by Jane Feather
“My thanks, dame.” Theo took the welcoming cup and drank, handing it back to her hostess, who refilled it and drank for herself.
“So which is it ye want, girlie?” The old herbalist turned back to her shelves.
“I’ve no desire to conceive as yet,” Theo said.
“That’s easily seen to.” A wrinkled claw scrabbled among the bottles and pouches on the shelf. “This’ll do it for ye.”
She pulled out the stopper and sniffed at the contents, her nose wrinkling like a pig’s searching out truffles.
“A lover, ’ave ye, girlie?”
“No,” Theo said. “Not precisely. But a husband in a few weeks.”
“Ah.” The dame nodded. “Best to look after the lovin’ before ye starts breedin’, m’dear. If ye don’t get it right afore, it’ll never come right after, mark my words.”
“That’s rather what I thought,” Theo said. “How should I take this?”
She received precise instructions and was on her way five minutes later. When the time came to give the Gilbraith an heir, it would be of her own choosing.
Sylvester entered the drawing room before dinner that evening with a smile in his eyes. He was feeling immensely pleased with himself, and his smile broadened when he saw that Theo had made an effort with her appearance and was wearing a relatively fashionable gown of dark-blue silk that matched her eyes, and her hair, instead of hanging down her back in its uncompromising rope, was looped in two braids over her ears, the fringe a soft wisp on her broad forehead.
“Ma’am.” He bowed to Lady Belmont. “Cousins. I trust you spent a pleasant day.”
“Not really,” Rosie said. “I lost a dragonfly that I was trying to catch and tore my net on a tree branch.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Rosie,” he said. The child was not usually in evidence in the evening, but since she was dressed in a crisp muslin gown with a broad sash, her hair demurely confined in a velvet ribbon, and her hands and face seemed unusually clean, he assumed she was to join them at the dinner table.
“It’s very exasperating,” Rosie said, sipping lemonade. “What did you do today?”
“Ah, well, I did some interesting shopping.” He drew from his pocket a small square box.
“Cousin.” He approached Theo, taking her left hand in his. “Permit me.”
Theo stared at her finger, at the delicate circle of diamonds and seed pearls slipping over it. It was exquisitely simple. The man who had chosen it for her must know more about her tastes than she’d given him credit for.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. There was a question in the earl’s, a touch of hesitancy. He wanted her to be pleased with his choice.
“It’s lovely,” she said, and his smile crinkled the skin around his eyes.
Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers, and then, when she looked completely astonished at such a reverent salute, he kissed the tip of her nose.
“The banns will be read for the next three Sundays, gypsy; and we’ll be married the following Monday.”
THE SPANISH SUN was a brass-taloned eagle clawing at the baked earth of the Zaragoza desert. Edward Fairfax wiped his brow with a grimy handkerchief as he ducked into the welcome dimness of the stone house that served as battalion headquarters.
“It’s hot as Hades out there,” he observed redundantly to the men sprawling, scarlet tunics and collars open, on the various chairs and benches furnishing the building’s single room. “The pickets are liable to get heat stroke, poor buggers.”
“Change ’em every two hours, lieutenant,” a gravelly voice spoke from the darkest corner of the room.
“Yes, sir.” Edward nodded in the direction of his colonel as he loosened his tunic and unfastened his collar before lifting a copper jug to his lips. The clear, cold stream of water coated his parched throat, washing away the desert dust on his tongue.
“Mail cart came in earlier,” a bearded man said, indolently gesturing toward the table where a pile of letters and newspapers lay. His hand dropped again into his lap as if the simple movement in the heat had exhausted him.
Edward riffled through the pile, extracting a letter from his mother. He’d been hoping for one from Emily, or better still, one from Theo. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his betrothed’s letters—they were warm and sweet and loving; but Theo’s were full of the kind of information that he hungered for, about the land and the people they both knew, and they were always funny. She seemed to know that humor was in short supply in Wellington’s Army of the Peninsular, sweltering through yet another Spanish summer.
His mother’s letter, however, contained startling information. “Good God,” he said.
“Not bad news, I trust?”
“I don’t know what you’d call it.” He frowned, rereading the relevant paragraph. “My fiancée’s younger sister has just become betrothed to the new Earl of Stoneridge. Somewhat suddenly, as far as I can gather.”
“Stoneridge?” A burly captain stood up, buttoning his tunic. “Didn’t Gilbraith come into that title?” He tightened his belt buckle.
“Sylvester Gilbraith … wasn’t he the center of that scandal at Vimiera?” the colonel inquired.
“What was that, sir?” Edward looked attentively toward his superior.
The colonel frowned. “Damn murky business. Gilbraith lost the colors. He was badly wounded and apparently surrendered. Spent a year in a Froggie jail until he was exchanged. Court-martial acquitted him of cowardice, but it was damn murky, nevertheless. He resigned his commission. They say if the Peer hadn’t stood up for him, he’d have faced a firing squad. But Wellington would have it that he knew the man and he was no coward, however it looked.”
“And how did it look, sir?” asked Edward.
The colonel stretched an arm for the water jug, taking a gulp. “Murky … damn murky. Reinforcements were on the way, and he knew it, but they say he surrendered without a whimper.”
Edward frowned. “But if he was wounded …?”
The colonel shook his head. “Seems he yielded the colors and surrendered before he was wounded. Some bloody Froggie bayoneted him for the fun of it. By the time the reinforcements came up, it was all over.”
“What about the men of his company?”
“Those who survived said the French were advancing for the umpteenth time, and he ordered them to surrender without firing a shot. Shocking business.”
“Yes,” agreed Edward. He wandered outside into the inferno of the summer afternoon. Theo couldn’t marry a coward—it was unthinkable. Presumably she didn’t know the story, and probably it was best if she never heard it. She’d be as miserable as sin with a man she couldn’t respect. And why was she marrying Stoneridge, anyway? A hated Gilbraith. But he thought he could guess the answer to that. It would be the only way she could remain in control of her beloved home. Theo, despite her volatile nature, was ever pragmatic when it came to the estate.
But she wouldn’t have agreed to marry the earl if she hadn’t liked him. Theo was not that pragmatic. And did the man know what a pearl he was getting? It would be so easy to misunderstand Theo if one didn’t take the time and trouble to look below the swift, efficient surface, to listen to what she was saying beneath the impatient, blunt words.
Edward had known the Belmont girls since childhood, and he knew how easily Theo could be hurt and how hard she would fight back. Life with her could be wonderful … or it could be sheer hell.
He smiled slightly to himself as he strolled through the heat. The few men not huddled in what little shade the village offered stared curiously at the absorbed lieutenant. His loosened tunic indicated that he was not on duty … only a madman would wander voluntarily in the midday sun.
Edward was thinking of how close he and Theo had come to making a match of it themselves, until Theo had decided it would be a bad idea. She’d said she wanted him as a friend, and she was afraid that having him as a husband would spoil their friendship.
If the truth be told, he’d been r
elieved. He’d been growing closer to Emily, appreciating her sweet-natured softness. He guessed that Theo had seen this, just as she’d been aware of her sister’s affection for him. In typical fashion she’d come to a quick decision and implemented it without tuss.
Edward was so absorbed in these thoughts that he didn’t realize he’d walked through the village and was approaching the farthest picket line. The sniper in the sparse olive grove beyond the pickets caught the sun-sparked glitter of the lieutenant’s silver buttons on his tunic.
The sniper had only just taken up his position. He knew that he’d be able to get one victim before the English were wise to him. This bare-headed arrogant young officer, strolling with such apparent disregard for his safety, seemed the perfect choice.
He raised his rifle and sighted. Gently he squeezed the trigger.
Edward’s life was saved by a kestrel. The hawk swooped down on a shrew scurrying along the roadside. Edward turned sideways to watch it, and the bullet that was destined for his heart went into his shoulder in an agonizing, fiery stab.
He yelled in surprise, his hand pressed to the spot where blood pumped in great gobbets; then he flung himself to the ground beside the shimmering white ribbon of the road, rolling beneath a cactus bush, terrifyingly conscious of how skimpy a shelter it was. But the sniper would have to fire again directly into the blinding light of the midday sun, a handicap that was Edward’s only hope of seeing another dawn.
“You look harried, Lady Belmont,” Sylvester observed two days before his wedding.
Elinor paused on the staircase, giving him a distracted smile. “I’m not harried exactly,” she said. “Just somewhat exasperated. The seamstress has been trying to do the last fitting for Theo’s wedding dress for two days, but she’s never in the house. I finally managed to collar her this morning, but she’s hardly being cooperative.”
“Perhaps I can be of service,” Sylvester suggested, raising an eyebrow.
The earl had proved to be rather good at managing his betrothed, Elinor reflected. “If you’re not afraid of a quarrel just before your wedding day.”
“Ma’am, I’m not in the least afraid of Theo,” he replied. “And if she wishes to quarrel, then I won’t stand in her way. Indeed, I believe it might do her some good … release some of her tension.”
“You may be right, Stoneridge,” Elinor said with a smile. “I’ll leave you to your errand of mercy. You’ll find the battlefield in the sewing room in the east wing.”
Sylvester strolled up the stairs, humming to himself. It was true that Theo was as jumpy as a scalded cat as the wedding day grew closer, but he sensed it was as much excitement and anticipation as apprehension.
The sewing-room door stood open, and he could hear Theo’s voice from halfway along the corridor.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Biddy, do be quick. What does it matter if the hem’s a bit crooked? No one’s going to notice.”
“Of course they’ll notice, Theo,” Clarissa stated. “You can’t walk up the aisle with half your skirt above your ankles and the other half dragging on the ground.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Clarry.”
“Now hold still, do, Lady Theo….”
“Your mother says you’re being tiresome, my love.” Sylvester lounged against the doorjamb, regarding the scene with an amused eye. Theo, her eyes mutinous, her mouth set, stood on a low stool, billowing white gauze clouding around her. A woman knelt in front of her, her fingers darting through the material like silverfish as she pinned and tucked.
“You’re not supposed to see the wedding dress before the wedding, my lord,” Clarissa squeaked in horror, holding a pincushion from which she was supplying the seamstress.
“Oh, I think we can forgo convention,” Sylvester said, stepping into the room.
“This is just stupid,” Theo announced. “I have a dozen perfectly good gowns that I could have worn. It’s hardly some grand-Society occasion.”
It was true that it was going to be a very small family ceremony in deference to the recent death of Theo’s grandfather, but Lady Belmont was insisting that some traditions had to be observed.
His lordship came over to the stool, taking his bride-to-be around her slender waist. “Now, stand still. The more cooperative you are, the sooner it will be over.”
His hands spanned her waist, and he felt the tension surge through her at his touch. She quivered like a fawn about to take flight before the hunter. Standing on the stool, her eyes were almost on a level with his, and the deep pansy-blue darkened almost to black, the mutinous glare fading.
His lips curved in a comprehending smile, and he tightened his grip on her waist. A smile trembled on her own mouth.
“That’s better,” he said. “Most young women take an interest in their wedding preparations … instead of fighting them at every turn.”
“Most young women don’t have as much to do,” she responded a shade tartly, although she continued to keep still under his hands. “The farrier is due at the home farm this afternoon, and I have a bone to pick with him over his last account. He billed us for shoeing both shire horses, but Big Jack had a sprained tendon and has been out at grass for two months.”
Sylvester frowned and the warm light died in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? I am quite capable of conducting such business with the farrier.”
“Oh, I can’t remember to tell you every last detail,” she said. “It’s a relatively trivial matter … and anyway, you haven’t met the farrier yet.”
“And I assume you were going to rectify that this afternoon?” His eyebrows lifted in an ironic question mark.
Theo’s flush was answer enough. “You’re not yet familiar with the ledgers,” she said stiffly.
“That is no excuse. Stand still,” he snapped as she moved to jump off the stool despite his hold. He took a step closer to her, and his riding boot crushed a white lace flounce. The seamstress gave a little cry of distress, and he glanced down impatiently. With exaggerated caution he moved his boot, glaring at Theo.
Clarissa flinched unconsciously, her eyes fixed on the earl’s large hands at her sister’s waist. He seemed to fill the sewing room with his anger and his physical presence. She cleared her throat and said awkwardly, “I’m sure it just slipped Theo’s mind, sir. But you’ll be able to accompany her and meet Mr. Row this afternoon.”
“I fully intend to meet Mr. Row this afternoon,” the earl stated. “And I shall dispense with an introduction. My absentminded cousin will be far too busy making wedding preparations with her mother to perform it.”
Clarissa could think of no more oil to pour on these troubled waters. The seamstress, apparently oblivious of the stinging atmosphere, knelt back with a sigh of satisfaction.
“There, Lady Theo. That’s all pinned. If you’d like to slip out of the gown now, I’ll have the stitching done in a trice.”
The earl released Theo’s waist. “I’ll tell you the results of my discussion with the farrier later this afternoon, cousin.” He turned to the door.
“No, wait!” Theo jumped off the stool, tripping over the yards of train in her haste. She seized his arm. “He’s such a tricky son of a bitch that—”
“What did you say?” The earl interrupted this impassioned beginning in genuine shock.
“I don’t know. What did I say?” She looked startled.
With astonishment he realized his blunt and unconventional fiancée genuinely didn’t know what he was objecting to. “’Son of a bitch,’ my dear girl, is not appropriate language for the granddaughter of the Earl of Stoneridge, let alone for his wife.”
Theo dismissed this objection with an impatient gesture. “Yes, but you don’t understand. You’re a newcomer and Johnny will think he can fool you. You don’t know what a tricky bastard—”
“Theo!”
“Your pardon, sir.” She tried to look contrite, but her eyes were now alight with mischief. “It keeps slipping out.”
There was somethi
ng wonderfully absurd about the contrast between the impish grin on Theo’s brown face, the energy coursing through the slender frame, and the demure white lace and flounces of a gown that looked as if it had found its way onto the wrong back.
Sylvester tried and failed to look stern. “Try to put a curb on your tongue in future.”
Theo merely shrugged and said, “Just give me a minute, and I’ll be ready to come with you.” Immediately, she began to pull her wedding dress over her head.
“Theo!” Clarissa squawked, staring at the earl, who still stood in the room. The seamstress, whose priorities were very straightforward, ignored the earl’s presence and rushed to help before Theo’s rough treatment tore the flimsy silk.
Sylvester chuckled. It was so typical of Theo. “I’ll give you five minutes to join me in the stables,” he said through his laughter, striding out of the sewing room before Clarissa’s sense of the proprieties could be further outraged.
“Damnation!” Theo muttered through the yards of filmy gauze train as it was edged over her head. “Be quick, Biddy.”
At last she was free of the confining material. She scram bled back into her riding habit, grabbed her whip, hat, and gloves from the table, and ran from the room.
“Always in a hurry, Lady Theo is,” the seamstress observed comfortably, gathering up the gown and carrying it to the long sewing table.
Sylvester had his fob watch in his hand as Theo reached the stables, panting, cramming her hat on her head. Dulcie had been saddled and stood placidly beside the earl’s black. The massive gelding was shifting on the cobbles, tossing his head and snorting. It was unusual behavior for the well-behaved Zeus, she thought, before her eye was caught by something much more important.
“Seven minutes,” Sylvester observed. “Not too bad, considering.”
Theo ignored this. She was staring at the sidesaddle on Dulcie’s back. “What’s that?” she demanded. “Where’s my proper saddle?”
“Ah,” Sylvester said. “Cousin, it’s time you started riding like a lady. The Countess of Stoneridge can’t go racketing around the countryside like an itinerant gypsy.”
