not rich,’ Captain Bryant was going on, ‘but believe me, I will do anything, my dear Verena, to provide you with the life you deserve! Your family also!’ he added hastily.
That, at last, made Verena smile just a little, and eased the pain that was squeezing her wretched heart. ‘All my family?’ she teased gently. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Captain Bryant. We are really quite a frightening prospect, I do assure you!’
‘I don’t care!’ he declared defiantly. ‘I don’t care!’
He lunged towards her. She desperately sprang away from his outstretched arms—and felt the shoulder of the gown her mother so despised being firmly hooked by the sturdy thorn of the clambering pink rose shrub that grew by the back wall. She pulled herself away violently; the serviceable fabric held, but she felt, then heard, some of the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened her bodice at the front snap off with an alarming ping, their threads weakened by age. Oh, no….
She flung her hands across her breasts, but too late; Martin was staring, transfixed.
Verena, as even her mother reluctantly acknowledged, was slender but full-bosomed. And her gaping and shabby gown could no longer conceal that underneath it she wore something that could not be more different—an exquisite cream-silk chemise, scalloped and embroidered at the edges, low enough to reveal the full curve of her breasts. It was her one piece of finery. The one relic of the beautiful garments she had started to acquire when her future was full of hope.
In utter mortification she tried to tug her gown back across her bosom, making use of the few buttons that remained. But that dratted rose briar had left a thorn in her sleeve, and it pricked her every time she moved. ‘Ouch! Botheration!’ she gasped. Her long chestnut hair was starting to fall from its pins.
Martin Bryant, still wide-eyed, jumped to the rescue. ‘Here! Let me help you!’
‘No!’ She almost smacked him away, like a troublesome fly. But he persevered, drawing close to tackle the offending thorn; and things took a turn for the worse, because her efforts to escape from Martin meant that the bodice of her gown slipped apart again, and now she heard the sound of male voices and hoofbeats drawing exceedingly close; and just as she was frantically struggling to push Martin off, two horsemen rode into the yard.
And stopped.
Martin swung round angrily to face them. Verena, hot and dishevelled, had flung her arms across her silk-draped bosom. Already the first of the riders, dark-haired and clad in a long grey riding coat and polished boots, was dismounting with a lazy sort of grace to stand, wide-shouldered and imposing, at the head of his big roan mare.
She froze. She tried to speak, but the words would not come out.
The tall newcomer turned to his companion, who was also dismounting, and said languidly, ‘Hold the horses, Alec, will you?’ The fading beams of the setting sun drifted over his aristocratic face and figure, highlighting the slightly overlong thick black hair; the cold dark eyes with those deceptively hooded lids, the sharply defined, almost over-handsome features.
Oh, no. Please God, no.
What must he think? And why should she care any more?
She cared because this was Viscount Conistone, grandson and heir to her family’s enemy, the Earl of Stancliffe. This was Lucas. The man to whom she had, almost two years ago, given her heart, only to have it smashed into a thousand pieces.
Chapter Two
Lucas Conistone’s first impulse had been to knock the foolish fellow he’d seen mauling Verena Sheldon to hell and back; his next, to crush her full and passionate lips beneath his own. Dear God, Alec was right. He was an utter fool to have come here. That gown. The glimpse he’d got, of those sweet, full breasts…. And his memory had not played him false; her heart-shaped face was still as exquisite as ever. Yes, her chestnut-coloured hair had slipped from its pins in some disarray; but only to fall in utterly tantalising curls round her neck and throat. Her smooth, creamy skin was still flawless, and her almond-shaped eyes were just as he remembered, amber in some lights, gold in others.
The army fellow was about to say something, but Verena Sheldon spoke first. ‘My lord!’ She tilted her chin in unspoken defiance. ‘Some warning of your arrival would not have gone amiss. You were not—expected!’
Not invited. Not wanted, anywhere near Wycherley, she might as well have declared. Her arms were still folded tightly across her breasts as her eyes burned darkly up at him. She had lost weight. There were shadows beneath those beautiful eyes, as if she had been grieving…. What the deuce had been going on here just now?
‘Alec and I were just passing,’ Lucas said expressionlessly, ‘on our way to Stancliffe Manor’. He was pulling off his riding gloves and thrusting them into his deep pockets. ‘As my grandfather’s still in Bath, I promised him I’d visit the house to see that all was well. But then we saw the carriages. And decided to—investigate’.
‘Oh, you mean the sale!’ Her amber-gold eyes were wide and innocent. She even endeavoured to smile. ‘Yes, it really is so entertaining! We thought we’d have a clear out—one gets bored, Lord Conistone, with the same old pieces of furniture—’
Gammon. Lucas cut in, ‘I heard from your attorney that you’re selling Wycherley, Verena’.
He saw the colour draining from her face. She whispered, ‘You have no right to discuss our family’s affairs with anyone! No right at all, do you hear?’
A warning glance from his very good friend Captain Stewart, resplendent in the blue of the Light Dragoons, flashed Lucas’s way. I told you, Lucas, that this was a bad idea….
The young army fellow nearby stepped forward like an angry turkeycock. ‘You heard what Verena—Miss Sheldon—said, Lord Conistone! I think you would be doing her an enormous favour if you and your friend left immediately!’
Lucas let his gaze rake his bright uniform. Then he blinked. ‘I’m sorry? Have I had the pleasure?’
‘I am Captain Bryant, of the 11th Regiment of Foot!’
‘My congratulations,’ drawled Lucas. ‘No doubt your duties call. Off you run, now, Captain, there’s a good fellow’.
Some spluttering ensued, and a further reddening of those already pink cheeks. ‘Don’t you give orders to me, you—you—’
‘Let’s call it a polite suggestion, shall we?’ said Lucas softly. ‘After all, we’re not on the army parade ground now, are we?’
‘So you actually remember the parade ground, do you?’ retorted Martin Bryant bitterly. ‘My God, you got out of the army just about as quickly as you could, didn’t you, Conistone? Before the bullets flew too close?’
‘Martin!’ cried Verena.
Alec Stewart, at Lucas’s side, had taken a step forwards, muttering, ‘Too far, that, Lucas. Pray, let me sort the blackguard!’
But Lucas stopped him with a calm, restraining hand, and said directly to Martin, ‘Perhaps
