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Authors: Eileen Putman

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"Lord
Sommersby is a peer of the realm, Felicity, not some warring Norman
conqueror," Amanda pointed out. "Yet it appears he anticipates
imminent attack."

Felicity
smiled, and Amanda could see that she was beginning to take to the notion of
living in a historic castle with a noted man of war. "I expect he is
merely eccentric, Amanda. Heroes are, you know."

Amanda
sighed. "I daresay you have read such things in books, dear, but real life
does not often resemble fiction. And Mr. Thornton has told us that Lord
Sommersby is quite ordinary."

But
as Amanda surveyed her surroundings, she began to doubt that was the case. No
ordinary man lived here. For the first time, she wondered about the suitability
of a match between Felicity and the earl. Her cousin did not belong in such a
setting, where her fanciful dreams would wither in the portentous darkness.

Immersed
in the inspection of an old musket, Sir Thomas appeared to perceive nothing
amiss in their surroundings. But then he had been largely silent since their
trip began. Doubtless he missed Lady Biddle. For the first time Amanda felt  the
weight of her responsibilities as chaperon.

They
waited in the Great Hall for some time, Sommersby apparently having few
servants, as Mr. Thornton had warned. Finally, a diminutive man appeared and
soon had them seated with glasses of sherry in a nearby room so unlike the Great
Hall it might have been dropped into the wrong castle.

Brightly
burning candles, their warm light reflected in the gleaming windows, dispelled
any hint of gloom. The room looked to have been newly redone. Gold braid
trimmed the rich green damask of the only curtains Amanda had yet seen in the
castle. An enormous chair upholstered in chocolate leather beckoned invitingly,
and lush tapestry pillows on a plump claret-and-gold sofa offered welcoming
comfort. A soft carpet of royal blue and burgundy adorned oak planking the
years had burnished to a mellow brown.

A
handsomely carved Adam mantel occupied one wall of the room. No wan fire
flickered in its deep hearth; instead, enormous crackling logs sent brilliant
white-blue flames licking up the chimney walls like the lazy tongue of a
well-fed cat. A walnut secretary presided over one corner of the room where
stacks of bookshelves soared to the vaulted ceiling.

Amanda
was puzzled by the room. Warmth radiated from every corner, in eloquent
contrast to the drafty Hall. Lord Sommersby, it seemed, was a man of
contradictions.

After
a time, Mr. Thornton appeared in the doorway. "The earl is not available
until tomorrow," he said in a vaguely apologetic tone.

It
was odd that a man who had invited them to be his guests was not to greet them
until the morrow, Amanda thought, eyeing Felicity uneasily as a rapt expression
spread over her cousin's face at the mere thought of meeting her probable
intended.

"Is
there a portrait of the earl in the castle?" Felicity asked, clearly eager
to view a likeness of her future husband, if not the man himself.

"Certainly
not." Mr. Thornton's curt tone prompted Amanda and Felicity to look at him
in surprise. He cleared his throat. "I meant to say," he added more
temperately, "that Lord Sommersby does not indulge in vainglorious
displays."

"But
surely a portrait of him in uniform is not excessive,” Felicity said. “Has no
thought been given to commissioning such a picture?"

"The
earl would view such a portrait as a frivolity," Mr. Thornton said.

"But
now that the war is over and Lord Sommersby has assumed the title, it is his
responsibility to honor that part of his heritage," Felicity persisted.
"Indeed, there are some exceptional painters about," she added.

Mr.
Thornton stiffened as Felicity chattered on. "Sir William Beechey is said
to be the queen's favorite, but Mr. Hoppner is considered to possess greater
talent with male subjects. I have heard that they are somewhat less expensive
than Sir Thomas Lawrence, who is said to charge more than four hundred guineas
for a full-length portrait."

At
Mr. Thornton's appalled expression, Amanda thought it best to intervene.
"I gather the earl is a man of simple tastes," she said diplomatically.
"Perhaps you might tell us more about him. Does he enjoy speaking about
his years on the Continent?"

He
turned toward her. "War is quite serious, Miss Fitzhugh. The earl does not
consider it a fit subject for drawing room conversation."

The
man’s disapproval could not have been plainer.

"I
lost a loved one to war's embrace, sir," Amanda rejoined quietly.
"You need not educate me on that score."

The
cool blue of Mr. Thornton's eyes suddenly gave way to velvet green. "I beg
your pardon, Miss Fitzhugh. I did not intend to be insensitive to your
loss."

"No
offense was taken," Amanda replied. She noticed that age appeared not to
have robbed Major Thornton’s gaze of vibrancy, nor did his drooping mustache
hide the rather sensuous curve of lips that pursed thoughtfully as he studied
her. She tried to imagine what color his hair had been in his youth. Blond,
perhaps? A rich brown? Not with those sandy brows, she decided, then flushed as
she realized she had been staring at him. It was not like her to dwell on such
things. Certainly not anymore.

"Perhaps
you might tell us a bit about your cousin,” she said, to cover what was
becoming a rather awkward interlude.

“My
cousin?” came the baffled reply.

“Lord
Sommersby,” she prodded, hoping he would at least make a token effort at polite
discourse — though she suspected that small talk was not his forte.

“What
do you wish to know?” came the rejoinder, proving the accuracy of her
assessment.

Amanda
took a bracing sip of sherry. Perhaps it was only Mr. Thornton's imposing
physical presence that made her feel so off balance. She managed a polite
smile.

"We
were intrigued to see the earl's weapons," she said. "How came he to
have such a collection?"

Mr.
Thornton appeared to consider the question as if he had never contemplated it before
— as if having an arsenal hanging from one's walls was commonplace.

"The
Thorntons are military men," he said after a moment.

“Yes?”
Amanda said encouragingly, hoping he was not going to leave it at that. The man
was maddeningly bereft of conversational skills.

He
cleared his throat. "The last earl was the first in generations to die of
old age, not battle. Thorntons have always collected the implements of war as a
reminder of our heritage. I, er, the present earl had weapons from the recent
war added to the collection." He paused. "Do you like them?"

Amanda
was caught by the hint of pride in his voice as well as the tentative tone of
his question. It was almost as if he sought her approval. Why he imagined that such
implements of all that she abhorred would engender any feeling in her beyond
repugnance was an utter mystery.

“I
suppose it is not the sort of thing to appeal to a woman,” he added quickly. There
was the barest suggestion of a smile under that sagging mustache, as if he realized
that her approval was a lost cause.

Felicity,
who had been studying the bookshelves, turned to him. "I should think it
fascinating to live among monuments to one's military triumphs."

"Monuments?"
He frowned slightly as if the idea was not at all appealing. "Yes, well, I
imagine you ladies are tired from the journey. I will have someone show you to
your rooms."

Amanda
rather hoped that her chamber resembled this cozy parlor rather than the rest
of the house, but she feared that was too much to ask. Following a silent
housekeeper up the stairs, she was filled with curiosity about the Earl of
Sommersby.

Was
the descendant of a warfaring clan — a family that appeared to revere and revel
in the implements of power and destruction — any sort of a husband for Felicity?
Was he as cold and forbidding as that Great Hall? Or was he, like the
comfortable parlor they had just vacated, capable of warmth and kindness?

And
was he, she wondered idly, as handsome and vibrant a physical specimen as she
imagined his enigmatic cousin Mr. Thornton once had been?

***

"The
devil take it, Jeffers. I cannot abide this mustache any longer!"

Simon
ripped off the offending article and tossed it to his longsuffering batman, who
placed it carefully in a small pouch. "How did I let you talk me into that
thing? A neat, military trim would have been far more preferable."

"I
believe you thought a slight droop would disarm the lady, or some such, my
lord."

"Well,
it is dashed inconvenient trying to keep it out of my soup, not to mention the
brandy." Simon refilled his glass from the bottle on the table next to his
chair.

Jeffers
sighed. His employer had been in a rare taking since dinner, and if he did not
miss his guess, it had something to do with the arrival of the company from
Mayfield. "Miss Biddle seems all that is pleasant, my lord," he
ventured.

"Indeed,"
Simon snapped. "She is a veritable paragon. I have no complaints, other
than that her head seems to be filled with foolish notions about my war record
and plans to immortalize me on canvas. It is that
other
woman who is
getting on my nerves."

"The
chaperon?"

Simon
nodded darkly. "Miss Fitzhugh is a distraction to the mission."

Without
comment, Jeffers laid out the earl's dressing gown.

"She
has a way of looking directly at one that is altogether unsettling. I do not
think she suspects my identity, but I cannot remember when I have had such
difficulty concentrating." He paused. "I believe I need some exercise
to clear my head."

Jeffers
stifled a groan. That could only mean one thing. But in the next instant, his
employer drained his brandy and yawned.

"Perhaps
I make too much of this. Tomorrow I shall send Thornton on his way and allow
the Earl of Sommersby to court Miss Biddle in earnest. I imagine that Miss
Fitzhugh will cease to prove a difficulty. Come to think of it, Jeffers, what I
need most is a good night's sleep."

With
a relieved sigh, Jeffers visibly relaxed.

***

"Ah,
now it begins."

"What
begins, Isabella?"

"The
business of educating that young man. And now that I think on it, those two
young ladies as well. That chaperon is far too grim."

"She
has a difficult history, I believe."

"You
are referring to the nefarious LeFevre, I assume. She makes too much of it. In
our day, we thought nothing of a brief tumble in the park."

"Oh,
I am not so sure of that. Edward had Lancaster executed for his excesses — remember?"

"Lancaster
never learned subtlety. He might have taken a lesson from you, dear
Mortimer."

"Everything
that I learned, dearest, came from you."

"Oh,
surely not everything!"

"Perhaps
not. But back to our tenant. What do you mean to do to him?"

"Nothing
unpleasant, Mortimer. I seek only his happiness."

"The
possibility of your seeking anyone's happiness besides your own is about as
likely as our leaving this cursed castle."

"You
need not be unkind, Mortimer. I see nothing wrong with having a little
fun."

"May
I remind you, my dear, that your idea of fun was torturing Edward to death?

"Shhh!
You will set him off again. You know Edward does not like to be reminded of
that episode."

"He
cannot have forgotten, Isabella, even in five hundred years."

"Well,
this is nothing like that. This time I mean only good."

"And
I am Saint Peter."

"Hush!
Do you want to bring down the wrath of the heavens upon us?"

"I
should think, my dear, that blasphemy is the least of our crimes."

 

CHAPTER
FOUR

 

 

       

Faint
tapping awoke Amanda from a restless dream in which warriors wielding ancient
swords and shields waged a fierce battle for Felicity's hand. Balancing on the
edge of the crumbling parapet, one of the swordsmen toppled into the moat, only
to face a diabolical crocodile holding a large cannon. A man who looked
remarkably like Mr. Thornton tossed the warrior the ends of his drooping
mustache to use as a rope. Watching the entire episode was a trio of wispy
eminences, perched like clouds on the turret above.

"Stuff!"
Amanda grumbled sleepily as she pulled the blanket more tightly around her. She
was on the point of wondering how Mr. Thornton managed to grow such a long
mustache when the tapping grew more insistent and Felicity's voice pierced the
fog surrounding her brain.

BOOK: The Perfect Bride
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