Puritan Bride (9 page)

‘For shame, Marcus.’ Elizabeth had duly recovered from her momentary lapse. ‘If Viola is from a Puritan family, of course she will not dance.’

‘We will remedy it.’ He held out his hand. And Viola could not resist, to Elizabeth’s delight.

‘I think you should, dear child. I give you leave to trample on his feet for his impudence!’

‘I fear that I shall—but I should like to try.’ Viola moved to stand before the Viscount and awaited instructions.

‘Good. Now. Stand there. Hold out your hand so. Curtsy … well done! Now you are too tense … you are not going to the gallows. You are simply going to follow my directions.’

The music of the pavane once more filled the distant reaches of the Long Gallery while the ancestors of previous inhabitants looked down impassively on the dancing lesson from their gilded frames. Viola forgot everything beyond the need to concentrate on the intricate steps and the response of her body to the Viscount’s expert guidance. She was graceful and agile, quick to learn, and could soon copy Marlbrooke’s assurance even if his elegance was still to be attained. She was guided through the movements by his sure hands, learning to match her steps to his and the measure of Felicity’s music.

‘When you can forget your feet,’ he commented caustically at one point, ‘it is possible to exchange a glance with your partner, you know, even to converse with him.’

‘I dare say—’ Viola swept her silver grey satin skirts in a half-turn to face him, her hand joining his ‘—but if I did I would certainly cripple you.’

‘I will risk it. Look up. Well done … if a little fleeting.’

Viola laughed, warmed by his praise, but equally unsettled by his closeness. He might be as critical and unemotional as the most exacting of dancing masters but the touch of his hands and the weight of his arm around her waist were unnerving, as were the pressure of his thigh and his warm breath on her face as the demands
of the dance brought them close together. She swallowed and tried to concentrate on his words rather than on her heightened breathing and rapidly beating heart, which owed nothing to the slow steps of the dance. But he was so handsome, black hair rippling to his shoulders, face vivid and alive. His eyes woke in her such a yearning when he smiled at her or touched her hand. How could she be expected to concentrate when he was so close and exerted such an unlooked-for power over her mind and body?

They completed the measure again and again until Marlbrooke was satisfied at her proficiency. At the far end of the Gallery he finished with an elegant bow and raised her fingers to his lips.

‘Do you suppose that dancing is sinful?’ A faint line of concern appeared between Viola’s brows. ‘I feel that I should think it is.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’ Marlbrooke smiled at her solemn enquiry.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then. And before you ask,’ he continued as he saw the line developing further between her dark brows, ‘I am not prepared to discuss with you the belief that enjoyment for its own sake is a ploy of the Devil to lure us into evil ways! Certainly not on this occasion.’

Viola laughed and shook her head at his accurate reading of her intention.

‘But if we are to be serious,’ he said, since they were
out of earshot of their companions, ‘I must express my gratitude to you. Your gift to my mother is inestimable.’

She shook her head ‘It is something I found that I could do, to recompense you for all your care and generosity. I can do better when summer brings more plants into growth.’

He smiled down at her, remembering her low, infectious laugh, the way her brows drew together when she was unaware and concentrating.

‘Your bruise is beginning to fade.’ He reached up and traced her temple with a gentle finger. Then his whole body stilled, the smile disappearing to leave his face stern and aware.

She held her breath. He was close, so close. For one shocking moment she thought he might kiss her; indeed, she found herself hoping that he would. Her eyes were trapped in his gaze, deepest blue in clear grey, and she could not look away, held by an enchanted web that bound her whole destiny to this man whose touch lingered on her face.

Whatever he read in her eyes, Marlbrooke stepped back and dropped his hands.

‘Forgive me. I presume too much.’ His voice was soft, but clipped with perhaps an edge of unusual harshness. He turned on his heel to lead her back to the end of the Gallery, but did not take her hand. She followed in some confusion at his sudden withdrawal behind a chill wall of formality, unable to explain the feelings that touched
her heart and sent the blood rushing to her cheeks. All she knew was that she had been stunned by the fleeting expression in his eyes, had wanted him to kiss her and instead was left cold and empty at his apparent rejection.
How foolish you are,
she chided herself. She’d clearly been mistaken, had misread what, after all, was simply kindness and tolerance towards a guest.

Marlbrooke fought hard to regain his composure. He had felt her tremble beneath his hands. The urge to press his mouth to hers, to savour the softness of her lips, to taste the sweetness as they opened beneath his, had been well-nigh overwhelming. He could not. He
must
not. It was all far too complicated. He had a duty to his distant betrothed, whereas this girl was living under his roof, vulnerable, defenceless, dependent on him for her security. But she was so damnably beguiling.

Elizabeth welcomed them back to where she sat beside the spinet with a smile and a light comment, but a hint of trouble in her eyes. This was not wise. A lady in distress could easily provoke the chivalrous nature of a gentleman however unaware she might be of her charm. And charming she undoubtedly was. Her hair might be beyond what was thought fashionable, but it drew attention to her fine bone structure and those magnificent eyes. Elizabeth sighed. When she was restored to glossy curls and ringlets, she would undoubtedly have a devastating effect on any man—a breaker of hearts, for sure. Her own heart went out to the unknown Katherine, the betrothed lady
whom she had yet to meet, surely a dull creature in comparison to this laughing sprite of a girl who, without any deliberate intention, was well on the way to stealing her son’s notoriously fickle affections.

The days passed.

Elizabeth had read the unspoken situation between her son and her guest correctly. And for her son, it was a damnable situation, one which was entirely outside the vast experience of Viscount Marlbrooke. Affairs of the heart were something to be indulged in—and then discarded with no damage or hurt done to either party. The sophisticated ladies of the Court knew how to conduct such matters. Alicia Lovell, pert, pretty and confident, was adept in the use of eyes and fan, if not her glorious body, to attract and invite. And, in the past, the Viscount had been only too willing to respond, with skill and finesse. It was a game, to be played out and enjoyed, without winners or losers. Mutual if superficial pleasure was the ultimate goal.

But this Marlbrooke knew, from the instant that Viola had turned her eyes to his, her fingers still clasped in his after the dance, was not a trivial flirtation, for the moment only. And, he realised, with equal certainty, that it would be wise if he put as much space as possible between himself and temptation.

The estate presented plenty to occupy him, to take him from the house where the ladies continued to while away
the cold, wet days of early spring. Estate matters would enable him to pretend that Viola did not exist. It would be better if he were not tempted to touch her hand, to watch her expressive face as she began to relax and forget a little. To be captivated when she smiled at him or laughed at some foolish comment. He closed his eyes against the images that persisted in creeping with sharp-edged insistence into his waking moments. And his dreams. Yes. He turned his face into his pillow. It would be better if he forced his body and mind into different pursuits.

He set his teeth when he heard her delicious voice in the Long Gallery and her laughter echo in the corridors.

She brought light and life into the house and into his soul. But no good could come of it. She would soon recover her memory and be returned to her loving family. Perhaps to a young man who had already claimed her heart and would wed her … He set his teeth in a snarl at the thought of another man having the right to touch her and … And he would not contemplate the complications if she was never able to remember her past.

So he had the Falcon saddled and galloped across the home park in driving rain. Physical discomfort might succeed in taking his mind off his dilemma.

Because he also, quite deliberately, contacted the lawyers to hurry the documents for his own marriage. To tie Katherine Harley into the suitable, loveless union he thought he had so desired.

Guilt rode him hard. In God’s name—what was he
doing? Arranging marriage to an innocent, unsuspecting girl when his heart was irrevocably lost elsewhere. Surely Katherine Harley deserved more from him than mere lip service and a legal settlement. He plummeted into a hell of self-disgust and loathing.

And yet the marriage would happen because it was necessary and he was committed to it. He would wed his Puritan bride and care for her and give her children to fill her heart and life—and she would never know. In those dark days he vowed that he would never allow her to realise that he wished he had never made the contract.

And any feelings for Viola would fade with time. It was, after all, mere infatuation at the novelty of the situation.

But his argument did not convince him. He rode across the park in black mood, to return cold, wet and mud-spattered, furious with himself and his sudden inexplicable inability to control his life.

Katherine was not unattractive, of course. They would do well enough together. He cast his mind back to Downham Hall with some difficulty. A slim figure, pale complexion, dark hair. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember the colour of her eyes. Viola’s eyes were violet blue, the blue of delphiniums, of heart’s-ease, of dew-drenched bluebells … Marlbrooke groaned and buried himself in estate papers, dry enough to quench any thoughts of passion.

‘Marcus. I wish that you would—’ Lady Elizabeth ran
him to earth in the library and pushed a pile of bills and receipts across the desk.

‘Not now, Mother. I am busy.’

‘But I need—’

‘Not now!’

Lady Elizabeth retreated with raised brows but no further comment. Marlbrooke
never
snarled at her in ill temper. Her lips curved in a little smile that held more than a hint of sadness and her heart ached for him. She had noted his lengthy absences from her company and believed that she knew the reason for them. Now she was sure. What could she say to him in such an impossible situation? But how ironic that he should have fallen into love with a girl whom he could not, in all honour and duty, touch or claim as his own.

Viola noted the Viscount’s absence too. Quite simply, she missed him. She looked for his presence and was disappointed. When they met, which was of course inevitable, he was as charming as ever, always pleasant. But cool, rather reserved, his smile rarely evident. And she had the strongest impression that he never actually
looked
at her. He certainly never touched her! Unlike the early days, when he had put himself out to reassure and entertain. She wondered what she could have possibly done to annoy him. Marlbrooke saw the puzzlement in her eyes and could do nothing to alleviate it.
He
realised the consequences, if she did not. So he continued to keep his distance.

‘G
ood morning, Verzons. How lovely to see the sun again. Perhaps I shall walk in the garden this afternoon.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The steward bowed and placed a small dish of sweetmeats on a low stool beside Elizabeth. ‘It is good to see you able to take advantage of the warmer weather, my lady.’

The ladies had taken themselves to the front parlour to absorb the warmth and appreciate a view of the swathe of snowdrops beneath the beech trees along the drive.

‘Mistress Neale asks if you wish her to begin an inventory of the household linen. She deems much of it to be so old as to be beyond repair.’

‘Yes, of course. Spring weather always makes you think of investigating dark corners. Pray tell Mistress Neale that I will come and discuss it with her—in about an hour, if you please, Master Verzons.’

As Verzons made to draw a curtain a little to shade her ladyship’s face from the direct rays of the sun, she enquired, ‘Has his lordship gone down to the stables? I know he intended to ride out to the home wood to see if there are fallen trees to be dealt with after the storms.’

‘I believe so, my lady. He has sent one of the grooms back to the house with a message for Mistress Viola.’ He inclined his head in her direction.

‘For me?’ Viola looked up sharply from the book of flower illustrations open on her lap.

‘Yes, mistress. Your horse has been found. It apparently found its way to the Stamford estate, beyond the village. Mr Stamford received my lord’s enquiry and has returned the horse with, I believe, its saddle-bags intact. I have had them taken to your room.’

‘Saddlebags! Perhaps they contain …’ She looked across at Elizabeth, her eyes very bright, an uneasy mixture of excitement and anxiety on her face.

‘Then go, my dear. See what treasure they hold.’ She put out a restraining hand as Viola leapt to her feet and would have followed Verzons from the room. ‘But don’t be too disappointed if they hold nothing of value … or help in restoring your memory.’

‘No, of course not.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘But I must know.’

Viola almost ran from the room, up the great staircase and into her bedchamber. She closed the door and leaned against it, her breathing heightened, hands pressed
against her beating heart, her eyes fixed on the worn saddle-bags that had been placed beside her bed.
Don’t be too hopeful. What could possibly be in there to be of any use in solving the mystery?
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, but her heart refused to settle.

She approached them and lifted them on to the bed. Not very heavy. With almost reluctant fingers she unfastened the leather ties and lifted the flap of one compartment. She pulled out some rolled and creased items of clothing, damp and mildewy now, which meant nothing to her. She shivered, with no desire to wear them next to her skin. A plain, unadorned skirt and bodice in dark blue woollen cloth. An equally plain linen chemise, stockings. She shook her head. Nothing of note here. They could have belonged to anyone. Beneath the clothes she found a pair of shoes. Black leather with silver buckles. At least, if they were hers, she would be able to wear shoes that would actually fit and not rub her toes into blisters. She opened the other compartment, but any remaining hopes fell. A heel of bread, now hard and stale with a suspicion of mould, and an apple, which was brown and bruised. She sat down on the bed as a tide of disappointment washed over her. The saddle-bags had really been her only hope. And they had yielded so little. She battled to prevent the tears that gathered in her eyes from spilling over down her cheeks.

Well, she must make the best of it. With her fingers she wiped them away. Then she slid off the shoes that Felicity
had lent her—with ill grace, of course—and picked up the pair from the saddle-bag. Presumably they would fit. She rubbed her fingers over the polished leather and the silver buckle, both a little cloudy from the damp, and slid her right foot into the shoe. It fit like a comfortable, well-worn glove, so at least it must be hers! Then the left.
Ouch!
She took off the offending shoe, turned it and shook it. On to the bed beside her fell a small package wrapped in cloth.

She swallowed against the quickened beat of her heart as she unwrapped the cloth with unsteady but urgent fingers to discover a small box. Opened it. Inside on a bed of worn velvet was a ring. The tiny sapphires and pearls formed the shape of a delicate flower, mounted on a gold band.

She rose to her feet and carried it to the window to study the intricate detail in the sunlight glinting through the glass. The blue stones glittered as their facets caught the light, the milky pearls gleamed. She slid it on to her hand and admired the effect of the dark stones against her pale skin. It was exceedingly pretty. Was it hers? Had she worn this pretty ring? Perhaps it was a family piece, which had been given to her as the only or eldest daughter. Whatever its origin, presumably it was a jewel that she loved, which was precious to her if she had found the need to hide it in her shoe and bring it on this journey with all its risks and dangers. Why had she not left it at home? In safety? But if she owned something of such
value, did it not prove that she indeed had a family who might be searching for her at this very moment?

As she studied the workmanship, her attention was caught by the sound of hooves on the gravel of the main drive below her window. She lifted her head. A horseman, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, agile, elegant. Riding a bay thoroughbred in a controlled canter down the drive away from her vision towards the main gate. She looked down at the sapphires and then back at the diminishing figure on the cantering horse.

It was as if a door suddenly opened on to a sunlit room. Or a curtain was drawn back to allow a view of a well-known scene. Detailed, vivid, familiar. And she remembered. Oh, yes, in that instant she remembered every aspect of the past in bright focus. Her name. Her childhood. What had driven her to undertake her masquerade in boy’s clothes and why she had cut her hair so drastically. The surge of memory initially swamped her with relief—only to be overlaid with a thick coating of anger and disbelief as she assimilated her past with her present position. She was at Winteringham Priory, of all places, of all times, although she had no recognition of it. And the man who had ridden from her, out of her sight, was Marcus Oxenden, Viscount Marlbrooke. She sank to the floor below the window, regardless of her borrowed finery, her back against the panelling, the ring removed from her finger and now clutched in one hand, a frown drawing her brows together into a black line above
troubled eyes. She needed to think, to allow her mind to grasp the realities now laid out before her.

And remembering more, she reached for the folded linen chemise from the saddle-bag. She shook it out to discover within its protective wrapping the single folded sheet of paper that she knew she had hidden there.

She was waiting for him when he returned from the stables. She knew he would eventually go to the library and he found her there, sitting on a window seat to look out over the parkland. Her hands were empty, clasped loosely in her lap, her face turned away from him. He did not know how long she had been there, but the impression was, perhaps in the set of her shoulders, that she had been waiting for some little time. She made an attractive picture, her rose velvet gown, the lace collar and cuffs glowing softly against the dark wood and rich leather bindings of the many volumes, the sun gilding her with a bright halo around her dark hair. He smiled as he approached, touched with unexpected pleasure, and against all his better judgement, that she should come to him. He had no intimation of the imminent storm.

‘Well, Mistress Viola. Were you waiting for me?’ She heard the smile in his voice.

She stood and turned. She had enjoyed many hours in which to build her rage against him. The range of emotion in her eyes forced him to halt and drop his outstretched
hand. Anger, yes, but, far more, a deep underlying bitterness. And without doubt it was directed at him.

‘What is it?’ His brows snapped together.

‘I remember! Everything! My name, my background, where I was going. And I remember who
you
are. You are my enemy, Lord Marlbrooke.’ Her voice was low, furiously controlled, but that did not disguise the venom in her words, fuelled by bitter humiliation from the knowledge that she had come to enjoy his presence in recent days.

She stalked past him to his desk, her skirts sweeping the oaken floor, picked up a small velvet-covered box and held it out to him, palm upward. He knew what it was immediately. Not taking his eyes from her face, he took the box and opened it. He looked down at the ring and then once again at the girl standing before him.

Katherine Harley.

‘Oh, yes.’ She saw the recognition in his eyes even though his face remained austere and expressionless. The disdain in her voice coated him from head to foot, slick and cold. ‘I am Katherine Harley! Your betrothed! Your intended wife! And you did not even recognise me!’ She laughed, but without humour, rather a touch of hysteria that she quickly suppressed. ‘You could not even put a name to my face.’ She turned her back on him again, returning to the window to stare out over the gardens as if she did not trust herself to preserve her composure in the face of such betrayal.

‘Apparently not.’ How could he deny it? If she had looked back at him, she would have seen the dawning recognition replaced by intense regret and contempt for his blind selfishness in his handling of her. But she was too angry to look at him and it would have been too revealing of her own state of mind.

‘Can you understand how humiliating, how shaming this is for me?’

He heard the hurt in her voice, saw it in her rigid spine, and blamed himself. Anger would be better, certainly easier for her to bear, and he deserved that it be directed at him. With that in mind, he took hold of her arm and pulled her in spite of her resistance across the width of the room to stand before a mirror on the wall.

‘Look at yourself.’ He stood behind her. ‘Really look. Apart from the fact that I would not expect to find my betrothed riding round the country without protection and in boys’ clothes, would I really have matched you with the lady I saw for one short meeting at Downham Hall? I barely saw you. When I took my leave of you, you stood with your back against the light, masking your features most effectively. And I remember long dark hair, which curled onto your shoulders and around your face. No, of course I did not recognise you!’

She looked at the image that stared back at her. Short curls. The shadow of fading bruises. No, she did not look like Katherine Harley. But she would not forgive him.
She would not allow his excuse. She fanned her anger as he had intended.

‘If I was beautiful, you would have remembered me.’ She made no attempt to hide the resentment. ‘But I clearly do not come up to the standards of the ladies whose company you frequent at Court, in spite of the flattering words that I recall when you requested my hand in marriage. You even told me that I was beautiful! It has certainly taught me a hard lesson in honesty and the reliability of men!’ And how a man could seduce a woman into believing that he cared a little for her.

She dragged herself out of his grasp and put space between them.

Marlbrooke took refuge from the truth in chill formality and in attack. His voice was cold. ‘Perhaps you could explain, Mistress Harley, what you were doing on the night I found you. Riding unescorted, miles from home, in the dead of night. Presumably you were not making your way here to me.’

‘Hardly, my lord. I would never come to you! And you exaggerate—it was not the dead of night. I was going to Widemarsh Manor and I would have been there within the hour. What a terrible quirk of fate that I should have been thrown from my horse at
your
feet!’

‘Widemarsh? The Dower House? But for what reason?’

‘My great-aunt lives there. Mistress Gilliver Adams.’

‘What? The old witch who was firmly ensconced here
when I came to take possession—and apparently had been for years?’

‘Aunt Gilliver stayed here throughout the years of the Interregnum when the house would otherwise have been empty,’ Kate explained with icy contempt. ‘My mother had no desire to return here and my uncle had no interest in the house. So Aunt Gilliver moved in. She kept the house with the help of Verzons and Mistress Neale. They had both been servants to my family before my father’s death and chose to stay on in the hope that one day the Harley family would be restored.’ She frowned at him. ‘And I intend that they shall!’

Marlbrooke decided that it was politic to refuse the final challenge of the angry lady before him. ‘I remember Mistress Adams very well,’ he reminisced. ‘She called down all the curses of heaven and hell on our heads and refused my invitation to stay here, before taking herself off to the Dower House even though she has no right to it. But that does not explain why you would come all this way to see her and presumably in such haste and secrecy.’

‘She sent me this.’ Kate held out the folded document, which had been wrapped in her chemise. It was now curled and smeared with the effects of travel. ‘It is a letter. You should read it.’