Gwenevere's laughter filled the darkened bedchamber as Lloyd's hand crept up her ample thigh.
Chapter Four
"You're late," Keely announced as Brock came through the front door.
"And since when are you my keeper, little cousin?" He whipped off his cocked hat, tossing it onto a side table. He couldn't help noticing that the exquisite piece had been polished until the patina of the cherry wood shone. "Been busy, have you, tidying up? Practicing for that bridegroom, whoever he might be?" His well-shaped mouth twitched into a smile.
Keely's hand ached to slap Brock's mocking face. This morning in the parlor he had challenged her to an ongoing game of chess and then proceeded to chat while they made their first moves. He told her that her uncle and aunt intended to marry her off and soon. He had made her feel like some prized sheep being sent to the auction block.
"Indeed, I have been cleaning. The two of you live here like swine." She pointed to his booted feet. "Wipe them. I just had the carpets swept."
Brock chuckled, wiping his boots on the rag rug in the entranceway. "So where is tea being served?"
"Uncle Lloyd wants us in his office, but you're certainly not going like that." She gestured with a hand. "You look like some field hand." Wrinkling her nose, she added, "and you smell like one, too."
"Perhaps that's because I have been working, something you wouldn't know anything about."
"Unloading illegal goods, I suppose?"
"Check, but not checkmate." He smiled. "All right. For you I shall change into my most presentable costume."
"Not for me, I assure you, sir, but for your mother and her husband." Keely's triumphant eyes met his." 'Tis common courtesy."
He studied her oval face. "And is it common courtesy to look so beautiful for your long-lost colonial cousin?"
She blushed scarlet, turning away. "I'll tell them you've arrived."
Lucy poured Keely a cup of sassafras tea and set the pot on the table, offering a plate of tiny iced cakes.
"That will be enough, Lucy," Lloyd said kindly. "You're dismissed."
"Yes, sir." She lowered the plate to the table, dipping a brief curtsy, then left the room, closing the paneled door behind her.
Brock sipped his tea, leaning back in the winged chair to stretch out his long legs before him. "Well, Lloyd, let's not keep us in suspense any longer. What have you summoned us all here for?" His voice was light and teasing, yet was underlaid with a deep respect for the elder man.
"You've no patience, boy; I've told you that again and again." Lloyd shook his head, sampling a cake. "Of course I had none at your age either."
Gwenevere shifted uneasily in her chair beside Lloyd's. She was dressed outrageously this afternoon in something she referred to as a caftan. Keely thought she looked utterly ridiculous in the flowing silken shirts with her head wrapped high in a sheet of silk, but there was no point in commenting—her aunt was well content in her odd ways.
Gwen glanced up at Keely and then fixed her attention on her china teacup. It was a delicate porcelain thing, shaped without handles and handpainted, one of a set given as a wedding gift to her and Lloyd many years ago. "Do go ahead, Lloyd."
"Very well." The silver-haired man cleared his throat, setting his teacup down on the table. He lifted his gaze to meet Keely's. "I first ask that the two of you, you and Brock"—he nodded to Keely— "keep silent until I've finished."
Keely's hand trembled ominously. What was he going to say that would concern both her and Brock? Why was Auntie looking so guilty?
"Gwenevere and I have thought long and hard on your future, child." He looked to Brock. "And on yours as well."
Brock stiffened, the lazy smile falling from his face.
"With my death imminent, I want to be certain that you, Keely, are protected and well provided for as you should be. Your father and I built a great fortune, most of which will soon be yours." Lloyd took a deep breath. "But I am also concerned for Brock's welfare." His eyes turned to his wife's child seated across from him. "You have been a son to me, Brock, and a better son a man could never ask for, of my loins or not. But I worry for you and this cause we support. Your future seems so unstable."
Keely swallowed hard as she leaned to deposit her teacup on the table. There was a loud buzzing in her head as she tried not to draw any conclusions from her uncle's rambling. Her eyes grew wide with knowing, however, as Lloyd continued.
"And so, Gwenevere and I have come to a solution to my worries. We have thought of a way to secure both of your lives, no matter which way this dirty warring business falls." He reached with his withered hand to take Gwen's plump one. "It is our wish, Keely and Brock, that you marry and marry soon, so that I may die in peace."
Keely bolted out of her seat, speechless.
"Marry her?" Brock let his teacup hit the table with a clatter. "You jest?"
Keely turned to him with a mixture of shock and indignation. "Have no fear, I assure you I have no desire to wed you!"
"Now, now . . ." Lloyd raised his hands. "Sit down, kitten. I asked that you not speak until I'm finished, now hear me out."
Keely exhaled sharply, dropping into her seat. Her eyes still rested on the heathen seated beside her. Had her uncle gone mad? Marry Brock? An uncivilized, colonial half-breed? Not if he was the last man on God's green earth!
"It's the only logical thing to do. If you marry, Keely, you will be safe from some court-appointed guardian who might rob you of your due, or marry you himself. And you, Brock." He turned his attention to his wife's son. "You will have the money necessary to continue financing your ventures. If you do not accept this arrangement, once I am gone, your funds will be cut off and you'll lose the Tempest. You realize your mother would never see fit to support our traitor cause."
Seeing the light of reasoning in Brock's dark eyes, Lloyd paused. "And this way," he said soothingly, "the inheritance will be safe whether we win this blasted war or not, for you will have an Englishwoman for a wife." He smiled, quite pleased with himself as he leaned back in the chair. "Besides, the two of you are quite fond of each other as I understand; a greater match neither of you could make." He retrieved his teacup. "Now, you may speak."
Keely slid forward in the chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to keep them from shaking. "No. Absolutely, certainly not. I'll not marry him. I told you, Aunt Gwen, I'll not marry some colonial clod! Why, why, he's not even Christian," she choked.
Brock got to his feet. "Clod? And how would you know my religious convictions, cousin?" he asked hotly. He looked to Lloyd, lowering his voice a notch. "She's not much more than a child, surely you don't . . ." His voice trailed off into silence. From the look on Lloyd's face he could see that they were indeed quite serious. He shook his head, looking away." 'Tis absurd."
"I'll tell you what's absurd," Keely said, leaping to her feet. She scrutinized Brock's scowling face, holding him captive with her livid hazel eyes. "It's absurd that you would think I would even consider marrying you!" She planted her hands on her hips. "You're rude and unmannerly, ungentlemanly and . . . and someone's going to hang your arrogant neck from a rope for this treason you commit."
"Now, now, Keely," Gwenevere murmured, shaking a hand. "Calm down!"
"Calm down! Would you be calm, Aunt Gwen?" Her voice weakened against her will. "You of all people I should think would understand!" Turning away, she fled the room, slamming the door behind her.
Brock stood at the window, his arms crossed over his broad chest, listening to the sound of Keely's footsteps as they died away. The room was silent for several moments before he spoke. "Clever, you two. I have to admit that."
Gwenevere got up from her chair and went to stand beside her son. "We don't mean to be clever, just sensible. Are you really that violently opposed or is your dander just ruffled?"
"Mother, I have no dander. But yes, I am opposed. I have no room in my life for her, not just for Keely but for any woman." He turned his dark gaze on Gwenevere. "She's right, you
know. I might very well find myself swinging from the hangman's noose. Do you think that fair to her?"
"She's of good stock. She would bear you sons you could be proud of." Gwenevere rested her hand on her son's arm.
"She's naught but a child," he flared. "I'm a good fifteen years her elder."
"Tell me you don't like her," Gwen reasoned. "Tell me I don't see that sparkle in your eyes when she passes you in the hallway."
"That's lust, Mother. Nothing more."
"So that's as good a place as any to start. You could learn to love, her, couldn't you?"
Brock looked out over the elegant boxwood garden, watching the branches of an apple tree sway with the light August breeze. Yes, he thought to himself . . . it's possible, but I can't let it happen. Not again. "Love's not necessary in a marriage of convenience," he murmured aloud.
Gwenevere chuckled, giving a nod of her turbaned head. "There then, it's done."
"No! It is not done," Brock said sharply. "I'm no fortune hunter. I'll not marry the chit against her will." He ran a bronze hand down the length of his neat black braid. "She's right, you know—you of all people should understand, Mother. You would never have married Lloyd if you had been given a choice." He glanced over at the old man. "No offense meant, sir, but you know 'tis true."
Lloyd reached for his pipe. "No offense taken."
Gwenevere sighed with exasperation. "You want Lloyd to go to his grave sick with worry for her?"
Brock shook his head. "Oh, no, Mother, you'll not pin that on me." He turned to Lloyd. "Can't you find another suitor? There are plenty of men right here in Dover who would take her today if they heard what she was worth."
Lloyd sucked on his pipe until the tobacco in its bowl glowed red. "But I want her to be happy."
"And what makes you think she'd be happy with me, for Christ's sake?"
"You're a good man."
Brock ran his palm over his face. He couldn't help imagining what it would be like to lie beside her in a great bed, to touch her silky flesh, to kiss her soft lips. "It just doesn't seem right to take advantage of the girl like this."
"She has to marry someone and soon," Gwenevere said, going to the table to pour Lloyd another cup of tea. "And you have to admit this would solve your financial concerns."
"Yes, yes, I know," Brock commented irritably. "But even if I agree, she said she'd not marry me. She thinks me uncivilized."
"Oh, that's just the young, foolish girl in her talking. She cares for you, Brock." Gwen stirred her tea with a small silver spoon. "Tell us you'll marry her. She'll come around."
Brock looked from his mother to Lloyd, both calmly drinking their tea. "I don't like having decisions made for me like this." He looked away. "But I'll think about it," he conceded quietly.
Gwen smiled, patting Lloyd on the knee. "You see that, you old goat, I told you he'd agree to it."
"I have not agreed," Brock insisted. "I just don't have the time to stand here and argue with the two of you. I've got work to do; I'll not be back for the evening meal so don't wait for me." He gave a nod. "Good day to you both."
Gwenevere watched her son disappear through the office door and then turned to Lloyd, a smile plain on her face. "Well, my part's done. Now it's your turn."
Lloyd exhaled, watching the smoke from his pipe filter through the air. "He hasn't agreed."
"No, but he will." She smoothed the skirts of her brilliantly colored caftan. "He's an intelligent boy. He realizes what a superb wife she'd make."
"You mean he realizes what an advantage it would be to have her money."
"I didn't raise him to be an idiot, Lloyd. Finances are an important concern in marriages and he knows it," Gwenevere answered haughtily.
Lloyd chuckled. "Don't put on your duchess airs with me!" He patted her hand. "Now I suppose I have Keely to contend with."
"You do, but since I've done so well here, perhaps I'll speak to her too." Gwenevere pushed up out of the chair, leaning to peck him on the cheek. "My dogs need their exercise. I'll be in the garden if you need me."
"Very well, old girl," Lloyd said, unable to resist patting her on the bottom as she went by. "I'll see you tonight." He winked at her as she went out the door, and her shameless laughter filled the hallway.
The moment Gwenevere was gone, the housekeeper, Matilda, entered Lloyd's office. "Will there be anything else, sir?" She picked up the teacups one by one, placing them on a tray she balanced in her hand. She was a tall, middle-aged woman, with gray hair and translucent skin. Her mouth twitched as she went about her chore.
"And what are you in such a pucker about?" Lloyd asked good-naturedly. "Leave my cup be, I'm not finished."
"It's her, sir." Matilda's pale blue eyes met his.
"Gwen? What on earth's she done to you?"
"It's not me, sir, it's you." Matilda lowered her head, scooping up the teapot. "I know it's not my place to say so, but it's sin. She's gone all of these years and then comes back like some vulture when you're dyin'."
"Now, now, Matilda, that's a little severe, isn't it?"
"She should have been here with you. It's not Christian living apart from your husband." Her eyes grew wide." 'Tis the devil's work, she is, with her funny clothes and strange ideas!"
Lloyd laughed aloud and then winced, gripping his left arm.
Matilda dropped the tray on the table and got to her knees in front of him. "Are you hurtin', sir? Should I get the surgeon?"
"Hurting? No, no." Lloyd took a deep breath, straightening up. "I feel better than I've felt in years. It's Gwen. I'd forgotten just how much fun she could be. I'm just a little tired, that's all."
Matilda made a clucking sound between her teeth, daring to take Lloyd's withered hand. "Shame on her, exciting you like this. You know what the surgeon said. Tryin' to kill you, she is. The devil's work if I ever saw it. She'll burn in hell for it, you can be certain of that."
"That will be enough of that talk, Matilda. I'm too lax with you and your mincing ways. I'll not have you speak of Gwen with that tone. She's still my wife."
Blushing under the heat of Lloyd's reprimand, Matilda got to her feet. "Excuse me, sir. I apologize. It's only for your welfare that I'm concerned." She lowered her gaze to the floor.
"I know. Now go on with you. I've some papers to draw up and then I'll be needing my solicitor. Can you send a message to him?"
"Right away." She swept the tray off the table. "Are you certain, though, sir, that I shouldn't get the surgeon? I hate to see you suffer like this."
"Suffer? I feel absolutely grand, just grand. Just do as I ask, Matilda. I'll be the one to decide when I need my surgeon."
"Yes, sir."
Keely paced the floor of her bedchamber. "I can't believe it," she murmured aloud. "They actually thought I'd consider taking him as a husband." She scoffed at the absurdity. And to think that colonial had the audacity to say he wouldn't take her! Keely balled her hands at her sides, seething.
She was hurt that Aunt Gwen and Uncle Lloyd would have rallied against her like this. Imagine, she being married to Brock! The truth was, she couldn't imagine being married to anyone. It seemed so unfair that she be forced to wed a man she hadn't chosen herself, a man who hadn't chosen her. But then Aunt Gwen was right, what young woman was allowed to chose a mate out of love? Especially a woman with an inheritance of the size that she could expect.
But if Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Gwen were going to chose a husband for her, why not an Englishman? She had told them she was homesick; she had told them she wanted to return to England as soon as possible. She wondered now if she should have accepted Lord Larten's proposal. He would have at least been a husband she could have ignored. How could she ever ignore a man like Brock; he made her jump every time he spoke. A woman couldn't marry a man she was afraid of—and she was afraid of her cousin.
A knock came at the door, startling Keely. "Yes, come in," she managed.
Lucy stepped inside the door. "Your aunt is askin' for you in the
garden, mistress."
Keely sighed, fingering the worn amulet she wore around her neck. "Very well, tell her I'll be there directly."
"Yes'm." Lucy's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Word is in the kitchen that you'll be marryin' Master Brock. Quite a man, that one is . . ."
"Well, the word is wrong!" Keely snapped. "The whole bunch of you had better quit gossiping and get to work or you'll all be out on your ears!"
Lucy dropped the grin from her face, bobbing her head. "Yes, mistress." But as she ducked out the door, she was chuckling to herself. There wasn't a serving girl in the county that wouldn't give a year's wages for a tumble with that man!
Keely found her aunt in the garden, seated on a bench in the sun. Her spaniels ran in circles, chasing each other through a patch of knee-high Queen Anne's lace.
"Oh, there you are." Gwenevere patted the small stone bench. "Sit down, I want to talk with you, Keely."
"I'd rather stand."
Gwenevere studied her young niece, her nut-brown eyes sparkling with pride. Keely was certainly a beauty with her blue-green eyes and rich red hair, but more importantly she was a woman of character. Seeing her standing there on the brick walk, her arms folded stiffly over her chest, convinced Gwenevere that Keely and Brock were the perfect match. "Very well, stand then."
One of the spaniels, Rupert, nipped at Keely's heels and she brushed him aside. "You should have told me. It was humiliating for me to stand there in front of him and have him say he wouldn't have me. He's right, you know, I am nothing more than a piece of livestock being auctioned at the Sussex fair."
"Perhaps I was wrong in not speaking to you first. But you were the one who popped up first insisting you wouldn't have him." Gwenevere picked up a ripe peach from the bench and began to peel it with a small paring knife. "You injured his pride, and pride is important to men. You'll soon learn that."
Keely watched a bumblebee alight on a hollyhock blossom. "And what of my pride? He called me a child." She couldn't admit to her aunt that her son frightened her, or that he made her heart pound when he spoke.
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 4