The Outrageous Debutante (17 page)

‘I am sure Mistress Drew and your groom would appreciate the opportunity to rest and refresh themselves.’ The arch to his brows became more pronounced.

‘Very well, my lord.’ She accepted the inevitable with a gracious but chilling smile. ‘It will be my pleasure.’ She had noted the hint—the merest hint of arrogant criticism. How dare he make her aware of her responsibilities!

Lord Nicholas nodded as if he had no doubts of her acquiescence. ‘I will go on up to the house. Furness here will take your animals and direct you. Mrs Grant, my housekeeper, will see to your comfort.’ He turned on his heel and strode off towards the main wing of the house, leaving the ladies to follow at their leisure and Dacre to remain to discuss the finer points of horseflesh and enjoy a tankard of ale with Furness.

‘I told you we should not have come!’ Agnes’s voice took on the tone of Thea’s childhood nursemaid. ‘Why would you not take my advice?’

‘I know, I know! But we did and we have met him. Don’t tell my mother!’

‘Hmm!’ Agnes huffed, but beyond glaring at her wilful mistress, she knew there was no ground to be made in saying more. At least she could rely on Lord Nicholas to behave as a gentleman should. His manners, in the circumstances, had been impeccable. She could not but admire him.

They were welcomed into the Manor by an elderly lady, clearly a family retainer, clad in black silk with the keys of the household secured by a silver chatelaine to her waist. She curtsied with placid composure, smiled in welcome and showed them into a sunny parlour where she invited them to sit at their ease. ‘We do not see many visitors these days at Aymestry. Master Nicholas does not stay here often,’ she explained, with the familiarity
of long service to the family. ‘It is good to have people about the place. Sometimes it is too quiet. His lordship said to bring you whatever you required. I shall bring tea, perhaps?’

‘If you would be so kind, Mrs Grant. It is a beautiful old house.’ Thea cast her eyes in admiration round the cosily panelled room, in the Tudor wing of the house, with its polished furniture and rich deep-red drapes.

‘Indeed it is. I wish … But there. Master Nicholas will do just as he wishes! I shall bring the tea tray.’ Leaving Thea to contemplate the knowledge that
Master Nicholas
probably always did
exactly
as he wished. Only to be interrupted by the return of the gentleman himself with Mrs Grant and the tea tray hard on his heels.

Without a hostess, Thea was called upon to preside over the little ceremony of brewing the tea which she did with consummate skill, calling on all her social skills to remain serenely at ease. As she poured the fragrant brew into delicate china cups, Lord Nicholas and Miss Wooton-Devereux indulged in polite and meaningless conversation about the scenery, the condition of the roads, the prospect of the harvest, the horses. Both lady and gentleman found themselves most adept at exchanging a number of opinions, in which neither had any particular interest at that moment, and in the coolest manner possible. And between them Agnes for the most part sat and listened. When called upon to give an opinion, she did so in brusque but not unfriendly manner, intent on watching the skilled thrust and parry that disguised far deeper emotions, emotions which had the edge of a honed duelling blade.

It was a relief for everyone when conversation was interrupted by a distant rumble of thunder.

‘We should be going, Miss Thea,’ Agnes interrupted with a glance at the thunder clouds now clear through the window. ‘It may be nothing, just a summer shower, but we should not wish to be drenched.’

‘Too late, I fear.’ Nicholas stood as a flash of lightning pierced the shadows. They had failed to see the growing gloom in the room. ‘I will ask Mrs Grant to prepare rooms. You will stay here for the night.’

Again the presumption that they would do as he said! Well, she would not. ‘No, my lord. There is no need. I am sure it will soon blow over—and we will be home before dusk.’

‘That would be a foolish decision. You will be quite safe here, Miss Wooton-Devereux.’ Nicholas’s lips curled in what might have been reassurance—or more likely a touch of derision. Thea was in no doubt. ‘Mistress Drew is chaperon enough for you, I believe. Your reputation will not suffer under my roof. Do I need to send a message so that your cousin will be at ease?’

‘I doubt she will notice our absence. She is somewhat cut off from the world.’ Thea resented the sharp cut at her previous immoderate behaviour but had little choice except to let it go, even if she had to clench her hands into fists within the folds of the dark velvet to achieve it. The rain began to beat against the window, heralding an imminent downpour. It prompted her decision even as she hated the necessity. ‘It seems that we must accept your kind invitation, my lord. We are most grateful.’

‘Very well.’ His lordship gave no indication that he had heard anything in her reply but the gratitude she professed. He inclined his head. ‘Perhaps you will dine with me later? Mrs Grant will arrange all. Now … if you will excuse me, I need to conduct some business before the rain gets any heavier.’

And that was it. All icy good manners.
Damn him!

‘I told you—’ Agnes began as soon as the door had closed after him.

‘I know! Don’t fuss.’ Thea allowed her ruffled sensibilities to show. Why did she feel that she had been outmanoeuvred? ‘I freely admit I was in the wrong. Does that make you feel any better?’

‘No. It does not! We should not be staying here.’

‘I know that too, Agnes.’ She allowed herself a wry smile as the absurdity and potential discomfort of the situation struck her. ‘You can sleep across the threshold of my room if it makes you feel any better.’

‘No, it won’t. Not that I would need to. I don’t know what it is between you two—but I don’t think his lordship likes you very much.’

‘Good. Neither do I like him. And that is exactly how it should be, if you recall.’ Thea stood, carefully replaced the china teacup on the tray and shook out her skirts. What was the use of regret? She must deal with what she could not change. ‘We will leave Aymestry tomorrow morning and we can forget we were ever here. All I have to do is survive an evening of dining with him.’

‘Hmm!’

‘I trust the food will be warmer than his manners!’

‘And perhaps sweeter and more palatable than yours, Miss Thea!’

On which tart word of warning, and ignoring the lady’s answering flounce, Mistress Drew stalked from the room to discover the whereabouts of Mrs Grant.

Thea was shown into a bedroom in one of the more recent additions to the house where the panelling had been replaced with papered walls in white and cream stripes. Small and intimate, full of light, she had the impression that it had once been the room of a Faringdon lady. There were no personal touches now, but a pair of delicate watercolour paintings of country scenes hung beside the fireplace, a small dressing table with a mirror graced the window embrasure and there was a lingering smell of herbs—of lavender and perhaps rosemary. The bed hangings and window drapes were old, but distinctly feminine, in pale blue embroidered silk, well cared for, and had once been very fine.

She took off the close-fitting coat of her riding habit, shook out the lace ruffles on her cuffs and brushed her heavy skirts of any lingering dust from her ride. It was the best she could do. Hot water had been provided for her, so she washed her face and combed her hair with the ivory comb thoughtfully placed for her use on the dressing table.

Then she sat and looked out of the window at the new green leaves giving shape to the herbaceous border where it bloomed against the warm stone of the kitchen garden wall.

Now what? It was all very simple, she decided. As she had told Agnes, they would dine, she would try for sweetness and a
soft response to every topic of conversation—if it killed her!—and she would leave tomorrow. There need be no complications here. But Lord Nicholas’s proximity brought a shiver of anticipation along her skin, as if a gentle breeze had got up with the onset of evening to caress her arms and throat. A heightened colour touched her cheeks with rose. Recognising it, accepting it, Thea warned herself to have a care, and believed that she could rely on Nicholas to treat her with such icy indifference and formality that she would feel no inclination to behave in a less-than-maidenly manner. She knew exactly how to conduct herself with sufficient social skills to grace any occasion.

As the light began to fade, a footman came to lead her to the dining room, again one of the old panelled rooms. Everything had been made ready, with a fire lit against the chill of the early summer evening and the dining table formally set, but with only two places. Agnes was probably tucked up in a cosy gossip with Mrs Grant, Thea decided with some envy.

Nicholas bowed Thea into the room and held her chair as she sat, before taking his own place at the opposite end. So they were to dine formally. She considered this decision on Nicholas’s part. Perhaps it was for the best.

A simple meal was served to them by two self-effacing footmen. The polished surface of the table stretched between them, weighty with silver and crystal, discouraging conversation on a personal level. The wide expanse exactly mirrored the distance between the two who shared the meal.

It was the strangest meal, Thea decided, that she had ever eaten in her life. The tension in the air robbed her of any real appetite but she did her best to do justice to Mrs Grant’s kind preparations. The conversation that flowed so easily—cool, practised, trivial, uncontroversial conversation—hid the charged undercurrent that wound the tension to snapping point, as taut as a watch spring. His face was calm, expression enigmatic. She presumed that hers was the same. Their manners could not be faulted.

But all the time that same undercurrent curled, as strong as
the lethal drag below the surface of a placid millpond, spelling disaster to the unwary. Whenever their eyes met across the expanse of china and glassware, it held them, until one of them deliberately broke the contact by sheer effort of will. It was almost a courtship, held suspended in icy restraint. Thea found that her breathing was shallow and, despite an excellent wine, her mouth was dry. The words that they addressed to each other did not express what was in their hearts. And both knew it. It was almost as if the air around them held its breath for the outcome.

Eventually the footmen withdrew, leaving fruit, sweetmeats, a decanter of port. Candles were lit against the shadows, the drapes closed, enclosing Nicholas and Theodora in a small personal world of heightened emotion. The flickering lights glowed on the soft velvet of her gown and on the bright curls of her hair. It sparked fire from the diamond pin in his cravat. Her beauty struck him once again, rare as the jewel at his throat, as she looked up from the apple that she had begun to pare. An urge to push the situation on—to some sort of conclusion—gripped him. Indeed, he realised that he had no choice.

‘Do you wish to withdraw to one of the parlours, madam? Or retire?’ His voice was low, as if deliberately controlled. It made her shiver. Here was the ideal chance to escape his dominating presence and she knew that she should take it. Then tomorrow she could leave—and the visit would be over with no lasting repercussions for either. She had made a mistake in coming here, but it would soon be rectified.

She should say yes, should return to the restful solitude of her bedchamber, where she could breathe again.

‘No. I would stay here,’ she heard herself say. Her pulse began to beat, an insistent throb in the tender hollow at the base of her throat.

‘Of course.’ He appeared to accept her decision with equanimity and poured a glass of port for both of them.

She accepted it. Raised it to her lips, took a little sip. ‘It is a beautiful house. You are very fortunate, my lord.’

He watched her, caught up by the trace of wistfulness here.
All he could think was that here was no vestige of the flighty débutante who had played fast and loose with his emotions and then deliberately driven him away, as carelessly as she might discard a dress that no longer became her. She sat at the end of the table, the candlelight in her eyes and gilding her skin, composed, beautiful and most desirable. Neither flighty nor frivolous.

‘I like it,’ he replied. ‘But it seems that I am not destined to spend much time here.’

‘So Master Furness told me. You have loyal people around you.’

‘I suppose. I inherited most of them. Perhaps I am fortunate.’ He hesitated. Then, for the first time, he introduced a personal note into the dialogue between them. ‘Where do you call home?’

‘I have never had a settled home,’ she replied willingly enough, but looked down at the rings of apple peel. ‘We have a small estate in Yorkshire, but we have tenants who occupy it because of our long absences. All I recall from when I was a young girl is living in embassies and rented town houses. Always very comfortable, some of them luxurious even. The one in Paris was so splendid as to be positively intimidating.’ She laughed a little at the memory of the overpowering grandeur. ‘But it was not home, you understand …’ Again that breath of regret, of which she was perhaps unaware.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by a faint crackle from the fire and the soft ticking of a long case clock.

Then, ‘Why did you come here today, Thea?’

She looked at him down the length of the table, astonished that he should ask so direct a question, thinking quickly. The truth could be dangerous. It could indicate the state of her heart. It could destroy all her careful and painful strategy. And she would have no one to blame but herself if she showed her vulnerability to him. Yet she found that she had no compulsion to lie.

‘Because I wanted to see your home.’

Nicholas sat for a long moment, fingers holding the stem of his glass, considering her reply.

‘Why did you deliberately reject me in London, Thea?’ Thea was not the only one driven by honesty, it seemed.

‘I did not!’ A wash of shame brought guilty colour to her face and made her dissemble, which made the guilt even stronger.