by Mary Balogh
It considerably amused Rannulf that he was sitting at a table in an inn that no stretch of the imagination could describe as fashionable, fraternizing with the servants. Bewcastle, his brother, the duke, would have frozen them into two icicles with a single glance. He would have quelled their pretensions with the mere lifting of one finger or one eyebrow. But then one look at Bewcastle and no one below the rank of baron at the very least would dream of even raising his gaze from the floor unless invited to do so.
“Why,” the innkeeper asked suddenly, “was Mrs. Bedard on the stagecoach, sir, while you was on horseback?”
“We been wondering,” his wife explained.
Rannulf met Claire’s eyes across the table. Her cheeks had turned pink.
“Oh dear,” she said, “you tell them, Ralph.”
She was the actress. Why could she not come up with a suitable tale? He gazed at her for a few moments, but she was looking back at him as expectantly as the other two were. He cleared his throat.
“I did not take the delicacy of my wife’s sensibilities into account at our wedding breakfast,” he said without taking his eyes off her. “Some of our guests had imbibed too much of the wine, and a few of them—my own cousins, in fact— made some risqué remarks. Embarrassed though I was, I laughed. My bride did not. She excused herself, and it was only later that I discovered she had fled her own wedding night.”
The color had deepened in her cheeks.
“See?” the innkeeper’s wife said, poking her husband in the ribs with one large elbow. “I told you they was newlyweds.”
“I finally caught up to her yesterday,” Rannulf continued and watched her catch her lower lip between her teeth. “I am happy to report that I have been forgiven for my inappropriate laughter and all is now well.”
Her eyes widened.
The innkeeper’s wife turned her head to beam tenderly at Claire.
“Don’t you mind none, ducks,” she said. “The first time is the worst. I didn’t hear no sobbings, mind, and I don’t see no trace of tears this morning, so I daresay it was not so bad as you feared. I expect Mr. Bedard knows how to do it right proper.” She laughed conspiratorially and Claire joined her.
Rannulf glanced sheepishly at the innkeeper, who glanced sheepishly back.
They went outside after breakfast, Rannulf and Claire, though he was surprised when she asked to join him. He wanted to see his horse, to make sure it had taken no harm yesterday and had been properly tended. He wanted to rub it down and feed it himself this morning. Claire put on her half boots and her cloak with the hood up, and they made a dash for it across the open yard, trying to step on tufts of grass as they went and avoid the worst of the mud and manure.
She sat on a clean pile of hay while he worked, her hood back, her hands clasped about her knees.
“That was some story,” she said.
“About you as skittish bride? I thought so too.” He grinned at her.
“The landlady is going to tidy our rooms herself and make sure fresh fires are laid in the hearth in both rooms,” she said. “It must be a great honor to have her personal services instead of those of the maid. It seems hardly fair so to deceive them, Ralph.”
“You would rather we told the truth, then?” he asked. His horse was looking none the worse for wear, though it was doing some restless snorting. It wanted to be out and moving.
“No,” she said. “That would not be fair either. It would lower the tone of their house.”
He raised his eyebrows but made no comment.
“What is your horse’s name?‘ she asked.
“Bucephalus,” he said.
“He is a beauty.”
“Yes.”
They were quiet then until he had finished brushing the horse down, forking the old hay out of the stall and spreading fresh, feeding and watering the animal. It was surprising really. Most women of his acquaintance liked to chatter, with the notable exception of his sister Freyja. But then Freyja was an exception to almost all rules. The silence was a comfortable one. He did not feel at all self-conscious at her quiet scrutiny.
“You love horses,” she said when he was finished and leaned back against a wooden beam and crossed his arms. “You have gentle hands.”
“Do I?” He half smiled at her. “You do not love horses?”
“I have not had much to do with them,” she admitted. “I believe I am a little afraid of them.”
But before they could become more deeply involved in conversation, a stable lad appeared to inform them that the innkeeper’s wife had a pot of chocolate awaiting them in the dining room, and they made their way back across the yard, running and dodging puddles again. The rain seemed to be easing somewhat.
They sat and talked for two hours until their midday meal was ready. They talked about books they had both read and about the wars, newly over now that Napoleon Bonaparte had been defeated and captured. He told her about his brothers and sisters without telling her exactly who they were. He told her about Wulfric, the eldest; about Aidan, the cavalry officer who had recently come home on leave, married, and decided to sell out; about Freyja, who had twice been almost betrothed to the same man but who had lost him to another woman last year and had been spitting mad ever since; about Alleyne, his handsome younger brother; and about Morgan, the youngest, the sister who bade fair to being lovelier than anyone had any right to be.
“Unless,” he added, “she were to have fire-gold red hair and green eyes and porcelain skin.” And the body of a goddess, he added silently. “Tell me about your family.”
She told him about her three sisters, Cassandra, older than herself, Pamela and Hilary younger, and about her younger brother, Branwell. Her parents were both still alive. Her father was a clergyman, a fact that explained why she was estranged from her family. What had impelled the daughter of a clergyman into a life of acting? He did not ask the question and she did not volunteer the information.
By the time they had finished the midday meal, the rain had eased to a light drizzle. If it were to stop within the next hour or so, the roads should be passable by tomorrow. The thought was somewhat depressing. The day seemed to be going far too fast.
“What is there to do for amusement in this town?” he asked the landlady when she came to remove their dishes— they had been deemed far too important for the services of the maid, it seemed. That wench was busy serving a few townsmen their ale in the adjoining taproom.
“There isn’t nothing much on a day like this,” she said, straightening up, setting her hands on her hips, and squinting in concentration. “It’s not market day. There is just the church, which isn’t nothing much as churches go.”
“Any shops?” he asked.
“Well, there is the general shop across the green,” she said, brightening, “and the milliner’s next to it and the blacksmith’s next to that. Not that you would have any need of his services.”
“We will try the general shop and the milliner’s,” he said.
“I have a mind to buy my wife a new bonnet since she ran away without one.”
Claire’s—the only one she had brought with her—had been lost inside the stagecoach, she had told him earlier.
“Oh, no!” she protested. “Really, you must not. I could not allow—”
“You take wotever he is offering, ducks,” the innkeeper’s wife said with a wink. “I daresay you earned it last night.”
“Besides which,” Rannulf said, “wives are not supposed to question how their husbands spend their money, are they?”
“Not so long as it is spent on them.” The woman laughed heartily and disappeared with the dishes.
“I cannot let you—” Claire began.
He leaned across the table and set a hand over hers. “It is altogether possible,” he said, “that every hat in the shop is an abomination. But we will go and see. I want to buy you a gift. There is no question of your having earned it. A gift is simply a gift.”
“But I do not have enough
money with me to buy you one,” she said.
He raised one eyebrow and got to his feet. She was a proud woman indeed. She would drive a large number of potential protectors to madness if she were ever to descend upon any of the green rooms in London.
All the bonnets on the display at the milliner’s shop were indeed abominations. But any hope Judith had entertained about avoiding the embarrassment of having a gift bought for her was dashed when Miss Norton disappeared into the back of the shop and came out with another bonnet lifted on the back of her hand.
“This,” she said with an assessing glance at Ralph, “I have been keeping for a special customer.”
Judith fell in love with it on sight. It was a straw bonnet with a small brim and russet ribbons. About the upper side of the brim, where it joined the rest of the bonnet, was a band of silk flowers in the rich colors of autumn. It was not a fussy bonnet, nevertheless. Its simplicity was its main appeal.
“It suits madam’s coloring,” Miss Norton observed.
“Try it on,” Ralph said.
“Oh, but—”
“Try it on.”
She did so, helped by the fluttering hands of Miss Norton, who tied the wide ribbons for her to the left side of her chin and then produced a hand mirror so that Judith could see herself.
Ah, it was so very pretty. She could see her hair beneath it, both at the front and at the back. Every bonnet she had ever owned had been deliberately chosen by Mama— though with her full acquiescence—to hide as much of her carroty hair as possible.
“We will take it,” Ralph said.
“Oh, but—” She whirled around to face him.
“You will not regret it, sir,” Miss Norton said. “It complements madam’s beauty to perfection.”
“It does,” he agreed, taking a fat-looking purse out of a pocket inside his cloak. “We will take it. She will wear it.”
Judith swallowed awkwardly. A lady was simply not permitted to accept a gift from a gentleman who was not her betrothed. And even then ...
How absurd! How utterly absurd after last night to be thinking of what a lady would do. And the bonnet was prettier than anything she had owned before in her life.
“Thank you,” she said and then noticed just how many bills he was handing to Miss Norton. Judith closed her eyes, appalled, and then felt all the contradictory pleasure of being the owner of something new and expensive and lovely.
“Thank you,” she said again as they left the shop and he hoisted over their heads the large, ancient black umbrella the landlord had insisted upon lending them for their sortie across the rather boggy green between the inn and the shops. “It is terribly pretty.”
“Though quite overshadowed by its wearer,” he said. “Shall we see what the general shop has to offer?”
It had a little bit of almost everything to offer, most of the wares cheap and garish and in execrable taste. But they looked at everything, their heads bent together, stifling their laughter at a few of the more hideous items. Then the shopkeeper engaged Rannulf in a discussion of the weather, which was beginning to clear up at last. The sun would be shining by the morning, the shopkeeper predicted.
Judith took her purse out of her reticule and hastily counted up her coins. Yes, there was just enough. She would have to hope that the stagecoach tomorrow would get her to her aunt’s without any more delays, for there would be nothing left for any refreshments. But she did not care about that. She picked a small snuffbox off a shelf and took it to the counter. They had laughed at it because it had a particularly ugly carving of a pig’s head on the lid. She paid for it while Ralph was wrestling the umbrella tightly closed since they would have no need of it on the return journey across the green.
She gave him the gift outside the shop doors, and he opened the paper that had been wrapped around it and laughed.
“This is the measure of your esteem for me?” he asked her.
“May you remember me every time you enjoy a good sneeze,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, opening his cloak and placing the snuffbox carefully into his pocket, “I will remember you, Claire. But I will treasure your gift. Did you spend your very last coin on it?”
“No, of course not,” she assured him.
“Liar.” He drew her arm through his. “It is halfway through the afternoon, and boredom has not yet driven us to bed. But I believe it is about to. Will we find our time there tedious, do you suppose?”
“No,” she said feeling suddenly breathless.
“That is my feeling too,” he said. “The landlord and his good lady have been feeding us well. We will somehow have to build up an appetite to do justice to the dinner they are doubtless preparing for us. Can you think of a way we can do that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Only one?” He clucked his tongue.
She smiled. She felt pretty in her new bonnet, her gift to him was lying in his pocket, and they were on their way back to the inn to go to bed again. There was all the rest of the afternoon left, and there was all night ahead of them. She would make it an eternity.
She glanced up at the sky, but already there were breaks in the clouds and blue sky showing through. She would not look. There were hours left yet before morning came.
Chapter V
“Look at it,” she said, her voice filled with soft wonder. “Have you ever seen a more glorious sight?”
She was at the open window of their private sitting room, both elbows resting on the sill, her chin cupped in her hands, watching the sun set beneath an orange, gold, and pink sky. She was wearing a striped silk dress of cream and gold in what he was coming to recognize as her characteristic simple yet elegant style. Her hair, loose down her back, seemed dark in contrast.
He was constantly surprised by her. Who would have expected an actress to marvel at a sunset? Or to show such bright-eyed delight in a bonnet that was exquisitely pretty but by no means either ostentatious or costly? Or to giggle over a cheap, ugly snuffbox and spend the last penny of her traveling allowance on it? Or to make love with such obvious personal enjoyment?
“Ralph?” She turned her head and reached out one hand to him. “Come and look.”
“I was looking,” he told her. “You were part of the picture.”
“Oh, you do not need to keep on flattering me,” she said. “Come and look.”
He took her hand in his and moved up beside her at the window. The trouble with sunsets was that darkness followed quickly upon their heels. Just as the trouble with autumn was that winter was not far behind. And what was making him so maudlin?
“The sun will be shining tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes.”
Her hand tightened about his. “I am glad it rained,” she said. “I am glad the stagecoach overturned. I am glad you did not take shelter at the last town.”
“So am I.” He slipped his hand from hers and draped his arm loosely about her shoulders. She leaned in against him, and they watched the sun disappear over the edge of a distant field.
He wanted to bed her again. He fully intended to do so, as many times during the night as his energy would allow. But tonight he did not feel the urgency he had felt last night or the lusty exuberance he had felt this afternoon. Tonight he felt almost—melancholy. It was not a mood he was accustomed to feeling.
They had indulged in two energetic bouts of sex after returning from the shops—on clean sheets, he had observed. They had slept a while and then dined in private. She had acted the parts of Viola and Desdemona for him. And then she had noticed the sunset.
It was getting late. Time was running out, and he felt regret that he could not pursue their affair until it reached its natural conclusion, perhaps in a few days, perhaps not for a week or longer.
She sighed and turned her head to look at him. He kissed her. He liked the way she kissed, relaxing her mouth, opening it for him, responding to him without demanding mastery. She tasted of wine even though she had drunk only one glass this evening.
>
It was while he was kissing her that he conceived his idea. His brilliant idea. His obvious idea.
“I am coming with you tomorrow,” he said, lifting his head.
“What?” She gazed back at him, heavy-eyed.
“I am coming with you,” he repeated.
“On the stagecoach?” She frowned.
“I’ll hire a private carriage,” he said. “There must be one available here somewhere. We will travel in comfort. We—”
“But your friends,” she said.
“They will not send out any search parties,” he told her. “They do not even know exactly when to expect me. I’ll come with you to York. I have a burning desire to see you act on a real stage with other actors. And we are not finished with each other yet. Are we?”
She stared at him. “Oh, no,” she said. “I could not so inconvenience you. A private carriage would cost a fortune.”
“My purse is fat enough,” he said.
She shook her head slowly, and he had a sudden thought.
“Is there someone waiting for you?” he asked her. “Another man?”
“No.”
“Anyone else, then?” he asked. “Anyone who is likely to be offended by my accompanying you?”
“No.”
But she continued the slow head shaking. He considered another rather lowering possibility.
“Are we finished with each other?” he asked her. “Or will we be after one more night together? Will you be glad to be free again and on your way alone tomorrow?”
The head shaking continued, he was relieved to see.
“I want more of you, Claire,” he said. “More of your body, more of you. I want to see you act. I will not stay forever, only for a week or so until we are both satisfied. You are an independent woman who does not like to be tied to one man—I can see that. I am a man who enjoys brief affairs and then is content to move on. But tomorrow is too soon. Besides, you really cannot be looking forward to climbing into a stagecoach again and taking your place beside another bony holy man.”