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‘My skull is thick and has recovered. I thank you for your concern.’ His cold voice sounded anything but grateful.
‘Do, please, introduce me, Theo,’ Elinor asked, flicking a glance over her shoulder and managing to sound as though they had all just met in Green Park.
‘Yes, please do.’ The other woman smiled, plainly relishing the awkwardness of the situation. Elinor moved slightly so the sun was no longer behind the horse and she could see her more plainly. Tall, whip-cord slim, with honey-gold hair coiled elegantly under a broad-brimmed hat. And older than she, older than Theo. Thirty-five? More? She found she was shocked, which was ridiculous. Men took lovers and wives ten years their junior—why should women not have younger lovers?
‘Marquesa, may I introduce my cousin, Miss Ravenhurst. Elinor, this is the Marquesa Ana de Cordovilla.’
‘Marquesa.’ Although it seemed bizarre in the middle of a dusty French village street, Elinor produced a curtsy fit for the wife of an English marquis, which she assumed was correct. The Marquesa inclined her head graciously.
‘Charming. A family party, in effect.’
‘You have just missed my mother, Lady James Ravenhurst,’ Elinor said politely. She was damned if she was going to be goaded into discourtesy, although she rather thought that by introducing her as his cousin, Theo had surprised the Marquesa. Doubtless she had thought she was embarrassing him in front of a new lover. ‘We are staying in Vezelay.’ After a moment she added, ‘With our household.’ The fact that the household consisted of one maid was neither here nor there. This woman appeared, shockingly, to be travelling quite alone.
The comment did not provoke her into any form of explanation; she was obviously far too self-assured for that. ‘And where are you staying, Teó?’
‘Why, in Vezelay, with my aunt,’ he lied easily. ‘In fact, we must be getting back as Elinor’s dressmaker does not seem to be at home.’ He took Elinor’s arm. For a moment she tensed, unsettled by his touch, which sent strange ripples of sensation down her arm. She wanted to free herself, then thought better of it. ‘And you, Ana?’
‘Why, at Beaumartin, of course.’
‘You have been invited, too?’ Elinor said, then caught herself up before she could blurt out anything more.
‘Not yet.’ The Marquesa produced that throaty chuckle again. ‘But I will be. I have letters of introduction. So, we will meet again.’ She looked down at Elinor. ‘And you will be another relative of Lord Sebastian Ravenhurst, of course. Such an interesting man.’ She touched her spurs to her horse’s flanks. ‘Hasta luego.’
‘Well!’ Momentarily distracted from her own preoccupations, Elinor watched the horse and rider vanish round the bend. ‘Do you think she and Sebastian—’
‘Probably. He had a…lively life before he met Eva. She never mentioned him when we were—I mean, she has never mentioned him before.’
‘She is a good ten years older than you.’ Elinor tried to sort out her emotions—anger over that kiss, curiosity about the Marquesa, her need to find out exactly what Theo was up to. She could hardly remonstrate over the kiss, not in the middle of the village street, but somehow that woman was tangled up with the way she felt about it: shaken, angry and very confused.
‘So?’ He raised one eyebrow.
‘It’s disgusting!’
‘Nonsense.’ He appeared amused by her reaction, not shamed as she had expected. ‘What a little prude you are, Elinor.’
‘I am not.’ Did he also think her a prude because she would not let him kiss her like that? If that was prudish, then the cap fitted indeed. He was strolling towards the stable and she followed. ‘But you said she was dangerous, did you not? And she appears to have been Sebastian’s lover once, and she is mixed up with whatever is going on between you and the Count.’ He pulled out the gig and began to harness the horse, his movements practised and economical. The stable smells of straw and hay and warm horse were oddly soothing. ‘You cannot tell me you loved her?’ she asked.
‘Love is not why one has affairs, Elinor.’
‘So it was just sex, then?’
‘Elinor!’
‘You cannot accuse me of being a prude and then come all over mealy-mouthed yourself.’
He gave a snort of amusement. ‘Let us just say that it was an exciting experience. You have heard about female spiders who eat their mates? One does not remain the lady’s lover for long, not if one has any sense.’ He backed the horse into the shafts, fastened the traces and led it out. ‘Come on. We need to talk.’
‘Indeed we do. About all sorts of things,’ she added crossly to the broad shoulders in front of her. It was not until she was sitting next to Theo that it occurred to Elinor that she should be having the vapours and refusing to have anything more to do with him.
She wondered if she had been to blame for him kissing her. Had he sensed the way she had looked at him, fooling herself into believing it was simply aesthetic appreciation of his long, fit body? Surely not? Surely they had just been friends and now…Now they weren’t. Obviously she was completely lacking in sensibility, because all she wanted to do was understand. Understand why he had kissed her, why it had been so horrid and disappointing and why, despite that, she felt so disturbingly, pleasantly, confused inside.
Damn, damn, double—no, make that triple damn. Theo let the horse find its own way. Beside him Elinor was almost radiating emotion. The trouble was, he was not certain he could read it. She must be furious with him about that kiss. Upset as well—she was a virgin, he reminded himself, rubbing salt in the wounds. But he was not ready to discuss that kiss yet—not until he worked out why he had done it. On the other hand, that left very little else to safely talk about. The fact that he had lost his temper and kissed her was like having an elephant in the gig with them—it somewhat dominated both their thoughts.
There was a flush on Elinor’s cheeks and her lower lip looked swollen. Hell, did I do that? Probably. He had kissed her with temper, not gentleness, for God knows what reason other than that to see her responding to the count was more than he could stand.
And it was not, he admitted to himself with painful honesty, simply because he did not trust de Beaumartin. His bluestocking Cousin Elinor was getting under his skin in a way he did not recognise and was very sure he did not like. It was not lust, exactly. He knew what that felt like perfectly well. This was different.
He shot her another glance, less obviously this time. She was sitting, apparently composed, but with a faint frown line between her brows. Then it came to him, like a blow to the solar plexus: that had probably been her first kiss.
