India stiffened. Was Isham making game of her? It would serve her right, she admitted to herself. She had been less than civil to him when she owed so much to his interest in the children. Well, if he had hoped to disconcert her he had succeeded. Suddenly she felt shy.
'Sir, you have already commented upon my height!'
Unaccountably disturbed, and fearing mockery, she spoke more coldly than she had intended. She drew her hand away from his, only to find that he had slipped an arm about her waist.
'I was not referring to your height. Prickly India! Am I not to be allowed the pleasure of paying you a compliment?'
To her own annoyance India found that she was blushing. Thankfully he could not see her clearly in the darkness. To struggle would be undignified and also fruitless. She could feel the strength in that encircling arm, and knew that if he chose to hold her she could not break away. Words could be her only weapon against him.
'A compliment is welcome only when it is sincere,' she retorted.
'And you think I do not mean it?' She could hear the laughter in his voice. To her surprise it was mixed with something else. Had she not known better she might have thought it was tenderness. 'What a goose you are! Has no one ever written a sonnet to the beauty of your eyes or wondered at the bronze gleam of your hair?'
Now she was sure that he was mocking her and she felt a surge of indignation. All her old dislike of him returned. It was clear that he intended to taunt her.
'I have already apologised to you, my lord,' she said coldly. 'Was it not enough?'
'Not nearly enough,' Isham replied in solemn tones. 'I shall demand much more than an apology.' The arm about her waist had tightened, and now he drew her close. 'We have not yet sealed our betrothal with a kiss,' he murmured.
India sat very still. Physical contact was what she had been dreading from the first. Isham was still a stranger to her and she had not been given time to get to know him. She was under no illusions. He was well experienced with women, and he would be sure to find her gauche. She had no wish to be humiliated further, but she had agreed to wed him and her person would belong to him, to do with as he willed. Summoning all her courage, she raised her face to his.
Then she heard a low chuckle. 'Believe me, my love, this will not be unpleasant...' Then his mouth came down on hers so gently that the first touch of his lips was soft and warm and undemanding.
His tenderness was unexpected, and India was confused. She did not struggle, sitting within the encircling arm a prey to a mixture of emotions. The first was a sense of excitement. There was wonder too, and a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach which she could not define. She had to admit that he was right. His kiss was not unpleasant, very much the opposite in fact. She began to relax.
'Surely you did not expect brutality, my dear?' Isham sounded concerned.
India had no time to answer him. As he released her, the coach came to a halt so suddenly that she was torn from the shelter of his arms and thrown forward on to the opposite seat. She heard the thunder of approaching hooves and the squeals of terrified horses.
The carriage began to rock so violently that they might have been in a storm at sea. Then she was pushed flat, her shoulders pinned to the leather seat as Isham lay on top of her.
She began to struggle violently as a dark shape passed the windows, looming out of the darkness, but she was helpless against Isham's strength.
'Lie still!' he warned. 'Do you wish to lose your life?'
Chapter Seven
India was terrified, convinced that the coach must overturn. Outside, all seemed to be confusion as the horses stamped and neighed, the driver cursed, and the dreadful rocking continued. Then she heard a dull thud as if someone had fallen from the box.
The motion stopped at last and a bloodstained face appeared at the window.
Isham raised India to a sitting position. Then he turned to his groom.
'Watson, are you badly hurt?' he asked.
'Just a tumble, my lord. Yourself and the lady?'
'Unharmed, I believe.'
'Then I'll go to the 'orses' 'eads, sir. They've had a nasty fright. That perishin' lunatic! Drivin' fast, without a light, and so close that 'e might have taken the paint off our doors.'
'And Hickey?'
'Swearin' something 'orrible, sir, but he ain't 'urt.'
"Then we'll go on, but tell him to take it slowly.' Isham turned to India.
"Forgive me for treating you so roughly, my dear. I was afraid that you might break your neck, or at the very least a limb, being hurled about like that.'
'I am not hurt.' India was still trembling, but she was determined that he should not think her a coward. 'Is my bonnet straight?'
There was a long silence. Then Isham laughed aloud. 'I suspect that I am destined to become your slave,' he said. 'Extraordinary! You neither screamed nor fainted. And yes, my love, your bonnet is restored to its former glory. I'm glad to see that that was your only fear.'
She could hear the admiration in his voice, and hurried to change the subject before he chose to kiss her again. She needed time to try to understand the feelings which had troubled her on the last occasion, pleasant though it was.
'I wonder who that was?' she mused. 'You did not see, my lord?'
'No more than you, India. I suppose it might have been the doctor, on his way to an emergency...'
'No!' India shook her head. 'It must have been a stranger. No local person would take the chance of driving so fast at dusk in an unlit coach and on these narrow country lanes. The roadside ditches are so deep, you see. There have been some serious accidents.'
'Then possibly some foolish youth pursuing his hobby of driving to an inch? On occasion they pay the drivers to take the ribbons of the mail coaches...'
India swallowed. 'Then not a Luddite?' she asked in a low voice.
'Certainly not!' Isham began to chuckle. 'The followers of General Ludd do not aspire to travelling by coach. They are factory workers, India, as you know.'
A silence fell between them. Then Isham took her hand. 'Don't trouble yourself, my love. Even so, I feel it might be wise not to mention the incident to your mamma. No harm was done, and there is no need to alarm her.'
India looked up at him. 'Are we very late?' she asked. 'She may be wondering even now.'
She found that her fears on that score were groundless. Moments later the coach stopped at her door, and Isham helped her down. 'One second, India!' He stopped her beneath the light of the carriage lamp, brushed her down, and twitched gently at the brim of her bonnet.
'That's better!' he announced. 'We must not give the wrong impression.' His grin left her in no doubt of his meaning.
India found that she was blushing furiously. She summoned all the dignity she could command and stalked past him into the house. Why must he always try to put her out of countenance? As if anyone would imagine that she would so far forget herself as to allow intimacies in the back of a coach. He had kissed her, of course. The memory did nothing to restore her composure, and Letty gave her a long look as she walked into the parlour.
Her mother noticed nothing. 'There you are, my dears. My lord, will you take some refreshment?'
'Sadly, ma'am, I must be on my way, but if I may call on you tomorrow?'
Mrs Rushford wagged a finger at him. 'No, no!' she cried. 'Tomorrow I must have India to myself.'
India was startled. She gave her mother a look of enquiry.
'Your wedding-clothes, India! Dear me, what a girl it is! One might think...' Mrs Rushford stopped, suddenly aware that it would not be wise to criticise her daughter in Isham's presence. She must raise no doubts in his lordship's mind.
'Your uncle has offered us the use of his coach to go into Northampton to the mantua-maker.' She turned to Isham. 'You understand, my lord? There is so little time, you see.'
'I understand perfectly, ma'am.' Isham's tone was smooth. 'No doubt you will travel in daylight?'
India gave him a sharp loo
k. Surely he did not expect further trouble on the road?
'We shall leave at an early hour,' her mother assured him. 'The coach is to come for us at ten, and we shall be back before dusk.'
'I am glad to hear it. These are worrying times. One never knows...' He left it there and took his leave of them.
'What a strange remark! What could Isham mean, I wonder?' Mrs Rushford turned to India.
'He may be thinking of the mob, Mama.'
Her mother looked at her uncertainly, torn between anxiety and the delightful prospect of a visit to the most expensive mantua-maker in Northampton.
'Those ruffians burn the factories,' she said at last. 'No one else has been attacked. Besides, they will not venture forth in daylight.'
With the matter settled in her own mind, she returned to the subject of India's bridal clothes.
'Mama, it won't be necessary,' India protested. 'I have the gowns which you bought me for my Season, some of them still unworn. Isham has offered.. .1 mean, he suggests that I buy my trousseau after we are wed.'
'You must have a bride-gown. And what of Letty and myself? We have no wish to disgrace you...'
'We can't afford it,' India said stubbornly.
'Nonsense!' her mother's voice was sharp. 'As Isham's future bride your credit will be limitless. I thought of Madame Renaud.'
'You considered her much too expensive when we were buying for the Season.'
'Great heavens, how can I make you understand? Things are different now. Cost need not be our first consideration. You have your position to think of...'
'Isham dislikes excessive show, Mama. He feels that it would offend all notions of decorum under the present circumstances.'
Her words were disregarded.
'Gentlemen know nothing of these matters, India. You will learn in time that they do not always say what they mean, or mean what they say. Isham will wish to see you looking at your best on your wedding day.'
India would not argue further over such a trifling matter, but in the event she enjoyed her visit to the French modiste.
The day had started with a Surprise. They had not travelled above a mile before Isham and his brother fell in beside them, both on horseback.
'How charming!' Mrs Rushford exclaimed in sentimental tones. 'India, you are so lucky. His lordship cannot bear to let you out of his sight. Now Letty, wave to Mr Salton. He is bowing to you.'
India shot a despairing glance at her betrothed, only to find that his eyes were twinkling with amusement. She felt ashamed and then annoyed. It was not pleasant to find any member of her family a figure of fun. He read her mind, as always, and shook his head as if to dispel the notion.
It was only when he helped her down at the mantua-maker that she understood.
'Cheer up!' he murmured. 'Your coach is not a tumbril, India, though from the expression on your face you might be on your way to execution.'
'I don't know what you mean,' she said with dignity.
'Come now, my love. We have no secrets from each other, or so I thought.'
She looked up at him. 'I told Mama that you had said...I mean, that there was no necessity to buy bride-clothes. She would not have it.'
A large hand came up to caress her cheek, 'Don't allow it to trouble you,' he soothed. 'Let her have her way. It will not be for long...' With that he remounted, signalled to his brother and they rode away.
India was pleasantly surprised by the charming French modiste. Madame was not effusive. There was no trace of the sycophant in her manner, though she welcomed her new customers with a delightful smile.
India liked her at once. This was a woman who was well aware of her own ability to transform the ugliest duckling into a woman of fashion. In her own case India felt that the task might be difficult, but she was mistaken. The little dressmaker saw at a glance that the future Lady Isham was a woman of commanding height and voluptuous figure. It would be a pleasure to dress her in the latest style.
India could only admire the tact with which Madame was able to counter Mrs Rushford's fancy for excess.
'The gown must be white, I feel,' her mother announced at once. 'White is so fashionable at this present time, and is the perfect background for French lace and satin ribands...'
'Mama, I can't!' India protested. 'We are still in mourning...'
Mrs Rushford had expected the protest, and had her answer ready. 'Giles tells me that in the East white is the colour of mourning...' she said severely.
'But this is England,' India murmured helplessly. 'Besides, in lace and ribands I should look like a birthday cake...' She caught Madame's eye and realised at once that she had an ally. Her own wishes would be paramount. From then on she was wise enough to hold her tongue. Madame had long experience of dealing with difficult customers and could handle them with ease.
'Mrs Rushford is correct in that belief,' she murmured tactfully, 'but in these days we have so much choice. I defer to your good taste, madame. Will you give me your opinion on these latest fabrics before we settle upon the exact shade?'
Mrs Rushford preened herself. After all, the fashionable dressmaker was known to import materials from all corners of the globe, silks from China, muslins from the Indian sub-continent, and even, so it was whispered, laces and satins from France, in spite of Napoleon's blockade.
Madame Renaud's clientele was exclusive. Her prices alone ensured that, but she did not agree to dress all those persons who approached her. Some were turned away with a plea of too much work in hand. Mrs Rushford had made her appointment with some trepidation, although she had guessed that India's future status would ensure her standing as a customer. Now it was very pleasant to be deferred to as the mother of the bride.
'I will look at them,' she conceded. 'Come, India, this concerns you more than anyone.'
Madame Renaud's storeroom was a treasure-house of delights, with bolts of fabric covering the shelves from floor to ceiling. The myriad of colours dazzled the eye, but India noticed a bolt of fine grey silk, figured in a lighter shade. She stroked the material lovingly. 'This is so beautiful,' she murmured.
'But dreadfully dull, my darling.' Mrs Rushford was examining a length of bead-encrusted satin.
Much to India's alarm, Madame agreed at once with Mrs Rushford's choice, but the little modiste had matters well in hand.
'I see that you are au fait with the latest styles, madame. Now for yourself that would make a striking tunic. Beneath it you might wear an undergown of a harmonising shade.'
Mrs Rushford brightened. 'Ah, yes. You are right. This is so much more suitable for a sophisticated woman than for an inexperienced girl.' She pointed to a length of pink brocade. 'India, you might consider this.'
'Not with my hair, Mama.' India moved away, content to leave to Madame Renaud the onerous task of persuading Mrs Rushford that the grey silk would make a delightful bridal gown.
How Madame did it she never knew. Possibly it was the tactful suggestion that perhaps India's choice might be considered too expensive by her mother. Whatever the reason for that lady's acquiescence, India found herself being measured whilst her mother studied pattern books for the latest styles.
'Something simple, please,' she said quietly to Madame Renaud.
'But of course, Miss Rushford.' Madame studied her latest customer with interest. The girl had taste. She had chosen well. That flaming head would show to great advantage against the fine grey silk, and her height would enable her to carry off the most elegant of creations.
She sighed. How her former apprentice would have loved to dress this customer. Miss Rushford was in mourning now, but later she would be one of the few women who could wear to the best advantage the rich colours which were the trademark of her young protégée. With her quiet dignity the future Lady Isham might become one of the most striking figures of her generation.
She herself was skilled in her profession, but she was honest enough to appreciate the difference between competence and genius. And genius was not too strong a wor
d to apply to the talents of her former apprentice. It had been a blow when the child had taken it into her head to return to Abbot's Quincey, and then made that most extraordinary decision to marry the Marquis of Sywell.
She herself would never understand it, but that mistake, at least, had now been rectified. Louise had found the courage to run away, but much as she would have liked to keep her, Northampton was much too close to home. With her help the young Marchioness had been spirited out of harm's way.
She gave a little nod of satisfaction. The decision to send Louise to her old friend Madame Coulanges in London had proved successful beyond her wildest dreams. In the space of a few short months the girl had made her name. She was pleased to think that she herself had played some part in that success. Now she could do no more.
'Miss Rushford, may I make a suggestion? You will not think me presumptuous?'
'Of course not, madame. I should welcome your advice...' India gave her a warm smile.
'It may be of use to you when you visit London. Should you require a mantua-maker I would suggest Madame Felice. She is well known to me...'
'She is well known to everyone. So many friends have written to my sister and myself, marvelling at her talents. She is quite the rage. In fact, it is said to be impossible to make an appointment with her.'
'It will not be impossible for you. Just send in my name...'
'That is so kind of you. I hear that Madame Felice is a law unto herself. She will not dress everyone. Some of our friends have been turned away.'
'She will dress you.' Madame smiled up at the tall girl to whom she had taken such a liking. 'You have the height and style to carry off her creations.'
'You flatter me!' India was startled. She had always considered herself something of a plain creature. It was a shock to realise that someone thought her elegant.
'No, I never flatter!' Madame was much struck by the charming modesty of her customer. Clearly the girl had no idea of her own potential. She looked again at the fine head with its wonderful bone structure, the high cheekbones, and the lovely lines of jaw and throat, as yet unflawed by age.
The Reluctant Bride Page 10