Sophia was surprised to note that the Earl, who impressed her as being a warm and kindly gentleman, looked almost as dismayed as his kinsman. For herself, she could have screamed with laughter. It appeared that one antisocial, would-be hermit was about to be inundated with company!
A tall, husky woman stamped into the room. She wore an ill-fitting riding habit, the train of which she held draped across one arm, revealing a startling expanse of high-buttoned boots. An enormous white feather soared up from a dejected-looking hat of the same brown as her habit. She was undoubtedly on the far side of forty, but her mousy brown hair, escaping in all directions from beneath that wilting hat, was unmarked by silver. Her eyes were dark and scanned the room in a brief sweep as she advanced on the Marquis. "There you are, nephew," she barked redundantly, arms outstretched. "I bring you a surprise."
Sophia had the distinct impression that the Marquis winced as he was caught in that crushing hug, and his "Feather!" was more a gasp than a greeting. He planted a dutiful kiss upon her upturned cheek, however, and thanked her for having braved such a storm.
"Where'd you spring from?" enquired Ridgley, submitting to her embrace uneasily. "Thought we was cut off!"
"Phinny Bodwin's," she roared. "Decided to pay you a quick call but, with the state of the roads now, may have to camp here a few days!" She fetched the Earl a slap on the back that deposited most of the contents of his glass onto the sleeve of his jacket, then marched to the door. "Charlotte! Where in the devil are you, girl?"
Sophia, meeting Clay's mirthful glance, fought back a giggle and saw Damon slant an amused look at her. The Earl, smoothing wine from his sleeve, muttered, "Same old Feather…"
Another woman entered. She was tall and willowy and younger than her companion by a good decade or more. Coppery curls, coiffed in the newest short style, framed features of classic perfection, enhanced by long green eyes. She moved in a smooth glide, her cloak swinging apart to reveal an apricot-hued gown that emphasized the colour of her hair.
Damon took her hands and bowed over them, pressing each to his lips. "Welcome, my dear lady." His smile had become very tender, and the affection in his eyes made him seem, or so thought Sophia, almost human. The beauty's white hand caressed his cheek in a revealing gesture before she proceeded to the Earl, who planted a kiss on her brow and muttered it was "stupid he ain't yet wed you!"
Damon presented Sophia and Clay to the large woman, who was his aunt, Lady Fanny Branden. Lady Branden cut him off with the pronouncement that her friends called her "Feather."
"We already know of you, Major." She extended her hand to Clay. "Your gallant exploits against Old Boney had all England by the heartstrings! You must tell us of Waterloo. Can't get you lads to speak of it."
"I rather imagine Clay is tired of speaking of it, dear Aunt." Damon's voice held boredom. "Meanwhile, Lady Sophia has not met Miss Hilby."
It was all Sophia could do to hide her disgust. How logical that he should so summarily turn away any discussion of the fighting he himself had so carefully evaded. She schooled herself to respond suitably as she was presented to the beauty, but her forced smile encountered a thoughtful green stare, and she sensed that her resentment had been discerned.
Thompson came in to take Miss Hilby's cloak, but Feather refused to be divested of her hat, pointing out rather illogically that she was still chilled through from that beastly drive. "Should have ridden!" she observed. "Get the old blood going, eh?" She turned to Damon. "You found the gumption to straddle one of your fine cattle yet? Suppose not! Likely never will at your age! Lud, what a waste, with legs like those!" She slapped a large hand on her frozen nephew's thigh. "Splendid! Ain't he got splendid legs, Ridgley?"
"And a red face." The Earl grinned.
Damon's face was more white than red, but he managed a tight smile and murmured, "Dear Feather, won't you sit here by the fire?"
"No," she stated unequivocally. "Shut your eyes!"
Amused, he obeyed, but she peered at him with suspicion. "Don't trust you! No man should have great long lashes like that! Cover your eyes, sir! And do not dare to peep!" Laughing, he followed orders. Lady Branden held one finger to her lips, tiptoed heavily to the door, and beckoned.
The girl who now entered was small, dark, and vivacious. She was not beautiful, for her upper lip was too short, her nose too retrousse, and her bone structure lacking the fineness associated with true beauty; yet she appeared beautiful, perhaps because she radiated warmth and affection. She paused briefly, her soft brown eyes peering around the room in a myopic stare. She had discarded her cloak and wore a gown of brilliant orange silk that displayed to advantage an astonishing figure, bountiful of bosom, round of hip, and tiny at the waist. The Earl blew her a silent kiss. Lady Feather clasped her hands and beamed in the manner of a magician who has pulled a very fat rabbit from the hat. Her face alight with love and mischief, the girl began to run toward the Marquis, only to stumble over excessively high heels.
At her small shriek, Damon's head shot up. He cried a delighted "Genevieve!" and jumped forward in time to catch her.
"Ah, Camille!" she exclaimed, hugging him tightly as he swung her around, her feet high above the floor. Lapsing into French, she went on. "At last, I have found you! And how well you look, dearest of all cousins! But why in the name of the good God must you hide and rusticate in such dreary desolation? This hideous ghost ridden mortuary, when you had London at your feet! Name of a name! The most beautiful man in all England, buried! Lost to—"
Since all of this impassioned speech was liberally interspersed with kisses, the Marquis had evinced no inclination to disrupt it, but now he laughed and said also in French, "Speak English, my little cabbage. We have company."
He set her down, and upon the Earl's complaining that he did not rate a kiss, she went to pull him down and plant a generous buss upon each cheek. "Are you, mon pauvre, sacrificed upon the altar of my foolish cousin's… seclusion?"
"If this is seclusion, m'dear"—Ridgley beamed—"I'll spend the rest of my days here!"
"You most assuredly will do no such thing," Damon said coldly.
A scowl replaced Ridgley's grin, and he met the Marquis' level gaze resentfully.
"Damon, you've become a clod!" snorted Lady Branden.
"Total," Ridgley confirmed.
"Will no one introduce me to this lady?" asked the French girl hastily, "whose beauty is of such perfection."
"And who blushes so admirably," murmured the Marquis, peering at Sophia through his quizzing glass.
Flustered and longing to scratch him as all eyes turned to her, she stammered, "W-Why, I am… overwhelmed by such a pretty compliment. Though perfect beauty, or perfection of any kind, must surely be inhuman."
"Not in the House of Branden," grunted Ridgley, still having a resentful set to his jaw. "One would not dare be otherwise!"
The quizzing glass, which had been allowed to swing idly from the Marquis's hand, jerked slightly. Miss Hilby directed a reproachful look at the Earl and reminded Damon that his introductions remained incomplete.
For a second, his eyes challenged those of his kinsman, and Ridgley flushed and looked away. Then, with perfect composure, Damon presented Sophia and Clay to his cousin, Mademoiselle Genevieve de la Montaigne. Clay bowed politely. Sophia held out her hand, and Genevieve took it, frowning a little. "The name I do not know… and yet we have meet—oui?"
Sophia said that she did not think they had met and was astonished when the French girl suddenly wrapped her in a hug.
"Is of the peu d'importance! I have know in this one minute you shall be a special friend! Some of the times I have this feeling—here." Her hand fluttered to her shapely bosom, a movement followed with interest by the eyes of the three gentlemen. "Come." She drew Sophia toward the fire. "Here we sit and have the happy cose."
"Which I shall join." Feather marched to seat herself to Sophia's left on the comfortable leather sofa. "Knew your Papa. Fine seat. And a grand fighting man. Serv
ed with my husband in Holland." Her hard eyes softened briefly; then, with a little shrug, she went on in her bluff manner. "Sorry to hear about your brother. But you can at least be proud of your men."
Instinctively, Sophia glanced at Damon. A cynical smile twisted his mouth, but he said nothing. "It seems, my lord," she smiled, "that if my house is blessed with courage, yours is blessed by its charming ladies."
Genevieve hugged her, and Feather gave a barking laugh. Damon watched her with a thoughtful expression, and she realized he had read an innuendo into the words that she had honestly not intended but that was, she felt, well justified.
He turned to Miss Hilby and said a meaningful "It is indeed."
"Oh," said Sophia artlessly. "Are you also of the House of Branden, ma'am?"
Miss Hilby, her fond gaze steady on the Marquis, said, "Not yet, my lady."
Chapter 4
Lady Branden, Mademoiselle de la Montaigne, and Miss Hilby had retired to their rooms to refresh themselves after their journey. The Earl and Clay were engrossed in a military discussion regarding the shrewd tactics employed by the French at Quatre Bras, and Sophia looked at Damon with an ingenuously hopeful smile. The westering sun chose that moment to flood the room with belated brilliance, and, having stared rather blankly at her, bathed in that warm glow, he mumbled an offer to show her around the Priory, adding deprecatingly, "Though it is a dusty old place, and I doubt you'd be in the least interested, ma'am." She dashed his hopes by saying she would find it delightful, and, Clay raising no objection to the idea, Damon sighed and bowed her wearily into the hall.
Despite his apparent ennui, he was nothing if not thorough. He conducted her through a succession of chill and gloomy rooms, some holding furniture protected by Holland covers so dusty they looked as if the doors had not been opened for several years. He gratified her expressed curiosity politely, drawing many objets d'art to her attention and discoursing with surprising knowledge on the various pieces. He then related the gruesome history of the house, which had originally been a famous keep, the catacombs all that now remained of the ancient structure. Knowing her host was thoroughly bored, with outward gravity and inward glee, Sophia asked countless questions and generally conducted herself very much in the fashion of a bright student on tour with her tutor. But, gradually, as they went, her coy duplicity began to be replaced by a real interest, and, sensing this, his condescension became less pronounced and his comments more informal.
Last to be viewed was the portrait gallery on the third floor. It was dusty and festooned with cobwebs. Yet, in the beautifully arched sweep of the roof, the low, recessed windows, the graceful pillars and random-planked floors, there remained an echo of a simple elegance that drew from her a little cry of mingled regret and admiration. She swung around to find him watching her intently. "Oh! But how lovely it…could…" She faltered into silence. The Marquis said nothing, but in his steady gaze she thought to detect a shadow of sadness, and she stood motionless, her head uptilted. Perhaps it was the crimson glow of sunset or the peaceful quiet. Perhaps the very age of the house created a mellowing aura. Whatever the cause, they were both swept into a strangely isolated span through which violet eyes held to eyes of turquoise. Scarcely breathing, Sophia experienced a haunting sense of irrevocability—as if a clock not previously wound had suddenly begun to measure the seconds and hours of a tapestry woven of time.
Something scampered across her foot, shattering that fragile illusion. She gave a shriek as the mouse fled into a hole in the wainscoting. Instinctively, her hand went out, and at once Damon's vital clasp tightened around her fingers. Shrinking against him, shivering, she glanced up, saw laughter in his eyes, and felt her cheeks grow hot. Only then did it dawn on her that they were most improperly alone in this remote part of the Priory. She pulled away and, because he made no attempt to restrain her, at once felt flustered and missish. It was foolish to think of Damon as her uncle, yet she could well imagine Stephen's impatience with her unease.
"This, ma'am," said Damon in his languid drawl, "is the home of many of my illustrious ancestors."
Somehow his very tone reassured her. She looked pointedly after the mouse and murmured, "So I see."
He gave a muffled snort, then, as if unable to recover his aplomb, burst into a peal of laughter. When mirth overcame him, he seemed a totally different person, warm and devastatingly attractive. It was evident that he possessed a lively sense of humour, and it was equally apparent that he was determined to stifle it. Even now, although amusement still sparkled in his eyes, he swung hurriedly away and sauntered to the nearest painting. She followed, wondering why his irrational temperament should cause her to feel so troubled.
She learned much of the House of Branden in the next half hour. Damon had a droll wit, and she found herself chuckling at his anecdotes, her own humour complementing his so naturally that the moments flew past. And then they stopped before the last portrait, and he was silent.
Sophia stared upward, fascinated by the face above her. The man was startlingly handsome, the face thin, with high, finely etched cheekbones and a sensitive arched nose. The thick light-brown hair was split by a white streak at each temple, giving him an oddly winged look. The mouth above the firm, cleft chin was neither as generous nor as perfectly shaped as Damon's, and the fine blue eyes held a trace of sorrow, wherefore, womanlike, she felt drawn to him and breathed, "Is this?"
"My father. Philip—Duke of Vaille."
So this was the doddering old fellow whom the wicked Clay had allowed her to believe "senile"! "What a splendid gentleman," she acknowledged, and then, with a naivete quite foreign to her, added, "You are not at all like him." She could have sunk the instant she realised what she had said. Mortified, she started to apologise, but he overrode her words, regarding her with the lift of an eyebrow and saying a glacial "You are not the first to remark it, my lady. Alas, one does not always inherit the—ah—'splendid' characteristics of one's sire. But I assure you he is my father."
Blushing to the roots of her hair, she frowned, "What a dreadful thing to say."
"Not at all. He has many splendid characteristics."
"Odious!" she snarled, her small fists clenching with wrath. "Why must you insist upon misunderstanding everything I say?"
"Your remark was perfectly understandable. Especially since your own brother, if I recall correctly, is his noble Papa—in every way."
She was very conscious of the widespread and unhappily justified opinion that her father had been a hopeless wastrel. Sure that Damon's sneering words held such a hidden barb, she countered, "Thank you. Stephen will be here soon to refresh your recollections of him."
"Oh, gad!" With an affected little laugh, he raised his. quizzing glass to survey her flushed face. "Is that why Whitthurst rushes here?"
"Of course not," she snapped. "He has urgent business with you."
"Indeed? Then how sad that he will be unable to complete his journey. Unless he takes the western loop." An arrested look came into his eyes. "That must be the answer. We shall escort you to 'The Gold Crown' to meet him. The Toll road will certainly be open by tomorrow, and—"
"Stephen's groom, my lord, is most devoted, as is his man. Neither would allow him to attempt the western loop in such inclement weather. He will wait at 'The Wooden Leg' until it is safe to cross the bridge. And, by your leave, I shall await him here." The pucker between those black brows was deepening, and in a sudden guilty recollection of Clay's predicament, she said meekly, "Am I an annoyance? I do assure you that just as soon as my brother arrives, we will no longer burden you with our presence."
For a moment, he was quiet, then murmured a bored "How fortunate…"
Sophia tensed, rage flaring anew at this insufferable rudeness.
"… that I was able to show you some of Cancrizans before your… imminent departure," he added smoothly, and with a graceful wave of his quizzing glass, ushered her to the stairs.
Sophia had assumed the tour finished, but when they
reached the Great Hall, he took up a branch of candles and started toward the north wing. "You will certainly wish to see our famous catacombs, ma'am?" He smiled unpleasantly. "Not afraid of the dark, are you?"
She had, in fact, been thinking how horribly black and eerie that corridor seemed, but the mockery in his voice so irritated her that she tossed up her chin and followed.
How many times Whitthurst had teased her because of her fears of darkness. She would overcome her weakness! And he would be so proud. Only… it was so very dark, and, again, there was that horrible feeling that something crouched in wait. The air began to smell musty and stale, and the occasional creak of a board beneath their feet set her heart beating faster. She hastened her steps so that she was very close behind Damon.
They came to the last door in that interminable corridor, and she was appalled to discover that it opened onto a winding stair, the stone steps worn away by age and possessed of an icy coldness that penetrated the soles of her dainty slippers. The wretched Marquis was all outward consideration, holding the candles aloft and requiring that she hold his hand as well as the iron railing. If he was aware of the chill of that little hand and how it trembled in his own, he gave no sign, merely commenting in a casual fashion that they were coming now to the oldest part of the Priory. The lowest level, he said, dated to the thirteenth century and had been the dungeons and torture chambers of the keep wherein many helpless victims had met a horrid death. He waxed so eloquent on the subject, detailing the horrendous punishments meted out for such vile crimes as the theft of an apple or some tardily completed task, that Sophia's dread of the place mounted. His voice seemed to become positively sepulchral as they reached the foot of the steps. Walls and floor were dank and chill, sloping ever downward. To either side were even older doors than on the preceding level, with tiny barred slits for windows, through which she could imagine some agonized victim stretching imploring hands while begging in vain for mercy.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 4
