by Valerie King
“How very mysterious,” she murmured, but her thoughts had gone down a different road toward the field she had hoped to purchase from the estate that marched along Lady Brook’s border. Perhaps if she became acquainted with the new owner, she would be able to make arrangements to buy the parcel that had been tempting her all these years. “Do you know his name?” she asked. “Have you met him? Is he here, perchance?”
He rolled his eyes a little. “Mrs. Spencer refused to tell me anything about him, yet teasingly informed me he was, indeed, in attendance at the ball.”
“What absurdities are these?” she asked, feeling a faint annoyance that was reflected in Sir Henry’s expression.
“I don’t know. But you know how much Mrs. Spencer enjoys funning and joking and keeping all of us in suspense if she can.”
“That she does.” She then groaned. “I can hear the waltz and I was so looking forward to dancing. Well, you had best fetch the champagne for Celeste and I shall see if I can find Ramsdell.”
Constance left Sir Henry and found that the closer she drew to the conservatory, the harder her heart pounded in her chest. She was not acquainted with the Duchess of Mercer, but Mrs. Spencer had more than once said that in her youth she had been a gazetted fortune hunter and was now reaping a sad reward for her avaricious pursuit of her present husband. That she was apparently acquainted with Ramsdell did not surprise her, since undoubtedly they traveled in the same circles. However, she was a little startled to think that her grace had kept Ramsdell pinned to her side while he should have been dancing with her.
The door of the conservatory was ajar, and a rush of moist, earthy air greeted her as she drew the door wide. The sight that met her eyes, however, dumbfounded her, for a woman with blond hair—supposedly the Duchess of Mercer—had her arms wrapped securely about Ramsdell’s neck and was presently weeping into his neckcloth.
She didn’t know quite what to think, except that his lordship did not at all seem to be enjoying the encounter.
His expression even made her smile as he stared down at the blond curls presently tickling his nose. His face was pinched with something close to disgust, and his uninjured arm was doing its best to tug her grace’s left arm from about his neck.
Constance, being of a sensible turn, merely cleared her throat in order to draw the couple’s attention to her.
She nearly laughed aloud when Ramsdell met her gaze above her grace’s head with an expression of immense relief. “Miss Pamberley,” he said in a strong voice. “Do allow me to present the Duchess of Mercer to you.”
The lady fairly flew from his arms, and Constance could not help but note that her eyes were amazingly unaffected by her display of tears.
“Oh,” Lady Mercer whispered. “Oh, no, is my husband with you?”
Constance saw how it was in an instant and almost felt sorry for the former Beauty. She responded blandly, “I am unacquainted with your husband. However, I am presently unescorted.”
“Thank God,” her grace breathed.
Ramsdell cleared his throat and finished the introductions. “Your grace, may I present Miss Pamberley of Lady Brook Cottage.”
Constance moved forward and offered her hand, which Lady Mercer took in a faint clasp. She found the duchess was trembling.
Lady Mercer undoubtedly had been a great beauty in her day, for the remnants of several lovely features could still be seen in the harried, thin bones of her face. Tonight, however, she was a collection of nerves and flesh, and the quick darting of her eye toward the doorway spoke its own tale. “I should take my leave,” she responded breathlessly, and without saying good-bye, fled the conservatory.
When the last of her ball gown of peach silk disappeared through the doorway, Constance turned toward Ramsdell. “I am sorry for her, indeed, I am.”
“Don’t be,” Ramsdell responded, his voice hard.
“And pray, why shouldn’t I?” she queried, curious.
His laugh was bitter as he responded, “Because she could have had a very comfortable life at Aston Hall with a husband who adored her. Instead . . . she chose Mercer.”
Constance was deeply astonished. She had conversed with him at length over the past several weeks, but not once had he mentioned the Duchess of Mercer or any other lady whom he had been even close to marrying. “You . . . you meant to offer for her at one time?”
“I did offer for her. She even accepted my hand, but the next day eloped with Mercer.” He looked at her and gave himself a shake. “But that was a long, long time ago. I was scarcely out of my salad days at the time. Now, it would seem, she has regretted her decision and for some reason was hoping to find comfort in my arms.”
Constance looked up at him and tried to place these new facts into the proper compartments in her brain, but all that she could think was that Ramsdell had loved this woman once and had been rejected. “Is that why you’ve never married?” she asked. “You loved her so very much?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “No,” he said somberly. “No, not at all. I mean, I loved her—or believed I did. I was very young then and too green by half. I don’t think I knew what love was.” His expression as he looked at her grew very soft.
Strange sensations began working in her chest, and she found she couldn’t quite assimilate them all at once. She felt angry that Ramsdell had been so poorly used by the ambitious wench, yet grateful at the same time that she had jilted him. Subsequently, another thought and sensation rose—of fear, of exactly where her next thoughts might take her—to
Aston, of course—and away from Lady Brook.
“We should return to the ball,” she said hastily. “And have you heard that there is a new resident at the Priory?” She found suddenly that she was trembling.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, drawing close to her.
“Nothing,” she responded brightly. She saw that he was reaching toward her, and she quickly took a step backward. “Come, we should return to the ball. It won’t do, you know, for us to be found alone in the conservatory.”
“If you fear that my reputation will be harmed—” he suggested, a crooked, teasing smile touching his lips.
“No—no,” she said. “Don’t be absurd.” With that, before he could catch her or further entice her to remain, she turned quickly away and headed for the door.
She felt him on her heel, and the next moment he caught her hard by the elbow and whirled her about. He was kissing her wildly, and her heart made its usual dancing and shouting
efforts, but tears were burning her eyes and her mind had become hysterical. “Don’t,” she breathed on a sob she didn’t understand as she pushed him away.
“Constance, what is it?” he said. “Are you upset that I was here with Lady Mercer?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She swiped at more, fresh tears. “Good God, I’ve become a watering pot, and for no reason.”
“I didn’t mean to overset you. Only tell me, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she responded. “Only please, let me return to the ball. I feel very confused of the moment. I so easily fall into your arms, but—oh, pray, Ramsdell, take me back to the ballroom. Perhaps we can converse later, when my senses are better ordered.”
He looked at her for a long while. “Very well. As you wish.”
With a feeling of great relief, Constance accepted his escort back to the ballroom.
When she arrived, with Ramsdell still holding her arm tightly, she found that the waltz had ended and most of the guests were now crowded into the ballroom. On the dais, in front of the orchestra, Lady Bramshill was speaking. “You all know my penchant for the dramatic,” she said. The crowd groaned, laughed, and applauded all at the same time. “And though I know I tend to draw out the moment more than necessary”—more groans and laughter—“I think you will be pleased with what I have to impart to you this evening.”
A violin squeaked suddenly behind her, an occurrence—planned, no doubt—that caused the ent
ire ballroom to erupt into a roll of laughter.
“How very rude,” the lady said, turning to catch the eye of the violinist.
The musician bowed and begged pardon, with a great flourish.
“At any rate,” her ladyship continued, “I should like to make known to you our newest neighbor, who has just purchased the Priory and who intends to restore every acreage and stone to its former glory, and”—she lifted her hand in the air dramatically—“who has also promised us a ball at summer’s end.”
Whispers, murmurs, and excited rumblings rose to the rafters along with all manner of speculation. She continued. “May I present”—and here she extended her hand rather dramatically toward a darkened recess of the room, near the long windows of the ballroom that opened onto a balcony—“Sir Jaspar Vernham.”
The sudden burst of applause that followed did not in any way affect the ringing sound which so quickly entered Constance’s brain. Lady Bramshill’s surprise had completely
dumbfounded her.
Sir Jaspar Vernham! Here? In Berkshire? Owner of the Priory? And knighted?
“Jaspar,” she murmured. “How very like him to steal upon me in this manner. But where is he? Ramsdell, do you see him?”
Ramsdell leaned down and queried. “Is this your Mr. Vernham? The one you were in love with as a child?”
“The very one,” she responded, looking up at him.
Oddly, she heard him growl.
She might have been inclined to ask why he had emitted such a peculiar sound, but at that moment the first love of her life strolled through the crowd and leapt lightly onto the dais beside Lady Bramshill.
She would never have known him. She stared at him as one who was looking at a ghost.
Jaspar!
He was so devilishly handsome and wore a style of clothing almost identical to Ramsdell’s except that a large ruby pin blazed in his neckcloth. His smile was charming, and
something more, for it gave him a decidedly rakish air. She immediately thought of pirates and scandalous adventurers.
When the general applause began to die away, the orchestra began a simple Mozart tune as Lady Bramshill drew Sir Jaspar from the dais and began to introduce him to her guests.
Constance stood watching him, or at least the top of his head, as he mingled with the crowd.
Her father’s stable boy. A wealthy Indian nabob. Her friend of so many years.
She waited for the crowds to thin a little more. She had to see him, to speak with him. Her heart was beating fiercely in her chest.
The crowds finally dwindled. She could see him fully now. A quizzing glass dangled to his waist. How animated he was. How very handsome with his dark brown eyes and dark hair and deeply bronzed complexion from having lived in India for so many years.
As though he realized she was studying him, he glanced in her direction, and though he hesitated for only a moment, recognition sprang quickly to his features.
“Constance,” he murmured softly.
She began walking toward him, with Ramsdell at her side, as one in a daze.
Lady Bramshill, still beside Sir Jaspar, glanced down the line of his gaze and promptly let out a trill of laughter. She said, “I knew it would give our dear Miss Pamberley a shock.” She laughed a little more.
When Constance was ten feet from him, she disengaged herself from Ramsdell’s hold on her arm and ran to him. He opened his arms and she embraced him fully.
“Hello, brat,” he said in a soft voice.
She chuckled through misty tears. “You’ve come home,” she said, thrilled utterly and completely.
He drew back, releasing her. “Lady Bramshill made me wait to see you and your family. I didn’t want to. You don’t know how many times I nearly marched the path that connects our properties, just to see you again.”
His voice was richly deep. He had become a man and more, and his accent had improved dramatically. She knew he had hired a tutor, but only his own intelligence and dedication could have achieved such a remarkable transformation. He was in every respect a gentleman now.
She took up his hands. “Besides my dearest friend, Mrs. Spencer, Lady Bramshill is one of the wickedest women in all of England for preventing you to come to us. But that is something we shall quickly amend. Join us for nuncheon tomorrow if you are able. Mother will want to see you. I read every one of your letters to her—to all my family.”
“I will be there. Nothing would keep me away.”
She heard a rumbling behind her, that odd, low growling sound again. Ramsdell drew close and cleared his throat, which prompted Lady Bramshill to introduce him.
“How do you do, Sir Jaspar?” he said.
Only then did Constance realize something was amiss. Ramsdell’s voice was remarkably cold and challenging. She glanced up at him, and a series of invasive chills snaked down her neck. His eyes were narrowed and his chin set. He stared at Jaspar, who was two inches shorter than he, as though he meant to eat him alive.
She had seen more than one of Stively’s hunting dogs guard a bone in a similar manner.
Then she realized with another disturbing start, that he was guarding her.
Her former panic asserted itself. She began to feel like an animal caught in a cage.
“Ramsdell, is it?” Jasper queried. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from his royal highness. You’ve Prinny’s ear, it would seem. He recommended I speak to you about some reform ideas I have in mind.”
“You’ve ambitions for the Commons, then?” Some of Ramsdell’s bristles began to settle against his neck.
“Yes.” He smiled, but his gaze reverted to Constance. “Tonight, however, my first object must be to meet all the Pamberley ladies again, for when I left, with the exception of Constance, they were children.”
Lady Bramshill, who was clearly enjoying herself hugely, said, “And here is Miss Katherine and Miss Celeste.”
Constance watched as both her sisters stared and wondered and ogled the handsome knight. Quick reminiscences were shared of long-ago visits to the stables, especially Katherine, who had been underfoot since she was old enough to toddle from the house. After a few minutes, Marianne left what Constance could see was her usual complement of beaus and made her way to Lady Bramshill.
Was it her imagination, or did the air immediately begin to crackle as soon as the next-youngest sister extended her hand to Sir Jaspar. “I remember you,” she said with a lift of her chin. “You used to pull my braids when I would come to the stables. Stively nearly turned you off without a reference a dozen times for being so mean to me.”
Constance drew in a shocked breath that her sister would remark openly on Sir Jaspar’s former lowly employment on the estate, but Sir Jaspar only threw his head back and laughed. “You deserved every tug—you were the most obnoxious child—I see you haven’t changed a whit.”
Marianne lifted an ominous brow, one that would have signaled to any of her present beaus that she was seriously displeased. “I take it unkindly of you to have said so,” she responded depressively.
His lids narrowed. “Still a bit of a baggage, eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Marianne returned, her eyes blazing.
“You know precisely what I mean. I’ve always thought you were a fishwife—and now I know I wasn’t mistaken in the least.”
Marianne had never had a man speak to her in such terms, and drew in a sharp breath. “And I see that your manners are the same as they ever were.”
“Silk purse and all that, then?”
“If the shoe fits,” she responded curtly.
Constance felt a decided impulse to take Marianne by the ear and drag her back to Lady Brook on the instant. She was embarrassed by the exchange and wondered what on earth her sister was thinking.
Sir Jaspar, however, did not appear in the least offended. Instead, his expression grew very sly as he bowed to her and expressed his conviction that he was certain his manners would improve in her company. Maria
nne seemed flustered and unable to respond to such a provoking remark.
Sir Jaspar turned back to Constance. “I am so happy to have come home at last, to see you—all of you. But there is one more Pamberley sister, is there not? Where is Miss Augusta?”
Both Constance and Katherine glanced about the ballroom. “I don’t know,” Constance said. “In fact, I haven’t see her for the last couple of hours. Have you, Katherine?”
“No, come to think of it, I haven’t. But I’ll go in search of her—and Alby.”
At the mention of Charles’s name, Constance realized she had not seen him either, for a very long time. If a certain suspicion entered her mind, she quickly set it aside. Her younger sister had the finest sensibilities of all the inmates of Lady Brook, and whatever her sentiments toward Alby, she knew Augusta would be sensible to the last.
Jaspar said, “Though I would enjoy nothing more than continuing our reminiscences, Lady Bramshill has many personages to whom she wishes to make me known. So, if you’ll forgive me?”
“Of course,” Constance responded. “Nuncheon tomorrow, then?”
He nodded with a smile as Lady Bramshill drew him away. She watched him go, her fondness for him rising to warm her cheeks.
“Are you in love with him, then?” she heard Ramsdell ask in a solemn voice.
She was stunned by the question as she turned to look at him. She saw the hurt in his eyes, and for the barest moment wanted to lie to him. She wanted to tell him, Yes, I am in love with Jaspar Vernham. That way, she would not have to worry about the next words Ramsdell would speak to her.
She paused and considered, but her natural honesty asserted itself. “Only when I was fifteen. I account him but an excellent friend now.”
“Truly?” he pressed her.
Oh, no, she thought. She knew what was coming next.
“Truly,” she responded.
“Then there is something I must say to you.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?” she asked, feeling quite desperate. “After all, we’re at a ball, and—”
He shook his head. “No, Constance. I must have my say now, before I lose you to tomorrow and to Sir Jaspar’s charm.”