Dancing the Maypole (32 page)

His lips
twitched with amusement. “What treasonous act did I commit to
deserve the chop?”

“You killed the
Regent and several of his evil friends after they tried to…uh have
their evil way.” Isabel felt her cheeks burn, “I must sound like
the silliest wench in England.”

A single finger
caressed her cheek. “Lucky for the Regent,” said Peter. “He prefers
his ladies fatter, shorter, and older than your lovely silly
self.”

Isabel looked
up to smile at black adoring eyes. “I’ve never been up in an air
balloon. I wouldn’t know how to steer a balloon to the tower. Even
if I managed to hover over you, and throw down a rope, there’s no
guarantee you’d be able to grab it before the executioner hacked
off your head…”

“Being a tall
man, if I were jumping for your rescue-rope, he’d hack me in the
thigh. I might survive…” His head bent down. “…to kiss you one last
time.”

“Imaginary
kisses aren’t enough. I need the real Pierre…even if I never have
to save him from cannibals busily cooking his trousers as an
entrée.” Isabel held her breath as the man’s eyes crinkled into a
boyish smile. “When you smile at me, it makes me feel like I’m
dancing.”

“Marry me and
I’ll smile from sunrise to sunset…unless…”

“Unless I call
you an ass at the breakfast table for finishing off the raspberry
preserves?”

Her hero took a
deep breath, “…unless you find me and my happiness b-b-boring.”

“Find my hero
boring? Only if you tire of making love to a maypole.”

“Never!”

“That’s a
relief. I’d hate to have to ask Papa to give you his lecture on how
to remain an exciting lover as a husband. Two of my brothers-in-law
have suffered it. One of them three times. During the third lecture
he was shot in the foot. Papa swore by the Virgin Mary it was an
accident, but I saw him smile when my sister ran to tend her
bleeding husband. If the man hasn’t learned to attend his conjugal
duties, my sister loves him too well to mention it. Papa can seem
overprotective.”

Pierre raised a
single eyebrow. “Your father makes me seem an unconcerned
parent.”

“Wait till our
daughter comes crying that her husband hasn’t bed her in three
months because he’s too busy gawping at some actress. The sound of
her heart breaking as she sobs on me will enrage you.”

“I wouldn’t
shoot the man.”

“Bof! If some
heartless swine breaks my daughter’s heart he’ll be wise to run as
I load my travelling pistol.”

“You can’t
shoot a man because he’s heartless,” said Peter. “It’s against the
law.”

Isabel pursed
her lips in Gallic contempt and shrugged her shoulders. “C’est la
vie.”

“Ma Belle…” He
lowered his head until she could feel his breath on her lips.
“…let’s elope!”

Her head
whirled with pleasurable thoughts causing bright stars to flash in
front of her eyes. She could feel the wind on her face and smell
horse lather. “Now?”

“First light.
We’ll be gone before my helpful sons can rescue you. I have to
order the carriage.”

“I think you
should tell them I’m Mabel. You’ll have to tell them sometime.”

“They won’t
believe me. They’d k-kidnap me and lock me in my attic. You’d have
to rescue me from my children.”

“If we use the
carriage, Marie, my maid, will insist on coming. I’m not spending
my honeymoon with Marie in the next room singing rude French
ballads. We’ll take your curricle.”

“It’s not as
safe as the carriage.”

“But it’s more
romantic and we’ll reach our destination faster. Where shall we go?
Shall we drive up to Scotland or go to London for a special
license?”

“London’s
closer, and I know an inn that has a big bed. We can marry as soon
as we have the license and then…see the sights. We might even be
able to ride in a hot air b-balloon…”

“I don’t want
to spend my honeymoon in hot smelly London. Let’s marry and then
drive north. The Lake District is stunning this time of year.”

“Drive up to
the Lake District in a curricle?” He was looking at her as if she
belonged in Bedlam. “From London? We won’t be able to walk for a
week. Let’s be sensible. Depending on the weather, it might take
weeks to reach the Lake District. You might be…” His face flushed a
deep pink. “You might be ill. Let’s drive up to Oxford. My brats
won’t think to look for us there. We can order some new furniture
and it’s only a short drive home to Adderbury. There are numerous
lovely views…”

“Order
furniture? For our honeymoon?” She stared at her prospective
husband in disbelief. “You jest?”

“Oxford is a
beautiful town and I know an inn with a big bed. When we’re not…”
He coughed as he glanced down at her chest. “…sleeping, there’s
excellent shopping. You’ll want to refresh certain rooms. It’s
sensible.”

“Honeymoons
aren’t supposed to be sensible. They’re supposed to be
romantic.”

“We can have a
romantic honeymoon in Oxford. I’ll punt you down the river. We can
have a picnic and feed the ducks.”

“Being ogled by
snotty students and drunken river-boatmen isn’t romantic.”

“They don’t
line the entire river.”

“I don’t want
to go to Oxford for my honeymoon.”

“What if I want
to honeymoon in Oxford?”

“You’d rather
browse dusty warehouses than swim in the moonlight?”

“Uh…no,
but…”

Isabel put her
hand on his thigh, winning his full attention. “After a moonlit
swim you could pretend you were pulling me to shore after having
saved me from a shipwreck. You could warm me with the kiss of
life.”

The leg under
her hand trembled as her Pierre took several deep breaths. “Woman,
if anyone sees me dragging you from the water and then warming your
lips they’ll assume I’m forcing myself on some poor, half drowned
wench. They’ll come to your rescue and hit me on the head. You’ll
be a widow before the end of the honeymoon. I don’t want to
die!”

“Fine, then
I’ll drag you out of the water and bring you back to life with a
warming kiss.” She lifted her lips hoping he’d take the hint.

“I’ll need more
than a kiss. The water will be freezing. A man has sensitive
parts.”

Isabel sighed
in exasperation, “So we run back to the inn all wet, and I’ll bring
you back to life in front of a fire.”

“They’ll think
we’re mad.”

“Who cares?
We’ll be there to honeymoon not buy a house. Are you always
this…”

“Boring?” said
Peter.

“I was going to
say difficult. Pierre, are you sure you wouldn’t be happier with a
woman like Agnes? I can’t imagine she’d ever dream of doing
anything silly.”

His face
twisted with panic as he put his left arm around her waist. “Non!
Je veux Ma Belle.”

“Then, you’ll
come swimming in the moonlight and warm my cold lips with kisses?”
She turned up her face and pursed her lips again.

“As long as you
promise not to drown, or catch a chill and die of fever.”

“We’re
discussing our honeymoon,” said Isabel. “It’s bad luck to talk
about death or dying.”

“I don’t know
the Lake District. We might not be able to find a b-b-bed large
enough for two large people.”

“Then we’ll
pull the top mattress off the bed. Remember happily rolling around
on the floor…kissing me…?” She smiled as he pulled her closer.
“Let’s travel up to the Lake District for a few weeks and when
we’re tired of walking the hills and moonlit bathing we’ll leave
and on the way home we’ll visit Oxford. We’ll feed the ducks and
sneeze our way through a maze of warehouses. You can buy me as much
furniture and as many rugs as you please, but only if you promise
to kiss me at least once in every warehouse.”

Peter Smirke’s
boyish grin promised numerous kisses. “Je promets!” Sighing with
pleasure, Isabel combed her fingers into his hair, causing a look
in his eyes that turned her into a living blancmange. His right arm
slid down from the back of the settee and cocooned her in the scent
of happiness. Tipping back her head, her heart beat in three-four
time as warm, ragged breath pulled her into an eternal moment.
Shivering with happiness, it suddenly seemed silly to care where
she spent the first few weeks as a wife, as long as the real
Pierre’s lips weren’t far away.

Following his
daughters up the stairs to the green and gold drawing room, James
Smirke stopped in the doorway and folded his arms as he watched
Agnes politely put down her book to admire her daughters’ new
treasures. Adoring greyish-blue eyes met his before focusing on the
children. She listened to their exaggerated adventures until they
finished and started chasing each other around the room. James
raised his voice to be heard over the children’s shouting, “Off to
the nursery! I need to tell your mother how good you’ve been. If
she believes me, she might let you perform a play this evening with
your paper theatre. I’ve been longing to hear what happens to
Cinderella. Will she recover from being turned into a pumpkin? Will
she be eaten by the hungry mice, or be turned back into a princess
in time to snatch the prince from the arms of her wicked
stepsister?”

The girls
rushed to their mother, their black eyes large with hope of a rare
treat. “Oh please Mamma?”

“You have to be
good for the rest of the day. No playing Joan of Arc. If you keep
burning your dolls at the stake, your Papa will keep buying you
dolls until he runs out of money. Do you know what will happen
then?”

“He’ll steal
some money from Uncle Midas?”

“He’ll join the
circus?”

“No,” replied
Agnes, “he’ll have to use your dowries to pay the servants and buy
food and coal. Keep burning your toys, and you’ll need to win the
heart of a man who can afford to marry a penniless hoyden.”

“I’ll be
good!”

“I’ll marry
Uncle Midas.”

“I’ll marry
Cousin Cecil. I’ll be Lady Adderbury.”

“I think both
those outcomes unlikely. Go and show Nursey your treasures. I need
to speak with your Papa.”

“Straight to
the nursery! If your Mamma hears you’ve been naughty…” James closed
the door and swaggered across the room. His wife’s pretended
disinterest in his approach made him smile. The woman would stare
down death to spend five minutes alone with him. Flopping down
beside her, he admired her profile. “How are the turtle doves?”

“I assume
they’re both still alive.”

James exhaled a
deep sigh, “If Peter doesn’t familiarise himself with Isabel’s
lips, I’m calling on Uncle Louis. He’ll make sure Peter comes up to
scratch.”

“Your brother
doesn’t need a lead ball in his foot; he’s already familiar with
Isabel’s lips.”

“No?” James
stared at his wife in shock. “Sly dog! When?”

“Isabel didn’t
say, but she hinted at multiple occasions.”

James glanced
at the door and lowered his voice. “I find it difficult to imagine
Peter kissing a woman. Every time Isabel smiles at him he looks
like he’s…”

“Constipated?”

“No, as if he
expects her to accuse him of high treason. Peter’s always been a
riddle. I don’t know how he’s endured an empty bed for so long. If
he didn’t have five brats born so close together I’d assume he
produced them out of duty.“

“For eighteen
years Peter’s been making love to Isabel in his dreams then waking
up and somehow persuading himself he was still in love with that
mindless chambermaid he married. He’s a book glued into the wrong
cover.”

“My brother is
a silly novel tucked into the carcass of a dusty Almanac. I thought
all was lost at the breakfast table, but as usual you saved the
day. What was he thinking? Charles is a grown man. If he wants to
rescue a blind tart that’s his affaire. Peter doesn’t need Uncle
Louis to shoot him in the foot; he seems quite ready to do the deed
himself. He’ll be lucky if Isabel meets him at the playhouse let
alone the altar.”

“I know,” said
Agnes. “Peter appears to be taking romantic lessons from
Cosmo.”

James leaned
over and kissed his wife’s earlobe. “Peter knows Isabel wants him.
Why doesn’t he shove her into his carriage and carry her off to
Gretna Green? She’d swoon with pleasure… At least she would have
before he made an ass of himself this morning. As soon as I knew
you loved me I could barely eat or sleep until you were in my
arms.”

“Is that why
you looked so ill at our wedding? I thought you were expecting your
old lover to show up and air your sins.”

“Is my Egg
starting to crack? You bring her up when you’re hipped.”

“Sometimes I
think she had the better deal; the pleasure of your company without
having to share you with a never ending parade of friends and
relations.”

“She’d
disagree,” said James. “She tried to claw out my eyes when I told
her the sapphire ring was my parting gift. She was hoping it was an
engagement ring. It might have been. I thought I was in lover with
her, but one night I stepped into a ballroom where a stunning
blonde maypole looked me in the eyes and then looked away
unimpressed. As if you could afford to snub one of the few
bachelors tall enough to kiss you without standing on a stool. Once
I found someone to introduce us, I was terrified you’d refuse me a
dance.”

“I could hardly
refuse the only man brave enough to ask me to dance. Uncle would
have been livid. He would have taken away my books and banned me
from all science lectures.”

“Lucky for me,
you couldn’t live without your books, but then you answered my
polite questions with monosyllabic statements in-between scathing
looks. I felt like a fish being sliced into fillets.”

“You’re the one
who reinforced your reputation for being a beautiful idiot by
staring at me with a dumbstruck smile and asking inane questions
like, ‘Did you travel far this evening, Miss Bedingfield?’ or ‘How
do you find the music?’ Followed by more inane statements when you
called the next day.”