Starling

by Virginia Taylor

  He squeezed his eyes shut and his voice came out as a whispery plea. “You made Derry pay. You didn’t give him freely anything you won’t give me.”

  “I didn’t. He paid, and he’ll keep on paying. He surely will.”

  “I don’t want you to go near him again. I want you for me and only me. Tell me! Tell me I’m different. Tell me that’s why you keep me away. Because you’re afraid that if we make love, you’ll want to stay with me.”

  She lowered her head and his cheek brushed against her hair. “I don’t want to care about you. I don’t.” She lifted her face, and he examined her expression. Her mouth twisted into a pleading smile. “I want to leave in two days with no regrets.”

  He let his hands drop from the tree trunk. For a moment she remained unmoving, then she slowly relaxed until her arms hung by her sides.

  Although she seemed defeated, Alasdair had been. He couldn’t imagine anything he wouldn’t forgive her. His mouth sought hers. His arms went about her supple waist and gathered her to him. Somehow, with her lips, she could give what no other woman could—a feeling of oneness. He didn’t care how many men she’d had in the past. Only her future mattered, her future with him. How lowering that as a prospective mistress, she would mean more to him than his wife.

  His mouth touched hers. His body clamored and hers did nothing to ease the ache. She molded against him, lighting a desire that made him groan, while her arms circled around his neck. To be different from the other men she’d known in the past, he couldn’t take her in quick lust. A momentary satiation wouldn’t be worth the disillusion he would see in her eyes.

  “I have to have you, Starling, I have to,” he whispered, spreading his fingers across her back.

  “You’ll be married soon. You’ll forget me soon enough. Oh, Alasdair, you don’t understand ‘no.’ You never have. To you the word means ‘later.’”

  He laughed softly. “It does, with you. I have an agenda now, and I won’t rest until I fill it.” His lips brushed across hers again and again and finally settled with passion.

  At no stage did she try to push him away or stop him. However, he didn’t attempt further liberties, knowing that anything he started with her this time he would finish. He didn’t have the insensitivity to make love to Starling and return to the woman he intended to marry as if nothing had happened. He doubted he could. Contentment would show on his face, and Lavender would guess in an instant what he had done. He would have liked his nether regions to display as much sense, but he imagined he would subside during the walk back.

  Not a man to frustrate himself any longer than he had to, eventually he stopped kissing the lovely lips beneath his. Then he started again when she seemed bereft, when her mouth looked lonely and unloved.

  “We’ll have to return to the others.” He took a deep breath, setting her away from him with reluctance. His eyes swept the full length of her, appreciating her slim curves and the elegant way she wore her clothes. “You’re a mess.” He smoothed his thumb across her lips, smiling when he couldn’t wipe away her recently kissed appearance. “Let me help tidy you up.” He picked a broken twig out of her hair and turned her around to brush leaf litter from the hem of her skirt. “That’s better. Now, where’s your hat?”

  “I lost it somewhere. I’ll have to find it.”

  “I’ll buy you a hat for every day of the week.”

  She noticed a sticky glob of cream on the front of her skirt. “Do you have a handkerchief? I’ll have to get this off.”

  He had the same mark on his trousers from the cake with which she had anointed him. Delving his hand deep into his pocket, he drew out a clean white handkerchief as requested. “A bird in the bush deserves two hands.” He laughed softly as he rounded her bottom with one hand while he scrubbed at her skirts with the other. He lifted his head and saw the expression of yearning on her face. His mouth dried. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said huskily. “You’re making me shake.”

  She swallowed and shut her eyes. “I’m not immune,” she murmured.

  “I know you’re not, love. You feel the way I do, but we’ll do something about it—later.”

  “No. We’ll never do anything about it. I’d rather remember you as...different.”

  “I will be. I’ll give you pleasure.”

  “You won’t be. You’ll be taking the same thing every man wants.”

  “You can’t expect a platonic friendship.”

  “I don’t expect any friendship. I expect the money I earned by pretending to be your wife in name only. It doesn’t matter how I feel about you, and it doesn’t matter how you feel about me. There’s nothing between us, and I won’t let there be anything between us. I have a choice, and I’m choosing a new start in a new life. You don’t enter into my plans. Only your money does. It’s final, Alasdair. A few moments ago we kissed goodbye.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll be sleeping together for another two days.”

  “Not if you plan to seduce me. I’ll move into another bedroom if you don’t give me your word right now that you won’t touch me again.”

  “I won’t give you my word.”

  Her hips twisted and somehow she moved out of his grip, which had grown tighter with every passing second. “Let me have that.” She held out her hand for his handkerchief, which he passed to her. With quick and efficient strokes, she brushed the front of her skirt, cleaning off the traces of cream and cake. “I won’t offer to do you,” she said, returning the white linen square.

  “You never have” he said, defeated. “That episode down by the river. It was a tease, wasn’t it? A way to make me turn a blind eye to whatever you wanted to do?”

  “No. For a while, I thought I’d do whatever you wanted, but I know now that I don’t want any other woman’s man. That’s for the exotic birds of the world, not the starlings. I respect you for not making a promise you don’t intend to keep, enough not to make any of this difficult for you. I’ll move into another bedroom for the next two days.” She walked away.

  With her firm words, he lost his chance of making love to her and his hopes of keeping her. His brain deadened. He watched her, his shoulders stiff and his chest constricted. He pressed his palms together and brought the tips of his fingers to his lips. Every breath ached. Even the sky turned black.

  He would never have her.

  * * * *

  Starling returned to the picnic party with her retrieved bonnet placed carefully and a neat bow tied under her chin. Paul and Mary smiled expectantly, Mr. Fredericks moved as if about to rise to his feet, and Lavender sniffed disdainfully, reaching out to stay him. For a moment, he stared at Lavender; then he, too, smiled at Starling.

  Assuming she needed to apologize for her behavior, Starling hauled in a breath, not knowing where to begin. At that moment, Alasdair hove into view, striding toward the picnic party as if he’d been for a Sunday stroll. Lavender gleamed a glowing, knowing smile at Mr. Fredericks, although she couldn’t know anything. She couldn’t be sure that Alasdair had caught up with Starling.

  “So there you are,” Alasdair said to Starling.

  Mr. Fredericks said, “Seymour, you’re a lucky man.” He refilled a glass passed to him by Lavender. Thunder rolled in the distance.

  Alasdair raised his eyebrows politely.

  “To have a wife like Starling. She’s an intelligent woman, quiet and in control of herself.”

  Lavender laughed. “Though, if I might mention the cake...”

  “She went to the source. Any other woman would have attacked you, my dear. You were fortunate she has a sense of fair play.”

  “You must think we’re all mad,” Mary said to Mr. Fredericks. “This argument has been brewing for days. Newlyweds tend to skirt the issue but we thought...well, none of us likes to see silent arguments that could be settled with a few words. Lavender, you’ve been such a sport. The way you tried to make Starling jealous was wonderful. I don’t think Paul and I c
ould have done half as well without you.”

  Lavender inclined her head.

  “You’re a good actress.” Mr. Fredericks stared at Lavender. “You took me in for a while. I honestly thought you were trying to steal Mrs. Seymour’s husband.”

  Starling blushed. “Rather than have you praise me for my appalling behavior, I must apologize.”

  “Accepted,” Alasdair said. “My behavior was appalling, too.”

  Lavender brushed imaginary crumbs from her gown, glancing at Mr. Fredericks. “If you think she’s so perfect, I can’t imagine why you bother with plain old me.”

  “You’re hardly plain or old. You’re a very beautiful woman, my dear.” Mr. Fredericks recorked a wine bottle and glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late. I think we ought to leave before the weather breaks.” The sheltering tree gave a shiver of restlessness. Fat raindrops began to fall.

  Lavender wailed. “Oh, no. My gown. I left my shawl in the carriage.”

  “I think we will have to run,” Mary said, standing and beginning to drop food into the baskets.

  Aided by her prettiest pout, Lavender kneeled, wrapping the remains of the cold meat in greased paper. “I don’t suppose anyone noticed the meats were drying out.” She heaved an audible sigh as she placed the packaged meats into a basket. “Look at the mess in here. I suppose I’ll have to tidy up or Hamilton’s cook will have a word or two to say.”

  Starling widened her eyes, impressed by how swiftly Lavender could change from the spoiled princess to the martyred slave. She helped pack, and the picnic was ended in a flurry. Black clouds crashed together, and almost as soon as they had entered the brougham, heavy rain began to fall. She was glad of her new pelisse—a gift she could take when she left.

  Lavender, wrapped into her shawl and with a carriage rug over her knees, extolled her own virtues to Alasdair during the trip home, numbering among them the effort she had expended on the picnic, which the others had neither noted nor appreciated.

  “Not so,” Paul said. “It was the most entertaining picnic I have ever attended.”

  Lavender used her blackened eyelashes to great effect. Immediately after dinner that night, she made her excuses and went up to her bedroom for what she described as “an early night.” Alasdair retired to his study, and Starling beat Paul at a long and wearing game of billiards while Mary immersed herself in her embroidery.

  Some two hours later, Starling left for the bedroom wing with Paul and Mary trailing behind. Alasdair joined them, his distant manner preventing light conversation. At his door, he gripped Starling about the waist and bade Paul and Mary a firm “‘good night.” He swirled Starling into the bedroom and closed the door.

  “You don’t need to manhandle me. I wouldn’t have shamed you. I would have waited for them to retire before going to my own room.”

  “You don’t need to go to your own room.”

  “Do I have your promise you won’t touch me?”

  When he deliberately turned his face away, she gathered up her nightgown, her burgundy dressing robe, and left.

  She had chosen a small bedroom on the other side of the landing. Decorated predominantly in white, with a muslin curtain covering the window, the room had possibly been meant for a child, with a single bed, a set of drawers, and a small painted cupboard. The area filled her needs. Because she couldn’t ask a servant to prepare the bed for her, she had smuggled up clean sheets from the hemming pile.

  Once this sparse room would have been the culmination of her dreams. Now, the lack of luxury emphasized her fast rise in the world and her compulsory descent. A good preparation, in fact, for the life she would live after the next day, a life without Alasdair, paid for by the lies she had told these past two weeks. She sat on her bed, huddled over, hurting so badly that she could barely breathe.

  Her lie today about Derry could be no worse than her evasions to Paul, Mary, and the servants. She didn’t want Alasdair to learn the truth about Lavender. Once the careless beauty married the best and most honorable of men, she would never again want, need, or crave another man.

  Starling was not meant for Alasdair—never could be, never would be. The dream had died, had never been real in the first place. Lying on her back, arms by her sides, she told herself she had lost nothing. Instead, she had earned enough money to start her own business. Any more would have been greedy. The brief moment in time she’d felt desired and beautiful would last her until the end of her days.

  She curled herself into a tiny ball.

  Chapter 19

  Some time past dawn, Alasdair heard his bedroom door close. He opened his eyes.

  “I don’t want to give you any excuse not to pay me,” Starling said in a cool voice. “Ellen will think I’ve been here all night.”

  He pulled his sheet to his nose, not deigning to answer. Not for the world would he tell her he’d missed her warmth, the tickle of her hair on his face, and her shy sweetness in the morning. In one more day he would have Lavender.

  * * * *

  “Starling!” Lavender held out a dish of melted cheese to Starling. “I asked for a Welsh rarebit for breakfast and the kitchen sent me this peppery concoction.”

  “Welsh rarebit?” Starling didn’t know the dish. “I’ll see if Mrs. Trelevan has something else.”

  “I asked for Welsh rarebit,” Lavender said, tapping her foot. “Is it too much to expect?”

  Starling didn’t know, but bearing the plate she went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Trelevan was making stuffing for a haunch of beef. “Mrs. Frost would like Welsh rarebit. She says this one is too peppery,” Starling said, putting the plate on the table.

  Mrs. Trelevan looked vague. “Too peppery?”

  “It’s the dish I made for Madam,” Freda said with a shrug. “I asked her if she wanted mustard, but she said she don’t discuss cooking with servants. So, I made her a Welsh rarebit the way Mr. Seymour likes it.”

  Ellen, standing in the doorway and adjusting the frill on her cap, said in a despondent voice, “I’ve finished the bedrooms. Need any help in here?”

  Freda smiled at her sister. “Madam just sent back the delicious breakfast I made for her.”

  “You shouldn’ta done nothing mean, Freda. We promised Mrs. Seymour we wouldn’t.” Ellen glanced at Starling.

  “I obeyed orders. That’s all I done.” Freda frowned and crossed her arms.

  “Make her a plain rarebit without mustard,” Starling said. “I’ll explain to her that you used your regular recipe.”

  Mrs. Trelevan said, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but that woman is nothin’ but trouble.”

  Mrs. Brighton came in from the garden with a basket of herbs. “I’ve just heard she’s not going back to Melbourne with Mr. and Mrs. Elliot.”

  Ellen paled and put her face in her hands. Freda moved around the table and took her sister into her arms. “You said you didn’t care what Derry done.”

  “I do.” Ellen sniffled. “I love him. I’ll never get him back if she doesn’t go.”

  “You never tried to get him back,” Mrs. Trelevan stated bluntly. “Don’t reckon he would have looked at her if he’d had a promise from you. Seems to me you asked everythin’ from him without ever giving nothin’ of yourself.”

  “You’re not suggesting that I should have bedded him without marriage?” Ellen asked in a stifled voice.

  “No. I’m saying you never even got betrothed, though he asked you times without number. You kept testing him and testing him, but he passed the test the moment he met you, seems to me.”

  “He treated you like a queen before your hand healed,” Mrs. Brighton added, with a wary glance at Starling. “He made you up posies of flowers despite the ragging from the stable boy. He told everyone he loved you. He waited for a year, Ellen, and not once did you ever consent to do more than walk out with him. I don’t blame him for thinking he’s free to do anything he likes.”

  Mrs. Trelevan nodded. “Until
a man’s betrothed, he’s free. You have to face it, Ellen. You don’t have no right to complain about anythin’ he does.”

  “I thought you all supported me,” Ellen said, mouth rebellious and eyes glistening.

  Four pairs of eyes met.

  “If you want him, you’ll have to do something about it.” Starling watched Freda pour a melted cheese concoction onto a freshly cooked slice of toast.

  “I can’t,” Ellen mumbled. “He doesn’t love me anymore.”

  Starling tapped her fingers on the table. “I think that you ought to hear that from his own lips.”

  Ellen stared at Starling; then, eyes downcast, she walked out into the garden.

  Mrs. Brighton put a sprig of parsley on the cheese. “That needed to be said.”

  “I think she was always afraid he didn’t really love her.” Freda handed the plate to Starling. “She really thought losing her fingers made her deformed. I don’t know how many times I told her that it never made no difference to him. When you love someone, you don’t notice their faults.”

  With a smile of resignation, Starling took the dish and left. “You certainly don’t notice,” she muttered to herself, “if someone is beautiful.”

  * * * *

  Alasdair saw Starling in the passage. “That’s for Lavender, I presume. She told me the kitchen staff gave her bad food.”

  “Not on purpose,” she said. “And not bad. Just a trifle heavy with the mustard. There’s no need to reprimand them.”

  He turned to watch her enter the dining room where Lavender, not very patiently, awaited her breakfast.

  Determined to take back control of his staff, he strode toward the kitchen, “I hope we’ve done the right thing,” he heard Mrs. Brighton say. He grasped the handle of the door. “Madam went over to him again last night. I saw her hurrying across the lawn to the shed. There’s no doubt she’s—Mr. Seymour! Well. You did give me a fright. I didn’t see you there.”

  * * * *

  His mind repeating again and again the conversation he’d overheard, Alasdair retreated to the library and stayed there all day, messing with his papers until he’d confused his accounts too much to bother trying to make sense of them. Thereafter, he sat in his chair and stared out the window.