Lords Of Desire Part 35

At the very least, she would try.

CHAPTER 2.

John heaved a sigh as he turned the car into his cousin's long drive. A cloud of dust billowed up around the vehicle, clouding his goggles and nearly making him choke.

Dust or no, he was excessively fond of his motorcar, a 1906 Darracq speedster that had set him back nearly three hundred pounds-well worth every quid, in his opinion.

In fact, at that very moment he longed to be racing his motor through the countryside, the scenery blurring like an impressionist painting as the wind whistled in his ears.

Instead, he was sedately motoring up Hadley Hall's drive at a snail's pace, the house looming larger as he approached. He'd promised Jasper and Edith he'd attend their annual autumn Sat.u.r.day-to-Monday, as he always had.

And, as always, Jasper had convinced him to arrive early. His mother-and sister-in-law would be there helping Edith prepare for the guests, and Jasper had insisted that he'd go mad listening to the hens cluck about, if left to his own company. Indeed, Jasper was never content to suffer alone.

So, here he was-arriving several days early, as promised. The drive curved sharply to the left, toward the house. Dead ahead, beyond a roughly hewn fence, the lawn stretched out before him. There, beneath the drooping branches of a yew, a lone figure stood, shielding herself from the sun with a parasol. John's hands gripped the wheel as he turned it.

Though he hadn't been able to make out the woman's face, he knew with certainty that it was Christobel Smyth standing there, the hem of her virginal white skirts aflutter in the breeze. d.a.m.n it all, but every inch of his traitorous body sensed her presence.

Lovely, intelligent, sweet-smelling Christobel, who never failed to make him feel like an ugly, clumsy oaf. If only she knew how he suffered, mentally undressing her while he chastised himself for doing so, for wanting a woman he could never have, who despised him and pitied him without even taking the pains to conceal it.

Insufferable, sn.o.bbish girl! And what a fool he was, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. A low growl of self-loathing rumbled from his throat as he pulled up in front of the great house and cut the motor.

At once Edith burst forth from the house, the housekeeper trailing behind her. "Mr. Leyden!" she called out, waving gaily.

John removed his goggles and fixed a smile upon his cousin's wife as he tugged off his thick leather driving gloves. "Good afternoon, Edith," he called out in return, striving to sound more jovial than he felt. He tossed his gloves to the driver's seat and made his way up Hadley Hall's front steps, ever conscious of his limp.

Just then a pair of footmen appeared from the side of the house and saw to unstrapping his luggage from the back of the motorcar.

"You're just in time for tea, Mr. Leyden," Edith said, reaching for his elbow and allowing him to escort her back inside. "The weather is so lovely we thought to take it on the patio. I hope you won't object."

"Not at all," he answered, wishing they could dispense with the pleasantries.

"And how was the drive over?" she pressed on.

"Splendid. Only managed to puncture one tire."

Releasing Edith's arm, he shrugged out of his Norfolk tweed duster coat and handed it to the housekeeper. "Might want to take it outside and beat it."

"Of course, Mr. Leyden." The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy, then disappeared with the garment folded across one arm.

John followed Edith out to the patio, where a wrought-iron table was laid for tea.

"Jasper went down to the train station to retrieve a parcel, but he should be home directly. Would you care to sit?" Edith asked, motioning toward the table. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to stretch your legs while we wait for him?"

"I think I'll take a turn about the garden, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. In fact, Christobel is out there, ambling about aimlessly as she always does. You might see if you can find her and fetch her back in time for tea." Edith smiled sweetly at him, but John detected a hint of mischief in her eyes, as if she were enjoying a private joke.

"Very well," he said, bowing sharply before turning and striding off in the opposite direction from where he'd seen Christobel standing beneath the tree.

Let them play their feminine games, whatever they were. He would not be an active partic.i.p.ant.

Despite all efforts to the contrary, he found her not ten minutes later, sitting on the gra.s.s before the ornamental pond with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her chestnut hair was piled on her head beneath a large straw boater, but loose tendrils had escaped the arrangement and danced in the breeze, brushing against the lace of her high-necked collar.

How he longed to curl the silky hair around his finger, to brush his hand across her flushed cheek-and how he hated himself for such thoughts.

As if she sensed his presence, she turned, one hand raised to the brooch at her throat. "You near enough frightened me half to death, Mr. Leyden," she said, shaking her head. "You might have called out a greeting or something, you know. A simple 'good afternoon' would have sufficed."

"My apologies," he said, his tongue suddenly thick and awkward.

She smiled then, her rose-colored lips curving upward. "You needn't look so stricken," she said, tilting her head to one side. Her clear green eyes shone like polished gla.s.s beneath a fringe of dark lashes. "Now that you're here, you might as well join me. Would you care to sit?"

"I was instructed to fetch you back to tea, should we cross paths." He spoke more sharply than he'd intended, as he often did in her company.

"And here I was, thinking you meant to be sociable. Come now, can't you sit for a minute? Would it pain you so very much to simply sit and admire the way the afternoon sun plays upon the water's surface? Just look-it's lovely this time of day."

Christobel fought the urge to roll her eyes as she watched Mr. Leyden stand there stiffly, considering her offer. Why she'd extended it in the first place, she had no idea.

But she had, and now he simply stood there watching her warily, his pale blue eyes narrowed in displeasure. Indignation washed over her. Was her company so very abhorrent to him?

"Very well," he conceded at last. As solemn as a bishop, he made his way toward her, his gait slightly uneven. Despite that, she could not deny that Mr. Leyden was pleasant enough to look at.

He was tall, at least six feet, and broad of shoulder. The closely cropped hair beneath his bowler hat was as black as midnight, his pale blue eyes direct-piercing, even. His nose was slightly long, though not unpleasantly so, and his lips surprisingly full. If only the man would ever smile!

Christobel continued her examination as he lowered himself to the gra.s.s beside her-rather gracefully, considering his height. He looked out of place in his somber black suit-well cut, though not terribly fashionable. Still, he was decidedly handsome, in a rough, fierce sort of way. Perhaps this Miss Bartlett would find him agreeable, particularly if she weren't the vivacious sort herself.

She turned her attention back to the pond, watching a fat green frog hoist himself upon a lily pad where he sat puffing out his throat as he croaked loudly. A c.o.c.ky, proud fellow, just like the man sitting beside her.

"There, now, Mr. Leyden." Christobel favored him with a sunny smile. "This isn't so terribly unpleasant now, is it?"

"I suppose not," he answered, his gaze fixed on the pond.

"How is your family's mill faring?" she asked, simply trying to make conversation. "Is business well these days?"

"Well enough, thank you."

Would he say nothing unless prompted? At the very least he could comment upon the weather. Blast it, if only Edith hadn't made her promise to be nice. "Do you find yourself quite occupied, then?" she asked lamely.

"To the contrary. Lately I've been less involved in the day-to-day operation of the mill."

"Oh? And how do you occupy yourself, then? Have you taken up fishing and shooting?"

"I've mostly occupied myself with books, hoping to fill the gaps in my education. I'm well aware of my deficiencies, Miss Smyth," he added somewhat coldly, plucking a blade of gra.s.s from the ground and twisting it between his fingers. Long, elegant fingers, she realized with a start. Why ever did that surprise her so?

A p.r.i.c.kle of guilt niggled her conscience, and Christobel dropped her gaze. It was this blasted gap in their social status, making things so uncomfortable. After all, if it weren't for the fact that he was Jasper's cousin, their paths would never have crossed. Still, she hadn't meant to insult him-she simply hadn't been able to think of anything else to say. What did one discuss with a man who made his living in the cotton mills?

"Perhaps we should head back to the house," she offered instead. "I didn't mean to keep you from your tea."

Mr. Leyden stood, reaching a hand down to a.s.sist her up. "I'll go on ahead and tell them you will be there shortly."

"Nonsense. You shall escort me back." She rose to her knees and retrieved her mackintosh square, folding it into fourths before reaching for her discarded parasol. Tucking it under her arm, she took Mr. Leyden's proffered hand.

He tugged her to her feet with too much force, causing her to lose her balance and fall forward against him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed firmly against the rock-solid hardness of his chest. For a single, horrified moment, Christobel feared they might both fall in a tangled heap of limbs on the gra.s.s. Instead, Mr. Leyden reached for her shoulders, steadying her.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed a bit breathlessly, undone by the frisson of awareness that shot through her body. He was so close that she could smell his scent-soap and leather, perhaps a hint of tobacco. It was an entirely male scent, and a pleasing one, at that.

For a moment their eyes met and held, Christobel's widening with surprise at the sudden, inexplicable heat she saw there in his gaze. "I...I'm so clumsy," she stuttered.

At once he released her, inhaling sharply as he did so. Balling his hands into fists by his sides, he stepped away, a muscle in his jaw flexing perceptibly.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Christobel struggled to regain her composure, feeling oddly fl.u.s.tered.

"Shall we?" he said at last. He offered his arm, the fleeting warmth in his eyes replaced with the usual coolness.

Christobel could only nod in reply as she laid her hand in the crook of his elbow, thinking that perhaps she was far more exhausted than she'd imagined.

"Thank you, Mr. Leyden," she managed to say. A nap, she promised herself. Right after tea.

As he led her back to the house in silence, she couldn't help but recall the heated look she'd seen in his eyes, if only for a moment.

Perhaps there was more to Mr. Leyden than she'd supposed-something lurking just beneath that quiet exterior, something far more complex, far more...alive.

No, she concluded with a shake of her head. It was just her overactive imagination making her see things that weren't there, nothing more.

And with that, Christobel put Mr. John Leyden entirely out of her thoughts.

CHAPTER 3.

As was her custom, Christobel rose early the next morning, just as the first silvery light of dawn cast shadows across her coverlet. She liked to greet the day, to walk about the garden while the morning dew still glistened upon the lawn.

There was nothing she cherished more than her quiet morning walks, the rising sun piercing the shadows and causing the countryside to come alive. If only she had a way with words like that clever Miss Potter or the scandalous Elinor Glyn.

If she had, she would sit in the ethereal light of dawn, pen and journal in hand, and describe the sights, the sounds, the smells. Yet she dared not try, knowing she would fail abysmally. Instead, she simply observed.

Slipping out of bed, she hurried to the clothespress and dressed quickly, her gown a simple one-one her mother claimed far too closely resembled a dressing gown, but had the advantage of allowing Christobel to manage without Simpson's aid.

As quiet as a mouse, she made her way downstairs and threw on her heavy woolen cloak. Tiptoeing across the hall, she let herself out the French doors and skimmed down the back stairs, sighing happily as she stepped onto the soft, springy lawn below.

Mist rose from the ground, swirling about her ankles in dark, atmospheric wisps. Walking slowly, leisurely, she left the quiet house behind. So much to see before the others awoke, before voices broke her reverie, before the day's activity stole away her solitude.

Nearly an hour later, she made her way back toward the house clutching a colorful bunch of chrysanthemums-yellow, gold, orange, red-and humming quietly to herself. The hem of her skirt was soaked straight through, her hair escaping the simple ribbon with which she'd tied it back and falling about her shoulders in disarray. Time for a steaming bath, she thought, and then perhaps a spot of tea.

But as she drew closer to the house, she became aware of voices-loud, angry voices-coming from the direction of the service door. Likely just a servants' dispute, she realized. Still, she quickened her pace and hurried off in that direction.

What she saw when she came around the bend beside the patio made her breath catch in her throat. A line of servants stood against the house watching one man-a gentleman, judging by his attire-hold another man, clearly a servant, by the lapels, landing blow after blow upon the poor soul's face.

When the servant crumpled to the ground, the gentleman advanced...Dear Lord in heaven, with a limp. Christobel inhaled sharply, one hand rising to cover her mouth in horror. The man was Mr. Leyden, beating the life out of some poor, wretched servant boy.

"Not very tough now, are you?" Mr. Leyden snarled, aiming a kick at the p.r.o.ne man's abdomen. "Get out of here, you filthy piece of horses.h.i.t, and don't ever return."

The smaller man staggered to his feet, straightening his jacket as he did so. "I'm owed two weeks' wages, and I'll get 'em before I go, ye b.a.s.t.a.r.d-"

"You'll not get a dime." Mr. Leyden landed another blow, this time to the man's nose. Blood spurted from the wound, a flood of bright red that stained his muddy shirt. Christobel felt her stomach lurch at the sight. Still, her anger propelled her into motion. Dropping the flowers, she picked up her skirts and ran.

"Let him go, Mr. Leyden!" she called out, placing herself between the two men. "Good G.o.d, he's just a boy!"

"Get out of here, Miss Smyth. This is no business of yours." Mr. Leyden's face was livid, his eyes wild with rage. For a moment, Christobel felt a stab of fear, but her fear was soon replaced with righteous indignation.

"It is my business when I see a...a gentleman abusing a servant in such a fashion. Haven't you any sense at all? Why, what would Jasper say?"

"I demand you take yourself inside at once, Miss Smyth." His hands-swollen and covered with blood, she realized-were balled into fists, ready to continue the abuse.

"I won't let you kill him, you...you barbarian! You base, brutish man," she sputtered.

For the briefest of moments, he looked slightly taken aback. Dazed, almost. "And this is what you think of me?" he finally said.

The housekeeper hurried to Christobel's side, clutching at her sleeve. "Please, miss. I beg of you to do as he says and go in at once. This is no sight for a lady."

She met Mr. Leyden's steely gaze. "I will go inside. I'll find Jasper at once and tell him what you've done."

But as soon as she stepped in the door, Edith intercepted her. "Heavens, Christobel. You must stay inside. There's been some...some unpleasantness with the servants, and-"

"Unpleasantness? Is that what you call it? Why, he was beating the man senseless!"

"No more than he deserves," Edith muttered, causing Christobel to gasp in surprise. Her sister did not condone violence of any sort, particularly a man of Mr. Leyden's station picking on someone so far beneath him. It just wasn't done.

"I'm told the girl is in terrible shape, cut and bleeding, violated in the worst sort of way," Edith whispered. "Jasper just phoned the doctor. I only hope he arrives quickly."

The girl? Whatever was Edith talking about? Christobel shook her head in confusion. "What girl?"

"I thought you heard. I thought that's why you came racing in, that look of fury on your face. Come, sit down." She led Christobel to a settee beside the fireplace.

"One of the housemaids, a young girl, very pretty. Marie is her name. She was attacked and"-Edith cleared her throat loudly-"viciously attacked early this morning by one of the new footmen."