One only needed to glance about the sitting room to realise that Mrs Hayden lived frugally. The fresh herby atmosphere that wafted throughout the spotless cottage could not improve furniture that was shabby or furnishings that had seen far better days. If one were to venture into the kitchen and investigate the larders, similar proof of want would be found. The obvious conclusion to be drawn was that this widow’s lot in life would improve dramatically were she to marry a rich widower.
And Dr Bryant was such a fellow—so everyone hereabouts thought. He had a fine home and income and had increased his wealth on marriage. Therefore it was reasoned that his worthy profession was a philanthropic vocation rather than necessary toil.
As Cissie went off to prepare the tea Ruth sank into a chair. She turned her head to frown over the bright budding gardens and wondered why she had, with so little thought given to the certain benefits she was rejecting, turned down Dr Bryant. She might have asked him for a little time to mull over becoming his wife. It was an accepted response by a lady startled by a marriage proposal.
When she’d been a gauche eighteen-year-old, Paul Hayden had taken her by surprise and asked her to marry him. In her tender innocence she had guessed it might be deemed vulgar, after so short an acquaintance, to seem too keen too soon, so had given him a blurted prevarication. A private smile curved her mouth at the sweet memory of it. But by the time he had reached the door and turned to take his leave, her overwhelming happiness had prompted her to fly to him and insist that she’d like nothing better than to be his wife. She had loved him too much to make him unnecessarily suffer her indecision.
Doctor Bryant did not stir any such passionate longing in her. But she had thought him to be her friend until the day he had ruined it all by asking her to become his mistress. Now he had lost his wife in childbed, he had improved his offer to her.
Was she simply a silly fool to yearn to fall in love with a man before she’d consider the advantages to be had in matrimony?
‘You’re becoming tiresomely repetitive, my dear,’ the gentleman told the pouting brunette who was lounging, naked, amid rumpled silk sheets.
Undeterred by her lover’s softly spoken reprimand, Lady Loretta Vane smoothed the sulky expression from her pretty face and rolled on to her belly in a flash of lissom white limbs. Satisfied with her seductive pose, she raised long dusky lashes to reveal limpid blue eyes. Triumphantly she noticed his flinty gaze drop to her lush breasts alluringly presented on an artfully plumped pillow.
Sir Clayton Powell stopped buttoning his shirt and sauntered back towards the four-poster where his mistress excitedly awaited his approach. As soon as he came within reach Loretta stretched out elegant fingers to curve on his thigh, her hard oval nails pressing indents in the material covering solid muscle.
‘Come back to bed,’ she invited huskily. ‘Perhaps I might change your mind and show you what you will soon be missing if you don’t make an honest woman of me.’
Clayton leaned towards her, planted a hand on the mattress either side of her slender figure. Sinuously she flipped on to her back and coiled her arms about his neck, dragging him close.
‘Think what beautiful children we would have,’ she whispered urgently against his mouth. ‘A little girl with blonde hair like you and a boy…your heir…dark like me.’
Clayton smiled against her lips. ‘And what does your fiancé think to bigamy and bastards?’
Loretta threw back her head and chuckled, deliberately tempting his lips to an alluring column of milky skin. She wriggled delightedly as a moist caress moved on her smooth white throat. ‘He would be most put out…but it does not signify. You know I would drop Pomfrey tomorrow and take you in his stead.’
‘Yes…I know you would,’ Clayton said and lifted his head to look at her with slate-grey eyes. He touched his mouth to hers in an oddly passionless salute.
Just a short while ago the bed had been the scene of torrid lovemaking. Now his response to Loretta Vane’s seductive teasing had cooled considerably. His change of attitude was not simply caused by his irritation at her constant marriage proposals. He’d no quarrel with the Honourable Ralph Pomfrey and had no intention of becoming embroiled in one because Loretta had now pinned her ambitions to net a wealthy husband on him.
It had recently come to light, when Pomfrey unwisely approached Claude Potts—a known blabbermouth—for a loan, that he might not be quite as flush as was generally thought. In fact, it was rumoured that Loretta’s bank balance might be healthier than was Pomfrey’s following a disastrous run of luck he’d had backing nags.
Thus, it had become more obvious why this pleasant fellow of impeccable lineage would propose marriage to a woman who, although a lady by name, was a courtesan by nature.
Loretta had been left a tidy sum by her late husband, Lord John Vane. She had already frittered away a good portion of it. Doubtless she was now fretting that, far from improving her prospects by marrying the Earl of Elkington’s youngest son, she might put in jeopardy what remained of her little nest egg. It was surely no coincidence that her enthusiasm for the match had waned with Pomfrey’s luck.
Worried by her lover’s lack of response, Loretta tugged at Clayton’s shirt front and slid her tongue on his lips to tempt him to kiss her properly.
‘Pomfrey is your fiancé,’ Clayton reminded her lightly, holding her by the wrists away from him. ‘You will make a good couple. He is the right husband for you.’ He released her as he said that and, collecting his jacket from the velvet chaise longue, pushed his arms into the sleeves.
‘You are the right husband for me!’ Loretta fiercely objected. Realising he was about to go before giving a satisfactory answer, she sprang upright and swung two shapely legs off the bed. Her honed features were no longer softened by sensuality, but set in determined lines that set aslant her full mouth and dark brows.
‘I’m not the right husband for any woman…trust me on that,’ Clayton returned with a wry smile as he negligently stuffed his cravat into a pocket. ‘Do you want to go to the opera tomorrow evening?’ he asked idly, his hand on the doorknob.
‘Marry me!’ Loretta demanded. ‘It’s you I want. It’s always been you I want. We make a good couple. I swear if you do not, Clayton…if you do not…’ she repeated, playing for time to rally enough courage to issue the ultimatum.
‘If I do not?’ Clayton prompted. He leaned back against the door to watch her, while shooting two pristine shirt cuffs out of his jacket. A steady dark gaze was levelled on her flushing face. ‘Come, tell me what you plan to do to punish me.’
‘I will finish it between us,’ she stated in a brittle tone and tilted her chin to an obstinate angle. ‘I will go ahead and marry Ralph Pomfrey as soon as maybe and once I am his wife I will not cuckold him. I will sleep with only my husband.’
A spontaneous laugh broke in Clayton’s throat. ‘I’m impressed. You’re going to be a faithful spouse. That’s most unusual for the ton and most certainly novel for you, my dear. I’m sure your late departed husband would be miffed to know you’ve reformed rather too late for him to gain any benefit. I hope Pomfrey appreciates your sacrifice.’
Ralph Pomfrey was aware—as was the whole of the ton—that he’d proposed marriage to the woman who had been Clayton Powell’s mistress for over six months. The knowledge that his betrothed was continuing to sleep with another man seemed not to trouble Pomfrey. Naturally,
