A Simple Lady (4 page)

Kenrick had been pleasantly surprised when Lady Elizabeth entered the room at her mother’s side. Her muslin dress had been simple but neat, her face slender, her brown hair charmingly styled, and her lips full but firm. Only her eyes had been difficult to judge, for she had kept them downcast for most of the half hour allotted for the engaged couple to become acquainted. Yet, on the few occasions when she had lifted her gaze to look directly into his face, Kenrick had thought he detected hints of intelligence lurking in those brown depths.

For one startled minute, he had feared the Earl of Ravingate had tricked him, that the girl was not simpleminded after all. Then the countess had ordered Elizabeth to inquire about her betrothed’s journey, and Kenrick soon concluded that the earl had not exaggerated. The girl could not form a coherent sentence. Much of the problem seemed to stem from her terrible stutter, which worsened as her parents stared at her disapprovingly. Kenrick had been forced to suppress an inappropriate desire to tell his future in-laws to leave their poor child alone, but his interference proved unnecessary. The earl and countess quickly moved to the far side of the room, as though hurried along by a powerful need to distance themselves from their daughter.

It was then the girl had reached out and furtively tugged at his sleeve. “My lord,” she said. “I must tell you—”

“Elizabeth,” her mother had called from across the room. “Are you not aware that it is considered ill manners to grasp a gentleman’s sleeve in that manner? You will create wrinkles, you silly girl.”

Kenrick had frowned at the countess’s unkind tone and, unthinking, turned back to the girl, his frown still in place. She immediately ducked her head.

Kenrick silently cursed himself for a careless fool. The young woman undoubtedly thought his frown resulted from her tug on his sleeve. “You were about to say something, Lady Elizabeth,” he prompted, hoping she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes, m-m-my lord. I wish to t-t-tell you that I am n-n-not—”

“Never mind, Elizabeth,” her father quickly intervened, disgust for the girl’s affliction clear in his clipped words. “Kenrick and I have business to discuss before he returns to the inn for the evening. You may be excused.”

“But P-P-Papa, I wish t-t-to—”

The countess, following her husband’s lead, interrupted quickly. “Be quiet, Elizabeth, and obey your father. Go to your chamber immediately. I shall join you there soon to discuss the arrangements for tomorrow.”

Elizabeth cast Kenrick an agonized glance as she stood, quickly turning her back to her parents. “Outside,” she whispered, a frantic note in her voice. “Tonight. Ten o’clock. By the g-g-gazebo.” She waited for his brief nod before turning to hurry away.

Kenrick gave only perfunctory attention to the Earl of Ravingate’s description of how he had contacted the vicar and made arrangements for the wedding service to be conducted at ten o’clock the following morning. Kenrick nodded, less interested in the arrangements for his wedding than he was in his bride. Had he heard her correctly? Had she really suggested a clandestine meeting that evening? If so, why? Did she understand what she was saying, or was that surreptitious suggestion evidence of the girl’s disordered mind? In any case, Kenrick was determined that at ten o’clock that evening, he would be waiting at the dilapidated building he had noted on the Earl of Ravingate’s side lawn.

Chapter Four

The Marquess of Kenrick was feeling not only tense but also a bit foolish when, at nine thirty that evening, he slipped into the Earl of Ravingate’s overgrown park, tethered Solomon in a grove of trees, and furtively approached the crumbling structure he had noticed earlier that day. Lady Elizabeth had not yet arrived.

An hour later, standing alone amidst the heavy dew in the light of a waning moon, Kenrick was not so much irritated with the girl for making an assignation she had not kept as he was with himself for having taken her muttering seriously. After all, he had known she was simpleminded. He should have expected that, even if she understood what she was saying, she would not remember saying it.

But hope did not die easily. Kenrick had approached this meeting praying that Lady Elizabeth would tell him she had no desire to marry him. Then, and only then, could he honorably draw back from the dishonorable act to which he had committed himself. Only then could he end his precipitous engagement to a simpleminded girl.

He waited five more minutes before deciding to look around the estate a bit more. Perhaps this crumbling building was not a gazebo after all. Perhaps Lady Elizabeth was already waiting for him at a more sturdy structure in another section of the weed-infested grounds.

The moon’s light was not strong, but it was sufficient to help Kenrick spy a small path leading toward the front of the house. Cautiously picking his way along what had once been a graveled walk, he passed the sagging portico over the front door and, still following the ill-defined path, soon found himself on the opposite side of the house. His gaze swept the area eagerly and then again more slowly. There was a fountain covered in moss, a sundial lying on its side, and a lump that might once have been the foundation for a statue. But nothing resembling a gazebo.

Thoroughly frustrated, Kenrick bent to dislodge a gravel that had embedded itself in the sole of his boot and then flung the pebble toward the woodland. But instead of the muted swish of disturbed leaves he had expected to hear, a soft, bell-like ping was carried back to him on the evening air. Surely that sound had been caused by gravel striking a slate roof.

Encouraged and hopeful, he hurried to locate the source of that tone and was soon sighing in relief as he stood before a building he was convinced must be the gazebo. He could only hope his betrothed had not yet given up on him and left.

“Lady Elizabeth,” he called softly. When there was no reply, he called out again, more loudly this time. Still receiving no response, he carefully stepped through the open door and stood just inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The shadows were deep, but he could soon ascertain that the structure was empty. “Damnation,” he muttered to himself. “What now?”

Wearily he lowered himself onto one of the dusty benches. He would wait here a little while, he decided. Then, if Lady Elizabeth still had not put in an appearance, he would retrieve Solomon and return to the inn.

Clenching his teeth, Kenrick settled back on the warped bench and prepared to endure another period of uncomfortable waiting. Ten minutes later, he stood and, cursing softly, began making his way back toward the front of the house.

* * *

Elizabeth had been a little late leaving for her appointment with the marquess, having been detained when her mother suddenly appeared in her bedchamber to oversee her packing. But the countess had not stayed long, seeming, as always, anxious to remove herself from her daughter’s company. Elizabeth had then hurried down the back stairs and around the corner of the house to the small gazebo that sat in the edge of the woods on the west side of the grounds.

There she had waited, chilly and anxious, for nearly an hour. Why did he not come? Surely he had heard the urgency in her tone that afternoon. She had been certain she detected a slight nod from him, indicating he had heard her words and agreed. Had he lost his way? Or—Elizabeth jumped up from her seat in the small building—had he perhaps thought she meant that crumbling folly on the east side of the house?

Irritated with herself for not having thought of that possibility sooner, Elizabeth silently prayed that, supposing her conjecture was correct, Kenrick had not already given up on her and left. Perhaps if she hurried, she could still catch him.

Dashing down the steps and onto the lawn, Elizabeth paused only briefly before turning toward the back of the house. She could reach the folly more quickly if she took a short cut through the old rose garden. Picking up her skirts, she ran through the tall grass and then along a small path leading to the edge of the neglected garden. She had tried over the years to bring some order to the overgrown roses, but for all her pruning, the thorny bushes still crowded in on the once-neat pathways that wended their way through the garden. Still, Elizabeth was familiar with those pathways, and with the moon to provide light, she was confident she could soon exit on the far side of the garden only a few feet from the folly.

Holding her gown close lest it be snagged, Elizabeth selected a path traversing the garden. She had gone perhaps ten feet when the moon’s timid light was suddenly snuffed. Elizabeth stopped and looked up to find that a dark cloud had drifted across the face of the moon. After pausing for several minutes in hopes the wind would carry the cloud away, Elizabeth decided she could afford to wait no longer. She would have to depend on her memory of the rose garden path and attempt to move on.

She had taken only four steps when the first briars caught her hem. Gritting her teeth, she suppressed a very unladylike exclamation. She had dressed with special care this evening, choosing a gown she felt sure Mrs. Wilson had ordered made especially for her. The soft blue muslin, fashioned with a high waist accented by dark blue ribbon, was trimmed with exquisite lace that outlined the low-cut bodice and marched in three neat rows around the hem. With a blue ribbon threaded through her curls and a filmy white shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she had felt she looked very well when she had hurried out to meet the marquess.

Now, fearing the briars would rip her beautiful lace, she bent over too quickly. Another protruding branch of thorns immediately embedded itself in her hair, mussing her carefully arranged curls and loosening her hair ribbon. With a gasp of dismay, she jumped backwards, only to hear lace ripping away from the fabric of her gown.

“Blast!” she whispered, fighting back tears of disappointment and frustration. After taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, she bent over again, much more carefully this time, and cautiously freed her gown from the thorns. It was too dark to see how badly the lace had been damaged, but even in such shadowy surroundings, she could judge that the trimming now dragged upon the ground. Lifting her skirts high enough to protect the lace, Elizabeth risked another step and gasped as her shawl was yanked from her shoulders.

Looking quickly to her left, she immediately found the culprit, another encroaching rose bush. “I swear that I shall dig every one of you up by the roots if this harassment does not stop,” she promised in a loud whisper.

Finally the cloud that had contributed so much to Elizabeth’s problems began drifting away, and within seconds the rose garden was again bathed in the moon’s light. Although feeble, the glow helped Elizabeth see enough to untangle her shawl. She flung it around her shoulders and hurried on, unmolested this time, toward her destination.

Once beyond the boundaries of the rose garden, Elizabeth lifted her skirts a bit higher and began to run toward the folly. She arrived puffing, her slippers soaked from the heavy dew, but the marquess was not there.

There was some indication that he had been there, although it was impossible to be positive. Still, the tall grass appeared to have been flattened a bit in spots. The knowledge that she might have missed the marquess by mere minutes intensified her frustration. Sighing, she allowed her shoulders to slump. She had little choice now except to abandon her hopes and go back inside.

But no, she decided, again squaring her shoulders. She could not give up quite yet. At least one more trip to the gazebo was warranted, especially considering that her future was at stake, but she would definitely avoid the rose garden this time. She had turned and was hurrying toward the front of the house when a sudden breeze clutched the fluttering corners of her shawl and wrapped the entire thing around her neck, much as she might have worn a winter muffler.

“Just what I needed,” Elizabeth muttered beneath her breath. As though in response, another gust caught at her hair ribbons, already tattered by briars, and flapped them about over her head for long seconds before dropping them again. One end of the ribbon fell onto her forehead.

Elizabeth quickened her steps. Surely when she reached the front of the house, she would find some protection from that increasingly capricious breeze. She was almost sprinting by the time she rounded the corner and ran straight into something that had never been on the path before. Something tall and warm and firm and smelling faintly of sandalwood soap. Something that, like the briars and the breeze, reached out to grab at her. Something that provided one too many frights for one evening. Elizabeth screamed as loudly as she could.

* * *

Kenrick had given up on finding Lady Elizabeth that evening and was cautiously making his way back toward the grove of trees where he had tethered Solomon. The rising wind had begun whistling through the spiny shrubbery near the front of the house. Perhaps, he was to think later, the wind’s racket accounted for his not having heard Lady Elizabeth’s footsteps before she dashed around the corner of the house and flung herself against him. He had barely caught his breath from having caught her in his arms when she began screaming.

Too startled to act immediately, Kenrick merely clutched the soft feminine form to his chest, trying to retain his balance. Several seconds passed before he was able to twist about enough to clamp a hand over her mouth.

“Lady Elizabeth?” he whispered into the sudden silence. The form in his arms nodded her head.

“If I take my hand from your mouth, will you refrain from screaming again?”

Another nod.

Kenrick removed his hand slowly. When the young lady made no sound, he reached for her hand and pulled her out of the shadows and into a patch of moonlight near the front door. “My God,” he whispered, more to himself than to her, as his horrified gaze swept the young woman standing before him.

A blue ribbon dangled from her untidy hair, one tattered end resting on her forehead, the other hanging limply down her back. Some sort of white fabric—a man’s cravat perhaps?—was wrapped about her neck, and bits of dew-dampened lace trailed forlornly from the hem of her gown. This, Kenrick realized with biting sorrow, was just how he had imagined his simpleminded bride would look. He was not aware that his aversion was clearly reflected in his darkened gaze.