by Amy Lake
Anyone else would have called Lady Millicent quite pretty. Her face was oval, with large, brown eyes and creamy skin; the hair which she was presently regarding with so much distaste was fine, but smooth and gleaming and cascaded past her waist. She had long since abandoned any hope of achieving the current fashion of ringlets and simply gathered the light brown tresses in a soft top-knot, from which tendrils often escaped.
Hardly a sophisticated look, but Milly did allow that her escorts seemed to enjoy the feel of brushing their hands against it as they helped her in and out of carriages. Lady Millicent's expression softened, and her eyes took on a dreamy cast. One gentleman, in particular, had told her that her hair was like a ‘waterfall of silk.’ Lord Clarence Peabody was the most handsome young man in the whole world, in Milly's mind, and she was sure that if her parents would only take the time to know him, they would see him as she did. A bit moody, perhaps, but that was only because of his sensitive nature. Clarence could not abide pain of any kind, and Lady Millicent was sure this was the mark of a true gentleman.
"Milady?” Abbey scratched at the door. “Milady, ‘tis close on time."
Bother it all. Lord Castlereaugh would be arriving at any moment and there was no chance to change. Pinching some colour into her cheeks, Millicent gathered up her challis wrap and padded quickly downstairs, hoping that she could manage to avoid her father, the earl. ‘Twould be best that he not know how late was her departure with Lord Castlereaugh, so he would have no complaint about how early her return.
* * * *
The cook had, indeed, outdone herself with the tea. A gleaming silver teapot shared pride of place with two enormous silver platters, the latter filled with all manner of cakes and savouries, enough for three times the people present. Lady Detweiler and Pamela proclaimed themselves in alt.
"My compliments to your cook,” said Amanda, who had selected several of the scones-and-jam, and was now occupied with a decanter of brandy. “But if we are to eat them all, ‘twill take most of the day."
"I believe,” said the duke, “that Cook is trying to make up for lost opportunities."
They took a leisurely tea, and Lord Torrance proved an excellent storyteller, explaining as much as he knew of the history of the house and its family. The Torrance family had borne its share of misfits, misanthropes, and dreamers, the present duke's own story a case in point.
"So you never saw Marchers as a boy?” asked Lady Detweiler.
"Not a single time that I can recall,” said Lord Torrance. “My father and the old duke did not get on well, especially-so I believe-after the death of Guenevieve."
Lady Pamela had heard much the same from Helène.
"It seems odd,” she commented. “When you were to be the heir."
Lord Torrance shrugged. “It might have been different if my uncle had died before I left for Virginia. I suppose, in that case, I wouldn't have gone at all."
"But—"
"But he died nine months after I left, furious to the last that life had not worked out as he insisted it should.” The duke sighed. “And I thought matters were already settled in the hands of a steward. I saw no reason to come home."
* * * *
"A good afternoon to you, my lord!"
Lady Millicent waved a cheerful farewell to Lord Castlereaugh, and ran up the front steps to the Banbridge townhome, where the butler waited to show her in. Her face fell the moment the door closed behind her, and she let out a soft groan.
Lord Castlereaugh was forty-five years old if he was a day! Positively ancient, to Millicent's mind. And his choice of kelly green as the appropriate color for a riding coat was nothing short of atrocious. Millicent started to giggle at the memory and then, with a glance at the door to her father's study, thought better of it. She began to tiptoe up the front staircase, cautiously avoiding the squeaky fourth step, and had almost reached the top before she heard a familiar, dreaded sound.
The door of the earl's study, opening.
"Milly,” came her father's voice. “I should be most pleased if you would join me in the library as soon as you've made yourself presentable."
"Oh, but—"
"At once, Millicent."
"Yes, father."
Muttering her protest, Lady Millicent trudged on to her rooms, imagining that she would soon be subjected to another lecture on The Importance of Marrying Well. The earl seemed beset by this subject, and it was a great mystery to his daughter. She was just now eighteen! A proper time to find a husband, to be sure, but why was her father so determined to throw her at any old lord of the ton? She was her parents’ only child, and they must wish that she be happy. ‘Twas not as if she were some poor cit, who needed to marry merely to put meat upon the table!
The marriage of a young lady of breeding was a complicated subject, thought Milly, her head awash with thoughts of the requisite trousseau. Walking gowns, and riding habits, ball dresses, muffs, pelisses, and redingotes—
Yes. A marriage required the utmost in care and deliberation.
Millicent sighed, knowing that her father's patience would not extend beyond a few more minutes. She scribbled a quick note to Annabelle Fitzroy, her closest friend and confidant. She must talk to Annabelle. Annabelle would know what to do.
* * * *
Benjamin closed the front door behind Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler and stood for a moment, staring at the oak as if it was transparent, as if he could still see the two women as they walked to their carriage.
Mistress. Strange that the word should have two such different meanings, for from the moment he had first seen her in Marchers, Lord Torrance had been unable to look at Pamela Sinclair without seeing the mistress of his home. As she could have been, for some months past.
Why had she refused his offer? wondered Benjamin, a question he had asked himself daily for months, both knowing and not knowing the answer. He had thought Lady Pamela loved him as he loved her. He had been sure she would accept him, so sure that when the time came to say the words he had scarcely given them a thought.
Marry me, said Benjamin. We must be married.
We must?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amanda had disappeared. Once again she had quietly slipped away after the work had begun, and was now, no doubt, napping in some out-of-the-way corner of Marchers. Lady Pamela looked up from the pages of Ackermann's Repository. She was alone in the duke's library, with nothing but yards of fabric samples for company.
Had she dozed off, Ackermann's in hand? It was possible, admitted Lady Pam. She considered herself an active, healthy sort of person, not given to sleeping until noon with the rest of the ton, but the re-modeling of Marchers had occupied her mornings for the last several weeks, and she was tired. ‘Twas one thing to arise early to tea and biscuits and a hour's letter writing, Lady Pam had discovered, but quite another to be traipsing all over London looking for drapery velvet, or for a furniture maker who would not collapse at the thought of fifty identical dining room chairs.
The door to the library opened and Lord Torrance stepped in. They stared at each other in silence, momentarily frozen. Lady Pamela and the duke had achieved a détente of sorts, over the past few weeks, neither referring to past arguments, nor starting anew. Neither had broached the subject of his proposal, of her refusal, or of where they might now stand with one another.
Friends, he had said one afternoon, only a day or two before. We can be good friends. Pam wasn't sure what she thought of that idea.
"Your pardon,” said Lady Pamela at last. “Lady Detweiler seems to have found yet another place to catch a nap."
"Of course,” said Lord Torrance. “Where was it the last time?"
"The music room sofa."
"Ah, yes. Lady Detweiler insisted on that purchase, as I recall.” Lord Torrance sent her a quick, heart-stopping grin. “Shall I send a footman to wake her?"
"I suppose..."
But the duke made no move toward the bell pull, joining her instead on the sofa. He too
k the volume of Ackermann's from her hands and glanced at the page. It held, to Pam's embarrassment, a large coloured plate of a bed. A lady's bed, four-posted, with a simple frieze of flowers carved at it's head, and trailing ivy round the base.
"It's lovely. But surely not for a duke-?"
"Dear me, no,” said Lady Pam. “The duchess."
The Duchess of Grentham. No such individual was presently in existence, and Pamela felt awkward that they should be discussing her as if she were real. But, of course, someday she would be. A duke was expected to marry, and especially this duke who, as he had explained to Pamela months ago, had no close relation as heir.
"Helène's son, if she should have a son, might inherit,” Lord Torrance had said. “No-one else stands a clear claim."
Except my own children yet to come. Of course. But those words had remained unsaid.
Strictly speaking, Lady Pamela had no reason to search for a duchess's bed, as this was one of the few pieces of furniture which had remained in Marchers from the previous duke's regime. But that bed was grotesquely ornate-to Pam's taste-and so covered in layer after layer of decades-old velvets that she thought that the wood itself must have picked up the smell of mould.
"The old bed is usable,” she added, “so perhaps—"
The duke was looking at her curiously. “Do you like it?” he asked.
"Ah, well...” stumbled Pam, not wishing to offend.
"I think it's hideous."
Lady Pamela grinned at him and laughed. “But perhaps we-you could keep it,” she suggested, “and even embellish the suite in that same style—"
"-with the appropriate colours,” added Lord Torrance, “scarlet and gilt. And more gilt."
He smiled broadly, chuckling, and Lady Pamela felt how easily they conversed when nothing more than redecoration was at stake, how often they seemed to understand exactly how the other felt. She and the duke had found themselves drawn to identical colours, and fabrics, and schemes of decor more often than not, and it was if they held the same images of Marchers in mind, the same vision of what the house could be.
Beautiful, and grand, and welcoming. Full of friends and family ... and children. Pamela saw the duke's sons, tall and blond like their father, running through the hallways, chasing up and down the staircase and laughing, always laughing. She felt sure that Lord Torrance would allow this, that he would never be one of the ton gentlemen who expected their children to lead a dreary half-existence cooped up in the nursery.
The duke would be a wonderful father.
"If we are speaking of the duchess's suite,” said Lord Torrance, “I'd like your opinion of the furnishing for the maid's bedroom."
Pam blinked, realizing that her thoughts had once again led her far astray. The lady's maid, he meant. A young woman, such as Pamela's Maggie, whose job was twofold; overseeing her lady's wardrobe, and accompanying the lady on walks such as those Pam took to Green Park.
"Furnishings?” She wasn't sure what he had in mind.
"The usual, I suppose,” answered the duke. “A decent bed and comfortable chair, a wardrobe, chest of drawers, lamp, that sort of thing."
"Ah, yes—"
"And perhaps a small bookcase as well. I should think a young girl might enjoy a bit of reading now and again."
This was far beyond the usual furnishings of such a room. Lady Pamela was charmed by his thoughtfulness, even though she harboured some doubts about the usefulness of a bookcase, and she wondered if the duke realized how few of the London servants could read. She herself had taught more than one coal-boy his letters, and the younger maids were unlikely to know more than the spelling of their own names.
Pam had yet to meet a lady's maid, moreover, who wouldn't prefer to spend her spare time flirting with the footmen. Still, it was gratifying to discover that Lord Torrance cared about the servants’ quarters, and was prepared to spend both money and effort on making the rooms pleasant and clean. She had seen homes where the master and mistress lived in luxury while the staff made do with beds of filthy straw in a damp basement.
The bedroom of a lady's maid, however, was usually near that of her mistress. Lady Pamela had glimpsed this chamber only once, in passing.
"If I could see the room...” she ventured, reminding herself of the duke's proclamation of friendship. A friend could manage to walk by the duchess's suite without blushing, could she not?
"Of course,” said Lord Torrance. He smiled and stood up, extending his hand to her. “Let me show you at once."
Lady Pamela placed her hand in his, feeling the shock of contact. His touch was warm, and strong, and she tilted her chin, offering what she hoped was a cheerful, unconcerned smile. Friends. Only friends. It would not do to let Lord Torrance see how his presence affected her.
They climbed the wide, marble staircase to the gallery overlooking the entrance hall. The gallery promenade, balustraded in a semi-circle, afforded a fine view of the foyer and its alcoves below, and when ‘twas adequately furnished, thought Pam, ‘twould be one of the crowning glories of the house. She imagined plush new carpeting, and elegant wall-papers-nothing too fussy-with a selection of fine Greek amphorae arranged at appropriate intervals along the wall.
The promenade opened into several hallways, each leading in turn to the bedchambers for family and guests. They had not yet reached the hallway for the duchess's suite when a small événement occurred. One moment Lady Pamela and Lord Torrance were walking side by side, the next moment she had paused, her attention caught by the skirting of the balustrade.
'Twas carved with a Greek motif; rosettes and interlaced strings of bay. Lady Pamela thought it very elegant, and was considering how a Greek motif might be carried out throughout the gallery; she bent down to look more closely at the carving.
The duke's step had carried him a little ahead, and he turned to see Lady Pamela straightening up from her inspection.
"Lady Pamela,” he said. “Please, be careful."
He stepped toward her, hand outstretched.
Under other circumstances the warning would have been sufficient. Under other circumstances the balustrade would not have been in such dire need of repair. And if Pamela had not been so chronically flustered by the duke's presence, so sensitive to his every move, perhaps she would not have reacted the way she now did.
As Lord Torrance reached forward to catch her arm, Lady Pamela jumped slightly, her breath catching in her throat. She stepped backwards into the balustrade, which promptly gave way in a series of splintering cracks.
"Oh!"
"Pamela!” shouted the duke, as Pam wobbled, one foot slipping from the edge, her slipper dropping to the marble below. Lord Torrance lunged forward and caught her before she fell, pulling her to him, away from the edge and thence, as they overbalanced, to the gallery carpeting.
"How clumsy-I'm terribly sorry-your poor balusters—” Pam was babbling, nearly incoherent. How mortifying, she thought. How utterly mortifying. The duke had, in fact, warned her about the balustrade, going so far as to insist he accompany her and Lady Detweiler any time they wished to visit the upper floors. And now she had fallen, and broken it, and what would Lord Torrance think, to have someone so clumsy—
"What on earth were you doing?” snapped the duke.
You ninnyhammer! a little voice was exclaiming someplace very near to her ears. Jumping back as if he were about to attack you!
"I'm terribly sorry-I didn't mean—"
"I told you to be careful!"
"I'm sorry!” cried Lady Pam again, too flustered to think of a more constructive answer.
She was still attempting to stand, but the duke grabbed her around the waist, refusing to allow her to her feet. He pulled her farther from the balustrade.
"Sit down!” he roared. “Just sit down!"
And so they sat, for a few breathless moments, in the middle of the gallery hall, Lady Pamela in the Duke of Grentham's lap, his arm wrapped around her like a vise-until Pam burst into laughter.
&n
bsp; "I'm ... I'm sorry,” she hiccoughed. “I'm so sorry.” She pointed at her feet peeking from the skirt of her day gown-one foot shod, the other not. “My slipper—” Pamela burst into renewed giggles. Tears of mirth streamed from her eyes.
The duke glared at her, and then he, too, began to laugh.
Their laughter continued until they were both breathless and panting, and at some nameless moment Lord Torrance's grip eased and his hands moved from her waist to her shoulders, and to the back of her neck, and his lips sought hers. He kissed her softly, then passionately, and Pam's arms reached up, locked around his neck, as she returned his kisses.
He murmured her name, and something else that might have been an apology. Lady Pamela heard only the wild beating of her own heart-and a small voice.
It's no good, said the voice. He desires you, yes-but despite his own judgment. You cannot love someone who feels that way.
I do love someone who feels that way.
Not forever. Not forever.
But she could not break free, and whether it was Benjamin's desire that imprisoned her or her own she did not know. They clung together, locked in an embrace, until both heard Mrs. Throckmorton's voice from below.
"Your grace?"
The housekeeper could not see them unless she climbed the staircase. The duke's finger went to her lips, and he kissed her again.
"Your grace?” The voice was alarmed, now, and Pamela guessed that Mrs. Throckmorton had seen the remnants of baluster scattered over her clean marble floor.
Oh, no, thought Lady Pamela. ‘Tis not only the balusters. My slipper—
Lord Torrance seemed not to care. It's his house, thought Pamela, and I suppose he can kiss willing females wherever he wants. But Lady Pam was feeling more and more like they were playing out a scene from The Marquess and the Milkmaid, and she was loath to see Mrs. Throckmorton's face should the housekeeper chance to climb the stairs.
And, Pam reminded herself, she was not a willing female, and Lord Torrance had no business kissing her, as if the past months of estrangement had never occurred.
"Mmph,” she said, against insistent lips. Lord Torrance grinned at Lady Pamela and pulled her to her feet. He pointed, silently, down the hall. She shook her head.