Ravenwood’s Lady, Lady Brittany’s Choice

by Amanda Scott

  How dared he tell her father such a thing! How dared he even think she would submit to his domination? She was no weak kitten. She was the daughter of a duke, and she had never bowed meekly to anyone’s word. Had she been the sort of female who would kowtow to a man, she would certainly long since have bowed to her father, but of all his daughters, she had always been the least subservient. Though there had been times in her life when her father’s bellowing had tied her stomach in knots, she had always been able to fight him when she felt she had to do so. She had not always won those fights, by any means, but she had never simply given in. And if the duke, with his temper, had not succeeded in developing submissiveness in her, certainly no sleepy dandy was going to achieve it.

  Why didn’t he speak? The carriage rambled noisily along the road, but thanks to the glass windows, it was not so noisy as to make conversation impossible. And the roads were not so dusty as they would be in summer. Then dust often invaded one’s carriage despite any windows, making conversation a choking, coughing business at best. Cicely cleared her throat, unconsciously twisting the strand of pearls with one hand. Her anger seemed to be under control for the moment. Perhaps she could simply ask him about his conversation with the duke. It would be only natural for her to be curious, after all, and he could not know that her mother had already described it to her.

  “Still angry?”

  The two words, spoken casually, startled her. She looked up sharply to find him smiling at her.

  “I am not angry, my lord.” She spoke stiffly, however, and realized suddenly that her emotions were unpredictable. She did feel something, had felt it the moment he spoke. But whether it was anger or something else entirely, she did not know. Whatever it was, however, it seemed to make it difficult to answer him calmly.

  “You were angry,” he said now, still watching her under half-shut eyelids. “Was it because I took you by surprise, or was it something altogether different?”

  Her eyes widened. “Surely your high-handed behavior is sufficient reason for my irritation, my lord.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Still, I wonder why you choose to evade the question, Princess.”

  Blinking, she fought down an impulse to tell him precisely what she thought of him. Such an outburst could do her no good. Besides, she thought she had his measure sufficiently now to know how to manage him. She smiled.

  “I confess, sir, there is perhaps a bit more to it than that, although ’tis not anger but my wretched female curiosity. I cannot imagine how you convinced Papa to accept our departure so meekly.”

  “I see.” There followed a silence during which she thought she noted a brief glint of mockery in the lazily hooded eyes. But it disappeared before she could be certain. “I had thought somehow, from the rather conscious look upon her grace’s countenance as the three of you came down the stairs, that she might already have described that scene to you,” he said placidly.

  Cicely felt the telltale warmth in her cheeks, but she ignored it, giving him look for look. “Mama was not present, sir, as you well know, and I found it difficult to credit the little she said Papa confided to her.”

  “How so?”

  Cicely swallowed carefully. Did she dare? Careful phrasing was certainly necessary, so she spoke slowly, marshaling her thoughts as she talked. “Papa seems to think that you wanted me … wanted us, that is, to have some time alone in order to … well, so that you might assert some sort of—” She broke off, glancing at him to see if he would help her out. He merely gazed back, his expression showing nothing more than mild curiosity. Cicely gathered her wits. She simply wasn’t the sort to deal in obscure phrasing. “Mama said that Papa said you meant to use the time to teach me who is master,” she said bluntly. There, it was out. She looked at him again.

  His expression did not change. “Do you need a master, Cilly?”

  “No!” She flushed a little at her own vehemence, but she managed to face him squarely. “I am my own person, Ravenwood, and since ours is merely a marriage of convenience—and your convenience, at that—I should take a very dim view of it if you were to attempt to demand subservience from me.”

  “I can imagine little that would be less appealing in you, my dear,” he replied gently.

  Her expression brightened. “Then you do not mean to interfere with me?”

  An eyebrow lifted. “Interfere? You make it sound a most exhausting business. What sort of activities do you propose that might warrant husbandly interference?”

  “Well, none precisely. But after what Mama said, I feared you might not be willing to let me go my own way about things. As … as you will go yours, of course.”

  “Will I?” He sounded surprised.

  “Well, naturally, Ravenwood. Do not forget I am more than seven, sir. Scarcely a fledgling to Town ways. I know a great deal about how married men conduct their affairs.”

  “Do you indeed?” he inquired, looking amused.

  “Of course I do. One cannot experience two London Seasons without learning a great deal. I am quite prepared to accept an opera dancer or … or a ladybird or Cytherean, sir.”

  “Not all at once, surely.”

  “Well, as to that, I am sure I don’t know what the fashion is, but I daresay that to keep more than one or perhaps two at the outside might prove to be a trifle expensive.”

  “You might well say so. Not to mention that it would be prodigiously wearing.” He cocked his head a little to one side, but she could not read his expression. “Am I … ah … to assume from these assurances of tolerance that I shall be expected to display equal tolerance toward similar pursuits on your part? To put the matter as delicately as possible,” he murmured.

  “Of course,” she responded calmly. “Although I doubt it will be exactly the same.”

  “You cannot know how relieved I am to hear that. I really don’t believe I could find sufficient generosity within myself to agree to finance a male opera dancer—or two—for my wife, you know.”

  Cicely chuckled, glad he was taking the matter so well.

  “Are there such things as male opera dancers?” He shook his head as he smiled. “Well, you needn’t be so absurd anyway, sir. You know perfectly well I never meant any such thing. I merely wanted to be certain that your conversation with Papa had been misinterpreted. I expected that, considering the circumstances of our marriage, you would have your own amusements and would leave me to mine. I was quite certain you would not want a wife watching over you every moment, but Mama’s description of your talk with Papa made me fear you might expect me to be at your beck and call when you wished it and to sit quietly at home when you didn’t. That would not agree with me at all, sir.”

  He regarded her seriously for a moment or two, long enough to make her wonder if he were displeased. But then his expression lightened. “Whatever I said to his grace, Cilly, I said in order to make it as easy as possible for him to let us go to London without a fuss. I don’t expect you to live in my pocket. However,” he added matter-of-factly, “I feel it only fair to warn you that it is possible to push me too far. I do not wish to seem unreasonable, of course, but I should take a strong dislike to my wife making a figure of herself among the beau monde.”

  “Well, I certainly shan’t do that, my lord. I shall do nothing to disgrace you, and I can easily promise to do nothing that is not commonly done by married ladies in our circle.”

  “Perhaps that is why this whole conversation frightens the liver and lights out of me, madam,” he replied with a wry little smile.

  7

  CICELY STARED AT HIM, but his expression was still as bland as though he had simply made a commonplace remark. She had no wish to pursue the subject, and Ravenwood made no attempt to change it, so there was little conversation between them after that. Leaning against the corner of the coach, she found that the rhythm of hoofbeats and rattling wheels soon became lulling, hypnotic. The scenery rolling past the opposite window began to blur around the edges. She settled more comfortably
against the plush squabs, idly watching and listening. The next thing she heard was Ravenwood’s low voice.

  “You must wake up now, my dear.”

  Cicely blinked, disoriented. It was dark except for the orange glow from the square coach lanterns, which outlined Ravenwood’s shape as he leaned over her. Then the coach slowed its pace, and the hoofbeats and carriage wheels made new sounds, higher pitched, no longer the thud and rattle of a vehicle on a dirt and gravel road but the clank and clatter of flag or cobblestones. Then there were more lights, this time the lights of a large residence. At first she could see just the soft glow of candlelight through windows, but then the front door opened wide, spilling light onto a broad veranda. There was a flurry of shadowy shapes, and then torchlight sprang up, lighting the columns that flanked the entry as well as the shallow stone steps sweeping down to the drive.

  “We have arrived at Lynsted Manor,” Ravenwood said quietly. “I trust you enjoyed your nap.”

  “Nap!” Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she chuckled low in her throat. “I must have slept for hours. What time is it?”

  “Only about half past eight. We lit the lanterns just an hour or so ago. I expected you to wake when we stopped, but you slept right on.”

  Cicely sat up a little straighter and realized that he had covered her with a woolen carriage blanket. She pushed it to one side and lifted a hand to her head, feeling the loose wisps of hair that had escaped her once-neat coif. “I must look a fright,” she said.

  She heard him laugh quietly. “Is this the same girl who said one should consider one’s appearance only when one is choosing one’s dress or deciding how to style one’s hair?”

  “Don’t be daft, Ravenwood! Of course I must think of it now. You cannot want me to meet your friends looking like something dragged out of a gorse bush!”

  “Better that, my dear, than risk having them frozen in place by one icy stare.”

  “I don’t do that!” she exclaimed indignantly, still trying to set her appearance to rights.

  “You must forgive me, then,” he murmured as the coach door opened and a lackey wearing the Lynsted livery stood ready to assist them. Ravenwood stepped leisurely from the coach, then, dismissing the servant, offered to help her himself. “I have only hearsay to guide me, Cilly,” he said as she put her hand in his, “but I have it on good authority that the term ‘Ice Princess’ was meant to cover more than just appearances.”

  His large hand felt very warm as it wrapped around her much smaller one, but, reading disapproval in his words, she felt a tiny chill. She could think of nothing to say to the purpose, however, since she had no doubt that he was right. Therefore, shaking out her skirts, she drew herself up to her full height beside him and looked toward the front door.

  “Where are your friends, Ravenwood?”

  “I presume Lynsted is in London, my dear.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I said only that he was making his home and servants available, not that he would entertain us. I’m afraid we shall be left to our own devices in that regard.”

  A suggestive note in his voice made her look up at him sharply and thus nearly lose her footing on the steps. But he steadied her easily, and a moment later they were in the main hall, and a very stiff footman was removing Cicely’s cloak under the basilisk glare of an elderly butler. Once his minion had disappeared through a side door, however, the white-haired man unbent sufficiently to bestow a smile upon the viscount.

  “Good to see you again, my lord. And this must be Lady Ravenwood?”

  “Indeed she is, Mawson. Unless, of course, she wishes to remain Lady Cicely Leighton.” He glanced at her. “We haven’t discussed that, but it would be perfectly proper, you know.”

  She smiled at him. “’Tis not a matter which must be decided on the instant, my lord.”

  “Of course not, my lady,” he responded with a slight emphasis on the last two words. Then, blandly, he turned back to the butler. “Mawson, we shall require dinner. I hope you are prepared to serve it quickly, too, else I warn you I shall very likely perish from starvation.”

  “Very good, my lord. In twenty minutes. Perhaps you and her ladyship would care to partake of some light refreshment in the library whilst you wait. Madeira?”

  “To be sure. Come along, Cicely. The library here is wonderful.”

  “I should be grateful for a small glass of wine, sir, but first, I beg of you, allow me a few moments to find Meg and repair my appearance.”

  He chuckled. “Take her upstairs, Mawson, and turn her over to her abigail. But mind, Princess, not above ten minutes. I truly do want to show you the library.”

  Cicely hurried up a wide, spiral staircase in the butler’s wake and soon found herself in a splendid set of apartments. The sitting room was decorated in shades of blue with touches of white, including the low, simple Adam fireplace, where a cheerful fire welcomed her. No sooner had they entered from the corridor, however, than Meg Hardy appeared at one of two opposing doors that led off the sitting room.

  “Miss Cicely!”

  “Meg!” The butler’s eyes warmed at their greeting, and he turned away as they rushed toward each other. But at the doorway he turned back again.

  “My lady?” She turned. “I shall send a footman to fetch you in ten minutes, ma’am, else you might chance to lose yourself in our corridors.”

  “Thank you, Mawson.” She turned excitedly back to Meg. “What a lovely home this is!”

  “Indeed, m’lady. Not so big as what we are accustomed to, of course, whatever that Mawson says about losing yourself, but nice enough in its way.” She gazed speculatively at her mistress. “Be you angry, Miss Cicely? He gave me little choice in the matter.”

  Cicely grinned. “You deserve a diet of bread and water for not telling me what was in the wind, traitor, but I quite understand how it came about. Don’t bother your head about it now. ’Tis over and done.”

  Clearly relieved, Meg Hardy bustled about, and before the footman arrived to fetch her, Cicely was rigged out in a fresh, shell-pink gown with her hair neatly dressed in a plaited crown, a la Didon. She accepted a light scarf of silver Albany gauze to drape across her elbows, and as she adjusted it her gaze fell upon the high, wide bed with its tall canopy and crocheted lace spread.

  “Where are his lordship’s rooms, Meg?” she asked carefully. There was a pregnant pause. She gazed directly at her tirewoman, now endeavoring to avoid her eye. “Meg?”

  “His dressing room be the other side of the sitting room, m’lady,” Meg murmured.

  “And his bedchamber is beyond that?” There was heavy silence. Cicely looked back at the wide, lace-covered bed. “His bedchamber is not beyond, is it?”

  “No, m’lady.”

  Before she had time to digest this information, the footman was at the door. As she followed the tall young man down the spiral stair, Cicely forced her mind to dwell upon the impressive array of Lynsted family portraits that lined the walls on either side of the stair. It could do her no good to dwell upon the thoughts that struggled to gain possession of her mind. By the time they reached the library and Ravenwood had poured her a small glass of Madeira, she thought she had herself well in hand.

  The library was truly magnificent. It was a vast room, opening off the stair hall, with one long wall of tall windows giving a view onto a torchlit colonnade. There was a fireplace in the center of the opposing wall, flanked by seventeenth-century shelved cupboards, or book presses, as they had been called at that time. The doors and joinery were elaborately marbled and painted with grotesques, views of the house and surrounding landscape, as well as portraits of the family. The Lynsted family tree, magnificently illuminated and complete with appropriate coats of arms, was given a place of pride over the chimneypiece.

  The furniture was comfortable, rather than formal, and Cicely could tell by looking that this was a room enjoyed by the family and not one kept merely for show, despite the elaborate presses, which Ravenwood explained
had been part of an older house and had been stored in the attics for many years before being incorporated into James Wyatt’s renovations some two decades before.

  “Originally, I believe, they filled a much smaller room,” he added.

  “Why were they ever removed? They are beautiful.”

  He smiled at her. “They were not designed to store books in the same fashion as we do so today, which is why Lynsted’s father ordered the additional shelving you see here. Our ancestors were very haphazard about that sort of thing. The presses were meant to store manuscripts, papers, and books—mostly piled atop one another. Not very convenient. A good many books were also stored in chests. Not until their sons had seen the Bodleian at Oxford did it occur to landowners to store books in vertical, tiered stacks. Now we think nothing of tiers, ladders, and galleries. Nearly every great house has something like that. This one has been kept simple by comparison.”

  “Does Ravenwood Hall boast a large library?”

  He nodded. “And my house in London has a good one, too. Do you like to read, Cilly?”

  Why on earth, she wondered, feeling warmth rush to her cheeks, did his use of that absurd nickname send her nerves galloping? “I like to read very much,” she replied, keeping her voice, at least, under firm control, “but I daresay my tastes won’t agree with yours. I confess to a veritable passion for romantic novels.”

  “Well, you’ll not be disappointed. My mother likes them, too, and I am on the subscription list for nearly everything that is published, so I daresay you’ll find something to amuse you.” He glanced toward the double, pedimented door in the north wall, and she followed his gaze to discover Mawson standing there respectfully.