“Do you play?”
“Not as well as Chloe or Juliet, but well enough. Shall I serenade you while you eat?”
They couldn’t talk then, but she didn’t care. Music might distract her enough that she wouldn’t walk into the dinner of strangers ready to run and scream.
He played something gentle and quiet and full of trilling notes. He got a few wrong, grimaced when he did so, but didn’t stop. Finished eating, Deirdre wandered around the room, finding a harpsichord and a harp beneath brown linen cloths and a violin in a leather case.
“Do you play any of these?” She plucked a string on the violin and started at its tuneful response.
“My great-aunt played the violin, though it’s not a lady’s instrument, and Chloe is trying to learn it. Mama taught us all the pianoforte and harpsichord, and Juliet is rather accomplished on the harp. Tyne couldn’t so much as sing a right note to save his life.” Satisfaction rang in his tone. “Are you musical? I never heard any music on the Maid.”
“My father couldn’t tell one note from another, and singing irritated him because of it, so I didn’t grow up with music aboard. I like it, though.”
“I could teach you.”
She gazed at him in wonder, but before she could ask if he was serious in his offer, Rochester knocked on the door and announced that the time had arrived to dress for dinner.
Deirdre looked down at the pretty lavender silk gown she was wearing. “I have nothing nicer.”
“Mama will have found something by now.” Kieran rose from the piano stool and offered her his arm. “I shall show you how to get from here to the front hall and from there to your room. If you can get to the front hall, you will always find a footman, if one eludes you elsewhere.”
They traversed corridors and climbed steps to more hallways. When Deirdre saw her bed, she just wanted to fall upon it and rest. But a blue velvet gown lay atop the coverlet, and Sally stood by the dressing table. With a promise he would return for her, Kieran retreated.
If this was her life, Deirdre thought two hours later, she was going to die of boredom. Life at sea had its stultifying moments, but one always needed to trim a sail or prepare the next meal—something. She needed to do nothing. Doors were opened for her, chairs pulled out, and dishes set before her. She was supposed to only take a spoonful from each of the dishes presented to her, all the while listening to Juliet’s lively but shallow chatter on one side, or risk conversation with Lord Tyne on the other. When he asked her about the Maid’s speed, Deirdre was happy to talk with him about the raked masts and how, yes, they reached China in ten weeks. To Juliet’s undisguised disgust, Deirdre and Tyne talked sailing until Lady Tyne rose and indicated the ladies should follow her into the drawing room. The governess looked through fashion magazines with Chloe and Juliet, Lady Tyne read from a book of William Blake’s poetry, and Deirdre fell asleep in her chair before the fire.
A forefinger caressing her cheek woke her. She opened her eyes to see Kieran standing beside her chair, but not really looking at her.
“I will take her up, of course, sir.” He addressed his father, then turned to Deirdre. “Let us get you some rest.”
Though he offered his hand to help her rise, not that she needed it, he released it as soon as she stood. She bade goodnight to the Ashfords and their entourage of lackeys, then followed Kieran to the door a footman held open.
“Miss Pruitt, perhaps you can teach her how to curtsy.” Juliet’s sweet, clear voice rang out through a portal not closed quickly enough behind them.
Deirdre shot Kieran a panicked glance, but he shook his head, took a proffered taper from another footman, and led the way up the steps. Once she was certain they were alone, she touched his arm. “Should I have curtsied there?”
“It is not necessary en famille, but you will have to learn before we have guests.”
“I did learn once. I just forget where I’m supposed to put my feet.”
“You will learn.” He sighed. “A whole lot of things.”
Deirdre stumbled over the edge of a hall runner and slapped her flattened hand against the wall.
“Am I an embarrassment to you? Do you want to lock me up so I don’t humiliate you in front of your neighbors? Or maybe you’ve already done enough of that for yourself with all the indiscretions you haven’t told me about. What kind of a father is this baby going to have?”
“One he or she can be proud of.” His voice husky, Kieran drew her against him. “You are not an embarrassment to me. I even think Tyne likes you. And anyone who can learn what all those lines, hawsers, and cables on a ship are and where they go is capable of learning how to curtsy and all those other social affectations.”
Her body ached to melt against his warmth. Her stupid head longed to accept his compliment and leave matters be, but she understood his affection and flattery for what they were—distractions. He was good at distracting her with caresses and kisses and sweet words. So good she might not be able to free her crew until after she delivered her baby.
She pressed her palms against his shoulders. “You’re not going to talk about your past, the reasons why your father was quick to believe the tale Joanna’s brother put about.”
“I find the subject embarrassing.” He clasped her elbow and started forward. “And it makes me sound either vain or a weakling for blaming the ladies involved, but . . .” He sighed. “Some females whose birth entitles them to be considered ladies will go to great lengths, even ones that compromise their reputations, in an effort to entrap one of England’s most eligible bachelors.”
Deirdre rolled her eyes. “And you didn’t always resist temptation.”
“To my shame, I did not.” Color high, he faced her, his eyes blazing in the light from a wall sconce. “But I never debauched an innocent lady, and offered for Joanna to show I had changed my ways.”
“Which proved to be an error.” Heaviness settled inside Deirdre’s chest. “Just like marrying me to prove your turned leaf turned out to be a mistake.”
“It should not have been.” An ache rasped through Kieran’s voice.
They reached her room. A fire burned in the grate, a nightgown lay across the bed, and the coverlet had been turned down.
“There is no bell in this room. I will bid you goodnight and go send your maid up.” Kieran stood in the open doorway making the offer without attempting to depart.
Deirdre thought of how her presence in the Ashford household, as Kieran’s wife, was a mistake, and opened her mouth to wish him away from her, then she thought about a night alone in a strange house, a strange bed, and turned her back to him. “Or you can provide the service for me.”
“I thought you would never ask.” The door closed. The key grated in the lock.
Deirdre woke up alone in the big bed. Kieran had been gone so long his pillow no longer held his warmth, only his scent. She wrapped her arms around it and buried her face in the soft linen.
She was such a fool to succumb to passion. So weak to hunger for intimacy with the enemy just to avoid being alone. Now that marrying her had only confirmed his father’s belief in the irresponsible behavior of his heir, the only good she was to Kieran was to satisfy his physical needs. She managed that just fine now, quite happily, but, unless they were all wrong about her condition, if the signs were misleading, he would not find her attractive in a few months when she grew big-bellied and unwieldy.
The door opened. Soft footfalls whispered across the rug. China clinked and water splashed. Then the aroma of hot chocolate drifted to Deirdre’s nose.
She sat up, glad she had pulled her nightgown back on sometime during the night, and gazed at the tray Sally held. “Chocolate?”
“Yes, m’lady. All the Ashford ladies have a pot of hot chocolate to start their day, along with some bread and butter.”
“I approve.” Deirdre leaned forward so Sally could slip several pillows behind her, then rested against them to receive a tray across her lap.
A china p
ot glazed in deep blue and gold issued steam from its spout. A matching cup waited to receive the hot chocolate, and a small plate had been piled high with slices of fresh bread and creamy butter. At one corner, a tiny pink rose had been pinned to a folded slip of paper.
“Roses this late in the autumn?” Deirdre lifted it to her nose.
“It won’t have much smell.” Sally poured the dark brown liquid into the cup. “It’s from the hothouse. But his lordship wanted you to have it with his note.”
His note.
Deirdre sipped her chocolate, waiting for Sally to stop hovering before she opened the message from Kieran. At last, murmuring something about fetching a gown for Deirdre, Sally departed.
Deirdre opened the note.
My Dear Lady,
I have had to depart for Plymouth for business having to do with the cargo. Mama and the girls will bring you in later for some shopping. See you at dinner.
K
Other than the “My Dear,” the note was cool, impersonal, signaling how they would go on when not completely alone.
She should be glad of that. With only physical attraction between them, remembering that she was loyal to her crew remained easy.
Wishing she didn’t feel like giving into the too-easy tears, Deirdre drank her chocolate. Like everything else in the Ashford household, this was perfection—sweet, but not too sweet; hot, but not too hot; creamy, but not too creamy. The bread and butter were the same, but she had no appetite. She nibbled a slice then set the tray aside and slid from bed. She wanted to wash before Sally returned. She wasn’t about to live her life under that sort of public scrutiny.
By the time Sally returned with yet one more altered gown, Deirdre wore her stockings, pantalets, and shift. Sally had also brought stays, but Deirdre refused to put them on. “Wearing a dress is enough torture without that contraption inhibiting my movements.”
“But, m’lady, you must. If anyone should discover you weren’t wearing them, they would be scandalized.” Sally looked so distressed Deirdre nearly gave in.
Not nearly enough.
She crossed her arms over her chest and took up a spread-legged stance. “I either wear the dress without stays, or I stay in this room.”
“But it’s expected.” Sally’s big brown eyes grew bright with tears.
Deirdre picked up her dressing gown and took a seat before the fire.
“The carriage leaves for Plymouth in half an hour.” Sally had apparently decided on a different tack.
“And I won’t be in it.” Deirdre picked up a book bound in blue leather to match the room.
More poetry, this by John Donne.
And we together prove . . .
The only thing she and Kieran would prove was the utter rightness of the proverb about marrying in haste and repenting for a lifetime.
Her own eyes flooded.
The door opened. “Deirdre, what’s the delay? Does the dress not fit right?” Lady Tyne breezed into the room on a cloud of sweet scent and filmy fabric.
“I’m ever so sorry, m’lady.” Sally leaped into the breach first. “I can’t get her ladyship to wear her stays.”
“Then she won’t wear them.” Lady Tyne studied Deirdre from beneath her long golden lashes. “Of course, if she doesn’t, we will look stingy in the dressmaker’s shops like we couldn’t provide her the most basic needs for decency.”
“Then I won’t go,” said Deirdre.
“And let everyone in Plymouth, everyone in Devonshire, think we are ashamed of you?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not yet, but your inability to follow convention and wear stays may lead in that direction—”
“Oh, all right.” Deirdre slammed the book of love poems onto the table and rose. “You Ashfords are all masters at manipulation.”
“For your own good, my dear.” Lady Tyne patted her arm.
“Kieran said something like that when he married me, and that isn’t such a good idea in the execution, is it?”
“Is it not?” Her ladyship smiled. “We leave in twenty minutes.” She sailed out of the room.
Deirdre submitted to the torture of having whalebone bands marched around her rib cage to hold in her nonexistent excess flesh. Then further torment occurred with the styling of her hair, but at last, Sally declared Deirdre ready to face the world.
Within the hour, she thought she should have stayed home and let the world think what it would. Juliet talked of nothing but what colors and fabrics would suit Deirdre, how sadly dark was her complexion, how surprisingly dainty her feet. Deirdre wished the family was ashamed of her and didn’t want to dress her fit for company.
And if the carriage ride was torturous, the fittings were worse. The dressmaker made disparaging remarks about Deirdre’s complexion, but cooed over Deirdre’s hair. Deirdre might have ordered two gowns. Her ladyship ordered ten.
“That will get you started until we can send to London for something better.”
Deirdre’s head spun, but not, as she wished, fast enough for her to faint and get out of the rest of the excursion. The rest entailed hats, gloves, slippers, and walking boots ordered, silk and lisle stockings, and hair ribbons.
“I have lots of those.” Deirdre looked at the display and such a yawning need to be back at sea opened inside her, she walked from the shop for fresh air.
And saw the prisoners.
Ragged, filthy, some barefoot despite the cold, three dozen men or more shuffled along the street between red-coated guards. The guards carried muskets and bayonets. The prisoners wore chains. Those chains rattled and clanked in rhythm with the slap of feet and shouts of the soldiers to move along. One man stumbled. A guard yanked him upright by the links binding his hands, and Deirdre saw the man was old Wat Drummond. Ross marched behind him, shoulders back, head up, chin jutting forward in defiance of the ignominy of his situation.
Deirdre’s eyes blurred before she saw the rest of her crew. Nonetheless, she knew they were there amid other Americans or Frenchmen or both. They would not, however, remain imprisoned even if she died freeing them.
She took a step toward the edge of the pavement and the line of soldiers and prisoners.
An arm slipped around her waist. “I can see you are as impatient with all these fripperies as I am.” Chloe’s hold was firm as she turned toward Deirdre’s mother- and sister-in-law and the wide-eyed dressmaker. “I am going to take her back to the inn for some tea and cakes. The rest of you may continue shopping.”
Deirdre stood rigid, silent as the last of the prisoners passed.
“There’s the carriage.” Chloe steered Deirdre to the vehicle trundling along the street in the prisoners’ wake. “Some tea will set you right in a trice.”
Nothing would set her right until her crew was free.
With all the grace of an automaton, Deirdre climbed the steps of the carriage and dropped onto the velvet cushions. She clasped her hands in her lap and willed herself not to scream.
“Were some of those men from your crew?” Chloe settled onto the seat beside Deirdre and a footman closed the door.
Deirdre nodded. “The old man who stumbled? I’ve known him all my life.”
“How could anyone shut a man that old in prison.” Chloe clasped and unclasped her hands around her reticule. “It’s barbaric.”
“He’s the enemy.”
Chloe made a rude noise, and Deirdre decided she liked this new sister, but that didn’t mean she would trust her with her opinions.
She straightened, face composed. “I can return on my own if you wish to keep shopping.”
“I do not.” Chloe groaned. “If I hear Juliet squeal over one more dear little bonnet, I think I will start screaming.”
“You mean you don’t enjoy shopping?”
“I would rather climb a tree and read a book in peace.”
Deirdre scanned Chloe from the brim of her blue straw bonnet to the tips of her dainty blue slippers and shook her head. “You never climb trees in
that getup.”
“No.” Chloe winked. “I keep a set of Kieran’s old clothes in a trunk in the attics and change into those, then hide in the parkland in a tree to read or watch the sunrise. I love my sister, but her constant chatter and romantic notions are a bit too much at times.”
Deirdre laughed and realized she had perhaps found her first female friend.
The men joined the ladies for dinner at the inn, where they had earlier made arrangements for three bedchambers and a private parlor. Juliet and Chloe rushed from the fireside to join them, Juliet waving her new bonnet under Kieran’s nose. Deirdre remained by the fire with the older ladies, waiting for Kieran to come to her, uncertain as to whether or not they formed a united front before his father, or if their closeness was confined to the middle of the night.
For the moment, his sisters held Kieran’s attention. Tyne, after kissing each of his daughters on the cheek, went straight to Phoebe and took her hands in his. The tenderness on his face when he looked down at her made Deirdre’s throat close.
Then, all of a sudden, Kieran was at her side, his hand on her shoulder. “Are you well, m’dear?”
“Well enough.” She smiled up at him with feigned tenderness. “Did you enjoy your day disposing of my inheritance . . . er . . . your prize?”
Someone gasped.
Kieran’s fingers flexed on her shoulder. “I had to go on the water. That does not make any day pleasant.”
“I have seen more turbulent baths,” Tyne said, “than that harbor today. How did you manage to cross the Atlantic and back without starving to death?”
“I kept him dosed with ginger and laudanum.” Deirdre offered Tyne a sweet smile. “He probably wouldn’t have married me if he’d been in his right senses.”
“Deirdre,” Kieran said through his teeth.
Tyne’s lips thinned, but his eyes held those dancing lights, as he gave Deirdre a bow, then turned back to Phoebe. “You have bespoken dinner? We did not have much in the way of a noonday meal aboard the Phoebe.”
“We had a lovely nuncheon,” Juliet said. “Except we saw some prisoners being marched through the street.”
My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles) Page 19