“There’ll be fine game in the spring, you shall have rabbit stew,” said Malcolm. “That’ll be one use for my musket!”
He had a tinge of bitterness in his tone. Impulsively she tucked her gloved hand into his arm. “Malcolm, you will not go back, will you? We have worried so much. Your father and mother are quite grey with it. You are their only son, now, and if aught should happen to you…” Her breath caught in her throat.
He squeezed her hand between his arm and his warm body. “I gave my word, I have written to sell my commission,” he reassured her. “Do not mind if I grumble at times! It is my nature.”
She laughed a little and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. She would miss him, she thought, when she left.
She must leave him. She must. But she would see him settled here first, and so repay them for their kindness to her. No matter whom he married, they would love her. They might remember Valerie with kindness, she wanted that. But she must go one day.
She closed her thoughts to that. It was too painful.
Christmas finally came, and the family gathered with Deidre in the great drawing room to exchange their personal gifts. Other gifts had arrived from friends and distant relatives, and Valerie had been amazed to find herself with a sable coat from a four-times-removed cousin of Malcolm! Also there were gifts of tweed cloth from some Scottish cousins, fine candies from Holland, a Cairngorm necklace and bracelet from other Scottish relatives.
“You are quite fine,” observed Deidre over her parcels. “What a welcome into the family! So it is to marry wealth.” She had been careful to speak in a low tone, so the others did not hear. Valerie did not try to answer that, but she felt some of the pleasure draining from her.
She managed a smile, when Malcolm came over to her, a large box in his hand. “My dear, the diamonds have been reset. I wish you to have them now,” he said, rather solemnly. “They have been in the family more than one hundred years. I asked for a light gold setting, to suit your colouring and height.”
Valerie was very aware of Deidre’s jealous stare as the box was snapped open. It was a large maroon leather box, with a maroon velvet interior. Set carefully on the fabric lay a fine diamond tiara set in gold, a matching necklace, a pair of exquisite bracelets, and five matching diamond rings, with gems of various sizes.
“Oh … how beautiful!” she gasped. “They are fine … too fine, I should be afraid of losing them…”
“Nonsense,” said Malcolm, smiling. He set the tiara on her head, and begged her to choose a diamond ring to wear. Deidre jumped up and came over to try on a bracelet. Valerie would have numbly allowed it.
Malcolm shook his head firmly. “No, Deidre, this is for Valerie,” he said. “Eustace gave you quite a few, these are for Valerie.”
Valerie’s cold heart warmed at his tone. Deidre pouted and looked as though she would beg. “I only wished to try them on,” she told Malcolm and went back to her seat, to watch hungrily as a diamond bracelet was slipped on Valerie’s wrist, and the necklace about her throat.
Attention went then to the earl, exclaiming over his fine woollen scarf from Valerie. “I shall wear it all the winter!” he said. “How fine and beautifully woven this is!”
Louis Kenyon was equally pleased with his, and the countess graciously put her cashmere scarf about her shoulders at once. When their attention was all distracted, Malcolm came back to Valerie, another small box in his hand.
Before giving it to her, he said, flushing a bit, “I say, you know I have never asked you if you had money enough. I shall set up an allowance for you at once. It never entered my head that you would not ask for money should you require it.”
She flushed in turn. “You mean … my gifts are mean,” she said, in a level tone. “I paid for them with my earnings from my articles!” And she tossed her head, as though to say she did not care.
No one was looking at them. He put his hand on her cheek in a gentle caress. “No, I did not mean that. Your gifts are made by yourself, and the more dear for it. You give of yourself, Valerie. However, you shall have an allowance. Meantime, I … I chose this myself, designed it for you. I hope you like it … a London jeweller made it up.”
He flipped open the small box. Valerie caught her breath. It was nothing like the grand sparkling array of diamonds. It was an exquisite brooch of jade leaves, with several small diamonds on them like dewdrops. And the flower was of purple amethyst petals set in the jade leaves, as naturally as though they had grown there. Small, perfect, a delight.
She reached for it, tears in her eyes. Malcolm had thought of her, designed it for her, planned it for her. Just what she would have loved, should she have had any idea of it. She lifted it from its white velvet bed and held it in her hand; it covered only half her palm. She stared down at it, until the flower brooch dissolved before her gaze in a mist of tears.
“Do you like it?” Malcolm’s anxious whisper recalled her.
“Like it? I never, never saw anything so perfect in my life, so beautiful. I … I shall … ch-cherish it all my days.”
He bent over and kissed her forehead gently. “You mean it? I’m glad. You’re a gem yourself, Valerie, you know?”
And even when he left her, and went over to Deidre to tease her about her many gifts from as many admirers, Valerie still felt the warmth in her heart and on her forehead. He had thought of her, had given her a gift he had hoped would please her, had kissed her gently like a lover.
It was something she would cherish always, along with the brooch he had designed.
CHAPTER 11
Valerie had looked forward to her January birthday for a long time. It would mean that she would become twenty-one years of age, it would mean that she was free to leave. She thought of it, even thought of taking out a small trunk to begin packing her personal possessions.
However, Malcolm seemed to have changed a little. He was kind and gentle towards her, he often shared her bed at night. Selling his commission had been a giant step for him to take, but he had done it, and now he had set the past behind him.
He took little interest in the estate, however, and still rode about on horseback on fine days, or in the carriage, taking Deidre about as before. But he did not speak sarcastically to Valerie, she supposed she must be grateful for that.
She had a long letter from Lady Darlington, enclosing some lovely pattern books for new dresses. In the firm black handwriting, only a slight tremor in the lines betrayed her age.
My dearest Lady Grenville, I long to make your acquaintance. Your mother-in-law asked me to send some patterns to you. If you wish to order some gowns, I shall undertake to have my own favourite dressmaker make them up in any colour you shall choose. The countess is anxious that you shall be as well-dressed as any lady in England! She gave me many directions concerning you.
Valerie studied the lines wonderingly, and read them again to make sure she had not misunderstood. Nothing more had been said about going to London for the season. The letter continued:
I hope when you come that I shall see you often. I admire your bright mind and intelligence. I have read your articles and stories with care. I enclose a copy of the latest magazine with a story of yours, in case another copy would be welcome. The girl in your story behaved like a fine lady, I approve of her! However, she does not show herself sufficiently yielding to the will of her husband. I do not think his requests of her unreasonable. However! We shall argue about that comfortably sometime!
She continued with kind words about the style, then news of her godson Reginald Darlington, and others of whom Valerie had heard. She finished with gossip of London, in her usual witty manner, and signed herself:
Your affectionate elderly friend, Seraphine Darlington.
Valerie took the letter to the countess, after some thought. The lady read it over carefully. “Yes, yes, how good she is. She was considered very forward in her day, my dear,” said the countess, musingly. “However, her heart was ever good and kind, rough though th
e edge of her tongue could be! Her husband was ever devoted to her. How sad it was that both her son and daughter did not live to reach maturity. Reginald has been a great comfort to her, he is a real son to her.”
Valerie asked presently about the dresses and the pattern book. “I do not mean to go to London for the season, Maman,” she said, as gently as possible. “I see no need for many more dresses. You have outfitted me in a grand style. I have all I need, truly.”
“Hmm,” said the countess, her fingers fluttering through the pages. “Do look at this charming style, Valerie! It would please me if you would request this one, at least. Even though we do not go to London, you shall be fashionably dressed for cotillions here! What about this gown also? Do you not like the charm of it? It would suit you in rose, or a pale cream, would it not?”
Valerie tried firmly to refuse them all, but when Malcolm added his voice to the matter, it was settled. He flipped through the book, pointed to one and another with interest. “There, that one, Valerie, with the charming little ruffle about the hem! That is for you. In lilac, I believe, with the Greek effect about the waist, and those little doings about the sleeves.”
Even the countess laughed softly at his masculine description of the fashion, and her eyes lit up from their usual sadness. An order was sent off in a week, for half a dozen gowns of the latest styles, in lilac muslin, blue lace, rose taffeta, green gauze over silk, a deeper lavender crepe de chine, and a pink brocade. There were matching items also: a redingote pelisse, a cloak of blue velvet, bonnets with frivolous feathers and ribbons adorning them, little shoes with wedge-shaped heels of the latest style.
Valerie could not help feeling flutters of pleasure, both at the prospect of having all these pretty new garments and also at the kindness of her relatives in insisting that she must have them. Of course, she reminded herself, practically, they would wish her to dress well, in her position. But they all seemed to take a personal interest in how she looked, how she felt, as though they truly loved her.
She was startled when Malcolm took off suddenly for London. His parents did not seem concerned, and put her off when she asked anxiously if it was about his commission.
“He has not regretted resigning, has he?” she asked the earl, in the study, after Malcolm had left in the carriage. “He does not go to his commander?”
“No, no, do not think so,” he soothed her, with a twinkle in the brownish hazel eyes so like his son’s. “I am sure he does but go on an errand or two.”
Deidre was sulky that he had not taken her along. “He knows I longed to go,” she declared in the drawing room the first evening. “I have so many friends there! They will think it odd that I did not come! Why did he not invite me to accompany him? He went so quickly, I could have been ready in a day if he had but asked.”
Valerie bit her lips to say nothing. The earl frowned, and Louis Kenyon puffed fiercely on his pipe. It was the countess who spoke in her gentle voice.
“My dear Lady Deidre,” she said, more coolly than she usually spoke to the girl, “it would not have been in the least proper! When we remove to London as a family, of course you shall accompany us. However, to go only with Malcolm — when he is married! And you a single female! No, no, your mother would never approve. The house has been shut up, besides, and Malcolm shall stay with friends. It would not have done, it would not have done!”
Deidre swallowed, kept her temper back with an effort. She shot Valerie a mean look, as though to say it was all her fault. She spoke meekly enough, “I am sorry, my lady, I did not mean to offend. Wherever are my manners? Of course, it would not do.”
“Of course not,” said the countess.
“Of course, I might have stayed with my friend, the Countess of Lancaster! She often writes, begging me to come and remain with her.”
“I consider the woman rather forward,” said the countess, her gaze intent on the little bit of embroidery in her delicate hands. She set in another neat stitch. “However, these are different times. If you shall write to your mother, and secure her permission to visit the Countess of Lancaster, I shall arrange for grooms to take you to London.”
Did Deidre turn a shade more pale? Was there apprehension in the blue eyes? She quickly denied any wish to dash off to London.
“Indeed, in this cold weather, it is so much cosier in the country, with the carriages to ride, and a strong stone house to remain in,” she said, with a pretty laugh. “I do adore Arundel, do not think I do not! Later on, we shall all go to London, and be comfortable in your beautiful town house.”
It was difficult to read the expressions of the countess. Her hands would flutter, her eyes turn vague, she changed the subject to one that seemed irrelevant to what had gone before. Yet Valerie received the strong impression that for once the countess was displeased with Deidre and cool to her that evening.
Malcolm returned two days before Valerie’s birthday. He came, tired, yet cheerful, full of the London gossip, with a carriage full of parcels which he carried directly up to his room, whispered to his father, exchanged grins with Louis Kenyon. Valerie wondered irritably what was going on.
She had reminded no one of her birthday. It was something she did not want to mention. She had told them she would leave when she was twenty-one, and she felt a little desolate that she had done so. However, it would be better to make the break soon. Malcolm had resigned his commission, he was well again, hopefully he would one day take an interest in the estate, and her task here was done.
She must be out and about her own concerns, making a new place for herself in the world. She wondered what Lady Darlington would say if she made another application to her for a reference as a teacher or governess.
She drew a deep sigh and bent over her books again. She had almost completed another article, about some of the women in Shakespeare’s plays. She admired some of them strongly. It was her first attempt at more literary material.
Malcolm came to her bed that night. He teased her that he had missed her immensely, and had compared the London females with her, most unfavourably for them.
“I saw one girl who reminded me of you, but her eyes were not so big and soulful, her shape was not so slim and rounded.” His hands were roaming about her, and she squirmed.
“You are tickling me,” she scolded.
He only laughed, and bent over her, to close her mouth with his own, in a strong possessive kiss. “Did you miss me?” he murmured.
“Well…”
“Did you?”
“Yes … some…” she admitted reluctantly.
“Some! You are a mischievous imp! Before I have done, you shall admit that you missed me a great deal!” And he tickled her until she squirmed with helpless laughter, and kissed her until she could scarcely breathe, all the time demanding that she pay a forfeit, and admit she had missed him with all her heart.
“I give up … I give up … do not tickle me again! Malcolm, I give up … I did miss you … a great deal…”
“Kiss me to show you missed me!” he demanded arrogantly, and held her face in his hands tenderly, looking down into her dark eyes. His own gaze was intent, keen.
She pursed her red mouth, he lowered his head slowly, and her hands went to his head to draw him closer yet. They kissed, long, sweetly, and his body pressed more hotly to hers.
When he moved his long limbs against hers and drew up the modest nightdress to her thighs, she tingled with apprehension and desire. His hands were so big, so sure, so demanding.
When the thought came, Did he treat Deidre like this? and she felt the pangs of jealousy, she tried to stiffen against him. Too late, for he could sense yielding in her body, know that she wanted him with sensual need.
He leaned over her, murmured, sweetly, into her ears, teased her, courted her, and finally, their bodies met in a long exciting embrace. Her hands went over his bare hard shoulders — he rarely wore his nightshirt when he came to her now. It was only in the way, he said carelessly. Her hands slipped down
to his back, to the strong-muscled thighs, she would feel the scars of his battle-torn body, and pity would mingle with desire and need. She would remember the long months, when they did not know whether he lived or died.
Life was so short, so fraught with dangers. If he wanted her tonight, she would give to him, freely, generously, because tomorrow was uncertain. There would be the honey-sweetness of memories, at least, should she leave him. And so she lay with him, and let him do as he pleased with her, unwinding her braided hair, burying his face in it, stroking over her rounded body, taking her with wild hunger when the need grew too great to be contained in him.
When he drew off, sighed, and lay back to take great gulps of air, she moved also, to lie with her head on his shoulder. She lay with eyes shut, savouring the delight of being with him, so close, knowing he was satisfied with her. Knowing that her body had pleased him, her hands had given him pleasure, her mouth had known the keen hunger of his and responded.
She knew when he slept; his arm relaxed a little about her, and his breathing grew regular and deep. She stroked one hand lightly over his shoulders, her fingers tangled a little in the thick brown mat over his chest, down to his waist, in an intimate gesture she had not dared to make when he was awake.
How attractive he was, how masculine, how strong, how charming when he chose! No wonder he was spoiled for attention, no wonder he demanded what he wished, for he had but to ask and the ladies would fall over themselves to give him what he wanted. She sighed a little, lightly, not to waken him. When she left him — if she gathered strength to leave him — he would not be long alone. Who would not want such a man, such a lover, no matter how moody he would become, or cross, or demanding?
In his sleep, Malcolm moved in the bed, turned on his side towards her, his arms automatically going about her, and drawing her to him — for warmth? — for need? He did not waken, and she lay there, brooding for a time, before she slept also.
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 14