chapter Three
‘Utter nonsense.’
‘Savary informed me that he told you that you need my permission to wed.’
‘That does not make you my guardian.’
‘No, but since I have taken over the responsibilities of the earldom, that makes me your guardian.’
‘The late earl was not my guardian. I have no need of a guardian, I have lived by my own efforts for years.’
‘You have lived off this estate.’ He pointed to a ledger on the desk. ‘Each quarter a sum of money was paid to a Mrs Sally Ladbrook for your keep and education. A very princely sum, I might add.’ His gaze dropped to her chest, which she realised was expanding and contracting at a very rapid rate to accommodate her breathing.
His eyes came back to her face and his jaw hardened. ‘And then you show up here in rags hoping for more.’
Damn him and his horrid accusations. Her hand flashed out. He caught her wrist. His fingers were like an iron band around her flesh. ‘You’ll need to be quicker to catch me off guard.’
‘What kind of person do you think I am?’
His expression darkened. ‘A Beresford.’ He cast her hand aside.
Never had she heard such hatred directed at a single word. It must have tasted like acid on his tongue.
‘You are a Beresford.’
His eyes widened. ‘I doubt there are many who would agree. Certainly not me.’
‘Then you should not be inheriting the title.’
‘You are changing the subject again, Miss Wilding.’
The subject was as slippery as a bucket of eels. ‘I have had quite enough of your accusations.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t come here seeking money?’
She coloured. ‘No. Well, yes, for the school. It needs a new roof.’ Among many other things it needed. ‘But I have never met the earl before last night. And there certainly have been no vast sums of money coming to Ladbrook’s or to me.’
He glanced across the room at his desk, at the account book, clearly not believing a word.
A rush of tears burned behind her eyes, because she knew it could not be true, unless... No, she would not believe it. ‘I need to go back to the school. I need to speak to Mrs Ladbrook.’
He stared into her face, his gaze so intense, she wanted to look away. But she couldn’t. Didn’t dare, in case he thought she was lying.
Why did it matter what he thought?
Yet she would not stand down. Once more there was heat in that grey gaze, like molten silver, and the warmth seemed to set off a spark in her belly that flashed up to her face. Her cheeks were scalding, her heart pounding against the wall of her chest as if she had run a great race.
Slowly his hand moved from the door to her shoulder, stroked down her arm, his fingers inexorably sliding over muscle and bone as if he would learn the contours of her arm.
His expression was grim, as if this was not something he wanted to do at all, yet he did not stop.
She tipped her face upwards, her lips parted to protest... Only to accept the soft brush of his warm dry velvety lips. Little thrills raced through her stomach. Chased across her skin.
And then his mouth melded to hers, his tongue stroking the seam of her mouth, the sweet sensation melting her bones until she parted her lips on a gasp of sheer bliss and tasted his tongue with her own. Feverishly, their mouths tasted each other while she clung to those wide shoulders for support and his hands at her waist held her tight against his hard body.
She could feel the thunder of his heart where his chest pressed against her breasts, hear the rush of her blood in her veins. It was shocking. And utterly mesmerising.
On an oath, he stepped back, breaking all contact, shock blazing in his eyes.
The thrills faded to little more than echoes of the sensations they had been a moment ago. What on earth was she doing? More to the point, what was he doing? ‘How dare you, sir?’ she said, pulling her shawl tightly around her.
At that he gave a short laugh. ‘How dare I what?’
‘Kiss me.’
‘You kissed me.’
Had she? She didn’t think she had, but she wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. Unless... ‘Don’t think to force me into marrying you by ruining my reputation. You see, that kind of thing doesn’t matter to me.’
His eyes widened. ‘So that is your plan, is it?’
‘Oh, you really are impossible.’
For a long moment his gaze studied her face, searching for who knew what. ‘I will discover what it is my grandfather put you up to, you know. I will stop you any way I can. I have more resources at my disposal than you can possibly imagine.’
She could imagine all right. She could imagine all sorts of things when it came to this man. Resources weren’t the only thing chasing through her mind. And those thoughts were the worst of all: the thoughts of his kisses and the heat of his body. ‘The best thing you could do is kill me off. Then all your troubles will be over.’
The grey of his eyes turned wintry. His expression hardened. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.’
Her breath left her in a rush. Her stomach dropped away and she felt cold all over. She ducked under his arm, pulled at the door handle and was out the door in a flash and running down the corridor.
‘Miss Wilding, wait,’ he called after her.
She didn’t dare stop. Her heart was beating far too fast, the blood roaring in her head, for her to think clearly. But now he had shown his hand, she would be on her guard.
* * *
After a night filled with dreams Mary couldn’t quite recall—though she suspected from how hot she felt that they had something to do with the earl and his kiss—she awoke to find Betsy setting a tray of hot chocolate and freshly baked rolls beside the bed.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine o’clock, miss.’
So late? How could she have slept so long and still feel desperately tired? Perhaps because she’d been in such a turmoil when she went to bed. Perhaps because she could not get those dark words out of her mind. Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.
‘The weather is set to be fair, miss.’ Betsy knelt to rake the coals in the fire. ‘Warm for this time of year.’
Mary hopped out of bed and went to the window. ‘So it is. I think I will go for a walk.’ She dressed with her usual efficiency in her best gown.
Betsy rose to her feet. ‘The ruins are very popular with visitors in the summer,’ she said, watching Mary reach behind her to button her gown with a frown of disapproval. ‘Very old they are. Some say the are haunted by the old friars who were killed by King Henry.’
Mary tucked a plain linen scarf in the neck of her bodice and picked up her brush. ‘Superstitious nonsense.’ She brushed hard. ‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’ She glanced past her own reflection at the maid, who looked a little pale.
‘No, miss.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘And I’ve worked here for three years. But I don’t go out there at night.’
Mary coiled her hair around her fingers and reached for her pins. ‘The ruins sound fascinating. I will be sure to take a look.’ She wished she had used her time in the library the previous day looking at a map of the area instead of reading romantic poetry.
‘Would miss like me to fix her hair?’ Betsy asked, looking a little askance at the plain knot Mary favoured. ‘I can do it up fancy like Mrs Hampton’s maid does, if you like. I have been practising on the other girls.’
Mary heard a note of longing in the girl’s voice. ‘Why, Betsy, do you have ambitions to become a lady’s maid?’
Betsy coloured, but her eyes shone. ‘Yes, miss. I would like that above all. My brother works down Beresford’s tin mine. If I had a better paying job, he could go to school.’
Her mine. Or it would be if she married. ‘Is it a bad place to work?’
Betsy looked embarrassed. ‘It’s hard work, but the manager, Mr Trelawny, is a fair man. Not like some.’
‘How old is your brother?’
‘Ten, miss. Works alongside my Da, he does. Proud as a peacock.’
The thought of such a small boy working in the mine did not sit well in her stomach. But she knew families needed the income. As the mine owner, if she really was a mine owner, she could make some changes. To do that, she had to marry. And then the mine would belong to her husband and not to her. It was all such a muddle. Being a schoolteacher was one thing, but this...this was quite another. Besides, it was easy to see that if she married the earl, he would rule the roost. He was not the type of man to listen to a woman.
What she needed was some sensible counsel to see her through this mess. While Sally Ladbrook might not be the warmest of people, she had a sensible head on her shoulders. ‘Perhaps you can help me with my hair another day. That will be all for now.’
How strange it sounded, giving out orders to another person in such a manner, but Betsy seemed to take it as natural, bobbing her curtsy and leaving right away.
Oh dear, Mary hoped the girl wouldn’t be too disappointed that Mary could not offer her a position, but she really couldn’t stay. Not when Lord Beresford considered her death a plausible option.
Besides, she desperately needed to speak to Sally about the other matter the earl had raised. The money. There had to be a plausible explanation, other than misappropriation. The earl was wrong to suggest it.
She sat down and drank the chocolate and ate as many of the rolls as she could manage. The last two she wrapped in a napkin and tucked in her reticule to eat on the journey.
She counted out her small horde of coins and was relieved to discover she had enough to get her back to Wiltshire on a stagecoach. After packing her valise and bundling up in her winter cloak and bonnet, she headed for a side door she’d noticed in her wanderings. She just hoped she could find it again in the maze of passageways and stairs.
After a couple of wrong turns, she did indeed find it again. A quick survey assured her no one was around to see her departure. She twisted the black-iron ring attached to the latch and tugged. The heavy door, caught by the wind, yanked the handle out of her hands and slammed against the passage wall with a resounding bang.
Her heart raced in her chest. Had anyone heard? Would they come running? Rather than wait to see, she stepped outside and, after a moment’s struggle, closed the door behind her.
She really hadn’t expected the wind to be so fierce. She pulled up her hood and tightened the strings, staring around her at crumbling walls and stone arches overgrown with weeds. The jagged walls looked grim and ghostly against the leaden sky, though no doubt it would look charmingly antiquated on a sunny day.
Clutching her valise, she picked her way through the ruins, heading north, she hoped. A green sward opened up before her. Not the cliffs and the sea. In the distance, a rider on a magnificent black horse galloped across the park, a dog loping along behind.
The earl. It could be no one else. Hatless, his open greatcoat flapping in the wind, he looked like the apocalyptic horseman of Death. She shivered.
No, that was giving him far too much in the way of mystical power. He was simply a man who wanted his birthright. And she had somehow managed to get in the way. The thought didn’t make her feel any better.
Realising she must have turned south, she swiftly marched in the other direction, around the outside of the ruins, up hill this time, which made more sense if she was headed for cliffs.
The wind increased in strength, buffeting her ears, whipping the ribbons of her bonnet in her face and billowing her cloak around her. She gasped as it tore the very breath from her throat. It would be a vigorous walk to St Ives and no mistake.
She licked her lips and was surprised by the sharp tang of salt on her tongue. From the sea, she supposed. Interesting. She hadn’t thought of the salt being carried in the air. Head down, she forged on, looking for a path along the cliff top. The upward climb became steeper, so rocky underfoot she had to watch where she placed each step or risk a tumble. She paused to take stock of her progress.
A few feet in front of her the ground disappeared and all she could see ahead of her was grey surging waves crested with spume. It was lucky she had stopped when she did.
But where was the path mentioned by Gerald? She scanned the ground in both directions and was able to make out a very faint track meandering along the cliff top. It looked more like a track for sheep than for people.
The wind seemed intent of holding her back, but she battled into it, following the track frighteningly close to the edge.
The strings of her hood gave way against a battering gust and her bonnet blew off, bouncing against her back, pulling against her throat. Strands of hair tore free and whipped at her face, stinging her eyes. A roar like thunder rolled up from below.
She leaned out to peer through the spray into the boiling churning water. Hell’s kitchen must surely look and sound like this. As each wave drew back with a grumbling growl, she glimpsed the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff and off to her left a rocky cove with a small sandy beach.
Out in the distance, the sky and sea became one vast grey mist. The world had never felt this big in the little Wiltshire village of Sarum. She leaned into the wind and felt its pure natural strength holding her weight. She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She had never experienced such wildness.
Something nudged into her back.
She windmilled her arms to regain her balance. Her valise went flying over the cliff. And the ground fell from beneath her feet.
She screamed.