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Authors: The Quizzing-Glass Bride

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BOOK: Hayley Ann Solomon
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How easy it would be to seize her in his arms and carry her off to the great tester bed! But he would be a cad if he did so, so he mildly proceeded to ring his bell, call for the housekeeper, describe the livery he required, and keep Fern in stitches with little anecdotes from his wild youth.
At dinner—which was a quiet affair, on account of Fern miraculously having all her livery bar a crucial topcoat, which needed stitching but meant she could not yet be presented to the servants—Warwick made himself as amiable as he possibly could. This put Fern at her ease, for with nightfall, and the necessity to light candles, she was feeling increasingly more uncomfortable. When her pallet on the floor was carried in, she found it hard to meet his eye, or to thank the two footmen who had carried it up the stairs and past all seven doors.
They stared at her curiously, bowed low to his lordship, then disappeared, causing no further disturbance bar the arrival of the tea tray, carried in by no less than the housekeeper, the butler, the under butler, and an upper housemaid. At which Warwick raised his brows loftily but offered no comment.
In the kitchens there was a frenzy of activity and speculation, for Anders, it seemed, had noted the pages hands—as white and as soft as bleedin’ silk,” he’d described it. The housekeeper had noticed the lad’s becoming pallor, the maids had noticed the high color and the soft voice, “which” as they said, “was more like a friggin’ lady’s than a blamin’ page’s” and so on. Be that as it may, Fern lived in happy ignorance of the fact that her secret had been discovered, and Warwick in the sublime knowledge that his servants, reprehensibly curious, were loyal to a fault. Miss Reynolds’s secret was still perfectly safe.
The housekeeper sent up the topcoat in record time, having stitched her hands off to preserve the young lady’s modesty. She had also sent up, to Warwick’s secret amusement, a hot posset—so that “the page could get a good night’s sleep and none of them shenanigans” at which she stared severely at Warwick—and a plate of cookies. The negus she recommended to him, “better than the port, what could addle your brains,” and she frowned blightingly over the pallet, commenting over and over that it was “not fitting.”
Warwick’s eyes twinkled. “The sheets fit perfectly, my good woman.”
At which he received a baleful glare from the second most senior person on his household staff. She had also been his nurse when he had been in swaddling clothes, which might account for the fact that she was not cowed by his aristocratic bearing or by his suddenly haughty manner. “I hope you know what you is doing, my lord. Innocent pages an’ all . . .”
“The page shall remain innocent, Annie. Trust me on this.”
At which comment the housekeeper transformed immediately into a wreath of smiles, curtsied most obediently, cast Fern a shrewd glance of appraisal and a melting half curtsy, then left.
“You must think I employ the most impertinent servants in England!”
“They love you.”
“Come, your wits must be addling. My housekeeper glares, has the impertinence to suggest
negus . . .”
“Negus is very palatable, I believe.”
“Then
you
have it!”
“You are being churlish, but I am not deceived.”
“No?”
“No! For your dimple gives you away, my lord. You are nicer than you would have people suspect. Now wipe that frown from your face, or I shall not read to you.”
Bother the reading,
Warwick thought, eyeing Fern’s slim legs and neat ankles, masterfully outlined in the page’s clothes. Really, it was worse than the tight cambric shirt of before! But naturally he did not speak his thoughts. If he had, Fern might not have been so willing to oblige him.
Seven
Miss Reynolds, her heart set on making herself useful, thumbed through the leather-bound pages with genuine interest. Warwick, watching her choose from his collection, delighted at the way her eyes lit up at his choices.
“You are interested in hot-air balloons!”
“Yes, I am having some silks stitched at this very moment. I should like to try my hand at an ascension.”
“How splendid!” Fern clapped her hands.
“I shall take you up, if you like.”
“Oh, above all things! When will you be ready?”
“In the summer, when it is crisp but not cold. We need winds, but no rain, and a perfectly clear sky.”
Fern tried to hide her disappointment. “I shall not be with you in the summer, my lord. . . .”
“Rick. Can’t you call me Rick? I always call you Fern.”
“It is not proper for a page to address you so!”
“A lot of things are not proper, Fern. That is the great adventure!”
Fern hesitated. Oh, how she longed for this man! It was not calf’s love, she knew, though the physical attraction was now as strong as ever it had been for Warwick.
“Very well, I shall call you Rick. In private.”
“Good. If you want to be with me in the summer, you may.”
“I won’t be here that long. As soon as Lord Warwick has left Evensides, I must go back. We always knew it would be so.”
“With no wedding to please your family?”
“No. That is what we wanted, is it not?”
“Not precisely.
I
always wanted a wedding.”
“Then why did you help me sneak away, engage in this ridiculous charade, browbeat me . . .”
“I never browbeat you!”
“No, but you are so . . . terribly convincing you might just as well have!”
“Are we quarreling? It is pleasant to have a first quarrel.”
“I do not find it pleasant!” Fern set her book down with a crash and glared. It was well that the servants did not see her, for she did not look at all like a page, with her eyebrows arched and her magnificent green eyes flashing like waves across the ocean tides.
“Come here and let me kiss you.”
“What?”
“Young ladies do not say ‘what.’ They say ‘pardon.’ ”

Gentlemen
do not usually make such outrageous suggestions!”
Now that Fern’s secret desires were about to become an actuality, her upbringing warred with her inclination. She was not frightened, precisely, but her heart beat erratically, and there was just a tiny part of her that was alarmed.
Had he lured her here for just this? It was unspeakable if he had—
worse
that she found the notion so tempting—but somehow, she could not believe his motives had been dishonorable.
Warwick watched her with a faint smile. “Is it outrageous? I might be a coxcomb, but I had quite thought you might oblige me in this!”
“I had quite thought you were above reproach!”
“I am. Fern, will you do me the great honor of being, not my page—which I find quite antiquated, frankly—but my wife?”
“Your . . . You do not know what you say!”
“I do. Fern, if you were not in this fix, if there was no Lord Warwick . . . would your inclinations lead you to me?”
The room was suddenly shadowed as the sun sank gracefully for the night. The candles, already lit, flickered gently, but yielded no real light. It was not fully dark enough. Fern could almost hear the silence, could hear his impatient breathing, could feel the light touch upon her gloved hand. A page’s smart white glove. It could be traded for a lady’s if she said the word.
“My inclinations are not relevant, Lord Sandford.”
“They will always be relevant to me. Fern, dearest, say you will marry me.”
“You hardly know me!”
“I know enough to know I shall not find happiness with anyone else. Do you think your mama could settle for a mere viscount?”
“She will doubtless swoon.”
“With happiness?”
“No, with annoyance.”
“Then I cannot hope?”
“Of course you can! Mama swoons at anything! And if I am in her black books for the day, well, so be it. It shall be no different from most days, I assure you!”
“Then you will kiss me?”
“Be quiet, Lord Sandford, and just do it.”
So, with great aplomb, Lord Sandford—or Lord Warwick, to be more strictly accurate—did.
Then he removed her spectacles and did it again. It took a few moments for the memories of a certain candlelit balcony to stir. They were a few wild, heady, blurry, intoxicating moments. How was it possible for Lord Eric Sandford and Lord Riccardo Warwick to feel so identical? To rouse the self-same tremors, to be the same height, the same masterful blur? Even their names—Eric, Rick, Riccardo, Rick . . . Fern gasped. She groped for her spectacles. She stared very hard at Lord—bother it, at Rick. The dimple was very much in evidence, but so too the charming beast of five years ago. How could she not have seen it before? It was perfectly clear, despite the fading light. The glow in Warwick’s eyes was tender but just faintly amused at her slow realization.
Fern did not stop to think. She fiercely slapped the smile off Lord Warwick’s debonair countenance—for she owed him that, surely? Then, perfectly sensibly, she kissed him again.
Postscript
The wedding of Miss Fern Reynolds and his lordship, the Marquis of Warwick took place in summer amid a great deal of fanfare and pomp. Lady Fern was still the despair of her mama, for she refused to pay due regard to her trousseau or to her newly acquired rank.
It was quite
comme il faut
for a betrothed to be treated with the elevated status due her new position—this Fern found to be true, with a tedious stream of morning callers, toadies, petitioners. Oh, the list was endless! So, to her mama’s annoyance, she escaped—to the orchards that bounded the Evensides property from Warwick’s. What in the Lord she did there all day, her mama could never conceive, but since she always dutifully brought home a basket of oranges, eyes suspiciously bright, she never did complain.
On the day of the wedding, Fern was not beset by nerves but by a wild excitement that her mama found unmaidenly and her papa found unedifying. But Fern, stubborn as always, did not seem to care. She wore a gown of the utmost simplicity, styled in rosewater silks. Her hair, unbound, hung loose from her head. Her locks were straight, cropped, classical, and as bright as the morning sun.
Upon her head was no coronet, no tiara—Lady Reynolds wept daily at this piece of stubbornness—but a single rose. On her nose, the most glorious pair of spectacles ever witnessed—even by the most fashion conscious of critics. They were wrought from purest gold, gossamer thin, and
light.
Fern thought them as light as the air that she breathed: Lord Warwick’s best wedding gift by far!
The pomp of the church was awe-inspiring. Fern nearly faltered, for up until that moment she had not really thought of herself as the Marchioness of Warwick, or of Riccardo as a true marquis. Well, she had, of course, until she’d been his page, until his staff had regaled her with numerous anecdotes . . . she smiled.
He was waiting for her, immaculate, as always, in full court dress, with the ubiquitous diamond pin at his throat and a tricorn tucked smartly under one arm. Fern could hardly breathe, for his eyes were dark, and though she looked, there was no dimple in that famous chin. He had never been more serious in his life.
He was waiting for her, and she cared nothing at all that Lady Willis and Lady Stonecroft, and yes, even Lady Winterton, were curtsying as she made her way up the aisle. But Mimsy did—dear Miss Garret—who had loved Fern since she was only so high—
she
noticed, and it was
she
who wept for the purest joy.
The vows were simple, but Fern had to remove her spectacles twice, for they were blurred with tears. Warwick, fortunately, had an excellent handkerchief, and he murmured a great deal of nonsense that brought the gurgle back to her laugh and the flush back to her modest cheeks.
The dinner was huge, the grandeur all that the Duchess of Hargreaves—fussing about with table arrangements and place cards, to the complete distraction of the housekeeper—desired. Warwick had brought Fern to his mother that same memorable night, for sleeping on the pallet bed had become out of the question and far too great a temptation for them both. Fortunately, the duchess lived in Cavendish Square, very close to Warwick’s London quarters.
They had taken instantly to each other, though the duchess moaned over Fern’s bright hair and impeccable skin.
“See, I am a crusty old crab,” she had said, wrapped up heavily in a fur coat to her throat and a turban that almost entirely covered her head. It sparkled bright with jewels. Fern had laughed and liked her, despite the fact that she prodded prodigiously hard with her ivory fan, and that her eyes were shrewd and probing.
“Squawk!” had commented Kate.
“Talk?” said the duchess. And she had, endlessly, with the parrot interrupting at short intervals. True to her elevated status, she dined now upon platefuls of seeds and pine nuts. Every so often the duke, a quiet man but fond of pets, snuck her some unidentifiable but sticky treat. Fern could hardly contain her mirth.
Two days before the wedding, the duchess, pleased with her new daughter, announced in a booming voice that it was
she
who could take all the credit for the bridals. Her handsome son refrained with difficulty from mentioning how close her bad advice—to approach Sir Peter and not his daughter—had come to ruining everything. But they were very fond of the old dear and consequently endured the endless thunder of carriages, the rolling out of carpets, the fanfare, the footmen, the outriders, all that was necessary to the grandeur of the occasion. For the duchess doted on pomp and in Lady Reynolds, who up until now had only
aspired
to such heights, she had found a kindred spirit.
Unfortunately, now, at the height of the bridal festivities, when plain Miss Fern Reynolds was transformed into her very regal ladyship the Marchioness of Warwick, the future Duchess Hargreaves, the bride and groom had vanished completely. It was really extremely vexatious, especially as the orchestra was striking up for a waltz and no one in the entire spectrum of guests was more elegantly attired or more nimble of foot than the wedding couple.
Lady Reynolds, Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Hargreaves, Sir Peter, Peter Reynolds Jr., and almost all of the noble guests, tut-tutted in disapproval.
But Fern and Riccardo did not care a whit. If anyone had cared to look, they would have found them floating high above the topiary gardens in a crimson balloon made of the finest Chinese silk. If they had looked any farther, they might also have seen a sharp yellow beak and a bright feathered blue tail aloft in the basket.

Kiss
kiss kiss . . .
kiss
kiss kiss,” came the impertinent squawk. Warwick, following this advice precisely, threw a dark cloth over the gilded cage. It was really, Kate thought,
most
unfair.
BOOK: Hayley Ann Solomon
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