by Lisa Berne
A hand slid up her leg, wresting Gwendolyn’s attention away from the wall behind her and to what Julian was doing. Here she was again, thinking about other things. Christopher had said, It’s about paying attention to the person you’re kissing. She obviously wasn’t succeeding.
Gwendolyn wondered, with a kind of distant curiosity, what would happen if she let the Earl do whatever he wanted, here on this uncomfortable wood floor. For all she knew he’d end up—what was the expression in those novels she and Diana used to gasp over?—yes, he’d end up having his way with her.
Was this what it was all about? Groping, and panting? Hands here and there, tongues darting in and out? Goodness, how grubby. Especially with all those people in the portraits. It felt like they were staring. Avidly.
Julian brought his groin up hard against her hip and thumped himself against it. Not only was it an odd, unpleasant sensation, it also made the back of her head drag to and fro on the floor.
Speaking of grubby, wasn’t “groin” a hideous word? It sounded like a cross between “groan” and “oily.”
She found herself thinking of Katherine’s oleaginous father Mr. Brooke, and the Countess’s remark about her late husband’s carnal appetites, and the State Bedchamber, and its blood-soaked bed, and suddenly she felt her gorge rising. For an uneasy minute or so she thought she might actually throw up all over Julian. All those cakes she’d eaten, given fresh purpose. It was such a strangely energizing thought that with it Gwendolyn felt her will springing back to life.
“Stop,” she said, and pushed at him with all her might.
He did, and slid away from her, and quickly Gwendolyn got to her feet.
Well, she thought, she’d just saved herself from a fate worse than death (another delightful phrase from those books—how excitedly she and Diana had whispered it out loud!). What to do now? If she were a proper heroine, she ought to wilt, or cry, or flee, or spout some exquisitely phrased recriminations that would have Julian on his knees again, hands clasped at his chest and begging for her forgiveness.
Oh, bother it all.
She wasn’t in the mood for histrionics.
Gwendolyn picked up her bonnet and the pins which had scattered about. There was a tall pier-glass next to an armoire and briskly she went to it. Her skirts weren’t badly crumpled, at least not in front, and she definitely wasn’t going to twist around to see what she might look like from the back. She formed her hair into a simple coil, sliding the pins in to secure it, and put her bonnet back on, firmly tying the ribbons underneath her chin. In the pier-glass’s reflection she saw Julian, behind her, tugging his waistcoat—his drab brown and ecru waistcoat—back into place.
If he said anything about the throes of passion, Gwendolyn thought, she would—she would—well, she didn’t know what she might do. Kick him? Throttle him?
Anything seemed possible.
She turned away from the mirror and he said:
“Are you angry with me still?”
“No,” she lied, and, simultaneously, both hated herself for lying and felt absurdly grateful she hadn’t vomited.
A look of relief came over his handsome face. “I’m so glad, my darling.”
So, he was glad and she was pretending not to be angry, and beyond that, there didn’t seem to be much else to talk about. She said, “I’m going back to the townhouse.”
“I’ll call for the barouche.”
“No, I’m going to walk.”
“I’d rather take you in the barouche.”
“You’d better hurry on over to Lady Hertford’s, or your mother will worry about you.”
In her voice there was a faint note of sarcasm she hadn’t quite been able to repress, but Julian nodded. “I daresay you’re right. I’ll have a footman go with you.”
“Fine.”
He unlocked the door and held it open for her with such courtesy that for a disconcerting instant she wanted to giggle. How grubby and how absurd. They walked along the hallway and down the stairs, side by side and as decorous as could be, just as if they hadn’t been lying on a cold wood floor a few minutes ago, with him thrusting himself at her and his hand sliding up her skirts.
In the large high-ceilinged entry-hall Julian told one of the footmen to escort her home. He said to her, “Thank you for coming to tea.”
“Thank you for having me.” Infelicitous words, she realized too late, and had to suppress another inappropriate giggle, conscious of an audience in the entry-hall—the impassive butler and several of his equally wooden footmen.
“When may I see you again?”
“Are you going to Lady Jersey’s evening-party tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you there, then.”
“Have you any other free time tomorrow?”
Gwendolyn thought about it. In the morning she had planned to read Marvels of the World and write some letters; after that, Lady Almira wanted to visit some shops, and she had offered to go with her; and then she was meeting Christopher later in the afternoon. She said, “I’m afraid not.”
“I’ll see you at Lady Jersey’s then. Shall I . . .”
“Shall you what?”
“Shall I discuss that—ah—matter with m-my mother?”
“Whatever you like,” Gwendolyn said, surprised to notice that she didn’t care if the wedding was to be in London, in Whitehaven, or on the moon (where they could all eat cheese, and save the trouble of menu-planning). “Goodbye.”
In ten minutes she was back at the townhouse. It had begun to drizzle again, but she had declined the footman’s offer to shield her with the umbrella he carried. At the top of the steps she thanked him and gave him a douceur, then thanked the Egremont footman who held open the front door to her.
Tyndale was in the entry-hall, sorting through some correspondence, and she said:
“Is Sam all right, Tyndale? He looked a little unwell earlier in the afternoon.”
Tyndale set aside the letters and circulars on a salver and advanced to meet her. “A trifling cold, Miss Gwendolyn, that’s all. Still, I’ve sent him off to bed so that he can rest.”
Gwendolyn nodded. “I think that’s a very wise idea. Where is everyone?”
“I believe the family’s still at tea, miss. However—”
He broke off and Gwendolyn said, “What is it?”
The slightest flicker of unease passed across his face. “I beg your pardon, Miss Gwendolyn, I’m sure it’s none of my concern.”
“Oh, Tyndale, are they fighting again?”
He hesitated. Quickly Gwendolyn went on, “I shan’t put you on the spot, Tyndale, do forgive me. I’ll go up directly.” Shaking out her damp skirts, she went up the stairs and onto the landing, where she could hear through the closed door of the drawing-room Helen’s voice, very loud, and then Owen’s.
Good heavens, she thought, now what?
The door opened and Francis emerged. He shut the door behind him and came toward her, looking untroubled and, in fact, rather happy.
“Hullo, Gwennie.”
“Hullo, Francis. What’s going on? What are Owen and Helen fighting about?”
“It appears to be something I said.”
“Really? How so?”
“It’s because I told Cousin Judith that I’m going back to Oxford. I’ve got more papers to write, and the colloquium to help plan, and—well, I didn’t say this to her, but I find I’m dreadfully bored here. It’s splendid to see you and Percy, of course, but this Society thing isn’t my cup of tea.” He looked a little worriedly at her. “You’re not offended, Gwennie, are you?”
She smiled up at him. “No, of course not, Francis. I’ll miss you, but I completely understand.”
His brow cleared. “I hoped you would.”
“How did Cousin Judith take the news?”
“She couldn’t have been nicer about it.”
Gwendolyn nodded. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? But why are Owen and Helen fighting?”
“
Because now Owen’s going too. He asked Cousin Judith for her permission, which she gave at once, saying she was tired of all the fighting, and then Helen simply exploded—blaming Owen for my going. Entirely illogical. Rather an odd girl, isn’t she? Well, I’m off to pack. Are you going in?”
“No. I want a bath before dinner. Hopefully Helen will have calmed down by then.”
They went upstairs together, and met again a few hours later for dinner, which proved to be a highly uncomfortable experience, as Helen was openly upset, Owen uproariously cheerful, Lady Almira melancholy, Francis wrapped in beatific silence, and even the usually unflappable Duchess was a trifle subdued. The upside for Gwendolyn, who was herself in a deeply pensive mood, was that nobody expected her to try and make conversation. Still, she was glad when she could go back to her bedchamber, where Lizzie helped her out of her dress and into a nightgown. She was just about to plait Gwendolyn’s hair when she quickly stepped aside to give a loud sneeze.
“Bless you, Lizzie! I hope you’re not getting Sam’s cold.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, miss, thank you.”
“Well, you do look a little tired, Lizzie. I’ll do my hair. Why don’t you go on to bed?”
“If you’re sure, miss?”
“Absolutely. Goodnight, Lizzie, and thank you.”
When Lizzie was gone, Gwendolyn settled herself in bed with her sketchbook and opened it to a blank page. She stared at it for a while, her pencil held poised over the paper. Sometimes it was hard to know where to begin. She thought about the day—about the afternoon. By no stretch of the imagination could it be said that tea had gone well. She found herself wondering, idly, how long it had taken the Earl to get to Lady Hertford’s. She was said to be the Prince Regent’s mistress. Had Julian, or his mother, told Lady Hertford all about the upcoming wedding at St. George’s, and invited her? Maybe, Gwendolyn thought sardonically, they could have the Hertfords seated next to the Prince Regent. And if Lord Hertford had a mistress, she could sit with them, too.
What a merry little group it would be. With all their careless, sophisticated infidelities.
Gwendolyn remembered the Countess saying, I’ll do everything in my power to make this not just the wedding of the year, my dear ones, but the wedding of the century.
So she sketched a strange, knobbly sort of surface. The moon. She drew a large wedge of cheese, and gave it legs, arms, hands, feet. Then a face. The man on the moon. Facing him she drew, in a long column of human figures, the Earl, Rupert, and eight women who all looked alike. The Westenbury sisters. All very pretty, all rather dolorous. And middle-aged. Then she drew the Countess, wrapped in fluffy furs and a great enveloping turban—the beautiful, smiling snow queen.
She paused to look at her tableau.
Then she gave Rupert a big rectangular block of a hat, made of cheese. Herve cheese, to be specific, the nastiest-smelling cheese in all the world. She drew some wavy lines emanating from the Herve hat to show the terrible smell.
Also, she gave the man on the moon a clergyman’s surplice and a little flapping stock around what might have been a neck. He was going to perform the marriage service.
The wedding of the century.
Next she drew an enormous round wedding cake, placed on a table next to the moon-minister. It was made of Herve cheese too, and she gave it very long wavy lines to indicate that it smelled just as bad as Rupert’s hat.
Gwendolyn looked again at her drawing.
Something was missing.
But what?
She drew a very small round object in a corner of the paper. It was the earth, impossibly distant. How would one get back to it, she wondered.
Well, a flying horse would do. She drew a handsome stallion with great powerful wings. Then she gave it a horn growing out of its forehead. A unicorn. Why not?
She looked once more at the drawing.
It felt as if she was finished with it.
Yet at the same time, she still had a nagging feeling that it was missing something.
It took her a long time to figure out what it was.
And once she had, with lightning quickness she closed her sketchbook and shoved it back into its drawer.
Chapter 12
Christopher sat on his horse at the top of Rotten Row and looked around for Gwendolyn. The wide graveled path was crowded with other riders and carriages too, all very fashionable and stylish. Yesterday’s rain had cleared away and now, in late afternoon, sunlight glimmered through the trees, their green leaves stirring gently in a soft, mild breeze.
It was pleasant and cheerful, but he was aware that within him was—conversely—painful tension and unease.
He caught a flash of gold and there was Gwendolyn, coming toward him on her neat bay, a groom following discreetly behind her. She was wearing the same simply cut blue riding habit which she’d had on the day they’d gone to Richmond Park, and the same close-fitting blue hat with her bright golden hair showing beneath.
His breath hitched in his throat, just a little, with the knowledge that lay heavy in his heart.
She rode close and he saw, now, that she was pale. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her jaw was set tight. Altogether a very different look from the easy, glowing radiance with which she had greeted him that first evening at the Egremont townhouse. If it was because of that damned Earl, or his damned brother, or that mother of theirs—
Christopher let the anger, the contempt, the violence of his emotions flow through him and away. Remaining was his concern, and his other feelings—barely articulated, not to be explored, or, worse, encouraged—for Gwendolyn. Nonetheless, shining like a beacon on a dark night. He said:
“Ciao, bella. Come va?”
“I’m glad to see you, Christopher.”
Her smile, he thought, was a tired one. He nudged his horse around, so that they were facing in the same direction. “Shall we?”
“Yes.”
They began walking their horses side by side. Gwendolyn nodded to several people hailing her from open carriages but didn’t stop to engage in conversation. She said, “Francis and Owen are gone.”
“Back to Oxford?”
“Yes, they left this morning. They both wanted me to send you their warmest regards.”
“That’s kind. Is the Duchess upset? Or relieved?”
“A little of both, I’d say, but probably more relieved. Helen smashed a teacup at breakfast, then cried so hard she had a nosebleed, and when Lady Almira tried to comfort her, she pushed at her so roughly that she fell over.”
“Good God. Was Lady Almira injured?”
“Fortunately, no—although it was very painful to hear her claiming it was all her fault for taking a tumble. Owen gave Helen such a look, and then he went to help Lady Almira back to her seat, which made me so glad to see how tender he could be.”
Christopher nodded. “And Lady Helen? The nosebleed resolved itself?” He saw that Gwendolyn was looking at him closely, as if assessing his reaction. It was the same look she’d had that night at Vauxhall when she had asked, Do you want to dance with Helen?
He thought to himself, What the hell?
“Yes, it did resolve quite quickly,” Gwendolyn said. “But Cousin Judith sent for the doctor, to check on both Helen and Lady Almira, and also on a handful of the servants who’ve come down with bad colds.”
“It does seem to be making the rounds. Are you all right, signorina?”
“Oh yes, I’m perfectly well, Christopher.”
He didn’t fully believe her, but he only nodded again. She added:
“And you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you? Truly?”
Now he was looking closely at her. “What do you mean, Gwennie?”
“I don’t know precisely. You seem—you seem troubled.”
He had hoped he was concealing it, but Gwendolyn seemed attuned to his moods, able to sense when things weren’t right with him. A desire to tell her—tell her what was in h
is head and in his heart—rose up, powerful and urgent. But he resisted it. Not for him to indulge in the brief, selfish pleasure of unburdening himself. Her happiness was all that mattered. And so he said:
“I’m all right. Care for a canter? To blow away the cobwebs?”
Her smile was a little brighter. “I would.”
They urged their horses along and for some twenty minutes they swiftly wove their way among the other riders and carriages. It felt good, Christopher thought. Movement—speed—bodies in easy harmony with their horses. Minds slowing, relaxing. He could have gone on like this for much longer—maybe forever—but as they were approaching a section of the path next to which stood a wide, open grove where several riders clustered, Gwendolyn said:
“We must stop. There’s Julian and Rupert, and Monsieur de Montmorency.”
They pulled up their horses, waiting until the others, coming from the opposite direction, reached them. Greetings were exchanged, and commonplace small-talk ensued. Christopher saw that the Earl was his usual serene, affable self. He wondered, and not for the first time, how tea had gone yesterday.
“What a delightful surprise,” said the Earl, and added, looking smilingly at Gwendolyn, “I didn’t think to see you till this evening.”
“Yes, what a surprise,” Gwendolyn said. “I trust you had a pleasant visit with Lady Hertford?”
“To be sure we did.”
“Ha,” said Rupert. “If you like being shown acres of porcelain, Egyptian furniture, and silver plate.”
“The Hertfords,” the Earl said to his brother, a faint note of reproof in his voice, “are widely acknowledged as connoisseurs of the beaux arts.”
“Yes, but why must they drag one about? We’ve got plenty of that stuff ourselves. And the way Lady Hertford looks at you, as if expecting a comment upon each and every item. Good gad! When you’ve seen one Roman platter, you’ve seen ’em all.”
“It’s said to be the finest private collection of Roman dinnerware anywhere in Europe,” the Earl responded, and Rupert grimaced rudely at him.
“I didn’t come to London to look at damned plates.”
“Where, one wonders, are the other members of your party?” said Étienne de Montmorency to Gwendolyn. “You seem, d’habitude, to travel about dans un groupe.”
