Mr. Trelawney's Proposal. Mary Brendan
future on the strength of his neighbour’s success. Rebecca couldn’t grumble at that: such recommendations were what kept her small, thriftily run establishment in business. No doubt the low fees she charged had also been a consideration. Rupert Mayhew didn’t seem a man generous in spirit or coin.
An abrupt noise from behind splintered Rebecca’s musing, jerking her attention from the tranquil garden scene into the spartanly furnished parlour. Rupert Mayhew was overlooked as Rebecca gazed towards the polished mahogany door which now gaped wide on its hinges.
The auburn-haired young lady who slouched in its opening was quite lovely, despite the aggressive glower, the sulky, slanted mouth and the livid purple bruising which shadowed one sapphire eye.
Luke Trelawney’s dark head fell forward to momentarily rest in his cupped hands before long, blunt fingers threaded through thick, raven hair, drawing it away from his damp forehead. He jerked himself back against the uncomfortable squabs of the hired travelling coach and swore. An irritated flick of a glance took in the sun-yellowed grassy banks along the road side as a dark hand moved to release yet more mother-of-pearl buttons, hidden among the snowy ruffles of his lawn shirt.
‘If you’re intending supping at the Red Lion naked to the waist, don’t expect me to protect your honour,’ Ross Trelawney remarked with a grin from the opposite side of the coach. He nevertheless followed his handsome older brother’s lead and loosened his upper torso from the clinging confines of a perspiration-soaked shirt.
‘Infernal weather,’ Luke Trelawney growled. ‘That damned fool of a coachman must have taken a wrong turn. He promised us this Red Lion inn was within spitting distance some ten miles back. If we’re not upon it soon, I’m out and walking.’ Another black glance took in the arid scenery, scorched by a lengthy summer parched of rain, before he relented and half-smiled at his younger brother. ‘I told you we should have used one of my coaches…at least we could have roasted in comfort. The springs in this contraption are more out of the seat than in it.’
Ross grimaced a wry apology at his older sibling, aware of his exasperation and the reason for it.
Luke Trelawney was one of the largest landowners in Cornwall. He owned Melrose, a magnificent house set in parkland. He owned an impressive fleet of traders sailing from the port of Bristol and mining interests closer to home in Cornwall. Today, however, the most piquant irony was derived from the fact that the coach house at Melrose was filled with every type of conveyance any gentleman was ever likely to need. The estate also boasted stables full of thoroughbred horseflesh the equal of any aristocrat’s equine collection. And it had been Ross who had persuaded Luke to hire a coach for this journey…just for the hell of it, he had said. And hell it had been…complete with furnace. For himself, though, ever seeking just another untasted experience, he rather enjoyed the beggarly novelty of it all.
He looked across at his brother, scowling at passing scenery again, irritation distorting his narrow yet sensuously curved mouth.
Luke had strived to provide himself with the very best. As the oldest son of Jago and Demelza Trelawney he had, on their father’s death, taken that gentleman’s sizable bequest and increased it a thousandfold. He now had wealth and reputation that no other Cornish landowner could match. There were other things they would certainly never equal, Ross realised wryly: his astounding dark good looks; his eligibility, which had every hopeful mama, trailing nubile daughters, visiting their mother and sister under any ridiculous pretext they could deviously devise. And all to no avail for, at thirty-two, Luke had resisted all temptations, threats and ludicrously transparent plots to hook him.
Ross dwelt on Wenna Kendall, with some relish and not a little envy. The voluptuous dark-haired mistress Luke had installed in fine style in Penzance obviously satisfied him physically, but emotionally…? He gazed at the side of Luke’s lean, tanned face, still idly turned towards the uninspiring passing scenery. Emotions were not something often associated with his older brother. They were kept tightly reined, as controlled as every other aspect of his life. Their father’s death some eleven years ago was the last time he could recall witnessing Luke in distress. Apart from that, family problems, business pressures, all were dealt with in the same calm, disciplined way.
But he knew how to enjoy himself…as all Trelawney males did. Roistering bouts of drinking and wenching were a regular part of life, so long as business never suffered. And dependable Luke was always there to ensure it certainly never did. Status and wealth were Luke’s motivation and priority.
An urgent solicitor’s letter, hand-delivered from Bath, had set Luke on the road, unwillingly and with many a curse, but it had moved him as Ross had known it would. For Luke never shirked his responsibilities, even those that disturbed memories of generation-old family rifts. But that estrangement was of little consequence to the present Trelawney clan.
Ross had decided to go along for the ride and to alleviate the insatiable restlessness that dogged him. Melrose had been left in the capable hands of their imperturbable brother Tristan who, at thirty, happily married and living on the Trelawney estate, was the most sensible choice. Being second eldest also made him natural deputy, Ross always thought, when justifying his need to slope off, courting fresh excitement.
Besides, Luke had made it clear the matter was to be dealt with as expediently as possible with a quick return to Cornwall. Luke had neither the time nor inclination to linger in rural Brighton once business was satisfactorily settled.
Luke relaxed back into the battered squabs. He withdrew a half-sovereign from a pocket and tossed it in his palm a few times. The pair of nags doing their best to convey the ancient coach towards Brighton was increasing pace: a sure sign that, having travelled the route many times, they recognised water and sustenance were soon to be had. ‘A half-sovereign says we reach this dive within five minutes,’ he challenged his younger brother, stretching long, muscular legs out in front of him and flexing powerful shoulders in an attempt to ease niggling cramps.
‘Three minutes,’ countered Ross, as aware as Luke of the horses’ renewed efforts. They were fairly bowling along now.
Five minutes later the rickety coach swung abruptly left and into the dusty courtyard of the Red Lion inn.
‘Order up whatever they’ve got that’s long, cool…’ Luke hesitated, noting the direction of Ross’s gaze, which had, on alighting, immediately been drawn to a titian-haired tavern wench ‘…and comes in a tankard,’ he finished drily. ‘See what sort of food they’ve got about the place too,’ he said but with little enthusiasm, as cynical peat-brown eyes roved the dirty, whitewashed building.
The seedy-looking Jacobean hostelry was nevertheless a hive of activity. Well situated along the coastal road to refresh those travelling from the west country towards the fashionable gathering place of Brighton, it attracted the patronage of both farmer and gentleman alike.
Luke glanced around in cursory fashion. A coach, displaying an Earl’s coat of arms, protected its glossy paintwork beneath the shade of a massive spreading oak on the perimeter of the courtyard.
Two young ladies, elegantly and coolly dressed in pastel muslin, sat, with parasols twirling, beneath the shielding canopy of boughs on a spread tartan travelling rug. Their coy attention was with Ross and himself. Aware of his observation, their daintily coiffured heads collided as they chattered and giggled, parasols whirling faster. He glanced away, feeling unaccountably irritated. The fact that Ross was now torn between giving them or the flame-haired serving girl the benefit of his hazel-eyed silent charm irked him further.
Not that he was unused to female interest: all Trelawney males had the tall, dark good looks women seemed to find hard to resist. He knew without particular conceit or satisfaction that due to his superior height, and the classical set of his features, framed by a mass of thick, jet-black hair, he, more than any, was most sought after. His looks, coupled with his status and wealth, ensured a limitless supply of eager women. Thus the need for charm or seduction was rarely required for amorous conquests. When the mood or need took him, therefore, he seldom bothered with either, exploiting his attractiveness and willing partners to the full. Occasionally, acknowledging this callousness made him uneasy. Why the sight of two simpering debutantes