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It was only a few hours later that Antonia found herself driving out of London, feeling not unlike an unwanted package being returned to its sender. Great-Aunt Honoria had been affectionate, but somehow distracted. Antonia concluded miserably that the old lady was concerned with limiting the damage to the family’s reputation and did not press her to talk.

Blake was a middle-aged man used to driving an elderly lady and so progress was steady and smooth. Arriving at last in the late afternoon at the Saracen’s Head in King’s Langley for the last change of horses, Antonia declined the landlady’s offer of refreshment in a private parlour and sighed to see the coachman lumber down from the box and stride into the taproom.

She picked up a book, resigned to wait at least half an hour, but she had scarcely found her place than she saw the skirts of his greatcoat as he mounted the box again. Soon they were bowling through the countryside with surprising speed. The new horses must have been an excellent pair but, even so, Blake’s driving had acquired a verve and flair he had not demonstrated in the previous miles.

She thought little of it, grateful to be making such good progress and hopeful of being back at the Dower House by nightfall. Blake made the correct turning in Berkhamsted, wheeled left by the castle and began the long steady climb to the Common. Antonia dozed fitfully, then woke with a start as the carriage lurched.

Strange, she did not remember the road being quite so rough. Puzzled, Antonia looked out and realised she had no idea where they were. Blake must be lost, and she had given him such careful instructions before they set out from Half Moon Street.

Irritated, she knocked briskly on the carriage roof with the handle of her parasol, but Blake took no notice, nor did the conveyance slow. Antonia’s annoyance increased. Was the man deaf? They could end up miles out of their way and the shadows were lengthening. She dropped the window and, clutching her hat firmly, leant out.

‘Blake! Stop the carriage. You are going the wrong way.’ To her relief she felt the pace ease off and saw a clearing ahead with a barn beside it. At least he could turn the carriage there.

As they drew up, she opened the door without waiting for him to descend and jumped down on to the grass. ‘Really, Blake, this will not do. Heavens knows where we are.’

He had turned and was climbing down from the box, his back to her. Antonia waited impatiently. ‘There is no need to get down. Just turn the carriage…’ The rest of the sentence died on her lips as the man reached the ground and turned to face her.

‘Marcus? What are you doing here?’

He shrugged off the heavy greatcoat and tossed the battered beaver hat up on to the coachman’s seat. ‘I am abducting you, of course.’ His manner was so matter of fact he might have been offering her a cup of tea.

The shock left her standing there gaping at him, unable to find the words, even if she could work out what she felt.

Marcus led the horses over to the barn and began to unbuckle the harness. ‘Will you come and hold their heads for a moment while I drop the shafts?’

Mutely Antonia complied, wondering if it were he or she who had lost their senses. Finally Marcus loosed the animals into a nearby meadow, took Antonia by the hand and led her unresisting into the barn. Her brain was beginning to work again, she realised, but she still had no idea how she wanted to respond to this.

It was a small building as barns went, but clean and dry and smelling sweetly of hay. The floor was swept clean to the beaten earth and pitchforks were propped against the walls. Only a small pile of hay remained, and that was incongruously heaped with rugs and pillows.

Even more astounding was the sight of a table and two chairs, the board set with a white cloth and various covered dishes laid out. Marcus crossed and struck flint to light the candles which, in their fine candelabra, added the final touch of unreality to the scene.

‘Are you run mad? What can you hope to achieve by this?’

Marcus came and untied the ribbons of her bonnet and took it from her head. He undid the buttons of her pelisse and handed her into the nearest chair, then reached for a bottle of wine. ‘Here, you must be in need of something to eat and drink.’

Antonia took a reviving gulp of wine. ‘What do you mean to do with me?’

‘Why, ruin you, of course.' Marcus raised his glass in a toast and drank.

Antonia put down the glass, sending the red liquid splashing on to the white cloth. ‘How can you be so vindictive? I have thought many things of you over these past months, but not that you would seek revenge for a humiliation last night that was at least as much your fault as mine.’

Marcus smiled. His teeth gleamed white, and almost menacing in the shadows, and she shivered. ‘I can assure you, revenge does not come into it. Admittedly, I do not relish having to apologise to Lady Jersey, and many mamas have had their opinion of me as a rakehell confirmed. On the other hand, the odds on our marriage have shortened in most of the betting books of the clubs. I am glad I placed my bet when I did.’

‘You…You… You are no gentleman, to bet on such a thing, to bandy my name about like that. I’ll never be able to show my face again.’ She was on her feet now, heading for the door, quite certain what she wanted: to get out of there. If she had to walk to Berkhamsted – whichever direction it lay in – she would do so, however long it took her.

‘Come back, Antonia. Where do you think you are going? It is nearly dark. I was only teasing. I swear l have never so much as whispered your name in my club or any other. I cannot resist making your eyes flash with temper, they are so beautiful.’

Antonia hesitated. It was dark out there now, and the woods were pressing in on all sides. In the distance a vixen screamed and the sky was cloudy without even a star to give her a sense of direction.

She turned from the door and saw Marcus had taken off his coat, tugged his neckcloth loose and was lounging easily in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The candlelight glanced gold from his hair and shadowed the dangerous, mocking mouth. But his eyes were warm, his smile held no threat. When he stretched out a hand she walked uncertainly towards him.

As she reached her chair, he caught her hand and pulled her on to his lap, settling her comfortably in the crook of his arm. Struggling was not going to do her any good and at least this close she could read his mood, his intentions, better. ‘You do not really intend to ruin me, do you?’ she asked, suddenly certain she knew the answer.

‘You are ruined, anyway, by the very act of being alone with me, here, all night. Antonia, you must know how I feel about you and I swear Claudia is not my mistress, was not at Brightshill by my invitation. I know what you saw that afternoon at the summer house, but I swear, on my honour, I did not instigate it, nor follow through on it. I kissed her in the conservatory to distract her and to bring her to my room where I made it very clear it was all over between us.

‘We are here now – shall we be hanged for the sheep, not the lamb?’ As he spoke he stood up, lifted her easily in his arms and walked slowly to the hay bed where he laid her on a rug.

She looked up at him, almost certain, wanting him so much. You must know how I feel about you, Marcus had said. Do I? Why doesn’t he say it?


Tags: Louise Allen Historical