Chapter Five

"O h, drat the man!" Eleanor, Countess of Braithwaite, exclaimed at luncheon, hurling a short note onto the table.

Alice exchanged glances with Helen, for this was an unusual show of temper.

"Which man in particular?" inquired their mother, reaching for her soup spoon.

"Simon wretched Sacheverill. He has just cried off in the curtest way with the feeblest of excuses, and now I shall have to eat humble pie before all those superior town hostesses who claimed he would never come to such a provincial, out-of-the-way event as our garden party, when he never chose to grace one drawing room in London. It seems they were right."

Incensed, Alice reached across the table, ignoring her mother's tuts of disapproval, and picked up the offending letter.

"How dare he?" Alice exclaimed. "Prior commitment indeed! I shall give him a piece of my mind that he shan't forget in a hurry."

"How?" asked Eleanor with a rueful smile. "There is no address to write to."

"I shall send it via his publisher, as you did."

"What is the point if it takes three months for Mr. Galsworth to send it on? Perhaps Mr. Sacheverill lives abroad."

He lives half an hour's ride from here! Alice fumed to herself. How could he let Eleanor down like this? She was so angry she had to bite her tongue to prevent herself blurting out the truth about him. No wonder he had never reacted to her remarks about revealing his identity soon enough—he had never had any intentions of coming. Why the devil could he not have simply said so in the first place?

Somehow, she got through the meal without any further outbursts, although she caught Helen looking at her curiously. Well, Helen had clearly been harboring her own secrets of late, too. The closeness of childhood had gone, which was another sadness in Alice's heart, though at least they had their event in Whalen together, and after that, who knew? She had no time to worry about Helen right now, when every instinct was driving her to Black Hill to tear the contemptible Cornelius Vale to shreds.

Accordingly, as soon as luncheon was over, she excused herself, sent words to the stables to saddle her horse, and changed into her riding habit. She had three of those now, one old and comfortable, two charming and fashionable, which had been purchased for her Season. She had merely grabbed the first one she saw. Then, catching sight of herself in the glass as she stormed past to the door, she saw how becoming it was and raged all over again in case the popinjay imagined she had dressed for him.

Well, she would waste no more time changing. Her clothing hardly mattered. She could shout at the selfish, shiftless beast in any costume she chose.

She rode hard most of the way to Black Hill, and inevitably the exercise cooled her temper to some degree. Since no one came forward to take her horse, she rode around the side of the rather beautiful house in search of the stables.

"Where might I find Mr. Cornelius Vale at this hour?" she asked the one-armed groom who emerged from the stable building, a brush in his hand.

"Believe he was going to the hill cottages," the groom said, waving his hand vaguely toward the hill behind the house. "If he's done with them, he's probably at the lower meadow." He peered at her. "I'll find him for you, and you can wait at the house. One of the ladies is always at home."

"Thank you, that won't be necessary," she replied, and kicked her horse back into motion.

She rode toward the hill, wondering with a resurgence of ire if she would have to waste the entire afternoon looking for him.

In fact, she found him at the first of the row of cottages—crouched on the roof, hatless and coatless, and shouting down to someone below.

"Ha!" he announced with clear satisfaction, and seemed at last to become aware of her approach, for he turned his head toward her and immediately slid down the short, sloping roof. As if he had planned it, he grasped the ladder and slid most of the way down that too, arriving in front of her horse breathless and smeared with dirt. Yet the air seemed to vanish from her lungs. And when his distant yet intense eyes began to smile…

Infuriated all over again by her inexplicable reaction to this man, she snarled, "A word, if you please, Mr. Vale."

"Will you come down?" he asked. "Or shall I come up?"

She slid from the saddle before he could move to help her and, grasping the reins, stalked off the way she had come. The horse allowed himself to be led.

"Say on," Cornelius invited her, materializing on her other side, "before you burst."

She halted in fresh fury at his flippancy and glared up at him. "Oh, I will ! How dare you break your word to my sister-in-law? How dare you write her such a curt, cruel, lying letter to save yourself a mere moment of effort and discomfort? You are entirely despicable!"

He blinked. His eyes had become blank. The man was too used to hiding. "Clearly," he drawled, although color had begun to seep along the blade of his cheekbone. "Though I fail to see how it concerns you."

"Because Eleanor is a sweet and rather wonderful person who does not deserve to be treated with such contempt!" Alice raged. "She was not brought up to this position, you know—she had to learn it from nothing and suffer the condescension of lesser people who imagine their gentle upbringing entitles them to look down on hers. And she has been wonderful to all of us, a true, kind sister to Maria and Helen and me, dealing with our difficult mother, and working so hard to be the countess she feels Gervaise needs. All under the scrutiny of the people who want her to fail. And you could not allow her one tiny social triumph! They will laugh behind their hands at the poor, deluded creature, just because you lack the courage your rotten poems rant about!"

At some point, the rain had come on, soft and drizzly. As though it had washed all the color out of Cornelius's face, his skin looked white, even his lips.

"Is anyone brave all the time?" he said. "Are you?"

Her stomach tightened unbearably. "We are not talking about me!"

" We are not talking about anyone. You are criticizing me, loudly and at length. But if you wish to make this more of a discussion, allow me to ask if it is only your birth that makes it acceptable for you to slight my sisters?"

"Slight your sisters?" she repeated, pulled back from her own righteous anger.

"Is it not more courteous to call at the house, even if only to leave your card, than to pursue me over hill and dell just to vent your spleen?"

"Vent my—"

"You might well have hurt their feelings," he went on relentlessly. "But then, they are not countesses nor related to you, so perhaps they do not matter."

She stared at him, trying not to let her jaw drop. "Of course they matter! I did not mean—"

"Or perhaps you were afraid?"

"Afraid of your sisters? Why on earth…?"

"Of me, then?"

Her breath vanished. She could not even speak, but something must have changed in her eyes, for his own suddenly blazed, and he stepped so close she could smell him. Soap and sweat and rain. Indescribably masculine. She was suffocating—not with fear, as usually happened when a man came too close, but with the sudden desire to know, to feel, what it would be like with his mouth crushing hers. A shocking fantasy that took her completely by surprise.

It wasn't the same situation at all. Yet just as that vile first time a man had invaded her boundaries, she had no protection, no words, no strength. So she laughed in his face, turned, and leapt for the stirrup. She half expected him to seize her, but when she wheeled the snorting horse around, he had not moved.

"Goodbye, Mr. Sacheverill," she mocked him, and rode back down the hill.

She didn't know whether to scream, shout, or sing away the tension in her, for amidst her anger and the jolt of fear had come that insidious glow, that surge of imagination and hunger, just because he had been so close and because she had seen that in his eyes.

Damn him …

If she had not been holding the reins, she would have hugged herself. Distraction came as she rode past the house and paused.

He was right—the least she could do was call on his sisters. She did not wish to slight any of them. Turning the horse's head, she rode past a stretch of formal garden to the drive.

Dismounting, she tied the reins to a small tree and marched up to the front door. A manservant without livery opened it almost at once.

Alice dragged a somewhat tattered visiting card from the pocket of her habit, but before she could speak, a female voice from inside called, "Who is it, Dan?"

Dan stood aside, and a lady in the entrance hall, her eyes widening with surprise, hurried forward.

"I'm Alice Conway," Alice said hastily. "I was just about to leave my card—"

"Won't you stay for tea? My sisters are out, and I would enjoy the company."

Alice wrinkled her nose. "I have been out riding, as you see, and I smell horribly of horse."

"I like horses," the lady said, smiling.

Alice liked that she made no apology for her own workaday dress. Visitors had to accept her on her own terms. She had one of those strong-featured faces that don't immediately seem pretty, until you looked more closely. Helen would want to paint her like this, in an old, darned gown, busy about the house.

"Do come in. I'm Delilah Vale. I suspect you met some of my siblings at the assembly ball last week."

"I did." Alice followed her across the hall to a light, pleasant drawing room with, she was glad to see, a pianoforte. "In fact, I danced with your brother. And we met Mrs. Maitland in London some years ago. My sister and I were feeding the ducks, and she was very kind to us and our poor governess."

Delilah waved her to a choice of chairs grouped for the best view out of the window, and then sat herself. Despite what Cornelius had told Alice, her hostess did not appear to lack confidence or expect to be slighted.

"So, which of my brothers did you dance with?" Delilah asked before any awkward silence could begin.

"Mr. Cornelius Vale." Alice willed the rising blush away.

"Ah, you must be the one Lucy noted. She was afraid he would go on about crop rotation."

"He never mentioned the subject," Alice said. "I found him a delightful waltz partner."

To her surprise, Delilah's eyes softened. "Oh good," she murmured, and changed the subject. "What a pity Felicia has gone into Blackhaven with Lucy. I'm not sure where the others are. Cornelius is out on the land somewhere, of course."

"I met him when I was riding," Alice said casually. "He seemed to be repairing a cottage roof."

"I'm not surprised. He turns his hand to most things. To be frank, there is so much to do on the estate that if the matter is urgent, he often refuses to wait for carpenters or builders or other. He works from dawn until pretty near dusk most days. Roderick and Lawrence help where they can, but he is the one who knows the land. He whisks through it like a whirlwind, issuing orders as he shovels, digs, and hammers. Ah, here is tea."

The manservant appeared carrying a heavy tray. Helped by a pretty maid, he set out the tea things, with delicious-smelling scones and cakes.

Delilah presented a cup of tea to Alice. "To be honest, we would be lost without Cornel. His experience and training have been a godsend to us. When Julius decided to come home, he had no idea how neglected the place had been. I was shocked. The steward my father appointed had apparently grown too infirm and muddled, though Julius says he should have come home years before to look the place over."

"I believe you lived abroad with your father for much of your life," Alice said. "That must have been exciting."

"Too exciting sometimes! But we are glad to be home at last, and all together for the very first time. Julius had already gone to sea by the time the twins were born." She paused. "You have not met the twins?"

"Not yet. Though I believe you are all coming to the garden party on Saturday."

"We're looking forward to it."

Even Cornelius? She did not ask it aloud, and in any case, she already knew the answer.

*

When Alice rode away, Cornelius stared after her, awash with anger and irritation—That Girl was back with a vengeance—but also with shame and regret. And he could not help the triumphant drumming of his heart, because behind whatever fear he had touched, she was not indifferent to him. He had seen it in her desperate eyes, in the twitch of her lovely mouth and the pulse that beat at the base of her slender throat, when he had stood so close to her he could smell the perfume of her hair, her skin. Close enough to kiss her.

Was that what she feared? Did she feel it, too, this damnable tug of attraction that neither of them wanted?

Hell, it was more than a tug. He wanted her so badly she filled his waking thoughts as even Cecily never had. Sometimes, she stormed into his dreams…

There is nothing remotely sweet or gentle about this feeling, he told himself savagely as he strode back to the cottage. It was all instinctive and raw and furious, like her… Such passion, such strength of feeling. He longed to distill it into words and rhythms, but mostly he yearned to taste it.

Obsession. I can write my way out of it .

He would have to, because living with it would be damnably hard.

He threw himself into work for the rest of the afternoon, until, mindful of the dinner party Lucy and Felicia were arranging in order to bring Antonia Macy, Julius's one-time betrothed, once more into his life. Cornelius, who suspected more from his brother's manner than anything else that she was already back in his life, had promised to be present at the dinner, to which one Lord Linfield and his sister Miss Talbot had also been invited.

Having returned his tired horse to the stable, Cornelius strode toward the house and came upon Smith—the laborer foisted on to him by Braithwaite—standing too close to Betsy, the pretty parlor maid who was smiling up at him and smacking his hand at the same time. Catching sight of Cornelius, they sprang apart, but a chord had already struck.

He stopped beside them, frowning at Betsy. Smith seemed about to say something, perhaps to insist he was the one distracting her, so Cornelius charged in quickly.

"You're Fred Gaffney's daughter, aren't you, Betsy?"

"I am, sir," she said, both surprise and suspicion clear in her eyes. Perhaps she feared being dismissed for the sins of her family.

"He's Mr. Daubin's tenant over at Cloverfield?"

"That's right. I hope Mr. Daubin's not complaining again, 'cause Dad's paid his rent all right and tight."

"Good," Cornelius said. He shifted to the other foot. "Is your father happy in his tenancy? Are the other Cloverfield tenants?"

Smith's eyes were fixed to Cornelius's face. Betsy looked frightened like a trapped deer.

Cornelius smiled. "Don't look so panicked. I'm asking you in confidence because—between ourselves—I'm afraid something isn't right at Cloverfield. Is Mr. Daubin a good landlord?"

Betsy's gaze flew to Smith's.

"No," Smith said bluntly. "He doesn't understand the people or the land. He treats them like his mill machines and tries to throw them out when they're not working. Only he doesn't have the knowledge to repair them."

Damning. But Cornelius, who had perceived when he first surveyed all the land in the area that Cloverfield could be better farmed, moved on. "Do you remember when he bought the top field from my father?"

"Must be five years ago now," Betsy said. "That's when he moved the sheep there. I thought Mr. Barton would raise a fuss, but he just said the field was Mr. Daubin's now. So my dad says, though he had it from his cronies in the tavern. Excuse me, sir, I got to get back to my work, and so does W—Smith!"

Thoughtful but not much wiser, Cornelius went on into the house through the back door, and encountered Delilah coming out of the kitchen.

"They're here," his sister told him without enthusiasm. "Mrs. Macy and the Linfields. Felicia and the twins are with them. I'm just going to change. You had better do the same!"

As they climbed the back staircase, Delilah said, "I had a morning caller—Lady Alice Conway, no less."

"Did you?" He could not help staring at her in surprise. "What did she want?"

"She was just out riding, apparently, and after encountering you at the Hill cottages, she remembered meeting Fliss and Lucy at the ball. And you, apparently."

Suspicion almost choked him. He had kept his secret so long that if he ever revealed it, he wanted it to be in his own way, on his own terms. Not like this, a vengeful revelation caused by his own mistakes.

"What did she say about me?" he demanded with too much aggression.

Delilah looked amused. "That you danced delightfully. And did you often do the tenants' roof repairs yourself?"

Laughter shook him.

"I told her you did," Delilah went on, "because there was so much needed doing to everything. I like her," she added, floating off to her chamber and leaving Cornelius to stumble into his.

He was wrong. Who had he been trying to fool? Only himself. God help him, Alice was sweet. Quick to anger, perhaps, and sharp-tongued, but also quick to forgive, to rectify her mistakes, and generous enough to apologize, as she had to him at the ball. Free of his own anger, he could recognize her gentleness as well as the fierceness of her protection of her family. And her kindness. Delilah, always aware of her illegitimate birth, was both lonely and insecure, but she liked Alice.

I like Alice .