Caught in Scandal's Storm. Helen Dickson
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forget that this is my bedroom and it was you who insinuated yourself into it.’
Releasing his hold on her chin, he stepped back. ‘Do it.’
Alice’s heart skipped a beat as she gazed up at the powerful, dynamic man looking down at her. Masculine pride and granite determination was sculpted into every angle and plane of his swarthy face and cynicism had etched lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Relenting, knowing she would get no peace unless she did, she turned to the door to do his bidding.
They awaited Lady Marchington’s arrival in silence. From beneath dark brows, Lord Tremain observed Alice with close attention, and with quiet patience he waited for Lady Margaret Hislop, like a cat before a mouse hole.
With arms folded, Alice slowly paced the carpet, aware that the brooding Lord Tremain’s gaze was fixed on her, holding her in its silvery depths. Suddenly she was the captive of those fathomless eyes, but she gave his attention the lack of regard it deserved. Yet she found it hard to be at ease with his gaze following her with an intensity and vibrancy to which she was not accustomed. And if his staring were not unsettling enough, he seemed to possess some mysterious power over her traitorous gaze, as now and then she could not prevent it straying in his direction. It was as if his keen appraisal were tangible—she could feel the heat and weight of it, as surely and distractingly as if he were trailing the tips of his fingers over her flesh.
Feeling a flush bloom in her cheeks, she looked away when the door opened and Lady Marchington walked into the room.
Lady Marchington’s eyes honed in on the man who stood by the fire. When he turned his head and she saw his familiar features her face blanched and her hand lifted to her throat. Her mouth tightened itself into a hard, unattractive line. Confusion, then belligerence, clouded her obdurate features and her narrow face became etched with bitter scorn.
The bow he gave her was sufficiently formal to send a chill through her, but at the same time acted as spur to her determination to keep him away from Roberta. Lady Marchington had recently learned of Lord Tremain’s past, a past he had tried to keep secret, of how he had been captured and held as a slave in North Africa. She had been totally ignorant of this dark past a year ago when she had agreed to a betrothal between him and Roberta. Had it been made known to her then, she would never have given her consent.
Since that day he had become a malignant presence in her mind—a man tainted by what had been done to him, frightful, barbarous things she could not begin to imagine and had no wish to, since to do so was utterly repellent to her. No man could emerge from eight years of slavery in North Africa and not be affected by it. From the moment she had learned of his past, even though it was not of his doing, she had decided that should he return and try to resume his betrothal to Roberta, she would not allow it. The thought of someone as naive and gentle as Roberta being joined in matrimony to such a man was inconceivable. Besides, his pedigree was way below that of Viscount Pemberton.
She assessed this new situation and chose her strategy on the instant. This dramatic and what could have been a very public invasion of the evening’s event displayed that supreme arrogance only achieved through the acquisition of power. Her instincts warned her that she was under threat, but she could not, must not, allow herself to be disadvantaged on her own territory and within sight and hearing of her guests. At all costs her machinations to remove Roberta from her association with Ewen Tremain must be prevented from raising its dangerous head before so many witnesses waiting to receive the latest society scandal.
When she had ended her visit to Paris with Roberta and returned to promenade her in London society in search of a worthier suitor, she had avoided any association with the lower-ranked gentlemen as one might avoid physical contact with the plague. It was fortunate that as soon as he laid eyes on Roberta, Viscount Pemberton was completely enamoured—a sure sign that Providence was supporting her ambition for her niece. Indeed, Lady Marchington was prepared to concede that Fate’s method of bringing Roberta within proposing distance of the Viscount was more ingenious than anything she might have engineered. And now here was Lord Tremain, in London from wherever he had spent the last twelve months since he had left, ready to take up where he had left off.
Her face was hostile, her heart cold as she faced Ewen Tremain. ‘Surely, sir, you are a little late in the day showing your face?’
‘You are perfectly correct, Countess.’ Lord Tremain’s voice was clipped. ‘I was obliged to delay my return for family reasons. I must ask you to excuse me, but you must remember, at the same time, that it does not interfere with my betrothal to your niece.’
‘You are mistaken. There was nothing in writing. You have no claim on my niece—no claim at all. How dare you force your way into my home! And why are you here—in Miss Frobisher’s bedchamber? It is most inappropriate.’
Lord Tremain glanced at the young woman clutching her robe about her person. Frobisher! The name seemed familiar, but he could not place it just then. ‘I apologise for any embarrassment I may have caused. It was not my intention. I imagine Miss Frobisher will explain how I come to be here later. I wrote informing you I would be back next month. However, as things turned out, I found I was able to return sooner—and just in time, it would seem. I believe the festivities taking place as we speak are to celebrate the betrothal of Roberta to Viscount Pemberton.’
‘Roberta is no longer betrothed to you, Lord Tremain. You are correct. Tonight she has become betrothed to Viscount Pemberton, the Earl of Winterworth’s eldest son.’
Ewen’s lips formed a grim smile. ‘I see you have been busy in my absence, Lady Marchington. I expected to be treated with all the welcome of a rabid dog. You do not disappoint me.’
‘Then I have achieved something after all. I did not expect you to come here.’
His mildly amused smile did not waver as his gaze settled on the face of the woman whom he considered had tricked him. ‘And why is that? You must have known I would not stay away forever.’
‘The longer you stayed away, the more I hoped you would. My trust in you was misplaced.’
Alice stepped into the shadows to observe the bitter altercation between these two, her eyes drawn more and more to Lord Tremain. The candlelight touched on his face and for a split second she was halted by the cold, stark features. He was Satan to her. Handsome. Ruthless. Evil? She had no way of knowing, but at that moment she had an overwhelming desire to flee the room and leave them alone.
His long, finely boned hands testified that he was indeed a gentleman, except that some of his fingers bore faint scars—almost as if he’d once been forced to perform heavy labour. His prominent cheekbones slanted attractively and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, fine lines as if he had spent too much time squinting into the sun. His mouth with its attractive straight lips hinted of disapproval and she felt laughing, much like smiling, was alien to him. She was intrigued, for she felt that he had not always been so, that he had once been a merrier soul, but that something had driven the joy from his life.
When Lord Tremain caught her looking at him, Alice dropped her eyes. Gazing at her directly, he glimpsed a soft, slightly parted mouth and eyes so deep a shade of blue they stirred his imagination no small amount.
He didn’t raise his voice, but when he responded to Lady Marchington’s remark, the authority in it was clear all the same. ‘As far as I am concerned the promises I made to Roberta before I went away are binding. I always carry out what I promise. When both you and Roberta failed to reply to my letters, you forced my hand, which is why I am here now.’
Alice stared at Lady Marchington, whose expression had not changed. She was suddenly confused, which deepened as she uttered an enquiry. ‘But, Lady Marchington, I was led to understand there had been no word of Lord Tremain since he left Roberta in Paris.’
Lady Marchington glanced at Alice, feeling a stab of unreasonable irritation against the girl. Making no comment, she faced Lord Tremain. She had been caught out in her deception, but it did not concern her. So great had been her determination to keep him away from Roberta, that she had kept his letters from her and burned all his correspondence without a qualm.