The Notorious Lord

Chapter Twelve

‘Ladies, please!’ Lady Sally Saltire clapped her hands together like a schoolmistress reproaching her recalcitrant flock. ‘How are we to discuss The Enchantress when you are none of you paying attention?’

The members of the reading group were seated on the lawn at Saltires, under a large white marquee. It was another scorching day and it was a pleasure to be out of doors where the faint breeze from the river brought at least a little relief from the blistering heat. The air was warm and full of the heady scents of an English summer: the sharp sweetness of cut grass, the dry, nose-tickling smell of lavender and the faint pale perfume of the pink roses that tumbled over the arbour to their left. It made Rachel feel very somnolent.

Lady Sally had arranged for iced lemonade and almond biscuits to be served to her guests and the ladies had settled into their chairs and opened their books at chapter twelve, beginning an animated discussion of whether Sir Philip Desormeaux was genuinely in love now, or whether he was merely infatuated. Lady Sally contended that their hero, like many a man, was fickle and afraid to commit himself. Lady Benedict chided her for her cynicism and Miss Lang said that, for her part, she found the book slow and wished the author would simply get on with the story.

It was at this point that a counter-attraction occurred and the attention of all the ladies was, to a greater or lesser extent, distracted. Rachel was the first to notice it. Around the side of the house had come Cory Newlyn, accompanied by Mr Daubenay. The artist set his easel up on the lawn facing the rose arbour and instructed his subject to stand on the step under the archway and adopt the attitude of a man scanning distant horizons.

Rachel smothered a giggle. Evidently the idea was to create the impression of a fearless adventurer striding out across the desert, but since Cory was standing in Lady Sally’s rose garden and one of her prized Austrian Copper roses appeared to be growing out of his head, the effect was decidedly more prosaic. Furthermore, she could tell that even at this distance Cory thought the whole thing ridiculous. There was something stiff in the way that he held himself, an impatience that was barely concealed. And when he saw the ladies watching him, he positively scowled.

They soldiered on for a while longer but when Cory, on the instructions of Mr Daubenay, took his jacket off and slung it casually over one shoulder, all concentration was lost. Helena Lang’s mouth was open and even Deborah Stratton had to be recalled to the discussion twice. Rachel was annoyed to find herself as culpable as anyone else. She tried to concentrate on Sir Philip’s infatuation with Miss Milward and only succeeded in finding her thoughts suspended as she considered Cory’s lithe figure. She looked up to find Lady Sally’s amused gaze resting on her.

‘I cannot tell you, Miss Odell,’ Lady Sally said, ‘how grateful I am to you for persuading Lord Newlyn to pose for my watercolour book. I do believe the credit must all be yours.’ She closed her book with a snap. ‘And the blame for disturbing my reading group must rest entirely with him. Johnson!’ She called one of the footmen over. ‘Pray ask Mr Daubenay to take his sketching elsewhere. His subject is distracting my ladies!’

It seemed, however, that the mood of the group was broken. Even after Cory and Mr Daubenay had walked away to take up another position in the walled garden-locked in and out of sight, Lady Sally said-the ladies could not settle back to their discussions. In exasperation, Lady Sally sent them all home to read the next few chapters on their own.

‘Pray be prepared to make more of a contribution next week,’ she said severely, on parting from her guests, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

Rather than take the path by the river, Rachel accepted a ride from Olivia and Deborah as far as Midwinter Mallow village. The movement of the gig at least set up a small, refreshing breeze, which was very welcome on so hot a day. As they drove the ladies quizzed her about her matrimonial affairs, in which they had taken a proprietary interest. Deb maintained that James Kestrel was Rachel’s most ardent admirer and, since Rachel had promised herself not to share the information of James’s flirtation with Helena, she could do nothing more than laughingly disagree.

‘Indeed, Rachel,’ Olivia commented, ‘you have quite a proliferation of admirers, do you not, just like Sir Philip Desormeaux in The Enchantress!’

‘And as is the case with Sir Philip,’ Rachel said, ‘I am not content with any of them. Mr Lang is a wastrel, Mr Kestrel is a bore and Sir John is an out-and-out rake. He tells me that he wishes to marry, and indeed he may do so, but I doubt that would encourage him to give up his other amorous pursuits.’

Olivia sighed and encouraged the fat pony to a faster trot. The gig gathered speed down the hill towards Midwinter Mallow.

‘That would certainly appear to put him out of the picture,’ she agreed. ‘Some women do not regard it, but I confess that it would not be to my taste for my husband to be unfaithful.’

Rachel shook her head despondently. ‘I do not understand why it is so difficult to find a respectable man in the Midwinter villages,’ she said. ‘All the gentlemen are completely unacceptable!’

‘Now if you were looking for a rogue and a scoundrel you would be positively overwhelmed with candidates,’ Deb said, laughing.

They rounded the bend at the bottom of the hill.

‘You may find,’ Olivia said shrewdly, ‘that these so-called rogues of yours are sound men underneath the surface.’

‘Oh, pooh!’ Deborah said. ‘Lord Richard Kestrel of steady disposition?’

Olivia gave her sister a speaking look and Deborah flushed under her scrutiny.

‘I am sure,’ Rachel said hastily, ‘that I understand what Deborah means, Lady Marney. I do not know Lord Richard well, but I can state with certainty that Lord Newlyn, for example, could never be described as of steady disposition.’

Olivia was smiling faintly. ‘Maybe not, but does he possess a sense of humour, Miss Odell?’

Rachel laughed. ‘Oh, indeed he does.’

‘And does he also possess sufficient humility?’

‘Not at all. He is quite arrogant at times.’

Now it was Olivia’s turn to laugh. ‘Yet that can be quite an attractive trait in a gentleman. Surely you would not deny that in comparison with Sir John Norton, for example, Lord Newlyn is charmingly self-deprecating?’

Rachel thought about it and she was obliged to admit that there was some truth in what Olivia was saying.

‘Well…’ she said cautiously, ‘it is true that Cory-Lord Newlyn-is not self-important in the same way as Sir John.’

‘And you think him attractive?’

Rachel blushed. ‘I suppose I can see that he is.’

‘That does not signify,’ Deborah objected. ‘One would have to be dead not to find Lord Newlyn attractive!’

‘Very well.’ Olivia conceded the point. ‘But you like him, Rachel? You esteem him as a man?’

Rachel frowned. She realised that her feelings for Cory Newlyn were becoming very complicated. She felt for him an emotion far stronger than mere esteem. She liked Cory tremendously. She always had done. The reason she had regretted their quarrel so much was because she valued Cory’s friendship highly and could not bear to lose it. In fact, she did not merely like Cory. She loved him…The colour flooded her face.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I hold him in the highest esteem.’

‘So,’ Olivia said inexorably, ‘in point of fact, Lord Newlyn possesses almost all the qualities you would look for in a gentleman. Whereas Sir John and Mr Lang and Mr Kestrel are sadly lacking.’

Rachel was saved from replying, for the gig was pulling to a halt at the crossroads in Midwinter Mallow.

‘We should all go on a trip to the seaside,’ Deborah said, fanning herself lazily, ‘if the weather holds. Would you like that, Rachel?’

‘I would enjoy it extremely,’ Rachel said. She waved goodbye to them and watched as the gig turned down the track that forked right towards Midwinter Marney and the sea, then she prepared to walk the remaining mile to Midwinter Royal House.

The sun seemed even more intense out in the open. It dazzled the eyes and squeezed the head with lassitude until Rachel wanted nothing more than to lie down in the shade and sleep. By the time that she reached the square in Midwinter Mallow, she was already too hot and wished that she had taken advantage of Olivia’s offer of a ride in the gig all the way home. The village was quiet-even the birds were silent, weighed down by the heat. On impulse, Rachel crossed the dusty square and went under the lych gate into the churchyard. Here the slabs of the path burned the soles of her shoes, but the yew trees cast their shade on the uneven gravestones. She sat down in the shadow of the lych gate. That was better. Now she could draw breath and cool down, for she was unpleasantly aware of the sweat running between her shoulder blades and the flushed heat of her face. She did so hate to sweat; not only was it unladylike, it also caused more laundry.

Perhaps it was the intensity of the heat or perhaps it was something else-Olivia’s comments, maybe-that made Rachel’s thoughts turn back to Cory Newlyn and the conversation that had gone before. Olivia had put her finger on matters with uncanny accuracy. Cory possessed many of the qualities that Rachel admired. He was the sort of man that she wanted.

Rachel stared hard at an avocet picking its way delicately across the distant mudflats in its search for food, but the outline of the bird blurred before her eyes. She was staring intently, but her gaze was turned inward, not outward. For the first time she was confronting her feelings without artifice.

She wanted a husband like Cory Newlyn. Rachel wriggled her shoulders under the thin material of her spencer. No. It was more than that. The truth was that Cory was the man she wanted.

A cold sliver of fear and doubt touched Rachel’s spine as soon as the thought came into her head. That had to be wrong. Cory was an adventurer, reckless, rash and unpredictable. She disapproved wholeheartedly of his lifestyle. And yet she also cared for him. She knew she could trust him utterly. She never doubted him.

Rachel blinked sharply, as though trying to clear her head. She felt that she was on very dangerous ground and should begin a retreat here and now, before she got herself into a hopeless position. There was no harm in admitting that she cared for Cory as she would for an elder brother. Furthermore, she was willing to allow that he possessed qualities that she liked and admired. She would even permit herself to go so far as to admit she wanted a man who embodied those characteristics. But Cory himself…She pushed away the insidious thought. It was quite impossible that she should be drawn to Cory in that manner. They wanted different things from their lives. And she was sure that he would never, ever, see her as more than a friend.

She paused. Had Cory seen her as a friend when he had kissed her in the billiards room? Was it friendship that she had felt for him when she had sat watching him in the lee of the pine trees and felt that deep and disturbing sensual awareness? She could not lie to herself. What she had felt was something far more troubling than mere friendship. What she had felt was attraction. And she was going to have to cure herself. Fast.

When she reached home she found Cory in the hallway, talking to her father. Sir Arthur greeted her absent-mindedly and wandered off to the excavation and Cory turned to Rachel with a smile. The late afternoon sun was making warm puddles on the marble floor and burnishing Cory’s hair to a rich bronze. Rachel swallowed hard. She was disturbed to realise that she was fast becoming fixated on looking at him. She must be suffering from too much sun. What was needed was a good thunderstorm to clear the air and return them all to the right minds.

‘Are you quite well, Rachel?’ Cory asked, touching her arm. His tone was gently mocking. ‘You seem very flustered.’

‘I…yes, thank you!’ Rachel pulled away from him. ‘I believe I am feeling the heat a little today.’

‘Ah, the heat,’ Cory murmured. ‘Such a useful explanation for all sorts of maladies!’

Rachel narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Was there something that you wanted, Cory?’

‘Plenty of things,’ Cory said. His gaze wandered over her face and lingered on her mouth. Rachel fidgeted.

‘Yes?’ Her voice was husky.

‘I wondered whether you could find me your father’s October 1802 copy of the Ipswich Journal?’ Cory said. ‘It seems that there is an interesting reference to the Midwinter Treasure in it.’

Rachel felt an absurd pang of disappointment and was angry with herself for it. She shook the feeling off and managed to match his casual air.

‘The paper? Oh, yes, of course. I will have a look through Papa’s files and have it ready for you later.’

‘Thank you.’ Cory smiled at her. ‘I suppose I had better be going. Did you enjoy your meeting of the reading group today?’

Rachel furled her parasol. ‘Yes, thank you. We all saw you in the gardens. I am surprised that you escaped Mr Daubenay so soon, though. Surely he cannot have achieved his sketch for the watercolour book so quickly?’

Cory pulled a face. ‘I fear that I became bored and told him that I had pressing business to attend to. Standing around doing nothing whilst my likeness is taken is not my idea of a good use of time.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘You achieved plenty. You managed to distract our attention from The Enchantress for a start! Lady Sally was most dismayed to have the book upstaged.’

She thought that Cory looked rather pleased with himself. ‘Did I distract you?’ he said.

Rachel hesitated. It seemed that lying to Cory was coming a little too easily these days.

‘You did not distract me personally,’ she said, ‘but Mrs Stratton and Miss Lang were both quite overwhelmed and even Lady Sally herself had an appreciative gleam in her eyes.’

‘Whereas you, having grown up indifferent to me, were wondering why everyone was stuck on page forty-five?’

Rachel smiled. ‘Not precisely. I could see why you would be an asset to Lady Sally’s book of watercolours.’

Cory looked surprised. ‘Could you, indeed? That is quite an admission, Rachel. Not long ago you were telling me that you were sure there were other ladies who might be impressed by my charms, but that you were not amongst them.’

Rachel realised that she had made a tactical error.

‘Well,’ she said, blushing, ‘I feel it my duty to prevent you from developing too good an opinion of yourself.’

‘Someone has to take on the job, I suppose,’ Cory said, ‘though God knows, I wish it was not you, Rachel. You are the person whose good opinion I most value. The only reason I agreed to Lady Sally’s drawing was to please you.’

Rachel looked at him. ‘Truly? But surely my opinion cannot matter that much to you?’

‘You would be surprised,’ Cory said drily. ‘Surely you know by now that I only wish to make you happy?’

His tone was mocking, but underneath it was a note of sincerity. Rachel searched his face. The hall was cool and shadowed and hid Cory’s expression, and she was not certain if he was smiling. It seemed remarkably difficult to tear her gaze away from him.

‘I had not realised…’ Rachel pulled herself together. ‘That is, I am glad that you decided to pose for the watercolour book…’

Her throat dried up and her words with it as she took in the expression in his eyes.

‘And what do you think about the other things I said?’ Cory asked gently. ‘Rachel, you know that yours is the opinion I most value.’

‘I…’ Rachel could not reply. All afternoon she had been trying to erect barriers against Cory in her mind and now he was intent on demolishing them as soon as they were made. He raised a hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. There was a look of deep concentration in his eyes. He leaned closer.

He was going to kiss her. Rachel’s heart was racing. Her lips parted instinctively. She saw Cory’s gaze drop to them. They were very close now. Cory’s touch made her feel quite dizzy. In a moment she would be in his arms and she would not fight it, would not resist for a second, for she did not want to do so. The idea filled her with shock and excitement and a sweet longing.

The door to the servants’ quarters opened and Mrs Goodfellow bustled out, stopping abruptly as she saw the couple in the hall.

‘There you are, my lord! Lady Odell wondered if you wished to join the family for dinner tomorrow night? She mentioned something about a picnic down by the river. Isn’t that right, Miss Rachel?’

Wrenched from her sensual dream, Rachel blushed bright red and backed several steps away.

‘I…Oh yes, yes, it is.’ She risked a look at Cory’s face, saw the humour there and blushed harder. Damn him for being able to do this to her. She took a deep breath.

‘By all means join us,’ she said, trying to sound gracious rather than merely breathless. ‘In the interests of friendship, of course.’

She saw Cory tense slightly. ‘Friendship. Of course.’ He smiled again. ‘I should be delighted.’

‘Good.’ Rachel felt relieved. This should put an end once and for all to the strange nuances between them. They could recapture their old footing and be at ease. The company of Sir Arthur and Lady Odell would make it appear just like old times.

She gave Cory a faint smile. ‘Goodbye then, Cory.’

Cory waved and went out, and Rachel went slowly up the stairs to her room and threw herself down on the bed, staring up at the canopy. This attraction to Cory had to be a fleeting thing, a matter of proximity only. Their friendship had endured for seventeen years, but it would not last another five minutes if she were to give in to the temptation of his kisses. For how could they go back after that? Cory was not the marrying kind, and even if he was, he was not the man for her. They wanted such different things from their lives that their hopes and aspirations could never match.

Rachel rolled over and pressed her cheek against her cool pillow. She knew that she was being sensible. She knew that she was being logical. She knew that she was drawn to Cory with an inexplicable but undeniable attraction and that she was still no closer to discovering a cure.