by Valerie King
Why had he told such a whisker, when all that was truly required of him was to help her continue in her belief that the lad was impoverished? He shook his head at his own stupidity. But then, he was frequently quite stupid around Constance Pamberley. He frequently did and said things that were ridiculous in the extreme, like embracing her and kissing her.
Now she was as mad as fire.
So much the better, he thought. His stay at Lady Brook, along with his cousin’s, was becoming more and more complicated with each passing hour.
And what had he been thinking in the garden? Nothing had been further from his purpose in touching his lips to hers than evoking the lightning like passion that blossomed so quickly between them. Yet how typical of his relationship with her that with nothing intentioned, fireworks tended to follow!
He shook his head. Lady Brook must have cast some sort of spell over him, he decided. He had never felt such a lack of self-control in his life. Constance had but to show her spirit a little and his chest felt like exploding. She had but to walk into a room and he swore he heard a heavenly chorus.
Even while arguing with her about Charles and Augusta, he had experienced the worst impulse to cross to her, drag her into his arms, and kiss her—again. And again.
He didn’t like feeling this way, for the sensation was miserably familiar. His view of the world, when he first set foot in London, was far too romantical. He had set amour on a pedestal and knew that once Eros touched him with his golden arrow, he would know perfect love forever. He had been a lad of only twenty at the time, and too green by half, to know that the temptress who pursued him with every artifice known to womankind had motives other than love in mind.
What a nodcock he had been.
And what an avaricious miss my lady Alison had been, for though she had been born into his rank, she had possessed the soul of a courtesan. Yet what did he know of the potential difference between women? Nothing.
Seventeen years later, his heart was severely hardened to the possibilities of love. When Lady Alison had eloped with the Duke of Mercer—after having accepted his own hand in marriage the day before—he had promised himself never again would he be taken in by love. He would use his common sense, he would scrutinize the character of each lady he courted with the same finesse with which he employed his quizzing glass to scrutinize her gowns, and he would certainly never, never, discount the inherent greed of the fairer sex.
He grimaced slightly. Constance may be in possession of many fine qualities, but she was impoverished, as were her sisters. Why wouldn’t she be hoping, expecting, even encouraging him to fall in love with her? Certainly he was a far better man than the Earl of Upton, and even Constance had admitted that she would have gladly married the man if he’d had even one acceptable quality.
What were the true ruminations of Constance Pamberley’s heart? Now that she knew of Charles’s wealth, would she encourage Augusta to set her cap for him?
The unhappy turn of his thoughts was exhausting him and setting his nerves on edge. He decided to head to the stables and seek out a horse of his own. A hard ride would benefit him greatly, though he intended to travel in quite the opposite direction.
* * * * * * * * *
Constance sat in Sophia Spencer’s parlor, her brow beaded with perspiration from her vigorous ride to the vicarage. “But why did you say nothing to me?” she asked of her long-standing friend. “I was never more shocked when I learned of Charles Kidmarsh’s true prospects.”
Her good friend merely smiled in the most knowing, the most infuriating manner as she passed her a cup of tea. “Because I know you better than anyone else, that your scruples regarding wealth are even more antiquated and determined than your scruples concerning poverty—”
“Any great disparity in fortune or rank only leads to marital unhappiness. I have seen it a dozen times.”
“Since you have brought forward your usual argument, I shall respond with mine—any great disparity in character only leads to marital unhappiness. Rank, fortune, have little if anything to do with it in my opinion. I can cite you a dozen examples if you like.”
“Pray, do not,” she responded with a laugh.
Sophia chuckled. “I can see no harm in any of your sisters tumbling in love with Charles Kidmarsh—and marrying him. I wish only that you shared my opinion, though I think I ought to add that he has nearly as great a fortune as Golden Ball Hughes, in case you were in doubt of precisely how wealthy he was.”
“Dear God,” she breathed, her heart failing her as she took another sip of tea. Golden Ball was the richest man in England.
“And Charles Kidmarsh, in my opinion, has come to the Pamberley household by divine guidance and nothing less—of that I am persuaded.”
Constance was astonished. Sophy Spencer was as practical a woman as was ever born. Her husband was an excellent man and a warm, loving clergyman who gave sermons each
Sunday that kept his congregation in awe of the spiritual realm. Here, however, his ability to guide his flock ended, for his concepts were high-minded, having little to do with making or buying loaves of bread to sustain the life and health of his parish.
Sophy was a perfect balance for him, since she never spoke of heavenly things. She worked hard to see that the details of life were attended to with great care. The entire parish, as well as her own children, all eight of whom were kept in the finest of apparel and possessed the best of tutors, benefitted from her unceasing labors. So to hear Sophia speak of Charles’s arrival as divine was doing it up a bit too brown.
“By divine guidance? You cannot be serious,” she said, blinking over the rim of her teacup and watching for even the smallest smile to break her friend’s otherwise serious demeanor.
Sophy was silent apace, meeting Constance stare for stare. At last she said, “I have been praying for a miracle for years now, for when you refused the Earl of Upton—yes, yes, for
entirely understandable reasons—I knew that only the angels could provide proper husbands for yourself and your sisters.”
Constance felt the blood drain from her face. “Then you, too, believe I was wrong in refusing to marry him?” She was stunned and demoralized all at once. Upton would have been all the entrée she and her sisters needed to create a great stir in London. He had even suggested the marital agreements include a dowering of her sisters.
Again Sophy was silent, but finally she said with a twinkle in her eye, “I am still out of temper that your refusal of him meant I would not be a frequent guest at Beauford Hall. You’ve no idea!”
Some of Constance’s despair left her. Sophia was teasing her about the earl’s county seat in Lincolnshire, which was one of the oldest and finest in the country. “He was such an offensive man, Sophy. Had I married him, I am persuaded you would have paid me a visit only once and then refused to cross his portals again except to make a mourning call.”
“A morning call?” she inquired. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Yes, as I told Ramsdell, I am fully persuaded I would have murdered Upton before the first twelvemonth had passed.”
Sophy blinked several times and her mouth fell slightly agape. “Oh, you mean a ‘mourning’ call. How clever of you.” Her eyes went wide. “And you . . . you said that to Ramsdell?”
Constance considered her friend’s surprise and wondered how she could possibly explain the extent of the rapport she felt with him. “Yes. It would seem we share the same sense of the absurd. Oh, now, pray, take that light from your eye. We laugh at the same things, that’s all.” She could not meet Sophia’s gaze.
“That is not all,” Sophy responded with deadly perception. “Oh, Constance,” she drawled and tsked. “Whatever has been going on at Lady Brook besides Augusta’s tendre?”
For the first time since her arrival, Constance realized she had erred in coming to the vicarage. Mrs. Spencer was far too perceptive to be humbugged by anything Constance might say.
She searched her mind for a full minute be
fore finally responding reluctantly, “Were I to draw up the figure of a man, with a certain quick intelligence, a proper manly force of will, a sense of humor, and an adventuresome attitude toward life—all designed to please me—that man would be Ramsdell.”
Sophy drew in a long, slow breath that sounded like a teakettle ready to sing. “Ramsdell,” she breathed. “Of course.”
“No, no,” Constance said, laughing and rising to her feet at the same time. “You are not to begin even the smallest matchmaking effort. Ramsdell is above my touch, and well I know it.”
“But . . . but, Constance, you are not considering, not by half. Such a man does not come along twice in a lifetime.”
Constance shook her head. “If you are suggesting there is the smallest hope, I assure you there is no such thing. Ramsdell agrees with me wholeheartedly that though he admires me, a—a deepening of love between us would be ridiculous in the extreme.”
Sophy slumped into the back of her ivory sofa. “My poor child,” she murmured.
Constance glared down at her. “Sophia Spencer, I will not allow you to speak to me in that odious manner. I am not a poor child, nonetheless your poor child.”
“I beg pardon,” Sophy responded, also rising to her feet. A smile edged her lips as she continued. “Well, then, since you appear to have settled your unhappiness in your own mind, let me change the subject briefly before you depart. You are attending Lady Bramshill’s ball, are you not?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. All my friends will be there, and because of having labored to see both Ramsdell and Mr. Kidmarsh returned to health, I have missed my usual rounds of visits.”
“Excellent.” Her gaze took on a faraway expression that made Constance’s heart quail a trifle. She knew her friend well, and whenever Sophy Spencer looked just that way, very soon the entire neighborhood was in an uproar. Sophy added, “Lady Ramsdell, the viscount’s mother, is she currently fixed at Aston Hall?”
Constance shook her head. “No. I believe she is traveling on the Continent with Mrs. Kidmarsh.”
“Hmmm. It seems to me Lady Bramshill was telling me something about her the other day. Now, what was that—oh. Oh, well, it is nothing to signify.” She rounded the table that separated her from her friend and slipped her arm through Constance’s. She walked her slowly to the front door, where her horse was tethered. “I’m very glad you came to visit. Only I wouldn’t refine overly much on Ramsdell having kept the truth from you, especially since the result is the same—you are still disapproving of Mr. Kidmarsh’s involvement with any of your sisters.”
That particular slant on the subject brought a greater sense of peace to Constance’s mind than anything else that had been shared that afternoon. She rode the three miles back to Lady Brook less likely to strangle Ramsdell than when she left, which was, after all, a very good thing.
* * * * * * * * *
Sophy Spencer adored her role in the world. She saw herself as a messenger of sorts, a link between forces, needs, and desires. She sat down at her writing table, delighting in the late afternoon sun that poured over her vellum at a delicious angle. She wrote three letters, one to Lady Bramshill, one to Lady Ramsdell, and one to Mrs. Kidmarsh, the two latter of which she knew to be ensconced in the pavilion at Brighton since the ladies were visiting the Prince Regent. Well, well, Brighton was not so far away from Berkshire after all!
She understood well the limitations of people, which she felt to be the best of her unique gifts because through that knowledge she could create bridges over chasms previously thought too deep to cross. She was acquainted with Lady Ramsdell, who had a stern managing reputation, and wondered just what that lady would think of Constance. Of course, there would be no way for her ladyship to form an opinion unless she actually met Constance.
People were so simple, really. Times might change, but the nature of humanity remained unerringly true, which naturally made her chosen vocation a matter of poetical simplicity. She had but to design her bridge and labor to construct it in a timely fashion—something at which she excelled—and the deed would be done.
Besides, how hard was it to write three letters?
***
Chapter Ten
“Why did you lie to me?” Constance queried, her riding whip clutched in her right hand and both hands planted angrily on her hips.
Ramsdell had met her in the drive as she was handing Lord-a-Mercy’s reins over to Jack. The viscount had just returned from his own excursion when he had happened upon her.
“Lie about what?” he asked, evading the question and trying to ignore how much the heat of exercise added an exquisite bloom to her complexion.
Constance huffed an impatient breath. “I am certain,” she said, lowering her voice, “that if you will but search your mind, you will discover precisely that to which I am referring, although I will give you a hint and tell you it concerns Alby.”
“Ah,” he breathed, dropping in step beside her as she walked back to the house.
“You said he hadn’t a feather to fly with.”
“Yes, that is true. But I was very ill at the time. What if I told you I had been speaking while yet in the grips of a fever—”
“I believe I should flay you severely for telling such a whisker.”
“You are angry, then.”
She stopped in mid-stride and turned to glare at him. She tucked several strands of her light brown hair beneath her riding hat. “Yes—quite.”
His lips twitched. “I can see now that you are.”
“Did you think me so mercenary that you must keep the truth of Alby’s inheritance from my knowledge?”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. Well, perhaps I did a little, at first, when I told you that particular rapper, but my opinion was based on the obvious circumstances of your family and house, not upon your character. Later, I felt I could only increase your agony were you to learn that Alby, er, Charles, was a wealthy man yet by the nature of his position could never become aligned with any of your sisters.”
She nodded, another well of irritation bubbling up like a hot spring inside her. “You were being merciful then, hoping to spare me further misery?” she inquired facetiously.
He grunted and grimaced at her. “Do come down from your high ropes, Constance. None of this would matter had I been allowed to take Charles away when I wished.”
That much was true, she had to admit. Still, she could not like that he had lied to her, and said as much. “For then I cannot help but wonder what other whiskers you have told me and in what other ways you have bamboozled me in an attempt to display your magnanimous mercy.”
“None, for I promise you I am not such an inventive man that I could easily conceal more than one lie at a time.”
She believed him. She slapped her crop against the heavy velvet skirts of her habit and continued her march toward the house. Her boots crunched loudly on the gravel.
“So tell me,” he said, once again falling in step beside her. “Has the truth distressed you further?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not. It changes nothing, only the nature of the reason by which Augusta must guard her heart and Charles protect it.”
“What do you mean, Charles protect it?”
“I asked Charles not to encourage Augusta if he could help it. He said that though he was inclined to favor her, he had not fallen in love with her and would take every care to guard her heart.”
At this, Ramsdell paused in his tracks and hooked her elbow with his own, forcing her to stop beside him. “What did you say?”
Constance was confused by his odd response and reiterated, “We spoke of his interest in Augusta and her strong feelings for him. He promised to behave the gentleman for her sake, since an alliance between them could not be countenanced.”
He shook his head, clearly bemused. “This is not at all like Charles,” he muttered. “And he agreed to this, you say?” He seemed stunned.
“Why, yes, just as
I suspected he would. Your cousin is a fine young man, though I must say he seems a great deal healthier since his arrival at Lady Brook, even since he first regained consciousness so many weeks ago.”
“He has improved a great deal,” Ramsdell said, nodding slowly. “In many ways. He used to fall in love at random and was much given to eloping with any pretty face that seemed inclined to go with him.”
“Indeed,” Constance responded, considering this statement. “I would have to say I saw something of the gentleman you describe when he first left his sickbed. But of late, particularly from the time he began helping my sisters with their daily chores, he has been much more reserved and gentlemanly.”
Ramsdell looked around him—at the house, the gardens, the tall tips of the elm trees that fronted the cherry orchard in the distance. “Your home has a restful, sublime quality one does not find everywhere.”
Constance followed the path of his gaze. “Thank you,” she said, her spirit softening. “I have heard Mrs. Spencer say much the same thing of your home, of Aston Hall. She is, I believe, acquainted with one of your mother’s younger sisters and visited your house many years ago. I would presume your estate is in immaculate condition?”
“It is,” he responded without arrogance. “As Lady Brook is.”
Constance also looked about her. “Yes,” she murmured. “Though I must confess there are a dozen improvements I would love to make, which I will as soon as I’ve enough saved.”
“What, for instance?” he inquired.
She forgot many things at that moment, especially that she had forbidden herself to be alone in his company again. As it was, since the subject was so near to her heart, she immediately launched into her plans to drain the bottom land and plant a peach orchard. He asked her many questions, then shared with her his own experiences with a portion of land he bought five years earlier to the south of Aston that had required a great deal of soil renovation to bring even the smallest blade of grass to life in its rocky soil.