by Anne Gracie
Learning that all that your family wanted of you—for the rest of your life—was a brief period of stud service, that was a slap in the face.
And if it had been done with the least bit of hostility or scorn, Rafe would have slapped back—hard. But George had thought he was doing Rafe a favor. George had worked hard to find what he considered the perfect bride for Rafe: one who wouldn’t trouble him in the slightest.
The trouble was, Rafe liked trouble.
And pathetic as it was, Rafe couldn’t rebuff the first friendly overture from his brother since their father had died. So he’d cut and run—to Egypt.
“I didn’t mean about the son,” Ayisha interrupted his thoughts. “I meant what did he mean, you’d never settled?”
“It’s true. I haven’t had a permanent home since . . . I don’t know when actually. Not since I was a small boy.” He frowned, only just realizing it. Had it really been so long?
“When your father sent you away.” She said it in such a way that showed she understood why he’d never, ever send a child of his away. It wasn’t that he’d minded living with Granny—he’d loved living at Foxcotte and he loved her. But to know how little he’d mattered to his own father. . . .
No child of his would ever be in doubt that they mattered.
“No, I lived with my grandmother, and that was my home then. It was after she died . . .” Good God, had it really been so long since he’d had anywhere permanent?
She gaped at him. “But your family is rich,” she said, sounding quite distressed. “How could you not have a home?”
She was imagining he’d had to live on the streets, like she had, he realized. He laughed and slipped an arm around her waist. “No, you’re imagining something dreadful. I’ve had a delightful time, I assure you. After Granny died, I never went to Axebridge—my father’s home, now George’s—if I could help it. On school holidays I stayed with Gabe and Harry, or Luke. And then the army was my home. And since then, well, I stay with friends, and when in London, I have lodgings.”
“Can’t you buy a house?”
He shrugged. “What for? Besides, I do own a house—my grandmother left me hers when she died.” He hadn’t found that out until he was one and twenty and the family solicitor had written to him in Spain. His father had appointed an estate manager and the house was rented out. Rafe wasn’t needed.
“So you have a home.”
“No, I own a house. There’s a difference.”
“If you own a house, you can have a home,” she insisted. “Getting the house is the hard part. Making it into a home is easy.”
“Is it?” he said. “Good, when we’re married, you will enjoy making us a home.”
She pulled herself away. “They say we’ll be in Malta tomorrow.” It was a warning. “I’ll go down first,” she said briskly and moved toward the companionway.
Malta was beautiful, a small jewel of an island set in brilliant azure waters, and like a jewel, it was tough at heart, with enormous fortifications rising from the sea.
Of course, being in quarantine, they were not allowed ashore, but in exchange for gold and several fine large turtles caught by the seamen, fresh provisions came aboard, including several large baskets full of fresh fruit.
Ayisha and Rafe strolled on deck while below, the ship’s passengers were treated to turtle soup, various roasted game meats, and fresh vegetables and fruit, with local cheeses to follow. The smells that floated up from the galley were enticing, and Rafe was hungry, but they had to be patient. They received their dinner after the others, but Higgins would ensure they didn’t just get leftovers.
On the shore they could hear music playing. Some kind of festival or celebration. Ayisha leaned over the gunwales, listening avidly, one foot raised.
“You’ll fall overboard if you’re not careful,” Rafe told her. She was all grace and lissome beauty.
She laughed. “Isn’t the music wonderful?” She closed her eyes the better to concentrate on the sounds floating across the smooth water of the harbor. “Oh—oh! I know that song,” she exclaimed in excitement. “It’s ‘Highland Laddie,’ and I used to be able to play it on the pianoforte.” And humming along with the tune, she played silent notes on the smooth surface of the gunwale.
Her open enjoyment of such a small pleasure touched him.
“So, you can play the pianoforte,” he prompted, hoping to encourage her to open up a little. She so rarely talked about her past.
“No, I wish I could,” she said, still earnestly fingering soundless notes, with a kind of delight over something she thought long forgotten. “I started lessons, and I loved it; it was the best thing . . .” And she sang a line and smiled. “So lovely to hear this song after so many years.”
“You seem very proficient to me.”
“Yes, but only on a ship’s rail,” she admitted. “I only attended lessons for a year and then . . .”
“Then what?”
“They stopped.” Her fingering faltered, and she snatched them back self-consciously and, as if looking for something to do with them, brushed her hair back.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the soft lapping of the waves and the sounds from the town drifting across the water.
“What happened? Did your teacher leave? Or die?”
“Mrs. Whittacker? No, as far as I know she’s still living there and giving lessons.” She shrugged. “She used to give lessons to many of the Fran—the English and other children living there, not for the money, but because she loved chil—” She broke off, frowning. “No, she said it was because she loved children, but now that I think back, I don’t think that was true at all.”
She glanced up at him. “She made such a fuss of me, and I felt so welcome and so wanted . . .” She sighed. “When you’re a child you believe everything adults tell you,” she said in a tired-sounding voice. “It’s only much later you understand that there was something very different going on . . .”
“What was going on with Mrs. Whittacker?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Indulge my curiosity. I want to know why the lessons you so enjoyed stopped.”
She shrugged again. “I think now she had a tendre for Papa. Perhaps she hoped to marry him . . . I don’t know.”
“Your father didn’t return her sentiments?”
“No, of cour—” She broke off. “No, he didn’t. Can you hear what this one is?” She leaned out over the side, craning to hear the next song floating on the balmy night breeze, but he knew it was an excuse to change the subject. Something had happened about those lessons, not just the disappointment of a widow’s hopes. Something more personal to Ayisha.
“You sound upset.”
“I don’t know this one, but it’s pretty, isn’t it?” She swayed to the music.
She was obviously determined not to discuss it further. But the music and her movements had given him an idea.
“It’s Strauss,” he said and held out a hand to her. “Do you waltz, Miss Cleeve?”
She looked at his hand and shook her head. “You mean dance? No, I’ve seen people dance—they were the other part of Mrs. Whittacker’s lessons, but I never got to that part.”
“Then I’ll teach you.” He took her hands in his.
She tried to pull back. “No, I don’t know how.” She looked around, embarrassed.
There were, as usual at the time they took their walks, no sailors on the main deck. He could see a couple of them at work in the riggings, dark silhouettes against the evening sky and several more going about their tasks on the fo’c’sle and the poop deck. The ship would sail on the evening tide and soon there would be sailors everywhere, but for now . . .
“There’s nobody to see you,” he assured her. “Now, like this—one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three . . .” She stumbled a little at first, but Rafe was an excellent dancer with many years of practice—he’d served on Wellington’s staff and the Beau was known for his fon
dness for balls—and she soon picked up the steps.
She was very light on her feet and followed his guidance almost instinctively. He watched as slowly her expression changed from scowling concentration to an I-think-I-can-do-this expression, and finally she looked up and gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m dancing,” she exclaimed. “I’m dancing and it’s wonderf—oops!” She trod on his foot, and laughing, returned to intent concentration.
He didn’t think he could ever tire of watching her. The guarded expression she’d worn when he first met her had mostly disappeared. It came back whenever they were talking about her past—there was something dark and disturbing that she was hiding—but the rest of the time . . . she was breathtaking.
They whirled around and around the deck until the song finished and they were both breathless.
He released her and bowed, panting. “I must be getting old,” he joked. “I’m blowing like a fish. Time was I could ride all day, dance the night away, then ride all the next day.”
“It’s the fever,” she told him seriously. “You’re only just off your sickbed; you mustn’t overdo things. Fever can come back.”
He listened for the next tune. It was something he didn’t recognize. “Then, shall we sit this one out, my lady?” They returned to the rail.
“When were you talking about?” she asked. “Riding all day and dancing all night.”
“The army. Anyone on the Peer’s staff is—or soon learns to be—an accomplished dancer.”
“The Peer? Do you mean your father?”
The question surprised a crack of laughter out of him. “Good Lord, no, I wouldn’t know what sort of a dancer my father is. I can’t imagine him stooping to anything so human. The Peer is what we called Wellington when they made him a lord. That or the Beau. To his face, of course, we called him sir or my lord.”
“You mean you danced in the war? When you were a soldier?”
He laughed at her expression. “You can’t fight all the time, and you’d be surprised how much more can be achieved at a ball instead of in a meeting. Some of our most important supporters were first introduced to the Beau at a ball. Their wives dragged them—they would never have come to a meeting.”
“I see. I knew you’d done a lot of fighting, I hadn’t thought about anything else. I suppose the dancing is where diplomacy comes in.”
“That’s right. But Egypt was involved in the war as well. Were your parents much affected by Napoleon’s occupation?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was too small, and Papa never talked about it.”
“I’m surprised he stayed. With a wife and daughter . . .”
She shrugged. “Tell me about your own father. Would he really not dance?”
“I hardly knew him at all. He handed me a pair of colors the day I got home from school and—”
“Colors?”
“It means he’d purchased me a commission in the army.”
“The day you got home from school?” She gave him a troubled look.
He shrugged. “It’s common for younger sons to join the church, the diplomatic corps, or the army.”
“And you chose the army?”
He hesitated. He hadn’t actually been consulted. It had, in fact, come as quite a shock to be told to leave the very day he’d come home.
But as it turned out, he’d been happier in the army than he’d ever been at Axebridge. He’d liked being a soldier. He enjoyed having a clear purpose, a role that mattered, and he was good at it: good at fighting, good at organizing, and good at leading men, he’d been surprised to discover. The army had become his home.
And since his four closest friends had also followed him into the army, it had cemented his schoolboy friendships into a kind of family—one that would last a lifetime.
“Yes, the army suited me,” he told her. “Now unless I’m mistaken, that’s another waltz. I think we have time for just one more dance before you should go down to change.”
“No,” she said, sounding troubled. “I think we have danced enough.”
How strange to be thinking about Mrs. Whittacker at a time, at a place, like this, Ayisha thought that night. She lay awake on her side of the bed, waiting for the deep, even breathing that told her Rafe had fallen asleep. After that she could sleep, too.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t trust him; he was a man of his word, and as he’d promised, he’d made no move to seduce her.
Not in bed, that was.
There was a small matter of a kiss. And a dance.
The waltz was a small kind of possession, letting her be taken where he willed, dominated by him and the music. A foretaste . . .
She closed her eyes, reliving the dance. Once she’d got the hang of the steps, she’d let herself go, and oh, the feeling of circling in his arms, twirling in dizzy pleasure, giving herself up to the music, to his strong arms, his powerful body . . .
It made her wonder about the ultimate possession between a man and a woman . . .
It wasn’t him she didn’t trust. She was entirely too attracted to the man.
The memory of Mrs. Whittacker had come at a good time.
Ayisha needed reminding. She’d been seduced by more than just a kiss and a dance. It was the whole vision of her and Rafe married. Being with him for the rest of her life. Sleeping in the same bed, able to touch him as she wanted and be touched . . . To kiss him whenever she wanted, as long and as deep as she dreamed . . . To be able to open her heart to him and have him open his to her, sharing hopes, dreams, and troubles. And maybe, if they were blessed, having children with him. Making a home together, and a family. A family of her own.
That was the real seduction.
Remembering Mrs. Whittacker was like getting a bucket of cold water thrown in her face.
His promise, his offer of marriage, was for Alicia Cleeve. Mrs. Whittacker had taught Ayisha the lesson of her life when she was nine years old. And it wasn’t music.
She’d been going to lessons with Mrs. Whittacker for a year. Papa would walk her there each week and pick her up afterward. Ayisha loved her lessons and loved those walks with him. They were almost the only time she ever had Papa to herself.
Mrs. Whittacker always offered her and Papa tea afterward. She always had delicious things to eat: tiny iced cakes, ratafia biscuits, macaroons, and proper English tea.
Mrs. Whittacker called her Alice, Alice dear, or sweet Alice—never Ayisha. Papa had said she wasn’t to mind and to answer to whatever Mrs. Whittacker called her.
Each month, Mrs. Whittacker put on what she called a soirée musicale, only it was in the afternoon. Ayisha had never been to one, but she knew all about it. Her best pupils and their parents were invited, and the pupils put on a small concert. The most exciting part of the concert was the duet section.
Each month two specially chosen pupils were given a duet part to learn. It was only at the concert they heard how the final piece sounded, as they sat down at the keyboard with another pupil and each played their part.
Ayisha still remembered the excitement she felt when finally she was invited to attend the soirée and was given the honor of a part to learn. How she’d practiced, knowing at the end of the month she would perform—her first concert, and in a coveted duet.
And then the first blow, that Papa and Mama were going to Jerusalem, so Papa couldn’t attend the concert. Mama never went to that sort of thing—she was shy in company, because of her scarred cheek. Ayisha had always accepted it—until now.
“There will be other concerts, my dear,” Papa had said. He and Mama were very excited about their trip.
The second blow came when Papa said she wasn’t to go to lessons at all while he was away.
In retrospect Ayisha realized Papa had known what he was doing. At the time she thought her life had been blighted, that she’d never again be invited to one of Mrs. Whittacker’s soirées musicales, let alone perform a duet . . .
She was right, but not for the reasons her nine-year-o
ld self had imagined.
Her parents left for Jerusalem, but when the time for her weekly music lesson came, Ayisha had persuaded one of the servants to escort her. Not Ratibe, who usually looked after her, nor Yiorgi, who was left in charge of the household—either of those might have known of her father’s edict—but Minna, the youngest of the servants, who was silly and frivolous and fun.
Ayisha had never disobeyed her father before. Mrs. Whittacker was surprised at Papa’s absence, but the lesson continued, though there was no tea afterward.
The following week Mrs. Whittacker had asked her about Mama, question after question. She’d never questioned Ayisha before about anything. Then she’d cut the lesson short, claiming headache. Ayisha hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.
The day of the concert came and she’d dressed in her best clothes. She came in with a group of other people.
“Sit there and don’t move,” Mrs. Whittacker told her, pointing to a seat in the corner.
Ayisha had waited, excited, nervous . . . She watched as the other pupils and their parents arrived and smiled at the pupils, wondering who her partner in the duet would be. She didn’t know many other children. She watched them from her chair, wondering if any of them would become a friend. She dearly wanted a friend of her own age.
The concert started. Ayisha listened, watched, and waited.
Intermission. Everyone drank tea or lemonade and ate cakes. Ayisha got up to get a drink—being nervous was thirsty business—but Mrs. Whittacker hissed at her, “I told you to sit down,” and she sat.
Nobody came to speak to her. Nobody said a word to her. But there was whispering, and people were sneaking glances at her as they talked. What had she done wrong?
The second part of the concert drew to a close; there was only one more item: the duet. A girl with long golden ringlets stood, smoothing her pink dress nervously. Ayisha stood.
“I’m sorry, Susan, dear, your partner in the duet isn’t here,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “The concert is over.”
“But—” Ayisha began.
