The Carriagemaker's Daughter
Page 21
Lord Quentin concentrated on putting the final touches to Alcibiades’s coat, his body keenly aware of the nearness of hers.
“The Pantheon, my lord?” The governess cocked her head to one side, her expression dubious and wary.
“Ah. Ah, yes,” managed Charles.
“ ’Tis far from here?”
“A quarter hour’s ride, perhaps.”
“A long way’s ride for an apology.” The words were spoken softly, her eyes never wavering from his.
“Miss Phillips,” said Charles, reaching out–
The governess turned away, shifting her attention to Alcibiades. The set of her shoulders spoke eloquently of her distrust, even if he could not see her face.
“Miss Phillips, I apologize abjectly here and now. My behavior was inexcusable–”
A shrug of those elegant shoulders.
“–but if you will give me the chance . . .” Charles trailed off, wondering if she would now go–or stay.
The girl murmured softly to the stallion and stroked the blaze on his forehead. The horse nickered and sent a look to Charles as if to say, why has this delightful human not accompanied us in the past?
Faithless beast.
“I assume we are talking about a folly of some sort,” said Helène finally. “In miniature, no doubt–though I hope it’s more than the size of a henhouse.”
“A bit more,” said Lord Quentin. He was trying not to grin. She would stay!
“Well, then, I shall... I shall accompany you. You have managed to pique my curiosity.”
Ha’penny was brought round and he threw her up into the saddle. The feel of her waist under his hands threatened to break Lord Quentin’s composure; he quickly turned away to mount Alcibiades.
* * * *
For her part, Helène was far from sure why she was even here. How could she forget the humiliating words Lord Quentin had said to her at the ball? How could she have agreed to ride out with him? She should have refused his company, apology or no.
So the little voice had argued for most of that morning. But Helène–sitting on her bed, close to tears, her heart faltering under the grip of a giant fist that was trying to squeeze out every last drop of blood–had found herself unable to bear the thought of never seeing Lord Charles Quentin again. In the end, she had negotiated a settlement with the little voice.
She would ride with him this morning. Even a folly Pantheon, so she insisted, was worth the blow to her pride. And really, it would hardly matter. Lord Quentin would disappear, like the other houseguests, when the party broke up in another week’s time. She would continue to refuse his carte blanche, he would leave, and that would be the end of it. A morning’s ride could hardly affect the inevitable outcome of their association.
Refuse his carte blanche. She would refuse it. She would.
* * * *
Lord Quentin hoped that their departure had gone unnoticed by any of the other guests. The rules for a Bedfordshire houseparty were relaxed compared to those of town, and it was accepted that a gentleman and lady might ride out together of a morning, but he did not care to push the point too far. At least ’twas a pleasant morning, and Miss Phillips seemed suitably impressed by the scenic qualities of their route. A cobalt blue sky rose above the brilliant white of the snow, and the temperature–which had hovered below freezing for much of the early part of January–was now warm enough that they were comfortable, but not so warm that the lanes had turned to muddy slush.
First skirting the wooded hills that made up a substantial portion of the marquess’s property, Charles led them into a wide valley run through with the river Lea. Water sparkled in the distance and quail darted in and out among the sheltering trees. As they neared the river a loud rustling sounded from the bushes to one side, followed by a series of sharp cracks.
“Oh!”
A huge buck bounded across their path in a flurry of snow, no more than three or four yards away. Miss Phillips was enthralled; Alcibiades and Ha’penny both disdained to take notice.
Her seat had much improved since the first lesson with Lady Pam, noted Lord Quentin. Nervous riders made for nervous mounts, but Ha’penny was clearly at ease, and Miss Phillips handled the reins with the light touch the mare deserved. Charles had thought to watch the governess closely, as one did a novice, but his attention seemed continually diverted by the sight of the snugly tailored wool of her costume. Searching for something to distract his thoughts, Lord Quentin decided to pay the governess a compliment.
“For a inexperienced rider,” he said, “you have a natural rapport with horses.”
“They are marvelous animals. My father always–” She broke off.
“Yes?” He encouraged her with a smile.
Helène regarded him levelly, as if considering whether or not to continue. “My father,” she said, after a moment. “My father knew everything there was to know about horses.”
“But you did not ride.”
“No.” A longer hesitation, then–“He was a carriagemaker.”
“Ah.”
“Father loved horses,” added the governess. “ ‘Twas all he talked about. I think he would have happily bred them for a living, but that... that wasn’t possible.”
“So he built carriages for them.”
“Designed and built. Yes. He wanted each animal to have the best.”
They rode on in silence for several minutes. It was, of course, no more than what Charles might have expected, and it was perhaps to his credit that Miss Phillips’s father even had an occupation, or indeed, that she knew a father at all. Still, the reality of her background was a jolt, and Lord Quentin realized that he had begun to think of Miss Helène Phillips as a young woman of quality. But with a family in trade, the father selling carriages to members of Charles’s own class... .
Something nagged at his memory. Phillips. A carriagemaker. Lord Quentin did not recall the name, but he and the earl had spent little time in England before these last five years, and the governess had told him that her father had since passed away. A carriagemaker . . .
A sudden gasp of pleasure brought Lord Quentin back to the here and now.
“It’s magnificent,” breathed Miss Phillips. They had reached the top of a small hill, and she was staring in delight at the sweep of terrain before them. “And how extraordinary that the lake be so perfectly situated.”
Lord Quentin smiled, wondering if he should tell her that the landscape, although every bit as beautiful as she said, was the product of merely human design. The far end of the valley had once been mostly swamp, but at some point an earthen dam had been contrived, with the result that the river widened into a lake. Groves of birch and willow had been planted at its edge; their empty branches now reflected white and cream against both ice and quiet water.
“It is quite... unusual,” he allowed.
“But where is the folly?” Miss Phillips twisted around in the saddle, looking for the promised Pantheon.
“It is a scenic spot for Roman ruins,” he twitted her, “but hardly authentic. The real Pantheon is nowhere near water.”
“Yes, of course, but–” The governess looked dubious, and Charles wondered if she thought he had lured her here with false promises.
“Oh, ye of little faith. The pride of Rome ’tis just over there behind that group of trees. Watch the ice at the edge, now–”
He led them along the eastern shore of the lake to a large copse of pine. Beneath the sheltering trees the drifts were not so deep, and in the clearings Charles caught sight of a few snow crocuses braving the late January thaw.
“Dear heavens,” said Miss Phillips. She clapped her hands in delight, like a child, and Charles leaned quickly to catch the reins as she dropped them.
A much larger clearing had opened before them and there it was, the ancient dome arching improbably into the blue of an English sky.
Jonathan was never clear as to which of the several marquesses of the past two centuries had built the folly, but
whoever it was had not cared overmuch for subtlety. The ersatz Pantheon was enormous. It had been built of brick and concrete, like the Roman original, and sat solitary and majestic in the middle of a snow-covered meadow. The portico, with its distinctive triangular pediment and Corinthian-topped columns, presented an oddly welcoming face.
“Good gracious,” added the governess.
Charles grinned at her. “ ’Tis some forty feet high.”
“Good gracious–” she caught herself and stopped. “That’s nearly a third of the original! But why build it here where no one can see?”
“I believe that was rather the point. The marquess says that his grandfather would take unsuspecting guests out for a ‘day at the lake,’ and then bring them here, feigning surprise. On occasion the more gullible could be convinced that it was really Roman, and that they had just stumbled upon a major archeological find.”
Miss Phillips laughed. “Oh, no! How disappointing to discover the truth!”
“The truth is evidently not so romantic,” replied Lord Quentin. “Jonathan claims that there are still a few ladies from one summer’s houseparty who are in no hurry to believe it.”
“I can almost see why.”
The dome loomed ever higher as they approached the portico, and Lord Quentin kept a sharp eye on the governess, who had now tipped her head so far back that she was in some danger of falling off Ha’penny. He found his heart again racing at the prospect of time spent alone with the enchanting Miss Phillips, sheltered under the coffered dome of a fanciful Roman ruin.
You are nearly thirty years old, he reminded himself. Stop behaving like a cub of seventeen about to steal a kiss from the milkmaid. Dismounting from Alcibiades, he reached up to assist Miss Phillips, his hands firmly around her waist.
“Oh,” said Miss Phillips and blushed. She stepped quickly away from him, only to find herself backing into deeper snow.
“Careful,” he said, extending his hand. “Come, ’twill be dry inside.” The governess hesitated. She is shy, thought Charles. Shy and vulnerable. A sudden, brazen confidence overtook him, a conviction that he was master of this situation. The naive young governess and an earl-to-be... Lord Quentin flashed Miss Phillips a charming, boyish grin. Her blush deepened and she returned the smile.
She smiled at him– Charles’s heart slammed into his rib cage, and several moments passed before he was again in control of his breathing.
No, he realized, with chagrin. Not master of the situation at all.
* * * *
Helène had forgotten that she was determined to be cross and distant with Lord Quentin. She studied the enormous bronze doors of the folly, recognizing that they were exact replicas–albeit at a third the size–of the doors of the real Pantheon. Heavy, as well; Lord Quentin took a firm grip and pulled one open wide enough for them to enter. Their steps echoed against the polished marble floor as they walked to the center of the structure. The rotunda stretched in front of them, the dome above, the sky visible through the oculus in its center.
“We’re much farther north, of course,” commented Lord Quentin. “But in Rome, one sees a perfect circle of light against the ceiling.”
Incredible. “ ‘Angelic, and not of human design,’ ” whispered Helène. She was overwhelmed by the emotion of seeing even this one tiny piece of her dreams. To visit the Pantheon of Rome, or the ruins of Athens, the cathedrals of Paris...
Lord Quentin looked at her curiously.
“Quoting Michelangelo?” he said. “Your education continues to be most unaccountable.”
Indeed. “For a carriagemaker’s daughter?” retorted Helène, her voice sharper than she intended.
“Truthfully? Yes. But I’ve known many a duke’s daughter–”
Helène started; Lord Quentin seemed not to notice.
“–with far less learning. I don’t understand–”
“As a girl I spent many days walking about London,” Helène said hurriedly, hoping to deflect the subject onto a safer path. “I visited St. Paul’s Cathedral often... . I would hide in the chapels. I can’t explain it, really. I guess I was enthralled by the idea of great buildings. Their size, and their beauty–”
She paused, but Charles’s attention had been caught by her first words. “You were about in the city alone?” he asked. “Now that ’tis a folly. What could your father have been thinking?”
His voice had grown concerned, but Helène only shrugged.
“That may be true for the Quality,” she told him. “ ’Tis not so for the rabble.”
“Helène–”
“Father was often occupied,” she continued, ignoring his interruption, “and my aunt had a crippled leg. She was unable to accompany me.” She did not mention that Matilde had protested nevertheless, and at some length. Helène had disliked upsetting her aunt, but she had not been able to bear confinement for long. The city, for all its dangers and filth, could give at least the illusion of freedom.
“I’m sorry,” said Lord Quentin. “I didn’t know.”
Another shrug. “It was a lifetime ago.” Helène walked over to one of the smaller columns of the rotunda wall, running a gloved hand along the smooth fluting of marble. The folly was much smaller than the original, and she supposed it was considerably less imposing; still, she seemed to feel something of the magic and aura of the ancient Roman temple itself.
“I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to walk through the real Pantheon,” she told Lord Quentin. “Or any ancient building–”
“And to think about the people who’ve walked in the same place, seeing the same things, thousands of years before?”
Helène gazed around her at the ornamented brick of the rotunda interior, the precise lines of the coffered ceiling above.
“Yes,” she said, “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
* * * *
“That’s exactly it.” Miss Phillips’s face, had she known it, was alight with that same dreamy, enraptured look that Lord Quentin had seen once before, during their discussion in the library. He found himself engulfed by longing, drawn to her, unable to resist. Just one kiss. One kiss, one caress, a single touch of his hand against her breast...
She brushed her hand once more along the fluting of the column and Charles felt the soft caress on his own skin. He was unaware that he had moved toward the governess, or that she had moved toward him. They stood apart, then not apart, barely touching, and then they were pressed together with implosive force, Charles’s one hand at her waist, one against the back of her head as he crushed her lips to his own.
He could feel the whole of her body pressed against his, and he was engulfed by passion within seconds, brought back to logical thought only when Miss Phillips sagged in his arms, her legs no longer able to hold her upright. Charles held her against his chest and scanned the interior of the building.
As with the real Pantheon, there was a niche opposite the portico entrance, flanked by marble columns and topped with a relieving arch; unlike the real building, it held a large garden seat. He carried the governess to the bench, thankful it was wood and not iron, and held her in his lap. Their kisses deepened until Lord Quentin no longer felt the cold.
“Helène,” he murmured. Her answer was muffled against the wool of his coat.
If only the folly was a little warmer. If only he had thought to bring a number of blankets along.
Of course, the little voice pointed out, that might have made your intentions rather less obscure.
But I never intended to make love to her! Charles protested. Not today!
The little voice was unconvinced.
* * * *
Helène tried to remind herself that she was angry with Lord Quentin, very angry indeed. He had insulted her in as many ways as possible, offering her carte blanche, speaking to her as if she was some low-caste lightskirt out on the streets–
But I could spend my days like this. Days and nights, engulfed in his arms, feeling like this.
* * * *
Rivals in love were nothing new to Lady Sinclair, but losing was. And to lose to a governess–
Bad enough that Jonathan had brought the girl into the house under odd circumstances, and without a satisfactory explanation. Celia had abandoned any notion that the marquess had hired the girl for improper reasons, but the situation was most peculiar, and to be shown up by some girl from the streets, with her French, and fine gowns, and dancing, and Lord only knew what else.
It was unsupportable. And then, another blow, to see Charles’s interest in her–
Botheration. Celia rummaged through the contents of her wardrobe, becoming more annoyed by the second. She should have thrown every last one of these dresses out ages ago. It was shocking–she had not a single decent day gown to wear. And until they returned to town . . .
It had been a frustrating houseparty, to say the least. Lord Burgess would have been easy pickings, as would that Blankenship boy. But she had been so convinced that Charles would come around, that he could no more refuse the offer of a woman’s body than he could refuse to breathe.
At least, not the offer of her body. Celia thought back to the year before her second marriage, to the young men she had entertained in that London townhouse. None of them had been as passionate, as fierce, as purely commanding as Charles Quentin. He had engulfed her with raw, insistent need, and for a time Celia had exulted in the glorious experience of being claimed.
None of the others had taken the emptiness away.
That awful feeling, thought Celia. That awful feeling of being alone in the world and responsible for one’s own fate. Young men were so foolish, thinking she wanted to be the aggressor, when she was simply playing the only hand she had ever been dealt. But when Charles had bedded her . . .
The marchioness sighed. When Charles had bedded her there had been no doubt as to who was in control.