by Julie Beard
The only time Liza ever saw Barrington smile genuinely was when he was shuffling cards. In any other environment his gray eyes darted about, impatient with everything, settling on nothing for very long.
"In a few weeks," he continued, thrusting his hands in his pockets, "after we announce our intended nuptials, we can make our union official in the way that counts the most."
She blinked several times, then caught his dreadful drift, though she didn't let on.
"What do you mean?"
His mouth widened to show a gap-toothed grin. "Oh, come, my dear, don't tell me you're that naive. It's not
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uncommon for two people who are engaged to warm the bed before the ceremony."
The image of making love to Lord Barrington made her queasy, and she gripped the table for support. She swallowed hard. "No, I have not heard that," she lied.
"It's true." He sauntered forward and trailed a finger down her neck to the V of her plush bosom. It made her skin crawl.
"Don't, my lord."
"Oh, Liza, do not be such a prude." His fingers fanned out over her breast and he squeezed.
She grabbed his wrist and flung it away. "I have no intention of doing anything before it is absolutely necessary, and then only as often as necessary."
He reached under her hair with one hand and swooped for a sensual kiss. His tongue churned in her mouth like a chimney sweep with a feather duster. When he pulled her closer, she thought she'd suffocate. Not knowing what else to do, she bit his grotesque tongue, just hard enough to elicit a yelp. He jumped back.
"Hell! What the devil?"
She wiped the back of her hand across the saliva he'd left on her mouth and blinked innocently. "Did I do something wrong? Isn't that how it's done?"
He stared at her venomously, touched his tongue, and when his fingers showed no blood, he sullenly took out a jade snuffbox. He loaded the tobacco in the crook of his thumb and snorted it loudly. He sniffed again as the perfumed mixture penetrated the membranes of his nose.
"I see that you are very inexperienced, my dear," he said, smiling mirthlessly. "You should have asked Desiree to teach you a thing or two."
"Don't ever speak to me of her again," Liza hissed,
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smacking him hard on the cheek. When he merely laughed, she turned and hugged her upper arms, hating herself for letting him bring so much gracelessness out in her. He would take her down to his level one way or the other. It was simply a matter of time.
He smiled sweetly. "Poor Liza. Just a silly virgin. Don't worry, darling, I'll teach you everything I know."
He left then without saying good-bye, thankfully having forgotten the letter. She nevertheless tore open the drawer and ripped the half-written missive to shreds. She could not embroil the unwitting Mr. Fairchild in her miserable life. It was too late for comfort. All there was left to do was dream of what might have been and prepare for the horrible prospect of consummating her marriage to the despicable Viscount Barrington.
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That evening, Jack accepted the Paleys' invitation to dinner. They lived in what was once known as Deerfield Rectory a few miles out of town. The house was typical of the stone dwellings in the Cotswolds, a quaint and sturdy home surrounded by green fields and wildflowers. It was the sort of place where one could almost smell the sunset and hear the woods sigh at night as the trees settled into slumber.
As Jack approached in his carriage, he breathed deeply the calming country air and prepared himself for the bittersweet visit he knew awaited him. For his cousin had the one thing Jack would never have, what he never even considered having—a happy marriage. Seeing Arthur Pa-ley's contentment always made Jack feel hollow, half-lived, and though he enjoyed these infrequent visits, before they were through he was always anxious for a breath of London's foul air and some sort of affirmation
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that his cynical outlook on life was justified.
Jack was warmly greeted by his cousin, Arthur, a decent-looking and lanky man of unexceptional ambition, and his entire brood of twelve children. The boys all looked ruddy and obedient, and the girls were fair and sweet. Standing in a row, they looked like a living staircase, ascending from high to low. What a picture they made! Just like a painting, Jack thought, wistfully coveting the life of a country squire. He greeted them all with charming deference, and watched with a stifled smile as each bowed or curtsied to their esteemed distant relation. Jack saved an embrace and a warm greeting for their mother, Theodosia, the softly plump and loving matron of the flock.
While the girls helped her prepare the meal, and the boys finished their chores, Jack and Arthur strolled the land, talking about old times. The tension that had gripped Jack in London began to dissipate amidst the quaint setting, even without so much as a sip of brandy. The men, though very different in disposition and fortunes, had always been close. The older they grew, the more they appreciated one another. By the time they returned to the house for dinner, Jack was relaxed and laughing and quick to praise everything about Arthur's life in the country.
During dinner he groaned in approval of Theodosia's cooking, and looked more closely than he ever had at each of her good-natured children, who were seated along benches on either side of the long, rough-hewn dinner table. The youngest child was a wee blond moppet in a little white cap who sat next to Jack. She looked up at him throughout the meal with such blatant adoration that he thought for the first time in his life that children might not be such a terrible curse after all. The only curse would
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come with marriage to the mother they would require.
"So, Jack, tell us what you plan to do in Middledale," Theo said at the end of their pleasant meal after they had all eaten the last of her delicious mutton stew. "Will you be here long?"
Jack wiped his mouth on a napkin and exhaled a sigh of satisfaction as he pushed aside his empty plate. "I plan to make a home for myself, and I hope it is as cozy and full of good food and fine temperament as yours."
Theo blushed at the compliment. Her husband also beamed at the praise. Arthur Paley had always looked up to Jack, even though Arthur was older by a year. Arthur's mother had been the daughter of Lord Tutley's half-sister. Though distantly related, Arthur was nevertheless second in line to the title. Assuming his claim would never be exercised, Arthur had lived his life happily and humbly as a glover and gentleman farmer, never seeming to covet all that Jack stood to inherit.
There was another distinction between the men. Arthur's mother had been happily married, as was Arthur himself. It was in part a function of never having been burdened with the expectation of producing an heir for a great estate, which was an irony considering his large brood of children.
"Come, Jack, and join us by the fire with a sip of port," he said. "There is much to talk about."
At the signal from their father, the flock of well-mannered children scattered like mice at the sight of a cat. When some giggled, others reprimanded. And together they all cleared the table and helped the maid-of-all-work clean the dishes with remarkable cohesion and enthusiasm. Jack had never seen any half-pints so well behaved in London. Come to think of it, he never saw children in
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London. They were always kept in nurseries while the adults entertained themselves.
"Come here, coz," Arthur said and drew a curtain that separated the kitchen from the hearth room. "I'm afraid we have much to talk about, and we won't have peace with the children about."
"Normally I would agree with you," Jack replied, taking a seat opposite Theo, who knitted next to the fire. "But your children are undeniably well behaved."
"A good thing, considering there are so many."
The fact that Arthur had had twelve children in spite of his modest means indicated that he either was more passionate in nature than his rather sallow cheeks indicated, or that he'd made a love match. It was the latter, Jack thought, and he grudgingly admired his cousin for it.
Happiness aside, there were lines of worry imbedded on Arthur's forehead that hadn't been there five years ago.
Was it any wonder? The bills such a family produced must be enormous. Jack noticed that Theo's gown, though she'd undoubtedly donned her best for the occasion, was somewhat faded. And some of the children's clothing seemed too small for their growing bodies.
"So many mouths to feed," Arthur said, as if he had read Jack's turn of thoughts. He poured port and handed a glass to his guest, shaking his head.
Jack sipped the liquor, letting the potent fumes fill his nostrils, and nodded his approval. "You must indeed have debts to pay if you provide all your guests with port as fine as this."
Arthur smiled. "I'm glad you approve. I keep it in the cupboard. It's your grandfather's favorite. I always hope one day Lord Tutley will visit and I can offer him a good glass. I know it's unlikely. In the meantime, Theo and I
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have been visiting Tutley Castle faithfully. I want him to know I have honored the family reputation and my duties in spite of my humble circumstances."
There was a longing for recognition in his voice that tugged at Jack's heartstrings. He leaned back and sighed with bitter memories. "You shouldn't care a whit what Grandfather thinks of you or your family. How is the old bastard?"
"Old," Theo said with a smile.
"And a bastard," Jack prodded her.
"He is a good man in his own way," Arthur said, ever the family diplomat.
"You wouldn't have an unkind thing to say about Attila the Hun, Arthur."
His wide lips spread in a teasing smile beneath his bony cheeks. "And you wouldn't have a kind thing to say about Jesus of Nazareth."
Jack barked out a laugh. "Not true. I'm as pious as any man in London."
"Piously devoted to women, I should think." Arthur looked at him with furtive envy, but Jack smiled wryly.
"Not anymore."
"You truly mean to settle down, then?" Theo said with obvious surprise.
"I mean to make this my home and pay off my parents' debts."
"Will you take a wife?" Theo asked.
Jack shook his head. "Good Lord, no. Just hearing you mention the possibility makes my stomach pitch as if I were at sea on a small, leaky boat. Some people are made for matrimonial bliss. I do not harbor such hopes."
Arthur had been silently studying the peat smouldering in the fireplace. He suddenly cleared his throat, saying,
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"His lordship doesn't have long to live, you know."
"I suppose I should be saddened by that news, but I'm not." Jack's face clouded over. "I haven't seen the old man in ten years. He didn't even come to Mother's funeral. His own daughter!"
Arthur shot him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry. But I am not surprised."
"Neither am I. But still it outraged me."
"You two always were oil and water."
Jack snorted. "That's a decent way of putting it. What you mean to say is that the old man always hated me, and I hated him in turn."
Arthur and his wife exchanged worried glances. "Theo and I were discussing this a few days ago, when we received your surprising message that you were relocating •to Middledale. Theo suggested your grandfather might like to see you."
"Not bloody likely," Jack replied.
"But will you see him? I'd like that, Jack. Do it for me."
Jack tipped back the last of his port. "Very well, Arthur. I'll do it for you. If for no other reason than to repay you for this excellent glass."
A warm silence followed this concession, during which time the clock chimed and the voices of the children, whispering and giggling as they tried to be quiet, filled the air.
"Jack," Arthur said, hesitating, and then continuing, "I've been thinking. If Great-Uncle Richard left his fortune to you after all, you would be able to clear your debts in one fell swoop. You are the eldest, in fact, the only remaining grandson. The title as well as the inheritance should be yours."
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Jack sighed and shook his head. "Yes, and if pigs had wings they could fly. He'll leave me the title because he has no choice, but he wouldn't leave a farthing to me if the devil himself offered him another lifetime in exchange for it. Sadly, I could scarcely maintain the estate without his personal fortune. And considering I'm one step away from debtor's prison, I'll be an embarrassment to the tide. I'm thinking of resigning it in your favor, Arthur."
Arthur turned pale. "Heavens, no! Jack, please don't. I don't want the responsibility. I haven't trained for it. You have. And once you have the title, they can't throw you in debtor's prison. Somehow you'll manage. Can you imagine me sitting in the House of Lords? A glover sitting next to dukes and ministers, commandeering a staff of servants?"
"Oh, dear!" Theo said in alarm.
"You will have the money to hire the best steward and secretaries in the land, Arthur. Haven't you thought of what power you will have with that fortune?"
Arthur bit his lower lip, and worry clouded his soft brown eyes. "I regret to say that I've been thinking a great deal about that money. I hope you don't dunk I want to steal your inheritance, Jack, but Mary, she's our eldest—"
"Of course I remember Mary," Jack interjected, diough he realized with a guilty twinge he might not remember the names of the rest of the children.
"Mary is not well. She needs to see a physician in London. And Theo hasn't had a new dress in years."
"Don't worry about me, dearest," Theo admonished gently.
"I am sorry to hear it," Jack said, avoiding her gaze. He was afraid she might see pity in his face. And his heart was full of it. It wasn't right that a man who had married
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the woman he loved, and who had tried to be a good father, should suffer for the want of money. Jack had seen that too often. Prisons were filled with fathers who'd lost loving families because they couldn't buy their way out of debt. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No, no, thank you. We need no charity. And we don't need much. It's just mat, I had always expected Grandfather to ... to remember me in some small way."
"He will," Jack said reassuringly. "His hatred of me will see to it. Surely you will inherit his fortune. He's said to be worth nearly three hundred thousand pounds."
"Three hundred thousand?" Theo gasped.
"And he wouldn't give a penny of it to my mother when she was dying and hounded by creditors. Simply because she'd stubbornly refused to separate from a husband who had squandered his own fortune."
"He's a bitter old man," Theo said. "Don't you become bitter, too, Jack. You must learn to forgive him. Forgiveness is the most precious gift one can bestow on another. It makes the giver large in spirit."
"You're too good for this world, Theo," Jack said, shaking his head. Forgiveness wasn't on his list of aspirations. "But enough of this morose talk. I don't want his money. It's all yours, Arthur. So don't have a worry. Now tell me about Mr. Cranshaw. Can you give me a letter of introduction?"
"Oh, yes!" Arthur said, his pale cheeks regaining their color. "I'll write a letter straight away."
"Splendid," Jack replied. As soon as it was written he would leave. However pleasant, the visit exhausted Jack. It took a great deal of effort to see evidence of marital happiness and still cling to the inexplicable certainty that such love was not meant for me likes of him.
CHAPTER FIVE
t ten the next morning, when any other young lady of her station would occupy herself with letter writing or needlework, Liza went out into the park to practice archery. No one in the household uttered so much as a word of disapproval. It was a commonplace occurrence that everyone blamed on her father.
Bartholomew Cranshaw adored his eldest child, and though he'd never bemoaned the fact that she was a girl, he had indulged her interest in this sport. Archery helped to teach her control and discipline, and had also proved to be a useful outlet for her temper—a temper that had been under considerable strain in recent months. Although Liza may have ap
peared to outsiders to be almost strident in her impatience over her parents' foibles, she was utterly devoted to them and was entirely convinced that neither her mother nor her father could survive without her practical, almost cynical understanding of the world. The more fiercely Liza clung to this belief, the more frequently she visited the shooting range.
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On this fine spring morning she nocked her arrow on the first attempt and settled the wooden shaft into place on the bow. Her sister stood behind her, twirling her pink parasol over her shoulder. Liza already felt a trickle of sweat between her breasts, but she wanted no shade. Let her face become hideously freckled for all she cared, she thought petulantly. It would only serve to dismay Lord Barrington.
Oh, what a miserable, loathsome toad he was, she thought as she drew back her bowstring, picturing his face at the center of her straw target. The muscles in her shoulders tensed beneath the short puff sleeves of her white muslin gown. She pulled until her arm muscles ached and then she let the arrow fly. Thwomp!
"Perfect!" her sister declared. "You hit the mark straight on."
Liza turned with a triumphant smile to Celia, but froze when she saw they were not alone. Seeing her dismay, her sister turned as well and gasped.
"Well done," said Jack Fairchild in his deep, mellifluous voice. He stood not far away in a leisurely pose, leaning lightly on his walking stick, looking every bit as dashing as he had the day before. His dark brown coat was buttoned snugly at his slender waist, and beneath that his blue silk waistcoat gleamed in the sun. He wore buff-colored trousers that revealed a shocking bulge that she should not even notice. His high white collar and starched cravat perfectly framed his square, manly jaw and his full, sensuous lips seemed to stand out in contrast to so much crisp white and lightly bronzed skin. His hair cast about his forehead like black waves crashing into shore, but the real tempest resided in his eyes. They were not so teasing as before, rather they leveled her with a kind of troubled