Francesca. Sylvia Andrew
Читать онлайн книгу.
The last thing any of us expect is decent behaviour from the owner of Witham Court, or his guests.’
His eyes narrowed, then he said slowly, ‘I appear to have made a mistake. I took you for one of the village girls.’ He eyed her shabby dress and bonnet. ‘Understandably, perhaps. But—’ he eyed her uncertainly again ‘—it can’t be. Yet now I look…we’ve met before, haven’t we?’
‘Yes,’ said Francesca stonily, wishing she could lie.
‘Of course! You were wet then, too…we both were. Why, yes! How could I have forgotten that glorious figure…?’
He laughed when Francesca gave an involuntary gasp of indignation and then pulled himself together and looked rueful. ‘I’m deeply sorry—that slipped out. I do beg your pardon, ma’am. Abjectly.’
Francesca was unreconciled. He didn’t sound abject. ‘The details of our previous acquaintance are best forgotten, sir. All of them. And if you offer me an apology, it surely ought to be for knocking me into the ditch.’
‘We did not knock you into the ditch. You jumped and fell. No, I was apologising for not recognising you.’ He regarded the wet and bedraggled creature before him. ‘Not even for a gentlewoman. As for our previous meeting—it shall be erased from my mind, as requested. A pity, though. Some details have been a most pleasant memory.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
How dared he remind her of such an unfortunate and embarrassing interlude! Had he no shame? Of course he hadn’t! He was a rake and a villain, and she was a fool to be affected by him.
‘You surprise me,’ she said acidly. ‘But are you suggesting you would not have practically run me down if you had realised I wasn’t one of the villagers? What a very strange notion of chivalry you have to be sure! As if it mattered who or what I was!’
‘Forgive me, but I did not practically run you down. My nephew, who is a trifle high-spirited, gave us all an uncomfortable time, including my horses, in his efforts to prove himself a notable whip. I shall deal with him presently. But allow me to say that you were standing like a moonling on that road. You must have heard us coming?’
‘I thought it was thunder—You’re doing it again! How rude you are to call me a moonling!’
‘It wasn’t your good sense that attracted me all those years ago, Francesca! And standing in the middle of a highway is hardly the action of a rational being. Nor is it rational now to stand arguing about a trifle when you should be hastening to change out of your wet clothes.’
The justice of this remark did not endear the gentleman to Francesca. She was about to make a scathing reply when they were interrupted.
‘Marcus, darling! Have you taken root, or something? We shall be caught in the storm if you don’t hurry.’
The speaker was picking her way delicately along the road, holding up the skirts of an exquisite gown in green taffeta, her face shaded by a black hat with a huge brim. As a travelling costume it was hardly suitable, the hat a trifle too large, the dress a touch too low cut, but Francesca had never seen anything so stylish in her life. Under the hat were wisps of black hair, dark eyes, red lips, a magnolia skin with a delicate rose in the cheeks—an arrestingly vivid face. But at the moment an expression of dissatisfaction marred its perfection, and the voice was petulant.
‘I’m not coming any further—the road is quite dreadful—but do make haste. What is the delay?’ The dark eyes turned to Francesca. ‘Good Lord! What a filthy mess! What on earth is it?’ She stared for a moment, then turned to the man. ‘Really, Marcus, why are you wasting time on such a wretch? Pay her off and come back to the coach. And do hurry. I shall wait with Nick. No, don’t say another word—I refuse to listen. Don’t forget to get her to tell you the way—if she knows it,’ she added, looking at Francesca again with disdain.
‘You mistake the matter, Charmian. Miss Shelwood’s accident has misled you into thinking she is one of the country folk. In fact, her family own much of the land in the district.’
‘Really?’ The dark eyes looked again at the shabby dress. ‘How very odd! Don’t be long, Marcus.’ Then the vision turned round and picked her way back to the carriage.
Francesca felt her face burn under its streaks of mud. She was well used to snubs from her aunt, but this was different—and from such a woman!
The gentleman tightened his lips, then said gently, ‘You must forgive Lady Forrest. She is hot and tired—Nick’s driving is not a comfortable experience.’
‘So I have observed,’ said Francesca. ‘I am sure the lady has had a quite dreadful time of it. Pray convey my sympathy to her—my abject sympathy.’
He acknowledged this sally with a nod, but said nothing. Then he appeared to come to a decision. ‘You must allow us to take you home. Shelwood Manor, is it not?’
‘Are you mad?’
‘I fail to see why Lady Forrest’s manners, or the condition of your clothes, should prevent me from doing my clear duty. No, I am not mad.’
‘My concern is neither for Lady Forrest nor for the state of your carriage! I can perfectly well walk home—indeed, I insist on doing so. To be frank, sir, I would not go with you in your carriage to Shelwood, nor to Witham, nor anywhere else, not even to the end of the lane! I am surprised you should suggest it. Have you forgotten the circumstances of our previous acquaintance?’
‘Why, yes, of course!’
Francesca, the wind taken somewhat out of her sails, stared at him.
‘I thought that would please you. You said you wished me to forget the lot,’ he said earnestly.
Francesca pressed her lips together firmly. He would not make her laugh, she would not let him—that was how it had all started last time. She said coldly, ‘I suggest you rejoin your friends—they will not wish to miss any of the…pleasures Witham Court has to offer.’
‘Of course—you know about those, don’t you?’ he asked with a mocking smile.
‘Only by hearsay, sir. And a brief and unwelcome acquaintance with one of its visiting rakes some years ago.’
‘You didn’t seem to find the acquaintance so unwelcome then, my dear.’
Francesca’s face flamed again. She said curtly, ‘I was very young and very foolish. I knew no better.’ She started to walk along the road. ‘I suggest you turn the carriage in the large drive about a hundred yards ahead and go back to the village. The road you should have taken is the first on the left. This one does lead to Witham Court, but it is narrow and uneven and would need expert driving.’
‘You don’t think I can do it?’ he asked, falling into step beside her.
‘Nothing I have seen so far would lead me to think so. Good day, sir.’
‘Very well. I shall take your advice—my horses have suffered enough today, and this road surface is appalling.’ He took a step, halted and turned to her. ‘You are sure there’s nothing I can do for you?’
‘I think you’ve done enough! Now, for heaven’s sake, leave me in peace!’
The gentleman looked astonished at the violence in Francesca’s voice. And in truth she had surprised herself. Such outbursts were rare. The child’s impulsively passionate nature had over the years been subdued under her aunt’s repressive influence. Nowadays, she exercised a great deal of self-discipline, and Miss Fanny’s air of calm dignity, of lack of emotion—a defence against the constant slights she was subjected to at the Manor—was no longer totally assumed.
But this man had a talent, it seemed, for reaching that other Francesca of long ago. She must regain control of her emotions—she must! The little interlude years before had meant very little to him, that was obvious, or he would not now be able to refer to it in such a light-hearted manner. She must not let him even suspect the profound effect it had had on