The Return of Lord Conistone. Lucy Ashford

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      ‘Such as your father’s personal possessions. Some people would pay good money for things you consider almost worthless. His papers, for example’.

      ‘His papers?’

      He’d taken her by surprise, he could see. Her bewildered eyes—amber-gold eyes, dark-lashed, beautiful—met his again in shock.

      ‘Yes,’ he went on swiftly. ‘All his records of his travels abroad. Letters. Maps, perhaps. And—he kept some kind of diary, didn’t he?’

      ‘Yes, oh, yes,’ she whispered, ‘he was always writing, about everything. But who would pay for such trifles?’

      ‘I can think of several people. In London, for example, there are Portuguese exiles from the war, rich men who would dearly love any descriptive mementoes of their homeland’. You liar, Conistone, he rebuked himself bitterly. You deceiver.

      She jerked her head up, her eyes over-bright. ‘Then I’m sorry, my lord, to have to inform you that, firstly, I would never dream of parting with my father’s private letters to me. And, secondly, he always kept his diary with him’.

      That was true, thought Lucas grimly. His latest diary. But…. ‘What about his older diaries? Weren’t there any he’d completed, and left here?’

      ‘No! And if he did, I would never, ever sell them!’ Her voice trembled, then recovered. ‘Excuse me, my lord, but I find your pretended—interest in our plight nothing short of humiliating!’

      She tossed back her head in defiance, just as she used to; the gesture afforded him yet another glimpse of those creamy-smooth breasts. His anger boiled. Damn it, had that fellow Bryant really been kissing her? The thought of it tipped him over the edge; desire lurched at his groin as she struggled to cover herself. That was the kind of trick used by whores in London.

      And she was daring to play high and mighty with him?

      ‘Humiliating?’ he grated. ‘You speak of—humiliation, when, good God, the moment I arrived, you were outrageously flirting with that witless army boor?’

      Her eyes flew up to clash with his. ‘I was not flirting! And do not speak of him like that!’

      ‘I’ll speak of him exactly as I like! What is that man doing here? Why isn’t he with his regiment?’

      ‘You may as well ask the same of your friend Captain Stewart!’ Verena cried. ‘For his—reputation leaves a deal to be desired!’ It was true; she knew it was a long-standing joke that Alec Stewart, a year or so younger than Lucas, spent a good deal more effort on hunting heiresses than he did on hunting the French. ‘Besides,’ she went on furiously, ‘Captain Bryant is not a boor, he is our friend! He was injured at Talavera, and his wound is not yet completely healed. So he makes himself useful. He helps the Revenue men watch this part of the coast for smugglers and—French spies!’

      She saw him almost sneer. ‘French spies? Things have been busy at Wycherley’.

      ‘Meaning?’ she snapped.

      ‘I also heard that four weeks ago there was a burglary here’.

      She went very still. ‘How do you—?’

      ‘Gossip travels’.

      She seemed to sag. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I, of all people, should know that…’. Her voice faltered, then recovered again. ‘Indeed, there was evidence of an intruder. But—’ again, that toss of the head ‘—nothing at all was taken, my lord! And even if it had been, what business is it of yours? Besides, Captain Bryant himself has offered us his protection’.

      ‘Protection!’ Now his scorn was rampant. ‘That spineless fellow couldn’t fight off a damned flea’.

      Her eyes whipped up to his, flashing with defiance. The rain was starting to fall all around them in the courtyard, the thunder rumbling; she had to raise her voice to be heard.

      ‘You are wrong, quite wrong! Captain Bryant is not spineless! And—and he has asked me to marry him!’

      He found himself horrified. Furious. ‘My God. You will not do so?’

      ‘Why not?’ she declared bitterly. ‘Does anyone have a prior claim?’

      Damn it, me. I do. He wanted to crush her in his arms, and feel those sweet, full breasts against his chest. Wanted to drown his aching arousal in the slender lushness of her body. He wanted.

       Look after her for me, will you, Lucas?

      The words that haunted him, every minute, every day. His mouth set grimly. Easier to let her continue to hate him. Though—utterly abominable for him.

      But Bryant—her suitor? ‘Very well,’ he said in an iron-hard voice. ‘Very well. I can see, Miss Sheldon, that your troubles are overwhelming. I can see the lure of any port in a storm’.

      Her eyes blazed. She tilted her chin. ‘Lord Conistone. I would be obliged if you would leave our home this instant. Now’.

      ‘Oh, I’m going,’ he said. ‘But before I leave, I thought you might want this back’. He reached into the inside deep pocket of his coat. And pulled out—the little silver music box.

      She gazed at him in utter disbelief.

      ‘I saw someone leaving with it’. He shrugged. ‘I gave him twice what he’d paid in the sale. Sell it again if you wish. But this time—’ and his lip curled ‘—ask more for it. You shouldn’t find it difficult. You’re on the way to becoming a mercenary creature, Miss Sheldon’.

      And Verena felt that her heart was breaking anew as she took the box in hands that were as numb as her heart.

      Her despairing eyes flew up to his. Dear God. He was still—Lucas. But he despised her.

      Perhaps he always had. And now, she’d as good as told him she might accept Martin as a suitor…. ‘Lucas!’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I—I never believed you were a coward, Lucas,’ she whispered. ‘Never that!’

      The falling rain intensified every feature of his starkly masculine face. ‘Ah. Playing hot and cold with me now, are you, Miss Sheldon?’ he said softly. Suddenly he cupped her chin with one strong hand. ‘Hoping, perhaps, that if your gallant Captain realises he has a rival, he might rush you to the altar?’

      She gasped with fresh pain. ‘That is despicable—’

      Before she could say more, Lucas had pulled her close. She felt the light caress of his hands on her back; then he touched her scalloped silk chemise, her half-exposed breasts, running one tantalising thumb over her tightening nipple so she arched yearningly, helplessly towards him.

      ‘I can see for myself,’ Lucas Conistone grated, ‘that as well as selling your house’s contents to the highest bidder, you’re also selling yourself. A pity that СКАЧАТЬ