The Earl’s Enchantress

Excerpt

It was an ordinary day when Hebe Carlton first set eyes upon the handsomest man in Malta and took an instant dislike to him. Up until that Wednesday life had seemed to consist mainly of ordinary days, after it, looking back, she could recall few which were.
Hebe’s reaction to the stranger was not, as she would have readily admitted, because she was impervious to good looks in a man, or to the appeal of a smart military uniform. Nor was she given to making instant judgements about people – experience had taught her that they were usually far more interesting than one thought at first sight. But there was something about this man that she could not quite pin down, yet which disturbed her, and she watched intently as he strolled towards their house on the shady side of the square in company with Commodore Sir Richard Latham.
The Commodore, the intended of Hebe’s widowed step-mama, was dropping in for luncheon as was his habit when he could escape from the demands of squadron headquarters down at the dockside, and he was already somewhat later arriving than usual.
The two men were deep in conversation but paused before crossing the road, which gave Hebe the opportunity for a more careful scrutiny of the stranger. An expression of severity and utter seriousness sat austerely on regular, tanned features and she decided that she liked him even less than at first sight. Hebe indulged the fantasy that he was one of the dispossessed Knights of St John, exiled from their island only a few years before by Napoleon, and still negotiating their return with the new English overlords.
An interest in hell-fire, celibacy and the writings of the more rigorous early Church Fathers would suit him, she decided, curling up more snugly in her eyrie to enjoy her fantasy. The graceful whitewashed house with its green shutters and curving iron balconies possessed a number of deeply embrasured windows, each with its seat, and Hebe often curled up in one with a book, or watched the passing scene below.
‘Hee…bee!’ Her step-mama called impatiently from the foot of the stairs, ‘Is the Commodore coming or not?’ She had dispatched Hebe to keep a look out ten minutes ago, at the usual time for his arrival, so that she could ensure that Cook put the final touches to luncheon exactly at the right moment. Mrs Carlton was a firm believer in the maxim that a lady could not be too careful when attaching the interest of a gentleman, and attention to his every comfort was of prime importance.
‘Yes, Mama.’ Hebe uncurled herself and leaned over the banisters to deliver the news. ‘He is on the other side of the square with an Army officer – it looks as though they are both coming this way.’
Mrs Carlton’s up-tilted face became thoughtful. ‘A young officer?’ she enquired.
Hebe considered it. ‘Late twenties, perhaps thirty.’
She was not surprised when Mrs Carlton, with a toss of her blonde curls, picked up a pair of snips from the hall table and opened the door. ‘Perhaps a flower or two for the table,’ she said casually, stepping outside.
Hebe sighed and made her way back to the window. Any new officer upon the scene – Naval or Army – attracted her mama’s interest, and provoked concentrated efforts to make Hebe behave in such a way that he would instantly perceive what an eligible catch she was. The monk, as she was beginning to think of the stranger, was about to be subjected to Mrs Carlton’s wiles. Hebe rather suspected she had met her match with this man.
The Commodore and the severe stranger were still on the other side of the street. It appeared to Hebe that they were discussing business, and the Army man had a leather portfolio under his arm which he offered to the senior officer.
At that point Sir Richard became aware of Mrs Carlton. Without leaning out Hebe could not see her, but she was sure she was making a show of clipping bougainvillea blossoms while posing decoratively against the climbers which framed the doorway. The Commodore removed his cocked hat and made a little bow and the other man did likewise.
With his hat off Hebe had a much better view of a dark head, classical features, a strong chin and a severe, well-modelled mouth. Definitely a monk, she decided. Most men on sighting Mrs Sara Carlton for the first time allowed an expression of appreciation to cross their faces, but not this one. At that moment he looked up abruptly, as though he had sensed he was being watched.
The upward glance was rapid but Hebe started back as though he had touched her. The impression that she was looking at a priest vanished entirely, this was a hunting bird, a hawk who knew he was being observed and was poised to strike whether the watcher was prey or enemy. She added the confused impression of piercing blue eyes and dark brows to her mental picture as she backed away from the glass. No wonder he had made her feel uneasy at first sight. She felt like a sparrow who had just seen the falcon stoop to the kill, Hebe spent a moment calming her breathing, which was suddenly short, wondering at her reaction.
He could not possibly have seen her, she reassured herself, hastily running a comb through her hair and twitching her hem straight. Mama would not be at all pleased if she came down to luncheon looking less than pin-neat.
Mrs Carlton was prone to announce that she had long since reconciled herself to the fact that her stepdaughter was not a beauty, nor even pretty. She even said that she was resigned to Hebe’s stubborn refusal to compensate for this disaster by employing wiles to intrigue, or displays of domestic virtue to attract older men who might be looking for a conformable wife to make them comfortable. However, she was still fighting the battle to make Hebe look and behave like a young lady at all times. Sometimes she succeeded, and just now Hebe felt not the slightest desire to appear in any way out of the ordinary and attract that hard stare.
She ran down the stairs, then slowed, hesitating on the wide polished boards of the hall to hear what was being said in the elegant sea-green reception room. ‘…we are always prepared for Sir Richard to take potluck with us at luncheon,’ Mrs Carlton was saying. ‘It is not the slightest imposition, Major, I would be delighted if you would stay.’
‘In that case, ma’am,’ a deep, cool voice replied, ‘I would be very pleased to accept your kind invitation.’
Hardly an unseemly show of enthusiasm, Hebe decided. Still, he was polite enough, if chilly. Doubtless the Commodore had already said something which alerted the other man to the fact that Mrs Carlton was his intended wife, so the monk would be feeling safe enough, even in the company of a voluptuous blonde who could well pass for the thirty three years she admitted to. Let’s see what he makes of the plain single daughter, she thought with a wry twist of her lips.
‘There you are, Hebe dear,’ Sara cried as she hesitated in the doorway. ‘My stepdaughter Hebe, Major,’ she added.
Just in case, Hebe thought resignedly, he thinks she is old enough to be my mother, or that she is responsible for such an ordinary-looking girl. She was very fond of Sara Carlton, but sometimes she could….
She disciplined her face and allowed the introduction to continue. ‘This is Major the Honourable Alex Beresford, Hebe.’
Hebe dropped a neat little curtsey and observed the elegant bow she received in return. ‘Miss Carlton.’ Again that cool, deep voice and expressionless face, although now she was close to him she realised that his eyes were startlingly blue and that it was the hawk, not the monk, who was watching her through them.
She was piqued both by his indifference and by her own sudden surge of curiosity about Major Beresford. Not, of course, that she was attracted to him, although his voice sent a strange tingle down her spine. No, it was simply that the Army officers of her acquaintance were generally a friendly, gregarious body of men. Occasionally one met a shy or awkward one, or a rake best avoided by a single girl, but on the whole they mingled cheerfully with the resident English community, pleased to be invited into private homes and ready to partake fully in local society.
‘Shall we go through to the dining room?’ Sara asked, taking Sir Richard’s arm and making her way to the door, thus neatly leaving Major Beresford little option but to offer his arm to Hebe.
He escorted her efficiently, and silently, to the place indicated by his hostess, pulled out her chair and took his own place by her side. After the first flurry of dishes being passed Mrs Carlton addressed a question about a recently widowed lady of their acquaintance directly to the Commodore. Hebe waited with some amusement to see whether the major was going to fulfil his social obligations and talk to her.
‘You have been living on the island long, Miss Carlton?’ It was perfectly polite and a reasonable question in the circumstances. There was not a hint of boredom in his voice, but Hebe sensed he was deeply impatient at finding himself trapped in this situation.
Her stepmother, when making one of her frequent lists of Hebe’s faults, placed curiosity a close second after harum-scarum behaviour. Hebe failed to understand why this was frowned upon. People intrigued her. She had a deep concern for the affairs of their servants, her friends knew they could confide in her and find someone who entered into their every feeling – even if she asked an awful lot of questions in the process – and watching complete strangers was an abiding fascination. She did not gossip, she never pried, she simply watched and listened and asked questions, then followed with interest as events unfolded, helping if she was offered the opportunity, rejoicing or agonising as the case may be if she were not.
So why was this officer so reticent, so cold? Thinking of him as an interesting mystery, rather than a severe, rather frightening man, made sitting next to him easier. She offered him a plate of bread and butter as she answered his question. ‘I have been here three years – since my father was posted to Malta with his squadron. My mother had died ten years ago and he married again four years later. Where circumstances allowed my step mama and I had followed him from naval base to naval base. Then he died two years ago of a fever and we have remained here ever since.’
There, she thought, that’s a nice full answer with lots of dates, now you say something.
‘Indeed?’
‘Possibly we will return to England after Mama marries Sir Richard, our plans are not yet certain. So much depends on the disposition of the squadron.’ Silence. ‘It will be interesting to see England again after so long.’
‘I am sure it will.’
He cut his bread and Hebe found herself watching his hand on the knife. Long, tanned fingers which looked as if they were more used to gripping a sword hilt, strong tendons showing sharp against the skin, a long-healed scar across the knuckles, white against the tan.
‘And has your regiment been long on the island, Major? I was not aware of any new troop landings.’ She could not place his uniform at all.
He answered her question with one of his own. ‘Do you take such a close interest in troop movements, Miss Carlton?’ One dark brow rose slightly and the corner of his mouth curved in what, if his eyes had shown any warmth, she might have read as a smile.
So, he thought she was one of those giddy girls who hankered after any man in a uniform did he? Hebe bit the inside of her lip to stop herself making a brisk retort and instead smiled brightly back at him, wishing she had the nerve to tell him he need not worry, he was the last man on Malta whose interest she would wish to attach.
‘Why, no more than anyone else with reasonable powers of observation, sir. All of us exiles from England know which war ships have docked, which regiments have landed, who has left, who has arrived. These comings and goings control the arrival of news from home, the mails, the company we ask to dinner or meet at parties.’
Major Beresford was helping himself to cold fish, apparently unmoved by her smile. ‘A somewhat restricted social life on such a small island.’
Hebe ploughed on, all too aware that Sara was watching her from the corner of her eye. ‘I should imagine it is no more so than that experienced by the residents of a resort such as Brighton or Harrogate. Would you be so kind as to pass me the butter, Major?’
He did so, unfortunately raising his eyes in time to intercept an encouraging nod of approval from Sara Carlton to her stepdaughter. Hebe considered feigning a sudden headache and fleeing the table, but that nagging curiosity kept her there, despite a growing feeling of frustration. She was going to get a straight answer, or at least a genuine smile, out of him before they rose from the dining table if it was the last thing she did.
‘Will you be staying long on Malta, Major Beresford?’
‘That will depend.’ She found herself watching those long fingers again as they curled around the bowl of his glass. They were drinking lemonade, cold from the pitcher’s long immersion in the fountain, and condensation beaded the outside of the goblet. His little finger ran up and down, leaving a track through the moisture, and Hebe watched as though mesmerised.
‘Upon what?’ she asked abruptly, pulling herself together.
‘Upon my orders,’ he responded frostily.
‘Well, of course I will ask no more, Major.’ Like all of the English community Hebe was well aware of the need for complete discretion about orders when it was certain there were French spies all over the island.
‘Will you not?’ He half turned in his chair to regard her with that piercing blue gaze. Hebe had the sudden fantasy that he was about to demand that she confess all, when he added, ‘And what will we talk about if you are resolved to stop interrogating me, Miss Carlton?’
Taken aback, she met his hard stare with her own, eyes wide with anger. ‘I am sure, Major,’ she said, keeping her voice too low for the others to hear, ‘I am sure you must find it an intolerable bore to be expected to make small talk with a young lady. Could I suggest that you consider whether the young lady concerned is also finding the experience somewhat tiresome?’
That did, at least, provoke a reaction. She still kept her eyes locked with his and something stirred in the blue depths. There was anger, heat and, she saw with a sudden sense of shame at her own behaviour, exhaustion. Now she was looking at him properly she could see that the skin under his eyes was white under the tan and realised that his excessive coldness was simply a device to keep him on his feet and conscious, able to respond to this unwelcome luncheon party into which Sir Richard had pitchforked him.
She glanced at his plate, feeling the moment when she broke away from his gaze as something almost physical. He had eaten hardly anything.
‘Miss Carlton,’ he began.
‘Oh dear,’ Hebe said shakily, but loudly enough to attract the attention of her stepmother and Sir Richard. ‘Oh dear, I feel quite faint all of a sudden. Major, please could you help me into the garden?’ He got to his feet swiftly, one hand under her arm and she let herself lean a little on the support. ‘No, no, Mama, I will be quite all right. I will just sit in the shade…’
‘If you do not mind, Major, I would be grateful.’
As soon as they were outside the door Hebe freed his arm, casting him an anxious look. ‘I am sorry about that, but I think you ought to rest and the garden is the coolest place.’ She steered him towards the open door at the end of the hall, leading to the green arbour in the little courtyard and the soft sound of water trickling from the fountains.
‘I am tired?’ He looked down at her frowning. ‘But you said you were…’
‘Faint, yes I know, it was a fib, but I do not expect you want Sir Richard to know you are not feeling quite yourself,’ she replied briskly. A maid popped her head out of the door as they passed and Hebe added, ‘A pitcher of lemonade please, Maria, and two glasses.’ Major Beresford allowed himself to be directed through the door, stooping under a tangle of hanging climber and into the deep shade of a little paved area. A lion head fountain burbled gently against the wall, and two fringed white hammocks hung companionably side by side.
‘There, lie down,’ Hebe ordered firmly, plumping up pillows. ‘If you drink at least one more glass of lemonade and then sleep for half an hour you will feel somewhat better when you wake.’
The major was obviously unused to taking order from debutantes, but the novelty appeared to be sufficient to secure at least compliance. He sat on the hammock, long legs over the side, and watched her with the beginnings of a genuine smile catching at the corners of his mouth.
‘I think you should take your coat off as well,’ she added. ‘You will sleep much better.’
‘I should imagine your mama will be out here any minute to see exactly what is going on,’ he retorted, making no effort to start unbuttoning the row of shining buttons.
‘Oh no,’ Hebe said, curling up in the opposite hammock and setting it swinging to and fro. She pushed up the pillows behind her and looked at him. ‘Go on, take it off, we are quite safe for at least half an hour. Mama will enjoy talking to Sir Richard without me there and she will be delighted to think we are in the garden indulging in a little genteel flirtation.’
‘Is that what we are doing?’ He started to open the coat, his eyes on her face.
‘Of course not. But you are exhausted, and you will be able to carry on with your business with the Commodore much more efficiently after a little rest. Here, give me that and I will put it on this stool.’
She looked at him critically as he poured the lemonade and tossed back half the glass in one gulp. In the white shirt Alex Beresford looked far less like a bird of prey, and not at all like a monk. She studied the line of his throat as he swallowed, the width of his shoulders as he lay back against the pile of pillows and the length of his legs, elegant in tight overall trousers and black boots as he swung them up into the hammock.
He leaned out to put down the glass and met her gaze. ‘What told you I was tired? I did not think I was so easy to read.’
‘Your eyes, and the skin under them. And you hardly ate anything.’
‘And I was very rude to you.’ Hebe twinkled back as he pulled a sudden, rueful face. ‘You know, Miss Carlton, tired as I am, I think I would rather flirt than sleep.’
She could see his lids were beginning to droop. ‘I never flirt, Major.’
He opened his eyes at that and turned his head on the pillows. ‘What, never? You really are an extraordinary young lady, Miss Carlton.’
‘Oh no,’ Hebe corrected. ‘A very ordinary one.’ But his eyes were closed, the sweep of dark lashes feathering the skin. Alex Beresford was asleep.