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‘No,’ she replied, wincing, unable to hide her repugnance as the two men began hitting each other with their bare fists, a man holding a long staff standing by ready to separate them should blood flow. ‘I confess it is the first time I have seen one at close range. It’s horrible.’
‘My feelings entirely. The public taste for violence always appals me. Come, we don’t have to stay and watch two men knock the sense out of each other—if they had any in the first place for believing it wise to indulge in such brutality,’ he said, taking her arm and drawing her back, the crowd parting to let them through. He paused where his horse was tethered to a tree, beginning to loosen the reins.
Free of the constriction of the crowd, Eve breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. I don’t believe I could have watched them fight to the bitter end. What a magnificent horse,’ she said, her attention caught as always when she recognised good horseflesh, reaching up to slide her hand along its silken neck.
‘Yes. He’s very special. You like horses?’
She nodded, about to tell him her father had a stable full of superb horseflesh, but thought better of it. Better that he didn’t know who she was. She became alarmed when she suspected he was about to leave.
‘You—you’re not leaving?’
‘I must. It’s a long ride back to Netherley.’
Panic washed over her as she turned briefly, seeing Angela with a smug expression on her face, watching her like a cat watches a mouse, reminding her what it was she had to do. ‘Oh—but—but I…’ she faltered, acutely embarrassed and unable to go on.
Marcus raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for her to continue, enjoying her confusion.
Eve looked towards the fiddlers and the laughing, dancing swirl of people, acutely conscience of Angela’s challenge and knowing she would have to ask him now. ‘I—I—thought you might like to dance.’
Unable to believe that she had said those words she watched him, unconscious that she was holding her breath or that her eyes were wide open as she waited expectantly for him to reply, seeing neither shock nor surprise register on his carefully schooled features at her bold request.
‘No.’
‘Oh—I see.’
Eve stepped back, ashamed and filled with mortification by his blunt rebuff, wanting to extricate herself from the awful embarrassment of the predicament she had created in the first place as quickly as possible, but she felt a stab of anger that he could have been so rude as to refuse her in such a brusque manner, and a dull ache of disappointment in her chest that Angela would crow with delight at her inability to tempt the high and mighty Mr Fitzalan to dance with her. Making a conscious effort to escape from the situation with as much dignity as she could muster, she stepped away from him.
‘Very well, Mr Fitzalan. Since you seem averse to my company I will bid you good day. Please forgive me for troubling you.’
Marcus’s hand shot out and gripped her arm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her friends not twenty yards away watching expectantly, giggling and nudging each other in anticipation of what might happen next. His eyes narrowed and he nodded slightly, looking down at his delightful companion whose face was flushed with indignation.
He was no fool. He knew exactly what she was up to. For some reason known only to her and her friends she was playing some kind of game. He smiled slightly with bland amusement, determined to give little Miss Whoever-she-was a shade more than she had bargained for. But not here—he had no mind to be watched by two giggling girls.
‘I did not say that. On the contrary, I find your presence pleasing. Come—it’s just that I am not inclined to dance, I never do at these occasions. But perhaps you will take a walk with me along the path by the river?’
Eve stared at him, feeling her heart turn over at his unexpected request. His voice was incredibly seductive, his eyes smiling and compelling her to say yes. She felt a warmth creeping throughout her body which made her doubt her earlier conviction that she was not attracted by him. How could she not be when he looked at her like this? She was confused, the situation having become one she had not anticipated—one she was unsure how to deal with, not being experienced or worldly enough to grasp the type of man Marcus Fitzalan was.
‘Why—I—I shouldn’t—I…’
He smiled invitingly, his voice low and persuasive. ‘Come—you must say yes. It’s rather like the enticer becoming the enticed, is it not?’ he said softly, lifting a knowing eyebrow.
Eve expelled her breath in a rush, her eyes registering shock, horror and disbelief, for his look told her that he knew exactly what she had been about. ‘Oh—I wasn’t—I mean—’
He laughed softly, his teeth gleaming white from between his parted lips. ‘Does it matter?’ and he sensed victory when she began to follow him as he led his horse along the path by the side of the river, long before she realised she had been defeated.
The fact that Eve’s absence might have been noted by Mrs Parkinson, and that Leslie had returned to the group, was the last thing on her mind just then. As they walked the sun, warm and benign to lovers—and yet they weren’t lovers—slanted through the trees that lined the river bank, showing them the way as Marcus drew her farther and farther away from her friends. The air was warm and sultry, with tiny insects darting along the surface of the water, the sound of revelry and music growing ever fainter.
They talked of inconsequential things, of Atwood and the people who lived there, until Eve realised how far they had walked and began to panic. Her behaviour was completely irrational and she wondered what her parents would say if they were to find out about this. Their code of behaviour was strict and must be adhered to. She should not be alone with a man who was not her betrothed—and certainly not walking alone along a river bank, half-hidden from everyone by a curtain of trees.
They paused and Marcus let go of the reins to allow his horse to drink from the river. Leaning negligently against a tree he folded his arms across his chest, watching Eve in speculative silence through narrowed eyes. He had removed his coat and loosened his neck cloth, and beneath the soft linen shirt his muscles flexed with any slight movement he made. He exuded a brute strength and posed with leashed sensuality, a hard set to his jaw and a cynicism in his ice-cold eyes. But then he smiled, lazily and devastatingly, his teeth as white as his neckcloth.
The breeze blew Eve’s hair across her face and she reached up and absently drew it back, combing her fingers through it and sweeping it behind her ears, unconscious of how seductive the gesture was to Marcus. He stood absolutely still, watching her with a look that was possessive, and, looking at him, something in his expression made Eve flush and catch her breath, dropping her arm self-consciously. The moment was intimate, warm and vibrantly alive. His vitality at such close quarters alarmed her.
‘I—I must go back,’ she said, thrown into sudden panic, biting her lip nervously and keeping her face averted from his. She wanted to escape, to run away, and yet, at the same time, she could not move. ‘My friends will be wondering what has become of me.’
Marcus reached out and placed his fingers under her chin and turned it round to face him.
‘Look at me.’
She glanced up at him, breathing rapidly from between parted lips so moist, so soft, her wonderful liquid eyes wide and luminous, her small breasts thrusting against the bodice of her dress. She was the perfect picture of alluring innocence, but Marcus was not to be deceived. To a lustful man those magnificent eyes were proving to be far too alluring and inviting.
‘You know it’s wrong to be alone with me—that no decent young lady would dream of taking a walk with a total stranger. What makes you think you are safe?’
Eve flushed, her glorious violet eyes mist bright, knowing that now was the time she should tell him who she was, that she had never intended things to go this far, but somehow she couldn’t. She found his presence vaguely threatening and just hoped he would allow her to leave and return to the others, and in so doing forget all about her. But his eyes had taken on a whole new look, one she neither recognised nor understood, one which seemed to scorch her with the intensity of his passion, making her wonder if she was strong enough to withstand him. They burned into her, stopping all motion.
‘Clearly I am not one of the decent, well-bred young ladies you are acquainted with,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘You already know by my forward behaviour when I asked you to dance that my knowledge of protocol is negligible. I—I assumed that because of who you are—your elevated position— I would be safe. This has all been a terrible mistake,’ she said lamely, alarm bells beginning to scream through her head. ‘I—I must return to my friends. I should never have come. I—I don’t know why I did.’
Eve watched in wary alarm as Marcus moved closer, driven by an uncontrollable compulsion to possess her, her behaviour from the very start telling him that the last thing she wanted was to return to her friends just yet. ‘Don’t you? You’re here with me because you want to be. You want what I want. Don’t deny it because I will not believe you—and don’t be too eager to run away back to your friends.’
Marcus should have seen the panic in her eyes, heard the slight catch in her voice, but all he could think of was her lips and how soft and inviting they looked. Sweeping the tangle of her hair from her face, he took it firmly in both his hands and lowered his head, feeling an explosion of passion the moment he touched her. His mouth clamped down on hers, snatching her breath from between her lips before she could protest, feeling the blood pounding through his veins with the scorching heat of desire.
Eve was too stunned to do anything except let him kiss her, but when he did not feel her respond he raised his head and frowned, puzzled, slipping his hands about her waist and pulling her close, their bodies touching full length.
‘I want no chaste kiss, lady,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘I think you know how to do better than that.’
His hand slipped behind her neck as again he lowered his head, and with tantalising slowness he caressed her lips with his own before kissing her deeply, surprising, but not shocking her. Naïve and inexperienced, she acted purely on instinct, responding naturally to his tender assault on her lips—and it was not just her lips that began to open and respond, but her whole body as they clung to each other, becoming caught up in a wave of pleasure.
Eve was seduced by his mouth, becoming captive to his touch, his caress and the promise of things to come, secret, mysterious things that set her body trembling. She didn’t know what was happening to her. No one had told her what happened when men and women were intimate together. An inexperienced girl could not have imagined such a kiss. She had never been kissed by a man in her life, and to be kissed like this for the first time was devastating. The feelings he aroused in her, with his lips, his touch, his eyes, were irrational, nameless. But she was not so overcome with passion to know that what she was doing was wrong, very wrong, and she must put an end to it.
‘Please—you must let me go,’ she whispered, her lips against his. ‘You must not do this.’
Marcus seemed not to hear her plea and continued to seek her lips, his inquisitive fingers caressing the soft swell of her breasts. She pushed her hands against his chest and stood back, breathless, gazing up at him in helpless appeal, while wanting what he had to offer with a physical intensity which was like no other need she had ever known or imagined.
‘Please—this is not right—we shouldn’t. If anyone should find out that I’ve been alone with you—the—the proprieties—the conventions…’
Jolted back to his senses, Marcus stared at her. ‘What the devil are you talking about? Why should rules of social etiquette affect you—a doxy?’
Eve’s cheeks burned at the insult. ‘How dare you! I am no doxy.’
‘You gave a pretty good imitation of one.’
‘I am not,’ she flared, trying to still the wild beating of her heart.
‘Then who the devil are you?’
For a brief second Eve considered telling a small lie but thought better of it, knowing she would be found out—besides, she did not tell lies, preferring to tell the truth no matter what the situation. She turned as if to walk away but fury and dread at what she might tell him made him reach out and pull her round to face him. She tried to shrink away, but he held her firmly.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded coldly.
Taking a deep breath, Eve met his gaze squarely, all coquetry gone as her spirit rose to grapple with this unpleasant turn of events. The air between them had become tense and charged with an entirely new kind of emotion.
‘I—I am Eve Somerville,’ she whispered, forcing herself to look directly into his eyes. ‘Sir John Somerville’s daughter.’
Marcus stared down at her as though he had been felled. His jawline tightened, his eyes became steady and glacial, his face going as white as his neck cloth. ‘Dear Lord! What folly is this? Is this true? Are you Eve Somerville?’
She nodded dumbly, lowering her gaze, flinching before the exasperation in his voice and the cold glitter in his ice blue eyes. Never had she felt such humiliation.
‘Look at me,’ he demanded.
Unwillingly Eve raised her head and met his eyes, defiance and perturbation on her face. He glared down at her, embracing her in a look that was ice cold.
‘I never thought to meet Sir John’s daughter in a mad escapade of this kind—but it seems I was wrong. Have you no sense?’ he said, thrusting his face close to hers, the line of his mouth cruel. His hands shot out and clamped down hard on her shoulders and he shook her so forcefully that she thought her head would come off. ‘Can’t you see that it was the height of dangerous folly to embark on such a madcap scheme as this?’ he admonished severely.
‘It was a mistake,’ she said desperately, wishing he would release his vicious hold on her.
‘A mistake of your doing. The responsibility for your being here is your own. What made you seek me out?’ he demanded. ‘Come—don’t keep me in suspense.’ He fumed with growing impatience, thrusting her away from him and raking his hand in sheer frustration through his hair. ‘Why did you not tell me who you were?’
Full of shame and mortification Eve wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Never had she felt so wretched. He watched her with a deadly calm.
‘I—I meant to—but somehow—it—it was a hoax, a charade, that is all—my friends dared me to ask you to dance—’
Marcus looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘A hoax? Do you actually have the impertinence to tell me this was a hoax? My God, are you shameless? Can’t you see? Has it not occurred to you that by your foolishness it is not only your own reputation that might be ruined, but also my own? And you are betrothed, are you not—or about to be—to Leslie Stephenson?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. His face was frightening, but feeling wrath and indignation rising inside her, she tossed back her head and glared at him defiantly.
‘Then let us hope he does not hear of this, otherwise any expectations you might have of him asking for your hand in marriage will have been dashed. Now go home to your mother, Miss Somerville, she must be wondering where you are. If I were your father and I heard of this little episode—and you can be assured he will for I intend seeking him out at once—then you could be sure of a sound thrashing.’
His stern rebuke inflamed a smouldering resentment towards him inside Eve. ‘Then I can only thank God that you are not my father,’ she flared.
‘You may, Miss Somerville. You may. In my opinion you are a self-indulgent, spoiled brat—the type I hold in contempt. You behaved like an accomplished flirt. You didn’t know what you were doing—what you were asking for when you so outrageously made sexual overtures to a gentleman of my years and experience with women. Perhaps you will think twice the next time you want to play games—and I strongly advise you to learn the rules.’
Eve stared at him, her mind trying to adjust to his words. No one had ever spoken to her like this before or insulted her so severely. Fury blazed in his eyes as they locked relentlessly on to hers, but she stood before him, full of youthful courage, spirit and pride. Her mind was no longer in control and she had no idea how adorable she looked with her face flushed with ire and her eyes blazing furiously.
‘And what of your own conduct? You should have known better than to take advantage of me, regardless of who I might be—unless this is how you normally behave,’ she accused him.
‘I never take advantage of defenceless young ladies—but you did not give me the impression of being defenceless. If you, Miss Somerville, are under the impression that you may sport with me in any manner you please, then let me tell you that you do not know me.’
‘And after your insulting attack on my person I have no wish to know you. It would be interesting to know how much of a gentleman you are, Mr Fitzalan—had you not found out in time who I am.’
‘Were I not a gentleman, Miss Somerville, it would not matter a damn who you are. I would behave much worse and take advantage of your delectable charms here and now. And I know by your response that, if I had not released you when I did, with a little gentle persuasion you would have yielded to me completely, flinging all caution to the four winds with no thought of the consequences. Let me tell you that I rarely refuse that which is so flagrantly offered to me, but considering your age and that you are Sir John’s daughter—who, as you know, is an extremely good friend of mine—I must decline your offer.’
Eve was infuriated. ‘Oh—how dare you speak to me like this? I know what you must think—’
‘I don’t think so, lady. If you did you’d turn and run,’ he said with menacing, murderous fury. ‘Now return to your friends before they send out a search party and accuse me of compromising you. Having met you, I cannot think of anything that would upset me more than your father insisting that I do the gentlemanly thing and marry you myself.’
Chapter Four
I n disagreeable silence Eve turned from Marcus Fitzalan, her heart heavy with shame and helpless misery. Never had she been so shaken and humiliated in her seventeen years as she was then. Hurrying back along the path, she discovered to her mortification that her indiscretion had been witnessed not only by Angela but also by Leslie Stephenson, who was staring at her in absolute incredulity.
Unable to utter a word of explanation in her defence she hurried on, too ashamed, angry and humiliated to speak to anyone—but not before she had glimpsed, through the blur of tears that almost blinded her, Angela’s look of triumph and barely concealed smile. Her features were stamped with smugness and a confidence which came from the knowledge that Eve’s association with Leslie Stephenson lay in ruins.
Left alone, Marcus was angered beyond words that he had fallen into a pit of his own making. But she was right. Before he knew who she was he’d had every reason to believe by her actions and forward behaviour that she’d had lovers before, despite her youth, and something perverse inside him had refused to call a halt to his assault on what he believed to be a willing body.
He could be forgiven for thinking that her eagerness, her very willingness to have him kiss her, had confused him into believing she was experienced in the ways of seduction, but if this was her general pattern of behaviour when she was not under the watchful eye of her parents, then it was as well they knew about it, and soon.
Marcus Fitzalan did exactly as he said he would and had spoken to Eve’s father immediately. Her parents’ anger and disbelief at what she had done made the whole thing much worse. Her future looked bleak. Aware that Atwood society neither forgave nor forgot an indiscretion, and to avoid Eve becoming the object of derision, her parents sent her to Cumbria post haste to stay with her grandmother and did not allow her to return until the whole affair had died down.
But sadly Eve never saw her mother again, for she died before Eve returned to Atwood, leaving her with a well of grief and self-reproach. Blaming herself bitterly for not being there when her mother needed her, it was something she did not get over, and she spent her days in self-imposed isolation at Burntwood Hall, ignoring Emma’s pleas to accompany her to the local assemblies and soirées in an attempt to cheer her, only venturing abroad for the odd visit to her Aunt Shona in London or her grandmother in Cumbria.
Mr Fitzalan, it would appear, was beyond reproach where her father was concerned. He held him in such high regard that he believed every word he said. It was not the first mis-demeanour his high-spirited daughter was guilty of, and he had always said that one day she would go too far. Both he and his wife had been in agreement that her wild spirits were difficult to curb. But Eve was extremely angry that they chose to ignore Mr Fitzalan’s part in the affair, making her suspect he might not have told them just how intimate their meeting had been at Atwood Fair.
And as for Leslie Stephenson, at the first whiff of a scandal he abruptly withdrew his suit and married Angela instead, just as she had contrived it.
The sheer malice of Angela’s trickery had angered Eve beyond words—all because Angela coveted the man who was considering marriage to her. Angela had made sure Eve was seen with Mr Fitzalan, and was unable to believe her good fortune when he had declined Eve’s request to dance and had disappeared into the bushes with her. When it had come out, Leslie had married Angela instead—only to die in a riding accident a year later, leaving Angela an extremely wealthy young widow.
Until that fateful night Eve had believed Angela to be her friend, and the pain of her betrayal hurt more than Leslie’s rejection. She had not seen her since, but never would she forgive her unspeakable malice and deceit. She and Emma remained close, but Angela’s name was never mentioned between them.
Eve was glad to put the whole sorry affair behind her, hoping she would never have the misfortune to set eyes on Marcus Fitzalan again. He had spared her nothing, making her see herself as fast, a flirt and a spoiled, overindulged, selfish child, but as she agonised over his cruel accusations, reluctantly she had to admit that they were close to the truth.
But no matter how resentful she felt towards him, he had awoken her desire, had left her with a strange ache rising inside her, and a sharp new hunger and need in her heart she could not explain. Looking back, she knew that that was the time when childhood had left her. She would never again be that same carefree, impulsive girl.
It was someone knocking on her door that woke Eve from her fitful sleep. With a deep sigh she opened her eyes, her mind still full of Marcus Fitzalan and that day three years ago as she rose and crossed wearily to the door, surprised to see her grandmother, who had come to speak to her before retiring for the night. Usually her presence had a daunting effect on Eve, but today too much had happened for her to feel intimidated by her grandmother. Whenever she came to visit them the house always became a different place, quiet and subdued, her presence invading every room from the attics to the cellars, and felt by everyone.
There were always the same questions and answers, the same stiff rules to be adhered to. She always demanded much of Eve’s time, commanding her to read to her for hours, and she would sit with her to make sure she did her embroidery, a task Eve found tedious at the best of times. In the past her grandmother had constantly reproached her mother for allowing Eve too much freedom to do as she pleased, and the whole household would breathe a sigh of relief when she went back to Cumbria.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Eve, but I must speak to you,’ she said, stepping into the room and seating herself in an armchair by the fire, the very chair Eve herself had occupied until her grandmother had knocked on her door and roused her from her melancholy thoughts.
‘Of course, Grandmother,’ Eve replied quietly, giving no indication that this was a conversation she would have preferred to defer until another time, feeling in no mood to talk to anyone.
While she waited for her grandmother to speak she moved towards the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains and looking out, aware of a feeling of gloom and despondency. The night was dark now and beyond the church she could see the warm lights of Atwood glimmering in the distance, and also, some considerable distance away from the township, stood the tall, ghostly shape of the engine house of Atwood Mine and its surrounding spoil heaps, indicative of the area and so distinctive a feature of the landscape.
Her thoughts barely penetrated the fog that clouded her mind. She was numb in mind, body and soul, unable to comprehend all that had happened that day and what it would mean to her future. Her father’s will had turned her life into an irretrievable disaster. How could he have done this to her—and why? How could he want her to marry Mr Fitzalan? The very idea horrified her.
But the thought of Atwood Mine falling into Gerald’s hands brought a great emptiness of heart. He knew nothing about mining—and even though it would still be managed by competent men, if she let it happen he would be in absolute control. It would not be long before he spent the profits and it ran into difficulties. Everything her father had worked to achieve on the estate would be eradicated by Gerald, this she was certain of, and she would hate to see Atwood Mine go the same way.
Not until today had she realised how dear, how important the mine was to her, and she wondered what had possessed her to hold it so lightly all her life. Her father had been so proud of it, so proud of its efficiency, its worth—the lifeblood of the Somervilles, he often said. He had worked hard to make it what it was, and many were the times when he had been there from dawn until dark, causing her mother to gently taunt and tease him, telling him she would find it easier to accept another woman as a rival for his affections, but a coal mine was insupportable.
She sighed deeply. To leave Burntwood Hall would be like being uprooted, but to lose the mine completely and let Gerald have the run of it would tear her heart. She couldn’t let it go. For his own reasons her father had bequeathed half of it to her—a half which would become a whole if she were to do as he asked and marry Mr Fitzalan—but that was the stumbling block. Marcus Fitzalan! There must be some other way of keeping the mine out of Gerald’s hands other than that. There had to be. She couldn’t let it go, she thought desperately. She just couldn’t.
Of course Eve knew that as a married woman she couldn’t actually be seen as the owner of the mine, in the eyes of the law, but whatever else Marcus Fitzalan was he was a man of his word. Eve felt certain he would stand by her father’s legacy to her.
She had given the matter some considerable thought all day, trying to find some way to escape the impossible situation she found herself to be in, anything, so long as she need not marry Mr Fitzalan or go to live with her grandmother in a wild and unfrequented area of Cumbria.
But as her brain had gone round and round in ever confusing circles she could see no escape. If she wanted to hold on to a part of her past—to Atwood Mine, which she was fiercely determined not to let go—then she really had no choice but to marry Mr Fitzalan. But for now she would hold out against making that decision for as long as she could in the hope that a solution to her dilemma would present itself.
‘This has all come as a terrible shock to you, Eve,’ said her grandmother at length.
‘Yes—it has, Grandmother. From my earliest memories my father’s devotion was to be relied on unquestionably. I don’t understand what has happened—why he has done this. Do you know? Did he discuss this with you? Mr Fitzalan has tried explaining it to me but still I fail to understand any of it.’
