by Jane Feather
“You leave for Yorkshire immediately?” Richard asked, accompanying them to the horses.
“As soon as may be,” Nick agreed with a grin, cupping his palm to receive Polly’s booted foot, tossing her up onto Tiny. “But first I am obliged to ensure that this marriage cannot be threatened with annulment.”
“You talk in riddles,” Richard said, unable to resist Nick’s infectious grin.
“Not at all. Polly will explain the matter in full.”
Polly blushed rosily as Richard looked to her for enlightenment. “My lord is being most ungentlemanly,” she said.
“And since when was a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard deserving of gentlemanly consideration?” demanded Nick, swinging onto Sulayman.
“Since she became Lady Kincaid,” retorted Polly smartly, pressing her heels into Tiny’s flanks. The mare took off at a gallop across the common.
“Now, just when did she learn to ride bareback?” Nick wondered.
“Probably at the time she became Lady Kincaid,” Richard answered, chuckling. “You’d best be after her before she has any more bright ideas. I’ll send word when ’tis safe for you to return.”
“With Buckingham exiled for a spell, you may be able to work some good with the king,” Nick said thoughtfully.
“We’ll do what we can, though I doubt that Villiers will be easily unhorsed,” Richard said. “But we’ll keep trying.” He held up his hand to the mounted man. “Ye’ve a honeymoon waiting, my friend. Get to it. I’ll explain matters to Killigrew, in as far as they are explainable.”
Nick nodded, pressed his friend’s hand in thanks and farewell, and put Sulayman to the gallop in pursuit of his fast-disappearing wife.
“I think,” Polly declared, stretching with languid pleasure, “that I am well and truly wed, my lord.” She reached a hand to stroke the rich auburn head pillowed on her breast. “You will not be rid of me now.”
Nick raised his head, bracing himself on his elbows to regard her quizzically. “Instead, I must endure afternoon upon afternoon watching as my wife becomes the property of half London.”
A tiny frown creased her brow. “Would you have me leave the king’s company, love?”
Nick shook his head. “Nay. I will assuage my husbandly grudging with the knowledge that I am the envy of all, and I have a most faithful wife, despite the promises she makes upon stage.” He smiled lazily. “I think, madame, so that there shall be no doubt of that, I shall insist upon the most proper modesty, the most decorous dress, whenever you are not performing. We will have Margaret choose you a wardrobe of a Puritan severity—”
He fell back, laughing, under the vigorous assault with which this provocation was received. “Nay … nay, peace, my shrew!” Still laughing, he pulled her on top of him, holding her hands at her sides, pinned to the mattress. “Will you cry peace, or must I compel it?”
The hazel eyes glowed with laughter, the residue of loving, and a sparking anticipation at the feel of him, again hard and throbbing against her belly. “And how would you compel it, my lord?”
“Why, quite easily,” he said, parting her thighs with a hard knee. With a slow twist of his hips, he entered her again, and Polly gasped with the delight that was as familiar as it was always different.
“So this is the manner in which you will enforce your husbandly authority,” she mused, moving with his rhythm in a dreamy circle.
“Rule a wife and have a wife,” he mocked gently. “And I intend to have this wife, madame, for all time.”
“And I this husband,” Polly replied with a contented smile.
“And we shall count the world well lost for love,” Nick promised, sliding his hands beneath the fragrant curtain of her hair to cup her face, drawing it down to his. “For all time, sweet Polly.”
“They say, ’Love, ’tis a noble madness,’ “Polly whispered, “and I did wed a madman, did I not?”
“For all time,” he averred.
“Aye, for all time.”
About the Author
JANE FEATHER is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of The Bride Hunt, The Bachelor List, Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow’s Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has more than ten million copies of her books in print.
The Bachelor List
“So what was this plan of yours, Con?” Prudence poured sherry from the cut-glass decanter on her dressing table into three glasses and handed two of them to her sisters before sitting down in front of the mirror.
“Do you remember, I was talking about those cards you see in newsagents’ windows? People advertising things to sell, puppies or chests of drawers—those kinds of things.”
Prudence swiveled on the dresser stool, a powder puff in her hand. “And?” she prompted.
“Well, I went into two newsagents’ on Baker Street this morning and they each had cards on their doors. Not the usual advertisements, but people wanting people.”
Chastity wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t follow.”
“The first one had a card from a man wanting to find a woman. A widow preferably, he said, around forty with or without children, who wanted to find companionship and security in her later years and would be willing to keep house and see to his creature comforts in exchange…. I’m not quite sure what the latter would embrace,” Constance added with a grin.
“Anyway,” she continued, seeing her sisters’ continued puzzlement, “the second one in the next newsagent’s was—”
“Oh, I see it!” Chastity interrupted. “A woman who fit the bill asking for her own companion.”
“Precisely.” Constance sipped her sherry. “Well, I couldn’t resist, of course. There were these two separate cards in two separate windows and never the twain would meet unless someone did something about it.”
“What did you do?” Prudence dabbed the powder puff on the bridge of her nose where her glasses had pinched the skin.
“Copied each one of them and paired ’em up, so both newsagents’ now carry both cards. When the advertisers go to check on their cards, that’s what they’ll see.” She chuckled. “They can take it from there, I think.”
“I agree you’ve done your good deed for the day,” Prudence said, “but I don’t see the relevance to our own somewhat dismal affairs.”
“Don’t you think people might pay for a service that puts them in touch with the right mate?” Constance’s dark green eyes darted between her sisters, assessing their reactions.
“You mean like a matchmaker?” Chastity crossed and uncrossed her neat ankles, a habit she had when she was thinking.
Constance shrugged. “I suppose so. But I thought more like a go-between. Someone who facilitates meetings, carries messages, that sort of thing. Like what I did this morning.”
“And we’d charge for this service?” Prudence caught up her long russet hair and twisted it into a knot on top of her head.
“Yes. I thought we could advertise in The Mayfair Lady, have a poste restante address to preserve privacy—”
“Not to mention our anonymity,” Chastity put in, going over to help Prudence with her hair.
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s certainly an original idea,” Prudence said thoughtfully, holding up tortoiseshell hairpins for her sister. “I vote we give it a try.”
“Me too,” Chastity agreed. “I’m going to take the next issue to the printer tomorrow. I’ll add the advertisement to the back page. Do you think that’s the right spot?” She teased a long ringlet out of her sister’s elaborately piled hair and stood gazing intently at her handiwork in the mirror.
“I think it should go on the front page,” Constance stated. “At least for the first couple of times. Just to draw the most at
tention. What should we call the service? Something eye-catching.” She frowned in thought, tapping her lips with a fingertip.
“What’s wrong with Go-Between?” asked Chastity. “Since that’s what we’re offering.”
“Nothing wrong with it at all. What d’you think, Prue?”
“I like it.” Prudence turned her head this way and that to get the full effect of her sister’s hairdressing efforts. “You’re so good with hair, Chas.”
“Perhaps I should open a salon.” Chastity grinned. “Where’s the curling iron? You need to touch up your side ringlets.”
“Oh, I have it.” Constance stood up. “In my room. I’ll fetch it.” She paused on her way out to examine her own reflection in the long swing mirror by the door. Her evening gown of cream silk chiffon fell in rich folds, the hemline brushing her bronze kid shoes. Her bare shoulders rose from the low neckline edged in coffee lace, and a broad satin ribbon of the same color spanned an enviably small waist that owed nothing to the restrictions of whalebone.
“I think the coffee ribbon and lace really do transform this gown,” she said. “I almost don’t recognize it myself and this is its third season.”
“It doesn’t seem to matter what you wear, you always look so elegant,” Chastity observed. “You could be in rags and heads would still turn.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Constance whisked out of the room in search of the curling iron.
“Yes, but part of Con’s charm is that she doesn’t seem to notice it. Once she’s dressed and has checked herself, she never looks in a mirror again for the entire evening.” Prudence put on her glasses and peered at her own reflection. She licked her finger and dampened her eyebrows. “I wonder if Max Ensor will be at the Beekmans’ this evening.”
“Why would you wonder that?” Chastity was curious; her sister rarely made purposeless remarks.
“No reason really.” Prudence shrugged. “But Con is looking particularly lovely this evening.”
“You don’t think she was attracted to him, surely?”
“He is an attractive man, with that silvery hair and those blue eyes. You must admit he commands attention.”
“Well, yes, but Con hasn’t been seriously interested in any man since Douglas died. She amuses herself a little but her heart’s not in it.” A frown crossed Chastity’s countenance, a shadow of sorrow that was mirrored in her sister’s eyes.
“Surely she can’t grieve forever,” Prudence said after a minute. “She doesn’t show her grief at all, not anymore, but it’s still there deep down. It’s as if she believes no other man could measure up to Douglas.”
“When I look around at who’s on offer, I tend to agree with her,” Chastity observed with unusual tartness. “Is Father dining in this evening? I’m sure we won’t see him at the Beekmans’. Opera singers are not quite his style.”
“The ones who go to Mayfair soirees, you mean,” Prudence responded with a judicious nod of her head. “I’m sure the more euphemistic opera singers are very much his style.”
Chastity raised an eyebrow at this caustic comment. “He is what he is,” she said pacifically.
“Who is?” This from Constance, who had just returned with the curling iron. “Oh, you mean Father.”
“Prue was accusing him of dancing attendance on opera singers.”
“I’m sure he does. Mother wouldn’t begrudge it; he’s been a widower for three years.” She set the curling iron onto the trivet over the small fire in the grate, lit for just this purpose, although it also helped to keep at bay the residual dampness in the air from the afternoon’s downpour. “Ask him about it at dinner, if he’s in,” Constance suggested. “See what he says.”
“Oh, no, not I.” Prudence shook her head vigorously. “I’m not risking one of his tantrums.”
“I don’t mind the shouting so much.” Chastity took up the new hot iron and twisted her sister’s ringlets around it. The smell of singeing hair rose momentarily. “I can’t bear it when he looks sad and reproachful, and starts talking about your dear mother and how she never would have dreamed of questioning his actions.” She set down the curling iron.
“Quite,” Prudence agreed. “You can ask him if you like, Con, but don’t expect me to back you up. It’s all right for me to manage the household accounts, but to pry into his own personal business? Oh no!”
“I shall be silent as the grave,” Constance assured them. “Are we ready?” She went to the door.
As they descended the wide curving staircase to the marble-floored hall, the stately figure of Jenkins the butler emerged from the shadows as if he’d been waiting for them. “Miss Prue, may I have a word?” He stepped back into the gloom beneath the curve of the stairs.
“Yes, of course.” They moved towards him into the shadows. “Trouble, Jenkins?” asked Constance.
“His lordship, miss. It’s the wine for tonight. Lord Duncan ordered two bottles of the ’94 St. Estephe to be brought up for dinner.”
“And, of course, there’s none in the cellar,” Constance said with a sigh.
“Exactly, Miss Con. We ran out some months ago and Lord Duncan instructed me to order replacements. …” He spread out his hands palms up in a gesture of helplessness. “The price of a case is astronomical now, miss. When Lord Duncan bought the original to lay down it was quite inexpensive, but now that it’s drinkable it’s quite another matter.” He shook his head mournfully. “I didn’t even attempt to put in an order to Harpers. I hoped his lordship would forget about it.”
“A fond hope,” Constance said. “Father has the memory of an elephant.”
“Why don’t we tell him that Harpers didn’t have any more of that vintage but you forgot to mention it earlier?” Prudence suggested. “What could you substitute for tonight that would console him?”
“I brought up two bottles of a ’98 claret that would go particularly well with Mrs. Hudson’s chicken fricassee,” Jenkins said. “But I didn’t want to mention it to his lordship until I’d discussed it with you.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Constance said with a grimace. “We’ll tell him ourselves. We can say that you mentioned it to us.”
“Thank you, Miss Con.” Jenkins looked visibly relieved. “I believe his lordship is already in the drawing room. I’ll bring in the sherry.”
The sisters moved out of the shadows and crossed the hall to the great double doors that led into the drawing room at the rear of the house. It was a delightful room, its elegance only faintly diminished by the worn carpets on the oak floor, the shabby chintz of the furniture, and the shiny patches on the heavy velvet curtains.
Lord Duncan stood before the marble-pillared fireplace, his hands clasped at his back. His evening dress was as always immaculate, his white waistcoat gleaming, the edges of his stiffened shirtfront exquisitely pleated, the high starched collar lifting his rather heavy chin over the white tie. He greeted his daughters with a smile and a courteous bow of his head.
“Good evening, my dears. I thought I would dine in tonight. Shall we take our sherry on the terrace? It’s a lovely evening after the rain this afternoon.”
“Yes, I got caught in it,” Constance said, kissing her father’s cheek before stepping aside so that her sisters could perform the same greeting. “I was drenched when I got to Fortnum’s.”
“Did you have tea?” Arthur Duncan inquired with another benign smile. “Cream cakes, I’m sure.”
“Oh, Chas had the cream cakes,” Constance said.
“And Prue,” Chastity exclaimed. “I wasn’t alone in indulgence.”
“Well, you all look quite handsome tonight,” their father observed, moving towards the open windows just as the butler entered the room. Jenkins raised an inquiring eyebrow at Constance.
“Oh, we ran into Jenkins in the hall,” she said swiftly. “He was concerned because he’d forgotten to mention that Harpers have no more supplies of the wine you wanted him to bring up for tonight.”
“He’s sugg
esting a ’98 claret. Mrs. Hudson’s chicken fricassee will go very well with it,” Prudence added as she stepped out onto the terrace beside her father.
A pained look crossed Lord Duncan’s well-bred countenance. “What a nuisance. It was a particularly fine St. Estephe.” He turned to Jenkins, who was following him with a silver tray bearing decanter and glasses. “I hope you told Harpers to let us have whatever they can lay hands on as soon as possible, Jenkins.”
“Indeed, my lord, but they were doubtful of finding another supply. It was a small vintage, as I understand it.”
Lord Duncan took a glass from the tray. He frowned down into a stone urn on the parapet planted with brightly colored petunias. There was a short silence in which everyone but his lordship held their breath. Then he raised his glass to his lips, muttered, “Ah, well, these things are sent to try us, no doubt. So what are you girls planning for this evening?”
The crisis had been averted. Jenkins moved back into the house and Lord Duncan’s daughters breathed again. “We’re going to the Beekmans’ musical evening,” Chastity informed him. “There’s to be an opera singer.”
“I don’t imagine you’ll want to escort us, Father?” Constance asked with a touch of mischief.
“Good God, no! Not my kind of thing at all!” Lord Duncan drained his glass. “No, no, I shall go to my club as usual. Play some bridge …” He regarded his daughters with a suddenly irritated frown that indicated he was still put out by the loss of his St. Estephe. “Can’t think why none of you are married yet,” he said. “Nothing wrong with you that I can see.”
“Perhaps the problem lies with potential suitors,” Constance said with a sweet smile. “Perhaps there is something wrong with them”
