Lord Deverill's Heir (18 page)

She stared up at him, at his mouth, and said without hesitation, “When?” He chuckled and released her hand. “I want nothing more than to have you all to myself right at this moment. Damnation. I have patients.”

“Tomorrow then,” she said.

He took the plunge. “You know, Ann, the fishpond is lovely this time of year. Do you think you would enjoy a stroll around its perimeter tomorrow afternoon, say at one o’clock?” Actually he was seeing her on her back, her beautiful hair spread out about her face, lying in the midst of daffodils. He swallowed. He was losing his mind.

Again, she said without hesitation, “I think I should like it above all things.”

Dr. Branyon forgot the years he had spent without her, thinking now to the future. Actually, he was thinking about tomorrow at the fishpond.

“Just maybe life is perfect.” He rested his hand lightly against her cheek and smiled at her tenderly.

“Tonight for dinner and I swear I will observe. Then, tomorrow at one o’clock, dearest Ann.” He turned and strode down the front steps to his waiting horse, his step light and confident. He waved to her before he wheeled his horse about and cantered down the graveled drive.

“Yes, Paul, just maybe life will be perfect.” She felt so full of happiness that, absurdly, she wanted to run after the retreating stable lad and fling her arms around him. She hugged herself instead.

By the time she returned to the drawing room, she had dimmed the outrageous sparkle in her eyes. She thought that only Justin would notice a change in her. But then, in all likelihood, Justin would not be there.

She was surprised to find only the comte in the drawing room. She smiled at him, a blond brow arched upward.

“Ma petite cousine wished to retire to her room to compose herself for dinner. I believe she is fatigued.” He gave her a charming shrug, all French and meaningless.

“I see,” she said. How she wished now he had gone away to compose himself as well, or that she had gone directly to her room, or perhaps to the parterre. She wanted to be alone, to turn over each of Paul’s words in her mind, to savor the implications, just to picture him in her mind and smile with what might come, what might happen.

“Lady Ann, I am delighted that at last I can speak with you alone,” the comte said suddenly, sitting forward in his chair, his voice intense.

“You see, chère madame, only you can tell me about my aunt Magdalaine.”

“Magdalaine? But, Gervaise, I hardly know anything about her. She died before I met the former earl. Surely Magdalaine’s brother, your father, would know far more than I and—”

He shook his head. “It is of the most unfortunate, but he could only tell me of her girlhood in France. Even on that, his brain was muddled. He knew nothing of her life in England. Please, tell me what you know of her. Surely you must know something.”

“Very well, but let me think a moment.” Goodness, she knew so little, she wasn’t lying about that. She jostled her memory, piecing together bits of information about her husband’s first wife. “I believe the earl met your aunt while on a visit to the French court in 1788. I do not know the sequence of events, only that they were wed quite soon at the Trécassis château and returned to England shortly thereafter. Elsbeth, as you know, was born in 1789, but a year after their marriage.” She paused and smiled at the very beautiful young man. “Of course, Gervaise, you cannot be much older than Elsbeth yourself. I imagine that you were born near to the same time.”

The comte shrugged in vague agreement and waved his elegant hands for her to continue.

“Now I come to the point where I am not certain of my facts. I believe Magdalaine returned to France shortly after the revolution broke out. I do not know her reason for traveling at such a dangerous time.” She shook her head. “You, I am certain, know the rest. Unfortunately, she became ill soon after her return to Evesham Abbey and died here in 1790.”

“You know nothing more, madame?”

“No, I’m sorry, Gervaise.” It was nice that he wanted to know more about his aunt, but surely this disappointment of his at how little she knew was a bit much. She thought about Paul. What a lovely name.

The comte sat back in his chair and drummed his slender fingertips together. He said slowly, his eyes intent on Lady Ann’s face, “It would seem that I can add to your store of knowledge. I do not wish to wound you, Lady Ann, but it seems that when your late husband came to France in 1787, his fortune was—what do you English say?—ah yes, his fortune was sadly in need of repairs. My father, Magdalaine’s elder brother, told me that the Comte de Trécassis offered the earl a huge sum of money upon the marriage. There was an additional portion of her dot that was to be paid later, upon fulfilling certain conditions.” Lady Ann was silent for a moment, her thoughts drawn back to her own huge dowry and the earl’s none-too-subtle haste in wishing to marry her. She remembered her bitter disillusion as a shy, self-conscious girl who had inadvertently overheard her betrothed blithely tell one of his friends that her dowry hadn’t been quite as plump as his mistress, but she was the daughter of a marquess, and surely that must mean something. He’d added that he hoped her virgin’s blood would not be a boring red.

It occurred to her now to wonder why the Comte de Trécassis would offer such a huge dowry for Magdalaine’s hand. After all, Magdalaine’s lineage was impeccable, the Trécassis being mixed in bloodline to the Capets. It was almost as if her dowry were some sort of bribe. Now that was odd. Why?

The comte rose and straightened his yellow-patterned waistcoat. He really was quite a handsome young man, and those dark eyes of his, well—“Do forgive me, chère madame, for taking so much of your time.” Lady Ann shook away eighteen-year-old memories and smiled. “I’m sorry, Gervaise, that I could not tell you more. But, you see”—she splayed her white hands—“Magdalaine and your family were hardly ever mentioned in my presence.” She knew it wasn’t because her husband had dearly loved his first wife. No, just look what he had done to poor Elsbeth. No, there had been no more love, no more caring for poor Magdalaine than he’d had for her.

“How true. What man would want to speak of his first wife to his current wife? Oh, Lady Ann, I neglected to tell you that I find the pearls you are wearing most elegant. As the Countess of Strafford, your jewel box must be under guard. It must be gratifying, non?”

“Thank you, Gervaise,” she said, not even hearing him for she was thinking again of Paul. She would see him in but three hours. Surely that was too long a time without him.

“Oh, the Strafford jewels,” she said, bringing her attention back to him.

“I assure you they are so paltry that the Prince Regent would not even deign to give them to Princess Caroline, whom, I understand, he holds in great dislike.”

“That is must curious, I think,” the comte said. “Most curious indeed.”

“Yes, if you say so. One wonders how such an alliance could be formed with the mutual distaste apparent in both parties.”

“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly. It is the royal way, chère madame.” He bowed over her hand, then strolled from the drawing room.

Lady Ann shook out her skirts and walked to the door. Perhaps she would wear the pink silk gown tomorrow, with its rows of tiny satin rosebuds.

Surely it was not so very bad to break the monotony of her black mourning just one time. As she mounted the stairs to her room, she thought of the rather daring expanse of white bosom revealed by the gown, and smiled wickedly. It was an Arabella smile, she thought, or at least it was an Arabella smile before she had married Justin.

Oh, dear.

Dinner that evening was set back because the smithy had been trying to shoe Squire Jamison’s black beast of a stallion and the brute had bitten his shoulder. “Poor fellow,” Dr. Branyon said with a sympathetic shake of his head, “he was furious at himself and he wanted to kill the horse. He said that damned horse would never wear a shoe again for all he cared.” Certainly his story was not all that amusing, Dr. Branyon thought as he led Lady Ann in to dinner, but nevertheless it deserved better than the strained smiles it received from the earl and Arabella. The comte had laughed in that French way of his that Dr. Branyon didn’t really appreciate. Elsbeth smiled demurely, as one would have expected her to, but not quite in her usual way.

Dr. Branyon found his eyes drawn to Elsbeth again as they entered the dining room. He had carelessly described her to Lady Ann just last week as a ‘diffident little girl, afraid at any moment that an adult would send her to her bedchamber with a slice of moldy bread and water.’ Now he was not quite so sure. There seemed to be a new self-assurance about her, her quietness borne of a kind of confidence rather than her fear of putting herself forward. It must be her inheritance from her father. She finally realized that she had value. That she’d had value to her father, a man she had undoubtedly worshiped all her life. It was a pity that it had taken a good deal of money to make her reach that conclusion.

“Come, Arabella,” Lady Ann said, “you are now the Countess of Strafford and it is now your duty to sit in the countess’s chair.” Arabella stared blankly at her mother for a moment, her hand already on her own chair. Oh God, her mother was right. She was the Countess of Strafford. No, it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to do anything that would make her feel more bound to the earl than she already was. She shook her head. “Oh, no, Mother, I have no wish to take your place. It is altogether ridiculous. I will keep my usual seat.” Arabella’s knuckles showed white on the back of her chair as the earl said in a calm, bored voice, “Lady Ann is quite correct, Arabella. As the Countess of Strafford, it is only proper that you take your place at the foot of the table. This way, every time you look up, you will see your husband. Does that not gratify you?”

Yes, indeed, she thought. It was bloody wonderful. Eating and then looking at him would surely make her stomach hurt. She meant to speak lightly, but her voice came out thin and shrill. “Father always called it the bottom of the table. Come, let us cease this nonsense, my roast pork grows more leathery by the moment. Mother, please, keep your place.”

“You will sit yourself where appropriate, madam. Giles, will you kindly assist her ladyship into her place?”

The second footman, never having rubbed Lady Arabella against her grain in all her eighteen years, turned beseeching eyes to Lady Ann.

“Come, my dear,” Lady Ann said very quietly, “do allow Giles to seat you.” Oh drat, she should never have raised the matter in the first place. It had given Justin more ammunition. But why did he want to use it? Arabella looked white with strain. She also hadn’t moved. Lady Ann waited with held breath to see if Arabella would turn the dining room into a battleground.

Arabella wanted to hurl the chair at her husband. She wanted to hurl all the knives at him as well. But she knew she couldn’t. If she continued to resist, everyone would quite clearly see that all was not right between them. She cursed beneath her breath. Only Giles heard her. She thought he would faint when she turned to tell him she would take the bloody chair.

She managed to smile.

Following a very silent first course of turtle soup, Dr. Branyon asked the earl, “Have you made the acquaintance of old Hamsworth, Justin?” A slight smile indented the corners of the earl’s mouth. “A testy old curmudgeon and a tenant who has well served the land. He provided me with quite a long list of the improvements he wished to see made on the estate. He told me I was probably too young to step into the old earl’s boots, but he would try to help me stay on the proper course. He even provided me with hours he would be available to me.”

“He was forever doing the same with Father,” Arabella said without thinking. “Always telling him he should do this and not that. Father ground his teeth. But he never lost his temper with Hamsworth.”

“And what was the outcome?” the earl asked, his eyes meeting hers down the long expanse of table.

“Father never listened to him, so Hamsworth was forever trying to bribe me.”

Justin thought of the leering old man and his vulgar observations on one of the milkmaids, and felt his hand tighten about his fork. “Oh? What were his bribes?” His tone was so very harsh that Elsbeth’s almond eyes flew from her sautéed mushrooms to his face in confusion. Even the comte laid down his fork and stared at the earl.

Arabella felt an uncontrollable demon burgeon inside her. Why not? She allowed a knowing smiling to flit over her face and raised her brows.

“How very odd that you should ask, my lord. When I was five years old, his bribes took the form of apples from his orchard. Of course, as I grew older, old Hamsworth became more creative. Goodness, some of the things he offered to show me still make me blush. Of course, then he wasn’t all that old.”

Her reward for so outlandish a tale was a dull flush of anger that spread over her husband’s tanned face. She returned to her dinner, finding that if her pork was not actually leather, it tasted so in her mouth. She was only dimly aware throughout the remainder of the meal that her mother and Dr. Branyon conversed almost solely with Elsbeth and the comte.

“Arabella.”

She raised her head at the sound of her name. Lady Ann continued softly,

“Whenever you would like the ladies to withdraw, you have but to rise.” What an awesome power, to be sure, and she had not even thought of it.

Swiftly she pushed back her chair, leaving poor Giles in the lurch, and rose. “If you gentlemen will excuse us, we will leave you to your port.” How very simple it was. She was free. She looked the earl straight in the face, then turned on her heel and strode so quickly from the dining room that Lady Ann and Elsbeth were taking double steps to keep pace with her.

“Whatever is wrong with Arabella?” Elsbeth whispered to Lady Ann as they trailed after her into the Velvet Room. “And his lordship? He spoke to her so very coldly. Indeed, I thought he looked angry, but surely that cannot be right. They are newly married. It can’t be right.”

“Sometimes, my dear,” Lady Ann said finally, “married people, when they are first wed, do not always agree. It is a lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. Don’t worry about it. These things pass quickly.” If only she could believe that. Dear Elsbeth, she thought, how very innocent she was. It seemed that Elsbeth had accepted her simple explanation, her attention already elsewhere, perhaps to her future Season in London. Yet, Lady Ann was puzzled, for it had been days since Elsbeth had made any reference either to her ten thousand pounds or to their trip. Nothing was quite right.