Rogue in the Regency Ballroom. Helen Dickson
Читать онлайн книгу.
her father.
‘So, you are a Claybourne now. I suppose it will take some getting used to. You’re also a widow and will be of age soon. You’re your own mistress and I can’t stop you doing what you will.’
Amanda put her arms about his rotund middle and placed her head on his shoulder. ‘I won’t disappoint you, Father, I promise.’
Peering down at her, suddenly anxious, he said, ‘It would be well for you to consider marrying again—and soon. I’m not getting any younger and I want to see you taken care of.’
‘Never fear.’ She laughed. ‘You’ll outlive us all—long enough to bounce your grandchildren on your knee.’
And so began a time of frenetic activity. Little was said of Amanda’s marriage and her dead husband—the subject was for the curious to speculate about and for her to try to forget. Casting off her mourning clothes in favour of grey and any dark colour other than black—following the precedent set by Queen Victoria after the death of her beloved Albert—Amanda relaxed and prepared to enjoy herself, trying steadfastly to keep her thoughts from wandering back to Christopher Claybourne.
She wasn’t always successful, for there were times when she recalled how his unfathomable eyes had locked on to hers as they had spoken their marriage vows, how, when he bent to kiss her lips, her own had parted and he stole her breath, taking it and more from her. She had never met anyone like him. There had been something in his eyes of another world to the one she knew—and she longed passionately to see it again, if only for a brief while.
Kit was the reason why she felt so restless and dissatisfied. All the young men she knew now seemed to her intolerably dull, contemptible, even, beside him.
Every time she found herself dwelling on Christopher Claybourne, in some peculiar way it felt as if he were trying to seduce her from beyond the grave. Angry with herself, at her own weakness, she would try to close her mind to him. It was incredibly stupid to think of her dead husband in this way, stupid and dangerous, too, for it only brought her torment and heartache.
Life was never dull at Eden Park. The house was used for entertaining on a vast scale, and whole sections had been set aside to accommodate staff, including the servants of weekend guests. Caroline had an enormous circle of friends and Amanda soon discovered that her stepmother’s energy was boundless as she concentrated on providing entertainment guaranteed to attract both friends and neighbours.
Weather permitting, there were luncheons served at a long table under the trees on the lawn and picnics on the moors, with hampers filled with every kind of delicacy to tempt the appetite, from pâté and lobster to the finest claret. There was croquet on the smooth grass, the increasingly popular game of lawn tennis, swimming for the men in the lake; then there were village fêtes to attend, and, in the evenings, dinner parties, with a string quartet playing lilting music in the background.
Amanda embraced the countryside and the countryside embraced her. Heads turned wherever she went and she was creditably besieged by young men who flocked to her side. Courted and sought after, she enjoyed herself to such an extent that her life began to resemble an obstacle course, but she allowed none of the pressing young men to come too close. Her father was right. She was her own mistress and could do as she liked. She was in no hurry to wed again.
Chapter Four
Autumn passed into winter and a jolly Christmas came and went. Henry liked things to run smoothly at Eden Park and kept a busy schedule. He always allowed himself enough time to indulge his passion for horses, travelling to horse sales near and far in his desire to buy only the finest horseflesh—hunters and Thoroughbreds alike. His search for a decent trainer wasn’t so simple. There were plenty of clever, knowledgeable men he could take on for the task, but he was determined to hold out for the best.
Amanda, an accomplished rider, shared her father’s love for the hunt, feeling there was no other thrill to compare with riding a courageous horse across fences and grass at speed, trying to keep up as close as possible to the pack of hounds hunting their fox. The challenge was manifest, the demands on her nerve clear, the test of her skill less easy to define, but the pleasure and thrill of the hunt were compounded of many other elements.
It was after one such day when they held the meet at Eden Park that Amanda went to her bed exhausted but content. A buffet had been provided for the hungry hunters of hot, spicy soup; roast beef; saddle of mutton, venison and pork and all the appropriate trimmings; cheese; jellies; tarts and pies for after. It had been a hectic day, with much hustle and bustle both above and below stairs as the servants worked feverishly to make sure everyone was replete with both food and drink.
The house was dark and totally silent when Amanda left her room. Surprised that she was unable to sleep following the day’s excitement, she padded down to the kitchens as the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, thinking a cup of hot milk might solve the problem. Sitting before the fire that Cook had banked down before going to bed, in an astonishingly tidy kitchen with no sign of the earlier chaos, she sipped her milk, feeling the hot liquid relaxing her. She took a quicker route back to her room, going quietly up the back stairs and along a narrow landing that passed through the servants’ quarters—not that many of the servants lived in at Eden Park. Most of them came from nearby Thurlow and went home after their day’s work.
Listening carefully for any small sound that might indicate that someone else was awake, she squinted in the darkness, having to be careful where she trod. She was just coming to the end of the landing when she heard a sudden cry coming from a room on her right. It was softly uttered, as if someone were in pain, but trying to stifle it. Greatly concerned, she moved towards the door, turning the knob and opening it to investigate.
She halted abruptly at the sight that confronted her. At first she could see little, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth and a single lamp at the side of the bed. But then she saw two figures so entwined they could easily have been one. Totally immersed in each other they were unaware of her presence. Her eyes saw the voluptuous nakedness of a young woman lying on the softness of the sheets. Her head was flung back, her eyes closed, her face contorted with pleasure as the man moved rhythmically between her legs.
‘My goodness, it’s Sadie Jenkins,’ Amanda gasped softly, unable to believe such wanton behaviour from a seventeen-year-old parlourmaid. The girl turned her head and half-opened her eyes. Amanda realised she must have heard her gasp. Sadie cried out in horror and began shoving at the man’s shoulders to try to push him away.
Her face flaming with embarrassment, Amanda was about to leave, but at that moment, recognising the man as none other than Mr Quinn, anger took hold of her and all she could do was stare. She knew she had no business being here, that what the servants got up to when they were off duty was their own affair, but the nausea welling inside her kept her rooted to the spot.
Only slowly did the naked man become aware that there was someone standing in the open doorway. Turning his head, he saw Amanda, his face registering neither surprise nor shame. As if he had all the time in the world he rolled away from the girl, leaving her shapely young body defenceless and exposed. Not in the least discomposed, he pulled on a long robe that fastened with a belt around the middle, covering his nakedness. Amanda could see the smugness in his eyes; he was full of conviction, not remorse, for his actions.
Wrapping a sheet around her to cover her own nakedness, Sadie slipped off the bed and stood looking at Amanda with a light of defiance gleaming in her large dark eyes.
‘Is this your room, Sadie?’ Amanda demanded, struggling to sound calm and in control.
Sadie shook her head. ‘No, mum. It’s farther down the landing.’
‘Then go to it. I will speak to Mr Quinn alone.’
Casting an indecisive glance at Mr Quinn, who indicated with a slight nod that she should do as Mrs Claybourne bade, Sadie crossed to the door, the sheet trailing behind her.
‘Just a minute, Sadie,’ Amanda said. Sadie turned and looked at her. ‘I thought you