Netherby Halls

by Claudy Conn

  Trembling, she could only stare.

  Starving, her mind told her she was starving for his touch—and as he came to her, she didn’t ask how or why; she simply accepted it as a dream.

  Her lips curved into a welcoming smile without her consent. She knew that, beneath the covers, she was also naked.

  He lifted the covers high and stood to gaze at her long and soulfully, as though he was in a desert thirsting and had found sweet, cool water at last.

  He climbed into the bed beside her. His body fit against hers tightly, as it was but a single bed and he was a large man.

  Her body burned for him. She told herself she was dreaming. She was safe, because it was only a dream, but in her heart she knew it was more, so much more.

  His kisses traveled from her ear down the side of her neck, to the hollow of her neck, and then back up to her mouth. He parted her lips to receive his delicious tongue, and she squirmed in his arms, wanting more, so much more. How could she know what it would feel like to be made love to in this way? She had been kissed when she was younger, but never like this.

  His kisses took her breath away, and when he straddled her, her eyes opened wide. He didn’t speak. She didn’t speak. It was a time of sensation—so much sensation.

  What was happening to her? And then she suddenly realized, this was not a dream, This was magic taking control, drawing her inside, but it wasn’t her magic. Oh no, this was … this was …

  She awoke with a start, and he was gone. She knew somehow he had been in bed with her. The bed where he had lain next to her was warm. The scent of him was still in the air.

  What, oh faith, what did this mean?

  * * *

  Sunlight peeped through the middle of the window where Sassy’s drapes did not quite meet, and she scrunched up her face as she looked at the wall clock. “Ugh … six o’clock,” she said out loud.

  It wasn’t long before she was washed and dressed. Heading for the kitchen for some coffee, she heard a commotion in the student’s wing.

  The girls were getting ready for their outing to the theater later that day, but an argument between two of them had called each of the disputants’ cronies into choosing sides.

  Sassy stopped and watched, hoping it was something the girls could settle between themselves, but a violent exchange of insults erupted with one of the girls pushing the other roughly into the wall. Sassy moved towards them, but before she was able to intercede, it got worse.

  “Damn your eyes, wench!” Delia Standish shocked Sassy as she kept her arms extended and her hands pointing for each to take their corners.

  “And yours, you—you blubber-headed mort!” returned her opponent, Caroline Hughes.

  “Quiet!” Sassy ordered. “What sort of language is that?”

  The two girls looked at their feet and said nothing to this, but Sassy wasn’t letting go. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Whatever is going on?” Miss Graves appeared on the scene.

  “Caroline took my scarf,” Delia said petulantly. “I have a right to demand its immediate return.”

  “So you do,” Sassy snapped. “But you have no right to shout and rant like a hoyden. It is most unbecoming.” She turned to the other girl. “Return Miss Standish’s property at once, and we shall drop this matter.”

  The article in question was reluctantly handed over while Delia stood gloating. Sassy frowned over Delia’s expression. Something was off here. Why did Caroline look so frightened, and if she was frightened, why then had she refused to turn over the scarf?

  She heard one of the younger girls say softly to her group of friends, “That Delia is awful,” but when Sassy started towards her, the little group ran off. She turned to see Delia staring after them. Just what was going on here? Why were they all so afraid of a fifteen-year-old girl?

  Later, this trouble lingered in her mind as she took out her gown and began the business of airing it out and repairing a piece of lace that had torn away from the puff sleeves.

  Before she knew it, the evening had arrived. Sassy donned her old cloak and floated down the stairs, under Miss Sallstone’s disapproving eye.

  However, it was Saturday night, she was on her own time, and the perfectly respectable Delleson coach awaited her outside, she told herself. The headmistress could not possibly object. She handed the driver her overnight portmanteau and then with excitement climbed into the coach.

  Some fifteen minutes later and feeling just a bit nervous as the coach pulled up to the brightly lit Delleson estate, Sassy rubbed her ring and was immediately calm. A whisper told her she could retire to her room if it all became too much. And so she could. The question remained: did she want to?

  Honesty forced her to admit to herself that she did not want to leave. She wanted to see the marquis again. She wanted to face him and look into his eyes and ask her magic to tell her just who and what he was. For he was more than he seemed, so much more. She was sure of this, just as she was sure her magic, the magic that had come with her transition into a fully matured white witch, had not created last night’s love scene.

  She heard her name announced by the butler and took a bracer of air as she could not help but notice many of Bristol’s society looking her over.

  “Oh! How precious!” declared Sophy, rushing to grab hold of her white long-gloved hands and to stand away to gaze at her. Sophy was lovely in her creamy, clinging silk and her bubbling head of yellow curls. “Sassy,” she said approvingly, “that shade of aqua brings out the color of your green eyes perfectly.” Her finger went to the low curve of Sassy’s scooped neck, and she nodded. “Very nicely done with the lace—naughty and yet quite respectable.” She touched the white and silver silk flowers at her own cleavage and said, “It is precisely why these flowers are here.” She giggled and touched Sassy’s hair. “Your ringlets have such a shine. Yes, your black hair and my blonde curls. We shall stun them all.” She laughed merrily and led Sassy into the crowded room.

  A bevy of young men immediately surrounded the two young women, but Sassy’s gaze darted about the room looking for the marquis. She felt sadly deflated to find that he was not present.

  She was surprised, however, to find that in addition to the marquis, even Percy Lutterel was nowhere to be seen. She asked, “Sophy, does not Mr. Lutterel have the intention of attending this delightful rout of yours?”

  When, predictably, Sophy pouted, Sassy smiled to herself. She was growing very fond of her new friend and all her extreme expressions.

  “He is the most vexing man alive, Sassy. I have no notion whether he plans to show his face here tonight, and at this moment I don’t care!”

  Ah, thought Sassy, Sophy cares very much. And it was at this moment that the butler reentered the room. In a booming voice that overrode the music coming from the violins, he advised all interested parties that the Marquis of Dartmour and Mr. Percival Lutterel had arrived.

  Sassy had to admit that it was exciting to be with Sophy at the center of attention. But she did not feel as though her heart was about to beat out of her chest until she heard that the marquis had arrived!

  Percy went directly towards Sophy, who immediately gave him a frosty glare and turned away from him. As the marquis was beside Percy, and was therefore incorporated into her snub, Mrs. Delleson put a hand to her heart at her daughter’s objectionable behavior. Seeking to repair the damage, Sophy’s mama went hastily towards the new arrivals, hands extended amicably towards the marquis, her cheek towards Mr. Lutterel.

  Sassy felt a giggle coming on as she watched Sophy ignore Percy with careful intent as she flirted outrageous with the bucks at her side.

  A country dance was struck up, and both girls found themselves on the floor. Sassy was very sure that her friend was not having half the fun she pretended she was having.

  Percy attempted to approach Sophy at the end of the dance; however, she turned away from him and placed her hand in that of young Lord Grey. Sassy arched a look at Sophy, for this would be her f
riend’s second (albeit only country dance) time up with Lord Grey in a row. This would raise disapproving eyebrows.

  When the dance was over, Percy was in a fit of a temper and marched in front of Sophy’s face to demand on a harsh whisper that she dance with him.

  Sassy, who was standing at her shoulder, closed her eyes and thought the man most unwise.

  Sophy’s chin went up, and she answered him curtly, “I am fatigued to death, Mr. Lutterel, for I have been dancing this half-hour and more.” She arched a look at him and continued, “Though I am sure you have not been here long enough to notice!”

  “Sophy, my only love, do but let me explain,” Percy began, running a frenzied hand through his flaxen locks.

  However, another country dance was struck up, and she turned from him to take Lord Grey’s hand and once again lead him onto the floor.

  Sassy was led on the floor by some young buck, but her attention was for the scene unfolding. A third dance with Lord Grey was sure to be censured. Percy looked as though he was about to call Lord Grey out. Sophy’s mother was trying to catch her daughter’s eye and call a halt to her dance with Grey. Dowagers were leaning into one another and whispering, the frowns evident on their faces.

  And then, even as she watched that scene unfold, she was suddenly diverted. The marquis came up behind the young man she was dancing with and said to him in an amused voice, “Begone, lad.”

  The marquis’s smile as he tapped the young man’s shoulder was both authoritative and gentle, and the young man bowed stiffly but retreated.

  Lightly, easily he held her hand as he led her through the steps of the dance.

  Percy, pushed to his limits by the warm smile Sophy awarded Lord Grey, was moved to make a tactical mistake. The machinations of the country dance were not designed with conversation in mind, but this did not stop Percy from pushing Grey away from her and taking his place. Sassy nearly giggled as she watched Percy and Sophy, for what must they do but attempt to speak to one another in bits and pieces whenever the dance bought them together. More than a few people noticed this foolishness, and she could see Sophy growing embarrassed at the glances her way.

  The marquis and Sassy found, when their eyes met, a shared moment of mirth that made her stomach feel as though little wings were fluttering inside.

  When the dance ended and he walked with her to see her comfortably seated, she made the mistake of looking up at his face. She felt mesmerized by his blue eyes; it was as though they were alone in the room. Their emotions were fully charged and demanded release in one another.

  She couldn’t breathe. It felt as though the air in her lungs had been sucked out of her, and her knees were wobbly and unsteady. Why did he have this affect on her? Heat rushed through her body, and she suddenly discovered a glass of lemonade being placed into her gloved hands.

  “Hopefully this offering is timely and will buy me some favor in your eyes,” he said softly.

  She felt his gaze on her lips and had to work hard to find a way to answer him, as her mouth had pursed for a kiss. What was wrong with her?

  “Th-thank you,” she managed and took a long gulp of the sweet liquid. “Very thoughtful of you, for I do feel … warm.” Sassy heard herself say the words in a tone that sounded downright submissive and was disgusted with herself. She was acting like a schoolgirl with her first major crush.

  She saw that Sophy had stomped off to chat up a few young bucks and shook her head ruefully over it before putting a hand to her forehead.

  He saw this at once and said with some concern, “It is stuffy in here. Let us retire to the card room. ’Tis less crowded there, and perhaps you might even enjoy observing the players at whist.”

  His voice was solicitous, his touch was thrilling as he took her elbow, and all at once, without even touching her ring, she knew what she had always suspected—the Marquis of Dartmour was a warlock. He was infused with magic. It gave off an energy from his body, like an entity, pulsating with mana. Why had she never noted that before?

  Because he has lifted the shield hiding his power, her inner magic whispered. Why was he allowing her to know him now—what was his motive?

  “Because, Sassy, the time has come for us to know one another,” he answered her unspoken thought, shocking her.

  He shouldn’t be able to read her mind like that. She put up her own shield to block him, and he laughed and said in her ear, “Very good. You are very strong, and I hope you have it up all the time when you are at Netherby.”

  Her mouth dropped. What should she answer? “Why?” she settled for asking out loud, but even this admitted to having a shield. Didn’t it? “Why would anyone need a shield at Netherby? And by shield I take it that you mean caution?”

  “You know better, though caution is always a good thing,” he answered.

  “I am always cautious,” she said on a breathless note.

  “Are you?” His voice was a caress near her ear, and her lashes fluttered.

  “Ah … a place to sit,” she said to change the subject, allowing him to see her seated on the soft damask loveseat. When he sat beside her, she was aware and relieved that there were just enough people in the room to keep her from falling into his arms, for her inner magic was driving her to do just that.

  She wanted to know the extent of his power. She had to know if he was a Dark Magic sorcerer. She fingered her ring, and her eyes began to close as she started the silent chant. He stopped her by taking her hand and causing a break in her concentration.

  “You have only to ask,” he said softly.

  “And would you tell me the truth?”

  “Why bother asking such a thing? If you think I might lie, would I not start off with one?” he answered impatiently. “You are smarter than that.”

  “Indeed, and I am smart enough to know you will not answer me tonight. You are not ready to go that far, are you?”

  “No, not ready to go that far,” he answered, looking into her eyes and adding, “but soon, love, soon.”

  “Why, my lord, do you speak in riddles? Why are you forever doing what you should not do just because you can?” Sassy snapped, caught up in a state of confusion and not knowing where to go.

  He laughed. “You are quite charming when upset—your creamy cheeks spotted with color, your green eyes bright. Why do I do the things I do? I should dearly love to satisfy you with an answer, my love, but I need a specific.”

  “Well, for one thing, telling Sophy you would not attend her rout unless she invited me. How dare you put me in such an awkward position? ’Twas the most insufferable thing to do.”

  “How so? I wanted you here,” he said blandly.

  “You see, you make your own rules, and why should you want me here?”

  “Temper, sweet love. I want you within my sphere. You are …” He hesitated. “An unknown, a bit of a mystery with your particular, er, aura, yes, let’s call it aura.”

  She felt deflated. She had wanted him to say something pretty, something about caring for her, ‘liking’ her company. This was not what she wanted to hear, and she frowned and turned away from him. “I see,” she said in a small voice.

  “Indeed, and you are a delectable beauty, Miss Winthrop. I can see why your good doctor uses your given name so freely … Sassy,” he whispered in a voice that made her feel fevered. “Yes, it has quite a feel to it.”

  “I am certain you have enough women without bothering yourself about me,” Sassy answered, hoping she sounded imperious to him.

  “I am truly the only one who can be the judge of that, my Sassy. Don’t dislike me so vehemently, I may not be just what you see.”

  “Meaning what exactly? How do you know what I see? Tell me, my lord, do you see who you appear to be?”

  “You mean if I bothered to look?” he returned sharply.

  “Yes, if you bothered to look at yourself, would you see a man with disdain for others less fortunate, less clever, less elevated? You behave as though the truths you see are the only tr
uths. You don’t allow yourself to see another’s.”

  His blue eyes regarded her with an intensity that sent shivers of desire through her, desire that was difficult to deny. In spite of what she saw, in spite of what she said, she wanted him. Did he see that?

  “I believe in your truth, Sassy Winthrop. I believe in yours, and I thought I would never believe in a woman ever again.” He shrugged. “Most women would take that as a compliment—do you?”

  “I do not,” she returned, gazing at the hands she had folded in her lap.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I believe you are trifling with me. Do you think I don’t know that it was your magic, yours that caused my … my …”

  “Dream? Are you speaking about the dream? Do not offend both our intellects by denying this.” He paused, but as she neither looked at him nor responded, he continued. “I did not call on magic. It called on me, just as yours called on you that first day when we saw one another in your village.” He shook his head. “Trifle with you? Indeed, I wish that were the case, but, my dear Sassy, it is not. I am not at all trifling with you.”

  She felt her cheeks burn, but their conversation was cut short as Percy Lutterel appeared on their scene appearing harassed and shaking his head about, looking almost fitful.

  “Justin—oh,” he said as he spied Sassy beside his friend. “Good evening, Miss Winthrop. So sorry to interrupt,” he said suddenly as he looked from her to the marquis.

  Noting his apparent distress, she said softly, “How do you do, Mr. Lutterel?”

  “Not well. In fact, that is why I am here. I wonder if I might have a word with his lordship for a moment?”

  “Of course,” Sassy said, getting to her feet and finding the marquis jumping to his as he bowed.

  He kissed her hand and said, “I am sorry for this interruption. I could have sat here with you all evening.”

  “And how unseemly that would be of me. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me,” she said as she moved with grace and left them at her back.