Dancing the Maypole (29 page)

The impulse to
order his son from the table was forgotten as Isabel smiled in
amusement.

“I’d whisper
back,” said Isabel, “his Lordship’s devilish curls make him
resemble a poet. However, if he keeps me awake pacing his chamber
reciting Byron, I’ll insist on combing his hair. That should cure
him of poetry.”

Absently
chewing on a piece of toast, Peter watched as Isabel poured a cup
of chocolate and remembered the sensation of her hands combing
through his hair. “She walks in beauty through my night…” Brown
eyes acknowledged Peter’s secret compliment.

“You have it
wrong Papa. It’s, ‘She walks in beauty, like the night…’”

“Yes, thank you
George.”

“‘…of cloudless
climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright,
meets in her aspect and her eyes…’” The young man audibly sighed as
he stared at his plate. “I want to look into a woman’s eyes and
feel like I’m floating in a starry night sky…”

James draped an
arm over his wife’s chair and pressed his nose against her marble
cheek. “I pray tonight, if the stars are bright, my Egg will roll
into my bed…and make me sleep as if I’m dead.”

Agnes raised a
single eyebrow, “You’re more likely to end up with egg on your
face.”

The laughing
James whispered something that made marble lips twitch with
amusement.

Peter forced
himself to look away. He wasn’t jealous of James. James was married
to a heartless marble statue, not that the man appeared to notice.
It didn’t help that Peter had lain awake wishing Isabel wasn’t
sharing her chamber with her lady’s maid. If he ever had a moment
alone with Isabel, he’d ask her to meet him in the drawing room at
three in the morning for a private tête à tête. The prospect of
releasing the compressed need made him feel dizzy. She’d wrap her
arms around his neck and press five feet, eleven inches of curves
against him. Breaking into a sweat, Peter shoved his feelings back
into his chest, but the compressed feelings made it hard to
breathe. He glanced over the round table cluttered with china and
silver dishes to long feminine fingers holding a delicate cup.
Travelling up sleeves of green and white striped silk to tempting
charms. Meeting her gaze, Peter was struck in the chest by an
electric shock. All he could hear was his heart thumping in his
ears as she somehow caressed the ache.

“Papa are you
going to eat that piece of toast?” asked George. “If not, can I
have it?” The magic moment popped like a soap bubble leaving the
world painfully mundane as George leaned heavily on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter Papa? You look ill.”

“I’m fine.”

Peter’s wooden
words made George frown, “The apothecary might have a tonic…”

“There’s
nothing wrong with me!” shouted Peter. Unable to look in Isabel’s
direction without revealing his feelings, he suddenly realised
there was an empty chair at the table. “Where’s Charles?” All the
Smirkes turned to stare at Cosmo for the answer.

“Don’t look at
me!” scowled Cosmo.

“You slept in
the same room with him,” said Peter.

“And you shared
the drawing room with me last night Papa. Did you notice that I
left upset?”

Cecil groaned
in horror, “Oh here we go…”

Cosmo ignored
his brother, “When I asked Charles if he wanted to talk about his
blind woman he ignored me and went to bed. I thought he’d be more
pleasant this morning, but when I asked him why he was getting
dressed so early he tersely replied he was going out and wasn’t in
the mood for company. He’s probably walking around Bath practising
for the part of the blighted sighted lover.”

“He returned to
Adderbury to visit his sweetheart,” said Isabel.

Peter’s eyes
snapped back to Isabel’s face as his mind conjured up images of his
son tricked into matrimony by a lying hussy. The boy would be
condemned to repeat Peter’s unhappy experience of pretending to be
happy and being the only one to believe the lie.

“I awoke in the
night,” Isabel continued, “and heard someone pacing in the drawing
room. He was desperate to visit a Widow Malet. Apparently, the
local blacksmith has been showing an interest. Mr Smirke was afraid
an abrupt appearance at the lady’s door asking if she was safe
would make him appear a fool. I convinced him that any lady would
be charmed to have such a kind champion. He’s obviously unsure of
his feelings for the woman, but he who doesn’t try never lives
before he dies.” Isabel smiled back at Peter pleased with her good
deed. “What’s the matter my Lord? You look upset.”

Peter slammed
his fist on the table making the nearby cow creamer leap into the
air. “How dare you interfere?” The question hung over the table
like an unwelcome stench.

Isabel’s smile
faded to a frown. “Your son needed peace of mind so I encouraged
him to act on his feelings. Let’s finish eating like civil people.
When our stomachs are full, we can find a private corner where you
can berate me for being kind without looking heartless in front of
your sons.” She picked up her knife and fork and set to work on a
rasher of bacon as if she had a right to the last word.

“Charles won’t
have to worry about the p-p-pieces of his mind. The slut will have
them polished and put on her mantel like a matching set of victory
c-c-cups. I shall take you for a ride in the c-country…” Peter
stated their outing in wooden finality. “…and I’ll explain why you
should refrain giving romantic advice to my children.” Peter sighed
in relief that the conversation was over and reached for the
nearest silver dish. As he spooned a poached egg onto his plate
James clicked his tongue as if Peter had missed an obvious chess
move and was now in checkmate. “Is there something wrong with your
t-tongue?”

“No, but I fear
there’s something wrong with your brain. Cousin Isabel is…right!”
James raised both his eyebrows as if to emphasise his verbal accent
on the word right. “She did what any kind helpful romantic would
do…didn’t she?” His brother was trying to hint something, but Peter
had never been good at word games or guessing other people’s
thoughts.

“Thank you
Cousin James,” said Isabel. “I’m relieved Agnes found a man of
sense. I fear your brother’s next wife won’t be so lucky. Lord
Adderbury appears to think I should have told his son that if he
locked away his feelings he’d soon forget he ever knew the woman.
That after forgetting her, he’d be free from pain and anxiety at
the meagre price of a life spent feeling numb and empty. Am I
right? Would that have been your advice my Lord?”

Horrified to
find his emotional entrails dragged onto the breakfast table, Peter
ignored his brother groaning in empathetic pain and clenched his
teeth. “If you’ve finished insulting me Madam, I shall assume your
rudeness is a result of disturbed sleep. A restorative nap may
improve your mood and your tongue before our outing in the
country.”

“Is that your
idea of conversation my Lord; you make a statement and everyone
agrees with you?”

Cringing at
Isabel’s outraged expression, Peter tried to think of an excuse to
drag her from the room. Alone, behind a door, he’d be able to kiss
away her scowl and explain he didn’t mean to sound like an idiot.
That he was just worried about his son. His good knee jerked back
to force him to his feet, but he resisted the impulse. If he gave
in, his sons might realise Isabel was the mythical Mabel, but if he
didn’t…

“Papa’s always
grumpy in the morning,” said Cecil. “It’s probably the effect of
prolonged celibacy. If he had a wife, he might be more genial
after…ouch!”

Acutely aware
of his red face, Peter silently recited a prayer for strength not
to kill his eldest son. “I am not always g-g-grumpy in the morning,
and this isn’t about me.” The whole table turned to stare at Peter
with raised eyebrows. “It isn’t!”

“My brother has
never been a morning person,” said James. “My earliest memories of
Peter are of him sitting hunched over his breakfast ignoring our
parents’ attempts to be genial. Believe me, he doesn’t normally
recite The Morning Herald’s latest gossip or bark at pretty ladies,
do you Peter?”

“This isn’t
about me! This is about Mademoiselle encouraging Charles to leap
into the arms of a scheming hussy.”

“I encouraged
him to visit a lady to ensure his peace of mind. Your son is a
man…”

“He’s
twenty-one!” shouted Peter. “He doesn’t know the difference between
love and lust.”

Isabel pursed
her lips in disdain, “How old will he need to be before he can tell
the difference my Lord, fifty?”

James groaned
again, “You’re digging yourself into a hole Peter.”

“I’m not
digging! The Widow Malet needs a husband for Farmer Brown’s babe as
the man already has a wife. If you’d left things alone, Charles
would have accompanied me back to Adderbury after it was obvious
she’s with child. Now, thanks to your interference, he may feel
obligated to marry the woman. His life will be ruined!”

“How do you
know the poor woman wasn’t ravished?” asked Isabel.

Peter gasped in
horror, “She’ll say she was ravished by a highwayman. Charles will
ride to her rescue and marry her over an anvil…”

“For a man who
hates gossip, my Lord, you appear to know a great deal of gossip
about the Widow Malet.” Isabel’s contemptuous tone made Peter
cringe.

“Someone
possessing the facts enlightened me. I wasn’t gossiping!”

“So you say my
Lord. All I know is that your son was genuinely concerned for the
lady’s well being. For all we know, she may love him.”

“The lady has
thirty-two years. Charles has twenty-one. She’s not in love with
him.”

“How many years
were there between you and your syllabub?” sneered Isabel. “Twenty?
Twenty-two?”

Peter could see
his family trying to guess the syllabub’s identity. “That’s
different!”

“Why?”

Backed into a
corner, Peter could only think of one reason. “I’m a man.”

Seeing Isabel’s
eyes catch fire he tensed, ready to dodge flying objects. “You’re
not only a man, you’re a free man able to save your son by
sacrificing yourself on the altar of matrimony. If the lady’s in a
delicate condition she won’t care if she’s abused over the
breakfast table as long as she avoids being whipped at the post by
the local parish delegate. It’s difficult to imagine a
sanctimonious bully as a hero, but if man can fly into the sky
dangling from a hot air balloon…anything is possible.”

The sharp words
nicked one of Peter’s ribs and impaled his lungs. Gasping for
breath he closed his eyes; this was all a nightmare. He’d wake up
and start the day for real. He’d come downstairs and find a seat
next to Isabel. He’d whisper an invitation to drive her into the
country where they’d somehow end up lying in the grass…

Far away, Peter
heard Cecil shout, “Papa’s fainting! George, shake him. Do
something before he falls over, hits his head and forgets who we
are.”

Farther in the
distance Cosmo could be heard muttering, “Papa’s going to die and
Cecil will marry some heartless chit who hates me. I’ll be a
homeless orphan in my own home.”

Somewhere
Lucius said, “Your father wouldn’t dream of dying before you
reached your majority.”

A horrid smell
was shoved against Peter’s nose bringing the table closer.
Grimacing, a masculine hand slapped his face. “I said slap him
Lucius, not knock his teeth out!” said Agnes. “We don’t want people
to think his children are abusing him…”

“Laissez-moi
tranquille!”

“Oh dear,
Papa’s shouting in French,” said Robert. “You know what that means.
Any minute he’ll start waving his arms like Nana. Move the poor cow
creamer before it’s creamed.”

Peters angry
demand to be left alone was ignored by Cecil, “You might as well
marry the Widow Malet Papa. When your mysterious Mabel hears you’ve
been chasing youthful debutantes and shouting at her friend over
the breakfast table; you’ll never persuade her to change her
mind.”

Isabel’s lips
pursed in agreement as she glared at Peter over the top of her
vinaigrette.

“There’s no
point suffering celibacy,” continued Cecil, “if there’s no hope in
winning the woman you want. Think of all the money you’d save with
a blind wife Papa. She won’t want to change the wallpaper or need a
new set of china. Most importantly, she won’t care when you start
to look like an aged Roland caricature of yourself.”

“Cecil
Francis…mind your own hypothetical wife!” shouted Peter. Rubbing
his eyes, Peter took a deep breath and resumed a calm mask. “And
leave mine to marry…” Peter’s throat closed up over the vision of
Isabel standing at the altar next to a short fortune-hunter.
“…moi?”

There was a
faint softening in Isabel’s eyes, “If you intend to win your
hypothetical wife, my Lord, I recommend a few lessons in the art of
conversing with a lady.”

“An excellent
idea Isabel,” said Agnes, “and who better than your good self?”

Peter smiled to
encourage the plan, but Isabel was glaring at Agnes.

Agnes smiled,
“Peter is a dusty old windmill that hasn’t ground a peck of flour
for a decade, but he’s made of solid seasoned oak. A liberal
application of goose fat and he’ll soon be as productive as the
younger windmills.”

Peter’s smile
twisted into an angry grimace. Isabel would glance in his direction
and assume he’d never dream of doing anything wicked other than
kill his sister-in-law.

“I don’t have
time to teach your brother manners,” said Isabel. “I’m trying to
find a husband.” The words made Peter’s left eye water as if Isabel
had jabbed it with her finger.

“Isabel, look
at that handsome face etched with decades of authority…” directed
Agnes. Peter cringed as the table stared at him like a new found
species. “…and name three unmarried, well-mannered ladies who have
the spines to tell my brother he’s an ass. Why search the breadth
of England when one of them is sharing the same roof?”