Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

For she would hardly draw his interest otherwise.

She was pretty enough; her face was a perfect oval, but her dark hair was unremarkable and her colouring was not pale enough to be fashionable. Still, it suited her, as did the green eyes that sparked with intelligence and strength of will, which had already been in evidence.

‘I’ll have you on charges of assault!’ Tibold said, having finally recovered his breath.

‘It was an act of self-defence, for you and your assassin have attacked me once and would do so again,’ the young woman argued, lifting her chin.

Her fearless behaviour sent a jolt of awareness through Oberon. Although bold, she didn’t appear to be brazen, and, contrary to Tibold’s claims, no man in his right mind would confuse her gender. Oberon considered himself an astute judge of people; he had to be. But Miss Sutton was an intriguing piece of work. Who the devil was she?

‘Ridiculous!’ Tibold said. ‘It is you who attacked me, as my witness can verify.’

Oberon had no intention of corroborating the mad doctor’s claim and would have said so, but for the arrival of the small woman with the parasol. ‘Glory, dear, whatever are you doing?’ she asked, obviously uneasy.

Miss Sutton paid her no heed. ‘Witness?’ she said, scoffing. ‘We both know that the duke is allied with you, and, indeed, is doing your dirty work!’ she said, pointing a finger at Oberon.

‘D-duke?’ the dainty female echoed.

‘Duke?’ Tibold repeated.

‘Westfield,’ Miss Sutton said, with apparent exasperation.

Oberon could well imagine the disdainful glare she was sending his way, but he was occupied with the older woman, who had paled at the mention of his title and now swayed upon her feet. Since no one else was paying any attention to her, Oberon felt obliged to catch her as she fainted dead away.

When Tibold turned to gape at Westfield, Glory did, too, only to see that he was cradling her aunt in his arms. Horrified, she wanted to demand that he unhand her relative, but she feared he would drop Phillida to the ground. Frantically, Glory began searching past the rocks in her reticule for the hartshorn with which to revive her.

Where was Thad? Glory glanced around for her brother, but he had stopped at one of the burned buildings to urge the workers on. Though she held out little hope for his success, Glory was pleased that he was finally offering to help. Now, however, she wished they had not separated. Trying to take care of a business had made her careless, and she had walked the short distance alone. But who would have thought she’d be accosted upon the village’s main thoroughfare, travelling from one property to another?

‘Phillida?’ Glory spoke her aunt’s name sharply, though she doubted she could be heard above Tibold, who was rambling on, as usual. With her aunt prone and Thad nowhere in sight, Glory was at the mercy of the two men and she did not like turning her back on the physician, whose threatening manner had alarmed her more than once.

She felt cornered, and her hand shook as she waved the restorative under her aunt’s nose. She refused to look up at the man who held Phillida, for one glance at Westfield already had robbed her of her breath. Last evening, he had been striking, but now she had clearly seen his tall form, wide shoulders and the body she once had been pressed against.

And that face. It was not beautiful in a feminine sense, for it held no softness, but Westfield might have been sculpted by one of the great artists. Indeed, he could have been carved from stone, for his expression revealed nothing. For some reason—fear, perhaps—the more Glory thought about him, the more her heart pounded.

Thankfully, Phillida snorted and blinked, and Glory eased her aunt upright while avoiding any contact with the duke. Phillida moaned in a dramatic fashion, as though eager to remain right where she was, and who could blame her? If Glory had not known the nobleman’s true nature, she might have been thrilled to wake up to that handsome visage, cradled in arms that she knew were hard and strong.

Suppressing a shiver, Glory forced Phillida to her feet. ‘Come, Aunt, we must be going.’

‘Oh!’ Phillida took one look at the duke and threatened to swoon again, but Glory was having none of it. Grabbing her aunt’s arm, she pulled Phillida away from his grip. The duke said something, but it was drowned out by Tibold’s speech, so they were able to make their escape. No doubt the men would have tried to detain them, if they were not in full view of passers-by.

As she dragged her aunt towards the Pump Room, Glory resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the nobleman. Ignoring Phillida’s horrified mutterings at their undignified progress, Glory did not stop even when the building’s doors closed behind them, but continued on until they reached the privacy of one of the rear rooms.

There, Glory was able to deposit Phillida on a chaise , where she could swoon at her leisure. However, as Glory suspected, the lack of an audience speeded her recovery and she was able to fan herself as she lay prone.

‘Mercy, Glory!’ she said in a breathless whisper. ‘I simply cannot countenance such outlandish behaviour! Whatever has come over you? It’s this place, this wretched village. Oh, to be back in London. Please say that you have come to your senses and we can return to our town house.’

Since Glory heard this litany on a regular basis, she was unmoved. ‘There is no reason for you to become agitated, dear,’ she said, soothingly. ‘Let me get you a glass of the waters.’

‘No reason? Why, I have only to see my own niece in a public shouting match, in the middle of the street, mind you! And with a duke, no less!’ Phillida fell back among the pillows with a shudder.

‘I wasn’t doing the shouting,’ Glory said. ‘It was that awful physician.’ She paused to wonder how the shabby fellow had managed to align himself with a nobleman, but even a creature like Tibold could have connections, she supposed. She only wished they would spirit him away from Philtwell instead of trying to ruin her business.

Her business . Glory felt strengthened by the thought as she hurried to fetch her aunt a glass. Of course, Phillida did not approve, though Glory had assured her that even noblemen had run such resorts. Noblemen , not women, Phillida had argued, and therein lay the rub. If Glory were a man, Phillida probably would let her do what she liked.

But it was precisely because she was a woman, with few opportunities open to her, that Glory had taken an interest in the forgotten spa. Soon she would be aged twenty and firmly on the shelf in the eyes of society. Since she’d spent most of her life taking care of her younger brother after the death of their parents, Glory could not regret her unmarried status.

However, she did not care to spend the rest of her days in social calls or charity work. And she had no intention of settling quietly into a corner, tatting and sewing bonnets for her brother’s future children. Although she would love to spoil babies, Glory thought with a pang, she didn’t want to end up as some batty old spinster her nieces and nephews were forced to visit.

She wanted to do something with her life. But Glory could hardly use such terms to Phillida, who was an ageing spinster herself, though not quite batty. Yet. Instead, Glory had spoken of the family heritage, which was more acceptable and just as true. Queen’s Well had been owned by the Suttons for generations. After the fateful fire, Glory’s father, then a young man, had left Philtwell to seek his fortunes, never to return. It was only after his death that Glory discovered the legacy, rich in history, that he had left behind.