Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet

by Patricia Veryan

  His hands clenched, and for a moment he said nothing. Then, with every instinct screaming a protest, he tossed the blanket aside and stood. Only stockings covered his feet, and Sophia's eyes, irresistibly drawn to them, reflected both shock and sympathy despite her effort. Very pale, he walked across to his great bed, his limp painfully pronounced. He held to the carven post and, standing with his head high but his back towards her, asked levelly, "Can you imagine how he would regard such a performance?"

  "I cannot imagine," she replied, "that there can be any family in England cursed by such a surfeit of pride! Do you so fear him?"

  "Yes. I suppose I do." He spun to face her. "But also I love him. Do you remember the way he looked at that pink rose? Do you remember how it disgusted him? I could not bear to see that same look in his eyes… because of—me."

  "Oh!" She sprang to her feet. "How detestably top lofty! You are his only son! He was denied the joy of watching you grow up. Now you deny him the joy of your presence because you are afraid he will discover your secret—as if it was something vulgar! He loves you! He should have been told of this from the start and allowed to help cope with it. Not shut out like—like some savage interloper! What do you think he would do? Announce in the middle of St. James's—" She flung her arms wide. "Hear ye! This afflicted person is not my son! I deny him!'?"

  "Of course not!" He limped to take her by the shoulders and shake her, smiling slightly. "Stop ripping me up, you fiery little savage! I know exactly what he would do. He would accept it—outwardly. He might even pretend it did not upset him. Inside, he would be sickened. Now be quiet, ma'am! You've had your say—allow me mine! You do not know him very well as yet—you could not begin to know what the name 'Branden' means to him! To see me hobbling about all over Town, to let his friends, and his enemies, become aware that he had a—a crippled son… would tear his heart out."

  "That," she said fiercely, "is what your Mama told you, isn't it, Camille?"

  "And my Grandmama and Grandpere—and what I have seen for myself. Do you not remember Phinny's ball… and what he said? That in five hundred years there have been no major blots on our family tree. No madness—no cowardice… no deformities."

  Sophia gave an impatient exclamation and pulled free.

  "I cannot," Damon went on firmly, "I will not cause him humiliation. Nor give him cause to remember her—with anything but—Now, why do you look at me like that?"

  "I am beginning to understand what Lord Ridgley meant when he said all the Brandens are mad! Good God! What kind of family do I become involved with?"

  He smiled. "A very fine one, I dare to think." It was not the time to speak, but he was afraid and, in a bid for happiness, reached to take both her hands and say humbly, "Sophia—most adored of women. Will you share this madness? May I ask Stephen for the honour of your hand in marriage?"

  It was the moment she had so longed for—and now wished had not come. She could not find the words to answer him and looked away from his worshipful gaze. Damon's heart plummeted, and the dreams he had dared to build shivered into fragments. But because he was the man he was, he at once drew back and said lightly, "I rush you, do I not? And, after all, what young lady wishes to marry her uncle?"

  "Or," she smiled, matching his effort, "accept a proposal in a bedchamber?"

  He swung the door open for her and, bowing, said, "I must find a more suitable location the next time." He watched her in a wistful silence as she started down the corridor.

  Sophia, the lump in her throat choking her, wondered if there would be a "next time"—or if that terrifying Branden pride would forbid he ever offer again.

  Chapter 24

  Sophia retreated to her room, and it was perhaps as well that her sorrowful reflections were interrupted by a request for her mediation in a kitchen disturbance. Following Patience downstairs, she discovered an infuriated Ariel, a mockingly scornful Nancy, and a troubled Mrs. Hatters, who conveyed to her in a hoarse whisper that it was "that there horrid Orpington what done it, no matter what Luke do say!"

  Luke was of a different frame of mind. Horatio, he announced, had attacked him for the last time! Horatio was due to become an early Christmas dinner!

  Nancy uttered a snort and tossed her pretty nose into the air. Sophia's enquiries were answered by Ariel, who swung the flat of the meat cleaver against his muscular thigh and, with a darkling glance at his love, announced the feathered varmint had "tore me poor leg to shreds!"

  "I be a'going for to buy Luke a whip," volunteered Nancy acidly. "A big whip. So he can protect his poor feeble self."

  Suppressing a smile, Sophia murmured, "He has a powerful beak, Nancy."

  "Ye might say so, ma'am," the girl retaliated, regarding her betrothed with disdain. "Perhaps that there beard hides it!"

  The fireboy's shriek of mirth was interrupted as Genevieve burst into the kitchen, her face taut with anxiety. "Sophia! Come! Vite! Vite!"

  The angry voices were audible even as Sophia ran up the stairs with Genevieve beside her, gasping out a garbled story of a messenger and a box and of Vaille having flown into a towering rage. Upstairs, Genevieve went to join a frightened Mrs. Gaffney, who waited farther along the hall. Her heart pounding, Sophia knocked and, receiving no answer, went inside and closed the door swiftly behind her.

  Camille was sitting as she had found him earlier, the book open on his knees. His eyes were fixed upon Vaille, who was thrusting a diamond and ruby bracelet at an infuriated Ridgley.

  "…to explain," rasped the Duke, "why it should be inscribed with your name—and dated six years after Ninon became my wife!"

  The Earl said harshly, "It was her birthday, and there was no reason why I should not give her a small gift. What did you ever give her but grief and tears?"

  "She was my wife!" Vaille countered, as icy in his wrath as the Earl was blazing. "And the man who steals another man's wife—who creeps and skulks and connives to win her away from her loving husband—is despicable, sir!"

  Ridgley's jaw tightened. With narrowed eyes, he stepped closer to Vaille. Damon leaned forward and flung out an arm in desperate appeal. "For God's sake! Don't say such bitter things! Why must you—"

  "You lured her to her death!" Vaille overrode his son as if he had not spoken. "Deny if you dare that she was running to you when she was killed."

  "She likely was," the Earl flashed. "For the poor dear soul was heartbroken because of your insane obsession with perfection! Terrified you'd—"

  Vaille's face lost its hauteur and became dark with passion. "Terrified?" he thundered. "Of me? Now, by God, sir— you shall answer for that! It's past time for you and I to—"

  "Stop it!" Damon sprang to his feet and, forgetting everything but his need to keep them from the final confrontation, started forward. "I won't let you—" He stopped. Vaille's horrified eyes were fixed upon his foot. The moment of truth was upon him, and he stood paralyzed by that awareness.

  "There's your explanation!" roared the Earl with a wild gesture. "That's what drove her to her death! That—and your mania!"

  For an instant, the quiet was so intense that Sophia felt her heartbeat must deafen them all, and she clasped her hands to her breast, watching Damon's face, so deathly white as he confronted his father's stark horror.

  "How… long?" breathed Vaille at last, "how… long was I—deceived?"

  Damon wet dry lips and, meeting those glaring eyes somehow, answered, "Since I was four—sir."

  The Duke's handsome features twisted in such anguish that the trembling Sophia could not bear to watch, and she looked down. "Now, by God!" he gasped.

  "Is that all you can say?" Ridgley snarled. "Hasn't he—"

  Sophia, glancing swiftly at Damon, saw his proud head go down, and a searing rage drove fear away. "How dare you!" Her ringing voice cut through Ridgley's fierce words. Pale with anger, her narrowed eyes shooting from one to the other, she moved forward. "How dare you bring your stupid jealousies, your carefully nurtured hatreds into this room?
Shall you never rest until you have murdered each other? Or destroyed him?"

  "Ma'am," said Vaille in a tone he had never used toward her, "I appreciate—"

  "Oh, no, your grace," she interrupted boldly, "you do not! Or you would certainly have more consideration for your son!"

  Vaille flushed slightly and, slanting a frigid glare at Damon, said, "My—son, ma'am, is—"

  "Your son, sir," she interrupted again, driven by fury because of his brief hesitation, "is an invalid still! And far from ready for such behaviour as has been exhibited here!"

  Guilt-ridden, the Earl began to edge toward the door. Damon, not looking up, muttered, "Sophia, do not—"

  "I shall leave at once," Vaille announced coldly.

  "Thank you, sir," snapped Sophia. "And I beg you will return—both of you—when you can come with consideration and love in your hearts."

  Ridgley avoided her flaring gaze and crept miserably away.

  Damon, daring to look up at last, searched his father's face and discovered only a cold disdain.

  The Duke of Vaille stalked from the room without a word.

  The ensuing days were peaceful, a calm settling over the old house and its occupants that Sophia prayed was the calm after the storm, not the calm before a hurricane. She wrote to Mrs. Adams at Singlebirch, informing her that she would stay the month out, by which time she believed Lord Damon's health would be completely restored. She pointed out that she was well chaperoned since Lady Branden and the Viscount stayed on also, even though Vaille had taken both Charlotte Hilby and a rebellious Genevieve with him to visit the Earl of Harland at Hollow Hill.

  The Marquis made no further mention of marriage to the lady he loved more deeply with each passing day. The humiliation of the encounter with Vaille was a bruise on his spirit, deepened by the fact of Sophia's having been present to witness it. He drew much consolation from the fact that her tendre for him appeared undimmed despite her refusal to respond to his declaration. She had been shocked, he told himself. It had been too sudden for her. But she had not left him. If he was patient, and if she loved him still, there was hope. Meanwhile, each day became a gem to be treasured, and he hoarded his happiness, driven by a subconscious fear that this pleasant interlude might cease all too soon.

  The Viscount had no intention of leaving without Sophia. The absence of his chosen bride created a new and deep emptiness in his life, but the vows of eternal devotion they had exchanged kept him from sinking into a slough of despond. Secure in his love, his former buoyancy returned. Having wrapped the gruff Feather about his little finger, he became her constant companion, their mutual fondness for the Marquis, horses, and dogs binding them in a deepening affection. The long, quiet days, the relaxed camaraderie, were doing much to give back to Sophia the cheerful young Corinthian her brother had once been.

  On one count, Sophia was reprieved: Both Vaille and Ridgley had forgiven her furious indictment of them. During the week following the quarrel, two small boxes were delivered to her at the Priory. The first contained a magnificent gold and emerald bracelet and a note from Vaille apologizing in flowing terms for having been so crude as to lose his temper before her and assuring her that he valued her friendship and would look forward to the day when she and her fine brother would visit him at Vaille House. The second box held a brooch, fashioned in the shape of a harpsichord, with diamonds forming the keys and one deep ruby centred above the keyboard. Ridgley's note was, like the man, clumsy but endearing: "Forgive me. I lack the proper words to express my remorse. I wish I could—" (this crossed out). "I am a fool. But ever yrs to command. Ridgley."

  At the end of the week, Whitthurst received an invitation to spend a few days with the Earl at his estate near St. Albans, to be climaxed by a trip to Tattersall's to see what they might have to offer in the way of "bang-up bits of blood." He took himself off in high fettle, a very different young man from the crushed semi-invalid who had so dramatically arrived. Four days later, he returned, bubbling over with news. Genevieve had been in Town with Miss Hilby, and he and Ridgley had "happened to drop by" and been accorded a royal welcome. So royal, in fact, that just to think of it sent him into a daze of rapture, prompting an amused Damon to suggest they get him outside quickly where he "might cool down a trifle."

  This was accomplished by means of a picnic. It proved an unsuitable day for "cooling" purposes, however, being very warm for the lateness of the season. They settled down, all four, on the gentle slope of the bank above the stream, shaded by a venerable old oak tree. The picnic basket, having served nobly, was eventually set aside, taking with it an interested wasp. Feather, finding it difficult to stay awake, repaired to the house and the cooler comfort of her room. Damon sprawled contentedly beside his love, a serviette across his eyes; and Sophia and Whitthurst, their shoulders sharing the obliging trunk of the oak, chattered drowsily.

  "Never saw such a place, Chicky," he averred for the third time. "I'd no idea Miss Hilby was so well set. That house! Gad! I do believe it's even grander than Phinny's Hall, but more comfortable, thank the Lord!"

  "I wish them well of it." Sophia smiled. "Does Genevieve admire it?"

  "No! And I could never keep her in that style! But I do think she will like Singlebirch. She's—" He checked and, reaching for her hand, gave it a brief squeeze. Craning his neck around to grin at her, he said, "All I do is talk of my journey and my plans and my lady… Not a word about you! Shall you mind living here when you and Cam are—"

  "Who knows what the future holds?" she intervened, with a sidelong glance at Damon. "What about Marcus? Did you discover how little Douglas goes on?"

  "Yes—by Gad, I forgot! Douglas is quite recovered and Esther happy as a lark. Clay was appalled when I told him what had happened and says he shall visit us when they come to Yolande Drummond's country ball."

  "What splendid news! I shall so look forward to seeing them."

  Whitthurst, watching the play of light and shadow across the meadows, said quietly, "I had hoped to call upon the Duke, also, but he was at Brighton with the Regent." A frown touched his face as he spoke.

  Sophia said encouragingly, "He will not object, I'm sure, dear. He spoke of you most kindly."

  "Perhaps it won't come to that, Chick. If… things go as people think." He paused, looking even more troubled, and leaned closer to all but whisper, "Deuced lot of nonsense, I hope. But there are some heavy bets entered on the books. Ridgley said not a word, but men talk of little else in the clubs. They are so evenly matched, it's said!"

  She paled. "Dear heaven! Is a meeting arranged, then?"

  "Word is it's only a matter of time."

  Sophia turned to remove a fallen leaf gently from Damon's rumpled hair. "My Viper does not need that news. But if it becomes imminent, we must warn him."

  "That's what Phinny said. Cam would be the only man might stop 'em. Though I'd not give much for his chances do those two fire-eaters clash!"

  The thought made her shiver, and eager to change the subject, she asked, "Was Lord Bodwin in Town? He called three times to visit Camille and was the soul of consideration, yet looked at me—"

  "Like a moon calf," Whitthurst grinned. "Sorry, Chicky, but shall I ever forget the sight of him in that ridiculous blue costume. And Cam's face!" He gave a hoot of laughter, forgetful of the sleeper, and Damon, without opening his eyes, tossed the serviette with swift and unexpected accuracy and voiced the opinion Whitthurst was a "pestiferous young cub."

  "You are awake!" Sophia said accusingly.

  He rolled lazily onto his side, propped his head on one hand, and smiled. "How may a poor man sleep with your braying brother close at hand? What is my intrepid rival about in Town, Whitt?"

  The Viscount sobered. "Arranging for some kind of small memorial to be built in honour of Irvin Ford. He still mourns him."

  "And if I know Phinny, his 'small memorial' will evolve into something only slightly less pretentious than the Taj Mahal!"

  "To hear Genevieve talk, one woul
d think Ford rated it." Curious, Whitthurst asked, "What was he like, Cam?"

  Damon sat up, looked unseeingly at the wasp that still hovered hopefully round the picnic basket, and said slowly, "He was the salt of the earth. England lost a great deal when that blasted gun misfired."

  "Do you suppose his death—er—affected Bodwin?"

  Damon threw him a quizzical look. "Phinny has always been… Phinny."

  Whitthurst nodded, suddenly snatched out his pocket watch, and groaned that his head would be forfeit if he did not leave at once. "I promised to ride into Farnham and meet Hartwell. There's a team of chestnuts he has his eye on."

  "Sidmoor's?" asked Damon with interest. "I heard he was letting them go. Amory will be hot after 'em all right. Does he come on here afterwards?"

  The Viscount, assuring him this was the case and that they would return in good time for dinner, took his leave.

  Sophia watched him stride cheerily away and refused to turn even when a long tufty strand of grass tickled persistently at her ear.

  "You are angry," sighed Damon, dropping the strand of grass.

  "You were listening." Her eyes searched his with keen anxiety. "Camille—did you hear—?" and she paused, frowning a little.

  Realizing she was not going to divulge whatever it was that he might have heard, Damon asked, "Why does Whitthurst call you Chicky? You never told me." She fixed her troubled gaze upon the stream and made no answer. "You have no need to hesitate," he smiled. "I am not plagued by fears of heredity, you see…"

  She turned an indignant glance on him, but the quirk beside his mouth was irresistible. She laughed and in a second was clasped in his arms. And when he had kissed her satisfactorily, whispered of his love, and apologized for "whatever it was" he had done to offend her, he repeated his question.

  "It was because of our Uncle James," she said. "He came home from the Americas full of tales of the New World and the Indians. He told us how one tribe shaved their heads and left only a long strip of hair running down the middle of the scalp. Stephen and I were fascinated. We just had to try it. I started on Steve, but, alas, I was no great hand with a razor. He accused me of trying to scalp him, and the end of it was that he shaved my head, instead! All except the middle." She ran one slim finger from front to back of her lovely head. "It looked perfectly delicious, though my dear Mama and Papa did not find it so." She chuckled at that memory and went on, "When my hair began to grow back, it was like fuzzy down all over my head, and the center, having grown longer naturally, stuck up like a cockscomb!"