Now he had the
uneasy feeling that a trap lay in waiting at the end of this
journey, one he was ill-prepared for. It was time to prove to
himself that he had moved on from the past.
But could
he?
A
s he
and Adam had set out from London, he had found that he was growing
tenser with each passing mile. Images of a golden haired beauty
seemed to transpose themselves across the winter’s landscape and he
could suddenly recall with disconcerting vividness what it had been
like to hold Rachel in his arms as he had swept her around the
dance floor; her softness, her grace. Miss Sheridan had possessed a
luminous beauty that had transfixed him from the moment he had laid
eyes on her. Not for nothing had she been called the Incomparable.
He would have sworn that the emotions he had experienced then had
been… what? Love? He had certainly thought so at the time but he
had come to believe that love was a delusion; one of life’s little
jests to make a man enter into a union he might otherwise have
avoided. No, it had not been love but it had been more than lust.
Oh yes, he had
wanted
Rachel. To hold her, to kiss her and to do a great deal
more than his very inexperienced self probably had not been able to
express back then. And apparently she had wished to express the
same thing, just not with him. The idea of Rachel in bed with
another man – Rachel, whose purity had shone like a beacon – was
incomprehensible. It was disconcerting to have the last of one’s
ideals ripped apart, although he knew very well that a female could
be every bit as lustful as a man. It seemed that there had still
been a part of him that had envisioned Rachel Sheridan chastely
going about her business, despite the fact that he had assumed she
would have married some lucky bastard. Instead she had done what
harlots had been doing for eons. She had refused him, only to take
a tumble with a married man. For a man who thought he was beyond
further disenchantment, discovering that Rachel Sheridan was, not
only human but an obliging one to boot, was strangely
unsettling.
‘
Apparently I asked the wrong question,’ he muttered, draining
his glass. ‘I should have demanded a damn sight more than her
hand.’
Not that
she would have said yes. She might have given up her virtue without
the benefit of a ceremony, but she had no doubt done so for love.
Or, he amended cynically, whatever she had cared to call it. He had
not known Dorian Salinger but he must have been smooth if he’d
convinced the Incomparable into his bed. Nash had felt her lack of
involvement from the start. She would talk and smile and even laugh
but there had been a part of her that had been missing from their
interactions. If he’d had a grain of sense he should have seen she
was in no way engaged in their one-way courtship, but buffle-headed
infatuation had driven him on. Hadn’t her remoteness only
emphasized her desirability? The air of mystery, of hidden depths
and carefully restrained passions that had clung to her like an
invisible cloak. He had spent hours imagining ways of unlocking
what lay within, to capture her love along with her
hand.
Nash groaned
softly, head rolling back against the rest of the chair.
He would
get through this. His tense anticipation at seeing her again would
fade when he saw her and realized that the past really did not have
the power to command him anymore. He had thought himself free of it
already but he knew now he’d been precipitous. Fate had given him
an opportunity to banish his ghosts once and for all and this time,
he had the upper hand. Rachel was ruined, an outcast and must no
longer be the woman whose image he had carried in his head for
years. While he was Worsley, whose position in Society was
unassailable. He wondered if she would regret turning him down now?
No matter how much he might be dreading it, facing Rachel again was
a necessary evil and once done he would put her firmly behind him
at last.
After
all, he had a lot of ground to make up. He had a list of things
that must be done.
Ensure
that his extensive estates were running smoothly.
Reacquaint himself with old friends.
Find
himself a suitable bride.
Of all
these things, the last one was the most tiresome of duties. Despite
his words to Adam about taking time before shackling himself into
the uncomfortable bonds of marriage, he intended to at least cast
his eye about for likely candidates for the position of countess.
And he had a specific set of criteria. Whilst England was not
nearly as enlightened as the Continent when it came to marriage, he
intended to marry a female who had a sensible outlook on the whole
affair. In Italy and Spain, highborn ladies and gentlemen went
about the business with calm consideration, selecting partners that
would benefit their respective families. They then took lovers to
amuse themselves, making the whole experience far more palatable.
Nash did not particularly care what his future wife did with
herself, as long as she gave him heirs that were of his blood and
she was discreet. He had no doubt there would be plenty of suitable
candidates when the time came.
He ran a
restless hand through his hair and sighed. He was already
regretting leaving the soft warmth of Italy behind. It was far more
pleasant in winter than England could claim to be. He’d had some
ridiculous idea of spending Christmas in the land of his birth but
now it seemed like a ridiculous idea. If Nash had only delayed his
trip home by a month, his best friend would not have asked him to
go to Northumberland and he would not be sitting here, sleepless
and brooding and wondering how the devil he was going to manage the
morrow.
Nash
took a long swallow from his glass. It was time to go to
bed and get some rest. Tomorrow – or rather, some hours hence as it
had just gone two in the morning – would be a hell of a day, he was
sure of it. He knew he would want his wits about him. Would she
even remember him, the simpering idiot that he had once been,
begging for a dance, a look, a smile? Perhaps not. Incredible as it
might seem, the past they had shared might be entirely in his head
alone even if they had shared time together. There was no reason to
believe she might have given him a passing thought during the past
three years.
A
s he
drained his glass and rose reluctantly to his feet, he could not
help but wonder if he would find the girl much different or of he
would still see a golden haired angel who had once taken his breath
away.
‘
Not an angel any longer, Nash,’ he reminded himself
irritably. ‘The angel has well and truly had her wings clipped. And
you are no longer that poor, lovesick fool any longer but a man
with a far greater understanding of females than you ever hoped to
possess. What you felt for the Incomparable was calf love, pure and
simple. You were just one of a crowd of worshippers.’
Worshippers w
ho were all likely to have vanished by now. Not that he
thought that Rachel Sheridan would not still attract male attention
but he was prepared to wager it was a different kind of attention,
now that she had been rejected by Society and doomed to the life of
a spinster. Men would still look at her with avid eyes, but there
would be a new element in their regard. A woman like Rachel must
always be the object of men’s desires but she would find that their
regard had evaporated with her virtue. No doubt it had been a hard
lesson to learn for such a woman.
Glancing
up, he caught his reflection in the dimpled surface of the mirror
over the mantel. His boyish looks had solidified into that of a man
and he knew that women admired him, even without knowing of his
position.
Straightening his shoulders, h
e gave a slow smile and nodded to his
mirrored self.
It had not
occurred to him before but suddenly it hit him…
What would
Rachel Sheridan make of him now?
Chapter
Three
‘
They’re here!’ Liza’s voice sang out, edged with
excitement.
From her
position on the settee before the fire, Margaret Sheridan, Liza’s
doting mama, spoke without raising her eyes from her needlework.
‘Do sit down, Liza. You bounce about the place like one of Mr.
Brueford’s puppies.’
‘
Yes, but Adam has come at last,’ Liza said impatiently, her
nose pressed against the glass as she peered down into the
courtyard that was frosted with the first dusting of snow. ‘And he
has a gentleman with him.’
‘Lord
Worsley,’ Lady Sheridan returned calmly. ‘Yes, we know,
dear. Please try not to overwhelm either of them. In fact,’ she
added, tucking her needlework away, ‘I think it is time for tea.
Perhaps you would be so kind as to go and tell Cook.’
In a
normal household, it might be reasonable to think that the
occupants might be unfamiliar with the kitchens, but Liza took a
very hands on approach to all aspects of her family’s household and
was a familiar face from the cellars to the attics and all areas in
between. Her parents, having long since divined that forbidding her
to go anywhere was pointless, often used their youngest child’s
excess energy to fetch things and carry messages. She was a good
deal speedier than any of the maids or footmen and could outpace
their elderly butler Mortimer with ease, much to that august
gentleman’s disgust. Lord Sheridan had been forced to forbid his
youngest child from racing to the door ahead of their aged retainer
as it was upsetting the poor man so much.
Liza, who was no green girl in matters of parental
management, looked at her mother with a certain amount of
irritation. ‘You just don’t
want me to say hello before anybody else
does.’
‘There is
that but I also want some tea,’ Lady Sheridan returned, smiling at
her daughter. ‘And, although I am sure that both of your sisters
are well aware of the new arrivals, you may go and ensure that they
are coming down.’
Liza, who
was an amiable rebel most of the time, nodded good-naturedly and
ran from the room, her petticoats flapping as she sped off.
Margaret Sheridan sighed, wondering if Liza would ever attain even
a smidgeon of the gravitas that was considered seemly in a young
woman of good breeding. It might be a little much to hope for,
dignity at nine years of age, but a certain amount of natural
restraint would be most welcome. She was not optimistic. Liza was
not made for restraint.
Lady
Sheridan rose to her feet and smoothed her skirts, the
small niggle of anxiety that she had first felt when Adam had
announced that he had asked Worsley to come in place of the family
he did not have, making itself known again now that the arrival of
her guests was upon her. She did not have any issues with her
future son-in-law’s request, of course. The arrival of Worsley back
in England had created quite a flutter, the news reaching even the
far corners of Northumberland as letters went back and forth. His
return necessarily stirred up memories of that unfortunate time in
Rachel’s life, Worsley’s departure preceding Rachel’s rash behavior
by no more than a few days. Her ladyship sincerely hoped it would
not cause undue stress to her eldest daughter, who had developed an
almost pathological anxiety about causing her family any further
stress, so much so that she rarely went about anymore.
Margaret Sheridan was well aware of the damage that
Rachel’s past indiscretion had caused her family, but she was
mother enough to forgive any of her
children practically anything and Rachel
had been so
bruised
by the past. It had taken her a long time to smile again,
even longer to laugh and her entire family – with the exception of
James, perhaps, and that was because he had married Charity
Fitzwilliams, who even the amiable Lord Sheridan (who usually liked
everybody and could have a lively conversation with the estate’s
ratcatcher, if they came across each other) struggled to warm to.
If Lady Sheridan could have left Charity off the guest list then
the whole affair would have surely been far more enjoyable. Not
that her daughter-in-law’s sour disposition mattered in the least.
This gathering was all about Charlotte and Lady Sheridan was
determined to quash Charity if her sniping became too
wearisome.
She was about
to go in search of her husband, who would probably be lost in the
pages of a book, when the man himself walked into the room.
‘Such a
fuss down below,’ he observed, coming across to give her a quick
kiss on the cheek. ‘One would think the Prince Regent himself has
come to call. I’m assuming the bridegroom has arrived.’
‘I
believe so.’ Lady Sheridan smiled up at her husband fondly. In her
eyes he had aged remarkably well and she still felt a sense of
gratitude that she had encountered Stanhope Sheridan, all those
years ago. A scholarly, gentle creature who seemed constantly
delighted to find that he had produced such a fulsome family, they
had shared twenty-eight years of connubial bliss together and were
eagerly looking forward to quite a few more.
Lord
Sheridan raised an eyebrow. ‘Is everything all right, my
dear?’
‘Yes of
course. You know I always feel in a flutter whenever we have a full
house. And then there is the party tomorrow night. I might have
been a little ambitious, asking all of our neighbors.’
‘You
wished to mark our daughter’s wedding. I can’t say I’m overly keen
on seeing the lot of them but it will go well enough. Nobody
refused to come, did they? Don’t worry too much about Rachel. She
is doing very well.’