by Jane Toombs
Such was not the case. The guests left the house in ten carriages, drove through the park to the river, passing the fishing house—"Designed so ladies,” Edward explained to them, “may cast their lines for fish from the window overlooking the river so they will not have to be exposed to the elements"—and stopping beside a grassy expanse near the boathouse where, earlier that morning, tables and chairs had been arranged in a great circle.
After being seated, they were served course after course, with offerings of venison, lamb, partridge, quail, pigeons, and carp, of Severn salmon and Dunstable larks, along with a variety of vegetables and followed by puddings and tarts, the meal accompanied by vintage Bordeaux wine imported from France in the years before the war.
As she ate, Deirdre noticed that Edward, seated almost directly across the circle from her and so at too great a distance for polite conversation, glanced at her more than once, each time nodding and smiling. Resisting an impulse to draw her shawl over her décolletage, she wished with all her heart that she had never allowed Alcida to remove the silk insert.
When they at last finished their meal, the large company was left free to follow their personal inclinations, whether rowing on the Thames, engaging in companionable discourse while seated on benches along the bank of the river or, for the more adventuresome, archery on the lawn or nutting in the nearby walnut grove.
"Where can Vincent and Clive be?” Alcida asked as she and Deirdre, carrying their furled parasols, walked along a pathway beside the river. “They should have arrived by now. Can Clive have refused to come at the last moment?"
"He may have,” Deirdre said, concealing both her unhappiness at the thought of not seeing him and her distress at his disturbed state of mind. “He may wish to avoid the confusion, the crush."
"Ah, look,” Alcida said, clearly disappointed as she nodded toward several couples carrying baskets as they made their way toward the walnut grove. “Edward and Phoebe have decided to accompany the nutting excursion. Shall we tag along after them?"
Deirdre shook her head. The more she considered it, the more the notion of attempting to entice Edward away from Phoebe seemed the height of folly. As well as a quite hopeless undertaking. Edward must have the female portion of the ton virtually at his feet and she had neither the desire nor the inclination to join them.
Pushing her hair back from her face, Alcida looked across the river at the darkly threatening sky. “I hope it rains and both Phoebe and Edward are thoroughly soaked."
Deirdre smiled at Alcida's outburst, but said nothing as she led the way along the path. When the boathouse was lost to sight behind them, they turned and retraced their steps, remarking now and again as a particularly pleasing river vista came into view.
When they reached the boathouse once more, Deirdre stopped beside the door and looked around her, unable to resist her impulse to search for Clive. He was nowhere to be seen. Noticing her father instructing Sybil in the intricacies of the bow and arrow, Deirdre said, “Shall we try our skill?"
The door to the boathouse suddenly opened and, as Deirdre gasped, Edward stepped onto the path a few feet in front of them. He looked at Deirdre; only at Deirdre. His lack of surprise at meeting her in this unexpected manner made her wonder if he had been waiting for her to return.
"Ever since I arrived at home at Harmon Hall from Canada,” he said, finally acknowledging Alcida with a gracious bow, “I have been promising myself a row on the river. Will you two young ladies honor me with your company?"
Alcida ducked her head. “Thank you, my lord, but even the slightest motion of the water has a most unfortunate effect on me.” She curtsied. “I must go to Mama,” she said with a quick glance at Deirdre and, without another word, hurried off.
"I expect the rain to start at any moment,” Deirdre told him.
"Damn the rain.” He held out his hand to her. She hesitated. “Please,” he said.
When still she hesitated, he reached to her and put his hand gently on her arm. “You must come with me,” he said, “say you will."
After all, she reminded herself, Edward was their host, she could hardly refuse him and thus create an awkward situation. And yet some inner voice warned her not to accept his offer, a reluctance, she chided herself, undoubtedly brought on by her foolish dream. Since she had quite convinced herself that she had nothing to fear from Edward, Deirdre quieted her trepidation and nodded.
CHAPTER 9
Edward rowed from the boathouse onto the Thames with Deirdre sitting in the stern, facing him. How delightful she looked in her white gown, he told himself, with her flaming red hair only partially hidden by her pink bonnet. Even though the day was overcast and rain threatened, she had unfurled her parasol and held it over her head to complete the picture.
"You make a charming picture,” Edward told her. “Pray excuse my staring at you, but I must etch every detail on my memory to recall tomorrow when, unfortunately, I must join the other gentlemen in the East Copse for the shooting."
Made uneasy by his compliment, Deirdre said nothing.
"I only hope,” Edward said, “the poachers have left us a few quail and partridge."
"We have more than our share of poachers in Sussex,” Deirdre said.
"At Harmon Hall, we refuse to set out man traps or spring guns to deter the intruders, so we are forced to depend on our gamekeepers. Who may be poachers themselves.” He smiled. “I happen to have a certain sympathy with poachers. After all, you can make a case that the fowl of the air and the deer and other animals that roam the forests belong to everyone."
Edward might well sympathize with poachers, Deirdre told herself. He was reputed to be one himself although his prey was neither fowl nor deer.
As soon as they left the shallows and entered the river's strong current, Edward shipped the oars and allowed the boat to drift downstream. Reaching beneath his seat, he brought forth a red wooden box, pushed the latch free and opened the lid to reveal a magnum of champagne and two long-stemmed glasses nestled in blue velvet.
"Champagne is truly a wine fit for a goddess,” he said as he inserted a corkscrew.
"I—” Deirdre began, but suspecting she meant to decline, he immediately held up his hand and shook his head.
"Would you disappoint me,” he asked, “by refusing to join in celebrating my birthday?” The cork came free with an explosive “pop” and he proceeded to fill the two glasses and hand one to her.
"This is your birthday?” she asked as she accepted the glass.
"Since I happened to be on the high seas on the actual date of my birth, I intend to celebrate today.” Raising his glass, he reached forward to touch its rim to hers, watching Deirdre as she leaned to him and, in so doing, revealed the tempting swell of her breasts.
Edward drew in a quick breath. Be patient, he counseled himself, as he damped down his desire. She was so innocent, so lacking in experience, undoubtedly she was a virgin. And yet, or so he had suspected from the first, beneath her prim exterior there seethed a passion as fiery as her hair, a passion ready to erupt once the shackles of convention had been stripped away.
He smiled confidently. He, Edward Fox, Marquess of Lounsbury, sole heir to Harmon Hall, fully intended to be the one to free her from those restraints. He would be the one who would lead her to a discovery of the voluptuous world of the senses, a world he had thoroughly explored and thus knew as well as anyone.
And he intended to do it this very day.
A single-masted barge sailed past them, heading upriver, and one of the bargemen sitting near the stern waved his hand as he called to them across the water.
"He envies me,” Edward told Deirdre.
Ignoring her reluctance to accept more of the champagne, Edward smiled encouragingly as he refilled her glass, noting the slight flush on her cheeks. “This is your first visit to Harmon Hall, I believe,” he said.
"And my first taste of champagne, my grandmother refuses to have spirits of any kind in the house. The Hall is magnificen
t, actually there are no words to do it justice; and the wine is delicious."
"My ancestors first came here more than six hundred years ago,” he told her as he dipped the oars in the water and rowed downstream. “They were Normans who fought with William the Conqueror."
Proudly—he was exceedingly proud of his heritage—he described the ascent of the Foxes, their bitter rivalry with the Cavendish family of nearby Oakcroft, the expansion of the estate until it encompassed more than ten thousand lucrative acres of farmland, the planning and building of Harmon Hall in the first half of the eighteenth century, first under the direction of James Paine, the architect, and then the young Robert Adam.
"When I become master here,” he said, aware that there were no greater aphrodisiacs than wealth and power, “and that, I pray to God, will not be for a great many years, I plan to carry on the family traditions. Did you happen to notice our motto carved on the north front of the Hall?"
When Deirdre shook her head, he said, “It reads, 'Amicus et Sibi.’”
"For his friends and himself?"
"Ah, wonderful, you know Latin. Precisely. And that is what Harmon Hall will always be as long as I live, a place of hospitality designed for the pleasure of Lord Harmon and his many friends. And, in due course,” he added with just a touch of emphasis, “for the pleasure of the wife of Lord Harmon as well."
She blinked, frowning slightly. “At the ball, you claimed to have returned to England with absolutely no intention of marrying."
"Every man, including myself,” he said, his gaze meeting hers in a meaningful way, “is entitled to reconsider his intentions as circumstances change.” After a pause, he said, “I suggested rowing on the Thames to give me the opportunity of showing you our Pantheon. If you will but look over my right shoulder you should see the white dome rising above the trees."
She did as he asked, saying, “The little I can see of the Pantheon is most impressive. As for viewing the rest, perhaps another day, Edward, when the weather is less threatening. We should turn back at once."
"I give you my word, my dear Deirdre, there will be no rain to mar our excursion. I absolutely forbid rain to fall on my birthday. Or on someone as lovely as yourself."
In fact, he expected rain and had been surprised that the storm had not arrived sooner. Not that it mattered, whether it rained or not he meant to escort her to the Pantheon, but not merely to show her the splendor of the rotunda with its statues of Greek gods and goddesses. Again Edward smiled. Not even his father—who had sent him in great haste to Canada to avoid scandal—was aware of the secrets of the Pantheon.
Some five years before, Edward had expressed an interest in painting just as he had once dabbled in the writing of romantic poetry. His father had suggested he use an empty apartment in the Pantheon for his studio since the light from its northern exposure of one of the rooms was ideal, and Edward had agreed.
Though he had enjoyed working with water colors and, later, with oils, his enthusiasm had waned when he began to seek to satisfy the demands of the flesh rather than the spirit. He had completely redecorated his three private rooms in the Pantheon, assisted in making his purchases by a rather disreputable London dealer in certain European and Oriental works of literature and art of a sort sold primarily to gentlemen who had what were referred to as “special tastes.” Edward had paid one of the Hall's stableboys, Jack Cunningham, and paid him rather handsomely, to perform the necessary laboring work and thereafter to guard his secret by holding his tongue.
Smiling in anticipation, Edward dipped his oars deep into the murky depths of the Thames, stroked, and the boat shot ahead. He exulted in rowing as he did in sports of all kinds, in fencing, cricket, archery, and pugilism, enjoyed testing himself against others, savored his frequent victories while shrugging off his occasional defeats.
He considered the pursuit of women to be a sport worthy of a gentleman, a contest involving careful reconnaissance followed by pursuit requiring a knowledge of when to speak the truth and when to embroider it, when to flatter or cajole and when to command. Perhaps, he told himself, warfare was a better analogy than sport, since it was a battle requiring both deception and strength, the male attacking as the female executed a strategic retreat, the final triumph of the male followed by the subjection of the conquered by the conqueror. Deirdre, he noted, had peeled off one of her gloves and was trailing her bare hand in the water.
"How lovely you are,” he said, quite sincerely, “Diana reincarnated. Your statue should be in our Pantheon, a goddess among the other goddesses."
She stared at him in surprise as though recalling—what?
Intuitively, he said, “Someone else has compared you to a goddess."
Could it have been Chadbourne? he wondered, suspecting, from hints dropped by Phoebe, that Deirdre and Clive had been rather close childhood friends. Could they have been lovers? He doubted it; no, if all went as well as he expected, he would be the first.
A charmingly vivid flush spread over her face. “A painter did once, a Mr. Joseph Turner."
"Turner?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “Having once tried my hand at painting, although an amateur I believe I have a certain knowledge of the art. I happen to be a great admirer of his work, especially his sense of color, his vibrant landscapes. I can think of no better authority on feminine beauty than Turner."
Most men, Edward mused, would consider Phoebe to be a greater beauty than Deirdre; as usual, most men were mistaken. Phoebe might boast a pleasing regularity of feature, a fair complexion, lovely golden hair and the sweet bloom of youth, but in a few years her beauty would begin to fade. Deirdre, on the other hand, possessed a classic beauty, a natural grace, a liveliness of spirit and, best of all in his estimation, the promise of an underlying and as yet unleashed passion.
If the truth be told, he considered Phoebe to be rather insipid, a narcissist interested in no one but herself. Phoebe always succeeded in boring him with her self-absorption while Deirdre fascinated him with her wealth of contradictions. Was she really the innocent she had at first seemed to be or was she the temptress suggested by this daring décolletage? He meant to find the answer before many hours passed.
What had she just asked him? Whether he had built a new kite for Ned, yes, that was it. He searched his memory as he tried to recall exactly what he had told her about the kite. “I did indeed,” he said, “and, furthermore, only last week I presented it to him and helped him launch it into the heavens."
"You were most kind to give the kite to the boy in the park,” she said.
Edward sketched a bow to acknowledge the compliment. In truth, both kites—there had been two and Ned had received one of them, that was true enough—had been the handiwork of Jack Cunningham, the same stableboy at Harmon Hall who shared the secret of his rooms in the Pantheon. His gift of the kite to the urchin in the park had not been made so much to please the boy but rather to impress Deirdre with his generosity. Edward congratulated himself on a minor, though obviously successful, ploy.
He scowled briefly, not because he felt any shame because of his small deception—far from it, he rather admired his cleverness in having thought of asking her to fly the kite with him—but because he suddenly experienced a strange sense of loss. For the second time in recent days. When was the first? he wondered. Of course, in the park when he had held the twine and watched the kite soar above the trees and then glanced at Deirdre, seeing her face aglow.
For a moment he had imagined himself a boy again and had savored that time in his life when everything seemed possible.
A drop of rain striking his forehead brought him from his reverie. Again glancing at Deirdre, her parasol still raised, he realized she was unaware that the storm no longer merely threatened but had arrived. Looking over his shoulder, he saw they were only a few hundred feet from the small dock and the path leading away from the river to the Pantheon.
Soon, he promised himself, very soon. “You must finish your champagne,” he said. “Once
uncorked, the wine soon becomes flat."
After drinking the last of her champagne, she put the glass aside, lowered and furled her parasol and then raised her hands heavenward as though to embrace the day. Suddenly she crossed her arms over her breasts and frowned. “I felt rain,” she said, “we must turn about."
"We have come too far to return in time to avoid a drenching. Look ahead of us, Deirdre, see the dock and the path. We can find shelter in the Pantheon, wait there until this shower passes over."
She started to protest, but when he dipped one oar deep into the water to swing the boat toward shore, she raised her parasol again and said nothing.
He asked himself, as he customarily did when he met an attractive and eligible young lady, what sort of wife this Deirdre Darrington would make. Even though he would one day become Lord Harmon of Harmon Hall, he had no intention of marrying merely for wealth and position. Why should he when he was already more than well-supplied with both? Nor would he marry only for that other reason often deemed a requisite for wedded bliss—particularly by females of the species—that over-rated, indefinable something called love.
His marriage, when the time finally came, would be for one primary purpose—the siring of a son and heir. His father had produced three sons, but only Edward had survived infancy. His wife must, perforce, be of sturdy stock and, from the look of her, Deirdre more than qualified. She would produce thoroughbreds.
Not that he completely eschewed romance. He would never make the grievous error committed by the Prince Regent and marry a woman he deemed to be ugly and unappealing. Good God, how ludicrous to select a future queen from sketches drawn by sycophantic artists! Edward intended to marry someone who appealed to him in a romantic way.
There were many such women and Deirdre was certainly one of them. He scoffed at those who claimed a man should love but one woman, a notion propagated, he supposed, by women of a literary bent. The idea was preposterous, completely absurd, and he suspected that even those who espoused it knew better than to believe or follow it.