Thunder & Roses Read online

  "I talked to Williams earlier, and he said that one of the two maids, Gladys, has been pressed into service as temporary cook," Clare said, hoping that she sounded composed. "You don't need a mock mistress—you need a housekeeper to order your household."

  "Can't you be both?"

  Once again he put his hand in the small of her back, gently possessive. She flinched, for her gown and shift were thinner than the garments she had worn earlier, and the effect was almost as intimate as if he had put his palm on her bare flesh.

  He noticed, of course. "And here I thought that you were becoming more at ease with me," he said softly. "You needn't be fearful, Clare."

  She scowled up at him. "If I had any sense at all, I'd be terrified. You're twice my size and probably four times my strength, and I'm entirely at your mercy. The fact that I am voluntarily under your roof means that you could do anything short of murder and most people would say that it was only what I deserved for my shameless conduct."

  His face darkened. "Let me repeat: I have no interest in unwilling women. In spite of my worldly rank and greater physical strength, you hold the ultimate power between us, for you have the right to say no. For example..." He raised his hand and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

  The slow movement burned across her skin, seductive and alarming. Clare felt suddenly vulnerable, as if his touch was stripping away her common sense and exposing unadmitted longings.

  He murmured, "Shall I continue?"

  With all her heart, she wanted to say yes. Instead she snapped, "No!"

  His hand fell instantly. "See how easy it is to stop me."

  He thought that she had done that easily? Apparently he wasn't all-knowing. Nerves in shreds, she said, "Why don't you take your kiss for the day and get it over with? I'll enjoy dinner more if I don't feel like a mouse being stalked by a cat."

  He smiled lazily. "My turn to say no. Anticipation is part of the pleasure of lovemaking. Since I can only be sure of one kiss, I wish to delay it as long as possible." He guided her into the dining room. "So fear not—I promise not to leap across the table before you've fortified yourself with food."

  He must know that her real fear was not that he wouldn't stop, but that she would be incapable of saying no. The thought strengthened her resolve. Yes, he was powerful and infinitely more experienced than she, but that didn't mean that she had to lose their contest. It was up to her to be stronger.

  That goal in mind, she encouraged him to talk about his travels rather than more personal subjects. To her surprise, he had traveled extensively on the Continent. After he mentioned a visit to Paris, she asked, "How did you manage to see so much of Europe when Napoleon has closed the Continent to Britons?"

  "By traveling with my disreputable kinfolk. Even Napoleon's armies can't stop Gypsies from going where they will. When I joined a kumpania, I became just another Romany horse trader. No one ever guessed that I was British." Giving up on his over-salted leek soup, he poured wine for each of them.

  She pushed away her own soup bowl with relief; it was amazingly bad. "If you'd any taste for spying, traveling as a Gypsy would have been a perfect disguise."

  Nicholas broke out coughing. When she looked at him in surprise, he managed to say, "Swallowed the wrong way."

  Clare cocked her head to one side. "Was that coincidence, or a guilty reaction because you actually were involved in intelligence gathering?"

  "You are definitely too clever for comfort." He sipped his wine, expression thoughtful. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you that an old friend of mine is active in intelligence work, and I sometimes passed on information that I thought might interest him. Occasionally I acted as a courier as well, if it fit into my own plans. I was never a serious spy, though. That would have been too much like work."

  She was intrigued by his reluctance to admit that he had served his country. Perhaps he wasn't quite the wastrel he pretended; then again, perhaps he had simply enjoyed the adventure of spying.

  Williams and Dilys entered the room together. The girl, with nervous glances at the earl, cleared away the dishes from the first course. Williams placed a platter of scorched-looking lamb in front of his master, then served half a dozen other dishes. After dismissing the butler, Nicholas carved the lamb. "If the soup is any indicator, Gladys is out of her depth in the kitchen. This joint doesn't look too promising, either."

  When Clare tasted the leathery meat, she had to agree. Nicholas winced when he tried his. "Something must be done about the food."

  Seeing his speculative glance, Clare laid down her fork and gave him a warning scowl. "Yes, I'm a good cook, but I will not have time to work in the kitchen. And don't try to convince me that a mistress also has to cook for her lover."

  "I wasn't thinking of wasting your valuable time in the kitchen." He smiled mischievously. "But a mistress can do interesting things with food. Shall I describe them?"

  "No!"

  "Another time, perhaps." He prodded a boiled potato with his fork. It promptly disintegrated into a shapeless white mass. "Do you know of a decent cook who is looking for a situation?"

  "Not in the valley. You might be able to find someone in Swansea, but you'd probably be better off sending to London. There must be agencies that specialize in finding French chefs for aristocratic houses."

  "French chefs are usually temperamental, and most would go mad with boredom in Wales. Aren't there any good Welsh country cooks around?"

  Clare's brows drew together. "Surely that kind of food must seem very plain to a gentleman."

  "I like country cooking as long as it's done well." After careful scrutiny, he pushed a sinister-looking lump to the side of his plate. "Even the penguins would sneer at this fish. Are you sure you don't know a competent person who could start soon—preferably tomorrow?"

  His aristocratic impatience made her smile. "There's a woman in Penreith who worked at Aberdare as a kitchen maid before her marriage. She's not a formally trained cook, but whenever I've eaten at her house, the food has been wonderful. And she could use the work—her husband died in the pit last year."

  Nicholas spooned a mysterious substance onto his plate. It was brown and it oozed. "What's this? No, don't tell me, I'd rather not know. If you can coax the widow up here tomorrow, I'll be eternally grateful."

  "I'll see what I can do." Clare wrinkled her nose at the cold, gray, mushy Brussels sprouts. "I have a stake in the results myself."

  After several more minutes of unenthusiastic chewing, Nicholas said, "Now that you've had time to reflect, have you devised a redecoration strategy?"

  "Surveying the ground floor confirmed my original impression: cleaning and simplification will work wonders." Clare tried the apple tart, which proved to be flavorless but edible. "I won't do anything too radical—when you remarry, I'm sure your wife will have plans of her own."

  Nicholas set his wine glass on the table with a force that threatened to shatter it. "You needn't concern yourself about that. I will never remarry."

  There was a black edge to his voice that Clare had not heard before, and his face was dark as a thundercloud. He looked like a man who had loved his wife, and who mourned her deeply.

  The late Caroline, Viscountess Tregar, had been the daughter of an earl, and she had brought a title and a fortune to her marriage. During her months at Aberdare she had seldom come into the village, but once Clare had seen her riding. Nicholas's wife had been tall and graceful and gloriously blond, so lovely that to see her was to stop and stare. It was not surprising to learn that her loss still hurt Nicholas. And his grief must be compounded by guilt over his own role in his wife's untimely death.

  Again Clare wondered what had really happened on the fateful night when the old earl and Lady Tregar had died. It was hard to believe that Nicholas had been so crazed by lust that he had bedded his grandfather's wife in defiance of all decency. The second countess, Emily, was only a few years older than her step-grandson, but though she had been attractive, no
one would have looked at her twice if Caroline was in the room.

  Unless... unless Nicholas had hated his grandfather so much that he had wanted to hurt the old man in the cruelest way imaginable.

  The thought that Nicholas might have seduced the countess for such an ugly reason turned Clare's stomach. A series of dreadful pictures flashed through her mind: Nicholas and his grandfather's wife caught in flagrante delicto; the old earl collapsing with a fatal heart seizure; Caroline drawn by the commotion, then rushing hysterically from the scene, only to die as she fled from the monster she had married.

  If that was what had happened, Nicholas was morally responsible for the deaths of his wife and grandfather, even if he hadn't killed them with his own hands. Yet Clare could not bring herself to believe that he had behaved so despicably. Though he might be wild, she had seen no wickedness in him.

  But, she realized grimly, it was possible to believe that he had acted from impulse rather than calculated viciousness. If he had unintentionally precipitated the disaster, he would have ample cause to feel guilty.

  Sickened, she pushed her plate away.

  Unaware of her lurid thoughts, Nicholas said, "I agree. This is not a meal to linger over."

  For a moment Clare felt disoriented; it was impossible to reconcile her nightmare imaginings with the charming, playful man who sat opposite her. She saw quite clearly that if she was to endure three months of his company, she must put speculations about his past out of her mind. Otherwise she would go mad. Already Nicholas was frowning at her, wondering what was wrong. With effort, she managed to say calmly, "Do I withdraw and leave you to your port now?"

  His expression eased. "I'll skip the port. I find you much more interesting—just as a mistress should be."

  "I don't feel very interesting at the moment." She got to her feet. "May I go to my room now, or is it part of my bargain to keep you company all evening?"

  He stood also. "I don't think it would be fair to force you to endure me all the time—but I would like it if you stayed willingly. It's still early."

  There was a faintly wistful note in his voice. Perhaps he was lonely. She shouldn't be surprised, since he had no friends or family at Aberdare, but it had not occurred to her that he might suffer from common sorrows like loneliness.

  Empathy proved stronger than her need for solitude. "How do fashionable people amuse themselves in the evening?" Seeing a familiar glint come into his eyes, she said hastily, "No, I won't do what you're thinking."

  He chuckled. "Not only clever, but you can read my mind. Since you're rejecting my first choice, let's play billiards."

  "Don't you know any respectable activities?" she said doubtfully. "Reading in the library would be a nice quiet way to spend the evening."

  "Another time. Don't worry—there's nothing inherently immoral about billiards. The only reason decent folk condemn the game is because of the risk of falling into bad company." His mouth quirked up. "Since you're stuck with me already, I don't see how playing billiards can make your situation any worse."

  She found herself chuckling as he lifted a branch of candles and led her from the room. Wryly she realized that the real danger was not bad company, but laughter. It would be hard to give that up when the time came to leave Aberdare.

  Chapter 6

  The billiards room was at the far end of the house. While Clare lighted the candles in the chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling, Nicholas built a coal fire to take the chill off the damp spring night. Then he removed the fitted velvet cover that protected the table. Dust flew in all directions and Clare sneezed.

  "Sorry." He folded the cover and dropped it in a corner. "Another failure of housekeeping."

  "I'm beginning to think my role as housekeeper won't leave time for me to be a mistress."

  "I can live with dust," he said swiftly.

  Clare gave the involuntary, hastily suppressed smile that fascinated Nicholas. Coaxing that smile was like trying to lure a shy foal to his hand; patience was the key.

  He took a set of ivory balls from the equipment cabinet and laid them on the baize-covered table. "Do you want to use a mace or a cue stick?"

  "What's the difference?"

  He handed her the mace, which was a pole with a broad, fiat head. "This is the old-fashioned way of playing billiards. The ball is pushed, rather like in shuffleboard, if you've ever played that. A player using a mace doesn't have to bend over." He set the mace against the cue ball and demonstrated, sending the object ball into a corner pocket.

  "And the cue?"

  He took off his coat so he could move freely, then bent over, lined up a shot, and stroked. The cue ball knocked a red ball into a pocket, then caromed off a second ball, which also dropped into a pocket. "The cue allows more flexibility and control. But I imagine you'll prefer the mace—it's more moral."

  Clare's dark brows arched. "How can one piece of wood be more moral than another?"

  "The mace saves a lady from bending over and exposing her ankles to whatever depraved males are present," he explained.

  Her full lips quivered, and she pressed them together.

  Amused, he said, "Why don't you go ahead and let yourself smile? It must be a tremendous strain trying to keep a straight face around me."

  His sober, pious schoolmistress giggled. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard with his own ears.

  "You're right," she agreed ruefully. "You haven't a serious bone in your body, and it's very hard to maintain my dignity. But I shall persevere." She lifted the mace in one hand and the cue in the other. "It won't matter which of these I use, because I suspect I've fallen into the clutches of a billiard sharp."

  He rolled a red ball across the green baize toward a pocket. Halfway across the table, it hit a bump and skipped to the right. "This table is so warped that skill won't count for much. I'm looking forward to seeing how the slate surface will work."

  "What are the rules?"

  "There are a number of different games, and players can make up others at their pleasure. We'll start with something simple." He gestured toward the table. "I've put out six red balls, six blue, and one white cue ball. The cue ball is used to knock the others into pockets but mustn't go in itself. Each of us will take a color. If you choose red, you will get a point for each one you pot, and lose a point if you accidentally knock in a blue. The person shooting continues until missing a shot."

  Clare set down the mace and walked to the other side of the table, then bent over and tried a stroke with the cue stick. The hard wooden tip hit the polished ivory cue ball off-center, and the ball rolled weakly to one side. She frowned. "This is harder than it looks."

  "Everything is harder than it looks. That's the first law of life." He came around the table to her side. "Let me demonstrate. I promise I won't look at your ankles."

  The smile tugged at her lips again. "Liar."

  "Suspicious wench." He lifted his cue stick and went through the shooting procedure step by step. "Put most of your weight on the right foot and bend from the hips. The fingers of your left hand support the stick. Sight along the cue and try to hit the ball dead center." He demonstrated again.

  When Clare bent over to try, he leaned back against the table, folded his arms across his chest, and blatantly studied her ankles. She ostentatiously ignored him.

  The ankles were well worth watching, as was the rest of her. Clare didn't have the kind of spectacular figure that attracted male attention from across a crowded room, and her clothing was designed to disguise rather than enhance. Yet her figure was trim, and when she relaxed, she had a natural grace that drew the eye. He looked forward to seeing what she would look like in more flattering garments. Even more, he would like to see her in no garments at all.

  After Clare had learned the basics, they began a game. Nicholas gave himself a handicap: his shots wouldn't count unless his ball caromed off two cushions before going into a pocket. The combination of that restriction and the unevenness of the playin
g surface kept them from being hopelessly mismatched.

  To his amusement, his sober schoolmistress played like an enthusiastic child, scowling when she miscued, glowing with satisfaction when she potted a ball. He wondered how often she allowed herself to do something strictly for pleasure. Very seldom, he suspected; she had probably spent all her time on hard work and good deeds since she was an infant.

  But she was clearly enjoying herself now. She had potted two reds in a row and was now stretched over the table as she carefully lined up a third. Several strands of hair had come loose and they curled enticingly around her face. Her position also emphasized the delightful curve of her derriere. He was strongly tempted to stroke it.

  With regret, he suppressed the impulse so that the harmonious atmosphere wouldn't be wrecked. When her bristles weren't up, Clare was excellent company—intelligent and dryly witty, with an understanding of human nature that made up for her lack of worldly experience.

  She took her shot, but didn't hit the cue ball squarely. It squirted to one side. "Drat! Another bad stroke."

  He grinned. While billiards might not be inherently immoral, there was no denying that talking about balls, shafts, strokes, and pockets was pleasantly suggestive for those of lewd mind, like himself. Fortunately Clare, in her innocence, did not recognize the latent ribaldry of their conversation. "Strong language, Clarissima," he said with mock disapproval. "Perhaps exposure to billiards really does weaken the moral fiber."

  She put her hand over her mouth to conceal her smile. "I suspect that the fault is the bad company, not the game."

  Nicholas gave her an appreciative glance, then leaned over the table and lined up his next shot. He moved with lazy grace, his white shirt emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Bad company indeed; dark and diabolically handsome, he was every romantic girl's dream, and every protective father's nightmare. She forced her gaze away from her companion to the table.