by Edith Layton
And then he saw the iron gate.
It was exactly as Robert had described it. Skye felt like a boy on a pony too, though Albion and he must stand many hands higher than the boy Robert had been when he’d encountered it. The gate was formidable, even now. Tall and wide, dark with age and corrosion, secured with a huge hanging lock. The bars were thick and straight, except at the top. Skye bent back his head to see it was topped with intricate spirals and curlicues. Very decorative. And deadly. Because they ended in sharp points, enough to discourage any man mad enough to even think of climbing over. But it made a man consider just that. Because surely there must be significant treasure in a house requiring such defenses.
Robert said he’d turned away to find the key, then turned back to find it had all been an illusion wrought by the overgrown hedgerows. Skye nudged Albion forward. The great horse hesitated, but took a few nervous paces to the gate. Then balked. Skye had to lean over in order to grasp the lock. Not an illusion. Not hedges. Robert had likely been only too happy to declare it a delusion and ride away. It would have been daunting to a boy. Skye found it challenging.
There was wealth here. Which meant that whoever lived here, pirate or peer, had an interesting story to tell. And Skye was starved for diversion. He considered the matter. He dropped his hand and the lock swung down—and struck the gate—which jolted, then slowly swung ajar.
Even Albion’s ears went up.
Skye rode slowly through the gate and down a meandering drive. The form of it was too gracious for chance. Once it had been surrounded by a gracious lawn. Now the grass looked untended by anything but sheep. Skye expected to come upon a ruin, so he blinked when the house finally came into sight. It sat atop a gentle rise, a tall and gracious manor house of golden stone, in the style of the first George. It was fronted by a circular drive the wind had swept clean of everything but its cobbles. There wasn’t a mark of fire or rot on the place, and as he rode close, Skye’s spirits lifted.
“Well, well,” he told Albion, “what have we here? A neighbor with taste and money? This visit might not be as blighted as I’d thought. We may be able to stick it out until Robert comes to rescue us, eh lad? At least, the story of how Robert panicked and turned tail those years ago should amuse them. It’s a good excuse for an impromptu call, isn’t it?”
He rode up the drive. But no helpful lads came pelting from the nearby stables to greet him. No groom came to take the reins when he dismounted. No dog barked, no servant peered out of any of the many windows glinting in the sunshine. The only sound or motion was that of the wind, gently riffling through the lawn of tall dried grass, making it bow in waves.
Skye tied Albion to a post at the side of the drive, and went quickly up the short marble stair to the great golden oak door. He raised the knocker. It fell. And for the second time that morning a door opened by itself. Just a crack, but enough for Skye to realize it was unlatched. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck rise. He cleared his throat. He coughed. He waited. Then, defenseless against his own curiosity, he raised one gloved finger to ease the door all the way open, expecting to see a deserted shell of a house inside.
But it was a handsome interior. The wind pushed past him and threw the door wide so he could see a hall with a grand rotunda and sweeping stair. Patterns of light from high windows at the sides of the stair illuminated the marble floor, showing off a checked gold, black, and white pattern. Vases in the niches of the wall held dried floral arrangements. And everywhere, there were strewn flowers, confetti, and ribbons. The breeze blowing in through the opened door sent them swirling in a gay dance of welcome.
Skye stood, pondering the empty house that seemed so full of life and beauty. No one was there, but it didn’t feel deserted. He looked around the hall, his eyes adjusting to the leaping shifting light.… His shoulders leapt. He froze.
There was a man sprawled on the stair. He was dressed like a footman from another century, with a powdered wig tied back in a queue, a tight maroon jacket trimmed with lace, breeches, and silver-buckled high-heeled shoes.… His mouth hung open.
Skye had served on blood-soaked battlefields, but for a second, he hesitated to draw nearer. Domestic death was very different from what happened on a battlefield. But he didn’t lack courage. He took a deep breath and stepped closer to see if the fellow was still breathing…
…and heard a light snore.
Skye grinned. Of course. It was early morning. The litter on the floor was the residue of gaiety. There’d been a party. A monstrous fine party, a masquerade from the looks of things. Of course! Masquerades were all the rage this season in London. Skye chuckled to himself as it all came clear. Everyone was likely still abed, sleeping it off. Except for the servants, who slept where they were supposed to serve. So even they must have joined in the fun. It would be unheard of in a well-managed home in London, but manners were freer deep in the countryside. Too bad he’d missed it, Skye thought, it must have been a grand fete. Because here he was, practically romping through a stranger’s home, and no one yet the wiser.
An imp of curiosity, prodded by the knowledge of the certain boredom that awaited him if he decided to just turn and leave, made him decide to have a more thorough look around. If he woke anyone, he reasoned, all the better.
But a quick look in through a few doors showed him the revelers were still dead to the world. They were all in costume, and all asleep. Guests slept on, slumped, glasses still in hand, on chairs and settees, even on the sides of the ballroom floor. A pair of lovers curled in each other’s arms on a sofa in the library. Revelers drowsed here and there in the coatroom. A peek into the kitchen made him yawn himself. The cook, also outfitted in gay regalia, sat snoring in a big chair by a dead fire, a trio of tumbled maids dreaming in their pallets on the hearth. Even the potboy dozed on his pallet, his arm round a yellow turn-spit dog, who didn’t so much as open an eye when Skye peered in at them.
He was disappointed, but curiously reluctant to go just yet. The place began to remind him of a childhood nursery tale, of an enchanted kingdom, and a princess, pricked by a spindle, who slept for a hundred years. Skye chided himself. While comfortable, this place was no palace…and he was a grown man, for God’s sake! He gazed up the long stair. He was an intruder. A prowler, truth to tell. He was, he supposed, looking for trouble. But trouble would be better than the loneliness and gloom that were his only other options today. He took to the stairs.
The upstairs was still, every door to every room in the long hall closed. There was a limit to his audacity, so he turned to go…and saw sunlight streaming through an upper window shining on one oaken door, setting it blazing like glowing gold. It was like a sign. Or so he told himself. One look, Skye promised himself, one last peek and then he’d be gone. That way, he could return tomorrow with an even better reason to visit, to regale them all with the story of this visit. Of how exhausted they’d been, and the foolish fancies that had entertained him because of it. But for now—one last look.
He lay a hand on the door and, not surprised to find it unlatched, pushed it slowly open.
And saw her.
She was the princess from the long-lost tale. Dressed in the costume of a princess, at least. She wore a rose and gold gown, with a great bell of a skirt. The gown was nipped at the waist, and low at the breast.… Skye stepped closer. She was young, but not so young that the cut of the gown didn’t show two shapely breasts that rose and fell with each slow breath. That exposed skin was pure ivory. The dreaming young lady’s neck was slender, her face—enchanting. Long lashes covered tilted eyes. A straight little nose. Her brows were cinnamon, but he couldn’t tell the color of her hair because she wore an ornate white wig, dressed with rosebuds the precise shape of that captivating, half-parted, pink mouth.
On impulse, because if he was thinking, he’d never have dared, Skye went to her. The fellow in that story had been a prince, and he was only a gentleman, but the impulse was as irresistible as her lips were. He bent, and kissed h
er.
Her lips were warm. He tasted cherry wine, and kept kissing those delicious lips until he felt her mouth quicken under his. Her steady breaths slowed and halted—and became a long soft sigh. Her mouth changed, trembling under his. Her lips parted further.…
He stepped back, rueful now.
It had not, after all, been a gentlemanly thing to do. But he couldn’t regret it whatever the outcome. He gazed at her, bemused, and waited. Her eyelids fluttered open. Light-drenched amber eyes looked at him in confusion, and then with dawning comprehension. He awaited a screech, or a shout, and winced, readying himself for a commotion. She stared at him. Those rosebud lips parted again. “Oh!” she breathed. “It’s you!”
*
She’d been dreaming of a kiss. A long delicious kiss, unlike any she’d ever had, exactly like the one she’d always dreamed about. She sighed, opened her eyes—and saw him. Almost exactly the man she’d always hoped for. At least, a fascinating stranger. More than handsome. But alone with her. In her bedchamber… For a moment she thought of screeching, bringing the house down around his ears.… But they were such interesting ears. In that second of reflection she remembered. The party. The games. The costumes. Of course. Her parents had laughingly told her that if she didn’t meet the man of her dreams at this party, she never would. So she’d gone to her room at last, disgruntled, because it looked as though she never would. But now, to open her eyes to him?
She stared, seeing him clearly in the morning light. Nothing she’d imagined. Everything she could have hoped for. Tall and well-made. His dark hair was cropped, as though he’d recently recovered from a fever. Which might account for how lean his face was. A good face. Clean-shaven, with planes and edges, and astonishingly long-lashed gray eyes. A narrow high-bridged nose. Firm lips, now tilting in a ruefully amused smile as she felt her face warm, remembering just what those lips had felt like against her own. Not a boy. A man.
Dressed strangely, of course. The masquerade—a late guest then—surprising her in her bed! How embarrassing. She sat up, and felt her head whirl and the world spin round her. Strong arms went round her too.
“Whoa!” he breathed against her cheek. “Wait until your head and stomach settle before you move quickly. I know that feeling too well. Take a deep breath.”
She did, and scented sandalwood and shaving soap. Not a whit of sweat and only a tint of horse. She was enchanted. She relaxed, happy to lie back in his arms, inhaling. And tingling.
“You arrived late,” she finally said. “I’m sure we never met.”
“Be sure of that,” he said on a shaken laugh. “I’m sure I’m your latest guest too. I only arrived this morning.”
“No!” she said, trying to sit up a little, and daring to look into his eyes. “Have you come far?”
“From the ends of the world,” he said, his eyes tender as his voice. “London Town.”
“No!” she said again, impressed. “And not afraid of the roads by night?”
“I didn’t drive by night. I’m staying at the Pruitts’ cottage, not far from here. Or perhaps far—I can hardly tell, the countryside’s so thickly forested hereabouts.”
“Only to you City folk,” she rallied. “But…the Pruitts? Isn’t Sir Pruitt in London Town now?”
“Yes. Do you know Robert? Trust him to know the most beautiful girl in any neighborhood—and not tell me. I’ve a score to settle with him now.”
Her brow furrowed. “Robert? Nay, I do not know him. ’Tis only Old Master William and his wife who bide there now.”
“Robert’s my friend, I don’t know the rest of his family very well,” Skye explained. “I’ve only been at their house here for a matter of days. On a repairing lease. Town life got too much for me.” Since she was still watching him with an adorable air of puzzlement, he added, “I’ve only recently returned from the war and haven’t adjusted to civilian life as yet.”
“Oh!” she said, her brow clearing. “Then I can’t blame you. Poor fellow. You were in Spain?”
He nodded.
“Those curst Frenchies!” she exclaimed.
“But not so curst if they made it possible for me to meet you,” he said, smiling at her again.
She ducked her head, blushing. His accent was strange, probably because he spent so much time in foreign parts. London! She didn’t know anyone who actually lived there.
“You came costumed as a Roundhead, then?” she asked, noting his attire, peeping at him from under her lashes so as not to appear a bold minx.
“I’m not such a dull fellow as that, surely,” he laughed, glancing down at his maroon and gold waistcoat. “In fact, this is almost gaudy enough to get me banned from Almack’s—in London—it’s the place to be,” he told her, noting her puzzlement. “But I was in the Holiday spirit when I ordered it.
“Truth is…” he said uneasily, “I didn’t choose a costume because I didn’t know about the party until I got here. I’m afraid I’m entirely an interloper. I came to your house this morning on a different errand—I’ll tell you about it someday. But the thing is, it’s broad morning and no one was stirring. I was curious as to why everyone was still sleeping. Alarmed, as well. I suppose just because I’m so newly returned to peace and tranquillity I immediately leapt to the wrong, and worst conclusions. So I investigated the house to…to be sure nothing was wrong,” he concluded triumphantly.
She gazed into his eyes. He looked down into hers.
“And found everything more right than I could have imagined,” he added softly.
She colored and lowered her eyes. And raised them again.
He leaned closer.
“Mirabelle! Daughter!” a loud voice intruded, in horror. “And just who is this fine fellow I find in your bed, prithee?”
*
“Well, well, well,” Squire Roundeville said merrily, slapping his hands on his knee, “a fine round tale, is it not, Wife?”
His wife shook her head, “Nay, not a round one so much as a rousing one, Husband. I vow I haven’t been so entertained in weeks!”
“Years!” the squire countered, as they exchanged glances and burst into laughter.
But they were a jolly pair, Skye thought again with relief. They were the perfect hosts as they sat with him and their daughter in the front parlor before a blazing fire, sipping aged wine and chatting.
“The wine is good, but I’d have preferred tea—if things were halfway normal hereabouts,” Squire said gruffly, looking down into the garnet contents of his glass. He sighed. “But the blasted kitchen staff is still rubbing sleep from their eyes. Would think they’d slept for a hundred years instead of a long winter’s night,” he added with another glance at his wife. She looked shocked, then embarrassed, and turned to see Skye’s reaction.
He stared, his glass arrested halfway to his lips.
“Confess!” Squire chuckled. “That’s just what you were thinking, eh? Had to be, right? What with your friend’s story of an enchanted gate and whatnot, not to mention the look of the place when you got here?”
“And the enchanted princess I found, yes, of course,” Skye said, looking at Mirabelle.
She grinned at him. “A princess, is it? Ho. Wait ’til you get to know me, sirrah, before you confer such titles on me.”
“I can hardly wait,” Skye said honestly.
She made a saucy face, but he noticed her color was still high. And it wasn’t just the dusting of rouge on her cheeks. Well, he thought, no doubt his own face had been something to see when her father and mother had appeared in her bedroom doorway. He’d shot to his feet, stammering like a schoolboy, and then collected himself enough to make his apologies and give his explanations. But all the while he’d expected either to have to defend himself from the thrashing her father would have every right to try to give him—or prepare for the wedding her mother would have every right to expect to immediately arrange.
To be found sitting in a young woman’s bedchamber, on her very bed, in fact, with his lips almos
t upon hers? He had compromised himself, and her. And was ready to pay the consequences.
But they’d waited. And listened. They’d looked long and hard at him, taking his measure. They must have liked what they saw. Because they’d exchanged a glance, and nodded in unspoken agreement. And then welcomed him to their home.
When he’d been sure he’d been forgiven, Skye said he’d be on his way. But in the same spirit of rural hospitality, Squire insisted he wait and have a visit with them this very day. Then they’d had to go see to their sleepy staff, and send their yawning guests on their way—or back to the bedchambers they occupied in the manor. As so often was the case when a party was given deep in the countryside, most were staying over, because travel was taxing, the roads difficult, the weather unpredictable, and the houses few and far between.
Now his hosts were back, and fully awake. But they were still in their costumes. They must have raided every trunk in the attic, Skye thought. They wore powdered wigs and lovely antique finery. Squire, a portly fellow with an engaging smile, looked as though he’d modeled his costume after some bucolic Justice of the Peace in Mr. Fieldings’ naughty book Tom Jones. His wife, a comely woman, was his perfect partner in a panniered gown enlivened by gems and spangles. The little family looked like they’d stepped out of history. Skye half wished they’d remain so, if only because Mirabelle looked so rare and uncommonly lovely.
She was almost too theatrical for daylight. She wore jewels at her ears and on her fingers; even her high-heeled shoes were crusted with brilliants. She sparkled in the sunlight, glittering with every movement. Now, in the bright light, he could see her lips as well as her cheeks were dusted with rouge, and her eyelashes darkened with soot. In fact, she was as painted as an actress on the stage—or any tart on London’s streets. But it fit her costume perfectly. And since the skin beneath the paint was perfect, and her eyes so clear, she looked dazzling, not tawdry.
Skye never thought he’d find a be-wigged, be-ringed, and painted lady so utter beguiling. But he found himself regretting the fact that next time they met she’d be a proper young lady of fashion—walking softly in silken slippers, pallid and correct in a demure pastel gown, the only dazzling colors permitted in her fan or shawl. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he’d get to see the color and texture of her hair.