Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (27 page)

Jane’s face went pale. “Emory, are you in more trouble?”

Emory bit back his first answer, for the implication was that he was always in some sort of trouble. He was a man now, had turned twenty-one. A man either found his own way out of trouble or he went down alone.

When the door opened to produce the butler, Emory said, “I must go.” In an action that quite amazed her, he took Jane by the shoulders and drew her in for a quick kiss on her brow. “Kiss the girls for me, and
Maman.”

“Emory, you will be careful?” Jane called after him.

He paused at the door, a beautiful smile on his face. “If all goes well, I could be back within a fortnight.”

Derbyshire, July 1814

“This is likely to be a very grave error on your part,” Heloise said not for the first time on their journey.

“If you do not cease heckling me, Aunt, I shall lose my courage altogether,” Clarissa answered, sounding unusually peevish. “As I said before, I have considered it from every angle. My decision serves to solve my dilemma.”

“It serves to provide the makings of a broken heart,” Heloise replied with equal certainty. “You can push a man only so far before he will disappoint you. Better you should live in doubt than tempt him to an indiscretion that could ruin your future happiness.”

Her aunt’s disapproval stung Clarissa to the quick. “If Lord Ramsbury’s resolve is so fragile an affair, I am better knowing so at once.”

“You are too bright a girl, Clarie, to mouth such drivel.” Her aunt pinned her with a piercing look. “Do you really expect a man to resist a beautiful woman who throws herself in his path after the lady he is attracted to has run out on him? If you believe men’s morals are composed of such sturdy stuff, then you are doomed to disappointment. You’d do better to fall into his arms, smother him with kisses, and accept his proposal at once. That would remove him from the temptation to err with Soltana.”

“But then I shall forever have to wonder which of us he might have chosen, had he been allowed the choice,” Clarissa answered wistfully.

Heloise chuckled. “The choice was never his to make. Women rule the hearts of men who are susceptible to falling in love. The rest aren’t worth thinking about. Don’t toy with him, or you may lose him.”

Clarissa struck an indignant pose but held her tongue. It quite amazed her that her aunt did not endorse her plan. After all, “Princess Soltana” had been her aunt’s creation while she was the one who had resisted the charade, long before she knew of Hadrian Blackburne’s existence. She had accepted the disguise only when it seemed a way to avenge her aunt with Lady Throckmorton, even if the invitation to Almack’s had never materialized. Once her own interest in Hadrian had been piqued and she realized the full extent of the sham she had perpetrated upon an unwary man, she had removed Soltana from London. Yet she could not be certain that she had removed Soltana from Ramsbury’s heart.

Nor had two weeks of solitude at Dolick Hall increased her hopes. Hadrian had kept his word not to follow her or even write. Why was it that men so often took a lady at her word exactly when she wished to be misunderstood, and yet too often refused to heed a lady when she was in earnest?

Then invitations to a week-long house party at Wolfscote Hall, Lord Ramsbury’s ancestral home, had arrived. When she saw that they were addressed to Lady Arbuthnott and Mrs. Willoughby, she had cried out in delight. Then a third arrived, addressed to Princess Soltana, and her exultation had turned to despair.

It had not taken her long to understand the earl’s intentions. By housing the two women beneath the same roof, he was going to judge and make comparisons that would help him determine his feelings. He had no idea that he was asking her to resume a masquerade. But the fact that he thought he was entitled to a side-by-side examination had stung her pride and pricked her sporting sense.

Hadrian Blackburne would learn to his regret that she was no horse to be inspected at length nor one to allow comparisons to be made with other fillies in his stable. First she was going to drive Soltana from Hadrian’s heart and mind by whatever means came to hand. When she had done so, she would then make him pay for his perfidy. She had conjured up a dozen scenes in which he again professed his deep feelings for her and then she jilted him savagely for daring to subject her to the humiliation of a confrontation with her nemesis. That, she assured herself, was the only reason why she was again wrapped in veiling, her eyes kohled, and her heart far from easy about the task before her.

But deep down, where she could scarcely heed it, sprang a hope that Hadrian would spurn Soltana outright for Clarissa, and thereby turn that scene into one of passion and love professed.

Clarissa sighed as she turned to gaze out at the green hills of Derbyshire rolling past the coach window. The road was dry and the weather clear. They had made excellent time on their northward journey. The surrounding country was a wooded, limestone valley with a picturesque river winding through it like a blue ribbon dropped carelessly between high peaks. The grassy banks were thickly green and the occasional flash of silver beneath the water’s surface led her to suspect that this was excellent fly-fishing country. Her uncle had been a fisherman. As a child, she would often wade barefoot downstream from his angling, content to pick bright pebbles from the water or chase minnows in the shallows. Against her will, other idle daydreams intruded upon her reverie. Had Hadrian done likewise as a boy? What sort of child had he been? What sort of sons and daughters would he produce? Had he given thought to sons and daughters when he proposed to her? Those thoughts dragged her further into melancholy, and a series of heartfelt if unconscious sighs escaped her.

Heloise watched her niece in silence. The girl was as nervous as a filly in her first race. Somehow she must prevent this idiocy in the name of love. But how? From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the facade of a house. “Oh, look there, Clarie, through the trees. We’re nearly there.”

Feeling curiously anxious, Clarissa leaned forward for a better view as the coach swung round a curve in the lane where the river made a great sweep round a hill. In the distance, across a small Tudor bridge sat a lovely house of ashlar stone.

“Wolfscote Hall,” Heloise said in pleasure. “I haven’t been here in ten years. I am pleased to see it hasn’t changed. There’s such a sense of rightness in its facade. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, indeed,” Clarissa answered, a little awed to realize the extent of wealth and majesty that attended the ancestral home of the fifth Earl of Ramsbury.

“The late-seventeenth century was a perfectly beautiful period for houses,” Heloise said, warming to her subject. “One may call the house’s long horizontal lines Palladian, but its H-plan is of an earlier era. Simple in execution but pleasing to the eye. The architect created a perfectly balanced structure by giving the jutting wings three window widths while the main front boasts nine. Notice how the hipped roof is dormered and balustraded to bring the eye outward. Yet the ascending steps of the central entrance sweep the eye upward. Make note of the vertical alignment of the cupola. A pity that Quentin would not see reason and renovate Dolick’s facade accordingly. He says Dolick is a monument to his ancestors, and therefore inviolate. I say it is drafty.”

Gazing at Wolfscote, Clarissa agreed with her aunt. The house seemed more than a historical monument to ancestors long dead. Everything about it, from the immaculate lawn to the charming setting among the hills and river, suggested that this house was a home. A queer thrill settled in her middle as she realized that if she had accepted Hadrian’s proposal, she would soon have been Wolfscote’s mistress.

As they turned into the drive, past lacy wrought-iron gates, she felt as if the house were reaching out toward her in welcome. The guilt came swiftly. By keeping to her present course, she might soon prove to be the snake in the bosom of that friendly abode.

They were not the only guests arriving that morning. The drive contained four other traveling coaches, the doors of which were marked to alert one to the fact that the distinguished company was composed of a marchioness, an earl, and two viscounts besides the Arbuthnott crest. As their coach halted behind the Marquess of Overchurch’s barouche, Clarissa spied a line of peruked and liveried footmen who were carrying an enormous amount of luggage from the coaches ahead of them. “Ramsbury’s colors are blue and gold,” she observed to her aunt. “I wonder at the significance.”

“You must ask him,” Heloise answered and nodded to her own footman who had jumped down to open her door. They alighted to be met by a young man dressed in the style of a gentleman but his manner was clearly deferential.

He gave them a courtly if abbreviated bow. “Viscountess Arbuthnott. Princess Soltana. Welcome to Wolfscote.”

Clarissa recognized him immediately—that is, she recognized the similarity of his features. He had the same high forehead, slashing black brows, and shock of thick, curling dark hair. But in his countenance the light eyes were more gray than green and the chiseled mouth had been carved by some blunter instrument, making it not unpleasant but no match for Hadrian’s nor his brother’s.

“Mr. Temple, I recollect,” Lady Heloise replied and smiled at the young man. “I see your scrupulous attention has kept Wolfscote in fine fiddle.”

The serious-faced young man smiled faintly, as if her praise embarrassed him. “You will want to share your praise with Lord Ramsbury, my lady. The earl’s fortuitous return to his family has been a great boon and spur to us all.”

“Well said, Mr. Temple. Now if you please, Princess Soltana and I should like to go in and freshen up before nuncheon.” She paused. “I imagine there will be such a meal.”

“Of course, my lady. The earl is expecting some hundred and more guests during the next five days. Thus, we shall practice the informality of the country. Please follow me.”

“More than a hundred guests!” Clarissa exclaimed in a whisper to her aunt as they walked toward the house. “I did not expect to be so pressed for space. And who, dear aunt, is Mr. Temple?”

“A Blackburne cousin, did you not guess?” Heloise replied as they crossed the drive. “His family is of modest means so he serves here as Lord Ramsbury’s majordomo, as well as personal secretary. Had he the means, he would be quite a catch. I understand he is very clever with ledgers and figures and knows enough of estate matters to be the steward of Wolfscote. But that is to be expected. He was educated alongside the Ramsburys from nursery through Cambridge,” Heloise added.

“That must have been very difficult for him, growing up in such close proximity to wealth yet denied it,” Clarissa answered, thinking of the self-possessed man who walked just ahead of them.

“I should say Mr. Temple is one of those rare souls who are satisfied to be in the frequent company of their social superiors without developing either a dislike or jealousy of their better circumstances. It is a singular accomplishment, and I like him very well for it.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the Ramsburys. Why have you never mentioned them before?”

Heloise looked at her in blank surprise. “To what purpose, my dear? You were first in Spain and later married. Until April, Ramsbury was thought dead.” At that moment they met other guests on the drive and greetings were exchanged.

“Does anyone know precisely why we are here?” asked one of the other ladies and they climbed the steps. “When one is left in doubt of how to dress, one must bring a little of everything.”

“The earl’s invitation was somewhat vague, to be sure,” Heloise answered, “yet I believe he has a celebration of some sort in mind. Did you not notice the footmen hanging lanterns in the arbor as we came up the drive?”

Clarissa had not, but her attention was immediately diverted as they entered the house. While the lines and details of the exterior had seemed almost austere, the interior of Wolfscote was anything but plain. Upon entering one was struck by the full baroque impact of the paintings in the staircase hall. The high ceiling had been transformed by the artist’s brush into a cloudy firmament in the recessions of which floated an assembly of mythical gods and their attendants resplendent in colorful robes and armament. The walls, likewise decorated with classical subjects, were surrounded by painted cornices and brackets and fluted pilasters which supported the whole with the perfect illusion of a wooden framework. The fanciful decor was so unlike its owner in temperament that Clarissa wondered how Hadrian Blackburne tolerated its caprice.

Then she recalled him as she had first met him; tall, muscular, deeply tanned, and robed in dazzling white. He had seemed the embodiment of every exotic fairy tale and romance. Those fascinating green eyes had gazed on the world in faint derision at all they beheld. Yes, now that she thought about it, she could well believe him suited to the baroque splendor surrounding her.

A formidable array of domestics greeted the guests. Chambermaids, assigned to look after each bedroom, led guests to their rooms. Lady Arbuthnott was asked to follow one maid while Princess Soltana was shown down the opposite corridor.

“Just here, my lady,” the girl said when she had opened a door halfway down an empty hall.

“Are there no other guests in this wing?” Clarissa questioned doubtfully as she surveyed the silent space.

“I could not say, my lady,” the girl answered. “ ’Twas his lordship’s orders where to place his guests.”

“I see.” Clarissa stepped past the girl into the room.

“Shall I wait to unpack for you when your things come up?”

“Thank you, but no. I shan’t require you. I am expecting my own maid with the arrival of Mrs. Willoughby later in the day. I shall wait for her.”

“Very well, my lady.” The girl curtsied and then closed the door behind herself.

Without more than a cursory glance at the magnificent room, Clarissa began stripping off her gloves. In quick succession she removed her pelisse and had just reached up to untie her bonnet when a deep voice said from the corner of the room, “I knew you would come.”

Clarissa spun about so quickly her hem tangled about her ankles. Hadrian stood by the window looking superbly fit in a claret frock coat and moleskin riding breeches. In the weeks they had been apart his hair had grown and now fell in a few unstudied curls across his wide brow. Two simultaneous thoughts sent her heart knocking against her rib cage: first, that he had been waiting for her, and second, that she was so very glad he had, no matter that for the moment Soltana was his choice.

“Lord Ramsbury,” she said, hearing in her voice less steadiness than she liked.

“Is that all you have to say to me, puss?” He held out his arms to her. “Come here, and let me hold you. I’ve been waiting a damnably long time since Vauxhall to do so.”