by Lily Silver
“I had hoped to secure a match for Althea with one of her sons. Granted, Horace, the older one would have been a bit of a bore. Still, he is well born, and stands to inherit his father’s estates. Jasper was more the dashing beau, to be sure, and closer to her age. She fancied him, and he her.”
“And who are we discussing, Mother?” Adrian paused in the doorway.
“The Sheares brothers, and Althea, of course.”
“Ah, the Sheares. I sent them a note suggesting we meet at Reynolds for luncheon tomorrow. I thought I would leave the shopping to you ladies.” Adrian commented as he unfolded the newspaper and took his chair near the hearth.
“You gave me to believe you disliked them immensely when I was suggesting a match between our families last spring.” Lady Fiona remarked as she sat down beside Tara on the divan.
Adrian appeared distracted as he sat opposite them and began to peruse the Gazette. “I simply took Althea’s side in the matter of a match with Horace, a rather vain, weak minded sort. I don’t believe he would have suited Althea very well. Jasper, on the other hand, is too much the rogue. I would hardly endorse such a man as a suitable husband for my sister.”
“Althea would have been well placed in society, and well provided for.”
“And miserable.” Adrian returned.
Tara didn’t understand the pair. They seemed to be unable to agree on any subject broached, being of conflicting opinions about everything, including the weather. They argued continuously, yet politely as mother and son, an odd relationship. She wondered privately if her husband didn’t derive some secret pleasure in disagreeing with his mother’s opinions.
“It is the duty of every young woman to marry well for her family’s advancement in society.” Lady Fiona argued. “You still haven’t explained how you have come to be on such intimate terms with the Sheares brothers. Your days at Trinity ended over a decade ago.”
“We have similar interests, business connections.” Adrian remarked coldly, his grey eyes swiftly becoming silver icicles at the prodding tone of his mother’s voice.
“What business? Banking? Or that rebellion rubbish.” The older woman’s voice rose. “You know how I feel about Lord Fitzgerald and that O’Connor upstart. You have a wife and family to look after, you cannot waste your life at the beck and call of that madman and his insurrectionist ravings.”
Startled, Tara glanced furtively from Adrian to his mother. Fitzgerald—there was something very alarming about that name, something frightening.
“Edward is not a madman. He simply wants what is best for Ireland.” Adrian replied calmly, looking at Tara. He laid the paper on his lap as he continued to regard her with concern. He looked as if he were about to say something to her when Lady Fiona interrupted his attempt to soothe Tara’s apprehension.
“What is best for you is to mind your own affairs instead of running off with the revolutionaries and getting hanged for treason.” Poor Lady Fiona was nearing hysteria. She rose, her face livid with rage, her hands shaking as she marched to the door with her back ramrod stiff. “You will end up just like your father, Adrian, and Tara will be a desolate with grief. Is that what you want, to destroy her life, her hopes for the future and mine as well with your folly.”
Adrian stood, as did Tara. The air felt suddenly chilled as she gazed up at him with horror.
“Tara, darling—“
“You aren’t involved in some seditious plot, are you?”
“Mother is over-reacting. Now, sit down and stop looking at me as if the Sheriff has issued an order for my arrest.” He advanced, touching her arm with concern. “You’re shaking. Would you like a glass of sherry?” He attempted to lead her to the divan.
“No, I don’t want a drink to calm my nerves.” Tara jerked her arm free and paced to the fireplace. She stared into the flames. “Your mother drinks all the time because she can’t cope with the fear of losing not only her husband but also her son to a cause destined to fail.” The words spilled out with force Tara shook from emotion of them.
“How can you know that?”
Tara turned to face him. It was her turn to look at him with bewilderment. “I don’t know.” How did she know such a thing? Lady Fiona spoke of rebellion. Despite his denials, Tara suspected Adrian had thrown in his lot with them. If he was involved with Lord Fitzgerald, his life was in danger. In her mind the very name Fitzgerald was synonymous with danger, imminent disaster.
Why? She knew Fiona Dillon was justified in her anger and her fear, but the reason for it was beyond her grasp, beyond the dark veil of her memory.
Adrian joined Tara at the hearth. He took her hand. “Mother has been filling your head with nonsense. Fitzgerald and I were at Trinity together.”
Tara wanted to believe him. She gazed up at Adrian with fear, desperate hope and hunger. She didn’t want to lose him, not when she hadn’t really had him, when they were still strangers. Married strangers.
He pulled Tara into his arms as he gazed down at her with enticing silver-grey eyes. His lips hovered above her own. Yearning. Hesitant. Taunting her with promise.
She wanted to taste him. Fully experience a deep, passionate lover’s kiss. She wanted to feel his warm skin pressed tight against hers, taste the sweet saltiness of it.
It seemed ages passed instead of seconds before his lips captured hers.
He was gentle at first, reverent, as if unsure of her response. As she met his lips with boldness, seeking, demanding more from him their kiss deepened. The sweet taste of wine lingered on his tongue as it plied her own. Tara’s hands went about his neck. Her fingertips sought Adrian’s thick raven mane. She loosened the bond restraining his thick ponytail and his glorious locks were freed, spilling over his neck in a silken waterfall of ebony waves cascading into her waiting fingertips.
“Lord Edward Fitzgerald to see you, Sir.” The stoic voice of Murray, the butler intruded. Tara and Adrian broke apart.
“Adrian. Forgive me, I had no idea you were entertaining this evening.” A tall, elegant gentleman near Adrian’s age teased in an odd brogue.
“Edward, may I present my darling bride, Lady Tara Dillon.” Adrian stepped back to place an arm about Tara’s waist possessively, she noticed. Her breath came hard, her blood pumping with a sweet desire cruelly denied before it was fully savored.
“Lady Dillon, this is a surprise.” The dark haired gentleman raised a quizzing glass to his midnight blue eyes to inspect her carefully. “I envy your good fortune, Adrian, she is ravishing.” With that, he bent at the waist before Tara and offered his hand. Tara extended hers to shake in friendship. Fitzgerald lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Enchante, ma Cherie.”
Tara gasped, completely and utterly charmed by his gallant gesture. She didn’t recall anyone ever behaving thus with her before this. As she studied him, Tara found nothing in his appearance or bearing to qualify her apprehension at the mention of his name. It was only much later that her former panic returned as she sat beside her husband and listened to the men converse lightly about inconsequential matters.
“How long are you in Cork?” Adrian was asking as he stroked her shoulder with his thumb and forefinger as his arm draped casually across the back of the divan.
“Another week. Business with the Sheares brothers.” Lord Edward remarked, giving her husband a significant look.
The conversation lagged on, until Tara wearied of their jocular banter. She excused herself gracefully and rose to leave, at which point both men rose with her, a custom she had yet to become comfortable with.
She climbed the stairs, feeling ill at ease with the mysterious Lord Fitzgerald in her drawing room with her husband.
An hour later heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. Adrian hesitated at her door. Tara held her breath, wondering if he would come in and attempt to begin where he left off in the parlor. She watched the knob, hoping, praying it would turn. After several moments of indecision, she heard him enter his chamber across the hall.
Adrian stared at the empty ceiling above him unable to find the peace he sought in slumber. Those exotic green eyes taunted him in the darkness. That sweet mouth, yielding to his searching caress as their tongues danced together, her soft form clinging to him … he wanted her more than he could bear.
He promised himself he would woe her gently, court her as she deserved, yet that very promise left him shackled, restrained when his Celtic blood would rise up and claim her as his wife.
Sweet Tara, so enchanting, so innocent, so unaware of how much she stirred him. The fire in her eye offered challenge; like a spirited, defiant horse that dared him to tame her. Yes, tame her he would. He smiled into the darkness. Moving his arm up under his head, he savored the sweet moments of surrender so recently gained.
Before long, he was aroused, unable to sleep. He shifted in the bed, punched the pillow and yanked the covers about him again. His loins throbbed, aching to claim the young woman across the hall. Aching for Tara.
Tara, sweet, impish, beguiling Tara.
At last, he drifted into a fitful sleep with her name on his lips, her delicate fairy face beckoning him to come to her beneath the star draped forest. Tara danced through his dreams in a gown of pale, sheer green gossamer, transparent gossamer that barely sheathed her pale breasts. She beckoned him to come to her … come to her and soothe his warrior’s spirit in the moss covered bed beside the waterfall. “Come and rest … lie beside me.” She whispered as she wound her long gossamer skirts about his skin. Adrian longed to embrace her, to love her in the sweet scented woods of the fairy kingdom. As he advanced, she glided further away. She remained ever just beyond his reach.
Chapter Eleven
Tara was disappointed to find her husband still asleep when she left with Lady Fiona on their shopping excursion. She had hardly slept all night, trying to remember why the name Fitzgerald gave her chills and brought a feeling of impending disaster. The man in question was so charming and pleasant. He hardly warranted suspicion.
Unlike that elusive highwayman; Captain Midnight was the dangerous outlaw who chanced upon her dreams at night to steal a kiss. The dream was always the same. She could almost taste his lips, feel the black silk scarf pressed against her cheek. The odor of sulfur and smoke lingered about his clothing as he held her firmly against him. It was always night in the dream, a stormy, cold night, just like the night of the shipwreck. The highwayman cradled her on his lap. They were on horseback. He dismounted Tara into what seemed to be a cave.
Tara would wake up shivering, feeling that cold rain once again, with her lips tingling from their stolen kiss. The kiss of a phantom, a figment of her imagination. A blush stole across her cheeks as she glanced at Lady Fiona. It had to be her imagination, that was all there was to explain it. A recurring fantasy dredged up from her subconscious mind, an image impressed upon her from a novel she read during the voyage here.
She crossed her legs, ignoring her mother-in-law’s reproving look as the coach swayed back and forth on the streets of Cork. Tara smiled softly as she remembered the flame her husband’s kiss had ignited in the parlor, before Lord Fitzgerald interrupted their embrace. And then she began to worry about his association with Fitzgerald.
The coach drew to a stop, bringing Tara out of her musings.
They were fortunate to be able to find several gowns that had been commissioned weeks ago and then canceled by the lord who had broken off with his mistress. There was a forest green riding habit with a smart hat, and velvet gowns in rich jewel hues.
“I have one more that should prove suitable for the White’s Ball.” The matron removed herself to the back room once again, leaving Tara and her mother-in-law in the posh dressing room.
“The apple green suits her coloring.” The proprietress helped Tara remove the cerulean blue velvet winter gown, and then pulled the sheer fabric up about her shoulders when she stepped into the skirt.“Oh.” Lady Fiona breathed.
“Enchanting, is she not?” The shopkeeper beamed with pride. “With an emerald pendant, a wreath of silk flowers in her hair, she will appear the woodland sprite come to life from a fairy story.”
“Quite.” Lady Fiona agreed. “Could you fashion some matching wings? It is a costume ball, after all.”
“Yes, Milady. I have some sheer silk fabric of this same shade set aside.”
“Excellent. We will need it before Friday. We leave for Seafield House then.”
Tara gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She could have been cast as Titania, the fairy queen of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The sleeves were of the sheerest green material, enhanced by gathered panels of fabric that draped over her shoulders, down her arms and swirled about her wrists like gossamer, giving the wearer the illusion of being an enchanted woodland spirit. The underskirt was of a darker shade of green, like the forest, also enhanced by attached panels of the sheer, light fabric.
As she whirled about the panels of the skirt and sleeves swirled out in an elegant spiral, adding the illusion of floating rather than standing before the mirror. “I’ll freeze to death.” Tara murmured, turning to see if the back covered her fairy wings tattoo. Fortunately it had a high back that came to her neckline. “It’s very impractical.”
“Lovely, we’ll take it.” Lady Fiona rose. “Tara, darling, I’m famished. We’ve enough clothes to get you through the weekend at Seafield House. Perhaps you can return another time to order more gowns. Madame Elise is very good to deal with, I’m certain she can arrange to have your trousseau sent on to Glengarra Castle when it is completed.”
“Yes, my lady. Is there anything else I can find for you before you leave?”
Tara stepped out of the dainty creation as the attendants helped her. A mischievous smirk reflected in the mirror at Madame Elise. “You wouldn’t happen to have any long johns, would you?”
The other women looked at her with bewilderment. It was clear they didn’t know what she meant. “Um, … thermal underwear?” Tara gestured helplessly with one hand. “Men wear them in the winter. They are fitted to come down to your ankles?”
The proprietress stared at her with horror. An attendant giggled and then placed her hand over her lips to hide her smile.
“This is a decent business that caters only to women of the highest reputations.”
“And men who can afford to dress their mistresses in style.” Lady Fiona quipped. “My son’s wife is from America. I’m certain she will agree with me when I say that they are much more sensible in their choice of winter clothing, not being given to such frivolities as fashion and style. She wishes to purchase sensible inexpressables, perhaps something made of heavy flannel. Our family seat at Glengarra is damp and drafty. If you cannot provide the Viscountess with them, I am sure Madame Couvillion’s across the street would appreciate our patronage.”
At Lady Fiona’s rebuke, the dressmaker was only too happy to fulfill Tara’s strange request. Although she hadn’t a pair made, she would see to it immediately and have the flannel pantalets delivered to the townhouse by the end of the week.
Since their arrival at Cork, Lady Fiona seemed to be a different person entirely, stimulated out of her melancholy by the bustle of city life and the social prospects before her. They enjoyed another round of shopping for gloves and hats after their luncheon.
*
The dinner party that evening at Sheares House was so small it could almost be considered exclusive. Only the Dillon Family and Lord Fitzgerald were the guests.
The Sheares brothers were a contradiction of each other. Horace, the eldest, was a pallid, rather colorless man with watery grey eyes and a long, narrow nose that at the moment was reddened. He lifted a thin hand from time to time to dab at it with a handkerchief. His thick thatch of untamed hair the color of sand and his large, wide eyes gave him the appearance of being continually startled.
As the evening progressed, Tara noticed Horace depended on his more dapper brother, Jasper, for direction and leadership. And Lady F
iona wanted her sixteen year old daughter to marry this revolting wimp so she would be financially secure?
Jasper was attractive. His thick blonde hair was cropped short in just above the intense ice blue eyes. He sported a tan and a golden mustache framed his handsome face. Unfortunately, every time she caught him gazing at her, Tara had the distinct feeling Jasper was undressing her in his mind.
Mrs. Sheares conversed with Lady Fiona, while the men talked on about sheep, the weather, the stock quotes at the London exchange this month and the health of King George as if by rote, carefully evading any real conversation in the presence of the ladies. Mr. Sheares was at least twenty years his wife’s senior, a frumpy old man who seemed more concerned with the contents of his plate than appearing polite to his guests.
Lord Edward was the redeemer in a miserable dining experience. He was quite the gallant, asking Tara polite and probing questions regarding her experiences in Cork.
“Have you visited the Coffee Shop, Lady Dillon? No? Why you mustn’t leave Cork without tasting his hot chocolate, it’s divine. The twist of cinnamon makes all the difference. Just yesterday I begged him to give me his recipe so our cook at Leinster House can make for me when I’m in Dublin.”
Adrian was quiet. Tara was learning that he was always reserved at dinner, whether they dined alone or with guests.
“Tell me about America, Lady Dillon.” Lord Fitzgerald broke into her thoughts. “I’m intrigued with their new system of government. A democracy—all men are created equal. I say, have they abolished the ancient agrarian system that shackles Ireland and England?”
His question left Tara speechless. First, she had trouble recalling the details of anything regarding her life before Adrian, and secondly, he was addressing her, a woman, with the same respect and equality that he would a man. She was taken aback by the fact that he wanted to discuss the aspects of democracy with her.
