The Bewitching Hour (8 page)

As crowds were swarming the enormous buffet tables, sampling roast pheasant, fresh oysters, lamb with mint jelly and a vast array of other culinary delights, Priscilla slowly made her way down the shadowy, elaborately appointed corridor. It wasn’t completely dark. Candles flickered every ten paces or so, but it was dark enough to make her feel a little uneasy. She briefly considered turning around and going back to the ballroom.
      “Miss Hawthorn.” A small gasp escaped her lips as a tall figure stepped out in front of her, his face illuminated by the small candelabra that he held. His face was sculpted by the soft light; square chin, strong jaw, a wave of dark hair falling over his wide forehead. A shiver ran through her. Why did he have to be so appealing? He lowered his head and for a moment she thought he might kiss her.
      “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
      She backed up against the wall as she tried to quiet the pounding of her heart. What on earth possessed her to meet with him here? Had she lost her mind? “I knew it was you,” she said a little breathlessly. “You just startled me. I didn’t expect it to be quite so dark.”
      “Mrs. Danfield tries to discourage her guests from using other areas of the house for their own clandestine purposes.” He held the candle up to his face again and smiled. “It doesn’t necessarily work.”
      Wondering how frequently he had clandestine meeting with other ladies, she then decided it might be best if she didn't know. “It certainly hasn’t prevented you from sneaking about.”
      “No, but I don’t really consider myself a guest. Rand and I have been best friends since we were six or so. I know this house as well as I know my own.”
      The image of a dark haired rough and tumble little boy came to mind. “I would expect that the two of you were constantly into mischief.”
      He laughed a low rumbling laugh. “I’m afraid the word mischief doesn’t do us justice. Our tendency to pull pranks didn’t start at Eton. It started here. We were merciless opportunists. Rand’s nursemaid was old and slow and I’m afraid we took full advantage of that. I’m surprised Mrs. Danfield didn’t permanently bar me from the premises, though Rand was usually the instigator. We were better behaved at my house, but not by much.”
      She laughed, relieved by the flow of conversation. “You can’t leave it at that. You must tell me what you did.”
      “Are you certain you want to hear this? The elevated regard you currently hold me in, may well plummet drastically.”
      She
did
want to hear it. "Please do continue."
      “There’s so much to pick from I barely know where to begin. I suppose the summer before we were sent off to Eton, we were at our absolute worst. No.” He shook his head. “Actually that’s not true. We were at our worst when we were at Oxford, but by that time we had fine-tuned our skills enough to not get caught.
      “But, back to our boyhood pranks. We had wheelbarrow races down the corridors of the Danfield's home in the country. We tried to talk Elizabeth, Rand’s little sister, into riding in one of the wheelbarrows, but she wouldn’t do it. So we took her dolls to use as passengers. She told on us but not before we had crashed into several tables, beheaded one of her dolls and broken a fairly valuable vase that Rand’s grandfather had brought back from Germany." Smiling, he propped a hip against a narrow, ornately carved table next to the wall. "My father rarely resorted to thrashing, but I received my just deserts when I arrived home that day. I don’t think either Rand or I were able to sit down for a week after that. It didn’t seem to stop us, though. They even hired a second nursemaid, but we just couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble.”
      Priscilla couldn't help but smile back at him. “I can’t say that I’m terribly surprised.” Eager to keep the conversation going, she added, “What other crimes did the two of you commit?”
      “That same summer we tied Elizabeth to a chair in the nursery and then ran off to play outside. Rand was angry with her for some reason or another. I don’t even remember why. She screamed loudly enough that she wasn’t tied up for too long, but she was absolutely livid. Several days later while Rand was asleep, she cut his hair in retaliation. It looked dreadful. It still looked dreadful when we left for Eton. Rand paid dearly for that prank.” His eyes glittered in the candlelight. “And I can’t stop without mentioning the time we let garden snakes loose in our drawing room. My mother was having an afternoon tea and one slithered across Mrs. Crabbywitch’s foot and she swooned and knocked over the tea tray. Tea cakes and scones went flying. The footmen had to carry her out.” He grinned impishly at her. “It was one of our most splendid moments.”
      She found the boyish expression on his face endearing. “Mrs. Crabbywitch? That can’t possibly be her name.”
      “It should have been. Mrs.Crabbywitch was our name for Mrs. Crabwaite. She was very unpleasant about the incident. Called us little savages. So you see my ill-mannered behavior is of a long standing nature.”
      “I presume you were severely punished?”
      He laughed. “Not as severely as you would think. I don’t think my parents cared for her anymore than I did. Rand and I both received a tongue lashing from my father, but years later he told me it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen in his life.”
      “You were terrible,” she chided.
      “Of course, we were terrible. We were boys. Boys are supposed to get into trouble.” He set the candelabra down on the table. “How about you, Miss Hawthorn? Were you ever an unruly child? Or have you always been the picture of perfection that you present today?”
      “You make me sound terribly boring.” She wondered if he was making fun of her.
      His gaze intensified. “No, Miss Hawthorn, you are definitely not boring.”
      Her cheeks warmed and she looked away.
The letter.
She had forgotten all about the letter. “Where is the letter you promised?” she asked.
      “You are changing the subject again.”
      “I suppose I am.” She continued to avert his gaze. “You seem to have all this planned out quite well. Do you do this kind of thing very often?”
      “Would you believe me if I said no?”
      The warmth in her cheeks grew even warmer. “I’m not certain. Do you think anyone will begin to wonder where we are?”
      He reached over and tilted her chin up until she no choice but to look at him. “There’s no need for concern. It’s only been a few minutes.” Gently cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. His lips were satin smooth as they touched hers. He kissed her softly then gently caught her lower lip. He was tender and undemanding. Without thinking, she reached up and put her arms around his neck. Her fingers touched the hair that curled against his neck as she pressed her body up against his. He was broad and thickly muscled, unflinching as he wrapped his arms around her and cradled her against him. He smelled of bay rum and tasted of brandy.
      His chest lifted as he sighed deeply, unwrapped her arms from his neck and stepped away. She opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling a mixture of disappointment and relief.
      “I apologize if you feel I took advantage. I didn’t seem to be able to help myself.”
      "I... um." She tried to disguise the dry tremor in her voice. “I’d like to see the letter.”
      “Of course.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of folded vellum and handed it to her, then picked up the candelabra and held it so she could read.
      
My Lord, I pray you will forgive my boldness but we met earlier today and I was so taken with your presence, I felt I must write you. I could not let the day end without arranging to see you again. If you would be so good as to meet me at Grange and Gregory on Piccadilly, at noon on the eighth of this month. I pray you will remember me, but if not, I will be wearing a pale yellow gown and bonnet. Yours in affection, M

      “Do you think she may have written this?” he asked.
      "No." She looked up at him. “I think that you wrote it.”
      For a moment, she thought he might argue. Instead he laughed softly. “And I worked so hard on it. What gave me away?”
      Strangely enough, she wasn’t angry. She wanted to be angry but it took a great deal of effort not to laugh. “Mary would never wear yellow for someone she’s trying to impress. It makes her look ill. And though you obviously took care with your handwriting, it is distinctly masculine.”
      “I’m quite ready to take my punishment.”
      “What punishment?”
      He grinned. “Whatever punishment you wish to inflict.”
      Attempting to frown, she said, “There’s no punishment. We should go back.” As she turned her head, a loose curl touched her cheek and she patted her hair, attempting to tidy it up.
      “Let me help.” He smoothed the strands back into place, his fingers resting lightly on her shoulder when he had finished.
      His touch brought out the most peculiar sensations. She stilled a shiver. “I won’t ask how you learned to arrange a lady’s coiffure. Is it presentable?”
      He smiled at her. “Good as new. I will drop you off at the withdrawing room. It will explain your absence if it was noted. You might want to check to see if my attempt was skillful enough.”
      Not wanting to lose the sense of his touch by allowing a lady’s maid to rearrange her hair, she said, “I’m sure it’s fine.”
      They fell into a comfortable silence as they strolled back down the corridor. She had no desire to leave his side. And she wished it wasn’t so.
      “Will you be receiving visitors tomorrow?” he asked.
      “It is customary during the season.”
      “I fear I will have to fight my way through scores of suitors if I arrive too early and I would like to have you to myself. Would three o’clock be convenient for you? We could take a stroll in Hyde Park if you would like.”
      “I should say no.” She smiled uneasily. “Very well, but I don’t want you to kiss me again.”
      He tilted his head and gazed at her. “Why not?”
      A heated sensation developed in the pit of her belly. She felt a hitch in her breathing. Her cheeks flushed. “It makes me feel very peculiar.”
      “Excellent.” He pulled her a little closer and covered her hand with his. “As much as I would like to, I won’t horn in on any of your dance partners. I will spend the rest of the evening dancing with more empty-headed young misses and keeping watch over Cecelia. I intend to round up Aunt Mirabella and Cecelia about one-thirty and take them home." His chest moved as he expelled a long breath. "I’m sure they’ll fuss, but in this crush we won’t make it home before two. We haven’t yet adjusted to town hours and my sister is unbearable when she hasn’t had enough sleep. Aunt Mirabella’s always unbearable, but that’s an entirely different story.”
      She looked up at him. “Do you mind the season so terribly?”
      His expression turned surprisingly serious. “Not when I’m with you.”
      They reached the withdrawing room without further conversation and as she removed her hand from his arm, he quickly caught it and brought it to his lips.
      “Good night, Miss Hawthorn.”
      She looked up at him and said, “Good night, my lord,” then wondered what she had gotten herself into.

“I can’t remember when I last had such a marvelous time,” Mirabella said as she scooped up a large spoonful of coddled eggs and added it to her plate. “The Danfield’s ball was exceptional. And I’m so looking forward to the Sutter’s ball, tonight.”
      Cecelia looked up from her oatmeal. “Do you suppose there’s any chance Robert Ferris won’t attend the Sutter’s ball?”
      “I would imagine he’ll be there, dear,” Mirabella said. “I believe that his distant cousin married a relative on the Sutter side so they’re practically related. It would be an insult not to attend.”
      “I was afraid of that.” Cecelia made a face as she thought. “Maybe he’ll come down with something. Nothing serious. A head cold should do it.”
      “What an awful thing to say,” Mirabella scolded. “You should be ashamed. Mr. Ferris is a lovely boy.”
      “He trampled on my toes last night. Hard. He’s a dreadful dancer. I promised to dance with him again tonight because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But if I do, I may spend the rest of the season on crutches. Is there some way I can politely refuse?”
      Stratton had his face buried behind the morning edition of the London Times.
      “Eugene?”
      “Mmm?”
      “Is there any way I can politely refuse to dance with him?”
      He turned the page, completely ignoring her question.
      “Eugene, I’m planning on sailing to the Caribbean on a pirate ship. I’ve fallen in love with the captain. We leave tomorrow. Aunt Mirabella said I could go if you agreed. Do I have your permission?”
      Mirabella clicked her tongue with admonishment. “Young lady, you must stop telling such outlandish stories.” She looked over at Stratton. “Eugie, did you hear what your sister just said?”
      “Mmm?”
      “Do I have your permission to sail to the Caribbean tomorrow?” Cecelia asked again. “I should be home within six months or so.”
      Stratton put the paper down and regarded her calmly. “The answer is no, you may not. It’s far too dangerous and you would utterly destroy your reputation.”
      Cecelia giggled. “I thought you weren’t listening. I was just trying to get your attention.”
      “It worked,” he observed. “And other than breaking a leg or spraining an ankle, you know there isn’t any way you can refuse to dance with Mr. Ferris. It would be exceedingly rude.”
      “I noticed you didn’t have any trouble scaring off Lord Henderson and Mr. Thacker. You could do the same with Robert. All you have to do is stand there and growl at him. It was very effective.”
      “There was reason to scare away Henderson and Thacker. Lord Henderson has gambled away a sizeable inheritance. It would cost a fortune to keep him out of debt. Basil Thacker appears a nice enough chap, but his temper gets the best of him on occasion. On the other hand, Robert Ferris is even-tempered, doesn’t gamble more than he can afford to lose, comes from a good family and has sufficient wealth. I’m sorry he isn’t an accomplished dance partner, but there isn’t any reason to scare him away.”
      “But I wasn’t planning on
marrying
Lord Henderson or Mr. Thacker,” Cecelia protested. “They asked me to dance, not run off to Gretna Green." She dramatically turned her eyes to the heavens. “I swear you’re every bit as bad as Papa.”
      Stratton held back a smile. “I believe that’s my job.”
      “It isn’t fair that men can pick their dance partners and women have to dance with whoever asks them,” Cecelia grumbled.
      “Perhaps,” he conceded, “but that’s the way it’s been done for years.”
      Mirabella picked up a raisin scone and spread it with butter. “Cecelia, my dear, what are you planning to wear to the ball tonight?”
      “Um. I haven’t decided.” Cecelia tore off a bite of toast and spent a great deal of time chewing before swallowing it. “Maybe the mint green with the white satin ribbons,” she ventured cautiously.
      “Excellent choice,” Stratton said quickly, anxious to avoid a war at the breakfast table.
      “But it’s very plain, my dear.’
      “I agree with Cecelia,” Stratton added emphatically. “She will wear the green frock. I’ve seen it. It’s a beautiful gown.”
      “If you insist.” Mirabella looked disappointed a moment, then brightened. “Eugie, what are you wearing?”
      “The lavender with the pink ribbons.”
      Cecelia chuckled while Mirabella said irritably, “Oh, really. I don’t know what’s gotten into you two. I can’t believe anything either one of you say. I don’t believe I’ll speak to either one of you.”
      Satisfied that another argument had been avoided Stratton went back to his newspaper and had almost finished reading an article on the debate over the proposed tax on corn when the sounds of scrambling and wheezing were heard outside the door.
      “Damn,” he muttered.
      “My darlings are up,” Mirabella cooed.
      “Don’t let them in here, Aunt Mirabella,” Stratton said. “They beg, snivel and are, in general, a nuisance. And I’ll have to give Johnson a raise if they don’t quit their infernal shedding. He spends half the day brushing dog hair off my clothing.”
      “He’s a poor excuse for a valet if he grumbles over a little dog hair.” She sniffed. “Brushing your clothing is one of his duties.”
      “He’s an excellent valet,” he said. “And the bloody dogs have their own quarters for God’s sake. With their own beds and toys and food and water. You’ve created a palatial suite for creatures that do nothing to earn their keep. Why can’t they stay there?”
      She pursed her lips. “Don’t be crude, Eugie. The darlings aren’t used to being locked up all day. And they aren’t working dogs.”
      Stratton snorted. “That’s obvious.”
      “You can’t expect them to fetch birds or scent out foxes,” she continued. “They’re meant to provide love and companionship.”
      “Nevertheless, I have no intention of sharing my breakfast hour with your dogs.”
      “Don’t be such a sour puss. The enjoyment they provide far outweighs any inconveniences that may arise. If you would only spend some time with them, you would know that.”
      Her taffeta skirts rustled as she rose and headed for the door. When she opened it the horde congregated at her feet, jumping and pawing, trying to get closer to their mistress. “Hercules, Ulysses, Poseidon.” She shrilly began to name them all. “Come dears, it’s time for your morning exercise.”
      When she closed the door behind her, Stratton and Cecelia both let out a sigh of relief.
      “Are you certain you can’t send Aunt Mirabella back home?” Cecelia asked. “Life would be so much easier if you could.”
      “It’s a tempting thought,” Stratton said as he considered the possibility. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to endure.”
      “I suppose.” She resumed eating her oatmeal.
      Stratton began to hum beneath his breath and she looked up at him with surprise. “You’re in a frightfully good mood.”
      He arched one of his dark brows. “Is that so surprising?”
      “I don’t see how you could be. You detest London, yet you’re obliged to stay for the season. Aunt Mirabella and her stupid dogs are driving you daft. Women you don’t even know are driving you daft. I would imagine that I’m probably driving you daft.” Then she stopped her prattle a moment and narrowed her eyes. “Eugene, are you really looking for a bride?”
      That caught his attention. “Where did you hear that?”
      “Last night at the ball. Jennifer said Mary Beth heard it from Lady Morris who heard it from Lady McDowell. I think Lady McDowell heard it from Lady Bellamy but I don’t know who Lady Bellamy heard it from.”
      Stratton almost laughed out loud. “I find it very interesting that I should be the topic of so many conversations. What do you think, Cecelia?
Should
I be searching for a bride?”
      “Well, you are over thirty. That’s awfully old not to be married.”
      This time he did laugh. “You make me sound horribly ancient. I’m thirty-one and I believe I’ve got a few years left.”
      “Papa was much younger than that when you were born,” she pointed out. “He was only six and twenty.”
      “Who do you suggest I marry?”
      She shot him a look of annoyance. “It’s not as if you haven’t any choices. You could choose from any one of the hundred or so women that threw themselves at you last night.”
      “Narrow it down a bit.”
      “Well,” she considered. “Definitely, not Lady Williams. I didn’t like her at all. She pretends to be pleasant but she really isn’t.”
      He suspected she was right but was curious as to how she had reached this conclusion. “And how do you know that?”
      “Intuition. I find it very reliable.” She drummed her fingers against the table. “You danced with a few of my friends last night, but I think you were only being nice. They’re all too young and silly for you. I like Miss Burton, but she still has spots and hasn’t lost her baby fat. Lady Warren is too flighty. Miss Blackmon is far too serious. Lady Beverly is a blue stocking.”
      Strand held his hand up as if to fend her off. “I regret asking. You have far too much information at your disposal.”
      She broke into a wide grin. “But what about Miss Hawthorn? She’s very pretty and awfully nice and you said Rand hadn’t set his cap for her. My introduction to Lady Jersey went over well and I feel it’s largely due to her advice. I must send her a note and thank her.”
      “I’m sure she would appreciate that. I noticed you two seemed to get on well together. What did you talk about?”
      She shrugged. “The things ladies talk about.”
      “And that would be?” he pressed.
      She gave him an odd look. “Fashion mostly. She asked me about my gowns for the season. I explained our problems with Aunt Mirabella and she said she would go to Madame Claudette’s with me if I wished.”
      “That’s very kind of her to offer.” What had he thought? That they would be talking about him?
      Cecelia considered him thoughtfully. “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you seriously looking for a bride? If you are, she would be an excellent choice. I would love to have her as a sister-in-law.”
      Completely ignoring her query, he picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, then proceeded to spread strawberry jam on a piece of toast.
      “And if you were engaged,” she continued. “Aunt Mirabella might leave you alone.”
      He smiled knowingly. “I believe what you actually mean is that if I were engaged, Aunt Mirabella would
leave you alone,
don’t you?”
      She shrugged as she stirred another spoonful of sugar into her oatmeal. “Well, you have to allow that it would be a rather effective distraction. She would be so excited she wouldn’t even remember I existed.”
      “I doubt that. Her ability to meddle knows no bounds.” Stratton pulled out his watch and made a point of noticing the time. “Don’t dawdle over your breakfast. Your callers will be arriving soon.”
      She looked up at him. “You’re not planning on being there are you?”
      “You don’t want me to help you greet your callers?”
      “Heavens, no. You’ll scare everyone away.”
      He chuckled. “Don’t look so aghast, Cecelia. I have no intention of entertaining your callers. I’m leaving that honor for Aunt Mirabella.”
      She heaved a resigned sigh. “That’s almost as bad, though everyone seems to accept that she’s a bit dotty. And at least she doesn’t growl at the ones she doesn’t care for. Wherever did you learn to do that? Did you get growled at when you were younger?”
      “Repeatedly.”
      She grinned. “I imagine you deserved it.”
      “What an unkind thing to say.”
      “Unkind, but probably true.”
      “Probably,” he admitted.
      “Well, you should be looking for a bride to court. You
are
getting quite old, you know.”
      Stratton finished his toast and coffee, then rose. As he walked by, he tousled her copper ringlets. “I’ll keep it in mind, Cecelia,” he said in a playful voice. After briefly checking the hallway to make certain Mirabella and her brood were not lurking about, he headed toward his study.