by Lauren Royal
Chrystabel rather suspected it was herself.
“As it happens,” the countess said conversationally,” I rather should like to dance tonight. And before you argue, dear,” she added to her husband, “this isn’t like the Christmas trimmings. Should a stranger knock on the door, we can simply stop dancing, and no one will be the wiser.”
Lord Trentingham grunted.
“It doesn’t signify,” Joseph said, “since we have no musical instruments in the house.”
Chrystabel smiled sweetly. “Because music is against the law?”
He looked like he wanted to laugh. “Yes, because music is against the law. We cannot make music, hence we cannot dance.” He shrugged.
“Oh, yes, we can.” Chrystabel’s smile stretched wider. “We’ve a viol and a recorder in our wagon, and willing musicians among our servants.”
“Wonderful!” When Lady Trentingham’s face lit up, Chrystabel realized she was very pretty for a woman her age. “It’s settled, then.”
The countess seemed to employ that phrase often—and to great effect. Both her husband and son appeared resigned to their fate.
I could learn much from her, Chrystabel thought.
“It’s too risky,” Lord Trentingham protested again, but not as though he expected anyone to listen.
“Oh, Henry,” his wife admonished him, “don’t be such an old fust-cudgel.”
Five
WHEN THEY’D SCRAPED up every morsel of the excellent trifle and emptied the last decanter of wine, Joseph’s mother announced it was time to dance. Father offered another feeble protest, but all Mother had to do was place a hand on his arm and say, “Please, dear,” very winsomely while batting her eyelashes. And he gave in.
Watching the exchange, Joseph promised himself he’d never let Creath manipulate him so easily.
Not that he’d have to worry about that. His intended was the most agreeable, sweet-tempered creature on earth. She’d never employ feminine wiles to get her own way; it wouldn’t even occur to her. Nor would it enter her head to make a fuss over such a frivolous matter as dancing.
Why Joseph’s mother had been suddenly gripped by the need to dance was a mystery to him. Normally, Mother was a perfectly sensible woman. He couldn’t imagine what had got into her.
Well, actually, he did have one idea of what—or rather, who—might be the cause. One who seemed rather prone to impulsive and irresponsible whims. One who exhibited little regard for propriety, and even less for the rule of law. One who, by all appearances, was here for the express purpose of getting on his nerves.
One Lady Chrystabel Trevor.
When supper first began, he’d watched her and he’d wondered. What was it about this young woman that he found so bothersome? She was a woman, after all—even hidden inside that dowdy nun’s habit of a gown, she was quite unmistakably a woman. And Joseph liked women. He’d never met a beautiful young woman he didn’t like. So why couldn’t he get along with this one? It seemed every word she’d uttered was calculated to raise his hackles.
That had been irritating enough. But then she’d gone into raptures over his gardens, permanently endearing herself to him. He’d been touched—and baffled—by Chrystabel’s enthusiasm. Even Creath, his oldest and dearest friend, could muster only polite praise on the subject of his gardens. Affectionate admiration, perhaps, if she were feeling generous. Gardening was the sort of pastime that elicited genuine enthusiasm only from one’s parents.
And now Chrystabel.
So here he was, paradoxically endeared to someone he couldn’t stand. She was the most puzzling woman he’d ever met.
“Oh, my heavens,” the puzzle breathed as they stepped into the great room, “this chamber is massive.”
“I believe it was used for large banquets in the last century,” Mother told her.
“I’ve never seen such an enormous fireplace in my life. My whole family could sit inside and play Pope July!”
Mother laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Having lived here for nearly ten years, Joseph never paid much notice to the great room himself. But he could see why an outsider might find this chamber particularly awe-inspiring. It had dark Tudor paneling, gilded family crests, two intimate oriel window niche seating areas, and an abundance of plush, richly upholstered furnishings—but not so much that it filled the whole space, for that would be well-nigh impossible.
“Let’s push all the furniture out of the way,” Chrystabel suggested.
The men jumped to do her bidding, creating a large open expanse in the center that was perfect for dancing. Chrystabel certainly knew how to command a room. Joseph wasn’t sure whether he found that impressive or frightening.
Meanwhile, a footman had returned with the instruments and musicians, two spirited youths who looked so alike, they had to be brothers. “What dance shall we perform?” Mother asked while the boys readied themselves.
“We’re an uneven number,” Chrystabel pointed out, “one more lady than we have gentlemen.”
Lady Arabel bounced on her toes. “But all the country dances are done in pairs.”
“Oh, yes, that’s a shame,” Chrystabel said cheerfully, as though it weren’t a shame at all. “And the pavane is for pairs, too. It seems the volta is our only choice.”
Father gasped, then coughed. “The volta?” he choked out.
“It will suit our situation perfectly.” Her honeyed smile struck Joseph as a bit too innocent. “For the galliard portion, it shan’t matter if there’s a spare. For the measures done with a partner, the ladies can take turns pairing with the gentlemen, and the extra lady can just twirl in place.”
“But the volta is scandalous.” His coughing fit under control, Father braced his hands on his hips. “It’s much too intimate for a family party.”
Mother made an impatient noise. “Queen Elizabeth and Queen Henrietta Maria both enjoyed the volta. It’s a good Royalist dance.”
“It’s settled, then.” Chrystabel clapped her hands. “Music, please!”
Joseph couldn’t believe his ears. It was settled? Just because Chrystabel had said so? Not even here a full day, the interfering chit apparently thought herself lord of the manor—and no one was objecting. When the musicians raised their instruments, even Joseph moved toward the center of the room. And before he knew what was happening, he found himself beginning the galliard, a series of small leaps, jumps, and hops that could be performed without a partner.
When the beat changed to signal the partner portion of the dance, he made sure to pair up with Creath first, as was only proper. Right palm to right palm, they circled each other.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“As much as possible, I suppose.” They switched to go the other direction, touching left palms this time. “Under the circumstances.”
They didn’t discuss the circumstances—not there in that room. He, Creath, and his parents had all agreed the betrothal should be kept secret from their guests, as they didn’t want to risk word reaching Sir Leonard. What the Trevors didn’t know, they couldn’t spread to others after leaving Tremayne.
As the dance dictated, Joseph pulled Creath close, lifted her, and twirled her around. This was the part of the volta that his father found scandalous. Each of the three times he did this, Creath’s exhilarated giggles escalated, making him smile. He was growing accustomed to the idea of marrying her.
Sort of.
They parted ways for another set of the energetic galliard steps. When the music changed again, he found himself paired with Chrystabel.
“Your father is very conservative,” she said without preamble, raising her arm. Their hands came together palm-to-palm.
Touching Chrystabel felt so different from touching Creath that he was momentarily struck dumb. But he recovered his composure quickly as they began circling each other. “My father is indeed conservative. In fact, that’s why we live so far out here in the wilderness. Father and Grandfather thought i
t safest to avoid Cromwell’s notice during the war, thus they took us as far from the fighting as possible.”
Her eyes flickered. “He didn’t fight? My brother and father both fought in the war. Father died defending the king.”
Joseph’s memory flashed to when he’d accused her of being a secret Roundhead at supper. He felt immediately awful for teasing her. But he refused to feel ashamed for the difficult choices his family had made.
“My grandfather wasn’t willing to risk his heir—or his grandchildren, for that matter. And after he passed, the earldom’s well-being rested on my father remaining alive, at least until I was grown enough to take over if the need arose.”
She leveled him her with her dark, wide-set gaze. “Meaning you placed the earldom ahead of the country.”
He didn’t like how that you made him a culprit. For pity’s sake, he’d been a mere boy when they’d come to Tremayne.
But then he remembered no one was a culprit, because the Ashcrofts had done nothing wrong. How did she keep twisting him around in this manner?
“I suppose yours is one interpretation,” he retorted as they reversed direction. “Mine might be that while other Royalists were busy killing people, we were protecting people instead. Not only our family, but the hundreds of others who depend on our lands and resources to survive.”
“You think Grosmont has no dependents?” Her breath was coming faster, from annoyance or exercise or something else, he knew not. “We care about our people, too, but we made sacrifices for our king.”
He shrugged. “And we chose not to make sacrifices for a hopeless cause.”
Her mouth fell open in a little O that said more than words how astonished she was that any Royalist would call the monarchy a hopeless cause.
As he pulled her close for the first lift, his heart pounded in his ears—from exertion, he was sure. His hands encircled her curving waist, feeling the stiff fabric warmed by her skin. When he raised her aloft and twirled, her big white collar fluttered in his face.
He felt the oddest urge to rip the damn thing off her.
Following the third lift, it was a relief to part ways. Though the fire in the big hearth was down to embers, he was feeling overheated. His feet taking up the galliard, he wondered if he’d drunk too much wine. Or was it the stress of his impending marriage? Something must be affecting him, because he’d never acted so quarrelsome in his life, much less been afflicted with any violent, inexplicable urges.
The Ashcroft family motto was Interroga Conformationem, which was Latin for “Question Convention.” Joseph had often thought it an unfitting motto for his family—and wondered when it might have fit and what had happened to them since. For these days, in most things, the Ashcrofts were very conventional indeed.
In contrast, he had never met a woman who questioned convention as much as Chrystabel did.
His next partner was his mother. “Lady Chrystabel is delightful, don’t you think?” Mother said as they circled together.
“Delightful?”
Mother’s carefully dressed curls bounced with her nod. “She’s so honest and refreshing.”
“Those aren’t the words I would have chosen,” he quipped.
“Oh?” When Mother smiled, he noticed she wasn’t a bit out of breath. For that matter, neither was he, and he no longer felt overwarm, either. “Which words come to mind?”
“Impulsive,” was his first choice. They changed direction. “Interfering. Irresponsible.”
“That’s a lot of i words,” Mother said with a rare sparkle in her eye. “Have you any more?”
“Naturally.” He grinned, enjoying this playful side of her. “Irritating, irrational, impertinent—”
“Irresistible?” she suggested slyly.
Joseph’s mouth gaped open. “Pray pardon?” Why on earth would she say such a thing?
“I saw you looking at her while the two of you danced.”
“I was not looking at her! I happen to find her insufferable.” Blast, another i word. It seemed he couldn’t stop. “Besides which, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m betrothed!”
“Hush!” Mother glanced around and dropped her voice. “Our guests might overhear.”
He hushed, since it was time to lift and and twirl her, anyway, which made it difficult for him to speak.
But she went right on ahead. “There’s a lesson to be learned from this: Mere promises cannot stop one from appreciating beauty or charm when one sees it. I’ve been a content wife for twenty-five years, yet still I’m not immune to the charms of other men. If contentment is enough, choose the woman who will always remain by your side. But if it’s happiness you seek, choose the woman who will always recapture your attention.”
Now he feared his eyes were gaping—never mind that that was physically impossible. Never in his life had he heard his mother speak this way. Evidently she fit their family motto better than he’d thought. Question Convention, indeed.
After their last twirl, she detained him with a hand on his arm. “I like Lady Chrystabel. She’s a pretty thing, and she makes me laugh. We haven’t had a lot of laughter in this house since your sisters left.” Joseph had three sisters who had all married well, thanks to the generous dowries his father had provided. He wondered if they really knew their mother. “I used to think you and your father were much alike, my dear boy. But now I see you’ve got more of me than I realized.” And with a wink, she danced off.
Joseph performed the next galliard in a daze. He couldn’t even begin turning over her surprising advice. His mother had winked at him.
When he found himself partnered with Lady Arabel, he managed to recover his wits. He cast about for a neutral topic of conversation. “Are you looking forward to living in Wales, Lady Arabel?”
“I’m trying to view it as an adventure.” She danced in a jaunty, light-footed way that matched her cheerful nature. “I just wish I knew some Welsh.”
“My father knows Welsh.” He felt absurdly relieved to engage in simple, polite chitchat. “Father knows lots of languages, actually.”
“Are languages his pastime?” Lady Arabel asked, as though she were really curious.
Joseph chuckled, remembering the discussion at supper. “I would say so. Shall I ask him if he might teach you a few words of Welsh?”
She squealed when he lifted her and twirled. “Oh, that would be marvelous!”
Marvelous words from a marvelous girl. For the first time this evening, he felt normal and like himself. Lady Arabel made him smile, while her sister made him…feel hot.
On a cold, snowy evening, Chrystabel Trevor made him feel hot.
It was an odd feeling he’d never experienced before, and he didn’t like it one bit, he decided while performing the next set of galliard steps. It wasn’t comfortable at all.
He was paired again with Creath when Watkins arrived in the great room’s main doorway and cleared his throat. “Sir Leonard is approaching, my lord!” he called over the music.
Six
CHRYSTABEL WATCHED Creath head for the far door at a run, dodging the jumble of pushed-aside furniture as she went.
“Keep dancing!” Lord Trentingham commanded. “Lady Arabel, take Creath’s place.”
Chrystabel obeyed, and so did everyone else. Arabel stepped in as Joseph’s partner. Lord Trentingham was dancing with his wife, and Chrystabel was paired with Matthew. She couldn’t imagine what was happening, but she kept dancing, sensing it was best not to ask.
When the set finished, Lady Trentingham signaled the musicians to skip the galliard and play them through the turns once again. Chrystabel was still circling with her brother when Watkins returned and ushered a stranger into the room.
Tall with a raw-boned build and blunt blond hair, the man was in his middle years. Though his clean-shaven features seethed with anger, his blue eyes were colder than hoarfrost. “What is the meaning of this?” he bellowed.
The dancers halted as the music died away. Exchanging a frightened look w
ith her sister, Chrystabel was grateful to see Joseph placing himself between Arabel and the stranger.
“I could have you all arrested for dancing!” the man roared into the sudden silence. Then, appearing to get himself somewhat under control, he lowered his voice to a menacing growl. “And don’t think I won’t if I find out she’s here.”
Lord Trentingham furrowed his brow. “Are you searching for someone, your worship?”
Your worship? Evidently the wilderness did have Justices of the Peace—and this vile man was one of them. No wonder Tremayne folk were reluctant to break the law. Chrystabel wouldn’t want to get on this brute’s bad side, either.
“You know who I’m searching for.” The justice’s lips twisted in a sneer—an oft-used expression, judging from the deep lines around his mouth. “My dearest cousin and betrothed, Mistress Creath Moore.”
“Good heavens, is the girl missing?” Lady Trentingham made a convincing concerned neighbor. “How long has she been gone?”
“A night and a day.” The justice advanced several threatening paces toward her. “But I’ve an inkling you already knew that, my lady.”
The earl put a protective arm around his wife. “We haven’t seen the girl, Sir Leonard,” he said in a tone of warning.
Chrystabel was surprised when the taller man stopped in his tracks. Then she remembered Lord Trentingham was a peer, while the justice was apparently a mere knight or baronet. He might have the advantage in malice and government authority, but the earl was a powerful man, and by no means the weaker opponent.
But Sir Leonard wasn’t backing down. An inflamed red lump on his head, just visible beneath his thinning hair, seemed to pulse with anger. “I’ve searched all the other nearby estates and found no trace of her,” he snarled.
He’d saved Tremayne for last, Chrystabel noted. Further proof he was afraid of the earl.
“You’re welcome to search our grounds,” Lady Trentingham put in, “though the cold—”
