Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (35 page)

She eyed him over her fan, eyes wide and guileless. “Such as sapphires, my lord? An eastern potentate offering large glittering jewels would be very welcome, yes. Very welcome indeed.”

“Over an honest Englishman of good heart?” demanded Somerton, face reddening with outrage.

“It would be a hard choice, Lord Randolph,” she said. “These decisions are so very difficult …” She placed her hand on Somerton’s arm. “Do let’s stop thinking about it and ask the king to demonstrate Lord Rothgar’s automaton.”

Rothgar offered his arm to the expectant Miss Hestrop, full of admiration for the countess’s performance, though she might perhaps be in danger of overplaying her part.

She was doing so well, however, that he wondered what had distracted her into giving the king the final choice. It had been a serious mistake. Whatever it was, he couldn’t entirely fault her, having suffered moments of unusual distraction himself.

The king was even being cunning. The approved list of suitors was designed to be unsatisfactory. He had wondered why, and now he knew. It was intended to push him into saving the countess by offering marriage himself.

The king doubtless meant well. He sincerely believed that marriage and fatherhood was the happiest possible state. How far would he go, however, in pursuing his aim?

As the king went to switch on the other automaton, Rothgar saw him cast an annoyed look at Lady Arradale on Somerton’s arm, and an even more annoyed look at himself.

Lord save him from newly-fledged family men!

Diana found herself in the best position to view the machine, and as soon as the king had switched it on, he moved to her side to comment admiringly on its many fine features.
Unfortunately, she also had Somerton on her other side, inclined to stand too close, and to touch her quite unnecessarily.

Also unfortunately, the king also commented admiringly on the many fine features of the gift-giver. Subtlety had clearly ceased to play a part, and she genuinely feared what the king would do next. What would happen if in the end she had to give a blunt refusal?

It was a most excellent machine, however, richly ornamented, but this time in perfect taste. Against a silver tree with bright enameled leaves, a lifelike shepherd and shepherdess sat cheek to cheek. Every branch held tiny feathered birds, and others poked heads out of nests.

The quiet turning of the mechanism had been instantly drowned by birdsong pouring from open beaks. The birds moved in other ways, too. Some just turned a head or opened a beak, but a few rose to stretch and spread their wings as if they would fly.

Now the shepherd and shepherdess, dressed in real clothes like her drummer boy, came to life. Both heads turned to look at each other with longing, and his porcelain hand rose to rest on her shoulder. Then, slowly, they swayed together so lips gently touched lips.

Then the action reversed, and they drew apart, eyes locked, until they finally looked away and settled to their original positions. Almost unnoticed the birdsong trailed away so that stillness and silence came together.

She applauded with everyone else, but tears ached. Poor shepherd. Poor shepherdess. One kiss was all they were allowed.

For eternity.

“It is only a machine, Lady Arradale,” Bey said quietly, joining her.

“But a magnificent one, what?” declared the king.

Diana made herself turn to the king and smile. “It is a marvel, sire.” Seeing D’Eon nearby, she diplomatically added, “They both are.”

“And so, which do you prefer?” the king asked.

It was like a dousing with cold water. This had clearly
been a contest of sorts, and one with implications. She was supposed to judge?

Thanking heavens for her supposed conventionality and limited intellect, she hid behind her fluttering fan, looking around as if for advice. In reality she was thinking, hard.

The chevalier smiled at her.

Bey raised a brow.

“Your Majesty,” she declared at last, “they are both
perfect
!” She allowed herself to flutter, both her fan and her manner. “I know little of such machines, I must confess. But—I admire the dove for its sentiment, sire, but the shepherd and shepherdess for its romantic design.”

“Well said, well said!” declared the king. “And both machines please us in the same way. Chevalier, my thanks to my cousin of France. And my Lord Rothgar, my thanks again to you.”

As the machines were set to work again, this time in unison, Diana couldn’t help think that her automaton surpassed either. In any contest, it would win because of its haunting realism.

She’d been thinking about the drummer boy over the past day. She had given it to Bey because she’d no longer wanted it in her house to trouble her mother, and because he had the expertise to see it well cared for. Now she knew it might be an uncomfortable possession for him, too.

It was, in a way, herself as a child. She’d also begun to think of it as one of the children she longed to have with him. Maybe he would never think of it that way, but if he did she might have given him an intolerable burden.

“You look pale again, Lady Arradale.” Lord Randolph put his arm around her, trying to guide her back to the sofa.

She resisted for a moment, almost looking back at Bey for help, but then she remembered her purpose. She must not give the king and queen any encouragement for their hopes. That meant she must not spend too much time with him, or appear interested in him.

She’d probably already been unwise this evening, but with luck no one had noticed. She caught one subtle glance of concern from him before he turned back to the automata
and the king. She deliberately leaned against Lord Randolph.

“Some wine, Lady Arradale,” he suggested with tender concern.

“How kind.”

How cruel, she thought sadly. She was raising the idiot’s hopes simply to disguise her feelings for Bey.

Lord Randolph had reason to think himself a candidate, after all. He was high born, handsome, and courteous, though he seemed a little too aware of his qualities. His conversation was all of himself, but that was common enough with men. Even if he were perfect, however, she wouldn’t want to marry him, and in normal circumstances she would give him no encouragement.

Now, she had to throw up a diversion, and Lord Randolph was her victim. Though sorry for it, she flirted with him, lightly, but sufficiently to encourage him. Sufficiently to be noted by the king and queen, she was sure.

Of course, since they planned to choose her husband if necessary, favoring any one man was dangerous. Perhaps if she seemed to be flitting between a few, it would delay any choice.

Therefore, when Lord Scrope came over to inquire about her welfare, she smiled warmly at him. The viscount was a genuinely kind man, who enjoyed speaking of his children. He also spoke a great deal of his dead wife. Commendable, but Diana felt that his new bride would have a ghost in the bed.

As Bey’s bride would lie with the ghosts of his dead mother and sister? She stopped her eyes from seeking him out, and told herself that it would not be so, because he would take no bride as long as those ghosts lingered.

Unless he had to rescue her …

She caught the king’s eye on her, and he did not look pleased. Good. She laughed at Lord Randolph’s latest foolish sally, and patted Lord Scrope’s hand sympathetically. Sir Harry Crumleigh came over and started talking about horses, which was at least an interest she could honestly share.

All three returned her interest warmly, and she ached for it.

She wanted no more broken hearts in the world.

Weakly, she let her eyes slip once again to where Bey chatted with a lively group. He’d clearly said something witty, and Cynthia Hestrop clung to his arm, laughing up at him in a deliberately enticing way. He caught Diana’s eye, returned her gaze coolly, then smiled at his wanton admirer.

She made her eyes move on—and saw the king watching her. Had he caught that exchange?

Plague take them all.

Feeling like an animal in a cage, with every movement observed and scrutinized, she turned back to charming and encouraging her wretched suitors.

T
he next day, Diana awoke with one pressing question—when would she see Bey again? Ridiculous to feel that he was the watch spring of her life, but a day without the sight of him, without a moment of conversation, seemed worthless.

Then she remembered that she had to continue to pretend that other men were of greater interest. She flopped back on her pillow with a moan. It had become clear last night that they were all taking her encouragement seriously, and beginning to compete.

There was also the matter of the masquerade that Bey was to host only three nights from now. When word of that had spread, the court had bubbled with excitement, and Diana had understood that his grand spectacles were eagerly anticipated. She’d heard of Grecian and Chinese themes, and one at the Abbey which had included medieval jousting.

It all sounded like great fun, except that the king had made it clear that she was to use the occasion to get to know her suitors better, and make up her mind.

Why the devil was he in such a hurry!

With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and took her breakfast while Clara prepared another modest outfit for the day. Perhaps she could put everyone off by looking sickly. She painted her face more densely than before, seriously wondering whether she could construct some of the ugly, pustulant pimples she’d worn last year. Too dangerous, however, for they could smear if touched, and this was not a game.

Thinking that she’d first met the marquess in that guise,
she knew it hadn’t been a game then, either, but she hadn’t realized it. No, though cloaked in silk and smiles, this was a duel between herself and the world, with possibly fatal consequences. She checked her appearance one more time, then went to join the queen in the garden.

Because she was an addition to the queen’s circle, there was little for her to do, and many to be jealous of their duties. She sat quietly, therefore, occasionally joining in the conversation, but free most of the time to look for ways to change Bey’s mind about marriage.

She definitely had to gain access to the libraries here, but was afraid to damage her image as a rather silly woman. She doubted she would ever find conclusive proof that he could never father a deranged child, though. Such a thing was surely unprovable. So, she had to convince him in some way that the risk was tolerable.

She suppressed a sigh, sure that in his mind, no such risk was tolerable when by self-denial all risk could be avoided.

She could plead her own pain. Another suppressed sigh. He knew. Complaining to him would be to twist the blade in the wound.

The arrival of Lady Durham with her two-week-old baby was a welcome escape from these thoughts. The queen had apparently demanded the visit, for she loved babies, and she immediately insisted on holding the tiny creature, cooing to it in German.

Diana hovered with the other ladies, as charmed and enchanted as anyone. She rarely saw such new babies, and this was very tiny. Six pounds, the mother said, but healthy.

The baby girl was sleeping when she arrived, but soon obligingly opened huge dark blue eyes, and didn’t cry to see a strange face hovering. Diana was surprised by an intense longing to hold the child, but not surprised to instantly think how magical it would be to hold Bey’s child, him her loving husband close by.

A shadow fell over her shoulder.

“Lady Arradale,” said a man behind her.

Though disappointed, she turned to greet Lord Randolph.
She would rather stay to watch the baby, but the queen urged her to step apart with him.

He carried her hand to his chest with embarrassing ardor. “Lady Arradale. A perfect bloom in a perfect garden. I vow, my lady, you have stolen the blush from the roses!”

Diana kept her smile in place and thanked heavens for a man who would never spout such nonsense. She had no choice, however, but to permit Lord Randolph to court her in his absurd fashion, so she tried to balance mild encouragement with suppression of his smug confidence.

It was a relief of sorts when the baby began to cry, but less of one when the crying wouldn’t stop. Diana turned to see the queen trying to sooth the babe while Lady Durham and her nursemaid hovered, clearly wanting to take the child but not willing to snatch it from royal arms.

“The dear thing is cold,” declared the queen. “Bring a blanket!”

The dear thing was now red-faced and warbling newborn outrage.

Very unwisely, a lady picked up a blanket that belonged to the prince. He shrieked and turned red-faced too, creating far more volume than the tiny baby.

“
Herzleib, nein!”
cried the queen, finally passing the baby to the anxious mother. “Bring my darling to me. Lord Randolph, run instantly for another blanket!”

Diana thought for a moment that Lord Randolph would refuse this menial task, but he bowed and did take off at a run. The prince’s nursemaid brought him over to the queen, but he squirmed and shrieked in a thorough tantrum, probably because his mother had been holding another child so long.

“Lord Rothgar!” The queen suddenly spoke in the tones of one who has seen the Second Coming. Diana whirled, and indeed, he was there, at the edge of the garden.

“Come,” cried the queen. “You will know what to do for my poor child!”

For some reason, the prince chose that moment to turn silent, staring at the still man. Thus, the frantic baby’s squawks were the only sound.

Bey turned and walked away.

The queen gaped, and for a moment everyone stared after the man who had just broken every courtly rule. Snapping out of shock, Diana cast reason and caution aside, picked up her skirts, and raced after him.

She had to pursue around the house, out of sunlight into shadows, before she found him, standing completely still.

She halted beside him, slightly out of breath. “What is it?” she asked, even though she guessed.

He breathed, and if it were not impossible, she’d think it was the first breath he’d taken in minutes. Still looking ahead, he said, “I cannot endure distressed babies. A weakness …”