by Louise Allen
Not one scrap.
‘I would drop by, on occasion.’ His face was shuttered now, the smile simply a reflex on his lips. ‘I was not in the army, Laurel. I was attached to the diplomatic corps.’
And something else, he cannot deceive me with that offhand manner. Intelligence work, perhaps? Interesting that he does not want to talk about that time, let alone boast about it. Oh, dear, another admirable trait.
‘Thank goodness that is over,’ Laurel said as the violins scraped their last mournful note and the dancers exchanged courtesies. ‘Ah, this one is much better.’ It was a proper country dance with vigorous, cheerful music. ‘It is familiar,’ Laurel said as Giles caught her hands and spun her around. ‘But I cannot place it.’
‘Neither can I.’ They stood aside for the next couple to spin. ‘Yet somehow I associate it with you.’
‘With me?’ And suddenly, as Giles joined hands across the circle and spun another of the ladies, it came back to her. The smell of lush green spring grass crushed under dancing feet, the scent of the blackthorn blossom in the hedgerows glinting in the torchlight, the cold white light of the moon and everywhere laughter and the scrape of a fiddle, the thud of the tabor and the squeak of a penny whistle.
‘The village May Day fête,’ she blurted out as he came back to her side and she was whirled into the circle away from him.
She had been what? Fourteen? They had all gone to the fête during the day which had been delightful, even though Stepmama had not allowed her to buy the gilded trinket she wanted because it was ‘vulgar trash’. And equally she had forbidden Laurel to go to the dance in the evening. It would be an unseemly rustic romp, quite unsuitable for any young lady, even one who had not yet let down her hems and put up her hair. Laurel had bitten her lip against the tears of disappointment and nodded obediently, but she had opened her window wide that evening, had put on her nicest dress and had danced by herself in her room to the distant music on the warm air.
And then there had been a scraping sound against the sill and Giles’s head had risen slowly into view. ‘I say, are you decent, Laurel? Still dressed? Good. Come on, I’ve got the orchard ladder. We can go to the dance.’
She had not needed asking twice. They had scrambled down the rough rungs and run across the meadows, somehow hand in hand, although there was no reason for her to need any help. They danced all evening with other people, Laurel mainly with the other village girls of her age because none of the sons of tenants would risk the consequences of being found romping with the daughter of the big house.
And at the stalls set up around the green Giles had bought her the trinket she had yearned for. He slipped it in his pocket for safekeeping just as the musicians had struck up with the tune they were dancing to now and he caught her hands and pulled her into the measure. They had danced until they were breathless and, at the end, when all the lads pulled their partners into their arms and kissed them, he had kissed her, too. Just the innocent, friendly brush of his lips over hers for a fleeting second.
They had run back as the clock struck midnight like the best of fairy tales, still hand in hand, and when she put one foot on the first rung of the ladder Giles had kissed her again, just that same harmless, laughing caress, and she had laughed back and kissed the tip of his nose.
‘Your charm,’ he said, digging in his pocket.
‘Look after it for me,’ she had replied. ‘If Stepmama sees it she will know I have been to the fair.’ Then she had scrambled up the ladder and arrived in the bedchamber breathless. And in love.
Looking back on it now, Laurel knew her feelings had been entirely innocent of any physical desire. There had simply been the certainty that she was Giles’s and he was hers and that this was an entirely satisfactory and inevitable state of affairs. Instinctively she had known that this truth did not need to be put into words or expressed in any way, any more than one needed to comment that rain was wet or that sheep were woolly. And, of course, Giles understood it, too, that went without saying as well. One day, when she was older, the words would be said...
It had not been until two years later, when Giles had left England and she was in disgrace, that it had occurred to her to look properly at herself in the mirror, to look and see a gangly, skinny girl with a mass of unruly brown hair and eyes that seemed too big for a face that had the odd freckle and a threatening pimple and no discernible beauty whatsoever.
Why would Giles have thought me anything but a plain child? she asked herself then. I have no looks, not like Portia whom he does want. He was kind to me, that was all it ever was.
She had grown up, of course, and found her looks—not conventional beauty, but something that was not so far from it—but by then it was too late, Giles had gone. And besides, better to learn early the lesson that all men are interested in is the externals, in beauty, dowry, breeding. Sex. Giles had kindly tolerated an awkward fledgling of a girl child several years his junior and she had not understood that until it was too late.
‘Yes, the fête,’ he said now. ‘Lord, I had forgotten that. It was good fun, was it not?’
‘Certainly it was,’ Laurel agreed, getting her smile firmly fixed in place. ‘Such fun.’ The most magical hours of her life and, for him, a long-forgotten piece of fun.
He walked her off the floor when the set ended to deliver her to Sir Hugh for the next. ‘Who would have thought it?’ he said, almost as though to himself.
‘Thought what?’
His attention focused on her as though he had come back from a great distance. ‘That you would have turned into such a beauty.’
‘Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander,’ she echoed his jibe of earlier as she took Sir Hugh’s hand and sailed off to tackle the intricacies of the quadrille.
Chapter Six
He had deserved that and Laurel was as sharp as she had been as a child. He had been an unprepossessing youth who needed activity and excitement to provoke that last growth spurt into manhood.
Now the man had to marry the woman who had been that plain, gawky girl. Her adult beauty sugared the pill considerably, although it was an unconventional variety of attractiveness, more the charm of great dark eyes, the gloss of deep brown hair, the mobility of a wide, sensually expressive mouth and a deliciously curved, lithe figure.
She was not quite a classical beauty like Beatriz, who was superficially similar to Laurel, Giles thought as he led out Lady Cary to take their places in the forming sets. Laurel’s looks relied on her expression, her mercurial changes of mood, the hint of deep sadness in those eyes that promised to reveal so much and yet hid her secrets safe inside. It would last longer than conventional loveliness though, persisting when others faded.
Her character was another matter and their encounters so far did nothing to reassure him that the temper and the unpredictability that had resulted in that disastrous row had moderated to make her the gracious wife that he should be seeking. She had eavesdropped, she had told tales about things she knew nothing about, she had caused his estrangement from his father and a rift between their families, and she was still holding a grudge against him for it.
On the other hand...
He changed hands as he thought it, turning Lady Cary in a complicated move that he could carry out without conscious thought. On the other hand, he did not have much choice. The options were to marry Lady Laurel Knighton to restore the Thorne Hall lands and remove the burden of debt, or to struggle for the rest of his days to repay the money and make something of the estate that was left to him. And see his father fret himself into an early grave with the worry and shame of it.
Put like that, there really was no choice. He had left home an undutiful son, had spent nine years learning to do his duty in a hard school and now all he had to do to make his father happy, save his health, save the marquessate for generations to come, was to marry this rather beautiful lady of good breeding. Such a
marriage was as he had always intended, only the bride was one he had not imagined. Men of his class were wise to wed with their heads, not their hearts, and this match truly would be a marriage of practicality.
He could cope with Laurel’s quick temper and her resentments by ignoring them, he decided. He could take himself off to one of the other estates if she became difficult to live with—or send her to one. He had to get her with child, of course...
He turned and saw Laurel watching him for a moment as a gap opened up between the dancers. Did she know about the provisions of the will? His father said not and he could imagine that Laurel would throw the circumstances in his face if she knew them—and enjoy doing so, enjoy refusing him.
Best if she never knows, he thought. Let her believe he was taken with her just for herself, however surprised she would be. Although she was still bristling with suspicion and hostility, he could see hope that shared memories of happier times and old friendship would soften her, allow him to court her. That village dance so long ago came back to him now with surprising clarity for something he had not thought about for so very long. There had been a kind of enchantment about that night, an innocence that held within it the potential of the future. His fingers reached instinctively for his worry piece and he remembered that he had left it on the dresser so as not to spoil the line of his evening coat.
How old was Laurel now? Twenty-five, he calculated. Or twenty-six? If she had wanted marriage then she would have had plenty of opportunities, because surely she would have had a London Season or three by now and it was strange that she had not been snapped up. Bath was certainly not the place to find a husband unless she was deliberately looking for an older man, a widower perhaps. And why would she be doing that? Was her temper so shrewish still that she had driven away all her suitors?
Then he realised that he had no idea whether Laurel had had one or half-a-dozen London Seasons. With amazing tact his father had simply not mentioned their neighbours and their activities in his letters. His close friend from boyhood and in the Peninsula, Colonel Lord Nathaniel Graystone, had married Portia, Laurel’s cousin. That marriage had ended with her death in childbed and, as both Portia and Gray had been at the heart of the ‘Situation’, as his father referred to it, Gray never mentioned Laurel and her kin to him either.
The music stopped and Giles offered his arm to Lady Cary to escort her back to her seat. ‘And what are your plans, once your mind is at rest about your father, Lord Revesby?’ she asked in her chatty manner.
‘To get to know London and establish myself in society, look up friends, join some clubs, find a wife. I must spend a good deal of time at Thorne Hall supporting my father, of course.’
‘Oh, yes, you said earlier about seeking a bride. I am sure you will find yourself invited to any number of house parties for the summer once it becomes generally known that you have returned.’
She beamed at him, a sweet, rather dithery lady, he thought, smiling back.
‘You may not have to rely on the Season to find the right young lady after all,’ she added, sounding suddenly not at all dithery.
Does she mean what I think she means?
‘You do not think that Bath might prove...productive?’ Giles did not turn to look for Laurel, but it took a conscious effort.
‘Oh, Lord Revesby...I hardly know what to say...’ The wretched female was back to dithering and fluttering. He looked at her, not speaking, waiting for her to come to the point. He was not certain whether she was playing games with him or was thrown into confusion when she had to articulate perfectly rational thought processes. Lady Cary gestured towards the dance floor. ‘Generally Bath is not much valued as a Marriage Mart. There are young ladies here, of course, but many of them do not have the connections I imagine you require in a bride, or they have reason of their own for not wishing for matrimony.’
‘Novice nuns?’ he asked lightly.
Lady Cary tittered. ‘Many are young ladies devoted to an invalid relative. Of course, there are those who find themselves disinclined to marry. Dear Laurel...’
‘You are not serious, ma’am? Laurel does not wish to marry?’ He could understand that she would not want to marry him, or that her prospects had been limited by living in the country, but to discover that she might be irrevocably against marriage was a serious facer.
They had reached their seats and Lady Cary settled herself, unfurled her fan, fussed with her skirts and took her time about answering him. ‘So she says.’ She wafted the painted crescent back and forth briskly, the breeze welcome as he caught the tail of it on his heated skin. ‘She seems sincere, but her experience with men is, I believe, limited, the dear girl.’ She turned to face him fully, her cheeks pink, a look of determination on her face. ‘But if she does not know her own mind, I think that you, of all people, are the man to direct it, Lord Revesby. After all, you know her so well and it would be such a suitable match.’
* * *
‘We have flowers.’ Phoebe stood back to admire the half-dozen bouquets arranged on the dining-room table the next morning. ‘Some quite lovely bouquets. One for each of us from Sir Hugh.’
‘Of which yours is somewhat the finer,’ Laurel teased, inspecting them.
Phoebe tutted and shook her head in reproof. ‘This one is for me from General Mitchell, which is probably in gratitude for saving him from the clutches of Mrs Winbourne who is determined to make him husband number four. Dreadful, encroaching woman. One for you from Mr Pittock, the rural dean. I do not think him an eligible suitor in any way, dearest.’
‘He is very odd,’ Laurel agreed. ‘I fear that my remaining awake during his interminable lecture on medieval font covers, when we were sitting out and he trapped us in the corner, may have overexcited him.’ She prodded the sheaf of flowers with one finger. ‘I do feel that evergreens and white lilies gives a most funereal effect.’
‘And the remaining bouquets?’ Phoebe turned over the cards attached. ‘One for each of us from Lord Revesby. How kind.’
They were charming, but modest, arrangements, exactly right as a gesture of thanks for the dances the night before, Laurel thought, grudgingly granting Giles approval for good taste.
And another good point, bother him.
‘Shall I arrange them all? I can spread the funereal arrangement about amongst the other flowers which should cheer it up.’
She rang the bell for vases. ‘I had best write notes of thanks. I do hope that does not encourage Mr Pittock. I really cannot see me as an ornament to the deanery!’
Phoebe turned from the window where she had been looking out on to the passing traffic in Laura Place. ‘There is no need to write to Lord Revesby, Laurel.’
‘No? But would that not be rather rude? However little I like him, I have no excuse for a snub.’
Or to give him cause to think I care enough to attempt one.
‘I only meant that he is walking towards the front door this minute. We can thank him in person.’ Phoebe sounded delighted. Whatever conversation she and Giles had had last night, it certainly seemed to have removed any lingering prejudices about him, despite Laurel telling her all about the reason for his absence from the country for nine years.
Which is more than I can say half an hour on the dance floor did for my prejudices.
Finding some things to admire in the adult Giles was more than infuriating, she found. She wanted to dislike him comprehensively, to tell herself that, after all, she had had a lucky escape in not marrying him.
What did Giles want now? They had exchanged some rather prickly conversation and a set of dances, had met without an exchange of blows, actual or verbal: there seemed to be a truce, in other words. Surely the thing now would be to avoid each other as much as possible and be coolly civil if circumstances forced them to meet. But Giles was rapping the door knocker this minute, not politely raising his hat from the far side of the street, so a
meeting was imminent and must be dealt with. At least they were not in public.
‘Lord Revesby, my lady.’ Nicol, Phoebe’s butler, apparently saw no need to enquire first whether his mistress was at home to the Earl—or whether Laurel needed some time to compose herself before facing him.
‘Lord Revesby, how good of you to call.’ Phoebe was positively beaming at him for some reason. ‘We were about to write to thank you for our delightful bouquets. So thoughtful.’ She sent Laurel a look that plainly said, Say something! and gestured to a chair. ‘Please, do sit down. May I offer you tea? Or coffee, perhaps?’
‘Neither, thank you, Lady Cary. I called hoping that Lady Laurel might join me for a stroll through Sydney Gardens.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘It is very pleasantly warm.’
Any young lady in her right mind would be delighted to stroll with such a handsome, intelligent and altogether pleasing gentleman. Which presumably meant that she was not in her right mind because the very idea of being alone with Giles produced a strong feeling of panic. Which was unfortunate, because blind panic stopped what little was functioning in her brain from coming up with a single excuse for declining.
‘I—er...’
‘You will? Excellent.’ Giles’s smile was polite, but she could remember that look all too well. It meant trouble.
‘I will not be long, Lord Revesby,’ she managed with dignity. At least she had got the use of her tongue again. Laurel scolded herself silently all the way upstairs to the bedchamber for failing to come up with a convincing pretext. What could he want with her company? Presumably he would enjoy twitting her about her unmarried state because it seemed he was suffering from the delusion that his exile had been all her fault. ‘Binham! I need to—Oh, you are here already.’
Her maid was laying out a pelisse and bonnet on the bed. ‘Yes, my lady. I saw his lordship approaching on foot and I assumed he was calling to take you walking, it being such a lovely day.’
