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Lady Frances had tackled Verena before the sale began. ‘Verena, there will be gentlemen here this afternoon! Some of them with prospects!’ She’d glanced waspishly at Verena’s day gown of brown cambric, its only adornment the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons running firmly up the bodice to her throat. ‘Now, I know that your looks bear no comparison to Deb’s or darling Izzy’s—but if you do insist on being present, you might make some effort with your appearance! After all, your godfather is none other than the Earl of Stancliffe!’
‘And much good that has done us!’ Verena had snapped, her patience worn to a thread.
Lady Frances had retreated upstairs with her smelling salts.
Verena made a point of not changing her drab gown, and of only carelessly pinning up her chestnut-coloured hair before facing the seemingly endless onslaught of strangers cascading through the house.
And she had thought she would be able to bear it. But suddenly the plaintive tune of ‘My Soldier Love’ drifted across the crowded hall, and the emotions she’d tried so very hard to suppress came sweeping back in a wave of blinding memory.
That was her music box.
She’d put it in the sale herself, but….
She remembered Lucas, riding along the track towards her that golden autumn nearly two years ago; his body toughened by war, but his expression softening in glad surprise when he saw her.
Herself, twenty years old, stumbling towards him, her heart racing, yet full of joy, blurting out, ‘Lucas. You’re safe. I was so afraid…’.
He’d laughed as he sprang down from his big grey mare. ‘I’m untouchable,’ he’d said. ‘The bullets just fly past me’.
She would not cry for him ever again. But that little silver music box was his last gift to her.
She started to plunge through the crowds to where a corn merchant and his wife were greedily pawing over its delicate casing.
Then she stopped; remembering what David had said. We have to sell as much as possible, before the bailiffs move in….
Best to let it go, along with her memories. She turned round slowly and walked out through the open French doors into the west-facing gardens, where the sun was sending rays of gold across the sea below the cliff tops, and the scent of roses wafted towards her on the warm evening breeze.
With its mellow brickwork clad in ivy and climbing roses, Wycherley Hall was one of the most picturesque dwellings between the South Downs and the Hampshire coast, and had belonged to the Sheldons for generations. But now, her family would have to leave, and go—where? What would they do? How would they live? There was no answer except the sad cries of the gulls high above.
Last winter there had been troops posted all along this part of the coast, because of rumours that the Emperor Napoleon was sending an invasion fleet across the Channel. Now the troops were gone. But just sometimes lately, when she was alone, she felt as if she was being watched, though she told herself it was nothing but the rustling of birds, or small animals in the nearby woods. She was growing fanciful in her despair.
The dark clouds were piling up to the south, and though the sun was going down, the air seemed hotter, more sultry than ever. Verena turned, heavy-hearted, to go back into the house.
Lucas had once told her that it was the happiest house he had ever known. ‘I’ll carry my memory of you and Wycherley wherever I go, Verena,’ he’d said to her quietly. ‘Whatever you hear, please trust in me’.
And she had. More fool her.
‘Verena!’ A man’s voice broke abruptly into her reverie. ‘What on earth’s going on here? All those people—taking your furniture, your things…’.
She swung round to see the scarlet-jacketed Captain Martin Bryant, twenty-six-year-old war hero, marching towards her from the stable courtyard where he’d just sprung off his horse. She drew a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid we are quite done up, as they say, Captain Bryant. This is just the start’.
Martin, with his pleasantly boyish features and brown curls, looked horrified. ‘But—you won’t have to leave the house?’
She nodded, feeling a sudden constriction in her throat.
‘My dear Miss Sheldon!’ His light blue eyes were ardent. ‘May I call you Verena? I am, first and foremost, a man devoted to my military duties—duties that have too often taken me away from here!’ He was stammering a little; his face had turned slightly pink. ‘Otherwise, I would have asked you before’.
Oh, Lord. What was he talking about? Verena’s heart was beginning to thump. ‘Captain Bryant, I really should be getting back inside’.
He grasped her hand and clung to it almost desperately. ‘Verena. I want to ask you—I must beg of you the honour—the precious gift—of your sweet and lovely hand in marriage!’
She snatched her hand away and stood, frozen with shock.
Once, almost two years ago, she had walked with Lucas through these gardens, as the shadows lengthened, and the harvest moon encrusted the old house with fairytale shards of silver. Once Lucas had cupped her face in his strong but tender hands and breathed, ‘Some day I’ll be home again, Verena. Home for good. Will you wait for me?’
There was no need even for him to ask, because she’d not been able to imagine life without him. Hadn’t wanted life without him. ‘For ever,’ she’d breathed, with the ardent belief of a twenty-year-old. ‘For ever, Lucas’.
‘Captain Bryant,’ she said steadily, though the ache at the back of her throat threatened to choke her, ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot marry you. It wouldn’t be fair to you, you see, because I do not love you!’
His expression was imploring. ‘But perhaps you can grow to love me, in time!’
Again, she hesitated. Everyone would tell her that life as Captain Bryant’s wife would surely be preferable to employment as a governess, trapped in a dreary half-world between family and servants. Indeed, that was a prospect that filled her with dread.
‘I’m not rich,’ Captain Bryant was going on, ‘but believe me, I will do anything, my dear Verena, to provide you with the life you deserve! Your family also!’ he added hastily.
That, at last, made Verena smile just a little, and eased the pain that was squeezing her wretched heart. ‘All my family?’ she teased gently. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Captain Bryant. We are really quite a frightening prospect, I do assure you!’
‘I don’t care!’ he declared defiantly. ‘I don’t care!’
He lunged towards her. She desperately sprang away from his outstretched arms—and felt the shoulder of the gown her mother so despised being firmly hooked by the sturdy thorn of the clambering pink rose shrub that grew by the back wall. She pulled herself away violently; the serviceable fabric held, but she felt, then heard, some of the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened her bodice at the front snap off with an alarming ping, their threads weakened by age. Oh, no….
She flung her hands across her breasts, but too late; Martin was staring, transfixed.
Verena, as even her mother reluctantly acknowledged, was slender but full-bosomed. And her gaping and shabby gown could no longer conceal that underneath it she wore something that could not be more different—an exquisite cream-silk chemise, scalloped and embroidered at the edges, low enough to reveal the full curve of her breasts. It was her one piece of finery. The one relic of the beautiful garments she had started to acquire when her future was full of hope.
In utter mortification she tried to tug her gown back across her bosom, making use of the few buttons that remained. But that dratted rose briar had left a thorn in her sleeve, and it pricked her every time she moved. ‘Ouch! Botheration!’ she gasped. Her long chestnut hair was starting to fall from its pins.
Martin Bryant, still wide-eyed, jumped to the rescue. ‘Here! Let me help you!’
‘No!’ She almost smacked him away, like a troublesome fly. But he persevered, drawing close to tackle the offending thorn; and things took a turn for the worse, because her efforts to escape from Martin meant that the bodice of her gown slipped apart again, and now she heard the sound of male voices and hoofbeats drawing exceedingly close; and just as she was frantically struggling to push Martin off, two horsemen rode into the yard.
And stopped.
Martin swung round angrily to face them. Verena, hot and dishevelled, had flung her arms across her silk-draped bosom. Already the first of the riders, dark-haired and clad in a long grey riding coat and polished boots, was dismounting with a lazy sort of grace to stand, wide-shouldered and imposing, at the head of his big roan mare.
She froze. She tried to speak, but the words would not come out.
The tall newcomer turned to his companion, who was also dismounting, and said languidly, ‘Hold the horses, Alec, will you?’ The fading beams of the setting sun drifted over his aristocratic face and figure, highlighting the slightly overlong thick black hair; the cold dark eyes with those deceptively hooded lids, the sharply defined, almost over-handsome features.
Oh, no. Please God, no.
What must he think? And why should she care any more?
She cared because this was Viscount Conistone, grandson and heir to her family’s enemy, the Earl of Stancliffe. This was Lucas. The man to whom she had, almost two years ago, given her heart, only to have it smashed into a thousand pieces.
Chapter Two
Lucas Conistone’s first impulse had been to knock the foolish fellow he’d seen mauling Verena Sheldon to hell and back; his next, to crush her full and passionate lips beneath his own. Dear God, Alec was right. He was an utter fool to have come here. That gown. The glimpse he’d got, of those sweet, full breasts…. And his memory had not played him false; her heart-shaped face was still as exquisite as ever. Yes, her chestnut-coloured hair had slipped from its pins in some disarray; but only to fall in utterly tantalising curls round her neck and throat. Her smooth, creamy skin was still flawless, and her almond-shaped eyes were just as he remembered, amber in some lights, gold in others.
The army fellow was about to say something, but Verena Sheldon spoke first. ‘My lord!’ She tilted her chin in unspoken defiance. ‘Some warning of your arrival would not have gone amiss. You were not—expected!’
Not invited. Not wanted, anywhere near Wycherley, she might as well have declared. Her arms were still folded tightly across her breasts as her eyes burned darkly up at him. She had lost weight. There were shadows beneath those beautiful eyes, as if she had been grieving…. What the deuce had been going on here just now?
‘Alec and I were just passing,’ Lucas said expressionlessly, ‘on our way to Stancliffe Manor’. He was pulling off his riding gloves and thrusting them into his deep pockets. ‘As my grandfather’s still in Bath, I promised him I’d visit the house to see that all was well. But then we saw the carriages. And decided to—investigate’.
‘Oh, you mean the sale!’ Her amber-gold eyes were wide and innocent. She even endeavoured to smile. ‘Yes, it really is so entertaining! We thought we’d have a clear out—one gets bored, Lord Conistone, with the same old pieces of furniture—’
Gammon. Lucas cut in, ‘I heard from your attorney that you’re selling Wycherley, Verena’.
He saw the colour draining from her face. She whispered, ‘You have no right to discuss our family’s affairs with anyone! No right at all, do you hear?’
A warning glance from his very good friend Captain Stewart, resplendent in the blue of the Light Dragoons, flashed Lucas’s way. I told you, Lucas, that this was a bad idea….
The young army fellow nearby stepped forward like an angry turkeycock. ‘You heard what Verena—Miss Sheldon—said, Lord Conistone! I think you would be doing her an enormous favour if you and your friend left immediately!’
Lucas let his gaze rake his bright uniform. Then he blinked. ‘I’m sorry? Have I had the pleasure?’
‘I am Captain Bryant, of the 11th Regiment of Foot!’
‘My congratulations,’ drawled Lucas. ‘No doubt your duties call. Off you run, now, Captain, there’s a good fellow’.
Some spluttering ensued, and a further reddening of those already pink cheeks. ‘Don’t you give orders to me, you—you—’
‘Let’s call it a polite suggestion, shall we?’ said Lucas softly. ‘After all, we’re not on the army parade ground now, are we?’
‘So you actually remember the parade ground, do you?’ retorted Martin Bryant bitterly. ‘My God, you got out of the army just about as quickly as you could, didn’t you, Conistone? Before the bullets flew too close?’
‘Martin!’ cried Verena.
Alec Stewart, at Lucas’s side, had taken a step forwards, muttering, ‘Too far, that, Lucas. Pray, let me sort the blackguard!’
But Lucas stopped him with a calm, restraining hand, and said directly to Martin, ‘Perhaps I left the army because I became weary of idiots like you’.
Martin lunged. Verena let out a low cry. Alec Stewart was swearing. But Lucas had already moved swiftly to one side, and his right fist flew. Martin staggered, then pulled himself up dazedly, wiping at the blood on his lip. ‘Damn you, Conistone!’
Lucas towered over him, powerful shoulders still braced, his eyes hard as iron. He said curtly, ‘That was just a warning, Bryant. Stop being a damned idiot. You’d best go and clean yourself up, before someone—and I assure you it won’t be me—receives a more serious injury’.
Still Martin hesitated. ‘Captain Bryant,’ Verena pleaded. ‘Do as he says. Please’.
‘I’m not leaving you alone with—’
‘Lord Conistone and his friend are going,’ interrupted Verena quietly, wretchedly. ‘Now’.
Alec said tersely to Lucas, ‘I’ll get someone to see to our horses. Then—I think you’ll now agree—we’d best be on our way’.
Martin Bryant had already hurried off, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding lip after shooting a look of hatred at Lucas. Alec turned to Verena, saying, ‘Do you still have your man Turley, Miss Sheldon? The horses need water and I must adjust my mare’s curb chain. Then we can ride on’.
She was fighting back the bitter mortification. What could she do? What could she say, that would not make things a thousand times worse than they were already?
Nothing, except speed their exit.
‘I will find Turley for you, Captain Stewart!’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t want you—detained for any longer than necessary!’
Alec hesitated. ‘Very well. I’ll take the horses to the stables, if I may?’
She nodded and turned for the house.
But she was too late. As Alec disappeared, a strong hand stretched out, almost casually, to grip her. ‘Wait,’ Lucas commanded.
This was—intolerable. Her whole body trembled with rage. With shock. With the longing—the treacherous longing—to be in his arms again, to feel his body pressed against hers, his warm lips caressing her skin.
Harlot. Fortune-hunting harlot, that letter had said. She spoke in a tight voice, staring into the distance. ‘Will you please let go of me, my lord?’
‘Oh, Verena,’ Lucas said tiredly. He had turned her to face him. She would not, she would not meet his eyes! But his long coat had fallen open, so she could see all too clearly how his cream shirt moulded itself to his powerful shoulders and chest, against which he had once cradled her so close that she could hear his heart beating….
‘Turley,’ she said blindly, ‘I must fetch Turley’.
‘Alec will sort all that’. Lucas Conistone’s voice was harder now. ‘Deuce take it, Verena, if you’re in difficulties of some kind, why didn’t you ask me for assistance? Why didn’t you write?’
‘Oh, pray forgive me, my lord!’ Her eyes flashed up to his now. ‘But, absurd as it seems, I did not once think, “Dear me, we are in trouble, I must ask Viscount Conistone for help!‘”
He had always been stunningly handsome. But now there was something different, a dangerous cold light in those inscrutable grey eyes. Only perhaps it had always been there, and she’d been too much of a lovesick fool to see it.
He said in a quiet voice, ‘I suppose I cannot blame you if you have come to hate me’.
She swallowed hard, suddenly aware that the air out here was oppressive with heat. As the shadows deepened, she heard a rumble of ominous thunder. And his eyes were already as dark as night. ‘Hate you?’ she replied, summoning false brightness. ‘No such powerful emotion, my lord; you see, the thought of you simply never crossed my mind! Though, may I say, I do not warm to your idea of arriving here, unannounced, to gloat over our misfortune’.
‘Verena. Stop it. Stop it,’ he grated out, so savagely that she flinched. Then he raked his hand through his dark hair and said, almost tonelessly, ‘I’m sorry if I ever gave you cause to think that I might find your plight—amusing’.
His hands. His long, beautifully shaped fingers. The way he used to caress her….. ‘No apology needed, my lord!’ Somehow she managed to keep a smile fixed to her lips. ‘You see, you never gave me any cause to think of you at all!’
She turned resolutely back to the house; but again he caught her, swinging her round to face him. ‘Verena’. His voice was almost a growl. ‘Wait. Please, I beg you. You must speak with me’.
She stood, unable to ignore the pressure of those warm fingers on her shoulders—a pressure that cruelly awakened feelings she’d thought long since dead. ‘What is there to say?’ she whispered. The thunder rolled nearer. A heavy drop of rain splashed on the ground by her feet.
‘Verena,’ he murmured, his fingers tracing tiny circles on her bare skin just above her collarbone—oh, no, she could feel her pulse racing at his merest touch. ‘You haven’t really forgotten me, Verena. You can’t have…’.
She jerked herself away from his treacherous hand and crossed her arms over her bosom. Dear God. Less than two years ago this man had walked out of her life, leaving her utterly bereft, and a target for the sneers of the whole county. Now he was here again. Why? She said with passionate defiance, ‘I have succeeded in forgetting you completely, my lord! And as for your sympathy—I can live without it, I do assure you!’
‘I was hoping to offer more practical help,’ Lucas Conistone said flatly. He looked up at the dark clouds, and a flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the hard line of his jaw. ‘Perhaps we could go inside and talk?’
‘Inside? The house?’ She looked as though he’d suggested they torch the place. ‘But—my mother is in there! Deb is in there!’
‘Deb?’ Lucas repeated the name almost blankly. Then he remembered that Deb was one of her three younger sisters, the foolish blonde one, the one he had least time for. He frowned. ‘Of what account, pray, is she?’
And Verena’s face, where before it had been anguished, was frozen into first shock, then shuttered coldness. ‘Oh, Lucas,’ she whispered. ‘Enough of this. I never expected to see you again. I never wanted to see you again. Please. Just go’.
So that was it, thought Lucas bleakly. She hated him. Just as well, he reminded himself. Yet she was so beautiful, with her hair tumbling now to her shoulders. And as for that damned gown, what buttons were left were barely managing to contain her luscious breasts; dear God, his blood surged with wanting her…. Grimly he fought down his arousal. ‘Verena,’ he said. ‘Verena, at least tell me why you are on the brink of losing your home’.
