a ramshackle fellow. Does as he pleases and has no manners at all.’
A hot denial sprang to Rachel’s lips, but she beat it down. Her thoughts were in a turmoil. She had no notion why she would wish to defend Cory against criticism when she was so angry with him herself, but to hear James Kestrel condemn him just seemed to make her feel even more wretched.
‘Lord Newlyn and I have known each other for years,’ she said sharply. ‘He is like a brother to me, and, as you saw, shows a brotherly lack of respect on occasion. I do not regard it.’
She knew that she lied. Cory’s words had hurt her deeply and a flame of anger was still burning hotly inside her as she watched him give Lily Benedict his undivided attention. She allowed James to take her arm and lead her over to one of the open windows, where the breeze did a little alleviate her heated feelings. Olivia Marney was sitting alone in the next alcove, drooping a little as she thought herself unobserved. Ross Marney was dancing with Lady Sally and Mr Daubenay, the artist, was standing a short distance away, sketching Lady Odell. A small, admiring group had gathered around them as Lady Sally’s guests watched the portrait grow.
James Kestrel flicked a minute speck of dust from his sleeve.
‘Would you care to meet tomorrow afternoon, Miss Odell?’ he asked, sounding a little bored. ‘If it is a pleasant day we could drive along the river.’
Rachel hesitated. She was disinclined to spend much time with James Kestrel, for she had quickly divined that his favourite subject was himself and nothing else could raise any enthusiasm in him. On the other hand she could not bear for Cory to think that she had turned Mr Kestrel away because of anything that he had said. It was a foolish and contrary reason to accept, and Rachel knew it. Nevertheless she nodded and forced a smile.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘That would be delightful.’
‘It may rain, of course,’ James Kestrel continued. ‘If it rains, I think we should postpone our plans. It would never do to undertake anything so foolhardy as to go out in the rain.’
‘No, indeed,’ Rachel agreed, visions of weatherswept excavations in the Shetland Islands before her eyes. ‘One could get most horribly wet.’
‘One of my best jackets was once damaged by rain,’ James said. ‘One of Weston’s finest creations. It never recovered from the experience.’
‘It sounds as though you did not recover either, sir,’ Rachel observed sweetly.
James’s pale eyes gleamed. ‘I did not, Miss Odell. Not only was the jacket ruined, but I took a shocking chill as well. I swear it took me a week to recover my spirits.’
Rachel found herself wishing that the chill had carried him off. She excused herself politely and made her way over to the group that encircled Lady Odell. Mr Daubenay was just finishing the drawing, with a flourish of his pencil and a triumphant exclamation. Rachel craned her neck to see. Daubenay really was very good indeed. He had made no concessions to the toll that time and weather had taken on Lady Odell’s face, but the finished effort captured all her character and spirit. Rachel was impressed. She had never been a portraitist herself, but she had once sketched her parents’ entire collection of Egyptian antiquities before they had lent them to display at the Egyptology exhibition at the British Museum.
‘Devil take it, man,’ Lady Odell exclaimed with great good humour, ‘do I really possess four chins? How damnably unflattering!’
‘I think that Mr Daubenay has captured you perfectly, Mama,’ Rachel said tactfully. ‘He sees through the outside and draws the soul.’
The artist beamed, clearly delighted. ‘You flatter me, Miss Odell.’
‘Not at all,’ Cory Newlyn’s voice said. Rachel jumped to see him looking over her shoulder. ‘Miss Odell is in the right of it, Daubenay. Perhaps you could sketch her next. What would you see, I wonder? Youth, beauty and a sweet disposition?’
His tone was equable, but there was mockery in his eyes. Rachel felt herself flush with annoyance. Much more of Cory’s provocation tonight and she would be demonstrating her sweet disposition by slapping his face. She drew a little bit away from the group and threw Cory a challenging look.
‘Take my advice, sir, and do not attempt a sketch of Lord Newlyn,’ she said to the artist. ‘There are qualities there that are better left unseen.’
‘One up to Miss Odell,’ Sir John Norton murmured. His blue eyes were snapping with laughter. ‘Come and dance with me, Miss Odell. I feel brave enough to take you on!’
Rachel allowed him to take her arm and lead her into the set. Sir John’s admiration was balm after her quarrel with Cory. Something had to be done to cut him down to size, she decided. He was too arrogant, too sure of himself and too overbearing. She paused. If she was so good at drawing and Cory was so reticent at posing for Lady Sally’s watercolour booklet, why could she not show him up neatly by sketching him without his knowledge? She could do a rough sketch for Mr Daubenay to work from.
The thought gripped her with sudden excitement. That would put Cory finely in his place and it would go a little way to paying him back for his unchivalrous conduct. She liked that idea. She watched Cory guide Lily Benedict towards the refreshment room, one hand in the small of her back. They were talking, Lady Benedict’s dark curls brushing Cory’s shoulder as she looked up at him confidingly. Rachel saw Lily give Cory a vivid smile and she felt quite out of proportion feverish with anger. It was not that she wanted Cory for herself. That was a ridiculous idea. It was simply that she was angry with him. Oh, yes, she would like to get even with Cory…
She became aware that Sir John was addressing her, inviting her to go driving with him the following afternoon. He was a decidedly more attractive prospect than James Kestrel, but she smiled sweetly and declined. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I am already engaged. Some other time, perhaps?’
She saw the leap of interest in Sir John’s eyes and reflected that men were strange creatures to be encouraged by a lady’s lack of availability. Sir John was now looking positively determined.
‘Friday, then,’ he said promptly. ‘I shall drive you into Woodbridge, Miss Odell, and I shall not take no for an answer.’
Rachel smiled back. ‘Thank you, sir. That would be very pleasant. And now you must tell me about your encounter with the polar bear. I hear it is a truly terrifying tale.’
Sir John laughed and started to recount his story, utterly unaware that she had been teasing him. He was a man whose opinion of himself was evidently very good, Rachel thought, and that sense of importance was no doubt bolstered by the appreciation of the ladies who fawned on him. Just for a moment she longed for Cory’s self- deprecating humour. Cory always knew when she was making fun of him and never took himself too seriously. Not that she felt comfortable teasing him any more.
The thought was depressing to her spirits. Nor did her marriage prospects in the Midwinter villages seem very great. There was James Kestrel, who was vain and lacking a sense of humour, and there was John Norton, who was full of his own importance and probably another rake to boot. Rachel sighed. She was not enjoying herself, despite Lady Sally’s lavish entertainment, and the sight of Lily Benedict persuading Cory into yet another dance merely completed her bad humour.
After another hour, Rachel was tempted to change her mind about the ball. She had danced with Lucas and Richard Kestrel and with the Duke himself, and it was impossible not to enjoy oneself under the combined onslaught of Kestrel charm. There was a gravity about Justin Kestrel that was most appropriate to a Duke, but it was lightened by a pleasing good humour; Lucas Kestrel had a boyish insouciance that reminded Rachel heart- breakingly of Cory, and Richard Kestrel was simply the most dangerous rake she had ever met, with his outrageous flattery and his expressive dark eyes. Rachel danced and ate and drank and chatted, and on the edge of her vision Cory danced with Deborah Stratton and Helena Lang and Lily Benedict, and spared her not a single glance.
It was much later, when the carriages were being called and the guests were starting to leave, that Rachel went out onto the patio for some fresh air. The air was heavy with residual heat and the smell of night-scented stock and honeysuckle. She rested her hands on the stone parapet and looked out over the gardens of Saltires. All was in darkness, and yet she thought that she saw movement down on the lawn where the fountain splashed between the yew hedges. A faint, feminine giggle floated towards her on the still night air. Rachel raised her brows. So she was not alone in the gardens. Someone was indulging in amorous dalliance in the privacy of the yew walk and she did not wish to spy on their activities. She turned to go back into the ballroom, but as she did so another flicker of movement caught her eye. The door of the card room was also open, the candlelight spilling over the mossy stones of the terrace. Rachel saw the shadows shift as a couple of people moved through the doors and out into the night. A breath of cigar smoke reached her, mingling with the musky smell of the stocks. No amorous couple this, then, but a pair of gentlemen, deep in conversation. Rachel started to walk away, for she did not wish
