A Country Cotillion

by Sandra Heath

  * * * *

  The roast pork dinner proved to be everything the boastful landlord had said it would be, and he had even managed to find a bottle of very good French wine to accompany it. Isobel continued to be charming company, and once again Elizabeth found her thoughts wandering, with the result that she hardly entered into the conversation. She did not notice Alexander’s glances beginning to become a little irritated, nor did she observe Isobel’s barely concealed delight with the way things were going. It wasn’t until almost the end of the meal that Alexander suddenly said something that brought her back sharply to the present, and her own shortcomings.

  “Would you prefer to retire now, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth looked at him in astonishment. “I…I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked you if you would rather retire now.” His tone was clipped.

  “Why are you being so—?”

  “Because I have just addressed you three times to no avail.”

  Her lips parted, and she glanced away for a moment before putting her napkin on the table and getting up. “You are right to chastise me. I fear I am not myself tonight, so perhaps it would be best if I did retire.” She inclined her head, and left the room.

  Alexander quickly followed, and caught her arm in the passage outside. “Elizabeth, forgive me, I beg of you.”

  “What is there to forgive, sir? I have been behaving abominably, and you have pointed out the fact in no uncertain terms. I will now do as you suggest, and take myself off to my room.”

  “Please forgive me, for I know I should not have spoken as I did.” He took both her arms, and looked anxiously into her eyes. “Come back inside, and let us forget that I sinned.”

  “I don’t think that that would be a good idea now, Alexander. I will retire now, and leave you and Isobel to finish dinner.”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  She managed a smile. “There is not a great deal to forgive, Alexander, for I know that I haven’t been very forthcoming of late. It will pass, I promise.”

  He pulled her a little closer. “I love you very much,” he said softly, bending his head to kiss her on the lips.

  She closed her eyes, wanting to feel so much, but even now there was nothing. Tears stung her eyes suddenly, and she pulled back. “I…I will go now. Good night.”

  “Good night.” He watched her as she hurried away along the passage, and then he lowered his glance sadly for a moment before returning to the private room, where Isobel was waiting with secret glee, for things could not have gone better for her had she engineered it.

  He resumed his seat, giving her a rueful and contrite smile. “I must now ask you to forgive me as well, Lady Isobel.”

  “Oh, please let us stop being so formal, after all we are almost family, are we not?” She returned the smile. “Please call me Isobel, and I will call you Alexander.”

  “I do not deserve your kindness, Isobel.”

  “If I am perfectly honest with you, Alexander, it is Elizabeth who does not deserve any kindness. You were correct to speak sternly to her, for she has hardly said a word all day, and tonight she has been positively sullen.”

  “Oh, not sullen, surely?”

  “I know it isn’t my place to say anything…”

  “Yes?”

  “I think Elizabeth has been thinking a great deal about James.”

  “Oh?” He picked up his glass of wine, swirling the liquid thoughtfully.

  “I know that when they first married they were very much in love, and perhaps now, with the betrothal and wedding arrangements approaching, she just cannot help recalling other times.”

  “With the result that she will also have to concede that I am not at all like James French, either when he was a saint or a sinner.”

  Isobel lowered her lovely eyes eloquently.

  Alexander drained his glass, and then sat back with a heavy sigh.

  She looked quickly at him again, much affected by the shadow in his eyes, and it was all she could do not to reach out to him there and then. But the time was not yet right. The seed of doubt over Elizabeth had begun to take root, but it still had to flourish properly… She smiled at him. “Perhaps we should retire now, Alexander, for it has been a long day, and we have another such day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  He returned the smile. “Whatever you wish, Isobel,” he murmured, getting up once more and coming around the table to draw out her chair for her.

  As she stood, she paused prettily, before stretching up to kiss him briefly on the cheek. “Thank you for being so very kind to me, Alexander. I know that my presence is probably making things awkward for you and Elizabeth, given that all is not entirely well between you, but I want you to know that I believe you are entirely the injured party. I am very sorry indeed to see you brought so low, especially when your thoughtfulness has helped me to cope with my anxiety over my father’s illness.”

  “Your presence hasn’t made anything awkward, Isobel, indeed it has probably been beneficial.”

  “It has?”

  “Yes.”

  Her green eyes were lustrous and wide. “If you were mine, Alexander, I would see to it that I never caused you a moment’s doubt or unhappiness.”

  He met her gaze for a long moment, and then cleared his throat slightly, going to the door to open it for her.

  The faintest of satisfied smiles played upon her lips as she went out past him.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth dreamed that night. She was in Madras again, lying naked on her muslin-hung bed waiting for James to come to her. Scented candles lit the room, and exotic blooms nodded against the velvety night sky beyond the windows. She was happy, for James had not yet deceived or hurt her, but was still the loving husband who had won her heart so completely.

  The night breeze wafted softly through the silent house, and she heard a light step. She turned her head toward the veranda, and he was there, his hair the brightest of gold in the glow from a lantern. He wore a long silk robe that was tied loosely at the waist, and he smiled as he came toward her. The robe slid softly to the floor, and she gazed at his body, so lean, bronzed, and beautiful, but as she reached up to him, his face changed, and it was no longer James French who came to her, but instead was the stranger who had so recently and enigmatically entered her life.

  His skin was warm and firm, and his lips teased and aroused as he kissed her. He drew her body against his, holding her so close that she could feel his heart beating. Wild emotions flared into life, and the blood coursed richly through her veins as she responded eagerly to his touch. She was carried away by desire, as if her flesh was melting into his, and the consummation of passion was all that mattered. She clung to him, loving him with a ferocity that threatened to overcome her. She wanted to cry out his name, but she did not know what name to say. Her lips moved, confusion washed frustratingly over her, and she awoke with a gasp, staring up at the canopy overhead.

  A single candle had been left burning on the mantelpiece, and its gentle light moved over the room, keeping the darkest shadows away. The dream was still all around her, and her heart was pounding so much that she could not count its beats. She felt as if her lover had only just left. Her lover. It had not been James with whom she had shared her passionate fantasy, it had been a man she hardly knew, but who had tormented her thoughts from the moment she had first seen him.

  Hot color flooded into her cheeks, and she turned to bury her face in the pillows. Feelings she had failed to recognize when awake had become only too recognizable in her dreams. Her heart was betraying her, and it was betraying Alexander as well. She was foolishly close to falling in love with a man with whom she was barely acquainted, and who she would probably never see again.

  Chapter 8

  She had recovered a little by the time she rose from her bed the following morning. The dream remained uncomfortably real, and she had had to face a disturbing fact about her innermost feelings, but outwardly she appeared herself again.

  The i
ntense cold had not relented overnight, and now the sun and blue skies had been replaced by a freezing fog that obscured low yellow-gray clouds. Although it hardly seemed possible, the temperature dropped still more, and by dawn a layer of ice had formed on the inside of the inn windows. The fog trapped the air, so that the smoke of Huntingdon’s many chimneys did not escape and could be inhaled with every breath. In the yard the lamps of the stagecoaches were muted by the vapor, and were soon lost as the vehicles drove out into the almost deserted street.

  Passengers arriving at the inn complained miserably about the rigors of traveling in such weather, and those who were about to depart did so with great trepidation, especially those unfortunate enough to have only secured outside places.

  There wasn’t a guest in the dining room who did not eat a large breakfast. New arrivals were made ravenous by the cold, and those soon to set off were determined not to suffer through lack of proper sustenance. No one opted for the customary cold breakfast dishes—ham, boiled beef, or pigeon pie—but there was a great demand for eggs, bacon, beefsteaks, kidneys, hot toast, and muffins, to say nothing of coffee, tea, and various more alcoholic beverages. A constant stream of waiters carried fully laden trays from the kitchens, and then spirited away the dirty crockery afterward. At the sound of the ticket-office bell in the yard, reluctant passengers left the warmth of the inn and prepared to endure their journeys as best they could.

  As a nearby church clock struck nine, the two traveling carriages set off once more, driving slowly north through the fog toward Alconbury Hill, and a steady climb up out of the fenlands. A wonderful view was usually visible from the top, but although the ascent took them out of the fog, a thick blanket of white obscured everything below.

  They passed through the village of Stilton, famous for its cheeses, and at midday they crossed the River Nene at Wansford, and took refreshment at the Haycock Inn. The fog had lifted a little by now, and it was possible to make fair progress, but it seemed unlikely that they would reach Grantham before nightfall, and instead would have to travel at least an hour in the dark.

  For Elizabeth the day was an ordeal; with so much on her mind she found it difficult to be as light-hearted and talkative as Alexander wished. She was in no mood to act as frivolous and carefree as Isobel, and now that she had been forced to face her secret emotions, she found it even more difficult to be warm and affectionate toward Alexander. She was in a quandary, unable to understand the unreasonable emotions that had been aroused within her, and she strove with all her might not only to quell them, but to banish them altogether. It was absolute madness to be drawn so strongly to a man she did not ever expect to meet again, and if she gave in to a fancy that could only be passing, she would then be forfeiting a chance of happiness with Alexander. Before she had commenced all this foolishness, they had been happy and content together. The blame lay with her, and so it was up to her to put it all right again. She would shut out all thoughts of James, and she would certainly endeavor to extinguish her misguided attraction toward a man whose name she did not even know.

  Struggling with all these secret problems, she inevitably fell back into a reserve that to Alexander seemed exactly the same as the one of the day before, and of other recent days as well. His glance grew darker as the day went on, and he turned more and more of his attention toward Isobel, who was as captivating and fascinating as she could manage.

  It was while they were taking a light meal at the Haycock Inn that Elizabeth realized she had once again been guilty of withdrawing from conversation. Remembering Alexander’s justifiable reaction of the evening before, she knew she owed him an apology. As they were leaving the warmth of the inn to return to the waiting carriages, she touched his arm a little hesitantly.

  “Alexander? May I have a word with you, please?”

  He paused, and Isobel reluctantly walked on toward the carriages. She would much have preferred to linger and hear what was said, but could hardly do so without appearing obvious.

  He turned to face Elizabeth. “A word with me? That will indeed be a novelty.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I know that I’ve been too quiet again, but I don’t mean to—”

  “Then what exactly do you mean, Elizabeth?” he interrupted quietly. “It’s James, isn’t it?” he asked then, searching her face.

  Guilty color reddened her cheeks. “No,” she whispered.

  “Don’t lie to me, Elizabeth, for it’s written too large. I know that you were once very happy with him, and that what we have now is not the same, but I cannot compete with a ghost. If you wish to withdraw from the match—”

  “No! No, of course I don’t.”

  “Nor do I, but then neither do I wish to continue when you appear so halfhearted about it. I don’t understand you anymore, Elizabeth, and I certainly feel shutout.”

  Her eyes stung with tears. “I’m sorry, Alexander, for the last thing I would ever wish would be to hurt you in any way. Please let us start again, and I promise to behave as I should from now on.”

  He nodded slightly. “Very well.”

  She smiled and reached up to kiss him on the cheek, but even as she did so she knew the damage had not been fully repaired. He now doubted her commitment, and she had given a promise that she was no longer certain she could honor.

  Isobel had watched carefully from her seat in the carriage; her heart had tightened with alarm when she saw Elizabeth kiss him, but as they approached her she saw that all was still not entirely well. There was a troubled look in his eyes, and Elizabeth seemed, well, almost guilty.

  They drove on through the afternoon, and as expected they still had some way to go when darkness fell. With it came the fog, obscuring the road ahead, and forcing the coachmen to drive at little more than a walk. They passed through Colsterworth, where the road to Lincoln diverged, and where, if it had not been for Isobel, they would have left the main highway to strike out for Norrington Court.

  The carriage lamps barely pierced the gloom, and it was so cold that they felt the chill right through to their bones. The comfort of the Grantham inn seemed very far away indeed as they huddled in their seats, Isobel by now was forced to concede that in her efforts to look elegant and a la mode, she had sadly neglected comfort and common sense. Alexander insisted that she put his greatcoat around her shoulders, and Elizabeth informed her that the following day she was to be much more sensible. Too cold to argue, Isobel had meekly promised to obey.

  It was not long after that, when they were still several miles short of Grantham, that Elizabeth heard hooves approaching swiftly from behind. At first she thought it was just the second carriage endeavoring to keep them in sight, but then she realized that the sound was of a much lighter vehicle, a phaeton or a gig perhaps. She turned to breathe on the window glass, which was now quite frosted over with the cold, and as she wiped a small area to look out, she saw two new carriage lamps quickly approaching them.

  The drum of hooves grew steadily louder as the third vehicle drove smartly past. It was a bright-red curricle with a raised black leather hood, and it was drawn by two high-stepping dapple grays. A gentleman was driving, tooling the team along with consummate ease. She couldn’t see his face, and could only make out that he was about Alexander’s age, and dressed very well. He didn’t glance toward either carriage as he passed, and soon he vanished in the fog ahead of them, the sound of his vehicle dwindling away into the gloom and darkness.

  He had long gone when the carriages at last drove into Grantham, making their way down the High Street to their inn, also called the George. As they halted in the yard, they were one-hundred-and-ten miles from London, and still had fifty miles to travel before they reached Southwell Park at the end of the next day. There was such a crush of vehicles seeking refuge from the cold night that their arrival went unnoticed by the landlord, who, like his counterpart in Huntingdon, would have personally welcomed anyone traveling in such fine carriages.

  Alexander alighted quickly and assisted Elizabeth d
own first. She paused to raise the veil on her hat, but he chided her quickly. “Go straight inside, for it’s far too cold to linger out here.”

  She did as she was bade, and did not glance around the yard before entering the welcome warmth of the inn. She didn’t see the bright-red curricle that had passed them on the road shortly before. It was drawn up at the other side of the yard, and was about to depart with a fresh team between the shafts. The gentleman driving it lowered the reins as he saw her, and then his gaze went swiftly toward Alexander, who was now assisting Isobel out of the carriage.

  Isobel seized the opportunity that suddenly presented itself, and pretending to stumble a little she reached out to link her arms quickly around Alexander’s neck. With a little cry, she clung to him for a moment, savoring the more than agreeable sensation of being so close to him. His arms went immediately to steady her, and then she looked up ruefully into his eyes.

  “How clumsy I am,” she murmured.

  “I have you safe now,” he replied, releasing her only very slowly.

  A warm flush passed over her, and with his greatcoat still around her shoulders she followed Elizabeth into the inn.

  The gentleman in the curricle alighted, turning to give the reins to a groom before walking across the yard toward Alexander. “Sir Alexander Norrington, I believe?” he said, his voice very clear in a lull in the general noise of the yard.

  Alexander whirled about, staring at him in surprise. His jaw dropped. “Marcus? Marcus Sheridan?”