Chapter Thirteen

‘We had better go in.’

In where? Averil wondered, as she drifted back to reality. Or perhaps it was a dream. She was warm and safe and Luc was holding her and little ripples of pleasure kept running through her body. If they went in, wherever that was, the pleasure would stop.

‘No,’ she mumbled against his shirt front and heard the laugh rumble in his chest.

‘Yes. Come on. Can you stand up?’

‘No.’ But he stood up anyway and she found her feet were on the ground, even though she had to hold tight to Luc’s lapels. Her legs had no more substance than a rag doll’s, her pulse was beating wildly and she wanted to do it all over again. Everything, and in a bed this time. But, of course, she could not. This had been once, and never again.

Averil stumbled as Luc helped her outside, his hand under her elbow. ‘That was good?’ he asked. Somehow she could not resent the thread of amusement in his voice.

‘Amazing,’ she said honestly. ‘What was it?’

‘An orgasm,’ he explained, still managing to stay serious, although she guessed her ignorance was a novelty for him.

‘Don’t you need one, too?’ Thank goodness it was dark so her crimson cheeks were not visible.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Luc said. ‘It will be all right.’

‘Oh.’ Presumably that meant he would seek out whatever women in Hugh Town made their living seeing to the needs of the gentlemen of the island. At least they would not ask him foolishly naïve questions.

‘You are naturally very passionate,’ Luc said, his voice low. They were walking up and down a path parallel to the house; some sense of reality was returning to her. She could make out the shape of Miss Gordon strolling on the terrace, out of earshot: their tactful, ineffectual, chaperone. Was that deliberate on her part?

‘You don’t really want me to be your mistress,’ Averil murmured back. ‘I am ignorant and inexperienced.’

‘And sensual and natural and very lovely. Of course I want you.’ He began to make his way back to the house. Averil dragged her feet—what if the others knew what they had been doing? He seemed to guess at her reluctance. ‘Don’t worry, it will not be branded on your forehead I had an orgasm in the summerhouse.’

‘Don’t say such things!’ she whispered, agitated.

‘Pretend to be angry with me,’ Luc said. ‘That will convince Lady Olivia that we have been discussing the question of marriage and are set against each other and it will explain any colour in your cheeks. If you are determined to go through with this madness, then go to Bradon. I will give you an address. If you need me—when you do—send me word.’

‘You really expect me to turn up on your doorstep asking to become your mistress, don’t you?’ she said, reaction turning into something very like anger in reality.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I look forward to it.’

Averil whirled out of his light grip and half ran down the path to Miss Gordon. ‘It is quite impossible, ma’am, we should never suit, even if it was right that I should break my contract with Lord Bradon. I beg you, please help me to make my way to London.’

‘Of course.’ The other woman looked past Averil to where Luc stood on the path. ‘My brother will advance the money for a chaise from Penzance and your lodgings on the way. You had better take Waters with you as your maid. We will give you instructions to my brother’s agent in the port—he will find you respectable lodgings and then hire a chaise and reliable postilions. You must spend at least two nights on the road, I fear, for it is over three hundred miles. Do you think you can manage by yourself?’

‘Thank you,’ Averil said with real gratitude. The thought of dealing with the practicalities of travel sounded blissfully straightforward after the emotional turmoil of the past week. ‘I am used to long journeys in India and a chaise with postilions sounds much easier to deal with than ox carts and elephants!’

Miss Gordon laughed and urged her inside and towards the stairs. There were footsteps on the terrace behind her, but Averil did not turn around.

* * * 

‘Good morning, miss.’ The curtains swished back with a rattle of rings.

‘Good morning, Waters. Hot chocolate? How delightful.’ To wake in a soft bed with light streaming through a wide, clean window: luxury. Lonely luxury. Averil curled her fingers around the cup and inhaled with a shiver of delight as the aroma banished the lingering memory of Pott’s evil tea.

‘Miss Gordon says, will you come down for breakfast, miss, or would you like to take it in bed?’

‘I will come down, thank you.’ She slid out of bed, still cradling the chocolate cup, and went to the wash stand. ‘Miss Gordon said you might be willing to come with me to London, Waters.’

‘Yes, please, miss. I’m a London girl myself, you see, and I came down here because my young man got a job as a footman, but we fell out and I miss my mam and the young ones something awful. And I miss London, too.’

Averil dipped the toothbrush in the pot of powder. ‘I can’t promise there will be a permanent position for you—that depends on what Lord Bradon, my betrothed, says.’

‘That’s all right, miss. I can always stay with Mam in Aldgate until I get a new post. Miss Gordon’s given me a good character.’

Averil paused at the landing window and looked out over a view of rooftops, then sea and scattered islands with white sand beaches glittering in the sun. Shifting sands. If the Bengal Queen’s anchor had not dragged on the sandy seabed, if she had not hit the rocks before the crew could get her back under control, Averil would have landed in Penzance, would have waited patiently until Lord Bradon sent an escort for her and would, even now, be preparing for her marriage.

She would not have met Luc, she would never have discovered the delights of physical love in his arms, she would not have had to make difficult choices. No, I would still be the nice, well-behaved, dutiful young lady I always was.

She smiled absently at the servants who met her at the foot of the stairs and directed her to the breakfast room. Was I always so dutiful? Because if I was, where did this wanton creature come from who only desires to be in Luc’s arms and in his bed? Would she have stayed buried for ever if he had not summoned her?

Her smile was conscious and bright as she entered the cheerful small room and her stomach lurched—relief or disappointment?—when she saw the only occupant was Miss Gordon applying herself to a pile of toast with a book propped up before her on the cruet.

‘Good morning, Miss Heydon.’ She flipped the volume closed and rang the small bell by her place. ‘We are alone, as you see. My brother and Captain d’Aunay breakfasted over an hour since and my sister-in-law prefers the solitude of her bedchamber before facing the hurly-burly of the day. Did you sleep well?’

‘Thank you, I was most comfortable.’ A footman poured coffee and indicated with a gesture the buffet and its covered dishes.

Miss Gordon nodded to the man and waited until the door closed behind him and Averil returned to her seat with a slice of omelette before speaking again. ‘I gather that my brother spent half the night with the captain. The prisoners—although we are not supposed to know of them, of course!—are on their way to Plymouth already.’ She took a folded paper from her pocket and handed it to Averil. ‘From Captain d’Aunay.’

‘Thank you.’ Averil eyed the red wax with its impress of a unicorn’s head. His seal ring, she supposed, although she had never seen him wearing it. She laid the letter down unopened and picked up her fork.

‘Please, do not mind me.’ Miss Gordon gave an airy wave of her toast and reopened her book.

Averil put a forkful of egg in her mouth, chewed it for a minute without tasting it, buttered some toast, sipped her coffee. The letter lay there looking as innocent as a snake under a stone.

Impatient with herself, Averil broke the seal and spread the single sheet open.

It goes well, so far, the letter began without salutation. Luc’s handwriting was smaller than she imagined it would be, clear and somehow the style was different from the educated hands she was used to. He had been taught to write in France, she reminded herself. Sir George is convinced, having had his own suspicions, and will tidy things up at his end. I will take the brigs to Plymouth this morning.

When you need me, send to me at Albany, off Piccadilly.

God’s speed on your journey.

L.M. d’A.

When you need me, not if. Arrogant man. His certainty that her meeting with Lord Bradon would be a disaster was not encouraging, nor was her complete panic about what she should do if her betrothed rejected her. Andrew, she reminded herself. She must begin to think of him as a real person, not an abstraction.

She folded the letter and pushed it into the pocket in the skirts of her borrowed gown. Miss Gordon looked up, closed her book again and cocked her head on one side like an inquisitive bird, but she asked no questions.

‘I suggest you rest here another night to recover. It will take the best part of the day to sail to Penzance. I have written out some notes on the road journey for you, and my brother has a letter for his Penzance agent and some money. There is a letter for Lord Bradon as well. It contains no details other than to say that we are sorry we did not know of your connection with him and therefore did not know to contact him after the wreck. That leaves the explanations entirely up to you.’ Averil murmured her thanks. ‘I have given Waters some changes of linen for you and a cloak and bonnet.’

‘You are very kind. I will have everything returned as soon as possible, of course. And Lord Bradon will recompense Sir George.’ At least, she sincerely hoped he would. If he showed her the door, he might well forget all about the logistics of her arrival. She must note the amounts so, if the worst happened, Papa could repay her debts.

‘Of course. I quite envy you going to London. I miss it sadly, but perhaps we will meet again there later this year. I hope to visit a friend of mine there. She is staying at the Star Fort at the moment, away from the chaos this household has been in this past week, reacquainting herself with a certain gentleman,’ she added with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

That must have been what Lady Olivia had been so snappy about, Averil guessed. Miss Gordon appeared to have a penchant for assisting lovers. Perhaps she had been disappointed in love herself, or was merely a romantic.

‘I should be very glad to see you there,’ she said, and meant it.

By the sixth day of her journey from the Isles of Scilly Averil would have been glad to see London, with or without a friendly face. She was travelling in considerable comfort, although Sir George’s agent had been so particular and painstaking that it had taken two days before he was satisfied with all the arrangements and she could convince him that she was well rested enough to undertake the journey, by which time it was Saturday and Averil did not feel she should travel on the Sunday.

Her courses had started on the ship between the islands and Penzance, just to add to the awkwardness of travel, and she confided to Waters that she was not sorry to have the excuse of an extra day in the comfort of a good inn.

But the travelling was comfortable enough once they had set out. The postilions were courteous and steady and both the inn in Penzance and the one she had stayed in the night before at Okehampton had been respectable and clean. Waters was proving sensible, competent and reasonably quiet.

All of which provided not the slightest stimulus, challenge or impediment to her thoughts about what was awaiting her and what had happened in that week with Luc. Her meeting with Andrew Bradon loomed ahead and, like a prisoner awaiting execution, she just wanted to get it over with.

Even the green rolling countryside, so utterly different from India, passed like stage scenery against which the phantoms of her imagination acted out one disastrous encounter after another. There was plenty of time for lurid imaginings. On the first day they had been almost twelve hours on the road; today, it seemed, would be eleven hours.

The chaise slowed for a moment, drew over and another vehicle went past, its bright painted body rocking and swaying. ‘Another yellow bounder, and in a hurry,’ Averil remarked to Waters, who was pulling up the window against the cloud of dust the other post-chaise left in its wake. ‘The passenger must be immune to seasickness!’

‘There’ll be a lot of navy men on this road, I’ll be bound,’ Waters remarked.

‘Of course, yes.’ That would explain the impression she had received of navy blue and the flash of gold braid. ‘I shall be glad to stop for the night, I must confess.’ Journeys in India took weeks, ponderous affairs requiring much planning, the assembling of trains of creaking ox carts, the hiring of armed outriders, the organisation of the household to shift from the heat of the plains up to the cool of the hills for the summer and back again for the winter. The Europeans moved like the flocks, herding themselves, not for fresh grass, but for relief from heat and dust and disease.

This rapid travel, the ability of a lady to undertake a journey almost at a whim, was novel and rather alarming. As she thought it the chaise slowed to a trot, and she saw they were entering a town. It swerved, passed through the arch into the inn yard and came to a clattering halt.

‘Here we are, ma’am.’ One of the postilions opened the door. ‘The Talbot at Mere. We were told this was the place for you to stop.’

Averil climbed down, stumbling a little, her legs stiff. ‘It seems very busy.’ As she spoke another carriage clattered into the yard, ostlers ran out with a change of horses and several people walked in from the street. ‘Perhaps I had better check they have accommodation before you unharness the horses in case we must try another inn.’

He touched his forelock and she started to cross the yard. From the door a big man with an apron stretched across his belly bowed to her. The landlord, no doubt. On the far side men lounged, talking, several of them in navy-blue uniforms. She kept walking towards the landlord, ignoring them as a lady should, Waters at her heels.

‘Good evening, ma’am. Would you be requiring a room?’

‘Indeed, and with a private parlour if you have one available.’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s just the one bedchamber left—quiet, though on the small side. But all the parlours are taken.’

That would mean dining in the common room. Averil bit her lip—was it better to stay here where the host seemed respectable and she was sure of a room at least, or carry on and risk another inn?

‘The lady may have my rooms,’ a voice said. ‘I have no pressing need for a parlour.’

She was tired and imagining things. Averil turned. A tall naval officer, his cocked hat under his arm exposing his neatly barbered black head, bowed. ‘Your servant, ma’am. Landlord, please have my traps shifted at once. The bed—’ the amused grey eyes lifted to Averil’s face ‘—has not been slept in.’

‘Captain d’Aunay.’ There was no breath left in her lungs for questions.

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He bowed again and walked away without a second glance. The perfect gentleman.

‘Well, that’s all right then,’ the landlord said, his delight at being able to satisfy both customers apparent. ‘I’ll show you up at once, ma’am.’

My pleasure … The bed has not been slept in. Yet.

‘This was fortunate, miss, the captain being here.’ Waters looked with approval at the meal the servant had set out on the round table in the parlour. ‘Nice rooms, and quiet, too.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ They were ideal, Averil told herself. A trundle bed for Waters to sleep on in the same chamber as herself and no way to the bedchamber except through the parlour door, which had a stout lock on the inside. What did she think was going to happen? That Luc would stroll in, evict her maid and ravish her? Or that she would lose all self-control and go and seek him out? Either was unthinkable.

Averil eyed the door again, wishing she could lock it now, but the servant would be in and out while they were eating and afterwards to clear the table. She would think Averil had run mad if she had to have the door unlocked every time.

‘I didn’t recognise Captain d’Aunay for a moment, miss. Scrubs up well, doesn’t he?’ Waters chatted away. ‘Not that he’ll ever be handsome, exactly, not with that nose and that stubborn chin. Wasn’t it a coincidence, him being here?’

The girl was not making snide remarks, Averil decided, it was simply her own conscience nagging, telling her that this could not possibly be chance.

‘He is a fighting man, not a courtier,’ she said. ‘Doubtless a prominent nose is no handicap at sea. Eat up, Waters, before your dinner gets cold.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Waters attacked the steak-and-oyster pie with relish. ‘What sort of house has Lord Bradon got, miss?’ she asked after a few minutes.

‘He is the heir, so the properties actually belong to his father, the earl,’ Averil explained, trying to recall the details. ‘There is a large town house in Mayfair and then Kingsbury, the country seat in Buckinghamshire. And I believe there is a shooting box somewhere as well.’

‘And one day you’ll be the countess.’ Waters pursued a piece of carrot round the plate. ‘That’s wonderful, miss.’

‘Yes.’ Indeed it was. Her great-grandfather had sold fruit and vegetables, her grandfather had opened a shop selling tea and coffee and her father had built on that start and become a wealthy merchant with a knighthood. Now he wanted connections and influence in England for his sons, her brothers. Mark and John were not expected to soil their hands with commerce but to become English landed gentry. With her help they would make good marriages, buy estates, become part of the establishment.

Averil had never had to do a hand’s turn of work in her life, only to live in the lap of luxury and become a lady. Now it was her duty to make her contribution to the family fortunes. But she could not take marriage vows and deceive her new husband.

A tap on the door heralded the servant who cleared the plates and dishes and left an apple tart and a jug of cream in their place. Averil ate, absently listening to Waters’s wistful hopes that Lord Bradon might have a place for her in his establishment.

The door behind creaked open. ‘Thank you, we have finished. You may clear now and bring a pot of tea in about an hour,’ Averil said as she folded her napkin and stood up.

There was no sign of the servant. Luc stood in the open doorway, filling it.