A Perfect Likeness

by Sandra Heath

  “Sometimes,” he replied with amusement, “depending upon the situation.”

  “By that I take it you mean how close you are to succeeding with them.”

  “Dear me, how wretchedly talkative I was,” he murmured. “I shall have to leave the port alone in future.”

  “Is that what it was? The port?”

  He smiled. “No, but then, I believe I more than explained myself—or am I mistaken?”

  “You explained yourself very well indeed. It was a salutary lesson, sir, and for that I will thank you.”

  He smiled a little wryly. “I had not seen myself as a teacher, Miss St. Charles.”

  “Nevertheless, that is what you were.”

  “How very noble and decidedly dull of me.”

  She eyed him for a moment. “You, sir, are neither of those things, as last night you went to considerable lengths to prove.”

  He pretended to look hurt. “A fellow don’t mind being told he ain’t dull,” he protested in an affected tone, “but he ain’t so sure about being told he ain’t noble either!”

  She smiled and looked away across the dazzling water. How good it would be to sit here with Sebastian....

  Felix glanced at her pensive face. “It’s very lovely here, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “And on a day like this, hard to imagine how treacherous the weather can be, summer and winter.”

  “Treacherous? But isn’t the weather everywhere treacherous at one time or another?”

  “Perhaps, but here, when the winters are so mild, it somehow seems particularly perfidious that the storms can be so violent that many ships have been lost on those rocks below where we stand right now. The Falmouth Empress was driven ashore at the beginning of this year.”

  She gazed down at the rocks, so quiet now with the high tide lapping gently around them.

  He smiled. “The local people regard such wrecks as God’s grace, of course.”

  “God’s grace? What do you mean?”

  “There’s a couplet, centuries old, which explains it exactly, the name of the ship concerned being changed on each occasion. ‘The Falmouth Empress here came ashore. She fed the hungry and clothed the poor.’ Before the excise men got to her, of course. That’s what is meant by God’s grace, Miss St. Charles.”

  “And I suppose to them that is exactly what each wreck is,” she replied sympathetically.

  “Don’t waste your pity on them, for they’re all thieves and looters, no matter how poor and hungry,” he replied a little coolly.

  She looked away and said nothing, aware that there was much about Felix, fifth Duke of Calborough, that she did not particularly like.

  His riding crop tapped lightly against his gleaming boot. “And how did your first morning of tuition go?”

  “You know the answer to that, sir, for you were inconsiderate enough to watch.”

  “So I was,” he said with a slight smile, “and very entertaining it was, too.”

  “I found it very disagreeable.”

  “You must forgive my mother her harshness, Miss St. Charles, for she is a proud woman and does not approve of you, even though I am sure that the name St. Charles is highly regarded in County Down. But it isn’t only that she thinks you are unsuitable, I’m afraid; there is also a certain measure of disappointment in her actions.”

  ‘‘Disappointment?”

  He held her gaze. “It was my mother’s wish that my sister should become Lady Sheringham. Didn’t you know?”

  She stared at him. “No,” she whispered, “no, I didn’t.” She wondered why he’d told her, for there had not been any need. But then, why was she really so surprised, for he had already shown how cynical and perverse he was, and how much he reveled in others’ discomfort.

  “Have I upset you, Miss St. Charles? Believe me, I have no wish to do that.”

  “What do you wish, then?”

  “Merely to explain, and perhaps exonerate, my mother’s ... er, unkindness toward you. She tried very hard to bring a betrothal off between Delphine and Sebastian, but I am afraid that I put a stop to it. Having the fellow as a first cousin is bad enough without enduring him as a brother-in-law as well. Mother was backing the proverbial loser from the outset, I fear.”

  “What did Delphine think? Did she want to marry Sir Sebastian?”

  “Who can say? I only know that when I took myself to confront her, I found her embroiled in a liaison with Toby Lampeter, who, damn his eyes, is even more undesirable than my cousin! I promptly sent my sister back here to Polwithiel.”

  So that was what Delphine had meant about being returned to Cornwall in disgrace instead of enjoying the London Season. “I see,” she said at last, still wishing that she had been left in the dark about it all.

  “Do you, Miss St. Charles?”

  “Yes, for I did wonder exactly why Lady Delphine was not in Town for the Season. I also wonder why you are forgoing London at this time of the year.”

  He smiled then. “What, and miss the amusement of my cousin’s attempts at courtship? Miss St. Charles, I would not miss that for all the world. Now then, I think we have admired the view for long enough and should continue with my perambulation if it is to be finished before nightfall.”

  “Very well,” she replied coolly, turning on her heel to precede him back to the horses.

  They rode on, following the leafy bank of Polwithiel Creek. The narrow, deep waterway curved inland between the trees, and from the path high on the bank Bryony could look down through the tunnels of leaves to dappled water where sunbeams danced almost dustily in the shafts of light piercing the crowding greenery overhead. As they neared the boundary with Tremont, she noticed the creek beginning to widen ahead into the tidal lake she had seen when traveling from Falmouth.

  Felix reined in as they reached the broad sheet of water, and he pointed toward a neck of land which obscured Tremont Park from view. “The Countess of Lowndes’s estate lies over there.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t keep the slight chill from her voice when speaking of Sebastian’s mistress.

  Felix gave no hint of noticing anything in her tone. “If this fine weather continues, no doubt Petra will treat us all to one of her excellent water parties. They are very agreeable affairs, worthy of London itself.’’

  “Really?” she said politely but flatly.

  His eyes swung thoughtfully toward her then. “I take it that you are unimpressed by the Countess of Lowndes.”

  “I hardly know her.”

  “Precisely, which makes your show of dislike all the more curious. You have a great deal to learn, haven’t you? Ladies disguise their feelings, Miss St. Charles. Only green, provincial girls show their gaucherie to the world.” With that he kicked his heels and urged his horse on.

  Bryony was too taken aback for a moment to do anything but stare after him, for to say that he had spoken harshly would have been to put it mildly. She recovered a little then, glancing in a little embarrassment at the groom, who had witnessed the entire exchange, and then she urged her mount after Felix.

  Her thoughts were mixed when at last she caught up with him and they rode silently side by side. One thing she was learning more and more about this man, and that was that he was completely unpredictable. He could be charming and agreeable one moment, and then exceedingly unpleasant the next. She wished that she had not been persuaded to accept this invitation to ride, for now the time she must spend alone in his company stretched very disagreeably ahead.

  The atmosphere between them did not improve as the ride progressed. They visited many of the fine farms belonging to the Calborough estate, and rode through the village of Polwithiel itself, where the narrow cobbled streets led up from the water’s edge and where the cottages crowded almost together above their heads.

  The fishing fleet was just returning, accompanied by a great flock of excited gulls, and the noise of their clamor echoed deafeningly all around. Bryony noticed how everyone was careful to greet Fe
lix, but no one appeared genuinely pleased to see him. She didn’t think any of his tenants regarded him with a warm respect—respect, certainly, but not with warmth.

  With the village behind them, they rode back toward the abbey, taking a winding track which led through the deep woods. The roofs and battlements of the house were visible on the rising land ahead now, and she was eagerly contemplating the end of the ride when suddenly they rode through a clearing where a gamekeeper’s cottage nestled against the edge of the woods. A carefully tended vegetable garden spread before it, while behind there were sheds and kennels of various kinds.

  A spotted lurcher was tethered by the front door and at the sound of the approaching horses it began to bark. A little girl hurried out of the front door, running down the ash path to the gate, a wooden doll clutched to her thin breast as she watched the horses pass. She was a pretty child, with large blue eyes and tousled sandy hair, and she was evidently proud of the doll, which she held up to watch.

  Bryony adored children, and there was something particularly appealing about this little girl. Reining in, she smiled down. “Hello, what’s your name?”

  The child stepped instinctively back, her breath catching and her eyes enormous with surprise at being spoken to by a lady who was riding with the duke.

  Bryony smiled again. “Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. What’s your doll’s name?” She didn’t notice that Felix had ridden on a little way before reining in, his face taut with anger as he watched her.

  The child hesitated and then responded to Bryony’s warmth. She held the doll up again. “She’s Mary, my dada made her for my birthday.”

  “She’s very lovely.”

  The girl would have said more, but at that moment her mother appeared in the doorway, calling her anxiously away and looking nervously toward Felix.

  At last Bryony looked at him as well, and her heart sank at the stoniness she saw written on his handsome face. Slowly she rode toward him.

  “So, madam,” he said coldly, “you have proved yet again that you know nothing of how to be a lady! I would have thought that the loss of your maid would have taught you something, but it appears that this isn’t the case. One does not hobnob with servants, Miss St. Charles, and if you cannot or will not abide by that basic tenet of correct behavior, then I suggest that you follow your damned maid back to Ireland!”

  “But I only spoke to a little girl!” she protested in astonishment.

  “A servant’s brat, or had that fact escaped you? I begin to wonder if you will ever come up to scratch, madam, for on your performance so far it seems highly unlikely.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean by ‘my performance so far’?”

  An almost contemptuous smile curved his lips. “Come now,” he said smoothly, “surely I do not have to spell it out for you?”

  “Yes, sir, you most certainly do.”

  “Very well. You aren’t the lady you would have us believe, are you? You invite liberties, Miss St. Charles, and then pretend to be the innocent. I had the measure of you last night in the conservatory, madam, when you played the coquette so cleverly. You may claim innocence where your Irish lover is concerned, but the truth was in your every action. Dear God, how glad I am that you are to marry my elegant cousin, for you’ll be the damnedest millstone around his neck. You’ll make him society’s greatest fool, and for that I suppose I should be eternally grateful. I despise my cousin, madam, and had it been left to me to choose a wife to foist upon him, I could not have done better than pick you!”

  He gave her a contemptuous bow and then rode away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On reaching the house, she determined not to risk encountering Felix again before his departure for London the following morning, and so pleading a violent headache, she went straight to her apartment.

  Her absence from the dinner table brought a concerned Delphine hurrying up to see her, and it was immediately evident that Felix had not mentioned anything about the incident by the gamekeeper’s cottage, nor had he repeated his accusations concerning her conduct toward him. She was not fool enough to believe that he had held his tongue out of regret or belated gallantry; she knew full well that he was remaining silent so that nothing would disturb the smooth continuance of the wedding plans. It wouldn’t suit Felix for Bryony St. Charles to be set aside; he wanted her to become “the damnedest millstone” around Sebastian Sheringham’s neck!

  She retired early to bed that night, falling almost immediately into a deep sleep which was not disturbed until just after dawn, when she was awoken by the sound of a carriage in the quadrangle. Slipping from her rooms, she looked down from the gallery windows just as Felix emerged to go to the traveling carriage which was to convey him to the capital, three hundred miles away. He wore one of the fashionable new garrick overcoats because the early-morning air was chill and damp, and even though it was summer, she could see his breath as he paused for a moment to speak to the steward.

  She noticed that he didn’t smile or put himself out in any way to look pleasant. His face and manner exuded coldness and distance, and she was reminded of what he had said to her. One does not hobnob with servants, Miss St. Charles. She watched as he entered the carriage and sat back. She could see a hint of cruelty in the twist of his fine lips, and in the chill in his dark, handsome eyes.

  As the carriage drew away, she was glad that she would not see him again for some time. As she turned away from the window, she could not help smiling a little wryly, for in one thing at least she was in complete agreement with Sebastian, and that was in the opinion that Felix, Duke of Calborough, was extremely disagreeable. But as she climbed back into the still-warm bed, she reflected that Sebastian himself was probably little better; he merely dissembled more skillfully. She curled up sadly. Oh, how she wished there had been no letter, no Petra, and no impending inheritance, for then there would have been only Sir Sebastian Sheringham and Bryony St. Charles. And the possibility of a little happiness.

  After breakfast later that morning, Bryony’s tuition continued. It took place this time in the solar, where writing materials had been set out on the escritoire in readiness for the duchess to test her competence with the written word. Bryony’s hand began to ache as she wrote letter after letter, from invitations and expressions of condolence to orders for tradesmen and instructions for cooks and housekeepers. She knew that her compositions were satisfactory, but it came as no great surprise when the duchess criticized each one and insisted on many of them being rewritten.

  With only a short interruption for a cold luncheon, the letter writing continued until well into the afternoon. Outside the sun was bright and warm, shining through the stained glass of the oriel window to lie in pools of color across Bryony’s white muslin gown and the escritoire where she had been sitting for so long now. Her attention was beginning to wander and her hand ached abominably from holding the quill. The spangle of colors on the sheet of paper before her was distracting, making her think of how good it would be to be outside now instead of cloistered in the house with such a disagreeable person as the duchess.

  She thought suddenly of the gardens at Liskillen, and in particular of how scented and lovely they were after rain. Liskillen seemed a world away now, and yet it was on account of Liskillen that she was here in this place. It was also on account of her deep love for Liskillen and her father that she had remained here and not gone straight back to Ireland on discovering what the future had in store for her.

  The quill hovered above the paper and she stared blindly at the unfinished sentence. She had to be objective about the match, she had to approach it without emotion, but whenever she thought of Sebastian and her reaction to him, she knew that her heart was not about to allow her such immunity. Taking a deep breath, cross with herself, she dipped the quill in the ink again and continued writing. What a fool she was to be affected by him; she would be better employed thinking of how exquisite a revenge it would be to tell him exactly what she thought of
his callous plans!

  At that moment the doors suddenly opened and a footman announced that Sebastian had called. He came into the room almost immediately, the jeweled pin in his neckcloth flashing in the light from the window, and the dusty blue of his coat dappled with reds and purples.

  Bryony stared at him, caught completely off guard by seeing him so swiftly after thinking about him. She was dismayed to realize that no amount of bravado on her part would mask the truth: she still found him devastatingly attractive.

  He bowed. “Good afternoon, Aunt. Miss St. Charles.”

  Bryony managed a slight nod of her head, and the duchess extended a lace-mittened hand. “Good afternoon, Sebastian. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “Miss St. Charles kindly consented to receive me if I called...”

  The duchess clearly did not like his choice of words, for she rose to her feet and pretended for a moment to inspect again the mountain of letters that had resulted from Bryony’s labors. “Well, I had not yet completed the day’s tuition,” she said coolly, “but no doubt Miss St. Charles considers that she has done sufficient to earn a little respite.”

  Sebastian glanced at the pile of papers and raised an eyebrow. “No doubt she does,” he murmured.

  “Since you have chosen to call so late in the afternoon, I presume that you intend to dine with us.”

  “If that is an invitation, then I accept.”

  “For Petra too? Has Delphine whisked her away somewhere?”

  “No, Petra is in Falmouth at the moment. She’s returning either very late tonight or very early tomorrow morning, to see me before I leave for Town.”

  The duchess went to the door. “Well, I trust you do not imagine that dinner here will be very French, for when Felix is away I prefer good, plain English food.”

  “I do remember, Aunt.”

  “Do you? I think sometimes, Sebastian, that you choose very carefully what you will remember and what you will deliberately ignore.” With a withering glance at Bryony, she swept out.