Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  “Oh,” Amy said faintly. To think of it: that somebody would choose their wallpaper to go with the china, of all things! She chuckled. “Will the dowager countess join us for breakfast?” she asked as she started spreading the black butter on her toast.

  “No, she usually has a tray sent up to her rooms. And the earl is already around and about on the estate, I’m afraid.”

  “With his dogs,” Amy blurted. The next moment, her face warmed. Yet when she looked up, the countess was chuckling.

  “So, Sebastian has been talking, has he?” Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, indeed, Richard is bumbling through the fields and meadows with his dogs. I understand that he took the poor admiral, too. At an unearthly early hour, as your fiancé would say.”

  Amy grinned. “But then, he would be used to town hours.” She bit into the toast, found that the black butter had obviously been made of black currants and gooseberries, and chewed happily.

  “That he is. And he always has a devilish time getting used to country hours when he stays with us. You don’t seem to be similarly afflicted.”

  Amy gave a little shrug. “I have lived in the country for most of my life.” She didn’t add that she was quite used to being woken in the early hours of the morning, when her family’s fortepiano was acting up again or one of the boys had managed to blow up a secret experiment.

  “And your friend?”

  “Miss Bentham?” Not that Amy thought of Isabella as her friend. “Her family lives in Town, so naturally she isn’t used to country hours either.”

  “Oh dear.” For a moment, the countess looked disconcerted, before her expression lit up again. “Then perhaps you’d like to inspect our library after breakfast? I need to meet with our cook about dinner.”

  “I’d love to. I believe your housekeeper showed us through it when we arrived yesterday.”

  Relief registered on Lady Rawdon’s face. “I hate to leave you all on your own, but—”

  “Dinner.” Amy smiled. “I understand.” Even in the Bourne household, much smaller as it was, her aunt would meet up with the cook each morning to discuss the dishes for their luncheon and, more importantly, for dinner. And inevitably Cook would complain about her diminishing stocks in the pantry thanks to the healthy appetites of Amy’s cousins. “They’re worse than locusts! Worse than locusts!” Cook would wail.

  To which Aunt Maria would reply, quite sternly, “Then you should stop baking all those treats, which you give them between the meals.”

  And Cook would stare at her full of hurt and disbelief, as if her mistress had just suggested she should drown some hapless puppy dogs.

  The memory made Amy smile fondly, but also with a pang of homesickness.

  Lady Rawdon leaned forward. “Do you enjoy penny books, Miss Bourne?” Her eyes sparkled.

  Amy thought of the many small books she and her cousins had devoured. Homesickness forgotten, she leaned forward, too. “I love them extraordinarily well.”

  The countess raised one dark brow. “Even more than gothic novels?”

  “Oh, yes.” She preferred knights and giants to skeletons in closets.

  “Wonderful!” Lady Rawdon clapped her hands. “Then you simply must read The Horrible Histories of the Rhine! We’ve got it new; it was in the mail only a fortnight ago. It is a great joy to read. It has all the ingredients of an enchanting story: fencing, fighting, poison, true love. Some evil giants, beautiful women, beasts of all natures and descriptions. And, of course, the brave men who fight against them.”

  Exactly Amy’s kind of story! “It sounds vastly entertaining,” she said. And wasn’t a cold, misty day the perfect time to sit down and enjoy a book?

  Obviously satisfied, Lady Rawdon nodded. “Then I will have somebody fetch it for you. John? Please tell my maid to fetch me the book from my salon. The Horrible Histories.”

  While the footman was on his errand, Amy finished her pastry, which turned out to be a delicious apple puff. She had just picked up the last crumbs on her plate when John arrived with the book. “The fire in the drawing room has been lit. If Miss Bourne would prefer to read there?”

  “Wonderful,” the countess said. “Much less drafty than the library and much more comfortable seating. Will you be all right, my dear?”

  “Perfectly so,” Amy said with a smile.

  After they had taken leave, she ambled to the drawing room, chose one of the sofas, and sat down to study the book. The covers were of dark red leather, soft and smooth to the touch. On the spine she found gilt ornaments and the title, Histories of the Rhine.

  She opened the book and grinned when she saw the title page:

  THE HORRIBLE HISTORIES

  OF THE RHINE

  Being the True Story

  of Seven Brave Knights

  of Mayence

  & what Befell them

  The frontispiece showed a strapping young man in the dark robe of a scholar, with a book raised high over his head. With this he apparently intended to slay the—Amy squinted—three-headed black sheep with a rather unsheep-like tail?

  “Lord Munthorpe would have a field day with this,” she muttered, then grinned as she remembered the sight of His Lordship reciting his poem in the British Museum.

  Her eyes dropped to the description of the illustration. “Worthy Markander and the three-headed monster poodle,” it read.

  A monster poodle?

  A three-headed one on top of that?

  Amy giggled. “I say!”

  She turned the pages, skipped over the table of contents and the dedications, and settled back to read Chapter I:

  After the angry gods had ruined the capital city of Florin, and turned King Burkardis’s glorious buildings to a waste and desolate wilderness, Duke Leandris, driven from his native habitation, with many of his distressed countrymen, wandered about the world, like pilgrims, to find some happy region …

  She read on about how they traveled all the way to old Germania, where they settled at the large river that was named Renos, or Rhine.

  There Duke Leandris first laid the foundations of New Florin, which he called Florinouvant, but, in process of time, it came to be called Mayence.

  Thus began Rhinelandia to flourish, not only in magnificent and sumptuous buildings, but in courageous and valiant knights, whose most noble and adventurous attempts in the truly heroic feats of chivalry, Fame shall draw forth, and rescue from the dark and gloomy mansions of oblivion.

  But the most famous knights of all, Amy learned, lived during the reign of King Ricardius, in the Year of Our Lord 1410.

  An hour later, Fox found her still engrossed in the book. “There you are!” He gave her a rueful smile. “You must think me a most dastardly fellow to leave you all deserted in my brother’s house.”

  At the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, a secret thrill coursed through her. It was probably terribly improper, but also rather delicious. “Not at all.” She was pleased how calm her voice sounded. She shut the book, marking the page with her forefinger. “I had breakfast with Lady Rawdon.” She watched him slowly approaching the sofa where she sat.

  A reddish eyebrow rose. “I surmise you did not miss me then.”

  “Miss you?” she asked innocently, her eyes wide and inquiring. “Not at all. Should I have?” Oh, how she enjoyed teasing him! She bit her lip so she wouldn’t smile and ruin the whole game.

  “So you did not miss me?” A devilish light glinted in his eyes.

  “No, indeed not.”

  By now he had almost reached the sofa. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes.” She waved her free hand about.

  “Absolutely… perfectly… sure?”

  She had to lean her head back, for now he stood beside her, towering over her in mock menace. “Oh yes,” she said blithely. “Absolutely, perfect—”

  The rest of the word was lost as he swooped down. She had a short glimpse of the endearing sprinkle of freckles on his nose, before his mouth closed over hers and her eyes fell s
hut.

  Instantly, heat rose between them, and excitement prickled in her veins like sparkling wine. “Mmmm…”

  But he had already raised his head.

  “Nice,” she murmured, and when he didn’t return, “More!” She opened her eyes, found him laughing down at her. “More!”

  “No, absolutely not. I would only embarrass myself—and in my brother’s drawing room at that! No, it’s simply not done, I’m afraid.” He offered her his hand. “But perhaps I can persuade you to have a cup of tea with me?”

  Disgruntled, she took his hand and let him raise her to her feet. “Ah well,” she sighed. “I suppose it would be terribly scandalous if we were to be found kissing.”

  “Terribly,” Fox said straight-faced. “And we would be doing more than just kissing.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He laughed again and kissed the tip of her nose. “Much more,” he added in a whisper.

  She couldn’t help it: warm color crept up to her cheeks. “Hmph.” It seemed she wasn’t the only one who enjoyed a little teasing. Though perhaps—she eyed him speculatively—he wasn’t teasing at all.

  “Hmph,” she repeated, but was in fact rather pleased with herself. And with him. Always with him. And how could it not be, when she loved him so? Even though it was wicked to enjoy his kisses when they weren’t even yet married. But with each passing day she found it more difficult to care about conventions and propriety.

  She held up the book. “If I shall keep you company during your breakfast, I’ll need something to mark the page. Could a footman bring me my basket with needlework?”

  “Of course.” Fox rang for a servant and sent him off to fetch the basket, before they strolled arm-in-arm to the breakfast parlor. There they found Isabella, as well as Lord Rawdon and Admiral Pickering, who had just come back from their early-morning walk.

  “Heavens, Richard!” Fox gave an artificial shudder. “You look disgustingly fresh and ruddy. Don’t tell me you’ve already been outside!” His gaze dropped to his brother’s boots. He grinned. “You have.”

  “Whereas you, my dear chap”—walking past them, the earl slapped Fox’s back hard enough to make him stumble—“look disgustingly bleary-eyed.” Chuckling, he stepped to the sideboard. “Ramtop, can you bring us anything heartier than toast? Are there any chicken baskets left from last night, per chance?”

  “I shall ask the cook, my lord.” The butler left the room.

  The earl rubbed his hands. “What’s better than a second breakfast after an outing in the morning? Coffee, Admiral?”

  “Pitch black,” was the answer.

  Young John hurried to comply and filled cups with the steaming dark liquid. Amy took another cup of tea before she ambled to the table and, feeling she ought to be social, sat down facing Isabella.

  “Did you sleep well?” she inquired politely.

  Isabella sniffed. “How could I?” In a confidential manner, she leaned forward to whisper, “These beds are horribly lumpy, don’t you think?” She grimaced and threw a look at the men who were still standing at the sideboard and were now inspecting the plate Ramtop had just brought in. “Well, I suppose, being in the country and all that, one can’t expect the best of mattresses.” With an expression of slight distaste, she looked down on her toast. “Nor the best of preserves.”

  With difficulty Amy suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Why had she bothered to ask in the first place? “I was quite satisfied with both mattress and preserves,” she said.

  “Of course, you would be. After all you, poor dear, have lived in the wilderness of the Black Country all of your life.” Isabella shuddered a little. Indeed, she made it sound as if Amy had crawled out from under a stone.

  Amy wondered if there were a way to fling the contents of her teacup into Isabella Bentham’s face and make it look like an accident. Speculatively, she eyed Isabella’s cup. If only…

  Her fingers twitched.

  With a little bit of magic she wouldn’t even have to use her own cup.

  But alas, it was not to be.

  Isabella smiled at her in a way that was probably supposed to be reassuring. “Nobody expects you to have developed a refined taste, Amelia.”

  Drat, it was also too late in the year to find some poor frog or snake to put into Isabella’s bed.

  “Refined taste?” The admiral, coming to the table with his cup and plate, had obviously heard parts of Isabella’s last dig. “Which reminds me—have you heard of the latest theatrical scandal, Rawdon?” He sat down next to Isabella.

  The earl joined them and took the seat next to Amy and opposite the admiral. “Ah, you know that I am more likely to read books and articles on husbandry and horticulture. But do tell—did that chap Kemble assault yet another of his female colleagues?”

  Grinning, the admiral took a gulp of his coffee. “Not at all. Quite worse, in fact. It has come to my ears that a certain nobleman, who shall remain unnamed, chose to have a production staged in his private theater—”

  “Nothing immoral about this,” Fox commented, and sat down on the other side of Amy.

  She took a peek at his plate and raised her eyebrows. It seemed he had a fondness for apple puffs, given that he had taken not one, but four of them. Could it be that he had a sweet tooth? Amy smiled to herself, secretly thrilled at this new discovery about her beloved.

  Admiral Pickering chuckled. “A sly one, just as I said. Now, what if I tell you that the aforementioned production involved some… uhm…” He coughed delicately. “Flinging off of clothes?”

  At this, Lord Rawdon emitted a choking sound as if he had swallowed his coffee the wrong way. “Good God!”

  The admiral’s lips twitched. “And not only that. There were also some monkeys involved, or so I’ve heard. To top it all, a rubbish can was blown up onstage. Followed by a potted apple tree.”

  “Followed by the stage.” Fox’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Yes, I remember now. No, no, don’t worry, Richard.” He leaned forward to look past Amy and grin at his brother. “It was none of your acquaintances, so you wouldn’t want to hear names.”

  “No, indeed not.” Shaking his head, Lord Rawdon took a fortifying sip of coffee. “I must say, this sounds quite in-yer-face.”

  “Distasteful.” Isabella turned up her nose.

  Grinning, Fox bit into one of his apple puffs. He chewed, swallowed, then said, “The play sounds like the perfect drawing room entertainment, does it not?” For which he earned a scowl from his brother.

  “Gracious!” The admiral grimaced. “Not in my drawing room!”

  Amy, thinking of all the things she and her cousins had blown up in her uncle’s house, only grinned.

  “Once again you surprise me, Miss Bourne,” Fox murmured.

  “Yes?” She turned her head to look at him and unexpectedly found his face rather near to hers. Mesmerized, she gazed into his eyes, admiring the startling contrast between pale cinnamon lashes and dark blue-gray eyes.

  “Oh yes.” His gaze caressed her face, lingered on her mouth.

  The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. All at once, she remembered the kiss they had shared the day before. Her cheeks warmed. That searing, wonderful, terrifying kiss. Not at all as short as today’s kiss had been. Indeed, today’s kiss had been rather disappointing by comparison.

  Her cheeks warmed.

  As if he had been reading her thoughts, Fox smiled. “Oh yes,” he murmured. “Once again, you don’t seem to be shocked at all.”

  “Oh?” What had they been talking about? The only thing she could think of was the feeling of his lips moving over hers, of his taste on her tongue…

  Her blush deepened.

  Fortunately, the footman chose this moment to enter the room and bring her the basket with her needlework. “Thank you.” She took it from him, willing her blush to recede.

  Even though the earl and the admiral pretended great interest in their breakfast, she was sure they must have followed the littl
e exchange. And Fox, that big oaf, just sat beside her, drinking his tea and smiling like the cat that had got the cream. Beast!

  With a “hmph,” she opened the basket, took out her needlebook, and used it to mark the page in The Horrible Histories, before she rummaged around for some pieces of colorful thread. Quickly she knotted together a narrow ribbon to use as a bookmark. As she looked to the side, she caught Fox watching her. In silent inquiry, she raised her brow, but he only smiled at her and continued to munch his apple puffs.

  When her new bookmark was in place and the last crumbs of apple puffs gone, Fox stretched his back and glanced out of the window. “Marvelous morning.”

  His brother snorted into his coffee cup. “Midday more likely, by now.”

  Unperturbed, Fox turned to Amy, “How do you fancy another walk in the gardens?” He looked up to include Isabella. “Perhaps you would like to accompany us, Miss Bentham?”

  She made a face as if he had just suggested an expedition to Siberia. “I don’t think this vaporous air would be advantageous to my constitution,” she said primly. “It’s different for dear Amelia, of course.” Her lips curved into a saccharine smile. “After having lived in the country for all her life, her constitution is bound to be much sturdier than mine.”

  And now she has managed to make me sound like a cow, Amy thought wryly. “I’d love another walk in the park,” she said. A pity about the magic. She would have loved to see Isabella’s face dunked in tea! But alas, it was not to be.

  Half an hour later Fox and Amy, now outfitted with boots, gloves, hat, pelisse, and coat, met in the entrance hall. They walked through the pleasure green around the house before they turned toward the lake. The worst of the mists had lifted by now, but a veil of haze still hung over the country and made all colors appear washed out. The bluish gray of the sky was reflected by the still vastness of the lake.

  In short, it was the perfect day to go for a walk with a tall, handsome man and snuggle up to his side, Amy mused, and just because she could, she pressed his arm a little. In answer he put his free hand over hers and squeezed her fingers. Delicious, even with gloves!

  She peeked up at him and was granted a view of his earlobe with that darling freckle and a few unruly strands of hair falling around his ear from underneath his hat. Heavens! In the dull light, his hair had a decidedly carroty tinge.