As for Jasper’s friends...
She wasn’t going to look at them. Even though she couldn’t help noticing that they were all standing together, their heads close, as though discussing strategy.
Mother shot her just the one, rather disappointed glance before continuing to circulate, as she always did, from group to group, making sure all the boys felt warmly welcome. Yes, the boys were all welcome. Mother would do anything for her boys. But would she ever really listen to her daughter? Would she enter into her feelings, or offer her any sympathy, or tell her that it didn’t matter if she never married anyone, as long as she was happy?
No. Because as far as Mother was concerned, Marguerite’s sole function in life was to become the wife of a man that Father would be proud to call son-in-law.
Tonight, Mother was making it clear that she was still not only puzzled but also extremely disappointed in her only daughter, by bustling around as though she was far too busy with her duties as hostess to waste time on her.
Marguerite lifted her chin and studiously kept her gaze on whichever part of the room nobody happened to be occupying. And concentrated on looking like an icicle.
Finally, Barnes, the butler, flung open the door at the end of the saloon, and everyone began to drift in the direction of the dining room. Because she was aware of what was afoot, she noticed Jasper frowning meaningfully at his friends, who dutifully drifted at a pace that meant they all arrived at the dining table at the same time as her. Walter held out her chair for her, and sat on her left, while Horace took his place on her right. Ben, who had clearly become a master tactician during his years in the army, had managed to veer off at the last moment, and ended up sitting opposite her, with a massive epergne acting as a further bulwark.
If she hadn’t known that Jasper had put them up to it, she would have been rather amused by Horace and Walter’s clumsy attempts to draw her into conversation. But she did know. And so the harder they tried to overcome their natural aversion for her, the angrier she grew. She had to keep reminding herself that she was a lady. That it was not polite to stick a fork into the back of somebody’s hand at dinner, even if it would make most of the males present hoot with laughter at the sight of either Walter or Horace yelping in pain, and wrapping their bloodied hands in their napkin.
Anyway, she’d never, once, descended to the same level of behaviour her brothers thought amusing, and she wasn’t about to start now. Besides, she was already in enough trouble with her parents, without creating that sort of scene at the dinner table. On the very first night of their summer house party, too.
It would have been easier if Ben wasn’t sitting across from her, smirking at his friends, though...
Unless he wasn’t smirking at all. It was difficult to tell these days. He’d suffered a facial wound at some stage in his career in the army, which made the left side of his mouth kick up a bit, so that he looked as if he was sneering all the time. The first time she’d seen it, she’d gasped, wanting to ask him if it hurt, and how he’d got the wound, and where.
But had then felt ashamed of not knowing. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t have followed his progress across the Peninsula, since the papers always reported news of major battles, and even smaller skirmishes if any officer from one of the noble houses was involved. But she’d been so angry with him, for so long, that it would have felt as if she was...not pining perhaps but showing more interest than he deserved, if she’d done that.
Eventually, the evening reached the point where all the males had consumed so much wine that the conversation began to grow a bit boisterous. And Mother finally looked at her as she rose to her feet, signalling it was time for them to withdraw.
Mother sailed along the corridor in front of her, without once looking over her shoulder, let alone waiting so they could walk arm in arm. Marguerite scowled at her mother’s back. Well, if she was expecting her daughter to follow tamely to the music room and show penance for remaining obstinately single by playing the piano for the entertainment of their male guests for hour after hour, with the youngsters sneakily flicking wine or cake crumbs at her while Jasper’s friends hovered around her trying to look as though they were doing what he’d asked, she had another think coming.
The moment she reached the alcove that led to the back stairs, Marguerite flung back the curtain and dashed down. Since Mother still had her back resolutely turned, it would be several minutes before she noticed, and by then Marguerite would be down both flights and into the servants’ quarters. What was more, Mother took her duties as hostess so seriously that she wouldn’t come looking for her when she did notice she’d gone missing. She’d send a maid.
But where to hide? Not in the house. The maids had discovered most of her hiding places over the years. And while they mostly sympathised with her need to hide from her brothers and their vile teasing, and had often pretended they hadn’t seen her, they weren’t likely to show the same laxity if Mother expressly ordered them to find her.
She’d have to go into the grounds. At night... Oh, bother her decision to wear so much white. She wouldn’t merely glisten like the icicle she’d been trying to be but would shine like a veritable beacon with the moon being at the full. Still, she stood more chance of having some respite from...them outside than she would indoors.
She went to the kitchen door, pausing only to grab an umbrella and a black shawl from the jumble of coats that were hanging from hooks nearby. The shawl would shield her while she was in the shadows of the house, she hoped. And she always felt safer if she had a parasol or umbrella with her. They were so useful for searching for traps laid by her brothers. And defending herself from the same if she didn’t discover them in time.
In her haste to get away from the house she didn’t consciously decide which direction to take. But after only a short while she realised that her feet seemed to be conveying her in the direction of the lake. Deep down, she must have known that it was the perfect place for her to hide, even though she was wearing such conspicuous clothing. For in the middle of the lake was an island on which stood one of those follies that had been so fashionable for gentlemen to construct in her grandfather’s day. A folly that resembled the ruins of a Greek temple. Built from the purest, whitest marble his money had been able to buy.
Father considered it a folly in more than one sense of the word, since the cost of transporting so much marble had been almost ruinous. Especially since there was already a genuine ruin in the grounds, all that was left of what had once been a priory before Henry VIII had got his hands on it. The Patterdale family had made it their home until Cromwell’s troops had laid siege to it and rendered it completely uninhabitable. After the Restoration, the returning Patterdales had not wanted to restore the old Priory, preferring instead to build a grand new house. That generation had been so keen to spend their money in an ostentatious manner that the shore of the island was now littered with sections of fake columns and huge chunks of marble representing fallen masonry, in the midst of which her white, glistening outfit would blend in perfectly.
Father kept several rowing boats moored at various locations along the shoreline, for use by anyone who wanted to row on the lake, so it didn’t take her long to find one and launch it. Rowing across could be a tricky business, because of the strong current that ran through the lake. The boys, who’d staged mock battles on the lake, with the Greek temple representing either a pirate’s lair or a smuggler’s hideout, had learned that, depending on how much rainfall there had been, the current could run on either side of the island.
But once she got across, it would be well worth the effort it took. Because if any of the maids sent to look for her did suspect she’d rowed across, they weren’t likely to follow. Instead they’d probably stand on the shore and shout for her to Come back, do, before you catch it! And then they might go off to find a strong footman to row them across, and spend the entire trip flirting and giggling, which would g
ive her plenty of warning, and she could slip off and find somewhere else to hide.
Tonight, she pretty soon discovered, the current was running between the shore and the island. It took her a good while, and a great deal of effort, to manoeuvre the boat round to the far side of the island, where she could beach it out of sight. And just in case anyone took it into their fat heads to take a moonlit row on the lake later on, she took the additional precaution of pulling the boat well up the slope and tucking it under a bank of shrubbery.
Then she went up to the one bit of temple where there was a section of wall into which the builders had set a narrow bench. During the day it was a lovely spot in which to sit. Because the view across the lake to the house was utterly charming. Tonight, as she glanced at the many lights shining from the windows and from the torches placed at strategic locations along various paths, all the view managed to produce in her breast was a pang of rejection as she thought of all the people who were making merry inside, several of them at her expense. And not one of them would be missing her, except perhaps her younger brothers, and that would only be as a target for their crumb-flicking practice.
Still, what did she care? Under the bench there was a chest, in which she’d stowed provisions for just such a night. There were cushions, and a lantern, and books. Providing none of her brothers had discovered them and torn them up or hidden them to torment her. Although...it wouldn’t be sensible to light a lantern, would it? Not when she was supposed to be hiding. Bother! That meant she couldn’t sit and read.
She sat down on the bench and drew her knees up to her chin, glaring at the house. Why couldn’t she have had sisters? Although would they have been any better? If all they’d liked was fashion or horses or something, then they might have been just as puzzled by her love of reading as her brothers They might even, in spite of growing up alongside her brothers, have turned out like most of the girls she’d met during her Season—so determined to bag a husband that they’d overlook a multitude of faults and go to any lengths to attract the notice of any male with a title, especially if he had a reasonable income. It might, actually, have been worse if none of them had seen anything wrong with being treated as though their only value lay in their potential for marrying well.
She sighed and drew the shawl round her shoulders against a chill breeze that sent ripples ruffling the water and raising whitecaps where the current was running swiftly. It would be just her luck for that wind to presage a shower of rain. Already she could see a dark patch among the many stars, like a giant fist stretching out to clutch a handful of diamonds. She wouldn’t be able to stay out here for long, not dressed in all her finery, not if she didn’t want it all ruined.
But at least for now she could draw some solace from sitting and watching nature at play, and bask in the absence of pestilential males and disapproving, disappointed parents alike. And imagine an invisible zephyr, drifting her fingertips across the water as she hovered over the lake, leaving a trail of ripples behind her. Although, strictly speaking, Zephyr was a male deity, not a female one. So...
Oh, bother, again. As if she’d conjured them up, by just thinking of a male deity, she heard the sound of coarse male laughter drifting across the water from the direction of the far shore. The echoing notes of a distant church clock striking eleven told her that she’d been out here far longer than she’d thought. Long enough for one set of her brothers’ friends to have become drunk enough to feel the need to quit the music room and come stumbling outside for some fresh air.
Even worse, moments later she heard the crunch of a boat being shoved across the gravel bank, followed shortly after by the plash of oars in the water. It was just her luck for a bunch of them to take it into their heads to take a moonlit row round the lake. But at least it wasn’t servants, deliberately looking for her. And there were plenty of places to take cover so that even if whoever was rowing about on the lake did chance to look in her direction, they wouldn’t see her. She knew every shrub, every boulder on this little island. All she needed to do was crouch down and pull the black shawl over her head, and they would never know she was here.
Not even if they... Oh, and wouldn’t you know it, they were making for the island, not just rowing randomly round the lake. Just as if they were pursuing her.
Were they pursuing her? For one awful moment she thought it might be the case when she began to make out the very distinct voices of Jasper’s three friends. Not that they’d have a chance of catching anyone if they were on the hunt, not considering the racket they were making. They’d reached that raucous stage of inebriation where they felt the need to communicate with each other at the tops of their voices, even though they were all sitting not two feet apart in the same boat.
‘Is it me, or is it hot tonight?’ That was Hairy Horace.
‘It’s hot,’ said Walter. ‘Deuced hot.’ From her vantage point, she saw one of them, probably Walter to judge from what he’d just said, tugging off his cravat, whirling it round his head, and flinging it into the thwarts.
‘Don’t start trying to take your coat off in the boat,’ shouted Ben, as Walter appeared to be trying to do exactly that. ‘You’ll have us all in the water.’
‘Wha’s wrong,’ slurred Walter, ‘with that? Let’s have a swim. Cool us off.’
‘That,’ said Ben, ‘is a capital notion. Pull for the island, lads, so we can undress and leave our clothes to keep dry on one of the boulders.’
What? Cursing Ben, Marguerite slid from the bench, hitched up her dress and crawled on her hands and knees to find a better hiding place. By the time she heard the boat crunch into the gravel along the shoreline, Marguerite was safely crouched behind a chunk of marble a bit further from the shore. She peered over the top of it just in time to see Ben jump out of the boat, the mooring rope in one hand. His two friends seemed to be too busy passing a bottle back and forth to make any attempt to help.
‘Larss one in,’ said Walter, raising the bottle aloft, ‘should be the first one to have a crack at the icicle.’
Ben promptly let go of the mooring rope, sat down and began tugging off his boots, making it clear how he felt.
She hated him. She really did. He’d got his coat and waistcoat off before the other two had even managed to stash their bottle and start fumbling at their sleeves.
‘Hey, hey, don’t do that,’ said Walter, pointing at the mooring rope, which Ben had dropped in his haste to get undressed, and which had fallen into the water, ‘or we’ll drift away.’
‘Grab an oar,’ said Horace.
‘Grab one yourself,’ replied Walter pugnaciously.
While what looked like a bit of a scuffle broke out in the boat, causing it to drift away, Ben continued doggedly removing his clothes.
She ought to avert her eyes, she supposed. But, it was just...the contrast was so fascinating. Last time she’d seen so much of him he’d been a boy, with a boy’s skinny chest and thin shoulders. He’d filled out since then. A lot. Everywhere. His shoulders were broad now, and his arms were all bulgy with muscle. As he drew his shirt off over his head, her fascinated gaze ran from his broad shoulders, noting the way his body tapered down until it reached a frankly very neat little bottom. She clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. She ought not to be looking at his bottom. But somehow she couldn’t look anywhere else. Especially not when he was lowering his breeches and stepping out of them.
She gasped. She’d seen her brothers, and their friends, without clothing several times when they’d been boys. They could never keep their clothes on during hot weather if there was a stretch of open water nearby in which to swim. And she’d seen statues, too, of unclothed males, during her Season, because visits to various museums and galleries had formed part of the entertainment during wet weather. But none of them had...well...that much, down there.
She didn’t have long to take stock of all the differences between Ben the boy and Ben the ma
n, let alone compare either state of him with marble representations of the naked male form, because all of a sudden he was running, stark naked, down the beach, his pale limbs gleaming in the moonlight. She kept on watching as he dived in, ducking his head beneath the waves, before striking out, parallel to the shore, as though intending to swim all the way round the island. The way he’d done so many times when he’d been a boy.
It wasn’t until he’d reached the southern tip of the island, and rounded the point that she turned to see what the other two were up to. Horace was leaning out of the boat, his arm outstretched, his hand reaching for the heap of clothing Ben had left strewn across a marble slab set half in the water.
Walter began giggling as Horace scooped up Ben’s clothing and dropped it into the boat.
‘That’ll teach him to try and get one over on us,’ said Horace, taking an oar. ‘Come on, pull for the shore.’
‘I am pulling for the shore,’ Walter protested.
Marguerite watched in disbelief as the pair of them began steering the little rowing boat in a zigzag course away from the island. But only for a moment or two. Because wasn’t it just typical of a pack of males to forget all about her, and their initial wager involving her, when they would derive far more fun from playing a prank on their friend?
CHAPTER FOUR
Ben waded ashore and ran his fingers through his hair to stop water dripping into his face. Then he ran his hand over his face to wipe it as dry as he could.
God, but it was a beautiful night. He hadn’t enjoyed a moonlight swim like this for...well, not since he’d last been here, truth be told. There was something about Wattlesham Priory. An atmosphere of...well, he wasn’t eloquent enough to put it into words. He just knew that Gem’s father had deliberately set about making this place into a kind of haven for boys.
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 3
