Dangerous Lord, Seductive Mistress

A crooked smile acknowledged Deborah’s plea on behalf of her mother. Randolph had his own suspicions why the woman might not want him around without his friend, the Earl of Gresham, rendering him acceptable.

People of Julia Woodville’s age knew that the Chad-wickes had for generations regularly turned out a few reprobates. She knew, and no doubt her first husband, Viscount Cleveland, had also known, that a number of his paternal ancestors had been to blame for passing bad blood on to his brother, Sebastian. Had his great-great grandfather not been such a scoundrel, the barony, and the thousands of Suffolk acres that came with it, would have stayed with the crown.

‘You will have some tea, sir? Oh…and there are some cinnamon biscuits, too,’ Deborah said, spotting that Lottie had had the foresight to include them. Having received Randolph’s wordless assurance that her mother’s attitude had not bothered him, Deborah approached the tray and occupied her nervous hands with cups and saucers.

‘Thank you,’ Randolph said. He approached the fire and held out his palms.

‘Oh…please sit down if you would like to, Mr Chad-wicke.’ Deborah pointed a silver teaspoon at the twin fireside chairs. Once he had settled his large frame in one of them she handed him his steaming tea. Solicitously she moved a small circular table closer so she might put the plate of biscuits within his easy reach.

She took the chair that her mother had vacated opposite him, so that the fire was between them. Having taken a sip of her tea, and a nibble at a biscuit, she placed both down in a rattle of crockery. It was a good while until the hour to dine. Usually she and her mother would eat dinner at eight o’clock and it was not yet five. On those days they were not particularly hungry they might ask Mrs Field to simply prepare a buffet supper to be set out in the cosy parlour.

Deborah turned her face to the mellow autumnal light filtering through the glass, thus escaping a gaze that was as relentless as midsummer heat. ‘Would you like to take a stroll in the gardens after tea, sir?’ she asked politely whilst watching a blackbird on a branch cocking his head at her.

‘I’d like you to stop calling me sir and Mr Chadwicke,’ Randolph said softly. ‘Have you forgotten my name, Deborah?’

‘Indeed I have not, sir,’ Debbie returned coolly as she turned to look at him. ‘Neither have I forgotten that using it would imply a closeness that we no longer have. Many years have passed since we were friends.’

‘I’d like us to again be friends.’ When his gentle remark made Deborah appear to resume her interest in the garden, he continued suggestively, ‘I remember very well the last time we met. It was at Marcus and Jemma’s wedding.’

Deborah picked up her teacup and took a gulp from it. Oh, she knew very well what was on his mind. He was remembering how she’d shamelessly clung to his neck and had revelled in being kissed and caressed into insensibility behind a marble pillar. Perhaps he imagined that for old time’s sake she might again be persuaded to allow him to take a few liberties whilst he was in the vicinity.

To jerk her mind away from arousing memories she focused on the incident that had coupled them together far more recently. The business with the Luckhursts was in its own way equally disturbing to her peace of mind. Because of it there was much she still had to say to him. Her thanks and apologies were overdue. He had saved her from coming to harm, yet she had accepted his escort home, and his protection, with very bad grace.

She knew, too, that she ought to offer her condolences on his brother’s demise. But she would skirt about mentioning their past or when he would be leaving the area. She had been in his company for only an hour or so after many years spent apart yet, oddly, she knew how easy it might be for her to again feel his absence. That silly thought was chased away; in its place she firmly put a reasonable explanation for such mawkishness. Naturally his presence had thrust to the forefront of her mind her salad days when, as a débutante of eighteen, and believing herself in love with Randolph Chadwicke, she’d had a scintillating life as the pampered, popular daughter of Viscount Cleveland.

‘I have not properly thanked you for your assistance this afternoon,’ Debbie briskly rattled off. ‘I also must say sorry for having been rather…prickly towards you. It was a great surprise to see you and I…well…I did not intend to seem churlish. My mother, too, was probably similarly flustered by being confronted with a ghost from the past.’ It was a paltry effort and she inwardly winced on acknowledging it. Hastily she picked up her tea and took a sip.

‘Was the last impression I made on you so bad?’ Randolph asked huskily. ‘My understanding was that we parted on reasonably good terms.’

She could sense the smile in his words as he dared her to recall their exciting tryst in Marcus’s hallway. Reasonably good terms hardly did justice to describing the passion they’d shared away from prying eyes.

‘My understanding was that your absence abroad would be reasonably short.’ A languid hand attempted to make light of her spontaneous retort. Again she’d not managed to control her lingering hurt and anger over it all. ‘It seems at the time we both were under a misconception.’ Idly she twirled a flaxen curl about a finger. ‘It was a long time ago and is now unimportant.’ Before he could respond she fluidly changed the subject. ‘I must convey my condolences on the loss of your brother. Did he pass away recently? Had he been ill?’

‘It was a few months ago. He had been suffering a malaise for a considerable time,’ Randolph added carefully.

‘Did living in a hot climate contribute to his poor health?’ Debbie asked, her voice resonating with sympathy.

‘It did him no good at all to go there,’ Randolph answered bluntly. ‘Twice he suffered bouts of malaria.’

‘I’m very sorry he died. He must have been still quite a young man.’

‘He had just turned forty-one.’

‘Your poor mother; she must be very sad. I imagine she was worried about you, too, whilst you were in the Indies.’

‘I escaped any major illness,’ was Randolph’s succinct reply.

‘I know your brother was reputed to be a roguish character, but nevertheless he was a son and a brother. You have a nephew and niece, so his wife and children must be missing him too.’

‘I also must offer you my condolences.’ Smoothly Randolph altered the course of their conversation so it focused on her. ‘You mentioned earlier today that your fiancé was killed by the smugglers.’

Deborah nodded, a frown creasing her smooth, ivory brow. ‘It occurred more than two years ago. Edmund was on coast watch. There was an affray between the dragoons and a gang of smugglers in a lane leading to the coast.’

‘Was the culprit brought to justice?’

‘It was reported that a fellow nicknamed Snowy fired off the gun that fatally wounded Edmund.’ A glaze appeared in Deborah’s eyes as she recalled the awful time. ‘Snowy was later murdered,’ she resumed huskily. ‘The smugglers would sooner kill one of their own than have the dragoons snooping about in the villages looking for a suspect.’ She sighed. ‘There was no proper trial…save the one his colleagues put on. One cannot be sure that it was Snowy who was responsible for Edmund’s death.’

‘Did you meet your fiancé in London?’

Deborah shook her head. For a moment she remained silent, for she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. But if she divulged a little of what had occurred to her in the intervening years, perhaps he might tell her what he had been doing; she knew she had a curiosity to know it. ‘My stepfather was a sociable sort of chap. When the militia were billeted close by he would offer hospitality. Occasionally he would hold small parties for neighbours and the officers. It was at such an event that Edmund and I were introduced.’ Her voice tailed away and she looked at him. ‘And you, sir?’ she asked with an admirably neutral tone. ‘Have you a fiancée or a wife and children?’

‘No…’ Randolph said quietly. ‘Once I thought I had met the right woman, but I was mistaken. Now I’m happy to remain a bachelor.’

‘I see,’ Deborah said in a stifled little voice. ‘How very sad for you.’

‘Indeed, I’m deserving of your pity…let’s talk about something more cheerful,’ he suggested silkily. ‘I had the impression that your mother would like to visit town.’ Randolph had placed down his cup and saucer. He relaxed back in to his chair and a booted foot was raised to rest atop a buff-breeched knee. Idly he splayed long brown fingers on a Hessian’s dusty leather. ‘Do you go to London very often?’

‘Unfortunately not. But you’re right; my mama would love to frequently visit town,’ Deborah answered him automatically, although her mind was in turmoil. She knew very well what he’d hinted at. Once he’d believed he’d wanted to marry her, but then he’d gone away and discovered that he’d found it easy to forget her. A burning indignation roared in her chest. Yet of what could she accuse him? He’d never told her he loved her, neither had he promised to marry her. And he certainly hadn’t forced her to kiss him. She’d been a very willing participant in that! The most she’d had from him were compliments and complaints that she was a seductive little miss who could drive him wild with desire. It was probable she’d had a lucky escape. Had he not gone away when he did she might have let him properly seduce her. The consequences of that didn’t bear thinking about. But she was determined not to let him know that any of it bothered her.

‘It is my mama’s greatest wish that we return to town to live.’ Her voice sounded shrill despite her attempt to keep it light and level.

‘Are you also keen to return there to live?’

‘I certainly miss the gaiety and the friends I had there,’ Deborah answered, more composed.

‘If you returned to London, you’d avoid the necessity of living amongst the likes of the Luckhursts.’

‘I shan’t allow them to drive us away,’ Deborah retorted with a defiance that made him cock a dark brow at her. Had he told her he found her attitude immature he could not have made his opinion plainer. ‘We have some friends here,’ she continued doggedly. ‘Harriet and her brother are nice people. So are Mr and Mrs Pattinson. Not everybody hereabouts is in league with the smugglers. Evil will triumph if good people are too cowardly to combat it.’

‘Certainly,’ he agreed drily. ‘But a lot of decent folk don’t consider contraband a bad thing, but a benefit.’

A defeated little grimace was Deborah’s acknowledgement of the truth in that statement. Her stepfather had been a good man, yet he had happily paid to have his cellars stocked illicitly.

‘Why do you not return to London to live?’ Randolph asked. A few brown fingers curled to rest close to his narrow mouth as he waited for her reply. After a silent moment he prodded, ‘Is there more to it than a battle of wills with the smugglers?’

Deborah got to her feet and collected the cups to put on the tray. She spun about to face him, feeling an odd unwillingness to admit that she—once an heiress with a magnificent dowry—now could not afford to live in London. Yet she had nothing to be ashamed of. She had not squandered her inheritance; it had been taken from her. Again she had an inclination to tell him that he had no right to ask. But then that would imply that she cared what he thought. And she didn’t.

‘When Papa died the whole estate was entailed on the next male heir. I have no brother, as you know. There was no close relative on the paternal side who might have felt morally obliged to treat us generously. A distant cousin—a gentleman we haven’t met who resides in a castle in Scotland—took the title and estate. Mama was very well provided for in my father’s will, and my inheritance was held in trust. Unfortunately it was one that could be breached.’ She shrugged, clattering crockery.

‘When your mother remarried her assets became Mr Woodville’s,’ Randolph guessed.

‘Indeed,’ Debbie muttered, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table until the knuckles showed bone. ‘And Mr Woodville had a son and a strong belief in primogeniture.’

A silence ensued and whilst Debbie stared fiercely through the window Randolph watched her.

‘You have enough to live on?’ he eventually asked quietly.

‘Oh, yes. Mr Woodville left Mama enough to carry on living here comfortably, if we are careful. When she has passed away the house and estate will go to his son, Norman. In order that I would not be left destitute, he also left me a bequest of a few thousand pounds to tempt a prospective husband. It is not quite the sixty that my father had wanted me to have.’ She turned with a smile on her lips. ‘Well, as we have finished tea, sir, shall we now take a stroll in the gardens?’