Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance

by Rebecca Ward

  He paused and a fierce expression glistened in his protuberant eyes. “I am honorably retired from the service of my country, but I will not rest on my laurels. Aided by patriots like Montworthy and my tenants, I will continue to combat the plague of smuggling. If only I could also wage war on the colonials, I would be the happiest man alive.”

  “England’s loss,” Lord Brandon commented.

  The colonel’s scowl deepened further. “Brandon,” he gritted, “Montworthy tells me that you interfered with him this morning. I will not stand for this sort of behavior.”

  “No? What will you do?”

  Cold menace filled the colonel’s voice as he said, “I will take steps.”

  Lord Brandon sighed. “I hope it won’t come to that, Howard. If it does, I warn you, I intend to choose staves.”

  The colonel blinked. “Staves?”

  “It’s a dead bore for the victor of a duel to be forced to fly to the Continent,” Lord Brandon continued in an aggrieved tone. “I don’t care for the diet myself. Too much starch.”

  “I have no intention of dueling with you, you fool,” the colonel snapped. “I merely asked that you mind your business in future. You interfered with my Riders—”

  “Well, Montworthy was interferin’ with the cook,” Lord Brandon interrupted.

  “To hell with you and your cook!” Colonel Howard shouted.

  There was a silence broken by Sir Carolus, who, in a shocked voice, reminded the colonel that ladies were present.

  “And we have exhausted the subject of smuggling and of duels,” Lady Marcham added. She bent a level look on the colonel, who had the grace to look somewhat abashed.

  With an obvious effort he said, “I did not intend that outburst. A soldier must always remain in command of himself. I beg your pardon, Lady Marcham.”

  Lady Marcham bowed her stately head, and after a moment’s pause, the colonel continued, “However, there is smuggling going on in Dorset, and I mean to put a stop to it. Miss Vervain, will you please tell me what the man who rescued you looked like?”

  “I do not know,” Cecily replied shortly. “It was too dark for me to see his face.”

  The colonel frowned. He was sure that this outspoken girl with the coming manners was hiding something.

  “Come, Miss Vervain,” he insisted, “I don’t dispute that the fellow cut a romantic figure. Ladies are fond of romance, are they not? But you must have seen his face.”

  “Doubtin’ the lady’s word, are you?” Lord Brandon raised his quizzing glass to stare at the colonel. “Not ton at all, Howard.”

  “Miss Vervain?” the colonel insisted.

  Thoroughly disgusted with the man, Cecily turned away. The colonel reached out a hand as though to stop her, but before he could make contact, the room was assaulted by an odd sound. “Good Lord,” James Montworthy exclaimed, “it’s a cat.”

  The colonel turned and found himself confronting a cat such as he had never before seen. Large, scruffy, puff-tailed, and gray, this animal arched its back, exhibited all its claws, and spat.

  “Do not try to touch him!” Cecily cried.

  But Howard was not in a mood to heed her. He was furious at himself for having let that idle fribble Brandon goad him into losing his temper, and he welcomed an excuse to lash out at something. He reached out to grab the ugly beast by the scruff of its neck.

  There was a flash of razor-sharp claws, the sound of ripping cloth, and the colonel found himself staring down at his ruined coat sleeve.

  “I pray you will not provoke him further,” Cecily pleaded. “He saw you reach out to me and thought you meant me harm, and—Archimedes, no! Get down this instant, sir!”

  The cat had leapt up onto a gilt table. The colonel swore loudly and lunged at him, whereupon Archimedes hissed and backed into a bowl of lavender roses. The bowl upended all over Sir Carolus.

  “Someone catch that bloody brute!” the colonel bellowed.

  Ignoring all of Cecily’s commands, Archimedes loped across the room and sprang out of the open window. “Exit cat,” Lord Brandon observed.

  In the shocked silence that followed, all that could be heard was the dripping of water. Then, everyone moved at once. The colonel ran to the window and stood there shaking his fist after Archimedes. James examined his chief’s coat sleeve for signs of blood. Lady Marcham tugged the bell rope in order to summon Grigg, and Cecily snatched up an orchid-colored antimacassar and attempted to dry Sir Carolus.

  “The beast is dangerous,” the colonel sputtered. “He ought to be shot.”

  Cecily looked helplessly at her grandaunt, who said crisply, “Nonsense, Colonel. The animal was merely protecting its mistress. If you remember, you had reached out your hand to detain my grandniece. Archimedes considered that an act of war.”

  “And from the looks of things he won the engagement,” James interjected. Then, intercepting a baleful look from the colonel, he faltered, “Sorry, sir, but the brute has talons. Good thing he didn’t draw blood, give you m’word.”

  “He has drawn something more precious than blood.”

  Reaching out with his walking stick, Lord Brandon hooked three golden hoops that were lying on the ground. “The cat tore off your Riders’ braids,” he continued pleasantly. “You’d better repair the damage, Howard, and quickly, too. You don’t want smugglers to catch you out of uniform.”

  Chapter Four

  “Sage tea for Silas Woodward’s nerves and a maceration of comfrey to ease Mrs. Amber’s leg ulcer. Was there anything else, my dear?”

  Cecily consulted the list in her hand. “There is the yarrow for Sam Waite’s stomachache.”

  “If young Sam would stay away from green apples, he would not need medicine.” Lady Marcham placed some leaves into the basket Cecily carried. “Fortunately, I have an infusion of wild yarrow ready.”

  “Shall I take the medicine to the village this afternoon?” Cecily asked.

  “Cully can do it. Mrs. Horris said he planned to bring us a fresh catch of fish this afternoon.” Lady Marcham dropped her shears into the pocket of her day dress and remarked, “You are right, of course. The colonel is a bully.”

  Cecily stared at her grandaunt. “How do you do that?” she cried. “How can you read people’s thoughts?”

  “La, my dear, you have a very expressive face. I could tell that you were thinking of something unpleasant, and of course, mention of Cully called forth memories of the colonel.” Lady Marcham patted her grandniece’s cheek. “You see? There is no magic involved. If you study people, they will tell you all about themselves. What have you observed about Trevor, for instance?”

  “I have not been studying Lord Brandon,” Cecily protested.

  “Really? Well, these herbs will do for now, except for some verbena.”

  Lady Marcham used verbena to create the perfume that she always wore. The plant was also useful when treating problems of liver, kidneys, and digestion. Cecily had learned this and much more in the scant week since she had arrived in Dorset, but herb craft was not all that occupied her mind. As her Aunt Emerald had guessed, she had been watching Lord Brandon.

  Seemingly unaware of Cecily’s interest, he went about his routine of dressing, eating, and sleeping. It seldom varied. In the morning he descended clothed in magnificence color-cued to the breakfast room and did justice to Mrs. Horris’s cooking. Afterward he usually fell asleep in his chair.

  After his morning nap Lord Brandon changed his attire for the purpose of walking about. That morning Cecily had observed him in a mauve coat of superfine, white corduroy pantaloons, and a lavender hat, which he wore tilted on one side, but on days when there was the slightest hint of rain, he affected a greatcoat with several capes. He would then change again in order to stroll into the herb garden to think (and take another nap, Cecily strongly suspected). Finally he would repair to his room for the grand toilet of the day.

  For at dinner Lord Brandon outdid himself. Last night he had appeared in a cambric shirt so fin
e as to be nearly transparent, a swallow-tail coat with wasp waist and shoulders padded into soaring peaks, black pantaloons, and silk stockings tied with gold tassels. When he moved, the scent of musk floated through the air. When he bowed, the ever-present quizzing glass glinted among the jewels on his chest. His neck cloth had been extraordinary. His nails were polished. He was that laughable figure, a dandy on the strut, a tippy, a bandbox treasure, a Bond Street Beau. Cecily could almost dismiss him as such.

  Almost, but not quite. Perhaps it was the memory of that look she had caught passing between him and his valet. Perhaps it was the keen irony of his wit. That wit and the remembered dark flash of eye did not fit the rest of the picture.

  But then, Lord Brandon was rich enough to behave like an eccentric if he wished. As she followed Lady Marcham into her stillroom, Cecily reminded herself that she did not have that luxury.

  “From the look on your face,” Lady Marcham commented, “I collect that you are considering something disagreeable. You are not thinking of that odious family with which you were unwise enough to take service?”

  Cecily’s wry smile admitted another close hit. “I have been wondering how to earn my living, Aunt Emerald. You have been kindness itself, and I am more grateful than I can tell you. But sooner or later I must decide how to support myself. I do not have a fortune—”

  “You do not need a fortune. You have youth and beauty and, above all, a quick mind. It is a pleasure to teach my herb lore to someone with sensitivity and intelligence. It gives me a warm feel in my heart.”

  Cecily felt a lump rise into her throat. She reached over to take her grandaunt’s hand, whispering, “Thank you. But, Aunt Emerald, I cannot depend on your generosity forever. It is enough that you put up with me at such a time.”

  Lady Marcham glanced sharply at her grandniece. “What an odd thing to say, child. What can you mean?”

  “Just that my coming was so untimely and unexpected. You already had one guest—”

  “If you are worrying about Trevor, be sure that he enjoys your company. Why else would the boy have decided to stay in Dorset as long as he has? Now, then, while I prepare the yarrow, will you put away the herbs we gathered this morning?”

  Since coming to Dorset, Cecily had grown to love working in her Aunt Emerald’s stillroom. It was an airy, peaceful room containing many objects of interest. As she began to dry some of the herbs and decoct the others, she once more admired these treasures.

  First there was her great-great-grandmother’s beautiful book on herb lore, written and illustrated in that lady’s own hand. There were vases and stone jars from all around the world, some full of herbs and others collected simply for their beauty. There were great baskets full of flowers and ferns, lustrous shells from far-off places, fossils etched in stone, and a butterfly suspended in a chunk of amber the size of a man’s fist. In the open windows hung crystals, naturally formed and polished, which caught the sun and spun rainbows across the whitewashed walls.

  A late summer breeze sent these crystals dancing. Glancing toward the window, Cecily saw that a man on a black stallion had come riding out of the woods.

  “What a magnificent horse,” she exclaimed.

  Walking to the window, she leaned on the sill and watched horse and rider canter across Lady Marcham’s estate. They made a handsome picture, for the rider controlled his steed with assurance and powerful grace. Then he turned his head toward the house, and Cecily was shocked to recognize Lord Brandon.

  “Why, of course, Trevor can ride, my dear,” Lady Marcham said, behind her. “He is, after all, Pershing’s son. Collect that the duke was the best rider and soldier in England in his day. Trevor was taught how to sit a horse even before he was out of leading strings.”

  That might be, but neither Lord Brandon’s skill nor his proud black stallion fit the image of an idle smatterer. The image he is at such pains to cultivate, Cecily reflected.

  The thought teased her as she resumed her work, and it was only when she saw her grandaunt looking at her quizzically that she realized she had been asked a question.

  “I am sorry,” she said contritely. “I have been rainbow chasing, I fear. What did you say?”

  “I was about to test your powers of observation,” Lady Marcham replied. “What do you think of young Dickinson?”

  Cecily glanced at the young underfootman who had just walked past the open stillroom door. He was well built and rather handsome, with blond hair that he kept scrupulously combed and brushed.

  “I know that he has not been long at Marcham Place,” she said. “Mary told me as much. He seems to be pleasant and eager to please, but—Aunt Emerald, I am not at all good at this.”

  “You are doing very well. But what?”

  “Nothing, except that he knows that he is attractive to females.” Cecily thought of James Montworthy as she added, “I am persuaded that such men spend so much time thinking of themselves that they forget about others.”

  Cecily did not add that she suspected Mary of having formed a tendre for Dickinson. The red-haired abigail had worn a new ribbon on her cap each day that week and had begun to hum Celtic love songs.

  “Ah, well, they do say that love makes the world go round,” Lady Marcham remarked vaguely.

  “What is this about love?”

  The new voice was slightly husky and very breathless, and Cecily saw that a tall young woman was standing in the doorway. Her walking-out dress of cream-colored crepe banded with lace was all the mode, but it also emphasized her angular form and thin arms. A poke bonnet of basket willow hid hair that was so fair as to appear white.

  Large hazel eyes as timorous as a field mouse’s blinked hopefully as she continued, “Grigg said that you were in the stillroom, Lady Marcham. He was going to announce me, but then he was called away to the kitchen—was I too forward? Perhaps I should have waited.”

  “Of course you should not have waited. You know that you are always welcome here.” Lady Marcham glided forward to kiss the young woman’s pale cheek. “Cecily, this is Delinda Howard.”

  After her meeting with the colonel Cecily had assumed that any child of his would have to be a griffin. Yet there was no hardness in Delinda, who smiled shyly and said in her breathless way, “I am so glad to meet you, Miss Vervain. You are a heroine—how exciting to be rescued in such a way, and by an unknown rider, too.”

  “Did Colonel Howard tell you that I was heroic?”

  Cecily could not keep the wry note from her voice, and Delinda looked flustered.

  “Oh, no. That is to say, Papa does not confide in me—I cannot blame him, for I am such a goose-cap. Mr. Montworthy told me of your adventure.”

  A faint blush stained Delinda’s cheeks. Her eyes sparkled, and she smiled. For an instant the girl looked almost pretty. Then she ducked her head and murmured, “I fear I have taken too much of your time. I must go now.”

  “Stay and lunch with us,” Lady Marcham invited kindly.

  “Oh, I cannot. I was merely in the neighborhood and wished to make Miss Vervain’s acquaintance. I could not possibly—oh!”

  Cecily followed the direction of Delinda’s gaze and saw that the dancing crystals in the window framed a horseman who was cantering toward the house. “It is Mr. Montworthy,” the colonel’s daughter breathed.

  His appearance was hardly a surprise. Since Cecily’s arrival, Montworthy had been a frequent visitor at Marcham Place. During those visits he ogled Cecily, brought her bouquets and fruit from his father’s gardens, and paid her many compliments. Irked by the Corinthian’s assumption that she lived for his attentions, Cecily had done her best to discourage him, but nothing she said even dented the young man’s good opinion of himself.

  Lady Marcham looked resigned. “Let us receive James in the cowslip room,” she said. “Ring for Grigg, Cecily. And, Delinda, stay at least to take some refreshment.”

  “I—that is, I did not plan—” The colonel’s daughter broke off, and Cecily saw that her bosom was risi
ng and falling at an alarming rate.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” she asked, anxiously.

  Delinda shook her head and hurried to follow Lady Marcham out of the stillroom. She said not another word until they had reached the cowslip room, but as Montworthy strode in, she paled visibly.

  The Corinthian did not notice Delinda’s agitation. After bowing over Lady Marcham’s hand and greeting Delinda, he crossed the room to the window where Cecily stood and leveled a speaking look at her. “I’ve waited for this hour,” he began.

  “What hour is that?”

  Lord Brandon had sauntered into the cowslip room, and as usual, his appearance was worth noting. He had changed yet again and now sported doeskin breeches and glossy Hessians, with an embroidered yellow waistcoat.

  Contemptuously Montworthy looked down his handsome nose. “Been taking a nap, Brandon?”

  “Wish I was,” the duke’s son replied. “It’s been an exhaustin’ mornin’. My fool of a groom said that my horse needed exercisin’, so I took Ebony through his paces.”

  Try as she would, Cecily could not equate the skilled rider she had seen earlier with the dandy before her. “We saw you galloping through the meadow,” she began.

  Hooded eyes turned sleepily toward her. “The brute ran off with me,” his lordship complained. “I don’t feel at all the thing, ’pon my honor, I don’t. I was dragged over hill and dale.”

  “When Aunt Emerald and I saw you,” Cecily persisted, “you looked very much in control of your horse.”

  “I assure you, Miss Vervant, I was in great distress.”

  He began to perambulate toward a chair, but Montworthy stopped him. “I say, Brandon, I’ll admit you’ve got a fine brute in that stallion. Carries a good head, and his quarters are well let down. But I’ll lay you a monkey that he can’t take my Hannibal in a race.”