“Of course not,” he agreed solemnly.
She thought perhaps he was mocking her as there was a definite twinkle in his dark eyes. “You may laugh, but it wouldn’t be at all comfortable to be on bad terms with our neighbors.”
Baby Joseph, having lost interest in this conversation, had taken a few tottering exploratory steps. Just as his short legs were about to buckle, his aunt recaptured him and swept him into her arms. With Stratford keeping pace beside her, Rose now moved toward the house. A pudgy hand gripped the ends of ribbon under her chin and pulled with surprising strength.
“No, dearest,” she cooed more than scolded, catching the dirty hand and playfully kissing the offending digits.
“I, for one, applaud Master Charville’s worthy attempt to rid you of that preposterous cap. Why do you wear such things?”
“Oh, for protection,” she replied self-consciously.
“Protection, Miss Lawrence?”
“From all the matchmakers, you see. Even though I’d been on the shelf for years, I was forever being told to make myself agreeable to men with spindly legs or dripping noses. None of whom could be considered a catch, of course--but then, I should know not to look too high for a husband. No one knew quite what to do with me, you see, but once I put on the caps, such attempts to settle my future ceased. The relief felt by all was immense, I can tell you.”
He heard the anger behind the light words and was conscious of a desire to kiss her bitterness away. Before Stratford could even understand the depth of his unexpected emotion, Miss Lawrence was saying in her usual tranquil tone, “I’ve a favor to ask of you. My lord, one which will be absurdly easy for you to fulfill.”
Rose paused and shifted the weight of Joseph in her arms while letting her eyes rest on the viscount’s face. He recognized the challenge in them.
“You fill me with foreboding, Miss Lawrence. What is this absurd favor?”
“I should like you to delay discussing your wedding date with Helen.”
He said nothing, but turned one sardonically raised brow upon her. She thought how arrogantly scornful that brow made him look.
“I’m not trying to interfere,” she assured him. “But I think perhaps you might consider how precipitate your demand may be. My sister is . . . Helen is easily influenced and at this point, whatever day you wished for, she would agree to, regardless of her own feelings. What is more, she’d fear to displease you with the wrong choice. Surely it’s not too much to ask that you wait a while longer to press her on this matter.”
“For someone not trying to interfere, you’re doing exceptionally well at it,” he commented dryly. “Try to believe that I do not intend to bully Helen into anything distasteful to her.”
“I did not mean—indeed—”
“There is no need for you to explain yourself.” His eyes were shuttered as he held open the door for her. “I’ve no wish for a bride who fears me.”
Rose passed into the cottage with a crimson stain upon each cheek and gratefully left his lordship to Mr. Baldwin’s company in the parlor while she shepherded her three nephews upstairs.
By the time she came to rejoin the men, her hair neatly tucked back under her cap and her stained gown exchanged for her brown wool, the morning callers had returned and were removing bonnets, pelisses and gloves. Rose quickly noted that the fingers untying the pretty blue ribbons of Helen’s bonnet were shaking. But before she could reassure her sister, Lord Stratford strolled to the young girl’s side.
“Did you enjoy your round of visits, my dear?” he inquired as he firmly put her quivering hands aside and undid the knotted bow. He lifted the hat from her glossy curls and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby pie-crust table, adding, “Well?”
Thinking this was a criticism of her absence, Helen bent her head, fixing her gaze on the exquisite shine of his boot, and replied timidly, “I—I am sorry, sir. I meant to be here—”
“You needn’t apologize!” he cut in rather impatiently. Her eyes flew up to his face. He clearly read the fright in them and forced himself to say kindly, “Come, Helen, tell me about your visits.”
She allowed herself to be drawn next to him on the settee and dutifully related the morning’s social round. If his lordship was not interested, Helen could not detect it, though she suspected he did not actually care what Mrs. McBroom had said with regard to Mama’s spasms or how Miss Lillian Henley had stared at her rig. When she had brought forth all she could think to tell, the pair sat silent, Helen nervously toying with the frills of her gown while the viscount intently studied her.
“I have been thinking,” he finally said, “that perhaps it would be best to wait upon your return to London before inserting the notices of our betrothal.” He looked at her searchingly and wondered if that was indeed relief he had seen in her eyes.
“If that is what you wish,” she responded hesitantly. She licked her lips, then suggested timorously “We could perhaps make the announcement at my ball.”
“What ball is that?”
“My Aunt Thacker has planned a come-out ball for me at the end of the month.”
He presented one of his winning smiles. “An excellent notion, love. And shall we wait until we are together again in town to select our wedding date?”
“Oh, yes,” Helen agreed, happily returning his smile.
“What are you two speaking so seriously of,” demanded Mrs. Lawrence archly from across the room. “Though I’m certain no one could blame you, my lord, for wanting to keep Helen all to yourself, you must wait a while longer for that privilege!”
“We were just discussing the announcement of our betrothal, ma’am,” Stratford answered pleasantly. “We rather thought we’d wait until Miss Helen’s come-out ball to break the news.”
“But why?” Nell asked sharply.
“For the impact it would have, of course,” he replied with ease. The viscount’s gaze moved from Nell to Rose, where he met with a look of warm gratitude.
Beside her, Daniel sat regarding his cousin in wonderment, for not three hours ago his lordship had made vividly clear his intent to have the matter settled today. If Colin were waiting on Miss Helen’s whim, it would be, thought Baldwin, the most astonishing element yet of this whole incredible business.
“But quite right,” Susanna surprisingly approved. “It would be just the proper occasion for such an announcement. Why, it puts me in mind of when dear Mr. Lawrence disclosed our betrothal at the Hartnetts’ Christmas ball.”
The arrival of Griffen cut short his mother’s reminiscing, much to the relief of the rest of the party. “Did you ride over, Lord Stratford?” he inquired after making his greetings. “You may be spending the afternoon with us but the clouds are gathering outside. We shall soon be in for a severe storm, mark my words!”
A distant crash of thunder gave emphasis to his prediction and filled Rose with dismay for she wondered how she could manage to keep the relaxed mood between Helen and his lordship from dissolving. The solution was delivered from an unexpected source when Esmond wandered absently in behind his brother, remarking, “This is the kind of day I remember we used to spend hours playing at slip-groat. Remember that, Rose?”
“Indeed, I do,” she answered, smiling.
“And what is slip-groat?” Stratford asked.
“Have you never played?” Rose asked in return. “Oh, that’s infamous! It was once a game of kings, you know—”
“I believe we still have the old board about here.” Esmond glanced at his mother. “Haven’t we? Perhaps we could find it and show his lordship how to play.”
A search of the attic was rewarded with an antique wooden playing board, which was thoroughly dusted in a matter of moments. The viscount volunteered the shillings for the game, and the challenge was on.
Esmond soon displayed an astonishing skill and he confessed with a sheepish grin on his handsome face, “I’ve not spent all my time at my books, you know!”
The room filled with merry laughter as
Stratford and Baldwin made their first clumsy shots. A wager was suggested by Griffen, but his lordship rejected this. “I rather think not,” he drawled. “Among family I play only for . . . love, shall we say?”
When it was Rose’s turn to play, she demurred, saying blandly, “Since I know nothing of love, I fear I’ve nothing to stake.” Try as she might, she could not refrain from looking at Stratford as she said this.
He was clearly amused. “Come, Miss Lawrence,” he coaxed. “We shall gladly let you play for nothing more than your own whim!”
The others joined his attempts to persuade her and Rose was at last prevailed upon to take her turn. She judged her shot to a nicety and with a quick press of her palm sent her shilling sliding neatly into a bed for a point.
“I am relieved I did not bet against you,” Stratford commented with a crooked smile.
“You know it is said only a fool wagers against an unknown,” she rejoined on a knowing laugh. “And you are certainly no fool, my lord.”
“I must disappoint you,” he said as his smile faded. “I have wagered on an unknown.”
“Oh? And did you win or lose?”
“Oh, I won the wager, Miss Lawrence,” he said wearily. “But I fear,” he added beneath his breath, “I may have lost the game.”
Chapter 9
It was not to be expected that the spirit of cheerful festivity be sustained for long, but Rose was at a loss to understand just what had so utterly ruined the viscount’s pleasure in the game. Though he continued to play and converse easily, his dark eyes no longer smiled and his face bore his more usual aspect of restless discontent. The game had ended without giving her an answer and as they kept country hours at Appleton, Rose was forced to quit the room immediately after in order to help Mrs. Mosley prepare for dinner.
A fierce staccato beat against the windows as the clouds delivered the promised rain in full force. Griffen pressed his guests to remain, saying, “You certainly can’t wish to ride out in this storm, and you needn’t worry about changing for dinner here. We don’t stand upon ceremony, especially with family.”
Baldwin, too, had noticed his lordship’s saturnine humor, but he was given no opportunity to speak privately with Stratford until well after the simple but savory supper. The two were finally left alone at the table, each reposing with a glass of hock, while Griffen descended into the cellar in search of a very special bottle of port he had been saving, he insisted, for just such a time as this.
“I think, Colin, I should offer you my congratulations,” Daniel remarked diffidently. “Things have turned out rather well for you.” He raised his glass to his cousin, then watched Stratford over the rim as he drank.
With great deliberation, the viscount reached for the decanter and slowly refilled his glass. He sat gazing into the liquid for some time before responding flatly, “Before you become too effusive with your felicitations, Daniel, you might remember that you were opposed to this match from the outset. I cannot recall your precise words, but you made your views of the wager perfectly clear. I may have pocketed Maret’s five hundred guineas, but each time I suffer through a conversation with my beautiful, bird-witted fiancée, I wonder just what I lost!”
Stratford looked up from his contemplation of his drink to find his cousin staring beyond him, shocked dismay stamped ludicrously on his face. Colin glanced quickly over his shoulder. Miss Rose Lawrence stood in the door frame, her large gray eyes fixed scornfully upon him. Before he could collect his wits, she pivoted sharply and disappeared.
“Damnation!” Turning his fury on the unfortunate Baldwin, he demanded, “Why the devil didn’t you warn me?”
“I didn’t see her ’til it was too late! And if you insist upon making such comments about your fiancée, something like this was bound to occur.”
“What I choose to say about Helen Lawrence is my business alone!” Stratford enunciated through clenched teeth. He pitched the full glass of wine down his throat and set the empty glass onto the oak table with a thump.
Ignoring this danger signal, Daniel said in a tone of deep disapprobation, “I foresaw how it would be with a match founded upon a wager.”
“Don’t you see it’s all of a piece!” snapped the viscount. “All of life is a toss of the dice. Do you think I’d have fared any better submitting meekly to the earl’s choice of a bride?”
“No. But I do think having chosen this imprudent course, you could be more gracious to your bride-to-be. Your displays of ill temper—”
“For God’s sake, Daniel! Had she not desired to marry me, Helen only had to say no. But whether for my charm of manner or my fine fortune, she chose to play out this hand. You must see that I cannot now forfeit the game.”
This was said with such a bitter edge that Daniel forbore making any further argumentation, and they sat in strained silence until Griffen reappeared.
Proudly displaying a dark bottle covered with a film of dust, Griffen stood where his sister had been an instant before. “Just wait ’til you taste this, gentlemen! I’ll swear you’ve never had a finer port in any grand house.”
Baldwin returned a courteous response and attempted to keep a smooth appearance up while Griffen busied himself with the decanting and serving of the wine. It was not easy, for his lordship was barely civil.
Stratford’s only thought now was to see Miss Lawrence, to explain the situation in a way that would somehow erase the contempt from her eyes. Upon being handed a glass of the red port, the viscount downed the contents with an impatient toss. This cavalier treatment of so fine a wine scandalized Griffen, but he said nothing, merely assenting in a strangled tone when his lordship brusquely suggested they now rejoin the ladies.
As they entered the sitting room, Stratford rapidly searched the small room. Rose was not there. When he inquired of Helen where she was, he was told she had retired for the night. Such a heavy scowl crossed over his features, Helen wondered what she had done to have so violently offended his lordship.
At that moment, Rose was striding furiously up and down the length of their tiny bedchamber. Her rage surpassed that of the storm outside as she reviewed every despicable facet of Stratford’s vile, detestable nature. She thought fondly of the bygone days of the French Revolution when aristocrats were very properly guillotined and visualized with relish a certain lord’s head being severed from his body. She decided it was much too good for him.
Over the past few days she had begun to think him likable and even, in many ways, actually kind. But she now saw clearly that he was far worse than the cold, arrogant beau she had originally thought him to be. That he should claim Helen for a wager was an infamous act of wickedness which left Rose feeling sick with anger.
Such a consuming wrath soon spent its force and Rose sank quietly to the edge of her bed, trying to determine what she should do. In the end, she realized there was little she could do. To tell Helen was unthinkable, while Griffen, with Nell and Mama behind him, would undoubtedly turn a blind eye to the matter. The insult would have to be borne in silence, but she, at least, vowed never to forgive the viscount.
While Miss Lawrence conjured up a series of intricate and exceedingly gruesome deaths for Lord Stratford, he sat below suffering polite, meaningless conversation, pondering how he would convince her he’d meant no harm. Used all his life to women whose deepest concerns were the latest fashions and most current on dits, Stratford felt himself to be at point nonplus with the tall, intelligent creature whose good opinion had suddenly become all-important to him.
As soon as it was possible to do so, Stratford made his excuses and departed. Though it was no longer storming, a fine drizzle accompanied the cousins on their way back to Adderbury Inn, perfectly matching their dampened spirits. The short journey was made wordlessly, but as they neared the inn, Baldwin broke the silence. His apology was stiffly given and as stiffly received. The companionable mood which had been building up between them during the week now appeared destroyed.
The constraint
between them had not lessened by morning. They prepared for their return to London in leaden silence and so drove back to Appleton Cottage to make their farewells.
It was his lordship’s intention to have it out with Miss Lawrence before he left and it was with a grim frown that he learned she was not at home. She had gone out, he was told, on an errand of mercy, delivering a basket of foodstuffs to a sick tenant. He suspected she had gone to avoid seeing him, and a martial gleam sprang into his eyes.
The viscount had been quite right. Rose left the cottage as early as she could manage, for, she told herself firmly, if she never saw Lord Stratford again, it would be too soon for her. Her anger had abated somewhat, but the disgust and disappointment were felt as vividly as in the moment she had heard that hateful voice disclosing his lordship’s true nature. She walked slowly along, reluctant to return home, afraid he would not yet have gone and, still, somehow, equally afraid that he would.
The rapid pounding of horses’ hoofs drummed in the distance. Even as she moved to the side of the road, Rose knew who it was. She did not look behind her, but continued to walk steadily along, her head held high, her heart keeping beat to the rhythm of the horses’ gait.
The curricle dashed past her.
Stratford skillfully steered it to an abrupt halt across the road some feet before her, effectively blocking her way. As she neared, he commanded curtly, “Get in.”
She stood, weighing the possibility of denying him and trying to walk on. She knew this would be a hopeless attempt on her part, resulting in the kind of scene she most wished to avoid, so she shifted her empty basket to her left arm and extended her right hand to meet his lordship’s outstretched palm. With a nimble movement, she mounted to sit rigidly beside him.
“You are, Miss Lawrence, a woman of rare good sense,” Stratford remarked as he expertly backed his horses onto the road and proceeded on the way.
Rose did not respond.
He cast a sideways glance at her. She sat erect, only the rapid rise and fall of her bosom disclosing her furious state of mind. “I wish,” he said earnestly, “to explain my remarks last night.”
Fran Baker Page 10
