The Earl Plays With Fire

‘A waltz is just beginning, Miss Tallis.’

‘I’m not dancing this evening, Lord Veryan.’

‘Come—a few steps only and then I’ll leave.’

Christabel hesitated. The temptation to find herself in his arms again seemed overwhelming.

‘A few minutes of the waltz should not take up too much of your time.’

As if in a dream she allowed herself to be swept on to the dance floor. He held her tightly, his form fitting hers, two halves making a whole. As they neared the far window Richard pulled the curtain swiftly to one side and danced her on to the balcony.

She gasped. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

His eyes glittered in the moonlight, and when he spoke his voice was rough with desire.

‘One last kiss,’ he whispered.

About the Author

ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.

The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century, and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.

A previous novel:

REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY

Did you know that this novel is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Earl

Plays with Fire

Isabelle Goddard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

London—1816

‘Have you heard the latest?’ The voice came out of nowhere.

Christabel Tallis, aimlessly fanning herself, stopped for a moment and glanced at the mirror which hung on the opposite wall. She knew neither of the women reflected there. Perched uncomfortably on one of the stiffly brocaded benches that lined the Palantine Gallery, she had been wondering, not for the first time that morning, why she’d ever agreed to her mother’s suggestion that they meet Julian here. Lady Harriet had insisted they attend what was billed as the show of the Season, but for Christabel the delights of London society had long ago palled. The salon was overheated and far too crowded, and her delicate skin was already slightly flushed.

‘About the Veryan boy, you mean?’ one of the women continued.

The name hovered in the air, menacing Christabel’s shield of calm detachment. The buzz of inconsequential chatter faded into the distance and every fibre of her body became alert.

‘He’s hardly a boy now, of course.’

‘Indeed no. How long has it been? Lady Veryan must be overjoyed that he is returning home at last.’

Suddenly Christabel longed to be far away from this conversation, away from this room. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the gallery’s long windows, breaking through a lowering sky and burnishing her auburn curls into a fiery cloud. The warming light was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but to her it seemed to beckon escape. Escape to where, though? To a country of grey slate and blue seas, a landscape of moor and rocks? To Cornwall, to home? But that could not be; she knew well that her future lay elsewhere.

‘One can only hope that he actually arrives,’ the woman opined in a hushed voice.

The other shuddered theatrically. ‘I understand the journey from Argentina is very long and most dangerous.’

‘My dear, yes. You must remember The Adventurer—just a few years ago. It sailed from Buenos Aires …’

The women moved away and she heard no more. That was sufficient. Richard’s name reverberated through her mind. After all these years—five, six it would be—he was coming back. Her deep green eyes stared into the distance and saw only memory.

She was seated on a stone bench in the garden of the Veryan town house, the lush fragrance of rose blossoms tumbling in the air. Richard was standing straight and tall in front of her, his mouth compressed and his face white and set. She had just told him that she could not marry him and was offering his ring back. She could not marry him because she was in love with Joshua. And Joshua just happened to be one of Richard’s closest friends. What a wretched business that had been. She and Richard had drifted into an engagement, more to please their parents than from any passionate attachment, and Joshua was the result. The family estates bordered each other and she’d known Richard all her life. It felt natural to be planning to spend the rest of it together. But her visit to London to buy bride clothes had vouchsafed a different perspective: Cornwall and their shared childhood vanished in a sea mist. Instead there was a thrilling round of parties, balls, picnics, assemblies and, at the end of it, Joshua. No, she couldn’t marry Richard. She was too young and too passionate and friendship was not enough.

‘Miss Tallis, please accept my sincerest apologies for arriving so late.’

A well-dressed man in a puce tailcoat and fawn pantaloons stood before her. He took her shapely hand in his, kissing it with elaborate courtesy, and bowed politely to Lady Tallis, who had broken off her conversation with a chance-met companion just long enough to smile benignly at the man she hoped would become her son-in-law.

Sir Julian Edgerton’s pleasant face wore a rueful smile. ‘I fear the Committee took longer than expected. There is always such a deal to do for the Pimlico Widows and Orphans. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

‘Naturally, Sir Julian, how could I not? You lead a truly benevolent life!’ Christabel’s musical voice held the suspicion of a laugh, but her face was lit with the gentlest of smiles.

‘Now that I am here, may I get you some refreshment?’

‘What a good idea! It’s so very hot in this room. Lemonade, perhaps?’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said gallantly, ‘and when we are once more comfortable, would you care to make a quick tour of the paintings with me? I am anxious to hear your views. You have such a refined sensibility.’

She sighed inwardly, but nodded assent while her mother beamed encouragement. She knew Lady Harriet was counting on Sir Julian’s proposal. At nearly twenty-five Christabel was already perilously close to being on the shelf and she could no longer delay the decision to marry. Sir Julian might not be the most exciting man of her acquaintance, but he was solid and dependable and would make a restful husband.

More than that, he would be an adoring one. And she could trust him. After the bruising experience of her girlhood, such a man was surely worth any amount of excitement.

If she made this marriage, it might help repair some of the destruction she’d wreaked all those years ago. Her parents had loved Richard as a son and his dismissal had hit them very hard. As for Richard, she was sure he’d remained heart whole. He’d never loved her with the passion she had craved. Instead he’d been angry and humiliated. It was the gossip he had loathed, being on everyone’s tongue, the jilted suitor. Within a sennight he’d escaped England and was on a boat to Argentina. Lord Veryan had told the world it was needful that his son administer the family’s growing estates in South America, but the world had known the real reason for Richard’s sudden departure. So he’d escaped, but she’d paid the price for her indiscretion. Jilting a man three weeks before the wedding was the height of bad ton and scurrilous gossip had swirled around her head for months. It was difficult to recall six years later just how vulnerable she’d felt. Today she was an acknowledged leader of fashion, an ice-cold beauty who’d remained impregnable despite countless suitors. But then she’d been a raw, passionate girl, in the throes of a thrilling infatuation, and unable to dissemble.

‘I’m afraid the lemonade is as warm as the salon.’ Sir Julian had emerged from the crush and was at her elbow, proffering the glass he’d procured with some difficulty.

For a moment she looked blindly up at him. Past distresses were crowding in on her and, for the second time that morning, she looked for escape. She needed distraction, needed to be on the move.

‘I think I would prefer to view the pictures after all, Sir Julian.’

She rose from her seat as she spoke and, smoothing the creases from her amber silk walking dress, took her suitor’s arm. They began slowly to stroll around the gallery. As always her elegant figure drew glances of frank admiration from those she passed and Sir Julian, feeling pride in his possession, held her arm even more tightly. While they walked, he spoke sensibly about the paintings they inspected and she tried hard to conjure interest in his carefully considered opinions. He was a good man, she told herself severely, and she must not hanker for more. That way lay disaster. She had learned that lesson well. It had taken little time to discover that Richard was worth twenty times the man who’d displaced him. The relationship with Joshua had petered out, destroyed by her guilt and his inevitable betrayal.

‘I must say that I find these colours a little too forceful. They jangle the nerves rather than soothe.’

Sir Julian was standing before a group of canvases whose landscapes pulsated with lurid crimsons and golds, an anarchic depiction of the natural world.

‘What do you think, Miss Tallis—am I being old fashioned?’

‘Not old fashioned precisely, Sir Julian, but perhaps a little traditional? One needs to open one’s mind to different possibilities,’ she hazarded, thinking that just one of the pictures on her bedroom wall would be enough to keep her awake at night.

‘As always you are right. I will look with your eyes and endeavour to see these canvases anew.’

Why did he always have to agree with her? Richard would have mocked her pretensions, laughed openly at her and they would have ended sharing the joke together. But Richard’s companionship was long gone. How strange to think that he would soon be in England, but this time returning as the new Earl Veryan. It was three months since Lord Veryan’s life had been brutally cut short by a riding accident. Richard would have left for home the minute he’d received the dreadful news, but a long and treacherous journey meant his father had been buried while he was still on the high seas. At the funeral Lady Veryan had been beyond grief; it was certain to be a very sad homecoming for her son. Her escort continued to talk, but Christabel’s thoughts were elsewhere, straying inevitably towards a lone man adrift on a distant ocean. With a great effort she forced herself to return to Sir Julian and his enthusiastic recital; the small successes of Pimlico’s deserving poor had never seemed less riveting.

A few hundred miles away, the new Earl Veryan gazed blankly over the sea as it threaded itself swiftly past the ship. He was deep in thought and not all of it was pleasant. The last image of his father played through his mind, the stocky figure waving from the dockside, a bright red handkerchief in his hand, growing smaller and smaller as the ship made its way to the open sea. He had been away from England for too long; he had not been there for his father when he needed him. Now at last he was returning home, but to an unknown life. The Great Hall would no longer echo to Lord Veryan’s greeting and the task of administering a large estate was now his. He knew himself well capable, but he was sorry to be leaving Argentina behind. The country had been good to him. A rugged outdoor life had taught him authority and decisiveness. It had honed him physically and created an inner strength he’d not known he possessed. And life there had not been all hard work. The social round was lively and largely free of the stifling conventions of London society, and the tall, handsome Englishman was a popular guest. There had been music and laughter and plenty of beautiful women happy to engage in a light flirtation or more. He’d enjoyed their favours freely and indifferently, determined to consign love to the vault of history and simply enjoy the physical pleasures of the moment. It had become a way of life for him, demanding little emotion and no commitment.

The moon cut a path across the surface of the small waves so bright that it made him blink. His eyes focused on the expanse of ocean, at the different shades of silver and black stretching to the horizon, then to the lanterns which hung above him, swinging comfortingly to the rhythm of the ship. The crew were engaged elsewhere and he had the deck to himself. He wondered if he dared to smoke a cigar, a disastrous habit he’d contracted in Argentina, but decided that he’d better keep that delight for later. Dinner would be served soon and he did not want to escort Domino to the table smelling of tobacco.

The boat gave a louder creak than usual with the sudden swell of the ocean, but the vessel soon recovered its peaceful passage. A sailor appeared from the deck below and waved a greeting.

‘Fine weather, sir, and the forecast’s good. Should be a quiet landfall, I’m thinking.’

It had not always been so calm; they had suffered tempests aplenty since leaving Buenos Aires and there had been times when he’d wondered if they would ever make it to land again. But it was tranquil now and he had leisure to think. The grey eyes were expressionless, his dark straight brows furrowed. The meeting with his mother would be painful, he knew, but there would be joy too. To be home again; to feel Cornish air on his skin once more and to awake to the sound of Cornish surf breaking on the rocky cove below Madron Abbey. He saw in his mind’s eye the winding path from the house across the green headland and then the sudden dramatic fall of cliffs tumbling into the wild seas. He’d walked that pathway so many times in memory. In just a few weeks he would be walking it in reality.

Immediately the ship berthed in Southampton, he would post up to London and ensure that Domino was safely consigned to the care of her aunt. The sooner he could do this, the sooner he could travel on to Madron.

‘There you are, Richard. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

The speaker was a diminutive brunette who barely came up to his chest. She raised a pair of soft brown eyes to his hard grey ones and smiled sweetly. Richard smiled back in response.

‘Not quite everywhere, it seems. I’m not exactly invisible.’

‘I didn’t expect you to be behind the lifeboats! Were you thinking of leaving the ship without telling me? Or, more like, you were just about to smoke one of those noxious cigars of yours.’

He looked guilty and she crowed with delight, clapping her hands together and doing a little dance around him.

‘You see, I know you so well.’

He doubted that, but it would hardly be surprising if she thought so. They’d been cooped up together in this small vessel for nigh on a month. When he’d first been asked to escort the Spanish ambassador’s daughter to London, he’d been aghast. His mind was beset with worries over his mother and grief for his father and he had no wish to assume the responsibility of a seventeen-year-old girl.

But Señor de Silva had been persuasive. Domino had been invited by the English branch of her family to spend a Season in London and then to make the journey on to Spain and her paternal home in Madrid. Alfredo de Silva was insistent that his daughter should experience something of European society.

‘Argentina is pioneer country, you know, Richard, not the place for a young girl.’

‘She seems to have thrived on life in Buenos Aires,’ Richard protested, trying to escape the fate he saw coming.

But Señor de Silva was adamant. Domino must be launched on society and not in a rough-and-ready place like Buenos Aires. As a considerable heiress, and charmingly pretty, his daughter could look to the highest for a husband.

‘It’s a very long journey for a young girl. There are dangers.’ Richard made a last attempt, but to no avail.

‘Yes, yes, I have considered well,’ Señor de Silva reassured him. ‘The time is right—Napoleon is captive and confined on the island of St Helena where he can do no further harm. Domino will be able to travel in safety to England and then on to Spain. And you will be with my darling to protect her on the long journey.’

And so he’d agreed with reluctance to chaperon the girl aboard ship. He would see her safely on land and delivered to an aunt in Curzon Street, but after that his role would end.

Domino was speaking again. ‘When we get to London, Richard, will there be many parties and balls?’

‘Almost certainly,’ he smiled teasingly. ‘Otherwise why would you leave all your admirers in Buenos Aires and come to London?’

‘My father says I must make good use of my time there. I can have fun, but I must make sure that I meet lots of gentlemen too. Eligible gentlemen.’ She rolled the syllables off her tongue and pulled a face.

‘That will be for your aunt to decide. She is your chaperon and she’ll tell you who is eligible and who is not.’

‘Are you eligible, Richard?’

‘For you, no. I’m far too old and a deal too worn.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘That’s not old. My father was ten years older than my mother. And I like the way he looked in his wedding pictures. Worldly and experienced.’

She looked up at him trustfully, the melting brown eyes smiling a clear invitation. He was taken aback. This was one outcome he had not foreseen. He’d no wish to be part of any emerging adolescent fantasy. He knew too well the pain which could accompany the insubstantial dreams of youth.

The image of a pale-faced girl with a torrent of red curls and glinting green eyes swam suddenly into his vision. He was startled. It was years since he’d thought of Christabel, really thought of her. It must be that he was nearing England, coming home after so many years. She would be settled amid the London society he hated, probably married with a pair of children to her name.

He didn’t know for sure. His parents, mindful of his feelings, had never kept him informed of her whereabouts or her doings. And he had not wanted to know.

It had been enough to know that she had betrayed him, and with a man he’d considered one of his closest friends. That moment when he’d realised, known for certain that he’d been blind and a fool, came rushing back to him. The whispers which he’d ignored, the sympathetic looks which he’d refused to see, and then the two of them—Christabel and Joshua—a secret smile on their faces, secret murmurs on their lips, emerging from the darkened terrace into the lighted ballroom, walking side by side, bound together as one. The sharpness of that moment still cut at him. He’d looked around the room and realised that every pair of eyes was fixed on him, wondering what he would do, what he would say. He’d left the ball abruptly, incensed and distraught in equal measure. The next day she’d told him. A little late, he’d thought bitterly, just a little late. Three weeks to their wedding and she was sorry, she loved another.

Sorry! Sorry for betraying him with a fly-by-night, a professional second-rater who’d pretended friendship only to get closer to his prey. And she, she’d been willing without a second thought to betray people she had professed to love and to expose him to the most shameful tittle-tattle.

He had drifted into the engagement with Christabel. Their two families had been friends for as long as he could remember and as youngsters they’d been constant companions. It wasn’t difficult to do what their parents had been dreaming of, not difficult to imagine a life lived with each other in the Cornish homeland they shared.

But in the end it had not felt that way. He had begun the affair in nonchalance and ended in love. He had wanted to marry. He had wanted her: her russet curls tickling his chin as they walked together in the gardens, the sensation of her body moulding to his as they dared to learn the waltz together, the softness of her skin to his touch, the softness of her mouth to his lips when he’d first ventured to kiss her. It had been a revelation. Now standing on this weathered deck, the empty ocean spread before him, her beautiful sensual form seemed to envelop him once more and he felt himself grow warm and hard with longing. He cursed silently. To feel passion after all these years was ridiculous. Surely it was only an image of the past that aroused such feelings, only an image, not reality that still had the power to hurt.

‘Are you all right, Richard? You look quite angry.’

Domino’s eyes held a troubled expression and he pulled himself back abruptly to the present.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied easily, ‘I’m not at all angry. But we mustn’t stay on deck any longer—it’s grown far too cold for you.’

‘But I love it here. The moonlight is so beautiful, isn’t it?’

He had to agree. The moon had risen fully now and the world was bathed in silver. Against his will his mind refused to let the memories go, for it had been a night like this when they’d gone swimming in the cove. Forbidden, thrilling, an intimation that Christabel was no longer the child she’d once been. And he had gloried in it. The water contouring itself around her slim form. The long shapely legs glimmering through a gently rippling surface. All he’d wanted to do was wind himself around her and stay clasped, fast and for ever.

‘Dinner is served, Lord Veryan, when you’re ready.’

Neither of them had heard the captain as he approached from the saloon behind. They had been caught up in their own thoughts, standing motionless before the beauty of the ocean.

‘Thank you. We’ll come now,’ Richard replied swiftly and offered his arm to the petite young lady beside him.

‘Lord Veryan? That sounds so grand, Richard.’

‘It should do. Take heed and obey!’ She giggled and made haste to the table that had been prepared for them. The smell from the kitchen was not encouraging. She pulled another face and her eyes glinted mischievously. Her aunt would have to stop her showing her feelings quite so evidently, he thought. It would not do to be too natural in London society. In his experience the Season involved nothing but artificiality and sham. He heaved a sigh without realising he was doing so.

‘Something troubles you, Richard? You’re not looking forward to going home?’

‘Indeed I am. I’m going to the most beautiful place on earth. How could I not be looking forward to it?’

‘More beautiful than Argentina?’

‘To my mind, Domino, but everyone thinks their own home is the best in the world.’

‘Tell me about Cornwall.’

‘Let’s see, what can I tell you? It’s wild and free. Its colours are green and grey—granite cliffs and slate-roofed houses, but rolling green fields. Above all the sea is blue within blue and never still. I can hear the sound of the surf breaking on the beach from my bedroom window and smell the salt on the air.’

‘You make it sound a paradise. And what about your house?’

‘The Abbey is very old and built of grey stone. It has mullioned windows and a massive oak front door studded with iron. Every room is panelled in the same dark oak.’

‘That sounds a bit gloomy—but perhaps abbeys always are?’ Domino puckered her forehead in disappointment.

‘It could be, but in the summer the garden is a cascade of colour—some of the flowers as vivid as those in the tropics because Cornwall is so warm—and in the winter, the rooms are lit by the flicker of open fires and the house is filled with the sweet smell of burning apple wood.’