smiled. ‘I have quite a surprise for you. You will never guess who turned up, quite unexpectedly last night, for a short stay at the vicarage.’
‘Well, then, tell me.’
‘Better yet, turn round, and you will see me for yourself.’
A cold fist seemed to close around Hester’s heart at the sound of the voice she had not heard since she was thirteen.
‘Lionel Snelgrove?’
She whirled round to face him as he stepped out of the shadows to the right of the door, grinning. Bold as brass. That knowing, challenging, lopsided grin.
She drew herself upright, reminding herself that she was a grown woman now, and the room was full of people—everything was different this time.
‘Aren’t you glad to see me, Hetty?’ He laughed a little raggedly, running his fingers through his thick tawny hair. ‘Everyone else is thrilled to have me back.’
But then nobody else knew him like she did, did they? Her eyes narrowed. He was taller than she remembered, his body that of a man now, not a gangly schoolboy. As if his thoughts mirrored her own, he added, ‘You’ve certainly grown—don’t know if I would have recognised you if I’d come across you in the street.’
His eyes raked her frame. ‘Last time I saw you, you were just a skinny little carrotty-topped thing, romping about the meadows after your brother and me, and now…’ before she could stop him he had seized her hand and pressed it to his loathsome, thick lips ‘…I can scarce credit what a beauty you have become.’
She snatched her hand away, wiping the back of it down her skirts.
He laughed. ‘Come, Hester, don’t pretend to be shy of me. You were never shy of me before—why, we were almost like brother and sister when last I was here. In fact…’ he leaned even closer to her, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge ‘…you really were a very naughty little girl at times. If I were to recount some of the mischief you and I used to get up to…’
Somewhere in the distance, through the roaring in her ears, she heard Em’s voice saying, ‘Stop it, Lionel. Hester cannot help her colouring, and if she was carrotty haired and a bit of a tomboy when she was little, it is not at all gentlemanly to remind her of it.’
‘No, indeed,’ Lionel purred, completely unabashed by the public reproof, ‘but now her hair is—what I can see of it—a shade that puts one in mind of a forest in autumn. Such a pity to hide it away under that funny little scarf. Wherever did you get it, Hetty?’ He gave her a look loaded with meaning. ‘It looks exactly the sort of thing a gypsy would wear.’
He knows, she thought. Then, in despair, of course he knows. He and Gerard were so close, there was no way he could have kept the secret from him. And he is warning me that if I do not play along with him, he is quite capable of spilling the whole thing, in the drawing room, in front of my aunt, and my cousins, and…she spun round…
‘Lord Lensborough,’ she moaned. He was standing in the doorway, not three feet from her. How much had he heard? Why couldn’t he have stayed with the children a few more minutes? Trust him to turn up just when she particularly wished him elsewhere.
‘Come and sit by me, Hetty.’ Lionel was standing far too close. His breath was hot on her cheek as he murmured in her ear, ‘I think you will agree, we have a great deal to discuss.’
She could not make her legs move. Her head swam, her stomach churned. Wildly she looked about for a means of escape.
Em was clutching the parcel tight between her hands, looking from one to the other with a helplessly puzzled expression on her face. Her aunt was bent over her embroidery, oblivious to the undercurrents. Julia and Phoebe, no help from that quarter. The minute Lord Lensborough entered a room neither of them could concentrate on anything but impressing him. Mr Farrar? The fashion plate? He was about as much use as paper stirrups.
There was nothing for it. On this occasion she had no choice but to go apart with Lionel Snelgrove, and listen to whatever deal he had come to put to her. Sensing her defeat, he smiled, his nostrils flaring as if he relished the scent of her fear.
He did. She shuddered. She knew of old that he thrived on it.
Lord Lensborough watched her wilting before his astonished gaze. He had heard enough, through the open door as he had approached the library, to know that this fellow was purposely unsettling Lady Hester. Her face was white, her lips were white, and she was trembling from head to toe as if she was on the verge of a faint.
He recalled all the things he had been told about her in a jumbled rush. He had not believed that her Season had been disastrous because she was shy, having been on the receiving end of her temper, but could she really be as shy as everyone had told him? Could a woman have two such opposite traits of character existing side by side?
Yet why not? He had known many horses just like that. Trembling and sweating nervously when the halter went over their head, then kicking out wildly in an attempt to break free. Just like a wild colt, she responded to a man’s approach by either shying or kicking up her heels in a display of defiance.
His eyes narrowed. Whatever this revelation might mean for him he would consider at his leisure. For now, all that mattered was that she was in dire need of rescue. This oaf was bullying her, delighting in reducing her to a mass of quivering nerves. He had met fellows who broke their horses in that way—the fools. The end result was a mount that was not worth riding. For the thrill of mastering, breaking another creature’s spirit, they destroyed all that was fine and admirable.
Well, not while he was here to prevent it. He would not stand by and see a man mistreat a horse, let alone the woman he intended to marry.
He took a calming breath, reminding himself this was a drawing room, not a boxing ring. The method would have to be different, but as far as he was concerned, the gloves were off.
‘Snelgrove, did I hear your name was?’ He held out a hand, forcing the man into either ignoring his overture, or relinquishing his grip on Lady Hester’s elbow. ‘I am Lensborough. I dare say you have heard of me.’
After the briefest of hesitations, the man let go of Lady Hester to shake his hand. ‘Friend of the family, are you?’
There was an awkward pause. Hester still did not appear to have the ability to move as yet, let alone frame a coherent introduction.
‘Mr Snelgrove is a distant relative of mine,’ Miss Dean supplied. ‘He arrived unexpectedly last night.’
On a repairing lease, no doubt, Lord Lensborough thought, taking in the waxy countenance and bloodshot eyes that betokened a life of dissipation. ‘Do you stay long in the district?’ he inquired, taking a pace into the room. In order to continue the conversation, Snelgrove had to turn away from Lady Hester slightly.
‘As long as necessary, my lord. It all depends.’
To his relief, he saw a tide of angry colour rush into Lady Hester’s face, her fists clenching at her sides when Snelgrove glanced her way, grinning.
‘I have many old friends in this area, with whom I wish to renew…links. Lady Hester’s brother was a very dear friend of mine, and I used to run tame in this house during school vacations. Sadly I have not been able to return since the funeral, but now that I am here I had hoped to make up for that omission.’
‘You lost a brother, too, Lady Hester?’ Lord Lensborough’s voice was gentle.
Hester managed to open her mouth, but no sound came out. How could he sound so sympathetic when she had ridden roughshod over his own grief?
‘Alas, he died about six years ago,’ Lady Gregory piped up. ‘A terrible tragedy.’ She looked nervously at Lord Lensborough, then meaningfully at Hester as she went on, ‘We never speak of it…it is too upsetting.’
He looked at Hester, whose face was pale as milk yet again. ‘Forgive me, Lady Hester, for intruding on your