The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  Through most of the morning she sat tensely in her seat. The tension was caused partly by embarrassment, although he was gentleman enough to make no mention of last evening’s misunderstandings. She could not help remembering, though, that she had let her hair down and that he had touched it and called it beautiful—and that he had touched her and even kissed her. She could not help remembering that the bed had been behind her and that he had thought she was inviting him to take her there and—Well, she did not need to let her thoughts stray further.

  But mostly she was tense because at every village and town she expected him to announce that he had brought her far enough. The long, comfortable journey with him had made her a dreadful coward. The prospect of being alone and destitute again was a terror she could not face, even in her mind. She thought of begging when he finally made his announcement and knew that perhaps she really would.

  But so far it had been unnecessary. He had said nothing all morning or into the afternoon, when they had stopped for a meal and a change of horses. And he had handed her back into the carriage afterward, as if he had not even considered leaving her behind. Perhaps he no longer liked to suggest that she leave. Perhaps he expected her to broach the subject. But she would not do so, unmannerly as it might seem.

  Please God, let him take her farther. Just a little farther.

  He kept her talking all day. She told him about her childhood and her girlhood, about her mother and father. And in the telling, she found herself remembering details and events she had not thought of in years. She found herself becoming more animated, more relaxed, more prone to smiles and even laughter. And then she would remember where she was and glance at him anxiously and suggest that she was boring him. But he always urged her to continue.

  She discussed plays with him—those of Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Goldsmith. But when he asked her about her experiences with the theater, she had to confess to him that she had never seen a play performed on stage, though she had dreamed of doing so in London, where plays were surely performed at their best. Her only contact with the theater and actors had been a very recent one, but he had not asked about that, and it was something she tried not to remember, though they had been kind to her, of course.

  He smiled when she told him she had only read plays, not seen them performed. He would think her impossibly rustic, of course. And he would be right. She was rustic. She would not pretend otherwise just in order to appear sophisticated in his eyes. He seemed to like her well enough as she was anyway. He did very little of the talking himself. Yet he appeared interested in everything she said. His eyes smiled frequently.

  He had told her nothing of himself, she realized.

  “Well, Miss Gray,” he said finally when she was trying not to notice that afternoon had long ago turned to evening and evening was threatening to turn to night. “Another night is upon us.”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked at him and kept her eyes on his. She knew that she was gazing pleadingly at him, but she could not muster up enough pride to look at him any other way.

  “My coachman will stop at the next inn,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” She closed her eyes tightly suddenly and lost the final shreds of her dignity. “Please. Oh, please let me stay with you. I … It is raining and it is going to be very dark. There will be no moon. I … Oh, please.”

  “Miss Gray,” he said, his voice sounding surprised, “I thought it would have been obvious to you by—”

  “Please.” She would beg and grovel if necessary. “I will do anything. I will repay you in any way you choose.” She knew the implication of her words even as she spoke them, though she had not realized it in advance. But she did not care. She would not recall the words or qualify them in any way. She would do anything not to have to face the terrors of the darkness again.

  There was a lengthy silence, during which she kept her eyes closed and held her breath.

  “No,” he said finally. “I think not, Miss Gray, though it is magnanimous of you to offer. Your pleas and your offers are unnecessary anyway.” The bottom fell out of her stomach, but fortunately he continued. “I thought it would have been obvious to you by now that I am taking you to your grandfather’s home, now yours, in Hampshire. I believe we will reach it tomorrow if the roads do not prove to be quite impassable and if you can tell me exactly what house I am looking for.”

  He was going to—“You are going to take me all the way?” She opened her eyes and stared at him uncomprehendingly. “All the way there?”

  He smiled. “I am afraid so, Miss Gray,” he said.

  She was glad she was sitting down. Her legs would not have supported her. Her hands shook in her lap. Even so, she had to raise them quickly to cover her face before she lost control of every muscle in it. She swallowed repeatedly, intent on not bawling like a baby.

  “Yes,” he said. She did not even notice the thread of humor in his voice. “I thought you might be affected by the announcement, Miss Gray.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  4

  INDON PARK—HE HAD HEARD OF IT. IT WAS SAID TO BE one of the grander manors in the south of England. The park, with its rhododendron groves and rose arbors and formal parterres, was said to draw visitors throughout the summer months.

  At least, he thought, she was willing to practice deception on a grand scale. He wondered what she would do when she realized that there would be no getting rid of him, when she knew that he intended to escort her right to the main doors of Sindon and even within the doors—if she was allowed within them herself. But she would be—she was with him.

  He wondered if she would turn her marvelous inventive skills on the poor unsuspecting inhabitants of the house. Would she claim to be a long-lost relative? He sincerely hoped so. He hoped she would not crumble at the grand scale awkwardness of it all. He would be disappointed in her.

  He watched her with appreciation throughout the day. They did not do much talking. She watched the scenery through the window with eager—and with slightly anxious?—eyes. And he watched her.

  He was a fool, he thought. He could have had her last night. She had offered herself. Had he accepted, there was no way she could have wormed out of the commitment as she had done the night before. And he had wanted her. He still wanted her. But he had decided not to take on such an entanglement. Or perhaps it had seemed distasteful to him to accept an offer that had been made out of some desperation. He had no doubt that she really had been alarmed at the prospect of having to spend the night out of doors. Somehow he liked to sleep with women who wanted to sleep with him.

  Perhaps, he thought, he would take her back to London with him once this charade played itself out to a suitable denouement. Perhaps he would set her up somewhere and keep her for a while, until she found her feet and could make her own way in the metropolis. He had no doubt that that would not take her long at all. Perhaps he would buy her new clothes, ones that were more … seemly for a mistress of his. Though he could appreciate the humorous contrast between the flamboyant cloak and bonnet on the one hand and the demure simplicity of the gray dress on the other.

  He wondered for how long she would amuse him. Would she succeed in pushing back the massive boredom from his life? She had succeeded admirably for longer than two days. But could she continue to do so? He felt such a deep longing suddenly that he almost sighed aloud.

  He waited for her to speak. He knew that she would do so quite soon now. They must, after all, be within ten miles of Sindon. She could not wait much longer.

  She was blushing when she looked at him—and biting at her lower lip. Yes, she was setting up the situation very well. He could almost hear already the words that would follow. He was not disappointed.

  “Are we close, sir?” she asked him. “Is Sindon Park far off? Do you know?”

  “Less than ten miles at a guess,” he said, containing his amusement. “Just relax, Miss Gray. I am not about to abandon you now. We will
be there in time for tea, I daresay.”

  Her eyes dropped from his again for a moment, and she played with the shabby glove of one hand, twisting the hole out of sight. “I have been thinking,” she said.

  He did not doubt it. The workings of her mind had been almost visible to his amused eye throughout the day.

  She looked back up into his eyes. She was good with her eyes. They looked purely guileless—and purely beautiful, of course.

  “I cannot arrive with you,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows and resisted the urge to grin.

  “You have been so very kind,” she said earnestly. “And it seems so very ungrateful of me. But don’t you see? I have no chaperone or even a maid. They will want to know how far you have brought me. I have been alone with you in this carriage for almost three days. I have stayed with you—in separate rooms, of course.” She paused to sit back in the seat and to blush with maidenly modesty. “I have stayed with you for two nights. It will be impossible to explain and to make it appear as innocent as it has been.” She flushed an even deeper shade.

  He would not help her out. He was enjoying this too much. He kept his eyes on her and waited for her to continue.

  “And I cannot lie about it,” she said. “I am not good at lying.”

  He felt his lips twitch, but he would not spoil things. “What would you suggest?” he asked.

  “I did think at first,” she said, “that you might set me down at the gates of Sindon and I would walk the rest of the way. Though it would seem horridly inhospitable of me when you have come so far out of your way and the house is mine, after all. But that whole idea would not do. They would want to know where I came from, and perhaps there would have been no stage or mail coach anywhere near the time I would arrive. I would have to tell the truth after all, and if I were going to do that anyway, then you might as well take me all the way.”

  “I can see,” he said, “that you might be no better off with that solution, Miss Gray.”

  “And so,” she said, “I think it would be best, sir, if you set me down in the next town. I can take the stage from there and arrive properly just as if I had traveled by stage all the way.” She blushed deeply again. “Though I will have to beg money to pay the fare. I daresay it will not be much. I will insist on sending it back to you if you will give me your direction in London.”

  He watched her closely. He was enjoying himself vastly. “I have developed a deep concern for your safety and well-being during the past few days, Miss Gray,” he said. “I do not believe that in all conscience I can abandon you now. I would worry too much that after all something had gone awry, and you had not arrived safely to claim your inheritance.”

  She tipped her head slightly to one side. “How kind you are,” she said. “But really—”

  “You must remember, Miss Gray”—he gazed benignly at her—“you must remember that you are no longer either a clergyman’s daughter or a governess. You are a great heiress. You have a certain degree of power. If you arrive at Sindon timid and cringing and expecting censure for the manner of your arrival, you will find that there will always be men—and women—willing to rule you and control your life. You and I have done nothing improper, apart from indulging in one small kiss, for which I am deeply sorry. You have done nothing improper. It would be far better for you to arrive in my carriage with my escort and prove to whoever is waiting to receive you that you are a woman of independent mind as well as means.”

  “Oh, but—” she said. She stopped to bite her lip once more. “Are you sure it will not appear very improper, sir? I have not really thought a great deal until now about the impropriety of having traveled alone with you because I have been in such desperate circumstances and have been so grateful for your help. But will it not appear improper to others? Will not my reputation be damaged? And perhaps yours too, sir? I should regret that of all things.”

  “I think not, Miss Gray,” he said. “Sit back and relax. I insist on taking you to the door of Sindon Park and delivering you personally into the hands of your grandfather’s solicitor and of your grandmother’s cousin. I shall not abandon you. I shall see you inside the house, where you will be safe at last. And home at last.” He finally allowed himself a reassuring smile.

  She said no more, though he could see unease in her face and in her posture. He could almost see her mind racing over the possibilities of last-minute escape.

  Think all you like, Stephanie Gray, he told her silently. And squirm all you like. I have earned this pleasure. The social events of the Season were going to seem tame indeed when he finally got to town. But then perhaps he would have a new mistress to brighten life for a few weeks or months. Eventually, he would surely tire of her ever fertile imagination. But perhaps not for a while.

  She squirmed in good earnest when the carriage finally turned between two stone gateposts and proceeded along an elegant driveway lined with lime trees. He heard her draw a deep breath, which she let out raggedly through her mouth.

  “Oh dear,” she said, “my heart is pounding and my palms are clammy—and shaking.” She held up both hands to prove her point. He had no doubt that she was not acting. “What will they think of me, dressed like this? And arriving with you instead of in the carriage that they have probably sent by now? Will they believe it is me, do you suppose? And what if it is all a hoax after all? What if none of it is real? What if they look at me as if they had never heard of me or anybody of my name?”

  Ah, she had been using her time well. She had been thinking of a way out of her dilemma. She was paving the way.

  “Relax,” he told her soothingly.

  “Oh,” she said, “that is all very well for you to say. Ohh!”

  The last exclamation came out on a note of agony. The house had come into view. It was a house of gray stone and indeterminate architectural design. There were turrets and gables and pillars, all somehow combining to create a surprisingly pleasing effect. The house was larger than he had expected, and the parterre gardens before it were magnificently kept. When he glanced at Stephanie Gray, he saw stark terror in her eyes.

  He almost relented. He almost suggested rapping on the front panel and giving his coachman the order to turn around. He would get her to tell him her real destination. And then he would make his proposition to her. They could consummate their agreement tonight before returning to London. There was something distinctly exhilarating in the thought.

  But no. He must see this to an end. And, indeed, it was too late to turn back without incident. The double doors at the top of the horseshoe steps had opened, and three people had stepped out to watch the approach of the carriage—two men and one woman, all of middle years and of thoroughly respectable appearance.

  “Oh dear,” Stephanie Gray said. Her voice was all breath. “What shall I do? What shall I say?”

  “I am sure,” he said, his mouth quirking again, “that you will think of just the right words.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked doubtfully. “You are so kind. But I am not good with words.”

  And she had just claimed to be a poor liar?

  The carriage drew to a halt.

  SHE HAD NOT expected to feel such terror. After all, there was no reason for it. She was not coming as a supplicant or as an employee. She had not come to make a favorable impression on anyone. She had come because all this was now hers.

  But the thought brought only a renewed wave of fright.

  It was enormous. And it was magnificent. She had somehow pictured Sindon Park as a larger version of some of the prettier, more prosperous country cottages she had seen. She had pictured the park itself as a large country garden. She had expected to feel very grand as the owner of such opulence.

  But this …

  Well, this would dwarf Mr. Burnaby’s estate. His house and garden would fit into a corner of this property and not even be noticed. This was a house and a park fit for a king.

  She had known that her grandfather was wealthy. But s
he had no real conception of wealth. To her, the Burnabys had appeared enormously wealthy. Was she now wealthier than they?

  The thought that she owned all this seemed absurd to her, and she was quite serious when she suggested to Mr. Munro that perhaps everything had been a hoax. Surely, it could not be real. She felt at a terrible disadvantage. How could she arrive like this, a woman without baggage, without servants, without even her own clothes, except for her dress? There were holes in her gloves. And how could she arrive in Mr. Munro’s carriage with Mr. Munro for escort?

  It was an impossibility. She was on the verge of leaning forward and begging him—as she had begged him for a different reason last night—to direct his coachman to turn back, to take her somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  But of course there was nowhere else to go.

  Besides, it was too late. They had been seen. There were people coming out of the house. She could only go forward. And why should she not? She remembered Mr. Munro’s words. She was no longer just a vicar’s daughter or just a governess—not that there was anything demeaning in either identity. She was an heiress, a wealthy woman, the owner of Sindon Park, the granddaughter of the previous owner.

  If she was cringing and timid, he had said, there would always be people willing and eager to rule her. She had had to be timid—and even a little cringing sometimes—for too long. She would be neither ever again. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Mr. Munro had jumped out of the carriage and set down the steps himself. He turned now to hand her down and smiled encouragingly at her. There seemed to be almost mischief in his smile as if he were telling her that this was a new adventure and he looked forward to seeing how well she would acquit herself.

  Well, she would not disappoint him.

  The three people who had emerged from the house had come to the bottom of the horseshoe steps by the time she had descended from the carriage. She lifted her head to look at them and saw their smiles of welcome fade in perfect unison with one another. Oh dear, her wretched bonnet. The plumes had stubbornly refused to be detached from it, though she had tried again last night. But she kept her chin high and took a step forward, lest she give in to the temptation to hide behind Mr. Munro. This had nothing to do with him. This was her concern entirely.