Once Ruined, Twice Shy Read online

  When he spoke, his voice was harsh. “Not just some woman. Josephine. And the man with whom you eloped is, I assume, Frederick Ebbworth. Or is he really Andrew? I knew he was a depraved creature, but it is beyond the Pale that he should send you to do his dirty work.”

  She sensed the pain, disillusionment, and anger coursing through him. Pushing out of her chair, she laid a hand on one tense shoulder. “I am so sorry. I meant to tell you sooner.”

  He spun to face her. “I remember. Just before that letter arrived. Tell me, what did it say?”

  She could no longer hold his accusatory stare. Looking down at her shoes, she murmured, “He threatened to tell my parents he hadn’t married me, to throw me out of our rooms in Bath and onto their mercy. They would never take me back after what I’ve done.”

  “I see.” He turned his head aside and focused on something in the garden. “I have met Mr Ebbworth and understand how persuasive—and deceitful—he can be.”

  She wanted to touch Conall, to soothe the stiffness from his shoulders, smooth away the frown on his brow. And she needed, more than anything, some tiny morsel of understanding or forgiveness.

  “You have not, I assume, found any documents pertaining to my business dealings that might affect Ebbworth’s finances?”

  “I have not. I meant to come back later.”

  “And you meant to look in the little box too, I assume.”

  “Please understand, I never wanted to hurt you. Frederick portrayed you as a ghastly creature, but I knew as soon as I met you, he’d lied. As I’d genuinely hurt myself falling from that horse, I knew I had to stay with you a little while. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  He looked at her squarely, and his chest heaved as he sucked in a breath. “He made you fall off a horse in order to gain access to me? You could have been killed. He knew the dangers. That man used my memories of Josephine to make me take pity on you and take you under my wing. How can you possibly love such an appalling excuse for a gentleman?”

  She winced at the furious hiss in his voice and backed away.

  “Well, do you love him still? Answer me.”

  “No. No, I don’t think I do. But he is all I have.” She felt way beyond wretched.

  “Nonsense. You have me. A powerful friend.”

  “And an implacable enemy. You have tried to bankrupt him, and thus ruin us both.” Once Conall had got over his initial shock at her confession, would she be able to bargain with him? Convince him to loosen his hold on Frederick’s purse? If she was to salvage anything of her life, she had to try.

  Conall clicked his tongue. “I wish I’d killed him when I had the chance.”

  Her heart jolted. “Killed him?”

  He held her by the shoulders. “I’m ashamed to say we fought a duel after Josephine died. Frederick accused me of so upsetting her when she came to tell me all was over between us, that she galloped off like a demented demon, abandoning her usual skill as a rider. He said she would never have fallen off had she been in her right mind. In truth, I have blamed myself for the same thing, but could not accept it coming from that blackguard’s mouth.”

  This was news indeed. Her lungs tightened, and she became increasingly aware of the strong grip on her shoulders. A grip that could easily do harm.

  “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m no murderer. Frederick challenged me to a duel.”

  She gasped. “He shot you? That was how you lost your eye?”

  His mouth widened in a grimace. “No. I shot myself, in effect.” His tone was laced with bitterness. “We were pacing away from each other, ready to turn and fire. I had my pistol by my cheek, as one does, but stumbled in a rabbit hole and accidentally pulled the trigger. The gun—being of inferior make—misfired and exploded, shooting splinters of burning metal and wood into my hand and face. Of course, the duel was suspended after that, and the surgeons called in. I don’t believe either myself or Frederick felt honour had been satisfied.”

  “Such terrible luck!” She stroked his elbow, laying her hand gently over his gloved fingers. “To lose so much in so short a space of time.”

  “I forbid you to pity me. But yes, it was a poor piece of luck. How was I to know my darling had loved another before me, and that she believed him dead at Waterloo? She never told me. I think now perhaps she only accepted my suit because she was empty and heartbroken about Frederick—or Andrew—or whatever his real name was.”

  She shook her head, frowning. “I’ve only ever known him as Frederick.”

  He sighed, and his grip on her shoulders loosened. “Now we have both revealed an unpleasant secret about ourselves. So, what are we to do, Miss Norton?”

  “Ah, yes. Another piece of deception, regrettably. Ever since I ran away with Frederick, I have been calling myself Norton, but my true surname is Normanton. My family is in Essex.”

  “I shall continue to call you Hestia. It avoids confusion.”

  Was that a tiny glint of amusement in his eye? Was his anger abating? If so, now was her chance, and if she didn’t take it, she might regret it forever.

  “Could I ask you to stop hounding Frederick? I shall return to Bath immediately, and tell him I will no longer play his game. He must meet you face-to-face. No—not in a duel! Never that. And you must sort out your differences by negotiation. Not by threats or deceit.”

  There was a whirring sound, and suddenly the cacophony of clocks began proclaiming the hour of noon all around the house. Conall ignored them. Instead, he pulled Hestia closer, until her nose was almost brushing the top button of his waistcoat.

  “You are too good for Frederick Ebbworth. He didn’t deserve Josephine’s love, and he most certainly deserves neither love nor loyalty from you. Look at me.”

  He released her shoulder and placed his gloved hand beneath her chin, tilting it upwards. She looked. His lips were so close, his fascinating mouth—no longer fierce—so tempting. The look in his eye enveloped her, enslaved her, and a molten waterfall of desire crashed over her body. Suddenly all she wanted to do was kiss him, and forget all the unpleasantness of the last few moments.

  “We’ll go to Bath together, you and I, and find Frederick. I’ll take that little box on the table—which is full of the IOUs from his gambling debts. And we will negotiate terms, as you request. But you must be a party to any agreement, and your future must be secured, however you wish it. How does that sound?”

  Too good to be true. She was getting what she wanted—clemency—and she didn’t deserve any of it. He was so close, his breath wafted her hair about her face. Her voice shook as she said, “You are so understanding. How can I ever thank you?”

  “Like this.”

  No sooner had he leaned in to kiss her, than she met him with a hunger that surprised her. If he’d had any doubts about the living-in-sin part of her story, she had dispelled them in an instant. She kissed him back, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

  She’d never kissed anyone before Frederick and had assumed he was a master of the art, but Conall’s kiss—so different—consumed her in a way Frederick’s never had. Conall cupped her face in his hands, pressing, tasting, encircling her mouth with his tongue.

  She could sense his emotions through the reactions of his body. He was keen to keep his feelings in check, but she knew from his touch and the heat of his lips that he wanted her with an intensity that overwhelmed him. Yet still he fought it, fought himself, exercising a restraint Frederick never had.

  Thus, it was no great surprise when he pulled away from her, rubbed the thumb of his good hand over her lips, and apologised.

  That he could have any interest in her at all, knowing what she’d done and what she was, was a revelation. But what would come of it was impossible to say. Frederick, and the spectre of Josephine, stood between them. And now she’d been cruelly used by one man, she was not overly keen to put herself into the power of another. No matter how compellingly attractive he might be.

  “You are forgiven.” She sounded lik
e a prim schoolmistress as she edged out of his embrace.

  He smirked at her, a feral expression on his face that made her quiver.

  “What is it?” Was he laughing at her?

  “If I had any doubts about the mistress part of your story, they are gone. No untutored Miss could kiss a man like that. No, don’t be cross. I enjoyed it. But there is much to do before we can ponder on the significance of that kiss. I must find Mama and make some excuse to her about leaving so abruptly, and you must go and pack your trunk. You and I are going to Bath, and we will square things with Mr Frederick Ebbworth once and for all.”

  She nodded, despite the panic that invaded her breast. Even though she knew she no longer loved Frederick, she had no idea how she would react when she saw him. Nor did she have a clue what she would do if things became heated between the two gentlemen.

  God forbid they should take it upon themselves to duel again.

  Chapter 10

  As Conall handed Hestia out of the carriage in front of No. 66 Great Pulteney Street, Bath, a shaft of anticipation speared through him.

  He was to meet his enemy at last—but not to fight. The young woman clutching his arm had spent the entire journey convincing him of the value of forgiveness. It would not come easy, however. Internally, he was incandescent with rage at the way Frederick had bullied and threatened Hestia.

  He’d steeled himself to do what he could to smooth things over and bring about an outcome satisfactory to all parties. It could only be done with a cool head. That wasn’t an easy thing to achieve when the feel of Hestia’s fingers on his arm kept threatening to send his thoughts into deep wells of wickedness.

  While Hestia let herself in with a key, he commanded his coachman to stable the horses at the White Hart and await further instruction. He’d brought the footman Gaisford with him to keep the coachman company up on the box, and to assist with Hestia’s luggage. Gaisford, too, was sent off to enjoy a pint of ale at the nearby inn.

  As Conall followed Hestia up several flights of stairs, he wondered what her life here had been like. He’d learned during their journey that she’d taken the name Ebbworth, and as far as anyone in Bath knew, she was respectably married. But she had gone out but little, and made no friends, too afraid someone would discover her subterfuge, and make her a social pariah. Poor girl. She had wasted almost a year of her life masquerading as Frederick’s wife, in self-imposed exile. If only he had found her first, he’d have made sure her existence was very different.

  “Here we are.” Hestia, a little out of breath, had reached the top of the stairs and stood beneath the skylight, key in hand. Her face was pale, and he detected a tremor in her lip. No matter. He could be strong enough for them both.

  “It might be wise not to let yourself in. It would put Ebbworth at a disadvantage if we both burst in on him. I don’t think he’d react well to that.”

  She nodded, but her knock at the door produced no response. Conall felt a mixture of relief and frustration. Although he didn’t want to put off meeting his nemesis, it meant he’d have Hestia to himself a bit longer.

  As she looked at him for direction, he tilted his head towards the door. “We may as well go in and wait for him.”

  “I feel ashamed, letting you see where I’ve been living.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Foolish girl. I’m not proud. I’ve been known to get on my knees and grovel in the pigsty when the sow’s farrowing. I don’t imagine your rooms can be any worse.”

  He was rewarded with a chuckle, a deep, throaty sound that sent spikes of heat down his back. Dear Lord, but this woman had him completely enslaved. And they’d shared no more than a kiss. Perhaps he’d been under her spell since the first moment he saw her. No, surely not. That was not how ‘Mr Facts’ behaved. He was laughing at himself as he followed her through the door.

  Once they were inside the somewhat gloomy living room, he helped her off with her pelisse, then placed the wooden box of IOUs on a circular table, before divesting himself of his coat.

  “Do you have a maid?” He gazed around, noting how neat and tidy everything was. Not that there were many objects to be tidied—aside from the necessary furniture, the room was sparse. His fault. By depriving Ebbworth of income, he’d forced Hestia to live on nothing too.

  “The landlady provides a maid to clean for us.” Hestia popped her head into a side room, then came out and looked in through another door. He could tell from the flatness of her voice she was unhappy.

  “What about cooking?” he called, as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I do that myself. I enjoy it. Especially anything with sugar in, when we can afford it. I love making sweetmeats and preserves.”

  He followed her into the tiny kitchen—again, spick and span, with a small range in the chimney-corner. This room, too, was spartan, containing only the necessities. Guilt clawed at him. Hestia clearly had not had the opportunity—or the funds—to put a feminine stamp on the place. If they were married, he would give her free rein.

  If they were married?

  The thought caught him by surprise. He desired her, yes, admired and liked her, and marriage would be the perfect solution for her. But would he be doing it partly to put Frederick’s nose out of joint? And would she only accept him from desperation? To cap it all, she had spent three weeks lying to him on an almost daily basis. Was that any foundation for a marriage?

  He backed out of the kitchen and started examining the sitting room. “Where do you think he might have gone?”

  “Well, it’s rather early for Frederick to be out with his gambling associates. He may be visiting his broker, or simply taking the air in Sydney Gardens. Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. “We’ve left Sheba behind at Spyle Court! Oh, heavens, what will that cost us?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see Sheba is returned to Bath, and cover the costs myself.”

  She came towards him. “You’re far too generous, Conall. I truly hate myself for what I tried to do to you. And I hate Frederick too.”

  His heart kicked up a lively beat. “So… you’ve decided not to marry him?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I now think being wed to him would be worse than ruin. I don’t know what I’ll do instead, but I don’t think I could bear it, knowing how he used me, how he didn’t scruple to steal Josephine away from you just when she had recovered from his supposed loss. He is despicable.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “You should go home,” he said gently. Or marry me. No, it was far too soon to make an offer—there was still too much at stake. Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Please, don’t speak of that. I should die of shame.”

  “At least consider it. Or you could seek another protector.”

  Her head snapped up. “And be a mistress again, with no chance of a family of my own? Never.”

  The vehemence of her response silenced him for a moment. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t interfere. Now, do you mind if I hunt around a bit? I’d like to find out as much about Mr Ebbworth as I can while I’m here. Just in case he won’t negotiate terms, and I need to use more leverage than the vowels in that box over there.”

  “By all means. Shall I light the range and make us tea? What we have is not the best quality, but at least turns the hot water brown.”

  His conscience pricked at him once more. It was partly his fault they couldn’t afford decent tea. “Shall I fetch some water for you?”

  “No, there’s enough here. The maid brings a couple of jugs up every morning, along with milk and bread.”

  Leaving Hestia to her own devices, Conall began searching the rooms but found nothing of interest. He then entered the bedchamber. The idea of Frederick making love to Hestia in here sickened him. He should have found her first. It should have been him who introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh.

  A large locket, not unlike his own, stood on the dressing table. He opened the cover, and discovered with a jolt it was an image
of Josephine, but painted by a different artist, done when she was somewhat younger. He ran a finger over the pale, angelic face. “Alas, my dear,” he murmured. “It seems I have changed allegiance.” He turned the locket over and found an inscription on the back. To my beloved A.C. Yours ever and always, J.D.

  A.C.? He knew it! His enemy was an impostor. He was really ‘Andrew C’. ‘Frederick Ebbworth’ must be an invented name. Conall hurried through to the kitchen to show Hestia.

  “I’ve never seen that locket before—Frederick must have hidden it well. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of him as ‘Andrew’.

  Conall tensed, like a hound on the scent. “I’m certain this is important. If we can learn his true name, we may find something further we can use against him, should he fail to give up his vendetta against me.”

  She frowned. “But what more can he do to you? He plotted to stop you bankrupting him by using me. That plan failed.”

  Curse it, she was right. He was the one who held all the power now—Frederick had no weapons left, since Hestia had deserted. Was it time to bury the hatchet after all?

  “Forgive me, sweeting. You’re right, of course. But for your sake, I think it would be best to maintain some hold over him, lest he attempt to blackmail you in the future.”

  He was suddenly struck by how beautiful she looked, standing there with her teeth worrying at her lower lip, her great dark eyes filled with uncertainty. He couldn’t help himself. In an instant, he’d closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. Her head nestled beneath his chin.

  “I’ll protect you, whatever happens.” He shouldn’t have mentioned blackmail—he’d frightened her. But if she were to return to her parents of her own accord and lay all before them, she might be forgiven. Then Ebbworth would have a good deal less with which to blackmail her.

  “Your parents should have protected you. They were greatly at fault, and I’m sure have had time to realise the fact.”