The Escape (Survivor's Club) (13 page)

It would be quite the right thing to do, of course. But she could not
bear
to be alone again. Not yet. How foolish to have allowed someone like Matilda to have discomposed her so very much.

“Please stay,” she said. “Do sit down. I am
sick
of propriety and even sicker of my own company. And why should I not entertain a guest who has been kind enough to call upon me despite the pouring rain?”

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “because that guest is a single gentleman and you are a single lady without a companion.”

She sighed. He looked uncomfortable standing there leaning on his canes. He must be desperate to leave. But loneliness and low spirits had made her selfish, not to mention indiscreet.

“Did you come, then, just to inform me that it is raining and to inquire after Matilda’s health?” she asked him.

He hesitated. And then he took her completely by surprise. “Hang Lady Matilda’s health,” he said. “And your house has windows. They are not even almost completely covered by curtains today. I came to see you.”

And if she had thought
he
looked uncomfortable a few moments ago, it was nothing like what she felt now. The very air in the room felt as if it had been charged with something dangerous.

But—
hang Lady Matilda’s health
. She could not help but smile.

“Oh, do sit down,” she said. “Why
should
you leave just because Matilda is not here?”

He made his slow way to the chair she had indicated
and sat. She reseated herself and they stared at each other.

Now what? At least in Lady Gramley’s garden the day before yesterday there had been flowers to look at and the sky and the house. And there had been sounds even if she had been unaware of them at the time—birds, insects, wind, grooms in the stables. Here even Tramp was silent. He had stretched out before Sir Benedict, his chin on the man’s boot.

“Did you love him?” he asked abruptly.

She raised her eyebrows. Had she expected him to talk about the weather? He was talking about Matthew? It was a horribly impertinent question. It demanded a sharp set-down.

“I was head-over-heels in love when I married him,” she said. “Such euphoria cannot be expected to last forever, of course. There is really no such thing as happily ever after, Sir Benedict.”

“How long had you been married before he was injured?” he asked.

“Two years,” she told him. “I spent the first year with him and the second, after his regiment was sent to the Peninsula, at Leyland Abbey in Kent with my in-laws.”

“And you fell out of love because of his injuries?”

“No.” She gazed broodingly at him for a few moments. She ought to repel him by telling him how impertinent and intrusive his question was. “It did not take me long after my marriage to discover what I ought to have realized before. He could not live without the admiration of men and the adulation of women. He was handsome and dashing and charming. Everyone adored him. But he—”

Ah, she really ought not to be talking so about her own husband.

“But he adored no one except himself?” he suggested.

How could he have guessed that? But he was exactly
right. Matthew had seen everyone beyond himself as nothing more than an attentive, admiring audience. She doubted there had ever been anyone in his life whom he really knew or wanted to know, herself included. Even during the last five years he had seen her as he wanted to see her, an obedient and attentive wife, created for his comfort. He had never
known
her. Not even half.

“His wounds did not change him?” he asked.

“Oh, they did. Or perhaps they changed only the circumstances of his life rather than his essential character.” She turned her gaze on the fire. “His nose had been cut by a saber and broken. His face was not very badly disfigured after it had healed, but he refused to be seen by anyone except his valet and me. He would not have a mirror in his room. He was crushed by what he thought of as the loss of his good looks, as though they were his very identity. If his health had been good apart from that relatively minor disfigurement, perhaps he would have recovered some of his old confidence and swagger. But his health was
not
good.”

“Beatrice tells me you were devoted to him,” he said.

“How could I not be?” She looked back at him. “He was my husband, and I cared about him. I ought not to have said anything negative about him. He is not here to contradict me or to retaliate with a listing of all
my
shortcomings.”

“Sometimes, as I told you a couple of days ago,” he said, “one needs to speak from the heart to people who understand and can be relied upon to keep a confidence.”

“And I can rely upon you?” she asked. “Even though you are little more than a stranger to me?”

“You may rely upon my discretion.”

She believed him. She remembered what he had said about his friends at Penderris Hall.

“He did not deserve such a very harsh and prolonged
ending to his life,” she said. “I never ever wished that for him.”

“And you do not deserve to be left feeling guilty that you are still alive,” he said. “I told you about Hugo, Lord Trentham, who went out of his mind after successfully leading a Forlorn Hope in Spain. His chief torment—it plagued him for years after and still does to a certain degree—was that he survived intact while all his men either died or were horribly injured. Yet he led that attack of volunteers from the front with extraordinary courage. You must forgive yourself for being alive, Mrs. McKay, and for wishing to go on living.”

“And for wanting to dance?” She half smiled at him.

“And even for wanting to ride.”

“Enough of me and my petty miseries,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “What of you? Why exactly are you staying in such a remote corner of England with your sister? It seems a very retired sort of life for a gentleman of your age.”

“My age?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Your face has known suffering,” she said, feeling the heat of a flush in her cheeks. “You could be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. Or even—”

“I am twenty-nine,” he said. “Beatrice needed a few more weeks at home to recover from her indisposition over the winter, but it was necessary for Gramley to go up to London to take his seat in the House of Lords. Their boys are away at school. I had nothing better to do with my time, so I came here to keep her company.”

“Lady Gramley is fortunate to have such an attentive brother,” she said.

“You are not so fortunate in your brother?” he asked. “Your half brother?”

“John is a clergyman and has the charge of a busy parish and of a wife and three children,” she told him.
“And he was opposed to our father marrying my mother.”

“Why?” he asked. “Just because she was not
his
mother?”

“At least partly for that reason, I am sure,” she said. “His mother had been much respected and beloved by all her neighbors.”

He was looking closely at her. “And your mother was not?”

She ought to just say yes or no and leave it at that.

“My mother was an actress when my father met her in London,” she said. “She was also the daughter of a Welshman and a Gypsy. It was not a combination designed to endear her to her stepson. Or to the more genteel of my father’s neighbors, especially when she was so much younger than he and so beautiful and vibrant.”

“Ah,” he said and regarded her in silence for a few moments while she waited for him to continue. This was the moment, perhaps, when he would recover his manners and take a hasty leave—or as hasty as he was able without making his distaste too obvious. “That would explain your vividly dark coloring. I have wondered where the foreign blood came from. It comes from your Gypsy grandmother.”

“It is not really foreign blood, though, is it?” she said. “There have been Gypsies in Britain for generations. But there has not been much intermarriage and they have kept their distinctive looks.”

He regarded her quietly again, but there was a slight smile on his face. She could not decipher its meaning.

“Is she still living?” he asked. “Your grandmother, I mean? Or your grandfather?”

“My grandmother left to return to her own people when my mother was an infant,” she said. “I know nothing of my grandfather except his nationality. My mother left Wales at the age of seventeen and never went
back. She almost never talked about her past. Perhaps she would have done if she had lived longer.”

Silence stretched between them again.

“Perhaps,” she said, “you feel the need to leave now, Sir Benedict?”

“Because I am compromising your virtue?” he asked. “Or because you are half Gypsy and may compromise mine?”

“One quarter,” she said testily. “I am one quarter Gypsy.”

“Ah, well, I am reassured, then,” he said. “One half might have been difficult to overlook.”

She looked sharply at him. His face was sober, but there was laughter in his eyes.

“Has it dogged you through your life?” he asked. “The fact that you have Gypsy blood, that is? And it is impossible for you to hide it. It may be only one quarter of your heritage, but it accounts for almost the whole of your looks.”

She lifted her chin and said nothing.

“All your very
beautiful
looks,” he added. “I am sorry. I have embarrassed you on an issue about which you seem sensitive. Yes, Mrs. McKay, I do feel the need to take my leave. But for propriety’s sake.
Your
propriety.”

She had been feeling uncomfortable with him and irritated that he had somehow persuaded her to reveal such private aspects of her life. How did he
do
that? Was it just that she was unaccustomed to having social dealings with anyone? But she was not ready yet to be alone.

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked him. “It is what you admitted a few minutes ago—that you came to see
me
.”

“I did not expect to find you here alone,” he protested.

“But you did. And you stayed.”

“I did,” he agreed. He lifted a hand to rub a finger along the side of his nose. “I certainly did not want to see you last week. I had wronged you horribly and I hated having to come to make my apology. I did not much want to see you two days ago, but since I was the one to suggest that you call on Beatrice, it would have seemed mean to sneak away on my horse and have you find no one home at all.”

“You saw me coming, then?” she asked him. “You were returning from your ride?”

“I was just setting out, actually,” he said. “And, yes, I saw you. And I enjoyed our conversation in the garden. I suppose I have been starved for female company, entirely by my own fault, and you seemed a safe companion.”

“Safe?”

“You are a widow and only partway through your mourning period.” He grimaced. “I apologize. I am making a mess of this. I am not interested in any flirtation. I am not in search of a wife. I—”

“And if you were,” she said, “you would be searching in the wrong place. I am
not
in the market for a husband.”

“No,” he said. “Of course not. I enjoyed your companionship a few days ago, Mrs. McKay. It is not often one can relax with a member of the opposite sex who is not a relative.”

“And so I am safe because I am a recent widow,” she said. “But what if I were
not
still in mourning?”

He stared at her for a few moments.

“Then you would not seem safe at all,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I would be tempted to … engage your interest,” he said.

“My affections, do you mean?”

“Affection is not always necessary.”

She settled her back against the cushions behind her. “You mean you would be tempted to seduce me?”

“Absolutely not.” He frowned. “Seduction is onesided. It suggests a certain degree of coercion or at least of deception.”

Samantha could actually feel her heart thumping in her chest. She could hear it pulsing in her ears. “Sir Benedict,” she said, “how has our conversation come to take this turn?”

He smiled at her suddenly, and there was a strange fluttering low in her abdomen, for it was a smile of considerable charm. It was almost boyish—except that it was not really boyish at all.

Oh, this was absolutely not safe! How dared he? She really ought not to have let him stay.

“I believe it must have a great deal to do with the absence of Lady Matilda,” he said. “I doubt we would have spoken of much other than the weather and the state of one another’s health if she had been here.”

“No, indeed,” she agreed fervently. “But we need not worry anyway, need we? I am a recent widow and so I am safe company.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

“What a very unmannerly question,” she said. “A woman never tells, sir. Younger than you, though. I believe my first impression of you was an accurate one after all. All that language and bad temper! You are no gentleman.”

But she spoiled the effect of her words by laughing. He smiled back at her.

“I am going to ring for the tea tray,” she said, getting to her feet. “Would you like something other than tea?”

“Sherry, if there is any.”

She pulled the bell rope. Tramp raised his chin for a moment, sensed that her rising did not offer any treat
for himself, and lowered it again onto Sir Benedict’s right boot. Silly dog. Did he not realize that the man did not like him?

She gave the order to Rose but did not immediately sit down again. She felt uncomfortable and moved to the window, where she stood looking out. The rain had not eased.

He would be tempted to engage her interest if she were not a recent widow, he had openly admitted. She ought to have crossed the distance between them there and then and slapped his face. Or she ought to have demanded that he leave.

But it was by far the nicest thing anyone had said to her for a long, long time.

Oh, dear, she feared she would hug to herself the memory of his impudent words for days to come. How pathetic she was!