Valerian Inglemoore

Valerian smiled. It was not a friendly smile, but a wolfish one that suggested he was not, nor ever would how Valerian be, the prey. ‘Then you will have also heard that I am not afraid of a woman’s opinions, that I am not a man who will cower behind old-fashioned thought and conventions when it comes to the suppression of the fairer sex. Much would be missed in our world if we neglected half the population. Take, for example, the excellent champagne our host is serving from his excellent cellar tomorrow night.’

Valerian turned to Canton. ‘Pendennys mentioned you’d be offering a Veuve Clicquot, an outstanding champagne thanks to the revolutionary efforts of Clicquot’s widow. Did you know, Danforth, that she is responsible for inventing the remuage process? We have a woman to thank for clear champagne. Without her efforts, we’d have nothing more than a cloudy, fizzy novelty.’ Valerian raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Madame Clicquot.’

In a few short sentences Valerian had eloquently smoothed over Danforth’s uncomfortable claims and moved the conversation into the safer realm of wine. Danforth did not venture out to play with verbal fire again.

Dinner went smoothly after that if Philippa did not count the unnerving sensation of Valerian’s body in such close proximity to her own. In all the numerous dinner parties she’d attended, she had not ever noticed the intimate closeness she was now exceedingly aware of with Valerian next to her. His knee touched hers; she dropped her napkin and his hand brushed her skirt as he bent to retrieve it, beating the footman to the task.

* * *

By the time dessert was served, Philippa’s nerves were jangled beyond reason. She stood as soon as it was politely possible. ‘Gentlemen, excuse me. I’ll leave you to your port and cigars.’

Lucien rose and protested. ‘Please stay, my dear. You are welcome to stay.’ He directed the comment at her, but his hazel stare was directed at Valerian. The look in his gaze was sharp and penetrating, meant to send a message.

So he had noticed Valerian’s casual touches, Philippa thought, and he’d found them as unsettling as she did, but for altogether different reasons. She could feel Valerian’s eyes read every message, spoken or not. She had no desire to stay in the dining room and become a prize to be fought over. ‘Really, I would prefer to retire and give you gentlemen some privacy,’ she insisted, not waiting for permission to leave the room.

Philippa collected a shawl from her bedroom and then made good her escape to a quiet veranda where she could let the cold air do its work. She needed a clear head. Valerian was back and he would have to be contended with. His presumptuous behaviour at dinner suggested he wasn’t the least bit penitent about breaking her young girl’s heart, nor was he disinclined to live down the rumours regarding his profligate behaviour abroad.

Certainly, she didn’t want to be petty. What had happened between them had occurred years ago. They were both adults now. She should put the past behind her. He obviously had if his behaviour at dinner was any indication. He apparently thought she might welcome his advances. But he would have to take her for a fool if he thought she would disregard his well-taught lessons after one flirtatious encounter.

Would she disregard his harsh lesson in love? The thought that she might re-think her position on Valerian was startling. In her mind, she’d often played out an imaginary encounter. In that encounter, she’d been an aloof lady with grand manners, icily polite to a fault and he would know that his attentions had come too late.

Funny how in her imaginings she always assumed he’d care what had become of her. Maybe that was because she could not fathom how he’d gone from a dedicated suitor with words of undying devotion on his lips to that of a cold jilt in the span of a day. Undisputably, he’d broken her heart, but she’d never quite convinced herself it was for the reasons he’d cited. None the less, in the end, the results had been the same.

Valerian would drive her mad! Perhaps it was time to think more seriously about Lucien Canton’s offer. There had been no formal proposal, but much was implied in their long-standing relationship. She did expect a proposal soon. Perhaps Valerian was the impetus she needed for getting on with her life.

Lucien was exactly the kind of man she needed and he’d spent the years since Cambourne’s death proving it. He’d overseen the difficult tangle of financial matters and entailments until she’d learned to manage them on her own. He’d been the one to ride out to the mines and keep the Cambourne industries running while she was in mourning. Besides herself, no one knew the extensive Cambourne holdings better than Lucien. He was competent, handsome, well mannered, comfortable to be with. He was reliable and steady, a constant companion.

‘Philippa.’

All thoughts of Lucien vanished. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Valerian. ‘I came out here to be alone.’

‘Then we have something in common. I came out here to be alone with you, too.’ Valerian took up a position next to her at the railing, leaning on his elbows. ‘I wanted to talk to you. There are things I want to explain.’

Philippa shifted her body to face him. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea unless you want to start explaining why your hand spent most of dinner on my thigh. We are finished. You made that clear nine years ago.’

Valerian would not be put off by her harsh words. It was disappointing, but not unexpected that he could not be handled like the ballroom beaux. A set-down from her usually sent them scrambling for apologies.

Instead of begging forgiveness, Valerian laughed softly in the darkness, a beautiful, sensual sound that promised indecent pleasures. One would have thought she’d spoken love words to him instead of a scolding.

‘You are more sharp-tongued than I remember.’ He paused to look at her, his voice lowering. ‘And more beautiful. You’ve done well for yourself.’

If he refused to be scolded, then she would refuse to be taken in by his flattery. ‘St Just, if you intended that as a compliment, your skill is diminished greatly. I am insulted by the idea that my beauty has done well for me as if my looks were an industry designed to turn a profit. My looks have bought me a few houses and financial security. While those are not unpleasing things, the price for them has been my personal happiness. To think that my looks have done well for me is to be misled by the shallow mind you apparently possess. You show yourself poorly by believing I would settle for so little.’

There, such a scalding set-down should drive even him from the veranda. But Philippa was supremely dissatisfied with the results.

Valerian’s face broke into a wide grin, showing all his white teeth. His voice was low and private, laughter lurking beneath the surface. ‘I am glad to see that along with selling your hand in marriage, your parents didn’t succeed in selling your soul.’ He chuckled, enjoying his humour.

‘You’ve a black sense of humour, St Just.’

Valerian reached for her hand where it rested on the railing, caressing it idly with his fingertips. ‘My dear, when have I ever been St Just to you? Call me Valerian as my friends do, as you once did.’

Philippa snatched her hand away. How dare he come out here to insult her and then expect that he could take liberties? ‘Let me set you straight. I am not your “dear” or your friend. Nine years ago, I paid the price for what passes as friendship with you. I shall not make that mistake again. I have a new life now and there’s no room for you in it.’ It was important that she define the rules first before he had a chance to worm himself into her good graces. He could be charming and she must be wary of letting her guard down, of letting him pretend to be her friend.

His face flushed at her words. She did not think the flush was from her candour, but rather from a rising anger. Valerian gripped her by the arms, his soft sensuality of moments ago replaced by a hard envy. ‘A life that includes Lucien Canton? What is Lucien Canton to you? Is he your lover?’

‘Take your hands off me. I don’t answer to you.’ Philippa looked him squarely in the eye. Something dangerous and erotic lurked in their emerald depths. In an unfair moment she thought Lucien’s hazel eyes merely pretended towards greenness.

He ignored her request. He crowded her against the hard iron of the railing. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind she thought she should have minded the invasion. But his hot envy had transmuted into molten seduction.

‘Your body answers to me, Philippa. My hands were made for you and you alone. No one has ever felt like you do, Philippa. I’ve not forgotten how your skin feels like rose petals.’ He pushed back the shawl from her arms and trailed the back of his hands down their length, removing the long gloves as he went until her arms were completely exposed.

‘I have not forgotten what it is to span the width of your back with my hand and pull you against me.’ Warm skin met warm skin where the plunging vee of her gown bared her back and she trembled against her will.

‘And you’ve not forgotten either,’ Valerian whispered against her mouth, his lips moving to seal hers, his hands moving to crush her against him, one hand finding the firm mound of breast beneath the velvet bodice. He palmed it, caressed it reverently until she cried out in his mouth from unwanted pleasure.

It was all coming back to her in a rush, how he felt against her, how he could make her body come alive, how she loved the exquisite sensations he could coax from her. How could she have forgotten this?

Philippa burned. Every part of her body was on fire. Heat licked at her from the inside out. Pressure built at her core until she wanted to scream. Valerian was the sum of her world in that moment. He was everywhere—his hands on her body, his scent in her nostrils—and she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to go on for eternity. She hated herself for it.

She pulled away with the greatest of efforts, panting and desperate. Valerian looked dismayed at her retreat. That was some gratification. ‘Have a care, St Just. Lucien will not tolerate playing the cuckold.’ She gave a slight nod to the empty room beyond the French doors, where Beldon and Lucien had just arrived. She hoped she didn’t look as dishevelled as she felt.

‘Philippa—’ he began in a ragged voice.

She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’

‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.

‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’

‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’ He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh.

Philippa’s nerves were stretched to breaking. She raised her right hand and slapped him hard across the face.

‘What was that for?’ Valerian put a hand to his red cheek, stunned.

Philippa inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders. ‘That was “welcome home.”’

Chapter Three

Welcome home indeed, Valerian thought sourly, watching Philippa disappear inside. Through the glass panes of the French doors he could see her sit down at the polished cherry-wood pianoforte and arrange her skirts.

Lucien Canton slid on to the bench next to her, ready to turn pages, acting the devoted suitor to perfection. From the looks of him, the man did everything to perfection. He was immaculately turned out and not just his clothes, Valerian had noted. Canton’s nails were trimmed and buffed to a healthy sheen, his face freshly shaved. Valerian looked at his own nails, just as neatly kept. He too was fastidious in his personal habits. He had learned quickly in his time abroad that women responded to two things, cleanliness and sincerity, both of which were in short supply in many parts of the world. But from all appearances through the window pane, Canton possessed both qualities in abundance. Through the panes, Philippa smiled and laughed at something Canton had said.

Primal envy sparked in Valerian. He didn’t want Philippa laughing with Canton. He wanted her laughing with him. He hadn’t come home expecting to woo her. He hadn’t even known wooing her would be a possibility until Beldon had mentioned Cambourne’s death in the coach. But now that the chance to win her back was present, he could see no other course of action.

He’d meant what he’d said at dinner about taking a wife and starting a family—as long as that wife was Philippa. He still desired her and she still responded to him, if that ill-conceived interlude here on the balcony was any indication. He only had to convince her of that. She’d had nine years to nurse her grudge and she’d always been far too stubborn. The sting of her slap suggested the job in front of him would not be an easy one. The passion of her body’s response to his said the task would not be without its rewards. She might have struck him, but he was not convinced she’d slapped him out of anger about his advances. Given her response to him, she’d struck him out of anger over her own behaviour. He was merely a convenient target.

However, he was willing to acknowledge that it had been the height of foolhardiness to seek her out alone, knowing that his emotions were ruling his better judgement. The thrill of seeing her again, of feeling her presence next to him at dinner, of watching her deal with Danforth, combined with the surge of jealously that coursed through him at seeing Canton lay claim to her, was too potent a mixture to swallow without consequence.

He’d meant to confess his feelings to her, to declare his devotion and even to explain away the events of their last evening together as the poor decisions of youth. He’d got nowhere with his agenda. Instead, he’d no doubt affirmed all the sordid rumours that had trickled back to London about him. Within moments they’d been sparring and then, his blood hot, he’d taken her in his arms and silenced her the only way he knew how. But his reckless kiss had been more consistent with the behaviour he wanted to refute than the man he wanted to convince Philippa he was, and had always been, in spite of actions to the very persuasive contrary.

The only thing more senseless than kissing Philippa was standing out here in the cold, allowing Canton to hold Philippa’s attention uncontested. Valerian pushed open the door and went inside. The battle was joined.

Lucien spied his return to the company as Philippa finished playing a pretty country piece. The small group clapped politely. ‘Let us play our duet for them,’ Lucien suggested to Philippa, sorting through the sheets of music until he found the one he was looking for. He gave Valerian a challenging look that could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a silent dare. Valerian returned the stare with a short nod of acknowledgement.

They executed the duet flawlessly. Valerian had known Philippa was a dab hand at the pianoforte, but Lucien was the stronger of the two players. He wondered if Canton knew he played as well. The piece flowed seamlessly, the four hands following each other to Lucien’s trademark perfection.

Amid the brief applause at the end, Canton tossed him a smug look of satisfaction. Philippa caught him at it and gave Canton a hard look. Valerian was hard pressed to smother a laugh. Lucien didn’t know Philippa well if he thought such masculine antics would go unpunished. She would make Canton pay and, he noted ruefully when her quick stare censured him as well, he would pay too.

‘Anyone else care to play?’ Lucien asked, once more the congenial host. Valerian doubted any of the other guests were aware of the currents flowing between the little triangle. It was tempting to play, but it was also petty. Valerian opted to refrain, but Philippa had different ideas. She caught his eye. ‘Viscount St Just is quite accomplished if I remember correctly. Do you still play, St Just?’

‘Yes, I do. It would be an honour to perform on such a fine instrument.’ Valerian took the bench and flexed his hands experimentally.

‘I have some music…’ Canton began.

‘I won’t need any music,’ Valerian said shortly and launched into a complicated scherzo that left the audience mesmerised.

‘Magnificent! You’ve been training,’ Beldon enthused afterwards. ‘I’d forgotten how good you were.’

‘Thank you,’ Valerian said, rising from the bench. He tossed a covert glance towards Canton, making sure the man understood he’d picked up the gauntlet.

The tea tray arrived, but no one lingered overlong. There would be much to do on the morrow to be ready for the evening’s festivities. As everyone retired, Valerian stopped off at the library to select a book to read. A few minutes later there were muffled footsteps on the Axminster carpet. He didn’t need to turn around to know the newcomer was Lucien Canton. He’d expected as much. The problem with perfection was that it was often predictable.

‘I thought you and I should talk, St Just. Have a seat.’ Canton sat down and motioned to the chair across from him.

‘You have an extensive collection of books,’ Valerian said glibly.

Canton waved away the attempt at small talk. ‘I am not here to trade banalities with you. I came to make sure you understood how things stand between myself and Lady Cambourne.’ His eyes glittered like hard gems.

Valerian steepled his hands. ‘I understand from Pendennys that she is acting as hostess in your sister’s stead,’ he said, deliberately misinterpreting the implications of Canton’s message. If the man wanted to stake his claim, he’d have to do it directly. He would not get away with subtlety.

‘She is more than my hostess. We have discussed the possibility of a more permanent arrangement between us. I mean to propose marriage to her and I have every reason to believe that my suit would be met favourably.’

‘Why are you telling me, a mere stranger, this?’

‘You know very well why—you didn’t take her into dinner for the sake of old friendships renewed and all that. I did not know the depth of your former relationship was quite so, ah, developed. It is clearly much more than a friendship. No one looks at an old friend the way you looked at her tonight.’

‘And how is that?’ He’d been more transparent than he thought, or perhaps Canton was simply more astute.

‘Like a starving man looks at a feast,’ Canton said acidly.

Valerian raised his eyebrows, ready to strike. ‘Is that cliché the best you can do?’ He liked Canton less and less by the moment and not all of it had to do with envy. All his instincts said Canton had ulterior motives regarding Philippa. A man in love and certain of his affections being returned would not feel a need to stake such a blatant claim. Canton’s next statement confirmed Valerian’s suspicions.

‘I know you didn’t go to the drawing room to study the Gainsborough when you left the dining room,’ Canton said, referring to the facile lie Valerian had used to excuse himself and to follow Philippa. ‘My footman reported the two of you were out on the balcony, intimately engaged.’

‘Spying on your guests? That’s quite an admirable trait,’ Valerian said drily. ‘I wonder how the Duchess would feel if she knew you had her followed. Do you do it regularly?’ He rose, book in hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this gentlemanly conversation. Goodnight, Canton.’

Lucien rose with him. ‘I mean to have her, St Just. She’s mine. I’m the one who has been here through the years when she was in mourning. You can’t waltz into my home after a nine-year absence and undo in the span of a few short hours what I’ve worked years to accomplish.’

Valerian stopped at the door, his hand forcefully gripping the knob as he reined in his temper. He’d faced down Mehemet Ali, the renowned Egyptian naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’

He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.

Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too sacred to escape sacrifice. There was something Lucien Canton wanted and Philippa was a vital link in his ability to get it. He speculated that Lucien Canton would be willing to do more than marry to secure it as well.

The man had portrayed no signs of lover-like affections, but had instead acted like a man in possession of a great treasure around which he must place guards and fences. It didn’t take a large amount of speculation, even knowing as little as he did about the state of Philippa’s inheritance from Cambourne, to surmise Canton had his eye on some aspect of her estate.

Beldon had asked him in the coach if he believed in serendipity. Absolutely not. He had not survived the dark side of diplomacy by luck. He’d survived because he believed a man made his own chances. From the looks of things, Lucien Canton believed that too. That made the man more dangerous than he might have been otherwise.

He wondered if Philippa knew Canton didn’t love her, but what she owned. If not, he’d be sure to call it to her attention by showing her the depths of his own passion for her. It looked like he wouldn’t make Roseland Hall by New Year after all.

31 December

The dancers whirled about Valerian in a dervish of luxurious winter velvets and satins to a rowdy country dance played by the five-piece orchestra seated above the crowd in the small balcony at the top of the ballroom, designed for just such a purpose. The guests were in high spirits as midnight approached. Philippa had done a splendid job playing hostess, making sure everyone had partners for dancing. No one went unnoticed, from the plainest of girls to the quietest of matrons.

He and Beldon had done their parts to ensure her success in that pursuit. They’d danced with the matrons and charmed the local wallflowers until they blossomed.

But for the most part, Valerian had spent the evening listening to the rhythm of Cornwall. What did people think about these days? What was the lifeblood of the Cornish economy? Where did people think their future lay? The answer repeatedly came back to mining.

It was not surprising. Mining had been an ongoing consideration in the region for literally centuries. Valerian’s own family had mining interests upon which the family fortunes were built. He knew the Duke of Cambourne had invested heavily in tin and copper mines as well as the ancillary businesses that accompanied the industry of mining: smelting, furnace parts and mining equipment.

What did surprise him was the growing competition. Mining had not yet reached its apex, but the foundations for managing those future interests were being laid now. Mining had become a full blown industry and much more highly politicised than it had been before.

Valerian had caught snatches of conversations regarding mining-related legislation. House of Commons members, home from the Michaelmas session of Parliament, and members of the House of Lords, debated the need for safety laws that ensured a quality of life for the miners and their families.

More intriguing to Valerian were the conversations he overheard regarding the merits of importing metal ores from British settlements in Chile and Argentina. The capitalists of the group argued importing would certainly help meet growing industrial need, while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.