Ariadne's Diadem (12 page)

When he had accompanied Joseph from the room, Anne closed her eyes. Her heart was thundering wildly in her breast, and not just from the delayed shock of finding an intruder in the house. The truth was that she thought Mr. Charles Danby the most devastatingly attractive man she’d ever encountered, and for a moment on first seeing him she had hoped he was Hugh Mowbray, who was, after all, expected to call at any moment. Maybe it was unlikely that the Duke of Wroxford would enter Llandower uninvited, but then was it any more likely that his lawyers’ representative should do the same?

Charles Danby. Everything about him, including his name, rang through her with the clarity of a bell, even the way he’d run his fingers through his hair. He seemed so familiar, so...beloved. Oh, heavens above, this was madness, and yet it was how she felt. She pondered what he thought of her, and then she smiled a little resignedly, for she did not doubt that he considered her a very unlikely and unworthy future Duchess of Wroxford. Her glance moved to the letters on the mantelpiece. It didn’t matter what she thought of Charles Danby, or what he might think of her, for she was to be betrothed to Hugh Mowbray, and nothing could change that. Tears pricked her eyes suddenly, and without further ado she picked up the lantern and left the room.

Sylvanus immediately peeped from behind the curtains. Satisfied that all was now safe, he came out of hiding. Having observed and correctly assessed the expressions on Anne’s face, he was sure that Gervase was now well on his way to a happy conclusion where she was concerned, which left a certain libidinous faun with a little free time on his hands! The long greatcoat dragged behind him as he hurried over to Penelope, whose delightful wooden curves shone in the faint light from the fire. He was about to take some disgraceful liberties with her person when he paused a little crossly, for it was rather dull sport when she remained immobile. It occurred to him that the power to turn
marble
to living flesh—and vice versa—might also apply to wood. There was only one way to find out. He said the words.

For a moment it seemed nothing would happen, but then before his delighted eyes she began to move. The sheen of the beechwood, already palely beautiful, softened to the blush pink of a living woman, and her long silvery hair spilled forward as she lowered her tray to place it on the table next to Anne’s workbox. She was dainty and graceful, her perfect little figure outlined by the clinging but revealing folds of her gauzy gown, but as Sylvanus reached out eagerly to do what came naturally to all fauns, to his astonishment she dealt him a stinging blow to the cheek.

“Don’t you
dare
presume!” she breathed furiously, keeping her voice low for fear of being heard elsewhere.

Rubbing his cheek, he gaped at her. “Why did you do that?” he asked in genuine amazement.

“No one does that to me unless
I
wish it!”

Sylvanus blinked, but then recovered a little. “You’re not supposed to object,” he complained.

“Well, I do. I’m not here simply to do as
you
wish.”

“Yes, you are—it’s what nymphs are for!”

But as he reached out again, she slapped him a second time, so hard that he stifled a bleat that was half pain, half sheer disbelief. She faced him haughtily. “I have a mind of my own, and
I
decide who can and cannot touch me!” Her critical glance swept over him. “Besides, have you any idea how ridiculous you look in that huge coat?”

Sylvanus glowered. “You’d wear it too if you weren’t used to this northern cold.”

“I doubt it, for I have more pride in my appearance.”

“More vanity, you mean.” Sylvanus looked her up and down. “You’re not a real nymph at all, are you?”

“I
am
a real nymph!” she cried, forgetting to keep her voice down.

“Shhh!” He looked around uneasily, but as all remained quiet, he returned his attention to her. “What’s your name?”

She relented sufficiently to reply civilly. “Penelope. What’s yours?”

“Sylvanus.”

“How did you get here?”

He told her everything, and she was intrigued. “So Charles Danby isn’t Charles Danby at all?”

“No.” He looked at her again. “There’s more than one Penelope—which one are you?”

“I’m Mercury’s Penelope. At least, I was.” She sighed.

Sylvanus’s jealousy pricked. “Was? If he deserted you, I’m not surprised. No doubt, your tongue proved too much for him.”

“As a matter of fact he was burned.” She explained about the unguarded saucepan and her lover’s dreadful fate the day Joseph’s special beeswax mixture had set fire to the kitchen.

Sylvanus was now well and truly jealous. “Well, your precious Mercury was clearly no more real than you are,” he declared.

“I’m going to kick your horrible hairy goat legs for saying that!” she cried.

As she raised a foot to carry out the threat, Sylvanus quickly pronounced the spell. She could do nothing except return to the candleholder, resume her former pose, and harden into wood again. “Can you still hear me?” he asked. There was silence, so he rather ungallantly pinched her arm, but then fauns weren’t known for their manners. There was still no response from the silent naiad. He grinned infuriatingly and planted a very deliberate and insulting kiss on her stiff lips, but as he drew back to survey her again, he was conscious of considerable disappointment. He wanted her to kiss him back, but right now that seemed very unlikely to ever happen. He looked at her in perplexity, for he’d never encountered a nymph quite like this before. He hesitated, and then kissed her again, but much more gently this time. Maybe she had a temper like a Fury, but she was very,
very
pretty. With a wistful sigh, he hunched himself in the greatcoat and went to find Gervase.

* * * *

In London at that moment Kitty was leaving the Theatre Royal in her best lime green silk evening gown and matching cloak. The diadem glittered in her hair, and she looked very stylish indeed as she swept grandly out of the stage door to a waiting carriage, for it was the eve of their departure for Llandower, and Hugh was taking her to dinner. As he held a hand out to assist her up into the vehicle, an ominous roll of unseasonable thunder rumbled across the sky. He glanced up in surprise, because heavens that a moment ago had been a flawless vista of stars were now obscured by a thick bank of clouds that billowed above London like a flowing purple cloak.

A moment later, a strong gust of wind came from nowhere, tugging at Kitty’s clothes and hair. The wind became fiercer still, whisking dust, leaves, and other street debris into the air. Startled, the carriage horses backed without warning, the coachman had no time to apply the brake, and the carriage wheel struck the wooden stand supporting a huge water butt beside the stage door. With a splintering creak, the stand gave way, and the butt tipped slowly over. It shattered on the cobbles, and a deluge of old rainwater drenched both Hugh and Kitty. The wind died abruptly away, the bank of clouds disappeared, and stars twinkled again.

The couple’s fine evening clothes were spoiled beyond all redemption, and dinner was now out of the question.

Chapter Twelve

Had he known, Gervase would have been greatly amused by the ruination of his unworthy cousin’s dinner plans, and by the suspiciously supernatural reason, but he was many miles away, seated comfortably before the fire in the south room at Llandower. He mulled over what had happened since he’d arrived, and his eyes warmed a little as he thought of Anne. Fate was cruel, choosing not only to heat him with desire for the bride he’d expected to loathe, but also making her a breathtaking mixture of passion and high principles. Such was her nature that she was capable of all the fire and wantonness any man could desire, yet at the same time—for her parents’ sake—she would hold loyally to an arranged match, no matter what new love might come her way in the meantime.

There was a soft tap at the door, and he sat up. “Yes?”

Sylvanus came in and trotted to stand in front of the fire, parted the back flaps of the greatcoat, and presented his tail to the heat. He was still a little confounded by his experience with Penelope. “I’m not used to counterfeit naiads with waspish tongues,” he declared peevishly, clasping his hands behind him.

Gervase raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

The faun explained about Penelope.

“Serves you right,” Gervase observed with complete lack of sympathy, “and to be honest I don’t rank your lecherous activities very high on the scale of priorities. I’m much more concerned that in a few hours it will be dawn, and I will have to become a statue again, which means that much as I would like to, I can’t really sleep here.”

Sylvanus rubbed one of his horns thoughtfully, then gave a slight shrug and pointed toward the little escritoire at the far side of the room. “You said you had other business in Monmouth, so slip away leaving a note explaining urgent appointments. Say you didn’t like to awaken her, and you’ll come back as soon as you can.”

“And when I do return, it will be without a horse, without a change of clothes, and still without a clue as to how I’m going to proceed. The lady is intelligent enough to wonder why I should travel so light, and she is also virtuous—if fauns know what that means.” Gervase pointed out dryly, thinking that the obstacles still seemed unfairly stacked against him.

“This one is beginning to find out,” Sylvanus muttered.

“So a note is the best you can think of?”

“Well, on the spur of the moment, yes.”

Gervase sighed. “What
is
she going to make of me? First I break in, then I break out again, all the same night!”

“I’ll tell you what she makes of you—she likes you very much indeed,” Sylvanus observed.

“She does? What makes you say that?”

“Faun’s instinct. Now then, I’m going to find some food in the kitchen, and then I’m going back to the temple make it comfortable. I saw some rope to make pretend snakes, so I’ll be safe from that wretched animal. You’ll have to go back to the rotunda now that the statue has been discovered. Here, take this to find your way.” Sylvanus tore a silver button off the greatcoat.

“Have you no respect at all for other people’s property?” Gervase inquired, again dryly, taking the button.

“Well, the coat’s ruined anyway,” replied Sylvanus.

“Yes, by you.”

Sylvanus chose not to respond, and as the door closed behind him, Gervase pocketed the button and then went to the escritoire to write in a disguised hand, for his natural writing was distinctive enough to ring bells concerning the letters on the drawing room mantelpiece. He was brief and apologetic.

“Miss Willowby.

“Please accept my apologies, but I overlooked the fact that my other business in Monmouth is scheduled for first thing in the morning, and I do not wish to cause you further interruption by awakening you yet again. I trust I may take the liberty of returning to Llandower within the next day or so.

“Charles Danby.”

He left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him, but as he was about to turn toward the staircase, he noticed a thin line of light beneath a doorway farther along the passage. Was it Anne’s room? Unable to resist the possibility of speaking to her alone, he went to knock at the door in question. “Miss Willowby?”

She was sitting up in bed reading, having found herself far too awake to sleep. She was startled to hear him, but as she closed the book and flung the bedclothes aside, a vigilant Mrs. Jenkins emerged wrathfully from the adjoining dressing room, where she’d insisted on sleeping for her mistress’s protection. “There, I
knew
that scoundrel up to something!” The housekeeper declared, going to the fireplace for the poker.

Anne got hastily out of bed. “Please be calm, Mrs. Jenkins. I doubt very much if Mr. Danby has anything improper in mind. One moment, sir,” she called, as for the third time that eventful night she put on her wrap. Mrs. Jenkins stood behind her with the poker as she opened the door. “What is it, Mr. Danby?” Anne asked, trusting she sounded cool and collected, for a telltale warmth had spread through her the moment she saw him again.

Gervase was a little taken aback to see the housekeeper standing guard with a weapon he did not doubt she was prepared to use. “Er, forgive me for yet another unwarranted intrusion, Miss Willowby, but I fear I have to leave.” Anne’s perfume drifted distractingly over him again, and her hair was flushed with a halo of gold by the candlelight behind her.

“Leave?” she repeated in astonishment. “But it’s the middle of the night.”

“I, er, had forgotten that I have important business in Monmouth first thing in the morning. I wrote this note, but then saw the light on in your room and felt it would be churlish to simply leave without speaking.”

“But how did you intend to get to Monmouth without a horse?”

Damn, he hadn’t thought of that! “I was going to presume greatly by borrowing one from your stables.”

Mrs. Jenkins snorted. “So you’re a wicked horse thief to boot!” she declared wrathfully.

Anne tossed a cross look at her. “That’s enough, Mrs. Jenkins.” Then she turned to Gervase again. “You may indeed borrow a horse, Mr. Danby.”

He smiled. “I promise you will see your property again.”

The smile sent color into her cheeks, and she was glad the candlelight was behind her. “I’m sure I will, Mr. Danby.”

“I trust you will be able to overlook what has happened tonight. Miss Willowby, for I assure you my conduct is not usually so unorthodox.”

She gave a little smile. “I’m relieved to know it, Mr. Danby.”

“When I return, I will come to the door in a much more proper manner,” he replied, struggling against the longing to touch her. She was meant to be his duchess, and he wanted to sweep her from her feet and carry her to the rumpled bed behind her. Cupid’s arrow had pierced him with an accuracy he could never have anticipated, and he hoped Sylvanus’s faun instinct was right. It was true that she blushed and lowered her eyes, and that she was prepared to view him charitably, but such things might have nothing to do with attraction to him and everything to do with her being a trusting innocent.