Hayley Ann Solomon (4 page)

With a little whistle, he let himself out a side door. Edgemont, erect at his post at the grand entrance, was horrified. When he found Miss Fern’s tiara lying about as if it were of no more moment than a pair of nankeen breeches, his horror was complete. Word spread through the lower order like wildfire. Miss Fern was no longer to be a grand marchioness. No, nor a duchess either, not even when the Duke of Hargreaves popped his cork. It was no wonder, then, that when Miss Reynolds was finally served her morning chocolate, the face of her maid was quite as miserable as her own.

The gentleman, poised on the point of knocking, dropped his gloved hand silently to his side, tossed his top hat on a hall table, and regarded the single occupant of Sir Peter’s extensive library with ill-concealed interest. He was unaware how arresting he looked, with his curly, shoulder-length hair and his dark, smoldering eyes. His locks were not guinea gold like the lady’s, but sandy, revealing faint lights as he moved. When he smiled, his chin dimpled. He was not smiling now, only staring curiously within.

There was no sign of Sir Peter, of course, for everyone knew him to be far from bookish, preferring the hunting fields to the rosewood confines of the Evensides library. So it was a lady he watched with unconcealed interest.

She was dressed in a simple gown of rose sarcenet, with a tantalizing underslip of the purest white—silk, he thought, but he could not be sure. She was turned from him, a book open upon her lap. She had not read a word for ages. He could see, for the fifth page of
Ivanhoe
was stained with tears.

He made a small movement, then startled in surprise. It was not the bright, abundant gold locks that arrested him, for he had glimpsed them the night before, beneath the appalling headpiece. What captured his attention was the revealing satin ribbon dangling down the nape of her neck.

What a clodpoll he was! The lady wore
spectacles!
It would explain much, he thought, especially her cutting of him at the outset, when she had rudely brushed past his extended hand. Oh, there had been myriad clues.... Now that he thought on them he was only astonished he had not perceived it before.

What a pother over nothing!

He peered at her closely. The spectacles were charming and distinctive. Common iron, with loops at the end of each temple for a securing ribbon. A bit dark, perhaps, for her piquant face, but that could be rectified. Good Lord, he could have gold ones wrought if she so wished! It was not that uncommon—Lady Asterley had famous silver spectacles; there was the new tortoiseshell. . . . But he ran ahead of himself. He was not home and hosed yet, he was certain.

Ivanhoe
was growing wetter. The lady was now weeping quite freely. He wondered whether it would be diplomatic to depart unseen, or have himself announced.

The decision was wrested from him by the lady herself, who looked up at the precise moment he was pondering this conundrum. The book slid from her lap with a large crash, and she jumped up guiltily, affording the gentleman an utterly guileless smile.

“I am sorry, sir. You have caught me trespassing on Sir Peter’s library! I am not usually such a watering pot, only . . .”

“Only?”

“Oh, I should not burden a stranger with my troubles! Step inside, and I shall call a servant. Sir Peter is hunting, I believe, but if it is urgent a footman can be sent. . . .”

Warwick did not hear where the footman could be sent. He was too astonished to vouchsafe anything but the mildest reply as he regarded her with suddenly acute eyes. Good Lord, she behaved as though she did not recognize him! And her charming demeanor was at such odds with her behavior the previous night, it could hardly be credited!

“Miss Reynolds, do you not know who I am?”

Fern looked startled. “Should I? Your countenance is certainly familiar, but I cannot perfectly recall ever being introduced. But I am such a shatterbrain, you must forgive me! If we have met, it was probably in London, and my first season, you know, was an unmitigated disaster!”

“That I cannot believe!” Warwick was gallant more by habit than by choice. His mind was far too active wondering how the devil the girl did not recognize him. Either she was playing a very deep game, or he must tread carefully. Perhaps, if she did not recognize him, it would give him a fresh start, time to talk to her without her prejudices or angers or fears. Fern might slap Lord Warwick in the face the next time they met, but she would surely treat a stranger with more courtesy! Warwick decided rather whimsically that he would rather be the stranger.

He smiled meltingly at Fern, so that she blinked, her honest, direct gaze a staggering contrast from their last encounter. He inferred it was both the spectacles and the happy circumstance that she’d not just had a bridegroom summarily foisted upon her. Or, at least, that
he
was not that groom! Bother Mama! He should never have taken her advice and approached Sir Peter first. He should have realized from the outset that Fern would have a mind of her own. Now was his chance to get to know that mind, and he was damned if he was going to own to being Warwick!

He took her hand. “We had the pleasure of a dance a while back. I cannot exactly remember whose ball it was, but it was a great crush.”

“Oh, then it must have been Lady Addington’s. She is famous for her squeezes, and the others, I believe, were all rather moderate.”

“Yes, Lady Addington’s, then. It must have been. You look delightful.”

“With my spectacles?” Fern made a face.

“
Especially
with your spectacles. They distinguish you.”

Fern’s eyes lit up. Warwick thought that they shone brighter than flames on the finest wax candles.

“Do you think so? Mama thinks they are perfectly abhorrent, and my dresser despises them. I would myself, probably, only it is so good to actually
see,
and not to have to stumble over everything, or . . . or . . .” The smile faded from those luminous eyes. Warwick thought he knew why. The memories from yesterday must have been painful indeed. He felt a stab of remorse for not realizing sooner what the problem had been.

Fern spoke again. “I am very much afraid, sir, that I am in disgrace.
And
in a dreadfully morbid frame of mind, so it would be best if I excuse myself from your company right now. I shall arrange to have a tea tray sent ’round. . . .”

“No!” The words were loud and rather too adamant for a stranger.

Fern raised her brows a little. “No to the tea tray, or no to my departure?”

“No to your departure. I forbid it. I am perfectly at ease with morbid people, for I am morbid myself. I will rattle around in this library like a caged animal if I don’t have something young and pretty to look at! If Sir Peter is at hunt, he will be an age, and you cannot deny it!”

“No, but neither is it proper to remain.”

“Oh, bother proper! Haven’t you ever wanted to rebel, Miss Reynolds, and do something just because it
isn
’t permitted?”

“Frequently, sir, but I try to quell the impulse.”

“Do you always succeed?”

Fern looked abashed, then smiled again. “Almost never, I am afraid.”

“Then stay with me. No one will know. This wing of the house is seldom used, I believe.”

“Gracious, how can you know that?”

A slip of the tongue, but all of London knew Sir Peter never went near his library. Warwick lied glibly. “Oh, an educated guess! The wing smells of Holland covers.”

Fern relaxed. “You are right, of course. It is all storerooms up here. All except this marvelous library, which houses the most splendid works imaginable. I come here for solitude, though Mama disapproves of my always having my nose in a book.”

“I suppose she must. It is such a very
pretty
nose.”

Fern grinned. “You seem determined to cheer me from the doldrums, sir.”

“I am. In fact, it is my mission. Here, I shall pick up your Scott and restore it to its shelf. Then you shall tell Uncle Rick everything.”

“Rick?”

Blow it, he had better be careful. He had nearly slipped up again. Lord Riccardo Warwick then lied as smoothly as if he was born to it. “Yes, short for Eric, Viscount Sandford, but we shall not stand on ceremony, you or I.”

Fern nodded, and Warwick congratulated himself on his quick thinking. It was not such a terrible lie, after all, since Sandford was one of his lesser titles.

“Come on, then. Why was the beautiful princess crying?”

“I was not crying—I detest tears. I was merely sniffing.”

“So why were you sniffing, then?”

“It would be improper to tell.”

“Ah.” Warwick’s eyes gleamed, but he pressed his point no further. Yes, she was blushing quite deliciously, and it was perfectly impossible to simply stand there and not take her in his arms. But he was good. He had to be, if he did not want this delightful creature to turn into a glaring virago again.

“May I take a seat?”

“But of course! Where are my manners?”

Lord Warwick had wondered that several times in the last twenty-four hours, but he declined to point this out.

“I really should go,” Fern said.

“No, stay. You interest me.”

“How so?”

“Oh, you have a story to tell that is sadder than mine. I see it in those sparkling eyes. Tell as much as you can—it will help pass the time.”

“My life is no entertainment, sir!”

“No, but nor is it tragedy. Sometimes it helps to talk, and I, quite providentially, happen to be here. Better than a pillow.”

“A pillow?” Fern looked bewildered.

“Every lady of my acquaintance whispers her agonies of first love into a pillow. I am surprised you do not know of such a practice.”

Fern laughed. “Oh, but I do! I have done so several times!”

“You have been in love so often?” Warwick looked whimsically shocked.

Fern held out her ungloved fingers. They were smooth and pale, healthy half-moons at the tip of each nail. He noticed this fleetingly as she began counting mischievously.

“Indeed! With my dance master, with a great brute of a man who threatened me when I merely fed one of his horses, with . . . Oh, this is a silly game. I shall not continue.”

“Now why am I so interested in that third person?”

He asked this softly, almost to himself, but his eyes met Fern’s directly. “Tell me of the dance master.”

“He was tall and gangly, but oh, his steps were heavenly and he taught me to waltz.”

“Good God! What did Lady Reynolds have to say about this?”

“Nothing, for she never knew. We kept it a complete secret. I was devastated when he left to become secretary to Lord Garadeen.”

“But you came ’round, I collect? You are heart-whole once more?”

“Oh, indeed! Until, that is, I met—oh! We shall talk of something else. This is not at all diverting.”

“Au contraire. I am diverted. Does this mean you fell in love, again, with the brute?”

“Yes, though I don’t know why! He threatened me quite abominably and he wore whiskers.”

“What is wrong with whiskers? They are a mark of distinction!”

“They are prickly.” Fern made a face. “But he had the most magnificent Arabian imaginable, so I forgave him this small defect.”

“And the third?”

Fern blushed. “He is not actually the third, for he is just another, more arrogant version of the second. Only older. I daresay his whiskers are uglier.”

“You did not see them, then?”

“No, for I am as blind as a bat without my spectacles, and Mama refused to permit them when we met for dinner. It was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Poor Fern! I shall call you that, for I feel we shall be firm friends.”

Fern sniffed suspiciously, and her eyes filled with tears. Warwick could see the blur behind her hated spectacles.

“How do you know you love him, then, if you have not seen him?”

“I do not, for he is arrogant and unfeeling and did not even have the decency to propose, only talking of settlements and such, just as if I were a common chattel, not a person at all!” Fern’s tone was indignant.

“He should undoubtedly be whipped.” Warwick’s tone was perfectly serious, but his eyes danced. He had been right! She was miffed! But why in the world did she persist in believing him whiskered? Surely, when they had kissed, she had been disabused of such a strange notion? He wondered how to tactfully probe this mystery, but paused, as Fern continued.

“Yes, he should be whipped, but I daresay he was punished enough when my tiara fell on his foot. It is solid gold and as heavy as lead, I can assure you! I shall never wear it again—it gave me a frightful headache and caused me to walk like a . . . like a . . .”

“Like a dowager with an attitude?”

“Precisely, though I can’t see how you should picture it all so clearly!”

“Believe me, I can picture it.” Warwick thought he would choke on his laughter. His eyes twinkled bright with hilarity. Fortunately, the library was dark, with little natural light and several heavy velvet drapes, so Fern remained wholly unsuspicious.

“You are very comforting. I feel you understand, which is a marvel, for my parents cannot, and I assure you if I were any younger it would be bread and water for a week!”

“Then they must be unfeeling monsters. How came you to love this paragon?”

“I told you, I do not love him at all! Well, only a little, and only because he seemed to understand when I said I did not want to play. He tried to cover for me. It was really very kind.”

“Did you thank him?”

“No, I was abominably rude.”

“Surely not? You seem such a gentle creature!”

“I am, in the general way, but he stirred up the most nonsensical feelings and caught me . . . staring at him with a quizzing glass. I was mortified beyond belief!”

“Ah, those whiskers. Were they terribly bristly?”

Fern groaned. “It was not the whiskers that arrested my attention!”

“No?”

“No! And don’t you
dare
ask me what it
was
that captured my notice, for I swear I shall throw that pitcher of lemonade at you!”

“Ah. I perceive, at last, your dilemma. You were caught in unmaidenly pursuit.”

Fern blushed fiercely at the very memory. “It was not pursuit, precisely, but interest. He is a remarkably handsome man. That is, I think he is.”