Lady Pamela (14 page)

She thought, drowsily, of Marchers House, and the months of work still remaining to be done. Under other circumstances it would have been the opportunity of a lifetime. To mold such a house to one’s own tastes, one’s own ideas of what was beautiful, and elegant–

But she would certainly not be a part of Amanda’s absurd schemes of decor.
Chinoiserie
! She had never understand Lady Detweiler’s fascination for that style, with its overwrought ornamentation and disturbing selection of colours. Pam remembered Amanda’s description of the music room at Brighton, the blue of the carpeting mixed in with the gilt, with carmine, vermilion, and chrome yellow. Good heavens, how could one stand to remain in such a room?

She was sure Benjamin would hate
chinoiserie
as well. Etruscan would be better. Better still...Pamela wasn’t sure. Something strong, and masculine. Something like Benjamin. She remembered the feel of his hands in her hair, his fingers untwining the strand of pearls...

An entire houseful of furniture to be purchased, in addition to the fabrics, the wall-papers, rugs, and a proper selection of smaller items. Paintings and a reasonable assortment of sculpture, pillows matched to the fabrics, candlestands and clocks, not to mention carpetings and rugs, and bedcoverings.

Bedcoverings. Lady Pamela thoughts drifted to a consideration of Lord Torrance’s private chambers. The bed itself needed to be replaced, she had understood. She imagined a large, four-posted structure, hung with burgundy silk, and fitted with the finest sheets and coverlets. A matching mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, an overstuffed chair before the fire . . .

She felt the heat of the fire, saw the reflection of flames in the duke’s blue eyes. They nestled together in the armchair, and Lady Pamela was warmed through, for the duke had given her his chamber robe of thick velvet. The robe enveloped her, she was lost in its embrace, and she sipped at a glass of brandy, feeling the liquid trickle fire at the back of her throat.

“Mmm,” murmured Benjamin, his lips at her ear.

No more arguments, thought Pam. No more.

 * * * *

Lord Torrance slept poorly that night. He had awoken in the early hours of the morning from a dream, remembering no more than an aching sense of loss, unable to calm the pounding of his heart. Eventually he rose and, taking a candle, left his chambers to wander the halls of Marchers.

Not a single rat scurried out of his path as he opened the door and walked through the hallways toward the duchess’s rooms. The new ratcatchers had done their work well; perhaps Cook would soon declare herself satisfied. Marchers was improving before his eyes, the walls plastered and window glass replaced, the scent of wood polish gradually replacing the odor of mildew.

Would that injury done to the bond between two human beings was so readily healed.

At least help had arrived for Marchers. Even the books were not such a hopeless case as he had first feared. He had returned from Lady Pamela’s at noon to find that Josiah had contrived a kind of drying device, a large wooden box with a slitted top for ventilation. Warmed air from a small coal fire was diverted into the box, under the watchful eye of the valet, and the volumes suspended from a length of string in its path.

The books smelled faintly of coal after this treatment, but ’twas a vast improvement over the mould.

Benjamin paused in front of the doors to the duchess’s suite. He had given orders that these rooms were to have first claim on Mrs. Throckmorton’s attentions, and the maids, he knew, had been busy within. He opened the door and entered, seeing the suite with new eyes, seeing it as he imagined Lady Pamela might see it. A large bedchamber, the parquet of white oak newly polished and gleaming. A huge arch of windows graced the far wall of the room, looking out over the back garden. The glass was clean, as was the stone of the fireplace, and the walls looked newly scrubbed. Not a stick of furniture remained, however, and the carpeting had been full of moth and removed.

Next door was a dressing chamber and its own fireplace. Adjoining the dressing chamber were two small rooms holding a bathtub and–as in Lord Torrance’s own chambers–a genuine, flushing
toilette hygiénique
, the famous invention of Mr. Braham. Benjamin was inclined to forgive the old duke many of the other household disasters for this one nod to modern convenience, which had caused quite a stir among the servants.

Also in the dressing chamber was a door to the duke’s own suite, locked, for the moment, from both sides. Benjamin turned his back on that door and retreated to his own bedchamber, opening one of the windows to the night breeze.

The air was chill, hinting of the winter to come. Benjamin poked the fire back to life, and paced his room, unable to contemplate sleep. He wondered if this year would bring as many changes in his life as the last. The past winter had found him at sea, a passenger on the packet ship
Amity
, bound New York to Liverpool. From Liverpool he had traveled to his estate in Wiltshire, and from thence–with scarcely more than a day’s rest, since he had learned of his cousin Helène’s situation at Luton Court–to Bedfordshire.

To Bedfordshire, and to Lady Pamela.

Benjamin recalled the first time he had seen Lady Pam, as he stood, newly arrived, on the front doorstep of Luton Court. A large ring had flashed blue fire on her hand, and he had recognized, to his astonishment, the duchess’s ring. The duchess’s ring–a magnificent sapphire surrounded by diamonds, and worn by every Duchess of Grentham for the past several hundred years. The Duchess of Grentham’s ring–on the hand of a stranger.

’Twas there by mischance, as he had later learned. A moment’s distraction, as Lady Pamela had wandered Helène’s rooms, Helène Phillips being the duke’s cousin and, at that time, guardian of the ring.

Preoccupied by Helène’s arrest, worried by what she might suffer at the hands of Sir Malcolm Brigsby, Lady Pam had slipped the ring on her finger, and Benjamin discovered it there only hours later. He had thought, from that moment, that the ring was where it belonged.

They were fated for each other.      

The duke’s first hours at Luton had been overrun with confusion, but once Helène’s situation had been sorted out, once his cousin was safe, and affianced to Lord Quentin, and everyone was happy–then, peace reigned in the marquess’s house, and in the days following he and Lady Pamela had formed an acquaintance.

A few weeks of bliss, all too short, before the wedding itself, before the night when–

Benjamin turned his mind from the night of the wedding. Better to think on happier days. The duke remembered one sunny winter afternoon in particular, when he had ridden out with Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler. Their destination was the celebrated Luton Court folly, an ersatz Pantheon, but they had only managed a few hundred yards before Amanda claimed the headache and returned home. Lady Detweiler had insisted that the duke see the Pantheon–one of England’s wonders, to hear her description–and that he and Pam continue without her.

Lady Pamela had made no protest to this plan and, in truth, Benjamin had been more than willing to continue alone.

’Twas not, perhaps, entirely suitable for a gentleman and an unmarried lady to do so, Benjamin had remarked.

“Nonsense,” Amanda had said. “This is Bedfordshire.”

And she left them.

“Amanda is never sick,” Lady Pamela had commented, puzzled, and Benjamin had said nothing, glad for the chance of privacy, knowing that this was part of Lady Detweiler’s pretense of acting as chaperone.

That afternoon had been one of the happiest of his life, coming only days before Helène’s wedding to Charles Quentin. He remembered a chase through sun-dappled woods, and a snow-ball fight, and a long kiss under the dome of the Parthenon. They had laughed until their sides hurt, and walked hand in hand until the duke could not imagine anyone other than Pamela Sinclair at his side.

“I suppose I have too much of the Americas still in me,” Benjamin had commented. “Everything is so new in Virginia–it seems ridiculous, somehow, to build something intended to look old.”

“ ’Tis beautiful,” said Lady Pam. “I suppose that is its only excuse.”

He had cupped her chin in his hand and bent down for a kiss. They clung together for uncounted moments, and the duke’s passion threatened to overwhelm him.

“Beauty is indeed its own excuse,” he had murmured in her ear.

Lady Pamela laughed, a wonderful sound that he never tired of. “Do I require an excuse, my lord?”

“No...” Another long, heated kiss, and they were perhaps fortunate, Benjamin thought later, that it was winter, and snow still lay on the ground, for he would willingly have lingered with her in a field of warm, green grass for a longer time than even Bedfordshire allowed.

He had not believed his good fortune to find such a woman within days of his return to England. A goddess, she had seemed to him, and he was no duke, but a commoner crouched at her feet. In Bedfordshire, Lady Pamela had been without flaw, and there was never enough time for Benjamin to say everything he wanted to say to her, never enough words to convey the beauty he saw in her, the perfection of her soul.

And each night at Luton Court, when he had returned to his rooms with his thoughts full of Pamela Sinclair, he saw the sapphire ring of the Torrance family glittering on his nightstand, and knew that it would be hers. That it had belonged to Lady Pamela since the day he had first seen it on her hand.

* * * *

He remembered everything. Everything she ever said to him, every look she ever sent his way, every touch they had shared. Now they were to be thrown together once again, at Marchers, and the duke regretted that Josiah had ever said anything about Lady Pam. The valet was only doing what he supposed he ought. Benjamin understood that and would never hold it against him. But the duke wished, now, that he knew nothing of Lady Pamela’s past, and that he had never heard of the Earl of Ketrick.

CHAPTER TEN

Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler arrived at Marchers House at ten o’clock, an hour far earlier than Amanda would have preferred. But Pam had insisted.

“The duke cannot work entirely in the evenings,” she pointed out. “And if I am to do this, so shall you.”

Amanda groaned loudly and earnestly at this declaration, but eventually accepted that early mornings were her lot, at least until matters were better underway. Perhaps she could find a comfortable sofa in front of the library fire and have a short nap.

They walked along the newly re-set flagstones of the pathway, and the two women were delighted to see how quickly order had been restored to the front gardens of Marchers. The vines of honeysuckle were trimmed to mere exuberance, and every weed had vanished.

She must ask the duke about his gardener.

The floor of the portico had been cleared of vines and dirt, and Amanda noted the elaborately inlaid mosaic under their feet; a coolly beautiful maiden, robed in a Greek toga, holding a familiar, white-breasted bird.

“Good heavens,” said Lady Detweiler. “Is that woman clutching a cuckoo?”

Pam seemed to recognize the scene.

“ ’Tis a cuckoo indeed,” she told Amanda. “The seduction of Hera, don’t you remember?”

“Lud, no. Is it something scandalous?”

Lady Pamela sighed. “Ask Lord Torrance,” she told Amanda. “I’m sure he can explain.”

The duke greeted them
en déshabillé
, or what passed for
déshabillé
in the male. His workman’s shirt was open at the collar, and the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, exposing brawny forearms stilled tanned from the past summer. He looked more like a man who spent his days in physical labor than one of the preeminent peers of the
haut ton
; an Adonis indeed. Lady Detweiler was standing close enough to Lady Pamela to feel her shock.

Ha
, thought Amanda.

Lord Torrance escorted them inside. The entrance hall was a great deal cleaner than she had expected, and flooded with light from tall windows of plate glass, each topped with a graceful quatrefoil carved in stone. None of these windows appeared to be broken, and Lady Detweiler frowned, hoping that the rehabilitation of Marchers was not too far advanced. She had been counting on months of needed effort. Not by herself of course–Amanda despised effort of any kind–but by Lady Pamela, who had no talent for bowing out of a project once she had begun.

The house is enormous, thought Lady Detweiler. Ducal townhomes generally were, but Marchers had been built on an especially heroic scale, as if the Dukes of Grentham were accustomed to entertaining giants. The entrance hall itself was over two stories in height, the space interrupted only by a wide, formal staircase and the balustrade for a second floor promenade. The vastness of the space was, she supposed, accentuated by its emptiness. Still, there was a
grandiosity
about the place that appealed to Amanda for, although she despised pretense, she admired the absolute confidence in self and family that Marchers proclaimed.

Enough of this nonsense about a house of sorrow, thought Lady Detweiler, remembering the comments of both Pamela and the duke. Marchers needs nothing more than a strong hand at the reins.

 But even the strong hands of Lord Torrance would need assistance, and time to do all that was needed. Lady Detweiler was confident that the draperies alone for the duke’s townhome would require hours of discussion
en intime
. The colors, fabric and style, the number of layers of the lining and interlining would all need to be decided upon, not to mention drapery rails, tiebacks, and ornamentation. If any. Lady Pamela was not one to skimp on details, and Amanda thought she could count on Lord Torrance not to cut these conversations short.

* * * *

Lady Pamela followed the duke in silence, the breath caught in her throat, her heart racing. Strange that the sight of a man dressed as the simplest cottager should affect her so deeply. A twelve-caped coat or the finest silk cravat was nothing, decided Pam, to a well-muscled forearm encased in homespun.