A Sisterly Regard (35 page)

"I guarantee you he did, and has scars to prove it. Even
enmeshed in the net, the cat was able to give him a good scratch on the
leg. Had the village headman not risked his life to run forward and sink his
spear into the tiger's side, the author would probably have been mauled to
death. The net, you see, only slowed the tiger; it did not stop him. It took
many men with spears nearly half an hour to kill the beast, finally. In the
meantime, the author was bleeding on the ground, quite disappointed to
be excluded from the party."

"You must be teasing me, Reggie. I cannot believe that they
would so neglect him. Or that he could tell of it so hilariously, after being
in danger of his life."

"I give you my word. The tiger was a man-eater, and it was
more important that he be eliminated than that one insignificant foreign
devil's life be saved. Besides, it was only a little scratch and he was able to
staunch the bleeding by wrapping it tightly with his neck cloth. Afterwards
they were kind enough to carry him back to the village, along with the
dead tiger, rather than leaving him to die in the jungle."

"How do you know all these things? Are you acquainted with
the author?" Realization struck her then. "Oh, Reggie, did you write
this?"

"I cannot tell a lie" His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "I was
short of funds when I returned from India and it was some time before I
could draw on my late aunt's estate. The income from this book kept body
and soul together for several months."

He rose and came to stand behind her. After a slight hesitation,
he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Now you have all my secrets. I dabble in
agriculture and I write amusing little travelogues. Will you forgive
me?"

She reached to cover his hand with hers. "Forgive you?" she said
softly. "There is nothing to forgive, unless it is your modesty in not telling
the world of what you do. Why do you keep all this so secret?"

"For fear of ridicule, my love."

"No one would ridicule you, Reggie."

"Perhaps not now. But when I was at Eton, I was known as
'Storky'. I was quite a figure of fun, for I had attained my full growth very
early. At the age of twelve, I towered over all my contemporaries, yet was
so thin that one of the older fellows claimed that if I turned sidewise, I
would not cast a shadow.

"No one took such a ludicrous fellow seriously. I adopted a
manner of cool distance and cultivated a superior, somewhat sarcastic
manner of speech. Sleepiness was apparently a result of my rapid growth,
for it began about the same time. By the time I had reached my present
height--before I was fifteen--I had learned to depend upon my unexpected
naps to save me from ridicule or malicious pranks. Thereafter I pretended
to nap frequently, until it became part of my persona."

She drew him down to sit beside her. "How cruel children can
be. But why did you not change, when you were grown? Why did you let
everyone think you were a useless fribble?"

"My father died when I was scarce sixteen. He had squandered
his small fortune and had sold the manor that had been in the family for
three generations. I was left destitute. My aunt had always paid my school
fees, unbeknownst to me. When I discovered the depth of my obligation
to her, I was consumed with guilt. The stepfather of one of my classmates
was a nabob, and I went to him and applied for a position with his shipping
firm. He sent me to India on a fact-finding mission, certain that a lad such
as I would never be suspected of spying on his employees."

A good choice, she decided, examining his face, still youthful
and somewhat boyish. "How old were you then?"

"Not yet seventeen." He looked beyond her, as if seeing far
away places. "I played my part well, deliberately making myself a figure of
ridicule, although often I hated doing so. Occasionally, when on holiday, I
attempted to be myself, but found it uncomfortable. My few
acquaintances accused me of acting high and mighty."

"But when you came home--"

"Old habits die hard. By then the habit of flippancy was well
ingrained. Only my aunt and the Duchess ever knew that the real Reggie
was hiding inside, afraid to expose himself to the world. Later, when we
became friends, Mary saw through my façade too.

"Herne Bradburn and I were close when we were at Eton
together. He never ragged me, and often took my part against the others.
When we met again, a few months ago, we resumed our friendship as if
we had never been apart."

"You poor man. How difficult it must have been, to play so
repugnant a role for so long." Without thinking, she stroked his hair,
letting her fingers trail through the silky waves. "Why did you not let me
see the real Reggie when we first met? You must have known how I
disliked the fop."

"I was afraid. Even though Mary said you would like me better
for being myself, I was afraid you would laugh at me."

He knelt on the floor in front of her and took her hands in his. "I
could not have borne that."

"My dear sir, surely you knew I would prefer you as you are
now?" Phaedra smiled into his troubled eyes. "The fop was amusing, but I
could not see past his so elegant, so foolish clothing and manners. I came
very near to having my father refuse your offer immediately, you know,
for I knew I could not marry you as you were."

"And can you as I am now?" His hands tightened on hers until
she cried out.

She bit her lip.

His expression tightened, the faint lines bracketing his mouth
deepening. "Can you, Phaedra?"

"I...I think so," she said, "but I am still not sure. Oh, my dear,
can you not wait a little longer for my answer? I am grown quite fond of
you in the past few days, but I am still uncertain whether it is love." Seeing
the agony on his face, she reached out and touched his lips. "Perhaps you
had better not remind me of how I desire you, today, Reggie. It is not fair
of me to allow you to hope, and it does quite shake my resolve to be sure
of my own feelings."

"Damn your resolve," he growled, lunging upwards and
grabbing her about the waist. He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his
arms about her.

Although taken by surprise, Phaedra reacted as she would have if
wrestling with a younger brother who outweighed her. She went
limp.

Her strategy very nearly worked. His arms relaxed somewhat
and she was almost able to slide free.

"Oh, no, my dear, You won't get away so easily." He pulled her
close against him.

His arms were unbreakable bonds, his thighs hard and strong
under her.

"Let me go!" Was that weak, uncertain voice hers? She tried to
free her arms from his embrace, even as he bent his head close and
breathed against her ear.

"Be still, love." He nuzzled her neck.

The next instant she felt a cold touch, as if he had...licked?
"Reggie...Reggieee?" Her will weakened, as his tongue and teeth explored
the curve where her neck and shoulder met. Hot breath, cold moisture,
tiny not-quite-hurting nips of his teeth, all worked against her intention to
remain strong, resistant to his pleadings.

"Turn toward me, Phaedra. I want to kiss you."

"Nooo." Yet her head rotated on her neck, as if it was a thing
apart from her. She looked into...drowned in...his gray eyes.

He bent his head even closer. "Yesss." The barest sound, a
whisper touch of breath against her mouth. "Kiss me, Phaedra."

All inclination to resist him fled and she relaxed in his embrace.
The next instant his mouth covered hers, hot, insistent, demanding.

After an endless interval, he lifted his head long enough to
whisper, "I love you, Phaedra. Can you doubt it?" Giving her no
opportunity to reply, he kissed her again and again, her eyelids, her
cheeks, her chin. His tongue swept along the line of her jaw to her ear.
His teeth closed on her earlobe, sending such heat through her body that
she wondered if she would not melt.

When she felt him pulling at the neck of her gown, she had no
wish to resist. Instead she strained her body against his. Reggie loosened
the strings at the neck and pulled the bodice even lower, pressing hot
kisses on the upper swell of her breasts. When she felt the feather touch of
his tongue on her nipple, she shuddered and arched herself against
him.

The sound of the door opening registered dimly on her
consciousness.

"Phaedra!"

"Reggie!"

Reggie loomed over her, blocking her view of her mother and
the Duchess. And theirs of her. She attempted to pull up the neck of her
gown with nerveless fingers.

"Well, Phaedra," Mama said in a voice portending disaster, "I
am happy to see you have accepted Mr. Farwell's offer at last. We were
quite wondering how long it would take you. Do tidy yourself. Mr.
Martin is not far behind us and it would not do for him to see you in your
dishabille."

Abashed, embarrassed, and perhaps just a bit jubilant, Reggie
straightened his neck cloth. When Lady Gifford came to smooth her
daughter's hair, he stepped aside, but did not go far. If there was going to
be a scene, protecting her was his first responsibility.

Phaedra stared at her mother, tears welling in her eyes. He had
the impression that her first choice would be to run screaming from the
room, to hide forever in her bedchamber. Seeing her poised to leap to her
feet, he sat upon the sofa's arm and put a restraining arm about her
shoulders.

"There, you look more presentable," Lady Gifford said, giving
Phaedra's hair a last pat. "Now behave yourself until we can be alone, for I
have something to say about your unwise behavior. Reggie, you will
behave yourself as well. Even if you are betrothed, there are certain rules
of conduct that must be met." She glanced down at her daughter. "You
may, if you fear she will become hysterical, hold her hand."

Reggie removed his arm from Phaedra's shoulders and took her
hand. She did not respond to his quick squeeze.

When he met her eyes and smiled, she remained sober. His
heart sank.

As if nothing untoward had occurred, the ladies requested his
advice concerning the ball. They asked which of his acquaintances in Bath
and London should receive invitations. He did his best to give coherent
answers, but his primary attention was upon Phaedra. She was being
uncharacteristically silent and passive.

Shortly thereafter Lady Mary and Mr. Martin entered, having
returned from a gallop. The conversation became general and no one but
Reggie seemed to notice that Phaedra took no part in it. The discussion
had endured nearly an hour before she extricated her hand from his and
excused herself. By that time the small ball had grown to a grand affair,
with a guest list numbering more than two hundred. A date was set for
two nights before the Hazelbournes' return to London. The long disused
ballroom was to be opened and refurbished. An orchestra would be
brought down from London.

Wishing he could escape and follow Phaedra, Reggie ventured
the opinion that perhaps their plans were becoming overly grandiose, both
Lady Gifford and the duchess turned on him.

"Don't be foolish," the Duchess told him. "It will be just the
thing to silence any lingering gossip. There will be nothing havy-cavy
about Phaedra's betrothal. Not if I have my say."

"How else should we celebrate your engagement?" Lady Gifford
demanded.

He cast a pleading glance at Mary, who smiled evilly. "Give it
up, Reggie. With your reputation and all the talk about Chloe's
clandestine wedding, you have no choice but to make a splash with
yours."

He buried his face in his hands, certain he had sealed his fate by
his lack of self-control. Phaedra would never consent to be his wife if
forced to be part of a gaudy spectacle.

* * * *

Upon escaping the library, Phaedra ran to her bedchamber and
cast herself upon her bed to weep.

Her mother had congratulated her on finally accepting Reggie,
but she had done nothing of the sort. She had merely been kissing him.
Well, perhaps it had been more than a perfectly chaste kiss.

A few kisses do not constitute a betrothal, do they?

Her skin still burned in memory of Reggie's lips on her
shoulders, her neck, her breasts. She
had
allowed him to go far
beyond what was proper, even for an engaged couple--which they were
not.

And will never be. He will not wish to marry a...there must be a
word for the sort of woman who allows such liberties. A wanton? A tart? Oh,
no!

Confused and miserable, she burrowed into her pillow. Her sobs
were so violent that she did not hear the door open nor her mother walk
to her bedside. Only when a cool hand was laid on her brow did she
become aware that she was no longer alone.

"Well, Phaedra?" Lady Gifford said. "What have you to say for
yourself?"

"Oh, Mama, I have ruined myself," she sobbed. "I had not
accepted him, and now he will not have me, so depraved have I shown
myself."

"Nonsense! He would have you no matter what. But you had
not accepted him? How can you say so?" Mama's expression was a mixture
of condemnation and consternation. "Surely you knew better than to
allow any such liberties if you do not intend to marry him. Phaedra, I
trusted you."

"It is all so terrible, Mama. I told Reggie I would probably
accept him, but wished more time in which to decide. Then he kissed me
and I forgot everything but that." She burst into fresh sobs.

"Stop it, Phaedra! Right now. You may have wished more time,
but your behavior gave him his answer. Unless you truly despise Mr.
Farwell, I am very much afraid that you must marry him." She paused,
then added, "Or never see him again."

"Oh, I could not bear that!" Phaedra cried, as she pushed herself
upright. "I could not bear to be parted from him, even though I am not
sure I love him."