Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  “You have an infuriating brother!” she cried. “He treats me as if he owns me!”

  So Clifford had not told her yet.... Tony Warburton gave her a sardonic smile. “Ned is in love with you, Constance.”

  “Ha! He acts as if he’s gone mad!”

  “Love is an emotion that drives men mad—hadn’t you heard?”

  “It didn’t drive you mad,” she said—and immediately wished she hadn’t said that.

  “Oh, it did—once. I have better control of myself now, I hope.” He leaned forward, speaking in a richer tone. “If I declared for you now, would you accept me, Constance?”

  “No!” She would have wrenched away from him but his hold was too tight.

  He laughed to cover the hurt he felt. “Ah, but then I have not declared for you, have I?”

  She gave him an enraged look. And was still trembling when Chesney claimed her for the next dance.

  “Have those Warburton fellows said something to offend you?” he cried. “If so, tell me, and I’ll call them out!”

  “Both of them?” Constance was fascinated by such temerity. “Both!” he declared staunchly.

  The idea of Chesney pitting himself against Ned—much less against the dangerous Captain Warburton—was so ludicrous that it put her in a better humor. She was about to tell him she had given better than she got, when the dance ended and she was swept away by Ned, and before Chesney could reclaim her the Squire said, “Could I see you in the library, Constance?”

  Ned’s eyes gleamed. At last! Very readily he relinquished her and went off to find himself a drink. A few minutes from now he’d be a betrothed man and everyone would be congratulating him—including his brother, who’d been acting morose lately. Probably restive at so much inaction and anxious to get away. Ned felt suddenly very excited. It had been hard on him, knowing the Squire had accepted his offer and not letting on that he knew. Well, the playacting would soon be over! He flashed a grin at Tony who gave him back a grim measuring smile.

  In the library the Squire was preparing Constance for what was to come. “You are in all ways a tractable niece—and I hope you will be so now.”

  Constance gave him a bewildered look.

  Clifford Archer squared his shoulders. “I have betrothed ye to Ned Warburton, Constance. I’ve given my word on it.”

  Fear shot through Constance. Once he had set a course, the Squire—like her dead father who had plowed doggedly through a blizzard to his death—would stick to it.

  “I—I would not be betrothed to Ned, sir,” she gasped.

  “Ye do not choose Ned?” He brooded upon her. “Well, no matter,” he sighed. “Ned is a good man and ye will come to realize it once ye are wed.”

  Constance found herself trembling. Her mind flitted about like a hummingbird, sampling what to say. If she told the truth, if she said, I was the fifteen-year-old bride of a highwayman who left me for another woman, she would not be believed. It was too bizarre. If she said simply, I am already wed, she would not be believed either—for she had given no inkling of that to anyone, not to Margaret, not to Pamela. Not even the marriage records of Essex would back her up for they had been married under assumed names! She must think of something else—and quickly. Something that would be believed.

  “I cannot marry Ned,” she appealed. And that was true enough! “I cannot in honor marry him,” she added huskily, suddenly drooping her head so that she was studying the carpet.

  “And why not?” Clifford Archer was eyeing her in some alarm.

  “Because—” Constance cast about. “Because I am already betrothed. To someone else.”

  “Who?” Inexorably.

  Constance felt suffocated. “It—it is a private matter between him and me!” she cried, bringing up a pair of violet eyes with a wild appeal sending amethyst sparks toward him.

  “A private matter no longer,” said the Squire grimly. He thought for a moment. “Are you saying”—his voice was reluctant, as if the words could scarce pass his lips—“that you have gone too far with this fellow, that you cannot draw back?”

  Constance nodded miserably.

  There was doubt in his eyes.

  “I—I have slept with him,” she admitted. And then in a wisp of a voice, barely above a whisper. “I fear I may be pregnant by him.”

  A long deep sigh escaped the Squire. “Ah-h-h,” he said softly. “That makes a difference.” He chewed at his lip. “Is this true?” he demanded sternly. “Or is it a fabrication to postpone your betrothal to Ned Warburton?”

  “It is true,” she whispered, hating herself for lying to him.

  “Then”—the Squire passed a hand across his face as if to brush away cobwebs—“Who is this fellow? Bring him to me that I may deal with him.”

  “I—I will not bring him to you,” she said shakily. “He does not deserve your wrath.” She drew a deep breath. “I chose him and I trapped him!”

  Clifford Archer gave her a look of wonder, almost of awe. “I see you are of the new breed of woman,” he muttered. “More like Margaret than my brother Brandon!”

  Margaret would have understood my falling in love with a highwayman, thought Constance rebelliously. Had it been Margaret standing here instead of you, I would have told the truth!

  She turned to go.

  “Not so fast,” said the Squire, who had recovered himself sufficiently to deal with this new problem. “Before you bring dishonor upon us, we must get you wed.”

  Constance stiffened. “I will not tell you his name!” she cried indignantly. “For I know what you would do!”

  The Squire sighed. “Very well. Make your own arrangements. Perhaps it is best that I not know his name at this moment for indeed I would be tempted to send his teeth crashing down his throat!” A visage she had not known could be so cold now confronted her. “But be quick about it,” he commanded. “Bring him to me before the evening is over and we will announce your betrothal for all to hear.” He leant forward menacingly. “I take it he is here?"

  Barely controlling a shiver, Constance turned and fled. Immediately the Squire sought out Tabitha. “Let me know at once if Mistress Constance tries to leave this house,” he instructed. “And prevent her even if you have to throw yourself upon her and bear her to the ground.”

  “I’ll watch her, sir,” Tabby gulped.

  “See that you do.” He went back to the festivities and found Pamela, who was standing for the moment alone, sadly watching Tom whirl round the floor—with someone else. Dick Peacham would have partnered her, but he had gone for refreshments. He would be back presently with a couple of piled-up plates and would try to lure her into some corner and propose marriage again. She started as her father’s voice broke into her reverie.

  “Have you seen Constance?” he asked. “She cannot have come into this room more than a minute ago.”

  Pamela gave a confused look about her. She had been so wrapped up in her own affairs that she would not have noticed if the King himself had passed by! “I could look for her,” she volunteered.

  “Never mind. Has she told you she is secretly bethrothed?”

  Pamela gasped. “No, she has not!”

  There could be no doubt of the truth of that remark, thought the Squire. Pamela’s pretty mouth had dropped open and her eyes widened to saucers at the very thought.

  “Is there some special lad she favors?”

  “I—” Pamela was recovering herself. In a vague way she felt that in matters of the heart, friends must stick together. “You will have to give me time to sort this out,” she said weakly.

  “So you do not know of some special lad, then?”

  “I know that she sometimes weeps in her room,” said Pamela carefully. “And sometimes when one is talking to her, she becomes still and silent and looks out into the distance as if she is in some other place.”

  Weeps in her room...looks out into the distance. The Squire gnawed that over. It would fit her situation all too well if the lass thought herself pregn
ant by some young buck who had not openly declared for her!

  “Do not worry about it, Pamela,” he told his troubled daughter. “All will be well.”

  Pamela found neither his stern look nor his grim tone reassuring. She turned as Peacham found her and almost blundered into the plate of little cakes he held out. Impatiently she took it, her blue eyes scanning the room, her mind tallying swiftly over the list of young bucks who danced attendance on beautiful Constance. There was Ned Warburton, dancing with Margie Hamilton. Captain Warburton was talking to Nathaniel Hawley. Who then was missing?

  Chesney Pell was absent.

  “Have you seen Chesney?” she asked Peacham.

  “Yes. He was asking where Mistress Constance was, since he was leaving early with Cart Rawlings. Someone told him she’d gone upstairs.”

  Constance had indeed gone upstairs. To change to boots and riding habit and somehow reach the stables. She intended to run away—tonight!

  The Squire had already guessed her intention. He bounded up the stairs, threw open her door and saw the riding habit thrown upon the bed. Constance backed away but he pounced on her. “So this is your answer!” He glared at the telltale riding habit.

  Constance blanched.

  The Squire stared down at her. Her face was very pale. He did not want to precipitate her into doing anything foolish—like running away in that thin ball gown on this bitter night. She might freeze to death as her father had!

  “I promise that I will let you speak to the lad before I do,” he said in an altered voice. “But I will have his name. You are not to play games with me!”

  “I will die before I will tell you his name!” gasped Constance.

  The Squire’s face darkened. In rage he took her by the shoulders and began to shake her. Before his frustrated fury, Constance felt her very bones were being shaken loose.

  “Sir!” cried an indignant male voice from the doorway. “Sir, what are you doing to Mistress Constance?”

  The Squire’s grip loosened—but not enough that Constance could wriggle free. Dazed by the sudden appearance of someone else in their small violent world of question and answer, they turned to find themselves looking into the anxious round face of Chesney Pell. A very pale face as he quailed before the Squire. “I must protest!” he cried weakly.

  “Mistress Constance is a frail flower. You will hurt her if you persist in shaking her like that!”

  A frail flower! This violet-eyed wench who was defying him! The Squire ground his teeth. And of a sudden, he saw this fellow who was seeking his ward among the bedchambers in a different light. This was the fellow who had haunted his house of late, languishing after Constance. This was the fellow into whose sleigh she had leaped, when she was supposed to go with Ned. And they had spent the night at Warwood—together. Light broke over him suddenly.

  “It was you!” he thundered, turning so fierce a countenance on Chesney that the Oxford student took an involuntary step backward.

  "I?” he faltered. “What have I done to merit your displeasure?”

  But Clifford Archer now had his quarry in view. He flung Constance aside and his chest seemed to puff out and his shoulders widen as he advanced upon Chesney. If he could not wring the truth from the wench, he would have it from the lad if he had to throttle it out of him!

  Constance saw Chesney’s danger better than he did. In another moment the Squire would be upon him, vengeful and dangerous. She flung herself upon the Squire, wrapping her arms around his sleeve. “Run, Chesney!” she cried. “Run!”

  Bewildered by events he had no knowledge of, Chesney was already backing nimbly away. Now at the flaring alarm in Constance’s voice, he turned and broke into a run.

  With a roar the Squire took off after him, stumbling as his spurs—for every fashionable gentleman wore his spurs indoors, even in the West Country—caught in Constance’s velvet petticoat and threatened to trip him. Angrily he shook her off and she wavered, righted herself, and watched his enraged progress down the hall.

  Chesney, unfamiliar with the house, had already turned in panic up a stairway that would lead him into the attics. The Squire went thundering after.

  There was another stair leading up, at the other end of the house. Guessing that Chesney would shortly be dashing the length of those attics with the Squire in hot pursuit, Constance kicked off her high-heeled dancing slippers and raced toward that other stairway, meaning to intercept Chesney before the Squire caught up. As she reached the confusing warren of rooms that comprised the attics, she could hear Chesney crashing about in the darkness and behind him somewhere the Squire—for neither had paused to light candles. All the servants were downstairs attending to the guests and so were not party to the mind-boggling events taking place in their quarters.

  Constance found Chesney before the Squire did.

  “Over here,” she hissed and almost lost her breath as he promptly collided with her.

  “What the devil is the matter?” he whispered in a shaken voice. “Has the Squire lost his mind? He was going to attack me!”

  She shuddered as some distance away she heard a crash—the Squire had collided with a washbowl and pitcher. “Take off your boots,” she muttered. “And don’t ask questions.”

  Used to being controlled by women, Chesney meekly set himself to removing his boots. He required help in getting them off and his spurs ripped her dress. But get them off they did at last and, boots in hand, she led him on tiptoe through the maze of rooms and finally down into her bedchamber where she closed the door behind them.

  “Here, put your boots on.” She tossed them to him. “You must leave here at once—and don’t come back. Go directly to Oxford—or better still, Lyme. Do you have relatives somewhere that you could visit?”

  Chesney, his head whirling, made no move toward his boots. “What is happening?” he wailed. “What have I done?”

  “The Squire thinks—” she hesitated. “Oh, never mind what he thinks. Just get you gone!”

  “He thinks I have offered you some offense?” A little light was filtering into Chesney’s thick skull. “That I have taken liberties with you?”

  “Worse,” said Constance grimly.

  “But all I have done is asked for your hand in marriage,” gasped Chesney. “And you refused me!” He picked up the boots.

  In the back of Constance’s mind was nourishing the thought that if Chesney fled, the Squire would undoubtedly pursue him—and that would give her time to get away. She would try to reach Margaret in Devon. She would tell her everything—well, not quite everything, she would not tell her that she had fallen in love with Tony Warburton! But she would fling herself on Margaret’s mercy and—

  “What does the Squire think I have done?” An anxious Chesney was interrupting her thoughts.

  Constance took a deep shaky breath. What she had to say would rid of her Chesney in an instant!.

  “He thinks,” she said, “that I am pregnant by you.”

  Nerveless fingers let the boots go thudding to the floor, spurs jingling. Chesney sat down upon the bed as if his legs would no longer support him. “How could he think that?” he croaked.

  “Because,” sighed Constance, “when he tried to betroth me to someone I did not wish to wed, I told him I was pregnant.”

  “It is a lie, of course?” bleated Chesney.

  “Of course. And when I refused to name the man, he tried to shake the name out of me.”

  And he had blundered into that! It came to Chesney suddenly that they were alone together in a bedchamber—alone at last. And that Constance looked very beautiful as she stood there defying the world, defying the Squire who had sought to make her wed some other man. Wed some other man! Chesney’s hackles rose at that. True, he had accepted the turndown she had given him with good grace, not really expecting to snare so lustrous a wench. But—suddenly he saw the Perfect Solution to all this, shining before him. He opened his mouth to tell Constance about it and at that moment the door to the bedchamber burs
t open and the Squire came through it.

  “So?” he cried. “First you run away and now I find you in-my ward’s bedchamber, sitting on her bed without your boots!. What have you to say to that, sirrah?”

  Chesney cast a mild look down at the offending boots. He curled his toes in his socks, cocked his head and gave the Squire a cherubic look. “I have nothing to say about it,” he sighed. “You are well aware of my feelings for Mistress Constance. Indeed I sought your permission to pay court to her—”

  “But not to bed her without first wedding her!” cried the Squire, fixing Chesney with a baleful glare.

  Chesney hung his head. No more eloquent admission of guilt could be had.

  Constance gasped.

  The Squire turned to her. “So now we have the fellow’s name,” he said heavily. “And it will be your name too, mistress, as soon as the banns can be cried! Repair that rip in your dress, Constance—and you. Pell, put on your boots. I will expect you downstairs in ten minutes when I will announce your betrothal.” His menacing gaze turned on Chesney.

  Chesney quailed before that look, but only a little. He was to have Constance! Forgotten were his studies at Oxford—that could all go away once he was a married man. Forgotten was his doting mother in Lyme Regis—she would not go away, and to date she had made his every decision. Forgotten was the advice of Cart Rawlings, who had muttered that it might not be wise to dangle too close after Mistress Constance, she might yet be proved a King’s agent. Forgotten were all of these things. He was going to have Constance!

  “Oh, Chesney, you must be mad!” In consternation, Constance sank down beside him after the Squire stomped out. “But there is still time for you to get away. Put on your boots, you must hurry! I will find some way to detain the Squire while you make your escape.”

  “How will you detain him?” asked Chesney curiously.

  “Why—I will lock the door after you are gone and pretend to him that you are still here, that—that we are making love and do not wish to be disturbed.”