Ravish Me with Rubies Read online

  “Who’s that? The woman with Guy? Does anyone know?”

  “That, dear Petra, is the Viscomtesse Clothilde Delmont,” Edward informed her in a low voice. “Something of a mystery woman, but it’s rumored that there’s no mystery between herself and Granville. They’re very well acquainted with each other’s secrets.”

  “She’s his mistress, you mean?” Petra asked, forcing herself to look away before anyone noticed her interest.

  “So it’s believed.”

  “She certainly stands out in a crowd,” Diana observed. She frowned. “Something to be considered in our strategizing.”

  “What strategizing?” Rupert asked suspiciously. “What are you three cooking up now?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” his wife responded with a bland smile. “Nothing to concern you anyway, my love.”

  “If that’s supposed to reassure me, it most certainly does not,” Rupert declared, putting an arm around her shoulders and easing her toward the entrance. “It’s time we went home. Say good night now.”

  Diana grinned. “Such a masterful man . . . Good night, all. I’ll see you tomorrow at Petra’s, Fenella.”

  “I’ll expect you both around eleven.” Petra blew her a farewell kiss, following with her brother, Fenella and Edward out into still thronged Piccadilly.

  “We’ll walk home,” Fenella said, kissing her friend. “Shepherd Street is only around the corner.”

  Petra waved them goodbye as they disappeared into the crowd. “Let’s walk home too, Joth. It’s such a gorgeous night and I don’t feel in the least tired. If my shoes bother me, I’ll take them off and carry them.”

  Her brother hesitated a little awkwardly, “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind taking a cab home without me. A group of us had planned to meet at the Reform later this evening. Asquith is going to be there.”

  “Then of course you must go,” Petra said immediately. “You’ll talk politics with the chancellor all night, and I wouldn’t dream of standing in your way. I’ll walk a little bit along Piccadilly and hail a cab the rest of the way home. Go on,” she urged, seeing his hesitation. “I’ll be perfectly fine. It’s quite safe with all these people around.”

  Jonathan looked around, in two minds. There was no real reason for his sister not to take an unaccompanied stroll on a major thoroughfare on a summer night, but it seemed unchivalrous to abandon her. However, there was no knowing how long Asquith, the chancellor of the exchequer, would be at the Reform Club that night, and Jonathan was an ambitious young man. A rising Liberal politician had to ensure that the great and the good of his party took notice of him.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Of course I am.” She gave him a little shove. “Go.”

  He smiled ruefully as he kissed her. “All right, but I feel horribly guilty.”

  “That’ll pass as soon as you’re in the fray,” Petra retorted. She waved him away and set off along Piccadilly towards Berkeley Street. She’d decide when she got to the corner whether to hail a cab or carry on walking toward Berkeley Square and on to Brook Street.

  She was glad that her brother had left her to make her own way home. The solitary walk might help to clear her head and ease the strange restlessness that her renewed encounter with Guy Granville had caused. It had never occurred to her that seeing him again after that long-ago debacle would make her feel anything other than a chilly indifference at best and a deep loathing at worst. Instead, she felt disturbed and out of sorts. And for some reason she couldn’t lose the image of him greeting the elegant Frenchwoman. There had been something about his seemingly casual kiss of greeting that, even across the room, shouted of intimacy, a secret, passionate intimacy.

  They were lovers, so what? It was nothing to do with her. But somehow Petra couldn’t manage to convince herself of that. In the ten years since she’d talked to him, Guy had probably had dozens of lovers. His reputation as a philanderer was well known. She hadn’t thought twice about it when she could only expect to catch the occasional glimpse of him moving within his own social circles, quite separate from her own. But he’d stepped back into her life and his manner toward her was far from that of a casual old acquaintance, even if it wasn’t obvious to anyone else. She could still feel the warmth of his hand against her palm, still feel his deep brown eyes fixed upon her face expressing something other than mild interest.

  She had reached the corner with Berkeley Street without noticing the distance she’d walked, but now her feet in the high-heeled shoes were hurting. She wasn’t tired, apart from her feet, home was less than half a mile away and the evening was still pleasant. There were fewer pedestrians around now that she’d left the busyness of Piccadilly behind but the streetlamps were lit along Berkeley Street and around the square at the end, and the houses lining the street threw reassuring arcs of golden light onto the pavement.

  Impulsively she took off her shoes and set off up the street, carrying them. The pavement felt pleasantly cool beneath her feet and she strode out toward the square enjoying the sense of freedom. A hackney overtook her as she neared the railings of the square garden and pulled up to the curb a few houses along. Its passenger stepped down, reaching up to pay the driver.

  Even if she hadn’t been thinking of him a few minutes earlier, Petra would have recognized Guy immediately. He stood under the gas lamp shining over the double front doors of a handsome double-fronted mansion. Petra hesitated, waiting for him to go into the house, but he remained on the pavement, tapping his cane against his leg as he looked down the street toward her.

  Her heart seemed to speed up. He was obviously waiting for her to reach him. For a second she toyed with the idea of turning back, going around the opposite side of the square to avoid passing him, and immediately realized how stupid that would be. She had absolutely no reason to avoid him. She wasn’t trespassing, she was as much entitled to be on the square as anyone, not that there was anyone else around, as far as a quick glance revealed.

  She squared her shoulders and walked a little faster toward him. “Good evening again,” she called cheerfully, when she was a few feet from him. “You didn’t stay long with your friends at the bar.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Why are you walking alone?”

  “Because I wish to. It’s a beautiful night,” she returned, hackles rising at the rather peremptory tone.

  “I won’t argue with that. Where’s your brother?”

  “Going about his own business,” she responded, an edge to her voice.

  “He allowed you to walk home alone?”

  “I don’t need my brother’s permission to do anything.” Petra made no attempt now to conceal her irritation. Whatever nervousness she’d felt earlier had dissipated under this cross-examination. “Good evening, Lord Ashton.” She made to walk past him but he put a hand on her arm.

  “If you were my sister I would not leave you to walk the city streets alone at this time of night.”

  “Then it’s fortunate for both of us that I’m not.” She shook off his hand and started to walk away.

  “Indubitably,” he returned with a dry smile. Then he frowned, taking in her appearance properly for the first time. “Just a minute, Petra. Are you intending to walk all the way to Brook Street in your stockinged feet?” He stepped up beside her as she continued on her way, trying very hard not to hobble.

  “Yes, why not?”

  “I’d have thought that was obvious,” he answered. “You might step in something nasty or sharp. There are loose stones all over the place.”

  Why did he have to sound so reasonable, so rational? Why couldn’t he have said something infuriating about it being inappropriate or irresponsible, or just wrong for a woman of her position to walk barefoot through the streets of London? All of which would have been perfectly true, but she would have felt entitled to object to such objections. Instead Petra said nothing, merely increased her speed, hoping for a nonchalant stride, her shoes dangling carelessly from her hands, trying to ignore him as
he continued to keep pace with her.

  But there was too much of him to ignore, even when he wasn’t saying anything. “I really don’t need an escort, Guy. I’m sure you must have better things to do.”

  “As it happens I don’t find that I do,” he said. “Your stockings are shredded.”

  As if she wasn’t aware of that fact, or for the sharply unfriendly ground beneath her bare feet, Petra thought, seething silently. She caught her foot in a tree root pushing up through the cracks of the paving stones and momentarily off-balance grabbed the iron railings in front of the house she was passing to steady herself, but not before Guy had caught her around the waist, pulling her against him, bringing them both to a stop.

  “Dear girl, why won’t you accept that this is ridiculous and let me hail a cab?”

  A lamentable stubborn streak had bedeviled Petra since the nursery. Every reasonable bone in her body said she should yield and be grateful, but she couldn’t bring herself to give in. She pushed away his supporting arm and walked on, once more trying not to limp.

  Guy watched her for a moment. She had always been a spirited creature, even as a girl. Her size didn’t diminish that spirit in the least. And her girlhood promise had certainly been fulfilled, he reflected with a half smile, watching her striding along in her stockinged feet. Her chestnut hair gleamed, richly burnished under the streetlights, and those hazel eyes snapped as fiercely now as they had done all those years ago when something had annoyed her. At the moment, it seemed, he was the cause of her annoyance, but she really couldn’t walk alone carrying her shoes through the nighttime streets of Mayfair.

  He followed just behind her as Petra reached the corner of the square, preparing to limp across Mount Street, picking her way over the dirty paving. A hackney came up behind Guy and he flagged it down.

  “Wait just a minute,” he said to the driver, then strode quickly to where Petra was about to step into the crossing. He caught her arm. “Don’t argue, Petra. If you’re not careful you’ll walk straight through that pile of horse dung in the middle of the road. Brook Street is two streets away and you really can’t walk it without shoes.” Still holding her arm he turned to the hackney that eased forward to draw up beside them. He opened the door. “Get in, please.”

  It was the only rational, sensible thing to do, Petra knew. Her bare feet were not standing up well to the grit and grime of London pavements. But every ounce of her wanted to resist his assumption of control. It reminded her too vividly of the past when she had somehow accepted his direction because, foolish child that she’d been, she’d believed his dictates were evidence of his caring. He was older, wiser, more experienced than herself, still a schoolgirl, and his every word carried the weight of that superiority.

  She’d grown out of that illusion quickly enough, Petra thought grimly, but she was no longer foolish. She stepped up into the hackney without acknowledging Guy’s assistance. He stepped inside behind her, pulling the door closed.

  “It’s not necessary to see me to my door,” she protested. “I can take myself home.”

  “Maybe so,” he agreed, leaning back against the cracked leather squabs, watching her from beneath half-closed eyelids. “But I like to finish what I started, and I’m not lacking in chivalry.”

  “Oh, really?” Petra demanded. “Since when did you acquire that quality?”

  Guy sat upright, his eyes opening fully. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, I think you heard me.” Petra was regretting her remark, but she couldn’t see how to back away from it. “Ten years ago, chivalry was not your forte, as I recall.”

  His frown deepened as he cast a quick glance through the cab window. He banged on the roof of the cab with the knob of his cane and it drew to a halt outside the Rutherfords’ house on Brook Street. “We’ll talk about this in a minute,” he promised, swinging open the cab door and jumping to the ground. He paid the driver while Petra stepped gingerly down to the pavement, still clutching her shoes. A helping hand to alight would have been appreciated, she thought. Much more so than the other unwanted helping hands he’d offered in the last half hour.

  She walked up the short flight of steps to the front door, tucking a shoe under her arm as she fumbled to open the drawstring of the silk pouch that held her keys. Guy came up behind her, twitched the bag out of her grasp, deftly loosened the neck and took out the keys. He held the bunch up to the lamp above the door, selected one and maneuvered it into the lock. The door swung open onto the deserted hall. Without a word he extricated the key from the lock, dropped the set into her bag and handed it back to her.

  The whole business had happened so fast and so smoothly that Petra hadn’t had time to react. She was still searching for coherence as he urged her into the square hall with a hand at her waist and closed the door behind them. She took a breath and managed to say, “I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but I’m going to bed.”

  “Not until you’ve explained what you meant,” he stated, his voice clipped. “We can stand here in the hall while you explain yourself, if you wish, but explain yourself you will.”

  Chapter Four

  Petra gathered her thoughts in the suddenly menacing silence. The household had all gone to bed. She and her brother were much less demanding than the elder Rutherfords and never kept the staff waiting up for them at night, which meant she had no diversion to hand. If Foster, the butler, had still been up and about she could easily have fobbed off her unwelcome visitor. As it was, she could see no way out of this uncomfortable conversation.

  She hadn’t meant to let her tongue run away with her, but it had and she’d accused Guy of behaving badly. He was entitled to an explanation, although she couldn’t understand how he didn’t seem to know what pain he’d caused her. But perhaps he’d forgotten all about her. Out of sight out of mind. She must have meant so little to him it hadn’t occurred to him that she had feelings of her own. The bitter reflection restored her confidence. She was entirely justified in wishing Guy Granville, Lord Ashton, to Hades.

  “There’s no need to stand here, and the marble’s cold on my feet. Come into the library.” She turned and led the way to the library at the back of the house.

  Foster had left two sconced gas lamps turned down low on either side of the mantel, and a copper jug of sunflowers stood in the empty hearth. Charged decanters were arrayed on the sideboard, cut glass tumblers beside them, together with a cheese board under a glass dome and a biscuit barrel in case the younger members of the family or their guests had need of late-night sustenance.

  She dropped her shoes on the floor and walked across the thick Aubusson carpet, her sore feet sinking gratefully into the deep pile. “Cognac? Or whisky?” She laid a hand on the decanters on the sideboard, turning to face him with a bland smile of invitation.

  He tossed his hat and cane onto a pier table. “Cognac, please.”

  Petra poured two goblets and handed him one before curling into the corner of a deeply cushioned sofa, drawing her feet up. She examined their filthy soles, looking for scrapes or cuts. “Good, it just seems to be dirt,” she remarked, abandoning her examination and taking a sip from her goblet.

  “How very fortunate,” Guy said dryly, standing with his back to the sunflowers, cradling his goblet between his hands. “I accept that that’s not a very chivalrous response, but in the circumstances it’s difficult to think of something more suitable. What an insane thing to do.”

  “It struck me as eminently sane,” she retorted. “It was a solution to a problem.”

  He shrugged. “So? What’s all this about chivalry, or rather my lack of it?”

  Maybe it was better to have it out. It wouldn’t diminish her wish for revenge, but clearing the decks might make it easier for her. Revenge was simple and clear, the old muddled anger would only confuse things. She regarded him over the lip of her glass. “What did you think you were doing all those years ago, Guy? Did you set out to make me think I was in love with you just for a game?”

>   He looked astounded. “You weren’t in love with me, for God’s sake. You were a child, a schoolgirl.”

  “And perfectly capable of thinking myself in love. I was just ripe for the plucking,” she said. “A perfect toy for your games.”

  “You were lovely,” he said slowly. “Sweet . . . no,” he corrected himself, “not sweet, that’s too pale a description for you. You had spirit and a lively mind, you laughed so much. I loved to hear you laugh. And, yes, you were an innocent. I didn’t think I took advantage of that innocence, though. You seemed well able to respond to me in kind.”

  “And when you had had enough playtime with me, you just went away,” she stated flatly. “Without a word.”

  Guy frowned, trying to remember what had seemed so unimportant to him at the time, but clearly so important to Petra. “Oh, yes, I remember now. Surely I mentioned that I had an invitation to go to Nice with some friends. That was always the case, from the beginning of the summer. I never intended to stay in Ashton for the entire summer. You must have realized that.”

  She shook her head. “No, why would I realize it? You never mentioned it, otherwise I wouldn’t have been so . . .” She stopped, the memory of her emotional distress at the time too painful and humiliating to dwell on.

  Guy looked at her in puzzlement. “But my dear girl, I was twenty-four, having a few weeks in the country. I had spent a year touring Europe after coming down from Oxford, and was starting to think about what I was going to do in the real world. You surely couldn’t have thought that I’d stay rusticating in Somerset.”

  Petra sipped her cognac. She had had enough of the conversation, all it was doing was making her mortification even worse. Of course she’d believed he would stay throughout that summer, how could he not? He was in love with her, as she’d thought, until he disappeared and she understood that love hadn’t come anywhere near what he’d felt for her, if indeed he’d felt anything.