The Pursuit of Pleasure (6 page)

Oh, fie. That didn’t come out as all as she had intended, and it rather had the opposite effect upon Papa, who was turning an alarming shade of aubergine.

“Take her and be done, then!” Her father’s hand slammed down flat on the table, his anger overflowing like the red wine he’d been drinking, spilling over the brim and shocking them all into silence.

“You mark my words. You’ll come to regret this wild start, Elizabeth. What’s to become of you, I don’t know. You’re a good enough girl, but wild and headstrong. I’ve done everything in my power to see you safe. To keep you safe. Even from yourself. But there’s nothing more I can do for you now. You’ve chosen where I would have you not.”

He didn’t even look at Jamie as he let the words fall like stones from his mouth. Her father’s eyes bored into hers, until she closed her own in mortification at his angry, damning denouncements.

“So be it,” he went on, oblivious to the shocked silence. “You have made your proverbial bed, and now you must lie upon it. But not under my roof. Take yourself off to the Red Harte and bedamned to you!”

Lizzie could feel her composure crack, humiliation etching its way across her face like hot acid.

She ought to be used to Papa’s tirades by now. She ought to be immune to the casual rage that erupted whenever they were at cross-purposes. Which was too often. His careless words, like so many others over the years, made her angry and more than a little sad. They left a sour, unhappy taste in her mouth.

Lizzie faltered for only a moment, long enough for Jamie to rise from his seat and turn to squarely face her father. Oh, no. She refused to let this ridiculous exhibition escalate into a confrontation between Jamie and her father. She couldn’t let the day be completely ruined beyond all hope. She could not change her father, though Lord knows she had tried, but she could ignore him. It was her only defense.

She pushed her own shoulders back and quickly rose from her chair, forcing her mouth into a smile and acting as if Papa had never said a word.

“Thank you, Mama, for a lovely breakfast. Mrs. Marlowe, Reverend Marlowe, I thank you. I see Cushing has called for your carriage. Jamie, would you be so kind as to take your mother’s arm?”

Her father’s butler, Cushing, God bless him, was as used to the Squire’s edicts as any man, and was already stationed by the front door, armed with a capacious umbrella to ward off the drizzle.

Lizzie couldn’t bring herself to look at Jamie. She wouldn’t. It would be too deeply mortifying to see either knowing, laughing superiority, or, God forbid, pity in his eyes. So she just tipped her chin up, smiled as if she couldn’t care less about the outburst, and escorted Reverend Marlowe out of the dining room and towards the foyer.

A light touch at the base of her spine, an impression of heat, was all she felt of Jamie, before he came past to escort his mother to the door and the waiting carriage.

Lizzie saw them all to the door but disentangled herself before she was required to give anything but a murmured farewell.

Then she moved quickly, making a break for the stairs. But for all her haste, Jamie was there, behind her, his hands curving around her upper arms to arrest her flight. His long fingers slid up to rest on her shoulders, solid and reassuring.

“Lizzie.” His breath blew warm and uneasy against the nape of her neck. “Are you all right?”

She tried to wriggle out from under his hands by taking the first stair, but he was so much taller, his heat still surrounded her. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing back into his sheltering warmth.

She didn’t dare. She must remember he would soon be leaving himself.

“Come, Lizzie. You needn’t fly off in such a rush.” Jamie’s low voice probed like a velvet blade.

“Please,” she managed. “Please don’t fuss.” She kept her face averted as she dashed an inconvenient speck of dust from her eye with the back of her hand. She couldn’t bear it if he made a fuss. She’d fall to a hundred pieces. “I’m going … to change into my habit.” To leave as soon as possible—to leave it all behind. All the endless arguments, all the resentment.

“You’re going riding? Now? Lizzie.” The soft pity in his voice cut her to the bone.

“No.” She took a deep breath and turned to face him, mustering every ounce of casual indifference she possessed. “We are going riding. You’re going to show me my house.”

“Your
house, Mrs. Marlowe?”

Lizzie squelched the lovely pang at his first use of her new name. He’d made it sound like an endearment. “My house. ‘Not too big, not too small, with eight principal bedrooms and a lovely view down to the sea.’ You remember. You said I
must
see it, so
you
must show it to me before you leave. Please. I have to … go.” She gave him one of her enticing smiles, the one where she let her enthusiasm for the scheme show, to cover the cost of such a mortifying admission.

“Even in this weather? How can I refuse you, Lizzie?” His wide gray eyes were clear, but they held the promise of mirth. His words and his encouraging smile sent a warm feeling stroking up her spine. She shifted her shoulders to shake off the sensation. It wouldn’t do to become too attached to him.

“I’ll ask Willy to saddle up the chestnut hunter for you. Oh, Lord, you do still ride, don’t you? Or have you turned into an arthritic old naval man?” It was so much easier when she was nettling him.

He smiled back, lazy and knowing. “Arthritic? I shall endeavor to show you otherwise,” he murmured. “And I definitely still ride.”

They were saddled and mounted with the half hour, Jamie on a tall hunter and Lizzie on Serendipity, her leggy, bay Thoroughbred filly. They had a lovely ride in the clearing afternoon, down along the river towards the castle, and then up Weeke Hill and over the headland toward the sea. The rain held off, and the clean wind blew the last remains of the disastrous breakfast from her mood. It was easy to be happy with Jamie. He was kind enough to understand she did not want to talk about her father. Instead he did all he could to be charming and amusing, making her laugh with his witty observations.

They had a relaxed, almost sedate journey: nothing like their pell-mell rides of the past. He looked as well as ever on a horse, perhaps even better. She made a surreptitious survey of his strong, straight shoulders and the long line of his back as it tapered to his waist. Honed like a fencing sword. He hadn’t looked like that at fourteen. She swallowed over the queer flutter in her stomach.

“Tell me more about the house.”

“It’s very houselike. Has a roof and a door.”

It was like playing at bowls, the back-and-forth of their conversations, each one tossing off a line. Amazing how quickly they settled back into the playful rhythm of childhood. Although childhood had not been so full of… what was it? Tension. Tension that also felt very much like flirtation. He’d become rather adept at it, with his slow smiles and still, penetrating eyes. Gorgeous, dangerous wolf eyes. She’d have to guard herself. He was leaving.

“How long have you lived there?”

“I haven’t really. I bought the property some time ago, when I was last in England, recovering, because I couldn’t think of anything better to do with my money, and I thought … I thought it was pretty.”

“Sentimental.”

“Yes, well, it’s what makes one a gentleman, owning land. And I liked the idea of having something to come home to besides my father’s rectory, which, when he retires, he’ll have to leave anyway.”

Some things were the same. He’d never been one for concealment. So honest and open about his life, his hopes. He didn’t pretend to be anything other than himself. He never had. It was something she admired.

Admired, but didn’t aspire to. She had no intention of being what she ought. What others so insistently thought she should be.

“And the gardens? You mentioned roses.”

“Very well-planted gardens, but very old. I’m afraid they’ve been rather let go during my tenure. There’s no staff to speak of. Only the steward, Mr. Tupper, and his wife, who is the housekeeper. No footmen, or maids, although there are a few …” He hesitated, searching for the word. “… groundsmen. Gardeners and the like.”

“But they’ve let the gardens go?” That made no sense.

“They’ve plenty of other duties, keeping the buildings up and such. Jack-of-all-tradesmen, they are, keeping the gutters in good repair. So they’ve not so much time for the flowers, although the roses seem to do well enough on their own.”

“I’m glad the house has been kept up. I can move in straight away.”

“No.” His voice sounded low and harsh, but she must have mistaken him because when she turned to look at him, he smiled and went on smoothly. “Surely not without maids and all? You’ll get lonely all the way out there. I’m sure you’d prefer a house of your own, in town.”

“I can’t imagine why you should think so.” Had she changed so much? “Much as I would prefer, I won’t pretend you didn’t hear Papa. I may be a ‘wild girl,’ but I never get lonely or bored, and I don’t require maids. I require roses.”

“Every lady requires a maid, even you, Lizzie. How else did you manage to look so absolutely fetching in that habit?”

“Why all this empty gallantry? I’ve already married you—you can stop convincing me. And I don’t have a maid. Never have. Mama is forever trying to send one up, but I can’t abide anyone fussing about me.” She waved her hands back and forth as if clearing out an imaginary room. But she was flattered nonetheless by his notice of how well she looked in her deep green riding habit. It went rather well with the bucolic setting. The habit was perhaps a little old-fashioned in style, but it was superbly cut and fitted her like a glove. Most men were impervious to fashion, but they did like a well-displayed figure.

“How extraordinary you’ve grown to be, Lizzie.”

She let out a little snort. “It’s wretched flattery to damn with such faint praise. Am I meant to be so helpless I can’t dress myself? You don’t have a valet. Does that make you extraordinary?”

“Of course. It is extraordinary I’m so handsomely turned out without one.”

Lizzie nearly laughed. It was easy to admire him when he was so charmingly self-deprecating. And she was more than a little ready to do more than admire Jamie.

They turned down a lane lined with low stone walls and hedges laced with wildflowers. The air was sweet with the rising perfumes of late spring.

“This is it then. My land. Nearly six hundred acres.”

“Hmm.” Like him, the land was enormously picturesque. That was it—concentrate on the land. Best to think of practicalities and not strong shoulders.

“Is there a mortgage?” She had spent as long as possible, in the short time allotted, going over the marriage settlement, fine print and all, but couldn’t remember any mention of the mortgage.

“No.” He seemed surprised she should ask such a blunt question. His brow lowered, shading his sharp gaze. “Bought and paid for in cash—or bank draught from Hoare’s Bank. But it’s mine, free and clear.”

“How very enterprising of you.” Her smile was genuinely admiring. He
would
be enterprising. He would live up to every promise of his boyhood. He would grow up to be a man people would respect and admire. A man she could respect and admire. Quite a bit more than was comfortable. Or advisable.

She repeated her warning again in the privacy of her thoughts.
He was leaving.

The land stretched down between bands of trees on a gentle slope away toward the sea in the distance. On one side of the lane, pastureland was in use, being grazed with cows, and sheep dotted the fields in the distance.

Practicalities. “Do you keep a dairy?”

“I’m a sailor, Lizzie. I know halyards, not heifers. You’d best put such questions to Mr. Tupper. I’ll introduce you. The farms are all tenanted.” His gaze focused on her. “May I ask to what purpose are all these questions?”

Would he understand? It had done no good to try to speak to her parents, or anyone else, even Celia, about the need for a useful life and the dignity of work. And it couldn’t matter to Jamie what she did with the farm—he’d soon be on the other side of the world. Dying.

“Just taking an interest. After all, it will be my home.”

“Lizzie, you can’t live here. It’s not fit for a lady. I’ve made plans for repairs, but there is still much work to be done. And even when that’s done in some months’ time, you’ll need to make your own plans, consult with painters, drapers, and such before you could move in. It’ll give you something to do besides lounge about assembly rooms looking for trouble.”

He thought her a useless fribble. It stung. She’d played the jaded sophisticate far too well, it seemed.

“I’ve always enjoyed looking for trouble. It seems so much more logical than to wait for it to find me. But you found me, so I must be looking at trouble now.”

“You are. But I was only teasing, Lizzie. Feel free to look back upon your fields.”

She did so, for her relief as well as his. Every time her eyes had contacted his, a feeling like pressure began to build in her chest, squeezing her breath. She brought her mount to a halt and took a deep inhalation of the fresh, moist air coming in off the sea—the tang of salt mixed with the earthy scents of animal and greening grass. It was heavenly.

“In raptures over fallow fields? Who’s sentimental now, Lizzie?”

This time she could hear the teasing note in his voice, as he brought his horse up close beside her. She could also feel the heat of his penetrating scrutiny.

She faced back into the sea breeze to cool her flushed cheeks. “Not sentimental. What you mean is romantic, like the poets. Messers. Coleridge or Blake.”

“Romantic then.” His gray eyes were warm and laughing at the corners even as they probed.

“Not I. I’m being practical. Why have these fields been let go fallow?”

“I haven’t the vaguest. Mr. Tupper again, although he’ll probably say something beyond my ken about pastoralism versus agrarianism. You’ll probably understand it, my clever girl.”

Jamie reached out to stroke the side of her cheek very lightly with the knuckle of his gloved hand. The soft touch sent shivers of lightning shooting every which way inside her body. She felt as if she might jump out of her skin.