Kitabı oxu: «A Scandalous Situation»
“So I am chosen—already damaged goods.”
“Don’t ever let me hear you say that again!”
At the thunder in his voice, Iantha jumped and stepped hastily back. His lordship did not move, but his voice softened. “Forgive me. I did not mean to shout. But I am serious, Iantha. Do not allow them the victory of seeing yourself that way. Do not allow anyone to do that to you.”
Iantha stared down at her shoes. He was right, of course. “I try not to, but it is very hard.”
“I’m sure it is.” She sensed him reaching for her, then dropping his hand to his side. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that he hadn’t touched her. Perhaps he didn’t want to. She lifted her gaze to his. The expression in his eyes surprised her.
There was a wanting in them.
Could he possibly really want her?
Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell
A Dangerous Seduction
“Rowell creates a wonderful Gothic atmosphere,
using beautiful Cornwall and its history of smuggling
and shipwrecks to enhance her story.”
—Romantic Times
A Perilous Attraction
“…promising Regency-era debut
…a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing
the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning
likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”
—Romantic Times
A Scandalous Situation
Patricia Frances Rowell
This book is for my talented sons—
Andrew Nathaniel, James Houghton and
John Adam Annand. We grew up together, didn’t we, guys?
And for grandchildren Amber Niccole
(because I spelled her name wrong the last time) and
Aidan Thomas (because we didn’t have him the last time).
And for Johnny—always my hero.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
My thanks to Paul D. Ware, M.D., and Jean Cason, MSW,
who taught me how people recover from trauma,
and many other important life lessons.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Prologue
Just North of London, 1801
I must be dying.
She could no longer feel the pain.
Then again, perhaps the agony had simply increased to the point of numbness as she lay on the frozen ground, drifting in and out of the blackness.
Death would be better.
They were still there. She heard them moving about.
And she smelled them. A strange smoke. The odor of nervous and excited men.
She fought to control a shudder.
She must not move, not even breathe.
Perhaps they would believe she was dead. Oh, God, please let them believe that! Let it be so. Then surely they would not do it again.
Against the background of her closed eyes distorted images swirled. Heads swathed in crimson masks. Eyes glittering through the eyeholes. Hot breath pouring through the mouth openings. Gleaming blades.
Pain. Pain everywhere.
Mask after mask after mask.
The blackness sought her. She reached for it, welcoming it. Suddenly a loud, braying laugh, the sound of a hand striking flesh and an angry, hissed whisper snatched it away.
“Quiet, fool!”
She held her breath. The creak of leather. Horses galloping away. Empty silence.
The smell of blood. The cold.
And blackness.
Chapter One
Cumberland, England, 1807
C areful not to move, he sat astride his bay stallion with his hands in the air and concentrated on the pistol pointed at his heart. A pistol held in the steady, gloved hands of a lady. Not a large lady, true. Dainty, rather, and delicate. But a lady wearing a very determined expression.
He could probably disarm her. Probably. A sudden charge. A quick grab. It would work. Probably. Of course, he always stood the chance of getting either himself or his horse shot. Robert Armstrong was not a man who liked probably. Not with a pistol leveled at his chest. No, for the moment discretion definitely appeared to be the better part of valor. He did his best to sound soothing.
“Ma’am, I assure you I mean you no harm. If you do not allow me to get down and help you free your horse, the next mass of snow that slides down that mountain will bury not only your gig, but you and the horse as well.”
As if to punctuate his words, a small cascade of frozen chunks tumbled down the hill and landed at the feet of the very determined pistol-pointing lady. She flung a quick glance upward, then steadied the pistol. “I fear you are correct. Your assistance would be most welcome. You may dismount.”
Rob raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Much obliged to you.”
Feeling not at all welcome, he swung himself down from his mount and waded through the deep snow to the overturned conveyance. The woman stepped away cautiously, keeping the pistol trained on his back. A spot between his shoulder blades began to itch. He shrugged uneasily. Surely she wouldn’t shoot him in the back while he was extricating her from her predicament.
Would she?
Murmuring softly to the frantic cob, still harnessed to the gig trying desperately to keep his feet, Rob took hold of its bridle and surveyed the situation. The small snowslide had knocked the carriage into the drifts on the far side of the road, turning it half on its side and all but engulfing it. The very determined lady could count herself fortunate indeed to have been thrown clear. The far shaft had broken free of the body of the gig, and the off-balance horse had stepped over it with a hind leg, thus jamming itself firmly between the splintered stub and the near shaft.
“Got yourself into the very devil of a scrape, haven’t you, old fellow? We’d best get you out before you’re much older, or I’m likely to find myself in the same case.”
Rob studied the hillside above him with narrowed eyes. Not very high, but very steep and almost devoid of vegetation, the escarpment was crowned by a long, sheer rock precipice. The surprisingly mild day had softened the snow, causing the slide, but soon it would freeze solid once more. He could feel the temperature dropping. The rising wind blew sparkling flurries from the crest against a mounting backdrop of blue-gray clouds. Another storm. Matters were going from bad to worse.
At any moment the wind might trigger another small avalanche. Rob pulled the knife out of the top of his boot. At a sharp hiss of indrawn breath behind him, he looked over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” The lady’s already pale face had gone deathly white. The previously steady hands that held the pistol now trembled. Not a good sign.
Rob straightened and frowned. “Ma’am, please. Lower your weapon. I have no wish to end this misadventure with a bullet lodged in me. I must cut the straps loose from the shafts, and I have no time to waste dealing with frozen buckles.”
“I…” She took a deep breath and stilled her shaking. The pistol wavered, finally pointed at the ground. “Yes, of course. Please proceed.”
Rolling his eyes skyward, Rob went back to his task. What ailed the woman? Fear was writ in every tense line of her slender body, her clenched hands, her taut face. Surely he had done nothing to inspire it? Except… Yes, he had drawn his knife. Until that moment she had been merely wary, but now she looked terrified. Why?
Tabling that question for a more opportune moment, Rob turned back to the task of calming the small horse and delivering it from its entanglement. This he accomplished with a few efficient strokes of his blade. Pausing only long enough to sheath the knife and pick up the handle of a rectangular leather case that had spilled out of the gig, he led the badly limping cob toward its mistress.
“I’m afraid your horse has strained a tendon. He will not be able…”
A deep rumble and a faint vibration of the earth were all the warning he had. Rob dropped the reins of the cob and launched himself at the woman. Neither thinking nor pausing, he scooped her up across his shoulder and ran, his powerful legs slicing through the soft snow. The pistol went flying and discharged with a loud crack. Both horses galloped ahead of him, whinnying in fright. A wall of rocks, earth and half-frozen snow roared down the slope, picking up speed as it came. Rob doubled his effort, desperately traversing the hillside, trying to get them out of the main path of the slide.
Suddenly, he tripped, and both of them went sprawling.
He flung himself over the woman, trying to hold the leather case over his own head. A rock struck it and bounced away. Another. A clod of dirt and ice hit his shoulder and icy slush filled his boot and trickled inside his collar. Great God! Were they buried?
Time seemed to stretch interminably as the roaring mass came ever closer. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the roar came to an abrupt halt. Near panic, Rob thrust himself upward. To his untold relief his head and upper body emerged into a startling silence. Carefully he sat up and looked around him.
And shuddered.
He lay just beyond the edge of a huge pile of debris that now filled a section of the shallow valley. The overturned gig could no longer be seen at all. The road disappeared under the heap of snow and dirt. Rob pulled his leg free of the mass and turned to the still-recumbent lady. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”
She lay as if frozen, her eyes tightly shut, her skin completely devoid of color. For the first time Rob had the opportunity for a close look. She was younger than he had thought. The silvery hair peeping from under the hood of her ermine coat had misled him. She had the unlined face of a very young woman, no older, surely, than her mid-twenties. She didn’t move.
“Miss? Miss!” Alarmed now by her pallor, he shook her shoulder gently. Had he knocked the breath out of her? “Miss, can you speak?”
Her eyelids fluttered and Rob found himself staring into eyes as deep a violet as the mountain sky. Their clarity took his breath away. And his voice. “Uh… Uh, miss…” He cleared his throat. “Are you injured?”
She took a long breath and swallowed. “No… No, I do not believe I am.”
She struggled to sit and Rob quickly got to one knee and offered his hand. She regarded it gravely for a moment, then put her fingers in his and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet as he stood. She glanced about, looking bewildered. “What happened to my carriage?”
“I’m afraid it is now completely buried.”
“And my pistol?”
Rob shrugged. Just as well to see the last of the pistol. “I have no idea.” He stamped the snow from his boots and brushed it off his clothes, gazing around for the horses. “But I believe it is best that we make haste away from here.”
“But where…?” The lady turned in a circle, searching the buried road. The strengthening wind molded her damp coat to her slight frame, and she shivered. A few flakes of fresh snow danced around her.
“My home is there, atop the cliff.” Rob indicated, a little distance away, the outline of an old fortress against the growing clouds.
The lady’s eyes widened. “The Eyrie? I thought it unoccupied.”
“It has been for some years. I have just recently returned from India. I’m Robert Armstrong.”
“Baron Duncan?”
“The same.”
“I see. I…” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am Iantha Kethley.” She did not offer her hand.
Nor did she smile.
Ah, well. Not exactly the reward the gallant rescuer of a beautiful maiden in distress might wish for. At least, she might be a beautiful maiden had she deigned to smile.
Whistling for his bay, he retrieved the cob from where it stood forlornly a few yards away and ran his hand expertly down its leg. “We will both have to use my horse. Your poor pony is considerably the worse for two narrow escapes. Let me mount first, and I will lift you up before me.”
“Uh…” The fear flickered once more in those remarkable eyes. “No. That is… I prefer to ride behind you. I will mount first.”
“But the road is very steep. You will likely slide off. It would be far safer—”
“I will ride behind.” Her lifted chin took on a stubborn tilt.
Rob sighed. “As you wish. We have no time for argument.” He glanced at the lowering sky and got a face full of snow for his trouble. “Whatever we do, we’d best do it soon. That storm will be upon us in earnest very shortly.”
As he was about to lift her, she stopped him again, backing away from him. “My paints.” She pointed to the leather case. “I will carry them.”
“Your paints?” Rob smothered a snort of exasperation. “Very well. As soon as you are seated.” He caught her before she could make yet another objection, his broad hands all but encompassing her fragile waist. She seemed almost to float upward as he set her sideways behind the saddle. Handing up the case when she had settled herself, he gathered up the cob’s reins and mounted his own horse awkwardly, swinging his foot over the animal’s head. The bay sidled, signaling his annoyance at this unorthodox procedure.
Rob settled into the saddle, only to be jabbed between the shoulder blades by something sharp. Now what? Turning, he realized that his damsel in distress had placed the paint case between herself and his sturdy back and was trying to hold on to him around it. That was the outside of enough!
“Give me that!” He unceremoniously yanked the case out of her grasp and balanced it across the saddle in front of him with one hand. “Now hold on to me. We have no time for this nonsense.”
Urging his mount across the escarpment below the towering cliff, Rob made for the old castle by the shortest route. The wind howled around them now, the snow blowing sideways, stinging their faces. More drifts were already forming across what was left of the road below them in the valley. It would be of no further use to them, but his path would take them directly to the trail that led up to his home. His bay might have made short work of the trip had not the lame cob held him back, but they should still safely reach shelter.
As the laboring horses struggled up a sharp incline, Rob heard a strangled squeak, and the small arms around his waist abruptly disappeared. The bay reared slightly as his load shifted. Rob steadied him and looked back in alarm to see his passenger sitting in the snow, legs stretched before her and her skirts above her knees, exposing white leather knee boots.
And another pistol strapped to the top of one boot.
Great heavens, the woman went about armed to the teeth!
To his relief she looked startled, but not stunned. She scrambled hastily to her feet and came to where Rob waited aboard his mount, nobly forbearing to say I told you so. She at least had the grace to appear chagrined, two rosy spots coloring her cheeks. He extended a hand. “Put your foot on top of mine and push as I lift you.”
She obeyed this command without a word and, giving her the paint case to hold, Rob pulled her up into his arms and set her in front of him. His arm tightened around her waist as he dug his heels into the bay’s sides. Immediately her whole body went stiff. He frowned, puzzled. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as though he were kidnapping her. He was rescuing her, for God’s sake!
He pulled the horse in. “Miss Kethley.” She did not respond. He couldn’t see her face. She set it resolutely ahead, like a prisoner going bravely to meet her fate. He grasped her chin and turned her toward him. He gazed into her face, baffled.
“Miss Kethley, please tell me what I have done to offend you so.” She shook her head, opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again. “Have I offered you any harm, any insult?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “N…” She moistened her lips and tried again. “N-no.”
“Nor will I.”
Rob shut his mouth grimly and set off up the mountain.
As they made their way up the slope, Iantha sat in the shelter of the baron’s body and willed herself to think, to remain calm. She would control her fear. The man had done nothing to provoke it. He had done nothing but what was right and proper—gallant even. Yet when he had fallen across her, she had thought her heart would stop. Even the roar of the snowslide had been drowned out by the roaring inside her mind; the fear of being buried alive paled beside the fear engendered by the weight of his body on top of hers.
If only she could banish those hateful images from her mind, she would feel relieved that she no longer had to fight every moment to keep her seat. And with her rescuer’s bulk blocking the wind and snow, the cold didn’t bite into her as it had been doing. Even so, her fingers felt frozen to the handle of her paint case, and she could no longer feel her toes.
Sitting thus, she realized that his lordship was much taller than he had seemed when he’d stood some distance away. The breadth of his muscular shoulders had made him appear much shorter. He was a big man. Strong. Yet, she reminded herself, he had used his strength only to aid her. She must think about that. Use it to bridle her rebelling emotions.
Control. Control was her fortress.
She would maintain control.
Just when Iantha thought the cold and the wind blasting along the escarpment would go on forever, they encountered the road that ran between the valley and the castle. Several switchbacks later they found themselves in the enveloping silence and welcome warmth of a large stone stable. Iantha straightened her aching shoulders and looked about. A stockily built groom with grizzled hair was hurrying toward them.
“Me lord! You’re home safe at last. Burnside and me was just debating should we mount a search.” He reached up, squinting at her, and took the paint case out of Iantha’s stiff fingers. “And who might we have here?”
Setting the case on the ground, he lifted his arms again, and Iantha slid off the saddle into them. He put her down, careful to keep a steadying hand on her arm. It was well that he did. Her half-frozen feet and legs threatened to fail her. She took hold of the saddle with her other hand.
“Have you ever known me not to show up intact, Feller?” His lordship swung himself down easily, smiling at the groom.
“Nay, me lord, saving that time in Orissa. You wasn’t by no means intact on that occasion.” Feller grinned. “I told Burnside, I did, ‘Just you watch. He’ll turn up like a bad penny, he will.’ And here you are.”
“And here I am,” agreed his lordship. “This lady is Miss Kethley. As you can see, she and her cob suffered a mishap on the road.”
“That I do see.” Feller turned to examine the sturdy horse, frowning. “Poor old mate here is a mite bunged up.”
He released Iantha’s arm, moving to her horse. As he did, Iantha felt her knees give way and clutched again at the saddle.
“Careful, now!” Lord Duncan stepped quickly to throw a supporting arm around her waist. “Are you faint?”
“No.” Iantha shook her head. “Just cold and stiff. I will be fine in a minute.”
“Perhaps.” He scowled doubtfully. “Shall I carry you?”
“No!” The denial emerged much more sharply than she had intended. “I mean…thank you. That isn’t necessary.”
“Let me help you, then.” His lordship still looked doubtful. “We need to get you to a fire. We’ll go up through the old castle, to avoid the wind.” He tightened his arm around her and guided her toward a door at the side of the stable.
Close. He was much too close.
Iantha shut her eyes, drew in a long breath and forbade herself to pull away. If she did that, she would surely find herself sitting on the ground. She could endure his proximity for a few minutes.
Control.
He led her through the stable door and up a flight of steep spiral steps. At the top they wound through a series of short passages with narrow doors, each facing a different direction.
“This is the portal to the original castle,” he explained. “The turns were designed to keep out an invading force. This section was abandoned long ago, but we still use it to come up from the stable when we wish to avoid the weather.” They emerged from an empty stone chamber through a newer door into a wide entry hall. Lord Duncan removed his shallow-crowned hat and knocked the snow off it against his leg, revealing a thick thatch of rich brown curls.
“Here is the new building.” He grinned. “Relatively speaking. The old part was built in the fourteenth century, the new part in the early 1600s. It is considerably more comfortable than the original structure ever was, although it does have its share of eccentricities.” He tugged at a bell rope. “Burnside! Burnside, where are you?”
Iantha winced at the sudden shout. His lordship’s vocal vigor, however, was rewarded by the prompt appearance of a wiry man of middle years.
“Aye, me lord?” The newcomer stopped abruptly at the sight of Iantha and looked questioningly at Lord Duncan.
“Miss Kethley was caught in the storm and will be staying with us. Please ask Thursby to go and make up a fire in the dowager’s bedchamber and fetch Miss Kethley some hot water.”
“Oh. Aye, me lord, right away. There be a fire in the library now if Miss Kethley would like to…”
“Ah, very good.” His lordship turned to Iantha. “May I help you with your coat?”
“Thank you.” Iantha allowed him to remove the garment, using the opportunity to step away from his supporting arm. As the hood came off, she braced herself. But surely he was too much the gentleman to comment on her silvery hair.
And, of course, he was.
After assisting Lord Duncan off with his greatcoat, Burnside departed as quickly as he had come, taking the wet wraps with him. His lordship opened the door to a comfortable room off the entryway. Books lined the walls, and more books and scrolls lay in piles and in crates. Some of them displayed covers of soft leather with exotic art, but a few had no covers at all.
“Forgive my disorder. I am in the process of integrating my own collection with my father’s library.” He set a chair near the fireplace and ushered her to it.
“I have found many interesting volumes in the East, some of them very old. I have been studying the various languages in order to read the texts.” He pulled up a chair for himself and sat, extending capable-looking hands to the fire.
Iantha clasped her own hands together in her lap and cleared her throat. “Lord Duncan, I feel I should say… Please forgive me if I have seemed ungrateful for your help. I found the situation very…very disturbing.”
His lordship raised one eyebrow. “Apparently.”
“I am appreciative. Truly I am.” She looked into his face—which displayed a hint of a wry smile and a twinkle in his coffee-brown eyes. A very good-natured response, indeed, to what she’d put him through. “What I would have done had you not arrived when you did, I don’t know. I had not realized that there was so much snow in the fells—and certainly not that another storm was brewing.”
He nodded. “A deceptively mild day. I succumbed to the temptation to get outside myself. Very unusual to have so much snow this early in the year.”
Iantha mustered a smile. “And I am very sorry to impose on you.”
“Not a bit in the world, Miss Kethley. My only concern is for your comfort. This is a very awkward situation for you. I regret that I do not even have a housekeeper, let alone a maid, to assist you at present. I returned somewhat earlier than my agent expected, and he has not yet assembled a permanent staff. Fortunately, he had already ordered a thorough cleaning, so at least you will not be choked with dust, and there is food aplenty stored in the cellars.” He turned as the door opened. “Yes, Burnside?”
“I thought the lady might be the better for a cup of tea.” Burnside edged through the door and awkwardly set a large tray with teapot and cups on a table.
“Very well thought of. Thank you.” Lord Duncan swiveled to face his henchman, grinning. “And what is offered for dinner? I’m expecting at least three courses.”
Burnside winked at a very startled Iantha. “Me lord is only funning. He knows that from me he gets plain fare—good hearty north country cooking with a few Indian tricks added in.” He bowed to his employer, heading to the door. “The fire is made upstairs, me lord, and hot water on the hob when Miss Kethley is ready.”
“Thank you. We will wait a bit until the room warms.” Burnside departed and his lordship turned back to Iantha. “Burnside’s cooking is plain, as he said, but quite good. At least you won’t starve.” His lordship eyed the tea tray askance. “Would you do me the favor of pouring, Miss Kethley? I’d very likely make a mull of it.”
What a strange establishment! Feeling a bit bewildered, Iantha picked up the pot. “I’d be happy to. Milk?”
“No, thank you.”
She passed him the cup and poured one for herself. As they were treating the situation as a social occasion, and conversation was the inevitable accompaniment to tea, Iantha made a strong effort to marshal her thoughts. “How long did you live in India, my lord?”
“Thirteen years.”
“With the East India Company?”
“No, I went as a private merchant. The Armstrong fortunes had fallen on hard times, and my father felt even going into trade justified by the circumstances.”
“I see.” Iantha pondered this information as she sipped the warming tea. An unusual step for a nobleman, but better, no doubt, than genteel poverty. “Did you not care for it there?”
“Oh, aye. It suited me very well. So much to see, to hear, to smell and touch.” He smiled at her over his cup, eyes crinkling at the corners. He really had a very engaging smile. “The Orient is a veritable feast for the senses. New foods, new textures, bright colors. More new experiences every day than the English mind can conceive.”
“But you came home.”
He stared into the fire for a heartbeat before looking at her. “One always wants to come home.”
Finding nothing to add to that, Iantha sipped in silence. Lord Duncan drew a deep breath. “There were other reasons, also.” He paused, then went on, leaving Iantha with the impression that he had left something unsaid. “For one, profit has become too dependent on the opium trade with China. The East India Company holds the monopoly on cultivation only in Bengal, but I could not stomach selling it in any event. If you could but see the poor devils… Er, excuse my language, but enslavement to opium is indeed a damnable condition.” He set down his cup and stood. “But I can bore on forever about India. Have you finished your tea? I’ll escort you upstairs.”
Iantha followed his example, and after only a second’s hesitation, took the arm he offered, walking as far from his side as the arrangement allowed. His other hand closed over the sleeve of her dress. “I fear your gown is still wet. You will need a change of clothes.”
Iantha glanced down at the muddied hem of her white wool dress. “That would be a great relief, but I don’t see how it can be accomplished.”
“I believe there are some clothes in the bedchamber we are preparing for you, but they belonged to my grandmother.” He looked down at her and grinned as they made their way up two broad flights of stairs. “She was quite the fashionable lady in her day, but alas, that time is a long way in the past. She was also very thrifty—kept everything. You should find something clean and dry, but you will hardly be a model of mode.”
For the first time since the heap of snow had inundated her vehicle, Iantha chuckled, but then the full realization of her situation dawned. At all appearances she would be here for an extended stay.
Great God in heaven! How would she survive it? How could she tolerate a whole household of men—strangers—for so much time?
Control. She must rely on her control, her intellect.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
