“I am certain it would not have brought many connections,” Lady Dahlia said, “since my father had every intent on mewing me up until my twenty-first birthday.”
“When is that, my dear?” Mrs. Garrity asked.
“In mid-October,” Lady Dahlia paused. “I have no idea how to address you. I don’t think I should “ma’am” you like poor little Daisy Smith from Dorset. Or was that Dorchester?”
“Indeed, no.” Mrs. Garrity smiled at Lady Dahlia, “for you far outrank me. But I would be pleased, since we are soon to be related, if you would call me Aunt Amelia.”
Roger felt his mouth drop open with some astonishment as he heard this exchange. Was this truly the crusty aunt who had so long been married to the local deacon?
“Do close your mouth, Nephew,” his aunt said. “I like her. It is not every young lady who has the strength of conviction to run away and seek employment. Well done, My Lady, well done.” Then Mrs. Garrity added with brisk practicality, “Since Lady Dahlia is my guest, I have put her in the East Wing in the suite next to mine. Since Lord Bochil is your guest, I have put him in the West Wing. I believe the proprieties are thus served, at least to my satisfaction, if not that of the world.”
Roger surprised his aunt by dropping a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. “Thank you, Aunt Amelia Garrity, you are a most surprising woman and a gem of the first water.
“Well, well, Nephew, you are quite welcome,” she said, smiling up at him. “You are turning out a great deal better than I expected for such a harum scarum lad as you were.”
Roger gave shout of laughter. “It is good to know that I am improving in your sight,” he said, then adding more soberly, “I fear we have trying days ahead of us.”
It was with great reluctance that Roger eventually parted from Lady Dahlia as they all went to their respective beds. He pressed a kiss on the back of her hand, and their fingers clung together a few moments before Aunt Garrity bustled the young lady off to show her the rooms that had been opened just for her.
Then Roger withdrew to his own chambers to dream of a maiden with golden curls and wits as sharp as any rapier.
Somehow, he vowed, I will keep her safe, no matter what Cottleroy or that dastard Goldstone have planned.
Chapter 21
Dahlia tossed and turned on the unfamiliar bed. It was a lovely bed. The feather tick was high and soft, the leather straps beneath it were stretched tight and firm. The sheets were clean and soft, and the puffy coverlet that topped them was soft and warm to keep out the cool night breezes.
Perhaps that is the problem, there are no night breezes and I am over warm.
She climbed out of her soft nest and approached the tall casement window. She unlatched it and opened the lattice wide. The skyline of London town rose against the night sky, black outlines stark against a night sky where the stars played peekaboo amidst lazy clouds.
“Perhaps if I made myself a barley tisane,” she said aloud. “Miss Emma taught us how, and we used to brew it in the school room.” Dahlia drew a warm wrapper over her nightdress and secured it firmly with a soft belt tie. She then tiptoed out her room, trying to remember how she had come up the stairs from the kitchen.
Turning to the right, she soon found herself in the central hall, where she realized that she wasn’t quite sure how to find her way to the dining room, let alone the kitchen. The Shelthom townhouse was still and silent, with only a lone lamp burning in the great hall. Unlike her father’s house, no one seemed to be on duty, so there was no footman to ask for directions.
She was just about to give up and go back to bed, when she heard a soft footfall behind her. Turning, she saw the Duke’s tall figure approaching in the gloom. “My Lady?” he whispered. “Could you not sleep?”
“No, Your Grace. I know I should. It has been such a long day, but I find myself tossing and turning.”
“Is your bed not comfortable?” The Duke came closer, padding so softly that she was sure he was wearing only stockings, and no boots.
“Oh, very comfortable, Your Grace,” Dahlia bowed her head slightly. “I just…it is a new bed to me, you know. I can’t seem to quite fall asleep. I thought perhaps I would brew a tisane of barley.”
“Can you make one?” He was quite close now, close enough that she could detect the clean male aroma of him, a scent compounded of rosemary scented soap, woodsmoke and some other undefinable scent.
“Well, I could, Your Grace, if I could find my way to the kitchen, and then find the barley.” She laughed a little nervously.
“Let me help,” he said, offering his arm as if they were in a ballroom about to go in to dinner. “I find myself sleepless also. If I show you the way, could you brew a tisane for two?”
“As easily as one, Your Grace.” Dahlia found herself smiling as she placed her hand on the Duke’s offered arm, quite forgetting that she was dressed in her nightgown and wrapper. Nor did it seem odd that the Duke was clad in a robe, as well.
He guided her across the broad hall and into a dining room that was lit only by the dim starlight from the windows, then down an inner stair and into the kitchen. The fire was banked low on the hearth, and shadowy lumps resolved themselves into sleeping servants as they drew nearer.
“Do they always sleep so?” Dahlia whispered.
“They used to not,” the Duke replied just as quietly. “Under my mother’s direction, there was always a night cook. But the old cook finds it hard now to even care for the most ordinary tasks, and the young man I brought from the country estate would be hard pressed to stay up all night as well as all day. Here.” He guided her to a simple bench that served as a settle by the great fireplace. “Sit a moment while I find the barley and a small pot, and perhaps a mug or two.”
The Duke went through a small door and returned with a small pot that was a replica of the big one hanging on the hook over the low coals. He also had a small grain sack, two mugs, and a small dark lantern.
“It looks to me as if you have brewed a barley tisane yourself, Your Grace,” Dahlia said, reaching out to help with the objects he carried.
“Now and then. When I was just plain Captain Kingman, Herbert was often busy with matters other than seeing to my personal needs. Now then, if you can hold the mugs and the barley, I will get some water.”
The Duke went to a great hogshead barrel on the far side of the room and drained water into the kettle. He then turned, ready to offer his arm to Dahlia, but they realized that they both had their hands full. They giggled with mutual embarrassment. He solved the problem by taking the grain sack in the same hand as the kettle of water and offering her the elbow of the arm that led to the hand that carried the dark lantern. This allowed him to guide her back up the gloomy kitchen steps and into a small withdrawing room.
Once there, he set his burdens down on the hearth of a much smaller fireplace and used a spill to transfer fire from the lantern into the tinder that was tucked under the logs that were laid ready. As the flames leaped up, he then lit two candles on the mantle, revealing a small, slightly shabby but well-appointed room.
Roger then used one of the mugs to scoop a measure of grain into the water and set the water and grain mixture over the cheerful flames in the fireplace.
“Come, Lady Dahlia.” He gestured to a large wingback chair to one side of the fireplace. “Please sit down.” Noticing that her feet didn’t quite touch the floor, he pushed a small footstool over to her and helped her position it comfortably.
“Thank you, Your Grace. You are very handy. I should not have been able to put the tisane together so quickly.”
The Duke shrugged. “The battlefield isn’t very forgiving to those who wait for service.” Then he added, “Do you think you could bring yourself to call me Roger since we are officially engaged? I do become so very tired of being ‘Your Grace.’”
“Of course, Y…Roger. But if I call you Roger, then you must call me Dahlia.”
“I thank you for the gift of your name, Dahlia, but you wil
l always be My Lady to me,” he said gallantly.
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Really, Your Grace?”
Roger gave a snort of laughter. “Now, that is Dahlia, not My Lady. Do you know that your laugh was one of the first things I noticed about you?”
“Um, no. Indeed, Roger, I’m not sure when you might have heard me laugh. The last few days have been rather grim.” Dahlia looked down at her hands.
Roger sat on a stool beside her chair and took one of her hands in his. “It has been more than a little exciting,” he said. “As to when, you missed the ball that, I believe you said it was Violet, had thrown. And you laughed as if it was the funniest thing you had ever done. I don’t believe I had ever heard a woman laugh in such a way. You weren’t flirting, not seeking attention, it was just a supremely happy sound.”
Dahlia sighed. “That seems as if it were years ago. I do hope my sisters are all right.”
“It was forethoughtful of your brother to get them out of London before the cannonballs started flying, so to speak.” He cradled her small hand in his.
Dahlia laced her small fingers with his, marveling at the size difference for his hand engulfed hers. It was a muscular hand, she noticed. A couple of long white scars on the back of it caught the candlelight, and one of the fingers had a lump near the joint. Before she could say anything, however, he continued, “Is he always so forethoughtful?”
“Not always,” Dahlia said, relaxing her hand in his hold. It made her feel so safe, so protected, as she had not felt in any man’s presence since she had come out. “He does try, though, and he has anticipated many things, I think.”
“Such as?” Roger asked, his thumb stroking along the outer edge of her forefinger. The feel of slightly roughened skin against her own sent an unfamiliar tingling up her arms. His eyes were shadowed in the dim room, but his strong, masculine lips were visible in the flickering light from fire and candles. What would they feel like pressed against her own, Dahlia wondered. She collected herself and answered his question.
“Such as that Father would stop paying his fees at Oxford. It was the driving force behind his sheep endeavor, I think. My brother does love learning. As do I, but I know Father would never fund my having a tutor.”
“Do you, indeed, love it so much, My Lady? I’ll own that I could scarcely wait to escape the classroom.”
“Oh, Your Grace, you have no idea how much I enjoy learning new things. The world is out there,” she gestured with her free hand, “just waiting to be discovered. Yet it is a lady’s lot to be mewed up in the drawing room or to preside over her husband’s table – an ornament and scarcely more. She is an asset, purchased with money or title, and she is very fortunate indeed if she has enough knowledge to be able to go over her own household accounts. We are being very bold to flout my father’s wishes, Your Grace.”
He bent his head, covered his eyes and shook his head. “Well, I can see that getting you to call me Roger is going to take some work.”
“So it is, when you insist on calling me My Lady, Roger.” She smiled wickedly at him.
“You are My Lady,” he said gently, cradling the side of her face in his hand. The feel of his touch warmed her more than the heat from the small fireplace, and she turned her face up to his, as naturally as a flower to the sun.
His lips brushed hers, and she reached her arms up around his neck. He swept her into his embrace, kissing her at first with tenderness, then with growing passion. Dahlia felt a warmness spreading within her and did her best to return the kiss. She melted against him, feeling the long, hard muscles of his arms about her, and rested her face against the brocade of his robe. His heart was beneath her ear like an excited drumbeat.
Just then a loud sizzling and the whiff of scorched grain filled their nostrils. “Your Grace! The tisane!”
He reluctantly released the embrace, and she slipped from his arms, She used the corner of her wrapper to pull the pot away from the fire.
“Oh, dear, I think we have forgotten something!”
“What is that, Dahlia?”
“A spoon! How ever shall we stir this?”
“Not to worry,” he grinned. “This was my mother’s withdrawing room. She loved a good tisane or posset and kept a drawer of utensils. Just one moment please!” He turned to a sideboard and rummaged in a drawer before returning with a runcible spoon and a ladle.
Dahlia reached carefully into the pot to stir it, amazed at how hot it was this close to the fire. She tried to give the mixture a tentative stir, but the pot jostled, threatening to tip over. The Duke came to her rescue. Pulling down one sleeve to cover his hand, he steadied the pot allowing her to stir the barley and water mixture more vigorously.
“I think we stirred it just in time. it seems to be trying to stick to the bottom.”
“Perhaps we should remove it from the flame?”
“Perhaps.” Dahlia frowned at the pot and its contents. “We had a hod in the classroom fireplace. Miss Emma showed us how to position it so that the fire was not so warm under the pot. I’d say take it off, but the barley doesn’t seem to be cooked.”
Between them they managed to settle the pot a little farther from the center of the heat. “Herbert and I always had a good supply of stones to build a sort of hod. I’ll own I am not well-versed with indoor cooking.”
“Your Grace? My Lady?” Peter peered into the room.. “Do you require assistance?”
Dahlia started at the sound of the voice, but Roger exclaimed, “Peter! Yes, I think we do. We started this to make a barley tisane, but I fear we are a little out of our depth here.”
Peter entered and inspected the bubbling pot. He picked up the poker, deftly hooked the pot by its bail, and set it on the hearth. He then rearranged the fire, raking out a few coals to the rear edge of the flagstones.
The Duke drew Dahlia back, his arm encircling her waist, while Peter took over making the tisane.
Peter had created a nest of glowing embers, then he hooked the pot and nestled it into it. “There,” he said, “Your Grace, My Lady, you have done a creditable job of getting it started. However, it will be at least two candle marks before the grain is done. Perhaps I could ring for a sup of something for you while you wait?”
Herbert appeared at the doorway. “No need to ring, I can go get something. Your Grace. I did wonder when I did not find you in your bed, then I smelled smoke and feared the worst.”
“Oh, dear.” Dahlia scarcely knew where to look. “I fear I have caused a great deal of trouble.”
“Not at all, My Lady.” Herbert bowed gallantly. “I am surprised that we have not seen your maid looking for you, however.”
“I left her sleeping soundly. I fear she has had a trying day, all things considered, and I did not wish to wake her.”
Herbert and Peter both put on their very proper servant faces. The Duke of Shelthom drew Dahlia in a little closer and said, “Have we scandalized you both beyond reproach?”
Dahlia started to protest, then realized that the Duke of Shelthom was smiling and showed no sign of relinquishing his gentle embrace.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Peter said.
“You must realize, Your Grace,” Herbert added, “that it is not quite the common thing to find a gentleman and a gently born lady sitting by the fire in their night clothes.”
“I do hope we are not sunk beyond reproach,” The Duke said, “I did but wish to help my betrothed brew herself a tisane. It would have been churlish, indeed, to have left her to cope with unfamiliar utensils and surroundings.”
Aunt Garrity entered the door. . “Nephew? Lady Dahlia! Good heavens, whatever are you about?”
“Brewing a tisane, Aunt. Will you join us?” Roger gestured magnanimously for her to enter the room.
“I am sorry if we disturbed you, Aunt Amelia,” Dahlia said. “I was having trouble sleeping.”
“And no doubt my nephew was similarly afflicted.” Mrs. Garrity sighed. “Why did I even try to observe the proprieties?
I should have known the young scapegrace would find a way around them. Where is your maid, my dear? She could have brewed a tisane for you.”
“Sleeping, Aunt Amelia. My poor Suzanne has had a trying day, what with the sudden move and being afraid I would leave her behind.”
“Well, well, we are all up and it looks as if you are brewing enough barley there to feed an army. We might as well all have a sup.” Mrs. Garrity settled herself in the wingback chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “Peter, would you be so good as to bring up some more cups, and see if there are any shortbread left from the afternoon tea?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Garrity,” Peter said and withdrew.
“A credible nest of coals,” Mrs. Garrity continued.
“Peter helped us,” Dahlia admitted. “I knew the fire was too hot, but wasn’t sure what to do about it. Miss Emma, my governess, taught all of us how to make a tisane, but we had a hod in the school room.”
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