Anne Barbour (7 page)

March’s eyes lifted. “You cannot be serious. I did not realize the standards at the Upper Rooms had so deteriorated. Of all the functions you might wish to attend, a masked ball is the least likely for which I would grant permission. They always have a tendency to turn into the worst sort of romp.”

“But, I could leave if it started to get rowdy,” pleaded Meg. “And no one would know who I was anyway, so—”

“That will do, Meg,” said March, his patience deserting him. “Your aunt disapproves, as does, I take it, Miss Fox ...” He shot a questioning glance across the room, and after a moment’s hesitation, Alison nodded. “That should be enough. Now, let us change the subject. I understand there is to be a gala held in Sydney Gardens next Thursday, with supper and fireworks. Perhaps we—

“I don’t
care
about stupid old Sydney Gardens,” wailed Meg. “I want—”

“That will be quite enough, young lady,” snapped March. “If you wish to behave like a spoiled child, you may leave the room.”

Across the room, Alison drew in a sharp breath of dismay. Lord Marchford might think himself awake on every suit, but it was obvious he had not the slightest notion of how to handle a volatile girl in her teens.

Rising again from the chair into which she had once more flung herself, Meg posed for an instant, her hand to her throat. Then, in a throbbing voice, she cried, “Yes, I shall spend the rest of the evening in my room. Better a crust of bread in solitude than a banquet among—among those who—people who cannot...” Unable to complete the sentence to her satisfaction, she took refuge in a dignified silence and swept from the room.

“I shall, of course, have a tray sent up to her,” said Alison with a questioning lift of her brows to Lady Edith, who laughed aloud.

“Of course. Although it seems a shame to deprive her of the marvelous drama she has created, of immolation on the altar of family repression.”

“I’m sure she’ll recover by the morrow,” added March with a wry smile.

Alison wondered if she should make mention of Meg’s current passion for Mr. Renfrew, the drawing master. It was obviously the hope of seeing him there that had prompted her desire to attend the masquerade. She shrugged. Meg’s passions were frequent, but mercifully brief. By this time next week, she would no doubt have shifted her affections to someone else.

Without the stimulation of Meg’s presence, dinner was a quieter affair than it would have been otherwise. Nevertheless, conversation was lively.

*’You do not mean to tell me, March,” said Lady Edith, “that Gertrude Tissdale actually appeared in public dressed as the goddess Diana.”

“ ‘Pon my honor. Aunt. For the Jerseys’ costume ball. She appeared swathed in semitransparent draperies and carried a bow and quiver of arrows. Around her waist hung two very dead pheasants and a hare.”

“But,
March, she is almost my age and must weigh well over fourteen stone.” She swung to Alison. “Don’t you remember? She came to take the waters last year, and there are those of us ready to swear that the level of the Cross Bath rose nearly to overflowing when she stepped in.”

“Lady Edith!” By now, Alison was gasping with laughter. “You are exaggerating. Lady Tissdale is somewhat ... plump,” she said unsteadily, “but—

“Somewhat plump!” echoed March. “My dear Miss Fox, unless you are speaking of another Lady Tissdale altogether, you have a talent for understatement.”

March watched Alison’s laughing confusion in some bemusement. The pink of her cheeks enhanced the sparkle in her magical blue eyes, and his fingers itched to know if the dark waves of her hair would feel as silky as they looked. He turned abruptly to his aunt, and he was dismayed at the expression of open affection displayed in the gaze she bent on Alison. If he was successful in dislodging Miss Fox, what would be the effect on Aunt Edith when this darling of her heart suddenly decamped with a flimsy explanation? Would the adventuress, deprived of her prey, spin a tale of having been driven away by a vindictive relative? If so, he would tell his aunt the whole, and surely she would understand that what he had done was for her own good.

Finding his reflections annoyingly uncomfortable, he applied himself with industry to the gateau mille-fleures just set before him. After dinner, he declined to sit alone at the table with the brandy decanter, and accompanied the ladies to the drawing room on the floor above. He watched Alison, observing the unobtrusive attention with which she performed her duties to Aunt Edith. A pillow placed at the older woman’s back, embroidery and books set within easy reach, and a watchfulness for her smallest need were all accomplished with a lightness of spirit that removed them from the realm of imposed tasks. Rather, they seemed accomplished with quiet pleasure. Was Alison Fox merely a skillful actress? She certainly moved with a grace suited to the stage, he mused appreciatively as he watched the silk of her gown mold itself to her lovely, lithe body.

“I hope you two do not mind”—March jumped a little as his aunt’s clear tones cut into his reverie—”but I believe I shall retire early this evening. It has been a tiring day, and tomorrow will be busy as well. We have arranged an outing for Meg and some of her young friends,” she said to March. “They are planning a walk to Beechen Cliff, with a picnic at the top. I shall not participate in the climb, but will come by carriage and join them at the top for the picnic. Alison and the Reverend Rayburn will be there to chaperon, as will Sally Pargeter’s mother. Sally, as you will remember, is Meg’s particular friend. You do not have to go, of course. I should imagine an afternoon spent with the infantry would bore you into a decline.”

Alison held her breath. She could not look forward to an afternoon spent in the earl’s company with any degree of equanimity, and she leaned forward in anticipation of his refusal. She sank back in dismay at his answer.

“I hope I am made of stronger stuff, Aunt,” March said, forcing a chuckle. “As long as I am in Bath, it behooves me to take my part in overseeing the doings of my little sister. I shall be pleased to join you.” Alison thought his words sounded heavy and pompous, and she watched with some relief as he rose to see his aunt from the room.

Unfortunately, just as she, too, rose to leave, the earl came back into the drawing room.

“Since Lady Edith has—” she began nervously, “that is, I believe I, too, shall retire, my lord.”

“What, and leave an honored guest of the house sitting abandoned in the drawing room. Miss Fox?” His smile curled ironically on his lips. “Particularly since my aunt has gone to such pains.”

Her eyes flew to his. “What do you mean?” she asked anxiously.

“Evidently, Miss Fox, Aunt Edith is trying to throw us together, with what end in mind I scarcely dare to venture a guess.”

Alison flushed. “That is absurd, my lord. Perhaps she merely wishes us to become better acquainted, since ...” Her voice faltered. She straightened her shoulders and looked directly at him. “Since she loves us both, and since we shall probably be meeting again with the passing of time.”

Taking her hand in his, he drew her down beside him on a convenient settee. She was struck by the warmth of his touch. “I am so glad you brought that up,” he said silkily. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

She glared at him. “Frankly, my lord, I do not even remember what it was. It was completely irrelevant, after all.”

“Why, I believe you hold me in dislike, Miss Fox,” he murmured, moving closer. Alison stared at him, wishing that were the case. He was smug and arrogant, and his assumptions about her were insulting, but they sprang from a genuine love for his aunt. Try as she might, she could not fault him for his behavior, irritating though it might be. In addition, she was dismayingly aware of the man’s disturbing physical attractions. Why should she experience an urge to trace the strong line of his jaw with her fingertips was a mystery as unsettling as it was dangerous. She started, aware that he was speaking again. “So unnecessary, I assure you. Why don’t you tell me what it is you will accept to leave my aunt’s employ? If it is not outrageous, I will do my best to see that your demand is met. After that, we can part company—all with an absence of any disagreeable wrangling.”

His words were reasonable enough, but she had no difficulty in sensing the hostility that bubbled beneath them. No, my lord earl had nothing but contempt for the adventuress, Alison Fox. A tremor shook her. God knows what his reaction would be if he knew that he faced Lissa Reynard, as well. She raised her eyes once more to his.

“My lord, you are wasting your time and your energy, and your breath. For all your talk of practicality, you do not possess enough money to entice me away from this house. I like it here, and I love Lady Edith. I suppose it is within your power to poison her ladyship’s mind against me, or to remove me by force, but you will be doing your aunt a grave disservice by doing either. She is, by the by, perfectly aware of the reason for your visit and is highly amused. Now, I most earnestly suggest that you pack your bags and your money and your pathetic suspicions and go back to London. Marry your Miss Whatever-her-name-is and leave me in peace. I promise you will not regret it.”

Lord Marchford rarely found himself at a loss for words, but at this moment he could think of nothing to say. Indeed, rational thought of any sort was proving difficult. He had the strangest sensation that he had become lost in this vixen’s amethyst eyes. He wanted nothing more than to fold her in his arms and kiss her until she melted against him in an acquiescent pool of violet-scented desire.

Horrified at the direction his thoughts had taken, he tried to focus on the words she had just spoken. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, surprised that she endured his scrutiny without any outward sign of discomfort. She returned his regard with an expression of steady calm.

“I am not ready to return to London yet. Miss Fox,” he stated, trying a different tactic. “However, may I suggest that we call a truce?” She lifted one hand as if to interrupt, but he pressed onward. “I shall cease in my efforts to, er, pry you from my aunt’s vicinity, at least for the time being. I do not wish to ruin the pleasant occasion of a visit to my aunt with this continued brangling.”

“I commend your good sense, my lord,” she said with an air of surprise. Extending her hand, she rose and faced him. “I look forward, then, to seeing you tomorrow.”

March thought he detected a spark of amusement in her face.

“Ah, yes, the picnic,” he replied. “I have the melancholy suspicion that I am going to feel like the veriest graybeard, forced to endure the chirpings of a group of dewey-eyed young misses and their adolescent swains.”

“The company of Meg’s friends can be somewhat wearing,” she replied with a smile. “However, there will be plenty of gingersnaps with which to fortify yourself. Your aunt tells me they have always been a great favorite of yours. Indeed, I am told you were not above theft from the cookie jar in your misspent youth.”

“Ah, the curse of a relative with an inconvenient memory,” he groaned. He paused, unable to control his interest. “By the way, speaking of Meg, you and she appear to get on uncommonly well.”

The smile dropped from Alison’s lips, and she stiffened. “Yes,” she replied defiantly. “Am I now to be accused of plotting to steal her fortune, as well?”

March drew back, startled. In the enjoyment of the moment, he had almost forgotten his original suspicions. He smiled rather rigidly. “You wrong me, Miss Fox. Have you forgotten our truce? Having pledged my courtesy, I shall not go back on it, and I hope the same will be true of you.”

Feeling somewhat ashamed and a little ridiculous, Alison merely nodded her head. She had led the way to the front door as they spoke, and now opened it for him.

“In that case, my lord, I will bid you good night.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she handed him the hat and walking stick that Masters had laid on the hall table and shepherded him hurriedly from the house. Closing the door, she turned and leaned against it. Her breath came quick and shallow, like a child running from shadows in the night.

Chapter 6

Alison sat smiling among the ruins of a substantial picnic lunch, listening to the merriment around her. Meg’s
mal d’esprit
had apparently vanished during the long reaches of the night, for at breakfast this morning she had been her usual sunny self, full of plans for the afternoon’s expedition. On the walk to the top of Beechen Cliff she had entranced the male members of the party, although they were still of an age where they liked to pretend that the existence of females on the planet indicated a momentary lapse on the part of the Creator. Nonetheless, her every whim had been catered to by budding gallants, with the result that at present, young Lady Meg was quite flown with lemonade and compliments. A game of catch was in progress.

“I say, Sukey,” cried Mr. Peter Davenish to his sister, a shy maid of fifteen summers, “perhaps if you aim for Grenby over there, you might get the ball over here.”

“Now, Peter,” called Meg from some distance away, “you leave Susan alone. Just because she doesn’t have your natural athletic ability is no reason to poke fun.”

Not surprisingly. Peter did not take exception to this dictum. Instead, he threw the ball down and strode over to where Meg stood in conversation with Sally Pargeter. Sally was tall and slim, forever bemoaning her fate as a maypole. She was graceful and attractive, however, and of such sweetness of disposition that she attracted admirers of both sexes. She laughed unaffectedly as Peter flung himself full length on the ground and lifted his hand in petition for the two damsels to join him there.

“It’s too hot for running about,” he complained, assisting the girls in settling themselves near him. In a moment all three heads were bent together in a lively conversation.

“The young sprig is right,” said a familiar voice in Alison’s ear and she turned to behold the earl lowering himself into a chair near her. “It’s only April, but today one would think it July.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?” she queried, wishing that Lady Edith were not some distance away, talking with Mrs. Pargeter and Reverend Rayburn.