A Regency Charade (3 page)

“How could I forget? I still bear the scars.”

“Do you?” She looked at him without a trace of regret. “I was a shameful brat,” she admitted cheerfully.

“You were indeed. But is this confessional designed to make me believe that you are quite changed? If you’ve grown so advanced in years and dignity as to refrain from calling me a spindle-shanked clunch, I shall be very much surprised,” he said suspiciously.

“But of
course
I’ve changed,” she declared, rising and pirouetting gaily before him. “Can’t you see it? I’m the ‘Compleat Lady,’ am I not? And a
lady
would not call a gentleman a clunch.”

He gazed up at her, entranced against his will. “And how about the spindle-shanked part?” he asked, teasing.

“A lady shouldn’t take notice of a gentleman’s legs at all, sir,” she chastised mockingly. “Although now that you mention them, they are not so spindly as they used to be.”

Alec felt himself blushing, but he grinned up at her and continued to banter. “I think, Miss Vickers, that you are not quite a lady yet.”

“How dare you,
Mr. Tyrrell
!” she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows in hauteur. “Or shall I call you
your lordship
? If that’s what you think, you needn’t offer for me after all!”

He blinked up at her stupidly as his stomach lurched in surprise. “Wh-
What
?”

“I said, sir, that you needn’t bother to offer for me.”

“Did you think I
was
?” he asked, startled.

She perched on the sofa beside him. “Well, weren’t you?”

He stared at her for a moment and then looked down at his fingers which were nervously clutching his knees. “Grandfather did say … er … something about my … making an offer,” he mumbled.

“Then you may as well proceed,” she ordered, leaning back against the cushions like a royal princess.

He threw her a quick, apprehensive glance. “P-Proceed?”

“With your speech. You
did
prepare something for the occasion, I presume.”

“Well, no. I mean … I thought … er … that is, I didn’t think …”

“Are you trying to say, in that very lucid and coherent way, that you intend to make your offer
extemporaneously
?”

Her mockery and her seemingly unshakable self-possession infuriated him. “See here, Prissy,” he exploded, “you’re not going to sit there and pretend that you
want
me to offer for you!”

She folded her hands in her lap complacently. “It’s not so much what I
want
as what is
expected
,” she explained.

“Expected?”

“Yes. When two people are to be married, as we are, the gentleman is expected to make the offer. It would not be considered at all ladylike, you see, for the
female
to do it.”

“Stop joking, for heaven’s sake! You can’t have agreed to get married just because your mother has need of—!”

“My
mother
?” Priss drew herself up stiffly. “My mother has nothing whatever to do with my decisions in these matters.”

He gaped at her in disbelief. “Prissy! You can’t mean …! Are you saying …? I mean … you cannot
wish
to marry me!”

She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. “No? Why not?”

“Why
not
? Why
not
?” He pushed his fingers through his hair in a kind of desperate bewilderment. “We don’t even
know
each other! We haven’t laid eyes on one another for more than four years! And before that …”

“Yes? Before that?”

“Before that, you completely detested me.”

“Did I? I thought it was
you
who detested
me
,” she said, dropping her eyes to her hands, her lips curled in a coy smile.

“Detested you?” He jumped to his feet and, enraged, placed himself squarely before her. “What sort of game
is
this? I
adored
you, and you know it!”

She grinned up at him mischievously. “Good.
That
is something like. Now, please sit down here beside me and get on with the rest of it.”

His head swam in confusion. “The
rest
of it?”

“The offer, you gudgeon, the offer. You do
want
me to marry you, don’t you?”

His heart began to hammer in his chest, and he dropped down on the sofa, completely stunned. “I … I never dreamed …! I mean, you wouldn’t
really
…
would
you …?”

She laughed merrily, reached over and patted his hand. “Yes. I would. And I thank you for your very eloquent and moving offer. I accept.”

He could not believe what was happening. Did this beautiful, golden girl truly wish to become his wife? His
wife
? It was a miracle … a dream … a fabrication of a fevered, too-long-sequestered imagination. If he put out his hand to touch her, she would undoubtedly dissolve … or disappear into the mist. And he’d wake up and find himself back at his rooms at Oxford. “Prissy, I … I …” he stammered.

“I know. You don’t have to tell me. You’ve forgotten what comes next.”

“N-Next?”

“I think that tradition demands it, you know.” She leaned toward him, her sapphire eyes laughing into his.

“Demands what?” he asked dizzily.

“That you kiss me, of course.”

“Oh!” Very slowly and tentatively, he reached out for her. To his amazement, she did not disappear at his touch, but she seemed to melt against him. And when he felt his lips on hers, it was a sensation so sweet and stirring that he literally trembled. Could it be true that this was happening to the very same awkward stringbean of a fellow who had stared out at him from the mirror just a few days ago? His brain, which always seemed to invent problems at the most inconvenient of moments, suggested that Miss Priscilla Vickers might have motives for this extraordinary behavior that he did not suspect—motives that were selfish or mercenary and that had nothing to do with caring for him. But her lips were soft and delicious, and her fingers were gently brushing his tousled hair from his forehead, and he told his brain to cease and desist. He had suddenly become the happiest man on earth, and he would brook no interference from his brain while he floated in this euphoric bliss.

Much too soon, his betrothed removed her lips from his. He took a deep, wavering breath and waited for the room to stop swirling about him. “I say,” he asked hopefully when he’d regained his balance, “is there a tradition that says I may do that again?”

Priss leaned forward with a giggle and placed her lips against his ear. “You clunch!” she murmured lovingly.

Chapter Two

And so they were married. It was a quiet ceremony held at Braeburn, with the local vicar presiding and only the immediate families and their most intimate friends in attendance. The sun shone, the bride was radiantly lovely, the mother of the bride and the grandfather of the groom exchanged self-satisfied glances, and the groom himself beamed foolishly at everyone and everything. (Garvin Danforth, who had come up from Sussex to stand up for his friend, had never before known Alec to become besotted over anything, and he was heard to remark several times during the festivities that he was “mightily amused at the change love can make in a fellow.”) It was the merriest of occasions, heartily enjoyed by all the participants, and not even the merest wisp of a cloud appeared on the horizon to dim the brightness of the day. The rest of the world, with its problems, its strife, its jealousies, its tendency to becloud the happiest of ceremonies, was kept far away. By the time the announcement of the nuptials appeared in the London newspapers, the happy couple had left on their two-month wedding tour of Europe.

The first intimations of the unpleasant realities of life occurred to them as soon as the first few days of the wedding trip had passed. They did not realize how very innocent and inexperienced they were, but they
did
discover, to their very great surprise, that they didn’t know each other at all well. The differences in their tastes and their habits shocked them. Alec, for example, tended to waken at the first light, cheerfully ready to start the day’s activities; Priss preferred to sleep away half the morning. Alec eagerly headed for the famous buildings and places of architectural interest, the museums, the bookshops and the universities; Priss much perferred to visit the modistes and milliners, pay calls on distant relatives and persons whose names her mother had given her or spend the afternoons preparing herself for whatever parties or balls they were invited to attend in the evenings. And at the parties, Alec gravitated toward those groups whose conversations were serious and philosophical; Priss much preferred teasing and flirting and laughing at nonsense. Alec was always direct and painfully honest in whatever he said; Priss enjoyed being enigmatic, evasive and even told little white lies when it was expedient to do so.

It was too much to expect, therefore, that their relationship would be smooth. A few mild disagreements were easily passed over at first, but by the time they reached Paris they had their first serious quarrel. They had received two separate invitations to dine for the same evening, and Alec, after determining which one had been received first, forthrightly sent an acceptance to the more prompt host. To his satisfaction, he learned shortly afterwards that a French diplomat whom he longed to meet would be a guest. Priss, however, preferred to attend the
other
dinner, and, without consulting her husband, she sent a letter to the host of the first in which she fabricated a tale about being indisposed and asked that they both be excused from attending. When Alec learned what she’d done, he lost his temper and accused her of brazen dishonesty. A loud and spirited argument followed, ending with a flood of very penitent tears from Priss and an agreement from Alec to attend the dinner which Priss preferred.

Quarrels thereafter were frequent and violent, but since they were quickly made up with tears and kisses, they did not greatly impair the pleasure of the trip and the enjoyment the couple found in travelling together. However, another difficulty began to loom like a cloud on their bright horizon, and this one threatened to become more troublesome with time. It was their relationship in the bedroom. Priss, who had been less inhibited than Alec during their brief courtship, became unexpectedly shy during intimate moments after their marriage. When Alec approached her at night, she seemed to draw into herself in fright. Alec, himself a complete innocent in matters of conjugal love, did not press her but retreated to his own bedroom as soon as he sensed her reluctance.

Neither one spoke of the matter, and they both pretended to themselves that the problem was not of very great importance. But Alec was quite aware that sooner or later the subject would have to be faced. In the meantime, he pushed the problem aside and let himself bask in the considerable pleasure of seeing the grand sights of Europe with money in his pocket and a beautiful woman at his side.

Paris turned rainy, and the pair left for Italy, arriving in warm and welcoming sunshine. The very air of the country made them feel excitedly festive. They were both enchanted by the color and charm of the Italian cities. They were fascinated by the Roman antiquities, the magnificent churches, the beautiful paintings and sculpture, the dazzling fountains, the lavish meals and the jovial people. It was hard to worry about the undercurrents of their marriage in such surroundings.

They were out strolling, one sunny afternoon in Rome, when an accident occurred which was to change the entire nature of their relationship. The day was warm, and Priss had dressed in a filmy gown of white lawn with a full, graceful skirt and a wide lavender sash. On her head she’d tied a wide-brimmed hat of natural straw, trimmed at the crown with a row of lavender flowers. Alec thought he’d never seen her look more lovely. They made their way to the top of the famous Spanish Steps, a wide stone stairway which led to the street below. As they stood at the top, admiring the noble proportions of the steps and the impressive design of the balustrades, a gust of wind lifted the hat from Priss’s head and carried it right down to the street below.

With a laugh, Alec ran down the steps four at a time and managed to snatch the headpiece before the mischievous wind could make off with it again. As he was about to climb up to his bride and restore her headpiece to her, he caught sight of a flower vendor selling her wares. One of the bouquets the woman had arranged was dotted with flowers of the very same sort that decorated Priss’s hat. He gave the woman a coin, picked up the bouquet and waved it in the air. “Prissy, look!” he called.

Priss, looking down at him from the top, was a vision—a subject worthy of a master painter. The sun lit her hair, the wind made her skirt billow gracefully about her, and her skin seemed to glow with an inner light. He gazed up at her almost hungrily as she shielded her eyes to see what he held. “Oh, Alec! How
lovely
they are!” she shouted down eagerly and ran down the steps to meet him. About halfway down, however, she tripped on her skirt and fell, rolling helplessly toward the bottom.

Alec stood rooted in horror for a heart-stopping moment. Then, dropping the hat and flowers, he raced up to her and caught her in his arms. “Oh, my
God
!” he cried, looking at her in terror. Her head lolled alarmingly and her arms hung limply down as he gently lifted her head to rest on his shoulder. A cold wave of despair chilled him to the marrow of his bones. “Prissy, please!” he whispered urgently. “Please, open your eyes! Say something!”

A tap on his shoulder made him look round. The flower vendor, her face tense with sympathetic concern, handed him a metal dipper filled with water. “
Acqua
,” she urged, pressing the dipper into his hand. “
Acqua per la signora.
”

He took the dipper and held it to Priss’s lips, letting the water seep into her mouth. She choked, and her eyelids fluttered open. “Oh … Alec …” she murmured as her eyes lit up with recognition and memory. “I …
fell
!” She smiled, a faint and somewhat embarrassed little smile.

“Yes, love. But it’s all right. You’ll be all right.” He pressed her to him and shut his eyes, praying silently for his words to be true.