by Mary Nichols
He hurried into the house to find Geoffrey and Elizabeth with his mother and Miles ready to leave for the ball. Geoffrey was dressed as a Tudor gentleman and Elizabeth a lady of the same period, while a bewigged Miles wore satin small clothes and a pink brocade coat with enormous pockets, his wrists covered in cascading lace. The Countess was not in costume, but in a lilac evening gown trimmed with white lace. ‘Roland, you will make us all late,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?’
‘To see Mountford. You go on in the coach, I will follow in the gig.’
‘You will get soaked.’
‘No, the rain has stopped.’
He declined anything to eat, saying he would drink a dish of chocolate in his room while he changed. He had found a basket full of costumes in the attic; he supposed that many of the lavish entertainments his father had put on had included costume balls for which he had obviously provided the clothes. He had chosen to be a medieval knight, wearing a cross of St George on his jerkin. The imitation chainmail was knitted in some thick shiny material, but the effect was good and nothing like as heavy as the real thing. It also had a helmet with a visor, which would do away with the need for a mask. He pulled on his boots and fastened a sword belt about his waist. ‘How do I look?’ he asked Travers.
Travers grinned. ‘Will I saddle your horse? A knight cannot go rescuing damsels in distress without his trusty charger, can he?’
‘Corporal, I do believe you are bamming me.’
‘No, sir, not at all, sir.’ But his smile was almost enough to split his face.
‘Then go and bring the gig round. I will drive myself. And there is no need for you to wait up for me.’ He flung a cloak over his costume and went downstairs, wondering what the evening might have in store for him.
Chapter Eight
Because he arrived after everyone else had gone in, Roland’s entrance was observed by the whole company. His costume was no disguise either; he was so tall and broad-shouldered, his figure could not be mistaken. He looked about him for his hostess among the costume-clad figures that crowded the room. Surely, even in disguise, he would know her? Lady Ratcliffe hurried forward to greet him.
‘My lord, I am pleased you have come. The dancing has already begun. Miss Cartwright is about somewhere. I will go and find her.’
‘Please do not trouble yourself, my lady,’ Roland said. ‘I will go and join my mother.’ He had seen the Countess sitting with Lady Gilford and smiled to himself. So Lady Gilford had overcome her scruples over Charlotte’s lack of breeding and decided to attend, had she? There was no sign of her husband. He crossed the room and made his bow to the ladies and then stationed himself behind his mother’s chair to watch proceedings and look out for Charlotte, though how he was going to contrive to see her alone, he did not yet know.
Charlotte had seen him and shrank behind Miles Hartley with whom she was dancing, peeping over his shoulder as the Earl spoke to her great-aunt and then moved forwards into the room. He looked magnificent in his costume; Saint George, ready to do battle for a lady’s honour, and all the ladies present were sighing over him. She was not sighing, she was crying inside, and if she were not very careful the tears would come to the surface.
‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must go and see that supper will be ready on time.’ And with that she hurried away. She felt sick. And the reason she felt so ill was that she had suddenly realised she was in love with the Earl, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him. How could she have let it happen? How could she have been so foolish as to forget they were enemies, that he had cruelly disdained her and they were at daggers drawn over a piece of land that neither was prepared to relinquish?
Roland saw her go and wondered what they had been talking about so earnestly, but he could do nothing about it because the musicians had begun another dance and the floor was crowded. He bowed before the young lady nearest to him and only then did he realise it was Martha dressed as Columbine. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, looking anxiously about her for her mother.
‘Oh, it is all going according to plan.’ Lady Brandon had come upon Charlotte in the dining room, where she was standing by the window looking out onto a damp garden. Behind her several tables were laden with food of every description: hams, chicken legs, fish, pastries, jellies, cakes.
‘What plan?’ She was still thinking about Roland and did not welcome the intrusion.
‘Why, the Earl is dancing with Martha now. She will bring him up to the mark. I should not be at all surprised if he does not ask Brandon for an interview later.’ When Charlotte made no response to this, she added, ‘What is the matter with you, Charlotte? I never saw such a Friday face in all my life and there is no reason for it. The ball is a prodigious success and you will find yourself being invited to everything from now on.’
Lady Brandon had set her heart on making a Countess of Martha. Her daughter, of course, had no say in the matter. Would his lordship have any say either? Charlotte believed he was strong enough to resist, if he wanted to. But supposing he did not? Supposing he married Martha? Being a friend and confidante of Lady Brandon, she would be thrown even more into his company and it would be unbearable. But she was no simpering schoolgirl, she told herself sternly; she was a mature businesswoman who knew how to best an opponent. He was an opponent and she would get the better of him and of her own wayward desires, one way or another. She forced herself to sound bright. ‘There is nothing wrong, Catherine. I was making sure everything is ready for supper.’
‘You have servants for that. You should be mixing with your guests and making sure the young people have partners.’
‘I know. I am just going back.’
She returned to the ballroom and set about her duties as a hostess with a bright smile, bringing young men and young ladies together to dance, chatting to the older men, laughing when they teased her about her costume, pretending not to notice the disapproval of the matrons. This was how it was going to be in future, this false brightness, this pretending, even with Roland Temple. Especially with him.
Roland was aware of her, but whenever he approached her, she found some reason to disappear, and just when he decided he would have to force the issue, he saw Lady Brandon crossing the room towards him, like an eagle bent on its prey. He looked about for a way of escape, but before he could do so, he felt someone pluck at his sleeve. Miss Brandon was looking up at him with an expression on her face he could only interpret as pleading. ‘My lord, I must speak to you before Mama reaches us. Come with me, please.’
He had no time to demur, for Lady Brandon was very close and Martha, with a bright smile for her mother, took his arm and almost dragged him from the room, in full view of everyone. He groaned inwardly, but was too polite to resist, as she led him to the library and shut the door after them. She stood facing him, breathing heavily. ‘My lord, it is important I speak to you.’
He bowed. ‘I am at your service.’
‘My lord, please do not let Mama bully you…’
‘Bully me?’
‘Bully you into offering for me.’
‘Rest assured, Miss Brandon, she could not do anything that would influence me one way or another.’
‘I am glad.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I thought you were intent on bringing Mr Elliott up to the mark. Is he still hanging back? I cannot think why he should be so dilatory. You are a charming young lady and just right for him.’
‘The foolish man has decided I am above his touch, that he does not want people to think he is after my fortune and has told me he means to leave the field clear for you.’
‘Good God! Miss Brandon, I hope that nothing I have said has led you to suppose…’
‘No, of course not, it is all in Mama’s head and of course she must boast of it in front of Martin. I truly do not know what to do.’
He must not appear too relieved, but how to answer he
did not know. ‘Can you not tell Mr Elliott the truth?’
‘I cannot do that!’ she said, aghast at the suggestion. ‘In any case, while Mama thinks I have a chance with you, she will not entertain him.’
‘Then what shall we say to your mama?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I wish you would not accept Mama’s invitations so frequently. You are filling her with hope.’
‘Am I? I was only being polite and thankful to be received into society after my long absence.’
‘I know that, but you know how people gossip and it has enhanced Mama’s expectations. Could you not behave a little coldly towards me? Then perhaps Martin will see…’
The young lady was stronger than he had previously imagined, but she was also naïve and had not realised the consequences of taking him off to be alone with him. He was at fault for not resisting, but that would have caused just as much comment. ‘Miss Brandon, I am afraid that would not serve. Everyone saw us leave the room and we have been talking together without a chaperon for several minutes. You cannot say, that in all that time, I did not make an offer. It would humiliate you and make me less than a gentleman.’
‘Oh, I had not thought of that!’ She gasped. Then her face fell. ‘Do not tell me you feel obliged to offer for me after all?’
‘I ought to.’ He paused. Some way out of the dilemma had to be found. ‘Shall we say I offered and you refused? Will that do?’
She smiled, obviously relieved. ‘You would not mind?’
‘No, it is the least I can do. But will your mama accept that?’
‘I think so. I hope so. I hope Martin believes it…’
‘Then, with your permission, I shall act the rejected suitor and take my leave. You may say I am heartbroken, if you wish.’ He smiled, aware of the irony of the situation. ‘If you like, I will act the part and take myself off for a few days to recover.’
‘Thank you, my lord, but I wish you would not inconvenience yourself.’
Lady Brandon almost tumbled through the door as he was taking his leave ‘Oh, there you both are! May I offer my felicitations?’ She was so eager, she looked about to burst out of her tight pink bodice.
‘No, Mama, you may not,’ Martha put in, far more forcefully than Roland would have expected of her. ‘Lord Temple and I have decided we should not suit.’
‘Not suit!’ her ladyship echoed, her mouth open in consternation.
‘Your daughter has rejected me, my lady,’ he said. ‘Now, if you will excuse me.’ He bowed to Lady Brandon and then turned to Martha, taking her hand and bending over to kiss the back of it. ‘Miss Brandon, I wish you happy.’
He heard her ladyship’s voice as he left. ‘Martha, whatever were you thinking about? After all the trouble I have taken…’
He returned to the ballroom and made his way over to the Countess. All the ladies seemed to be whispering and looking towards him over their fans. They had seen him go off with Miss Brandon and had come to their own conclusions. He had been alone with her for several minutes so he must have offered and of course she had accepted. What young lady would not? Would Miss Cartwright allow the announcement to be made at her ball or must they wait for an official notice in the newspaper? He wondered wryly what they would say when they learned there was to be no wedding. ‘I find I must leave,’ he told his mother quietly.
‘Why?’
‘I cannot explain now. You stay and enjoy yourself. Geoffrey will see you home safely when you are ready. We will talk tomorrow.’
‘Miss Brandon?’
‘Yes and no.’
She sighed. ‘Very well.’
A brief look about him ascertained Charlotte was not in the room and Lady Ratcliffe was in earnest conversation with Lady Brandon, who had followed him into the ballroom. He left the room and, instead of asking a footman to have his gig brought to the front entrance, found his way out of a back door and took a narrow path across the garden towards the stables. He would not say goodbye to anyone else; there was no one to whom he could bid adieu except Charlotte, and she was determined not to speak to him. The world would think he had left because of his disappointment, but that would not matter if it meant Miss Brandon could hold her head up in the community and not be laughed at for chasing him in vain.
Once he left the light shed on the garden by the lanterns close to the house, the darkness seemed absolute and he had to negotiate his way between bushes of buddleia and hibiscus, which was why he did not at first notice the dark shape on the path in front of him, a black, catlike shape. Not until she had bumped into him and he had his arms around her to save her from falling did he realise who it was.
‘Charlotte!’
She had seen him go off with Martha and had come to the same conclusion as everyone else. That he should make his offer at her ball compounded her wretchedness and, finding the atmosphere of expectation in the ballroom too much to bear, had come out into the garden to compose herself. She was angry with herself for caring so much. And now she was even angrier for blundering into him. ‘Let me go!’
He released her immediately, but as the path was narrow and he was going away from the house and she towards it, they had to pass each before they could continue. They stood facing each other, both undecided as to how to proceed.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked. The moon came out from behind a cloud and he could see her more plainly. The costume outlined every curve of her delectable figure and even the silly head that obscured most of her face only served to enhance its perfect contours. How could he have ever thought she was plain? ‘The air is still damp. Are you not cold?’
‘I am as warm as toast,’ she snapped. ‘I came out for fresh air.’
‘I am glad you did. I need to speak to you, to explain…’
‘Explain? I need no explanation. The truth is that in six years with the army you have not learned how to behave towards a lady. Oh, but I forgot, I am not a lady, I am a hoyden. Hoydens are tough as old leather, they do not have finer feelings, one may insult them with impunity…’
‘You do not understand.’
‘What is there to misunderstand? I heard you plainly enough.’
‘And have held it against me ever since.’
‘You are conceited if you think that, my lord. Until…’ She paused and gulped. ‘Until you were so ill mannered as to lay hands on me, I had forgot all about it.’
‘Lay hands on you! Is that what you call it?’
‘What else? No one has ever done anything like that to me before.’
‘No, I wager they have not,’ he said quietly, realising that in all probability she had always been deprived of physical contact, even as a child, and children needed hugs every bit as much as education and discipline. He longed to take her into his arms to try to make up for it.
She peered at him in the darkness, taken aback by his change of tone. How could he be so scathing one minute and gentle the next? He did not move out of her way and she stood undecided whether to ask him to stand aside or try to force her way past him. His very presence was upsetting her carefully managed composure. Inside the furry costume she was shaking and her breath was coming in great gulps. Anger was her only defence. ‘I am surprised you had the effrontery to attend this evening.’
‘I was under the impression I had been invited.’
‘That was before…’
‘Before what?’
‘Before you insulted me.’
‘I meant no insult.’
‘No? To kiss one woman when intent on offering for another is an insult to both in my book.’
He could not deny that without humiliating Miss Brandon. ‘You do not understand…’
‘I understand perfectly well. It is permissible to kiss a hoyden because a hoyden cannot expect the courtesy and chivalry due to a lady of rank.’
He laughed softly. ‘A real hoyden would not care so much.’
‘You are mistaken if you think I care, my lord.’
‘Oh, I think you do. Sha
ll we put it to the test?’
Before she could do a thing about it, he had taken her chin in his hand and turned her face up to his and was scrutinising it as if committing its features to memory. She tried to struggle, but was powerless as his mouth came down on hers. His hand left her chin and went round behind her back, drawing her towards him, enclosing her in an embrace that was both powerful and tender. She felt herself slacken, felt her mouth open, felt her hands creep up around his neck, as if she had no will. He held her for a second, two seconds, a week, an age—she did not know how long it was before she suddenly came to her senses and started struggling furiously, hitting him about the shoulders and body with her fists, using words that were far from ladylike. Her hand came into contact with the hilt of his sword and she pulled it out of its scabbard and pointed it at him. ‘Come a step nearer and this will be in your black heart.’
‘Sharp as needles,’ he said, laughing and taking it from her with little effort. It was, after all, not a weapon of honed steel designed to kill, but a toy for dressing up and she could never have used it in any case. ‘You chose the right costume, I must say. A cat, a green-eyed, scratching feline. Sheath your claws, kitten, you are in no danger from me.’
‘I wish I could say your costume was equally well chosen. But St George! The chivalrous knight, the slayer of dragons, the defender of womanhood. It is meant to be a joke, of course.’
He smiled crookedly. ‘Of course.’
‘At least you are honest.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice suddenly losing its edge and becoming soft. ‘I am honest enough to admit my fault.’ He stood looking down at her by the light of a pale moon, which had come out from behind one of the blustering clouds. Her lovely eyes beneath the catlike head-dress were huge and shocked. ‘Charlotte, please listen to me…’
‘Go back to Miss Brandon,’ she told him. ‘I wish you happy. She will never know from me what a charlatan you are.’