The Stolen Bride (9 page)

They had come to a stop between the door to the gallery and the one to the Etruria Room where the ducal china was displayed. He wound his fingers through hers. It was something, she supposed, draining every drop she could from the feel of his skin. She could almost imagine their blood crossing that thin barrier, weaving them together, heart and soul. It wasn’t enough. It just created a greater hunger.

“And you would slip into my arms,” he said softly as his thumb gently rubbed the back of her hand. “And you would want to be kissed. And I would kiss you ...” His hand tightened painfully on hers as his voice took on an edge. “And I don’t think my grandfather’s haughty disapproval would matter a damn.”

That was hunger she saw in his eyes. She locked her fingers in his and made to pull him in the direction of the gallery, but he was stronger and the door to the Etruria Room was closer.

Beth and Mr. Verderan had tactfully dawdled while the lovers talked. Beth, at least, had hoped that something to the purpose was being said. When they entered the Etruria Room, however, Randal was opening a cupboard to display a singularly horrendous blue Chinese elephant which was used to cool wine. Sophie had a bitter line to her pretty lips and the moistness of tears in her eyes.

After viewing the china, they strolled in the gardens and then went to the cool blue Adams Room for tea. They were joined there by the marquess, by Lord and Lady Stanforth, and by the Stanforth offspring and his nurse. With a blissful smile, the child toddled straight to Verderan with an offer of a carved horse.

“No, thank you, brat,” said the man coolly. “I have better of my own.”

“Horsey,” Stevie informed him seriously.

“Only in the most general sense.” Stevie thrust the wooden toy at him insistently and Verderan sighed. “If you look behind you, young man, you will see a valuable crystal bowl full of fruit. Why don’t you throw it to the floor and stamp the subsequent mess into the Aubusson carpet.”

Chloe Stanforth came dashing over. “Mr. Verderan!” she exclaimed, picking up the squirming boy. “I will thank you not to corrupt my child!”

As she turned away, Stevie set up a screech of deprivation.

“Seems to me he’s hell-bent on perdition,” murmured Verderan quite audibly.

The child’s father was clearly hard put not to give in to amusement but he said, “Ver,” in a warning tone. The Dark Angel looked over, laughed and raised a hand in a gesture of surrender. He removed himself to the far side of the room.

Beth herself knew her lips were twitching. The child had been pacified by his father’s watch, but his eyes kept traveling across the room to the tall, dark man like one besotted. They said something about children and animals being fine judges of character, but she had to think this infant was sadly misguided.

Beth had to give up her study of the cherub and the angel when the place beside her was taken by the Marquess of Chelmly. She found herself slightly nervous. He might be an ordinary kind of man but he was still the heir to a dukedom, and Beth was not accustomed to this kind of company.

He proved, however, to be very unalarming, talking pleasantly enough of ordinary affairs and drawing her out to talk of herself a little. It was the same polite behavior as Mr. Verderan had shown but from him it had seemed natural and had become enjoyable. Here the effort was showing.

She found herself wondering how the marquess felt about his high estate. Would he perhaps have been happier as a simple country squire? How silly it was to expect these highborn aristocrats to be any different at heart from anyone else. The Marquess of Chelmly was obviously a little shy.

“You must love your home here,” she said at one point and was rewarded by a genuine smile.

“I do indeed. My father is after me all the time to go to London and find a bride, but I hate that kind of Society life. When I marry I want a bride who will be happy here in the country.”

“I think a great many debutantes only visit London in search of a husband, my lord. Some, I’m sure, would be happy never to go there again. I confess, after so many years in the country at Carne Abbey, I find the city rather noisy and dirty.”

“And crowded,” he agreed. “It’s scarcely worth taking a riding horse there.”

“Do you stay here all year round?” she asked. “You must have other estates.”

He laughed. “Far too many, Mrs. Hawley. Plus the fact that Randal wheedles me into overseeing Fairmeadows and Conifer Hall for him. He has no taste for estate management.”

She had become comfortable with him. “I don’t think you would let yourself be wheedled if it didn’t suit you, my lord,” she said.

He smiled ruefully. “In a sense you’re right, ma’am. I can’t stand to see a place being neglected and I fear that’s what would happen if I didn’t take a hand. Randal is a butterfly and never holds to a task once it has lost its novelty. But he can charm anyone, you know, so I would doubtless do it even if I was unwilling.” He looked over at his brother with indulgent affection. “He has the Ashby charm.”

“The Ashby charm?” queried Beth.

“Don’t you know of it? The bearer attracts people, willynilly.” They both looked over at Randal, who was seated on the carpet, easily distracting Stevie from Verderan.

“I don’t understand it,” said the marquess, “but I think it has something to do with attention. If we feel someone is really interested in us, it pleases us. It is completely unconscious, though, and largely out of Randal’s control. He finds it a bother and I certainly consider myself well suited to have been spared the gift.”

He rose to his feet. “It has been a pleasure to speak with you, Mrs. Hawley. If I may be permitted to say so, you have a gift yourself. You make a person feel comfortable. Now, though, you must excuse me. I have an appointment to discuss some boring agricultural matters.”

Despite those words, as he left Beth could see a spring in his step. Time away from the estates was time wasted to the marquess. She pondered his flattering words. Another high-ranking swain? Goodness, but her head would soon be turned. The heir to a dukedom, even. She’d never have thought him so adept at flattery. It was doubtless again just a piece of polite behavior drilled into them.

She imagined a dry and stern-faced tutor, birch in hand. “Remember, gentlemen. Always leave a lady with a compliment. Always.”

She disciplined her mind to the task in hand. It was Randal and Sophie who were her main concern and watching them together, her concern grew rather than diminished. Sophie watched Randal constantly and Randal ignored Sophie—except for the occasional stolen glance that showed something deep and almost dangerous. It was passion of some kind and it was under iron control.

A butterfly? Beth doubted that.

Was it just propriety? Beth could not believe that Lord Randal Ashby was holding himself so aloof from his bride-to-be, far more aloof than Society would demand, because of propriety. And was Sophie disturbed simply by lack of kisses? She thought the girl beyond that kind of petty impatience and the earlier conversation suggested deeper motives.

Had that malicious note had any meaning? Who would send such a thing and what could anyone possibly do to prevent a marriage only two weeks hence?

Beth suddenly became convinced, however, that it was essential that Randal and Sophie reach a firmer understanding.

When she found herself alone with Lord Randal she made herself remember that. He had been escorting Beth and Sophie to their carriage when Sophie had recollected a request to be made of the Towers’ housekeeper and sped off, leaving them alone together.

Beth had never been tête-à-tête with the handsome young man before and she looked for the magical Ashby charm. She didn’t detect it. He was extremely good-looking and very graceful in his manners, but that was all. She steeled herself to speak to him on Sophie’s behalf but he had swung effortlessly into smooth social conversation. Beth soon decided to have done with it.

“Do you know,” she said when she had the chance, “I really do appreciate good manners but I am growing a little tired of relating my boring life to bored gentlemen.”

He grinned with understanding. “Social conversation. I know. Hate it myself. But... ”

“But it’s difficult to know what to say to a stranger of another station in life entirely.”

“Something like that,” he said easily. They had arrived at the side entrance where the carriage waited. He perched boyishly on a wall there, letting the slight breeze stir his curls. “It’s not snobbishness, you know, though sometimes people think it is. It’s just the difficulty of being different.”

“Me or you?” she asked, becoming alarmingly aware of something which could be that fatal charm. Her senses told her that he was enjoying a rare and welcome moment of intimate conversation with a soul mate, while her head struggled to remind her that he was just politely passing time with a social inferior.

“Both, of course,” he said. “I can talk naturally with my friends and you with yours. Together, however, we have nothing to say that has meaning unless we become uncouthly intimate, like this.” The words could have been offensive but a smile robbed them of sting. “I’m sure it was even worse talking with Chelmly. He hides behind formality. He’s been taught from birth to expect people to encroach on him and as a result he fears strangers.”

“You don’t fear people taking liberties with you, Lord Randal?”

“I can handle it. People say that I have charm and Chelmly doesn’t. The truth is, though, that I’m not afraid to be approachable because I’m ruthless enough to deal with the consequences. Chelmly isn’t.”

Beth took a fortifying breath. “Then I suggest you use your gifts on Sophie,” she said calmly.

He stiffened and then turned on her a look full of generations of cold arrogance. “Now that, Mrs. Hawley, is presumption.”

Beth stood up to him. “I know it, and even worse, it is an attempt to stand your friend, Lord Randal. Whatever is wrong with Sophie, however, is far deeper than a need for lover’s kisses. She needs you and you ignore that at your peril.” Even as she said the words, they seemed melodramatic to her and yet she would not take them back.

He frowned in puzzlement. “What do you fear?”

Beth shook her head. “I don’t know, my lord.” Making a quick decision, she told him of the note Sophie had received.

“Damnation,” he muttered, then apologized. “It’s nonsense, of course, but ...”

“But,” interrupted Beth firmly, “every instinct I have tells me things would be a great deal simpler if you would surrender whatever vow of propriety you have made, my lord.”

Sophie appeared at the far end of the hall and Lord Randal jumped down from his perch. “You are the most extraordinary chaperone I have ever come across,” he said with a cool courtesy which built a wall between them. “I’m sure that note was upsetting. I’ll have a word with David about it. But you are too concerned, Mrs. Hawley. You’re quite correct, though, in one thing. I have made promises to myself that seem worth keeping and I will do so.”

He led Sophie over to the carriage and said farewell with a kiss on the cheek. As he courteously shook Beth’s hand, she knew she had as much chance of being alone again in conversation with him as Sophie did of a moonlight tryst. He could indeed handle presumption.

 

Randal wandered back in search of Verderan, feeling guilty about freezing out the little governess, and yet irritated at the same time. All his life people had been preaching propriety at him and now, when he had embraced it, the most unlikely people were luring him toward wickedness.

He thoughtfully pulled out a letter he too had received that day. “You will have no chance to besmirch an innocent. Your reprobate ways and worthless idleness are known. Sophie Kyle is not for you and you will die before you ever wed her.” He easily shrugged off the threat, but some of the words wove in with doubts he felt, doubts about his ability to be a good and steady husband. At the thought of Sophie receiving drivel from the same source, however, he just felt burning rage.

He found Ver in the billiard room and they started a game but it soon palled. He put his cue down restlessly. “There’s supposed to be hawks in the woods over near Stillbeck. What do you say we take some guns over there?”

Verderan looked closely at him. “Of course,” he said. “Killing things is very soothing to the nerves.”

“And what the devil’s that supposed to mean?”

Verderan laughed. “Man sublimates the urge to mate in killing. Or is it vice versa? There’s nothing like frustration to bring out destructiveness. Why go in search of hawks? You could always pick a quarrel with me.”

Randal laughed and didn’t tell his friend the reason for his restlessness; there was enough truth in Verderan’s words anyway. “We made a schoolboy pact never to call each other out ...”

“Being the best shots around,” supplied Verderan. “I have no objection to bloodying your nose.”

“Do you think you could?” asked Randal, the light of challenge in his eye.

“I’m more ruthless than you. I didn’t say I’d fight by any rules.”

Randal weighed it and then shook his head. “I’ve no mind to go to my wedding with a black eye.”

“The hawk’s fate is sealed, then,” said Verderan.

They changed into buckskins and boots and collected guns. Then they set off across the park.

On the crest of a rise Randal stopped and loosened his cravat. He felt a strange uneasiness, as if he were being watched. Was he letting that silly note affect him? It must just be the heat. He looked at the cloudless sky. “Damn, but I didn’t realize how hot it was. Do you want to go back?”

Verderan looked ahead toward the stand of trees. “It will be cooler among the trees. Let’s go on.”

The weather was fine and dry. Randal smiled to himself when he thought how everyone had started to complain of the heat. Never satisfied. Even the animals, though, had decided it was all a bit much. In the next field cows huddled in the shade chewing the cud and there were few birds around. Flowers rioted in the bright light however, buttercups and cowslips, red poppies and purple foxgloves.