Under the Kissing Bough (12 page)

"Yes, but the ones that do—"

"End with a horrible death. Yes, you've told me. And you must, it seems, rescue every dumb animal that crosses your path."
Every one but me
, he thought, and the fact that such a notion had even occurred to him irritated him even more.

Devil take it, but what was he to do with her? He could refuse her request. That would put an end to this damn agreement. But then he would have to start the hunt anew for a bride, and he could imagine having to make a worse bargain than this. She might, after all, have asked for more impossible things.

"This is unlikely to make you popular in the district, you know," he warned, half-hoping she would back down, and quite certain she would not.

Her color rose but her stare did not waver. "I did not ask for that, did I? And, honestly, if most hunts do not even see a fox, then all that is being given up is riding over field and fences, so why cannot people do just that?"
"Because what you call riding over field and fence without a fox to set the path is little more than a steeplechase and not at all the same."

"Well, it sounds the same. So why can you not tell the master and your father and everyone that from now on—to please me—there shall be a steeplechase? We could hold one for what used to be each hunt meet day, and the first shall be this Christmas. And I shall give the winner a...a silver tray. That should have more appeal than catching a mangled fox."

Geoff could only shake his head. She obviously did not know the sort of avid fox hunters he knew—men who lived for the thrill of matching their wits against a fox's cunning. Men such as the earl, and half their neighbors around them. He could not see how this could turn out well. But he supposed they could always live in London.

"Very well," he said at last. "I shall do my best to ensure your steeple-hunt day is sufficient replacement for those who live to ride to the hounds."

Her face lit with an inner glow that almost took his breath away. For an instant he thought she would throw her arms about him as she had when he had agreed to provide a home for that wretched donkey she had rescued. But, after taking no more than a step closer to him, she stopped herself.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she said, clasping her hands together instead of clasping him. With the quick flash of another smile, she turned and left him.

He stared after her for long moments, thinking only that under his tutelage she was learning to control herself. To check her impulses. And the disappointment he felt at that thought was too sharp and too real to deny.

* * *

The bell over the door jangled as Eleanor entered the jeweler's shop in Guildford. She had asked her mother if they might make one last shopping trip before Christmas, and Lady Rushton had been only too happy to request the carriage from Lord Rushton and commandeer the escort of Andrew Westerley. Emma had joined them, and while the others were busy on the High Street, admiring a set of Delft pitchers set out for display, Eleanor had slipped away.

She wanted to find something for Lord Staines—for Geoffrey. Something to give him both as a wedding gift and a Christmas gift. And she did not want others looking over her shoulder while she chose it, for it was her guilty secret that she wanted also to buy a locket for her mistletoe berry.

But I am only keeping it for remembrance of a lovely moment
, she told herself. She clung to that rationalization because it was too dismal to admit to any other reason. So, she strode forward to greet the proprietor of Findlay and Finch, jewelers.

Mr. Findlay remembered her from her last visit with Lord Staines and set out a chair for her and when they were seated, inquired affably how he might be of service. He wore spectacles pushed back on his balding head and toast crumbs from his breakfast decorated his brown waistcoat and coat.

A man with toast crumbs on his waistcoat could not be intimidating, Eleanor thought. So she opened her reticule and took out the folded paper, which she lay on the table next to their chairs.

"There are two things, actually. I would like this put into a locket, and I wish to buy a watch chain. A gold one, please."

Mr. Findlay patted his pockets, glanced around him as if searching for something, chucked and reached for the spectacles perched on his head. "Mrs. Findlay owns I would forget my own address if she had not engraved it on my watch," he confided. After adjusting his gold-wire spectacles, he took up her paper and unfolded it. He frowned a moment at the white, waxy berry, then glanced up over his spectacles at her.

"You wish this in a locket?"

She nodded. "A glass locket. It...it is a keepsake. Can you make me something before Christmas?"

He frowned again and rubbed his chin. "It might be expensive. There is the gold to acquire and shape. And the nearest glassblower is in Croydon. But perhaps if we did it as a small bottle."

Putting down the paper and the berry, Mr. Findlay patted his pockets again, dislodging the crumbs and producing a pencil from his waistcoat. He took the berry out of its paper and set it aside, and then began to sketch on the paper. "Not too elaborate. With the clasp here at the top. And it can fasten just so to the end of the watch chain."

"No. The watch chain is to be separate," she said again.
"Ah, yes. Quite so. But a loop here at the top will attach it to whatever chain you wish." He went on sketching for her, deftly drawing in the filigree work that would go around the glass locket to hold it together.

Eleanor had the distinct impression that his steady flow of conversation was more for his own benefit, for she could not follow his talk of how he would work the gold, and etch the glass, and all the rest of it. She only smiled and nodded and wondered if she could afford this.

When Mr. Findlay paused finally, she got up her courage and asked his price.

He frowned again and rubbed his chin. Standing, he excused himself for a moment and stepped into a back room, separated from this one by a blue, velvet curtain. Eleanor waited. Deep voices rose from the back.

Then Mr. Findlay reappeared with his partner, Mr. Finch. Thin, tidy, he dressed in formal, black knee breeches and coat. He shook her hand and beamed at her. Mr. Findlay stood at his side, still frowning and muttering to himself, and continually pushing his spectacles up on his head and then pulling them back down in place again.

"Dear lady," Mr. Finch said, his narrow face all gracious smiles. "You must allow the firm of Findlay and Finch to make this our humble gift to you for your upcoming nuptials. It has been the honor of Findlay and Finch to serve the past two Countesses of Herndon, and we shall hope that we may continue to be of service to the next as well. Shall we not?" he added, with a sever glance to Mr. Findlay.

Mr. Findlay stopped fussing with his spectacles. "Yes, yes, of course we shall. Long tradition between our firm and the Westerley family, after all."

Eleanor understood at once. A gift now to her, with the expectation that as Lady Herndon she would continue doing business with the shop, which would allow Findlay and Finch to boast of her patronage and ensure further business with those who would be impressed by such a noble connection. It seemed a good enough exchange to her.

She thanked the gentlemen, and Mr. Findlay recalled that she also wanted to see watch chains. Mr. Finch bought out a selection of chains on a black velvet tray. Eleanor found it a sinful delight to make a selection without thinking of cost.

She chose a gate-linked gold chain that fit at one end to a button hole and at the other to a watch. Glancing at a clock in the shop, she saw that she had been gone from the others for nearly half an hour. "I must go. May I take the chain with me now?"
Mr. Findlay frowned, but Mr. Finch smoothly said, "Please, dear lady. We shall wrap your gift and have it delivered to Westerley when all is ready. And well before Christmas morn."

Letting out a small sigh of relief, she thanked them again and hurried from the shop.

Guildford's High Street seemed bustling with shoppers, carriages and riders. The clop of hooves sounded on hard, half-frozen ground. Carriages rolled past, and the smell of meat pies rose from the inn opposite the jewelers.

Eleanor hurried back to the china shop, intent on searching for the rest of her party there, and if she did not see them, she would wait at The Crown, where they had left the carriage.

She glanced over her shoulder to check for traffic so as to cross the street, and collided with another person. Instinctively, she turned and reached out to steady the other person, and found herself staring straight into Cynthia Cheeverly's silver-gray eyes.

Mrs. Cheeverly put up a hand to grasp her poke bonnet, a plain brown silk affair whose lack of adornment did nothing to detract from her beauty. She gave Eleanor a brilliant smile. The potent force of the woman's charm battered at Eleanor's dislike and distrust. The shy, smiling woman in front of her seemed so at odds with the image she would rather hold of a haughty, cold beauty who had scorned a gentleman's heart.

"Miss Glover, is it not? But you are not in Guildford alone, are you?" Mrs. Cheeverly asked, her voice timid.

Eleanor's already guilty conscience flinched, and she started to explain, "No, no, I am just going to meet my mother and…"

"Oh, then I must walk with you. Guildford is not London, but it is large enough that it would be thought odd of you to be seen walking alone. Is your family shopping on the High Street?" She turned, took a pace and glanced back as if waiting for Eleanor to follow, her shy smile still in place, but with an air of assurance that Eleanor wished she owned.

Frowning, hesitant, Eleanor decided that short of complete rudeness, she could think of no way to be rid of Mrs. Cheeverly's escort. Besides, curiosity had begun to weave a net around her. She could see why Geoffrey had fallen in love with this woman's stunning beauty—but why had she not returned that feeling?

That question kept her hovering, and Mrs. Cheeverly's expectant stare drew her dragging steps forward until, with her feelings warring, she fell into step.

They did not see Lady Rushton or any of the others on the High Street, and Eleanor said at once that she could wait for them at The Crown, the inn where they had left the coach. She started again to take her leave. But Mrs. Cheeverly would not hear of it and shook her head as if she were a dowager matron of fifty.

"Wait on your own at an inn, where you might be accosted by anyone? No, it cannot do. I see now that our meeting is more than providence. You must please allow me to take tea with you and give you my company?"

The words seemed quite stern, but Mrs. Cheeverly's cheeks colored prettily, and Eleanor would feel an utter beast to say no when the woman was thinking of nothing but offering assistance. And so Eleanor found herself seated in the front parlor of The Crown, with tea before her and her bonnet and jacket set upon a chair beside her, and with her feelings still at war as to how she felt about Cynthia Cheeverly.

As the landlord's wife set out a tray of tea, cakes and biscuits, Mrs. Cheeverly spoke of inconsequential things. She asked about the steeplechase to be held in a few days, expressed her relief that her own husband showed no interest in any sport at all, but wished for good weather for Eleanor's sake.

Finally, the landlady bobbed a curtsy, asked if there would be anything else and when the ladies declined her offer, she left, saying she would inform them the instant that Lady Rushton and the others returned.

With the landlady gone, Mrs. Cheeverly turned to Eleanor and offered her shy smile again. "There, now we may be comfortable."

"Mrs. Cheeverly, I…"

"No, it must be Eleanor and Cynthia between us. I am determined on that. Please do tell me more of yourself. I understand that your family comes from the Lake District?"

The questions continued until Eleanor shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair set beside the table, and then it dawned on her that Cynthia Cheeverly was as curious about her as she was about Cynthia. She did not know what to do about such focused interest, and found only that it took a great deal of effort to deal with all these questions.

Buttering a slice of bread, Mrs. Cheeverly asked, "And how do you find Lord Staines? Is he a gentleman to your liking?"

Blushing hot, Eleanor set down her tea cup. "Mrs. Cheeverly—Cynthia, do you know I think we would both be a good deal more easy with each other if we simply spoke our thoughts and stopped all this wandering about what we each want to know."

Cynthia put down her bread and her stare dropped to her tea cup. She turned it once in its saucer before she looked up again. "You are right. My husband claims my meddlesome nature as my besetting sin, but it is only that I truly want to help others."
Eleanor blinked in surprise. "You think I need your help? For what?"

Looking down at her half-empty tea cup again, Cynthia said, "I shall be blunt and speak my thoughts as you have suggested. I...well, I have found Lord Staines to be a...a man of strong passions. And I know...that is, I worried that he might...that you would be...well, I am concerned how such passions must affect you."

Eleanor stared at the other woman during this stuttering speech. Cynthia had kept her eyes downcast and an embarrassed flush stained her cheeks. Her hands fidgeted with her tea cup, and for the first time in her life Eleanor felt as if she were the confident one in this situation. She did not—and it was probably not to her credit—feel the least bit flustered by this delicate speech. In fact, she was still struggling to sort out exactly what it was that Cynthia so obviously feared that Eleanor might be subjected to in this marriage.

It occurred to her that she had noticed that Lord Staines had a temper.

"Good God, he never struck you, did he?" Eleanor asked, her face cold at such impossibility.

Cynthia's stared jerked up. "Strike me? Really, Miss Glover—Eleanor—those are not the passions to which I refer."

"Well, what is it, then, that you seem to think he might do? Ravish me in the rose garden, or some such thing? For pity sake, ours is an arranged match. It's you he still loves."

She could have laughed at this suggestion that Lord Staines might be so overcome by his "passions" that he would throw himself on her. Except that laugh caught in her chest and tightened around her heart, making her words come with harsh bitterness.

"I beg your pardon," she muttered at once. "That is too much plain speaking."

Cynthia's pale, delicate hand fluttered in the air. "Oh, no. Not at all. If anything I should beg your pardon for having brought up this subject, but I...well, I ought to have realized that the situation would be different in an arranged marriage. Of course it must be."

Mrs. Cheeverly sounded relieved, and that kindled a sudden, deep irritation in Eleanor. She did not want this woman's pity.

"You mean that with an arranged marriage that sort of uncomfortable passion need not worry me," she said.

Seeming to take in only her words and none of the frustration behind them, Mrs. Cheeverly smiled. "Yes, exactly. Oh, I can see now that you will be comfortable with Geoff in a way which I never could have been."

Eleanor found herself staring at the beautiful woman next to her, more astonished than ever. "Is that all his love was to you—an uncomfortable passion?"

"Of course not. Love, when it is pure and noble, is the most exalted of states. It is a communion of spirit that transcends the mere physical side of our animal nature. It can make us into beings of serene joy." She frowned suddenly and the light in her eyes dimmed. "But, to my regret, I discovered one shameful day could never have had that with Geoff."

"Because of his...his passions?"

Ducking her head, Cynthia started turning her tea cup. "My father, God rest his soul, was in the army, and I can recall him coming home on leave when I was quite young. He was a large man, or he seemed so to me—all whiskers and gruff voice. He was like one of those fearsome giants from a fairy tale. And when he came home, he would grab me up, so that my face pressed into his wool jacket, which smelled of tobacco and mustiness and other things, and spin me around and squeeze me and I could not cry out for my face being muffled. I used to run and hide when I heard him.

"Geoff became like that to me. He...well, let us just say that his passions overcame the consideration he had shown me prior to that one day when his arms went around me...oh, it was just like being muffled up in my father's arms, only this time I could scream."

"And did you?" Eleanor asked, fascinated, her sympathies caught up with Cynthia. How awful to feel such panic, not in a crowd, but in a man's arms.

Mrs. Cheeverly nodded and started to say more, but a knock on the door interrupted. Lady Rushton and the others swept in, with Andrew Westerley's arms full of packages and Emma chattering questions about what they had bought and seen. Introductions had to be made and the moment for any more intimate conversation passed away. Mrs. Cheeverly put on what was either a mask of self-control—or such a placid face that Eleanor started to wonder if that was not her natural inclination for dealing with everything.

The talk flowed around her and Eleanor let herself fade into the background to deal with the thoughts swirling around her mind. A small part of her triumphed that this woman had never really loved Geoffrey, not the way he deserved to be loved with a woman's heart and body. Yet she also wanted to shake Cynthia for being such a goose as to choose comfort over passion.

Eleanor shuddered at the thought. But at least Cynthia had had the choice. Eleanor had denied herself even that by agreeing to a loveless match.

On the return trip to Westerley, her mind turned not to her own choices, however, but to Geoffrey's. And to what it must have done to him to have the woman he loved reject his embrace, his heart, his desire.

Was that something from which any man could ever recover?

* * *

"You did what!" the earl bellowed, sitting upright in his bed, his face red and the veins at his temple pounding.

Geoff had braced himself for an unpleasant interview, but he had seen no other choice than to blurt out the truth. Even from the confinement of his rooms, his father must hear about the steeplechase.

Taking an even tighter hold over his own shortening temper, Geoff tried to relax the knotting muscles in his lower back. It would serve no good if he got into a shouting match with his father over this damnable event.

"You heard me quite well, sir," he said, intentionally forcing himself to lounge with his arm across the mantle of the fireplace. "And I wish you would calm yourself about it."

"And I wish you would explain yourself! Who do you think you are, making promising with my land? I am not yet in my grave."

"You may look to be so soon enough if give yourself an apoplexy over this. I only did as you bade me. You wanted me to marry, and this is the price of it. But if you would just as soon I not wed, then I shall go and…"

"Come back here at once!"

Geoff had started to turn away, but now he paused.

Falling back against his pillows, the ear glared at his son, his blue eyes icy. "Giving me no choice in the matter, are you?"

"As much as I had."

"So, this little Glover girl is going to have you dancing to her tune?"

"Not at all. It was our agreement that she ought to get something out of this arranged match. This is what she wants."

The earl gave a harsh snort. "A title, your name, and wealth ain't enough for her?"
A smile lifted Geoff's mouth and his mood. "No, sir. They were not. And, to own the truth, I think the better of her that she values a good number of other things over wealth, my title and our name."

"Oh, so that's how it is? You agree with this nonsense of hers? What will you next take up to please her? Eating plants only, like some damn sheep?"

At this intended insult, Geoff's back tightened again, but he only said, "Sir, if the last countess could set a tradition of the hunt meeting here, I do not see why the next one cannot remake it. She hurts no one with this request."

"Except you. She makes you a damned laughing stock."

"If that is all it takes to do so, then it sounds a fate I deserve. Now, I bid you to rest yourself. And unless I hear from you that you do not wish me to marry, then I will assume this plan has your blessing."

With a short bow, Geoff strode from the room. He did not mind when his father battered at him, but it stung like a whip of nettles that the earl should so attack Eleanor. She had done nothing to deserve it. And if his father kept up this behavior, then he would have to settle her in London once they were wed. It would be ironic indeed if the event his father had so longed for—his son's marriage—served to be the wedge that drove father and son apart.

Lord, had there ever been such a Christmas?

But just now, he had a more immediate future to contrive. A hundred details awaited him. He had offered to ride over the property with Eleanor to select a suitable course, choosing the steeples or high landmarks that would be chased. Already, Bellows had written out the invitations and sent them around. Refreshments would be those traditional ones from the meet—orange biscuits, Shrewsbury cakes, cold meats, beer from the home farm brewery and Sherry from the cellars. Afterwards, at the end of the day would come the tenant's Christmas ball.

And the next day came his wedding.

Geoff's mouth dried and his hands went cold.

Just as well, he thought, dragging on his gloves and shouldering into his coat and focusing on anything other than his wedding. Just as well that he had too much to do and no time to think about the loveless future that came after that blessed event.

Taking up his hat, he strode for the door. At least he could get out of the house and away from his brothers's concerned stares, which had followed him about since he had told them of the steeplechase, and away from his father's recriminations. Devil take it, but this was proving as awkward as he had warned Eleanor it would be.

He found Eleanor waiting for him in the stables. Or, rather, not so much waiting as standing in a semicircle of grooms, with them staring intently at her chest.

Suddenly, that cut it. It was one thing to have his father attacking her character, but he would damn well not put up with servants leering at her as if she were some Covent Garden doxy. Utter fury swept into him. He strode into the stables determined to have done with this disrespect for her.

"What the devil is going on here?"

The sound of Geoffrey's low-voiced growl startled Eleanor, and she spun around to face the stable entrance, her heart thudding, her arms instinctively closing around the soft, white fur in her arms. Too weak to struggle, the rabbit burrowed its head under her arm, and she wished she had somewhere to hide as well.