Joan Wolf (7 page)

“I didn’t even know you were interested in that filly,” Bertram said to Linton reproachfully. “You never said a word and then you jumped in at the end of the bidding with a fifty-guinea raise in price. You surprised everybody.”

“I didn’t surprise Jess,” Linton said, his eyes going to her face. She looked very beautiful to him as she sat in front of the fire in her russet wool dress. The leaping flames brought out the copper in her hair, braided so neatly into a coronet on top of her head. She turned to answer Bertram, and Linton thought that she had the most beautiful movements of any woman he had ever seen.

“Your cousin Philip is an old hand at- buying horses, Bertram. He observes scrupulously the first rule of the game: never let anyone know how interested you are, otherwise the price will go up.”

“Oh.” Bertram looked thoughtful.

“I say, Miss 0’Neill,” said Sir Francis admiringly, “you are a regular mine of information. If you ever decide to give up the stage you could always take up selling horses.”

He spoke jokingly and Bertram laughed readily. At this moment the waiter came over with the bottle of wine they had ordered, so neither of them noticed the stricken look that had come over Jessica’s face at Sir Francis’ words.

Linton noticed, however and, under cover of Bertram’s tasting the wine, he asked her quietly, “What has happened to distress you?”

She took refuge behind an expression of mute aloofness. “Nothing,” she replied briefly.

His eyes, so deeply and changeably blue, remained fixed on her face for what seemed to her a very long time. Then he said, “Very well,” and turned to speak to Bertram.

He tried to get her to talk about her past during the drive home. It was clear to the meanest intelligence that Jessica’s knowledge of horses was far more extensive than any ordinary person’s, male or female, would be. But all she would repeat was that she had spent some time around horses in her childhood.

He didn’t believe her. For one thing he suspected she had never set foot in Ireland. When he had tried to pin down about where “in the west” she had performed she had replied glibly, “Oh, Wexford.” He had not said anything, so she did not realize that Miss Burnley’s lamentable lapses in geography had caused her to give herself away. Wexford was most certainly not in the west of Ireland, as Linton, who had visited there, had first-hand reason to know.

And the knowledge she had displayed this afternoon could only belong to someone who had worked or owned or bred horses—race horses—seriously. He pressured her a little, gently, but she had closed up against him. He had looked at her as she sat on the seat beside him, bent slightly forward, braced and on edge, and he had wanted to put his arms around her and beg her to trust him. But he had known such an action would only frighten her more—frighten her, perhaps, into running.

And that, he realized, was something that frightened
him.
He did not want to lose her. There was something about her that attracted him as no other woman ever had.

When they reached Montpelier Square he set himself to reassure her. On the surface she seemed perfectly composed but the signs of strain were there to his discerning eye: her air of withdrawal and the austerity of the set of her lips revealed clearly the tension she was feeling. He had some brandy brought up to the bedroom, and taking off his coat and loosening his cravat he stretched himself comfortably on the chaise longue. “You must be cold after that drive, Jess,” he said in his deep, warm voice. “Let me give you a splash of brandy.”

She was standing by the fireplace, her right hand resting on the marble and her left keeping her skirt from the fire while she held out a foot to the warmth. “Only my feet are cold,” she replied.

“Then take your boots off,” he told her. As she hesitated he put down his glass, went across to the fire, and picked her off her feet as easily as if she were a child. He sat her down, knelt down himself, and pulled the boots in question off her feet He then handed her a small glass of brandy. “Drink it,” he said sternly, fixing on her his very blue, steady, and now somewhat imperious gaze.

Reluctantly she took it; then, as he continued to stare at her, she sipped it cautiously. It brought tears to her eyes but she could feel its warmth coursing through her. She sipped again, more assuredly, and looked up to find his eyes still on her. Her mouth compressed a little and then, irresistibly, she laughed. “How odious in you to always be right,” she said.

“Do you think I’m always right?” he asked serenely. “Well, I am still waiting to catch you out.”

He smiled, leaned back on the chaise longue, and held out an arm. “Come and get warm,” he invited. She put her glass down and went to sit in the circle of his arm. Humorously and reminiscently he began to tell her about an incident from his boyhood where he had been, regrettably, very wrong indeed. Jessica lay still against him, listening and absorbing warmth from his big body, and slowly he could feel the tension draining out of her. Her head was pillowed comfortably against his shoulder. He felt the relaxed weight of her and she seemed to him very small and fragile and tender as she rested against him.

There rose in him, as there had before, an overwhelming desire to protect. Why this self-contained girl who had, he suspected, more courage and toughness than many men he knew, should call forth this feeling from him he did not understand. But there was a quality of gallantry about her that moved him very much. She was in trouble, that much was clear to him. He wished he could help her, aside from the monthly allowance he was making her. But he knew, without asking, that she would not allow him to. He bent his head and gently kissed the top of her head. “You’re tired,” he said softly. “I’ll go.”

She stirred a little and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not tired. Don’t go unless you want to.”

“All right,” he replied after a minute, his lips once again against her hair. “In that case I’ll stay.”

Chapter
Nine

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try

—
SIR
PHILIP
SIDNEY

On December 21 Linton left London to go to Staplehurst for Christmas. It was a tradition for as many Romneys as could physically manage it to gather under the Staplehurst roof at this particular time of year, and the head of the family must naturally be on hand to greet them.

 Linton, who enjoyed his large and noisy family, usually looked forward to Christmas. This year, he realized with a flicker of dismay, he did not want to leave London. The cause of this strange reluctance was Jessica. She had upset the pattern of his life, and he was beginning to be a trifle alarmed at himself. It would probably be better to get away from her for a time, he decided. A few weeks at Staplehurst would help him put her in perspective.

The initial feeling of homecoming he had as he drove up the winding avenue of Staplehurst seemed to confirm his wisdom. He came out of the woods and there before him, its golden stone brilliant in the December sun, was the house, serene and sumptuous, surrounded by avenues and sheets of water stretching into the far distance. He crossed a graceful bridge and drove down one of the avenues, across another bridge, and into the stableyard. He was detained for twenty minutes by his head groom, who was patently delighted to see him; then he walked back up the avenue to the house, feeling the familiar peacefulness of Staplehurst seeping into him.

Things did not remain peaceful for long.
He was greeted in the hall by his butler and three noisy nephews. “Uncle Philip!
We thought you were never coming,” said Matthew, the eldest, a boy of thirteen. “School let out days ago. Remember you said you would take me shooting the next time I came to visit you?”

“Me too!” clamored Lawrence, the next nephew in size.

“I want to ride a
big
horse,” chimed in John, age six.

“One at a time, if you please!” he laughed at them. “And at least let me get my coat off and say hello to your grandmother.” He allowed his butler to help him remove his caped driving coat. “Lady Linton is in the morning parlor, my lord,” said his retainer with a rare smile. “May I say how pleased we all are to see you?”

“Thank you, Timms. Run along for a moment, boys. I’ll see you later.”

They groaned but obediently began to move away. “It’s been
boring
without you, Uncle Philip,” John said reproachfully as he went up the stairs. “Why did you stay away so long?”

Linton merely smiled at his small nephew and began to walk in the direction of the west wing. His grandfather had built a magnificent sequence of formal reception rooms around two sides of the old house, but when the family was in residence by itself they used the smaller, more intimate rooms of the old west wing. Lady Linton was sitting alone working on a piece of embroidery when her son came into the room.

She recognized his step and looked up instantly, her face lighting with the bright look it always wore whenever she saw him. Her heart swelled with pride as she watched him cross the room toward her, his thick hair gleaming in the winter sunlight. “Hello,’ mother,” he said in his familiar, beloved voice, and she held out a hand to him.

“Philip!” Her dark blue eyes smiled up at him as he bent over her. “It is so good to see you. I missed you. We all did.”

“Did you, love?” He sat down next to her on the sofa, an identical smile in his lighter eyes. “I’m sorry, but there was really no bearing Maria another moment.”

She sighed. “Dear Maria. She has such a—definite—personality.”

He grinned. “She is a boss, you mean. I am very fond of Maria, and there is no one I would rather depend upon if I needed help, but she has bullied me ever since I was born. Having five children of her own hasn’t altered one iota her determination to mother
me. I
don’t know why; I’ve got a more than adequate mother of my own.” He picked up Lady Linton’s hand and kissed it lightly.

She smiled at him lovingly. “No one has ever successfully bullied you, my son.”

“Not now, perhaps,” he retorted, “but when I was a child I suffered unmercifully from her sisterly interest in my affairs.”

Lady Linton moved a little restlessly on the sofa, then stood up to go rearrange some flowers on a side table. She was a woman of sixty or so, with beautifully coiffed white hair and a remarkably flexible figure for her age. “I had better warn you,” she said finally. “Maria’s friend Lady Eastdean and her daughter Caroline have joined us for the Christmas holidays.”

“What!”

“Now, Philip,” said Lady Linton pacifically. “Lady Caroline is a beautiful girl. All Maria wants is for you to meet her.”

“I do not need Maria to find a wife for me,” he said quietly and deliberately, but Lady Linton did not like the set of his jaw. She knew the obstinacy that lay hidden under her son’s usually gentle speech and manner.

“You do not have to marry the girl, Philip,” she said now, a trifle astringently. “But she is a nice child. There is no need to ignore her just because her mother is one of Maria’s friends.”

“I hope I have more courtesy than to ignore a guest under my roof,” he replied a trifle stiffly. Then, with a glitter in his eyes his mother recognized, he continued, “The fact that it
is
my roof doesn’t seem to worry Maria. I don’t mind
her
visiting—that is, I do mind but I will put up with it. But it is the outside of enough for her to be inviting half of her acquaintance to join her!”

“Two people are scarcely half her acquaintance,” his mother pointed out gently. “And she didn’t invite them. I did.”

At that he frowned. “You did? But why, mother? Christmas is always a family party.”

“I like Lady Caroline,” his mother replied. “And it
is
time you were getting married, Philip.”

* * * *

As he went upstairs to his bedroom to change for dinner Linton’s brow was furrowed. It did not smooth out when he encountered his sister in the hallway. “Oh, there you are, Philip,” she said in her clear, imperious voice. “Come into my room. I want to speak to you before dinner.”

Without replying he followed her in, and when she turned to look at him his frown was more pronounced. There was little in Lady Maria Selsey’s appearance to produce such an unpleasant look. She was an extremely beautiful woman whose statuesque blonde loveliness had not been impaired by the birth of five children or by her present pregnancy. “Has Mama told you about Lady Caroline?” she demanded immediately.

“Yes,” he replied. His cupped voice ought to have given her warning but she plunged on.

“She is the loveliest, sweetest thing Philip. I do not think there is a girl to equal her around today, and as a patroness of Almack’s I think I may say I get to see them all. She will be going to London this spring but I wanted you to meet her first.”

“Maria,” he said in a quiet, dangerous voice, “if you ever do this to me again I swear to you I will humiliate you, mother, and myself by leaving immediately. I will be polite to Lady Caroline this time because mother has asked me to be, but never again. Do you understand me?”

“I understand you,” she replied sweetly. “Don’t be angry, Philip. I’m only doing this for your own good.”

“Maria,” he said grimly, “you have told me that ever since I can remember.
Don’t help me any more.
What do I have to do to make you understand? I simply cannot keep fleeing from my home.”

“Is that why you went to London?” she asked curiously. “Because I mentioned your obligation to get married once or twice?”

“Once or twice?” he almost shouted. “You have nagged me mercilessly for the last three years! There isn’t a girl who has crossed the threshold of Almack’s that you haven’t ruthlessly thrust upon me at one time or another. If you keep it up I won’t ever marry, just to spite you.”

“You’re spoiled rotten, that’s the problem,” snapped his loving sister. “You’ve always been the apple of mother’s eye. And becoming Earl of Linton at age seventeen was bad for your character.”

“Being born ten years before me was bad for
your
character,” he answered between his teeth.
“It turned you into a bully.”