Hayley Ann Solomon

by The Quizzing-Glass Bride

  Fern did see. She could quite see, and she colored up quite horribly. Actually, Warwick, eyeing her with amusement, did not think her delicate flush horrible at all, but poor Fern, distracted, was not to know—or be comforted—by this fact.

  “Squawk, squawk!”

  “What the blazes?”

  “Fine as ninepence! Fine as ninepence! Squawk!”

  “Miss Reynolds, am I going crazy or is there a . . .”

  “Parrot! It is a parrot, Lord Sandford! I do trust you do not mind? She has a wicked tongue at times, but I simply could not leave her, and since there is all this carriage space . . .”

  “Oh, yes. Quite. I quite see the need to bring . . . eh . . . Polly?”

  “No! Polly is for pirates! My parrot is Kate. Do you wish to see her, or shall I keep her covered?”

  “Oh, by all means uncover her, if her modesty is not offended!”

  Fern grinned. “It would take a lot to offend Kate’s modesty, I am afraid. She is a wicked bird!” She removed the dark cover from Kate’s golden cage. Kate glared at the viscount.

  “Squawk!”

  “Now, Kate! Don’t be rude! Allow me to introduce Viscount Sandford.”

  The parrot regarded Warwick with stubborn, unblinking eyes.

  “Fine pair of legs. Fine pair of legs!” she squawked.

  Fern could have sunk through the carriage floor, so exactly did the parrot mirror her wayward thoughts. “Be respectable, or I shall cover you up.”

  “Spare my blushes. Spare my blushes!”

  “You shameless old biddy! You could not blush if you tried! Now hush, will you? We are trying to talk.”

  “Talk, talk talk talk, talk talk, talk talk talk!”

  “Good God, cover her up for the love of Jacob!”

  “I shall, for she is being impertinent.”

  “Squawk!”

  “And please put her on your side. My nerves won’t stand for her coming between us.”

  “Jabberwit! Jabberwit!’ ”’

  “You must think me a complete hoyden.”

  “It does not mater what I think. It is Warwick’s judgment that matters, is it not?”

  “If he saw me now he would think me a hoyden. This shirt scratches.”

  Personally, Warwick did not think Fern should concern herself with the scratchiness of her borrowed plumes, but rather with the tightness. Her abundant curves were clearly visible beneath the tight cambric, causing him to change his plans with swift decision.

  He rapped smartly on the carriage door, using his silver-topped cane for emphasis. The horses slowed almost at once.

  “Lester, a change of plan. We shall not dine at Trentham, but rather press on to London. You may fetch yourself a tankard of ale at the change, and procure for me a packed lunch. A cold collation will suit perfectly.”

  He did not refer to his occupant, and the coachman, his eyes respectfully upon Warwick, did not peer any farther inside. Instead, he doffed his cap in acknowledgement and returned to his box.

  “There! I hope you do not find me high-handed, but your attire will cause comment.”

  “Oh! I quite thought I looked perfect! I’ve had these clothes for an age. We used—my brother and I—to go on all sorts of wild pranks in them. That is where I got Kate.”

  Warwick ignored the last part of her statement and began calmly with the first.

  “Your brother is . . .”

  “Peter Reynolds, like my father. He is at Oxford, worse luck for me.”

  “You are lonely!” The tone held discovery and a smidgen of sympathy that Fern found herself drawn to.

  “Only a little. But Peter and I always had such fun, always crept away to the fairs—which Mama disapproved of, you know, on account of the boxing and the cant language.”

  “Yes, I see. But Peter?”

  “Oh, he was a great good gun! Found me these clothes and we had a quizzing good time! We were never caught, but it came close at times!”

  “You have grown, I infer, since then.”

  “Yes, for I find myself surprisingly uncomfortable, when normally I just bless the freedom of . . . of . . .”

  Fern blushed. She had been just about to make a most serious mistake. It was not comme il faut, even in the worst of circles, for a lady to allude to a gentleman’s unmentionables.

  Warwick’s eyes danced, but he came to her assistance, offering the more mild term “shirtsleeves,” though of course these, too, were rather risqué for a lady to mention. Fern snatched at the offering gratefully, muttering “shirtsleeves” under her breath several times as if to erase suspicion of the other, more damning comment. Warwick nodded sagely, hard-pressed indeed not to laugh outright. Well, Fern was not a prude at least. He did not think he could stand a prudish wife.

  He looked forward to getting to know her better and blessed strange circumstance for this chance. It was not every day a gentleman got to inspect his bride so minutely! Before the wedding, that is. After, of course, it was always too late. Fern looked prettier than ever in her boyish clothes, with her hair unfettered, even by a ribbon. It looked just marvelous, a golden stream of sunshine in the darkened chaise.

  He wanted to run his fingers through it, for it looked softer than the finest china silk. He restrained himself, however, permitting himself the reward of just one glimpse at that white shirt, far too revealing for its purposes! He would have to, of course, gently broach the topic again.

  “As my page, you will naturally wear my livery. It is rather smart, I think you will find. Crimson velvet with gold trim. I shall spare your blushes by not requiring the usual clocked stockings, but Martha, my housekeeper, shall sew up some garments suitable for a young boy in service. In the meanwhile, I suggest you keep to your chamber away from the other servants. You are not yet, you know, quite believable in your part.”

  Fern gazed at him in rapt amazement. “My lord! I am only traveling to London with you! This ruse was simply meant to confound innkeepers and tollgates and such. You can’t, surely, mean to actually take me into your household?”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because it is scandalous, that is why! I cannot keep up such a charade indefinitely, and I shall have to earn my keep! I am not going to bludge on a total stranger!”

  “You are not bludging. You are going to be my page. You shall earn an honest day’s work and receive wages.”

  Fern felt herself in far deeper than she had imagined. Warwick’s jaw had a familiar strength about it that she found alarming. Perhaps he and the marquis were not so dissimilar after all! Certainly, she had felt that odd twinge of . . . awareness upon this trip, a complicating factor even she could not fathom, though why she suddenly wished to be kissed so often, the Lord only knew. Perhaps she was ill, or sickening for something.

  Be that as it may, Sanford was looking quite obstinate, and she hardly knew how to respond. Her stupid heart was beating faster, too, which made serious thought an utter impossibility—absurd and childish, but the truth, nonetheless.

  “That would be most improper, my lord.” Now she was being trite and prissy, but how else could she respond?

  He countered at once. “More improper than running off in a closed chaise, unchaperoned, with an accredited rake?”

  “Are you an accredited rake?”

  “Indeed, though I do not boast of it.”

  “You might have told me before I agreed to this trip!”

  “You were desperate. I could think of no other way to help, and you have to agree, my behavior has been impeccable.”

  Too impeccable! Though their knees were practically touching, he had taken care never to make the smallest contact, despite the ruts in the road. Though her lips were behaving utterly traitorously, he never so much as tried to kiss her! It was actually more mortifying because he was a rake!

  Fern’s voice was small as she answered. “You have been all that is gentlemanly.”

  “Good. Then why quibble at honest employment?”

  “I would
rather hire myself out as a clerk.”

  “They are not hiring clerks at the moment. It is too late in the year.”

  “An apothecary’s apprentice, then!”

  “You have no references. You need references, skill, and influence.”

  “A scullery maid?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I may allow you to cavort about London because your parents are hen-witted, but I shall certainly not permit you to be a scullery maid!”

  “How does being a scullery maid differ from being a page?”

  There was a moment’s silence as Fern suddenly recollected that pages were no longer the mode. In fact, she realized, they had disappeared almost entirely from society, though several more elderly noblemen still retained their services.

  “Pages are not in vogue anymore!”

  “I do not follow fashions. I set them.”

  “You are going to make me a fashion?”

  “Very possibly. It might be amusing. But first I shall teach you how to be a page. You will black my boots, choose out my garments, stitch anything that needs to be repaired, help me with my ablutions. . . .”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Never more, though naturally I shall spare a thought for your maidenly modesty. But the rest of my staff cannot be allowed to suspect you are not what you seem. Therefore, of course, you shall sleep on a pallet on the floor beside me. Otherwise, it will be the servants’ quarters and certain discovery.”

  “How long do you propose this . . . preposterous scheme?”

  “Not long. Only long enough for Warwick to cry off and for your parents to have no wherewithal to cry breach. I shouldn’t imagine the matter will take long. Warwick will hardly kick his heels at Evensides while the Reynolds scour the country for you.”

  Fern looked thoughtful. “They won’t be able to make the search public, either, for fear of my reputation being damaged. Without a reputation, Warwick cannot be expected to uphold his pledge.”

  “Precisely. So your sojourn as a page should not be long. It might prove edifying. Think of it as an adventure. You thirst for adventure, don’t you, Fern?”

  Fern startled, for he read her mind acutely. What is more, he was gazing at her so closely that her heart stopped for a second, and it was nearly she who disgraced herself by reaching for him. Instead, she saved her dignity by regarding her boots—adorable Hessians, two sizes too small for her brother—and nodding.

  “I do, though I am not sure that this adventure is going to have a happy conclusion. My father and mother will likely disown me.”

  “Let us not grow gloomy. Besides, if that happens, I have a closet full of boots to shine!” With a private smile, Riccardo, Marquis of Warwick, tilted her chin in his hands. It surprised him, still, how her very touch made him shiver. He had not responded to a woman like this since he had been a green lad, years ago. And Fern felt it too. He knew it, by the manner in which her mouth opened, oh, so invitingly, and the way her fingers trembled fleetingly. At her throat, a little pulse danced backward and forward, barely detectable beneath her boyishly tied neckerchief.

  “Trust me.”

  “I want to, but I don’t see . . .”

  “Just trust me. I would not for one minute permit this charade if I did not think a positive outcome possible. It is possible, in more ways than you know, but at the risk of sounding mysterious, I must ask you not to inquire further. Trust your instincts, Fern.”

  “My instincts are to run!”

  “Are they? Then they are at fault, for I mean you no harm.”

  Miss Reynolds looked suddenly contrite. “I was funning. I feel safe with you, and though I cannot fathom what you may mean, I do trust you. I shall stay and be your page, though the notion is archaic, and I am certain your staff shall think it a very strange thing!”

  “They might, but they are also devoted to me and perfectly used to my queer starts. You are just one of a string, you know!”

  Fern wondered how many other young ladies had served as his page. Somehow, she felt a vicious stab of jealousy that caught her totally off guard. She was staggered by its intensity. And it was not Eric, Lord Sandford whom she loved, but the arrogant Lord Riccardo Warwick! She had never thought of herself as fickle—worse, wanton, for both men seemed to stir up unmaidenly desires—but she had to admit it must be possible. The thought was not encouraging, but it sent a flicker of triumph across Warwick’s countenance. It was a singular thing, he found, to read a lady’s thoughts.

  His baser self suggested that now was the time to take her in his arms and reveal all. Surely, now that she was reaching these interesting conclusions, he should reap the benefits? They could return at once to Evensides and confirm their betrothal. Doubtless Sir Peter and Lady Reynolds would be too relieved to scold or place any bar to the ceremony.

  But what of Fern? Her feelings were still new and tender. If she thought she’d been tricked or betrayed, she might set herself further against him. This time, the damage might be perfectly irrevocable. He had been high-handed in assuming her acceptance. He must pay the price. The charade must last its course. When the time was right, he would know it. Or he hoped he would!

  He fought to maintain his composure, for Fern, her oval face framed prettily by her spectacles, presented the most frustrating, delightful, teasing, adorable, and perfectly annoying sight. He could not think, he could not curl out his paper, he could not read his estate reports, he could do nothing, in fact, except smell her sweet scent. It wafted through the carriage, canceling out the more masculine smells of tobacco and Spanish Madeira. His legs, encased in doeskin breeches that immaculately fitted his form, almost—almost—touched the scrubby fawn breeches of his companion. If he shifted but an inch . . . the warmth from Fern was devastating. He wondered if she felt the attraction, too, or if it was simply he who was going mad by small degrees.

  “Here!” he said roughly, throwing her a carriage blanket.” Put this about your knees. It will keep out the draft.”

  And my desires, he thought but did not say.

  Obediently, Fern covered herself modestly, from top to toe, so that only her Hessians peeked out from under the warm, soft kersymere. She was grateful for the blanket, though far too warm for its use. Warwick’s legs, nearly touching her own, were the purest torture. She had not expected that. She sank down even farther into the blanket, so that only her spectacles and cheekbones were visible. He noticed, with some small satisfaction, that they were flushed.

  Six

  Lady Reynolds felt a trifle better after a day laid up with a bilious attack. It occurred to her, after taking her constitutionals, that she really ought to inquire after her tiresome daughter. Doubtless she was buried in some dreary chronicle or other, but she supposed it was her parental duty to intervene.

  A quiet talk where she was brought to conceive the folly of her ways and the great generosity of Lord Warwick must be undertaken. Lady Reynolds sniffed at her smelling salts dramatically. Oh, to be beset with such children! Peter almost sent down from Oxford, and Fern behaving so peculiarly as to send away even the most ardent suitor! And it was no good blaming it all on the spectacles; everyone knew Fern could play the harp like an angel, yet she had chosen to make an abysmal mull of things.

  Honestly! Anyone would think she wanted to be an old maid, rather than the Marchioness of Warwick. It was most provoking. Buoyed up with annoyance, Lady Reynolds rose effortlessly from the sofa to which she had now removed and marched down the long corridor to Sir Peter’s lesser-used wing. If the tiresome child was anywhere, it would be in the library.

  The door was closed. Lady Reynolds pushed it open with a great thump of her cane. She was not old enough to use one, but everyone knew she had a poor constitution and failing nerves. The stick was a useful confirmation of this, and also a swift means of entering through stiff doors. Sometimes, she found, it took far too long to await the arrival of a footman.

  Now she looked about her in irritation. The room was empty save for a s
parrow that seemed to have made its way through one of the half-open windows. She shooed it away, then shut the window in displeasure. She disapproved of air; it was calamitous to the constitution. But where was Fern? Surely she could not have ridden off without a groom? Not with Lord Warwick still riding about the neighborhood?

  What if they were to meet? What if she were wearing her awful, shabby, red velvet riding habit rather than the smart new blue one Lady Reynolds had specifically ordered up? What if Fern had discarded a bonnet and worn just a simple ribbon instead? She groaned.

  After all her hard work! It had been a nightmare choosing just the correct evening gown for Fern. The stubborn girl had hated it, too. There was really no accounting for tastes. Now where was she? Lady Reynolds left the library smartly, her previous weakness no longer in evidence at all.

  “Timothy!”

  “Ma’am?” A footman glided up behind her.

  “Where is Miss Fern?”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, I don’t know. She has not been in to breakfast, nor lunch either.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  “I believe so. It is on the mantel in your chamber. Mrs. Fidget bade me place it there as soon as she noticed it.”

  “Which was?”

  “This morning, ma’am, just after the milk was delivered in. I remember, because Cook was baking buns in the kitchen and the smell . . .”

  “Thank you, Timothy. You may go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Contrite, the footman turned on his heel. He never could remember not to engage his betters in talk. The butler would give him a regular earwigging if he’d heard. Fortunately, Timothy rather thought he was otherwise engaged. The silver plate, laid out in splendid rows on the scullery table, all required polishing. Edgemont would be supervising for weeks!

  Fern never got to hear Lady Reynolds’s screams, not her swoons, nor her absolute hysterics on reading the carefully penned note. She never got to see the household set on its ears, the maids in tears, or Sir Peter cursing in a preposterously ungentlemanly fashion. It was just as well, for she would have felt more guilty than she already did, her splendid resolve wavering at the magnificence of Lord Sandford’s London address, bordered everywhere with topiary gardens and a great, wide turning circle for the horses.