The Madcap (17 page)

He had an expensive estate that could no longer support itself with its tenant rents. He had an overbearing
mother who would not relinquish the household reins
without a struggle. He had a high-priced friendship
with the Prince of Wales, a friendship that sucked his
coffers as dry as his estate did. Marianne would see
all that; she was too smart not to. And she would wonder how much of his courtship was, indeed, predicated
on the worth of her dowry and how much was based on
genuine affection. Would he ever be able to convince
her that his heart was enough?

Alasdair raised his head to the night sky and drew a
deep breath. No one had ever mentioned how difficult
it was to court an heiress. The money seemed to get in
the way.

The days before the prince’s arrival were a frenzy of
activity. Tradesmen and workmen from the village
swarmed the length and breadth of Highborough from
the gardens to the garrets where trunks of carefully
packed linens and expensive bed curtains were being
unearthed and placed in chambers that had, until recently, housed bare bed frames.

“It’s almost as if the house is putting on a ball gown
or a grand costume,” Marianne remarked to Alasdair
while they wrestled a trunk into large bedchamber.

“It’s the aristocratic version of economizing,” Alasdair said wryly, tugging loose the wide leather straps
that had been holding the trunk shut. “It’s an expensive
honor to entertain the prince. Some people spend a
year getting ready for his visit. One lady I know even built a special conservatory just for the royal visit.”
Alasdair threw back the heavy lid. A strong scent of
lavender and rue filled the air almost immediately.

Marianne reached through layers of tissue paper
and pulled out the sheets on top. She shook out the exquisitely hemmed Irish linen. “No stains. The trunk
has preserved them beautifully but they’ll have to be
pressed.”

“I haven’t found a way to prevent wrinkles yet.”
Alasdair took the linen from her and studied it.

Marianne stared into the trunk so reminiscent of the
trunks that had contained her dresses from Worth. An
idea came to her. “When everything is packed up next
time, we should try to emulate Worth’s packing methods. They ship dresses across the Atlantic and the
gowns arrive without being crushed. I think it’s due to
the layers of bedding he uses to cushion the gowns
and keep them from wrinkling,” Marianne suggested.

Alasdair gave her a queer look. For a moment she
wondered if she’d said something wrong. Then his face
split into a wide smile and an intangible spark connected them in that moment. “I do believe you’ve got
something there. We’ll try it. If it works, you will have
won the housekeeper’s admiration forever. She’s got
three girls from the village down there right now doing
nothing but pressing linens. Goodness knows we could
put those girls to better use if we could spare them”

Marianne smiled back, a butterfly of excitement making a small flutter in her stomach. She enjoyed
working with Alasdair. Doing a project with him was
quite different than strolling through London or perusing the bookshelves of Hatchards or dancing with him
at a ball. This was real work; they were creating something from their efforts. When they finished with a
trunk, a room was transformed into a lovely vision.

A maid popped into the room, loaded down with a
basket of freshly pressed linens. Marianne traded her
the clean linen for the wrinkled. She snapped open a
sheet, laughing as Alasdair struggled to catch the fluttering ends that came his way.

“Surely you don’t expect me to make this bed up?”
Alasdair asked, laughter in his tone at being overcome
by quantities of flowing white linen.

“Surely I do, sirrah,” Marianne scolded playfully,
dragging her edge of the sheet to the far side of the
massive bed. She smoothed the sheet onto the mattress
and began to tuck it neatly under the mattress edge.
However, she noted that Alasdair had stopped, his side
of the linen hanging down to the floor. “You have to
tuck it under,” Marianne explained.

“Ah, of course” Alasdair set about tucking, but she
saw immediately that his tucking more closely resembled stuffing.

“Stop” Marianne put her hands on her hips and
faced him squarely. “Have you ever actually made up
a bed?”

“Not that I can recall, frankly.” Alasdair’s voice carried a tone of humility to it but his eyes were full of
mocking mischief. He was trying not to laugh.

Marianne gave in to mirth at the sight of his boyish
penitence. “Alasdair Braden, I declare, you are hopeless” She shook her head.

“Well, there is one thing I am good at in the bedroom,” he said with a seriousness that took Marianne
entirely off guard. She wasn’t sure how to reply to that.
Surely he didn’t mean to imply what she was thinking.

She decided to play it cool. “And what, precisely, is
that?”

“Why, it’s pillow fights, of course. What did you
think I meant?” His eyes widened in deliberate innocence. “Why, Marianne Addison, were you having impure thoughts? I have just the cure. We’ll beat them out
of you” In one lightning movement Alasdair swooped
up a pillow from the pile on the floor and fired it across
the wide bed.

Marianne gave a little scream and nimbly dodged the
feather bullet. She grabbed up her skirts and jumped
onto the bed, making straight for the pile of pillows.

War ensued.

She grabbed a pillow and pummeled Alasdair with
it while he tried, only somewhat successfully, to use
his pillow as a shield.

“Dear Lord, you’re a virago!” Alasdair exclaimed
as feathers flew in the chamber above his head.

Marianne was laughing too hard to see his next move until it was too late. Alasdair gave up his pillow
shield and charged her like a bull, catching her about
the waist and bearing her down on the mattress, thereby forcing her pillow to fly out of her grasp. Alasdair
pinned her to the bed, both of them gasping for breath
after their laughter and exertions.

“Cry mercy, minx.” Alasdair laid down his terms of
surrender.

Marianne drew a deep breath, her lack of air having
nothing to do any longer with the exertions of their
pillow fight and everything to do with the proximity of
Alasdair’s body to hers. She could see the amusement
in his dark eyes and something else too-perhaps desire looked like that, like he would devour her if he
could. There was something dangerous and tempting
in that notion. For a second, she thought he would kiss
her, and maybe he would have if Audrey hadn’t intervened in such a timely fashion.

“What is going on in here? I heard all the commotion downstairs . . “Audrey’s teasing tone faded at the
sight of them. “Oh, excuse me,” she faltered uncharacteristically. She recovered the next moment, all efficient action.

“Alasdair, get up. Do you want your mother to catch
you like that? She’s on her way up. You’re lucky I’m
faster on the stairs than she is.”

“We were having a pillow fight,” Alasdair explained
defensively. He released Marianne and climbed off
the bed. “We were doing nothing wrong just having a little fun, Aud. Being caught having a pillow fight is
hardly the same as being caught in flagrante delicto.”
Alasdair gave an awkward cough. “Ah, hello Sarah, I
suppose you heard the noise too” Sarah Stewart’s
dark head appeared in the door frame behind Audrey’s
auburn curls.

Marianne sat up. She could see Sarah’s eyes darting
from her to Alasdair, her mind clearly working to piece
together the episode. Marianne winced as Sarah came
to the most obvious and correct conclusion: a pillow
fight, certainly-the feathers were evidence of thatbut a pillow fight that had gone a bit too far and that
might have gone even farther if they’d been allowed to
follow the course of things.

Marianne was swamped with guilt. Perhaps she
imagined a look of hurt sweep Sarah’s features briefly,
or perhaps it really had. While she knew Alasdair’s
feelings in regard to Sarah, she had not ascertained the
true depth of Sarah’s feelings toward Alasdair. She’d
thought Sarah looked upon Alasdair with the affection of a friend last night, but it was entirely possible
she’d seen what she wanted to see, what she wanted
to believe. Sarah had stood as her friend, welcoming
her openly last night. Marianne owed her better than
this.

Marianne slid off the bed and began repairing the
damage to the rumpled sheet. Alasdair’s mother could
be heard coming down the hall.

“What has happened here? We’re supposed to be getting the rooms ready, not destroying them,” she huffed.
“It’s bad enough we have to do anything at all.” She’d
been sorely put out by Audrey’s suggestion, that morning, that every hand available should pitch in to help
ready Highborough for the impending royal visit.

She threw up her hands in disgust. “This is what
happens when one asks a viscount to make a bed”

“It won’t take long to clean this up,” Marianne said,
already pushing the loose feathers into a pile with her
hands.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Audrey replied, shooting her
a sharp look that Marianne could not dismiss. “All
right, everyone back to your projects” She made a
shooing motion with her hands and dispersed the little
group, leaving Marianne and Alasdair alone.

“I’m sorry,” Alasdair began, once more the reserved
Englishman who’d met her on the steps.

“Don’t be” Marianne smiled. “That is, unless you
didn’t think it was fun?”

His reserve melted. “Well played, Marianne. It was
great fun. It’s not every day a viscount gets to engage
in all-out pillow warfare.”

“Nor is it every day a viscount learns to make a bed.”
Marianne eyed the half-made bed with serious intent.
“Back to work. I believe we left off with tucking. Not
stuffing, mind you, tucking.”

They worked companionably after that, finishing the bed and laying linen towels out for the guest who
would occupy that room during the house party.

Marianne fluffed the last pillow and stepped back to
survey their handiwork.

“Does it pass inspection?” Alasdair asked, coming
to her side.

“Yes, it does. You’ve done well for a beginner.”

“We make a good team, Marianne,” he said quietly,
all teasing gone from his tone and his eyes.

“Thank you,” Marianne responded in kind.

“Marianne, may I kiss you? I find myself quite suddenly overwhelmed by your domestic talents.”

Marianne shook her head, and her hand pressed his.
“No, it wouldn’t be right. There are things to be sorted
out with Sarah first. I couldn’t kiss you knowing that
our being together has caused her pain,” Marianne said
softly, hoping Alasdair understood.

“Sarah and I talked before your arrival. She has no
expectations of me. I’ve told her I will not be pursuing
her hand. She assured me she was relieved to hear it.”

“What else was she to say? Was she to throw a
tantrum? She knew there was nothing she could do to
dissuade you from your decision. A lady could do nothing more than prove appreciative of your plans.” Marianne touched his arm lightly. “I’ll speak with her after
lunch. It will make me feel better.”

In the drowsy hours of the afternoon, Sarah and
Marianne strolled the parkland that led out to the Highborough summerhouse. The others had succumbed
to the warm afternoon and were resting, except for Alasdair whom they’d left on the back terrace with a book.

“I am sorry about this morning,” Marianne began,
idly picking a meadow wildflower that grew along the
path.

Sarah pretended ignorance. “Sorry for what?”

“For the pillow fight,” Marianne said bluntly.

Sarah tried to dismiss her efforts. “No one should
have to apologize for having a little fun”

“Don’t do that, Sarah” Marianne came to a stop in
the path and faced her new friend. “Don’t pretend that
you didn’t understand the scene fully. The pillow fight
became something substantially more than its original
intent.”

Sarah said nothing and they walked a ways in silence. When it became apparent that Sarah would
not venture anything further in the conversation, Marianne said, “I know there was talk of you and Alasdair
marrying.”

“There was only ever talk, nothing more” Sarah’s
face sported a wistful smile. “He has informed me
most politely that his intentions do not lie in that direction.”

“I am sorry. I feel as if it’s my fault” Marianne felt
wretched. She and Alasdair had fallen in love. They
could not help it, and in truth, she hadn’t known of the
situation with Sarah until it had become too late to
withdraw her affections.

Sarah put a gentle hand on Marianne’s arm. “My
dear, it’s not your fault. You didn’t cause him not to
want to marry me. He’s never wanted to marry me. You
haven’t changed that. I’ve always known he’s been a
rather reluctant but polite suitor.”

But Marianne sensed he was the only reluctant
party. Sarah had not once mentioned her relief. “But
you care for him,” Marianne boldly ventured.