“A noble venture,” agreed his host, nodding solemnly. “And well justified.”
“And one without which Mistress Lightfoot here would scarce have been able to make so safe a journey over the sea to England,” commented Rye, his gray eyes contemplating Carolina without expression.
Carolina disdained this fine distinction between buccaneers and pirates. She was still smarting under Dolly’s barb. “I for one have never met a pirate,” she said airily. “And never choose to meet one!”
“Pray God you do not,” said Rye under his breath. His comment was covered up by the general laughter that greeted Carolina’s blithe remark. Lady Hollistead rose and led the ladies to the withdrawing room while the gentlemen were left comfortably to smoke their pipes and drink their after dinner brandy.
“Rye Evistock certainly sprang quickly to your defense,” laughed Reba, when they were back home and Carolina was undressing for bed. Reba had followed her into her bedchamber.
“Why should he not?” retorted Carolina. “For have I not flung myself quite shamelessly at his head?”
There was such a note of bitterness in her young voice that Reba looked for a moment fearful. “Carolina,” she pleaded. “My whole future hinges on your being able to keep him dangling. It’s only for a little while.”
Carolina had now donned her nightrail and was seated before her dressing table, combing out her long fair hair. “What makes you so certain that if I drop Rye he will turn to you?” she demanded challengingly.
“Why—the arrangements that he was making with Papa, of course, before you came.”
“He may have changed his tune.”
“About money?” Reba laughed. “No, I think that men are always seeking rich wives—even if they do waver now and then when a pretty face passes by!” She studied Carolina. “Maybe you should marry Rye.”
“How can you say that?” cried Carolina, throwing down her comb, “when you know I am promised to Thomas?”
“Oh, well, I realize that Thomas has money and a title—of course he’s the better catch. It’s just that Rye seems so very taken with you and—the way you look at him sometimes. ...”
Carolina gave her friend a scathing look. Rye Evistock was very attractive—sometimes almost overpoweringly so. But Thomas was her lover. She’d promised to marry him—and along with that promise went being true to him. And she intended to be true to Thomas even if for the moment she’d let herself be caught up in this charade on Reba’s behalf. She had begun to feel very ashamed of herself for her part in this whole affair but certainly Thomas didn’t deserve treachery such as Reba suggested!
She glared at her friend. Her opinion of Reba was sinking lower every day!
The next morning brought its own turmoil in the form of two letters that arrived by special coach. One was from little Clemency Dane to Reba—the other, which carried more weight, was from Clemency’s mother to Reba’s mother.
Both letters had much the same thing to report.
“Oh, it is deliciously scandalous!” burbled Clemency’s letter, which was being read avidly by Carolina and Reba at the same time. “Mistress Chesterton has been found out! It all happened like this: Binnie Chase's mother came to London for some last-minute shopping before Christmas and took it into her head to pay Mistress Chesterton a call, to ask her how Binnie could come home with a cold when she had specifically told her how delicate Binnie's health was and that she should have a bedwarmer every night. She noticed a coach outside the school but she paid no attention. She must actually have pushed past Angie, who tried to close the door in her face. Anyway she burst in on a wild game of Blind Man's Buff with Lord Ormsby and some of his friends. Lord Ormsby was in his smallclothes and Mistress Chesterton was in her chemise and it seems they came careening down the stairs and almost ran over Binnie Chase's mother. Well, the word is out now. Mistress Chase is writing to every parent who has a daughter in the school and no one will return to Mistress Chesterton's after the holidays! Isn't it smashing? I am hoping to be allowed to remain in Surrey, but Mamma may well find me another school. I am sure we may never see each other again but I thought you would like to know."
There was more but both girls paused to gaze into each other’s eyes in horror at that point. Jenny Chesterton’s dark secret, so well kept by the girls, was public knowledge now. She would no longer be able to operate the school, for all doers would be closed to her.
But for Carolina a whole new world had opened up: a world where Lord Thomas could come calling every day, a world where Mistress Chesterton would hardly refuse to let her go away with him if she chose, a world in which she could be married whether her parents back in Virginia sent their blessing or not—for it would take time for a letter to cross the ocean.
“I will be going back to the school,” she told Reba firmly.
“If Mamma will let you,” murmured Reba. “I don’t doubt she’ll insist you linger on as our guest until your parents can be heard from. And oh, Carol, won’t you do it? You’ll be able to keep Rye Evistock at bay for me! Oh, please do!”
Carolina gave her friend a strange look. She would be able to keep Rye Evistock at bay for Reba, no doubt. But would she be able to keep him at bay from herself?
“I don’t know,” she said in an uneven voice. “I don’t know how long I can go on like this.”
It galled Reba to have to be constantly begging Carolina to keep up her flirtation with Rye, and there was a light edge of malice in her voice when she told her the next afternoon about the gossip she’d heard from one of the young bucks who now wore a path down Broadleigh’s smooth drive to see Carolina.
“There’s a story going around about you and Rye,” she told Carolina. “That you spent the night together at an inn somewhere. That Rye himself said so! I suppose that partially explains your enormous popularity!” She gave Carolina a bland look. “Are you sure you told me all that happened that night at the inn when he locked you in?”
Carolina flushed to her ears. The young fellow in buff, whose name, she now recalled, was Farnham, must not have been impressed by Rye’s protestations that he had only just met Carolina that night at Williston House! “Of course I’m sure!” she snapped. She was tempted to add, I'm not like you, falling into bed on first acquaintance! But she thought better of it. Reba, for all that she had lain in the hedge “experimenting” with a footman, really seemed to be in love with the marquess. In her fashion, of course.
But when she told Rye the story, his lean face hardened.
They were strolling alone together across the snowy lawns of Broadleigh, their boots crunching companionably over the crust. The air was crystal clear and the sunlight sparkled on the snow, making all of Essex seem a white wonderland.
“It seems I must have a word with Farnham,” Rye said softly.
Spoken like Sandy Randolph! she thought ruefully. For he too was given to quick denouements. She hoped Rye’s “word” with Farnham would not lead to bloodshed!
She suddenly imagined Rye in Yorktown, calling on her at Aunt Pet’s. He seemed to fit very well there in her mind.
“Do you like to ride?” she asked, for it was horsey country, there along the James.
“Hell for leather,” was his calm rejoinder.
“No, I mean—do you ride for pleasure? Race for pleasure?”
His dark face split into a wide grin. “I seldom have the time for either. But I will race you to the gates now—my horse against any nag you may find in the stables! And the loser pays a forfeit.”
“I have no riding habit here,” she protested.
He gave her a wistful smile. “One can ride in anything. Perhaps you fear the forfeit?”
His tone taunted her with its clear assumption that he would best her. Letitia Lightfoot would never have let such a remark stand unchallenged—nor would her daughter!
“You’re on!” cried Carolina, giving her silver-gold curls such a reckless toss that the hood of Reba’s cloak tumbled down upon her shoulders. Chuckling,
Rye followed her to the stables where she selected a bay the groom promised her was “a fast mare.”
The driveway of Broadleigh was icy, the going was dangerous, but Carolina, who—like most Virginia-born aristocrats—had ridden almost from babyhood, set a fast pace down the tree-lined avenue. Rye’s big horse was the faster but somewhat tired from his ride over and Rye eased down and let Carolina dash on ahead of him down the long drive. He smiled to watch her slender back, arrow straight in the saddle—indeed he wanted her to win; there would be no joy in besting her.
She was laughing as she looked back at him with her pale hair flying in the wind, for they were nearing the gates now—and she was ahead. But suddenly he saw what she did not—a high-sided farm cart just lumbering onto the drive from behind a wall of snowy foliage with a load of firewood for the hall. If she did not rein up, she would collide with it!
“Carolina!” he cried, urging his mount ahead. “Look out!”
At his warning, Carolina’s head swung back to see the big farm cart appear from nowhere just ahead of her. She tried to swerve her unfamiliar mount—and the mare slipped. Rye, who had thundered up and had just cut around her at a breakneck pace, reached out and swept her from the saddle even as the mare went down into the snow, sliding past the farm cart on the underlying ice and almost gliding through the gates. With the strong hand of the expert horseman, he brought his horse to a skidding halt. It had all happened so fast, his swift move to save her had been so instinctive, she could not believe she was pressed against him, legs dangling, while her slim waist was caught securely in the grip of one strong arm—when she should have been plunged headfirst into the snow!
Ahead of them the mare, who had been frightened by her narrow escape with disaster, scrambled to her feet, shook herself off and stood with her sleek bay flanks trembling, giving all and sundry a baleful look.
The driver of the farm cart, rolling his eyes, clucked at his big plough horses and passed by, muttering.
But Carolina, her heart pounding, found herself suddenly swept up and seated sideways, her skirts all tumbled, on the saddle before Rye. He was looking down at her with grim intensity for in his mind he had seen her fall off, seen her lying in the snow—still and hurt.
“I think perhaps I should not propose such dangerous games,” he said ruefully.
But this was the most dangerous game of all, this close proximity to his strong masculine body, to this warmth of his that seemed to radiate right through her. She knew she should leap off but she could not seem to move. She sat staring up into his dark intent face with her eyes large and luminous, pinned like a collector’s butterfly.
“I believe I have won,” he murmured. “Shall I name your forfeit?”
She glanced toward her mare, standing trembling in the center of the gates. “Indeed that could be disputed,” she said with an attempt at a laugh that caught nervously in her throat. “For my mount has finished the course even though her rider was swept off—and you have not!”
“I agree, you are the winner,” he said instantly. “Name your forfeit, Carolina. Have of me what you will!”
The intensity of his gaze, the strong winning timbre of his voice were almost overwhelming. And suddenly she wanted never to forget these days with him in Essex, she wanted to remember them always—just as she would always remember the dark intense man in the curve of whose strong arm she now rested.
“I—will have a lock of your hair as a forfeit,” she heard herself say on the ghost of a sigh. “To remember you by.”
She was vaguely shocked at herself for having said it. But then this was a magical moment—and at such moments foolish words are often spoken. Her face flamed as she realized how her request must have sounded, but there was satisfaction in the dark visage so close to her own. Satisfaction—and desire.
“And you shall have it,” he said, his lips almost brushing her cheek as he spoke. “In a locket.”
But the word “locket” went unheard by her, for his mouth was already pressing against the velvet of her cheek, moving downward toward her soft half-opened lips. Somewhere in the distance through the trees, sleighbells tinkled and the wind moaned a melody through the snowy branches. Involuntarily her arms crept round his neck and for long pulsing moments she was his—the world forgot.
A sigh soft as a fall of snow from the heavy-laden branches escaped her lips as he let her go. For those brief treacherous moments when she had clung to him, tasted his lips, felt his warmth, wanted to stay—for those long heartbeats she had been his and they both knew it. Swept away. Gone.
But that had been some other Carolina—not the wary breathless wench who now leant back upon the horse’s neck to put at least a little distance between herself and her fiery lover. “I think—we had best go back, Rye,” she said unevenly. “Before we do something we will both regret.”
His smile was tender, his voice a caress. “I would never regret anything you gave me, Carolina.”
But she could not give him herself—and that was what he wanted. It was written plain in his eyes.
“I”—she was struggling free of him even as she spoke—“I think my mare is too nervous to be ridden just now. And your horse is too tired to carry us both back to the house.”
He made no move to release her. He was smiling but his dark brows had shot up. “Faith, he’ll have to carry me all the way back to Williston House! And you think he cannot make the driveway now?”
She was red with embarrassment at how ridiculous she must have sounded. “I mean we should not tire the poor beast further,” she explained as loftily as she could. “Oh, do let me dismount, Rye—we can walk back.”
Responding to the appeal in her voice, he slid down from his mount, reached up and lifted her off. Holding her only a moment too long, he let her slide caressingly down his body to stand upon her own two feet. Once on the solid ground again, Carolina took a couple of wary steps away from him. Any contact with his lean masculine body was dangerous with her heart in this precarious condition! He took the reins of both mounts and with courtly formality offered her his arm.
There was nothing for it but to take that proffered arm and to feel the pressure of that arm through her velvet cloak sighing against her breast like a whispered word of love, causing a tumult within her that he could not know of.
What am I thinking of? she asked herself wildly, as she forced her reluctant feet to accompany him back down the snowy driveway. For her feet—like the rest of her—wanted to stay and never leave him, wanted to go racing through the gates and ride away with him forever!
Now he shortened his stride to match hers as his boots crunched along beside her. Somewhere nearby a little screech owl loosed a plaintive call ... to its mate, perhaps, hidden somewhere in the branches of those old, old trees.
They were silent as they walked along together, man and maid, caught up by the magic of a magical country. This was Essex, she told herself dreamily. And Essex was far from London—just as her heart at this moment was far from London.
She was being swept along as if by a fast coach—and she did not know where the coach was bound.
Reba met them, bright-eyed, at the door. She watched Rye toss the reins of Carolina’s horse to a groom who came running. “You have been riding then?” she asked, fascinated. “Wherever to?”
“A short ride to nowhere,” Rye smiled at her. “I challenged Mistress Carolina to race me to the gates— and she won and claimed her forfeit. A locket. And now I must be taking my leave. Ladies.” He swept them both a low bow.
Carolina, startled, gasped. “I said nothing about a locket, Rye. I said—”
“A locket,” he corrected her. “A forfeit is a forfeit and must be paid. I will bring it with me tomorrow. Meantime,” he added, “I will have a word with Farnham.”
He mounted up and departed.
Carolina felt depressed as she watched his tall erect form disappear around a curve of the drive. Once more she felt the weight of her deception.
&nb
sp; “Well!” Reba’s knowing smile played over her. “What did you really ask for as a forfeit? A diamond necklace?” She laughed.
That laugh stung Carolina. A diamond necklace was just the sort of thing Reba might demand as a forfeit, if she thought she could get away with it. “Of course not!” she cried, outraged. “I only asked for a lock of his hair!” She stopped and bit her lip at the admission.
Reba’s russet eyes widened and she burst into wild laughter. “You’re falling in love with him, Carol!” she gasped.
“Don’t be silly, of course I’m not!” Carolina ran past her and up the stairs, as if by her flying feet she would outdistance this wild craving of the heart that Rye excited, this yearning to be someone else, someone who was free to love him.
The locket, when he brought it round the next day, was a great disappointment to Reba—and it was presented in no clandestine manner. Indeed it was before Reba herself in the long drawing room of Broadleigh that Rye clasped the dainty gold chain with the plain little locket around Carolina’s slender neck. Carolina gave him a grateful look for it was the kind of gift that a young lady of quality might accept as payment of a forfeit without feeling the world would scorn her as an adventuress. He was so very thoughtful of her, she realized with a pang. Thoughtful as Lord Thomas, always hot in pursuit of his own pleasures, had never been. . . . And swiftly she caught herself up short, for this was dangerous ground she trod upon.
“Did you have a word with Farnham?” she asked. “Oh, yes.” He shrugged. “You may consider the matter forgot.”
Later in the week she learned that his “word” with Farnham had ended up in a duel, that the young buck in buff had—in terror at realizing how easily he was being overpowered—suddenly turned and fled, and Rye had nicked him painfully in the buttock with the tip of his blade so that he could not now sit down without discomfort.
Reba told her about it, convulsed with laughter. “Of course it is bad enough that Farnham turned out to be such a coward—but to bear such a wound!” She went off into peals of mirth.
Lovesong Page 25