The Wedding Game (28 page)

He told himself all this but it didn't seem to have any impact or to hold any real meaning for him and after a puzzled moment or two he decided that for now they were inhabiting some alternative universe where the usual rules didn't apply. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his lips, filled him with a deep and satisfying pleasure. Whereas the thought of Laura Della Luca brought merely irritation and an amorphous dislike. Not that he was considering the signorina as a prospective bride any longer. He would not have tumbled into bed with Chastity if that were the case. He hadn't articulated it to himself, but it was true.

So, now what?
He shook his head. He didn't know the answer and he seized on the comforting reflection that it wasn't necessary to find one now anyway. He wasn't going anywhere for the next few days, so he might as well explore this new and surprising side to his character that had been so suddenly revealed. He realized that he was smiling at himself in the mirror. A fatuous, utterly self-satisfied smile. God in heaven, he really didn't recognize himself.

“We won't get the hunt out in this,” Lord Duncan declared later that evening. He stood looking out of the drawing room window into the swirling darkness, his hands clasped at his back. “Bloody weather. I beg your pardon, Contessa,” he said with an apologetic bow to the lady.

“Don't mention it, Lord Duncan,” the contessa said with a wave from the bridge table. “I've heard a lot worse.”

“Damnable business, though,” his lordship said, turning back to the window. “Boxing Day meet, hunt breakfast, canceling the whole thing . . . damnable.”

“Has the Master sent a message to cancel it?” asked Constance, selecting a card from the hand she held.

“Not yet, but he's bound to. Couldn't run the hounds in this, let alone the horses.” He returned to the bridge table and took up his cards again. “What's that you put down?”

“The ten of diamonds,” his eldest daughter said.

“Oh, you're drawing trumps, are you?” He hemmed and hawed, then with a disgusted sigh threw down the jack of diamonds and watched as his son-in-law laid the queen on top. The contessa discarded a heart.

Constance laughed and gathered up the trick. “Our rubber, I believe, Max.”

The front doorbell chimed at the same time as the great knocker was plied with considerable vigor. “I'll get it,” Chastity said. “It'll probably be a message from Lord Berenger.”

She got to the front door just as Jenkins, looking rather flushed, his customary dapper appearance a little disordered, emerged from the kitchen regions. “It's all right, Jenkins,” she said over her shoulder. “I can manage. Go back to your party.”

It was a measure of the butler's generous consumption of Christmas good cheer that he merely bowed a little unsteadily and retreated.

Chastity struggled with the lock and pulled open the door, letting in a blast of wind and a flurry of snow. She greeted the visitor with some surprise. “Merry Christmas, Lord Berenger, we were expecting a message from you, but didn't think you'd brave the storm yourself.”

“Oh, just thought I'd pop over with the bad news myself, Chastity. Your father's bound to be disappointed.” His lordship, Master of the Hounds, stepped into the hall, stamping his feet vigorously, his normally rosy cheeks reddened by the cold.

“Well, come into the warm,” Chastity said, reflecting that George Berenger, a middle-aged widower with no children, had probably had a lonely Christmas.

“Ah, George, come in, come in,” Lord Duncan greeted his neighbor with an expansive gesture. “Whisky, cognac . . . name your poison.”

“Whisky, Arthur, thank you.” He allowed Chastity to take his coat and scarf and came to the fire, rubbing his cold hands. He took the whisky his host proffered and bowed as introductions were made to the strangers in the company. “Don't let me interrupt your bridge.” He gestured to the card table.

“Oh, Max and I have just won the rubber, Lord Berenger,” Constance said with ill-disguised complacency. “I doubt Father and the contessa will be eager for another defeat this evening.”

“You'll overreach yourself one of these days, mark my words,” Lord Duncan declared, shaking a finger at his daughter. He turned back to the visitor. “So, the meet's canceled, eh?”

“Afraid so,” Berenger agreed with a sigh.

“Well, never mind.” Lord Duncan sounded surprisingly sanguine. “Sit down, dear fellow.” He gestured to the sofa where Laura sat, still occupied with her book. Lord Duncan himself sat opposite, next to the contessa, to whom he said, “You weren't going to hunt tomorrow anyway, were you, my dear?”

“No, it's not a sport I particularly enjoy,” the contessa said with a smile.

The Duncan sisters exchanged a significant look. It seemed that the contessa's lack of participation in the hunt explained their father's swift recovery from his disappointment.

“Ah, I see you're reading Dante, Miss Della Luca,” Lord Berenger said, leaning over to look at the book Laura held. “And in the Italian. I've always considered works lose much of their essential meaning in translation.”

“Indeed.” Laura looked at him with a somewhat startled interest. “Are you a lover of Italy, my lord?”

“I lived there for three years,” he said. “In Florence. I studied at the university there.”

Laura's eyes widened.
“Firenze,”
she said. “My home.” She laid a hand on her meager breast. “It is a city that lives in the heart once one knows it, don't you agree? You speak Italian, of course.”

He responded with a fluent stream of Italian that had Laura nodding and smiling with clear gratification. She interrupted him in the same language, waving her hands about as if she was conducting a full orchestra. Who would have thought George Berenger, a bluff and seemingly unsophisticated country squire, could have such hidden depths, Chastity reflected. Was this a situation that could be turned to the Go-Between's advantage? She glanced at Prudence, wondering if the same thought had occurred to her. Prudence raised her eyebrows and rose from the backgammon board where she'd been playing with Sarah and wandered casually over to the pianoforte.

“Are you going to play, Prue?” Constance asked, following her. “Shall we try a duet?”

“I'll turn the music for you,” Chastity said, going to join her sisters. “What do you think?” she whispered, rustling sheets of music as if she was selecting a particular piece.

“How do we get him to London?” Constance murmured, as she too examined the pile of music.

“If we can throw them together over the next couple of days, he might take care of that himself,” Prudence whispered.

“We could invite him to spend tomorrow with us, now that the hunt's canceled,” Chastity said. “He must be so lonely, snowbound with no friends or family. We can sit them together at luncheon.”

“What are you three whispering about?”

They jumped guiltily as Douglas suddenly came up behind them. “Music,” said Chastity. “Just trying to find a particular piece of music. We seem to have mislaid it.” She turned back to the room, asking hastily, “Laura, do you sing at all . . . in Italian, perhaps?”

“But of course,” Laura said. “All the great music is Italian. Think of the opera . . . only the Italians can write opera. Do you not agree, Lord Berenger?” She turned her intense pale gaze upon him.

“It is the language of the opera,” he agreed, and to the immense astonishment of the company, rose to his feet and launched into an aria from
Don Giovanni.

Laura gazed at him with rapt attention, her hands clasped to her breast, and when he ceased, looking somewhat astonished himself at his impulsive performance, she applauded with a cry of “Bravo! Bravo, signore.”

“Good God, man,” Lord Duncan said faintly. “Didn't know you had it in you.”

“Oh, I studied the opera—took singing lessons—in Florence,” George Berenger confessed with clear embarrassment. “Of course, never touched it after m'father died, you understand. Had to return to England, take up the reins of the estate. No time for such indulgence.” He sat down again and wiped his brow with a large checkered handkerchief.

“Hardly indulgence, my lord,” Laura said. “The finest music in the world. And you have such a wonderful voice. How sad that with such delicate sensibilities you were obliged to return to such a mundane existence.” She waved an all-encompassing hand at the unpoetic evidence of their bucolic surroundings. “To stifle such a talent . . .” She gave a heavily dramatic sigh. “Tragic.”

“Well, I would hardly call it tragic, Miss Della Luca,” he demurred.

“Oh, don't deny yourself—and, please, I would be honored if you would call me Laura.” She took his hand between both of hers.

“Looks like
Il Dottore
has lost the ascendancy,” murmured Chastity, forgetting that Douglas was still standing beside the piano.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” Chastity said, trying to stifle a laugh. “Nothing at all.”

Douglas continued to look at her suspiciously. Prudence sat down at the piano and struck a chord. “Any requests?” she announced.

Chapter 16

J
ust what
was
that smart remark about
Il Dottore
?” Douglas asked later that night. He was lying on Chastity's bed, clad in a dressing gown, arms linked behind his head, lazily watching her undress. “And don't say ‘Nothing' again in that airy fashion either.”

Chastity glanced at him over her shoulder as she unbuttoned her petticoat. “It wasn't anything important,” she said. “Just a private joke.”

“Well, if it concerned me, I don't consider it to be private,” he said.

“Now, what makes you think it concerned you?” She pushed the opened petticoat off her shoulders.

“As far as I know I'm the only
Dottore
around here at present.” His eyes roamed the smooth line of her back, eagerly anticipating the moment when she'd take off her knickers. She was unfastening her suspenders, peeling off her stockings, and his breathing had quickened.

Chastity turned slowly towards him, the nipples peaking on her bare breasts. Her eyes narrowed as she slowly unbuttoned the waistband of her knickers, then slipped them off her hips and kicked them free of her ankles. She smiled, placing her hands on her hips, offering herself to his now hungry gaze.

“Closer,” he said, crooking a beckoning finger. She stepped to the edge of the bed. He put a hand on her hip.

And that, Chastity thought with satisfaction, was the end of that dangerously awkward conversation. But she was wrong. He pulled her down to the bed, his hands moving over her with wicked precision. “Tell me what you and your sisters are up to, Miss Duncan.”

Chastity groaned. “Not now,” she said, her thighs parting under the insistent pressure of his hands.

“Yes, now. Your brothers-in-law told me that you and your sisters never do or say anything without purpose. So, just what are you up to?” His hand cupped the moistening mound of her sex, his busy fingers bringing her ever closer to the edge.

“We're not up to anything,” she denied. “Max and Gideon must have been teasing you.”

“I don't think so,” he said, lifting his hand from her.

“Douglas, don't stop,” she begged. “Not now.”

“Then answer my question.”

“You are so cruel.”

“No, but I
will
have an answer.” He stroked her belly, then moved his hand down, his fingers playing a tantalizing little tune.

Chastity groaned again. “We're trying to marry off our father,” she said, and was rewarded with a more purposeful caress.

“To the contessa?”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes, losing herself in sensation.

“So, where does
Il Dottore
come into this little scheme?” He lifted his hand again.

“He doesn't . . . you don't,” she said desperately. Her heart was beating fast.
How in the devil's name was she to get out of this? He mustn't suspect that the Duncan sisters had ever intended to match him up with Laura. He'd put two and two together in no time.

“It was just a little joke,” she said again. “Because she seemed to like you, and was paying so much attention to you . . . what with all that decorating business. And then she seemed to have switched her attentions to George Berenger. We were just laughing about it. That was all.”

“Was it indeed,” he murmured. Everything she said was perfectly plausible, but something didn't ring quite true.

“Please go back to what you were doing,” Chastity pleaded.

He didn't immediately comply. “Why do I think there's something you're not telling me?”

“I've told you everything,” she stressed. “We're just trying to make our father happier. He's been so lonely and depressed in the last few months. We wanted to take him out of himself.”

He shook his head, gazing down at her. How could he possibly quibble with a motive as pure as filial affection?

“Come on, Douglas, play fair,” Chastity said. “I answered your question.”

He shook his head again. “I wish I could believe that you did.” Then he laughed. “But I'm not enjoying this deprivation either—so, where was I?”

“Here,” she said, putting his hand in the right spot. “Just here.”

That had been a very close call, Chastity thought, when she could think again, but he didn't seem to have made any connection with his introduction to Laura through the medium of the Go-Between and his invitation to Christmas at Romsey Manor. At least, he hadn't yet.

She stifled a sigh, turning her head into the pillow. Everything was getting out of hand. She had thought she could indulge herself with impunity in a passionate fling and then just pick up the strands of her life once this interlude was over. But now she wasn't so sure. The deception she was practicing on Douglas stuck in her craw, and she could no longer ignore it. Her fear when she had thought he might discover the truth had been all too real. She could only imagine how he would react if knew the truth, and her skin crawled at the prospect. It all seemed so grubby, no longer a light and harmless subterfuge, and she felt dishonorable, besmirched somehow. And she knew in her heart of hearts that the interlude had to come to an end. She couldn't go on deceiving him, and she couldn't bear to tell him the truth.

She burrowed deeper into the pillow, aware that she was instinctively trying to bury her thoughts as if the man breathing rhythmically beside her would be able to read them. It would be all right if she didn't care for him, but she did. There was no point continuing to fool herself into thinking that this was just a passionate romp, a whirlwind affair with no strings. She hadn't fallen into bed with Douglas on a whim. She loved him. She loved
him,
not just his body. And
that
she loved to distraction. She inched backwards, fitting herself against his side; at least her body didn't lie to him.

Douglas left her bed just as the first faint pink of dawn showed low on the horizon. Chastity murmured a faint protest in her sleep as his skin left hers, then she rolled into the warm indentation left by his body and slept on. Douglas slipped into his dressing gown and crept out to the corridor. He felt uneasy, unsettled in some way, and he didn't know why. Their lovemaking had been as glorious as ever, but he'd sensed a slight discordance, and he couldn't lose the feeling that Chastity had not been completely open with him about the sisters' plans for their father. Not that it was really any business of his, he told himself, but without conviction.

He took a leisurely bath, dressed, and went outside. The snow had stopped overnight and the air was crisp and cold, the sky a clear, sunny blue. He tramped through the snow for an hour, trying to clear his mind. He felt as if he had arrived at some kind of watershed where his carefully drawn plans no longer seemed to have any relevance. He thought of the plan to acquire a rich wife and found it an absurd idea. Soulless and mercenary. He now couldn't imagine how he had ever believed that a marriage of mutual respect and convenience would satisfy him. But that said, money
was
essential for his plans, and emotional entanglements
did
get in the way of single-minded commitment. Chastity, it appeared, had no money, and no one could call the feeling he had for her anything but an emotional entanglement.

He stopped in front of a frozen ornamental lake and stared frowning fiercely across to the far side, his hands resting unconsciously on his hips. Why not put a name to the feeling? Not to put too fine a point upon it, he was in love. And it was a vastly different emotion to what he had felt for Marianne. He had adored Marianne with a thoughtless, almost doglike devotion. Utterly superficial when compared to this deep-rooted sense of belonging he felt when he was with Chastity. She had somehow crept up on him, ambushed him, and he was caught, hopelessly ensnared. He saw her faults as clearly as he believed she saw his. He had seen no flaws in Marianne until she had shown him her feet of clay. The shock and disillusion had been all the greater for his blindness. He didn't see how Chastity could spring any unpleasant surprises on him.

He turned back to the house, aware that he was hungry. The household would be up and about by now and so too would Chastity. The memory of her warm body against his stirred him anew and his step quickened, crunching through snowdrifts along the driveway towards the front door. It was a good feeling, this longing to see someone, this need to be with them. For the moment he was content to savor the feeling, to live in the moment. He would have to make some decisions soon, but not immediately.

Chastity was coming down the stairs as he entered the deserted hall, stamping the snow off his boots. “Good morning,” he said, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“As if you didn't know,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Have you had breakfast?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I went for a walk, but I'm hungry as a hunter now.”

“Don't bring up hunting this morning,” she said, turning towards the breakfast room door. “It'll set Father off on one of his lamenting tirades. He seemed resigned last night, but the sunshine this morning is bound to produce regrets.”

“Well, at least you can do a little more matchmaking,” Douglas said, looking at her closely. “Encourage him to spend the morning with the contessa.”

Chastity felt her cheeks warm but she attempted to laugh off the remark, saying, “Oh, I don't think he needs too much encouragement. Let's go in to breakfast.”

Douglas had seen the quick flush and he sensed a tension in her that he hadn't been aware of before. Her laugh was a little too brittle and her cheerful greeting to the assembled company around the breakfast table seemed almost false. He helped himself liberally to kidneys, bacon, and mushrooms and sat at the table.

As the day progressed he realized with mingled fascination and somewhat shocked amusement that whatever plans the Duncan sisters had for their father and the contessa, they had others for Laura Della Luca. With varying degrees of subtlety they managed to engineer the continued presence of George Berenger throughout the day, ensuring that he and Laura were neighbors at table, partners at cards, and singers of Italian duets. Lord Duncan, he noticed, seemed able to take care of himself when it came to the contessa, requiring no encouragement to be her escort or companion at the fireside, and the lady herself appeared more than content with the arrangements.

Douglas had to admit that he wouldn't have been aware of any of this clandestine activity if he hadn't been alerted to it. It was an unsettling recognition. He could well understand why they would promote Laura's burgeoning romance with George Berenger. If their father did indeed marry the contessa, they would be gaining more than a stepmother if they couldn't get Laura established under some other roof. And they had all made little attempt to hide their opinion of the signorina. Perhaps, he thought, it was only that aspect of their plans that Chastity had been keeping to herself last night, nothing more than that. But he still had the sense that something was not quite right. She seemed distracted and once or twice he caught her looking at him covertly but when he tried to acknowledge her gaze she looked away or became absorbed in something else.

He strolled into the library after luncheon to find Gideon and Max ensconced before the fire in a haze of cigar smoke, brandy snifters at their elbows. “Come and join us, Farrell,” Max invited, gesturing to the decanters. “We're trying to escape being co-opted for something called murder in the dark.”

“Cigar?” Gideon proffered the humidor.

Douglas shook his head, “Thank you, but no. Never took to it myself. I'll join you in a glass, though.” He helped himself and sank into a deep leather armchair. “What happens with this murder game?”

“We are not entirely sure,” Gideon said. “But knowing our wives, something totally unsuited to men of substance. They are no respecter of persons in certain situations.”

Douglas drew in a deep breath, inhaling the cognac in his glass. He sipped, then asked curiously, “Do you know what else they're up to, those three?”

“That rather depends, my dear chap, on what exact aspect of their various nefarious activities you're referring to,” Max said lazily.

“I rather got the impression they were trying to throw Laura into Berenger's arms.”

“Ah.” Gideon took his feet off the fender and reached for his glass. “Yes, that seems highly likely.”

“I daresay Chastity doesn't fancy sharing a roof with her if the contessa marries Lord Duncan,” Douglas observed, swirling the brandy in his goblet.

“That would be our guess,” Max agreed.

“Do they do much of this matchmaking?” Douglas inquired.

His two companions drank deeply and didn't immediately answer him. Then Max said carefully, “They will assure you that they only turn people's lives upside down in the interests of the greater good.”

“And you believe that?”

Both men shrugged. “They managed us,” Max said.

“Yes,” agreed Gideon with a chuckle. “And on the whole we're agreed that the greater good is served.” He reached for the brandy decanter. “Relax into it, dear fellow. It doesn't hurt too much.”