Brighton Road (3 page)

Ravenel's astonishment quickly evaporated,
his face suffusing with a dull, angry red. Gwenda could see the
storm brewing in those brilliant black eyes and hastily sought for
words of explanation and apology, but before she could say another
word, Bert began sniffing at Ravenel's sleeve.

Ever a sociable creature, her dog took a
sudden, violent fancy to his lordship. His tongue lolling out, Bert
leaped up, trying to lick Ravenel's chin. With a muttered oath,
Ravenel tried to thrust aside the eager, panting animal.

"Oh, no! Bad dog. Heel, Bertie!" Gwenda
cried.

But Bert never heeled. He continued to leap
up as though determined to scale Ravenel, scraping his muddy paws
clean upon the length of his lordship's immaculate cream-colored
breeches.

"Down!" Ravenel said sternly, collaring Bert
and forcing the animal back upon all fours. The dog whined and
fidgeted while looking adoringly up at Ravenel.

Gwenda saw in Bert's intrusion a chance for
her to escape from what promised to be a most unpleasant
confrontation. She stood up, reaching for Bert's collar and said,
"I do apologize for Bertie's behavior, sir. If you will permit me,
I'll just be taking him—"

"Sit!" Ravenel. thundered.

To Gwenda's mortification, she obeyed the
command with more alacrity than the dog did. She plopped back down
upon the bench. Spotted Bert gave in reluctantly, lowering his
hindquarters to sit on her feet. To her astonishment, he remained
seated even after Ravenel released his collar.

"That's absolutely amazing," Gwenda could not
help exclaiming. "Bertie never listens to anyone."

"A trait that his mistress apparently doesn't
share." With a look of disgust at his breeches, his lordship
brushed at some of the mud stains with his gloved fingers.

Gwenda blushed. "I am so dreadfully sorry,
Lord Ravenel. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but indeed I can explain
why I did so."

He folded his arms across his chest. "I am
all eagerness to hear your reason, madam."

Gwenda thought he looked far more eager to
throttle her, but she continued in a rush, "You see, I was waiting
in here while my carriage is being repaired, but the landlord
forgot I had already claimed the use of the parlor and he—"

"And I daresay you experienced a sudden loss
of voice that prevented you from speaking up."

"Everything happened so fast, and then—"

"And then you decided it would be far more
interesting to skulk behind the bench and listen."

Gwenda eyed him in frustration. "For someone
who claims to be so eager to hear what I have to say, you have an
annoying habit of interrupting me."

Ravenel silenced her with a lofty wave of his
hand that Bert took for encouragement to assault his lordship
again. After subduing the dog with another curt command, Ravenel
fixed Gwenda with a stern eye. "Upon my word, madam. You should
have had the delicate sensibility to make your presence known
instead of spying upon a man like some chit of a schoolgirl."

Gwenda could have endured him railing or even
swearing at her, as her brother Jack would have done, aye, and
considered she deserved it. But when Ravenel lectured her in that
stuffy manner, he reminded her of her odious brother Thorne.

"I am rather afraid I don't have any delicate
sensibilities," she said.

"Nor scruples!"

"No, I am not overburdened with those,
either," she agreed affably. "I do think you might have had more
sense than to go about proposing to people in a public place like
an inn. But, I daresay," Gwenda added, trying to be charitable,
"that you were too worried that Lord Smithdon or Smardon, or
whatever his name is, was going to steal a march on you with Miss
Carruthers."

Ravenel's jaw dropped open in an outraged
gasp. "Why, you impertinent little—"

"And it is only natural your lordship should
be feeling a little surly—"

"Surly!" Gwenda thought he would choke on the
word.

"Pray accept my heartiest condolences upon
your recent disappointment," she concluded.

"My recent disappointment is none of your
affair." His voice started to rise, but with obvious effort he
brought it back down again. "I do not even have the honor of your
acquaintance, madam."

"Oh, so you don't. I am Miss Gwenda Mary
Vickers." She swept to her feet and made him her best curtsy, but
the regal effect was somewhat spoiled when she accidentally trod
upon Bert's tail and he let out a reproachful yelp. As she bent
down to soothe the dog, she realized Ravenel was regarding her with
a mighty frown.

"Vickers? You are not by any chance one of
the Bedfordshire Vickers?"

"Yes. Of Vickers Hall, just outside the
village of Sawtree." She straightened, offering him her hand.

He didn't take it. A visible shudder coursed
through him as he muttered, "Good Lord. One of the Sawtree Vickers.
That explains everything."

Gwenda tipped her chin to a belligerent
angle. "And exactly what is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Only that I have heard of your
family before." Ravenel gave her one of those wary looks generally
reserved for village idiots and the hopelessly insane His eyes
raked over her as though seeing her for the first time. Gwenda
thought he dwelt on the curve of her breasts a little longer than
he should have. She fought down a blush. Her Roderigo would have
been far too high-minded for that.

She did not believe that his lordship was
behaving with much gallantry, but she was willing to make
allowances for a man who had been so recently crossed in love. Once
more she nobly tried to apologize for her intrusion. "Pray do not
feel embarrassed over what I just witnessed, my lord. I assure you
I am the soul of discretion."

His thick eyebrows arched up in sardonic
fashion. " It is difficult not to feel embarrassed. I am not
accustomed to having an audience when I am making love to a
lady."

"Making love?" Gwenda gasped. "Dear heavens!
Is that what you thought you were doing?"

His glare should have stopped her, but she
could not let the poor man continue under such a delusion. "Oh, no,
my dear Lord Ravenel! I regret to tell you, but you were doing
everything absolutely all wrong."

"Indeed, Miss Vickers?" Ravenel said through
clenched teeth. "What a pity I hadn't realized you were present. I
could have consulted you first."

"You should have been telling her something
far more passionate than that you want a comfortable marriage. I'll
also wager you never looked at Miss Carruthers when you were
proposing, which is a great pity. You have a handsome pair of
eyes."

"Of all the arrant nonsense—" Ravenel began,
turning an even deeper shade of red.

"There is still time for you to make amends.
You could go after Miss Carruthers even now, take her in your arms
and say—"

"Miss Vickers!" he snapped.

"No, I don't think she would like it if you
called her by my name," Gwenda continued, undaunted. However, the
black look Ravenel shot her did cause her to retreat a step. She
could not help admiring the way his eyes smoldered when he was
angry. Gwenda stared as if mesmerized into those raging dark
depths, wondering rather breathlessly what he would do if he lost
his temper. She had never been menaced by a man, as her hapless
heroines were by the villains in her books. Obviously she could
expect no help from Bert. The dog had rolled over onto his back and
was shamelessly begging to have his stomach scratched.

With one powerful leap of her imagination,
Gwenda conjured up images of everything from Ravenel's gloved
fingers reaching for her throat to his restraining her ruthlessly
against him. She felt vaguely disappointed when he merely drew
himself up stiffly and said, "Since there is not the least
likelihood we shall ever meet again, Miss Vickers, I have no
intention of discussing my personal concerns with you any further.
But, in future, let me advise you not to listen in on private
conversations. Other men might be lacking in my considerable
self-restraint."

"And let me advise you, my lord," Gwenda
said, never able to refrain from having the last word, no matter
what the risks, "that the next time you propose to a young lady,
you find one that does not make you feel quite so comfortable."

Ravenel compressed his lips as though not
trusting himself to reply. He spun on his heel and stalked over to
wrench open the door. But this time he forgot to duck as he stomped
across the threshold and slammed the top of his head against the
door frame. The cracking sound was enough to make Gwenda wince in
sympathy just hearing it. He reeled back, clutching his head,
obviously seeing stars, the string of curses he wanted to utter
trembling on his lips.

"Oh, damnation. Go ahead and say it," Gwenda
urged impatiently. "I haven't any delicate sensibilities to offend,
remember?"

She heard the indrawn hiss of his breath His
mouth clamped into a stubborn white line, but his snapping dark
eyes did the cursing for him. Then he exited from the room with the
most incredible forbearance Gwenda had ever witnessed in a man that
furious. He didn't even slam the door behind him.

Gwenda let out her breath. "Well, of all the
toplofty men I have ever met!" She bent down beside Bert, obliging
him by scratching him at last and rendering the dog into a state of
bliss with his eyes closed tight.

Gwenda tried to put the stuffy Lord Ravenel
out of her head, but she could not help thinking about his
lordship's broad shoulders, his raven's wing hair, and those
marvelous flashing dark eyes so at odds with his rigid manner.

" It is a great waste, Bertie," she said
mournfully, shaking her head. "A great waste."

Desmond Arthur Gordon Treverly, the sixth
Baron Ravenel, stormed down the inn corridor, seeking the White
Hart's landlord. He fully intended to collar Leatherbury and inform
the man that when his lordship requested a private parlor, by God,
he expected it to be just that—private.

But he had to check his pace as he passed the
coffee room and the stage passengers swarmed out. The twenty
minutes allotted for their stopover had come to an end, and if they
did not resume their places, they would likely find themselves left
behind. As this group tumbled out of the door, Ravenel glimpsed the
landlord about to rush inside.

"Leatherbury," Ravenel shouted angrily, but
the landlord paused only long enough to sketch a quick bow.

"I will be with you in a moment, your
lordship," he said, huffing with great indignation. "There are some
travelers who arrived on foot attempting to bespeak dinner in my
kitchens and, I assure you, here at the Hart we do not cater to
that sort of person."

Leatherbury's round face quivered with
outrage, as though he placed walking in the same category as horse
thieving. Then he bolted into the coffee room before Ravenel could
say another word.

The baron considered it beneath his dignity
to chase after the man. In any case, he was fair enough to concede
that the affronts he had just received in the parlor were not
precisely Leatherbury's fault. No, the blame must rest entirely
with that extraordinary creature with the impudent brown curls and
too candid green eyes.

"Making love? Is that what you thought you
were doing
?" The memory of Gwenda Mary Vickers's astonished
gasp stung Ravenel worse than Belinda's not consenting to marry
him. How dare that impertinent chit address him in such a manner!
How dare she presume to eavesdrop, then to criticize him!

The floorboards trembled beneath Ravenel's
feet as he stomped out through the inn's main door and into the
bright sunlight. But the heat suffusing his face had nothing to do
with the warmth of the summer's day. Above his head, the inn's sign
creaked, the white stag that had been the badge of Richard the
Second authenticating the inn's claim that it had been built in the
fourteenth century. Before him stretched the cobblestone street
dotted with white-stone cottages baking in the afternoon sun. A
line of fat geese waddled across the village green.

But both the bucolic charms of Godstone and
the ancient timber-frame inn were entirely lost on Ravenel as he
continued to fume over his recent encounter with Miss Vickers.

As soon as he had heard her name, he had been
well aware of what sort of behavior to expect. The Vickers family
comprised the most notorious collection of lunatics to be found
outside the confines of Bedlam. The insane exploits of Mad Jack
Vickers were legend: shooting the currents beneath London Bridge,
hiding inside a coffin to prove that he could survive being buried
alive, balancing on one leg atop Lord Marlow's old coach horse. Mad
Jack, the baron supposed, must be brother to the young lady he had
just met. And as for the father! Ravenel grimaced. Never would he
forget the time Lord Vickers had swept into the House of Lords clad
in a Roman toga and delivered a speech more fit for Drury Lane than
the august halls of Westminster. The mother, Lady Vickers, was said
to be constantly besieging the Duke of Wellington with letters,
telling him how he ought to be conducting the campaign against
Napoleon.

Gwenda Vickers reportedly had some
eccentricity, too, although at the moment Ravenel could not
recollect what it was. Certainly a penchant for spying on total
strangers must be numbered among her peculiarities. Doubtless she
had a tongue that ran like a fiddlestick as well and would report
his humiliation over half of England.

The prospect only aggravated Ravenel's ill
humor. His gaze swept toward the distant spot where the rest of his
traveling companions were seated upon benches beneath a large oak
tree, a generous repast spread out on the table before them. But
the baron felt no temptation to join them, not even when Miss
Carruthers waved gaily and beckoned to him as though nothing had
happened. He gave her a stiff nod, then turned away, still smarting
from her recent rejection of him. Belinda had not said no
precisely, but she wasn't exactly falling over herself to marry
him, either. Although Ravenel would not have described himself as
being heartbroken, his pride had been dealt a severe blow.