Lady Roma's Romance

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Who could possibly argue otherwise?” She looked a trifle blank at that, so Bret quickly offered her another conversational bait. “How do young ladies occupy themselves here?”

  “Occupy ourselves?”

  “Yes,” he said, realizing that no man would ever love Miss Livia Keane for her intellect. “If I, for instance, were walking along New Bond Street, at what hour would we meet?”

  “Oh, Julia is ever so fond of shopping. It’s amazing I how often we’ll see something that we saw in town for much less here in Bath. The shopkeepers must be awfully clever, don’t you think?”

  “So you shop. What else?”

  She bit her lip to assist thought. “Well, I do like to visit Sydney Gardens; they have fireworks there some evenings. And there are some pleasant walks by the river.”

  “Your sister enjoys these excursions?”

  “Oh, Julia doesn’t like to walk. She reads a great deal, always has a book by her. Reading is important, I suppose, but so is exercise. Don’t you think so?’

  “Indeed. I have always been very fond of riding. But I meant your other sister, Miss Keane. Does she like walking and reading?”

  “Sabina?” Again, a fair shoulder hunched, slighting the missing member of the family. “She’s ever scribbling away at those little pictures of hers. Dreary. At least a book is easily carried about. A sketchbook is such an awkward size. And that dreadful satchel, full of crayons and paint. Her sleeves are always covered in oils. Mama’s always saying a girl shouldn’t look like a vagrant, and I think she’s quite right. Don’t you?”

  Bret wondered if her mother had told her to always finish a thought by consulting the nearest available man for his opinion. He noticed that even when talking to one of the other women in the room, as when Roma drew her skillfully into conversation, Livia would still turn to him with wide eyes and a “don’t you think so?” He had only found it exasperating until Roma showed him that it was funny. After that realization, he did not dare meet Roma’s eyes for fear the spark of laughter in their depths would kindle his own.

  After a correct half an hour, Roma rose. “Now remember you are all to come. I am most eager to meet Miss Sabina Keane. One cannot have too many friends, and as she is your sister, Julia, I’m sure I shall love her dearly.”

  “Yes, of course she’ll come with us,” Mrs. Keane said, gently stepping on Mrs. Martin’s slippered toe when she would have spoken.

  “Excellent. We shall dine early for Lady Brownlow’s sake and, of course, to make the curtain.”

  Pigeon was waiting in the foyer, sans sketchbook. Once outside, Roma thanked him for accompanying her and tried to part from him. But he said firmly, “I shall walk you home.”

  He couldn’t resist taking a last glance at the house as they started away and was not at all surprised to see the curtain pulled aside once more. He imagined all three Keane women were standing there and kissed his hand to them. The curtain promptly fell.

  Roma laughed under her breath. “At school, Julia was famous for her inquisitiveness.”

  “What about you?” he asked, mindful of Pigeon behind him.

  “I was known for my deportment.”

  “I meant, what about your inquisitiveness.”

  “Mine?” she asked, shocked.

  “Yes. This passionate yearning to know everything about Miss Sabina Keane. Who is she, besides the owner of that very ungainly sketchbook? “

  “You saw that, did you?”

  “I’m not blind or mentally deficient. You evidently wanted to return the thing to Miss Keane without her family’s knowledge and, at the same time, catch a glimpse of the girl. Who is she?”

  “A changeling.” She smiled radiantly at the dumbfounded expression on his face. “Or so I hope.”

  Bret frowned. “I don’t understand you.”

  Lady Roma put her hands behind her back, her eyes on the cobbled street. “I shouldn’t say any more. We are strangers to one another, after all.”

  “Not a bit of it,” he said, moved to protest. “We are cousins, or should have been. With the added merit of being in passage. It might be years before we meet again. Therefore, we combine the closeness of relations with the charms of the passing stranger. We can say anything to one another.”

  Suddenly her whole demeanor changed. The prim, stately young woman that he’d met the last few times was gone. The eager, open friend of their first meeting had returned. “That’s it,” she said, unmistakable relief in her tone and face. “I mean... that’s true.” She glanced back at Pigeon.

  In a lower tone, she added, “I do need to speak frankly with someone. Everyone I know, however, would have their own arguments to put forward, and I don’t wish to hear them.” There was a flash of temper in the last words, yet her voice had thickened as though with unshed tears.

  Seriously alarmed, Bret looked about him for some quiet spot where they could talk. But all was Cotswold stone and faded brick without even a portico for privacy. Then, upon the right side, stood a small chapel with a deep, columned porch. Something about the name on a brown varnished plaque by the door caught at his memory, but he hadn’t time to search his mind.

  The dim interior of the Laura Chapel was quiet and cool at this hour of the morning. An underscent of damp stone and beeswax polish filtered through every breath. Though it was eleven o’clock, there was evidently no service today. He guided Roma to a pew, leaving Pigeon to walk about, reading the inscriptions and dedications on the walls.

  Bret took Roma’s hand and rested it lightly on his knee. “Tell Uncle Bret everything,” he said, rewarded by a smothered laugh.

  “I’m a fool,” she said, lifting her head. Her beautiful eyes were the color of a dew-sparkled lawn. Freeing her hand, she fumbled in her reticule and brought out a sharply ironed handkerchief. “I haven’t any proof, not a shred, but I can’t help being troubled.”

  Then she laughed outright. “You haven’t a single notion of what I’m talking about. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s something to do with the oldest Miss Keane and her satchel?”

  “Yes. My father met Miss Keane yesterday, somewhere in town. She forgot her bag.”

  “Which leads me to ask, why didn’t he return it to her at once? He is acquainted with her family through you, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. I can only imagine that he doesn’t wish her mother to know they met.”

  “Having met Mrs. Keane . . . but no. T’would be ungentlemanly to say what I’m thinking.”

  “Every mother wants an advantageous marriage for her daughter. Mrs. Keane is no worse than many others.”

  “Then you can’t blame your father for not wanting to fall into her clutches. But it’s not that fear that has you so overset, my lady. Or is it?”

  She let her hands fall helplessly. “The way he spoke about Miss Keane . . . I’ve never heard such a tone in his voice before. Such admiration, such tenderness. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but he was changed by meeting her, I’d swear to it. Powerfully changed.”

  “A man can, indeed, be changed by meeting the right woman, there’s no doubt of it,” Bret said, his voice softening. Then he grew brusque again. “I’ve known a dozen such cases. Of course, they were all young men with hot blood and short life expectancies. Your father would be—what?—fifty?”

  “He’s forty-six.”

  Bret took off his hat, the better to run his hand over his head. “It’s a difficult age, indeed. How long has he been a widower?”

  “All my life.”

  “I see. Well, I can’t blame you for not wanting him to marry again considering how long it’s been the two of you alone.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “No, you don’t understand. I should like it above all things if Father were to find a bride. A quiet woman who would be of use and comfort to him would find me a most sympathetic and loving daughter. Only ...” She paused, seeking words. Bret realized they’d come to the crux of the matter.

  “Only...” he echoed
.

  “What becomes of me?”

  “Of you? What should become of you? You’ll go on as you have done. I met your father for only a few minutes, but he didn’t seem the sort to throw you into the cold just because he marries again.”

  She sighed and looked off into the distance. “I suppose it is hard for a man to understand. You see, I have been the mistress of my own household, or as good as, since I was sixteen. I fancy that I am good at it. But if Father marries, then his wife will do those things a countess should do.”

  “As well she should.”

  ‘Yes, you’re right. They would become her duties, and she would rightly object to any interference on my part. But I do not think I could endure just sitting about.”

  “ ‘Walking by the river and practicing the harp,’ ” Bret murmured.

  “Only it’s riding and embroidery. And that is not enough to fill a day let alone a life. Well, there’s always good work among the poor.”

  “You could marry,” Bret said, in the spirit of one moving a pawn forward on a chess board.

  “I doubt it. I am told that I am too ‘tragic’ to be attractive to men.”

  Bret didn’t understand that, but the bitterness underlying her tone was like a lightning bolt striking into his heart. Suddenly, he was flamingly angry.

  Chapter Nine

  “Don’t you know... Good heavens, woman, don’t you own a mirror?”

  “Well, of course. What...”

  He half turned in the pew to face her, his elbow going up on the seat back before him. He flicked his hand and rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling as if to express in one gesture the willfulness of all women. “When first I saw you, I knew all your history. My aunt dinned it into my ears as soon as I came to stay as she loves to gossip. But when you walked into the room did I think, ‘ah, poor soul’? I did not.”

  “Didn’t you?” She leaned toward him, eager to know if what a man thought would be so different from what Dina had told her.

  “I thought that the bards hadn’t been drunk when they described the Queen of the Fairies. I had always thought the water of life must have been flowing wide an d free when they dreamed of her. But one look at you and I knew there were such women, as fair, as pure, and as cold as the stars themselves.”

  Roma lost her breath as he spoke, unable to believe he addressed such words to her. But she caught at the last phrase. “Then you—a man-—also think me cold?”

  His mouth tightened, as if something in her earnest question angered him. Suddenly, he seized her wrists and pulled her hands against his chest. Roma stared at him, wanting to shrink away and, at the same time, caught by the intensity of his eyes.

  “What chance do you give a man to think anything else?” he said in a rasping whisper. “You’re like a wife who thinks a glance at another man means disloyalty to her husband. Have you killed every spark of desire in yourself, or is it that my selfish cousin still holds you fast in his dead hands?”

  He let go of her wrists as if dropping something too hot to hold. Roma left them pressed against him for an instant, too surprised to remember propriety. She could feel his heart beating through her hands, or perhaps it was her own. One alarmed glance into his sea blue eyes and she snatched her hands away.

  Roma tried to sink back into her veil of indifference, starting to turn away. Bret reached out again, murmuring, “No ...no . . .” His fingertips grazed her cheek, making her feel the smoothness of her own skin.

  She was stunned that he would touch her so intimately, and a prickle of strange excitement came into being at the spot. He whispered her name, and she felt his hands trembling. Staring at him, she knew the instant his gaze flickered to her lips.

  Roma knew that look-—Elliot had worn it sometimes. When she’d permitted him to kiss her, she’d borne it phlegmatically as part of being engaged. She’d always closed her eyes before he’d come near.

  Now she watched in fascination as Bret laid his hands on her shoulders, drawing her close. She knew she should say something or do something to avert this kiss, but she wanted to know what it would be like to kiss Bret Donovan.

  His lips were warm, warmer and more alive than anything she’d ever felt before. They moved on hers as if they wanted to learn everything about the shape and taste of her mouth. Her eyes began to drift closed, to block out the distracting world of vision in order to feel. Yet some niggling objection prevented her from giving herself entirely up to the moment, and it was not a revival of her conscience.

  A pair of very modern gentleman’s trousering and a full sweep of dull black fabric intruded upon her view and brought her eyes fully open again. Not a dress, she thought fleetingly.

  Someone coughed carefully. Bret jerked away, surprised, frowning.

  Roma looked up, blushing hotly, and saw a man with an attractively humorous and quite tanned face smiling back. He stood next to a youthful but balding clergyman who tried unsuccessfully to look disapproving. The smile that kept twitching into life rather ruined the effect. “Oh, it’s a cassock,” Roma said almost inaudibly.

  “Jasper,” Bret said. “I might have known. What are you doing here, of all places?” He stood up and shook hands with the civilian.

  “Having a most pleasant and instructive morning, Bret, old man.” He grinned, his teeth a slash of white. There was a small white scar on the left side of an already-clefted chin and a slight tremor in the hand he held out to his friend.

  “Mr. Morningstreet’s father made a significant contribution to the building of this chapel, Mr. . . ?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Dr. Maynard. May I present my old comrade, Mr. Donovan?”

  Roma realized that neither of the two newcomers had acknowledged her after Mr. Morningstreet had smiled at her. She appreciated their delicacy. Even now she couldn’t think what had possessed her to behave so indiscreetly and in a chapel of all places. Why, it wasn’t in the least romantic, especially as she had not the least turn for the gothic. But then it was all of a piece with the effect Bret had on her from their first meeting. If they continued their acquaintance, heaven knew how she would disgrace herself next.

  Self-consciously graceful, she rose to her feet and edged past Bret. He watched her as if he wanted to hold her back but refrained himself. “Lady Roma Yarborough, may I present Dr. Maynard and Mr. Morningstreet. Mr. Morningstreet and I served in Spain together.” He sounded proud to introduce her to his friend. It was the first time he’d mentioned his service in the army since they’d met.

  Mustering her breeding, though wishing she’d stop blushing, Roma shook hands with the men. “An honor,” Mr. Morningstreet said, his voice slightly hoarse, as if from smoke or whiskey.

  “Yes, indeed,” the clergyman said with an indulgent smile. “Your father would be the celebrated antiquarian earl?”

  Oh, mercy. Did he know Father? “Yes,” she answered guardedly.

  “Would he be interested in some writings of early English fathers of the Church, do you think?”

  “How early?”

  “Anglo-Saxon.”

  “I can’t be certain,” she said, though privately certain that he would not. “However, he has a friend—the Duke of Wainsbury—who has a lively interest in such things. He believes himself to be the rightful heir to the throne of Wessex, if there were still such a thing in existence. He is always interested in documents relating to that period.”

  The churchman brightened. “Would your father consider ... a brief introduction ...”

  “Do call upon us. I know Father would be delighted to see you and to assist you if he can. Now, I must be going. No,” she said to Bret, aware of her cowardice. “My maid is waiting.”

  She hurried away, but booted footsteps followed her a moment later. While struggling with the door, Roma found a strong brown hand reaching over her shoulder. “Permit me, Lady Roma,” Jasper Morningstreet said. “May I escort you home?”

  She could only accept with the appearance of enjoyment. They chatted amiably
on common subjects, the pleasant weather, the likelihood of further rain, and the alterations being made to the town. Roma soon realized that unlike Bret, Mr. Morningstreet did not tempt her to speak her mind or behave in any but the most proper manner. Unfortunately, this also kept her from asking any of the questions that thronged her mind.

  Finally, when conversation began to hesitate, she dared to ask one. “I believe, sir, you are acquainted with a cousin of mine. Mrs. Derwent?”

  His ready smile faltered. “Mrs. Derwent? Yes, I know her. That is, we are the merest acquaintances. Did she mention me?”

  “Only in passing. You attended a concert party where she wore the same gown as another woman.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a nod. “Yes, it was most embarrassing for them both. But it will soon be forgotten, I’m sure.”

  “Not by Dina. Such things loom large in her life.”

  “I’m sure you wrong her. She seems a most forgiving woman.”

  His tone rebuked her. Roma hoped she’d not been too caustic, but who would know Dina better, her cousin or a ‘mere acquaintance’?

  She changed the subject. “Have you known Mr. Donovan a long time?”

  “Yes, indeed. We weren’t in the same regiment, but we saw a good deal of each other during the campaigns. Marching here and there, you know.”

  “We read about it, but we cannot know what it is like.”

  “It’s best that way. We ... I cannot speak for all men, but I would rather British women not know anything about the properties of war. It’s best that you stay sweet and innocent.”

  Roma tried to project an image of sweetness and innocence, but it made her face ache. She couldn’t maintain the expression for long. She’d devoured every word on the Peninsular campaign, even when news sheets didn’t reach the remoter villages for several weeks. She’d even purchased an atlas to follow the troop movements. Though she would not distress a former soldier by questioning him, she did have things she wanted to know. Yet strangely, all her questions revolved around Bret. What had happened to him? She had only Lady Brownlow’s account to go by.