Tilly (13 page)

“I must have been mad,” said the marquess. “I did not realize I had all this here.
You have grown very quickly into an enchanting woman. Kiss me, Tilly.”

Still, she turned her head away. “It’s too easy,” she whispered. “When you’re tired of me, you’ll go looking for another mistress.”

“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. You must trust me, Tilly.” He put his hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. She stared up into those eyes as deep and as blue as her own and knew that she was helpless. His hand was loosening the bone pins that secured her hair and it came tumbling about her shoulders in a red cascade.

“Kiss me, Tilly,” he urged, winding his hand in the tumble of her hair. “Kiss me… now.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the now familiar hard lips against her own, searching and probing. The little sounds of the outside world penetrated for a few moments: the sound of the birds squabbling in the ivy; the patter of rain against the window; a servant somewhere along the corridor, whistling as he went about his work; and then all sight and sound went spinning away as she became more deeply enclosed in a dark world of passion, where nothing existed but the feel of his long fingers and the pressure of his lips.

Crrrump!
Like an exploding bomb, a brick
hurtled down into the remains of last night’s fire, sending a huge, suffocating cloud of ash and soot swirling around them. They fell apart, choking and gasping, and then Tilly ran to tug open the window while the marquess rang the bell and unlocked the door. To his surprise, a bevy of footmen almost fell into the room. The marquess’s feelings were suddenly as black and suspicious as his soot-streaked face. He prided himself on the efficiency of his servants, but it did seem odd that so many should answer the summons of the bell when he hadn’t even called for help and could have been ringing for his shaving water.

The marquess and Tilly looked a sorry pair. Both were covered in black soot and ash from head to foot. Both were suffering from the dizzying effects of shock and interrupted passion.

When Masters arrived to announce that Cyril Nettleford, his lordship’s nephew, was waiting belowstairs, the marquess’s wrath knew no bounds.

“What in hell and damnation is going on in this house?” he roared. “First some fool rings the alarm bell when there’s no fire, then someone throws a brick down the chimney, and now that unmitigated ass, Cyril, is
camped out in my drawing room. Tell him to leave, Masters!”

“I am afraid I cannot do that,” said Masters. “You have always welcomed any of your relatives before this, my lord, and you have not issued any orders to the contrary. Mr. Nettleford has been accommodated in the Blue Room, my lord, and his hired carriage has been sent back to London.”

“Of all the—” began the marquess, but Tilly placed a soothing hand on his arm. “I shall have a quick bath, Philip, and see if I can get rid of him.” And before he could reply, she was gone.

Cyril Nettleford waited impatiently in the drawing room. It was not the lord he wanted to see but the lady. He had seen the Beast on her wedding day and, knowing the terms of the old marquess’s later will, had been delighted. He had been ecstatic at the news from Paris. Philip would never beget a legitimate heir, the way he was carrying on. And he, Cyril, stood to inherit the marquess’s fortune if no heir were forthcoming. But he had also learned at the wedding that the marquess had not known of the later will. A visit to the family solicitors then revealed that the marquess now
did
know and was quite prepared to do something about it. Cyril had
arrived at Chennington to see if there was anything he could do to put a spoke in the married couple’s life. He was sure there would have been no reconciliation at this early date (for what wife would not be furious at her husband spending his wedding night in the arms of a French tart?), but he wanted to make sure there would
never
be one.

His heart sank as Tilly was announced. What the
hell
had happened to the Beast? A slim redhead, dressed in a saucy tailored skirt and striped blouse, stood before him. Her eyes were wide and a dazzling blue and not the little crinkled slits he had remembered. And her hair was no longer frizzed, but twisted and coiled by the hand of a genius. She was wearing some faint and elusive perfume that was seduction itself. How on earth was Philip going to keep his hands off her?

Tilly was equally amazed at what she saw. She thought Mr. Nettleford looked like a species of spotted snake. He had lank fair hair and lank Piccadilly weepers growing down either side of his face. His face had a greenish tinge that was marred by clumps of angry red spots, and his eyes were green and slightly protruding. He wore the latest thing in double-breasted suits and his spats gleamed as whitely as the tops of Beau Brummell’s riding
boots no doubt used to gleam across the spinneys and fields of Regency England.

“So kind of you to invite me,” he said, rising to his feet.

Tilly decided it was time to deliver the cut direct. “I rather gather you invited yourself, Mr. Nettleford, and as we already have a houseful of guests…” She let her voice delicately trail away, but Mr. Nettleford had been snubbed by experts. “Oh, good,” he cried. “Obviously you mean that with so many guests, what difference does another one make. Ha, ha, ha.”

Tilly winced. She knew that when people laughed in books it was written down as “Ha, ha, ha,” but never before had she heard someone who actually laughed like that.

Tilly was about to persevere in her attempt to get rid of him, but the wily Cyril guessed so before she opened her mouth and counteracted by changing the subject—dramatically.

“You must have been amazed at the terms of my great uncle’s will, Lady Tilly. I mean the
second
will.”

“Really?” Tilly raised her eyebrows in the haughtiest manner possible. “I certainly found the will, but I did not read it. It is my husband’s business, after all. Don’t you find
it so irritating, Mr. Nettleford, when people poke their noses into what does not concern them?”

Cyril flushed but recovered quickly. “Oh, you really should ask your husband about that will,” he murmured. “After all, it does concern you as much as he.”

Tilly weighed into the attack. “We are expecting more guests, Mr. Nettleford. I really must ask you to leave, since you were not invited and your rooms will be needed for the
invited
guests as soon as they arrive.”

“Oh, indeed!” agreed Cyril with an unlovely smile. “And as soon as they
do
arrive, I shall, of course, move out.”

Tilly bit her lip in vexation. Well, the least she could do was to make his stay as uncomfortable as possible.

“I shall see that you are served tea, Mr. Nettleford,” she said. “And I shall send one of our guests to see you. No! No! You mustn’t spoil my surprise. It is someone who is
dying
to meet you!”

And with that, Tilly went in search of the Duchess of Glenstraith and told that astounded woman that Mr. Cyril Nettleford was a hardened drinker and in need of spiritual guidance. The duchess let out a war cry and descended on the drawing room, where
the unfortunate Cyril, who had settled for the whisky decanter rather than tea, was subjected to one of the longest and most boring lectures he had ever endured in his life.

The day passed, wet and miserable, and the guests pottered about in that half-awake bored and boring way they usually do when there is nothing to do but eat and drink.

The marquess kept looking for his wife and finding her unaccountably absent, as Tilly was holding a council of war in the servants’ quarters. “You have all been very kind,” she was saying firmly, “but it has got to stop. I think things should be left to take their natural course.”

“Well, if you say so, my lady,” said Masters anxiously. “We certainly didn’t think it natural to interfere between husband and wife, but Miss Francine was so set on it.”

“And I still am,” said Francine. “I wish to speak to you in private, Lady Tilly.”

Both women retired to one of the unused rooms in the East Wing and Tilly rounded on Francine. “I can’t hold out any longer,” she cried. “I’ll lose him. What do you know of it?
You
aren’t married.”

Francine gave a heavy sigh and looked at her hands. “
Eh bien
,” she said at last. “I will tell you my story. I was in service in this château
in France. Milord was very, very handsome and milady was ailing. Milord was always teasing me and flirting with me. One day he told me that his love for me was real, that he would marry me as soon as his wife died. I believed him. I never thought of his wife. We are careless and selfish when we are so in love. That night, he came to my room. He was a marvelous lover, tender and experienced. We had a rapturous seven days.
Seven days
, that is all, my lady. Then his wife talked to me. She told me sadly that she knew what was going on and that she was sorry for me, because I was obviously in love with her husband. ‘He is merely amusing himself,’ she told me. ‘He will forget you when the next one comes along.’

“I thought she was jealous. That night, we had a grand ball at the château and I had to watch milord flirting with one of the
grande
ladies. My heart was sore, but still I thought he loved me. I hid behind the screen in his rooms that night—he did not sleep with milady—waiting for him to come to bed. Which he did—with the new amour—and I was trapped there, listening. It was horrible! You see, I thought my love would change him. But people do not change, my lady, and certainly not men who are used to a series of
amours. If I had remained aloof, virginal, I would have kept him for quite a time. But as it was—”

“No,” said Tilly, her face hardening. “It’s not the same. I know it’s not. He’s just not used to being married, that’s all. And he wants
me
Francine. Me! Out of all the girls in the world. Oh, I know it’s because of the marvelous change you’ve made in me, Francine, but there’s still the old Tilly underneath and
that
is what he loves. I know he loves me. I can see it in his eyes. So no more interference, Francine.”

Francine raised her hands in mute protest, but Tilly swung on her heels and marched from the room.

The marquess had taken pity on his bored guests and had organized an impromptu entertainment for them that evening, arranging a ball to be held in the upper chain of salons. He had hired a band from the neighboring town for the occasion.

The old mansion came alive with rustling, scurrying, and whispering as the old magic of a ball took hold of the guests. Aileen decided to forgive Toby. Toby decided to go on pretending that he was going to marry Aileen when he was sure that he was not. Cyril Nettleford twisted and turned in front of the mirror, admiring his reflection and thinking that he could perhaps woo Tilly away from her husband. The Duchess of Glenstraith sang in her bath in a loud bass voice as she considered the joys of reclaiming Cyril Nettleford’s soul, and even her husband tum-tummed
happily from the next room as he studied an art catalog.

Tilly and Francine examined one ball gown after the other, searching for one that would look the most romantic. Francine had shrugged and capitulated and had decided to make Tilly look as breathtaking as possible.

The only gloomy member of the house party was the marquess himself. The nagging guilt he had felt over his behavior on his wedding night had become a monumental ache. He tried to think of the old Tilly, rough, noisy, and uncouth and tried hard not to blame himself. He would
make
her love him, he decided at last, and then everything would be all right. He never stopped to consider whether he was in love with her himself. She was his wife, after all!

Soon the strains of the inevitable waltz could be heard drifting through the house as the musicians rehearsed. Soon the carpets were rolled up and Masters gave an approving nod of his head at the gleaming floors. Great tubs of flowers were carried in from the hothouse and banked against the walls.

Tilly was wearing a daringly low-cut dress of white silk chiffon, swathed over her bosom to mold her breasts and pulled tight at the waist to accentuate her hourglass figure. Her
husband had sent her a long box containing the Heppleford diamonds, beautifully cleaned and reset. Even Francine was awed into silence as she clasped the heavy gems around Tilly’s neck and secured the blazing tiara in Tilly’s hair, where it seemed to catch fire from the vivid red color and blazed and sparkled.

As she was prepared to leave, Francine gave a final tweak to Tilly’s curls and then kissed her gently on the cheek. “Be careful,” she whispered.

Tilly laughed. She was young, she was in love, and she was married to the most handsome man in the world.

Lord Philip, Marquess of Heppleford, watched his wife walk into the ballroom, his eyes glowing with admiration. She looked magnificent. He was overcome with tenderness and admiration for the lumpy schoolgirl who had managed to transform herself into a woman who turned all men’s heads. He was not aware of Cyril Nettleford watching him narrowly from the corner. Cyril’s stomach felt as if it had just experienced a journey in a very fast-moving lift, especially as he noticed that the marquess’s gaze was returned by a warm and glowing one from his wife. It
was then he remembered the copy of the second will that he had obtained from the solicitors and which was now reposing among his luggage upstairs.

Tilly’s newfound confidence and happiness leant wings to her feet. She seemed to float over the floor, laughing and chatting with her partners, her little dance card swinging from her wrist, full of names.

Aileen, who was looking like the fairy her mother called her in silver and white gauze, laughed and chattered and quite charmed her reluctant fiancé. Even the Duchess of Glenstraith shook the floor in a lively set of the lancers, while her reedy husband pirouetted around her like some Don Quixote about to tilt at a particularly lively windmill.

Finally Tilly was in her husband’s arms, moving dreamily through the long rooms to the sound of a waltz, under the flickering flames of hundreds of candles, since the marquess considered old-fashioned lighting more suitable for a ball. Watching from the doorway, Masters heaved a sentimental sigh. My lord and my lady were obviously very much in love. He should never have listened to Miss Francine, not that mademoiselle didn’t have her mistress’s interests at heart, but then how could a foreigner judge the
heart of an Englishwoman? Ecstatic with happiness, Masters smiled on his master and mistress as they glided past him in each other’s arms. They danced at regulation fingertip distance, but they might have been clasped close together from the expression in their eyes.