by Henke, Shirl
“You are most kind, sir, although I know I must look a fright after a week crossing swamps and stopping in an Indian camp.”
“Had quite an adventure, did you? She has real spunk, eh, Quintin? Real spunk and real beauty. A winning combination.” Robert's blue eyes locked with Quintin's green ones in an exchange that could have dropped the steamy Georgia temperature by at least fifty degrees.
The old man's condescending amusement put Madelyne's nerves on edge in spite of his superficially kind words. Quintin held himself rigidly silent as he walked into the house with them. His father is taunting him about me, but why, if I please him?
Her ruminations about the charged hostility between father and son were put aside the moment she walked indoors. The entry hall was breathtaking. Gleaming oak floors were laid with elegant Turkish rugs in lovely shades of blue and gold. French silk wallpaper with soft pink roses covered the high walls that were finished with crown molding. An enormous chandelier of elaborately scrolled brass was filled with at least a hundred candles and hung with glistening crystal.
“Your home is lovely, Mr. Blackthorne,” Madelyne said in awe. Even in Charles Town, far older and more established homes of this elegance were rare indeed.
Robert gave a mirthless laugh. “Yes, we do manage to surprise most first-time visitors to Georgia.”
“If you think this anything to remark on, wait until you see Blackthorne Hill,” Quintin said.
“Yes, the Hill. That's where you'll be married. This very Saturday, is it not, Quintin?” Robert's eyes dueled with Quintin's again.
“Yes, Father, this very Saturday indeed,” was all Quintin would reply.
The bride thought they might as well be discussing an execution as a marriage.
* * * *
Madelyne was too hot and overwrought to nap in the beautiful room she had been assigned. Knowing that she must meet Alastair's elder son, Andrew, and other relatives at dinner that evening only added to her restlessness.
She rang for a maid and ordered bathwater, then began pulling gowns from her trunks. “At least I shall meet the formidable Blackthorne family looking my best,” she murmured, then recalled Quintin's peculiar words about her appearance—that her looks had far better pleased him when she was filthy and disheveled than when attractively dressed. “Well, I can scarce go about like a chimney sweep just to suit his fancy.”
She seized a peach-colored gown of sheer watered silk from the pile on the bed and asked the maid to press it for her, then went off to soak and prepare herself for the ordeal she knew was coming that night.
* * * *
Quintin watched Serena Fallowfield make her grand entrance, sweeping off her light cloak and letting it drop into the arms of a maid, knowing he was watching her magnificent cleavage spill from her purple brocade gown. The bit of lace tucked into the deep vee between her breasts only heightened the scandalous bodice, rather than making it more modest. Her glossy raven hair was piled high in a mass of ringlets and coils around a pompadour that was a good eight inches high.
Her blue eyes narrowed as she floated across the room to where Quintin stood. She presented one porcelain-pale cheek for a kiss as she pressed her breasts indecently against his chest. “Dear Quintin, I am so relieved you've returned from those savages. Have you rescued your bride?”
“Yes, but don't look too disappointed, Serena. You might shock poor Andrew,” Quintin said in a low voice intended only for her ears.
Just as they made the exchange, Madelyne entered the room. She froze in the doorway, watching the voluptuous woman with gleaming black hair practically throw herself on Quintin. The two of them laughed and sparred like old friends—or lovers. Compared to her, Madelyne felt very young and unsophisticated. No wonder he doesn't want me.
“Ah, there you are, m'dear. Come, boy, introduce our guests to your fiancee.” Robert walked across the room, a glass of wine in one hand, and bowed to her, then cast a challenging look at his son.
Quintin stood silently taking in the soft, rustling concoction in peach silk. She looked as innocent and lovely as the first day of spring. Abandoning Serena, he strolled slowly toward Madelyne. He could feel Serena's gaze riveted on his back like a dagger thrust. Bitch. But at least she was a known quantity—and he did not have to marry her. He stopped beside his father and took Madelyne's slim hand as if accepting Robert's challenge to a duel.
After coolly saluting her fingertips, he allowed his eyes to sweep up to her face. Big golden eyes stared reproachfully at him, filled with a mixture of shock and hurt, which she quickly covered with sparkling anger.
“My apologies for being tardy, but I see you were well entertained in my absence,” she said softly with a waspish edge to her voice.
“Ah, yes, Serena. Allow me to present our—er, cousin by marriage.” A slow smile turned the corners of his lips as he led her across the room to Serena. The spoiled little chit is as jealous as Serena!
Andrew stood watching the arrival of his cousin's betrothed with narrowed eyes. Quintin had always sworn he would wed a plain, retiring woman who would stay on his plantation and devote herself to domestic duties. This fiery little beauty seemed anything but plain or domestic. And Serena, the stupid cow, was furious, but it was her own fault she had bungled things so badly. He glided toward them while introductions were made between the two hostile women.
“So this is your bride, Quintin. How sweet and innocent she looks.” Serena's pale eyes flashed with a white fire. She looked up at him, as if sharing some private joke.
“Qualities you left behind in the schoolroom, Serena.” Quintin's expression was one of grim amusement.
She arched one slim black eyebrow and gave him a playful swat with her fan. “How ungallant of you to remind a poor widow of her losses.”
Madelyne felt like an intruder. Then Robert presented his nephew, Andrew. He was a tall, rather thin man with fine sandy hair and a long angular face faintly marked with smallpox scars. When he bowed and smiled at her, his pale brown eyes were warm and his smile was infectiously friendly, transforming what she had first thought a plain face into a most properly handsome one.
“My greatest pleasure, Mistress Deveaux. May I say you will be a proud addition to the Blackthorne family? Welcome to Savannah.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Blackthorne.” Madelyne returned his smile warmly.
“There are too many ‘mister’ Blackthornes present already. Would you be so kind as to call me Cousin Andrew?”
She dimpled. “Yes, of course, Cousin Andrew, if you will call me Cousin Madelyne.” At last she had made one friend in this strange family.
The dinner was sumptuous, with courses of spicy turtle soup, abundant fresh vegetables, brook trout, roast suckling pig, and delicate pies filled with pigeon, venison, and duck. With every course, rich Madeiras and ports were imbibed liberally by the men. Serena partook more than was seemly for a lady, although it did not appear to dull her cutting wit in the least. Madelyne took care to sip very slowly from her goblet and allowed no refills.
Conversation moved somewhat awkwardly at first, since the hostility between the two women was apparent to all there. Robert and Quintin seemed amused, but Andrew graciously intervened to ease things for Madelyne.
“When will your father arrive, Cousin Madelyne? It was a shame he couldn't accompany you on your journey here.”
“He has duties with the royal militia in Charles Town. We expect him within the week.”
“Else the marriage might have to be postponed,” Serena purred, then added, ”I understand, dear, that you had quite an adventure with the savages and almost didn't make it to Savannah yourself.”
Madelyne put down her goblet and smiled at the beautiful woman. “Quintin and his cousin Devon came to my rescue, although I was never in any real danger. The Creeks are loyal allies of his majesty. They made me feel quite welcome.”
”I couldn't abide a moment with those smelly creatures.” Serena shuddered delicately and took another sip o
f wine.
“But they aren't smelly at all. They bathe every morning.” Madelyne felt called upon to defend her hosts.
“Did you join them, pray tell?” Quintin asked.
“As a matter of fact, I was quite tempted. The weather has been so hot, and the stream was quite cool.”
Robert laughed. “Well said, m'dear.” As he drank a generous measure of Madeira, he stared at Quintin.
Andrew again intervened, changing the subject. ”I say, what do you think of General Clinton leaving the Southern colonies' fate with this Cornwallis fellow? Is the rebellion that close to being crushed?”
“Hardly, with Liberty Boys and sharp-shooting rebel militia roaming the countryside from Virginia to the Florida border,” Quintin replied.
“We'll show em. Need another lesson or two like Colonel Tarleton taught 'em at Waxhaus,” Robert said. “Then they'll scatter like the cowardly rabble they are.”
“We need no more of ‘Tarleton's quarter,’ Father. That kind of butchery of prisoners made his name hated throughout the South and drove many a neutral to the rebels' camp.”
“As I understand it, there's been more than a little of that violence on the side of the rebels. Don't they call killing Loyalist prisoners a ‘Georgia parole’ down here?” Madelyne asked Quintin. “And what about 'Sumpter's Law’? Why, tis no more than plain stealing by that rebel leader to keep his ruffians fighting for him.”
Quintin's face darkened. “Both sides have been guilty of barbaric deeds. Civil wars are always the ugliest kind. A very wise man once said there is no such thing as a good war or a bad peace.”
“Sounds like a damned coward to me,” Robert rumbled into his glass, upturning it. He signaled for the butler to refill it.
“Who is this paragon of wisdom?” Madelyne inquired.
Quintin's mouth softened for a fleeting moment as he answered, “One of those damned rebels, but no coward. Ben Franklin.”
“Indeed, Cousin, you should watch such sentiments lest you be accused of leaning to the rebellion yourself,” Andrew admonished.
“One need not agree with a man's politics to admire his common sense. Besides, Cousin, since I serve in the Royal Militia and fought during the siege of Savannah, I scarcely think my loyalty to his majesty is in question.”
Andrew was not in the militia. Madelyne saw that the barb had hit home and felt it most unfair of Quintin. “A great many loyal men aid his majesty by raising crops and serving on government councils.”
“I find discussing war and politics a crashing bore. Ladies prefer more refined conversation.” Serena's cold blue eyes swept past Madelyne as if she were invisible, then fixed on Quintin.
He looked at Andrew. “What? No defense of your newfound friend, Cousin?”
”A lady such as Madelyne needs no defense by me or anyone else,” Andrew said with a quelling look at Serena, who subsided into her goblet of port for the duration of the meal.
When the interminable evening was over, Madelyne retired to bed with a splitting headache, more confused about the peculiarities of the Blackthorne family than ever. And soon I shall be a Blackthorne, too.
The maid had dutifully turned back the soft linens on her narrow bed. As she brushed her hair, she stared from the oval glass in front of her at the reflection of the bed, wondering idly if Quintin's bed was wider. Would she be expected to sleep in it with him? Or would she be assigned her own room adjacent to his? Aunt Isolde had mentioned such an arrangement between her parents when her mother had been alive. With his obvious aversion to her, would Quintin ignore her much as her father had ignored her mother?
“If only I weren't such an ignorant ninny,” she murmured as she walked to the bed and slipped between the sheets. There had been no woman but the cold, virginal Claud left to explain marital duties to her. Here she was, but days from her wedding, without the slightest idea of what to expect. She tossed in the oppressive night heat, praying for the temporary oblivion of sleep.
Chapter Five
Downstairs, Quintin paced in the library, also unable to sleep. The look of hurt in those wide golden eyes still haunted him. He swore and poured another generous glass of brandy. She was beautiful, damn her! And possessed of a fierce streak of independence—and jealousy. When she'd seen him with Serena, it had upset her. Why? Maidenly pride? Her Huguenot sense of propriety? In spite of the unfortunate way they'd first met and the uncomfortable journey from the Indian camp to the city, perhaps she was attracted to him, He stopped pacing and stared out the window into the small garden at the rear of the house. “Don't let yourself believe in fairy tales.”
In his twenty-eight years, Quintin had learned that his looks dazzled women. They flocked to him, and he enjoyed the easy favors of tavern wenches and fineborn ladies alike. He'd always had one rule, though—never lie with a married woman. Through the years, many had made overtures, but he had always rebuffed them. What faithless creatures females were. If only a man did not need their sweet, soft flesh; if only he could enjoy it and not worry about getting legal heirs.
Fleetingly he envied Devon, who would inherit nothing and could enjoy the willing girls of the Muskogee and never have a care about entailing a vast estate to a male child of his loins. “But I must do my duty...with her, the willful, beautiful little termagant.” Damn, why did she make him feel guilty? She was the one he'd caught holding court, surrounded by drooling young officers, all laughing because she'd set her dog to snatch a man bare-assed. And she didn't even blush as they laughed over it! What kind of a match was he making?
When he had first met her in South Carolina, Madelyne Deveaux had seemed to be just what he wanted. He had planned on doing his duty, bedding her until she bore him a son, even if he did not relish the task. But how did her transformation take place? It had been like a gut kick seeing her in that camp. During the ride to Savannah, when he had to assist her in mounting and dismounting from her horse, the callow little flirt fair scorched his hands.
He took another swallow of brandy and decided the only way to get some sleep was to drink himself into oblivion. Of course he would have the mother of all headaches when they rode to Blackthorne Hill in the morning. “It's either the brandy or Madelyne Deveaux.” With a muttered curse, he poured another glassful and settled into the big easy chair in front of the window.
Madelyne clutched at the yards and yards of sheer white muslin floating about her as she made her way into Robert's library. Yesterday she had seen a volume of Fanny Hill; Or, The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure on the shelf right next to Drydens Poems. Aunt Isolde's friends had whispered and tittered about the scandalous book. On this hot, sleepless night she decided it was well past time to complete at least one part of her education. Maybe the adventures of a famous courtesan would shed some light on what a man expected in a woman and what exactly went on in the marriage bed at night.
She had heard the tallcase clock strike two and knew not a soul could be stirring in the house, else she would never have dared venture out dressed in only her sleeping clothes and the sheer dressing robe. I'll just snatch the book and slip back upstairs.
Madelyne opened the door and slipped inside the darkened room. A full moon spilled creamy white light across the carpet. Silently she crossed to the bookshelves, raising her candle so she could read the titles. There it was, between the Dryden and Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws. A small smile twitched on her lips as she considered the incongruity of Mr. Cleland's scandalous book wedged between such somber and respectable works. Robert Blackthorne obviously was in need of someone to order his library!
When she pulled the book from the shelf, several larger and heavier volumes were disturbed, causing a sharp plop as they fell on their sides. Quintin awakened and sat bolt upright in the chair, sensing another presence in the room. He shook his head to clear it, taking a moment to get his bearings. Then he noticed the wavering flicker of a candle from the far corner. Some shadowy apparition swathed in flowing white was moving along the wall of books, head
ed toward the door.
He rose silently and crossed the carpet to stop the vanishing ghost. The candlelight illuminated her face. “Madelyne!”
She whirled and the candle flickered out. The candlestick fell from nerveless fingers and clattered across the oak floor. Clutching the book to her breasts, she stood trapped with Quintin between her and the only exit. His face was harsh in the moonlight, a study in black and white. He looked furious.
“What by all that's holy are you doing running about the house in your nightclothes?” His raspy voice broke the silence and echoed in the high ceil-inged room.
“I...I couldn't sleep. The heat...I remembered your father's books and thought I'd take one to read.” She raised her chin defiantly as he advanced on her. “Surely you don't object. You did ask for assurances that I was literate before approving me!”
He stopped two feet in front of her and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Even in the dim light, she could see that cynical smile begin to flash. “So I did. Let me see what you deem suitable reading to put you to sleep on a long, hot summer's night.” He reached for the book. She backed up a step.
The brandy fumes were overpowering as he loomed over her. “You've been drinking, sir. To excess, I fear.”
”Tis my brandy. I'll indulge if I choose. Tis also my book. Let me see it.”
She hugged it tighter. Merciful heavens above, what would he think when he saw this scandalous book! She would not be cowed by his fierce scowl. “You're too foxed to even read the title. Tis merely an...edifying piece on housewifery.”
Quintin's nostrils were filled with her subtle perfume. She smelled like honeysuckle, standing there drenched in moonlight with all that gleaming mahogany hair falling around her shoulders and spilling across her breasts. He shook his head to clear the effects of the brandy and almost lost his balance, then steadied himself by cupping his hands around her shoulders.
