by Liz Tyner
‘I have always been more like Grandfather than like you,’ Fox said.
‘That would not be something I’d be proud of.’
*
Rebecca sat beside Beatrice in the carriage. This time there would be no turning around. Her home was behind her and the thought of leaving clogged her throat, making breathing difficult and smiling impossible. She just wished not to cry in front of her new relatives.
Beatrice kept adjusting the bonnet, trying to make it fit in a space not designed to accommodate the whole ostrich on top of the woman’s head. ‘I dare say they could make the carriage tops a little higher without too much work. Why, I’m a little dumpling and the plumes I wear are constantly getting broken on carriage roofs.’ She turned to Rebecca. ‘Is that why you don’t wear plumes? Your height? You don’t want them mangled?’
‘I… It’s not…’
‘Rebecca’s father wished for her to not outshine his congregation,’ Fox inserted. Then he looked at her. ‘Beatrice and Cousin Lily will be able to guide you to some of the best shops and seamstresses. You’ll have the world at your fingertips and all you wish at your disposal.’
She kept her hands still. Even in the dress her mother made—that she’d struggled to fit into—Beatrice’s everyday wear squashed Rebecca into a corner.
She could never wear the bright colours and feathers that Beatrice sported. And if her other new cousin, Lily, was of the same sort, she doubted either of them would be able to give her guidance on anything she might like.
Andrew studied her face. ‘Don’t misjudge my wife,’ he said, giving Rebecca an encouraging glance. He touched the grey waistcoat under his black frock coat. ‘She is quite content to keep the little flourishes of style that suit her so well minimalised on other people.’
Rebecca knew that more of her dismay must have shown on her face than she realised.
‘It has taken me months to convince him to wear the tiniest splash of colour,’ Beatrice said. ‘Months.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I would love to shop with you, but don’t expect that it will all be scarlet and red and vermilion. Vermilion. My favourite colour. While I pretend…’ she dragged the word out ‘…to want my husband to brighten his clothing, I quite realise he is best suited in the more sombre colours.’ She appraised Foxworthy and leaned forward. ‘Foxworthy, on the other hand, has always favoured the bold.’
Beatrice leaned forward, almost touching Fox’s cravat with a wave of her hand.
‘You had on quite the bluest waistcoat once,’ Beatrice said to Fox, ‘and a pair of red riding gloves. Do you still have them?’
‘I’m sure, dearest cousin. I think my valet has hidden them away.’ He hardly seemed aware of his own words and his eyes had a bit of tiredness smudged under them.
‘I should paint your portrait in them.’
‘There is hope for me then.’ A shimmer of lightness shone in his face. ‘If you could fix this nose and make me look like I did before.’
‘You are more distinguished now.’ Beatrice studied him with the same glare of the vicar staring at a child who’d just pummelled another. ‘And it would be a contrast. The waistcoat. The gloves. The eyes, and then the bit of scarring.’
‘Would you have liked it quite better if they’d taken my nose completely off?’ His words were even lighter than before, laced by a hint of laughter, but a hint of grit hid somewhere in them.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Beatrice studied him. ‘It might have been gory for a portrait, but still, a hint of shadow would have corrected that. It truly isn’t your features I wish to capture, but what is beyond them.’
‘Then I fear you will have quite the difficult portrait,’ Fox said, the merest challenge in the tilt of his chin. ‘A portrait of a few bones. A hank of hair and some smiling flesh.’ He gave a whimsical shudder.
Andrew moved in the seat, pulling his coat into a more comfortable position. ‘I’d really like to see how Beatrice’s brush paints you, Fox.’ He lowered his chin, staring across at his cousin. ‘You know she sorts out her thoughts about a person as she daubs paint on canvas. You might…’ he squinted at Fox ‘…be painted as a ferret with a broken nose.’
Fox raised one finger, twirling an imaginary whisker. ‘My ferreting days are over. So I must pass on that considerate offer.’ He leaned forward, took her gloved hand and dusted a kiss in the air above it before settling back into place. ‘Besides, I will hardly have time to spare as I’m sure I’ll have so much to catch up on when I return to London.’
‘Oh, you could easily make time for a portrait sitting or two,’ Beatrice chirped.
‘I doubt it,’ Fox said, ‘though I would so much like to do so. I fear, because of my dashed charm, you might be inclined to make me even more charming than I am and I simply could not bear to have it in my mind that your picture of me outshines the one of your husband.’
He leaned forward. ‘Do you still have that quaint little estate you owned before your marriage?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Ghastly Green is still mine. But Andrew gutted it. Completely altered it. It doesn’t look like the inside of a nightmare now.’
Andrew sat straight, uncrossed his arms and stretched a bit. ‘Only took a few superficial changes. You’d hardly recognise it now. As soon as the gardens are finished, we plan to sell it. Should make a tidy profit for Bea.’
‘Let me lease it for half a year.’ For a moment, his face darkened, but then the brightness returned. ‘That will bring it into springtime and have a chance for the grounds to be complete.’
Beatrice smirked and leaned forward. ‘How could I not—if you promise to pose for a portrait later?’
‘How could I let you waste your time so? Consider that I’m newlywed and your dear new cousin Rebecca might wish not to be thrust into the hustle and bustle of my mother’s world so quickly.’
‘Well, when you put it that way, how could I possibly refuse?’ Beatrice said. ‘But later on I may insist on a portrait.’
‘That you may,’ he said. ‘Although I may insist not to sit for it.’
‘The house is not to your taste,’ Andrew said. ‘No gilt. No gold. No oversized mirrors.’
‘What? No oversized mirrors? How will I survive?’ Then a bit of tiredness returned to his eyes and he looked at Andrew. ‘I’d rather no one around the ton knows I’ve moved.’
Andrew’s pose didn’t change, but his eyes left Fox and moved to Beatrice.
‘Of course I can keep a secret,’ she said. She crossed one arm over her chest and tapped her chin. ‘Or I could at least find out if it’s possible.’
‘You’ll have to let your mother know where you’re living, though.’ Andrew stretched to the confines of the carriage.
Fox’s eyes locked on to the passing countryside and his answer was little more than a grunt of agreement. Then his eyes met and caught Rebecca’s. No humour. No smile. Nothing.
In that moment, she decided the fake Foxworthy might be a lot easier to live with than the true one.
Chapter Fifteen
Andrew and Beatrice had invited them in. Foxworthy had refused nicely. Beatrice had started insisting, but Andrew had put a hand on her arm. That single touch had completely changed Beatrice’s attention.
The couple had stepped out of the carriage at Andrew’s home, their backs to the vehicle window. Andrew told the driver where to take Foxworthy and Rebecca. Just enough light remained in the day that Rebecca could see Beatrice lean into Andrew and touch her earrings before the carriage horses moved again.
Rebecca stared out the window while the carriage pulled away, not wanting to read in his thoughts that he didn’t have his cousin’s enthusiasm for marriage.
Fox watched her, smiled one of the polite smiles, but didn’t speak. Only seconds before she’d thought it grand that a couple could communicate with only a glance, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Rebecca moved tighter into the seat, trying not to think of anything but the bounces of the vehicle.
The carria
ge plodded along to the house Beatrice called Ghastly Green and each bounce jarred an ache inside her. She pulled the pelisse closer, wishing it blocked the night’s chill.
Then they jolted to a stop in front of a house that stood in a shadow rising to the stars. Two murky lights shone in the very lowest window, and a light at one of the upper windows could have been the reflection of the moon.
She couldn’t see Foxworthy’s expression, but she could hear his silence as he helped her alight.
He held an arm out to her at the steps, and she paused, staring at it a moment before taking it, not quite understanding why he offered help. The extended elbow was more the surprise to her than anything else. And the few little steps into the house looked mountainous.
She took his arm, held herself tall and moved with him.
‘We had an eventful Tuesday,’ Fox said, opening the door for her to precede him into the house.
She nodded, feeling like those feathers of Beatrice’s after they’d been bumped on the carriage roof too many times.
Her head spun when she moved and she touched her stomach. She would never make it if she didn’t have something to eat. A biscuit even. She didn’t think she’d had any food all day, worried the dress would not fit.
They both stopped. The coachman had insisted they wait until he had stirred the staff enough to light the way.
Fox waited, rocking on his heels.
‘Which way is the kitchen?’ she asked.
‘I have no idea.’
‘I must find it.’
‘We can go upstairs and find a way to ring for a servant. That will probably be quicker.’
She paused. The stairs loomed and she didn’t even want to raise her head to view the top of them. She didn’t move.
He put an arm around her waist. ‘Come on, Rebeca. You can do this.’ Even in her state, she could hear the rumbling caress of his voice, but she was so tired it hardly seemed she was in the same room with her body.
‘I’ll see to a meal in a few moments.’ He tightened his arm, steadying her. He kept one arm on the stair rail and her snug at his side. If her feet gave way she wouldn’t fall. He guided her up the dark stairs and into a tomb-dark house.
At the first floor they reached, he walked down the hallway. She could hear his hand sliding along a wall. A knob rattled.
He opened the door. ‘We can wait here.’
‘Yes,’ she said, moving into the room as carefully as she would have crept into a crypt. Enough light shone in through the open window curtains that they could make out the shapes of furniture.
The rooms didn’t smell of dust as she’d expected, but of paint and starch and newness.
Within moments, footsteps sounded in the hallway and a halo of light touched the entrance.
‘In here,’ Fox called out.
A servant, silver hair mussed, looking dazed and with a lamp in each hand, entered the room.
Fox took one of the lamps and held out his hand for her. The servant led them up another floor of stairs. ‘The master and mistress’s sitting room,’ he said. ‘On each end is a bedchamber and each has a dressing chamber with a stairway entrance so servants can enter and exit without disruption.’
‘Bring us some refreshment,’ Fox said, instructing the servant away. ‘Whatever is quick.’
Then he walked to the door at one end of the room and opened it. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The private room for the mistress of the house.’
Curiosity giving her a burst of energy, she peered into the chamber.
He held the lamp and walked to the corners of the room, examining the wall. Her head turned, but her eyes followed his movements first, then focused on the furnishings.
A room with soft colours and a hint of blue in the ceiling bordered by a line of hand-painted swirls with one little angel dancing around at the corners. Another corner had an angel resting on his stomach with his hands on his cheeks.
He put down the lamp and guided her to a soft chair at the edge of the room. Then he pulled the top cover from the bed and wrapped it around her and the chair, tucking the covering close.
He left, and she relaxed.
When he returned, he brought a tray and put it on the bed. He left for a moment and then walked in with a table in one hand and a chair in the other and sat them in front of her. He put the tray closer and sat at her side, pouring her some wine, slicing cheese and putting it all at her fingertips, and then he sat.
She didn’t move.
This was the same man she’d seen lying on the bed, battered and bruised. She turned away slightly and her shoes bumped his boots, and she pulled her body tighter.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
‘You take up more space than I remembered.’ She spoke the first words in her mind.
His head dipped a half second and a smile edged on to his lips. ‘I take up less than I expect.’
‘I don’t know what to call you. No name seems to fit you because I thought of you as Vicar. And that isn’t right.’
‘In time you will settle on something.’ He studied her. ‘Husband, perhaps. Perhaps not.’
‘That does not feel like you at all.’
His laugh soothed her ears in the way of a warm stove reaching cold fingers. ‘You would think it would as many times as I’ve proposed.’
‘I would think you wouldn’t want to mention that.’
‘My dear, I worked quite hard to gain that reputation.’
‘Twenty-four hours a day?’
‘I even worked harder on Sunday.’
‘Never a day of rest from it?’
His breath flowed into the room. ‘I didn’t need one.’
‘That doesn’t bode well for me, then.’
She took a piece of cheese and held it towards him.
He shook his head, lifted the bottle to pour more wine into her glass, and she moved the glass aside and held it. He set down the bottle with a whispering thud. ‘You are quite fond of the truth, so I thought I would experiment with it.’
‘Experiments have gained many advances in knowledge.’
‘You’re starting to sound like…my father.’
‘He’s most kind. Except…’ Except when he threatened to toss her and her father out of their home. But he was the earl and determined to have his way.
She finished her wine and placed the empty glass on the table. He poured liquid into it and picked it up, sipping from it.
‘Oddest thing,’ he said. ‘The quiet doesn’t seem so loud when I am with you.’
‘It’s not quiet. We’re talking.’
‘But we’re only two voices.’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
She wasn’t quite sure if he smiled or stilled or what. But he leaned to her, taking his finger and trailing it down her cheek. Little bursts of warmth touched her. His finger sparked life in her body. Making her feel not so tired. Strong. She was awake again. Refreshed.
‘I would hope it is enough,’ he said.
He cupped her face in the way of holding delicate china and shut his eyes. Lashes dusted his cheeks and he didn’t move, taking in the feel of her face. Then his eyes opened, serene and liquid.
‘The reason I stayed from you for three weeks was not because I feared the illness in the household.’ His words rumbled, but in a way to give security, as if the thunderstorm’s strength was so far away that no lightning could ever touch near. ‘I knew that I could not be with you without wanting to kiss you. And I thought that perhaps tonight would be the night for our first kiss.’
‘It will be my first kiss,’ she said.
‘That is quite the responsibility on me then.’ He touched her chin, holding it. ‘Would you like to see how it feels?’
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t quite sure how, or what to do.
But she didn’t have to move. His lips touched hers, feather-light, but alive, sending the feel of him throughout her body.
‘That’s not what I expected a kiss to be like,’ she said.
‘Better?’
‘It’s much better.’
‘That was hardly worthwhile of the name,’ he said.
Someone knocked on the door, but it wasn’t the entrance door.
‘Give me a moment,’ he said, dipping his hand to take the last bit of cheese and pop it in his mouth. Then he borrowed the lamp, going through the door to his bedchamber. She heard him speaking with someone and instructions on where to place the light and water.
When he returned the second time, he dotted a cloth against his chin. He’d left the coat and waistcoat behind. His shirt was loose from his trousers.
His jaw was smooth. ‘You shaved.’
He tossed the towel onto the table beside the door. ‘Absolutely.’ He smiled and put his hand on the table near her, leaning so that his upper half surrounded her without touching.
A woodsy scent touched her nose. She felt that he’d wrapped himself completely around her.
‘If you don’t like my shaving soap, I can get a different scent.’
He then pushed himself away. His face was still, studious. If he had been a true vicar, she would have thought him beginning a prayer. ‘Rebecca.’
The single word. He bathed her in it, and she absorbed it like nectar.
He held out his hand as if inviting her into a dance. She stood, and he walked them to her room.
With the slightest movement, he controlled the air. She leaned forward, pulled in his direction by the strength of his gaze.
‘So good.’ He finished the words on a kiss, nestling against her, and the soap scent danced into the back of her mind, joined by warm male skin.
He held her and stilled. She reached up, trailing fingers along his face.
‘I wanted to be able to feel you with my face and not worry about scratching you.’
‘It does feel soft. Scrubbed. Different than I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know, really.’
‘I feel stronger than any army when I hold you. That to be allowed to hold you is to grant me the power of the sun.’ He turned, resting the side of his face that hadn’t been marred against hers.