Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (14 page)

‘Mrs Halgate, I was just explaining to Sir Richard and Lady Fenwick and Mrs Pengilly that I was not certain whether his lordship was at home this afternoon.’

‘Oh, yes, he is, Mr Heneage.’ She curtsied. ‘Good afternoon. I am Mrs Halgate, the housekeeper. Would you care to come through to the salon and I will have refreshments brought? His lordship will not be long.’

She shepherded them towards the Chinese Salon, then ran downstairs again. If Ross was in a foul mood the last thing she needed was him stalking into the salon and alienating his neighbours. And she was determined that he was not going to shirk his obligations to hospitality, matchmaking mothers or not.

‘Tea for eight in the Chinese Salon, please, Mrs Harris.’ Meg popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘Have you seen his lordship?’

‘Heading towards the stables not a minute ago.’

‘Thank you. I’ll see if I can catch him.’ She opened the back door and walked straight into Ross.

‘Catch who?’ He fended her off with both hands to her shoulders.

‘You. You know you have guests.’ She turned on her heel and made for the stairs.

‘I saw them from the window and told Heneage I was not at home this afternoon.’ The tread of his boots behind her sounded ominously heavy.

‘Well, I told them that you were, I’m afraid. There are some gentlemen this time.’ There was no response from behind her. It was like being followed by a very large dog, she could almost hear him growling. ‘I have ordered tea to be brought up.’

‘Excellent. Then you may stay and pour and inform me afterwards which of the young ladies I must pay court to.’ Ross strode past her and into the salon, leaving Meg to stare at the door panels while she waited for the tea trays to come up.

Pay court? Had Ross decided that he must marry and settle down? That was a good thing, it had to be. He needed a family around him, an heir to bring up. But why was he talking about marriage now? Perhaps Ross had decided, after that strangely tender kiss on the terrace, that he must put aside thoughts of mistresses and lovers. But why was he looking so grim again?

And why was she feeling so empty all of a sudden? Meg caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. It was not only Ross who was looking unhappy—she looked
stricken. Her hand was pressed to her breast as though it could comfort the empty ache inside and something suspiciously like tears were burning at the back of her eyes.

Whatever it was, the relationship that would have been so unwise, so temptingly sinful, was over before it had begun. She should be thankful that her strength had held out long enough for Ross to come to his senses and before she allowed her own feelings to show too plainly.

The green baize door opened to a chink of china and the laboured breathing of Peter the footman managing the heavy tea urn. Meg blinked hard and led the way into the Chinese Salon. Inside was a babble of voices. She could hear Sir Richard talking to Ross about a mutual problem with fences, so she imagined the Fenwicks must be neighbours.

Lady Fenwick took the proffered cup with a vague smile at Meg before nudging her daughter surreptitiously. ‘Anne!’

‘Sorry, Mama,’ she whispered, both of them oblivious to the fact that the by-play was obvious to Meg. The girl turned wide, grey eyes away from the young man who was wedged uncomfortably between his two sisters and fixed them on Ross’s face.

Meg moved over to offer tea to the Pengilly family. From Mrs Pengilly’s deep violet gown with black trimmings and the wide hair ring that she wore next to her wedding band, Meg deduced she must be a widow. Her stolid daughters, neither of them blessed with the blonde good looks of the Pennare girls, or the sweet demeanour of Miss Fenwick, accepted their tea cups without a word and turned their attention to the silver cake stand.

Ross made no attempt to engage any of the young ladies in conversation and completely ignored the sulky youth, instead drawing both the married ladies into the discussion of the rebuilding of the nearby church tower.

Mr Pengilly got up and slouched over to the window next to where Meg waited behind the tea things, ready to refresh cups or pass biscuits. Seventeen, with aspirations to dandyism, she decided after a fleeting glance at his towering collar-points and the exaggerated cut of his lapels. He shifted restlessly, walking close behind her. One hand settled firmly over her right buttock, the fingers closing to squeeze.

Meg bit back the instinctive gasp of outrage and stepped back, her heel making contact with his toes before she put all her weight on that foot. With a muffled oath he jerked away and everyone turned to look at them.

Meg put all the concern she could into her voice despite her cheeks burning with indignation and embarrassment. ‘Mr Pengilly, I do apologise! Did I step on your toes? I had no idea you were so close.’

‘You—’ He was furious, as flushed as she must be, then Meg saw him catch Ross’s eye and he subsided. ‘The slightest touch. It was nothing.’ He flung himself into a chair on the far side of the room and turned what he doubtless thought was a brooding Byronic profile to them all.

The two parties left together after rather more than the normal half-hour, which probably meant it was a success, of sorts. Ross came back and shut the door with an emphasis that sent the curtains flapping in the sudden draught before she could reach the bell to ring for the tea things to be cleared.

‘I’m surprised those were the first gentlemen to call,’
she remarked, her attention on the unstable arrangements of biscuits.

‘I’m meeting them as I’m riding round with Tremayne,’ Ross said curtly. ‘What the devil was that puppy Pengilly about?’

‘He put his hand on my…behind me. So I trod on his toes.’

‘And was Jago flirting with you?’ Ross picked up a biscuit as he passed the table and ate it whole in one snap. ‘He was holding your hand.’

Those biscuits were looking extremely attractive to a woman who wanted to sink her teeth into something—or up-end the plate over Ross Brandon’s raven-black head.

‘He is a nice young man who realised that I was upset when I was giving him a letter for my sisters and he held my hand for a moment to comfort me,’ she said calmly, as though addressing a short-tempered hound.

‘What was there to be upset about?’ He frowned at her. ‘He will find them for you, I am sure.’

‘You insensitive gommuck!’ Oh, yes, that was a very fine word. Suddenly very weary of controlling her feelings, soothing his, Meg shoved Ross hard in the middle of his chest. He rocked back on his heels, but did not shift his position. ‘I haven’t heard from them in years, I do not know if they are well and happy—or even alive! I want to just rush up there, not send a stranger.

‘I love my sisters. How would you feel if you came back to England after all those years abroad and had no idea what had happened to Giles? Am I not allowed to feel any anxiety or to cling for a moment to someone who shows me a sympathetic, smiling face?’

‘I am sorry,’ Ross said, his teeth still gritted. ‘I saw him with his hands on you and something…I
should know you better. It was not rational,’ he added doubtfully.

‘He is a nice person, he makes me feel secure. I have confidence that he will help me.’ His hands were heavy, trapping her shoulders in a grip that had only to tighten to crush her bones. ‘What is the matter with you?’

‘He touched you. They both did. It made me angry and now I have alarmed you.’ He stroked his fingertips down her flushed cheek. ‘I am sorry, Meg.’

‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Can you? Have you any idea what you want?’ Her heart was slamming against her ribs and she had no idea whether the vibration running through her was her own body or his, trembling.

‘Yes, I want you. We both know that. But it is not…not…’ Meg wrestled for the words to explain her confused feelings. ‘I will not sell myself to you, Ross Brandon.’
Tell me you love me,
she thought hopelessly.
I know you will break my heart, but love me…

Denying him seemed the hardest thing she had ever had to do, harder than facing the shocked and scandalised faces of the ladies of the regiment after James had disappeared, harder than pretending she was another man’s lover only weeks after being labelled a sinful adulteress, harder by far than it had been at the time to elope, heedless and innocent in the July dawn, leaving her sisters behind her. But she just did not think she had the strength to cope with the inevitable pain.

‘Then give yourself.’ She was in his arms, carried against his broad chest as he strode towards the sofa, before she could catch her breath. ‘Take me,’ Ross said as he went down on to the broad satin seat with her tumbled in his embrace.

H
is mouth was hard and demanding and utterly ruthless on hers. It asked no questions, for he knew what he was doing, where he was going and he was no more prepared to discuss it with her, Meg thought as she tried to find the strength and the will to fight him, than he would have discussed his orders with his men.

On the terrace she had gone willingly into his arms and now he was not going to give her the opportunity to explain or argue or reason with him.
I want you,
she had said just now and he was taking her at her word.

Ross’s weight was on her, his hands were at her breast, then at her waist, then, as lawn and cotton slid over her skin, on her thigh with her skirts rumpling up under the pressure of his fingers. And his mouth never left hers, capturing her gasps, her moans, her protests that were as much at her own response as at his onslaught on her.

She was losing herself in him, in his heat and in the scent of him, his strength, his masculinity. The reasons why she should say no to him were slipping away from
her like mist under the first rays of the sun and all that was left was the delicious, aching torment of wanting and touching and being touched.

Ross’s hand found the soft mound at the junction of her thighs, cupped it, wringing a moan from her lips that had him raising his head to look down into her face. His eyes were black, intense, deep with arousal and emotion and everything female in her responded to that look.

‘Ross…’

‘Mine,’ he said hoarsely, burying his face in the angle of her neck, his teeth rasping over the quivering flesh, nipping at the tendons with a delicacy that his strength belied. ‘You are mine. I will not have other men touching you.’

The possessiveness shocked Meg’s eyes open. She stared over Ross’s disordered hair at the table still laid out with the tea things, at a display of jade bowls. They were in the Salon, on the sofa, in broad daylight and her entire body was flooded with feelings so overwhelming, so thrilling, that they were almost painful. This was the truth of what she felt for him, of what he made her feel. This was not for a tumble on the sofa, this was something else entirely, something precious and wonderful and utterly terrifying.

‘No. Ross, stop! Someone could come in at any moment, we are in the Salon, for goodness’ sake—’

‘Then come up to my bed.’ He raised his head and fixed her with a look that spoke of raw sensuality and need. ‘You are mine and you know it.’

‘I am not yours.’
Not yet, not like this.
Meg realised that his fingers were still laced into the intimate, damp, tangle of curls, still sending quivering darts of lust through her belly and down the inside of her thighs.
‘Stop it, take your hand off me…Let me go!’ She wanted him so much it was an almost physical pain as he left her, thrust himself off the sofa and stood staring down at her, baffled desire and anger etched on his face.

‘Come to my bed, Meg,’ he repeated.

‘No. You think I am yours and I tell you I am not. I am no man’s.’ She dragged her skirts down, almost panting with reaction, the words all wrong because of the one she dare not use to him, her agitation emerging as anger when all she wanted was to sob out her feelings in his arms. ‘You are so strong—’

‘You think I would force you? Was I forcing you just now?’

‘No! I mean your personality is so strong. You command, you demand, you expect obedience. You expect to get what you want. And I must stand up to you or I will go down like wheat before the scythe and I will hate myself for it. And I will hate you,’ she flung at him as she got to her feet and went to the looking glass, her fingers desperate amongst pins and lace to order her hair and set her cap back on her head.

‘You own this house, this land, your title. But you do not own me.’ The long hair pins hurt her skull as she jammed them back. A good pain, a deserved one. ‘My father owned me, my husband owned me—now nobody does. You pay my wages,’ she told him in the mirror, his face a stark reflection over her right shoulder, ‘and for that you get my services as a housekeeper.’
I love you and I need you to love me too, or my heart will break and I am too weak to bear it.
And she was too weak to say the words and face his rejection, the truth that he wanted her body and that was all.

‘You would deny yourself?’ he said softly, moving up
until he stood directly behind her, speaking to her reflection as she had to his. ‘Just to keep me in my place?’

‘No, that is not why.’ Meg whirled to face him, refusing to move aside when he stood his ground, however much her knees were trembling. She could not say what she felt and the frustration was making the words tumble out heedlessly as she snatched at excuses.
‘Mine,
you said. I am not one of your fields or coppices for you to put a fence round and nail a
No Trespassing
sign to.’

‘You are saying I am jealous?’ Ross laughed, a short, mirthless sound.

‘I am saying you are territorial and possessive, my lord. You are beginning to fill your father’s shoes very well.’

That was unforgivable, she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth. Ross had confided in her about his relations with his father, had given her a glimpse of what the late Lord Brandon had been and how he had scarred the boy whose dark eyes stared at her from the man’s face. Now she had told him he was turning into that person.

Perhaps his deep reluctance at coming back was not only sadness at what he had lost or the guilt that had tormented him over Giles’s death, but fear of becoming the man his father was. The thoughts flashed through her mind even as his expression began to change, to close against her, every emotion masked behind the harsh bleak face she had recoiled from at first sight on the dockside.

‘I…I am sorry, Ross.’
What have I done? No…undone. All the peace that his meditation by Giles’s grave had given him dissolved into anger.

He held up a hand for her silence. ‘No. Don’t say anything.’

Somehow Ross got himself out of the Chinese Salon before he started to shake. The pain in his wounded leg was a nauseating ache. He must have knocked it when…when he had lost his mind, picked up his housekeeper and began ravishing her on the sofa in an unlocked room in broad daylight.

He had to get out of the house before he either went back in there, dragged her upstairs and finished what he had begun or—

‘My lord!’

‘Heneage, are you unwell?’ Ross put out a hand to steady the butler who had walked round the corner without seeing him and was now white to the lips. How old was the man? Was his heart affected?

‘I am quite well, my lord. Forgive me—it is just that I did not hear you and you looked, for a moment, so like his late lordship when he was displeased that I was quite taken aback.’

Ross stood there in his own hall, all the surging frustration and anger and misery of his childhood building up in him like a fermenting wine bottle that was ready to blow. He had schooled himself never to show those feelings, never to give his father the satisfaction of seeing how effective his disapproval, his punishments, his scowling anger were at withering his son’s heart. He had fought back with insolence and disobedience and that, in part, was why Giles’s accident happened.

‘I am sorry I gave you a shock, Heneage. You are not seeing ghosts.’
But I am.
‘I am going out. My apologies to Mrs Harris, but I will not be in for dinner.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ The butler was recovering his
colour. ‘Shall I send round to the stables for your horse, my lord?’

‘No, I’ll saddle up myself.’ Ross paused with one foot on the bottom stair on his way to pull on a pair of breeches and topboots. The thought of waiting patiently for even ten minutes was intolerable. He had to get out of the house, away from Meg. Away, if that were possible, from himself.

His father had never stinted himself on his stables. Ross strode across the cobbled yard, waving aside the groom who was sweeping out the central gutter. He had been riding out daily on one of his father’s cover hacks, a well-bred but sturdy animal that stood placidly while Ross grappled with the intricacies of crop rotation, but would take the hedge banks in its stride if necessary. And it was a sensible animal to ride for someone who had a healing wound in his leg. Despite what Meg thought, he was capable of some common sense as far as that was concerned, he reflected sourly, reaching for the bridle that hung by the door.

A black head appeared over the door of the next box, ears pricked, eye rolling warily. His father’s last acquisition, Culrose, the head groom, had told him.

‘Fabulous blood line and it cost him a pretty penny, my lord. But it’s the very devil to ride. Threw your father, first time out, and he never rode him again. I exercise it on the end of a leading rein—I don’t fancy having my neck broke, and that’s a fact.’

At the time Ross had simply made a mental note to sell the animal. Now he put back the bridle and went to look at it. As he let himself into the box he saw it was no gelding, but an intact stallion. ‘Stop that.’ He grabbed its forelock as it snaked out its neck to bite
him and hung on as it countered by trying to rear. ‘Do you want to get out of here and gallop, or not?’

The horse showed the whites of its eyes, but stood still, obviously realising that he was not to be intimidated. With one hand still fast in its forelock, Ross shouted, ‘Get me the tack!’ and found, when he looked over his shoulder, a collection of grooms and stable lads all watching the half-door with wary anticipation. He hoped they would have the guts to come in and haul him out if the creature kicked him down.

‘My lord.’ One lad heaved the saddle up on to the door and hung the bridle over the pommel.

Ross managed, one handed, to get the bit in its mouth, then the bridle over its head. The horse stood with remarkable, and suspicious, meekness when he released its mane and began to fasten buckles.

‘What’s its name?’

‘Trevarras Dragon, my lord.’

Appropriate. Ross could imagine it breathing fire. As he hefted the saddle on to its back he felt the muscles twitch under the glossy coat. Did it have the intelligence to work out it could do him a lot more damage once he got up on its back? Probably.

‘Open the door and stand clear.’ As Dragon charged for the opening Ross swung up into the saddle, ducked under the frame and jammed his feet into the swinging stirrups before the horse realised what had happened. It erupted into the open, the men and boys scattering, then stopped dead, legs braced, ears back. Ross could almost hear it thinking how it was going to kill him. He shortened the reins, closed his legs and dug his heels in as the stallion went sideways across the yard, bucking, then dragged its head round to the gateway and slackened the reins.

As he hoped, the chance to run won over the desire to unseat and trample its rider. Dragon gathered his haunches under him and took off, all seventeen hands of black-coated muscle thundering down the carriage drive like one of Congreve’s rockets.
And just about as predictable,
Ross thought, concentrating on staying on until the stallion tired itself.

His leg hurt like the devil, his arms were aching and his mood had lifted miraculously. It was not just Dragon who had wanted violent physical exercise. Ross laughed as his hat flew off, squinted against the sun and galloped on.

It took all of twenty minutes before Dragon allowed himself to be pulled up to a canter, by which time they had jumped too many banks and hedges to count and devoured the length of the gorse-covered commonland.

‘Give up?’ Ross enquired. One ear swivelled back, then, to his surprise, the big horse responded to the rein, dropped down to a trot and finally a walk. ‘You see? If you are reasonable, I let you run,’ he continued as they came to the edge of the common and turned into the lane.

Dragon snorted, but it was the peal of feminine laughter that startled Ross. A tall woman in a plain gown with an apron, her blonde hair piled up on her head and a basket at her feet, was leaning back on the gate opposite. She must have been resting and admiring the view, Ross guessed, and had turned at the sound of hooves.

And then a cloud moved across the sun and took the dazzle out of his eyes and thirteen years dropped away. ‘Lily!’ He swung down out of the saddle and went to her, catching her around the waist and kissing her, right
on her wide, generous mouth. ‘My God, but it is good to see you! Billy told me you were down on the Lizard.’

‘I only went to help my cousin with a birthing.’ She put out her hands to hold him away so she could look at him and Ross saw the lines of laughter and sadness around her eyes, the silver hairs in the gold, and realised she must be in her mid-thirties now. ‘Look at you now, all grown up.’

They stood grinning at each other and Ross felt the darkness lift further. Lily was another of the good memories from his youth. Three years older, she had been the sister he had never had. When he had discovered that his father had forced himself on her, leaving her with his child, a killing rage had washed through him. Even as he smiled at her now the lash of that remembered anger, hot and acid, touched him.

‘I’ve someone for you to meet. William!’ she called. ‘He’s grown a bit since you last saw him.’ A gangling lad appeared from round the bend of the lane, a bundle of driftwood slung over his shoulder.

‘My God.’ The boy was the spitting image of himself at fifteen—black hair, height, build, the formidable Brandon jaw and nose still to be grown into. ‘Does he know?’ he asked Lily urgently. ‘Does he know who he is, who I am?’

‘Yes…’ she nodded as his father’s discarded bastard broke into a run, ‘…he knows.’

‘Mam.’ The boy stared at Ross with Billy’s amber eyes. He was not all Brandon then.

‘Say good day to his lordship, William. Where’s your manners?’

‘Good day, my lord.’ He reached for his forelock to tug it.

Ross put out his hand and caught his wrist. ‘Don’t do that. And not “my lord”. I am your brother Ross.’

Lily gasped. ‘You can’t mean to acknowledge him?’

‘I don’t need to.’ Ross let go of William’s wrist and tipped up the boy’s chin. ‘Look at that jaw.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘But, yes, he is my brother and I will make no bones about it. You call me Ross, William. “Sir”, perhaps, when we don’t want to shock the servants.’