Amaryllis

by M C Beaton

  She stood in the great shadowy hall and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Behind her came Lady Warburton’s voice, sharp and shrill, sounding through the thick panels of the door. “I trust Amaryllis has not retired so early.”

  If I go to my room, thought Amaryllis, she will no doubt send for me.

  She ran lightly up the stairs and turned off on the first landing to the left and pushed open the door of the Yellow Room.

  The Yellow Room was hardly ever used by the Warburton family, although it had obviously been a favorite sitting room of the previous owners of Patterns.

  All the oldest and best-loved pieces of furniture had found their way here, from the mossgreen velvet chairs from the Elizabethan period to the battered oak armchair which had felt the weight of Charles I, and had a small engraved plaque on one of its arms to say so.

  The William and Mary oval gate-legged table held a pretty selection of Chinese famille-rose pink plates, and on top of the Dutch tallboy stood a huge stoneware jar of T’zu Chou ware. The faded yellow wallpaper dated from the chinoiserie vogue of the previous century.

  Amaryllis lit two large oil lamps and sat down.

  To her annoyance the door opened and James, the second footman, walked into the room.

  “Yes, James?” demanded Amaryllis, looking at the footman with dislike.

  “I was wondering whether miss would care for the fire to be lit,” said James with an ingratiating smile.

  He must watch all my movements, thought Amaryllis. Aloud she said, “Yes, please light the fire. The room is cold.”

  James bent to his task. “Does my lady know you are here?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Amaryllis pretended not to hear, and after repeating his question and getting no reply, James slouched off.

  He slid silently down the stairs, wondering whether to trouble to report Amaryllis’s whereabouts to Lady Warburton. Miss Duvane had been in favor of late, and he had correspondingly found himself out of favor. There was gossip in the kitchens, of course, about how Lady Warburton hoped to catch the Marquess of Merechester for one of her daughters, and how she hoped Amaryllis Duvane would not stand in the way of such a plot. But there was talk also of how interested in Miss Duvane Lord Donnelly had become. James’s musings were interrupted by the Marquess of Merechester, who had come quietly into the hall from the drawing room.

  “Where is Miss Duvane?” he demanded. “Has she retired for the night?”

  “No, my lord,” said James with a servile smirk. “Miss Duvane is in the Yellow Room.” James felt he was getting back at Lady Warburton by supplying this information.

  The Marquess seemed to stand lost in thought for a very long time.

  “Where is the Yellow Room?” he asked at last.

  “I will take you there, my lord.”

  The Marquess looked sharply at James, not liking the tinge of malice in the man’s voice.

  “Simply tell me where to go,” he said abruptly. “I will find my way.”

  James gave him instructions and then watched eagerly as the Marquess’s elegantly tailored back disappeared into the shadows of the first landing.

  Amaryllis sat in the golden glow of the oil lamps in the Yellow Room lost in fantasies. The door would open and the Marquess would be standing there, smiling at her. He would say he loved her. He would take her in his arms. They would walk away from the Warburtons and never, ever would she have to see them again.

  When he opened the door and walked in, for one brief, glorious second it was as if her dream had come to life. But then she noticed the hardness of his eyes and the firm line of his mouth.

  He stood by the fireplace, one arm leaning along the mantelpiece, and gazed down into the flames of the small fire.

  Firelight played on his cheekbones, on the heavy droop of his lids, and stern lines at the corner of his mouth.

  A log fell forward in the fire, and an ormolu clock ticked busily away on a table in the far corner.

  “There is certainly something about you, Amaryllis Duvane,” he said slowly. “I cannot remember having behaved like such a coxcomb in my life before.”

  “You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” ventured Amaryllis.

  “No, I was not. I was performing for your benefit. And much good it did me.”

  “Perhaps we have both been behaving out of character,” said Amaryllis. “Poor Mrs. Fletcher at the inn only wanted to gossip to me and pass the time of day, and I simply sat there and glared at her until she took herself off.”

  “The fact remains, I have stayed too long,” he sighed, straightening up. He looked at her as she sat by the fire, noticing the beauty of her large eyes shadowed by the shining weight of her auburn hair. It seemed hard now to think he had once not even recognized her.

  “You will leave before the ball?” Amaryllis clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

  “No,” he said slowly. “Will you dance with me, Amaryllis?”

  “I would dance with you gladly, only I shudder to think of Lady Warburton’s wrath.”

  “I will protect you from the Warburtons.”

  “Now, how on earth can you do that when you will not be here?” smiled Amaryllis, although her voice trembled a little. She did not care whether he was angry with her or not. She wanted to savor this short time in which she had him all to herself. Even now, James might be bending over Lady Warburton, whispering the intelligence that Miss Duvane was closeted with the Marquess of Merechester.

  He did not reply to her question but studied her face intently.

  “Why do you look at me so?” asked Amaryllis, becoming uncomfortable under his steady blue gaze.

  “I am searching for . . .” he began.

  But Cissie’s voice sounded faintly from the hall below. “Amaryllis, where are you?”

  Amaryllis stiffened. “They will find us,” she whispered.

  He looked thoughtfully at the door and then crossed the room and locked it and pocketed the key. “No one will find us until I have finished speaking to you,” he said. “There is something I must ask you. I have not asked you directly since we met again, because my pride feared a rebuff. Now I want your honest answer. Why did you end our engagement?”

  She gave a little sigh. “I see no reason to hide the truth from you now,” she said in a low voice. “I am a victim of my own wretched pride. I was sure you had become engaged to me because you thought I would make a suitable bride. You had never talked of love or pretended to love me. When Father died, it meant I no longer had a dowry, and I knew you needed that money badly to restore your estates. I thought if I told you the truth, that I . . . cared for you, you would feel honor-bound to marry me, and so I decided to pretend I was looking for a rich husband. I did not think your feelings would be seriously affected.

  “I was young and silly and shattered by the death of my father. I only wanted to do what I thought was right.”

  “Amaryllis!” came Cissie’s voice, stronger now.

  Both ignored it.

  “I turned all our conversations over and over in my mind,” said the Marquess. “I have always prided myself on my perception. But perhaps love is blind. Why do you think, my dear Amaryllis, that I should propose to you a second time and risk a rebuff—one that I most certainly received?”

  “I thought—I thought you felt you had compromised me.”

  “But I had already made it very plain that I did not consider that to be the case.”

  Tears gathered and sparkled on Amaryllis’s long eyelashes. “Then I cannot reply to your question. Perhaps it was because you did not appear to love me.”

  “I did not think a lady in your awkward position would expect love as well as a title and money. Will you always demand so much?”

  Amaryllis took a deep breath and threw all her pride to the winds. “I think to be married to someone one loves and to know there is no expectation of love in return would be . . . quite dreadful.”

  He pulled her to her feet and held her by the shoulders
. “Look into my eyes, Amaryllis Duvane, and tell me what you see.”

  His eyes were very dark blue, very intense, blazing with emotion.

  “Say it,” she whispered.

  “Love,” he said, putting his arms about her and holding her gently. “I love you with all my heart. I realized when you left the drawing room this evening, taking all the light with you, that we had both been fools. We had been telling each other we loved each other in so many ways. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, John.”

  He gave her a little shake. “Let us leave tomorrow.”

  “No. It would be too cruel. Let Cissie and Agatha enjoy their ball. Then we will leave.”

  “You must pay forfeit. Now, what have I dont to take the light from your eyes?”

  Amaryllis laid her head against his chest. “I am not experienced in the arts of making love.”

  “I should hope not,” he laughed, turning her blushing face up to his. “Few people have the luck to be experienced in the arts of love: many are experienced in the arts of lust, but that is quite another thing. Why did you sing so wonderfully with Donnelly tonight?”

  “I was singing to you.”

  “Kiss me, my minx.”

  She shly raised her lips to his, feeling the warmth of his mouth covering her own, feeling his arms tightening about her body, and then she was swept away by a tide of sensations, half pain, half pleasure; half dreading further intimacies, and half begging for them with choked little noises in the back of her throat. Trapped by his moving caressing mouth and clever hands and by her own burning passion, Amaryllis returned kiss for kiss.

  Finally he drew back, and Amaryllis, shocked at herself more than at him, frowned. “I do not like the expertise you show in kissing ladies, John,” she said.

  “I am not, on the other hand, expert at love,” he said huskily. “For I have loved only you.”

  He swung her up in his arms and settled himself in the armchair with her seated on his lap. “To think of all the opportunities we missed on our adventures,” he sighed.

  “Your horse, Brutus!” exclaimed Amaryllis, sitting up and pushing a stray curl back behind one ear.

  “Safely in the stables, my love, and none the worse for his adventures,” he said, drawing her back against his chest. “I knew he would not let anyone else ride him.”

  “I am glad. You know, John, I wish I had been with you to help you in the beginning when you were trying to restore your estates.”

  “We are together now. That is all that matters.” He drew a heavy emerald ring from his middle finger and slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand and then laughed as it slid off again. “Keep it in any case, my sweeting, until I can get you a proper ring. Will you dance every dance with me tomorrow?”

  “No. I will behave quietly and properly. I am a coward. When we leave, I want it to be as quietly as possible, without any terrible scenes or rows.”

  “So be it. I am a coward myself. But, just for now, you are all mine, and we are wasting valuable time talking when I might be kissing you.”

  He traced the line of her mouth with one fingertip, watching the quick rise and fall of her bosom, and the tide of heat beginning to rise in her face.

  Then he began to kiss her quite savagely. The old armchair gave a protesting creak as he moved her down onto the hearthrug in front of the fire and covered her soft, pliant body with his own hard, muscular one, sending them both spinning off onto a sea of passion. It was quite some time before Amaryllis began to realize that she was cooking down one side, freezing down the other, and that his lordship felt as if he weighed a ton.

  She wrinkled up her nose. “What is that funny smell, John?”

  He gave an anguished yelp and twisted about. “My foot was nearly in the fire, my love,” he grinned. “What you smell is scorched leather. This is most unseemly, my dear, for the sad fact is I cannot keep my hands off you. We will go no further until we reach our marraige bed. I have waited so long for you, I can wait a little longer.” He stood up and raised her to her feet, catching her quickly as she stumbled and fell against him.

  “What is the matter, dear Amaryllis?”

  “My leg has gone to sleep,” giggled Amaryllis. “You are so very heavy.”

  “Comfort is what we need,” he said. “Passionate lovemaking in ditches and on hard floors is ridiculous. We are two mature people who are perfectly capable of governing their mad passions. So I will show you how much in control of myself I am by kissing you very chastely . . . thus. Oh, Amaryllis, you seduce my senses. . . .

  It was an hour later when Amaryllis made her dizzy way to her room. She was so happy, she was almost frightened. But after the ball, they would leave, together. Nothing could happen now to spoil her happiness. All she had to do was to wait for a very short time and play her part, and then she would be able to bid the Warburton family goodbye.

  Chapter Eight

  Amaryllis rose early and carried her ballgown, which she found still lying on a chair in the drawing room, down to the kitchens to ask Mrs. Abber, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Palmer, the cook, for their help and advice.

  Both women shook their heads over the yellowish silk.

  “You should have brought this to me days ago, Miss Duvane,” said Mrs. Abber. “It’s too late to try to dye or whiten the material now.” She turned the silver gauze over thoughtfully. “Now, if this gauze were to be gold, it would make that yellow color of the silk underneath look natural. I think there’s an old dress in one of the attics, a bit outmoded, but it has the prettiest gold overdress you ever did see. I’ll get one of the maids to bring it to you.”

  Amaryllis returned to her room. In a short time, a maid came in bearing the dress from the attics. The underdress had a damp stain from the corner of the trunk in which it had been packed, but the gold overdress was beautiful, made of thin gauze with delicate embroidery of gold thread. There was a heavy gold brocade stole to go with it.

  She got to work immediately, only stopping to eat a light meal from a tray brought to her room. To her relief, neither Cissie nor Agatha came to find out what she was up to. No doubt they were content to have the Marquess to themselves. Much as Amaryllis longed to see him, she was frightened that her love would show on her face, that Lady Warburton would ban her from attending the ball.

  Amaryllis did not finish dressing and preparing herself for the ball until after the rest of the house party were assembled in the drawing room. The other guests were to arrive after dinner.

  The Marquess looked happier than his friend Mr. Chalmers could ever remember. Mr. Chalmers kept noticing the way his eyes kept straying to the door.

  He himself was wondering whether he should consider courting Felicia. She looked so enchanting in transparent pink muslin that he was able to forget all his previous doubts about her. Cissie and Agatha, too, were in full bloom, their fair ringlets shining gold.

  Lady Warburton was wearing a heavy purple velvet gown with red embroidery. There was a red velvet turban on her head which exactly matched the color of her nose. Mr. Chalmers thought her ladyship must have been drinking freely from her green medicine bottle.

  The family and house guests were to have a light dinner at six, for supper would be served during the ball.

  The door of the drawing room opened and Amaryllis walked in. The Marquess caught his breath, Lord Donnelly gave a gasp, and Mr. Chalmers found himself thinking idiotically, And then a lady walked in.

  For Amaryllis immediately made the Warburtons and Felicia look common. As clever Mrs. Abber had guessed, the gold overdress made the yellow silk look as if it were meant to be that color. Amaryllis’s hair was dressed in a riot of curls, threaded with gold ribbon. Her cheeks were pink and her large eyes sparkled. She did not once look in the Marquess’s direction. Lady Warburton fought down her initial displeasure because she judged Amaryllis was sparkling because the silly widgeon had fallen in love with Donnelly.

  Since Cissie and Agatha were seated on either side of
the Marquess at dinner and since dinner did not last very long, being confined to a mere three courses, no one had any opportunity to sense the strong undercurrent between the Marquess and Miss Amaryllis Duvane.

  Even once the ball had begun and some fifty other guests had joined the party, it looked as if the evening was going to be a success from Lady Warburton’s point of view. During the first dance, Cissie was partnered by the Marquess and Agatha by Mr. Chalmers.

  Amaryllis was partnered by Lord Donnelly.

  The ball might have passed without anyone’s noticing anything at all between Amaryllis and the Marquess. But sheer happiness made her laugh at all Lord Donnelly’s mildest jokes. Her large eyes shone; she danced beautifully and flirted expertly and was soon surrounded by a court of admirers. Lord Donnelly began to feel it might be a good idea if he married her after all.

  And the Marquess of Merechester grew jealous. His good humor fled.

  Sensing something was in the air, Mr. Chalmer’s eyes roamed from one to the other, causing Felicia to say pettishly, “One would think you were in love with that old maid, Amaryllis.”

  “I? Nonsense,” rejoined Mr. Chalmers, privately reflecting that spite did quite awful things to Felicia’s pretty face and that he must have been mad even to consider marrying her.

  “Oh, oh,” he said under his breath, for a waltz had just been announced and the Marquess of Merechester was striding purposefully in the direction of Miss Amaryllis Duvane.

  “My dance, I think,” he said glaring awfully on Amaryllis’s court of admirers.

  “Do you think this is wise, John?” whispered Amaryllis as he led her onto the floor.

  “I think it is very wise,” he said, glowering at her. “You are my fiancée, and I am tired of skulking in the corner while you flirt shamelessly with every idiot at this cursed ball.”

  Amaryllis opened her mouth to say something angry, but the waltz had begun and he had put a strong arm about her waist, and his touch brought a rush of remembered passion coursing through her veins.