by Kruger, Mary
“It will do, Mrs. Templeton,” she replied, languidly. “I didn’t expect to see such exalted society outside of London.”
Anne glanced up at Giles, to see the same mirth sparkling in his eyes that she felt. Had she ever been so young, she wondered, and concluded, ruefully, that she probably had been. And yet, Giles hadn’t seemed to mind. He had been young then, too, and more apt to forgive one’s lapses. This new Giles, more mature and settled, was a man she didn’t know. Aware of his duties, and yet surprisingly tolerant. Perhaps he hadn’t changed as much as she had thought.
After a few more moments’ conversation, Giles and Anne excused themselves and began to make their way back to where Julia sat. “It would be nice if everyone were as kind as Felicity,” Anne said.
“I could remind you that you’ve brought anything that happens upon yourself,” Giles pointed out.
“But, being a gentleman, you won’t. How is Beth enjoying the evening?”
“A great deal, I’d say. Of course my mother is watching to make certain she doesn’t dance with anyone unsuitable.”
“I know I’ve behaved badly, Giles, but you needn’t keep pinching at me so.”
“I wasn’t,” he protested, but was unable to say more. They had reached his mother’s side, and he was not about to wrangle with Anne in her presence. Besides, two of Julia’s cronies had joined her, Lady Helmsley, and the Dowager Duchess of Bainbridge. Giles didn’t relish the idea of facing three such tabbies.
“Good evening,” he said, greeting the ladies and making the introductions. They all knew Anne, of course, from years past, but, after tonight’s fiasco, their approval of her was more important than ever. After all, he told himself, Beth’s reputation might very well be touched.
Conversation was strained and desultory, becoming a bit more lively only when Beth, partnered by the Duke of Bainbridge, the dowager’s grandson and a friend of Giles’s, came over. Her face was flushed and her eyes shining, and all three of the old ladies smiled at her. “A prettily-behaved girl,” Lady Helmsley said to Julia. “You must be very proud of her.”
“I am proud of both my children,” Julia said. “They do know how to go on in society.”
By which Julia meant she didn’t, Anne thought, catching the speaking look the duchess sent her. Unlike Giles, she was not nearly so sanguine about the old ladies’ acceptance of her. She had erred, and erred badly. She was not likely to be forgiven immediately.
It was as quiet in the carriage going home as it had been going out, though the silence had a different quality. Anne, tired, and aware of what she had done, kept her head down, contemplating her fingers, while Julia contented herself with one malicious, triumphant glance. Nothing would be served in talking about the night, Giles thought. It was over, and what was needed now was something to repair the damage. It wasn’t fair; what Anne had done was in the past. That she seemed unrepentant, though, was what society would find hard to forgive. And so damned beautiful.
“Anne,” he said as they came into the house, and Anne, just starting to ascend the stairs, stopped.
“Yes?”
So damned beautiful. How had he ever let her go? “Ah, nothing. Good night.”
Anne hesitated. “Good night, Giles,” she said, finally, and made her way upstairs to bed, more than a little thoughtful. Now what had that been about?
In the morning, Anne watched from her bedroom window as Colonel McMahon arrived to talk with Giles. Likely he bore with him invitations to the Pavilion, presenting her with a difficult problem. After the way she had behaved last night, she couldn’t possibly go. Sending her regrets would be difficult; how did one refuse the Prince of Wales without offending him? It would be for the best, though. Neither Beth nor Giles would be helped by her presence.
“Enter,” Giles called when she knocked on the door of the book-room, and rose as she came in, his expression inquiring. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I simply need to talk with you about something.” She settled gracefully into a chair facing him. “I saw Colonel McMahon leave just now.”
“Yes. We’ve been invited to dinner, with a musical evening afterwards.”
“Heavens. I’ve heard about Prinny’s dinners. Didn’t he once decide to show off his prowess at shooting, and make his guests join in?”
Giles’s mouth quirked back. “Yes, and from what I understand, both a musician and a footman were hit.” He grinned at her, and for a moment any strain that had been between them was gone. “God save us if that man ever becomes king.”
“Giles! You, of all people, speaking against your prince?”
“I think even I might be allowed my opinions.”
“One would never know. That you feel that way, I mean.” She shook her head. “Giles, this is difficult, but I must cry off from attending the dinner party.”
“That’s a most extraordinary thing to do. Why?”
“My being there won’t do you any good.”
Giles leaned back in his chair, looking at his fingers as they toyed with the papers on his desk. Why had she been scared of Campbell? “It will be difficult to refuse Prinny without causing offense,” he said, abruptly.
“I know. I thought of that, but I can’t see it would be any worse than my being there.”
“Crying craven, Anne?”
“No! For heaven’s sake, Giles, you know I’m no coward. Usually,” she added.
Giles eyed her. “You wouldn’t be alone, you know. I’d be there.”
“Yes, I know, and I appreciate it. I just don’t think it’s wise.”
“I don’t know. You’ve already caught Prinny’s eye.”
“God help me!”
Giles grinned. “Well, you have. You’re passably attractive, after all.”
“Thank you very much.”
“And if he does acknowledge you, as I believe he will, it will do a lot toward repairing your reputation.”
Anne opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think he will acknowledge me?”
“I can’t think why else he invited you.”
“Unless he thinks me a suitable candidate for an affaire.”
“Forgive me, Anne, but you’re not old enough for him. No, I don’t think crying off will do you any good. Or me, either.”
Anne looked away from the sympathy in his eyes. Of all the things Giles could feel for her, the last thing she wanted was sympathy. “I know I made a mistake,” she said in a low voice. “I should have known better than to waltz last night. I am sorry if my actions did anything to hurt you or Beth. They weren’t meant to. If anyone is to face the consequences, it should be me.”
“So it should. And I, too, for goading you into it.” Anne turned toward him, startled, and he held up his hand to forestall her protest. “Like it or not, Anne, I do have a responsibility to you, and I shirked it. Had I handled things better, none of this would have happened.”
“You take a great deal upon yourself, Giles. Have you forgotten that I am quite capable of making my own decisions?”
“No. Forgive me, I phrased that badly. Of course you can make your own decisions. I merely meant that this was your first time back in society, and you needed the support of your family. Instead, I made you face it alone. I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t listen to you when you did try to support me.”
Giles shook his head. “I tried to tell you what to do. There’s a difference. I thought you’d obey me without question, the way Beth does. I should have known better.” His mouth quirked back. “The truth is, I was afraid something like the waltz would happen, and when it did, I played a part in it.”
“You thought you were doing the right thing—”
“The right thing be damned. I didn’t like seeing you with Campbell.”
Anne stared at him in frank astonishment. “Giles—”
“The man is a loose screw. If I had supported you as you needed, perhaps you wouldn’t ha
ve gone with him.”
“Perhaps.” Anne’s voice was absent. She was startled by what he had just said. Heavens, was he jealous? “Perhaps I might have. I liked Ian once, and I didn’t know he’d changed. But, Giles. It’s my problem, not yours. Or do you plan to tell me again that I’m your responsibility?”
“How do you plan to handle it, Anne? By hiding away and never seeing anyone? You should remember that that does no good. Scandal needs to be outfaced.”
Anne glanced away. So it did. It required standing up to people, and behaving as if nothing had happened. If one showed the slightest sign of fear or apology, people would strike, and strike hard. Her ostracism would be complete. If, however, she went to the Pavilion with Giles, who would dare say anything against her? The only trouble was, she wasn’t certain she had the courage for it.
“When I came here I truly thought I didn’t need any help,” she said, softly. “I thought I knew how to handle myself. But I forgot what English society is like. I forgot how much people delight in seeing one make a misstep.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with appeal. “Giles, will you help me?”
“Of course I will,” he said easily, giving no sign that he knew how difficult it had been for her to ask that question. “We’ll face them all together and tell them to be damned.”
Anne laughed, startled. “You sound as if you relish the prospect.”
“I do. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good fight.”
“How uncivilized of you,” she teased.
Giles grinned at her. “I? The Duke of Tremont? Never think such a thing.” He rose, and she did, too, aware that this interview was at an end. “We’ll come about, Anne, never fear,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.
Anne looked up at him, and for a moment all thought fled. His hand was warm on her, so warm, and strong. Comforting, reliable, and large. Too large. A man’s hand. Abruptly she pulled away. “Thank you, Giles. If you’ll excuse me, Jamie will be needing his lessons,” she said, and whisked away, out the door.
Giles stared after her, wondering about her sudden reaction to his touch. What confused him more, though, was his own reaction. Why had he needed, so much, to touch her?
What do we do with a drunken sailor, what do we do with a drunken sailor...
Anne stirred drowsily in her bed, a smile curving her lips. She’d had absurd dreams before, but surely this was one of the silliest. Such a song to be dreaming about. What did one do with a drunken sailor, anyway? she wondered, and opened her eyes. It took her a moment to realize that, though she was awake, the singing hadn’t stopped. One of the servants must have got into the wine, though the song had a curious disembodied quality that floated through the room. Almost like a ghost—
She sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. Jamie! Flinging the covers off, she jumped from the bed and sprinted across the room, not stopping for shawl or wrapper or candle. She had to be certain that her son was safe. Though the house was still unfamiliar to her, she found her way with the unerring instinct peculiar to mothers, and opened the door to Jamie’s room just as the song trailed off. Early in the morning...
The silence in the wake of the singing was uncanny. Anne shuddered as she ran across the room, wincing as her bare feet stepped on sharp little pieces of metal. Giles’s, and Jamie’s, toy soldiers. She’d told him to put them away, but she wouldn’t scold him, if only he were all right. “Jamie,” she whispered, her voice harsh, and drew a deep breath of relief. Jamie’s breathing was deep and even, and her seeking hands found him tangled in the bedclothes, one hand to his face. Gently she prised his thumb away from his mouth and tucked him under the covers, thanking God he was unhurt.
Toora, toora, toora loo, you look like a monkey in a zoo. And if I had a face like you I’d join the British Army.
Startled, Anne jumped up. The singing again, sounding as eerie and as loud as in her own room. Good God, was the house really haunted? A chill skittered down her spine at the thought, even though she knew it was nonsense. The stories about the house and Obadiah’s dire warnings aside, she didn’t believe in such things. That meant that someone human was behind this.
Anne was suddenly furiously angry. Of all the ridiculous things she had had to endure since returning to England, snubbings, scandal, Julia’s superciliousness and Giles’s new arrogance, this was by far the worst. She was going to find out who was doing this, and give him a piece of her mind.
An unearthly glow filled the hall just as she ran out of Jamie’s room. Anne pulled herself up short, that chill shaking her again at the sight of a figure floating toward her. Too late. Her momentum carried her into the hall and right up against the figure. Whoever it was grunted in surprise. She realized, with quite unnecessary relief, that it was no ghost, but Giles, carrying a candle. Hard upon that thought, though, came the realization that she was in a different kind of danger. She was in Giles’s arms.
Chapter Ten
Giles stared down at her, his candle casting a warm, intimate glow that surrounded them and bound them together. She was close to him, so close, wearing only a soft nightgown of the finest lawn, so that he could feel her breasts warm against his chest, her thighs pressing against his. Her face, gazing up at him, looked absurdly young; her eyes startled, her lips parted, as if waiting for a kiss. His fingers curled tighter on her arm, and for just a moment he thought he saw compliance, anticipation, in her eyes. Then she moved away.
“Giles,” she said, her voice sounding just a bit shaky as she stepped back, running her fingers distractedly through her hair. “When I saw the light I thought—well, never mind.”
“I heard singing,” he said.
“Yes, so did I.” She kept her face averted, so that he wouldn’t see the color that was flaming into it, so that she herself wouldn’t stare at him. He wore a dressing gown of fine deep blue brocade, and under that his chest was bare, as her fingers had found when she’d collided with him. Bare and hard and warm, and she once again became aware that he was a man, strong, attractive, virile. And somehow far more approachable, with his normally neat hair tousled, and a smile spreading across his face. The Giles she had once known. The Giles she would have married.
Hastily she took another step back, crossing her arms on her bosom. “It’s stopped.”
“What? Oh. The singing. So it has.” He stepped toward her. “Anne—”
“What is all this commotion?” a voice demanded, and Julia stepped out of her room. “What was that singing?”
Anne bit back an almost hysterical giggle. Julia in nightclothes was a sight to see. In contrast to her usual austere manner of dressing, her wrapper was a confection of ruffles and lace and ribbon. Iron gray hair in curling papers peeked out from under a frilly cap, and, most astonishing of all, her face was covered with a thick white cream that glistened in the candlelight. “I’ll get my wrapper,” Anne choked, and ran into her room.
The family assembled a few minutes later in the drawing room, along with the servants, all in varying states of dishabille. Anne had taken the time to pull back her hair with a ribbon and had put on her most fetching wrapper. Now she was curled up in a chair, watching in fascination as Giles paced the room. He had a nightshirt on under his dressing gown. It hadn’t been there before, she thought, and ducked her head to hide her blush.
“You say this has happened before?” Giles was saying.
“So I’m told, Your Grace.” Benson was looking decidedly ruffled, an unusual state for him, with his thinning gray hair standing up and a smudge on his cheek. “Of course when we came here I heard the stories, but I didn’t believe them. No, not for a moment.”
Obadiah, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, stirred. “Somethin’ bad about this house,” he said, and the other servants stared at him uneasily, one parlormaid making the sign against the evil eye.
“Nonsense.” Anne spoke crisply. “I refuse to believe in ghosts. There has to be some explanation for what happened.”
“Your m
an is impertinent,” Julia declared. “You should dismiss him.”
“Obadiah is his own man and may do as he wishes,” Anne replied, though secretly the description of Obadiah as impertinent tickled her. Looking up, she caught Giles’s eyes, and saw the same amusement in them. “Mrs. Justice.” She smiled at the housekeeper. “Has this been going on for a while?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, for as long as I’ve been here. Not all the time, though.”
“Full moon tonight, lady,” Obadiah said.
“Oh, hush, Diah, you’re not helping matters. What does the ghost do, Mrs. Justice?”
“He sings, ma’am.” She sounded puzzled. “At least, he makes a kind of moaning that sounds like singing. Never nasty songs, like tonight. And sometimes things will be misplaced.”
“But that could happen anyway.”
“Yes, ma’am. Still, ma’am, it makes a body wonder.”
“I have a hard time taking seriously a ghost that sings bawdy songs,” Giles said dryly, and again his eyes met Anne’s. There was something different about them, something she couldn’t pinpoint. “Has anybody seen anything? Heard anything besides the singing?”
The staff, most of whom worked for the owners of the house and not the Tremonts, looked at each other, shaking their heads. “No, Your Grace,” Mrs. Justice said. “Just as I said. Sometimes things go missing. Of course, there was the hat on the statue,” Mrs. Justice said, and one of the maids giggled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The head of the Prince of Wales, Your Grace, in the hall. The last family that was here, the Fergusons, they weren’t like you. Silly girls who’d believe any nonsense, if you ask me! No offense, Your Grace, if you know them.”
Giles’s lips twitched. He hadn’t the faintest idea who the Fergusons were. “None taken. What happened, ma’am?”
“Miss Catherine misplaced a bonnet, and nothing must do but that we look high and low for it. We tore the house apart, and not a sign of it did we see.”