Nicola Cornick - One Night Of Scandal

‘Thank you, Deb,’ Ross said ironically. ‘That vote of confidence encourages me.’

‘You deserve my censure,’ Deb said. ‘You were positively churlish to Olivia just now. Can you not be nice to her for a change? Talk to her! Take her flowers…’

‘She has all the flowers she needs in the garden,’ Ross said glumly. ‘I tried giving her a bouquet once and she made some remark about preferring to see flowers growing rather than dead in a vase.’

Deb sighed with exasperation. ‘That is unfortunate, but why give up as a result?’

‘Because I have no notion what it is that Olivia wants,’ Ross said, frowning heavily.

Deb sighed again. ‘Then why do you not ask her, Ross? Must I tell you how to do everything? Sit down and talk to her one day. Take her to the seaside. Buy her a present! I don’t know…’ Deb shook her head at him. ‘Olivia needs you, Ross. She may appear cool and composed on the surface, but underneath she is as vulnerable as anyone else.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Now go and talk to her!’

But when she reached the place where the path to Midwinter Mallow entered the beech wood, she looked back to see Ross striding away across the fields and could just make out the forlorn figure of Olivia still sitting on the veranda a quarter-mile distant in the opposite direction.

With an exasperated sigh, Deb called down a curse upon the heads of all men and vented her irritation by kicking up all the old, dry beech leaves from the ground beneath her feet. It made her feel better, but she knew that something had to be done to help Olivia. Unless radical steps were taken to reunite the Marneys, and soon, she could foresee years of misery for her beloved sister and brother-in-law as they lived their separate lives under the one roof.

In one way, however, she was obliged to acknowledge that Ross’s arrival on the veranda had been timely, for if he had not appeared, there was a chance that she might have blurted out to Olivia all about her decision to appoint a temporary fiancé and, even worse, about the newspaper advertisement. Deb frowned. For some reason, thinking of her fleeting fiancé made her think of Richard Kestrel again. She took a swing at an innocent spray of cow parsley beside the path. Lord Richard was exactly the sort of man who was the epitome of what she did not want in a counterfeit suitor. She needed someone who was moderate, agreeable and open to her guidance. Most certainly she did not need a man who was dangerous, forceful and devilishly attractive.

Deborah shook her head impatiently. Dwelling on Richard Kestrel’s attractions seemed a particularly pointless exercise at the moment and yet she seemed powerless to dismiss him from her mind. Nor was it helpful that the idle thought she had had of taking Richard as a lover had somehow taken root and would not be shifted. She knew it was a scandalous thought and one that she could not act on. It had better remain no more than a fantasy. And yet it still gave her no peace at all.

‘D eb! Deb, wake up!’

The sound of her sister’s voice penetrated Deb’s pleasant doze. She stirred reluctantly and opened her eyes. The press of visitors in Olivia’s music room that evening had dissipated a little, for they had moved into the conservatory to take refreshments. Olivia had taken the rout chair next to hers and was leaning close, shaking her arm with a little impatient gesture. Deb yawned.

‘Has Miss La Salle finished?’

‘Ten minutes ago!’ her sister scolded. She shifted slightly and Deb saw over her shoulder that the infamous singer was now at the far end of the salon, partaking of a glass of wine and surrounded by admiring gentlemen. She smiled faintly.

‘Was it good?’

‘I cannot believe that you did not hear,’ Olivia said. ‘How is it possible to sleep through singing like that?’

Deb laughed. ‘I found it difficult, certainly, but by no means impossible.’

Olivia shook her head impatiently. ‘Well, never mind that now. I need you to find Ross for me, Deborah. He has not made an appearance for the whole evening. It is most embarrassing.’

‘Is he sulking,’ Deb enquired, ‘or is it merely that, like me, he does not care for music?’

A hint of colour came into Olivia’s cheeks. ‘I do not believe that he has forgiven me this morning’s comments and thinks to punish me. And, yes-he does hate singing. He says that Miss La Salle’s voice reminds him of wailing cats!’

Deb smothered a laugh. ‘Yet you wish to inflict this suffering on him?’

‘He must come,’ Olivia said, grabbing Deb’s sleeve between desperate fingers. ‘Everyone has remarked upon his absence. If I am obliged to listen to any more of Lady Benedict’s false condolences on having a philistine for a husband, I believe I shall run screaming from the room.’

Deb frowned. ‘Why do you not simply request Ross to come and join you?’

Olivia’s face puckered. ‘He will not pay any notice. You ask him, Deb!’

‘And if he does refuse, I shall give him a piece of my mind,’ Deb agreed. She stood up. ‘Where is he?’

‘I think he is in his study,’ Olivia said. Her face relaxed. ‘Thank you, Deb.’

Deb walked slowly out through the double doors and into the hall. She felt exasperated and more than a little upset. Olivia was putting a brave face on matters, but it seemed that her relationship with Ross had degenerated even in the short time since that morning’s disagreement. If matters continued like this, they would be completely estranged in a matter of days. Deb, whose hot temper could never bear to let a quarrel fester, fizzed with irritation.

She gave the door of the study a quick, perfunctory knock and burst in.

‘Ross, you must go and join Liv in the music room at once!’ she declared. ‘I do not know what has got into you today. You are acting in the most churlish manner-’ She broke off as the man sitting behind the desk rose from his wing chair and she saw him properly for the first time. It was not Ross Marney. It was Richard Kestrel.

‘Good evening, Mrs Stratton,’ he said.

‘What are you doing here?’ Deb demanded, shaken out of good manners by both the unexpected sight of Lord Richard looking so elegant in his evening dress and mortification at what she had just inadvertently revealed to him. ‘I did not know that you were attending the soirée.’

Richard bowed ironically. ‘Very likely you did not see me,’ he said. ‘I arrived late and you were already asleep by then.’

Deb’s red face blushed an even more fiery colour. ‘You! Oh! I was not asleep!’

‘Yes, you were. I saw you with my own eyes. And what better way to tolerate Miss La Salle’s peculiar style of vocal gymnastics than to block them out with pleasant dreams?’

‘What? I…’ Deb frowned, distracted. ‘Does no one like her singing?’

‘Very few people, I believe, but as she is a protégée of the Hertfords, everyone pretends that she is marvellous.’

‘Well, I think that is ridiculous. But that is nothing to the purpose.’ Deb shook her head impatiently. ‘I was looking for Ross.’

‘I rather gathered that,’ Richard said. ‘I would not wish to be in his shoes when you find him.’

Deb had not realised that it was possible to blush any harder. She subsided into one of the armchairs by the fire and looked at him with embarrassment. ‘I apologise that you should have been the unwitting victim of my ill temper, my lord.’

‘Please,’ Richard said. ‘Do not apologise.’ He took the chair across from her. There was a keen look in his dark eyes. ‘I understand that you are concerned for your sister’s happiness.’

Deb grimaced. ‘Is her unhappiness so apparent to everyone?’