The Marquess and Miss Davies (19 page)

The groom left. They went to retrieve Alcaeus and Tantevy, who had wandered to the edge of the meadow.

“Tantevy is fond of bramble,” said the marquess, referring to a wild bush with dark purplish berries, common even to London in those days. It was more often to be found in the shelter of a woods.

And so they proceeded a few steps among the trees, and found both animals happily occupied with a nice stand of the plant.

“My horse,” said Carys, “will develop bad habits from your horse.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

They stood companionably in the cool shade. A stray current of air lifted tendrils of Carys’s hair, and as she raised her hand to pat it into place she discovered a small leaf had also made its home among the curls, most probably at some time during their ride.

“Oh, dear,” she said, pulling at the leaf, “have I looked like Phoebe this entire time, and you never mentioned it? How unsporting!”

Lord Leighton turned towards her and smiled. He reached up himself for the errant bit of greenery, their hands touched, there was a second or two when both of them stood frozen in place.

Then the Marquess of Clare gathered Miss Davies into his arms, and they kissed for a rather long time.

* * * *

This, thought his lordship, muzzily, is not going to end well. Or at all. One arm was around Miss Davies’s waist, the other hand was stroking her hair, and his lips were moving passionately against hers as he crushed her into his chest.

The young lady did not protest. The young lady, in fact, was participating quite readily, which contributed to Anthony’s enthusiasm.

They were leaning back against a tree, or Miss Davies was, and Lord Leighton was concerned that the bark not tear at her clothing, or her skin, but he seemed unable to move away, or to stand entirely upright on his own. The grass beckoned. It beckoned, it demanded, but ‘twas perhaps damp, and Perry had taken the blanket, damn him.

“Mmm,” murmured his companion. Her hands moved against his back.

The trees provided some privacy, some camouflage, and he would marry her, of course, so what harm could it do?

Marry her. Anthony realized that he had intended to make Miss Davies his wife for some time now, and had only lacked the occasion to articulate it. A quick marriage might not be to the young lady’s preference, but he did not think he could wait. Once this particular horse was out of the barn—

“Carys,” he said, into her ear. “Carys.”

She was delicious in his arms, yet ‘twas far more. The marquess had enjoyed very pretty women on other occasions. But none that he wished to talk with for any length of time. She was intelligent and witty and
fun
in a hundred different ways. ‘Twas merely that now, at this particular juncture, her body occupied his attention.

The wool riding habit covered nearly every inch of her, and ‘twas cut so closely that his hands limned every curve. He was on fire. Now was the time she should protest, now was the last possible instant—the young lady was supposed to throw the cold water on such proceedings, was she not? But Miss Davies showed no signs of pushing him away, and Anthony was forced himself to summon self-control.

He pulled back to look in her eyes—they were open, quizzical—and gently disengaged her hands from the back of his neck.

She raised her eyebrows.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lord Leighton, his voice sounding ragged in his own ears.

“Please do not.”

Anthony did not understand, at first. ‘Please do not’ sounded like the rejection he had been expecting from moment to moment. But—

“Do not apologize,” said Miss Davies. “It makes me feel like I had no say in the matter, which would be dishonest—at best.”

She smiled at him, and he smiled, and both of them broke into laughter, hardly knowing the cause; in the marquess’s case, ‘twas a least some relief from a hitherto unknown level of tension.

Without anything else said aloud, they each caught the reins of their mount and began walking back to the meadow. Lord Leighton was wondering if this was the appropriate setting for a proposal, and whether he dared count on Miss Davies’s acceptance without first approaching her brother. ‘Twas not unknown for a young gentleman and lady to settle certain preliminaries between themselves, of course, and the head of the family’s assent could normally be assumed for a marquess’s suit, but Anthony was afraid that the viscount had taken him in some dislike. He thought perhaps he
should
broach the topic with Miss Davies first—

“Anthony!”

But as they emerged back into the open grass, a familiar carriage was nearly at the spot of their picnic, and its driver waved a greeting.

Lord Harcourt. The marquess doubted that this was a coincidence, as he had told Benjamin of his intentions; still, under the circumstances, one would think his friend would have left him some privacy. Then, with a flash of an old anger, Anthony recognized the woman sitting at Lord Harcourt’s side.

Jo.

Carys could hardly wait to get home so that she could run up to the bedroom, sit on her bed, and just
think
. She wondered if Isa would be home, as her twin was the only other person she could imagine talking to for ... days, perhaps. Weeks. She wanted to relive the moment when Lord Leighton took her in his arms, see it again and again in her mind.

‘Twas the most wonderful, the most breathtaking, the most
thrilling
experience of her life. She wished they could have remained in the woods
forever
. She had even been a little disappointed that Lord Harcourt had happened upon them—and what a coincidence that was!—even though under other circumstances Benjamin would have been most welcome. There had been no opportunity to speak further with Lord Leighton, or even—

Carys blushed a bit. She had thought, indeed, of hinting that they might return to the shelter of the trees for one more kiss. Only for a few minutes, of course, and in the end she doubted she would have had the courage to suggest it. But when she thought of the feel of Lord Leighton’s body against hers, of her hands behind his neck, the warm fragrance of him, the strength of his hands—

Perhaps she might have suggested it, after all.

‘Twas odd that the marquess had seemed so reserved with his friend. Carys, caught up in her own thoughts, had not immediately recognized the woman sitting at Lord Harcourt’s side; in a chance meeting with a gentleman of one’s acquaintance, a young lady was well-advised to keep her attention firmly away from any female at his side until receiving the clear indication that it was a person to whom one
could
be introduced.

 And then the woman spoke, and Miss Davies realized that ‘twas Lady Bainborough. Josephine was smiling at her brother, a smile which Carys might have called ironic.

* * * *

Isolde returned minutes after Carys herself, carrying a large package.

“A new hat,” said Isa.

“I am shocked,” said her sister.

“Mmm,” said Isolde, who was pulling tissue paper from the box, having yet to notice that her twin was nearly bouncing on the bed.

“You will not believe what I have discovered,” said Carys. She was not
quite
ready to describe the kiss, but her other news was exciting as well.

Isa turned from her purchase and pantomimed shock, mouth open and hand to her forehead. “A discovery? You?”

“Indeed. It is the most amazing thing. Lord Leighton is the owner of Claresholm stables!”

The hand slipped down and Isolde frowned. “Well, I imagine he is. Isn’t the estate in Suffolk called Claresholm? Who else would be the owner?”

“But—the Claresholm stables!”

“I confess myself less than overwhelmed.”

“They have a
splendid
reputation. Leopold has a connection to one of the mares, you know.”

Isolde burst into laughter. “You sound as if there is a horsey
haut ton
.”

“Oh, no,” said Carys. “Nothing so havey-cavey. Horse breeders are much more careful about such things than people.”

“Ah.” Isa returned her attention to the hatbox. The item inside was revealed as rather large and definitely purple, with a deep rim draped in gauze.

“It looks,” said Carys, “like an upended flowerpot.”

“It does rather. Isn’t it marvelous?” Isa put it on and admired herself in the mirror. “I had thought to be home earlier,” she added, “but I ran into Cicely, and she had the latest news about Alice Montvale and Lord Peter.”

Even Carys’s current absorption with the Claresholm stables—not to mention the events in Richmond Park—could not stop her from being interested in
that
subject.

“Good heavens. What has happened now?”

“Miss Montvale has declared that their engagement must be extended a six-month.”

“Six months! I hate to say this about one of our own sex, but she is—”

“—a complete and utter ninny? A bird-wit?”

“I was to say, a fool.”

Isolde nodded. “Someone will take him from her. I’m tempted to do so myself.”

“Isa!”

“Perhaps she would appreciate him better if he were no longer available. I would be doing Lord Peter a favour. Now,” said Isolde, “I believe you have something else to tell me.”

* * * *

Alice and Lord Peter had been only a temporary diversion, as Isolde knew that her twin had spent an eventful day from the moment she stepped into the room and saw her face. Carys told her everything, not excluding the interlude in the woods.

“A kiss.”

Carys sighed. “Yes.”

“And you enjoyed it, I gather.”

“Oh, Isa, I can hardly wait—” Carys broke off, red in the face.

Her twin tilted her head, and sent her a look. “Wait for what, pray tell?”

“You know.”

“It does seem as if a proposal will be forthcoming. One
should
be, at any event.”

Carys sighed again. Then she remembered the one odd thing about the afternoon, and thought to ask Isolde about the relationship between Lord Harcourt and the marquess. Had there been word of some quarrel?

“I do not believe so. But you say Lord Harcourt and Lady Josephine were riding together?” said Isa. “That is the explanation.”

“Why?”

“They were an item, at one point.”

“How did I not know this?”

“You have a shocking lack of interest in gossip. I, on the other hand—”

“She did not marry him.”

“No. Benjamin proposed marriage, but the marquess refused his approval.”

“I ... I suppose I can see why he did so,” said Carys. Duke’s son or no, Lord Harcourt was, and would always be, pockets to let. And even though Lady Josephine would have brought enough money into the marriage to support them both, perhaps—

“Interesting that she chose to ride with him today,” said Isa. “And her husband is not in town.”

“Mmm.” Carys’s attention was less on the Earl of Chalcroft’s relationship with his wife, and more on Lord Harcourt and Lord Leighton. “Was Benjamin angry with the marquess?” she asked her sister.

“Furious. They had an enormous row and ended up at Gentleman Jackson’s establishment. One hears that they nearly beat each other senseless before Mr Jackson pulled them apart.”

“Good heavens.” Carys frowned. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I did not know most of it myself until recently. And Benjamin and I agreed—”

“Agreed! On what?”

“That you should have the chance to make your own decision about the gentleman, without all of the gossip that comes with.”

“But—they are friends again, I am sure of it.”

“Indeed. In the end, the marquess relented and gave his permission. And in the end, ‘twas Lady Josephine who refused Lord Harcourt.”

* * * *

Josephine poured herself a brandy and sat back in her brother’s best armchair, watching the pattern of flame in the fireplace. She normally did not make free with Lord Leighton’s study, but she decided tonight would be an exception. With the music salon taken over entirely by their mother, and even the library like to be visited by the dowager at any hour—searching for books about one famous painter or another—the countess felt that the study was one of the few places in Clare Manor where she might count on a bit of privacy.

Besides, she guessed that the marquess would remain long at White’s that night, and not return to Clare Manor until the early hours of the morning. Anthony had not been happy to see her at Richmond Park. Jo supposed she should feel a bit guilty that he was also unhappy with Lord Harcourt.

What is Benjamin doing? wondered Lady Bainborough. Is he at White’s as well?

* * * *

Both Miss Carys Davies and Lord Leighton were incorrect in their assumptions about Lord Harcourt’s appearance at the park that afternoon; Carys in that it was coincidence, and Anthony in thinking that the idea was Benjamin’s.

The marquess had indeed told Lord Harcourt of his plans, but had done so at White’s, at a moment when his friend was pouring himself a glass of brandy and listening with one ear to the Earl of Cammish and Lord Fothergill nearby; they were discussing the Duke of Avondale’s newest mistress. The female was causing no end of problems for his grace, and the earl was quite amused, having lost another mistress, years ago, to the same duke.

“I am driving out with Miss Davies tomorrow,” said Lord Leighton. “To Richmond Park.”

That seemed clear enough. Benjamin had murmured something—it might have been ‘mmm’ or ‘hmm’—and they had moved on to other matters. But if Lord Harcourt had indeed paid any attention to the announcement, he had forgotten all about it by the next day.

Lady Josephine, on the other hand, forgot little.

* * * *

The brandy began to exert its warmth, and Jo relaxed into the armchair. She could fall asleep then and there, and what a luxury that would be, to have no other human being know or care where one slept. Back in Hertfordshire she would be retiring to her own suite of rooms, to lie down in a gorgeous four-posted bed that William had given her for a wedding present. Admittedly, ‘twas a piece that was so beautiful and so exactly to her taste—