‘Leave you alone…here? Ah, no, that would be ungentlemanly, Miss Boyce. You are either hiding, or you are lost. Which is it?’
Taking refuge in silence, she turned her head to one side, her cheeks burning under his intense scrutiny, her mind working furiously towards a way to resolve this dreadful hindrance. Not for the world would she give him the satisfaction of an apology, nor even an explanation. But he was between her and the door and, although hoydenish behaviour was not her style, whatever he chose to believe, a quick dash for freedom seemed to be the only way to extricate herself.
Riding habits, however, were not designed for the quick dash. No sooner had she gathered up her skirts with one hand than his long leg moved to prevent her, his body pressing her back against the wall with a determination she could not break. She felt the shameful pressure of his thigh against hers, and the warmth of his face, so closely restricting. ‘Let me go!’ she whispered. ‘You insult me, Lord Rayne. This surely cannot be the gentlemanly conduct you offer my sisters.’ She pushed against his shoulder with her riding crop, but even her well-built frame was no match for him, and there was little she could do to prevent his mouth slanting across hers, taking the apology she had refused to offer.
It was no mere peck, and when she tried to end it by breaking away, he caught her chin to bring her back to him, stopping her protests with another angry kiss more searching than the first. Even through the thickness of uniform, braids and buttons, she could feel the surge of authority that he felt obliged to impose, left over from the earlier incident and now aggravated by her refusal to yield. His arms were controlling her, determined to humble, demanding submission. It had nothing to do with desire, she was sure, but with obedience, the same obedience she had refused him earlier before crowds of onlookers.
‘No,’ he growled, ‘this is not what I offer your sisters, Miss Boyce. I am not offering anything, but taking your apology. No one is allowed to walk off my parade ground yelling insults at me, not even a woman. Besides, I’ve never taken a kiss from a schoolma’am before. It’s a novelty. Worth repeating, I think.’
‘No…no!’ Letitia snarled. ‘Don’t dare to handle me so. Get off me! I owe you nothing, and that was not an apology. I never apologise to hooligans.’ Her voice, hoarse with rage, spat out the last word as she found a space to bring up her riding crop with a backhander that would have left a mark had he not caught it in time.
Her fury was not only for his contemptuous embrace, but for herself, too, for she ought to have seen it coming, or at least made it more difficult than she had. There was also the painful truth that her first kiss from a man had been taken from her with such ill will rather than for reasons of tenderness and affection that she had always believed were the prerequisites for lovemaking. His intention had quite obviously been to chasten her, making it doubly humiliating.
He held her wrist and riding crop in mid-air, clearly taken aback by the vehement eruption of her fury, his other hand ready to catch her next move. He watched her brilliant flint-stone eyes spark and glisten with rage, her beautiful mouth tremble with shock, and the flippant words he was about to deliver, the laughing retort, did not emerge as he had intended. His eyes grew serious, suddenly contrite. ‘A woman of independence and courage,’ he said, relaxing his grip. ‘Steady now…. I’ve had my say, and I would not wish you to believe your sisters have a hooligan as an escort. Can we not call a truce now?’ He held out a hand. ‘Friends?’
But Letitia whisked away out of his reach as if he’d offered her a viper. ‘After that disgraceful behaviour towards a lady, my lord? If you can believe I need that kind of friendship, you must indeed be more queer in your attic than the rest of your kind,’ she snarled. Lifting her arms, she replaced her hat over her brow, wishing she had worn a veil. ‘Stand aside and allow me to find my way out of this damned place.’
He might have smiled at the strong language, but his mouth formed a soft whistle instead while his eyes took in the neat waist and voluptuous curves, the arch of her back and the proud tilt of her head on the long neck, which yesterday she had kept hidden. He cleared his throat. ‘I know this place like the back of my hand. I will be glad to—’
‘I’m sure you do, my lord. Every little nook and cranny. I can find my own way, I thank you.’
‘What were you trying to find?’ he said, ignoring the innuendo.
She had to give in, or run into yet more problems. ‘The Gold Staff Gallery. Lady Waverley’s apartments.’
‘Number 17. So you know Lady Waverley, do you?’
‘No,’ she said, enigmatically. She swept past him through the door, but a distant shout put further bickering at an end.
‘Lettie! Lettie, where are you?’
Relief swept over her, flooding into her voice. ‘Here!’ she yelled. ‘I’m here…Bart!’ The voice cracked on the last note, giving her away.
Mr Waverley strode round the corner, quickening his stride at the sight of her, reaching out. ‘Lettie, where’ve you been? You here, Rayne?’
‘How d’ye do, Bart. Miss Boyce was lost,’ said Rayne. ‘We were on our way to find your lady mother. Number 17, isn’t it?’
Smiles, indulgent and comforting, warmed Mr Waverley’s face. ‘Little goose,’ he said, tucking her arm through his. ‘You’d get lost in your own backyard, wouldn’t you? Thank’ee, my lord. That was kindly done.’
‘You…you know each other?’ Letitia whispered.
‘As lads,’ said Mr Waverley. ‘Both at Winchester together. Live in the same town, too. I never went in for all this stuff, though.’ He grinned, flipping a hand towards the silver frogging across Rayne’s broad chest.
But despite the sage-green velvet that covered her own breast, Letitia could still feel the imprint of that bulky silver braid, the ache in her arms, and the assault of Lord Rayne’s mouth upon her lips. That was bad enough, but worse still was the pain of his contempt, which she believed was less for her indiscretion on the parade ground than for the fact that she was, as he put it, a ‘schoolma’am’ and therefore less entitled to his respect than her sisters.
Chapter Two
Far from being disturbed by the parade-ground incident, Letitia’s five pupils rode back to Richmond brimming over with excited chatter about the way they had been saved from bolting horses or, at least, being thrown and trampled to death. Their exaggeration served two purposes—first, in masking Letitia’s quietness and, second, in providing Mr Waverley with all the details that she did not particularly want to repeat.
He had not attached any importance to finding Lord Rayne there at the palace, or to the fact that he had been helping Letitia to find her way about. It was, he agreed, a devilish place in which to lose one’s bearings. And it was not Letitia who asked him about Lord Rayne’s exact function as a captain of the 10th Light Dragoons, but Mrs Quayle and Miss Gaddestone, who were still chuckling like girls about the poor coachman’s top hat.
‘He trains cavalry for Marquess Wellington,’ Mr Waverley told them. ‘Not just the 10th Light Dragoons, the Regent’s Own, but other regiments, too. He’s done his share of fighting, but he sold out once and was re-commissioned. There’s no one better than Rayne for preparing young lads for battle. He lives with his brother and sister-in-law up at Sheen Court for some of the time.’
Mrs Quayle of Number 22 knew his brother. ‘That’s Lord Elyot,’ she said to Miss Gaddestone, holding her broken parasol across her knees. ‘Lady Elyot’s a lovely lady. She’s on the Richmond Vestry Committee, in charge of the strays that wander into the town.’
‘Stray dogs?’
‘Women, dear,’said Mrs Quayle, pursing her lips, implying a certain condition.