‘Why…thank you, Miss Cleveland, I should very much like that.’ Randolph’s answer was ironically formal and suited to a light dialogue conducted in a drawing room rather than one addressed to the back of her head as she perched, rather windswept, atop his trusty steed. Overhead, branches of a stout oak tree formed a canopy of drily rustling leaves. The breeze strengthened, causing a few scraps of curled russet foliage to drift down and settle on her skirt. In front of her Randolph’s hand brushed them idly off, then refastened on the reins. She stared, as one fascinated, at long brown fingers intertwined with leather, feeling suddenly shyly conscious of her hips snugly settled between his muscled thighs. She could feel her cheeks becoming warm from the intensity of his scrutiny; she knew his eyes were constantly on her. There was so much more to be said. She owed him an apology and her gratitude, for, without him…She dared not think what might have happened to her.
During the gallop home, safe in Randolph’s arms, she’d come to appreciate just how fortunate she’d been. But for his presence by her side today she might be lying beaten and abused in a ditch by the wayside. She felt deeply ashamed that earlier she’d implied that, if he visited her and her mother at Woodville Place, he’d be unwelcome.
‘You will say nothing to my mama of what went on, will you?’ Over a shoulder she slanted up an appealing look at him. It was the first time she had properly studied him for any length of time. Earlier her sliding glances had quickly darted away. But now she gazed and, whilst waiting for his answer, she realised that he wasn’t so very changed in looks from the man she’d thought she’d marry when a tender eighteen years old. The grooves bracketing his mouth and radiating from his feline eyes weren’t extremely ageing, she decided. His hair was now long and light and his visage far darker and leaner, but he still resembled the handsome gentleman she’d wanted to be her husband.
‘I’ll not tell your mother Seth Luckhurst has designs on your virtue.’ Randolph’s tone sounded quietly ironic.
‘His design is to keep me quiet,’ Deborah stressed on a blush. ‘He has no liking for me.’
‘He doesn’t need to have a liking for you, Deborah,’ Randolph returned as one explaining something that ought to be obvious. ‘Don’t ever go out again without a chaperon.’
Deborah limited her mutinous response to making a tight little pout of her mouth. Of course she knew his advice was sound and sensible. Still it rankled that, if she took it, her freedom and independence—things she cherished—would be lost to her. The lout who’d forced her to change her habits deserved no such victory.
‘Does your mother know that your driver was beaten today?’ Randolph asked abruptly.
A forceful shake of the head preceded her words. ‘I told Fred to avoid her and go straight away to his quarters and rest. If Mama finds out that Seth is threatening me, she will suffer very badly with her nerves.’
‘What did Luckhurst say about you that caused your driver to remonstrate with him?’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘I think you are,’ Randolph contradicted. ‘What did Luckhurst say?’
Deborah twisted her fingers in her lap. ‘Fred truly would not repeat it and, as he was in pain from his injury, I did not insist he tell me. I guessed from his embarrassment that it was something lewd.’
‘I imagine you’re right. So are you going to promise to heed my warning and only go out accompanied in future?’
Deborah looked up and, as their eyes held, she felt a sudden yearning to have him again put his arms about her and comfort her. For all her bold talk of standing up to the bullies, she felt a coil of fear unfurl in her belly. Soon Randolph would again be gone from the area and she would have no champion to scare off the likes of Luck-hurst for her. She sensed rather than saw his amber eyes drop to her softly parted mouth and her breath caught in her throat as she realised he need only incline forwards a little to lock together their lips.
‘Will you soon be gone from here?’ she whispered, her eyes riveted to the shady chin just a few inches away.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What business…?’
Her query was curtailed by the finger he put to her lips to silence her.
‘Promise you won’t go out alone,’ he demanded harshly.
She nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘Promise,’ she muttered with bad grace.
The finger that had hovered a fraction away from her lips returned to gentle a reward on her plump pink skin. Abruptly he took up the reins. A second later he’d urged the horse in to a sedate trot towards the house.
Chapter Four
‘I’ve brought a guest home today, Mama.’
Julia Woodville had been tackling a Gothic tale with some apathy so was happy to hear someone novel might brighten her mundane routine.
Usually she spent the mornings at her sewing and taking a constitutional in the garden. The weather was now too fresh to spend a lengthy time outdoors so today she’d limited her stroll to the paths on the southern side. The spare time till luncheon had been whiled away at her writing desk. She liked to keep in touch with her friends in London. She better liked having their replies to learn what was going on in the beau monde, although their gay news always made her sadly yearn to be a part of it.
The afternoons were customarily employed in reading. She enjoyed scanning the ladies’ journals and appreciated a good book. But the romance Deborah had got her from the circulating library this week was not one to hold her interest. Julia Woodville gladly let it drop to her lap. Myopically she squinted at her daughter and at the fellow stationed behind her.
Deborah approached her mother’s chair positioned close to the log fire. Having removed her straw bonnet, she tossed it to the sofa and combed a few fingers through her tangled flaxen locks to try to bring some order to them. She was conscious she probably looked unattractively dishevelled after the thundering pace Randolph had set on the short ride to Woodville Place. Her other chilly digits were held out to the glow in the grate. It was a gloriously bright yet invigorating day in mid-October. Draughts were stirring the curtains at the casements, making warmth from the flames very welcome within the parlour’s solid stone walls.
‘Who is it, dear?’ Julia hissed in an undertone. ‘Is the vicar again come for tea?’ Julia Woodville’s failing eyesight allowed her to see little more than a gentleman’s silhouette. Yet she could read the print in her books very well. She peered past her daughter again, feeling a mite deflated. The vicar was a nice enough chap, but his sister was better company and this fellow seemed to be alone.
‘No, it is not Gerard. It is an acquaintance from London. He is presently in Sussex on business.’
Julia’s interest re-ignited with the information. It was her constant wish that they might return to the metropolis and live a mean approximation of the wonderful life they’d once known. She’d accepted that they could never recapture the sumptuous existence her first husband had provided for them both, but a small neat villa on the fashionable outskirts would suffice, she’d told Deborah. Unfortunately their funds would not suffice, Deborah constantly told her, even for that modest dream to be realised.
Now that the visitor had come closer Julia could see that it was indeed not the vicar. Gerard Davenport was nowhere near as tall and broad as this gentleman seemed to be. But she couldn’t fathom his identity. His features were still indistinct, although he seemed to have a good head of light-coloured hair.
‘It is Mr Chadwicke. I expect you must remember him. He is a friend of the Earl of Gresham.’ Debbie introduced him rather breathily. ‘I expect you remember that when we lived in London with Papa he would sometimes visit us with Marcus.’ Deborah knew that mention