Tarnished Amongst the Ton. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
out of the question. To run would be like dragging a ball of wool in front of a cat and Buck would chase out of sheer instinct. She hadn’t even got a bonnet with a decent, concealing brim on it, just a simple flat straw tied on top of a net with her hair bundled up. Stupid, stupid to have just walked into his territory like this, undisguised and unprepared.
‘In that case we should become better acquainted.’ The exotic stranger took a step forwards, pressed her against the wall, raised one cloak-draped arm to shield her from the dockside and bent his head.
‘What are you doing—?’
‘Kissing you,’ he said. And did. His free hand gathered her efficiently against his long, hard body, the impudent green eyes laughed down into hers and his mouth sealed her gasp of outrage.
Behind them there was the sound of heavy footsteps, the light was suddenly reduced as big bodies filled the entrance to the alleyway and a coarse voice said, ‘You’re on my patch, mate, so that’ll be one of my doxies and you owe me.’ One of my doxies. Oh God. I can’t be ill, not now, not like this.
The man lifted his head, his hand pressing her face into the soft silk of his shirt. ‘I brought this one with me. I don’t share. And I don’t pay men for sex.’ Phyllida heard Buck’s bully give a snort of laughter. Her protector sounded confident, amused and about as meek and mild as a pit bull.
There was a moment’s silence, then Buck laughed, the remembered hoarse chuckle that still surfaced sometimes in her worst dreams. ‘I like your style. Come and find my place if you want to play deep. Or find a willing girl. Ask anyone in Wapping for Harry Buck’s.’ And the feet thudded off down the alleyway, faded away.
Phyllida wriggled, furious with the one man she could vent her feelings on. ‘Let me go.’
‘Hmm?’ His nose was buried in the angle of her neck, apparently sniffing. It tickled. So did his lips a moment later, a lingering, almost tender caress. ‘Jasmine. Very nice.’ He released her and stepped back, although not far enough for her peace of mind.
She usually hated being kissed, it was revolting. It led to other things even worse. But that had been… surprising. And not at all revolting. It must depend on the man doing the kissing, even if one was not in love with him, which was all Phyllida had ever imagined would make it tolerable.
She took a deep breath and realised that far from being tinged with brimstone he actually smelled very pleasant. ‘Sandalwood,’ she said out loud rather than any of the other things that were jostling to be uttered like, Insolent opportunist, outrageous rake. Who are you? Even the words she thought would never enter her head—Kiss me again.
‘Yes, and spikenard, just a touch. You know about scents?’ He was still far too close, his arm penning her against the wall.
‘I do not want to stand here discussing perfumery! Thank you for hiding me from Buck just now, but I wish you would leave now. Really, sir, you cannot go about kissing strange women as you please.’ She ducked under his arm and out onto the quayside.
He turned and smiled and something inside her did a little flip. He had made no move to detain her and yet she could feel his hand on her as though it was a physical reality. No one would ever hold her against her will, ever again, and yet she had felt no fear of him. Foolish. Just because he has charm it does not make him less dangerous.
‘Are you strange?’ he asked, throwing her words back to her.
There were a range of answers to that question, none of them ladylike. ‘The only strange thing about me is that I did not box your ears just now,’ Phyllida said. And why she had not, once Buck had gone, she had no idea. ‘Good day, sir,’ she threw over her shoulder as she walked away. He was smiling, a lazy, heavy-lidded smile. Phyllida resisted the urge to take to her heels and run.
She had tasted of vanilla, coffee and woman and she had smelt like a summer evening in the raja’s garden. Ashe ran his tongue over his lower lip in appreciative recollection as he looked around for his father’s English lawyer.
I will send the family coach for you, my lord, Tompkins had written in that last letter that had been delivered to the marquess along with an English lady’s maid for Mata and Sara, a valet for his father and himself. The most useful delivery of all was Perrott, a confidential clerk armed with every fact, figure and detail of the Eldonstone affairs and estates.
Given that your father’s rapid decline and unfortunate death have taken us by surprise, I felt it advisable to waste no time in further correspondence but to send you English staff and my most able assistant.
His father had moved fast on receiving the inevitable, unwelcome news. Ashe was recalled from the Principality of Kalatwah where he had been acting as aide-de-camp to his great-uncle, the Raja Kirat Jaswan; possessions were sold, given away or packed and the four of them, along with their retinue, had embarked on the next East Indiaman bound for England.
‘My lord, the coach is just along here. I have signalled to his lordship and sent the skiff back.’
‘The end of your responsibilities, Perrott,’ Ashe said with a grin as he strode along the quayside beside the earnest, red-headed clerk. ‘After seventeen weeks of being cooped up on board attempting to teach us everything from tenancy law to entails by way of investments and the more obscure byways of the family tree, you must be delighted to be home again.’
‘It is, of course, gratifying to be back in England, my lord, and my mother will be glad to see me. However, it has been a privilege and a pleasure to assist the marquess and yourself.’
And the poor man has a hopeless tendre for Sara, so it will probably be a relief for both to have some distance between them. It was the only foolish thing Ashe had discovered about Thomas Perrott. Falling in love was for servants, romantics, poets and women. And fools, which he was not. Not any longer.
His father had done it and had recklessly married for love, which was fortunate or he, Ashe, wouldn’t be here now. But then his father was a law unto himself. In any case, a soldier of fortune, which is what he had been at the time, could do what he liked. His son—the Viscount Clere, he reminded himself with an inward wince—must marry for entirely different reasons.
‘My lord.’ Perrott stopped beside a fine black coach with the crest on the side that had become familiar from numerous legal documents and the imposing family tree. It was on the heavy seal ring his father now wore.
Liveried grooms climbed down from the back to stand at attention and two plainer coaches were waiting in line behind. ‘For your staff and the small baggage, my lord. The hold luggage will come by carrier as soon as it is unloaded. I trust that is satisfactory?’
‘No bullock carts and a distinct absence of elephants,’ Ashe observed with a grin. ‘We should move with unaccustomed speed.’
‘The fodder bills must be smaller, certainly,’ Perrott countered, straight-faced, and they walked back to the steps to await the skiff.
‘There you are!’ Phyllida dumped her hat and reticule on the table and confronted the sprawled figure of her brother, who occupied the sofa like a puppet with its strings cut.
‘Here I am,’ Gregory agreed, dragging open one eye. ‘With the very devil of a thick head, sister dear, so kindly do not nag me.’
‘I will do more than nag,’ she promised as she tossed her pelisse onto a chair. ‘Where is the rent money?’
‘Ah. You missed it.’ He heaved himself into a sitting position and began to rummage in his pockets. Bank notes spilled out in a crumpled heap on the floor. ‘There you are.’
‘Gregory! Where on earth did this all come from?’ Phyllida dropped to her knees and gathered them up, smoothing and counting. ‘Why, there is upwards of three hundred pounds here.’
‘Hazard,’ he said concisely, sinking back.
‘You always lose at hazard.’