Chase the Dawn (23 page)

S
ir Edward’s eyes followed Benedict’s. “Ah, there you are, child.” He held out a hand toward her, smiling in invitation and very obvious pride. “Gentlemen, most of you are already acquainted with my daughter, I believe.”

The blood that seemed to have stopped in her veins began to flow again. Her lips curved in an answering smile. Benedict released her from the captivity of his gaze, and she came down the stairs with becoming grace. “Lord Dawson.” She curtsied with impeccable depth, swimming upward as his lordship raised her hand to his lips.

“Miss Paget. You grow more beautiful, it seems, with each passing hour.” The elderly roué seemed to swallow her with a distinctly lascivious smile. “Young Cullum is a lucky dog, I swear it.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” Bryony murmured. The blood was pounding in her ears as she wondered how she would respond to her imminent introduction to the clean-shaven, copper-haired, black-eyed gentleman
dressed in sapphire velvet and Mechlin lace, an enormous diamond pin nestling in the ruffles at his throat. He wore his own hair, unpowdered, but that was the only infringement of sartorial rules and it was a minor one.

Then she was curtsying to a Mr. Benedict Clare—B.C., she thought with wild, poignant memory—and her hand was in his. She dared not raise her eyes, instead gazed fixedly at his fingers, brown but long and elegant, the nails squared and neatly manicured, a heavy gold signet ring, intricately worked, encircling the little finger of his right hand. The pressure of those fingers increased, imperceptible to the eye but most definitely felt, a message of warning, not of conspiratorial passion. Somehow she managed to respond to the introduction with a murmured word of welcome, a flickering smile, before her hand was returned to her and she switched her attention to the rest of the party.

The conversation seemed to drift over her head as she stood, smiling inanely, nodding like a marionette on a slack string. Mr. Clare was but newly arrived in the Colonies from Ireland, Lord Dawson was explaining. Sir Edward knew of the Clares, of course. Did not the Paget estates march with the Clares in their Irish homeland?

That explained that lilt, the softness of spring raindrops in his voice, Bryony thought. She was not sufficiently acquainted with the Irish accent to have recognized it without prompting, and Ben’s was far from pronounced. But now it seemed obvious.

Why would an Irish aristocrat bear the marks of the whip upon his back? What in God’s name was an active Patriot doing in this Loyalist stronghold? How long could she stand here, close enough to touch him, to be
touched by him, yet keep from melting into the embrace whose memory had haunted her lonely nights and tormented a body aching with loss?

More carriages rolled up to the front of the house. Major Ferguson and his retinue mounted the steps. The Dawson party moved aside politely to allow their hosts to greet the new arrivals. Bryony, still feeling as if she had entered a strange dream, part nightmare, part heavenly trance, retreated into the safety of the role she could play by heart—that of daughter of the house, affianced to Francis Cullum—every step quite clear, every word and gesture simply part of the ritual, and there was infinite safety in ritual.

Benedict Clare watched her. Even when he could not see her, when social demands obliged him to have his back to her, he felt as if eyes in his back were upon her. He heard her voice, clear and true, speaking the expected words, never missing a beat, and he acknowledged with quiet satisfaction that she was as strong as he had always believed her to be. There had been but one moment when he had feared she would give way beneath the shock, but her recovery had been faultless.

God, was she beautiful! Somehow all his resentment at the ease with which she took her place in this elite, privileged world had vanished as he took his own place in it. He had found, to his rueful chagrin, that he had had no difficulties in resuming a status and position that had been his until five years ago. He had thought that his detestation of all those who lived in this ivory tower would have prevented his easy reabsorption into their world—but old habits died hard, it would seem.

“Bryony, child, your father wishes you to partner Mr. Clare at dinner.” Eliza spoke softly at her daughter’s
elbow, and Bryony spun round, swallowing the little startled gasp at this interruption of her self-induced hypnosis. “Francis will understand that you have other duties this weekend,” her mother continued, blithely unaware of the effect her words were having on the still, pale figure. “Mr. Clare is a most honored guest and must be shown extra courtesies.”

Extra courtesies, Bryony mused as a sudden imp of mischief came surprisingly to her rescue. She could imagine furnishing some extra courtesies to this honored guest that Eliza would not dream of, even in her wildest nightmares. “I shall be delighted, Mama,” she responded promptly. “I shall be more than happy to make Mr. Clare my particular charge.”

Eliza smiled happily at this evidence of daughterly docility. “Then I will leave you to ensure that he lacks for nothing.”

Bryony inclined her head in acceptance, but that same mischievous smile played over her lips. She moved across the drawing room to where Benedict Clare stood with Lord Dawson.

“Mr. Clare, I have been charged by my father with ensuring your comfort this weekend.” A small curtsy accompanied the smile and the soft words. “I do trust that you will be quite candid in expressing your slightest wish. It is a prospect that affords me much pleasure.”

Minx! Benedict thought with a sudden surge of relieved merriment. Not only had she recovered from the shock, but she was prepared to play games—games at which two could play. He bowed. “It cannot afford you as much pleasure as it will afford me, Miss Paget. I am deeply honored.”

“Lucky dog!” rumbled Lord Dawson in customary
fashion. “The undivided attention of the most beautiful girl in Virginia, indeed!”

“Do not put me to the blush, your lordship,” Bryony demurred. “Mr. Clare, do you care to take a turn upon the terrace? The view of the river is quite magnificent.”

“By all means.” He proffered a sapphire velvet arm. Bryony placed her hand upon the sleeve, smiled graciously to the assembled company, and moved toward the doors opening onto the terrace.

Benedict’s head lowered for an instant. “Say and do nothing out of the ordinary until I deem it safe. You understand?” he whispered against her ear, straightening up again almost in the same movement.

She nodded just perceptibly. “How long have you been in the Colonies, Mr. Clare?”

“Some three months, Miss Paget. But I have been in the North until recently.”

“Do you come to take part in the king’s struggle with the revolutionaries?” Her gaze met his in direct challenge.

The black eyes became opaque in the way that she knew of old. Without answering, he walked away from her to the edge of the terrace, and Bryony followed, knowing that she had erred, not so much with the question as with the obvious challenge that went with it. His warning had encompassed looks and movements out of the ordinary as well as words. “Spring is a beautiful season in Virginia, sir,” she said. “You’ve timed your visit well. It’s somewhat colder in the North, I understand.”

“A little,” he agreed gravely. “I should be loath to feel another chill in the air in these parts.”

In other words, don’t do it again, Bryony understood
wryly. “That is most unlikely, Mr. Clare. We are unused to cold snaps after the middle of March.”

He smiled. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Bryony, I have been looking all over for you to pay my respects.” Francis Cullum spoke with gentle raillery, and she turned, smiling, to greet him.

“Francis, have you met Mr. Benedict Clare? He is a guest of Lord Dawson’s, newly arrived in Virginia from the North.” She turned back to Benedict. “May I introduce Mr. Francis Cullum, sir.”

The two men bowed and murmured pleasantries. Then Benedict said, “I understand from my host that you have the great good fortune to be betrothed to Miss Paget, Mr. Cullum. May I congratulate you?” A smile flickered over the well-shaped mouth. “And, of course, Miss Paget.”

“You are too kind, sir.” She could not look at him as she wondered if possibly he had forgotten the agonizing problem that had led to her presence in the hayloft that memorable night, or whether he was merely responding as politeness demanded.

Francis felt the tension immediately and was puzzled by it. Bryony was as taut as a plucked string, and there was an air of containment about the Irishman that bespoke a type of strength, both physical and spiritual—the kind of strength that developed through long years of adversity, through confronting oneself and coming to an acceptance of what one found. It was a process that Francis Cullum understood, being deep in the midst of his own personal struggle.

“Let’s stroll down to the fishpond,” Bryony suggested, anxious to break the awkward silence and her own train of thought. “Do you accompany us, Francis?”

“If you will have me,” he returned with a slight smile, which conveyed both puzzlement and speculation, and Bryony felt herself shy like a nervous colt. She covered the involuntary movement by stepping hastily off the terrace onto the broad path running between the lawns. The high wooden heel of one satin pump caught in the gravel, and she tripped, seeing the path come up to meet her even as Benedict caught her, his arm an iron band around her waist, the contours of his body pressed against her own. The quiver that ran through her sparked against his skin. One hand was beneath her breast, his thumb splayed against the rising curve. Bryony’s breath seemed suspended in the agony of expectancy and memory as she felt his own breath, coming suddenly fast, whispering across her forehead.

Then he was putting her from him as she blushingly apologized for her clumsiness in a voice that did not sound like her own. Her legs were shaking so violently that for a moment she doubted whether they would support her.

She smoothed down her skirt with rapid little fluttering movements and pushed back her hair in the way Benedict remembered so clearly as denoting uncertainty or embarrassment. It wrenched at his heartstrings, and the urge to take her again in his arms, to rediscover the satin softness of her, the richnesses of her body, threatened to overwhelm him. For a second it showed in his eyes, then the control that had kept him alive in the last five years reasserted itself. “Steady, now,” he said quietly as if she was indeed a nervous colt. Then he turned to Francis, who was standing very still to one side of the path. “It amazes me how ladies manage not to break
their ankles regularly with those heels, don’t you agree, Cullum?”

“Uh, yes … yes,” Francis muttered. “Bri, are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, of course. It was just clumsiness,” she insisted reassuringly, pulling herself together. “I am very grateful to Mr. Clare for his swift reaction. I was about to take a most undignified tumble.” She managed a tiny laugh. “Shall we continue on our way, gentlemen?”

“I have just remembered that I must pay my respects to Mrs. Hall,” Francis said suddenly. “I’m charged with a message for her from my mother. Would you excuse me if I left you to continue your stroll without me?”

“Of course.” Bryony bit her lip, her brows drawn together in a deep frown as he turned and disappeared among the throng on the terrace. Francis was intuitive enough to know that something peculiar was afoot.

“Stop frowning in that manner,” Ben instructed in a sudden urgent whisper. “You will have everyone looking at us in a minute.” He took her hand and tucked it firmly under his arm. “Smile and talk nonsense if you cannot think of anything sensible to say.”

Bryony smiled obediently and said through her lips, “I must talk to you.” Except that I don’t really mean “talk,” she amended silently. Touch you, kiss you, become one with you again …

“All in good time, lass,” Ben replied, his voice neutral, his smile calm.
“I
will decide when that is, and you must wait patiently until then.” He pointed in the direction of a large, square bowling green sunk a little below the level of the garden. “Is that a game you play, Miss Paget?”

“Not really,” she replied. “My father is very fond of it. Why must I wait for you to decide?”

“I share Sir Edward’s fondness,” he said. “Because I am more aware of the dangers than you are and a great deal more experienced. Say no more!”

It was almost as if they were back in the clearing and he was asserting the mastery of one who knew his own business a great deal better than she did. It was quite true, of course, but Bryony could not help the tight bud of anger forming as she thought of the monumental disadvantage at which he had so callously placed her.
He
had been prepared to see
her
, but had not thought twice of the dreadful shock she would experience at the sudden, stupefying sight of him in her father’s house. It was a miracle that she had not betrayed him, betrayed them both, in that first paralyzing moment, and now he was giving her instructions as calmly as if she were a willing but inept accomplice in whatever dangerous game this was that he played.

The gardens were littered with strolling couples and small groups enjoying the warm spring air, butterfly bright in their gay dress whose richness of color and material drew no distinction between the sexes. Benedict Clare was regarded with the frank curiosity of a community that was required to rely upon itself for all forms of entertainment. A newcomer, particularly one so personable and well connected, was a considerable addition to their usual amusements. The presence of their host’s daughter at his side was considered quite right and proper, and Miss Paget, although only Ben could guess at what cost, played her part, word perfect. At one point, Benedict turned to look up at the gracious two-storied mansion, its many windows winking in
the sunlight. There was a space in the eddying crowd around them, and he said softly, “Which is your chamber?”

“On the second floor, the third casement from the right,” she replied with equal softness.

“Do you have a bedfellow?”

“Not at the moment.” Her heart beat fast against her taffeta bodice as the possibilities of the exchange blossomed in her mind. But surely Ben would not take such a blatant risk? Not when he had forbidden her to behave in any way that could be construed as even slightly out of the ordinary. But then Bryony was coming to the conclusion that there was one rule for Benedict Clare and one for others on the knife edge that he trod with such insouciance.