by Julia Donner
But he was tired of war—the endless intrigue and pointless suffering. The first battle obliterated youthful illusions. The only reason he stayed in the military was because he couldn’t afford to do otherwise. But the time had come to return to poor, neglected Marshfield. Time to settle down. Find a rich wife. Get an heir.
Peregrine looked up and caught Elizabeth watching him. He smiled. She immediately lowered her gaze. Delicious color bloomed on her cheeks. She reached for wine. She sipped and glanced at him again. He rashly allowed her to observe his fascinated study of her blush, which traveled down her throat and across her modest décolletage. He noticed what he hadn’t before; she wore no jewelry.
Peregrine forced his attention elsewhere—anywhere but on Elizabeth’s rosy-hued flesh. He warned himself to get a grip on his manners. He’d scare her off if he rushed his fences, but he couldn’t stop the urge to fling himself over.
Throw my heart over the fence.
He bowed his head to hide a smile, and grateful for the distraction, responded to Mrs. Weston’s delicate touch on his wrist.
“Have I neglected you, ma’am?”
“Of course not, you dear thing. I was just telling Mr. Haversham how very sorry I am not to have met you before, and you being a particular friend of our darling, martyred Devon. There was a firstborn, you know, but he ran off to the wilds of Canada and never returned. He may still be there, if not eaten by a bear. Devon was my cousin a few times removed, you understand, but I had known of him since leading strings and must protest most prodigiously the ill usage his disagreeable parents have done on my sweet, darling Eliza! I’m persuaded you must have noticed that she is the most remarkably generous and constantly sweet-natured gel in all the world, Lord Appleby!”
“Asterly,” Peregrine gently corrected.
Mrs. Weston batted her berry-bright eyes in confusion, and Peregrine repeated his name, this time directly into her ear, but her attention had already switched to the man at the end of the table.
“Asterly!” he said into the edge of her cap.
Mrs. Weston swiveled in her chair seat. Horror replaced merriment. “Oh, my dear sir, was that a sneeze! May God bless you! Have you contracted a chill? This is a dreadfully enormous establishment, so full of plaguing draughts, even though dearest Eliza strives to warm every room in the most thoughtful way. I am persuaded that your chill is due to all the marble—so cold to the touch and so much of it!”
Mrs. Weston waved her serviette. “Yoo-hoo, dear Eliza! Call for a hot, nourishing drink, if you please. And do be good enough to hand him your handkerchief, Mr. Haversham. It appears that Lord Appleby has come away without his.”
Mrs. Weston’s concerned attention dissolved when Mr. Haversham, who had a long history of experience with her distracted personality, lifted her hand and slowly, precisely pronounced Asterly’s name.
Everyone at the table beamed indulgently when Mrs. Weston blinked prettily, looked at Peregrine, then released a tinkling laugh.
“Oh, my! Asterly is your name? You poor man, I am so foolish, and you are all that is patient and kind, dear sir! All of Eliza’s friends are so very charming, you must know. And I confess that there is that about you—so distinguished and mannerly—that I knew you were a person of some consequence in the world. Asterly. Ah, yes, I have placed you now. I am well acquainted with your brother—such a naughty, charming boy! I do so love a rakish gentleman! We females cannot help ourselves. Sir Harry is so full of that which was so esteemed in my day, je ne sais quoi. But you have the look of your father. I distinctly remember him and your enchanting mother. I wonder that I didn’t recognize you when you called on Elizabeth.”
He wasn’t going to let the reference to his interest in Elizabeth pass without comment. “I’m sorry not to have met you when I called.”
“Yes, unfortunate and unusual, considering the number of opportunities we have missed. I try not to intrude, you know. My Eliza dotes on her independence. And privacy.”
He leaned closer to quietly ask, “But perhaps you might be inclined to tell me something about the two gentlemen so actively pursuing her at the moment.”
She bowed her head and murmured with no sign of her previous frivolity. “They are nothing to her, my lord. As are all of the fortune hunters. Her grief for Devon has been her only consort.” Lifting her head, she looked directly into his gaze. “Quite recently Eliza surprised me by putting off her half-mourning colors. I suspect she might be ready to be approached.”
He tipped his head in a nod of understanding and reached for his wine glass. Before tasting, he said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
The remainder of the conversation involved Mrs. Weston’s lively recollection of his parents and a large portion of his entire family tree. Her chatter enabled him to sit quietly and enjoy the meal, while she regaled him with aspects of his parents that he knew nothing about.
Elizabeth’s cook justified the culinary reputation of her table. He tasted everything except the fowl. He’d had his fill of that in the war and ignored the pigeon, pheasant, and grouse, saving space to relish the sole in white wine sauce, accompanied by two different dishes of lobster, and followed by a lemon ice. He particularly liked the trays of vegetables dressed with candied and fresh fruits and nuts. Having spent so many years in the Peninsular Wars, inured to aged and often rancid food, he never seemed able to get his fill of fresh vegetables and butter.
When the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen, Mrs. Weston jumped out of her seat and pulled Elizabeth aside behind Asterly’s chair. On the alert for prime information, Asterly stood but kept his face forward.
Mrs. Weston whispered distinctly, “Eliza, my darling, you must have your eyes examined again. I cannot agree with your visitor, whom I now understand is Sir Harry’s brother. He’s not the least bit like a squirrel. No, no, my love, I must insist that he is not at all squirrelish!”
Determined to unravel Mrs. Weston perplexing comment, Peregrine waylaid Elizabeth when the gentlemen joined the ladies for coffee. He made sure that he was the first out of the dining hall and appropriated the space next to her on the couch. He sent Mrs. Weston, who was surrounded by a crowd of aging roués, a wicked grin. She laughed and wriggle-waved her gloved fingers.
Under his breath, he said, “I must say, ma’am, that your companion is an enchanting hussy.”
“I might apologize for Mrs. Weston’s frankness, but I’ll never be sorry for her manner. She’s always so full of good cheer. It’s impossible to feel blue-deviled when she’s nearby.”
“Apparently Devon took after her side of the family. I take it that she’s a destitute relative?”
“Yes but not for long. She’s fended off a barrage of proposals since she left country life and moved in with me. I shall hate to lose her to one of her beaux, but it cannot be put off much longer. It would be selfish on my part, but it has been a comfort to have someone in residence, who shares opinions regarding certain, delicate matters.”
“Meaning, Devon’s parents?”
“Exactly. The Sheltons must be the only people on the face of the earth that Mrs. Weston is capable of disliking. She forgave them for turning her away in her hour of need, but she’s unable to forgive their indifference to me. I remain amazed by her continued resentment. She tries so hard to find good in everyone.”
“But I believe she does disagree with you on a single, specific point, ma’am.”
Elizabeth turned slightly to face him. She raised her sable eyebrows in inquiry. “Why should you think that, my lord? We are always pleasantly in tune with each other.”
“Mrs. Weston does not liken me to a squirrel.”
He pretended not to notice the fiery blush that brightened her cheeks and threatened to spread to more interesting places. He trained his eyes on the minute inspection of a shirt cuff beginning to fray and larded his following comment with ponderous import.
“I must say, Mrs. Shelton, I’ve never thought of myself in that light and confess a curiosity as to what
it is about my person to give that impression. Is it my manner of movement? Too abrupt, do you think? Or do I appear wildly industrious? I cannot think you might have seen me leaping from tree limb to tree limb.”
“Stop!” she protested, choking down a dismayed laugh. “After sitting next to Mrs. Weston through dinner, you must know that I said something altogether different.”
He poured all the suggestiveness he could into his question, lowering his voice to ask, as if singing the words, “Did you?”
She paused to blink, then sputtered, “Of course, I did!”
“I’m relieved but still…curious to know exactly how you described me. No man can like being thought of in rodent terms.”
“I told you, Asterly, I never did so!”
“Now you sound scandalized.” He assumed an expression of martyred injury. “Very well then, so am I.”
Elizabeth whispered, “Oh, do stop looking as neglected as an old shoe. It’s ridiculous for a man your age to pout. You should be ashamed.”
“The least you could have done was call me a fusty bear. Or perhaps a nasty dog. To be quite honest, I fancy a comparison to a rampant elephant or a feisty steed.”
She began to laugh in earnest until tears leaked from her eyes. He waited until she quieted to lean close and growl a playful warning. “I refuse to give up on this subject until you tell me exactly what you said.”
Defiance flashed briefly in her eyes then her gaze shifted. She mumbled something under her breath.
He leaned back against the couch. Pitching his voice as deep and dark as he could, he murmured, “I’m afraid you’ll have to repeat that.”
She confessed, low and mutinous, “Virile.”
He thought about that while she steadfastly refused to look at him and blushed again.
He relented and delivered his response with grave humility. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Chapter 8
Elizabeth wanted to die. No, she wanted to kick him on the ankle, but she did neither. She reclaimed her poised mask, excused herself from his unsettling company, and went on with the evening’s entertainment. His gaze followed her everywhere, causing her to endure an acute awareness of him with every breath she took.
At the end of the evening, Asterly managed to make himself the last one at the door. When he took her hand, he worked his thumb between the buttons of her glove. She hoped the guests standing on the doorstep didn’t hear her smothered gasp when he slid the pad of his bare thumb against the inside of her wrist.
Elizabeth shivered. Why did such a simple, yet somehow intimate, trick cause so much internal havoc? Her insides melted into a jelly. Her mouth refused to form a smile when he tipped his hat to her and departed.
She couldn’t get to sleep and paced until dawn. Should she have acknowledged his flirting with a scold instead of pretending that it never happened? Sleep came after she made the decision to confront him about it the next time he visited, but days passed with unbearable slowness.
He’d sent a bouquet of lilies the morning after the rout, thanking her for a delightful evening. The content of the accompanying note seemed stilted, as if he were trying too hard not to write about something else.
She didn’t know what to make of the impersonal message. Frustration increased the loneliness. She likened her condition to adolescent yearning and chastised herself for acting so silly. And yet, she kept his lilies on her desk, inhaling the heady fragrance and gazing like a mooncalf at the flowers instead of ledgers and reports. She listened for the doorknocker and despised her weakness.
After seeing Asterly every day for a week, his absence in her life introduced an anxious boredom, and an epiphany she wasn’t entirely ready to confront. What she had felt for Devon seemed a pale comparison to what she suffered from Asterly’s absence.
Disgusted with her ridiculousness, she threw herself into neglected work. She refused to emerge from the book-room and had her meals served there. She gave orders to turn away all visitors, except if Asterly should call. When he didn’t, she began a new project to help destitute war widows and veterans. The productive distraction of helping others kept self-pity at a distance and soothed the warring need to scream or weep.
By the fifth day without seeing him, she’d worked herself into such a state she had to do something about it and summoned Swifton, her steward and bailiff. When Crimm ushered him into the book-room, Elizabeth closed her ledger and picked up a sheaf of papers.
“Crimm, have the coach brought to the front, please. I’m going out to the bank.”
Swifton and Crimm exchanged glances. The butler politely coughed before saying, “If I may suggest, ma’am, it’s perishing cold today. I’m sure Mr. Swifton would be happy to be of service.”
Elizabeth came around the desk and shoved the papers at Swifton. “I have no doubt he would be so obliging, but those letters need copying and I want to make arrangements for the funding of a new charity.”
She watched Swifton dredge up the courage to speak. “If you please, Mrs. Shelton, establishing an account for your charity is a simple matter, and a service desperately needed, to be sure. One encounters a starving veteran on every corner, but you need not see to this personally. A representative from the bank can be fetched and brought to you.”
“No, I thank you, Swifton. I must get out and about. I’ve been cooped up indoors too long.”
When the men tried again to warn her about the dangerously cold weather, she brushed them off with a wave of her hand. “Oh, that is nothing. If I can survive skating on the Thames in last winter’s historic cold, I can certainly endure an afternoon carriage ride. And that’s all to be said about it.”
Conscious of speaking more abruptly than usual, she ducked her head to hide the heat in her cheeks, and the truth that she hoped to see Asterly. The bank was a few blocks from his rooms on St. James Street.
Excitement made her heart thump as she dressed for the bitter cold. Nothing was going to stop her. She had to see Asterly. Before stopping at the bank, she made the coachman drive around the area near St. James. Traffic was at its busiest, which necessitated many stops and starts. She’d timed it that way on purpose, but there was no sign of Asterly striding through the crowds with his ever-present cane.
Elizabeth finished her business at the bank, where it seemed every employee rushed forward to greet her. Never pleased by so much attentiveness, she endeavored to be polite in the midst of so many people begging for her attention. Covering her annoyance, she finished her work as quickly as possible and left.
Before stepping up into the coach, she swiftly searched the pedestrians and still didn’t see Asterly. Disappointed and dismayed by her lack of self-control, she sank to the pathetic stratagem of telling the coachman to drive down Whitehall and pass slowly by Horse Guards. She felt mortified by her duplicity and weakness but was unable to curb the yearning for a glimpse of him. Something deep inside insisted that she see him today. As pragmatic as she appeared on the outside, she never ignored intuition.
Shivering with expectant hope, she peered out the window for the familiar, jaunty tilt of his hat. The coach trotted around Parliament Square, but still no Asterly. She sighed and dropped the window curtain as they went back up Whitehall.
She clenched her fists and repeatedly swallowed to quell the threat of tears. What was wrong with her? She was behaving like a child.
In Pall Mall, they got caught in an impassable jam of carriages and wagons. The horses became nervous in the noisy crush and stood stamping and shifting in the harness.
Elizabeth suffered another rush of uncontrollable emotions. This adventure had been a farce from beginning to end. The horses were being forced to stand in the relentless cold because of her foolishness. She didn’t much like them but didn’t want them miserable. Feeling the complete fool, she suffered an urgent need to get away from the traffic chaos and her unrelenting vulnerability.
She choked on a shriek when the carriage door jerked open. She stared at the man holding t
he door handle and felt her face lift into a smile. Joy and relief flooded warmth throughout her body all the way down to her frozen toes.
She unconsciously lifted her hand to him. “Peregrine!”
“Elizabeth! Whatever are you doing down here at this time of day?” He didn’t allow time for her to answer. “There’s always a beast of a jam about now. It will be some time before it’s sorted out. Would you like to step down and come for an ice?”
She laughed, astonished by his suggestion. “But it’s winter!”
He shook his head, laughing at himself. “Then we’ll have hot chocolate.”
Taking the gloved hand he stretched out to her, she stepped down to the street. Asterly told the coachman the shop where they could be found when the traffic congestion resolved.
“We’ll have to brave the crowds,” he warned, tucking her hand under his arm. “The place I have in mind is a bit of a walk. Do you mind? I could find you a chair.”
She stood, staring up at him for a moment, lost in his concerned gaze, then laughed again when she realized she wasn’t dreaming. “Lead on. I’m game if you are and would love the exercise. I’ve been indoors for days!”
Had he thought about her at all? He looked on the verge of saying something. It had only been five days but every bit of it had seemed endless.
He smiled and drew her close to his side as he wove them through the jostling crowd. At this time of day, the only ton members willing to brave the cold would be on Rotten Row. The working class still had hours of drudgery before leaving their workplaces to go home in the dark and get up long before dawn.
When they walked by the noisy jumble of the traffic jam, they saw the source of the blockage. A coal wagon had lost a wheel and was now being maneuvered out of the way.
Asterly nodded at the scene in the street. “At least the carriage horses and dray teams won’t be forced to stand in the freezing cold much longer.”