TWO

  A pin could have dropped on the elegant marble floor and been heard. The silence was prodigious and seemed longer than an aeon, though of course it was no more than a few hammering heartbeats.

  “Yes . . . er . . . no!” All eyes focused on him in surprise, though Vivienne’s held more than a faint sparkle of something else, something quite indefinable. “That is—no aspersions on you, Miss Richmond, but I am held to prefer to do my own choosing in all matters of consequence.”

  Here, the glance at Miss Townsend was just long enough to be poignant. Despite her hoydenish ways, she felt the colour rising to her pretty cheeks, and a frown of anxiety creased her smooth brow as she shot a glance at Anastasia.

  Lady Richmond, who was engaged in pouring, spilled some tea over some of her best morning gloves.

  “Gracious, Captain! You must forgive me. I am not quite up to such humour this time of the morning.” She removed her gloves, tut-tutting in annoyance, though in truth her entire body heaved with a fury that had little to do with the spoiled white satin. She rang the bell, and Porter himself appeared upon the instant.

  “More tea, Porter! And do bring in the harp. I am certain the captain will wish to hear Anastasia play. You may take these away.” She dropped the gloves onto the tray.

  “Mama, I am perfectly certain Captain Ralston will wish no such thing. He has always found sitting still detestable! Besides, it is a sunny day—perhaps Vivienne and I should rather take a walk about the gardens.” Was there a faint smile playing around her lips as she glanced sympathetically at Bertram? The captain could have sworn so. At all events, he leapt at this unexpected reprieve with all the vigour of his four and twenty years.

  “Indeed, yes What a perfectly splendid idea! I should like, above all things, to have the company of two such bewitching ladies. Is there still that waterfall by the south gate?”

  “What an excellent memory, sir! We shall fetch our bonnets at once.”

  The ladies rose from their seats upon the instant.

  “Shall you accompany us, Lady Richmond? I do hope so, though I fear your delicate, creamy complexion is too fine a calibre to be exposed to the callous sun. I am right, am I not?”

  Lady Richmond forgot her vexation in an instant. The captain was so observant. It was perfectly true that the sun could be quite fatal to someone with sensibilities as acute as hers. And the captain spoke the truth. Her creamy complexion was very fine. She regarded him speculatively. A turn with Anastasia would be the very thing to remind him of her daughter’s charms. She did look becoming in the lawn green dress, though she could wish her daughter had chosen something a little lower cut in the bosom. Sometimes Anastasia was most provoking! She always appeared so meek and obliging, but when it came to matters of importance . . . She sighed, then looked suspiciously at Miss Townsend, who was coughing in a manner not entirely to her liking.

  “You are so astute, Captain. I never walk about the gardens without the benefit of at least a parasol and a bonnet. Even then, I am careful never to stay out above five minutes at a time. Beauty is a sore trial, I am afraid.”

  The coughing became more irritating than ever. She was about to admonish the companion sternly, when the captain retrieved a handkerchief from his stylish morning coat and offered it to Miss Townsend with a flourish. After that, the unladylike noises subsided somewhat, though Lady Richmond was treated to the undignified spectacle of a nose almost entirely encased in periwinkle blue.

  “Well, then, my dears. I shall bid you a very good morning. Captain, we shall speak again.” With a meaningful nod that made Bertram squirm, she left the room.

  Lord Andrew Ralston, the noble Viscount Waverley, looked up from his ledgers, where he was adjusting some entries of an overzealous agent. It was not necessary, he thought, to extract quite so much rent from the Havershams. They had been tenants on his land for as long as he could remember, and good ones at that. He would see to it that their roof was fixed, for he’d detected several flaws in the thatching only yesterday.

  The Crowleys were petitioning him for bales of hay, and the crofters on the north side seemed on the verge of dissension. He would have to deal with that sternly, for with the corn price less than eighty shillings a quarter, there was unlikely to be any further importation of foreign corn. That should set their minds at rest. If it did not . . . well, if it did not, he would have to, he supposed, deal with it.

  “Lockstone?”

  “My lord?”

  “What time is it?”

  “It is nearly noon, sir.”

  The viscount nodded and closed the ledger firmly, taking care to first mark his place with a handsome bookmark emblazoned with the royal crest. It had been a gift from the prince regent, and though he despised such unnecessary displays of opulence, the object served its purpose.

  “I shall take a break. I have a nasty fit of the dismals and cannot bring myself to think straight.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Lockstone was always very formal with his employer, despite all the viscount’s efforts to set him at ease. Despite this strange circumstance, he was excessively fond of Lord Ralston and would not have exchanged employers for the world. He regarded him now, swiftly changing from a silk lawn shirt to more serviceable linen in consideration of the mud on the estate.

  The viscount grinned, and the smile changed the darkly classical to the breathtakingly handsome.

  “Don’t look so alarmed, Lockstone. I assure you I shall not change my breeches, though the roads probably warrant something a little more serviceable than cream.”

  So saying, he tossed the silk on the table, and Lockstone was treated to the brief sight of bronzed ribs before the linen obscured the sight entirely.

  “Montrose shall disapprove.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly! But if I placed myself in his hands, the noon shall swiftly turn to nightfall before he is finished with me. Valets are for balls, not for rides about the estate.”

  “I am certain Montrose shall be affronted at such a summary description of his talents.”

  “Ah, but you shall not offend his feelings by repeating this conversation! You are a loyal soul, Lockstone.” At times, the viscount knew how to cut a wheedle just as well as his baby brother Bertie. “I am off over the paddocks, and if that does not shake the windmills from my head, nothing will!”

  So saying, he nodded a pleasant good day to the secretary and strode from the room. He wished he did not still get so sunk in bleak misery. True, the spells were now much more infrequent, but they nevertheless persisted in haunting him like the plague. Damn Miss Araminda Fallows and her fancy airs! He had been a mere jackstraw to be taken in by her, but taken in he had been. And where had that led him?

  To being jilted on his wedding day by a polite little note, stained only with one obligatory tear, informing him that Lord Tarradale had finally come up to scratch. The viscount would, she was certain, understand that a marquis—even one double her age—must always take precedence. And so she had become Lady Araminda Tarradale, Marchioness of Crewe, on the very day she was to have been his bride.

  The viscount had endured several curious glances, whispered commiserations, and a great deal of pity. All of these had sat on his shoulders like raw humiliation. It was a couple of years at least before he could come to think of the event as a lucky escape. By then, of course, the damage was done. He developed a slightly cynical view of the nature of the female sex and forswore all respectable ones diligently. The less respectable he engaged in casual dalliances of fleeting satisfaction, and for the most part, put the whole of them from his mind completely.

  He did attend the odd ball, but no lady was ever particularly favoured. He had a tendency to sympathetically—but unselectively—scribble his name in the cards of the season’s wallflowers. The belles of the ball never had so much as a sight of him. He was truly the despair of society’s hostesses, for it was not often that a peer of the realm combined the attributes of youth, inordinate good looks—if slightly stern—and a handsome fortune into the bargain. These blessings seemed all but wasted, for it was common knowledge that he was relying upon Bertram, Captain Ralston, to stand his heir and continue the line. Not that there was anything wrong with Bertram, but he was young yet and did not have the calm self-assurance that sat like a mantle upon his brother’s very able shoulders.

  Now those able shoulders were wrestling with a barn door. They did not have much of a struggle, for as soon as the head groom caught sight of him, the door was unbolted with alacrity and a good deal of work came to a halt as each man had to stop his shining of leather, his mixing of hay, his sweeping of floors, and his brushing of stallions to murmur “good day,” doff his cap and bow as was His Lordship’s due. Andrew smiled and waved them all back to work. It was not their fault he was maundering in the doldrums. Perhaps he would take Flick, the most lively of his stable. He thought a rollicking good ride might rid himself of Araminda’s ghost. Poor Bertram! Andrew hoped he had not been too severe in choosing him a bride. Still, an arranged marriage with no sentimental expectation on either side might just spare his brother the pain he had had to endure. He hoped so, and wondered, for a minute, how his suit was progressing.

  He would have been surprised to learn that it was progressing very well indeed, but entirely with the wrong lady. Almost as soon as they were out of Lady Richmond’s jaundiced view, Vivienne ran on ahead, laughingly pointing to the south boundary, lifting her skirts quite incorrigibly, and fleeing.

  “She really is a very dear soul, you know.” Anastasia smiled softly as Bertram looked at her, undecided which young lady to abandon, since both were supposedly under his escort. With sudden understanding, she decided for him.

  “Perhaps you had better catch her up. With Vivienne’s luck, she will slip into the fountain and then we shall be in the suds, for explaining that away will tax all of our wits!”

  “Can’t have that, Miss Richmond! You will follow?”

  “But of course, sir! Only do hurry! The ground is still frightfully wet and she is wearing her favourite gown.”

  “I shall be as swift as the gods!” With this rather grandiose promise, Bertram was off. He left Anastasia with a friendly but entirely unloverlike, grin and she looked thoughtfully after him as his retreating back faded into the distance, until it disappeared entirely behind a series of poplar trees at the edge of the formal gardens.

  Anastasia sighed, for in that moment her mind was quite made up. Bertie was the dearest boy, but that was precisely what he was. A boy. Though she was several years younger than he, she felt the weight of her years. Besides—she grimaced slightly to herself—he had not seemed in the slightest bit ready to offer a proposal.

  Anastasia sniffed the air with a sense of delicious relief. Life seemed so much less trying when one was not hovering always on the brink of indecision. She could not think how she had let the matter progress this far in the first place. It was her mama, of course. And the pointless expense of another season, for what other way was there for a lady to contract an eligible alliance? There was no answer to this age-old question. As a lady, it became her to countenance marriages contracted for convenience and pedigree. Anastasia had been brought up her whole life to believe this to be the proper order of things. Still, when it came to the sticking point. . . .

  Her thoughts were interrupted by an ominous-sounding splash. This was followed up by a low-pitched shriek, then several squeals of laughter, then some splendid—though ungentlemanly—oaths, and then laughter again.

  Miss Richmond forgot about keeping her hems out of the damp and dashed to the scene. It took several moments to cut past the poplars and discover the source of the incident, so she was distinctly out of breath when she finally arrived. Vivienne in trouble again, no doubt! And just when her mama was so particularly keen to keep her out of mischief!

  Little scamp, there she was, laughing her head off, dangling her sun-browned legs from their favourite rock. Whenever would she learn that that was no way to appear in company? Especially gentleman company!

  And where was Bertram, anyway? The next moment, all was revealed. Bertram, in his haste, had skidded through the mud and not stopped at the brink of the fountain, which was situated close to the south boundary waterfall. He was consequently now being showered by a spray of water from a marble angel. This was just as well, for his excellent outfit was no longer periwinkle blue but rather a uniform and decidedly gloomy brown.

  “Gracious! Captain Ralston, are you all right? Climb out at once. You shall catch your death of cold! ”

  “Oh, Stasia, isn’t it the funniest thing? I think I shall die laughing!”

  “I am certain Captain Ralston does not share your sentiments, Vivienne.”

  “Oh, but he does! Just see how he is grinning!”

  Miss Richmond looked back at Bertram. Her companion was right. He was making no shift to restore his dignity by removing himself from the offending fountain. Rather, he had settled himself quite comfortably in the middle of it and was staring at Miss Townsend with sparkling eyes. These, she noted, were crinkled at the corners and held telltale twinkles that were accompanied by dimples in both cheeks.

  “Come on in,” he invited.

  Miss Townsend giggled, and Anastasia glared at her with as much sternness as she could muster without actually giggling herself “Don’t you dare! Mama shall have fits and turn you off without a character! Then I shall be saddled with some mealymouthed companion and think very poorly of you as a consequence!”

  “Oh, very well, Stasia, I shall be good! Besides, it is rather novel to watch some other person in a scrape for a change. How shall Captain Ralston explain himself, I wonder?”

  “I warrant Captain Ralston shall think of something. If I recall, he wriggled out of many a tight spot when we were young.”

  “Yes, but I did not have Lady Richmond to contend with!”

  Anastasia was silent a moment. Bertram realised what he had just said.

  “Oh, Miss Richmond, I am dreadfully sorry! I did not think—”

  Anastasia stopped him. “No offense taken, Captain. I am more than aware of my parent’s shortcomings.”

  Miss Townsend looked at Bertram in wonder.

  “Do you also speak before you think, sir? I am forever in trouble over it.”

  “Then we are undoubtedly kindred spirits, Miss Townsend, because I am a sad trial, I am sorry to say, to my poor brother Andrew.”

  “The viscount? Is he awfully stuffy?”

  Bertram looked at her in amusement. “Not stuffy exactly, but certainly more circumspect.”

  “Oh, like Stasia, I expect you mean.” Vivienne looked at her employer fondly. Anastasia blushed a little, for this was certainly no drawing-room conversation.

  “Vivienne, you are a chatterbox! Help Captain Ralston from the fountain. I am sure he can do with an extra pair of hands, and since you are already quite damp, you might as well be the one to volunteer.”

  It was on the tip of Bertram’s tongue to say that he was a captain in His Majesty’s army. He was perfectly capable of springing from the fountain unaided. Then he sealed his lips. At last, he was becoming circumspect! He was rewarded for his reticence by the sight of Vivienne gamely coming toward him with her skirts aloft and her hands outstretched. When they touched his soaked gloves, he startled.

  The warmth flowing from her hands was indescribable. He wondered whether she felt as shocked as he did. Evidently, for despite her merry, hoydenish ways, she was blushing prettily and had dropped her eyes to cover her confusion. Bertram was confirmed in the knowledge that it was this lady, above all others, who would share his life. It was wonderful, for a change, to feel protective of something, to want to care and cherish. . . .

  Crash! Miss Vivienne Townsend gave a yelp of pain as she landed clean on her rather delightful—had Bertram but known it—derriere. She shifted slightly to avoid the angel, but the damage was done. She was soaked to the skin, and her elegant coiffure—insisted upon by Lady Richmond—was now nothing but a hopeless tangle.

  “Ha! Now you are in the basket!” Bertram laughed and helped the lady from the fountain.

  Anastasia groaned. This would take some explaining. She only hoped her mama would be so occupied in quizzing her on the captain’s intentions that she would not have the time to scold poor Vivienne. Actually, it was more likely it was her she would bewail, for failing to elicit the required marriage proposal. She made a slight face. So be it. It was clear that the whole notion was absurd.

  She glanced at Bertram. He was so occupied in fussing over Vivienne’s skirts that he did not notice her scrutiny. Just as well, for Anastasia was perceptive as well as beautiful. She perceived, in that instant, the most pressing reason in the world why she could never accept Bertie’s addresses. He was clearly intended—destined, even—for another. Miss Townsend, oblivious to these musings, looked up at Bertram with adoring eyes. It did not seem to matter a particle that her gown’s ribbon was trailing on the ground and that her bonnet was floating merrily across the fountain toward the current of the waterfall. Her sparkle spoke volumes. It was mirrored, quite unmistakably, in the captain’s demeanor. He cast his beaver into the water, and Anastasia watched as it bobbed to meet the bonnet. An excellent, well-matched pair.

  THREE

  “Well? How did you go on?”

  “Andrew, I shall give Waverley the heir it requires! What is more, I shan’t wait a six-month, like you suggest, to tie the knot. I shall procure a special license immediately and do the thing as fast as ever is possible.”

  “Gracious! I had no idea Miss Richmond would be so vastly to your taste. True, I have always thought her greatly underrated, for she has very vivid, intelligent eyes, and when she loses some of her shyness, I believe I have detected moments of great animation. Slate gray, are they not?”

 

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