and quickly begged pardon.

  ‘Very well,’ said Gerald, only slightly mollified. ‘And as it happens, I was planning to take the dogs out and go shooting today. My gamekeeper tells me there are woodcock in the West Park, if you wish to come.’

  Russ agreed with alacrity and they both turned their attentions to their breakfast, harmony restored. Gerald’s affection for Fleur Dellafield was sincere. Molly Morgan should take some comfort from that. Not that she would learn of it from him, since he had promised himself that he would not go near the infernal woman again if he could help it.

  * * *

  True to his namesake, Christopher carried Molly safely back to the vicarage, although her eyes were so misted with tears and her thoughts so awry that she had no true memory of the journey. How could she have been so crass as to offer herself to him like that! It was a blunder of monumental proportions. Molly ran up to her room, dismissing the maid as soon as she had thrown off her muddy habit and saying that she would lie down for a while.

  She curled up on the bed, appalled at her behaviour. It had been building, this feeling that she must do something, ever since the baptism of Marjorie’s baby. The sight of the child in its mother’s arms had brought on such a wave of longing and regret that Molly had hardly been able to stand through the service. It brought back how much her own seduction had cost her and Molly was determined Fleur should not make the same mistakes. But to think that she might buy off Beau Russington with her favours was unforgivable. For all his reputation, she knew in her heart he was nothing like the men who had destroyed her life.

  How would she be able to look him in the face when they next met? And they must meet, because Edwin and Agnes had become such friends that it was impossible that they would not be thrown into each other’s company. At least with the ladies being absent Edwin would not expect her to visit Newlands and if she was to see Russ in the town then they might ignore one another. That was the best she could hope for.

  * * *

  By afternoon the rain had set in, steady and relentless. The grey skies reflected Molly’s low spirits and she moved from room to room, unable to settle to any task. Edwin was dining out and for want of any other occupation she ordered her own dinner to be served at five. The solitary meal did nothing to soothe Molly’s nerves. She left the table more restless than ever and went upstairs to fetch her cloak. Her maid glanced out of the window.

  ‘You ain’t never going out in this, ma’am.’

  ‘It is no more than a drizzle. I shall not melt.’

  ‘No, but you will get soaked through,’ Cissy retorted in a tone of long suffering. ‘I suppose I had best get my cloak.’

  ‘No, there is no need for you to get wet, too,’ said Molly quickly. ‘I am not going far, only to the church. My brother has mislaid his book of sermons, and I thought I might look for it. There will be no one abroad at this time and in this weather.’

  ‘Not if they can help it,’ muttered Cissy. ‘Very well, ma’am. I’ll build up the fire in your room for when you return. And put a hot brick in the oven, for you are bound to be chilled to the bone when you comes back and will catch your death if we don’t take care.’

  With these dismal words ringing in her ears Molly ran lightly down the stairs, flicking her hood into place as she stepped out of the house. The rain had turned the roads to mud and she kept her head down, trying to find the cleanest path, but by the time she reached the church her boots and her skirts were liberally splashed with dirt and her cloak felt heavy and cloying on her shoulders. If she did catch her death, as Cissy put it, then she would be well served, she thought miserably, her eyes dwelling on the table where she and Russ had left the plants they had collected. They had been so at ease together, collecting the ivy and green boughs for the church. Even now she could remember him standing close, enveloping her with his presence. Molly had not realised how much she had come to enjoy Russ’s company until that moment when she had pushed him away and killed their burgeoning friendship.

  ‘But if I had not... If he had kissed me...’

  She dared not finish the sentence, dared not let her thoughts linger on what might have been. She knew now they could never be friends, but, oh, how she missed him. And they might at least have been acquaintances, able to exchange civil pleasantries, if only she had not tried to enlist his help in keeping Fleur safe from Sir Gerald.

  She pulled her cloak a little tighter, but her shudder had little to do with the weather. It was shame and remorse, brought on by the memory of the disdain she had seen in his eyes. If only she could have that time over again! She should have asked him, begged him to help her. She might have appealed to his better nature, his honour as a gentleman. He might well have refused to help her, but at least he would not hold her in such contempt.

  Molly sighed, her eyes wandering listlessly around the church. She had forgotten why she had come. Ah, yes, Edwin’s little book of sermons. She made a half-hearted search, but it was now too dark to see very well and she knew she should go home. She carefully shut the door behind her, pulled her hood a little further over her head and hurri
ed back to the road. She kept her eyes on the ground, trying to miss the worst of the puddles. A damp chill was settling on the back of her neck where the rain was seeping through her cloak and she thought she might have to admit to Cissy that it had been foolhardy to come out in such weather.

  Something made her look up and she stopped. Russ, hatless and with his hair plastered to his head, was standing in the rain, blocking her way. She knew from the look in his eyes that this was no chance meeting, he was not going to let her pass. She swung about and began to hurry away, but the next moment he was beside her, gripping her arm.

  ‘We must talk.’

  ‘In this weather? Do not be absurd.’

  ‘You are already wet through. Another few moments won’t hurt.’

  They had reached the junction with Hobbs Lane and he turned into it, taking Molly with him.

  ‘If you want me to apologise,’ she began, ‘for what I said this morning, then I do. Wholeheartedly. I should never have said such a thing. Now I pray you will let me go.’

  ‘Not yet. I want to talk to you.’

  The high hedgerows and overhanging trees offered some shelter from the misty drizzle, but they increased the gloom and the sense of danger. Molly’s heart was thundering, making it hard to breathe.

  ‘There is nothing to talk about,’ she told him, struggling against his iron hold. ‘We cannot meet without upsetting one another.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened to make you hate men so much.’

  She tried to prise his fingers from her arm. ‘Please. Please let me go.’

  ‘No. I want to understand why you are like this. Your commitment to Prospect House, your abhorrence of men. Something occurred in your past and I want to know.’ His grip tightened. ‘Since this morning I have been imagining the worst.’

  Molly stopped struggling. He would not be satisfied until she told him something.

  ‘I fell in love,’ she said simply. ‘It is a familiar story, shockingly commonplace, in fact. I was just seventeen. He was a handsome Irish soldier, here with his regiment for the summer. He was very charming, told me he loved me and promised we would be married. I was quite prepared to follow the drum, but the militia left. He went with them and I—’ She turned her head, gazing up the lane and blinking rapidly. ‘I was left behind. I was too proud to make a fuss, to tell my family until he was gone and it was too late.’