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He was brought up short. He stared at her, and sighed out his breath. “Is she so much afraid of what I may do?”
Her brows rose. “Why should she be afraid?”
“I wish I knew.” A frown creased his brow, as all the inconsistencies of Maidie’s behaviour towards him suddenly coalesced into a definite whole. “She suspects me of—what? Some design, not unconnected with her possible marriage, I think.”
“Have you any design?”
Delagarde looked at her. “Only to see her happy. For that, I will do whatever is consistent with what I conceive to be my duty towards her.”
“Your duty. Is that all?”
All? What did she mean? He thought he detected a measure of disapproval in her voice. Or was it disappointment? He shrugged it off. Time was pressing.
“What else? At this moment my sole concern is to save her from her own foolhardiness.” He went to the door and wrenched it open. “I must go!”
Lady Hester followed him out into the passage, saying urgently, “Deal gently with her, Laurie!”
“Gently?” he echoed, turning his head briefly as the porter swung open the front door. “She may count herself fortunate to escape a throttling!”
But as the miles sped by beneath his team’s hooves, and anxiety overlaid the anger, he found himself gripped by the conviction it was all his own fault. He had bullied her, taken high-handed action she must feel to be an insult to her intelligence—and he had kissed her. The memory of it, fleeting though the kiss had been, came into sharp focus in his mind. His heart lurched. Abruptly it came to him why he had so assiduously been avoiding her. Not for any of the reasons he had glibly given himself…but because he was afraid he would be overcome by the desire to kiss her again! Through his head rattled a series of images—the entirety of his conduct towards her these last days, which he must now recognise to have been as eccentric as her own. Or, if not eccentric, to have only one sane basis. He could not tolerate her betrothal, that was certain. But it had nothing to do with the unsuitability of her choices—though they were ridiculous. He could laugh at himself, if his senses were not so ravaged by the discovery. For it afforded him no pleasure whatsoever to realise the thought of her marriage to another had charged him with murderous jealousy.
He wanted Maidie. Flame whipped across his loins, and he jerked on the reins. There was an uneven ripple among his horses, and his groom gave out an exclamation of concern. Delagarde dragged his attention to where it was needed, and became for some moments wholly intent upon controlling his team.
“Would you wish me to take the reins, my lord?” Sampton asked him, when the equipage was once again steady.
“No, I have them in hand.”
But he had better command his thoughts if he did not wish to endanger his cattle a second time. Command his thoughts? Would that he could. What the deuce was he to do? A more misplaced desire he could not have contemplated. Should he marry her for it? Try to marry her. He did not flatter himself Maidie would accept him. Even if she would have him, what would that avail him? A somewhat grim despondency came over him. Was it to be supposed Maidie, of all women, might delight in amorous intrigue with her husband? She did not want a bedfellow. All she required of a man was that he should leave her alone with her vexatious stars. Scarcely complimentary to one’s pride to know one must come a poor second in importance to the planets.
But she had responded to him, he recalled, with a resurgence of warmth he fought down, forcing his attention back to the road ahead. On the balcony, he had felt how she was affected. He could win her, were he to make the attempt. There was the nub. Win her to what? There could only be marriage. Anything else was out of the question. And marriage to Maidie was not a proposition he could readily contemplate. Apart from the heady attraction of her sensual allure, her attributes were quite opposite to those suitable to his wife.
Delagarde found he was slowing his horses. Why was he chasing after her like this? Why stop her from marrying Lugton? It was what she wanted. The boy would offer her no opposition. He was unlikely to wish for anything more than the forty-five thousand pounds which would be his due. He would not trouble her, and she might observe the heavens to her heart’s content—and welcome.
That she would be heartily bored by his youth and inexperience was quite unimportant. As was the fact she would never know what it could be to give herself in exquisite surrender to a man who would take delight in pleasuring her, in acquainting himself with every secret—
He pulled himself up, realising where his thoughts were tending. He discovered his breath had shortened, and the outrageous images in his head were heating his blood to fever pitch. No, he could not endure it. A savage determination gripped him. Whatever else, Maidie was not going to marry Sholto Lugton!
Delagarde caught up with the runaways some miles north of Welwyn. He’d had news of them at the posting-house, in a chaise and two which had changed horses there less than two hours before. A chaise and two! No wonder he had readily gained upon them. The description was unmistakable. There could not be more than one couple on the road where both lady and gentleman were endowed with so distinctive a head of hair. They were travelling as brother and sister, it seemed, and had spoken of pushing on for another stage before stopping for the night. It was past eleven when Delagarde’s phaeton swept into the village of Knebworth and halted by the single inn while Sampton ran inside to make the usual enquiries.
“They are here, my lord,” he reported when he came out. “I understand Lady Mary has just retired. The young gentleman is in the coffee room.”
Delagarde was already descending from the vehicle, and his groom went to the horses’ heads. “See them watered and rested, Sampton.”
“Will your lordship be remaining here for the night?”
“I doubt it. We can hire another change back at Welwyn.”
He walked into the inn, and the landlord, who had already come bustling out after the groom’s enquiry, led him to the coffee room and opened the door.
The apartment was small, with a fireplace and a single large round table in the centre, surrounded by a number of chairs, at one of which Delagarde spied the red head of Mr Sholto Lugton. The boy was in the act of drinking from a tumbler as he looked up. Seeing the Viscount, he leapt from his seat, choked violently and fell into a fit of coughing.
Delagarde was obliged to thump him on the back several times before he recovered. By the time he had pushed the boy back into his chair and handed him some water, the whole situation seemed to him to have taken on the nature of a farce. Lugton sipped at the water, looking altogether ready to burst into tears. Amusement drove away Delagarde’s resentment.
“You need not imagine I am going to call you out,” he said. “I don’t for a moment suppose the notion for this escapade came out of your head. Which is Lady Mary’s room?”
“I—I don’t know, sir,” said Sholto unhappily. “She went up with the landlady but a few moments ago.”
“Very well.” He went to the door, and turned there. “You stay put, Lugton. I am not yet done with you.”
