“Bertram, you shall not—”

  “Quiet, Anastasia!” Lady Richmond’s voice was almost a roar. Her daughter prepared to do battle with her, but was interrupted from an unexpected quarter.

  Captain Ralston, his eyes on the brambleberry basket, declared in a low tone that Lady Richmond was right. Anastasia was unforgivably compromised but for one point.

  Lady Richmond stepped forward eagerly.

  “And that is?”

  “And that is, I intend to make her my wife. I shall make formal application to Lord Richmond just as soon as he returns from Brighton.” His hollow tone was almost inaudible beside Lady Richmond’s sudden smiles and hearty congratulations.

  Anastasia was indignant. She was just about to quarrel fiercely with this nonsensical edict when Bertram gave a prim, rather formal bow and set off down the path.

  Lady Richmond eyed her recalcitrant offspring balefully and demanded that she return to the house at once to change, for she could not “possibly jaunter about in ripped petticoats.” Lady Peabody Frampton tittered again, so Anastasia held her peace. She had no taste to create a scene in front of strangers—particularly those with a known predilection for gossip. She sighed and obediently set off for the house. Her indignation would have to wait till another time.

  “Bertram! Wait!” Anastasia quickened her pace to catch up with him. He cursed, for he knew that no words on earth could extricate him from the tangle. Anastasia would only addle his wits all the more.

  “Leave me be, Stasia!”

  “No! Think of Vivienne!”

  “That is precisely what I cannot any longer do. Now out of my way, Stasia, before this gelding gets frisky.” Bertram had reached his horse, who was tethered obediently to a stable post just outside the Richmond mansion. He waved away a willing groom, removed the fastening, and swung himself up effortlessly.

  “You are such a gudgeon! ” Anastasia’s shoulders lifted expressively.

  “And you are such an innocent!”

  “I shan’t marry you!”

  “Don’t talk such fustian. You shall, because you have to. Besides, you cannot refuse, for I haven’t yet asked. Now do go away before I run you over completely!”

  “Oh!” Anastasia clicked her tongue in exasperated indignation. “Of all the chuckleheaded, idiotish things to do! Could you not have spoken the truth? After all, we only fell from a branch! It is not as if we—”

  “—rolled about the grass in passionate embrace?”

  Anastasia blushed. “Precisely.”

  “Go upstairs and change, Anastasia. I warrant when you look at yourself in a glass, you shall swiftly change your opinion. Even knowing the truth, you shall be forced to doubt! Your hair is unpinned, your hems are muddied, you are covered in twig leaves and brambleberries, and your face is becomingly flushed. No one can possibly put any other construction on your appearance.”

  “Even when it is patently false?”

  Captain Ralston sighed and drew up the reins. “Even then, Miss Richmond.” Then, with a rigid back and a bearing that proclaimed him of the military, he kicked in his heels and was gone.

  The viscount smiled as his brother entered the hot house. In truth, for all his whirlwind social life—for though he did not frequent balls, he was a frequent visitor at Jackson’s boxing saloon, at Manton’s, at Brookes, at Tattersalls, and at the Four Horse Club—he was lonely. Bertram was a welcome respite from his solitary musings. Besides, he had good news for him.

  “Help yourself to a peach. They have turned out particularly well this year.”

  “Bother your peaches, Drew!”

  Lord Waverley raised his brows. “Do I detect an unwarranted note of acerbity in your tone, brother, dear?”

  “Yes! No! That is . . . not unwarranted! Oh, Andrew! I am in the devil of a spot!”

  Captain Ralston pushed away some lingering grape vines as he made his way up to the peach trees on his right.

  “Well, don’t look so glum about it. When has brother Andrew not been able to fix it for you?” The viscount smiled at Bertram indulgently. “By the by, your neckerchief is stained red and you look as though you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards.”

  “That is precisely it, Drew! I have been! And now I am being forced to marry Stasia after all!”

  “Good God! Has the chit tried to entrap you?” Waverley discarded his peach stone and regarded his brother with sudden keen interest.

  “No! It is her detestable parent and that vile Peabody Frampton woman.”

  “Lady Elinor? What has that witch got to say to anything?”

  “That witch, as you put it, caught me tumbling in the fields with Stasia.”

  Andrew’s interest was now more than merely arrested. Though there was a slight quirk to his mouth and his eyes twinkled, his voice was stern as he calmly stated that if that was the case, then Bertram was indeed to marry the wench; though he added that if he had to take his pleasures in public, he would probably have been better off doing so with the incomparable Miss Townsend.

  “Oh, stop talking such fustian to me, Drew! This is not a laughing matter, and I’ll thank you to know me better than to imply I deliberately compromised Miss Richmond.”

  “Bertram, nothing about you is ever deliberate. Come, tell brother Andrew all about it and I shall sort it out.”

  The viscount’s tone, though soothing, held a hint of ready laughter. He was used to fixing Bertram’s scrapes, for they had occurred with great frequency from the day he was born. It was one of the reasons, he had to admit, why he’d selected Miss Anastasia Richmond as his bride in the first place. He’d felt certain that she would offer a steadying influence to Bertram’s giddy, impetuous, and thoroughly good-natured character.

  “Can you?” Bertram’s face was filled with youthful eagerness.

  “Of course I can. There is no bridge that cannot be mended. I trust you did not play fast and loose with Anastasia’s reputation?”

  “No, of course not! I have already told you, it is Vivienne—”

  “Ah, yes! The incomparable Miss Townsend, who, by the by, is a thoroughly respectable candidate for your hand. I have checked.”

  Bertram looked gratified for a moment; then his face clouded over. “What odds if I am betrothed to another?”

  “Oh, we shall see about that. Yes, indeed, we shall see. Here, try my grapes.” With that, and a friendly clip to the ear, the viscount left his brother and strode to the house in search of Montrose. Sometimes, he mused, one did require the ministrations of a valet.

  It was dusk before the viscount arrived at his destination. He was looking particularly imposing, for he had chosen to wear a dark ensemble, close fitting but offset by a ruby red neckerchief and an Indian ruby pin that sparkled in the last light of the afternoon. The red neckerchief, striking in that it differed greatly from the traditional crisp white, lent him an exotic, slightly quixotic air. His demeanor spoke of unquestionable authority. He handed his cattle over to the Richmond groom, who at once realised the quality of the well-matched team. When he ventured to say so, the viscount smiled and pressed a sovereign into the surprised man’s hand. “See to it that they are well watered.”

  “Oh, certainly, my lord! I shall see to it that they are rubbed down, too. One can never tell with this chill air—”

  The viscount nodded pleasantly and made his way up the stately path to the front entrance. He did not feel particularly chilled himself, but perhaps that was because his every fibre was being steeled for battle. He was under no illusions that Lady Richmond was a soft touch. She had a will of granite, and if she could use Bertie’s innocent predicament to her own advantage, she undoubtedly would.

  As he took in the gold lions guarding the front stairs, the viscount frowned a little. He had no doubt he could pay the woman off, but by the looks of things, the matter would be more expensive than he had first anticipated. Still, Bertie was the dearest of brothers and worth a slight hole in his very costly pocket. Not that anything would really touch sides, for his fortune was prodigious, but still, it was the principle of the matter. Andrew, Viscount Waverley, did not appreciate being milked by encroaching, social climbing nobodies. Whilst her daughter by all accounts was perfectly delightful, Lady Richmond herself fell into this category. Andrew sighed. No doubt it would be a long session. He would have to take a cold collation at Brookes.

  Lady Richmond looked at the viscount’s card with interest. Yes, there were the two crowns—one gold, one green, twining into each other as the crest of Waverley had done for generations. So! The viscount had something to say. She hoped it was merely congratulations, for after all, it had been he who had masterminded the whole betrothal. Lady Richmond was not one to dwell on particulars. In this instance, the fact that the viscount had only tentatively suggested that Bertram might wish to renew his acquaintance with Anastasia did not signify.

  In Lady Richmond’s eyes, the whole matter had been settled on his first visit. But now! Why did she get the sinking feeling that just as she was preparing to post the banns all might go horribly wrong? Just because Anastasia was the most provoking creature, indulging a stubborn fit of the sullens, and her companion not much better, though she had proven very useful in the apothecary garden . . . Really! The young people of today simply had no gratitude! She looked at herself in the glass, powdered several shiny patches on her nose and cheeks, then sat down with a sigh. The viscount would simply have to wait.

  “Bettina! ”

  “Your Ladyship?”

  Betty, by now, had become used to the odd quirks of the gentry. She was as English as Stonehenge itself, and nothing, certainly not being called Bettina, would ever change her to French. Still, if it made Her Ladyship happy . . .

  “Did you require me, ma’am?”

  Lady Richmond nodded impatiently.

  “Fetch the curling papers. We shall have to begin again.”

  The maid tried hard not to groan. It was an heroic effort, but failed dismally. Lady Richmond’s sharp ears detected the noise at once. She glared quite horribly, and the maid bobbed a meek, rather apologetic curtsy. It was to no avail. Lady Richmond began a long tirade on the trials of hapless dressers who were incapable of setting simple coiffures and such like. The maid had heard it all before, so she settled down to undo her work and begin again.

  The viscount glanced at the hall clock impatiently. He could just see it from the open door of the antechamber in which he had been deposited. It was well on an hour that he had been left kicking his heels, with nothing more interesting to look at than an abominable collection of porcelain cats, a sampler album of no particular merit, and the most appalling set of gilded neo-Gothic chairs. As a consequence, his temper was more than a little frayed. Had he known that Lady Richmond was even now in curling papers, he might well have flung the only item of any particular taste—a small Sevres vase—across the room in frustration. He might also have stalked out without another word, to the great chagrin of Porter, the butler. Fortunately for this personage, the viscount was happily oblivious to Lady Richmond’s state of unreadiness and paced the room in momentary anticipation of her arrival.

  At last—at long last—the door opened. The viscount smiled in anticipation, closed his eyes briefly, and prepared for a long-overdue battle of wits.

  “Bertie!” A well-modulated but obviously distressed voice titillated his eardrums. It was not, he was aware at once, the rather elder, less edifying, and more rasping tone of the lady he had expected. The viscount opened his eyes just in time to be afforded a quite magnificent view of a willowy back encased to the waist in delicate, pink pearl buttons. Darkish hair cascaded down to the shoulders, secured only by a knot of flowers somewhere near the nape of a very elegant neck.

  The damsel was securing the door rather carefully for one as strictly brought up as he had been given to believe. Intriguing—certainly a welcome relief from the tedium of waiting.

  She turned around, and the viscount was quite struck by the quality of her slate gray eyes. For an instant, they had sparkled pure silver.

  “Oh!”

  Yes, there it was—glorious confusion. If he were less hardened a gentleman, he may well have been taken in by the wide eyes, round with embarrassment and lashed, quite adorably, in featherlike ebony.

  Instead, he was the cynic, so his lips curled a little, shadowing his dark features. He elevated his eyebrows a trifle and bowed.

  “My lord! I had expected Captain Ralston.”

  “Evidently.”

  Lord Waverley glanced at the shut door dryly. There was definitely not the requisite three-inches of open passage visible to preserve her modesty. Anastasia, trembling a little from shyness—and something else, though she could not imagine what—took his meaning immediately and blushed in a high agitation quite uncharacteristic of her calm, decorous nature. Rattled, she answered, for once without thinking.

  “No, you horrid man! It is not what you think at all! I merely wished to engage Captain Ralston in a few words of private conversation without the benefit of prying ears.”

  Lord Waverley, unused, even in extreme instances, to being referred to as a “horrid man,” looked upon Miss Richmond with fresh interest. She seemed prettier than he remembered from the odd formal dance with her, and certainly a great deal more animated. Strange that he had not noticed before how peculiarly red were her lips, nor how the light caught her strands of deep, honey brown hair and caused it to shine with healthy lustre. True, it was cropped rather short in the Grecian style—he preferred hair to be waist length, as a rule—but still, it held a certain appeal.

  He regarded the lips for a moment and was amused to note the annoyed flush that rose to her creamy cheeks. He decided to prompt her, for she was making no attempt to explain herself, only pushing strands of silken hair back from her forehead in some agitation. For a peculiar instant, the viscount felt the urge to help her, to twine the strands in his fingers, then smooth them down over the crown of her well-brushed head. Then he regained his composure as well as his habitual sternness.

  “Well, then, my dear? In the absence of my brother, I beg you to regard me as a suitable substitute. If you wish to say something, say it now. In a few moments, confidences shall be too late. I imagine it will not be long before your mama and possibly a whole entourage bursts into this room. Shall they entrap me, too, I wonder?”

  Lord Andrew regretted the words the instant they were out. The pain that crossed her features was unmistakable. He saw the shadows and realised instantly that it would be unfair to blame the daughter for the parent’s all too transparent vulgarity. Before he could make amends, however, she was speaking.

  FIVE

  “I shall be brief. With respect to my betrothal . . .”

  The viscount’s face hardened. “Yes?”

  “If Captain Ralston had not left upon the instant, he should have heard my reply.”

  “That being?”

  “My reply was no. I did try to tell him later, but he was being idiotish and high handed and . . . and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  The viscount eyed her for a moment in silence. Then habitual suspicion raised its twisted head.

  “You’ve never entertained the notion of marrying Bertram?” The viscount’s tone was disbelieving and a little patronising. Anastasia’s eyes flashed, but she retained her courtesy, despite a slight tremor of her long, slender fingers.

  “I have, my lord. Of course I have! It would have saved Mama a great deal of worrisome trouble, and Bert . . . I mean, Captain Ralston, was a good friend to me when I was a child.”

  The viscount eyed her closely. Her voice held a ring of truth. One he suddenly found unpalatable. She was fond of Bertie! The sudden stab of jealousy caught him quite by surprise. To suppress it, he allowed sarcasm to drip from his tone.

  “Ah, an adequate reason for marriage, then.”

  She caught the dryness, and her eyes flashed. “Just as adequate as thrusting us together for the sake of an heir!”

  He chose to ignore this sally. “But you rejected him.”

  “I did.”

  “Why, pray?”

  “We did not suit.”

  “Oh, come, Miss Anastasia! You can do better than that, surely? Recollect, you had only just met the adult Bertram, back from the wars. Too soon, surely, to decide on rejection, when you admit you had countenanced this marriage of arrangement?”

  There was a moment’s silence as Anastasia chewed her lip speculatively. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, though Lord Waverley sensed it upon the instant. Though he was loath to admit it, he was intensely aware of every breath, every gesture, that the Honourable Miss Richmond appeared to effect.

  “I admit it, my lord. Had Captain Ralston’s affections not been otherwise engaged, I might have embraced the notion.

  “Though it might appear calculating, I am eager to have an establishment of my own. This confidence—and I beg you to treat it as such—is immaterial, however, since Bertram’s feelings were engaged and I am not such a shimble-shamble, mutton-headed pea-goose to countenance any connection upon such terms.”

  In spite of himself, the viscount could not help admiring her spirit. There were many in her position who would not be overscrupulous when it came to catching a husband of Bertram’s stature.

  “And how do you know his sentiments are otherwise engaged?”

  “Why, it is plain as a pikestaff! Besides, I am entirely in my companion’s confidence. She, as I am sure you are aware, is the true object of Captain Ralston’s affections. At least I can conclude that Bertram has grown to be a man of high good sense!”

  “How so?” The viscount had idly removed a pinch of snuff, but his movement was arrested now as he regarded Miss Richmond intently.

  “Oh, Miss Vivienne Townsend is a perfect honey! One simply cannot help loving her upon the instant, despite, I must warn you, some rather high spirits. I had to assure her umpteen times that I am not fiercely downhearted by Captain Ralston’s fickle intentions!”

 

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