Under the Kissing Bough (14 page)

* * *

"What do you mean, you've lost the ring?" Geoff demanded.

He stood on the steps to the house. The steeplechase had to begin soon. Dark clouds now piled against each other in the west in an ominous stack and would probably soon loosen a bitter-cold drenching. On the lawn, the riders—ten of them racing, and Squire Boscome along with two grooms from Westerley to aid him as stewards—now formed a ragged line, their horses restless and prancing and ready to run.

Geoff regarded his youngest brother with mounting irritation. Devil take it, bad enough to have to meet Cynthia here, with her looking like the girl he had once known and loved. At least it had given him a chance to cry friends with her again. But now this. And here was half the county gathered and eager for hints of scandal. He had not missed the speculative stares following him and Eleanor this day. How much more bad luck was he to run into?

Patrick's stare fell to the stone steps. Mud from the road to Guildford spattered his boots and buff buckskin breeches, and his bottle green coat hung open over a buff waistcoat.

"How was I to know the damn thing wouldn't stay in my pocket?" he grumbled, looking as if he were a schoolboy of thirteen and not a supposedly responsible gentleman of twenty-three.

Since he was not riding in the steeplechase, he had accepted Geoff's request to go to Guildford to collect the wedding ring this morning.

Now, Geoff's jaw tightened, and the muscles bunched in his shoulders until it felt as if the seams of his jacket must split. He ought to have had Findlay and Finch deliver the dratted ring. Only it had seemed such a simple thing to send Patrick after it.

Simple!
He ought to have known better.

Hot, angry words began to pile up in his mind, but then he glanced at Eleanor.

She stood next to Andrew, remarkable in the crowd only by virtue of being a slip of thing. Dressed in a dark green riding habit with a faint flush warming her cheeks and her dark hair already starting to stray from a confining bandeau meant to hold them in order, she looked charming. Not pretty, but charming. And it struck him that he liked how those seal-brown stands had a mind of their own, never holding in place, but straying into wisps that caressed her cheeks and the white nape of her neck.

His anger cooled as he watched her. If he made a scene about the ring, she would know. Devil take it, everyone would. And she—as well as others—might see it as a bad omen. He knew enough of weddings to know they came wrapped in superstitions. And too many here were eagerly seeking signs of impending disaster.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his jaw to loosen and then he clapped Patrick on the shoulder. "Never mind. Just don't tell anyone. I don't want mutters of bad luck starting up. And you may get yourself back to Guildford to ask Findlay and Finch for another ring that would match the fit they made of that one's size. I'm certain it will be devilishly expensive, but that's not to matter."

Wary, Patrick eyed his brother. "You're not angry with me?"

Geoff's mouth lifted. "Don't sound so disappointed. I plan to flay you alive if you lose this second one. Now, go and make good on this mishap by coming up with a new ring for me."

With a flash of a smile, Patrick started down the steps. He paused at the base and glanced up again. "I didn't mean to lose it, honestly I didn't. It's not as if I don't want to see you married. Andrew and I both want to see you happy. Really, we do."

He bolted for the stables, leaving Geoff staring after him, puzzled and wondering what the devil that speech had meant.

It occurred to him then that both his brothers had been acting odd as of late, seeming to go out of their way to insert themselves between him and his bride-to-be. Each evening one of them had fitted himself to Eleanor's side.

Irritation with them had nibbled at him on more than one of those occasions for monopolizing her time. But he had thought that they were doing no more than going out of their way to make her feel welcome into the family. Now he wondered if other motives prompted such gallantry.

Had they been trying to manage his affairs for him?

He'd bloody ring their necks if they had. Devil take it, but could not any member of his family allow him to make his own life? Here was his father, wanting him to marry, but not wanting him to wed Eleanor. And were his brothers out to also ensure that his marriage took place? Did they all think him so unable to arrange his own life?

Or was he simply seeing plots where none existed?

That must be it. He was simply being thin-skinned about the matter. He had, after all, never seen the ladies of London run from him, and his brothers must know that. And he was not going to botch this wedding.

Not at all.

He was going to make this day a perfect one for Eleanor. And tomorrow, he would marry her. She would be happy and that would be that.

Determination fixed, he started down the steps, heading for his place at the starting line to begin the race. The sound of the front doors opening, and his father's gruff complaints, made him stop and turn.

"Stop swinging the damned chair. Hold it steady. Now, easy down the steps. Take them together, you fools. Do you want to tip me out? Just put me down! Put me down. Bellows can wheel me about from here."

Irritation kindled in an instant in Geoff and he strode to his father's side. "What is this, some miraculous recovery? Or do you wish to be able to lay the blame of your collapse on Eleanor's race?"

The earl glanced up as this son as the two burly footmen who had carried him out in his wheeled chair hurried to tuck the green, wool rug around his legs and settle him more comfortably. "You are impertinent, lad. Oh, leave off, you fools." He swatted away the footmen and turned to his son. "And you may have arranged all this for that Glover girl, but, by God, I am still earl here. And I should be a damn poor one not to make even an appearance for our guests."

Geoff's eyes narrowed and he pressed his mouth into a tight line to keep back further argument. With his father in this mood, he could only succeed in stoking the earl's stubborn determination to do as he pleased. The earl's skin was white, but not overly pale, and he looked alert enough. Geoff glanced again at his father's shaking hands and hunched shoulders, and vague, uneasy doubts tickled at the back of his mind, but he had no time to sort through those stray thoughts.

Abruptly, he turned to Bellows. "Fetch Dr. Ibbottson from over there by the pasture gate." He glanced back to his father. "Given Ibbottson's assessment of your condition, I take it that you have no objection to having him close to hand?"

Fire kindled in the earl's eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he seemed to change his mind. He sank deeper into his chair, folding his hands under the green wool rug. "Fetch Ibbottson if you must, and then you may go and start this race of yours. Or do you mean to wait until dark and hold it by candlelight?"

After a nod to Bellows to get the doctor, Geoff turned away, striding to the starting line. He had to stop along the way to talk with others and force smiles that he did not feel.

Finally, he reached the white tape held by two of the grooms. Tully handed him the pistol that he had readied, loaded with powder but no shot.

"On your marks, gentlemen," Geoff called to the riders.

As the grooms stretched out the white tape, Geoff glanced around to find Dr. Ibbottson now beside the earl, bending down and looking doubtful as the earl spoke to him. That conversation sparked a fresh wave of uneasiness in Geoff, but he pulled his attention back to the race at hand and his current responsibilities.

He glanced to Squire Boscome. The man gave him a nod, and his dark horse danced under a tightened rein.

The crowd quieted as the Squire called out the course again to the riders—out through the home woods to the village church, then south across fields to the spire of the old Norman watch tower, and then back again to Westerley.

"The winner shall be the first man back to catch the flag," the Squire said, gesturing to where one of the grooms had just planted a flag that snapped in the wind, showing the Westerley arms of a white castle and a crouching griffin on a blue field. "Now, up to the line, gentlemen."

The riders crowded their horses to the tape. The younger, more daring rode in their shirtsleeves and waistcoats, but two of the older gentlemen had on their scarlet hunting coats. Puffs of steam rose from the horses' nostrils, and from their warm, quivering flanks. Their hooves stamped the cold ground with impatience.

Geoff glanced around once more, wondering where Eleanor was in this crowd. Then he lifted the pistol into the air and pulled the trigger.

The report echoed, a billow of brimstone-smoke rose. The white tape fluttered to the ground and ten horses burst forward.

As the horses galloped away, the crowd surged forward, yelling encouragement to their favorites, crying taunts to Squire Boscome that he had been left behind, and cheering just for the sake of making noise.

Paying little heed to this, Geoff glanced around once more for Eleanor. Had she a good view of the race? This was her event and she ought to enjoy it. Oh, where the devil was she?

The cheers and noise faded as the horses thundered into the home woods and were lost to view for the moment. Some in the crowd had brought spyglasses with them and now they trained them for a flash of coat color to see who led the field. Others climbed onto their carriages for a better view.

"Dunleigh's down," someone yelled. "But that red horse of his is still with the leaders."

Geoff ignored the comment. Frustration simmered inside him, along with worry. Had Eleanor's skittishness of crowds frightened her away? Was she somewhere cowering and terrified?

And then he saw her, standing precariously on the back of a wagon whose horses danced in their harness from the excitement around them. Andrew stood on the ground next to her, and as Geoff watched, his brother put a steadying hand up to Eleanor's waist.

The leash he had held over his temper through all else that day snapped. Jaw set, he strode to where his brother was so casually endangering and fondling his bride.

Eleanor clapped her hands and bounced a little on the wagon, hardly aware of how it shifted below her, or of the hand at her waist that steadied her. She had not realized the race would be so thrilling. She could just make out the dark, tall shape of Squire Boscome's horse, somewhere towards the front. And she could see the flash of bright red of the riderless red horse—poor Mr. Dunleigh would have a long walk back. The small gray, as Andrew had predicted, fought for the lead along with a tall bay, who seemed to almost disappear as the sky darkened and the horses reached the spire of the village church and vanished for the moment.

"I cannot see them now," Eleanor said, straining, standing on tiptoe.

And then a sharp voice cut into her enjoyment. "Of all the idiot notions. Get her down from there before you she breaks her neck. That team could bolt at any moment."

Startled, Eleanor glanced down into Lord Staines's scowling face, a little irritated that now he should choose to give her some of his attention and resenting that his only words for her were harsh condemnation. Cynthia Cheeverly had at least gotten smiles.

Turning from him, she stretched on tiptoe again for a better view and waved away his concern. "Don't be silly. I could always jump clear if they did shy."

In the next instant, strong arms swept her off the wagon and she found herself set firmly back on the ground.

Her temper fired and she jerked away from his touch. "Is that the only way you can handle a woman—by mauling her?"

Putting a gloved hand over her mouth, she stepped back. Oh, why had she said that to him? She not meant to. It had simply come out.

For an instant, his eyes clouded. Then he turned to his brother, his face setting into austere lines that made him look as if carved from marble. "I shall have a word with you later about this. Eleanor, come along. You can see the end of the race from the finish line, and then you have a duty to hand out the silver tray to the winner. You can do that, can you not?"

He stretched out his hand to her.

Anger at the unfairness of it all fired in her, sudden and hot, mixing uncomfortably with her stinging shame for the ill-mannered words she had thrown at him. But those few words had not even touched him. Nothing hurt him. Nothing reached him. He had walled himself off from everyone, except from his precious Cynthia, who did not want him. It was all so very unfair.

"I'll escort her," Andrew said, stepping forward. "No need for you to worry."

Staines shot his brother a warning glance. "I think you have done enough today. Eleanor?"

He stood there, his hand out to her.

Lifting her chin, she turned to Andrew. "Thank you for your company. You made the day such a pleasure for me." She glanced at Staines's hand, and then looked up to meet his cold stare. "You need not feel obliged to offer me your company. I know what is expected of me—and we have made our agreement, have we not? So you do not have to spend any time with me more than is utterly necessary."

She turned and strode away before she could lose her courage. Her heart pounded in sick, fast thuds in her throat and her skin burned. But she did not care if he thought her a shrew. She was unhappy with him and she wanted him to know it. And if this made him want to cry off marrying her at this late date, well, so much the better, she thought, her eyes stinging and her throat tight.

Blindly, she found her way to the finishing flag.

Cheering began to build around them—the horses had rounded the Norman watch tower on the hill south of Westerley and the deep thud of iron-shod hooves on the turf grew louder, like approaching thunder in the ground, as the riders galloped for the finish. She cheered and clapped without knowing who had won the race as the horses galloped past in a close grouping.

It was Bellows who handed her the silver tray to bestow upon the winner, and she did so, realizing then that the Mr. Josiah's gray gelding had won the race, and that his rider seemed delighted with his victory.

Two things struck her at once as she glanced around herself, forgetting her misery. It occurred to her that, despite the cold, everyone seemed to have enjoyed the day. Money changed hands as winners collected on their bets. Tankards were lifted to drink to the riders' health. And she could hear talk starting of who might enter the next race. The day had been a success. And with a small shock she realized she had not thought once of her fear of crowds.

Then the misery returned full force for she knew why she did not mind the press of people about her. Scan the crowd as she did now, she could not catch even a glimpse of him. And the crowded lawn seemed desperately empty without him there.

She had indeed learned how not to care what others thought of her. But now she cared too much for one cold-hearted man.

* * *

Stopping before the mirror in the hall, Geoff frowned at his image. His black evening clothes made him look a more likely parson than Andrew, but he could not help that. Tonight, he needed to play his role as the Earl of Herndon's son and heir for the tenants' and servants' ball. And he needed to play it better than he had done so this afternoon.

His cheeks warmed with the memory of how badly he had acted toward Eleanor. After she had stormed off, Andrew had wasted no time in telling him that he had never before been ashamed of his own brother. When Geoff had fired back that he simply had a concern for his bride, Andrew had glared at him and said, "Well, you have a damn strange way of showing it. And it would serve you right if that display of such concern decides her not to marry you!" He turned and strode away, leaving Geoff too sullen to go after either of them.

His anger had long since faded, leaving behind only the uncomfortable guilt that Andrew had been right. He had acted badly and could find no reason for it other than to think it had to be the strain of his approaching wedding. Yes, that had to be it. Coupled with having to deal with his father and too many house guests, and Cynthia, and everything else. Devil take it, what man wouldn't have his temper shortened?

He glowered at his own image, thinking of the easy smiles that Eleanor had given to his brother. Perhaps she ought to marry Andrew if she had more care for him than for anyone else.

Turning from the mirror, he started down the stairs again.

The hall's feudal glory shone best at Christmas, decked as it was in seasonal splendor. Green pine garlands draped the walls. Clumps of holy—red berries glistening in the dark, spiky leaves—hung over the mantle and the lintels. The spice of wassail—of mulled wine and hot cider—laced the air, mixing with the smoke from the yew log laid on the fire in the great hall. A cold supper of ham, goose, beef, mutton, jellies, puddings, cakes, pastries and fruit from the greenhouse would be laid out in the billiard room and in the drawing room as well.

He would hand out pennies to the children and braces of pheasant or woodcock to his tenants. The dancing—lively jigs and rowdy reels—would go on until four or five in the morning. And the guests would all wish him happy Christmas and blessings for his wedding day, and he would have to look as if he had known what the devil he had been doing when he had asked Eleanor Glover to marry him.

The kissing bough he had plucked for her hung above the double-doors between the hall and the drawing room that had been thrown open to allow guests to pass easily between the hall and its dancing and the other rooms. He gave the doors, and the mistletoe, a wide berth and headed to the library to pour himself a fortifying brandy.

Lord, had there ever been a more miserable bridegroom?

He had acted a dolt today, spoiling her steeplechase instead of making it a pleasure as he had promised himself. So how did he make it up to her? Apologize? Explain himself? How did he do either of those things without telling her the truth and driving her away?

I am sorry, Eleanor, but you are about to marry a fellow who is a heartless bastard.

No, for better or worse, he had made a bargain with Eleanor, and he might be a devil of a fellow, but he had never broken his word to anyone. Their agreement had been sealed by this race of hers—a token given and pledged.

He stopped suddenly with the brandy glass to his lips.

Devil take it, the damn ring. Another token to exchange tomorrow. Where was Patrick with the ring?

He started out of the library, determined to find his brother. Had Patrick been unable to come up with a replacement and so had made himself scarce? Would he have to fetch another ill-fitting ring from the family jewels? Eleanor deserved better than that. But she deserved better than him, as well. However, she was going to get him on the morrow. And whatever ring he could produce.

Geoff found his brother still in his rooms, struggling to tie a decent cravat.

"If you did not come back with a ring, you may slip a strangling knot into it and save us both some time," Geoff said, shutting the door behind him.

Patrick let out a muffled curse and threw up his hands. With another oath, he began to rip the white linen from around his neck. "That's the third I've ruined. And there's your dashed ring for you. Two, in fact. On the dresser next to my brushes. Patterson, bring me another neckcloth."

Geoff moved to the dresser and Patrick's valet brought out another strip of starched white linen.

"Which box?" Geoff asked, eyeing the three black boxes that bore the mark of Findlay and Finch, each tied with a gold satin ribbon.

Patrick lifted his chin and began the process of wrapping the starched linen around his neck collar again. "The square ones are yours. Findlay seemed to think one of them just the thing, but he could not agree with Finch's choice, so I carted both their rings home."

He paused to tie the ends of his cravat and then lowered his chin, creasing folds into place.

After a critical glance at his reflection and a frustrated sigh, he turned to his brother. "Besides, I felt a good deal more comfortable having a second string to my bow this time, I can tell you."

Pulling the ribbon off one box, Geoff opened it and studied the ring nestled in velvet inside. It was a square-cut diamond. Simple. Elegant. More square diamonds fit around the band. It was something he might have chosen for Cynthia, Geoff thought, a touch uncomfortable with it. It looked too large for Eleanor's slender hands. Closing the box, he set it aside and opened the second box, and frowned even more.

Light glittered off a deep yellow, pear-cut stone. A topaz, he thought, ready to close the box and tell Patrick this trinket would never do. But then brilliant blues flashed in the stone. He twisted it in the light, watching the depth of colors dazzle in the candlelight.

Shrugging into his coat, Patrick came over to his side. "Pretty ain't it? Yellow diamond, Findlay said. Fellow went on about how Miss Glover's a rare lady herself. Thought it looked a bit like a rather good sherry, myself."

Geoff pulled his attention away from the glittering stone. He fit the lid back on the box and then glanced at the third, small oblong black box on Patrick's mahogany dresser. "And what is that?"

"That? Something Eleanor ordered. I promised Findlay to give it her. Probably a present for the wedding or Christmas, and no doubt meant for you, so don't you go prying."

Geoff's fingers itched to do just that, but he gave his brother a disdainful glance. "I am a little above the age of uncontrollable curiosity. Now you may take your coat off again. You look as if you have slept-upon-sheets wrapped around your neck. Patterson, another neckcloth please."

Putting down his boxes, Geoff went to his brother and undid the cravat that Patrick had tied. Patrick protested, but submitted. When he finished, Geoff surveyed his handiwork with a good deal more satisfaction than he would have expected. It felt good to do something for someone else, and to stop worrying his own problems for a bit.

"I say, Geoff, awfully decent of you to do this," Patrick said, eyeing the intricate tying of his cravat.

Geoff lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile. "Your reward for not losing a second ring—or a third. I'll take them both, and this down to Eleanor as well," he said, gathering up the boxes from Findlay and Finch.

"Mind you, no sneaking a glimpse," Patrick called out.

Shooting him a scornful glance, Geoff left the room. He took the rings to his own room, and then tucked the other slim box into his waistcoat pocket and went in search of Eleanor.

Guests had begun to arrive. The hum of voices, spiked by laughter, echoed up from the hall. He hoped that Andrew had been on hand to greet everyone, for the earl would not be downstairs tonight. He had seen to that himself, arranging with Bellows to slip a few drops of laudanum into the glass of wine that the earl took with his dinner.

The earl had, of course, insisted that he would attend the wedding on the next day. But Geoff intended that his father would at least rest himself tonight. Even Ibbottson had frowned at how the earl had spent most of the day overextending himself.

In fact, Geoff had seen Ibbottson and the earl together that afternoon, Ibbottson's portly figure hunched and bent as he seemed to be giving the earl a right proper lecture about something. Surprisingly, the earl had even looked a touch guilty, and for an instant that afternoon Geoff's neck had tingled with the suspicion that those two had been plotting something. Those misgivings haunted him as he descended the stairs.

Then he saw her and he forgot all else.

He had never thought Eleanor particularly pretty. He had been right—tonight she was beautiful. An inner glow lit her face. It charged her brown eyes with golden sparks. It animated her features, making it impossible for him to pull his stare from her face. The stray wisps of sable brown hair made a halo around her face.

She stood in the center of a half-circle of children, a mixed lot of gentry and yeoman, but all of them made quiet by some magic of Eleanor's. Their parents—neighbors and farmers, relatives and friends—he noted only as voices in the background, an interference that left him unable to hear her story. From her intent expression and gestures, he gathered that she was weaving some sort of tale.