Regency Beauty. Sarah Mallory

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СКАЧАТЬ I do like this wine—is it usual for gentlemen to drink it at the end of a meal? I know Reginald prefers brandy.’

      To her relief he followed her lead and their conversation moved back to safer waters. She took another glass of Madeira and decided it must be her last. She was in danger of becoming light-headed. Darkness closed around them. The butler came in silently to light more candles in the room and draw the curtains against the night, but they made no move to leave the table, there was still so much to say.

      The major turned to speak to Graddon and Zelah studied his profile. How handsome he must have been before his face was sliced open by a French sabre. It was a momentary thought, banished as soon as it occurred, but it filled her with sadness.

      ‘You are very quiet, Miss Pentewan.’

      His words brought her back to the present and she blushed, not knowing how to respond. In the end she decided upon the truth.

      ‘I was thinking about your face.’

      Immediately he seemed to withdraw from her.

      ‘That is why I wanted you upon my right hand, to spare you that revulsion.’

      She shook her head.

      ‘It does not revolt me.’

      ‘I should not have shaved off my beard!’

      ‘Yes, you should, you look so much better, only—’

      ‘Yes, madam? Only what?’ The hard note in his voice warned her not to continue, but she ignored it.

      ‘Your hair,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I am surprised your valet does not wish to cut it.’

      ‘I have no valet. Graddon does all I need.’

      ‘But I thought he was a butler …’

      ‘He does what is necessary. He was with me in Spain and brought me back to England. He stayed with me, helped me to come to terms with my new life.’

      ‘And Mrs Graddon?’

      ‘She was housemaid at Markham and decided to marry Graddon and come with him when I moved here.’ He raised his glass, his lip curling into something very like a sneer. ‘You see, my misfortune is their gain.’

      She frowned.

      ‘Please do not belittle them. They are devoted to you.’

      ‘I stand corrected,’ he said stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon and theirs.’

      ‘I think you would look much better with your hair cut short. It is very much the fashion now, you know.’

      He leaned closer, a belligerent, challenging look in his eye. It took all her courage not to turn away.

      ‘I need it long,’ he said savagely. ‘Then I can bring it down, thus, and hide this monstrous deformation.’ He pulled the ribbon from his hair and shook the dark curtain down over his face. ‘Surely that is better? I would not want to alarm the ladies and children!’

      He was glaring at her, eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin, taut line, one side pulled lower by the dragging scar.

      ‘Nicky is not afraid of you,’ she said softly. ‘Nor do you frighten me.’

      For a long, interminable time she held his eyes, hoping he would read not pity but sympathy and understanding in her gaze. He was a proud man and she was dismayed to think he was hiding from the world. To her relief, his angry look faded.

      ‘So would you have me trust myself to a country barber?’ he growled. ‘I think not, Miss Pentewan. Perhaps next time I go to London—’

      ‘I could cut it for you.’ She sat back, shocked by her own temerity. ‘I am quite adept at cutting hair, although I have no idea where the skill comes from. I was always used to trim my father’s hair, and since I have been at West Barton I have cut Nicky’s. I am sure no one could tell it was not professionally done.’

      He was frowning at her now. She had gone too far. The wine had made her reckless and her wretched tongue had let her down. Major Coale jumped up and strode to tug at the bell pull. He was summoning a footman to escort her to her room.

      ‘Graddon, fetch scissors and my comb, if you please.’ He caught her eye, a glint in his own. ‘Very well, Miss Pentewan, let us put you to the test.’

      ‘What? I—’ She swallowed. ‘Are you sure it is what you want?’

      ‘Are you losing your nerve, madam?’

      Zelah quite thought that she was. Two voices warred within her: one told her that to dine alone with a gentleman who was not related to her was improper enough, but to cut the man’s hair would put her beyond the pale. The other whispered that it was her Christian duty to help him quit his self-imposed exile.

      The glint in his eyes turned into a gleam. He was laughing at her and her courage rose.

      ‘Not at all. Let us do it!’

      ‘Major, are you quite sure you want me to do this?’

      He was sitting on a chair by the table and Zelah was standing behind him, comb in hand. They had rearranged the candelabra to give the best light possible and the dark locks gleamed, thick and glossy around his head, spreading out like ebony across his shoulders. The enormity of what she was about to do made her hesitate.

      The major waved his hand.

      ‘Yes. I may change my mind when I am sober, but for now I want you to cut it.’

      Zelah took a deep breath. It was too late to go back now, they had agreed. Besides, argued that wickedly seductive voice in her head, no one need ever know. She picked up the scissors and moved closer until her skirts were brushing his shoulder. It felt strange, uncomfortable, like standing over a sleeping tiger. Thrusting aside such fanciful thoughts, she took a secure grip of the scissors and began. His hair was like silk beneath her fingers. She lifted one dark lock and applied the scissors. They cut through it with a whisper. As she continued her confidence grew, as did the pile of black tresses on the floor.

      His hair was naturally curly and she had seen enough pencil drawings of gentlemen with their hair à la Brutus since she had arrived at West Barton to recreate the style from memory—Reginald and Maria might live in a remote area of Exmoor, but they were both avid followers of the ton, receiving a constant stream of periodicals and letters from friends in London advising them of the latest fashions. She cut, combed and coaxed the major’s hair into place. It needed no pomade or grease to make it curl around his collar and his ears. She brushed the tendrils forwards around his face, as she had seen in the fashion plates. Her fingers touched the scar and he flinched. Immediately she drew back.

      ‘Did I hurt you?’

      ‘No. Carry on.’

      Carefully she finished her work, combing and snipping off a few straggling ends until she was satisfied with the result. It was not strictly necessary, but she could not resist running her fingers though his glossy, thick hair one final time.

      ‘There.’ She brushed the СКАЧАТЬ