by Valerie King
He did not allow her to get one word further, but caught her up in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.
She resisted and drew back, her hands planted firmly on his chest. “Sir Roger,” she whispered. “You . . . you said you would behave properly.”
“Is it not proper to kiss one’s betrothed?”
She gasped. “You are the most incorrigible man,” she said, yet she did not struggle from his arms as he had expected her to.
“You smiled at me tonight,” he said, holding her fast, but respecting her wishes. “You smiled at me, and then I remembered why I had offered for you a month past.”
She frowned slightly. “Not just because you wished to enter our society?”
“I would never offer for a lady for such a reason. Do you think me addled?”
“I do not understand. You cannot have offered for me because of my smiles.”
“I can think of no better reason.”
“Character, sense, fortune?” she offered, staring at him as though he had gone mad.
At that, he gathered her a little more closely to him. “I far prefer my reason, particularly since your smiles are all loveliness.”
“That is no reason to offer for anyone,” she chided, but her tone had grown very soft.
“Will you allow another kiss, Madeline?”
“I suppose it is my duty,” she whispered.
He could not help but smile. “Yes, it is most definitely your duty.” He did not ask again, but kissed her gently for a very long time, until he felt her arms relax and drift away from their protective place on his chest. For the moment, he forgot all the unkind things she had ever said to him and reveled in how wonderful she was to kiss. There was a promise of sweetness in her embrace that he knew he would want to taste forever.
~ ~ ~
Madeline felt herself leaning rather scandalously into Sir Roger. This time, her arm snaked its way about his neck and the former quite tender kiss became something new, something bold and demanding. She did not quite understand what was happening, but a moment later, her knees simply failed her. Were it not for his strong hold on her, she would have fallen into the parsley
“Oh, I am sorry. I do not know what happened to me.”
He was chuckling. “I could hazard a guess.”
“We should return to the party.”
“No, we should never return. My home is but a few miles distant—four, I think. I could carry you there in my arms, and keep you forever in one of the towers.”
She did not know what to make of him, nor did she understand why such ridiculous words were acting upon her stomach in just such a manner as to make her feel quite deliciously nauseated. It was most astonishing. But even more inexplicable still was the sudden impulse she had to say yes, she would go with him. Really it was quite remarkable.
“You could not carry me four miles,” she countered, pressing gently against his arms and forcing him to relinquish his hold on her.
He allowed her to withdraw from him, but continued to stand very close to her and whispered in her ear, “I could—and I would, if you would but say the word.” A spate of gooseflesh traveled at lightning speed down her neck and arm. She drew in her breath. How was it possible that even though he was no longer holding her in his arms, she still felt as enthralled as ever?
“You are being nonsensical,” she whispered, wishing suddenly that she could remain in Mrs. Crawley’s herb garden for another five minutes—or five days, even.
He brushed a kiss against her cheek. “I am being perfectly rational.”
She giggled. She never giggled. She felt young, younger than she had felt in many, many years—eleven, to be precise. Certain memories rose up of a more innocent time in her life and how she had often felt just this way, as though her feet had wings and when she walked it was as though she was running, and when she ran it was as though she was flying. That was before, when her mother was alive and as the eldest she was the first to be permitted into her mother’s world. What a lovely adventure it had been, but only for the briefest of times.
A penetrating sadness began to work in her. Tears started to her eyes.
“What is it? How have I offended you, my dear? I would not have done so for the world just now. Only tell me what is wrong?”
She stared at him, feeling as though she was looking at a specter and not the man to whom she was betrothed, if secretly. Her gaze fell to his kilt, and she took a step backward. What was it her mother used to say? ‘Proper attire reflects character, taste, and general breeding.’ What did a kilt say of Sir Roger?
“We should return within,” she murmured turning away from him, but he caught her arm, preventing her.
“Not until you tell me what is amiss.”
“I was remembering my mother,” she said, lifting her chin. “She died a very long time ago, but there are moments when she returns to me as if her death occurred but yesterday. Can you understand?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe I do,” he was frowning.
“May I return now?”
“Of course.”
The short journey to the terrace and to the drawing room occurred in silence. Madeline forced a smile to her lips and as soon as she was able, she disengaged herself from Sir Roger. She did not know how it had come about that kissing him had led her to become engulfed in feelings of grief over her mother, but so it had. Such sentiments hardly belonged at a soiree, however, so she strove to quickly bury her feelings. She led Sir Roger to Squire Crawley, and within a few minutes the Scotsman was telling his host about the nature of his improvements at Pelworthy. “We are currently rebuilding the south curtain wall with Sussex flint work to match the original. My architect believes the stone to be of eleventh-century work. The barbican is in excellent condition . . .”
She moved away and approached a nearby group, begging to know if anyone would care to join her in a round of whist. Within a few minutes, with Evan Hambledon as her partner, she was happily employed arranging her thirteen cards.
She passed an hour winning and losing trumps, but in the end, she and her partner won enough trumps to have given her a gentle glow of triumph.
Afterward, she rose to her feet, feeling that another cup of punch was in order, when Harris Rockingham approached her. “I will call him out, if you like,” he said in an urgent undertone, drawing her aside.
Madeline felt her cheeks begin to flame instantly. Had Harris seen her kissing Sir Roger in the herb garden? “Why . . . why ever would you wish to do that?” she stammered.
Harris rolled his eyes. “Because of his wearing of the kilt, of course. I was never more astonished at the man’s effrontery than tonight. My eyes bulged in my head. How could he have insulted our society as he did? It is indeed beyond bearing, and I will call him out for you, if that is your desire.” There was something so childish in his passionate demeanor, in the manner in which he held his hand to an imaginary sword hilt and in the way his brown eyes flashed darkly, that she nearly lost her countenance.
“I beg you will not,” she responded quietly but firmly. “He should not have done so, but beyond causing his hostess to faint, it seems to me he has been received well enough.”
“Is that what you think? I fear you are mistaken. There are several of us quite willing to put an end to him.”
She started. “What? You wish to slay him so that he might not go about in Chilchester society?”
“Good God, no. I only meant to put an end to his mushroom ways,” he then waved at John Calvert and Captain Bladen, who both joined them immediately. “I was just telling Madeline that not everyone present is enamored of Sir Roger and that several of us are willing to thwart his intentions of forcing his presence in our midst.”
“Are you forgetting that I insured his invitation tonight?” she asked.
John Calvert, his expression severe, said, “I wish that I might be able to forget it. I, we, simply do not understand what truly prompted you to see that he was invited.”<
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Madeline felt ill of a sudden. She could hardly tell them the truth, and yet in this moment she was sorely tempted, since she could see that though she had already started down this path, the three gentlemen standing before her were prepared if need be to pull her back into her former, more decorous, secure existence—only would any of them be able to rescue the Pipers from their present misfortune?
Captain Bladen was reputed to have inherited a tidy sum from his uncle, which was invested in the funds, so it was possible that he would have the resources to help her, but she did not know the extent of his wealth. John Calvert was remarkably well shod, but she knew his parsimonious disposition and she could not imagine his professed love for her exceeding his desire to keep his pocketbook flush. As for Harris, he would enjoy a very handsome income indeed once he inherited Dallings Hall. But since his parent was a robust gentleman of fifty years whose own father had not paid his debt to nature until he was five and eighty, it seemed unlikely that he would be of the least use in righting her family fortunes.
As much as she was tempted to join her swains in their protests and in their wishes to keep Chilchester society as happily insular as it was before, she still felt her best course was to continue with her secret betrothal to Sir Roger. He was, after all, conducting himself admirably this evening, except perhaps for having stolen a kiss from her. But even in that, she could not fault him wholly, since they were engaged—or almost so.
“I am not certain how to answer you, Mr. Calvert, except to reiterate my reasons of Thursday night. Sir Roger is refurbishing Pelworthy Castle and has already planned a Christmas ball to which one of the most august personages in all of England has been invited. I simply do not see how we can continue ignoring what appears to be his permanent presence in our valley. I have also been given to understand that he is quite well connected in London.” Another lie. Oh, dear. She seemed to have grown a penchant for telling whiskers almost from the moment she agreed to Sir Roger’s terms for their betrothal.
“What connections?” Captain Bladen asked, his brow furrowed sharply.
“I do not know,” she responded. “It was merely something I heard from Lord Anthony I believe.”
“That simpleton?” Harris said.
Madeline bit her lip, for she rather thought that was the pot calling the kettle black. “Yes, Harris, but you must remember that though he is not quick witted, he has known Sir Roger for a great many years and must by his length of association be acquainted with any number of facets of his friend’s life. Until it is proved otherwise, I can only believe what I have been told.” She paused, feeling yet again a certain degree of horror that she was beginning to tell her whiskers with such ease. “There is no reason why Lord Anthony would prevaricate, I’m sure. So you see, I feel under some obligation as my father’s eldest daughter and as the nearest neighbor to Sir Roger to welcome him into our society, or at least to attempt to do so. Would any of you truly ask me to conduct myself differently under these circumstances?”
All three gentlemen scowled, glared, and mumbled their complaints, turning as one to grimace at Sir Roger. Madeline caught his eye more than once and saw that he was quite amused with her predicament. Sir Roger already knew of her most loyal court.
“I don’t give a fig for how much money he’s thrown at the castle, I think he looks ridiculous in that kilt.” Harris lifted his nose.
“Aye, aye,” the gentlemen intoned.
Madeline sighed heavily and suddenly wished the evening might end so that she could return to her home and retire to the serenity and quiet of her bedchamber. She glanced at Sir Roger again, her gaze sweeping once more over his coat, sash, kilt, and stockings. Her mother’s words floated through her head anew, “Proper attire reflects character, taste, and general breeding.” Why could Sir Roger have not honored her request that he leave off wearing his kilt altogether?
When Mary Crawley approached their group and begged the gentlemen to play at commerce with her and her mother, Madeline moved to join Cressida Crawley, who was talking in an animated fashion with Lord Anthony. She arrived in time to hear Cressida gasp faintly. “My lord,” she murmured, “did you know there is a tear in your pocket?”
“What the deuce?” he said, turning to his left, lifting his arm slightly and examining the small rent. “Churchill again.”
“Churchill? You mean one of the Duke of Marlborough’s family?”
“Sir Roger’s horrid dog. Worst beast ever born. Cannot see me without attacking my clothing. Yesterday, he tore my riding crop from my hand. I found it chewed up in the stairwell leading to the east turret.”
Cressida’s complexion became perfectly white, her brown eyes opened as wide as they could possibly be, and a faint cry escaped her lips from behind her hand.
“There. There,” he said. “Did not mean to give you a fright. He’s a good sort, just likes to play and tear at my coats and breeches whenever he sees me.”
Cressida shook her head and lowered her hand. “I must confess, Lord Anthony, that I do not like dogs. I know I should not say so, for it seems so wrong of me to even speak such blasphemy, but they frighten me. You can have no idea.”
“Oh, but I believe I do,” he said. “Churchill may not mean to rend me limb from limb, but when he is chasing me down a hall—” He did not continue, but shuddered eloquently.
“I feel for you, indeed, I do,” she said sincerely.
Madeline, who would not have disturbed the ebb and flow of this conversation for the world, watched in some fascination as Lord Anthony’s expression softened. “We seem to have a great deal in common, Miss Cressida. Noticed it from the start.”
Cressida blushed rosily. “Indeed, I begin to think we do.”
Madeline drifted away, thinking never had there been so propitious a beginning to a romantic entanglement than in this moment. She wondered what the end of it would be, however. She knew Lord Anthony to be as poor as a church mouse and that Cressida’s dowry, quite handsome at twelve thousand pounds, had given rise to the notion in her mother’s breast that one day her lovely daughter would make an excellent match. Lord Anthony might be extremely well connected, but did not have a feather to fly with.
How difficult the entire business seemed to her suddenly. If only she could return to the halcyon days of her innocence and security, when her deepest thoughts were about which sonata to practice on the pianoforte and whether the bonnet she had seen in Chilchester the day before would truly suit her. How desperately she longed for that life, when her mother had been alive and before her father had lost his fortune in Brighton.
***
Chapter Five
Sir Roger, who was standing in a group of several of the gentlemen and listening to Randolph Crawley’s description of his recent journey to Paris, let his gaze drift over the guests. Several had seemed to take to him, though he could not help but comprehend that many of those were of a determinedly rebellious nature, like Randolph. Others glared at him whenever his gaze chanced to meet theirs, like the trio situated by the window.
Harris Rockingham was one of the most vocal, never ignoring even the smallest opportunity to snort an insult whenever their paths drew near. Sir Roger was not so green, however, as to be drawn in by such a halfling’s ridiculous antics and had succeeded thus far in keeping his countenance indifferent. Beside Mr. Rockingham were two other gentlemen to whom he had been presented this evening, Mr. Calvert, owner of Gumbers Lodge, and a Captain Bladen, who had struck him as a rather deep one, a man he instinctively distrusted. It had not escaped his notice that these gentlemen were the primary members of Madeline’s court. If he was in any manner serious in allowing his courtship of Madeline to draw to a successful conclusion, he could only laugh at the men who had already been cut out of the race.
These thoughts naturally led him to wonder where Madeline was at the moment. His gaze found her not far distant, drawing away from Lord Anthony and one of the Crawley chits to stand near her father. He sipped his glass of iced c
hampagne and watched her for a moment over the rim of his glass. How sad she appeared to him, almost despairing—only why? Did she loathe him so very much that she must suffer a depression of spirits because she might become leg-shackled to him?
He was struck with the sudden realization that from the time he had entered Chilchester Valley generally she was not as content as she had made attempts to appear. She was always gracious and smiled politely, as was expected of her, but genuine smiles of amusement and delight were, for the most part, far from her expression.
He found himself intrigued. Why were her spirits so hindered from happier expression and what could he do to encourage her liveliness?
The group about him burst into laughter as the point of Mr. Crawley’s anecdote reached its peak. He offered his own smiles, though he had no way of knowing what the subject had been. He was about to excuse himself that he might attempt to engage his prospective bride-to-be in a conversation about her smiles when a bustling at the entrance to the drawing room drew every eye to that location.
He turned as well and saw the imperious countenance of Mrs. Rockingham fill the doorway. He had the impression that were she to speak, flames would leap from her mouth and smoke stream from her nostrils. The entire assemblage fell into servile silence. Some of the younger ladies even felt obliged to offer distant curtsies.
He was at once on his guard, particularly when her hard gaze began a sweep of the guests and, upon finding him, came home to roost. Her brown eyes narrowed and her lips pursed as she took in the sight of his kilt.
Mrs. Crawley hurried to her side, ready to efface herself before so much consequence, but Mrs. Rockingham waved her back. The latter then began a march toward him. Harris joined her ranks, along with her husband and her daughter, Julia, each following obediently in her wake.
Sir Roger, amused by the lady’s obvious belief in her supreme importance, bowed politely upon her approach.
