A Daring Courtship

by Valerie King

  “Undoubtedly for I am convinced the tower is charmed.”

  “You are charmed, my beautiful Madeline,” he drifted his fingers through the curls beside her face. “And I believe you have charmed me as well,” he smiled suddenly. “Do you think one day you might be able to love a Scot?”

  Madeline was confused by the question. What did he mean by it? When understanding dawned on her, suddenly she was filled with a thousand former doubts and disgusts about making an alliance with the man still holding her.

  She began drawing back from him, her arms sliding down his, her heart compressing painfully in her chest. Could she love a Scot? Why had he felt obliged to pose such an odious question to her? Why had he seen it necessary to disrupt their charmed embrace with such a horrid notion?

  “Good God,” he murmured. “Even after this, you find the thought of wedding me, of perhaps even loving me, offensive to you?”

  “No,” she said. “Yes . . . I do not know.”

  His face turned a ruddy color and his mouth worked strongly. She felt his anger pass through her as though it were a tangible thing. She took a step backward, but he took hold of her arm and would not let her leave. “You would say this to me,” he stated, “the man whose fortune you hope to possess? You ought at least to learn to disguise the truth of your sentiments, of your prejudices, of your innate hatreds, particularly if you mean to share my bed.”

  With that, he dropped her arm and stalked away from her, his expression rigid with contempt.

  Madeline sank down upon the grass at the base of the ancient stone tower. She covered her face with her hands and began to weep. Tears poured forth, unbidden, unwelcome. She did not know why she cried, or why the thought of Sir Roger holding her in the smallest disdain made her feel physically ill.

  Yet how could he know what the teachings of her childhood had been—her grandmother’s hatred of the French and all foreigners, her mother’s strict sense of propriety and what she believed the daughters of a fine ancient lineage, such as the Pipers possessed, owed to their ancestors?

  She had been bred from the first to wed an Englishman and a gentleman, a man of property and, if possible, of rank. Madeline had listened to tales of presentations at court, of London Seasons, of young ladies making the very best match possible. If love were to accompany such an alliance, so much the better, but in Lucretia Piper’s view, love was never to be the object.

  “Did you love Papa?” Madeline had asked, sure of the sweet answer her mother would give.

  But no such welcome response had slipped from her mother’s lips to warm Madeline’s heart. Instead, her mother had said, “Ours is a marriage of like ideals, property, and dowry and two fine lineages. I cannot tell you how proud I am of our family Madeline, and of my dear daughters.” She had been counting the linens at the time and setting aside those in need of repair. Madeline could still smell the fresh, clean lavender scent of them and of her mother. But there had been no love between her parents.

  And then her mother had died.

  Could Madeline ever love a Scot? Could she ever give her heart, her soul completely to such a man, a man who represented everything her mother and grandmother despised? Could she ever betray her mother’s memory in such a horrid fashion? No, a thousand times no. And she wept more violently still.

  ~ ~ ~

  A half hour later, Sir Roger was cursing Mrs. Rockingham’s maze. He still had not found his way out of the deuced tangle of pathways and was just about to begin shouting for assistance when, as if by magic, the opening appeared before him and he emerged onto the picnic grounds.

  He was relieved and frustrated at the same time. He had heard Madeline weeping. He had even at one point wanted to return to her, but he could no more find his way back to the Roman tower than he could to the exit. By the time he quit the maze, he half expected her to be awaiting him and asking what had taken him so long.

  Glancing around he saw that many of the guests had already departed. Even the fair-like tents were being dismantled, and a servant was lining the boats up on the grassy shore and cleaning them for storage. He searched the remaining figures scattered about for signs of Lord Anthony and finally saw him far away, sitting on a swing with his legs drawn up and Peaches awaiting his descent. He might have laughed had he not still been so aggravated by his intended.

  He waved at Lord Anthony, beckoning him to come to him, and turned to begin making his way to Mrs. Rockingham in order to thank her for her hospitality when three gentlemen, each half-foxed, approached him.

  “Look, Calvert, ’tis the Scotsman,” Harris Rockingham said, his voice a trifle slurred. “What do you say to that?”

  Calvert, his eyes red rimmed, huffed his displeasure. “I say the picnic was poorer for it because of his presence. And you, Bladen? What is your opinion?”

  Captain Bladen, his dark, mole-like eyes focusing sharply on Sir Roger, sneered, “We should have rounded up all the Scots a century ago and shipped the lot of them to the Colonies, when we had the chance. Now see what comes of it? We are condemned to living side by side with them.”

  Sir Roger knew the gentlemen had been fortifying their courage with ale and champagne most of the day. Now, it would seem, they were sufficiently prepared to do battle. He turned away, intent on ignoring their taunts, but Captain Bladen moved swiftly in front of him, though tottering on his feet. “Look how the Scot tries to run away, like all his kind, cowards to the last.” He poked at Sir Roger’s chest.

  Sir Roger caught his hand hard and, with a swift movement, twisted it backward, holding him immobile. “You would do well, Bladen,” he whispered harshly, “to find a comfortable chaise and sleep off this haze of ale that has clouded your mind. You can’t seriously mean to challenge me at Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic. Where are your manners?’

  Revulsion similar to the kind Sir Roger had seen cross Madeline’s face a half hour earlier twisted Bladen’s mouth. “How dare you speak to me of manners, you whose mother was an English whore.”

  Time slowed for Sir Roger. He knew that several guests were drawing near, that even two or three of the older gentlemen were running in his direction, but this vile slur on his beloved mother’s name robbed him of his ability to see anything but Captain Bladen’s mouth. A red film cloaked his eyes. Still holding his hand in a tight grip, he slapped Bladen across his mouth three times quite hard, then landed a flush hit on the same spot. Captain Bladen fell hard to the ground and lay there groaning, rolling his eyes and holding his jaw.

  Sir Roger turned to Harris, whose complexion had become a lovely chalky color. Harris backed away, his fist at his side as though holding a pretend sword or something. As for John Calvert, he mumbled, “I should not have expected a Scot to hold his temper.” With this weak shot, he walked away.

  By now a large group had gathered about him, many whispering questions, the remainder staring at him. He glanced about him and said, “Would anyone else care to speak badly of my parentage? I believe the moment to be propitious.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Madeline had emerged from the maze in time to see Captain Bladen struggling to sit up, blood pouring from his mouth, his neckcloth already smeared with blood. She was appalled and slightly ill from the sight of it. As she looked up, however, another sight struck her eyes. Lady Hambledon stood opposite Sir Roger, a severe expression on her face. A moment later, the baroness lifted her chin and moved away.

  By now, everyone was silent and staring—at Sir Roger, at one another, at poor Captain Bladen bleeding profusely. It was as if no one could move.

  At that moment, however, a high-pitched yipping was heard and a moment later, a harassed Lord Anthony raced toward the circle. His expression was wild, but seeing Captain Bladen struggling to right himself, he moved quickly forward, hurriedly lifted the captain to his feet, then sped on his way as Peaches rounded the maze and headed toward him.

  A chortling began that quickly became a hearty laughter. Captain Bladen tottered on his feet and Squire Crawley slung
an arm about his neck and hauled him away. Madeline watched her father attempt to speak with Sir Roger, imploring him to apologize to the captain, but the cold state Sir Roger offered him in response silenced her father immediately.

  Sir Roger then trailed after his friend and Peaches.

  For herself, with all her sennight’s effort having been reduced to ashes, Madeline walked wearily toward the house.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later, after allowing herself all of Sunday to forget Saturday’s debacle, Madeline walked slowly about her mother’s rose garden. She had refused to ponder any of her difficulties until this moment, hoping that her mind, if given a respite, would be better able to find solutions to her numerous problems.

  She held several fragrant rose petals in her hand and sniffed them every now and then, taking in the honeyed perfume. Finally she let her thoughts tumble about at will, at last permitting an evaluation of all that had happened at Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic.

  Images of Sir Roger filled her mind first, of how handsome he had appeared in buckskin breeches and a blue coat, the latter shed the moment he began playing with the children. She had admired how readily he had given himself to the spirit of the picnic, entering into the various activities as well as any number of conversations with Mrs. Rockingham’s guests. She remembered feeling relieved that he had done nothing to cause embarrassment to her family and yet how, throughout the day, she had been so fearful he would do just that.

  Then he had guided her into the maze and she had led him to the Roman tower, where he had kissed her. She tried to recall just how the kiss had come about. The memory returned to her and her cheeks began to burn. What was it she had said to him? Kiss me and make me forget. How could she have said anything so bold to him, as though she had been begging for a kiss? What had she been thinking? What sort of madness had taken hold of her in that moment?

  If only he had not obliged her and kissed her. How much simpler would everything be right now, particularly when merely thinking about that kiss caused her heartbeat to quicken? She had truly never known anything so sublime in her entire existence. Even now, she could feel his lips pressed hard to hers, as though he meant to keep her forever. When he had kissed her before, every touch had been so gentle, but what had occurred between them on Saturday had been something quite different, indeed. And he had kissed her over and over, not ceasing for what felt like an eternity She realized with a horrified start that just for the pleasure of that kiss, she would do the whole thing again. Could anything be worse?

  Then he had asked her teasingly if she could love a Scot. How she wished that question undone, a millionfold. She paused in her steps, the rose petals falling to the gravel walk at her feet. Could she love a Scot? Or perhaps a more significant form of the same question: was she already tumbling in love with a Scot?

  No, a thousand times no, her mind said. It was not possible. She had been trained from infancy to a different standard, one of purity and loyalty. The Scots killed the English and the English killed the Scots. The two cultures were wholly disparate, and if she had required more proof, Sir Roger had provided it when he sent Captain Bladen reeling to the earth, having planted him a facer. Sir Roger had a temper he could not master, a Celtic temper of ruddy faces when the heat of their rage overtook their complexion.

  Her mother would have been dumbfounded that any man would have so crossed the bounds of propriety as to enter into a bout of fisticuffs with a fellow guest at Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic. There would have been no other subject spoken of within the confines of her traveling coach from the time she quit Mrs. Rockingham’s drive until the horses were safely returned to the stables. Her diatribe would have been long and pointed, probably beginning with, “What more could one expect from a man of Scottish descent but manners of the most offensive in every respect?” Even after all these years, Madeline could still hear her on the subject of the odiousness of foreigners.

  At the far end of the garden, Madeline spied a familiar stone bench to which she immediately directed her feet. Once there, she sat down with a sigh. Her thoughts were still full of Sir Roger. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and sighed heavily. And yet she could not wholly blame him. Though she had heard little of the exchange by the time she left the maze, she saw that her swains were quite in their altitudes. She knew that each of them was particularly vehement on the subject of not permitting Sir Roger to enter Chilchester society, and that they had already made his time at Mrs. Crawley’s soiree exceedingly unpleasant. She had little doubt Sir Roger had been sorely provoked.

  Who, then, could blame him completely for having lost his temper as he had? And yet, could she really bear being married to someone who had not learned to master himself?

  She buried her face in her hands as the final horrible aspect of the encounter slipped into her mind, of Lady Hambledon having been witness to the spectacle and of her subsequent expression, swamped as it had been with utter disgust. Herein lay the rub, she thought unhappily. Even if she could forgive Sir Roger for his conduct, she doubted Lady Hambledon ever would. Of the three women she had thus far dealt with, Lady Hambledon was the most intractable of all the high sticklers.

  Her spirits sank so low in this moment that Madeline doubted she would ever be happy again. The whole situation, so intolerable in nearly every aspect, was proving disastrous, from the reasons for her pursuit of Sir Roger in the first place to how difficult the task of bringing him into fashion was proving at every turn. Was she being punished, she wondered?

  “Maddy, my dear?”

  Madeline looked up and saw that her father had somehow managed to come upon her without making his approach known. She had been greatly lost in thought, indeed. “Papa,” she responded, leaning back and shading her eyes with her hand. The day was beautiful, the sky blue, the sun shining brightly.

  “I have not seen a sadder face in my entire life,” he said, taking up a seat beside her and possessing a hand with his own. “Thinking of the picnic?”

  “Is there anything else I could be pondering?”

  “Your wedding day.”

  She laughed outright. “Oh, Papa, but you are hopeful even in the bleakest of circumstances—did you not see Sir Roger attack Captain Bladen on Saturday?”

  Mr. Piper patted her hand. “Of course. I saw it all. I had meant to prevent it, but I was too far away. I only saw your three most dogged suitors approaching him at the very last moment. I had known they were in their cups—indeed, everyone was painfully aware of it. But even running as I did, I could not prevent either Captain Bladen from speaking such terrible words or Sir Roger responding with a perfectly comprehensible swing of his right arm. I thought the blow would have finished Bladen for good.”

  “The good captain was not in Sunday services,” she observed.

  At that, Mr. Piper barked his laughter. “No, indeed he was not, nor will we be seeing much of him anytime soon. I wonder if his jaw has been broken.”

  “Was the blow that severe?” she asked, aghast.

  “It ought to have been. He called Sir Roger’s mother a whore.”

  Madeline could not have heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come, come, Maddy. You will not be missish with me for saying it when it crossed Bladen’s mouth first.”

  She still did not understand. “Do you tell me, Father, that he spoke of Sir Roger’s mother in so vile a term?”

  Mr. Piper nodded.

  “Good God. No, I did not hear. I arrived just after the blow was delivered, not a moment sooner. Had I known. I am so very shocked and so deeply disappointed in the captain. How could he have been so vile, whatever his prejudices?”

  “There, there, Maddy, don’t climb onto your high ropes. Do but think a moment. Captain Bladen has been sitting in your pocket nigh on two years. He had hopes that you would one day give him the encouragement he needed to offer for you, but you have not. Then, without his comprehending why, you suddenly take up Sir Roge
r’s cause and disappear with the fellow into the maze for over an hour. Believe me, even if he had not been in his cups, he would have had reason to have had his anger stirred up a bit. All three of your beaus did. Or are you such a ninnyhammer as to not understand that each one of those men fancies himself in love with you?”

  “I have not been indiscreet, have I? I mean, yes, of course I have known of their respective tendres, but I hope I have not been so insensitive as to have offered hope where there was none.”

  “You could never be so cruel. I suspect much of their present aggravation is because they sense Cupid at work in his mysterious ways and are become threatened, not unjustly.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” she stated uneasily.

  “Stubble it, Maddy, you know deuced well precisely what I mean. You can’t but look at Mathieson without your face turning pink, and not from displeasure, either, so don’t think to tickle my nose with that feather. No, my dear, you are half in love with him and, were you to permit yourself, you could tumble the rest of the way without the smallest difficulty. My only concern is that you restrain yourself unnecessarily and all because of a ridiculous scruple or two that you learned at your mother’s knee—a dictum, I might add, that is as outdated as panniers in a ball gown.”

  At the picture of the wide hoops worn several decades past, Madeline could not help but smile.

  “There, that is much better. Now, don’t be in the mopes a moment longer. Life is too precious and too short for such a long face, especially on such a beautiful morn.”

  “Perhaps you are right, but are you not in the least concerned that I shall fail in making this match? Then where will we be?”

  “In the river tick, of course, but I don’t give a fig for that. I am one and fifty, my darling daughter, but I vow until this past month or so I had not been alive for the last—well, for a very long time, even before I met your mother. Should our fortunes fail completely, then we shall start over, no matter how hard it might prove to be.”