by Amanda Scott
“Oh, I do not think—”
“To be sure, Marquess,” Lady Marrick said, laughing, “she must learn not to hold you at such arm’s length now, mustn’t she? Don’t be a pea-goose, Gillian, but do as you are bid. You will want to change out of that dreadful gown, however, so run along upstairs to your bedchamber, and ask Miss Prynne to give you a hand with your hair. She don’t do as fine a head as a London dresser will do, but I believe in giving credit where it is due, and she does have a nice way with it. No, no, say nothing more, girl. I am quite certain the marquess don’t want to hear your excuses, so just for once in your life, do as you are bid. I will send for you when he returns from the stables, and he will not want you to keep him kicking his heels, you know.”
Gillian, her cheeks flaming, made a swift curtsy and left the room ahead of the gentlemen. Hurrying upstairs to find Meggie, she was conscious of a bewildering urge to laugh and cry all at once. One minute her spirits seemed to soar, the next to plummet. There was no understanding the feeling. Her temperament was not generally so volatile.
Passing through an anteroom into the east wing of the house, she went first to her own bedchamber to ring for a maidservant to help her. Knowing it would take the girl a few moments to respond, she hurried back toward the nursery wing, encountering Meggie on the point of coming to find her, and quickly explained that she required assistance.
“It’s all over the house that you’d a visitor,” Meggie said. “What’s this about his being a marquess?”
“Oh, Meggie, you don’t know the worst of it!” Gillian said, torn again between laughter and tears. “It is Baron Hopwood, only as it chances, he is really the Marquess of Thorne.”
“Is he, indeed?” Meggie’s brown eyes narrowed. “Chance is, I’ve heard that name before,” she said. “Weren’t he the one as your papa said was a rake of the very first stare? Orgies and such, as I recall, when his lordship was at Longford Hall last year for the shooting. What sort of rig was he running, daring to tell you he was only a baron?”
Gillian smiled and said, “He said he found it convenient to do so. Who knows the true reason? He does have an eye for a pretty woman, though. You ought to have seen him light up when Dorinda came in upon us. She was wearing that tea-green muslin that becomes her so well, with the lavender ribbons, and she had rouged her cheeks. He was bowled over at the knees, Meggie.”
They had turned toward Gillian’s bedchamber, but Meggie stopped again to demand, “And what business had that young miss to be going downstairs at all, let alone dressed up like a Christmas beef? A young woman not yet out certainly ought never to parade herself before the likes of him. And did you ask her, Miss Gillian, about that other business?”
Gillian sobered. “Yes, Meggie, but I do not want to say more about that just now. There is Mary, coming to help us. I am to put on a more proper gown than this one, to take a turn in the garden with his lordship. He wants to have a private word with me, and Estrid practically forced me to agree.”
Meggie clicked her tongue. “That woman. I know I ought not to speak ill—You there, Mary,” she said, interrupting herself with a grimace of annoyance, “don’t stand there gaping. Get yourself in and fetch out Lady Gillian’s pink sarcenet walking dress, and that light silk pelisse she had made to go with it. You know the one—with the poppy-red bows round the hem.”
Gillian laughed, relaxing at last as they stepped into her cheerful yellow and white bedchamber. “You are absurd, Meggie. Talk of Christmas beef! That is a rig I had made for London, and I certainly cannot walk about the garden here in such a thing. Thorne would think me a lunatic. Moreover, those bows—not poppy-red, if you please, but coquelicot—would catch on every hedge we pass. I’ll wear my yellow India muslin round gown, Mary, and the old chip-straw hat that we trimmed with yellow and green ribbons last week. That will do very well.”
“You’ll freeze, Miss Gillian.” Meggie nodded toward the tall, yellow-velvet-draped window overlooking the sea view. “There’s a wind blowing up from the Channel today.”
“A fine warm breeze, Meggie, nothing to fret me. Now come, do my hair for me so that it won’t blow all about my face.”
Twenty minutes later, she peered critically at her full-length reflection in the mahogany-framed cheval glass and saw, gazing seriously back at her, a slight young woman with a puff of black curls framing the upper half of her face. The side and back hair that Meggie had so carefully smoothed and tucked was already wisping in a lamentably ungoverned manner. Gillian did not admire her sort of looks, and had she been asked, would have pointed out that her chin was too pointed for perfection, her neck too long and thin, and that her eyes were much too large for her small face. They were also sadly unpredictable. Though they had looked blue before she changed her gown, now with the bright light from the window and the yellow fabric, they were stony gray, the color enhanced by the black rings at the outer edges of her irises. The natural roses in her cheeks had returned, however, and she was not in the least distressed to see a fine dusting of freckles across her tip-tilted nose.
Meggie was not so tolerant. “Look there, Miss Gillian! Haven’t I told you to wear a hat when you go out of doors? Now, you’ve gone and got all freckled again, and what her ladyship will say to that I’d as lief not have to think about.”
“Then don’t trouble your head, Meggie,” Gillian said, grinning at her. She straightened the skirt of the gown and smoothed a sleeve. “That will do now, I think,” she said.
Meggie shook her head. “And what if you was to need a handkerchief, missy? I cannot accustom myself to the fashion nowadays. One was used to carry one’s necessities in a proper pocket tied round one’s waist under a flounce or a pannier, but now—Well, I ask you! With these flimsy, nothing gowns, what is a female to do?”
Gillian laughed. “One keeps a handkerchief tucked under one’s sash or up a sleeve, as well you know. As to anything else I might need to stroll in the garden, Meggie, I cannot think what it would be. Oh dear,” she added when a scratching at the door reminded her that her time was nearly up. “Do I look all right?”
“Aye, but put on your bonnet before you go. I’ll tie the ribbons for you. And take your Norwich silk shawl if you won’t take a pelisse.”
The maidservant who had scratched stepped inside and announced rather breathlessly, “Her ladyship said as how his lordship were a-waiting and Lady Gillian should stir her stumps, begging her pardon, Mizz Prynne.”
“Address her ladyship, girl,” Meggie said sharply.
“Never mind, Sal,” Gillian said, smiling at her as she allowed Meggie to adjust her shawl fashionably over her arms. “I’m just coming. How is your toothache today?”
“Oh, lawks, Miss Gillian, it be all better. Me old mum, she pulled it out last night. Just tied a string from m’ tooth ter the door and give it a hard push. That were the end o’ that.”
Hiding a shudder, Gillian congratulated her on her good news, gave herself a last look in the glass, and left the room, wondering why she should suddenly be trembling.
She saw Thorne waiting in the hall, but he heard her step on the stairs and met her at the arched doorway between the entrance hall and stair hall. “That shawl won’t do you much good hanging from your elbows like that,” he said with a frown. “There’s a stiff breeze outside. Pull it up around your shoulders.”
Gillian smiled. “I live here, sir,” she reminded him, “and I am not as fragile as you seem to think. I shan’t blow away; neither shall I freeze.”
In response he reached both hands to her shawl and pulled it up, smoothing it across her shoulders. His warm hands sent a wave of shock through her, making it impossible for a moment or two for her to speak. By then he had put his right hand between her shoulder blades and was urging her toward the front door.
“I don’t like that hat,” he said in the same abrupt tone. “It hides your face from me.”
She looked up at him, feeling a bubble of laughter in her throat. “My shawl was worn very fas
hionably till you disarranged it, sir, and I’ll have you know that this hat is thought to frame my face quite fetchingly.”
He grimaced ruefully. “To someone with your own lack of inches it might do that, but to me it’s as good as a mask. Can’t you take the damned thing off? I want to talk to you, and I can’t talk to someone I can’t see.”
Shaking her head, she reached up and untied the ribbons, pulling the hat off without so much as a thought for her hair. Thorne smiled in approval, and since there was no one else in the hall, he opened the front door himself.
Standing at the top of the broad steps, they paused, and she heard his indrawn breath and knew he admired the view as much as she did. Before them the green lawn seemed to sweep all the way to the sea, framed by colorful borders and, at a distance, by the magnificent belts of timber that surrounded the other three sides of the house and grounds. Away to the right lay the chain of lakes, the conservatory, the temple, and the icehouse.
“There used to be deer everywhere in the park,” she told him, “but for some cause or other they all died two years ago. Now there are cattle. Papa paid them no heed, thinking they would behave as the deer had and keep a respectful distance, but they did not. I stepped out one afternoon to find a cow standing at the front door, as if she meant to demand admittance. I ordered the ha-ha dug then. You can see it there, that semicircular line just where the lawn seems to drop away to the sea. We are really almost eight miles away from the Channel, but the view is so clear that it seems a great deal closer than that.”
He hadn’t said a word, and she told herself to stop babbling like a ninny, but she had a strong urge to keep talking, to keep from having to hear what he had to say to her. She did not doubt for a moment that he had demanded this interview in order to make his displeasure known to her. Remembering how sharp he could be, she braced herself and held her tongue.
His hand was still at her back, touching her lightly between her shoulder blades. He pressed harder, urging her toward the steps. “Let us walk by the lakes,” he said. “I want to see that arrangement a little closer to. Capability Brown designed this landscape, did he not?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “He and my grandfather. Grandpapa Carnaby had decided notions as to what the effect should be. I am told that he and Mr. Brown could be heard for miles, shouting at each other, when they disagreed upon some point or other. I have Mr. Brown’s drawings of his earliest plans hanging on the wall of my bedchamber. If you like, I will show them to you.”
“I’d like that. Landscape design interests me, and Brown did a good deal of the work at Langshire Hall too.”
“Langshire Hall is your papa’s seat, I suppose.”
“It is. Langshire used to be a county all its own, a sort of bolster between Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire with its top just touching South Yorkshire, but it became part of Derbyshire under Charles the Second when the sixth Earl of Langshire’s eldest son was executed for opposing Charles’s Catholicism. On the accession of William and Mary, an act was passed pardoning him and his father was created duke by way of apology, but the county was never reorganized.”
While he talked, he guided her down the steps and across the gravel drive to the path leading to the lakes. The path was bordered by low, neatly trimmed box hedges, and in some of the plots they outlined, new plants were beginning to show color.
“This climate appears to be very good for flowers,” he said.
“And for crops,” she said, smiling. “We are going to plant a new type of seed for wheat, sent to us by Mr. Coke of Norfolk. Since you have visited there, like Papa, you must know that he has tried many experiments to increase his yield.”
When he chuckled, she looked at him in surprise, noting the way the sunlight gave his dark hair an auburn cast. “I did not intend to make a joke, sir.”
“I am sure you did not,” he said. “Can we sit in that temple over there?”
“Yes. Why did you laugh?”
“Because you must really be finding it difficult to think of things to say to me if all you can talk about is Coke and his wheat. Crops are scarcely a ladies’ topic of conversation.”
Grimacing, Gillian made no effort to tell him that she was very interested indeed, that she thought anyone with land to plant ought to be interested, what with food shortages everywhere and riots erupting in nearly every county over the price of bread. She knew only too well, however, that he was likely either to laugh at her or to ignore her. Gentlemen were less likely than ladies, in her experience, to take a serious interest in anything, and when they did, they assumed a superior attitude and claimed that it was impossible for the fair sex to have any true understanding of such things. She had long since come to understand that their pride was somehow touched, even threatened, when a female knew more about such matters than they did, but she felt a brief wave of disappointment at receiving such a reaction from Thorne. She could not have explained why, but she had hoped he would be different from other men.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“No, my lord, but I am not certain what you want to say to me, and I confess, I am in no real hurry to find out.”
They were nearing the little marble temple, which stood on a rise above the nearest lake. The temple was no more than a raised circular platform about fifteen feet in diameter with a domed roof supported by eight Corinthian columns, but from within, one had a view both of the lakes and of the Channel. They went up the steps in silence, and Thorne did not speak until she had seated herself on the marble bench in the center of the platform.
He said, “I have been trying to think where to begin. I confess, my first intent, and that which kept me awake through most of a journey of a day and a half—”
“Goodness, Papa takes three days to go to London! He will not travel more than fifty miles in a day, and Estrid travels even more slowly. Did you drive all through the night, my lord?”
“I did not. My coachman, footman, and I took turns driving, and we racked up for a few hours at the Ship in Mere. We left before dawn this morning to come on to Carnaby Park.”
“Goodness, do you always travel in such haste?”
“No. Under normal circumstances I would stay a day at Amport Park with Winchester, and a day or two each at Fonthill with Westminster and Stourhead with the Hoares. But I thought I had cause to make haste, my lady. At first I hoped to be in time to stop that announcement altogether, but then I realized that not only would it be impossible but that the damage had already been done by the notice in the London papers.”
“I did not know anything about that,” she said with a sigh.
“It is my belief you had no idea about any of it.”
“Thank you, sir, for believing that. It is perfectly true. I am mortified by what has happened, but I must say that had you told me your proper title and come inside like a gentleman to meet Papa that evening, this would never have happened.”
“There is no doubt some truth in that. Would you like to tell me who was responsible for the whole? I think you know.”
She had meant to tell him. She had thought she would have to do so in order to convince him that she had not done the thing herself, and though she would have scorned to tell tales to Dorinda’s doting parent, or even to her own father, she had been prepared to tell Thorne, certain—though again she could not have said why—that he would honor her request for discretion. But now that he had met Dorinda and seemed to admire her, it would be flying in the face of every principle of honor to betray her to him so brutally. Worse, it would look as if she were merely attempting to make him think badly of Dorinda.
Gillian turned toward him to try to explain, but his eyes crinkled at the corners just then—why had she not noted before how deeply blue they were?—and he said, “Don’t try to cozen me, my lady. I don’t take kindly to faradiddles.”
“I wouldn’t lie!” Indignant, she glared at him. “If one is to talk of faradiddles, sir, ’twas you who told one to me! I have never pretended to be other than w
ho I am. Would you care to try to explain to me just why you pretended to be what my stepmama so grandly calls a mere baron?”
He grinned at her, and she saw a wicked glint of laughter in his eyes. “I would rather kiss you,” he said, leaning forward and touching his lips to hers.
Gillian sat still, eyes wide, shocked to her toes. She scarcely dared to breathe. His lips were cool and touched hers lightly at first, but when she didn’t move, they pressed harder, growing warmer and softer. She had never been kissed by anyone outside her family before, never in such a way as Thorne was kissing her now, and she wondered briefly, crazily, why his nose hadn’t got in the way. It occurred to her that anyone walking nearby would see them, and she started at the thought and would have pulled back, but with his hand at her back again, resisting him seemed to demand too much effort.
His lips moved softly against hers, and hers responded. She would have sworn she had not meant them to. But as the thought crossed her mind, he was pressing harder, and his hand moved to her waist. Her body arched forward to meet his. Her breasts seemed to swell beneath her thin gown, and the feelings that swept through her were unlike any she had experienced before. A low moan began in her throat when she felt his other hand on her shoulder, but when it moved down her arm, perilously close to one aching breast, she jumped, pulling away.
Thorne let her go at once. He was smiling. “You are the first woman I’ve ever kissed who purred like a kitten,” he said.
Involuntarily her right hand rose up to strike, but when he caught and held her gaze with a mocking gleam in his eyes, she let it fall again and said, “Is that how a rake of the first stare treats all the ladies he meets, my lord?”
5
THORNE KNEW HE HAD angered her, but he was not certain that one small kiss was the reason her eyes were blazing. He remembered thinking they were blue, but they were not. They were gray, like smooth stones, but not cold, not even in her anger.