Encounter with Venus (15 page)

“I mean, ma’am, that these pretended illnesses are the means by which Sir Andrew rules this house, and you know it.” He put down his fork and leaned across the table toward her. “What I can’t understand, Livy, is how a woman as strong-willed and intelligent as you can let yourself be manipulated so.”

“There you go again!” Slamming down her cup, Livy jumped to her feet, her lips trembling in a rage. “Is there
anything
that can stop your arrogant interference in things you know nothing about?”

“But I do know about this! You told me yourself.” He stood up and started round the table toward her. “I know you’re grateful for his making you his ward. But don’t you see that he’s taking a terribly unfair advantage of that gratitude?”

White-lipped, she put up her hand to stop his advance. “You’ve said quite enough! None of these matters are your concern. Since you shall be leaving today, you can put them out of your mind, as I shall put your offensive behavior out of mine. Thank goodness we need never face each other again! Good-bye, my lord, and since you asked for it, I wish you godspeed.” And with those angry words echoing in the air like the distant rumble of thunder, she stalked out of the room.

TWENTY-ONE

George sat slumped on the rear seat of the phaeton, feeling miserable. He could hear Timmy, up on the box outside, whistling cheerfully as the carriage glided over the snow on its new runners. He knew he, too, should be cheerful, for with any luck they would make it to London in time to dress for the ball. But he couldn’t seem to thrust off the cloud of depression that surrounded him like a cloak. It was not Livy’s unkind goodbye alone that nagged at him, although that itself was enough to wound a fellow’s spirit. After all, it was not pleasant to be called an interfering, arrogant meddler. And then there was her scathing response to his kiss. She’d interpreted a sincere, affectionate embrace as an act of cruelty. He would never understand her! But it was more than those insults that troubled him. It was Livy herself-—the dreadful life she lived that she would do nothing to improve. Why did she not see how her uncle was exploiting her?

Of course, he could not deny that her numerous blows to his self-image had cut him deeply. In all his twenty-seven years, he could not remember anyone who’d taken him in such complete dislike. True, the start of their association had been his own fault—the disappointed look on his face when he’d first seen her must have been more damaging to her than he’d believed. But he’d tried in every way to erase that first impression. She’d reacted negatively to his every attempt to undo it.
I
don’t want your kindness,
she’d told him over and over. He found that repeated rejection bewildering. What else could she have wanted from him? Damnation, he would never understand her!

His mind kept returning to the moment when she’d cried out her story in his arms. He’d responded with a sympathetic embrace. (It
was
a sympathetic embrace, wasn’t it?) Why had she interpreted that kiss as heartless? How could an act of warm sympathy be heartless? No, no, no, he would never understand her!

To be honest, he had to admit that on his part the kiss had been more than sympathetic. He’d felt a surprisingly strong physical desire for her. Could she have sensed that? Did she find such physical intimacy abhorrent? Was she a prude? Until this moment, he’d forgotten that she’d seemed like a dried-up old maid when he’d first glimpsed her. She did not seem so now, but perhaps his first impression wasn’t far off. Her behavior after the kiss could be called puritanical, couldn’t it? Was she a straitlaced spinster after all?

But since he would never understand her, there was no point in gnawing away at these questions. There was nothing for him to do but put the whole experience behind him.
Leave her to her deuced, self-imposed fate,
he told himself. As she’d informed him more than once, it was none of his concern.

Nevertheless, it irked him that no one in that benighted household had the courage to speak up to the choleric Sir Andrew. What that man needed was a good verbal clobbering. If he, George Frobisher, were any sort of man, he would have done it himself. Never mind Livy’s objection, a proper man would have acted on instinct—the instinct of a true gentleman!—and given the damned curmudgeon the drubbing he deserved.

George sat up in his seat, suddenly alert. He ought to do it, he realized. It would be the right thing to do. He could still turn round, retrace his steps, and give the old bounder a piece of his mind. Was he a gentleman or wasn’t he?

But he was also a man of his word, and he’d given that word to Bernard. He’d sworn he’d be back in plenty of time to take Bernard to the ball. They’d already driven four hours away from Lockerbie. If he turned back now, he’d lose eight hours, thus making it impossible to make it to London in time.

With a sigh, he leaned back on the seat again.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Shakespeare had written. But he’d missed the tide. By being too obedient to Livy’s restrictions, he’d delayed too long. He was now forced to clench his fists, grit his teeth, and obey her stricture to mind his own affairs.

Mind my own affairs... mind my own affairs...
George repeated the phrase to himself in time to the soft, rhythmic plish-plish of the horses’ hooves as they picked their way through the snow.
Mind my own affairs.
But the repeated admonition became just meaningless words. What he really wanted to do, with a deepening sense of urgency, was to act like a man.

On a sudden impulse, he reached over, lowered the window, and shouted out to Timmy, “Pull up, old man! I’ll take the reins. We’re going back!”

With the wind in his face, he drove north again. Poor, bewildered Timmy insisted on remaining beside him on the box to keep watch over his master, convinced that his lordship had lost his mind. Pushing the horses to their utmost, George pulled up in front of Henshaw Castle in less than two hours. Then he threw the reins to Timmy. “Walk the horses for a bit,” he ordered. “I won’t be long.” And he ran up the stone steps.

McTavish, having heard the horses, hurried on his unsteady legs into the entry hall. “My lord!” he cried in alarm. “Have ye had an accident?”

“Never mind me,” George said, taking the steps of the main stairway two at a time, the capes of his greatcoat flapping. He burst into Sir Andrew’s bedroom without knocking. Peters, in the act of placing a woolen shawl about Sir Andrew’s shoulders, looked up in alarm. “Peters,” George ordered before the two men could recover from their shock, “take yourself off. I want to speak to Sir Andrew alone.”

The old man’s face reddened in fury. “How dare ye burst in here like this!” he roared.

“Peters, go!” George said firmly.

“But, yer lordship,” the valet said, frightened, “I can’t—”

“Peters,” Sir Andrew barked, “stay right here!”

George grasped the valet by his lapels and forcibly backed him across the room and out the door. “Wait right there,” he ordered, shutting the door in Peters’s agonized face and pulling closed the bolt. “Now then, my good sir, I have a few choice words to say to you.”

“Peters,” Sir Andrew shouted, “get McTavish and Shotton and break the door down!”

“He can’t hear you through that door,” George said. “I’m afraid, sir, that you’re stuck with me for as long as I choose, so be still and listen to me, or I shall have to remove my ascot and stuff it in your mouth.”

The old man made a strangled sound in his throat.

“You needn’t panic,” George assured him. “I mean you no physical harm. I only want to say a few words to you.”

Relieved, Sir Andrew’s high color receded. But he still eyed George with loathing. “Ye’ve a good bit o’ cheek,” he muttered in sullen surrender. “What is it ye have t’say?”

George walked to the foot of the bed and faced the old man squarely. “I’d like to understand you, sir,” he said. “What sort of man are you? How can you lie there, day after day, pretending to be ill and helpless, when you know perfectly well that you’re healthy as a horse?”

“I am
not—”

George glared at him. “You are not to speak, is that understood? Not a
word.
And yes, you
are
as healthy as a horse. I have it from your doctor and from everyone else who knows you. It’s plain as pikestaff that you’ve found this lazy, cowardly, pinch-penny way to keep control over this household. Each member of the staff has to do the work of three, and what is worse, you use your own niece as a bond slave!”

Sir Andrew made a move to speak, but George put up a restraining hand.

“Yes,” he went on, “that’s what I said, bond slave! A drudge, a poor menial who works harder than the lowest kitchen maid, at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day! She accepts the role because she’s full of gratitude to you for taking her in and making her your ward. But you didn’t take her in out of generosity, did you? No, don’t bother to answer. I know why you did it. It was just to get yourself a caring nurse at no cost to yourself!”

“That’s a damned lie!” the old man burst out. “I love the child!”

“Child? You call her a child? Haven’t you noticed that she’s past thirty and looks even older? A fine old spinster you’ve made of her! And you call it
love!
It’s a strange sort of love, to keep the woman enslaved and deprived of a life of her own.”

Sir Andrew, his pale blue, agonized eyes fixed on George’s face, emitted a low groan.

But George did not soften at the pathetic sound. “From what I can see,” he declared, hoping his final words would leave a mark on the man, “you’re nothing but a selfish, tightfisted curmudgeon who makes life a misery for everyone around him. I warn you, Sir Andrew, that if you don’t make things better for those who depend on you while you still have
this
life, then you’ll find the devil giving you a taste of your own in the
next!
”

With that, he wheeled about, unbolted the door, and stormed out of the room. Outside the door stood a nervous Peters, a grinning McTavish, and a stunned Livy. But George did not pause to acknowledge them. Without so much as a nod, he strode past them, ran down the stairway and out the door. Down on the roadway, the carriage was waiting. He leaped up on the box, took hold of the reins, and off they went.

As the phaeton-turned-sleigh slid over the snow, George began to feel foolish. He’d enjoyed every moment of that encounter, but perhaps he’d been merely self-indulgent. Now he wondered if his diatribe would do Livy any good. It was only a fusillade of words, after all. Could words change the nature of a spoiled old man?

Night had fallen. Even if they drove the whole distance without stopping, the ball would have ended by the time they reached London. Had he broken his promise to his best friend merely for the pleasure of giving Sir Andrew a piece of his mind? With a groan of shame, he dropped his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Bernard,” he muttered aloud. “I’ve let you down. Forgive me.”

TWENTY-TWO

Bernard, waiting in London for some sign of George’s return, was not in a forgiving mood. It was Wednesday, close to the hour when the ball would begin, and although the snow had been melting away all day and the roads open for more than the eight or so hours required for George’s return from Yorkshire, there was yet no word from him.
If
some dreadful accident hasn’t killed him,
Bernard fumed,
then I surely will!

A tap on the door stopped his brooding. “Come in,” he called, wheeling his chair about to face the door, hope springing up in his chest for the hundredth time that day.

Pratkin stepped gingerly into the room and threw his master an uneasy glance.

Bernard understood the look at once. “Damnation!” he swore. “Nothing?”

“Not a word,” the valet said. “His man hasn’t heard anything since his lordship left for Yorkshire on Thursday.”

Bernard’s body seemed to sag in the chair. “That’s it, then. I may as well go to bed.”

Pratkin stepped in front of the wheelchair. “Over my dead body,” he declared, crossing his arms over his chest in a stance of stubborn immobility. “You can jolly well go to the ball without him.”

“Indeed?” Bernard’s brows lifted haughtily. “And when did you become master in this house?”

“You always say I rule the roost,” the valet said, jutting out his chin belligerently. “So let’s make it true, this once.”

“We’ll make it untrue this once! I’m not going, and that’s that. So stand aside and let me pass.”

The valet didn’t budge. “Just give me one good reason why you can’t go by yourself. Don’t you see, sir, that by not going, you’re only cutting off your nose to spite your face?”

“Do you really think, Pratkin,” Bernard asked in disgust, “that a silly cliché will make me change my mind?”

“Then perhaps a simple fact with change it—the fact that a very nice young lady, Miss Harriet Renwood by name, visited you here especially to make sure you’d attend. Do you really want to hurt her?”

Bernard’s eyes fell.
Would I hurt her?
he asked himself again.
Does she truly want me to come, or is she just being kind?
Caught between his desires and his fears, he was unable to make a decision. “Do you really think my absence would hurt her?” he found himself asking his man.