Because one of the symptoms seemed to be restless pacing. He was not a meanderer by nature, a person who moved purposelessly to expend energy. But he’d arrived in the churchyard before the bells even rang to call the town to services, and this was precisely what he did: walked among the ancient crooked headstones, counting the number of Redmonds and Everseas who had died in the town since 1500. Quite a few people named Hawthorne were buried there, too. Two or three Endicotts. Someone named Ethelred. He wondered how many of them had killed each other while a discreet messenger engaged by Postlethwaite ferried his gift over to Redmond House, with instructions to hand it to a footman, who would then deposit it with their odd silent discretion outside the chamber door of Miss Phoebe Vale.
Finally irritated by the pacing and by the evidence of mortality all around him, Jules went inside even before the bells were rung and took a seat in the Redmond pews.
He hadn’t been a churchgoer since it had been a compulsory childhood activity. The pews were still as hard as penance itself, and dug themselves with what he suspected was meant to be a purifying pain into his thighs and into an awkward place on his back. It was a squat little church, probably one of the first things built when the first Eversea and Redmond took a crack at each other’s skulls in 1066, and it contained a delicious hush, seasoned by thousands of prayers, births and deaths and weddings.
Moments later there was what could only be described as a sedate stampede, primarily of women, and he watched them avidly, with burning eyes. Mostly he watched their heads. His palms were actually damp. He surreptitiously pressed them against his thighs. He’d never been more enthralled by bonnets, more aware of their staggering variety of flowers and ribbons and shapes.
And he’d never seen so many shining female faces instantly pointed raptly in one direction in a church. He followed them, expecting to see the North Star or a grail of some sort. Instead, a lanky chap with silvery fair hair and long, fine-boned handsome face and the sort of blue eyes that projected across the room like sunlight through stained glass windows stood up there. He wore his cassock with the same panache as the marquess wore Weston. As though he was born to it. And something about the way he looked out at the congregation . . . something about the way he stood . . . made Jules suspect he had a sense of humor.
He nodded at Jules, who nodded back.
In came the Eversea contingent, Jacob and Isolde, the infamous Colin and his wife. He was acquainted with them, but not well, and everyone—that meant the whole of England—knew who Colin was.
When he saw Isaiah Redmond enter he thought his heart would stop. He was followed by Fanchette Redmond, Jonathan and Lord Argosy, Lisbeth . . . where his eyes lingered, for she had that beauty that caught one’s eye like a hook, and who couldn’t help but respond to it? She looked like an angel reporting for duty. Lisbeth saw him, and her eyes brightened and her smile was white and precisely measured, as though she had a specific smile for every occasion, like a doctor has tools for surgery.
But he couldn’t help it. He looked past her, eagerly and . . .
Hallelujah! She was wearing the bonnet.
His heart leaped like a spectator at a triumphant cricket match.
And she really did look wonderful in it, but then again, that could have something to do with the smile she was wearing along with it. It was all of a piece to him. She walked in her own light through the door of the church.
She cast her eyes up at him from the shelter of the bonnet and found him, of course, immediately. Because his gaze could have burned a hole through her.
Their gazes locked, lingered. He thought her cheeks went rosier. But her smile was such a thing of pure, saucy delight he only noticed when the bells stopped ringing that he’d gone breathless. He suddenly had a terrible suspicion that his cheeks were rosier, too. Dear God. Because he was definitely warm.
Her eyes darted to the left. And to the right. And then, as surreptitiously as she was able . . . she saluted him.
He grinned.
Lisbeth noticed none of this and naturally thought the grin was all for her and beamed radiantly in his direction, tipping her head fondly.
Which caused an immediate mass swiveling of heads to get a look at whom her beam was directed.
He was aware of the collective rustling of silk flowers and muslin shifting on the polished pews, like a breeze through wheat. He could almost hear the muscles in necks creaking with the strain of turning in order to gulp down the sight of him. All those eyes. He was accustomed to eyes, but he could hardly snuff out his grin in an instant without injuring Lisbeth’s feelings, or at the very least, confusing her.
Oh, God.
And yet he wasn’t a beamer by nature, either. When he smiled people tended to buckle with relief or fawn. It would never do to allow the world at large to think he was suddenly easily pleased. A gratuitous smiler, for heaven’s sake.
He decided he’d best turn it into something like unspecific beneficence. He rotated his head much the way one might swing a lantern to search for smugglers off the coast. Isaiah and Fanchette and Jonathan Redmond were all caught in the beam of it. Jonathan flinched and looked tempted to throw up an arm. Likely he was hung over and startled by the glare.
Phoebe had ducked her head. He had the distinct impression she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
And at last, all the heads swiveled back to the handsome vicar, restless for their weekly long look at him.
Adam Sylvaine, the new vicar of Pennyroyal Green, had the perfect voice for the job, at once soothing and conversational, commanding and resonant. And he was speaking today on, of all things . . . covetousness.
More than one bum shifted uncomfortably, certain he was talking directly to them but forgiving him at the same time, given that he was what many of the ladies in the congregation coveted.
The marquess’s wasn’t one of the shifting bums. He was staring at the back of a bonnet. He was riveted by the few inches of fair neck exposed between a lace collar and the straw curve of the hat. It seemed the most significant few inches of skin he’d ever seen. The glittering fair hair that traced it mesmerized him, and all he could think now was what it would be like to put his lips there, just there, in that sweet bend between her chin and throat. To touch his tongue to the silkiness. And watch the gooseflesh rise over her arms, and her nipples peak beneath the muslin, and—
Hardly the sort of thoughts one ought to have in church. And for good physiological reasons. He shifted; the pew obligingly dug punitively into his back and he returned to admiring the Redmond profiles, like one ordered to read scripture.
It was decided (by Lisbeth) that they would all go out for a long healthy walk with sketchbooks after church to see the ruins, and return for a hearty breakfast. She secretly thought she looked well when her cheeks were pink with exercise, and she was quite right, of course. She did.
The men were less enthusiastic about the healthful walk than they were about the opportunity to shoot something, grouse or some such. So they congregated on the groomed parkland and waited for Jonathan, who ambled slowly toward them from a distance. Plodding at his side was what appeared to be a dog. A very fat hound.
As they drew nearer, it was clear the hound was ancient. It had gray round its muzzle and huge watery eyes.
“What is that?” Argosy was suspicious.
“It’s a dog,” Jonathan said defensively.
“Well, it’s barely that. What is the dog in aid of? It can hardly fend off attacking beasts. Has it any teeth? It might not be able to hold a game fowl.”
The dog gazed up at Argosy with eyes full of soulful contempt.
Jules eyed it critically. “It seems to have been enjoying a quiet retirement before you rousted it, Jonathan.”
“When one goes out hunting, one ought to have a dog,” Jonathan insisted. “And father has his own hounds out on a shooting party with the neighbors. How are we going to flush birds?”
Jules shrugged. “Very well, if this
is all the hound we have. It may surprise us with hidden talents.”
Their party trudged forth. The ruins were at the end of a long hike through a very fine wood, growing increasingly thick the deeper in they walked, and since they were enjoying a crisp, clear autumn day, there were no complaints for quite some time. Just cheerful chatter from Lisbeth and pleasant acknowledgment of her chatter from Jules, who nodded and added “you don’t say?” in appropriate places while devoting most of his energies to admiring the back of Phoebe Vale and the bonnet.
The complaints began to trickle in as the wood thickened, when it seemed Lisbeth had meandered off course in her insistence that her ruins were in a particular direction, and when it became clear that Waterburn and Jonathan and Argosy had been optimistic to bring muskets as the hound wasn’t likely to flush anything. Game foul were likely watching it trudge by and snickering beneath their wings.
The path narrowed, so that they could only proceed two by two, and when Lisbeth and Jonathan began to bicker about the proper direction, Jules dropped back and strode alongside Miss Vale.
Silently, for some time. She said nothing.
He said nothing.
But she was wearing a small, secretive, impish, and very pleased little smile.
“I like your bonnet very much, Miss Vale,” he said finally.
“Do you? It’s new, you know.”
“Hardly new. I’m given to understand that a certain young lady nearly stared holes in it before I purchased it. You can count yourself fortunate it remains intact.”
She smiled. “One might say the same thing about you, my lord, given how a gathering tends to stare at you.”
He laughed. Lisbeth, from far up ahead, turned her head over her shoulder and sent him a look from between her lashes. He thought he’d seen Miss Violet Redmond use that very look on suitors. It was an excellent look, indeed. He smiled reflexively and she turned again, satisfied with the attention for the time being.
He turned to discover that Phoebe had neatly ducked out of sight behind a tree. He ought to feel guilty for being so complicit. Instead, he was nervous for another reason entirely.
Jules, with great trepidation, asked the question he’d been dreading. “Is it the right bonnet?”
She let him suffer for a second or so. Or at least that’s how it seemed.
“It’s the right one.”
He just nodded. Too relieved, too elated—in truth, too confused—to speak. He just wanted to admire her in her bonnet. The desire baffled and irritated him, and all at once he felt a peculiar pressure welling.
“Tell me, Lord Dryden . . . does it suit me?”
She was flirting. Suddenly it felt like torture, because he was so strangely raw and exposed.
“I don’t know,” he said irritably. “Is it meant to improve you?”
She swiveled toward him, eyes wide with shock.
“Because nothing could,” he added.
Her mouth dropped in astonishment. Blotchy scarlet rushed her complexion. One would have thought he’d shot her.
Oh dear God!
He realized belatedly how wrong it had sounded.
“No! God . . . that is to say . . . nothing is necessary to improve you. Nothing could possibly make you better . . . than you already are.”
It was a staggering compliment, both in its clumsiness and magnitude and its sheer honesty. It had been forged somewhere inside him immune from sense.
He was appalled.
Silence fell hard. Once again, he’d managed to shock both of them.
He wished he could unsay it. The aftermath was too unnerving.
He looked ahead at Lisbeth and Jonathan and the hound, at Argosy and Waterburn, and tried to remember how he’d felt about things, about anything at all, before he’d arrived here in Pennyroyal Green. He considered how much simpler it would be to return to that time, and knew it was already too late.
And then Phoebe drew in such a long fortifying breath he could almost feel the crisp air entering her lungs so aware was he of her. He finally got up the courage to steal a glance. The words had made her face luminous, and set her eyes ablaze. But her eyebrows were faintly troubled.
She said nothing.
He found that lavender ribbon tied beneath her chin unaccountably moving. Such a pretty thing for someone who’d hailed from Seven Dials, the most notorious district in London. No wonder she’d yearned for it.
“So. Seven Dials,” he said almost brightly.
She smiled a small smile and shook her head slightly at his tone.
“How does one go from Seven Dials to Pennyroyal Green? Were you a delightful orphan child scooped up and born off by a generous benefactor?”
“I was not. I was a thoroughgoing termagant. I was very unpleasant and wild. Though I suppose I was scooped up.”
“Imagine a thoroughgoing termagant using phrases like ‘thoroughgoing termagant.’ When you were scooped up, you were only . . .”
“Ten years old. They had to put out a snare like a wild hare to catch me on the streets of St. Giles. They left a crust of bread as a lure. I dangled by one ankle up in the air for a time until they cut me down and whisked me off to Miss Marietta Endicott’s for reforming.”
He was so delighted with this image he couldn’t speak for a moment. “You didn’t. They didn’t.”
“Very well. Metaphorically speaking, then. Why do you want to know?”
“Are you going to begin demanding more gifts for snippets of your tale? Because I warn you, I cannot surpass the one I’ve given you. And a bargain is a bargain, Miss Vale. I’ll have your story, please.”
She smiled one of those slow smiles that took over her whole face. She was clearly trying not to laugh.
Lisbeth turned her head around then, her hands full of autumn flowers. White lacy things, lady’s-tresses, he thought they were called. She held them up to her cheek as if to test for softness, and tipped her face against them. It was an enchanting image, marred only by the fact that he suspected she knew it was enchanting. She smiled saucily and pranced forward to catch up to Jonathan and Argosy.
That was when he’d noticed that Phoebe stopped and looked about interestedly, ducking behind a tree again, so Lisbeth couldn’t see her.
He bit back a smile.
“I think wild sage grows about this area,” she said suddenly. “It smells wonderful, you know.”
“It might. It does. You were saying about your childhood in Seven Dials?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Are you really so invested in preserving your mythology?”
“As invested as you are in preserving yours.”
“And yet I told you things. About humidors and the like.”
“Our lives were very different, Lord Dryden. I don’t think you’ll—”
“Understand? Don’t condescend to me, Miss Vale. You’re afraid I’ll judge you. The way you judged me.”
This actually made her a bit angry, he could see, because her pace accelerated and her jaw grew tense and she seemed very focused on whatever was straight ahead of her.
“Very well. It was a very long time ago, mind you. And I was ten years old.”
“And your parents?”
“Well, they left, didn’t they? One at a time.” She’d said it brightly, but the breathlessness in her voice told him it had been difficult for her to say it.
“Did they?” He tried not to soften his voice. She, he suspected, was the sort who would grow restive if subjected to overt sympathy.
“Papa first. We lived in rooms above a pub. He just . . . stopped coming home. Mama was arrested for picking pockets and was transported, or so I was told, by the prostitute who kept rooms upstairs. All I know is that she disappeared one day, too. I didn’t want to go to the workhouse and so I fled and lived with a series of other . . . characters . . . until someone, a gentleman who I believe now was someone’s man of affairs, determined I was clever and swept me away to Sussex, kicking and biting, I mi
ght add. I was installed at Miss Marietta Endicott’s academy. I still don’t know who my benefactor was.”
Christ.
It was a good deal to absorb, but he couldn’t remain silent too long or she would know how it had affected him: like a swift kick to his gut. Would that he could undo all of that for her, remake her life with safety and family.
“Do you have any other relatives? Any brothers or sisters?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“You’ve no one.”
He instantly regretted saying it just like that. For she blinked as surely as if he’d jabbed a finger into a wound.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said a moment later. “I’ve a cat.”
This took him aback. He took the view that cats were work animals, and occupied a place just slightly above the vermin they caught. They lived in barns.
“What is its name?” He wanted to know about her cat.
“His name is Charybdis. He came with me from St. Giles. He’s a bit elderly for a cat, now, I suppose. Still quite spry, however.”
“You named your cat for a . . . a sea monster?” From somewhere in the mists of memory of Eaton days he wracked his brain to remember the mythology. Between Scylla and Charybdis, so the saying went, when one was between two unattractive choices. Charybdis was a nymph-turned-sea monster, daughter of Poseidon, who gulped down ships.
“That’s how they knew I was clever.” Very dryly said. “My cat’s name. Quite a mouthful.”
“But how did you learn to read? Let alone Greek mythology?”
“An apothecary in St. Giles by the name of McBride gave me a picture book of myths that had . . . well, let’s just say, it came his way through one of his customers. I suspect he told one of his customers about me, too, which is how some tender-hearted person decided I should be sent to Sussex and Miss Endicott’s. And my mother could read—I don’t know where she learned, but I always took it for granted that she could—and I would follow along with the story as she read it to me. I suppose I must have learned my letters that way. All I know is that reading came easily to me, and I liked it.”
How the Marquess Was Won Page 11