“I am surprised you are able, in consideration of the various feats already enacted—”
“Ha, the swishing sound I happened to hear outside the garden arbour was that of yours and Marigold’s skirts, correct?” He laughed, and made straight toward a table laden with wine decanters and glasses. “So, wicked miss, you and your sister are given to the art of spying on others indulging their inner desires.”
Searching about the darkened room she sought in vain for a means to silence him, to hit him over the head, and if she used the silver candlestick, weighty as it was, she might well kill him. The thought of imprisonment and trial and hanging from a gallows, deterred her from that means of escape. But if she could render him drunk, and she remain sober, perhaps he would succumb to slumber or better still, fall senseless. A game, a game leapt to mind. A dreadfully risqué game, one she had heard tell was enacted at a summer ball. It was said several ladies and gentlemen had retreated to a garden temple within the grounds and played a drinking game.
“As my present fate is inescapable,” said she, sidling toward the table where he was pouring wine to glasses, “and you enjoy games, might we play a game in which one of us must remove items of clothing first.”
“How so?” said he, handing her a glass; almost to brim-spill.
“Whoever empties their glass first has the right to ask for removal of one item of clothing from the other,” said she, stepping back toward the bed, and there settling her rump in comfortable repose.
“You know that I shall win and have you bared and you well past caring what is to befall you” said he, a chuckle, “and sooner than you would wish for. You’ll not get me drunk and thence run off to join your sister, if that is your gambit. But no matter, the gauntlet thrown my sweeting, I accept the challenge.” He thence downed his glass almost in one gulp. “So what do I get?”
She kicked off a slipper. He laughed and replenished his glass, downed it in one gulp, and she discarded the matching slipper. And so the game proceeded, whilst her glass lessened miniscule sip by sip, and the last garter fell to the floor. She had thought he would be unsteady on his feet by now, but after having downed six glasses of wine he was still standing and not a waver in stance as a petticoat finally pooled around her ankles. Instead it was she who wavered, who almost lost her balance. Realisation befell her, for that damnable latticework lantern was working against her, its incense potent indeed. Overt awareness to fabric sliding across flesh, and with pulse racing it was difficult to quantify why such felt so sensual. Perhaps if she quenched a raging thirst, now plaguing her, it would help her to rally and gather herself. Reaching for the glass she misjudged its closeness and knocked it over.
“Sweeting, lie back afore you topple off the bed,” said he, decanter to hand as he staggered toward her, his face barely visible, his body mass obscuring the one candle left atop the chest beside the door, but he was at last drink-sodden.
The darkness seemed to be cloaking about her, more so as he leaned across to place the decanter and his glass beside the lantern; its minimal glow seeming to shift as though dancing back and forth until with a forceful breath he attempted to douse the flickering flame within the lower lantern’s chamber. He failed and tried again, and thrice tried and failed.
“Damn me if this incense burner is an obstinate little devil.”
Drawing a deep breath he again leaned forward, but instead he swayed and fell to his knees, his brow crashing against the edge of the table. He cursed, clutched at his brow and withdrawing his fingers they were clearly streaked with blood.
The glow of the burner continued, the incense now smoking profusely, the perfume so strong it was suffocating, stealing the air from their lungs. “Air, we need fresh air,” said he struggling to his feet. “I closed the window per instructions from that damn fool aide of mine below stairs.”
His companion in the arbour she supposed was the damn fool, and trying to gain her feet to follow his path to the window she heard a loud thud. He was down again and this time he didn’t move. Fearful she would die if she did nothing, she forced herself; step by step toward the door. Albeit a struggle to concentrate she pressed the latch down and opened the door, and slid to the floor, her eyelids so heavy she could keep them open no longer.
~
Voices, she could hear voices. Angry voices, shouting, cursing, and then Marigold said: “She’s here, she’s here.”
Another familiar voice rang out, heavy footfalls advancing: “Dear God, what has he done to her?”
“Erica, can you hear me?” said Marigold, a hand clasping, stroking. “You’ll be all right, you will, you have to be, for I can’t be without you, and Pembrey is here to take you away. He’s going to look after us and we’ll send word to mother.”
“I hear you, Marigold,” said she, struggling to open her eyelids, struggling to make sense of what had happened. “How long have I been lying here?”
“I don’t know, because it took me an awfully long time to saddle up Merryboy, the fat little pig. He’s much too small for me now, but he was there and easy to hand, and he fair flew the distance from here to Brook House.”
Another set of heavy footfalls sounded along the corridor, accompanied by a strange sound of metal scraping metal. “Is she unharmed?” enquired an unknown voice, as the person drew abreast of Pembrey.
“Damned if I know,” replied Pembrey, dropping to one knee, a four cupped candelabra to hand, all the candles alight, the intensity of brightness blinding. “How do you feel, Erica?”
“A little sick in the tummy, and my mind is awash with strange sounds and visions.”
“Do you smell that?” asked the deep voice.
“Aye, I did. Opium.”
Forcing herself to look up she observed the figure standing over them brandishing a scabbard to hand, the caged hilt of a sword glinting in the candlelight as the part covered face peered into the bedchamber. He suddenly hauled a silk cravat from his lower face which creased to a smile. It was a face one wouldn’t forget once seen; nor forget his voice: “The bounder’s out cold by the look of it. That’ll teach him to dabble with potent substances.” He thence turned to Marigold. “Take hold of the scabbard, Miss Townsend, and I’ll be getting your sister out of here, and safely away to Brook House.”
As Pembrey regained his feet, she turned to Marigold for enlightenment, and her sister said: “It’s hardly the time and place for introductions, Erica.”
“Derby Rossiter,” said the gallant, bending a knee, and lifting her into his arms. “Grab around my neck, and up we go.”
And they did, and the sway caused her stomach to lurch, the corridor seeming to close in about them as he strode onward with Pembrey leading and Marigold hovering attendance.
“You are barefoot, no stockings, and no petticoat; are you sure nothing happened that shouldn’t have?” asked her sister.
“I am sure, for Farnley hit his head on a chest top and collapsed shortly afterwards.”
“Serve him right,” said Pembrey, glancing over his shoulder. “He’ll like as not come to eventually. And may his head pain him for days to come.”
As they descended the stairs she could see the first light of dawn casting through the tall narrow windows on both sides of the main entrance door. And as much as she wished to study the gallant Derby Rossiter at close quarter, his profile in candlelight bearing the fashionable Corinthian look, his dark hair close-cropped, her eyelids closed and she simply couldn’t open them as a dreamscape of racing horses embraced her.
Three
~
June 14th
~
“It was to be expected,” said Pembrey, rising from his seat nearest the breakfast parlour window. “I shall deal with your father in cordial manner, and shall continue to deny him access to the pair of you, my dearest of friends.”
“I fear you will be given no choice in the matter,” said Marigold. “Two days now, father has arrived on the doorstep, and twice he has said he would involve the Const
able and bring justice to bear upon your refusing him the right to speak with us.”
“Then he will risk his reputation hereabouts should he deign to involve the judiciary,” said Pembrey, quick in kissing Marigold’s cheek before passing on toward the door; his butler hovering attendance with the door held ajar.
“Shout if you require any help,” intoned Derby Rossiter, whilst buttering a toasted muffin.
Pembrey paused in the doorway, chuckled. “I shall inform him we are awaiting instructions from his wife, for surely the mother of two girls subjected to outlandish and foul disregard by their father for their tender hearts and minds must count in their favour. Therefore, I feel duty bound to protect them from the debauchery we witnessed upon entry to Frampton Manor. Succinct, what say you?”
“To the mark, dear fellow, though I’ll warrant he’ll not go quietly.”
They would know soon enough if her father would finally desist in his demands that she and Marigold would do well to return to his house of their own volition. The shame of her predicament clung to Erica Townsend no matter her every effort to shake off the notion she was at fault for her state of dress when discovered by her rescuers. And yet, had she not resorted to game-play with Farnley, she would have lost her virginity long before Marigold arrived with two gallants.
Casting a furtive glance at Derby Rossiter she could not deny he was a man of taste in dress, his emerald green tail-coat enhancing his green eyes, a gold understated pin to his cravat, and grey breeches. There was nothing flamboyant about him as there was with Farnley, despite the fact Rossiter was an earl of the realm. Farnley in like to George IV was extremely garish in dress, not a fop by any measure of a feminine bent, in fact quite regal in deportment. But none of that excused his behaviour or his penchant for orgies.
Seemingly aware he was under scrutiny and by whom, Rossiter’s eyes lit on hers and a smile to melt any woman’s heart thus bestowed. “Are the slippers a good fit?” enquired he; the deep timbre of his voice music to her ears. “I trust black will suffice for the present?”
“It was very thoughtful and extremely kind of you to purchase slippers, stockings, and a petticoat. And quite embarrassing, I dare say, for a single gentleman to undertake the task of choosing female garments.”
Marigold’s laughter rang out. “You goose, Erica, the earl paid for your petticoat and stockings but I selected them whilst he chose the slippers. He would not have you going barefoot on rising from your sick bed.”
“Oh well, that eases my conscience a little, and thank you,” said she, relieved her sister had chosen the intimate items.
“I must show you the bonnet and gloves I have. They are the finest red kid, and the bonnet has matching red ribbons.”
It did strike her that perhaps Marigold’s blushing cheeks and hand resting to the earl’s cuff proved their outing to town –whilst she was still lying abed recovering from her traumatic experience – as wholly accountable for a noticeable sparkle within her sister’s eyes. The gift of gloves and a bonnet for Marigold seemed a tad overtly generous on the earl’s part, unless he was quite enamoured with her, and that would indeed account for excess in generosity.
The earl suddenly vacated his chair, bowed, and said: “Now that you are up and about, Miss Townsend, it seems as good a time as any to present you with an extra item that rather caught my eye whilst your sister was engaged in trying on bonnets.”
With that said, he stepped away from the table and vacated the parlour. “Don’t ask me,” said Marigold shrugging her shoulders. “I have no notion of what he purchased whilst my back was turned, though he did have two parcels tucked underarm before he scooped up the bandbox, one parcel of course, containing your slippers.”
“By rights, you should not have let him purchase gloves and a bonnet for you. It is not the thing to accept gifts from a gentleman you hardly know.”
“I didn’t ask him to, if that is what you are thinking, Erica. It was just that I couldn’t resist trying on one or two bonnets and he came up from behind and asked me which I would choose if of a mind to purchase one, so I told him. With that he ordered it boxed and then the lady who boxed it asked me would I like gloves to go with it. I was about to say no, and the earl said yes, and so I have the gloves as well.”
“Well, it was a very generous gesture.”
Marigold sighed, deeply. “Yes, but I think there may be more to it than that.”
Albeit unfair to feel jealous of her sister, a twinge of envy nonetheless surged from the depths, for red gloves and red beribboned bonnet was surely a sign of romance in the air. “Let us hope Derby Rossiter, Earl of Epsom, is as sincere as his gesture implies.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Marigold, a hand slapped to her mouth but momentary. “No, you cannot be thinking—”
The door opened stealing the moment as the earl stepped back into the parlour, a sizeable parcel to hand. “I pray I have chosen well, for I confess it is a long while since I have purchased an item such as this.”
With the parcel proffered she accepted it and placed it to her lap. “I don’t know what to say, but thank you.”
“My sister’s tastes, I am of mind, are similar to yours,” said he, whilst resting his hands to the back of her chair. “That is to say, in the cut and colour of your dress.”
The parcel tied with ribbon was pleasing, when most tended to be fastened with string. Fingers shaking she unravelled the bow and the ties fell away. On parting the outer brown wrapping, inside was fine tissue paper, and beneath lay cream coloured silk, heavy embroidered silk and it slithered snakelike from its paper confinement. “Oh, but you shouldn’t have, really, you shouldn’t have. It’s beautiful,” said she, the silk gliding through her fingers, the embroidery threaded with silver. It was a most pleasing sight, and a fitting accessory to her yellow coloured day dress, to any dress.
“My pleasure, Miss Townsend. As I understand it, fine wool shawls are all very well in winter, whereas a silk stole is a versatile and pleasing item for chilly summer days.”
“Oh indeed, and this one is particularly beautiful. And please, Miss Townsend sounds so formal. Erica will do, admirably so. Oh Lordy, it’s so lovely.”
“You must call me Derby in exchange for Erica. Now, might I assist in placing it about your shoulders?”
If Marigold’s grin was to be taken as evidence of amusement, her wink of eye directed at his lordship implied collusion afoot as he reached for the silk wrap. Had he really chosen the glorious garment, or had her sister played a part in its purchase, and how were they to repay the earl for his kindness?
“You can wear that with any day dress or gown, no matter its colour,” said Marigold, clasping her hands together as though delighting at the prospect of borrowing it as she had with other items to her liking, “and I congratulate you for excellent taste, your lordship.”
A chuckle preceded his deep timbre: “Why thank you, young miss.”
As the silk slid across the bare flesh of lower arms, the touch of his hand resting to each shoulder dispatched a ripple of pleasure down her spine. “I trust you will let mother recompense you for all the items purchased, for you have incurred considerable expense for two people you have no obligation toward.”
The lingering grip on her shoulders was a tad too sensual, and his whispering in her ear set her pulse racing. “There is no debt attached, I assure you, for I am not of Farnley’s ilk.”
“Oh but I never thought you were,” said she, swinging round to face him. “It’s just that—”
A finger to her lips stalled her outburst, his green eyes levelled to hers and a decidedly mischievous glint within. “It may become necessary to purchase more than mere accessories for your journey to the safety of your mother’s care, unless your father sees fit to release clothing suitable for a lengthy journey.”
“That won’t happen any time soon,” intoned Marigold, rising from her chair, “not if he persists in his demands for us to return home.”
The door flew open,
and Pembrey stormed in, his grey eyes flashing akin to steel blades. “I’ve never heard the like,” said he, raking fingers through his lustrous black hair, “and by God, I’ll not be spoken to in that manner again, nor stand by to receive a punch to my jaw. I’m afraid, Erica, I have sent for the Constable. This matter needs thrashing out with a man of the law present, and I pressed upon Farnley to relent in pursuit of your hand in marriage.”
“He came with father?”
“Indeed he did, and thought to throw his weight into the equation. As it happens I don’t bank with Farnley, so his threats fell as meaningless as his attempt to land a cracker to my face. I ducked.” Pembrey laughed, drew breath, and continued: “I confess I was quite of mind to spirit you two girls away to a rather good hotel in Bath, and now fear that would be most inadvisable.”
The Earl's Captive Bride Page 3
