The Temptation of Torilla Read online

  The Marquis walked to where Torilla was standing a little apart from the others.

  “Do you know where you are staying tonight?” he asked.

  “At an inn called The George and Dragon,” she replied.

  “Then I will take you there, for it is where I am bound myself,” the Marquis offered.

  She looked away from him towards the coach, then back again.

  “I – would like that – but – ”

  “There are no ‘buts’,” the Marquis interrupted. “My groom is a very effective chaperone and you will be there quicker and far more comfortably than if you wait for old grumble-boots!”

  She smiled and would have bent down to pick up her valise, which she had beside her on the grass verge.

  “Leave it,” the Marquis ordered.

  He helped her into the phaeton and went round the other side where Jim jumped down to hand him the reins.

  The groom picked up the valise and climbed onto the seat behind the hood and then they were off, driving smoothly with a speed that soon left the scene of the accident far behind.

  The Marquis did not speak and after they had driven a little way Torilla glanced at him from under her eyelashes.

  He was not only very impressive, she thought, but very handsome. At the same time he was rather frightening.

  Perhaps it was the proud manner in which he held his head and the expression on his face that was almost disdainful, as if everything and everybody was beneath him.

  His features were classical but there were lines running from his nose to the side of his mouth which she thought were the marks of cynicism – or was it boredom?

  She felt suddenly very young and very inexperienced and almost wished she was travelling in the coach rather than with a stranger.

  Then he turned to smile at her and quite unreasonably she felt that the sun had come out.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Your horses are magnificent, sir!” she replied.

  “I am glad you should think so.”

  “They are finer than any I have ever seen, except perhaps for those you drove yesterday.”

  The Marquis looked at her in surprise and she explained,

  “I love horses. While we were waiting this morning for the coach, I looked into the stables at the inn and a groom told me that four superb chestnuts belonged to – Sir Alexander Abdy.”

  She paused before she asked,

  “That is you, is it not, sir?”

  “That is my name,” the Marquis agreed.

  “Then I would like to – thank you again,” she said in a low voice.

  “Forget it,” the Marquis said briefly. “There is no need to talk or even to think of anything that is no longer of any consequence. I would like, however, to know who you are.”

  “I am Torilla Clifford,” she answered.

  “Torilla,” the Marquis repeated. ‘I don’t think I have ever heard that name before. It becomes you.”

  He saw that even at such a very mild compliment the colour rose in her face and he told himself he must be careful not to frighten her as she had been scared already.

  He was not used to the company of young girls, but he sensed that Torilla was rather exceptional and not only in her looks.

  He had not been mistaken when he had thought last night that not only was she very lovely but there was something sensitive about her.

  It was an attribute he had found singularly lacking among the daughters of the aristocracy who had been pressed upon him on his journey North.

  He talked about his horses, where he had bought them and their breeding. He realised that Torilla, unlike most women, was not pretending, but was in fact vitally interested in everything he said.

  She also asked him some intelligent questions, which told him that she not only loved horses but also had studied racing form. He began to wonder who she was and where she came from.

  He was not to know that the Earl of Fernleigh had a racing stable and that Beryl and Torilla as children vied with the stable boys in picking the winners of every important race.

  It was not long before The George and Dragon, an ancient Posting House with a history of highwaymen, came into sight.

  “As we are both staying here,” the Marquis said, “I should be honoured, Miss Clifford, if you would dine with me this evening.”

  She looked at him with what he knew was surprise and he added,

  “I have a private room and I am quite certain that the dinner provided for me will be very much better than the menu selected for the stagecoach passengers.”

  “That would not be difficult, judging by last night’s meal,” Torilla smiled.

  “Then you will dine with me?”

  She looked at him and there was a worried look in her blue eyes.

  “It would not be – wrong?”

  “Wrong?” he questioned.

  “I – I am travelling – alone,” she said, “and I don’t know – if it would be correct for me to – accept the invitation of someone to whom I have not been – introduced.”

  She spoke hesitantly and gave him a glance as if she was afraid that he might laugh at her.

  But the Marquis replied quite gravely,

  “I think, considering the unusual circumstances in which we met, we may consider ourselves introduced, Miss Clifford. Moreover, if you are with me, there will be no chance of your being subjected to the odious attentions of anyone who might be dining in the coffee room.”

  He saw a little shiver go through her as she recalled what had happened last night and she said quickly,

  “I would much – rather be with – you.”

  “Then that is settled!” the Marquis said. “I am afraid I keep late hours and so I shall not dine until half after seven. But that will give you time to rest.”

  “Thank you. Thank you – very much!” Torilla said in a breathless little voice.

  They drove into the courtyard of The George and Dragon and, as the landlord hurried forward, the Marquis explained Torilla’s presence.

  “There has been an accident to the stagecoach about five miles away from here,” he said. “I have brought Miss Clifford, who is one of the passengers, with me. Kindly see she has a comfortable room to herself.”

  “Just as you say, sir,” the innkeeper replied, bowing obsequiously not only to the Marquis but also to Torilla.

  She was taken upstairs and given, she was quite sure, a far more comfortable room than was usually accorded to stagecoach passengers.

  ‘He is very kind,’ she told herself as, doing what the Marquis had suggested, she undressed and lay down on the bed.

  She was so tired after such a frightening night that she fell asleep and was only awakened when the maid brought her a can of hot water at seven o’clock.

  Torilla got up quickly, washed and put on a different gown from the one she had worn for travelling.

  It was another cheap muslin dress which had been made by Abby and was certainly not the sort of evening gown, she thought, that Sir Alexander would expect a guest of his to wear.

  Abby had put a little frill of crisp white muslin around the neck and had arranged it with narrow blue ribbons with similar frills at the wrists to match.

  The gown itself was pale blue and Torilla had in fact packed it for the journey, because it was old and she was certain it would not be smart enough to wear at Fernleigh Park.

  She wished now that she had one of her mother’s gowns to wear, then she told herself she was being absurd.

  Sir Alexander was obviously very grand and had only invited her to dinner because he was kind and he understood how frightened she had been the night before.

  He would certainly not notice what anyone as insignificant as herself wore and she only hoped she would not prove, as Abby had warned her, a bore by talking about the things that did not appeal to him.

  ‘I must be very careful to keep to subjects he may be interested in,’ she told herself.

  She knew alre
ady that one thing they had in common was horses.

  She brushed her fair hair until it shone, then she went down the stairs to find the landlord waiting for her.

  “You are dining with Sir Alexander Abdy, I believe, ma’am,” he said.

  Without waiting for Torilla to answer him, he went ahead of her and opened a door at the far end of the passage.

  Torilla entered the room rather shyly.

  It was not large, but at a quick glance she saw it was comfortable and attractive with an oak-beamed ceiling and walls decorated with ancient oak panelling.

  There was a large open fireplace with a log fire.

  A round table, covered with a spotless linen cloth, was set for two and there were several bottles of wine in a large ice bucket.

  Torilla had expected her host to look impressive since she had already been overwhelmed by the fit of his whipcord riding coat, the intricate folds of his cravat and the angle at which he wore his high-crowned hat on his dark hair.

  But she had never known that any man could look as magnificent as the Marquis did in his evening clothes and for a moment she could only stare at him in admiration.

  Then, remembering her manners, she curtsied, the Marquis bowed and indicated a chair by the fireside.

  “Come and sit down, Miss Clifford. I hope you feel rested.”

  “I fell asleep,” Torilla confessed.

  “Then you will be looking forward to your dinner as much as I am,” the Marquis said. “May I offer you a glass of Madeira?”

  “I have not – drunk anything for – two years,” Torilla replied.

  At home in Hertfordshire she had occasionally been allowed a few sips of Madeira from her mother’s glass.

  “Then I will give you very little,” the Marquis smiled.

  He handed her a glass as he spoke and Torilla, sipping the rich wine, felt that it took her back to happy golden days when there had been none of the pinching and saving that there was at Barrowfield.

  Then her father and mother always drank wine at dinner and there had been plump chickens, well-roasted pigeons and large joints of beef to eat.

  Torilla told herself that she must obey Abby and not keep thinking of what lay behind her.

  But as the landlord with two mob-capped maids brought in what seemed to her a gigantic meal, she could not help remembering the children with their hollow cheeks and hungry eyes.

  Resolutely she put such memories from her and enjoyed each dish that was offered, even though she could eat very little in comparison with her host.

  “Tell me about yourself,” the Marquis said as they were sampling a fine turbot that the innkeeper assured them was as fresh as if it had just jumped out of the sea.

  “I would much rather talk about your horses, sir,” Torilla answered. “You said you had racehorses. Are you entering for any of the Classics this year?”

  The diversion was successful.

  The Marquis started talking of his ambition to win the Gold Cup at Ascot and discussed which owners were likely to defeat him in this objective.

  Then he found himself telling Torilla about his Arab thoroughbreds, which had come from Syria and the horses that his mother had admired from Hungary.

  He talked at times almost indifferently, drawling his words while his eyelids dropped lazily, but Torilla was not deceived. She knew his horses meant a great deal to him.

  “I imagine you can ride well,” he said a good deal later, bringing the conversation back to Torilla.

  “I have not ridden for two years,” she answered. “Please tell me what horse you are entering for the St. Leger then, when September comes, I can look for its name in the newspapers.”

  The Marquis accepted the change of subject, but he was astute enough to realise that the two years that Torilla had just mentioned had something significant about them.

  At the same time, if she thought she was preventing him from questioning her, he was equally aware that she did not desire to talk about herself.

  Because he had no wish to upset her, he therefore did not press the subject, but merely watched the different expressions, which succeeded each other in her large and extraordinarily beautiful eyes.

  As the meal drew to a close and the Marquis sat back with a glass of port in his hand, he thought it was the first time he could remember dining alone with a woman and talking entirely about himself.

  Always those with whom he had spent so many idle hours had wanted to talk about themselves – granted in connection with him – but they were never loath to express their feelings, their emotions and indeed their ambitions extremely volubly and sometimes it seemed unceasingly.

  ‘There is a mystery about this girl,’ he told himself.

  As they moved from the table back to the fireplace and the landlord, having set the decanter of port at the side of the Marquis’s chair, withdrew from the room, he found himself curious.

  “You are travelling South to be married or betrothed?” he enquired.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “You sound very positive. I am sure there are many men eager to pay their addresses to you.”

  Torilla smiled.

  “Actually there is no one.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Are there no men where you come from? Or are they all blind?”

  Torilla blushed.

  The Marquis’s eyes were amused as he watched the colour rise in her face, before he said in his deep voice,

  “You are very beautiful, as you must be well aware when you look in your mirror.”

  Torilla looked into the fire and did not reply. But he saw her clasp and unclasp her fingers together and knew that she was apprehensive.

  “Where are you staying tomorrow night?” he asked in a different tone.

  Torilla thought for a moment.

  “I think it is The White Hart at Eaton Socon.”

  “Then I shall not be able to ask you to dine with me again,” the Marquis said. “I turn off before I reach there.”

  He thought there was a shadow of disappointment in her eyes but was not sure.

  “You must take good care of yourself when I am not there to protect you,” he went on, “although of course by rights, having rescued you twice, I should do so a third time.”

  “I hope not!” Torilla said quickly, then looked confused and added hastily, “I don’t – mean that. I just mean that – accidents and – other adventures are disturbing and very – frightening.”

  “Of course they are,” the Marquis agreed, “and that is why, as you well know, you should not be travelling alone.”

  “It could not be helped,” she answered. “There was no one who could come with me.”

  “No one?” the Marquis questioned.

  She shook her head, then, as if she was afraid he would question her further, she said,

  “I think, sir, as I have to rise very early tomorrow morning and it is getting late, I should retire to bed.”

  She rose to her feet and the Marquis also rose.

  He seemed to tower above her and she looked up at him thinking he was not only the most impressive but also quite the most handsome man she had ever seen in her whole life.

  Because she felt suddenly a little shy she added quickly,

  “As I will not see you again, sir, I want to thank you with all my – heart for your – kindness to me. If you had not – been there last night – ”

  She looked away from him with a little shudder and the Marquis replied,

  “But I was there, and perhaps, Torilla, one day we will meet again.”

  He held out his hand as he spoke, she laid her fingers on it and his tightened over them.

  It gave her a strange feeling and again because she felt shy she stammered,

  “Thank you – thank you – I only wish I could express myself more – eloquently.”

  “If you wish to express your gratitude,” the Marquis said, “there is a very easy way to do so.”

  She looked up at
him questioningly, not understanding what he meant.

  He took his hand from hers and put his fingers under her chin.

  It was impossible to move, impossible to think of what might happen, before his arms were round her and his lips came down on hers.

  For a moment Torilla was too astonished even to breathe.

  Then, as his lips held her captive, she thought she should struggle, that she must run away, but the touch of his mouth seemed to hypnotise her into immobility.

  The warm insistence of it made her feel as if something live moved within her, rising through her body and her breasts up into her throat.

  It was a sensation so wonderful, so unlike anything she had ever known or dreamt of, that she ceased to think.

  It grew in intensity until she felt as if she was no longer herself but a part of him and everything that she had ever known or longed for seemed to be concentrated in the feeling he aroused in her.

  He held her closer still, his arms imprisoning her and yet she made no movement to escape.

  Suddenly the wonder of his kiss became a rapture that was so intense, so ecstatic, that it seemed to pierce her with a dagger-like pain, yet it was a perfection and a glory that came from Heaven itself.

  How long she was close against him, how long the kiss lasted Torilla had no idea.

  She only knew that she was transported out of herself and into a place that had nothing to do with the world in which she lived and breathed.

  It was as if her feet were no longer on the ground and she was flying through space, not a human being but a mythical spirit or nymph filled with magic –

  The Marquis raised his head and his eyes looked into hers.

  She was trembling as she came back to earth with a thump and remembered who she was and why she was there.

  Her face was radiant as she stared up at him, her lips parted, her breath coming quickly between them.

  Then with a little inarticulate murmur, hardly knowing what she was doing, she turned and moved across the room.

  She passed through the door, closing it behind her before she ran – or did she fly? – along the passage and up the stairs into the sanctuary of her bedroom.