“Oh, it’s lovely,” said Julia. “And he sends you a rose every day! So romantic.”
“What does he have to say?” asked my lady.
Phoebe took up the letter again and gazed at it, her eyes very tender. “If you will all swear not to tell, I’ll read it. Well…” She blushed. “Some of it.”
They all settled down on the bed in eager anticipation.
“My dear Miss Ramsay,” Phoebe began, “I am glad to know you are feeling well again. I have managed, my adored—Er, well, I’ll skip the next few lines. Let’s see.… Ah! Our courtship was never really that, was it? And if ever a lady deserved the most ardent courtship a clumsy tyrant can manage, you are that lady. I therefore mean to come and court you, best beloved, so soon as the scandal has died down a little. And also, because I want to allow you time to stop and consider, and to be very sure of your own heart. Lord knows, I am not worthy of you, but I don’t want to win you because you have a foolish notion of gratitude, or being indebted, or some such fustian.
“I hope you will accept the small gift, and even if you should decide against accepting the man who sends it, wear it in remembrance of some wonderful hours amongst the many that were less than wonderful.
“Yours, et cetera,
Carruthers.”
She looked up, her great eyes twinkling.
The four ladies looked at one another.
“‘My Dear Miss Ramsay…?’” murmured Julia.
“Men!” said Belinda.
“Men!” they echoed, and giggled together as ladies will when they connive to the downfall of some hapless male.
* * *
Fred Boles gazed up at lofty vaulted ceiling and massy walls and pursed his lips. “Seems like an awful great waste to me, sir.”
The shadows gone from around his eyes and the sling from his arm, Carruthers said with a grin, “My contribution to the heritage of England. We all owe her a great deal, you know. You go to your lunch, Fred, but let me know when my brother returns, will you? Think I’ll wander around the old place for a bit.”
Boles nodded and went off, smiling to himself because the master was back to his old self; was, in fact, happier than he’d ever seen him, as though the burdens he carried on his broad shoulders had been immeasurably lightened. “Love!” he muttered, rolling his eyes at the sunny heavens. “Cor!”
Left alone, Carruthers strolled the length of the Great Hall, lost in thought. She must have received his letter yesterday. Would she accept the bracelet? More to the point, would she accept him? He frowned, the glow fading from his eyes. She was so very beautiful. If she had been merely pretty, or even rather plain, he might stand a better chance. The gentlemen had fairly flocked around her at the Pineridge Summer Ball. Just because he had shared those hectic ten days with her and had been able (thank God!) to circumvent Brooks Lambert’s vicious schemes did not give him the right to expect she would choose him. There were so many men who were better-looking, more adept in the art of flattery, and—he smiled wryly—poetry.…
He walked down to the outer hall and stood contemplating with unseeing eyes the square of light on the floor that shone from the hole in the ceiling through which invaders had been doused with boiling pitch. He gave a startled gasp as something shot through that aperture to bounce off his head. A rosebud lay at his feet, a dewdrop on one of the leaves gleaming like a diamond. Staring at it, his breath was snatched away.
In trembling eagerness, he jerked his head up and beheld an upside-down but lovely face, framed by the crumbling opening; great eyes soft with love, ruddy lips curving to a tender smile, glorious hair unpowdered and hanging in a red-gold cloud about her.
He breathed, “Phoebe!” and was running madly to the broken old steps and sprinting along the narrow upper passage.
Phoebe had intended to wait, dazzling him with her white gown and long hair (just like the Lady Clemency’s), and the red rose she held. But she was overpowered and began to run too, arms outstretched. His heart bursting, Carruthers caught her to him and held her crushed against his chest, his cheek pressed to the cool, silky tresses, his eyes closed in an ecstasy of bliss. He could scarcely endure to break that embrace, even to kiss her, but he managed it, drawing back at last, dazed with delight, when she murmured that she really must breathe, and that ribs had their uses.
He looked down at her loveliness and knew that if she had refused him he would have been lost in the dark for as long as he lived. In a voice husky with emotion, he said, “You little wretch! You have spoiled all my plans to court you.”
“I couldn’t wait,” she said simply, snuggling her face into his cravat.
He kissed the top of her head. “How did you know I was out here?”
“Your mama told me. We’re all here, my love. The whole lot of us came. And I think I have never seen Mrs. Carruthers look so happy.”
“Nor her son so bewitched.… Phoebe, my love, my life—will you marry me?”
She leaned back her head and looked up at him. “With pride and joy, and all the love that—”
He gave a wild shout and snatched her to his heart.
After a while, they wandered out of the old Keep, Meredith’s arm tight around her and her glowing head against his shoulder. Phoebe paused on the drawbridge to glance back at the great pile. “Darling, shall you really rebuild it?”
He ran a finger along his jaw line. “I’d rather thought to raze it. Dreadful waste of land, and—”
“You wicked liar,” she told him fondly.
He chuckled, looking down at her, a clear blue flame in his eyes that made her pulses leap madly.
Justice came padding up, tail wagging. Satan jumped over the wall, dealt the hound a swat, tore under his stomach, and raced off sideways. Justice gave his humans a long-suffering look.
Meredith patted his head. “We’re all bedevilled, old fellow,” he said. “You by a Satanic feline. Me by…” He paused, his dancing gaze turning to Phoebe.
“By what, sir?” she demanded with mock outrage.
Had the convex wing across the courtyard been a ship, it must have tilted down, so many beaming individuals crowded every window, watching the lovers.
Very aware of the audience, Meredith did not answer, bending to Phoebe, his eyes igniting her soul. She lifted her face eagerly, but when he sought her lips, she whipped the rose between her teeth.
Laughing, he removed the obstruction. “My adorable … little shrew,” he whispered.
Phoebe slid both arms around his neck, and with his lips a breath away, murmured, “Beloved … Tyrant…”
The sun shone benignly on them and drew sparkles from the dewdrops on the blossom that lay at their feet. A great red rose.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT
PRACTICE TO DECEIVE
SANGUINET’S CROWN
THE WAGERED WIDOW
THE NOBLEST FRAILTY
MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION
FEATHER CASTLES
SOME BRIEF FOLLY
NANETTE
MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE
LOVE’S DUET
THE LORD AND THE GYPSY
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
About the Author
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
THE TYRANT. Copyright © 1987 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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ISBN 0-312-00199-1
First Edition
eISBN 9781250101419
First eBook edition: September 2015
The Tyrant Page 36