The Wedding Game (22 page)

It seemed a safe-enough topic. Chastity followed his gaze. “Where's his belt? I can never find it.”

“Let me show you.” He put an arm around her shoulders in a gesture so natural that it took her a couple of seconds to realize she should have resisted it, but it was too late. He pointed with his free hand. “Look towards the east. See the Milky Way? There's Cassiopeia just to the left; it's inverted into an
M
not a
W
at this time of year. Now look farther up and over towards one o'clock. See two bright stars almost in a straight line, and halfway between them a cluster of three bright stars? Those three are Orion's belt.”

Chastity tried to forget the arm encircling her as she tipped her head as far back as she could, gazing upwards as she tried to follow his finger. She tried to forget that her head was actually resting on her companion's shoulder. She tried to tell herself that she could be sitting here with Roddie in exactly the same position and it would signal nothing more than the ease of warm friendship. “Oh, yes, I see it now,” she said. “I've always found the stars fascinating but I know so little about them.”

“If the nights stay as clear as this, I'll teach you,” he offered. “Astronomy has been one of my passions since I was a small boy.” His fingers played a little tune on her upper arm as he drew her closer against him.

Chastity raised her head abruptly. She could no longer pretend this was perfectly natural and merely friendly. She moved sideways on the bench in a definite gesture of withdrawal and his arm dropped. She felt his gaze on her averted face and resolutely kept her eyes on a point somewhere over the horse's head, and it was with relief that she saw the lights of the house piercing the darkness.

“Good, we're here,” she declared, throwing off the lap rug. “I hope Mrs. Hudson has some of her mulled wine waiting for us.” She jumped down from the gig almost before Fred had reined in the horse, leaving Douglas to climb down after her.

Lord Duncan stood in the open front door, light streaming forth from behind him. “Welcome, welcome,” he said as the contessa alighted from the barouche. “Welcome, dear lady.” He took her hands in both of his, beaming as he drew her into the hall. “Come, Miss Della Luca, come in all of you, out of the cold,” he said, but it was clear to his daughters that he had eyes only for the contessa.

“Looks like at least one prong of our plan is on the way to fruition,” Prudence murmured to Constance as they followed them into the house.

“Mmm,” Constance agreed. “Not sure about the other prong, though.”

“No. What was all that rearranging about?”

“We'll have to ask Chas.” And then the subject had to be dropped as Douglas and Chastity entered the hall behind them. A massive Scotch pine, tiny candles illuminating its branches, dominated the huge raftered chamber. Jenkins came forward with a tray of steaming mugs.

“Oh, mulled wine, Jenkins, wonderful,” Chastity said. “It's a Christmas tradition,” she explained to their guests as the butler passed around the fragrant mugs.

“Indeed it is,” Lord Duncan agreed heartily. “Now come to the fire . . . come, dear lady, you must be chilled to the bone after the drive.” He ushered the contessa close to the great fire blazing in the inglenook at the end of the hall and beamed around at the assembled company, his rubicund countenance redolent of good cheer and anticipation.

“Have the aunts arrived yet?” Chastity inquired, burying her nose in the clove-and-cinnamon-scented steam of her mulled wine.

“Yes, Lady Bagshot and Lady Aston are resting after their journey, Miss Chas,” Jenkins informed her.

“Did you put them in the usual rooms?”

“Of course, Miss Chas.” Jenkins looked slightly offended at the question. Lord Duncan's two sisters, Edith and Agatha, always had the same bedrooms on their frequent visits to Romsey Manor.

Chastity smiled. “I know, of course you did. It's only that my head's been full of arrangements for days.”

“Mrs. Hudson and I have everything well in hand, Miss Chas,” the butler said, but he was mollified. “I've given Miss Sarah and Miss Winston the old nursery quarters, Miss Prue. I thought Miss Winston would appreciate having her own sitting room.”

“Yes, I'm sure she would,” Prudence said warmly. “They'll be half-frozen when they get here.”

“All the fires have been lit,” Jenkins said.

“My dear girl, you might give me some credit for arranging matters satisfactorily,” Lord Duncan said in mild protest. “I know how to make our guests comfortable.”

“Yes, Father, of course you do,” Constance said with a teasing smile. “But you know how managing and bossy Chas is.”

Chastity, overwhelmingly relieved to be once more in the safety of numbers, laughingly protested. Of the three of them she was the least bossy and managing. Douglas was standing just a little outside the half circle around the fire and a covert glance gave her the impression that he was observing and assessing them all in a manner that was almost professional. She wondered if, as a member of a big family himself, he was comparing the Duncans
en famille
with the Farrells.

“What a delightful hall, Lord Duncan,” Laura said, moving closer to her host. “So charmingly quaint with all those stuffed heads.” She gave a little shudder. “The glass eyes are most unnerving.” She gave another of her annoying little trills of laughter that always accompanied one of her obliquely critical remarks. “Ancestors must have been so uncivilized, don't you think?”

“Can't think what's wrong with hunting,” Lord Duncan said. “Perfectly fine sport. And the stag's a noble animal. Graces any hall, in my opinion.”

“Ah.” Again the little laugh. “Of course, the English are such fervent aficionados of blood sports.” She gave another little shudder.

“So, you won't be joining the Boxing Day hunt, Laura?” Prudence inquired, taking off her spectacles for a moment and fixing her myopic gaze on the other woman.

Laura shook her head with obvious horror. “Oh, goodness me, no. I couldn't possibly participate in anything so uncivilized.”

“I always thought the Italians and the French were as passionate about hunting as the English,” Chastity said, reflecting that the woman seemed to have only one word in her critical vocabulary. Constant repetition of
uncivilized
wore a little thin. “Look at all those medieval and eighteenth-century tapestries. Someone's always chasing something in them. And one would hardly call those civilizations uncivilized.”

Laura for once looked a little put out. “The French,” she said with a vaguely dismissive wave of her hand. “And
La Chasse,
of course.” She managed to give the impression that by conceding Chastity's point she had disproved it.

“Of course,” Chastity murmured.
“La Chasse.”
She turned to Douglas. “I'm sure you hunt, Douglas.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm afraid not. I've never seen the point.”

“Oh,” Chastity said with a bright smile. “In that case, on Boxing Day you and Laura will be able to ride together through the countryside. We have some lovely rides through the New Forest and across the heath. I'm sure you'll both enjoy it.”

Before either Douglas or Laura could respond, Lord Duncan rumbled, “Good God, man, never seen the point of hunting. And you a Scot. Some of the best grouse moors in the world in Scotland. Not to mention salmon rivers and trout streams.”

“I wouldn't argue with you, sir. And I don't count fishing as hunting,” Douglas said with a smile. “Fly-fishing is a true sport. Shooting birds out of the sky . . .” He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Well, I suppose if you're a fisherman, that's better than nothing,” his lordship said, but he regarded his guest with a degree of doubt, as if wondering if he should be housing such a heretic under his roof.

Chastity set down her mug and said diplomatically, “Let me show you all to your rooms. Contessa, Laura, Douglas. I'm sure you'll be glad to get settled in.” She swept a hospitable smile around the assembly and walked to the stairs, her guests trooping behind her.

Chapter 12

C
ontessa, this is the room my father wanted you to have,” Chastity said with a warm smile. “I expect your maid will be waiting for you.” She opened the door onto a large well-appointed guest room, predominantly decorated in green, where indeed the contessa's maid was busy unpacking her mistress's bags. “I hope you'll be comfortable.”

“It's delightful, my dear Chastity,” the contessa responded, beginning to unbutton her coat. “A lovely room. Thank you.”

Chastity smiled again and backed out. “Laura, let me show you to your room. And Douglas, yours is right next door.” She led the way back down the corridor. The rooms she had allocated Douglas and Laura were as far from the contessa's as was possible on the same floor. The contessa would be in blissful ignorance in the event of any sleepwalking between the doctor's room and Laura's. However, such an event seemed increasingly unlikely to Chastity. Laura might be happily assuming the role of interior decorator on Harley Street, but for her to indulge in a clandestine liaison was impossible to picture even with the most willing imagination. Chastity firmly put aside the reflection that the doctor himself was beginning to show less enthusiasm for his pursuit of the signorina. Just as she resolutely ignored the little twinge of satisfaction that this reflection brought her.

Fortunately, Laura pronounced herself contented with the pretty pink and pastel bedroom where her maid was also already busy and Chastity left her giving a series of orders to the maid, who was rushing around like a headless chicken.

“You're in here, Douglas,” she said, opening the door to the next-door bedchamber. “It has a view over the churchyard, I hope you're not superstitious.”

“Not in the least,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I see you're not wholly against dragons.” He gestured to the oriental wallpaper.

“It depends where they are,” she said. She heard the click of the latch and it sounded rather definite in the sudden hush. She began to talk rapidly. “The bathroom is just down the corridor, the second door on the right. I'm afraid there are very few rooms with their own bathrooms.”

“I wouldn't expect otherwise,” he said, leaning against the door, watching her with some amusement and something else that made her skin prickle. She wandered around the room, pointing out its amenities, for all the world like an anxious hotelkeeper, she thought crossly.

“There's usually plenty of hot water,” she said. “But it takes awhile to run. Would you like me to send someone up to help you unpack?”

He laughed. “Chastity, my dear girl, you know better than that. Of course I wouldn't. I am perfectly capable of unpacking what I packed myself this morning.”

“Yes, I'm sure you are,” she said, looking warily at the door. She would have to go through him to get to it and she didn't think she possessed the spirit qualities of walking through solid matter. “I'll see you downstairs, then, when you've unpacked and freshened up. It's traditional to invite the village carolers in on Christmas Eve for mince pies and mulled wine. They usually come at around seven-thirty, before dinner.”

“I'll be sure not to miss it,” he said. The something else in his eye was suddenly more pronounced.

“Then I'll leave you to it,” she said, making for the door.

He moved slightly aside for her and then with a movement that Chastity somehow knew was inevitable he laid a restraining hand on her arm. Prickles rose suddenly on her skin, making her cold, as if the temperature in the room had dropped for some reason.

“Chastity,” he said softly. That was all. His eyes said the rest as he took her face between both his hands. He kissed her mouth, very gently, almost experimentally, moving his lips to each corner, and then kissed her eyelids. His lips were warm on her lids and then trailed in little bird kisses over her cheeks, touched the tip of her nose, brushed across her chin, his tongue for a second darting into the deep dimple there, and then coming to rest again on her mouth.

Chastity didn't breathe. She wanted to tell him that this was wrong. He had the wrong end of the stick. Laura Della Luca was his quarry, not Chastity Duncan, who had not a sou of capital to her name, and only the most modest income. Not to mention the monstrous deception she had practiced upon him, the secret identity that had made her privy to a mercenary ambition that, however justified it might be in terms of the greater good, would still be immensely embarrassing for him to have known to a social acquaintance. But the words wouldn't form themselves.

With a sudden sigh she drew breath, inhaling the scent of his skin, a rugged, slightly earthy scent. Her tongue touched his mouth, tasting the spicy sweetness of the mulled wine, feeling the warm pliancy of his lips. She had noticed before that he had a strong mouth and it
felt
strong, muscular as well as pliable, to her exploring tongue.

Then his own tongue joined the little play and her mouth opened to the nudging pressure. She tasted the mulled wine and a lingering flavor of peppermint and his hands on her face tightened their clasp so that she could feel the roughness of his afternoon skin against her own.

Chastity was no naive ingenue, and neither was she a fool. Maybe, at a huge stretch, their earlier kiss could be called a seal of friendship, but by no stretch of the imagination could this one be anything but a passionate promise of future lovemaking.

She drew her head back and stepped away. She touched her mouth where she could still feel the imprint of his lips. “That was not friendship,” she said.

He shook his head. “No . . . no, it wasn't.” He gave a little rueful shrug. “I've kissed many friends, but never like that.” He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “What shall we do about it, Chastity?”

“Nothing at all,” she said with a sharpness that sprang from her own dismay. “There's nothing
to
be done. It was just an aberration. I've disliked you from the first moment I met you.” Which was only partially true but she wasn't going to let that stand in her way. She forged on in the tone of one delivering the coup de grâce, “And we've been quarreling since you came to that At Home.”

He looked a little taken aback at this vehemence, then shook his head again and laughed. “Oh, I wouldn't call it quarreling,” he said pensively. “You
have
had a rather confrontational attitude towards me, I admit, and I don't really know why. I think it's just your nature. You're quite a bantam, really.”

“A bantam?” Chastity glared at him, thunderstruck by such a patronizing comparison.

“Yes,” he said, stroking his angular jaw. “Small, well feathered, very assertive, and more than a little combative.”

“Oh, let me pass,” she said in disgust, pushing him aside with a flat hand to his chest as she marched to the door.

Chastity went straight to her own room, too shaken to face anyone until she had decided for herself what had just happened. He was insufferable, worse even than Max and Gideon had been on first impression. She paced her bedroom, following a circular path since the room was too small to give a satisfactory length for one march, and she only stopped when it occurred to her that she must look like a fuming caged tiger. She thumped down on a small armless chair beside the fire and reflectively chewed a fingernail. What an absurd mess to find herself in. Her personal inclinations were so far at odds with her professional obligations.

A knock at the door brought her to her feet with a startled jump. It was followed by her sisters' entrance and she wondered rather aridly as her heart rate slowed somewhat exactly whom she had been expecting.

“Is everything all right, Chas?” Prudence asked.

“You look as if you've seen a ghost,” Constance said.

Chastity shook her head. “No, I was just contemplating how the best-laid plans oft gang awry.”

“Douglas,” Constance hazarded.

“Tell all,” Prudence demanded.

Chastity sighed, took a deep breath, and explained what had just happened. “And the worst of it is,” she concluded, “I didn't even try to stop him.” She tucked a red curl behind one ear with an air of distraction. “Actually, that isn't the worst of it. The worst of it is that I enjoyed it and I want to do it again.”

“Oh, Chas,” Constance said, sitting on the bed. “I thought you didn't like him.”

“I don't,” Chastity said helplessly. “Well, that's not strictly true. Sometimes I like him, until he says or does something to put my back up—like calling me a bantam, for God's sake,” she added with remembered annoyance. “But . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “I desire him. It's as simple—and as complicated—as that.”

“What a pickle,” Prudence observed, taking off her spectacles.

“Yes, it is,” Chastity said almost in despair. “It's all so dishonest. If he knew about the Go-Between . . . that I was the one he met in the National Gallery. Can you imagine how he'd feel? And apart from that, we can't have him distracted from his courtship of Laura.”

“But maybe he's not really interested in Laura,” Prudence said thoughtfully, polishing her glasses on her skirt. “If he's decided he's not, and there've been no promises or even vague murmurings on either side as yet, then he probably thinks it's perfectly reasonable to turn his attention elsewhere. And here you are.” She gestured towards her little sister with an open palm.

“Yes, but he can't,” Chastity said. “Apart from the whole deception business with the Go-Between, he has to marry for money, otherwise he won't be able to afford his mission. I couldn't possibly ruin his chances to do that just because I fancy a little dalliance.”

Prudence put her spectacles back on. She wondered if her baby sister really meant dalliance, or something more serious. But it was not a question she thought she could ask, since it was possible Chastity herself didn't know. “Well, we can put him right on the money score,” she said. “I'll let him know casually that you're as poor as a church mouse, and if that doesn't work, then Con and I will just have to protect you from him.”

“From temptation more like,” Constance said. “Sorry, Chas, I don't mean to make light of this but it does have its ironical side.”

“I know,” Chastity said with a heavy sigh. “Here am I trying to set him up with a suitable bride, one who fits his very precise specifications, and he's going off on frolics of his own. It would be fine if he found another bride other than Laura who would fit the bill, but he can't be distracted by
me.
”

“Well, Prue and I will hammer home the poverty nail and at the same time try to keep ourselves between him and you,” Constance declared. “We'll stick to him like glue and never give him a chance to be alone with you. How's that?”

Chastity shook her head. “He's going to think it very strange.”

“It doesn't matter what he thinks,” Prudence stated. “For the rest of the holiday one of us will be at his side at every waking moment.” She stood up from the deep window seat. “We'd better hurry and change for the evening. The carolers will be here soon. What's everyone wearing?”

“Chas needs to find something utterly frumpy and unappealing,” Constance said with a chuckle.

“I don't have anything,” Chastity said. “Unless Prue has that dreadful dress she wore when she first confronted Gideon. You know, that dun-colored one that made her look like some dreadfully prim and dour spinster schoolteacher.”

“It smelled of mothballs,” Prudence said reminiscently. “Poor Gideon, he didn't know what to make of it.”

“Well, do you have it down here?”

Prudence shook her head. “Even if I did, Chas couldn't wear it. Gideon would know immediately that we were playing some game and he'd be bound to say something that would ruin the effect.”

“I suppose you're right,” Chastity agreed with a reluctant nod. “I'll have to make do with what I've got.”

“We'll see you downstairs, then.” Constance went to the door. “Coming, Prue?”

The two sisters left the room and Chastity opened her wardrobe to survey the contents. She didn't actually possess a single garment that wasn't attractive. There wasn't really any incentive to spend money on clothes that didn't suit one. She didn't want to outshine Laura but that would be difficult to avoid since Laura seemed to favor only the most modest cuts and dull colors for her wardrobe. Whereas Chastity's clothes were almost universally as bright and vibrant as her hair.

With a shrug, she selected an evening dress of a rich chocolate-brown velvet. No one could call brown a vibrant color, she thought, but without much conviction. This gown had a wonderful luster to it and deeper shades rippling in its generous folds. When she surveyed herself in the mirror before going downstairs she saw an elegant woman in a glowing gown that fitted her body in all the right places. The richness of the color and the material imparted a bloom to her complexion and a luminous light to her hazel eyes that even the most critical self-examination couldn't deny.

She tried to pull her hair back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, hoping that would counteract some of the effects of the gown, but as usual the bright curls were uncooperative and escaped the pins in an unruly and quite charming cloud around her face. Even the scattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose seemed to have disappeared completely. On the one hand it was infuriating to know that despite all her efforts she looked at her very best, but on the other, shamefully pleasing to her vanity.