by Candace Camp
However, she had barely begun when Maisie, Francesca's maid, came bustling in. "No, my lady, no!"
Maisie looked horrified as she hurried to take the brush from Irene's hands. "You must let me do your hair. You promised you would let me try a style I had in mind."
"But you must help Lady Haughston," Irene protested.
"Oh, no, not yet. Her ladyship never starts dressing for supper this early," Maisie told her, expertly pulling and twisting and pinning Irene's hair as she talked. "I will do your hair first, and then there will be plenty of time for Lady Haughston's toilette."
"Yes, but—"
"Oh, never say you aren't going to let me. I would so like to work with your curls. Her ladyship's hair is beautiful, of course, but entirely different from yours. You have so much of it—and those curls!"
"Those curls are a nuisance," Irene told her, but the girl just smiled and shook her head, promising Irene that she "would see."
And Irene did see a few minutes later when Maisie had finished and stepped back, highlighting the finished product with a flourish of her hand.
"Oh, my," Irene said, gazing at her image in the mirror.
The hairstyle Maisie had created was a far cry from the simple tight knot in which she usually wore her hair. Her hair was full and soft around her face, drawn up and back, then falling in a profusion of curls. Though tightly anchored with hairpins, it seemed loose and soft, as though it might fall free at any moment.
It looked, Irene thought, beautiful, and she smiled at Maisie in the mirror, nodding.
The maid left to tend to Francesca, and Irene sat for a moment longer, looking at herself in the mirror. She supposed she should not indulge in such vanity, but she could not help but smile at her image. She looked prettier than usual, softer and more approachable. She tried to recapture the stern expression she usually wore, but somehow her face would not pull into the severe lines.
She stood up and strolled over to the window, but it had grown dark outside, and there was nothing to see. She turned back to the room, feeling restless and wondering how she would occupy herself for the next hour until it was time for everyone to convene for supper.
It occurred to her that she could slip downstairs and look for the library, and find a book to read, but the thought of something as sedentary as reading did not appeal to her at the moment. She wanted to walk, but of course she could not go out for a walk at this hour and in this dress. Finally she remembered that she had glimpsed a long gallery leading off from the entry hall this afternoon when they had arrived, and she thought that strolling along it, looking at the artwork, might be just the thing to occupy her time.
Irene picked up her black shawl to drape around her arms, bared by the short puffed sleeves of her gown, and left her room. She walked quietly, not really wishing any company, and went softly and quickly down the stairs. She had just started across the wide entry way to the gallery beyond when she heard a man's voice.
"Lady Irene. Not running away already, are you?"
Her stomach tightened, and she turned, knowing that voice even before she saw him. "Lord Radbourne."
Chapter Eight
Gideon, too, was already dressed for dining. With his shaggy dark hair and hard angular face, he looked a trifle out of place in the formal black jacket and breeches and starched white shirt, a large pigeon's-blood ruby nestling in the snowy white folds of his cravat.
He strode toward her, and she watched him, trying to place what it was that made him look different from all the other men she knew. Perhaps it was the sun-darkened skin that gave him a slightly piratical look ... or the shaggy cut of his thick black hair, which marked him as one who cared little about his appearance. But she thought it was mostly the eyes—as green as new leaves, but hard and watchful, as though he was always on alert, ready for an attack even here in the middle of this huge house.
"You are early for supper," he commented as he drew near to her. His comment was mundane, but his eyes swept down her in a way that heated her blood.
"As are you," she replied coolly, looking him in the eye. She felt, as she had before when she had been around him, the same curious blend of nerves and heat that she had never experienced around anyone else. It was a feeling she was determined not to let him see.
"Why don't we take a stroll through the gallery while we wait?" he suggested, gesturing toward the long hall in front of them, lined with windows along one wall and with paintings along the other.
She nodded and turned toward the gallery, not taking the arm he proffered. Sconces burned along the wall all the way down the corridor, reflecting their flickering light in the mullioned windows across from them. The ceiling of the gallery was high and braced with beams of dark wood, giving it a dark and dramatic effect. Portraits of men and women whom she assumed must be Bankes ancestors decorated the wall, along with paintings of rural scenes and animals. There were statues and vases, some on pedestals and others freestanding, and here and there beneath the windows were benches upon which one could sit, presumably to admire the art across the way.
Most of the paintings were rather pedestrian, Irene thought, but she studied them as if they were masterpieces, for doing so kept her face turned from Lord Radbourne. She was discovering that looking at him caused too much tumult inside her.
After they had passed a number of ancestors in progressively dated styles of dress, they came to a large painting of a horse. Irene stopped, blurting out, "This is the best painting here!"
A grin spread slowly across her companion's face. "Yes, isn't it? Far better than the one of his owner." He gestured toward the man in the portrait that hung beside the one of the horse, then on past him to a picture of a pinch-faced woman. "Or the man's wife. But then, from what I have heard, the third Earl of Radbourne was much fonder of his horse than he was of his countess."
Irene could not help but smile, though she quickly suppressed it. "I suspect there are a number of people who could say that."
"You haven't a very good view of marriage, Lady Irene."
She did not reply, merely cocked an eyebrow at him and continued her progress down the hall.
"Or should I say that it is men of whom you take such a poor view, not marriage?"
Irene shrugged. "I am sure that I have no control over what you say."
They continued in silence for a few more minutes, then Lord Radbourne began again. "You are displeased with me yet again, I take it."
She cast him a brief glance. "Why would I be displeased with you? I have not even seen you until just now."
He gave a slight nod. "I see. You are miffed, I take it, that I was not there to greet you when you arrived. My great-aunt has already rung a peal over my head about it."
"Were you not?" Irene asked, instilling her voice with disinterest. "I am afraid I did not notice."
"Did you not?" he murmured, his mouth once more curving up into a smile.
It was a very good smile, Irene noticed; she had forgotten how it lit up his eyes. He should use it more often, she thought, for it made it difficult for one to remain annoyed with him.
"It was rather rude of you—to ignore your guests."
"Exactly the sort of behavior that you are here to polish out of me," he told her.
"Lord Radbourne, I fear that there is not enough polish in the world to make you anything but rude."
He did not appear to be offended by her remark, for the smile lingered on his lips. "Indeed. You know, Lady Irene, there are those who might say that you are somewhat less than courteous yourself."
She drew breath to argue, but stopped, then gave a little laugh and said, "Well, perhaps you have the truth of it there." She paused for a moment and looked back at Radbourne. "Perhaps we should start over. After all, you and I will be working toward the same goal, will we not? Getting you married to some appropriate young lady?"
He shrugged. "I think that is more my relatives' goal than mine."
Irene looked at him in faint surprise. "Then I was
mistaken and you are not interested yourself in the matter? You do not wish to marry?"
"I know I must at some point, and I suppose now is as good a time as any. But I am not driven to become a husband and father, no."
They continued their stroll along the hall, though Irene found herself studying her companion as much as she did the artwork.
"I had thought you more eager than that in your pursuit of a bride," she said after a moment.
He lifted one shoulder in a ghost of a shrug and said, "I am not certain that eagerness enters into it. I am willing to marry—and I am willing to marry a woman from their class. But it is less than inviting to think of saddling myself with a wife who will spend the rest of my life looking down on me or who will be forever schooling me on my accent, my dress, my commonness."
Gideon glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and asked, "Would you wish to be shackled to such a partner?"
"No, indeed. That is why I refuse to marry."
"But you would not be considered unworthy by an aristocrat."
"Lord Radbourne, you do not understand. Wives are regarded as inferiors by all men." She tilted her head to look up at him.
He came to a stop, looking at her in some astonishment. "That is what you believe?"
She raised her brows. "What else should I believe? Oh, I am not talking about the meaningless little courtesies such as standing until a woman is seated or walking closer to the street to protect her. I am talking about all the essential matters of married life. A husband makes decisions for his wife. He gives her an allowance to spend on her fripperies. He tells her what to do. Is that the behavior of a man toward his equals?"
He frowned. "Well, no, but—"
Irene gazed at him challenging. "But what?"
One corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile, and he said, "But I cannot imagine the husband who would dare to tell you what to do or make decisions for you."
"I intend to make sure of that. I only wonder that a man such as you would be willing to take on the sort of wife you just described."
"I have little doubt that I will be able to take care of myself in such an arrangement. And if I am lucky, perhaps I will find a woman more ... interesting than those that have been presented to me before. Because in the end, marriage is something that will make me more acceptable in the eyes of my family." His mouth twisted as he said the words, and for an instant a certain bleakness touched his eyes before it was swallowed up in their cold depths.
"You sound bitter toward your family," Irene commented.
"What else should I feel?" he challenged. "They claim that blood is so important to them. But I see no indication of it. They have no joy in recovering a member of their family, blood of their blood. What is important to them is that I am the heir. The succession is what drives them. As to feelings for me, they have none. Their only worry is that my deficient upbringing will embarrass them, so they want me to marry in order to reduce their embarrassment."
Irene had to drop her eyes before his steady gaze. It was rather hard to argue against his assumptions.
"I grew up in the East End," he went on in a voice almost devoid of emotion. "I believed myself an orphan. I had no memory of this place or my parents, except perhaps for one vague feeling of a woman holding me. I remember nothing of how she looked, only of softness and a smell of lilacs. My earliest real memory is of hunger. I was always hungry. I belonged to a man who ran the lot of us as pickpockets and thieves. I was useful for wriggling into tight spaces and then opening a window or door for my accomplices. I was skillful at picking pockets and I was fast. So I had value to him. If I had not, he would have thrown me out into the cold. But as it was, he gave me food to eat—though it never seemed to be enough—and he gave me a place to stay. I had no schooling—I taught myself numbers and reading."
Irene's heart was touched with pity. "I am sorry."
He cast a sideways glance at her and said roughly, "I don't ask for your pity. I am merely telling you that that was my life. That was my world. And then, one day, Rochford walked into my life and informed me that I was Lord Radbourne and my family wanted me back. What am I supposed to feel for them? They are strangers to me. Strangers whose only interest in me is how to keep me from ruining the family name. They are noblemen, the kind of arrogant, useless, unfeeling people whom I have always despised. Members of the ton."
Irene felt the pain that lay beneath his words, and surprising herself a little, she took a step toward him, laying her hand on his arm. "But you are a member of that same class of people yourself," she reminded him softly.
He looked at her. "Not in my heart."
His hand came up to cover hers where it lay on his arm, and something shimmered between them—fragile, warm and light as gossamer—connecting them. It was a strange feeling, one she had never experienced, different from the desire that had melted her when they were together before, yet somehow joined to it.
She turned her face upward, looking into Gideon's eyes, and he bent his head closer to her, his eyes growing suddenly intent. His gaze drifted down her face, coming to rest on her lips. Irene could not speak, could not even move, caught for the moment in the web of something she did not recognize.
As she looked at him, her heart stirring in her chest, heat rising in her loins, Irene heard a woman's voice. It was too far away to be distinguishable, but it reminded her that they were standing in one of the main hallways of the house, where anyone might happen upon them at any time. She knew how they must look to anyone else, standing this way, their heads close together, her hand on his arm, with no one else around. It was a scene that would convey intimacy to any viewer—exactly the sort of assumption that she would not wish anyone to make. Worse, she suspected that if they stayed there any longer, the scene they presented would become decidedly more shocking.
She stepped back hastily, blushing. What was it about this man that made her respond in such an abnormal way? It had never before been a problem for her to keep her distance from a man.
She turned slightly away from him, and more to cover her own awkwardness than anything else, she said to him, "Even though you have learned to dislike the nobility, still, they are your family."
He, too, stepped back, and whatever warmth had been in his eyes for an instant was now completely gone. "A family who never tried to bring a child of their blood home?" he countered. "My mother, I suppose, cannot be blamed, as she was presumably killed at the time I was taken. But what of the others? What about my father?"
"But surely you cannot blame him for not rescuing you," Irene protested. "Your family did not know where you were or what was happening to you. You had been kidnapped. They had no idea who had taken you, or where you were. They believed you must be dead."
He gave her a long, level look. "Even if a father believed one dead, don't you think that he would still search for his child?"
"But he did search, did he not?" Irene asked.
Gideon shrugged. "So I am told."
"Why do you doubt it? Do you count your father wicked simply because he belonged to a class of people whom you dislike?"
"When Rochford set out to find me, it was only a matter of months before he was able to track me down." Gideon paused, giving her time to let that thought sink in. "And, remember, that was more than twenty-five years after the kidnapping. If it was possible then, when the trail was so cold, why was it not possible to find me right after the kidnapping took place?"
Irene simply stared at him, struck dumb by his statement.
Gideon offered her his arm, and she took it, her brain humming busily as they strolled back down the gallery to the antechamber where everyone was gathering for supper.
When they reached the small drawing room, they found Lady Odelia and her sister Pansy seated against the far wall, engaging in a conversation in which Odelia's side could be heard all over the room and well out into the hall, and Pansy's contributions were impossible to make out. It made for a disjointed conversation that
was difficult to follow but impossible to ignore, meaning that everyone else in the room could do little but stand about and awkwardly attempt to make chitchat of their own.
They were not a large number for the evening meal. Besides her mother and the members of the family whom Irene had already met, there was also a vicar, identifiable by his clerical collar, a plump, motherly sort of woman whom Irene took to be his wife, and an older man, tall and dark-haired, who stood alone by the window.
Lady Odelia paused in her conversation long enough to introduce Irene to the new guests. Irene had been correct in her identification of the vicar and his wife, who were named Longley. The other gentleman, she learned, was Pansy's younger son, Lord Jasper.
Gideon's uncle, Irene thought, assessing him as he bowed over her hand. She could see the family resemblance. Jasper had the same thick black hair, though touched with silver at the temples, and the lines of his face were similar. He was leaner and less muscular than Gideon, and there was about him an air of refinement that was missing in Gideon, an indefinable something that stamped him as a product of Eton and Oxford, a member of the elite.
His manner was somewhat aloof, and though he went through the usual polite chitchat with Irene—was her room comfortable? Had she enjoyed the trip up from London? Had she ever visited this area before?—it seemed clear to Irene that he had no interest in her answers. He looked at Gideon a time or two, but said little to him. She wondered how he felt about Gideon and his return to the family. Until Gideon reappeared, this man would have been next in line after the countess's son, and in the usual way of things, as the boy's nearest male relative, would probably have been the guardian of his assets until he came of age. Gideon's arrival would have relegated Jasper to a much less important role. While Jasper showed none of the animosity toward Gideon that she had noticed in Teresa, Irene could not help but think that Gideon must, just as he had said, have received a cool reception indeed when he returned home.
