for his vanished wits.
Pull yourself together, Tawny. This is not a passionate Diana, ready for a frolic in the woods, but a modest, virginal girl.
No matter what his erratic senses were telling him.
The response that so unsettled him seemed to have suspended time, but it must have lasted only an instant, for Lady Alyssa was still studying him, frowning as she evidently struggled to place him.
It was not a girl who sat before him, but a woman, he realised as he returned her scrutiny, still fighting the lingering effects of that sensual firestorm. Her face a perfect oval, the cheeks and nose dotted with freckles that were probably the bane of a mama trying to make her fashionably pale, she had a pert little nose shadowing full rose-petal lips.
A ‘little dab of a thing’ she might be, being of shorter-than-average height, and her hair was an unremarkable brown, but that was the only part of the description he’d been given that seemed accurate.
Drab...long on the shelf...a spinster past her last prayers? He’d have rather called her a ‘pocket Venus.’ The unfashionable high-waisted gown emphasised an attractively full bosom and the worn fabric clung in all the right places to some very pleasing curves.
And how could any man meet that fiery gaze and not be swamped with the need to possess her?
Anger stirred anew that Denbry would sacrifice this lovely creature to achieve some petty revenge against her brother.
Since the lady had yet to speak—perhaps she was shy—Ben finally mastered himself enough to give her a pleasant smile. ‘It being such a lovely day, I was walking my mount—ʼ he gestured towards his horse ‘—when I saw a female in the woods. Thinking some lady might have got lost, I came to offer assistance. I see now that you were sketching and apologise for interrupting you.’
Leaning over to hand her the box of pastels, he caught a glimpse of the scene on her sketch pad. ‘Your drawing is excellent, by the way,’ he added in surprise, craning his head to study it. Every young woman sketched; this one was actually skilled. ‘How cleverly you’ve caught the form of the bird, as if he were about to take flight.’
‘Thank you,’ she said at last. ‘But you have the advantage, sir; you know who I am, while I still cannot place you. I am sure we are not acquainted, for had we been introduced, I would certainly have remembered you.’ She scanned him again from head to toe, as if noting every detail. ‘Are you Lord Fulton’s secretary, perhaps?’
She was observant! She’d drawn just the conclusion he’d been aiming for when he donned this disguise: his cultivated tone of voice indicating he wasn’t a farm worker or a labourer; his clothing well made, but too worn and unremarkable to proclaim him the sort of fashionable peer Lady Fulton would have invited to her house party.
‘No.’
‘But not a newly arriving guest, either. You’re not dressed for it, nor do you carry any baggage. How did you know me, then?’
‘I’ve been staying in the village, where the gossip is all about the assembly at Dornton Manor. One of the attendees, Lady Alyssa Lambornne, was described as petite, dark-haired and very fond of sketching.’
Looking wary now, she said, ‘Were you asking about me, particularly, and if so, why? I know we’ve never met!’
‘Let me rectify that. Lady Alyssa, may I present Mr Benedict Tawny, Member of Parliament for Launton.’ He swept her a bow.
Her frown deepened. ‘Excuse me for acting as witless as my father always claims me to be, but I’m afraid your parliamentary status doesn’t enlighten me at all about your purpose for coming here. Are you to consult with Lord Fulton?’
‘No, I’m not acquainted with either Lord or Lady Fulton. I came here to find you, Lady Alyssa, and am delighted to have encountered you where we could have a private chat, without my having to figure out how to steal you away.’
‘You came here to have a private chat with me?’ she echoed. ‘I can’t imagine why! Would you explain, please?’
‘Certainly, and I don’t wonder at your confusion. We have not met before, but I was at Oxford with your brother, Lord Harleton. And I’m afraid I have some rather distressing information to impart to you.’
The woman’s puzzled expression cleared. ‘Now I remember! You were one of the group Harleton called “Hadley’s Hellions”,’ college mates who intended to go into politics and reform government. Although he usually called you the Chil—’ She stopped suddenly, heat suffusing her face. ‘A name I shall not repeat.’
The Chilford Bastard. Ben clenched his teeth against the automatic wave of anger the epithet evoked.
He knew his own experience made him far more sensitive than the rest of society about the disproportionate amount of shame and blame shouldered by a woman caught up in scandal—while the man’s behaviour was passed over. But watching the way his mother, whose only sin had been believing the promise of marriage given her by the man she loved, had been treated after his father’s family brought all their weight to bear to prevent their son wedding a woman they didn’t find suitable, he couldn’t help but be rubbed on the raw by a plan to target an innocent female.
Hence his presence here.
Most women of ruined character had no recourse but the streets, if their families rejected them. His mother had been lucky; though he’d hated his father for years for abandoning her for wealth and a title, the Viscount had made sure they had a place to live and enough to eat. Which hardly compensated for turning his mother into an outcast, and himself into a child who’d grown up taunted by the bully of the moment for being a bastard.
Pulling himself back to the present, he said, ‘Thank you for not repeating the name—though I’m distressed your brother would use such language around his maiden sister.’
‘If you know Harleton at all, you know he does whatever he feels like, whenever he feels like it, without regard for the wishes—or sensibilities—of anyone else.’
‘I’m only too well aware of that,’ he said with a grimace. Though he’d made no attempt to hide the fact that he’d been born out of wedlock, most of his Oxford classmates discreetly avoided the topic. Not so Lord Harleton, who’d never missed an opportunity to point him out as ‘the Chilford Bastard’.
‘So you are not one of his...particular friends?’
‘Far from it. Without wishing to give offence, I must confess that, at Oxford and since, I have avoided your brother whenever possible.’
For some reason, that comment made her laugh. ‘It seems we have at least one thing in common, then. But why have you discovered so much about me and why would you want to speak with me? Has something happened to Harleton?’
‘It does involve your brother, but as far as I know, he is in good health. I’m afraid it’s rather complicated.’
‘If Harleton is involved, I’m sure it is. And probably disreputable, as well.’ Setting down her sketchbook, she patted the log beside her. ‘You’d better explain.’
‘It’s disreputable for certain,’ he said as he seated himself rather further away than she’d indicated. Which was only prudent; their exchange of rational conversation
