An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  She sat in tense anticipation. The trees thinned. The track curved.

  Before her lay Tarna. Her throat closed and she was unable to speak. All she could do was stare in joyous disbelief.

  Amid acres and acres of fields and paddocks a graceful, white, eighteenth-century house stood half-drowning in flowering creeper. The windows were long and slim and graceful, the columned porch stark and classical. There was no ornate fussiness; no unnecessary decoration; no grotesque stone curlicues or arabesques; none of the gingerbread excessiveness that had marred the Fifth Avenue mansion. In the far distance were thickly wooded mountains; in the foreground mares and foals grazed fetlock-high in buttercups and asphodel. It was paradise. An American Ballacharmish. She was overcome by an almost unbearable sense of déjà vu, a small eight-year-old child again, gazing at her new home from Lord Clanmar’s crest-emblazoned carriage. She had been on the threshold of a new life then and she was on another, even more enthralling threshold, now.

  ‘Oh, hurry!’ she whispered beneath her bream to the cobs, impatient for her new, exciting future to begin. ‘Please hurry!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alexander sprang down from the carriage, uncaring of the pressure put upon his still weak leg. He was home and he never wanted to see Europe again.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Dawes,’ he said ebulliently to the butler who greeted them at the door.

  ‘It’s good to have you home, sir,’ Dawes said sincerely, struggling to keep his curiosity as to the identity of Alexander’s companion from showing on his face.

  ‘My wife,’ Alexander said succinctly.

  Dawes struggled even harder to remain expressionless.

  ‘Welcome to Tarna, ma’am,’ he said, inclining his head courteously.

  ‘Thank you, Dawes.’

  Despite his growing acceptance that she was not the ill-bred peasant he had first thought her, Alexander felt a pinprick of aggravation. How on earth was she to cause havoc in Schermerhorn and De Peyster dining- and drawing-rooms if she always conducted herself with such effortless composure? The answer, hopefully, was that her nationality and religion would bar her from even being invited and with that he would have to be content.

  ‘Inform Yelland that I wish to see him,’ he instructed Dawes, walking through the entrance-hall and into the inner hall beyond as swiftly as his slight limp allowed.

  Maura followed him, looking around her with relief. Though large and splendid neither the entrance-hall nor the inner hall bore any of the Gothic overtones that rendered the Fifth Avenue mansion so claustrophobic. Paintings of horses adorned the walls and sienna-and umber-coloured floor tiles incorporated the coat of arms that had adorned their carriage. Remembering that Alexander’s grandfather had been an Hungarian peasant she wondered where the coat of arms had originated from. Perhaps it was the Schermerhorn coat of arms. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat at the thought that whosoever it was, it was now also hers.

  ‘Who is Yelland?’ she asked as they approached the foot of the main staircase where twenty or so servants were primly assembled for Alexander’s inspection.

  ‘He was my grandfather’s stud manager and he’s run the place for me ever since I inherited it. He has an amazing feel for horse-flesh.’

  Maura remained silent but wasn’t surprised. Yelland was an Irish name.

  The waiting servants bobbed and curtsied as Alexander introduced her to them. Again he did so with almost insulting off-handedness. Maura curbed her irritation. At least he hadn’t added his usual rider about her being Irish, Catholic and illegitimate. Things were improving, if only slightly.

  The room she was shown to had pretty chintz curtains and an exquisitely worked patchwork quilt on the bed. The only traces of ostentatious wealth were the engraved silver doorknobs and the engraved silver wash bowl and ewer on the maple dresser. It was a room she could be comfortable in. A room that already felt as if it were hers. She crossed to one of the three large windows, looking out over paddocks and meadows and distant mountains. Alexander had told her that his grandfather had built Tarna for his own pleasure and not in order to display his newly accumulated vast wealth. The Fifth Avenue mansion had sufficed for that.

  ‘When he was at Tarna he was able to pretend he was back in Hungary,’ he had told her as they mounted the sweeping, curved staircase. ‘It was horses that mattered at Tarna, not displays of wealth.’ He had flashed her a sudden, down-slanting smile. ‘It is still horses that matter at Tarna.’

  She had entered her room with a light and singing heart. His smile had been full of friendly warmth. No matter how bizarre her marriage it was being built on solid foundations; on mutual liking and shared interests. He told her that he was now going to meet with Tarna’s manager and then inspect the new livestock.

  ‘Could I join you when you look at the foals?’ she had asked, her veins too full of surging adrenalin for her to be even slightly tired.

  A dark brow had risen in surprise. ‘You’ll need a shawl or a mantle, it will be dusk in another few minutes.’ He had looked down at the exquisitely narrow, cream-coloured Adelaide boots that Miriam had decreed she wear with her rose-pink gown. ‘And you’ll need something a little more serviceable on your feet.’

  There was a knock at the door and she turned away from the window and the magnificent view. Miriam entered, saying a trifle breathlessly, ‘Your trunks are on their way, madam. Shall I ring for hot water for a bath?’

  ‘No, thank you, Miriam. I will just wash my face and hands. I’m going to look at the foals with Mr Karolyis. Could you put me out a mantle and a plain pair of boots, please?’

  Miriam took a deep, steadying breath. First there had been the rush in New York. Now it was rush, rush again. How was she supposed to produce a mantle and boots when madam’s trunks weren’t even in the room, let alone unpacked?

  As Maura poured water from the ewer into the wash bowl, she hurried out into the corridor, exhorting the luggage-laden footmen to hurry.

  Trunk after trunk was set down in the middle of the bedroom and Miriam fished into them. A mantle was easy to find, a plain pair of boots less so.

  ‘It wouldn’t have occurred to the maid who shopped for you that you would want a pair of plain boots, madam,’ she said at last, despairingly.

  Maura slipped her arms into the light brown mantle. It was flatteringly shaped to her waist in the front, flowing prettily loose behind. ‘Then any pair of dark-coloured boots,’ she said, not wanting to ruin the cream Adelaides with horse straw and perhaps worse.

  Miriam retrieved a pair of chocolate-brown, narrowly cut boots and with the aid of a long shoe-horn Maura slipped her feet into them. Miriam speedily fastened the long row of side-buttons with a button-hook and then leaned back on her heels.

  ‘I’ll begin unpacking properly now, madam,’ she said as Maura walked swiftly towards the door.

  Maura paused just long enough to thank her and then was gone, hurrying along the wide corridor and down the stairs to where her husband was waiting for her.

  In the growing dusk and in easy camaraderie they walked from one stable block to another. Over the half-doors dark liquid eyes peered inquisitively at them.

  ‘This is Halcyon Dream,’ Alexander said, producing a carrot from his jacket pocket. ‘And the stallion in the next box is Cornwallis.’

  Black velvety lips whiffled over his outstretched hand and then sucked in the carrot. Alexander patted him on the nose. ‘Cornwallis is seventeen, he’s getting a little old, but his foals are still top rank.’

  Stable boys scurried about their tasks, keeping a deferential distance. The noise of clinking water-buckets and food scoops, and the smell of straw and horse were so familiar that Maura knew if she closed her eyes she would be able to believe herself in the Ballacharmish stables, Kieron at her side.

  ‘And this is Desert Sheik. Would you like a closer look?’

  Maura nodded, not at all intimidated at the thought of entering the box. Desert Sheik was a young colt
and he shifted restlessly as his door was opened. Alexander clipped a rope on to his headcollar, murmuring soothingly to him.

  Maura put a hand out, running it over the sleek muscles. ‘He’s wonderful,’ she said reverently. ‘Is this his first year at stud?’

  ‘Yes. Yelland says he covered forty-five mares last season …’ He stopped abruptly, suddenly remembering that he was talking to a woman and not a stable-hand. They were standing at either side of Desert Sheik and across his strong, glossy back their eyes held. Heat surged into his loins. He had wanted to make love to her ever since he had walked in on her that morning, catching her with her hair unpinned, dressed only in her undergarments and a flimsy robe. Dammit! It was his duty to make love to her. If he didn’t, their marriage could be annulled and his father would be let off the hook of social disgrace he had so carefully skewered him on. His hand, on Desert Sheik’s back, moved fractionally, his fingertips touching hers.

  The dusk was deepening rapidly and in the shadowed box, as the stallion moved fretfully, muscles rippling, the atmosphere was charged with palpable sexuality.

  Maura was as aware of it as he was. A pulse began to beat wildly in her throat. Not here. Their marriage couldn’t be consummated here. If it was, then forever after he would be able to charge her with being the peasant he first thought her.

  ‘Maura …’ His voice had thickened. His hand closed over hers, his eyes dark with heat and resolve. He had been celibate for almost a year and he had no intention of remaining celibate any longer.

  ‘No!’ She dragged her hand away, her breath ragged, her voice high and cracked.

  The expression in his eyes didn’t falter. Dropping the rope he had been holding he began to move around Desert Sheik, towards her.

  She gave a cry of protest, dashing for the open door, slamming it behind her, running out of the stables, across the stable-yard; down the pathway that led back to the house.

  No thundering footsteps followed in her wake. Within seconds she knew that she was in no danger of being caught and taken as if she were a tinker or a gypsy, but still she kept on running. She needed the sanctuary of her room; she needed to be able to compose herself before she faced him again.

  A footman opened the door to her, his eyes widening in shock as she swept breathlessly past him. Maura paid him not the slightest heed. Once in her room she would bathe and have a light supper. And then she would retire to bed.

  As she hurried swiftly up the grand staircase she wondered if her headlong dash would have destroyed their burgeoning closeness. Perhaps he would not come to her. And if he did not?

  She entered her room, unbuttoning her mantle and flinging it across the bed. No trunks remained in the room. In the wardrobe scores of gowns hung neatly, the shelves thick with shawls and hat-boxes.

  She pulled the nearest bell-rope and when Miriam entered said, almost peremptorily, ‘I would like that bath now, Miriam. And would you arrange for me to have supper in my room, please?’

  Miriam noted her heaving chest, and flushed cheeks with prurient interest. It was not a condition one would expect a wife to be in after a decorous marital stroll. She set about organizing the filling of a hip-bath, wondering if Alexander Karolyis was as equally discomposed.

  With unsteady hands Maura began to unpin her hair. The moment in the horse-box, when Alexander’s hand had imprisoned hers, had been the most arousing of her life. Her every instinct had been to move towards him; to press herself close to him. She still wanted to press herself close to him, but she wanted to do so in the right surroundings. She was a bride, and however bizarre the circumstances of her wedding, she wanted to be treated like a bride. She wanted a wedding-night as conventional as if she had been married in a Roman Catholic cathedral.

  Miriam went about the room, lighting lamps and drawing drapes. A flurry of maids entered, emptying giant jugs of hot water into the white porcelain hip-bath. When they had gone Maura bathed, ridding herself of any lingering aroma of horse and stable. Where was Alexander now? Had he remained in the stables? Was he dining alone downstairs? Was he perhaps making arrangements to travel back to New York alone?

  ‘A nightdress, please,’ she said a trifle unsteadily to Miriam.

  Miriam suppressed a knowing smirk and crossed to the generously sized bed, removing a confection of delicate white linen and lace from beneath a pillow.

  There was a light knock on the door and Maura spun her head towards it, her heart pounding. It was a maid carrying a supper-tray.

  Maura struggled to regain control of her breathing. She should have known that it wouldn’t be Alexander. Alexander would not knock with such deference. She doubted if he would knock at all. If he wanted to enter her room the door would simply fly open and there he would be.

  ‘Shall I turn your bed down for you now, madam?’ Miriam asked, circumspectly not drawing attention to the fact that it was inordinately early.

  Maura picked nervously at the cold chicken on her supper-tray. ‘Yes … it’s been a tiring day.’

  Miriam kept her eyes carefully averted. No doubt it had been a tiring day. If she was any judge it was also going to be a tiring night.

  They heard his approaching footsteps at the same instant and both of them were momentarily thrown into confusion, speaking simultaneously.

  ‘If that is all, madam …’

  ‘I don’t think I will be needing you any further this evening, Miriam …’

  The door was flung open and he stood on the threshold, his eyes moving from Maura to Miriam, to the barely touched supper-tray, the turned-down bed. He was wearing a white ruffled shirt, open at the throat, and black breeches that fitted snugly about his narrow hips.

  Miriam didn’t wait to be dismissed. With flushed cheeks she gave him a hurried bob and, as he stepped into the room, she sped out of it.

  Maura looked around in vain for a robe. Although her nightdress was high at the throat and long-sleeved, she still felt agonizingly exposed.

  He remained standing with his back to the now-closed door. ‘We made an agreement,’ he said, and something in his voice reminded her that young as he was, he was accustomed to exerting authority and to being instantly obeyed. In the lamp-lit room his eyes were bold and black and frankly appraising. ‘It still needs to be fulfilled.’

  Heat surged through Maura in a strong, hot tide. Their marriage had been an agreement before God. Since time immemorial newly wedded brides had bedded with husbands they scarcely knew. Her wedding-night was at least going to be an improvement on theirs. Her marriage had not been arranged for her. She had entered into it voluntarily. She had entered into it because she had fallen in love with him at first sight.

  Her heart felt as if it were beating lightly and rapidly somewhere up in her throat. ‘About the stables … I ran away because …’

  ‘I know why you ran.’

  He began to walk slowly towards her. She could smell his clean-starched linen, the faint tang of his cologne.

  ‘Then you understand …’ Her lips were dry, the words strangling in her throat.

  Unhurriedly he took hold of her by her wrists, drawing her towards him. He understood all that he wanted to understand. He understood that he was going to legalize a marriage that was going to disgrace him socially and, through him, his father. He was going to avenge the only woman he would ever love. And he was going to find release from ten months of agonizing celibacy.

  ‘I understand and I don’t mind,’ he said huskily, lifting her with ease into his arms. ‘A feather mattress is far more comfortable than straw.’

  Her arms slid involuntarily around his neck. She could feel his heart beating, see the blue-black sheen of his hair as it curled low in the nape of his neck.

  He walked across to the bed with her, laying her on the fragrantly scented sheets, looking down at her with an excitement fast reaching fever pitch. He had lived without sex for too long. From now on, although he would live without love, he was determined never to live without sex again.

&n
bsp; He pulled off his boots, not bothering to darken the room. He had always made love in lamp-light at Josie Woods’s and it did not occur to him not to do so now. Swiftly his shirt and breeches followed his boots on to the floor.

  Her pupils dilated, night-black. She had never seen a man naked before. She had never realized how beautiful the sight would be. Nor how it would awe her.

  The brass bedstead creaked beneath his weight. In unhurried deliberation he reached out for her, revelling in the feel of her hair as it spilled over his hands, groaning in pleasure as he drew her towards him and he felt the pressure of her lightly clad breasts against his chest.

  He kissed her slowly at first and then harder, his hands running exploringly down her body, reaching for the hem of her nightdress, pushing it up towards her knees. Towards her waist.

  Maura gasped, her arms tightening around the strong muscles of his back. Emotions and sensations she had never dreamed of flooded through her. His hands were on her naked flesh, sliding sensuously up the length of her legs, caressing her hips, moving lightly and teasingly over her tightly curled pubic hair. She was filled with a deep, urgent, delicious ache, every last vestige of modesty vanishing. She wanted him to touch her most private and secret places. She was hot and damp and she wanted to be pressed nearer to him, so near that they would cease to be two separate beings, but be one.

  His hands cupped her breasts, his right thumb circling a rosy-pink nipple. Slowly, enjoying the response he knew he was awakening in her, he lowered his head, covering her nipple with his mouth, gently sucking and then brushing the crown of her nipple with the rough, arousing surface of his tongue.

  Maura moaned, arching her back in an ecstasy of pleasure.

  Alexander raised his head, looking down at her with a feeling of triumph. She wasn’t feigning her response to him, as he had the sense to know that Josie’s girls often did. Nor was she inhibited by modesty, as Genevre had understandably been. Her passion was genuine and deep and the knowledge increased his desire beyond all bearing.