Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (66 page)

Cyril flushed but recovered quickly. “Oh, you really should ask your husband about that will,” he murmured. “After all, it does concern you as much as he.”

Tilly weighed into the attack. “We are expecting more guests, Mr. Nettleford. I really must ask you to leave, since you were not invited and your rooms will be needed for the
invited
guests as soon as they arrive.”

“Oh, indeed!” agreed Cyril with an unlovely smile. “And as soon as they
do
arrive, I shall, of course, move out.”

Tilly bit her lip in vexation. Well, the least she could do was to make his stay as uncomfortable as possible.

“I shall see that you are served tea, Mr. Nettleford,” she said. “And I shall send one of our guests to see you. No! No! You mustn’t spoil my surprise. It is someone who is
dying
to meet you!”

And with that, Tilly went in search of the Duchess of Glenstraith and told that astounded woman that Mr. Cyril Nettleford was a hardened drinker and in need of spiritual guidance. The duchess let out a war cry and descended on the drawing room, where the unfortunate Cyril, who had settled for the whisky decanter rather than tea, was subjected to one of the longest and most boring lectures he had ever endured in his life.

The day passed, wet and miserable, and the guests pottered about in that half-awake bored and boring way they usually do when there is nothing to do but eat and drink.

The marquess kept looking for his wife and finding her unaccountably absent, as Tilly was holding a council of war in the servants’ quarters. “You have all been very kind,” she was saying firmly, “but it has got to stop. I think things should be left to take their natural course.”

“Well, if you say so, my lady,” said Masters anxiously. “We certainly didn’t think it natural to interfere between husband and wife, but Miss Francine was so set on it.”

“And I still am,” said Francine. “I wish to speak to you in private, Lady Tilly.”

Both women retired to one of the unused rooms in the East Wing and Tilly rounded on Francine. “I can’t hold out any longer,” she cried. “I’ll lose him. What do you know of it?
You
aren’t married.”

Francine gave a heavy sigh and looked at her hands. “
Eh bien
,” she said at last. “I will tell you my story. I was in service in this château in France. Milord was very, very handsome and milady was ailing. Milord was always teasing me and flirting with me. One day he told me that his love for me was real, that he would marry me as soon as his wife died. I believed him. I never thought of his wife. We are careless and selfish when we are so in love. That night, he came to my room. He was a marvelous lover, tender and experienced. We had a rapturous seven days.
Seven days
, that is all, my lady. Then his wife talked to me. She told me sadly that she knew what was going on and that she was sorry for me, because I was obviously in love with her husband. ‘He is merely amusing himself,’ she told me. ‘He will forget you when the next one comes along.’

“I thought she was jealous. That night, we had a grand ball at the château and I had to watch milord flirting with one of the
grande
ladies. My heart was sore, but still I thought he loved me. I hid behind the screen in his rooms that night—he did not sleep with milady—waiting for him to come to bed. Which he did—with the new amour—and I was trapped there, listening. It was horrible! You see, I thought my love would change him. But people do not change, my lady, and certainly not men who are used to a series of amours. If I had remained aloof, virginal, I would have kept him for quite a time. But as it was—”

“No,” said Tilly, her face hardening. “It’s not the same. I know it’s not. He’s just not used to being married, that’s all. And he wants
me
Francine. Me! Out of all the girls in the world. Oh, I know it’s because of the marvelous change you’ve made in me, Francine, but there’s still the old Tilly underneath and
that
is what he loves. I know he loves me. I can see it in his eyes. So no more interference, Francine.”

Francine raised her hands in mute protest, but Tilly swung on her heels and marched from the room.

The marquess had taken pity on his bored guests and had organized an impromptu entertainment for them that evening, arranging a ball to be held in the upper chain of salons. He had hired a band from the neighboring town for the occasion.

The old mansion came alive with rustling, scurrying, and whispering as the old magic of a ball took hold of the guests. Aileen decided to forgive Toby. Toby decided to go on pretending that he was going to marry Aileen when he was sure that he was not. Cyril Nettleford twisted and turned in front of the mirror, admiring his reflection and thinking that he could perhaps woo Tilly away from her husband. The Duchess of Glenstraith sang in her bath in a loud bass voice as she considered the joys of reclaiming Cyril Nettleford’s soul, and even her husband tum-tummed happily from the next room as he studied an art catalog.

Tilly and Francine examined one ball gown after the other, searching for one that would look the most romantic. Francine had shrugged and capitulated and had decided to make Tilly look as breathtaking as possible.

The only gloomy member of the house party was the marquess himself. The nagging guilt he had felt over his behavior on his wedding night had become a monumental ache. He tried to think of the old Tilly, rough, noisy, and uncouth and tried hard not to blame himself. He would
make
her love him, he decided at last, and then everything would be all right. He never stopped to consider whether he was in love with her himself. She was his wife, after all!

Soon the strains of the inevitable waltz could be heard drifting through the house as the musicians rehearsed. Soon the carpets were rolled up and Masters gave an approving nod of his head at the gleaming floors. Great tubs of flowers were carried in from the hothouse and banked against the walls.

Tilly was wearing a daringly low-cut dress of white silk chiffon, swathed over her bosom to mold her breasts and pulled tight at the waist to accentuate her hourglass figure. Her husband had sent her a long box containing the Heppleford diamonds, beautifully cleaned and reset. Even Francine was awed into silence as she clasped the heavy gems around Tilly’s neck and secured the blazing tiara in Tilly’s hair, where it seemed to catch fire from the vivid red color and blazed and sparkled.

As she was prepared to leave, Francine gave a final tweak to Tilly’s curls and then kissed her gently on the cheek. “Be careful,” she whispered.

Tilly laughed. She was young, she was in love, and she was married to the most handsome man in the world.

Lord Philip, Marquess of Heppleford, watched his wife walk into the ballroom, his eyes glowing with admiration. She looked magnificent. He was overcome with tenderness and admiration for the lumpy schoolgirl who had managed to transform herself into a woman who turned all men’s heads. He was not aware of Cyril Nettleford watching him narrowly from the corner. Cyril’s stomach felt as if it had just experienced a journey in a very fast-moving lift, especially as he noticed that the marquess’s gaze was returned by a warm and glowing one from his wife. It was then he remembered the copy of the second will that he had obtained from the solicitors and which was now reposing among his luggage upstairs.

Tilly’s newfound confidence and happiness leant wings to her feet. She seemed to float over the floor, laughing and chatting with her partners, her little dance card swinging from her wrist, full of names.

Aileen, who was looking like the fairy her mother called her in silver and white gauze, laughed and chattered and quite charmed her reluctant fiancé. Even the Duchess of Glenstraith shook the floor in a lively set of the lancers, while her reedy husband pirouetted around her like some Don Quixote about to tilt at a particularly lively windmill.

Finally Tilly was in her husband’s arms, moving dreamily through the long rooms to the sound of a waltz, under the flickering flames of hundreds of candles, since the marquess considered old-fashioned lighting more suitable for a ball. Watching from the doorway, Masters heaved a sentimental sigh. My lord and my lady were obviously very much in love. He should never have listened to Miss Francine, not that mademoiselle didn’t have her mistress’s interests at heart, but then how could a foreigner judge the heart of an Englishwoman? Ecstatic with happiness, Masters smiled on his master and mistress as they glided past him in each other’s arms. They danced at regulation fingertip distance, but they might have been clasped close together from the expression in their eyes.

All Tilly’s past humiliations vanished. She could even find it in her to smile on Aileen and the duchess.

At long last, after the supper was over and after a few more dances, the visiting guests went home, the lights of their carriages bobbing off down the long drive. The weary house guests took themselves off to bed.

Tilly smiled up at her husband, suddenly shy. He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Tonight,” he whispered, and she nodded mutely. “I will see you in your rooms presently,” he murmured. “I will not be long.”

As Tilly sat in front of her dressing table, Francine brushed out her long red hair and arranged the lacy folds of her negligee. She turned down the lamps, all except one in the sitting room and one in the bedroom, and formally curtsied and left.

Tilly was suddenly very nervous. Should she sit on a chair and wait for him? Should she climb into bed? She eventually decided to sit up in bed with a book and read until he appeared.

The gentle sound of the door opening made her heart beat faster. She looked up at him as he approached the bed with her heart in her eyes. He was wrapped in his dressing gown and his fair hair was still damp from the bath. He sat down on the edge of the bed and gave her a heartrending smile. “Love me, Tilly?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Tilly shyly. She wanted to say she loved him more than anything in the world, but a little cynical voice in her brain seemed to be crying caution.

“Then I shall make you love me,” he said, smiling. He stood up and removed his dressing gown, and Tilly quickly averted her eyes from his naked body. He lifted the bedclothes and climbed in beside her, his long, hard muscular body pressing against her own. Tilly experienced a terrible spasm of fear and unreality. And then his mouth came down on hers, almost savagely, and each long, hard kiss seemed to take the fear away, bit by bit, until she could feel nothing but aching, overwhelming passion.

Then she realized he was asking her something, his voice seeming to come from very far away. She struggled to the surface of the sea of passion. “What?”

“That damned crackling sound,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows and leaning over her. “Have you got newspapers or something under your pillows?”

“No!” said Tilly, startled. “At least I don’t think so.” She twisted around and felt under the pillow with her hand, drawing out a long folded piece of parchment. “It’s that will!” said Tilly in amazement. “No, it’s a copy, a copy of your father’s will. What on earth is it doing here?”

But the marquess was laughing. “You sly puss,” he said. “You knew the terms of the second will after all.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Well, my papa never guessed what a pleasant duty making an heir could be.”

Tilly went rigid in his arms. “What if you don’t produce an heir?” she asked faintly.

“Oh,
you
know,” said her husband, laughing. “The first will said I had to marry to inherit, and the second said that not only had I to marry, but to produce an heir as well. Isn’t it rich? My papa was more eccentric than I had imagined. He was so keen on keeping on the direct line. What’s wrong, Tilly?”

Tilly sat bolt upright in bed and gave him a violent push. “Don’t touch me!” she gasped. “You don’t l-love m-me at all. You’re only obeying your father’s will. This is nothing more than another business contract. Oh, God, I’m so ashamed.”

“Don’t be a ninny,” said the marquess, trying to take her in his arms. “You love me, don’t you?”

With that last sentence the marquess proved he was not the expert lover, the Don Juan he had fondly believed himself to be. Had he said “I love you,” Tilly might have forgiven him. But as it was, she crouched up against the bedhead and glared at him with the savagery of a wildcat.

“Get out!” she yelled. “OUT! OUT! OUT!”

“Now, look, my dear,” began her husband, trying to be reasonable and finding it to be rather difficult while stark naked. But Tilly’s next remark stopped him short. She had been feverishly searching her mind for something to say that would hurt him as much as he had hurt her. Suddenly changing her voice to calm, measured tones, she faced him. “It would not have worked anyway,” she said. “After all, I am inexperienced in the arts of love… and I could only go on pretending you were Toby Bassett to make it all sufferable for a certain length of time.”

“Toby! Are you trying to tell me you are in love with Toby?”

“Yes, only I’m married to you, so I thought I ought to try to make the best of it.”

“You thought—why, you naive little cat. You’re trying to make me jealous!”

“I only wish I were,” said Tilly sadly, her hurt driving her to acting heights she had never guessed she possessed. She began to cry, “Oh, Toby, if only you loved me!”

To the appalled marquess it had the terrible ring of conviction. He did not know that all Tilly had wanted to do was utter the heartfelt cry of, “Oh, Philip, if only you loved me.”

He stood up and shrugged into his dressing gown.

“I bid you good night, madam,” he said, glaring down at the sobbing figure on the bed.

Tilly raised her tearstained face. “I suppose you’ll be rushing off to that trollop in Paris.”

“An excellent idea,” he grated.

“You know your trouble,” said Tilly, hitting wildly on the truth, “your trouble is, you can’t recognize genuine love, because you’ve only paid for it or found it in some bored married woman’s arms.”

There is nothing more devastating than the truth.