Touch the Sun (40 page)

"If I wished to witness dramatics, I could go to the theater! Do be brief!"

"You are lovely when you're in a temper, darling. Now, where were we?"

"About to hear about the secret developments in Priscilla's life!"

"Oh, Clarissa, it is
rich.
It seems that the ardent bridegroom is not so ardent after all. In fact... he has postponed the wedding until after the journey to New York. He told Priscilla that it may be arranged during their stay in the capital. Otherwise, the grand event will have to wait until they return here." He grinned satanically. "Eager, isn't he?"

Clarissa matched Marcus's smile. "That
is
lovely news. When did this happen?"

"Apparently, over a week ago. But, darling, there is more... much more. Lion's 'reason' for this delay was a mountain of business which supposedly demanded his immediate attention. Priscilla was hurt and slightly suspicious. Of course... if I had known about this, I could have told her days ago that the only business Lion has been engaged in has been that little serving-wench—along with furnishing that unfashionable villa he's bought. Incidentally, Priscilla is none too pleased about that, either; he refused her pleas to get something near Landsdowne."

"You say he's still seeing that girl?" Clarissa queried, pricked by the mention of the chit who had outwitted her with a tree branch.

"Constantly.
As a matter of fact, though Anne Bingham thought she had managed to dispose of her in Henry Gardner's hands, I have reason to suspect that Lion has her in his house now. You know how ridiculously understaffed he was."

"She couldn't be—"

"Housekeeper, yes. That's what I've heard. But that's neither here nor there. We both know better than anyone that Lion would
never
marry a serving-girl. That is the one mistake he could
not
afford..."

"It won't last," Clarissa sniffed.

"No, but neither did you. Ah, ah! No tantrums. At any rate, we digress; the issue here is Lion's betrothal to Priscilla." He licked his lips, savoring the rest of the story while thunder rumbled outside to punctuate the silence. "You see, I believe that Lion, in his consummate self-assurance, has played right into our hands. It seems that Priscilla is not as malleable as he presumed. He has virtually ignored her from the beginning, but when he placed so little value on their wedding date, it was a slap in the face that truly stung her pride."

"Poor thing," Clarissa laughed.

"She plays the wronged maiden most engagingly," he agreed. "The climax to all this has convinced me that our luck has changed; the game is all but won."

"Because...?" she prompted.

"A day or two ago, Priscilla was having tea at Mary Morris's house, and whom do you suppose she saw from an upstairs window?"

"Not—?"

"Precisely. Priscilla's all-business fiancé and her erstwhile lady's maid, walking together on High Street and laughing quite gaily. The girl was disguised as a stableboy!"

"Is she truly angry? I mean, angry enough to actually break the engagement?"

Marcus puffed on his cigar. "Probably not—if she had no alternate course of action. However, I mean to show her that she does. Skillfully, of course... I must tread with caution. There is one more hopeful sign. Priscilla sent Lion a message today saying that she would be busy 'indefinitely' and that he should not call on her. I imagine that she hoped he would dash right over, the picture of repentance, but instead there was no word at all. I think that—and this wonderful storm—drove her to telling me all." He laughed noiselessly. "It is a priceless situation, though. Poor, poor Lion... he'll be so busy enjoying his last days with that kitchen wench that he won't see the trap until it is sprung. And, after Priscilla is safely mine and the inauguration is at hand, there will be only one thing he can do to regain some of his lost ground and save face in New York..."

Clarissa giggled, chewing on one long, lacquered nail. "You are a genius!
This
time it will work—and before the month is out, I will be Mrs. Lion Hampshire!"

Chapter 34

By some miracle, the long, black, storm-swept night became a most glorious morning. Meagan awoke, wrapped in Lion's embrace under layers of cozy quilts, to find the bedchamber awash with lemony sunshine.

Tentatively, she worked herself out of Lion's arms and was surprised when he groaned and dropped over on his back, still asleep. Meagan crept out of bed, naked, to find the air cool, but refreshingly so. The drenching light took the edge off the chill, as did the persistent fire across the room. There, before it, her ruined muslin gown had been spread over two comb-back chairs.

When had Lion lit the fire and taken care of her dress? she wondered. If he had been up puttering around during the night, that surely accounted for the depth of his slumber now.

Meagan donned her underclothes and dress, refastening the wilted heather sash as best she could. She slipped into Priscilla's future bedchamber through the connecting door and appraised her appearance in the dressing-table mirror. Hopelessly disheveled... but radiant, somehow. Her hair was soft and full with unruly curls; many of which had formed as she squirmed beneath Lion in bed. Her lips were so rosy as to appear bruised, and they very nearly were. Muscles in her thighs ached wonderfully. And her cheeks and eyes... Meagan couldn't repress a grin as she noted the way they glowed.

Slowly she made her way barefoot down the white trellised stairway. Heaven was no longer in the entry hall, obviously having been moved when the storm subsided. Had Lion been up all night?

How much of what had passed between them had been real and how much a dream?

Sunlight flooded the parlor, illuminating all the new pieces of furniture in a room that had been bare and musty only a fortnight before. A lump rose in Meagan's throat as she remembered the many happy hours spent planning and working to achieve this effect—warmth mingling with tastefulness. The wide-planked floor was glossy; a stunning Kuba rug in shades of blue, gray, cranberry, and tan replaced the worn Turkey carpet. The paneled walls were painted gray and white and the fireplace was newly faced with snowy white marble. Flanking a long window were two wing chairs upholstered in blood-red moreen, while the draperies around the room had been fashioned of the same material. Several brass candlesticks added fire and warmth on the mantelpiece and each table.

Meagan was proud of the room. It was part of her, part of Lion, part of their time together. It hurt her to think of Priscilla as mistress of Markwood Villa, knowing that she could never feel the proper love and affinity for the house.

Turning around, she crossed to the dining room, but paused only briefly. This was their best achievement, Lion's enthusiastic creation. It was his piece of the past, reflecting the best of the Orient. A rich Chinese Ch'ien Lung rug in jade tones covered the floor, while the walls were papered with an enchanting pattern of bamboo, tree peonies, and butterflies on a muted green surface. All the furniture was simply beautiful, each piece the finest Chinese Chippendale, skillfully decorated with exquisite latticework and fretwork. Already, Lion had begun to fill the velvet-lined break-front shelves with porcelains and other treasures from his voyages.

Tears brimmed in Meagan's eyes as she ran slim fingers along the carved back of a chair, remembering the day they had arranged the furniture. Lion had stepped back to appraise the final picture, then abruptly let out a shout of happiness more eloquent than any words. His eyes, seeking hers, had spoken volumes, and when he caressed the sweep of hair down her back, Meagan knew that he felt as she did about their joint transformation of Markwood Villa.

Now, she withdrew her hand from the chair's lattice-back and walked quickly through the house to the garden door. The weather was as celestial this morning as it had been satanic the day before. Spring gave its full embrace to the garden, and after the intensity of the storm, the plants seemed lush beyond belief.

The air was poignantly fresh and cool; rain droplets glittered on every leaf and blade of grass.

She strolled over the brick footpaths which divided the huge flowerbeds. They had hired men to weed the garden, but did most of the planting themselves. The boxwood, neatly trimmed into square borders, lent its dry, pungent scent to the air, mixing with the richly fragrant wisteria which was just beginning to open its white and violet blossoms. Soon the bees will be swarming over it, Meagan thought.

She made her way toward the place where the ground bent into a gentle hill, in the opposite direction from the woods and the tiny schoolroom. The garden had been tiered to follow the incline downward and the footpath gave way to flagstone steps. Meagan's bare feet descended into the wildness of this hidden paradise where leafy arbors went unpruned and there was no boxwood to mask the sweet aromas of the spring flowers.

Proud, blazing yellow daffodils danced above the trailing borders of grape hyacinths and newly-planted bright pansies. Southernwood shrubs grew along the end of the steps, trimmed by cheerfully striped ribbon grass. Weeping willow and honey-locust trees hovered over the masses of greenery yet to bloom: hollyhocks, larkspur, jessamine, sweet cinnamon roses, and curling grapevines.

Meagan spread her skirts and sat down on the damp flagstone, grieving anew for the colors, the shapes, and the fragrances she would miss in months to come.

Threading her fingers through the tangled black hair which haloed her face, Meagan leaned down to rest against her drawn-up knees. Slowly, she attempted to fit together the pieces from yesterday's puzzle. Hours went unaccounted for; could they have spent so much time entwined in the warmth of Lion's quilted bed? She could remember little else besides endless soft caresses, luxurious kisses, dozing fused to Lion's body, and his eyes, smile, magic touch. Fire...

It was like a day outside of time, outside of the world they knew. What had it meant?

Meagan was too bewildered, disoriented, and pained to think of any strategy. Her relationship with Lion was no longer so simple; she doubted that a solution existed or that either of them would ultimately claim a victory.

* * *

It was unseasonably hot for the eighteenth of April; in fact, each day of the week following the storm had grown warmer.

At noon, Lion and Meagan shared a light luncheon of fish souffle, baked carrots, and wilted spinach salad. Both of them turned down Bramble's almond cheesecake in favor of yesterday's butter thins, drawing from the cook the first scowl that Lion had noticed in days.

As he and Meagan walked out to the garden, slowly eating their dessert, he remarked, "Is it my imagination, or has Bramble's attitude actually softened toward me?"

"She hasn't said a cross word for days. In fact, I can't recall seeing her frown in our direction." Meagan's smile faded slightly. "I have an idea that she feels sorry for me... for us."

Lion looked up sharply, but Meagan had turned to cut a cluster of white wisteria from the trellis next to the back door. Dreamily, she smiled and buried her nose in the fragrant blossoms.

It was their custom these days to stroll in the small, neat garden at midday. Meagan kept ribboned shears to fasten at her waist so that she might assemble a bouquet for the dinner table. The narrow brick walkways passed miniature box-edged flowerbeds lined with bright tulips and daffodils. Meagan liked to relax on the tree-shaded bench; sometimes she and Lion would sit there for over an hour, totally unaware of the passage of time.

"My dear," he began with a wry smile, "I would take exception to your premonitions of impending doom—"

"But you are already due at Dr. Franklin's," she finished.

"True." He led her behind the great shade tree. "Also, I have no heart for quarreling with you."

His hands were on her back, warm through the pale lavender of her dress. They stood close together, quietly burning with unquenchable love. Meagan laid her cheek against the linen of his shirt until he tipped her chin up for a slow, stirring kiss.

"You should go," she whispered softly.

"I know."

But instead, Lion kissed her again and seemed far from eager to depart.

* * *

Except for the high voices of Franklin's playing grandchildren, all was peaceful in the rear yard. Lion leaned against a familiar mulberry tree, listening to the birds sing and the children shout. From time to time, a door would slam as the trio, who ranged within a birthday or two on either side of ten years of age, dashed out. Lion could almost time the appearance, moments later, of five-year-old Richard, squealing in outrage at having been left behind.

When, acquaintances, even friends, spoke in hushed tones of the Doctor's decline, they frequently mentioned Sally Bache's "undisciplined, irritating" children. Lion smiled as he thought of this, for he knew well enough that the youngsters' exuberance was Franklin's favorite tonic.

Sally Bache threw open a window and called to Lion to come in. Her father was awake. After much coaxing, she allowed Lion to take the tray of scones and tea that she had assembled, saving her at least one of her numerous daily treks up the stairs.