LITMIR.BIZ

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their speculation had not been herself.

      It now became imperative for Letitia and her pupils to take their leave of their hosts, pack themselves into carriages and escape to the safety of Paradise Road away from the controversies surrounding Lord Rayne’s unwanted presence. If he had not been invited, Letitia was sure she would not be feeling so annoyed, even if she ought to have anticipated some trouble, in view of her previous experiences.

      Her farewell to her host and hostess, however, could not be rushed through in a few brief words, and when Sir Francis took her to one side, impolitely monopolising her attention, it was more than she could do to snub him by refusing point-blank to cross the threshold of his large library where he promised to show her a rare volume of John Donne’s poetry before she left. Just to one side of the columned hall, the white double doors were wide open and, since anyone could see inside, Letitia saw no danger in following him.

      John Donne was one of her favourite poets, but the library was not well lit and, when Sir Francis opened the book upon his desk and moved it across to show her the handwritten script, she found it impossible to see much except the first decorated letter. Deciding there and then that this was to be the extent of her obligation to him, she bent to look more closely as his hand smoothed over the pattern of words on the page. His body moved too close as only a father would have done, innocent but invasive, nevertheless. His breath smelled of brandy. She was tired, emotional and, she thought later, too keyed up to think sensibly, and what happened next was as much the result of her over-reaction as Sir Francis’s uncomfortable closeness.

      She moved away and took a hasty step backwards, hitting her heel against some unseen object, and crashing down over the top of it on to the carpeted floor, forcing a yelp from her lips.

      Lights tipped and jerked crazily.

      Hands reached out.

      Shapes bent over her.

      A man’s face loomed through a haze of shock.

      ‘No…no, don’t touch me!’ she whispered. ‘I can manage alone.’

      ‘Miss Boyce, take my hand. It’s me, Rayne. Let me help you to get this footstool out of the way. You fell over it, I believe. Are you much hurt?’

      Somewhere behind her, she heard the deeply cutting voice of his brother asking Melborough what in hell’s name he thought he was doing to invite a young lady to be alone with him, telling him with unarguable finality that it didn’t matter whether the doors were open or not, he should have known better. The thud of Sir Francis’s footsteps on the carpet was swallowed into the soft hum from the hall.

      Letitia struggled to sit upright against the desk. ‘My eyeglasses,’ she said. ‘I heard a crack just now. They’re hanging from my wrist. Please, if you would move your foot, my lord.’

      There was a tinkle of glass as he obliged. ‘Damn!’he said.

      ‘Oh…oh, no!’

      Crouching down beside her, he removed the ribbon from her gloved wrist from which dangled the golden scissors-spectacles, one half now empty of glass, its pieces on the floor. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t see them there. Why in pity’s name doesn’t he get some lights in here?’ Carefully, he picked up the pieces. ‘Truly, I’m sorry. I’ll have them mended immediately. Leave it with me. Come, Miss Boyce, you should go straight home. Can you stand now?’ Tucking the broken parts into his pocket, he held out his arms to her as Lord Elyot watched.

      Although she had heard, only a few moments ago, how indelicate their talk about women could be, she made no protest as his arms enclosed her shoulders and gently pulled her upright, nor did she object when his cheek almost touched hers. She clung to his arm. ‘Yes, I can stand, thank you. Ouch…oh, ouch! I’m all right, really. It was nothing.’

      ‘No, you’re not!’ said Lord Elyot, sternly. ‘You’ve had a nasty fall.’

      ‘Not as bad as I’ve had on the hunting field, my lord.’

      ‘That was years ago. Rayne and I will support you. See,’ he said, offering her his arm, ‘this is entirely proper. It will cause not the slightest comment for you to take both our arms, Miss Boyce. Will it?’

      Obediently linking her arms through theirs, she winced visibly as the dull pain came pulsing into her knee and elbow. ‘Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.’ From the corner of her eye, she caught a look from Lord Elyot sent across her head to his brother.

      ‘A little kindness goes a long way, eh, brother?’he said, softly.

      Bustling towards them, Miss Gaddestone was all concern. Mr Waverley was not far behind, then came the others, flocking to her with smiles of sympathy and tender enquiries. Her arms were relinquished to others on a wave of affection that bore her out towards a waiting carriage, lifting her into it, settling her with rugs and cushions.

      ‘Bart, will you…?’ she began.

      ‘Leave it all to me,’he said. ‘Came a cropper, did you, Lettie?’

      ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied, catching Lord Rayne’s eye.

       Chapter Five

      With so much to be said about the success of the evening, it was very late when the three boarders and Mrs Quayle left Number 24 for their beds next door. Everyone they had spoken to agreed that Miss Boyce’s very select seminary excelled in the quality of the teaching and in the astonishing progress of the pupils. The only sad note was the absence of Edina’s parents and grandparents, though Letitia did her best to sweeten the disappointment by drawing attention to the absence of her own family, too. It could not be helped, she said, if one’s family could not always be where one wanted them to be.

      Later, sitting up against a bank of pillows in her own bed, Letitia felt the sadness as keenly as her Scottish pupil, knowing that her sisters would gladly have come if their mother had chaperoned them. What would it take to get her here? she wondered. What would it take to win her approval?

      Other incidents had left a sour taste in Letitia’s mouth, the last one being by far the most serious and the one her friends had kindly glossed over as being no more than an accident, though they must have realised there was something more to it than that. She had been warned, and had assured Lord Rayne that she was capable of looking after herself, and now he would think she had brought it upon her own head.

      It had also served her right for trying to manage without wearing her spectacles on such an important occasion, and now they were broken. Amongst her literary friends it mattered less, for most of them wore them openly. But tonight she had wanted to look her best, to be a credit to her pupils and to set an example of womanly perfection, as far as she was able.

      But her efforts to hold herself above the reach of rakes had been less than successful, for the one whose attentions set up her hackles more than any other had discussed her with his brother as if she were a filly ready to be taken in hand. It was what he had rudely told her more than once. Perhaps that was the way they discussed her sisters also—her ‘tedious, predictable sisters’. Unlike them, she had always been too threateningly bookish for any man to think of in romantic terms, and even Rayne found her—apparently—intriguing rather than attractive, a challenge, a diversion, nothing too serious. Nor had Bart ever shown her any romantic intentions.

      Between bouts of reflection, her pencil on the page described the atmosphere, mannerisms, expressions and ensembles, the music and voices, the colours, the blurred flutter of fans and feathers, the perfumes and the faint, warm, male scent of the man who had lifted her from the floor, effortlessly. The pencil stopped, her head fell back upon the pillow, eyes closed, remembering. Was that how it would feel to be lifted, carried, laid upon a bed?

      Busily, the pencil continued its word pictures. Her elbow and knee throbbed. She took another sip of warm chocolate while constructing an image of Lady Boston who would, naturally, be ravishingly beautiful, not at all sharp-tongued or intellectual, and probably pining up in Northumberland for the brother of her uncle-in-law.

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