Simply Scandalous (33 page)

"I can make myself agreeable when I want."

"You are able to laugh at yourself, at least," she said
grudgingly. "You're not pompous."

"No, indeed," he laughed. "Of pomposity, I am
never accused. I'll never be perfect like your seafaring cousin, but I ain't pompous."

"I sometimes think that if Horatio had been born
into wealth and privilege as you were, he might be a
very bad man," Juliet confessed. For want of anything else to do, she replaced her book on the table
and pretended to select another from the stack. "Perhaps I wrong him, but I think if he were a marquess,
he might be very pompous indeed."

"I think he is very pompous indeed already," said
Swale, also pretending to select a book. "Why should
I not drink Madeira if I like it?"

"Or Malta? Or Mallorca?" said Juliet, laughing.
"Who is he to tell your lordship not to drink this
island or that?"

"Precisely," said Swale. "I don't tell him to raise
the mainsail or weigh anchor, do I?"

"Yes, I think you're right about poor Horatio,"
Juliet said with a laugh. "He is pompous. And there's
some talk of elevating him to the knighthood. Only
think how pompous he'll be when we have to call him
Sir Horatio! "

"You would not wish to marry a pompous man," he
said. "You would find it tedious."

She sobered, suddenly ashamed of herself for
making fun of her cousin. "There are worse qualities,"
she said rather primly. "For example, I know a man
who throws knitting baskets."

He grinned. "On the occasion to which you refer,
Miss Wayborn, I was sorely provoked, and by the
most impudent young miss I ever met in my whole
life! Under the circs, I'd say I was restrained."

"Our notions of restraint clearly differ," she said.
"But on that occasion, we were neither of us restrained, I think," she conceded.

"You certainly weren't," he said. "You accused me
of every crime in the calendar and threw yarn at me,
too. That is not the treatment, you know, which my
situation in life has accustomed me to receive from
single young ladies. Just between us, Miss Juliet, there
is something worse than cold soup, and that is a
woman pretending to like you when in fact, she does
no such thing."

She felt her color rising. Had he discovered Serena's
sham? "So I would imagine," she murmured.

"If a woman is inclined to fling her knitting at my
head, I should a thousand times prefer her to do that rather than grit her teeth, smile at me sickly, and
milord me."

"But then you would be covered in knitting," she
pointed out. "No, you must allow us to practice our
forbearance and civility on you, as you practice yours
upon us. You must allow us to grit our teeth, smile at
you sickly, and milord you. In this way, a great deal of
unpleasantness is avoided, and much knitting saved."

"Practice away, dear lady," he said cheerfully. "And
I too shall practice restraint."

"No, you must be as provoking as possible," she told
him with mock seriousness. "The greater the provocation, the greater the triumph of overcoming the
urge to assault you."

"I wouldn't know where to begin provoking you,"
he protested, laughing.

"Wouldn't you?" she retorted, sitting down with
her book, which turned out, horribly enough, to be
Adam Smith's The Wealth of Nations. "It is scarcely
gratifying to be told one is reminiscent of a favorite
dog," she informed him. "I can assure you I have
practiced a great deal of restraint on you already!"

He frowned. "Dammit, you don't remind me of a
dog just your hair. It's long and silky and sort of
brown just like Daphne's. But that is where the resemblance ends, sadly. Your eyes are gray, not brown;
you have only two legs; your ears are far too small...."

In spite of herself, Juliet began to laugh.

"She used to knock me down and lick my face," said
Swale, becoming wistful. "How I miss Daphne. Did you
never have a dog, Miss Wayborn?"

She shook her head. "My aunt doesn't like dogs in
the house. The barking gives her migraines. And
since Benedict was hurt by a dog, there's never been
one in this house."

"I'd forgotten that," Swale said. "But surely, you're
not afraid of dogs?"

"Oh no," she replied. "I daresay I know every farm
dog in the parish, and my Tanglewood cousins keep
dogs at the Vicarage. You must remember Sailor?"

"The little spaniel? His paw is better, I hope."

"Yes, thank you," she said. Nothing made her feel
more guilty about putting him in Hastings than remembering how kind he had been to the Vicarage
dog. "Some days, I wish I had a dog to take with me
on my walks here. They are pleasant companions. One
doesn't always like to ride, you know, and a dog is just
the thing. I'd often take Sailor on walks when I was
with my cousins."

"And when you are established in your own home,
you will have dogs?"

"I should like to," she said slowly. "But what if my
husband does not like dogs?"

"He will," Swale told her, but before she could
question his assurance, Sir Benedict joined them.
Billy had delivered Swale's note to Silvercombe and
had returned with a reply, which Benedict now
handed to his guest.

Juliet concentrated very hard on her book while
Swale went to one corner of the room and broke the
seal of his letter. Several minutes passed awkwardly
before Cary arrived, escorting Lady Elkins, and they
were able to go across the hall to the dining room.

The meal was accompanied by very little conversation. Benedict had nothing to say to his guest; Cary
did little but complain to his sister about the various
dishes set before him; and Lady Elkins, still miffed that
Lord Swale had spurned her niece in favor of the rich
and beautiful Lady Serena, preserved an icy silence, though his lordship inquired solicitously about her
headache.

Swale sat alone in the middle of the long table opposite Juliet and Cary, who sat together, Juliet at
Benedict's right and Cary at Lady Elkins's left. Juliet,
who had begun the meal as determined as her aunt
to punish Lord Swale's presumption with silence,
soon felt the pangs of a guilty conscience. Whatever
Swale was guilty of, he was behaving just now as a gentleman ought, while the proud Wayborn family was
behaving with the utmost incivility to a guest.

Benedict seemed to feel it too as Swale cordially
complimented his host on the house and grounds that
Juliet had shown him that afternoon. "I trust," said the
baronet, "that your lordship is very comfortably settled in Runnymede?"

"Runnymede!" Swale exclaimed, flashing a look
at Juliet. The color rose in her cheeks, but she glared
back at him defiantly.

"My mother had a fanciful streak," Benedict said
with some slight embarrassment. "She named all our
guest rooms after famous battles. When she came here
as a young bride, she was quite impressed with the
long history of the Wayborns."

"Runnymede," Swale said gravely, casting Juliet a
look of strong reproach, "is an excessively comfortable
chamber, thank you, Sir Benedict."

"You have an excellent view of the village and the
church from the windows," said Sir Benedict complacently. "And if you should require anything else,
don't hesitate to tell the servants."

Juliet cringed as she thought of the ivy-encrusted
window in Hastings.

"The view from my window is indeed extraordinary,"
said Swale. As he spoke, the servants removed the second course, and a covered dish was placed before
him. The footman lifted the silver lid to reveal a
proud little wheel of white cheese and nothing else.

"Ah," said Swale. At least it was not on fire.

Sir Benedict hastily set down his knife and fork.
"Good God!" he softly exclaimed. "What is that appalling object?"

Juliet smiled with feigned innocence. "It's a cheese.
His lordship is very fond of cheese."

"Indeed I am," Swale said with forced cheer. "But
you need not have done anything special for me,
Miss Wayborn."

She blinked at him. "Did you not command me to
serve you cheese, my lord?"

"I? Command you?"

"Aunt Elinor, you are my witness. Did his lordship
not say to me `I would eat cheese'?"

"I can't think what he said," Lady Elkins replied
crossly. "My head was throbbing so!"

"I said I would even eat cheese, Miss Wayborn,"
Swale corrected her gently. "I meant you were to
order your table as usual without any thought to
me.

"Dear me,"Juliet murmured. "I understood you to
mean that you would eat nothing but cheese. I went
to a great deal of trouble to secure a suitable quantity for a man of your appetite. This cheese is from the
Home Farm. Mr. Quince tells me it is a very brisk
seller on Fair days. Apparently, the people eat it with
hunks of bread and wash it down with ale or stout."

"Thank you, Miss Wayborn. I daresay cheese is not
a fashionable dish. I daresay my tastes are boorish and
unrefined, but I do like it."

Lady Elkins turned away in disgust, but Juliet and
her brothers watched, fascinated, as the marquess cut a wedge of cheese and consumed it with every appearance of enjoyment. "Delightful!" he pronounced.
"Miss Wayborn, you may tell Farmer Quince he has
produced the finest cheese in all England. Such a delicate, smoky flavor! I approve. I should like to roast
it on a stick."

"Roast it on a stick?"Juliet echoed, her eyes round.
"Whatever do you mean?"

"One cuts it into wedges, puts it on a stick, and
roasts it over a fire," he clarified. "It sounds quite
savage, I know, but it is one of the truly delicious
things in life. Why should it be that only peasants
enjoy cheese? Or potatoes, for that matter?"

"Do potatoes truly enjoy cheese?"Juliet wondered.
"I had no idea."

Benedict recoiled. "Potatoes! Juliet, pray do not tell
me you mean to put potatoes on my table? I put my foot
down at potatoes."

"Certainly not," she said faintly. "But you have not
finished your cheese, my lord. Shall I send it back to
the kitchen and have it roasted on a stick for you?"

"I should like that very much indeed, Miss Wayborn," he replied. "However, I am learning to practice restraint, no matter how great the provocation."

"Provocation, my lord?" Juliet inquired. "Has the
cheese provoked you in some way?"

He grinned at her. "What sort of man do you think
me, Miss Wayborn, to be provoked by a cheese? No
matter the temptation, I should have said. Though I am
sorely tempted to have my cheese roasted on a stick,
I shall restrain myself. It will be good practice for me."

"Do you require a great deal of practice in selfrestraint, sir?"

Sir Benedict clearly was not enjoying his sister's
conversation with Lord Swale. "I believe," he interrupted, looking at Juliet so gravely that she blushed, "that we all
require some practice in self-restraint."

"For example, some young ladies talk too much,"
Cary added rudely, "and wear too little."

"And some young men grow mold on their faces!"
Juliet responded in kind.

"Magpie," he muttered under his breath, stroking
his little beard protectively.

"Mossy!" she hissed back.

Benedict appealed to Lady Elkins to withdraw,
which she could scarcely do quickly enough. As Juliet
rose to follow her aunt to the drawing room, Cary
caught her hand and whispered to her fiercely, "For
God's sake, put a shawl on or something! The insolent wretch has been staring at your shoulders all
evening."

Startled, Juliet looked at Swale for some confirmation of his interest but found none. His lordship
was wholly occupied in brushing crumbs from his
waistcoat.

The gentlemen were not long parted from the
ladies, and Cary scowled at Juliet when he entered the
drawing room and saw she had disdained his advice
to cover herself up. "I am not in the least cold, thank
you," she told him sharply when he offered to fetch
her shawl.

Since there was no hope for civil conversation, the
four young people agreed to play at whist, while Lady
Elkins, pleading headache, went up to her room supported by her maid.

Juliet accepted Swale as a partner, and it proved an
unhappy, if not disastrous, alliance. He was consistently bold but only occasionally brilliant. His attention would wander if he sensed the rubber was lost,
and when this was the case, their losses were greater than necessary due to his carelessness. Her caution irritated him; he liked to play large so that his winnings
might offset his losses. This style of play was entirely
foreign to her, and she found herself making blunders, which increased his irritation.

Yet Cary and Sir Benedict were even more illmatched, for where Swale was merely bold, Gary was
reckless; and between Cary's wildness and Swale's
unpredictability, Benedict's well-ordered mind was
confounded again and again. In the end, Juliet and
Swale won, though not by as much as his lordship
would have liked. "If you had only trusted me a little,"
he complained, and she retorted that she had trusted
him more than he deserved.

At nine o'clock, Juliet went upstairs, and not long
after that, Cary and Benedict withdrew, the former
pleading exhaustion and the latter pleading business accounts requiring his attention. Swale took his
candle and mounted the lonely western stairs to
Hastings. The chamber was dark and frigid, and he
shivered as he undressed and pulled his nightshirt
over his head. The coal scuttle was empty of coal, but
he did find a few pieces of what appeared to be a
broken spindle.

The bell rope, when he found it, came away in his
hand.

"Restraint," he told himself firmly. He was Geoffrey
Ambler, Marquess of Swale. He would not be defeated by Hastings. He was not helpless. He had ingenuity and intelligence. An investigation of the
fireplace unearthed an ancient bedwarmer, which
consisted of a large covered pan of copper mounted
on a pole. The pan was discovered to contain nearly
two dozen old coals that were, of course, ice cold now.
He emptied them into the grate and lit them with his own matches, hoping to add the broken spindle to the
flames.