Violet

Chapter Eighteen

“I DO HOPE JULIAN WON'T CONSIDER OUR VISIT AN imposition,” Lucy said, unable to hide her renewed agitation as the chaise turned into the gates of Tregarthan.

“Why should he?” Gareth asked with a touch of impatience. “Tregarthan is big enough to house a regiment.” He shifted his long legs in the cramped space. “By God, I'll be glad to be done with this infernal coach travel. I should have brought my riding horse.”

Before they'd left, he'd said that as he didn't have a horse in his string to match anyone of his brother law's, he'd let Julian mount him during their stay. But Lucy didn't remind him of this. She let down the window, closed to keep the dust from filling the coach, and leaned out, ready to catch her first glimpse of her beloved Tregarthan as they bowled around the corner at the head of the drive.

“Good God! What an incredible animal!” Gareth exclaimed, looking out of his own window. He banged on the roof and the coachman drew rein. Gareth leaned out of the window, mouth agape, at the two riders emerging from the trees onto the drive just ahead of them.

Tamsyn shaded her eyes from the sun as she examined the coach standing in the middle of the driveway. “It must be the colonel's sister,” she declared after a brief and puzzled contemplation. “I wonder why they've stopped.” Leaving Gabriel on the drive, she cantered back toward the coach. “Good afternoon. Is something the matter?”

“That horse,” Gareth declared. “I beg your pardon, but I've never seen such an animal.”

“No, Cesar is magnificent, isn't he?” Tamsyn beamed, forgetting for the moment her disgruntlement that she could only ride him around the estate, thanks to her own overly clever invention. “Are you Sir Gareth Fortescue?”

“Yes.” Gareth blinked, bemused by the combination of the milk-white Arabian steed and the diminutive rider, her silvery cap of hair shining in the sun, astonishingly violet almond-shaped eyes regarding him with frank but friendly curiosity.

“We've been expecting you,” Tamsyn said, leaning down to extend her hand. “I'm Tamsyn.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yes… yes, of course.” He took her hand. Julian had made no mention of his protegee’s name, but Gareth was positive Tamsyn wasn't a Spanish name. In fact, there didn't seem to be anything Spanish at all about this girl. “My wife… “ He gestured behind him into the dimness of the chaise and leaned back slightly so Lucy could take his place at the window.

Lucy's startled face appeared in the aperture. “I understood you were Spanish,” she said, speaking her husband’s thoughts and quite forgetting the niceties in her astonishment.

“Half-Spanish,” Tamsyn said cheerfully, leaning down to shake her hand. “My English is very good when I'm not nervous, but when I go out into company, I seem to forget it all.” She smiled, continuing expansively, “My mother was Cornish, which e why I'm staying with Lord St. Simon. We hope to discover her family, and in the meantime I'm learning to be English so I can make my debut. My parents are both dead, you see, and the Duke of Wellington agreed to be responsible for me.”

“Oh,” Lucy said faintly, as confused as ever by this explanation. “I'm so sorry about your parents.”

A shadow flitted across Tamsyn's countenance, showing Lucy for a minute a disturbingly different side to the brown-faced, bright-eyed, smiling girl. Then Tamsyn said, “Introductions in the middle of the driveway are a little uncomfortable. Shall we return to the house? Your brother should be home by now. He's been paying calls. “

She turned her horse to ride beside the chaise as it continued up the drive. Gabriel had disappeared, presumably already returned to the stables.

Julian, hearing the bustle in the Great Hall, came out of the library, a frown in his eyes, a smile on his lips. “Lucy, this is a pleasure.” He lightly kissed his sister's cheek and turned to his brother-in-law. “Fortescue. What a delightful surprise.”

Gareth shook the proffered hand and told himself he'd imagined the slightly ironic note in St. Simon's voice. “Thought we'd pay a family visit,” he said obviously. “Lucy thought she could be of help since you're entertaining visitors… We met Miss… Miss-”

“Tamsyn,” Julian supplied calmly. “Tamsyn Baron. But Tamsyn will do fine.”

“Ah, yes, of course… of course.” Gareth turned with a hearty laugh toward the subject of the conversation, standing quietly behind them, waiting for the family greetings to be concluded. “Staggering piece of horseflesh, St. Simon.”

“Tamsyn?” The colonel's eyebrows disappeared into his scalp.

“No… no,” Gareth blustered, his ruddy complexion taking on a slightly mottled hue. “You know what I mean, St. Simon.”

Lucy was looking uncomfortable. For some reason Julian always managed to make Gareth look stupid. He was never rude, but somehow in his presence Gareth became clumsy and tongue-tied.

Tamsyn stepped forward. “Milord colonel is fond of teasing, Sir Gareth. But you may compliment Cesar to your heart's content, it will only endear you to me.” She turned to Lucy. “Lady Fortescue, you must be tired after your journey.”

“Oh, please call me Lucy.” Lucy's mind was racing.

She'd expected either some pathetic, mute orphan or an exotic dark lady, swathed in lace mantillas, fluttering a fan. This boyish, self-assured young woman who spoke English with only the trace of a foreign accent was a total surprise.

“Why, Miss Lucy, you must be exhausted.” Mrs. Hibbert, wreathed in smiles, came bustling from the kitchen. “Now, you come along upstairs and I'll have a bath and tea brought up to you directly. You'll be wanting your dinner on a tray, I'll be bound.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Mrs. Hibbert.” Lucy visibly relaxed into the comforting care of the housekeeper, who immediately hustled her toward the stairs. But Lucy paused, her foot on the bottom stair, turning back to the hall. “Tamsyn, would you perhaps come and drink some tea with me while I have my bath?”

Tamsyn glanced quickly at the colonel. They had not referred to his sister's arrival since the argument the previous day; in fact, they had barely talked at all the harsh words still lying like stones between them. Now his bright-blue eyes held hers for a minute in clear warning, and a fresh surge of unhappiness washed over her, swiftly chased by annoyance. He ought to know she wasn't stupid, whatever else he thought her.

She turned away from him and back to his sister.

“Yes, of course I will, Lucy. But I'm sure you'll feel able to come downstairs for dinner, once you've rested.” She was quite unable to imagine preferring a solitary dinner on a tray in one's room.

Lucy considered this and realized that she'd only thought she'd prefer to dine alone because Gareth and Julian would expect it of her. As it happened, she didn't wish to in the least. “Yes,” she said. “I'm certain I will.”

“Good.” Tamsyn accompanied her upstairs, leaving Gareth and Julian in the hall. If the colonel thought she was going to be stupid enough to throw the cat among the pigeons, then more fool him. She had no intention of denting his sister's precious innocence.

“So what's the story, St. Simon?” Gareth asked heartily as the women disappeared up the stairs. “Lucy's consumed-with curiosity about the gal. Little thing, isn't she?”

“So I owe the pleasure of your company to Lucy's curiosity,” Julian observed coolly. “Funny, but I'd have laid odds you were in debt, Fortescue, and.needed a short respite from the duns.” He turned to the library. “A glass of wine?”

''Thank you.” Gareth followed his host, wishing the older man weren't quite so cool and quite so perceptive. “I'll have to ask you to mount me, St. Simon. My horse strained a fetlock just before we left.”

Julian smiled. “Of course,” he said smoothly, handling his guest a glass. “I didn't expect anything else.”

Gareth's wine went down the wrong way. “Lucy will be a companion for the chit,” he said when he'd recovered somewhat. “She'll be glad of a little feminine company, I'll be bound. You know what women are like.”

“Yes, on the whole I believe I do,” Julian responded, gesturing to a sofa as he took a seat himself. “Tamsyn, however, is rather out of the common way.” He sipped his wine, -then asked, “And how is my sister? I trust marriage suits her.”

It was a pointed question, and Gareth didn't miss the point. St. Simon had agreed very reluctantly to the marriage, citing Fortescue's libertine propensities and his runaway extravagance, but his sister had begged and pleaded and threatened to go into a decline if she couldn't have the one man she could ever love.

“Oh, Lucy's well enough,” Gareth said. “Gets the megrims occasionally… like most women. You know how they are.”

“Yes, I think we've established that I do.” Julian regarded him thoughtfully. “Keeping to the straight and narrow, are you, Gareth?”

Gareth flushed. “Of course… I'm a married man now. What kind of a question is that?”

“Oh, just the question of a concerned brother,” Julian said casually, reaching for the decanter to refill their glasses.

Upstairs in Lucy's apartments Tamsyn installed herself on the window seat and prepared to get to know Julian's sister.

“These are nice rooms,” Lucy said a little wistfully as her maid unbuttoned her gown. “But I always feel strange not sleeping in my old bedchamber when I'm here.” She pulled her shift over her head. “Of course, it's not big enough for a married couple. And Gareth needs his dressing room.” She dipped a toe into the hip bath of steaming water. “You may leave us now, Maggie. I'll ring when I need you to dress me.”

The maid curtsied, gathered up the discarded clothes, and hurried out with them.

“Gareth sleeps in his dressing room when he comes in late so he won't disturb me. He's very considerate that way.”

“Comes in late from where?” Tamsyn sipped tea, watching as Lucy lowered herself into the water. She had a pretty round figure, with a tiny waist, swelling bosom, and curvy hips. Very pretty, Tamsyn thought a mite enviously, wondering for the first time in her life if she was perhaps rather under endowed.

“Oh, from his clubs, or wherever. Men are never at home. I'd thought perhaps married men might be, but it doesn't seem to be the case.”

There was a touch of constraint in her voice, and she began to soap her legs busily. “Tell me how you come to be here, Tamsyn. My brother didn’t really say m his letter. He's not very communicative at the best of times,” she added.

Tamsyn gave a word-perfect rendition of the approved version of her tale. “I think your brother is hopping to persuade you to sponsor me when I make my debut in October,” she added.

“Oh, I should be delighted,” Lucy said with genuine pleasure. “It will be such fun to have someone to go about with. And have dinner with. Gareth doesn't often dine at home.” She slipped down into the water and switched the subject. “I'll help you learn how to go on in society while I'm here… I'm sure it's very different from Spanish society… We should have a little party for you. I'm sure Julian would approve. It's been ages since Tregarthan had a proper party… not since my wedding.”

Lucy was chattering as if they'd known each other all their lives. Tamsyn had never spent much time with other girls; her position as El Baron's daughter had set her apart in the encampments, but she'd seen and often envied the easy camaraderie of the village girls. In the same way, Lucy's confidential chatter seemed to assume some kind of shared female experience and viewpoint.

Lucy stood up in a shower of water and reached for the towel. “How do you get on with Julian?” she asked somewhat diffidently. “He's not easy to talk to, is he?”

“Oh, I think he is,” Tamsyn said, surprised. “I never have any difficulty talking to him.” At least, not when we're in charity with each other.

“Is he very strict?” Lucy stepped out of the bath. “He always was with me.”

Yes, Tamsyn thought, I'm sure he was. He sets very high standards of behavior for a St. Simon.

“I'm not his sister,” she said neutrally. “He's merely repaying a favor to my father and following the Duke of Wellington's orders. He doesn't like being away from his regiment, and it makes him annoyed on occasion.”

“It's not comfortable when Julian’s annoyed,” Lucy confided.

“No,” Tamsyn agreed. “It's not.” Abruptly, she stood up. “I must go and change for dinner.”

“Oh, what are you going to wear?” Lucy was immediately diverted. Swathed in a towel, she bounced over to the bed, where her clothes lay waiting to be hung in the armoire. “We should coordinate our gowns so we don't clash.”

Tamsyn blinked. “Clash?”

“Yes… you know. If I wear a pink gown and you wear puce, we'll look awful.”

“I don't have a puce gown,” Tamsyn said with relief.

“No, it's a horrid color. It was just an example.”

Lucy riffled through the pile of material. “Now, which do you think?”

Tamsyn pretended to devote her attention to this clearly important question. Lucy's china-blue eyes were not as sharp or as piercing as her brother's, but they were a lovely color. Her skin was fair, and her brown hair had chestnut glints in it, much less startling than her brother's thick red-gold thatch.

“The dark blue,” she said at random. “How long have you been married?”

“Ten months.” Lucy held the gown up and examined it in the mirror. “Yes, I'll wear this.”

“And your husband sleeps in his dressing room?”

Tamsyn was not known for her tact.

Lucy flushed. “When he comes in late, he's usually foxed. Men are like that.”

Tamsyn looked doubtful. “Are they?”

“Oh, well, you wouldn't know because you're not married, dear,” Lucy said, adopting a slightly patronizing air. “When one's married, one learns a great deal about men.”

Tamsyn scratched her head. Lucy was a year younger than Tamsyn, and it didn't seem that she knew anything at all about anything very much. But that, of course, was only to be expected. She was a virtuous, sheltered English lady. Heaven forbid she should come face-to-face with some of life's grittier realities. “I daresay Spanish men are different,” she said neutrally. “I'll see you downstairs.”

“Oh, no, I must come and see your wardrobe,” Lucy said, dropping the towel and shrugging into a wrapper. “I do so love shopping, don't you? Perhaps Julian will let us borrow the landaulet and we could go into Bodmin, or maybe even down to Truro. We could buy matching outfits.” Linking her arm through Tamsyn's, she ushered her out of the room. “Which bedroom do you have?”

“The corner room in the east tower.”

“Oh, yes, that's such a lovely room.” Chattering gaily, Lucy pranced down the corridor, arm firmly linked in Tamsyn's.

Julian, appearing at the head of the stairs, caught sight of the two disappearing into Tamsyn's apartments, the sound of Lucy's bright prattle hanging in the air.

Tamsyn wouldn't be fool enough to defy him, he reflected, entering his own apartments. They hadn't made up their quarrel, but he couldn't believe she would ruin her own plans just to get back at him.

She was a damnable, manipulative, seductive hellion.

But she was neither a fool nor vindictive. Untying his cravat, he strolled to the window, looking out across the lawns to the sea. Why did he find her so impossible to resist? He wanted to go back to Spain, go back to his men and his friends, fighting and dying in the broiling summer heat. He wanted to forget all about this bloody minded brigand… didn't he?

He tossed the cravat to the floor and shrugged out of his coat. He'd spent the afternoon riding around the estate, visiting his tenants, asking questions of the older ones, the men and women who'd been on Tregarthan land for the last fifty years or so. He'd been asking if anyone remembered the disappearance of a young girl from one of the families of the landed gentry. No one had anything to offer. There'd been a Penhallan daughter who had died in Scotland. An elaborate funeral, the family in mourning for a year. Everyone remembered that. But no disappearances on trips to Spain.

He stepped out of his britches and went to the washstand, splashing cold water on his face. Perhaps Tamsyn was the daughter of some minor landowner from farther south, beyond Truro, toward Penzance.

He buried his face in a towel, scrubbing briskly. He had until October to find them. And if they couldn't be found, then that was Tamsyn's problem. He'd have fulfilled his end of the bargain.

Tamsyn, having finally persuaded Lucy to return to her own apartments, thoughtfully flicked through her own selection of gowns, brushing her hair while Josefa fussed around her.

Her mind was racing as she realized just how Lucy's arrival could be turned to good account. The idea for a party at Tregarthan was ideal for her purposes. It was essential that Tamsyn be accepted in society when she exposed Cedric Penhallan. It was essential that she be seen to be respectable, to be under the protection of a powerful family; otherwise, no one would give credence to her story. But people would listen in horror to the friend and confidante of Lady Fortescue, the protegee of the Duke of Wellington, the unofficial ward of Lord St. Simon.

And once she'd told her story, it would be over.

She'd have to flee the colonel's wrath with all dispatch, abandon this burgeoning love, and return to her old life that now offered only a barren landscape.

“Por Dios!” she muttered, absently walking away from Josefa's fingers busily hooking her gown.

“Ay… ay… ay!” Josefa cried, following her.

“Stand still, nina.”

Tamsyn stood still, staring down at the carpet. If only there was a way she could do what she had come there to do and keep the colonel in ignorance. If she could do that, then just possibly she might be able to change his view of her. Show him another side to the unscrupulous adventuress that he believed her to be. It didn't seem possible that she could feel for him the way she did without there being some reciprocation. Perhaps he just needed to look into his heart, and then all his preconceived prejudices would vanish.

But first they had to make up their quarrel. She examined her reflection in the mirror, putting her head to one side, trying to see herself as the colonel would see her. She saw an insignificant figure in a green muslin gown. He'd teased her about her height often enough, but usually only when he was annoyed. Perhaps she should wear some of the jewels. Maybe the emeralds would give her more stature. Then she shook her head. She was as she was, and she'd never given it a second thought before. But later tonight, when they were at peace with each other again, she would ask Julian exactly what he did see when he looked at her.

Sir Gareth was the only occupant of the drawing room when she entered. He turned from the sideboard where he was pouring himself sherry. “Ah. Good evening Miss…uh, Tamsyn.” He smiled. We’re ahead of the others. But Lucy always takes hours over her toilette.” His eyes ran over her, automatically appraising. “May I offer you a glass of sherry, or Madeira, perhaps.”

“Sherry, please.” Tamsyn was aware of the appraisal.

She'd come across Gareth Fortescue's type before. Lord Pendragon had been a case in point. Such men habitually examined all women who might be considered even vaguely eligible to receive male attentions. It was second nature.

She took the glass he offered. “I understand from the colonel that your family home is in Sussex. I've never been there. Is it as pretty as Cornwall?”

“Softer,” he said. “We have a quieter sea and the South Downs instead of the blasted moors. Bodmin, Exmoor… and of course Dartmoor; that's in Devon, but it's close enough.”

“We crossed Bodmin Moor on our way here. It was certainly a bleak, unfriendly spot.” She sat down, returning his scrutiny. He had a large, sensuous face with fleshy lips topped by a bushy curled mustache, gray eyes under drooping lids, curly dark hair. Attractive in his way… and he knew it.

The frankness· of her gaze startled Gareth. He was accustomed to covert assessments of his charms; women didn't in general make their interest quite so blatant. He stroked his mustache in a habitual gesture and smiled, his eyes narrowing.

Tamsyn supposed he couldn't help this performance.

Kindly, she changed the subject. “You're something of a judge of horseflesh, I gather.”

“I pride myself on being so,” he said, taking a seat opposite her, his inviting lethargy banished by enthusiasm for the topic. “But I've never seen an animal like that beast of yours. You must be a capital rider.”

“The colonel has his reservations on that subject,” she said demurely, taking another sip of sherry.

“On what subject?” Julian inquired from the doorway.

Tamsyn looked up quickly, seeing him now with the eyes of acknowledged love. He was in morning dress, gleaming tasselled Hessians, coat of gray superfine, plain waistcoat, and cream pantaloons, his cravat simply tied. She was so accustomed to seeing him in uniform that it always took her a minute to adjust to his civilian dress. She glanced at Gareth, also informally dressed, but his cravat fell in elaborate folds, and he wore several gold and diamond fobs in his striped waistcoat. His coat didn't sit as well on his shoulders, Tamsyn thought critically, suspecting pads. And his thighs in the skin-tight pantaloons were a mite pudgy.

“My horsemanship, milord colonel,” she replied. “I was about to explain to Sir Gareth that I was permitted to ride Cesar only around the grounds.”

Her smile was both complicit and appealing, and it stunned him. There was a quality to it he didn't remember seeing before. Something beyond the sensuous, inviting mischief her smiles usually implied. She took another sip of her sherry, draining her glass, as she waited for a response to what she hoped he would accept as an overture.

“There's nothing wrong with your horsemanship, Tamsyn,” he stated, keeping his voice light, hiding his response to that smile. He turned aside to pour himself sherry. “Not when it comes to mountain passes. It's just a trifle unorthodox for the English countryside.”

“May I have some more?” She extended her empty glass.

He refilled her glass and offered Gareth the decanter.

“I imagine Lucy's still fussing with her dressing.”

“Women,” Gareth said largely. “You know what they're like.”

It seemed a frequent refrain of his brother-in-law's, Julian reflected acidly. He glanced again at Tamsyn; she was trying to hide her laughter, and his own sprang unbidden into his eyes.

“Not all women, Sir Gareth,” she said sweetly.

“Convent-reared Spanish girls are taught to eschew all the vanities. Hence my short hair. It makes one's toilette very simple.”

“Ah… ah, yes, of course,” Gareth agreed, somewhat nonplussed. He examined her again over the lip of his glass. A most unusual-looking girl, he concluded. But there was something devilishly appealing about her… devilishly inviting… despite the short hair and the slight figure in the unadorned gown.

“Am I late?” Lucy came tripping into the room, a vision in her dark-blue silk gown over a half slip of cream lace, a diamond comb in her soft hair, that had been coaxed into ringlets drifting over her bare shoulders.

“It was worth waiting for, my dear,” Gareth said gallantly, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

Lucy blushed, unaccustomed to compliments from her husband. Suddenly she became aware of a curiously charged atmosphere in the drawing room, a pulsating tension as if something forbidden and dangerous lurked below the surface. She looked at the other three and could detect nothing in their expressions to explain such an odd sensation.

“Shall we go in to dinner?” Julian put down his glass, offering his sister his arm.

Gareth, with alacrity, offered Tamsyn his, and they went into the dining room. Julian drew out the chair at the foot of the table for Lucy, and she looked startled, then laughed. “I've never sat here before. But I suppose I must… just until you get a wife, Julian.” She gave him a shy smile as she took her place. His eyes were unreadable and he made no response, merely taking his own place at the head of the table.

Lucy was flustered, wondering if she'd said something indiscreet, but she couldn't imagine how such a self-evident truth could be construed as tactless or inappropriate. She glanced at Tamsyn, who was helping herself to a dish of devilled chicken legs with hungry enthusiasm. Gareth, busily approving the Claret in his glass, also didn't appear to notice anything untoward in her statement, so she decided it was just her brother's manner. He'd never welcomed personal comments.

Tamsyn, however, had heard both the remark and the conspicuous silence it generated. Perhaps Julian found the subject uncomfortable in her presence. Maybe he thought it would be indelicate to refer to the possibility of marriage in front of his mistress. It was probably just one of those gentlemanly conventions Cecile had told her about. Thrusting the melancholy conclusion to the back of her mind, she picked up a succulent chicken leg and took a delicate bite.

Julian noticed Gareth's eyes fixed on Tamsyn across the table as she deftly stripped the meat from the bone with her teeth. His brother-in-law was fascinated by her, and Julian could understand why. There was something astonishingly sexy about Tamsyn gnawing on a bone.

“Tamsyn, in polite English society we don't eat with our fingers,” he corrected, before Gareth's fixed stare became too obvious. “I know I've mentioned it before.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” she said hastily, putting the bone down and licking her fingers. “It seems silly to use a knife and fork, though, when fingers and teeth are so much more efficient.”

Gareth's laugh resounded around the room, bouncing off the paneled walls. “Very silly,” he agreed. “There's far too much nonsense about such things. Why shouldn't one eat with one's fingers if one wishes?”

“I imagine Spanish customs are very different from English,” Lucy said with a rather rigid smile. “It must be hard for you to remember everything.”

“It is,” Tamsyn said frankly. ''I'm hoping you won't mind helping me, Lucy. I'm sure your brother would be glad to be relieved of some of the burden. I know he finds it onerous.”

Her smile deepened as she looked at Julian, and two dimples appeared beside her mouth. He wondered why he hadn't noticed them before. Her cheeks were a trifle flushed, her eyes very bright. The footman refilled her wineglass, and Julian found himself counting. It was her third glass of wine, after two glasses of sherry.

She continued in this unusual fashion throughout dinner. The only effect it seemed to have was to make her sparkle. Julian knew from experience that Tamsyn rarely did anything without purpose. Clearly she wanted to make up their quarrel.

Gareth was obviously fascinated with Tamsyn, his eyes following her every move, his rumbling laugh greeting her every sally, and Lucy became increasingly silent. Tamsyn was not encouraging him in the least, but then that wasn't necessary to get Gareth Fortescue's attention.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Gareth sniffed his port appreciatively. “Lively little thing, isn't she? I'd always thought Spaniards were devilish strait-laced with their women… convents and duennas and so forth. But that chit's as lively a piece as I've come across.”

“You always did have a delicate turn of phrase, Fortescue,” Julian said with a touch of ice. His brother in-law had imbibed heavily and was looking very flushed, his eyes a trifle unfocused.

“Oh, beg your pardon, St. Simon.” Gareth smiled expansively. “No offense meant, of course. Dear little innocent, of course. Father was some Spanish grandee, didn't you say?”

“And a close acquaintance of Wellington's,” Julian stated.

“Wealthy, I should imagine? These grandees tend to be, I gather.” Gareth hiccupped and selected a grape from the bowl in front of him.

“So I understand.”

The subject was not proving promising, and even Gareth finally got the message and lapsed into a doleful silence. The prospect of the long summer months in the company of his unforthcoming and strait-laced brother in-law, with no Marjorie to spice the mixture, began to seem less attractive than it had.

In the drawing room Lucy was struggling to recover her equanimity as she took the hostess's place behind the teacups. “Do you drink tea after dinner in Spain?”

“Not in general.” Tamsyn regarded Lucy thoughtfully. It seemed to her that Julian's sister was in need of a little sisterly guidance. The question was: how to dispense it without giving too much away?

Lucy poured tea. “We always put the milk in afterward,” she offered a shade stiffly.

“Why is that?”

“So that one can adjust the strength,” Lucy said.

“You can't tell if you put the milk in first.”

“No, I suppose not,” Tamsyn agreed, taking a seat on the sofa beside Lucy. “I must remember that. Tell me about your husband.”

“Why would you want to know about him?” Two spots of color burned on Lucy's cheeks as she handed Tamsyn a cup.

Tamsyn took a sip and decided that now was not the moment for tea. “Because I think you need some help,” she said candidly, discarding her teacup. “After only ten months of marriage a man should still be sleeping in his wife's bed. And if you're not careful, that husband of yours is going to start some serious wandering.”

“Oh, how could you say such a scandalous thing?”

Lucy clapped her hands to her flaming cheeks. “What could you possibly know about such things?”

“I'm Spanish,” Tamsyn said vaguely. “We're perhaps a little more open about these matters.” She rose to her feet and went to the decanters on the sideboard. She'd have to slide carefully around her cover if she was to help Lucy, but their earlier conversation combined with an evening in the company of Gareth Fortescue had made it very clear to her that young Lucy needed some help.

She poured herself a glass of wine, sympathetically regarding the girl's flushed and bemused indignation. “Do you care for your husband, Lucy?”

“Of course I do!” Tears sparked in the china-blue eyes. “And he cares for me.”

“Yes, of course he does.” Tamsyn sat down again, cradling her wineglass. “But he's older than you, and a deal more experienced. Do you enjoy being in bed with him?”

Lucy stared at her, dumbfounded.

Tamsyn nodded. “You were a virgin, of course. And I don't suppose he thought to discover what pleased you. Men like that often don't.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy was struggling for words, unable to believe she was really hearing this. “I don't want to talk about this… it's horrible… it's not decent.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Lucy. If you don't talk about it, how will you ever learn to make love? And if you don't learn, then you won't learn to enjoy it, and neither will your husband. And then you really will be in a pretty pickle.” She drank her wine with a matter-of-fact nod. “Cecile was always telling me about the prudishness of the English and how women weren't expected to know anything about pleasuring… In fact, when she was a girl, it was considered quite shocking for a woman to enjoy coupling.”

“Cecile?” Lucy said faintly.

“My mother. She would have talked to you just as I am, Lucy, so please don't be offended.”

Lucy stared at this extraordinary girl who was regarding her with an air of confident authority that made her feel like a patient with a physician.

Before she could gather her wits, however, Julian and Gareth strolled into the drawing room.

“Lucy has been explaining to me the correct way to pour tea in the drawing room,” Tamsyn said. “May I pour for the gentlemen, Lucy?”

Lucy moved away from the tea tray, aware that Tamsyn had noticed her hands were not quite steady. When Julian suggested she play, she went to the pianoforte reluctantly. Her head was so full of what she'd heard that her fingers were all thumbs, and after two muddled and discordant attempts at a folk song, Gareth said with a degree of brutality, “Oh, for God's sake, Lucy. Spare our ears. It sounds like a tribe of cats on the prowl.”

Lucy dropped the lid of the instrument with a bang.

“I beg your pardon.” She got up and returned to the sofa. “I'm sure you'd prefer to hear Tamsyn play. I'm sure she counts it among her many accomplishments.”

“I don't play the pianoforte, only the guitar,” Tamsyn said readily, ignoring Lucy's petulant tone. She'd shocked the girl and would renew her tutorial in the morning, when Lucy had had a chance to absorb what she'd heard.

“How exotic,” Lucy murmured.

“Not where I come from,” Tamsyn responded. “It's considered a minor accomplishment.”

“Like other things, I imagine.”

“Possibly.”

Julian frowned as Lucy's barbed comments flew and Tamsyn batted them gently back without any sign of hostility. But Lucy was radiating antagonism.

Gareth cleared his throat. “Think I'll take a stroll down to the village before bed. I daresay I'll see you all in the morning.” He bent over Lucy and pecked her cheek. “Good night, my dear. Don't stay up late, now. You've had a long journey.”

Lucy's cheeks paled, and then the pallor was driven away by a crimson tide. Her eyes darted involuntarily toward Tamsyn, who studiously avoided meeting her gaze.

The door closed behind Gareth, and Lucy stood up hastily. “I do find that I'm very tired. If you'll both excuse me, I think I'll go to bed.” Tears were heavy in her voice, and she dashed an arm across her eyes as she went to the door.

“Bastard!” Julian swore as she left. ''I'm damned if I'll permit him to go whoring in the village while my sister lies weeping upstairs.”

“Yes, very insensitive of him,” Tamsyn agreed. “But if you drag him back, he'll sulk. He's that type.”

Julian regarded her with a frown, noticing the wineglass she still held. “Why have you been dipping deep this evening? I thought it didn't agree with you.”

“Oh, it agrees with me, all right,” she said lazily, running a hand through her hair, her eyes narrowing seductively as she drew her knees beneath her in the big armchair. “But it tends to make me rather uninhibited, and it stimulates my imagination. Shall we go upstairs, since your guests have disappeared?”

The prospect of a more than usually uninhibited and imaginative Tamsyn was heady indeed. Her violet eyes were luring him, the slight body curled in the chair radiated sensual invitation. A wicked, exotic invitation. And there would never be another woman like her.

“Forgive me,” he said abruptly. “I've some work to do in my book room.”

The rejection was so unexpected that Tamsyn stared stunned as the door closed behind him. Tears burned behind her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. She'd been offering an overture all evening, and he'd seemed to accept the end of their quarrel. But now to turn from her so coldly…

But she wouldn't be defeated. Her mouth took a stubborn turn.