More important, what should she do now? She racked her brain for something in one of her books that might help her, some clue as to how she could beat a graceful retreat from this unnerving episode. But at the moment she could not even remember if she knew how to read.
Skittering away from Raeburn, bartering for a little time to regain her composure, she began to pick up the chessmen for want of anything better to do. She was dismayed when he came to help her.
Although his hair straggled a bit over his brow, he appeared calmer than she. "Did you want to play again?"
Audra vigorously shook her head. "I never dreamed chess could become such a dangerous pas-time. Perhaps you had better go."
"Audra."
Her thudding heart seemed to go still as he reached out as if to caress her cheek. It appeared to cost him great effort, but he wrenched his hand away, leaving her untouched.
"Perhaps you are right," he said. He gave her a rueful smile. "I am sorry. It would appear I am not to be trusted without a chaperon after all."
"Nor I," Audra said with chagrin. She could not credit the mad way her blood had raced, how she had pulsed with sudden desire in Raeburn's arms, a desire she had never even realized she was capable of. Perhaps she was more her mother's daughter than she had ever been willing to admit.
It was a most dismaying thought and she felt relieved when Raeburn moved toward the door. She offered to have his horse brought round, but he refused.
"I know where the stables are," he said. He paused upon the threshold to glance back at her with a thoughtful frown. "Audra, I hope that what happened here tonight . . . well, it was only a few kisses. Neither of us should react so strongly that we let it spoil our continued acquaintance."
"Oh, no, of course not," Audra said too brightly. She had no intention of overreacting. She was merely going to give up the lease on Meadow Lane and become a Catholic so she could retire to a nunnery and never have to face Raeburn again.
But apparently he read none of this in her face, for he gave a sigh of relief. "You and Miss Cecily should call at the castle tomorrow. My sister would be delighted to receive you. You can even bring your aunt. I promise not to toss her into the moat."
Audra nodded, only wanting him to be gone, to give her poor heart a chance to thud at a normal pace, her cheeks opportunity to assume some other hue besides fiery red.
"Good night, my dear," he said. "Even if you didn't win the chess game, you are welcome to come pillage my castle anytime you like."
He upturned her palm, planting a brusque kiss there and then turned to stalk away before she had time to react. Still feeling his warmth of his lips upon her flesh, her heart a whirl of conflicting emotions, she closed the door. It was not until long moments later she was able to consider his parting invitation.
Come pillage my castle anytime you like. Recalling the intensity in his eyes when he had spoken, it occurred to her that he might mean far more than the library.
Dismayed she pressed her hands to her face. Never had she felt so exhilarated and terrified at the same time. Far from accepting his invitation, she intended to flee as far from the Castle Raeburn as a coach and four would take her.
CHAPTER NINE
The Duke of Raeburn was considered to be unapproachable before he had had his morning ride. For that reason none of his household was eager to knock upon the library door to inform him of the latest disaster. The new laundry maid had managed somehow to dye nearly every last one of His Grace's crisp white linen shirts a rather dingy shade of brown.
Rundel, the butler, loftily declared the care of His Grace's wardrobe did not fall within his province. Bartleby, the duke's valet, suggested they all draw lots. In the end, Mrs. Bede, the housekeeper, was sent to be the bearer of bad tidings. His Grace had never been known to hit a female.
When the trembling woman vanished into the library, Bartleby and Mr. Rundel were not above placing their ears to the door. The oak portal was thick, but His Grace's bellow had a habit of carrying, even through solid stone.
The two menservants were considerably bemused when the housekeeper had been gone long minutes and no explosion of wrath followed. They stumbled back as the door opened much quicker than expected. Mrs. Bede emerged looking pale and a little dazed.
Bartleby, well-accustomed himself to the razor sharp edge of his master's tongue, inquired sympathetically. "Well, was it very bad, Mrs. Bede? What did His Grace say?"
For a moment, the poor woman seemed unable to find her voice. "H-he said it didn't matter, that no doubt there would be a fashion for brown this year and . . . and then . . ."
The butler and valet both leaned forward eagerly.
"And then His Grace smiled at me."
Bartleby and Rundel exchanged a startled glance.
"It's perfectly true," she cried. "And such a shock as you well may imagine. My poor nerves will never be the same."
Rundel shook his head solemnly. "When Betty carried in the breakfast dishes, she said His Grace was behaving queerly. The duke bid her good morning before he had even tasted one drop of his coffee. Of course, I didn't believe the girl."
"There is worse." Bartleby said. "I am never one to gossip about the master, but," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "This morning I fancied I heard His Grace singing in the bath."
The butler smothered an oath, and Mrs. Bede gave a soft moan. After which dreadful confidences, there seemed nothing more for the two men to do than lead the shaken housekeeper away to the kitchens to be fortified with a cup of tea.
Completely unaware of having raised any consternation among his staff, Simon had already dismissed Mrs. Bede's laundry report from his mind. He returned to his task of rummaging his own library shelves.
Although fond of reading, he had never regarded his collection with such eager interest as he did this morning. He pulled out volume after volume, giving each book due consideration, thrusting some back into place, setting others aside.
Richardson? Simon frowned. No, he'd wager his last groat Audra would not care for that author. Too mawkishly sentimental. Ah, but Fielding and Smollett. That was more likely. But no Goldsmith. Simon thrust The Vicar of Wakefield farther back on the shelf.
He paused in his perusal only long enough to feel slightly amused at himself. He should have been long gone on his ride by now, not spending his morning rearranging the library for Audra's benefit. It was rather a presumption on his part, this deciding what she would like and what she wouldn't. He had met with the woman fewer times than he could count upon his fingers. How could he claim to know her tastes?
And yet he felt he did, knew her well as if she had been spending every evening here, curled up in that armchair where he had found her the night of the ball, plundering his books, the firelight caught in her hair, the mists of imaginary worlds hazing her eyes.
It was a most agreeable image, and he had to bring himself up short. He was already behaving like something of an idiot. He had set aside enough volumes to keep Audra busy until her hair turned as snowy white as those idiotic caps she wore. And he wanted her to occasionally turn to some other occupation besides reading.
Like chess. He suppressed a grin. He should have been ashamed of himself for his behavior of last night. The wager had only started out as jest. But it seemed the jest was on him. Audra had kissed him back in a manner to steal his reason, and it didn't appear likely to ever be returned.
And yet he held no regrets, only a memory of how warm and sweet her lips had been. Audra consumed his thoughts, leaving him damn near useless for anything. He could not even seem to concentrate on the book sorting for any length of time, and he caught himself staring out the window instead.
If he lingered much longer, he would probably be riding in the rain. The heavens appeared so overcast, a downpour seemed imminent, but somehow even that didn't daunt him. He liked the pearl gray sky. It was the same misty shade as her eyes.
His thoughts miles away, he was not aware of the knock at the libr
ary door until his sister burst unceremoniously in upon him. He had breakfasted so early Gus had been still abed. Lady Augusta was already charmingly attired in a cherry-striped morning gown, her hair done up in a cluster of ringlets.
Before she could say anything, he strode forward and kissed her cheek. "Good morning, Augusta. You are looking fresh and pretty this morning with your hair all done up in those . . . those bouncy things."
It was a handsome compliment to pay, especially to one's sister. She should have been pleased instead of staring at him open mouthed. "Simon, are you feeling all right?"
"Never better. Why?"
"It is only that most mornings you scarce notice that I still have a head let alone how my hair is arranged. And what have you been doing to set the entire household by its ears already?"
He arched his brows in mild surprise. "Nothing. In fact, I flatter myself that I have been particularly amiable."
"That's precisely what I mean. Your staff is not accustomed to it this early in the day. Poor Betty's hands were trembling as she poured out my chocolate. And as for Mrs. Bede, I think she is lying down, with Bartleby burning feathers beneath her nose. You will be the death of these good people."
"I never realized being in a good mood was a hanging offense," Simon said. "If it will mend matters, I will contrive to glower at Farley when he brings my horse round."
Augusta earnestly suggested that he do so. "All this cheerfulness is beginning to even disconcert me. You have been behaving very oddly since the night of the ball. I don't think I should ever help you plan another."
"I won't ever need another. I have already met the only—that is all the ladies that I care to become acquainted with."
She stared at him, her nose crinkling in a slight frown. "Oh? Have you given up seeking a wife, or is there something you are not telling me?"
"If there is, it is no fault of yours, my dear. I always said the army should engage you to interrogate captured spies. You'd soon worm all their secrets out of them."
But she was not about to be put off by his teasing. When he moved back to the desk to balance a stack of books in danger of toppling over, she followed him. She studied him through narrowed eyes.
"You missed dinner last night, owing to some mysterious errand, and according to Betty, you took little for breakfast. If it were anyone else but you, Simon, I would hazard you had fallen in love. Can't eat, can't sleep . . ."
"It so happens I slept quite soundly," he said, trying not to look self-conscious. He had slept well, but only after thoroughly dousing himself with water to cool all heated thoughts of Audra.
"And you have not even gone yet for your morning ride," Augusta accused.
"You can see for yourself how threatening the sky is."
"Since when did that ever stop you? I've seen you ride in downpours that would set more prudent men to building an ark."
He didn't answer. He realized that he was behaving in a manner most unlike himself, but he didn't relish having it pointed out to him. Plunking into the armchair, he grabbed up the nearest book and affected to read. But Augusta leaned over his chair with the most annoying smile.
"If you are going to pretend to read, Simon, you had best select something else. You will never convince me you are interested in Mrs. Pierson's Hints to a Lady on Household Management."
Startled, Simon glanced at the title and slammed the book closed.
"Your present state of distraction," his sister murmured. "It wouldn't have anything to do with Miss Masters, would it?"
"Miss Masters?" he repeated. "Why would you think that?"
"Oh, no particular reason. Only the way you nearly flung yourself beneath her coach wheels to prevent her departure from the ball. And you kept her shoes for a token of remembrance."
"I did no such thing. I returned those slippers when I went to see her last—" He broke off, but it was too late. Lady Augusta regarded him with a triumphant gleam.
He shot to his feet, pacing off a few agitated steps. "For heaven's sake, Gus, don't start letting your imagination run wild. I've known Miss Masters less than a month. We quarrel every time we meet. I've only danced with her once, called upon her once, dined with her once and . . ." He expelled his breath in a sigh, heavy with resignation. "And I think I have damn well gone and fallen in love with her."
Augusta let out a trill of delighted laughter.
"Aye, go ahead and laugh," he said glumly. "I daresay Robert would have, too, seeing me so properly dished. I, who always scoffed at fairy-tale romances, who could not stomach sitting through a performance of Romeo and Juliet. Now, here I am, behaving like such a veritable mooncalf, young Montague would seem like a pattern card of good sense by comparison."
"My poor Simon," Augusta mocked. But as she extended both hands to him, her eyes were brimming with happiness.
He squeezed her fingers in a rough grasp, his mouth tipping in a rueful smile. "So, how big a fool does that make me, Gus? I think I must have loved that woman from the first moment I saw her chasing after that fool dog. Is such a thing possible?"
"Only your own heart can tell you that, but I should not be at all surprised. My dear brother, most things in your life you have done in a manner straightforward and direct. Why should falling in love be any different?"
She cast herself into his arms, giving him a fierce hug. "It was so horrid when I thought you meant to marry any female merely to have a duchess. But now, I am so thankful, so happy for you."
Moved and a little embarrassed by this display of sisterly affection, Simon patted her back. "Well, don't go wishing me joy yet, Gus. My lady is as likely to cuff my ears as to offer me a shy kiss when I propose to her."
Augusta drew back with a tiny frown. "Surely you don't think Miss Masters would refuse you?"
Simon was hard put to answer. Audra could be remarkably skittish at times, but she, too, was obviously given to approaching life in a direct manner. He was not a vain man, but as to her feelings for him, he had read much in those speaking gray eyes last night, to say nothing of the message she had conveyed to him with her kiss. Lost in his memories, Simon had no notion how much his expression gave him away until Augusta laughed and said, "Odious man. I can see you are not worried. You are wearing that obnoxiously smug smile gentlemen have when they are quite sure of themselves. So when will you bring your Miss Masters round to see me? I am dying to better make her acquaintance."
"I already invited her to call today, along with her aunt and sister."
"You what!" His sister fairly shrieked. "And here I am with my best afternoon frock wanting mending and scarce a scrap of decent pastry to be found in the kitchens. Men!" After which dark utterance, Augusta bolted from the library, leaving Simon shaking his head.
He was at liberty then to gather up his crop and take his ride, but still he lingered, finding himself strangely without ambition. He returned to the window, the minutes slipping by as he watched the wind swirling leaves into the moat.
He possessed enough humor to laugh at himself, behaving like a starry-eyed fool, counting the seconds until Audra's carriage was likely to be seen approaching the drawbridge. At least he was not so far gone as to be seeing rainbows or hearing skyrockets bursting.
He was finding love a far quieter emotion, like the warmth of a fire blazing upon the hearth on a chill winter's day or the sparkling glass of some fine, old wine. Although impatient for Audra's arrival, Simon's mellow humor continued far into the afternoon.
His household had even grown a little accustomed to this startling change in his demeanor. When Mr. Wylie, the estate agent, a thin nervous man, approached the duke, he tripped into the library with an air of rare confidence.
To be sure, His Grace did not look as if he heeded Mr. Wylie's report on the tenant farms with his usual strict attention. The duke sat behind his desk, fiddling with the feathered end of his quill pen, but he listened with the most remarkable patience and condescension. That is until Mr. Wylie reached the matter of Meadow Lane Lodge.
"And Miss Masters said she regrets giving such short notice, but she desires to give up the lease upon the lodge and intends to move out before the end of the month."
"She what?" His Grace thundered in much his old manner. His new-found confidence evaporated, Mr. Wylie fought an urge to dive beneath his chair.
"Well, I-I did not think Your Grace would mind. The lodge is so pleasant, it will not be difficult to find another tenant."
"The lodge be damned. If that woman is planning to go haring off again, I'll—" The grim threat left unfinished, the duke bolted to his feet. Wylie flattened himself against one of the bookcases as His Grace strode past.
His bellow ringing quite clearly through the stone walls, the duke could be heard demanding his horse be brought round at once. Trembling, Wylie cursed himself for ever believing Mrs. Bede's foolish story of the master's recent acquired affability. He hoped that Miss Masters was a young woman possessed of strong nerves. She was going to need them.
Audra's heart felt heavier than the parcel she carried as she wended her way back from the village. The lane seemed to stretch out ahead of her interminably, snaking past harvested fields and tall hedgerows. She had perhaps another two miles to cover before she reached the shelter of the lodge, and the sky above her waxed most threatening.
Yet she paid little heed to the gathering clouds, the relentless gray a perfect complement to her mood. Rather than quickening her stride, she trudged along, shifting the weight of the brown wrapped parcels to her other arm. She had had no real excuse for venturing into the village that morning. Cecily had no pressing need of more ells of lace and rosewater. Audra certainly had need of more books. She hadn't even finished Ivanhoe.
What she had possessed was a need to escape from the lodge for a while, the clatter of her aunt's tongue, Cecily's innocent questions about the duke's departure, time to be alone to think. Uncle Matthew was certain to be cross with Audra when he heard she had come into town without even calling at the parsonage. But she couldn't have faced the old man's penetrating gaze, not after what had happened last night.
The Wooing of Miss Masters Page 14