The Notorious Lord Read online

  ‘Why do you think that I should take part?’ he asked abruptly.

  Rachel had been idly watching her father, who was sifting a sieve full of soil on to the spoil heap further down the field. Now she looked up and focussed on him again. There was a faint smile still lingering about her mouth and the same hint of curiosity in her eyes. Cory knew that she was surprised by his reticence and that she did not really understand his reasons for refusing. She knew that he was neither naïve nor coy. After all, she had seen the proof of it herself.

  ‘Why, because it is for charity-’ she began.

  Cory put up a hand. He held her gaze. ‘Yes, I accept that. But why me?’

  He saw puzzlement come into her eyes. Rachel had very beautiful eyes, speckled brown, gold and green. Taken all together, her features were pleasing, although Cory knew that she did not think so herself. But then, why should she, with no one to tell her? Lady Odell would be more likely to praise the attractive qualities of a Grecian urn than to extol her daughter’s virtues. As for him, he had given up attempting to pay Rachel compliments for he was unhappily aware that she did not take them seriously. She gave his admiration the same weight that she attached to his casual affection for a pet kitten.

  ‘Why you?’ Rachel repeated. Her brow wrinkled slightly. ‘I suppose…because you are an attractive man.’

  Cory raised his brows. ‘Do you think me attractive?’

  Rachel looked slightly confused. ‘Well, I…I mean that you would generally be considered attractive. By other ladies.’

  Cory grinned. ‘A fine distinction. You yourself do not believe it, then?’

  Rachel’s chin tilted up haughtily. ‘I have never really thought about it.’

  Cory found that this rankled. He kept his gaze on Rachel’s face. A tinge of colour had come into her cheeks and though she held his eyes for a few seconds, she was the first to look away. Cory felt a rush of arrogant, masculine pleasure. So that was a lie. Rachel had looked at him and thought him attractive and the knowledge pleased him far more than it ought to have done. He sighed inwardly. Last night he had known that there was something between them when he had looked at her in the firelight and seen an echo of his own passion in her gaze. He had known then that he should not take matters further and he knew it now. There was a wariness between them at the moment and he suspected that it was largely down to the unease he had stirred in Rachel through his behaviour. He was slightly surprised that she had come to see him today. Cory looked around. There were plenty of other people on the excavation site and no doubt she felt quite safe. And at the moment he need not worry that he was arousing anything other than annoyance in her. She was looking at him with something approaching dislike.

  ‘I always said that you were odiously conceited, Cory,’ she said, crossly. ‘Why do I have to join the list of females swooning at your feet? Can you not accept that there is at least one woman who isn’t tempted?’

  Cory laughed. Rachel always gave as good as she got and he enjoyed that. ‘Oh, I can accept it, Rae,’ he said easily. ‘My self-respect is not damaged if you fail to acknowledge my attractions! I should like to know, however, what sort of man you do find irresistible.’

  ‘I do not wish to find any man irresistible,’ Rachel said. ‘To my mind that argues a lack of self-control.’

  Cory raised his brows. This was interesting. ‘You mean that you would not wish to lose your head over a gentleman?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Rachel picked up a shard of pottery apparently at random and turned it over between her fingers. Her head was bent and her cheeks a little flushed.

  ‘You cannot envisage yourself being swept away by passion?’ Cory pursued. He liked the fact that he could discompose her like this. It made the awareness between them much sharper.

  Rachel was looking horrified. ‘Good gracious, no! Swept away by passion? That would be very…’

  ‘Untidy?’

  Rachel flashed him a reproachful look. ‘I know that you mean to make fun of me, Cory-’

  ‘On my honour, no.’ Cory smiled ruefully. He had to confess that he enjoyed teasing her and shaking her self-possession, but he found that he really did want to know the answer to his question. Both his questions. He was intrigued to know the sort of man who would appeal to Rachel. He was even more interested in finding out her attitude to passion.

  Rachel spoke in a sudden rush. ‘I do not seek romantic love as a basis for marriage. In fact-’ she looked up suddenly and met Cory’s eyes ‘-I have decided that I should start to look for a husband. A prudent man whom I can esteem would be my idea of a perfect match.’

  Cory had not been expecting this. He felt as though someone had jabbed him hard in the ribs, temporarily depriving him of breath. Rachel was looking to marry? The thought made him feel physically sick. And yet, what could be more natural than that she should seek to wed? She had already told him that she was tired of the constant uprooting that came with her parents’ mode of life. No doubt the idea of a worthy man and a settled home held immense appeal. The fact that the thought made him feel like doing some kind of injury to the as-yet-unidentified bridegroom was a problem that he would have to deal with himself.

  ‘I am surprised that you have not had offers before now,’ he said slowly. ‘There was a fellow pursuing you during your London season, was there not?’

  ‘Lord Sommersby.’ Rachel nodded. ‘He seemed quite ardent, but then Papa insisted on leaving London early in order to travel to Greece and I was not permitted to stay…’

  ‘A good thing too,’ Cory said with feeling. ‘Sommersby is a dreadful loose fish, Rachel. He is in no way a prudent gentleman.’

  Rachel gave him a small smile. ‘Since I have been in Midwinter I have been driving with Mr Caspar Lang. He seems quite pleasant-’

  ‘Pleasant, yes. Prudent, no,’ Cory said, laughing. ‘The Langs do not have a feather to fly, Rachel, and Caspar gambles away what money he does have.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘But he is a vicar’s son!’

  Cory looked up. ‘Which proves…what?’

  Rachel’s frown deepened. ‘Are you implying that Mr Lang is only interested in my money?’ she asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Cory said. He eyed her angry pink face. ‘Mr Lang would be a fool if that was all that interested him about you,’ he said. ‘However, I am implying that if he got his hands on your fortune he would run through it in one sitting at White’s.’

  Rachel scuffed the earth irritably. ‘There is no need for you to sound so pious, Cory. I recall you telling me that you had spent a goodly portion of your inheritance on drink and gambling and women!’

  ‘That was money well spent,’ Cory said, grinning. ‘The rest of my fortune I wasted.’

  Rachel glared at him. ‘Very witty, Cory. So do you have any other animadversions to cast on your fellow fortune-hunters before I throw myself away on an unworthy man?’

  Cory reached for the flask of water and took a thoughtful swig. ‘Of course.’

  ‘On the principle that it takes a scoundrel to recognise a man cut from the same cloth?’

  Cory winced. He was accustomed to sparring with Rachel but, because he cared for her, her barbs could draw blood. ‘You are harsh, Rae,’ he said. ‘I could give you some advice if you wish.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Then avoid Mr Lang since he is a wastrel. Sir John Norton is a rogue who would invite you out for a sail in his yacht and then seduce you, and all the Kestrel brothers…’ Cory shook his head. ‘What can I say? They are excessively dangerous.’

  ‘And Mr James Kestrel, their cousin?’

  ‘Ah.’ Cory laughed. ‘Yes, the white sheep in a family of reprobates. The only danger you would be in from him, Rae, was of being bored to death!’

  Rachel sighed sharply. ‘I am beginning to think that I am unlikely to meet an eligible man in the Midwinter villages this summer. Either they are all gamblers or they are like your friends the Kestrels!’

  Cory felt strangely relieved.
‘Indeed, you are right. Give up the plan! Almost all the gentlemen here are rogues and scoundrels of the most unreliable sort.’

  Rachel’s eyes lit with laughter. ‘Are you including yourself in that description, Cory?’

  ‘If you like. But we have already established that I would not make the ideal husband, have we not, Rae?’

  Rachel looked troubled and Cory felt a rather sweet tenderness for her swell inside him. It was the most damnable thing being Rachel’s friend. It made him dreadfully vulnerable to her-in so many ways.

  ‘I am sure that you would be ideal for someone,’ she said.

  Cory laughed. ‘Now you are just being kind. And you have no need to soothe my ruffled feelings, I assure you.’ He smiled at her. ‘Besides, we were speaking of you, Rae, not of me. I assume from what you say that you do not look to marry for love at all.’

  Rachel’s troubled expression did not lighten. ‘I would hope to have an affection for my husband.’

  Cory’s silver grey eyes sought hers. ‘I am speaking of passion, Rae, of strong feelings. Are you sure that you have no wish to experience that within marriage?’

  Rachel’s eyelashes fluttered and she stole a look at him. ‘No, I do not look for that. I fear I am not moved to strong passions.’

  Cory was shocked at the sudden wave of desire that slammed through him, echoed by a disturbing compassion. There was a shy, unawakened look in Rachel’s eyes as she spoke of matters of which she had no knowledge. Cory knew it would be the most appalling waste for Rachel to commit herself to a loveless marriage. He knew her to be thoughtful and kind-hearted and loving. And he was willing to bet any money that beneath her composure was a passion strong enough to destroy all a man’s defences and burn him down. But he would not be the man to find out if that was true.

  Rachel was biting her lip now and Cory clamped down on the urge to kiss her. To step outside the role of elder brother would do neither of them any good. Instead he took a careful breath and gave her a gentle smile. ‘I wish you good fortune, Rae. I hope that you find what you are looking for.’

  Rachel gave him a smile of such dazzling brilliance that Cory’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘Thank you, Cory,’ she said. She scrambled to her feet. ‘I must go. There is still some unpacking to be done and dinner to be prepared.’

  Cory put out a hand to her. He wanted to be with her even though it was, in some ways, a terrible temptation to him. ‘Stay here with me for a while. We have barely had chance to talk yet-’

  But Rachel was already halfway down the path to the stile. Cory watched her go, a slight frown on his face. It felt as though she was running away from him. Cory clenched his fists, then slowly relaxed. Perhaps he had frightened her, stirring everything up with his comments about passion and his refusal to stay neatly in the place marked out for him as her friend. He could tell that she was uncomfortable with the idea of their friendship changing into something else and yet it was not dislike of him that made her run away. He had seen the mix of desire and curiosity in her eyes the previous morning by the river, heard the breathless note in her voice last night when she had made light of his suggestion that he might kiss her…

  He picked up his trowel again and sighed as he started to scrape away at a piece of pottery half-buried in the edge of the trench. His trowel caught the lip of the vessel and it shattered, several shards tumbling down into the ditch. Cory swore. He bent to pick them up and stood cradling them in his hand, looking in the direction that Rachel had gone. So now she was coming between him and his work. He was thinking about her when he should be concentrating.

  Cory placed the pieces of pottery in a basket and shook his head slowly. He knew that he was fortunate to have Rachel Odell as a friend. He would be a fool to put that friendship at risk when it was one of the most precious things that he possessed. Nor could the friendship grow into anything else, for they wanted different things. In fact, he epitomised all the things that Rachel was rejecting, the travel and the excitement and the restlessness of an unsettled life.

  Nevertheless, Cory watched her all the way back to the house. Despite his best intentions and Rachel’s wariness, he had the conviction that something had to change.

  In the cool of the hallway Rachel paused and pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. She was not at all sure why she was feeling so disturbed. It was not simply the heat of the day that had made her feel so light-headed, for she had lived in far hotter climates than Suffolk in June. The conversation with Cory had made her feel self-conscious, and then she had compounded her folly by rushing away from him. No doubt he would think she had run mad. She was half-persuaded that she had. Cory had never had that effect on her before. At least not before their encounter by the river the previous day. Since then something about his behaviour towards her had unsettled her. He had disturbed her the previous night and he had done so again now…

  ‘Do you think me attractive?’

  ‘I have never really thought about it.’

  But she had thought about it. She had thought about it and she had looked at him and in that moment she had felt, not seen, what a very attractive man he was. The knowledge was so sudden and so shocking that she had been completely dumbfounded. It had been like the moment he had swept her into his arms at her début ball, only much more powerful. It felt exciting and it felt all wrong, because Cory was her friend and she simply did not think of him in such terms. And when he had fixed her with that clear grey gaze and asked her about passion, she had remembered his comment about kissing her and had felt a wrench of anticipation shiver along her nerve endings, and a most unaccustomed warmth in the pit of her stomach. She had wanted Cory to kiss her, but when he had smiled and gravely wished her luck, she had also felt a huge relief.

  She looked at her reflection in the pier glass. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. She looked rather pretty. Rachel stared, arrested by the sight of her high colour and sparkling gaze. She looked…excited. She looked as though in some strange way her feelings were awake…

  The opening of a door further down the hall distracted her. Sir Arthur Odell emerged, head bent, peering over his glasses at the papers in his hand. His dirty boots left a trail of sand across the stone floor. He narrowly missed colliding with a small rosewood table. Rachel moved it to one side and put her hand on her father’s arm. Sir Arthur jumped.

  ‘Oh! Didn’t see you there, m’dear.’

  ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘What are you doing inside, Papa? I thought you were down at the dig.’

  ‘Just came up to read this.’ Sir Arthur said, eyes gleaming. ‘Cook told me the post had arrived. The Royal Society Journal has an article by Cory on the Wiltshire barrows. Damned fine piece of writing. His conclusions are all wrong, of course, but can’t dispute that he writes well. Must tell the boy. He’s a damned fine antiquary, even if he draws the wrong inferences…’ And he wandered out through the front door, the sand dropping from his boots and being trodden underfoot.

  Rachel sighed and went through to the kitchen in search of a brush. Mrs Goodfellow, the cook, was standing at the table chopping carrots and grumbling under her breath in continuous monotone. Rachel smiled at her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Goodfellow. Why are you doing the vegetables? What has happened to Kitty this morning?’

  Mrs Goodfellow’s grumpy face had melted into a reluctant smile at the sight of Rachel. She wiped her hands on a cloth and rested them on her broad hips. ‘Good morning, my duck. Kitty’s down at the excavations this morning.’ She snorted. ‘Your mama said they needed help with sorting the pots they’ve dug out, so the next thing I know, Kitty ups and offs down there. Any excuse. She’s got her eye on that man of Lord Newlyn’s, if you ask me.’

  Rachel smiled slightly. Kitty, the kitchen maid, was no slouch when it came to spotting a likely young man, and Cory’s valet, Bradshaw, was a very well set-up lad indeed.

  ‘There’s just me and Rose,’ Mrs Goodfellow continued, nodding at the lumpy housemaid, ‘and she’s ke
pt busy washing the pots your mama is digging out.’ She gave a sudden bellow of laughter, her chins wobbling. ‘Your mama asked if I’d like to help out today, Miss Rachel. Can you see me in a trench? I’d likely sink in the sand and need to be dug out myself!’

  ‘I’m sure that you would do a splendid job, Mrs Goodfellow,’ Rachel said, ‘but we need you here. If my parents persist in borrowing all the servants to help run their excavation, we shall all starve.’

  ‘Wouldn’t catch me down there,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, picking up her chopping knife again and attacking another carrot with gusto. ‘I’ve seen those ghosts, so I have, Miss Rachel, and I’m keeping well away!’

  Rachel frowned. She had come across superstitious servants often on her travels, but would not have placed Mrs Goodfellow as one of them. Her practical common sense had always seemed much like Rachel’s own, leaving no room for fanciful ideas.

  ‘Ghosts, Mrs Goodfellow?’ she said. ‘Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense?’

  ‘Seen them with my own eyes,’ the cook said bluntly, ‘flitting about down there on the mounds in the moonlight.’

  ‘Ghosts flitting about in the moonlight? Have you been having a bedtime tipple, Mrs Goodfellow?’

  Cory Newlyn had come into the kitchen, his hands full of pottery. Bradshaw was following him in with a bucket full of shards. Rachel jumped at the sight of him, then winced as more sandy soil was trampled into the house.

  Mrs Goodfellow beamed at the newcomers. ‘No need for your sauce, my lord! I haven’t touched a drop since my John died. No, and I know what I’ve seen as well. Men with shields and helmets on, just like in the history books.’