The Wildest Rake

He looked at her then, his hand involuntarily moving to touch her arm. ‘I thought you understood,’ he said gently. ‘You said that you did the other day.’

Cornelia looked at him without seeing him, her eyes wide in pain. ‘I . . .’

But she could not finish.

How could she say that she had misunderstood him, had been stupidly happy because she thought he was telling her he loved her, when all the time he had been kindly warning her not to love him?

CHAPTER SEVEN

They were welcomed to Sir Rendel’s house by liveried servants, with flambeaux in their hands, who bowed obsequiously as the family passed them into the panelled hall.

Their host awaited them, elegantly languid in olive green, trimmed with ribbons of a paler shade.

He kissed Cornelia’s hand, his hard grey eyes appraising her gown. ‘You are the first guests to arrive,’ he drawled. ‘Which is fortunate, for it gives me the opportunity to show you some portraits of my family, as I promised, Alderman.’

‘I shall be most interested,’ said her father. ‘I have been thinking of having my daughter painted.’

Sir Rendel glanced at her mockingly. ‘An excellent idea.’

The gallery into which they came was a long, panelled room, lit dimly, with a magnificent fireplace in the centre on one side and rows of high, leaded windows on the other, with pictures hanging on the walls between them.

Sir Rendel seated the Alderman and his wife beside the huge fire and poured them some wine. Cornelia wandered away and began to study the pictures. They were all portraits, she found; dark, heavy studies of faces in all of which she fancied she saw some trace of the arrogant, ruthless features of her enemy.

She did not hear his soft tread come up behind her, and jumped when his hand gripped her elbow.

‘You seem nervous,’ he said, smiling.

‘I did not hear you approach,’ she stammered, wishing he would not look at her in that disturbing fashion.

The glimmering yellow candlelight made moving pools of light on the wooden floors, but between these bright islands lay long dark stretches, where shadows lurked.

The windows were uncurtained. She could see branches moving restlessly outside. The wind whispered through dry leaves and rattled at the windows, sending the candle flames dancing from side to side.

Sir Rendel paused before one window, gazing out. The soft halo of light illumined his arrogant profile, softening the set of his lips, the sharp angles of jaw and cheekbone.

She watched him, recognising, with dismay, the depth of the attraction he exerted. For all his languid airs, the shoulders beneath the olive satin were broad and powerful, the line from waist to thigh ran cleanly, athletic and well proportioned, and the slender white hands, despite their apparent delicacy, had, as she knew too well, a hidden strength.

He turned his head. Their eyes clashed, as they had done before, and he smiled. She felt again that odd tug of attraction. It was a charming, slightly mischievous smile.

‘I make it a rule,’ he said softly, ‘never to apologise or explain. Yet I find myself, strangely, wishing to do both to you.’

‘There is no need to do either, sir,’ she shrugged.

His smile teased. ‘I am sure you do not lack the curiosity of your sex. ‘

‘Where you are concerned, I do.’

For a brief second, she almost thought he winced, but then he smiled crookedly and said, ‘I think you lie. ‘

‘Your conceit is past belief,’ she said lightly, and walked on to the next painting. ‘Who is this? An ugly fellow. He has a cut-throat look about him. One of your ancestors, I imagine?’

He laughed softly. ‘Ah, Mistress Kitty Cat, what, sharp claws you have.’ He regarded the portrait of a grim-faced man in jewelled Elizabethan costume, his head to one side. ‘I admit, he is no beauty.’ His grey eyes slid back to her, dancing impudently. ‘But I am held to be tolerably handsome, I believe. ‘

‘You would make a fine Barbary pirate,’ she conceded. ‘All you require is a knife between your teeth, and a scar upon your cheek, and that, I think, I could willingly provide.’ She looked challengingly at him, reminding him of the scratch she had once inflicted on his face.

Far from appearing angry, there was laughter in his voice as he replied, and the grey eyes sparkled at her. ‘Madame, I meant, earlier, to tell you that I regretted the impudence I showed you at your first meeting. But I find, on reflection, that I can regret nothing that brought us so fatefully together.’

She blushed angrily. ‘Sir, you compound insolence with arrogance. Trust me, I bitterly regret that I have had the misfortune to meet you.’