Isabelle Goddard - One Night with a Regency Lord - Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady / The Return of Lord Conistone

After breakfast she repaired to Gareth’s bedroom to tell him she was leaving. It was another beautiful May morning and the leaded windows were flung wide to welcome the sun. A warm breeze gently lifted the curtains. He was sitting by the window fully dressed and smiled mockingly as she came through the door.

‘I hope I find you recovered?’

She looked blank for a moment.

‘The headache? I understand it was so painful that you could manage only a bowl of soup for dinner.’ His tone was ironic.

‘I’m well, thank you,’ she replied, not meeting his eyes. ‘And you?’

‘I’m well, too—my old self, in fact. Does that strike terror into your heart?’

‘Indeed no, why should it? I’m well able to take care of myself.’

He shook his head in some irritation. ‘Let’s stop sparring, Amelie. Come and sit with me instead.’

She moved towards the window and the empty chair. For the first time she met his eyes directly and her body warmed instantly beneath his gaze. But she ignored the answering pull and disregarded his welcoming hand; she was still on dangerous territory and must step carefully.

‘When do you intend to leave for Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I presume you’re still going there.’

‘Maybe,’ he uttered shortly. ‘I haven’t yet made up my mind.’

‘If you don’t continue to Bristol, where else will you go? Back to London?’

‘Possibly.’

‘So you’re as free as a bird?’

‘It would appear so.’

Frustrated at his stonewalling, she went on the offensive. ‘Are you saying that nobody in the entire world will miss you, if you don’t soon put in an appearance?’

‘That about sums it up.’

She didn’t understand him. Her questions were innocent enough and his bald refusal to answer demonstrated clearly that he didn’t trust her. She was good enough to kiss but not to confide in. Sensing her anger, he smiled that warm, entrancing smile.

‘Why don’t we just enjoy this morning? I imagine you’ve come to tell me you’re leaving soon.’

‘Now that your ankle’s better, I must be on my way.’ She was annoyed with herself that she sounded almost apologetic.

‘Of course you must, and I can’t detain you. You’ve kept your bargain, after all.’

For a moment she looked uncomprehending; she’d completely forgotten their old quarrel. Then she gave a half smile. ‘Yes, I’ve kept it—but not quite as you planned.’

‘Better, in fact. You’ve seen me through some very trying days, so don’t let’s spend our last few hours arguing.’

She remained mute and stared fixedly through the window at the untended orchard beyond. When he spoke again his voice was tender and caught at her heart.

‘I have you to thank for the good shape I’m in. You must know that I’m deeply grateful.’

‘I don’t want your gratitude.’

‘What do you want?’ he asked quizzically and once again reached out for her hand.

Mindful of her overnight resolution, she jumped up quickly and said, ‘What I want is to leave tomorrow. But in the meantime I’m sure the George can supply us with some entertainment. I’ll go downstairs and see what they have to offer.’

And with that she disappeared rapidly from view. Gareth looked after her, a slight flush creeping into his lean cheek. Tendering his hand in friendship to a woman was a new experience for him and being rejected was equally novel.

She returned half an hour later, having searched high and low for dominoes or Chinese chequers. Will had helped her for a while until Mrs Skinner, catching sight of the two of them, had ordered him angrily to fetch water from the pump. Then she’d stood coldly over Amelie and demanded just what Miss Wendover might be wanting. Her attitude was one of unconcealed hostility. Amelie was sure now that the landlord had seen her spring back from Gareth’s kiss yesterday and had confided this unsettling news to his wife. She blushed deeply at the thought of their conversation.

‘I’m looking for dominoes or chequers,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘My brother is feeling a good deal better and it will be a way of passing the hours.’

Mrs Skinner snorted as though she knew well enough how they intended to pass the hours, but reluctantly led the way into an inner sanctum, opened a tall oak dresser in the corner of the room and shuffled around inside. The reek of mothballs floated out into the already malodorous room.

‘There’s some cards and a game of spillikins.’ The landlady thrust the items roughly at Amelie and stood glaring at her.

Understanding that she was dismissed, Amelie made to leave. She couldn’t picture Gareth playing the child’s game, but she could always leave the spillikins in her bedroom. With hurried thanks, she gathered up the games and ran up the stairs.

‘I’ve found something,’ she called out gaily. ‘A pack of cards! Or rather Mrs Skinner found them, tucked at the back of an enormous dresser, which I don’t think has been opened for at least thirty years. Unfortunately, they smell of mothballs, but then this room isn’t exactly fresh, even with the window wide open.’

As she was speaking, she cleared the small table between them of empty glasses and medicine bottles. ‘There, a perfect card table. What shall we play? I know very few games, but I imagine you can teach me.’

‘No.’ The brusque monosyllable startled her.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said no. I can’t teach you any card games, nor do I wish to play.’

She looked puzzled. ‘How difficult am I to understand?’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t wish to play.’

‘But it’s only a game of cards—an amusing diversion,’ she protested.

‘For the last time, I don’t wish to play.’

The familiar bleak expression had returned to Gareth’s face. His eyes were once more stony and the straight night-black brows threatening. He leaned back in his chair, detaching himself from the proceedings and refusing to meet her earnest look.

‘That’s all right,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t. Just learn to take a refusal when it’s given.’

She bit back a retort. After tomorrow she would never see Gareth Wendover again. It was hardly worth quarrelling with him despite his extraordinary rudeness. But it was difficult to accept that he was the same man who had kissed her with such ardour only yesterday. He was transformed and she felt deeply wounded by the change.

‘I’ll find something else to play,’ she stammered a little shakily.

Minutes later she returned with the spillikins. The hard look on Gareth’s face had disappeared and when he saw the spillikins he laughed out loud.

‘I know you’ve been my nursemaid these past few days, but have I regressed that badly that you need to play a child’s game with me?’

‘That’s all they have downstairs, and we must make the best of it.’

She held upright the bunch of thin sticks and allowed them to fall at will. They scattered wildly across the table top.

‘The sticks coloured blue score most highly, red next, then yellow, and green are the most lowly,’ she explained.

‘I shall be lucky to pick up one stick cleanly, never mind its colour. I’ve suffered an accident, after all.’

‘You’ve sprained your ankle, not your wrist.’

‘But women are so much more dextrous, it’s hardly fair.’

‘Surely, Mr Wendover, you’re not saying that a woman can outdo you.’

‘Gareth, please. If we’re to be serious competitors, we must use first names. That way our insults, when they start flying, will be nicely personal.’

‘I’ve no intention of trading insults. It’s just a game, not a competition,’ she said carelessly.