by Amanda Scott
She did not much care for the idea, but it occurred to her that she had her own reasons for playing the hand out with him. If he stayed in Bath, he must soon recognize for himself how wrong he had been to accuse her. She wanted his apology, and in the meantime, she decided, she was perfectly content to be courted, if that was his design.
She would go with him to the concert, and indeed, anywhere else he wished to take her, and if he continued to treat her as an amiable acquaintance, she would flirt with him and tantalize him, as only she knew how to do. If she could not wrap the Earl of Ramsbury around her little finger, she did not know herself. On this last, most pleasant reflection, she fell asleep and did not waken until the chambermaid arrived with her chocolate the following morning.
The day passed slowly, but there were chores to see to, callers to greet, and preparations to be made for the evening. Ramsbury was announced at last, and Sybilla descended the stairs to greet him, her head held high, her demeanor cool enough to conceal the jumping nerves beneath the surface.
His mouth twisted into a wry grin when he saw her. “Very fetching, madam. Do you now intend the populace to think you on the verge of entering a convent?”
She chuckled, relaxing, as she released her black Venetian velvet skirt, allowing it to swirl in graceful folds about her legs. “How very knowing you are, sir, in the matter of women’s dress, but I doubt a canonical robe has any look of the convent about it. The bosom is too low and the sleeves too elaborate.”
The sleeves of finely plaited French lawn were fashionably elaborate, indeed, with their cuffs and edgings of silver lace. And down the front, a flat lawn border, edged on each side with small silver pea buttons and laced across with silver cord, extended from her bosom to her feet. Her hair was piled atop her head and held in place with a pearl comb. White kid gloves matched her silver-buckled shoes.
“You look delightful,” he said, after allowing himself a long look at her. “Have you a cloak?”
She was looking at him in turn, thinking how splendid he looked in his tight, cream-colored pantaloons and dark form-hugging coat. His snowy neckcloth was stiffly starched, and a diamond pin gleamed from its folds, but it was his broad shoulders and muscular thighs that set her mind to wandering. Color flooded her cheeks when he repeated his question.
“Cloak? I’m sorry, I wasn’t attending. I haven’t got one. This gown will keep me warm enough in the carriage.”
“And will no doubt suffocate you in the pump room,” he added, grinning at her, “but it will serve you right if you are chilly later.” For a moment she feared he would ask her what she had been thinking, but he didn’t. Instead, he guided her out the door and down the steps to the carriage. Inside the landau, she was conscious of his nearness in a way that she could not remember having been for many months, and even when they were seated in the Pump Room, amidst a crowd of others, she was more aware of him than of anyone else. She knew people were looking at them, speculating about them, but the knowledge didn’t bother her. She was accustomed to being looked at and speculated about.
Once the music started, she settled back in her chair and gave her attention to the pianist, deciding at once that he was very good. When the interval came, she glanced about her in dismay, realizing that the music had put her into a near trance.
Ramsbury smiled at her. “You don’t change, Syb. I might as well have been sitting alone for all the heed you paid me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling back. “ ’Tis the music. He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”
“Very fine. Do nod at old Lady Atterbury, won’t you, before she takes it into her head to visit with us. I had no idea I would meet so many of my mother’s friends in Bath. They seem to have migrated here en masse.”
Sybilla nodded obediently at the lady in question, then looked at Ramsbury, twinkling. “Lady Lucretia is right. Your mama would love it here.”
He grimaced. “Particularly if my esteemed father were to remain at Axbridge. You would be glad to see her, I know.”
He said it casually, but she saw the dawning awareness in his eyes as he remembered what had brought him to Bath. Quickly, she said, “She quite dotes on the theater, I know, so perhaps she will come if your aunt invites her to see Mr. Coates.”
“Perhaps,” he said brusquely, getting to his feet. “No doubt you would like a glass of sherry before Davies continues.”
“Thank you,” she said. When he returned she was conversing with an acquaintance, but she turned at once to greet him, glad to see him smiling again. “That was quick, sir, but Mr. Davies is coming back, so we must sit down again at once.”
When the concert was done, they did not linger to chat with anyone but made their way to the carriage. It was much colder out, and Sybilla shivered when Ramsbury climbed in behind her.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I told you, you ought to have a wrap,” he said. “After the heat of that room, ’tis no wonder you are chilled, no matter how heavy that velvet is.”
“You were right,” she said, snuggling up against him, “but I daresay you are warm enough for two.” She felt him stiffen briefly, but then he relaxed, and when his arm went around her shoulders, she allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction, knowing he could not see it.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much, thank you. It was a wonderful concert, Ned. Thank you for taking me.”
“My pleasure,” he said. His voice seemed lower in his throat, and she recognized the tone. A moment later, she was unsurprised when the hand on her shoulder began stroking the velvet of her gown.
She sighed deeply and snuggled closer. “I do fit here so nicely,” she said. “I’d forgotten.”
“I like this dress,” he said.
“You can’t even see it now,” she said.
“I don’t need to see it,” he retorted, letting his fingers drift from velvet to the soft skin between the gown and her neck.
His touch sent shock waves through her and she trembled, suddenly realizing that there were pitfalls ahead that she had not considered when she had made her little plan. She had thought only of the effect she knew she would have on him, not on what he was capable of doing to her. And she had forgotten, too, that being her husband, he did not have to play by the same rules as her other gentleman escorts.
It was madness. She knew she ought to make him stop, and that she could do so simply by straightening where she sat. But somehow she could not. She had forgotten how his slightest touch made her body sing. How, she wondered, could she ever have forgotten such a thing as that?
By the time they reached the Royal Crescent, his hand had moved down toward the lacy edging of her bodice, and she did not know whether she was glad or sorry when the carriage stopped.
She had meant to invite him in, using the pretext that they had not had much chance to talk privately, but now she did not know if that would be altogether wise. However, Ramsbury, after pausing briefly to speak to his tiger, took the decision out of her hands by following her into the house.
He handed his hat to the porter. “Have someone bring wine to the library, will you?” he said.
When the porter had gone to do his bidding, Sybilla looked at the earl. “Giving orders, sir?”
He smiled. “Not going to send me back out into the cold without a bracer, are you? Not after having got me so warm. Let’s go upstairs.” There was a wealth of meaning in his voice, and Sybilla began to wonder again what she had got herself into.
“I can still throw you out of the house, Ned,” she said sweetly, surprising herself.
“To be sure, you can,” he agreed, smiling down at her. “Do you want to?”
IV
BITING HER LOWER LIP, Sybilla shook her head in response to Ramsbury’s question. She knew she would do better to send him on his way, but she could not seem to do so. Conscious only of the warmth in his eyes and a lessening of the odd sense of loneliness that had for so long been her constant companion, she made no demur when he took h
er hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and guided her upstairs to the library, where they were welcomed by candlelight from a number of gilded wall sconces, the glow casting golden highlights and dancing shadows onto the peach-colored walls. The only sound was the sharp snap-crack of a spark from the embers of the dying fire.
Once inside the door, Ramsbury paused, glancing down at her ruefully. “Perhaps you would have preferred to go into the drawing room instead,” he said.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “The pianoforte is there. Were you not inspired by Mr. Davies’s excellent performance?”
Sybilla shook her head again, chuckling. “I am neither so puffed up in my own esteem nor so accomplished a musician as to try to emulate what we heard tonight; however, I suppose I ought at least to thank you for considering my wishes for once.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he said, releasing her arm and moving away toward the fireplace. Taking a log from the wood basket on the hearth, he knelt to set it gently on the grate, prodded the coals with the poker, then stood back to admire his handiwork. The hot embers glowed hungrily, then sparked, and flames began immediately to flicker at the base of the log.
Sybilla said, “Why is it absurd for me to thank you, Ned? ’Tis much more in keeping with your nature that you gave the order to serve us in here without consulting my wishes than that you subsequently remembered I might have had a preference.”
His heavy dark eyebrows knitted together in a beetling frown as he turned toward her. “Are you trying to provoke me, wife?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? You are my wife.” He moved toward her, and Sybilla watched him warily but made no attempt to elude him, even when he placed one hand on her shoulder, looked down into her eyes, and added more gently, “Perhaps you ought to be reminded of that fact rather more often.”
She gazed back at him, willing her emotions to remain calm. “Is that why you escorted me to the concert tonight, sir? To remind me? I do not forget, you know.”
“Do you not, Syb?” Both his hands were on her shoulders now, and his touch was firm, possessive. The expression in his eyes was enigmatic and told her nothing about his feelings.
She wished he would move away, and her tension made her tongue sharp. “Of course I don’t forget. How could I?” Having decided it would be better to put distance between them, she found when she attempted to move that he would not let her. His hands tightened. She turned her head to avoid his ardent gaze.
“Do not look away, Sybilla,” he said softly. “It has been a long time since I was last able to look this closely into your lovely face.”
She wanted to ask him why it mattered, but she could not find the words. She still was uncertain about his motives. From all she had heard of his activities these sixteen months past—and it often seemed as though her friends were only too willing to report his every move to her—he had not missed her. Nor had she missed him, of course. Not at all.
All these thoughts passed through her mind in less time than it took Ramsbury to realize that she did not intend to reply. He opened his mouth to speak again, but just then Robert entered with the wine he had ordered. Collecting his wits with visible effort, the earl removed his hands from Sybilla’s shoulders and stepped away.
She released her breath in a long sigh of relief and fought a nearly overwhelming urge to smooth her hair or her gown.
The footman set the tray down on the side table and turned to address the earl. “Shall I pour the wine, m’lord?”
“No, thank you. That will be all.”
When the footman had gone, Sybilla said shortly, “I do wish you would remember that you are not master in this house, Ned.”
He shot her a level look from beneath his brows but said nothing, turning instead toward the side table. Pouring two glasses of wine, he offered one to her.
There was a long moment of silence before she stepped forward to accept it.
He said quietly, “It has been a pleasant evening. Let us not spoil it by quarreling.”
“I do not quarrel,” she said provocatively. When he only shook his head and turned away, she took a small sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. He turned, saw that she was watching, and lifted his glass in a silent salute. Instead of drinking or speaking, he held her gaze, his expression daring her to look away again. She could not.
His expression was hungry, his desire only too clear to her. For a brief moment she felt her body quiver in response to that look, until a sudden mental vision leapt unbidden to her mind of Lady Mandeville, slender, beautiful, and sleekly blond, standing behind him at a Carlton House ball, looking up at him with that selfsame hungry—and, yes, possessive—look of desire on her lovely countenance. Blinking hard, as though to do so would erase the vision, Sybilla turned on her heel and strode rapidly to the nearest window, lifting her hand to draw aside the heavy peach-velvet curtain, as though her only objective were to look out upon the moonlit crescent.
There was silence behind her, and she did not have to look at him to feel his annoyance. Stubbornly, she kept her gaze fixed upon the lights of the city below, shifting the curtain a little, as much to screen her face from his scrutiny as to block the room’s light so that she could see better.
A scraping sound drew her attention, but she refused to turn until he spoke. His voice was calm, and he said no more than her name. To pretend deafness would be churlish. She turned, then nearly smiled to see that he had dragged the sofa from its position against the wall to face the fireplace. She remembered a similar setting in their London house that had been, in the earlier days of their marriage, a favorite retreat of his.
He was waiting. She let the curtain fall behind her and moved toward him. Her heart was pounding, and she stopped some feet from him to draw in a long breath, steadying herself, hoping her expression did not give her feelings away. To let him know she was nervous of him would be to give him the upper hand.
“Why do you stop?” he asked, his voice low in his throat, his eyes fixed upon her.
“I was considering the new arrangement of the furniture,” she said quickly. “It has some merit, I think, though my father would not think so. He believes that all furniture belongs firmly against a wall.”
“Your father never comes into this room anymore. You told me so a long time ago. Come, sit down with me and enjoy your wine by me fire.”
Suddenly, she longed to sit with him, to feel his arm around her shoulders, to lean against him, to feel the warmth of the fire on her skirts and the warmth of his body close to hers. She swallowed hard as more unbidden visions leapt to mind.
He grasped her arm gently and drew her toward the sofa, then down beside him. She held her breath when his arm went around her shoulders, the gesture so familiar that it was as though they had not been separated at all. She could feel the fire now.
When he stirred beside her, making himself comfortable, she stiffened, suddenly completely aware of where she was and what was happening. Her firm control was slipping. She knew it and did not know what to do to prevent it. Anything she might say to him might provoke a quarrel or another sort of confrontation altogether, one that would be at the same time exciting and frightening. Her body wanted his, wanted to press closer to his, to urge him to do things she remembered with anxious desire. But if that was to happen, he would expect … What would he expect? Was this not the way it had begun before?
She straightened, trying to move away, but the arm around her shoulders held her in place. “Please, Ned,” she said gruffly, “I will spill my wine.” Then, to show him how awkward it was for her to sip, she drank off what was left in the glass.
He chuckled. “You’ll soon be tipsy if you keep that up, but give me your glass, and I’ll get you some more.”
Since it meant that he would move away, if only for a moment, she obeyed him, and when he returned with the wine, she had slid into the corner of the sofa and turned so that he could not resume his seat so closely besi
de her.
He handed her her glass. “What are you doing?”
“I think that question ought more properly to come from me to you, sir,” she said quietly. The brief moment had been enough. She was in control of her senses again, but she knew well enough that her control would last only so long as he did not touch her. “What is your intention tonight, Ned? What do you think is going to happen between us?”
He stood looking down at her, his expression somber. “You are my wife, Sybilla,” he repeated.
His tone set off alarm bells in her mind, warning her that at this point it would not do to arouse his temper. She did not think, from what she knew of him, that he would force her, but she had never put that possibility to the test with him, and she had not the slightest wish to discover herself in error. She drew another deep breath, thinking rapidly. Then, at last, quietly, she said, “You have agreed to live separately from me, sir. Will you not hold by your agreement?”
“I am having some second thoughts,” he admitted.
“Well, I am not. Only consider,” she added rapidly when his brows drew together again, “how unsuited we are to live together. Only remember the quarrels, the shouting. We do not get on together, Ned, for the simple reason that neither of us is willing to submit to the other.”
“The right to command submission is mine,” he reminded her. “ ’Tis your duty to submit.”
“Well, I hope you will not command me,” she retorted frankly, “for I need not remind you that I lack the habit of obedience, and in this house the servants will obey me, not you.”
For a moment, as she spoke, it had looked as though he might smile, but any look of amusement had passed by the time she finished, and his tone was grim when he said, “Don’t put them to the test, Sybilla. I might not be the master of this house, but I am still your husband. Your duty, as well as your father’s servants’ duty, is to see that you submit to my command. And do not,” he added more harshly, “make the mistake of giving way to that burst of temper I see rising. Such an air of profound indignation does extraordinary things to your décolletage, and the added color in your cheeks is another magnificent addition to your beauty, but if you treat me to one of your tirades, or give way to the temptation—equally obvious to my experienced eye—to throw that wine at me, I’ll be sorely tempted to assert my rights in a way that I know you will not like at all.”