by Bryn Donovan
The servants came round with a first course of Palestine soup.
“I do enjoy flower-arranging, although it isn’t my chief interest,” Daisy said.
“Indeed? And what is your chief interest, Miss Tudbury?” Will asked.
“Well, for the past few months I have been quite occupied with the Dinner Society.”
“Now, Daisy,” Mr. Tudbury said, “William doesn’t want to hear about the Dinner Society.”
“What is the Dinner Society?” Will asked.
“The Destitute Children’s Dinner Society.” Daisy looked pleased for the first time that evening. “They feed the pupils at one of the charity schools.”
“Daisy has always been a kind creature,” Mrs. Tudbury put in. “I’m sure you remember that from when you were children.”
Will remembered little of Daisy from when they were children, except that she frequently had a runny nose. He doubted her memories of him were any more flattering.
“I see. And do you help feed them?”
“Good heavens, no!” Mr. Tudbury said. “We do not allow her to go there herself...” He paused to cough. “Wouldn’t do at all, for her to be mixing with the likes of them, don’t you know.”
“I helped organize a bazaar, where we sold some of our craft items to benefit the Society,” Daisy explained. “And I got to meet the vicar who leads them all in prayer before the meal. He is a very fine man. I’m sure all the children are inspired by his words.”
Mrs. Tudbury still gripped her napkin, and looked as though she might use it to gag her daughter.
Daisy seemed oblivious. Clearly she had true enthusiasm for the charity, because her eyes shone. “The vicar is very scholarly, but he never lords it over anyone. And he’s so understanding of others—”
“Ah, excellent!” Mr. Tudbury cried out as the servants came in with the main courses. “The roast fowl looks particularly splendid! Or perhaps, Will, you would prefer some beef?”
“I will take some of the beef, thank you.”
“Now, Daisy, let us have no more talk about your dreary paupers,” Mr. Tudbury ordered. “Other subjects will be better for the digestion.”
Throughout the rest of the meal, they discussed the usual topics, such as the health of various people they knew, and the abysmal hunting season everyone had experienced in the country. Daisy took no further part in the conversation, but ate her roast chicken, one tiny piece at a time, while staring absently at the chrysanthemums.
“I fear that perhaps we’ve been a little dull this evening,” Mrs. Tudbury said to Will after dessert.
“Not at all.” Will smiled. He’d just thought how pleasant it would be to meet up with his friends.
“That is very decent of you to say,” Mr. Tudbury said. “But I think we would enjoy some entertainment. Why don’t we all go to the drawing-room, and Daisy can sing a song for us?”
Daisy gave her mother a pleading look.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind at all, would you, darling?” Mrs. Tudbury said. “After all, you did not take all those lessons for naught.”
“Yes, Mama.” She sounded reluctant. Perhaps her parents wouldn’t attempt to persuade her to sing more than one song, and then he could make a polite exit.
In the drawing-room, Daisy took her seat behind the pianoforte and flipped through music. Will felt sorry for her. He couldn’t help but think of a show horse put through its paces.
In a moment, she began playing. “I don’t remember that one,” Mrs. Tudbury murmured.
In a thin soprano, Daisy sang. “Oh, God, the help of all Thy saints, our trust in time of ill...”
Will recognized the hymn. Mr. and Mrs. Tudbury exchanged alarmed glances. Clearly, this wouldn’t have been their first choice for a song.
Will found himself amused by their predicament. They could hardly demand that their daughter cease singing a religious song, as much as they might like to.
When Daisy finished, Will applauded loudly. Her parents clapped as well, but not as enthusiastically.
“That was lovely, darling,” Mrs. Tudbury said. She seemed to grind her teeth together. “Now why don’t you sing one of my favorites? How about ‘Love’s Sweet Solace.’”
“Oh, Mama. I’d rather not. In fact, I should like to step out into the garden for some fresh air.”
“Excellent idea!” Mr. Tudbury said. “Why don’t you take Will for a little walk down the garden path? Show him what flowers are blooming.”
“I don’t believe any flowers are blooming yet.”
“Of course there are, dear,” her mother said. “All sorts of lovely...daffodils and whatnot.”
“But, Mama,” Daisy persisted, “It’s so dark out he won’t be able to see anything anyway.”
Mrs. Tudbury looked at her daughter as though the girl were a hopeless idiot. “Nonsense!” she trilled. “There’s almost a full moon out! It will be ever so charming by the moonlight.”
“Go on now, you young people!” Mr. Tudbury urged them. “You needn’t mind us. We can entertain ourselves.”
Daisy stared down at the floor. She seemed a modest girl, and her father embarrassed her.
Will had no pressing desire to either speak to Daisy alone or to see the garden. “It’s a fine idea, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I must be up early tomorrow.” He couldn’t think of a reason why and was glad nobody asked him.
“Oh, but it’s not so late yet,” Mr. Tudbury cajoled. “Perhaps we could play some cards?”
“No, I had better be on my way,” Will said firmly. “But I do thank you all for a delightful evening.”
****
A sharp rapping of the door knocker the next morning interrupted Will’s breakfast.
“Who the Devil is that?” he muttered to Babbage.
“I would venture to guess it’s your family, sir.”
“What, this early?”
“It is almost noon, sir.”
“Is it? Bloody hell.” Will rubbed his face. “I was out too late.” He’d met up with Coventry and Jack and gone with them to a music-hall where Jack’s latest mistress performed. Her act consisted mostly of arranging her body into impossible contortions, as though she were made of India-rubber. A talent, Jack sadly conveyed to them, she refused to demonstrate when she and Jack were alone.
Babbage glided over to the door and opened it. Will saw the silhouette of his father in the doorway. “Hello, Babbage. I assume my son is up and about?” he said in his familiar controlled baritone.
“Yes, he’s just eating breakfast, my lord,” Babbage replied.
Will got up from the table and came into the drawing-room.
Next to his father stood his younger brother, and Will’s heart warmed to see him. They’d always been good friends, even in childhood when some brothers were rivals.
As soon as Stuart saw Will, he hurried to his side in two strides. He gave him a quick hug and pounded his back. “Will! My God, you’re truly with us again.”
“I can hardly believe it myself,” Will said. He caught a flicker of disapproval in his father’s face for such an unseemly show of emotion. “It’s good to see you.”
Stuart had changed so much in two years, with a new broadness in his shoulders and in his jaw, which obviously required regular shaving. “I believe you are as tall as I am now,” Will told him.
“I was just thinking taller.”
Their father came over.
Will took a step toward him and shook his hand. “Hello, Father.”
“Hello, William. You look well.” No one made any comments on Will’s war injury.
“As do you.”
His father, Sir William, had not changed at all. Everyone said Will was the very image of him, and they were right. No question what he’d look like in twenty-some years: the answer stood right in front of him. Creases between the brows, fine wrinkles branching out from the corners of the eyes, iron-gray hair—these were the main differences between them.
“Where are Mother and Kat
y, then?” Will asked.
“They took a separate carriage,” Stuart began to explain.
“Will!” Katy bounced in. “You’ll never believe what we’ve got for you!”
The door clattered and they all looked over. A footman entered behind Will’s mother, carrying a wooden box, which he set on a side table.
“Come see, Will.” Mrs. Creighton opened it. “It’s for your parlor.”
Will’s father wandered off, saying something about having a look at the back garden.
His mother unwrapped layers of paper to produce some sort of large jar with a hook-beaked bird head for a lid.
“Ah. Thank you. It’s very amusing.”
“Amusing! What do you mean by amusing? It cost a good hundred pounds.”
“It’s impressive, I meant,” Will corrected. “A hundred pounds, you say?”
“It’s an antiquity, Will. It is almost two thousand years old. Egyptian.”
“Hmm.” Will looked at the thing more closely. “I wonder what they put in there?”
“The man at the shop said they put human organs in there, like hearts,” Katy said, feigning a shiver of horror. “You know, when they made mummies?”
“How about that, Will.” Stuart grinned. “Bet you always wanted one of those.”
“It is an important artifact,” their mother insisted. “I think it might be nice here on the mantel.” She placed it in the center. Will made a mental note to move it someplace else later, perhaps to a high shelf in his study. Or to the inside of a trunk.
Another footman had brought in a painting of people about to go fox-hunting.
“I fancied this might go in your front hall. What do you think?” Mrs. Creighton said.
The picture looked dreary to him despite its ornate gold frame. The people sitting up straight on their horses had no discernible expressions. Even the dogs looked bored stiff.
“Do you not like it?” his mother asked, setting the painting down.
“Oh, no, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning to get some pictures, you know. Perhaps one of those, what do you call them, the Pre-Raphaelite paintings.”
She frowned. “Oh, dear, no, you don’t want to do that.”
“But why not? I went to a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition and I found it...very intriguing.”
“No, that would not do at all. I read that even though they’re getting popular, they aren’t at all respectable.” She turned to one of the footmen. “Tom, come and fetch this picture and I’ll show you where to hang it.”
Mr. Creighton appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. “William, let us see the upper floor.”
Will was surprised that he didn’t just inspect on his own. He led his father up the stairs, and Stuart trailed along as well.
“Here is the master bedroom.” Will opened the door to the chamber.
“Not bad!” Stuart said. “Not bad at all.”
“A bit small,” their father said. “Now, William, I need to talk to you about the other evening.”
So this was the reason he’d wanted Will to show him upstairs: he had some complaint.
“I paid a call on Cyril Tudbury when we came into Town,” Father continued. “He says that you had dinner with them the other night?”
“Yes. He saw me at the Club and was kind enough to invite me.”
“He said they were disappointed that you left so early.”
“It wasn’t so early.”
“Let me be blunt,” Mr. Creighton said, as though he were in the habit of being anything else. “I believe Cyril felt you had somewhat slighted his daughter.”
“I did no such thing.” Will scowled. “Even you will allow, Father, that I am not in the habit of insulting young ladies. And good God, she’s only a child.”
“She is no child. She’s out in Society.”
His father’s familiar cold, determined air returned. It hadn’t taken long for them to get into it again. Stuart averted his eyes. His brother wouldn’t have followed them up the stairs if he’d known there was more than a house tour on the agenda.
“She is one of the richest ladies on the marriage mart,” Mr. Creighton pointed out. “And as her father is one of my closest associates, you should try not to be disagreeable.”
“What did you want me to do, propose to her?”
“Do you think you could do better?” Mr. Creighton challenged him.
“That is not the point. I barely know her.”
“The Tudburys have been friends of this family for years—”
“In all honesty, I was not under the impression that she had any particular fondness for me. And I have no intention of marrying in the near future.”
His father’s lip curled. “Is that so? And pray tell, what else would you be doing?”
Hopefully making love to his mistress until she swooned. “Whatever I wish to do,” came his more temperate reply.
“You intend to have no family? No heirs?”
Will hadn’t said that. He did imagine himself having children...someday. But not yet. Not nearly yet. Not when a marriage to a petted, proper miss, and a home life of virtuous, vacuous boredom, were the inevitable price.
“I may marry one day. But it shall not be next week, or next month.”
Father shook his head gravely. “I am only concerned about your future. You’re not a boy anymore—you’re twenty-nine years old. I was married with two sons at that age.”
Creightons always married young. Generations of his ancestors, upon reaching maturity, had immediately set to the business of making babies. No doubt with a grim air of duty and a stiff upper lip.
“Daisy Tudbury would make a pattern wife,” Father continued. “You should know better than to pass up a good opportunity.”
That’s what a young lady was? An opportunity, like the chance to invest in a railroad or a diamond mine? Not everything was a business transaction.
Mr. Tudbury had been obliging toward him. But the fact he felt no personal attraction to the lovely, wealthy, and altogether irreproachable Daisy Tudbury ought to mean something.
Not that he could hope to marry someone who excited him the way Genevieve did.
She was like fire in his veins. The more he knew about her the more intrigued he grew. And when he was away from her, his thoughts spun and veered back to her.
But she wasn’t the sort of woman one married, obviously.
“Well, I am done with talking,” Father said. “Let us see the rest of the place.”
Will tore his concentration away from Genevieve and led him to the next room.
Chapter Eight
Genevieve sat in front of her mirror brushing out her hair. Instead of the tight damask, she wore one of her usual loose white frocks. She liked to dress this way, and didn’t feel like changing tonight.
Flory hummed to herself and puttered around downstairs. The maid usually visited her sister on Tuesday nights, but apparently her sister was entertaining her husband’s relatives that week, so Flory postponed her visit. Genevieve wasn’t too disturbed by the maid’s presence. Flory excelled at minding her own business.
A thrill went through her when she heard the hooves and wheels clattering up to her cottage. She peered through lace curtains of the window. Will’s gleaming black carriage had arrived.
Who would have guessed she had such a lascivious nature? Maybe her sensuality, pent up for so many years, grew much stronger now.
But it wasn’t just that, was it? The thrill didn’t come only from the physical intimacy, but from the one with whom she shared it.
Will Creighton wasn’t at all what she expected from a wealthy young man demanding a mistress. He was intelligent, funny, and there was something about him that seemed decent and honorable.
Not that she’d let herself become too attached to him. From her miserable affair with Adam, she knew that art and love didn’t mix.
When he’d abandoned her for the next girl, she’d fallen too despondent to paint for months. To think of her upset over
someone she had such a low opinion of now rankled her. But that was how affairs turned out. One lost one’s perspective. And perspective was very important to an artist.
That was the last time she’d fall in love. They’d just enjoy themselves, and that would be the end of it.
“Miss Genny?” Flory appeared at the door. “Mr. Creighton is waiting in the parlor.”
Genevieve expected that Flory would disappear into her room as promised, but instead the maid went back downstairs with her. Well, that was all right; surely she’d make herself scarce, soon enough.
Will stood when she entered the room, his hat in hand, dark wavy hair swept back from his forehead. When she’d been with him on Saturday, he hadn’t shaved for a few days. He’d started to grow a neat moustache and beard. Genevieve never liked beards on men, but now she found herself forced to reconsider her opinion.
Their eyes met, and he gave a knowing half-smile that hollowed the dimple in his cheek and kindled the warmth of his deep brown eyes.
Good Lord. No one should be allowed to be that handsome.
“Good evening, Mr. Creighton.” Her voice came out pitched a little too high.
She cleared her throat. Damn it, she wasn’t going to give in to nerves, not now.
“Good evening,” he said. “You’re wearing white again.”
“What? Oh,” she said stupidly.
His gaze lingered at the neckline of her dress, or perhaps below the neckline. In normal circumstances, women were supposed to be offended by that kind of look, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and Genevieve didn’t mind at all.
“I’m going to retire for the night, Miss Genny.” Flory surprised Genevieve by sketching the briefest of curtsies toward her and Mr. Creighton before she turned to go. Well, she supposed Flory had observed all those niceties, when she worked in the grand house in London.
“Just a moment, if you please, Mrs. Tate,” Will said. Flory turned back with a bemused look on her face. “I wonder if I could impose upon you and Miss Bell by asking for a cup of tea for my coachman.”
“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I suppose it is brisk out for a spring night.”
