The Return of Lord Conistone (18 page)

She gasped. But she kept her head high and said coolly, ‘Captain Bryant, if you intend to insult me, then I warn
you that I’ll walk away from you this minute. Yes, we
have
received money; but it’s from the Stancliffe estate, not from Lord Conistone, and it is money that was rightly owed to us. Having said all of that, it’s really none of your business!’

‘Oh, Verena,’ he groaned, ‘I meant no offence! But I still think you should treat Conistone with the utmost caution!’

‘Easy enough,’ she replied shortly, ‘since I have not seen him for weeks’.

‘But he will be back!’ He was blocking her path. ‘And I want to ask you—when he was last here, was he asking you, perhaps, about your father’s private papers, his diary, even?’

Her heart began to thump.

Martin was going on, desperately, ‘Conistone
has
asked you about your father’s papers, hasn’t he? Do you know
why
he had to hurry off?’

She was feeling rather overwhelmed now, with the heat and Martin’s intense stare. ‘I don’t actually consider it any of my business’.

‘But it is, because he’s been deceiving you! I heard in London that he was sailing to the island of Jersey for a grand ball, where he—and his idle friend Stewart—were the very special guests of a wealthy French Countess!’

‘Lord Conistone has his own life to lead,’ she breathed.

‘But he deceives everyone so thoroughly! My guess, Verena, is that as well as dallying with this Countess, he’s making money out of the war with some kind of despicable profiteering, while others fight, and, yes, die for their country! How can you have anything to do with him?’

Her mouth was dry.
In Jersey, partying. Profiteering. A wealthy French Countess…
. Oh, God. Was Lucas fluent in French as well as Portuguese endearments?

She replied steadily, ‘I’m really not interested in gossip, Captain. And I’m leaving now—I have business back at the house. Please do not follow me’.

She turned and walked away, her head held high, though inside she was in a turmoil of bitter hurt. She could hear Martin coming after her. ‘Verena, please! I just don’t want you to be hurt by that arrogant wretch Conistone…’

Too late.

If she’d held a faint hope before today that her father’s warning not to trust Lucas might be wrong, then that hope had now died a cruel death. Martin Bryant might be a fool in many ways, but he was doing his duty. He wasn’t to know that his duty involved breaking her heart. She hurried on quickly down the path, knowing, of course, that Bentinck would be following her. Bentinck would have seen her encounter with Captain Bryant. Bentinck would report it.

I must keep busy. Wycherley is safe—I must not think about anything else.

Oh, Lucas.

* * *

Verena had worked out ways of keeping herself distracted. One method was to absorb herself with the household accounts in her father’s study, and her head was aching with figures by the time she heard her sisters returning from the festivities up on the Common shortly after one. They called for her and she joined them with a forced smile; Pippa was there with her twins, and Izzy chattered away about the excitement on the Common that morning, and the even greater excitement of their forthcoming journey that afternoon.

Pippa’s little boys were hungry and she turned to Verena. ‘Be an angel and fetch them something, would you? Just
something simple, love! Thinly sliced bread and butter, perhaps, and a little milk!’

It had been Cook’s morning off, and she wasn’t back yet. In the cool quiet of the kitchen, Verena busied herself putting on one of Cook’s starched aprons, finding a fresh loaf and slicing it for the children. But her mind was still reeling.

In Jersey, partying. Profiteering. A French Countess…
. All this, on top of her father’s dire warning. She rested her hands on the cool marble worktop and bowed her head in despair.

She thought she heard a horse arriving in the courtyard outside. Heard a man’s low voice, talking to Turley. David, probably, come to join his family.

She pulled herself together and started buttering the bread. Noticing suddenly that she’d knocked some crumbs to the floor, she dropped to her knees and began to brush them up.

She heard light footsteps in the passageway outside, and Izzy’s merry voice. ‘Verena, haven’t you got the bread and butter yet?’

Then Izzy came into the kitchen and pulled up at the sight of Verena on her knees with brush and dustpan in her hands. ‘Verena, honestly, big sister, just look at you! What would Lucas think? You look like a housemaid in that apron, on your hands and knees, you foolish creature!’

There were more footsteps drawing near, heavier this time. Then a drawling male voice that made her blood race said, ‘Lucas would think—how can a younger sister let her older sister do all these chores, without even offering to help?’

He was here. Lucas was here.

V
erena got swiftly to her feet. The tall, broad-shouldered figure of Lord Lucas Conistone filled the doorway. There were dark shadows under his eyes and stubble on his chin. His black hair was ungroomed.

But he still sent her senses reeling. He looked every bit the handsome, noble rake. He looked—
dangerous.

And wasn’t he dangerous? Hadn’t he stolen her heart, and broken it into a thousand pieces?
Why was he here?

Izzy was blushing to the roots of her blonde hair. ‘Oh, Lucas, Verena’s always like this, always busy!’

Verena pushed the plate of buttered bread towards her sister. ‘Here, Izzy. Take this through, will you?’ She ran her hands through her hair, feeling quite sick. Began to tidy away the knife and the butter dish.

Izzy picked up the plate and gave Lucas a sunny smile. ‘Of course. Sorry, Verena. I’m so glad you’re back, Lucas! We’re going to
London
this afternoon!’ And she hurried out of the room with the bread and butter.

Lucas turned to Verena. She kept her face from him still, as she brushed some crumbs from the table.

He crossed the floor towards her, tall and magnificently male in his long grey riding coat. His suntanned features were emphasised by his thick dark hair; his muslin neckcloth lay in negligent folds. She remembered how he had kissed her, how he had caressed her. And the longing to be in his arms again throbbed helplessly through her.

He said, quietly, ‘Are you going to London with them, Verena?’

‘No. No, I’m staying here…’ She was putting the loaf away, still not meeting his eyes.

But he was taking her hand, and his touch seared her. ‘You should not let them treat you as they do’.

She snatched her hand away, the terrible heartache racking her.
Partying… a French Countess…
. She swung round to face him. ‘They’re my family, Lucas. I do not mind’.

He met her eyes gravely. ‘I’m sorry I was late for the celebration on the Common. I was—delayed. Are you very angry with me?’ His dark grey gaze was burning into her. Verena felt utter despair. Her body’s message was to let him hold her, let him love her.

You must not trust him.

She tilted her face to his defiantly. Saw the sudden, dangerous narrowing of his eyes. ‘Lucas,’ she breathed, ‘when you were last here, you made me an offer you cannot possibly keep, and I cannot possibly accept’.

‘I asked you to marry me,’ he said levelly. ‘I have every intention of keeping my word’.

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘You felt—
forced
into offering for me’.

He ran his hand tiredly through his dark tousled hair. Suddenly she realised he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. He grated, ‘No one forces me to do a damned thing. Why exactly was I forced into offering for you?’

‘My—my behaviour that night in your room was shameful,’ she whispered.

His narrowed eyes were bleak in the harsh structure of his face. ‘Your behaviour was natural and exquisite. Tell me, Verena, tell me what has changed since I was last here’.

She knew her face was as pale as his. ‘You went away. You said you were going to London, but you
didn’t…’

‘Who told you that? And what else have you heard?’ Lucas’s voice rasped like gravel.

‘Does it matter?’ She was utterly shaken because
he had not denied it
. ‘Lucas, you told me to trust you, but how can I, when you
will not tell me the truth?’
It was a last, desperate plea. She wanted to be wrong. She wanted to be in his arms. She wanted so much to be kissed by him, cherished by him, that it hurt.

He said, dangerously quiet, ‘I have to lead my own life, Verena’.

She felt her heart was breaking. ‘But if you just
told
everyone what you do, there wouldn’t be these rumours, don’t you see? About your—your…’

‘My cowardice, you mean?’

‘Lucas, I’ve never believed that, never!’

But he was white now around the mouth. Every muscle of his powerful body seemed charged with anger. He was a strong, tense, male animal towering above her, and then he was saying, in a cool voice, ‘So the gossips have been at work. When we were last together, I was under the impression—forgive me—that in your eyes I could do no wrong. Now someone less gentlemanly than me might infer from your behaviour, on the night in question, that you were just possibly thinking of using me to save your home, your family and your much-talked-of tenants and villagers. Verena, the saviour of the people’.

Oh, dear God
. He was accusing her of trying to entrap
him that night. He had the same opinion of her as his grandfather. Mortification flooded her cheeks and retreated, leaving her feeling sick to her stomach.
The heir of Stancliffe. Do not trust him.

She had done far worse than that.

She had given her heart, her whole being, to him.

Verena managed to say, ‘If you think that I intentionally deceived you, then I—I will somehow return the money to your grandfather as soon as I can’.

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculously noble,’ he cried. ‘That sum means nothing to my grandfather. And I certainly won’t let you ruin your family for the sake of your wretched pride’.

Verena could hardly speak. ‘Lucas,’ she whispered, ‘I know—everyone knows—that your grandfather and my father had a terrible argument before he went away. Could you tell me—did
you
argue with my father also?’

For a moment he said nothing. His hooded grey eyes were almost black. She was more than ever aware of the concealed strength of mind and purpose that emanated from his powerful figure.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Verena, just trust me for a little longer, I beg you’. He spread out his finely shaped hands, a proud man, almost pleading with her.

But he had not answered her question
. ‘I cannot trust you, Lucas,’ she breathed. ‘I cannot’.

He nodded slowly, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his open greatcoat as he endeavoured to steady his ragged breathing. He was rubbing his upper arm absently where the bullet had caught him when he came to her rescue. The memory of that night, when he’d saved her from her attackers and kissed her so tenderly, seared her heart.

He said quietly, ‘Can you just bring yourself to answer one last question? Before he left, did your father say
anything to you about some old mines he’d discovered in Portugal? Did he show you maps? Believe me, I beg you, when I say I have your well-being in mind’.

Mines. Maps. This was exactly what Martin had warned her of.
‘Conistone is making money out of the war,’
Martin had said bitterly,
‘while others fight and, yes, die for their country…’

Oh, God. Even now, Lucas was using her, exploiting the hold he still had over her, even though she knew now that she was nothing, less than nothing to him.

‘I’ve told you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve told you all along that I don’t know of any maps, or the diary you keep asking me about! Lucas, if you have any regard for me at all, please leave me alone, please don’t try to see me again…’

He stood very still. His eyes were hooded. Only a muscle clenching in his jaw betrayed the emotions sweeping through him. He said at last, almost sadly, ‘You know, you could have
talked
to me, Verena, instead of listening to everything that was bad about me. Yes, I have enemies, but you could have tried to trust me as you used to, instead of believing every stupid rumour that pulled me down’.

But one of those warnings was from her own father
. And how could she tell him that? She gazed up at him, white-faced. ‘Lucas, I’m truly sorry, believe me, that everything’s gone so wrong’.

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ he said wearily. ‘But I would count it as a great personal favour if you would refrain from talking about everything of a personal nature that has passed between us’.

‘You must know it is hardly likely’. Her voice was low, because there was a great lump in her throat that threatened to choke her.

His hand reached out to cup her cheek gently. ‘Never think ill of yourself for the time we shared together, will
you,
minha querida?’
His voice was suddenly soft. And so, so tender. ‘And Verena?’