A Wild Pursuit
Page 32
There was a growing circle around them in the shadowy garden, calling to each other to discover who was in the fight, hushing to a whisper as the relation between the two men was explained. A voice bellowed from behind Sandhurst: “For God’s sake, man, pull yourself together!” Others joined in, rather like a crowd at a cockfight. “Show yourself a man, Sandhurst! By God, you’re nothing more than a nursling! A molly! A…” Stephen blanked the voices from his mind and watched his opponent, who was being goaded into a decent effort. He was pulling off his jacket with the air of a maddened bull.
I think, a nobber, Stephen thought. Yes, and then a left hook. And after that, he dodged a hit, feigned right, launched a chop at Sandhurst’s jaw. Took one himself in the right eye—damn, now Bea would demand an explanation. The irritation he felt at that translated to his right arm: a leveller, and Sandhurst dropped to the ground like a fallen tree. Stephen nudged him with his foot to make sure he was completely out, looked up, and caught the eye of his hostess. She deliberately threw up her fan and said something Stephen couldn’t hear to the lady beside her, who laughed shrilly and said, “It’s what comes naturally after associating with the House of Commons!”
He was picking up his coat when he felt a hand on his arm. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” said Lady Felicia Saville, her voice sweet as honey. “Would you be so kind as to escort me to the house?”
Stephen bowed. Apparently barbarous—nay, common—behavior was the way to this gentlewoman’s heart. “If you will allow me to replace my jacket,” he said.
“Hardly the behavior of the prudent man of Parliament,” Felicia laughed up at him as they strolled back toward the house, quite as if nothing had taken place at all. “You will be quite the man of the hour.”
“I highly doubt that. I’m afraid Lady Trundlebridge did not appreciate my behavior.” He didn’t feel like a Member of Parliament. He felt damn near—exuberant.
Felicia shrugged. “You were defending your wife’s honor. Any woman of sense must applaud you, sir!” There was a flutter of warmth in Felicia’s stomach when he smiled at her compliment. Perhaps once Lady Beatrix returned to her wandering ways, she could comfort Beatrix’s neglected husband.
Just inside the ballroom doors, Stephen bowed. “If you will excuse me, Lady Felicia, I shall locate my wife.”
He walked away without a backward glance, leaving Felicia with her mouth all but hanging open. Why had she never noticed how muscled and attractive the man was? She turned to meet the curious eyes of one of her bosom friends.
“Did you see the fight itself?” Penelope squealed. “Is it true that he called Sandhurst a blathering blackguard?”
Felicia’s eyes were still a little dreamy. “Now there’s a man worth having,” she whispered to Penelope. “He was like a medieval knight protecting his wife’s honor. He flattened Sandhurst!”
“Do you think he means to keep it up?” Penelope giggled. “Unless marriage changes Lady Beatrix’s nature, he’s going to be a busy man.”
Felicia was watching his dark head as he made his way to the other side of the room. “She’d be a fool to stray,” she sighed.
Bea was growing a little tired. Her shoes pinched loathsomely, and thanks to an overly energetic waltz, Pilverton had left a damp patch from his hand on the back of her gown. She turned gratefully at the sound of her husband’s voice, and then gasped. “Stephen! What on earth happened to you?”
But he was grinning. “Nothing important. Are you ready to leave, m’dear? It’s damnably hot in here.”
“Stephen!” Bea said, her voice rising. “You tell me this moment what you’ve been up to.”
“Making a spectacle of myself,” he told her obligingly. “Fistfight in public. Shouldn’t wonder if my reputation for tolerant debate isn’t ruined.” He said it with distinct relish, towing her out of the ballroom as he spoke. “I think it’s time to retire to the country.”
“We can’t go to the country yet,” Bea said, stopping and looking up at him suspiciously. “The House isn’t closing session for at least a week.” His eye was growing darker by the moment. “Just who have you been tussling with? Don’t tell me you actually resorted to blows over that Enclosure Act?”
He reached around behind her and opened the door to the library. When she was inside, he leaned against it and grinned at her. “Something of the kind,” he drawled.
“Really!” Bea said, rather amused. “It’s hard to believe that solid, respectable members of Parliament can bring themselves to violence.” And then, “What on earth are you doing, Stephen?”
He had turned the key in the lock. “I’m not a solid, respectable member, Bea. I’m resigning tomorrow morning, and I won’t stand for reelection either.” There was a sound at his back.
“Someone wishes to enter,” Bea observed. “Stephen!” For he was walking toward her with an unmistakably lustful glint in his eye. There was something tantalizing about the air of wild exuberance that hung around him. “Did you take a blow to the head?” Bea asked, her voice rising to a squeak.
“No,” he said, and his voice was rich with laughter. There was a bang at the door. “It’s Fairfax-Lacy,” he bellowed. “I’m in here kissing my wife. Go make yourself useful by telling Lady Trundlebridge.”
There was a sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, and then the room was quiet but for the faint hum of the ball continuing on the other side of the house.
“Stephen Fairfax-Lacy!” his wife gasped.
“I’m a madman in love with my wife.” He had her now, cupping her face in his hands. “I do believe I shall make love to you at Lady Trundlebridge’s ball, and ruin my reputation for once and for all.” One hand slid to her breast, and that rush of melting pleasure that came at his slightest touch rushed down Bea’s legs. He kissed her until she was limp, until he had backed her onto a couch, until she was gasping, pink in the cheeks, almost—almost lost.
“Stephen,” she said huskily, removing his hand, which had somehow managed to get under her gown and was touching her in a flagrantly ungentlemanly fashion.
“Darling.” But he was busy. The necklines of Bea’s gowns were so useful that he didn’t know why he’d ever thought they were too low. They were perfect.
She pushed at his shoulders. Something was prickling the back of her mind. “Stephen, with whom precisely did you fight?”
He raised his head and looked at her. His right eye was almost swollen shut, but the gleam of desire was there. He feathered his lips over hers.
“Stephen!”
“Sandhurst,” he said obligingly.
Bea gasped.
“We were fighting over an Enclosure Act, just as you guessed. I’m like all those nasty sheep farmers, Bea. You’re mine. I’ve enclosed you.”
“But—but—”
“Hush,” he said and kissed her again.
Bea looked up at him, and there were tears in her eyes. “Oh Stephen,” she whispered. “I love you.”
“Can we go home now, Bea? We’ve been in London for a month and have been received everywhere. I’ve tramped off to the House and listened to assinine debates. Our marriage didn’t ruin my career. In fact, with the way Lord Liverpool looks at you, I stand to be named to the cabinet if I’m not smart enough to resign quickly.”
She smiled at him mistily. “Are you saying I told you so?”
“With any luck, I just ruined my career,” he said, kissing her. “Now may we leave London, please? Shall we go home and chase each other around the billiards table, and start a goat farm, and perhaps a baby, and make love in the pasture?”
Bea wanted to weep for the joy of it, for her luck in finding him, for the bliss of realizing he was right. He was right. She hadn’t ruined his career. “Oh, Stephen,” she said huskily, “I do love you.”
“I made you woo me,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I think it’s time that I courted you, don’t you think?” His arms closed around her, arms that would never abandon her, and never let go. “Flowers at dawn,” he whis
pered into her ear, “daisy chains for lunch, champagne in your bath.”
Bea swallowed hard so she wouldn’t cry. “I love you,” she said again.
“I think Romeo said it best,” her husband said, brushing his lips over hers. “You are, indeed, my love, my wife.”
A Note on Shakespeare and his Wilder Brethren
The last words of A Wild Pursuit were written by Shakespeare, and spoken by Romeo. I decided to close the novel with Romeo’s farewell to his bride because Renaissance poetry is so important to this book as a whole. Bea uses Romeo and Juliet to propose to Stephen Fairfax-Lacy; Esme uses the King James version of The Song of Solomon to propose to Sebastian Bonnington.
But the book is also punctuated by works far less known than these two famed pieces of love poetry. Richard Barnfield published only two books of verse, which appeared in 1594 and 1595, precisely when Romeo and Juliet was likely first performed. For their time, both Shakespeare’s play and Barnfield’s poetry were shockingly original. Juliet’s proposal to Romeo, not to mention the speech in which she longs for their wedding night to begin, both startled and delighted London audiences. Romeo and Juliet was a howling success; ten years later, young courtiers were still quoting the play to each other on the street. Its popularity is attested to by the fact that in 1607 a company of boys put on the stage a play called The Puritan, which contains a riotous parody of Juliet’s balcony scene. Some lines from that play are used by Esme to poke fun at Romeo and Juliet, precisely as the original boy actors did back in 1607.
Richard Barnfield’s poetry was, in a different fashion, as shocking as Shakespeare’s portrayal of Juliet. The book that Bea brings with her to Esme’s house party was an odd amalgam of love poetry and narrative verse. Amongst the various odes and lyrics Barnfield wrote are some of the most beautiful, sensual, and explicit poems written before the twentieth century. As you can perhaps tell from the reaction Helene has to reading aloud a Barnfield poem, neither Renaissance nor Regency readers were accustomed to expressing in public a wish that My lips were honey, and thy mouth a bee. I sometimes receive letters from readers contending that aristocrats living in the Regency period would have acted with propriety at all times, even in the privacy of their own bedchambers. I thought it well to present some poetry written over two hundred years before the Regent took the throne. Barnfield may have been one of the first Englishmen to put this desire in print; he was neither the first, nor the last, to express it.
About the Author
Author of seven award-winning romances, Eloisa James is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New Jersey. All her books must have been written in her sleep, because her days are taken up by caring for two children with advanced degrees in whining, a demanding guinea pig, a smelly frog, and a tumbledown house. Letters from readers provide a great escape! Write Eloisa at eloisa@eloisajames.com or visit her website at www.eloisajames.com.
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Books by
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A WILD PURSUIT
FOOL FOR LOVE
DUCHESS IN LOVE
YOUR WICKED WAYS
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A WILD PURSUIT. Copyright © 2004 by Eloisa James. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061801952
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