Regency Scoundrels And Scandals. Louise Allen

aspire to, is it not? Your brother and his new wife, from what you say, feel these things. It is not all so alarming.’

      ‘And you would know?’ she enquired, curious. Surely, if there was some blighted romance in his life, he would not speak so lightly; she might safely probe in return.

      ‘The storms of passion? Yes, I have felt those on occasion. The more tender emotions, no, not yet.’ He quartered the apple and set down his knife, watching her slantwise. ‘Respectable matrons would warn you that I am a rake, Lady Belinda. We are immune to romance, although passion may be a familiar friend.’

      ‘Are you attempting to alarm me, sir?’ She had never knowingly met a rake before and she was not at all certain she had met one now; Reynard could very well be teasing her. Upon her come-out she had been strictly guarded by her mama, for the daughter of a duke was not to be left prey to the attentions of fortune hunters—or worse—for a moment. On her marriage there had been Henry to direct all her social intercourse and, as he would not dream of frequenting any place likely to attract the dissolute, or even the frivolous and fun-loving, such perilous men had not crossed her path.

      ‘Not at all. If I was dangerous to you, that would be a foolish tactic for me to adopt.’

      ‘Or perhaps a very cunning one?’ she suggested, folding her hands demurely in her lap while he cut his apple into smaller segments and ate it, each piece severed by a decisive bite.

      ‘Lady Belinda, I am too befuddled by last night’s excesses and too bemused by your beauty to manage such clever scheming.’

      ‘My beauty? Why, I do believe you are flirting with me, Reynard!’ He was. How extraordinary to be flirted with again. She could hardly remember how it had felt and certainly not how to deal with it.

      Lord Dereham wiped his fingers on his napkin and dropped it beside his plate. ‘I was attempting to, I did warn you.’ Before she could respond he was on his feet, standing to pull back her chair for her. ‘That was a delicious meal, ma’am; you have heaped coals of fire on my unworthy head with your generous hospitality in the face of my outrageous invasion in the early hours. And now I will remove myself off to Horse Guards and leave you in peace.’

      ‘I hope your business goes well.’ Bel held out her hand. There went her adventure, her glimpse into the world of excitement, scandal and loose living. And all it had left her were some very disconcerting sensations, which she could only hope would subside once a certain tall blond gentleman removed himself from her sight. Somehow she doubted it. Somehow she knew that Lord Byron’s verse was going to be accompanied by some very vivid pictures from now on.

      ‘Lady Belinda.’ He shook her hand, his cool fingers not remaining for a fraction longer than was strictly proper. It was most disappointing, although doubtless the best thing, considering Hedges was hovering attentively in the background.

      ‘Your hat and gloves, my lord. I found them upon the chest on the landing.’

      The door closed behind Reynard and Bel found herself standing in the hallway, gazing rather blankly at the back of it. The sound of Hedges clearing his throat brought to herself with a start.

      ‘I hope his lordship remembered to return his back-door key to you, my lady. I understand from Mrs Hedges that that was how he obtained entry last night.

      ‘His key? Oh, yes. Of course,’ Bel said brightly. ‘Please ask James to be ready to accompany me to Hatchard’s in fifteen minutes, Hedges, and send Philpott to my room directly.’

      As she climbed the stairs, Bel realised that she had just lied to her butler without hesitation. Without, in fact, the slightest qualm. Of course Lord Dereham had not given her back the key. Had he forgotten it, as she had done up to the moment the butler asked about it, or was he deliberately keeping it? And was he really a dangerous rake, or was he just teasing her? Whatever it was that was fluttering inside her it was not fear, but it was a decidedly unsettling feeling.

      Ashe walked briskly away from Lady Belinda’s front door, reached Piccadilly, raised his hand to summon a hackney carriage and then, abruptly changing his mind, strode diagonally across the crowded road and into Green Park by the Reservoir Gate.

      He needed, he found, space to think—which surprised him, for he had thought he had the next few days clearly planned out in his head. Horse Guards to resign his commission, then back to the Albany to settle in comfortably. There was the town house to check out for Mama, shopping to be done to fit himself out as a civilian gentleman once again, and letters to write. He had intended to stay in London for at least a fortnight before venturing west to Hertfordshire and Coppergate, his country estate.

      He had been home on leave a mere six weeks ago, shortly before the battle. His family knew he was safe, where he was and that he had business which would keep him in London for a week or so. That would give him time to get accustomed to his new circumstances, allow him to mentally rehearse the stories he was prepared to tell his family about his experiences. If he told them the truth about the great battle, they would be appalled; he needed some distance from his recent past and space to create the comfortable fictions in order to shield them.

      At Coppergate he would interview his estate manager, sort out his affairs and come back to town as soon as he decently could. Ashe loved his family, had missed them while he was away, but in the country he felt purposeless, empty and restless. Why, he had no idea. He enjoyed country sports, he was deeply attached to the estate and the strange old house at the heart of it. And there was certainly plenty he could be doing there, as his steward would tactfully hint.

      And now, unexpectedly, he felt the same way here. It must be the hangover. He strolled around the perimeter of the Reservoir amidst the small groups of gossiping ladies with servants patient at their heels, the nursemaids and shrieking children and the occasional elderly gentleman, chin on chest, deep in scholarly thought as he walked off his luncheon.

      The fresh air finished the work of Hedges’s potion and a good lunch on his headache, but it did not cure his restlessness. Ashe struck off away from the water and headed for St James’s Park, abandoning the idea of taking a hackney. He found he was avoiding thinking about last night, about Lady Belinda and about his reaction to her. He made himself do so.

      It was a relief to realise that he had behaved with at least some restraint, although the feelings of a respectable lady on finding a drunken, amorous officer in her bedchamber defied his imagination, even if he had confined his assault on her person to falling full length upon her, licking her ear and then falling asleep for hours. He grimaced at himself. Even! He had treated Lady Belinda like a lightskirt and he was fortunate she was not even now summoning an outraged brother to demand satisfaction.

      The dangerous Mr Ryder was safely out of the country, and the duke was where he always was, reclusive on his northern estates. Ashe wrestled with the conundrum of whether honourable behaviour required that he write to the duke, account for himself and make assurances about his behaviour, or rest upon the lady’s remarkable forbearance. He decided, with relief, that he was under no such obligation to frankness. Nothing irretrievable had, after all, occurred.

      Lady Belinda did seem to have forgiven him. Her straitlaced late husband could hardly have given her much cause to become used to gentlemen overindulging, so he supposed she must simply be a very understanding woman.

      She had been embarrassed, though, he mused, kicking at daisies in the cropped grass as he walked. It was not as though she was one of those dashing widows who would greet the unexpected arrival of a man in their bedroom with opportunistic enthusiasm. Which was a good thing, he thought with a self-deprecating grin; he had been far too drunk to have performed to any lady’s satisfaction, let alone his own.

      Lady Belinda had been tolerant, sensible and pragmatic, he concluded, which was more than he deserved. The thought struck him like a punch in the gut that if she had chosen to be difficult she could, very easily, put him in a position where he would have had to marry her. And marriage was absolutely not in his plans. Not for another five years or so, by which time his mother’s gentle nagging would become strident and she would cease merely hinting that Cousin Adrian would make a terrible viscount and order