by Cach, Lisa
"Evelina! You are too frank in your speech."
"But it is true, Mama. The Highcrofts are merchants at heart, and they will buy their son a wife, likely one with a pretension of rank and a money-hungry family. Poor Charles, he has no happiness awaiting him in marriage; that is for certain."
"You should not be calling him by his Christian name."
She was saved from a reply by a footman announcing Charles's arrival. Thank God! She had best make her escape before Mama changed her mind yet again. "I must go."
"You will behave yourself—"
"He is waiting; I must go! Sally, my hat!"
Sally came and tied on the straw, flat-crowned bonnet, covering her tiny lace cap and her close-dressed, powdered curls.
She hurried down the stairs, Sally following behind with her wrap and basket. Charles was waiting in the foyer, playing with his hat and sneaking uneasy glances at the impeccably dressed footmen to either side of the front door. He looked up at the sound of her heels on the marble stairs, a nervous smile pulling at his mouth.
"Good day, Mr. Highcroft! What a pleasure to see you again!" she said, with an exaggerated politeness completely at odds with their last meeting. She winked at him.
He blushed. "Miss Johnson." He fidgeted, apparently at a loss for further words, and then suddenly put his hat on, the left side of the brim wavy from the mangling of his hands and drooping down over his eyebrow. And just as suddenly he took it off again, and bowed to her in belated greeting.
There was something adorable about his shyness. It made her want to wrap her arms around him and nuzzle his neck. It also brought out the imp in her, that liked to startle and surprise, and to see his cheeks change color.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and curtsied in return, and then held out her hand, waiting until he lifted his forearm for her to lay her palm lightly upon. A footman opened the door and Charles led her outside, to the carriage that awaited, with the coachman perched high on his seat and a Highcroft footman in blue livery standing by the lowered step.
She smiled at the footman, who grinned back, then went stone-faced when Charles glared at him. Once they were all installed inside, and the carriage had begun to move, Evelina leaned toward Sally. "He was a handsome fellow, don't you think? Such lovely dark eyes."
"I can do better than a footman." Sally sniffed. "I wouldn't settle for less than a head gardener, with his own cottage—or better yet a butler."
"But he was handsome."
"He was that," Sally admitted.
"But not as handsome as you," Evelina said, turning her attention to Charles. "You are by far the finer figure. And you are wearing the ribbon we bought!"
"We had a bargain, after all," he muttered.
"Indeed we did." She had finally persuaded him to buy a new ribbon after promising that, in exchange, their next outing could be to wherever he wished. "And look at your stockings, properly tucked away. Next we will have to go to work upon your hat and waistcoat."
"I like my hat the way it is. It keeps the sun from my eyes."
"As if that were the purpose of a hat! No, we must have your outward appearance match the dashing fellow I know to be hiding inside, and that means a cocked hat and embroidered waistcoat. Come, what would you like in exchange this time? Shall I agree to go riding? Fishing? Or would you perhaps like... a kiss?" The offer was out before she could think better of it, and her heart tripped in a mixture of embarrassment and the hope that he might say yes.
What nonsense! She did not wish to kiss him. It was Mama who had put the idea into her head, with her forbidding of it.
"No, certainly not!" he said.
She made a face. "You needn't be so very adamant about it. A young lady might feel insulted."
"I doubt other young ladies trade away their favors."
"God's bodkin, Charles, you are a prudish sort. A simple peck upon the cheek, as a sister would give her brother, that was all I offered." Although he did have lips with the perfect amount of fullness, shaded with just a hint of color. It might be very nice indeed to kiss those lips, and to lay her hand upon the broad chest beneath his drab waistcoat. His legs looked long and strong, making her palms itch to run along the muscled thighs... or even to sit upon them, and wrap her arms around that stiff neck, her hands playing in his dark hair. Her breath grew short with excitement.
"In trade you could promise instead to stop leering at servants," he said.
"You would take away all my fun. What harm is there in a little leering?"
"Or better yet..." He smiled at her, and it was a wicked smile of a sort she had not seen before on his face. She felt a thrill run through her.
"What? What would you have me do?"
"Stop wearing your powders and paints."
She gasped, her excitement turning to horror. "I could not!"
He shrugged. "And I like my clothing as it is."
"That is not the same at all. I am à la mode. You are not. I am trying to help you."
"And I, you. I should think you would find many more men willing to be kissed if you did not have purple cheeks or the dead skin of a corpse. And what are those caterpillar things above your eyes?"
"Mouse-skin eyebrows," she said softly. His comments went straight to her heart, wounding her. "I look pretty with my powders and paints," she said in a weak show of defiance, but her voice betrayed her with its quaver.
"Pretty as a painted pagoda, perhaps, but not as a lady."
"That's not nice, Charles," she said, and tried not to cry. Hearing the words from him hurt far more than if they had come from Mama, who was constantly on her about her cosmetics. "I don't know that you should be any judge of what is attractive."
"I don't know why I should not be. For all that you and my mother seem to enjoy treating me as a boy, I am a man."
"And I had thought a kind one." A tear slipped down her cheek, her throat tightening.
"Are you crying?" He peered at her across the shaded carriage.
"No!" she said on a hiccough, and searched for a handkerchief. Sally handed her one, and she dabbed at her face, trying not to smear the black that was dripping from her eyelashes.
"You are crying." He sounded appalled. "Ah, damn. I'm sorry, Evelina. I didn't mean to make you cry."
"You've a cruel heart, to tell a girl she is ugly," she said amid her tears.
"Evelina, I'm sorry! That is not what I meant! I'm a lout, with no command of his own tongue. I did not mean to hurt you." He reached across and took the hand without the handkerchief, patting it awkwardly between both of his. "I think you're quite beautiful, under all that paint. I wish I could see you better, is all. You have pretty eyes, and a lovely smile, and your figure is excellent. I'm sure you don't need powders or false colors to be the fairest lady in all of Bath."
She sniffed back her tears, holding the wet kerchief to the end of her nose. "Truly?"
"I may be a clumsy lout, but I am not a liar."
He had stopped his hand-patting, and hers now rested motionless between his warm palms. She gave one of them a gentle squeeze. "You have a smoother tongue than you give yourself credit for." She withdrew her hand and mopped the last of the moisture from her face. The kerchief was covered in black and pink. She almost laughed at the sorry spectacle she was sure she now made.
"Am I forgiven?"
She nodded. She didn't know when she'd gotten as sweet an apology from anyone.
He sat back, still wearing a frown of concern. She slid her foot beside his and nudged him, and when his brows went up in surprise she smiled slightly, to show she was not going to hold it against him.
He nudged her back.
She grinned.
With Sally's help she repaired the worst of the damage to her face, wiping away the black from under her eyes and down her cheeks, and evening out her skin tone with a fresh application of powder. She had no other makeup with her, and felt half-naked with her pale cheeks and lips, and lashes that held only the faintest trace of black. At least her mouse-s
kin false eyebrows were still in place.
"Where is it, exactly, that we are going?" she asked. She was glad now that they were heading into the countryside, where no one would see her.
"To our country house, Highcastle." He said the name with a grimace, as if the very sound of it was distasteful. "I thought you might like to see Desert Rose."
They were driving all this way to look at his mare? It was a good thing she'd brought her own basket of entertainments. What did she care about a horse? But Charles looked both uncertain and hopeful as he waited for her response, so she smiled. "That will be delightful. I should like to understand what about her has inspired such devotion in you."
"And I thought we might walk in the park afterward. There are several ponds and temples and whatnot. It's supposed to be diverting."
She laughed softly. " 'Supposed to be'? You do not find it so?"
He shrugged. "I like the fishing pavilion well enough."
"A place with a purpose."
"Yes."
"I shall have to teach you the joys of idleness, I see. We ladies are fond of lounging, after we are exhausted by our shopping, and we like it even better when there are suitors gazing upon us with adoration, feeding us sweetmeats."
He looked at her with some alarm.
She nudged his foot again, and smiled. "I'm teasing. Still, there is some fun to be had wandering through an unfamiliar park. Were the temples your mother's idea?"
"My father bought the house just three years ago. The park was already in place."
"Ah."
They lapsed into silence, and before long arrived at the estate. There was an overstated grandness to Highcastle, but knowing there was no family history attached left Evelina immune to its intentional impressiveness. Charles seemed embarrassed when they drove by, keeping his face turned half-away from the newly rebuilt facade.
"You don't like the house?"
"It has fine stables," he hedged. "I told the coachman to bring us straight there."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if the house had been his mother's choice, but she decided it would be done with petty motivations. There was no need to embarrass Charles more than he already was about Mrs. Highcroft's snobbish, socially ambitious ways.
A thought fluttered at the back of her mind: it was strange that Mrs. Highcroft should have chosen her as the companion to polish off Charles's rough edges. She showed such superiority toward Mama.... Were her true feelings, then, those of inferiority? And did she have ulterior motives to this pairing?
The thought dissipated before it had fully formed, as the carriage pulled to a halt. She told Sally she could wait where she wished, and let Charles lead her into the stables.
And what stables they were!
The ceilings were vaulted, and would not have been out of place in a church. The stalls were of a rich, dark wood; each horse had its own wrought-iron manger; bronze plates mounted above each stall gave their names; high windows were open to let in the spring air; and everywhere was the clean, fresh scent of hay and horse, and enough stable boys to be sure that no horse would have to stand more than a moment near its own manure. "You did not exaggerate. They are fine stables indeed!"
"What they shelter is finer still." He was standing taller, and yet seemed more relaxed than she'd ever seen him, a quiet pride in his eyes. His plain hair and simple clothing no longer looked dated and inappropriate in this setting, and his shy clumsiness had been replaced by a graceful ease.
The handsome man she had guessed lurked within was suddenly right before her, and she felt a warm rush through her belly. Good heavens, but he was beautiful. As she gazed upon him she felt tingling begin in unmentionable places, and knew a nearly overwhelming urge to press herself against his body and nibble where his jaw met his neck. And to dig her hands into his hair. And to invite his tongue into her mouth, where she could suck on it and—
"This is Winter Wind, who you can see has traces of the Arabian in the slope of her shoulders and the shape of her head, although her ancestry is undocumented."
He had no idea how utterly delicious he was. She watched his hands as he stroked them down the back of another horse, strong and long-fingered. His mares knew him, whickering at the sight of him, nudging him with their soft noses. He was gentle with them, speaking softly, and yet showing a quiet confidence that made Evelina’s body melt with desire.
"Am I boring you?" he asked, suddenly breaking off his narrative.
"No, not at all."
"Are you certain? You haven't said a word since we came in."
"Please, go on." She could watch him all day. "Where is Desert Rose?"
"Out in the paddock, with some of the other mares. Come, I'll show you."
He led her to the end of the stables, and as they were passing the doorway to the tack room she glanced inside, then stopped as her eye was caught by a drawing pinned to the wall. "Wait, Charles, if you please," she said, stepping into the room.
"What is it?"
There was not just one drawing, but several scattered around the walls of the room, above the mantel of the fireplace, between racks of dangling harnesses, even on the back of the door. They were done in both charcoal and in ink, and all were of horses: horses running, standing, jumping, tossing their manes, mares with foals, and foals on their own, struggling to rise. Each had the name of the horse written at the bottom, but there was no signature.
"These are wonderful. Did one of the grooms do them? You have an artist in your employ, if so! And one better suited to paintbrushes than horse brushes!"
"Er, no, they weren't done by a groom."
She turned wide eyes on him. "Then who?"
His face colored.
"You?"
"I wouldn't have put them up, but the men say they like them. They're nearly as attached to the horses as I am."
"I like them, too. Very much. Would you do one for me?"
His face, already pink, deepened to scarlet. "You would want one?"
"Oh, yes. There is such emotion in them, one would almost think they were human. Look at this mare with her foal. With a few lines you have managed to convey care and concern, and yet at the same time a sense of her curiosity at this young creature that is hers. I wish I had half your talent."
"Do you draw, then?"
"A little. Mostly I play with watercolors." She felt a bit of blood rise in her own cheeks. "I brought a set with me today, in case there should be an opportunity to use them. Being in the country, you know, with such pretty scenes..." She hoped he would not guess she had expected to be bored. One might as well bring a novel to the dinner table; it was as insulting.
"Then let us make an exchange. I will do a drawing for you, if you will do a watercolor for me."
"You would have the poor end of that bargain."
"Then you should be happy to agree, if you are to be so much the winner."
"I shall be an embarrassed winner."
Her shyness over her artistic abilities seemed to encourage him, and his smile was as bold as any a rake ever gave a naive virgin. His blue-green eyes met hers and held them, until she felt a warmth between her legs, and, embarrassed and flustered, had to look away.
Maybe it was for the best that Charles was backward in so many ways; the young ladies would stand no chance against him otherwise. She would stand no chance against him. He would be corrupted by the female riches on offer.
She had the sudden, possessive urge to keep him in his ratty old coat and uncocked hat, so that no other would see the treasure beneath his unassuming clothes and try to steal him from her.
Which was ridiculous. He was not hers, and this morning she would have sworn on her miraculously extant virginity that she would never want him to be hers.
To steal a kiss, though... that might not go too strongly against her former opinion of him. And she couldn't imagine that he would mind. He might not think much of her face paints, but he was still a man, and what man ever minded a kiss?
"Let'
s go look at Desert Rose," he said, and led her from the tack room, and from the privacy it offered. Her kiss stealing would have to wait.
A half dozen mares were prancing around the paddock, in the center of which was a free-standing stall, almost like a cage with solid wooden walls four feet high. Over the top of the walls could be seen the back and head of a roan horse.
They leaned on the rail of the paddock fence and Charles pointed out Desert Rose. He started describing her attributes, but it was the horse in a box at which Evelina could not stop staring.
"Why," she finally interrupted, "is that horse in a box?"
"That's, ah... the teasing stallion."
"I beg your pardon?"
"He's there to tease the mares."
She laughed. "Well, yes, if I were a mare I might find it amusing to see a stallion in a box, but I assume that there is some aspect to the situation that I fail to grasp."
"I don't know that an explanation would be in the best of taste."
She raised her brows. "Now who is teasing? You do nothing but whet my curiosity with such a statement."
He fidgeted and made an embarrassed noise in the back of his throat. "If you are offended by what I am about to explain, you will have no one to blame but yourself."
"I promise to stop you if I feel in danger of fainting at whatever scandalous information you are about to impart. Come now, no more hesitation. Tell me."
He sighed and then straightened, and his voice when he spoke was as emotionless as that of a schoolteacher, as if he could somehow make the words less shocking that way. "We are trying to determine when the mares are in heat. That is, when they are ready to breed. There are certain signs they display at that time, but only if there is a male, a stallion, nearby."
She burst out laughing. "It is exactly the same with females of the human sort! A group alone will gossip and eat and loll about, but put a male amongst them, and suddenly they are fluttering their fans and casting glances, and taking only the daintiest of bites from their cakes."
"The signs a mare shows are a little different," he said, his lips twitching with suppressed humor. "Although I admit that there is winking involved."
"Mares wink?"