by Devilish
Diana slid her hand free. “I’m sure it can be delightful,” she said coolly. “The price, however, will always be too high for me.”
Lud! Elf thought. Diana could warn a person off as icily as Bey. Despite that, she persisted. “You would still be the countess if married.”
“But not the lord. Believe me, Elf, as soon as any man became my husband he would be earl in the eyes of the world. Apart from that, he would have all the legal rights of a husband. Most women have no power to lose, but I do, and I will not toss it away. I will not marry, no matter what the delights.”
Elf stared. She’d seen the social face of the Countess of Arradale, but now she saw a steely will and determination worthy of an earl. She shouldn’t be surprised, but she was.
And worried. If marriage was impossible, then illicit love would beckon. She knew that. It wasn’t long since she had felt the same hungry yearning—for knowledge and excitement, but also for someone to replace the void left when her twin married.
Diana had just lost Rosa.
It was as if she stood on a hill watching a horse and rider head toward a hidden ditch. Nothing she could say seemed likely to prevent the fall, yet she must shout a warning.
Rising, she said, “If that is the case, you must be careful. I have one thing that might help. I will send a maid with it.”
She paused, knowing it would be wiser to leave the subject, yet impelled. “The trouble is,” she said, “that we women find it hard to be intimate without caring for the men involved, particularly when it is our first time. And that, my dear, is a slippery slope.”
Diana rose, too. “Rosa said the same. She thought she could do it with Brand and be emotionally untouched …”
“Brand would touch the emotions of a stone statue. My brothers are all rather dangerous in that respect.” Since there was only one brother left unwed, Elf didn’t belabor the point, but took her leave.
Back in her bedroom, she found a copy of the leaflet she and Sappho published anonymously and distributed as widely as they could. It was a short treatise on things a woman could do to reduce the chances of getting with child. She wrapped it in plain paper and sent it to Diana.
Of course Bey knew all these things. He’d been intent on not getting a woman with child since the beginning. But, even if Diana wished it, Bey would not be the man to introduce her to womanly pleasures. That could not come about in a day and a half.
Elf couldn’t help thinking it a shame. She had no doubt he was a skillful and generous lover, and from nature and intent, he was the last man to try to seduce Diana to the altar.
But in Diana’s mind it wouldn’t stop at curious exploration.
In the mind, it never did.
Diana retired to her bedroom that night in a state of considerable annoyance and frustration. She hadn’t exactly expected the marquess to repeat his seductive invitation of last year, or to continue the flirtation after the wedding, but she had expected something. Something she could tentatively build on to reach, at least, an interesting kiss.
Instead, she could have been one of his sisters. In fact, though he’d been scrupulously polite, he’d been somewhat warmer with his sisters!
The dancing party had consisted of four ladies and four gentlemen—a comfortable number, allowing for lines and circles. The ladies had changed partners with every dance, but in such a small group, she and the marquess had met, turned, and passed again and again.
The result?
Not even a look to match the moment when he’d slid that poppy stem down her bodice.
She’d managed to once sit by him between dances—and they’d talked about the weather! She’d learned more than she cared to know about the causes of climatic variations around England, and its influence on national prosperity. She had the lowering thought that the marquess had been deliberately trying to bore her.
As Clara stripped her out of her most becoming gown—deep blue satin trimmed with blonde, and very low in the bodice—Diana accepted that he’d flirted with her earlier in the playful spirit of a country wedding. That was all. She’d read too much into it. The Marquess of Rothgar thought nothing of her. Why should he? They were mere acquaintances.
She slipped into her silk nightgown and sat to let Clara brush her hair. As always, it soothed her and restored her sense of balance and humor.
It couldn’t wipe away embarrassment, however. Elf had guessed some of her feelings. Pray heaven no one else had, especially the marquess. She pushed aside the knowledge that the man had a reputation of being devilishly perceptive. Thank heavens he’d be gone soon.
She couldn’t entirely crush disappointment, however.
When she dismissed Clara, she drank a glass of water while looking out over her dark domain by the light of a swelling three-quarter moon. Mistress of all she surveyed, yet mistress of no man. She laid the cool glass against her cheek, trying to chill the gnawing dissatisfaction stirred by the wedding, and by a year that had brought great changes. The day after tomorrow the Mallorens would be on their way and she would be left to peace and routine.
It seemed as bleak a future as life on the chilly moon. Didn’t they say that all treasures lost or neglected on earth were stored there? Abandoned dreams, lost hopes, wasted opportunities, and tragic loves. And the full moon was her symbol, symbol of the goddess Diana. Perhaps she had been destined for this from birth.
Oh, nonsense. The world doubtless contained a great many happily married Dianas.
She turned toward the bed, but saw the paper that Elf had sent earlier. She’d put it aside when called upon to deal with a question about wine. She broke the seal and unfolded the thin leaflet within. A tract? A sermon on self-control and chastity?
Then she read the simple, direct text which was even accompanied by a few drawings to aid those who might struggle to read it. Shocked, she put the leaflet down. But then she picked it up again and read it through.
Fascinating.
As she read, however, she smiled wryly. One thing was sure: Elf did not expect her to lose her remaining ignorance with Lord Rothgar. He must surely know all these interesting techniques.
Chapter 8
It seemed in keeping with the snarled state of Diana’s life that she woke the next morning to the splatter of rain on her window. A glance showed the sort of sullen gray sky that offered no hope for her carefully planned outdoor pursuits. Now, when she wanted to be rid of the Mallorens, she’d have them underfoot all day.
With a sigh, she rang for Clara and considered indoor occupations. The billiard table might amuse the gentlemen, and perhaps some of the ladies played. Would the ladies be content all day with chat, music, and cards? What would the children do? Though she’d had the nursery floor freshened and prepared for them, she had not expected to provide entertainments. Wondering what had happened to her childhood toys, she sent for her housekeeper.
Darkling thoughts of the uninterested marquess caused her to choose a simple dress of buff and green and to fill in the low neckline with a demure fichu. There. If he held any suspicions about her desires last night, this outfit should allay them.
She ate breakfast while dealing with papers and household matters then, equipped with one of the housekeeper’s keys, she ventured up to the nursery floor.
The two infants seemed happily engaged in making mess with their breakfasts. The Steen’s three older children, however—Eleanor, Sarah, and Lord Harber—were looking disconsolately out at the dismal weather. She heard the older girl say, “I hate Yorkshire,” before they became aware of her and gave flustered curtsies and a bow.
She smiled. “Bad weather is a horrible burden, isn’t it? And I foolishly didn’t make provision. However, I once had toys and I have hopes that some are still in the storerooms at the end of this floor. Would you care to come and explore with me?”
With gleeful smiles, the three ran to the door and Diana followed, her own smile doubtless as bright. She’d not thought of her toys for years, but there had been some spl
endid ones. She led the way toward a door at the end of the corridor, unlocked it, and pushed it open. She had to admit to some disappointment. Though she’d known the place would be kept clean, a part of her had hoped for mystery.
“Alas,” she remarked, “no gloomy corners or moldering corpses.”
Rewarded with giggles, she led the children to one large armoire and opened a drawer. “Clothes. You could play dress-up.”
They smiled politely, but it was clear this was not their idea of prime adventure. She turned to the boxes stacked nearby, each neatly labeled. “Gloves?” she asked.
The three shook their heads.
She peered at the next. “Artificial flowers?”
Three more shakes, but a glimmer of excitement starting. They had realized she was teasing.
She moved to a larger box. “Winter stockings …”
“Lady Arradale!” Eleanor complained, laughing.
“Oh, you think there might be toys here somewhere. Very well, come with me.” She opened a door to reveal another well-lit room, many more boxes, and a number of large, shrouded objects.
“I give you permission to uncover one each,” she said. “But be gentle. They might be breakable.”
The three moved forward, clearly deliberating as to which was most likely to be exciting.
Sarah declared that as eldest, she should choose first, and lifted off one heavy cloth. “A rocking horse!” she exclaimed. “A splendid one!”
The other two turned to gather around Bella, and Diana stroked the real white mane on the dappled horse she’d enjoyed so much as a child. The scarlet leather saddle and reins were still in excellent condition, still hung with silver bells that tinkled as Sarah made it rock a little.
“May I ride it, my lady?”
Diana made sure the rockers were free of other objects, then said, “Certainly. You may all have a turn.”
Sarah mounted neatly, arranging her full skirts, and set the horse into jingling motion.
“What is it?” Charlie asked.
She turned to see that he and his sister were unwrapping his choice. Sarah slid off her horse and came over to look at the wooden cabinet on legs.
“It’s a magical picture box.” Diana went forward and opened the doors to show the tube. “You look down this.”
Charlie put his eyes somewhat tentatively to it, but said, “I don’t see anything.”
“You need both light and something to see.” She opened a drawer, took out one of the disks, and slid it into place. Then she wheeled the box next to the window. “It’s best with a candle, but if you look through the glass and turn the handle, you will see pictures of people moving.”
The boy put his face to the view piece again and began to turn the handle. “It is! It does!” He stepped back. “Try it, Nell.”
His sister, teeth sunk in lower lip, eagerly pressed her face to the viewer and turned the handle. “Those people look as if they’re moving!”
After a while, the lad said, “If you don’t give me another chance, Nell, I’m going to make your choice for you.”
The girl leaped back. “Don’t you dare!” She hurried over to her shape—and began to pull at the covering cloth.
“Gently, Eleanor,” Diana reminded her.
The girl obeyed, and worked the sheet off more carefully. “It’s a doll,” she said. “A large doll.” A life-size boy of about five stood against a rock, a drum around his neck, sticks in his raised hands. “His hair’s real, Charlie,” Eleanor said, touching the blond curls gently. “And his clothes.” She turned to Diana. “What is he?”
The girl sounded a little uneasy, and Diana felt the same way. She’d assumed this item had been disposed of decades ago, for her mother had never liked it. When the novelty had worn off for Diana, it had disappeared.
She smiled for the children. “There’s a handle at the back of the rock. If you turn it carefully just twenty times, you will see.”
“I know what it is,” Charlie declared, reaching the handle first. “It’s an automaton like the ones Uncle Bey has!”
The marquess had a number of automata? She wouldn’t have thought him a man for toys, and the devices were expensive and rare. At least the children would be unlikely to be alarmed at the figure’s lifelike behavior. She remembered being frightened when first seeing this one in action on her sixth birthday.
When they reached twenty she told them to stand clear and then pushed down the lever that started it.
The wheeze of the machinery was audible, but it still startled when the child turned his curly head to look at them, blink, and bow in greeting.
One child whispered, “Oh.”
He turned then, eyes first then head, toward a bird sitting on the rock behind him. The bird came to life, spreading its wings for a moment, then raising its head to start a trilling song. The boy turned forward again and began to beat time on his drum, toe tapping, body moving a little in time with the music. Sometimes his eyes moved from drum to audience as if gauging their appreciation.
Then, with a twang one hand went limp while the other tapped on.
“Oh!” It was all three children at once.
Diana leaped to switch it off. Silence settled with the figure caught eerily looking at her as if in reproach. “Oh dear,” she said.
“Oh dear, indeed,” said a voice behind and she turned to see the marquess in the doorway. “Unwise to play such an instrument without carefully checking it over, Lady Arradale.”
He came over and touched the curly hair. “Pauvre enfant.” He traced the arm that had stopped, running fingers down the blue suit of clothes, then raising the jacket. “If you will permit, mon brave.”
One of the children giggled, but they all pressed close to look at the complicated rods and wheels that disappeared into the rock where the principal mechanism lay.
One rod hung loose.
“Not too serious a problem,” he said, looking up—at the children, not at her. “But it shouldn’t be played again until it has been thoroughly checked.”
He rose smoothly and spoke to Diana. “A very fine object, my lady. Made by Vaucanson, perhaps?”
“I don’t know. My father gave it to me for my sixth birthday. I didn’t know it was still here.” She turned to Eleanor. “I think you should pick another toy to unwrap, dear.”
In moments, Eleanor had uncovered a small theater complete with puppets and the three children were engaged in devising a play. Diana turned back to the marquess, regretting—though only for a moment—her sober dress. Begone, folly! “You wished to speak to me, my lord?”
“I came up to visit the children.”
Diana gave thanks for her unenticing dress.
He turned back to the automaton. “I am curious about this. You must know how precious it is. Why is it up here, neglected?”
“I have no idea. I enjoyed it, but something about it made me uncomfortable, so when it disappeared, I suppose I didn’t ask. Looking back,” she added, “I think my mother did not like it.”
“I see why.”
She stepped up beside him to share his view of the figure, but saw nothing unusual. “Why?”
He looked down at her. “It is a boy child.”
Diana stared at the innocent thing. “My father would never have meant that,” she said, but she could see how it might have seemed to her mother. She’d been wife—and a rather unworthy one, too, being merely the daughter of a local gentleman—to a man of great title and long heritage. In ten years of marriage, she had produced only one child, and that a girl.
Had her father meant this subtle reproach? Diana had always been aware, despite loving parents, of the fierce hope for a son. It had only been when she was about twelve that her education for future responsibilities had begun. That had marked the point of abandoned hope.
The marquess gently raised the drummer boy’s chin. Because of the mechanisms, she supposed, it moved hesitantly, rather as a shy child’s head might. The wide blue eyes ending up looking
into his. “A pretty infant,” he said, “with a marked resemblance to the portrait of you as a child that hangs in the countess’s bedchamber.”
With a breath, Diana went closer. Indeed, with shorter hair it did. “He had it made from the picture … ?” How much worse that was. It must have looked to her mother exactly like the son she had not produced.
“He likely thought it only a pleasant whim,” the marquess said.
“With part of his mind.”
Those dark eyes looked down at her, understanding a great deal too much. “Yes, we do sometimes act from more secret places, do we not?” He studied the child again. “A pretty infant,” he repeated, “with spirit and willfulness already established, but showing warmth and great charm. I have thought so of the portrait, too.”
Oh no, don’t do this now. I’m too shaken by the automaton to know what to do, what to say.
He carefully let the chin lower and turned to her. “If you don’t know anyone able to mend and tend it, I can take it to London and give it into the hands of a Mr. Merlin. It is an interest of mine.”
“So I gather,” Diana said, striving for a cool tone. “I confess to being surprised. Toys, my lord?”
“Machines, Lady Arradale. Ones that, when well made, do complex things precisely to order. A pleasing notion, is it not?”
“With a touch of magic? Merlin?”
“It really is his name. And the Duke of Bridgewater builds canals and aqueducts that go over rivers.”
“And Byrd wrote choral music to rival birdsong?”
The corners of his lips deepened with humor. “It makes one wonder, does it not, about the power of names.”
“Arradale carries no particular meaning other than the dale of the Arra. Rothgar, however, does suggest wrath, my lord. And Bey, which I gather your family call you, an eastern potentate.”
“And Diana is the huntress. What, I wonder, do you hunt?” Before she could think of a clever reply, he said, “I understand that you have a shooting gallery here. I confess to being curious about your skill with a pistol.”