Laura Kinsale (9 page)

“Don’t be an ass, Everett.”

Gryf glanced past him. The toughs had left. Eliot stood alone by the door, adjusting his cuff with cool meticulousness. “Are you quite scandalized, my country puppy?”

Gryf waited, without answering, his mouth taut.

Eliot sighed. “My mistake, dear boy. I had hoped you might enjoy the more…sophisticated pleasures.” He cocked his head, and looked at Gryf with a peculiar, predatory narrowing of his eyes. “I see that my own predilections misled me. I have a treacherous weakness for golden hair.” He pursed his lips. “My lamented cousin Lord Alexander had hair just the color of yours. I doted on that man as a child—God knows why, for he turned out to be a fool. Left me.” He gave a short laugh. “Went off and got himself murdered.”

Gryf’s hands closed into fists.

“I needn’t remind you not to mention this little episode to your acquaintances?” Eliot strolled farther into the room. He stood out of Gryf’s path and motioned toward the door. “You had better go home—I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.”

Gryf cast him a level glance, answering the veiled sneer with stony silence. Eliot’s smile faltered slightly, and Gryf strode past, heading gladly for the door and his own kind of freedom.

The line outside the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace was long, a weary eternity of young ladies holding the elaborate trains of their court dresses over one arm and chattering nervously. Tess was grateful for the talk; two months after her first ball, she was as ill at
ease as ever in London society, and the high-pitched voices reassured her that every other girl was as self-conscious as she. Perhaps they would not have been so agitated if word had not gone down the line earlier that Queen Victoria herself was presiding over the presentations. For the past two years since Prince Albert’s death, the Queen had remained in seclusion, leaving the four obligatory Drawing Room ceremonies given each year for the season’s debutantes to her son Edward, who stood now beside his beautiful new bride Alexandra. No one could explain why the Queen had chosen to appear today, as she had refused to attend any other public functions despite the growing dissatisfaction of her subjects regarding her reticence.

Tess’s heart beat faster as she moved forward in the line, out of the hall and into the Throne Room itself. She had expected the space to be dominated by Her Majesty; instead, it was the huge room that dwarfed everyone in it. Even in late June, its stone walls held a chill. Tess’s eyes were drawn upward to the distant, vaulted ceiling hung with banners, and only after several moments did she focus on the trio at the head of the line.

Prince Edward was immediately recognizable, a solid, scant-haired figure in red, with a beribboned golden sash across his chest. The new princess beside him seemed to float above an enormous, pale-cream crinoline skirt, which sparkled with jewels and delicate lace-work. She smiled at each debutante with a bashful friendliness which won Tess’s heart immediately.

Queen Victoria dominated the group by her very severity of dress. As Tess moved closer, she could see that there was no ornamentation at all on the black silk of Her Majesty’s bodice, and plain widow’s weeds were all that graced her head. She was a small, plump woman
with a round face and protruding lower lip, impossible to call attractive beside her lovely daughter-in-law. Tess smiled to herself, thinking of how she had named the little black jaguar kitten after the Queen. The name hardly seemed appropriate now, though the stubborn temper evidenced by Her Majesty’s pouting lip was something the Queen held in common with the jaguar. Tess thought she would not like to be on the wrong side in an argument with either.

The line moved slowly forward, each young lady curtsying to Victoria and her children and then contriving to back out of the room without tripping on her own train or turning her back on the Queen. It was this procedure that intimidated Tess; she was sure she would never manage, though Aunt Katherine had spent hours coaching her niece on the technique.

Inexorably, the moment arrived. Tess stepped forward as she was announced, sinking into a curtsy so deep that her knees quivered. She lightly kissed the Queen’s hand and hoped that the slight bounce that was necessary to reverse the curtsy and rise was not noticeable. She raised her eyelashes to smile at the Queen, and found Victoria smiling warmly back.

The obvious affection in the Queen’s expression was unexpected. Tess had been told that there was no need to speak, that royalty would not have time for more than a nod before the next debutante was introduced. The Queen retained Tess’s hand, halting her retreat. “Robert’s daughter,” Victoria said, and the smile changed her face from dowdy to pleasantly motherly. “It is you I hoped to see today. I am so very glad to know you, child. Our dearest Albert thought highly of your father, God rest both their souls.”

Tess was barely aware of the faint buzz of curiosity from the crowd. The Queen’s kind words and sad smile
brought a mist to Tess’s eyes; it was the first time since she had come to England that anyone had spoken of her father with real affection. “Your Majesty,” she said in a small voice. “Thank you. I—I grieve for your own loss, as I still grieve for my father.”

The Queen’s pouting lip trembled a little, all trace of stubbornness gone. “Yes, child. You do understand, don’t you? It seems at times that no one does.”

Her look of wistful sorrow made Tess want to abandon all ceremony and reach out to comfort this woman who was a queen, and still a human being, a wife who loved and missed her husband. Tess saw suddenly how hard it was, how much the pressure to return to public life without her beloved Albert had hurt Victoria. “Your Majesty,” she said impulsively, “everyone understands your feelings. They must. And if I find someone who does not, I will
make
them understand.”

Victoria smiled again. “You’re very young still, Lady Collier. The world does not listen so easily as you may think, but we thank you for your sympathy. You may come to us freely if you ever have need.”

With that formal dismissal, she released Tess’s hand. Tess curtsied again, gave her obeisance to Prince Edward and Princess Alexandra in turn, and began to back away. She tripped, as she had known she would, but the Queen nodded encouragingly, easing the sting of mortification that colored Tess’s cheeks. When she had finally reached the exit, she turned with a sigh of relief and joined her aunt and Larice, who insisted on a full interrogation to make sure that Tess had said nothing barbaric to disgrace the family.

“I
have had another proposal,” Tess said with mock gravity. She glanced expectantly toward her companion as their horses ambled slowly through the long morning shadows of Hyde Park. She had come to depend on Captain Frost’s company each Tuesday and Thursday in the park; if he had not been there, to ride and talk and race with her until she was breathless, she was sure she would have long since given up trying to cope with Fashionable Society. Their first meeting in the park had been happenstance, but Tess had made sure that the morning ride soon became a steady appointment. It was the only time she felt that she could be herself, alone with him except for the groom who always trailed behind just out of earshot.

He turned to her, and a stray beam of early sunlight flashed in his bright hair. “Who’s the hopeful fellow this time?”

“Mr. Jeremiah Bottomshaw.”

He smiled wryly. “Ah, yes. One of my favorites.”

“I suppose you will say you told me so.”

“I did indeed. He has only been working on his nerve.”

“Well, he might better have been working on his address,” Tess said mournfully. “He read me a
poem.
”

Captain Frost laughed, a sound that seemed to echo through the empty park and bring it alive.

“It’s very well for you to think it funny,” she said with calm indignation, “but I was quite sorry for him. It was an awful verse, and I believe he wrote it himself. Something about ‘music on the waters.’”

At that, the captain’s face took on a peculiar shade of pink. His lips thinned and quivered. “I don’t suppose it began, ‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters…’?” he asked as he drew an unsteady breath.

Tess felt an answering flush begin at the base of her throat. “Oh, dear—do you mean Mr. Bottomshaw didn’t write it?”

The captain pulled his rawboned black mount to a halt and looked at her with an odd expression. Barely controlled laughter strained his features, but his voice was low and solemn as he recited:

Tess listened in wonder to the melodic words. He had begun with amusement in his face, but after the first line, the poem seemed to spring to life of itself; Tess could see the ocean, and the moonlight: the scene touched her with the gentleness of a caress. When he had finished, she was silent as they resumed their easy progress, sure that wishful thinking had made her imagine the way he had looked at her as he spoke. At length, she said lamely, “It sounds much better from you.”

“Perhaps because you recognize it as Lord Byron, instead of Mr. Bottomshaw.”

“Perhaps,” Tess said, although she was not at all sure that discovering the true author of the poem was what had made it sound so sweet.

“And what did you tell him?”

“Tell who?”

“Mr. Bottomshaw.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “I said I must think about it.”

A significant pause stretched between them. Tess dared a brief glance at the captain. His handsome face was closed; he rode along without any sign that he had even heard her.

“You don’t approve,” she said finally.

“I think if you are going to say no, then you should say it.”

Tess shrugged unhappily. “I know. It isn’t at all fair.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Oh, yes,” she said wistfully, accepting the judgment without reservation. “Very good. I just wish—”

She broke off, catching herself before she said the unthinkable. It would hardly do to admit that Captain Frost himself had become the standard by which she measured all her suitors. In her opinion, no one else was as handsome or amusing or easy to talk to—and no one
else kindled that strange, hot pleasure that weakened her knees whenever he smiled at her.

She hung her head in embarrassment, not wanting him to see the foolish hope in her eyes. He was her friend; what more did she wish for? She had begun telling him of her numerous offers of marriage out of the silly idea that he might—just might—come to see her as desirable himself. But he acted always like a brother, like a friend, nothing more.

She should be satisfied with that, she told herself. He did not have to spend any time with her at all. He had been an instant success among the London ladies, with his elegant features and his sweetly old-fashioned etiquette. Even Miss Grant-Hastings seemed suddenly torn between spending time with her attractive cousin and chasing Lord Falken. Everyone had speculated on it: had Miss Grant-Hastings developed an affection for her cousin, or was she just trying to make Falken jealous? Tess was inclined to believe the latter. She simply could not imagine Miss Grant-Hastings allowing herself to fall in love with anything less than a baronet.

That did not mean, though, that the captain might not have fallen in love with Miss Grant-Hastings.

This thought was so unpleasant that Tess immediately tried to banish it for something more appealing. “You haven’t asked me about my presentation at court,” she said.

“A clever change of subject. Allow me to ask you about your presentation at court, since you are determined to leave Mr. Bottomshaw dangling.”

Tess rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Has Mr. Bottomshaw hired you as an advocate, Captain Frost, or do you simply want to make me feel as guilty as possible about that poor man?”

“My name is Everett,” he reminded her. “And he isn’t at all poor.”

“Aunt Katherine has made me fully aware of the Bottomshaw fortune, you may be sure.” With a gloved hand, she plucked at the hem of her burgundy riding jacket. “I’m sorry, but it’s very difficult to remember you are not Captain Frost anymore.”

“Is it?” He sounded surprised. “Call me Gryf, then.”

Tess raised her eyes, pleased. “Gryf. It’s really Gryphon, isn’t it? I like that name. I saw it on one of your letters to Papa once. You may call me Tess, of course. It will give Aunt Katherine a chance to have the vapors.”

Her wickedly innocent smile made it impossible for Gryf to continue in the role of fatherly adviser. He had tried to maintain his objectivity—dear God, he had tried—but to argue the cause of a gudgeon like Bottomshaw was hopeless. The image of the plump and earnest Mr. Bottomshaw reciting Byron while Tess fidgeted made Gryf’s mouth curl in silent mockery.

He should have known that the man would make himself ridiculous. It was Gryf who had suggested the poem; like a latter-day Cyrano de Bergerac, he orchestrated the courtship of another, encouraging the timid Bottomshaw to woo Lady Collier with enthusiasm. Gryf could tell himself that he was fulfilling his contract—the man was exactly what Gryf was sure Taylor and the late earl had been hoping for: rich, steady, serious-minded, and as dull as a doormat. It was less comforting for Gryf to admit to himself that he had known from the beginning he was championing a man who had no hope of winning favor, particularly not by reciting romantic poems.

The obvious contradiction in his own actions annoyed him. He took a deep breath of the cool morning
air and invited Tess to a canter down the wide green, even though his hired hack had a jarring gait, no aid to relearning the equestrian skills he had not practiced since his childhood. Gryf’s first morning ride in the park had left him painfully sore; his leg muscles had been stiff for days, and he still had bruises where the ill-tempered black had pitched him twice.

Tess readily agreed to a run, but even that small relief seemed about to be denied when the groom’s mount tripped after two strides and pulled up dead lame.

“Botheration,” Tess muttered, just loud enough for Gryf to hear. She rode up to the dismounting groom. “Is it badly pulled?”

“Aw, no, mum,” the groom said apologetically. “I shoulda told you, mum—old Ralph ’ere; ’ee can’t go a stroke above a fast trot wi’out gettin’ bolluxed up wi’ his own front feet.” He bent and ran a hand down the horse’s lower leg. “’Tain’t nothing’ much, is it, old man? No more hot-footin’ it today, but I wager you won’t even remember it tomorrow.”

Tess glanced up, disappointment clear in her face. Gryf resisted that look of appeal for all of ten seconds. He heard himself say, “It’s a shame Lady Collier should have to go in so early. Would you trust me to see her home after her ride?”

The groom looked up. “Oh—I couldn’t go ’ome wi’out ’Er Ladyship. I’m sorry, sir. Indeed I couldn’t. Missus ud ’ave me skin for it.”

“But you could wait for me at the park gate,” Tess said quickly. “I won’t be above a half-hour, I promise you.”

The servant hesitated, looking doubtful, but Tess wasted no time in argument. As if it were settled, she wheeled and put her chestnut gelding forward into an easy run down the green. Gryf exchanged a helpless
look with the groom, controlling the restive black with one hand as the horse circled and danced in its anxiety to join the chestnut. “Wait at the gate,” Gryf said, and fished a sovereign from his pocket. The groom caught it with a quick fist as the gleaming coin arched in the morning light.

He grinned. “As long as you like, sir,” he said, as Gryf let the black have its head.

The chestnut was already halfway down the green, but the black was surprisingly swift in spite of his bony frame. He stretched his neck and laid his ears back evilly as he lengthened stride in pursuit. They caught up with Tess well before the woods, but Gryf hung just a little behind her, giving himself the illicit pleasure of watching her slim body move easily with the rhythm of the horse.

Familiar torture. The morning rides had not been part of his original plan, but they had become the chief bittersweet pleasure of his existence. He’d taken the horse out the first time from boredom alone. The years of living on a few hours’ sleep every night had ingrained the habit in him; he found he could attend balls till two and go drinking till five, and still he was awake and restless by nine the next morning, while society lay abed till noon. Fortunately for his pride and his cover as a gentleman, he had not met Tess in the park that first day. He had brought the beast under control and was working on his seat by his second ride, when Lady Collier and her groom trotted unexpectedly out of the mist.

The absurd happiness that had swept over him on seeing her should have been a warning. He had chosen instead to take Tess’s appearance as a piece of luck, furthered by her suggestion that they meet regularly and her ready willingness to confide in him. Just what Taylor would have wanted, Gryf had told himself, and known it in his heart for the lying excuse that it was.

He was paying for his weakness. He had to listen as she told him of her admirers: what they said, what she thought of them. It was misery, a just damnation, restitution for the pleasure he took in seeing her smile. The full extent of his folly was apparent each time she reined up, flushed and sparkling from a hard gallop across the green, and laughed at how her hat had fallen free and loosed her shining hair.

In the absence of Grady, there was no one in London whose company Gryf could enjoy besides Tess’s. He’d had one letter from his friend—a note, really, short and full of misspellings and grammatical errors that had brought a vision of the mate so clear and familiar that he might have been standing in front of Gryf. The letter had been posted in Madeira; the ship would be long gone from there and halfway back from the Río Plata by now, carrying a cargo that Taylor had commissioned. An aching surge of homesickness had gone through Gryf as he read. He missed the ship. He missed Grady. He hated London, hated the soot and the crowds and the smells. By the end of a day, even the parks held the odor of too many humans and horses; it was why he rode in the mornings, after the night dew had settled the stench. He despised what he was doing, and he fell more hopelessly in love with Tess Collier every passing day.

Ahead of him, Tess reached the end of the open ground and pulled her horse to a walk, turning to see if the captain was close behind. Gryf, she reminded herself with a happy little sigh. His homely mount came down to a walk beside her, and she allowed herself a lingering glance at his hands, gloveless, relaxed and masculine on the reins. The look drifted downward, taking in the long, muscular line of his thigh outlined by riding breeches. A familiar spurt of warmth touched her breasts and spread upward and down. She looked away.

“Will you help me dismount?” she asked, for no reason other than that she wished for him to touch her.

He swung easily off his horse and came toward her. As she slid into his arms, it was easy to imagine that he might pull her close, and her heart did a flip of anticipation. But he did not. He set her lightly down and let her go. Tess, shamed by her own thoughts, turned quickly away and led her horse into the shade of the trees. She pursed her lips, unreasonably petulant. In a mood of frustration, she said what she knew he would not like.

“I go tomorrow to an archery club at Tonbridge.” She paused artfully, and then added, “Mr. Eliot formed the party.”

The immediate tightening of Gryf’s jaw rewarded her. He said in a flat voice, “I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

That was true enough. Tess’s skill as an archeress was already renowned. She had learned it not as a sport, but as another method of obtaining specimens for her father. It had been a severe blow to the myopic Larice to find that her cousin could pin a target at fifty yards, for Sir Walter had been quite audibly impressed. But it was not Sir Walter that Tess wanted to impress.