Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance

by Rebecca Ward

  “Of course, dear boy, if you say so,” was the equable reply.

  Montworthy blinked. In a somewhat dampened voice he queried, “But don’t you want to race him—prove which is faster?”

  “You already said your animal was faster, didn’t you? Ton my honor, Montworthy, I wish you’d make up your mind. This ditherin’ about is fatiguin’.”

  Slowly, like an accordion folding, Lord Brandon sank into a buttercup-yellow armchair. “Lady M., is it too much to ask that you ring for a small refreshment before luncheon? Gooseberry tarts, Mrs. Horris was bakin’ this mornin’. The smell alone transported me to the gates of heaven.”

  He kissed his fingers, and Montworthy gave a disgusted snort. “All you can think of is food and clothes. There’s other things in the world, give you m’word.”

  “Like smugglers, you mean?” drawled Lord Brandon.

  “Mr. Montworthy is correct.” Like a child about to recite a lesson, Delinda sat up very straight in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “It is well known that the Dorset coast is swarming with smugglers bringing in contraband. These wicked men are undermining the economy at a time when England needs to combat the colonials in America. Anyone caught smuggling or aiding the smugglers is worse than a lawbreaker. He is a traitor to the crown.”

  “Well said!” Montworthy exclaimed.

  Flushing, Delinda murmured, “Oh, Mr. Montworthy, you are so kind, actually, it was Papa who turned the phrase—he feels so strongly that we should crush the colonials once and for all, that weak-kneed politicians are traitors. He has no use for peers like the Duke of Pershing, who counsels peace—”

  She broke off, glanced at Lord Brandon, and turned a fiery crimson. “I am so sorry,” she murmured. “I should not have said—I beg your pardon. I must leave, now.”

  She got to her feet so swiftly that she upset a small table and a porcelain figure of a yellow dog. In a soothing tone Lady Marcham said, “La, Delinda, do not refine on it. Differences of opinion are what make the world interesting. If you stuffed a pork roast with only one herb, would you have an interesting dish? No, indeed.”

  “Pork roast—oh, Lord, I almost forgot.” James withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket. “It’s from the pater,” he said. “An invitation.”

  Though he spoke to Lady Marcham, his eyes were on Cecily. Noting that Delinda’s eyes were sad, Cecily wondered if the Corinthian was completely insensitive or merely thick.

  She concentrated on her grandaunt, who had slit the envelope and was reading the contents. “Sir Carolus has been kind enough to ask us to attend a dinner party at the end of this week,” Lady Marcham said. “He says here that he is anxious to try a new recipe: a pork roast in new milk.”

  “There’ll be dancing, too.” Montworthy looked meaningfully at Cecily. “Not like London, but a country hop’s better than nothing.”

  “I do love to dance,” Delinda said wistfully.

  Montworthy did not hear her. He was saying smugly, “I’ll look forward to the honor of a waltz, Miss Vervain.”

  Both thick and insufferable. But before Cecily could think of a proper set-down for him, Lord Brandon lifted a hand. “Stop, Montworthy. What colors predominate in your drawin’ room?”

  “My—how the devil should I know? Green, I suppose. Or blue. What do you want to know for?”

  “By now you should know that I refuse to enter a room with which my costume would clash,” Lord Brandon replied gravely. “Blue or green is possible. Yellow is allowable. But should your walls and draperies be maroon—Well, well, Andrews will find out for me. He always does.”

  Andrews reported that Sir Carolus’s drawing room was decorated in tones of silver, a color that was deemed acceptable by his lordship. Consequently, on the evening of Sir Carolus’s party Lord Brandon appeared in a gray swallow-tailed coat, a shirt of dazzling white with frills, gray breeches, and white silk stockings that disappeared into high-heeled black shoes with silver buckles.

  “I wanted to wear gray pumps,” he confided to Cecily as they awaited Lady Marcham in the ground-floor anteroom, “But Andrews was against it. He was really adamant about it, so I let him have his way.”

  He paused and raised his quizzing glass. “You are very fine tonight, Miss Verving. That shade of ivory emphasizes the cream and roses of your cheeks and turns your eyes to silver. Most becomin’, ’pon my honor.”

  From any other gentleman this would have been a compliment. Lord Brandon spoke the words with dispassionate interest.

  “Your hair is exquisite, too,” he continued judiciously. “I am gratified to see you didn’t torture it by crimpin’ it into one of the popular styles. A pity that you needed to confine it into that chignon, however. Hair like yours should be allowed to flow free—like a dark waterfall.”

  As he spoke, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The words, the gesture, were so at variance with his stilted speech that Cecily stared in astonishment. Then he raised a hand to hide a yawn.

  “A curl had fallen upon your cheek,” he explained. “Charmin’, of course, but it spoiled perfection.”

  She could still feel his fingers against her skin. Assured and cool, they had seemed to pulse with an inner fire. With some difficulty Cecily shrugged aside such imbecilic imaginings and replied, “I am not fond of perfection, Lord Brandon. It is cold and haughty.”

  “Who is cold and haughty?” Lady Marcham asked. She had just appeared on the stairs and looked magnificent in her green silk slip with its overdress of silver gauze. Emeralds and diamonds glistened at her neck and in her ears and on her fingers and in her crown of silver hair.

  Cecily clapped her hands together in admiration, and Lord Brandon bowed with languid grace. “Madam Godmother, you look the way a queen would want to look.”

  As he escorted them toward the waiting barouche, he regaled them with amusing stories about royalty with whom he was apparently on good terms. In his languid fashion he kept the ladies entertained while the coach followed the sea road, circled Lady Marcham’s woods, and then rattled inland across the meadows to Montworthy House.

  Though not overlarge, Montworthy House was a handsome property. Sir Carolus’s ancestor had built his home in the time of the Tudors, and at that time it must have been an austere and rather formidable place. Now, under the squire’s hand, it had changed its character. The front of the house was set off with roses and friendly summer flowers, and a large kitchen garden could be glimpsed in the back.

  Sir Carolus himself came trotting down the stairs to greet them at the door. “Dear Lady Marcham,” he chirruped, “I am honored to see you. Miss Vervain, your most obedient. Lord Brandon, one makes bold to say that you will not be disappointed tonight. Together with the pork roast in new milk, there will be a mushroom pasty cooked with onions and cream.”

  “Your creation, Sir Carolus?” Lady Marcham smiled.

  “Alas, no. One wished to assist in its preparation, but the cook would not allow it.” The little squire sighed deeply. “One must expect disappointments in life.”

  He escorted them up a curved staircase and into a foyer where an orchestra was playing for the pleasure of the arriving guests. “We shall have dancing later,” Sir Carolus explained diffidently. “One feels too old for such pastimes, but James insists that a party without dancing is like lamb without the mint. Ah, here is the drawing room. Will you come this way?”

  As Cecily started to follow her Aunt Emerald, Brandon slid an arm through hers. “Don’t,” he said.

  She turned to look wonderingly at him, and he nodded to a thin matron in a plum-colored dress and matching turban. “See that female bearin’ down on Lady M.? That’s Lady Breek. She’s a gabble-monger who clacks away like a Spanish dancer’s castanets. Listenin’ to her is almost as bad as dancin’.”

  “I collect that you do not dance.”

  Lord Brandon looked pained. “Pershing insisted we learn, and it was worse than learnin’ to ride. Dancin’ is an exhaustin’ pastime, ’p
on my honor. What do you think, Miss Verving?”

  Before Cecily could reply, a loud male voice exclaimed, “I tell you this. If those rebels don’t watch themselves, they’ll soon be dancing to another tune.”

  Lord Brandon winced visibly at Montworthy’s declaration, and Cecily glanced askance at a group of young men nearby. All of them, except for an officer in scarlet regimentals, wore gold braid on their sleeves.

  “The colonel’s Riders,” Lord Brandon sighed. “We are caught between the devil and the dark blue sea.”

  Cecily glanced hopefully toward Lady Marcham and noted that she and Lady Breek were deep in conversation. At least Lady Breek was doing the talking, and Aunt Emerald’s eyes had become glassy as she listened.

  Montworthy was declaiming, “It’s as Colonel Howard says. We’re a great nation. Damn it, Jermayne, we can easily crush America.”

  Beside Cecily, Lord Brandon stiffened. He looked hard at the officer in regimentals, who was protesting, “Not that easy to fight a whole nation. By Jove, no. You’d have to hire mercenaries. It’ll beggar the treasury.”

  A chorus of disclaimers rose at once. The officer shrugged and turned away, and Cecily caught a glimpse of a sun-darkened face with a puckered scar seaming one cheek.

  She had no time to observe more before Lord Brandon caught her by the elbow and began to propel her in the direction of some French windows. “What are you doing?” she asked indignantly.

  “You were wonderin’ how to escape all those tiresome people, weren’t you?” his lordship demanded.

  There was surprising strength in Lord Brandon’s arm, and Cecily was swept effortlessly forward. Knowing that to resist would cause a scene, she allowed herself to be walked through some French windows onto a balcony. As soon as they were alone, she rounded on him.

  “Of all the rag-mannered tricks,” she exclaimed. “I did not ask to be brought here, sir.”

  “No, but you’ll have to admit it’s more pleasant than in there,” Brandon drawled.

  About to sweep back into the drawing room, Cecily felt a breeze laden with the scent of roses and honeysuckle touch her cheek. She could not resist pausing to glance over her shoulder and saw that the balcony overlooked Sir Carolus’s gardens.

  It was much more pleasant there, but the forms had to be observed. “I must go in,” Cecily said.

  “Why?” Lord Brandon wanted to know.

  Cecily started to speak, then stopped as Lord Brandon continued. “Don’t let customs dictate your behavior. Think for yourself.”

  In spite of herself Cecily could not help smiling. “My father used to say that. He said that manners change but truth stays constant.” She leaned forward, so that her elbows rested on the marble edge of the balcony. “He warned me that if I did not think independently, I could never be a free woman.”

  “Then he was a clear-thinking man, a rarity in any age.”

  Was it a trick of her imagination, or had Lord Brandon’s voice changed somehow? Cecily glanced at the man beside her, but his face was in shadow.

  “No wonder you are the kind of woman you are,” he continued.

  “I do not think—” Cecily began, but he silenced her.

  “You do think. That is what I find so delightful about you.”

  This was not a proper conversation. Cecily knew that she should end it, put Lord Brandon in his place, and return to the others. Instead, she heard herself say, “Others do not share your view. I am persuaded that Colonel Howard cannot credit that a female has two thoughts to rub together, and there are many more like him in the world.”

  “If you could create your own world, what would it be like?” Dimly Cecily realized that Lord Brandon was also leaning against the edge of the balcony. He was so near that his coat sleeve brushed her bare arm as he said, “Come, pretend with me that we are a universe away from anyone else.”

  With a jolt of consternation, Cecily realized that she had been thinking that same thing. Sir Carolus’s guests had disappeared. Annoying memories of Colonel Howard and James Montworthy had become unimportant. All that remained was the flower-drenched night and the man by her side.

  “We must rejoin the others.” She had meant to say the words firmly, but they came out in a hen-hearted whisper.

  Brandon could feel her arm tremble against his, and when he turned to look down at her, he could discern the uncertain look in her eyes. The curve of her mouth made her appear vulnerable, and a fierce need to kiss that mouth rose in him. Though he reminded himself of the reason that had brought him to Dorset, his logic seemed to have taken French leave. In this magical instant nothing mattered more to Brandon than this girl beside him with moon-silver in her eyes.

  She must rejoin the others. Cecily had half turned to go when she heard Lord Brandon say, “Don’t go, Celia.”

  Her startled eyes flew up to meet his, and at the look in his eyes her heart seemed to pause. It was incredible—impossible—that she wanted the effete Lord Brandon to kiss her, but this man did not seem to be Lord Brandon. It was as though a stranger, and yet not a stranger, stood beside her in the rose-scented night. When he took her hand, Cecily did not have the strength of mind to pull away.

  “Celia,” Lord Brandon murmured.

  Just then, a shadowy form came striding out of the French windows. It stopped short, and a startled male voice exclaimed, “Is someone else out here?”

  Chapter Five

  Letting go of Cecily’s hand, Lord Brandon took several steps backward and collided painfully with the marble rail of the balcony. Meanwhile the intruder was apologizing, “Only wanted to blow a cloud. Talk in there’s as moldy as old cheese. No wish to disturb anybody. By Jove, no.”

  “You are not disturbin’ us,” Lord Brandon replied. “This lady felt faint and was takin’ the air. If you’re feelin’ restored, ma’am, shall we go in?”

  He offered Cecily his arm, but before she could take it, the newcomer exclaimed, “It is you, Brandon!”

  He seized Lord Brandon’s hand and began to pump it forcefully. “Thought so earlier but wasn’t sure. What are you doing here in Dorset?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, Jermayne. I thought you were in Portugal.”

  “Furlough, old man.” By a shaft of light that filtered through the open French windows, Cecily could see that the newcomer was tall and had a long face bisected by a drooping, sandy mustache. The scar on his cheek stood out starkly against his sun-darkened skin.

  “Boney’s quiet for the time being,” he continued, “so I’m rusticating.” He paused, coughed behind his fist, and made a jerky bow in Cecily’s direction. “Servant, ma’am,” he said shyly. “Didn’t mean to intrude. Hope you’re feeling more the thing. I’ll leave you now.”

  “Let me present you first. Miss Verving, this is Captain Allan Jermayne, of the Fourth Dragoon Guards.”

  The captain reiterated his jerky bow and professed himself to be Cecily’s most obedient. Then he said, “Happy to run into you, Brandon. Traveling through Dorset and stopped to see Sir Carolus. He was friends with my father in his school days. He insisted I stay for his party.”

  He sounded morose, and Lord Brandon asked languidly, “Not enjoyin’ the evenin’?”

  “Oh, God, no—beg pardon, ma’am. Hell—I don’t mean, that, neither,” the captain stammered. “More used to battlefields than drawing rooms. Rough tongue. Soldier. Used to foul language. Sorry I swore.”

  He looked so uncomfortable that Cecily’s sympathies were aroused. “I pray that you will not regard it,” she said gently. “In certain peoples’ company, I often want to use foul language.”

  The captain peered at her, then smiled a shy smile. “Good of you to say so, ma’am. Very kind. But females—I mean, ladies—with fans and gewgaws make me nervous. And the men in fancy dress are worse. Eh? A lot of counter-coxcombs—”

  Here his eye fell on Lord Brandon’s attire, and he stammered into silence. “It is getting quite cool,” Cecily said hastily. “I think we should go in.
”

  Trailed by the captain, Lord Brandon escorted Cecily back into the drawing room, where members of the orchestra were taking their places. The floor had been cleared for dancing, and chaperons were positioning themselves. Younger ladies were beginning to cast hopeful glances at the cluster of the colonel’s Riders, who were still holding forth on the war with the colonies.

  “Young muttonheads,” Captain Jermayne remarked dispassionately. “Don’t look like they know the first thing about war. I wonder what they’d have done in our shoes at Salamanca, Brandon.”

  “You were at Salamanca together?” Cecily asked, astonished.

  The captain nodded. “We were that. I nearly died there. Would have, if Brandon hadn’t—”

  “Ah, the orchestra has begun,” Lord Brandon interrupted. “Will you honor me, Miss Verving?”

  Before she knew what he was about, she was in his arms and being whirled away onto the floor in a very fast waltz.

  It all happened so quickly that Cecily had no time to protest. And after the first astonished moment, she did not particularly want to protest, for she realized that Lord Brandon was an accomplished dancer.

  Almost from the cradle Cecily had loved to dance. Her unconventional parents had encouraged this, and one of her happiest nursery memories was that of waltzing with her laughing young mother while her father accompanied them on the pianoforte.

  She had forgotten all about that golden moment, but now as she spun about in Lord Brandon’s arms, the memory was rekindled. “Am I going too fast for you, Celia?” he was asking.

  Cecily would not admit to a breathlessness caused, no doubt, by the fast pace of the dance.

  “To tell you the truth, I do not know why I am dancing with you,” she retorted. “And my name is not Celia.”

  “It suits you.” Cecily felt the surprisingly strong arm around her waist tighten. “You’ve read what Jonson writes ’To Celia,’ haven’t you? ’Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine—”

  “I do not see,” Cecily said severely, “that that has anything to do with me. And pray stop singing, Lord Brandon. You are making a cake of yourself.”