by Jo Beverley
Amy’s lips twitched in response. “I’m afraid not.” He was teasing her. Her heart swelled in response, and she only wanted to keep him here beside her in harmony. “Do you think there is anything in it?”
“Steam?” he said. “Assuredly. Steam pumps have been in use in mining for decades, and now steam carriages on rails haul coal at a number of mines. Steam boats are widely used in the Americas, and there is one on the Clyde, I believe. You must know this, however,” he said with a distinctly humorous glance at her. “You were at Mr. Boyd’s lecture.”
Amy bit her lip. “I was present, yes. I did think,” she added hurriedly, “that the powerful effect of steam was clearly demonstrated. I wondered if it could be put to domestic use.”
“Cleaning, washing, and such like?” he asked, intrigued. “I suppose a steam mechanism could move a scrubbing brush backward and forward, or agitate washing. But steam engines are too large.”
“Could they not be made smaller?”
“It should be looked into. It is a dangerous notion,” he pointed out with a smile. “If machines do the cleaning, the servants will be idle, and you know what the devil does with idle hands.”
Amy shared his amusement, but then had a disquieting thought. Their harmony felt as fragile as a cobweb, and she hated to break it with one of her gloomy, sensible predictions but she could not help it. “More dangerous than that,” she said. “Would it not be like the new agricultural machines, and the power looms, which are throwing people out of work? If machines take over all the household work, what would the servants do? The poverty would be terrible.”
He was not disgusted but nodded thoughtfully. “Good point. Perhaps we’d better not share our inspiration with the world, then. Poverty creates all kinds of havoc.”
Amy felt the heat in her cheeks, but she did not look away. Did that refer to her and did he perhaps understand her predicament? “Poverty is terrible,” she agreed. “It strips away dignity and leaves no time and energy for pleasure.”
“Employment doesn’t leave much time and energy for pleasure either,” he pointed out. “Nor does it necessarily preclude poverty. Perhaps our machines would be useful after all if they made the servants’ lives easier.”
Amy was confused. Perhaps he hadn’t been referring to her lack of money. Whatever his motives, she was entranced to find that he did not shy away from a serious topic, or appear shocked to find she had some thoughts of her own. “Some people expect their servants to work morn till night,” she said. “If machines could do some of the work, they would simply hire fewer and expect more of the ones that remained.”
“Is that what you would do?”
“No,” said Amy with a sigh. “I would love to have the money to hire ample staff, and clothe and feed them well, and give them generous days off.” She looked at him frankly. “A taste of menial labor would make us all better masters and mistresses.”
He reached down to take her rein and stop her horse. “Miss de Lacy,” he said somberly, “if you had accepted my offer you would have been mistress of a handsome estate, with yet greater to come in time. I would happily have provided ample funds for your generous rule. Did this not occur to you?”
“No,” said Amy honestly, for such thoughts had not come into it that day. Had she thought at all?
“And now it has been pointed out?” he asked carefully.
Amy’s heart constricted painfully. Was it all to do again? Nothing had really changed except now her fortune was within grasp, not hypothetical. “Now,” she said woodenly, “I am going to marry Sir Cedric.”
“My felicitations.” He dropped her reins and set his horse in motion again.
Amy held her horse back and let him go. She felt sick. After all that had gone before he would have asked her again, given the smallest encouragement. His feelings perhaps ran as deep as hers and it could not be. Not when Sir Cedric and his millions were as good as hers.
But the thought that she was hurting Harry as much as she was hurting herself was close to unbearable. If there had been any sense to turning back and fleeing the rest of the day she would have done it, but Lord Randal was already riding back to see why she was just sitting there. She saw the others turn in some gates. At least they had arrived. She kicked her sluggard mount into a trot and followed.
Maiden Hall was an old house, a timbered Elizabethan sprawl in which few of the verticals or horizontals were straight. Riotously flowering borders surrounded it, backed by tall holly-hocks and delphiniums, and old-fashioned roses scrambled over the uneven surfaces on trellises.
The whole house seemed organic, growing out of the earth. It was beautiful and looked nothing like the home of a gazetted rake.
The rake himself lived up to Amy’s expectations, however, when he came out to greet his guests. Tall, dark, handsome, and dressed with devastating informality in an open-necked shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his arms like a laborer. No one could fail to be aware of a lithe body beneath the slight amount of clothing, and there was a wicked gleam in his eye even if he was supposed to have been tamed by matrimony.
Amy found it difficult to believe that the very ordinary woman by his side had achieved such a miracle. Lady Templemore was short and her gown was a simple green muslin. Her face was close to plain and her brown hair was gathered into a simple knot at the back.
But then she smiled at her guests and was beautiful. When she turned to her husband with a comment, she was dazzling, and the look in his eye showed he was tamed indeed, if devotion so heated could be called tame at all.
Amy looked over at Harry Crisp, who had dismounted to greet the Templemores. He would look at her like that, given the slightest encouragement. She’d seen the pale trace of it in his eyes that day in the kitchen, and the same, tightly controlled, just a little while ago. Perhaps he felt her eyes on his, for he turned, and after a hesitation came to assist her.
His eyes were shielded but could not hide his feelings. His hands burned at her waist as he lowered her. They lingered there far longer than necessary.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said helplessly. “Oh dear. Why do I keep apologizing to you?”
He sighed with bleak humor. “Perhaps because you are constantly at fault? I wonder what sins I committed in some previous existence to have encountered you, dear Amethyst.”
She placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t call me that, please.”
He moved away, then held out his arm. “Come and be introduced to your hosts. You have something in common with Ver. He doesn’t like his name either.”
Amy was introduced to Lord and Lady Templemore, but when she made her curtsy and attempted to address them as such found Harry’s words were true.
“If you wish to be invited here again,” the viscount said with a smile, “you will address me as Ver, and Emily as Emily. Outrageous, I know, but I have always been so and make it my practice to infect everyone I meet. So you won’t feel uncomfortable, we will address you as Amy. Unless,” he added with a distinctly wicked look, “you prefer Amethyst?”
Now, how did he even know her real name? Amy cast an alarmed look at Harry. Did the whole world know everything?
“You forget, Amy,” said Verderan, offering an arm to lead her into the house, “Harry was staying at my hunting box when you had your contretemps with him.”
Amy allowed herself to be led in, feeling as if she were being taken to court. Had she walked into a trap? It would not surprise her to find herself sat down and interrogated by all the friends of the man she was treating so cruelly.
Instead she was given into the hands of a maid, who showed her where she could take off her hat and refresh herself. The other women soon joined her.
Clyta took the opportunity to whisper, “Thank you. We rode together and he complimented my riding. I fear you offended Rowanford, though, by seeming dissatisfied with your mount.”
“Indeed you did,” said Miss Frogmorton snappily as she pushed at her perfect, glossy curls. Amy wondered if she was be
ginning to sense some threat to her pursuit of Harry. “You would do better to learn a little decorum, Miss de Lacy, especially when having to admit to an address in Chelsea.”
“I know all about decorum,” said Amy coolly, “but I don’t care a fig if I offend the duke.”
Miss Frogmorton sneered. “Yes, my mother said you were on the catch for that rich old banker. Doubtless the best you can hope for from Chelsea. I think I begin to understand what Mr. Crisp meant about adventuresses.”
She swept out before Clyta could get out a heated rebuttal. Amy merely stood tight lipped.
“Why, that cat!” Clyta exploded.
“Not at all,” said Amy. “It is perfectly true.”
“No, it isn’t. You could have the duke if you made a push, and that’s more than Lucy Frogmorton could.”
Amy smiled and hugged her friend. “I always did love your loyalty, Clyta.”
Sophie came in and ran a comb through auburn curls, “Miss Frogmorton looked as if she had just slain a dragon,” she remarked.
“Just been rude you mean,” said Clyta. “She was sneering at Amy just because she is living in Chelsea.”
“It seemed a very pleasant part of Town,” said Sophie lightly. “Perhaps Randal and I should move there and bring it into fashion.” She assessed Amy. “It must be difficult being so uncomfortably beautiful.” Without giving Amy a chance to comment, she linked arms with her. “Come along. Emily and I are completely secure in our husbands’ affections and Clyta is your friend. The only envy you need fear here is from the green frog.”
All three were giggling as they left the room.
After an ample luncheon, everyone walked out to explore the grounds of Maiden Hall. Amy found herself on the left arm of her host, with Sophie on his right. Emily balanced this by giving an arm each to Randal and Chart, while Clyta walked with Harry, and Lucy Frogmorton clung to the arm of the duke, looking extremely pleased with herself.
It was clear that Lucy had begun to aim higher than the future Lord Thoresby. Really, thought Amy, the girl was shameful. She cared nothing for feelings but was just out for the best catch she could land.
And how’s that for a case of the pot calling the kettle black? Amy asked herself, but then reminded herself that she was seeking the greatest fortune for her family’s sake, not her own.
“Despite what people think,” said Verderan as they strolled between old yew hedges, “I did not name the place when I bought it. The name is ancient.”
“But,” asked Sophie naughtily, “didn’t it add to the attractions just a little bit?”
“I still think Randal should beat you daily,” he replied, with a look at Sophie which told Amy he was tamed in much the way a pet tiger is tamed—which is to say, not very much.
They had come to the end of the path and walked out into a meadow. Emily had brought some salt to feed the fallow deer which wandered beneath the nearby trees. She passed it out and the deer, for whom this was a familiar treat, pricked their way delicately to lip the food from their hands.
Amy offered some to a shy fawn and laughed with delight when it took it.
“And do you see just a piece of venison?”
Amy jerked round to face Harry. “Don’t be horrible!”
“In what way is it different from the charming lamb?”
“Its mother is prettier.”
He frowned slightly.
“Now what have I said?” Amy asked.
He grinned. “I’ve just remembered what Lucy Frogmorton’s mother looks like.”
Amy bit her lip and said, “Appearances are not everything, sir.”
“True. But the woman also has a sheep’s mind.”
Amy gave him a reproving look. “Are you suggesting the deer are the epitome of intellectual wit? You are being deceived by appearances again.”
He started as if suddenly brought back to himself. “So I am,” he said and walked away.
Amy looked around and discovered Lord Randal had decided to emulate his friend and shed a great deal of clothing. As he was equally as handsome as Lord Templemore the effect was dramatic. Before her startled eyes Harry and Chart followed suit, shedding jackets and stocks and opening shirts to the breeze.
Neither had the lithe elegance of the older men but they were well built. Amy remembered thinking that she had never seen more of Harry’s body than his face and hands, and she wished it had stayed that way.
The open shirt showed a glimpse of tawny curls on his chest, and there was a soft glint of them on his forearms. Amy discovered the desire to run her hand along those muscular arms was almost overpowering. She dragged her eyes away.
She stared over at Lord Templemore, who was laughing and looked a very Lucifer indeed. He had said, “I make it my practice to infect everyone I meet,” and he’d been telling no less than the truth. A cricket ball had appeared from somewhere and he threw it hard and long to Chart, who caught it and threw it back. The man’s body as he reached up to catch it was that of a Thoroughbred, a hunting cat, sinuously graceful, dangerous.
He was not tamed at all. He was wicked, this place was wicked, and they were all being infected by it.
To prove Amy’s point, Sophie shed the jacket of her habit, and pulled off her boots and stockings so she could join the game barefoot. Clyta giggled and followed suit.
“Oh dear,” said Lucy Frogmorton looking aghast. “My mother…”
What they needed here, thought Amy, was a proper chaperon. Sophie, married lady though she was, was clearly no use. Lady Templemore was watching without a trace of unease. She came over to Amy and Lucy and said, “Don’t you care to act like children? Very wise. Come and sit with me in the shade.”
Amy trailed along but resentment grew in her. Where was it written she could not join in this madness if she wanted to? A servant had brought cricket bats, and a game of sorts was taking place, though the rules were not ones that the Marylebone Cricket Club would recognize. Chart was currently chasing Lord Randal about with the ball.
The men’s shirts were beginning to stick to their heated bodies. So were the lawn bodices of Sophie’s and Clyta’s habits. Sophie had somehow pinned her skirt up so that it did not trail on the ground. A great deal of leg was exposed.
Lucy sat stiffly on a blanket in the shade of an oak and stared into the harmless distance. Lady Templemore was waiting for Amy.
“Why aren’t you joining in?” Amy asked her.
“I’m increasing,” Lady Templemore replied frankly. “I doubt one has to be as careful as they say, but Ver worries if I’m likely to fall or be hit.” She gave a wistful sigh. “It’s the very devil.”
“Increasing?” asked Amy with a blush.
“Love,” said the older woman. She looked shrewdly at Amy. “Why don’t you join in? The sides are uneven.”
Amy found she had her jacket, boots, and stockings off without conscious thought. She looked at her bare feet and remembered her time in Harry’s kitchen. This was very, very dangerous, and if she had a particle of common sense she would dress again and watch the horizon with Lucy Frogmorton until sanity returned.
Common sense had deserted her.
“Here,” said Lady Templemore and took a long pin from the etui which hung from her belt. “One learns to be prepared for anything,” she commented. “It will be safer if your skirts don’t trail.” She went off to hitch up Clyta’s skirts.
Amy did her best to pin up her skirts without revealing much leg. It proved impossible.
“This is terrible!” exclaimed Lucy, glaring at her. “My mother did question visiting such a place, but Mr. Crisp, and the duke…”
“Since you’re here,” said Amy, “don’t you think you might as well join in? It can’t do any harm.”
Lucy stared at her. “It is as good as an orgy!”
Amy laughed as she went off to join in, but she thought Lucy made more sense than she knew. It wasn’t an orgy and there was no chance that any true impropriety would take place, but it was wild
and uncivilized. The laws of Society had been blown away as a brisk breeze dispels fog, and all sorts of outrageous things could happen.
There were no formal teams. Clyta and the duke were at bat and the rest were fielding. Lord Templemore placed Amy in right field a safe distance from the batters.
“I’m not afraid of a cricket ball, Lord Templemore,” she said to him.
“Humor me,” he replied. “Beauty such as yours should be preserved for a few years longer. And remember, it’s Ver. You do want to be invited back, don’t you?”
His shirt clung to him. His dark hair curled more madly than before and clung damply to his bare neck. Amy felt a dizziness that was nothing to do with him, except that he was bringing to life feelings she had thought not for her. “I don’t know,” she said, then added, “Beauty is dangerous.”
“You want to be invited back,” he said firmly. “And beauty is a weapon. If you can’t get rid of it, the least you can do is learn to use it appropriately.”
Amy shivered as he walked away. She pushed her hands through her hair and felt that it, too, was damp. It doubtless had the same wildness as his. She looked down. Her bodice was already clinging to her breasts.
She looked toward Harry, who was stationed not far away. As if drawn he walked over to her.
“Do you know how to play?” he asked. His neck was so strong and brown and his chest was smoothly muscled.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m quite good, actually, and I have a strong throwing arm.”
He grinned, and his eyes were darker than usual. “I know that.”
Amy felt herself heat up even more. “I am sorry for that.”
“I’m not.”
Amy thought it much wiser to turn her attention back to the game, though she was aware that he stayed by her instead of returning to his place. Sir Cedric, she reminded herself desperately. Sir Cedric and all the money they needed for Stonycourt, and horses, and luxuries, and dowries.
The ball came her way. She stopped it, but as she began to throw she realized her fashionable habit had sleeves too tight to allow a good throwing movement. With a muttered, “Drat,” she tossed it to Harry and let him hurl it back to the bowler.