Provocative in Pearls (2 page)

They strolled to the back, where a grape vine laden with clusters of fruit hung over some iron chairs and a stone table.

Hawkeswell looked out through the wall of glass. Distorting waves in the rectangular panes made the scene beyond more a watercolor wash than a Renaissance oil, as colors paled and blended and blurred. Even so, one could identify four women out there, at what appeared to be an arbor near a brick wall on the far side of the property.

Summerhays opened a door and the images clarified. It was a rose arbor covered with white blooms. Audrianna sat on a bench under the arbor, beside the pale, perfect Mrs. Joyes of the dark gray eyes. Hawkeswell had met Daphne Joyes at Summerhays’s wedding.

Two other women sat on the grass, facing the bench. One was a blonde with elaborately dressed hair. The other wore a simple straw bonnet, and its deep brim obscured her profile.

Mrs. Joyes noticed the gentlemen emerging from the greenhouse. She raised her arm in greeting.

The two women on the ground swung their heads to see whom Mrs. Joyes hailed. Then that bonnet turned back and the woman wearing it gave her attention to Audrianna.

An odd sensation vibrated in Hawkeswell, like a plucked string of a soundless instrument. That patch of grass was shaded, and that bonnet made deeper shadows. And yet . . .

He peered hard at that bonnet, so still now. It did not turn again, even as Audrianna and Mrs. Joyes called for Summerhays to join them. The tilt of the head, however, made that string pluck again.

He walked toward them with Summerhays, along sand paths that meandered amid thousands of flowers.

“Who are the others?” he asked. “The ones sitting on the ground.”

“The blonde is Miss Celia Pennifold. The other is Miss Elizabeth Smith. Lizzie, they call her.”

“You have met them before?”

“Oh, yes. I am well acquainted with all the rarest blooms.”

Hawkeswell exhaled deeply. Of course Summerhays would have met them all. The alarm in his instincts was uncalled for.

“Well, not Lizzie, now that you mention it. I had never realized it before, but while I have seen her in the garden and through the greenhouse glass or even passing by in that bonnet, I do not think that we have ever been introduced.”

They approached the ladies. The bonnet’s crown remained resolutely turned to them. No one else seemed to notice that, or consider it rude, in the chaotic exchange of greetings and introductions that followed.

No one seemed to realize that Lizzie had never been introduced to Audrianna’s husband, either, just as Summerhays himself had not. But an earl had entered the garden for the first time, and that head’s immobility could not last forever in the courtesies that followed. Eventually Audrianna began the official introduction to Lizzie.

The bonnet rose as Lizzie stood. Blood pounded in Hawkeswell’s head as that lithe body, hidden beneath its shaft of simple blue muslin, turned. Head bowed modestly and deep brim shadowing her face, Lizzie curtsied.

The pounding eased. No, he had been wrong. And yet his memories of the particulars were so vague. So shockingly vague. But, no, his mind had played a trick with him; that was all.

“I will go ask Hill to bring out refreshments,” Lizzie said quietly. Very quietly. Like a whisper.

She curtsied again, and walked away. The circle of women and the buzz of talk did not much notice her leave.

The tilt of that head again. The manner of walking. The pounding began again, savagely.

“Stop.”

Everyone froze at his command and stared at him. Except Lizzie. She kept walking and did not look back. Her gait altered, though. She looked ready to bolt.

He strode after her and grabbed her arm.

“Lord Hawkeswell—
really
,” Mrs. Joyes scolded, her expression one of stunned surprise. She looked with distressed curiosity at Summerhays.

“Hawkeswell—” Summerhays began.

He raised a hand to silence Summerhays. He stared at the delicate nose visible beyond the bonnet’s brimmed profile. “Look at me, please. Now. I demand it.”

She did not look at him, but after a long pause she did turn toward him. She shook his grasp off her arm and faced him. Long, thick dark lashes almost touched her snow-white cheek.

Something shivered through her. Anger? Fear? He had never before felt someone’s spirit react as he did in that moment.

Those lashes rose. It was not the face that told him for certain. Not its oval shape or her dark hair or her rose of a mouth. Rather it was the resignation and sorrow and hint of rebellion in her blue eyes.

“
Damnation
, Verity. It
is
you.”

“
I
f she is not down here in two minutes, I am going up I there. I swear that I will tear this house down with my bare hands if I have to and—”

“Calm yourself, sir. I am sure there has been a misunderstanding.”

“Calm myself?
Calm myself?
My missing wife, assumed dead for two years, has been living the sweet country life here, mere miles from London, knowing full well the world was looking for her, and you say I should
calm myself
? Let me remind you, Mrs. Joyes, that your role in this borders on criminal and that—”

“I will not listen to threats, Lord Hawkeswell. When you have composed yourself enough to have a civil discussion, send word to me. In the meantime, I will be at the top of the stairs, with my pistol, should you think to be brutish.” Mrs. Joyes floated her ethereal, pale elegance out of the sitting room.

Summerhays had been poking in cabinets. “Ah, here is some port. Stop that infernal pacing and get that temper of yours under control, Hawkeswell. You are in danger of being an unforgivable ass.”

He could not stop pacing. Or looking at the ceiling toward where
that woman
had taken refuge. “If ever a man in the history of the world had an excuse to be an ass, Summerhays, it is I. She has made a fine one out of me, anyway, so I lose little in playing the part.”

“No glass. This will have to do.” He held a delicate teacup in one hand and poured the port. “Now, drink this and count to fifty. Like old times, when you got like this.”

“I will look idiotic drinking out of that—Oh, what the hell.” He grabbed the cup and downed its contents. It didn’t help much at all.

“Now, count.”

“I’ll be damned if—”

“Count. Or I will end up having to thrash sense into you, and it has been many years since your temper forced that on me. One, two, three . . .”

Gritting his teeth, Hawkeswell counted. And paced. The red drained out of his head but the anger hardly dimmed. “I don’t believe that Mrs. Joyes did not know who she was. Or that your wife did not.”

“If you dare to imply again that my wife lied in saying she was ignorant, I will not finish with you until you need a wagon to bring you back to town,” Summerhays said dangerously.

“Don’t forget, as you remember old times, that I give as well as I get, or better.” Hawkeswell bit back his fury and paced out his count. “What the bloody hell is this place?” he asked when he got to thirty. “Who takes in a stranger and does not even ask her history? It is insane. Mad.”

“It is a rule here, not to ask. Apparently Mrs. Joyes has cause to know there are often good reasons why women deny their histories and leave their pasts behind completely.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Can’t you?”

Hawkeswell stopped pacing and glared at Summerhays. “If you imply that she had reason to be afraid of me, I swear that I will call you out. Bloody hell, she barely knew me.”

“That alone might make some women fearful, I expect.”

“You are talking nonsense now.”

Summerhays shrugged. “You are only at forty-five.”

“I am fine now.”

“Let us keep it neat.”

Hawkeswell stomped five more steps. “There. Now I am all becalmed. Go tell Mrs. Joyes that I
demand to speak to my wife, damn it
.”

Summerhays folded his arms and inspected him carefully. “Another fifty, I think.”

 

 

L
izzie sat on her bed, listening to the bellows of indignation coming from below. She would have to go down there soon. She could be forgiven, she thought, for taking a few minutes to prepare herself, and to accommodate herself to the notion of prison before the gaol door actually closed.

She had been a sentimental fool. She should have left as soon as Audrianna agreed to marry Lord Sebastian last spring. Or at least last week, after her twenty-first birthday passed. She had known that she had a war to fight once she came of age. Now she might not be able to fire a single shot.

Hawkeswell would have found her eventually when she returned to the world. There would have been no way to avoid that. However, she had planned to be among people who knew her and who would help, and she would have been prepared for him. Now dallying in this house had brought catastrophe, and she might find herself imprisoned by that marriage after all this effort to avoid it.

She stopped castigating herself. It had not been mere sentiment that made her put off her departure. She had not really been a fool. Love had kept her here, more love than she had known in years. She could be excused for surrendering to the lure of spending one final week with her dear friends, all of them together one last time. The news that Audrianna would visit had come the very day she planned to say good-bye, and it had been enough to vanquish her weak resolve and growing fear.

Stomping shook the house. Another curse penetrated the floorboards. Hawkeswell was in fine form.

That was to be expected of any man making such an unexpected discovery, but she had always suspected he had more of that male fury than most. She had surmised at once that they would not suit each other when they first met. They never would now, that was certain. He was in league with Bertram in all of this, of course. And she had humiliated him by running away and not dying for real.

A delicate rap on her door sought her attention. She did not want to face her friends any more than she wanted to face the man spilling curses below, but neither could be avoided. She bid them enter.

They came in wearing expressions much as she expected. Audrianna was wide-eyed with astonishment beneath her fashionably dressed chestnut hair, but then, she was too good to imagine a woman daring such a thing. Celia, who probably could imagine women doing any manner of things, appeared merely very curious. And Daphne—well, Daphne was exquisite and pale and composed, as always, and did not seem very surprised at all.

Daphne sat beside her on the bed. Celia sat on the other side. Audrianna stood in front of her.

“Lizzie—” Audrianna began. She caught herself as the name emerged, and flushed.

“I have thought of myself as Lizzie for two years. I suppose that you should call me Verity now, however. I expect I had better get used to it again.”

Audrianna’s face fell, as if she had clung to the belief that this was all a mistake.

“Then he is correct,” Daphne said. Her tone indicated that she had rather hoped it was a mistake too. “There has been no error. You are the missing bride of Hawkeswell.”

“Did you never guess, Daphne?” Verity asked.

“No. Perhaps I have been blind. That tragedy seemed far away and in another world. Never once did I think the young woman I came upon near the river that day was the girl who had gone missing.”

“I guessed. Or rather, I wondered,” Celia said. “Once or twice, it crossed my mind.”

Audrianna gawked at pretty, blond Celia. Celia in turn took Verity’s hand and patted it. “But then I would say to myself, no, it can’t be. That girl is dead for certain. Lizzie can’t be that girl unless she has lost her memory. A woman does not run away on her wedding day to live in frugality and obscurity. Especially if she is an heiress, and her new husband is an earl.”

No one said anything. There was a rule in this house. One did not pry. One did not demand explanations. It was why she had been able to stay here. Now, she knew, explanations were very much on everyone’s mind.

“Why?” Audrianna blurted.

“I am sure there was a good reason,” Daphne said, coming to her defense.

Verity rose from the bed. She went to her looking glass and eyed the damage the bonnet had done to her hair. Should she set herself to rights before going below and facing Hawkeswell? It would be courteous. Only she feared the gesture would put her at more of a disadvantage.

She had to smile at her calculations. She suspected every woman was at a disadvantage with Hawkeswell, and that he took the imbalance for granted. Not only his title tipped the scales. He was a handsome man, tall, lean, and broad shouldered, almost godlike in his physical person. Even without his ruggedly chiseled face, those blue eyes would leave most women stammering all by themselves.

It had been those eyes that told her she had been found when he entered the garden. In her quick glance, that was all she had seen, and she had known him at once. Even from across a garden on a sunny day you could not miss noticing eyes the color of sapphires.

“I did not choose that marriage.” She set about straightening the dark topknot of hair that had gone askew. Celia came over, pushed her hands away, and dealt with it better. “My cousin Bertram coerced me. He tried to force me, but I would not agree to it. Finally he tricked me. I discovered right after the ceremony how it was done, how a promise made to me, to obtain my consent, had been a lie.”

“What kind of promise would make you take such an irrevocable step?” Daphne asked.

Two years of discretion had formed a habit, and she hesitated telling them. She did not want to bring any more trouble to Daphne. However, she also feared that they now reassessed her character, and wondered if the promise had been some small, silly thing.