Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (33 page)

She’d finally noticed his codpiece. Discreetly embroidered in black, it had not stood out from his velvet puff-breeches in the dim light of the ballroom. Now, the long horn-shaped bulge snared her attention.

“Our forefathers were a boastful lot, weren’t they?” he commented, and his narrow mask did reveal a flush on his cheeks. “Actually, it’s rather useful. For example, it disguises the fact that I’m big and hard just looking at you. Satin breeches can be damned embarrassing at times.”

“But informative.” She looked at him intently. “I’ve missed you. It’s just that . . . that I’m not sure who’s come back.”

He took her hand to kiss it. “A better man, I think. But yes, you must find out for yourself. Does that preclude a kiss or two?”

She shook her head. “Any gentleman may be allowed that.”

“Really? Methinks you are too free with your favors, my lady.” But he was teasing, and his lips silenced her retort.

Elf relaxed into his embrace, relishing a kiss so like their last one—gentle and friendly—but experiencing again the rapid surge of desire that plagued her with this man.

His hands played restlessly over the silk gown. “This is a damnable thing to sting a man with, Vespa. Especially one who’s been celibate for far too long . . .” His hands slid up her ribs and both thumbs flicked over her nipples, only covered by two thin layers of fine fabric.

Elf stiffened under a sharp jolt of desire, and reached for him. But he stopped and drew her into his arms. “No. We know we can drive each other mad with our bodies. We need to talk about other things.”

That sounded ominous. Had he come just to tidy up loose ends before pursuing Lydia?

Before she could speak, he added, “Honestly. As ourselves. Whoever those selves may be.”

Then she understood him. “You want us to meet without disguises?”

“Yes. Beautiful as you are as Vespa, exciting as you are as Lisette, and charming as you are as a man, when we talk about serious matters, I want it to be us.”

“Naked in the cellars?” She’d do it too if he wanted it, and surely his words were grounds for hope.

He laughed, shaking his head. “I never have decided if that was the ultimate truth or just another illusion. No, we presumably are going to live our lives as lord and lady, as Elf and Fort.”

“We’ve never met like that, have we? We were Malloren and Ware.”

She pushed aside delirium to consider it all. He was right. There was more to a life than games and lust. They needed to talk. “When?”

“When else but at dawn?”

“At twenty paces?”

Humor creased his eyes. “We’d have to shout. You can choose weapons, though, as long as it isn’t knives.”

“Truth.”

He nodded. “And the location?”

“Here, of course.”

“Formidable, indeed. I depend on you to defend me from rampaging Mallorens. And to come without seconds.”

He slipped out of the room and Elf sat with a thump. He was back and, she thought, healed. He was capable of laughter and joy in season.

But would it be with her?

The masquerade was a huge success. The king and queen, presumably by design, were dressed as the shepherd and shepherdess beneath the mechanical tree. When it was formally presented to George as a
Christmas gift, he applauded with delight, then kept the lads designated to wind it busy all night.

Fort appeared to have left, for which Elf gave thanks. She’d love to dance with him, but she was having trouble enough keeping her mind on practicalities. She just wanted the event over and the arrival of dawn. If she could have wound the spinning earth and sun like a mechanical toy and made it go faster, she would have done.

She was pleased Amanda was here with Stephen, for Amanda and Portia were the only two people she felt could begin to understand her feelings. Even Amanda and Portia, however, could not guess what Fort had in mind.

At midnight, the masks came off, and disguises were admired over a series of suppers. Elf’s wings were much commented upon. She wished she could use them to fly through time.

At two in the morning, as people began to leave or seek their beds, Lord Ferron proposed. At least he’d not worn a toga this time, but a more concealing Harlequin costume. Elf turned him down gently, wondering if she’d regret it.

If Fort intended to put an end to her hopes, she might in time want a poor substitute. She’d discovered that she very much wanted a husband and children . . .

But no. It wouldn’t be fair to marry when her heart was set on another. Perhaps in time she’d forget and be able to go to another man heart-whole.

Elf immersed herself in the business of tidying up the event.

She made sure coaches were coming around for neighboring guests, and that all were supplied with hot bricks for warmth. She found mislaid cloaks, coats, and canes, and one broken pearl necklace. She came across a few gentlemen in corners, rather the worse for drink, and arranged for their comfort. She detected some spills and other damage requiring quick care, and set servants to deal with them.

She should be growing tired, but she didn’t think she’d sleep this night.

Occasionally she encountered Rothgar in similar activities, making sure the event ended as harmoniously as it had begun. Eventually, weary peace settling, he drew her into his study—one of the few rooms kept locked during the masquerade—and poured them both wine.

He raised his glass. “Magnificent as always, Elf.”

She mirrored the toast. “A true Malloren effort. And the king seems pleased with his gift.”

“Since he’s ordered it carried up to his room, it would seem so. Will the poor queen have any sleep tonight?”

“Probably not,” she said with a grin. “I heard him tell her that he intended to go farther than the shepherd beneath the tree.”

“An education for the winding boys, to be sure.”

“Bey! They wouldn’t!”

“Monarchs are strange creatures.” But he smiled. “Don’t worry. I sent the lads to bed hours ago and put a couple of middle-aged stable boys in their place. Even if George wants to claim his marital rights to the sound of singing birds, he’ll not shock those two.”

He wasn’t going to mention it, so she did. “Fort’s around somewhere.”

“So I understand.”

“He seems much improved.”

“I am delighted.”

“I’m meeting him at dawn.”

He paused in the act of sipping. “I really would rather not have another Earl of Walgrave die here during a masquerade.”

“We’re not dueling!” Elf said with a laugh. “Or at least, not with weapons.”

“Almost anything can be a weapon, my dear. Do try not to reopen his wounds.”

She turned away and put down her half-empty glass. “Bey, I don’t know what he wants. He was maddeningly ambiguous.”

“Do you know what you want?”

She turned back. “Oh, yes. I want him, quite desperately. In all meanings of the word. But only if I can make him happy.” She rubbed her hands nervously over waspish silk. “I suppose I should get out of this costume so Chantal can go to bed. He wants us to meet in normal clothes.”

“Surprisingly wise.
Bon chance,
my dear.”

Elf paused at the door and looked back at him. “Bey, just for once will you be frank about something? What do you think about this?”

“I? I am recognizing that the one area I cannot control is affairs of the heart. But if Walgrave wants to marry you, and you can both be happy in that state, I will be pleased. We did him harm, and it would be right to do him good.”

“I think he’ll fit into the Mallorens remarkably well.”

“Oh yes. That is what made him so dangerous.”

As she opened the door, he added, “If he is to be part of the family, see if he’ll take over the wine and spirit division.”

Elf was still laughing as she ran upstairs to her room.

Elf drove a weary Chantal to distraction trying to choose exactly the right outfit for her crucial meeting. What represented the real Lady Elfled Malloren?

She was tempted by her remaining safe gowns, the pales and pastels with pretty little prints. At least they
were
safe, and perhaps that’s how Fort thought of her. After all, apart from that one encounter at Lord Coalport’s villa, he’d never seen her in her new wardrobe.

Her new clothes, however, were more true to her now. But not a grand gown. That would be inappropriate, besides being unnecessarily uncomfortable during hours of waiting.

“Milady! Why don’t you want to dress for your bed?”

“Don’t question me, Chantal. I have my reasons.”

Not the amber again. She didn’t want waspish.

The cream with black-and-gold design?

The dusky red print?

The clear blue just edged with embroidered flowers?

In the end she settled on the green-and-cream stripe. It was cut in a rather plain form with closed bodice but skirt open over a leaf-green quilted petticoat that took the place of hoops. It was the sort of thing she’d wear for an ordinary day, and green, they said, was the color of hope.

Once into it, she sent Chantal off to bed and sat on a chaise in front of the window, praying for an early dawn.

But the earth and sun cannot be hurried, and in late December, the sun will not rise before eight, not even at the command of a Malloren.

In the end, she slept until the glow of sun on her eyes awoke her.

She blinked gritty lids, then saw Fort lounging on the padded window seat in front of her. He was dressed casually in buff breeches, long fawn waistcoat, and dark brown coat—what he’d wear for a casual day on one of his estates.

“It’s a long time since I’ve watched morning,” he said, turning his head to look at the golden sky. “A humbling experience.”

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I thought you were just the sort to seek your bed with the dawn.”

“Only in my wild younger days.” He looked back, unreadable. “Do you want to put this off?”

Again, that sounded ominous. “No. But I’m going to have a drink of water. Do you want some?”

“No, thank you.” As she walked over to the carafe and glass, he added, “I’ve cheated, in fact, and had breakfast.”

As she returned to the chaise, he added, “With Rothgar.”

Elf sat. “I thought he wasn’t going to interfere.”

“Perhaps he can’t resist. Perhaps he didn’t interfere.”

Elf didn’t believe it for a moment. “What did you talk about?”

He thought. “About the situation in Portugal and in the West Indies. About the king’s art purchases from Italy, and some of my own. Oh, and we discussed suitable disposition of the worthy Roman senators who stand in the hall of Walgrave House. Unless, of course, you have an attachment to them.”

Elf was startled by the switch in direction, then cautiously hopeful. “No. No attachment.” She studied him as if he were a conundrum. “Did he ask about wine and spirits?”

Now he was puzzled. “No. Though I gather you have interests in a vineyard in Portugal.”

“Probably. I wouldn’t know. I have enough to do with silk.”

“He did explain more about your family’s business concerns. It’s an intriguing notion. I have Victor to think of.”

Elf couldn’t stand this inconsequential talk any longer. “What of Lady Lydia?”

“I don’t think she’d care for trade.”

“You know what I mean!”

He looked at her for a moment, and she held her breath. “She’s too young,” he said, “and I’m not inclined to wait.”

She needed more than that. “Surely you would wait if you thought her the woman for you.”

“I suppose I would. Tell me, what is most important to you these days?”

“What?”

You,
she thought.

“Elf, we hardly know each other.” That devastating teasing humor shaped his eyes. “What if you love glee singers and braised heart?”

“You don’t like glee singers and braised heart?”

“Can’t abide them.”

“I’ll give them up for you.”

“Ah,” he said, mock-melancholy. “But then I’d have to bear the burden of having deprived you of things you hold so dear.”

“I don’t hold them dear.”

“Then tell me what you do.”

You,
she thought again, but she saw she’d have to answer the overt question.

“My family, of course. My work.” She knew this might be a problem. He had used to be a conventional man. “My involvement in the family business is very important to me. It’s challenging and exciting.”

He didn’t faint with horror, so she kept going. “I’m still training with pistols and knives, and generally go about armed. I like the feeling of not being entirely dependent on others for my safety.”

Still no obvious dismay.

“I’m funding a pamphlet about ways of avoiding
unwanted pregnancy. It will be passed around discreetly. The problem is that so many women can’t read, so we’ve done it with illustrations, but—”

“Schools next, I assume,” he said. “Does all this have Rothgar’s approval?”

“Do you care?”

“Not particularly. I’m just curious.”

“Yes, it does. Though if it didn’t, I’d still be doing it. In fact, Sappho’s handling the pamphlet.”

“Then Rothgar must approve, I suppose.”

“You can’t really think they are like that.”

“No.” His smile was rueful. “I started going there just to annoy my father. I did so many things simply to annoy my father. Then, after, I went seeking a means to injure Rothgar. I think she knew. She never tried to stop my visits, but I never encountered him there. In time, almost accidentally, I learned to enjoy good music and poetry, and to appreciate clever women. I have a lowering feeling that I was deliberately educated.”

Elf didn’t know what to say, for he was almost certainly correct.

“Almshouses,” he said. “I visited Mistress Cutlow.”

“Oh, yes. If we’re to dig over all the old coals . . .” She drained her forgotten glass of water. “When you arranged to pay her a crown a week, was it simple kindness or a move against me?”

He thought about it, looking out at the brightening garden. “It’s hard for me to understand my mental processes back then. Probably a bit of both.” He looked back. “You
had
forgotten her.”

“I admit it. And so,” she said, tossing the challenge back at him, “what is important to you these days?”

He moved to face her directly, the sun gilding the rim of his tied-back hair. “My family. Chastity and Verity seem to be well settled, so there’s only Victor of my siblings. He seems to be less marked by our childhood than the rest of us and should do well. There are any number of family dependents, though.”

“Everyone has those.”

“True, but to look after them requires money, as does catching up on all the work on the estates that Father neglected. The amounts he spent on royal gifts alone are enough to turn my hair gray.” He looked at her. “A frugal wife with mercantile interests would not come amiss.”

Her heart fluttered up to panic speed. “Frugal? I’m a Malloren.” Then she bit her lip, wondering if she’d leaped too far ahead.

He didn’t pounce on it. “I assume that your portion is grand enough to support your extravagances. Are you saying you won’t make me rich?”

She couldn’t stand it. “Are you saying you want me to marry you?”

Silence. Was he going to say no?

Then he smiled, but wryly. “No man likes to set himself up for disaster, least of all me. I confess, I’m still afraid . . .” But he slipped off the window seat onto one knee. “My dearest Elf, after long and careful consideration I have come to see that you are the only woman who can make my life complete. Will you accept my hand in marriage?”

She placed her hand in his, steadier now they had come to the point. But she frowned. “You almost sound reluctant.”

“Do I? I’m sorry.” He kissed her hand, but lightly, and looked into her eyes. “I’m nervous. Frightened, even. You are, after all, a Malloren, and I’ve learned to expect stings. But you
are
everything I want in a wife. I knew that when I found myself thinking of ways to turn Lydia into you. But I knew I had to untangle myself before I could make a clear-headed decision. If you don’t marry me, I doubt I’ll marry elsewhere.”

“That’s hardly a fair weapon!”

“I hoped we were beyond weapons.”

Flushing with shame, Elf slid down to the floor and into his arms. “You’re right. I think I’m nervous, too. We’ve been squabbling far longer than we’ve been
talking rationally. I keep waiting for the answering sting. When did you first think . . .”

And sitting there in the brightening day they relived their encounters, the bitter and the sweet.

“You know,” he said at last, arm comfortably around her, their backs settled against the chaise, “you still haven’t answered my proposal.”

Elf dug in her pocket. “Give me your left hand.”

He did so, brows raised, and she slid the wasp ring onto his third finger. “Now you are mine,
Monsieur Le Comte.
”

With a laugh, he captured her left hand, pulled a ring out of his pocket, and slid it onto her finger. “Will you make everything into a contest?”

“Oh, probably.” Elf gazed through tears at a beautiful emerald. “I knew I was right to wear green. For hope.” She looked up at him. “I love you quite desperately, Fort, but this frightens me. I am a Malloren and I’ve come to like being in control of my life.”

“The warning is duly noted. I won’t beat you for insubordination.”

“No, you won’t.”

He laughed and kissed her lips. “Elf, the war is over. I love you, and I love you strong, bold, active, and even chattering. We can find a way.”

Then they were kissing as they had never kissed before, with wondering hesitancy and knowing familiarity. And, like the glow of the sun, with the added savor of leisure, of lifetimes, of security.

Eventually, the sun full up, they drew apart. Elf wanted more and she was sure he did, too. She was equally sure they would wait.

“Can it be soon?” she asked.

“Today would be nice.”

She leaned laughing on his chest. “We’d need a Special License.”

“I have one.”

She looked up at him. “Overconfident, perhaps?”

“Just prepared. And I told myself that I couldn’t feel this intensely about anyone and it not be reciprocated.”

“I’ve felt that way for over six months.”

There was a complaint in it, and he responded. “If I hadn’t been abroad, I’d have come to you sooner. Much sooner. You have been a void in my heart.”

Irresistibly, they sank back into kisses. “Today
would
be nice,” she murmured, half over him, his cravat loose in her fingers because she wanted to be skin to skin.

He moved her and stood, raising her with him. “Then why not? With Mallorens and Wares, surely it is possible. There are still guests. Even royalty. We can be as grand as we please or we can slip down to the village church and be very private. What is your desire, my lady?”

Warm, blue, laughing eyes. Smiling lips.

You.

“Private is tempting,” she said. “Especially as it could be now. But I’m a Malloren. By all means, let us be grand.”

And grand they were.

The king and queen, who had witnessed Cyn’s wedding the year before, and actually hosted Bryght’s wedding not long after, were amused to be again involved in a hasty Malloren march. The guests who had stayed were happy to delay a few hours to witness the vows and partake of a grand breakfast made up of rather unusual dishes. It was mostly made up of the leavings of the previous night’s supper.

Rothgar, appearing benign, murmured something about funeral baked meats furnishing the wedding feast.

Fort and Elf were standing hand in hand, trying to pretend they weren’t burning with lust. Did all married couples feel this impatience? she wondered.

“You see,” Fort said, “I knew it was Hamlet.”

“Amanda thought it was Romeo and Juliet.” Elf thanked a plump dowager for her warm and slightly risqué wishes.

“A foolish story.”

They were married. The event was almost over. The guests had been fed and were finally leaving. What else was there to do but chatter? “Then she said it was Benedick and Beatrice.”

“Closer, but a scrambling plot in that one.” They both spoke briefly to a departing couple.

“Which play do you choose, then?”

“Why not make up one of our own? And a merry Christmas to you, Sir Charles. Yes, an impulsive wedding does save a great deal of fuss.
Bon voyage.
” Fort turned back to Elf. “A lighthearted comedy, I think, with somber moments at appropriate times, and even elements of farce. But always, always, with a happy ending.”

“In iambic pentameters?” Elf thought for a moment.
“Behold brave Fort, and lively chattering Elf / Waving off guests, but wishing only to be by them self.”

“Not well scanned or even very grammatical.”

“Then you do better!” Elf had to turn away to kiss good-bye to Aunt Kate.

“Those evenings at Sappho’s must have taught me something,” he murmured.
“Her vows all said, the baked meats all consumed, / The bride and groom wish only to be roomed.”

Elf fought laughter. “It might scan better, but it lacks something of elegance. Thank you, Lady Garstang. And a happy Christmas to you, too.
The vows all said, the bride and groom thus wedded, / They chatter nonsense, impatient to be bedded.”

“You may not have noticed, but it is only just past noon.”

“I noticed.
For I have known you in the dark of night, / And would now know you in the sunlight bright.”

“And I have stripped you by the candle light, / And”
—he screwed up his face and laughed—
“And can’t now think of how to make this right.”

“Isn’t that what marriage is for, to make this right? I do believe that everyone of importance has left.”

They looked at one another, suddenly somber, but
somber in the happiest possible way. “Then let’s escape,” he said, “before anyone thinks we want to engage in polite chatter or a game of cards.”