by Nicole Byrd
Chapter 13
The next day was fair, the air warm, with only a light breeze lifting the ribbons on Psyche’s hat as she walked down the steps. Gabriel took her hand as she climbed into the open barouche; Aunt Sophie was already enthroned upon the other side of the rear seat; Psyche sat down beside her aunt, and Gabriel took his place on the opposite side, facing them.
At first, he had been strangely reluctant to agree to the outing. “You should go,” he’d agreed when she’d first broached the subject at breakfast, appearing in the dining room earlier than usual to find him sitting at the long dining room and sipping a cup of coffee all alone. He had stood to make his bow and listened to her explanation, taking a moment before replying. “You should go; I’m sure you will enjoy the company of your friends.”
Psyche had narrowed her eyes; what was he playing at, now?
“And you would not enjoy meeting more of my friends?” she asked, her voice a little cool.
“I thought you didn’t want me to appear in public more than was necessary?” he countered. “Your cousin–”
”Sally thinks we will only reinforce the effect of Percy’s suspicions if we stay too much at home. And I have decided that she is right.” Psyche had lifted her well-shaped chin, as if daring him to argue.
The idea of getting out of the house, out of London, past the danger of lurking eyes and well-paid assassins, sounded too good to be true. Something nagged at him, but he brushed his misgivings aside. Who was being too cautious now? He had been sitting at the table, watching through the pane how the breeze stirred the ivy that grew up the stone and poked its green tendrils above the window sill. He would like nothing more than to be out in the countryside on such a day, with this fair-haired beauty on his arm.
“Very well, I am at your disposal,” he had told her.
Psyche nodded, and told him what time they would be leaving, then retraced her steps to the upper floor to make sure Aunt Sophie had had her morning tray and would be dressed in good time.
“Drive on,” Psyche called now to the driver. The servant flicked his reins, and the pair of matched grays set out at a decorous pace; behind the team, the well-sprung barouche rolled smoothly across the paving stones. The street was crowded again on such a agreeable day, so they could not have made better speed even if they had wished. Aunt Sophie nodded at an acquaintance who rode past them in an old-fashioned coach; she did not care for excessive speed and would be pleased with the sedateness of their passage.
Psyche could not imagine that a man in his prime would enjoy such a stodgy pace, however. He would probably have preferred to ride. “I’m sorry we do not have a suitable mount for you in our stables,” Psyche murmured to their male passenger.
Gabriel grinned at her, the slight lifting of the lips which always seemed to denote some mischievous thought. “I am well content,” he told her.
She could not know the vision she made, Gabriel told himself. Today Psyche wore a pale muslin dress sprigged with green, and a paler spring green spencer over it, with a matching parasol that made her eyes seem as strongly blue as the cloud-free canopy above them. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled.
He also felt energized, free at last of his self-imposed sequestration, and he took a deep breath, savoring the odors of London, from the savory smell of the hot pie vendor and the sweetness of cherry blossoms in the park they passed, even to the stench from a steaming pile of horse manure that a street-sweeper had not yet scraped aside to spare the thin soles of a pair of ladies about to cross the avenue.
He was back in England at long last; soon, he would be the master of his own estate, and the old shame would be put aside. He would show his father that the patriarch had been wrong about the son he had turned out so unmercifully, to sink or swim all alone. Gabriel had survived, despite the odds against him, and he was here, ready to retake his place in his rightful level of society. And when he did, could he dare to think of wooing a lady like the beauty who sat in front of him?
Psyche said something to her aunt, oblivious of his speculation. Just as well, Gabriel told himself. He had any number of obstacles to overcome before he could consider asking for anyone’s hand, much less for someone as desirable as the wealthy and ravishing Miss Hill–
No, better be practical. But he was here now, and he could enjoy the day. The air was balmy, and the breeze just enough to refresh them.
He glanced over his shoulder at the well-chosen team that drew their carriage, then turned back to enjoy the vision of loveliness before him. The vision was gazing at the houses they passed by, a distant look in her eyes as if she did not really see them. What was she thinking, the lovely Psyche? How could she have withstood the charms of all the suitors whom her beauty, not to say her wealth, must have attracted? Percy and his father not withstanding, what was wrong with the men of London that Miss Psyche Hill was still unwed? But thank God for whatever ailed them, Gabriel thought. Otherwise, he could not have taken part in the fortuitous masquerade, could not have relished his odd role as a fiancé who would never become a husband.
He remembered that he had told himself to put aside these thoughts, and he turned his head to gaze at the houses that were becoming more scattered as they at last left London behind. The road was still dotted with carriages as other Londoners also escaped the city; a chaise followed them, and behind that, a shabby little gig that looked somewhat out of place. Soon the houses fell away and there was open land around them, cows and sheep grazing on green meadows, and birds flying up from the hedgerows as their barouche rolled forward, the team of horses clipping along at an increased pace.
He had forgotten how beautiful England could be in the spring.
“You are smiling,” Psyche said, sounding almost surprised.
“Have I been so forbidding that you have never seen me smile?” He gazed at her, dark brows slightly raised.
Psyche bit her lip. She should have held her tongue; the barrier he always girded himself with was back. “Of course not,” she said slowly. “I have seen you smile many times, but not like that. You looked–at ease, as if you were among friends.”
“And why shouldn’t he be?” Aunt Sophie demanded. “Don’t talk nonsense, child. I am feeling warm; did my maid put in the bottle of lavender water?”
By the time Psyche had located the bottle, and her aunt had sprinkled a fine lawn handkerchief with the scented water and patted her temples, Psyche had lost any chance at observing Gabriel unnoticed. For the rest of the ride, he remarked upon the tranquility of the countryside or listened politely to Sophie’s stories of her childhood and the country house she had shared with her siblings and parents, but the unguarded smile did not return.
What had driven him away, Psyche wondered, not for the first time. If it was not gambling, what scandal, what transgression could have uprooted him from his own home, his native country?
The simplest method would be simply to ask him, but she had seen the reserve that deepened when she queried, even obliquely, about his past, especially about his English connections. Gabriel would not willingly disclose his iniquities, of that she was certain. But the notion that she might be allowing a dangerous man to have regular conversation with her little sister still bothered Psyche. As for herself, why, that was another matter. She could certainly take care of herself. Gabriel had been heaven-sent to take up the pose of her fiancé; it was merely a business arrangement, she assured herself. When she had her inheritance, she would make him a handsome settlement, and they would part.
For some reason, this thought did not cheer her as much as it used to, when she had wistfully dreamed of being free of her uncle’s control and her cousin’s courtship. Sighing, Psyche watched a lark rise into the blue sky, looking wonderfully free and untrammeled. Someday, she would feel that way again, Psyche told herself, and it would be worth all the hassle and danger of scandal.
Perhaps, she thought, nodding absently to a remark from her aunt, Gabriel’s scandal was not much more than she ri
sked herself. No, that couldn’t be. Aside from the fact that he would have had no need to conjure up a fake betrothal, men could face down social disgrace much easier than women; her mother would have said it was terribly unjust, but there it was. Psyche knew all too well that women must toe a fine line; hadn’t her own mother, the most chaste and honorable person of Psyche’s acquaintance, been whispered about abominably just because her views on education and rights for women were so unusual?
She bit her lip and looked up to see her aunt frown. “I was right, then,” the older lady said. “This scarf is too bright to have by my face. Do I look too pale?”
“No, no, that shade of lavender is quite lovely,” Psyche assured her relative. She forced her mind back to more mundane topics and discussed fashion with her aunt until they arrived at
the Countess of Sutton’s estate. Their carriage drew into the long driveway and made its way up to the house, where several other vehicles were disgorging passengers.
Gabriel stepped down from the barouche quickly and helped the ladies out. Aunt Sophie saw a friend at once, and Psyche had only time to smile her thanks to him before she had to follow her aunt and make polite conversation.
They were all directed by a footman into the house, where the ladies paused to check their reflections in the mirror–Psyche found that one blond lock had slipped out of the twist that held back her hair, and she pushed it back into place and hoped it would stay–before going outside again to the formal gardens at the side of the house.
Aunt Sophie spoke to their hostess, and then Psyche introduced Gabriel, trying not to blush as the Countess, who was the mother of six rambunctious children and had grown somewhat stout, eyed the man on Psyche’s arm with frank appreciation.
“You’ve done well for yourself, my dear,” their hostess remarked with her usual lack of tact. “Much better favored than your chinless cousin. Well done!”
Psyche knew that her cheeks were blazing. “Thank you, Lady Sutton,” she murmured.
“You should have very handsome children,” the other woman continued, eying Gabriel as if he were a prize bull.
Psyche had her hand tucked into Gabriel’s arm, and she felt it shake slightly. Hoping he would not disgrace them both by laughing aloud, she escaped as soon as she could, giving way to other new arrivals, and they walked rapidly off toward the tables and chairs that had been set out on the smooth lawn.
She tried to draw her hand away, but Gabriel held it fast. “Don’t be so cold, dear Miss Hill,” he murmured. “We have, after all, a charge to fulfill–we must start those beautiful babies very soon.”
“I think not,” she said, her tone icy.
She retrieved her hand as a footman held out a silver tray and offered them their choice of slender crystal glasses filled with pale liquid. “Have a glass of champagne.”
Not that he needed the sparkling wine to lift his spirits, Psyche thought crossly. For some reason, Gabriel seemed very merry. “Come,” he said now, sipping his wine. “Let us go and admire the daffodils.”
She accepted his escort through the thick garden wall toward the flower beds, but made sure to stop and greet everyone she saw, determined that people should know that she was out in company with her fiancé. Let Percy put that into his slanderous mouth, and she hoped he choked on it!
But taking Gabriel into company was not such a simple matter as she had imagined. The women, married or not, tended to flock around him, captivated by his looks and charm.
“Miss Hill, we are so glad to see you out,” said a woman whom Psyche barely knew. “I missed you sadly at the theater party Monday night.”
“I was indisposed,” Psyche said, trying to keep her tone even as the woman simpered and smiled at Gabriel. She could have said, ‘I had a trained monkey in my drawing room,’ and the woman would hardly have noticed, Psyche thought.
Mrs. Cunningham joined them, with her two daughters, both of marriageable age and both, sadly, possessing a slight squint. “Miss Hill, so lovely to see you,” the matron gushed. “Do introduce us to your charming fiancé.”
“Lord Tarrington, Mrs. Cunningham, Miss Cunningham, and Miss Lavidia Cunningham,” Psyche said obediently.
Gabriel made his bow to all three women. The two girls blushed and batted their eyelashes, and their mother beamed. What business did they have flirting with an engaged man, Psyche thought, irritated again. At least, as far as they knew, he was spoken for.
Yet another trio of ladies joined them; they were going to look ridiculous, Psyche thought. And how could these women have so little sense. Just because he had such amazing good looks, they had no idea of his character or his heart! If they knew what–
Someone tapped her arm, and Psyche looked around, frowning. It was Sally Forsyth.
“Do you wish an introduction to my charming fiancé, too?” Psyche demanded, grinning reluctantly as Sally laughed. She stepped back to talk to her friend and allowed the bevy of women to flock even closer to Gabriel, who appeared to be accepting all the attention with a regrettable calm.
“If you were not my best friend, I would certainly try to cut you out,” Sally agreed cheerfully.
“I’m sure your husband would approve,” Psyche said drily.
“Oh, my sweet Andrew would never notice,” Sally said fondly. “He’s sitting back there in the shade of an oak tree. It’s too fatiguing to walk about in the sun, he says. Anyhow, he lets me do whatever I wish.”
“Which is why you accepted his proposal in the first place, no doubt,” Psyche noted.
Sally pursed her pretty lips into a playful pout. “Why, you fiend, to say such a thing. Just because it’s–almost–true. I was having such fun being courted, I hated to give it up, you know. And the most passionate romances in the Ton, I have found out, occur after one has married.”
Psyche was startled. “Sally, you wouldn’t?”
“Of course not, I am very fond of my Andrew,” her friend said. “And he’s very generous with my dress allowance. But that doesn’t mean one can’t flirt. And if I ever did decide to stray, I can tell you, your husband-to-be would be high on my list.”
“Yours and every other woman’s within a stone’s throw, from the look of it,” Psyche said, her tone dark as she glanced back at Gabriel, still surrounded by women. “I think I have unleashed a monster.”
Sally’s light laughter trilled. “Come, let us walk a little away from them; otherwise, they will say you are jealous, and that would seem very provincial.”
“I’m not sure he’s safe to leave,” Psyche protested, but she followed Sally toward another display of flowers and pretended to admire the showy blossoms.
“It’s a heavenly day,” Sally was saying, glancing up at the clear skies from beneath her wide-brimmed hat with its fashionable trim of ostrich feathers. “Oh lord, do look at Mrs. Tweaton’s maize-colored turban; she looks like an over-ripe stalk of wheat.”
“Hush, she’ll hear you,” Psyche protested, but she laughed unwillingly. Sally was quite right. The thin woman with the green gown and the gold turban could have easily blended into a field of grain.
“I’m glad to see you relaxing, you know,” her friend said, some of her native shrewdness showing in her expression as she let her usual frivolous mask slip a little. “You’ve been much too prim and sedate since your parents’ death.”
Psyche frowned and looked down, allowing her hat to hide her face.
Sally’s voice was gentle. “I know it was a harsh blow, my dear. But if you can learn to enjoy life again, I will be most thankful for your new find.” She smiled, and her impish tone returned. “Not to mention that you’ve provided us all with a sinfully gorgeous man to brighten the social landscape.”
“You scamp,” Psyche said, and ignored the reference to her parents’ death. It was still painful to discuss, and Sally knew it, so the subject veered back to the inconsequential. When they were joined by a young sprig of fashion who seemed to be Sally’s latest flirt, Psyche let the other two talk and
allowed her thoughts to wander.
Had she really become too prim, too guarded, as Sally said? She remembered that Gabriel had remarked upon her sedateness. Irked, Psyche glanced covertly from her own perfectly stylish muslin gown to Sally’s. Perhaps Sally’s neckline was cut a bit lower, perhaps her bodice was a tiny bit more fitted. Did Gabriel really see Psyche as boring and staid? It shouldn’t concern her, she scolded herself, but the reflection did not please her.
She roused herself to answer a query from Sally.
“What shall you be, Psyche? Mr. Denver, here, is coming as a highwayman.” Sally dimpled as she gave the young man one of her best smiles. “Unless I persuade him otherwise.”
“Um, I haven’t decided yet,” Psyche said, trying to find her way back into the conversation. What was Sally talking about?
Her friend seemed to read her confusion. “Our big masked ball, silly. My household has been all astir. I have been working madly on the plans for weeks.”
“You mean your housekeeper and butler and the rest of the servants have been working madly,” Psyche corrected, smiling as her friend made a face.
“No, no, I dictated the list of guests myself, and it was sadly fatiguing, let me tell you!”
“You poor thing,” Mr. Denver said, gazing soulfully at Sally’s pretty pout.
She gave him a roguish smile, then turned back to Psyche. “But what shall you be, my dear? My costume is a secret, you must not ask. Although, perhaps I will reconsider my plan. I could dress as Persephone, and perhaps Lord Tarrington can come as Pluto, lord of the underworld.”
“What do you say that?” Psyche demanded, a little too sharply.
Sally blinked in surprise. “Why, he has that dangerous look, don’t you know. Don’t worry, it only makes him more attractive.”
Psyche looked back at the crowd of women still hiding Gabriel’s well-shaped form; only the top of his head could be detected amidst the flock of nodding plumes and high-crowned hats.
“I don’t doubt that,” she agreed, her tone wry. “But if anyone should be Persephone, I think that should be me, Sally.”