Lady Pamela (16 page)

“It’s lovely. But surely not for a duke–?”

“Dear me, no,” said Lady Pam. “The duchess.”

The Duchess of Grentham. No such individual was presently in existence, and Pamela felt awkward that they should be discussing her as if she were real. But, of course, someday she would be. A duke was expected to marry, and especially this duke who, as he had explained to Pamela months ago, had no close relation as heir.

“Helène’s son, if she should have a son, might inherit,” Lord Torrance had said. “No-one else stands a clear claim.”

Except my own children yet to come.
Of course. But those words had remained unsaid.

Strictly speaking, Lady Pamela had no reason to search for a duchess’s bed, as this was one of the few pieces of furniture which had remained in Marchers from the previous duke’s regime. But that bed was grotesquely ornate–to Pam’s taste–and so covered in layer after layer of decades-old velvets that she thought that the wood itself must have picked up the smell of mould.

“The old bed is usable,” she added, “so perhaps–”

The duke was looking at her curiously. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“Ah, well...” stumbled Pam, not wishing to offend.

“I think it’s hideous.”

Lady Pamela grinned at him and laughed. “But perhaps we–you could keep it,” she suggested, “and even embellish the suite in that same style–”

“–with the appropriate colours,” added Lord Torrance, “scarlet and gilt. And more gilt.”

He smiled broadly, chuckling, and Lady Pamela felt how easily they conversed when nothing more than redecoration was at stake, how often they seemed to understand exactly how the other felt. She and the duke had found themselves drawn to identical colours, and fabrics, and schemes of decor more often than not, and it was if they held the same images of Marchers in mind, the same vision of what the house could be.

Beautiful, and grand, and welcoming. Full of friends and family...and children. Pamela saw the duke’s sons, tall and blond like their father, running through the hallways, chasing up and down the staircase and laughing, always laughing. She felt sure that Lord Torrance would allow this, that he would never be one of the
ton
gentlemen who expected their children to lead a dreary half-existence cooped up in the nursery.

The duke would be a wonderful father.

“If we are speaking of the duchess’s suite,” said Lord Torrance, “I’d like your opinion of the furnishing for the maid’s bedroom.”

Pam blinked, realizing that her thoughts had once again led her far astray. The lady’s maid, he meant. A young woman, such as Pamela’s Maggie, whose job was twofold; overseeing her lady’s wardrobe, and accompanying the lady on walks such as those Pam took to Green Park.

“Furnishings?” She wasn’t sure what he had in mind.

“The usual, I suppose,” answered the duke. “A decent bed and comfortable chair, a wardrobe, chest of drawers, lamp, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, yes–”

“And perhaps a small bookcase as well. I should think a young girl might enjoy a bit of reading now and again.”

This was far beyond the usual furnishings of such a room. Lady Pamela was charmed by his thoughtfulness, even though she harboured some doubts about the usefulness of a bookcase, and she wondered if the duke realized how few of the London servants could read. She herself had taught more than one coal-boy his letters, and the younger maids were unlikely to know more than the spelling of their own names.

Pam had yet to meet a lady’s maid, moreover, who wouldn’t prefer to spend her spare time flirting with the footmen. Still, it was gratifying to discover that Lord Torrance cared about the servants’ quarters, and was prepared to spend both money and effort on making the rooms pleasant and clean. She had seen homes where the master and mistress lived in luxury while the staff made do with beds of filthy straw in a damp basement.

The bedroom of a lady’s maid, however, was usually near that of her mistress. Lady Pamela had glimpsed this chamber only once, in passing.

“If I could see the room...” she ventured, reminding herself of the duke’s proclamation of friendship. A
friend
could manage to walk by the duchess’s suite without blushing, could she not?

“Of course,” said Lord Torrance. He smiled and stood up, extending his hand to her. “Let me show you at once.”

Lady Pamela placed her hand in his, feeling the shock of contact. His touch was warm, and strong, and she tilted her chin, offering what she hoped was a cheerful, unconcerned smile. Friends. Only friends. It would not do to let Lord Torrance see how his presence affected her.

They climbed the wide, marble staircase to the gallery overlooking the entrance hall. The gallery promenade, balustraded in a semi-circle, afforded a fine view of the foyer and its alcoves below, and when ’twas adequately furnished, thought Pam, ’twould be one of the crowning glories of the house. She imagined plush new carpeting, and elegant wall-papers–nothing too fussy–with a selection of fine Greek amphorae arranged at appropriate intervals along the wall.

The promenade opened into several hallways, each leading in turn to the bedchambers for family and guests. They had not yet reached the hallway for the duchess’s suite when a small
événement
occurred. One moment Lady Pamela and Lord Torrance were walking side by side, the next moment she had paused, her attention caught by the skirting of the balustrade.

’Twas carved with a Greek motif; rosettes and interlaced strings of bay. Lady Pamela thought it very elegant, and was considering how a Greek motif might be carried out throughout the gallery; she bent down to look more closely at the carving.

The duke’s step had carried him a little ahead, and he turned to see Lady Pamela straightening up from her inspection.

“Lady Pamela,” he said. “Please, be careful.”

He stepped toward her, hand outstretched.

Under other circumstances the warning would have been sufficient. Under other circumstances the balustrade would not have been in such dire need of repair. And if Pamela had not been so chronically flustered by the duke’s presence, so sensitive to his every move, perhaps she would not have reacted the way she now did.

As Lord Torrance reached forward to catch her arm, Lady Pamela jumped slightly, her breath catching in her throat. She stepped backwards into the balustrade, which promptly gave way in a series of splintering cracks.

“Oh!”

“Pamela!” shouted the duke, as Pam wobbled, one foot slipping from the edge, her slipper dropping to the marble below. Lord Torrance lunged forward and caught her before she fell, pulling her to him, away from the edge and thence, as they overbalanced, to the gallery carpeting.

“How clumsy–I’m terribly sorry–your poor balusters–” Pam was babbling, nearly incoherent. How mortifying, she thought. How utterly mortifying. The duke had, in fact, warned her about the balustrade, going so far as to insist he accompany her and Lady Detweiler any time they wished to visit the upper floors. And now she had fallen, and
broken
it, and what would Lord Torrance think, to have someone so clumsy–

“What on earth were you doing?” snapped the duke.

You ninnyhammer!
a little voice was exclaiming someplace very near to her ears.
Jumping back as if he were about to attack you!

“I’m terribly sorry–I didn’t mean–”

“I told you to be careful!”

“I’m sorry!” cried Lady Pam again, too flustered to think of a more constructive answer.

She was still attempting to stand, but the duke grabbed her around the waist, refusing to allow her to her feet. He pulled her farther from the balustrade.

“Sit down!” he roared. “Just sit down!”

And so they sat, for a few breathless moments, in the middle of the gallery hall, Lady Pamela in the Duke of Grentham’s lap, his arm wrapped around her like a vise–until Pam burst into laughter.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” she hiccoughed. “I’m so sorry.” She pointed at her feet peeking from the skirt of her day gown–one foot shod, the other not. “My slipper–” Pamela burst into renewed giggles. Tears of mirth streamed from her eyes.

The duke glared at her, and then he, too, began to laugh.

Their laughter continued until they were both breathless and panting, and at some nameless moment Lord Torrance’s grip eased and his hands moved from her waist to her shoulders, and to the back of her neck, and his lips sought hers. He kissed her softly, then passionately, and Pam’s arms reached up, locked around his neck, as she returned his kisses.

He murmured her name, and something else that might have been an apology. Lady Pamela heard only the wild beating of her own heart–and a small voice.

It’s no good, said the voice. He desires you, yes–but despite his own judgment. You cannot love someone who feels that way.

I do love someone who feels that way.

Not forever. Not forever.

But she could not break free, and whether it was Benjamin’s desire that imprisoned her or her own she did not know. They clung together, locked in an embrace, until both heard Mrs. Throckmorton’s voice from below.

“Your grace?”

The housekeeper could not see them unless she climbed the staircase. The duke’s finger went to her lips, and he kissed her again.

“Your grace?” The voice was alarmed, now, and Pamela guessed that Mrs. Throckmorton had seen the remnants of baluster scattered over her clean marble floor.

Oh, no, thought Lady Pamela. ’Tis not only the balusters. My slipper–

Lord Torrance seemed not to care. It’s his house, thought Pamela, and I suppose he can kiss willing females wherever he wants. But Lady Pam was feeling more and more like they were playing out a scene from
The Marquess and the Milkmaid
, and she was loath to see Mrs. Throckmorton’s face should the housekeeper chance to climb the stairs.

And, Pam reminded herself, she was
not
a willing female, and Lord Torrance had no business kissing her, as if the past months of estrangement had never occurred.

“Mmph,” she said, against insistent lips. Lord Torrance grinned at Lady Pamela and pulled her to her feet. He pointed, silently, down the hall. She shook her head.

“What’s this now?” came Mrs. Throckmorton’s voice, and Pam knew–she just knew–that the housekeeper had seen her slipper.

Good grief. Lord Torrance pulled again on her hand and Lady Pamela, feeling resigned, nodded. The duchess’s suite was the direction they had been heading in the first place, after all. And, embarrassed as she was, Pam still felt she might burst into another fit of the giggles at any moment.

They slipped quietly down the hallway and ducked into the duchess’s bedchamber.

“Good grief. Is there no place in this house to find a moment’s worth of peace?”

Amanda was there, reclining on the duchess’s bed, glass in hand.

“The bed is revolting, I must say,” said Lady Detweiler. “But this,” she added, nodding at the glass, “is a truly first rate brandy.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lady Pamela paced the floor of her boudoir, unable to sleep. She raised a hand to her cheek, remembering the touch of the duke’s lips against her skin.

A broken balustrade, a near fall...and long minutes of hunger, held tightly within the duke’s arms. But their renewed intimacy had lasted no more than minutes, and for once ’twas the fault of Amanda. Lady Detweiler’s unexpected presence in the duchess’s rooms had put a quick end to whatever else might have happened between Lord Torrance and Pam.

And by the next morning, the moment seemed to have passed, lost forever. The duke greeted them as before at the door of Marchers, he smiled as before, was as considerate and cheerful as before. But something had changed.

Or rather, thought Pamela,
nothing
had changed. ’Twas as if she had never fallen and been dragged into the duke’s lap. As if they had never laughed together until laughter became desire, as if Lord Torrance had not covered her mouth in his.

The days passed, and the duke gave no sign he remembered any of it.

What might have happened? she wondered during the long hours of the subsequent nights, nights she often spent pacing the floor. What might have happened if Mrs. Throckmorton had not appeared below, or if Amanda had chosen to nap, once again, in the music room?

But as it was, nothing, and Lady Pamela began to wish that the incident had been only another of her many dreams about Lord Torrance. Blighted hope was far more painful to endure than no hope at all.

* * * *

The duke spent another restless night, dreaming this time of Virginia, and of a woman he had known there, a young widow with whom he had spent a number of pleasant hours.

Exceedingly pleasant hours.

Benjamin and Kathleen–the widow–had found themselves sharing a dance one evening, at the home of a mutual friend, and common interests had drawn them together. Kathleen had an abiding fascination with the old world overseas, a world she had never visited. The duke, weary of explaining himself time and again to people who saw evil in every British gentleman, found her company relaxing. Their conversations had turned to something more, an association that had lasted for several years. But then the widow found herself courted by a worthy young doctor, and Benjamin had bid her an affectionate farewell.

In his dream, the widow’s face was that of Lady Pamela, and yet she was not, could not, be Lady Pamela. Benjamin had never loved Kathleen, nor she him. They lay together on the green grass of a hillside near Charlottesville, and talked and laughed...

Lord Torrance awoke, and turned restlessly in the bed. He had not thought of the widow for several years and, if truth be told, he could hardly recall her face, or what they may have spoken of in the small hours of the night. He remembered the lovemaking, however. Kathleen had been a passionate, uninhibited partner, and Benjamin had found this an appealing trait, enjoyed knowing that the woman with whom he shared a bed was as eager as he.

He had not despised the widow who, in an otherwise lonely life, had taken some pleasure outside of the usual bounds of Virginia society. Had he? Had he despised himself for taking that same pleasure?