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The Rake's Defiant Mistress
Mary Brendan
Notorious rake, reckless widowSnowbound with society’s most notorious rake, Ruth Hayden has to use every ounce of her defiant spirit to keep from falling into his arms. But behind his charm Sir Clayton Powell hides the pain and humiliation of a past betrayal.Her life marked with scandal, Ruth knows what it is to struggle on the fringes of society, but even she is shocked by the vicious gossip circulating about him. Recklessly, she seeks to silence the rumour mill – by announcing their engagement. Then wonders how Clayton will take advantage of the situation…


Swiftly Ruth tore herself from theoverpowering pull of his smoulderinggrey eyes.

The gentle banter between them had transformed into something far more deadly serious. She turned her head, frowned in confusion. Clayton was flirting outrageously with her, making her think unsuitable thoughts, making her feel emotions she didn’t want to feel…

Foolishly she’d encouraged the attention of a notorious rake in the belief she could match his sophisticated skill in a trifling game. For an interminable moment she refused to meet his eyes whilst a riot of thoughts whirled in her head. She must cede him his victory in their verbal duel but not let him know how greatly he’d unsettled her.

She might be unworldly and wearing a tired-looking dress, but she’d not crumple beneath the sensual challenge he’d thrown down…

Author Note
The path of true love never runs smooth, so the old saying goes, and I have written a duet of novels with those wise words in mind. In the first book, THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN, it was certainly a fitting adage! The heroine, Sarah Marchant, had suffered a traumatic childhood. When her future was cruelly bound to that of Gavin Stone—something neither of them wanted—it seemed matters must only get worse…or would they?

This second story, THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS, features Ruth Hayden as the heroine. Widowed when very young, she has also endured a great deal of heartache in her early years. Then Sir Clayton Powell arrives. He’s a man she wants to refuse, but a scandal results in their engagement. Can a marriage without love survive?

May you enjoy them both to the full.
Mary Brendan was born in North London, but now lives in rural Suffolk. She has always had a fascination with bygone days, and enjoys the research involved in writing historical fiction. When not at her word processor, she can be found trying to bring order to a large overgrown garden, or browsing local fairs and junk shops for that elusive bargain.

Recent novels by this author:

WEDDING NIGHT REVENGE*
THE UNKNOWN WIFE*
A SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE*
THE RAKE AND THE REBEL*
A PRACTICAL MISTRESS†
THE WANTON BRIDE†
THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN**

*The Meredith Sisters †The Hunter Brothers **linked to THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS

THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS
Mary Brendan

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS
Chapter One


‘I think I must ask you to leave, sir.’
The lady received no response to her firm request. The gentleman she had attempted to eject from her small sitting room continued to pace across the rug, stamping a deeper trench into its tired pile.
‘Doctor Bryant!’ Ruth Hayden’s suffocated plea held a hint of irritation. ‘I beg I will not have to again ask you to go.’
The fellow halted, exasperatedly planting his hands on to his hips. ‘I cannot believe you will not hear me out, Mrs Hayden.’ A grimace stressed his bewilderment. ‘Why will you not at least let me fully explain to you the benefits—?’
‘I need no full explanation, sir,’ Ruth Hayden interrupted him briskly. ‘I have the gist of your proposal and it is enough for me to want to spare you…spare us both…the embarrassment of any further mention of it. I am conscious of the honour you do me, but I cannot marry you. Now I must bid you good day.’ Ruth walked swiftly to the sitting-room door and pointedly opened it.
As he realised he was being summarily dismissed, the look of surprise quit Dr Ian Bryant’s features to be replaced by one of anger.
In the rural town of Willowdene he was an eminent member of society and not used to receiving such a set down. The woman delivering the snub was barely tolerated in company hereabouts and that made her attitude to his proposal the more unexpected. As his wife she would once more be welcomed into the fold.
He was a ruggedly good-looking man in his middle thirties with nothing exceptional or objectionable in his demeanour. He was moderately broad of shoulder and quite tall. Now he drew himself even higher in his shoes before stalking towards the exit.
‘Had you not once given me reason to hope that you would welcome my attentions, madam, I would not be here at all.’ His lips curled in satisfaction as he noticed how that barb unsettled her.
High spots of colour burned on Ruth’s slanting cheekbones as she recalled the incident to which he referred. But she tilted her head to a proud angle and squarely met his eyes. ‘I think on that occasion too, sir, you presumed too much,’ she rejoined coolly. ‘I was in need of a little comfort when my father died suddenly. I again thank you for giving it to me. Now there is no more to be said.’ She opened the door a mite wider, but still he seemed reluctant to go. Eyes that were unwavering settled on her face as Dr Bryant relentlessly studied the object of his desire.
Ruth Hayden was beautiful rather than fashionably pretty. She was not blessed with delicate features and her complexion was not fair enough for what was considered nice in a genteel lady. Her thick dark brown hair had resisted sleek confinement in the pleat at her nape and glossy locks wisped untidily against her cheeks. Beneath defined brows were large chocolate-coloured eyes that were far too direct and steady for a modest female of gentle birth. The womanly trait he normally found alluring, flirtatiousness, was absent from her character. Today she might have blushed and lowered her eyelashes before him, but that was due to her being disconcerted, not playful. Yet in mocking contrast to her strait-laced attitude was the curvaceous body he had once—far too briefly—felt moulding to his. His eyes were drawn to it now: full high breasts and rounded hips that were separated by a divinely tiny waist he ached to girdle with his hands.
Her unequivocal rejection had astonished him as well as dented his pride. A woman in her unenviable position ought to have jumped at the chance to improve her status and prospects. But she had thwarted not only his desire to bed her, but to have her mother his infant son. Ian was abruptly jolted from his brooding thoughts by a polite reminder that he was outstaying his welcome.
‘I have much to do, sir; I must insist you leave and again bid you good day.’
Without another word Ian strode out. Within a moment Ruth closed her eyes in relief as she heard the bolts being slid home. Her maid appeared on the threshold to the sitting room. ‘Shall I put on the kettle, Mrs Hayden?’ the girl asked in concern.
Ruth gave Cissie a small smile and a grateful nod. So Cissie knew she was in need of a little comfort! She did not believe Cissie to be an intentional eavesdropper. Her maid had sensed rather than heard the delicate nature of the conversation that had taken place moments ago between her and Dr Bryant. Cissie would have deduced from the doctor’s grim expression that she’d declined his proposal. Now the girl was curious to know her reasons for turning down an offer of marriage from an eligible gentleman.
One only needed to glance about the sitting room to realise that Mrs Hayden lived frugally. The fresh herby atmosphere that wafted throughout the spotless cottage could not improve furniture that was shabby or furnishings that had seen far better days. If one were to venture into the kitchen and investigate the larders, similar proof of want would be found. The obvious conclusion to be drawn was that this widow’s lot in life would improve dramatically were she to marry a rich widower.
And Dr Bryant was such a fellow—so everyone hereabouts thought. He had a fine home and income and had increased his wealth on marriage. Therefore it was reasoned that his worthy profession was a philanthropic vocation rather than necessary toil.
As Cissie went off to prepare the tea Ruth sank into a chair. She turned her head to frown over the bright budding gardens and wondered why she had, with so little thought given to the certain benefits she was rejecting, turned down Dr Bryant. She might have asked him for a little time to mull over becoming his wife. It was an accepted response by a lady startled by a marriage proposal.
When she’d been a gauche eighteen-year-old, Paul Hayden had taken her by surprise and asked her to marry him. In her tender innocence she had guessed it might be deemed vulgar, after so short an acquaintance, to seem too keen too soon, so had given him a blurted prevarication. A private smile curved her mouth at the sweet memory of it. But by the time he had reached the door and turned to take his leave, her overwhelming happiness had prompted her to fly to him and insist that she’d like nothing better than to be his wife. She had loved him too much to make him unnecessarily suffer her indecision.
Doctor Bryant did not stir any such passionate longing in her. But she had thought him to be her friend until the day he had ruined it all by asking her to become his mistress. Now he had lost his wife in childbed, he had improved his offer to her.
Was she simply a silly fool to yearn to fall in love with a man before she’d consider the advantages to be had in matrimony?

‘You’re becoming tiresomely repetitive, my dear,’ the gentleman told the pouting brunette who was lounging, naked, amid rumpled silk sheets.
Undeterred by her lover’s softly spoken reprimand, Lady Loretta Vane smoothed the sulky expression from her pretty face and rolled on to her belly in a flash of lissom white limbs. Satisfied with her seductive pose, she raised long dusky lashes to reveal limpid blue eyes. Triumphantly she noticed his flinty gaze drop to her lush breasts alluringly presented on an artfully plumped pillow.
Sir Clayton Powell stopped buttoning his shirt and sauntered back towards the four-poster where his mistress excitedly awaited his approach. As soon as he came within reach Loretta stretched out elegant fingers to curve on his thigh, her hard oval nails pressing indents in the material covering solid muscle.
‘Come back to bed,’ she invited huskily. ‘Perhaps I might change your mind and show you what you will soon be missing if you don’t make an honest woman of me.’
Clayton leaned towards her, planted a hand on the mattress either side of her slender figure. Sinuously she flipped on to her back and coiled her arms about his neck, dragging him close.
‘Think what beautiful children we would have,’ she whispered urgently against his mouth. ‘A little girl with blonde hair like you and a boy…your heir…dark like me.’
Clayton smiled against her lips. ‘And what does your fiancé think to bigamy and bastards?’
Loretta threw back her head and chuckled, deliberately tempting his lips to an alluring column of milky skin. She wriggled delightedly as a moist caress moved on her smooth white throat. ‘He would be most put out…but it does not signify. You know I would drop Pomfrey tomorrow and take you in his stead.’
‘Yes…I know you would,’ Clayton said and lifted his head to look at her with slate-grey eyes. He touched his mouth to hers in an oddly passionless salute.
Just a short while ago the bed had been the scene of torrid lovemaking. Now his response to Loretta Vane’s seductive teasing had cooled considerably. His change of attitude was not simply caused by his irritation at her constant marriage proposals. He’d no quarrel with the Honourable Ralph Pomfrey and had no intention of becoming embroiled in one because Loretta had now pinned her ambitions to net a wealthy husband on him.
It had recently come to light, when Pomfrey unwisely approached Claude Potts—a known blabbermouth—for a loan, that he might not be quite as flush as was generally thought. In fact, it was rumoured that Loretta’s bank balance might be healthier than was Pomfrey’s following a disastrous run of luck he’d had backing nags.
Thus, it had become more obvious why this pleasant fellow of impeccable lineage would propose marriage to a woman who, although a lady by name, was a courtesan by nature.
Loretta had been left a tidy sum by her late husband, Lord John Vane. She had already frittered away a good portion of it. Doubtless she was now fretting that, far from improving her prospects by marrying the Earl of Elkington’s youngest son, she might put in jeopardy what remained of her little nest egg. It was surely no coincidence that her enthusiasm for the match had waned with Pomfrey’s luck.
Worried by her lover’s lack of response, Loretta tugged at Clayton’s shirt front and slid her tongue on his lips to tempt him to kiss her properly.
‘Pomfrey is your fiancé,’ Clayton reminded her lightly, holding her by the wrists away from him. ‘You will make a good couple. He is the right husband for you.’ He released her as he said that and, collecting his jacket from the velvet chaise longue, pushed his arms into the sleeves.
‘You are the right husband for me!’ Loretta fiercely objected. Realising he was about to go before giving a satisfactory answer, she sprang upright and swung two shapely legs off the bed. Her honed features were no longer softened by sensuality, but set in determined lines that set aslant her full mouth and dark brows.
‘I’m not the right husband for any woman…trust me on that,’ Clayton returned with a wry smile as he negligently stuffed his cravat into a pocket. ‘Do you want to go to the opera tomorrow evening?’ he asked idly, his hand on the doorknob.
‘Marry me!’ Loretta demanded. ‘It’s you I want. It’s always been you I want. We make a good couple. I swear if you do not, Clayton…if you do not…’ she repeated, playing for time to rally enough courage to issue the ultimatum.
‘If I do not?’ Clayton prompted. He leaned back against the door to watch her, while shooting two pristine shirt cuffs out of his jacket. A steady dark gaze was levelled on her flushing face. ‘Come, tell me what you plan to do to punish me.’
‘I will finish it between us,’ she stated in a brittle tone and tilted her chin to an obstinate angle. ‘I will go ahead and marry Ralph Pomfrey as soon as maybe and once I am his wife I will not cuckold him. I will sleep with only my husband.’
A spontaneous laugh broke in Clayton’s throat. ‘I’m impressed. You’re going to be a faithful spouse. That’s most unusual for the ton and most certainly novel for you, my dear. I’m sure your late departed husband would be miffed to know you’ve reformed rather too late for him to gain any benefit. I hope Pomfrey appreciates your sacrifice.’
Ralph Pomfrey was aware—as was the whole of the ton—that he’d proposed marriage to the woman who had been Clayton Powell’s mistress for over six months. The knowledge that his betrothed was continuing to sleep with another man seemed not to trouble Pomfrey. Naturally, it was assumed that once the nuptials were imminent the liaison would end, at least until Loretta had done her duty and provided her husband with a legitimate son and heir.
‘You won’t find it all so amusing when I turn you away,’ Loretta said with a choke of annoyance. She had used her ace and had it immediately trumped. Now she wished she had saved it for another time, but could not withdraw it. ‘You won’t find another woman to please you as well as I do.’
In Clayton’s view, that petulant afterthought was her ace and it kept him loitering by the door while he gave both it and her his attention. Without doubt Loretta Vane was an enthusiastic and uninhibited bed partner.
A slow appraisal roamed over the naked young woman provocatively posing on the edge of the bed. Her figure was undeniably lush and perfectly proportioned. But it wasn’t just Loretta’s physical charms that made men keen to win her favours. She’d gained a reputation as a wanton with an appetite she’d been previously unashamed to sate in adulterous affairs during her first marriage. If she’d meant what she said about staying true to Pomfrey once they were wed, it would indeed be an odd union. Polite society was, for the most part, composed of people untroubled by discreet promiscuity within marriage, once the nursery was full.
Clayton tilted Loretta a wry smile that hinted at his capitulation. He approached her, noticing sultry triumph glittering in her eyes as she rose gracefully from the bed to sway towards him.
‘How do you know you please me very well?’ he asked and pressed a kiss to the pulse bobbing beneath the porcelain skin of her throat. ‘I’ve never told you so.’
‘You don’t need to say. I know I do,’ she said huskily. An ardent gleam was darkening her blue eyes as she peeped up at him. ‘Shall I make you say it?’
‘Do you think you can?’
‘I know I can,’ she promised and flicked her small tongue to curl on his ear.
‘Well…in that case I suppose it would be rude to decline the challenge,’ Clayton said before his lips hardened on hers, parting her mouth wide so he could immediately plunge inside. He gasped a laugh as her nimble fingers immediately opened the buttons covering the magnificent bulge straining the material at his groin. They slipped inside to slide with skilful rhythm until he growled at her to cease. She did so and instead lithely dropped to her knees in front of him.
With blood pounding through his veins, Clayton curved long fingers over the dark head rocking efficiently in front of his hips. With a groaning oath he tensed and drew her up. Swinging Loretta in to his arms, he carried her back to bed.

At six in the morning Clayton again shrugged in to his coat and approached the door of Loretta’s boudoir. As she softly called his name he turned to smile at the dishevelled sight of her. Her half-open eyes were glazed in torpor.
‘I know I pleased you,’ she purred. ‘Deny it if you can…’
‘You pleased me. Without doubt you make an excellent paramour.’
Sensual languor was still drugging her mind, but Loretta frowned at the amusement in his tone. ‘I’ll make a far better wife than mistress. I meant what I said, Clayton,’ she whispered throatily.
He shot her a grin. ‘So did I,’ he said and went out, quietly shutting the door.
A nebulous March morning was moistening the cobbles as Clayton emerged into the street. He turned in the direction of Belgravia Place, a leafy square hemmed by elegant town houses, the largest of which was his home.

John Vane had left his young widow her own apartment conveniently situated in the heart of town. Thus it was just a short time later, and with a weak dawn light at his back, that Clayton was taking the stone steps to his mansion two at a time.
On entering the hallway he was surprised to see Hughes, his butler, striding towards him as though anticipating his arrival. The elderly servant had been in the army in his heyday and, being sprightly for his years, still strutted about as though on parade.
‘An urgent post arrived, Sir Clayton,’ he told his master and held out the tray on which reposed a parchment. If he deemed it odd to see his master arrive home at daybreak with his cravat trailing from a pocket and the remainder of his clothes in a state likely to give his valet an attack, he gave no outward sign.
Clayton took the letter while issuing an order. ‘Arrange for hot water for a bath, please, and coffee and toast.’
‘At once, sir,’ Hughes said with a crisp nod and marched off.
Clayton took a proper look at the writing on the note he held. A grin split his face. He recognised the hand as that of his good friend Viscount Tremayne. He guessed that, as the post was urgent, Gavin was already on his way to Mayfair from his estate in Surrey. Clayton dropped into his chair in his study and read the very welcome news that Gavin Stone was due in town today.
Chapter Two


‘Oh! You have not brought him for me to cuddle!’
‘You may cuddle me instead!’ Viscountess Tremayne teasingly replied and proceeded to give Ruth a warm hug. ‘I have missed you,’ she said fiercely.
‘And I have missed you,’ Ruth said simply, tightening her arms about her best friend. ‘I am longing to hear more wonderful news about Surrey. But first tell me—where is that darling baby boy?’
‘He has been snuffling a little bit and I thought it best to leave him in the warm with his nurse as the weather has turned so bitter cold.’ Sarah gave Ruth an expressive look. ‘James is teething and I fret that he might take a chill.’ A soft maternal smile preceded, ‘He is a darling little chap, the image of his papa, and at times I feel I will die for love of him.’
Ruth linked arms with Sarah and led the way to the sitting room. Once her visitor had shed her hat and gloves, they sat in comfortable fireside chairs. Logs were crackling valiantly in the grate, keeping at bay the draughts. Outside was weak spring sunlight, but the March winds were strong enough to infiltrate the casements and stir the curtains.
Ruth poured tea from the prepared tray that sat on a table close to the hearth. Once they had sipped at the warming brew their conversation was resumed with a fluency that mocked the long months and miles that had separated them. To an observer they might have been dear sisters, so affectionate and natural were they as they chatted and warmed their palms on the china cups.
‘How long will you stay at Willowdene Manor?’
‘Until Michaelmas…if I have my way,’ Sarah said with a grin.
Ruth cocked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And I imagine you have a tendency to get your own way.’ She sighed in faux sympathy. ‘Poor Gavin!’
‘Poor Gavin, indeed!’ Sarah mocked, but her expression softened as she named her beloved husband. ‘He likes it very well when I get my own way, I assure you he does,’ she added saucily.
‘Hussy!’ Ruth chided and clucked her tongue.
‘Indeed I am,’ Sarah agreed with an impish look from beneath her lashes. ‘And ever was…as you know…’
An amicable quiet settled on the room for a moment while they dwelled on the events Sarah had alluded to and how, subsequently, her life had improved so wonderfully.
Just a year ago Lady Tremayne had been Sarah Marchant, a kept woman, shunned by the locals as a brazen harlot. Following her lover’s untimely death, she had been living frugally in the rural town of Willowdene when she met and fell in love with Gavin Stone, new master of Willowdene Manor. A few months after their wedding in the chapel at the Manor, Sarah had moved with her husband to his magnificent estate in Surrey to take up her new life as Viscountess Tremayne.
Now Sarah was a fine lady, with an adorable baby son. Once the two women had been united in living quietly, ostracised by the townsfolk. Now a chasm had opened between their positions. Sarah’s status as the wife of a distinguished peer of the realm meant her company was highly sought by everyone, especially the hypocritical. But far from resenting her friend’s astonishing good fortune, Ruth was glad that Sarah had been so blessed.
‘You’re very happy,’ Ruth stated with quiet contentment. ‘I knew you would be. Gavin is a fine gentleman and all that gossip about his roguish ways was piffle.’
‘Not quite…’ Sarah demurred. ‘Besides, roguish ways have their benefits,’ she said archly. ‘Gavin says he now has too many responsibilities to rake around town. He leaves that to his friend, Sir Clayton Powell, who, by all accounts, still does it very well.’
Ruth lowered her teacup and cocked her head to one side. ‘I remember him. He came to Willowdene and stayed for a short while when Gavin was here chasing after you.’
‘He did, indeed.’
‘Would it worry you if soon you saw Sir Clayton again?’ Sarah recalled that Ruth had been rather wary of her husband’s best friend. ‘One of the reasons we are back in Willowdene—apart from to see you, of course—is to make arrangements to have James christened at the Manor’s chapel.’ She placed down her cup to continue. ‘I so wanted to have the ceremony here where we were married and where my best friend is. I can’t deny that the chapel at Tremayne Park is much finer than the one at Willowdene Manor, but it won’t do.’ She paused. ‘And we very much want you to agree to be James’s godmother. Please say you will.’
‘I would be most happy to accept,’ Ruth said huskily. Spontaneous tears glossed her eyes at the great honour and privilege being bestowed upon her.
‘That is good!’ Sarah exclaimed in delight. ‘Clayton is to be godfather. Gavin says he must be asked, for beneath the heart of a scoundrel beats one of pure gold.’ She gestured in emphasis. ‘Gavin says he takes his responsibilities most seriously. His heir—his nephew that is, for there were no children from his own marriage—is being educated at Clayton’s vast expense.’
‘He is married?’ Ruth spluttered, faintly amused. ‘And still he rakes around town as if a bachelor?’
‘Oh, he was married.’ Sarah inclined her head to impart, ‘Apparently it was a long time ago and a very great mésalliance that lasted barely a year. His wife, Priscilla, led him a merry dance, then defected with a foreign count! I do not know all the ins and outs, but I know the marriage was annulled and Clayton was, from Gavin’s report, very bitter over it all at the time.’ A sigh stressed her sadness. ‘Clayton has vowed never again to wed and that is why he is grooming his nephew to take the role his own son ought to have occupied.’
‘Perhaps I need not have worried that he might have dug into my past and found skeletons.’ Ruth raised her dark brows. ‘It seems he has a scandal of his own to keep buried. So to answer your question: I do not mind if I meet him again.’
‘You needn’t worry over him asking impertinent questions. I’ve come to know him a little, and to like him a lot. He is most charming and mannerly.’ After a brief pause Sarah said firmly, ‘You must agree to dine with us both this evening. It is all arranged,’ she insisted as she glimpsed her friend preparing to object from good manners and the fear of playing gooseberry. ‘Gavin is not yet home. He had to break his journey in the City as he had business to attend to. But he is due to arrive by six and in time to dine. We both said how nice it would be for you to join us this evening and celebrate our return to the Manor. And of course you will see baby James.’ That last was added in a cajoling tone that made Ruth smile as she guessed its purpose.
‘In that case, I would be delighted to join you both.’ Ruth accepted with a dip of her dark head.
Sarah grasped Ruth’s hands and gave them an affectionate squeeze. ‘Good,’ she breathed. ‘Now, tell me what I have been missing in Willowdene? I thought I might die laughing when you wrote to me about Rosamund Pratt’s fall from grace! And with an ostler at the Red Lion, too!’ Sarah chuckled as heartily as she had on first learning that the respectable matron who had been particularly mean to them both had been caught rolling in hay with a tavern groom young enough to be her son. ‘I want all the latest tattle, you know!’
Ruth, too, had been savouring the memory of Mrs Pratt’s come-uppance, but now her amusement faded. ‘Well, you have arrived at the right time to be the first to know some gossip. I imagine by the end of the week the rumour mill will be grinding in Willowdene.’
That information was delivered in such an odd tone that Sarah immediately begged to know more.
‘I have recently received a marriage proposal from Dr Bryant. I turned him down.’
Sarah’s eyes grew round and her lips parted in astonishment. She knew that the doctor had propositioned Ruth over a year ago. She knew, too, from a letter she’d received from Ruth, that later that year Ian Bryant’s wife had tragically died in childbed. ‘How did he take it?’ she eventually blurted.
‘Not very well, I’m afraid. He seemed astounded by my answer. I had to ask him more than once to leave. Eventually he did go, wearing a thunderous expression.’
‘He assumed you would accept.’ Sarah sat back in her chair.
‘He assumed I would be very grateful.’ Ruth’s small teeth worried at her lower lip. ‘He did not say so, but I could tell from his attitude.’ A humourless little laugh preceded, ‘Of course, the whole of Willowdene will join him in thinking me a fool to reject him.’ She shot a frown at Sarah. ‘He turned up without warning and I would never have guessed what had prompted his visit. But why did I turn him down with so little consideration given the benefits attached to what he offered?’
‘Because you don’t love him?’ Sarah gently advanced.
‘No, I don’t love him…but is that reason enough to decline a nice home and financial security?’
‘I can’t answer that for you,’ Sarah replied. ‘But instinctively you thought it was. You adored Paul and I can understand why you would again want to have a husband to love.’
‘It is rather vexing to have been indulged in a love match,’ Ruth wryly complained. ‘It is equally irksome to have a friend who is blissfully happy with her rich, handsome lord.’ Ruth gave Sarah a mock-stern look. ‘Now I constantly berate fate for not being equally kind to me.’
‘If it is of help, I too would often pray fate might be kind to me, just a little bit.’ Sarah clasped Ruth’s hands in comfort. ‘And eventually it was.’
‘How long must I wait for that little bit?’ Ruth asked with wry gravity. ‘After nine years as a widow perhaps it is time I was sensible and stopped pining for heroes on white chargers to happen by.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I have to admit that if I were to be given a list of all the available gentlemen hereabouts and told I must pick from it a husband, Dr Bryant would probably be the most appealing to me.’
‘Yet instinctively you refused him,’ Sarah gently reminded Ruth. ‘So we must widen your circle of gentlemen acquaintances forthwith. If you were to socialise in London, you would attract suitors like bees to a honeypot.’
‘I doubt that an impecunious widow of twenty-eight years…soon to be twenty-nine…who has forgotten how to dance and flirt will seem very sweet to our drones,’ Ruth said ruefully.
‘I can teach you how to dance and how to flirt,’ Sarah offered impishly. ‘Not that I think you will need much reminding on the latter once the right gentleman comes along.’
Ruth rested back into the sofa and gave her friend a tranquil smile. ‘You always cheer me up. Thank you. I now feel much less sorry for myself. Things are not so drear. I have this cottage and a few investments Papa left to help me get by. I think I will settle on waiting in Willowdene for my knight in shining armour. After all, there are far worse places to be—Almack’s wallflower corner for a start!’ She gave an exaggerated shudder on mentioning the renowned matchmaking venue in London. As a débutante of seventeen she had been there regularly and danced with young bucks in the market for a suitable wife. In the event she had met her future husband, Paul Hayden, at her aunt’s house. But she could quite clearly recall the alcove in Almack’s ballroom where the more mature single ladies—who acted as chaperons and companions to the débutantes—would congregate. The thought of ever joining their number was as depressing now as it had been then.
‘Come, I shall wait while you get ready and we will return to the Manor together in the landau. There is still time to cuddle James before he is put to bed. And there is so much more I want to tell you about Tremayne Park. When we return to Surrey you must come too.’
‘I imagine your husband might want to take you on honeymoon now you are well enough to travel,’ Ruth protested laughingly. She got to her feet to get ready to go out. The thought of a very pleasant evening spent with her friends, and her first sight of their darling baby boy, cheered her enormously.

‘I’ve always liked the silver-grey silk, but the plum satin is pretty too.’
‘The silver-grey it is,’ Ruth said and put the other gown away.
‘Do you think Dr Bryant is sufficiently rebuffed or might he return to try again?’ Sarah asked as Ruth went about her toilette quite unconcerned by her friend’s observation or her uninvited assistance in closing buttons or pinning curls that were hard to reach.
‘I think he is too indignant to be persistent,’ Ruth answered. She stood up from the stool, pleased with her appearance. She had collected her warm coat and hat before she concluded, ‘I think I have heard the last from him on that score. When he left he looked as though his pride had taken a hefty dent.’

‘You’ve dented her pride and a woman scorned is best avoided for as long as possible.’
‘Amen to that,’ Clayton agreed, scowling at his friend’s wry philosophy. His black humour didn’t subdue Viscount Tremayne’s amusement. As his friend chuckled beneath his breath, Clayton leaned back into the sumptuous squabs of the splendid travelling coach that bore the crest of the Tremayne clan and was presently heading, at breakneck speed in the hope of outrunning the snow clouds, towards Willowdene Manor.
Clayton was glad to be spending time with his good friend and glad to be away from the metropolis for a while. Yet niggling at his conscience was a feeling that he was fleeing from an unpleasant situation and he never usually did that. Beneath his breath he cursed Loretta Vane for having managed to spoil his long-awaited reunion with Gavin and his family.
Shortly after Gavin had arrived at Clayton’s home that afternoon a letter from his mistress had been delivered. It had conveyed the outrageous news that Loretta expected him to arrange for their betrothal to be immediately gazetted. In anticipation of his submitting to that action, she had written to Pomfrey to warn him of his jilting. Loretta had also found the gall to infer that she’d dropped Pomfrey at Clayton’s behest… as though Clayton had browbeaten her into it.
After Clayton had spent an incredulous few moments rereading the unsubtle blackmail, he had been vacillating between laughing out loud and swearing at the ceiling. Seething anger had triumphed and he had screwed the perfumed paper in a fist and hurled it as far as he could while fighting down the need to storm straight to her house and shake some sense into the scheming minx.
He knew he would never allow himself to be coerced into marrying her, no matter how devious her strategies. A curt, unequivocal note had been despatched to tell her that. It had also made it clear that their relationship was at an end and that shortly his lawyer would contact her regarding a settlement.
Aware of his friend’s steady gaze on him, Clayton turned his head aside to stare at the dusky passing landscape. The first fat flakes of snow drifted past the carriage window, but still Clayton’s simmering fury at Loretta’s scheming preoccupied his mind. ‘The vixen is intent on stirring up trouble between Pomfrey and me,’ he remarked, almost to himself.
‘Don’t rise to the bait.’
‘I’ve no intention of doing so. But Pomfrey might. He won’t want to be made a laughing stock over this. He might feel obliged to act on it simply to protect his family’s good name.’
‘You think he might call for pistols at dawn?’ Gavin asked with a sardonic smile. He knew very well—as did the whole of the ton—that his friend was an excellent shot and unlikely to be challenged by a sane man to a duel. ‘Pomfrey has his pockets to let, not his attic. He won’t allow her to pull his strings any more than will you.’
‘She is extremely adept at pulling the strings of gentlemen.’
‘I’m sure,’ Gavin said on a dry chuckle. ‘Let’s hope Pomfrey is able to resist her persuasion as well as you can.’
Clayton stretched out his long legs comfortably in front of him and a slow grin softened his features. ‘You’d best tell the driver to slow down. The bad weather’s caught up with us.’
Gavin whipped his head about to frown at the falling snow. The urgent need to be reunited with his beloved wife and baby son made him reluctant to issue the order. With a sigh he realised he risked never seeing them again if they continued to drive at reckless speed on roads that would soon be treacherous. Having taken Clayton’s good advice and instructed the driver to rein in and take extreme care negotiating the road, he settled back into the seat and turned his mind again to his friend’s unfortunate plight.
‘It could all be a bluff, in any case,’ Gavin reasoned. ‘Lady Vane might not have sent Pomfrey a letter yet. She might be hedging her bets. I’ll warrant she won’t drop Pomfrey until she accepts it’s all over with you.’
‘I’m inclined to agree on that,’ Clayton said reflectively. ‘If she doesn’t understand plain English, as soon as I get back to town I’ll make sure she knows that I mean what I say.’
‘There is one certain way to make her accept you mean what you say and that you’ll never have her as your wife.’
‘And that is…?’ Clayton asked with lazy interest.
‘Marry someone else,’ Gavin said.
Chapter Three


‘I do hope Gavin has put up for the night somewhere. It would be foolhardy to travel on in such dreadful weather.’
Ruth gently settled baby James in his crib before turning her attention to the boy’s mother. Sarah had spoken in a voice sharpened by anxiety and with her melancholy gaze directed through the nursery window.
Inside the Manor all was cosy and warm, but sloping away from the house the lawns, that this afternoon had been murky green, appeared icy white. It was after eight o’clock in the evening and more than two hours since the time of Gavin’s expected arrival. The snow had stopped falling and the sky had become the darkest shade of blue, threatening a night of perilous frost lay ahead. A pale, hard moon had escaped from a scrap of cloud and beneath its faint light the snow scintillated back at the stars.
‘It is possible Gavin has not yet set out at all,’ Ruth soothingly reminded. ‘I expect he has sensibly remained in London if the snow has come from that direction.’ It was a valid reassurance, given more than once since the snow started, yet it did little to erase the look of strain from the Viscountess’s features. Sarah’s small teeth continued to nip ferociously at her lower lip. Forlornly she peered at the long driveway that led to the house as though willing her husband’s carriage to hove into view.
When they had travelled together from the hamlet of Fernlea, where Ruth lived, the air had held a cruel effervescence. But the breeze had kindly whipped the heavy clouds before it, giving them no chance to hover and shed their load. Within an hour of their arrival at the Manor the elements had turned against them. The wind had dropped, leaving the heavens concealed behind an unmoving blanket of sullen grey. The first gentle flurries had seemed harmless, but inexorably the dainty flakes had thickened and settled on the ground. Sarah and Ruth had taken turns at the window to report on the creeping progress of the frosting on the grass. Now the two women stood side by side, silently surveying the treacherous white landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘There is the tavern at Woodville.’ Ruth quickly attempted to comfort her friend. Sarah’s countenance had become as still and pale as the scenery they gazed upon. ‘If Gavin was close to home when the weather took a turn for the worse, I expect he instructed his coachman to pull in there.’ Again the suggestion was valid: Woodville was a small town situated about seventeen miles south of Willowdene and the King’s Head was a well-known stopping point for travellers going to and from London.
‘Yes, I’m sure he would have done that.’ Sarah managed a constrained little smile. ‘Gavin would not be foolish enough to carry on regardless simply to get home to us…would he?’
‘Of course not,’ Ruth reassured fraudulently and drew her friend away from the window and back into the room. ‘Little James is a contented soul. His nurse must dote on him,’ she said, trying to divert Sarah’s attention to something pleasant as they sat down by the cot.
A moment after they had settled into their chairs to watch James peacefully dozing, Sarah suddenly cocked her head, then leaped to her feet. In a trice she had flown back to the window and was craning her neck to peer out. ‘He is here!’ she sobbed out at the glass. She whirled about to gulp at Ruth, ‘The carriage is here.’
Quickly Ruth joined her at the window and was instantly enveloped in Sarah’s hug. ‘Oh, thank Heavens! He is safely home.’ Sarah snuffled back tears of blessed joy, her eyes glistening with the strength of her relief.
‘You must go and welcome him.’ Ruth was well aware that Sarah yearned to do so. ‘I shall be quite happy to stay here with this darling boy if I may.’
‘Gavin will think me quite a nincompoop to get in such a state.’ Sarah knuckled away the wet that dewed her lashes. But she was soon at the door, leaving Ruth to gaze down, soft-eyed, at the infant left in her care. James was sleeping soundly, his cherubic face turned away from her. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Ruth drew the covers closer about him, then stroked a tiny curled palm. Reflexively the baby clutched at her finger. Ruth felt her chest constrict and an ache surged up her throat at the memory of another baby—one whose delicate fingers had remained cold and unresponsive to her loving touch.
Ruth went to sit close by the fire. She eased back gratefully into the comfy chair, realising that she was quite enervated. In truth she, too, had begun to feel extremely concerned for Gavin’s safety as nightfall came with no sign of a thaw or the arrival of the master of the house. Feeling now relaxed and quite cosy, she allowed her weary eyelids to fall.
The baby’s whimpering woke her. Immediately Ruth looked at the fire; it had burned low in the grate. She then glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was approaching nine o’clock. Jumping to her feet, she quickly went to peer in the cot. From his scrunched, angry face and drawn-up knees, and from female intuition, Ruth guessed that colic was the culprit.
Having lifted the fretful baby to her shoulder, she began murmuring soothingly to him. Rhythmically she rubbed at his back in the hope of easing his cramps while walking towards the door. The corridor was deserted. The baby’s nurse had earlier been dismissed for the afternoon so Sarah and Ruth could chat and enjoy each other’s company in private. With no idea where she might find James’s nurse, and guessing Sarah and Gavin might be in the small salon, Ruth headed off in that direction.
‘Mrs Hayden?’
Ruth had traversed many yards of quiet, carpeted corridor and was close to the top of the majestic staircase when she heard her name called in a cultured baritone voice.
Turning about, she stared, astonished, at a tall blond gentleman who was strolling towards her. She recognised him at once and that was odd, she obliquely realised, for after their brief introduction—which could not have lasted more than a few minutes—she had never again seen Sir Clayton Powell. It was equally odd that he should remember her after that meeting in Willowdene over a year ago. Or perhaps Sarah or Gavin had informed him she was a guest this evening.
‘I had no idea you were staying at Willowdene Manor,’ he said pleasantly as he came closer and executed a polite bow. ‘Our hosts made no mention of it.’
‘I had no idea you would be here either, sir,’ Ruth said quickly. So her presence had not been mentioned, yet he had recognised her. ‘And I am not staying here. I received an invitation to dine this evening with the Viscount and Viscountess.’
‘Do you live close by?’ Clayton asked with a frown. ‘The roads are now virtually impassable. I doubt you will get home tonight.’
That thought had already occurred to Ruth. She had guessed that Sarah would kindly offer her a bed for the night. And Ruth would have accepted, despite having no night things with her. She would never contemplate putting at risk a coach and driver by insisting on going home through miles of lanes blocked by snow. A short while ago the thought of staying a day or two while they waited for a thaw had not presented a problem. Now, for some odd reason, the thought of sleeping beneath the same roof as this gentleman made her feel awkward.
‘You have both arrived safely, if a little tardy,’ Ruth pointed out rather lamely.
‘Gavin would have moved heaven and earth to do so.’
‘I imagined he would,’ Ruth replied wryly. ‘And so did Sarah. It worried her half to death that he would take risks to get here.’
‘The power of love,’ Clayton muttered exceedingly drily, but he cast a fond look at the baby boy fidgeting on Ruth’s shoulder. ‘Should he not be abed?’
‘I think he should,’ Ruth answered politely, yet rather indignant on hearing him sound so cynical. He might have been embittered by a bad marriage, but he had no right to scoff at her dear friends’ wedded bliss. ‘His nurse was given the afternoon off and I’m just on my way to find Sarah,’ Ruth informed him briskly and took a step towards the head of the stairs. ‘I think he might have a pain…or perhaps it has passed,’ she said as quite an embarrassing noise and unpleasant smell issued from the little boy’s rump.
Clayton grinned. ‘I imagine young James is feeling much better now.’
An involuntary giggle escaped Ruth, despite her cheeks having turned pink. ‘Still, I shall look for Sarah and hand him over. We were in the nursery when she heard the coach arrive and she rushed off to greet Gavin. I was on my way to the small salon. They might have gone there. I expect they have much news to catch up on.’
‘Indeed,’ Clayton drawled, amusement far back in his slate-grey eyes. ‘But I doubt you’ll find them in there yet.’ He paused as though mentally phrasing his next words. ‘I believe Gavin went to his chamber to freshen up after the journey. Sarah accompanied him.’
‘Oh…I see,’ Ruth said and averted her face to hide her blushing confusion. She felt quite silly for not having guessed that the two lovebirds would find an opportunity to have some time alone on being safely reunited.
While Ruth composed herself by fussing over the baby, Clayton began to subtly study her with a very male eye. He’d been attracted to her when they had briefly met in Willowdene town despite the fact she had been garbed head to toe in mourning clothes. She’d been capably driving a little pony and trap through the High Street and, from their short conversation that day, he’d learned that she wore weeds because her father had recently died. He’d also learned that she was related by marriage to one of his commanding officers, Colonel Hayden. It was a while later that he’d learned from Gavin that Ruth Hayden had been a widow for many years.
Clayton’s roving appraisal continued and he knew he’d been right in instinctively sensing that beneath the dreary bombazine that had been shrouding her body on that occasion, and the dark bonnet brim that had made sallow her complexion, was a woman of rare beauty.
On first glance Ruth Hayden’s features might appear rather severe, yet on finer appraisal were undoubtedly exquisite. Her deep brown eyes were fringed by lengthy black lashes and topped by delicate brows that looked soft as sable. Her nose was thin, her mouth asymmetrical with a lower lip that was fuller than the curving cupid’s bow on top. She was petite, her smooth peachy cheek barely reached his shoulder, and fragile wrist bones were in his line of vision as she cuddled James close to her. But her figure was generously curvaceous in all the right places. The weight of the baby pressing on her chest had accentuated a satiny ivory cleavage swelling above her bodice. His hooded eyes lingered a moment too long on silver silk straining enticingly across her bosom.
Feeling once more adequately self-possessed, Ruth looked up and immediately her cheeks regained a vivid bloom as she noticed Sir Clayton eyeing her breasts. On the previous occasion when they had conversed she had sensed he found her interesting, and not just because he’d discovered he was acquainted with her in-laws. At the time she’d dismissed the idea he was attracted to her as fanciful and scoffed at her conceit. Yet there was no denying that she’d just caught him regarding her lustfully. Knowing that he found her desirable caused a peculiar mixture of uneasiness and excitement to tumble her insides.
It might have been many years since she had lain with her husband, or even been kissed, but she could recognise the signs that a man wanted her. She had seen the same smouldering intensity at the back of Ian Bryant’s eyes just a couple of days ago when he proposed to her. She had known for a year or more that Ian wanted to bed her. But the doctor didn’t possess skill enough to neutralise a tense situation, or his passion, as it seemed this man could.
Sir Clayton didn’t look in the least disconcerted at being caught out. He raised a long finger, stroked the baby’s soft cheek and lightly remarked, ‘There’s a young maid hovering at the end of the corridor.’ He gave Ruth a nonchalant smile. ‘Perhaps she has come to see to James.’
Ruth slowly expelled her pent-up breath. She pivoted about, grateful for the distraction, and gave young Rosie a beseeching look. At the signal the nursemaid immediately hastened to them and dipped a curtsy.
‘Beggin’your pardon, ma’am…sir…’ she began in her lilting Irish way, ‘but the mistress did tell me to come to settle the little lad down sooner. When I said to her that I’d found you was asleep and so was little James, she said to leave it for a while and not to disturb you at all.’
Ruth gave the nervous girl a smile. She could tell that Rosie was in awe of the handsome gentleman by the way she kept sliding glances at Sir Clayton, then blushing and shuffling on the spot.
Ruth handed over her precious burden. ‘I think he might need some urgent attention,’ she told the girl and gently patted at the baby’s bottom.
Rosie took the baby carefully and with natural fondness immediately smoothed the fair down on his head. ‘Come on then, me little lad,’ she crooned against his warm cheek. ‘Let’s get you seen to.’
Once the maid had disappeared with her charge, and Ruth and Clayton were left alone at the top of the stairs, they both attempted to immediately breach the quiet with conversation.
‘I thought we had left this behind us…’
‘Are you staying long in Willowdene…?’
They had spoken simultaneously and fell silent at the same time too.
‘Please do finish what you were saying, sir,’ Ruth blurted.
‘It was nothing important, just a remark about the unseasonal weather. I thought we had left the snow behind us in the winter months. Only last week we were enjoying fine spring sunshine in town.’
‘Indeed, it was glorious in the countryside too,’ Ruth responded quickly. The weather was always an easy topic to discuss and she eagerly picked up the thread he’d dangled. ‘But it is not so unusual to have snow at this time of the year,’ Ruth spun out the dialogue. ‘I recall my mother telling me that it was snowing in March in the year of my birth. The doctor had quite a journey through the blizzard and was almost late for my arrival.’
‘So…you’ve had a birthday recently, Mrs Hayden,’ Clayton observed with a smile.
‘No…not yet…it is my birthday next week,’ Ruth admitted, suddenly wishing she had kept that particular anecdote private. Into the expectant pause she said with a hint of defensiveness, ‘I shall be nine and twenty on the twenty-fifth of March.’
‘Will you indeed?’ Clayton said, gently amused, but genuinely surprised. She certainly did not appear to be so close to thirty. ‘You’re still a youngster, then,’ he added charmingly. ‘In November of this year I shall turn thirty-five.’
A small smile from Ruth rewarded him for his gallantry. ‘Then you must be either born under the sign of Scorpio or Sagittarius,’ she remarked, gladly turning the focus on to him.
‘Very possibly,’ he admitted on a chuckle, ‘but I have little interest in stargazing or what it all means.’
‘I find the study of the heavens quite pleasing,’ Ruth said.
‘Whereas I prefer to concentrate on earthly pleasures.’
Ruth felt herself blush, but shot back rather acidly, ‘Sagittarians are often hedonistic. I would hazard a guess that your birthday falls at the end of the month of November.’
He gave her a smile, but no further information. Instead he said easily, ‘I interrupted you earlier. I believe you were enquiring how long I intended to stay in Willowdene.’
‘I…yes…I did…’ Ruth admitted, while hoping he did not think she cared if he was soon to leave.
‘You asked from courtesy rather than curiosity, I take it,’ Clayton remarked.
The note of mockery in his voice made Ruth bristle and tilt her chin. ‘Indeed, and I expect we might need to find some more polite topics of conversation while we wait for our hosts.’
Clayton’s slow smile turned to a chuckle. ‘I expect we shall; and probably quite a few of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fond couple are occupied…catching up on news…for some while yet.’
This time Ruth refused to turn away in embarrassment despite sensing heat fizzing beneath her cheeks. Her earthy dark eyes clashed with his in a way that deepened his smile.
‘Shall we go to the library?’ Clayton extended an elegant arm. ‘When I arrived there was a good fire in there and plenty of weighty tomes to peruse, in the event that we run out of polite chitchat while we wait for our supper to be served.’
After a barely discernible pause Ruth extended a hand to hover on his arm. As they descended the stairs together she was again impressed by the way he could dissolve tension between them. He looked down at her with engaging grin. ‘I’m feeling ravenous, actually. I hope a good dinner is waiting for us. And plenty of it.’
‘Sarah is a very competent hostess,’ Ruth championed pioned her friend. ‘And the last time I dined here—just before they left for Surrey—there were fourteen courses.’
‘Ah! That should just about fill me up,’ he said contentedly. ‘It is a shame you missed their marriage,’ Clayton remarked as they gained the hallway and turned towards the library.
Ruth nodded her shiny dark head and sent him a glancing smile. ‘Yes, it was,’ she softly agreed, recalling her sadness at having turned down Sarah’s invitation to be her matron of honour. ‘But at that time my papa had only recently been buried and, much as I would have loved to be part of the celebrations, it would not have been appropriate. Etiquette must be observed,’ she said ruefully.
‘Etiquette can be a damnable nuisance,’ Clayton returned and slid her a look. ‘I had hoped to see you that day.’
That blunt admission surprised Ruth to such a degree that for a moment she was unable to tear her gaze from his. ‘Well…I think our dinner will be worth waiting for,’ she blurted and swung her face towards the green baize door that led to the kitchens. ‘Something smells exceedingly good.’
Clayton sniffed at air that was thick with a tantalising savoury aroma. ‘Beef and horseradish,’ he guessed.
‘I would say chicken…or perhaps goose.’ Ruth was sure she could discern the tang of sage-and-onion stuffing wafting in the atmosphere.
‘A wager?’ Clayton carelessly challenged.
‘Of course,’ she accepted with a gay laugh. ‘And I know exactly what I claim as my prize. If I am right, I must insist you demand we play cards later when Sarah suggests I entertain the company by playing the pianoforte. She will have it that I can sing in key. I assure you that I cannot and you won’t want to listen to me prove it.’
Clayton chuckled. ‘Agreed. But what if I win…?’
Ruth tossed him a smile. ‘Oh, if you win, I shall allow you to beat me just the once at piquet. I’m very good, you know.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ Clayton murmured. ‘Most of the ladies I know are very bad…’
Ruth turned her head, the knot of excitement within tightening. He was a practised flirt, she told herself—a man with a reputation as a womaniser. Nevertheless she felt quite elated that, after an inauspicious start, they seemed to have established a fragile rapport.
Chapter Four


‘Would you like something to drink?’ Clayton asked, having escorted Ruth to a chair close to the fire.
A console table was dotted with sparkling crystal and he picked up each decanter then, following a brief inspection, knowledgeably identified its contents for her to choose which she would like.
‘A small sherry would be nice, thank you,’ Ruth said quickly on noticing Clayton was still awaiting her answer.
Clayton approached to hand over her drink and then took the chair opposite. Ruth watched surreptitiously as he stretched out his long legs in front of him and turned his head towards the mesmerising dance in the fire.
His lean profile was softened by the warm glow, his blond hair burnished to an autumn sheen. In his long
fingers a brandy balloon gently oscillated. Far from being interested in continuing to flirt with her, or to engage in a little more light-hearted banter, he seemed to Ruth to have forgotten she existed and to have plunged deep into his own thoughts. Perhaps he thought to pay her back for her preoccupation moments ago. Thus, confident she was unobserved, she deemed it safe to slowly study him.
Ruth knew that a good deal of the gentlemen of the ton favoured bright colours and all manner of fobs and trinkets as personal adornments. This man was no dandified peacock. He was elegantly rather than fashionably clothed in a dark tailcoat and trousers and his person seemed devoid of jewellery. Then she noticed a heavy gold signet ring as it winked on a finger of the hand that was swinging the glass. Her eyes slipped on and a glint of gold could be seen where a watch reposed low in a waistcoat pocket.
She lifted her eyes from his lap and immediately her face flooded with blood. Unwisely she took a swift gulp of her sherry, then tried to quell the burning in her throat with fingers that flew to press her mouth. How long had he been watching her look him over in so vulgar a fashion?
‘Would you like another?’ Clayton asked with soft mockery and a deliberate glance at her depleted glass.
‘No…no, thank you. I was looking…that is, you seem rather melancholy, sir. I didn’t mean to stare.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t…or rather, you didn’t mean me to see you at it.’
Ruth’s dark eyes flashed dangerously at him. ‘As you didn’t mean to be caught eyeing me earlier?’
Just before Clayton despatched his cognac in a single swallow he said, ‘I’ve no objection at all in you knowing I think you attractive.’
For a long moment Ruth simply sat quite still, her eyes on the fire. Would it be best to thank him briefly for the compliment? Or should she ignore what he’d said as simple flattery from a notorious philanderer? Just a short while ago she’d learned from Sarah that Sir Clayton Powell was an incorrigible rake.
‘Perhaps we should think of something else to talk about,’ Ruth suggested calmly. ‘You know a little about my family history—would you tell me a little about yours?’
A humourless noise issued from Clayton’s throat. ‘I take it you would like to discover why I’m no longer married?’
Astonishment kept Ruth momentarily speechless, her eyes captured by his, her soft lips quivering and slightly parted. Sir Clayton Powell was certainly a bluff individual! Or perhaps he reserved such shocking candour for women he deemed to be too inquisitive? She had not wanted to pry into his personal life. She’d hoped, as he knew she had lost her father, they might have an innocent chat about his parents or his siblings. A slow anger burned in Ruth, boosting her determination to regain her composure and give him the answer he deserved.
‘On the contrary, sir, I have no interest in your marital status,’ she snapped icily.
‘Have you not?’ he enquired. ‘Well, you must be the only female of my acquaintance under fifty who has not.’
‘And you must be the only gentleman of my acquaintance who has the arrogance to suppose I might care to know whether or not he has a wife.’ That fierce declamation came after quite a pause and in a voice suffocated with indignation. How quickly he could change from charming companion to cynical churl.
‘So you didn’t know that I’m divorced?’ Clayton challenged softly, his eyes fixed pitilessly on her face.
A betraying flush began to creep under Ruth’s skin. She did know. Just today she had discovered from Sarah that Clayton had once been married. She wished she could honestly say she was ignorant of his mésalliance with Priscilla and had no interest in knowing of it. But, in truth, while quietly sitting with him, she had pondered on why a handsome and wealthy aristocrat would make a disastrous match. And, had Sarah not already told her, she could have easily deduced from his attitude that his divorce had left him extremely bitter.
Clayton watched Ruth fidget and blush beneath his gaze and his lips slanted in a hard smile. It seemed he’d touched on a nerve. He had agreed to journey to Willowdene on the spur of the moment after Gavin suggested he distance himself from Loretta and her pathetic scheming. Perhaps his invitation to spend a little time in the country with the Tremaynes hadn’t been as impromptu or philanthropic as it had seemed. Had Sarah given Gavin instructions to persuade him to come because she had an ulterior motive?
He liked Sarah very much. He envied Gavin for having such a lovely wife. But that didn’t alter the fact that every society hostess of his acquaintance had made it her business at least once to try to pair him off with a nubile friend or relative.
‘Did the Viscountess tell you I would be invited to dine here this evening?’ he asked bluntly.
Finally, Ruth understood what was prompting his sardonic questions. He was not so much bothered that she knew he had lost his wife as that she might have designs on replacing her. Her lips tightened as a ferocious anger bubbled inside. The nerve of the man! He seriously believed she might have collaborated with Sarah to trap him! No doubt he also believed she’d schemed at having this time alone with him. ‘I believe I’ve already said I didn’t know you would be coming from London with the Viscount,’ Ruth reminded him in a frigid tone. ‘And when I mentioned your family it was not with the intention of discovering if you were a husband or a father. You know my father died because we briefly spoke about it when last you were in Willowdene. I was simply making a polite enquiry as to the health of your kin.’ With no table close to hand, Ruth put down her empty glass on the hearthstone and stood up. ‘I had hoped our hosts’ unexpected absence might not become an ordeal for either of us. Unfortunately, it has…’
The thought of staying here, alone, with this conceited swine was now unbearable to Ruth. She didn’t want to upset Sarah by leaving, but if the snow had cleared—even just a little bit—she would go home. In truth, she wished she’d not agreed to come at all. And that angered her, for her longed-for reunion with Sarah had been spoiled through no fault of her own.
Swiftly she went to the long window that looked out on to the grounds of the Manor. She twitched back the heavy velvet curtain, then folded back the shutter just enough to peep at the night. The whiteness glistened back at her; lifting her eyes to the heavens, she saw small sparkling droplets defiantly descending. With heavy heart and a soundless sigh of regret she turned back in to the library.
Clayton had also left his chair and was refilling his glass from the decanter. He tossed back the brandy and his blond head remained tilted towards the ceiling for some time before he addressed Ruth.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know why I said what I did.’ His hands plunged into his pockets, withdrew almost immediately. ‘Well, perhaps I do, but, whatever my mood, I had no right to make my problems yours. I behaved with unforgivable rudeness just now. Unfortunately, my manners seem to be sadly lacking this evening.’
‘It’s heartening to know that you believe you possess some,’ Ruth responded coolly, only a little mollified by his apology.
A small noise issued from Clayton’s throat that could have been a mirthless laugh. ‘I take it from your disappointed expression that the snow hasn’t melted enough for you to flee my boorish company and allow you to go home.’
‘You’re very perceptive, sir,’ Ruth replied and slid a book from a shelf to peruse the cover.
‘Come…sit down again, please,’ Clayton invited. ‘It’s impossible for either of us to make our escape and I wouldn’t want a bad atmosphere to ruin our evening with our friends.’
‘No more would I,’ Ruth answered with some asperity, yet she didn’t give him the courtesy of a glance. Busily she turned the pages of the book, though she saw not a single word or picture on the fluttering pages.
‘Come back to the fire,’ Clayton urged gently. ‘It looks to be quite draughty over there.’
Immediately Ruth ceased rubbing absently at an arm to warm it. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was correct or that he could make her do his bidding.
‘Gavin and Sarah will join us soon,’ Clayton said persuasively. ‘I promise you I shall be returning to town tomorrow, whatever the weather.’
‘There is no need for you to risk such a journey,’ Ruth said briskly and deposited the book back on the shelf. ‘I haven’t so far to go. I shall go home in the morning.’ Ruth prayed inwardly that she might be able to do just that. From what she had seen through the window a moment ago, it seemed unlikely that the conditions would improve overnight. The snow had started to fall again, very lightly, but if it settled the condition of the roads might be yet more hazardous.
‘Well, let’s not squabble over who insists on leaving first,’ Clayton said with a return to rueful humour. ‘It’s enough that we’ve both seen fit to offer to do so.’
Inwardly Clayton was cursing himself to the devil. He had been enjoying Ruth’s company. There was a quiet grace about her that he found as enchanting as her physical beauty. Yet, despite his fascination with his lovely companion, he couldn’t quite block from his mind the memory of his minx of a mistress.
Loretta’s plotting had prompted him to take up Gavin’s offer of a sojourn in the country. Even at a distance she was constantly infiltrating his mind as he pondered on whether he ought to have stayed in Mayfair and sorted out the mischief she seemed determined to concoct. He had no reason to apologise to Pomfrey. He’d done nothing wrong. His relationship with Loretta had been established when Pomfrey asked her to marry him. And now it was over. Yet he felt as though he ought to make contact with the man and reassure him that, whatever Loretta said, he didn’t want her as his wife, now or ever.
‘Ah! There you are, Ruth. I’m sorry I abandoned you,’ Sarah happily chirped, entering the room in a shimmy of pretty lemon silk. ‘When Rosie said you were taking a nap it seemed wrong to wake you.’ Her sparkling eyes settled on Clayton. ‘Good! You have had Sir Clayton to keep you company. Have you been having a nice chat?’ Sarah sent a winsome smile to her husband, a few paces behind, to include him in her chatter.
A protracted pause was breached by Clayton saying lazily, ‘Mrs Hayden has been diverting company. She told me you appreciate listening to her sing and play the piano.’
A look of startled disbelief froze Ruth’s features. An expressive glance demanded he say no more on the subject. He returned her an easy smile that promised nothing.
‘Ruth is very accomplished,’ Sarah said with a proud look at her friend. ‘And she is far too modest. It takes a lot of persuasion to get her to perform even one song.’
Gavin appeared rather more perceptive to the frost in the atmosphere than did his vivacious spouse. He sent his friend a penetrating look that terminated in a slight, quizzical elevation of dark brows.
‘I’m famished and I expect our guests must be too.’ Gavin took his wife’s dainty fingers and placed them on his arm. ‘Come, we can talk at the table. Let us go in to dine.’
‘Oh, you must stay here tonight, Ruth. I can lend you whatever you need. It’s impossible to travel even a short distance in such atrocious weather.’ Sarah gaily sent that instruction back over an elegant shoulder as she allowed her husband to steer her towards their dinner.
With elaborate courtesy Clayton extended a hand to Ruth. After giving him a sharp glance, she lifted five stiff fingers on to his sleeve. She wanted to berate him for bringing musical entertainment to Sarah’s attention. She guessed that was what he wanted her to do, so she swallowed the reprimand. In silence they followed their friends towards the dining room.

After several courses of fine food and several glasses of mellow ruby wine, Ruth had relaxed enough to overcome her annoyance and allow her eyes to meet Clayton’s. Throughout the meal so far she’d often sensed him looking at her. On the few occasions he’d addressed her directly there had been no hint of challenge or mockery in his polite conversation and she imagined he had consciously made an effort to leave behind in the library his conceit and irascibility.
Their hosts were indeed fine company and there had been no lapse in genial chatter. They had discussed the start of the Season in London and, more lengthily, matters closer to home. Clayton had been interested to know how the unexpected snowfall might affect people in the villages obtaining necessary supplies and going about their business. His own country estate lay far to the south-west of the country, he’d explained to Ruth, where such bad weather was uncommon. He had added that he rarely visited it—being too fond of town living—so had thus far never been inconvenienced by the vagaries of the seasons. What a boon and a curse could be the weather! It had provided an ample source of neutral conversation, yet it also had trapped her here!
‘Do you spend time in London during the Season, Mrs Hayden?’
Ruth placed down her spoon and gave Clayton a rather startled glance. She hadn’t been expecting such a leading question. ‘I don’t, sir. I haven’t been to London since I lived there as a child.’
‘And whereabouts did you live?’
‘Close to Chelsea, in Willoughby Street,’ Ruth supplied and gave her attention to her pudding, taking a dainty mouthful of syllabub.
‘Ah…I know it,’ Clayton said pleasantly, undeterred by her hint that the subject was closed. ‘A friend of mine, Keith Storey, lived there with his parents until he took a wife.’
Ruth gave a spontaneous smile at being reminded of the family. ‘I knew them; my parents were friendly with Mr. and Mrs Storey.’
‘And did you move to the country while still young?’
‘No, sir.’ Ruth again placed down her spoon, feeling a little miffed. He had no hesitation in interrogating her over her past, yet had become unpleasant at the first mention of discussing his. ‘My parents moved to Fernlea after my marriage. I moved here to live with my father nine years ago; he was by then a widower.’ Ruth turned quickly to her right and said to Sarah the first thing that came into her head. ‘Little James had a pain earlier. I think the poor mite had colic.’
‘He does suffer with it,’ Sarah answered, well aware of her friend’s wish to curtail a conversation with Clayton that must lead eventually to her late husband and perhaps the manner of his death. ‘Mrs Plover,’ she named the housekeeper, ‘has a remedy for it. Just a small spoonful of the stuff seems to put him to rights. She’s quite a marvel with her pills and potions. And she’s of enormous help with planning extravagant menus and so on.’
‘On which note, I must thank you for a delicious dinner,’ Ruth said graciously, indicating she’d eaten her fill.
A polite murmur of assent came from Clayton as he too laid aside his cutlery.
‘Well…shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?’ Sarah suggested.
Ruth gave her a grateful smile. She could always rely on Sarah to sense her mood. Her friend knew very well she was keen to escape any further of Clayton’s probing questions.
‘If James is abed, we can bid him goodnight even if he is asleep.’

As the door closed on the two strikingly attractive ladies—one very fair, one very dark—Gavin gave his friend a wry glance and a measure of port he’d dispensed from the decanter. ‘I take it you’re glad you came.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’d need to be a blind man not to notice you’re smitten by Mrs Hayden.’
‘And I’d need to be a cynic to think that perhaps you’re glad of that. As we both know, I’m a cynic.’
Gavin grimaced bemusement. ‘I’m not good with riddles. What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Did you know that Mrs Hayden would be here when you asked me to come home with you?’
‘Of course I did,’ Gavin said and lounged contentedly back in to his chair. ‘Sarah was keen to see her best friend straight away. I still don’t see…’ A look of amused enlightenment crossed his rugged features. ‘Ah, you think Sarah has some maggot in her head about matchmaking the two of you.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first, or the hundredth, time a lady had arranged a dinner party for just that purpose. So, am I correct?’
‘No,’ Gavin said bluntly and sipped at his port. ‘You might have designs on Ruth, but, not to put too fine a point on it, my friend, I doubt she has any interest in you.’ Gavin gave Clayton a cautionary look. ‘She’s no man’s mistress…not even yours, no matter how generous you’re feeling. Take my word on it.’
Clayton sat back in his chair and fondled the stem of his glass with long fingers. His slate-grey eyes watched the crystal as it performed a balletic twirl. ‘Is she spoken for?’
‘Sarah told me earlier this evening that Ruth’s recently received a proposal of marriage.’ Gavin refilled his glass and pushed the decanter towards Clayton. ‘Her suitor is by all accounts a pillar of society here in Willowdene. Don’t ask more,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’ve been indiscreet as it is. Sarah adores Ruth, and with good reason. Ruth was a loyal friend and a support when Sarah was very much alone and in need of help,’ he explained gruffly. ‘I’d hate Ruth to think I’d spoken out of turn.’
Clayton nodded acceptance of that. ‘He’s a lucky chap, whoever he is.’
‘Indeed,’ Gavin murmured. He sent a subtle look at his brooding friend and amusement tipped his lips upwards.
He knew, of course, that Clayton was a hardened cynic where women were concerned. Clayton’s wife had made a complete fool of him by acting like a seasoned trollop throughout their short marriage. Since his divorce ambitious women had constantly thrown themselves at him, hoping to take her place. He was mercilessly hounded by every mama with aspirations of marrying her débutante daughter to a man of great wealth and lineage—when Clayton’s octogenarian grandfather died he would take a clutch of titles to add to the baronetcy he already had.
It seemed the longer Sir Clayton Powell remained stubbornly single, the more of a challenge the hostesses seemed to find him. Gavin knew that wagers had been laid amongst the ton’s grandes dames as to which of them might finally snare him for a favoured niece or goddaughter.
Clayton knew of their scheming too, and their ulterior motives. He knew he was wanted at their balls for what he had rather than himself. The more desperate they became to have him attend their functions, the more reluctant he became to turn up. The fact that his friend would choose to spend his evenings at the theatre with a demi-rep, or gambling with male friends, rather than socialise with women of his own class, spoke volumes about his friend’s attitude to courtship and marriage. In fact, Gavin mused, he would not be at all surprised to learn that Clayton had badly misjudged the situation tonight and treated Ruth as though she were some mercenary temptress with an eye on his wallet. It would certainly explain the frost he’d sensed in the atmosphere when he and Sarah had joined them in the library.
A soundless laugh tickled Gavin’s throat. He imagined from Clayton’s rather mystified expression that he was still wondering why Mrs Hayden had refused to flutter her eyelashes and gaze adoringly at him, as did every other single woman of his acquaintance. He could have told his friend that, in fact, Mrs Hayden had turned down the doctor’s proposal, but for some reason he had not. And it was not just because in another respect he’d told Clayton the truth.
Ruth would undoubtedly be better off financially as a rich man’s paramour, but in Gavin’s opinion she would hold out for a man to love, and to love her, before she slept with him.
Chapter Five


‘No! Please don’t say anything,’ Ruth begged. ‘Sir Clayton has apologised and been charm personified since his odd outburst.’
‘And so he ought to improve his behaviour!’ Sarah responded pithily.
After they had settled down into chairs beside the crib to chat and listen to James’s gentle snores, Ruth had quite naturally told Sarah she had clashed with her gentleman guest. They had long been kindred spirits and didn’t have secrets. But Sarah’s reaction to knowing that her husband’s friend had been rather insulting to her friend had been stronger than Ruth had anticipated. She’d immediately said that she’d tell Gavin to speak to Clayton about his manners.
‘How dare he suppose we might plot to get him to marry you!’ Sarah hissed beneath her breath so as not to wake her son.
‘Now I think on it,’ Ruth commented ruefully, ‘I’m not sure marriage entered his mind.’ The more indignant Sarah became, the more her own annoyance receded and she saw a farcical side to it all. ‘I’m a widow, unattached, of limited means,’ she listed out her fair-game status. ‘It’s possible he believed I harboured no such high aspirations and was angling for a less formal arrangement with him.’ On seeing Sarah’s anger re-igniting, she made a small dismissive gesture. ‘No doubt he is used to women fawning over him. He is handsome…rich too, I expect.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Sarah stressed, nodding her head vigorously and setting her blonde ringlets dancing. ‘He’s chased mercilessly by the débutantes, and equally enthusiastically by ladies of a different class,’ she added as she recalled she’d once seen him at the theatre with several demi-reps in one evening. ‘And he must have an enormous fortune, for Gavin jokes that he makes him feel like a pauper. But none of that excuses his rudeness to you.’
‘Well, we must make allowances for such a popular fellow. It is not worth making a fuss.’ Ruth shook her friend’s arm gently to emphasise she meant what she’d said. ‘I imagine Sir Clayton is now feeling awkward too. There’s just this evening for us to get through, then tomorrow I shall go home and that will be an end to it. When we go back to the drawing room, shall we suggest a game of cards until bedtime?’
‘I was going to ask you to play and sing for us, but after what you’ve told me he doesn’t deserve to listen to your fine voice.’
Ruth clucked her tongue and raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘You will have it I can hold a tune. I cannot, Sarah. Honestly, I cannot.’
‘Of course you can!’ Sarah contradicted. ‘Compared to my musical efforts, you are talented enough to perform at Drury Lane.’
‘That’s true,’ Ruth said, mock solemn. Sarah’s description of her attempt to warble soprano sounding like a cat having its tail trodden on, was, alas, correct.
‘Well, really! I was hoping you might fib and flatter me just a little bit,’ Sarah reproved with a twinkling smile. ‘Come, let’s join the gentlemen. I won’t say anything to Gavin about Clayton’s behaviour, but I’m not sure I’ll let him off too lightly either. If the rogue thinks me capable of meddling, I might feel inclined to prove him right.’

‘Ah…we were just saying, my dear, that if horse riding is out of the question in the morning Clayton and I might take a different sort of constitutional and have a snowball fight.’
‘What a good idea!’ Sarah chirped gaily as she and Ruth, in a cloud of freshly sprayed French perfume, joined the gentlemen in the drawing room. ‘Perhaps we might join you. I doubt Ruth would be averse to throwing missiles at Clayton.’
Ruth inwardly winced. Sarah had not after all been able to refrain from a little barbed remark about what had occurred between her guests.
‘What is your answer, Mrs Hayden?’ Clayton asked mildly, apparently unperturbed to discover that she’d told tales about him. ‘Shall we draw battle lines and bombard each other?’
‘I’m not sure it would be a fair fight,’ Ruth responded lightly. ‘You have an unfair advantage, sir, having been in the army.’
‘Did I tell you that?’ Clayton inquired in surprise.
‘Um…yes,’ Ruth answered quietly and quickly looked away. Why on earth had she mentioned the army? Obviously he’d forgotten that when they’d met in Willowdene last year he’d commented that he was acquainted with her father-in-law, Colonel Walter Hayden, from his army days. Now she’d idiotically paved the way for the conversation to once more turn to her marriage and perhaps her late husband, Captain Paul Hayden. And she certainly had no desire for that.
‘We could make a snowman,’ Sarah blurted, once more coming to her friend’s rescue. She knew very well how loath Ruth was to talk about Paul, for invariably questions would be asked about his untimely demise. ‘If there’s no sign of a thaw tomorrow, I think we should do that. Of course, we wouldn’t want to sculpt the fellow, then see him too soon melt away before our eyes.’
Ruth rewarded her friend with a subtle smile for valiantly attempting to divert the conversation away from a sensitive subject. ‘But let’s hope for a thaw,’ she commented lightly. ‘Then Sir Clayton can ride to his heart’s content.’
‘Towards London?’ Clayton ventured in a drawl, with a steady look at Ruth.
‘If you wish, sir,’ she responded and held his eyes.
‘And what do you wish, Mrs Hayden?’
‘Shall we play cards?’ Sarah interjected hastily and gave her husband a meaningful frown. Gavin seemed privately amused by the verbal battle between their guests. ‘I know Ruth is good at piquet and so am I. We shall play together and beat you two gentlemen,’ she declared. ‘And the losers must…well, we’ll decide that later,’ she said, rather flustered by the sultry look her husband bestowed on her.

The following morning Ruth arose early, despite being reluctant to quit her bed as it was wonderfully warm and comfy. Her cold toes sought the satin slippers Sarah had lent her. Drawing about her the warm dressing gown that was also being loaned by her friend, she padded to the window.
She drew back the heavy velvet curtains and gazed out, rather blearily, at a stunning sight. Small clouds were scantily placed on a high azure sky. The sun was blindingly bright and beneath its rays the ground was a sheet of twinkling white. The trees, shrubs, hedges gracefully bore their sugar coating, only rarely shedding granules as the breeze stirred branches to life. Despite being disappointedly aware that the conditions were still too perilous for even a short journey through back lanes, Ruth marvelled at the natural beauty she gazed upon. It made her wish that she had an ability to paint or draw and capture the pristine scene.
Turning into the room, she approached the dresser and tested the water in the pitcher. It was cold, but not unbearably so. Logs had burned in the grate all night and were only now disintegrating into flaky grey ash. Quickly she filled the bowl and used the scented washing things Sarah had thoughtfully provided for her.
Having freshened up, she quickly donned her clothes without waiting for a maid to appear. She knew that Sarah would send someone to attend on her, but not yet, it was far too early. She would not be expected to rise till after ten at the earliest. Now she looked down at her silver silk dress with a frown. It was not suitable daywear, but would have to suffice for just this morning. This afternoon she hoped to be in her own home.
Now ready to face the day, she none the less lingered in her chamber. She sat upon the bed and wondered if it was too early to go downstairs. Not that she was expected to stand on ceremony when enjoying the Tremaynes’hospitality—she was treated as one of the family. But she’d guessed that Sarah and Gavin might enjoy a lie in while their other guest might be up and about as early as she was. She’d no intention of again finding herself alone with Clayton, desperately seeking to engage him in some innocuous conversation till their hosts appeared.
When she’d bid Clayton a goodnight yesterday evening at close to midnight, and had received a similar cordiality from him, they had seemed to part on fair terms. It would be wise to keep it that way for the short time they remained penned together in close proximity.
After they had played piquet together and each team had won a game, Gavin and Sarah had opted to play dominoes. Ruth and Clayton had persevered with the pack of cards.
Ruth had then won two hands of piquet, playing solo. She’d had a suspicion that Clayton had allowed her to do so and had been initially rather miffed in case he was attempting to patronise her. Then she’d mused that his intentions could be philanthropic. He might have been seeking to compensate for his boorish behaviour earlier and so she’d graciously accepted her victory. But it had been impossible not to bring to his notice their wager. She’d been correct in guessing they would dine on poultry with stuffing. She’d also beaten him at cards, yet he’d cheated her of her prize in bringing a musical evening to Sarah’s notice. He’d affected to look chastened and had offered to make amends by fetching for her another small sherry. But when he’d handed it over he’d again raised her hackles by giving the softly scornful advice that it might be advisable to sip at this one slowly.
Thus had the evening progressed in an atmosphere of gentle joviality till bedtime. Yet she knew that, for all his sophisticated charm and easy smiles when their eyes had held for a second more than necessary or their fingers had inadvertently brushed together, an undeniable tension had strained between them.
With that thought in her mind, Ruth lingered by the dressing table and again picked up the hairbrush. She drew it slowly through her thick dusky hair and, raising her eyes to the mirror, gave her reflection a wistful smile. At least her unexpected meeting with Clayton had helped her forget the other gentleman unsettling her. She’d given Ian Bryant very little thought since she’d again made Clayton’s acquaintance. Nevertheless, she must soon return to Fernlea and the gossip that would spread about her rejecting the doctor’s proposal.
A noise from outside her window was slowly penetrating Ruth’s introspection. She approached the glass to peer out. A groom was by the stables and she craned her neck to see more of what was going on. It was a bright sunny day, but surely the conditions were still too perilous for the gentlemen to ride? The stable lad had a black horse by the bridle and it skittered in his grasp, prancing and pulling as though to gain its freedom. The boy seemed to gratefully relinquish the steam-snorting beast to someone just emerging from the stalls. With lithe ease Clayton swung himself into the saddle and gave the boy a nod of thanks.
He cut a dashing figure in his long leather riding coat and with the sun burnishing his pale hair. He appeared to be an impressive horseman, too—the stallion seemed calmer beneath his mastery despite Ruth not seeing him do much to bring it about. But then she knew very little about equestrian matters, having only ridden infrequently. But she could drive a pony and trap very well, she reminded herself with a little smile. Her humour faded as she became aware that he was looking up at her window and it was too late to duck from sight. She stood quite still, solemnly returning his gaze although every fibre of her being urged her to slip aside. With acute embarrassment she saw him smile slowly as though he guessed her predicament. With exaggerated politeness he tipped his hat before he turned the horse’s head and was galloping away over virgin snow.

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