by Jane Feather
“I was, a little. But I was also in the grip of a profound sixteen-year-old’s lust. So I said, ‘Lucy, dear, what are you thinking over so seriously?’ And she said, ‘With the weather as it is, I’m thinking whether I ought to switch to live bait. Have you any thoughts on it? I could use dung worms, or maggots, or dew worms, or flag worms. But maybe if I want salmon, I ought to try lob worm?’ And then damned if she doesn’t pull an assortment of worms out of her pocket—mind you, her skirt pocket—and thrust a handful of them embedded in moss into my face and say, ‘What’s your opinion?’”
George screwed up his face. “Ah, Gawd! I hate how she does that! It’s like a bucket of cold water. What? You’re smiling. What else?”
“When I got up,” Elf said, “I had one of her fly hooks dug about an inch into the right flank of my buttock.”
The revelation interrupted George taking a large gulp of port. Unable to laugh and swallow at the same time, he spat half and inhaled the rest.
Getting to his feet to thump his friend companionably on the back, Elf toasted the air with his glass. “Here’s to Henry Lamb, who’ll spend a lifetime pulling fishhooks out of his rump.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AFTER THEIR WEDDING, Henry Lamb took Lucy to the Lake District and there in a country inn covered with rose vines, he lay with her on herb-scented sheets and kissed and loved every inch of her, and brought her to pleasure again and again and again. And when he had caressed her to peacefulness, and gently bathed her hot sweaty body, he lay down again at her side and said, “How do you like matrimony so far?”
“I feel as though I’ve been to the stars and back,” she murmured, gazing into the warmth in his eyes. “But what can I do for you?”
“All you ever have to do for me,” he said, “is smile.”
And so she did.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE SECOND SHE returned from the Lake District, Lucy was determined to be rid of The Bottle.
Her mother found Lucy in the garden with her new husband, shoveling out a hole so deep only her dirty, determined face showed above the edge.
“Lucy,” Laura said, “What on earth—”
Lamb, looking unconsciously picturesque, as always, was watching Lucy with soft eyes from where he reclined on the grass on his elbow. Smiling up at his mother-in-law, he explained. “She says she wants to bury this bottle.” He indicated it calmly with his hand. “She won’t say why except that it’s dangerous. She won’t let me touch it. She won’t let me help her dig.” Henry Lamb lifted a moss-filled bucket at his elbow. “My job is merely to superintend the grubs she digs out of the ground.”
Laura shook her head. “She was always a whimsical girl.”
Rupa, Charlotte, George, and Elf, with Mr. Frog trotting at his heels, arrived at that moment, typically two hours early for the dinner to which they’d been invited.
Elf said, cheerfully, “Hullo, Lamb.” Then, “Why, Lucy, that’s a great big hole in the ground.”
With a raised eyebrow, Lucy’s mother pointed to the glinting glass bottle. “She’s burying that bottle.”
“Why?” George asked. “Is it dead?”
Charlotte said, “Maybe she’s growing a bottle tree.”
But Rupa looked wise and mysterious. She said, “It’s a good thing to bury that bottle. It’s very dangerous. You can wish on it.”
Lucy’s mother, amused, picked up the bottle, turned it over once in her hand, and said, “Then I wish we might learn in every detail what Lucy has so against it.”
Lucy looked aghast at her mother, at the beloved friends of her childhood, at her smiling, handsome husband. At the bottle.
And wryly said, “Oops.”
SHARON AND TOM CURTIS
SHARON AND TOM CURTIS reside in Wisconsin, where they share their home with a very elderly miniature dachsund. LaVyrle Spencer describes their talent as “immense,” while Sandra Brown says they have “a rare knack for converting the mundane into magic.”
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date …
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, SONNETS
To Shauna, a true master of the editor’s craft.
Best wishes for all your future endeavors!
With much appreciation for the past,
—ELIZABETH
CHAPTER ONE
Blackburn House, 1820
DO TRY TO smile, dear.” Lady Evelyn patted her dark curls to make sure they were in place, then glanced over her shoulder to take in the sullen countenance of her son. “This is a party, after all, and not a funeral.”
James Drake, Lord Wyatt, followed Lady Evelyn onto the balcony that overlooked the long gallery at Blackburn House, then turned to press a hidden lever. A section of the bookcases slid closed behind him with a quiet hiss. The sound was lost amidst the music of a string quartet and dozens of voices that arose from the cavernous room below them. They stood high above the crowd, even above the room’s massive chandeliers, all but hidden in the secluded shadows of the balcony.
Wyatt moved forward and braced his hands against the smooth, warm wood of the balcony’s railing, a man holding fast to what was his in the face of a mob that had overrun it. The long gallery stretched out before him, its burgundy-colored walls covered by gilt-framed paintings that made the crowd gathered within those walls look like colorful birds in a gilded cage. Most were female, their high-pitched chatter punctuated by an occasional shriek of laughter. “I find it difficult to smile when I specifically asked that you not hold the house party this year. Imagine my surprise when the engraver’s bill arrived yesterday morning.”
“This party is an annual tradition,” she argued. “If you had heard my plans beforehand, I knew you would have puta stop to them.”
“Of course I would have stopped it,” Wyatt said. “Your annual tradition set me back a thousand pounds last year. There are at least fifty people down there, and I would lay odds that each brought a maid, or manservant, as well as their coachmen and carriage horses. The bill to feed this small army will eat up the household budget for the entire year. The only reason I am here now is to make certain this does not turn into an extended holiday, as it did last year.” He braced himself for an argument, resolved to stand firm. “My first step will be to lock the wine cellar. A lack of fine spirits tends to encourage early departures.”
“Shame on you, Wyatt. These are my dearest friends, not a group of petty scavengers.” One delicate hand fluttered toward the crowd. “This party is also an investment in your future.”
Wyatt was instantly on his guard. “What are you scheming this time, Mother?”
“Scheming?” She looked insulted, but the glint of humor in her dark eyes remained. “A mother’s interest in her only child’s welfare should not be called scheming.”
“Do not tell me you have found another one.” Wyatt took a step backward. “Not another potential bride.”
“You make the poor girls sound like stray cats.”
Wyatt thought through the odd assortment of heiresses his mother had paraded past him over the last few years and nodded. “They tend to share a certain forlorn quality.”
“Nonsense. You are too fussy. If you are so convinced that a wealthy bride would ease your worries, then why do you find something lacking in every girl I introduce you to?”
“I am discriminating enough to want a wife who doesn’t make me cringe when I look at her. Then there is my unreasonable preference for a woman with more intelligence than my horse.” He gave her a dark glance from beneath his brows. “I could afford a wife with a few pleasing qualities beyond wealth if you would only learn to economize.”
The glint of humor in Lady Evelyn’s eyes disappeared. “I will not live like a pauper, Wyatt. You may do your best to convince me that we are poor as church mice, but I know better. Just as I know why you are so determined to keep building your fortune. At some point you must spend a bit of your precious money and enjoy life. I daresay you could affo
rd any wife you pleased, but this constant fretting about a financial disaster clouds your judgment.”
“My judgment is based on experience,” he reminded her. “The family fortune has nearly recovered from the disaster that befell my father, but a bad investment, or poor crops, or any number of misfortunes, could see us in dire straits once more. A wife with a large dowry will be my final insurance against catastrophe.”
A troubled look shadowed Lady Evelyn’s face for an instant, then disappeared beneath a bright smile. “Then you may thank me, because this time I have found you the perfect bride. Her name is Caroline Garstairs, a widow just a few months out of mourning. She is a sweet, country-bred girl, but she is well-accustomed to running a house as large as Blackburn. Her parents married her off to a wealthy Irish lord who was old enough to be her grandfather. He bequeathed his young bride an income of ten thousand per year on his passing.”
Wyatt’s eyes widened over the staggering sum, then quickly narrowed. “She must sport a mustache if none of the bucks in London have snatched her up.”
Lady Evelyn rolled her eyes. “If you bothered to attend any parties in London, you would know that the gentlemen find her quite pleasing. Most consider her a great beauty.”
“There are men who would consider a goat a great beauty if she came with an income of ten thousand.”
“You are too jaded, Wyatt.”
“I am realistic.” He glanced at the crowd. “Where is she?”
Lady Evelyn looked out over the gallery and nodded toward one corner. “She is standing next to Mrs. Newel.”
Wyatt followed the direction of his mother’s gaze and spied elderly Mrs. Newel at the far end of the gallery. Two young women stood nearby. The one draped in an ice-blue gown caught his attention first, with her inky black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her lips were curved into the self-assured smile of a woman who knew she was beautiful. The girl next to her wore a simple apple-green frock, her plain features a sharp contrast to the exotic-looking woman in blue. Her ordinary brown hair was drawn into an unembellished coil, and wispy curls framed an equally ordinary face. Still, there was something graceful and unaffected about her that charmed him. Surely this was the shy, country-bred Mrs. Carstairs.
His mood improved considerably.
As he studied his potential bride, a shrill laugh from Mrs. Newell made the girl’s eyes narrow into a wince that lasted the duration of the grating sound, eyes such a pale shade of blue that he could tell their color even from this distance. They widened again when Mrs. Newel plunged into a conversation accompanied by theatrical gestures with her hands. He dismissed Mrs. Newel, but he couldn’t dismiss the young widow.
She was not a striking beauty by any means, yet Wyatt found himself struck by her just the same. He could not recall the last time he had glimpsed such an expressive face. Her features reflected her every emotion and he found himself guessing at her thoughts. The shy smile was a reaction to some bit of flattery that made her feel awkward and embarrassed. Although he couldn’t hear her murmured response, he felt certain her voice would be soft and perhaps a little husky.
Her smile faltered, then returned again, as if she had trouble keeping it in place. She was trying her best to pretend that she enjoyed this party, but he would wager any amount of money that she could not wait to escape it. The look in her eyes reminded him of a cornered deer. He had an irrational urge to swoop down and rescue her from the chattering women, to lead her through the glass doors that opened onto the gardens and take her far away from this crowd.
She seemed the type who would like the gardens, the intimate solitude of hidden paths and promenades. He pictured them there together, how her skin would glow like priceless pearls in the moonlight. He imagined how her smile would change from one of pretense to one of gratitude. But he wanted much more than a smile. He wanted to kiss her.
As he imagined that kiss, his gaze swept over her figure and he tried to picture what she would look like beneath the filmy gown. The modest décolletage did little to enhance her small breasts, and her billowy skirts gave the impression of a sturdy frame beneath them. While he studied the unremarkable shape of her body, he became aware of a most remarkable response in his own.
He wanted her. All of her. Smiles, kisses, caresses … long, sensual caresses that would turn into long, smooth strokes of their hands and bodies when they made love.
As if he had spoken the lurid thoughts aloud, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her wide-eyed expression made him believe she could read his mind. Even that wasn’t enough to make him recall his manners and look away from her. In his mind he pulled her hair free of its simple anchoring and let the soft mass tumble over her shoulders. His hands untied the tiny ribbons on her bodice to expose more of her lovely breasts until he imagined a glimpse of dark coral.
A strange feeling came over him, a sense of recognition so deep that he felt as if he had known her all his life. He knew exactly what she would feel like in his arms, what she would taste like when he kissed her.
He had never laid eyes upon her before tonight.
His mother’s cool voice intruded on his thoughts. “Wyatt, do stop staring.”
Filling that request proved more difficult than he anticipated. Every time he tried to look away from the woman in green, he was racked by an irrational fear that she might disappear, that he would lose her somehow.
“You are making Miss Burke blush,” Lady Evelyn added, “and it is rude to ignore me when I am speaking to you.”
His head pivoted stiffly to meet his mother’s gaze. “Miss Burke?”
“The woman in green. The one you were staring at.” She looked suddenly nervous. “You are not acquainted with Miss Burke?”
“No.” He knew a keen moment of disappointment, but all was not lost. His mother was right about his requirements for a bride. He would appreciate a woman with an income of ten thousand, but it was hardly a necessity. The alluring Miss Burke made him think that a dowry was not that important after all. “Who is she, and why is she here?”
“She is my guest, of course. When I first met Miss Burke, I thought she might be somewhat … unusual, but she is the most delightful person imaginable. She has the most amazing talent that makes her popular at every gathering, even though she might be a little quiet at times, but I find her unaffected manner quite refreshing.” She paused long enough to search his face, as if she were afraid of what she might find. “You are certain you haven’t heard of her?”
“I haven’t been about in society of late,” he said, “and I am certain I have never met her. Just what sort of ‘amazing talent’ does she possess?”
Lady Evelyn’s gaze became evasive. “I know you don’t believe in this sort of thing, but Miss Burke is something of a fortune-teller. She can tell the history of an object by simply holding it in her hand. Just this afternoon she did a reading of Lady Horsham’s silver combs. She told exactly where Lady Horsham purchased the combs, and even described the clerk who sold them to her.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Lady Horsham confirmed the story,” she assured him. “Isn’t it remarkable?”
“Remarkable, indeed, that you were taken in by such nonsense. I realize that fortune-tellers are part of society’s latest craze for the occult, but I never suspected you would be duped by such charlatans.” Wyatt lifted one brow. “Remind me to lock away the silver as well until this Burke woman leaves the premises.”
The sarcasm masked his disappointment. There would be no courtship to while away his time at Blackburn. The lack of a handsome dowry might be overlooked, but fortune-telling? That crossed the line of acceptability by leaps and bounds.
“Miss Burke is no thief,” Lady Evelyn said at last. She drew herself up to her full height, but still had to tilt her head back to look up at her son. “She is a respectable young woman from a respectable family. As for her psychic talents, I hardly think you are in a position to judge whether or not she is genuine when you have yet
to witness one of her readings. I happen to believe she is completely sincere.”
“She is sincere about fleecing you,” Wyatt argued. “How much money did she demand to entertain your guests at this party?”
“Miss Burke is a lady, and ladies do not charge wages. She does readings simply to appease people’s curiosity. Many insist that she keep the objects she reads for them, but she would never consider payment for her services.”
“So she confiscated Lady Horsham’s combs instead?” Wyatt asked. “If I know Lady Horsham, those combs are worth at least twenty pounds. Forgive my skepticism, but that sounds like a tidy profit for a few minutes’ work.”
“You misjudge her,” Lady Evelyn insisted. “The duchess of Remmington started that particular custom when Miss Burke read one of her emerald brooches. When the duchess learned that the pin came to her by way of a beheading in the French Terror, she insisted that Miss Burke keep the brooch as a gift, or donate the piece to some worthy charity.”
“I will assume that Miss Burke considers herself a worthy charity.” Wyatt fought down an almost overwhelming urge to look at the woman in green again. He could scarce reconcile the image of innocent allure in his mind with the charlatan his mother described. He had heard that those involved with the occult sometimes had a mesmerizing effect on people. Perhaps that was the reason for his mother’s sudden loss of her good senses, and the odd effect Miss Burke had on his own. “If she is from such a respectable family, why haven’t they put a stop to her exhibitionism?”
“Her parents are deceased. Other than a younger brother, she is quite alone in the world.”
He watched his mother toy with her fan, a nervous habit that he recognized immediately. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” she said, much too quickly. “Would you like to meet Miss Burke? I’m certain you will find her charming.”