Rapid seduction was unlikely, but a kiss? Perhaps if he pursued her now. Not to do so was like refusing water when parched, but she seemed to be prim to a fault. Perhaps even a Puritan. His very appearance would have counted against him and any boldness could ruin everything. No, he must resume simple dress and manners and then court her carefully.
There was so little time, though. Just two weeks to his birthday.
To doomsday.
But he’d found her at last, and she would be willing to be wooed. Faery would make it so.
Zounds! They left Town tomorrow. He separated from his companions, suppressing panic. He needed to untangle himself from court, say farewells, settle bills—
The Darby ladies would travel the York road, however, and surely on the public coach. He could follow post chaise and catch them in days.
As he walked toward his rooms, he wondered how Oberon had hidden Martha Darby for so many years? He visited York quite often.
That didn’t matter. Titania had prevailed. The heir to Five Oaks had found his marrying maid with time enough to woo and win her. It was always so. The dark Lord of Faery had never won this fight, not in five hundred years.
2
MARTHA SLEPT BADLY and spent the first hours on the crowded York coach braced for pursuit. What—did she think Mr. Peacock Loxsleigh was racing after on horseback, intent on dragging her from the coach for ravishment?
Such scenes, alas, had featured in her dreams. How could a lady’s mind produce such things? She had never even flirted, for a canon’s daughter should not. She’d had a few suitors over the years, all clergymen, but her mother and sick father had needed her, and truth to tell, none had truly appealed.
Now she was free, and returning to York to live a full life. She was emerging from a chrysalis, but too old, dull, and dry to become the simplest sort of butterfly.
Except that…
No! She would not allow that man in her mind.
She did have a suitor. A perfectly eligible suitor.
Dean Stallingford had been a good friend to her family in recent years and had expressed his interest just before this journey, saying that he wished to make his intentions known before she was exposed to London’s temptations. Martha knew she should have committed herself then, but for some reason the words had stuck in her throat. He was fifteen years her senior, and a widower with three young children, but that was not to his discredit.
Very well. She would accept him when they returned and become a married woman with house and family to manage and a place in York society, but she was aware that he sparked no excitement within her. Robert Loxsleigh had created sparkles in a moment.
Such madness must be why women succumbed to seduction, racing fecklessly to their ruin. She was in no danger of that, but she wished the coach had wings. She wished they weren’t to stay for days at Aunt Clarissa’s. Once in York, she would become Mistress Stallingford as quickly as was decent, and be safe.
She repeated that like a litany over two long days of travel, and as they climbed out of the coach in Newark. They were soon in Aunt Clarissa’s modern brick house, awash with her chatter. Clarissa Heygood was a childless widow, having lost her soldier husband early to war, and enjoyed visitors very much. That evening they took a stroll around the town, eventually taking a path by the river. Martha enjoyed the exercise after so much sitting, but she dropped behind for relief from her aunt’s endless flow of gossip.
Her own company, however, gave space for dismal thoughts. Marrying Dean Stallingford would mean remaining part of the chapter of York Minster, and that felt… cloistered. Even York itself held no savor. She had few friends there because her time had been so taken up with her father’s care.
She was frowning at some innocent ducks when a man said, “Heaven is before me. ’Tis the lady of the forget-me-nots.”
Martha turned, heart pounding, and indeed it was the peacock. Except now he was a much more ordinary bird—if such a man could ever be ordinary. He wore riding breeches and boots with a brown jacket and his hair was unpowdered. Hair of burnished gold.
Stop that. It was a russet shade catching the setting sun.
“Alas,” he said, those green eyes laughing at her, “she has betrayed her handkerchief and forgotten me.”
“I certainly have not!” Regretting that, Martha walked on to catch up with her mother and aunt, alarmed by how far they were ahead.
He kept up without effort. “You remember my gallantry, Miss Darby?”
“I remember your impudence.” Heavens, when had she ever been so rude? Cheeks burning, she walked ever faster.
He stayed by her side. “For returning your handkerchief? A harsh judgment, ma’am.”
Good manners compelled. She stopped and dipped a curtsy. “I apologize, sir. That was kind of you.”
He smiled. “Then may I call on you at your inn?”
Martha thanked heaven she could say, “We stay in a private home, sir.”
“How pleasant for you. The home of the lady ahead?”
She could do nothing about it. He outpaced her with ease and made his courtesies to her mother, who of course introduced him to Aunt Clarissa, who was in ecstasies to give him carte blanche to call at her house whenever he wished. Martha was in danger of grinding down her teeth, and when he left with an invitation to sup at Aunt Clarissa’s within the hour, she could have screamed.
But what protest could she make? Both the older ladies thought him charming and were not immune to his good looks, either. Then, as they hurried home to make preparations for a guest, Aunt Clarissa stopped to exclaim, “From Five Oaks! Why, he must be a son of Viscount Loxsleigh. And by the stars, I do believe he has only one. Lud, we will have a future viscount to sup!”
She almost raced on her way. Martha trailed after. He was a lord? A future one, but it came to the same thing. He was as far above her as the stars, and for some strange reason that caused a deep pang of loss.
When Martha entered the house, her aunt was already calling frantic instructions to her cook. Martha’s mother said, “The heir to a viscountcy. And I believe I saw him look at you in a most particular way, dear.”
“Mother, for heaven’s sake. What interest could such a man have in a woman like me?”
Her mother sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But his company will make an agreeable evening.”
Martha considered claiming a headache as escape, but for some reason she couldn’t say the words. She went to her room to tidy herself, and slowly her good sense returned. It was ridiculous to imagine Mr. Loxsleigh was pursuing her, but she would be chaperoned by her mother and aunt.
She would enjoy the novelty, she decided, tying a fresh cap beneath her chin. She’d met no man like him before, and likely wouldn’t in the future. If he did attempt a seduction, that would be the most novel experience of all. She was not the tiniest bit vulnerable to his sort of tinsel charm, but watching his attempt could be diverting.
LOXSLEIGH DID NOT attempt to seduce her, and indeed how could he when both her mother and aunt fluttered around him like adoring moths to the flame?
He entertained them with the wonders and follies of the court. He pretended interest in Anne Darby’s impressions of London, and even in Aunt Clarissa’s chatter about Newark. His sympathetic manner soon drew out the story of Canon Darby’s long illness, and of Aunt Clarissa’s old tragedy. He mentioned his own mother’s death three years ago with tender feeling.
Where was the artificial peacock? This might be a different man.
All the same, beneath easy manners, he was intense. A strange word, but the only one Martha could find. And his intensity was centered on her. When their eyes met, she felt its power. That must be a skill of practiced seducers, and on a weaker woman it might work, for it created the illusion that she was special, that she was important to him.
When he invited them all to dine at his inn the next afternoon, Martha agreed with as much pleasure as the rest. It appeared he might plan an attempt on her v
irtue. Perhaps dry spinsters from the provinces were a new dish for such as he, and she looked forward to seeing what other skills he would bring into play. Would he attempt to get her alone? He’d fail, but it would be like watching a play, and the performance of this leading actor should be a wonder to behold.
However, the price for her amusement was more embarrassing dreams, and others even odder. Where did the woodland scenes come from? She’d spent her life in a city, but in the night she visited dense woodlands and glades woven through with a hauntingly beautiful song, where strange creatures danced, loved, and quarreled.
Quarreled over her.
An exquisite lady in iridescent draperies and a lord in dark velvet prowled and snarled. Over her…
When she awoke to her sunlit bedchamber, Martha felt as if the misty greenwood still surrounded her, but by the time they left to walk to the Crown Inn, she was sensible again.
She could wish Aunt Clarissa so. That lady was in alt at Loxsleigh’s high station and had spent the morning making inquiries of her friends, which also allowed her to spread the word about her interesting new acquaintance. “He is the heir,” she’d told Martha and her mother. “And the family is famously rich!”
As soon as they were seated at the inn, she said, “I understand your home at Five Oaks is most unusual, sir. Famous for its antiquity.”
“It is, ma’am.”
“A part of it dates back to the thirteenth century!”
“A small part,” he said as soup was served. “Only the old great hall and some rooms above it.”
“Five hundred years old!” Aunt Clarissa declared.
“Is it not rather uncomfortable?” asked Martha’s practical mother.
He turned his smile on her. “Which is why it’s hardly used, ma’am.”
“Are there five oaks?” Martha challenged.
“Of course, Miss Darby.”
“Trees die, even oaks. There cannot always be five.”
Her sharpness did not cut him. “There can if one counts saplings. But yes, there have always been five mature oaks.” Before she could debate that point, he added, “Or so legend says. There are certainly five now. Perhaps you would care to visit and see for yourself?”
He addressed it nicely to both Martha and her mother, but she knew it was intended for herself. So that was it. He wanted her in his home, under his power…
Before she could forestall it, her mother had agreed, and then she made it worse.
“I hope we’ll be able to return your hospitality soon, sir, and serve you a dinner when next you visit York. Perhaps we can show you some entertainments. We will soon be out of mourning. Dear Martha missed so much of her youth while helping me nurse Mr. Darby that I look forward to her enjoying parties and assemblies.”
“I’m past the age for such frivolities, Mother.”
“Why say that, dear? I declare I am not. I intend to dance when asked, and enjoy many entertainments.”
“And so you should, ma’am,” Loxsleigh said. “I will certainly ask you to dance.”
He addressed her mother, but Martha felt the message was to her. She found her hand tight on her knife and fork as if she’d need to fight him off.
Talk turned safely to musical evenings and assemblies, but then both Martha’s mother and aunt shared stories from their youth that implied more liveliness than Martha had imagined. Her mother had flirted with a number of suitors, and even slipped aside from a dance for a kiss? And not with the future Canon Darby, either. In their recollections, the older ladies became more youthful, brighter-eyed, rosier-cheeked, while Martha remained herself, dull and lacking memories to share.
Did everyone dance and flirt their way into their twenties except her?
She became aware of hunger, and not for soup.
She hungered for touches and dances and teasing and flirtation. All the things the older ladies remembered with such pleasure. All the things she’d missed and feared never to experience, especially in Dean Stallingford’s embraces.
Good heavens. She’d never let her imagination go so far, and now the idea revolted her.
She caught Loxsleigh looking at her and immediately envisioned embraces that would not revolt her. How was he doing this to her?
She seized her wineglass and drank. He also raised his glass, but sipped, his eyes remaining on her, bright as fire. Heat rose through her body. She began to sweat.
This wasn’t a play, and it wasn’t harmless. She would not go to Five Oaks. She would return directly to York and marry Dean Stallingford and be safe.
The meal seemed to take an age, and when they rose to take their leave Martha gave thanks that the torment was over. However, Loxsleigh insisted on escorting them back home and walked beside her as they left the inn. She could feel his presence, perhaps even a vibration. She welcomed fresh air and the hubbub of ordinary life—people in the street, vendors calling their wares, a line of chairmen offering transport.
“I feel quite fatigued,” said Aunt Clarissa. “I do believe I’ll take a chair.”
Loxsleigh summoned a sedan and paid the men. “Mistress Darby? Would you, too, care to be carried home?”
“I confess the idea appeals, sir. Don’t feel obliged to join us in laziness, dear,” she said to Martha. “I know you enjoy a walk and Mr. Loxsleigh will ensure your safety.”
If Martha’s senses were any guide, Mr. Loxsleigh planned the exact opposite, but she took a sudden resolve. Even if she refused to visit his home, he could follow her to York. The only way to put a stop to this was to directly dismiss him.
“Yes,” she said. “I should like to walk. It’s a lovely afternoon.”
3
AS SOON AS the older ladies were carried away she turned to him. “And now, Mr. Loxsleigh, we will talk plainly, if you please.”
He extended his arm. “I will be delighted, Miss Darby.”
Martha didn’t want to touch him, but propriety compelled. She curled her hand around his arm and they set off down the street. Even through gloves and sleeve, she felt that vibration again and it rippled into her. She twitched and glanced around. Had she heard that song again? The one from her dream…
“Plain talk, Miss Darby?” he prompted.
“I wish to know, plainly, sir, why you are pursuing my mother and myself. We can hardly be amusing to you after court.”
“Court is a constantly repeating play. Its charms soon wear thin.”
She gave him a look. “So we are a new play, a novelty?”
“As I am for you, I’m sure.”
“I’m certainly not accustomed to such elevated company.” She was launched on an argument about their different stations, but he said, “I assume you meet the archbishop now and then.”
“That is hardly the same.”
“But extremely elevated. Where does the Archbishop of York come in the order of precedence? Closely after royalty, I believe, and far, far above the heir to a viscountcy.”
Jaw tense, Martha said, “I have very little to do with the archbishop.”
“But would not reject his company as unsuitable. Come, Miss Darby, why are you so prickly? What have I done to offend?”
She glared at him. “Do you pretend that you encountered us in Newark by accident?”
“It is on the North Road, which we both must take. But I confess that I wanted to meet you again.”
“Why?”
Martha suddenly realized that they’d taken a shortcut through the churchyard. It was the route her party had walked to the inn, enjoying the tranquillity. Now the leafy quiet seemed dangerous.
She released his arm and stepped away. “Why?” she demanded again. “What interest do you have in us?”
“In you. Your mother is delightful, but you are the lodestone.”
“Lodestone?” But that was best ignored. “I insist you leave us be, sir. There is no connection, and can never be.”
“There was a handkerchief,” he said whimsically. “My dear Miss Darby, my intentions are co
mpletely honorable.”
“Honorable?” She was becoming an echo, but he’d opened the way to an attack. “That sounds as if you intend to propose marriage.”
She waited with relish for him to show panic, but instead he smiled. “I believe I do. But first I must kiss you.”
“What? You wretch, to make fun of me. And to suggest something so wicked!”
“A kiss is wicked? Then the whole world is destined for hell. Including you. With such tempting lips, you must have been kissed many times.”
“Certainly not!” Martha snapped, but instantly regretted the admission. “My father’s illness… Mourning…”
He sobered. “As your mother said, you have missed much.” He captured her hands. “Allow me to introduce you to the kiss.”
He didn’t wait for permission, however, but pulled her beneath a tree.
And kissed her.
A mere press of lips to lips, yet sparkles started there and spread throughout her body—into her chest, down her spine, right to her fingers and toes. She almost felt that her tight-pinned hair crackled.
She tried to step back, but that brought her hard against the tree’s trunk and he pressed over her, his hot mouth claiming hers hungrily, destroying both conscience and will. She gripped his jacket, lightning-struck and helpless, until a deep, urgent ache awoke her to peril.
She pushed him away with all her strength. He crushed closer, as if he might force her…
But then he put hands to the tree and thrust violently backward, as if breaking bonds, breathing hard, eyes bright and wolfish in their hunger.
A hunger that pounded in herself.
He went to one knee. “Miss Darby, will you marry me?”
She stared, then snapped, “Of course not!” from an instinct as sharp as that which snatches the hand from a burning pot.
His eyes still shone. “You must, you know.”
Martha backed away, but the infernal tree blocked her. “Must? From a kiss. A kiss forced upon me? I fear you’re mad, sir!”
And he looked it, with those wide, burning eyes and flushed cheeks.
Songs of Love & Death Page 5