The Wager. Sally Cheney

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СКАЧАТЬ She felt defenseless and somehow exposed as she stood before him, and the word that came to mind to best describe him was predator.

      “Miss Trenton, how good of you to join me.” His voice was soft and low.

      “Mr. D-Desmond,” she stammered. After a slight pause she remembered to execute an awkward little curtsy.

      His smile deepened. The girl was perfect, just as Carstairs had described her. It was not Desmond’s habit, certainly, to gamble for young women, but doubtless among his varied business ventures Carstairs occasionally made certain “arrangements” between gentlemen visiting in the city and women of…free spirit. Desmond was amused that Carstairs had referred to her as his “ward.”

      The proposition had intrigued him.

      He had kept himself aloof from his neighbors since taking possession of Kingsbrook and so did not have any friends among the families living near him. When he was here on his estate he found himself virtually isolated from the surrounding community.

      He did not regret the fact. He valued his privacy and saw enough of society in London and abroad to sate him. But the house did, on occasion, seem awfully silent, and it had occurred to him that having a woman in his home, in his bed, now and then, would compensate for any lack of ties to the local gentry.

      Of course, bringing a mistress to stay with him in Kingsbrook would effectively bar him from any future ties with the local gentry, so just in case he ever wanted to court local favor, he could, as Mr. Carstairs had, present her as his ward. And she looked the part. From the outfit she wore, the style of her hair, even the youthful timbre of her voice, she almost seemed to be a schoolgirl.

      “Come in, Miss Trenton. Sit down. Jenny has prepared an excellent tea for us. Let us not allow it to grow cold.” He motioned toward the short divan, and Marianne quickly sat, thankful for the offer to relieve the weight from the uncertain support of her knees.

      Unexpectedly, Mr. Desmond joined her, in effect sitting down by her side.

      “Tea?”

      She nodded.

      “Sugar? Milk? I do not see any lemon here. Shall I ring for Mrs. River?”

      “Oh, no,” Marianne gasped. “Sugar and milk are fine. I like sugar and milk. I never put lemon in my tea. Well, sometimes I do, but I do not like it as well as sugar. And milk.”

      “Sugar and milk it is then,” Desmond said, taking up a lump of sugar with silver tongs and pouring a measure of milk into the cup before passing it to her.

      The cup rattled treacherously and Marianne set it down.

      “And tell me, Miss Trenton…won’t you have a sandwich? Cress, I believe…how do you like Kingsbrook? Somewhat different from Londontown, is it not?”

      Marianne, having taken one of the proffered sandwiches and bitten into it, could only nod.

      “But then, that has been my goal. To make this place as unlike any town as possible.”

      He smiled at her over his cup, and Marianne swallowed the bite of sandwich, which then became a heavy, solid lump in her throat. She swallowed again. “It appears you have succeeded,” she offered breathlessly at last.

      “I hope you will not miss the bustle and noise of London,” Mr. Desmond said, his tone of perfect politeness not calming her nerves at all. “I find Kingsbrook very peaceful, though I suppose some could find the quiet oppressive.”

      “Oh, not me, sir. I love the quiet, but then, Mr. Carstairs’s house was not frequented so often that it ‘bustled,’ anyway.”

      Marianne gave a wavery smile, but Desmond had looked away. He did not want to hear about Carstairs nor the business that went on in his “house.”

      “I see,” he said, choosing one of the tittle cakes from the tray Mrs. River had provided. He held the tray out to Marianne, but she shook her head. The idea of the colored icing mixing with the chewed watercress in her throat nearly made her gag.

      “I hope by that you mean you will not find your change of abode too jarring,” Desmond continued, putting the tray down again.

      “Not at all,” Marianne said, then, taking a breath, added, “in fact, I have been waiting the opportunity to thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness in bringing me here. Kingsbrook is a lovely place and I shall endeavor to meet your expectations.”

      “I am sure you will,” the gentleman said, smiling into her eyes and then allowing his gaze to slip down even farther.

      “And you must tell me if there is anything I can do for you,” she offered.

      “Oh, you may rely upon that,” he said, with a smile that did not brighten his dark eyes.

      Another moment of silence ensued, during which he studied her and she studied her teacup.

      “It was a long ride,” she mumbled at last, the only thing she could think of to say. “And warm. Very warm. Rickers warned me it would be warm today when he came this morning. And it was. And still is. Very warm. One does not notice it as much in the shade outside there, and, of course, inside here it is perfectly cool. But the ride itself was warm. And long.”

      The dampness at her hairline would have seemed to refute her claim that the house was cool, but it, like her babbling, was a sign of her nervousness.

      “Yes, I suppose the ride was exhausting,” the gentleman murmured, directly into her ear, so that his breath tickled the fine hairs at the base of her hairline. “You would probably like to rest and unpack before we get any better acquainted.”

      “Yes. I…that would be lovely,” Marianne whispered. But she could still feel his breath on her neck and was not completely clear on what it was that would be lovely.

      The gentleman smiled slowly. “Very well,” he said. He stood and offered his hand to assist her to her feet, a gesture that was not entirely superfluous, given her nervous state. “Rest yourself, Miss Trenton, and I will meet you at the supper table tonight.”

      He reached behind her, and for one giddy moment Marianne thought he was going to embrace her. Instead, he pulled a cord hanging against the wall, hidden behind the draperies.

      Mrs. River answered the summons promptly. “Mr. Desmond? You wished something?” she asked. She had stopped short the moment she entered the room and discovered the gentleman and the young woman in such close proximity, and her voice was decidedly chill.

      “Miss Trenton is feeling exhausted after her trip from London. Take her upstairs and have Tilly or Alice draw a bath.”

      “Certainly, sir. This way, Miss Trenton.”

      Marianne left with Mrs. River, not sure if she would rather be in the company of the unfriendly housekeeper or stay with the unnerving Mr. Desmond. Either way, she suspected that by leaving Uncle Horace’s she had jumped from the frying pan directly into a roaring bonfire.

      

      Following Mrs. River’s brisk orders, Tilly drew a bath, while Alice helped Miss Trenton unpack.

      Tilly, the older maid, was a СКАЧАТЬ