Being thus informed about this man, to whom I felt a pull altogether astounding and perplexing to me, I decided without hesitation that I must see him again. This impulsive and unflinching behavior has, on several occasions, caused men to refer to me as “no kind of woman at all.” Several courtships have met swift ends because of it. Hoping that this mysterious man would not be the same, I set in course motions for my arrival at Berry Pomeroy Castle, under the guise of a social visit to coincide with the fayre.
“Are you sure you want to go all that way for a fayre, daughter?” Father asked, in that timid and slightly reproachful way of his.
“Father, I am positively suffocating. My sisters are all off having children or visiting abroad – they are all, in short, engaged in some kind of adventure – and I believe I am entitled to a little adventure of my own. You need not worry. I will keep the breech-wearing and pipe-smoking to a minimum.”
“Sarah!” Father exclaimed, but there was a smile behind his beard, which he grew despite criticism. We were both out of sorts, Father and I.
Charlotte came to my chambers soon later, with a knock on the door. I bid her to enter and she fluttered into the room like a rose petal blown in the wind. “Sarah!” she cried, holding my hands. “He said yes, didn’t he? We’re going to the fayre! Oh, do you think it will be wonderful? I bet it will be wonderful!”
I admit I was taken up with the girl’s enthusiasm, and we talked at length about how wonderful it would be. It was truly an event for her, and it warmed me to see her so moved. My own sisters having long since moved away, and my brother away making his fortune in London, Charlotte was like family to me.
That night I could not sleep for thinking of the fayre, a mere three months away. Guilt broiled within me, warring with the excitement. I was behaving, after all, in a cunning and “unwomanly” way.
But we women are so often the pawns. I thought it was time we played the chess master for once.
*****
Having been acquainted with castles since a young age, I was not befuddled at the sight of Berry Pomeroy, though I had to admit it was grand and beautiful. The three months had passed in much the same way as the three months before; I have often wondered if my obsession with the duke would have been so intense had not those months elapsed since our accidental and secret meeting.
We arrived just when the tents and festivities were being erected outside the castle. Jugglers and mummers milled around the tents, waiting for their chance to shine. That the duke allowed this fayre to be held on his land was another sign to me that he was a man unlike others. To be sure I talked among the mummers and jugglers and common folk for quite some time, with the intention of firstly enjoying their conversation, as they had none of the sickening tightness of lip and sternness of face that is so common among our class, and secondly to see if I could learn aught about the mysterious duke. No man there would hear of his name being spoken of in any by a flattering light[PE1]. My instincts thus reaffirmed, I prepared for my formal introduction to him.
We were welcomed into the main hall, in which several lords and ladies stood in tight circles, clutching their chalices and talking softly to one another. I was accustomed to being stared at as a member of that dying family Archer, and so it did not overly bother me. Presently Duke Francis Seymour walked through the crowds and stood before me.
“My lady,” he said, bowing before me. His eyes were pale blue like ice and his face was kind and strong. He took my hand in his and, before everybody in the room, brought it to his lips. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured softly, the warmth of his kiss still upon my hand.
I confess I was at first stunned by this display. I had never met this man and had no thought of his ever showing me any affection. I almost wrapped my tongue upon itself in trying to reply, but then I recovered some of my poise and smiled at him, as charmingly as I was able. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, withdrawing my hand.
“Meet me later, in the gardens,” he whispered, so only I could hear.
I should have been outraged by such a proposition. It is notsomething that a lady should agree to, and I am sure my peers will think me incredibly dishonorable for entertaining such a sordid idea. But the duke’s voice did not allow for hesitation, and I admit I was beyond curious at this point. I gave him the slightest of nods, at which point he began to talk with other guests, leaving me shocked,excited and leaving me broiling with feeling.
*****
The word “later” being somewhat ambiguous, the first task handed to me was trying to work out what time, exactly, Francis wanted me to arrive at the gardens. There was no way to know for definite, so, wishing not to appear over keen, but also wishing not to miss him entirely, I waited until the sun had reached its noonday peek and began to descend for two hours before casually mentioning to Charlotte that I wished to stroll the gardens. She was taken up with the jollity of the fayre, and I bid her stay and enjoy herself. Thanking me, she freed me and allowed me to walk unescorted to the gardens.
I knew what I was doing was wrong and socially unacceptable, and yet I couldn’t forget this man. It is no way for a woman to behave, it is true, and yet I couldn’t just walk away and pretend that I had never seen him. I felt as though there was an affinity between us; I felt as though his ice-blue eyes saw past whatever element it was that men seemed to find so repugnant in me. Other men, after talking to me for a few minutes, would often make some excuse and flee to some quieter girl. Perhaps this had something to do with my habit of reading “unwomanly” literature, or my penchant for walking alone on the grounds around my father’s home. Whatever it was, I have been called intimidating by men, and now I take that as a compliment.
I did not think it likely, however, that I would intimidate the duke. He had a fine, muscular build, and his jacket and breeches were tight to accentuate his form. His face was strong and kind, with a solidity that was only heightened by his ice-blue eyes. He had the overall appearance of a wind-besieged mountain range, wild and dangerous and strong. I was more than intrigued. I was enthralled.
The main festivities having begun at the fayre, the garden was empty apart from one or two wanderers who presently made their way to the far end and disappeared in a sea of blues and reds and pinks and purples. I sat in a shadowed corner, fanning myself, partly because of the heat, and partly as a mummery to anyone who wished to spy upon me. How could they object to a lady taking a break from the heat? Looking around anxiously, I thought I caught sight of the duke many times only to be disappointed. Flowers that drooped and flowers that stood proud at every disturbance, had me craning my neck to see the duke, who was, I was sure, the man who had caused them to rustle. But there must have been some critters in there, for he was not there.
After ten minutes, I was about to leave. Color had risen in my cheeks and I felt distinctly ill, like someone had just fed me some nasty toxin. Perhaps the duke was toying with me, I thought, and perhaps he had told the partygoers that he has tricked me into waiting for him in the garden. If that is the case, I will be ruined and so will father. There will be no coming back from this. “How could I be so foolish?” I whispered fiercely. “How could I be such a fool? There will be consequences for this! Brutal consequences! All hell will be unleashed! Father will never be able to show his face again! Ah, what have I done?”
I almost began to weep, which further heightened my anxiety. I hate to weep, hate to appear like those heroines in popular fiction who are rendered incapacitated by tears. Somehow, I managed to hold the tears away, to firm myself up, and was about to stand and make a swift exit from the grounds when there was yet another rustling amongst the rainbow-colored flowers. Despite myself, I turned, and saw the duke walking confidently toward me.
My heart gave a skip, leap, and jump within my chest. I forced myself to retake my seat, lest it appear that I was eager to see him, which I was, but which would be silly t
o show him. He looked around and, upon seeing me, smiled and strolled over to the bench on which I sat.
“My lady,” he said. “May I sit?”
“Of course,” I said.
He sat closer to me than was strictly proper, with his thigh touching mine. I had never been so close to a man, and especially not so close to a man which provoked such feelings within me. He shifted his leg, with the express purpose, I believe, of rubbing my thigh with his. I blushed but I did not move away. The sensation was warm and pleasant, and it was not outwardly ignoble. To any spectator, we were just two people sitting upon a bench.
“I have seen you, in London,” the duke said.
I had to bite my lip to stop from screaming.
He observed me for a moment, and then went on: “It was a while back. I was in town for some boring business or another. You were with your maidservant, the woman who accompanied you today, I believe. I cannot say precisely why I was so taken with you the first moment I saw you, Miss Archer, except that you have a face not at all rose-or doll-like. You have the face of a strong woman who is not at all confined by the archaic ideas of our ancestors. I believe that a countenance can tell much. Furthermore, I believe that yours speaks of a spark of intellect usually quashed in a woman. Am I correct? Do you read, Miss Archer?”
I wished to take a moment to recompose myself, but the idea of fleeing this meeting was unacceptable to me. Here was a man who not only recognized that I was unlike my peers, but seemed to respect it! This was a strange development in my own perception of the human condition, as I long ago had concluded that all men, at heart, would rather see a woman dashed upon the rocks who read any kind of serious book. And yet here was the duke, asking me if I read books, and with a hint of pride in his tone!
“I have taught myself Greek and Latin and read the few classics father has managed to procure for me. I also read the natural arts and history. These are all unwomanly subjects and if you were to tell on me, I would be absolutely ruined.”
“I will not tell on you,” the duke said, and turned to me. He looked down from my face to my neck, and then further down, in the most dishonorable way. His eyes romped over my body, but I did not stop him. Then they returned to my face. “You are a beautiful woman, in both mind and appearance. My lady, I wish to hold your hand.”
“Here?” I said, uneasily. If somebody spied us holding hands, we would be more or less engaged, unless an outrage was to be caused.
“Here,” the duke said carelessly. “I wish to feel your hand in mine.”
He held his hand out. I looked at it for a few moments, heart thundering now in my chest. I knew it was wrong and yet I wanted very badly to have my hand in his. “I will hold your hand,” she said. “But we must be sure to retract them quickly if somebody ventures into the garden.”
He nodded and then took my hand in his, placing both hands upon my thigh. This was the zenith of improper behavior. I was aware of that then and I am aware of it now. Yet I was disinclined to take my hand away because the warmth and the closeness were intoxicating. We said nothing for a few minutes, just sat there and shared each other’s warmth, and then he turned and faced me with ice-blue eyes that seemed to look into me. To say that they looked into my soul would sound melodramatic. However, that is what it felt like at the time.
He smiled, and his strongly made face opened to me. “I have sought this for a long time,” he said.
“What is that, Duke?”
“Somebody with whom I could sit and hold hands and not have it be a cataclysmic event. Somehow I knew when I saw you in London that you were not like other women. It was in the way you carried yourself. You walked through the city, not like a star-struck woman, but almost like a man.” He winced. “That sounds monstrous, doesn’t it? I do not mean to call you manly. I merely mean to say that you, as far as I can tell, have shunned much of the extraneous womanliness that encumbers so many.”
I knew I could take offense if I wished, but I also knew exactly what he meant. Almost involuntarily, I squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I knew what you meant,” I said. “You do not need to worry.”
He smiled at me again. “I want to see you again, after today,” he said. “We must contrive a reason for you to stay. I have guest quarters where you and your maidservant may abide for a time, if you wish.”
This idea was glorious to me. I could stay within his proximity. I could be with him for a longer time. The obstacle was Father. He was under the impression that I could be back on the morrow. “I would have to send word to Father,” I said.
“I could do that,” the duke said. “If I were to contrive some party or gathering. Yes, that is what I will do. I will throw a grand party five days from now. If I write to your father personally, I do not see how he can object. I am, after all, a duke.” He said this with none of the condescension or social pretentiousness which is so common in this sphere. He merely spoke the truth. “I would send the missive by messenger,” he went on. “Your father would learn immediately, and so any social missteps would be alleviated. If he wishes for your return, of course you must go. But I do not think he will. What is your answer, Sarah? Please, say yes!”
He gazed into my eyes imploringly. I nearly reached out to touch his face, but I restrained myself. All around us life was happening, and yet I felt utterly disconnected from it all. Life was not happening out there; it was happening here.
“I will stay,” I said. I hastened to add: “But you must write to Father this instant. Make it clear that it is for the party, and stress the social benefits.”
“I shall,” the duke said, releasing my hand. “I shall write to him this instant. Will you come with me, Sarah? I will go to my study, and there are books there that I think might interest you.”
At the mention of books I stood as though by rote. “I will come,” I said, as naturally and unexcitedly as I was able.
The duke nodded and began to walk. After a moment I followed, not so close as to cause murmur, but not so distant as to be strictly proper.
*****
The main body of the guests still being occupied with the festivities, the library was a private meeting place for the duke and me. He led me into a chamber a Greek philosopher would be happy to stand in for a time. It was not so much the architecture of the room that provoked a profound response within me, but the character of the room. Everywhere one looked, books lay upon the shelves, hundreds and hundreds of them. I have never seen so many books in my life. I felt my mind turning, as though twisting around in a foolish attempt to see all the books at once.
The Duke walked before me, and then turned and smiled. “It is acceptable?” he said.
“It is—” I could not form words that would properly explain the glory of this room. Only a low light filtered in through slatted windows at the top, dusty with the age of books. It was every romantic dream I had ever envisioned in my youth. So rarely do we humble creatures get to really live our dreams.
The duke laughed softly and walked through the library as carelessly as if such grandeur were the norm for him, and I reflected, it must be. After a breathless moment, I followed him to a large, oak desk and chair, upon which he sat and began to write a letter. He wrote it quickly, and then handed it to me to read. It was simple and plain and undeniable. He, a duke, wished to keep the Archer daughter here for a time. It was a great honor. I knew right away that Father would agree. I handed the letter back to him and he nodded and sealed it within an envelope.
“I will send it this very day,” he said. “We will not have a reply until tomorrow, but I am sure you will stay until then?”
“Yes,” I said, far too quickly. I was finding it harder and harder to hide my eagerness.
He rose from the desk and offered me his arm. Looking around to ensure that we were not being observed, I took his arm. He led me around the library, allowing me to look more clo
sely at some of the more interesting tomes. There were the missing volumes of Homer’s Odyssey. Upon seeing my excitement at holding these volumes, he pushed them into my hands. “They are yours,” he said.
“You cannot mean it,” I whispered, staring down at the books.
“I do,” the duke said. “It is worth it to see a woman who gets excited about books. Most women would rather be out there, at the fayre, but I see you are made of different material. I expect that your design has been a hindrance to you for most of your life.”
“It has.”
“That is a great dishonor to Man,” the duke said vehemently. “I would say you are the kind of woman whom a man needs to treasure, but that would be unworthy; I do not think you are any kind at all. I think you are simply Sarah Archer, a beautiful anomaly.”
I had never been flattered so endlessly. The effect it had upon me was jarring. I felt my mouth falling open like a village idiot’s, and yet I was powerless to stop it. I was in awe of this man and his words. I placed the books on the shelf, lest I drop them, and stood still for a few moments. Soon he put his hands on my shoulders, gripping them firmly, and turned me toward him.
“I wish to kiss you, Sarah,” he said.
Men are not as honorable as they would have us believe, and I had had this offer thrust before me many times before, with the full knowledge that it would be my downfall if the man was a rascal. For that reason, and the reason that I had never felt an overwhelming inclination to succumb, I had never kissed a man before.
“You wish…”
“To kiss you,” the Duke said firmly. “Will you allow me?”
I stood on the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping at me. One way there was ecstasy, the other was oblivion. What if I succumbed to this man and he was rascal? What if I was one duped woman in a line of duped women? I looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of duplicity, but all attempts to read him were lost in the solid ice-blue of the deep pools of his irises.
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 16
