by Danice Allen
“Oh, dear, what an unlucky day you’ve had,” she said, ready sympathy springing to her eyes. “But tell me, Zach, what did you buy me? I know it’s lost, but I’d still like you to describe it to me. They say it’s the thought that counts!”
He noticed that Alex’s keen gaze was riveted to his face; he was watching to see if Zach had indeed bought something and lost it or was completely making up the part about the jewelry. That Alex suspected him of being so selfish as to forget Beth’s gift entirely tore at Zach’s pride like a jagged knife.
“It was an ivory cameo, Beth. Creamy white and pale peach, with a delicately wrought silhouette of a woman whose profile reminded me of you, love, and laced all about with golden filigree. It was a brooch to wear at the throat of your redingote or on the bodice of your dress. It was lovely, and I wish I hadn’t been such a noddy and lost it. Do you forgive me?”
Beth’s eyes warmed to the balmy blue of a summer’s day. “Of course I forgive you. I was just concerned that something might have gone amiss with your horse or that you were set upon by footpads on the road.”
“Footpads in Cornwall?” Alex questioned, a wicked black brow climbing to a roguish peak. “They could hardly hope to ply their trade with much success in these rural realms.” Zach watched as his older brother stood up and sauntered over. His cool assessment of Zach was unnerving and too much like the way he’d looked at him on that first day. “I’m glad you’re back and safe, brother,” drawled Alex, at last a little warmth apparent in the sardonic humor winking in the depths of his obsidian eyes.
Zach returned his brother’s smile hesitantly. He hardly knew what to make of Alex’s attitude. Despite the brotherly love they’d built on throughout the past month, despite the warmth and caring he still felt emanating from beneath Alex’s mocking welcome, Zach sensed strong disapproval. Alex apparently disapproved of his arrangement with Tess. Wicked Wickham, with one of the worst reputations for wenching in London, disapproved of his keeping a mistress? Why?
Tess sat at her dressing table, smoothing her hair with the silver comb Zach had given her for Christmas. She’d sponged away the heat of the day and donned a nightdress of cool lawn. The night would be humid and hot. She wished she could bathe yet still keep the lingering essence of Zach’s masculine aroma that clung to her after their lovemaking.
He’d said that he liked the scent of honeysuckle in her hair, so she was determined that from then on she would fill the house with the essence of honeysuckle by setting bouquets about the room and by steeping dried petals on the hearth. Anything to give him pleasure.
She smiled sadly, bittersweetly. If only she were a great lady, someone of social standing in the community. Or even, perhaps, if she were rich. Maybe with wealth she could buy her way into the circles of the gentry that excluded her now. The daughter of an underservant at a local inn, fathered by a rag peddler who’d been passing through one summer eighteen years ago, Tess had no illusions about her squalid obscurity. She was lucky she was pretty, or else Zach would never have noticed her walking down the street that chilly December eve last year.
She replaced her comb carefully on the glossy rosewood surface of her dressing table, then touched the exquisite ivory and peach cameo that lay in resplendent elegance in the small satin box that had fallen from Zach’s trouser pocket as he rushed out of the door that evening. She had tried to call him back, but he couldn’t or didn’t choose to hear her. He was hastening away to Beth.
Elizabeth Tavistock had the bloodlines Tess craved. She was pretty, too; Tess had seen her many times. And Beth had Zach, or would have him in the space of a few weeks. No matter how much bedding they’d done or would do, Tess was just Zach’s light-o’-love, his kept woman, his doxy. She’d never measure up to the status of a wife.
Wife. How Tess wished she could be that to Zach. A militant gleam suddenly sparked in her eye, something quite inconsistent with Tess’s meek, yielding, patient character. But if she could not have Zach, she would take what she could. Tonight she’d wear the cameo he’d bought for Beth. She lifted the brooch, admired its smooth luster in the candlelight, then pinned it to the tucks at the placket of her nightdress. Somehow the mild act of rebellion soothed her aching heart a little. She would pretend that she was Mrs. Zachary Wickham and dream of life at Pencarrow, surrounded by sons and daughters.
Tess pressed a hand against the barely perceptible swell of her stomach. She was increasing day by day with Zach’s child. She had tried to be careful. She’d used the potions and creams Granny Harker had sold her that were supposed to prevent babes from taking seed in the womb. But she was already five months along, though she didn’t show. Her mother had carried her babies low and flat, and no one was the wiser till she’d neared her seventh month. Apparently Tess carried the same way.
She wondered how Zach would react to the news that she was carrying his child. She wondered if it would make a difference to him in the days that would surely come when he’d tired of her. She hoped that by bearing him a child she’d carve a permanent niche in his heart, a place in his life till death did them part, just like married folks. She knew she could never be a wife, but she would settle for second best. Dear God, she thought, please let me at least be granted second best!
Chapter Five
Mrs. Tavistock was a social being, and despite the recent demise of her closest neighbor, she could not resist the urge to invite her friends to a dancing party in honor of her daughter’s betrothal. Now that the couple had actually set a date just a few weeks hence, the news could no longer be confined to the family circle. Having released such information, Mrs. Tavistock felt quite sure that the expectations of a celebration of sorts would arise among their acquaintances.
Zach had enthusiastically supported the idea, knowing full well that his grandfather would have thought them a parcel of hypocrites had they postponed their merrymaking simply because he’d lately stuck his spoon in the wall. Beth agreed but begged her mother to keep the guest list to a tasteful few.
Mrs. Tavistock opened wide her fine blue eyes in an expression of bewildered innocence. “Of course, my dear,” she said in a dulcet tone. “Not above a few close friends, I assure you!”
Beth was skeptical and stared hard at her mother, who did not flinch in the least. Sitting on an ivory satin settee in her bedchamber, which was decorated in soft, ripe peach tones and creamy whites, Louisa Tavistock looked almost too youthful to be Beth’s mother. She’d kept her figure over the years and showed only a trace of gray in the dark hair at her temples. Yet she had not Beth’s beauty. Her features were too sharp. What she lacked in beauty, however, she made up for in an animated style and conversation.
Mrs. Tavistock was a favorite about the neighborhood for she could always be depended upon to enliven even the dullest gathering with her light, nonsensical chitchat. Above attending a party, Mrs. Tavistock’s keenest pleasures came with the experience of hosting a party. Even a small party.
A few days later Beth watched from her forward-facing bedchamber window as carriage after carriage pulled up to the front of the house, disgorging well-dressed couples and groups of people till it was no longer possible to keep count of them. No doubt some would be spending the night, since many of them must have traveled from as far north as Exeter.
That her mother’s modest plans had increased on a daily basis had not escaped Beth’s notice, but the steady stream of guests was beginning to make her feel a trifle giddy. She’d never had a coming-out ball or spent above a fortnight in London. And though she was naturally of a self-composed disposition, the idea of being belle of the ball with every eye upon her as she took her place at the top of the stairs was a tad discomposing.
The women would stare at her gown and calculate the cost of the fabric from which it was made. They would examine her complexion, speculating on whether or not the bloom in her cheeks was real or the result of subtle cosmetics. They would admire the luster of her hair or deplore the lack of it, then judge her abigail�
�s skill at the latest style of coiffure lately come from France.
Such an examination by people Beth hardly knew, and who, in her estimation, would be quite shallow to base their opinion of her merely on outward appearance, ought not to have troubled her in the least. Beth’s brows drew together thoughtfully. Perhaps her state of discomposure was based on her reluctantly acknowledged wish to gain approval and admiration from one person in particular—Alexander Wickham.
Frustrated, Beth turned and moved from the window to the cheval glass next to her dressing table. She had dismissed her abigail and was alone in her chamber. Suspecting a bit of vanity to be the reason for her inclination to return repeatedly to the mirror to inspect her appearance, Beth felt more and more guilty with each anxious appraisal, but she could not seem to help herself.
“What a goose you are,” she scolded herself aloud. “To base your entire happiness on the evening simply on the hope of seeing a certain pair of black eyes all alight with admiration at the sight of you is excessively stupid!”
Beth held the skirt of her gown between the forefinger and thumb of either hand and turned from side to side, observing herself from all angles. Her dress was white, since her mother deemed the virginal color most acceptable for one of Beth’s age and inexperience. Her mother also favored white because it became Beth’s complexion nearly as well as the rose-pink she often wore.
Styles had changed in the last year. The Empire-style gown, inspired by French fashions during the Revolution, was modified. Bodices were longer, and the blue silk sash at the front of Beth’s gown was tied just inches above her natural waist. The gauzy puffs of soft lace that barely sufficed as sleeves perched atop her shoulders like naughty angel wings. The décolletage was low, exposing Beth’s bosom in a manner she considered slightly risqué. Her fashion-conscious mother assured Beth, however, that she was quite the thing and not at all beyond what was proper.
A slip of blue showed through the white lace overdress and a pair of dainty pearl-seeded blue silk slippers peaked out from beneath her skirt. Her hair was styled à la Sappho in a riot of thick ringlets falling from a single twist of hair at the crown.
Beth shook her curls ruefully. “All dressed up for my betrothal dance and not thinking one whit about my betrothed,” she chided herself. Lately Alex’s image seemed constantly before her, and in her vivid imagination that image was most often unclothed. Would she ever be able to forget how he’d looked that day at the cove? Not an hour passed that she didn’t wish she could relegate her feelings for him to that safe category called sisterly. But Beth was honest enough with herself to know that her feelings were far from sisterly and unfortunately growing stronger day by day.
In the hopes of developing a revulsion for Alex, Beth had tried to discover imperfections in him to dwell upon. She realized how dire was her situation when his imperfections did not trouble her but rather made him more human, more attractive. Drat Alex Wickham! The man was the perfect imperfect man!
Her only hope, she finally decided, was that her attraction to Alex would cease as soon as he left Pencarrow for London. By the time she next clapped eyes upon him, she’d have been married to her dear Zach for a while and would be quite naturally besotted with her husband, perhaps even increasing with child. Or so was the plan.
Beth had thought about discussing her attraction to Alex with her mother. She would have welcomed some advice on how to deal with such distracting feelings, would at least have drawn comfort from someone telling her that she wasn’t losing her mind or her morals. She had no girlfriends she felt like confiding in. In fact, she had never trusted anyone with her innermost thoughts except Zach, and she could hardly discuss this particular subject with him!
She suspected that her mother would be quite troubled by such a confidence, since Mrs. Tavistock had been planning Beth’s marriage to Zach since they were children. She might begin to see Alex as a threat to a dear and long-held dream. Beth didn’t want Alex to be viewed in an unfavorable light simply because she was having inappropriate thoughts and feelings for the man. No, this was her problem, and she would have to deal with it alone.
Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Tavistock bustled into the room, in fine trim in a gown of yellow sarcenet with a matching turban decorated with a jaunty jeweled aigrette. “Dearest girl! Lizzie, why are you still in your bedchamber? The guests are arriving, and you must join Zachary and me at the top of the stairs to greet them as they pass into the salon.”
“Zach is here, then?”
Mrs. Tavistock surveyed her daughter with exacting thoroughness, plumping a sleeve here, twitching a crease out of her gown there. “For an age, my love.”
Beth averted her eyes as she pulled on her white net gloves, which extended from fingertips to above the elbows. “And Lord Roth came with him, I suppose?”
“He did not, which surprised me at first, till I thought about it. Zachary said Lord Roth wasn’t ready when he was, and Zach was compelled to leave him behind. Then I considered the possibility that Lord Roth may be of a mind to be fashionably late, a tonnish habit acquired during frequent stays at his London town house, I daresay. But whether he is late or not, your betrothal party gains considerable cachet by his simply being part of the crush. Now, don’t be offended, Lizzie, if he does not stay for the whole affair. I’m afraid this sort of party might seem a bit countrified for his tastes. Turn around, child, and let me look at you.”
Beth obediently twirled for her mother’s inspection, but her heart had plummeted to her slipper straps. It was a lowering realization that her enjoyment of the party would be postponed till Alex arrived and would possibly be curtailed if, and as soon as, he made an early exit.
She had never considered the possibility before…. Did Alex think of them as countrified? Did he think of her as an awkward little country chit? She had never perceived that Alex felt himself above his company. But why hadn’t he come to the party with Zach? Where was he?
“You’re such a lucky girl, my dear,” said her mother, standing back to gaze with fond complacency at Beth. “Zachary is a wonderful young man, so handsome, so wealthy! You’ll be very happy together.”
“I hope we are,” said Beth with a pensive smile.
Her mother beamed. “There can be no question of that, my love.”
Alex cursed the necessity of steady hands to execute a neatly tied cravat. Once again he’d entertained Dudley with an awkward display of neckcloth demolition, and now, en route to Brookmoor sitting quite solitary in his own carriage, he could not remember feeling more chagrined. Late to his own brother’s betrothal party! And certainly not for the sake of elegance, since he would never presume to put on citified airs at the risk of offending his brother and Beth. There was no telling what they would think of him, and all because he could not command the use of his damned fingers!
The gentle swaying of the carriage, the companionable jingle of the traces, the muted luster of moonlight against the window glass, the fresh air of a mild July evening in Cornwall … none of this could soothe his shattered pride. Even in the throes of his first passion he had never felt so out of control, so at the mercy of his own emotions! What was he so nervous about? Was he afraid he’d expose his mixed feelings about celebrating Zach’s betrothal to the only woman Alex had felt a stirring of interest in for years? But with Beth it was more than a stirring of interest. He was fast becoming obsessed with her.
To add insult to injury, Dudley had even offered to help steady Alex’s nerves by mixing up one of his personally concocted remedies, consisting of a pinch of this, a pinch of that, and a stiff amount of good scotch whisky. Alex had taken the whisky without the medicinal herbs, informed Dudley that he wasn’t the least agitated, only a trifle ham-handed, and wasn’t he allowed the luxury of an occasional fit of clumsiness? And even if he was agitated about something, even if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, he’d never quack himself like some rubber-kneed, dandified, fribblesome court card!
Dudley
took this verbal thrashing in stride and helped his lordship into his black cutaway coat with only a slightly wounded countenance. Such forbearance only made Alex more irritated, and he left Pencarrow in a foul mood indeed. He only hoped that the short journey to Brookmoor would lend him sufficient time to compose himself and reclaim a bit of his old sangfroid.
After all, he’d sat at table with Prinny himself, the two of them exchanging witty repartee. Without a misstep he’d danced at Almack’s with innumerable society misses, each Season’s diamonds of the first water, under the eagle-eyed scrutiny of Sally Jersey. He’d played macao at Watier’s for incredible stakes without blinking an eye. Now he was reduced to an absolute clodpole by a slip of a girl named Beth because he did not think he was capable of hiding his feelings from her or from Zach much longer.
If only Zach paid her a little more attention, appreciated her as she should be appreciated, he would not feel such an urge to give Beth the kind of relationship he knew she craved. Beth was passionate and loving. He could meet her passion with equal intensity. Maybe he could even love her….
Alex abruptly forced his thoughts to mundane matters. He examined the buttons on his jacket sleeve and thought of ledger sheets, the need for new paint on his crested carriage boot, his aunt Saphrona’s pet raccoon—everything, anything but Beth.
