The Rake's Defiant Mistress. Mary Brendan

to flee my boorish company and allow you to go home.’

      ‘You’re very perceptive, sir,’ Ruth replied and slid a book from a shelf to peruse the cover.

      ‘Come…sit down again, please,’ Clayton invited. ‘It’s impossible for either of us to make our escape and I wouldn’t want a bad atmosphere to ruin our evening with our friends.’

      ‘No more would I,’ Ruth answered with some asperity, yet she didn’t give him the courtesy of a glance. Busily she turned the pages of the book, though she saw not a single word or picture on the fluttering pages.

      ‘Come back to the fire,’ Clayton urged gently. ‘It looks to be quite draughty over there.’

      Immediately Ruth ceased rubbing absently at an arm to warm it. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was correct or that he could make her do his bidding.

      ‘Gavin and Sarah will join us soon,’ Clayton said persuasively. ‘I promise you I shall be returning to town tomorrow, whatever the weather.’

      ‘There is no need for you to risk such a journey,’ Ruth said briskly and deposited the book back on the shelf. ‘I haven’t so far to go. I shall go home in the morning.’ Ruth prayed inwardly that she might be able to do just that. From what she had seen through the window a moment ago, it seemed unlikely that the conditions would improve overnight. The snow had started to fall again, very lightly, but if it settled the condition of the roads might be yet more hazardous.

      ‘Well, let’s not squabble over who insists on leaving first,’ Clayton said with a return to rueful humour. ‘It’s enough that we’ve both seen fit to offer to do so.’

      Inwardly Clayton was cursing himself to the devil. He had been enjoying Ruth’s company. There was a quiet grace about her that he found as enchanting as her physical beauty. Yet, despite his fascination with his lovely companion, he couldn’t quite block from his mind the memory of his minx of a mistress.

      Loretta’s plotting had prompted him to take up Gavin’s offer of a sojourn in the country. Even at a distance she was constantly infiltrating his mind as he pondered on whether he ought to have stayed in Mayfair and sorted out the mischief she seemed determined to concoct. He had no reason to apologise to Pomfrey. He’d done nothing wrong. His relationship with Loretta had been established when Pomfrey asked her to marry him. And now it was over. Yet he felt as though he ought to make contact with the man and reassure him that, whatever Loretta said, he didn’t want her as his wife, now or ever.

      ‘Ah! There you are, Ruth. I’m sorry I abandoned you,’ Sarah happily chirped, entering the room in a shimmy of pretty lemon silk. ‘When Rosie said you were taking a nap it seemed wrong to wake you.’ Her sparkling eyes settled on Clayton. ‘Good! You have had Sir Clayton to keep you company. Have you been having a nice chat?’ Sarah sent a winsome smile to her husband, a few paces behind, to include him in her chatter.

      A protracted pause was breached by Clayton saying lazily, ‘Mrs Hayden has been diverting company. She told me you appreciate listening to her sing and play the piano.’

      A look of startled disbelief froze Ruth’s features. An expressive glance demanded he say no more on the subject. He returned her an easy smile that promised nothing.

      ‘Ruth is very accomplished,’ Sarah said with a proud look at her friend. ‘And she is far too modest. It takes a lot of persuasion to get her to perform even one song.’

      Gavin appeared rather more perceptive to the frost in the atmosphere than did his vivacious spouse. He sent his friend a penetrating look that terminated in a slight, quizzical elevation of dark brows.

      ‘I’m famished and I expect our guests must be too.’ Gavin took his wife’s dainty fingers and placed them on his arm. ‘Come, we can talk at the table. Let us go in to dine.’

      ‘Oh, you must stay here tonight, Ruth. I can lend you whatever you need. It’s impossible to travel even a short distance in such atrocious weather.’ Sarah gaily sent that instruction back over an elegant shoulder as she allowed her husband to steer her towards their dinner.

      With elaborate courtesy Clayton extended a hand to Ruth. After giving him a sharp glance, she lifted five stiff fingers on to his sleeve. She wanted to berate him for bringing musical entertainment to Sarah’s attention. She guessed that was what he wanted her to do, so she swallowed the reprimand. In silence they followed their friends towards the dining room.

      After several courses of fine food and several glasses of mellow ruby wine, Ruth had relaxed enough to overcome her annoyance and allow her eyes to meet Clayton’s. Throughout the meal so far she’d often sensed him looking at her. On the few occasions he’d addressed her directly there had been no hint of challenge or mockery in his polite conversation and she imagined he had consciously made an effort to leave behind in the library his conceit and irascibility.

      Their hosts were indeed fine company and there had been no lapse in genial chatter. They had discussed the start of the Season in London and, more lengthily, matters closer to home. Clayton had been interested to know how the unexpected snowfall might affect people in the villages obtaining necessary supplies and going about their business. His own country estate lay far to the south-west of the country, he’d explained to Ruth, where such bad weather was uncommon. He had added that he rarely visited it—being too fond of town living—so had thus far never been inconvenienced by the vagaries of the seasons. What a boon and a curse could be the weather! It had provided an ample source of neutral conversation, yet it also had trapped her here!

      ‘Do you spend time in London during the Season, Mrs Hayden?’

      Ruth placed down her spoon and gave Clayton a rather startled glance. She hadn’t been expecting such a leading question. ‘I don’t, sir. I haven’t been to London since I lived there as a child.’

      ‘And whereabouts did you live?’

      ‘Close to Chelsea, in Willoughby Street,’ Ruth supplied and gave her attention to her pudding, taking a dainty mouthful of syllabub.

      ‘Ah…I know it,’ Clayton said pleasantly, undeterred by her hint that the subject was closed. ‘A friend of mine, Keith Storey, lived there with his parents until he took a wife.’

      Ruth gave a spontaneous smile at being reminded of the family. ‘I knew them; my parents were friendly with Mr. and Mrs Storey.’

      ‘And did you move to the country while still young?’

      ‘No, sir.’ Ruth again placed down her spoon, feeling a little miffed. He had no hesitation in interrogating her over her past, yet had become unpleasant at the first mention of discussing his. ‘My parents moved to Fernlea after my marriage. I moved here to live with my father nine years ago; he was by then a widower.’ Ruth turned quickly to her right and said to Sarah the first thing that came into her head. ‘Little James had a pain earlier. I think the poor mite had colic.’

      ‘He does suffer with it,’ Sarah answered, well aware of her friend’s wish to curtail a conversation with Clayton that must lead eventually to her late husband and perhaps the manner of his death. ‘Mrs Plover,’ she named the housekeeper, ‘has a remedy for it. Just a small spoonful of the stuff seems to put him to rights. She’s quite a marvel with her pills and potions. And she’s of enormous help with planning extravagant menus and so on.’

      ‘On which note, I must thank you for a delicious dinner,’ Ruth said graciously, indicating she’d eaten her fill.

      A polite murmur of assent came from Clayton as he too laid aside his cutlery.

      ‘Well…shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?’ Sarah suggested.

      Ruth gave her a grateful smile. She could always rely on Sarah to sense her mood. Her friend knew very well she was keen to escape any further of Clayton’s probing questions.

      ‘If James is abed, we can bid him goodnight even if he is asleep.’

      As the door closed on the