The Irish Bride

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Rietta,” he said in her ear. He was so close she could feel the heat of him all down her back. He said her name again and his voice was like a whisper she’d heard in a dream.

  The door opened and she entered thankfully. When she tried to close it in his face, he held it open effortlessly. “You go too far,” she said. “Let go, or I summon my father.”

  “I suppose I do exceed good taste when I want something very badly. It’s a family trait.”

  “Master it,” she advised, pushing harder.

  He grunted but held the door. “I’ll be bringing my mother to meet you.”

  “Save the poor lady the journey. I won’t see you ever again. As for your mad idea of marriage ...” His hand slipped a little on the smooth-painted surface. Stepping back, she let the door swing toward her. He stumbled as the resistance gave way. Taking advantage of his lack of balance, Rietta slammed the door. “Forget it.”

  She heard him laugh and knew he stood outside with his hands flat against the door. “First round to you.”

  Rietta didn’t answer him. She didn’t want him to know that she hadn’t run immediately upstairs. She didn’t want him to know that she brushed her fingertips lightly over the wooden surface, just where she surmised his hands were. Madman or not, like it or not, Nick Kirwan was the first man who’d ever kissed her. The feelings he’d awakened would not soon be forced back into slumber. But she would triumph over them, she vowed.

  After she judged enough time had passed, she pushed aside the narrow curtain and peeped through the sidelight. He’d gone down into the street. He stood there, gazing up at the house, his coat thrust back by his hands resting on his narrow hips. He seemed to be looking at each window in turn as though waiting for some signal. Had he planned to meet Blanche?

  Then, as if informed by some unearthly power, he looked straight into her eyes. She saw the insufferable grin break out on his face and let the curtain fall, disgusted by her own curiosity.

  Seizing the chamberstick that waited on the hall table, she hiked her skirt and trotted briskly up the stairs. A sliver of light still showed under her sister’s door. Rietta’s curiosity drove her to knock.

  “Who’s there?” Blanche called, her voice heavy.

  “It’s me.” Rietta turned the handle and entered.

  “Oh.” Looking like a contented cat among her pillows, Blanche put her Ladies’ Magazine on the bedside table. “How are your peasants?”

  Rietta didn’t even bother to sigh at her sister’s incorrigible attitude. “It’s the upper classes that trouble me.”

  “Has a renegade earl been making improper advances? What has he offered? A thousand pounds and a diamond necklace?”

  “May I stay here for a few minutes? I don’t want him to know which room is mine and he will if I take a candle in.”

  “Who? What are you talking about? Why are you looking out my window?” She threw aside the blue silken coverlet and crossed to Rietta’s side. Craning her neck to see past her sister’s shoulder, she followed Rietta’s gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “He must have gone away.”

  “Who? If you don’t tell me, I shall scream.”

  “Sir Nicholas.”

  “Sir Nicholas? Kirwan?”

  “Yes. Is the town so full of men by that name?”

  “Sir Nicholas was down in the street just now?” Blanche laughed. “You’ve nothing to fear, Rietta. I don’t think he’s swept away by your beauty.”

  “Is he so enamored of yours?” It was to be expected, and yet Rietta found the fact no less depressing. Then she remembered so vividly the touch and taste of Sir Nicholas’s mouth upon hers. He had not, so far as she knew, kissed Blanche. She put her fingertips lightly to her lips.

  Blanche tossed back her hair, preening. “He could hardly take his eyes from my face during dinner. I noticed, too, that he was more than a little short with Mr. Mochrie when he started paying court to me. Sir Nicholas didn’t seem to like that very much, for all they’re such old friends.”

  “You played them off one another, no doubt.”

  Blanche smiled, a gleeful goddess. “A man values a thing more if he thinks someone else wants it, too.”

  Though every natural feeling revolted at the idea of asking Blanche’s advice, which was sure to be selfish, single-minded, and shocking, Rietta could think of no one more qualified to advise her.

  “Blanche, what makes a man fall in love?”

  Her sister ran her fingers through the fall of her honey hair. “Surely that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. Are you thinking of finding a husband? It’s about time. This nonsensical idea of Father’s! Nobody cares how it affects me. I could have been married half a dozen times by now, if only he’d been reasonable.”

  “Hardly that,” Rietta pointed out.

  Blanche shrugged. “You know what I mean. Father’s easy enough to manage on all points but this silly curse idea. He was explaining it to Sir Nicholas this evening and I was ready to sink through the floor. He sounded absolutely backward, like a rustic from the Islands.”

  “Father was telling Sir Nicholas? How did that subject arise?”

  “I don’t know. I think Sir Nicholas asked about Father’s reasons for his silly rule about your marrying first.”

  But how, Rietta wondered, did he know enough to ask?

  She saw that Blanche looked at her with an appraising glint in her clear eyes. “What is it?”

  “If you are serious about finding a man, why not let me help you? A fresh coiffure, a little lip rouge, and a change of ribbons and you’d be much, much more alluring than you are at present.”

  “That’s very generous, but I only asked one question. Purely rhetorical.”

  “Well, you might think about me instead of yourself. Do you think I like living with Father when I might have a nice, indulgent husband?”

  “Blanche, are you in love with any of these men?”

  “In love?” She tossed her blond head again. “I don’t intend to fall in love with my husband. What a maudlin notion, and so very underbred.”

  “Our father is a merchant, Blanche, not the Duke of Killarney.”

  “A woman takes on the rank of her husband. Just offer me the chance and everyone will forget my lowly origins.”

  “What new bee has flown into your bonnet?”

  Blanche sniffed regally. “I was just reading in that magazine about the Gunning sisters. They were Irish, with nothing to recommend them but their faces, and one of them married a duke. What’s been done once can be done again.”

  “Napoleon failed to conquer England but you’re going to?”

  “Why not?”

  “Go to bed, Blanche.”

  She waited until her sister had swung her little feet under the sheet, then Rietta pulled the covers up to lie snugly over Blanche. She bent and kissed the smooth white brow. “No more reading. Quiet your thoughts. Sleep well.”

  “You too, Rietta.”

  She followed her own advice but lay awake in her bed for a long time. She, who had never aspired higher than a stammering proposal from some clergyman had suddenly a beau of a higher rank than her own. Though she still could not suppose Sir Nicholas to be serious—in fact, she would have suspected that he might have had more wine with dinner than was wise if she had not known the quality of her father’s refreshments.

  Yet he’d promised to bring his mother to meet her, which argued a fair level of seriousness. What if he did mean it? Could she be so far infected with his insanity to even consider such an unequal match? It would be difficult enough with love on both sides, but all but impossible without it. No. At least with her thus far mythical clergyman, she could respect her husband. But what good did she know of Sir Nicholas?

  Then she thought about how tightly he’d held her as his kiss possessed her. A cold shiver, both frightening and delightful, passed through her. She hugged herself, rubbing her hands on her upper arms. Letting her head fall back upon the pillow, she concentrated on
that moment, which had seemed to last only one hurried second at the time, but which went on and on in her memory.

  * * * *

  Nick rode home in the morning, a song on his lips despite his headache. Smoky rooms in staging inns never did agree with him. He’d hoped his travels were over, but with a woman to be wooed and won he foresaw more nights in Galway. He’d have to find better lodgings. Despite a bad night’s sleep and the lingering effects of Mr. Ferris’s cheap wine, Nick felt optimism swelling in his heart.

  That kiss.

  He’d gone to town as an experiment, to take a second look at Miss Rietta Ferris. He never meant to commit himself for any course of action, positive or negative. A mere reconnaissance, as he’d told David. If he’d learned nothing else in the army, he’d learned that previous knowledge of terrain and strength of the opposition could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

  What had prompted him to kiss her? Even in the clear light of morning, Nick couldn’t say for certain. A desire for mastery? An urge to make some return for her hard words? Overwhelming curiosity? A mixture of the three, in all likelihood.

  He’d been ready with an apology if she had tried to slap him as he admittedly deserved. There had also been a compliment on the end of his tongue if she had been merely offended. The only reaction he’d not been prepared for had been the one she’d given him. Her response, sweet and fervid, had given him a completely unstudied craving to have more of her.

  Nick didn’t blame Rietta for running. She must have been frightened by his bold escalation of their flirtation. She couldn’t have known he was going to kiss her, for he hadn’t known it himself. Then to give herself away so completely ...

  His body tightened as he remembered the brush of her hands over his shirtfront as she’d reached for him. Her slightly too full lips, pink as newly opened roses, had parted on a relinquishing sigh, but he’d had just enough sense left not to take advantage of her vulnerability. Nick couldn’t help holding her so close; the instinct had been too powerful to deny.

  Nick realized that Stamps had slowed to a dawdle. “Get up there,” he said, urging the horse on. If the big shoulders could have shrugged they would have. “Yes, I know I’m woolgathering, but you needn’t. Get on.”

  He’d given no thought to his wedding bed, not being certain he’d take on David’s proposition. In the back of his mind had been some notion of a bedding based on a mutual understanding of their respective roles. Neither of them need make more of a fuss over the business than necessary. He had vaguely imagined that he would satisfy his wife, less through love than because of his pride in his abilities. His own pleasure would take care of itself. Let her be willing and he’d ask no more.

  But now Nick began to feel a certain sense of anticipation. If he could rouse Rietta’s passions, their marriage would be far easier. Everyone knew married couples lost interest in each other soon enough, but for those first heady months, passion would work like an ocean wave, smoothing away the rough edges and the jagged sticking points.

  Rietta Ferris had passion enough; he’d swear to it. Once he had roused it, all other obstacles would be cleared. He trusted her for that. She was the sort of woman who defined an objective and headed toward it, allowing no other considerations to stand in her way. He’d known many men like that. Such people made excellent officers; he wondered whether it was a comfortable quality in a wife.

  Pondering this point, he came over a rise and saw a man riding a white cob coming toward him. At first Nick’s attention was focused on the horse, but as the man came nearer, Nick recognized him. “Arthur Daltrey, isn’t it?”

  “Yes?” The man drew rein, looking at Nick from under the brim of his shallow-crowned hat.

  Nick was no judge of male beauty so he could not tell why the maidens all went mad for this farmer, but he liked the straight, clear look in his eyes. “I’m Nick Kirwan.”

  ‘Thought you might be. Your groom spent half yesterday tellin’ me ‘bout your horse. Fine, isn’t he?”

  Stamps obviously did not think the same of the farmer’s cob, which could hardly stand still but would back and file while his master was speaking. Plainly determined to show what could be accomplished by a horse of intelligence, Stamps stood so still that he didn’t even flick an ear to scare away a persistent fly.

  “Everything is well with you?” Nick asked.

  “Well enough. We’ve had too little rain, but then we farmers are never satisfied ‘bout the weather.”

  “It has seemed unreasonably dry since I’ve come home.”

  “August,” Daltrey said, as though that explained everything.

  “Yes. Tell me, how does Badhaven suit you?”

  “It’s a fine property, indeed. I had my eye on it for several years. Steady there, Bobbs.”

  “I hope m’father fixed the roof before he sold it to you.”

  A rueful smile twitched the corner of Daltrey’s mouth. “He didn’t. Nor did he trouble to mention it, Sir Nicholas at the time. He was a hard man with a bargain, yer father. It’s a wonder t’me he didn’t use his brains when he went gamblin’ that way.”

  Nick stiffened. He did not like to hear criticism of his parent from a stranger. Then he recalled that if Amelia had her way, Daltrey would wind up his brother-in-law.

  “My father had his faults, Daltrey. But he was my father.”

  “Indeed, I’d be feeling the same way were it me. Well, I’ll be goin’ my way, Sir Nicholas. G’day to you.”

  “And to you.”

  They rode apart, but Arthur Daltrey turned in his saddle and called, “It’s good to be havin’ you back. There’s much to be done.”

  “Come to the house one day. I’d be interested in your opinions.” Nick waved his riding crop and watched his sister’s rumored lover ride away. Daltrey might not be high in rank, but Nick had been impressed despite himself by the man’s air of self-sufficiency. Was it owning his own place that gave him the courage to talk freely with a landlord?

  He wondered what Amelia saw in him, laughing at himself, for all brothers must wonder the same about their sisters’ choices. No doubt when he brought his bride home, neither Emma nor Amelia would be able to see anything at all unusual or intriguing about Rietta.

  When he arrived at Greenwood, he found his mother in the garden, in deep conference with the oldest Randolph boy. Nick kissed her cheek beneath the flopping brim of her old hat and acknowledged the boy’s instinctive duck of the head.

  “Oh, you’re back,” Lady Kirwan said. “How were your friends, dear?”

  “Same as ever, Mother. Roger Hogan is his father’s agent now and Ridley Pierce has been taken on as a partner at Mr. Hammond’s solicitor’s office.”

  “I always liked Ridley. I hope he outgrew that stammer?” She turned her smile on the boy. “Would you pardon us a moment, George?”

  Once he’d drawn off to a respectful distance, Lady Kirwan crooked her finger for her son to bend low. “Did Ridley clear up all your questions about the estate?”

  “Yes, Mother.” He’d wanted to break it to her gently but there really wasn’t a way to do that. “We’re in as bad a condition as I feared.”

  To his surprise, she took the bad news like a trooper. She merely nodded as though his words confirmed what she’d surmised. ‘Then I shan’t feel so bad about digging up the South Lawn.”

  “Digging up what?”

  “The South Lawn,” she said, waving her gloved hand.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “For vegetables, of course. Potatoes, parsnips, carrots ... I’m not sure about beans. Dr. Markaby says they’re most nutritious but I really can’t make myself care for them.”

  “Who is Dr. Markaby?” Nick had never heard the name. Their family physician had always been Ridley Pierce’s father.

  For answer, Lady Kirwan went to the white-painted bench that commanded a delightful view of the South Lawn, stone walls, and the brook beyond. She brought back and put into Nick’s hand a
limp-boarded book in a particularly bilious shade of green,

  DR. MARKABY’S IDEAL SYSTEM FOR TONIC HEALTH

  crawled down the spine in florid letters of gold. Nick turned to the title page. Under the sprawling title was another:

  A SCHEME TO PROMOTE PERFECT PHYSICAL SUCCESS ON SIXPENCE

  The frontispiece showed an engraving of a rather full-chinned fellow in an antique-style wig. Beneath it flew cupids bearing chastely draped banners declaring Dr. H. Markaby to be the hero of the age and the savior of mankind’s collective stomach.

  “Mother, what is this?”

  “Our London bookseller is a convert to Dr. Markaby’s system. He sent this book along with our last order. We haven’t—er—paid for them yet.”

  “We will soon pay all our debts. But what has this book to do with the South Lawn?”

  “Well, dearest, if you turn to the first page, you’ll see that Dr. Markaby declares that if we all ate vegetables we should improve our health and our finances. So I thought perhaps if we began to grow our own vegetables we could save even more than buying them. While we’re waiting, I suppose we could buy what we need. Dr. Markaby thinks a gross each of carrots, parsnips, and cabbage should do for a grown man for at least a month. There are receipts at the back.”

  “Mother...”

  “Dr. Markaby says that the gross machine requires no more than a single spoonful of fat per day to maintain the vital grease. It doesn’t really matter what kind, though perhaps bacon is best.”

  “Vital grease,” Nick echoed, torn between laughter and disgust.

  “You know. What keeps your joints bending?”

  “Yes. But what is the ‘gross machine’?”

  Lady Kirwan’s hand fluttered to her mouth. From behind it, she said very softly, ‘The body, dearest. He means the human body.”

  “I see. So you propose that we live on vegetables and a spoonful of bacon fat every day?”