A Lady Never Tells

by Candace Camp

Royce turned and looked down at her. His eyes darkened. “How can I refuse when you ask me like that?”

  Mary went still, her heart suddenly in her throat. For one long moment, everything seemed to stop. Mary was aware of the soft brush of the breeze against her cheek, the faint plop of a small frog as it leapt into the water, the shaded cool here at the heart of the maze.

  Then Royce was bending to her, his arm sliding around her waist, and Mary melted into him. His mouth was warm upon hers, his arm like iron around her. They could have been miles from anyone, wrapped in a cocoon of heat and hunger, all awareness of anything besides themselves and this moment falling away. His hand moved over her, caressing her through her clothes, moving almost lazily over her back and hip and up again to smooth over her breast.

  Her body flamed to life beneath his touch, the fire gathering deep in her abdomen. With a groan, he pulled her over onto his lap. With his arm around her back, he kissed his way down her throat, nuzzling and nipping at the side of her neck. His hand roamed over her front more urgently now, cupping her breasts and teasing the nipples through the cloth until they stood up hard and hungry, straining against the thin material.

  Mary was aware of an ache between her legs, an eager yearning. She wanted him, hungered for him in a way she did not fully understand. She slid her hands over his shoulders and up his neck, tangling them in his thick hair. She felt him quicken beneath her, and instinctively she moved her hips and was rewarded with his harsh indrawn breath.

  He breathed her name, his breath hot against the skin of her chest. His mouth moved downward until it reached the neckline of her dress and he nuzzled down into it, seeking the soft, quivering flesh of her breasts. Mary gasped and moisture pooled between her legs.

  Abruptly Royce let out an oath and raised his head. He stared down into Mary’s face for a long moment, his eyes dark in the shaded surroundings. His face was taut, the skin stretched over his bones, his mouth full and dark from their kisses.

  “Bloody hell. You are a dangerous woman, Marigold Bascombe.”

  He stood, scooping her up and setting her on her feet in one smooth motion. “I think it’s past time we returned to the house.”

  Mary could manage only a nod as Royce turned and led her out of the maze.

  Chapter 16

  Unsurprisingly, it was Miss Dalrymple who put a damper on Sir Royce’s plans. The girls, she said, shocked, could not possibly ride without riding habits.

  “Why?” Camellia protested. “We can wear what we have.”

  “It would never do.” Miss Dalrymple shook her head. “Riding habits are specially made, with extra material to fall down over one’s, um, limbs. It would be unladylike—indeed, quite scandalous—to mount a horse wearing a day dress.”

  No matter how much the girls argued, the chaperone was adamant, and this time Sir Royce came down firmly on her side.

  “I’m sorry, ladies, but Miss Dalrymple is right. I shall write Charlotte and tell her to have riding habits made up as well. Don’t fret. The horses won’t go anywhere.”

  “No, but I shall die of boredom,” Camellia grumbled as they left the small ballroom and made their way upstairs.

  They had finished their dance lesson and the rest of the afternoon was their own, for Miss Dalrymple was fond of taking a daily nap. The first few days they had spent their spare time exploring the sprawling house and its grounds.

  “Now what will we do?” Lily asked. “We’ve gone all over the house. And Royce said we can’t go to the maze. It scarcely seems fair that you got to see it.”

  “I know.” Mary schooled her face to show nothing, though at mention of the maze she felt a twinge of warmth steal through her. “I have an idea. Remember what Cousin Oliver said about looking through Mama’s things?”

  Her sisters brightened at this thought, and they went in search of one of the maids to show them the entrance to the attic. The maid’s reaction to such a request was an astonished stare, and she scurried away, quickly returning with the housekeeper, Mrs. Merriwether.

  “That would be the north attic, my lady,” Mrs. Merriwether said. “The more recent things are stored there. I’ll have a footman go up and find whatever you wish.”

  “Oh, no, we want to go ourselves,” Mary assured her. “If you could just direct us to the right place?”

  “But, my lady …” The older woman looked doubtful. “There’s little ventilation and light in the attic. And though we clean it regularly, it tends to be dusty. Your clothes will suffer. It will be much easier to have the trunks brought down.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Mary was becoming more adept at fending off the servants’ efforts to arrange their lives. “We’d like to explore the attics. It will be fun.”

  If the housekeeper thought this an odd bit of fun, she was too well trained to express it. She simply smiled politely and instructed the maid to take Mary and her sisters to the attic.

  Following the maid, they climbed the back stairs to the top floor, where the servants lived. Another narrow staircase led to a small door. Opening the door, the maid, Junie, led them into the attic and held up a kerosene lamp to give them a better look at their surroundings. The attic was an enormous room that must have covered most of the north wing of the house. A few windows running along the east wall provided light, revealing a collection of boxes, trunks, and furniture interspersed with a number of odd objects including a dress form, a sled, and even a grotesque umbrella stand made out of an elephant’s foot. The place was as dusty as the housekeeper had warned. Mary could understand why; the room was so large that even Willowmere’s staff would be hard-pressed to keep it clean.

  “The newest things start here and go back that way,” Junie told them, pointing. “Mrs. Merriwether said Lady Flora’s things would be back a little ways. A lot of this is old stuff belonging to ‘the boys,’ as she calls his lordship and the others. She was working here when they were just lads, you see.” The girl looked around the room, then gamely asked, “Would you like me to pull out anything for you, miss?”

  “No, we’ll manage,” Mary assured her, and received a smile of relief in return.

  The maid offered her the lamp and left, and the girls began to explore. Mary didn’t mind the dust or even the occasional cobweb. Sifting through the jumbled castoffs of many years was the most enjoyable thing they had done since they’d arrived.

  “This is so much fun!” Lily exclaimed, opening a trunk and pulling out a military-style jacket, cut along small lines. “Who do you suppose this belonged to?”

  “One of ‘the boys,’ I’d warrant,” Rose said, coming over to examine it. “Can you imagine the earl wearing this?”

  “Only if it’s a general’s uniform,” Mary responded dryly. “Look, there’s a toy musket!”

  They dug down through the trunk, pulling out and replacing balls and cricket bats and sacks of marbles, along with a collection case of butterflies.

  “I wonder whose trunk this is,” Rose mused. “Maybe these things belonged to all three.”

  Mary lifted the lid of a smaller brown trunk beside it. Clothes belonging to an older, larger male were packed away in it. Mingling with the scent of camphor was a faint trace of men’s cologne. It teased at Mary’s nose, reminding her of Royce—not exactly the cologne he wore now, but somehow similar. She wondered if the trunk belonged to him, and it occurred to her that it was impolite to snoop through his things. Still, she could not resist pulling out a bundle of folded papers stuck down beside the clothes. The pale blue paper carried a more feminine scent, and the stack was tied with a dark blue ribbon. Mary turned over the bundle and there on the front of the folded paper was written “Royce” in a looping feminine hand.

  Love letters, she thought, and her curiosity sharpened. Mary smoothed her thumb across the aging ink. She dearly wanted to see what lay inside. But that, she knew, was far too grievous an invasion of Royce’s privacy. With reluctance, she put the bundle back in the trunk and closed the lid.

  �
�Look!” Rose cried a few feet away from her. “Dresses! Maybe we’re getting back to Mama and the aunts.”

  She and Camellia pulled out a couple of jackets, both velvet, one in brown and the other a dark green. They were cut along clean, even severe lines, with no frills or furbelows, and large metal buttons marched down the front of each. The collars and lapels had a mannish look, though the size and shape of the jackets clearly indicated that they had belonged to women. There were skirts in matching colors, full and trailing, as well as hats, small and saucy in style.

  “They’re riding habits!” Lily pulled out a blue jacket, this one rather military, with a stand-up collar and a small shako-style hat.

  The girls exchanged excited looks.

  “We could wear these!” Camellia’s eyes shone. “Then that old fussbudget couldn’t keep us from learning to ride.”

  “Even their boots are here at the bottom.” Lily dug out a pair of boots and bent over to compare them to her own feet. “Do you think they might fit us?”

  “I’ll make them fit me,” Camellia retorted.

  “We could alter the dresses—well, I mean Rose could.”

  “Of course I could.” Rose examined the jacket in her hands. “The material is in good condition. And there are four of them.”

  “Let’s take them downstairs,” Camellia urged. “We can start on them tonight. I’ll help you, Rose—pull out stitches or pin, whatever you need.”

  The girls repacked the trunk and dragged it over to the door, then returned to open another one. A wedding dress was carefully packed between sheets of tissue and laid in it, along with a number of other articles of clothing, and the girls agreed that the wedding clothes clearly marked it as one of the aunts’ possessions since their own mother had eloped. But when they opened the next trunk, the familiar scent of attar of roses wafted up. Mary’s throat closed, and tears started in her eyes.

  “Mama!”

  “It has to be.” Reverently, Rose reached into the trunk and took out a folded dress. “Look! It’s a child’s dress.”

  Pink embroidered roses dotted the white cotton dress, matching the pink ribbon sash, both faded over the years. Rose turned to lay it aside, then stopped, glancing around. “No. Mrs. Merriwether was right. We shouldn’t take the things out up here—they’ll get dirty.”

  Mary nodded. “We’ll set it aside to be taken downstairs, too.”

  They had just dragged this trunk over to the door when it opened to reveal Junie, who had come to remind them that it was drawing close to time for dinner. Mary and her sisters would have liked to continue hunting, but as it was obvious the light was fading, they abandoned the project for the day, requesting that a footman fetch the two trunks they’d selected down to their rooms. There would be ample time, after all, to explore the rest of the attic.

  That evening after supper, they excused themselves early and went upstairs to work on the riding habits. They found, much to their relief, that little needed to be done. The habits were not a perfect fit, but they were close enough; and though all the boots were a trifle small, the girls were able to cram their feet into them, which they thought would do well enough since they would be riding, not walking.

  The next day they began their riding lessons. Camellia quickly established herself as the best pupil on horseback, though all of them found it easy to learn under Royce’s relaxed tutelage. As Mary had thought when Royce suggested the plan, it was wonderful to get out of the house—not only to get away from Miss Dalrymple, but also simply to be outside. Mary realized how very cooped up she had been feeling only when they were outside doing something active.

  After a beginning session in the stable yard, they rode out, skirting the gardens, and crossed a meadow. All the while, Royce kept an eye on their riding form, but Mary noticed that he also managed to maintain a careful watch on the area around them. They made their way through a stand of trees and emerged on an old track running alongside a low stone wall.

  Lily pointed toward a hill in the distance that dominated the countryside around it. “What is that?”

  Atop the hill stood some sort of structure, though it was difficult at this distance to tell exactly what it was.

  “Beacon Hill,” Royce replied. “It’s the tallest point for miles around. As its name suggests, in ancient times they lit fires there to rouse the countryside.”

  “But what is that building?”

  “Ruins of a Roman fort. It’s an interesting spot for a day’s excursion. Perhaps one day we can go there when you are more accustomed to riding. We can take a basket of food and make an all-day affair of it. Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lily was starry-eyed. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

  “I’m not sure how exciting it is… .”

  Mary laughed. “Don’t you know that ruins are always exciting?”

  “Yes, just think of the possibilities!” Lily gazed off into the distance, as if watching something none of the others could see. “The people who have lived and died there—smugglers, rebels …”

  Royce chuckled. “I’m not sure we have much in the way of smuggling. Or rebellion.”

  “Don’t spoil the story,” Mary told him.

  “Of course. I beg your pardon.” Royce pulled a serious face.

  Riding lessons took up most of their afternoons, but the next week the sisters took the opportunity of a rainy afternoon to explore the attic again. Finding three more trunks they thought belonged to Flora, they dragged them to the attic door to be carried down. They had just descended the stairs themselves when they saw Mrs. Merriwether making her way along the hallway toward them.

  “I’m so glad you have finished. I did not care to disturb you, but you have a visitor. Lady Carlyle has come to call.”

  “Vivian?” Mary asked, astonished. “But we just saw her in London.”

  Mrs. Merriwether smiled. “Not Lady Vivian. ’Tis Lady Sabrina who has come to call. She is married to Lady Vivian’s uncle, Lord Humphrey Carlyle. They live at Halstead House, not far from here.”

  “Then she is Lady Vivian’s aunt?”

  “Oh, no—” Mrs. Merriwether paused, then said, “Well, yes, I suppose she is, but one does not think of her as such. Lady Sabrina is Lord Humphrey’s second wife.”

  When Mary stepped into the drawing room, she saw at once why the housekeeper had trouble thinking of Lady Sabrina as Vivian’s aunt. The woman sitting on the sofa chatting with Miss Dalrymple could be no more than thirty-one or thirty-two years of age. With light blue eyes, blond hair, and a pale ivory complexion, she was also the epitome of the cool English beauty.

  Though the sisters had stopped in front of the hall mirror to smooth their hair into order and brush away the dust that had settled on their clothes, Mary felt at once awkward and disheveled at the sight of Lady Sabrina’s pale perfect looks. She braced herself for the same sort of cold reception that they had received from their aunts.

  However, to the girls’ surprised delight, Lady Sabrina stepped forward, smiling, and shook each girl’s hand as Miss Dalrymple introduced them. “How nice to meet all of you. I have been eager to see you, but I made myself wait a few days to allow you to settle into your new home. But it is so lonely here in the country that I simply could not hold back any longer.”

  The girls sat down, relaxing under the sweet warmth of Lady Carlyle’s smile. Mary glanced around and noticed that Sir Royce was not in the room. Firmly she pushed away her disappointment.

  “But where is Sir Royce?” Lily asked, and Mary felt a spurt of relief at finding that she was not the only who noticed his absence.

  Miss Dalrymple shot Lily an admonitory look, but Lady Sabrina gave a musical laugh, saying, “I am sure that he ran off at the sight of a caller. Men are like that, aren’t they? Women’s chats bore them silly.”

  Mary had trouble believing that many men chose not to visit with a woman as attractive as Lady Sabrina. Still, she could not help but feel warmed by the idea that Sir Royce was apparently n
ot drawn to the beauty.

  “Now, you must tell me all about yourselves,” Lady Sabrina went on. “Miss Dalrymple was explaining to me that you are Lady Flora’s children and you have come all the way from the United States! It sounds exciting.”

  It was not hard to talk to her, and soon the girls were chattering away. Mary was glad that her sisters did not bring up the subjects of taverns, guns, or wild Indians, apparently as eager as Mary not to shock or offend their pleasant visitor.

  “It’s wonderful to have neighbors again,” Lady Sabrina told them as the tea cart was trundled in and Miss Dalrymple began to pour. “It has been so boring these last years, with only bachelors at Willowmere.”

  “Does not Lady Vivian come to visit? She is your niece, isn’t she?” Camellia asked. “We met her with Cousin Charlotte in London, and she seemed very nice.”

  Lady Sabrina let out her charming little laugh. “Yes, she is. So amusing, is it not, that I should be her aunt, when we are of an age? We were bosom friends, you know, when we were young. I lived nearby with my grandparents. Alas, my grandfather, the admiral, is long since gone, as is my dear grandmother.” She sighed. “What fun we had. Dear Vivian and Charlotte. I fear neither of them comes to our little village as often as they used to.”

  “They talked about visiting after the Season is over,” Mary offered.

  “Did they? But how delightful.” Sabrina’s face brightened. “I must have a ball. Introduce you to the countryside. How does that sound?” Scarcely waiting for the girls to voice their approval, she swept on, “Miss Dalrymple tells me that the earl and his brother will be joining you soon. With Charlotte and Vivian, that will make a very fair number. But, of course, you must promise to call on me long before that.”

  It was agreed that the Bascombe sisters would call upon Lady Sabrina the next week; after that, the women settled down to a thoroughly satisfying discussion of the ball she intended to host.

  After Sabrina left, Lily exclaimed, “What a nice woman! I am so glad we met her. And isn’t she pretty? She looked just as I imagined Lady Jessamine did in the Count of Otrello .”