A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  “Were I to judge what I have seen thus far, I would say your affections have been engaged. Am I mistaken?”

  His mouth fell agape. “Why would you say such a thing, especially since you have been here only a few scant hours?”

  “The way you look at Miss Pamberley, with your expression so tender. Upon my soul, Hugo. I had come to believe you were impervious to Cupid’s golden-tipped arrows.” She lifted a hand to gently feather his hair. “Oh, my darling, you are so much like your father, more than even Evan, who has a great deal more of his temper than you. Your papa used to look at me in the very same way I have seen you look at Miss Pamberley. But . . . she will not do?”

  He held back a deep sigh. “No, of course not.”

  “Why are you never satisfied, my pet?”

  He started and blinked. “I beg your pardon? Are you somehow inferring that I ought to marry Miss Pamberley?”

  “I have said only one thing to you over the years, well, two perhaps—that your bride be a Lady of Quality and that you love her. Have I ever said more?”

  “No.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, Hugo, marry Constance, or you will regret it the rest of your life. And now I see that the very servant you prophesied has come to inform us of the hour.”

  Ramsdell turned and saw that young Fanny was indeed approaching them. He wanted to continue the conversation, but already his mother had risen from her chaise-longue and was even now gently prodding his aunt’s shoulder and calling softly to her.

  There was only one thing to do, then—return to his own bedchamber and begin the process of dressing for Lady Bramshill’s ball.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Having completed her toilette, Constance stood before her long looking glass gowned in the ball dress Celeste had created for her. Her light brown curls were drawn into a chignon atop her head with dozens of tiny ringlets allowed to cascade behind. She ought to have been pleased with the result, for truly the coiffure suited her immensely. She looked young—though distressed—and, yes, she could even admit this much, she looked beautiful. She knew Ramsdell would approve heartily of her appearance.

  Yes, he would approve and he would offer her several delightful compliments and he would especially like her gown.

  Celeste had once again performed magic with her needle. The amethyst gown, covered in a sheer tulle and cut low at the neckline, fit her to perfection. In the mirror she could see the young woman she once was, who had danced until her feet ached nearly every night during her London Season.

  She knew an impulse, however, to drag her fingers wildly through her hair and ruin Fanny’s beautiful chignon and ringlets. She no longer wanted Ramsdell to see her like this, to see her at her very best. She wished he had never come to Lady Brook, for his presence had brought change to her house, and the very thought of her home altering even one minuscule degree caused the air to escape her lungs and her limbs to tremble.

  But then, nothing had changed really. The only difference was that she now knew of Lady Ramsdell’s true circumstances. Perhaps Lord Ramsdell didn’t know of the relative poverty of his mother’s origins, or perhaps he did know but felt it unwise to follow his father’s suit and marry a country miss.

  If only her heart would stop racing like the wind.

  She drew on her gloves slowly and took a long last look at herself in the mirror. Tears suddenly smarted her eyes, for another truth asserted itself—she did want Ramsdell to see her like this, to see her, to dance with her, to embrace her, and to kiss her.

  What was she going to do? What was going to happen to her? If only she had remained in ignorance of Lady Ramsdell’s family, then she could be at ease again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and forced all her thoughts away from the forefront of her mind. She had several duties to perform at the moment—to order the proper number of carriages, to arrange the places for dinner, to make certain that her guests had been properly attended to.

  She swallowed her fears, therefore, and left her bedchamber.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ramsdell stared at himself in the mirror settled atop the chest of drawers. He had completed dressing for the evening and was satisfied with what he saw, at least with regard to the careful styling of his hair, the intricate folds of his neckcloth, the smooth black silk of his coat and white waistcoat, his breeches and silk stockings, his black dancing slippers.

  His heart, however, was another matter entirely. Why, for instance, did his chest feel as though it were being squeezed by the hands of a giant? What was it about a formal ball that forced a man to confront his life?

  The ritual of dancing was an ancient one, but his society had been bringing man and woman together more closely than ever before—the waltz was considered scandalous by many, an excuse for hugging. But dancing performed at a function such as a formal ball changed everything. Adherence to social strictures was more forcibly guarded with matrons lining the walls ready to pounce on those who broke the rules. He wasn’t inclined to break the rules, that was not what was troubling him. He had always approved of the ceremonies and order of rank that attended such an assembly.

  What he was considering was larger and more involved—how the attendance at such a ritual was a sort of promise, a promise to sustain the very society that would concoct such a ritual in the first place. He was a responsible man and would keep that promise; he had always wanted to keep that promise, to choose a bride from among dozens of Ladies of Quality, to leave an heir to the viscountcy of Ramsdell, to enhance the affluence of his estate.

  The thought shattered his mind—he did not want to attend this ball with Constance. To do so was to come far too close to keeping his promise to his forebears. He wasn’t ready, she wasn’t the appropriate bride for him, she didn’t fit his requirements.

  His mother had been an impoverished miss from Wiltshire and her dowry fabricated.

  He felt utterly overwhelmed. Good God, his father had lied to him. His father had married precisely the sort of woman he had insisted Ramsdell should never wed. His father had set the worst sort of precedence especially since his heretofore exacting son had fallen into the hands of a woman who could undo him in the most exciting way with just a glance, just a word from her rosy lips, just a soft, warm, inviting embrace.

  There was no reason now, he realized, that he could not take one Constance Pamberley to wife. No reason at all, especially since . . . he loved her.

  The thought rushed through his mind like a strong wind sweeping down a hollow. His heart burst into flames and sent sparks throughout his entire body and mind. He felt dizzy, yet alive as never before. All the images he had had of her—beneath him, sharing his bed, ruling over Aston Hall—suddenly poured over him in a wave of excitement and pleasure. The thing he had never allowed himself to feel now became a torrent of sensation that engulfed him—how happy, how exhilarated he would feel marrying Constance Pamberley.

  Oh, God.

  “M’lord?” Marchand called to him. “Is anything amiss? Are you feeling poorly again, for if you don’t mind my saying so, your color is a trifle high.”

  Ramsdell chuckled and turned to look at his most faithful valet. “No,” he said. “Nothing is amiss. Nothing that cannot be repaired by an honest clergyman.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  When Constance had performed her duties, she made her way to the blue drawing room. Her anxieties had become considerably diminished in the steady work of ordering carriages and seeing that the dinner was ready for her guests. When she arrived at the drawing room, however, instead of finding that at least one or two of her guests and the same number of her sisters had made the descent down the stairs, she found only . . . Ramsdell.

  Her heart lurched, sputtered, kicked, and shouted at the very sight of him. He was in full evening dress, blacks and whites like the famous Beau Brummell, and had never appeared to greater advantage. He was framed by the red brick of the fireplace and the blue silk damask of the walls beyond and was undoubtedly th
e most handsome gentleman who had ever lived.

  She smiled, almost tremulously. His answering smile was soft, inviting, enticing. The look in his eye was strange, however, even otherworldly. She felt her panic rise in her breast. He was speaking silent mysteries to her. He was speaking silently of change.

  Change. She knew it was coming. She felt a sudden impulse to turn on her heel and run, to run away from Ramsdell, from the drawing room, even from the house, to run and never to stop.

  She might have done so, but at that very moment he extended his hand to her and said, “Come to me, Constance, before the others arrive.”

  Her fears departed swiftly upon his words, upon his gesture, upon the wicked invitation he was extending to her. Only desire for him, to be with him, to be held by him, to be kissed by him swelled her heart. She began walking toward him as one mesmerized. She took his hand, and he drew her into the circle of his right arm.

  “The deuce take it,” he murmured hotly, and with a slow movement slid his hand from his sling and surrounded her carefully but fully with both arms.

  “Oh,” she breathed against his lips.

  He kissed her as he had never kissed her before, engulfing her entirely in the flames of his desire. She received his kiss, responding to his unspoken will. She kissed him madly, wrapping her arms tightly about his neck, letting the fires in her rage and burn and leap to terrible heights. She felt consumed by her love for him, by her desire for him. Forgotten were all her fears.

  Time stopped yet moved at lightning speed. His tongue became a wild search and she let him explore to his heart’s content. Every intention of being circumspect, sensible, and orderly disappeared with each tick of the clock.

  After a time, she drew back and looked into his eyes. Gray had smoldered into black coals. “Constance,” he murmured. “I—”

  Voices intruded. Unkind, thoughtless, heartless voices disrupted her communion with Ramsdell. She drew back abruptly, her head dizzy with kissing him.

  “I have much I wish to say to you,” he whispered, catching her arm as she turned quickly away from him. His fingers slid along her glove and caught the palm of her hand in a gentle squeeze before letting her go entirely.

  “Later, then,” she murmured. She seated herself on the sofa beside the fireplace and began slowly pressing imaginary wrinkles from her gown. Each glide of her fingers down the tulle and silk took her farther from Ramsdell and hopefully returned her complexion to a more normal hue.

  Augusta entered the drawing room along with Katherine. The fiery, love-drenched moment was now at a complete end.

  * * * * * * * * *

  The drive to Lady Bramshill’s large mansion near the border of Kent was as pleasant as any summer journey could be. All three traveling chariots were well sprung and comfortable. The early evening weather was bright and clear without a single cloud in the sky to threaten the enjoyment of the evening.

  Constance found herself in a daze. Even through dinner the memory of Ramsdell’s kiss had remained in the forefront of her mind and would not be dismissed, even with the sternest of mental commands. Presently, she sat between Ramsdell and Katherine in her mother’s small traveling coach, the narrowed confines affording her the supreme pleasure of being jostled by Ramsdell whenever one of the wheels hit a dip in the highway. That he took each opportunity to slip his right arm about her and protect her from the bounce made every hole in the road a thing to be anticipated with delight.

  The postilions, having been given orders to “spring ‘em,” accomplished the ten-mile journey in little over an hour. Once arrived at the imposing gray stone mansion of Henley

  Lodge, the excursion took on the misty quality of a dream for Constance. So rarely did she leave Lady Brook to enjoy a holiday that the simple occupation of having another woman’s butler take her cape, without at the same time issuing quiet instructions to him as to the care of the rest of the party, made her feel like a princess.

  Constance walked beside Ramsdell up the stairs to greet Lady Bramshill and her husband, Sir Richard. She was a delightful creature of thirty, while he was a dignified, silver-

  haired man in his late forties. Constance saw in their marriage a contentment not generally found, but she believed Sir Richard was responsible for much of their joint happiness, since he never had anything but a kind, loving word for his young wife.

  As she greeted her hostess, who was smiling brightly, she was a little startled when Lady Bramshill leaned forward and whispered into her ear, “I have a surprise for you later.”

  Constance would have immediately asked for at least a few of the particulars, but Lady Bramshill was sly and quickly turned her full attention to Marianne, who followed behind her.

  More guests flowed in behind the Pamberley party, and Constance soon found herself swept into the ballroom, which was alive with a Handel contre-danse and the glitter of dozens of couples going down the lively set. Constance heard Marianne exclaim over the beauty of the ballroom, which was hung with yards and yards of a silver-spangled gauze and laced with fresh green ivy from Lady Bramshill’s extensive gardens. The effect was Grecian and quite pleasing.

  Katherine was immediately drawn away by a captain of the Horse Guards whom she had met at another of her ladyship’s balls, and who insisted the next dance must be his.

  The music drew fortuitously to a close, and Sir Henry offered his arm to Celeste as the previous dancers began leaving the floor. Alby and Augusta took their places as well, this time for the intricate quadrille.

  Ramsdell turned to her. “I refuse not to dance,” he stated with a smile, and offered his arm to her. “Even though I will appear quite awkward with my sling. Will you do me the honor?”

  Constance was certain now that she was dreaming as she laid her hand atop his arm and began walking out onto the ballroom floor beside him. As she passed several ladies, she heard their hushed exclamations.

  “Tis Ramsdell!”

  “I had heard he might be coming, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “Is he not a handsome creature?”

  “Is that Miss Pamberley with him?”

  “’Pon my word, she seems much changed. Amethyst suits her, for I vow I’ve never seen her in better looks.”

  Constance felt younger and more alive than she had in years and was not surprised by this last comment. She was feeling just as she had so many years before in London, gay and carefree, a sensation that was too sweet not to be enjoyed to the fullest. She gave herself, therefore, to Lady Bramshill’s ball, to her friends whom she so rarely saw except on occasions such as this, to the delights of dancing with a dozen different partners, and to the great pleasure of being often in Ramsdell’s company.

  ***

  Chapter Fourteen

  A little past ten o’clock, Constance searched the mansion for Ramsdell. The waltz was quickly forming, and he had previously instructed her to save this dance for him, since he felt he could manage a few turns about the ballroom with his healing arm encircling her back. Presently, however, he was nowhere to be found. She made inquiries along one passage and then another, greeting friends and exchanging quick histories as her eyes continually swept over each principal room and connecting antechamber.

  She was about to enter the billiard room, from which chamber a general masculine laughter and badinage could be heard emanating, when Sir Henry appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello, Miss Pamberley. I say, do you intend to play a game or two?” His eyes were lit with enthusiasm. “Celeste has just beaten Mr. Weatherby all to finders.”

  “Indeed?” she queried. “I didn’t know she played at billiards?”

  “I have been teaching her,” he stated, his chest puffing up a little. “She has considerable ability. I was just going to fetch an iced champagne cup for her since the room has become rather stifling, but you will find her within.” He then stepped aside and swept an arm in a grand arc toward the doorway.

  “Actually,” she said, “I have been searching for Ramsd
ell. He was supposed to go down the next set with me, but I can’t seem to find him.”

  His brow puckered and he considered. He snapped his fingers. “I saw him earlier with her grace, the Duchess of Mercer, perhaps ten minutes past. Now, where was that—near the conservatory, I think. Yes, Miss Celeste and I had just strolled in from the gardens—” The color on his cheeks became quite heightened and he coughed nervously. He apparently felt he needed to explain. “You see, Miss Celeste was feeling rather warm from the lively reel she had just danced and I felt a bit of air would be of use to her, because it is not a good thing to become overheated in a ballroom.”

  Constance kept her expression as serious as Sir Henry’s, but the whole time her heart was alive with laughter. “You did very well by her,” she told him. “Undoubtedly.”

  He seemed a little suspicious of her remark, narrowing his eyes at her slightly, but finally ended with, “And just as I held the door wide for her to reenter the house, I recall having seen Ramsdell and the Duchess of Mercer walking toward the conservatory.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help. I shall search for him there, then.”

  She would have turned away, but he said, “By the way, I just heard the most astonishing news and cannot conceive how I, or any of us really, have remained in ignorance of it this past sennight.”

  “What is that?” Constance asked, curious.

  “The Priory has been purchased,” he stated. “Have you heard of it?”

  “No, indeed, I haven’t,” she returned, stunned.

  “Well, it would seem it has, and the new owner has been in residence for the past week. Apparently he brought with him a mountain of furniture and an army of servants who have been turning the house out-of-doors these many days and more.”

  “This is quite astonishing,” she remarked, wondering herself why she hadn’t heard the news beforehand. “Where did you learn of it?”

  “I just had it from Mrs. Spencer, not a few minutes ago. She said that he wished to keep his presence a quiet matter for a few days.”