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‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Is it? You just told me you have no intention of marrying, yet I allowed myself to be held in your arms and kissed like any cheap whore. What is that if not the height of stupidity?’
Anna flung at him. ‘At least Mercy Banks was hopeful of a marriage resulting from her liaison with Lieutenant Blokker! You’ve made it clear there is no such happy ending in sight.’
His face darkened, his breathing heavy and uneven. ‘I said that because I don’t want you harbouring false hope. But it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.’
‘And is that supposed to make me feel better? Am I supposed to be comforted by the knowledge that you desire me, yet have no intention of offering marriage?’ Anna shook her head. ‘There is a word for that kind of relationship, Sir Barrington, and it is not flattering.’
‘It was never my intention to compromise you, Anna,’ he said quietly. ‘I care too much for you.’
‘My name is Lady Annabelle. And if you care so much for me, leave me alone!’
Without waiting for his answer, Anna picked up her skirts and fled. Angry tears blurred her vision as she ran down the length of the balcony. Idiot! She’d made a fool of herself again, allowing herself to be held and kissed as though she were a naïve young schoolgirl. She, who prided herself on knowing all the games and all the excuses, had let herself be taken in. And by doing so, Barrington had undermined everything she believed in. When she had allowed him to kiss her, she had wanted to believe that it meant something. But it was obvious to anyone with an iota of sense that it meant absolutely nothing. Sophisticated Barrington might be, but he was still a man, and when it came right down to it, he wanted the same thing as every other man. Pleasure without commitment. Love without obligation. The very things she kept warning her young ladies to avoid.
The breeze came up and, once again, Anna felt chilled. She hadn’t stopped to fetch her wrap before venturing outside, but neither was she about to run back into the drawing room now.
Observant eyes would see the evidence of her tears, recognise the flush in her cheeks and put their own interpretation on the events—and nothing on earth was going to persuade her to tell anyone what had really happened.
She glanced back over her shoulder, wondering if Barrington had followed her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she saw that he hadn’t. All right, so she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, but at least this time she was old enough to recognise it for herself. Barrington had made his feelings for her clear. The episode would not be repeated. From now on, she would treat him exactly the same way he treated everyone else. Coolly. Professionally. Without emotion. He would never make her cry again.
It was a good ten minutes before Anna felt calm enough to venture back into the house. Not by the drawing room through which she’d left. That would be far too embarrassing, especially knowing that Barrington had gone back in only a short time ago. Instead, she walked to the end of the balcony and, finding another set of glass doors, tried the handle. Thankfully, it was unlocked and pushing it open, she walked into a small study—only to stop and gasp in shock.
Her brother and Julia’s maid were standing by the door, locked together in a passionate embrace. ‘Edward!’
At once, the pair sprang apart, but it was too late to disguise what they had been doing. The maid’s dark hair had come down around her shoulders, her gown was in disarray and her lips were red and swollen.
Embarrassed, Anna looked away. Obviously, her brother wasn’t above seducing pretty housemaids, whether they be his own or someone else’s. Refusing to meet his eyes, she murmured, ‘Excuse me’, and then immediately made her way to the door. Edward said nothing, but she heard his mocking laughter following her through the door. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Her brother had once again proven himself the immoral creature she believed him to be.
And what about you? the little voice nagged. Are you so much better? So much more virtuous?
Anna felt her face burn with humiliation. No, perhaps she wasn’t. She kept remembering the passionate encounter she’d just shared with Barrington, the shameless manner in which she had allowed him to kiss her. Oh, yes, she’d let him kiss her. She wasn’t about to lay the blame for what had happened entirely at his door. He was gentleman enough that if she had asked him to stop, he would have—but she hadn’t done that. She’d wanted to know how it would feel to kiss him. To watch his head bend slowly towards her, and to feel his mouth close intimately over hers.
It had been everything she’d expected—and more.
But Barrington was no more likely to become her husband than Julia’s maid was to become Edward’s wife. They had both been indulging in impossible fantasies.
‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone …’
A sobering thought. As Anna made her way back to the drawing room, she realised that the proverbial stone would never find its way to her hand.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_18a98e38-8b11-519e-89ad-efdf8b08d673)
For the next few days, Barrington went around like a bear with a sore head. Unable to forget what had happened between Anna and himself at the baroness’s dinner party, he was quick to anger and slow to unwind, because he knew he’d hurt her. And hurting her was the last thing he’d ever wanted to do.
He’d still been in the drawing room when Anna had finally returned, but she hadn’t approached him again. She had remained coldly aloof, treating him as though he wasn’t there. He wasn’t surprised that she had left shortly after.
He’d left early as well, all pleasure in the evening gone. Upon returning home, he’d made for his study and downed a stiff glass of brandy, followed in quick succession by two more. But the potent liquor had done nothing to assuage his guilt, or to help him find escape in sleep. When the morning had come, he’d been as tired and as irritable as when he’d gone to bed.
Much as he was this morning, three days later, as he made his way to Angelo’s Haymarket rooms for his ten o’clock appointment with the Marquess of Yew’s son.
Barrington deeply regretted having made the appointment.
The last thing he felt like doing was teaching the finer points of fencing to the gangly nineteen-year-old son of a man he neither liked nor respected. However, he had given Yew his promise that he would show the boy a few things and he was a man who kept his word. All he could do now was hope the hour passed quickly and that he didn’t do the boy an unintentional injury.
Unfortunately, Lord Bessmel was right when he’d said that word of the lesson—or demonstration—had spread. By the time Barrington arrived, the room was filled to overflowing with gentlemen of all ages, some carrying swords, some just there to observe. It was worse than he’d expected.
‘Ah, Parker,’ Lord Yew greeted him with a smile. ‘Good to see you. Quite the turnout, eh? I vow you draw a larger crowd than Prinnie.’
‘Perhaps because you put it about that this was to be a demonstration, rather than the private lesson we agreed to,’ Barrington said.
‘Really?’ the marquess said lazily. ‘I don’t recall saying this was to be a lesson. But never mind, now you and Gerald have a suitable audience.’
‘An audience that comes armed and ready to spar?’ The marquess smiled. ‘You should be thanking me, Parker. You have your pick of opponents and since we both know there’s not a man in the room who can best you, you’re guaranteed to come out on top. Why not just have fun with it?’ ‘Because that’s not what I do.’ Barrington’s jaw tightened. Unfortunately, they both knew this was something of a command performance. A ‘small additional favour’ in exchange for the marquess’s silence over Peregrine Rand’s affair with his wife. And while Barrington would normally have refused to play a part, all it took was the memory of the look on Anna’s face when she had spoken of Rand’s guilt to make him change his mind. He didn’t particularly care about the other man’s feelings, but he would have done almost anything to prevent hers being further injured.
‘I’ve lived up to my side of the bargain, Yew. I trust you intend to do the same.’
‘Are you questioning my integrity?’ the marquess asked, peering down his long, patrician nose.
‘No. But I know how angry you were with Rand and I don’t want to think that all of this has been for naught.’
The marquess chuckled. ‘I can assure you it has not. In point of fact, I wasn’t really angry at all.’
Barrington’s mouth tightened. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The marquess’s expression was remote as he gazed at the milling crowd. ‘Rand is not the first man to make love to my wife, and, God knows, he won’t be the last. Susan is voracious in that regard and while I enjoy sex as much as the next man, I am not inclined to engage in it as often as she might wish. So I turn a blind eye to her affairs. It flatters me to know that she is still beautiful enough to attract other men; it flatters her to know that she is desired by men younger than herself.’
No stranger to the unusual, Barrington was none the less bewildered by Yew’s unexpected admission. ‘Then why did you go to the trouble of persecuting him?’
The marquess’s gaze narrowed. ‘You really don’t know?’ When Barrington shook his head, Yew said in amusement, ‘Because I was asked to.’
Having casually dropped his bomb, the marquess strolled away. Barrington, aware that the eyes of the room were on him, allowed nothing of his anger to show, knowing it would incite too many questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. But he was angry. Furiously so. Someone had been playing with Peregrine Rand—and, by association, with him.
‘Good m-morning, Sir B-Barrington,’ Lord Gerald Fitzhenry said, coming up to him. ‘It’s v-very good of you to d-do this for me.’
Lord Yew’s youngest son was a quiet, unassuming young man, who, though raised in an atmosphere of wealth and privilege, had managed to lose none of his good nature as a result. Perhaps the stutter kept him from becoming too arrogant, Barrington reflected. It wasn’t a fashionable affectation, but a lifelong affliction, one the boy had desperately tried to overcome. But it was exacerbated by nerves and, given the unexpected turnout in the room, Barrington knew this morning’s performance would be more difficult for Lord Gerald than usual. As such, he turned to face the lad with a reassuring smile. ‘You show a great deal of promise, Lord Gerald. Perhaps I can point out a few things that will help you become an even better fencer.’
The boy’s face shone. ‘I would l-like that, very much.’
‘Good. Then shall we take our positions?’
As Barrington led the way onto the floor, he was conscious of every eye in the room following him. He was acquainted with many of the gentlemen present and knew that some of them were decent fencers and were here for that reason alone. Having been taught by one of the finest swordsmen in France, Barrington possessed skills few others did and the chance to watch him spar today was an opportunity too good to miss.
But not all the gentlemen in the room had come simply to observe his technique. A movement at the far end of the room drew Barrington’s attention. Looking up, he saw Hayle leaning against the wall, sword in hand. He had come to fight. He’d made that very clear.
Barrington had no intention of indulging him. Men like Hayle only wanted to prove their superiority over others. It was likely one of the reasons Hayle resented Rand’s presence in the house. Though Rand offered no tangible threat, he was a competitor for the earl’s attention, perhaps even for his affection. And if Hayle believed that Rand was his half-brother, he would naturally assume there was an affinity between his father and the other man he couldn’t affect or control.
He wouldn’t like that. Hayle needed to be seen as the only cock of the roost, and, so far, he had. Lord only knew what would happen if and when he found out otherwise.
An hour later, it was all over.
‘You did well,’ Barrington said, removing his mask and walking towards Lord Gerald. ‘But you would do better if you kept your arm straight and the weight of your body on the front of your feet. You need to be able to move quickly around your opponent. Try to catch him off balance.’
‘Yes, Sir B-Barrington,’ said the grateful but sweating youth.
‘And don’t forget what I said about practising your double and triple feints. They’ll stand you in good stead when you find yourself pushed to defend yourself. If you like, come round to the house and I’ll lend you a couple of books that helped me when I was where you are.’
The boy’s face shone as though he’d been given the keys to the kingdom. ‘Thank you so much, Sir B-Barrington. I will t-try to d-do that.’
Barrington smiled and clapped the lad on the shoulder. He was glad now that he’d agreed to the lesson. Lord Gerald had turned out to be a surprisingly good swordsman and he was appreciative of the time he’d been given. He would benefit by what he’d learned today.
‘Who’s next then, Sir Barrington?’ someone called out from the crowd.
Despite the cheers that greeted the man’s words, Barrington shook his head. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, the show’s over. You can all go home now.’
Amidst the rumble of disappointment, another voice said, ‘But this was to be a demonstration. Surely you wouldn’t send everyone away without giving them what they really came here to see.’
Barrington’s mouth compressed into a thin line. So, Hayle would challenge him publicly. A foolish thing to do. ‘I’m sure there are others who would favour you with a match, Lord Hayle.’
‘But it is with you I wish to engage, Sir Barrington,’ Hayle said softly. ‘Will you not stand and face me? I have been acknowledged a better than average fencer and would welcome an opportunity to go up against the best.’
Hearing the room suddenly fall silent, Barrington sighed. ‘My purpose this morning was to instruct Lord Yew’s son. It was not a general invitation to spar.’
‘But surely there can be no harm in engaging in a friendly match,’ Hayle said, advancing on to the floor. ‘You are acknowledged the finest swordsman in England. Every one of us here could benefit by watching and learning, and I am willing to put myself forward as your student. If nothing else, I promise you a better match than the one you just concluded.’
‘I was not engaged in a match,’ Barrington reminded him. ‘I was giving a lesson.’
‘Then consider me your student and this an opportunity to improve my skills,’ Hayle said with a grin.
Hearing murmurs in the crowd that were pushing for the match, Barrington sighed. Hayle obviously wasn’t going to back down, especially if he felt he had the backing of his friends. And while he needed a lesson, Barrington knew it was in humility rather than sword play. ‘Very well.’ He walked back into the room and donned his mask. ‘Prepare to engage.’
An excited murmur rolled through the crowd. Men who were halfway to the door quickly turned around and ran back into the room, aware that a far more entertaining show was about to get underway. Triumph and anticipation suffused Hayle’s face as he stripped off his jacket and donned a mask.
In silence the two men made their way to the centre of the floor. After offering the traditional salute, they both took their opening stance.
It didn’t take long for Barrington to assess his opponent’s level of skill. Hayle was a showy fencer and quick on his feet, but there was no strategy to his play; at times, his technique was downright sloppy. Barrington easily scored five hits in a matter of minutes—and watched his opponent’s face grow redder with each one.
‘I think that’s enough for one morning,’ he said, starting to remove his mask.
‘Stand your ground, sir!’ Hayle shouted. ‘I will say when this is finished.’ He took up his stance again. ‘En guarde!’
Barrington saw the anger in the other man’s eyes and knew this could only end badly. He had no wish to humiliate Hayle in front of a room full of his friends and acquaintances, but neither was he about to throw the game in order to appease his vanity. ‘Very well. We shall play one more bout and then call a halt. Does that meet with your approval?’
Hayle gave a terse nod and resumed his position.
The match recommenced. Barrington tried not to make the other man look bad, but the more desperate Hayle became, the more careless his play. He was caught flat footed several times and as the bout went on his moves became more and more erratic. After receiving his fourth hit, he shouted, ‘Damn you, Parker!’, then, abandoning sportsmanlike conduct altogether, he lunged, aiming the point of his sword directly at Barrington’s throat.
Barrington heard the gasp from the crowd, but was already out of range. He stepped lithely to one side and quickly raised his own foil, deflecting the blow. Hayle spun around and was about to charge again when a voice rang out, ‘Enough, Edward! Put down your sword! This engagement is at an end!’
The command vibrated with anger, but Hayle was oblivious, his attention riveted on his adversary. Barrington held his position, too, unwilling to trust his opponent. He risked a quick glance across the room and saw the Earl of Cambermere standing by the edge of the crowd. His face was red and he was shaking with barely suppressed fury. ‘Did you not hear me, sir?’ he called again. ‘I said put down your sword!’
‘I will not, sir!’ His son’s face was equally flushed. ‘How dare you ask me to!’
‘How dare I?’ his father exploded, marching on to the floor. ‘You impugn our family’s honour by behaving in such a way and then have the audacity to question me? No, sir, I will not have it! If you cannot control your temper, find another sport in which to indulge.’ He ripped the foil from his son’s hand and threw it on the floor. ‘This is a gentleman’s game. You will apologise to Sir Barrington at once or I’ll know the reason why!’
Barrington slowly lowered his sword, but remained in a ready position, prepared to fight if Hayle picked up his sword and re-engaged him. He had no idea what the man was going to do, but it was evident to everyone in the place that Hayle was beyond furious. In that moment, Barrington wasn’t sure the man wouldn’t turn on his own father and run him through.
Thankfully, the moment passed. As if realising he couldn’t win and that his reputation would only suffer further by prolonging the encounter, Hayle took a step back, then bent to pick up his sword. ‘I will not apologise to you this day or any other, Sir Barrington,’ he said coldly. ‘But I do regret that we were unable to finish our match. I look forward to the opportunity of doing so in the future.’ Then, without so much as a second glance at his father, he snatched up his jacket and left.
Barely had the door closed before the level of conversation swelled to fill the silence. Barrington heard snippets of conversations, some questioning, many derogatory. Overall, none were particularly complimentary of Hayle’s behaviour on the floor. Fencing was, after all, a gentleman’s sport and what the audience had just witnessed was a display of anything but.
It was a few minutes before the earl was calm enough to speak. When he did, Barrington could see it was with considerable effort. ‘Sir Barrington, pray accept my apologies on behalf of my son. His behaviour was unforgivable and I am truly sorry.’
‘Apology accepted, but I suggest you do not take this too much to heart, Cambermere,’ Barrington said. ‘It is not uncommon for a young man to wish to win, especially in front of his peers.’
‘If a man cannot win fairly or lose graciously, he should not play the game,’ Cambermere snapped. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that side of Edward’s nature. He’s always been a competitive lad, but of late, he has become even more so. I suspect it has much to do with Peregrine’s arrival.’ The earl sighed. ‘They have not become the friends I’d hoped.’
‘Was it realistic to believe they would?’
The earl glanced up, his sharp eyes meeting Barrington’s. But Barrington’s didn’t waver, and, not surprisingly, the earl was the first to look away. ‘Perhaps not. But they had to meet at some time.’
‘Did they? I would have thought it possible for their paths never to have crossed. But it’s a moot point now. You made the decision to invite Rand to London and must now deal with the consequences,’ Barrington said.
‘I know. But I was asked if I would have him,’ the earl said quietly. ‘And I wanted him to come.’
Used to gleaning meanings from things that were left unsaid, Barrington inclined his head. ‘Then it really is none of anyone else’s business.’
‘Yet people choose to make it so,’ Cambermere said fiercely.
Barrington’s smile was tight. ‘People like to pass judgement on matters that do not concern them. Some do it with the best of intentions, others do it without any care for the consequences at all. But as we said, the matter is private and one that concerns you and your family alone.’
Even has he said it, however, Barrington realised he had been given another glimpse into the complicated workings of Lord Cambermere’s family, and it was evident from the morning’s events that all was far from harmonious. There were simmering resentments, unsettled grievances, and barely restrained tempers. Instead of warming to the fact that his father had brought his godson to London, Hayle intended to do whatever he could to make Rand feel unwelcome—even to the point of humiliating him in front of his peers.
That much had become patently clear. As Barrington left the club and climbed into his carriage for the drive home, he knew who had asked the Marquess of Yew to make an example of Peregrine Rand. And, sadly, he also knew the reason why.
A full week passed during which Anna neither saw nor heard from Barrington. She told herself she didn’t care, but as she lay awake in the dark hours of the night, she knew she was lying to herself. She did care. And it troubled her deeply that they had parted on such bad terms.
Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the feeling of Barrington’s arms closing warm and strong around her. She kept remembering the tenderness of his mouth as it moved with deliberate slowness over hers, sending shivers of delight up and down her spine.
It still made her quiver when she thought about it.
Still, longing for something you couldn’t have was a complete waste of one’s time, and there wasn’t a doubt in Anna’s mind that she would never have a life with Barrington. He’d made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of getting married, and it certainly wasn’t her place to get him to change his mind. She was the foolish one if she thought there was any merit in that.
‘Ah, Anna, there you are,’ her father said, walking into the drawing room. ‘Not going out this evening?’
‘I’m not, but it would seem you are,’ she said, rousing herself. ‘Is that a new coat?’
To her amusement, her father’s cheeks took on a ruddy hue. ‘I decided it was time to spruce up my wardrobe. Doesn’t do for a gentleman to let himself go and I haven’t paid much attention to things like that since your mother died.’ His voice softened. ‘I had no reason to.’
