Carola Dunn (2 page)

 “I shan’t hunt, sir.”

 “What? What? But demme, you’ve the best seat of the family! Though, come to think of it, you’ve not been out with the hounds in quite a while.”

 “Close to ten years.” Iain patiently repeated his annual explanation. “As a physician, I cannot afford to risk breaking an arm or leg and being forced to call on my patients in a sling or on crutches. I should have dowager duchesses fleeing my practice in droves.”

 Diverted, his lordship demanded, “Dowager duchesses? Which dowager duchesses are your patients?”

 “Only one, to tell the truth, and I must not divulge her name. Actually, her Grace might be amused to see me on crutches. However, I treat many elderly ladies, titled and untitled, who like to think their doctor is a careful, prudent man despite his comparative youth.”

 “Bath is full of aged fuss-budgets,” his uncle commiserated.

 “And Felversham is so close to Bath word would be bound to get about if I were to risk my neck in the hunting field. So you see, I must regretfully decline, though I thank you for the offer of the grey.”

 “Well, well, much as I honour your decision to take up a profession instead of accepting an allowance, it’s a sad thing that it keeps you from riding to hounds, my boy. I know, you shall teach Flint’s girl to ride while Jasper hunts!”

 Laughing, Iain pointed out that though Lady Cecily might not care to hunt, she very likely already rode. “And if not, Jasper will doubtless wish to teach her himself.”

 He was genuinely sorry to disoblige his kind and generous uncle. Pride was part of it, he admitted to himself. He did not wish to appear to his cousin’s bride as a poor substitute called in to perform a task Jasper shunned. Thus it must appear to Lady Cecily, though he knew the Duke had no such intention.

 Pride of a different kind, added to his genuine belief that a physician owed it to his patients to stay healthy, had made him reject the offer of the young hunter. This was the pride of a man who earned his own living, reluctant to accept any more favours of the wealthy relative to whom he already owed so much. Worse, if he accepted the gift, he would have to accept stabling as well. He could not afford to keep another horse. His hack and a single carriage horse for his gig stretched his budget.

 Yet when he compared his busy, useful life with his cousin’s bored, pointless, fashionable existence, he could not be sorry he had chosen to study medicine.

 Perhaps marriage would settle Jasper, and persuade his still energetic father to let him take a hand in the management of Felversham and the other estates. However, that must depend to a great extent on the beneficial influence of the future Lady Avon.

 Unfortunately, Lady Cecily Barwith sounded like a well-bred, conventional female without an idea in her head.

Chapter 2

 The sun came out as the carriage emblazoned with the Flint coat-of-arms turned off the Bath road. The earl decided to ride ahead the rest of the way to Felversham, “to have a word or two with Pembroke before you ladies arrive and he has to busy himself doing the pretty,” he explained. “It’s only half a dozen miles.”

 Six miles! Within her fur muff, Cecily’s hands clenched in a spasm of panic.

 She forced herself to relax. It was too late now. From the moment the invitation was accepted, she had been committed to wedding Lord Avon. To rebuff him now would devastate her parents and affront not only the gentleman himself but the Duke and Duchess of Pembroke. Worse, everyone would believe he had not come up to scratch. She would never be able to hold up her head in Society again.

 “I know you will behave just as you ought, dearest,” said her mother as her father cantered away and the coach resumed its steady course along the well-kept lane. “Remember not to show by vain or presumptuous conduct any consciousness that you are especially favoured by the Pembrokes. Modesty best becomes a young girl.”

 “Yes, Mama.”

 “Do not seek out Avon, though I shall permit you a few minutes alone with him now and then, should he appear to desire it. He is a gentleman and can be trusted not to go beyond what is acceptable.”

 “Yes, Mama.” Her voice wavered. What was acceptable in a gentleman as good as betrothed? Would Lord Avon try to kiss her? He never had before, nor had he shown any desire to be alone with her. In fact she had seen little of him in the past fortnight as he had gone hunting in the Shires with friends, while she and her parents spent a week at home before setting out for Felversham.

 Her mother patted her arm. “Do not be uneasy, child. The Pembrokes cannot help but love my dearest girl as I do.” She turned to her dresser, seated opposite with her back to the horses. “Dilson, Lady Cecily’s abigail will likely not arrive for some hours. Put out the blue and green striped lutestring at once, and see that the peach sarsnet is in order for this evening. Now, let me see, what shall I wear?”

 While her elders embarked upon this important subject, Cecily glanced down at her deep-rose velvet carriage dress, trimmed with black satin. Her Parisian bonnet was of black velvet lined with rose sarsnet and embellished with a wreath of roses about the crown. A charming ensemble, Mama had said at the inn this morning, and perfect for the occasion.

 Cecily enjoyed pretty gowns. Nonetheless, now she had been out for nearly a year she began to find tiresome the nuances of ever-changing fashion and the fuss over wearing precisely the right clothes at the right time. One spent so much time choosing and fitting and changing one’s dress. Only listen to Mama trying to decide between her straw-coloured and her lavender crape!

 Wondering whether Lord Avon would want to marry her if she stopped dressing perfectly, she gazed out of the window. In the leafless hedgerow a flock of chaffinches squabbled over hips and haws and cow-parsley seeds. Smart in brown and white coats, pink waistcoats, and blue-grey caps, the little birds never gave a thought to their adornment. Cecily smiled at them.

 The hedgerow gave way to cottages clustered around a church, a few shops, and a small inn. Hedges and fields returned for a short distance, then the lane ran between woods and a sinuous wall of amber Bath stone until they came to the gates of Felversham.

 The tall, wrought-iron gates stood open. “I daresay dozens of relatives will arrive today and tomorrow,” said Lady Flint as the gatekeeper came out of his lodge and waved them on. “And dozens of friends after Christmas. Last time your papa and I came to stay every bedchamber was occupied, and there are upward of three score, not counting the servants’ quarters.”

 With so many guests, Lord Avon and the Pembrokes would surely be too busy to spare much time and attention for Cecily. She resolved to enjoy her last days of freedom before submitting like a dutiful daughter to her parents’ wishes and Society’s expectations. Without stooping to actual impropriety, she would ask herself “What do I choose to do?” instead of “What ought I to do?” If Lord Avon decided after all that she was not suited to be his future duchess, so be it.

 The carriage drive ascended a gentle rise between an avenue of bare chestnuts. From the top, Cecily saw the magnificent Classical façade of a vast mansion stretching across the opposite slope of a shallow valley. Felversham eclipsed her own not unimpressive home.

 A pair of riders cantering down from the house distracted her attention from the splendid view. Crossing a bridge over an ornamental water, they disappeared into a patch of woodland. When they emerged from the trees a moment later, she recognized Lord Avon on his superb black Thoroughbred, Caesar.

 Signalling to the coachman to continue, Lord Avon turned his mount to trot beside the carriage as Cecily lowered the window. He was a fine figure, erect in the saddle, his blue riding coat fitting smoothly over broad shoulders. Beneath the glossy beaver, fair locks brushed forward in the modish Windswept style framed his handsome, smiling face.

 All in all a sight to gladden any female’s heart, Cecily acknowledged. No doubt she would come to love him in time. She stifled a sigh.

 “Welcome to Felversham, ladies,” he said, his light, pleasant voice raised over the sounds of hooves and wheels on gravel. “Lord Flint apprised us of your approach, so Cousin Iain and I rode out to meet you. I’ll perform proper introductions when we reach the house,” he added as Cecily peered past him at his companion.

 “Cousin Iain” briefly raised his hat to her. A grave-looking gentleman of much the same age as Lord Avon, he had black hair cut short, with close-trimmed side-whiskers, and a square chin which reminded Cecily of Papa. She could see that he was not so tall as Lord Avon, his bottle-green coat did not fit so perfectly, and his horse, a bay gelding, was not half so fine.

 “Iain Mac-something,” whispered her mother. “The Duchess’s sister married a Scotsman, a nobody. They both died young and the orphaned children, a boy and a girl, were brought up at Felversham. He inherited a small competence, I believe, but chose to become a lawyer. Or is it a clergyman? No matter. He is still received as one of the family and his sister married Viscount Sutton, so be sure you do not slight him.”

 “Of course not, Mama.” Cecily turned back to the window as Lord Avon remarked upon the mildness of the weather. “No snow for Christmas this year,” she said regretfully.

 “No, but for the New Year, perhaps, if you believe the old country maxim that a heavy crop of berries foretells a hard winter.” He waved at a holly bush bright with scarlet berries, standing sentinel at the edge of the now-nearby copse. “With luck we shall be able to skate on the—”

 A crack, a wail, and a heavy thud interrupted him. With a shouted “Whoa, there!” the coachman pulled up the carriage, while Caesar reared as Lord Avon reined him in. Mr Mac-something swung down from his saddle and ran forward.

 “What is it?” Cecily leaned out of the window. “What has happened?”

 “A child just fell out of a tree,” Lord Avon drawled, his tone amused, “right in the middle of the way.”

 “Oh dear, is he hurt? Can I help?”

 “Good Lord no. A scruffy brat, and Iain is seeing to him. I am sorry you have been disturbed, ladies.”

 But Cecily had opened the door and jumped down, ignoring her mother’s faint, reproachful “My love!” As one of the footmen in the Flint blue-and-white livery scrambled down from the back of the coach and scurried too late to let down the step, she hurried after Lord Avon’s Cousin Iain.

 He knelt on the gravel beside a small, sprawled figure and a large broken branch. Heedless of the rose velvet, Cecily sank to her knees opposite him. He glanced up, astonishment in his hazel eyes.

 “Lady Cecily!”

 “Is he badly hurt?” she asked anxiously.

 “He’s had the air knocked out of him.” Mr Mac-something’s matter-of-fact voice was a rich baritone. “I don’t want to move him until he’s breathing more easily.”

 Beneath a grubby, torn jacket, the boy’s skinny shoulders heaved as he gasped for breath. The man stroked the tousled head. His gloveless hand, so gently reassuring, looked strong and competent, with well-kept nails on the blunt-tipped fingers. Cecily raised her eyes to his face. Rather heavy dark brows, together with a firm mouth and the determined chin she had already noted, gave him an uncompromising air.

 “Iain, move him aside so that the ladies may proceed,” said Lord Avon impatiently, towering over them on horseback.

 “In a moment.”

 Brows knit, his lordship dismounted. “Lady Cecily, allow me to hand you back into the carriage.”

 “Not just yet. I may be of use.” She could see he was irritated and knew she was not living up to his image of her. Well, he would just have to accept her as she was.

 The boy whimpered and she turned back to see him trying to raise himself. Tears cut streaks through the grime on his face, chalk-pale except for a red patch where the gravel had scraped his cheek. “Me arm,” he moaned.

 His left arm, folded beneath him, was bent at an unnatural angle. Cecily winced at the sight. She helped to shift him onto his back, then she took his other small, dirty hand in a comforting clasp.

 “What a brave boy,” she softly commended him.

 Marvelling, Iain stared at her. Jasper had described her as well-favoured. Just now, gazing down with compassion at the hurt child, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

 But the child needed him. He tore his eyes away from Lady Cecily’s lovely face.

 He had recognized the boy as his uncle’s gamekeeper’s son. “Ben Diver, isn’t it? You have broken your arm, lad, but it will mend, never fear. Don’t try to move it.” He looked up at his bored cousin. “I’ll have to cut his sleeve, Jas. Have you a knife on you?”

 “Not I.”

 “My mother’s maid will have scissors, sir.” Lady Cecily started to rise but the child clung to her hand.

 Lady Flint’s footman, coming up, had overheard Iain’s request. “I’ve got a pocket-knife, sir,” he said, producing the implement from his pocket and unfolding the blade. “It’s pretty sharp.”

 “Thank you.” As he slit the threadbare sleeve, trying not to jolt the injured limb, he continued, “I shall need two straight sticks, about a foot and a half long, if you can find such.”

 “Her ladyship sent me to fetch my lady, sir—”

 “I shall go to Mama shortly, John. See if you can find what the gentleman needs.”

 “Very good, my lady.” Reluctance and disapproval in every rigid inch, the footman moved off into the wood. He was undoubtedly destined some day to become the starchiest of butlers.

 “Lord Avon,” said Lady Cecily with a note of slightly apprehensive appeal in her sweet voice, “perhaps you would not mind explaining to Mama?”

 Jasper bowed and said ironically, “I shall endeavour to do so, ma’am.” He strode away, leading Caesar.

 Iain had laid bare the crooked arm. “A simple fracture,” he said relieved. “I’ll set it and splint it before we move him.”

 Cecily realized he was neither lawyer nor clergyman. “You must be a physician, sir? I am afraid I don’t know your surname.”

 “Macfarlane.” An unexpectedly charming smile lit up his serious face. “But Cousin Iain will do, as we shall soon be related by marriage.”