by Jo Beverley
“Good morning, Miss Mallow. I’ve brought some gifts for you and your family.”
She managed to conquer laughter. “Please come through to the kitchen.”
When they arrived there, Barnett rose, glowering. She glanced back to see Perriam had halted and was eying the other man keenly, but with that irritating amusement.
Barnett turned red and she finally understood. He was here today because he’d heard rumors that a fine gentleman was calling on her. He’d wanted to get in first.
Two men fighting over her!
Claris made strangled introductions, thinking she might need the pistol to shoot herself.
“Mr. Barnett, this is Mr. Perriam, an old connection of my father’s. Mr. Perriam, Mr. Barnett is one of the local farmers. He very kindly brought me some lamb from a recent butchering.”
“How very practical,” Perriam said, making the lamb seem ridiculous.
“It is, for I enjoy roast lamb. Do you wish to stay? If so, please be seated.”
He took a seat at the end of the table. Barnett sat down again. Claris took the seat she’d used before, a suitor on either side.
Alas, Farmer Barnett was in the goat’s seat.
“Have you traveled far, sir?” Barnett asked.
“I’m staying locally,” Perriam replied. “Is your farm far from here?”
“But two miles, sir. A connection of Reverend Mallow’s, are you? He was a mite older than you.”
“The connection is through an older cousin. They were friends in their younger days, enjoying the pleasures of London.”
“Pleasures? A den of iniquity, or so I hear. Do you spend much time in London, sir?”
Claris bit her lip, but she was impressed with Barnett’s fighting spirit. Perhaps Yatta was too, for he came in, leapt into her lap, and put paws onto the table to observe.
“I do,” Perriam agreed, with that easy smile, “for I delight in it. There is everything in Town, good and bad.”
“Served Reverend Mallow badly, or so he used to say. May I hope your cousin is served better, sir?”
“Unlikely, but now he’s dead.”
“Then we must pray that he be enjoying his heavenly reward.”
Claris feared he’d start up a prayer, then and there.
“Why?” Perriam asked. “He was a bad man, and I prefer to trust in God’s justice rather than assume he can be swayed by pleas.”
Barnett’s jaw dropped. “That’s . . . That’s not right, sir. God hears our prayers.”
“And may put them in the balance when he judges us. But if I pray night and day for the salvation of an evil man, should God alter his judgment? You’d as well believe in popish indulgences.”
Farmer Barnett’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Let’s not fall into religious debate,” Claris said quickly. “Do you have news of events in London, Mr. Perriam? Has the unrest and violence ended?”
“That seems to be the case, Miss Mallow, perhaps because many of the rich and powerful are still away from Town, enjoying their country estates.”
“So it’s the rich and powerful who cause the trouble?” Barnett challenged.
Heavens, was he a radical?
Perriam’s brows rose. “I meant that they are the prime targets for violent destruction. So much more amusing to break the windows of a peer than a peasant.”
“Are you a peer, sir, or do you have an honest profession?”
“Mr. Barnett!” Claris protested, but Perriam laughed.
“What a limited view of the world you have, sir. You think all the nobility dishonest?”
“I doubt they do an honest day’s work.”
“Now, there you’d be wrong. You have a farm. Of how many acres?”
“One hundred and fifty,” Barnett said proudly.
“An excellent property, and it brings you hard work and profit, all being well. Imagine an estate of six thousand acres.”
“Such a landowner would have many to manage it for him.”
“All requiring supervision.”
“From fancy London houses and parks?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Claris intervened. “Enough of this. Mr. Barnett, I must ask you to leave. Mr. Perriam and I have some business to discuss, to do with his cousin and my father, and I must not keep him too long.”
Her farming suitor rose reluctantly, but he left as he must, firing a parting shot. “I’ll see you at church come Sunday, Miss Mallow.” She could hear the unspoken end of his thought: when your London gentleman has gone.
Claris might never attend church again.
Yatta pursued Barnett to the door and beyond, but he’d not manage to keep him away any more than he’d deterred Perriam.
Claris was relieved to close the door, but as she turned back toward the kitchen she realized she was now alone with her prime problem.
Truly alone with him for the first time.
Chapter 9
She entered the kitchen, chin up. “Why must you persist, sir?”
“You know why.”
“You think I’ll be swayed by gifts?”
“It will be interesting to see.”
“How little you think of me.” But her nose detected something from the basket, something . . .
Oranges? Her mouth watered with the remembered sweet, tangy taste.
He unlatched the basket. “Will you not at least look at what I’ve brought?”
When she didn’t respond, he flipped back the lid.
The aroma of oranges grew stronger, but she stared at a lacquered box with a lock. It must be a tea box. Her mother had owned one. If full, this one must hold a pound at least of the expensive leaves. She hadn’t tasted tea since her mother died.
What on earth was in that beautiful blue-and-white jar?
He lifted out the jar and took off the lid. “Ginger from the orient, in a sweet syrup.” He found a long silver fork in the basket and used it to spear an amber cube and raise it to her lips. Claris turned her head away, but he’d touched it to her lips and she licked them. Oh, dear lord! So sweet, so spicy. Before she knew what she was doing, she licked her lips again, seeking more.
He smiled, his eyes bright.
With victory?
She stepped back, raising a hand between them. That didn’t block whatever made her feel breathless and hot.
“Too foreign for you?” He opened a glass jar full of crimson liquid containing dark objects. “Perhaps you’d prefer an English cherry?”
He speared one and offered it. When she tightened her lips, he said, “It isn’t poisoned. That would hardly serve my purpose. Nor is it bespelled to force you to do my will. Do you think a taste of cherry would overcome you?”
Challenged, Claris took the cherry from the fork. Merely a cherry, after all—but this had been steeped in something strong, brandy perhaps, and the complex flavors burst in her mouth. She couldn’t hold back an “Oh, my . . .”
“My wife will enjoy such delights at will.”
Claris was tempted to spit out the fruit, as if it were the apple in the Garden of Eden or Persephone’s pomegranate. That would admit the powerful effect it was having on her, however, so she swallowed it and then said, “There’s more to life than cherries.”
“Oranges, for example.” He took one out of the basket—a large one, and then another, and another. In the end there were five of them. One for each of her family.
How could he have known the power of an orange?
When her mother was alive, there had always been oranges at Christmas. As the twins had grown, Claris had wanted to revive that tradition and had bought some. They’d been only four pence each, but her father had caught the twins eating one and ranted about wicked indulgence. He’d carried those left off to the almshouses. She’d wanted to ask why the indigent were allowed wicked indulgences but his children weren’t, but she’d known there was no point. She’d never dared try again.
“Wine,” he said, taking out two bottles.
She’d never tasted wine.
“Coffee, and these.” He poured pale ovals from a bag into one of his hands.
“Monstrous teeth?” she asked.
“Sugared almonds. And yes, these gifts are designed to sweeten your mind toward your future. All these luxuries and more will be yours to command once we are wed.”
He couldn’t know how well he’d baited his trap.
She loved sweet things, a weakness inherited from her mother. In her childhood there had been cakes and sweetmeats, no matter how her father railed. Since his death she’d managed to provide some, but now she could have them in abundance. . . .
At cost of her liberty!
She began to put everything back in the basket. “I have no desire for such excess, and I cannot be bought.”
“A singularly foolish declaration. Not bought so cheaply, I’m sure, but are you truly beyond price? Beyond thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of pounds?”
Claris laughed. “What would I do with a hundred thousand pounds?”
“Not hoe your own garden.”
“I enjoy hoeing my garden,” she lied, closing the basket. “I am not so foolish as to refuse this”—nor strong enough, alas—“but our business is done. I have much to do today.”
Unnoticed, he’d kept an orange, and now he sat down and began to peel it. “Your tasks must wait until you’ve named our wedding day.”
“Which will be never.”
But oh, that aroma!
He split the peeled orange in half and separated one segment. “We are going to marry, Miss Mallow, so why draw this out?”
“We are not going to marry, and a piece of orange won’t change my mind!” Not even when he put it in his mouth and she could almost taste it in her own. “If you won’t leave, I will.”
She walked toward the stairs, but that took her close to him. He grabbed her wrist. A shock of something went right through her, freezing her in place.
Fear, yes, but something else.
“Mr. Perriam!”
“If you aren’t swayed by ginger and oranges, what of a bright path for your brothers?”
She froze and he released her.
She covered her wrist with her other hand. “We have money enough to send them to school.”
“To the best school?”
“It will be good enough.”
“And university?”
“They will win scholarships.”
“Are they bright enough?”
Peter was, but Tom?
“They study hard,” she said, knowing it was inadequate.
“Why deny them the benefits I can give them? Not just a fine education, but introductions to the highest circles, where they will make connections that will prove invaluable throughout their lives.”
“Two boys raised in a country village?” she scoffed, but he was conjuring a vision that battered at her defenses.
“They probably do lack training in the style and etiquette of the highest circles, but that is easily corrected. It is their birthright, after all.”
“They’re the sons of an impoverished country rector.”
“Impoverished by choice. What is their Mallow line?”
Claris’s knees weakened and she sat down. “This isn’t fair.”
“Life often isn’t. All I require in return is your vows at the altar.”
“There’s more to marriage than that.”
“You’re thinking of the marriage bed?” Claris hadn’t been, and her cheeks heated. “It’s not required.”
“Not? But . . .”
“Implied, but not required. Unless, that is, you intend to complain to the church courts when I fail to do my duty. Even in that case, I believe I could argue in civil court that I had fulfilled the terms of the will.”
Her fists had clenched and now she beat them on the table.
“The will, the will, the damnable will!”
He covered her angry hands with his. “We are in accord on that. May we not be in accord on other matters?”
She jerked free, but she couldn’t escape his words.
“Remember, I offer you Perriam Manor. Not just a house and estate, but a home farm to supply food. You won’t have to depend on charity for roast lamb. Perhaps I didn’t make clear that you will have the estate’s income. You will be able to purchase all necessities without care, and any luxuries you please. I offer a grand future for your brothers, but many improvements immediately.”
“Immediately?” Claris braced herself. She could sense a killing blow.
“They’ll enjoy living at Perriam Manor. There’s a river that promises fishing and woodlands to explore. There are also stables. The horses there now would be too large, but I can purchase ponies for them if they’d like.”
If they’d like.
They didn’t complain, but ponies to ride would be a dream come true.
She tried one last shot. “They’ll be going away to school soon.”
“There will be holidays.”
“It will be too expensive for them to travel home.”
“You’ll be able to afford to bring them home from Scotland if necessary, but Eton College is less than ten miles away from Perriam Manor. They could come home often if they wished.”
He spoke in that light, pleasant voice that should carry no threat at all, but his words were flailing her into submission with an idyllic picture of comfort, wealth, and abundance, along with glittering advantages for the boys. And ponies.
She was going to have to agree, but she would set her terms, as Athena had recommended. “You won’t live at the manor?”
“My home is in London.”
“Yet Perriam Manor is so very important to you and your family.”
“Only symbolically. I’d not visited the place until Giles Perriam summoned me to his deathbed.”
“What of other members of your family? Won’t they want to visit the shrine?”
“I doubt it, but if they do I give you the freedom to deny them. It will only be from idle curiosity. Perhaps my mother will want to inspect you, but I can deter her. She’ll not feel strongly about it. We’re not a close family, Miss Mallow, and my parents are too involved in court and affairs of state to dabble in their adult children’s lives short of dire necessity. I have one sister of whom I’m fond, but she is newly married and absorbed by her husband and his run-down estate in Devon. She may write to you, but if you wish, leave her letters unread.”
His words flowed lightly over her and she recognized that the stream was as much to give her time as to convey information. He gave nearly everything and asked hardly anything in return. Simply her vows at the altar.
How could she believe that? But nor could she believe him a shameless liar. Athena too had judged him honest, and she had more experience of the world.
There was still a husband’s legal authority to fear, but if Perriam kept his word on the rest, that had weaker teeth.
She realized she was looking at the basket and accepted another truth. She felt all the pressure to make this pact for the twins, but she’d been undermined by his gifts.
Ginger, brandied cherries, and a peeled orange.
What a weak, self-indulgent woman she was. After such a slight brush with luxury, the thought of living in penury all her days made her shudder.
She peeled off a segment of the orange and bit into it, taking the time to savor the sweet juiciness, to admit its power. Taking one last moment to find an acceptable alternative. There was none.
“Very well, Mr. Perriam, I will marry you. But if you renege on any of your promises, I will shoot you, and the pistol will be loaded.”
She saw neither triumph nor fear.
Very wise. Even now she might find the resolution to back out if he gloated.
Instead he offered her another segment of orange. “We could wed on Sunday and gain extra blessings.”
“Sunday! That’s only four days away. We need banns.”
He put the seg
ment on the table in front of her. “I don’t have time for banns. It must be by license.”
“I need more time . . .”
“To do what? You can purchase all you want later.”
“Not a new gown for the wedding.”
“You must have something that would do.”
Would do? That showed how little he thought of the matter.
“You’re harrying me, Mr. Perriam, and I will not allow it.”
“You’ve agreed, Miss Mallow. What point in delay? I admit my need for haste. I have obligations in London which I’ve already neglected.”
His tone infuriated her, but she liked the words. He wasn’t in haste to capture her, but to fulfill the requirements of a will and return to his life and responsibilities—his life far from Perriam Manor.
“If you don’t care for a Sunday wedding,” he said, “shall it be Monday? A word to the new rector and it’s all arranged.”
Claris realized something. “I don’t want to marry here.”
Before she could explain, he said, “Ah, your father’s death. It must be a terrible memory.”
For a moment, that puzzled her. The only terrible memory she had of that day was her shocking relief that her father was dead. She supposed her father falling dead at her feet should have shocked a normal woman, but her dislike of marrying there came from something else.
She didn’t want to marry in Old Barford because the villagers would stare and speculate on what the Mad Rector’s daughter was doing now.
“Marrying elsewhere must delay things,” she said.
“Not at all. With a special license we can marry anywhere. A little more difficult to obtain than an ordinary license, but not unduly. We can be wed within the week.”
Within the week?
She’d agreed, but not thought it would be so soon.
“May I make a suggestion, Miss Mallow? No, first, may I call you Claris now we’re betrothed?”
Claris couldn’t see reason to object. “And you, sir? What shall I call you?”
“I was christened Peregrine, but my friends call me Perry.”
Too informal by far. “I prefer Perriam.”
“As you wish,” he said, undaunted. “Now, I suggest that you remove from here to the home of my friend Lord Ashart.”
