The Ladies In Love Series

by M. C. Beaton

  “I have poured a glass of wine for you,” said Amaryllis sweetly. “Shall we drink a toast?”

  “Yes, my sweeting. What shall it be?”

  “To love and fortune,” said Amaryllis, raising her glass.

  “To love and fortune,” he echoed, draining the contents of his own glass in one gulp.

  “Faith, that’s powerful wine,” he said. “I took a look out of the door of the inn when I was searching for your reticule, and it’s a terrible storm that’s blowing. Here we are together, all the same. Don’t tell this Irishman that life does… does… does not have its… comp…” Thump.

  Lord Donnelly’s head hit the table with a heavy sound. Amaryllis sat very still. Then she leaned over and prized up one eyelid and let it fall. She slid the bottle of Lady Warburton’s laudanum, with which she had liberally dosed Lord Donnelly’s drink, from her pocket into her reticule.

  The landlord came up, looking worried.

  “Are you and my lord going to make use of your rooms, Miss Duvane?” he asked. “There’s a stagecoach full of people stranded by the storm out in the yard.”

  “Give our rooms away,” said Amaryllis. “As you can see, Lord Donnelly will not wake until morning, and I feel sure someone will yet arrive from Patterns to take me home.”

  “Very well, miss,” said the landlord, “but I don’t see how anyone could possibly get through.”

  He went off, and soon the dining room began to fill with weary travelers from the stagecoach.

  Some of them cast curious looks at the lady seated opposite the gentleman who was asleep with his head on the table.

  Well, that’s that, thought Amaryllis. My reputation, for what it’s worth, is safe. Half of the town has been in and out of here, and the landlord will surely gossip tomorrow to everyone about how I sat up all night. I wish I had a book with me to pass the time.

  One by one, the travelers finished their meal and went up to bed.

  Amaryllis sat on, listening to the wind howling in the chimney.

  There was a sign over the fireplace with the legend, “Drink here/The best beare.”

  It was a joke in the town that the landlord, when asked to correct the spelling, declined to do so. “Half my custom,” he explained, “is made up of folk who come in just on purpose to ask me if it is my own bruin.”

  Amaryllis picked up her glass of wine and moved over to a high-backed settee by the fire.

  She did not for a moment believe that Lady Warburton had had any part in this obvious plot to compromise her. But the way in which she, Amaryllis, was treated by the Warburtons had obviously led Lord Donnelly to the conclusion that he could enjoy himself at her expense without having to marry her afterward.

  Had she brought all this upon herself by her craven behavior in front of the Warburtons? Was the Marquess right when he accused her of inviting bullying?

  And had the Marquess kissed her and held her under the wrecked carriage because he, too, thought he could demand and take favors without even having to pay for them by proposing marriage?

  The door to the dining room opened behind her, and the candle flames danced in the sudden draft. She did not stand up to find out who the newcomer was. She only hoped it was not some garrulous traveler. Like most coaching inns, the Green Man stayed open all night.

  She realized the top of her bonnet was showing above the settle. Whoever it was would know the dining room was not empty.

  The newcomer walked purposefully forward and came and stood in front of her.

  The Marquess of Merechester looked thoughtfully down at her. “Where’s Donnelly?” he asked.

  “John!” exclaimed Amaryllis, startled into using his Christian name. “What brought you here? And in this weather?”

  “Where’s Donnelly?” he repeated.

  “Over there,” said Amaryllis, waving a hand toward the shadowy depths of the dining room.

  The Marquess picked up a candle from the mantel and walked across to where Lord Donnelly lay with his head on the table.

  He grasped him by the hair and jerked his head up and then let it fall back again with a crash.

  “Dead drunk,” he remarked, returning to the fire.

  Amaryllis watched him nervously as he removed his benjamin, sending down a small flurry of snow to melt on the hearth.

  “I am afraid it was all my fault,” she said in a low voice. “He sent the carriage away, saying that Lady Warburton had requested it, but I did not believe him. He had bespoke two rooms. I felt he was trying to compromise me.

  “I am sure Lady Warburton paid him to flirt with me, but I feel he had exceeded his orders. I insisted on staying here. He began to become overwarm in his attentions, so I drugged his wine.”

  “Did you, indeed! What with?”

  “Laudanum. I was asked by Lady Warburton to get her a bottle, along with any number of patent medicines.”

  The landlord came in, carrying a tray with a jug of hot water, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of rum, nutmegs, lemons, and sugar.

  He put it down on a small table and then carried the table over and placed it in front of the fire.

  “Just as you ordered, my lord,” he said. “Would you need anything else?”

  “Not at the moment,” replied the Marquess. “Leave us. I’ll mix the punch myself.”

  The landlord bowed his way out, and the Marquess sat down on the settle facing Amaryllis.

  “Aren’t you going to take me home?” she asked, as he began to remove his ice-caked boots.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “In this weather? I took hours getting here and twice near got buried in a drift, and another time lost my way. If I had brought a carriage, then I would never have got through.”

  He removed his curly-brimmed beaver, or the sodden mess that remained of it, and looked at it ruefully. Then he balanced it on top of the poker and propped the poker up on the hearth. The snow had soaked through his coat to his blue jacket, so he took that off as well and hung it on a corner of the high-backed settle.

  Attired now in a shirt, striped waistcoat, leather breeches, and stockings, he turned his attention to the punch. Half a pint of brandy, half a pint of rum, quarter of a pound of sugar, half a teaspoon of nutmeg, and a pint of boiling water. First he rubbed the sugar loaves over the lemon until they were yellow from the rind, and then he put the sugar in the punchbowl and added lemon juice before pouring in the boiling water and then adding the rum and brandy.

  Totally absorbed in his task, he stirred the ingredients thoroughly until a savory steam arose in the air. He ladled out a glass and silently handed it to Amaryllis. Then he served himself.

  “What brought you here?” asked Amaryllis, wondering nervously how the punch was going to mix with the wine already in her stomach.

  “You, of course,” he said, raising his thin eyebrows in surprise. “I am not in the habit of plunging into a blizzard simply to sample the delights of a country town.”

  “How did you find out? Did Lady Warburton tell you?”

  “Not she. Miss Felicia Gaskell, she of the delightful lisp, informed me you had gone off to Caddam with Lord Donnelly, without so much as a maid as chaperon.

  “I saw the carriage returning and going straight to the stables, and so I questioned the excellent coachman, who told me Lady Warburton had summoned the carriage back.

  “That left you stranded with Lord Donnelly. I have some traces of lingering affection for you and did not want to see you forced to marry a penniless Irishman of doubtful morals. And so here I am. Perhaps I have the wrong picture. You went off quite cheerfully with Lord Donnelly, and, when you left, the snow was already falling fast. Mayhap you did not want to be rescued?”

  Amaryllis removed her bonnet and laid it on the settle beside her. “Don’t talk fustian,” she said wearily. “Lord Donnelly was most insistent, and Lady Warburton wished me to obtain some purchases for her. Lord Donnelly assured me there would be no difficulty in getting here and getting back.”

  “
Well, perhaps the poor idiot is in love with you. He has barely left your side since he arrived.”

  He refilled Amaryllis’s glass.

  “I do not think Lord Donnelly cares for me one whit,” said Amaryllis, feeling warm and sleepy from the effects of the warm punch and the roaring fire. “I think Lady Warburton paid him to court me.”

  “So you have already pointed out. A gothic notion,” he said scornfully. “Why would she do that?”

  “In case your feelings toward me were reanimated. She wants you for Cissie.”

  “My feelings…? She must have windmills in her attic.”

  “There is no need to sneer,” said Amaryllis. “Lady Warburton is very ambitious where her daughters are concerned.”

  “Now, let me look at his clearly,” he said, leaning his head back against the wood of the settle and looking at her from under heavy lids. “Instead of this deep, dark plot, do you think perhaps that Lord Donnelly has simply misunderstood your position in the household? You behave more like an upper servant—and look more like one—than a relative of the Warburtons. Perhaps he decided you would be easy game? Perhaps you led him to believe so?”

  Amaryllis rose to her feet. “If I have to walk home to escape you and your insults, I will do so.”

  “Sit down. I was merely thinking aloud.”

  “Then don’t,” snapped Amaryllis, although she returned to her seat. “You accuse me of false humility, of adopting a meek, cringing manner. But have you considered what a shock my father’s death was to me? Have you considered the humiliation of not being able to hold a position as governess? You say Lady Warburton would not turn me out. I think if Cissie’s happiness is involved, she most certainly will. At times, I wonder whether she is sane.”

  “Odso? Addled her wits with patent medicines?”

  “I don’t know,” said Amaryllis sadly. “She must be ill in some way to enjoy tormenting me.”

  “As you must be ill in some way to enjoy being tormented. Where is your courage? You dismissed me from your life without so much as a blink of remorse.”

  “That was not so. It was extremely painful for me.”

  “So painful,” he sneered, “that you did not pause to think you might be inflicting pain on me.”

  “Had you loved me, then I would not have left you,” said Amaryllis. “As it was… well, it was well known you needed a rich wife.”

  “Strange, and I not in the least aware of it. You came to this marvelous conclusion all by yourself?”

  “Jenny Pierce said it was so, and she appeared to have my best interests at heart.”

  “She had me at heart, you silly widgeon. I would guess you have not seen dearest friend Jenny for years.”

  “No. So I was right,” said Amaryllis, half to herself. “Jenny was jealous.”

  “Very. But to return to this fascinating subject of love. You decided I did not love you. You, of course, did not love me…?”

  He leaned forward, studying her face intently.

  “If that was the case,” sighed Amaryllis, putting a hand up to her forehead, “there is nothing for us to worry about now. It is history.”

  “But history can be fascinating. Nothing in the world is new except arrangement. One can learn a lot from history.”

  How handsome he looks, thought Amaryllis with a sudden pain at her heart. The firelight flickered on the strong planes of his face, on the sleepy-lidded eyes which gave him that sensual look, and on the mouth which had so recently kissed her in the darkness of a weedy ditch.

  A low snore sounded from Lord Donnelly.

  “What are we to do?” asked Amaryllis, taking another glass of punch without thinking.

  “About Donnelly?”

  “For a start.”

  “That is easily remedied.” He got to his feet and went out of the room. Some moments later he returned with two grinning ostlers. They picked up Lord Donnelly’s sleeping body and carried him from the room. The Marquess closed the door behind them and sat down again.

  “What will they do with him? I gave away our rooms.”

  “I neither know nor care. I simply told them to take him away and put him somewhere for the rest of the night.

  “I asked the landlord to bring sandwiches. If you drink much more, you might fall asleep, and I have no mind to sit with only myself for company.”

  “We are going to sit here all night?”

  “Why not? That is what you were going to do.”

  “Without a chaperon!”

  “The landlord will be coming and going, and before dawn ever lights up the sky, some of the guests will be downstairs, taking breakfast, and hoping to proceed on their journey.”

  “You are not overly concerned for my welfare,” murmured Amaryllis, feeling sleepy again. “Do you not expect me to have the vapors?”

  “Strangely enough, no. I think you are not at all missish and that you have a great deal of stamina.”

  He watched her as she sat in the firelight. Her eyes looked enormous, almost black in the flickering light.

  The landlord came in and placed a plate of sandwiches in front of them.

  “Still blowing hard?” asked the Marquess.

  “Yes, my lord. I’m right sorry for miss here that I took the rooms Lord Donnelly ordered. I don’t see as how you are going to get away. The storm’s even worse.”

  “We shall manage,” smiled the Marquess. “What of yourself, landlord? Do you never sleep?”

  “I get my boy to take over on afternoons, my lord, when things is quiet. Not often we have a whole houseful like this. Stagecoach people come in for ten minutes and out again, normally, that is.”

  “Eat something,” urged the Marquess, after the landlord had left.

  Amaryllis realized she was very hungry. She had been too upset to make much of dinner earlier.

  He sat quietly, not bothering to speak. He turned his wet coat this way and that in front of the fire, and then filled a plate with sandwiches and began to eat.

  Amaryllis finished her last sandwich and smothered a tremendous yawn.

  He stood up and came over and sat down next to her. She eyed him uneasily. His undress upset her. He had unwound his cravat and his shirt was open, showing the strong column of his throat.

  “Sleep,” he ordered abruptly, putting an arm about her and giving her a little pull so that she fell against his shoulder. She struggled feebly, immediately aware of the hard strength of his arm and the heat from his body.

  But she was so very tired. The room danced in front of her eyes. A log fell in the fireplace, sending flames shooting up the chimney and shadows flying up across the blackened beams of the low ceiling.

  She fell into a heavy sleep, awakening blearily at dawn as the dining room was filled with the sound of clattering plates and voices exclaiming over the ferocity of the storm.

  The Marquess had both arms around her, cradling her against his shoulder. Her eyelids fell again. Somehow she did not care what the other guests thought. She felt warm and protected.

  When she woke again, the dining room was once again empty and the Marquess was fast asleep. She glanced up at his face, noticing the faint golden stubble on his chin.

  She stayed where she was, very still, frightened to wake him, wanting this closeness to last as long as possible. While he slept, she could imagine he loved her. He murmured something and held her closer, and she felt an agonizing wave of emotion coursing through her body, half sweetness, half pain.

  She turned her face into his chest and then reached up and kissed his neck at the opening of his shirt.

  The arms around her suddenly became like iron bands.

  A strong hand forced her chin up. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her mouth soft and vulnerable. His heavy lids lifted, and she was held motionless by his intense blue gaze.

  His mouth came down on her own, very gently, moving softly over her lips, seeking out a response, and finding it in the way her body was molded tightly against his own, and by the glint
of tears at the corner of her closed lids.

  “Don’t cry, sweeting,” he whispered. “A kiss, nothing more. No great commitment. Only a kiss in an inn in a storm.”

  This time his mouth was harder and more demanding. Her senses were floating way, spinning away, taking the inn and the snow and Lord Donnelly with it, leaving her on a hot dry plain of burning emotion, anchored by his lips. All her senses, all her frustrated love, all her passion, all her memories rushed up into her lips, and he made a small sound in the back of his throat and his hand moved to her breast.

  “Changing to rain, my lord,” came the landlord’s cheerful voice from the door.

  The Marquess put Amaryllis from him gently. She was glad they had been screened from the landlord’s view by the high back of the settle.

  “I was wondering, my lord, Miss Duvane, whether you would like to make free of my quarters. My missus has put out hot water and towels. If Miss Duvane would care to follow me first.”

  “How very kind of you,” said Amaryllis, standing up, deliberately not looking at the Marquess and yet aware of his gaze on her with every nerve of her body.

  The landlord led her through to his own quarters at the back of the inn on the ground floor and into his bedroom, where his wife was waiting. She showed Amaryllis over to the washstand, handed her a large huckaback towel and soap, and then left her.

  Amaryllis stripped off and washed herself down, by standing in the flowered washbasin. She hated putting the same underwear back on again, but there was no help for it.

  Two tall candles were lit on the toilet table, for the day was very dark and great buffets of wind and rain hurled against the window.

  Her face looked back at her from the glass. She looked much younger and more vulnerable, and her mouth was swollen.

  She unpinned her hair and brushed it down about her shoulders, and then, on impulse, deftly put it up in one of the Grecian styles she had worn it in when she was a debutante. The effect was startling, turning her from a prim spinster to a sophisticated lady. She threaded a black silk ribbon from her reticule through her auburn curls to hold the style in place. A pot of rouge lay on the toilet table. She moistened her finger and ran it across the little cake of powder and then carefully applied some color to each cheek. There were shadows of fatigue like bruises under her eyes, but she did not look at all like the Amaryllis the Warburtons had come to know.