Gwenifer looked sideways at her brother. “Lady Castleton, are you shocked because I enjoy balls too much to refuse to dance? Perhaps you think widows should forgo the pleasure.” Her laughter rang out while she sat down.
Dominic shook his head at her. “You are prattling, Gwenifer. Some ratafia?”
“Yes please.” Gwenifer exchanged glances with her brother. “Lady Castleton, please forgive me, my tongue, which my brother considers foolish, frequently runs away with me. Of course, there is no reason for us not to dance.”
What would it be like to have a brother of Mister Markham’s calibre? Harriet scrutinised him. Brother? No, her reaction to him was far from sisterly. A tiny shake of her head dismissed her thoughts. She stood, her empty glass in her hand. “If I may make use of your library, Mister Markham. Gwenifer, please call on me at Clarencieux whenever your wish.”
“Thank you.” Gwenifer stood. “I hope you will visit us again, perhaps with your son. Now, please excuse me, I must call on one of my brother’s parishioners. Dominic, maybe I should add a bottle of wine to the basket of food I instructed cook to prepare.”
“If you wish, I leave such matters to your discretion.”
“As you please, Dominic. Harriet, good day to you.” Gwenifer turned to leave the drawing room, her skirt and petticoat swirling around her ankles.
“Lady Castleton,” Dominic began, after the door closed. “In spite of her chatter, Gwenifer is discreet.” The expression in his eyes tender, he looked down at her. “No gentleman could ask for a better sister. She is much loved by the villagers, and can be trusted never to betray a confidence. I am indebted to her for the help she gives me in my parish.”
“And she is fortunate to have a brother of your calibre.”
Dominic shrugged depreciatingly as he opened the door. “To the library. After I make sure you have pen, paper and ink, I shall leave you to write your letter.”
* * *
Harriet nibbled the tip of her ring finger, a habit her mother had never managed to cure her of. For a moment, she visualised her parents’ faces, and recalled the rare occasions on which they mentioned their relatives. She removed her finger from her mouth, then dipped the sharpened nib of the quill into the brass inkwell. No need to write a long letter naming her paternal and maternal relations. Instead she would refer to Mrs Tarrant’s attorney, Syddon. He had thoroughly investigated her claim to be the Earl of Pennington’s daughter-in-law, and could provide all the necessary details.
The letter finished, she rang the bell for a maidservant. However, the rector answered the summons.
By the light of sunshine, which broke through the slate grey rain clouds, streaming through the window, Mister Markham’s midnight-black hair glistened, and his oval face glowed with good health. Her urge to trace its outline with her forefinger surprised her. A sin of the flesh, she rebuked herself.
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Lady Castleton?”
She clasped her hands on her lap. “Forgive me for ignoring you. I was lost in thought.” True! She thought. I was lost in admiration of him.
“Have you finished your letter?”
“Yes.” She folded the paper into three. “It only lacks a seal.”
Dominic struck a flint to ignite a candle, which he tilted to drip red wax onto the letter. “There, shall I press my signet ring into it?”
“Yes, please.”
Mister Markham bent over to imprint his family coat of arms on the hot wax. His hair almost brushed her cheek. She clasped her hands more tightly to resist the temptation to brush unruly curls back from his forehead.
Oh! She exclaimed her herself. What would he think of me if he could read my thoughts?
After Dominic straightened, he gazed down at her with a smile. “I daresay I am almost as curious as you are, Lady Castleton, to know who the attorney’s client is. I shall post your letter before I dine. For your sake, hope for a swift reply.”
“Thank you.” Harriet took care to breathe evenly. “I must not take up any more of your valuable time.” She stood, with the intention of saying more.
Mister Markham spoke first. “Are you feverish, Lady Castleton? Your cheeks are flushed. Should I send for some lemon barley water or wine to refresh you.”
“No thank you, I am quite well. Now that the storm is over, it is too warm in here.” God forbid Mister Markham could read her mind. In the rector’s presence, she must be careful not to betray her thoughts.
In the hall, after Harriet put on her pelisse, hat and gloves, the maid fetched her umbrella.
“Only a week until the ball,” remarked Gwenifer, who entered the hall, a wicker trug full of fragrant buttercup-yellow roses in one hand. “I don’t have the words to describe how much I am looking forward to it.”
“I hope you will enjoy it.” Harriet doubted she would, for she was well-aware her every word and movement would be scrutinised.
The prospect intimidated her. Sons and daughters of the ton married into each others’ families. When Edgar died he had not known he was next in line to inherit his father’s earldom. She sighed. Her respectable birth did not equal Edgar’s. Well, at the ball, she must hold her head high and try to do justice to her position.
“Mary, don’t gawp at Lady Castleton, open the front door for her,” Gwenifer ordered the maid.
The maidservant hurried to obey. “Your carriage is outside, my lady.”
“So, I see.” In accordance with custom, Harriet dipped a slight curtsey, which Gwenifer returned, while her brother made his bow with scrupulous propriety.. “I look forward to seeing both of you soon,” Harriet told them.
* * *
Dominic lingered at the front door until the carriage turned right at the end of the lane.
“The lady is not for you,” Gwenifer remarked from behind him.
He nearly slipped on the recently polished floorboards when he turned around too quickly. “I beg your pardon!”
“Don’t enact a play for my benefit. You understand my exact meaning. I repeat, the lady is not for you.” His sister tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we converse in the parlour?”
“I-” Dominic began.
“Come, or do you wish me to voice my opinion where the servants might overhear me?”
His sister spoke in a manner reminding him of a time when she was a small tyrant in the nursery. Annoyed, yet meek, he followed her into the parlour.
Gwenifer glanced around. “Pon my word, this room also needs to be redecorated, so does the rest of the rectory.”
His jaw tight, Dominic looked at her. “I assume you did not bring me here to discuss paper and paint,” he remarked, when they had sat down on chairs covered in faded green and white striped silk brocade.
His sister frowned at him. “There is no need to be sarcastic, you know I have your happiness at heart. Besides, you love our parents too much to disappoint them by the choosing a wife of whom they would disapprove.” She reached across the space between their chairs to pat his hand. “You cannot fool me, Dominic, so please don’t try to for I know you are … shall I say? … drawn to Lady Castleton.”
Heavy-hearted, Dominic heaved himself out of his chair. He crossed the threadbare carpet to the window, through which he saw the sunlit lawn surrounded by flower beds where his sister loved to potter. “I daresay you want to know why I spoke to her in private before our dance lesson, so allow me to explain.”
If only his family did not expect his future wife’s rank by birth not marriage would equal his own. Of course, he could flout their wishes, in which case his parents might not accept his wife into the family fold. Besides, Gwenifer was right, he loved his father and mother too much to displease them by choosing a bride they would not approve of.
He turned around to face his sister. “Earlier on, in the library, I assisted Lady Castleton in a matter, which, to put your mind at rest, is not of the heart.”
Gweniver shook her head at him. “Please sit down and respect what I have to
say concerning your…er … friendship with Harriet.”
All his senses alert, he sat opposite her.
“If I am not mistaken, Dominic, you have never formed an attachment to a particular lady.”
“I-”
Gwenifer held up her hand to silence him. “You have been pursued, for your handsome appearance and your comfortable situation, by ‘the band of hopefuls’, one of which is the squire’s daughter, Emily Clifford.”
“Am I mistaken? Did you offer me a crumb of praise concerning my appearance?” Dominic interrupted.
Gwenifer looked severely at him. “When I want to offer you good advice, it is not the time to be flippant.”
“Has it occurred to you that your… um… profound words of wisdom might not be welcome.”
“No, it has not! Dominic, please give serious consideration to what I shall say. You have spent more time avoiding young ladies like Emily Clifford, than you have in seeking a wife. Now, Lady Harriet, whom I admit is delightful, and whom I like very much, has entered your life, you imagine she is the one to whom you could offer your heart without reservation.”
“You go too far,” Dominic protested, more embarrassed by his youngest sister than he had previously imagined he could be.
“No, not far enough,” she retorted. “Allow yourself to become further acquainted with the young ladies Mamma introduces you to. Also, open your eyes at the ball to see if there are any whom you find pleasing. In six months or a year, I hope to see you betrothed to someone our family will approve of. If you are not, by then, if no other lady captures your heart, and if you can gain our parent’s approval, it might be time to propose marriage to Lady Castleton.”
Gwenifer sighed. She continued with no trace of a smile to soften her expression. “If you decide to propose marriage to her, please remember she carries the burden of dreadful experiences from the Peninsular. Ones which we can only imagine. I am sure the loss of her husband and father, as well as the deaths of so many others whom she knew, will always affect her future.”
“Yet, the right husband could make her happy,” Dominic burst out, shaken from his usual calm, and somewhat shocked by his sister’s blunt assessment of his own and Lady Castleton’s situation.
Gwenifer dabbed her eyes with a dainty handkerchief. “You are mistaken, no-one can make someone else happy. I know from my own bitter experience when my husband died, happiness come from within, but it is not always easily achieved.”
In a hurry, Dominic stood and crossed the small space between their chairs. He rested a hand on her shoulder. She reached up and clasped it with her warm one. “You need not be concerned for me. I have come to terms with the loss of my husband. These days, I hope I may look forward to a happy future.” Her cheeks bloomed like red roses. “I am not averse to marrying again. In fact, I hope I will do so and have children, by which time I hope to see you settled in blissful domesticity, and the father of at least one child.”
“When did you become so wise?” Dominic gazed down at the top of her head. “Now, you must pardon me, I have a letter to post.”
* * *
Deep in thought, Dominic rode slowly towards the post office in the village shop. Gwenifer was right. Since his ordination he had always avoided the lures offered by young ladies. He did not evade them because of an aversion to marriage.
However, concerning one matter Gwenifer was mistaken. She did not know that, long ago, he fell in love. At the age of nineteen, a student at New College, Oxford, armed with a letter of introduction from his father, he called on Baron and Baroness Thwaites. Like a bolt of lightning, their eldest daughter’s charms had overpowered him. Taking advantage of every opportunity to court her, he had neglected his studies. The more he danced and conversed with her, the more deeply he believed he loved Fanny. Without consultation with his parents, he requested permission from the baron to ask Fanny to marry him.
His lordship had raised his eyebrows and scrutinised him, until Dominic almost blushed like a girl. “No, confound it, I look higher than a younger son for my daughter’s husband. Don’t look so downcast, Mister Markham, I acquit you of being a fortune hunter like so many younger sons, nevertheless you will not do for my daughter. Good day to you, sir.”
Almost, but not quite, for he remembered the pain of rejection, he could laugh at his youthful naivety. Blinded by passion, he had not realised the Thwaites sought, and later found, a titled husband with estates and a large income for their daughter. Convinced he suffered from a broken heart, he had immersed himself in his studies. Afterwards he never met another lady he wanted to marry.
Never? an inner voice demanded. Do I not love Lady Castleton?
Honesty compelled him to admit even if he did not, he was on the brink of falling in love with her. He pressed his lips into a firm line. He should thank Gwenifer for her forthrightness, and step back from the edge of a precipice which would tumble him into an affair of the heart. Affair? No, Lady Castleton was not the type of woman to whom a gentleman, let alone a man of the cloth, would offer a carte blanche..
He could only imagine her horror if she was asked to become any man’s mistress. Furious with himself for harbouring such unworthy thoughts he urged his horse into a trot. Yet his treacherous mind anticipated dancing with her ladyship at the ball and having supper with her.
Chapter Eighteen
Comfortable in her four poster bed, beneath its cherry-red canopy fringed with silk, ribbon and tassels, Georgianne Tarrant added another invitation to the pile on the cream-coloured quilted bedspread.
Her husband’s dressing room door opened. Rupert, his fair hair ruffled after his early morning ride, entered her bedroom. She smiled and held out her hands to him.
Despite the handicap of an amputated leg, Tarrant limped briskly across the room and bent over to kiss her.
“Lud, Major, such ardour so early in the morning,” she teased, left breathless by his passion.
Rupert’s eyes blazed when he looked deep into hers. “By now, you know I only have to look at your to desire you.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but perhaps you should bathe more frequently in ice cold water” she teased, on the verge of laughter, although she always welcomed his advances.
“Shall I order a cold bath for you?” he countered.
“You are a wretch to make such a suggestion, I only forgive you because you look so handsome in your riding habit. Did you enjoy the ride?”
“Who would not on such a glorious summer morning? Though I would have enjoyed it more with you, if you were not such a slug abed.”
“You are discourteous, sir.”
“I apologise.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss onto it.
Georgianne smoothed his thick, hair. “I daresay the fresh air has given you an appetite.”
“Yes, for you.”
Georgianne breathed in his scent of his spicy toilet water and fresh air mingled with that of leather and his horse. She always welcomed the pleasures of the marriage bed, but did her husband really want to indulge in them now? “I referred to breakfast,” she chided, with mock severity.
“Should I eat you?”
Georgianne giggled. “Be serious, Major Tarrant. Will you join me at the table in my dressing room or in the breakfast parlour?”
“If you are not on the menu, I shall eat in your sanctum.”
When her abigail, entered the bedroom in response to the bell, Georgianne gave her instructions for breakfast to be served.
Alone with Tarrant, she picked up an invitation and a letter.
“You will not believe who this is from.”
“Heart of my heart, please spare me from a guessing game.”
How would he react? “It is from Lady Castleton.”
His grey eyes alert, Rupert frowned. “Pennington’s daughter-in-law?”
“Yes, she has invited us to the ball which the earl is holding to introduce her to society. Her ladyship has also included a letter in which she writes she wi
ll be obliged if we attend.”
Tarrant’s eyebrows drew together. “Surely you do not wish to set a foot over that madman’s threshold. Could you ever overlook his proposal of marriage to you for the sake of having an heir? Can you also forget that after we married, to punish you for refusing to become his wife, he kidnapped your youngest sister in an attempt to force you to spend the night with him.” His expressive grey eyes emphasised his anger and disgust. “When his shocking plan failed, the lunatic kidnapped your younger sister in order to force her to marry him. Instead of a son foisted on some unfortunate lady he has a grandson, so I hope he is content.”
“No, I can never forget Pennington’s outrages. They are why I want to accept the invitation.”
“What!” Like a gunshot the word exploded from Tarrant.
Although Tarrant was the most amiable husband imaginable, nervous, Georgianne nodded to reinforce her explanation. “Yes, I want to attend the ball because Pennington is queer in the attic.”
Tarrant frowned.
Her attempt to make him laugh by the use of slang failed.
Her husband remained on his feet by the bed. “Forgive me for lacking the intelligence to understand.”
“There is no need to be sarcastic, for there is nothing wrong with your powers of reasoning.”
Tarrant’s lips twitched in a palpable attempt to hold back amusement. “Thank you for the crumbs of praise from your table.”
Exasperated, Georgianne did not respond to his overture. “I shall explain. Lady Castleton, wrote she has particular matters to discuss with me. Ones she does not care to express in writing.” Georgianne patted the bed. “Tarrant, please sit down, and try to understand why I want to see her.”
He sat, with obvious reluctance, deep lines furrowed across his forehead. How could she convince him to accept the hospitality of a man he despised? She peeped sideways at him. His expression remained hard. “Tarrant, since I introduced Lady Castleton and her son to the earl, I have often asked myself if I should have made an alternative arrangement for them. The ball will give me the opportunity to find out if all goes well with her and Lord Castleton, although I fear from the tone of her letter, it does not.
Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) Page 17
