“Wife, yes,” Warwick replied, bemused. “And we’ve been in the carriage for quite some time now.”
“Oh!” Mathilda recovered herself quickly and inclined her head in a low bow to Ondine. “Countess, please, this way …”
She led the way into a grand foyer in the French manor, one with marble flooring of a lighter shade than the steps. There appeared to be entrances to the foyer also from the east and the west, but Ondine was not to see them then, for Mathilda was leading the way up a wide and curving stairway to the apartments above. Warwick no longer held her arm; he followed behind her. Mathilda spoke over her shoulder to Ondine, a little too quickly, perhaps, as if she struggled to regain complete composure.
“There’s a dining hall beyond the staircase, my lady, and the old counting house. The living apartments are here, as you shall see, and the family takes its meals in the west wing. Justin’s apartments are also in this wing. The Earl’s are in the east, and the servants are quartered upon the third floor. Of course, any changes you might care to make—”
“Mathilda, it appears that the manor is most graciously run,” Ondine said pleasantly. A small and welcome thrill of excitement gripped her; it was all marvelous. After a year of running and filth, fate had cast her into a most comfortable situation. Her clothing was beautiful, her surroundings were more so, and Warwick Chatham was anxiously expecting her to play a role. She determined suddenly to do so with complete elan.
She paused on the landing, a long carpeted hallway that appeared to be the family portrait gallery. “It’s lovely!” she applauded sweetly, startling Warwick when she gripped his elbow and stretched upon her toes to plant a kiss upon his cheek. “My love, you did not tell me quite how grand …”
She lowered her lashes quickly to hide her amusement at his quickly suppressed amazement, then spun elegantly from him to approve the portrait of the handsome middle-aged man, amazingly like Warwick, yet more elegant in style, with a head of white hair to match the king’s in curls and abundance. “Your father, my love? Surely it is by Van Dyck?”
“Aye,” Warwick said smoothly, striding to her and managing to conceal his surprise at her knowledge of the painter. “As I told you, my lady,” he continued with equal ease, “my father stood by Charles the First until the end. Then he hastened into exile and fought by his son. Charles himself commissioned the portrait.”
Ondine moved down the hallway lightly. Ladies and lords of the centuries past stared upon her with different expressions, some merry, some melancholy, and many bearing Warwick’s golden gaze and arresting features. She paused before the most recent portrait, finding again a resemblance to her husband, yet certain that it was not he. Warwick totally eschewed the fashionable mode of rich curls for men; hair seemed to him a distraction, and he knotted it at his nape. The man in the portrait had a rich array of golden locks, and his eyes were a valley green. He appeared younger, as handsome as Warwick, but more … carefree. Lines of character were not yet etched into the face.
Warwick’s hands came to her shoulders. “Justin, my love,” he reminded her.
“Aye, of course!” She spun to him, laughing, and tapped her fingers gently against his chest. “When shall I meet this young rake of a brother-in-law?”
“I’m sure that Mathilda will see that he is summoned immediately,” Warwick replied, his eyes upon her quite wary at the very sweet and tender nature of her act, since he was painfully aware of its mockery.
Mathilda cleared her throat. Warwick gazed at her. “Justin is about, I presume?” he asked with an undertone of annoyance.
“Aye, milord, and he’s been the model of endeavor in your absence, I will say, if I may.”
“I doubt that!” Warwick responded, taking Ondine’s arm firmly to lead her back along the hall. “If there’s a fire going in the family hall, we’ll await him there. And, Mathilda, see if Irene can hurry dinner, please.”
Warwick pulled her past .Mathilda, throwing open a set of doors. Ondine found herself prodded through them; she stared down a long length of polished wood floor to a massive fireplace. Brocade chairs and settees surrounded the fireplace, and not far from it loomed a gleaming table, large enough to seat six, surrounded by straight-backed claw-footed chairs, all carved with the insignia of the beast. Rich panneling flanked the walls to the many windows, which spanned both sides of the wing, all with coves and shining wood seats before them. Plain dual candelabra in muted silver were set between each window. The great room was both elegant and comfortable, and Ondine found herself a bit amazed; she had not imagined wealth such as this.
Warwick drew the doors closed upon them. Ondine moved swiftly to the fire, feeling his eyes upon her.
“I had not imagined,” he murmured, “that I came across an actress of such caliber.”
Ondine sat daintily upon a fine brocade chair. “I told you, my lord. I’ve traveled to many a court, manor, and castle.”
He strode by her, leaning an elbow upon the mantel to survey her. “You amaze even me, my love,” he mocked slightly.
She opened her eyes wide, glad of his apparent unease, since he had so chosen to taunt her before the seamstress. “Have I misjudged something, Lord Chatham? I thought that I was to appear the lady sweet and gracious, well bred and … adoring?”
“Warn me next time you intend to be ‘adoring,’” he murmured acidly, and she chose to focus her attention upon the windows, as his gaze was searing at least, dry and probing at best.
She stood again, hurrying to one of the west windows. “What lies beyond?” she asked him lightly.
“The stables,” he replied curtly, and she was further unnerved that he followed her closely as he pointed over her shoulder to the outbuildings. “Far beyond, over the hill, lie the cottages of the tenants and fanners. On Sundays, after services, there’s quite a lively market. We’ve our own chapel—ground floor of the east wing—but the Chathams now attend public mass in the village.
Not to worry, my love, I’m sure you’ll play the femme royale quite as competently … anywhere.”
She longed to reply to the taunting lash of his words, but the doors opened again and a husky, pleasant laughter rilled the room.
“Married! Warwick, you scoundrel! Not to mention a word, but to stun us all. Where is this rare beauty who could so capture your heart?”
Ondine swung around to see the young man in the flesh whom she had surveyed earlier in the portrait.
He was perhaps five or six years younger than his brother, yet with Warwick, it was difficult to judge age. Justin was young, and charmingly so. His eyes danced with amusement; upon seeing her face, he pulled off his plumed hat and gave her a sweeping and elegant bow. Standing once again, he breathed out his introduction almost reverently. “My lady!”
“Ondine, I give you my brother, Justin Chatham,” Warwick said most dryly, yet he accepted his brother’s embrace of greeting with warmth before bringing her farther forward. “Justin, Ondine.”
“Ever so surely a name of magical connotation, a creature of magical beauty!” Justin proclaimed.
Ondine bobbed an elegant curtsy, enjoying Justin’s good humor and outrageous compliments. She had yet to be looked upon by his brother as anything other than a commodity.
“I thank you, Justin Chatham.” She offered him her hand, and he kissed it slowly, his eyes sparkling as he raised his head.
Warwick snatched her hand back suddenly, caught her shoulders, and drew her to rest against his chest. “Dear brother, ‘tis my wife you mawl! Seek your own, if you must dally so!”
The words were spoken lightly. Ondine was somewhat surprised at the camaraderie between them, for it did seem also that Justin sorely wore upon Warwick’s patience.
Justin laughed. “Tell me, Warwick, where you found this lady, for alas, I would hunt the same grounds.”
” Why, the streets of London!” Ondine replied quickly, escaping her husband’s grasp to whirl around the table and keep its solid breadth between them. For her life, s
he did not know what drove her to goad him so, yet it seemed that she had been given a chance to do mischief, and after his treatment of her, the sweet demon would not leave her soul. She smiled sweetly at Justin. ” Tis quite true! We met upon the streets and then and there chose to marry.”
“An elopement?” Justin queried, enjoying himself tremendously. “How romantic.”
“Uram,” Warwick murmured, striding toward the table. Ondine moved quickly around another side.
“Oh, tremendously so!” Ondine declared, sweet irony dripping from her tongue. “I shall never know quite what… hit me that night. Yet your brother was a determined suitor, and I quickly realized I’d not escape him.”
Justin stared from Ondine to his brother, then laughed. “Forgive me, sister-in-law, but I must say, well, I will be damned. My brother, you see, has lived his life the rage of beautiful women— though I can’t say why; he’s quite the cold and distant rake, or has been of late—-yet he’s eluded all the most determined heiresses of our good land. And the greatest beauties. Are you, then, incredibly rich?”
“Justin!” Warwick snapped.
“Not at all,” Ondine said sweetly.
“We must celebrate this event!” Justin proclaimed. He strode across the room and opened a panel beneath a window seat that proved to hold elegant crystal goblets and flasks. “Nothing so bleak as native ale,” he muttered. He pulled his choice forth, balancing the goblets. “The vintage of Aquitaine. I think! Rich and fruity wine, red like love’s sweet passion!”
“Is passion red, then?” Ondine inquired innocently. Too innocently, perhaps. She had given her attention to Justin and had not noticed Warwick slipping up behind her.
His arms swept around her, his fingers spanning her waist, their tips hovering below her breasts as he pulled her taut to his hot, tense form, dipped hjs head, and whispered to her throat. “Very red … think of it, milady …”
“Warwick, cease!” Justin pleaded. “You draw my attention from the wine!”
Warwick did not release Ondine, and she began to repent her flippancy. She could not speed from him again, for his hold was one of steel. And she could not fight the sensation that was pressed into her by his warmth, causing her to tremble, to loathe him … and to feel beguiled all the same. She seemed to become liquid at his touch.
Justin saved her, approaching them both with the goblets balanced precariously in his hands. Warwick reached for two, released her, then offered her one with a quick fire-gold gaze of warning that assured her he would follow her game, step by step.
She turned back to Justin. “Why is it, sir, that you—charming as you are, and more vulnerable as you pretend—have not fallen prey to one of these heiresses yourself?”
Justin chuckled, sipped his wine, then lifted his goblet to Warwick. “I am not the earl, and though charming—I do mind my manners!—it seems that women, alas, do fall prey to his very aloofness. Ah … that which cannot be obtained! As it is, little sister, here’s to you! The best… with the beast!”
Warwick responded with a dry smile. “It runs in all our blood, Brother.”
“I suppose,” Justin agreed amiably. His gaze grew speculative over Ondine suddenly. “I’ve a mind our new countess would not be afraid of a beast—or aught else, for that matter.”
Ondine felt a sudden chill in the room as the brothers exchanged gazes. It was not anger between them; it was a thought that was passed and shared, and one from which she was excluded totally.
She had little time to think on it. There was a tap upon the doors. Warwick bid “Enter,” and Mathilda came in, followed by two maids and a lad, all bearing cutlery and great trays that exuded wonderful scents.
“Dinner, milord, as you requested,” Mathilda said simply. With a wave of her hand, the others moved, quickly setting a linen cloth, china plates, and silver knives and forks upon the table.
Warwick inclined his head toward Ondine. “My lady?”
He pulled out a chair and she swept into it. As platters of eel and smoked sturgeon, boiled new potatoes, and garden greens were passed about, Warwick informed her that the girls were Nan and Lottie, the cook’s daughters; and the lad was Joseph, who doubled in the stable. The three had pleasant smiles and an eagerness to serve that reminded Ondine of Warwick’s previous warning to her about the gentle handling of his people. It amused her somewhat, for she did think of him as cold, indomitable, and forbidding—even at those times when he made her senses burn.
Yet surely he must be a fair and decent master, to create not only respect but happiness.
He was not always glacial steel, she thought, an inexplicable pain seeming to claw about her heart. She had heard him laugh so easily with Jake … and even in his taunts to her, his words were often laced with wit and wry humor.
When the meal was served, Mathilda ushered the servants out, then backed through the doors herself, drawing them closed. Ondine tried to pay attention as Justin gave Warwick a quick accounting of household affairs in his absence, then quizzed him in return about the state of things in London. Justin’s eyes fell quizzically upon Ondine once again, a hint of delighted interest in them as he asked, “And what does Charles think of your new countess, Warwick? If I know His Grace, he’s surely tossing with regret that he did not seduce her first!”
“They have not met … yet,” Warwick replied, sipping his wine. He, too, stared at Ondine; she tried to smile, but the sound of her heart suddenly seemed to overwhelm her.
“Were she my wife,” Justin mused, “I’d take grave care to see that they not meet!”
The conversation then veered again, to matters in North Lambria. Ondine noted that both brothers grew serious as they discussed matters of business, and that Warwick seemed a little hard upon a man who was his brother.
Justin explained the matter to her, with the same use of wit against himself she had seen in his brother. “I was expelled from His Majesty’s court—for dueling. My brother decided that it was high time I avoid the company of the likes of Rochester and others, due to their influence upon my, er, weak character. So, I am, alas, a man now under duress to prove my worth.”
He didn’t seem to mind the rebuke, or the fraternal clamps set upon him. Ondine was certain that she would have sorely resented Warwick, but they were of the same blood; Warwick merely enjoyed the fortune of having been born the elder.
She smiled at Justin. “Do you find your brother a hard taskmaster?’ ‘
“The worst,” Justin replied cheerfully. “But then … he is the family legend. Ah, the fates of life! You see, I was but a child of ten when we so misfortunately waged war with the Dutch. Warwick was fifteen, but we Chathams rise to height quickly. He ran off and joined the Royal Navy beneath the Duke of York, and as luck would have it, he became a naval hero at sixteen. No one can best my brother with a sword, so I find it most comfortable to remain on his good side.”
“Justin,” Warwick interrupted impatiently, “‘twas the present we were discussing. What of the horses?”
“Ah, but the foals are coming beautifully! Clinton was right about the breeding of those Arabians—we’ve the fleetest mounts upon four legs! They’ll do quite well for the races.” He turned to Ondine. “Have you been to Newmarket for the races? What sheer joy and excitement.”
“I daresay,” Warwick murmured, “had you avoided the races, you might have avoided the duel.”
Justin grimaced. “Had Charles but arranged a joust for me as he did for you and Hardgrave—” His voice broke off suddenly, pained, as if he had brought up something extremely unpleasant.
He had for Ondine. Her breath drew in sharply against her will, and her eyes were drawn to her husband’s at the head of the table. Him! He had been one of the armor-laden knights on the field that day; on the day her life had gone from fantasy to nightmare. Dear God, it was but just a trick of fate that they had not met before, that he hadn’t known her for … the fugitive, daughter of a traitor, traitor herself.
She lowered her head qu
ickly, hoping to hide the naked pain that had streaked to her eyes. Yet with her head bowed, she realized that Warwick had not even gazed her way. His attention had been on his brother, his features gone taut and severe.
Justin cleared his throat. “Dragon fares as well as ever, like as not to tear down his stall when you’re away. He’ll be eager for exercise.”
“He’ll get it,” Warwick replied, and the moment seemed to have past. “Tomorrow I’ll take him the stretch of the county, and he’ll regret that he was not left in peace.”
Justin went on to mention that several farmers were seeking audiences to settle petitions, then apologized to Ondine for boring her with such matters. She replied that she was certainly not bored, since she was new to it all. She felt her husband^ s pensive eyes upon her, yet when she caught them with her own, she could not tell if he was pleased with her performance before his brother or not. But she realized then the depth of his deception; only Jake knew the truth of their marriage, as Warwick was not willing to share that information even with his brother.
There was a rap upon the door, and at Warwick’s command, a man entered. He was dressed in plain brown breeches and the leather jacket of a groom, but he was clean, neat, and young, near to Warwick in age. His hair was so black as to be jet, he was tanned, and his face was leathered with exposure to constant wind and sun.
Warwick rose at his entrance, his lips curled in a smile. “Clinton.”
“Warwick,” Clinton said, approaching the head of the table to clasp the other man’s hand. Ondine watched the exchange curiously; Clinton was obviously in Warwick’s employ, yet they met with no formality. Indeed, it was a very odd greeting. She had always seen her husband courteous to those beneath his station, but that station had also been apparent.
“Ondine, Clinton is master of the stables,” Warwick informed her. “Clinton, the lady Ondine.”
Clinton turned to her. She noted that his eyes were a dark forest green, that there was something very familiar about him, but that she could not determine what. It frightened her somewhat, yet his words and manner soothed her fear, for she became quite certain that he did not know her.
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