Whatever he thought was, mercifully, interrupted by Aunt Rosie being helped into the dining room by the footman, Isobel and Tamsyn behind her. Cris let out the breath he had not been aware of holding and set his face into the blandest and most neutral of all his diplomatic expressions.
Chapter Eleven
Cris ate and smiled and kept up his share of the conversation, which was not difficult when the two older ladies could talk of little else but the wonder of the sedan chair and all the expeditions they could take with Isobel riding her hack and Rosie being carried, safe and comfortable at her side. He had taught himself to carry on a dinner-party conversation in three languages while puzzling over a coded letter, planning a meeting and thinking about a new pair of boots. This cheerful domestic meal, even with Gabriel’s sardonic eye on him, was child’s play.
It gave him the opportunity to think about the self-revelation Gabe had forced on him. He had, somehow, deluded himself that he had fallen in love with Katerina and that was inexplicable. Yes, she was an attractive, intelligent woman—what he knew of her, which was very little. Yes, she had been attracted to him. But that was all. He had never been in love before, he was not in love now. There was no point in trying to convince himself that he had not lost temporary control of his reason over a woman.
It could have been a disaster. If he had not been so strong with himself about duty, honour and the need to protect both their reputations, the whole affair could have blown up into a diplomatic scandal, meant ruin for Katerina and probably someone dead on the duelling ground. And he would be a disgrace, tied to a woman who was quite intelligent enough to see through whatever protestations of devotion he made to her once their ruin had been accomplished.
What had come over him? He was not some green youth talking himself into love with an unobtainable beauty. He was, on the other hand, a mature man facing the prospect of making a suitable marriage and resenting it. He had always prided himself on his detachment and his independence and the only relationship that he had ever allowed to become personal, to matter, was his friendship with Gabe, Grant and Alex Tempest, Viscount Weybourn.
Was that what this was about? Had he armoured himself against the faceless, unknown, woman he was going to marry by telling himself that his heart was already taken, that marriage was a matter of form, of convention and of convenience, something that would not get close to him, could not hurt?
‘Mr Defoe?’
It took him a moment to remember that was who he was, that someone was speaking to him. It seemed that he had been over-confident and his dinner-party skills had disintegrated along with everything else. ‘I am sorry, I was distracted for a moment.’
‘I was just remarking what a spectacular sunset there is this evening,’ Aunt Rosie remarked.
The wall behind her was suffused with pink and those with their backs to the windows turned to admire the sight as the hot red disk of the sun dropped into the sea.
‘You almost expect to hear it sizzle,’ Tamsyn said as the colour faded. She rang the little hand bell by her side plate and when Michael came in, she gestured to him to light the candles. ‘There will be a full moon tonight.’
‘A smugglers’ moon?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Certainly, if there is a big run, then moonlight helps, especially if they are going to load it straight on the ponies and head inland,’ Tamsyn explained, surprising Cris with her lack of reticence in talking about the subject. ‘But the men know the coast so well that they can land with only the aid of a few dark lanterns on shore.’ She sent him a quizzical look. ‘You don’t want to take any notice of what that Riding Officer said. That’s just some foolish rumour. There’s no serious smuggling going on around here these days. I would know.’
She kept them entertained with tales of the last century when the gangs ruled the coast, then teased the two men with local ghost stories.
‘I’ll be safe riding back tomorrow, will I?’ Gabriel demanded with mock alarm. ‘No fear of finding Old Shuck loping at my heels, or headless horsemen or drowned sailors or any of those other horrors in broad daylight?’
‘Surely you are not leaving us so soon, Mr Stone?’ Isobel asked. ‘Do stay a little longer. I am sure you cannot have had time to discuss your business with Mr Defoe ye
t.’
‘This evening after dinner, ma’am…’ Gabriel began.
‘Not after the long day you have had,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘You relax this evening and see to your business tomorrow morning, then we can all take a picnic up on to the clifftops to celebrate my wonderful new sedan chair.’ When he hesitated she reached out her twisted fingers and touched the back of his hand. ‘Won’t you indulge me with your company? We are so quiet here that a charming and intelligent guest is too precious to lose.’
‘Ma’am, you overwhelm me with your hospitality. I would be delighted.’ It brought Cris out of his uncomfortable thoughts to see Gabriel succumbing to the charms of a woman old enough to be his mother, if not his grandmother. He normally avoided respectable older women like the plague and confined his conversation, and his attention, to high-flyers and dashing society matrons.
Tamsyn rang the little bell again and got to her feet as Michael came in. ‘We will leave you gentlemen to your port and nuts.’
Amidst the minor flurry of helping Rosie from the room Cris drew Tamsyn aside. ‘Where can we talk?’
‘Talk?’ She looked up at him and blushed. ‘The summer house at midnight.’
‘That is too close to the house—and uncomfortable for…conversation,’ he said, making her blush harder.
‘Uncomfortable for talking? I think not. But I will take you on a walk, if you are not frightened of meeting Black Shuck. Wear good boots for rough ground. Coming, Aunt Izzy!’
When he turned back Gabriel had returned to his seat and was pouring ruby port into the pair of fine Waterford crystal glasses Michael had set out for them. He raised his glass and sniffed. ‘Excellent port, duty paid or not.’
Edgy, Cris picked up the other glass and walked round the room to study a pair of sketches in the alcove by the fireplace. ‘They’ve some nice pieces here. I like the ladies’ style—Miss Isobel in particular will take some earthenware jar from the local potter, fill it with wild flowers and stand it on an exquisite Sheraton side table and it will look perfect.’
‘Stop fidgeting, it isn’t like you.’ Gabriel watched him, lids half-lowered over his gypsy-dark eyes. ‘I like your fierce little widow.’
‘She isn’t mine.’ Cris dropped into the nearest chair and reached for the wine. ‘We may have a…thing. For a short while, that is all.’ That was all it could be, of course. He knew exactly the sort of wife he needed, his father had explained that to him, young as he was. Marquesses married for dynastic reasons—connections, land, bloodlines. Tamsyn stirred his blood, but she was an obscure widow of a scandalous marriage without any of the attributes that would make a permanent connection acceptable in his world. But, as a widow, then a discreet affaire was perfectly acceptable.