Valerian Inglemoore

Valerian felt himself rouse at the very idea. It would be easy enough to compromise her, but he loved her too much not to warn her of the consequences—consequences she couldn’t fathom through the lens of her innocence, but with three years of town bronze on him, Valerian could. ‘Philippa, no one in London would receive us. We’d live a life of exile and I could not doom you to that. I could not doom myself to that,’ he added selfishly.

Philippa could not be fooled, and her face tilted, perplexed by the incongruous statement. ‘Do such things matter to you? I thought if you had your horses and your gardens and me, it would be enough.’ She rose and moved into his embrace, her head finding its way to his shoulder.

Valerian let her, although he held himself stiff, his arms wooden at his side. He was tired of fighting on all fronts. It was inevitable now. He was down to last things. He would not see Philippa after tonight. He’d decided already that he could not go back to his home in Cornwall and watch her become the wife of a neighbour. It would drive him insane to know she and her husband lived only a day’s ride away. He’d known when he met her tonight what he had to do. He’d known she would try to argue against her father’s choice. He’d known he would have to resist her entreaties no matter what form they took. He had not known how painful it would be.

In her desperation, Philippa was arguing with all the tools at her disposal, even her body as she was doing now. Early on in their relationship, he’d revelled in teaching her about a man’s body. There was something heady about tutoring one’s beloved in the sensual arts. He’d never dreamed he would not be the one to teach her the ultimate love lesson. He fought back the wave of nausea sweeping his form.

Philippa raised her head from his shoulder, a lock of her long hair falling from its loose coiffure. Valerian involuntarily reached out to brush the russet strand back from her face. How many times had he made that gesture in the past months?

‘If you won’t marry me or compromise me, at least give me one night of passion. Let me be with you, as we intended to be together,’ she whispered.

Just hearing her utter the words completed his growing erection. A small moan of regret escaped his lips as he shut his eyes, gathering his strength. With her head on his shoulder, thankfully she could not see the torture on his face, although he knew she could feel his desire straining against her stomach. God knew how much he wanted her. He made no attempt to hide his arousal. She knew how she affected him and he her. But he was a man of honour. He’d promised to let her go.

‘That’s a very unwise suggestion, Philippa,’ he heard himself saying in a steady voice that sounded as if it came from another man who watched the vignette unfolding with great uninterest.

‘Please, Val,’ Philippa cried, clutching his hands. ‘I love you and you love me, I know you do. I can feel it.’

He had to end this scene soon. She was on the verge of breaking and his restraint was failing. If this went on much longer, his reserve would crack and they would spend the rest of their lives paying for the foolishness of a few mad minutes. He would not do that to her.

‘Don’t beg. I can’t stand to see you grovel,’ he said in a low voice close to her ear. Then he released her and stepped back, preparing to say the most difficult words he’d ever uttered, but he had to make her believe them. ‘I do love you, but perhaps not in the same way you love me. I am sorry if you’ve misunderstood my intentions when we started our little experiment in l’amour. We are finished now, you and I. Whatever we had is done, a fair-weather fling. That is how it is for a man.’

He could feel the nervous tic jump in his cheek as a silent curtain fell between them. A tickling bead of sweat ran its slow race down his back as he waited on her next words. His heart warred with his mind. His mind wanted her to see the practical logic of ending their affaire and accept his hurtful fabrication. His heart wanted her to see the words for the farce they were.

He watched coldness steal over Philippa’s face as her features changed from desperation back to anger. An unchecked fury raged in the depths of her eyes as her mind raced towards the conclusions he’d wanted her to draw. When she spoke, he could hear her voice tremble with emotions.

‘A fair-weather fling? This was all a game to you? Everything was a lie?’ she cried as the truth spread across her face, like clouds across the sun, as she began to acknowledge the import of his words. He wished he didn’t know her so well as to guess her thoughts. In her pale face he saw her doubt and pain. He knew that she believed that every knowing look, hot kiss and searing touch had been little more than seductive perjury of the worst kind. He’d played his part well. She believed those gestures had meant nothing at all to him while they had meant everything to her.

‘I thought you were a man of honour, Valerian.’ Her voice trembled. Her heart was breaking.

Valerian tightened the reins on his resolve. ‘I am a man of honour. That’s why I feel I need to call a halt before our sweet interlude goes any further.’

‘Interlude?’ Philippa was incredulous. ‘You make it sound as if our affaire is nothing more than an intermission at the theatre! Something to occupy your time between activities!’

Valerian held himself stiffly, ready to deliver the coup de grace, the last stroke. ‘I am to leave tomorrow to join my uncle on the Continent, something of a belated Grand Tour now that peace has been restored.’

‘Valerian, this is not like you. You’re playing a cruel game.’ There was reproach in her voice for both of them. Reproach for his despicable behaviour and self-chiding for her rashness. She was wrong, of course, he loved her very much, but there was no honourable way out of the situation. Perhaps it was best if she believed the worst, that his love was a fraud, that she was an extended exercise in dalliance. Valerian said nothing in his own defence. Instead, he gave her a neat bow. ‘I’ll leave you here. I can see you need a moment to collect yourself before returning to the ball,’ he said with polite coldness and turned to leave.

Philippa called to him one last time. Her anger was perilously close to giving way to tears as she spoke in a strangled whisper. ‘Tell me you loved me, that it wasn’t all false coin.’

Valerian stopped, but did not look back. Like Orpheus, it would be his undoing. ‘Miss Stratten, I cannot.’ He comforted himself with the fact that it was the truth. He was too choked with emotion to utter the words she wanted to hear. Worse, he knew the reason for his silence would be misconstrued as heartlessness. In reality, to say the words would be to give her false hope. If she thought there was any window of opportunity for her case, she’d not give in. Philippa was tenacious. He was counting on that tenacity to help her through this crisis and build a new life for herself.

Valerian closed his eyes as loss swept through him. It was better that the words went unsaid, no matter what cruel conclusions she might draw. His logic was cold comfort when Philippa spoke again, her emotions mastered, her quiet parting words piercing him like a venom arrow to the heart. ‘I will not forget this, Valerian.’

Miserable and heartsick, Valerian squared his shoulders, intending to find Philippa’s father and tell him the deed was done. He’d no longer stand in the way of the family’s financial stability. He’d tell Beldon to take Philippa home. Then he’d leave—it was the only truth he’d told tonight.

In the other pocket of his evening coat was his uncle’s letter, inviting Valerian to join his uncle’s family on the Continent where he served as one of Britain’s premier diplomats. The letter had come yesterday in response to Valerian’s own inquiries. Valerian knew he could not stay in England and watch Philippa’s new life unfold. Instead, he would go and serve England against whatever threats arose and try to exorcise the memory of Philippa Stratten from his hot blood.

Chapter One (#ulink_f8dcccca-bab7-5fd8-a4de-27287e782f3a)

30 December 1829

An icy wind blew steadily through the poorly sealed post chaise, keeping its two occupants chilled in spite of their caped greatcoats and the hot bricks they’d installed at the posting inn. But it had been the best they could do at the time. The west country was not known for its luxuries. The newly returned Viscount St Just didn’t mind. He’d been in far less comfortable situations over the past nine years and he was simply glad to be home.

‘What are you smiling about?’ Beldon Stratten, the young Baron Pendennys, groused, stamping his feet in a futile attempt to generate some body heat.

‘Am I smiling?’ Valerian asked. ‘I was unaware of it.’

‘You’ve been smiling since the inn at St Austell. I can’t imagine what about.’

Beldon was right. There wasn’t much to smile about. Their journey had become a comedy of errors. Nothing had gone right since they’d left London after celebrating the Christmas holidays in town. They’d hoped to sail down the Cornish coast to St Just-in-Roseland, Valerian’s home on the peninsula, and avoid the roads. But foul weather on the Channel had scotched those plans. So they’d set out on horseback, hoping to make better time than a lumbering coach. Valerian had a yen to be settled in his home by New Year. But weather again played them false, turning too cold for safe passage on horseback. They’d abandoned the horses at St Austell and hired the only post chaise available.

It went unspoken between them that they’d get no farther than Truro today. If they wanted to try for St Just-in-Roseland by New Year, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

‘Do you believe in serendipity, Val?’ Beldon asked, stretching his long legs out across the small space between the seats.

Valerian looked at him queerly. ‘I am not exactly sure what you mean.’

‘You know, making valuable discoveries by accident.’

‘Ah, coincidence,’ Valerian corrected. ‘You think it is merely a fortuitous happening that I ran into you in London.’

‘Definitely luck since you’d sent no word ahead of your return.’ There was a censorious note in Beldon’s voice. Valerian did not miss it. He had not said goodbye to Beldon properly when he’d left London so abruptly years ago and he had not written over the long years with the exception of one short letter early on. It was a credit to the depth of their friendship that Beldon had felt his absence so keenly and forgiven him so readily.

Beldon’s tone softened. ‘Perhaps you will explain to me some day why you all but vanished into your uncle’s household overnight. I am your friend. I would understand, whatever your reasons. We all missed you, even Philippa. I think she had always admired you from afar.’

Valerian started at that. Had Philippa kept their secret all these years? He’d expected her to blurt it all out. He’d imagined her crying on Beldon’s shoulder in the garden that last night, sobbing out how her heart had been broken by her brother’s cad of a best friend.

He’d known this moment was inevitable. Hearing her name would be just the first of many such moments. He knew in his heart that was why he hadn’t written ahead to Beldon to tell him of his return. Of course, he hadn’t known until the last moment that he would be assigned to the team of negotiators sent to London to pound out a peace treaty to end the latest conflict between the Turks and Russia. Even when he’d known with a certainty he’d be coming back, he still hadn’t sent advance notice of his return. It was a stalling mechanism and a desperate one at that, designed to put off any encounter with Philippa until the very last.

His tenure on the Continent had not outlasted his own broken heart. He had stayed on in Europe as long as he could, volunteering for myriad diplomatic assignments that lingered in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon’s efforts had left their mark on old and new regimes alike and Valerian had quickly learned that there was always someone to fight.

Treaties may have been signed, but Europe, particularly the Balkans, was not at peace. There was still plenty for Britain to worry over as countries fought to define themselves and empires sought to expand in the power vacuum left by Napoleon’s defeat.

Valerian had watched modern history play out before his very eyes as Britain and the rest of Europe fought to corner the fledgling Balkan markets.

After years of pointless victories and disappointments, Valerian found he had no stomach for a fight motivated by greed and avarice, thinly cloaked in a facade of ideals, and he could not stay away from home indefinitely. He had gardens and an estate to manage. He could not rely on his steward for ever.

While a broken-hearted young man of twenty-one could be forgiven for impetuously leaving his inheritance, a grown man of thirty years, who knew his duty, could not continue to shirk it. Yet it was difficult turning for home when he knew it would mean facing Philippa and Cambourne. But duty and honour beckoned, two ideals he had always held dear even when his country hadn’t.

‘How is your sister?’ Valerian inquired, hoping to sound casual.

Beldon nodded. ‘She’s doing well. I see her often. You just missed her in London. She spent the holidays with a friend in Richmond before heading out here. If I had known you were coming, I could have persuaded her to stay in town.’ Beldon paused, seeming to consider his next words before speaking them. ‘It’s hard to believe she’s twenty-seven and already through her first husband. Here I am at thirty and I haven’t been married, not even close. It makes me feel “behind” somehow.’

Valerian felt his body tense. ‘Through her first husband?’

‘Yes, didn’t you know? It was in all the papers, quite a newsworthy death.’

‘I wasn’t exactly holed up in Vienna the entire time,’ Valerian said wryly, thinking of the rugged Balkan territories he’d journeyed through with their mountains and sparse populations. There were places in Europe the mails didn’t reach, places with names like Voden and Negush. Places that didn’t appear on a map unless you were a Turkish Pasha charged with keeping the Christian millet in line.