by Mary Balogh
———
Mariabella’s mother had a positive genius for contriving situations in which they might find themselves alone together. He had to be most grateful to her for the opportunities, short as they were. Mariabella had sung for them all after dinner, and he was impressed by her talent. It was true that her well-trained voice had not conveyed great feeling, but he hoped that she had directed the one love ballad to him. Now that they were alone, she was toying on the pianoforte in a desultory fashion. Perhaps she felt as shy as he suddenly did himself.
“Mariabella.”
“Yes?”
He wished she would stop playing and turn around to face him instead. “I have something to ask you.”
His wish was granted. She rose and fixed those singularly beautiful eyes upon him.
“It’s about your neighbor, Barbara. I happened to meet her today and her mother was sending her to the village on a donkey, if you can imagine it, for some ribbon that she already knew that the store didn’t have.”
“Oh.” Did he imagine it or did she recoil slightly? She seated herself upon the piano stool once more with an abruptness that suggested falling.
“Yes. I was in my curricle, so I gave her a ride. It was clear that she would never have managed to arrive there on her own.”
She had turned back to the piano again and was playing with rather more force than before. “You are too kind.”
“Oh, there was no difficulty. I had nothing else to do. But it made me realize what an uncomfortable sort of life she must have.”
“Quite so.”
She was not entering into this discussion with the quick sympathy he had imagined. Still, he persevered. “I thought that… as her friend… you must have often pitied her and that perhaps you might have some idea what could be done for her.”
There was a pause as she suspended her playing. “What… could… be… done … for… her?“
“Yes.” Was something the matter? There was the violent crash of a chord, which quickly evolved into a rondo. It was apparent that Mariabella was a marvelous player. And now there was a great deal more feeling than had been present in her earlier performance.
She said nothing more and he felt obliged to elaborate. “I have no good idea myself—but surely somehow we might be able to put her in the way of meeting eligible gentlemen.”
She abandoned the rondo and closed the cover with a snap before rising. “If that is what you wish, I am certain you will think of something. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a touch of the headache.”
She fled the room precipitately, leaving him staring after her. Her mother was most apologetic when she entered the room. Mariabella was subject to these sudden headaches, which often were severe. He must not regard it if she had seemed rude. She had received some upsetting news today. She would be herself by the time of the ball on Thursday.
He accepted her apologies without demur, and did not reproach her for her carelessness. Obviously Mrs. Fostwick had allowed the children into the parlor, for as he crossed through it on his way out, he could see that the love knot lay crumpled in a corner of the room. One of the children must have been playing with it. He hoped that Mariabella would not be too wounded when she discovered it.
———
As disappointing as the evening was, it boasted one virtue. It had permitted him a narrow escape from the visit of Lady De Neresford to Blakemore House. She had called upon Roger and Anne that afternoon, after Hunsdon had already departed for the Fostwicks. As Roger recounted the story the next morning, Hunsdon held his breath, lest his deception had become apparent.
“Odious woman.” Roger crouched down, and as a fluttering of wings arose, squeezed the trigger. A pheasant fell to the ground. “Hi, you—another gun.”
His obedient loader took his fowling piece while handing him a freshly charged one. “Luckily I wasn’t there—just Anne and two of the ladies. Lady De Neresford inquired about our guests most minutely. Seemed disappointed that you weren’t there. Matchmaking for that unmarriageable daughter of hers, no doubt.”
“I wouldn’t say she was unmarriageable. Rather sweet girl. A little young, perhaps,” protested Hunsdon.
Roger looked at him unbelievingly for a moment before a shout and a fluttering of wings attracted his attention. He fired again. “Blast! Well, Barbara must not have told her mother about meeting you, and I can imagine why. Lady De Neresford mentioned some connection who knew you, but depend upon if, if she had an introduction, she’d be fairly haunting Blakemore House.”
The mother must not have referred to Mr. Fitzhugh. It was fortunate for him. He could never explain how he had fallen into this entanglement.
Roger was oblivious to his anxiety. “How was the beautiful Miss Fostwick? When are we to wish you happy?”
“I do not know.” In spite of himself, he had to frown. Her behavior had been odd. “She developed a headache while we were talking after dinner and had to leave the room.”
Roger let out a guffaw. “You were wasting your time by talking—that’s not what a young lady wants… eh, Brandville?”
To Hunsdon’s surprise, he found that his friend had drawn up silently beside them and had been listening to their conversation. “I cannot pretend to know what Miss Fostwick wants,” Brandville said quietly. He turned with abruptness and handed his gun to a surprised loader. “These country sports pall on one so quickly. I think I will rejoin the ladies.” He gave them a quick nod and set off in the direction of the house.
Hunsdon stared after his friend’s retreating back in surprise. “I say! What caused that? He’s been in the most cursed mood lately.”
Roger frowned. “Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. Perhaps I should have ignored Anne and not invited him. Poor devil!” There was something unreadable in Roger’s expression. A shout came from beyond them. “We’d best walk on to the next covey.”
———
Hunsdon would have liked to call upon Mariabella that afternoon in order to inquire about her health, but Mrs. Fostwick had told him pointedly that her headaches often lasted for an entire day and night. It was not that he was not fond of Roger and Anne, but he was finding the rest of the company rather tiresome. He did not think he could stand to hear Mr. Eldridge recount his prowess of the morning once more. The latter had missed ten times as many birds as he had taken, yet he seemed to think his shooting remarkably fine. It was bad enough to have to listen to this, but when he and some of the other gentlemen began boasting of their past exploits also, Hunsdon thought he might very well go mad. Brandville sat listening in gloomy silence.
He excused himself and searched out his host, who had closeted himself in his office with his account books.
“Do you mind if I borrow Aghadoe?”
Roger regarded him sympathetically. “Not at all, my dear fellow—so long as you avoid another tumble. Can’t bear it, eh? Neither could I.”
Hunsdon had to smile. “Thank you, then. I shouldn’t be out more than an hour.”
“One piece of advice for you.” Roger’s expression was grave. “Once you are married!—the fair sex are wonderful, of course—but I strongly suggest that you never listen to your wife, or at least that you refuse to allow her to involve you in any way with her schemes.”
Hunsdon could not imagine what Roger was talking about, so he merely nodded puzzledly before excusing himself.
———
He felt a great sense of release being free of the house and its occupants. There did seem to be some great bores among their number. If what Roger had said was true, and Anne was responsible, he had to wonder why in heaven’s name she had invited them.
The temperature had been dropping all day and the clouds were gathering ominously. He paused for a moment to button the very top of his coat. It looked as if at last they might have their long-overdue snow. He clucked to the horse, and leaving the road he set out again, unconsciously turning the animal in the direction of Sherbrook.
He was not riding pell
-mell as before, and by approaching slowly, he was able to see the small figure in the stubble field long before he reached her. She was standing stock-still, facing away from him, her gun raised. There was barking and a bird shot up from the ground. In another moment or two she had fired, and the bird dropped from the air. He thought it best to announce his presence.
“Halloo!”
She turned, saw him, and waved, but proceeded to cross the field to claim her bird. Rob Roy might be an expert at flushing game, but he apparently was not adequate as a retriever.
Something cold and wet landed on his nose. The snow was beginning.
Barbara was wearing the same peculiar garments for shooting as before, but this time he hardly noticed them. Instead, what struck him was the remarkable brilliance of her eyes, and how becoming she looked with her cheeks flushed by the cold and the exercise. She held up her kill for him to see. He took it from her outstretched hand.
“A partridge—shot through the head,” he added in some surprise.
She looked equally surprised. “Of course. Where else should I hit it? There is nothing I dislike more than having to pick shot out of my dinner.”
“Your marksmanship is excellent.” It was remarkable to him. He had never before known a female who hunted.
“Oh, but it was an easy shot. I had him from the side, you see, and it couldn’t have been much more than sixty yards away.” She patted her fowling piece affectionately. “And of course, credit must go to my Purdey. Father bought it for my birthday just before he died.”
Despite their pecuniary difficulties, the late baron had obviously not found it proper to retrench as far as the purchase of sporting goods was concerned.
Her panting dog had thrown himself at her feet. “What! I suppose you think that you deserve recognition too then, Rob Roy?” She shook her head and smiled up at Hunsdon. “You see, there is no credit left for me. Any idiot might have made the shot.”
She looked rather lovely like that, when her eyes shone with humor. That mischievous smile was an expression unique to her. He handed her the bird back and dismounted.
“I spent my morning with gentlemen who had scores of better shots than that, yet they only succeeded in wounding the game or missing the shot altogether most of the time.”
“Shame on them. Of course, they could not be Leicestershire-bred.” She added seriously, “I myself could not afford to waste so much shot.”
The snow, which had begun with a few gentle flakes, was now falling thick and fast. She glanced at the sky. “I had better go home now. It looks as if we may have a storm.”
They were several miles from the great house. She obviously had to walk a distance to find any game. “Do you have a mount?” he asked.
She shook her head with a laugh. “I make better progress on foot. That braying donkey would only frighten the birds away.”
She would have made her farewells and departed, but he could not repress his concern.
“It is a long distance to walk, and the cold_and snow are increasing.”
“Yes, all the more reason for me to start now. I hope you will excuse me,” she said with a little impatience.
“I am certain that Lady De Neresford will worry about you out in the midst of this storm by yourself.”
She shook her head. “Mama is well accustomed to my ramblings.”
“At the very least, you will take a chill, and at worst—well, I do not like to imagine it. If you do not mind sharing a horse, Aghadoe and I will be only too happy to convey you home.”
“I am never ill, but thank you, it is most kind of you.”
“I shall worry about you if I do not see you safely home,” he added frankly. “If you do not care to ride, we will walk you back.”
“It is kind, but most unnecessary—”
“I insist.” There was a certain commanding tone that he used only rarely. Barbara seemed to understand he would brook no further argument, for now she smiled at him.
“Well, if I am to have an escort, we may as well ride. I am afraid that you are right and that this storm may be a serious one.” She laid her game bag on the ground and rested her gun carefully on top of it.
He locked his fingers and held them out to her. With no pretense at false modesty, she put her foot upon them and vaulted with ease onto the saddle. Out of a sense of delicacy, he had kept his eyes downward, but he could not help noticing how trim her ankle was, even covered by the scuffed boots. He handed her the game bag and the fowling piece. Her eyes clouded for a moment.
“Rob Roy.”
“What?”
“I am afraid that if the snow becomes deep quickly, he may be trapped. Would you object if I held him upon my lap?”
“Not if you think you can manage him,” he replied somewhat incredulously. He reached down, then handed the furry little animal to her. Rob Roy seemed to have no objection to this treatment, for he settled into her lap quietly.
Hunsdon mounted just behind her. Aghadoe took a few steps forward and Barbara slid sideways.
“I am sorry that it is not a sidesaddle,” he said.
“If only my arms were less full, I might hold the pommel and it would not matter at all.”
“Here, if I take the reins in my right hand, I may easily hold you with my left arm.” He tucked the crop under his left arm and put it around Barbara. My word! How had he ever mistaken her for a boy… or a child? She was distinctly and utterly feminine. Even through the greatcoat he could feel her soft and generous curves.
Despite the freezing temperature, he could feel himself growing warm. She smelled of a not-unattractive mixture of lavender water and gunpowder. His heart was pounding in his ears and his breath was coming shorter. He could not have spoken if his life had depended on it. He could never remember a female having this overpowering effect upon him before.
“I think we had better bear to the right.” Barbara’s voice was husky, but perhaps it was just from forcing herself to be heard over the wind and snow. “I am afraid it is becoming so thick that we will be better off if we keep to the road.”
She was undoubtedly right. The snow was making it hard to see. He clutched her more tightly to him with an unconscious protectiveness and turned Aghadoe in the direction in which he hoped lay the road.
The next fifteen minutes seemed to take hours. As the landscape began to be covered with white, his sense of direction vanished. His eyes were beginning to burn from the wind and the cold, but he kept them stubbornly open. More than once he was glad to have Barbara with him as she led them around a ditch, now almost hidden by the snow, or corrected their direction with a word or two. He was not certain that he and Aghadoe would have reached the road on their own.
Fortunately, the horse, although it stumbled a few times over some hidden obstacles, did not seem to be suffering unduly from its double load. It presented one less problem for Hunsdon to worry about. When at last they neared the road, he breathed a sigh of relief. The going would be easier now. Without warning, Barbara’s body suddenly sagged against his. He realized that she had been holding herself rigidly upright with tension. Apparently she instantly realized the impropriety of it, for now she straightened herself again. “I beg your pardon.”
“Think nothing of it.” He could hardly tell her that he had enjoyed it.
Their progress to Sherbrook was now much easier and more rapid. When they reached the house he dismounted then took her various burdens from her and lifted her down. He held her in his arms a moment or two longer than necessary. Her eyes were wide and very blue and her lips were parted slightly. He felt magnetically drawn to her. An insistent, mad desire to sample those lips seized him. He had lowered his face part-way toward hers when he realized what he was doing. The shock of it made him release her, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. What kind of a cad was he?
“Th-thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His voice was hoarse, but that could be explained by the cold.
“Won’t you come in a
nd warm yourself?”
It was an appealing thought, but it ran contrary to all his better instincts, which were urging him to fly. “No, thank you. I must go.”
Was there some part of her that understood it? In any event, she did not urge him. “Well, thank you again.”
He watched her disappear into the house, then turned the horse and headed back for Blakemore. The ride was miserable and bitter cold without Barbara there to warm him, but even with the snow, travel on the road itself was not difficult. Aghadoe, perhaps inspired by the thought of the warm stable waiting for him, seemed to have no trouble finding his way. Still, Hunsdon had plenty of time with which to reproach himself. Why had he gone to Sherbrook at all? It would have been far better to endure the boredom of the company at Blakemore House than to thrust himself into such a dangerous position. He had been near to taking advantage of a trusting, innocent child of a girl—a girl, moreover, who had already been cursed by more than her share of misfortune. What a scab he was! She still didn’t even know his true identity.
Just as bothersome was the thought of what kind of husband he would make. He was practically engaged, after all. And if he was so easily tempted before his marriage, was there any certainty that he would not betray Mariabella after it? What was the matter with him, anyway? Mariabella, who was far more beautiful, had much more polished manners, and whom he loved so deeply, had never awakened these kinds of feelings in him. He could only suppose that his affection for her was of too lofty a sort.
In any case the incident, minor though it might be, had led him to a decision. He would give up all this Valentine’s nonsense and ask Mariabella for her hand at the ball tomorrow night.
———
With this resolution made, it might have seemed that all his problems were solved, but further trials awaited him. The snowfall had occasioned some concern, but Roger prophesied confidently that it would end before morning. There should be no obstacle to prevent the company’s attending the ball. Everyone seemed in a jovial mood at dinner, with the exception of Brandville, who was more than—usually—morose. Even Miss Eldridge’s most pointed attempts to draw him out met with but little success. He was gloomy to the point of being almost rude, and Hunsdon observed it in surprise. It was unlike Brandville to indulge himself with a fit of the sullens when he was someone’s guest. He excused himself shortly after the ladies had left, so there was no opportunity for Hunsdon to inquire as to the cause of his somber spirits. It would have to wait until the morrow.
