Tarnished Amongst the Ton Read online

  Between his palms her shoulders felt thin, fragile, although he had seen her lifting heavy ornaments with ease. It was as though this night-terror had sapped her strength. She blinked and he saw focus and consciousness return like wine being poured into a glass. ‘Ashe?’

  ‘You were having a nightmare and I thought it best to wake you.’ He kept his voice low and matter of fact. ‘Do you sleepwalk?’

  ‘Not for years.’ In the warm candle-glow she seemed to lose colour.

  ‘It was a bad dream, I heard you call out. What was it about?’ Perhaps if she spoke of it the thing would become less terrifying.

  ‘You,’ she whispered.

  ‘Me? You were having bad dreams about me?’ The shock made him pull back, his hands still cupping her shoulders, jerking her towards him.

  ‘You were trapped under all those portraits of your ancestors, as though they had fallen off the walls and somehow thrown themselves at you. They were talking, gibbering.’ She shuddered and he brought her close against his chest for comfort. ‘I could see your left hand and you were wearing your father’s signet ring. Then you threw them all off and got to your feet, but they were reaching out of the frames for you, all those white hands with the same ring, all reaching, scrabbling.’

  Ashe encircled her with his arms and she burrowed in, her cheek against his shirtfront, her hands sliding under his coat to hold him. At that moment Ashe was as glad of the human contact as she seemed to be. He could well do without that image to come back and haunt his own dreams. As soon as she was settled he was going up to the Long Gallery to face down the spectres himself.

  But now the cold finger of superstition was being thawed out by the pleasure of holding an armful of warm, soft woman. ‘Thank you for having my nightmare for me,’ he murmured in her ear. Strange that she had been so perceptive, so in tune with his mood, despite his reserve and ill temper.

  Phyllida gave a small laugh, her sense of humour apparently resurfacing as the dream faded. ‘I do not think it works like that, but perhaps I was a lightning rod for it. Thank you for waking me.’

  ‘I was passing.’ His hand, of its own volition it seemed, stroked down the supple curve of her back, warm through the thin lawn of her nightgown. His thumb ran down her spine, traced each vertebra, and she arched against his palm like a cat being stroked.

  ‘Ashe.’ She wriggled a little and looked up, her head tipped back because she was so close.

  He had no idea what she was going to say, nor any conscious intent to kiss her, but he dipped his head and found her mouth with his, and was lost.

  Chapter Twelve

  Phyllida was all soft, warm, scented femininity against him, every inhibition seemingly lost in the haze of waking from her nightmare. Her arms were around his torso, her breast heavy and rounded in his hand as he palmed it, the nipple hard beneath the thin veil of lawn.

  Urgent for her touch on his naked skin, he fought his way out of his coat, ripped off his neckcloth, pulled his shirt over his head, all the time with one hand touching her, caressing her. He caught her up and felt her gasp as her hands pressed against his back, heard the soft whimper of arousal as he bent his head to bite gently along the white slope of her shoulder, into the angle of her neck, up to the alluring soft skin below her ear.

  ‘Ashe.’ It was a whisper.

  He lifted his head and read the trouble in the darkness of her eyes, the tremble of her lip, smooth and plump, ripe for his kisses. He only had to close his eyes against hers, only had to take her in his arms and use all the expertise he had to overcome her fears and scruples and the thing was done.

  Damn it. He couldn’t do it. Persuasion, not seduction. As though it was physically painful he forced his body further away from her. His hands slid down to rest on her forearms, her fingers turned up to clasp his wrists.

  All his mistresses before now had been Indian and he had loved the contrast of his pale golden skin on theirs. Now the whiteness of Phyllida’s long fingers on his arms was like cream over honey and he bent to run his tongue-tip along one of them.

  ‘Ashe, no. I cannot. I cannot be your mistress.’ She pulled her hands back until their fingers meshed as they had in that impromptu minuet days before.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, trying not to make it a demand, calming his breathing as if he was about to take aim with a bow and arrow and must be utterly still. ‘When we kiss—’

  ‘I want you. I am not such a hypocrite to pretend otherwise. We spoke of this, Ashe. I have not changed my mind and I thought you had understood that.’

  ‘I had. I do.’ Was that a lie? No, he understood her decision, but he was determined to change it. ‘When I came into this room I had no intentions other than to make certain you were safe. When I took you in my arms it was to offer comfort and then—’ he met her eyes squarely ‘—then my intentions changed. I have no excuses.’

  She should make a fuss, be indignant, make him feel guilt and shame and then he would never tempt her again. ‘Yes, there are excuses. Real ones,’ Phyllida found herself saying. ‘I reacted as though I would welcome your caresses.’ She forced herself to as much honesty as she dared. ‘I did welcome them. I wanted to touch you, to kiss you. Most men would not have stopped, would have argued that I led them on.’ Stop pretending you don’t want it, you need a real man to show you… Somehow she repressed the shudder lest he think it was for him.

  So close to his naked torso, her hands still on him, she wondered again what would it be like to lie with Ashe. Would his kisses sweep her away so the fear was lost, submerged by a roaring wave of passion, or would he coax her out of her fears, softly, gently, replacing nightmare with pleasure?

  Or would she panic when those caresses moved beyond kisses? She closed her eyes, imagining her own screams, her nails ripping down his cheek. And he would know her deepest, darkest secret, that she had given herself, her innocence, to another man, not out of love but for money. Like a whore. Not like, the inner voice of her conscience chided her. You were a whore.

  ‘No, you did not lead me on,’ he said as he freed her hands and stood up. ‘I take responsibility for what I do and I may want you too much for my own peace of mind, but I am not some rutting beast whose lusts must drive him. Are you all right now? Perhaps you should ring for your maid, send her for some hot milk or chocolate to soothe you.’

  ‘It would take more than chocolate to soothe me after that kiss,’ she said wryly. ‘And why should the poor woman lose her own sleep because I am restless?’ She watched him pull on his shirt and tuck it into his evening breeches, deliberately heaping coals on the smouldering fires he had kindled. The feel of that smoothly muscled back, the memory of the trail of dark hair from his chest down past his navel, the easy breadth of his shoulders—those were going to haunt her dreams for nights to come.

  ‘Goodnight, Phyllida.’ He caught up his neckcloth from the back of a chair and draped it around his neck. ‘Dream of rare porcelain and precious gems. Sleep well.’

  Phyllida slept and, if she dreamed, did not recall it when she woke, wincing, to the clatter of curtain rings.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Phyllida.’ Anna sounded indecently bright and cheerful. ‘Rise and shine! We’re away after breakfast and his lordship has ordered it for eight o’clock.’ She came to the bedside and looked down, her smile fading. ‘Are you well, Miss Phyllida? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘I feel it.’ Phyllida struggled up against the pillows and took stock of herself. ‘I have a horrible suspicion that I’m going to be sick, Anna.’

  The maid whisked the basin off the washstand and dumped it on her knees. ‘It’s that whiting from last night. We had the leftovers for dinner in the servants’ hall and William the footman swore it was off.’

  ‘It tasted all right. Oh!’ Phyllida doubled up over the basin with a groan. When the worst was over she lay back, a wet cloth in her hand, and thought back. ‘I do hope Lady Charlotte didn’t eat any. At her age sickness could be dangerous.’

&nbs
p; ‘Most of it came back down to the kitchen,’ Anna said, frowning in recollection. ‘That’s why there was enough for the staff. But no one fancied it much because the stew was so good. William didn’t finish his and Cook got the hump because of him saying it wasn’t right, so she took it off the table. I’ll go and get you some hot water and I’ll let his lordship know you can’t be travelling today.’

  ‘No!’ She had to get home, safely away from Ashe and all the temptation he offered. ‘Lord Clere has to return and I cannot expect Lady Charlotte to spend any more time away from her own home. I’ll be fine now. Just bring me my breakfast up here. Some toast, perhaps.’

  Phyllida managed to keep down a slice of dry toast and a cup of weak tea, wash and get dressed, although her stomach was cramping and she felt ridiculously weak. Lady Charlotte was in perfect health and unbent as far as to offer her cheek to be kissed before she was helped into her travelling coach for the short ride home.

  ‘In we get.’ Phyllida urged Anna towards the chaise the moment the postilions brought it round. She had no intention of standing in the bright sunlight for Ashe to observe her pale, green-tinged complexion. He would probably put it down to a broken night spent fretting over him and simple vanity stopped her admitting to something as prosaic as an upset stomach.

  By the time he had waved his great-aunt off and come to the chaise, she was sitting well back in a shadowed corner.

  ‘What an admirably prompt woman you are,’ Ashe said. ‘The day looks set to stay fair and we’ll be back to London in good time.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Her cheerful response must have convinced him all was well for he closed the door, mounted his horse and they set off down the drive.

  After ten minutes Phyllida was recalling all too vividly why post chaises were nicknamed Yellow Bounders. This one seemed to have extra-firm springs to make sure that every pothole, rut and stone contributed to the eccentric motion of the vehicle.

  She doggedly chewed on the spearmint leaves that Anna had found in the kitchen garden and focused on Ashe’s tall figure. But after a while the even cadences of the cantering horse on what must be a smooth verge only emphasised the swaying and jolting of the chaise. ‘I’ve never felt sick in one of these before,’ Phyllida lamented.

  ‘Well, you hadn’t eaten stale fish before, had you, Miss Phyllida?’ Anna pointed out. ‘We’ll be stopping to change the horses in an hour.’

  An hour! Phyllida bit down grimly on another mint leaf and tried to think of anything but her stomach and her swimming head. The only possible benefit of feeling so queasy, she had decided by the time the chaise reached King’s Langley, was that it was a most effective antidote to amorous thoughts of Ashe.

  ‘We’re stopping, Miss Phyllida.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that, because I do not think my breakfast is going to stay down any longer.’ Phyllida clamped a handkerchief over her mouth. As the chaise clattered to a halt in the inn yard she opened the door and stumbled down, clutching the high wheel for support.

  ‘What is wrong?’ She had not even seen Ashe, but he was there at her side, his hands supporting her.

  ‘Bad fish,’ Anna said. ‘She’s going to be sick any moment, my lord.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Ashe bent and scooped her up in his arms, strode into the inn and snapped, ‘A room, hot water, a basin.’

  ‘Please… I can manage…’ She glanced around as best she could over the lace of her handkerchief. This was a large, smart inn, obviously one catering to the carriage trade, not some shabby little place where she could be ill in dingy privacy.

  ‘In here, sir. Oh poor dear. Increasing, is she?’ A woman’s voice… a stranger. She was settled in a chair, hands—Ashe’s—pressed a bowl onto her lap. Somehow her bonnet had gone and so had her pelisse.

  Phyllida retched miserably, someone held her shoulders, a damp cloth smelling of lavender was put into her hand as the bowl was removed. She leaned into the supporting arm and smelled sandalwood beneath the lavender.

  ‘Here’s a little peppermint cordial. That’ll settle you nicely, my lady.’

  Hazily Phyllida realised that Ashe must have made his title known to secure prompt service and the woman attending her though she was his wife. And pregnant.

  She sipped the cordial and swayed as the room lurched around her. This was ridiculous. She would not faint, she was made of sterner stuff than that.

  ‘She is going to faint.’ Ashe’s voice came from a long way away. ‘I had better put her on the bed.’

  If she did lose consciousness it could only have been for a moment. Phyllida found herself propped up against pillows and lying on a vast patchwork quilt. ‘I am sorry,’ she managed.

  ‘Don’t you worry, my lady,’ the other woman’s comforting voice said from the doorway. ‘I’ll just pop down and get you a hot brick.’

  ‘Where’s Anna?’ Phyllida asked, scrabbling ineffectually at her bodice. Her stays were like a vice, stopping her breathing.

  ‘She’s gone to find an apothecary for what she swears is an infallible potion to stop the nausea. What is the matter? Stays?’ Ashe enquired. ‘I can’t say I’ve much experience with the things, Indian women have more sense than to wear them, but let’s see what I can do.’

  With a gasp Phyllida found herself tipped forwards against Ashe’s broad shoulder while his fingers dealt efficiently with the buttons at the back of her gown and then the laces of her corset. ‘Oh! Ashe, really you cannot—’

  ‘I can,’ he said. ‘Thought I might have to cut them, but it was a nice easy bow. Now then, how are we going to do this?’ He slid her dress off one shoulder, still holding her up from the pillows. ‘Then this one…’ The corset came away and she took a deep breath. ‘There, is that better?’

  ‘Lord Clere and his wife, you say? And the poor lady is sick? I must see what aid I can give. In here where the door is open?’ A penetrating female voice, a rustle of skirts and Phyllida opened her eyes to see Lady Castlebridge, an earl’s wife with the longest tongue in society, standing just inside the door, her expression avid with curiosity. ‘Miss Hurst!’

  Phyllida laid her forehead on Ashe’s shoulder with a faint moan and the impossible hope that she could conceal just how much of her bosom and arms were laid bare. This was utter disaster and she could not think of a thing to do to rescue the situation unless the earth opened and swallowed her up.

  ‘Madam?’ Ashe laid her unresisting against the pillows and flipped the counterpane over her. ‘I do not believe we have been introduced or you would know I am not married.’

  ‘Well, everyone knows who you are, Lord Clere!’ The delight of discovering a scandal right in front of her nose was all too apparent. ‘And we had heard nothing of a wife, which is why it is such a surprise to find Miss Hurst with you and enceinte, poor dear.’ The skirts rustled in to the room and the door clicked shut. ‘I am Lady Castlebridge. Naturally, you may rely on my total discretion.’

  ‘Far from being in an interesting condition, Miss Hurst is suffering from food poisoning and was taken ill on the road. We are the merest acquaintances, but naturally I could not leave the lady in distress when she fainted at my feet.’ Ashe sounded aloof and faintly puzzled, as though he could not quite believe the intrusion. ‘You are a close family friend, it seems. Perhaps you could hold the bowl for Miss Hurst when she vomits again while I go and find out what has happened to her maid?’

  Despite everything Phyllida felt a faint flicker of amusement at the sounds of her ladyship’s hasty retreat.

  ‘Not that good a friend. I am certain Miss Hurst will want her maid to attend her. Er… perhaps I could find her.’

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’ Blessedly, Anna’s voice, so polite it verged on insolence. ‘Thank you, my lord, I can manage now.’

  The door closed. After a moment Anna said, ‘They’ve both gone, Miss Phyllida. He looked fit to strangle the nosy old besom, his lordship did. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Dreadful.’ She sat up and opened her eyes. Her stay
s were draped over the footboard of the bed, presumably where Ashe had tossed them. Her gown was round her waist and only her chemise gave any vestige of decency.

  ‘Who took your stays off?’

  ‘His lordship.’

  ‘Oh, lumme.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And old sharpnose saw? Here, drink this, Miss Phyllida. I ran down the street to the apothecary.’

  ‘She not only saw me on the bed, in Lord Clere’s arms in my shift, she also heard the landlady’s opinion that I am suffering from morning sickness.’ Phyllida sipped the hot brew and felt it settle soothingly in her abused stomach. ‘I rather think I am ruined, Anna.’

  ‘Surely not? You’ll be out and about in town tomorrow quite obviously not with child,’ the maid protested.

  ‘That is not the point. I am supposed to be staying with friends in Essex. How am I going to account for being in bed in a Hertfordshire inn on such terms with Lord Clere that he removes my underwear in a crisis? I will wager fifty guineas she has already discovered that we arrived together, even if he was not in the chaise.’ She threw back the cover and got up. ‘The smoke is all it takes, Anna. There doesn’t have to be any fire, not when one’s position is as ambivalent as mine is.’

  This is a complete disaster, she thought as Anna did up her gown, bundled the corset under her own cloak and found Phyllida’s bonnet and pelisse. Then another thought hit her: Gregory. ‘Oh, my Lord.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘What is Mr Millington going to say when he hears? He’ll never allow Harriet to marry my brother after this. We must get back to London as soon as possible. I must speak to Gregory, find some way of persuading Mr Millington that this will not come to reflect on his daughter.’

  ‘Miss Phyllida!’ Anna followed her down the stairs. ‘You need to rest.’

  ‘I can rest in the post chaise.’ She gathered all her strength and swept into the hallway, praying that her shaky legs would continue to hold her up. ‘Good morning, Lord Clere.’ She stopped and bobbed a curtsy. ‘Thank you for your assistance, but as you see, I am able to resume my journey. Lady Castlebridge! It is quite all right, there is no need to stand back in the shadows, I am not suffering from anything contagious, merely the effects of some bad fish last night. I will see you at the Fosters’ musicale, I am sure.’