Ravished by the Rake (Danger and Desire 1)

The Earl of Wycombe strode over to where Alistair stood at his horse’s head, apart from the family reunion. ‘My dear Lyndon!’ He enveloped him in a bear hug that, after a moment, Alistair returned. ‘We can never repay you for bringing us our Dita home safely.’ Her father held the younger man by the shoulders and regarded him sombrely. ‘You have been through a most terrible ordeal, and now to come home to the news of your father instead of the reunion you must have longed for so much—it is a bad business. You may rely upon me for any assistance I can give you.’

‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate your generous offer.’ He looked directly at Perdita and then, with reluctance, it seemed to her, came across and took her hands in his. ‘Home safe, Dita. Your courage will see you the rest of the way. We will talk later.’ He bent and kissed her cheek, bowed to her mother and walked back to his horse.

‘But, Lord Iwerne,’ Lady Wycombe called, starting across the gravel towards him, ‘will you not stay tonight with us? I know it is only a matter of a few miles, but you must be so weary.’

It was one mile by the direct route: jumping the stream, scrambling up and down wooded slopes, cutting through the kitchen gardens. Dita had done it often enough as a child and she guessed that that was the way Alistair would take, not troubling to ride the six miles round by road, through the lodge gates and up the winding carriage drive to the castle.

‘Ma’am, thank you, but I should go home.’ It seemed to Dita that he hesitated on the last word, but perhaps it was her imagination. ‘And, besides, you will want to be alone with your daughter now.’

He swung up into the saddle, touched his whip to his hat and cantered off down the drive. Off into his new life, Dita thought. His English life. A new title, a new role and a new wife when I can persuade him that I am not his responsibility.

‘Oh, I am so glad to be home,’ she said, turning and hugging George. ‘Tell me absolutely everything!’

Chapter Fifteen

Alistair kept the tired horse to a slow canter across the Brookes’ parkland, then slowed as they entered the woods. The ride had narrowed to a narrow track now, proof of the lack of recent contact between the two estates. He wound his way through, then cut off to send the horse plunging down to the boundary brook, up the other bank. On this side, his land, the track became a path that eventually led him to the high wall of the kitchen gardens.

Strange how it all came back, he thought, as he leaned down to hook up the catch on the gate with the handle of his whip. It creaked open as it always had and he ducked his head as they passed through. It was almost dark now and no one was working amidst the beds and cold frames, but there was a light in the head gardener’s cottage.

The horse plodded along the grass paths to the opposite gate, patient as Alistair remembered the knack of flicking the catch open, then it was a short ride to the looming bulk of the stable block.

The grooms were just finishing for the night; most of the doors were closed, the yard almost deserted, although there was light spilling from the tack room door and the sound of someone whistling inside. A lad was filling buckets at the pump and looked up at the sound of hooves.

‘Sir? Can I help you?’

Alistair rode closer, then dismounted where the light from the tack room caught his face. The boy gasped. ‘My lord?’ So, his resemblance to his father had strengthened as he had grown older. He had thought it himself, but it was interesting to see the confirmation in the lad’s face.

‘Yes, I am Alistair Lyndon,’ he said. Best to be clear, just in case the lad thought he was seeing a ghost.

‘And right welcome you are, my lord,’ said a voice from the tack room door as a burly man came out. ‘You won’t remember me, my lord, but I’m—’

‘Tregowan,’ Alistair said, holding out his hand. ‘Of course I remember you, you were a groom here when I left. Your father taught me to ride.’

‘Aye, my lord.’ The groom clasped his hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘He died last November and I’m head groom now.’

‘I’m sorry to hear he is gone, but he’d be proud to know there’s still a Tregowan running the stables here.’

‘Fourth generation, my lord. But you’ll be wanting to get up to the house, not stand here listening to me. Jimmy, lad, you run ahead and let Mr Barstow know his lordship’s home.’ The boy took to his heels and Tregowan walked with Alistair towards the archway.

‘I did hear that your letter arrived yesterday, my lord, all about the shipwreck. I’m powerful sorry to hear about that—you’ll have lost friends, I’ve no doubt.’ Alistair gave a grunt of acknowledgment. ‘Her ladyship took a proper turn. As bad as she was when your father died, from what they say.’ His rich Cornish burr held no shade of expression.

‘Indeed. Well, I had better go and reassure her that I am safe and alive.’ Alistair kept his own tone as bland. ‘Goodnight, Tregowan; I look forward to seeing the stables tomorrow.’

As he rounded the corner the front of the castle came into view. In 1670 the Lyndon of the day had extended and fortified the old keep that had suffered so badly at the hands of Cromwell’s forces. His grandson had added an imposing frontage in the taste of the early eighteenth-century and successive generations had added on, modernised and improved until any lover of Gothic tales would have been hard put to find a draughty corridor, a damp dungeon or a ruined turret in the place.

Alistair thought about Dita’s sensation novel, lost now, and wondered whether she would try to rewrite it. He stopped to get the feelings that thinking about her evoked under control. How could he have done that—and how could she not have told him? What did it take to preserve a perfect social façade with a man who had so brutally taken your innocence?

The thought had come to him on today’s interminable ride that perhaps she had gone to his arms on the ship in order to prove something to herself, to lay a ghost. Or perhaps, when his thoughts had been darkest, she intended him to fall in love with her so she could punish him by her refusal.

She was certainly punishing him now; his conscience and his honou

r demanded he marry her, but without her consent he was left with few options. He could tell her father, he could abduct her, he could seduce her and get her with child.

His face must have been grim as the massive front doors opened and he strode up the steps and into the Great Hall. The butler, who was a stranger to him, froze and then stammered, ‘My lord. Welcome back to Lyndonholt Castle, my lord. I am Barstow.’ He looked beyond Alistair, into the gloom. ‘Your luggage, my lord? Your man?’

‘I have neither. If there is one of the footmen suitable, I’ll have him as valet for the moment; he can find me evening wear in my father’s wardrobe, I have no doubt. My compliments to her ladyship and I will join her at dinner. I would like a fire lit in my room and hot water for a bath immediately.’

‘My lord.’ The butler stepped forwards as Alistair made for the stairs. ‘Her ladyship gave no orders about his late lordship’s bedchamber. It is exactly as he left it, the bed is not made up—’