Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  Before the footman could move, Owain said, “Better not.”

  Sax’s brows rose. “Do you think I’ll smash it? I am, like Hamlet, only mad north-northwest. When the wind is southerly, I know a Vermeer from a gloomy monk.”

  “It’ll give you a reason to visit your wife.”

  Sax put his hands on his hips. “You’re in a damn funny mood.”

  “This is a damn funny business.” With a jerk of his head, Owain sent Stephen on his way.

  “Am I about to suffer a lecture?” Sax opened empty drawers and cupboards. “I won’t mistreat her, you know.”

  “I know. But you’re a lusty man.”

  “Isn’t that what a wife is for?”

  “You don’t know how she’ll feel about it. She’ll do her duty, I’m sure.”

  “Duty.” Sax curled his lip. “It’s time you found the joy in it, my friend.”

  “I’m not without experience. I’m just more . . .”

  “Discriminating? My dear fellow, I’m excessively discriminating. Only the best.”

  Owain just said what he needed to say. “You can’t keep bringing your women here.”

  Sax closed the door of a walnut armoire with a sharp click, and turned. “You know what you’re telling me, don’t you?”

  “Do I?”

  “That the Daingerfield Dragon has won. She’s finally managed to steal some of my freedom.”

  “Make a happy marriage of it and you can thwart her.”

  “Now there’s a thought! We’ll just have to hope that my bride has as brisk an appetite for sex as I do. In fact, I suppose it’s my husbandly duty to stimulate it. Could be fun. Children,” he said abruptly. “Rooms for.”

  “Not for a while.”

  “Ah-ha!” Sax’s grin flashed charmingly brilliant. “I have you flustered, my efficient friend. You’ve forgotten my bride’s siblings.”

  “Damnation.”

  “How many?” Sax swept up a candelabra and headed for the next floor.

  Owain hurried after. “I’m not sure.”

  “Ages?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sax turned at the head of the stairs to laugh, a magical chiaroscuro in the candlelight. “Poor Owain, caught out again. Never mind.” He walked on to fling open a door. “I don’t suppose there are babies.”

  “This is the nursery?” Owain had never had reason to come up here, but his efficient soul was pleased to see that the room was clean and cared for. It also appeared unchanged since last use. When? “Were you a baby here?”

  “My father didn’t come into the title until I was eight, and even then we didn’t come to London much. But I remember this.” Sax ran a hand along the iron rail around a small bed. “My sister was using it.”

  He broke off. “Our nurse was Nanny Bullock. She died when I was twelve.” His hand lingered on the cold metal a moment longer, and then he walked briskly into the corridor to open the next door.

  “This was my bedroom.”

  Brak set off on an interested sniffing exploration of the icy room. Owain was beginning to shiver.

  “Three?” Owain asked, indicating the three narrow beds lined along one wall.

  “Left over from my father’s time. He had two brothers. We’re great ones for tradition, we Torrances. This is the boys’ room, and this,” he said, flinging open the door to a room across the corridor, “is the girls’. Just two beds, for my two aunts. No mattresses.”

  “So I would hope. And no, I don’t think we can get some before tomorrow night.”

  “With money, anything is possible.”

  Owain wrote a note in his book, knowing what Sax said was true. “The Gillinghams probably have their own and could bring them.”

  “Buy them new.” Sax was into another room—the schoolroom, containing a long table with six chairs around it.

  Originally, Owain supposed, half a century or more ago, the seating had been for five students and a governess or tutor. There was no sign of how Sax and his teacher had fit into this room, though the fading map on the wall surely went back fifteen years, not fifty.

  He found these rooms eerie, as if generations of children had wandered away, leaving shadows. Two ancient embroidered samplers hung beside the more recent map. A wooden globe sat beneath the window with pins stuck into various spots. Six battered tin inkpots were lined up on an open shelf. A few faded volumes tilted on bookshelves.

  But it had been just two children who’d left—fifteen years ago. The three-year-old girl had died with her parents in that carriage accident, and the boy, at ten, had been taken away to be raised by his maternal grandmother, the Duchess of Daingerfield.

  For the first time, Owain truly sensed the devastation of that event. The duchess had even dismissed the nurse who’d been with Sax since birth—Nanny Bullock.

  Sax was running his fingers down the battered spines of the books. “I didn’t know these were still here. I have new and better copies downstairs.”

  Owain doubted that better was true in any sense that mattered.

  “I suppose we’ll have to hire a governess, or perhaps a tutor.” Sax turned to survey the room. “That’s not urgent. Do you think this will do when warm and freshened up a bit?”

  The slight hint of uncertainty was almost heartbreaking. Sax could take on an unknown wife sure that he could handle her, but children were another matter. He was carelessly fond of youngsters, but his own true childhood had been cut cruelly short.

  Owain began to worry about the new countess’s brothers and sisters as well as about her. Sax was generous, but so unpredictable. “The young ones could perhaps be given some say in the refurbishing of this area.”

  “Good idea.”

  With the Torrance traditions in mind, Owain asked, “Will they be allowed to do as they wish?”

  “Within reason. Why not?” There was one more door off the corridor, and Sax glanced in. “Thought so. Room for the schoolroom maids. I assume my impoverished bride isn’t bringing any. See if any of the staff want the job.”

  “Pick the ones you want to do it.”

  “Volunteers are always better. And the boys would probably like a manservant. But we’ll observe the proprieties and have him sleep elsewhere.” He then retraced his steps, gently closing each door on the past.

  He ran back downstairs with his usual energy, candle flames streaming. He paused at his bedroom door. “Shame, really.”

  “What?”

  “To be so celibate on my last night of freedom. But I suppose it’ll be good practice.”

  “For marriage? Hardly.”

  “Ah, but your doubts have infected me.” He blew out one of the three candles. “My bride will shrink away, which will shrink me.” He blew out the second. “It’s going to be a labor of Hercules to fill those seven beds with offspring of my own.” He opened his door, and Owain saw Nims there, patiently waiting.

  “But I will strive,” declared Sax, puffing out the last flame, “and Nims will stand as my trusty squire, to ready me for the fight.”

  He put the candleholder in Owain’s hand, said a fond good night to Brak, and gently closed the door between them.

  Through the wood Owain heard him declare, “I will stand proud and valiant, and will have the endurance of ten men and the patience of Job. Just pray that I don’t get his boils. Sweet dreams, Owain.”

  Owain went off to his study, laughing, and wrote a long list of instructions for the staff. When he sought his own bed, however, he was plagued with anxieties on behalf of Miss Gillingham and her needy brothers and sisters.

  Sax was so damned unpredictable.

  Though Meg had been exhausted, she hadn’t found much sleep. She’d lain awake most of the night, imagining the worst possible consequences of her action. Always, however, the image of Sir Arthur returned to remind her of the very worst.

  At the first morning light, she eased out of bed and broke the thin layer of ice on her washing water. A brisk scrub of her face brought up a bit of co
lor. Then she brushed her hair until it crackled.

  She still didn’t look like a countess.

  However, with her week’s grace gone, Meg’s greatest fear was that she was the victim of some malicious trick. Today, Sir Arthur would come for his answer, and when she refused to let him have her sister, they’d be out on the street. A glance through the frost-laced window showed a scattering of snow on the dormant garden, and the trees whipping in the wind. They could freeze to death out there.

  And there was worse to fear.

  If this marriage didn’t happen, Laura was quite capable of sacrificing herself.

  Impossible.

  But horribly possible if Laura ever suspected Sir Arthur’s plan. And he’d tell her.

  No, the sheelagh had found a solution. As usual, it came with a sting—that Meg must marry a deranged and possibly deformed stranger. But it provided for all their needs.

  As she woke her sisters, therefore, she prayed most earnestly that it not be a trick.

  She picked up the earl’s letter and re-read it. It seemed clear, and why should such a man take it into his mind to trick poor Meg Gillingham?

  Why should such a man take it into his mind to marry poor Meg Gillingham?

  Putting the letter aside, she helped the others to dress, fingers clumsy with cold, nerves, and guilt. After all, if the earl did turn up at the church, he would have no more idea why than the baker’s son.

  It was wrong, but she couldn’t let that sway her.

  Whatever the cost to her or him, her siblings must have security and hope for the future. Laura must be saved.

  Weaving Rachel’s fine hair into a plait, Meg told herself that Lord Saxonhurst was getting exactly what he’d bargained for. A hardworking, honest, dutiful wife.

  Her sister was one long wriggle. “Is it true that you’ll be a countess, Meg?”

  “I suppose so. Sit still.”

  “I wish I were going to be a countess. Will you go to Court?”

  “I have no idea.” Pushing aside that terrifying thought, Meg tied a tight ribbon around the end. “There. You’ll do. Go start the fire.”

  Laura was nearly as bad. “You’ll have robes, won’t you? And have to take part in state occasions.”

  “I dearly hope not. Let me fasten your buttons.”

  Laura stood with her back to Meg. She’d chosen a pretty dress far too flimsy for such a day, but Meg hadn’t the heart to make her change. She’d be warm enough with her woolen cloak over.

  “What if the king dies? He could, couldn’t he? Then there’d be a coronation, and you’d be there!”

  “Laura, you can’t wish for the poor man’s death!”

  “I’m not. I’m just thinking.”

  Meg’s sensible gown buttoned at the front, so she fastened it herself. “Can you see me in velvet and ermine? I’ll be the sort of countess who runs an economical household and rears happy, healthy children. Come on. Let’s get breakfast.”

  As she stirred the porridge, Meg held the vision of happy, healthy children in her mind as a shield against the terrifying vision of robes and state occasions.

  They ate the porridge with salt and heavily watered milk. She was sure an earl’s household had cream and sugar in abundance, and that was what she was paying for with her freedom.

  When they’d finished and washed the bowls, she made sure everyone was neat and warmly dressed, and led them to St. Margaret’s Church.

  She thought she had herself completely in hand, but at the sight of the church—where she went every Sunday for service—her feet froze to the ground.

  Marriage.

  She was about to give not just her body but her life into a stranger’s hands. She would no longer have privacy, or be free to come and go as she pleased. She would be giving him power over her family. . . .

  “What’s the matter?” Laura asked.

  “There’s no carriage. What if there’s no one there?” The outer doors stood open, but there was no hint of anyone being around.

  “No one there? Why wouldn’t he be there? He asked you to marry him, didn’t he?” A hint of suspicion rang in her voice.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Jeremy said, “They couldn’t keep horses standing in this weather, Meg.”

  “I’ll go peep—” Meg seized Richard’s coat before he could run across the road.

  “No, love. It’s just silly bridal nerves. Jeremy’s right. I’m sure he’s there waiting.”

  What folly to hesitate. How private or free would any of them be as paupers on the streets, or residents of the workhouse?

  And she mustn’t forget Sir Arthur’s vile plans for Laura.

  She forced a smile. “After all, I don’t expect to be a bride again, and I intend to enjoy all the stages, including nerves and watery tears!”

  “Silly,” Laura said, but with a relieved laugh. “You never cry!”

  “I’ve never been married before.” It came out more grimly than she wanted, so she grinned at her brothers. “Gentlemen, prepare to catch me when I faint!”

  Resolutely smiling, she led them up the stone steps into the church vestibule, into the familiar smell of musty hymn books and remembered incense. Another set of doors stood between her and the nave, concealing her future. With only the slightest hesitation, she opened one and walked through.

  For a moment the contrast between daylight and gloom blinded her. Then, in the weak winter light shooting through stained-glass windows, she saw people standing near the altar. The church clock began to sound eleven and they all turned.

  Six men, two women.

  She couldn’t make out details.

  She had frozen in the doorway, and Laura pushed her gently forward out of the way. “Which one is he?” she whispered, nothing but excitement in her voice.

  Meg walked forward, walking as slowly as she dared down the long aisle. Which one was he? As her eyes adjusted and her nerves steadied, she eliminated Reverend Bilston and a few other men who were clearly servants.

  That left two gentlemen, one brown haired and one blond.

  Dirty yellow! What a way to describe that elegant arrangement of dusky gold curls. She wasn’t close enough to see his eyes. She was quite close enough, however, to see that he was tall, handsome, elegant, and terrifyingly everything one would expect a young earl to be.

  He was no desperate charity case! How had the sheelagh managed this?

  He was looking back at her, assessing her in a quick, intelligent way. She searched his features for any sign of shock or disappointment. All she saw was a sort of interest marked by a sudden, charming smile.

  He was clearly slave to the magic.

  She stopped as if a wall had sprung up in front of her.

  It wasn’t right.

  No matter what her need, it wasn’t right to bewitch someone like this. No good could come of it.

  “I’m sorry.” She turned and pushed past her startled family, hurrying back down the aisle.

  Someone had closed the door. In her panic, her cold fingers fumbled the latch. Then a hand appeared, pressed firmly against the dark wood, preventing her from opening it.

  “Miss Gillingham, please don’t run away.”

  He must have run to stop her, but his voice was beautifully modulated, and used—consciously she was sure—to soothe. It didn’t help. Susie had said the earl could easily find a bride, and it was clearly true.

  It was all magic, evil magic.

  “Please, my lord . . .”

  His hand did not move. It was beautifully made, with long, elegant fingers and buffed nails. An earl’s hand.

  His large body loomed behind her, placing her in shadow. Without looking, she knew he must be close to a foot taller than she.

  Lacking any choice, she turned against the oaken door to look up at him, grateful for the shadows. She couldn’t tell the truth—she could never speak of the sheelagh. “It is just so ridiculous, my lord. I thought I could. But now . . .”

  “But now you need a
moment to collect yourself.” He moved back slightly, and smiled again, that charming, practiced smile. “Come, sit in this pew with me, Miss Gillingham, and we will discuss it.”

  He took her gloved hand and led her to the nearest row of seats. She couldn’t think of a reason to object. As she sat down she saw Jeremy, Laura, Richard, and Rachel watching wide-eyed. With a jolt, she remembered why she had to do this.

  The twins looked frightened, and Laura looked bewildered. Jeremy, however, was beginning to look pugnacious. She found a smile to reassure them all, but feared it was all wobbly.

  “Miss Gillingham,” the earl said, sitting beside her on the polished seat, “I assure you I am not so terrifying.”

  His eyes were yellow, or at least a strange pale hazel ringed around the iris with dark brown. More to the point, they were powerful. She didn’t know what made eyes powerful, but they were. Even with light brown brows and lashes, they shone intensely and sparkled with energy.

  She looked away, away at a memorial plaque on the wall—to the Merryam family, one of whom had been Lord Mayor in the last century—trying desperately to sort through her thoughts. “You’re not terrifying, my lord. Far from it. That is why I wonder at your wanting to marry me.”

  “Susie explained my predicament.”

  She had to look at him. Unfortunately, he was just as handsome as before. “It seems a foolish reason to tie yourself to me for life.”

  “You think my word of honor a foolish thing?”

  She felt herself color. “No, my lord. But is it so impossible to admit to your grandmother that you have been unable to keep your promise?”

  “Yes. Completely. Come now, Miss Gillingham, let me turn the tables. What possible objection can you have to me?”

  His easy self-confidence made her want to roll her eyes, but he was right. She had no rational objection. How could she say she didn’t want to marry him because he was victim of a magic spell? Or that she was dismayed because the bargain would be so unequal? That she wished he were grotesque and drooling.

  “You are very tall,” she said weakly.

  “Not very. And sitting down, the difference in our heights is not so obvious. I will try to sit a lot.” Then he challenged her. “I thought we had an agreement, Miss Gillingham. A promise.”