A Lady Betrayed (9 page)

She was thoroughly drenched by the time they made it through the doors. Even then, shivering, she would have lingered to gather warmth from his embrace, but Bess was there with well-worn linen towels to throw about their shoulders.

“Mercy, Miss Madeline, my lord, ye'll catch yer deaths! Yer both dripping like fountains. Better get upstairs and change at once!”

Maddie glanced at her fiancé, and he gave her a rueful smile in return. It seemed they were checked at every turn. He gave her a slight bow. “We will finish our gardening another time,” he told her, his intimate tone making the ordinary words a promise that warmed her.

She flashed a smile in return and climbed the stairs feeling more cheerful. She had a feeling that Lord Weller always honored his pledges.

Bess came upstairs right behind her, fussing like a broody hen about young ladies who did not keep an eye on the clouds.

“And it's not like ye donna know the weather—yer na some fine London lord who donna know better!” Her longtime servant pointed out darkly.

“You're quite right, Bess,” Maddie tried to soothe the maid's feelings. “But I'm inside now, and I'm sure I shall be fine.” She did shiver as she peeled off the sodden clothing, but with Bess's assistance, she was soon dressed in another gown, with a warm shawl pulled around her shoulders.

She thought of the viscount, with no one to help him dress—he must have a valet at home—but presumably he managed on his own. When she went back downstairs with her sewing basket and one of the lengths of silk she was refashioning, she found him already in the sitting room.

He stood when she came in and gave her a bow and a slightly penitent smile. “I trust you are none the worse for your unexpected wetting?”

“I'm sure I am just fine,” she told him, “despite all of my maid's grumblings. Bess is making us some hot tea, to complete our recovery, no doubt. Please sit down.”

They had to sit a proper distance apart, with the servant popping in and out, but at least she could relish the sight of him, smile at him, listen to the rich tones of his voice.

“Tell me more about your life, your boyhood, growing up on your estate,” she suggested.

He shrugged. “Not that much to tell,” he said. “I missed my parents, of course, after their early deaths, but it was not a bad life. I had my grandmother to look out for me, and the estate manager, a worthy man, to provide guidance. I went away to school not long after, and that kept me occupied, I can tell you.”

“You had no brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “My mother had a hard time having me, and there were no more to follow.”

“Then you must have been very precious to her,” Maddie suggested as she sewed a neat seam into the length of silk in her lap.

He smiled. “I believe so. She was a fond parent, and my father, too.”

She smiled back, not quite brave enough yet to tell him that she could see the love he had received reflected in him, in the capacity that he possessed for gentleness, for displaying love and compassion, just as he had done that night in the gazebo when she had been in such pain. It made him amazingly attractive, even if he had not been so handsome in his face and body.

“And after Oxford?”

Something changed in his expression. “After university I went into the army, as so many men did…and there was the war with France.”

She knew even without further queries, that he would not wish to speak of the war. Turning, he was spared the necessity of coming up with an excuse when Bess entered the room with a tea tray.

“Some nice 'ot tea, Miss Madeline, and crumpets and 'oney, always good for the constitution on a cold day,” the servant said, surveying the full china plates with a satisfied air as she pulled up a low table and set down the tray.

“Thank you, Bess,” Maddie told her, “I'm sure this will do us a great deal of good.”

The maidservant nodded in agreement and left the room.

Maddie poured them both some of the steaming tea and handed the viscount his cup. He took it without meeting her eye.

She did not mean to pursue the subject of the French war; it obviously made him uncomfortable. Instead, she gestured to the tray. “Please, help yourself. We must not disappoint Bess. She is on a mission to save us from lung fever, and besides, her crumpets are indeed the best for miles around.”

Chuckling, he filled a plate and then covered one of the flat pastries with honey and took a bite. “Certainly the best,” he agreed before sipping the hot tea cautiously. “Now it's your turn. Tell me about you.”

“I'm the oldest sister,” Maddie told him. “You know about my mother's early death, and the promise I made to take care of my father. Juliana is the next sister, and we are close; I do miss her since she has married. Her husband is a zoologist and always, it seems, off after new animals, so they live an adventurous life. Her letters keep me either in a constant state of alarm or paroxysms of laughter. Juliana does tend to get herself into scrapes. Lauryn is the sister who married the squire's son; she is very sweet and pretty and biddable. And the twins, oh, lord, they keep the whole shire talking.”

She told him several funny tales about her sisters, and then, to her surprise, he repeated his direction.

“Now, tell me about yourself.”

“But, my lord, I did—”

“No, you told me about your sisters, Madeline. And don't you think you should call me Adrian? You've allowed me the privilege—which I cherish, I assure you—of calling you by your Christian name, and you should do the same.”

She glanced into his dark eyes and then away again, a little flustered by the gleam she saw there. She felt that stirring of feeling inside her, and he only held her hand. Amazing the response he could invoke inside her.

“Adrian,” she said tentatively,

“Yes, nicely done,” he agreed.

She laughed despite herself.

“You are a wretch,” she told him, forgetting to feel shy.

“Better yet,” he said, smiling, “you must tell me off whenever I become too dictatorial, my dear. I'm sure it will be very good for me.”

“I'm sure it will,” she agreed, trying not to smile as she kept her tone stern, but fearing that she could not quite manage it. “Anyhow, what do you wish to know? I've had a very boring existence, you know. Growing up in this quiet bit of Yorkshire, tending to my family, trying to fill the space left vacant by my dear mother, trying to look out for my father and my sisters.”

“No secret lovers?” he demanded, his tone half-teasing. “No passionate squire's sons riding up at midnight to throw stones at your window?”

“That would have been for my sister, but as for throwing stones at her window, Robert would never have dreamed of doing anything so improper.” She giggled at the very idea. “And the squire had only one son, poor man. He is quite bereft, as is Lauryn, of course, at his heir's sudden death.

“And no, I had no secret passions for anyone in the village, either, or for any neighbors—and oh, speaking of our neighbors, we are bidden to the Callestons for dinner and just look at the time.” She glance at the small mantel clock and shook her head. “I have been nattering away like a washerwoman. We had best go up and change!”

She put down her teacup, pushed back her plate, and gathered up her sewing, gave a quick smile and curtsy to the viscount, who bowed in return, then hurried out.

What had she been thinking? It was so unusual for them to go out at all that it had been easy to forget that they had plans for the evening.

At least the Callestons were old family friends, and a good thing, too, as Maddie had not yet had time to put together any of the revamped dresses she was planning.

Upstairs, she pulled the bell rope for Bess, then looked into her clothespress and selected the most presentable of her dresses. She had already shed the muslin she had worn for daytime and was pinning her hair back when Bess came in with a pitcher of warm water.

“Thank you, Bess,” she said. “Is Thomas going to help Lord Weller?”

“In due time,” her servant answered, her tone brusque. “When 'e finishes with the master.”

“Of course,” Maddie agreed. She thought of Thomas with his calloused farmer's hands and matter-of-fact speech playing valet and bit back a grin. But he was totally faithful to the family, and they would have a hard time doing without him, and Bess, too.

When Bess departed, Maddie went over to her bureau and glanced at the book of receipts she had found in the attic. She still had not had time to look through it, but the pages of faded ink drew her; she recognized her mother's hand in these carefully written lines.

As she skimmed past pages of careful instructions for puddings and pastries, she saw something she had not noticed at first. A packet of folded pages had been tucked into the back of the book.

She paused, her hand on the packet.

What was this?

T
hey were letters, tied together by a blue ribbon and
tucked away with obvious care. With her hand on the top sheet, Maddie hesitated. She felt as if she were breaking into a sanctuary. These were written by her mother; Maddie shouldn't pry.

But there were so many questions she wanted to ask her mother—had wanted to ask her mother for years, and now she never could. If reading these pages would tell Maddie more about her mother, wouldn't her mother have wanted Maddie and the rest of her daughters to read them?

Not sure if this was logic or simply temptation speaking, Maddie bit her lip. Then she slipped the first letter off the top of the pile, and—her heart beating fast—unfolded the fragile and creased paper.

The date at the top showed that her mother had been hardly eighteen when she had written the note. “My dearest,” the letter began. “My head is still spinning from our last dance tonight. Just being so close to you made my heart sing!”

Oh, my, they were letters to her father! Why were they here, and not in a private place in his study or bedroom, Maddie wondered. Now she felt twice as invasive—she could not read love letters from her mother to her father.

With great reluctance, she refolded the letter and slipped it back beneath the ribbon. She put the slender stack in the back of the book of receipts where she had found it.

What were the letters doing here? she thought for the second time. Perhaps when her mother died, they had been too painful a reminder of happy times, and her father had put them away from his sight. And now, even if he had wanted, he could not climb to the attic to retrieve them. Should Maddie ask him if he wanted them back?

But she hated to have to admit that she had looked at them.

She would decide later. But now she knew that her mother had already been courting, and being courted by, her father at seventeen, Maddie thought. She had a delightful picture of her mother happy and so much in love. That was almost worth the guilt she felt at reading the hidden cache of letters. It was if she had been given access to her mother's voice from beyond the grave. She shook her head at herself—such a thought. Hearing the men talking in the hallway below, she made her way downstairs.

After imagining her father as a dashing young man, it was almost ironic to see him in unaccustomed evening dress. Since his accident, he had rarely ventured out in the evening. He looked very fine, she thought, even if the cut of his jacket was a trifle old-fashioned. Adrian, on the other hand, wore what was surely the latest London style and appeared very polished and urbane, his dark eyes and hair set off superbly by his dark evening jacket and pure white linen.

Her father smiled when she came into view on the stairs, and Adrian bowed as if she were a grand lady, not an impoverished gentleman's daughter wearing only an out-of-date muslin with twice-dyed ribbons for trim.

The viscount and Thomas put her father carefully into the carriage, and Thomas tied his wheeled chair onto the back. Then the viscount helped her up, and he climbed in, too, and they set out for the short drive to the Callestons' residence.

The Callestons' home, while not as large as the squire's, was bigger than their house, and it was lit up tonight with more candles than usual, denoting a festive occasion. Despite a nervous flutter in her stomach, Maddie smiled when she was handed down from the carriage, and she watched anxiously as her father was lifted out and put carefully into his chair. When the lap robe was tucked around his wasted legs and his three-corner evening hat put into his lap, the footman pushed him carefully ahead of them into the house.

Due to his higher social rank, Adrian should have had precedence, but he had waved her father to go on ahead. Another thing she loved about him, Maddie thought. He did not stand on ceremony. Hadn't he fit right in at their home, with no footman, no gentleman's gentleman to wait on him, except for a rough farmhand? Many London gentlemen, much less titled lords, would have raised a fuss or refused to reside under such primitive conditions.

But Mrs. Calleston was coming forward, and Maddie pulled her thoughts back to the present moment.

Holding out her hands in welcome, the matron said, “Here is our newly engaged pair, and what a handsome couple they make. My dear Miss Applegate, we are so happy for you. Your dear mother would be in ecstasies!”

Maddie felt herself flushing and cursed her tendency to blush easily. “Thank you,” she muttered. Even though she was fond of the portly and sweet-natured Mrs. Calleston, who had been a close friend of her late mother's, just now she wished their neighbor would not be so voluble in her praise of the engagement. Maddie felt a bit like the beggar maid who has snared the prince in the fairy tale. Adrian seemed to sense her discomfort.

“As I'm sure my own late mother would be, also, if she could know what a wonderful bride-to-be I have secured for my future happiness,” the viscount put in, his tone smooth.

“Oh, of—of course,” Mrs. Calleston stuttered, then recovered quickly. “You are fortunate, indeed. Our dear Miss Applegate is the prize of the shire, I assure you, Lord Weller. Only her dedication to her dear father, which has kept her close to home, has prevented her from attracting suitors from all over Yorkshire. Why, her beauty, her sweetness, her quickness of wit, her skill in housekeeping—not that you will need to worry about that, of course.”

Barely pausing for breath, she allowed the viscount to offer her his arm and took him off to introduce to the other guests, thankfully sparing Maddie, now blushing in earnest, more details of her own virtues.

She wondered if it was too late to go home and hide in her bedchamber? Oh, this betrothal business was more complicated than she had imagined. A footman came up with a silver tray holding wine, and she accepted a glass, then saw her father speaking to Mr. Calleston at one side of the fireplace. On the other side two matrons eyed her with open curiosity and motioned with their fans for her to join them.

And be questioned further on the subject of the engagement, or worse—the night in the gazebo? Oh, no!

Maddie pretended not to see their signal and headed for her father's side instead. She tucked his lap robe in more securely—her father gave her a smile—then she hovered nearby as he and the other man talked about the newest types of plows.

Her own thoughts were not on farming. She saw that poor Adrian had been turned over to the inquisitive matrons. But he looked quite calm, and she was sure that he could handle himself better than she would have, so she gazed into the fire and watched the darting scarlet and gold flames leap and crackle.

She thought about the letter and her mother's joy. It was so nice to think that her parents had been happy when they had been young, since her mother had not had many years to enjoy that contentment.

Deep in thought, Maddie jumped when someone walked up beside her.

“I must apologize for keeping your fiancé from you, Miss Applegate, but everyone here wishes to talk to him,” Mrs. Calleston said. “The women are overcome by his looks, and the men by his rank, so you will find it hard to find a moment for yourselves, I fear. I should have thought to plan some dances in the sitting room, later. We could have rolled up the rugs, but the room is really too small, and I have no one to play for us.”

“No matter, Mrs. Calleston,” Maddie said. “Although dancing is a romantic pastime when one is—well…” Drat, she was turning red, again, she just knew it, and her neighbor had a knowing look on her face. Maddie tried to change the subject, and blurted out the one thing still on her mind. “Do you remember my mother and father dancing when they were young and still courting? Did they particularly enjoy any special dance? It would please me to know that Adrian—Lord Weller—and I were dancing it as well.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Calleston looked thoughtful. “Elizabeth did much enjoy dancing, that was true. She was as light on her feet as any girl I ever saw. We were all envious. But your father—he had many strong points, my dear. His style on the hunting field was excellent, and such a good rider—and he could read aloud with such feeling—why, when he read poetry, the ladies would almost swoon!”

Maddie giggled, trying to imagine her father as a romantic young swain, sending the ladies into transports. “But, dancing?”

“Ah, yes, dancing. He knew the steps, but even before his accident, he had a slight slowness in one leg that made him perhaps not the best dancer in our little group.” Mrs. Calleston stared into the distance as if she were indeed looking back in time. “But Elizabeth was a delight to watch on the dance floor, and every young man clamored to be her partner. Even when—ah, well.” She sighed, but at what, she didn't say. “Such a shame,” she said beneath her breath.

“What was?” Maddie demanded, too curious to be tactful. After all, it was her own mother they were discussing. Did she mean when her father had had his accident and been confined to the wheeled chair? No, that was long after her mother's death. So what had suddenly made Mrs. Calleston pause in her reminiscences?

“Oh.” This time, to Maddie's surprise, it was the matron who flushed. “Nothing, my dear, nothing at all. Your mother was my dear friend, and I would never speak ill of her.”

This made no sense at all. Their hostess had just been praising Maddie's late mother's dancing—how could that be construed as speaking ill?

“Excuse me for just a moment, I should check on how the dinner is progressing,” Mrs. Calleston added and made a somewhat less than graceful exit, her expression hard to decipher.

Now what had Maddie said to upset their neighbor? While she puzzled over the answer to this, she glanced across the room to find Adrian surrounded by an even larger circle of women, and some men as well. When she met his gaze, she saw him nod and turn aside to say something she was too far away to hear, then he somehow made his way through the group and came to her side.

“Finally, you give me an excuse,” he said, keeping his tone low. “I was rapidly being overcome by the cordiality of your neighbors, my dear Madeline.”

She tried not to grin. “You are too much preferred, Lord Weller. Everyone begs for your company.”

He gave a muffled groan, sending her into giggles, which she hid as best she could behind her fan. She knew that many of the company were watching them, covertly or openly.

“I told them you had an urgent need for my presence,” he continued. “If they wish to know why, you will have to come up with the reason.”

“Oh, good,” she told him, trying to make her tone cross, but finding it hard to succeed. It was impossible to be angry when he was beside her, looking down at her with his dark lustrous eyes and pleasing features. Just being close to him sent a rush of happiness through her. “You give me the harder chore.”

“They are your neighbors,” he said reasonably, just as their hostess returned to the room, followed by the head footman, who paused in the doorway, waiting to draw the eyes of the guests.

“Dinner is served,” he proclaimed.

Mrs. Calleston began to pair up partners to go into dinner together.

Adrian turned and gave Maddie his arm.

“But you will be assigned a lady to escort,” she argued.

“I have chosen my lady,” he said firmly. “Come along.”

“Oh, gracious,” Maddie muttered. “At this rate, we shall furnish even more grist for the gossip mill.”

With a smile of apology for their hostess as they passed—she appeared too startled to scold—they headed for the dining room.

Perhaps she would attribute it to the eccentricities of a viscount, Maddie thought wildly. Perhaps titled guests were allowed some mischief making?

Once in the dining room, however, Maddie insisted that they heed proper decorum, so they found their place cards and took their seats. Lord Weller was at their hostess's right, as his rank demanded, and Maddie had been put further down, between an elderly neighbor and a beaming, slightly spotty young man just up from university and very full of his own ideas.

She resigned herself to a dinner spent in polite if unexciting conversation. But she could watch Adrian from the corner of her eye, while she enjoyed Mrs. Calleston's cook's undoubtably tasty dishes.

However, she found that viscounts were not the only ones who could disregard the most basic tenets of good manners. The older man on her left side spent the first course expounding on the problems arising from the lack of good breeding stock in local rams, and then suddenly switched course. “And prices are all akilter, too. Now, during the war we got good prices for wool, but the government needed material for uniforms, didn't it? Doing our duty, we were, as well as making a good profit.”

The man had a naturally loud voice, and the other conversations at their end of the table faded as the other guests listened or just found it too hard to compete.

The man's wife looked a bit flushed at all this attention to their financial practices. “We never charged more than a fair price, you understand,” she told the other guests.

“Of course not,” Mr. Peetwee agreed. “As I said, doing our duty and making a just profit, that's all.”