by Claudy Conn
They had been presented to each other just two months ago, and he knew she found him titillating, witty, and a stimulating companion. In turn he found her exquisite to behold, spoiled, wild, and irresistible. Though he knew neither she nor he were in love with one another, he meant to have her and her money. He looked long at her as these thoughts gravely carried his intent.
Myriah watched his face, and it occurred to her that her father might have his hopes around a match with Sir Roland. That was not what she wanted.
However, as Myriah and Roland met in the steps of the country dance, their eyes flirted, and it seemed to the onlookers that here was a match indeed.
Myriah’s cheeks were flushed when the dance ended, and Sir Roland eyed her with concern. “You need air, love. Come, the night is too beautiful to ignore.”
She hesitated and glanced doubtfully toward her father.
Sir Roland tugged gently at her arm, and with a shrug she relented, allowing him to open the French door and lead her into the garden. It was a delicious night, smelling of roses and fresh grass. She looked up at the black sky and saw the half-moon shining brightly down on her, its star companions twinkling gloriously. It was the sort of night poets and minstrels sang about, and Myriah breathed it in with pleasure. They walked without speaking, without touching, and she pulled her light shawl about her arms.
“Cold, love?” he inquired quietly, and there was a subtle shading in his words she chose to ignore.
“No,” she replied and walked a bit away from him. He reached out and held her back. “Don’t run away from me, Myriah. There is no need. If you wish, I’ll take you back inside.”
“No, I don’t wish to go back.”
“Then come walk with me,” he said, linking her arm through his. He led her farther away from the house, down the path to a maze of neatly cut yews where a stone bench caught his eye. He coaxed her to sit down beside him. Suddenly, as if exasperated, he took Myriah by the shoulders and turned her face to him. “You want to be alone with me, Myriah. Why do you pretend otherwise? You are no silly miss declaring no when she means yes. ’Tis not your way.”
She laughed good-naturedly. “You are a rogue! Perhaps I do want to be alone with you … perhaps I do not. I really don’t know. But that doesn’t signify at the moment, for apparently I am alone with you!”
His laugh was low and soft as he put his strong arms around her and drew her to him. “Myriah, you feel so good in my arms …”
She knew what she was doing. She invited his caress, hoping he might be the one. He certainly excited her. Suddenly his mouth was hungrily on hers. She yielded to his lips, allowing him the kiss, tasting his tongue, wondering if he could be the one as she waited and hoped for thunder and lightning … hoped for bells … for music—for something. She sighed at length and pulled away.
“I can’t marry you, Roland.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Who is the rogue now, my dear?”
She returned his look, an impish light creeping into her eyes. “Now there is no use telling me that I must not kiss a man unless I mean to marry him, for that is simply stuff and nonsense—and so you know!”
“So I do! But there are many who would not agree with such liberal thoughts!”
“That is because they are from another time and … and I think I am very different.” She moved farther away and frowned sadly over the problem.
“Myriah, what is it you want?” he asked suddenly.
“I … I don’t know. Evidently something other than what I have. I want to feel. But all I can feel is this awful restlessness. Lord … when I was a child, I was never this way. ’Tis just this past year. Here I am flaunting myself for the London bucks … and, Roland, I hate every minute of it!”
“Then end it—marry me!” Roland turned her to face him again. “We shall deal together, you know that we shall. Myriah, there is so much more …”
“Oh, Roland, you don’t need me to tell you what wild fun you are. And there is no gainsaying the fact that I like you better than any other man of my acquaintance, but I am not in love with you.”
“I could teach you to be,” he said, taking her into his arms and pressing her powerfully against him. She let him take her lips again, putting her arms about his neck, aroused by his hot kisses, aroused by her own needs. She returned his kiss, and her own was as urgent as his. She wanted this to be love, though she knew it was not.
“Egad!” reverberated a familiar voice from behind her.
Myriah jumped away from Roland’s suddenly limp arms and looked at her father with dismay. The blood rushed quickly to her cheeks.
Sir Roland pulled himself to his full height and stood calmly facing Lord Whitney, whose expression gave every promise of trouble. His lordship shook one irate finger at Sir Roland.
“What the devil do you mean seducing my daughter in my own home?”
“You mistake, my lord. I have just asked Myriah to be my wife,” Sir Roland offered quickly.
Myriah’s cheeks lost their heightened color, and she opened her eyes wide at her father’s change of expression. The ominous cloud that had hung about him had totally disappeared and been replaced with an open grin. She felt the warmth drain from her body, and coldness clutched at her.
“Eh?” barked his lordship, opening his blue eyes. “She has accepted you. Excellent—excellent! I knew she would. Told Emily, ‘Mark me now, ’tis Roland she wants.’ Very pleased indeed,” her father rattled on.
“Papa … Papa … I have not accepted Sir Roland’s offer!”
“Nonsense! Saw you m’self,” returned her father. Lady Myriah felt distinctly uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. How could she explain?
“Nevertheless, Papa, I did not accept his very flattering proposal.”
“Well then, my girl, do so now!” her father commanded, the smile leaving his lips. “No chit of mine is going to give away her favors freely.”
“Papa, do but listen—”
“Never mind trying to get around me this time. It won’t fadge, girl. I saw you with my own eyes—giving Sir Roland that which should go only to your intended. It’s clear I’ve let you run amuck. Well, I shan’t let you ruin yourself. It’s a husband you need, and Sir Roland here will fill the post nicely.”
“Papa, please do not speak so to me. I am not going to marry Roland. You can scarcely expect me to marry a man simply because I have allowed him to kiss me?”
“What?” shouted her distraught parent, quite on the verge of apoplexy.
“Well, really, Papa—”
“Listen to me, young lady,” interjected her father, barely able to speak. “You are not only going to, marry Sir Roland … I am going back into that ballroom with you both and making the announcement tonight! Good God—next thing you’ll be cradling a babe in your arms and telling me ’tis nothing at all! The very idea. Damnation, Myriah, I don’t like admitting Emily was right, but you have proven her so. She warned me what you were headed for, and I refused to listen. Well, by damn, I have discovered the way of it before it was too late!”
Myriah’s temper was as hot as her excitable father’s. However, she had enough control left to contain her fire. She knew her father to be in the right of it, at least, his right of it. From where he stood things must look bad, and when he was in a temper, there was no curbing his highhandedness. If she were to save the situation, she must act rationally. She calmed herself, knowing that to defy him now would not serve.
“Very well, Papa … if you will but give me a moment to tidy myself, I shall be very happy to accompany you to the ballroom and hear my engagement to Sir Roland announced.”
Sir Roland’s eyes flickered and flew to her face. What was the chit about? ’Twas not like her to concede so easily.
His lordship, on the other hand, thought too much of his authority over his daughter to question her sudden submission. He grunted and allowed her to pass.
Myriah raced up the back stairs and avoided the interested servants as she
made her way to her room. She would have to act quickly or be undone, for once such an announcement was made her father would never make a retraction. Indeed, she felt even she could not weather such a scandal.
“Papa, oh dear Papa,” she said to herself sadly as she rushed about her room, flung off her elegant gown, and donned instead a smartly cut riding habit of dark blue velvet. Her father, beloved, doting, and kind, could be terribly steadfast in his decisions, especially when his sense of propriety had been ruffled. The only way to prevent doom was to absent herself. She flung two gowns into a small portmanteau, scurried about for her toiletries, pulled on her riding boots, and without another glance made her way, portmanteau in hand, to the back stairway.
The sounds of servants rushing about with food trays, wasping at each other in their haste, caused her to slow down cautiously. She must not be seen. Another movement brought her to the side door of their fashionable London town house, and a moment later she was breathing in the night air.
With a hurry born of need, she made the three blocks to the Whitney stables unseen, for there was but one thing she could do and one place she could go: to her grandfather at Guildford House.
The extensive Whitney stables loomed out of the darkness. It was late, well past ten, and she was certain most of the livery boys would be in bed. She pulled on the wide wooden latch, lifted it out of its catch, and swung the door gently open.
“Who’s that?” came the gruff voice of a small man ambling toward her. The stables were dimly lit, and he pushed the candleholder in his hand toward the intruder’s face.
“M’lady!” he cried out in surprise.
“Hush, Tabby,” Myriah whispered, putting one gloved finger to her lips. “I need your help, old friend.”
He squinted at her intently, his dark eyes noting her disheveled attire. He scratched his short gray hair, and his mouth moved dourly. “Eh, now, child, what ye got yeself into this time?”
“Oh, Tabby, there is no time to explain now. Just trust me and help me saddle my horse immediately, and, Tab, I will ride astride!”
“Hold now, m’girl,” said the groom authoritatively. “You ain’t thinking of riding out at this time of night?”
“Oh, Tabby, please—just saddle Silkie for me. We need to hurry. If we don’t escape I shall be undone!”
There was no denying the note of desperation in his lady’s voice. He had mounted Myriah on her first pony. He had served her as he had served and adored her mother, but he was not beneath putting a spoke in her wheel to save her from herself. He hesitated. “First you best tell me what’s got you running.”
“Papa means to marry me to Sir Roland … He is in a temper, Tabby, and there is no gainsaying him. I must go to Grandpapa.”
“That won’t serve, m’lady. It’ll set up your father’s bristles, it will.”
“If you care for me, get my horse, Tab—please!” Then, with a bit more authority, she added, “Now—or I shall do it myself.” Myriah was out of patience.
Tabson grumbled but disappeared into the darkness while Myriah fidgeted, fearing her father’s explosion on the scene. Perhaps he would not realize for a time, but then he would send up a maid to fetch her, and then … her absence would be reported, and he would have to say she had gone to bed ill.
In what seemed interminable but was actually a short time, Tabby returned with his lady’s horse and a saddled roan for himself.
“Tabby, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I be going wit ye! Not the devil ’imself could stop me!” announced her groom as he watched her cinch her saddle in place and hoist herself nimbly onto her horse.
She laughed. “Now, Tabby, I have to tell you that you should fear my powers a bit more than the devil’s.” She laughed again and added, “I’ve a notion to let you come—so be it!”
She flung him a purse containing a tidy sum and led the way, cooing to her glossy, quiet stallion as she urged him onto the cobbled street. His ears flicked at the sound of her voice. A breeze caressed her cheeks, and Myriah laughed a wild, unbridled laugh. She was free—at least for the moment.
Two
AS THEY PICKED their way through the narrow streets toward Charing Cross, Myriah’s eyes were bright with excitement. Even the thought that London at this time of night was not safe for a well-armed man, let alone a young woman, could not disturb her spirits.
“’Tis a wild ride we ’ave ahead of us, m’lady,” Tabson said sourly.
“Ain’t it grand, Tab? Imagine! Riding on the open road with not a soul to say us nay!”
“Humph … providing no bridle-cull spots us,” returned the groom pessimistically.
“And if he does, we’ll give him our trinkets and be on our way—’tis nothing!” said the lady, snapping her finger for emphasis and laughing at the thought of such an escapade.
A company of merry gentlemen stumbled out of a tavern singing quite loudly, out of tune and not at all concerned with this deficiency. They spotted Myriah and called out robustly for her to stop awhile. She chuckled but kept up her proud chin, urging her horse to move at a faster pace.
“Humph!” grumbled Tabby. At last they reached the toll-gate. After watching Tabby attend to the fee, Myriah gave her horse his head. They bounded forward in rhythm with one another, and Myriah’s restlessness lost itself in speed. How she loved riding freely.
Tabby caught up after some effort and called to his mistress to slow her horse into a canter. “Don’t be all hell and fire, m’lady … leastways not in the dark! Ye’ll be planting yerself in some rut or other and giving that stallion ye say ye love so much a strained fetlock!”
She laughed but did indeed ease her spirited horse into a slower gait. After the docile rides in Hyde Park, this carefree exercise created euphoria, banishing Myriah’s concern.
Tabson felt it incumbent upon himself to bring his mistress to a sense of reality and dispel the sweetness of her fantasy with his gruff practicality. “’Twill not serve, m’lady, and well ye know.”
“Hush, Tab, I won’t have you growling at me.” Myriah laughed.
“Growl, is it?” said the man, sticking out his lower lip. “And what will ye be calling it when yer papa bowls down upon us at Guildford House?”
Myriah sighed, and a slight crease marred her brow. “Oh dear … he will do so, I suppose.”
“Hang me if he doesn’t! Then what will ye say? Fine set-to there will be!”
“Oh, Tabby, I never thought of that. Papa will be angry to be sure, but he and grandpapa are good friends …”
“Humph! Lord Guildford will take your side in the matter, and it’s plain as pikestaff yer papa is bound to take umbrage. A rare set-to there will be!” grumbled the elderly man.
Myriah’s frown deepened. “Oh, Tab, you are taking too doleful a look at the whole thing. I shall fix things up right and tight. See if I don’t!”
To this her groom had little to say. However, he continued to mumble incoherently. Myriah lost her patience and moved her horse forward, leaving Tab some distance behind her.
When they reached Tunbridge Wells, the horses were watered and rested for a few minutes. Then once again they set south on the main pike. The adventure had lost its initial thrill for Myriah, and her mind was now busy with the problems facing her. There was Sir Roland, who surely would be upset. She had done him an injustice leaving as she had, allowing him to believe she had acquiesced to her father’s outrageous plan. But then, she had not missed his expression, which told her he had not been completely fooled. But Papa—there was no telling what he might do, though she was fairly certain he would post down to her grandfather’s in the morning … and then there would be a scene.
The road meandered past rich green farms and through meadowlands boasting of spring wildflowers, whose scent was carried on the growing breeze. The aroma infiltrated her senses, and for a moment she just breathed it in and sighed. Feeling rejuvenated, Myriah said, “Just look about at all this glory.”
“Loo
k at what, m’lady?” asked her astonished groom as he came up alongside her. “What can ye see in the darkness? ’Tis half-daft to try!”
“Oh, Tabby, don’t vex me so! I can see … with my mind’s eye, and I do so love Kent!”
“Aye!” Tabson agreed, relenting, for it had been his home as well, and he too was heartily sick of town life.
They maintained a steady pace for the next half hour without speaking. In her haste Myriah had neglected to put on a riding hat, and her fiery ringlets had tumbled down upon her shoulders. The breeze was stronger now and whipped the long, thick locks across her cheeks. With an exasperated sigh she reined in, pulled off a glove, and pinned back the wayward tresses.
Tabson looked up at the sky and mumbled a complaint that made Myriah raise her eyes heavenward. “Oh dear …”
Clouds had gathered and obscured the moon’s glow, and a low mist had set in and seemed to be getting thicker. They had been on the road for nearly three hours, and Myriah knew their horses would soon need a proper rest.
“We are nearly there, are we not, Tabby?” She pulled a face and added, “This mist is dreadful. I can barely see ten feet in front of me.”
“Humph,” agreed her companion.
For the next thirty minutes they continued, the silence punctuated now and then by an unladylike exclamation when Myriah found herself off road and in the thicket. At last a fingerpost loomed up at the crossroad, and she rode up to the narrow white wood.
“Dymchurch three miles—oh, no, Tab,” Myriah exclaimed. “We must have taken the wrong turnoff—we are heading in the wrong direction.”
“Humph. Thought the air a bit too salty. Nothing for it, m’lady. We’ll have to take the coast road. It cuts through the marshlands farther down, and we can follow the river a bit to Northiam.”
“Oh, Tabby, I am so tired. We’ve been traveling for hours—how much longer do you think it’s going to take?”
He scratched his head. “One … maybe two hours if this mist holds up.”