“You know very well it would be highly improper for you to travel with Wickerdun to his home without a proper escort.”
“I do not suppose you would—”
“No, our first ball of the season is next week, so I cannot assist you. Besides, Wickerdun assured Spode he would return in time for the ball.”
“Yes, but what kind of shape will he be in, I wonder?”
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* * *
Chapter Three
Where It Began
Wickerdun handed the reins to the groom and stood staring at the front of Fairhills. It had been years since he voluntarily visited. The house appeared smaller than he remembered. If one didn't have dark memories about the place, one might call the house appealing. Would Megara like it? He looked around, wondering where to start. So many memories, so many ghosts to get rid of. Doubtless, he'd wind up losing his mind over this. He paused as the hint of song drifted to his ear. He smiled. Yes, the song of wood nymphs was just what he needed, actually.
After walking inside, Wickerdun stood in the middle of the drawing room, staring out a window at the bench placed near the rose garden. He pictured his mother sitting there, he running to her with a bloodied knee, crying, and she placing her hand over his scrape. They both laughed when she removed her hand and the wound was healed. She'd said something about blood. Blood all gone?
The soft clearing of a throat behind him was a welcome distraction. He turned. “Yes, Thomas?”
“The coach arrived, my lord, with Jenkins and your bags. He is seeing to your unpacking.”
The old butler failed to disguise his curiosity. No doubt the entire staff wondered about Wickerdun's sudden arrival. “Yes, Thomas?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but it appears you'll not be staying long?”
“Just long enough, Thomas.” He cast a thoughtful look at the old servant. “You have been at Fairhills all your life, have you not?”
“Yes, my lord. But if you'll forgive me, I'm not ready to be pensioned off.”
“Yes, I know. You refuse each time it is offered. No, what I meant was you are familiar with this family.”
“It was my honor to begin service under your great-grandfather, sir. A very gifted man, if you will pardon my saying so.”
Wickerdun arched his brows. It appeared Thomas might have a wealth of information. “Please have a seat, Thomas. I have many questions about my family, and I believe we shall both be more at ease if we can converse comfortably.” Not to mention Thomas looked ready to fall on his face. He really would have to pension the old man off, if only for his own good.
Once they were seated, Wickerdun asked Thomas about his mother.
“There was naught wrong with her, my lord. A wonderful lady. She was most gifted.”
Wickerdun drew his brows together. “No, I mean physically wrong with her.”
Thomas shook his head. “There was naught wrong with your mother, my lord.”
Wickerdun sighed. “My father?” His lips quirked when Thomas drew himself up.
“I never speak ill of the dead, my lord. However, if I might be so bold as to say so, Mrs. Littlepond has no such compunction.”
His interest piqued, Wickerdun made a mental note to speak to the housekeeper. “Then tell me about my great-grandfather and grandfather, Thomas.”
* * * *
Wickerdun lay in his bed that night, the earlier conversations held with Thomas and Mrs. Littlepond running through his head. A window was open, allowing in the soft, soothing voices of wood nymphs. The singing failed to comfort him, however. The two servants’ versions of events past didn't agree with his memories. But, he had to admit, there was much of his childhood he didn't recall.
Gifted. They had both used the word gifted when speaking of his mother. Actually, with his entire family, his father the exception. Mrs. Littlepond didn't come out and say his father was responsible for his mother's death, but it was implied. Doubtless they wished to spare his feelings, but he would rather hear the truth, not vague mumblings, heavy sighs and averted gazes.
His announcement of a possible marriage in the near future visibly cheered the two. They asked if his future countess was gifted, too. What an odd thing to ask. He said they would have to determine such a thing for themselves, although it had been Megara who insisted he return to Fairhills. Apparently, she decided this was where they would reside when not in London. Thomas was so excited, Wickerdun feared the man might have an apoplectic attack.
So strange. The visit hadn't been the nightmare he feared, not at all. Yet he still had questions that needed answering. The blood. His mother and his scraped knee. There had been other times when she'd healed his cuts. Geoffrey's, too. The memories flowed. He remembered her talking to him, could see her smile, then point and explain something, but he couldn't recall conversations. So frustrating!
Hours later, the night terror left Wickerdun shaking with residual fear, his body wet with sweat, his heart racing. His father's presence was palpable. Was the bloody bedchamber haunted? Gradually, his heart quieted, the rational part of him searching for a reason for his terror. The room slowly brightened as the dawn broke while he lay in bed, thinking.
* * * *
“The thing is,” Wickerdun said aloud as he lay on the ground in the wood, “I am not sure my conclusions are correct. This is not something one can discuss with just anyone.” He listened to the chatter and singing in reply. “Although I cannot understand what you are saying, I appreciate your harkening. Would you agree I am on the right path? Or am I headed for Bedlam?” More chatter and singing. “Some might call me insane. Some said my father was insane, at the end. Very possibly he was. Then, too, I am having a conversation with wood nymphs, which most people would consider insane, especially since I cannot understand what you are saying. But Ardmoor can hear you. Megara can hear you. So at least I am not the only one.” He sighed.
“They would listen and not think me insane, but I would have to travel to London to speak to them and I do not believe it wise for me to leave just yet. I think there is more for me to uncover here.” He listened to the loud chattering. “Ah ... I seem to have hit upon something wood nymphs feel strongly about.”
* * * *
Wickerdun entered the dining room and stopped. So far, he'd put off eating in here, unwilling to face the unpleasant memories this room carried. He'd dressed for dinner, his usual custom. Perhaps it was silly, but he felt more in control when formally attired. However, he didn't think it would help tonight. Thomas hovered nearby and Mrs. Littlepond peeked out from the service door. Unfortunately, someone had seen him talking aloud as he lay on the ground in the wood earlier, and had promptly reported his unusual behavior to Thomas. And Thomas, it would seem, had felt duty bound to spread the tale. He'd had servants looking at him all day, their expression one of expectation. Of what, he had no idea. Possibly that he break out in maniacal laughter while flinging off his clothes.
“You may serve, Thomas,” Wickerdun said. “And yes, I feel fine.”
Wickerdun stared at the other end of the table. Instead of picturing his mother, it was Megara's image he saw. He smiled. Yes, he could picture her seated thusly, perhaps with a plume in her hair. Megara wore plumes well. Added to her height. He chuckled. Why hadn't he considered her height before? She was tall for a woman, taller than most men, while faeries were short of stature. Or were they? He frowned.
“My lord? Is something wrong?”
“No, Thomas.” He turned to face the older man. “I was wondering whether faeries were short or tall.” Ha! Let him chew on that.
“Oh, they can be any size, my lord,” Thomas replied. “Same as regular folk. Now, you got different clans, so to speak, different folk altogether, so some are always tall, some are hairier.”
Wickerdun blinked and then narrowed his eyes. “I was talking to wood nymphs today. What do you say to that?”
Thomas beamed. “Oh, wood nymphs! Well, that's all right then. We feared
you were losing your traces, my lord.” He turned to the service door. “Did you hear, Mrs. Littlepond? Our boy has found the wood nymphs.” Thomas turned quickly. “Begging your pardon, my lord.”
Were they having a jest at his expense? No, he didn't believe so. He pursed his lips. If they accepted what he said as truth...
“The woman I hope to marry introduced me to their songs.”
Thomas's knees buckled, and Wickerdun shot from his chair. “Mrs. Littlepond!”
Mrs. Littlepond burst open the door and was at his side before the echo of his words died. “He'll be fine, my lord. Just the excitement about the new countess. Thomas has it in his head he can't leave service until he sees you wed to a proper lady and your heir safely born.”
“Cannot leave?” Wickerdun shook his head. What an odd notion. Thomas looked white around his mouth, but was smiling up at him. “Sorry to disappoint you, Thomas, but she has not accepted me yet. My coming here was some sort of test. Of what I have no idea,” he muttered. “Thomas, I insist you retire for the night.”
* * * *
The breakfast room held no terror from the past. His father never ate in here that Wickerdun could recall. Still, Wickerdun saw Megara seated at the table rather than his mother. No plumes, but then Wickerdun had spent a restless night imagining what he'd do with a plume and Megara. He chewed his food with abandon. Would Megara enjoy bed-play? If she protested, he'd remind her she said she wanted to race, not trot. That brought a smile to his lips. By Jupiter, he'd teach that filly how to race! He chuckled and then choked. Had he referred to Megara as a filly? He leaned back in his chair, staring into space. That sounded like something his father would have said. Good God, was it starting in him?
He jumped up from the table and fled to the quiet of the wood. He needed time to think.
“You can understand my dilemma,” Wickerdun said to the wood nymphs as he leaned his back against a tree. How freely he did that now, when just a short time ago he didn't even believe in them. “I would sooner end my existence than harm Megara. However, I feel my existence would lose all meaning if Megara was not by my side, was not my wife.” He knocked the back of his head against the tree. “I sound pathetic.” He concluded the excited chattering signaled agreement.
* * * *
Ardmoor leaned to rap on the coach window, but Megara's face was pressed against the glass. “We are here,” he shouted. “About bloody time, too,” he muttered as he urged his horse forward.
Megara exited the coach and looked up at Fairhills Hall. How beautiful! But her attention was drawn to the wood and she smiled. William was in the wood and talking to the wood nymphs! Oh, she wanted to kiss that man! Her aunt noisily descended and Megara turned to deal with her, then their baggage, and finally to the man who hobbled out to have a look at them. His hopes, his expression, brought a tear to her eye.
“Be you the woman our master wishes to wed?” he asked.
“He has got a bit of the blood in him,” Aunt Susan said softly.
Megara smiled at the man, seeing a kindred spirit, her aunt's whispered words confirming what she'd seen.
“I hope I am.” She smiled when the man laughed.
* * * *
A mere hour later after settling her aunt for a nap, Megara hurried down the stairs. She sensed Ardmoor's impatience before she heard the tapping of his peg. She was grateful to both Ardmoor and her aunt. Neither had wanted to come with her to Leicestershire, but they had.
“I am coming,” she called.
About bloody time.
“I heard that,” Megara said as she came to a halt before Ardmoor. “Your thoughts are as loud as spoken words, Trevor.” She laughed at his arched brow. “Ardmoor.”
“You need go to Wickerdun before the bl—silly wood nymphs chatter us up a cyclone. Do what you came to do so we can return to London. I shall remain at a discreet distance.”
“You needn't bother, he is only—”
“I came as chaperone, Meg,” Ardmoor said. “And yes, you need a chaperone. I can smell the man's lust.”
Megara sniffed, but couldn't detect anything unusual. At his pained expression, she laughed. “Oh, you meant metaphorically speaking.”
“No.” He propelled her to the door, held open by Thomas. “I meant literally. Obviously, you cannot identify what I do, but Wickerdun is near the end of his tether, I fear. He knows he wants you, but has no clue as to why he is at such odds with himself.”
Megara gave Ardmoor an admiring glance as they made their way toward William. “You can smell all of that? I am impressed.”
Ardmoor grunted. “I am a male. I understand Wickerdun. The problem, dear Meg, is Wickerdun is caught in Cupid's man-trap, unable—”
“Man-trap? Do you not mean shot by Cupid's arrow?”
“No, man-trap. That is how love feels to a man. Trapped and unable to move no matter how you twist and turn, completely pole-axed by the pain of it all. Wondering why you cannot think clearly, make logical decisions. Then, lust enters into the mix. It is horrible. On top of that, Wickerdun is accepting his wild blood only now. For a true stick-in-the-mud like him, that must—”
“Yes,” Megara broke in, “I realize all of that. It is the reason I felt compelled to come to him. And William is not a stick-in-the-mud, not anymore, not once he accepts his destiny to race with me. Now tell me more about man-traps and lust.”
May God help Wickerdun.
“I heard that!”
* * * *
Wickerdun's eyes opened wide. Did he, or did he not just hear, and understand, the wood nymphs’ song? Megara was here? At first a chorus of welcoming to Megara, they then sang about his loneliness coming to an end, which switched to an earthy song of praise for Megara and her soft-footed steps upon the ground. They spent so much time singing about her feet and soft-footedness, Wickerdun wasn't surprised he started tapping one foot in time to their song. They sang about the perfection of her firm body, the detail holding him enthralled. When they sang of the varied ways she and he might find delight in one another, Wickerdun imagined each scenario, promising himself the pleasure of introducing those delights to Megara. His gaze searched the path that would bring her to him. Still no sign of her, Wickerdun thumped his head. Why was he waiting? He would meet her. Of course! He ran.
“William!” Megara cried as she ran toward her love.
“Bloody hell!” Ardmoor bellowed. “Get back, Meg! The man is in full, bloody wood nymph-induced-lust! Wickerdun! Stand down!”
Megara froze. She'd never heard of wood nymph-induced-lust, but Ardmoor appeared to know about these things. William's face was flushed, and he was breathing hard. William pointed at her.
“She is mine, Ardmoor. You had your chance.”
Her stomach fluttered at William's declaration. “Of course...” She stopped at Ardmoor's glare.
“As you say, Wickerdun, I had my chance. Alas, Lady Megara is unattached, although you say she is yours.”
“She is mine,” he said, his voice near a growl. Megara placed her hand over her rapidly beating heart. She smiled when Wickerdun's gaze raked possessively over her body. The thought crossed her mind he was picturing her without her clothes on. Her smile grew larger.
“Ah!” Ardmoor looked between the two. “Did I miss the announcement?”
Wickerdun looked at Ardmoor. “What?” He shook his head as if to clear it, then looked back at her. “What announcement?”
“Your betrothal,” Ardmoor snapped.
Wickerdun took a step closer. “She will not say yes.” He took another step. “But it occurs to me if—”
“Wickerdun!” Ardmoor snapped. “You are a gentleman, sir!”
William stopped and looked between her and Ardmoor. Megara stamped her foot when William pressed his hands to his head. He looked to be coming out of his lust.
* * * *
“I can climb the steps without assistance, Thomas. I am not injured, I tell you!” Wickerdun said. He still felt odd, as if every fiber of h
is body was on alert. And randy. Ready and randy, even now, especially when Megara was close.
“He will be fine,” Ardmoor assured Thomas. “Bit of the old nymph-induced-lust.” Ardmoor turned to Megara. “Poorly done, that.”
Wickerdun's brows rose. Megara had caused that?
“I swear I had nothing to do with their song!” Megara raced up the steps and ran in front of him, her expression concerned. “You believe me, do you not, William?” she asked as she walked backwards. “Whatever happened to you, please know I did not incite them.”
“I suppose they just happened to decide to work Wickerdun into a lather all by themselves?”
“How dare you imply I would do something so unethical!” Her gaze swung back to him. Wickerdun looked from her aqua eyes large and bright, to her trembling pink, moist lips. “I would never do that to someone, especially you, William.”
Wickerdun grasped Ardmoor by the arm before he did something rash, like grab Megara and carry her away. “Could we possibly discuss this in a more private setting? Then you can explain what happened to me,” he muttered.
Wickerdun didn't anticipate such a long wait. After they assembled in the drawing room, Ardmoor and Megara started in on one another. He stood by the hearth, waiting for Ardmoor and Megara to make peace. He told them he wouldn't listen to another word until they settled their differences. Their argument wasn't difficult to follow, except for the finer point of what it all meant. It had obviously struck a nerve with Ardmoor, and Megara was as insulted as if she'd been called a light-skirt. They finally made up, but not before Thomas entered with refreshments and forgot to leave. Wickerdun didn't have the heart to tell the old servant to go, and helped him to a seat near the door before the man dropped from excitement.
“Gladdened to see you have stopped throwing visual daggers at one another,” he said as he sat near the two.
“I have to confess, my—what did you call it, Ardmoor? No, never mind. Let us say the unusual state I experienced out there.” He grimaced. “Would it have affected me if I had not been able to understand them?”
A Dance of Manners Page 14