One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘That’s all they have downstairs, and we must make the best of it.’

      She held upright the bunch of thin sticks and allowed them to fall at will. They scattered wildly across the table top.

      ‘The sticks coloured blue score most highly, red next, then yellow, and green are the most lowly,’ she explained.

      ‘I shall be lucky to pick up one stick cleanly, never mind its colour. I’ve suffered an accident, after all.’

      ‘You’ve sprained your ankle, not your wrist.’

      ‘But women are so much more dextrous, it’s hardly fair.’

      ‘Surely, Mr Wendover, you’re not saying that a woman can outdo you.’

      ‘Gareth, please. If we’re to be serious competitors, we must use first names. That way our insults, when they start flying, will be nicely personal.’

      ‘I’ve no intention of trading insults. It’s just a game, not a competition,’ she said carelessly.

      Nevertheless, she tried very hard to win. When it came to her turn she took minutes to weigh up the arrangement of sticks before deciding which one she would try to extricate from its place without dislodging the others. Gareth had gone first and could begin with the easiest stick to lift, but once into the thick of the game, they were both forced to concentrate intently when their several turns came round. At one point, he appeared to disturb one of the sticks he was trying to avoid and she called foul.

      ‘I merely breathed on the stick and it moved of its own accord,’ he disputed, shaking his head in bewilderment.

      She burst out laughing. ‘That’s certainly original. I’ll give you the excuse if only for sheer invention.’

      He laughed back at her, his heart filled with a strange happiness. So the game went on until there was just a small pile of sticks left in the middle of the table, all thickly entangled. They were neck and neck in the number they’d managed to acquire and, faced now with the most difficult moves, they both studied the table keenly, trying to decide their best approach. In the event it was Gareth who managed to extricate his last spill without disturbing the one other that was left.

      ‘Voilà!’ he exclaimed.

      ‘Magnifique,’ she unconsciously rejoined, responding spontaneously to his skilful play.

      ‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ He looked searchingly at her.

      ‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation on to less dangerous ground.

      ‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes, I would take you for a lady.’

      From the bottom of her heart, she thanked the absent Fanny for donating her wardrobe, then set about allaying his suspicions.

      ‘My young mistress made a great friend of me and I learned from her how to go on.’

      He considered this for a while. ‘You may have learned conduct from her but not, I think, your courage.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ She was disconcerted.

      ‘Didn’t you say that your mistress was being married off against her will?’

      ‘She is, but courage won’t help her. Her brother has gambled away the family’s fortune and marriage is the only way to restore it. She’s expected to make this sacrifice for her family.’

      ‘Quite a sacrifice! Would you make it, I wonder?’

      ‘I would not,’ she declared ringingly and with a vehemence that surprised him.

      He looked at her as she sat across the table. Her creamy skin glowed translucent in the shadowed sunlight that filled the room and the velvet brown of her eyes blazed a fiery spirit. She had never looked more enchanting.

      ‘Nor should you,’ he said, his voice husky with feeling.

      The atmosphere was suddenly charged with tension, their bantering mood dissipated. He should defuse the moment, he thought, make a joke, turn away. She’d already chosen to put distance between them and she was right. Instead, he rose quickly from his chair, taking no heed of the damaged ankle, and took both her hands in his. Slowly he raised her up and encircled her in his arms.

      Crushed against his hard frame, she felt the same foolish impulse to melt into him; she began to tremble beneath his hands. He touched her face, her arms, and brushed across the warm silk of her breast. He gently kissed her hair, her ears, her cheek. In a moment his tongue had parted her lips and was slowly exploring the softness of her mouth. His body moved against her and she groaned softly with pleasure. She wanted to dissolve into this nameless delight, yet some voice of wisdom pulled her back to consciousness. This was a man who had come from nowhere and would go to nowhere. She would never see him again once they parted. He’d made her vulnerable, created a desire in her that she’d never before known. And desire meant weakness; she had only to think of her mother’s fate to know that. Impelled by a new urgency, she hastily pushed him away and began to tidy the scattered sticks, barely able to see them for the emotions churning within her.

      ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

      He was still standing close to her, his breathing ragged and his voice rough. He seemed furious with himself.

      ‘After yesterday I vowed I’d never again touch you.’

      Distractedly, she smoothed her tumbled hair and then began to pack the last of the spillikins in their box.

      ‘Forgive me if I’ve distressed you.’ His harsh tones grated, breaking through her silence.

      ‘It’s of no importance. I don’t wish to talk of it,’ she managed. Her outward calm belied the turmoil within. ‘It must be time for nuncheon,’ she continued smoothly. ‘I’ll fetch some refreshment from the kitchen.’

      She glanced fleetingly out of the window, as she turned to leave. A carriage had pulled up outside. In itself this was unusual but this was not any carriage. It was a lightly built curricle drawn by four high-stepping greys and the curricle door had a well-known crest on its panel. It had to be Rufus Glyde. He had traced her after all. He was here. She turned sheet-white and the box dropped from her suddenly lifeless hand.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she gasped, ‘I have to go.’

      And with that she dashed from the room, leaving Gareth baffled and infuriated.

       Chapter Five

      Rufus Glyde was in no pleasant mood. He’d been driving almost continuously for days without once ever sighting his quarry. In addition he’d had to endure the sharp tongue of Brielle СКАЧАТЬ