Lady in Blue

by Lynn Kerstan

  “I know.”

  He looked surprised.

  “But I never thought it would matter to you,” she went on, twisting her head from his hand. “I see now that it does.”

  “Will you tell me why?” he asked softly. “Were you afraid? Is it because you don’t like me and don’t wish to share … ?” His voice faltered.

  “It has nothing whatever to do with you,” she said. “It is something in me, and I cannot explain it.”

  “Will not,” he corrected with a sigh.

  She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “I did not expect you to come back, Bryn. But I am very glad you did.”

  “The same way you were glad I was to be your first lover?”

  “No. For other reasons.”

  There was a long silence. “And that is all I am going to get from you, isn’t it?” he said finally. “Not one clue, not one tiny indication of how you feel about anything.”

  He sounded disgruntled, but not angry. Resigned, she thought.

  “How can I explain,” she asked, thinking her question eminently reasonable, “when I don’t understand myself?”

  “There is a great deal more to it than that,” he told her with an edge to his voice. Then he lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips one by one. “But I can scarcely blame you, after the way I have behaved beginning to end. That is going to change, Clare, I promise you. Somehow I shall contrive to win you over. One day you will feel you can confide in me. Trust me.”

  For all her misery, Clare could not help but be amused. Bryn was always so sure he could arrange everything to his design. Even correct his own behavior, although she suspected he rarely considered that to be necessary. She leaned against his knees, relaxed for the first time in days. She could not give him what he most wanted right now, but she wanted to give him something. He still held her hand. She drew it to her lips and kissed his fingers the way he’d done to hers. Something hot flashed in his eyes.

  He pulled his hand away. “No you don’t, witch,” he said without rancor. “First I apologize.”

  “But you’ve done that,” she murmured, toying with the folds of his silk robe. “You were angry, and whatever you said to me has already been forgot.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not by me. Nor by you, Clare Easton. And if you want an example of what you do that drives me wild, this is it. Dammit, you won’t talk to me.”

  “Talk,” she said grimly, “is not what you hired me for.”

  The silence that followed was shocking.

  Bryn was taut as a bowstring. Clare’s hand, resting on his throat, felt the tension in him before he released a harsh laugh.

  “Good,” he said. “An honest reaction. Sometimes I think the only time I ever see the real Clare is when you are angry at me. I warn you, lady, I’ll take advantage of that if I must.”

  “It was a t-terrible thing to say,” she stammered wretchedly.

  “You may say anything to me, so long as you mean it. Anything at all is better than when you go away.” He tapped her forehead. “In here”—his finger moved to her heart—“or here.” Then he pulled her to his chest, kneading her back. “Anything is better than when you leave me.”

  She thought he would make love to her then. She was certain he would. And she was so afraid of disappointing him again she felt herself growing very cold.

  To her surprise, he set her back and swung his long legs over the other side of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Sweetheart, my head is killing me. And damned if I’ll let you down after everything I’ve said. I need to clean up, and sleep this off, and pull myself together. Get home, if I can figure out a way. Dammit, don’t I pay the servants in this house? Where the hell is everyone?”

  “You damn well do,” she said, “and they are the hell away on a perfectly proper Sunday off.”

  He glanced over his shoulder in blank astonishment.

  “Well, you told me I could say whatever I wanted,” she reminded him. “And I am trying to learn from you.”

  He barked a laugh and felt his head pound. “Learn this,” he gritted between clenched teeth. “Never get drunk.”

  Clare stood and regarded him with a fond expression. “I’ll send one of the stable boys from the mews to your house for a coach,” she said.

  “And bring me a glass—make it a jug—of water.”

  An hour later, with the choice of riding home in his robe or redonning the stinking clothes he’d worn for two days, Bryn decided to send a complete wardrobe to Clouds. He expected to spend most of his time here anyway. As he kissed Clare goodbye, murmuring an apology for his scratchy beard, he realized it was the only apology she had allowed him to finish.

  “We will spend all of tomorrow together,” he informed her. “And we’ll get an early start. I shall pick you up at ten. Dress for an outing in the country.”

  She handed him his ale-streaked coat. “Yes, Bryn.”

  “That was meant to be an invitation, not an order,” he mumbled.

  “I know.” She gave him a full pitcher of water to take with him. “It will be interesting to see you awake before noon.”

  “Make it nine,” he countered. “Hell, I’ll come for you at eight.”

  22

  Bryn made it to Clouds in Black Lightning a little after ten, head still throbbing slightly and a touch of red in his eyes, but otherwise feeling better than he had in days.

  Clare met him at the door, the picture of spring in a crisp jonquil muslin dress with a scooped neck and puffed sleeves, a wide-brimmed straw bonnet tied under her chin with a jaunty yellow ribbon, and a lacy parasol.

  The day was sunny and warm. Already regretting his blue broadcloth driving coat and starched collar, he decided to strip to his shirtsleeves once they reached the countryside. The grays seemed to have caught his mood, high-spirited and eager for a long hard run. Clare’s arm curled around his waist as he steered through the thronged streets of midmorning London and headed for the open road.

  He often drove to Richmond, or rode, because it was increasingly hard to draw Claude Howitt to the city. One of Claude’s children seemed always to be ailing, and now that Alice was about to deliver another, he refused to budge except in an emergency. Business could wait, he always said, even Caradoc’s business.

  Bryn didn’t mind. Claude’s household was like another world to him: three children, dogs, cats, rabbits, the assorted frogs and snakes favored by the older boy, and a house that began as Alice’s cottage but had been added onto so often it now stood three stories high.

  Bryn’s only experience with family life had been the few weeks every year he spent as a child with the close-knit Lacey clan. Of course Alice and Claude were not married, and so far as the law was concerned their children were not legitimate. But that seemed not to matter to them, nor to their neighbors and friends. Bryn had come to like the tiny village and the scattering of farms around it, to the extent he’d bought a large stretch of land and paid the living of the curate at the small stone church of St. Didacus.

  Although he’d not built a house for himself as yet, he thought that when he married, his wife and children would like a country home for the summer. By now his estate at River’s End must be in ruins. He’d not been there for twenty years and had no intention of ever going back. One day he intended to plant new roots, closer to London where he felt at home, and the property at Richmond seemed a likely spot.

  He recognized a long straight stretch of road ahead and let the horses go, feeling Clare’s fingers dig into his side as high hedgerows thick with blackberry bushes flashed by. The horses thundered along the road, Black Lightning almost airborne behind them, its wheels scarcely touching the ground.

  Clare’s bonnet was blown back, secured only by the yellow ribbon against her neck, and her long hair streamed behind her. It felt like he was flying with Clare clinging to him, he her only support and anchor.

  The sensation was blinding. He almost failed to see a lumbering hay wagon ahead and barely managed to pull up
in time.

  “My heavens,” Clare said breathlessly. She let him go and tugged the bonnet over her head. “That ribbon was strangling me.”

  He came back to earth with a thud. The road was too narrow to pass the hay wagon, and it would be another mile before he could swing Black Lightning around. Meantime, they’d eat dust. His good mood vanished.

  “What a magnificent ride,” Clare said then. “I felt like a bird.”

  He looked over and saw wide eyes and a bright smile. What he’d thought was terror had been exhilaration.

  “Damned wagon,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “I knew you’d like this,” he declared exultantly.

  “Your Black Lightning is perfectly splendid. How clever you are to have designed it.”

  He felt his chest swell. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he tried to draw her closer, but the brim of her hat poked him in the cheek. One way or another, he reflected, something always kept them apart.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He looked sideways and could see nothing but that infernal hat. “To visit a shrine,” he said with heavy solemnity.

  She went stiff.

  Why in heaven’s name was she troubled by that? “The birthplace of a celebrated rascal,” he explained, and felt her relax immediately. “Attila the Cat.”

  Straw scraped his chin as she turned her head. “Really?”

  “Claude Howitt lives down this road another two miles. With any luck, you can ingratiate yourself with that miserable feline’s mother, father, and assorted siblings. Not to mention Claude’s brood. He has two sons and a snot-nosed daughter by last count. Another offspring is imminent.”

  “Claude was the sweet man who came to the box at the opera,” Clare said with pleasure. “I liked him very much.” She let go of Bryn long enough to untie the ribbon and remove her hat. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder in a gesture he found heartwarmingly intimate. “What a perfect day.”

  “Claude and I have some business to conduct,” he warned her. “At least, that’s my excuse for dropping in unannounced.” When she tensed, he rushed on. “I often do that, Clare. Alice lets me run tame in her house, and she’ll be delighted to meet you. Claude and Alice are the happiest couple I’ve ever known, and I have long wanted to bring you here.” He reined the grays to a stop and looked down at her. “We can turn back, if you prefer.”

  Long lashes veiled her eyes for a moment, and then she lifted her face and smiled at him. “After the opera and Hyde Park, I expect I’ll survive. Besides, I want to meet Attila’s mother.”

  Alice, with a blond-haired moppet clutching at her skirt, welcomed Clare as if greeting a lifelong friend. The women soon withdrew to the kitchen to fix sandwiches and coffee, while the two rambunctious boys played a loud game of sheriff-and-Robin-Hood in the parlor where Bryn and Claude were trying to talk business.

  When the men were served, the women and children adjourned to the barn where Mandycat had just given birth to five more kittens. Their eyes were still closed, and their high-pitched mews as they suckled brought a smile to Clare’s lips. Two of them were white with patches of black, just like Attila.

  She fondled them with glee, even as several puppies rollicked at her ankles. Both women, three children, six puppies, and mother cat and kittens were thoroughly enjoying themselves when Bryn and Claude came into the barn.

  Alice was draped with a sleepy three-year-old daughter, her two sons making straw men at her side. Clare had a puppy in her lap, another squirmed on her shoulder, and a tiny ball of fur was cradled between her hands.

  Bryn stared at them for a long moment, never in his life more aware of the enormous power and compelling beauty of womanhood. He knew, instinctively, that this was one of those rare images that stayed with a man forever, a picture he’d be able to conjure with absolute clarity fifty years from now, if he lived so long.

  Beside him, Claude smiled like a man who saw such pictures every day. He had the skill and the backing to become a successful politician or a wealthy businessman but chose instead a quiet existence in the country, ordering his life around moments like this. Bryn had always considered him likable and brilliant but indolent, a man of no ambition. Now he realized Claude Howitt was the wisest man he knew.

  “No more cats,” he told Clare when she held out a black-and-white handful of fur for his inspection. “Not from this lineage, anyway. You may have a puppy, if you like.”

  “Attila would tear a puppy to shreds,” she said cheerfully, brushing straw from her skirt as she came to her feet with characteristic grace. “He likes to have his own way.”

  Bryn swept her a mocking bow. “Point taken. And now we must be off, because I have a surprise for you.”

  It was fully thirty minutes before Clare and Alice completed their goodbyes. Women, Bryn decided sourly, talked too much. And what the devil could his mistress and his friend’s mistress be discussing at such length? He waited in agitation beside the curricle, Claude puffing imperturbably on his pipe, obviously accustomed to female prattle.

  Finally Clare was settled beside him, chatting happily about cats and puppies while he drove at moderate speed, watching for the turnoff. Wondering if everything was ready. A few minutes later he steered onto a narrow tree-shaded lane and proceeded for about a mile before reining the grays to a halt.

  Clare glanced up at him in surprise, wondering why they’d stopped in the middle of nowhere. Then, to her astonishment, a liveried footman sprang from the trees and took the horses in charge. She was still considering this wonder when Bryn swung from the curricle, came around to her side, and held out his arms. He grinned like a small boy with a snake hidden in his pocket. Positively beaming, she thought, as he took her by the waist and lifted her down. “Where are—”

  “Shhh,” he said.

  She heard the sound of moving water and the songs of birds.

  Bryn took her hand and led her to a tiny path that wound about a hundred yards. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and the sound of water grew louder. Soon he was forced to walk ahead of her, practically tugging her along as the path headed up a sloping hill.

  At the top, the trees ended and a long sweep of grass, studded with wildflowers, reached to the banks of a river. An enormous blue-and-white striped pavilion, pointed at the top and open on all sides, was raised in the center of the meadow.

  “Faerieland,” she whispered, her eyes blurring.

  “Come on,” said Bryn, leading her down the hill.

  Soon she could make out a table and two chairs inside the tent, resting on a thick carpet stacked with satin pillows. Two settings of the finest bone china were laid out, along with heavy silverware, delicate glasses, and a vase of flowers. Beside the table was a tripod with an ice-filled bucket and a bottle of champagne. Another table held two large straw hampers.

  Bryn, hands stuffed in his pockets, watched closely as she wandered inside the tent, examining the elaborate picnic he’d arranged. Her mouth was slightly open, her head tilted to one side, her eyes wide. Finally she plucked a daffodil from the vase and held it to her breast for a moment.

  Then she looked back at him and shook her head, laughing. “Only you, Bryn.”

  Hands still in his pockets and gaze fixed on the carpet, he stepped forward, feeling very stupid. Clare was the last woman in the world to like this sort of flamboyant display. It was a ridiculous idea.

  She draped the daffodil over his left ear and rested her hands on his shoulders. “You are impossible, you know,” she said.

  He nodded, his gaze shifting nervously to the champagne bucket.

  “Where are the musicians?” she inquired mischievously.

  Of course there should have been musicians. “I didn’t think of that,” he mumbled. “Damn.”

  He felt her hand on his chin and risked a look at her face. She was smiling.

  “This is quite the most wonderful day of my life,” she said softly. And then she kissed him.

 
He stood there, unable to move when her arms wrapped around him, and he heard her whisper thank you into his mouth, and other things he couldn’t hear because of the blood pounding in his ears.

  He had never been kissed like that, with a passion that wasn’t sexual and was at the same time so intimate it was as if she made love to him. The earth melted under his feet.

  Color was high in her cheeks when she stepped back.

  He felt dazed. He probably looked it, the flower dangling across his cheek as he wrested his clenched fists from his pockets. “I forgot the music,” he said, scuffing his toe on the carpet.

  “Thank heavens. Are the trees swarming with servants?”

  “Not one.” He regathered his wits. “I thought we could serve ourselves. They’ll be back to pack everything up when we are gone. Three hours at most, Clare—if you wish to stay so long.”

  “However did you manage all this? You must have been planning for a long time.”

  “Only since last night. But you are well aware I have only to give a few orders and pay the bills.”

  “Yes. Even so, you created magic, Bryn. We might have been set down in a tale from the Arabian Nights. I feel like Scheherazade.”

  “Still lots of Moorish things in Spain. I brought the tent home from the Peninsula. Don’t know why. It took my fancy, I suppose.” He busied himself uncorking the champagne and filled her glass.

  “I am … dazzled.” She sat on one of the chairs and sipped the wine appreciatively.

  Bryn slouched across from her, uncertain of her mood. He wanted her to relax. Enjoy herself. He couldn’t remember anything he’d wanted so much for a long time. “I bought this land years ago,” he told her. “Thought one day I’d build here. A country house.”