Mary Brendan - The Rake's Defiant Mistress

Clayton chuckled. ‘Agreed. But what if I win…?’

Ruth tossed him a smile. ‘Oh, if you win, I shall allow you to beat me just the once at piquet. I’m very good, you know.’

‘Are you, indeed?’ Clayton murmured. ‘Most of the ladies I know are very bad…’

Ruth turned her head, the knot of excitement within tightening. He was a practised flirt, she told herself—a man with a reputation as a womaniser. Nevertheless she felt quite elated that, after an inauspicious start, they seemed to have established a fragile rapport.

Chapter Four

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Clayton asked, having escorted Ruth to a chair close to the fire.

A console table was dotted with sparkling crystal and he picked up each decanter then, following a brief inspection, knowledgeably identified its contents for her to choose which she would like.

‘A small sherry would be nice, thank you,’ Ruth said quickly on noticing Clayton was still awaiting her answer.

Clayton approached to hand over her drink and then took the chair opposite. Ruth watched surreptitiously as he stretched out his long legs in front of him and turned his head towards the mesmerising dance in the fire.

His lean profile was softened by the warm glow, his blond hair burnished to an autumn sheen. In his long

fingers a brandy balloon gently oscillated. Far from being interested in continuing to flirt with her, or to engage in a little more light-hearted banter, he seemed to Ruth to have forgotten she existed and to have plunged deep into his own thoughts. Perhaps he thought to pay her back for her preoccupation moments ago. Thus, confident she was unobserved, she deemed it safe to slowly study him.

Ruth knew that a good deal of the gentlemen of the ton favoured bright colours and all manner of fobs and trinkets as personal adornments. This man was no dandified peacock. He was elegantly rather than fashionably clothed in a dark tailcoat and trousers and his person seemed devoid of jewellery. Then she noticed a heavy gold signet ring as it winked on a finger of the hand that was swinging the glass. Her eyes slipped on and a glint of gold could be seen where a watch reposed low in a waistcoat pocket.

She lifted her eyes from his lap and immediately her face flooded with blood. Unwisely she took a swift gulp of her sherry, then tried to quell the burning in her throat with fingers that flew to press her mouth. How long had he been watching her look him over in so vulgar a fashion?

‘Would you like another?’ Clayton asked with soft mockery and a deliberate glance at her depleted glass.

‘No…no, thank you. I was looking…that is, you seem rather melancholy, sir. I didn’t mean to stare.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t…or rather, you didn’t mean me to see you at it.’

Ruth’s dark eyes flashed dangerously at him. ‘As you didn’t mean to be caught eyeing me earlier?’

Just before Clayton despatched his cognac in a single swallow he said, ‘I’ve no objection at all in you knowing I think you attractive.’

For a long moment Ruth simply sat quite still, her eyes on the fire. Would it be best to thank him briefly for the compliment? Or should she ignore what he’d said as simple flattery from a notorious philanderer? Just a short while ago she’d learned from Sarah that Sir Clayton Powell was an incorrigible rake.

‘Perhaps we should think of something else to talk about,’ Ruth suggested calmly. ‘You know a little about my family history—would you tell me a little about yours?’

A humourless noise issued from Clayton’s throat. ‘I take it you would like to discover why I’m no longer married?’

Astonishment kept Ruth momentarily speechless, her eyes captured by his, her soft lips quivering and slightly parted. Sir Clayton Powell was certainly a bluff individual! Or perhaps he reserved such shocking candour for women he deemed to be too inquisitive? She had not wanted to pry into his personal life. She’d hoped, as he knew she had lost her father, they might have an innocent chat about his parents or his siblings. A slow anger burned in Ruth, boosting her determination to regain her composure and give him the answer he deserved.

‘On the contrary, sir, I have no interest in your marital status,’ she snapped icily.

‘Have you not?’ he enquired. ‘Well, you must be the only female of my acquaintance under fifty who has not.’

‘And you must be the only gentleman of my acquaintance who has the arrogance to suppose I might care to know whether or not he has a wife.’ That fierce declamation came after quite a pause and in a voice suffocated with indignation. How quickly he could change from charming companion to cynical churl.

‘So you didn’t know that I’m divorced?’ Clayton challenged softly, his eyes fixed pitilessly on her face.

A betraying flush began to creep under Ruth’s skin. She did know. Just today she had discovered from Sarah that Clayton had once been married. She wished she could honestly say she was ignorant of his mésalliance with Priscilla and had no interest in knowing of it. But, in truth, while quietly sitting with him, she had pondered on why a handsome and wealthy aristocrat would make a disastrous match. And, had Sarah not already told her, she could have easily deduced from his attitude that his divorce had left him extremely bitter.

Clayton watched Ruth fidget and blush beneath his gaze and his lips slanted in a hard smile. It seemed he’d touched on a nerve. He had agreed to journey to Willowdene on the spur of the moment after Gavin suggested he distance himself from Loretta and her pathetic scheming. Perhaps his invitation to spend a little time in the country with the Tremaynes hadn’t been as impromptu or philanthropic as it had seemed. Had Sarah given Gavin instructions to persuade him to come because she had an ulterior motive?

He liked Sarah very much. He envied Gavin for having such a lovely wife. But that didn’t alter the fact that every society hostess of his acquaintance had made it her business at least once to try to pair him off with a nubile friend or relative.

‘Did the Viscountess tell you I would be invited to dine here this evening?’ he asked bluntly.

Finally, Ruth understood what was prompting his sardonic questions. He was not so much bothered that she knew he had lost his wife as that she might have designs on replacing her. Her lips tightened as a ferocious anger bubbled inside. The nerve of the man! He seriously believed she might have collaborated with Sarah to trap him! No doubt he also believed she’d schemed at having this time alone with him. ‘I believe I’ve already said I didn’t know you would be coming from London with the Viscount,’ Ruth reminded him in a frigid tone. ‘And when I mentioned your family it was not with the intention of discovering if you were a husband or a father. You know my father died because we briefly spoke about it when last you were in Willowdene. I was simply making a polite enquiry as to the health of your kin.’ With no table close to hand, Ruth put down her empty glass on the hearthstone and stood up. ‘I had hoped our hosts’ unexpected absence might not become an ordeal for either of us. Unfortunately, it has…’

The thought of staying here, alone, with this conceited swine was now unbearable to Ruth. She didn’t want to upset Sarah by leaving, but if the snow had cleared—even just a little bit—she would go home. In truth, she wished she’d not agreed to come at all. And that angered her, for her longed-for reunion with Sarah had been spoiled through no fault of her own.

Swiftly she went to the long window that looked out on to the grounds of the Manor. She twitched back the heavy velvet curtain, then folded back the shutter just enough to peep at the night. The whiteness glistened back at her; lifting her eyes to the heavens, she saw small sparkling droplets defiantly descending. With heavy heart and a soundless sigh of regret she turned back in to the library.