The Stolen Bride (12 page)

Beth had as much chance of not taking part in the next set as the candle in the wall sconce had of surviving till the morrow.

As they walked toward the set he added to his apology, saying ruefully, “It’s just that I’m growing tired of being pushed in the direction everyone’s been pulling me back from all my life. I do know what I’m doing, you know.”

Beth was not above doing a little manipulating. “I’m afraid to say anything, Lord Randal.”

As the music started and they bowed and curtsied, he flashed her an amused look from those very blue eyes that could appear as innocent as a cherub’s. “I doubt that,” he said blithely. “But speak away, Mrs. Hawley. Preach the work of the devil. Tempt me into the pits of hell. I can withstand it all!”

The dance then required him to twirl her around, which he did with such verve she felt dizzy. Beth gasped, “Lord Randal, you have a way of carrying things to extremes!”

He stopped dead and swung her smoothly into another move. “It’s my nature,” he declared, as he put his hand on her waist. He looked down at her with a glittering smile that seemed to invite her to share with him the glorious absurdity of life. “Aren’t you going to harangue me into debauchery, dear ma’am?”

Beth gave up. As a means of ridding himself of interference this madcap effervescence was more effective than the chilling hauteur.

She happily surrendered to the pleasure of the dance. She hadn’t danced like this since her husband died, though she had kept up her skill when teaching country dances to Jane. She remembered those strange performances, just the two of them pretending they were eight and singing the tunes as they went through the moves. It had been inadequate teaching but great fun.

It was even more fun in a set, with real music and a skillful partner.

Lord Randal was an excellent partner. He was always graceful, of course, but he was also in control of every move. His hands on hers, or on her waist, were firm. On the occasions when she forgot a step and faltered, he guided her smoothly on so that she was sure a watcher could never detect her hesitation.

When their set was over, and he had procured a glass of lemonade for her, she said, “Thank you, Lord Randal. That was most enjoyable. You are a fine dancer.”

He laughed. “Now, Mrs. Hawley. It is I who should say that to you.”

Beth blinked. With his color heightened and his eyes shining with uncomplicated enjoyment, he was stunning. Did Sophie perhaps feel nervous at taking this much desirability into her keeping? Beth silently admonished herself for stupidity. It was not a matter to concern most women, least of all a nineteen-year-old. She wouldn’t be surprised to find that Sophie’s notes were written by a jealous young miss with a taste for Gothic novels.

She sipped the cool, refreshing drink. “But I am not a fine dancer,” she replied to his comment, “and I’m sure you would never offer me Spanish coin.”

His eyes brightened still more. “Foolish certainty!” He dug into a pocket and spun a gold coin. “Here, Mrs. Hawley. For you.”

She shook her head. It was like trying to handle quick-silver. When she studied the coin he had given her she saw it was a Spanish doubloon. “I grant you the point,” she said with a smile. “But I can’t possibly take this, Lord Randal. It must be valuable.”

“Not particularly. It is just a lucky piece.”

“Then I definitely must not take it.”

He closed her hand over the coin and his smile steadied to something warm and genuine. “Please, Mrs. Hawley,” he said. “What need have I of luck, when I’m to marry Sophie next week? And you have, I think, a genuine kindness toward me. Take it, and may it make you as fortunate as I.”

He went to his next partner and Beth looked at the coin, bemused. She had no objection to a little luck, but hardly thought the coin would bring her wedded bliss. Perhaps, she thought pragmatically, she should buy a lottery ticket.

As Lord Randal had persuaded her onto the floor, she lacked an excuse to use with other gentlemen, nor did she wish for one. How many other dances would she attend in her life? Soon Sir Marius led her out. To her surprise her dance with him was ordinary and decorous. He was too large a man, of course, for prancing, but still she had come to expect a little teasing and perhaps one of those amused, secretive looks. She found herself quite disappointed.

Then, as they stood together afterward, she saw one of those amused, secretive looks and a shiver went through her.

“You look rather sad,” he said as he commanded wine for them. “Could it be that you are disappointed, Mrs. Hawley?”

“With what, pray?” asked Beth.

“Perhaps you hoped to dance the waltz here?”

“Not at all,” said Beth, wondering what it might be like.

“Perhaps the wine is too dry, then?”

“On the contrary,” she said. “It is delicious, Sir Marius.”

“Then it must be the heat. I fear we will have a storm one day soon.”

Beth became aware that the fickle breeze had disappeared with the sun and there was nothing now to cool the heavy air. The ballroom formed the ground floor of one wing. Windows and doors on both sides stood open but little air passed through. In her light muslin Beth was not too uncomfortable, but she suspected the men must be feeling the heat in their jackets and cravats.

Sophie suddenly appeared at her side and offered a fan from a dozen or so she held in her hand. Beth took it gratefully. She opened it to find it was a simple thing made of wood and paper, prettily decorated with flowers and the ducal coat of arms. “They order them by the gross,” said Sophie lightly. “Never know when they will be of use.”

She turned to Sir Marius. “Would you like one, Marius? You’re looking a little wilted.”

He considered her offering dubiously. “Do you have a larger size?”

She laughed and flitted off. Beth plied her fan gratefully in such a way that some of the breeze played on him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m wondering whether to go and have a word with Verderan. If he were to shock everyone by removing his cravat, perhaps we could all follow suit.”

Piers Verderan, however, seemed to be the only person unaffected by the heat as he danced indefatigably through the evening.

As the Stenby party prepared to depart, Beth felt a tremor of nervousness at the thought of driving home with Sir Marius. There was a clear full moon, but still to be alone with a man in the middle of the night was an unusual situation.

He showed no inclination to tease, however. Perhaps he realized how tired she was. When she yawned, and apologized, he said, “Why not lean against my shoulder, Mrs. Hawley?”

“I could not possibly do such a thing,” she protested.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” he teased.

And so she did and almost dozed off before they got back to the Castle.

“Would you like me to carry you in?” he asked softly when he drew his horses up at last.

That stiffened Beth’s spine like a ramrod. “Of course not,” she said sharply. A groom assisted her down from the seat and she made her way quickly into the house. It was only when she reached her bedchamber that she realized that in her flight she had been less than gracious, whereas he had been kind, perhaps more than kind, all day.

She had to acknowledge that she was coming to regard Sir Marius Fletcher in a particular manner which was doubtless unwise. In the privacy of her bedchamber she tried to argue herself out of her wanton foolishness but her heart was not amenable to reason.

D
ESPITE HER tiredness, sleep did not come easily to Beth that night, and she roused the next morning feeling dissatisfied with herself and anxious about life in general. There was certainly much to fret about—Sophie and Lord Randal, those strange letters, Sir Marius ... And to think she had anticipated a pleasant sojourn in the country. When Jane asked her to check on their invalid, saying she had no faith in Sophie’s supervision, Beth was pleased to have something to take her mind off her problems.

The woman was sitting in her bed, drinking tea, looking much improved. A frilled nightcap covered most of her bandage and her cuts were healing. There was even a little color in her haggard cheeks.

When Beth introduced herself, the lady smiled. “I understand from the maid that you were the Good Samaritan who brought me here. I must thank you.”

“I could do nothing else. This was, after all, your destination. Do you still not have your memory?”

“I am afraid not,” said the lady with a sigh. “It is a very strange state of affairs. You have no idea ...”

“You must not concern yourself,” said Beth briskly. “In such a large household, you are no great burden.”

“But with the marriage coming so soon.”

Beth took a seat by the bed and smiled reassuringly. She could understand how very awkward the lady must feel. “Even with that.”

“Lady Sophie seems a delightful young lady. Her husband will be a very lucky man.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Beth simply, having no intention of gossiping.

The woman put down her cup and saucer and looked closely at Beth. “I hope he is a sober, reliable gentleman,” she said.

Beth instinctively drew back slightly. Why was this woman so concerned about strangers? “He will make her a good husband,” Beth responded carefully.

“Is their attachment of long standing?” the woman asked. It was not so much the question as the avidity in the older woman’s eyes, which disturbed Beth.

“I am not an intimate of the family, ma’am,” Beth said repressively. “I was merely the countess’s governess. Lord Randal and Lady Sophie have known each other all their lives, I understand.”

The invalid responded to Beth’s tone and looked away, but there was the tightness of irritation on her face. Was her curiosity just a natural desire for information, any information? Beth remembered the woman had come here with Sophie’s marriage announcement in her reticule....

“Lady Wraybourne visited me yesterday,” the woman said, with a social smile. “She’s very handsome. What kind of man is the earl? Does she have a happy marriage?”

So it wasn’t only Sophie who invited the woman’s prying. Beth was having no part of it. “They are very well suited,” she said firmly and rose to her feet.

“Please,” the woman said quickly. “Do not be offended. You must try to understand. I cannot speak of myself, as I know nothing. I am naturally curious about those around me.”

Repugnance was replaced by guilt and Beth sat down again. She could not imagine what it must be like to awake with no knowledge of one’s identity or history, dependent upon the goodwill of strangers.

“But it would be unseemly, ma’am, to gossip about people’s personal lives. Perhaps if I arrange for the newspapers to be brought to you something might trigger your memory.”

“Thank you,” said the woman meekly, laying a hand briefly over Beth’s. “You are very kind. And I wonder if you know what became of my portmanteau?”

Beth checked the wardrobe and found the bag there. The clothes it had contained were put away but it was obviously not empty. She took it over to the bed.

The woman took it as if it were precious but made no move to open it.

“Shall I replace it?” Beth asked.

“No,” the woman said. There was a hesitation and then she opened the bag and took out a flat wooden box. She raised the lid almost eagerly and then stopped. Beth looked. The box was the case for the pistol she’d been told of. The pistol, of course, was missing.

“How strange,” the woman said. “Is this mine?”

“So I understand.”

“Then where is the pistol?”

“I believe it was taken in case ...” Beth sought for tactful words.

“In case I was deranged? Or suicidal?” the woman queried drily. “I assure you I am not, for all that my memory appears to have gone on furlough.” One dry finger traced the empty, velvet-lined socket. “I wonder if it would be possible to have the firearm back. I feel a flickering of memory when I look at this....”

“I will ask Lord Wraybourne,” said Beth. She had to admit to feeling uneasy about the woman having a gun, and yet it was foolishness to think of such a frail lady running amok with a pistol. Even if she did so, she would have only one shot and was doubtless untrained in the art. The gun would have belonged to some male relative and could hold fond memories. It might well help.

Beth would put the matter to Lord Wraybourne and let him decide. She assured herself that the invalid lacked for nothing and took her leave.

She relayed the request for the return of the pistol to Lord Wraybourne.

He took the heavy, old pistol out of a drawer. “I don’t suppose she’s going to try to wipe us out with this,” he said drily. “I certainly wouldn’t care to try to hit the side of a barn with it. Perhaps if you were to take away the powder flask, that would be wise.”

Beth took the heavy firearm and detoured to the library to pick up some recent magazines and a newspaper. She added a small selection of books and made her way back to the invalid’s room.

The woman was warmly grateful for all Beth brought, but Beth noted her hand lingered lovingly on the pistol.

“Does it stir any memories?” she asked curiously.

“Little flickers,” said the woman, frowning. “It is like trying to remember a dream. Always just beyond grasp.” She opened the case and placed the gun carefully into its place.

Feeling just a little awkward, Beth reached forward and took the powder flask. “The earl thought it best if this was removed,” she said.

The woman seemed merely amused. “Does he really think I’m going to stalk the corridors looking for someone to shoot? I can hardly leave my bed and I’m not even sure I know how to handle this thing.”

“Then you will be safer without the explosive,” Beth said firmly. “I understand firearms can be extremely dangerous if mishandled.”

“I’m sure you are right,” said the woman. She thanked Beth again for her kindness and settled to read the
Morning Post
of a few days past.