by Angie Ray
All through his early childhood, Aunt Letty had filled his ears with tales of Phillip. Brave, dashing, man-about-town Phillip. Witty, charming, wizard-with-the-women Phillip. As a child, Bernard had often played here in this room, saving England from foreign armadas, rescuing ladies from fiery dragons, duelling with the villainous Lord Mortimer. Pretending he was Phillip.
Those imaginary games had stayed with him even when he went to school. They had sustained him through the days when older boys had bullied him and laughed at his interest in his studies. While he learned to keep his chin down and be invisible, those games had been the only bright spot in his life.
Until the summer he met Margaret.
Margaret. Even now, he could remember his first sight of her, waltzing down the path, a dandelion chain hanging crazily on her glossy brown curls. When she had seen him, she had stopped, staring at him with enormous blue eyes for a moment, before she invited him to join her game.
After that, he had frequently escaped from the gloomy confines of Barnett Manor, to seek her out. His time with her was a happy, sunny world that made up for the cold misery of school. By the time he turned sixteen, he had fallen hopelessly in love with Margaret.
He never mentioned it, knowing his father would sneer. So when Lord Barnett had suddenly proposed a marriage, Bernard had been ecstatic.
It hadn’t lasted, of course. Margaret had denounced Lord Barnett in church, and seeing the disgust in her face, Bernard had been shamed to the soles of his boots. He had known then that she would never agree to marry him unless he could show her he was nothing like his father.
He had worked hard at it, and he thought he had succeeded--she had accepted him, even in spite of the way his wretched tongue had mangled the proposal. Now he feared it was all for naught.
He sensed he was losing her.
Because of Phillip? Thinking of his boyhood idol, Bernard’s mouth tightened. Phillip might be charming and witty, but he was also a selfish womanizer. A dead selfish womanizer.
Bernard stared up at the painting. Phillip’s mocking gaze stared back.
“You can’t have her,” Bernard gritted through suddenly clenched teeth. “Dammit, Margaret is mine.”
*****
Later that evening, Margaret was about to go up to her room when Bernard stopped her.
“Margaret, may I speak to you for a minute?”
Margaret gripped the balustrade. Bernard had been in an odd mood ever since they returned from Wynch Bridge. He had frowned all through dinner, and barely spoken. Even Geoffrey had commented on his gloom.
Was he going to question her about Phillip again?
Bernard pulled out his watch. Click, snap. “I was wondering....” Click, snap. “That is, er....” He put the watch back in his pocket and took a deep breath. “I was going to play a game of billiards, and I wondered if you might join me,” he said in a rush.
His invitation was so unexpected, Margaret gaped. “But I don’t know how to play billiards,” was all she could think to say.
“I would be more than happy to teach you.”
Good heavens! What had come over Bernard? What he suggested was shocking. Not only was he asking her to indulge in the unladylike occupation of billiards, but he was asking her to do it late at night. Just the two of them. Alone.
But what if Phillip was waiting for her?
The memory of her behavior last night made her cheeks turn hot. How could she possibly face him? Suddenly, a game of billiards sounded like a good idea.
She looked at Bernard warily. Why was he proposing something so improper? Was he testing her moral fiber perhaps?
She didn’t care if he were, she decided. For the first time in eight years she was enjoying herself, and she saw no reason to stop now. She smiled. “I would love to, Bernard.”
Located in the East Wing, the billiards room had hunting scenes hanging on dark walnut panelling, a deep red carpet, and a massive fireplace. In the middle of the room stood the billiards table.
Bernard took down two cues and handed one to Margaret.
She inspected the long narrow pole and laughed. “What would Lady Creevy think if she could see me now?”
“Why does everyone put such store in her opinion?” Bernard muttered as he placed two balls, one red, one white, on the green baize cloth of the table. “I can’t abide her.”
Margaret almost dropped the cue. “Bernard! That’s...that’s heresy!”
He hunched his shoulders and looked at the table. “I will take the first shot, to demonstrate,” he said. Using the cue, he took careful aim, and drove it against the white ball, which rolled towards the red one, striking it. The red ball spun towards a pocket and went in. “That is called a winning hazard,” said Bernard, straightening. “Three points for me.”
Margaret nodded absently, thoughts of Lady Creevy still occupying her. “I never liked her either. She always complained to Mama about my unladylike behavior, reporting every instance she caught me without shoes or a bonnet. I think she considered it her Christian duty to invite Mama and me to join that silly ‘sewing society’ of hers. Mama was in alt--she’d been trying to wangle an invitation for months--and how furious I was! Do you remember, Bernard? I couldn’t play with you for the whole month of July because we had to go to Lady Creevy’s everyday.”
Bernard shrugged and retrieved the red ball, placing it within a semicircle outlined in white on the green cloth.
“I was never so glad when it broke up.” A reminiscent smile curved her lips. “I told you didn’t I, how she opened her sewing basket one day, and a score of beetles flew out? All the ladies had hysterics. They were hideous--the beetles, I mean. Purplish black and huge--“
“Carabus violaceus.” Nodding absently, Bernard’s gaze met hers.
Suddenly, he began to apply chalk to the end of his cue with great industry, his eyes avoiding hers. An insane suspicion formed in her brain. “Bernard--you didn’t--“
“Margaret, I brought you here to play billiards, not talk about Lady Creevy. The object is to try to hit the other balls.”
Margaret stared at him, trying to remember exactly what--if anything--she had said to him about the beetles in the sewing basket. She couldn’t remember exactly, although she was almost certain--
“Margaret! It’s your turn.”
She jumped. “Oh, I’m sorry Bernard.” She would have to think about the beetles another time.
Focusing her attention on the game before her, she decided it looked easy enough. She picked up the cue and bent over the table, holding the stick as Bernard had done. Her gaze fixed on the ball, she asked, “Like this?”
“Mmhm.”
He sounded distracted, but Margaret paid no attention. Taking careful aim, she shoved the stick at the ball. She missed completely, the cue swinging up in the air.
“Hold the cue steady and drive it straight ahead,” Bernard instructed.
Feeling foolish, Margaret thought perhaps this wouldn’t be so easy after all. She positioned herself again. When she was ready she glanced over her shoulder for approval from Bernard. He seemed to be staring at her backside.
Flushing, Margaret straightened. “Bernard!”
Startled, he looked up, then flushed also. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” He moved to the other side of the table. “Please proceed.”
Rattled by his incomprehensible behavior, she pushed the cue forward once more. She barely nicked the ball.
“No, no.” He moved to her side, and his hand closed over hers on the cue. Bending over with her, he held the cue straight and steady. “You are swinging up, like this, Margaret. You must shoot straight, like this.”
She barely heard him. It felt very strange to have Bernard so close. His body was compact, his hands strong over hers. She could feel his breath against her cheek, smell a vetiver scent. The earthy, woodsy fragrance surprised her. Normally, she would not have associated such a smell with Bernard. She rather liked--
“Enjoying yourself, Margaret?”
a sarcastic new voice intruded.
Chapter Fifteen
Margaret straightened up abruptly, her head hitting Bernard’s chin.
Phillip, arms folded across his chest, stood watching from the other side of the table.
“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, blushing a little as she met his gaze, trying not to think of last night.
Grimacing, Bernard rubbed his chin. “Teaching you to play billiards, I thought.”
“Is that what he was doing? They called it something different in my day.”
Margaret’s embarrassment faded rapidly. Her fingers tightened on the cue stick. “You are disgusting.”
Affronted, Bernard drew himself up. “If you feel that way--“
“Oh, not you, Bernard.”
“Not--do you mean to say he is here?”
Margaret bit her lip.
Bernard looked suspiciously around the room. Addressing a spot about five feet from where Phillip stood, Bernard said, “I will thank you, sir, to go away and leave my fiancee alone.”
“I expect you would, Birdnest.”
“Bernard,” Margaret corrected him.
“What?” said Bernard.
“What astounding wit,” sneered Phillip. “I wonder he doesn’t set himself up as a pundit.”
“Phillip...” Margaret said, an edge to her voice.
For a moment, Phillip was tempted to say something that would really shock her, but after a brief struggle, he restrained himself. “I must talk to you. It’s urgent.”
Alarm rose in her. “Has something happened? Are you ill? I mean, is something the matter with you?”
“I can’t discuss it here, Margaret.
“Oh.” She glanced hesitantly at Bernard. “He says he needs to talk to me.”
Bernard tensed. “Can’t he wait?”
Margaret looked at Phillip. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Bernard. He says it’s urgent. Besides, it is very late. Why don’t we meet here after breakfast tomorrow?”
Bernard nodded stiffly. His face set, he watched her leave. With a muttered curse, he threw the billiard cue down on the table and glared at nothing in particular, until the bell pull in the corner caught his eye. His frown lightened. Striding over, he gave it an urgent tug.
*****
“What is it, Phillip?” Margaret asked worriedly when they were in her room.
He didn’t answer immediately. Watching him pace about the room, Margaret grew more and more alarmed. “Phillip, you must tell me! What has happened?”
Mouth taut, he came to a halt in front of her. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone with Bernard so late,” he finally said.
“You don’t think....” Margaret’s voice trailed off then rose again in angry disbelief. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“You’re very innocent, Margaret. You may not realize what it does to a man to--“
“How dare you!” Margaret was so angry, she wanted to spit. “Bernard is my fiance! If anyone should be complaining, it is he!”
“And so he should be, the fool,” Phillip muttered.
“What? What did you say?”
Phillip was tempted to tell her, but he restrained himself. It wasn’t easy. Seeing Bernard bending over her had raised an angry demon in him. It wasn’t jealousy--that would be foolish. He had merely wanted to order her out of the room and thrash Bernard to a pulp. Then he wanted to throw her on the floor and show her exactly what she did to men, what she did to him. He wanted to make passionate love to her the way he had ached to do last night. The way he ached to do now.
But to his frustration, making love to Margaret was as impossible as thrashing Bernard. He would have to deal with Bernard in some other way. In the meantime....
“I’m simply advising you to be careful with Bernard,” he said coldly. “Or you may regret it.”
Furious, she opened her mouth to reply, but a knock at the door interrupted her. To her frustration, Phillip vanished as Yvette bustled in. “You’re ready to change for bed, Miss?”
With an effort, Margaret smiled at the maid. “Your timing is perfect, Yvette.” She moved behind the screen just in case Phillip was still lurking somewhere. Although after last night, she supposed modesty was a bit useless.
“Oh, it was Lord Barnett that told me.” Efficiently, Yvette dealt with the buttons and started on the corset strings.
Margaret inhaled deeply. “Lord Barnett?”
“Yes, he rang and told me how tired you were and could I please come up right away. That man is so thoughtful!” Yvette released the last corset string.
“Yes.” Margaret’s breath came out in a deep whoosh. “Yes, indeed.”
*****
The next afternoon, Bernard was still angry at how Phillip had spirited Margaret away. The thought of that...that rogue in her bedroom made him gnash his teeth. He wanted to demand that Phillip stay out of her room, to forbid Margaret to talk to the ghost. Unfortunately, even if Margaret obeyed, Bernard had no doubt Phillip would not.
He had to find another way to fight Phillip.
This morning’s billiards session had failed miserably--at least as far as Bernard was concerned. At breakfast, Margaret had invited Geoffrey and Cecilia to join her and Bernard for the lesson. Before he could think of an excuse to prevent it, Cecilia had accepted. The resulting game had been hilarious and much enjoyed by everyone--except himself. He had wanted to be alone with Margaret.
He was determined to do better this afternoon. He had planned to spend the day observing the Geotrupes sterocarius in its natural habitat. If he invited Margaret to come with him, he could spend some time with her while he worked. Margaret would enjoy herself, he was certain.
*****
Margaret, gripping the bannister tightly, stared at Bernard in horror. “You want to do what?”
“A little field research.” He stood two steps below her, looking up. “On the Dor beetle.”
“But I was just going to have my luncheon.”
“I’ll have Cook pack a picnic basket. Please, Margaret, you will enjoy it, I promise.”
Margaret sighed in frustration, wishing he wasn’t so persistent. Nothing could sound more unappealing than sitting around watching a bunch of creepy, crawling little creatures. “I hate insects.”
“Yes, I discovered that many years ago,” he said wryly.
She looked at him sharply, noticing the slight quirk to his lips. Indignation filled her. “You’re referring to the ‘present’ you gave me for my ninth birthday, I suppose?”
“Mmhm. My ears rang for days with your shrieks.”
“Can you blame me? If I’d known what was in that box, I never would have opened it.”
“A Curculio Betulae.” Bernard smiled reminiscently. “Green with magnificent orange spots. It was a mark of my high esteem for you.”
“Hmph.” But she couldn’t help smiling a little, too. “Oh, very well. I will accompany you.”
They drove the dogcart down to the river for the picnic, and to Margaret’s relief, Bernard refrained from mentioning insects while they ate. And although the day was hot, the shade was cool on the mossy bank where they sat and a pleasant breeze fanned her chest and throat where the neckline of her plum satin walking dress dipped.
She took a final bite of tart green apple, then lay back on the blanket with a sigh of repletion. Bernard had been right--she was enjoying the outing. “That was delicious.” She felt pleasantly relaxed. “Perhaps I will take a nap while you look at your insects.”
Bernard tossed a chicken bone in the picnic basket. “Wouldn’t you rather look too? You shouldn’t be so prejudiced, Margaret. In form and composition, there is no other creature of such phenomenal artistry.”
“Phenomenal artistry?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know, Bernard. I’ve always thought insects were hideous.”
“Surely you can’t be so blind to their beauty. Look at that butterfly. Look at the brilliant hues, the perfect sym
metry of pattern, the delicacy of form. How can you say it is not beautiful?”
Margaret’s gaze followed his pointing finger to where a butterfly rested on the trunk of a beech tree perhaps ten feet away. The dark blue wings had an elegant tracery of black lines and bright orange spots rimmed the edges.
“It is a Polyommatus icarus,” Bernard said. Rising, he silently approached the tree and, with unexpected speed and grace, captured the butterfly in his cupped hands. Returning to the blanket, he knelt beside her and extended his hands. “Smell it, Margaret.”
She sniffed. “Why, it smells like chocolate!”
“This particular butterfly uses scent to attract mates.” He smiled down at her.
Margaret blinked a little. He was bending over her, his hands hovering above her chest. Conscious of her position, she sat up. Her abrupt movement startled Bernard. His hands dropped to his sides and the butterfly fluttered up between them. “Are you studying butterflies, also?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the bright blue wings fluttering away.
Suddenly awkward, he rose to his feet. “No, no. Only the Geotrupes sterocarius.” He scrambled up the slippery bank to the dogcart, and for a moment, she thought he was going to leave without her. But he merely retrieved a small sketchpad and pencil and returned to sit on the blanket, a discreet distance away. Keeping his gaze averted from her, he scanned the underbrush until he found what he was seeking and began to draw.
After several minutes had passed, curiosity got the better of her. She inched forward and peered over his shoulder. “Good heavens, what is that supposed to be?”
“A Dor beetle.” With his pencil, Bernard pointed at a large black beetle resting on a twig. He looked down at his less than satisfactory effort and sighed. “I am working on a monograph which has excited some interest from the Entomological Society. I thought a few accompanying illustrative sketches would not come amiss.”
“You’re presenting a paper to the Entomological Society?” Margaret was impressed. “On what subject?”