by Eloisa James
“As many as the stars,” he said, conversationally, as if they were talking of gardening, or Romans, or any number of polite topics. “As many as the stars, when the night is still, gazing down on secret human desires.”
“Exactly so,” Tess said, coming out onto the wide expanse of green meadow again. She had suddenly remembered that the Earl of Mayne was courting her and that she had decided to encourage his suit. Kissing Mr. Felton was not prudent under those circumstances.
A footman was standing politely at the edge of the ruins. He showed no sign of having peered into the sunken bath, but Tess felt her face heating. “The party awaits you for nuncheon, miss,” he said, his gloved hands clasped before him.
Mr. Felton held out his arm, and Tess took it. Now she could see the party gathered under the willow trees at the edge of the ruins, Annabel’s bright hair shining in the sun, and Lady Clarice’s parasol dipping to the side and threatening to take someone’s eyes out.
She had held herself cheap, allowing herself to be kissed like a hurly-burly village girl. Surely young ladies who were raised with governesses had more restraint. It was a rather depressing thought. Mr. Felton must think her a veritable hoyden.
They walked silently.
If the truth be known, Lucius was wrestling with the twin devils of conscience and surprise. Foremost, if he were honest, was a potent sense of shock. What the devil had he done that for? He prided himself on adhering to every gentlemanly precept, other than those dictating an indolent life. Why on earth had he thrown the practices of a lifetime to the wind? Not only had he kissed a young lady, but she was the very same lady whom his friend Mayne had decided to wed. Worse and worse.
Moreover, there were consequences for abandoning decorous conduct. When a gentleman kisses (even if tamely) a young lady in a Roman bathhouse, he is obli-gated to make an offer of marriage. Everything he had ever known about young ladies implied that one does not kiss that particular genus of mankind without suggesting matrimony in the near aftermath.
True, Miss Essex seemed to have no particular expectations in that direction. She was not peeking at him in anticipation, nor did she even look particularly pleased to accept his arm as they picked their way back over the field.
A thought occurred to him: Mayne would be outraged if Miss Essex accepted his proposal. Unless he gave Mayne a horse from his stables to assuage his feelings. He felt quite sure that Mayne would happily accept the horse over the bride.
So without letting himself think too much about it, but instead summoning up all of his steadfast determination to remember that he was bred a gentleman, Lucius said, “Miss Essex, I should like to request your hand in marriage.”
Lucius had only proposed once before; it was accepted with rather embarrassing fervor. This time, however, the young lady walked along without even giving a sign of having heard him.
“Miss Essex,” he said more loudly.
She jumped slightly and turned her head. Lucius paused and looked down at her eyes, and then at her mouth, that luscious, deliriously luscious mouth, and thought that perhaps the kiss wasn’t such a bad decision on his part. The thought was followed by a shock of surprise. Was he actually thinking such a thing?
“I should like to request your hand in marriage,” he said, repeating himself.
No overwhelming pleasure swept into Miss Essex’s face. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose that your question is a punctilious response to what just happened between us?”
Lucius almost stopped walking. “I find your company enchanting,” he said cautiously, looking at her. Their eyes caught and tangled for a moment before she looked away.
“I did not make myself common in order to be enchanting,” she answered.
“You did not make yourself common,” he said. “The fault was entirely mine. I behaved in an unconscionable fashion.”
“I am naturally relieved by your assurance,” she said. “All the same, I decline to marry you on such slender grounds.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.
Lucius knew he should be feeling relief. It was rather annoying to discover he was deeply curious about why she didn’t wish to marry him.
“You needn’t worry, Mr. Felton. I shan’t think twice about that kiss. And since no one saw us, we certainly have no reason to make rash arrangements on the basis of such a triviality.”
A triviality? Triviality? Lucius would have given it quite another name.
“Much ado about nothing,” she said, in a tone that did not welcome further commentary.
Tess walked a little faster, congratulating herself on her thoroughly careless and—to the best of her ability—sardonic tone. Just so might Mr. Felton reject a similar offer, she was certain of that. Not that ladies ever asked gentlemen to marry them. But if a lady did ask Mr. Felton to marry her, he would look at her noncommittally. Sardonically.
“A measure of constraint is likely felt between parties in circumstances such as these,” Mr. Felton said, after a long, silent moment.
The picnickers were quite close now. She turned and smiled at him briefly before waving to the group. “Oh, I see no reason for that.”
“There you are,” Lady Clarice said, rather pettishly, when they finally arrived. “I can’t think what was so interesting in that ruin, if one can even call it that. All I saw were a few holes in the ground and a great deal of stone that poor Mr. Jessop will have difficulty removing.”
The Earl of Mayne leaped to his feet and gave Tess a lavish smile. “My dear Miss Essex,” he said, “may I help you to sit down?”
“My goodness, English gentlemen are chivalrous,” she said with a quick glance at Mr. Felton. Then she took Mayne’s outstretched hand and sank onto a cushion at his side. Mr. Felton had put on his bland expression again and was busying himself next to Annabel, offering to peel an apple for her.
“I found the ruins quite, quite dreary,” Lady Clarice announced.
“The ruins were indeed of dubious interest,” Felton said.
As if he felt that Tess was watching him under her lashes, he raised his heavy-lidded eyes and drawled, without shifting his expression one iota, “Although there were some areas for which, I am certain, one should feel a romantic and disproportionate enthusiasm.”
“Were you referring to the dilapidated stairs or the dilapidated walls?” Annabel inquired.
Felton was still staring at Tess, and she—idiot that she was—didn’t seem to be able to look away. “Neither,” he said. And then, without blinking an eye, he turned back to Annabel.
Concurrently, Mayne caught Tess’s attention and handed her a bit of salmon patty. She had the fleeting thought that it would be rather odd to have a husband whose lashes were longer than her own.
Annabel was laughing at something Mr. Felton was saying in her ear. Tess turned to the Earl of Mayne and gave him a lavish smile.
“You seem to know so much about the polite world,” she said to him, pitching her voice so that it would reach Mr. Felton’s ear as well. “I would be most grateful for your guidance.”
Mr. Felton bent even closer to Annabel, murmuring something to her. Annabel started laughing, and Lady Clarice said, “Do share the jest.”
“It was only marginally humorous, my lady,” Mr. Felton said.
Tess lowered her eyelashes and slowly ate a strawberry. Annabel had discovered long ago that strawberries dyed one’s lips a most appealing shade of red. Unfortunately, Mr. Felton didn’t even cast a glance at her red lips. Tess ate another, more quickly. Why on earth was she behaving like this? Why did she care if Mr. Felton noticed her lips or not?
Because…because he kissed me, she thought. And ate another strawberry, thinking about the kiss. And about marriage. Lady Clarice was making a dead set at poor Rafe, leaning toward him and chattering luridly. But Tess had no worries about Rafe; he was leaning against the willow tree with a lazy expression that suggested he had finished the contents of his flask and was not hearing a whit of Lady Clarice’s convers
ation. She was thinking about Mr. Felton’s kiss again when Miss Pythian-Adams’s voice caught her ear.
“Surely there can be no one,” she was saying, “so petty or apathetic in his outlook that he has no wish to discover under what system of government the Romans succeeded in conquering the greater part of the world.”
Lord Maitland was feeding Imogen grape after grape and paying not the slightest attention to his betrothed; Tess had no doubt but that he considered himself both petty and apathetic when it came to Roman history.
Hazy sunlight was stealing through the willow leaves and dappling the picnic delicacies. It picked out the cream of Imogen’s complexion and the gleam of her hair. Miss Pythian-Adams was sitting bolt upright as she discoursed on the Romans.
But Imogen seemed to have an instinctive knowledge that the Romans had more on their minds than hunger when they fed each other grapes. Her thank-you’s for each grape Maitland gave her were nothing short of enchanting.
Tess sighed. Looking at Imogen made her certain that she was correct to refuse Mr. Felton’s punctilious request for marriage. If one could not be glowing with love (as was Imogen), surely one should be comfortable. And if there was one thing she was not with Mr. Felton, it was comfortable. He was an annoying, expressionless, sardonic…kisser of unwilling women. She peeked at him again and happened to catch his eye.
A hand brought her another strawberry, and she blinked at Mayne. Mayne’s glances were not at all like the swift, tight glances that Mr. Felton shot her. Felton looked—then always looked away immediately.
Whereas Mayne…Well, Mayne was far more handsome for one thing. His face had the graceful, sweet lines of an aristocrat, with the beauty of an altar boy grown to full adulthood. His eyes danced with merriment and compliments and—all manner of nice things. Tess knew without thought that the two of them would be compatible as a married couple: they would rarely if ever fight; they would be merry and tender to each other. In time genuine affection, if not love, for each other might develop.
He had his head bent now, peeling her an apple. Black curls fell over the rich linen fabric of his neckcloth. At that second he looked up and their eyes met. His had small laugh lines at the corners. It was a good face: a beautiful, strong face. One that would hold up to years of marriage.
It was quite different from Mr. Felton’s face. Mr. Felton was harder, leaner, and his eyes held none of Mayne’s charming compliments.
And yet he had kissed her.
As he might kiss any young lady who stumbled past, she told herself, accepting the apple from the earl’s hands. She knew instinctively that if Felton lost his temper, his tongue would be as sharp as the back of the north wind. He was twenty times more dangerous, more sharp, more—
Obviously, there was no choice at all.
She turned to Mayne and gave him a melting smile. As besotted as any of his smiles had been.
Chapter
12
The next afternoon an extremely interesting event occurred: Mrs. Chace, the village seamstress, delivered a dinner gown for each of them, and brought with her a note from the Earl of Mayne’s sister indicating that she would arrive in time to accompany them to the races in Silchester the following day.
Tess was perfectly aware that Lady Griselda was arriving for one reason, and one reason only. Without doubt, Mayne had signaled to his family the intent to marry. His attentions grew more marked from moment to moment. They had played chess the previous evening to the tune of his frivolities, his sweet compliments. While nothing was said, both of them knew without saying a word that he was in earnest. His face positively glowed with admiration. And he said lovely things about her hair, and her eyes, and her—she couldn’t even remember what all. He seemed to know a great deal of poetry, as well, and had quoted quite a few poets whose names fell between I and the end of the alphabet, none of whom Tess could bring to mind at the moment, but all of whom she meant to read at some date.
Annabel was delighted. “I would guess that he’ll ask you the very moment that Lady Griselda arrives,” she said, taking off her gown. Mrs. Chace had only delivered one gown each, although she had promised to deliver riding costumes as soon as possible. “May I try on yours?” And without waiting for a response, she threw Tess’s gown over her head.
Tess frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She was pinning up the front of her hair, trying to get it done before Gussie arrived to dress her for their excursion to the Silchester races. Hairdressing aside, Gussie was a lovely, cheerful person who didn’t mind one ringing for baths, no matter the time of day.
Tess found hot baths that were available whenever one wanted them—and the water carried by footmen, rather than by oneself!—so enthralling that she had to restrain herself from bathing several times a day.
“Did you hear me?” Annabel said. “Perhaps Mayne will propose tonight, or tomorrow, at the races. You’d better wear Imogen’s bonnet to Silchester; it’s the nicest that we have. You must look your best from every angle, just in case he is struck by the desire to make an offer while standing behind you.”
“Of course,” Tess murmured. “Many is the gentleman who’s been overcome by the view of my shoulder blades.”
“It’s just a shame that Mrs. Chace couldn’t deliver the riding costumes,” Annabel said. “Look at your gown. I do believe that your bosom has grown larger than mine.”
Tess’s dinner gown was a silk tissue robe of bishop’s blue, worn over a white satin slip, half-mourning, as the modiste explained, at its very best. The bodice was round and cut quite low, showing a generous amount of bosom. Tess glanced from Annabels wel’s to her own chest. “I think my gown simply happens to be cut more generously,” she said.
Annabel was turning from side to side and examining herself. “Would you mind if we switched garments?” she asked. “Just look what your dress does for my décolletage! And I adore the way it clasps in front. It makes my bosoms look colossal.”
“Colossal is a word that applies better to monumental architecture than one’s chest,” Tess pointed out. She had the strong suspicion that the earl would offer for her were she wearing sackcloth. And so there was really no reason why she should have a more enticing gown. Then something occurred to her: “Are you hoping to entrance Mr. Felton with your colossal bosom?”
“No,” Annabel said absentmindedly. “Oh, how I wish I had stays! If I had stays, I could hoist my bosom all the way up here—” She pushed up her bosom until her breasts were in the vicinity of her collarbone.
Tess grinned at her. “We can exhibit you at Bartholomew Fair as the Lady with—” she stopped. “No, that would be quite indelicate.”
But Annabel was never one to duck an indelicacy. “The Lady with the Bosom at Her Ears,” she said, staring into the mirror. “I do look ridiculous, don’t I? Perhaps I don’t need stays.”
But for some reason Tess didn’t like the idea of Annabel exhibiting her bosom while Tess wore a demure gown. “I’m sorry, Annabel, but I wish to wear my gown.”
Annabel opened her mouth, but—
“It is possible that the earl will ask me to marry him tonight,” Tess said. “I simply cannot allow a gentleman to ask for my hand in marriage unless I’m in my very best costume.” Never mind the fact that Mr. Felton had asked her just that question, and while she was wearing her dreadful bombazine.
For some reason, she had neglected to tell Annabel about his offer or his kiss.
Annabel sighed and undid the clasp that held the dress tightly under her breasts. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I shall simply count on you and your new husband to buy me hundreds of gowns, all made of tissue silk, if you please, with bodices low enough to allure the most tired rake.”
“A tired rake?” Tess said, grinning at her sister. “Now there’s a lovely choice for a husband.”
But no one could have a grin more suggestive than her sister’s. “Precisely. You never paid enough attention to gossip in the village, Tess. But from everything I learned, on
e would wish one’s husband to be experienced and yet not so energetic that he cannot be pleased at home. A tired rake is precisely the best sort of spouse.”
Tess rolled her eyes. “Josie is right. You’re contemplating one of those seventy-year-old dukes, aren’t you?”
Annabel had put her own gown back on and was rearranging the bodice so that it sat lower on her shoulders. “Oh certainly,” she said, with that perfect composure that accompanies an untroubled conscience. “Although it is not yet entirely clear to me which of those rather aged gentlemen is unmarried. I keep meaning to ask Brinkley to point me to a current Debrett’s so that I can do the necessary research.”
But for all Tess wore her new gown, presumably tempting the earl to think of marriage, the only cheerful event of the evening was Lady Clarice’s announcement that she would return home in the morning, given the imminent arrival of the Earl of Mayne’s sister. The Earl of Mayne himself offered Tess compliments, but not marriage.
Lady Griselda Willoughby reminded Tess of nothing so much as a winsome china shepherdess, bought by her father for her mother during the early years of their marriage. The shepherdess had ringlets, and a simper, and a positive froth of ruffles about her tiny slippers. After Tess’s mother died, when Tess was eight years old, she used to tiptoe into her mother’s rooms and simply hold things her mother had touched: her brush, her shepherdess, her little prayer book. But within a few months, anything of value began disappearing from the chamber. And one day, when Tess walked in, the shepherdess was missing from the mantelpiece, her bright china smile and blue eyes gone to market in her father’s pocket.
Of course, the shepherdess had always been quite silent. Even when Tess had cried, hot tears dripping onto the cool china, the shepherdess just smiled her hard blue-eyed smile. But Lady Griselda talked—and talked. They were having tea in the morning room, a chamber hung in lilac paper that Lady Griselda had declared to be “absolutely mortal for one’s complexion. Anyone who saw us would think we all had jaundice.” She was reclining on a divan to the side of the room, wearing a gown of ambercolored crape, trimmed with deep flounces of the same color, edged in lace. The amber crape gave her hair delicate bronze tones; her complexion was as creamy as a real milkmaid’s; she had the brightest blue eyes that Tess had ever seen. Anyone who looked less like an invalid with jaundice couldn’t be imagined. Yet: “Ladies, we shall have to make up our minds never to darken the room again until Rafe bestirs his lazy staff to change the paper,” she pronounced.