Hayley Ann Solomon

by The Quizzing-Glass Bride

  She was peculiarly silent as his lordship bade her alight from the chaise and hold the door open for him in the prescribed manner. It was comical, really, doing things the wrong way, alighting first, rather than last, helping rather than being helped. Fern would have enjoyed it, were she not certain of curious gazes cast her way both from the coachman and from the waiting servants lining the entrance to the illustrious residence.

  Warwick marched up the stairs scowling. His staff bowed and curtsied as if on cue, which made him scowl all the more.

  “Good afternoon. Have I not told you all a dozen times or more not to stand on ceremony with me?”

  “But my lord! It is only fitting that we welcome you home. You have been away this age!”

  “Nonsense! A week is not an age. Now disperse, all of you, or I shall be most displeased.”

  At which Fern was amazed to see the household vanish almost completely into thin air. Warwick chuckled.

  “A motley lot, but as loyal as blazes. They can’t bear seeing me angry. It is most dishonorable, I suppose, but the knowledge can be useful.”

  “Like when you are trying to smuggle in a charlatan page?”

  “Precisely. But after you are garbed, you shall be presented. And I doubt if anyone shall suspect an iota!”

  “I wish I could share in your confidence.”

  “You worry too much. Enjoy your adventure, Mistress Fern!”

  “While my heart is sinking?”

  “I shall fix it for you. But come, I shall take you through the vinery. It is a short and private way to my personal wing.”

  He extended a hand. Fern hesitated a moment, but she was trembling so much, she felt in need of the support. His palm was warm, even through the glove, and strong. Fern felt that strange surge of headiness again. And suddenly, quite remarkably, she threw herself into her adventure, not caring anymore what the outcome might be.

  “If we are seen it will look passing strange to your servants!”

  “Oh, it would only be Anders the head gardener, and he is as blind as you are!”

  “Well, that is a relief! Poor man! I wonder if he has ever been fitted for spectacles?”

  “Miss Reynolds, can you please stop worrying about my household staff? I need to get you inside before we are noticed, and if you carry on like a regular jaw-me-dead we shall not make it to the first door!”

  “The first? Are there many?”

  “Yes, for this house was built as a fortress. It is very old, as you can tell, and the first Lord War—that is, the first . . . viscount . . . seemed to have a particular penchant for Gothic-style doors. There is one on each floor, then another slightly after to limit drafts. I don’t know if they do, but they are the bane of my servants’ lives! Each time they bring up a pitcher of hot water, they have to open and shut about seven doors. I think it is seven—it may be more. . . .”

  “It is a wonder that they do not complain!”

  “Oh, they do, most volubly.” Warwick grinned. “I take no notice, for it ensures my privacy! People think twice about knocking when there are seven oak doors to negotiate!”

  “Crafty and cunning. I admire your spirit.”

  “And I admire you.” There, it was said at last. Warwick, finding himself at the first door, opened it quickly and pushed Fern through, safe from prying eyes.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I said I admire you, Fern. You cannot cut up at me for that!”

  “No.” Fern was smiling. She had no idea why she was so curiously happy, or why she followed meekly while he snatched her hand and positively raced through a labyrinth of doors and bells—they all seemed to chime on opening, an interesting mechanism, but Fern was too breathless to explore, somehow.

  Finally they were in his private suite. More elaborate than she had expected of a mere viscount, but tasteful and uncluttered. The centerpiece of the room was a huge tester bed, surrounded with drapes of soft vellum, quite different from the usual heavy brocades or velvet. Chocolate brown and silvers dominated the chamber, from the sterling silver finishes on the locks and door handles, to the silver candelabras, to the sparkling eighteenth century vases filled with peonies and roses.

  The paneled walls were all brown, severe against the silver, but lightened by the chocolate chaise longue with floss squabs, the rosewood chests, the single Chippendale chair, and a host of books, all leather-bound, scattered invitingly on two beautifully wrought tables, the bases of both finished in silver.

  “Oh!”

  “You are pleased.”

  “Yes, for my brother’s room sports nothing but guns, and Papa’s—on the odd occasion I have glimpsed it—is very spartan, save for a stuffed hog’s head.”

  “Good God! I have not much to compete with, then!”

  Fern laughed, though she was suddenly feeling tremendously shy in her scandalous circumstances. “I suppose not, though I still think I should like this room, even if I had seen the chamber of the regent himself.”

  “Which I pray God you never will, for he is a likeable fellow, but definitely not to be trusted in the presence of a beautiful woman.”

  “I am not beautiful.”

  “You mistake the matter. Where can you have conceived such an addle-witted notion?”

  “My spectacles . . .”

  “Are adorable. They lend you distinction.”

  Fern dropped her eyes. “You are quite the kindest man I have ever met.”

  “I am not being kind, Fern. I am being selfish.”

  “Selfish?”

  “Yes, now black my boots for God’s sake, before I lose my admirable control.”

  Bewildered, Fern did not understand the sudden change of tone or the darkening of his eyes. She did know, however, that it had been hours since she had thought longingly of Warwick. It had been hours, indeed, that she had watched the smooth line of this lord’s lips and hungered to be kissed, or to wrap her arms about his broad shoulders and trace out the dimple that appeared from time to time in his masculine chin—When he laughs, she thought. She wanted to make him laugh.

  It was half his fault she had all these wanton notions—if he did not wear such close-fitting clothes, or was considerate enough to harbor a potbelly like the squire or a dozen other gentlemen of her acquaintance, she would not now be so . . . obsessed. He was watching her, she knew, from those dark, quizzical eyes of his. She must say something; she must not stand rooted to the floor like a silly clutter head!

  “How do you black boots? I have never seen it done.”

  The dimple definitely reappeared.

  “I shall show you. In the Peninsular, I grew into the habit of doing it myself. There is a secret to it.”

  “There is?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Swear you will not tell another living soul, or my valet will have my head!”

  “I swear.”

  “It is champagne. You mix champagne with the boot black, and the shine is incomparable.”

  “What a sinful waste!”

  “Which is only to show what an ignorant young wisp of a thing you are, for my boots are the envy of all of London!”

  “Now that is a patent falsehood, my lord! I have it on the best authority that the Marquis of Warwick’s are.”

  “Bother the marquis. I shall ring for my housekeeper. She shall have you outfitted in no time; then you may commence with your duties.”

  “Shining boots?”

  “On second thought, no. Your ignorance is disturbing. You may interfere with many things, but not, I think, my neckerchief or my boots! My valet would have serious convulsions, and he is a decent sort of fellow. I would not wish such a tragic end for him.”

  Fern giggled. Warwick regarded her sternly, but she was not deceived. She had grown used to the telltale dimple and the twinkle that illuminated those deep brown eyes.

  “You shall read to me. A novel use for a page, but one that I would find pleasant. By the by, you do actually play the harp, do you not?”

  “It is consider
ed my greatest accomplishment!”

  For some reason, Warwick started coughing most alarmingly. Fern stepped forward, but the moment passed quite quickly.

  “Then the evening with the marquis was an aberration?”

  Fern groaned. “Oh, do not remind me of it! I quite wished to sink! It was hideous! It was a wonder he did not flee there and then, rather than stay to kiss me on the balcony!”

  “I am sure he found the latter more to his tastes.”

  “Don’t let us talk of Warwick. It is an excruciating chapter for me, but I believe it has ended.”

  Warwick, who had been on the point of summoning a footman, stopped in his tracks and regarded Fern with a curious, indefinable expression in those aristocratic eyes. “Ended?”

  Fern nodded firmly. “I have been very foolish. I see, now, that Warwick must be consigned with the dance master and the beast.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Calf love. I have had a lucky escape, for I am certain, if you had not rescued me, I would have landed up wedding him. My inclinations were exactly to do so, you see. I may not have had the resolve to resist, with Mama and Papa and his lordship himself all so implacable. . . .”

  “But it would have been a mistake?”

  “Assuredly. It always would have been. But I thought I had one advantage. I thought I loved him.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know I don’t.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  Fern shook her head, but her color was high again.

  A glimmer of a smile crept onto Warwick’s lips. He thought—he hoped—he knew the answer to this riddle. Fern did not love Warwick, for she had transferred her affections to him. And a very good thing, too, he thought, for it was becoming harder and harder to play out the charade. Perhaps, if her feelings had undergone such a transformation, she would not long have to be his page. Fern, in the first bloom of womanhood, had felt the undeniable attraction between them but had not understood it. Now she was feeling that same attraction compounded by something deeper, something more intimate—friendship and trust. It was a powerful combination. He knew, for he felt it every bit as much as Fern, only it was revealed to him, whereas Fern was working from instincts alone. He wondered who was suffering the most and decided, ruefully, it was probably him.

  How easy it would be to seize her in his arms and carry her off to the great tester bed! But he would be a cad if he did so, so he mildly proceeded to ring his bell, call for the housekeeper, describe the livery he required, and keep Fern in stitches with little anecdotes from his wild youth.

  At dinner—which was a quiet affair, on account of Fern miraculously having all her livery bar a crucial topcoat, which needed stitching but meant she could not yet be presented to the servants—Warwick made himself as amiable as he possibly could. This put Fern at her ease, for with nightfall, and the necessity to light candles, she was feeling increasingly more uncomfortable. When her pallet on the floor was carried in, she found it hard to meet his eye, or to thank the two footmen who had carried it up the stairs and past all seven doors.

  They stared at her curiously, bowed low to his lordship, then disappeared, causing no further disturbance bar the arrival of the tea tray, carried in by no less than the housekeeper, the butler, the under butler, and an upper housemaid. At which Warwick raised his brows loftily but offered no comment.

  In the kitchens there was a frenzy of activity and speculation, for Anders, it seemed, had noted the pages hands—as white and as soft as bleedin’ silk,” he’d described it. The housekeeper had noticed the lad’s becoming pallor, the maids had noticed the high color and the soft voice, “which” as they said, “was more like a friggin’ lady’s than a blamin’ page’s” and so on. Be that as it may, Fern lived in happy ignorance of the fact that her secret had been discovered, and Warwick in the sublime knowledge that his servants, reprehensibly curious, were loyal to a fault. Miss Reynolds’s secret was still perfectly safe.

  The housekeeper sent up the topcoat in record time, having stitched her hands off to preserve the young lady’s modesty. She had also sent up, to Warwick’s secret amusement, a hot posset—so that “the page could get a good night’s sleep and none of them shenanigans” at which she stared severely at Warwick—and a plate of cookies. The negus she recommended to him, “better than the port, what could addle your brains,” and she frowned blightingly over the pallet, commenting over and over that it was “not fitting.”

  Warwick’s eyes twinkled. “The sheets fit perfectly, my good woman.”

  At which he received a baleful glare from the second most senior person on his household staff. She had also been his nurse when he had been in swaddling clothes, which might account for the fact that she was not cowed by his aristocratic bearing or by his suddenly haughty manner. “I hope you know what you is doing, my lord. Innocent pages an’ all . . .”

  “The page shall remain innocent, Annie. Trust me on this.”

  At which comment the housekeeper transformed immediately into a wreath of smiles, curtsied most obediently, cast Fern a shrewd glance of appraisal and a melting half curtsy, then left.

  “You must think I employ the most impertinent servants in England!”

  “They love you.”

  “Come, your wits must be addling. My housekeeper glares, has the impertinence to suggest negus . . .”

  “Negus is very palatable, I believe.”

  “Then you have it!”

  “You are being churlish, but I am not deceived.”

  “No?”

  “No! For your dimple gives you away, my lord. You are nicer than you would have people suspect. Now wipe that frown from your face, or I shall not read to you.”

  Bother the reading, Warwick thought, eyeing Fern’s slim legs and neat ankles, masterfully outlined in the page’s clothes. Really, it was worse than the tight cambric shirt of before! But naturally he did not speak his thoughts. If he had, Fern might not have been so willing to oblige him.

  Seven

  Miss Reynolds, her heart set on making herself useful, thumbed through the leather-bound pages with genuine interest. Warwick, watching her choose from his collection, delighted at the way her eyes lit up at his choices.

  “You are interested in hot-air balloons!”

  “Yes, I am having some silks stitched at this very moment. I should like to try my hand at an ascension.”

  “How splendid!” Fern clapped her hands.

  “I shall take you up, if you like.”

  “Oh, above all things! When will you be ready?”

  “In the summer, when it is crisp but not cold. We need winds, but no rain, and a perfectly clear sky.”

  Fern tried to hide her disappointment. “I shall not be with you in the summer, my lord. . . .”

  “Rick. Can’t you call me Rick? I always call you Fern.”

  “It is not proper for a page to address you so!”

  “A lot of things are not proper, Fern. That is the great adventure!”

  Fern hesitated. Oh, how she longed for this man! It was not calf’s love, she knew, though the physical attraction was now as strong as ever it had been for Warwick.

  “Very well, I shall call you Rick. In private.”

  “Good. If you want to be with me in the summer, you may.”

  “I won’t be here that long. As soon as Lord Warwick has left Evensides, I must go back. We always knew it would be so.”

  “With no wedding to please your family?”

  “No. That is what we wanted, is it not?”

  “Not precisely. I always wanted a wedding.”

  “Then why did you help me sneak away, engage in this ridiculous charade, browbeat me . . .”

  “I never browbeat you!”

  “No, but you are so . . . terribly convincing you might just as well have!”

  “Are we quarreling? It is pleasant to have a first quarrel.”

  “I do not find it pleasant!” Fern set her book down with a cra
sh and glared. It was well that the servants did not see her, for she did not look at all like a page, with her eyebrows arched and her magnificent green eyes flashing like waves across the ocean tides.

  “Come here and let me kiss you.”

  “What?”

  “Young ladies do not say ‘what.’ They say ‘pardon.’ ”

  “Gentlemen do not usually make such outrageous suggestions!”

  Now that Fern’s secret desires were about to become an actuality, her upbringing warred with her inclination. She was not frightened, precisely, but her heart beat erratically, and there was just a tiny part of her that was alarmed.

  Had he lured her here for just this? It was unspeakable if he had—worse that she found the notion so tempting—but somehow, she could not believe his motives had been dishonorable.

  Warwick watched her with a faint smile. “Is it outrageous? I might be a coxcomb, but I had quite thought you might oblige me in this!”

  “I had quite thought you were above reproach!”

  “I am. Fern, will you do me the great honor of being, not my page—which I find quite antiquated, frankly—but my wife?”

  “Your . . . You do not know what you say!”

  “I do. Fern, if you were not in this fix, if there was no Lord Warwick . . . would your inclinations lead you to me?”

  The room was suddenly shadowed as the sun sank gracefully for the night. The candles, already lit, flickered gently, but yielded no real light. It was not fully dark enough. Fern could almost hear the silence, could hear his impatient breathing, could feel the light touch upon her gloved hand. A page’s smart white glove. It could be traded for a lady’s if she said the word.

  “My inclinations are not relevant, Lord Sandford.”

  “They will always be relevant to me. Fern, dearest, say you will marry me.”

  “You hardly know me!”

  “I know enough to know I shall not find happiness with anyone else. Do you think your mama could settle for a mere viscount?”

  “She will doubtless swoon.”