by Valerie King
“So he is here,” he murmured. “And how is he? I mean, other than his amnesia?”
“He is uninjured, and from what I can apprehend, in excellent health.”
* * * * * * * * *
Ramsdell scrutinized the woman before him, wondering how much she actually knew of his ward. He assessed her prim posture and direct gaze. He now recalled the landlord at the Turtle Inn and his gossip concerning Miss Pamberley, that she was pushing for advantageous marriages for her sisters.
Why, then, would she want Charles to leave, unless, of course she didn’t know about his wealth? “I don’t really understand, Miss Pamberley, and I would appreciate being very clear about this. I have my own reasons for wanting Charles back at Aston Hall, but why, exactly, do you wish him to leave Lady Brook?”
A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I hope I am not being indelicate,” she said, “but I have only one object where my sisters are concerned, to see each of them properly settled in acceptable marriages.”
He lifted his brows. At least she was straightforward about her objectives.
She continued. “I am sure you know precisely how we are situated, since I have never had the smallest reliance on the discretion of our servants, or in a certain publican of the Turtle Inn.” She smiled. “I don’t fault any of them, I assure you. Such is the way of the world. But Mr. Kidmarsh’s circumstances cannot possibly be of any use to us—and here I pray you will not be offended—but his poverty makes a match between any of my sisters and your ward an impossibility.”
He wasn’t certain how she had come to the conclusion that Charles was impoverished, perhaps because Charles was his ward, but he saw no reason to enlighten her otherwise. He chose to address an entirely different aspect of the subject at hand. “You speak as though a match would be inevitable.”
She chuckled and clucked, her tongue. “Have you forgotten in your illness either how beautiful Mr. Kidmarsh is or how charming?”
Ramsdell smiled. “Good God, I believe for a moment I had. After all, he is merely Charles to me—my cousin, the much-cosseted son of my overprotective aunt, the doting object of my entire staff.”
“Well, I feel it my duty to advise you that Mr. Kidmarsh is presently ensconced in the nursery bedchamber, where he has been abed for over a fortnight without any evidence of being in the least ill. He has since charmed all my sisters into waiting on him hand and foot, day and night.”
Ramsdell laughed outright. “That would be my cousin. I only wonder that you did not send him about his business, for you seem, and pray accept this as a compliment, a woman of some ability.”
“I might have done so,” she responded promptly, “but at the very moment I was beginning to suspect your cousin of shamming it, your curricle came careening across my lawn. I have since been remarkably busy.”
* * * * * * * * *
Constance met his gaze, her own locked with his in some mysterious way she had never before experienced. The same sensations to which she awoke earlier that afternoon assailed her anew. Her stomach became riddled with waves of pleasure and excitement. Ramsdell, even with a pale complexion and hollows beneath his eyes, was a dashingly handsome man and in possession of a fierce spirit that appealed mightily to her.
He did not answer her right away, but seemed somehow caught himself, a fact that caused the waves within her stomach to crash about wildly. She knew the strangest impulse to kiss him again. Her lips parted, she even felt herself strain toward him. His eyes, which she now realized were an exquisite gray, seemed filled with a light that defied description.
What was he thinking? she wondered. Would he even want to kiss her were such an eventuality possible? But what absurdities were these? She was thinking like a schoolroom chit and not a mature woman of nine and twenty.
Her common sense, therefore, rose up and pierced the strange longings of her mind. She reminded herself that Lord Ramsdell could never be seriously interested in a portion-less female who lived in the rural haunts of Berkshire and who spent her days tending to her mother, her sisters, and Lady Brook.
No, not by half. His future companion, by the basic rules of their shared society, must be an exceptional London hostess and the daughter of a peer. She must be in possession of some great property that would add to his own estates and she must know people of influence and thereby increase his consequence.
In stark contrast, she was the daughter of a mere commoner who had inherited a tidy, though impoverished estate, but who could not claim even a drop of noble blood and had few aristocratic connections. Worse, her father’s death had revealed a mountain of gaming debts that had robbed her family of what little prosperity they had once enjoyed. She might be the owner of Lady Brook Manor, but the estate and her birth hardly befitted a viscountcy as grand as Ramsdell of Bedfordshire.
She sat back in her seat and waited for him to continue the conversation. He seemed slightly befuddled as he watched her, and his gray eyes were still cloaked with some heavy emotion she couldn’t quite comprehend.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “So tell me of Charles’s accident.”
Constance obliged him, keeping the history brief since she knew he was probably growing weary of company. However, when she had related the particulars to him, he commenced pelting her with every manner of question until she wondered if what he had said about being fit to travel in a day or two might not be far from the truth after all. Though he was suffering from some weakness of body, he was certainly ready to talk and to begin the process of solving the problems created by his ward.
“Do not fret, Miss Pamberley,” he said at last. “I shall have my cousin out of your house as quickly as I can, then you may be comfortable again. I only hope my—our—presence here has not been too taxing.”
“Of course it hasn’t,” she responded politely. She then changed the subject slightly. “As to your cousin’s identity, what would be your preference—do you wish him known to my family, to the staff? Because he could not recall his name, my sisters have been calling him Mr. Albion.”
* * * * * * * * *
“Mr. Albion. How clever.” He pondered her question and decided that the longer she remained in ignorance of his fortune, the better. Once his identity became common knowledge, surely someone would appear to disabuse her mind, and then she would feel quite differently about his cousin’s presence in her home. “I think things ought to remain just as they are for the present, until I can leave my bed and converse with Charles myself. Whether or not he is feigning either the extent of his illness or his amnesia is not for me to say, but I shouldn’t like to have the controversy of his identity further exacerbate his condition, supposed or otherwise.”
“I believe you may be right. Besides, until you are prepared to put him into a carriage, there is no point stirring up a wasp’s nest.”
He smiled. “Precisely, for something tells me Charles will not want to be leaving Lady Brook anytime soon.”
* * * * * * * * *
Constance couldn’t have agree more. She then expressed her gratitude to him and afterward left him to the ministrations of his valet, who had brought up a tray of food for his master.
As she left the chamber, she felt she should be quite satisfied with her conversation with Ramsdell. After all, she had succeeded in gaining his support with regard to Charles. However, the thought of this man leaving her life so abruptly—after he had required her attention day and night for such a long time—did not give her even the smallest measure of comfort.
Of course he would not be leaving immediately, and his own insistence that he would be well enough to travel in two days’ time was a complete absurdity. Therefore, what harm would it do to visit him once or twice—perhaps later this evening, for instance—and gradually become accustomed to his departure.
How very sensible her thinking could be at times.
Throughout the evening, which became interminably long, Constance fidgeted and fussed, looking at the clock and wishing for once that time wou
ld hurry up. She was not used to waiting with intense anticipation for a particular hour to arrive, but after she had left Ramsdell in Marchand’s care late that afternoon, she had determined in her own mind that she would pay him a final call at eight in the evening, which she felt to be quite reasonable and perhaps even a social requisite.
The trouble was, she could hardly wait for the hour to arrive, a fact that was distressing her as much as precisely how much she was anticipating seeing him again. She kept telling herself she was merely eager to see that he was improving and to determine for herself that his fever was gone for good. But when she had chosen to dispense with her cap that evening, she realized that she had been fooling herself and that her true intent was for him to see her as something other than just a spinster who cared for her sisters and her ailing mother.
So much for her common sense gaining command of her sensibilities.
Even Mr. Kidmarsh’s disturbing and quite flirtatious presence in the drawing room that night, for the very first time, did not have the power to divert her attention from the lethargic ticks of the ormolu clock above the mantel.
She glanced at it again—fifteen minutes until eight.
She resumed reading the sonnets of Shakespeare and repressed a deep sigh. She heard Celeste giggle and Marianne laugh. Katherine said, “Oh, Alby, tell another London anecdote. You cannot imagine how bereft we are of stories. Do the ladies all dress to the nines when they drive out in Hyde Park?”
“Indeed, yes, for the truth is that the proper daily excursion is more an excuse for cutting a dash than for taking the air to benefit one’s health.”
Constance watched and listened, recalling her own Season so many years earlier, before her father’s death. She had enjoyed every moment of it, dancing till the small hours of the morning nearly every night and sleeping a good part of the day. She couldn’t recall having seen Ramsdell then, and Mr. Kidmarsh, two years her junior, would have been at Eton or perhaps Harrow at the time.
An odd sensation of loss struck her suddenly and quite forcibly. She remembered how very much she had been looking forward to the following year’s jaunt to London. However, her father had died when the first frost was hard on the ground. The reality of his irresponsible gaming soon followed. Her portion and her sisters’ were long since gone, gambled away.
Fortunately, the lands had been untouched and the rent rolls had sustained their property, though meagerly, all these years. But they had had little money for the fripperies so necessary to every lady’s general contentment, and certainly not for the much-needed improvements about the manor house.
Her dreams as well as the hopes of her younger siblings had been buried with Simon Pamberley. She had not been to London, therefore, since her first Season, but Alby’s anecdotes were bringing every memory of that marvelous spring back as though it were yesterday.
Surrounded as he was by such a doting audience, he launched into a description of Astley’s Amphitheatre, which had Katherine’s eyes lit in a glow. She felt sick at heart suddenly. Katherine would adore the astonishing horsemanship of the Astley riders. How much she wished just once Katherine could see the famous show.
Her gaze shifted to beautiful Marianne and to Celeste. How they would have taken the entire town by storm, perhaps making brilliant matches and outshining the daughters of dukes and earls. And Augusta could have gone to the British Museum or the Royal Academy, not to mention the Tower of London.
As she looked at Augusta, her thoughts cleared sufficiently to become aware that the youngest Pamberley sister was sitting on a footstool beside the chaise-longue on which Alby was situated. She held her hand inside a copy of Ivanhoe, marking a place for Alby, who had just a few minutes earlier been reading to them. She was watching him with her heart in her eyes, her face aglow. Was it her imagination, or when Alby turned toward her did his expression become quite fond as well, or was that his charm, that he could simply reflect whatever his admirer was at that moment feeling?
She suddenly hoped very much that Ramsdell would become well enough in the next day or so to take Alby—Charles—back to Bedfordshire. Augusta was indeed badly smitten, and the longer Charles remained at Lady Brook, the harder for her poor heart to bid farewell to a man she would never see again. Besides, she was already quite miserable with remembering what her life, what their lives, were supposed to have been.
She glanced at the clock quite impatiently and was rather surprised to find that for the first time that evening—probably during her quite ridiculous reveries about London—the hour had advanced to ten past eight. She rose at once to quit the drawing room. She might have explained where she was going, but since Alby held the attention of her four sisters in rapt awe, she kept her peace.
She made her way slowly to Ramsdell’s bedchamber. Her heart was beating quite traitorously in her chest in loud thumps. For the life of her, she could not bring her pulse to a normal tempo. She smoothed her skirts, and the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck a dozen times in her progress toward his room. She laughed at herself for being so silly, yet she would fidget and her heart would beat.
She reached his bedchamber and lifted her hand to knock. Her fingers trembled. She stamped her foot, shook her head, and rapped lightly three times. After a moment, Marchand opened the door to her. She inquired if his lordship was yet asleep and whether he needed anything.
She saw that he was about to suggest she inquire on the morrow, but Ramsdell’s voice intruded. “Marchand, if that is Miss Pamberley, I would have a word with her.”
Marchand seemed slightly distressed but acquiesced in his quiet, gracious manner. He accompanied her to the side of the bed, but the viscount glanced at him and said kindly, “Do go to the kitchens, Marchand, and enjoy a glass of brandy for me. Dr. Kent left strict orders I was not to have a drop of spirits until I was better recovered.”
Marchand coughed faintly, intending to protest and glancing more than once at Constance, but Ramsdell added, “Please. It would gratify me to know that you had a respite.
Besides, Miss Pamberley can tend to me if I need anything.”
Marchand responded in a tight voice, “Yes, m’lord.”
Constance had the distinct impression he was disapproving of her, or at least of her visit. She followed him with her gaze as he left the room. When the door was shut upon him, she turned to look at Ramsdell and found that he was smiling faintly as he watched her.
“You must forgive him, you know,” he said. “He has been with me since I can remember and has very particular ideas about young ladies of quality visiting men in their chambers, especially so late at night.”
The absurdity of the notion, since Ramsdell was so ill, quite fit Constance’s sense of humor, and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “I know very well just how devoted he is to you, but perhaps you ought to explain to him that you could hardly ravish anyone in your present condition.”
Now, why had she said something so provocative to him?
He seemed a little surprised at first, and then his features softened into a smile and something else. He sighed and scanned her from head to foot. “More’s the pity,” he remarked.
How odd to think that something she normally would have found reprehensible, when spoken by Ramsdell seemed more a compliment than an insult. The ocean began to roll through her stomach, and she caught her breath. He was looking at her again in that way of his. She could feel the strength of his soul as he gazed at her and scrutinized each feature.
“Where is my quizzing glass,” he stated at last. “I could look at you for hours. Faith, but you’re uncommonly pretty. What a tale I shall be able to tell once I’ve returned to Aston Hall, of the lovely woman with the face of Aphrodite who nursed me back from death’s door. I’m glad you left off your cap. You are far too young to be covering up your hair in such a fashion.”
There were many things she could have said to such a comment, uppermost a depressive reminder that she was nearly thirty and of an age to wear caps and dark co
lors and all the other accoutrements of a confirmed ape-leader. Instead, she let the compliment swell her heart.
So he thought her uncommonly pretty. How nice. How very, very nice.
She had meant for this visit to entail one or two pertinent questions about his health, perhaps an expressed hope he was feeling better tomorrow, and a quickly spoken goodnight.
Now, however, she found herself thanking him as she drew forward a chair and sat down next to the bed. She then added, “When Mama became ill some seven years ago, I felt compelled to take on a more austere demeanor, wearing caps and the like—especially since I was only two and twenty at the time. The merchants, seeing that I was woefully inexperienced, attempted time and again to humbug me with wretchedly inflated bills and the like. You’ve no idea.”
He smiled. “Of course that is the way it would be. But how clever of you to have dealt with them so masterfully.” His tone became laughingly sardonic. “And I’m very sure that donning a cap at two and twenty would have made you look like an antidote.”
She laughed, remembering the confusion of that first year. “I was so green,” she remarked. “You would have been greatly amused. But I soon settled down to learn how to manage everything, and before the year was out I was being treated with great respect, even a certain fondness that has saved me many a tuppence since.”
“I’ve little doubt of it,” he said sincerely. He shifted to a slight angle on his side so that he could see her better. His left arm was still heavily bandaged and pinned to his chest so that he had only slight maneuverability. “Everything changes when the reins are passed, doesn’t it? More so, I think, when the moment arrives unexpectedly.”
She knew he was speaking as much of himself as he was of her. “When did you inherit Aston Hall?” she asked. “I apprehend the event was unlooked for.”