Elisabeth Fairchild (17 page)

“Is dancing one of them?” she suggested hopefully.

“You would dance with me, Miss Ramsay?” He was genuinely surprised, and touched. Too much proof of his pleasure must have evidenced itself in his expression. Too swiftly she relinquished his hand, too quickly did her gaze drop.

She placed herself in a defensive posture, as though she must in some form recant her enthusiasm. “I have observed how skilled you are in the subject,” she said gruffly.

He wanted to preen, so pleased was he by her compliment. He restrained himself, bowing instead and taking her hand with the promise that they would dance before the day was out, “Before such exertion, I would explore other aspects of the arts: painting and sculpture and music, all of which you should be familiar in order to attract the attention of a peer of the realm. The arts, you see, speak to us in such a manner that we need never feel completely alone or cut off from the world, no matter how confining the weather.”

She shrugged and swept a hand toward the painting hung walls of the room they passed. “Dazzle me. I am listening.”

He stepped into the room. Empty at the moment, it was a sparsely furnished reception room for the Green State Bedroom, striking for its red damask covered walls that were hung, as were most of the rooms in the house, with fine paintings. Turning a slow circle, Miles said, “All right. Would you have a story of politics, mythology, history or romance?”

Her eyes roved the paintings. “All of that looks down on us from these walls?”

“That and more.”

“Tell me of romance, then,” she said.

Beckoning her to a chair he leaned over the arm of it and lowered his voice, deliberately heightening the intrigue. “The portrait of our host is the painting I shall tell you about. Not the Gainsborough over the fireplace, but the one before you, of Coke in all his finery.”

She fixed her eyes on the painting in question.

Marveling a moment at the beauty of her face as each feature set itself in concentration, Miles turned his attention to the portrait. A younger, trimmer Thomas Coke nonchalantly posed against the base of a marble statue--a reclining female who gazed wistfully from her stone perch at the handsome young man. Coke was worthy of wistful feminine glances exquisitely garbed as he was in a pale silver-gray coat and pantaloons, trimmed out with a heavy silver lace collar, silver buttons, silver trim and salmon red ribbons. A tailed ermine cloak was thrown negligently across one shoulder. Its salmon red lining accentuated the identically hued feather that curled over the brim of a hat dangling from his right hand, and matching ribbons at his throat, tied just below the knee and lacing his silvery gray shoes, the heels of which were also salmon red.

At his feet, on one side was depicted an odd collection of what looked like broken marble bits fallen from the columned temple in which he and the reclining statue stood. On his left, a white spaniel with dark brown ears and a patch of brown at the base of his tail, nosed the feather in his hat, staring up at Coke with dogged adoration. Coke seemed unaffected by either the dog or the wistful, bare-breasted marble female behind him. He gazed in the opposite direction, his eyes clear, his expression mild, his complexion as pale and smooth and unblemished as a girl’s.

“The artist is Batoni,” Miles began. “Specially commissioned to do Coke’s likeness by a countess who was soon to become a princess.”

“A princess?” She expressed interest with a reluctance that made Miles smile. She had set her mind toward having a miserable day, and Miss Ramsay’s mind, once it was made up, was not easily swayed. He knew all too well that she was interested in spite of herself.

“Yes, a princess. No more than twenty years old at the time, she fell instantly in love with the handsome young man in the painting, despite her betrothal to marry another.

Aurora turned her arresting green gaze to regard him intently a moment.

“Go on,” she said, tone slightly cynical.

Miles went on. “This painting depicts our host, the object of her affection, in the wedding finery he wore on her wedding day to another man. It was offered to our host as a token of the young woman’s deepest affection and esteem.”

She was quiet a moment, frowning with concentration at the painting. “This romance of yours is a tragedy it would seem.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But then, marriages of convenience do often tend to tragedy. Do you not agree?”

He meant to prod her conscience with such a remark despite all promises to his uncle.

She seemed aware of his intent. Her eyes narrowed, though she uttered not a word.

He went on. “The princess certainly thought her marriage, and thus her happiness, was doomed from the start. The statue of the lovelorn Ariadne in the background, a young woman trapped forever in stone, is meant to represent her feelings. The fragments of frieze work and broken column at Coke’s feet, are her broken dreams.”

Aurora’s eyes narrowed, lip caught between her teeth. Miles gave her a moment to study the image. The dream, the longed for future he meant to fulfill for Miss Ramsay in the form of Lord Walsh--surely it was only proper that it be questioned.

“Who was this princess? Who did she marry?”

He leaned closer to whisper theatrically, “Countess Louise of Stolberg. Her prince was Charles Edward Stuart.”

“The Pretender?” She turned to stare at him in awe. “The child bride of Bonnie Charlie himself was enamored of Tom Coke?”

For an instant it occurred to Miles that he would like to commission a painting of Aurora as she appeared to him now, eyes sparkling with interest, vibrant hair backlit by mellow candlelight in a rain-dimmed room. Better yet, as he had first seen her in the woods, before the Doric temple, bow in hand. Instead of broken stone, a rejected love knot belonged at her feet.

“What became of them?” Her question shattered his thoughts.

He sighed, reluctant to relinquish the picture in his mind. “Well, the bonnie prince was fifty-two at the time and considerably less bonnie than he had been at his bride’s tender age. He was, I believe, prone to public drunkenness in the years peding his wedding.”

“And the countess?” She gazed again at the painted maiden trapped in stone.

“I am told the prince hoped to beget his wife an heir to his claim to the throne.” He frowned, imagining Aurora swollen with Walsh’s child. Would such a future truly make her happy?

Aurora’s eyebrows rose in mute question.

He blinked away the disturbing image. “Charles was disappointed,” he said. “And the young countess--having borne no sons--endured his disappointment for eight years, then found herself a younger man and ran off with him.”

“Did she really?” Aurora gazed with new interest at the painting before her.

Miles positioned himself that he might gaze at Aurora while appearing to fix his interest on the Batoni. Would Aurora end up disappointed in a marriage to Walsh? He thought she might.

“Well, Mr. Fletcher,” she turned to him with a sheepish smile that made him long to kiss her upturned mouth. “I must admit you have the right of it.”

“Have I?” He smiled. Such an admission was hard won. “Can it be arranged marriages you refer to, or the fact that paintings are far more entertaining than you first assumed?”

“You are most persuasive with regard to both.” She seemed almost shy in her compliment. “Will you tell me more? The morning has proven far more entertaining than I ever might have anticipated. I have not once considered the gloominess of the day.”

High praise indeed!

“I should be pleased if it brings you pleasure. There is a particularly fine marble of Diana in the statue gallery that you might find interesting.”

In their progress to the statue gallery, however, they were accosted by Grace, who was followed by a footman bearing a handful of oil lamps that looked better suited to the stables than the luxurious interior of Holkham Hall.

“I have found you at last!” she crowed. “Only guess Miles, what I have arranged as entertainment?” She waved at the lamp-bearing footman as though he must give away said entertainment immediately.

Miles directed his gaze at the ceiling. “A trip to the attic?” He had a very good idea what Gracie had in mind.

Grace nodded enthusiastically. “Am I not a clever girl?” Without awaiting his agreement she reached out to clasp Aurora’s hands in her own. “You must come with us, Miss Ramsay. We are in for such a treat!

“But what is in the attic that can so excite you both?”

Intentionally mysterious, Miles whispered provocatively in her ear. “Hidden treasures, Miss Ramsay, that few have the honor of witnessing! Do you mean to come?”

As he had hoped, Aurora was far too intrigued to resist such an invitation.

The treasure hunt was a chillier affair than Aurora anticipated. The dark, cobwebby attic smelled musty. The rain drummed loudly on the slates above their heads. Their swinging lanterns sent light and shadows moving and shifting on all sides of them as though it were a living thing, illuminating heaps of cast-off furniture of an earlier day and stacks of boxes, trunks and storage crates. Aurora hated closed off spaces without breeze or sunshine. She hated the attic. Most of all, she hated the dark. Whatever was she doing in this dusty place in her newly refurbished dress? Why had she agreed to this stupjaunt? What treasures were to be found here?

In her heart, Aurora knew the answer even as she asked it of herself. Curiosity brought her here, about hidden treasure and with regard to the man whose lantern held the darkness from her heels--the man in whose every mood, every movement, every word she found fascination. These were the reasons she braved dust and darkness.

Miles Fletcher’s expression as he spoke of the treasures locked here had been so dynamic that a scramble in an attic sounded like an adventure.

“Here we are,” the footman who led them held high his lamp to indicate a wooden rack that held several enormous, canvas-draped rectangles. “Please stand back. There is sure to be dust.”

Aurora looked at Grace. Unmoved by the threat of dust, she remained where she was, eyes fixed on the paintings. Aurora was not so inclined to suffer. She stepped back the way they had come, testing the shadows, shivering as Miles Fletcher passed her taking the light of his lamp with him.

Aurora would have preferred that no one had noticed her

shivering. She considered such a loss of bodily control embarrassing evidence of weakness, a weakness that her brothers would have leapt on immediately had any of them been there. They would have chided her fears, chided too her foolishness in wearing no more than muslin against the damp and cold.

Miles turned and held his lamp high. The light shone full on her face.

“Are you cold, Miss Ramsay? I am prepared to swear that I have just heard your teeth chattering.”

His liquid voice reminded her of the rain on the roof, a persistent, penetrating sound. Before she could stop him, he put down his lamp and slipped off his exquisitely tailored jacket, holding it out as though he expected her to wear it.

She would have accepted it with alacrity had it not entailed putting down her lantern. Darkness would fairly swallow them if she put down her light. She did not think she could stand such an encroachment, even temporarily.

“Are you not cold, then?” He leaned closer. “But of course you are. My ears do not deceive me. Your teeth are chattering.” His breath warmed her face. His very presence seemed a warmth, so close to her.

“I am afraid of the dark,” she whispered.

He did not laugh, nor did he repeat what she had said in disbelief, as she had feared he might. He was only quiet a moment before taking up his lamp again, to prop it on top of a stack of crates. “Better?” he asked, holding his coat open, that she might easily slip into it.

She reached up to set her lamp beside his and turned to accept the garment. “Much better,” she had to agree, as the warm weight of his coat enfolded her. “How kind and thoughtful you are. I have never known a gentleman so solicitous of my comfort, so willing to help fulfill my desires.”

There passed a strange look over his features, a troubled look, but perhaps it was only the flickering lamp light. She could not be sure.

“Mr. Fletcher, will you not now be chilled?”

The teasing, flirtatious half-smile she had become quite fond of  reappeared. “How can I be cold, when I think of you wrapped in my coat? Such thoughts are marvelously warming.”

She laughed. Everything he said was in some way suggestive and yet she did not think he meant a word of any of it. Flattery was a game to him, an exhibition of his talents. Aurora was amused and touched by her exchanges with Miles Fletcher. Long after he had left her side to return to the paintings, now unveiled, she stood cocod in his warm, citrus-scented coat and pondered his affect on her.

She was used to being ridiculed for her fears. That Fletcher should so nonchalantly do the opposite, amazed her. She was deeply touched by his kindnesses, his every indication of concern for her comfort and well being. As a result, she was struck in a way she had never before noticed by how attractive Mr. Fletcher was. The man’s attention to detail, the very polish of his appearance, seemed such a reflection of his character, that she found it appealing where once she would have declared it appalling.