Lady of the Lock

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Oh, my lord, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, as mocking laughter from Lady Christabel and Lady Olympia nearly drowned her words. From a few feet away, Miss Fawley, who was being instructed by Lord Jeremy, offered a sympathetic smile.

  “They do not teach archery on the banks of a canal?” Lady Christabel inquired sweetly.

  “Pay her no mind,” the marquess whispered. Raising his voice, he added, “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate your expertise, Lady Christabel?” He swept his hand toward the distant targets.

  After a look that might have been the pattern card for aristocratic disdain, she raised her bow, nocked an arrow, and sent it flying into the target a mere inch shy of the center. “That, Miss Merriwether,” she pronounced in ringing tones, “is how it is done.”

  Mandy struggled to recall the vows she had made. Civility, above all else, civility. But why should the daughter of an earl not be bound by the expectation of civility as well?

  A useless speculation. The gentleman Lady Christabel intended to marry had his arms wrapped around another woman, his mouth breathing soft words into her ear. Even if Mandy had been the daughter of a duke, she would have been the object of Lady Christabel’s wrath, fair game for whatever set-down was available.

  Put that way . . . Mandy turned to Montsale, smiling sweetly. “It is clear, my lord,” she said, “that I am in need of a good deal more instruction.”

  Behind her, Lord Jeremy’s guffaw rang out, even as Mandy saw Mr. Carlisle turn abruptly away to hide his face. Beside her, Montsale’s visage was set in his customary blank mask, but as he handed her an arrow, she clearly saw the appreciative gleam in his eyes. Mandy nocked the arrow, resisted a nearly overwhelming urge to send it flying into the turf at Lady Christabel’s feet, and turned toward the target. This time, when the marquess’s arms came ’round her, her head and chin were up, shoulders straight, her mind clear as she concentrated on his every word. This arrow was not going to fall ignominiously to earth half-way to its target.

  It fell to earth a foot short of the target.

  “Much better,” Montsale declared. Mandy sighed, pinched her lips together, and tried again.

  “All the way back to your mouth . . . deep breath . . . aim . . . Loose.”

  The arrow soared . . . thumped into the target on the outside ring. Oh, thank goodness! A hit, an actual hit. Mandy jumped up and down, waving her bow over her head. Montsale smiled, actually smiled. She threw her arms around him, hugged him tight.

  “Miss Merriwether!”

  Lady Christabel’s outrage set Mandy back three feet from the marquess, eyes wide, her free hand to her lips. “I beg your pardon,” she cried. “I was so pleased to hit the target, I quite forgot the required sangfroid. Perhaps,” she added more deliberately as she realized she had done nothing so very heinous, “it is because we of the middle class are not afraid of enjoying ourselves.”

  With that she turned back to Montsale, smiling sweetly. “Shall we try again, my lord. I am certain that with your instruction I can do even better.”

  “Hussy!”

  “Encroaching upstart!”

  A gasp from Miss Fawley as Lady Christabel and Lady Olympia cast their insults.

  “Obviously, their titles of ‘lady’ are inherited, not merited,” Montsale murmured as his arms once again encircled Miss Merriwether.

  A chortle escaped Mandy’s lips before she pressed them firmly together, but her shoulders were shaking so hard with mirth that she failed to nock the next arrow. “For shame,” she hissed. “That is very bad of you, Montsale.”

  “Shame on them. They have no right to treat you so.”

  “I fear I agree with the Americans on equality, my lord. But this is England, and here the ladies have the right of birth.”

  “They do not have the right to cast insults on my guest.” Montsale nocked the arrow and closed her fingers around the string.

  “You are most kind, my lord,” Mandy managed to reply, even as heat seared her body, once again threatening her composure. Steady. Steady. Enjoy it while you can. She might be the fish out of water, but surely she had a right to happiness during her brief sojourn at the pinnacle of society.

  Mandy allowed herself to fully absorb the sensation of the Marquess of Montsale touching her shoulder, her hand, her cheek, his lips brushing her ear as he repeated his instructions, urging her to pull back the string. To her right, a groan of sympathy from Lord Jeremy as Lady Christabel’s arrow sailed past the target into the woods.

  Mandy steadied her bow, took a deep breath, concentrated every fiber of her being on the target and let fly. Thunk! Not dead center, but close enough. Now more conscious of what was proper—and drat Lady Christabel for reminding her!—Mandy beamed a smile at her tutor and declared, “Let’s do it again!”

  They spent another half hour on the archery field, though Mandy was quite certain the other ladies would have quit long since if Lady Christabel had not insisted on staying. No one, Mandy was certain, failed to recognize her unwillingness to leave her prized marquess alone with the encroaching little cit.

  Was she encroaching? Mandy wondered. Should she have accepted her lowly place in the world and urged Papa to refuse the invitation? The Americans were an insidious lot, she decided, wafting breezes of rebellion from the North American continent all the way to France. And the French revolution’s cries of “Equality and Fraternity” inciting fear and horror in England, lest the Terror cross the Channel. Yet the rebels gave people ideas, ideas beyond their station. Or so conservative voices said. But were those ideas wrong?

  Surely not.

  A brush of Montsale’s lips across her cheek brought Mandy’s wayward thoughts to an abrupt end. She dropped her arrow, the point barely missing the toe of her half-boot. “I’ve grown careless,” she sputtered, moving swiftly away from his embrace. “Perhaps it is time to call a halt.” Indeed, they must. She was back to the quivering wreck she had been when he first put his arms around her, sending her arrow skittering over the ground.

  Montsale proffered a stiff bow and backed away. “An excellent suggestion, Miss Merriwether. A cup of tea and an array of Cook’s treats might be just the thing to sweeten the atmosphere.” Mandy didn’t know whether to smile or wince. Copying Montsale’s mask of bland indifference, she accepted his arm and they led the archery party on the path back to the gatehouse, across the moat, and into the castle.

  Later that evening while the gentlemen indulged in port, the duchess beamed at the younger members of the house party and said, “Tell me, my dears, did you enjoy your afternoon of archery?”

  After a polite chorus of, “Yes, Your Grace,” Mandy added, “Lord Montsale was most helpful, though I fear Robin Hood is in no danger of competition from me.”

  “Robin Hood!” Lady Olympia exclaimed. “Do you believe in such fairy tales, Miss Merriwether?”

  “’Twas but a figure of speech, my lady. I try to find humor where I can. It lightens the day.”

  “Perhaps in your set,” Lady Christabel said with a sniff of disdain. “We in the ton take life more seriously.”

  Mandy thought of the lively wit and humor exhibited by both Montsale and Lord Jeremy and bit her tongue, even as she saw Lady Pontesbury’s fingers clamp hard over her daughter’s arm.

  “I thought sketching would be an excellent activity for tomorrow afternoon,” the duchess inserted neatly. There are some lovely landscapes nearby, one with a quite splendid prospect of the castle. Would that suit?”

  The awkward moment passed as each lady swiftly agreed. “I suggest we all go,” the duchess added. “Those who do not care to sketch may sit and enjoy the view and the beauty of the day. In fact . . . yes, I do believe we should have a picnic.”

  This suggestion brought enthusiastic response from the ladies while Mandy hid a rueful smile. A picnic would of course be delightful, but since she ate luncheon outdoors nearly every day of her life, it would scarcely be a novelty.

  The gentlemen joined them and ignoring m
usical entertainment for the nonce, were soon making up tables for cards. “Will you not join us, Miss Merriwether?” Lady Christabel inquired sweetly. “Or do you not play cards?”

  “Not if I can avoid it,” Mandy returned just as sweetly. “Lacking the variety of activities offered by London evenings, we who build canals tend to play cards ad nauseum. Personally, I prefer draughts, quoits, or chess.”

  “Chess it is.” The marquess spoke from directly behind her chair, almost startling Mandy into dropping her fan. “I shall send for the board immediately.”

  Mandy looked down, hiding a frown. If Montsale continued to favor her in this manner, Lady Christabel was going to push her into the moat. “That sounds delightful,” she managed. And it did. To have Montsale to herself for the full extent of a game of chess . . .

  Fortunately, she was a good swimmer.

  A half hour later, the marquess leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes alight with speculative appreciation. “You do indeed know how to play chess, Miss Merriwether. Continue as you are and you may trounce me.”

  “I doubt it, my lord, but Papa taught me well, and I am pleased I am managing to give you a worthy game.”

  “Worthy? My dear girl, ’tis too bad chess tournaments are solely for men.”

  “It certainly is,” she agreed most heartily. “One day we women will do something about that. When we have the vote, when we are Members of Parliament, when we sit in the House of Lords.”

  “Exactly. Which is never.”

  “My lord!”

  “My dear girl, do not, I beg, come over all Mary Wollstonecraft. You know quite well none of these things will happen. Fantasies, Mandy mine, nothing but fantasies.”

  A sudden stab of disappointment. Her hero had feet of clay. Montsale was just as blind and uncaring as all the rest of his class. Class. Yes, that was it. Montsale was as set in his class as he was in his gender. No matter how much he stretched the boundaries of his life, he could not see beyond the strict line that set him apart from the hoi-polloi. “Your move, my lord,” Mandy pronounced in wooden tones.

  He gave her such a look before finally moving his rook that at last the full meaning of his words finally sunk in. Mandy mine. Merciful heavens, he had called her, Mandy mine. Her heart threatened to pound its way through her chest.

  They were playing in a corner of the drawing room, almost hidden by the grand piano. Montsale, leaning forward so far he nearly toppled his queen, said, “When we are alone, I would like you to call me Bourne.”

  Anguish enveloped her, not joy. No good could come of this. For Amanda Merriwether this kind of intimacy could only mean one thing—he planned to offer her carte blanche. In spite of being a guest under his parents’ roof, he wished her to become his mistress.

  “I fear that would not be wise, my lord,” Mandy murmured, all too aware their heads were nearly touching, his proximity threatening to muddle her brain before she could put two thoughts together. Humor. Her only hope was humor. “Someone always has ears on the prick, my lord, and at the first passage of your Christian name from my lips, I should find myself the target of an arrow, dripping from a swim in the moat, or bundled into a carriage for a rapid return to Great Bedwyn. So thank you, but—”

  “Mandy!”

  She straightened, removing herself from his intoxicating nearness. She fixed her eyes on the chessboard. Concentrate, concentrate. She could do this. With a not-quite-steady hand, she captured his rook.

  “Your sense of what is proper matches your skill at chess,” Montsale declared from between clenched teeth. “Caesar’s wife?”

  “Indeed, my lord. We cits must always strive for greater perfection than those who claim to be our betters.”

  “Amanda Merriwether, for that bit of sarcasm I should dump you in the moat!”

  “Ah, a moonlight swim,” she breathed. “Just what you need to cool your ardor.” Their eyes met in challenge. Lightning flared. He leaned in.

  “If only we might race across the moat,” he returned, his breath hot upon her face, his eyes still fixed on hers.

  Which conjured a picture of Montsale in his pantaloons and shirt and herself in nothing more than her chemise. Dripping wet. Mandy gulped and jerked upright, glancing about the room to see if anyone had noticed. To her horror, the person staring at them was, of all people, the Duke of Carewe, his face as bland as the look affected by his heir.

  “My lord,” Mandy gasped, “I fear I am not well. Please excuse me.” Her steps to the door were close to a run. Amanda Merriwether, retreating before the full weight of ducal censure. Poor Montsale. No wonder he danced to his father’s tune.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning Mandy woke to the steady drip of rain. She crawled out of bed and peered out the window to find lowering gray skies in every direction. Clearly, one of those days when even the most optimistic prognosticator would hesitate to suggest the possibility of any outdoor activity. With a decided pout Mandy padded back to bed and pulled up the covers. Hopefully, the duchess’s plans for a sketching party would be postponed, not canceled. Sketching she enjoyed. Mandy breakfasted in her room to the accompaniment of wind-blown rain that waterfalled down the windows. Not even a brace of candles could dispel the gloom. She buried her nose in a book, coming out of her room only when she heard the sound of ladies’ voices in the corridor.

  The remainder of the day was almost as quiet, as the ladies took a turn about the castle’s three galleries, one dedicated to sculpture, some of which put the younger ladies to the blush. A second gallery was devoted to ancestral portraits dating all the way back to the very first Challenor, ennobled by Edward III. Mandy found herself at the tail end of the bevy of women as she fixed her rapt gaze on a full-length portrait of Montsale when he must have been close to eighteen. If Miss Fawley had not returned to tug her away, Mandy might well have been abandoned, left to find her way out of the castle’s maze of rooms on her own.

  The third gallery, however, prompted Mandy to express gratitude to Miss Fawley for rescuing her. Here were the treasures that had not made it onto the walls of the state rooms she had seen so far. A stunning array that ranged from Titian and Tiepolo to Canaletto, Van Dyke, and El Greco. As she lingered, once again the last to leave, Mandy noted the route the duchess took back to the drawing room. She would return when the sun shone through all those broad panes of glass with light enough to display these masterpieces as they were meant to be seen.

  For the remainder of the day the ladies read, engaged in embroidery and the inevitable on dits. The younger members of the party indulged in a few moments of hilarity as Montsale and Lord Jeremy dragged down childhood games from nursery days. They also played several spirited games of draughts. And when the older gentlemen finally tired of billiards, the younger ones challenged the four young ladies to a match. Although Miss Fawley appeared much shocked, Lady Christabel and Lady Olympia, evidently no strangers to a billiard table, stepped up with a right good will. Mandy hung back, quickly discovering that billiards was just another excuse for gentlemen to put their arms around the ladies in the guise of instructing them in the finer points of the game.

  And yet . . . billiards was a game not unknown to her, and she was almost guaranteed to do better than her dismal showing at archery. Lady Christabel claimed Montsale for the first match, and Mandy’s temper flared when her nemesis turned to the marquess with a coquettish smile, requesting his help in lining up the ball. For a moment the green-eyed monster triumphed before Mandy recalled she had done the exact same thing on the archery field. A clear case of tit for tat and the devil take the hindmost. Which, in this case, was Miss Amanda Merriwether. And, besides, it was probably just as well the marquess had not singled her out yet again. His attentions were already sparking gossip or surely the duke would not have given her such a look last night.

  “Come, Miss Merriwether, will you give it a try?” Lord Jeremy asked, holding out a cue. “Now that Montsale has graciously allowed Lady Christabel to win, perhaps y
ou will allow me the same privilege?”

  “I must warn you,” Mandy informed him, “we have a billiards table in our house in town, and our engineers are never averse to a female partner.” She accepted the cue stick with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “And though we wintered in Bath this year and I am sadly out of practice, I beg you to do your best, my lord. I have no taste for charity.”

  “Delightful.” Lord Jeremy bowed. “After you, Miss Merriwether.”

  Mandy lost, but only because the duke’s younger son proved himself a true expert. And possibly because Montsale hovered at her side, only twice leaning in to offer advice, but nonetheless a constant threat to her concentration. Must he make his interest so obvious? Or was he merely helping his brother win?

  A slight cough. “If you are quite finished, Miss Merriwether,” the butler said, “the duchess desires your presence in her sitting room. If I might show you the way . . .?”

  “The duchess?” Mandy echoed weakly. In the privacy of her boudoir? That could not be good. “Of course,” she murmured. Since her companions were all focused on a match between Sir Giles and Lady Olympia, Mandy made no farewells but simply followed the butler from the room.

  The apartments of Rosalind, Duchess of Carewe, were everything Mandy could have imagined them to be. The windows were swagged in heavily embroidered rose silk, as were the canopy, curtains and coverlet on the gilded four-poster bed. The sitting room also boasted a white marble fireplace with elaborate overmantel, a pink paisley chaise longue, and a fine Persian carpet that echoed all three colors, with additional dashes of leaf green and lavender. The duchess’s desk was an example of marquetry at its best, while a cabinet beneath her pier glass fairly sang with the brilliance of chinoiserie. Oh. My.

  The duchess invited Mandy to a seat beside her on a sofa done up in cream silk brocade with accent pillows of pink, rose, and pale green. Mandy, all too aware of her rumpled appearance after a hotly contested game of billiards, was almost afraid to sit down. Surely a middle-class bottom, particularly one that had been swishing back and forth rather provocatively while she lined up her shots, should never touch down in such a rarified setting.