Smuggler's Lady Page 4

  Meredith, unaware of the unfortunate notice she had attracted, was conscious only of her own tedium. It seemed an eternity before the covers were removed and the ladies repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. But as she rose from the table, she became conscious of a hard gaze that held more than a hint of puzzlement as well as a distinct flicker of annoyance. For some reason, her chin went up and she returned the look in kind. His lordship frowned, then he turned to his host with a compliment on the port, and Merrie almost scuttled from the room. For a moment she thought of feigning the headache or even a swoon—although she was not sure quite how one accomplished the latter—in order to escape the remainder of the evening, only to remember that she had sent Jem and the horses home and was now dependent on the charity of others. She could not expect anyone to have their horses put to especially to convey her home although she did not doubt that they would do so. They were kindly enough for all their dullness.

  The drawing room filled rapidly with those members of the gentry who had received invitations to take tea after dinner. Meredith found it quite possible to blend with the crowd, and when the gentlemen joined them she was engaged in apparently animated conversation with her preferred companions, the matrons whose conversation was always safe and predictable, in whose company she could allow her mind free rein while her tongue trotted along the well-known paths.

  Damian watched her whenever it was possible to do so without notice. There was something tantalizingly familiar about the slight figure. Was it simply the familial resemblance to young Rob? The eyes and that splash of freckles across the bridge of the nose were certainly shared by brother and sister. But that was not the reference. He shook his head as if to clear his mind for the elusive memory.

  The sound of musicians tuning their instruments, carriage wheels and horses’ hooves on the gravel sweep, the excited voices of Landreth’s young men and maidens come to enjoy the ball, drew the drawing room party into the ballroom at the rear of the house. Meredith took her place against the wall with the chaperones, mittened hands folded demurely in her lap, slippered feet motionless despite the enticing shiver of the musicians’ strings.

  “Lady Blake, may I have the honor of this dance?” The soft question took her quite by surprise, and, forgetting her customary caution yet again, Meredith raised her head.

  “I am most sensible of the honor, my lord, but I do not dance.” Hastily, she dropped her gaze.

  “Then let us talk,” Lord Rutherford said smoothly. “Or do you not do that, either?”

  Meredith inhaled sharply, then gave a self-deprecating little giggle. “You must forgive my reticence, my lord, but I am so very afraid that you will find my conversation as insipid as you find our county uncomfortable. We are woefully unaccustomed to receiving visits from such august personages and are quite overwhelmed at the honor you have deigned to bestow upon our poor community.” Her chicken-skin fan beat the air as she turned to her matronly neighbor. “Is it not so, Mrs. Garfield?”

  His lordship, having been made to feel like a thoroughly presumptuous coxcomb, was obliged to listen to Mrs. Garfield’s effusive agreement.

  “Oh, Patience.” Meredith greeted her hostess who had come to ensure her guests were suitably entertained. “We have just been telling Lord Rutherford how he honors us with his illustrious presence.” That nerve-grating titter sounded.

  “Yes, indeed, dear.” Patience smiled kindly at Meredith, patting her hand. It occurred to Lord Rutherford that Lady Blake’s inanities were accepted without question amongst her neighbors. Why then was he convinced that appearances were deceiving? He knew nothing of the lady, after all, and was much less qualified to make judgments than her friends. He glanced toward the floor where the set was forming.

  “Lady Barrat, I beg you will intercede for me. I am anxious to solicit Lady Blake’s hand, but she informs me she does not dance. I would not presume if they were playing a waltz, but the cotillion is quite unexceptionable, is it not, ma’am?” The smile he directed at Patience quite took that lady’s breath away, so thoroughly did it transform the rather stern countenance.

  “Of course, Lord Rutherford,” she concurred. “But Lady Blake is such a retiring soul, aren’t you, my dear?”

  Meredith lowered her head and fluttered her fan, mumbling in accents of acute distress.

  “Come now, Meredith,” Patience said in bracing tones. “A dance will be good for you. You cannot turn down such a partner, you know.”

  “I shall be the envy of all eyes,” Merrie whispered.

  Little hypocrite! Rutherford thought with a surge of anger. People did not presume to make game of Colonel, Lord Rutherford, yet this shrinking violet was playing with him like a cat with a mouse, and only he seemed to be aware of it. He took one mittened hand firmly and jerked its owner upright. The gesture was sufficiently discreet to pass unnoticed by all save its recipient, who opened her mouth on an indignant exclamation that was instantly repressed, but a pink tinge crept into the pale cheeks.

  “Come,” he said, offering his arm.

  As if at the mercy of some puppet master, Merrie accompanied him onto the floor. She could feel the surprised looks as they took their places in the set but was at a loss to know how she could have done otherwise. Anyway, Patience would vouch for her reluctance to behave out of character. But why was Lord Rutherford acting in this manner? Surely she had conducted herself with sufficient stupidity to give him more than a little disgust of the widow Blake? Or had her own instinctive dislike of a man who clearly considered himself far above his present society revealed itself in some way? There had been that exchange of looks at the end of dinner.... No, she was being ridiculous. Even if he did suspect such a thing, it would hardly concern Damian, Lord Rutherford, that a mousy countrified dowd held him in dislike. One thing, Meredith was determined, his lordship would regret his importunity in this matter of dancing.

  She was light on her feet, Damian observed, moving with a lithe grace that the folds of bombazine could not hide, moving with a supple grace that he had seen somewhere before, but her knowledge of the steps was apparently nonexistent. She was never where she was supposed to be, bumped into him and their neighbors with blithe unconcern, trod on his toes, exclaiming in embarrassed fulsome apologies until he thought he would shake her. Not once did she raise her eyes from her feet although the scrutiny did not improve their performance in the least, but he became intimately acquainted with her bent neck. It was actually a long, graceful neck, he noted, and the heavy knot of auburn hair at its nape a richly burnished mass.

  “Quite clearly you were correct, ma’am, when you said you did not dance,” he declared ruthlessly as the measure ended. “My apologies for having importuned you. Allow me to escort you back to your chair.”

  “Why, Lady Blake, so splendid to see you on the floor again after all these years. Will you do me the honor of this next dance?” Sir Algernon appeared in front of them, beaming jovially.

  Meredith inclined her head at Lord Rutherford and placed her hand on Sir Algernon’s arm.

  The following country dance was composed of a series of elaborate figures—all of which Lady Blake performed impeccably. Rutherford stood against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching incredulously. She was a superb dancer! That ludicrous performance had been entirely for his benefit. Quite obviously, there was a great deal more to Lady Meredith Blake than met the eye, and she was not to be treated with the casual disdain that she invited. Well, whatever game it was she played, she would discover that two could play.

  He appeared beside her when supper was announced, ignored the flutterings and fumblings, the expressions of gratitude mixed with apology, as he tucked her hand beneath his arm and moved toward the supper room. Meredith felt a stab of unease as she cast a covert look at the face beside her. The features were set in lines of grim determination almost as if he were resigned to performing a distasteful but necessary task. Had Patience perhaps asked him to take the widow into
supper? No, of course she would not have done so. The room was full of much worthier women who would fall over themselves for his lordship’s attention.

  “I am wondering if this is wise,” Lord Rutherford remarked, setting two plates on the supper table. “I have my doubts about Lady Barrat’s cook—after the venison, you understand?” He offered her a dry little smile.

  Meredith found herself in something of a quandary. On the one hand, she was in wholehearted agreement with him and a bubble of laughter was growing most inconveniently in her chest, but, on the other hand, the contemptuous remark was not one a stranger was entitled to make and seemed entirely in keeping with his previous derisive comments.

  “That, my lord, is a Cornish pasty,” she informed him with a hesitant smile, playing with her napkin. “They are considered great delicacies in these parts. Our tastes, of course, are not so refined as yours, sir. How could they be? But when one is accustomed to outdoor work and exercise, one develops a hearty appetite.”

  There was no mistaking the implication. Lady Blake considered Lord Rutherford to be a useless parasite, one who did not know the meaning of hard work and genuine, well-earned hunger.

  Rutherford thought bitterly of his years in the Peninsula, years of guerrilla warfare, of forced marches in all weathers, living off an inhospitable land, at the mercy of snipers and treacherous peasants, never sure where one would next lay one’s head. Years that he had lived and loved to the full! And this little brown mouse had the unconscionable nerve to imply that he had known nothing but the feather-bedded life of a pampered aristocrat! Except that she was not a little brown mouse.

  The mittened fingers continued to twist the corner of her napkin, her eyes were resolutely downcast, shoulders hunched.

  Damian looked around the crowded dining room. For the moment, their fellow guests seemed absorbed in their supper, and he could detect no inquisitive glances in their direction. Leisurely, almost, he stretched a long forefinger, placed it beneath that square chin, and exerted firm pressure. The face, thus uplifted, expressed infuriated outrage—not a sign of the church mouse. He nodded thoughtfully. “A piece of advice, ma’am. Keep your sword sheathed. It is just possible that I am a more experienced duelist than you.”

  The long, sable eyelashes dropped, obscuring the challenge in the dark eyes; the full lips began to tremble. “I cannot imagine what you can mean, sir,” Lady Blake whispered. The note of distress sounded appallingly genuine. His lordship released her chin instantly, suddenly afraid she was about to weep. What the devil was happening? He seemed to be losing his senses—one minute convinced that he was being made mock of by a consummate actress, the next convinced that he must have been mistaken. Either Merrie Trelawney, sister of Rob Trelawney, alias Lady Meredith Blake, was a most complete fraud, or Lord Rutherford had windmills in his head.

  “Let us abandon this repellent pastry and take a turn about the terrace,” he suggested in a tone of voice that did not lend itself to suggestion.

  “Pasty,” Meredith corrected automatically. “I have no desire to leave this room, my lord.”

  “Fustian! You are in need of a little air. It is abominably stuffy in here.” He held out his hand, a polite smile on his lips. “If you argue with me, Lady Blake, it will appear most singular—much more so than a sedate stroll in full view of any interested persons.”

  “Oh, but my lord, I would never presume to argue with you,” she murmured in horror. “But I am at a loss to understand why you should seek out my company in this particular fashion. There are many more interesting persons in the room.” Her eyelashes fluttered; her hands twisted in her lap.

  “If you say so, ma’am” he concurred equably. “You would know much better than I, of course.” His hand remained outstretched in invitation. Meredith looked around them. She could not continue to ignore that invitation without drawing the most unwelcome notice. Except that it was not an invitation—it was an order. Barely controlling a grimace of angry frustration, Meredith laid her mittened fingers in his palm. His own closed over hers, and there was no mistaking the iron grasp that declared her captivity.

  The terrace was not deserted, for which Meredith was initially grateful, but their companions were the young and giddy, escaping the eyes of chaperones for a brief interval. Muted giggles came from the shadows, an occasional, hastily suppressed squeal of delighted outrage. It was no suitable place for a respectable widow, Merrie reflected, however sedate their progression.

  “I begin to feel a little de trop,” her companion observed as a young couple separated hastily on seeing them.

  “We are certainly spoiling their fun.” Meredith, still struggling with her annoyance, was betrayed into tart agreement. Recollecting herself hastily, she tittered again, continuing in a tone of hesitant apology, “You, perhaps, find our country ways a little shocking, sir, but these youngsters have grown up together, and there is little harm in a few minutes of unchaperoned high spirits. They are not often granted the opportunity.”

  “I have no wish to be a kill-joy. We shall walk on the lawn.” Before Merrie could demur, he had grasped her elbow firmly and proceeded to escort her down the flight of stone steps to the garden where lanterns swung from the trees, casting a soft, enticing glow.

  Meredith felt a flicker of panic at the impression the sight of them, strolling in such a romantic setting, would create. “Please, sir, I do not wish to be here,” she whispered beseechingly, taking her hand from his arm.

  “Oh, but I find it most pleasant,” he returned, retrieving her hand and, holding it tightly, guiding her onto a darkened path out of sight of the house. “It is a delightful night. Let us walk in the shrubbery.”

  “No! ” Merrie squeaked, pulling at her hand. “I do not wish to.”

  “But I do,” he replied evenly. “What are you afraid of, Lady Blake? That someone might get the wrong idea about you?”

  She would have to be deaf, Meredith decided, to miss the sardonic emphasis to the question. If ever there was a moment for dramatic action, this was it. With a whimper, she went completely limp, sinking to the ground, her skirt settling in a corolla around her.

  Rutherford swore violently, dropping in alarm to his knees beside the still figure. Her eyelashes fluttered as he lifted her in his arms. She was amazingly light under those folds of material, he noted even through his dismay at this unexpected turn of events.

  “I do beg your pardon,” she whispered in a faint voice. “So silly of me, my lord. Pray put me down.”

  “You are sure you can stand?” he asked anxiously although the last thing he wanted was to have to carry an inert Lady Blake into the house. The fuss that would cause sent shudders of revulsion down his spine, and dimly he realized that somehow or other his attempt to avenge himself on the widow had recoiled.

  “Quite sure.” Her voice sounded stronger, her eyes opened. Clearly the prospect that dismayed him did not appeal to her either. “If you would just escort me back to the ballroom.”

  He set her on her feet. “I will take you to Lady Barrat. She will know what to do for you.”

  “That will not be necessary, sir. I have these turns on occasion. I shall be perfectly all right directly.” Meredith gave her companion a hopefully reassuring smile. It was met with a speculative frown.

  “They appear to come conveniently, ma’am,” Rutherford observed. The sudden flash in the sloe eyes confirmed his suspicion. Lady Blake had just neatly extricated herself from her predicament, and he had no choice but to beat a strategic retreat to plan an attack from another quarter. That he would return to the fight, Lord Rutherford was resolutely determined.

  He escorted her back to the ballroom and she disappeared instantly in the direction of the retiring room.

  “Will ye join us in the card room, Lord Rutherford?” Sir Algernon appeared at his side. “I’ve a splendid brandy you’ll enjoy. The Gentlemen do us proud.”

  “Gladly,” Damian returned, remembering his other purpose in attending this horrendously c
loddish evening. A little information about the Gentlemen might make up for his resounding defeat at the hands of the widow. “In a few minutes, if I may. I’ve a mind to clear my head in the garden.”

  “By all means.” The squire clapped his lordship’s shoulder in a jovial gesture of comprehension. “ ’Tis monstrous close in here. Too many bodies and too much exertion to my mind.”

  “Just so,” Lord Rutherford concurred. The atmosphere in the ballroom was indeed becoming a trifle overpowering as the odors of sweat and perfume combined and the breath of the dancers misted the gilt-framed mirrors.

  Standing on the terrace, breathing deeply of the fresh night air, the strains of music wafting over his head, he wondered what the devil he was doing here in this barbaric corner of God’s earth where heavy pastry crusts enclosing a mélange of root vegetables and chopped meats were considered a delicacy, where young people romped indecorously and unsupervised, where frumpish widows made subtle mock of one of Wellington’s colonels and, unless he was much mistaken, made the same mock of her neighbors who seemed to have swallowed the act hook, line and sinker. More fool them! But why? Damian, Lord Rutherford, was determined to find the reason, just as he was determined to teach the widow that one did not play games with him—not with impunity. It was just possible that this excursion into Cornish society was going to prove rather more entertaining than he had imagined.

  Chapter Four

  Meredith, having dabbed cold water on her wrists and temples and sufficiently recovered her composure, returned to the ballroom, determined to avoid further exchanges with Lord Rutherford at all costs. She had quite forgotten, in the general disturbance of the evening, to ask the Abbots for a place in their carriage. Now she found, to her dismay, that they had been gone a half-hour since. The company in the ballroom was quite depleted, and Merrie was faced with the humiliating prospect of presenting her predicament to Patience.