Puritan Bride

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘I did not think of such an interpretation.’ Her eyes widened, but were clear and guileless and her voice was calm. ‘I do not know how I know or where I obtained my knowledge, but I would wager it was not from a witch! Besides, I will do no harm to anyone.’ She trembled under his hands and her eyes fell from his. ‘I do not need your thanks—it is I who am entirely in your debt.’

  And then the words were wrung from her. ‘What will I do if no one ever claims me—and I never remember who I am? What will I do?’

  ‘Why, then …’ He hesitated only a moment before speaking what was in his heart, for once thoughtless for the consequences, for himself, for the lost girl who stood before him and for the absent Mistress Harley. ‘Why, then I would have to claim you for myself.’

  Without another word he closed her fingers over the salute on her palm, picked up the cooling bowl of fragrant liquid and left.

  The weather lapsed into winter again with rain and gales, severe enough to keep the inhabitants of Winteringham Priory imprisoned within their four walls. For Viola it was a time of intense frustration interspersed with bouts of sharp-taloned fear. Her memories of her past life refused to resurface, deluging her, at the most inopportune moments, with shattering moods of total desolation that she fought against and tried to hide from her concerned and watchful hosts. Any tears that she shed were in the privacy of her bedchamber.

  Apparently no search had been instigated for her by anxious relatives. No messages arrived at the Priory, in spite of enquiries made by Viscount Marlbrooke. No one appeared to lay claim to her to put her mind at rest.

  It was not all fears and anxieties, of course. Her wardrobe extended as Lady Elizabeth found pleasure in giving her gowns that she decided would be far more becoming to a young girl than to herself. Viola found herself the possessor of satins and velvets, decorated with ribbons and point lace, which seduced her eye and her touch.

  But her hair was slow in showing any growth and caused her severe mortification when she looked hopefully in the mirror every morning. It still framed her face in dark wisps and curls. She sighed with Bessie as she tried to coax it into a more becoming style and hide the worst of the short ends with a length of ribbon threaded through them.

  Mistress Felicity continued to watch her closely with suspicious eyes and a frequent sneer on her thin lips. Never outwardly hostile—she was too intent on preserving Elizabeth’s favour—she was adept at asking innocent questions that just might catch out an impostor who was hiding her murky past for her own devious reasons.

  Master Verzons also kept a discreetly watchful eye on Mistress Viola. Silent and unobtrusive, manner always impeccable, she would look up to find his pale eyes fixed on her face.

  As for Lady Elizabeth, the wet weather could not dampen her spirits. She blossomed. The willow-bark infusion, drunk daily, spread its calming, insidious fingers through her body, gradually, slowly but undoubtedly relieving the worst of her pain. She was tentative at first. Afraid that she was imagining the ease in her limbs. Certain that it could not last. But it did. She walked with more fluidity. She could brush her own hair. And the oily, aromatic liniment that Viola rubbed gently into her inflamed knuckles was so soothing. And perhaps, although she hardly dared contemplate it, the swelling was less. Certainly less sore. She even dared to hope that her fingers looked more slender and elegant as they had in happier times.

  And she could sleep. Well, certainly better than for many months past. In fact, she decided in a moment of introspection, she felt a certain happiness and contentment with life. That is, if only she could rid herself of the feeling of … of sadness that seemed to linger in the house. The suspicion of something, a cold aura, watching and waiting, sometimes in utter despair. She decided that it was simply her imagination, closed her mind to it and told no one. Thus she was ignorant of the private and detailed conversations whispered between Mistress Neale and Master Verzons concerning the return of a definite presence to Winteringham Priory.

  The Viscount found himself increasingly aware of the dangers of a man drowning in a pair of trusting violet blue eyes.

  On the fourth day of storms, when hail battered the windows and the spring flowers unmercifully, Marlbrooke set himself to entertain.

  They settled themselves at one end of the Long Gallery with screens to ward off the worst draughts. A fire of fragrant and spicy apple logs provided warmth. A chessboard, counters for draughts and a pack of cards were produced, together with a flask of wine, and Felicity was persuaded to pick out part songs and madrigals on the spinet, which she did with surprising efficiency.

  Viola sat silently within the music and singing.

  ‘Have you no ear for music, Mistress Viola?’ Felicity enquired in sweet tones when she did not join in a fashionable ballad.

  ‘I believe I have—but I fear I lack the knowledge. I recognise neither the melody nor the words.’

  ‘Did you not then sing when you were a child?’ Elizabeth enquired.

  ‘Why, yes. I can sing hymns!’

  ‘Ah! Definitely a Puritan family.’ Marlbrooke surveyed her with some speculation. ‘That confirms it. I fear that we are leading you astray, Mistress Viola, and that, at some time in the near future, we shall be called to account by your austere and God-fearing parents.’ She had already proved to be knowledgeable at draughts, but had never played cards. Marlbrooke had taught her to play primero and piquet with much enjoyment at her sweet if minor successes and her equally disastrous failures.

  ‘I think that must be so. I know that we had no musical instruments. And I have never played a spinet—but I am very skilled in salting fish and pickling mushrooms.’ She met his eyes with mischief in her own.

  ‘Well, I can do neither, nor can I play the spinet, so it seems that we are even.’

  ‘I think not! I am in no doubt which skills have most value. Where would we be without salt fish?’

  ‘I could wish that we were, but Mistress Neale had a liking for it!’ Elizabeth joined in the conversation.

  Viola laughed aloud, shyness forgotten, for perhaps the first time since her arrival. Her eyes sparkled, her face flushed prettily. Marlbrooke was charmed at this unlooked-for vein of levity in the otherwise solemn lady.

  ‘Would you perhaps wish to become equally skilled in playing the lute? Now there I can claim some expertise.’ He experienced a surprising desire to teach her, to watch her slender fingers pick out the notes and pluck the strings. To see the vulnerable curve of her slender neck as she bent to the task.

  ‘I would like to try,’ she responded gravely. ‘I expect I would find it far more satisfying than plucking and drawing a chicken.’

  ‘Then I will teach you, if it pleases you. But only if I do not have to tackle the chicken later.’

  ‘It would please me considerably.’ The shy smile of delight ensured that the Viscount’s enslavement was complete.

  ‘So much for your future musical education.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Can you dance? You should know that my mother is an excellent dancer.’ He advanced purposefully towards the lady. ‘And perhaps since she is feeling more sprightly, she will stand up with me.’

  ‘Marcus. I cannot. I have not danced for years—and certainly I have no wish to dance now.’ But Lady Elizabeth’s eyes told a different story. ‘You know it is impossible.’

  ‘I am sure that it would be unwise for dear Elizabeth to exert herself.’ Felicity frowned her displeasure at the Viscount, her fingers stilled on the keys. ‘You know that it will only lead to a recurrence of the pain. She will probably be crippled for days. I am perfectly willing to sit with her—’

  ‘I know no such thing.’ He glanced at Felicity with a warning in his eyes, but spoke directly to his mother. ‘I have seen you moving with increased ease these past days. You can certainly join me in a pavane. Play something slow and stately if you please, Felicity.’

  Elizabeth, with the colour in her cheeks and gleam in her eyes of her younger days, allowed herself to be pulled to her
feet by her determined son. The steps came easily to her and she was able to move with only the slightest of twinges, stepping out the stately measures with almost as much grace as she had ever shown. Not for as long as she had once been able, but enough to reawaken the pleasures of youth. Along the extent of the Long Gallery she experienced once again the thrill of music and elegant movement, woven into one beautiful thread. With a final curtsy and a satisfied smile, she sank back into her chair and accepted a glass of wine from Viola.

  ‘You are good for my spirits, Marcus. I never thought that I would ever—’ Her voice broke a little on the words. She shook her head and applied her handkerchief, waving her son away. ‘Now let me rest a little.’

  He bowed over her hand with courtly grace and, to give her space in which to recover her composure, turned to Viola, a wicked grin warning her of his intent. ‘Your turn, Mistress Viola.’

  ‘But I cannot flaunt my ignorance in public!’

  ‘This is in private. If I am willing to risk the health of my feet, so can you.’

  ‘For shame, Marcus.’ Elizabeth had duly recovered from her momentary lapse. ‘If Viola is from a Puritan family, of course she will not dance.’

  ‘We will remedy it.’ He held out his hand. And Viola could not resist, to Elizabeth’s delight.

  ‘I think you should, dear child. I give you leave to trample on his feet for his impudence!’

  ‘I fear that I shall—but I should like to try.’ Viola moved to stand before the Viscount and awaited instructions.

  ‘Good. Now. Stand there. Hold out your hand so. Curtsy … well done! Now you are too tense … you are not going to the gallows. You are simply going to follow my directions.’

  The music of the pavane once more filled the distant reaches of the Long Gallery while the ancestors of previous inhabitants looked down impassively on the dancing lesson from their gilded frames. Viola forgot everything beyond the need to concentrate on the intricate steps and the response of her body to the Viscount’s expert guidance. She was graceful and agile, quick to learn, and could soon copy Marlbrooke’s assurance even if his elegance was still to be attained. She was guided through the movements by his sure hands, learning to match her steps to his and the measure of Felicity’s music.

  ‘When you can forget your feet,’ he commented caustically at one point, ‘it is possible to exchange a glance with your partner, you know, even to converse with him.’

  ‘I dare say—’ Viola swept her silver grey satin skirts in a half-turn to face him, her hand joining his ‘—but if I did I would certainly cripple you.’

  ‘I will risk it. Look up. Well done … if a little fleeting.’

  Viola laughed, warmed by his praise, but equally unsettled by his closeness. He might be as critical and unemotional as the most exacting of dancing masters but the touch of his hands and the weight of his arm around her waist were unnerving, as were the pressure of his thigh and his warm breath on her face as the demands of the dance brought them close together. She swallowed and tried to concentrate on his words rather than on her heightened breathing and rapidly beating heart, which owed nothing to the slow steps of the dance. But he was so handsome, black hair rippling to his shoulders, face vivid and alive. His eyes woke in her such a yearning when he smiled at her or touched her hand. How could she be expected to concentrate when he was so close and exerted such an unlooked-for power over her mind and body?

  They completed the measure again and again until Marlbrooke was satisfied at her proficiency. At the far end of the Gallery he finished with an elegant bow and raised her fingers to his lips.

  ‘Do you suppose that dancing is sinful?’ A faint line of concern appeared between Viola’s brows. ‘I feel that I should think it is.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Marlbrooke smiled at her solemn enquiry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then. And before you ask,’ he continued as he saw the line developing further between her dark brows, ‘I am not prepared to discuss with you the belief that enjoyment for its own sake is a ploy of the Devil to lure us into evil ways! Certainly not on this occasion.’

  Viola laughed and shook her head at his accurate reading of her intention.

  ‘But if we are to be serious,’ he said, since they were out of earshot of their companions, ‘I must express my gratitude to you. Your gift to my mother is inestimable.’

  She shook her head ‘It is something I found that I could do, to recompense you for all your care and generosity. I can do better when summer brings more plants into growth.’

  He smiled down at her, remembering her low, infectious laugh, the way her brows drew together when she was unaware and concentrating.

  ‘Your bruise is beginning to fade.’ He reached up and traced her temple with a gentle finger. Then his whole body stilled, the smile disappearing to leave his face stern and aware.

  She held her breath. He was close, so close. For one shocking moment she thought he might kiss her; indeed, she found herself hoping that he would. Her eyes were trapped in his gaze, deepest blue in clear grey, and she could not look away, held by an enchanted web that bound her whole destiny to this man whose touch lingered on her face.

  Whatever he read in her eyes, Marlbrooke stepped back and dropped his hands.

  ‘Forgive me. I presume too much.’ His voice was soft, but clipped with perhaps an edge of unusual harshness. He turned on his heel to lead her back to the end of the Gallery, but did not take her hand. She followed in some confusion at his sudden withdrawal behind a chill wall of formality, unable to explain the feelings that touched her heart and sent the blood rushing to her cheeks. All she knew was that she had been stunned by the fleeting expression in his eyes, had wanted him to kiss her and instead was left cold and empty at his apparent rejection. How foolish you are, she chided herself. She’d clearly been mistaken, had misread what, after all, was simply kindness and tolerance towards a guest.

  Marlbrooke fought hard to regain his composure. He had felt her tremble beneath his hands. The urge to press his mouth to hers, to savour the softness of her lips, to taste the sweetness as they opened beneath his, had been well-nigh overwhelming. He could not. He must not. It was all far too complicated. He had a duty to his distant betrothed, whereas this girl was living under his roof, vulnerable, defenceless, dependent on him for her security. But she was so damnably beguiling.

  Elizabeth welcomed them back to where she sat beside the spinet with a smile and a light comment, but a hint of trouble in her eyes. This was not wise. A lady in distress could easily provoke the chivalrous nature of a gentleman however unaware she might be of her charm. And charming she undoubtedly was. Her hair might be beyond what was thought fashionable, but it drew attention to her fine bone structure and those magnificent eyes. Elizabeth sighed. When she was restored to glossy curls and ringlets, she would undoubtedly have a devastating effect on any man—a breaker of hearts, for sure. Her own heart went out to the unknown Katherine, the betrothed lady whom she had yet to meet, surely a dull creature in comparison to this laughing sprite of a girl who, without any deliberate intention, was well on the way to stealing her son’s notoriously fickle affections.

  The days passed.

  Elizabeth had read the unspoken situation between her son and her guest correctly. And for her son, it was a damnable situation, one which was entirely outside the vast experience of Viscount Marlbrooke. Affairs of the heart were something to be indulged in—and then discarded with no damage or hurt done to either party. The sophisticated ladies of the Court knew how to conduct such matters. Alicia Lovell, pert, pretty and confident, was adept in the use of eyes and fan, if not her glorious body, to attract and invite. And, in the past, the Viscount had been only too willing to respond, with skill and finesse. It was a game, to be played out and enjoyed, without winners or losers. Mutual if superficial pleasure was the ultimate goal.

  But this Marlbrooke knew, from the instant that Viola had turned her eyes to his, her fingers still clasped in
his after the dance, was not a trivial flirtation, for the moment only. And, he realised, with equal certainty, that it would be wise if he put as much space as possible between himself and temptation.

  The estate presented plenty to occupy him, to take him from the house where the ladies continued to while away the cold, wet days of early spring. Estate matters would enable him to pretend that Viola did not exist. It would be better if he were not tempted to touch her hand, to watch her expressive face as she began to relax and forget a little. To be captivated when she smiled at him or laughed at some foolish comment. He closed his eyes against the images that persisted in creeping with sharp-edged insistence into his waking moments. And his dreams. Yes. He turned his face into his pillow. It would be better if he forced his body and mind into different pursuits.

  He set his teeth when he heard her delicious voice in the Long Gallery and her laughter echo in the corridors.

  She brought light and life into the house and into his soul. But no good could come of it. She would soon recover her memory and be returned to her loving family. Perhaps to a young man who had already claimed her heart and would wed her … He set his teeth in a snarl at the thought of another man having the right to touch her and … And he would not contemplate the complications if she was never able to remember her past.

  So he had the Falcon saddled and galloped across the home park in driving rain. Physical discomfort might succeed in taking his mind off his dilemma.

  Because he also, quite deliberately, contacted the lawyers to hurry the documents for his own marriage. To tie Katherine Harley into the suitable, loveless union he thought he had so desired.

  Guilt rode him hard. In God’s name—what was he doing? Arranging marriage to an innocent, unsuspecting girl when his heart was irrevocably lost elsewhere. Surely Katherine Harley deserved more from him than mere lip service and a legal settlement. He plummeted into a hell of self-disgust and loathing.