Lady of the Lock

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Amanda!” He grabbed her hands and held her tight. At such close range, she could clearly see his shock. And something more.

  A young man, a young woman. A moonlit garden.

  Gently, Mandy removed her hands from his. “I am Miss Merriwether, my lord, a guest on sufferance, and I would not disabuse the duchess’s hospitality.”

  He lifted her chin, his bare-fingered touch threatening to scramble the wits she was trying so hard to maintain. “Amanda Merriwether, you are my long-time friend and sparring partner, and I would have more from you, if you would but come down off your high horse and see the world that is offered.”

  Mandy clasped the fingers under her chin, firmly setting them aside. “I should slap your face for thinking what you’re thinking, Montsale, for whichever way I interpret your words, they are madness. An impossibility by which we both must abide. But the night is far too beautiful.” She stood, shaking out her skirts. “Come. Is there a rear door to the garden? I should like to see the moat.”

  Silently, he rose and led her to a small, vine-covered door that led into the park that surrounded the castle. Only a short walk brought them to the edge of the broad moat, where moonlight cast a silver streak over the still, dark water. “Shall I invite them all for a walk?” the marquess asked. “All the inimical ladies, that is. And march them straight into the moat?”

  Mandy made no effort to repress a chortle. “I confess, my lord, I am sorely tempted. But I doubt your mother would approve.”

  “Their gowns might be damaged,” Montsale concurred with great solemnity.

  “Their coiffeurs disarranged.”

  “They might even drown,” the marquess pronounced in sepulcher tones.

  Mandy giggled, picturing the two middle-aged martinets of society and their equally disagreeable daughters struggling to stay afloat. Reality struck all too soon. She gasped, swatting him hard on the arm. “That is perfectly frightful, my lord. How could you?”

  “But you feel better, do you not?”

  “Montsale, you are a very bad man.”

  “But you have always known that, Mandy dearest, and you like me anyway.”

  Mandy did a sharp turn and headed back toward the garden. She could hear him keeping pace, right on her heels. Miserable man. At this rate she couldn’t tell her top from her tail. Surely a man’s mama did not invite a candidate for mistress to the family castle, but what else was she to think? Clearly, she must closely watch her every word and move. And lock her door at night.

  Montsale, thankfully, allowed her to return to the other guests without him, hopefully keeping their garden tryst between themselves. But the look of animosity sent her way by Lady Pontesbury was scarcely ameliorated by the penetrating gaze delivered by the duchess. Mandy said her good-nights as graciously as she could and fled to the sanctuary of her room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sleep came late, the twittering of birds all too early. Mandy, who was accustomed to beginning the day at an hour when ladies of the ton were still fast asleep, opened her eyes and promptly squeezed them shut as the events of the previous day came rushing back. Flopping onto her stomach, she dragged the covers up past her ears, only to discover the voices and emotions swirling through her head were not a whit less disturbing.

  She was a rope-walker, balanced over an abyss, wanting to cling to the safety of the known world behind her, yet unable to back up, her feet carrying her forward on a line so thin it swayed, threatening to break at any moment. Her brain might balk, her feet kept moving. Dizzy, terrified, she staggered on.

  Coward! Mandy leaped out of bed, dressed swiftly, and repeated the steps that had taken her to the garden last night. The flowers were as brilliantly colorful as she had imagined. The sky, amazingly, was clear, the sun bright. Bright enough to dim sneering voices and settle her warring emotions into something closer to a common sense appraisal of her situation. The Marquess of Montsale might be playing with her, with the possible connivance of his mother, but she was here for a full six days, and barring the duke having her booted from the premises, she was going to enjoy herself.

  In the course of an hour’s contemplation in the shade of a vine-covered arbor, Mandy vowed to tame her temper. She would absorb each slight by recalling the shallowness of the speaker. She would smile, be gracious, no matter what. She would encourage Miss Fawley’s friendship, try not to grind her teeth when Lady Drucilla hung on Papa’s every word. The men, of course, were not a problem. Handling males of all ages was a skill she had acquired long ago. Therefore . . .

  Therefore she had nothing to fear. She would enjoy every golden moment, including Montsale’s birthday ball scheduled for the final evening, knowing this would be her one and only opportunity to enjoy the luxury of a duke’s primary residence.

  Mandy returned to her bedchamber, her mind set firmly on vows to be more amenable, more forgiving, and less defensive. She allowed Netty, the young maid assigned to her for the duration of her stay, to polish her looks to ton standards—the initial step in Mandy’s determined campaign to blend with the other house guests. But breakfast soon put the first crimp in her efforts, as she found herself the only female in the dining room, the other ladies still sleeping or breaking their fast in their bedchambers. She was further put to the blush when every gentleman except the duke and his son-in-law Lord Eagleton jumped to their feet, rushing to offer her a chair. She was blushing, she could feel it. Not a half hour since she’d vowed to present the picture of a proper young miss, and here she was, breakfasting with a duke, a marquess, an earl, a baronet, Lord Jeremy, and three untitled gentlemen without another female in sight.

  “I believe Maman has planned an expedition to a Roman ruin today,” Montsale contributed as Mandy accepted a seat between her father and Mr. Carlisle, while the latter hastened to the sideboard to fill a plate for her. “The gentlemen have a choice, I understand. They may go with the ladies or form a shooting party. How say you, gentlemen?”

  “I’m torn,” John Merriwether admitted. “I am always delighted to see Roman architecture, but I almost never have an opportunity to shoot.”

  Mandy stared at her father in horror. Shoot? Her papa wanted to shoot something?

  Come to think of it, so did she. Mandy fixed her eyes on the tablecloth to keep from glaring at the marquess, who was smiling at her father and saying, “Then may I suggest a solution? Go to the ruins today and shoot tomorrow while the ladies are indulging in archery.”

  Archery? The ladies were going to shoot arrows? Ah, but the temptation was going to be overwhelming . . .

  A plate mounded with all the items of an English country breakfast was set down before her. Mandy smiled her thanks, trying not to wince at the sight of blood pudding.

  “Oh, I say,” Sir Giles drawled, “the ladies are having all the fun. “I can shoot on my own acres, but where else can I find such beauty to gaze upon? I’m for the ruins and archery.”

  “Do you sketch, Dunstan?” Montsale drawled, “for I believe that is next on Maman’s list.”

  “Devil a— Beg pardon, Miss Merriwether. Can’t draw a straight line, but I am happy to stand about and admire those who can.”

  “I fear the eyes of others on my work quite freezes my hand,” Mandy announced with mock sternness, her twitching lips taking the sting from her words.

  “You enjoy sketching, Miss Merriwether?” Montsale asked.

  “I do, my lord. And it fills the hours I must spend outdoors. After all, there are only so many notes I can transcribe for my father.”

  “Ah, yes, ennui,” the marquess concurred. “I fear I suffer from it myself.”

  “But that is because you do no work at all.” Horrors! She’d done it again. After all the vows she’d made!

  “On the contrary, Miss Merriwether . . .” Heaven forfend, it was the duke! Mandy—very glad she had not yet eaten a bite as she might have spewed it over the pristine white tablecloth—raised her gaze to her host, who declared, “I have been working Montsale rathe
r hard these past few years. Being a duke isn’t as easy as you seem to think. And he still has a great deal to learn.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I fear Montsale and I have had an adversarial relationship since we were children. No matter how hard I try—and I do try, I assure you—I never seem able to refrain from teasing him.”

  The duke harrumphed, fixed her with a baleful eye. The silence around the table lengthened, no one daring to say a word. “Very likely good for him,” Carewe grumbled and returned to his gammon and shirred eggs. The soft sibilance of multiple released breaths echoed through the dining room. Her papa squeezed her hand. The blood pudding stared at her. Carefully, Mandy shoved it to one side, and reached for a finger of dry toast. She would eat. She would renew her vow to be more conformable, no matter how much of a mull she’d made of it so far.

  Roman ruins. Delightful. What could possible go wrong while viewing an ancient ruin?

  “Stop! Stop this instant! Lady Christabel, do not move.”

  At the sound of Montsale’s commanding tone, Mandy’s attention jerked away from contemplation of the hypocaust, the Roman villa’s underground heating system, which her father was explaining in meticulous detail. Lady Christabel, shock rapidly turning to fury, was glaring at the marquess across eight feet of mosaic tile.

  “How dare you speak to me in that tone, Montsale!”

  The marquess heaved a sigh, obviously hanging on to his temper by a thread. “You are treading on the remains of a temple, Lady Christabel. On tiles more than a thousand years old.” At her blank look, he added, “It just isn’t done. You might damage them.”

  “Come, Christabel,” her mother called before her daughter could form one of her sharp retorts. “Walk as gently as you can, dear. Montsale is quite right. The tiles are to be admired, not stepped on.”

  After a glance that should have turned them all to stone, Lady Christabel examined her soft-soled slippers before transferring her supercilious gaze to the marquess. “How terrible,” she cooed. “I cannot imagine how these tiles have lasted so long if they disintegrate at the merest touch?”

  “I am certain you have done no harm, Lady Christabel,” Montsale assured her. “It is the principle of the thing, you see. If everyone trod on them for a better look, they would not last another five years, let alone five hundred.” He held out his hand. “So, please, dear lady, come back to the grass.”

  “Christabel Amalie,” her mother hissed, her voice heavy with warning.

  The young lady heaved an exaggerated sigh before mincing off the tiles with a truculence that clearly threatened to linger for the remainder of the excursion. Montsale, deciding retreat was the better part of valor, joined John Merriwether and his daughter.

  “Remarkable!” Mr. Merriwether pronounced as the marquess approached. “The Romans truly knew how to build. For all our efforts, I doubt the K&A shall last a hundred years, let alone a thousand.”

  “I’d lay you a bet,” Montsale declared, “but I fear I shall not be there to collect.”

  Merriwether gave a rueful huff, conceding the point. “An old bone of contention, Montsale. My daughter chides me for my pessimism. I grant you the Dundas Aqueduct may last beyond a century, perhaps the tunnel as well, but my poor canal—”

  “Papa!”

  “No, no,” he returned with a laugh. ’Tis too fine a day to quarrel. I grant them each a thousand years. Aqueduct and tunnel alike shall become the antiquities of the future, hordes of ladies and gentlemen flocking to see them on a fine summer afternoon in centuries to come.”

  Mandy took her father firmly by the arm. “Dear Papa, at times your drollery becomes excessive. Come. I do believe the duchess has given the signal to load the carriages.”

  “Which,” Montsale inserted, “provides me with an excellent opportunity to ask Miss Merriwether if she will accompany me on the drive home.”

  Shocked, Mandy could only burble, “But Lady Christabel rode with you on the way here.”

  “Lady Christabel is not pleased with me at the moment, and I do not care to endure a fit of the sullens all the way home.”

  Mandy placed a thumb under her chin, opened her eyes wide. “A most gracious invitation, I’m sure.” She heard a choked-back guffaw from her father before he turned away, heading toward Lady Drucilla, who was clearly waiting his assistance to mount the barouche.

  “My groom can sit with me while you stand in his place,” the marquess offered, at his most bland.

  Outrage warred with the simple fact that driving with Montsale, shoulder to shoulder in his curricle, was quite the most glorious treat she could imagine. And the look on Lady Christabel’s face when she found out . . .

  “I fear standing could result in my skirts flying about my head,” Mandy returned in silken tones, “so I shall accept a seat on the bench.” Their eyes caught on a look of amusement, and held on something more, as the bustle of boarding the carriages faded and the world went away. They were alone on a hillside in a time and place where nothing mattered but the emotions each stirred in the other. Where hearts could thud unrestrained and carefully neutral faces melt into passion. Where no one cared who they were and centuries of tradition did not matter.

  “Montsale, I am waiting!” The shrill voice of Lady Christabel slashed through their reverie. They looked up to discover her already seated in his curricle.

  “Amanda, I’m so sorry,” the marquess breathed, appearing truly stricken.

  Fearing he would see the sudden rush of tears in her eyes, Mandy ducked her head, barely managing a polite, “It’s quite all right, my lord. I perfectly understand.” Swiftly, she joined her father, Lady Drucilla, and Mr. Carlisle in the barouche. Their coachman gave the horses the office to start, and they rumbled back toward Castle Carewe, while Mandy clutched two thoughts to her bruised heart. Bourne had invited her to drive with him. And he had called her ‘Amanda.’”

  The Marquess of Montsale stared glumly at his breakfast beefsteak. Although it was done just as he liked it, his expectation of seeing Miss Merriwether had been dashed by her father’s announcement that she had decided to join the other ladies in taking breakfast in her room.

  She was avoiding him. And why should she not? What must she think of him, one moment asking her to ride with him, the next climbing meekly into his curricle to sit beside the carping Christabel? Who, instead of sulking, had chattered about absolutely nothing all the way back to the castle, while tossing off an occasional seemingly casual remark about her distaste in sharing such a delightful escape from the city with the family of an obscure younger son who gained his fortune through trade (which Bourne interpreted as a slap at the Fawleys). And even worse, being forced to associate with two persons so fresh off the canal one could smell the mud.

  He inquired, through gritted teeth, if she questioned the taste of the Duchess of Carewe, but Lady Christabel’s hasty denial had not contained an ounce of contrition. Why his Maman kept throwing this nasty bit of goods under his feet he could not imagine—

  Of course he knew why. The duchess had known Lady Malvinia Pontesbury and Lady Patricia Silverdale since they made their come-outs together nearly thirty years ago. Carewe, Pontesbury, and Silverdale belonged to the same clubs, thought alike on everything from hunting, shooting, and horse racing to affairs of state. Which meant he had known Lady Christabel and Lady Olympia since he was in short coats. They had been invited to his every birthday celebration for more years than he could remember. It would have been unthinkable to leave them out, even if he had begged on bended knee. Which, of course, had never occurred to him. He was as much a product of his upbringing as the two young ladies. Questioning his mother’s household arrangements was as unthinkable as questioning Carewe himself.

  Nor did he question the duchess in the drawing room after dinner when she took him aside and cautioned him to keep his door locked each night. He simply met her limpid gaze and nodded. But, truthfully, he had not been so shocked since he’d discovered the true process that ref
uted the theory that babies were found in cabbage patches. The duke and duchess? Mama and Papa did that?

  And now his mother was warning him Lady Christabel and Lady Octavia would stop at nothing in their campaigns to become a future duchess.

  Hell and the devil confound it! He’d not only lock his door, he’d buttress it with a chest of drawers.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Nock the arrow . . . like this . . . now pull the string all the way back to your mouth.” Montsale breathed instructions into Mandy’s ear, his arms encircling her as he demonstrated the correct stance for arching a perfect arrow. The trouble was, her heart was threatening to explode, pounding so hard his instructions were but a blur.

  The archery party numbered eight, spread out over a grassy meadow with four targets, one for each couple. Lady Christabel was still scowling because Montsale had chosen Miss Merriwether, leaving her to partner with Lord Jeremy. Sir Giles had stepped quickly to Lady Olympia’s side, leaving Mr. Carlisle to instruct Miss Fawley. Mandy admired the colorful sight they all made, four upstanding sprigs of the ton paired with young ladies whose softly colored gowns fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Until, that is, Montsale’s arms surrounded her as he showed her how to hold the bow, nock an arrow, pull back the string . . . At that point her brain had ceased to function, her body dissolving into a blancmange, her knees threatening to give way at any moment.

  “That’s it,” the marquess encouraged. “Now let fly!” Startled out of stunned immobility, Mandy lost her grip on both bow and string, sending her arrow skidding along the ground not fifteen feet in front of her.