Scandal's Virgin Page 4

  ‘You always say you despise gossip,’ Mab muttered.

  ‘And so I do, but I will use it if I have to. I’d wager a fair number of guineas that all these ladies know just about everything there is to know about what goes on at the Manor. All I have to do is give them the opportunity to tell me.’

  *

  One of the disadvantages of her disguise was not having a footman in attendance, or a carriage to arrive in, Laura reflected as she rapped the knocker on the rectory door the following afternoon.

  ‘Madam?’ The footman who opened the door to her was certainly not a top-lofty London butler, which was a relief. She could hardly assume the airs of an earl’s daughter if he snubbed her.

  Laura handed him her card. ‘Is Mrs Trimmett at home?’

  He scarcely glanced at the name. It was certainly more casual in the country. ‘Certainly, Mrs Jordan. Please enter, ma’am.’ He relieved her of her parasol and flung open a door. ‘Mrs Jordan, ma’am.’

  There were two ladies seated either side of a tea tray. One, grey-haired and plump, surged to her feet. ‘Mrs Jordan! Good day, ma’am. How good of you to call, please, allow me to introduce Mrs Gordon.’ She had all the rather forceful assurance of a lady who knew her position in the community was established and who spent her life organising committees, social gatherings, charity events and the lives of anyone who allowed her to.

  Laura and Mrs Gordon—a faded blonde of indeterminate years—exchanged bows and Laura sat down. Two birds with one stone, she thought with an inward smile. ‘I am so sorry I was out yesterday when you were both kind enough to leave your cards. As a stranger to the village it is most welcome to make new acquaintances.’

  Over cups of tea Laura endured a polite inquisition and obligingly shared details of her fictitious bereavement, her depressed state of health and her need to have a change of air and scene before facing the world again. The two ladies tutted with sympathy, assured her earnestly that Westerwood Magna was a delightful, healthful spot where she would soon recover both health and spirits, and delicately probed her background and family.

  Laura shared some of her invented history and nibbled a somewhat dry biscuit.

  ‘You will find everyone most amiable and welcoming here,’ Mrs Gordon said. She was, Mab had reported, the wife of a city lawyer who had retired to a small country estate and spent his time fishing and breeding gun dogs.

  ‘I do hope so,’ Laura murmured, seizing her opportunity. ‘I fear I may have inadvertently inconvenienced the lord of the manor yesterday.’

  ‘Lord Wykeham?’ Both ladies were instantly on the alert.

  ‘Yes, I became lost crossing his park and strayed off the footpath. The earl came across me and I was startled and turned my ankle. In the event he was kind enough to offer me refreshment and send me home in a carriage.’ It was impossible to keep that sort of thing secret in a small village and she saw from the avid look in their eyes that they had already heard that she had been seen in a vehicle from the Manor.

  ‘Well! How embarrassing for you,’ Mrs Trimmett remarked with ill-concealed relish as she leaned forward in an encouraging manner.

  ‘It was a trifle awkward, but he acquitted me of trespass. Oh, you mean the refreshments? Just a cup of tea on the lawn with one of the female staff in attendance. I would not have gone inside, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ they chorused, obviously dying to do just that themselves.

  ‘Do tell us,’ Mrs Gordon urged, ‘what is the earl like? My husband has left his card, of course, and they have met, but he has not yet called.’

  ‘He was perfectly punctilious and civil, but I found him arrogant, you know. Perhaps it is just those devilish flyaway eyebrows—’

  The two ladies opposite her went very still, their eager expressions frozen into identical stilted smiles. Too late Laura felt the draught from the opening door on the nape of her neck.

  ‘The Earl of Wykeham,’ the footman announced.

  Chapter Four

  It seemed impossible the earl had not heard, which left two alternatives, once Laura had stifled the immediate instinct to flee the room. She could apologise and probably dig herself even deeper into the hole or pretend the words had never been uttered.

  ‘My…my lord.’ Even Mrs Trimmett’s self-assurance seemed shaken. ‘How good of you to call. May I make Mrs Gordon known to you?’ The matron managed to utter a conventional greeting. ‘And Mrs Jordan I believe you know,’ she added as the earl moved into the room.

  ‘Mrs Gordon. And, Mrs Jordan, we meet again. Are you quite recovered from your fall yesterday?’ His voice was silk-smooth, so bland that Laura was suddenly doubtful whether he had heard her faux pas after all. Willing away what she was certain must be hectic colour in her cheeks, she sipped the cooling tea. Thank Heavens he has been seated to one side of me!

  ‘I have no pain at all now, thank you, Lord Wykeham.’ Laura shot a glance at the clock, mercifully in the opposite direction to the earl. She had been there twenty minutes which meant, by the rules governing morning calls, Mrs Gordon should be departing soon, her own half-hour having passed. ‘I was just telling the ladies that I trespassed in your delightful park yesterday.’ She smiled and shook her head at Mrs Trimmett’s gesture towards the tea pot. She would finish this cup and then could most properly make her escape. Mrs Gordon was obviously determined to hang on now this intriguing visitor had arrived, never mind the etiquette of the situation.

  ‘No trespass at all and my daughter, Alice, was delighted to meet you.’

  Both the older women stiffened and the polite smiles became thin-lipped. He has done that on purpose, Laura thought. It wasn’t thoughtless—he wants to see how they react. Then the realisation hit her. That is my daughter they are pokering up with disapproval over.

  ‘Miss Alice is a delightful child,’ she said. ‘Such charming manners and so pretty and bright. A credit to you, my lord. I do hope she soon makes some little friends in the area. Do you have grandchildren, Mrs Trimmett?’

  The vicar’s wife looked as though she had been poked with a pin. ‘Er…no, they are all in Dorset. Such a pity.’

  ‘Mine will be coming to stay next week,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘My two dear granddaughters, aged six and eight. Perhaps Miss Alice would like to come to tea?’ Her expression was such a mixture of smugness and alarm that Laura almost laughed. She could read the older woman’s mind—an earl’s daughter…but illegitimate. The chance of an entrée to the Big House…but the risk that her neighbours might disapprove.

  Laura told herself that she had defended Alice and perhaps made some amends for her tactless remark about Lord Wykeham, which, whatever she thought about him, had been inexcusable.

  ‘I am happy to accept on Alice’s behalf,’ he said.

  Laura risked a sideways glance and encountered a pleasant, totally bland smile with just the faintest hint of mischief about it. Or was she imagining that? ‘Well, this has been delightful, thank you, Mrs Trimmett. I am hoping to find Mrs Philpott at home,’ she added as she got to her feet. Lord Wykeham stood, looming far too close for comfort in the feminine little parlour.

  ‘I called on her about an hour ago,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘So you will certainly find her at Laurel Lodge. Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Jordan.’

  With a further exchange of civilities, and a slight bow to the earl who was holding the door for her, Laura left, hoping it did not appear such a flight as it felt.

  A smart curricle with a groom in the seat stood outside the vicarage. The earl’s, she assumed, sparing the pair of matched bays an envious glance as she passed. The groom touched his hat to her as she set off around the green that led past a group of cottages and towards the turning that Mab had told her led to Laurel Lodge.

  Laura dawdled, hoping that fresh air and time would do something to restore her inner composure. She touched the inside of her wrist above the cuff of her glove to her cheek and was relieved to find it cool and not, as she had feared, flaming with embarrassment.
What had possessed her? Probably, she concluded, a desire to hear Wykeham abused by the other women, to hear some scandalous gossip about him to confirm her in her dislike of him. And now all she had done was to ensure he would not dream of inviting her to the Manor again. She had quite effectively cut herself off from her daughter.

  *

  ‘Very rustic this, my lord,’ Gregg observed, his arms folded firmly across his chest; his face, Avery knew without having to glance sideways, set in a slight sneer.

  ‘That is one of the characteristics of the countryside, yes,’ he agreed.

  ‘Hardly what we’re used to, my lord.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ And singularly lacking in theatres, taverns, pleasure gardens and other sources of entertainment for a good-looking, middle-aged groom with an eye for a pretty girl and a liking for a lively time, he supposed. ‘We’ll be off to London in a week or two,’ he offered his brooding henchman. Tom Gregg had been with him for over ten years and enjoyed a freedom not permitted to any of his other staff.

  Gregg gave a grunt of satisfaction and Avery went back to pondering the mystery that was Mrs Jordan. Just what did she find so objectionable about him? Other than his eyebrows, which could hardly be provocation enough to make a well-bred lady express a dislike to two near strangers. Her manner to him had been impeccable, if cool, and yet he was constantly aware of a watchfulness about her and, ridiculous as it might sound, a hostility. Perhaps she was like that with all men. It could be, he supposed, that her marriage had been an unhappy one, but his instincts told him it was more personal than that.

  Which was a pity, as well as a mystery. Mrs Jordan was an attractive woman and Alice liked her. And, he supposed, with a wry smile at his own vanity, he was not used to ladies taking against him.

  ‘You turn right here, my lord.’ Gregg gestured towards a lane leading off the green.

  So now he had a choice. He could allow himself to be routed by a sharp-tongued widow in drab weeds or he could endure her dislike for half an hour at Mrs Philpott’s house. No, damn it, he thought, guiding the pair into the lane, Mrs Philpott had young relatives, so he had been told, and he was not going to deprive Alice of some possible playmates because of Mrs Jordan’s prejudices.

  And there she was, strolling along the lane in front of him as though she did not have a care in the world. No maid with her again, he noticed, and certainly no footman. But this was broad daylight in a placid little village, so perhaps there was no conclusion to be drawn from that about her resources, her respectability or her background.

  His horses were walking, the ground was soft and it seemed she had not heard him. Avery allowed the pair to draw alongside her without speaking and noticed the start she gave when one of them snorted. She was so composed in voice and expression and yet her body seemed to betray her feelings as though she had no command over her nerves. He recalled the flush of pink at the nape of her neck when she realised he was in the room and must have heard her cutting words. He had wanted to touch that warm skin, he had wondered how far the blush had spread…

  ‘Mrs Jordan. Good afternoon once more. May I take you up as far as Mrs Philpott’s house?’

  Her eyes flickered to Gregg’s sturdy figure. ‘Thank you, Lord Wykeham, but I am enjoying the exercise.’ She turned and walked on.

  So, she did not want to talk in front of his groom. Fair enough. ‘Gregg, take the reins,’ he said. ‘Be outside Laurel Lodge in half an hour.’ This needed settling.

  She did not glance at it as the curricle passed her, but he made no attempt to keep his long stride silent, so her lack of surprise when he reached her side was only to be expected. This time she was completely in control of her reactions. ‘My lord? I hardly feel I require an escort for a few hundred yards up a country lane.’

  ‘But I require a conversation.’

  ‘And an apology, no doubt. Please accept my regrets for my discourteous words at the vicarage, my lord.’

  ‘I wish you would stop calling me my lord.’ It was not what he had meant to say and her startled glance showed he had surprised her as much as himself.

  ‘And what should I call you?’

  ‘My name is Avery, Caroline.’

  ‘And are we on such terms that we call each other by our Christian names? I believe I would recall it if we were childhood friends or cousins.’

  ‘I would be friends. I am unclear what I have done to make you dislike me. If I have offended you in some way, I would like to repair that.’

  ‘How could you have offended me?’ she asked without looking at him. ‘We have only just met. And why should you wish me as a friend?’

  ‘Alice likes you. More feminine influence in her life is desirable, I think.’

  She caught her breath and something in the whisper of sound seemed to touch him at the base of the spine. So that’s what this is… I desire this prickly, difficult, wan-faced widow. Avery stopped and, as though he had put out a hand to restrain her, she did, too. ‘Look at me.’

  Caroline half-turned to face him and studied his face, her own expression grave. As she had in the park, she seemed to look with an intensity that probed not just his appearance, but his thoughts and his character. Every muscle under the fine skin of her face seemed taut, there was wariness, almost fear in the dark eyes, and now something else. Something he would wager she did not want to feel at all.

  ‘Whatever else there is between us,’ Avery murmured, thinking out loud, ‘there is physical attraction.’

  ‘You flatter yourself!’ She looked as outraged as he might have expected and also utterly taken aback.

  ‘No, there is nothing to be vain about in an instinctive reaction. But I am right, am I not?’ He had dragged off his right glove as they spoke and now he touched his fingers to her cheek. Warm, soft skin. The muscles flinched a little beneath his touch, but she did not step back, or brush his hand away or slap him. ‘Has someone hurt you, Caroline?’

  He read the answer in her eyes, an almost bottomless lack of trust, but her reply showed no weakness. ‘Again, you flatter yourself to believe that my unwillingness to flirt with you is due to some flaw in my own experience.’

  ‘I do not seek to flirt.’ And he did not, he realised. Such superficiality would only make the itch to touch her far, far worse. ‘I only want your company for my daughter and to understand what it is that sparks between us and yet seems to cause you so much pain.’

  Her lids fell, covering the darkness of her eyes. When she opened them she seemed to have come to a decision. ‘I have no reason to trust men, least of all strong, authoritative men who seek to order the lives of others. But it is a long time since… I cannot help it if there is some awareness in me of a virile man. I do not wish to discuss this.’

  Or act upon it, that was very clear. What manner of man had her husband been? A tyrant? A domineering bully? And yet a man who had awakened her sensually. The two things were not mutually exclusive, he told himself.

  ‘I do not seek to take advantage of you, merely, as I said, to understand.’

  ‘And understanding people is your stock in trade, is it not?’ Caroline Jordan began to walk slowly towards their destination. His uncharacteristically impulsive words had not, it seemed, deepened her distrust of him.

  ‘It is. I study their motives, their strengths and weaknesses. The points on which they will yield and the points upon which they will stand fast until death.’

  ‘I will visit Alice, if you wish,’ she said, almost as though her words followed on from what he had just said. The charged intimacy still surrounded them like a mist and yet she seemed capable of ignoring it. ‘Does she have a governess?’

  ‘No, but I intend to employ one for her very soon. She is naturally very bright, I think. However, I do not want to stifle her enthusiasm and energy through rigorous teaching.’

  ‘You must choose carefully.’ She seemed calmer now, more at ease with him. Avery pulled on his glove and fell into step beside her. ‘A young woman, one with a natural manne
r and energy herself would be best. Alice is just like I—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Like I recall my best friend Imogen was at about that age. An older, more formal woman would stifle her character.’

  It was not what she had meant to say, he suspected. ‘Caroline,’ Avery said and she did not react. ‘Caroline?’

  ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, I was woolgathering. You should not call me by my given name, you know.’

  Woolgathering? In the middle of a conversation that started with a discussion of sexual attraction and moved on to a subject she professes an interest in? It was almost as though she did not recognise her own name…

  ‘I was considering the question of governesses,’ Caroline said. ‘I know women are supposed to be able to think of seven different things at once, but I fear I cannot.’

  It was the closest she had come to making a joke in his presence. Avery reproved himself for his suspicions. That was what came of spending too much time in the company of professional dissemblers, outright spies and manipulative women.

  He heard Caroline take a deep breath as though either shedding a burden or taking one up. ‘That must be Laurel Lodge, Avery. Do you think it would be discreet to arrive separately?’ Then she answered her own question even as he was masking his surprise at her use of his name. ‘Foolish to pretend, for they will all get together and gossip about us anyway.’ As he opened the gate for her she slanted a look at him. ‘And foolish to allow them to think there is anything to hide.’

  ‘You are quite correct.’ Avery knocked, wondering at the composure Caroline layered over the vulnerability that lay like a brittle layer of ice beneath the poise. Yes, there is nothing to hide except an awareness of each other at a very basic level that is, perhaps, nothing to be surprised about.

  *

  Laura caught Avery’s eye across the tea table and suppressed a smile. Their arrival together could not have provided Mrs Philpott, her daughters, two female callers and a youth making a cake of himself over Miss Maria Philpott, with more delicious grounds for speculation if they had planned it. The village was small, the pool of genteel company a mere puddle, a mysterious widow and an internationally well-known diplomat and earl would create a gossip broth that might last for months.