Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal

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The change in his tone shoved her further off balance. He had done that before, reach inside her with his voice, set her insides reverberating like the cavern of a bell.

‘What?’

‘The house, Lily. Do you like it?’

She turned away from the focused force of his eyes and the taunting intimacy in his use of her given name. She was being ridiculous. For the past hour she had trotted after him, provoking and needling, and now that she had his full attention on her, she felt a panicked need to deflect it. She could hardly imagine he was being serious about a harem. He was just poking fun at her thwarted curiosity. But those questions had rumbled, no, purred through the cold room and shot heat through her just as that short clasp of her hand had. She could feel it in her cheeks and in her chest, like brandy swallowed too fast.

Do you like it?

She went over to the window just in time to see the sun lose its battle against the clouds, casting the overgrown lawn into shadow with the suddenness of a dropped blanket. It made the world, the house, the room, smaller. Maybe these peculiar sensations were a sign she, too, was falling ill. It would almost be a relief. No one would expect anything of her if she were ill. She could hide in her room and embrace oblivion, and maybe when she came out the other end of the tunnel, this discomfort would be gone and by some miracle her fate would be decided for her.

‘It’s not a complicated question, Lily. Do you like the house?’

He was standing directly behind her now.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

She breathed in and answered only the question.

‘It feels sullen. Everything is a little too small, a little too low. I would stifle here. The only thing generous here is the fireplace.’

‘You need space.’

Yes, so move away, you’re crowding me. She didn’t say the words aloud because that would be to pander to his vanity. She frowned up at the clouds. They were gathering in the east. That way was Bristol and ships heading out towards the West Indies and what had once been home but could never be that again.

‘Don’t you?’ she asked.

‘I am used to making do with what is at hand.’

‘I see. We are back to that. I’m spoilt, I suppose.’

‘Most heiresses are. It’s not a matter of choice. Or rather it is a matter of too much choice. They can’t help themselves from expecting more than they need.’

‘How kind of you to be so understanding of my flaws.’ Lily thought of the life she had led until her mother’s death and wondered what he would have made of their spartan existence on the island or in the mining towns in Brazil. As far as he was concerned, she was the product of the life she had led in Kingston.

He moved to her side, looking out over the grass and weeds as they snapped back and forth in the rising wind. He was so close she felt the fabric of his coat against the sleeve of her pelisse. She wouldn’t turn to look because that would give him the satisfaction of knowing how aware she was of him. How many times had she played this game in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of Kingston? She was good at it. It was just another tactical game. His move, hers, his move, hers. In the end she always won because for her it was merely tactics, she had no strategy, nothing she wanted to gain. What she wanted from life had no connection to that game any more than it had to a game of chess. Less. But now that her father was gone she knew those games were over. Now, when Philip Marston returned from Birmingham, she would likely concede and start her new life.

‘Since I have so many flaws myself, it would be rather hypocritical to be intolerant of others,’ he answered. ‘Besides, perfection is vastly overrated. My closest friends are deeply flawed and much the better for it.’

‘I will hazard a wild guess there are no spoilt heiresses among them.’

He laughed and his coat brushed against her arm, raising and lowering the fabric against her arm, and her skin bloomed with goose pimples.

‘Not one. One very unspoilt heiress, but she is married to one of my closest friends.’

That was a good excuse to turn towards him and put some distance between them. She was also curious. There was something in his voice. The same tone as he employed with Nicky—intimate and affectionate; a combination that didn’t match what she knew of him.

‘So you admit the possibility of an unspoilt heiress?’

‘There are always exceptions to the rule. In this case Nell wasn’t spoilt by being society’s darling for years.’

That struck home. She couldn’t deny that that was precisely what she had been since her father had brought her to Jamaica after her mother’s death when she was fourteen and especially since she had been introduced to Jamaican society four years after that. Not that she had ever believed it meant more than an avid appreciation of her father’s fortune.

‘Once you start admitting exceptions to rules, you rather undermine the whole point of having them. How do you know I’m not an exception as well?’

‘Are you?’

‘That is hardly a fair question. Even if we aren’t special, we all want to believe we are. Otherwise how could we believe we are worthy of being loved?’

A gallant man would have entered through that wide-open door, but he merely smiled and changed direction.

‘I think I’ve seen enough of this house. We should leave before the weather turns against us completely.’

She didn’t move, piqued even though she knew that was precisely what he intended. They were unevenly matched—he was much more experienced in this game, especially since his livelihood probably depended on his performance. She flirted out of boredom and resentment against the constraints society imposed, while he did it for survival. The tales of the Wild Hunt Club that Nicky had delighted in might be grossly exaggerated, but not this man’s skill at the game she merely dabbled in. She would hardly sit down with him for a game of cards and put her fortune at risk even if she had control over it, and she should adopt the same caution when it came to the game of flirtation.

It was clear he wasn’t really interested in her as an heiress; he would hardly be showing his cards so generously if he was. Well, she wasn’t interested in him, not in any way that mattered. She would never marry a man she didn’t trust and she would never trust a rake; a fortune-hunting rake famed for his wildness was just adding insult to injury. At least she knew Philip Marston was at his core a man of honour.

But whether it was intelligent or not, the truth was she didn’t want to leave yet. Just another sip of champagne before teatime.

‘Was your friend who married the heiress part of the Wild Hunt Club as well?’

He leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms.

‘Is that nonsense still circulating?’

‘Is it nonsense? It was Nicky who told me. Quite proudly, in fact.’

At least she had managed to catch him by surprise.

‘Nicky? What on earth would she know about it?’

‘You would be surprised what one hears at a girls’ school. It’s not all Gothic novels and sighs, you know, even though her version of your exploits did sound rather Gothic. Apparently association with you is quite a cachet for her at school.’

‘Good God. Does Cat know about this?’

‘I don’t know, but I presume she does. Your sister may be quiet, but she’s no fool. You didn’t answer my question.’

‘You see, this is precisely what I was talking about. You seem to think you are entitled to answers simply on the strength of asking a question. Life doesn’t work that way.’

‘I know that. Everything has a price. I can’t force you to answer. I am merely inviting you to do so.’

‘Inviting. I see. Tell me what Nicky told you—I’m curious what nonsense they are allowing in that very expensive school of hers.’

‘Nothing too outrageous. Merely some nonsense that you and your friends always win races because you made a pact with the devil for that privilege. Oh, and that when the three of you ride at night, virtuous women must hide indoors or be swept up in the wild hunt, never to return.’

She didn’t know what the amusement in his eyes signified—a male appreciation of his potency or a reaction to the absurdity of the tale?

‘Nicky told you this? What nonsense you women subscribe to. I assure you virtuous women are probably the segment of your sex most likely to be safe from the members of the so-called Wild Hunt Club. We prefer responsiveness from the subjects of our midnight raids and virtue is... What is the opposite of an aphrodisiac?’

‘Marriage, apparently.’

He burst out laughing.

‘Damn, you’re wasted as one of that group. You would have made an excellent courtesan.’

He meant to shock her and in a way he did, but it wasn’t her virtue that was shocked, but her body.

The thought of being free from all the restraints that held her, body and mind. The possibility of being free to walk up to this man and demand what she wanted...

She shook free of the foreign urge. Because his words also raised the unwelcome memory of that house in Kingston, of the shocked faces of the women who had faced her after her father’s death, aware their fate was now in her hands, scared and defensive and even pained. Some of them had truly cared for her father. As far as society was concerned, those women were worse than nothing; they were succubi who destroyed the lives of good men. She hadn’t seen that when she stood in that opulent room with its red velvet sofas and lewd paintings. She saw women...some of them younger than she, whose fates had never been their own, at her mercy as they had been at her father’s mercy and at the mercy of men like him. As long as they were young and performed their duties, they were adored and then... That night had been the first time she had cried for her parents and especially for herself.

In a less fortunate life she might have had no choice but to become one of those women who had nothing to trade but themselves. Then she, too, would have been at the mercy of men like her father and the members of this Wild Hunt Club, who thought they were somehow redeemed because they didn’t pursue virtuous women.

‘I don’t think so, Lord Ravenscar. No one could ever pay me enough to endure the life those poor women have to endure. Now, as you said before, we should leave before it begins to rain.’

He stopped her by moving to block her path.

‘I didn’t mean to insult you. Believe it or not, that was a compliment.’

‘I do believe it, which is precisely why I find it so offensive that you would assign any positive value to a fate where women have to sell their bodies to survive. It might be a better fate than many women have to face in this world, but it is no compliment. As someone dependent on the frailties of others to make your living, Lord Ravenscar, you should know that better than others.’

There, she had crossed a line and she was glad—finally Rakehell Raven was beginning to show his true colours. The transition from amusement to contrition to fury was as rapid as the explosion of a tropical storm, and the complete collapse of his façade fed her own anger and pain.