Cherished

by Elizabeth Thornton

  The last to arrive was James Fraser. By this time, the receiving line had more or less disbanded. Only Emily and Leon remained at their posts. It was not James who held Emily’s interest, however, but the lady who accompanied him.

  “Mrs. Charles Royston,” intoned the majordomo, “and Mr. James Fraser.”

  Mrs. Royston had the look of a prima donna. Drama oozed from her every pore. Her smiles and gestures were exaggerated, theatrical, as were her arresting good looks. The crimson sarcenet outfit with black-edged ruffles along the puff sleeves and hem gave her a decided Spanish air. The thought amused Emily and she flashed a quick look at Leon. She was sure he would be stifling a smile.

  His eyes were deep and fathomless, his face devoid of all animation. He might have been carved out of wood. And then he came to life, as though on cue, when the prima donna fed him his lines.

  “Leon,” she said. “Charles and I have been wondering if you were dead! Shame on you for neglecting old friends!”

  “Barbara,” he murmured, “I understood that you were fixed in Montreal.”

  As Leon bowed over the lady’s hand, James answered the question in Emily’s eyes. “Barbara is the wife of a colleague. We met quite by chance.”

  “We are both putting up at the Jolly Roger,” said Mrs. Royston, smiling into Leon’s eyes.

  Emily’s welcoming smile froze on her lips. Mrs. Royston was deliberately ignoring her. Why? If she was interested in the lady before, by this time, she was avidly curious.

  In a jocular fashion, James interjected, “When I heard that Barbara had wangled an invitation to tonight’s do, I lost no time in offering my escort.”

  At the tactless remark, something murderous flashed in Barbara Royston’s eyes. “James,” she remonstrated, her voice low and musical, “that was not polite. I did not ‘wangle’ an invitation, as you put it. When Sir George heard that I was in York, he insisted that I attend.”

  “And what brings you to York, Mrs. Royston?” asked Emily, determined that her companions would acknowledge her presence. Since Mrs. Royston’s arrival on the scene, everyone, it seemed, was avoiding her eyes.

  “Your husband and I are old friends, Lady Emily. When word reached me that he had come into York, wild horses could not keep me away.” She tapped Leon playfully on the shoulder with her black ostrich fan. “I must come for myself, you see, and meet your little bride.” Her beautiful eyes artlessly turned on Emily. “You must understand, Lady Emily, we were almost sure that Leon was hoaxing us. No one in Montreal could believe that he had a wife waiting for him in England.”

  Though everyone was smiling, Emily was not deceived. For her benefit, they were putting on a show, conversing in innuendo. If she were to remove herself from their presence, she was perfectly sure that there would be some very plain speaking indeed.

  “I recall how it was,” said Leon. He was the picture of innocence, a gentleman pleasurably passing the time of day in convivial company. His eyes, half veiled by the sweep of his dark lashes, swiveled to Emily. His voice was rich with amusement. “I must confess, Emily, that there were those in Montreal who refused to accept that I was a married man—fond mamas for the most part. They set their sights on me, and this in spite of my assurances that I was already bespoken.” His gaze moved to Barbara Royston, and Emily could almost feel the current that leaped between them. “People believe what they wish to believe,” he said quietly. “It’s a grave mistake.”

  Emily’s composure never slipped. She had years of training on which she might draw. She was glad of that training now, for behind her serene expression, her mind was in a frenzy, making deductions, putting two and two together.

  So this was why her husband wished to keep her away from Montreal. It was where he sowed his wild oats! In New York, where he was regarded as a pillar of society, he conducted himself in an exemplary fashion. When he left civilization behind—and on his own admission, he shook the dust of civilization from his feet every chance he got—he reverted to form. Leon Devereux was wild. He was fickle. She had learned that heart-wrenching lesson on her sixteenth birthday. It was foolish beyond permission to hope that the leopard had changed his spots.

  A shiver ran over her as she saw with awful clarity that she was poised on the brink of a great precipice. It was as though a blindfold had been removed from her eyes and she suddenly saw her peril. She was in danger of falling in love with the man! One more step and she would lose her balance and be lost forever.

  The thought flashed into her head that she had already taken that irrevocable step, but she quelled it with a ruthless will. He wanted her to fall in love with him. Her refusal to do so was a challenge to everything that was masculine in his nature. Once she yielded to him, he would soon tire of her. If she did not watch her step, she forcefully reminded herself, one day she might turn into another Barbara Royston, a pitiful creature without pride, begging for the crumbs on his table.

  It was all so subtle. Leon carried it off flawlessly, as did James Fraser—the small talk, the reference to common acquaintances and absent friends. Only Mrs. Royston showed signs of strain. After Leon’s barely concealed set-down, she had become subdued, and Emily sensed that the lady was beginning to realize that she had made a blunder. She pitied her.

  “Charles remains in Montreal?” Leon queried at one point.

  Rallying, with false brightness, Mrs. Royston replied, “He does not. You know Charles. He must go with the fur brigades. I don’t expect I shall see him till September.”

  Laughing, Leon elaborated for Emily’s benefit, “You must understand, Emily, fur traders are an adventurous lot. After a time, society becomes wearisome. The call of the Northwest is in their blood. Every spring, they begin to hanker for the great forests and plains, the rushing rivers and the thrill of pitting themselves against nature.”

  “Not to mention the fortunes to be made from a modest investment of capital,” James murmured dryly.

  Emily had a fair understanding of all that “fur trader” signified. It was a comprehensive term and might denote anyone from the rough voyageurs who manned the canoes to the wealthy entrepreneurs who financed and directed the whole enterprise from their offices in Montreal. Some of the wealthiest men in Canada had made their fortunes in the fur trade.

  “Were you and Mr. Royston colleagues at one time, Leon?” she asked.

  “Rivals,” he corrected, then, as though he sensed the unfortunate choice of word, he went on with only a fraction of a pause. “I was an independent. These days, there are few independents. Hudson’s Bay and the Nor’westers between them hold a virtual monopoly. The fur trade is not what it used to be.”

  James and Mrs. Royston soon wandered off, and Sir George came to claim Emily for the opening dance. During the course of the evening, she saw very little of Mrs. Royston though she was constantly in her thoughts.

  The lady loved Leon, and loving him, she had no shame. She was prepared to set aside her pride, her marriage vows, her integrity, to pursue him. It was a pathetic picture, a chilling picture, and one that Emily took to her heart.

  Leon Devereux had a way with women. She had known this unpalatable truth when she was supposed to be too young to understand such things. She used to giggle about it. Leon was forever getting himself into amorous scrapes, and Uncle Rolfe was forever bailing him out. Not that Uncle Rolfe had minded. As a young girl, Emily had overheard enough set-tos between her uncle and Aunt Zoë to know that men and women held widely different views on what was appropriate conduct for the male of the species, especially a young, unattached male.

  Without volition, her eyes moved over the crush of people, unerringly finding the sleek dark head and the broad sweep of shoulders, elegantly set off in snug-fitting blue superfine. He was laughing as though he had not a care in the world.

  When William Addison came to claim her for his dance, her temples were throbbing. It was she who suggested that they forgo the dancing and escape to the gardens for a breath of fresh air.

 
It was a chilly evening and she went to fetch her wrap before joining him. When she returned, William was in conversation with Lady Hester.

  The smile Hester turned on both of them was as wintry as the Arctic air.

  “What was that all about?” asked Emily as she and William passed the sentry on duty.

  William chuckled. “Lady Hester,” he said, mimicking Hester’s tones exactly, “has given me to understand that we have her permission to take a turn in the garden.”

  “What?”

  “It seems she is your self-appointed chaperone.”

  Emily shook her head in exasperation. “I don’t require a chaperone.”

  “I don’t think that is how Hester sees it.” He was still chuckling. “If it were not for the fact that she considers me good ton, I think she would have withheld her permission.”

  “Good ton? What does that mean?”

  William’s look was quizzical. Evidently he was still enjoying the joke. “On our mother’s side, we are descended from dukes, whereas you, my pet, can go no higher than a marquess. And that’s not all. The Morleyes—that’s our mother’s family by the way—are known far and wide as pattern cards of rectitude.”

  “Why, that sanctimonious, frozen-faced prude!” The vehemence of Emily’s attack had almost nothing to do with Hester. She wanted to lash out at someone, and William’s disclosures had simply provided her with a handy scapegoat. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “That was unkind. I wish you would forget I had ever said it.”

  “You mustn’t mind Hester. She means well. Perhaps she is a little old-fashioned in her notions, but…”

  “William, please. I don’t wish to talk about Hester.”

  They had come to a bench, but it was too chilly to sit down. Turning aside, they lingered at a stone sundial.

  His gaze was intent and searching. “What is it, Emily?” he asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

  William really cared for her. He was a nice man, a kind, goodhearted man. She would never reach the heights of ecstasy with him but neither would she sink into a morass of pain and humiliation.

  Shaking her head, blinking back an unexpected rush of tears, she said, “I wish I had met you years ago, William, on my sixteenth birthday.”

  It was the leaping excitement in his eyes which brought her to her senses. “You must excuse me,” she went on quickly. “I am not myself. I have a blinding headache.”

  Her words did not divert him. “If I had met you on your sixteenth birthday, Emily, what then?” She shook her head and his voice became more urgent. “Would I be your husband now? Is that what you were going to say?”

  She denied it forcefully, but the damage had already been done. There was no way she could retract her incautious remarks.

  “You deserve to be happy,” she told him. “You should find yourself a nice girl and marry her.”

  “I did find myself a nice girl, and see what happened to me.” He slanted her a whimsical grin. “I came to Canada to try and forget her.”

  “William…” she protested, and looked away.

  He shrugged philosophically. “I shall never stop loving you,” he said. “I never want to.”

  Now was the time to be brutal, as Leon had once been brutal with Sara. She should tell William the truth, that she had never loved him, could never love him. Leon had seen to that. William’s touch did not thrill her. There was no ache for his possession, as she ached for her husband’s possession. She was fond of him, but that was a far cry from love, and far less than he deserved.

  She sighed, knowing that she did not have it in her to cause him such pain. Trying to let him down lightly, she said, “I am a married woman, William. I have no wish to indulge in an affair. I made vows which I intend to keep.”

  “And what of your husband? No, don’t try to gammon me! There isn’t a person here tonight who does not know that he is flaunting his mistress under your very nose! Emily, you can’t love such a man!”

  Very gently, so that there could be no misunderstanding, she said, “I made vows, William. Love has nothing to do with it.”

  “I knew it!”

  She opened her mouth, then quickly shut it. The idea of discussing her marriage with anyone, least of all William, was unthinkable. Besides, William’s mind was made up. Leon was right when he said that people believed what they wished to believe.

  Before she could collect her thoughts, she found herself in William’s arms. She curbed that first instinctive rush of resistance. In some sort, she felt that she had wronged this man and had no wish to humiliate him further. His ardor left her breathless but unmoved. Gently extricating herself from his embrace, without haste, she stepped back, certain that her lack of response must have told him what she could not put into words. She almost wept tears of frustration when she caught the flash of triumph in his eyes.

  At half-past one in the morning, everyone sat down to supper. Sara had managed it so that she was seated next to James Fraser. The fur trader was like no other man she had ever known. On the surface, he was one of her own kind, a man of culture—and refinement. He was also of mixed blood. It was the savage in him that both fascinated and repelled Sara. Her woman’s intuition told her that he was equally fascinated with her. That thought curled around her brain, teasing her imagination into forbidden channels. He would be an exciting, virile lover, demanding things of his woman that she could not even guess at.

  “You should be married, James,” she said, her eyes flirting with him over the rim of her wineglass.

  “Why?” He posed the question seriously.

  “Why not?” Her reply was flippant.

  His dark eyes, bright with mockery, flashed to her husband. Peter was seated with a group of young officers from the garrison. From time to time, his glance strayed to his wife.

  James dismissed Peter Benson with a flick of his lashes and calmly surveyed his companion. Everything about the girl irritated him. She was a spoiled beauty, a useless ornament who had no thought beyond pursuing her empty pleasures. She was also headstrong. It was common knowledge that she ran rings around her husband. In York, Peter Benson was an object of pity. James did not pity a man who could not manage his own wife. He scorned him, but beneath the scorn, a more powerful emotion was at work. Envy. He wanted this woman as he had never wanted any woman in his life.

  “What I observe of married men, I don’t like,” he remarked finally. There was a curl to his lip which Sara found offensive.

  She tossed her head, sending her blond ringlets to dancing. “Don’t waste your sympathies on Peter. He has everything he wants.”

  “Except you.”

  She lowered her eyelashes, then quickly raised them. Dimples flashed in her cheeks. “Except me,” she agreed demurely.

  “If I were your husband…” he began threateningly.

  Though she knew she was playing with fire, the risk of getting her fingers burned only heightened her exhilaration. “Yes?” she goaded, and fluttered her lashes.

  Black eyes locked on gray and for Sara the sights and sounds of the assembly faded. Her breath fluttered, then caught in her throat. His next words hit her like a douse of cold water. “If I were your husband, I’d beat you senseless. And that would be only the beginning, my girl. If I had the taming of you, you’d run a far different course from the one you have set for yourself.”

  “You think to tame me?” Her eyes were spitting fire. “I’d like to see you try,” she scorned. “Don’t confuse me with women of your own race, James.”

  He went as still as a statue. Deliberately setting down his cutlery, he said softly, “My race? What is my race, Lady Sara?”

  Her bosom was heaving. “Indian women is what I meant. Those modes may serve very well among your own kind, but let me remind you, English women are gently bred. I am happy to say our husbands treat us with deference.”

  Though his smile seemed genuine, inwardly he was seething. Her inadvertent slur had betrayed her true sentiments. He was not one of her kind. He
never doubted for a moment that she was attracted to him, and just as surely, he knew that in her heart of hearts she considered him beneath her, a dangerous specimen who titillated her curiosity.

  He wanted to reach out and grab her and do whatever was necessary to disabuse her of the notion that she could toy with him as she had toyed with the gentlemen who formed her court that evening. One day, she would go too far and he would unleash that savage she believed lurked just beneath the surface of him.

  Nothing of what he was thinking was evident in his voice when he said, “So I have observed, and a more wretched lot of milksops I have yet to encounter, not to mention their wretched wives.” His eyes glittered with derision. “Tell me, Sara, are you happy?”

  “Ecstatically,” she snapped, “and you may call me Lady Sara.” His laugh incensed her, all the more because they both knew she was lying. She was wishing she had never confided in him, had never told him that she was homesick for England. He was the most perverse creature, offering her a sympathetic ear one moment and in the next cutting her down to size with his acid tongue. She tolerated him for only one reason. In James’s company, she was never bored.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of her brother-in-law. Leon was stationed at the glass doors which gave onto the foyer. Thankful for any excuse to change the subject, she said, “Who is that lady with Leon?”

  James followed the path of her eyes. Leon was in earnest conversation with Barbara Royston. As James watched, she caught hold of his sleeve.

  “Well?” prompted Sara.

  As to himself, James murmured, “That is a lady who does not give up easily.”

  James and Sara were not the only ones whose glances kept straying to Leon. Lady Hester clicked her tongue.

  “I can almost feel sorry for him,” she said.

  Peter Benson made a noncommittal sound. He was thinking that after Hester had joined his little group, most of the gentlemen had wandered away within short order.