A Night Like This (13 page)

Checkmate!

“Miss Wynter, I think you should be the evil queen,” Harriet said.

“There’s an evil queen?” Daniel echoed. With obvious delight.

“Of course,” Harriet replied. “Every good play has an evil queen.”

Frances actualy raised her hand. “And a un—”

“Don’t say it,” Elizabeth growled.

Frances crossed her eyes, put her knife to her forehead in an approximation of a horn, and neighed.

“It is settled, then,” Harriet said decisively. “Daniel shal be Lord Finstead”—she held up a restraining hand—“who won’t be Lord Finstead but rather some other name which I will think of later; Miss Wynter shal be the evil queen, Elizabeth will be . . .” She narrowed her eyes and regarded her sister, who regarded her back with outright suspicion.

“Elizabeth will be the beautiful princess,” Harriet finaly announced, much to the amazement of Elizabeth.

“What about me?” Frances asked.

“The butler,” Harriet replied without even a second of hesitation.

Frances’s mouth immediately opened to protest.

“No, no,” Harriet said. “It’s the best role, I promise. You get to do everything.”

“Except be a unicorn,” Daniel murmured.

Frances tilted her head to the side with a resigned expression.

“The next play,” Harriet finaly gave in. “I shal find a way to include a unicorn in the one I’m working on right now.” Frances pumped both fists in the air. “Huzzah!”

“But only if you stop talking about unicorns right now.”

“I second the motion,” Elizabeth said, to no one in particular.

“Very wel,” Frances acceded. “No more unicorns. At least not where you can hear me.”

Harriet and Elizabeth both looked as if they might argue, but Miss Wynter interceded, saying, “I think that’s more than fair. You can hardly stop her from talking about them entirely.”

“Then it’s settled,” Harriet said. “We shal work out the smaler roles later.”

“What about you?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Oh, I’m going to be the goddess of the sun and moon.”

“The tale gets stranger and stranger,” Daniel said.

“Just wait until act seven,” Miss Wynter told him.

“Just wait until act seven,” Miss Wynter told him.

“Seven?” His head snapped up. “There are seven acts?”

“Twelve,” Harriet corrected, “but don’t worry, you’re in only eleven of them. Now then, Miss Wynter, when do you propose that we begin our rehearsals? And may we do so out of doors? There is a clearing by the gazebo that would be ideal.”

Miss Wynter turned to Daniel for confirmation. He just shrugged and said, “Harriet is the playwright.” She nodded and turned back to the girls. “I was going to say that we may start after the rest of our lessons, but given that there are twelve acts to get through, I am granting a one-day holiday from geography and maths.”

There was a rousing cheer from the girls, and even Daniel felt swept along in the general joy. “Wel,” he said to Miss Wynter, “it’s not every day one gets to be strange
and
sad.”

“Or evil.”

He chuckled. “Or evil.” Then he got a thought. A strange, sad thought. “I don’t die at the end, do I?” She shook her head.

“That’s a relief, I must say. I make a terrible corpse.”

She laughed at that, or rather, she held her lips together firmly while she tried not to laugh. The girls were chattering madly as they took their final bites of breakfast and fled the room, and then he was left sitting next to Miss Wynter, just the two of them and their plates of breakfast, the warm morning sun filtering upon them through the windows.

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “do we get to be wicked?”

Her fork clattered against her plate. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sad, strange, and evil are all very well and good, but I’d like to be wicked. Wouldn’t you?” Her lips parted, and he heard the tiny airy rush of her gasp. The sound tickled his skin, made him want to kiss her.

But everything seemed to make him want to kiss her. He felt like a young man again, perpetualy randy, except that this was far more specific. Back at university he’d flirted with every woman he’d met, stealing kisses or, more to the point, accepting them when they’d been offered freely.

This was different. He didn’t want a woman. He wanted
her
. And he supposed that if he had to spend the afternoon being strange, sad, and disfigured just to be in her company, it would be well worth it.

Then he remembered the wart.

He turned to Miss Wynter and said firmly, “I am not getting a wart.”

Realy, a man had to draw the line somewhere.

S
ix hours later, as Anne adjusted the black sash that was meant to denote her as the evil queen, she had to admit that she could not recall a more enjoyable afternoon.

Ludicrous, yes; completely without academic value, absolutely. But still, completely and utterly enjoyable.

She had had fun.

Fun. She couldn’t remember the last time.

They had been rehearsing all day (not that they planned to actualy perform
The Strange, Sad Tragedy of the Lord Who Was Not Finstead
in front of an audience), and she could not begin to count the number of times she had had to stop, doubled over with laughter.

“Thou shalt never smite my daughter!” she intoned, waving a stick through the air.

Elizabeth ducked.

“Oh!” Anne winced. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth assured her. “I—”

“Miss Wynter, you’re breaking character again!” Harriet bemoaned.

“I almost hit Elizabeth,” Anne explained.

“I don’t care.”

Elizabeth exhaled in a puff of indignation. “
I
care.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t use a stick,” Frances said.

Harriet spared her sister a disdainful glance before turning back to the rest of them. “May we return to the script?” she said in a voice so prim it spun right into sarcasm.

“Of course,” Anne said, looking down at her script. “Where were we? Oh, yes, don’t smite my daughter and all that.”

“
Miss Wynter
.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t saying the line. I was just finding it.” She cleared her throat and waved her stick in the air, giving Elizabeth wide berth. “Thou shalt never smite my daughter!”

How she managed that without laughing she would never know.

“I don’t want to smite her,” Lord Winstead said, with enough drama to make a Drury Lane audience weep. “I want to marry her.”

“Never.”

“No, no, no, Miss Wynter!” Harriet exclaimed. “You don’t sound upset at al.”

“Wel, I’m not,” Anne admitted. “The daughter is a bit of a ninny. I should think the evil queen would be glad to get her off her hands.” Harriet sighed the sigh of the very-long-suffering. “Be that as it may, the evil
queen
doesn’t think her daughter is a ninny.” Harriet sighed the sigh of the very-long-suffering. “Be that as it may, the evil
queen
doesn’t think her daughter is a ninny.”

“I think she’s a ninny,” Elizabeth chimed in.

“But you
are
the daughter,” Harriet said.

“I know! I’ve been reading her lines all day. She’s an idiot.”

As they bickered, Lord Winstead moved closer to Anne and said, “I do feel a bit of a lecherous old man, trying to marry Elizabeth.” She chuckled.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider swapping roles.”

“With you?”

He scowled. “With Elizabeth.”

“After you said I made a perfect evil queen? I think not.”

He leaned a little closer. “Not to split hairs, but I believe I said you made a perfect
ly
evil queen.”

“Oh, yes. That is so much better.” Anne frowned. “Have you seen Frances?”

He tilted his head to the right. “I believe she’s off rooting about in the bushes.”

Anne folowed his gaze uneasily. “Rooting?”

“She told me she was practicing for the next play.”

Anne blinked at him, not folowing.

“For when she gets to be a unicorn.”

“Oh, of course.” She chuckled. “She is rather tenacious, that one.”

Lord Winstead grinned, and Anne’s stomach did a little flip. He had such a lovely smile. Wickedly mischievous, but with . . . oh, Anne had no idea how to describe it except that he was good man, an honorable man who knew right from wrong, and no matter how naughty his grins . . .

She knew he would not hurt her.

Even her own father had not proved so dependable.

“You look very serious of a sudden,” Lord Winstead said.

Anne blinked herself out of her reverie. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said quickly, hoping she wasn’t blushing. Sometimes she had to remind herself that he could not peer straight into her thoughts. She looked over at Harriet and Elizabeth, who were still arguing, although by now they had moved off the topic of the inteligence (or lack thereof) of the beautiful princess and had started in on—

Good Lord, were they discussing wild boars?

“I think we need to take a break,” she said.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Lord Winstead said. “I am
not
playing the boar.”

“I don’t think you need to worry on that score,” Anne said. “Frances will certainly snatch that one up.” He looked at her. She looked at him. And together they burst out laughing, so hard that even Harriet and Elizabeth stopped their sniping.

“What’s so funny?” Harriet asked, folowed by Elizabeth’s extremely suspicious “Are you laughing at me?”

“We’re laughing at everyone,” Lord Winstead said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Even ourselves.”

“I’m hungry,” Frances announced, emerging from the bushes. There were a few leaves stuck to her dress and a small stick jutting out from the side of her head.

Anne didn’t think it was meant to be a unicorn’s horn, but the effect was quite charming nonetheless.

“I’m hungry, too,” Harriet said with a sigh.

“Why doesn’t one of you run back to the house and ask the kitchen for a picnic hamper?” Anne suggested. “We could all use some sustenance.”

“I’ll go,” Frances offered.

“I’ll go with you,” Harriet told her. “I do some of my best thinking while I’m walking.” Elizabeth looked at her sisters, then at the adults. “Wel, I’m not going to stay here by myself,” she said, the adults apparently not counting as proper company, and the three girls took off for the house, their pace quickly moving from brisk walk to out-and-out race.

Anne watched as they disappeared over the rise. She probably shouldn’t be out here alone with Lord Winstead, but it was difficult to muster an objection. It was the middle of the day, and they were out of doors, and more to the point, she’d had so much fun that afternoon that she didn’t think she could muster an objection to anything just then.

She had a smile on her face, and she was quite happy to keep it there.

“I would think you could remove your sash,” Lord Winstead suggested. “No one needs to be evil all the time.” Anne laughed, her fingers sliding along the length of black ribbon. “I don’t know. I find I’m rather enjoying being evil.”

“As well you should. I must confess, I’m rather jealous of your evildoings. Poor Lord Finstead, or whatever his name turns out to be, could use a bit more malevolence. He’s a rather hapless felow.”

“Ah, but he wins the princess in the end,” Anne reminded him, “and the evil queen must live the rest of her life in an attic.”

“Which begs the question,” he said, turning toward her with furrowed brow. “Why
is
Lord Finstead’s tale sad? The strange bit is abundantly clear, but if the evil queen ends up in the attic—”

“It’s
his
attic,” Anne interrupted.

“Oh.” He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Wel, that changes everything.”

And then they did laugh. The both of them. Together.

Again.

“Oh, I’m hungry, too,” Anne said, once her mirth had melted down to a smile. “I hope the girls don’t take too long.” And then she felt Lord Winstead’s hand take hers. “I hope they take long enough,” he murmured. He tugged her to him, and she let him, far too happy in the moment to remember all the ways he would surely break her heart.

“I told you I would kiss you again,” he whispered.

“You told me you would try.”

His lips touched hers. “I knew I would succeed.”

He kissed her again, and she puled away, but only an inch or so. “You’re rather sure of yourself.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His lips found the corner of her mouth, then floated softly along her skin until she couldn’t help herself and her head fell back to alow him access to the curve of her neck.

Her pelisse slipped away, baring more of her skin to the cool afternoon air, and he kissed her, right along the edge of her bodice, before coming back to her Her pelisse slipped away, baring more of her skin to the cool afternoon air, and he kissed her, right along the edge of her bodice, before coming back to her mouth. “Dear God, I want you so much,” he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp. He held her more tightly, both of his hands cupping her bottom and puling her forward . . . up . . . until she was seized by a mad urge to wrap her legs around him. It was what he wanted, and God help her, it was what she wanted, too.

Thank heavens for her skirt, which was possibly the only thing stopping her from behaving with utter shamelessness. But still, when one of his hands reached into her bodice, she didn’t refuse. And when his palm gently grazed her nipple, all she did was moan.

This would have to stop. But not just yet.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he whispered against her skin. “Do you want to know what it was?” She shook her head, even though she did, desperately. But she knew her limits. She could go down this road only so far. If she heard his dreams, heard the words from his lips as they rained down softly against her, she would want it, everything he said.

And it hurt too much to want something she could never have.

“What did you dream about?” he asked.

“I don’t dream,” she replied.

He went still, then drew back so that he could look at her. His eyes—that amazingly bright light blue—were filed with curiosity. And maybe a touch of sadness.

“I don’t dream,” she said again. “I haven’t for years.” She said it with a shrug. It was such a normal thing for her now; it hadn’t occurred to her until that moment how strange it might seem to others.

“But you did as a child?” he asked.

She nodded. She hadn’t realy thought about it before, or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to think about it. But if she had dreamed since she left Northumberland eight years earlier, she had not remembered. Every morning before she opened her eyes, there was nothing but the black of the night. A perfectly empty space, filed with absolute emptiness. No hopes. No dreams.

But also no nightmares.

It seemed a small price to pay. She wasted enough of her waking hours worrying about George Chervil and his mad quest for revenge.

“You don’t find that strange?” he asked.

“That I don’t dream?” She knew what he’d meant, but for some reason she’d needed to state it out loud.

He nodded.

“No.” Her voice came out flat. But certain. Maybe it was strange, but it was also safe.

He didn’t say anything, but his eyes searched hers with penetrating intensity until she had to look away. He was seeing far too much of her. In less than a week this man had uncovered more of her than she’d revealed to anyone in the past eight years. It was unsettling.

It was dangerous.

Reluctantly she puled herself from his embrace, stepping just far enough away so that he could not reach out for her. She bent to retrieve her pelisse from where it lay on the grass, and without speaking she refastened it around her shoulders. “The girls will be back soon,” she said, even though she knew that they wouldn’t. It would be at least another quarter of an hour before they returned, probably more.

“Let’s take a stroll, then,” he suggested, offering her his arm.

She eyed him suspiciously.

“Not everything I do is with lascivious intent,” he said with a laugh. “I thought I might show you one of my favorite places here at Whipple Hil.” As she placed her hand on his arm he added, “We’re only a quarter mile or so from the lake.”

“Is it stocked?” she asked. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone fishing, but oh, how she had enjoyed it as a child. She and Charlotte had been the bane of their mother, who had wanted them to pursue more feminine activities. Which they had, eventualy. But even after Anne had become obsessed with frocks and gowns and keeping taly of every single time an eligible gentleman glanced at an eligible young lady . . .

She’d still loved to go fishing. She’d even been happy to do the gutting and cleaning. And of course the eating. One could not understate the satisfaction to be found in catching one’s own food.

“It should be stocked,” Lord Winstead said. “It always was before I left, and I would not think that my steward would have had cause to change the directive.” Her eyes must have been shining with delight, for he smiled indulgently and asked, “Do you like to fish, then?”

“Oh, very much so,” she said with a wistful sigh. “When I was a child . . .” But she did not finish her sentence. She’d forgotten that she did not speak of her childhood.

But if he was curious—and she was quite certain he must be—he did not show it. As they walked down the gentle slope toward a leafy stand of trees, he said only, “I loved to fish as a child, too. I came all the time with Marcus—Lord Chatteris,” he added, since of course she was not on a first-name basis with the earl.

Anne took in the landscape around her. It was a glorious spring day, and there seemed a hundred different shades of green rippling along the leaves and grass. The world felt terribly new, and deceptively hopeful. “Did Lord Chatteris visit often as a child?” she asked, eager to keep the conversation on benign matters.

“Constantly,” Lord Winstead replied. “Or at least every school holiday. By the time we were thirteen I don’t know that I ever came home without him.” They walked a bit more, then he reached out to pluck a low-hanging leaf. He looked at it, frowned, then finaly set it aloft with a little flick of his fingers. It went spiraling through the air, and something about the fluttery motion must have been mesmerizing, because they both stopped walking to watch it make its way back down to the grass.

And then, as if the moment had never happened, Lord Winstead quietly picked up the conversation where it had been left off. “Marcus has no family to speak of.

No siblings, and his mother died when he was quite young.”

“What about his father?”

“Oh, he hardly spoke to him,” Lord Winstead replied. But he said it with such nonchalance, as if there was nothing at all peculiar about a father and son who did not speak. It was rather unlike him, Anne thought. Not uncaring, precisely, but . . . Wel, she didn’t know what it was, except that it surprised her. And then she was surprised that she knew him well enough to notice such a thing.