Chapter Sixteen

Luc strolled up Bond Street and turned left into Bruton Street. He had no convincing excuse for coming this way, he admitted to himself. Yes, he was intending to visit Manton’s to pick up some new pistols and try a little target practice, but this was a roundabout route by anyone’s calculation. He could tell himself he was getting some exercise, but that was purest self-deception. He was worried about Averil and he was missing her like the devil.

He should walk on past and go about his business; there was nothing he could do in any case unless she appeared here and now on the pavement in front of him. However much he wanted her, he had given her his word that he would not turn up on the doorstep and precipitate a crisis.

But despite his resolve some demon had him turning right and then right again into the mews that served the smart houses. He had promised nothing about watching the house and now he grabbed at the loophole. Damn it, but this obsession hurts. Where’s your will-power, man? He didn’t seem to have any, only a sick fear that he was not going to be able to bear it when she married Brandon.

An English gentleman would cut her out of his life: it was, after all, the honourable thing to do. A Frenchman, hot-blooded and passionate, would ignore his own promises and snatch her. But he was neither. God, was he ever going to find where he belonged? What if Napoleon was never defeated and he was stranded here, belonging to no country?

Stop it! Luc exerted years of hard-learned discipline and got his thoughts under control. Just deal with it, day by day, just as you always have. Concentrate on Averil and whether she is all right. He forced his attention back to the mews.

It was quiet, so presumably the carriages had gone out for the morning. A man whistled as he came out of a stable with a bucket, nodded to Luc with no sign of curiosity, and strode off.

Luc walked along, counting until he got to the back of the Bradons’ house. Where was she? He leaned a shoulder against the wall and eyed the gate that led into the garden as though it could answer the questions that so preoccupied him.

Averil would not be installed in Bradon’s bedchamber yet, of that he was certain. The family would do this properly, although without any great fuss, given the bride’s connections. But the man might be making love to her even now. What was there to stop him? And unless Bradon was made of stone, he would want her. Jealousy lanced through him. The bastard would take her innocence and that belonged to him, no one else.

As he watched a window opened on the second floor and there was Averil, as though he had called to her. She leaned her elbows on the sill and leaned out, a most unladylike thing to be doing. Luc smiled, the dark mood evaporating like mist under sunshine, and lifted a hand.

For a moment he thought she had not seen him, or perhaps did not recognise him in civilian dress, then she made a flapping gesture with her hand as though trying to shoo chickens. Amused, Luc stayed where he was. He could almost hear the huff of exasperation as she slapped both palms down on the sill and stared at him across the length of the garden and the low roofs of the mews buildings. Now what would his Averil do?

Her face changed and he realised she was mouthing something, although from that distance it was impossible to tell what. Go away, probably. They stared at each other for a while, then she ducked back inside and pulled down the window. Luc grinned; she was wearing a pale gown and the glimmer of white behind the glass showed clearly that she was standing watching him. He tipped the brim of his hat down, shifted his shoulders more comfortably and set himself to look like a man with nothing better to do than prop a wall up and watch the world go by for the rest of the morning.

It took ten minutes before the gate opened and Averil appeared. ‘Go away! What on earth are you doing here?’

Luc straightened, came across and stood next to her under the shelter of the garden wall. No one looking out of the windows in the house could see them there. ‘I wondered how you were.’ I needed to see you so much it hurt. No, he could not admit his weakness to her. Instinct warned him to hide his vulnerability.

‘I was perfectly all right until I saw you,’ she retorted. ‘I almost had a heart stroke.’ She was looking delightfully flushed and flustered, but he saw the dark smudges under her eyes and wondered how much sleep she’d had the night before. Had she been thinking about him, or worrying about Bradon?

‘You recognised me.’

‘I could think of no one else your size who would be lurking in back alleys.’ Despite her tone he suspected she was glad to see him. He hoped she was.

‘How was it? What is he like?’

‘Lord Bradon is perfectly charming and his parents are delightful. I could not be happier.’ Her green eyes were dark and shuttered.

‘Liar,’ he said. ‘Something is wrong. Tell me the truth. Did you confess what had happened?’

‘I told Lord Bradon this morning. About the shipwreck and being washed up and being in the hut with you for those days and nights. I did not tell him I was naked, or about … about the summer house in the Governor’s garden. He was very calm about it. He is—oh, I don’t know!’ She threw up her hands and for a moment Luc thought she was going to cry, then she tightened her lips and controlled herself. ‘He is very emotionless, very cool. They all are. There is no feeling or warmth. But I expect we will get used to one another soon.’

Luc put his hand on her arm. It was good to touch her and hell, too. He wanted to yank her into his embrace and kiss her senseless. She shook her head. ‘No, do not do that.’ He took his hand away, feeling absurdly as though she had slapped him. ‘I do not need sympathy. I will be all right.’

‘So what did Bradon say? About us?’

‘I told him nothing about you. I told him that I could reveal nothing about the identity of the officer involved because of the secrecy required for the mission. He appeared to accept that.’

‘And you are still here. So he believes you are a virgin.’

‘No. Not exactly. He either does not trust my word or thinks me too ignorant to know if something had happened while I was unconscious. For a month, until he is certain that I am not with child, it will be put about that I am merely a guest of the Bradons. Once he is sure, then we will become betrothed.’

‘My God. The cold-blooded devil. You will not stay with him, surely?’

‘Why not? What has changed?’ She shrugged and he felt a spurt of anger. This was not Averil, not his Averil, this obedient, long-suffering puppet. ‘I did not behave well on the islands, I should have been stronger willed. There is a contract. My family—’

‘Your family can shift for themselves!’ He fought to keep his voice below a quarterdeck bellow. ‘They are adult men, the lot of them. You can’t behave like a virgin sacrifice, Averil, and they should not expect it of you.’

‘Can’t I? What will your wife be? She will not be agreeing to a love match, will she? She will be marrying a man who wants her for her bloodlines and her deportment. Will you lie and pretend to a warmth you do not feel while all the time you sneak off to your mistresses?’

The temper and the shreds of restraint that he was hanging on to by his fingernails escaped him. Luc hauled Averil into his arms and lost track of what he was about to say, let alone what he was thinking. She was soft and yet resilient as she pulled back against his arms, she smelled of a meadow in springtime and his mouth knew what her kiss would taste like.

‘I do not sneak,’ he snapped. ‘And I am not such a damned cynic as this money-grubbing Englishman you are throwing yourself away on either.’

‘Luc, please …’ Please go, she meant. Her mouth was soft and under his hands, her body trembled and he knew he should either release her or just hold her, give her the comfort of some human warmth and care. But the devil that had brought him here was strong and the feel and the scent of her was making his head spin with desire so he took her mouth and closed his eyes on the hurt in her green, exposed, gaze.

She was quivering with anger and desire and vulnerability in his arms. She tasted of his dreams and she felt like heaven and he ravaged her mouth even as she twisted in his arms and kicked at his booted shins with her pretty little slippers.

When he lifted his head she stared back, holding his eyes despite the confusion in her own. He remembered the way she had looked deep into his eyes on St Helen’s as she searched for the truth in his words.

‘Damn it, Averil. Be mine. Come with me—I’ll give you all the warmth you’ll ever need.’

‘You’ll ruin me for your own desires, you mean,’ she said flatly. ‘Let me go. Promise me you will stay away from me.’

Sick at what he had just done, at the look in her eyes, Luc opened his hands and she stepped back. ‘There. Free. But I will not stay away, not while you need me. Not while you want me.’ Not while this madness holds me.

‘You—’ The effort it took to regain her poise was visible, but she managed it. ‘You are arrogant, Monsieur le Comte. I neither need nor want you. Only your absence. Goodbye.’

Luc opened the gate for her and she went past him a swish of skirts without looking at him. He waited until she was through and said, ‘Convince me.’ The gate shut in his face and he heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn across. He should leave her to Bradon, forget her. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted her—passionate, feminine, innocent—and knew he could no more do it than fly.

‘That was reasonably satisfactory.’ Andrew Bradon replaced his hat and frowned at the traffic fighting its way up and down Cornhill. There was no sign of the carriage. ‘Where has that fool got to?’

‘There does not appear to be anywhere he could wait.’ Averil stared at a flock of sheep being driven down the middle of the street; it was like Calcutta but cooler and with sheep, not goats. Sheep were easier to think about than what had happened this morning. Two men: ice and fire. They both burned the skin.

‘He should have kept circling.’ Still fuming about his coachman, Bradon extended his crooked elbow. ‘Take my arm.’

‘Thank you.’ She had fled upstairs from the garden and washed her face and hands, brushed out and redressed her hair, afraid that he would somehow scent Luc on her.

‘I do not understand why that lawyer wants all your bills sent to him to settle. He could have entrusted a sum to me to deal with on your behalf.’

‘Doubtless Mr Wilton will need to give Papa an exact accounting for the purposes of insurance after the shipwreck.’ And I am going to have to go through my married life being this careful and tactful. Mr Wilton saw no reason to put the money into your hands until he was forced to by my marriage. He is a canny man.

But he was also a dusty, dry and unimaginative man, she decided. She wondered whether to write to Papa and mention this. Wilton seemed to be the sort of person who would carry out orders even if they made no sense—there was a feeling of unyielding rigidity about him. On the other hand, he did appear to be utterly devoted to Papa’s interests. Sir Joshua’s word, it seemed, was law.

There was a navy blue uniform and a cocked hat in the crowd pouring out of the Royal Exchange. Averil told herself not to be foolish. The City must be full of naval officers; besides, he had been wearing civilian dress. Oh, my God. It is him. Luc—

‘My dear? What is wrong?’

‘That crossing sweeper—I thought he was going to be struck by the carriage with the red panels.’

And Luc was crossing the road, coming towards them. Her heart beat so hard she thought she would be sick. No! He was going to speak. He was going to betray her in some way, make Bradon suspicious and her own position more precarious so that she would be forced into his arms. Averil closed her eyes and tried to banish the memory of just how those arms felt around her and how much she wanted to be in them.

‘Excuse me. I think you have dropped this?’ Luc stooped and straightened with a man’s large linen handkerchief in his hand. He made a polite bow in her direction, but his eyes passed over her with no sign of recognition and his enquiring gaze fixed on Bradon.

‘What? No, not mine. Obliged, sir.’

‘Not at all. Lord Bradon, is it not?’

‘Yes.’ Bradon pokered up, whether because he objected to being addressed by a stranger or because he was suspicious of anyone in naval uniform after this morning’s revelations, she could not tell.

‘Forgive me, but someone pointed you out to me the other day as a considerable connoisseur of porcelain.’ Under her palm Averil felt Bradon relax. It was a miracle that he could not feel her own pounding pulse.

‘You are interested?’

‘As a mere amateur. I was able to pick up some interesting Copenhagen items when I was in that area recently.’

‘Indeed? I do not believe we have been introduced.’ Bradon’s manner became almost cordial.

‘Captain le comte Luc d’Aunay.’

Averil managed to breathe. Bradon would not suspect a count of involvement with an undercover operation and, thanks to the remark about Copenhagen, he now had a mental image of Luc being posted somewhere in the North Sea. And Luc was very properly not acknowledging a lady to whom he had not been introduced and not, as she had feared, doing anything to make Bradon suspicious. Perhaps this was a coincidental meeting. Had he recovered from that morning’s madness?

‘ … interesting dealer off the Strand,’ Bradon was saying as she pulled herself together to listen to the two men. ‘Feel free to mention my name.’

‘Thank you, I will certainly do that. Good day.’ Luc raised his hat, his gaze focused on Averil for the first time. His expression was perfectly bland with just the hint of a query.

Her escort seemed to remember her presence. ‘Er, Miss Heydon, from India.’

‘Ma’am. India? I thought I had not had the pleasure of seeing you in town before.’ The bow was perfectly judged: polite and indifferent with just the hint of masculine appreciation that would be expected.

‘Captain.’ She inclined her head. ‘Lord Bradon’s family has kindly asked me to stay with them for a month.’

‘I will not delay your sightseeing any longer. Thank you for the recommendation, Bradon.’

As Bradon turned to hail their carriage Averil glanced back, but Luc was gone, swallowed up by the crowds. What had he been doing there? Surely not following her? He had work to do at the Admiralty, she was certain; it would do his career no good if he neglected that in order to dog her footsteps in the hope she would throw her bonnet over the windmill and decide to become his mistress!

‘We will return to Bruton Street,’ Bradon said as they settled into the carriage. ‘Mama will have given Finch her instructions on where to take you and what you will need. We must have you creditably outfitted before anyone else sees you in that hand-me-down gown.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Averil bit her lip and reminded herself of her duty and that tumbling out of the carriage and running up Cornhill in search of Luc would be madness.

Luc took one of the side alleys, went into the George and Vulture, the first tavern he came to, and sat at an empty table in the taproom. ‘A pint of lush,’ he said to the girl who approached, wiping her hands on her apron. Brandy was tempting, but strong beer was prudent.

He still could not credit that Bradon was waiting a month to see if she was with child. Calculating devil. At least he had seen him now. After what Averil had said that morning he could not rest until he had seen her with her betrothed, seen how the man was with her. The tankard came and he took a swallow. Good London beer, full of hops and dry in the mouth; he had missed that.

Yes, he was a calculating devil who did not believe Averil when she told him she was a virgin. Luc realised he was angry and drank again while he sorted that out in his head. Bradon did not believe her; in fact, he thought she could well be lying. He deserved to be called out for that alone, Luc thought as he drained the tankard.

Getting changed, visiting the Admiralty, had distracted him not an iota from the anguish and confusion that morning’s encounter had caused, but he had not had time to think too deeply about the workings of Bradon’s mind.

Damn it, Averil was so patently honest, he thought now. Didn’t the fool realise that she could have spun him any number of yarns—with the full support of Sir George and his sister? Bradon did not deserve her, but the very fact that he was keeping her, for a month at least, proved that he wanted her, or her dowry, more than he cared about her maidenhead and his own honour.

In a month, possibly much sooner, he would realise that she was not with child and then the marriage would go ahead. She would become Lady Bradon and be lost to Luc for ever.

The fantasy that had been sustaining him since he had sailed from Scilly, of Averil spread beneath him on a wide bed, gasping his name as he drove them both to ecstasy, gripped him afresh, only this time not with a wash of pleasurable anticipation, but with claws of frustration. He snapped his fingers for another tankard. Frustration and loss, if he was to take her at her word and leave her to the other man. Damn it, but he needed her. Where else would he find that enticing mixture of courage and sensuality, beauty and honesty, innocence and spirit?

A group of clerks came in, loudly discussing a prize fight, and called for ale and food as they settled at the next table. Luc nursed his beer and let their argument wash over him until the arrival of their pie reminded him that he had been up since dawn working on his notes about the Scillies traitor. Then he had found his feet leading him to Bruton Street to watch for Averil and to try to find out what had happened with Bradon.

Now he knew. Bradon would marry her and she had accepted that, and his lack of trust in her. The meek way she had stood there just now, her hand on his arm, ignored by the men, waiting to be acknowledged, made his blood boil. Bradon would be satisfied with his bargain, that was for sure, but he doubted it would give Averil any joy.

But her joy, or lack of it, was no longer his business, it seemed. He ordered pie and told himself that he had to stop thinking about her. He had a wife to find. A home to build. Somehow it no longer seemed so straightforward or desirable.

For two days Averil shopped, with Finch the stiff-backed dresser at her elbow and Grace, almost bursting with the effort to behave with as much decorum as Finch, at her heels. She wrote to Mrs Bastable, her chaperone on the Bengal Queen and another letter to her father. She wanted to write to Dita, who must now be safe at home in Devon with her family, recovering from her ordeal. But she could not risk to writing what she had to confide to her friend; she must just hope Dita would come up to London soon. She needed her so much.

She took delivery of her new clothes and supervised her borrowed ones being cleaned, parcelled up and returned to Miss Gordon along with a letter of thanks and the assurance that her banker was dealing with the money she owed Sir George.

She arranged flowers for Lady Kingsbury and suffered her purchases to be examined and approved. She thanked her future mother-in-law for the loan of a pearl set and some garnets and sat and addressed invitation cards for a soirée in a week’s time and she felt as though her heart was weeping in sympathy with the rain that was pouring down outside.

As they drove back from church on Sunday Lady Kingsbury was graciously pleased to compliment her on her walking dress and bonnet. ‘You dress with taste, Miss Heydon.’

There was no sign of the earl—he appeared only at dinner and then left. The countess did not appear remotely discommoded by his neglect. Perhaps she was glad of it, as Averil might become glad of Bradon’s absence once she was married to him. She shivered.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘You will accompany me to the Countess of Middlehampton’s reception on Tuesday evening. That will introduce you to a number of people of influence without the necessity to concern ourselves with dancing yet. You can dance, I trust?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I enjoy it.’

‘Excellent. Tomorrow I will review your new wardrobe with you and give you some guidance on who you will meet in London this Season. Do feel free to ask me any questions about matters of etiquette—I am sure things are different here from what you are used to.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ So, she was to be assessed to make certain she would behave the right way. Averil had no way of telling whether Bradon had told either of his parents the shocking tale of her rescue. She saw virtually nothing of the earl, and Lady Kingsbury, she suspected, would remain poker-faced and cool if she found herself in the midst of the Cyprians’ Ball.

Her spirits rose despite the thought of Lady Kingsbury’s critical assessment. It was frivolous, but a reception would mean new people to meet, entertainment, a change of scene, noise, human contact, warmth. She needed warmth as a drooping flower needed water. She needed, more than anything, someone to put their arms around her and simply hug her.