by Farr, Diane
“My engagement to Eugenia is receiving a rather lukewarm reception in the bosom of my family, don’t you think?” he muttered. “Nobody seems to be breaking out the champagne or falling on my neck with tears of joy.”
“You must make allowances for them,” said Lilah, trying to reassure him. “A surprise of this nature is unsettling. When they become used to the idea, they will see that it’s all for the best.”
She glanced sideways at him. His mood had not visibly lightened. He was staring into the fire, frowning. The firelight edged the somber planes of his face in gold. “It is all for the best, isn’t it, Drake?” she asked, a catch in her voice.
He looked at her, then, his expression bleak. “I hope so. There’s no turning back, Lilah. She’s already written your father to give him the news.”
Her heart sank. “Oh.” Her hands twisted in her lap and she shivered again. “In that case, Drake, congratulations. I…I wish you happy.” She forced a smile, but he did not return it.
“Thank you,” he said tonelessly. His eyes met hers. The firelight leaped and burned, turning his eyes to molten gold, mesmerizing her. A strange ache formed at the core of Lilah’s being, tightening her throat as if with unshed tears. A profound sense of loss gripped her. If only things had been different. If only she and Drake could get along. If only…
But Nat Peabody’s good-humored voice broke into their tete-a-tete, calling out a suggestion that the company put together a game of commerce. Lilah was loath to offend her genial host, so she turned courteously and feigned enthusiasm for the idea. Drake’s negligent shrug was interpreted as his having no objection, so servants were called and a round table set up.
Lilah was careful to avoid sitting beside Drake, fearing that the temptation of his nearness might cause her to touch him more often than was necessary. She chose a place between Polly and Eugenia. Drake and Nat sat facing the women, and the game began.
Lilah did not expect to derive any real pleasure from a silly game of commerce. She was not in spirits, and braced herself for a tedious hour of pretending an enjoyment she did not feel. It was plain that Drake felt the same way she did, because he, unlike Lilah, took no pains to hide his surly mood. Eugenia dealt the cards and Drake, barely glancing at his hand, knocked on the table.
“What are you doing?” demanded Lilah, annoyed.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s how the game is played.”
“We haven’t played yet,” Lilah pointed out. “You can’t knock on the table until you have a winning hand.”
“I was dealt a winning hand.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “You always think that,” she said provocatively.
Drake leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Fortune favors me. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“It won’t favor you this time,” Lilah told him sweetly, studying her own cards with a knowing smirk. When the play came round to her, she bartered a card and waved it triumphantly.
Drake cupped a hand behind his ear. “I don’t hear you knocking.”
“Just you wait,” promised Lilah.
What followed was the most entertaining game of commerce Lilah had ever played. The cards flew thick and fast, with much shouting and laughter. Formality disappeared immediately; within ten minutes Lilah was calling the Peabodys Aunt Polly and Uncle Ned, as Eugenia and Drake did, and they were calling her Lilah. Eugenia smiled more often than she laughed and therefore kept her dignity throughout the game, but the Peabodys were as noisy as children. Their merriment was infectious, and Lilah and Drake’s competitive natures further enlivened the table with a bloodthirsty spirit that added tremendous excitement to the game.
It seemed that Drake, like Lilah, was constitutionally incapable of losing gracefully. Although they were playing for pennies, both played with a cutthroat intensity more appropriate for matters of life and death. Fortunately, they coupled this tendency with a lively sense of their own ridiculousness, so that their table-pounding and fist-shaking and cries for vengeance caused hilarity rather than ill-will.
When the servants entered with the tea tray, the players were startled to discover how late it had grown. The game broke up, tea was drunk, and everyone went to bed pleasantly tired.
After the candle was blown out, Polly leaned over and patted her husband’s shoulder in the dark. “Nat, dear. Thank you for not making a fuss over Eugenia’s change of partners.”
Nat grunted. “Can’t say I approve of it, for I don’t. Never thought Eugenia would use a fellow so ill.”
“No,” said Polly thoughtfully. “It’s very unlike her. But that’s what gives me pause. I wonder if she’s playing a deep game.”
“Hey?” Nat opened one eye. “Shouldn’t be playing a game of any sort. That’s my point.”
“And a good one it is,” agreed Polly. “But, still…I couldn’t help but notice…”
“Notice what?” asked Nat sleepily.
“Never mind, my love. Go to sleep.” Polly smiled into the dark. It would be cruel to keep Nat from his slumbers to discuss romantic entanglements, a subject he followed with difficulty when wide awake. But she had noticed that Drake and Lilah had eyes for no one but each other. And that Eugenia faded into the woodwork in their presence, seeming to allow it. Eugenia was not in the least ruffled when her supposed fiancé neglected her entirely for several hours, never even glancing her way, because his attention was completely riveted on another woman. This was strange. In fact, it was unnatural.
Eugenia must have something up her sleeve. Polly drifted off to sleep wondering what it was…and hoping that, whatever it was, it would cause a minimum of scandal.
Chapter 16
Lilah tapped the edge of her pen against her cheek, frowning. The sheet of foolscap on the desk top before her contained only the words, Dear Jonathan. She had never written to Mr. Applegate before in her life, which made the composition of this particular missive rather difficult. It was odd to begin a correspondence at such a critical juncture in their relationship. It was rather like starting a play with Act III.
In fact, it had taken her ten minutes to get past the Dear, since she wasn’t quite sure whether she should address Jonathan by his Christian name. Using Christian names was all very well in conversation, but there was something frightfully cheeky about putting it down in writing. She hoped, if he kept the letter, his future wife would not discover it and draw erroneous conclusions about their friendship.
Then, with a start, she remembered that she planned to be his future wife. In fact, that was the whole purpose of this letter. With a flush of annoyance at her mental lapse, she put pen to paper again. She had sat cogitating for so long, however, that the ink had dried.
Really, this wasn’t going well at all.
Delicacy had never been her strong suit. This task required a light, deft touch; a smidgen of diplomacy. Lilah’s talents in this area were nil. Still, she had to try. She must put words together in just the right way to convince Jonathan to leave his post immediately and fly to her side—without, of course, alarming him unduly. Once he arrived, she was certain that everything would fall into place. Getting him here was the hard part.
Dear Jonathan. Hmm. What should follow? I need you. No; that would frighten him into hiding. Papa needs you. No; he was too clever to fall for that trick. If Papa needed him, Papa would write the letter. My life is careening out of control and I am writing to you in utter panic. Her lips twitched. She didn’t dare write that, of course, but it had the advantage of being true.
She was becoming obsessed with Lord Drakesley. She needed a distraction, and she needed it now. High time she forced the issue. High time she weaseled a promise of marriage out of the elusive Mr. Applegate. For heaven’s sake, how could he object? Securing the hand of Delilah Chadwick would be a stunning achievement for a landless younger son—even if she did say so herself. As the world viewed such matters, all the advantage of the match would be on his side. People would wonder why a rich young gentlewoman—his employer’s onl
y child, no less—would agree to marry an obscure, gangly young man of scholarly habits and limited prospects.
For a few confused moments, even Lilah wondered why.
It would help if he had ever given her overtures the slightest encouragement, but Jonathan Applegate was a slippery fish, difficult to land. He dodged, with great good humor, her every attempt to flirt with him. Now, that took diplomacy. But it left Lilah without a single string to pull, even in an emergency like this.
By the time Miss Pickens’s timid knock sounded on Lilah’s bedchamber door, she was in a rare temper. She had tossed several wadded sheets of foolscap into the grate, hurling them with increasing force as her frustration level rose, and was no nearer completion than she had been an hour ago. “Come in!” she shouted. Her pen promptly snapped in half. She flung it down in disgust.
Miss Pickens peeked around the edge of the door, trepidation written across her features. “Dear me. Have I chosen a bad time?”
“No,” said Lilah shortly. “Sorry. It’s this wretched pen. Good riddance to it, I say.” She remembered her manners then, and waved Miss Pickens in. “Pray come in, Picky. Are you feeling better this morning?”
Miss Pickens’s thin face brightened as she closed the door behind her. “Never better, thank you. I slept very well last night. A delightful spot, isn’t it? And I must say, Mrs. Peabody is the kindest creature imaginable. She showed me all through the oldest portions of the abbey yesterday. Insisted on doing it herself; fancy that! As if she had nothing better to do than dance attendance on a stranger.”
“The Peabodys are amiable souls,” Lilah agreed, still feeling cross as crabs. A dot of black ink had spattered onto her wrist. She rubbed it absently with her handkerchief. “Did you go down to breakfast?”
“Yes, indeed. When you did not appear I thought I had better check on you. You are feeling all right, aren’t you, Lilah?” She peered anxiously at her former charge. “I must say, you don’t look quite yourself.”
Lilah rose and paced restlessly. “I don’t feel quite myself,” she admitted. “Perhaps I have a touch of influenza.”
Miss Pickens blinked doubtfully. “Do you really think so, dear?”
Lilah imagined long days in bed, sweltering under piles of comforters and choking down endless basins of gruel. It would remove her from Lord Drakesley’s path, but at what cost? She loathed being ill. “No,” she said at last, feeling crosser than ever.
“Well, I am relieved to hear you say so. The Peabodys have made a charming plan for the day’s entertainment, and it would be a pity if you missed it. A drive to see some very interesting Roman ruins, followed by a picnic luncheon! All very elegant, I daresay, as well as educational. I own, I am looking forward to the day with no small degree of pleasure.”
Lilah hid a smile. She suspected that Miss Pickens’s passion for history had influenced Aunt Polly in choosing the picnic destination. “I never saw you look forward to jouncing about in a carriage,” she teased.
Miss Pickens gave a tootling little laugh. “Oh! You are jesting, my dear. I never have any trouble in an open carriage.”
This, indeed, proved to be the case. Miss Pickens, almost incoherent with delight, was seated facing forward in the Peabodys’ barouche. It was a large barouche, seating three persons on each well-padded bench. The Peabodys shared the seat with Miss Pickens, leaving Drake, Lilah and Eugenia to face them, riding backwards. Uncle Nat made some jocular remark about the men’s luck, each being placed between two lovely ladies, but none of the young people gave him more than a strained smile in response. Emotions on the backward-facing bench ran high.
Lilah was grateful, for once, for Miss Pickens’s inexhaustible supply of small talk. Her old governess was so happy, included in a congenial party of persons she insisted on thinking of as her “betters,” riding with stately slowness, in the open air, toward a destination of historical interest, that she prattled and chirped like a canary in sunshine. Her joyous chatter filled what otherwise might have been an awkward silence. Lilah, for one, found conversation quite beyond her. She was acutely, almost painfully, aware of Drake’s long body pressing against her from shoulder to knee. Her fingers trembled on the handle of her parasol, causing it to flutter over her head in a way that the breeze could not quite account for.
She fixed her eyes, a bit glassily, on the road unwinding behind them. She dared not look to her left, where Drake sat. The sight of his massive thigh, encased in skin-tight pantaloons and just visible at the edge of her vision, was overpowering enough. She had difficulty following Miss Pickens’s remarks, but Eugenia and the Peabodys chimed in from time to time, so there was no need for Lilah to speak up. Thank heaven.
Drake was as silent as she. Did he share her agony? She thought he might. The idea was unbearably exciting. Feverish fantasies rippled through her mind, unbidden. If they were alone, she would turn to him. He would look down at her with those hot, golden eyes. His arm would slip behind her back. She would lift her face, daring him, and he would not resist her. His head would bend down to hers…
Merciful heavens. She was fantasizing about a man who had just become engaged. Not to mention, she reminded herself sternly, a man whom she did not like. Much. Oh, why did he have this effect on her? It wasn’t fair. Jonathan had never turned her all hot and cold and shaky, just by sitting beside her in a carriage.
The drive seemed interminable. And much too short.
The Roman ruins were just like every other set of Roman ruins, as far as Lilah could tell: nondescript mounds of rubble strewn about in a field. Miss Pickens, however, was transported by the sight. The instant she was handed down from the carriage she began quivering like a spaniel scenting game. Within seconds, she was trotting from hillock to hillock, magnifying glass and sketchbook in hand, apparently thrilled to the core of her being.
The others stood at the edge of the field for a few minutes. Polly watched Miss Pickens’s gyrations with an indulgent smile. “I do like to see Miss Pickens enjoying herself,” she remarked. “I fancy her preferences are not often considered, in the general way of things.”
Lilah immediately felt guilty. “She never complains,” she said quickly. “And we do try to accommodate her at home. Or, at the least, we inconvenience her as little as possible.”
“Oh! I wasn’t criticizing you, my dear,” said Polly. “I was only observing that a governess’s life—or the life of any indigent gentlewoman, for that matter—is no bed of roses. I like to pamper such women when I can.”
“Quite right, my pet,” said Nat approvingly. “I daresay it won’t harm us to view a few ruins, eh? Not my cup of tea, but I’ve no objection to obliging Miss Pickens. Very fine weather for it, too.” He offered his arm to his wife and they strolled off, their heads together as they chatted.
“What a dear old couple they are,” said Lilah impulsively. “It is impossible not to love them.”
“Yes,” said Eugenia’s soft voice, on the other side of Drake. “There is much we can learn from their example of lovingkindness.”
Lilah felt a stab of irritation. She had forgotten Eugenia’s existence for a moment, yet here she was, holding Drake’s arm and making pious remarks. And spoiling everything. Why couldn’t she have gone off with Uncle Nat and Aunt Polly? The woman would have Drake all to herself soon enough; surely there was no need to monopolize him now.
Eugenia tugged gently on her escort’s sleeve. “Drake, darling. May we explore a little?”
Was it Lilah’s imagination, or did Drake flinch when Eugenia called him darling? He seemed to collect himself with an effort, then look down at his fiancee as if bemused by her presence at his side. “Certainly,” he said. He then added, a bit lamely, “my dear.”
What was the man thinking? Lilah felt another twinge of annoyance. Did he want to marry Eugenia, or didn’t he? Did he love the creature, or didn’t he? And why on earth would he put everyone through this nonsense if he didn’t?
Drake and Eugenia headed out into the lumpy
grass. Feeling decidedly put-upon, Lilah trudged discontentedly in their wake. If Jonathan were here, she thought resentfully, I wouldn’t be walking alone. If Jonathan were here, I’d show Drake how it feels to be ignored. If Jonathan were here—
Lilah squeaked aloud as her thin-soled shoes slid on the wet grass and she stumbled. Drake was at her side in a flash, pulling her upright with his strong arms, steadying her.
“My hero,” she declared weakly. She was trying to make a joke, but nobody laughed.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. No. I just—” She swallowed hard. “I just twisted my foot a bit.”
It wasn’t pain that was causing her to cling to him. It was need. He was holding her, his eyes searing her, the heat radiating from his body turning her dizzy and faint. Oh, this was ghastly. Eugenia was standing right over there, watching them. She would guess soon, if she hadn’t already, the powerful force drawing Lilah to Drake. She must get a grip on herself, she really must.
She tore her eyes from Drake’s and jerked out of his arms, pointing a shaky finger at the parasol she had dropped. “If you please,” she said. Her lips felt stiff as she struggled to hide her emotions.
Drake picked up the parasol, shook it out, and handed it to her. “Here you go,” he said gruffly. “No harm done. You’re sure you weren’t injured?”
Before she knew what he was about, he had dropped to one knee and taken her foot in his hands. She gasped with surprise, then had to grab his shoulders to keep her balance as he lifted her foot and placed it on his thigh, gently probing it with his fingers.
She blushed. She couldn’t help it. She was terrified that Eugenia would see how Drake’s touch affected her. There was something astonishingly intimate about the way he ran his thumbs across the top of her foot, over and under her ankles, and back along both sides of the arch. It felt so wonderful, she longed to tell him that something hurt, just so he would go on touching her.