The Wagered Widow (9 page)

Her shining little teeth savagely attacked the remaining half of the crumpet. It
had
been an accident—no? When she'd glanced around, The Monahan had been some distance off, but in the movement of the dance, perhaps … She growled to herself. If it had been deliberate, it had succeeded, for by the time Millie had repaired the ravaged train and she had returned to the party, the musicians were packing up their instruments, The Monahan had Sir Peter fairly trapped, and Hilary was chatting with Letitia Boudreaux. She herself had at once been pounced upon by the Streets and borne off for a tour of the bird paintings, accompanied by a joint lecture she would have found a crushing bore had not her sense of the ridiculous arisen to rescue her.

Well, she thought, her chin setting determinedly, the boat party today would not be spoiled! She would watch that designing lightskirt like a hawk! She stood and went over to the wardrobe. What to wear.… Running her eyes along the rainbow of colours that hung there, she fairly pounced on the green taffeta she had so recklessly purchased from Madame Olga. It was daringly plain, the stomacher of striped green and white satin being edged on both sides with a band of white fur that swept from waist to shoulder in a gracefully expanding “V,” this the only ornamentation, save for the ruffled edges of the chemise sleeves. It was a little frightening to be so far ahead of fashion, and she eyed the gown uncertainly. The skirt
was
rather stark, for it was neither tiered, flounced, nor scalloped. Still, when she had tried it on, it really had looked delicious, and Madame had been so enraptured that, despite the unpaid bills of this undistinguished client, she had called in her assistants to see “eggsackly 'ow the
robe à l'anglaise
it
should
be wore!”

Calling to mind the colours of the Great Hall and Sir Peter's interest in things pastoral, Rebecca took down the dress and, holding it against her, postured rather nervously before the oval standing mirror. Oh, but it
was
delicious! Surely, she would captivate Sir Peter this time! She smiled, her eyes taking on their far-away look.…

She was stepping aboard the barge … how the gentlemen stared! And the envy in the faces of the ladies, especially That Cat who clung tenaciously to Sir Peter's arm. He was trying to free himself. The Monahan clung tighter. Looking down at her sternly, he put her aside and, ignoring her sobs as she collapsed into Mr. Melton's arms, came to take Rebecca's hand and guide her to a seat. He refused to sit down, but proclaiming himself unworthy, knelt at her feet. With his own strong hands he gathered her luncheon (having stood up again, of course!) and watched adoringly as she ate. All through the hours that followed, he scarcely strayed from her side, and when the boat docked in a glory of sunset, he swept her into his arms, carried her ashore, and with a regal gesture sent the barge off, oblivious of The Monahan's heart-broken wails. His voice husky with emotion, he said, “Shall we fight your corsets now?”

Jolted, Rebecca comprehended that the voice had been real and not imaginary. “Oh, Millie! It's
you,
” she gasped.

Millie smiled indulgently. Dreaming again, poor little lass. Lord knows, she deserved that at least one of her dreams come true.…

*   *   *

The sky was clearing by the time they were ready to leave, but a brisk breeze was tossing the treetops about. The guests had been told that it was only a short drive from Ward Marching to the dock where the barge awaited. Nonetheless, Millie draped a light but warm shawl about Rebecca's shoulders, and tied a fruit-bedecked straw hat with a wide brim atop her curls. Knowing that the long day on the water might well play havoc with her hair, Rebecca had told Millie to use no powder and had chosen a style that she herself could restore did it become disarranged. When she walked down the stairs beside her aunt, a chorus of admiration arose from the gentlemen gathered in the Great Hall. The full, red lips of The Monahan tightened as The Beauty took in Rebecca's sophisticated gown. The green eyes flickered to the shining jet locks. She murmured, “But how charming. Quite a gypsy look. Were your parents foreign, perhaps, ma'am?”

Seething, Rebecca (whose grandmama had been a Spanish lady) retaliated sweetly, “Why, yes, I suppose they were in a sense. My ancestors were—Norman, as I understand.” And she swept past and out on to the front steps.

A hand was under her elbow. A deep chuckle caused her heart to leap. “I see that you are in form—as ever, Mrs. Parrish.”

Rebecca's heart reversed direction and thudded into her shoes. She all but wailed, “De Villars! Oh, but I thought you were not coming.”

He also had abandoned powder today, and his thick brown hair was less severely dressed, betraying a tendency to curl that made him seem more youthful and somewhat less menacing, despite the wicked glint in the shrewd eyes. Leaning to her as he ushered her to the waiting carriage, he murmured a provocative, “I could not bear that you should miss me, sweeting.”

“Do not
dare
call me that!” she hissed. “If my brother knew it, he would—”

“Call me out?” The thin lips sneered. “I try not to judge silly fribbles, having been one myself. Still, I think even Boothe would not be so unwise.”

The cruel voice pierced Rebecca's heart with an arrow of ice. He was
more,
not less, menacing! If only half of what she had heard of him was truth, Snow would be an easy prey for him. Her dear brother was a fine swordsman, but this man was sure death! She wrenched her arm away and then was climbing into the carriage, no easy task with her voluminous skirts and that confounded hat. Settling herself at last, she was breathless and still frightened and had to force a smile when Letitia Boudreaux took the seat opposite. The tall girl scanned her suspiciously. “Mrs. Parrish, I saw my cousin—” Miss Street was being handed up the steps, talking as she came, and leaning forward, Letitia said swiftly, “Ma'am, do not allow de Villars to frighten you. He can be a wretched tease, but—believe me, he is not near so wicked as he is painted.”

Rebecca's smile warmed, but she wondered what this gentle girl would think had she heard her evil cousin's remarks. She did not join in the ensuing flow of happy talk and responded only briefly when her aunt climbed in to sit beside her. Looking blindly into the blustery morning, she decided that one thing was perfectly clear: de Villars must be repulsed, but she must do the business herself. Whatever happened, Snowden must not know how The Lecher hounded her!

Sir Peter rode up to the window, his eyes brightening to a smile when he saw her. Rebecca's heart lifted. Why should she fear de Villars? Ward was interested in her, beyond doubting, and de Villars was his friend. No gentleman would poach on the territory of a friend and, however base he might be, de Villars was assuredly a gentleman. She put her fears away. Today, The Plan would prevail!

In only a few minutes they were driving along the banks of the river as it wound through meadow and copse and hamlet, sparkling in the brightening sunlight, and carrying upon its broad back ducks and mudhens, an occasional swan, and a few small pleasure boats. Soon, the carriages slowed and stopped beside a sturdy dock whereat a long, brightly painted barge was tied up, the breeze flapping the red and white canvas awnings, and a flag flying merrily at the stern. The air was fresh and invigorating and full of the scents of summer, but as the ladies were handed out of the carriages and the gentlemen gathered around them, Mrs. Boothe murmured uneasily that the water looked rather choppy. “Do you think,” she appealed to Mr. Melton, “that we might have a storm?”

“No, ma'am. Looks to be clearing up, in fact. It will likely be warm this afternoon.”

“How lovely the river is,” said Rebecca, gazing at it appreciatively.

“The Ouse,” Ward imparted, and quoted, “‘slow winding through a level plain.'”

“When it ain't overflowing its banks and flooding said level plain,” put in de Villars cynically.

Rebecca flashed him a look of indignation, and thought, “How typical!”

Major Broadbent laughed. “Don't be such a curst unromantical clod, Treve.”

Taking de Villars' arm, The Monahan said throatily, “Whatever else he may be, sir, Trevelyan is far from unromantical, I do assure you.”

De Villars chuckled and patted her hand, but Ward's eyes held a frown. In full accord with his disapprobation and outraged by such vulgar flirting, Rebecca stuck her little nose into the air and tripped up the companionway. The effect was spoiled by the breeze that whipped her broad-brimmed hat to the back of her neck. She halted, clutching at the straw instinctively, whereupon the perverse breeze sent her skirts flying.

Steadying her, de Villars clicked his tongue. “Good gracious! What an abandoned display!” His eyes held amusement rather than shock, and he went on, “Never float away from us, lovely one.”

How he could have come up with her so quickly, when only seconds past The Wanton Woman had been hanging on his sleeve, Rebecca could not imagine. To say truth, his strong grip was welcome, for the swing of her gown had all but overset her balance. “One can but hope,” she said primly, “that any further abandonment this day will be as innocent as was mine, Mr. de Villars.”

“To each his own hope, ma'am,” he said with his leering grin.

There was no shame in him, decided Rebecca and, making her way to the bow, resolved to stay as far away as possible from the miserable pair.

Happily, Mr. Melton's prediction proved to be correct. The barge, drifting lazily along the river, was soon bathed in warm sunlight, and it became apparent that the revellers were to be treated to a perfect day. Sir Peter had hired three minstrels who wandered about performing charming old airs for the delectation of the guests. Several flirtations were being vigorously conducted, the dashing Major Broadbent apparently finding Miss Boudreaux a pleasant companion despite her inches; Mr. Street rather pathetically bewitched by The Monahan, and behaving so like a moonling that de Villars could scarce contain his amusement; and Mr. Melton's tongue-tied pursuit of Mrs. Boothe continuing until Miss Street attached herself to that lady. Hardly able to credit her good fortune, for a time Rebecca had Sir Peter all to herself, since the remaining female ladies, of rather advanced years, settled happily into a little group and thoroughly enjoyed themselves by blackening the characters of everyone else on board, while the four other gentlemen appropriated one end of the luncheon table and started to throw dice.

Comfortably disposed on one of the chaises that had been set along the decks, Rebecca gazed blissfully at the sylvan scene and murmured, “What a perfect day.”

“Yes. I am a fortunate man,” Sir Peter agreed, leaning against the rail and looking at her with deliberate double entendre. Rebecca blushed prettily, and he went on, “Had I known you've a little son, ma'am, I would have asked that you bring him. Children always enjoy the river. And it is educational for them.”

“How kind you are. I fancy your cousin would have enjoyed this, also. When does she arrive, sir?”

He sighed and, having begged permission and received it, seated himself at the foot of her chaise while deploring the fact that he had been unable to find a suitable governess for the girl. “Patience arrives next week, but I am determined that the lady to take her in hand
must
be a gentlewoman well acquainted with our level of society. I had hoped to persuade one of my own indigent relations, but … well, whatever else, I do not mean Patience to be pushed off on some inferior creature incapable of ensuring that she be well instructed in all the proficiencies so essential to a young lady. Sketching, I can help her with, for I am accounted adequate in that art, but music, alas, is not my forte, and as for deportment—” He grinned and shrugged whimsically. “You see my problem, Mrs. Parrish.”

Pensively recalling Forbes's decidedly haphazard efforts in his son's behalf, Rebecca murmured, “I fancy few fathers are willing to show such an interest in their own children. Your conscientiousness, your generosity, do you much honour, Sir Peter.”

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Parrish,” an unwelcome voice intruded, “you surely can do better than that.”

Rebecca caught her breath. Surely, The Horrid Creature did not mean to humiliate her in front of their host? Her gaze flew to de Villars and found a not unkind smile on the lean features. “I cannot guess what you mean, sir,” she said.

“Can you not? Look you, ma'am. Here is poor Ward, a dreadfully afflicted man, and here are you, a lady who has vast experience in the matter of tutors, governesses, feminine apparel, and what-have-you. You
must
know of some well-bred lady—perhaps not, er, indigent, exactly…” Out of Ward's range of vision, his left eye winked meaningfully. “But who would be glad of a summer passed in so idyllic a setting.”

For one of the few times in her life, Rebecca was rendered speechless. The colossal impudence of the man! Did he really fancy her so lost to propriety that she would accept such an offer? And then de Villars' glance angled to where Aunt Albinia smiled in response to some sally from Miss Street, and Rebecca's outrage was drowned in a flood of excited comprehension.

Sir Peter cried eagerly, “Can that be so, ma'am? Faith, 'twould be a blessing to me, I own. My grandmother has agreed to come up for a while, but she is of—er, rather eccentric temperament, and accustomed to Cornwall's milder clime, so that I cannot say how long she would remain.”

“Nor whether she would be willing to interview an endless string of applicants for the position,” de Villars put in mildly.

Sir Peter shuddered, and de Villars fastened a smile of saintly benevolence upon Rebecca.

The wretched man was smugness personified, she thought. How confidently he waited for her to pounce on the opportunity he had created! And yet, what else could she do? It would be folly to reject so magnificent a chance. How dear Anthony would love Ward Marching, and how it must benefit his health. With a fine nonchalance, she said, “Alas, the only lady I know who would answer that description is my aunt, Mrs. Boothe. She is wonderful with young people, and there is no one has a kinder heart, so that she must appreciate your predicament, Sir Peter. As to how to go on—why she would be perfection itself.… But”—she sighed regretfully—“dear Aunt Alby is devoted to us and would never come so far away, however she might enjoy a sojourn here.”