Despite his occasional self-righteousness, they had always worked well together. So well, in fact, that he had sometimes hinted at the possibility of a closer partnership. Alys always ignored the hints. Quite apart from the fact that she could not imagine a lifetime spent with a man of blameless rectitude, she knew that Junius had a very inaccurate picture of her true character, and that he would not approve of the real Alys.
Besides, while Junius's lofty mind said that she would be a suitable God-fearing partner for a man of the cloth, it was young, golden, frivolous Meredith that his eyes followed hungrily when he called at Rose Hall. Like many a man before him, the vicar's higher and lower selves were not in agreement. Alys had once given him a copy of the writings of St. Augustine for Christmas, but he hadn't seen the joke.
Junius broke the lengthening silence to say in a hard voice, “One of the men he killed in a duel was the husband of a woman who had run away to Davenport. He killed the man, then refused to marry his mistress, even though she was pregnant.”
Alys inhaled, shocked in spite of herself. “She was carrying his child, he shot her husband, and he wouldn't marry her?” she repeated in disbelief.
The vicar nodded, pleased to have pierced Alys's tolerance. “That is an example of the âgentleman' you are defending. The woman involved was ruined, of course. Davenport was cut in Polite Society, but suffered no real retribution for his wickedness.”
Alys had long since learned that every story had at least two sides, but it was hard to imagine anything that would justify her employer's callousness in this case. Wondering why it was so important to her to think well of him, she said mildly, “I think Mr. Davenport is here to stay, Junius. Wouldn't it be better to hope for the best about him, rather than to assume the worst?”
He nodded glumly. “Once more, you are wise. We owe it to the good souls of the parish to do what we can to ameliorate that libertine's influence.”
Intent on conflict rather than reconciliation, he missed the sense of her words. She also wished irritably that Junius would stop talking about “good souls,” since the individuals in question were very much alive, opinionated, and capable of drawing their own conclusions. A vicar might have a flock, but that didn't make the inhabitants of Strickland sheep. However, it seemed a poor moment to take him to task, so Alys bent her efforts to mollifying his hurt dignity.
Her private hope was that her new employer wouldn't reform too much. No matter how disgraceful his past, she rather liked him the way he was. And while his behavior to the vicar had been thoroughly reprehensible, there was no denying that it was also very, very amusing. If Alys was as good a person as Junius thought, she would have found no humor in the confrontation.
Her guest took his leave a few minutes later. After securing the house and checking that Peter and Meredith had retired to their rooms, Alys decided to make an early night of it herself. Spring was her busiest time of the year, and tomorrow the laborers would begin setting potatoes, one of the estate's most important crops.
But sleep eluded her as she lay alone in her wide bed, a shaft of moonlight in her eyes and her blankets twisted from restless tossing. It was one of the great ironies of Alys Weston's life that she, who was too tall and alarming to attract any serious suitors, adored men. She liked talking to them, liked seeing how their minds and personalities differed from women's. She enjoyed watching them and took great, if surreptitious, pleasure in the powerful male bodies of the laborers who worked for her.
Sometimes, like now, her rest was troubled by hot, fierce dreams of what it would be like to lie in a man's arms, to give herself as freely as the wildest creature in the forest. If Junius Harper could see her secret yearnings, he would be shocked to the core that a respectable female could be so shameless.
But she was not really respectable, though she pretended to be. As foolish and undignified as lust was, she was unable to deny its existence in her. If she had been born with half of Meredith's beauty, she might have become a great wanton.
No, not a wanton. With a romanticism even more embarrassing than her inappropriate desires, her deepest, most carefully hidden wish was to have one true love, a man who would adore and cherish only her. In return, she would give heart, mind, soul, and body. Oh, yes, most definitely her body.
It was humiliating to admit that she was as foolish as any schoolroom girl who read the kind of novels Junius deplored, but Alys refused to be less than honest with herself. Had she not been such a hopeless romantic, Randolph's casual rejection would not have been so devastating. She would never have been so hurt that she could voluntarily turn her back on her heritage.
But she
had
been romantic and vulnerable, and so she had run away from everything she had ever known. For a dozen years she had buried her passions behind a facade of rigid propriety. It was bad enough to be a wanton at heart, but she'd be damned if she would let herself appear ludicrous as well. She had no doubt that most people would find it deliciously amusing that a great horse like her pined for male attention as much as any fashionable beauty.
She reminded herself that it was only natural that her fantasies currently revolved around Reginald Davenport. On a purely animal level, he was the most attractive man she had ever met, his lean, powerful body radiating sexual authority. His dark coloring gave him a faintly exotic air, like a gypsy or a pirate, and she was fascinated by his light blue eyes, whose expression could range from warm teasing to icy mockery.
Blast it, she must stop thinking this way! Disgusted with herself, Alys tried to banish Davenport's too-vivid image. As she became more accustomed to his intense masculinity, her reaction would surely moderate. She hoped so, because even fantasizing about him held an element of danger. She might start to feel that she and her new employer shared some kindred feeling, but in truth he was a stranger, a man who had killed other men, one who was dissolute and unpredictable. She should be grateful that to Davenport she was merely an employee, scarcely more than a servant. He hardly seemed aware that she was a woman.
The thought was depressing rather than soothing.
She rolled onto her stomach, feeling the faint roughness of the sheets against her bare legs as her nightgown twisted up around her thighs. In a burst of frustration she balled one hand into a fist and pounded her pillow. It wasn't fair.
It bloody wasn't fair!
She wanted to shout her anger to the heavens, yet she was not even sure what she cursed.
After half a dozen blows, her anger ebbed away, leaving her depressed and resigned. She was luckier than most people. Having walked away from position and fortune, she had now achieved comfort and the satisfaction of work well done. She had the respect of those close to her, and the love of the three young people she had taken in. Indeed, they gave her much more than she gave them. Given all her blessings, it was not seemly to curse the fact that the Creator had deemed her unworthy of a mate.
With a sigh, Alys rolled onto her side and wrapped her arms tight around a pillow, as if it could ease the empty ache inside of her. The pillow was a poor substitute for a hard male body, but it was the best she would ever have.
Chapter 8
Reggie was in a vile humor when he left Rose Hall. Considering the pleasure he had always taken in setting people's backs up, it was surprising how irritated he was by what had happened. For all his wicked reputation, he himself would never have created an embarrassing scene on a social occasion, in front of women and young people. It took a respectable person like Junius Harper to behave so badly.
His mood was not improved when the only drink he could find in the Strickland liquor cabinet was a bottle of sherry. He was not partial to sherry. Worse, the quantity was nowhere near enough to drown the effects of the vicar. Swearing, he made a mental note to ask Mrs. Herald about the large order for wine and spirits he'd given her.
It didn't take long to finish the bottle. He considered going out to a tavern, but the hour was late and country watering holes wouldn't keep London hours. Much as he wanted a decent drink, he didn't fancy the picture of himself storming around rural Dorset looking for one.
By three in the morning, as he tossed sleepless and still angry, he was wishing he had forsaken dignity and sought out a tavern. The house seemed enormous in its emptiness, the creaks of floorboards and windows echoing through the hollow rooms and halls. Mac Cooper should arrive tomorrow, thank God. Other servants would also move in over the next few days. Surely that would make a difference.
Â
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His temper didn't improve until the next morning, when he met his steward in her office. He found her standing in front of her desk, regarding a list of tasks with a small, distracted frown. She wore a pair of well-fitted buff pantaloons, and the sight of her glorious legs cheered him immensely. As a pleasant bonus, this morning her shining hair fell down her back in a single thick braid.
After a brief exchange of greetings, he said, “Sorry to keep you from your work, but this will only take a few minutes.”
She perched on the front edge of her desk and pulled the braid over her shoulder, toying with the end. Not meeting his eyes, she said, “I'm sorry about what happened last night. Mr. Harper is a very worthy and honorable man, but ...” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word.
“But he's a pompous ass?” Reggie suggested.
Her mismatched eyes gleamed with amusement before she said repressively, “I was going to say that his high ideals and blameless conduct lead him to be somewhat less than tolerant.”
“Tactfully put, my dear.” The endearment slipped out without his conscious thought. Wondering what it would take to persuade the dimples to appear, he continued, “Is his blameless conduct a result of his high ideals, or the fact that he has never been tempted?”
This time a smile escaped her. Repressing it swiftly, she lifted her head and tossed the braid back over her shoulder. “Junius is not entirely free of temptation. When Meredith is around, he gets a ... a hungry expression. But I think most normal human vices don't interest him.”
“Sounds like a dashed dull dog to me.” Reggie ambled over to the bookcase and pulled out a copy of
Every Man His Own Farrier
, the horseman's bible, and idly leafed through it.
“He is, rather,” she admitted in a burst of candor, “but he has done a great deal of good in the parish. He takes his clerical responsibilities far more seriously than many men in his position.”
“Naturally that responsibility includes condemning the ungodly, of which I am a preeminent example.” He shelved his book, then turned and leaned his powerful shoulders against the bookcase, his voice wry.
Alys gave him a long, level look. “From what I've seen, the wickedest thing about you is your sense of humor, which is quite reprehensible.”
He chuckled. “I won't deny it. Officious idiots certainly bring out the worst in me, and your Mr. Harper is a superb example of the breed.” With an edge of malicious satisfaction he added, “I wonder if he has yet realized that I now control the living of All Souls. Politeness on his part would have been a good deal more politic.”
Her eyes widened. “Heavens, I never thought of that. I don't suppose that Junius has, either. He received the benefice because his grandfather had some connection with the late Lord Wargrave.” Uneasily she added, “Will you dismiss him?”
Her employer's smile became downright devilish. “There's an old adage along the lines that forgiveness is the ultimate revenge, and indifference the ultimate insult. Ignoring Harper will provoke him far more than ousting him from the living. He seems like the sort who would thrive on martyrdom.”
Alys stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what she heard, then gave way to the laughter she had been trying to suppress ever since Davenport had come in. She finally regained enough sobriety to gasp, “You are the most impossible man! And quite right. His influential relations would soon find him another living, and it would afford Junius no end of satisfaction to be persecuted for his righteousness.”
She stopped guiltily. “I shouldn't have said either of those things. I'm sorry.”
“Never apologize for telling the truth, my dear. I
am
impossible,” he said with a sardonic glint. He crossed to a chair and sat down in front of the desk, stretching out his legs and crossing one beautiful boot over the other in a negligent manner that would make a valet shudder.
Alys watched him, momentarily mesmerized by the fluent, athletic grace of his movements. Her face heated at a sudden memory of her fantasies of the night before. Devoutly hoping that Davenport was not as good at reading her as he seemed to be at understanding other people, she circled the desk to sit in her own chair. “I don't think stewards are usually addressed as âmy dear.'”
“But Miss Weston is too formal, and Lady Alys is downright intimidating,” he said, raising his dark brows in mock question. “What should I call you?”
“Well, not âmy dear.' That will give rise to exactly the kind of gossip you said you wanted to avoid. I suppose Alys would be all right.”
“How about Allie?” he suggested.
“Short for Alys? That would be fine.”
He grinned. “Actually, I was thinking of it as short for alley cat. You scratch like one.”
“Mr. Davenport,” she said frostily, while trying to repress a smile, “you are incorrigible.”
“I hope soâI work very hard at it.” His smile invited her to join him. “Try calling me Reggie. It may cure you of being respectful. It is quite impossible to take a Reggie seriously. The name implies either villainy or fatuousness.”
“And of the two, you prefer villainy?”
“Of course,” he said, brows raised. “Wouldn't you?”
“I daresay I would.” Giving up the struggle to keep a straight face, she laughed. “In my blameless and well-organized existence, I have never run into anyone like you before. Forgive me if I don't know quite how to react.”
“It's simple enough. Always tell me the truth, no matter how appalling,” he said in a light tone that did not disguise the underlying seriousness. “And remember that a life without laughter is hardly worth living.”
His words struck with surprising force. She had a sense of humorâwhat person would ever admit to not having one? She enjoyed a good joke, she laughed with the children. But it was true that over the years, laughter had always been something that came after serious work was done. It was the reward, not an integral part of life. As a child, she had been constantly drilled about her future responsibilities. As an adult, sheer survival demanded that duty always come before pleasure. Alys said, “You must think I am quite a sobersides.”
“Yesâbut not hopelessly so.” The light blue eyes had a warm glow. “I want you to think about what improvements you'd like to see at Stricklandâequipment, buildings, stock, whatever. I have some ideas, but I want to hear your suggestions as well.”
“You want to reinvest the income in the estate?” she asked, her surprise all too obvious.
“Did you think that I was going to take the income and gamble it all away?” His deep voice was cool now.
Well, he'd said to tell the truth, no matter how appalling. “It was a logical assumption,” she admitted. “A good part of your cherished reputation concerns gambling.”
“I always gambled to make money, Allie. Now that I have a good income, I don't need to play deeply.”
She tilted her head and considered that. “I usually think of gamesters as losing fortunes. But if there are losers, there must also be winners.”
“Exactly, and I have usually been one of the winners.” His half smile was rueful. “I'll admit there have been times when I've been badly dipped because of a long run of bad luck, or because I was too drunk or pigheaded to quit. But over the last twenty years of gaming, I've won thousands of pounds more than I've lost. That's what has bridged the gap between my allowance and my style of living. Vice isn't cheap, you know.”
“How did you manage to win so often?”
“Honestly, if that's what you're wondering,” he said with an icy edge in his voice.
“I didn't doubt it, Reggie,” she said mildly.
“Sorry.” He grimaced. “I've won so consistently that my honesty has been questioned more than once. The trick to winning is to avoid games that are purely chance. A man who restricts himself to forms of gambling that require skill should be able to win more than he loses. At least he will if he develops the skill.”
She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the desk. “This sounds interesting. Tell me more.”
He thought a moment. “Well, take hazard as an example. It's a dice game, and the object is to throw certain number combinations. Since some combinations are easier to achieve than others, a knowledge of the mathematical odds makes it possible for an astute player to do very well, especially if he hedges his bets.”
He grinned at her expression. “Am I losing you? You may take my word for it that most gamesters have neither the ability nor the desire to calculate odds, particularly not in the heat of play. There are also games where remembering the cards that have been played greatly improves your chances.” He shrugged. “I have a good memory.”
And also, she would guess, excellent judgment and nerves of steel. Intrigued by this glimpse into a masculine world, she asked, “What about the turf?”
He shook his head. “Very chancy. No matter how well a man knows horseflesh, there are too many variables, both in horses and riders. I generally don't bet much on races unless I'm riding or driving myself. Then if I lose, at least I know whom to blame.”
“And you don't lose often.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Losing is a bore, Allie. And I dislike boredom of all things.” He stood, looking down at her from his great height. “I'll leave you to your labors. Do they still do the sheep washing at the same pool in the stream, by the clump of beeches?”
She nodded. “As far as I know, the sheep have been washed there for centuries. Things don't change very fast in Dorset.”
“The land might not, but the people do.” Putting his hat on, he touched his fingers to the brim in a brief salute. “As I recall, the sheep have usually been gathered in by noon. I'll be there then.”
After he left, Alys looked at her list of tasks for the day without seeing it. She supposed it wasn't surprising that a rake would be physically attractive, nor that he would have charm.
But who would have guessed that a rake would be so amusing?
Â
Â
Back at the manor house, Reggie sought out his housekeeper and with a few short, sharp words ensured that in the future there would always be an adequate supply of alcohol in the house, no matter what else was neglected. Then he went to his study and started to make plans.
For years he had wanted to breed horses, mostly hunters, with the best trained for steeplechase racing. He'd never had the means, but now his dream was within reach. Bucephalus would be the foundation. The stallion had superb bloodlines, incredible stamina and jumping ability, and speed that would do credit to a racehorse. Reggie had won the horse at hazard, playing an earl who had no talent for calculating odds.
In the short term, the existing stables would be adequate, but new paddocks and training rings would be required, and as many good mares as he could afford. In the long run ... His pen flew across the page, estimating costs, jotting questions to himself, laying down the outlines of what needed to be done.
He became totally absorbed, and the hours passed unnoticed. It was early afternoon when his concentration was broken by the entrance of one of the housemaids, a rosy young creature called Gillie. Like all of the maids, she looked at him as if half hoping, half fearing that he would pounce on her. “Excuse me, sir, you have a visitor,” she announced as she handed over a calling card.
Jeremy Stanton, Fenton Hall, Dorsetshire.
The man whom Mrs. Herald had said was his nearest maternal relation. Reggie stood and stretched, then went to the front hall.