Lady Caraway's Cloak, page 12
Serena seemed to understand his reasons for the crop rotation, she approved of the sheep experimentation—indeed, she had given him cause to assume it had been her idea that Addington had taken it up—oh, innumerable curious coincidences and circumstances that forced him to wonder.
Strangest of all was that no one but Serena herself seemed to know anything about the man, although many at Caraway conceded vaguely that there must be a bailiff, but “he don’t no-how show ’is face about these parts, awful private he must be.”
Then, of course, there was the certainty that the accounts at Caraway were all very neatly recorded, very succinct, and the decisions made accorded wholly and precisely with Robin’s own wishes.
The hand used in record keeping was definitely that of Addington’s—Robin, thorough in everything, had checked the hand against a magnifying glass for clarification. Definitely Gabriel’s—he would recognize it anywhere. Mystifying, for the correspondence to tradesmen had been in the bailiff’s hand—not in Lady Serena’s, as he might have supposed from stray snippets of her conversation.
The depth of her knowledge puzzled him—also, her resistance to any probing and her preference for him to think her ignorant of estate business. Strange, when he found her very interest so intriguing. But it was a sad fact that whenever he quizzed her on Caraway matters he was positive she knew a good deal more about them than she was prepared to reveal. More than that—the lady actively turned the subject and disappointed him with a sudden flurry of nonsense about bonnets or the weather or some other desultory affair.
“Tea?” she would say. “I know nothing of tea, save for the frightful cost of it. You would think one were drinking gold rather than a few silly little leaves from China or wherever it is that they grow such things!” Or she would swear she knew nothing about accounts when Robin had it on perfectly good authority that most of the merchants dealt directly through her, and a hard businesswoman she was, too, if some of them, whom he had diligently tracked down, were to be believed.
“Oh,” she would say, when quizzed, “don’t fret me with such trifles. I have my pin money and whether it is placed on the Royal Exchange or in a private bank I really couldn’t say. Ladies, you know, can really not be expected to follow such things.”
Despite his disappointment when she uttered such trite—and patently untrue—statements, he was virtually positive he had encountered, in living flesh, the woman of his future—someone to share not just his bed (and he was perfectly certain this was something he wished to share) but also his interests.
He had not thought that his prodigal return to Caraway would prove anything more than an amusing diversion of sorts. Now, he found that his roots tugged at him, his establishment in the Americas receding quite astonishingly in significance. Perhaps when he finally tracked down the mysterious bailiff, he could ask him to manage those vast estates. In the meanwhile, he had several pressing engagements to attend to.
Julia, having been presented at court—an event that the dowager actually did, quite properly, manage to attend—was now officially on the marriage mart. Though her birth was not so impeccable as Serena’s, it was still excellent, and that, coupled with her friendliness, her natural beauty, and her horror of being a wallflower—which everyone found amusing and bent over backward to ensure would not occur—meant that she was never, ever short of partners and even achieved the dizzy heights of having to mournfully refuse three dances on account of her card’s being too full.
Captain McNichols, reproachful, reminded her that he had been the first to secure two dances, at which she offered him a bashful smile and whispered that she had not been so rude as to have forgotten. So, all was perfect bliss with Miss Waring. More so because Captain McNichols, who had sworn to court Serena most avidly, forgot his intentions altogether in the delightful mists of mutual passion.
Serena, half miffed, half amused, threw aside her own card, which Captain McNichols had dutifully inscribed with his name for the current dance, and supposed, with a sigh, that she had best assume the much feared title of wallflower, for the set was already in progress.
“Stood up, are you?”
Serena refused to allow her heart to leap, though she experienced a sudden startle at the unexpected voice.
“Lord Caraway! I thought you had cried off this festivity!”
“Missed me, did you?” Robin could not suppress a grin.
“Not at all,” Serena lied, though she took the precaution of crossing her fingers behind her elegant back as she did so.
The smile she received in turn was quizzical. “When I was a child I used to cross my fingers precisely as you are doing. It never worked. I was always found out. Most crushing!”
“How in the world did you know ... you rotten rascal! You were guessing!”
“Correctly, too. Let me see those pretty little fingers. Come on, they can’t hide behind your back all night.”
“You make me feel like a child.”
“Do I? How terribly disconcerting. I could have sworn I was making you feel the very reverse.”
“You are a coxcomb.”
The coxcomb simply smiled and drew the errant fingers to his mouth. Serena refused to humor him by appearing in the least bit confused. Instead, she hissed that they were making themselves the spectacle of the ballroom.
“Nonsense! Lady Govender is the spectacle of the ballroom with that plumage she is wearing upon her head.”
Serena’s face lit up with laughter. So much so, she almost forgot he was committing the dreadful social offense of retaining her hand far too long for comfort and a great deal longer than was proper. After he had pointed out Lady Worthington, with her two lapdogs—heaven only knew how the creatures had been permitted to attend such a function—and several other permutations of the ballroom scene that were equally outrageous, Serena was forced to remind him that they were now—quite definitely—becoming the subject of gossip.
He released her hand, but regretfully. “Do you care so much for gossip?”
“Not a fig, but it would not do, you know, whilst I am chaperoning Julia.”
“Ha! The situation is perfectly ridiculous. Chaperon indeed! You are in dire need of one yourself.”
“Only thanks to your exertions.”
“What, kissing your hand? Those are hardly exertions, my dear Serena. Meet me at midnight behind the trellis and I will demonstrate the true meaning of the term exertion.”
“I should really cease all conversation with you. You overstep the bounds at every turn. Trellis indeed!”
“You are right. Far too flimsy. Meet me ... meet me aboard my ship, The Albatross. I promise to exert myself to the utmost.”
“And I promise to stand on your foot if you talk any more absurdities. Listen, the set is ending. I must find Julia.”
“Nonsense, she doubtless has a thousand eligibles dancing attendance including my poor Adam. Dance with me instead.”
For a moment, Serena was tempted. Then she remembered their pact and that Lord Caraway should have been dancing attendance on Julia, not herself. “No, I do not believe I shall dance with you tonight at all.”
My lord’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “That is passing rude, if I might comment upon your manners, Lady Serena.”
“I did not mean it so, my lord! You pull straws with me! I just do not wish to become an object of speculation. It would be bound to reach the dowager’s ears.”
“Bother the dowager! I can deal with her in a moment, if need be. There is another reason, is there not?”
There was, but Serena could hardly say she feared desperately that she might be falling hopelessly and foolishly in love with him, and that a dance—especially the type of intimate waltzes that were now permitted—might overset her completely. Just the thought of his hand about her waist reduced her to quivering schoolroom status, and it was not a feeling she relished. She liked being in control—always had—and the earl overset her common sense.
“Of course not,” she lied. Fibbing was becoming a most appalling habit, it seemed. Robin regarded her closely, noting her high color and her desire to look everywhere about the room, just so long as it wasn’t at him. For some reason, the circumstance lightened his forbidding frown and he almost smiled.
“Very well, then, we shall hunt for your charge. I saw Miss Waring only a few moments ago, crushed between a veritable sea of admirers. Poor Adam! It goes hard with him, I fear. But see! There she is!”
My lord pointed at a gap that had opened up amidst the crush of people. The candelabra flames seemed multiplied a million times by the crystal all about the hall, but clearly, between two unknown officers, the Viscount of Stanforth, and a determined-looking Captain McNichols, Julia seemed to be holding court perfectly well on her own.
“Rest easy. She is managing perfectly. If you are set on refusing me at every turn I shall ask that perfectly ravishing creature over there to dance. She has been ogling me all evening.”
“But naturally. It is the vogue to ogle you!” Serena, relieved that he had not pressed her about the dance, returned to form.
“Is it? How terribly quaint! It must be my fortune.”
“It is. I shan’t mention your good looks, for you are quite conceited enough already.’
“Oh! You think they are good?” Robin cocked his head to one side. Serena, who could not avoid his eyes, but refused to concede anything at all that might make that devilish twinkle deepen, nodded offhandedly and pronounced, rather dampeningly, that they were “passable.”
He seemed not to mind this offhandedness, for he took her by the elbow and steered her toward a table laden with refreshments that looked like they might possibly be a day old.
“Pile your plate up high.”
“I am not in the least bit hungry.”
“Neither am I, but see, my plate is already gratifyingly full.”
This, as he dished out two sandwiches, a confection of strawberries, three slivers of ham (hardened from an evening’s exposure to the currents of a hot fire in the grate behind them) and a purple substance that Serena neither could nor wanted to identify. All this, one might add, was upon her plate, not his own. His plate was full of a dozen randomly selected sandwiches. He ignored Lady Marvello’s pointed glare as she discovered he had seized every savory upon the serving plate.
“I tell you, I am not hungry!”
“Good, for there is not a damn thing worth eating here. A person could starve, I swear.”
“Pardon me for being obtuse, but why are we helping ourselves to a collation we have not the slightest intention of eating? One, moreover, that makes any respectable palate feel squeamish?”
Lord Caraway led Serena out of Lady Marvello’s immediate earshot.
“It is elementary, my dear Serena! Elementary! If someone requires you for the next dance, they shall not be so rude as to ask you whilst your plate is full. If they require you for the dance following, you can say no, you are engaged for the supper dance. If they require you after the supper dance, you can say you are either queasy—and one look at your plate will prove the veracity of this—or full. Delightful scheme.”
“Simply delightful if I did not wish to dance, my lord!” Serena’s voice was tart.
“Do you wish to dance?”
‘Well, of course I do!”
“My dear Serena, why ever did you not say so?” said Robin, with a grin, as he pushed both dishes into the hands of Lord Alderfoot, who happened to have the misfortune of threading his way through the throng at just that moment.
“Try the ham, Alderfoot! It looks ... exceptional,” called Robin over his shoulder as he placed one guiding arm about the Lady Serena’s waist.
“Lord Caraway, I did not mean to dance with you at all!”
“No, but now, having confessed a desire to, you cannot possibly refuse. That would be the height of ill manners.”
“Your mind is far too cunning.”
“Matched only by my body, which is equally so. “
“What in the world do you mean by that?”
“Come, let us take up our positions and I will show you.”
Which he did, though so subtly that none but Serena knew the dangerous game he was playing. Trouble was, she could not scold him for it either, for scolding would show him that she had noticed his subtle maneuvering, and she was perfectly certain he would be passing pleased that she had.
So, she said nothing, and endured the occasional brush of his muscled thigh in silence (and yes, it must be said, with pleasure, though wild horses would not drag the confession from her.) Also, his soft breath on her neck, the very tips of his fingers imprinted on her waist ... only sometimes it was the full palm of his hand, and the shock of it almost made her gasp, though quite why it should she did not know, for surely a man’s palm was not anything so very shocking? Perhaps it was the way it imprinted itself on her skin. His palm, elegantly gloved, seemed not to notice the garments that so genteelly separated them.
His gloves, her gossamer silks, her petticoats, her soft, pliant undergarments—Serena had never held with corsets. She wriggled a little, for despite all these protections, she still felt his hand, searingly warm, upon her. Worse, as she moved out of sight of the crowd, under cover of a huge potted plant, she could have sworn his hand moved just a fraction lower than her waist. Her eyes flashed, for the gall of the man was insane!
No one had ever made free with her derrière before, particularly not in full sight of a thousand people at the crush of the Season. But no! It was not in full sight, for as they glided past that plant, so, too, did the hand smoothly rectify its position, so none but she was any the wiser.
She fumed, but Robin only smiled engagingly and cocked that brow of his, so she could hardly remember the words of outrage that she had meant to use upon him. Moreover, far from being unrepentant, he seemed singularly pleased with himself and the effect he was having upon her person.
She wished her heart did not race so revealingly, or that her breathing would steady. She tried to think of Lord Kirkby, who had had all his teeth pulled, but she could not. She could only think of Robin, Lord Caraway, and the worst of it was that he knew it! Yes, he tightened his grip about her just enough to draw her that bit closer, so that the gap between them was far less than the required three inches, and her bodice, tight before, now seemed tighter still.
By the end of the waltz he was brazen enough to be laughing. Serena would very likely have lost her cool demeanor and trod hard upon his toe had she not detected something else—something she could not yet quite divine—beneath the subtle surface of his amusement. She could not dwell upon this, however, for her hand was almost immediately solicited by the Duke of Bedford.
“Can’t hog her, Caraway! She should have been mine, you know. Asked her a dozen times but the chit is obstinate as sin.”
“Not obstinate, Your Grace, but sensible! You know perfectly well that if I married you we would come to blows within a sennight.”
“If I married anyone we would come to blows in a sennight. Only natural, stands to reason ... but if I must get leg-shackled, you are the one, my dear girl, and so I shall always say!”
“And so I shall always think you are a dear. But no more talk of this nonsense, I pray you, it fatigues me.”
“There you are! I said we should be perfect together, for a more tiresome topic I cannot think of myself, but Mama does pester one so. Marriage this and marriage that! It quite gives me the headache.”
Serena smiled and cast a laughing glance at the earl, who seemed to share her secret amusement. To the duke, however, she was everything that was soothing.
“Your mama wants only the best for you. She would be a very unnatural parent if she did not, and I must say, Philip, you know perfectly well that you have to marry to secure the succession. It would simply be beastly if your cousin—whom I must tell you I despise—accedes to all your titles.”
“Yes, for he is a nasty piece of work and Jenkins has had several complaints about him ... I declare the whole matter has sent my head into a spin. It would be so much easier if you just let me post the damn banns.”
Serena shook her head firmly at this most unromantic of all proposals. “I am most sorry to disoblige you, Your Grace, but I cannot marry simply to save you the headache.”
“It is most uncivil of you, and so I shall always say, but you have ever been a stubborn wench. I suppose I shall have to ask that Wicherley chit.”
“No! Oh, no! I advise you, sir, in the strongest terms, not to be so foolhardy! She will not give you a moment’s peace and if you think your mama is bad ... !” Serena grimaced, the duke nodded, and the earl tried his damnedest not to snort with laughter. Serena frowned at him heavily and turned an engaging smile upon the duke.
His Grace sighed, and applied his monocle to his eye. Then, with diligence, he surveyed every young maiden in the room. This blatant perusal caused several curtsies and giggles and hurried fanning, for he was, after all, a duke, and therefore the most satisfying catch of the Season if not quite the handsomest. None of this curious behavior seemed to please. His Grace’s lugubrious sighs grew louder as he adjusted his stiff corsets and appealed hopelessly to Serena for advice.
“Who, then? I tell you, I am defeated at every turn!”
“Nonsense. Brace yourself, Your Grace. You have the pick of this Season’s crop. It is not everybody who can boast of that. How about Miss Everley? She is a pretty-natured thing and I happen to know she has a penchant for gentlemen with blond hair such as your own.
“Has she?” The duke was thoughtful. “Will she ride Amberley, do you think?”
“Passably, but you make a mistake, my dear sir, if you are selecting your bride on the basis of your stables.”
“I can’t see why I shouldn’t. You would be perfect on Amberley.”
