Angel in Scarlet (60 page)

“Come inside, Clinton,” I said.

“No, Angela.”

I looked at him, puzzled. He reached up and took my hand and gently kissed my palm, then lowered it. He rested his hands on my shoulders again and I trembled slightly as his fingers began to massage my bare flesh.

“This isn't what I want,” he said. “Not this way.”

I didn't speak. He smiled at my puzzlement.

“I want to marry you,” he said. “I want to make you Lady Meredith.”

“You—you can't mean that.”

“I love you very much, Angela.”

His voice was low, melodious, with that husky rasp, and his eyes gleamed in the moonlight, so gentle, full of love. I could scarcely believe this was really happening. I remembered a precocious little girl of twelve who had scrambled up the garden wall and scooted along the tree limb to spy on the handsome, randy young heir who had pinched the lovely Laura's pink nipple and kissed her hungrily. Now, fourteen years later, he was standing here with his hands on my shoulders, and he wanted me to become his wife.

“You're an aristocrat,” I said. “I'm the schoolmaster's daughter, grown up to become a notorious actress. Men—men of your class make mistresses of women like me, but they don't marry them. Your friends—society—I would never be accepted. You'd be ostracized yourself.”

“Do you seriously believe that would matter to me?”

“It should.”

“Nothing matters to me but you, Angela.”

I could see that he meant it. If only Hugh had felt the same way.

Clinton continued to massage my shoulders, his fingers surprisingly strong, the tips pressing gently into my flesh. His eyes held mine, and his lips curved in a quiet smile, a beautiful smile. How I wished I loved him, but unfortunately I didn't. Deep affection, fondness, admiration were not enough, and I knew I had to be completely honest with him.

“I—I'm very fond of you, Clinton,” I said, and there was a tremor in my voice. “I'm deeply moved by your proposal, but I couldn't marry you. I don't love you, you see, and it—it wouldn't be fair. You deserve someone who—”

He curled the fingers of his left hand around the side of my neck, the ball of his thumb resting lightly against the base of my throat. “I believe I could make you love me,” he said.

I looked at him for a long moment there in the moonlight and then I nodded. “Yes,” I whispered, “I believe you could.”

“I'm leaving for Greystone Hall tomorrow morning, Angela. There are estate matters that need to be tended to. I'll be gone for two weeks. Your play will be closing. You will have had time to think about it. I would like for you to give me your answer when I return.”

“Very well,” I said.

“I hope it will be yes, Angela.”

I hoped so, too.

Book Four

Lady Angela

Kent

Chapter Nineteen

Clinton folded his napkin and placed it neatly beside his empty plate, smiling at me as I sipped my second cup of black coffee. On the sideboard in the dining room, under silver covers, were fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, stewed mushrooms, kippered herring, delicious sausage links, but I wasn't to be tempted. A piece of toast from the silver rack, perhaps, perhaps a bit of marmalade spread on it, but I couldn't bring myself to eat anything more substantial this early in the day. Clinton, like most men, ate a hearty breakfast, and he couldn't understand how I could make do with so little. He nodded as a footman entered with fresh coffee in a silver pot. The footman poured coffee into his delicate blue and white porcelain cup with its gold rim, and Clinton lifted it to his lips. From distant regions of the enormous house came the sounds of banging and bustle as the fleet of workmen started early on the renovations being made to Greystone Hall.

“Please leave the pot, Robert,” I said. “I'll probably want another cup when I finish this one.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Chef is going to be terribly distressed, you know,” Clinton informed me. “He takes your not eating breakfast as personal criticism of his fare. Yesterday, when you turned down his plovers' eggs poached in wine sauce, he actually burst into tears, I hear.”

“I suppose I'll have to go to the kitchen and compliment him again on the dinner he prepared last night. Why are chefs so temperamental?”

“They're artists,” he explained, “and they're usually French. Henri is less temperamental than most, though he still smarts at having to prepare such mundane dishes as eggs and bacon for breakfast. Sure you won't have some sausage?” he asked teasingly.

“Quite sure,” I said.

“Then I'll leave you to your coffee. I've a lot of work to do today. I have to go over the books with Jenson, and I want to inspect the Langley place myself. Jenson claims they don't really need a new roof, but it's going to be a rainy fall, and I want to make sure.”

Although he had a very efficient bailiff and a number of able assistants, Clinton considered running the estate a full-time job, and the concerns of his tenant farmers were his own concerns. Because of this attitude, the farms had never been so productive. While they greatly envied his success, most of his fellow landed aristocrats considered Clinton's work habits unseemly and highly eccentric. Chap actually rode about the fields and supervised work, inspected the plows, got dirty, sweated like a menial. No way for a Lord to act. Set a very bad example. Clinton, of course, didn't care a fig what the rest of the gentry thought, but the welfare of his farmers was most important to him.

He stood up now, tall and superbly built, wearing black knee boots, tight gray breeches and a loosely fitting shirt of thin white lawn, the sleeves full gathered, the tail tucked carelessly into the waistband of his breeches. Pale blond hair pulled back and tied with a thin gray ribbon, his handsome features thoughtful as he contemplated the day's duties, he stood there for a moment beside the table, and I looked at him with admiration, telling myself once again how very fortunate I was. We had been married for four and a half months now, returning to Greystone Hall immediately after the small, quiet ceremony in mid June, and I had no cause to regret the decision I had made. My husband sighed and, catching me looking at him, smiled.

“Don't forget to take your cloak,” I said. “Even though the sun is shining, it's bound to be nippy outside. I don't want you catching cold.”

“No?”

“I want you strong and healthy,” I told him.

The smile curled, and his lips lifted slightly at one corner, lids drooping seductively over his smoky gray eyes. Although I hadn't meant it to sound provocative, Clinton interpreted it that way, recalling, no doubt, the private times together when his being strong and healthy was definitely an asset. His politeness and gentility notwithstanding, Clinton was a potently sensual male, and in the bedroom he was superlatively aggressive and masterful. That aspect of our marriage could not possibly have been improved. Moving around the table, he leaned behind me, encircled me with his arms and rested his cheek next to mine.

“There's no time,” I said. “You have to go over the books. You need to inspect the Langley place.”

“It
could
wait.”

“You're incorrigible, Clinton.”

He caught my earlobe between his teeth and bit it gently. “And you're absolutely delectable in your light blue frock. I wonder what you're wearing under it.”

“Behave yourself, Clinton. Robert may come back in any minute.”

“He's the soul of tact. He'd go right back out again. If he didn't, I'd thrash him. You know, we've never
done
it in the dining room.”

“And we're not about to this morning. I thought I was marrying a gentleman, not a savage.”

“Are you complaining?” he inquired.

“I'd like to be able to finish my coffee in peace.”

Clinton chuckled, nuzzled his cheek against mine and released me, standing up straight. I turned around in my chair and gazed up at him, taking his hand in mine. He pulled me to my feet, gathered me into his arms and kissed me very chastely on the brow.

“Happy, Lady Angela?”

“Very.”

“No regrets?”

I shook my head, leaning back against his arms.

“You don't miss London, the theater, your friends?”

“We'll be going to London frequently, the theater can do without me and I keep in close touch with my friends. I have a passionate, attentive husband, a marvelous staff of servants and—everything I could possibly want. I am a very fortunate woman.”

“I'm the fortunate one,” he said.

He smiled, kissed me gently on the lips and stepped back, reluctantly letting me go.

“Don't forget to speak to the chef,” he reminded me. “I'd like to have a decent lunch, and when he's sulking he deliberately serves things he knows I dislike.”

“Spinach?”

“And hard-boiled eggs. See you in a few hours, Milady.”

Clinton left, and I finished my coffee, and then I sighed and went to the kitchen and told Henri how much Lord Meredith had enjoyed the wonderful breakfast, how much I had enjoyed the superlative dinner last night. I asked him how on earth he was able to cook sole so tender, prepare such a magnificent sauce and added that he simply had to stop baking such delicious tortes or I would be unable to get into my clothes. Surrounded by his pots and pans, helpers scurrying about, an aromatic soup bubbling on the stove, Henri beamed and asked if I would perhaps prefer a croissant instead of toast tomorrow morning as I was so “delicate” at breakfast. I said that would be wonderful and left him planning a “great surprise” for our lunch.

That accomplished, I decided to make the long trek to the ballroom to see how the work was progressing there. When I had arrived at Greystone Hall four and a half months ago it had seemed to me a great gloomy place with a labyrinth of dark, depressing rooms filled with ugly Jacobean furniture. Clinton admitted that it was less than cozy and said I was free to make any changes that I cared to make. Expense, he added generously, was no object. I immediately contacted the noted Scottish architect, Robert Adam, whom I had met in London, asking if he would come look at Greystone Hall. Adam had arrived a week later with his brother James and, after expressing their horror, the brothers promptly began to draw plans. A veritable fleet of workmen arrived, overrunning the place, and, under the supervision of Adam himself, walls were torn down, small rooms turned into spacious chambers.

Dark oak panelling was ripped out, replaced by soft creamy plaster painted in shades of white or by light, subtly patterned wall coverings. Immense, ugly fireplaces were transformed into the simple, elegant creations done in various light marbles for which Adam was famous. Floorboards black with age were either bleached and polished or replaced with gleaming new parquets, lovely Oriental carpets in pale pinks, tans, grays and yellow spread over them. Heavy velvet draperies, dark and dusty, were yanked down, silk hangings in soft pastels hung in their stead, and hideously ornate carved furniture was banished to the attics, lorries arriving from London with new pieces from the workshops of Hepplewhite and Chippendale.

My long consultations with Adam had been quite stimulating, and I had enjoyed selecting the fabrics for draperies and upholstery and going through the glossy catalogues to select carpets and furniture. It had kept me busy indeed during those first weeks, and Clinton had left everything to me, saying he had complete faith in my decisions. He had been wonderfully patient about the invasion of workmen and artisans, the perpetual confusion, the chaos, the noise, spending most of his time away from the house and enduring all of the inconvenience with sunny good humor. He professed himself delighted with the new look gradually transforming the place, and I could tell he was sincere. He had experienced a great deal of sadness here at Greystone Hall, and the sad memories were banished along with the dusty velvet drapes and Jacobean armchairs. All the work had been completed now except in the ballroom, and Adam promised that would be finished in less than two weeks.

The men were busily at work when I entered, and the noise was quite deafening. On the south side of the house, the ballroom was large, though not as immense as many in houses this size. Scaffolding had been set up around three sides, swarming now with men, while others worked on ladders. Robert Adam was personally supervising the placement of one of the marble panels, a rare light orange-pink marble that had come from Italy. The walls, newly plastered, now gleamed a rich cream-white, interspersed with the marble panels, and the ceiling had been painted a pale salmon a few shades lighter than the panels. Italian artisans were carefully gilding the delicate molding in gold leaf. Adam saw me and nodded curtly, and I made my way around ladders to join him, almost tripping on the heavy burlap cloths covering the polished golden-oak floor.

A stockily built man not quite as tall as I was, Adam had dark brown hair and rather blunt features, his gray eyes shrewd. Brusque, assertive, he was a perfectionist who brooked no nonsense. There was nothing at all elegant about this man who had brought such light, graceful beauty into English homes. His clothes were drab, sensible, the lapels of his heavy brown coat sprinkled with marble dust. Though I would have enjoyed having him at the house, Adam stayed at the local inn, firmly refusing to socialize with any of his customers. It wasn't good business, he claimed, and this brilliant, intimidating man was all business, the very best there was.

“It's coming along beautifully,” I exclaimed. “I can't believe it used to be so dim and gloomy. You've filled it with light, made it seem more spacious. Cream and light salmon and a few touches of gilt—it's going to be the most beautiful ballroom in England.”

“I think it may well be,” he agreed soberly. “Your choice of colors was ideal, Lady Meredith.”