Emily Hendrickson (18 page)

Dru studied Mary’s anxious face before summoning a smile. “I agree. She did an excellent job.” Dru allowed the little maid to assist her with the dress, fastening the tapes and adjusting the sleeves. It had been and now was a fetching thing. The trouble with it was that she owed Lord Brentford an apology ... or something.

While Mary brushed and arranged her long blond tresses, Dru considered the matter. She didn’t think she had anything to apologize for, but it was evident she had angered him by what she had said. This stylish re-creation was rubbing salt in her wounds for certain. She must do it, like it or not. Her father would scold her were he here, and his scolds were worse than a birching.

Once her hair was in shining order, Dru thanked Mary and left her room to wonder where she might locate the man she needed to see. While walking down the stairs, she debated on where to begin. She stood in the lower hall, undecided.

“Were you looking for someone?”

She knew that deep rich voice without even turning around to see who spoke. “Yes. You.”

“I see. What may I do for you?” He executed a half bow, giving her an amused look.

“You already did. Do, that is. Oh, you have me all mixed up. What I mean to say is thank you for the new dress. It is so like my favorite, I could scarce tell them apart. Except this one does not have a tear from where Binky attacked it.” Dru revolved so he might see how nicely the local seamstress had done.

“Very nice,” he commented. “It was the least I could do when you saved the little dog belonging to one of my mother’s guests. You had a rotten time that day.” He regarded her from a tired face that she would have sworn indicated a lack of sleep. Although what might keep him awake at night was beyond her. The house was as quiet as a tomb at night.

“I see. It was not necessary for you to repay my loss, but I thank you.” She gave him a sad look before going to the kitchens to ask Cook if there was anything needed. She would have sought refuge in the gardens, but the rain prevented that.

Without considering the matter. Dru hunted out a waterproof cape and bundled it over her head. Before anyone was aware of her intent, she was out of the house and into the garden. She crunched along the gravel path, happy to be out. She picked a few flowers—just for herself.

“What in the world are you doing out in the rain?”

It had been exhilarating to feel the light rain on her face, to smell the damp earth and the primal scent of the flowers and growing things. “I just wanted a few blooms.”

Lord Brentford tucked his hand under her elbow to march her back to the house. Once inside the back entry they stood, allowing the water to trickle down to the stone floor. He carefully lifted the waterproof cape from her head, shaking it out while shaking his head as well.

“You need a keeper.”

“I do very well, thank you. Now, if you will excuse me?” Dru edged away from his tempting closeness. He thought she needed a keeper? What she needed was to be far away from him!

“Where do you arrange flowers?”

He ignored her obvious desire to have him gone. Really, the man had a thick head. He should know he wasn’t to be found in this area.

“In here.” She had walked on ahead of him and into the little room with the stone sink and wooden table.

“I will wait.” He propped himself against the frame of the door, looking as though he had no plans to move in the foreseeable future.

“I do not see why.” She permitted her eyes to rest on him for a few moments before turning her attention to the flowers. His hair was damp from the rain, plastered to his head in a dark swath. A few drops of water clung to his skin, and she knew the most absurd desire to lick them off, one at a time. And if that wasn’t the most outrageous thought she had ever had, she didn’t know what was. There were damp patches on the corbeau coat he wore, a coat that delineated his form to a spectacular degree. As did his biscuit-colored pantaloons. How he could ignore the drops of water on his fine black shoes was beyond her. His valet, Colyer, would have a raving fit.

“I want to talk with you, and you are slippery as an eel.” His voice was plaintive, and she chuckled at the sound.

“I so intended. If you must know, I wished to avoid talking with you, considering the mood you were in yesterday.” She paused a moment, taking a cautious glance at him before arranging her little cluster with care.

“You do that well,” he commented while he watched.

“It was always my task at home.” This time she refused to look at him, not wishing, yet wishing to feast her eyes on his fine form.

“Last night you said you would wed me and happily.”

Dru spun around to give him a shocked stare. “But that was a play—words from a play! They were not meant to be taken seriously, and you must know it.” She held a flower before her, unconsciously inhaling its delicate perfume, and gave him a hesitant smile. Surely he was making a very bad jest.

“You would not consider making it a reality?”

“No.”

“That is it? No?”

“No, thank you,” she said, still numb with shock. “It is not polite to tease.”

“What makes you think I am teasing? Do you as a rule allow men to kiss you as you allowed me?” He shifted as though to move, yet remained where he was.

He hadn’t stepped toward her, yet Dru felt as though he completely engulfed her, that he filled the little room with his presence. She froze, while not feeling threatened, certainly at risk. “Indeed, never! No one . . .” She fell silent.

“No one has kissed you at all in that manner, is that it?” One of his hands reached out to touch a strand of her hair that had escaped and now clung to the nape of her neck.

She knew he was aware that she trembled at his touch. Dru reluctantly nodded. What was the use of pretending otherwise when he obviously knew the answer?

“I suspected as much.”

“Perhaps you know what you are talking about, but I do not.” She glanced back at him. He had taken a step away from her, seeming ready to leave the tiny room.

“It will come to you in time. In the meanwhile, I shall leave you with this.” One long step and he was beside her, a firm hand on her jaw tilting her face up to meet his. She met his gaze moments before his lips descended upon hers, and she forgot everything else except him.

The kiss before had been earthshaking; it had turned her world upside down. This was different:

sweet, tantalizing, alluring, and very, very tempting. When his lips released hers, she felt lost, cold.

“Oh.” If someone had demanded speech from her, she would have been incapable of it.

“As I said, think on it.”

“Your mother wishes you to wed Lady Felicia” was the sum of what came to her scattered wits.

“Indeed? I would never permit another to dictate my choice of wife. And that includes my mother.” His face became austere, the ultimate aristocrat.

“It is a good thing I don’t take you seriously, or you could be in dire trouble, sir. Now, be gone with you!” She shooed him on his way and hoped that she did not appear as shaken as she felt.

He shook his head and disappeared from her sight.

Dru leaned against the cold stone of the sink, wondering if she had taken leave of her senses. Had she actually allowed that man to kiss her again? And in such a manner! She was quite certain that her sanity had taken leave and might not return until she left this house.

She sent up her flowers with Mary, then headed for the drawing room.

She entered, expecting to find it empty. She was wrong. Lady Felicia sat at the pianoforte plunking out a melody. If she had hoped to escape without talking to the woman she heartily disliked, she failed.

“I see you have your lilac sprigged muslin back. I am amazed at how well Mrs. Simpson did with it.” Lady Felicia sounded civil, yet with a superior hint in her voice.

Honesty compelled Dru to reply, “Actually, she didn’t do anything to this. Lord Brentford paid a local seamstress to copy the original one. I am pleased with the results.”

“I expect if you have few gowns and none from London, a village seamstress is well enough.”

Dru gave Lady Felicia a level look. “You have no reason to sneer at my clothes. You wear the finest that your money can buy. I think it rag-mannered to make derogatory remarks about my gowns, as though I could afford better and don’t know enough to buy them. I appreciate Lord Brentford arranging to have a favorite dress replaced. But I will not listen to your unkind remarks, nor must I.” Dru turned to leave the room.

“You are too presumptuous, missy! If you think to wed Lord Brentford, think again.
I
will wed him. His mother did not invite me here without good reason.” Lady Felicia rose from the pianoforte to stand before Dru. Had she not been so petite, she might have been a challenge.

At first Dru felt chilled. Then reason returned. “Interesting. That is not my impression in the least. I have not had the feeling that his lordship permits someone else to dictate his path—least of all his mother.” She almost added a remark about women who intend to marry one man while flirting madly with another, but didn’t.

“That is all you know about it.” Lady Felicia stamped her slippered foot before whirling about to pace across to the window. Here she stared out at the rain.

“Pity it rains,” Dru commented as she left the room. She did think it would be nice to place Lady Felicia out in the downpour—perhaps it would wash away some of her powerful scent. The mental image of her haughty ladyship dripping with water, her artful curls in rat-tails about her face, and her flimsy gown clinging to her somewhat too-slender form was small comfort.

Around noon, Mrs. Simpson arranged a splendid buffet for anyone who wished a meal. Thinking to eat before the others, Dru went to the breakfast room, a pleasant little room in comparison to the grandeur of the dining room.

On the sideboard she found cold sliced meats, cold meat pasties, a selection of cheeses and breads, and even a handsome pudding for those who wanted a sweet.

The table had a dish cross in the center on which sat a dish of harico of venison. The flame from the spirit lamp set into the center of the dish cross burned steadily, and the harico, or strew, bubbled, sending forth a tempting aroma. Dru took a dainty helping of the venison, added bread and cheese to her plate, and found a chair situated so she might at once see anyone who ventured into the room.

Lord Ives paused in the doorway. “An indoor picnic?”

“I suppose you might call it that. Join me if you wish. I can recommend the harico of venison.”

“Ah, a favorite of mine. I believe I will. Join you, that is.” In short order he had filled his plate. He found a seat next to her and began a leisurely conversation as undemanding as he himself was.

He had Dru laughing over some absurdity when Lord Brentford entered the room. He strongly resembled the thundercloud that hung over the house.

“Well, I know the weather is nasty out, but surely, old fellow, it isn’t that dire.” Lord Ives winked at Dru, who had the temerity to giggle.

“Not you, too!” Lord Brentford frowned.

“And what is that supposed to mean, pray tell?” Dru shot back. “My imagination has limits, so I do not have the slightest notion what you mean.”

“Too many people around who think they know what is in my head.” He gave them a curious look.

“La, sir, and is there anything there?” Dru teased.

He glowered at her, but his dark eyes gleamed with suppressed mirth—at least she hoped it was that.

“You two enjoying an early luncheon?” Lord Brentford asked, a casual note in his voice. He now wore a look that seemed oddly suspicious. Surely not of them?

“I could not ask for better company,” Lord Ives said with an intriguing smile. His gray gaze sought hers, warming her with his seeming admiration. “Miss Herbert is an excellent listener. That is such a refreshing trait. Do you not agree, Brentford?”

Before Lord Brentford could say a word, Dru responded to Lord Ives with an answering grin. She was not above enjoying a light flirtation. “You are a gallant gentleman, I vow. And I have found your conversation all that is agreeable.”

“I think I hear my mother calling you,” Lord Brentford said, sounding as though he had been eating sour pickles. He helped himself to the venison and joined them.

“Calling? Never! She would send Priddy or one of the maids.” Dru bit into her slice of bread and cheese, a slow sensuous bite, savoring the rich texture and delicate flavor. This flour was not some of the adulterated stuff one heard about being sold in London. This was far better—where one of the advantages of living in the country, especially not far from a high-quality mill.

“What shall we do this afternoon? Felicia has the megrims, or something close to that. She is bored to death, old chap.” Lord Ives surveyed his friend as though he expected him to magically summon a genie to entertain her ladyship.

“Dru? Think of something,” Lord Brentford commanded.

“Dru? Aren’t you being a bit familiar?” Lord Ives inquired, his voice almost sounding ominous.

“Snip Snap Snorem,” Dru mused. “That is a favorite card game. Or perhaps Diabolo.”

“I haven’t attempted that yet,” Lord Ives said, now sounding amused. “Can you manage that clever top? Truly?”

“No,” Dru confessed. “But I daresay someone around here knows how.”

“I do,” Lord Brentford muttered. He took a bite of his stew, staring at Dru as though she ought to know what he was thinking.

“You must give lessons. Tell you what—you teach Dru and she can teach me.” Lord Ives bestowed a warm, almost intimate smile on Dru that had her puzzled. But if he wanted to trifle with her, he would find it hard going. She was not a girl to be trifled with. She could tease. At least, a little bit. Nothing dangerous or compromising.

“That depends on whether or not I manage to learn how to balance that little top. It does not look simple to do. I do not doubt it requires a special aptitude.”

“La, what a silly girl you are,” Lady Felicia said as she sailed into the room. She selected a plate, dished up a taste of the venison, added a bit of bread, then slid onto a chair as close to Lord Brentford as possible. She tossed a saucy look at Lord Ives, then edged even closer to Lord Brentford.