by Farr, Diane
Anger stiffened her spine and narrowed her eyes. “Do you think it pleases me to be alone with you? Do you think I want to be cornered by you and harangued without mercy?”
“Yes, I think you do. If you don’t, you should.” Devils danced in his eyes. “It’ll be fun.”
She stabbed his chest with her index finger. “Your behavior is insufferable,” she gasped. “And everyone is looking at us now. My only consolation is that they will all see how angry I am with you, so perhaps my reputation will survive after all.”
His laughter followed her as she marched away, her cheeks burning. She was so upset that she sat beside Mabel and listened for ten minutes to a steady stream of complaints, not hearing half of them but making sympathetic noises from time to time. Her mind was busy elsewhere, gnawing on the strange advice Lord Malcolm had given her. An adult she surely was, but what did he mean by that? Did adulthood truly give her license to disregard public opinion?
For the first time in her life, Natalie wondered whether she had crossed the invisible line that separated modesty from prudery. Had she become an old maid already? Would she soon be an archetypal spinster—purse-lipped, fussy and timid?
It was a lowering thought.
Was it possible that Lord Malcolm might actually be right? She tried the notion on for size, and felt surprised—and a little disturbed—when it fit. Live your life, he had told her. Make your own choices. And why shouldn’t she? It was her life, and no one else’s.
Why, after all, should she explain her conduct to anyone? Why should she care about things said behind her back? She wouldn’t be there to hear them. It was silly to curb her desire to spend time at Lord Malcolm’s side. It was more than silly, it was dishonest. She liked him. And why should she hide her enjoyment of his company? They had done nothing wrong. At least ... not yet.
Would he have kissed her in the garden? Almost certainly.
At the thought, Natalie felt her toes curling inside her satin slippers. The idea of Malcolm kissing her made her dizzy with terror and desire. And, yes, she feared his kiss—feared it even more than she longed for it. She had a strong notion that it would be impossible for her to guard her heart, impossible to hide or deny her feelings for him, if he went so far as to actually kiss her. The flirting was bad enough.
She knew that there was nothing behind his teasing and outlandish compliments, no genuine feeling of attraction to her. He never denied that what he wanted from her was a marriage of convenience. And still the things he said and the way his touch often lingered on her kept her awake at nights. If she had a kiss to remember, too, she might very well go mad. He had warned her himself, had he not, that unrequited love could drive one mad?
Natalie sighed. Mabel’s sharp voice cut into her thoughts. “What’s the matter with you?” she said rudely. “You’ve nothing to complain of.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
Mabel turned fretfully to Hector, on her other side. “May we not go home? I vow, I am quite ill with fatigue.”
Hector’s lip curled in a sneer. “You would come tonight. No one could convince you that you ought to stay home.”
“Well, you needn’t punish me for it! I only wanted to see a few new faces. I’m bored to tears at Crosby Hall.”
“Look your fill, then. I’m not tired, and neither is Natalie.”
“I’m a little tired,” said Natalie quickly. “If Mabel wishes to leave, I’ve no objection.”
It seemed a heaven-sent excuse. But when they went to take early leave of their host, the look of disappointment on his face made Natalie feel absurdly guilty. Absurdly, she told herself, because there was no reason for her to feel guilty at all. Mabel’s condition was obvious; it was only natural that she should tire easily. And the rest of the Whittaker party could hardly send Mabel home alone.
While waiting for their carriage, Hector and Mabel wandered out to the foyer where they could continue bickering in private. Malcolm touched Natalie’s arm in a silent request for her to stay behind a moment. She paused in the act of following her brother, and looked enquiringly up at him.
“I’ve made a mull of this wretched party,” he muttered, looking disgusted with himself. “The evening has not gone according to plan.”
She was surprised. “Why, what can you mean? The dinner was perfect. And I believe everyone is having a splendid time. The Farnsworths, in particular, are very fond of dancing.”
“I am happy to have entertained the Farnsworths, of course,” he said dryly. “But what I was most looking forward to has not occurred.”
She opened her mouth to ask him the obvious question, then closed it again. No, indeed; she would not fall into that trap! Whatever it was he had been looking forward to, it had probably involved luring her into the garden. She gave him an overbright smile and pretended to misunderstand him. “I’m sure, however, that if you ask, the musicians will gladly play it.” She extended her hand in a friendly way. “A very pleasant evening, Lord Malcolm. I shall see you tomorrow morning at the usual time. Good night.”
Appreciation gleamed in his eyes. He took her hand and bowed over it in a highly improper way, holding it just a trifle too long. She thought she heard him growl, “Minx!” as he bent—but she could not be sure. She pulled away from him and hurried to join her family before he could see the laughter in her face.
Some of this nonsense, she had to admit, was rather fun. Especially the part where she escaped from his nerve-wracking presence and had leisure to smile over it all in private.
It occurred to her that she was enjoying, for the first time in her life, an actual, bona fide, flirtation. The thought pleased her. Everyone should experience this at least once, she decided. Really, it added an amazing luster to an otherwise ordinary summer.
She mustn’t let it get out of hand, of course. And it could not, alas, go on forever. But while it lasted, she was determined to enjoy it.
Yes, she was determined to enjoy it. At least when it wasn’t shredding her nerves, casting her into gloom, or keeping her awake at night.
Chapter 13
It was like a game, a dangerous game where the careless turn of a card might cost a player everything. Malcolm pursued and Natalie eluded. Each became more ingenious, Malcolm at pursuing and Natalie at eluding, and neither could claim victory as the weeks progressed. The game went on, and the stakes grew ever higher.
Natalie often wished she had the inner fortitude to call a halt, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Just a little longer, she would promise herself. The thought of ending the flirtation made her unutterably sad. She would miss the laughter, the constant state of exhilaration, the sweet, hot sparkle that cast a new glow of excitement over her life. From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning to the moment she fell into a feverish sleep at night, she was in a swivet ... but the torture was too delicious to resist. No, she would not call a halt. She knew she was a fool, but she was a fool in love—and she was determined to have one summer, this summer, to remember all her life.
What complicated matters, however, was her growing attachment to Sarah. That was the one thing that truly gave her pause. It was bad enough to endanger her own heart. Risking Sarah’s happiness was unconscionable. And she very much feared that when the game ended, as it inevitably would, Sarah might be devastated.
Sarah Chase had blossomed into an entirely different child from the sad and fearful creature Natalie had first met. She still had odd mannerisms and was often clumsy as well, but her pinched little face had filled out and she smiled much more frequently. Her anxiety had noticeably lessened, and Nurse reported that the “wee thing” slept better, falling asleep more readily and suffering fewer nightmares. How terrible it would be, Natalie thought, if her own careless behavior renewed Sarah’s pain. She even wondered if it would be worth it, after all, to marry the father and give fragile Sarah the security she craved. The notion became, unexpectedly, a serious consideration.
And yet, as the summer days unwound,
Natalie became more firmly resolved—not less—to hold out for what she really wanted: Malcolm’s heart. Was it her imagination, or did his face light up when he saw her? Was it wishful thinking, or did he seem every bit as obsessed with her as she was with him? Of course, men saw these things differently. It might very well be the game itself that he enjoyed. It might be the pursuit of an elusive quarry that put that gleam in his eye.
She was still wondering (although “wondering” was too mild a word for the agony of suspense into which the question threw her) one balmy afternoon in August when she and Malcolm were strolling idly down the drive together. The avenue of trees lining the carriage drive provided dense shade, making it the choicest destination for taking the air on a summer day. They frequently walked there in the afternoon—generally with Sarah, but today Sarah was with Nurse. Mrs. Bigalow had taken her to the village to choose fabric for making up “suitable” frocks and pinafores. Since Malcolm had already proven himself incapable of knowing suitable from unsuitable where Sarah’s clothing was concerned, Nurse had instructed Natalie to keep the man occupied while she, alone, took charge of Sarah. Natalie had agreed to this arrangement with a show of indifference that fooled neither herself nor Mrs. Bigalow. Nurse had looked at Natalie very hard over her spectacles, but had confined her observations to a sarcastic sniff.
At any rate, Malcolm and Natalie were walking alone. And despite the fact that they were out of doors and, therefore, technically in a public place, it felt private. There was no one else in sight. The air between them seemed almost to shimmer with delicious possibility.
For a few minutes the only sounds were the light crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the rustle of a nearly-imperceptible breeze in the leaves overhead. The trees whispered and danced, backlit by the sun, forming a backdrop green as Eden. Eventually Malcolm remarked, “It feels like Bordeaux.”
“Bordeaux?”
“Southern France. Summer afternoons there are typically warm and lazy, like this.” He slanted a smile at her. “Heat makes the grapes sweeter.”
Something in his smile definitely hinted at heat—and sweetness. She tried to look prim. “I should think the heat would wilt them.”
“Not at all. They love it. Wherever the heat touches them, they ripen and blush like clusters of sun-kissed maidens.”
“Very pretty,” she said approvingly. “But you’re wrong about blushing maidens.” She tried not to become one as she spoke. “Most of them dislike excessive heat.”
His voice dropped, low and teasing. “Maidens, by definition, know nothing about it.”
Natalie choked back a scandalized laugh. “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I’m sure you do. In a limited way, of course, due to your inexperience.”
She looked severely at him. “I have never been to France, you mean.”
He chuckled. “Yes,” he said mendaciously, “that’s exactly what I mean. You will have to take my word for it—when I describe the charms of Bordeaux.”
She bit her lip. “And the sweetening effect of heat.”
“That’s right.” The intimate, teasing note in his voice made her tingle with suppressed delight. He leaned slightly closer to her. “It’s one of the great, beautiful mysteries of nature. Even the greenest fruit, once properly kissed by the sun, begins to soften and swell.”
“And, eventually, rot,” she suggested brightly. “What a lovely picture you paint.”
He laughed out loud. “I try,” he said modestly. “You know, I have seen far more of life than you have. I shall be happy to relate any of my adventures that seem interesting to you. Is there anything I have experienced, that you have not, that you would like to learn about?”
She looked askance at him. “I’m sure you have experienced many things, Lord Malcolm, that I am happier knowing nothing about.”
“Perhaps a few,” he acknowledged. “On the other hand, I can think of a few experiences I have had, that you have not, that might actually make you happier. Shall I describe them? Or, better yet, demonstrate?” There was a wicked spark in his eye.
“No, thank you,” she said hastily. “I have frequently heard it said that ignorance is bliss.”
He was clearly about to contradict her, but at this moment they both heard a shout, as of someone eagerly hailing them. They looked up as one to stare, surprised, at the open gates at the end of the drive. It was a young lad on a horse, galloping toward them, hatless.
“Who is that?” asked Malcolm, startled.
Natalie shaded her eyes with one hand. “Daniel Call,” she said, as puzzled as he. “Our groom’s boy.”
He was upon them, then, reining his horse in so abruptly that the flying hooves sprayed them with gravel. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he cried, gasping for breath. “My lord.”
Something in the boy’s face rang warning bells all along Natalie’s nerves, as if the afternoon had changed in a twinkling from dream to nightmare. Malcolm seemed to sense it, too. She felt him tense beside her. “Yes, what is it?” he said sharply.
Daniel gulped nervously. “Sir—my lord—it’s your little girl, sir. I’m frightfully sorry, but she’s taken a bad fall. They thought it best not to move her, sir. Mrs. Bigalow sent me to fetch you—”
“Where is she?” Malcolm’s voice was thick with dread. He had gone so white around the mouth that Natalie instinctively laid her hand on his sleeve in a gesture of comfort. His opposite hand came up and gripped hers with painful intensity.
“She’s at the inn, sir. It happened in the High Street. They carried her as far as the inn, but—”
“Give me your horse.” He barked it as an order, shaking off Natalie’s hand.
“Yes, sir.” Daniel slid off the saddle quick as thought, and Malcolm seized the reins and placed one foot in the stirrup.
“Lord Malcolm, wait!” Natalie clutched mindlessly at his leg, forgetful of the proprieties. “Wait for me.”
He stared at her as if she were a stranger, his eyes bleak, the lines in his face suddenly appearing deeper. “I cannot wait.” He wheeled the horse round and urged it into a gallop, lying almost flat across its mane to encourage more speed as he headed it back the way it had come.
She watched his figure recede in a cloud of flying dust. “Of course,” she murmured, dazed. “Of course you cannot wait. Good heavens, what was I thinking? Daniel!”
“Here, ma’am.”
Her wits returning, she rounded on him. “Come back with me to his lordship’s stables and help me saddle the hack. No, Lord Malcolm will not mind a bit, and neither will Delaney! I must tell Mrs. Howatch what has happened. She will know what to do. Is Sarah badly hurt? Should I bring bandages or—or something?”
Daniel shook his head. “No, Miss. That is, yes, Miss, but you needn’t bring anything. The surgeon’s been called and Mrs. Bigalow is with her.”
“Thank God,” said Natalie fervently. She had forgotten that. Wee Sarah was not alone; her nurse was with her. The knot of anxiety that had formed in her belly loosened slightly. No one more competent, no one better in an emergency than Nurse! Indeed, Natalie would probably arrive to discover that there was nothing for her to do, that Nurse had seen to everything already. She took a deep breath. “Nevertheless, I will go,” she said steadily. “Lord Malcolm may need me, even if Sarah does not.”
As they walked swiftly toward the stables, she questioned Daniel about what had happened. He had not seen the whole, and had been sent to Lord Malcolm almost immediately, so his information was sketchy. From what he understood, Sarah and Mrs. Bigalow had been walking along High Street when Sarah somehow missed her footing and tumbled down a flight of stone stairs. Natalie knew the stairs well; they led from the edge of the street down to the churchyard, nestled in a dell in the lower half of the village. They had been built as a pedestrian short cut; one could either use the stairs or walk the long way round on the road, which took a sharp turn at the top of the hill to curve back down to the church.
&n
bsp; “But the stairs are in plain sight! How could she miss them?”
Daniel scratched his head. “P’raps she was talking to Mrs. Bigalow. Had her face turned the wrong way.”
Or, just as likely, Sarah had simply been thinking of something else. Natalie knew too well the utter concentration of Sarah’s imagination. Horror seized her as she pictured the stairs; they were terribly steep. And stone was an unforgiving surface.
“Did she break any bones?”
“Don’t know, Miss.” Daniel looked apologetic. “She was out cold.”
Natalie’s heart pounded with fear. “Good God. She must have fallen head-first.” She broke into a run. She knew it was idiotic to run; running served no useful purpose. It didn’t matter whether she arrived in twenty minutes or thirty. But she couldn’t help it. Every instinct urged her to hurry.
Daniel obediently trotted beside her. She was grateful for the sureness and speed with which he led out Lord Malcolm’s hack and saddled it for her, and grateful for the surprising strength with which he helped her onto the horse. Natalie was not accustomed to riding such a large and powerful animal, and she wasn’t wearing a riding habit, but her anxiety to make haste left no room for lesser fears. She gathered up the reins and headed for the village, heedless of the expanse of shin her rucked-up walking dress revealed. This, she told herself defiantly, is why someone invented stockings.
As it turned out, she arrived even before the surgeon did. The front of the inn yard was empty save for the sweating mare Lord Malcolm had ridden in, tied haphazardly to a hitching post and gulping water from a bucket, and a huddle of local citizens, conversing animatedly in the hushed tones reserved for sickrooms and funerals. The small crowd parted respectfully when Natalie approached. A few of the men politely averted their eyes when they saw that her ankle was exposed, but the inn’s sole ostler, a cheeky lad, stepped gleefully up to hand her down and take her horse.