He put out a negligent hand and drew her close to him. As soon as his lips touched hers, Deb felt her knees start to buckle. Richard kissed her deftly, expertly, with skill and assurance. There was something so seductive about such single-minded passion that Deb was afraid she might crumple to the ground on the spot, pulling him down so that he could make love to her there and then.
Richard drew her deeper into the shelter of the porch. It felt hot and still within the walls and the air was heavy with the burgeoning storm. Richard’s hands were on her waist, where the material of her gown and chemise clung stickily to her skin. As he started to kiss her throat, Deb felt hotter still, as though she were dissolving. She tilted her head back against the wall and felt Richard’s lips on the pulse at the base of her neck and his hand move to caress her breast with the gentlest of touches. Deb made a little sound of despair and longing.
Richard let her go and they stood staring at one another, the desire between them as elemental as sheet lightning.
‘When-?’ Deb whispered.
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I will send for you and we may go off somewhere and be alone together. Go on in, now, Deborah. Before I forget myself completely.’
Deb did go in to the entrance hall, but there she paused, watching through the window as Richard walked away towards the stables. She felt heated and impatient and near to madness. The clouds were massing overhead and the hall was dark.
Deb went into the drawing room, where she found Mrs Aintree arranging some of the late, pale pink roses that Olivia grew in such profusion at Marney Hall.
‘Lady Marney called earlier,’ Mrs Aintree confirmed, standing back to view her handiwork and twitching one spray of blooms slightly to the left. ‘She wished to speak with you, Deborah. Apparently she has had a letter from your papa this afternoon.’ Mrs Aintree nodded towards the mantelpiece. ‘There is a letter for you too…’
The miserable feeling that had plagued Deb before now hardened into something more fearful. She snatched up the letter and took it over to the window. She could see Richard in the stable yard, exchanging a few words with the groom, laughing now, raising a hand in farewell as he turned Merlin through the gates. The groom was watching his departure with good-humoured approval, as well he might…
Deb broke the seal on the letter. After the conventional greetings, Lord Walton moved straight to business.
I am gratified to hear of your betrothal to Lord Richard Kestrel, although I should have been more appreciative had he sought my permission sooner…
Deb smiled slightly. It was the closest thing to approval that her father was ever likely to express. So Richard had been right-marriage to a rake was by no means unacceptable to her family provided that he was rich and well connected. Her heart warmed slightly-until she remembered that the engagement was only temporary.
It would please me if you would still come to visit us at Walton next month, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the cancellation of your brother’s marriage…
The fearful feeling solidified into a block of sheer ice in Deb’s stomach. The hand holding the letter fell slowly. ‘Do you know what this is concerning Guy’s wedding, Clarrie?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Aintree said cheerfully, clipping a blighted rosebud from the stem. ‘Lady Marney was telling me. The most shocking thing! Your brother’s fiancee has eloped with your cousin Harry. Surely your father mentions the circumstances in his letter?’
The closewritten lines blurred before Deb’s eyes. Her father might well have related the entire matter, but she could not seem to make sense of it. All she was able to see was Richard Kestrel riding out of the stable yard, magnificent on his raking black hunter, the epitome of everything that she desired. Richard Kestrel, the man to whom she was betrothed. Except…
Deb licked her dry lips. Except that the wedding was cancelled and with it all necessity of arriving at Walton Hall with her fleeting fiance in tow. For cousin Harry had run off with the bride, thereby removing both reasons for the betrothal in one fell swoop. Deb reflected with irony that had she known Harry had a penchant for Guy’s intended she could simply have encouraged him to do the deed sooner and save herself the trouble of advertising. If only she had known…
She scanned the letter again, trying to breathe properly.
Living in such close proximity, one assumes that their acquaintanceship developed into a wholly unsuitable intimacy…her father wrote disapprovingly.
Deb sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Poor Papa! Losing an heiress daughter-in-law and the chance to secure cousin Harry’s acres as well.’
Mrs Aintree was shaking her head. ‘The best-laid plans…’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Deb said slowly. She rubbed a hand across her aching brow. ‘Well, I am justly served for my own pretence now, I suppose. I must break my betrothal to Lord Richard as soon as possible and acquaint my father of the fact.’
Mrs Aintree put down her scissors and stared. ‘My dear Deborah, surely you will do no such thing? You have not been engaged above two minutes.’
Deb frowned. ‘What is that to the purpose, Clarrie? I cannot continue to be betrothed to Lord Richard under false circumstances.’
‘But you already are!’ Mrs Aintree pointed out.
Deb struggled with her thoughts. ‘Yes, they are false pretences in the sense that the world believes it to be a genuine betrothal-’
‘And must continue to do so for the time being.’ Clarissa Aintree came round to sit on the sofa and fix Deb with a severe gaze. ‘If you break your engagement now, Deborah, everyone will believe you flighty. Worse, people will talk scandal.’
‘But there is no scandal!’ Deb ran a hand agitatedly through her hair, scattering some pins on the carpet.
‘That has no bearing on the case,’ Mrs Aintree said. ‘People talk scandal regardless. It is a national pastime. Besides, if anyone had an inkling about your advertisement, I venture to suggest that that is scandalous enough to keep the whole of Woodbridge talking for months.’
Deb sighed. She could see the sense in Clarissa Aintree’s argument, but she knew it was impossible to keep the truth from Richard. That would be deceitful and, in the end, pointless, for she would be obliged to tell him sooner or later that Guy’s wedding was cancelled. A deep feeling of gloom possessed her. It was always better to tackle an unpleasant duty as quickly as possible.
She looked at the clock. ‘I was not intending to attend the theatre with Liv and Ross this evening, but it seems that I must go,’ she said. ‘I know that Lord Richard will be there and I must acquaint him with the truth of the matter, and ask him what he wishes to do now.’
Mrs Aintree shook her head. ‘Never ask a man what he wishes to do,’ she said, ‘or you may receive an answer that you do not care for.’
As she trailed up the stairs, Deb reflected miserably that, whatever Richard’s response, she was unlikely to care for it. She could see only two alternatives. They could either break the betrothal immediately or wait a little and break it in a few weeks’ time, and either thought left her with an unconscionably miserable feeling inside. She was the one who had instigated the false engagement, insisting that it be for a limited duration only. Yet now that it had run its short course, she was the one who did not wish it to end. She knew that she should examine the reasons why that was, and she knew that she did not want to do so. Her feelings were immaterial, for soon Richard would know the truth and their short but sweet time together would be at an end.
Tomorrow, he had said. But now tomorrow would not bring the ecstasy of physical pleasure. It would bring nothing but the end of the betrothal and the beginning of a new and more barren period to her existence. She was not sure that she could bear it.
Richard had only gone to the theatre that night on Justin’s persuasion and then under protest. Justin was an admirer of Mr Oliver Goldsmith’s plays. Richard was not. Yet when he saw Deb Stratton in the Marneys’ box, the quality of his pleasure surprised him. He had only parted from her a few hours earlier and yet here he was, so delighted to see her again that he felt like a lovesick boy.
Richard had already come to accept, with resignation and humour, that he was hopelessly in love with Deborah Stratton and was falling ever deeper in love with her with each day that passed. He loved the artless candour that prompted her to say things and ask direct questions that other, more sophisticated women would prevaricate over.
