by Sandra Heath
“ ‘Prickly’ is not the word I would have used, sir.”
“Very well, defensive.”
“You surely are not surprised, sir, for I have told you I am innocent of a liaison with Mr. Carmichael, but you have made it quite plain that you do not believe me. Now you seem disposed to be agreeable, you speak as if very little has happened, and yet throughout dinner you spoke not one word to me. Maybe you do not find it all discomforting, sir, but I most certainly do.”
“For that I apologize. I admit to having been cold toward you, but I confess to being caught a little off guard. I am attempting to put matters right now, Miss St. Charles, and I would very much like to forget what has gone before and begin again.”
She looked away. He would like to forget and begin again? Oh, how she would have liked that luxury too, but how could she forget his mistress? Or the fact that he was marrying her simply to gain another fortune? She lowered her eyes then. Was she any better than he? Liskillen was her reason for entering into the marriage, her only reason. But as she raised her eyes to his face again, she knew that but for the cruel intervention of fate, she would have entered into the contract for so very much more.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked.
“I too would like to begin again, Sir Sebastian, if that is possible.”
“Why should it not be?”
She didn’t reply. Earlier in the evening she had been angry enough to want to show him Petra’s letter, but now common sense prevailed. Mentioning his relationship with Petra would not be the done thing; it was as Delphine had said, something of which everyone knew but which no one ever brought out into the open. She wished to marry him in order to save Liskillen, and so she must observe that unwritten rule.
Her silence seemed to puzzle him. “Are you doubtful because you are uneasy here at Polwithiel? I know that Felix and I behaved reprehensibly earlier, and I know that my aunt has been far from helpful so far, but I am still sure that this is the best place for you.”
He paused. “It is my fault that you are here, Miss St. Charles, but I swear that my reason for suggesting Polwithiel was consideration for you. I knew that at Liskillen you had had very little opportunity to learn the ways of high society, and so I thought it would be wise for you to stay here for a while in order to learn. The alternative would be to thrust you straight into the heat of a London Season, which is an ordeal even for someone like Delphine. Perhaps it was arrogant of me to force this upon you, and perhaps I am not as considerate as I imagined ...”
Considerate? Was that how he saw himself? She remembered the tone of his mistress’s letter. “I am sure you did the right thing, sir, for I could have embarrassed you most dreadfully.”
“It wasn’t my embarrassment I was thinking of, Miss St. Charles, it was yours—or rather, my wish to spare you such possible discomfort.”
Oh, how clear his eyes were, and how believable his tone. How good it would be to trust him. But she knew that she couldn’t. “I will stay here at Polwithiel, Sir Sebastian.”
He got up then, leaning one hand on the mantelshelf and looking down into the hearth, the blackness of which was relieved by a closed potpourri jar filled with soft pink rose petals. “There is something I must tell you, Miss St. Charles, something I do not relish mentioning at all.”
Her breath caught. He was going to mention Petra!
“It concerns your maid.”
“My maid!” she repeated in astonishment.
“My aunt insists that your maid must return immediately to Ireland—tomorrow morning, to be precise. She is of the opinion that the maid is not at all suitable for a lady of your position and must be replaced with one who is.”
Bryony leaped to her feet. “No!” she cried. “No, I will not agree to it!”
“My aunt is quite adamant.”
“And you uphold her, I suppose!”
“No, Miss St. Charles, I do not, but I do accept that she has the right to insist. She has undertaken to coach you, and she is firmly of the opinion that your maid is a bad influence who will inevitably hinder your progress. I am not particularly in a position to argue the point one way or the other, and if it were left up to me I would allow your maid to stay, for I do not think she influences you in the slightest. However, my aunt is knowledgeable on these things, and perhaps she is right that you would benefit from a more suitable maid. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, my advice is that you agree to the demand.”
Bryony was suddenly close to tears. She had been very controlled so far, but the thought of losing Kathleen threatened to destroy her composure. “Is ...is there nothing I can do?” she asked.
“You can make a battle of it, if you wish.”
“Which would not achieve a great deal.”
He came to her then, suddenly putting his hand to her chin and raising her face a little. “No, it wouldn’t achieve a great deal, and it would also make things even more fraught than they already are. I’m going to Town in three days’ time and will be away for about two weeks, but I intend to be back here in time for the summer ball.” He hesitated. “It is my sincere wish that we will be betrothed on the night of the ball, Miss St. Charles.”
“That does not seem very far ahead—”
“I am sure all will be well by then, indeed I’m sure all will be well before I leave for London.”
She moved away a little. “Will you stay at Tremont when you return?”
“Yes.”
Yes, you will, for in spite of your apparently kind words now, it’s Petra that you love and Petra that you care about ... “‘Why do you wish to marry me, Sir Sebastian?”
“The time isn’t yet ripe for confessions, Miss St. Charles.”
She said nothing more, and after a moment he took his leave. He paused at the door. “With your permission, I will call on you again before I go to London.”
She nodded, and then he had gone. The silence of the library seemed to fold over her. She heard the carriage leaving shortly afterward, the sound carrying so clearly in from the quadrangle that it hid the rustle of the duchess’s skirts as she entered the room. It wasn’t until the door closed that Bryony heard and whirled about. “Your grace!”
“So, missy, by some miracle you are still set to be Lady Sheringham. Well, I’ve come to inform you that I thoroughly disapprove of my nephew’s foolish decision tonight. He could so easily have rid himself of you—you gave him cause enough—but instead he wishes to be lenient and allow you more time. I did my best to dissuade him, but he would not listen. I am a woman of honor, Miss St. Charles. I gave my word to my dying sister that I would treat Sebastian as if he were my own son. I stand by that promise, even if it means, as it now does, taking one such as you under my wing. I doubt if even I will be able to turn you into a lady, for it seems to me that you have no idea at all of how to go on in polite society, but I will do what I can. I’ve already begun by demanding that your wretchedly unsuitable maid be sent back to Ireland. Has my nephew informed you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then perhaps her departure will go some way toward convincing you that I mean everything I say and that I do not intend to brook any more misbehavior of any kind. By misbehavior, I mean many things, missy, not only your questionable activities tonight. For instance, it has come to my notice that you are in the habit of addressing your maid by her first name.”
Bryony bit her lip and kept her eyes fixed to the carpet.
“Such familiarity may do in a place like Liskillen, but it will not do here! Is that quite clear?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Good. Your tuition will commence directly after breakfast tomorrow and will cover absolutely everything, even such simple matters as how to enter and leave a room. If it is humanly possible to get you up as a lady, then I will do it, but I will not hesitate to inform my nephew of any failings. There is just one thing more.”
“Yes, your grace?”
“You will surrender to me the miniature of your lover.”
“He isn’t my lover!”
“That is impossible to believe. The miniature, if you please.”
Bryony took it from her reticule and gave it to her.
“I will have it destroyed immediately. Have you any letters or other mementos?”
“I have nothing, your grace, because I have never indulged in a liaison of any kind with Mr. Carmichael.”
“I do not like lies, Miss St. Charles. However, I will not mention the matter again, unless I discover you in some deception. If I suspect you of continuing this affair with Mr. Carmichael, then I will immediately inform my nephew. He will not be lenient again.” The taffeta skirts rustled again as she left the library.
Bryony looked up at the slowly moving flames of the candles. Tonight her fortunes had swung from side to side like a pendulum, but somehow she had still emerged as the future Lady Sheringham. She had thought Sebastian was bound to declare off, but she had reckoned without his overwhelming desire to secure his kinsman’s fortune. That was all he was concerned with, and she must not allow herself to be influenced by the charm of his smile or the softness of his voice. She must always remember the truth about him, and she had to resist the bewildering sense of attraction she felt toward him. He must never be allowed to guess the effect he had upon her, for that would be too much for her to endure.
She turned to go, meaning to go up and tell Kathleen that she was to leave again in the morning, but somehow that was a task she wished to postpone. She needed to be alone for a while, somewhere where no one could intrude. Pulling her shawl around her shoulders, she hurried down to the great hall and then out beneath the porch into the quadrangle, where the moon shone clearly down from a starry sky.
Chapter Twelve
She made her way to the ruins of the old abbey, so peaceful in the summer night. Ivy leaves whispered together in the light breeze as she leaned back against an ancient wall, gazing across the sloping land toward the woods which filled the valley behind the house. In the far distance she could see some lights; perhaps they were in the village of Polwithiel, on the shores of the Helford River. The silver moonlight cast an almost unearthly sheen over the land, making it look like something seen in a dream, to be forgotten at dawn.
High overhead the moon hung among the stars. How often had she looked at that same moon from her window at Liskillen? She closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t belong here in England, her home was in Ireland, and she wished more than anything else that she was there now instead of in this beautiful but unfriendly place. Tonight she had somehow survived and was still to make her brilliant match, but when she had looked into Sebastian Sheringham’s blue eyes, she had seen only unhappiness.
For a long while she stared at the distant lights, thinking about all that had happened, and all that inevitably lay ahead. By now Petra would be considering what she must do next to destroy her lover’s match. She would never cease in her efforts to end it, and what hope had Bryony St. Charles against such an adversary? Petra was a woman of elegance and poise. Beside her the future Lady Sheringham was a green girl without style or art.
Bryony shivered a little as the breeze swept coolly over her. What point was there in dwelling on such things? Liskillen had to be saved, and that meant doing all she could to save the match. Nothing that had happened since her arrival in England made any difference to the original reason for accepting the marriage, and nothing must alter her purpose now. Sebastian was marrying her for his own reasons; she must find the strength to do exactly the same.
Slowly she walked back toward the house. As she crossed the cobbled quadrangle, she noticed lamplight in the conservatory. Felix was still there. She hesitated, but then something drew her toward the light.
Inside, the conservatory was warm and humid, the smell of citrus very strong. A solitary lamp burned against the far wall, its light reaching through the leaves to cast shadows on her face as she walked silently along the brick path toward the floor where Felix practiced alone, his figure repeated again and again in the watching mirrors. On the wall the blades of the collection of weapons glinted a little in the dim light. Felix’s expensive evening coat lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, as if it had been flung angrily down, which possibly it had, given his mood when he had left the dinner table.
She stood watching him for a moment. His movements were still angry, and he lunged forward as if he would thrust the naked blade into the heart of an invisible opponent. He had seen her, but he did not stop or say anything. At last he lowered the sword, tossing it with a clatter onto the table and then pouring himself a glass of port. He smiled at her then, a roguish smile for all the world as if he was pleased to see her, but she had a little of the measure of him now, enough to know that Felix, Duke of Calborough, never did anything without a purpose, even so innocent a thing as smiling.
“It is said, Miss St. Charles, that a good swordsman benefits from a glass or two of port. What do you say?’’
“I cannot answer, sir, for I know nothing about it.”
He put the glass down and came over to her. “How pale you are. I presume it is due to the crying-off of the prospective bridegroom?’’
“On the contrary, sir, he hasn’t cried off at all.”
“Hasn’t he now?” he said softly, his eyes narrowing. “Now, why is that?”
“I don’t know. At least…”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Come now, you can’t tantalize me like that and then fall into enigmatic silence.”
“I should not say anything.”
“But you have discovered something odious about my odious cousin?”
She looked away, flushing.
“Tell me,” he said softly, suddenly putting his hand to her chin and turning her face toward him again.
It was a gesture which reminded her painfully of Sebastian, and she drew sharply away. “Please, don’t.”
An interested light shone in his dark eyes. “Whatever it is, it has evidently distressed you a great deal. If you would confide in me, maybe I could help in some way.”
Help? She wanted to laugh, for there was nothing he could do! But nevertheless she did want to talk to someone, and he was offering to listen. She knew that she shouldn’t trust him, but somehow the strain of the evening was telling and she had to say something, even if it wasn’t everything.
“I have found something out about him. I know that he’s only marrying me in order to inherit a fortune. He has a kinsman who has placed the condition in his will that Sebastian must be married if he wishes to benefit.”
Felix stared. “You cannot be serious!”
“I am. Perfectly so.”
“And how do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter how, but you may rely upon my information being very reliable indeed. Your cousin needs a wife, and I am the very one for his purposes.”
“Forgive me, Miss St. Charles, but it seems to me that a man like my cousin could have his pick of wives more suitable than you, wives of lineage and rank, with tempting fortunes to add to their attraction. You have nothing to offer.”
“Except that he believes I will prove easy to set aside and ignore, once I have served my purpose.”
“So all this high talk of honoring pledges is meaningless?”
“Yes. On both sides,” she added a little guiltily, wishing that she had not said anything to him.
“You are culpable too? Now, that I do find hard to believe, for I had put you down as the original dutiful daughter.”
“I am, sir, and that is why I have agreed to the match, but not because of the pledge. Liskillen is heavily in debt and will be lost unless money is found soon.”
“Sebastian’s money? You’re very honest with me, Miss St. Charles, almost painfully so.”
“I wish you would forget I’ve said anything, for I know that I shouldn’t have breathed a word.”
“No, you
shouldn’t, especially to someone like myself. I was a very unwise choice to unburden your sorrows to, for I am not exactly renowned for my trustworthiness.” He smiled a little, his eyes mocking her.
“Please promise you will say nothing,” she said anxiously.
He did not reply for a moment, and then scooped up her hand to draw it gallantly to his lips. “For you I will be the perfect Sir Galahad, although maybe the part of Sir Lancelot would be more in keeping with my base nature. So you’re entering into a wicked marriage of convenience, and how will that suit your conscience?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I think you are a very idealistic young lady, and I would stake a fortune that you’ve always promised yourself never to marry for anything other than love. Am I right?”
She could not hide the truth. “Yes.”
“I knew it. And yet here you are, about to do that very thing.”
“We cannot have everything that suits us, sir.”
“Upon my soul, the lady is both idealistic and practical. What a very unique mixture.”
“And what mixture are you, sir?” she countered.
“I am not a mixture, Miss St. Charles, I am one sublime thing—the personification of selfishness.”
“If you are, sir, you seem inordinately proud of that abhorrent fact.”
He laughed. “Touché! Perhaps I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“But one thing about sinners like me, Miss St. Charles: we always rise above life’s little adversities. You should learn to do the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are a very beautiful woman, although I do not think you know it. Nor do I think you’ve woken up to the dazzling prospect stretching before you because of your forthcoming marriage. You seem to think—correct me if I’m wrong—that once you’ve pledged yourself to my cousin, he will have sole right to you.”
A quick flush stained her cheeks. “Please—”
“Why, do I shock you?”
“Yes.”
“But, Miss St. Charles, society is filled with gentlemen who will take delight in shocking one as beautiful and inexperienced as you. If you think to join that society, then you will have to become as knowing and artful as your fellows. Become knowing, Bryony, and you will realize that life holds much more than an empty, loveless marriage bed. A woman such as you will not lack for lovers—they will lay siege to you, flatter you, beg you to be kind, and somewhere among them there will be one who pleases you, whose touch sets your pulse racing and into whose arms you will long to surrender yourself.”