Valerian Inglemoore
Valerian Inglemoore
Bronwyn Scott
From wild and rugged Cornwall, the setting of Poldark and Jamaica Inn, comes another fabulous, dramatic story…The rake’s return!For years Valerian Inglemoore, Viscount St Just, lived a double life as a secret agent on the war-torn Continent. Returning home, he knows exactly what he wants – Philippa Stratten, the woman he gave up for the sake of her family…But Philippa isn’t the naïve debutante he left behind. His rejection stung deeply, and now she is suspicious of his intentions.Valerian realises he must wage a tougher battle if he is to finally claim her, once and for all, as his bride!Original title - The Viscount Claims His BrideTHE CORNWALL COLLECTIONFour wonderful atmospheric historical romances - perfect for fans of Winston Graham's Ross Poldark and Demelza, and Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca and Jamaica Inn.LUCIEN TREGELLASBANE BERESFORDGABRIEL D'ARCYVALERIAN INGLEMOORE
‘Philippa—’ he began, in a raggedvoice.
She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’
‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.
‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’
He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh. ‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’
Author Note (#ulink_ed426e93-8ca1-5bad-8d8d-0a7aa4714b61)
I had such a good time writing Philippa and Valerian’s story! I am a fan of reunited loves. But I also thoroughly enjoyed researching the plot surrounding them. This was a perfect opportunity to explore some interesting angles on Cornwall. Here are some:
The mining industry: The fuse Valerian considers investing in was real! It was patented at that time by the gentleman named in the story. Mining was also the perfect backdrop for Lucien’s evil attempt to establish a mining cartel (mining cartels did come to pass about twenty years later).
Trist House in Veryan: Trist House was indeed owned at that time by a man who did re-do the landscaping and remodel the folly where Philippa and Valerian have a very hot kiss. Quarry rock is authentic too. Philippa and Valerian also see a Monkey Puzzle tree there. Research suggests that Trist House was one of the first places in Britain to attempt to grow the Monkey Puzzle tree, otherwise known as a Chilean Pine.
The Balkans: I am a history buff, and absolutely loved creating Valerian’s experience in Negush. The Phanariot-led uprising did occur. I liked the Phanariot backdrop so much that I’m bringing it back with Lilya and Beldon’s story in a forthcoming novel.
Enjoy this book. I hope you find it to be an entertaining, passionate and informative story.
Readers can stay in touch on my website, www.bronwynscott.com (http://www.bronwynscott.com), or at my blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynscott.com). I love hearing from my readers.
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.
Valerian Inglemoore
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Leslie Witwer.
Thanks for supporting The Brenda Novak Auction
for Diabetes Research. Your contribution will make a
difference. Thanks also for your support of me.
Your enthusiasm and encouragement is appreciated
far more than you realise. Someday I hope to be
celebrating the same for you.
Contents
Cover (#u5ff3e6f3-0ffe-5962-a423-f60475c581d0)
Excerpt (#u09603dbe-e4d9-5e2b-9faf-87867ccfdc1f)
Author Note (#u4ee7725a-98f9-5612-9588-f40ac8c84026)
About the Author (#u1fc91efb-f42d-5c7c-8d7c-0740a0c43afb)
Title Page (#u31bd5d34-324a-5ddf-a2ba-7525e4beda39)
Dedication (#udcc70a06-0382-5e9a-8ed0-862288cfbfa7)
Prologue (#u697b1662-73b5-5253-8ac0-7c4ae21e7801)
Chapter One (#u07ae0f88-7206-50ca-97de-4630cf5aca67)
Chapter Two (#u547bc84c-266b-5b25-91ba-1b209aa2e7e1)
Chapter Three (#u2161819f-bb3d-5d37-aa2f-0a1f7a35361c)
Chapter Four (#u27da42f4-db31-5b4b-9570-567c1cbeacbe)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_1c0590b6-6c45-5a08-90c9-81b735fd9616)
London, June 1820
Valerian Inglemoore, the Viscount St Just, had a secret, a dreadful secret that caused him to tremble in guilt and self-loathing as he stood alone on Lady Rutherford’s veranda, gazing at the paper lantern-lit garden beyond the balustrade, but not really seeing it.
His secret was all consuming, too consuming to spare a glance for the elegant town garden with its fountains and well-laid paths that wound through knot gardens and small privet hedges.
Under normal circumstances, the garden would have been quite enticing. But tonight, his secret was nearly too much to bear. He was twenty-one and he was in love with Philippa Stratten, Baron Pendennys’s daughter, and she was in love with him. She was to meet him here tonight.
But nothing would ever come of it.
That was the secret.
Tonight, he was breaking it off with her, at her father’s request. Tonight, he had to convince her after two months of stolen kisses and clandestine meetings that his affections were nothing more than a young man’s fleeting fancy. He didn’t know how he’d manage. He loved her so much.
After tonight, he’d never take her in his arms, never feel her run her fingers through his hair, as if it were the rarest silk. The last two months had been heaven. He’d danced with her at her début in April and every night since. They’d made a habit of heated kisses in curtained alcoves, and taking long walks in gardens during Venetian breakfasts and afternoon teas. It had been simple enough to manipulate time alone with her. He was an avid botanist as well as a horseman. It was plausible enough to say they were going off to look at a certain variety of flower or to see a new colt in the stables.
Oh, yes, they’d fallen madly in love with each other. One could almost say it was love at first sight except that he had known Philippa for years. She was his best friend Beldon’s sister. The threesome had spent school holidays roaming the Cornish coast together. He’d known since his first visit home with Beldon that his heart could belong to no other.
Behind him, the Rutherfords’ ballroom played host to three hundred of London’s finest dancing away the night in their silks and satins, champagne never more than a footman’s tray away. But he cared not a whit. His heart was breaking.
‘Valerian.’ A familiar, dear voice spoke his name in the darkness. He drew a final breath, praying for the strength to give her up. It would be for her own good, although she’d never believe it.
He turned towards the sound of her voice, letting her beauty overwhelm him as it always did. The effect was no less devastating tonight. This evening, her beauty was at its zenith, shown to perfection in the pale blue fabric of her gown. In the moonlight, the fabric appeared to shimmer when she moved. A soft summer breeze drew the thin fabric of her gown against her body, reminding Valerian of the fine figure beneath the filmy layers of summer chiffon.
‘Val.’ She whispered his name in response, moving towards him, her hands outstretched. ‘I could hardly wait.’ She wore a gentle smile on her lips, a soft look for him alone in the blue depths of her eyes. It was intoxicating to think the excitement that simmered beneath the surface of that gentle smile and soft look were all for him.
He savoured it. After tonight, he would not feel such joy again.
She slipped her gloved hands into his, expecting him to take her in his arms as he usually did. He swallowed hard against the temptation. He’d come out here to do his duty to her family, a family which had loved and harboured him since his adolescence. They’d asked him to give her up for sake of their finances and her future. It was a difficult task at best. Her merest touch, her slightest affection, made it Herculean.
The embrace did not come. He could not give it to her as much as he desired to take her in his arms and feel her against him. To do so would be to fail the family in the only thing they’d ever asked of him. As a man of honour, he owed them more.
She looked up into his face, reading him aright, unconsciously warning him to better school his features if he was to carry off his task believably. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’ Philippa began.
‘Of course I am happy to see you. I am always happy to see a dear friend,’ Valerian said, hoping Philippa didn’t hear the unspoken lie. He’d always seen her as much more than a friend.
‘Then kiss me. I’ve waited all day for you, for this moment.’ She flirted, trying to press up against him, to make him take her in his arms.
He was too skilled for her untutored efforts. ‘Philippa, stop. We have to talk.’
‘Here?’ She glanced around curiously, disappointment evident on her features. Valerian wondered what she’d been expecting that this location was not suitable. Certainly, she wasn’t expecting what he had to tell her. Her father, Baron Pendennys, had indicated that Beldon and Philippa were completely in the dark about the family’s situation.
The balcony was mostly empty, but there were a few couples strolling about. It wasn’t nearly as private as he’d hoped. Valerian shook his head. ‘No, not here. Come walk in the garden with me.’
They found a bench settled among rhododendrons in full bloom and sat. Valerian kept her hand. He nodded towards a bower of roses across the pathway. ‘The roses are lovely. I hear Lady Rutherford has imported a special yellow rose from Turkey.’
He was stalling and he knew it, putting off the news as long as he could, storing up every memory of her—beautiful, innocent Philippa, believing in the purity of his love when he’d come to prove her beliefs ill founded and her heart played falsely. It would be years before she would understand this was a sham designed to protect her family.
‘What is it, Val? You didn’t come out here to show me roses,’ Philippa coaxed.
‘I spoke to your father earlier this evening.’
Her face lit with joy. A little cry of delight escaped her lips. She clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. He replayed the words in his head the way she would hear them. He knew he’d mis-stepped. She thought he had come to propose. He must be more careful, more convincing.
Valerian shook his head in warning. ‘No, Philippa, it is not what you think. Your father has told me of your betrothal to the Duke of Cambourne. He accepted an offer for your hand this afternoon.’
Philippa furrowed her brow, disbelief and confusion warring across her face. His words had achieved their goal. This pronouncement was so far from what she’d expected she couldn’t even be angry. She couldn’t get angry with him until she put the pieces together. The poor girl hadn’t even known Cambourne was interested, although the betting book at White’s had been full of wagers over when the widower Duke would make his move. The men about town had privately acknowledged Cambourne’s interest in the Season’s finest débutante weeks ago. Valerian had hoped to wait out the storm. He might have succeeded if the Baron’s need for funds hadn’t been so desperate.
‘Cambourne? You must be mistaken, Val.’ She was all naïve logic, standing up and shaking out her skirts, convinced she only had to march into the ballroom and explain the situation to her father. ‘He loves you. Nothing would please him more than to welcome you into our family. He would want this for me, for us.’
‘Wait, Philippa.’ Valerian kept his voice even and cold, not betraying the emotion threatening beneath his hardening veneer. ‘I came out here to encourage you to accept Cambourne’s offer.’
‘What do you mean? You want me to marry Cambourne?’ Philippa exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s old enough to be my father! I don’t love him. Beyond a few dances, I hardly know the man at all.’ Her infamous temper started to show now that the initial shock had passed. Valerian did not relish being on the receiving end of her sharp tongue.
‘You have the rest of your life to get to know him, Philippa.’ Valerian dismissed her argument with callous disregard. ‘He’s an excellent catch for you, if you think about it.’ Valerian made a show of ticking the other man’s merits off on his gloved fingers. ‘He’s from our part of the world. You’ll still be close to home and your family. He’s wealthy. He loves horses as you do. He’s not a cruel or unattractive man. You could find happiness with him. He will offer you stability and security.’
‘But not love,’ Philippa fired back. ‘Here you are, laying out his assets like a business merger. But the only one I care about is love. He can’t possibly love me. He doesn’t know me. You know me, Val. If those criteria are so important to my father, then why won’t you suit? You live in our part of the world, you love horses, you’re kind and attractive, you have money. Under those conditions, I don’t see why your offer isn’t as good. What was wrong with you, Val? Let me talk to my father. We’ll be engaged by midnight. You’ll see.’
Valerian looked into the azure depths of her beseeching eyes. It was deuced awkward playing the jilt. If he was successful, she’d walk out of the garden thinking he was unaffected by the turn of events. She’d never know he’d carried a ring in his pocket for the last two weeks, hoping against hope that Cambourne’s suit would come to naught.
The ring was still there, in the left pocket of his evening coat. And there it would remain. He strongly doubted he’d ever give it to another. It was slow torture to outline Cambourne’s merits to her, to offer her reassurances that all would be well when in fact he didn’t think he’d ever be well again. His stomach was churning.
‘What was wrong with me?’ Valerian echoed with feigned flippancy ‘For starters, I don’t want to be engaged by midnight. Secondly, I didn’t ask.’
More lies. He had asked anyway, even knowing the situation. Her father had explained plainly that the young viscount didn’t have enough money—at least not until he was twenty-seven and came into his inheritance. But Baron Pendennys couldn’t wait that long. It had hurt enormously to realise his dreams had been sold for golden guineas. He would be a wealthy man for ever living without the one thing his money couldn’t buy.
‘What? You never asked?’ Her eyes filled with tears, her voice full of disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’
God, she was beautiful. Valerian fought the urge to pull her against him. She stood so close it would hardly be an effort to do so. He could smell the light fragrance of her lemon-scented soap rising from her skin, the lavender rinse of her clean hair.
She sat down hard on the stone bench, grasping at the logic of it all. ‘I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted to marry me.’
Valerian fought the urge to follow her down, and take her hands in comfort. He had to stop touching her or she’d know it was all a lie.
‘Keep your voice down. We don’t want to draw attention,’ Valerian scolded, covertly casting his gaze about the area. ‘The last thing we need now when it’s all over is to be compromised.’ He’d meant it to be a set-down. She seized on it as the answer to their troubles.
‘That’s it!’ Philippa said wildly. ‘If you compromise me, Father will have to let us marry and Cambourne will have a gracious out. Everyone would understand he couldn’t marry me then.’
Valerian felt himself rouse at the very idea. It would be easy enough to compromise her, but he loved her too much not to warn her of the consequences—consequences she couldn’t fathom through the lens of her innocence, but with three years of town bronze on him, Valerian could. ‘Philippa, no one in London would receive us. We’d live a life of exile and I could not doom you to that. I could not doom myself to that,’ he added selfishly.
Philippa could not be fooled, and her face tilted, perplexed by the incongruous statement. ‘Do such things matter to you? I thought if you had your horses and your gardens and me, it would be enough.’ She rose and moved into his embrace, her head finding its way to his shoulder.
Valerian let her, although he held himself stiff, his arms wooden at his side. He was tired of fighting on all fronts. It was inevitable now. He was down to last things. He would not see Philippa after tonight. He’d decided already that he could not go back to his home in Cornwall and watch her become the wife of a neighbour. It would drive him insane to know she and her husband lived only a day’s ride away. He’d known when he met her tonight what he had to do. He’d known she would try to argue against her father’s choice. He’d known he would have to resist her entreaties no matter what form they took. He had not known how painful it would be.
In her desperation, Philippa was arguing with all the tools at her disposal, even her body as she was doing now. Early on in their relationship, he’d revelled in teaching her about a man’s body. There was something heady about tutoring one’s beloved in the sensual arts. He’d never dreamed he would not be the one to teach her the ultimate love lesson. He fought back the wave of nausea sweeping his form.
Philippa raised her head from his shoulder, a lock of her long hair falling from its loose coiffure. Valerian involuntarily reached out to brush the russet strand back from her face. How many times had he made that gesture in the past months?
‘If you won’t marry me or compromise me, at least give me one night of passion. Let me be with you, as we intended to be together,’ she whispered.
Just hearing her utter the words completed his growing erection. A small moan of regret escaped his lips as he shut his eyes, gathering his strength. With her head on his shoulder, thankfully she could not see the torture on his face, although he knew she could feel his desire straining against her stomach. God knew how much he wanted her. He made no attempt to hide his arousal. She knew how she affected him and he her. But he was a man of honour. He’d promised to let her go.
‘That’s a very unwise suggestion, Philippa,’ he heard himself saying in a steady voice that sounded as if it came from another man who watched the vignette unfolding with great uninterest.
‘Please, Val,’ Philippa cried, clutching his hands. ‘I love you and you love me, I know you do. I can feel it.’
He had to end this scene soon. She was on the verge of breaking and his restraint was failing. If this went on much longer, his reserve would crack and they would spend the rest of their lives paying for the foolishness of a few mad minutes. He would not do that to her.
‘Don’t beg. I can’t stand to see you grovel,’ he said in a low voice close to her ear. Then he released her and stepped back, preparing to say the most difficult words he’d ever uttered, but he had to make her believe them. ‘I do love you, but perhaps not in the same way you love me. I am sorry if you’ve misunderstood my intentions when we started our little experiment in l’amour. We are finished now, you and I. Whatever we had is done, a fair-weather fling. That is how it is for a man.’
He could feel the nervous tic jump in his cheek as a silent curtain fell between them. A tickling bead of sweat ran its slow race down his back as he waited on her next words. His heart warred with his mind. His mind wanted her to see the practical logic of ending their affaire and accept his hurtful fabrication. His heart wanted her to see the words for the farce they were.
He watched coldness steal over Philippa’s face as her features changed from desperation back to anger. An unchecked fury raged in the depths of her eyes as her mind raced towards the conclusions he’d wanted her to draw. When she spoke, he could hear her voice tremble with emotions.
‘A fair-weather fling? This was all a game to you? Everything was a lie?’ she cried as the truth spread across her face, like clouds across the sun, as she began to acknowledge the import of his words. He wished he didn’t know her so well as to guess her thoughts. In her pale face he saw her doubt and pain. He knew that she believed that every knowing look, hot kiss and searing touch had been little more than seductive perjury of the worst kind. He’d played his part well. She believed those gestures had meant nothing at all to him while they had meant everything to her.
‘I thought you were a man of honour, Valerian.’ Her voice trembled. Her heart was breaking.
Valerian tightened the reins on his resolve. ‘I am a man of honour. That’s why I feel I need to call a halt before our sweet interlude goes any further.’
‘Interlude?’ Philippa was incredulous. ‘You make it sound as if our affaire is nothing more than an intermission at the theatre! Something to occupy your time between activities!’
Valerian held himself stiffly, ready to deliver the coup de grace, the last stroke. ‘I am to leave tomorrow to join my uncle on the Continent, something of a belated Grand Tour now that peace has been restored.’
‘Valerian, this is not like you. You’re playing a cruel game.’ There was reproach in her voice for both of them. Reproach for his despicable behaviour and self-chiding for her rashness. She was wrong, of course, he loved her very much, but there was no honourable way out of the situation. Perhaps it was best if she believed the worst, that his love was a fraud, that she was an extended exercise in dalliance. Valerian said nothing in his own defence. Instead, he gave her a neat bow. ‘I’ll leave you here. I can see you need a moment to collect yourself before returning to the ball,’ he said with polite coldness and turned to leave.
Philippa called to him one last time. Her anger was perilously close to giving way to tears as she spoke in a strangled whisper. ‘Tell me you loved me, that it wasn’t all false coin.’
Valerian stopped, but did not look back. Like Orpheus, it would be his undoing. ‘Miss Stratten, I cannot.’ He comforted himself with the fact that it was the truth. He was too choked with emotion to utter the words she wanted to hear. Worse, he knew the reason for his silence would be misconstrued as heartlessness. In reality, to say the words would be to give her false hope. If she thought there was any window of opportunity for her case, she’d not give in. Philippa was tenacious. He was counting on that tenacity to help her through this crisis and build a new life for herself.
Valerian closed his eyes as loss swept through him. It was better that the words went unsaid, no matter what cruel conclusions she might draw. His logic was cold comfort when Philippa spoke again, her emotions mastered, her quiet parting words piercing him like a venom arrow to the heart. ‘I will not forget this, Valerian.’
Miserable and heartsick, Valerian squared his shoulders, intending to find Philippa’s father and tell him the deed was done. He’d no longer stand in the way of the family’s financial stability. He’d tell Beldon to take Philippa home. Then he’d leave—it was the only truth he’d told tonight.
In the other pocket of his evening coat was his uncle’s letter, inviting Valerian to join his uncle’s family on the Continent where he served as one of Britain’s premier diplomats. The letter had come yesterday in response to Valerian’s own inquiries. Valerian knew he could not stay in England and watch Philippa’s new life unfold. Instead, he would go and serve England against whatever threats arose and try to exorcise the memory of Philippa Stratten from his hot blood.
Chapter One (#ulink_f8dcccca-bab7-5fd8-a4de-27287e782f3a)
30 December 1829
An icy wind blew steadily through the poorly sealed post chaise, keeping its two occupants chilled in spite of their caped greatcoats and the hot bricks they’d installed at the posting inn. But it had been the best they could do at the time. The west country was not known for its luxuries. The newly returned Viscount St Just didn’t mind. He’d been in far less comfortable situations over the past nine years and he was simply glad to be home.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Beldon Stratten, the young Baron Pendennys, groused, stamping his feet in a futile attempt to generate some body heat.
‘Am I smiling?’ Valerian asked. ‘I was unaware of it.’
‘You’ve been smiling since the inn at St Austell. I can’t imagine what about.’
Beldon was right. There wasn’t much to smile about. Their journey had become a comedy of errors. Nothing had gone right since they’d left London after celebrating the Christmas holidays in town. They’d hoped to sail down the Cornish coast to St Just-in-Roseland, Valerian’s home on the peninsula, and avoid the roads. But foul weather on the Channel had scotched those plans. So they’d set out on horseback, hoping to make better time than a lumbering coach. Valerian had a yen to be settled in his home by New Year. But weather again played them false, turning too cold for safe passage on horseback. They’d abandoned the horses at St Austell and hired the only post chaise available.
It went unspoken between them that they’d get no farther than Truro today. If they wanted to try for St Just-in-Roseland by New Year, it would have to wait until tomorrow.
‘Do you believe in serendipity, Val?’ Beldon asked, stretching his long legs out across the small space between the seats.
Valerian looked at him queerly. ‘I am not exactly sure what you mean.’
‘You know, making valuable discoveries by accident.’
‘Ah, coincidence,’ Valerian corrected. ‘You think it is merely a fortuitous happening that I ran into you in London.’
‘Definitely luck since you’d sent no word ahead of your return.’ There was a censorious note in Beldon’s voice. Valerian did not miss it. He had not said goodbye to Beldon properly when he’d left London so abruptly years ago and he had not written over the long years with the exception of one short letter early on. It was a credit to the depth of their friendship that Beldon had felt his absence so keenly and forgiven him so readily.
Beldon’s tone softened. ‘Perhaps you will explain to me some day why you all but vanished into your uncle’s household overnight. I am your friend. I would understand, whatever your reasons. We all missed you, even Philippa. I think she had always admired you from afar.’
Valerian started at that. Had Philippa kept their secret all these years? He’d expected her to blurt it all out. He’d imagined her crying on Beldon’s shoulder in the garden that last night, sobbing out how her heart had been broken by her brother’s cad of a best friend.
He’d known this moment was inevitable. Hearing her name would be just the first of many such moments. He knew in his heart that was why he hadn’t written ahead to Beldon to tell him of his return. Of course, he hadn’t known until the last moment that he would be assigned to the team of negotiators sent to London to pound out a peace treaty to end the latest conflict between the Turks and Russia. Even when he’d known with a certainty he’d be coming back, he still hadn’t sent advance notice of his return. It was a stalling mechanism and a desperate one at that, designed to put off any encounter with Philippa until the very last.
His tenure on the Continent had not outlasted his own broken heart. He had stayed on in Europe as long as he could, volunteering for myriad diplomatic assignments that lingered in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon’s efforts had left their mark on old and new regimes alike and Valerian had quickly learned that there was always someone to fight.
Treaties may have been signed, but Europe, particularly the Balkans, was not at peace. There was still plenty for Britain to worry over as countries fought to define themselves and empires sought to expand in the power vacuum left by Napoleon’s defeat.
Valerian had watched modern history play out before his very eyes as Britain and the rest of Europe fought to corner the fledgling Balkan markets.
After years of pointless victories and disappointments, Valerian found he had no stomach for a fight motivated by greed and avarice, thinly cloaked in a facade of ideals, and he could not stay away from home indefinitely. He had gardens and an estate to manage. He could not rely on his steward for ever.
While a broken-hearted young man of twenty-one could be forgiven for impetuously leaving his inheritance, a grown man of thirty years, who knew his duty, could not continue to shirk it. Yet it was difficult turning for home when he knew it would mean facing Philippa and Cambourne. But duty and honour beckoned, two ideals he had always held dear even when his country hadn’t.
‘How is your sister?’ Valerian inquired, hoping to sound casual.
Beldon nodded. ‘She’s doing well. I see her often. You just missed her in London. She spent the holidays with a friend in Richmond before heading out here. If I had known you were coming, I could have persuaded her to stay in town.’ Beldon paused, seeming to consider his next words before speaking them. ‘It’s hard to believe she’s twenty-seven and already through her first husband. Here I am at thirty and I haven’t been married, not even close. It makes me feel “behind” somehow.’
Valerian felt his body tense. ‘Through her first husband?’
‘Yes, didn’t you know? It was in all the papers, quite a newsworthy death.’
‘I wasn’t exactly holed up in Vienna the entire time,’ Valerian said wryly, thinking of the rugged Balkan territories he’d journeyed through with their mountains and sparse populations. There were places in Europe the mails didn’t reach, places with names like Voden and Negush. Places that didn’t appear on a map unless you were a Turkish Pasha charged with keeping the Christian millet in line.
‘Cambourne died three years ago in a mining accident. There was a cave-in while he was touring one of his tin mines. It was a freak incident. A shaft support gave way. The miners pulled him out, but he died of his injuries three days later at home.’
Philippa was a widow. The implications were not lost on him. Valerian’s emotions ricocheted from a morbid elation that Philippa was free to a sadness that she’d had to bear the loss of a husband, set adrift in society as a dowager so early in life.
‘I hope Cambourne left her well provided for,’ he said quietly, knowing that the Pendennys’s fortunes had rested so completely on Cambourne’s welfare. Valerian didn’t like to think that her marriage had come to naught.
‘Absolutely. He had a cousin who inherited the title and the other estates, but Philippa has all she needs or wants. Of course, the principal estate went to his heir, but Philippa has the house in Cornwall where they spent their marriage. To my mind, she got the better end of the deal. Coppercrest is a much more hospitable dwelling. Even Cambourne himself preferred it.
‘“The heir” isn’t much on going up to town, so Philippa has free run of the town house. Cambourne also bequeathed her a substantial interest in the mines and the associate businesses. He owned a tin smelter and a small gunpowder works.’
Valerian only half-listened to Beldon’s itemization of Philippa’s situation. The first line had caught most of his attention—a cousin had inherited. Ah, there were no children. Another delicate question answered. Valerian wondered if Beldon had shared that information on purpose or if it had been accidental.
Beldon chuckled softly. ‘I forget that you haven’t seen her recently. She’s much changed since you saw her last. She’s not a budding débutante any more. She’s a sophisticated woman now, as comfortable in town among the leading hostesses and politicians as she is in the country, tramping over the cliffs and riding neck-for-nothing at the hunt. When she’s in town, her house teems with politicos. Everyone seeks her endorsement and asks her opinion. She’s a leading supporter of mine reform these days, and with justifiable reason.’
Valerian smiled thoughtfully in the gathering gloom. The grey afternoon was turning towards evening. Truro couldn’t be more than a few miles in the offing. Beldon’s revelations were enough to fill the time. Valerian turned his mind inwards, pondering all Beldon had shared.
Philippa was free. In a fairy-tale world, he would have a second chance. But his world was far from a fairy tale. They had parted badly nine years ago. Philippa’s final words to him were still achingly clear. And now there was all he had done during those years to contend with as well. His years in the Balkans had left him with another set of nightmares, another set of people he’d failed in their hour of need. Those failures hung like an invisible millstone about his neck, even when he was able to subdue the more physical reminders of his futile efforts.
He’d been surprised in London to know how much people had heard about his antics on the Continent. Of course, no one had known the depth of such shenanigans, but they knew the gist. He’d led a flamboyant lifestyle in Vienna during his brief time there, playing the role of a womanising diplomat. It had been the perfect foil for something darker that took him to the sinister underbelly of the rebellions popping up across Europe. He’d been nothing short of an expert spy and negotiator, engaging in the kind of diplomacy that never made the broadsheets.
‘We’ll stop tonight at Lucien Canton’s place just outside Truro. It’ll be much better than an inn. He has an excellent cook and an even better cellar,’ Beldon broke into Valerian’s ruminations.
Valerian nodded, only half-engaged in the conversation. ‘It won’t be an imposition, I hope?’ He didn’t remember this friend of Beldon’s from their early days as young bucks on the town. ‘I don’t believe I know him.’
‘He’s Viscount Montfort’s son and heir. He was close to Cambourne before his death. Since then, he’s been Philippa’s strong right hand.’
Valerian couldn’t quite read Beldon’s expression. It didn’t seem that Beldon was precisely elated about the man’s association with his sister, but had resigned himself to it. Beldon’s conversation was moving on. ‘It will be a party before the party, the three of us together again like old times. With luck, Philippa is there already. Lucien asked her to act as hostess for his New Year’s gala since she’s the best hostess in the neighbourhood and his sister couldn’t come down from London to do it.’
Now Valerian was fully engaged. ‘Philippa will be there?’ Regardless of Beldon’s assurances that Lucien Canton was a grand chap, Valerian doubted he’d like the man very much. He was inclined to dislike any man who had a claim on Philippa’s attentions and this Lucien clearly did. No one played hostess for someone they didn’t know well. They must be good friends indeed and perhaps something more.
Beldon grinned and leaned forwards in his growing excitement. ‘Yes. She will be beyond surprised to see you.’
She would indeed, Valerian reflected wryly, although he and Beldon would likely disagree about her reaction to that surprise.
Philippa Lytton, the widowed duchess of Cambourne, glided down the curved staircase of Lucien Canton’s Truro manor at half-past six, consciously aware that she would be the last one to the drawing room and that she’d be the only female present. What had started out as a small en famille supper with Canton and the bachelor vicar from down the road had turned into a supper party with three unexpected guests.
One of them was her brother, Beldon, who had arrived unannounced just two hours ago and a guest he’d brought with him. Beldon’s arrival was understandable given the terrible weather and the fact that she was already in residence. The third guest’s presence was less clearly explained. Lucien knew him only through the acquaintances of others. He was a Mister Danforth, a well-to-do shipping merchant from Liverpool who hoped to start a provincial bank. He was not someone they would normally associate with. He was a rich Cit who’d made most of his money during the war, making his fortune somewhat speculative as to the legitimacy of its origins. But the underpopulated wilds of Cornwall in mid-winter and his tenuous connection to Lucien made it difficult to turn him away.
Philippa stopped at the foot of the stairs to draw a deep breath and square her shoulders. She stole a glance in the hallway mirror as a final check. She looked fine with her hair piled high and threaded with pearls. The heavy satin folds of her skirts fell neatly to her ankles into a deep Van-dyked hem. She liked the quiet shushing of the satin skirt as she walked.
Indeed, she loved this gown for its textures and feel as much as she loved it for its look. The cream skirt was set off by the deep blue velvet of the round bodice that fell low over her shoulders and into a plunging vee in the back. She fiddled with the simple choker of blue Kashmir sapphires that set off the expanse between her neck and the delicate cream-lace trim of her bodice.
She looked well. Not that she wanted to attract any attention. She wasn’t dressing for a man’s approval, not even Lucien’s, although he’d readily give it. Being in high looks boosted her confidence, a security blanket of sorts. In a room dominated by the male species, one could never have too much confidence if one was going to hold one’s own.
She stepped into the wide doorway of the drawing room, her eyes quickly assessing the gathering. Lucien stood at the carved-oak fireplace mantel, dressed in dark evening clothes, looking slender and elegant with his usual immaculate perfection. He was doing his host’s duty by chatting with the unworthy Mr Danforth. Across the room in a little grouping of chairs situated beneath an expansive Gainsborough landscape sat her brother, the vicar and apparently the guest her brother had brought with him. The guest’s back was to her, affording her only a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair, sleek in the evening light of candles.
Beldon saw her first. He gestured that she should join them, saving her from joining Lucien and his odious guest at the fireplace. Philippa smiled warmly at her brother and moved towards the group. She was always glad to see Beldon. They had been close as children and become even closer with her marriage to Cambourne. He’d supported her as she had learned to navigate London society and after when she had to re-learn the treacherous paths of society as a new widow.
He and the little cohort under the Gainsborough rose as she approached. ‘Beldon, I am so happy to see you! We weren’t expecting you, but it’s delightful all the same.’ She gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek, having to reach up only slightly to do so. They were nearly of a same height, both of them tall and built for grace. Anyone seeing them side by side would not doubt their similar genetic origins. Both had sharp blue eyes and russet hair the colour of chestnuts, each strikingly attractive in their own way.
The vicar leaned forward to take Philippa’s hand in greeting. ‘I am pleased to see you again, your Grace.’
‘And I you, Vicar. How are your plans for a miner’s school coming? I believe you had plans drawn up when we spoke last.’
‘Very well, thank you. It is kind of you to remember.’ The vicar beamed. ‘I hope we’ll have time to talk about its progress later tonight. I would love your opinion on a few things.’ He gently inclined his head to indicate the third gentleman in the group.
The vicar was right. It would be unseemly to jump into conversation before all the introductions were made. Philippa turned her attention to the stranger immediately, small talk coming easily to her lips. But the man to her right was no stranger at all and the small talk died a quick death.
Chapter Two (#ulink_58ce9ba9-ad56-5bb8-a764-ccf5307d0582)
Valerian Inglemoore was the last man she’d expected to see in Lucien Canton’s drawing room. Philippa mustered all her aplomb. ‘Viscount, this is indeed a surprise.’
Surprise didn’t even begin to cover it. What was he doing in Truro? How long had he been back? A thousand questions rioted through her mind. She mentally tried to tamp them down, telling herself she didn’t care about such information. But it was like fighting the Hydra. The more she tried to squelch the rising tide of questions, the more questions came forward—worse questions because they didn’t deal with the basic information of who, what and when, but with more intimate concerns—had he thought of her at all during his absence? Had he realised what he’d termed a mere dalliance was something far stronger? Did he have feelings for her yet? Did she, in spite of her efforts to deny it? Her pulse was certainly racing as if she did, as if she’d forgotten why she’d foresworn any connection to him years ago.
‘It is a surprise for me as well, and a pleasant one at that, I might add.’ Valerian bent over her gloved hand with an elegant bow. ‘Enchanté, Duchesse.’
The warmth of his touch sent a powerful frisson up her arm, so sharp she had to control herself not to snatch her hand back as if burnt. She told herself the reaction was due to the strength of his grip. The reaction had nothing to do with still being attracted to him. She had hardened her heart against Valerian Inglemoore years ago and rightly so.
Time had proved her choice a good one and her escape from his seductive clutches a lucky one. Reports from Europe during his sojourn abroad reached her circles, portraying him as a splendid diplomat with a talent for seduction. From captain’s wives to Continental princesses, no woman was safe from the dashing viscount’s wiles and no woman wanted to be. He’d become a much sought-after commodity.
It was easy to see why. She was doubly glad she’d given him up years ago. He was far too handsome for his own good now that he’d come into the fullness of his adulthood. Anyone less wise than she would be easily distracted by the silky sleekness of his dark hair. She knew from experience how simple it was to spend an evening thinking about running hands through those ebony skeins.
If the hair didn’t distract one thoroughly enough, there was the trap of his piercing jade eyes, the angular planes of his chiselled face, the sensual promise of his lips, the caress of knowing hands, firm and confident as they learned the contours of one’s body and the pledge of his own body, all muscles and hot strength beneath superbly tailored clothes. Ah, yes, Valerian Inglemoore was a walking minefield of passion—promising pleasure but delivering heartache to the unsuspecting miss. It was good she knew better. That was one trap she would not fall into again.
Valerian gave her a slight nod, a smug smile playing on his lips. She felt herself blush. He’d caught her looking. She hadn’t meant for that to happen.
The butler entered and intoned the announcement for dinner. Philippa felt herself breathe again. She started towards Lucien, eager to escape the scrutiny of Valerian’s gaze. A warm hand on her arm stayed her.
‘Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you into dinner?’ Valerian asked, his voice low next to her ear, his message just for her.
Philippa shot a look at Lucien, but he would be of no use to her. He’d already acquiesced to the situation, a hard look in his eyes that belied the friendly tenor of his words. ‘You’ve got her then, St Just? I remember now that the three of you grew up together.’ It was said pleasantly enough, but Philippa didn’t miss the tightness of Lucien’s smile or the covert scrutiny in his eyes.
Valerian seated her at the foot of the table and put himself promptly on her right, leaving Beldon and the vicar to juggle Mr Danforth between them.
Philippa couldn’t decide if she preferred Valerian next to her or next to Lucien. Both positions offered their own forms of temptation. She could either have him next to her and struggle with his physical nearness or spend the entire evening fighting the distraction of his handsome visage down the table. But it hardly mattered, she reprimanded herself. He didn’t affect her either way. Her current reaction was merely the shock of seeing him again without warning.
She wished she could read Valerian better. It would be a small measure of comfort if he was struggling to adapt as well. Did she have any effect on him at all? All at once, she vividly recalled the hardness of his erection, the feel of him pulsing through his trousers in their youth, how he’d taught her to caress him. Was he hard now? Or entirely immune? No matter that he’d once claimed only the shallowest of feelings for her, he’d roused to her none the less.
She had to stop! Philippa reached for her wine glass and took a generous sip. These were unseemly thoughts. They were base in nature and had no place at the dinner table, especially coming from a woman who had spent the years putting the memory of his kisses behind her.
The footmen removed the soup and served up the fish course. Conversation lagged as they performed their duties. Once the course was settled, Lucien picked up the threads of small talk. ‘St Just, are you home for good or has the Continent enchanted you?’
Valerian patted his mouth with a fine linen napkin before speaking. ‘I am home for the duration and proud to say it. I terminated my affiliation with the diplomatic corps while I was in London over Christmas. I can now devote my time to my estate, my much neglected gardens and my nursery.’
The statement was ambiguous. Anyone knowing Valerian as she did would wonder if he meant his flower nurseries or perhaps a nursery of another sort. No one was ill bred enough to ask for an explanation, but apparently such probing was not beyond the pale for Mr Danforth, who hadn’t known Valerian for more than the time it had taken to eat the soup.
With a smug masculine tone to his voice, Danforth said, ‘You mean to marry and beget an heir. Very good thinking. I hear you’ve quite a fortune. You’ll need an heir to look after things.’
At the head of the table, Lucien nearly sprayed a mouthful of wine at the tactless comment. It was practically an art form to make such a faux pas as mentioning ‘begetting’ and money in the same poor comment.
Valerian met the rude comment evenly. ‘In fact, I do mean to marry as soon as possible. Enough time has been wasted, I think. I find myself eager to embrace matrimony. With the right woman, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ Danforth agreed, oblivious to the social faux pas he’d committed. ‘A wife must have certain qualities. She must be pretty, biddable, malleable, open to a husband’s training and all that. No man wants to spend his life leg-shackled to an opinion-spouting shrew, no matter what her dowry.’
Philippa stiffened at Danforth’s belittling remarks. ‘I think finding a wife is altogether different than shopping for a brood mare, Mr Danforth. At least it is for those of us who hold marriage as something more than servitude.’
Beldon coughed and the vicar looked nonplussed. There was more she’d liked to have said to the sputtering Danforth, but Valerian’s hand pressed heavily on her thigh beneath the damask cloth in warning. She fought back a smile. Was he remembering her infamous temper?
Valerian smoothly intervened with the honed skill of a diplomat. ‘For myself, Mr Danforth, I am looking for different qualities in a wife. I prefer a more mature woman, a woman who can speak for herself, who can hold her own in an argument. In short, a woman of independence.’
Danforth bristled. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that about you.’ His beady gaze met Valerian’s directly in a surprising show of spine.
Everyone at the table stopped eating. Philippa wondered how Valerian would confront his ‘reputation’, as it were. Would he deny it? Part of her wished he would.
Valerian smiled. It was not a friendly smile, but a wolfish one that suggested he was not, nor ever would how Valerian be, the prey. ‘Then you will have also heard that I am not afraid of a woman’s opinions, that I am not a man who will cower behind old-fashioned thought and conventions when it comes to the suppression of the fairer sex. Much would be missed in our world if we neglected half the population. Take, for example, the excellent champagne our host is serving from his excellent cellar tomorrow night.’
Valerian turned to Canton. ‘Pendennys mentioned you’d be offering a Veuve Clicquot, an outstanding champagne thanks to the revolutionary efforts of Clicquot’s widow. Did you know, Danforth, that she is responsible for inventing the remuage process? We have a woman to thank for clear champagne. Without her efforts, we’d have nothing more than a cloudy, fizzy novelty.’ Valerian raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Madame Clicquot.’
In a few short sentences Valerian had eloquently smoothed over Danforth’s uncomfortable claims and moved the conversation into the safer realm of wine. Danforth did not venture out to play with verbal fire again.
Dinner went smoothly after that if Philippa did not count the unnerving sensation of Valerian’s body in such close proximity to her own. In all the numerous dinner parties she’d attended, she had not ever noticed the intimate closeness she was now exceedingly aware of with Valerian next to her. His knee touched hers; she dropped her napkin and his hand brushed her skirt as he bent to retrieve it, beating the footman to the task.
* * *
By the time dessert was served, Philippa’s nerves were jangled beyond reason. She stood as soon as it was politely possible. ‘Gentlemen, excuse me. I’ll leave you to your port and cigars.’
Lucien rose and protested. ‘Please stay, my dear. You are welcome to stay.’ He directed the comment at her, but his hazel stare was directed at Valerian. The look in his gaze was sharp and penetrating, meant to send a message.
So he had noticed Valerian’s casual touches, Philippa thought, and he’d found them as unsettling as she did, but for altogether different reasons. She could feel Valerian’s eyes read every message, spoken or not. She had no desire to stay in the dining room and become a prize to be fought over. ‘Really, I would prefer to retire and give you gentlemen some privacy,’ she insisted, not waiting for permission to leave the room.
Philippa collected a shawl from her bedroom and then made good her escape to a quiet veranda where she could let the cold air do its work. She needed a clear head. Valerian was back and he would have to be contended with. His presumptuous behaviour at dinner suggested he wasn’t the least bit penitent about breaking her young girl’s heart, nor was he disinclined to live down the rumours regarding his profligate behaviour abroad.
Certainly, she didn’t want to be petty. What had happened between them had occurred years ago. They were both adults now. She should put the past behind her. He obviously had if his behaviour at dinner was any indication. He apparently thought she might welcome his advances. But he would have to take her for a fool if he thought she would disregard his well-taught lessons after one flirtatious encounter.
Would she disregard his harsh lesson in love? The thought that she might re-think her position on Valerian was startling. In her mind, she’d often played out an imaginary encounter. In that encounter, she’d been an aloof lady with grand manners, icily polite to a fault and he would know that his attentions had come too late.
Funny how in her imaginings she always assumed he’d care what had become of her. Maybe that was because she could not fathom how he’d gone from a dedicated suitor with words of undying devotion on his lips to that of a cold jilt in the span of a day. Undisputably, he’d broken her heart, but she’d never quite convinced herself it was for the reasons he’d cited. None the less, in the end, the results had been the same.
Valerian would drive her mad! Perhaps it was time to think more seriously about Lucien Canton’s offer. There had been no formal proposal, but much was implied in their long-standing relationship. She did expect a proposal soon. Perhaps Valerian was the impetus she needed for getting on with her life.
Lucien was exactly the kind of man she needed and he’d spent the years since Cambourne’s death proving it. He’d overseen the difficult tangle of financial matters and entailments until she’d learned to manage them on her own. He’d been the one to ride out to the mines and keep the Cambourne industries running while she was in mourning. Besides herself, no one knew the extensive Cambourne holdings better than Lucien. He was competent, handsome, well mannered, comfortable to be with. He was reliable and steady, a constant companion.
‘Philippa.’
All thoughts of Lucien vanished. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Valerian. ‘I came out here to be alone.’
‘Then we have something in common. I came out here to be alone with you, too.’ Valerian took up a position next to her at the railing, leaning on his elbows. ‘I wanted to talk to you. There are things I want to explain.’
Philippa shifted her body to face him. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea unless you want to start explaining why your hand spent most of dinner on my thigh. We are finished. You made that clear nine years ago.’
Valerian would not be put off by her harsh words. It was disappointing, but not unexpected that he could not be handled like the ballroom beaux. A set-down from her usually sent them scrambling for apologies.
Instead of begging forgiveness, Valerian laughed softly in the darkness, a beautiful, sensual sound that promised indecent pleasures. One would have thought she’d spoken love words to him instead of a scolding.
‘You are more sharp-tongued than I remember.’ He paused to look at her, his voice lowering. ‘And more beautiful. You’ve done well for yourself.’
If he refused to be scolded, then she would refuse to be taken in by his flattery. ‘St Just, if you intended that as a compliment, your skill is diminished greatly. I am insulted by the idea that my beauty has done well for me as if my looks were an industry designed to turn a profit. My looks have bought me a few houses and financial security. While those are not unpleasing things, the price for them has been my personal happiness. To think that my looks have done well for me is to be misled by the shallow mind you apparently possess. You show yourself poorly by believing I would settle for so little.’
There, such a scalding set-down should drive even him from the veranda. But Philippa was supremely dissatisfied with the results.
Valerian’s face broke into a wide grin, showing all his white teeth. His voice was low and private, laughter lurking beneath the surface. ‘I am glad to see that along with selling your hand in marriage, your parents didn’t succeed in selling your soul.’ He chuckled, enjoying his humour.
‘You’ve a black sense of humour, St Just.’
Valerian reached for her hand where it rested on the railing, caressing it idly with his fingertips. ‘My dear, when have I ever been St Just to you? Call me Valerian as my friends do, as you once did.’
Philippa snatched her hand away. How dare he come out here to insult her and then expect that he could take liberties? ‘Let me set you straight. I am not your “dear” or your friend. Nine years ago, I paid the price for what passes as friendship with you. I shall not make that mistake again. I have a new life now and there’s no room for you in it.’ It was important that she define the rules first before he had a chance to worm himself into her good graces. He could be charming and she must be wary of letting her guard down, of letting him pretend to be her friend.
His face flushed at her words. She did not think the flush was from her candour, but rather from a rising anger. Valerian gripped her by the arms, his soft sensuality of moments ago replaced by a hard envy. ‘A life that includes Lucien Canton? What is Lucien Canton to you? Is he your lover?’
‘Take your hands off me. I don’t answer to you.’ Philippa looked him squarely in the eye. Something dangerous and erotic lurked in their emerald depths. In an unfair moment she thought Lucien’s hazel eyes merely pretended towards greenness.
He ignored her request. He crowded her against the hard iron of the railing. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind she thought she should have minded the invasion. But his hot envy had transmuted into molten seduction.
‘Your body answers to me, Philippa. My hands were made for you and you alone. No one has ever felt like you do, Philippa. I’ve not forgotten how your skin feels like rose petals.’ He pushed back the shawl from her arms and trailed the back of his hands down their length, removing the long gloves as he went until her arms were completely exposed.
‘I have not forgotten what it is to span the width of your back with my hand and pull you against me.’ Warm skin met warm skin where the plunging vee of her gown bared her back and she trembled against her will.
‘And you’ve not forgotten either,’ Valerian whispered against her mouth, his lips moving to seal hers, his hands moving to crush her against him, one hand finding the firm mound of breast beneath the velvet bodice. He palmed it, caressed it reverently until she cried out in his mouth from unwanted pleasure.
It was all coming back to her in a rush, how he felt against her, how he could make her body come alive, how she loved the exquisite sensations he could coax from her. How could she have forgotten this?
Philippa burned. Every part of her body was on fire. Heat licked at her from the inside out. Pressure built at her core until she wanted to scream. Valerian was the sum of her world in that moment. He was everywhere—his hands on her body, his scent in her nostrils—and she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to go on for eternity. She hated herself for it.
She pulled away with the greatest of efforts, panting and desperate. Valerian looked dismayed at her retreat. That was some gratification. ‘Have a care, St Just. Lucien will not tolerate playing the cuckold.’ She gave a slight nod to the empty room beyond the French doors, where Beldon and Lucien had just arrived. She hoped she didn’t look as dishevelled as she felt.
‘Philippa—’ he began in a ragged voice.
She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’
‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.
‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’
‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’ He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh.
Philippa’s nerves were stretched to breaking. She raised her right hand and slapped him hard across the face.
‘What was that for?’ Valerian put a hand to his red cheek, stunned.
Philippa inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders. ‘That was “welcome home.”’
Chapter Three (#ulink_85bc2c0e-3657-53f0-81a8-f86499436b8b)
Welcome home indeed, Valerian thought sourly, watching Philippa disappear inside. Through the glass panes of the French doors he could see her sit down at the polished cherry-wood pianoforte and arrange her skirts.
Lucien Canton slid on to the bench next to her, ready to turn pages, acting the devoted suitor to perfection. From the looks of him, the man did everything to perfection. He was immaculately turned out and not just his clothes, Valerian had noted. Canton’s nails were trimmed and buffed to a healthy sheen, his face freshly shaved. Valerian looked at his own nails, just as neatly kept. He too was fastidious in his personal habits. He had learned quickly in his time abroad that women responded to two things, cleanliness and sincerity, both of which were in short supply in many parts of the world. But from all appearances through the window pane, Canton possessed both qualities in abundance. Through the panes, Philippa smiled and laughed at something Canton had said.
Primal envy sparked in Valerian. He didn’t want Philippa laughing with Canton. He wanted her laughing with him. He hadn’t come home expecting to woo her. He hadn’t even known wooing her would be a possibility until Beldon had mentioned Cambourne’s death in the coach. But now that the chance to win her back was present, he could see no other course of action.
He’d meant what he’d said at dinner about taking a wife and starting a family—as long as that wife was Philippa. He still desired her and she still responded to him, if that ill-conceived interlude here on the balcony was any indication. He only had to convince her of that. She’d had nine years to nurse her grudge and she’d always been far too stubborn. The sting of her slap suggested the job in front of him would not be an easy one. The passion of her body’s response to his said the task would not be without its rewards. She might have struck him, but he was not convinced she’d slapped him out of anger about his advances. Given her response to him, she’d struck him out of anger over her own behaviour. He was merely a convenient target.
However, he was willing to acknowledge that it had been the height of foolhardiness to seek her out alone, knowing that his emotions were ruling his better judgement. The thrill of seeing her again, of feeling her presence next to him at dinner, of watching her deal with Danforth, combined with the surge of jealously that coursed through him at seeing Canton lay claim to her, was too potent a mixture to swallow without consequence.
He’d meant to confess his feelings to her, to declare his devotion and even to explain away the events of their last evening together as the poor decisions of youth. He’d got nowhere with his agenda. Instead, he’d no doubt affirmed all the sordid rumours that had trickled back to London about him. Within moments they’d been sparring and then, his blood hot, he’d taken her in his arms and silenced her the only way he knew how. But his reckless kiss had been more consistent with the behaviour he wanted to refute than the man he wanted to convince Philippa he was, and had always been, in spite of actions to the very persuasive contrary.
The only thing more senseless than kissing Philippa was standing out here in the cold, allowing Canton to hold Philippa’s attention uncontested. Valerian pushed open the door and went inside. The battle was joined.
Lucien spied his return to the company as Philippa finished playing a pretty country piece. The small group clapped politely. ‘Let us play our duet for them,’ Lucien suggested to Philippa, sorting through the sheets of music until he found the one he was looking for. He gave Valerian a challenging look that could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a silent dare. Valerian returned the stare with a short nod of acknowledgement.
They executed the duet flawlessly. Valerian had known Philippa was a dab hand at the pianoforte, but Lucien was the stronger of the two players. He wondered if Canton knew he played as well. The piece flowed seamlessly, the four hands following each other to Lucien’s trademark perfection.
Amid the brief applause at the end, Canton tossed him a smug look of satisfaction. Philippa caught him at it and gave Canton a hard look. Valerian was hard pressed to smother a laugh. Lucien didn’t know Philippa well if he thought such masculine antics would go unpunished. She would make Canton pay and, he noted ruefully when her quick stare censured him as well, he would pay too.
‘Anyone else care to play?’ Lucien asked, once more the congenial host. Valerian doubted any of the other guests were aware of the currents flowing between the little triangle. It was tempting to play, but it was also petty. Valerian opted to refrain, but Philippa had different ideas. She caught his eye. ‘Viscount St Just is quite accomplished if I remember correctly. Do you still play, St Just?’
‘Yes, I do. It would be an honour to perform on such a fine instrument.’ Valerian took the bench and flexed his hands experimentally.
‘I have some music…’ Canton began.
‘I won’t need any music,’ Valerian said shortly and launched into a complicated scherzo that left the audience mesmerised.
‘Magnificent! You’ve been training,’ Beldon enthused afterwards. ‘I’d forgotten how good you were.’
‘Thank you,’ Valerian said, rising from the bench. He tossed a covert glance towards Canton, making sure the man understood he’d picked up the gauntlet.
The tea tray arrived, but no one lingered overlong. There would be much to do on the morrow to be ready for the evening’s festivities. As everyone retired, Valerian stopped off at the library to select a book to read. A few minutes later there were muffled footsteps on the Axminster carpet. He didn’t need to turn around to know the newcomer was Lucien Canton. He’d expected as much. The problem with perfection was that it was often predictable.
‘I thought you and I should talk, St Just. Have a seat.’ Canton sat down and motioned to the chair across from him.
‘You have an extensive collection of books,’ Valerian said glibly.
Canton waved away the attempt at small talk. ‘I am not here to trade banalities with you. I came to make sure you understood how things stand between myself and Lady Cambourne.’ His eyes glittered like hard gems.
Valerian steepled his hands. ‘I understand from Pendennys that she is acting as hostess in your sister’s stead,’ he said, deliberately misinterpreting the implications of Canton’s message. If the man wanted to stake his claim, he’d have to do it directly. He would not get away with subtlety.
‘She is more than my hostess. We have discussed the possibility of a more permanent arrangement between us. I mean to propose marriage to her and I have every reason to believe that my suit would be met favourably.’
‘Why are you telling me, a mere stranger, this?’
‘You know very well why—you didn’t take her into dinner for the sake of old friendships renewed and all that. I did not know the depth of your former relationship was quite so, ah, developed. It is clearly much more than a friendship. No one looks at an old friend the way you looked at her tonight.’
‘And how is that?’ He’d been more transparent than he thought, or perhaps Canton was simply more astute.
‘Like a starving man looks at a feast,’ Canton said acidly.
Valerian raised his eyebrows, ready to strike. ‘Is that cliché the best you can do?’ He liked Canton less and less by the moment and not all of it had to do with envy. All his instincts said Canton had ulterior motives regarding Philippa. A man in love and certain of his affections being returned would not feel a need to stake such a blatant claim. Canton’s next statement confirmed Valerian’s suspicions.
‘I know you didn’t go to the drawing room to study the Gainsborough when you left the dining room,’ Canton said, referring to the facile lie Valerian had used to excuse himself and to follow Philippa. ‘My footman reported the two of you were out on the balcony, intimately engaged.’
‘Spying on your guests? That’s quite an admirable trait,’ Valerian said drily. ‘I wonder how the Duchess would feel if she knew you had her followed. Do you do it regularly?’ He rose, book in hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this gentlemanly conversation. Goodnight, Canton.’
Lucien rose with him. ‘I mean to have her, St Just. She’s mine. I’m the one who has been here through the years when she was in mourning. You can’t waltz into my home after a nine-year absence and undo in the span of a few short hours what I’ve worked years to accomplish.’
Valerian stopped at the door, his hand forcefully gripping the knob as he reined in his temper. He’d faced down Mehemet Ali, the renowned Egyptian naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’
He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.
Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too sacred to escape sacrifice. There was something Lucien Canton wanted and Philippa was a vital link in his ability to get it. He speculated that Lucien Canton would be willing to do more than marry to secure it as well.
The man had portrayed no signs of lover-like affections, but had instead acted like a man in possession of a great treasure around which he must place guards and fences. It didn’t take a large amount of speculation, even knowing as little as he did about the state of Philippa’s inheritance from Cambourne, to surmise Canton had his eye on some aspect of her estate.
Beldon had asked him in the coach if he believed in serendipity. Absolutely not. He had not survived the dark side of diplomacy by luck. He’d survived because he believed a man made his own chances. From the looks of things, Lucien Canton believed that too. That made the man more dangerous than he might have been otherwise.
He wondered if Philippa knew Canton didn’t love her, but what she owned. If not, he’d be sure to call it to her attention by showing her the depths of his own passion for her. It looked like he wouldn’t make Roseland Hall by New Year after all.
31 December
The dancers whirled about Valerian in a dervish of luxurious winter velvets and satins to a rowdy country dance played by the five-piece orchestra seated above the crowd in the small balcony at the top of the ballroom, designed for just such a purpose. The guests were in high spirits as midnight approached. Philippa had done a splendid job playing hostess, making sure everyone had partners for dancing. No one went unnoticed, from the plainest of girls to the quietest of matrons.
He and Beldon had done their parts to ensure her success in that pursuit. They’d danced with the matrons and charmed the local wallflowers until they blossomed.
But for the most part, Valerian had spent the evening listening to the rhythm of Cornwall. What did people think about these days? What was the lifeblood of the Cornish economy? Where did people think their future lay? The answer repeatedly came back to mining.
It was not surprising. Mining had been an ongoing consideration in the region for literally centuries. Valerian’s own family had mining interests upon which the family fortunes were built. He knew the Duke of Cambourne had invested heavily in tin and copper mines as well as the ancillary businesses that accompanied the industry of mining: smelting, furnace parts and mining equipment.
What did surprise him was the growing competition. Mining had not yet reached its apex, but the foundations for managing those future interests were being laid now. Mining had become a full blown industry and much more highly politicised than it had been before.
Valerian had caught snatches of conversations regarding mining-related legislation. House of Commons members, home from the Michaelmas session of Parliament, and members of the House of Lords, debated the need for safety laws that ensured a quality of life for the miners and their families.
More intriguing to Valerian were the conversations he overheard regarding the merits of importing metal ores from British settlements in Chile and Argentina. The capitalists of the group argued importing would certainly help meet growing industrial need, while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.
Canton sided with the capitalists, avidly arguing for aggressive expansion in South American mining. Valerian’s earlier suspicions about Canton coveting the assets brought to him through marriage to Philippa were finding substantiation in Canton’s avaricious stance on the economics of mining. Valerian made a mental note to ask Beldon about the extent of Philippa’s mining assets.
‘Fifteen minutes until midnight!’ The cry went up from the orchestra conductor, who urged everyone to find a partner for the ‘last waltz of the year’. There was an excited flurry on the dance floor as people laughingly paired up.
Valerian strode purposefully towards the group Philippa stood with. Other than acting as a willing dance partner for her wallflowers, Valerian had stayed apart from her. He preferred to study her movements and behaviour from afar—a certain kind of exquisite torture he’d imposed on himself as punishment for the prior evening. In hindsight, he acknowledged that he had not handled himself well on the balcony. He’d rushed his fences without knowing his quarry.
Tonight, she sparkled among an already glittering crowd. The deep gold of her gown was an elegant foil for the mass of burnished hair piled on her head and coiffed in strands of gold, woven through the coils like other women wove pearls. Her long neck was shown to advantage with the upsweep of her hair and Valerian was seized with the urge to kiss her nape as he came up behind her. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders as if he were settling an imaginary cloak about her. He bent close to her ear, saying, ‘I believe this dance is mine.’
It was a proprietary overture on his part and he knew it well. Most women thrilled to such a seductive, possessive claim. Odds were that Philippa wouldn’t. But neither would she be able to politely refuse without looking like a shrew in front of the others.
Whatever scold she had in store for him would be worth the feel of her in his arms. Waltzing was something they’d done often and well in the old days.
‘Viscount,’ Philippa said, recovering from having been caught unaware by his gambit, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve left it until the last minute.’ She gave a smile, forced to cover for his presumptions.
‘My apologies.’ Valerian swept her a gallant bow and escorted her to the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t get off that easily. He had no sooner fitted his hand against her back when she showed her displeasure.
‘Don’t ever handle me like that again,’ she began.
‘I am afraid it would be rather difficult to dance without touching you,’ Valerian said obtusely.
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You put me in a position where I could not refuse you without looking rag-mannered. Moreover, you insinuated claims on my attentions that you do not have.’
‘Haven’t I?’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with her.
The music started up before she could fire another insult at his head. Valerian swept her out into the centre of the floor, effortlessly creating space for them in the crowd. He was confident her pique wouldn’t last long. Philippa could not resist the lure of the waltz. It had always been her favourite dance.
He had waltzed women across dance floors from the Black Sea to St Mark’s Square in Venice, but no partner could rival the beauty of Philippa in his arms. Her long legs matched his stride with ease; her body answered the subtle guidance of his hand. She was all fluid grace as they moved through the turn at the top of the ballroom, her anger at him erased in the exhilaration of the dance.
They turned swiftly and tightly, giving him a reason to bring her up close to him instead of holding her at arm’s length. She gasped at the change in contact, then threw back her head and gave an honest laugh. ‘You waltz scandalously, St Just. Is this how they do it in Vienna?’
‘It’s how I do it.’ He wondered how long he could keep her like this. The sight of her smile was breathtaking. In that moment, the smile was all for him. It was not her hostess smile, or her duchess smile, just her smile. A smile he’d known for years. It was the smile she’d given him when they raced neck or nothing, the smile she’d given him when they’d danced at her début, the smile she’d given him the first time he’d kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, and she’d recognised him as a man of powerful urges.
He laughed back and whirled them about at a faster pace, heedless of convention. The dancing halted promptly at midnight in order for the ballroom to cheer in the New Year. Both of them were laughing and breathless. Valerian had his arm about her waist, keeping her close at his side, enjoying her unhampered good humour.
All her masks were off and she was Philippa Stratten beside him once more. His masks were off too. He was simply a young man again, in the throes of a first and true love, untouched by the rougher edges of life. A giddy elation fired his blood at the final stroke of midnight. As the raucous cheers went up, he recklessly pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. Her arms wound around his neck and her head tipped back to take his kiss completely. There was an unequalled sweetness in knowing she felt the fire, too, and had given herself over to it. In that moment Valerian swore a silent resolution to himself in the fashion of old English tradition. By this time next year, he would have her. He’d already lived too long without her.
The orchestra struck up a tune for another waltz before the guests headed in for the New Year’s supper. Valerian swung her into the dance without asking. She protested with a laugh, ‘We’ve already danced once tonight.’
‘That was last year,’ Valerian parried easily, his elation only partially dampened by the stare of an infuriated Lucien Canton, who watched them from the sidelines, rage emanating from every pore of his impeccably groomed form.
Lucien viewed the pair waltzing with abandon and a disgusting amount of apparent ease in each other’s arms. They were beautiful to watch as long as one wasn’t also watching one’s opportunity to marry one of them decreasing exponentially. Valerian Inglemoore was most definitely an unlooked-for complication in the progress of his plans. He had meant to propose to Philippa in the spring when he could do it in high style in London among the haut monde. Watching her with the newly returned viscount, Lucien knew without doubt he couldn’t wait that long.
He had to strike before the iron was hot, as it were. Most people who knew him believed him to be a keen judge of human nature. Lucien knew his accuracy in guessing people’s motivations and desires was partly his own intuition, but also partly because he spied on everyone in his milieu. The duchess was not exempt.
His spies indicated that the viscount was besotted with her, stealing away from the dinner table last night to steal kisses on the veranda. It was no balm to Lucien’s concern that his spy also reported Philippa had slapped the bastard across the face. At the moment she might be conflicted over her response to the return of her curious friend, but hate ran a close parallel to love. From what Lucien had seen, if he waited until spring, the lovely and pivotal duchess would no longer be interested or available.
Without the Cambourne mines, his hopes to corner the tin market and establish an elite, profitable tin cartel, with holdings in Britain and South America, would become an idle dream. And without access to the Cambourne finances, he’d be hard pressed to cover some of his investments. It didn’t take any amount of genius to know that if St Just claimed Philippa’s affections, Lucien’s own friendship with her would come to a quick end. St Just was not the type of man who’d allow his wife to keep a close male friend.
Lucien’s hard gaze followed St Just into the last turn of the waltz. He’d ordered murder done before to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t hesitate to see it done again.
Chapter Four (#ulink_959f7587-0738-5bb0-95d8-977c02dcf9b5)
‘He made you look the whore last night,’ Lucien bit out crisply over breakfast late the next morning in the library.
Well, there it was. Philippa had expected as much when she’d received the note requesting they privately break their fast together, away from the other guests. Lucien was a stickler for propriety. Not one of his more desirable traits. Apparently, he was covetous too. She’d not had reason to notice that before. But no one had ever posed a threat to his claims on her time.
Philippa buttered her toast calmly, unbothered by Lucien’s pique. ‘You can hardly be jealous because I danced with an old friend.’ That wasn’t to say she was pleased with her behaviour the night before. She had indeed let her guard down with Valerian, a behaviour she did not indulge in with anyone. But Valerian’s enthusiasm had been contagious and in his arms she’d felt the responsibilities of her world lift for a moment.
‘Old friend? The word is too tame,’ Lucien scoffed, reaching for his coffee. ‘I’ve never danced with the sister of an old friend the way he waltzed with you. He desires you, Philippa. One cannot not notice. He makes no effort to hide it. Such behaviour is better suited for a brothel than a ballroom.’ Lucien set his cup down and looked at her squarely. ‘St Just needs to understand in specific terms that his attentions are not welcome, even if they were encouraged in the past.’
Philippa met his stern gaze evenly, bridling at his insinuations about her virtue. She was the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne. She would not be commanded in such a high-handed fashion. She chose to ignore Lucien’s subtle probe into her past. Whatever had transpired between she and Valerian was their business alone. Lucien could speculate all he wanted. She hadn’t even told Beldon.
‘Are you suggesting I am forbidden to see him?’ This possessiveness was exactly the kind of behaviour she’d been trying to avoid in a relationship with any male acquaintance of her circle since Cambourne’s death. She didn’t need to take direction from well-meaning men who thought she couldn’t manage the reins of her estate or social life on her own. In Lucien, she’d thought she’d found a liberated man who would tolerate her independence.
It had been the basis of her attraction to him. Lucien had been a welcome friend during a difficult transition period for her. He’d been a loyal escort and adviser when she’d begun rebuilding her social circle after Cambourne’s death. She’d believed they complemented one another well and had a comfortable companionship between matched intellects and interests.
She’d helped him too in a myriad of ways, like acting the hostess when his busy sister wasn’t available. It had been the least she could do in return for the assistance he’d given her throughout the years.
‘What right do you have to make such a demand of me?’ Philippa flicked him a tight glance.
Lucien’s eyes flashed. ‘What right? We have been together for years.’
‘We are hardly married, Lucien,’ Philippa warned. They’d not explicitly talked in such terms before, although it would be unfair to say the issue had not arisen in other ways in the last year.
‘Perhaps we should be. Married, that is,’ Lucien said coldly.
‘Is that a proposal? Your lack of enthusiasm makes it rather hard to tell,’ Philippa shot back. Damn Valerian for this, Philippa thought hotly. Lucien’s proposal, if one could call it that, was all his doing. He had to come rushing in and wreck everything with hot kisses and knowing caresses, making her remember the possibilities.
Philippa put down her napkin and rose, leaving her toast untouched, but it didn’t matter. Her stomach couldn’t tolerate a bite of food now. ‘I regret to inform you that I have no intention of accepting a proposal articulated with such lacklustre ardour. It bodes ill for the marriage.’ She tinged her voice with exaggerated ennui. The sooner she was out of the room the better. She hoped she made the door before she gave full vent to her temper.
Lucien rose, the glacial calm that usually accompanied his demeanour, melting at her comment. ‘My displays of “ardor” have been quite acceptable to you right up until St Just began stealing kisses on the balcony right under my nose.’
Philippa stiffened. How could he have known? But to accuse him of spying on her would mean admitting he had the right of it. She turned to face Lucien before sweeping into the hallway. ‘You’ve shown yourself in a poor light this morning, Lucien. Jealousy does not become you.’
Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak against the damp weather, Philippa stormed out to the gardens. No one else was about in such inclement weather. She was glad for it. She would make terrible company. She would be hard pressed to behave politely when all her thoughts were focused on less than polite behaviour.
Valerian and Lucien were worse than two stallions in season fighting over a mare and now Lucien had proposed, no doubt prompted by his sense of honour and apparently the belief that she needed protection from the likes of Valerian. In the three years of their association, Lucien had never once pressed her for a discreet affair. There had been nothing beyond a few private, dry kisses, a gentleman’s touch on the dance floor or helping her in and out of carriages. Nothing atall to compare with Valerian’s very public seduction.
Lucien’s kisses were preludes to nothing. They inspired no wish to lose control, to cross over the boundaries of propriety. Valerian’s kisses lit a raging fire in her, forced her to abandon her grip on control. Valerian’s kisses were an invitation to decadence.
The very thought of Valerian’s audacious assumptions brought colour to her wind-whipped cheeks. Lucien was right. Valerian made no secret of his sensual habits. The differences between the two men could not be more clearly illustrated if she drew a line in the dirt. On one side there was Lucien with his icy good looks and restrained passions to match his rigid sense of honour. On the other, there was Valerian, all devil-dark hair and hot eyes, flouting honour and convention at every turn. If the disparities were so obvious, why did she hesitate?
The answer gnawed at her. She was no longer sure Lucien’s companionship would be enough for either of them. She was hard pressed to believe Lucien was happy with the dry affection that passed between them. Certainly, he must wish for more. Surely there must be another reason why he’d forgo physical pleasure. She wished she knew what he’d gain to make the sacrifice worthwhile. She could understand if he openly declared he needed to marry for money. But she did not appreciate hidden motivations. They were usually dark and dangerous and wrapped in lies.
Valerian leaned on his cue stick in the billiards room, pretending to watch Beldon take a shot. In reality, his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond Beldon’s shoulder, through the window. Philippa was walking in the garden, alone. He’d been disappointed to learn she and Canton were taking breakfast privately when he’d come downstairs late in the morning. He could imagine what they’d talked about. Canton was none too pleased with him.
Beldon cleared his throat. ‘Val, it’s your turn.’
‘So it is,’ Valerian returned, but his interest in the game had waned. ‘Beldon, would you mind if we finished our game later? I suddenly remember some pressing business I need to see to.’
Valerian didn’t stay long enough to let Beldon quiz him on his sudden business. He slowed his pace only when he neared Philippa. It wouldn’t do to appear the over-eager swain. She needn’t know he’d interrupted his billiards game to rush after her the moment he’d glimpsed her.
She looked lovely, her colour high and her hair less than perfect from the wind. Desire surged in him, raw and elemental like the weather. She turned and spotted him at the gate.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ Valerian offered drily, striding towards her.
‘I found the house a bit stifling,’ Philippa said shortly, bending to study a dormant plant.
‘The house or our Mr Canton?’ Valerian pried shamelessly. ‘I heard the two of you were closeted together over breakfast. I hope he wasn’t angry about last night.’ The last was a lie.
‘You are too bold, St Just.’ Philippa straightened, her eyes flashing as they studied him. He liked the feel of her gaze on him. Let her look and see that he desired her.
‘But yes, Lucien has asked that I make our relationship clear to you.’
‘So to speed my departure,’ Valerian mused aloud uncharitably.
‘Be fair, St Just. Lucien has done nothing to earn your enmity besides stand my friend.’
Valerian studied her. ‘Is he your friend? I did not know him from before. He must be a new friend.’
‘Why, of course he’s a friend and he’s perfectly acceptable. He’s the oldest son of a viscount with excellent prospects of his own. He’s not a new friend, not to me anyway. I’ve known him since John…’ she hesitated here and then corrected herself ‘…Cambourne’s death. He was with John the day of the accident and he’s been with me ever since.’ Her sharp tone had softened at the mention of her husband.
Valerian matched it with a quiet tone of his own. ‘Beldon mentioned the accident briefly. Cambourne lived a while afterwards,’ he prompted, liking the quiet intimacy that had sprung up between them.
Philippa turned bittersweet eyes on him, her gaze far away with her memories. ‘Lucien got him home and arranged for a physician, even though he was hurt himself. We stayed by John’s side for the next few days.’ She shook her head. ‘The doctor had known immediately that there would be no recovery. I was afraid to leave him out of fear that he would slip away the moment I was gone.’
Valerian took Philippa’s hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, pleased that she hadn’t snatched it away. A queer pang jabbed at him. He was both grateful that Philippa had cared for her husband and yet envious that those affections had been given to another. ‘You cared for the duke, then?’ he asked curiously, wanting to know the nature of the relationship she’d shared with Cambourne.
‘I grew fond of him. He was a good mentor to me and he denied me nothing. He let me use his wealth and his name to build a model school for miners’ children in the village. It’s the one the vicar is modelling his own school after. He was a good and tolerant man. I sincerely missed him when he was gone.’
‘But Lucien was there,’ Valerian prodded.
‘Yes. He helped with all the details of transferring the estates to me and to John’s heir. That can be tedious work and Beldon was so busy settling the Pendennys estate in those days it was a relief not to burden him with my worries as well.’ Philippa sighed.
The bastard knows how much she’s worth to thefarthing. He’s had an intimate look at her holdings. The thought was unworthy, but it was the first one that came to mind. How convenient everything was for the man. That raised an alarm for Valerian. He no more believed in ‘conveniences’ than he believed in Beldon’s blasted ‘serendipity’. A man made his own luck. Lucien Canton appeared to have manufactured quite a lot of it.
Valerian’s talk with Philippa in the garden did not go unremarked. Mandeville Danforth let the length of curtain drop in front of the library windows. ‘Look at them, close as courters. He’s holding her hand, damn it. Canton, how could you let him upset things so quickly and so thoroughly? He’s turning her head.’
Lucien pierced the man with a cold stare. ‘I didn’t know he was coming. He and her brother arrived unannounced, much like yourself,’ he said pointedly. ‘How was I to know that he was more than her brother’s best friend?’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/bronwyn-scott/valerian-inglemoore/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Bronwyn Scott
From wild and rugged Cornwall, the setting of Poldark and Jamaica Inn, comes another fabulous, dramatic story…The rake’s return!For years Valerian Inglemoore, Viscount St Just, lived a double life as a secret agent on the war-torn Continent. Returning home, he knows exactly what he wants – Philippa Stratten, the woman he gave up for the sake of her family…But Philippa isn’t the naïve debutante he left behind. His rejection stung deeply, and now she is suspicious of his intentions.Valerian realises he must wage a tougher battle if he is to finally claim her, once and for all, as his bride!Original title - The Viscount Claims His BrideTHE CORNWALL COLLECTIONFour wonderful atmospheric historical romances - perfect for fans of Winston Graham's Ross Poldark and Demelza, and Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca and Jamaica Inn.LUCIEN TREGELLASBANE BERESFORDGABRIEL D'ARCYVALERIAN INGLEMOORE
‘Philippa—’ he began, in a raggedvoice.
She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’
‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.
‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’
He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh. ‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’
Author Note (#ulink_ed426e93-8ca1-5bad-8d8d-0a7aa4714b61)
I had such a good time writing Philippa and Valerian’s story! I am a fan of reunited loves. But I also thoroughly enjoyed researching the plot surrounding them. This was a perfect opportunity to explore some interesting angles on Cornwall. Here are some:
The mining industry: The fuse Valerian considers investing in was real! It was patented at that time by the gentleman named in the story. Mining was also the perfect backdrop for Lucien’s evil attempt to establish a mining cartel (mining cartels did come to pass about twenty years later).
Trist House in Veryan: Trist House was indeed owned at that time by a man who did re-do the landscaping and remodel the folly where Philippa and Valerian have a very hot kiss. Quarry rock is authentic too. Philippa and Valerian also see a Monkey Puzzle tree there. Research suggests that Trist House was one of the first places in Britain to attempt to grow the Monkey Puzzle tree, otherwise known as a Chilean Pine.
The Balkans: I am a history buff, and absolutely loved creating Valerian’s experience in Negush. The Phanariot-led uprising did occur. I liked the Phanariot backdrop so much that I’m bringing it back with Lilya and Beldon’s story in a forthcoming novel.
Enjoy this book. I hope you find it to be an entertaining, passionate and informative story.
Readers can stay in touch on my website, www.bronwynscott.com (http://www.bronwynscott.com), or at my blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynscott.com). I love hearing from my readers.
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.
Valerian Inglemoore
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Leslie Witwer.
Thanks for supporting The Brenda Novak Auction
for Diabetes Research. Your contribution will make a
difference. Thanks also for your support of me.
Your enthusiasm and encouragement is appreciated
far more than you realise. Someday I hope to be
celebrating the same for you.
Contents
Cover (#u5ff3e6f3-0ffe-5962-a423-f60475c581d0)
Excerpt (#u09603dbe-e4d9-5e2b-9faf-87867ccfdc1f)
Author Note (#u4ee7725a-98f9-5612-9588-f40ac8c84026)
About the Author (#u1fc91efb-f42d-5c7c-8d7c-0740a0c43afb)
Title Page (#u31bd5d34-324a-5ddf-a2ba-7525e4beda39)
Dedication (#udcc70a06-0382-5e9a-8ed0-862288cfbfa7)
Prologue (#u697b1662-73b5-5253-8ac0-7c4ae21e7801)
Chapter One (#u07ae0f88-7206-50ca-97de-4630cf5aca67)
Chapter Two (#u547bc84c-266b-5b25-91ba-1b209aa2e7e1)
Chapter Three (#u2161819f-bb3d-5d37-aa2f-0a1f7a35361c)
Chapter Four (#u27da42f4-db31-5b4b-9570-567c1cbeacbe)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_1c0590b6-6c45-5a08-90c9-81b735fd9616)
London, June 1820
Valerian Inglemoore, the Viscount St Just, had a secret, a dreadful secret that caused him to tremble in guilt and self-loathing as he stood alone on Lady Rutherford’s veranda, gazing at the paper lantern-lit garden beyond the balustrade, but not really seeing it.
His secret was all consuming, too consuming to spare a glance for the elegant town garden with its fountains and well-laid paths that wound through knot gardens and small privet hedges.
Under normal circumstances, the garden would have been quite enticing. But tonight, his secret was nearly too much to bear. He was twenty-one and he was in love with Philippa Stratten, Baron Pendennys’s daughter, and she was in love with him. She was to meet him here tonight.
But nothing would ever come of it.
That was the secret.
Tonight, he was breaking it off with her, at her father’s request. Tonight, he had to convince her after two months of stolen kisses and clandestine meetings that his affections were nothing more than a young man’s fleeting fancy. He didn’t know how he’d manage. He loved her so much.
After tonight, he’d never take her in his arms, never feel her run her fingers through his hair, as if it were the rarest silk. The last two months had been heaven. He’d danced with her at her début in April and every night since. They’d made a habit of heated kisses in curtained alcoves, and taking long walks in gardens during Venetian breakfasts and afternoon teas. It had been simple enough to manipulate time alone with her. He was an avid botanist as well as a horseman. It was plausible enough to say they were going off to look at a certain variety of flower or to see a new colt in the stables.
Oh, yes, they’d fallen madly in love with each other. One could almost say it was love at first sight except that he had known Philippa for years. She was his best friend Beldon’s sister. The threesome had spent school holidays roaming the Cornish coast together. He’d known since his first visit home with Beldon that his heart could belong to no other.
Behind him, the Rutherfords’ ballroom played host to three hundred of London’s finest dancing away the night in their silks and satins, champagne never more than a footman’s tray away. But he cared not a whit. His heart was breaking.
‘Valerian.’ A familiar, dear voice spoke his name in the darkness. He drew a final breath, praying for the strength to give her up. It would be for her own good, although she’d never believe it.
He turned towards the sound of her voice, letting her beauty overwhelm him as it always did. The effect was no less devastating tonight. This evening, her beauty was at its zenith, shown to perfection in the pale blue fabric of her gown. In the moonlight, the fabric appeared to shimmer when she moved. A soft summer breeze drew the thin fabric of her gown against her body, reminding Valerian of the fine figure beneath the filmy layers of summer chiffon.
‘Val.’ She whispered his name in response, moving towards him, her hands outstretched. ‘I could hardly wait.’ She wore a gentle smile on her lips, a soft look for him alone in the blue depths of her eyes. It was intoxicating to think the excitement that simmered beneath the surface of that gentle smile and soft look were all for him.
He savoured it. After tonight, he would not feel such joy again.
She slipped her gloved hands into his, expecting him to take her in his arms as he usually did. He swallowed hard against the temptation. He’d come out here to do his duty to her family, a family which had loved and harboured him since his adolescence. They’d asked him to give her up for sake of their finances and her future. It was a difficult task at best. Her merest touch, her slightest affection, made it Herculean.
The embrace did not come. He could not give it to her as much as he desired to take her in his arms and feel her against him. To do so would be to fail the family in the only thing they’d ever asked of him. As a man of honour, he owed them more.
She looked up into his face, reading him aright, unconsciously warning him to better school his features if he was to carry off his task believably. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’ Philippa began.
‘Of course I am happy to see you. I am always happy to see a dear friend,’ Valerian said, hoping Philippa didn’t hear the unspoken lie. He’d always seen her as much more than a friend.
‘Then kiss me. I’ve waited all day for you, for this moment.’ She flirted, trying to press up against him, to make him take her in his arms.
He was too skilled for her untutored efforts. ‘Philippa, stop. We have to talk.’
‘Here?’ She glanced around curiously, disappointment evident on her features. Valerian wondered what she’d been expecting that this location was not suitable. Certainly, she wasn’t expecting what he had to tell her. Her father, Baron Pendennys, had indicated that Beldon and Philippa were completely in the dark about the family’s situation.
The balcony was mostly empty, but there were a few couples strolling about. It wasn’t nearly as private as he’d hoped. Valerian shook his head. ‘No, not here. Come walk in the garden with me.’
They found a bench settled among rhododendrons in full bloom and sat. Valerian kept her hand. He nodded towards a bower of roses across the pathway. ‘The roses are lovely. I hear Lady Rutherford has imported a special yellow rose from Turkey.’
He was stalling and he knew it, putting off the news as long as he could, storing up every memory of her—beautiful, innocent Philippa, believing in the purity of his love when he’d come to prove her beliefs ill founded and her heart played falsely. It would be years before she would understand this was a sham designed to protect her family.
‘What is it, Val? You didn’t come out here to show me roses,’ Philippa coaxed.
‘I spoke to your father earlier this evening.’
Her face lit with joy. A little cry of delight escaped her lips. She clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. He replayed the words in his head the way she would hear them. He knew he’d mis-stepped. She thought he had come to propose. He must be more careful, more convincing.
Valerian shook his head in warning. ‘No, Philippa, it is not what you think. Your father has told me of your betrothal to the Duke of Cambourne. He accepted an offer for your hand this afternoon.’
Philippa furrowed her brow, disbelief and confusion warring across her face. His words had achieved their goal. This pronouncement was so far from what she’d expected she couldn’t even be angry. She couldn’t get angry with him until she put the pieces together. The poor girl hadn’t even known Cambourne was interested, although the betting book at White’s had been full of wagers over when the widower Duke would make his move. The men about town had privately acknowledged Cambourne’s interest in the Season’s finest débutante weeks ago. Valerian had hoped to wait out the storm. He might have succeeded if the Baron’s need for funds hadn’t been so desperate.
‘Cambourne? You must be mistaken, Val.’ She was all naïve logic, standing up and shaking out her skirts, convinced she only had to march into the ballroom and explain the situation to her father. ‘He loves you. Nothing would please him more than to welcome you into our family. He would want this for me, for us.’
‘Wait, Philippa.’ Valerian kept his voice even and cold, not betraying the emotion threatening beneath his hardening veneer. ‘I came out here to encourage you to accept Cambourne’s offer.’
‘What do you mean? You want me to marry Cambourne?’ Philippa exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s old enough to be my father! I don’t love him. Beyond a few dances, I hardly know the man at all.’ Her infamous temper started to show now that the initial shock had passed. Valerian did not relish being on the receiving end of her sharp tongue.
‘You have the rest of your life to get to know him, Philippa.’ Valerian dismissed her argument with callous disregard. ‘He’s an excellent catch for you, if you think about it.’ Valerian made a show of ticking the other man’s merits off on his gloved fingers. ‘He’s from our part of the world. You’ll still be close to home and your family. He’s wealthy. He loves horses as you do. He’s not a cruel or unattractive man. You could find happiness with him. He will offer you stability and security.’
‘But not love,’ Philippa fired back. ‘Here you are, laying out his assets like a business merger. But the only one I care about is love. He can’t possibly love me. He doesn’t know me. You know me, Val. If those criteria are so important to my father, then why won’t you suit? You live in our part of the world, you love horses, you’re kind and attractive, you have money. Under those conditions, I don’t see why your offer isn’t as good. What was wrong with you, Val? Let me talk to my father. We’ll be engaged by midnight. You’ll see.’
Valerian looked into the azure depths of her beseeching eyes. It was deuced awkward playing the jilt. If he was successful, she’d walk out of the garden thinking he was unaffected by the turn of events. She’d never know he’d carried a ring in his pocket for the last two weeks, hoping against hope that Cambourne’s suit would come to naught.
The ring was still there, in the left pocket of his evening coat. And there it would remain. He strongly doubted he’d ever give it to another. It was slow torture to outline Cambourne’s merits to her, to offer her reassurances that all would be well when in fact he didn’t think he’d ever be well again. His stomach was churning.
‘What was wrong with me?’ Valerian echoed with feigned flippancy ‘For starters, I don’t want to be engaged by midnight. Secondly, I didn’t ask.’
More lies. He had asked anyway, even knowing the situation. Her father had explained plainly that the young viscount didn’t have enough money—at least not until he was twenty-seven and came into his inheritance. But Baron Pendennys couldn’t wait that long. It had hurt enormously to realise his dreams had been sold for golden guineas. He would be a wealthy man for ever living without the one thing his money couldn’t buy.
‘What? You never asked?’ Her eyes filled with tears, her voice full of disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’
God, she was beautiful. Valerian fought the urge to pull her against him. She stood so close it would hardly be an effort to do so. He could smell the light fragrance of her lemon-scented soap rising from her skin, the lavender rinse of her clean hair.
She sat down hard on the stone bench, grasping at the logic of it all. ‘I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted to marry me.’
Valerian fought the urge to follow her down, and take her hands in comfort. He had to stop touching her or she’d know it was all a lie.
‘Keep your voice down. We don’t want to draw attention,’ Valerian scolded, covertly casting his gaze about the area. ‘The last thing we need now when it’s all over is to be compromised.’ He’d meant it to be a set-down. She seized on it as the answer to their troubles.
‘That’s it!’ Philippa said wildly. ‘If you compromise me, Father will have to let us marry and Cambourne will have a gracious out. Everyone would understand he couldn’t marry me then.’
Valerian felt himself rouse at the very idea. It would be easy enough to compromise her, but he loved her too much not to warn her of the consequences—consequences she couldn’t fathom through the lens of her innocence, but with three years of town bronze on him, Valerian could. ‘Philippa, no one in London would receive us. We’d live a life of exile and I could not doom you to that. I could not doom myself to that,’ he added selfishly.
Philippa could not be fooled, and her face tilted, perplexed by the incongruous statement. ‘Do such things matter to you? I thought if you had your horses and your gardens and me, it would be enough.’ She rose and moved into his embrace, her head finding its way to his shoulder.
Valerian let her, although he held himself stiff, his arms wooden at his side. He was tired of fighting on all fronts. It was inevitable now. He was down to last things. He would not see Philippa after tonight. He’d decided already that he could not go back to his home in Cornwall and watch her become the wife of a neighbour. It would drive him insane to know she and her husband lived only a day’s ride away. He’d known when he met her tonight what he had to do. He’d known she would try to argue against her father’s choice. He’d known he would have to resist her entreaties no matter what form they took. He had not known how painful it would be.
In her desperation, Philippa was arguing with all the tools at her disposal, even her body as she was doing now. Early on in their relationship, he’d revelled in teaching her about a man’s body. There was something heady about tutoring one’s beloved in the sensual arts. He’d never dreamed he would not be the one to teach her the ultimate love lesson. He fought back the wave of nausea sweeping his form.
Philippa raised her head from his shoulder, a lock of her long hair falling from its loose coiffure. Valerian involuntarily reached out to brush the russet strand back from her face. How many times had he made that gesture in the past months?
‘If you won’t marry me or compromise me, at least give me one night of passion. Let me be with you, as we intended to be together,’ she whispered.
Just hearing her utter the words completed his growing erection. A small moan of regret escaped his lips as he shut his eyes, gathering his strength. With her head on his shoulder, thankfully she could not see the torture on his face, although he knew she could feel his desire straining against her stomach. God knew how much he wanted her. He made no attempt to hide his arousal. She knew how she affected him and he her. But he was a man of honour. He’d promised to let her go.
‘That’s a very unwise suggestion, Philippa,’ he heard himself saying in a steady voice that sounded as if it came from another man who watched the vignette unfolding with great uninterest.
‘Please, Val,’ Philippa cried, clutching his hands. ‘I love you and you love me, I know you do. I can feel it.’
He had to end this scene soon. She was on the verge of breaking and his restraint was failing. If this went on much longer, his reserve would crack and they would spend the rest of their lives paying for the foolishness of a few mad minutes. He would not do that to her.
‘Don’t beg. I can’t stand to see you grovel,’ he said in a low voice close to her ear. Then he released her and stepped back, preparing to say the most difficult words he’d ever uttered, but he had to make her believe them. ‘I do love you, but perhaps not in the same way you love me. I am sorry if you’ve misunderstood my intentions when we started our little experiment in l’amour. We are finished now, you and I. Whatever we had is done, a fair-weather fling. That is how it is for a man.’
He could feel the nervous tic jump in his cheek as a silent curtain fell between them. A tickling bead of sweat ran its slow race down his back as he waited on her next words. His heart warred with his mind. His mind wanted her to see the practical logic of ending their affaire and accept his hurtful fabrication. His heart wanted her to see the words for the farce they were.
He watched coldness steal over Philippa’s face as her features changed from desperation back to anger. An unchecked fury raged in the depths of her eyes as her mind raced towards the conclusions he’d wanted her to draw. When she spoke, he could hear her voice tremble with emotions.
‘A fair-weather fling? This was all a game to you? Everything was a lie?’ she cried as the truth spread across her face, like clouds across the sun, as she began to acknowledge the import of his words. He wished he didn’t know her so well as to guess her thoughts. In her pale face he saw her doubt and pain. He knew that she believed that every knowing look, hot kiss and searing touch had been little more than seductive perjury of the worst kind. He’d played his part well. She believed those gestures had meant nothing at all to him while they had meant everything to her.
‘I thought you were a man of honour, Valerian.’ Her voice trembled. Her heart was breaking.
Valerian tightened the reins on his resolve. ‘I am a man of honour. That’s why I feel I need to call a halt before our sweet interlude goes any further.’
‘Interlude?’ Philippa was incredulous. ‘You make it sound as if our affaire is nothing more than an intermission at the theatre! Something to occupy your time between activities!’
Valerian held himself stiffly, ready to deliver the coup de grace, the last stroke. ‘I am to leave tomorrow to join my uncle on the Continent, something of a belated Grand Tour now that peace has been restored.’
‘Valerian, this is not like you. You’re playing a cruel game.’ There was reproach in her voice for both of them. Reproach for his despicable behaviour and self-chiding for her rashness. She was wrong, of course, he loved her very much, but there was no honourable way out of the situation. Perhaps it was best if she believed the worst, that his love was a fraud, that she was an extended exercise in dalliance. Valerian said nothing in his own defence. Instead, he gave her a neat bow. ‘I’ll leave you here. I can see you need a moment to collect yourself before returning to the ball,’ he said with polite coldness and turned to leave.
Philippa called to him one last time. Her anger was perilously close to giving way to tears as she spoke in a strangled whisper. ‘Tell me you loved me, that it wasn’t all false coin.’
Valerian stopped, but did not look back. Like Orpheus, it would be his undoing. ‘Miss Stratten, I cannot.’ He comforted himself with the fact that it was the truth. He was too choked with emotion to utter the words she wanted to hear. Worse, he knew the reason for his silence would be misconstrued as heartlessness. In reality, to say the words would be to give her false hope. If she thought there was any window of opportunity for her case, she’d not give in. Philippa was tenacious. He was counting on that tenacity to help her through this crisis and build a new life for herself.
Valerian closed his eyes as loss swept through him. It was better that the words went unsaid, no matter what cruel conclusions she might draw. His logic was cold comfort when Philippa spoke again, her emotions mastered, her quiet parting words piercing him like a venom arrow to the heart. ‘I will not forget this, Valerian.’
Miserable and heartsick, Valerian squared his shoulders, intending to find Philippa’s father and tell him the deed was done. He’d no longer stand in the way of the family’s financial stability. He’d tell Beldon to take Philippa home. Then he’d leave—it was the only truth he’d told tonight.
In the other pocket of his evening coat was his uncle’s letter, inviting Valerian to join his uncle’s family on the Continent where he served as one of Britain’s premier diplomats. The letter had come yesterday in response to Valerian’s own inquiries. Valerian knew he could not stay in England and watch Philippa’s new life unfold. Instead, he would go and serve England against whatever threats arose and try to exorcise the memory of Philippa Stratten from his hot blood.
Chapter One (#ulink_f8dcccca-bab7-5fd8-a4de-27287e782f3a)
30 December 1829
An icy wind blew steadily through the poorly sealed post chaise, keeping its two occupants chilled in spite of their caped greatcoats and the hot bricks they’d installed at the posting inn. But it had been the best they could do at the time. The west country was not known for its luxuries. The newly returned Viscount St Just didn’t mind. He’d been in far less comfortable situations over the past nine years and he was simply glad to be home.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Beldon Stratten, the young Baron Pendennys, groused, stamping his feet in a futile attempt to generate some body heat.
‘Am I smiling?’ Valerian asked. ‘I was unaware of it.’
‘You’ve been smiling since the inn at St Austell. I can’t imagine what about.’
Beldon was right. There wasn’t much to smile about. Their journey had become a comedy of errors. Nothing had gone right since they’d left London after celebrating the Christmas holidays in town. They’d hoped to sail down the Cornish coast to St Just-in-Roseland, Valerian’s home on the peninsula, and avoid the roads. But foul weather on the Channel had scotched those plans. So they’d set out on horseback, hoping to make better time than a lumbering coach. Valerian had a yen to be settled in his home by New Year. But weather again played them false, turning too cold for safe passage on horseback. They’d abandoned the horses at St Austell and hired the only post chaise available.
It went unspoken between them that they’d get no farther than Truro today. If they wanted to try for St Just-in-Roseland by New Year, it would have to wait until tomorrow.
‘Do you believe in serendipity, Val?’ Beldon asked, stretching his long legs out across the small space between the seats.
Valerian looked at him queerly. ‘I am not exactly sure what you mean.’
‘You know, making valuable discoveries by accident.’
‘Ah, coincidence,’ Valerian corrected. ‘You think it is merely a fortuitous happening that I ran into you in London.’
‘Definitely luck since you’d sent no word ahead of your return.’ There was a censorious note in Beldon’s voice. Valerian did not miss it. He had not said goodbye to Beldon properly when he’d left London so abruptly years ago and he had not written over the long years with the exception of one short letter early on. It was a credit to the depth of their friendship that Beldon had felt his absence so keenly and forgiven him so readily.
Beldon’s tone softened. ‘Perhaps you will explain to me some day why you all but vanished into your uncle’s household overnight. I am your friend. I would understand, whatever your reasons. We all missed you, even Philippa. I think she had always admired you from afar.’
Valerian started at that. Had Philippa kept their secret all these years? He’d expected her to blurt it all out. He’d imagined her crying on Beldon’s shoulder in the garden that last night, sobbing out how her heart had been broken by her brother’s cad of a best friend.
He’d known this moment was inevitable. Hearing her name would be just the first of many such moments. He knew in his heart that was why he hadn’t written ahead to Beldon to tell him of his return. Of course, he hadn’t known until the last moment that he would be assigned to the team of negotiators sent to London to pound out a peace treaty to end the latest conflict between the Turks and Russia. Even when he’d known with a certainty he’d be coming back, he still hadn’t sent advance notice of his return. It was a stalling mechanism and a desperate one at that, designed to put off any encounter with Philippa until the very last.
His tenure on the Continent had not outlasted his own broken heart. He had stayed on in Europe as long as he could, volunteering for myriad diplomatic assignments that lingered in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon’s efforts had left their mark on old and new regimes alike and Valerian had quickly learned that there was always someone to fight.
Treaties may have been signed, but Europe, particularly the Balkans, was not at peace. There was still plenty for Britain to worry over as countries fought to define themselves and empires sought to expand in the power vacuum left by Napoleon’s defeat.
Valerian had watched modern history play out before his very eyes as Britain and the rest of Europe fought to corner the fledgling Balkan markets.
After years of pointless victories and disappointments, Valerian found he had no stomach for a fight motivated by greed and avarice, thinly cloaked in a facade of ideals, and he could not stay away from home indefinitely. He had gardens and an estate to manage. He could not rely on his steward for ever.
While a broken-hearted young man of twenty-one could be forgiven for impetuously leaving his inheritance, a grown man of thirty years, who knew his duty, could not continue to shirk it. Yet it was difficult turning for home when he knew it would mean facing Philippa and Cambourne. But duty and honour beckoned, two ideals he had always held dear even when his country hadn’t.
‘How is your sister?’ Valerian inquired, hoping to sound casual.
Beldon nodded. ‘She’s doing well. I see her often. You just missed her in London. She spent the holidays with a friend in Richmond before heading out here. If I had known you were coming, I could have persuaded her to stay in town.’ Beldon paused, seeming to consider his next words before speaking them. ‘It’s hard to believe she’s twenty-seven and already through her first husband. Here I am at thirty and I haven’t been married, not even close. It makes me feel “behind” somehow.’
Valerian felt his body tense. ‘Through her first husband?’
‘Yes, didn’t you know? It was in all the papers, quite a newsworthy death.’
‘I wasn’t exactly holed up in Vienna the entire time,’ Valerian said wryly, thinking of the rugged Balkan territories he’d journeyed through with their mountains and sparse populations. There were places in Europe the mails didn’t reach, places with names like Voden and Negush. Places that didn’t appear on a map unless you were a Turkish Pasha charged with keeping the Christian millet in line.
‘Cambourne died three years ago in a mining accident. There was a cave-in while he was touring one of his tin mines. It was a freak incident. A shaft support gave way. The miners pulled him out, but he died of his injuries three days later at home.’
Philippa was a widow. The implications were not lost on him. Valerian’s emotions ricocheted from a morbid elation that Philippa was free to a sadness that she’d had to bear the loss of a husband, set adrift in society as a dowager so early in life.
‘I hope Cambourne left her well provided for,’ he said quietly, knowing that the Pendennys’s fortunes had rested so completely on Cambourne’s welfare. Valerian didn’t like to think that her marriage had come to naught.
‘Absolutely. He had a cousin who inherited the title and the other estates, but Philippa has all she needs or wants. Of course, the principal estate went to his heir, but Philippa has the house in Cornwall where they spent their marriage. To my mind, she got the better end of the deal. Coppercrest is a much more hospitable dwelling. Even Cambourne himself preferred it.
‘“The heir” isn’t much on going up to town, so Philippa has free run of the town house. Cambourne also bequeathed her a substantial interest in the mines and the associate businesses. He owned a tin smelter and a small gunpowder works.’
Valerian only half-listened to Beldon’s itemization of Philippa’s situation. The first line had caught most of his attention—a cousin had inherited. Ah, there were no children. Another delicate question answered. Valerian wondered if Beldon had shared that information on purpose or if it had been accidental.
Beldon chuckled softly. ‘I forget that you haven’t seen her recently. She’s much changed since you saw her last. She’s not a budding débutante any more. She’s a sophisticated woman now, as comfortable in town among the leading hostesses and politicians as she is in the country, tramping over the cliffs and riding neck-for-nothing at the hunt. When she’s in town, her house teems with politicos. Everyone seeks her endorsement and asks her opinion. She’s a leading supporter of mine reform these days, and with justifiable reason.’
Valerian smiled thoughtfully in the gathering gloom. The grey afternoon was turning towards evening. Truro couldn’t be more than a few miles in the offing. Beldon’s revelations were enough to fill the time. Valerian turned his mind inwards, pondering all Beldon had shared.
Philippa was free. In a fairy-tale world, he would have a second chance. But his world was far from a fairy tale. They had parted badly nine years ago. Philippa’s final words to him were still achingly clear. And now there was all he had done during those years to contend with as well. His years in the Balkans had left him with another set of nightmares, another set of people he’d failed in their hour of need. Those failures hung like an invisible millstone about his neck, even when he was able to subdue the more physical reminders of his futile efforts.
He’d been surprised in London to know how much people had heard about his antics on the Continent. Of course, no one had known the depth of such shenanigans, but they knew the gist. He’d led a flamboyant lifestyle in Vienna during his brief time there, playing the role of a womanising diplomat. It had been the perfect foil for something darker that took him to the sinister underbelly of the rebellions popping up across Europe. He’d been nothing short of an expert spy and negotiator, engaging in the kind of diplomacy that never made the broadsheets.
‘We’ll stop tonight at Lucien Canton’s place just outside Truro. It’ll be much better than an inn. He has an excellent cook and an even better cellar,’ Beldon broke into Valerian’s ruminations.
Valerian nodded, only half-engaged in the conversation. ‘It won’t be an imposition, I hope?’ He didn’t remember this friend of Beldon’s from their early days as young bucks on the town. ‘I don’t believe I know him.’
‘He’s Viscount Montfort’s son and heir. He was close to Cambourne before his death. Since then, he’s been Philippa’s strong right hand.’
Valerian couldn’t quite read Beldon’s expression. It didn’t seem that Beldon was precisely elated about the man’s association with his sister, but had resigned himself to it. Beldon’s conversation was moving on. ‘It will be a party before the party, the three of us together again like old times. With luck, Philippa is there already. Lucien asked her to act as hostess for his New Year’s gala since she’s the best hostess in the neighbourhood and his sister couldn’t come down from London to do it.’
Now Valerian was fully engaged. ‘Philippa will be there?’ Regardless of Beldon’s assurances that Lucien Canton was a grand chap, Valerian doubted he’d like the man very much. He was inclined to dislike any man who had a claim on Philippa’s attentions and this Lucien clearly did. No one played hostess for someone they didn’t know well. They must be good friends indeed and perhaps something more.
Beldon grinned and leaned forwards in his growing excitement. ‘Yes. She will be beyond surprised to see you.’
She would indeed, Valerian reflected wryly, although he and Beldon would likely disagree about her reaction to that surprise.
Philippa Lytton, the widowed duchess of Cambourne, glided down the curved staircase of Lucien Canton’s Truro manor at half-past six, consciously aware that she would be the last one to the drawing room and that she’d be the only female present. What had started out as a small en famille supper with Canton and the bachelor vicar from down the road had turned into a supper party with three unexpected guests.
One of them was her brother, Beldon, who had arrived unannounced just two hours ago and a guest he’d brought with him. Beldon’s arrival was understandable given the terrible weather and the fact that she was already in residence. The third guest’s presence was less clearly explained. Lucien knew him only through the acquaintances of others. He was a Mister Danforth, a well-to-do shipping merchant from Liverpool who hoped to start a provincial bank. He was not someone they would normally associate with. He was a rich Cit who’d made most of his money during the war, making his fortune somewhat speculative as to the legitimacy of its origins. But the underpopulated wilds of Cornwall in mid-winter and his tenuous connection to Lucien made it difficult to turn him away.
Philippa stopped at the foot of the stairs to draw a deep breath and square her shoulders. She stole a glance in the hallway mirror as a final check. She looked fine with her hair piled high and threaded with pearls. The heavy satin folds of her skirts fell neatly to her ankles into a deep Van-dyked hem. She liked the quiet shushing of the satin skirt as she walked.
Indeed, she loved this gown for its textures and feel as much as she loved it for its look. The cream skirt was set off by the deep blue velvet of the round bodice that fell low over her shoulders and into a plunging vee in the back. She fiddled with the simple choker of blue Kashmir sapphires that set off the expanse between her neck and the delicate cream-lace trim of her bodice.
She looked well. Not that she wanted to attract any attention. She wasn’t dressing for a man’s approval, not even Lucien’s, although he’d readily give it. Being in high looks boosted her confidence, a security blanket of sorts. In a room dominated by the male species, one could never have too much confidence if one was going to hold one’s own.
She stepped into the wide doorway of the drawing room, her eyes quickly assessing the gathering. Lucien stood at the carved-oak fireplace mantel, dressed in dark evening clothes, looking slender and elegant with his usual immaculate perfection. He was doing his host’s duty by chatting with the unworthy Mr Danforth. Across the room in a little grouping of chairs situated beneath an expansive Gainsborough landscape sat her brother, the vicar and apparently the guest her brother had brought with him. The guest’s back was to her, affording her only a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair, sleek in the evening light of candles.
Beldon saw her first. He gestured that she should join them, saving her from joining Lucien and his odious guest at the fireplace. Philippa smiled warmly at her brother and moved towards the group. She was always glad to see Beldon. They had been close as children and become even closer with her marriage to Cambourne. He’d supported her as she had learned to navigate London society and after when she had to re-learn the treacherous paths of society as a new widow.
He and the little cohort under the Gainsborough rose as she approached. ‘Beldon, I am so happy to see you! We weren’t expecting you, but it’s delightful all the same.’ She gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek, having to reach up only slightly to do so. They were nearly of a same height, both of them tall and built for grace. Anyone seeing them side by side would not doubt their similar genetic origins. Both had sharp blue eyes and russet hair the colour of chestnuts, each strikingly attractive in their own way.
The vicar leaned forward to take Philippa’s hand in greeting. ‘I am pleased to see you again, your Grace.’
‘And I you, Vicar. How are your plans for a miner’s school coming? I believe you had plans drawn up when we spoke last.’
‘Very well, thank you. It is kind of you to remember.’ The vicar beamed. ‘I hope we’ll have time to talk about its progress later tonight. I would love your opinion on a few things.’ He gently inclined his head to indicate the third gentleman in the group.
The vicar was right. It would be unseemly to jump into conversation before all the introductions were made. Philippa turned her attention to the stranger immediately, small talk coming easily to her lips. But the man to her right was no stranger at all and the small talk died a quick death.
Chapter Two (#ulink_58ce9ba9-ad56-5bb8-a764-ccf5307d0582)
Valerian Inglemoore was the last man she’d expected to see in Lucien Canton’s drawing room. Philippa mustered all her aplomb. ‘Viscount, this is indeed a surprise.’
Surprise didn’t even begin to cover it. What was he doing in Truro? How long had he been back? A thousand questions rioted through her mind. She mentally tried to tamp them down, telling herself she didn’t care about such information. But it was like fighting the Hydra. The more she tried to squelch the rising tide of questions, the more questions came forward—worse questions because they didn’t deal with the basic information of who, what and when, but with more intimate concerns—had he thought of her at all during his absence? Had he realised what he’d termed a mere dalliance was something far stronger? Did he have feelings for her yet? Did she, in spite of her efforts to deny it? Her pulse was certainly racing as if she did, as if she’d forgotten why she’d foresworn any connection to him years ago.
‘It is a surprise for me as well, and a pleasant one at that, I might add.’ Valerian bent over her gloved hand with an elegant bow. ‘Enchanté, Duchesse.’
The warmth of his touch sent a powerful frisson up her arm, so sharp she had to control herself not to snatch her hand back as if burnt. She told herself the reaction was due to the strength of his grip. The reaction had nothing to do with still being attracted to him. She had hardened her heart against Valerian Inglemoore years ago and rightly so.
Time had proved her choice a good one and her escape from his seductive clutches a lucky one. Reports from Europe during his sojourn abroad reached her circles, portraying him as a splendid diplomat with a talent for seduction. From captain’s wives to Continental princesses, no woman was safe from the dashing viscount’s wiles and no woman wanted to be. He’d become a much sought-after commodity.
It was easy to see why. She was doubly glad she’d given him up years ago. He was far too handsome for his own good now that he’d come into the fullness of his adulthood. Anyone less wise than she would be easily distracted by the silky sleekness of his dark hair. She knew from experience how simple it was to spend an evening thinking about running hands through those ebony skeins.
If the hair didn’t distract one thoroughly enough, there was the trap of his piercing jade eyes, the angular planes of his chiselled face, the sensual promise of his lips, the caress of knowing hands, firm and confident as they learned the contours of one’s body and the pledge of his own body, all muscles and hot strength beneath superbly tailored clothes. Ah, yes, Valerian Inglemoore was a walking minefield of passion—promising pleasure but delivering heartache to the unsuspecting miss. It was good she knew better. That was one trap she would not fall into again.
Valerian gave her a slight nod, a smug smile playing on his lips. She felt herself blush. He’d caught her looking. She hadn’t meant for that to happen.
The butler entered and intoned the announcement for dinner. Philippa felt herself breathe again. She started towards Lucien, eager to escape the scrutiny of Valerian’s gaze. A warm hand on her arm stayed her.
‘Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you into dinner?’ Valerian asked, his voice low next to her ear, his message just for her.
Philippa shot a look at Lucien, but he would be of no use to her. He’d already acquiesced to the situation, a hard look in his eyes that belied the friendly tenor of his words. ‘You’ve got her then, St Just? I remember now that the three of you grew up together.’ It was said pleasantly enough, but Philippa didn’t miss the tightness of Lucien’s smile or the covert scrutiny in his eyes.
Valerian seated her at the foot of the table and put himself promptly on her right, leaving Beldon and the vicar to juggle Mr Danforth between them.
Philippa couldn’t decide if she preferred Valerian next to her or next to Lucien. Both positions offered their own forms of temptation. She could either have him next to her and struggle with his physical nearness or spend the entire evening fighting the distraction of his handsome visage down the table. But it hardly mattered, she reprimanded herself. He didn’t affect her either way. Her current reaction was merely the shock of seeing him again without warning.
She wished she could read Valerian better. It would be a small measure of comfort if he was struggling to adapt as well. Did she have any effect on him at all? All at once, she vividly recalled the hardness of his erection, the feel of him pulsing through his trousers in their youth, how he’d taught her to caress him. Was he hard now? Or entirely immune? No matter that he’d once claimed only the shallowest of feelings for her, he’d roused to her none the less.
She had to stop! Philippa reached for her wine glass and took a generous sip. These were unseemly thoughts. They were base in nature and had no place at the dinner table, especially coming from a woman who had spent the years putting the memory of his kisses behind her.
The footmen removed the soup and served up the fish course. Conversation lagged as they performed their duties. Once the course was settled, Lucien picked up the threads of small talk. ‘St Just, are you home for good or has the Continent enchanted you?’
Valerian patted his mouth with a fine linen napkin before speaking. ‘I am home for the duration and proud to say it. I terminated my affiliation with the diplomatic corps while I was in London over Christmas. I can now devote my time to my estate, my much neglected gardens and my nursery.’
The statement was ambiguous. Anyone knowing Valerian as she did would wonder if he meant his flower nurseries or perhaps a nursery of another sort. No one was ill bred enough to ask for an explanation, but apparently such probing was not beyond the pale for Mr Danforth, who hadn’t known Valerian for more than the time it had taken to eat the soup.
With a smug masculine tone to his voice, Danforth said, ‘You mean to marry and beget an heir. Very good thinking. I hear you’ve quite a fortune. You’ll need an heir to look after things.’
At the head of the table, Lucien nearly sprayed a mouthful of wine at the tactless comment. It was practically an art form to make such a faux pas as mentioning ‘begetting’ and money in the same poor comment.
Valerian met the rude comment evenly. ‘In fact, I do mean to marry as soon as possible. Enough time has been wasted, I think. I find myself eager to embrace matrimony. With the right woman, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ Danforth agreed, oblivious to the social faux pas he’d committed. ‘A wife must have certain qualities. She must be pretty, biddable, malleable, open to a husband’s training and all that. No man wants to spend his life leg-shackled to an opinion-spouting shrew, no matter what her dowry.’
Philippa stiffened at Danforth’s belittling remarks. ‘I think finding a wife is altogether different than shopping for a brood mare, Mr Danforth. At least it is for those of us who hold marriage as something more than servitude.’
Beldon coughed and the vicar looked nonplussed. There was more she’d liked to have said to the sputtering Danforth, but Valerian’s hand pressed heavily on her thigh beneath the damask cloth in warning. She fought back a smile. Was he remembering her infamous temper?
Valerian smoothly intervened with the honed skill of a diplomat. ‘For myself, Mr Danforth, I am looking for different qualities in a wife. I prefer a more mature woman, a woman who can speak for herself, who can hold her own in an argument. In short, a woman of independence.’
Danforth bristled. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that about you.’ His beady gaze met Valerian’s directly in a surprising show of spine.
Everyone at the table stopped eating. Philippa wondered how Valerian would confront his ‘reputation’, as it were. Would he deny it? Part of her wished he would.
Valerian smiled. It was not a friendly smile, but a wolfish one that suggested he was not, nor ever would how Valerian be, the prey. ‘Then you will have also heard that I am not afraid of a woman’s opinions, that I am not a man who will cower behind old-fashioned thought and conventions when it comes to the suppression of the fairer sex. Much would be missed in our world if we neglected half the population. Take, for example, the excellent champagne our host is serving from his excellent cellar tomorrow night.’
Valerian turned to Canton. ‘Pendennys mentioned you’d be offering a Veuve Clicquot, an outstanding champagne thanks to the revolutionary efforts of Clicquot’s widow. Did you know, Danforth, that she is responsible for inventing the remuage process? We have a woman to thank for clear champagne. Without her efforts, we’d have nothing more than a cloudy, fizzy novelty.’ Valerian raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Madame Clicquot.’
In a few short sentences Valerian had eloquently smoothed over Danforth’s uncomfortable claims and moved the conversation into the safer realm of wine. Danforth did not venture out to play with verbal fire again.
Dinner went smoothly after that if Philippa did not count the unnerving sensation of Valerian’s body in such close proximity to her own. In all the numerous dinner parties she’d attended, she had not ever noticed the intimate closeness she was now exceedingly aware of with Valerian next to her. His knee touched hers; she dropped her napkin and his hand brushed her skirt as he bent to retrieve it, beating the footman to the task.
* * *
By the time dessert was served, Philippa’s nerves were jangled beyond reason. She stood as soon as it was politely possible. ‘Gentlemen, excuse me. I’ll leave you to your port and cigars.’
Lucien rose and protested. ‘Please stay, my dear. You are welcome to stay.’ He directed the comment at her, but his hazel stare was directed at Valerian. The look in his gaze was sharp and penetrating, meant to send a message.
So he had noticed Valerian’s casual touches, Philippa thought, and he’d found them as unsettling as she did, but for altogether different reasons. She could feel Valerian’s eyes read every message, spoken or not. She had no desire to stay in the dining room and become a prize to be fought over. ‘Really, I would prefer to retire and give you gentlemen some privacy,’ she insisted, not waiting for permission to leave the room.
Philippa collected a shawl from her bedroom and then made good her escape to a quiet veranda where she could let the cold air do its work. She needed a clear head. Valerian was back and he would have to be contended with. His presumptuous behaviour at dinner suggested he wasn’t the least bit penitent about breaking her young girl’s heart, nor was he disinclined to live down the rumours regarding his profligate behaviour abroad.
Certainly, she didn’t want to be petty. What had happened between them had occurred years ago. They were both adults now. She should put the past behind her. He obviously had if his behaviour at dinner was any indication. He apparently thought she might welcome his advances. But he would have to take her for a fool if he thought she would disregard his well-taught lessons after one flirtatious encounter.
Would she disregard his harsh lesson in love? The thought that she might re-think her position on Valerian was startling. In her mind, she’d often played out an imaginary encounter. In that encounter, she’d been an aloof lady with grand manners, icily polite to a fault and he would know that his attentions had come too late.
Funny how in her imaginings she always assumed he’d care what had become of her. Maybe that was because she could not fathom how he’d gone from a dedicated suitor with words of undying devotion on his lips to that of a cold jilt in the span of a day. Undisputably, he’d broken her heart, but she’d never quite convinced herself it was for the reasons he’d cited. None the less, in the end, the results had been the same.
Valerian would drive her mad! Perhaps it was time to think more seriously about Lucien Canton’s offer. There had been no formal proposal, but much was implied in their long-standing relationship. She did expect a proposal soon. Perhaps Valerian was the impetus she needed for getting on with her life.
Lucien was exactly the kind of man she needed and he’d spent the years since Cambourne’s death proving it. He’d overseen the difficult tangle of financial matters and entailments until she’d learned to manage them on her own. He’d been the one to ride out to the mines and keep the Cambourne industries running while she was in mourning. Besides herself, no one knew the extensive Cambourne holdings better than Lucien. He was competent, handsome, well mannered, comfortable to be with. He was reliable and steady, a constant companion.
‘Philippa.’
All thoughts of Lucien vanished. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Valerian. ‘I came out here to be alone.’
‘Then we have something in common. I came out here to be alone with you, too.’ Valerian took up a position next to her at the railing, leaning on his elbows. ‘I wanted to talk to you. There are things I want to explain.’
Philippa shifted her body to face him. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea unless you want to start explaining why your hand spent most of dinner on my thigh. We are finished. You made that clear nine years ago.’
Valerian would not be put off by her harsh words. It was disappointing, but not unexpected that he could not be handled like the ballroom beaux. A set-down from her usually sent them scrambling for apologies.
Instead of begging forgiveness, Valerian laughed softly in the darkness, a beautiful, sensual sound that promised indecent pleasures. One would have thought she’d spoken love words to him instead of a scolding.
‘You are more sharp-tongued than I remember.’ He paused to look at her, his voice lowering. ‘And more beautiful. You’ve done well for yourself.’
If he refused to be scolded, then she would refuse to be taken in by his flattery. ‘St Just, if you intended that as a compliment, your skill is diminished greatly. I am insulted by the idea that my beauty has done well for me as if my looks were an industry designed to turn a profit. My looks have bought me a few houses and financial security. While those are not unpleasing things, the price for them has been my personal happiness. To think that my looks have done well for me is to be misled by the shallow mind you apparently possess. You show yourself poorly by believing I would settle for so little.’
There, such a scalding set-down should drive even him from the veranda. But Philippa was supremely dissatisfied with the results.
Valerian’s face broke into a wide grin, showing all his white teeth. His voice was low and private, laughter lurking beneath the surface. ‘I am glad to see that along with selling your hand in marriage, your parents didn’t succeed in selling your soul.’ He chuckled, enjoying his humour.
‘You’ve a black sense of humour, St Just.’
Valerian reached for her hand where it rested on the railing, caressing it idly with his fingertips. ‘My dear, when have I ever been St Just to you? Call me Valerian as my friends do, as you once did.’
Philippa snatched her hand away. How dare he come out here to insult her and then expect that he could take liberties? ‘Let me set you straight. I am not your “dear” or your friend. Nine years ago, I paid the price for what passes as friendship with you. I shall not make that mistake again. I have a new life now and there’s no room for you in it.’ It was important that she define the rules first before he had a chance to worm himself into her good graces. He could be charming and she must be wary of letting her guard down, of letting him pretend to be her friend.
His face flushed at her words. She did not think the flush was from her candour, but rather from a rising anger. Valerian gripped her by the arms, his soft sensuality of moments ago replaced by a hard envy. ‘A life that includes Lucien Canton? What is Lucien Canton to you? Is he your lover?’
‘Take your hands off me. I don’t answer to you.’ Philippa looked him squarely in the eye. Something dangerous and erotic lurked in their emerald depths. In an unfair moment she thought Lucien’s hazel eyes merely pretended towards greenness.
He ignored her request. He crowded her against the hard iron of the railing. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind she thought she should have minded the invasion. But his hot envy had transmuted into molten seduction.
‘Your body answers to me, Philippa. My hands were made for you and you alone. No one has ever felt like you do, Philippa. I’ve not forgotten how your skin feels like rose petals.’ He pushed back the shawl from her arms and trailed the back of his hands down their length, removing the long gloves as he went until her arms were completely exposed.
‘I have not forgotten what it is to span the width of your back with my hand and pull you against me.’ Warm skin met warm skin where the plunging vee of her gown bared her back and she trembled against her will.
‘And you’ve not forgotten either,’ Valerian whispered against her mouth, his lips moving to seal hers, his hands moving to crush her against him, one hand finding the firm mound of breast beneath the velvet bodice. He palmed it, caressed it reverently until she cried out in his mouth from unwanted pleasure.
It was all coming back to her in a rush, how he felt against her, how he could make her body come alive, how she loved the exquisite sensations he could coax from her. How could she have forgotten this?
Philippa burned. Every part of her body was on fire. Heat licked at her from the inside out. Pressure built at her core until she wanted to scream. Valerian was the sum of her world in that moment. He was everywhere—his hands on her body, his scent in her nostrils—and she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to go on for eternity. She hated herself for it.
She pulled away with the greatest of efforts, panting and desperate. Valerian looked dismayed at her retreat. That was some gratification. ‘Have a care, St Just. Lucien will not tolerate playing the cuckold.’ She gave a slight nod to the empty room beyond the French doors, where Beldon and Lucien had just arrived. She hoped she didn’t look as dishevelled as she felt.
‘Philippa—’ he began in a ragged voice.
She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’
‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.
‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’
‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’ He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh.
Philippa’s nerves were stretched to breaking. She raised her right hand and slapped him hard across the face.
‘What was that for?’ Valerian put a hand to his red cheek, stunned.
Philippa inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders. ‘That was “welcome home.”’
Chapter Three (#ulink_85bc2c0e-3657-53f0-81a8-f86499436b8b)
Welcome home indeed, Valerian thought sourly, watching Philippa disappear inside. Through the glass panes of the French doors he could see her sit down at the polished cherry-wood pianoforte and arrange her skirts.
Lucien Canton slid on to the bench next to her, ready to turn pages, acting the devoted suitor to perfection. From the looks of him, the man did everything to perfection. He was immaculately turned out and not just his clothes, Valerian had noted. Canton’s nails were trimmed and buffed to a healthy sheen, his face freshly shaved. Valerian looked at his own nails, just as neatly kept. He too was fastidious in his personal habits. He had learned quickly in his time abroad that women responded to two things, cleanliness and sincerity, both of which were in short supply in many parts of the world. But from all appearances through the window pane, Canton possessed both qualities in abundance. Through the panes, Philippa smiled and laughed at something Canton had said.
Primal envy sparked in Valerian. He didn’t want Philippa laughing with Canton. He wanted her laughing with him. He hadn’t come home expecting to woo her. He hadn’t even known wooing her would be a possibility until Beldon had mentioned Cambourne’s death in the coach. But now that the chance to win her back was present, he could see no other course of action.
He’d meant what he’d said at dinner about taking a wife and starting a family—as long as that wife was Philippa. He still desired her and she still responded to him, if that ill-conceived interlude here on the balcony was any indication. He only had to convince her of that. She’d had nine years to nurse her grudge and she’d always been far too stubborn. The sting of her slap suggested the job in front of him would not be an easy one. The passion of her body’s response to his said the task would not be without its rewards. She might have struck him, but he was not convinced she’d slapped him out of anger about his advances. Given her response to him, she’d struck him out of anger over her own behaviour. He was merely a convenient target.
However, he was willing to acknowledge that it had been the height of foolhardiness to seek her out alone, knowing that his emotions were ruling his better judgement. The thrill of seeing her again, of feeling her presence next to him at dinner, of watching her deal with Danforth, combined with the surge of jealously that coursed through him at seeing Canton lay claim to her, was too potent a mixture to swallow without consequence.
He’d meant to confess his feelings to her, to declare his devotion and even to explain away the events of their last evening together as the poor decisions of youth. He’d got nowhere with his agenda. Instead, he’d no doubt affirmed all the sordid rumours that had trickled back to London about him. Within moments they’d been sparring and then, his blood hot, he’d taken her in his arms and silenced her the only way he knew how. But his reckless kiss had been more consistent with the behaviour he wanted to refute than the man he wanted to convince Philippa he was, and had always been, in spite of actions to the very persuasive contrary.
The only thing more senseless than kissing Philippa was standing out here in the cold, allowing Canton to hold Philippa’s attention uncontested. Valerian pushed open the door and went inside. The battle was joined.
Lucien spied his return to the company as Philippa finished playing a pretty country piece. The small group clapped politely. ‘Let us play our duet for them,’ Lucien suggested to Philippa, sorting through the sheets of music until he found the one he was looking for. He gave Valerian a challenging look that could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a silent dare. Valerian returned the stare with a short nod of acknowledgement.
They executed the duet flawlessly. Valerian had known Philippa was a dab hand at the pianoforte, but Lucien was the stronger of the two players. He wondered if Canton knew he played as well. The piece flowed seamlessly, the four hands following each other to Lucien’s trademark perfection.
Amid the brief applause at the end, Canton tossed him a smug look of satisfaction. Philippa caught him at it and gave Canton a hard look. Valerian was hard pressed to smother a laugh. Lucien didn’t know Philippa well if he thought such masculine antics would go unpunished. She would make Canton pay and, he noted ruefully when her quick stare censured him as well, he would pay too.
‘Anyone else care to play?’ Lucien asked, once more the congenial host. Valerian doubted any of the other guests were aware of the currents flowing between the little triangle. It was tempting to play, but it was also petty. Valerian opted to refrain, but Philippa had different ideas. She caught his eye. ‘Viscount St Just is quite accomplished if I remember correctly. Do you still play, St Just?’
‘Yes, I do. It would be an honour to perform on such a fine instrument.’ Valerian took the bench and flexed his hands experimentally.
‘I have some music…’ Canton began.
‘I won’t need any music,’ Valerian said shortly and launched into a complicated scherzo that left the audience mesmerised.
‘Magnificent! You’ve been training,’ Beldon enthused afterwards. ‘I’d forgotten how good you were.’
‘Thank you,’ Valerian said, rising from the bench. He tossed a covert glance towards Canton, making sure the man understood he’d picked up the gauntlet.
The tea tray arrived, but no one lingered overlong. There would be much to do on the morrow to be ready for the evening’s festivities. As everyone retired, Valerian stopped off at the library to select a book to read. A few minutes later there were muffled footsteps on the Axminster carpet. He didn’t need to turn around to know the newcomer was Lucien Canton. He’d expected as much. The problem with perfection was that it was often predictable.
‘I thought you and I should talk, St Just. Have a seat.’ Canton sat down and motioned to the chair across from him.
‘You have an extensive collection of books,’ Valerian said glibly.
Canton waved away the attempt at small talk. ‘I am not here to trade banalities with you. I came to make sure you understood how things stand between myself and Lady Cambourne.’ His eyes glittered like hard gems.
Valerian steepled his hands. ‘I understand from Pendennys that she is acting as hostess in your sister’s stead,’ he said, deliberately misinterpreting the implications of Canton’s message. If the man wanted to stake his claim, he’d have to do it directly. He would not get away with subtlety.
‘She is more than my hostess. We have discussed the possibility of a more permanent arrangement between us. I mean to propose marriage to her and I have every reason to believe that my suit would be met favourably.’
‘Why are you telling me, a mere stranger, this?’
‘You know very well why—you didn’t take her into dinner for the sake of old friendships renewed and all that. I did not know the depth of your former relationship was quite so, ah, developed. It is clearly much more than a friendship. No one looks at an old friend the way you looked at her tonight.’
‘And how is that?’ He’d been more transparent than he thought, or perhaps Canton was simply more astute.
‘Like a starving man looks at a feast,’ Canton said acidly.
Valerian raised his eyebrows, ready to strike. ‘Is that cliché the best you can do?’ He liked Canton less and less by the moment and not all of it had to do with envy. All his instincts said Canton had ulterior motives regarding Philippa. A man in love and certain of his affections being returned would not feel a need to stake such a blatant claim. Canton’s next statement confirmed Valerian’s suspicions.
‘I know you didn’t go to the drawing room to study the Gainsborough when you left the dining room,’ Canton said, referring to the facile lie Valerian had used to excuse himself and to follow Philippa. ‘My footman reported the two of you were out on the balcony, intimately engaged.’
‘Spying on your guests? That’s quite an admirable trait,’ Valerian said drily. ‘I wonder how the Duchess would feel if she knew you had her followed. Do you do it regularly?’ He rose, book in hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this gentlemanly conversation. Goodnight, Canton.’
Lucien rose with him. ‘I mean to have her, St Just. She’s mine. I’m the one who has been here through the years when she was in mourning. You can’t waltz into my home after a nine-year absence and undo in the span of a few short hours what I’ve worked years to accomplish.’
Valerian stopped at the door, his hand forcefully gripping the knob as he reined in his temper. He’d faced down Mehemet Ali, the renowned Egyptian naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’
He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.
Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too sacred to escape sacrifice. There was something Lucien Canton wanted and Philippa was a vital link in his ability to get it. He speculated that Lucien Canton would be willing to do more than marry to secure it as well.
The man had portrayed no signs of lover-like affections, but had instead acted like a man in possession of a great treasure around which he must place guards and fences. It didn’t take a large amount of speculation, even knowing as little as he did about the state of Philippa’s inheritance from Cambourne, to surmise Canton had his eye on some aspect of her estate.
Beldon had asked him in the coach if he believed in serendipity. Absolutely not. He had not survived the dark side of diplomacy by luck. He’d survived because he believed a man made his own chances. From the looks of things, Lucien Canton believed that too. That made the man more dangerous than he might have been otherwise.
He wondered if Philippa knew Canton didn’t love her, but what she owned. If not, he’d be sure to call it to her attention by showing her the depths of his own passion for her. It looked like he wouldn’t make Roseland Hall by New Year after all.
31 December
The dancers whirled about Valerian in a dervish of luxurious winter velvets and satins to a rowdy country dance played by the five-piece orchestra seated above the crowd in the small balcony at the top of the ballroom, designed for just such a purpose. The guests were in high spirits as midnight approached. Philippa had done a splendid job playing hostess, making sure everyone had partners for dancing. No one went unnoticed, from the plainest of girls to the quietest of matrons.
He and Beldon had done their parts to ensure her success in that pursuit. They’d danced with the matrons and charmed the local wallflowers until they blossomed.
But for the most part, Valerian had spent the evening listening to the rhythm of Cornwall. What did people think about these days? What was the lifeblood of the Cornish economy? Where did people think their future lay? The answer repeatedly came back to mining.
It was not surprising. Mining had been an ongoing consideration in the region for literally centuries. Valerian’s own family had mining interests upon which the family fortunes were built. He knew the Duke of Cambourne had invested heavily in tin and copper mines as well as the ancillary businesses that accompanied the industry of mining: smelting, furnace parts and mining equipment.
What did surprise him was the growing competition. Mining had not yet reached its apex, but the foundations for managing those future interests were being laid now. Mining had become a full blown industry and much more highly politicised than it had been before.
Valerian had caught snatches of conversations regarding mining-related legislation. House of Commons members, home from the Michaelmas session of Parliament, and members of the House of Lords, debated the need for safety laws that ensured a quality of life for the miners and their families.
More intriguing to Valerian were the conversations he overheard regarding the merits of importing metal ores from British settlements in Chile and Argentina. The capitalists of the group argued importing would certainly help meet growing industrial need, while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.
Canton sided with the capitalists, avidly arguing for aggressive expansion in South American mining. Valerian’s earlier suspicions about Canton coveting the assets brought to him through marriage to Philippa were finding substantiation in Canton’s avaricious stance on the economics of mining. Valerian made a mental note to ask Beldon about the extent of Philippa’s mining assets.
‘Fifteen minutes until midnight!’ The cry went up from the orchestra conductor, who urged everyone to find a partner for the ‘last waltz of the year’. There was an excited flurry on the dance floor as people laughingly paired up.
Valerian strode purposefully towards the group Philippa stood with. Other than acting as a willing dance partner for her wallflowers, Valerian had stayed apart from her. He preferred to study her movements and behaviour from afar—a certain kind of exquisite torture he’d imposed on himself as punishment for the prior evening. In hindsight, he acknowledged that he had not handled himself well on the balcony. He’d rushed his fences without knowing his quarry.
Tonight, she sparkled among an already glittering crowd. The deep gold of her gown was an elegant foil for the mass of burnished hair piled on her head and coiffed in strands of gold, woven through the coils like other women wove pearls. Her long neck was shown to advantage with the upsweep of her hair and Valerian was seized with the urge to kiss her nape as he came up behind her. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders as if he were settling an imaginary cloak about her. He bent close to her ear, saying, ‘I believe this dance is mine.’
It was a proprietary overture on his part and he knew it well. Most women thrilled to such a seductive, possessive claim. Odds were that Philippa wouldn’t. But neither would she be able to politely refuse without looking like a shrew in front of the others.
Whatever scold she had in store for him would be worth the feel of her in his arms. Waltzing was something they’d done often and well in the old days.
‘Viscount,’ Philippa said, recovering from having been caught unaware by his gambit, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve left it until the last minute.’ She gave a smile, forced to cover for his presumptions.
‘My apologies.’ Valerian swept her a gallant bow and escorted her to the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t get off that easily. He had no sooner fitted his hand against her back when she showed her displeasure.
‘Don’t ever handle me like that again,’ she began.
‘I am afraid it would be rather difficult to dance without touching you,’ Valerian said obtusely.
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You put me in a position where I could not refuse you without looking rag-mannered. Moreover, you insinuated claims on my attentions that you do not have.’
‘Haven’t I?’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with her.
The music started up before she could fire another insult at his head. Valerian swept her out into the centre of the floor, effortlessly creating space for them in the crowd. He was confident her pique wouldn’t last long. Philippa could not resist the lure of the waltz. It had always been her favourite dance.
He had waltzed women across dance floors from the Black Sea to St Mark’s Square in Venice, but no partner could rival the beauty of Philippa in his arms. Her long legs matched his stride with ease; her body answered the subtle guidance of his hand. She was all fluid grace as they moved through the turn at the top of the ballroom, her anger at him erased in the exhilaration of the dance.
They turned swiftly and tightly, giving him a reason to bring her up close to him instead of holding her at arm’s length. She gasped at the change in contact, then threw back her head and gave an honest laugh. ‘You waltz scandalously, St Just. Is this how they do it in Vienna?’
‘It’s how I do it.’ He wondered how long he could keep her like this. The sight of her smile was breathtaking. In that moment, the smile was all for him. It was not her hostess smile, or her duchess smile, just her smile. A smile he’d known for years. It was the smile she’d given him when they raced neck or nothing, the smile she’d given him when they’d danced at her début, the smile she’d given him the first time he’d kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, and she’d recognised him as a man of powerful urges.
He laughed back and whirled them about at a faster pace, heedless of convention. The dancing halted promptly at midnight in order for the ballroom to cheer in the New Year. Both of them were laughing and breathless. Valerian had his arm about her waist, keeping her close at his side, enjoying her unhampered good humour.
All her masks were off and she was Philippa Stratten beside him once more. His masks were off too. He was simply a young man again, in the throes of a first and true love, untouched by the rougher edges of life. A giddy elation fired his blood at the final stroke of midnight. As the raucous cheers went up, he recklessly pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. Her arms wound around his neck and her head tipped back to take his kiss completely. There was an unequalled sweetness in knowing she felt the fire, too, and had given herself over to it. In that moment Valerian swore a silent resolution to himself in the fashion of old English tradition. By this time next year, he would have her. He’d already lived too long without her.
The orchestra struck up a tune for another waltz before the guests headed in for the New Year’s supper. Valerian swung her into the dance without asking. She protested with a laugh, ‘We’ve already danced once tonight.’
‘That was last year,’ Valerian parried easily, his elation only partially dampened by the stare of an infuriated Lucien Canton, who watched them from the sidelines, rage emanating from every pore of his impeccably groomed form.
Lucien viewed the pair waltzing with abandon and a disgusting amount of apparent ease in each other’s arms. They were beautiful to watch as long as one wasn’t also watching one’s opportunity to marry one of them decreasing exponentially. Valerian Inglemoore was most definitely an unlooked-for complication in the progress of his plans. He had meant to propose to Philippa in the spring when he could do it in high style in London among the haut monde. Watching her with the newly returned viscount, Lucien knew without doubt he couldn’t wait that long.
He had to strike before the iron was hot, as it were. Most people who knew him believed him to be a keen judge of human nature. Lucien knew his accuracy in guessing people’s motivations and desires was partly his own intuition, but also partly because he spied on everyone in his milieu. The duchess was not exempt.
His spies indicated that the viscount was besotted with her, stealing away from the dinner table last night to steal kisses on the veranda. It was no balm to Lucien’s concern that his spy also reported Philippa had slapped the bastard across the face. At the moment she might be conflicted over her response to the return of her curious friend, but hate ran a close parallel to love. From what Lucien had seen, if he waited until spring, the lovely and pivotal duchess would no longer be interested or available.
Without the Cambourne mines, his hopes to corner the tin market and establish an elite, profitable tin cartel, with holdings in Britain and South America, would become an idle dream. And without access to the Cambourne finances, he’d be hard pressed to cover some of his investments. It didn’t take any amount of genius to know that if St Just claimed Philippa’s affections, Lucien’s own friendship with her would come to a quick end. St Just was not the type of man who’d allow his wife to keep a close male friend.
Lucien’s hard gaze followed St Just into the last turn of the waltz. He’d ordered murder done before to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t hesitate to see it done again.
Chapter Four (#ulink_959f7587-0738-5bb0-95d8-977c02dcf9b5)
‘He made you look the whore last night,’ Lucien bit out crisply over breakfast late the next morning in the library.
Well, there it was. Philippa had expected as much when she’d received the note requesting they privately break their fast together, away from the other guests. Lucien was a stickler for propriety. Not one of his more desirable traits. Apparently, he was covetous too. She’d not had reason to notice that before. But no one had ever posed a threat to his claims on her time.
Philippa buttered her toast calmly, unbothered by Lucien’s pique. ‘You can hardly be jealous because I danced with an old friend.’ That wasn’t to say she was pleased with her behaviour the night before. She had indeed let her guard down with Valerian, a behaviour she did not indulge in with anyone. But Valerian’s enthusiasm had been contagious and in his arms she’d felt the responsibilities of her world lift for a moment.
‘Old friend? The word is too tame,’ Lucien scoffed, reaching for his coffee. ‘I’ve never danced with the sister of an old friend the way he waltzed with you. He desires you, Philippa. One cannot not notice. He makes no effort to hide it. Such behaviour is better suited for a brothel than a ballroom.’ Lucien set his cup down and looked at her squarely. ‘St Just needs to understand in specific terms that his attentions are not welcome, even if they were encouraged in the past.’
Philippa met his stern gaze evenly, bridling at his insinuations about her virtue. She was the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne. She would not be commanded in such a high-handed fashion. She chose to ignore Lucien’s subtle probe into her past. Whatever had transpired between she and Valerian was their business alone. Lucien could speculate all he wanted. She hadn’t even told Beldon.
‘Are you suggesting I am forbidden to see him?’ This possessiveness was exactly the kind of behaviour she’d been trying to avoid in a relationship with any male acquaintance of her circle since Cambourne’s death. She didn’t need to take direction from well-meaning men who thought she couldn’t manage the reins of her estate or social life on her own. In Lucien, she’d thought she’d found a liberated man who would tolerate her independence.
It had been the basis of her attraction to him. Lucien had been a welcome friend during a difficult transition period for her. He’d been a loyal escort and adviser when she’d begun rebuilding her social circle after Cambourne’s death. She’d believed they complemented one another well and had a comfortable companionship between matched intellects and interests.
She’d helped him too in a myriad of ways, like acting the hostess when his busy sister wasn’t available. It had been the least she could do in return for the assistance he’d given her throughout the years.
‘What right do you have to make such a demand of me?’ Philippa flicked him a tight glance.
Lucien’s eyes flashed. ‘What right? We have been together for years.’
‘We are hardly married, Lucien,’ Philippa warned. They’d not explicitly talked in such terms before, although it would be unfair to say the issue had not arisen in other ways in the last year.
‘Perhaps we should be. Married, that is,’ Lucien said coldly.
‘Is that a proposal? Your lack of enthusiasm makes it rather hard to tell,’ Philippa shot back. Damn Valerian for this, Philippa thought hotly. Lucien’s proposal, if one could call it that, was all his doing. He had to come rushing in and wreck everything with hot kisses and knowing caresses, making her remember the possibilities.
Philippa put down her napkin and rose, leaving her toast untouched, but it didn’t matter. Her stomach couldn’t tolerate a bite of food now. ‘I regret to inform you that I have no intention of accepting a proposal articulated with such lacklustre ardour. It bodes ill for the marriage.’ She tinged her voice with exaggerated ennui. The sooner she was out of the room the better. She hoped she made the door before she gave full vent to her temper.
Lucien rose, the glacial calm that usually accompanied his demeanour, melting at her comment. ‘My displays of “ardor” have been quite acceptable to you right up until St Just began stealing kisses on the balcony right under my nose.’
Philippa stiffened. How could he have known? But to accuse him of spying on her would mean admitting he had the right of it. She turned to face Lucien before sweeping into the hallway. ‘You’ve shown yourself in a poor light this morning, Lucien. Jealousy does not become you.’
Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak against the damp weather, Philippa stormed out to the gardens. No one else was about in such inclement weather. She was glad for it. She would make terrible company. She would be hard pressed to behave politely when all her thoughts were focused on less than polite behaviour.
Valerian and Lucien were worse than two stallions in season fighting over a mare and now Lucien had proposed, no doubt prompted by his sense of honour and apparently the belief that she needed protection from the likes of Valerian. In the three years of their association, Lucien had never once pressed her for a discreet affair. There had been nothing beyond a few private, dry kisses, a gentleman’s touch on the dance floor or helping her in and out of carriages. Nothing atall to compare with Valerian’s very public seduction.
Lucien’s kisses were preludes to nothing. They inspired no wish to lose control, to cross over the boundaries of propriety. Valerian’s kisses lit a raging fire in her, forced her to abandon her grip on control. Valerian’s kisses were an invitation to decadence.
The very thought of Valerian’s audacious assumptions brought colour to her wind-whipped cheeks. Lucien was right. Valerian made no secret of his sensual habits. The differences between the two men could not be more clearly illustrated if she drew a line in the dirt. On one side there was Lucien with his icy good looks and restrained passions to match his rigid sense of honour. On the other, there was Valerian, all devil-dark hair and hot eyes, flouting honour and convention at every turn. If the disparities were so obvious, why did she hesitate?
The answer gnawed at her. She was no longer sure Lucien’s companionship would be enough for either of them. She was hard pressed to believe Lucien was happy with the dry affection that passed between them. Certainly, he must wish for more. Surely there must be another reason why he’d forgo physical pleasure. She wished she knew what he’d gain to make the sacrifice worthwhile. She could understand if he openly declared he needed to marry for money. But she did not appreciate hidden motivations. They were usually dark and dangerous and wrapped in lies.
Valerian leaned on his cue stick in the billiards room, pretending to watch Beldon take a shot. In reality, his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond Beldon’s shoulder, through the window. Philippa was walking in the garden, alone. He’d been disappointed to learn she and Canton were taking breakfast privately when he’d come downstairs late in the morning. He could imagine what they’d talked about. Canton was none too pleased with him.
Beldon cleared his throat. ‘Val, it’s your turn.’
‘So it is,’ Valerian returned, but his interest in the game had waned. ‘Beldon, would you mind if we finished our game later? I suddenly remember some pressing business I need to see to.’
Valerian didn’t stay long enough to let Beldon quiz him on his sudden business. He slowed his pace only when he neared Philippa. It wouldn’t do to appear the over-eager swain. She needn’t know he’d interrupted his billiards game to rush after her the moment he’d glimpsed her.
She looked lovely, her colour high and her hair less than perfect from the wind. Desire surged in him, raw and elemental like the weather. She turned and spotted him at the gate.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ Valerian offered drily, striding towards her.
‘I found the house a bit stifling,’ Philippa said shortly, bending to study a dormant plant.
‘The house or our Mr Canton?’ Valerian pried shamelessly. ‘I heard the two of you were closeted together over breakfast. I hope he wasn’t angry about last night.’ The last was a lie.
‘You are too bold, St Just.’ Philippa straightened, her eyes flashing as they studied him. He liked the feel of her gaze on him. Let her look and see that he desired her.
‘But yes, Lucien has asked that I make our relationship clear to you.’
‘So to speed my departure,’ Valerian mused aloud uncharitably.
‘Be fair, St Just. Lucien has done nothing to earn your enmity besides stand my friend.’
Valerian studied her. ‘Is he your friend? I did not know him from before. He must be a new friend.’
‘Why, of course he’s a friend and he’s perfectly acceptable. He’s the oldest son of a viscount with excellent prospects of his own. He’s not a new friend, not to me anyway. I’ve known him since John…’ she hesitated here and then corrected herself ‘…Cambourne’s death. He was with John the day of the accident and he’s been with me ever since.’ Her sharp tone had softened at the mention of her husband.
Valerian matched it with a quiet tone of his own. ‘Beldon mentioned the accident briefly. Cambourne lived a while afterwards,’ he prompted, liking the quiet intimacy that had sprung up between them.
Philippa turned bittersweet eyes on him, her gaze far away with her memories. ‘Lucien got him home and arranged for a physician, even though he was hurt himself. We stayed by John’s side for the next few days.’ She shook her head. ‘The doctor had known immediately that there would be no recovery. I was afraid to leave him out of fear that he would slip away the moment I was gone.’
Valerian took Philippa’s hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, pleased that she hadn’t snatched it away. A queer pang jabbed at him. He was both grateful that Philippa had cared for her husband and yet envious that those affections had been given to another. ‘You cared for the duke, then?’ he asked curiously, wanting to know the nature of the relationship she’d shared with Cambourne.
‘I grew fond of him. He was a good mentor to me and he denied me nothing. He let me use his wealth and his name to build a model school for miners’ children in the village. It’s the one the vicar is modelling his own school after. He was a good and tolerant man. I sincerely missed him when he was gone.’
‘But Lucien was there,’ Valerian prodded.
‘Yes. He helped with all the details of transferring the estates to me and to John’s heir. That can be tedious work and Beldon was so busy settling the Pendennys estate in those days it was a relief not to burden him with my worries as well.’ Philippa sighed.
The bastard knows how much she’s worth to thefarthing. He’s had an intimate look at her holdings. The thought was unworthy, but it was the first one that came to mind. How convenient everything was for the man. That raised an alarm for Valerian. He no more believed in ‘conveniences’ than he believed in Beldon’s blasted ‘serendipity’. A man made his own luck. Lucien Canton appeared to have manufactured quite a lot of it.
Valerian’s talk with Philippa in the garden did not go unremarked. Mandeville Danforth let the length of curtain drop in front of the library windows. ‘Look at them, close as courters. He’s holding her hand, damn it. Canton, how could you let him upset things so quickly and so thoroughly? He’s turning her head.’
Lucien pierced the man with a cold stare. ‘I didn’t know he was coming. He and her brother arrived unannounced, much like yourself,’ he said pointedly. ‘How was I to know that he was more than her brother’s best friend?’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/bronwyn-scott/valerian-inglemoore/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Bronwyn Scott
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: From wild and rugged Cornwall, the setting of Poldark and Jamaica Inn, comes another fabulous, dramatic story…The rake’s return!For years Valerian Inglemoore, Viscount St Just, lived a double life as a secret agent on the war-torn Continent. Returning home, he knows exactly what he wants – Philippa Stratten, the woman he gave up for the sake of her family…But Philippa isn’t the naïve debutante he left behind. His rejection stung deeply, and now she is suspicious of his intentions.Valerian realises he must wage a tougher battle if he is to finally claim her, once and for all, as his bride!Original title – The Viscount Claims His BrideTHE CORNWALL COLLECTIONFour wonderful atmospheric historical romances – perfect for fans of Winston Graham′s Ross Poldark and Demelza, and Daphne Du Maurier′s Rebecca and Jamaica Inn.LUCIEN TREGELLASBANE BERESFORDGABRIEL D′ARCYVALERIAN INGLEMOORE