Simply Scandalous
Page 23
"Marriage is all well and good for a man," he went on, "but what's in it for her? I don't see."
"Companionship," she answered slowly. "A partner in life, and a home of one's own. And ... and children, of course." Unbidden, her imagination painted a picture of about half a dozen ugly, red-haired children sporting on a green lawn with a number of long-haired setters. Instantly repressed, of course, but impossible to forget.
"I don't blame you for refusing to marry me in Hertfordshire," he said presently. "If I were you, I wouldn't take me for a hundred thousand pounds."
"You make it sound as though you asked for my hand and I refused," she protested.
His brows were drawn together in a straight line as he looked at her. "If I had asked you, would you have refused me then?"
She stared back at him, almost appalled by the turn the conversation had taken. He was certainly not speaking to her like a man whose heart was engaged elsewhere. "Certainly, I would have refused you," she said. "Why should I have to marry you simply because I hurt my leg? Fortunately, my guardian cares more for my happiness than my reputation."
He grimaced. "Perhaps Sir Benedict was thinking more of himself than of you."
"What do you mean?" she said, offended by any criticism of her brother.
"It's no secret he doesn't want me for a brother," Swale replied. "But he don't consider how difficult it will be for you to marry anyone else. Perhaps he's con tent to keep you here forever to rule his paper for him. "
"If he doesn't want you for a brother," she snapped back, "I'm sure I don't blame him!"
"Fair enough," he said with a faint smile. After that, he prowled around the small room, looking at things, and they were unable to make conversation, though he kept a half-mocking, half-respectful distance from the Sevres vases. Finally, he stopped at a small picture hung on the wall. It showed an Elizabethan house of red brick with dozens of gables and mullioned windows. "I like this picture," he said. "I like all the colors and the way things in the background are fuzzy."
Juliet could not resist leaving her chair to stand next to him. "My mother always said that was the worst picture in the house," she informed him. "She painted it when she was a girl."
`Well, I like it," he said stubbornly. "It's Tanglewood, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said, surprised that he should recognize it.
"I thought so. I'm sorry I didn't have the chance to see the house, except in passing."
"You'll like Silvercombe better," said Juliet. "Tanglewood is really a glorified farmhouse, you know. In fact, the main hall was once a cow byre, or so the story goes. You wouldn't find anything worth breaking there."
"Do you know," he said suddenly, "it seems to me that your ten thousand pounds, taken in proportion to Sir Benedict's estate, is quite as handsome as my sister's dowry, in proportion to the Duchy of Auckland."
"I've always thought it handsome," Juliet agreed. "If I had fifty or sixty thousand pounds like your sister, I should be a mark for fortune hunters. I don't mean to imply that your brother-in-law is a fortune hunter," she added quickly.
"Oh, he's not," said Swale good-naturedly. "Maria was the despair of all fortune hunters. Very early, she fixed upon a Major of Brigade in the Derbyshire, a younger son, if you please, and to everyone's amazement, my father declined to put a stop to it."
"Astonishing," Juliet murmured.
'Well, the war was on then, and women are bound to find soldiers dashing in times of war," said Swale with a shrug. "Soldiers and sailors. I expect your cousin Captain Cary has quite a following amongst the debutantes in London."
"Any admiration that comes his way is entirely justified," said Juliet. "He is every inch the gentleman, and a hero besides."
"And he spouts poetry from his blowhole like a giant whale," said Swale grumpily. "He is indeed a paragon. Rich too, if you like new minted money."
"What he was born without, he managed to acquire by virtue of his talents," Juliet said coldly. "I am excessively proud of my cousin Horatio."
"He seems to return your admiration," said Swale. "I half expected to find him here, lodged in your bosom. Tell me, what sinister forces have conspired to take him away from you? Has the war started up again?"
"He has gone to Hertfordshire for a few days."
"But you expect him to return soon?"
"Yes," she answered, puzzled by his overweening interest in Horatio.
"He's very jealous of your honor," Swale observed. "You remember he threatened to shoot me-and all I was guilty of was touching your foot!"
Juliet was silent for a moment as she wondered whether she ought to remind his lordship that he was guilty of worse than touching her foot. Could he really have forgotten kissing her in the private parlor of the Tudor Rose? While perhaps not pleasant, it was surely unforgettable! In the end, she decided against mentioning that disgraceful incident. Let him think that she too had forgotten it.
"Yes, if Horatio has a fault," she said pertly, "it must be a quick, fiery temper!"
Swale laughed out loud. "Why, that's what I like best about the fellow! I've a bit of a temper myself, you see.
"It seems to have disappeared, along with your fiery hair, like the strength of Samson," she observed wryly. "Pickering is to be congratulated. He has turned you into a gentleman."
"I can make myself agreeable when I want."
"You are able to laugh at yourself, at least," she said grudgingly. "You're not pompous."
"No, indeed," he laughed. "Of pomposity, I am never accused. I'll never be perfect like your seafaring cousin, but I ain't pompous."
"I sometimes think that if Horatio had been born into wealth and privilege as you were, he might be a very bad man," Juliet confessed. For want of anything else to do, she replaced her book on the table and pretended to select another from the stack. "Perhaps I wrong him, but I think if he were a marquess, he might be very pompous indeed."
"I think he is very pompous indeed already," said Swale, also pretending to select a book. "Why should I not drink Madeira if I like it?"
"Or Malta? Or Mallorca?" said Juliet, laughing. "Who is he to tell your lordship not to drink this island or that?"
"Precisely," said Swale. "I don't tell him to raise the mainsail or weigh anchor, do I?"
"Yes, I think you're right about poor Horatio," Juliet said with a laugh. "He is pompous. And there's some talk of elevating him to the knighthood. Only think how pompous he'll be when we have to call him Sir Horatio! "
"You would not wish to marry a pompous man," he said. "You would find it tedious."
She sobered, suddenly ashamed of herself for making fun of her cousin. "There are worse qualities," she said rather primly. "For example, I know a man who throws knitting baskets."
He grinned. "On the occasion to which you refer, Miss Wayborn, I was sorely provoked, and by the most impudent young miss I ever met in my whole life! Under the circs, I'd say I was restrained."
"Our notions of restraint clearly differ," she said. "But on that occasion, we were neither of us restrained, I think," she conceded.
"You certainly weren't," he said. "You accused me of every crime in the calendar and threw yarn at me, too. That is not the treatment, you know, which my situation in life has accustomed me to receive from single young ladies. Just between us, Miss Juliet, there is something worse than cold soup, and that is a woman pretending to like you when in fact, she does no such thing."
She felt her color rising. Had he discovered Serena's sham? "So I would imagine," she murmured.
"If a woman is inclined to fling her knitting at my head, I should a thousand times prefer her to do that rather than grit her teeth, smile at me sickly, and milord me."
"But then you would be covered in knitting," she pointed out. "No, you must allow us to practice our forbearance and civility on you, as you practice yours upon us. You must allow us to grit our teeth, smile at you sickly, and milord you. In this way, a great deal of unpleasantness is avoided, and much knitting saved.
"
"Practice away, dear lady," he said cheerfully. "And I too shall practice restraint."
"No, you must be as provoking as possible," she told him with mock seriousness. "The greater the provocation, the greater the triumph of overcoming the urge to assault you."
"I wouldn't know where to begin provoking you," he protested, laughing.
"Wouldn't you?" she retorted, sitting down with her book, which turned out, horribly enough, to be Adam Smith's The Wealth of Nations. "It is scarcely gratifying to be told one is reminiscent of a favorite dog," she informed him. "I can assure you I have practiced a great deal of restraint on you already!"
He frowned. "Dammit, you don't remind me of a dog just your hair. It's long and silky and sort of brown just like Daphne's. But that is where the resemblance ends, sadly. Your eyes are gray, not brown; you have only two legs; your ears are far too small...."
In spite of herself, Juliet began to laugh.
"She used to knock me down and lick my face," said Swale, becoming wistful. "How I miss Daphne. Did you never have a dog, Miss Wayborn?"
She shook her head. "My aunt doesn't like dogs in the house. The barking gives her migraines. And since Benedict was hurt by a dog, there's never been one in this house."
"I'd forgotten that," Swale said. "But surely, you're not afraid of dogs?"
"Oh no," she replied. "I daresay I know every farm dog in the parish, and my Tanglewood cousins keep dogs at the Vicarage. You must remember Sailor?"
"The little spaniel? His paw is better, I hope."
"Yes, thank you," she said. Nothing made her feel more guilty about putting him in Hastings than remembering how kind he had been to the Vicarage dog. "Some days, I wish I had a dog to take with me on my walks here. They are pleasant companions. One doesn't always like to ride, you know, and a dog is just the thing. I'd often take Sailor on walks when I was with my cousins."
"And when you are established in your own home, you will have dogs?"
"I should like to," she said slowly. "But what if my husband does not like dogs?"
"He will," Swale told her, but before she could question his assurance, Sir Benedict joined them. Billy had delivered Swale's note to Silvercombe and had returned with a reply, which Benedict now handed to his guest.
Juliet concentrated very hard on her book while Swale went to one corner of the room and broke the seal of his letter. Several minutes passed awkwardly before Cary arrived, escorting Lady Elkins, and they were able to go across the hall to the dining room.
The meal was accompanied by very little conversation. Benedict had nothing to say to his guest; Cary did little but complain to his sister about the various dishes set before him; and Lady Elkins, still miffed that Lord Swale had spurned her niece in favor of the rich and beautiful Lady Serena, preserved an icy silence, though his lordship inquired solicitously about her headache.
Swale sat alone in the middle of the long table opposite Juliet and Cary, who sat together, Juliet at Benedict's right and Cary at Lady Elkins's left. Juliet, who had begun the meal as determined as her aunt to punish Lord Swale's presumption with silence, soon felt the pangs of a guilty conscience. Whatever Swale was guilty of, he was behaving just now as a gentleman ought, while the proud Wayborn family was behaving with the utmost incivility to a guest.
Benedict seemed to feel it too as Swale cordially complimented his host on the house and grounds that Juliet had shown him that afternoon. "I trust," said the baronet, "that your lordship is very comfortably settled in Runnymede?"
"Runnymede!" Swale exclaimed, flashing a look at Juliet. The color rose in her cheeks, but she glared back at him defiantly.
"My mother had a fanciful streak," Benedict said with some slight embarrassment. "She named all our guest rooms after famous battles. When she came here as a young bride, she was quite impressed with the long history of the Wayborns."
"Runnymede," Swale said gravely, casting Juliet a look of strong reproach, "is an excessively comfortable chamber, thank you, Sir Benedict."
"You have an excellent view of the village and the church from the windows," said Sir Benedict complacently. "And if you should require anything else, don't hesitate to tell the servants."
Juliet cringed as she thought of the ivy-encrusted window in Hastings.
"The view from my window is indeed extraordinary," said Swale. As he spoke, the servants removed the second course, and a covered dish was placed before him. The footman lifted the silver lid to reveal a proud little wheel of white cheese and nothing else.
"Ah," said Swale. At least it was not on fire.
Sir Benedict hastily set down his knife and fork. "Good God!" he softly exclaimed. "What is that appalling object?"
Juliet smiled with feigned innocence. "It's a cheese. His lordship is very fond of cheese."
"Indeed I am," Swale said with forced cheer. "But you need not have done anything special for me, Miss Wayborn."
She blinked at him. "Did you not command me to serve you cheese, my lord?"
"I? Command you?"
"Aunt Elinor, you are my witness. Did his lordship not say to me `I would eat cheese'?"
"I can't think what he said," Lady Elkins replied crossly. "My head was throbbing so!"
"I said I would even eat cheese, Miss Wayborn," Swale corrected her gently. "I meant you were to order your table as usual without any thought to me.
"Dear me,"Juliet murmured. "I understood you to mean that you would eat nothing but cheese. I went to a great deal of trouble to secure a suitable quantity for a man of your appetite. This cheese is from the Home Farm. Mr. Quince tells me it is a very brisk seller on Fair days. Apparently, the people eat it with hunks of bread and wash it down with ale or stout."
"Thank you, Miss Wayborn. I daresay cheese is not a fashionable dish. I daresay my tastes are boorish and unrefined, but I do like it."
Lady Elkins turned away in disgust, but Juliet and her brothers watched, fascinated, as the marquess cut a wedge of cheese and consumed it with every appearance of enjoyment. "Delightful!" he pronounced. "Miss Wayborn, you may tell Farmer Quince he has produced the finest cheese in all England. Such a delicate, smoky flavor! I approve. I should like to roast it on a stick."
"Roast it on a stick?"Juliet echoed, her eyes round. "Whatever do you mean?"
"One cuts it into wedges, puts it on a stick, and roasts it over a fire," he clarified. "It sounds quite savage, I know, but it is one of the truly delicious things in life. Why should it be that only peasants enjoy cheese? Or potatoes, for that matter?"
"Do potatoes truly enjoy cheese?"Juliet wondered. "I had no idea."
Benedict recoiled. "Potatoes! Juliet, pray do not tell me you mean to put potatoes on my table? I put my foot down at potatoes."
"Certainly not," she said faintly. "But you have not finished your cheese, my lord. Shall I send it back to the kitchen and have it roasted on a stick for you?"
"I should like that very much indeed, Miss Wayborn," he replied. "However, I am learning to practice restraint, no matter how great the provocation."
"Provocation, my lord?" Juliet inquired. "Has the cheese provoked you in some way?"
He grinned at her. "What sort of man do you think me, Miss Wayborn, to be provoked by a cheese? No matter the temptation, I should have said. Though I am sorely tempted to have my cheese roasted on a stick, I shall restrain myself. It will be good practice for me."
"Do you require a great deal of practice in selfrestraint, sir?"
Sir Benedict clearly was not enjoying his sister's conversation with Lord Swale. "I believe," he interrupted, looking at Juliet so gravely that she blushed, "that we all require some practice in self-restraint."
"For example, some young ladies talk too much," Cary added rudely, "and wear too little."
"And some young men grow mold on their faces!" Juliet responded in kind.
"Magpie," he muttered under his breath, stroking his little beard protectively.
"Mossy!" she hissed back.
Startled, Juliet looked at Swale for some confirmation of his interest but found none. His lordship was wholly occupied in brushing crumbs from his waistcoat.
The gentlemen were not long parted from the ladies, and Cary scowled at Juliet when he entered the drawing room and saw she had disdained his advice to cover herself up. "I am not in the least cold, thank you," she told him sharply when he offered to fetch her shawl.
Since there was no hope for civil conversation, the four young people agreed to play at whist, while Lady Elkins, pleading headache, went up to her room supported by her maid.
Juliet accepted Swale as a partner, and it proved an unhappy, if not disastrous, alliance. He was consistently bold but only occasionally brilliant. His attention would wander if he sensed the rubber was lost, and when this was the case, their losses were greater than necessary due to his carelessness. Her caution irritated him; he liked to play large so that his winnings might offset his losses. This style of play was entirely foreign to her, and she found herself making blunders, which increased his irritation.
Yet Cary and Sir Benedict were even more illmatched, for where Swale was merely bold, Gary was reckless; and between Cary's wildness and Swale's unpredictability, Benedict's well-ordered mind was confounded again and again. In the end, Juliet and Swale won, though not by as much as his lordship would have liked. "If you had only trusted me a little," he complained, and she retorted that she had trusted him more than he deserved.
At nine o'clock, Juliet went upstairs, and not long after that, Cary and Benedict withdrew, the former pleading exhaustion and the latter pleading business accounts requiring his attention. Swale took his candle and mounted the lonely western stairs to Hastings. The chamber was dark and frigid, and he shivered as he undressed and pulled his nightshirt over his head. The coal scuttle was empty of coal, but he did find a few pieces of what appeared to be a broken spindle.