The Property of a Gentleman

Taking a deep breath, Eve met his gaze squarely, all coquetry gone as her spirit rose to grapple with this unpleasant turn of events. The air between them had become tense and charged with an entirely new kind of emotion.

‘I—I am Eve Somerville,’ she whispered, forcing herself to look directly into his eyes. ‘Sir John Somerville’s daughter.’

Marcus stared down at her as though he had been felled. His jawline tightened, his eyes became steady and glacial, his face going as white as his neck cloth. ‘Dear Lord! What folly is this? Is this true? Are you Eve Somerville?’

She nodded dumbly, lowering her gaze, flinching before the exasperation in his voice and the cold glitter in his ice blue eyes. Never had she felt such humiliation.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded.

Unwillingly Eve raised her head and met his eyes, defiance and perturbation on her face. He glared down at her, embracing her in a look that was ice cold.

‘I never thought to meet Sir John’s daughter in a mad escapade of this kind—but it seems I was wrong. Have you no sense?’ he said, thrusting his face close to hers, the line of his mouth cruel. His hands shot out and clamped down hard on her shoulders and he shook her so forcefully that she thought her head would come off. ‘Can’t you see that it was the height of dangerous folly to embark on such a madcap scheme as this?’ he admonished severely.

‘It was a mistake,’ she said desperately, wishing he would release his vicious hold on her.

‘A mistake of your doing. The responsibility for your being here is your own. What made you seek me out?’ he demanded. ‘Come—don’t keep me in suspense.’ He fumed with growing impatience, thrusting her away from him and raking his hand in sheer frustration through his hair. ‘Why did you not tell me who you were?’

Full of shame and mortification Eve wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Never had she felt so wretched. He watched her with a deadly calm.

‘I—I meant to—but somehow—it—it was a hoax, a charade, that is all—my friends dared me to ask you to dance—’

Marcus looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘A hoax? Do you actually have the impertinence to tell me this was a hoax? My God, are you shameless? Can’t you see? Has it not occurred to you that by your foolishness it is not only your own reputation that might be ruined, but also my own? And you are betrothed, are you not—or about to be—to Leslie Stephenson?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. His face was frightening, but feeling wrath and indignation rising inside her, she tossed back her head and glared at him defiantly.

‘Then let us hope he does not hear of this, otherwise any expectations you might have of him asking for your hand in marriage will have been dashed. Now go home to your mother, Miss Somerville, she must be wondering where you are. If I were your father and I heard of this little episode—and you can be assured he will for I intend seeking him out at once—then you could be sure of a sound thrashing.’

His stern rebuke inflamed a smouldering resentment towards him inside Eve. ‘Then I can only thank God that you are not my father,’ she flared.

‘You may, Miss Somerville. You may. In my opinion you are a self-indulgent, spoiled brat—the type I hold in contempt. You behaved like an accomplished flirt. You didn’t know what you were doing—what you were asking for when you so outrageously made sexual overtures to a gentleman of my years and experience with women. Perhaps you will think twice the next time you want to play games—and I strongly advise you to learn the rules.’

Eve stared at him, her mind trying to adjust to his words. No one had ever spoken to her like this before or insulted her so severely. Fury blazed in his eyes as they locked relentlessly on to hers, but she stood before him, full of youthful courage, spirit and pride. Her mind was no longer in control and she had no idea how adorable she looked with her face flushed with ire and her eyes blazing furiously.

‘And what of your own conduct? You should have known better than to take advantage of me, regardless of who I might be—unless this is how you normally behave,’ she accused him.

‘I never take advantage of defenceless young ladies—but you did not give me the impression of being defenceless. If you, Miss Somerville, are under the impression that you may sport with me in any manner you please, then let me tell you that you do not know me.’

‘And after your insulting attack on my person I have no wish to know you. It would be interesting to know how much of a gentleman you are, Mr Fitzalan—had you not found out in time who I am.’

‘Were I not a gentleman, Miss Somerville, it would not matter a damn who you are. I would behave much worse and take advantage of your delectable charms here and now. And I know by your response that, if I had not released you when I did, with a little gentle persuasion you would have yielded to me completely, flinging all caution to the four winds with no thought of the consequences. Let me tell you that I rarely refuse that which is so flagrantly offered to me, but considering your age and that you are Sir John’s daughter—who, as you know, is an extremely good friend of mine—I must decline your offer.’

Eve was infuriated. ‘Oh—how dare you speak to me like this? I know what you must think—’

‘I don’t think so, lady. If you did you’d turn and run,’ he said with menacing, murderous fury. ‘Now return to your friends before they send out a search party and accuse me of compromising you. Having met you, I cannot think of anything that would upset me more than your father insisting that I do the gentlemanly thing and marry you myself.’

Chapter Four

I n disagreeable silence Eve turned from Marcus Fitzalan, her heart heavy with shame and helpless misery. Never had she been so shaken and humiliated in her seventeen years as she was then. Hurrying back along the path, she discovered to her mortification that her indiscretion had been witnessed not only by Angela but also by Leslie Stephenson, who was staring at her in absolute incredulity.

Unable to utter a word of explanation in her defence she hurried on, too ashamed, angry and humiliated to speak to anyone—but not before she had glimpsed, through the blur of tears that almost blinded her, Angela’s look of triumph and barely concealed smile. Her features were stamped with smugness and a confidence which came from the knowledge that Eve’s association with Leslie Stephenson lay in ruins.

Left alone, Marcus was angered beyond words that he had fallen into a pit of his own making. But she was right. Before he knew who she was he’d had every reason to believe by her actions and forward behaviour that she’d had lovers before, despite her youth, and something perverse inside him had refused to call a halt to his assault on what he believed to be a willing body.

He could be forgiven for thinking that her eagerness, her very willingness to have him kiss her, had confused him into believing she was experienced in the ways of seduction, but if this was her general pattern of behaviour when she was not under the watchful eye of her parents, then it was as well they knew about it, and soon.

Marcus Fitzalan did exactly as he said he would and had spoken to Eve’s father immediately. Her parents’ anger and disbelief at what she had done made the whole thing much worse. Her future looked bleak. Aware that Atwood society neither forgave nor forgot an indiscretion, and to avoid Eve becoming the object of derision, her parents sent her to Cumbria post haste to stay with her grandmother and did not allow her to return until the whole affair had died down.

But sadly Eve never saw her mother again, for she died before Eve returned to Atwood, leaving her with a well of grief and self-reproach. Blaming herself bitterly for not being there when her mother needed her, it was something she did not get over, and she spent her days in self-imposed isolation at Burntwood Hall, ignoring Emma’s pleas to accompany her to the local assemblies and soirées in an attempt to cheer her, only venturing abroad for the odd visit to her Aunt Shona in London or her grandmother in Cumbria.

Mr Fitzalan, it would appear, was beyond reproach where her father was concerned. He held him in such high regard that he believed every word he said. It was not the first mis-demeanour his high-spirited daughter was guilty of, and he had always said that one day she would go too far. Both he and his wife had been in agreement that her wild spirits were difficult to curb. But Eve was extremely angry that they chose to ignore Mr Fitzalan’s part in the affair, making her suspect he might not have told them just how intimate their meeting had been at Atwood Fair.

And as for Leslie Stephenson, at the first whiff of a scandal he abruptly withdrew his suit and married Angela instead, just as she had contrived it.

The sheer malice of Angela’s trickery had angered Eve beyond words—all because Angela coveted the man who was considering marriage to her. Angela had made sure Eve was seen with Mr Fitzalan, and was unable to believe her good fortune when he had declined Eve’s request to dance and had disappeared into the bushes with her. When it had come out, Leslie had married Angela instead—only to die in a riding accident a year later, leaving Angela an extremely wealthy young widow.

Until that fateful night Eve had believed Angela to be her friend, and the pain of her betrayal hurt more than Leslie’s rejection. She had not seen her since, but never would she forgive her unspeakable malice and deceit. She and Emma remained close, but Angela’s name was never mentioned between them.

Eve was glad to put the whole sorry affair behind her, hoping she would never have the misfortune to set eyes on Marcus Fitzalan again. He had spared her nothing, making her see herself as fast, a flirt and a spoiled, overindulged, selfish child, but as she agonised over his cruel accusations, reluctantly she had to admit that they were close to the truth.

But no matter how resentful she felt towards him, he had awoken her desire, had left her with a strange ache rising inside her, and a sharp new hunger and need in her heart she could not explain. Looking back, she knew that that was the time when childhood had left her. She would never again be that same carefree, impulsive girl.

It was someone knocking on her door that woke Eve from her fitful sleep. With a deep sigh she opened her eyes, her mind still full of Marcus Fitzalan and that day three years ago as she rose and crossed wearily to the door, surprised to see her grandmother, who had come to speak to her before retiring for the night. Usually her presence had a daunting effect on Eve, but today too much had happened for her to feel intimidated by her grandmother. Whenever she came to visit them the house always became a different place, quiet and subdued, her presence invading every room from the attics to the cellars, and felt by everyone.

There were always the same questions and answers, the same stiff rules to be adhered to. She always demanded much of Eve’s time, commanding her to read to her for hours, and she would sit with her to make sure she did her embroidery, a task Eve found tedious at the best of times. In the past her grandmother had constantly reproached her mother for allowing Eve too much freedom to do as she pleased, and the whole household would breathe a sigh of relief when she went back to Cumbria.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Eve, but I must speak to you,’ she said, stepping into the room and seating herself in an armchair by the fire, the very chair Eve herself had occupied until her grandmother had knocked on her door and roused her from her melancholy thoughts.

‘Of course, Grandmother,’ Eve replied quietly, giving no indication that this was a conversation she would have preferred to defer until another time, feeling in no mood to talk to anyone.

While she waited for her grandmother to speak she moved towards the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains and looking out, aware of a feeling of gloom and despondency. The night was dark now and beyond the church she could see the warm lights of Atwood glimmering in the distance, and also, some considerable distance away from the township, stood the tall, ghostly shape of the engine house of Atwood Mine and its surrounding spoil heaps, indicative of the area and so distinctive a feature of the landscape.

Her thoughts barely penetrated the fog that clouded her mind. She was numb in mind, body and soul, unable to comprehend all that had happened that day and what it would mean to her future. Her father’s will had turned her life into an irretrievable disaster. How could he have done this to her—and why? How could he want her to marry Mr Fitzalan? The very idea horrified her.

But the thought of Atwood Mine falling into Gerald’s hands brought a great emptiness of heart. He knew nothing about mining—and even though it would still be managed by competent men, if she let it happen he would be in absolute control. It would not be long before he spent the profits and it ran into difficulties. Everything her father had worked to achieve on the estate would be eradicated by Gerald, this she was certain of, and she would hate to see Atwood Mine go the same way.

Not until today had she realised how dear, how important the mine was to her, and she wondered what had possessed her to hold it so lightly all her life. Her father had been so proud of it, so proud of its efficiency, its worth—the lifeblood of the Somervilles, he often said. He had worked hard to make it what it was, and many were the times when he had been there from dawn until dark, causing her mother to gently taunt and tease him, telling him she would find it easier to accept another woman as a rival for his affections, but a coal mine was insupportable.

She sighed deeply. To leave Burntwood Hall would be like being uprooted, but to lose the mine completely and let Gerald have the run of it would tear her heart. She couldn’t let it go. For his own reasons her father had bequeathed half of it to her—a half which would become a whole if she were to do as he asked and marry Mr Fitzalan—but that was the stumbling block. Marcus Fitzalan! There must be some other way of keeping the mine out of Gerald’s hands other than that. There had to be. She couldn’t let it go, she thought desperately. She just couldn’t.

Of course Eve knew that as a married woman she couldn’t actually be seen as the owner of the mine, in the eyes of the law, but whatever else Marcus Fitzalan was he was a man of his word. Eve felt certain he would stand by her father’s legacy to her.

She had given the matter some considerable thought all day, trying to find some way to escape the impossible situation she found herself to be in, anything, so long as she need not marry Mr Fitzalan or go to live with her grandmother in a wild and unfrequented area of Cumbria.

But as her brain had gone round and round in ever confusing circles she could see no escape. If she wanted to hold on to a part of her past—to Atwood Mine, which she was fiercely determined not to let go—then she really had no choice but to marry Mr Fitzalan. But for now she would hold out against making that decision for as long as she could in the hope that a solution to her dilemma would present itself.

‘This has all come as a terrible shock to you, Eve,’ said her grandmother at length.

‘Yes—it has, Grandmother. From my earliest memories my father’s devotion was to be relied on unquestionably. I don’t understand what has happened—why he has done this. Do you know? Did he discuss this with you? Mr Fitzalan has tried explaining it to me but still I fail to understand any of it.’