Mistress of the Hunt

by Amanda Scott

  “Like lunatics,” said the dowager, shaking her head. “Look at them.”

  Rochford, riding between the dowager and Philippa, obliged her, then said, raising his voice a little over the din, “ ’Tis enough to reassure him as to his popularity, is it not, ma’am?”

  The dowager chuckled, and the noise increased after that, making further conversation impossible, so there was nothing to be done but to let the crowd sweep them back toward Belvoir Castle. There, as the Regent descended from his carriage, a royal salute of twenty-one guns was fired from the castle ramparts, with a second volley following in honor of the Duke of York.

  Only with great difficulty and much persuasion were the Rutland servants able to dissuade the cheering, shouting throng from removing the Regent’s matched bays from their traces and transforming themselves into carriage horses. The Duke of Rutland, having managed to ride on ahead, was at the door with his duchess to greet the visitors, and after the Regent had been ceremoniously presented with a gold key to Staunton Tower, Belvoir’s chief stronghold, the party entered the castle.

  Philippa scarcely saw Rochford except in passing for the next three days, because with the arrival of the Regent and some two hundred invited guests, the entertainment began in earnest, and it rapidly became clear to all that the Duchess of Rutland had outdone herself. There was not a moment unfilled. For the invited guests, every waking moment had been arranged, including a shooting party for the gentlemen and an al-fresco luncheon for the ladies, who enjoyed nearly a half-hour of pale sunlight on a hillside near Grantham.

  In the park and on the grounds, sounds of the tenants’ revelry continued long into the first night and the next two nights as well, for a bonfire had been organized for Sunday night and the tenants’ annual ball in honor of the duke’s birthday fell on the Monday. None of this festivity, however, was anything to compare with the merrymaking that took place on Tuesday, the day of the christening and, incidentally, the Duke of Rutland’s thirty-sixth birthday.

  The christening ceremony was relatively private, with only those two hundred noble guests who had been specifically invited to attend. The Regent was at his most condescending, and both he and his brother the Duke of York played their part in the performance with practiced ease. Her grace, the dowager Duchess of Rutland, representing Queen Charlotte as the little marquess’s godmother, behaved with noble aplomb, and the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the baptism with solemnity and grace. But although the ceremony was soon over, the festivities had just begun.

  Open house and lavish hospitality were the order of the day, and the citizenry availed themselves of all of it. It seemed to Philippa that wherever she turned that day, she was continually tripping over some stranger, and it was as likely to be a common peasant as an earl. The Duchess of Rutland had opened the castle from top to bottom, even arranging that anyone who wished to do so might pay his respects to the young marquess, and Rutland’s butler had had the happy notion to provide a huge oval cistern containing fifty gallons of strong punch in the servants’ hall. Many times over, the members of the household as well as the tenants drank to the heir, wished many happy returns to the duke, and called for God to preserve their noble Prince Regent.

  At one point, the Regent, attired in the Belvoir uniform of scarlet and buff in honor to his host, appeared smiling and nodding before the enthusiastic throng to reply to the toast to himself with his customary eloquence. “Damme, Rutland,” he said at the end, “so long as we live, we shall never forget the manner in which we have been received at Belvoir Castle.”

  The toasting began all over again then. Everything and everyone was toasted right down to the duchess’s sparkling eyes, until, despite Mr. Douglas’ careful management, the cistern of punch had laid many a brave fellow prostrate. The passages of the house, Rochford observed on one of those rare occasions that afternoon when he chanced to meet Philippa in passing, reminded him of nothing so much as a castle taken by storm.

  “If the toasting goes on much longer,” he added wryly, “articulation will cease altogether.”

  By the time the guests assembled for dinner that evening, it was plain to see that many of them had been toasting quite as freely as the tenantry. Even the dowager duchess appeared to be tipsy, though she was by no means castaway and was clearly enjoying the festivities. Philippa had had several cups of punch herself, and was looking forward to the dancing that was to take place after dinner.

  Her dinner partner was a young lord whom she had not had the pleasure of meeting before, but he had had a great deal of punch and did not let a little thing like a lack of long acquaintance stop him from promptly—once he realized who she was—offering his hand to her in marriage.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “but was I not earlier introduced to your wife?”

  “Wife?” He peered at her blearily, then gaped unsteadily up and down the long table. “By God, ma’am, so you were. Forgot I had a wife. Thought of your fortune put thought of her sharp tongue straight out of my head.”

  Shaking her head in exasperated amusement, Philippa went back to her dinner, but despite the fact that there remained a certain amount of stiffness yet between herself and Rochford, she quite looked forward to recounting the conversation to him. Not until the musicians had struck up for the second waltz, just before the midnight supper was to be served, was she able to enjoy a dance with him, however. He stepped up then just as she was about to bestow her hand elsewhere, and neatly cut the gentleman out by saying with cool aplomb, “My dance, I fear. Her ladyship must have misread her card.”

  “Rochford, you are unscrupulous,” Philippa told him as he swept her onto the floor, leaving her erstwhile partner staring. “You know perfectly well you did not put your name down for this dance.”

  “Couldn’t find you to put my name down at all,” he admitted frankly. “Why didn’t you put me in my place, sweetheart, if you wished to dance with that fop instead?”

  She twinkled at him and said in a saintly tone, “Because I have learned not to contradict you, my lord.” Then she added in her normal, forthright way, “And because I wished to talk with you, of course.” When she regaled him with the tale of her latest proposal, he enjoyed it quite as much as she had hoped he would.

  “I was cornered over the port,” he said, grimacing, “by two gents who wished to discuss Bonaparte’s latest nonsense. Since they were in alt, I had all I could do to be civil to them.”

  “Why, what did they say?”

  “Oh, the usual. You’ve heard, of course, that Boney has announced himself ready for peace.”

  “Yes, of course. The dowager told us, and I read the article in the Times myself—the bit about how he has accepted our preliminaries for the sake of his empress and the fathers and children of the French empire. A lot of hogwash, the dowager called it.”

  “She’s a right one, is Was-a-Bella,” he said, smiling toward the lady in question, who was dancing energetically with a determined-looking young man. “If Boney’s not gulling us again like he did with the Peace of Amiens, you may call me a Dutchman. The only use he ever makes of a cessation of hostilities is to prepare for further conquests. He is now at our mercy, damn him, with his own people against him. I just hope we will not leave him in a condition to disturb the peace of the world any more than he has done already.”

  “You are severe, sir,” she said, dimpling up at him.

  He smiled ruefully. “I am, am I not? ’Tis my fight, you see, but I ought not to bring it into a ballroom, sweetheart, and for that I do apologize.”

  “You need not, sir.” She realized that he had twice called her sweetheart and that she had not reproved him. No doubt it was because she needed to concentrate upon her steps.

  At that moment, Rochford’s arm was jostled and he looked around to discover his uncle and Miss Pellerin dancing beside him.

  “You may wish me happy, nevvy,” said Mr. Drake with a broad smile.

  “Good Lord, sir, have you been making inroad
s in the punch, too?”

  “Devil a bit. Adeliza has consented to be my bride.”

  Both Philippa and Rochford nearly came to a standstill, but fortunately the viscount came to his senses in time to avoid collision with any other dancers. “I do wish you happy, sir, but, Miss Pellerin, are you quite convinced that you are being wise to do such a thing as to tie yourself to this old curmudgeon?”

  Miss Pellerin merely nodded, casting an uncertain glance at Philippa, then looking quickly away again.

  “For shame, sir,” scolded Philippa, as the movement of the dance parted the two couples again, “to tease her so. I think you must have bewildered her, too, for she looked uncommonly unsure of herself.”

  “Well, I do think she must be demented to wish to live with that old scoundrel,” said Rochford roundly. Then he looked down at her and smiled confidently. “That is not why she looked the way she did, however. She was my dinner partner, you know, and I think she believes she may have betrayed you.”

  The music stopped just then, but when Philippa, having barely heard his last words and not really taken in their meaning, turned away, Rochford moved quickly beside her. “Will you go down to supper with me?”

  “No, thank you, sir. The duke means to hunt tomorrow if the good weather holds, and he has asked me to join him. I have had very little sleep these past nights, with all the noise, and I confess I should not like to disgrace myself by dozing off midway through the first field and falling off my horse. ’Tis midnight, after all. I am going to bed.”

  “Not alone, you aren’t,” the viscount said almost harshly.

  She did stop then, turning to look up at him in indignation. “I beg your pardon, Rochford.”

  At first he did not seem to realize what he had said, but after a moment spent gazing at her in bewilderment, his brow cleared and he chuckled. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to, not that it isn’t a splendid idea. No, no, my dear, don’t poker up again. I have no intention of pressing my company on you overnight. If I had, I promise you I should never have been so clumsy in my approach. But if the halls of this place are not alive with drunken men intent upon mischief of any sort, then I shall be surprised. You are not to attempt the journey from here to your bedchamber alone.”

  “You make it sound like a pilgrimage, sir,” she said, relaxing and rewarding him with a smile, for once not minding at all that he was making her decisions for her. “I confess, though, that there was so much activity in the corridor while I dressed for dinner that I expected to be interrupted at any moment. Alice practically barricaded the door.”

  “Good for Alice. I hope she had the good sense to remain after you left, but I’ll not be amazed if she has joined the festivities in the servants’ hall instead. I’ll accompany you upstairs.”

  “But what of Cousin Adeliza? I should not go away without telling her.”

  “Uncle Archibald will look after her, and if it will make you feel better, I’ll see that someone informs her that you have gone to bed. Here, Alvanley,” he added, reaching out to grab a passing arm.

  The young baron looked around indignantly. “Thee here, Rochford, that’s my best arm.”

  “Yes, indeed, ’tis the one you cast the bones with, is it not? I would not for worlds do anything to render it more adept. Look here,” he added hastily when Alvanley looked eager to engage in repartee with him, “be a good fellow and find Miss Pellerin, who is with my uncle, I believe. You may tell her that Lady Philippa has retired.”

  “Oh, I thay, ma’am, my pleasure,” said Alvanley, bowing. With a knowing wink at Rochford, he took himself off.

  “Silly ass,” said the viscount without rancor. “Shall we go?”

  As he had predicted, there were numerous overmerry gentlemen littering the corridors, but with Rochford as her escort, Philippa reached her own bedchamber without incident. There was no one inside, and she was a little dismayed when the viscount followed her in and shut the door, locking it behind himself.

  “Rochford, what are you about?” she asked curiously. The humming in her mind had reached a high pitch again, and she experienced the odd sense of danger that she had felt before in his presence. The sensation increased when he smiled at her.

  “I want to assure myself that this room is empty,” he said evenly, moving across the room to look behind the window curtains. No intruder lurked there, so he went to the bed and peered under it.

  Philippa laughed. “Really, sir, do you expect to find a lover or a felon?”

  “This is no laughing matter, madam,” he said seriously, straightening to look at her sternly. “You have seen what those fellows are like. Neither your rank nor your position will protect you from one who is sufficiently intoxicated. Perhaps you do not know that the duke saw fit to put guards on the stairs to the upper floors in order to prevent anyone from harassing the children. If he felt it necessary to protect them from the rabble out there, can you blame me for wishing to protect you?”

  He took a step nearer, then seemed to think better of the notion and turned away to continue his search. When he was thoroughly satisfied that they were alone, he turned back to face her.

  Philippa had not moved. She regarded him speculatively, thinking he looked uncertain, which in her experience was most unlike him. “What is it, my lord?” she asked when he continued silent.

  His lips tightened briefly, and for a moment it was as though he could not meet her steady gaze. Then he visibly gathered himself together and shot her a straight look from under his brows. “Did you truly wish to leave the dancing because you are overtired, or have I vexed you again in some way?”

  “Vexed me?” She wrinkled her brow.

  “Perhaps I ought not to have pursued the matter with Miss Pellerin when it was clear she hadn’t meant to say anything about it, but I—”

  “Pursued what matter? Oh, you mean your conversation with her at dinner about her marriage proposal and her supposed betrayal. I didn’t quite catch your words at first, what with the music stopping and people talking and moving about, but you know how it is, Rochford. The echo of words comes back to one. I cannot think why she should think of her impending marriage in such a light, for I have no contract with her, so her own interests must come before mine. I shall no doubt find another companion, though perhaps not one so congenial.”

  “I first learned of her impending marriage to my scholarly relative when you did, sweetheart.” His eyes were gleaming now with amusement and renewed confidence. When Philippa stared at him, more confused than ever, he said lightly, “Her betrayal was in letting slip the fact that you did indeed have every right to post Wakefield’s land. Why, after so much stubborn struggle, did you yield without even a challenge? I believe I know the answer,” he added, moving toward her with the clear intent of taking her in his arms, “but I should like to hear the words from your own sweet lips.”

  —16—

  PHILIPPA EYED THE VISCOUNT coldly. “Is this an attempted seduction, after all, then, sir? Because I can think of no other reason for your odd behavior tonight.”

  Rochford stopped short. “Seduction? Good God, Philippa, why would you think such a thing as that?”

  “Because your confidence—nay, your arrogance—this evening makes it clear that you believe I yielded, as you put it, through a desire to please you. You should know, sir, that I believed silence at that point provided the simplest way out of what had become an intolerable situation. It was a decision I made based upon many factors, not an impulse based upon emotion.”

  He was silent for a moment, digesting her words, but then a smile began to tug at his lips, and he took another step toward her.

  Knowing she could not trust herself to hold to her principles if he were to touch her, Philippa stepped hastily back. “Please go, Rochford,” she said in an expressionless voice. “There is nothing more to say.”

  For a moment he looked as though he would argue with her, but then his hands fell to his sides, and he turned away. With the door o
pen, he turned back long enough to say harshly, “Lock this behind me,” and then he was gone.

  Having obeyed his instructions to lock the door, she moved to survey herself in the cheval glass near her dressing table. She looked much as she usually did, and the first thought that was allowed to gain purchase in the chaos of her mind was a hope that she would be able to get out of her silken ball gown unaided, since it was clearly not sensible to ring for Alice.

  Even if the abigail were within hearing of the bell, the chance that she might reach Philippa’s bedchamber unmolested was a slim one.

  Without giving thought to her movements, she began automatically to divest herself of her clothing and to prepare herself for bed. Not until she was safely tucked under the eiderdown did the thoughts so carefully held at bay come flooding in upon her mind. Was she being unpardonably foolish to keep him at arm’s length when her love for him was growing stronger by the day? Had the late baron done her a disservice by giving her such a taste for her own independence of spirit and decision? Philippa wriggled beneath the covers, thinking of the look on Rochford’s face as he had begun to approach her. She could think of nothing more pleasurable than to be held in his arms, and she had no doubt that she would enjoy his certain expertise in matters of the flesh. Really, she thought, considering that she had been married five full years, she knew little of such matters. That had been one area Wakefield had not explored with her beyond assuaging his own needs. Of course, during the last two years of his life, his health had not permitted any such activity, but before that there had been a time or two when she had suspected that there might be a great deal of pleasure to be found in carnal pursuits. No doubt that was wicked of her. Still, by virtue of the fact that Rochford stirred her blood by his very presence, and in a way that Wakefield had never stirred her at all, she rather thought she would like to discover just how much pleasure might be enjoyed under the viscount’s guidance.