A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  For a moment, he had toyed with the notion of asking her to become his mistress. But a rebellion broke deeply within his soul at such a thought. Not for Constance to become any man’s mistress. Never.

  They had gone but a few feet down the hall when she looked up at him and asked, “How does it feel to be mobile once more?”

  Even in the dim light of the hallway she was as beautiful as a lustrous summer day. The gown she wore, simple and elegant, only magnified her elegance of person and beauty of face and temperament. He was doused with longings of every kind, uppermost to steal her away from the world, to hold her close to him, and to spend hours communing with her.

  He had forgotten the question she posed, so he simply smiled and let her read the contentment he felt in his eyes. He offered her his arm. A tremulous smile touched her lips. She wrapped her arm lightly about his and then, as though it were the most natural occasion in the world, laid her other hand on his forearm. Her touch sent a lightning bolt to his heart. Would it ever be different for him when she was around?

  * * * * * * * * *

  “You must be Lord Ramsdell,” a voice intruded at the end of the hall.

  Constance turned toward the staircase and saw Alby silhouetted by the light pouring in from the windows above the stairwell. She felt Ramsdell stiffen slightly beside her.

  Alby began walking toward them both. “The ladies kept me informed of your condition. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you are walking about and appear to be recovering well.”

  “Charles?” he queried as though dumbstruck.

  “I am known by a different appellation. The ladies call me Mr. Albion, or Alby, if you prefer. Am I acquainted with you?”

  Even Constance was surprised by his performance.

  Charles was utterly convincing, appearing not to know who he was or that Ramsdell was his cousin. “Alby,” she began, “are you not aware of your relationship to Lord Ramsdell?”

  By then Charles had arrived to stand before them. He looked at her, his gaze slightly hazy as he shook his head. “Something about him, even about his name, seems familiar to me, but I do not know him.”

  Constance looked up at Ramsdell, whose face was hard with observing and suspecting. “You are so changed,” he said. “I’ve never seen your skin so brown before.”

  At that he smiled faintly. “I have been walking a great deal since I recovered from my accident. The ladies traverse half of Berkshire every day in the performance of some service or other. I have gotten into the habit of joining them.” He turned to smile sweetly upon Constance. “The mistress of the house gave me the opportunity to either idle away my time waiting for her sisters to return from their various tasks or to help them.” He glanced back at Ramsdell and his smile broadened a trifle. “I decided wisely to throw in my lot with the prettiest ladies in all of England. I have learned to gather honey, I have collected more berries than I thought existed, and in some of the loveliest copses in the world, I have walked more miles in the past sennight than I vow I have walked my entire life. Farnbury alone is seven miles—one way!” His gaze became strange and otherworldly. “I cannot help but feel as though I have stepped into a dream, a dream from which I do not wish to be awakened—ever. Ah, but I’m keeping you. Are you taking the air? You’ll find nothing sweeter. I would beg to accompany you, but my duties lie in that direction.”

  He gestured down the hall.

  Constance smiled, a warmth of appreciation flowing through her veins. “Mama enjoys her time with you more than anything, Alby. I do thank you again for reading to her and talking with her. I know she enjoys your company prodigiously.”

  He bowed slightly. “It truly is my pleasure; I beg you will believe that.”

  He nodded to Ramsdell, then walked in a dignified manner toward her mother’s chambers.

  “Good God,” he murmured in a hushed voice. “He is so changed. I vow I would not have known him.”

  “Indeed?” Constance queried, a little surprised.

  “Was he like this from the moment he awakened from the accident?” Ramsdell asked.

  Constance shook her head, slowly considering his question. “No, not precisely. He was merry as a grig for a time, flirtatious, depending day and night on the lighthearted ministrations of my sisters. Somewhere, though, in the past sennight, he has been gradually becoming more, I don’t know, older, I think.”

  “Is he growing up at last?” he asked faintly as he set them both in motion again.

  “You may be right. I had no great opinion of your cousin when he first awakened. He seemed too eager to please and flirted outrageously with each of my sisters until I feared that one or the other of them would tumble head over ears in love with him and elope. Your accident ended my ability to watch him more closely in order to make certain nothing of that sort would happen, but by the time you recovered, I could see that he had tempered his conduct to a certain degree.”

  He had listened to her carefully, and when he reached the top of the stairs, he inquired, “Your house seems to have cast a spell over both my cousin and me. Or is this your doing? Have you made a man of Charles at last, for I am beginning to think it was brilliant of you to have encouraged him as you did to engage in such homey employments.”

  “I must confess,” she said, beginning her descent yet still holding on to his arm, “that I didn’t feel he would be harmed by a little strolling about our country lanes and—”

  “A little strolling?” he queried, chuckling. “Seven miles to Farnbury and back—a little strolling?”

  Constance could not suppress a trill of laughter. “That was yesterday, and if you must know, he retired to bed quite early. My sisters were destitute without his company for the remainder of the evening. For whatever your cousin may have been in his former life, he has brought a great deal of joy to our home in his new one.” She was teasing him, of course, referring to new and old lives.

  By now they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and she led him by way of the entrance hail and the hallway that led directly to the terrace into the sunshine and light of the beautiful late July day.

  “What a beautiful morning,” he said. “I feel as though I have not been out-of-doors for centuries.” He took in a deep breath. “The air is quite fragrant in July.”

  “Indeed, it is. Everything is so fully leafed that a kind of rich moisture hangs from every branch, flower, and blade. But, come. The rose garden will be intoxicating with the sunshine brightly on the blossoms.”

  When she arrived through an arched break in a neatly groomed hedgerow of yew, she was greeted by her four sisters, each of whom bore a general air of contentment, prettily flushed complexions from their labors, and a basket of freshly cut roses.

  “May I present my sisters, Lord Ramsdell?”

  “I would be most gratified.”

  Constance made the formal introductions, and each sister greeted him warmly in turn, curtsying slightly, then offering him a hand to shake.

  Marianne extended her hand and dimpled a smile. “We are all grateful for your renewed health. May you enjoy many more years to come.”

  “Thank you, Miss Marianne.”

  Celeste offered him a pink rose, which he took and held to his nose.

  “Congratulations on your recovery,” she said sweetly. “Were the shirts to your liking?”

  “How can I ever thank you, Miss Celeste? I am wearing one of them now and will do so until the bandages can all be removed.” Celeste turned pink with pleasure.

  “Lord Ramsdell,” Katherine said. “I cannot credit that you are freed from the sickroom at last. Constance tells us that you are a great horseman. Mrs. Spencer calls you a nonesuch. Are you not longing to feel the reins again?” Her eyes shone with admiration as she looked up at him.

  He took her proffered hand and shook it gently. “I have heard that Lord-a-Mercy is one of the finest hacks in the county and that you have an excellent seat. To answer your question, I ache to be flying against the wind.”
>
  Katherine nodded her eager understanding.

  Augusta dropped a curtsy when he turned to her. “My felicitations as well, m’lord. We were sick with worry for a long time, and I offered many a prayer at the chapel on your behalf.”

  “Then I imagine it is to you that I owe my life. Thank you—Miss Augusta.” Augusta smiled gently, and to her credit her gaze did not falter from his, though Constance could see she was trembling.

  Marianne showed an inclination to engage him in conversation, but Constance was before her. “I was taking Lord Ramsdell on a brief turn about the rose garden, after which he has begged to make use of the library. When you have returned from Sandhill, we shall enjoy a nuncheon together.”

  Marianne showed the barest tendency to pout her disapproval of this scheme, but Constance had for so many years ruled the roost that she merely shrugged and bid Ramsdell

  farewell until the noon hour. The rest of the sisters followed suit, and once again Constance was alone with her noble guest.

  “I am beginning to understand what Charles was saying. Being at Lady Brook does have a dreamlike quality.”

  Constance looked up at him, noting that his eyes were a little pinched. “Are you fatigued yet?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “But don’t think I intend to take to my bed until much later.”

  She chuckled, and for the next fifteen minutes she led him up one row of rosebushes and down another. She gave a history of each, from which garden she had been given a slip to start, which of the plants showed a resistance to the pestilent aphids that attacked unceasingly until the fall, and which rose leaves never seemed affected by mildew even on the wettest of days.

  When they had reached the end of the garden, he glanced around him. “This is the entrance to the maze, then,” he said, gaining his bearings.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you take me through it?”

  “Do you feel capable of it, for it is quite large,” she asked, a little surprised that he would even suggest such an expedition.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you provoking me?”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Follow me. There is a stone bench in the center. You can rest there for a time.”

  “What a poor fellow you must think I am.”

  “I think nothing of the sort, as well you know.”

  He took his time. It would seem he intended to memorize the pathway. With each turn, he glanced left, then right. When they finally reached the center, she turned to face him. “Do you think you could actually find your way out without assistance?”

  He turned in a full circle. “Perhaps. Yes, I think I could.” She watched him carefully. She feared that he would collapse, but he showed no signs of any great fatigue.

  “Would you like to sit down?” she asked, gesturing to the stone bench. She withdrew a kerchief from the pocket of her morning gown and walked toward the seat. “I think we could brush the dust off sufficiently.” She balled the kerchief up and began swiping at the stone.

  Ramsdell did not join her, however. She rose up from her labors and regarded him with a smile. “I promise you, your breeches will not suffer in the least. Shall I prove the strength of my convictions by taking up . . . my seat . . . first.” Her words had dwindled away, for he was looking at her in a strange, penetrating manner. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. She could read his mind, his thoughts. She didn’t know whether to be deeply distraught or aux anges.

  He moved toward her in three purposeful strides. He caught her at the back of her waist with his right arm and drew her roughly against him. “I can’t do this properly, my fair Constance, not with one arm in a sling, but I vow I have been longing to kiss you from the moment I awoke to find you asleep in my bedchamber. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway.”

  She could have protested. She certainly could have easily fended him off. Instead, her right arm snaked tightly about his neck and she leaned against his right side, careful not to put pressure on his injured arm. “Oh, Ramsdell,” she breathed against his lips.

  Then he kissed her, a searing kiss that sent ripples of pleasure cascading in wave after wave down her neck and side, clear to her toes. Constance lost herself in his embrace and in the feel of his lips pressed against hers. She recalled the moment preceding his accident, when he had stood up on the floorboards of his careening curricle and through sheer brute strength had drawn his team to a halt. She remembered thinking, “My goodness, he’s so very tall.” She was tall. She fit perfectly against him, just as she knew she would, and she wanted the kiss, the embrace, to go on forever.

  A breeze dipped down into the center of the maze, catching at the hem of her amethyst gown and tugging at her ankles. The sun was warm on her shoulders and back. Ramsdell’s arm and hand were restless over her waist. He held her in a tight grip, as though he feared she would run away if he released her. He drew back and kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her face. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  Her voice caught on a light gasp. “No, you should not. But I am not a schoolroom chit, Ramsdell. I understand that you are giving no promises. So, kiss me again, if you please.”

  She heard him groan. She parted her lips and he kissed her deeply. She stroked his cheek and his chin and his ear. She knew she was half in love with him as surely as she knew that nothing could ever come of that love were it allowed to ripen and deepen. She drew back and settled her head on his shoulder.

  “I wish my arm were not in a sling so that I could hold you against my heart.”

  She warmed to his words. She breathed deeply and drank each of them in. “Stay with me for a fortnight,” she whispered. “Dance with me at Lady Bramshill’s ball.”

  “How you tempt me,” he whispered against her forehead. “But the longer I stay, the harder ‘twill be for me to leave or for you to let me go.”

  She knew what he was saying was true. A fortnight would be a long, long time for them. How many conversations and walks and embraces could they share during that time—a dozen, a hundred? Every word would bind her to him more securely than the last, every step she took beside him would link her soul to him more firmly than mortar and bricks, every embrace would marry her spirit to his so that she could never be touched by love again.

  No, he should leave.

  “I’ll go tomorrow and take Charles with me,” he stated firmly.

  She looked up at him, tears burning her eyes. He kissed the tears. “Constance, I would that our worlds were not so disparate. Will you ever forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive. Nothing. So, I beg of you, do not repine. Just kiss me good-bye.”

  He obliged her, letting his tongue rove her mouth freely and fully. She kissed him back with abandon, taking in every sensation, since it would be the last, of his wondrous height, of his well-muscled shoulders and back, of his hard thigh pressed against her own.

  ***

  Chapter Seven

  By eight that evening, Ramsdell was exhausted, yet he would not retire to his bedchamber, not for the life of him. This would be his first and last evening spent with the lively

  Pamberley family, and with Constance.

  He was struck by the excellent manners of all the ladies, which surprised him somewhat since they lived such a cloistered existence. Constance, clearly, governed them all with a firm but loving hand, undoubtedly since she was six years Marianne’s senior and a full eleven years Augusta’s.

  She guided the evening with as much grace and skill as any hostess he had ever witnessed in the finest drawing rooms of London. She had an eye to everyone, and with a lift of her hand or her brow was able to direct one of her sisters to offer tea to Charles or brandy for himself, to sing a duet or bring an extra cushion to better support his arm.

  Charles—Alby—read a chapter of Ivanhoe at the Pamberley ladies’ request. He had never heard Charles read before and was surprised at the skill he demonstrated. He was so drawn in by his cousin’s storytelling ability that quite often he forgot
all about the reader and was disrupted from following the plot only by the frequent bursts of awareness that Charles was reading.

  Charles was read to, he was never permitted to read.

  So little was expected of Charles while under his roof.

  How much everyone had been deprived because of it.

  At Lady Brook, he was beginning to see his cousin as a young man with potential as well as with polished manners.

  When the ladies wished to dance, he was a prompt and expert partner. His skill had increased since he had arrived at Lady Brook, probably as a result of the lively, encouraging ambiance the house cast over all its guests.

  Celeste said, “How well you have mastered the steps, Alby. And you said you were too much of a slowtop to learn. What fustian after all.” Charles had indeed remembered all his steps and even showed a grace previously lacking. He was in a fair way to becoming an exemplary partner.

  The ladies, in particular Marianne and Celeste, begged to hear his anecdotes of London. The little stories he told were unfamiliar to Ramsdell, yet the clarity of description could not have been feigned. When had Charles attended Astley’s Amphitheatre, when had he seen the lions in the Tower of London, when had he been to a masquerade at Vauxhall?

  He began to suspect that Charles had in recent years taken to living a secret existence apart from the watchful eyes of his mother, stealing from his town house as often, perhaps, as he disappeared from Aston Hall in the summer and fall months. Whatever the case, Ramsdell could now see that Charles had been on his own course for some time, a circumstance he felt boded well for his cousin’s future.

  Two hours later, he rose unsteadily to his feet and expressed his need for his bed. Constance immediately joined him as he walked slowly from the room. “I’ll go with you,” she said quietly.