The Earl Next Door (16 page)

‘Marianne, it’s not what you think,’ he said, cursing
Windham
under his breath whilst seeking to reassure her.

‘Not what I think? Don’t you mean, it’s not what I know?’ She could feel anger and contempt welling up inside her as he did not deny that he was Luke Somerville. They overwhelmed her horror and disbelief, and were then coupled with disillusionment and a surge of pain.

‘Know?’ he asked, his face darkening in response to her own anger, so that his next words were tinged with a contempt to match her own. ‘What do you know?’

‘I know that you destroyed my brother –’

‘I did no such thing –’

‘And then came here posing as Lord Ravensford –’

‘I
am
Lord Ravensford,’ he glowered.

‘Concealing your identity, worming your way into –’

‘I have never wormed my way into anything in my life.’ His eyes were dangerous, but Marianne was too hurt and too incensed to pay them any heed.

‘And with what intention?’ she demanded. ‘Did you mean to ruin the sister as you had ruined the brother, was that what you –’

‘That’s going too far, Marianne.’ His eyes were molten. ‘If you knew how hard I’ve had to fight
not
to ruin you. From the first moment I saw you I wanted you. When I found you were a lady – even worse, when I found you were Kit’s sister – it cost me all my self-control to hold back. You’re the most bewitching creature I’ve ever met, Marianne; intelligent, beautiful and desirable. I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I met you, and perhaps I should have done. You need it.’

The good he had done with the first part of his speech, the understanding he had started to win from her, was completely destroyed by these final words, which did nothing but incense her.

‘I don’t need anything from you,’ she flashed, jerking away from him.

‘Oh, don’t you?’ he demanded. Then, pulling her roughly towards him he kissed her.

I must resist, she told herself. He ruined Kit. I must resist. But the most delicious sensations were coursing through her body and her senses were swimming as he tumbled her to the ground.

The cold earth jolted her to her senses. She had no intention of embarking on such a perilous and life-changing journey with a man whose feelings she did not understand. And how could she understand his feelings when she could not even understand her own?

Feeling her resistance he pushed himself onto his elbows, looking down into her face. His eyes were glittering with unsatisfied desire, his breathing was coming in short gasps. ‘Damn it, Marianne, why did you have to be so lovely?’ he demanded.

Shakily, Marianne sat up. The action pushed him away from her. He sat, one leg bent at the knee, some way away from her, watching her, as though he could not take his eyes away from her.

She felt the breeze on her cheek. It was cooling. Slowly her heartbeat began to resume its normal even pace. When she had calmed down sufficiently she stood up. Her legs were still a little shaky, but already they were gaining strength. She looked down at her riding habit. It was covered with grass. Brushing the stems from the soft blue cloth she retrieved her hat, which had fallen onto the ground, picking a final piece of grass from its plume.

She walked over to her mare, who was grazing nearby.

‘I’ll see you back to the Hall,’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘Thank you, but I prefer to ride.’

Gathering up the reins she led the animal a little further down the road to where a stile led into a field. Using the stile as a mounting block she settled herself in the saddle. Then, holding the reins softly in her light hands, she turned the mare’s head for home.

Lord Ravensford did not follow her, but stood looking after her, his long lean body in an attitude of frustration; a frustration that was not entirely physical.

As Marianne followed the country road she saw almost nothing of the countryside around her. For once her thoughts were turned inward, and those thoughts were painful and confusing. Why had Lord Ravensford really come to
Sussex
? Why had he ruined her brother? And why had he then denied it? Why had he started to make love to her and then been prepared to stop, when stopping had cost him such an enormous effort, especially if he was really the wastrel and rake rumour painted him? Why had he been concerned for her reputation if he was so disreputable? But then again, if he was not disreputable, and if he was really concerned for her reputation, why had he kissed her in the first place? Was it possible that he, too, was driven by conflicting desires? And if so, what were they? Why had he been so callous towards Kit? And worse, when she knew him to have ruined her brother, why had she responded to his kisses? She couldn’t possible have feelings for the man who had ruined her brother – could she? No, of course not. And yet . . . Whichever way she looked at it, it didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense.

She shook her head in frustration. Her thoughts were far too confusing to dwell on and she turned them into other channels, forcing herself to concentrate on the spring that was burgeoning all around her. There was so much that was good in the world. She would be a fool to dwell on something that was both painful and perplexing.

Soon the Hall came into sight. She took her mare round to the stables and then went into the house. She was hoping she could get to her room unobserved. She did not feel equal to holding a conversation, and planned to spend a quiet half hour upstairs before getting on with the housekeeping. But to her dismay, Trudie greeted her as soon as  she walked in the door.

‘I’ve been getting a few things together for your weekend,’ said Trudie with a pleased and satisfied air. Marianne had told her about the proposed party and, pleased that Marianne was going to have some fun, Trudie had spent the morning making preparations.

Marianne’s shoulders drooped. ‘There isn’t going to be a weekend. At least, not one I want to attend.’ If she hadn’t been so emotionally drained she would not have said anything of the kind, but as it was she did not have the energy to pretend an enthusiasm she did not feel.

Trudie fixed her with a shrewd eye. ‘Lord Ravensford hasn’t . . . ? Because if he has, then, Earl or no, he’ll answer to me. Your Papa may not know what’s due to you, Miss Marianne, but there’s others in this house who do.’ There was a sympathy and concern behind the bravado that almost undid Marianne. She was lucky to have such a devoted protector.

‘No, Trudie, nothing like that,’ she said tiredly. ‘It’s just that I have too much to do here.’

‘Oh, is it?’ said Trudie, regarding her searchingly. But then, seeing the droop of Marianne’s shoulders, she relented. ‘Well, we’ll say no more about it.’

Marianne went into the drawing-room and threw her hat onto a Sheraton chair before sinking wearily onto the
chaise longue
. She ought to be changing out of her riding habit, but her energy had left her and she felt in need of a few minutes’ peace.

She lay back and closed her eyes. It had all happened so quickly . . .

But she did not want to think about it. It was too fresh, too raw.

After a minute or two she opened her eyes. The drawing-room was familiar, comforting. She began to feel more herself.

She had almost decided to go upstairs and change out of her habit when there came a scratching at the door and Henri came into the room. He was carrying a silver salver, with a silver teapot and a plate of warm scones.

‘Trudie, she says you are tired, Miss Marianne,’ he said with a kindly air. ‘And so I say to ’er, ‘What can you expect, after being out riding this morning. Miss Marianne, she needs a – ’ow you say? – “a smack”?!’

‘Snack,’ said Marianne, smiling despite herself at his mistake; a mistake which she suspected had been deliberate, to make her laugh.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Henri comfortably. ‘A snack.’ As he spoke he poured out a refreshing cup of tea and set it down on the pie crust table next to Marianne, then offered her a scone. ‘They ’ave just come out the oven. See, the butter, it is melting, is it not? You ’ave one, Miss Marianne?’

Marianne hesitated.

‘To please Henri?’ he tempted her.

‘Thank you, Henri,’ said Marianne. She felt somewhat revived by the sight and scent of the tea and scones. ‘That will be lovely. It was a lucky chance that brought you to us,’ she remarked as she took the scone he offered her, arranged appetisingly on a china plate. ‘Not that it was lucky for you to get your leg caught in the trap, but –’

‘I understand.’

He waited for her to eat the scone, then his eyes became more intelligent. He lost the look of a kindly servant and became more of a definite character. He stood up properly and his speech lost some of its obvious Frenchness. ‘But you see, Miss Marianne, luck ’ad nothing to do with it.’

Marianne paused in the act of putting her plate back on the table. She looked at him curiously. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it? Henri, what do you mean?’

‘I mean, I was coming ’ere on purpose. That is, I was coming to Billingsdale Manor.’

‘You know Mr Billingsdale?’ asked Marianne in surprise, putting the plate down with a clatter.

‘
Non
, Mademoiselle. I do not know the good Mr Billingsdale. Or the bad Mr Billingsdale, I think I should call ’im, as ’e allows ’is manager to lay traps to catch men.’

Marianne wiped her fingers on her napkin and her eyes narrowed slightly in puzzlement.

‘Tell me, Mademoiselle,’ asked Henri gently. ‘When you came in just now you were upset. Yes?’

Marianne nodded, a slight frown on her forehead. ‘Yes.’

‘And it is because, I think, of Lord Ravensford?’

Marianne dropped the napkin onto her plate and leant back in her seat, rubbing her hand over her eyes. ‘Henri, it isn’t something you’d understand.’

‘Oh, me,
Mademoiselle
, I understand many things. I understand that you are ’urt and angry, and I understand that Mr Windham came here to bid you farewell. And when ’e didn’t find you, I think ’e met you returning from the churchyard.’

Marianne was looking at Henri in perplexity. He had changed in the last few minutes. He was not the simple chef she had thought him to be.

‘Tell me, Miss Marianne, what did ’e say? That Milord Ravensford is Luke Somerville? The man ’oo ruined your brother?’

‘How could you know that?’ asked Marianne, sitting upright, her tiredness vanished.

‘Because me, I know Luke Somerville –’

‘You know him?’ Marianne’s voice was incredulous; and then she remembered the feeling she had had when the two men had met in her drawing-room – that they already knew each other. ‘You should have told me at once,’ she said with a frown. ‘He disgraced my brother and –’

‘
Non
.’ Henri’s voice was definite. ‘Luke, ’e disgraces no one, least of all your brother.’

‘He led him into temptation, gambling –’ began Marianne angrily.

‘
Non
. Your brother ’as not been gambling, Miss Marianne. He ’as gone to
France
.’

‘
France
?’ Marianne looked at Henri in astonishment.