by Megan Daniel
And so when the handsome young man had kissed her and held her and made her feel a fire like nothing she had ever known before or since, she had run away, frightened at the intensity of her own feelings, frightened of what he would think of her, and, most of all, frightened of the very real threat to her independence he represented.
And he had let her run away. She had never quite forgiven him for that.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the gentleman raised himself from the tub and stood to his full six feet. As the water fell away from his glowing wet skin, pink with warmth beneath the deep bronze of his tan, little fingers of steam drifted up and twisted themselves around his head, where wisps of sun-bleached hair curled damply about his face.
The servant, who was nearly as large and powerful- looking as his master, stepped forward with a rough Turkish towel in his hands and began to vigorously rub the gentleman’s naked back until it tingled. He submitted with complete enjoyment while the last droplets of moisture were toweled from his body.
The linen shirt was cool and smooth as it slid over his bath-warmed skin; he stretched luxuriously as the servant floated it down over his head. He pulled on the corded pantaloons, which covered but could not conceal his powerful thighs, and settled himself before the mirror. He sipped at the strong dark tea, unable to suppress a smile of remembrance at the flood of memories the taste carried with it.
A vigorous brushing brought some order to his tumbled locks; then he settled to the important business of tying his cravat.
He thought idly that it was a good thing he had spent some time in Virginia and Boston before his return. Those pockets of genteel civilization had given him a chance to relearn a few of the graces and manners that had worn thin during his time in the vast American wilderness. It would not have done to return to his home and his inheritance acting like some sort of savage.
His fingers worked deftly at the mass of starched white muslin, and he was soon satisfied with the result, one attempt being sufficient. The resulting creation was smooth and elegant but understated, impeding neither the movement of his head nor his dignity. The coat, likewise, as it settled smoothly over his fine shoulders, was well cut but easily fitted; it took him but a moment to shrug himself into it.
He stood before the long cheval glass and surveyed the gentleman gazing back at him. He couldn’t suppress a lopsided grin at the cool elegance of the fellow. Who would now guess that he had spent much of the past few years in rough buckskins and furs and had, as often as not, slept under the stars and with his boots on?
He carefully pinned a single watch fob to his waist and slid a heavy gold signet ring onto his finger. Lastly, he picked up a high curled beaver hat, brushed to a perfect sheen, and settled it on his head. Adjusting the tilt to a more rakish angle, he let his deep laugh ring out once more. With a mock salute and a grand bow to the polished gentleman in the mirror, he spoke in a voice warmed by good humor and total comfort. “I bid you a
good evening, my lord,” were his words. He was still chuckling as he decended the stairs.
Richard, Lord Devlin, left the best inn in York to discover what delights the evening might offer up.
The young woman gave her head a shake to bring herself back to the present. The maid scowled as a hairpin worked itself loose, and quickly righted it Such silly musings and rememberings. She really must hurry or she would be late for dinner. She rose, removed the wrapper, and allowed the maid to slide a silk shift over her head. A tamboured muslin petticoat was tied at her waist The silk of her demi-gown, a deep dusky rose, rustled as it slid into place; her satin slippers whooshed softly on the Persian carpet. She picked up an exquisite pair of long French kid gloves, a delicately carved ivory fan, a gossamer shawl of silver tissue, and turned again toward the mirror. A perfectly put-together, cool English beauty stared back at her.
She had indeed come a long way from the silly girl who ran, terrified, from a kiss and an embrace in a shimmering summer garden. The young woman staring back at her now would not have lost control, would not have been frightened or humiliated. She would not spend hours wondering: “What if we had not been interrupted?” or “Why did he not come and find me?” A tiny frown creased her smooth forehead.
She looked about the lovely room, then back at her own image. She had never known anything but luxury, beauty, perfect order. She felt certain now that she never would. It was what she had been born to.
It wasn’t that she was precisely dissatisfied with her life. She was far too intelligent not to know that her birth had given her privileges enjoyed by only the very few. She had no desire whatever to give up that advantage. She had enjoyed a prank or two in her life. She had experienced much laughter. She was not ungrateful for the ease of her life, for her wealth, her beauty, and her position. She was thankful for a fine education and for a heart not hardened to the pain of others less fortunate than herself.
Neither was she precisely bored. She had a host of friends and was capable of enjoying her own company as well.
But there were times—and they had grown more and more frequent of late—when she would surprise herself in the middle of a crowded and glittering ballroom or sipping India tea from a delicate porcelain cup in someone’s elegant drawing room, with the radical thought: “Is this it? Is this my life, from now until forever?”
The dinner bell sounded in the hall below. She was late. She tested out a pleasant smile on the young woman in the mirror. It was returned. Tonight she would simply enjoy being with Sarah again. Tonight she would not worn' about the rest of her life.
With a practiced kick at her demi-train. Lady Francesca Waringham turned away from herself and descended the stairs to dinner.
2
Autumn sunshine sparkled off pier glasses and porcelain, gilt-trimmed ceilings and satinwood furniture polished to a high gloss as two young women made their way through room after room and corridor after hallway in the vast, one might say palatial, house that was Hock- leigh. A small retinue of servants trailed after them. The young Duchess of Hockleigh was nervous. She was making a last-minute inspection on her home for what was to be her first big house party since becoming duchess. Her guests would begin arriving in less than a pair of hours and everything must be perfect. Thank goodness her best friend was here beside her.
“Oh, Cesca,” she cried. “Do you think that I should have added some wood pigeons for dinner tonight? We have the pheasants, and some quail, but George thinks...”
“Sarah,” said Lady Francesca in a voice of soothing calm. “Indeed, you must stop worrying so. There will be quite enough dishes for dinner. The pheasants will be perfect. Everything will be perfect, and everyone will be enchanted.”
“Oh, I do hope you are right. You know what a fearsome reputation Hockleigh has for hospitality. I do so want George to be proud of me.” She reached down to plump a cushion as they passed through a charming small sitting room all flowered chintz and ivy-trellised wallpaper. A young maid dusting the mantel dropped a curtsy. The Duchess surveyed the room with a frown. “More roses. It needs more roses, don’t you think, Cesca?”
With a placating smile, Francesca turned to the rotund housekeeper behind them. “Will you send to the hothouses for more roses, Mrs. Parish? Yellow, I think.”
“Oh,” Sarah exclaimed, “and the fire must be lit soon in old Lady Braethon’s room. She will want to go up and rest as soon as she arrives, I feel certain, and George says she likes her room like a coal oven all the time.”
This time Francesca only looked at the housekeeper, who answered with an efficient nod. “You shall make an excellent hostess, Sarah. I should never have thought of that.”
“Oh, Cesca, of course you would have.”
“Well, if I had, I would have been likely to decide in my high-handed way that Lady Braethon would be far better off with some fresh air, and I’d have thrown all the windows open.”
Sarah chuckled. “You are being nonsensical, for you know very well you have the kindest heart in
the world.”
Francesca smiled at her friend. Sarah could never see anything but the best in everyone. “No, darling. That honor has already been bestowed.” She put an arm gently around the smaller woman’s shoulders. “Shall we see to the music room?”
They entered this wondrous baroque chamber and let their eyes wander over its green scagliola columns and red tapestries, its pianoforte and delicately veneered harpsichord. Pink-cheeked cherubs playing gilded lutes greeted them overhead. “The harp!” cried Sarah in dismay. “We never had the harp restrung!”
“It was done this morning.” soothed Francesca. “You reminded Mrs. Parish of it yourself only last night.”
“Oh, thank goodness. For Mrs. Pennington is certain to want Priscilla to play for us.”
“Yes, though why she would subject the poor girl, and us, to such torture is beyond me.”
“Oh, Cesca. She doesn’t play so very badly.”
“She does,” corrected Francesca. The two of them looked at each other and shared a grin.
“Well, yes, I’m afraid she does,” admitted Sarah. “And I shall have to speak to the gardeners about Caspar. He is certain to want to know everything about every strange plant in the garden.”
“Caspar?”
“Yes, George’s cousin, Caspar Maltby. You know Caspar, don’t you?”
“Mr. Maltby. Oh, yes, a botancial sort of fellow, forever prosing on about his roses.”
“Yes. I was ever so surprised when he accepted. He never goes anywhere.”
She rearranged a huge bowl of chrysanthemums and adjusted the position of a fire screen by about half an inch. She looked at the large gilt mirror over the mantel, frowned, and turned to Francesca, a comment on her lips.
“Yes, yes,” said Francesca matter-of-factly, smiling at a footman with a polishing rag in his hand. “The mirror.”
The servants had fallen away one by one as various tasks were assigned them. The only companion now remaining to the two girls was Mrs. Parish. “Will you be needing me anymore just now, Your Grace?” she asked. “I should just like to check on things in the kitchen.”
“Oh, please do, Mrs. Parish,” said Sarah. “And please pay Auguste at least one extravagant compliment He simply must be in good spirits tonight and create us a masterful dinner.”
The housekeeper allowed her thin line of mouth to curve ever so slightly upward at the comers. “I shall do my best, Your Grace,” she said, and dipping a small curtsy, she hurried from the room with businesslike gait.
“Thank goodness for Mrs. Parish,” sighed Sarah. “She
knows simply everything about Hockleigh. But I am so relieved you are here, Cesca. I am so nervous.”
“Silly thing. Why ever should you be? Do you remember how nervous we were at our come-outs? Why, you were as white as your muslin gown that night. And look how well that turned out! A duchess, no less!”
“Oh, but you know George wasn’t there that night, Cesca. He didn’t even see me until two years later.”
“And he adored you on sight. Now, do stop worrying so about this silly hunting party. No one is going to eat you, after all. You will do splendidly.”
“Well, George thinks I shall, and you know how very smart he is, but I...”
“George is absolutly right. And he will be beside you the whole time, you know.”
“Yes, thank goodness.” She looked at Francesca, letting a smile turn up the comers of her mouth. A tiny dimple appeared. “But I’m afraid George is just the tiniest bit put out with me just now.”
Francesca knew that mischievous smile only too well Many was the time she had shared in the devilment that brought it on. “Oh, Sarah, whatever have you done to the poor man?” she asked.
“Well, I haven’t done anything. It’s rather what I didn’t do.”
Francesca waited for her to go on, but the mischievous smile only grew. “Well?” she finally prodded. “What didn’t you do?”
“I’m afraid I neglected to tell him something rather important until just this morning.” Her smile grew even larger. Her nervousness seemed to have left her completely.
Francesca stopped abruptly and looked closely at her friend’s face, at the glowing cheeks, the dancing blue eyes, the radiance. The truth dawned. “Sarah! You’re not...”
“Yes, love. I am. Hockleigh will soon have an heir.”
The small Duchess all but disappeared into the embrace of the tall Lady Francesca. “Oh, Sarah, how wonderful! Are you quite certain? How long have you known? How do you feel? When will you be confined?”
“Just before Easter,” replied Sarah, choosing the last in this barrage of questions.
“Easter? But that’s ... why, Sarah, that’s less than five months. And you have only just told the Duke? No wonder the poor man is put out. Why ever did you wait so long?”
“Well, he was only a very little put out, I assure you. And I did want to be quite certain, of course.” She was still smiling her dimply smile, but a look of comical guilt also graced her pink face. One look at Francesca told her that her explanation was insufficient. “Oh, very well. If you must know, I didn’t want him to cancel the hunt. You know he would have done, besides making a very great fuss and making me take to my bed. You know I cannot stand to be fussed. George thinks I am a piece of china or something. I just couldn’t bear to have my party canceled, Cesca.”
“But, dearest, such a houseful of people at such a time! Won’t it be too much for you?”
“Pooh! It will be no such thing, and so I told George. Why, I have never felt better in my life, Cesca. I did have to promise George to lie down on my bed every afternoon without fail, which is certain to be a great bore, and not to overtax myself in any way. But he couldn’t very well cancel the hunt when the guests will be arriving at almost any moment.”
“How wicked you are, Sarah.” Francesca laughed. “And how clever, for all your adoration of George’s opinions.”
“You know I’m not at all clever, Cesca. Not like George. Or like you, for that matter. That’s why I have you here to see to all the dreary details that I am certain to be far too fatigued to deal with myself.”
“Yes, indeed. Very clever.” The two young woman broke into laughter. “Well, I shall like it excessively,” said Francesca when she brought her laughter under control. “You know how odiously managing I am, and I have been too much alone of late, boring myself with my own company and having no one at all to manage. This is just the sort of challenge I enjoy.”
“Oh, Cesca, you shouldn’t be alone. I so long to see you happy, as I am. Will you never marry? I know very well you have had ever so many proposals.”
“More than I care to recall, love, and every one of them from some insufferable bore I can scarce bear to converse with for five minutes together. I know that sounds odiously conceited of me, and I will freely admit that modesty is yet another of the womanly virtues, like submissiveness, that seems eternally beyond my grasp. Papa did not educate me to be a simpering miss. I have never cared enough about anyone to even consider giving up my freedom, and I don’t suppose I ever shall. I’ve been lucky enough and smart enough to avoid the curse of Romance for three-and-twenty years.”
“But love can come after you are married, Cesca. That’s what George said, and he was right, you know. I didn’t love George when we married. Well, of course I scarcely knew him, but he talked me into it, and now I really think I would die without him.”
Francesca looked at her friend lovingly. “I know you would, love, and believe me, I am very happy for you. But we are not the same. Your life would not make me happy.”
“How can you know?”
The question caught Francesca unaware, and she stared sightlessly out a nearby window. “How can I know?” she repeated, almost to herself. “How indeed?”
A booming voice interrupted the young Duchess’s speculative look and Francesca’s reverie. “Sarah! Sarah, where are you?” The two young women had just reached one end of the Long Gallery and t
urned into its
vastness. The source of the bellow was still out of sight around a comer at the far end of the room, but the voice echoed off the picture-hung walls, “Sarah! Look who’s arrived. Sarah!”
Francesca smiled. It was impossible not to like the young Duke of Hockleigh. He was so full of goodwill toward the whole world that it constantly spilled out and engulfed everyone around him. His tall round frame now burst into the far end of the gallery, and he was not alone.
“Whoever can that be with George, I wonder,” said Sarah in an undertone as they started down the long length of the room. “Do you know him?”
“No,” said Francesca. “I’ve no idea who . . .” She stopped abruptly as she stared at the stranger. She took in his fine features under a deep tan, the breadth of his shoulders, the sheen of his pale gold hair. Memory stirred within her. The room seemed suddenly to be permeated with the smell of honeysuckle and the warmth of a drowsy summer sun.
Richard, Lord Devlin, entered the gallery in the wake of his exuberant friend, nearly shadowed by the Duke’s bulk. Walking toward them, as they traversed the room he saw two remarkably handsome young women. The smaller of the two, in fluttering yellow muslin, was favoring George with a look of joy and abject adoration, hurrying to greet him with her arms out before her. Beside her was a taller, more graceful young lady with golden hair. She was smiling. When his eyes met that smile, memory seemed to catch within him. He thought he tasted strawberries.
It was him, she realized, a flood of emotions long forgotten coursing through her. How very dark he has grown. And how handsome. I had forgotten how handsome he is, like some Greek god. Adventuring must have agreed with him. I wonder if he ever married.