Lucy Ashford - The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

And who’d stirred memories of that sunlit March afternoon in Somerset.

Stirred more than memories, in fact. She was clad outrageously in a clinging outfit of turquoise and pink with a loud bonnet trailing ribbons everywhere. Her eyes were emerald, her raven-black curls set off the perfect creaminess of her skin, her lips were full and rosy.

And he steadily reminded himself that just a few weeks ago she’d heaped such insults on the name of Adam Davenant that they were etched like acid on his memory. Even more ominously—she knew Jarvis.

‘You’re very quiet, Mrs Marchmain,’ he drawled. ‘Surely you aren’t trying to conjure up more insults to hurl at me? Or have you exhausted yourself being rude to Jarvis?’

Belle swallowed on the dryness in her throat and lifted her chin. ‘He was treating that young serving maid abominably . You will perhaps remark, Mr Davenant, that I had no right to interfere, but I could not stand by!’

He was watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. ‘You do tend to say what you think, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You have a neat way with put-downs. You told me, for instance, that I wasn’t born to wealth and it showed.’

Oh, Lord, thought Belle rather faintly. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven a single word. Something shook inside her, seeing him like this, no longer wearing the garb of a rough quarry worker, but dressed as the rich, powerful man he was, here in his mansion. And how well he fitted the part. To say he was handsome wasn’t enough. His strong features and formidable stature implied power and dominance. Edward had described him as a boor. No one else in their right mind would.

But she was damned if she would grovel. ‘How was I supposed to know who you were? How could I have guessed, when you were—you were—’

‘Dressed like a labourer?’ he cut in. ‘That was because I’d been inspecting my quarry. I judge people by their words and actions, Mrs Marchmain, not their attire; a lesson you might try learning. Now it’s my turn for questions, the most obvious being—why exactly are you here?’ His voice licked somehow at her senses, soft and dangerous. Dear God, her errand was doomed before it had even begun.

But she had to try. ‘I have business with you, Mr Davenant, which concerns my brother. I wrote to you, but you did not deign to reply!’

‘I leave begging letters to my secretary, Lowell.’

Begging letters. ‘How dare—?’

‘Mrs Marchmain,’ he interrupted, ‘I’m an extremely busy man. And your brother—Hathersleigh—has taken up too much of my time already.’

Heat surged through her veins. ‘You could at least give this matter your attention !’

‘Why? Because you’re members of the once-illustrious Hathersleigh family?’

She bit her lip. ‘We are not without influence still.’

He sighed heavily. ‘Please don’t remind me that you have a great-uncle who is a duke, as your brother once did.’ She visibly flinched. ‘I really don’t care,’ he went on, ‘if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?’

Oh, Lord.

She remembered how at Sawle Down the dust had clung to this man’s breeches and boots and perspiration had gleamed on his hard cheekbones. Today, he could have claimed to be a duke himself and no one would have doubted it. His clothes were exceedingly plain, yes, but that coat of his had clearly been cut by a master to fit those broad shoulders so perfectly. Sleek buckskins clung to his powerfully muscular thighs and his polished top boots were exquisite. His thick dark hair was cropped short, his pristine neckcloth was quite perfect.

He made no effort to clamour for attention. He didn’t need to. And as his slate-grey eyes rested on hers, she felt a sharp jolt of awareness implode quietly yet devastatingly inside her. Awareness of what, precisely? Of his sheer maleness, that was what. It was impossible to look at him without thinking: here was a man of power, with a man’s desires, and all that implied.

And he was her family’s enemy. Her enemy.

She said, her head lifted high, but her pulse rate in tumult, ‘I hope you will accept, Mr Davenant, that I spoke in the heat of the moment that afternoon on Sawle Down.’

‘It gave you a wonderful opportunity to reveal your true thoughts, though, didn’t it?’ he observed caustically. ‘So please don’t lower yourself in my estimation by trying to take back what you said.’

The smouldering look she gave him said, Don’t worry. I won’t .

Inside Adam was rigid with tension. The witch. The insolent little green-eyed witch.

What Jarvis had said to him just before he left was still ringing in his ears.

I don’t know why that woman’s visiting you, Davenant, but you’d be a fool to believe a word she says. She’s a greedy little widow angling for money—some time ago I made the mistake of not offering her enough .

She’d come here to plead with Adam for mercy for her brother, no doubt. And she must realise her mission was already doomed—because Adam knew exactly what she thought of him.

‘I’m in the middle of a meeting,’ he told her curtly. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ He was leading the way along a corridor. ‘You can wait here, in my library.’ One big hand pushed open a panelled door.

She swung round on him, head held high. ‘You expect me to wait? Again? ’

‘You are uninvited,’ he pointed out. ‘Be glad that I see you at all, Mrs Marchmain.’ He turned to go, closing the library door on her. She could cool down in there. And so, damn it, could he.

Adam was a highly physical man and his lifestyle usually accommodated a mistress, kept in enviable style in return for companionship in bed and out of it. He’d recently ended just such an arrangement with an elegant widow, Lady Farnsworth—mainly because she was starting to hint a little too often about marriage.

Marriage was one big mistake as far as Adam was concerned. But it was also an error on his part, he now decided grimly, to be without a mistress. It made him think hungry thoughts about a raven-haired termagant dressed in turquoise and pink who quite simply detested him.

Belle just stood there when he’d gone, sunk before she’d even begun. I really don’t care if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror , he’d said. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?

She cringed anew. The ducal connection came through their mother, who’d died shortly after giving birth to Edward when Belle was only two. It was Belle’s father who used to point out to his children that their mother’s uncle was the Duke of Sutherland, but as far as Belle knew the Duke wasn’t even aware of their existence. Either that or he’d heard of their dwindling fortunes and kept well away.

Belle’s father had died when Belle was just thirteen, and that was when the estate had to be put in the care of stern Uncle Philip and his wife. Edward, at twenty-one, had come into his inheritance with considerable joy, hence the youthful gambling spree. But Belle had already grasped the reality—that her family was in actuality impoverished.

Since Belle’s widowhood her dressmaking business had given her independence; but it did not give her the deference or protection she might once have expected in society. She’d met Lord Jarvis two years ago, when he’d expressed an interest in investing in her shop and invited her to his big London house for a business meeting with his lawyer.

The lawyer never arrived. Lord Jarvis had locked the door to his study and had proceeded to make her an offer which had left her breathless and shaking.

‘Let’s really get down to business, shall we?’ he’d smirked, sidling closer. ‘How do you fancy a change of profession?’

He was, in effect, bluntly suggesting that she be his mistress. He’d silkily gone on to tell her that if he didn’t appeal to her tastes, he had a choice of stalwart grooms from whom she could have her pick. ‘As a young widow you must be quite desperate for male companionship. I’ll enjoy watching.’ He’d smiled. ‘I’ll pay handsomely, of course. One hundred pounds a month, Mrs Marchmain—I promise you won’t be bored.’

She’d struck him hard on the cheek. His smile had vanished at the same time as the red mark appeared on his pale skin.

‘So you want more money, do you?’ he’d whispered. ‘A greedy little slut, are you, Mrs Marchmain?’

‘Let me out,’ she’d breathed. She’d run to the door and was struggling frantically to open it. ‘Damn you, let me out of here!’

He’d unlocked the door with an ugly look on his smooth features. ‘Don’t even think of telling anyone about what’s passed between us today,’ he’d rasped. ‘Or I’ll have you damned well ruined.’

Now she walked round this opulent book-lined room in utter agony of spirit. With a huge effort she tried to steady her racing pulse. She had dealt with Jarvis and she would deal with Davenant, though how, God only knew.

It was scarcely four, but outside the sky was growing overcast. On a nearby table some papers were scattered and, if only to distract herself from her dismaying thoughts, she went across to look. There were maps of Somerset, along with some geological sketches—to do with quarries, she guessed. Towards the back of the table was a tray of mineral samples together with a brass model of some kind of engine about a foot high, beautifully crafted.

Even though Adam Davenant’s family fortune had been made in mining and quarrying, it was unusual for anyone to display such an obvious interest in the practicalities of money-grubbing. ‘Showing his base blood,’ Edward and his friends would sneer.

Yet in spite of herself Belle’s attention was caught. She remembered how Davenant had defended the quarries to her that day on Sawle Down— they provide work and wages for many men and food for their families .

She remembered her inner acknowledgement that he was right. That sudden, instinctive feeling that he was a man of integrity …

A terrible mistake. An illusion.

She turned the model of the engine by its base, finding that the cold precision of it somehow soothed her roiling mind. A steam engine, she guessed; Uncle Philip Marchmain used to tell them both that steam was the future, and that the end of the world of the horse was in sight.

Well, the end of her world was in sight if she didn’t find some way of extricating herself from this appalling mess.

She put the model down and sank into a chair. What would Davenant say—what would he do—if he knew that almost every night since that fateful encounter she’d been haunted by dreams of him?

When she’d fallen from her horse that afternoon and opened her eyes to see him towering above her—dust-covered, muscular, roughly clad—she’d felt something tight impeding her breathing. He’d offered to help her to her feet and she’d rejected him, so rudely.

But she’d never forgotten the strength of his hands on her waist as he’d lifted her on to her horse. Never forgotten the sense of sheer male power that emanated from his body, the gleam of the sun on his hard cheekbones; the glimpse of his naked chest revealed by that open-necked shirt …

Her pulse thudded at the memory. She was turning the ring on her finger in nervous agitation when suddenly the door opened. Adam Davenant—Lord Jarvis’s friend and her enemy—was here again.