The English Witch (Trevelyan Family 2)

She'd appraised Mr. Trevelyan accurately. Nonetheless, she was safer with him than she knew. His conscience, for instance, was an exceedingly feeble one that rarely troubled him. He was, as he'd told her, a womaniser. He was, moreover, feeling exceedingly amourous. He had not held a woman in his arms in many weeks. He had not held an Englishwoman in his arms in over a year. Here was a perfectly acceptable Englishwoman, who, despite the faint redolence of goats, was a perfectly delicious one as well. For all that, Miss Ashmore's virtue was as safe now as if she rode with her own Papa.

While his conscience was to all intents and purposes quite deaf, dumb, and blind, Basil's sense of self-preservation was strong. He wanted to hurry home and wreak havoc with the hearts of London's young ladies. He could not be free to destroy their peace if he were married to this particular young lady; and he knew perfectly well that if he didn't behave himself, he'd have to marry her. Even Basil knew better than to play fast and loose with Aunt Clem's goddaughter. He'd learned, to his cost, what came of antagonising family members. No. The price of pleasure was, in this case, far too high.

These musings on self-preservation led Basil to another problem—one that struck him so forcibly that he abruptly drew back from Miss Ashmore, towards whom he had, rather naturally, been inclining as he meditated. Consequently, she very nearly did fall off the startled horse. Only an excellent sense of balance, nurtured by many long treks on narrow mountain paths, kept her in her place.

"Good heavens!" she cried. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I just thought of something."

"Well, it must be perfectly frightful. Are you trying to kill us both?"

He made no answer to this, being engaged for the moment in soothing his mount and then in soothing Gregor, who had also taken alarm. Only after these two were completely at their ease again did Basil apologise for startling Alexandra.

"I just realised, Miss Ashmore, that if we convince your father of our undying devotion, he'll expect us to marry."

The cold dread with which he uttered the words could not be construed as complimentary. Still, his voice was so chillingly sepulchral that she had to laugh.

She had a very nice laugh—low and husky, like her speaking voice—but Basil was too discomposed to fully appreciate it. Instead, he asked her, with some annoyance, what was so funny.

"You say that as though you expected to be buried alive. How high-strung you are, Mr. Trevelyan. And I wonder that you hadn't thought of it before. Of course Papa would expect us to many, if he believes this folderol, which I rather doubt."

"Well, then?"

In answer she laughed again.

Basil's survival instincts appeared to have deserted him as he contemplated a few responses that would make her stop laughing—and rather abruptly, at that. He was, in feet, about to take steps towards that end when she spoke in more serious tones.

"Whatever Papa expects, I am not so hen-witted as to marry a perfect stranger simply to be rid of someone else."

"I will not be a perfect stranger by the time we're in England," was the huffy retort.

"Oh, so you mean to make me fall in love with you? That would be asking for trouble."

"That is not at all what I meant, wicked girl."

"Then what do you mean?"

He collected himself. Something had gotten in the way of his intellect. Lust, probably. "I meant, my love, only that this is a risky enterprise. I must trust you absolutely to jilt me once we are back, for I cannot, as a gentleman, jilt you. If I do, I will be driven away in disgrace—" He was about to say "again," but thought better of it. "My family would never forgive me."

"Yes, of course. There's an etiquette to these things." Her voice was a little tart, but recollecting that he was the only rescuer she had at the moment, she added hastily, "At any rate, I shall not lure you to the altar, Mr. Trevelyan. I solemnly promise to jilt you. In the meantime, if you don't want to give me the wrong idea, I suggest you save your 'my loves' for the appropriate audience."

He took her reproof with more of his natural composure and obediently turned the topic. They settled between them the story that would be told to Sir Charles. Then Mr. Trevelyan's curiosity had to be satisfied.

"How does it happen," he asked, "that we never met? Aunt Clem has godchildren over half of England, it seems, and I'm forever stumbling over them. Why, I'm sure she's brought out half a dozen goddaughters at least.''

"Yes. She wished to oversee my comeout as well. She wanted me to stay with her, from time to time, long before that. But Papa refused. He—well, he said he didn't believe in that foolishness." She hesitated.

"Foolishness? Oh. I see. Why put you on the Marriage Mart when he already had a husband for you?"

"Well, that was part of it." She felt a tad uncomfortable discussing family affairs with a stranger, even if he was Aunt Clem's nephew.

"And the other part?" he prodded.

"Really, you're the most inquisitive gentleman, Mr. Trevelyan."

"I want to know. I want to know what evil curse has kept us apart all these years."

She turned to look at him again, and he smiled. What a lovely, lazy smile, she thought. It made one feel so peaceful and relaxed, even while one's instincts warned one otherwise.

"No evil curse," she answered. "Only he hated Mama's friends, and has always believed London Society to be shallow, vain, stupid, and vicious. He did agree to a Season when I was eighteen, but until then, Mama lived in London, he was off travelling, and I stayed at our house in the country."

"Ah, I see. He didn't want you to turn out like the rest of Society's debs, so he kept you hidden away from evil influence."

She nodded.

"And what did you do in your rustic haven?"

"I read."

"I see."

Of course he didn't see. How could he? "My governess was rather a bluestocking," she explained. "Consequently, I do not handle my needle very well, and my watercolours are appalling, and—"

"Good heavens! You aren't about to tell me you don't play the pianoforte?"

This being uttered in horrified incredulity, she couldn't help but giggle, even as she admitted she could play no instrument—at least, not very well.

"You poor, benighted girl. What can you do?"

"I can, as Papa will tell you, talk a blue streak."

"Then talk, by all means, Miss Ashmore. It is, after all, the only safe thing one—or two, rather—can do upon a horse."

Deciding it was best to ignore his innuendoes, she invited him to choose a subject.

"Tell me of Albania. Tell me what you've discovered about Byron's 'rugged nurse of savage men.'"

She complied with his request, and he was a little surprised at what she said. She'd read neither Hobhouse's Travels in Albania nor Byron's Childe Harold, for those books had been published while she was travelling with her father. Thus, her perspective was all her own, with the focus on politics though she drew analogies from both literature and history. It wasn't a typical bluestocking speech—or at least, certainly not like that of any bluestocking he'd ever known. Her turn of mind was interesting, and her voice very pleasant to hear. Her letter, Basil supposed, had promised something, but this was more than he'd hoped for. He thought better of his aunt as a result, and the time passed more quickly than he'd expected, considering that it was not whiled away with dalliance.

They did not, as Basil had predicted, have to ride all night, though he guessed it was well past midnight when they reached the edge of the village to be met by Sir Charles, Mr. Burnham, and the Albanian servants. Alexandra, half-dead from exhaustion, gave herself over to Lefka's care and was lead away to a tiny cottage.

Meanwhile, Basil was set upon by the two Englishmen, who immediately began questioning him. Yes, he told them, Miss Ashmore was quite unharmed. No, he assured them, there would be no more trouble.

"But I must beg your pardon, gentlemen. It has been such an interesting day altogether that I am like to drop from fatigue. I assure y

ou I cannot put another answer together tonight. We will talk more tomorrow. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of a comfortable mound of earth—or a stump or a rock—and topple me onto it, I should be very much obliged."

Chapter Three