your pride is still as damned lofty as ever …’ Then he began to laugh—a bitter, ugly sound. His pale blue eyes were assessing her greedily. ‘Hold a minute. Now, let me think. Here you are, in Davenant’s house—can it be that my money wasn’t enough to tempt you, but Davenant’s is?’
He laid his hand on her shoulder and let it slide to her breast. Belle’s stomach heaved as she knocked it away.
‘You disgust me, my lord,’ she breathed. ‘You did when we last met and not a thing has changed—’
‘What the deuce is going on?’
The man’s voice came from the wide staircase above them. Jarvis jumped away from Belle and looked up angrily at the speaker. ‘Davenant. Damn it, I’d no idea you were there …’
Belle looked up, too. And with this second shock she felt so dizzy that her ribs ached with the need for air. No. Impossible. Please …
The newcomer scarcely glanced at her. It was on Jarvis that his iron gaze rested as he came steadily down the stairs; he was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the sober perfection of black tailcoat and pristine white neckcloth.
He said to Jarvis, ‘I thought you were on your way out a while ago.’
‘And so I was,’ declared Jarvis furiously. ‘Until I was delayed, by an encounter with this woman here.’
‘Not true,’ breathed Belle.
‘Oh, it is true. She insulted me, Davenant, damn it!’
Belle thought she’d been prepared for almost anything. But not for the fact that Adam Davenant, her brother’s enemy, was the man on Sawle Down into whose ears she’d poured insult after insult.
Desperate hope rose in her breast. He might not remember me. He might not recognise me …
Lord Jarvis did though, all too well; Jarvis was still glaring at her, and to him she said as steadily as she could, ‘You claim I insulted you, Lord Jarvis. All I did was tell you to stop pursuing that serving girl because you were frightening her out of her wits.’ Belle met his glare squarely, though she truly wished the ground would open up and swallow her.
‘I’ll escort you to the door, Jarvis,’ she heard Davenant saying.
The two men were moving away from her along the hall; she saw Jarvis pausing by the open doorway, still muttering angrily to Davenant, jabbing his finger in her direction. Dear God, she could just imagine what foul lies he’d be concocting.
‘Good day to you, Jarvis,’ Davenant was saying.
Jarvis gave a swift nod. ‘Good day to you, Davenant. We’ll speak soon, I’ve no doubt.’ The footman closed the door after him and Adam Davenant was coming back towards her. The footman hadn’t bothered to ask her name; there was a chance, just a chance she might still somehow be able to wriggle out of this …
‘Well,’ Mr Davenant said softly. ‘So we meet again, Mrs Marchmain.’
Her last hope died.
Chapter Four
Adam Davenant was astounded and annoyed. As if Jarvis wasn’t enough—the damned man caused trouble wherever he went—she was here.
A footman had warned Adam that a rather odd lady had come to call and within moments of first seeing her in the hall it had all fallen into place. She was the woman who’d emerged from that dreadful old carriage.
And who’d stirred memories of that sunlit March afternoon in Somerset.
Stirred more than memories, in fact. She was clad outrageously in a clinging outfit of turquoise and pink with a loud bonnet trailing ribbons everywhere. Her eyes were emerald, her raven-black curls set off the perfect creaminess of her skin, her lips were full and rosy.
And he steadily reminded himself that just a few weeks ago she’d heaped such insults on the name of Adam Davenant that they were etched like acid on his memory. Even more ominously—she knew Jarvis.
‘You’re very quiet, Mrs Marchmain,’ he drawled. ‘Surely you aren’t trying to conjure up more insults to hurl at me? Or have you exhausted yourself being rude to Jarvis?’
Belle swallowed on the dryness in her throat and lifted her chin. ‘He was treating that young serving maid abominably. You will perhaps remark, Mr Davenant, that I had no right to interfere, but I could not stand by!’
He was watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. ‘You do tend to say what you think, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You have a neat way with put-downs. You told me, for instance, that I wasn’t born to wealth and it showed.’
Oh, Lord, thought Belle rather faintly. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven a single word. Something shook inside her, seeing him like this, no longer wearing the garb of a rough quarry worker, but dressed as the rich, powerful man he was, here in his mansion. And how well he fitted the part. To say he was handsome wasn’t enough. His strong features and formidable stature implied power and dominance. Edward had described him as a boor. No one else in their right mind would.
But she was damned if she would grovel. ‘How was I supposed to know who you were? How could I have guessed, when you were—you were—’
‘Dressed like a labourer?’ he cut in. ‘That was because I’d been inspecting my quarry. I judge people by their words and actions, Mrs Marchmain, not their attire; a lesson you might try learning. Now it’s my turn for questions, the most obvious being—why exactly are you here?’ His voice licked somehow at her senses, soft and dangerous. Dear God, her errand was doomed before it had even begun.
But she had to try. ‘I have business with you, Mr Davenant, which concerns my brother. I wrote to you, but you did not deign to reply!’
‘I leave begging letters to my secretary, Lowell.’
Begging letters. ‘How dare—?’
‘Mrs Marchmain,’ he interrupted, ‘I’m an extremely busy man. And your brother—Hathersleigh—has taken up too much of my time already.’
Heat surged through her veins. ‘You could at least give this matter your attention!’
‘Why? Because you’re members of the once-illustrious Hathersleigh family?’
She bit her lip. ‘We are not without influence still.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Please don’t remind me that you have a great-uncle who is a duke, as your brother once did.’ She visibly flinched. ‘I really don’t care,’ he went on, ‘if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?’
Oh, Lord.
She remembered how at Sawle Down the dust had clung to this man’s breeches and boots and perspiration had gleamed on his hard cheekbones. Today, he could have claimed to be a duke himself and no one would have doubted it. His clothes were exceedingly plain, yes, but that coat of his had clearly been cut by a master to fit those broad shoulders so perfectly. Sleek buckskins clung to his powerfully muscular thighs and his polished top boots were exquisite. His thick dark hair was cropped short, his pristine neckcloth was quite perfect.
He made no effort to clamour for attention. He didn’t need to. And as his slate-grey eyes rested on hers, she felt a sharp jolt of awareness implode quietly yet devastatingly inside her. Awareness of what, precisely? Of his sheer maleness, that was what. It was impossible to look at him without thinking: here was a man of power, with a man’s desires, and all that implied.
And he was her family’s enemy. Her enemy.
She said, her head lifted high, but her pulse rate in tumult, ‘I hope you will accept, Mr Davenant, that I spoke in the heat of the moment that afternoon