‘And do you believe that?’
His scornful glance scorched her.
‘Does it matter what I believe? My father refused to talk of it. I was sent back to Shrewton Lodge with a tutor to finish my schooling, then I was packed off to Oxford and by the following spring my parents were dead. Officially it was scarlet fever, there had been a particularly bad outbreak at Arrandale, but I think it was more likely the shame of it all that overcame them, at least for my mother.’
‘Or the heartbreak,’ she murmured sadly, thinking of how the tragedy must have ripped apart the family. ‘What happened to the baby?’
‘It was a girl. When my parents died she was sent to live with a distant cousin, the Earl of Davenport.’ A wry smile broke through for a moment. ‘Another Arrandale, but James is as sober as the rest of us are dissolute and he was thought the best guardian for the girl. He has a daughter of the same age, so it was deemed the best thing to do with the child.’
‘And Wolfgang? Where is your brother now?’
He spread his hands. ‘We never heard from him again. I made enquiries, hired men to search for him, sent letters.’ A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘It may be that he did not want to be found. Or he may well have been drowned on the crossing to France, there were some exceptionally vicious storms that winter.’
‘How sad, that he never had a chance to explain himself.’
Richard stopped.
‘I desperately want him to be innocent,’ he burst out. ‘Wolf is seven years my senior and I always looked up to him. Oh, I know he was hot tempered and rash, but he was never unkind, not intentionally. And I really cannot believe—’
He broke off. Phyllida saw the muscle working in his cheek. He was wrestling with profound grief and she wanted only to comfort him.
‘You really should believe he is innocent, Mr Arrandale, until it is proven otherwise.’
He did not answer. He did not appear to have heard her but remained staring at nothing, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Unhappiness wrapped about him like a cloak and there was nothing she could do to relieve it. A small cloud momentarily blocked out the sun and Phyllida shivered. The faint movement recalled his wandering attention. He was once again his usual, urbane self.
‘You have not yet seen the chapel, Lady Phyllida. Perhaps we should go back there now, if you have seen enough?’
He extended his arm.
‘Yes, please.’ She slipped her hand on to his sleeve. ‘These broken walls have lost their charm for me.’
As they made their way back across the ruins she noted that Lord and Lady Wakefield were still sitting on their stone seat. Ellen, Penelope and the two younger Wakefields were exploring what was left of the gatehouse. She eased her conscience with the thought that she was keeping Richard Arrandale away from Ellen. Wasn’t she?
The little chapel was built within the curtain wall of the castle and had been restored sufficiently for visitors to go inside. Richard stood back for Phyllida to pass before him into the narrow building. Odd that he had told her about Wolf. He had never said as much to anyone before. After all, what was the point? Everyone believed Wolf was guilty, he was just another in the long line of scandalous Arrandales. So why had he spoken so freely to Phyllida? Was it because she had seemed genuinely interested, prepared to think something other than the worst of an Arrandale?
Richard followed her into the centre of the chapel. Her soft boots made no sound on the stone flags, her skirts floated out as she moved, a silent figure in pale grey. She looked so ethereal that he could not help himself. He reached out and touched her shoulder. She turned and he found himself subjected to her enquiring gaze.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I needed to reassure myself that you were real.’
‘Of course I am real.’ Her mouth curved into a smile. ‘Did you think me a ghost?’
‘No, an angel.’
An angel sent to redeem him.
She was surprised into a laugh. The warm, delicious sound echoed around them, breaking the sepulchral calm of the stone building. Quickly she put a hand over her mouth but her eyes still gleamed with merriment, green as emeralds. His blood quickened. She no longer looked ethereal, she was a living, breathing woman and he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
He was aware of the change immediately and he knew she had read his thoughts. Her eyes were no longer alight with laughter but something else, an instinctive response to him. He felt the connection, the sizzle of excitement that held them immobile. They were less than an arm’s length apart, beneath her mannish jacket and white shirt her breast rose and fell as she took a deep, ragged breath. When she lowered her hand he reached for it, felt the quiver of excitement as their fingers touched, not in the least dulled by the soft kid of their gloves. They were caught in a bubble that tightened around them, moving them slowly but inexorably together.
The air shimmered with anticipation. He saw the tip of her tongue flicker nervously over her lips, as if she knew that they would kiss, that it was inevitable and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Looking into her eyes, he saw a shy smile there and he knew with startling clarity that she did not wish to prevent it. He was holding her hand, drawing her closer. They were breast to breast, he had only to lower his head now for the sweetness of a first kiss from those full, inviting lips.
Laughter, the chatter of familiar voices intruded upon the silence, breaking the spell. Phyllida jumped back, shaken. She felt very much as she did when she dreamed of falling and awoke with a start. What was she doing, standing so close to this man, wanting him to kiss her? She forced herself to turn away, to face the door where the Wakefields now appeared, the others crowding in behind them. Thankfully they all stopped in the doorway, blinking as their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and that gave her the opportunity to recover herself and school her face into a semblance of calm.
‘Why, Lady Phyllida, you are here before us. We thought you were still wandering through the ruins.’
She forced herself to acknowledge Lady Wakefield’s cheerful greeting, to smile and make a suitable reply. The moment was gone, the small chapel was now full of people and noise. Phyllida linked her arm with Ellen’s and accompanied her around the small church, admiring the ancient tomb and the arched window with its elegant tracery. She did not look back at Richard. She could hear his voice, cool and steady with just a hint of amusement, but in her mind’s eye she recalled his face when they had stood alone in the chapel. The blaze of passion that had set her heart racing and then something quite different when they were interrupted. The look of shock, of horror, at what had almost occurred.
They did not tarry in the chapel and soon the party made its way back to the stables to collect the horses. Henry Fullingham was waiting for them, sitting on a mounting block and chatting with Parfett and Lady Wakefield’s groom. Phyllida blinked. She had not even noticed he was not with the others. To be honest she had noticed very little since that moment alone with Richard in the chapel. She heard Lady Wakefield murmur to her husband as they followed Phyllida into the stable yard.
‘If you were to ask me, Mr Fullingham is not at all interested in the romantic ruins.’
‘I quite agree, my dear,’ chuckled Lord Wakefield. ‘He lounged off in a sulk when it was clear the girls preferred Adrian’s ghoulish tales to his flirting. And look now, if he was hoping to help any young lady on to her horse he is foiled again, for the grooms are there before him!’
Lady Wakefield turned to Phyllida, saying as they watched the younger ones mounting up, ‘Well, ma’am, are you glad you came?’
‘I have enjoyed it very much, ma’am. I am grateful to you for arranging it.’
‘Thanks, too, should go to Lady Hune for her introduction,’ put in Lord Wakefield. ‘Without it I doubt our reception would have been quite so hospitable. The refreshments were truly exceptional. Pray, Mr Arrandale, tell Lady Hune we are obliged to her, when you get back to Royal Crescent.’
Phyllida had been lost in her own thoughts and had not realised Richard was so close. He had filled her thoughts and now the unexpected sight of him at her shoulder caught her unawares. The erratic beat of her heart disturbed her breathing. She was obliged to concentrate very hard to prevent herself from simpering and blushing like a schoolgirl when he asked if he might help her into the saddle.
She accepted in as dignified a manner as she could manage, trying not to think how strong he must be to throw her up so effortlessly. She forced herself to appear calm and unruffled while he checked the girth and adjusted her stirrup but her nerves were still on edge. She could not prevent her thoughts from racing ahead. What if he helped her down when they reached Charles Street? She would slide into his arms. They would envelop her, of course, and hold her close while he smiled down at her. His eyes would be gleaming with tender amusement and that would draw from her an answering smile before he bent his head and...and...
‘We must behave ourselves on the return journey, Lady Phyllida.’
Richard’s quiet words made her jump guiltily. He was standing beside Sultan, one hand resting on the gelding’s neck and only inches from her knee. She looked down at him, dazed, and saw just such laughter in his eyes as she had imagined. It stirred something deep inside her, something that disturbed and excited her in equal measure.