The Proposition, page 6
Clemency stopped at the bottom of the hill, blinking rapidly into the sunshine, her vision unaccountably blurry. The river came into sharp focus, sparkling and enticingly chilled, and in a daze, she moved toward it. A bit of energizing water on her face would bring her around, she thought. As she hurried toward the river, she couldn’t help but break her own rules and think of Turner. Where was he in that moment? Was he thinking of her? Was he devising some way to escape her? Could he be with another woman?
Kneeling, she laughed. That was a ridiculous thought. Hysterical. She sighed and set down her bonnet, then carefully leaned over the water, pulling off her right glove and cupping her hand, dipping it into the river and shivering at the bracing temperature.
Thus precariously posed, Clemency heard the thunder of approaching horse hooves and jerked her head up. The noise was so overwhelming, she thought perhaps she was in imminent danger of being trampled. The sun blinded her for a moment, and she gasped, sensing, in a panic, that the sudden movement of her head had doomed her to fall.
She saw the black mare charging toward the opposite bank of the river, and then Clemency screamed, plunging into the freezing water.
6
And it had been such a promising morning too.
Audric leaped from the saddle the instant his horse could be halted, almost tumbling into the river with Miss Fry’s same clumsiness. It could be examined later, when she was not actively drowning, whether he played some small part in startling her, and subsequently upsetting her balance. Regardless of how the thing had been done, Audric resigned himself to fixing it.
He cast off his green velvet riding coat and waded into the shallows, finding the water quickly rose to his midthigh and went no farther. Thrashing in the weeds not far from him, Miss Fry appeared, popping above the surface like a jostled buoy. Her simple muslin dress had been soaked through, then darkened with river mud, her hair a reddish-blond snarl falling over her face as she sought blindly for safety. Only the dark shawl twisted around her form offered modesty, and, he thought slyly, he was almost sorry for its presence.
Among the sundry plant matter and mud coloring her gown was a concerning blossom of red near her elbow, large and growing larger.
“Do not fret about so,” he chided her, reaching confidently and pulling her to the bank where his horse waited. “You are quite safe now.”
“I do not feel safe. Oh, but my arm…” She began to fall over again and Audric intervened before she could sink back into the river, scooping her up into his arms and hoisting her onto dry land.
“Let me see,” he said, trying to examine her elbow when she was standing steadily once more.
“I cannot see anything!” At last she managed to toss the sodden hair out of her face, then slicked the moisture off her cheeks with the flat of her palm. “You.”
“Accusations and unpleasantries may begin shortly; allow me to examine your arm.”
With great reluctance, Miss Fry grew still, then began to shiver violently as he tore open the thin fabric of her sleeve. At that, she yelped, then shuddered more, her teeth rattling like a military snare. She tried to wrap the unfolded shawl around herself, blanching.
One thing at a time. Her chill could be addressed next. Audric clamped his hand around her wrist, leaning down to take a closer look at her elbow. A gash had opened up, running jaggedly up her forearm. Tearing away the already shredded lower half of her sleeve, he twisted the fabric and wrapped it tightly around the wound, tying it off to stem the bleeding.
“That will have to suffice for now,” he muttered.
“Is it terribly gory?”
Audric frowned, then glanced down at her, noticing a faint smile on her pale, damp face. “I am afraid so, madam. Fit, in fact, for only the most macabre novel. Undoubtedly we shall have to amputate.”
Snorting, she stomped away from him and back to the edge of the river.
“I wouldn’t suggest a second go,” he called after her. “You were soundly beaten the first time.”
“My bonnet,” she said, pointing across the offending strip of water. “And my glove.”
Audric opened and closed his mouth a few times in shock and annoyance. But Miss Fry simply twisted at the waist, and while he was confident her look of bewildered innocence was entirely fake, it was also profoundly affecting.
“You are bleeding profusely, Miss Fry,” he pointed out, coming to join her. “I do not think your accoutrements are of the highest priority at present.”
“But I love that bonnet,” she said with a sigh. Then, naturally, she did what any precocious, clever girl would do and turned those sparkling gray eyes on him, using them like a torch to burn his protestations to ash. “And you are the reason, sir, that I am now parted from my accoutrements. You startled me, then took me to this side of the river. The whole debacle is obviously your fault.”
Audric bristled, but his irritated looming did not move her in the slightest. It was tempting to climb on his horse and ride away, and let her sort out the bonnet, glove, and flesh wound, but he remembered himself—he needed this brazen young idiot to help him. Without her cooperation, the full beauty of his revenge could not be realized.
Puffing out a breath, Audric stormed to the river, waded back into the icy water, and sloshed his way to the far side, retrieving her bonnet and glove, and gallantly returning without dragging them spitefully through the mud.
“Your items, madam,” he said with a theatrical bow and sarcastic tone. “Now, may we please retire to some place warm before my legs grow so brittle they break?”
“W-Why of course,” she replied blithely.
Audric swallowed a snarl and bent to grab his coat, continuing his bid for sainthood by draping the garment over her shoulders. Wordlessly, Miss Fry wrapped it tighter about herself, the size of it swallowing her up.
“Thank you,” Miss Fry said. “For my things and the coat. Not for surprising me so rudely.”
“I did not…” Audric bit back his retort. Was his plan worth suffering this indignity? He closed his eyes and thought of Delphine’s melancholy little face and decided that he could damage his pride a while longer for her sake. “We can litigate this later, Miss Fry. Beswick is a neat ride up the hill there, and the hearth beckons.”
He saw something like confusion or calculation flicker across her face, but only the devil would know what the minx was thinking. Now that her hair had begun to curl again in a soft frame around her face, and the bloom in her cheeks swelled, he almost regretted giving her the coat; the wet muslin had clung to her in an admittedly alluring way. Now she more resembled an impudent turtle, her head poking out of his immense coat while she considered her reply.
“Very well,” she agreed at last.
Chuckling, Audric couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow at her demure manner. “What,” he teased, “no saucy response?”
Already she had begun walking toward his horse, her words whipped back to him over her shoulder by the wind. “Do not tempt me, Mr. Ferrand.”
She tried to pull herself up into the saddle unassisted, but she winced the moment her injured arm bent in the attempt.
“Allow me.” Audric needed apply only the scantest amount of strength to hoist her onto the black mare. Some skill for riding must have been part of her education, for once she was up on the animal she adjusted her angle, sitting sidesaddle with her weight shifted toward the pommel. Riding with her nestled against his chest and lap would be a special kind of torment, no doubt she was already thinking up a storm of pert remarks to hurl at him while they trotted the mile back up the hill.
But to his surprise and confusing disappointment, she said nothing once he had joined her. Miss Fry kept her seat admirably while cradling her wounded arm, huddling under his coat, and clutching her hat and glove, and she also kept her silence. Audric decided that was a deliberate tactic too, meant to draw attention to the icy tension that grew swiftly between them, and though they were almost as close as two people could be, there was no mistaking the firm wall building itself between them.
When halfway through the journey it became clear she would not speak, Audric broke the silence himself. “Do you know Beswick well?”
Miss Fry roused herself as if out of a dream. She turned her cheek toward him, her hair sweetly fragrant of soap. He had not had the pleasure of viewing her in profile for an extended period, and Miss Fry at that angle was as handsome as any ivory cameo.
“It is the nearest estate to my family’s,” she replied. Raising her good arm, she pointed back the way they had come. “Just across that dastardly river? That is Claridge; that is where our property begins.”
Audric had to laugh. “Then I bring glad tidings, Miss Fry. We are to be neighbors.”
She went rigid, the pink in her cheeks fading. Again, he sensed her choosing her reply cautiously. “Glad indeed. Beswick is a magnificent home; it is time it was let and had life in it again.”
“You do not object, then, to the proximity?”
“I do not know you, Mr. Ferrand, and so I cannot muster any specific objections,” she said.
His curiosity piqued, wanting to see where this might go, Audric slowed the horse’s pace. He navigated them expertly through the dense trees standing sentinel on the expansive grounds.
“You are wearing my coat, Miss Fry. I think you know me a little.”
At that, she smiled brightly, and he had to remind himself sharply that this woman, however clever and comely, was only to be a pawn in his schemes. One could admire her but absolutely go no further.
“I suspect our acquaintance will advance if, and only if, you provide the evidence we discussed last evening,” she told him, watching him from the corner of her left eye. “Otherwise, propriety demands that I freeze you out. You have after all made outrageous claims about my intended.”
“Ah.” Audric could not find fault with her answer. Any woman of good breeding would shun him if he was lying. If. “Our shared interest.”
“A subject I expect you can speak on at length.”
The house showed itself at last, first just a glimpse of silvery stones through the heavy cover of trees. Then the roof appeared above the leaves, and the elevated southern veranda with its plethora of wide stone steps sketched itself in. It was almost ludicrous of him to take the place, especially when he and Delphine and their servants wouldn’t even fill the bottom floor. But taking Beswick was an important move, and it sent a deliberate message to his enemy: I am not going away anytime soon, I have the means and motivation to unmake you.
Fear me.
“I need only say a little,” Audric told her with a shrug. “But it is much better said when we are dry, and at the fire, and you are not bleeding into my coat, Miss Fry.”
She lapsed into her stony silence again, and it did not unnerve him that time. Let her keep her blessed ignorance awhile longer, let her think on her doomed relationship in peace, for soon she would have cruelly little hope to cling to.
* * *
—
The estate, empty for more than a year, looked as if it had known only the company of ghosts. The grand halls lay cavernously empty, the walls barren, an echo booming through the house at each step, the only inhabited room a small salon in the east wing. Some fine, polished chairs had been brought in and put near the charming fireplace, and a single pink chintz sofa pushed beneath the tall, thin windows.
As she followed Mr. Ferrand through the house, navigating toward that single comfortable room, Clemency imagined the curtains, carpets, statues, portraits, and tiny comforts that would turn the austere, mausoleum-like estate into a proper home. Utterly desolate, it was hard to imagine the place could ever be cheerful or warm, and normally a family would have their furnishings sent ahead to populate the house and make it fit for living before the owners ever arrived. When they reached the east salon on the first floor, Clemency assumed the scant furnishings had been provided by whomever had come to rent the place to the Ferrands.
“Oh.” Clemency faltered to a stop just inside the salon. There was nobody there, and Mr. Ferrand strode ahead. It had just occurred to Clemency that she had never inquired after his family at all. Amy Brock had mentioned his potential hunt for a wife, but Amy was not known for having perfect information.
“Oh?” he prompted. He was looking for something, or someone, walking diagonally to another door leading south.
“May I ask who will be joining you here at Beswick?” she asked.
Mr. Ferrand’s brow furrowed as he stared out the open door. “My sister.” Then he bellowed, “Hello? Hello there?” and the sound threaded its way around the empty galleries of the house.
Clemency pressed farther into the room, drawn by the enticing warmth of the fire. “No wife?” she asked, adopting a breezy tone. “No children?”
Footsteps could be heard clapping toward them at a rapid rate.
Mr. Ferrand propped his knuckles on his waist and swiveled toward her. “No,” he said shortly. His face had gone red with frustration.
“Your sister, then,” she said, warming her hands. The cut along her forearm throbbed, aching terribly whenever she moved her right arm. “I see.”
“I daresay that is hope I hear in your voice, Miss Fry.”
She rolled her eyes at the flames. “You are mistaken, sir, and forgetful. I may soon be married, remember?”
“For now.”
Before Clemency could reply, a footman arrived through the door where Mr. Ferrand waited. He was an older gentleman and dressed for labor in a plain mustard-colored jacket and dark trousers, no doubt already hard at work turning over the house in preparation for its new inhabitants. A dusty white wig sat slightly askew on his head, and he corrected it as he hurried into the sitting room.
“Might there be bandages and clean water about? This lady has injured herself in the river, and the wound must be tended to at once.”
The footman bowed and turned around without a word, off on his mission.
“Efficient,” Mr. Ferrand said wryly, tucking one hand under his chin and watching the man go. “Perhaps I should hire him on permanently.”
“I have often wondered what these great homes look like when unoccupied, and who maintains them,” Clemency mused. Soon, she thought, she would be mistress of her own fine house and the details would matter. Though of course, it would fall to her husband to make the more important decisions, and it would be right for her to simply trust in his judgment and live wherever he chose. Likely London before they found a suitable place in the country when the season was out. And given their last interaction, it seemed clear that Turner Boyle wanted to be the one to make those choices, and have Clemency at his side, obedient and submissive.
Clemency wrinkled her nose.
“There is a small staff that lives on the grounds and tends to Beswick, though now that I have taken it, my own staff will begin the transition. So far I find that the previous staff have done a more than adequate job, perhaps the most qualified will agree to stay on with us. Mr. Ferrand told her, wandering to the fire, where she made room for him. They stood side by side, both of them holding out their damp hands.
“Will you give up your previous home entirely?” Clemency wondered aloud.
Mr. Ferrand shook his head. “The staff from my place in London will come here, the family seat in Reims will go unchanged.”
“So many houses…”
He smirked down at her, proud as ever. “We have not even touched upon my properties in Paris and Marseille, shall I give a full accounting?”
“You shall not,” Clemency said, glancing up at him. In the bright light of day, absent the romantic glow of the ball, he appeared different to her, more severe, less refined, the shadow of a beard already threatening to darken his jaw, despite the morning shave. His nose was somewhat too large and hawkish, dominating his face, nearly obliterating the effect of his emerald eyes. The breadth of his smile and jaw balanced everything, and Clemency was noticing that he had a tendency to hold his lips to the side in a tight half-smile that might mean anything or nothing at all.
A puzzle box of a man. His coat smelled strongly of juniper and leather, though that same perfume clung to him too as they stood closely side by side.
Not altogether unpleasant, she allowed, and a combination, like his unusual features, she would not easily forget.
The footman reappeared, crossing to them stiffly, eyes wide and wary, showing concern that he might have interrupted something private. Mr. Ferrand broke away from the hearth and intercepted the servant, taking a roll of linen bandages, a small hand towel, and a bowl of steaming hot water from him. The footman dismissed himself, again silently, and again to the seeming satisfaction of Mr. Ferrand, who smiled and gestured to the chairs not far from the hearth.
Clemency indulged him, retrieving the chairs one by one, a job better left to the footman with her injured arm, but she did not call him back, using her left hand to drag the chairs to the lovely glow behind her.
“You are scratching my floors, Miss Fry.”
She dropped the second chair unceremoniously, loudly, and flopped down onto it. “Had I the use of both arms, I should have made a gentler job of it.”
Mr. Ferrand’s lips squished together tightly. He lowered himself into the chair across from her, dwarfing it comically, his legs almost like a stork’s as he perched there and loomed over her. “And I suppose you will blame that injury on me too?”
“Who else?” Clemency stuck out her arm and bent it, showing him the cut.
“And where was your destination this morning, Miss Fry? I cannot imagine it was the bottom of the river,” he murmured, dipping the hand towel into the hot water and then pressing it carefully to her arm. She hissed but did not jerk away. “Oh, it will sting.”
