Hayley Ann Solomon (3 page)

For Lord Warwick, despite his arrogant assumptions, was everything she remembered. Not that she could actually
see
him, of course, but she could almost
feel
him across the table from her, and every nerve, somehow, was strained. She was certain that if she took the offered turn on the balcony, she would do something perfectly reprehensible, like offering up her lips to be kissed. Then, of course, there would be no crying off. For a second the prospect was tempting, but Fern did not want Warwick to triumph thus. She was positive it would be bad for his psyche. Besides, he was rude and arrogant and grossly overbearing.

She must never allow herself to forget that he had not so much as dignified her with a proposal. Not even a decent conversation, let alone a proposal! Her bodice swelled a little with indignation. She churned her anger up, for else, she knew, she would disgrace herself by responding to his charm. Oh, he was charming, undoubtedly—the whole of London seemed to speak of little else. And a rake, too, she suspected, though naturally a well-brought-up lady like herself could have little knowledge of such matters.

Warwick, eyeing her across the table, wondered what she was thinking. Her thoughts were obviously tumultuous, for her breathing was slightly shallower, and her cheeks, flushed before, were now almost crimson. His dark eyes lighted with sudden amusement. He would wager a pony her thoughts were less discreet than her modish gown, which revealed nothing at all of her form.

“Well?” Sir Peter’s tone was sharp as he took a sip of flame-colored liquid. “No good dithering, miss! Which is it to be? Lord Warwick, I trust you do not need a chaperon for this stroll of yours?”

“Oh, no, for I see the balcony is alight with candles, and I assure you I shall take Miss Reynolds no farther than that window seat over there.” Warwick lifted his gloved fingers toward the balcony door. It was made of glass, so Miss Reynolds, peering out sharply, could see what
he
saw.

An empty bench and a tall, wrought-iron candelabra flaming with tapers of various lengths. In all, there must have been fifty lit. Fern was astonished at the amount, for her parents, though fashionable, were generally frugal. Then she realized that they must have been expecting such a request, and she felt the strangest combination of confusion, yearning, and outright fury at being manipulated so.

“I believe I shall play, after all.” She blurted out the words before she had time to reconsider. Sir Peter and Warwick looked astonished—Sir Peter because he was longing for his port and had thought he could retire to the library, Lord Warwick because he had formed the distinct impression that the lady did not wish to play. Only Lady Reynolds looked satisfied, clapping her hands genteelly and murmuring that although she was not a
doting
mama, Lord Warwick would see that she had done her duty by her daughter.

The daughter, stricken and appalled by what she had just suggested, rose stiffly from the table, hoping that the white blur in front of her was, in fact, the hallway, and not the antechamber that led off from the dining room. Luck, for once, was with her, so that no one noticed anything amiss, save perhaps the footman, who thought she was behaving uncommonly odd for someone who had been sliding down the banisters for years.

For Fern, sad to say, was walking as stiff as a ramrod, concentrating on keeping her tiara aloft, her headpiece in place—she could feel the pins loosen as she walked—and her eyes strictly ahead of her, from where she could marginally see the large, blurry objects that threatened to obstruct her path.

Finally, though, she was seated by the instrument and it was no more than a second before Lord Warwick was at her elbow, muttering in low, velvety words that only she could hear.

“Miss Reynolds, are you perfectly well?”

“Perfectly, I thank you.” The answer came out cooler than she intended, for in truth Lord Warwick’s presence flustered her quite unaccountably and she would not for the world have him know it. She fixed a quizzing glass to her eye, which increased the effect of cold hauteur. A quizzing glass!

The Marquis of Warwick, heir to the dukedom of Hargreaves, had never had a quizzing glass fixed on his person in all of his life. If anyone quizzed, it was he. He did so with a practiced air guaranteed to depress the pretensions of any young jackanapes fool enough to be impertinent. But to be quizzed by his betrothed! From the tips of his soft slippers to the . . . Well, she had not yet reached his fine countenance yet; she seemed arrested at his breeches.

Lord Warwick, eyeing the brilliant gold peeking out from the darker coils of the headpiece, wondered if it was he, not she, who was going mad. The girl was as cold as ice toward him, yet he felt fire in his veins and the most overwhelming urge to throw her up on his horse and carry her off into the night.

Instead, he gently removed the glass from her hands, commenting firmly that it was not his pleasure to be quizzed. At which the lady, who had been frantically trying to catch at least a glimpse of him, colored up wildly, for she had focused altogether on the wrong part, due entirely to her own folly. She wondered if he knew, and suspected he did, which made her scowl fearsomely.

Warwick compounded his sin by ignoring her displeasure and offering to turn her pages, to which she responded with an impertinent shrug. It was so pointedly rude that it would have earned her a horrified gasp from her mama if only she had seen it.

Lady Reynolds, fortunately, had not, for she was firmly occupied with securing her wrap. Sir Peter was ordering the first footman to stoke the embers, so he, too, did not notice Fern’s rancor.

Warwick did, though, and he wondered at it. It was almost as if the girl had set her back up against him, but for the life of him he could not fathom why. He decided, grimly, that he would certainly find out, if he had to carry her kicking to the altar.

“I do not require the pages turned, thank you. I shall play a little air I know by heart.”

Warwick shrugged and took a seat, feeling foolish hovering over her when she evidently did not require it. The sensation was novel to him, for most young ladies positively
threw
their music sheets at him, batting their eyelashes wildly and thinking of every excuse under the sun—from lemonade to the burning desire to be fanned—to keep him at their sides. But Fern, evidently, was not like those ladies. He wondered in surprise why he sighed faintly at this discovery. He must be becoming a coxcomb, to be miffed at so minor a rejection!

Lost in thought, he did not notice Sir Peter eyeing him keenly, or Lady Reynolds casting shrewd eyes upon his person. Nor did he notice Fern’s fingers move to the strings, until the first discordant notes. He tried not to wince, and coughed genteelly instead. Then again, came a jangling that set his nerves on edge.

“Gracious, Fern, you are funning us!” Lady Reynolds gasped.

But Fern was not funning; she simply could not see to save her life. She had thought she might get away with something simple, but of course, without her spectacles or even the quizzing glass, she could not see to find the first string. The whole matter, quite simply, was perfectly hopeless.

Tears of mortification stung her eyes, for although she wanted to be rid of Lord Warwick, and she was certain this display would accomplish the matter, she felt a great depression of spirits. This, in addition to the natural feelings of anger at her predicament. Oh, if only she had not allowed Mimsy and her mama to bully her so! Surely her iron spectacles, with their charming blue satin ribbon, would have been preferable to this? But there was no going back, no wishing she had worn a simple muslin with her hair unfettered by clips and pins! No wishing that the damnable tiara, heavy upon her head, could be consigned to the devil, or indeed that the whole company be so consigned! Everyone—even Waters, the third footman, was staring at her agog.

She rose from her seat a little unsteadily and held up her head a trifle higher than she might normally have done. Lord Warwick, rather than being annoyed, began admiring her for her backbone. She glared, with quite enormous, glorious, sparkling green eyes, at her audience.

“You will forgive me if I retire. I am tired, and I have the headache. Lord Warwick, pray do not feel obliged to tender your addresses. I understand perfectly if you have undergone a change of heart. As a matter of fact, I release you utterly from any arrangements you may already have made. Naturally I do not have the details, since I was never consulted, but I surmise there must have been some settlements.”

At which both her parents gasped in shock and annoyance, and Lord Warwick very nearly clapped his hands. So, she had spunk, the little one. And at last he thought he understood what ailed her.

The little termagant had wished to be courted, by God! Well, if he could just uncover a trifle more of the evening’s mysteries, he might oblige. On the other hand, he should probably make a very hasty exit and thank his lucky stars. For the present, however, he satisfied himself with bowing and extending his hand. It was ignored, again, but he was not so easily set aside this time.

Lady Reynolds, in the process of swooning yet again, missed the most disturbing occurrence of all. Warwick swept forward and placed his arms about Fern’s waist in a grip that was light yet nevertheless hinted of steel. Fern gasped, for she had not seen the extended hand, but she certainly felt the consequences of ignoring it!

Sir Peter signaled for another brandy and sank back into his chair. He was perfectly unused to such goings-on in his own home, but if it would save the settlements, he would be a sorry sort of papa not to turn a blind eye to this outrageous behavior.

Fern struggled, but Warwick murmured firmly that it was wiser that she did not. In a louder tone, he very civilly invited her onto the balcony again, “for,” he said, “you undoubtedly require a restorative, Miss Reynolds, and the air is really most clement for headaches and such.”

At which the third footman nimbly moved to open the balcony door, which could be accessed from the music room, just as easily as from the more formal dining area. Sir Peter retired, at last, with his paper, and Lady Reynolds, still not yet recovered from her shocks, lay moaning upon the sofa, both the housekeeper and the upper housemaid now busily in attendance.

Fern was trapped. Short of screaming—and even
her
volatile nature did not permit this—there was nothing to do but to acquiesce, and to try to ignore, quite utterly, the masculine arm encompassing the only part of her gown not resembling a pumpkin.

A task easier said than done, for the gloved hand was like velvet, warm and heady against her skin. Their arms seemed to touch, and though she had been wearing gloves in the approved manner, these had been discarded before the debacle of her performance. She wriggled a little, but it was hard to do so and still maintain a shred of her dignity.

Besides, the more she wriggled, the heavier seemed to be his arm upon her waist, until she thought she was trapped in some kind of heavenly vise. For heavenly it was, though she was loath to admit it, and loath, too, to question why her body trembled so, or why her breathing became so shallow just because she could feel his own breath upon her neck.

The candles outside were still glowing, flickering merrily in the enormous candelabra lit with such painstaking care by Mrs. Fidget, the housekeeper. Fern could just make out the flicker, though not the wrought-iron castings of the elaborate structure. She did not need to though, for Lord Warwick was leading her, as if in a dance.

Not a quadrille,
she thought,
but a waltz.
She had only to turn just slightly to be encased in those arms of steel. Contrarily, she turned away, but was pulled back faster than she expected, so now her mouth was within inches of his own. She had never been so close to a gentleman in her life, and now she really did feel faint!

Her knees felt like they were going to cave beneath her, but amazingly, they were resilient. Warwick, completely lost to all sense of decorum, drew her closer yet, so that her lips almost touched his shirt, and she smelled the wild excesses of rosewater and musk that he splashed liberally upon his person.

“You are really a very tiresome creature, Miss Reynolds.”

The words were drawled, but Warwick was anything but composed as he looked down upon those dreamy, soft emerald eyes. He had never really expected to want to kiss his intended, a fact that now surprised him slightly. Now, he very much wanted to, especially as she was licking those lips in a most intriguing manner, but he suspected it was agitation rather than affection that prompted her.

“You don’t understand!” Fern pulled away, at last. The air was freezing after the intimacy of his arms.

“Then pray, do enlighten me!”

“You think you can . . . can . . . maul me like this just because of some contracts you have signed with Papa! Well, I assure you that is not the case! I am sorry if I have wasted your time, Lord Warwick, but since I was never apprised of your intentions, I do not think I can be so very much to blame!”

“Which is a backhanded apology if ever I heard one! And how are you so knowledgeable of my intentions
now,
Miss Reynolds?”

“Oh, half the house staff is! It is a pity, I assure you, I am not a common housemaid! Then I would have known of the marriage plans an eon ago, I am sure! But since no one cared to apprise me of my illustrious good fortune, I am afraid I now stand in ignorance.”

“
And
on your high ropes!”

“Yes, well I said you could call it off.”

“Is that what you want?”

Fern bit her teeth and lied. She was too ashamed of the strange sensations that he aroused in her to do anything else. “It is, Warwick. And now, if you will excuse me . . .”

“I shan’t. Not before I have kissed you, that is.”

“You are abominable!”

“And
you
are behaving like a mannerless brat! I should have spanked you when I had the opportunity.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh! And now, if you please, you shall permit me to kiss you. Ordinarily I would have waited for the banns, but I find the matter is most urgent.”

Fern thought he meant it was urgent to convince her, but Lord Warwick was fascinated to find he meant urgent in the quite literal sense.

He wanted Fern; he wanted to stop her quarrelsome objections with a thorough kissing. He wanted her to smile with blinding happiness and proclaim herself the most satisfied lady alive. Quite why he should want such an absurdity, when a convenient, trouble-free nuptial was all he really aspired to, he did not know. But with all his heart he wanted it, and he wanted it not next month, nor next quarter, but now, this very moment.

He pulled the coroneted head closer, and Fern, for once, was bereft of all speech. Dimly the candles flickered in her consciousness; then all she could think of was Lord Riccardo Warwick and his consuming masculine presence. She could feel, rather than see, his smooth, clean-shaven skin and his starched cravat with its lustrous pin bedded deep in the folds.

She could feel his hands upon her, then his mouth, gentle, but oh, so demanding. It was a sweeter kiss than she could have dreamed possible, yet it promised of more sweetness still. When Warwick felt her rigid body relax, he laughed a little in some secret triumph and kissed her again, and her tangled lashes, too.

Fern moaned a little and extended her long, very lovely neck. He touched it lightly with his thumb, but was shocked moments later to feel a very heavy object land on his feet. Since he had changed out of his riding clothes, he was wearing shoes, rather than the more traditional boots. They were highly polished and as soft as doeskin.

“Hell and damnation! What the devil was that?”

The moment was broken. Fern, horrified, broke from his arms. She did not have to see to know what had happened. The wretched tiara had slipped its clips and tumbled to the ground. Or, more specifically, to his feet. She realized, with mortification, that it was solid gold. The sapphires were as large as wren’s eggs. Her head ached—quite truly, it did—and so, evidently, did his feet. In a few seconds, she was sure, Mimsy’s splendid coiffure would be in pieces about her head. Her humiliation would be complete.

Ignoring his arms—which were stretched out with the offending jewels—she gathered her skirts and ran. Sheer good luck stopped her from either tripping or walking into a windowpane. The candelabra, thankfully, was well out of her shortsighted path. Warwick thought to follow her, then stopped dead in his tracks. His heart was beating most erratically for a rake, but worse, he was laughing. He thought perhaps it would be best if he departed. Fern—dear, lovely, wonderfully wild Fern—might not understand his sudden mirth.

In truth, neither did he, only he knew for sure that he wanted Fern, and more, that the feeling was reciprocated in kind. Despite her strange behavior, her indifferent manners, and her obvious prejudice against him, she felt as compelled as he did to abandon good sense and kiss and surrender to inner passion. Fern had always had an inner passion. He had known it on that day, five years ago, when she had stolen past his under groom and fed poor Rascal barley sugar.

He had glimpsed it again when her eyes sparked fury and chagrin, but most of all, her mouth had given away a hundred sweet secrets. Now all he had to do was to get to the bottom of the peculiar mystery of her aversion to him, and he would be home and dry. Oh! He had also to post the banns and send a notice in to the
Gazette.
He did not, he thought, wish to wait long.