by Lisa Berne
“Oh. Oh, I say,” Helen said, rather tremulously, “we’re here.”
They had arrived at the entrance to Richmond Park, and everyone made their way between the wide-open iron gates and to the stabling area. Lady Almira gratefully accepted Christopher’s help in dismounting.
“Thank you, Mr. Beck! Oh, isn’t it lovely here? How green everything is! All those beautiful old oak trees. Oh, and just look at those bluebells! And daffodils!” she said rapturously, but broke off amidst a sudden torrent of sneezes. A frantic search in her reticule proving useless, Christopher offered her his handkerchief.
“Oh, thank you again, Mr. Beck! I can’t imagine where my own handkerchief went. I know I had it before we left. Or at least I think I did. Dear me, how vexing!” Lady Almira sneezed several more times, blew her nose, and tried to give Christopher back his handkerchief, now rather sodden.
“Keep it, ma’am,” he said, which proved to be a useful recommendation as Lady Almira sneezed again.
“I do love spring,” she said mournfully, “but it doesn’t love me.”
“What you need, Almira,” said the Duchess, “is a cup of tea,” and she swept her daughter-in-law away to the big covered pavilion where they were immediately seated and Lady Almira could admire the flowers at a relatively safe distance.
The other members of the party shortly joined them for refreshments. Owen FitzClarence, his earlier malaise at breakfast having resolved itself, proceeded to astound those unfamiliar with his usual capacity for food by methodically consuming four scones lavishly spread with raspberry jam, two muffins, three or four sandwiches, and several small cakes topped with sweet butter icing, all washed down with multiple cups of tea.
“Just like his dear father,” remarked Lady Almira proudly. “He could eat six capons at a stroke and still have room for soup.”
“I say, you’re disgusting,” Helen said to her brother, who, having contemplated a plate heaped high with filbert-studded biscuits, took one, bit into it, and replied:
“Says the girl who keeps having her gowns let out.”
“Oh! You—you beast! Shut up, won’t you?” Helen had gone scarlet.
“Just like old times,” said Percy nostalgically. “The two of you, at each other’s throats.”
“She started it,” Owen said, and took another biscuit.
“I hope you choke on it,” Helen hissed at him.
“That,” said the Duchess, “will suffice. Almira, there’s no need to cry. Your sleeve is in the jam-pot, by the bye; do remove it. Is everyone finished? Shall we attempt the famous maze?”
“I’m not finished,” said Owen.
“Then you may stay here until you are,” answered his grandmother, rising. “Come along, Almira.”
Lady Almira obediently rose too, clutching Christopher’s damp and crumpled handkerchief. “Oh, dear ma’am, I hope we won’t get lost. Mazes do make me nervous. They’re rather like a bad dream, aren’t they? You know, a nightmare where you’re trapped, and you don’t know where you are, and can’t find your way free?”
“Nonsense,” said the Duchess. “We shan’t be lost. Who else would like to join us?”
“I would,” Gwendolyn said, standing up as well. She had a plan. Oh yes, a very good plan. A delightful, marvelous, and brilliant plan, in fact. She looked at the Earl. “Julian?”
He rose at once to his feet, and offered his arm. “By all means.”
She smiled and slid her hand into the crook of his arm, relishing the strong masculine feel of him, the faint musky scent of his cologne, the incredibly pleasurable sensation of being so close. Together they followed the Duchess and Lady Almira—who had begun sneezing again—and then Percy said to Christopher, “I say, shall we go check on the horses?”
His tone was so elaborately casual that Christopher knew at once that Percy was hoping for a private word. He replied, “Yes, I think we should,” and off they went to the stabling area.
At the table remained Owen, who had helped himself to another sandwich and was placidly chewing; Francis, who’d taken a pencil and a small notebook from a pocket of his jacket and was now absorbed in writing something in his fine, even hand; Lady Helen, who was staring down at the crumbs on her plate with an open look of misery; and Étienne de Montmorency, very sleek and elegant in neat buckskins, shining dark boots, an exquisitely cut claret-colored jacket, and a crisp white neckcloth tied with the subtle and perfect precision which was the envy of many less skilled in the art. He took a delicate sip of his tea, made a faint moue of distaste, glanced thoughtfully around at his tablemates, and finally said, very gently:
“Lady Helen, do you care for mazes?”
Not lifting her eyes from her plate, violently Helen shook her head, sending her red curls bobbing. “No.”
“Then perhaps,” he suggested, “you might enjoy a stroll down to the pond? There is, I perceive, a very pretty vista.”
At this, Helen did lift her eyes and looked at Monsieur de Montmorency as if seeing him for the first time. She had encountered him on many occasions in recent weeks, especially since Gwendolyn’s engagement to the Earl, but she’d been so occupied in waiting for Francis to arrive in London, it was as if she had been wrapped in a kind of all-encompassing blindness.
Now Helen saw that Monsieur de Montmorency was looking back at her in what seemed to be a—an understanding way. As if he was peering into her soul, recognizing her anguish and shame, and was offering her the chance to walk away from the table—where Owen’s cruel taunt still felt as if it was hanging in the air—with some of her pride intact. He was so old, thirty at least, maybe even forty, and so calm and controlled in his manner that she needn’t fear any awkward advances from him either. She hated it when the young men crowded around her, asking her to dance, offering to fetch her a beverage, complimenting her on her appearance, wondering if she would like to go for a carriage ride, when all the while they doubtless were hoping to get their hands on her dowry; it took everything she had not to scream at them to go away, it was Francis, Francis, whom she loved.
Quickly she stood up. “Yes. I would like to see the pond.”
Monsieur de Montmorency stood as well, smiling down at her. “Allons-nous, alors?”
She must have looked very blank—not a single one of her governesses had ever managed to instill in her the slightest grasp of the French language—because Monsieur de Montmorency gently said, without missing a beat:
“Shall we, Lady Helen?”
She nodded, and then was glad, as they walked away from the pavilion toward what was, in fact, a charming lake, where many ducks peacefully floated, that Monsieur de Montmorency refrained from holding out his arm to her. Common decency would have compelled her to slide her hand around the extended arm, and she didn’t want Francis to think she was attracted to Monsieur de Montmorency.
And suddenly Helen nearly gasped out loud.
Maybe that was exactly what was needed.
What a brilliant idea!
If Francis were to see her—well, there was no reason to cavil at niceties, she was desperate—if he saw her flirting with another man, that might well inspire in him an awakening. Such things happened, didn’t they? She remembered Gwendolyn talking about a book she had recently finished. What was it called? Possibilities? Pretense? No—Persuasion.
In the story, the heroine had loved a gentleman for a long time (just as she, Helen, had loved Francis for years!), but long ago, in the past, she’d made the mistake of refusing his offer of marriage and now the gentleman was cold and angry toward the heroine. And then, in Weymouth or Lyme or someplace like that, another gentleman paid attention to the heroine and then the hero began to change his entire attitude toward the heroine. And eventually everything worked out wonderfully well, and the hero and heroine were going to live happily ever after.
While Gwendolyn had been talking, Helen had pretended to be listening eagerly, but all the while had thought it a very boring, rubbishy story.
But now it j
ust proved her point!
She needed to get another gentleman to pay attention to her, and then Francis would change his attitude.
But who?
She glanced up at her companion.
No, not Monsieur de Montmorency. Nobody would believe that so elegant a gentleman—a close friend of the Prince Regent’s, everybody said, so rich and urbane and always so beautifully turned out!—would be interested in her.
Who then?
And then Helen had another clever idea.
What about Christopher Beck?
Not that she was drawn to him, of course—it wasn’t that he was bad-looking, and she supposed that some young ladies would think him attractive enough, with his rather long dark hair and dark eyes and strongly marked dark brows. It was just that she preferred (naturally!) golden hair and blue eyes.
Besides, it didn’t matter, because it was all going to be a pretend flirtation.
Now, how exactly did one go about flirting?
She had absolutely no experience in such matters.
Helen thought hard. She could, she supposed, behave toward Christopher Beck as Gwendolyn did toward the Earl—smiling and putting her arm through his and dancing at balls and all that sort of thing.
A sudden venomous stab of envy pierced her.
The only reason she had pleaded with Grandmother to invite Gwendolyn was so that Francis might agree to come to London, to spend time with his sister. And it had all seemed to be coming together perfectly. And then what had happened? Gwendolyn had waltzed into London and within a few weeks—weeks!—was engaged. Whereas she, Helen, had been waiting for years for Francis. And he, all too obviously, wasn’t the least bit interested in her. (So far.)
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair at all.
Why should Gwendolyn be so happy, when she herself was so miserable?
Well, that was going to change, and right away.
She would flirt as hard as possible with Christopher Beck.
And she would keep on pretending that she actually liked Gwendolyn.
Also, she was going to deliberately ignore Francis, to further inspire in him a burning jealousy of Christopher.
“Shall we sit?” said Monsieur de Montmorency, and Helen, jolted out of her thoughts, gave a little jump, and realized that he was gesturing to a picturesque iron bench placed on a hillock near the pond.
“Yes.” She went to it and sat down, but soon fell into another abstraction, staring sightlessly at the ducks.
Love, she realized, certainly made you do strange things.
“The horses seem all right,” said Christopher to Percy, who was fidgeting with a halter suspended by a nail on the wooden stabling wall.
Percy nodded, let go of the halter, and turned to Christopher. “Here’s the thing,” he said, in a burst of confidentiality. “Lured you here on false pretenses, I’m afraid. I’m a trifle under the hatches, you see, and wonder if you might be able to float me a loan? Lost quite a bit at faro last night, to a devilish unpleasant chap I’d just as soon not be under obligation to.”
“I did wonder,” Christopher said, thinking that Percy suddenly looked very young to him.
“Yes, and I’d rather not turn to Hugo for any more brass. He’s helped me out before, but—well—I do want to stand on my own feet.”
“I understand,” said Christopher, refraining from pointing out Percy’s somewhat faulty logic about independence. Which was the exact sort of thing Father would instantly have done. “How much do you need?”
Percy disclosed a sum that had Christopher repressing a whistle of amazement. He only said, “Absolutely. I’ll go to Hoare’s tomorrow and get you a bank note.”
Relief broke out on Percy’s face and he wrung Christopher’s hand in an enthusiastic handshake. “I say, it’s awfully good of you. Thanks ever so much. I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“When you can,” answered Christopher in an easy tone, but mentally consigned the money as a gift. Debts were pernicious things. He remembered the time, in Naples, he’d turned off the Piazza Dante into a quiet alleyway and had come across the corpse of a well-dressed man; on his jacket had been pinned a bloodstained scrap of paper which read Attenzione, qui giace uno sciocco che non è riuscito a rimborsare i suoi prestiti.
Behold, here lies a fool who failed to repay his loans.
It had been, to say the least, a cautionary tale.
“Care for a drink?” Percy pulled from an inside pocket of his jacket a slender silver flask and offered it to Christopher. “Now that I’m out of the basket and all.”
Christopher declined, and Percy took a long pull from the flask. “Well,” he said, exuberant, “shall we join the others? I wouldn’t mind having a go at that maze.”
Together they left the stables and made their way toward the maze which was constructed out of tall, artfully tended hedges, very green and lush. As they reached the entrance, to their ears came the faint but distinctive sound of sneezing.
“Wouldn’t be hard to find Lady Almira,” remarked Percy with a boyish grin. “But let’s go find Gwennie. I want to leap round a corner and startle her, just as I used to do at home. Lord, how she’d screech!”
“I’ll leave you to it, my larky friend,” said Christopher, “and enjoy a solitary stroll instead.”
“As you like,” answered Percy cheerfully, and dashed down a twisting gravel path, soon disappearing from sight.
Christopher, more slowly, followed a different path.
Having unobtrusively separated themselves from the Duchess and Lady Almira, Gwendolyn and the Earl had come—just the two of them—to a little private cul-de-sac, where there were only the sweet lilting sounds of birdsong for company. Surrounded by these tall green hedges, it wouldn’t be hard to pretend that they were the only two people in the world. Gwendolyn turned to him. “I’m afraid,” she said, twinkling up at him, “that we might be lost.”
“How dreadful,” he answered, smiling. “Shall we shout for help?”
“Not yet.” She reached up and slid her fingers slowly down the wide soft lapels of his beautifully cut bottle-green jacket, and took a step closer. “Not just yet.” She lifted her face to his. What a lovely place for a first kiss—a kiss for which she had waited for so very, very long. Softly she said, “I do think, Julian, there’s something else you ought to do instead.”
“I think I might have an idea.”
A hot dizzying thrill ran through her, and to her surprise Gwendolyn felt her knees actually go a little weak, just like she had read characters in books doing under similar circumstances. How amazing—life imitating art!—and how delightful. She gripped the Earl’s lapels, barely able to focus on his handsome face as he lowered it toward her own.
And then—
Oh, and then—
His mouth was on hers. The first kiss, the first of a lifetime of kisses . . . and more. A small happy satisfied sound rose in her throat and she brought her arms up and around the Earl’s neck, brought herself up close to him, reveling in the feel of his body—masculine and exotic—against her own.
The Earl pressed his mouth against hers a bit harder.
Lovely, lovely.
“My darling,” he whispered, pulling away. “My beautiful Gwendolyn.”
“My love,” she whispered back. She could feel her heart hammering excitedly within her, which was another thing writers had their characters doing in this situation. Focus, Gwennie, she ordered herself, focus! She murmured, “Don’t stop. Kiss me again.”
“Shall I?”
“You must. Or I’ll die from longing.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we.”
And he brought his lips against hers again, only this time—oh, goodness, his tongue was in her mouth, against her own tongue, against her teeth, filling her, exploring her, and Gwendolyn received this new intimacy with an electrifying shock, her jaw reflexively going slack which seemed to please him, for he gave a little groan and pressed his mouth more firml
y against her own.
Her mind was alive to every movement of his tongue—now against her own tongue again, now sliding slickly across her teeth, and now across her lower lip. Back into her mouth. Gwendolyn found herself considering its wet, lively, muscular texture. Tongues were rather odd, once you started thinking about them. Like eels. Or like the curiously shaped sea-squirts she would come across in the tidal pools back home. How they’d made her laugh! Bertram, of course, had known all about them. Ascidians, he had said, the earliest known versions being the Shankouclava shankouense found in the Lower Cambrian Maotianshan Shales in China. Her dear, clever, scientific little brother! She owed him a letter. Even though he was dreadful about writing back—or, to be more precise, he would write back and then forget to post the letter—she still wrote him faithfully.
Which reminded her. Yesterday she’d had a nice letter from Mama. How lovely to hear that everyone was doing well. All of little Cordelia’s teeth had finally come in, and Rosalind wasn’t far behind. Aunt Claudia was busy painting a portrait of them, although of course it was next to impossible to get them to sit still for any length of time.
The Earl groaned again, the low guttural sound very loud in her ears, and Gwendolyn was jerked back into the present moment. He was still kissing her. Ought she to try and kiss him back? That only seemed fair, but she wasn’t quite sure how to go about it—his tongue was much bigger than hers and it was rather busy at the moment. She didn’t want to make it seem as if hers was fighting against his, struggling for dominance. Into her mind instantly popped an absurd image of two disembodied tongues engaged in a duel and flourishing little swords. En garde, monsieur! To the death! And then, of course, she wanted to laugh.
Don’t, don’t, she urged herself, but still a half-strangled chuckle leapt from her disobedient vocal cords. She did hope it sounded like a noise one would make while in the throes of passion.
Speaking of which, what was a “throe”? Or could there only be “throes”? She made a mental note to ask Katherine when next she wrote to her. How splendid it was to have a writer in the family. Hopefully her new novel was coming along well. Lucy Dale, her first, was such a wonderful book. Gwendolyn was glad it had done so well.