A Scandalous Connection, page 20
“Poor little wretch? She was careless and should be made to pay for her faults.”
“Just as I thought. I will fetch my purse, so you need harangue her no further. Then I am going to bed.” Amy could hardly keep the contempt from her tone. Only the thought of Mr. Hartford, steadying, true, fascinating and undeniably attractive, made her remain a moment longer with these harridans. Given a choice, she would rather have braved the snows.
Mrs. Corey was looking at her, aghast.
“Not here?”
“Not here what?”
“You are not actually planning on sleeping in this place?”
“Mrs. Corey, I would very much prefer the comfort of my bed in London. Unfortunately, you have taken great and unscrupulous pains to prevent me from that particular pleasure, so, yes, I am going to sleep here. Where else?”
“Well, gracious, in this entire castle there must be more suitable lodgings! I have never been so insulted in my life! I am certain the duke would be aghast at such impertinence! And after all the exorbitant sums we have spent, you would think he would have been considerate enough to welcome us himself. . . .”
Miss Mayhew took a breath and contemplated her long, elegant fingernails. She did not see the butler hovering at the door entrance and nodding to Betsy. What she did see was a parcel of vulgar young chits, all pouting dissatisfiedly. None of them seemed to remember the splendid day they had just spent, traversing ancient halls, being privy to private collections of immeasurable importance, being hosted personally by a peeress of the realm, sampling the delicate cuisine and pillaging the ancient cellars.
She cleared her throat. Then, with a sudden imp of devilry, she remembered Mr. Hartford’s teasing raillery. Assuming a marvelously gushing tone—not unlike to Miss Kirby’s, or Miss Oliver’s, or even Amelia Corey’s—and explained.
“You see, ladies, I believe we are now operating on tick. We have undoubtedly already had our ten thousand pounds worth today. Dear Lady Caroline did us proud, too. Such sumptuous meals and such elegant displays! I think I particularly enjoyed the ancestral galleries and the turrets. No . . . no . . . the topiary gardens were better, though of course, to actually venture onto the castle battlements! Oh! It quite made me swoon! So romantic! So dignified. . . . Oh, just think, ladies! We have actually set foot on a ducal estate! We have truly taken tea with the sister of a duke. Indeed, I believe we have offered her all manner of advice, too. That must count for hundreds of guineas, for not one of us received the cut direct! Dear Honoria, I think we can safely dine out on the memory for years. As for His Grace . . . well, it is inconvenient of him to have betrothed himself so out of hand, but I suppose it would be uncharitable to actually blame him for such a gross lack of conduct! No, all in all, we have certainly had our ten thousand pounds worth. Probably a bargain at that, for you would have to search far and wide to find another noble duke ready to suffer such an indignity. They are a rare breed, I believe. But as for these sleeping arrangements . . . how kind of Lady Caroline to throw in this little extra! Of course, she was not given much choice, but then, Mrs. Corey, you are adept at forcing people’s hands, are you not?”
She appeared satisfied with her scrutiny of her fingers, for she now dropped them to the sides of her soft, green merino. It looked as if Miss Oliver and Miss Kirby were about to say something, though, so she held them up, once more, to prevent that noxious occurrence. She was strangely serene.
She dropped her garish tone and continued on in her own, delightful, well-modulated voice. “For my part,” she continued, “I hope the beds are all that they look to be: lumpy, damp and uncomfortable. It is most certainly all we deserve, for if you, ladies, had not been so diligent in getting us snowbound, we should be halfway home to London by now.”
The butler’s lips quirked. He had been about to make a similar speech himself. Now, he shut the door gently behind. Amy had managed more adeptly than he. He only hoped that she was wrong. That one bed, at least, would be neither lumpy nor damp. He did not fancy the chances. When Amy was duchess, he would make it up to her. Which reminded him. He had an important letter to pen.
He avoided Caroline and made for his study. There, amid the leather-bound books, still smelling cozy despite the blankness of the walls, he began an extremely difficult task. Several times he stopped, screwing elegant, watermarked wafers into small balls. They caused the fire to spark playfully.
It was not easy, he found, to act the jilt. Though he and Lady Fortesque-Benton were not formally betrothed—for which he was heartily thankful—he still felt honor-bound. Only the certainty that the lovely Lady Raquel could take up with the marquis of Somerford at the snap of her jeweled fingers made him continue on with his task. The money, somehow, no longer mattered.
Eighteen
The night had not been nearly so unpleasant as Amy had feared. Though the others tossed and turned, bickered over beds—each young lady thought the other had a more comfortable resting place—moaned over ablutions, was scandalized by this and by that—she had selected for herself one of the low pallets and gone to sleep. This was just as well, for she found herself universally loathed. Not one of the merchant daughters was speaking to her, and it looked unlikely that she would ever be permitted to patronize the illustrious firm of Murgatroyd, Murgatroyd and Parsons again, despite the prodigious extent of her fortune.
Miss Mayhew, happily, did not lose any slumber over this sad state of affairs, despite Honoria’s most eloquent and spiteful attempts. After a long, dreadful, wonderful, heart-wrenchingly fascinating day, she had merely curled up in her dove-gray undergarments and gone to sleep.
The others were naturally scandalized, for they’d had the foresight to pack nightrail, tooth powder, curling pins and all manner of accoutrements necessary to young ladies aspiring to elegance and fashion. Amy, being naive enough to believe in the myth of the day trip, had brought nothing save a dinner gown, a brush and a spray of pearls. Thus it was, that in the morning, whilst all the ladies—if such they could be described— were still asleep, she was forced to don this unlikely attire, for her green merino was now irreparably crushed and travel worn.
The gown was beautiful, made of soft, understated silver, with tiny seed pearls stitched at the borders of the hem and scalloped sleeves. It was modestly cut for evening wear, but low in the extreme for such an unlikely time as the morning. Amy’s only consolation was that her companions would be donning much more outrageous creations. They were inveterate creatures of fashion, but had no notions of restraint or the finer points of taste. Even now, the dressers were pressing hideous scarlet crepes with endless rosettes and plunging necklines that left precious little to the imagination. She decided not to dwell on the imperfections of her companions—it was too lowering, and the day, though cold, too fine. Stretching, she had a sudden impulse to get outside and embrace the day.
She wanted air upon her cheeks and exhilarating frost beneath her feet. Though there was a sun-faded carpet along the corridors, the south wing’s walls and floors were of stone. They chilled to the marrow whilst the smoking, coal-coughing fires and the snores of buxom, recumbent heiresses gave an unhealthy impression of stifling heat. A strange combination.
Amy had never wanted to escape so much in her life. She wondered where Mr. Hartford was, and what he was doing. Not the first time she had thought of him that morning! Useless to pretend she didn’t want to bump into him, to have one last, private, romantically intimate conversation with him before she left Darris forever. She blushed at her unmaidenly eagerness.
Mr. Hartford affected her very differently from the other gentlemen she’d had occasion to meet. That was not to mention all the fortune hunters, merchants, sons of merchants, bankers and even doctors who had tried to solicit her attention. Or her purse. She could not keep this wry reflection from creeping into her thoughts.
Her purse was large, but she did not think Mr. Hartford cared much for this fact. Certainly, his commanding presence and self-assurance did not speak of parsimony or untoward inclinations for wealth. She suspected that he was being whimsical in describing himself as impoverished. Very likely, set against his noble relations, he was. But penniless? He did not appear so. Neither, Amy reflected, did she particularly care. Not when he looked at her in that teasing manner, which made her heart melt and her knees threaten to revolt beneath her skirts, so that she might tumble at any moment in a lightheaded swoon—or at the very least, into his strong arms. . . .
Well, there she was, dreaming moonshine again . . . though his arms were strong, she knew that firsthand.. . . Definitely, she decided, a walk was required. Who would have ever thought she could behave like such a missish humbug! Scolding herself crossly, she found herself still hoping, as she crept belowstairs, past a young chambermaid with bright curls tumbling from a crooked mobcap, that she would somehow catch a last, precious glimpse of Mr. Hartford. She wondered whether he would keep his promise and call on her in London. She doubted it. Darris was far north. Too far, she thought, for making calls on ladies who mixed in quite different circles. A fact. A sad, unpalatable fact, though she believed Mr. Hartford to be sincere in his current intentions. At least, she hoped he was.
It was freezing outside, and an absolute lunacy, for her shoes, though practical and modish, were still wet from the previous day. Nevertheless, Amy ignored this particular obstacle and was just gingerly testing the depth of the snow—the winds had stopped and the flurries had halted as suddenly as they had come—when Mr. Hartford himself came striding toward her.
Amy could not know that he had been wondering for several hours how to detach her from her party, or that he had done nothing since leaving her to the tender mercies of the merchant maidens but scheme and connive to see her again. He had banished Caro, who had come to tease, and Miss Bancroft, who had doubtless come to fuss, and buried himself in his tomes of books. Naturally, he had not read a thing, which was just as well, for they were written in ancient Greek and were thoroughly hard going even for an avid scholar. But Caroline, giggling a little, had for once taken up the hint and shut the library door without haranguing him overmuch. Miss Bancroft had placed a bottle of the remaining Madeira alongside an empty glass and a napkin of coconut macaroons. Then she, too, had left him to his thoughts.
Now the object of those thoughts was gazing at him with splendid silvery eyes. They sparkled, Demian noticed with interest. And she blushed. And she looked adorable, trailing tiny pearls in the snow. Without a word, he lifted her off her feet and cradled her in his arms, grinning wolfishly at her ball gown cum day dress, and carrying her toward the stables without a solitary word.
Amy herself was bereft of speech. Her pounding heart was soaring, her pulse was beating madly and her lips were curved traitorously into laughter. She wanted to scream, for his actions were surely infamous, but she couldn’t. How could she, when the wretched man was doing precisely as she had hoped?
Well, more, to be precise, but, then, her imagination had never been wild and scandalous, as this man’s obviously was. He did not even avert his gaze chivalrously at the sight of her daring bodice. And who was to say the stables were empty? There would be grooms in and out all morning, and he setting her down in some straw as though she were a common maid and he about to . . . but no, surely he would not kiss her here, without words between them, without . . . but Amy stopped speculating. She was, she found, quite wrong. Mr. Hartford evidently could, would and did.
Far from being outraged, Miss Mayhew forgot about hostlers and grooms, and wrapped her slender arms about Mr. Hartford’s wonderful, warm, deliciously masculine neck. She could feel his silky dark hair, but more particularly noticed his lips pressed against her own, a small smile dancing teasingly in his eyes, alongside some other, less easily definable spark. Miss Mayhew forgot all her ladylike principles and neglected to even try to define that other emotion. She only wanted to taste another of those highly improper kisses.
Mr. Hartford laughed, and unwrapped her arms from around his neck. “When we are married, you shall have more.”
“Are we to be married?” Amy could not believe her audacity as she pulled Mr. Hartford into the straw, so that his cravat was askew and his extraordinary grin widened. Amy’s heart beat all the faster, for there was something about the set of his jaw that told her such courage was to be rewarded. It was. Amy had never before felt such unutterable joy. Neither, to Demian’s acute surprise, had he. As His Grace, the duke of Darris, he had never been short of kisses from the tenderer sex. More than kisses, in most instances. But never before had they been accompanied by this joy. He tested the matter again. Yes, undoubtedly Miss Mayhew had some special secret. He would need to investigate most thoroughly. But his investigations left Amy breathless, speechless, flushed and smiling.
“You are a rogue, sir!”
“Only under extreme provocation.”
“I did not provoke you. . . .”
“Strolling outside in broad daylight in a gown that offsets your charms as bounteously as this one is provocation.”
“Nonsense! If you have moved in the first circles, and I believe you have, you will know that the gown is coy and modest and—”
“Perfectly beguiling. But then so is a shabby green merino, so I am led to admit, Miss Amy, that you are right. It is not the gown.”
Amy smiled, her lips parting in the most breathtakingly sweet way imaginable. Demian was inclined to kiss them again, but she ducked at precisely the right moment and frowned severely. Her eyes, however, twinkled lightheartedly, and she played with his sleeve, so His Grace was not alarmed. Merely intrigued.
“My merino is not shabby! It is stitched quite exquisitely and took hours—positively hours—to fit.”
“Ah, I stand corrected. Allow me to examine it more closely, my dear.”
“You rogue! I warrant you mean when I am in it!”
“When you are out of it will do, too.”
The words were so silky soft that despite their gross impudence, Amy shivered and could not keep her eyes on his face. Her gaze fell to the floor so that he laughed.
“You are right. I am a most terrible rogue. But you bring it upon yourself, you know, and I have had to keep silent and all the while wait upon a group of harpies.. . .”
“Doubtless such self-restraint will do you good. You look, my good man, far too arrogant. It is a wonder the duke permits it.”
“Oh, the duke thinks the world of me. You will find he is tolerant quite beyond bearing.”
“I should like to meet this duke, then, who allows his impoverished relatives to rule the roost.”
“Oh, you shall. He is a handsome devil. Perhaps I shall not, after all, allow it.”
“More handsome than you? I think I should definitely like to meet him.”
Amy regarded him demurely and positively invited another kiss.
“Baggage!” His Grace gazed at her for a heart-trembling instant before most happily obliging.
Miss Mayhew then forgot about meeting handsome dukes. Mr. Hartford, she knew, lied. None could be more personable, delightful, debonair or charming than he himself. As she shyly explored the masculine thrust of his dark, clean-shaven chin, she thought she just might possibly die from an excess of happiness.
His Grace possibly thought the same, but refrained from saying so, merely murmuring endearments here and there to Amy’s immense delight. She wondered what her Aunt Ermentrude would say to see her thus and almost—almost—withdrew from the captivating circle of Mr. Hartford’s arms.
But they were strong and relentless, and seemed to have a will of their own. Most happily, he did not seem at all keen to release her from their bonds, no matter how many times she muttered “Aunt Ermentrude” or berated herself for wicked, wanton behavior.
Mr. Hartford appeared to think such shocking want of conduct more than acceptable, for she kept feeling soft kisses fall about her forehead, and wherever he happened to escape the constraints of her bonnet.
She gave up worrying about Aunt Ermentrude, who would doubtless have preferred her to snare the duke. This was the man, she knew, who was destined to share her life. And because he was impoverished, and merely a relative of some noble scion, the gap between them did not seem horribly insurmountable. Amy knew her bloodlines, through Lord Dalmont, were more than acceptable.
True, she had never been reared in the first circles, and, indeed, had been brought up in a quite different class from the one she was born to. But equally, Mr. Hartford had always moved on the fringes of the haute ton, somewhere between the dowagers and the potted palms, she gleefully recalled. They were suited. Her fortune made it quite possible for her to wed where she pleased. Looking into Mr. Hartford’s brazenly admiring eyes, she believed she knew, at last, where it was that she pleased.
“Was the bed hard?”
She was startled by the question. Then she smiled. “Oh, that! I slept like a baby on one of the pallets. Mrs. Corey snored all night and Honoria Murgatroyd kept lighting candles so she could make notes to the duke. I suspect she feared she might have forgotten the full extent of her discomfort with the dawn.”
“Poor girl!”
“Not at all. I truly did sleep like baby. I only know of all this because the others were complaining among themselves as day broke. I waited for them all to drift back to sleep before escaping.”
“I am glad you did. I nearly braved the ivory tower to fetch you down myself.”
“How dramatic. I almost wish you had.” But Amy wished nothing of the kind. Nothing could be so perfect, she felt, as being swept off one’s feet into a warm, winter’s stable. Hay mingled with little patches of snow. She removed just such a patch from Demian’s shoulder and smiled luxuriously.
The answering gleam in his eye was unmistakable. Dark, shining strands of hair were soon being brushed tenderly from her face. There were movements in front of her, but she hardly paid much heed. Hard to be attentive when one is in imminent danger of losing all sense of decorum. Certainly, she was already worlds away from the proper . . .
