by Eloisa James
“I shall recite your speeches to you each afternoon, nay, evening as well. Within a month or so, you’ll come to breathe Shakespeare like the very air!” she promised him.
To Tess’s mind there was a very palpable air of dislike about the way Maitland looked down at his future wife, but at that moment there was a twang of tuning instruments from the far end of the room.
“We couldn’t possibly dance before supper,” Lady Clarice stated, waving a fan before her face.
“Of course we can!” Lady Griselda said gaily. “You mustn’t start feeling old, Lady Clarice darling. Before you know it, you’d be old!”
Lady Clarice bared her teeth in what might have passed for a smile amongst a family of jackals.
Rafe came over to Tess clutching a glass of brandy. “Why is your sister Imogen acting in this fashion?” he hissed at her.
“Why, what do you refer to?” Tess asked, widening her eyes.
“You know precisely what I’m talking about,” he said. On the side of the room Imogen began waving her hand, and saying, “Rafe! Oooooh, Rafe!”
“I see nothing amiss with my sister’s deportment,” Tess observed, resisting a strong impulse to laugh.
Rafe cast a haunted look over his shoulder. “Call her off, Tess.”
“I can’t,” Tess said, casting prudence to the winds. He was their guardian, after all. He must do his part in protecting Imogen from Maitland.
“Why not?” Rafe snapped, draining his glass.
“I wish her to avoid Maitland,” Tess said in a low voice.
“Does that mean she has to haunt me? I feel as if I’m a nice stuffed duck, and she’s about to take out a fork.”
“Think of it as part of your guardian duties,” Tess advised. And, when Rafe opened his mouth to argue, she said, “She must save face in front of Maitland, Rafe!”
He stopped, mouth open. “Ah.”
“Lady Clarice is not happy with my sister’s feelings toward her son,” Tess said, in a voice so low even she could hardly hear it.
“Ah.”
Rafe was not the slowest gentleman whom she had ever met, but he was definitely vying for a place amongst the imperceptive. He made a kind of snorting sound and took himself off, she hoped in Imogen’s direction.
There weren’t enough gentlemen for all to engage in dancing, so Tess found herself watching first a Rufty Tufty for two couples, and then a waltz. Annabel’s bosom was about to fall from the fragile constraint of Tess’s dress. And for all Annabel had announced a disinclination to marry Mr. Felton, she was smiling up at him in a way that suggested she might change her mind.
“We shall dance again after supper,” Lady Griselda called to Tess, “and you shall join us, darling. By then, my brother may have returned from London!” She gave her such a meaningful smile that Tess suddenly understood why Mayne was absent.
He had gone to London to fetch a ring. Probably a ring from his family. A symbol of their future marriage, of his possession, of their—affection for each other.
The music played on, but Tess walked around the edge of the room and slipped out the door.
She walked down the corridor, wishing nothing more than to return to their simple life in Scotland where there wasn’t any silk to turn her favorite sister into a shimmering siren capable of drawing the attention of any man for miles around, let alone Mr. Felton from London. Back to her father’s house, where there weren’t any polished marble or polished rosewood or polished smiles. Tears pricked her eyes. There was a sudden swell of music as the door to the sitting room behind her opened.
Tess turned sharply, opened a door to her right, and slipped in. It was a small room that must have been used as a music room at some point. There was a harp standing in the corner and a large chair with a bass viol leaning against it. A tiny harpsichord was jammed against one wall. The far end of the room was a recessed window, framed in drapes of scarlet velvet.
Tess walked over to the window seat tucked into the alcove and looked down. The stones in the courtyard were polished with rain, making them look sleek and hazy in the twilight. She swallowed hard. What had she to cry about? She was about to marry a man who professed fascination with her face and admiration for her character. And that—she reminded herself—was more than enough as a foundation for marriage. Never mind the fact that sometimes all his flowery compliments made Mayne sound like an empty-headed fool—
Could she have even thought of that word in terms of her future husband?
Tess shook her head. She had to remember how lucky she was. Her sisters were quite likely to make brilliant marriages; if Annabel married the richest man in all England, no one could be more happy than she. Right?
There was a sudden noise at the door, and Tess was horrified to find that tears were snaking down her cheeks. She pulled the velvet curtains closed, sheltering her window seat from the room, hoping that the intruder would simply peek into the room and leave.
The door opened and then closed again. Footsteps walked across the room. The note from one plucked harp string trembled on the air. She swallowed and scrubbed away another tear. The room was papered in exuberant apple trees. She tried to breathe silently, leaned her head against the paper orchard and told herself that she would be perfectly happy to stay here all evening. It was irritating to watch Annabel seduce Mr. Felton. Irritating, that’s all.
Then the curtain was plucked aside and she jumped to her feet.
Of course, she knew who it was. She’d known from the moment he entered the room, even if she was pretending to herself that she didn’t know.
His eyes were very dark, looking down into hers. “Hello.”
Tess said nothing.
“I appear to be following you wherever you go.”
Tess suddenly felt as if her whole body were alive, the blood thrumming through her body with reckless haste, making her head feel slightly dizzy. She still said nothing, watching the way that his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
“I suppose you think that I’ll kiss you again,” he said.
Speak, Tess thought to herself. “You have shown a marked propensity for that particular activity, Mr. Felton,” she observed.
“True,” he muttered. He didn’t look quite so impervious now, so expressionless. There was something puzzled in his eyes.
He moved toward her, silently, like a cat. Tess pressed back against the wall and concentrated on breathing. His mouth—his body—was very close to hers. But she refused to look away.
“I won’t kiss you again, Tess,” he said to her. “You belong to someone else. I wouldn’t want it to become a habit.”
Disappointment coursed to the tips of her fingertips. “Habits can be disagreeable,” she agreed, dropping her eyes.
“After all, you have agreed to marry another,” he prompted, watching her sooty lashes against her cheek.
There was a sudden noise at the door. He moved even closer to her, until the velvet curtain at his shoulder swung free, and they were both hidden in the curtained alcove. Obviously, protection of Tess’s reputation demanded that he stand so close to her that no one knew they were unchaperoned.
A woman began speaking in rushed, emphatic tones on the other side of the curtain.
The room was as busy as the Royal Exchange: not that Lucius cared. It was quite dusky as the sky darkened through the window, but he could see the cream of Tess’s cheek, curving down to her small chin. The shadow of her eyelashes. The way she seemed to disappear into stillness, holding herself quiet with the concentration of a cat.
He bent over her deliberately and put his mouth to her ear. “Of course,” he said, under the babble of the voice behind him, “you could kiss me.”
Tess’s mouth curved into a reluctant smile. She was beginning to listen to the conversation taking place outside the curtain.
A man—not any man, but Draven Maitland—was talking now. “Do you mind telling me precisely why you dragged me into this room, Miss Pythian-Adams? My mother wouldn’t ap
prove.”
“I must speak to you. As I just explained to you, Lord Maitland.”
There was a heavy sigh.
“I am proposing,” Miss Pythian-Adams said painstakingly, “that you inform your mama that we are not suited.”
“But I don’t think we are unsuited,” Maitland said, sounding profoundly uninterested. “I’m sure we’ll rub along fine together. You have your—your Shakespeare and the like, and I have my pursuits. There’s no doubt I would prefer a little less poetry, especially during meals. It puts me off my beef, but I don’t mind it in other places.”
“We will not be happy together. I shall not be happy.”
There was a silence while Maitland digested her statement. “If you feel that way, you’d better call it off,” he said, without a shadow of remorse in his voice.
“I can’t,” she snapped. “You know as well as I do that your mother is holding the papers to my father’s estate.”
“As far as that goes, my mother has made it quite clear that she’ll cut off the funding to my stables if I throw you over. So I’m afraid, m’dear, that we’re destined for the altar.”
“But Lord Maitland—”
“There’s no point in further discussing it,” he said, interrupting her without ceremony. “I’ve no particular aversion to marrying you—told my mama so when she picked you out. And you agreed to do the pretty as well. So we might as well go through with it, because things will be unpleasant if we don’t.”
“Haven’t you any sensibility?” she gasped.
“None,” he said without hesitation.
“You would be a great deal happier with Imogen Essex. She shares your interest in horses. And more importantly—she loves you!”
“I’ve noticed that.” A thread of pride crept into Maitland’s tone. “But she’ll have to find someone else.”
“Won’t you mind dreadfully?”
Another silence, then: “Not particularly.” Tess wished Imogen were in the room. There was something profoundly convincing about Lord Maitland’s answer. He truly wouldn’t mind if Imogen married another man.
“Miss Imogen has a horse for a dowry,” Miss Pythian-Adams noted, trying another avenue. “I gather the animal in question is quite famous. I’m sure he would be a notable addition to your stables.”
“Enough,” Lord Maitland said. “My mama has her heart set on my marrying you. And while Imogen is beautiful enough, she’d make an uncomfortable wife. I can only take that sort of emotion in very short doses. I expect you and I will suit each other well enough. Imogen would expect an entirely different level of devotion on my part.”
Lucius’s fingers touched Tess’s lips just as she was about to explode from the recessed window.
But Miss Pythian-Adams had not given up. “I’m amazed you aren’t ashamed to be so tied to your mother’s apron strings,” she said, her voice generously lashing on scorn. “And what pleasure I have to look forward to in my married life! Why, I always meant to marry a milksop man, driven hither and thither by his mama’s hold on the purse strings. I assure you, it has long been my deepest desire!”
“Well, if you ain’t a tallow-faced witch,” Maitland observed, sounding (for the first time) a bit nettled.
“Precisely,” Miss Pythian-Adams returned coldly. “I expect it will do my temper no end of good to be married to a man as shallow and easily driven as yourself. After all, the cure for any shrew is to be given her way at all times. Once I control the household, you shall have to curb your gambling. I am quite certain that your mother will give me control of the household funds. She is so fond of me.”
Although Miss Pythian-Adams paused, Maitland said nothing.
“Your poor, dear mother,” she continued, “What a remarkable situation it is, to find a dowager so entirely in control of the estate. Yet one can hardly disagree with your father’s judgment in that regard. And your mother undoubtedly agrees: she seems to have a particularly unambiguous doubt in your ability to keep two guineas in the same pocket without putting one out on a bet.”
“You’re hiding your real character under all that cultural twaddle. You’ve tricked my mother!” Maitland sounded utterly stunned. Mr. Felton’s eyes were gleaming with laughter.
“You’ve—you’ve tricked me!” Maitland gulped.
“Since I have the choice of being shrewish versus cultured, would you like to bet on which of my characteristics rule once we are married?” There was the sound of a door being pulled open and a rapid exit.
Lucius’s mouth was at Tess’s ear. “Do you think they both left?” he breathed.
His hand was on her back. It felt warm, even through her gown, almost scorching. It was most distracting to feel a shuddering wish that he would pull her even closer.
“Hush!” Sure enough, a moment later they heard the scrape of a boot, and then the protesting squeal of a harp string being snapped, leaving a screeching little echo in the air. The door opened again, and then slammed shut.
Lucius’s hand dropped from her back. “The auspices for that particular match are not altogether blissful,” he said. He had made no attempt to move away from her, or to open the velvet curtain. “Miss Pythian-Adams appears to believe that Lord Maitland never progressed intellectually after age eleven.”
“One would be foolish not to agree with her,” Tess said. “If only I were certain that Maitland wouldn’t turn to my little sister in despair, I would celebrate her effort to break free.”
“Dear me,” Lucius said. “An unexpectedly bloodthirsty vein emerges in the placid Miss Essex.”
“I am not placid,” Tess protested.
“Oh yes, you are,” he said, sounding amused. “Always watching and thinking about others, aren’t you. Observing.”
“That cannot be construed as a complimentary description of my behavior,” Tess said.
“No, no.” His finger ran slowly down her cheek. “I merely noted that you are, by nature, an observer. Watching it all go by rather than rushing into the fray yourself.”
Tess frowned. “You seem to be offering me an oblique insult,” she observed, reaching toward the curtain. “I shall certainly—”
But his hand stopped hers before she could pull back the velvet. And suddenly he had both her hands, pulling her palms to his mouth.
Instantly her heart began to thunder again. “Am I wrong then?” he asked, watching her intently.
“Of course you are,” Tess said. But she had lost track of the argument.
“Do you not simply accept what happens to you: my kisses, Mayne’s proposal of marriage…”
“And what else can I do?” Tess said, staring up at him. She didn’t even try to take her hands away. “You kiss me for some sort of diversion that I don’t quite understand. But you show no real wish to marry me. The Earl of Mayne does wish to marry me—”
“Also due to some desire that you don’t quite understand?” Lucius murmured, kissing each palm in turn.
“Perhaps,” she managed. “As the eldest, it is my duty to marry so that my sisters can have their seasons. I see my actions as arising not from lethargy, but from common sense. You seem to be suggesting actions that would arise from a disproportionate romanticism. That, sir, is not in my nature.” And this time, when she pulled away her hands, he let them go. They tingled from his kisses. She left the alcove and skirted the harp, its broken string trailing to the ground.
She could feel his gaze burning into her back, so she turned, on the very edge of opening the door. “I don’t know what sort of actions you expect from me!” she said with exasperation. “Are you implying that I should have run wailing to Rafe because you have occasionally kissed me in a hurly-burly fashion? I am not a child, sir! Or are you thinking that I should have accepted your oh-so-reluctant proposal of marriage? Would that somehow count as less lethargic than accepting the earl?”
“Only if you wanted to marry me,” he said.
She ignored that question. “Your proposal was reluctantly given.”
She nodded and turned to go. “Precisely. He genuinely wishes to marry me. Perhaps you overestimate how much command a lady has over her future, Mr. Felton. As I see it, the best I can do is observe who is authentic in his attentions, and choose that man.”
She left Lucius staring at the door, a faint smile playing around his mouth.
For all Tess spent her life observing, she was being damned unobservant at the moment.
Chapter
18
If there was one thing in the world that Imogen loved better than Draven Maitland, it was her own horse, Posy. For a time, Posy had been Papa’s favorite. Her ears had perked back and forth as she listened to the stream of affection coming from his lips, telling her that she had beautiful legs and the withers of a winner. But Papa quickly grew disillusioned with Posy. She liked to canter, not gallop, especially during races. In short, she was lazy.
“She doesn’t want it,” Papa had said in disgust one day. And after that he walked past Posy’s stall with just an absentminded pat on the nose, never noticing the way her dark glossy eyes grew sad to see him whisper and chuckle to Balladino, whom he had begun grooming to make their fortunes.
Imogen waited until Balladino won his first race (that was before the poor horse collided head-on with another horse during training and strained a fetlock). When Papa was in the glow of the winner’s circle, she asked if she might have Posy for her very own, and because the dibs were in tune that particular day, he said yes. It took only a few weeks for Posy to start whickering for Imogen, rather than for her father. Imogen never visited the stables without bringing her a treat and staying to rub her nose.
Thoroughbreds could be mean. Imogen had seen her papa’s prize horse, Patchem, watching, watching, watching. He knew she was afraid of him. He would wait until she wasn’t expecting it and chomp on her hair, or catch her coat in his yellow teeth. Posy would never think of such a thing. She had a whiskery nose, and she loved to put her chin on Imogen’s shoulder and huff into her hair and snuffle a bit while Imogen leaned against her and smelled her horsy smell.
