Never Trust a Rebel. Sarah Mallory

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СКАЧАТЬ words were smothered as he covered her face with hot, ardent kisses.

      He might only be the same height as Elyse, and as broad as he was wide, but Mr Scorton in the throes of passion proved himself immensely strong. She could not break out of his hold and was crushed against him, unable even to deliver a well-aimed kick to his shins because the thick folds of her black petticoats were in the way.

      She twisted her head away, shuddering as his wet lips slithered over her cheek.

      ‘How dare you, sir, I am in mourning!’

      ‘And your sorrow makes you even more irresistible.’

      ‘Enough sir, let me go!’

      She did not expect him to obey, so she was more than a little surprised to find herself suddenly released.

      Elyse staggered back and steadied herself against the balustrade that edged the terrace. As soon as she had regained her balance she raised her head, intending to deliver a blistering reproof, but the words died on her lips when she realised that they were no longer alone on the terrace.

      A dark stranger was standing between her and Mr Scorton, who was clutching at his throat.

      ‘For Gad, sir,’ Scorton gasped, ‘you have well-nigh strangled me.’

      ‘I had to find some way of pulling you off the lady and my fingers in the back of your neck cloth proved most effective.’

      This cool rejoinder brought a choleric flush to Mr Scorton’s cheeks.

      ‘Then by heavens you shall answer for it. Name your friends, sir.’

      Mr Scorton placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword and drew himself up to his full if diminutive height, which Elyse could not fail to notice left him several inches shorter than the tall stranger.

      ‘Don’t be such a damned fool,’ came the crushing retort. ‘I am the girl’s guardian.’

      The effect of this statement silenced Mr Scorton, but it caused Elyse to give a little shriek. Both men looked towards her but it was the stranger who spoke, addressing Mr Scorton in a tone of weary boredom.

      ‘I suggest you go away, sir, before I give you a bloody nose to go with your sore throat.’

      With only the slightest hesitation Mr Scorton hurried away and the stranger turned towards Elyse. Her instinct was to step back, but her thick skirts were already pressing against the balustrade and she was trapped.

      ‘Keep away from me,’ she said, putting out her hand.

      He had his back to the light that spilled out of the drawing room windows, so Elyse could not see his face and she was aware of an unaccountable stirring of alarm. His large frame stood menacingly between her and the safety of the house. She felt a stab of annoyance that her erstwhile suitor had gone off so readily and left her to face this man alone.

      He made no move to approach, but his silence was equally unnerving and she said sharply, ‘I have no idea who you are.’

      ‘Drew Bastion.’ He spoke curtly without even a bow or an ‘at your service’. ‘I wrote to you from France, to inform you of your father’s death and the fact that he had appointed me your guardian.’

      ‘I do not need a guardian.’

      ‘From what I have just seen I think you do,’ he retorted. ‘I was surprised to arrive and find the house so full of company.’

      ‘My aunt arranged this party weeks ago and decided we should not cancel. Once we heard the news about Papa we made it clear there could be no music or dancing.’

      ‘You should also have made it clear there would be no flirting.’

      ‘I was not—’

      ‘From the moment I walked in I have observed you,’ he interrupted. ‘You have been constantly surrounded by gentlemen and your manner, the way you ply your fan, is most unseemly for one in deep mourning for her father.’

      Drew paused, reining in his anger. Harry’s loss was still raw and this lack of respect was an outrage. Yet it was hardly Miss Salforde’s fault if men were falling over themselves to win her favour. Her dark beauty was everything that Harry had described to him. Luminescent was the word that came to his mind, despite her bereaved state. She was as covered up as a Jesuit in a bombazine manteau, but its dull black petticoats only enhanced the porcelain delicacy of her fine skin, which was innocent of paint or powder.

      She had caught his eye as soon as he walked into the room. In any other circumstances he would have made his way to her and engaged her interest, for there was no denying the sharp tug of attraction he had felt as he took in her excellent figure and those luxuriant curls, the colour of polished ebony. But he had recognised her immediately as Harry’s daughter, and honour would not allow him to trifle with a lady who had been placed under his protection. However, it was clear that the other gentlemen present were equally entranced and they had no such restraint upon them.

      No, he could not blame her for attracting any man’s attention, but he could blame her for responding in such a flirtatious manner. And what was Mrs Matthews thinking of, to allow the party to go ahead barely three months after her brother’s death? Of course, this was the thriving spa town of Scarborough and not Paris, but surely the rules of polite society in England had not changed quite so radically while he had been away? As if reading his mind the girl put up her head, a challenge in her dark eyes.

      ‘We are holding a quiet soirée, sir, as befits a house in mourning. The guests here came only to offer their condolences.’

      His lip curled.

      ‘That may well have been the intention, but the gentlemen crowding around you were certainly doing more than offering their condolences and you were doing nothing to discourage them.’

      ‘That is outrageous. You have no right to say such things to me!’

      He ignored her outburst.

      ‘Then I come out here to find you flirting so disgracefully in the darkness. By heaven you are as bad as your father.’

      ‘How dare you malign my sainted papa!’

      Her dark eyes sparkled with wrath but he found his own anger diffused by a sudden flash of humour.

      He said drily, ‘Your father was many things, including a good friend to me, Miss Salforde, but he was no saint.’

      He thought she would fly at him for that, but although her eyes widened and the angry flush on her cheeks deepened, she bit her lip and regarded him in silence. He observed her resentful look, the shadow of doubt in her eyes. So she knew something of her father’s life then. But he was not here to argue with her. He tried to modify his tone when he spoke again.

      ‘Enough of this, Miss Salforde. Shall we go in and find your aunt?’

      * * *

      After the briefest hesitation Elyse laid her fingers on his proffered arm. Andrew Bastion. She recalled, now, that her aunt had mentioned his name when she had read out his letter, but Elyse had taken little note of it at the time, nor the fact СКАЧАТЬ