It had sometimes occurred to Rafe that Lord Wyverne kept his elderly, fragile mother in his principal seat chiefly so that he could enjoy the sight of her being obliged to acknowledge and be civil to the woman he had taken as his third wife. It was, perhaps, a twisted form of punishment, though Rafe was unsure what crime his father believed the Dowager had committed to merit such treatment. She’d not been faithful to her husband, true, but he’d been a legendary womaniser long before he’d met her and throughout their marriage, so to judge her harshly hardly seemed fair. But when had the Marquess ever been fair to anyone?
It might even be the case that Wyverne had married Rosanna, with all her shocking past, not in spite of the fearful scandal it had caused, but precisely because of it. Certainly he took a perverse pleasure in flaunting her in the face of the world,and especially in the faces of his own family – his mother, his heir. But if it hurt Delphine to accept Rosanna as her successor as marchioness and mistress of the house and the estate, she never showed the least sign of it. Not in public; not, as far as Rafe knew, in private either. Whether this lack of obvious reaction was a disappointment to his father or not, he could not venture to say. It would be an enormous understatement to say that they were not close.
Rafe stood on the steps and looked out over the artificially natural landscape that would one day be his. Wyverne was damnably beautiful, there was no denying that. It was spring, and a light breeze ruffled the surface of the nearest lake. Clouds scudded fast across the eggshell-blue sky, daffodils nodded bravely under specimen trees, and leaves were just unfurling in freshest green. Each eminence was crowned by a temple or a folly, each ride ended in an obelisk or a statue, placed with supreme taste and confidence in exactly the right place. The scene was heartbreakingly lovely, implausibly idyllic, but there was no place for him here now, and if he could not be with his grandmother he should be at home, where he was needed.
He felt eyes upon him, and turned to see that the Frenchwoman was standing waiting. Watching him with those big dark eyes. A slight flush had crept up into her pale cheeks once more – he presumed she was irked that he had caught her observing him – and she spoke some inconsequential words to gloss over the awkward moment. He offered his arm, she took it with poorly concealed reluctance, and they descended the broad steps together.
It was perfectly true, as she had most impudently implied a few moments ago, that he had taken very little interest in his grandmother’s previous companions. He wanted Grand-mère to be happy, and therefore he wanted her companion to suit her, but he was beginning to think that the woman who’d do that– who’d read those ridiculous novels to her satisfaction, and converse to her amusement, and not bore her to death in a week – did not exist. Or if she existed somewhere, she was living a life of her own, not looking for employment as a paid companion. There had been so many of those, and none of them had lasted long. There was no reason this girl should be any different.
And yet… she was different. It wasn’t just that she was somewhat younger than all the rest. That was of no consequence; the world was full of young women. It wasn’t that she was attractive, though she was that too. The world was full enough of attractive young women, for that matter. Women whose charms were all too obvious, displayed to tempt the casual observer. There was nothing obvious abouther, and she wasn’t laying out any wiles to catch his attention. If he’d been forced to describe her in words, nothing he’d be able to say would have conveyed any special sort of allure. She was inconspicuous, or should be: not tall, not short, not thin nor plump, not especially graceful in her movements though not clumsy either, her hair a sober brown, her eyes dark brown too. Her skin was good, it was true, her hair lustrous, her features regular, and she appeared to be in excellent health and have her own teeth. But one might say as much and more about a horse. A spaniel bitch. There was nothing in any of this to hold the gaze. To holdhisgaze, in particular. But… earlier in his grandmother’s room and now, he couldn’t look away. Something about her sheer presence, her enormous self-possession, and the depth of feeling that he was positive lay beneath it, though she almost never let it show, drew him. Held him.
And the devil of it was, he was certain he’d met her before. He knew in his bones he had. And not a fleeting, casual contact; she hadn’t passed him by common chance in the London street or anything of that nature. They’d met, been introduced, conversed.
Which was surely impossible.
6
The uneasy pair made their way across the velvety lawn and by tacit agreement headed for the edge of the closest lake. Neither of them spoke. In the momentary silence, Sophie thought that she might as well enjoy this unexpected opportunity to breathe fresh air and feel the spring sun on her face, unobscured by the smoke and stench of London. It had been years since her life had been such that she had walked on fresh grass and seen trees and flowers. There were parks in town, where the wealthy and sometimes even the poor took their ease, but her path hadn’t lain in that direction. She’d missed all this; she’d grown up running free and innocent in the countryside, in France… But she couldn’t afford to lose herself in memories again. She needed all her wits about her with this man.
This damnably observant man. He said, ‘You appear more easy, mademoiselle, now that we are outside. You enjoy the country air, I see, and the prospects that Wyverne offers.’
She had no time to consider if he meant anything more than the obvious and platitudinous by his comment about Wyverne’s prospects. She said sedately, ‘It is lovely; one must admire it. You are very fortunate, sir, to live here.’
‘I suppose it might appear so. But you are incorrect, in point of fact, mademoiselle. I do not reside here now, but on my own small estate, a few miles away. I spend time here only to visit my grandmother.’
And your mistress, she thought but did not say. You come to meet clandestinely with your mistress, who is also your stepmother, here, in your father’s house. To make love to her. But his comment offered much safer ground for discussion, and she seized on it. ‘She is a remarkable lady, the Dowager.’
‘That she is. And I care greatly for her. Which is why I should prefer to get to know you a little better, since you will be spending so much time with her.’
It was plain he didn’t trust her, though she had no idea why. Of course he was quite right not to, but how could he know it? Another woman in her situation might have chosen to ignore the disturbing implication behind his words. Sophie, though, as was her nature, went on the attack. ‘You are concerned for her. For some reason I cannot fathom – is that the correct word? – you distrust me, and do not think I am fit to be in her company.’
He did not answer her for a moment. She was sure she had surprised him, but with an effort she suppressed the impulse to look up, to see the effect her reply had had on him. He said slowly, ‘I don’t know if I distrust you. I don’t know you. But I’m not a trusting sort of a man as a general rule, that’s perfectly true.’ Half to himself, quietly, he said, ‘Perhaps it is only that.’
‘Your concern for your grandmother is quite natural. She has reached a great age, and is not in perfect health. And you ask yourself, why am I here?’ This was reckless folly, but she pushed on. ‘Well, I am heretout simplementto make a living, my lord. I am obliged to do so by the circumstances of my life now. And I am being well paid, to read a few novels and converse in my native language. I count myself lucky, I assure you; it isno hardship. Not compared with several other positions I have taken up in recent years.’
Sophie had observed previously that wealthy people greatly disliked being confronted with the bare fact of others’ poverty; they considered it bad taste, that such a thing should be mentioned, and it made them feel uncomfortable, even possibly slightly guilty. Guilty was good, guilty was right. Let him be thrown off balance.
Annoyingly, he didn’t seem to be discomposed in the slightest. He said, and his voice just now was very deep, ‘You are young, and yet it seems to me that your manner, your self-possession, are those of a woman of infinite worldly experience. And so I am intrigued. Tell me about these other… positions.’ He had stopped, and so Sophie stopped too, and now she did look at him. Could he possibly be attempting to flirt with her? He must be – what other construction could she place on his words? Clearly his bad reputation was deserved, and he was shameless. He was like his father, a libertine, and one woman could never be enough for him. She should rebuff him, she should escape his company as quickly as possible and avoid him in future. In her perilous situation, she could not afford to attract his attention like this. If only she were free to simply walk away from him.
But then their dark eyes locked, and the moment stretched between them. The air seemed to crackle with electricity, and the soft natural sounds that surrounded them – water lapping, birds calling, dry reeds rustling at the edge of the lake – faded and vanished. Though there must be dozens of people in the mansion at their backs, within call, they were entirely alone in the world in that moment.
Sophie recovered first, or spoke first, at least. She would always fight back. She laughed lightly and said in an amused tone, ‘My lord! Are we to have a conversation such as those in your grandmother’s novels, where we speak of one thing andmean quite another? I warn you, if we are, French is much better for the purpose of double entendre. Do not try to tell me that you are not proficient.’
He let out a sudden, startling crack of laughter. ‘I suppose I deserved that. Shocking, to try to draw a young lady into such an improper discussion, and you are quite right, that is what I was doing. A moment of… distraction, I can scarcely say what I was thinking. I beg you to accept my apologies, mademoiselle.’
She had beaten him, almost she had shamed him, if such a thing were possible; no doubt that was why her heart was racing. But nothing of it showed on her face, she was almost sure, or in her voice. ‘I must accept them, sir. And if you do truly wish to learn where I was employed before this, and in what circumstances, I am quite happy to tell you. I have no secrets.’ This was a truly monstrous lie; she was proud of her ability to utter it so calmly.
‘Do you not? It is a rare person who can say as much. But no. No doubt… Lady Wyverne took up your references. It is her proper sphere, not mine. Oblige me by forgetting that I mentioned it.’
Sophie could not fail to notice the tiny pause, the merest hitch in the smooth flow of his speech, before he uttered his stepmother’s title. ‘I believe your mother did pursue my recommendations, yes,’ she said with sweet serenity.
His tone was suddenly arctic. ‘Lady Wyverne is not my mother.’
‘I beg your pardon, my lord; of course she is not. My English sometimes fails me. Your… belle-mère, of course. Your stepmother. She is not old enough to be your mother, so I do not know how I could be so foolish.’
‘No. No, she is not. And now you must excuse me, mademoiselle. It is past time I took my leave.’ He turned, began to stride away, but then he swivelled back to face herand said abruptly, ‘Whatever else you truly are, Mademoiselle Delavallois, and I confess I do not have the least idea – yet – though I promise you faithfully that I will make it my business to find out, I would be most surprised if anyone had ever called you foolish. Good day!’
She stood and watched him go, and only her enormous and habitual self-control prevented her from stamping her foot in anger and frustration, or otherwise making an exhibition of herself for anybody who might be watching. She had come out much the better from this encounter; she had bested her opponent, and greatly shaken his composure, even though he’d had the last word. But at what cost to herself? She must consider it a Pyrrhic victory, in a battle she should never have been drawn into at all. Oh, he was dangerous, this Lord Drake. Despite all her efforts to appear entirely harmless and ordinary, a woman in sadly reduced circumstances working for her living and nothing more, she had clearly failed somehow, because this man distrusted her by instinct, he had been flirting with her simply in an effort to learn more of her past, to trap her, and his promise to discover more about her was a serious threat to all her plans. His interest in her could be fatal. Literally so. She would have to be very, very careful.
