Scandalous Innocent (14 page)

‘You may not wish to cover old ground again, Madame Donville, but you have just implied that I am holding some kind of grudge for the failure of Lady Templeman’s ambitions. It’s an interesting theory but, you know, I have never yet had to rely on anyone’s matchmaking. When I set my sights on a woman, I usually manage things without any help at all. And opposition is more of a challenge.’

‘And indifference, my lord? Total uninterest? That usually works.’

‘Oh, I believe I can tell the difference between the real thing and that which is feigned,’ he said, softly.

Lowering the painting, which she’d been pretending to examine, she saw that his eyes had narrowed. Piercing like darts, they seemed to penetrate her thoughts most disconcertingly, revealing her doubts about him and his intentions, and about her other more physical appraisal of him that, try as she might, she could not succeed in concealing. A woman of strong emotions, she had never been good at hiding her loves and hates and now, when these had begun to take on aspects of each other, the confusion in her eyes must be there to be read by a man as experienced as Buck Ransome.

Why she allowed him, then, to do what he did was a total mystery to her, for if someone had told her that she would permit his fingers to slide over her throat, slowly, tenderly, like the kiss of a moth’s wings from her chin to the low neckline of her muslin day-dress, she would have told them they were imagining it. Indeed, it had all the elements of a dream, for she stood there like a sleepwalker, held by his eyes and by the warm fragile caress that travelled down and back up again. She was aware of nothing but that and the powerful nearness of him. Yesterday, he had roughly subdued her scorching tongue and now he had taken another liberty, as soft as swansdown, yet just as unsettling. No respectable woman would have allowed it.

‘No, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘No, you cannot do that. If you are trying to remind me of what might have been, I do not need it. There could never have been anything. Even if I’d not still been grieving, you would never have been the kind of man I would…well…’ She gulped, aware that she was trembling and breathless.

‘Would what,
madame?
Marry? But situations change, don’t they?’

‘Unfortunately, they do. But on that topic there would never have been a change of mind, my lord. This is why you must never, ever, touch me again.
Never.
My widowed state may indicate to some men that I am available, but that is not so. I shall never be available to a man of your persuasions. I shall be no man’s mistress, so if that’s what you had in mind as the price of my tenancy here, then you are mistaken. My suggestion that you should re-negotiate did not include that kind of thing.’

‘Do you know, Madame Donville, that thought had never entered my mind, either? My attempt at a re-negotiation would have nothing to do with mistresses. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought. What I had thought is that, in return for your tenancy of Ferry House, you might offer me something more permanent. But if, as you say, your mind is quite made up about the kind of man you would even
consider
marrying, then it looks as if our discussion may have to end here.’

The discussion did, however, have to wait for a few moments until the maid had deposited upon the side-table a tray loaded with a chocolate pot and small blue-and-white mugs. To Phoebe’s thanks, she smiled and curtsied before limping to the door.

‘Has she had an accident?’ said Lord Ransome.

‘In a way, yes. She was a street-walker when I found her, badly beaten up. The authorities would have imprisoned her, but I persuaded them to let me have her. She’s lived here for two years now.’

‘Ah. One of the vulnerable dependants.’

‘I have two such maids-of-all-work. One was in the workhouse up on the hill. But what did you say a moment ago? I think I did not hear you correctly.’

‘If you continue to shake the chocolate pot like that,
madame,
you’ll get more on the tray than in the mugs. Here, allow me to pour it out. You sit down.’

She had expected to feel annoyance, even anger at this meeting, having no intention of letting her home go without a fight. But she had not expected to feel this kind of confusion or anything like the helplessness she was now experiencing in the company of this unusual man. In London, she had never allowed him to come as close as this. Now, here in her home, he filled the room with his great frame, making her feel more womanly and desirable than she’d felt for years. No other man of her acquaintance would have dared to speak and act as he did. But then, what madness in her had allowed it? ‘I ought to send for Mrs Spindelow,’ she said. ‘If you had not arrived so early…’

‘Drink your chocolate. We can manage well enough without a chaperon.’

‘Hetty has been a good friend to me. We have no secrets.’

‘She knows about Monsieur Donville, does she?’

‘No,’ Phoebe whispered. ‘No one knows of that except you.’

‘Except me. So, we need to talk about your future,
madame,
and how to get round the obstacle of my ownership. And we don’t need an audience to do that.’

‘Your ownership of me? Lord Ransome, I may look like a typically helpless female, but I—’

‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Please allow me to finish.’

‘I was hoping you would. It sounds interesting.’ Taking his chocolate, he swallowed it in one gulp and replaced the mug with a smile. ‘Yes? Helpless…?’

With a noisy sigh, she looked up at the ceiling, silently invoking patience. ‘Lord Ransome, I think you really are the most irritating, overbearing and rude man I’ve ever met. Did you know that?’

‘I might have guessed as much, from your expression,’ he said, still smiling. ‘So you could never accept me as a husband, then? Pity. We both have so much to offer.’

Chapter Three

T
here was that look again, he thought, as if she had made her mind up about the nature of his offer, even before she’d heard it. He knew she would take some convincing but, since their first meeting yesterday, he had discovered that side of her which only her late husband had known, that part she kept hidden beneath an icy front since the disastrously short marriage had ended. What a fool the mother had been to allow it. He had known Donville, the heartbreaker and oath-breaker. What a pity it had been Phoebe Hawkin he’d set his sights on, a girl of sixteen who knew no better than to fall for his Continental charm, thinking that that alone was enough to feed on.

Yet he had felt how she burned inside for the touch of a man with courage enough to storm the barriers, how she had melted under his kiss, how his caresses had shaken her. She was interested. Excited. Curious. Defensive. And angry. Very angry.

Contradictions came easily to her. ‘No, we don’t!’ she replied sharply. ‘I have nothing to offer you, Lord Ransome, except to be a caring tenant for your property. And you have nothing to offer me that I want,
except
this house. My home.’

‘All these
exceptions, madame,’
he said, rebuking her. ‘They’re the basis of our negotiations, surely? If you could bring yourself to listen to what
I’m
saying instead of listening to your prejudices, you’d have more reason for hope. I
am
offering you the continued tenancy of the house. I am also offering you something else, but unfortunately you appear to be completely set against it, even before you’ve given it a moment’s thought.’

‘I don’t think I want to,’ she whispered, looking sideways at his boots. ‘I’ve spent years trying not to think about it. It happened to me once, and I was taken in for all the wrong reasons, and the pain of it is still with me. I cannot afford to let anyone into my life like that again, my lord. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that was
not
what you were talking about.’ Warily, she glanced across at him, and he knew that their thoughts were running parallel at last.

‘You are
not
wrong,’ he replied. ‘Marriage is what I’m talking about. But you are not sixteen any more, and you are not being taken in by anyone. The offer is quite straightforward. I need a wife, and you need to keep your home.’

He might have expected a noisy refusal, an outburst of passion with all the whys and wherefores, but instead she sat very still, twisting the wedding ring on her finger, her eyes searching the room, resting on the well-chosen items, the silver chocolate pot and china mugs. She had taste and breeding, sensitivity and compassion, honesty and courage, qualities he admired in a woman. But Madame Donville had more than that after being so deceived, and now she was as vulnerable as those poor creatures she had taken under her wing.

‘Is this what you meant about owning
me
as well as the house?’ she said. ‘If so, my lord, I must tell you that every finer feeling in me rebels against the concept. I never owned Ferry House, but I
have
owned myself for the past nine years, and I’ve grown used to it. I do not need a master. Is there no alternative to this? Could you not simply allow me to carry on as I have been doing? Would not owning the house be enough for you? You surely cannot be lacking female companionship.’

‘I am lacking a
wife,’
he said, ‘and you are not only living in my property, but you have the qualities I’m looking for. I believe that, between us, we could deal tolerably well together. You have proved that you can manage a household, and more. You do the accounts yourself, do you?’

Phoebe frowned at the impertinence. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Remarkable.’

‘And are you going to ask me if I sing, play the piano-forte and harp, paint and embroider, make cherry wine and raspberry vinegar? Would you like to inspect the linen cupboards and quiz the coachman? I do have horses too, you know.’

‘Do you ask your guests if they would like a second cup of chocolate?’

‘No. Not when my guests pour it out for themselves.’

‘Touche.’
He smiled, uncrossed his legs and sat up. ‘Will you take another,
madame
? It calms the nerves, I believe.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my nerves that a little co-operation from you would not mend. Could you not consider my requests?’

‘I have done.’ Deliberately, he poured the chocolate into both mugs and placed one beside her. ‘You see, I am quite house-trained. And I have understood your reservations too. I am not riding rough-shod over them but, on the other hand, I know they can be overcome, if only you will make a few concessions.’

‘Concessions?’ The liquid in Phoebe’s mug slopped as the word exploded. ‘You think that marrying against my better judgement is a
concession,
my lord? Giving up my freedom to someone I don’t even
like
? Having a man live in the house I’ve built up with care? A stepfather to my daughter with a reputation like
yours
? You call those concessions, do you?’

‘Having a good sound roof over your head,’ he threw back at her, ‘is not to be sniffed at, these days, when so many sleep rough on the streets. Having loyal staff and a well-run household with horses in the stables, with or without a coachman, is more than some widows can expect, Madame Donville. If I were you, I would think carefully about your options when generous ones are so hard to come by.’

‘You’d turn us all out, then? Is that one of the options?’

‘We’re still discussing the positive ones. I’ll tell you when we’ve reached the negatives. Just start using your common sense, woman, and leave your sqeamishness out of it.’

‘Thank you. I will. I shall go and speak to Leon about my squeamishness.’

‘When I last saw him he was in no condition to talk to anyone. What he needs is to be brought here to Richmond. Better still, I have a friend who lives not far from here who would lend him a little place where he could recover, be near his family and perhaps start to paint again. You said he needed a patron. I have someone in mind.’

‘You would do that, for Leon?’

‘As part of our agreement, I would do whatever I could to help him. Anyone who can paint like that should not be wasting his time at the gaming tables.’

‘That’s not what you thought when—’

‘No, he’s kept very quiet about his talents, hasn’t he? But this might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s up to you.’

Phoebe looked into her mug at the still-untouched chocolate, then replaced it on the tray as she stood, clearly unhappy with the choices she was being expected to make on behalf of so many people. ‘He needs help. I owe it to him. But you have placed me in an impossible position, my lord.’

‘On the contrary,
madame,
you are in a very
possible
position. I may not be the most perfect choice of stepfathers for your daughter, but I have a suspicion that such a paragon would be impossible to find before it ceases to matter. She seemed to find me easy to talk to, and I found her quite delightful. Do you not think it’s time she had a father? She’s never had one, has she?’ She could do with a few brothers and sisters too, he thought, watching Phoebe’s agitated movements reflect her thoughts. He knew what she was about to say well before she spoke, half-turning to him, turning away, turning back.

‘Give me some…some time, please? Or are you in a hurry to take possession of the house?’

Not of the house, he thought. ‘No, I have my new place at Mortlake. The builders will be there for another week or so, but I can manage.’ He went to stand behind her as she looked out of the window to where Claudette, Miss Maskell and Hetty sat together on the stone bench by the wall, their feet hidden by low box hedges. Phoebe’s hair gave off a perfume that he tried, and failed, to recognise. Delicate, floral, haloed with a ring of light. Sheening like a starling’s plumage. ‘I have an idea,’ he said to the back of her head. ‘Tomorrow, I shall call for you after luncheon and take you to this friend of mine. He’s an artist and collector, and you can talk to him and his wife about your brother and see if you think they could help him.’

‘Who are they?’ she said, not moving.

He could feel her tremble at his nearness, though there was no contact. ‘They live down the road at Ham. You’ll like them. Everybody does. Then, if you think you’ve made enough concessions, you can give me your answer.’

There was no obvious sarcasm in his voice, but Phoebe was quick to pick up on the irony. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. That would be helpful. But this surely cannot be the best way for you to find a wife, Lord Ransome? You know very little about me, apart from the one thing I don’t want anyone to know. And I know very little about you, none of which I like the sound of, although my mother did. But then, look who
she
approved of as a suitable husband for me.’

‘So the best thing would be for you to stop listening to what others say about me and start finding out for yourself, wouldn’t it? I shall be here just after noon tomorrow,
madame.
I bid you good day.’ Bending his head, he placed his lips just above the neckline of her muslin gown and kissed the nubs of her spine, one by one. She stood without moving as the warmth of each kiss moved upwards into her hairline.

Then he remembered the scent. It was myrtle.

The three figures out in the garden appeared to hold her attention as bees buzzed lazily and the cat came to find the sunniest patch on the floor, while Phoebe’s thoughts, if they could be called that, stirred her body and melted it. The back of her neck held the warm tenderness he’d planted there, sending tendrils of excitement probing downwards deep into her womb and beyond, tightening, relaxing, stopping her breath, parting her lips, stifling her cry of longing.
Damn him…damn him.

Both hands slid down to comfort and press, telling her quivering empty parts to be still, to keep on waiting as they had been doing, to be patient. But his hard warmth still lingered upon her back and, although he had not held her, he must have known what his closeness was doing to her, adding a new dimension to his bald statement that he needed a wife. Cleverly, insidiously, he was telling her that she needed a husband. Not just any husband, but a man in his prime, experienced, ruthless and audacious, the only one able to invalidate and banish her jaded memories of Claude Donville’s ineffectual lovemaking. Far from satisfying her cravings, childbirth had only intensified them, creating a relentless conflict between physical desire and the need to spare herself more heartache. So far, no one had come close to upsetting the balance. Until now.

So unfair, she told herself, turning away from the window. So unfair. Losing her home to one of London’s most notorious rakes. Marriage to him as the price of it. And Leon, to be rehabilitated and cared for, also at a price. A father for her daughter, most unsuitable but better than none. Questionable. Security for those unfortunates who worked for her. How could she possibly let them down? Who would take them on? Who would run this place, and where would she and Claudette go? Impossible to answer. Meanwhile, she would accompany this overbearing man to see these friends at Ham, whoever they were and, however great her reservations, she would have to keep Leon and Claudette at the top of her list of priorities.

There was also the dark shame of her late husband’s treason to consider, which Lord Ransome would presumably not have mentioned if he’d not intended to use it as a lever against her. No, he had not said he would, but nor had he said he wouldn’t.

If she had also wondered how long it would be before there was some reaction from the rest of her family to Leon’s latest delinquency, she had not long to wait. It was just after lunchtime when they arrived. It always was.

On any other day than this, Phoebe would have put a cheerful face on it but, as her brother Ross and his wife Josephine had visited only last week after seeing friends in Richmond, another visit so soon could only mean one thing—that they’d heard the news from Mama in London, who knew everything that went on in the capital as soon as it happened. Much as Phoebe would have appreciated some sound advice on the problem, Ross Hawkin’s advice as a solicitor tended to be so doom-laden and riddled with clauses that she would rather he stayed away altogether. Requesting Hetty to warn cook of the unexpected luncheon guests, she sent Claudette upstairs, telling Tabby Maskell to make her look more presentable, or they’d never hear the last of it.

The carriage doors opened, spilling out Mr and Mrs Ross Hawkin and three-year-old Arthur, already howling and clinging like a limpet to the nearest leg. ‘Do come inside,’ Phoebe called over the din. ‘Have you lunched yet?’ She knew they would not have. Cook would be ill. Or they’d been held up in town and thought they’d call on the way home. Or that they couldn’t stay, but if Phoebe’s cook had prepared something they might as well stay and help her eat it, her garden being so much larger than theirs, better stocked…et cetera…et cetera. It was a favourite theme, the size of Ferry House compared to theirs.

Not waiting to guage the state of Phoebe’s mind, Josephine flung her crimson satin arms around her sister-in-law in an exaggerated embrace of sympathy that was physically difficult to reciprocate, Josephine being well into the family way by seven months or so. It gave Phoebe the chance to cut it short, though her hands were caught and held, obliging her to take the full force of the shocked words and pained expression. ‘Oh
dear,
Phoebe. What a business this is, to be sure. You must have heard from Lady Templeman, as we did. Such a nasty
horrid
shock. We must go, I said to Mr Hawkin, to be with your
dear
sister in her hour of need, for even though it’s nurse’s day off, we could not be staying away when we need to discuss what’s to be done. Is that not so, Mr Hawkin?’

Supressing her cynicism with difficulty, Phoebe released her hands, sure that any discussion with Ross and Josephine would be unlikely to produce a solution to the problem, neither of them having offered her anything of a material nature in the entire three years of her living near them. As a perfectly healthy and fertile individual, Josephine had found that a pretence of delicate ill health was useful for not getting involved in anything that required even the smallest effort. It had always puzzled Phoebe that her brother accepted it when he was as keen as a terrier to denounce anyone else for not pulling their weight. Needless to say, his elder brother Leon was a front runner for his condemnation.