скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Poor Gavin, indeed!’ Sarah mocked, but her expression softened as she named her beloved husband. ‘He likes it very well when I get my own way, I assure you he does,’ she added saucily.
‘Hussy!’ Ruth chided and clucked her tongue.
‘Indeed I am,’ Sarah agreed with an impish look from beneath her lashes. ‘And ever was…as you know…’
An amicable quiet settled on the room for a moment while they dwelled on the events Sarah had alluded to and how, subsequently, her life had improved so wonderfully.
Just a year ago Lady Tremayne had been Sarah Marchant, a kept woman, shunned by the locals as a brazen harlot. Following her lover’s untimely death, she had been living frugally in the rural town of Willowdene when she met and fell in love with Gavin Stone, new master of Willowdene Manor. A few months after their wedding in the chapel at the Manor, Sarah had moved with her husband to his magnificent estate in Surrey to take up her new life as Viscountess Tremayne.
Now Sarah was a fine lady, with an adorable baby son. Once the two women had been united in living quietly, ostracised by the townsfolk. Now a chasm had opened between their positions. Sarah’s status as the wife of a distinguished peer of the realm meant her company was highly sought by everyone, especially the hypocritical. But far from resenting her friend’s astonishing good fortune, Ruth was glad that Sarah had been so blessed.
‘You’re very happy,’ Ruth stated with quiet contentment. ‘I knew you would be. Gavin is a fine gentleman and all that gossip about his roguish ways was piffle.’
‘Not quite…’ Sarah demurred. ‘Besides, roguish ways have their benefits,’ she said archly. ‘Gavin says he now has too many responsibilities to rake around town. He leaves that to his friend, Sir Clayton Powell, who, by all accounts, still does it very well.’
Ruth lowered her teacup and cocked her head to one side. ‘I remember him. He came to Willowdene and stayed for a short while when Gavin was here chasing after you.’
‘He did, indeed.’
‘Would it worry you if soon you saw Sir Clayton again?’ Sarah recalled that Ruth had been rather wary of her husband’s best friend. ‘One of the reasons we are back in Willowdene—apart from to see you, of course—is to make arrangements to have James christened at the Manor’s chapel.’ She placed down her cup to continue. ‘I so wanted to have the ceremony here where we were married and where my best friend is. I can’t deny that the chapel at Tremayne Park is much finer than the one at Willowdene Manor, but it won’t do.’ She paused. ‘And we very much want you to agree to be James’s godmother. Please say you will.’
‘I would be most happy to accept,’ Ruth said huskily. Spontaneous tears glossed her eyes at the great honour and privilege being bestowed upon her.
‘That is good!’ Sarah exclaimed in delight. ‘Clayton is to be godfather. Gavin says he must be asked, for beneath the heart of a scoundrel beats one of pure gold.’ She gestured in emphasis. ‘Gavin says he takes his responsibilities most seriously. His heir—his nephew that is, for there were no children from his own marriage—is being educated at Clayton’s vast expense.’
‘He is married?’ Ruth spluttered, faintly amused. ‘And still he rakes around town as if a bachelor?’
‘Oh, he was married.’ Sarah inclined her head to impart, ‘Apparently it was a long time ago and a very great mésalliance that lasted barely a year. His wife, Priscilla, led him a merry dance, then defected with a foreign count! I do not know all the ins and outs, but I know the marriage was annulled and Clayton was, from Gavin’s report, very bitter over it all at the time.’ A sigh stressed her sadness. ‘Clayton has vowed never again to wed and that is why he is grooming his nephew to take the role his own son ought to have occupied.’
‘Perhaps I need not have worried that he might have dug into my past and found skeletons.’ Ruth raised her dark brows. ‘It seems he has a scandal of his own to keep buried. So to answer your question: I do not mind if I meet him again.’
‘You needn’t worry over him asking impertinent questions. I’ve come to know him a little, and to like him a lot. He is most charming and mannerly.’ After a brief pause Sarah said firmly, ‘You must agree to dine with us both this evening. It is all arranged,’ she insisted as she glimpsed her friend preparing to object from good manners and the fear of playing gooseberry. ‘Gavin is not yet home. He had to break his journey in the City as he had business to attend to. But he is due to arrive by six and in time to dine. We both said how nice it would be for you to join us this evening and celebrate our return to the Manor. And of course you will see baby James.’ That last was added in a cajoling tone that made Ruth smile as she guessed its purpose.
‘In that case, I would be delighted to join you both.’ Ruth accepted with a dip of her dark head.
Sarah grasped Ruth’s hands and gave them an affectionate squeeze. ‘Good,’ she breathed. ‘Now, tell me what I have been missing in Willowdene? I thought I might die laughing when you wrote to me about Rosamund Pratt’s fall from grace! And with an ostler at the Red Lion, too!’ Sarah chuckled as heartily as she had on first learning that the respectable matron who had been particularly mean to them both had been caught rolling in hay with a tavern groom young enough to be her son. ‘I want all the latest tattle, you know!’
Ruth, too, had been savouring the memory of Mrs Pratt’s come-uppance, but now her amusement faded. ‘Well, you have arrived at the right time to be the first to know some gossip. I imagine by the end of the week the rumour mill will be grinding in Willowdene.’
That information was delivered in such an odd tone that Sarah immediately begged to know more.
‘I have recently received a marriage proposal from Dr Bryant. I turned him down.’
Sarah’s eyes grew round and her lips parted in astonishment. She knew that the doctor had propositioned Ruth over a year ago. She knew, too, from a letter she’d received from Ruth, that later that year Ian Bryant’s wife had tragically died in childbed. ‘How did he take it?’ she eventually blurted.
‘Not very well, I’m afraid. He seemed astounded by my answer. I had to ask him more than once to leave. Eventually he did go, wearing a thunderous expression.’
‘He assumed you would accept.’ Sarah sat back in her chair.
‘He assumed I would be very grateful.’ Ruth’s small teeth worried at her lower lip. ‘He did not say so, but I could tell from his attitude.’ A humourless little laugh preceded, ‘Of course, the whole of Willowdene will join him in thinking me a fool to reject him.’ She shot a frown at Sarah. ‘He turned up without warning and I would never have guessed what had prompted his visit. But why did I turn him down with so little consideration given the benefits attached to what he offered?’
‘Because you don’t love him?’ Sarah gently advanced.
‘No, I don’t love him…but is that reason enough to decline a nice home and financial security?’
‘I can’t answer that for you,’ Sarah replied. ‘But instinctively you thought it was. You adored Paul and I can understand why you would again want to have a husband to love.’
‘It is rather vexing to have been indulged in a love match,’ Ruth wryly complained. ‘It is equally irksome to have a friend who is blissfully happy with her rich, handsome lord.’ Ruth gave Sarah a mock-stern look. ‘Now I constantly berate fate for not being equally kind to me.’
‘If it is of help, I too would often pray fate might be kind to me, just a little bit.’ Sarah clasped Ruth’s hands in comfort. ‘And eventually it was.’
‘How long must I wait for that little bit?’ Ruth asked with wry gravity. ‘After nine years as a widow perhaps it is time I was sensible and stopped pining for heroes on white chargers to happen by.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I have to admit that if I were to be given a list of all the available gentlemen hereabouts and told I must pick from it a husband, Dr Bryant would probably be the most appealing to me.’
‘Yet instinctively you refused him,’ Sarah gently reminded Ruth. ‘So we must widen your circle of gentlemen acquaintances forthwith. If you were to socialise in London, you would attract suitors like bees to a honeypot.’
‘I doubt that an impecunious widow of twenty-eight years…soon to be twenty-nine…who has forgotten how to dance and flirt will seem very sweet to our drones,’ Ruth said ruefully.
‘I can teach you how to dance and how to flirt,’ Sarah offered impishly. ‘Not that I think you will need much reminding on the latter once the right gentleman comes along.’
Ruth rested back into the sofa and gave her friend a tranquil smile. ‘You always cheer me up. Thank you. I now feel much less sorry for myself. Things are not so drear. I have this cottage and a few investments Papa left to help me get by. I think I will settle on waiting in Willowdene for my knight in shining armour. After all, there are far worse places to be—Almack’s wallflower corner for a start!’ She gave an exaggerated shudder on mentioning the renowned matchmaking venue in London. As a débutante of seventeen she had been there regularly and danced with young bucks in the market for a suitable wife. In the event she had met her future husband, Paul Hayden, at her aunt’s house. But she could quite clearly recall the alcove in Almack’s ballroom where the more mature single ladies—who acted as chaperons and companions to the débutantes—would congregate. The thought of ever joining their number was as depressing now as it had been then.
‘Come, I shall wait while you get ready and we will return to the Manor together in the landau. There is still time to cuddle James before he is put to bed. And there is so much more I want to tell you about Tremayne Park. When we return to Surrey you must come too.’
‘I imagine your husband might want to take you on honeymoon now you are well enough to travel,’ Ruth protested laughingly. She got to her feet to get ready to go out. The thought of a very pleasant evening spent with her friends, and her first sight of their darling baby boy, cheered her enormously.
‘I’ve always liked the silver-grey silk, but the plum satin is pretty too.’
‘The silver-grey it is,’ Ruth said and put the other gown away.
‘Do you think Dr Bryant is sufficiently rebuffed or might he return to try again?’ Sarah asked as Ruth went about her toilette quite unconcerned by her friend’s observation or her uninvited assistance in closing buttons or pinning curls that were hard to reach.
‘I think he is too indignant to be persistent,’ Ruth answered. She stood up from the stool, pleased with her appearance. She had collected her warm coat and hat before she concluded, ‘I think I have heard the last from him on that score. When he left he looked as though his pride had taken a hefty dent.’
‘You’ve dented her pride and a woman scorned is best avoided for as long as possible.’
‘Amen to that,’ Clayton agreed, scowling at his friend’s wry philosophy. His black humour didn’t subdue Viscount Tremayne’s amusement. As his friend chuckled beneath his breath, Clayton leaned back into the sumptuous squabs of the splendid travelling coach that bore the crest of the Tremayne clan and was presently heading, at breakneck speed in the hope of outrunning the snow clouds, towards Willowdene Manor.
Clayton was glad to be spending time with his good friend and glad to be away from the metropolis for a while. Yet niggling at his conscience was a feeling that he was fleeing from an unpleasant situation and he never usually did that. Beneath his breath he cursed Loretta Vane for having managed to spoil his long-awaited reunion with Gavin and his family.
Shortly after Gavin had arrived at Clayton’s home that afternoon a letter from his mistress had been delivered. It had conveyed the outrageous news that Loretta expected him to arrange for their betrothal to be immediately gazetted. In anticipation of his submitting to that action, she had written to Pomfrey to warn him of his jilting. Loretta had also found the gall to infer that she’d dropped Pomfrey at Clayton’s behest… as though Clayton had browbeaten her into it.
After Clayton had spent an incredulous few moments rereading the unsubtle blackmail, he had been vacillating between laughing out loud and swearing at the ceiling. Seething anger had triumphed and he had screwed the perfumed paper in a fist and hurled it as far as he could while fighting down the need to storm straight to her house and shake some sense into the scheming minx.
He knew he would never allow himself to be coerced into marrying her, no matter how devious her strategies. A curt, unequivocal note had been despatched to tell her that. It had also made it clear that their relationship was at an end and that shortly his lawyer would contact her regarding a settlement.
Aware of his friend’s steady gaze on him, Clayton turned his head aside to stare at the dusky passing landscape. The first fat flakes of snow drifted past the carriage window, but still Clayton’s simmering fury at Loretta’s scheming preoccupied his mind. ‘The vixen is intent on stirring up trouble between Pomfrey and me,’ he remarked, almost to himself.
‘Don’t rise to the bait.’
‘I’ve no intention of doing so. But Pomfrey might. He won’t want to be made a laughing stock over this. He might feel obliged to act on it simply to protect his family’s good name.’
‘You think he might call for pistols at dawn?’ Gavin asked with a sardonic smile. He knew very well—as did the whole of the ton—that his friend was an excellent shot and unlikely to be challenged by a sane man to a duel. ‘Pomfrey has his pockets to let, not his attic. He won’t allow her to pull his strings any more than will you.’
‘She is extremely adept at pulling the strings of gentlemen.’
‘I’m sure,’ Gavin said on a dry chuckle. ‘Let’s hope Pomfrey is able to resist her persuasion as well as you can.’
Clayton stretched out his long legs comfortably in front of him and a slow grin softened his features. ‘You’d best tell the driver to slow down. The bad weather’s caught up with us.’
Gavin whipped his head about to frown at the falling snow. The urgent need to be reunited with his beloved wife and baby son made him reluctant to issue the order. With a sigh he realised he risked never seeing them again if they continued to drive at reckless speed on roads that would soon be treacherous. Having taken Clayton’s good advice and instructed the driver to rein in and take extreme care negotiating the road, he settled back into the seat and turned his mind again to his friend’s unfortunate plight.
‘It could all be a bluff, in any case,’ Gavin reasoned. ‘Lady Vane might not have sent Pomfrey a letter yet. She might be hedging her bets. I’ll warrant she won’t drop Pomfrey until she accepts it’s all over with you.’
‘I’m inclined to agree on that,’ Clayton said reflectively. ‘If she doesn’t understand plain English, as soon as I get back to town I’ll make sure she knows that I mean what I say.’
‘There is one certain way to make her accept you mean what you say and that you’ll never have her as your wife.’
‘And that is…?’ Clayton asked with lazy interest.
‘Marry someone else,’ Gavin said.
Chapter Three
‘I do hope Gavin has put up for the night somewhere. It would be foolhardy to travel on in such dreadful weather.’
Ruth gently settled baby James in his crib before turning her attention to the boy’s mother. Sarah had spoken in a voice sharpened by anxiety and with her melancholy gaze directed through the nursery window.
Inside the Manor all was cosy and warm, but sloping away from the house the lawns, that this afternoon had been murky green, appeared icy white. It was after eight o’clock in the evening and more than two hours since the time of Gavin’s expected arrival. The snow had stopped falling and the sky had become the darkest shade of blue, threatening a night of perilous frost lay ahead. A pale, hard moon had escaped from a scrap of cloud and beneath its faint light the snow scintillated back at the stars.
‘It is possible Gavin has not yet set out at all,’ Ruth soothingly reminded. ‘I expect he has sensibly remained in London if the snow has come from that direction.’ It was a valid reassurance, given more than once since the snow started, yet it did little to erase the look of strain from the Viscountess’s features. Sarah’s small teeth continued to nip ferociously at her lower lip. Forlornly she peered at the long driveway that led to the house as though willing her husband’s carriage to hove into view.
When they had travelled together from the hamlet of Fernlea, where Ruth lived, the air had held a cruel effervescence. But the breeze had kindly whipped the heavy clouds before it, giving them no chance to hover and shed their load. Within an hour of their arrival at the Manor the elements had turned against them. The wind had dropped, leaving the heavens concealed behind an unmoving blanket of sullen grey. The first gentle flurries had seemed harmless, but inexorably the dainty flakes had thickened and settled on the ground. Sarah and Ruth had taken turns at the window to report on the creeping progress of the frosting on the grass. Now the two women stood side by side, silently surveying the treacherous white landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘There is the tavern at Woodville.’ Ruth quickly attempted to comfort her friend. Sarah’s countenance had become as still and pale as the scenery they gazed upon. ‘If Gavin was close to home when the weather took a turn for the worse, I expect he instructed his coachman to pull in there.’ Again the suggestion was valid: Woodville was a small town situated about seventeen miles south of Willowdene and the King’s Head was a well-known stopping point for travellers going to and from London.
‘Yes, I’m sure he would have done that.’ Sarah managed a constrained little smile. ‘Gavin would not be foolish enough to carry on regardless simply to get home to us…would he?’
‘Of course not,’ Ruth reassured fraudulently and drew her friend away from the window and back into the room. ‘Little James is a contented soul. His nurse must dote on him,’ she said, trying to divert Sarah’s attention to something pleasant as they sat down by the cot.
A moment after they had settled into their chairs to watch James peacefully dozing, Sarah suddenly cocked her head, then leaped to her feet. In a trice she had flown back to the window and was craning her neck to peer out. ‘He is here!’ she sobbed out at the glass. She whirled about to gulp at Ruth, ‘The carriage is here.’
Quickly Ruth joined her at the window and was instantly enveloped in Sarah’s hug. ‘Oh, thank Heavens! He is safely home.’ Sarah snuffled back tears of blessed joy, her eyes glistening with the strength of her relief.
‘You must go and welcome him.’ Ruth was well aware that Sarah yearned to do so. ‘I shall be quite happy to stay here with this darling boy if I may.’
‘Gavin will think me quite a nincompoop to get in such a state.’ Sarah knuckled away the wet that dewed her lashes. But she was soon at the door, leaving Ruth to gaze down, soft-eyed, at the infant left in her care. James was sleeping soundly, his cherubic face turned away from her. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Ruth drew the covers closer about him, then stroked a tiny curled palm. Reflexively the baby clutched at her finger. Ruth felt her chest constrict and an ache surged up her throat at the memory of another baby—one whose delicate fingers had remained cold and unresponsive to her loving touch.
Ruth went to sit close by the fire. She eased back gratefully into the comfy chair, realising that she was quite enervated. In truth she, too, had begun to feel extremely concerned for Gavin’s safety as nightfall came with no sign of a thaw or the arrival of the master of the house. Feeling now relaxed and quite cosy, she allowed her weary eyelids to fall.
The baby’s whimpering woke her. Immediately Ruth looked at the fire; it had burned low in the grate. She then glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was approaching nine o’clock. Jumping to her feet, she quickly went to peer in the cot. From his scrunched, angry face and drawn-up knees, and from female intuition, Ruth guessed that colic was the culprit.
Having lifted the fretful baby to her shoulder, she began murmuring soothingly to him. Rhythmically she rubbed at his back in the hope of easing his cramps while walking towards the door. The corridor was deserted. The baby’s nurse had earlier been dismissed for the afternoon so Sarah and Ruth could chat and enjoy each other’s company in private. With no idea where she might find James’s nurse, and guessing Sarah and Gavin might be in the small salon, Ruth headed off in that direction.
‘Mrs Hayden?’
Ruth had traversed many yards of quiet, carpeted corridor and was close to the top of the majestic staircase when she heard her name called in a cultured baritone voice.
Turning about, she stared, astonished, at a tall blond gentleman who was strolling towards her. She recognised him at once and that was odd, she obliquely realised, for after their brief introduction—which could not have lasted more than a few minutes—she had never again seen Sir Clayton Powell. It was equally odd that he should remember her after that meeting in Willowdene over a year ago. Or perhaps Sarah or Gavin had informed him she was a guest this evening.
‘I had no idea you were staying at Willowdene Manor,’ he said pleasantly as he came closer and executed a polite bow. ‘Our hosts made no mention of it.’
‘I had no idea you would be here either, sir,’ Ruth said quickly. So her presence had not been mentioned, yet he had recognised her. ‘And I am not staying here. I received an invitation to dine this evening with the Viscount and Viscountess.’
‘Do you live close by?’ Clayton asked with a frown. ‘The roads are now virtually impassable. I doubt you will get home tonight.’
That thought had already occurred to Ruth. She had guessed that Sarah would kindly offer her a bed for the night. And Ruth would have accepted, despite having no night things with her. She would never contemplate putting at risk a coach and driver by insisting on going home through miles of lanes blocked by snow. A short while ago the thought of staying a day or two while they waited for a thaw had not presented a problem. Now, for some odd reason, the thought of sleeping beneath the same roof as this gentleman made her feel awkward.
‘You have both arrived safely, if a little tardy,’ Ruth pointed out rather lamely.
‘Gavin would have moved heaven and earth to do so.’
‘I imagined he would,’ Ruth replied wryly. ‘And so did Sarah. It worried her half to death that he would take risks to get here.’
‘The power of love,’ Clayton muttered exceedingly drily, but he cast a fond look at the baby boy fidgeting on Ruth’s shoulder. ‘Should he not be abed?’
‘I think he should,’ Ruth answered politely, yet rather indignant on hearing him sound so cynical. He might have been embittered by a bad marriage, but he had no right to scoff at her dear friends’ wedded bliss. ‘His nurse was given the afternoon off and I’m just on my way to find Sarah,’ Ruth informed him briskly and took a step towards the head of the stairs. ‘I think he might have a pain…or perhaps it has passed,’ she said as quite an embarrassing noise and unpleasant smell issued from the little boy’s rump.
Clayton grinned. ‘I imagine young James is feeling much better now.’
An involuntary giggle escaped Ruth, despite her cheeks having turned pink. ‘Still, I shall look for Sarah and hand him over. We were in the nursery when she heard the coach arrive and she rushed off to greet Gavin. I was on my way to the small salon. They might have gone there. I expect they have much news to catch up on.’
‘Indeed,’ Clayton drawled, amusement far back in his slate-grey eyes. ‘But I doubt you’ll find them in there yet.’ He paused as though mentally phrasing his next words. ‘I believe Gavin went to his chamber to freshen up after the journey. Sarah accompanied him.’
‘Oh…I see,’ Ruth said and averted her face to hide her blushing confusion. She felt quite silly for not having guessed that the two lovebirds would find an opportunity to have some time alone on being safely reunited.
While Ruth composed herself by fussing over the baby, Clayton began to subtly study her with a very male eye. He’d been attracted to her when they had briefly met in Willowdene town despite the fact she had been garbed head to toe in mourning clothes. She’d been capably driving a little pony and trap through the High Street and, from their short conversation that day, he’d learned that she wore weeds because her father had recently died. He’d also learned that she was related by marriage to one of his commanding officers, Colonel Hayden. It was a while later that he’d learned from Gavin that Ruth Hayden had been a widow for many years.
Clayton’s roving appraisal continued and he knew he’d been right in instinctively sensing that beneath the dreary bombazine that had been shrouding her body on that occasion, and the dark bonnet brim that had made sallow her complexion, was a woman of rare beauty.
On first glance Ruth Hayden’s features might appear rather severe, yet on finer appraisal were undoubtedly exquisite. Her deep brown eyes were fringed by lengthy black lashes and topped by delicate brows that looked soft as sable. Her nose was thin, her mouth asymmetrical with a lower lip that was fuller than the curving cupid’s bow on top. She was petite, her smooth peachy cheek barely reached his shoulder, and fragile wrist bones were in his line of vision as she cuddled James close to her. But her figure was generously curvaceous in all the right places. The weight of the baby pressing on her chest had accentuated a satiny ivory cleavage swelling above her bodice. His hooded eyes lingered a moment too long on silver silk straining enticingly across her bosom.
Feeling once more adequately self-possessed, Ruth looked up and immediately her cheeks regained a vivid bloom as she noticed Sir Clayton eyeing her breasts. On the previous occasion when they had conversed she had sensed he found her interesting, and not just because he’d discovered he was acquainted with her in-laws. At the time she’d dismissed the idea he was attracted to her as fanciful and scoffed at her conceit. Yet there was no denying that she’d just caught him regarding her lustfully. Knowing that he found her desirable caused a peculiar mixture of uneasiness and excitement to tumble her insides.
It might have been many years since she had lain with her husband, or even been kissed, but she could recognise the signs that a man wanted her. She had seen the same smouldering intensity at the back of Ian Bryant’s eyes just a couple of days ago when he proposed to her. She had known for a year or more that Ian wanted to bed her. But the doctor didn’t possess skill enough to neutralise a tense situation, or his passion, as it seemed this man could.
Sir Clayton didn’t look in the least disconcerted at being caught out. He raised a long finger, stroked the baby’s soft cheek and lightly remarked, ‘There’s a young maid hovering at the end of the corridor.’ He gave Ruth a nonchalant smile. ‘Perhaps she has come to see to James.’
Ruth slowly expelled her pent-up breath. She pivoted about, grateful for the distraction, and gave young Rosie a beseeching look. At the signal the nursemaid immediately hastened to them and dipped a curtsy.
