Yankee Earl (19 page)

      
Before he could reconsider, Jason turned to Roger and said, “If you'll excuse me, I believe Miss Fairchild favors waltzes.”

      
“Eh? Ain't they playing a reel?” the squire bellowed to Roger.

      
Leaning close so his hard-of-hearing companion could understand him, Dalbert replied in a loud voice, “It don't matter what they play or
if
they play a'tall. My cousin's bewitched by his bride-to-be.”

      
Jason could hear them as he wended his way through the dancers. In fact, he was certain half the room could. Was he bewitched? The question had been bothering him ever since that interlude in the water. His dreams had been plagued by visions of Rachel wet and naked, returning his kisses with hesitant ardor. And there was little hesitance in her ardor the other night in her bedroom. That had been a near disaster. He was reluctantly grateful that she had possessed the good sense to stop it before they were both ensnared in the marquess' trap.

      
Yes, he desired her. But that hardly meant he was besotted with the wench! He pushed the disturbing images aside, reassuring himself that if Roger and the others believed he and Rachel were smitten, it would help convince her father and the marquess that it was so. And that was the ultimate goal. Was it not?

      
When he reached her side, the older man she had been conversing with excused himself with a self-conscious grin, leaving the two young people to themselves. “I told Cousin Roger you loved to waltz.”

      
“But they aren't playing a waltz,” she replied.

      
“So said Squire Abingdon,” he said with a grin. “But they will sooner or later. In the meanwhile…” He extended his hand to her.

      
Rachel did not want to take it, really she did not. Or so she kept telling herself. Every touch had become torture…but such sweet torture that she could not resist. And, after all, they had to convince the marquess of their acquiescence. That was the ultimate goal. Was it not?

      
As they walked to the edge of the dance floor, waiting their turn to join in the next set of the reel, he murmured in her ear, “The emeralds match your eyes.”

      
Rachel blinked. “Have you gone muzzy-brained, m'lord? My eyes are hazel brown, not green.” His breath so close to her cheek sent a tiny shiver down her spine.

      
“Tonight they are as green as this,” he said, brushing his fingertips past the teardrop-cut stone dangling from her earlobe. “The jewelry complements you.”

      
“It has been in the Fairchild family for generations. Part of my dowry. Would you marry me for a pile of emeralds, m'lord?” She was flirting! What on earth had come over her? What would he think?

      
Jason grinned at her as they swung into the dance. “Perhaps. You know I was a privateer. I've a weakness for booty…and beauty.”

      
“Flummery,” she replied, caught off guard by his response. He was flirting back! But that was the plan, she reminded herself, looking over to where the old marquess watched them with gleaming slate-colored eyes. Her father had gone into the card room for a game of whist, leaving his crafty co-conspirator behind to observe. Cargrave looked very well pleased.

      
They finished the set, flushed and breathless from swift-moving exertion in the hot, stuffy room. French windows on two sides of the huge ballroom were opened to let in the cooling night breezes; but with the press of people, the fresh air did little but cause the candles on the chandeliers overhead to flicker. Rachel could feel her heart racing as a tiny bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts. Was Jason as affected by this dangerous game they were playing as she?

      
“I do believe I saw Grandfather's foot tapping in time to the music,” he said to her.

      
For Rachel it was like a dousing with cold water. Of course. The plan. Jason was only playing at being a suitor for Cargrave's benefit. She had to keep reminding herself of that fact. “I noted it, too,” she replied coolly, grateful that she had not yet had to endure the intimacy of waltzing with Jason. But before the evening was over she would have to do so. “Tis a bit warm. Let's go out into the garden,” she suggested as the orchestra prepared to resume playing.

      
He nodded, offering her his arm. Together they strolled out onto a flagstone patio lit by torches. Scattered in the dim light, small clusters of people laughed and talked while servants bustled about delivering cooling liquid libations to them. Here and there in the shadows, couples lingered, whispering and stealing kisses when they thought no one was looking.

      
The fresh air was a blessed relief, even if it was heavy with mist from the nearby river. Rachel could feel her hair beginning to curl from the dampness and reached up to smooth it, but Jason surprised her as his own fingers brushed back a tendril from her cheek.

      
“Let it curl. I've wanted to touch it ever since you emerged from the coach,” he said in a husky voice. His hand remained at her throat, barely touching the pulse point beneath her ear.

      
The tiny caress robbed her of breath, but she fought the weakness. “You need not play the swain with quite so much ardor, m'lord. Cargrave is no longer watching.”

      
“Who says I must act only to please him, hmmm? Can I not please myself? And you?”

      
“You do not please me, Jason.”

      
He tsked at her. Then as a servant passed by, he motioned the man over. “Please bring the lady a sherry, and I shall have rum punch.” Turning back to Rachel, he asked, “Are you quite certain that I do not please you?”

      
“As certain as I am of your enormous hubris,” she replied tartly.

      
He threw back his head and laughed, letting the tension between them ease. She was right to put a period to their dangerous games, no matter that she enjoyed them as much as he. They bantered for a few moments, discussing Drum's thus far unsuccessful attempts to learn who might be attempting to kill Jason. Then a different servant returned with the drinks Jason had requested.

      
He took a deep swallow and grimaced. “Odd flavor. Whoever mixed it would be better employed stirring sheep dip.”

      
“Great evening, ain't it though?” Roger Dalbert asked as he and his wife strolled toward them. “Oh, you remember m'wife, Garnet?”

      
She was tricked out like a Bartholomew baby once again, this time in a ghastly shade of purple, trimmed with scarlet lace. “Ah, yes, we met at your betrothal ball,” Mrs. Dalbert said, curtsying to the earl and his future countess.

      
Roger harrumphed, red-faced as he recalled the way the ball had ended. “Raised a bit of a breeze that night, eh, what?” he said, grinning sheepishly at Jason.

      
Jason laughed and winked at Rachel. “We've been rubbing on together quite a bit better here of late, haven't we, pet?”

      
The double entendre brought a hint of color to her face. Rallying, she replied, “Ah, but,
pet
—she paused to emphasize the word—‘twas you who did all the rubbing.”

      
Garnet dabbed at her damp forehead with a scarlet handkerchief. “Tis awfully warm tonight,” she said, raising her wineglass.

      
Rachel murmured at the same time to Roger, “Poor fellow rubbed muzzles with one of my mastiffs and caught a frightful case of poison oak. One must be careful where one bestows kisses.”

      
Roger let out a great bark of laughter, then slapped Jason heartily on the back, causing him to spill the remainder of his drink. “Terribly sorry, old chap. Cow-handed in the extreme. Didn't get yer gown, did it, m'dear?” he asked Garnet, who stood nearest to Jason.

      
“No harm, dearie,” she said, masking her vexation as she brushed away a few spots from the purple horror she was wearing.

      
“As long as Mistress Dalbert's gown isn't ruined, there's no loss with the drink. Worst rum punch I ever tasted,” Jason replied to his cousin. Poor old Roger had always been a clunch of the first water. Signaling a servant bearing a tray laden with glasses of champagne, Jason set their empties on the tray, took two crystal flutes and offered them to the ladies. Then he took two more for his cousin and himself.

      
Responding, Roger raised his glass in a toast. “Here's wishing you a felicitous union such as we have.” He patted Garnet's shoulder fondly, and she smiled at him.

      
Jason leaned close to Rachel and chimed his glass against hers. "This time you might drink it."

      
She peered at him over the rim of the flute. “Easy, my
pet
. This time I might spit it.”

      
Roger and Garnet did not know exactly how to take the exchange, but guffawed nervously when Jason roared with laughter. “You would, wouldn't you?”

      
“Is that a rhetorical question?” she shot back, holding the glass to her lips.

      
“What, pray, is so amusing, you young scamp?” Cargrave asked, strolling onto the terrace to check on them.

      
Jason turned to his grandfather, but before he could reply he felt a sudden surge of dizziness. Everything around him began to spin. He could not breathe, and his heart was pounding in his chest as if he had just run miles on a hot Maryland afternoon.

      
“What's wrong, Jason?” Rachel asked, stepping to his side to help the marquess hold him up. His face was as red as Garnet's handkerchief, and his knees were starting to buckle.

      
“I say, old man, you don't look quite the thing,” Roger said with alarm in his voice.

      
“I—I may have seen these symptoms before,” Garnet interjected, staring at Jason's flushed face. “Does the young lord have a weak heart? Does he take medicine—”

      
The marquess interrupted. “Preposterous! The lad's as healthy as a young bull.”

      
Undeterred, the dowdy little woman reached toward Jason, but his grandfather attempted to seize her wrist. She slapped away the old man's hand and placed her fingertips on Jason's throat, then placed her hand flat against his chest. She turned to Rachel, taking her hand and pressing it to Jason's chest. Rachel's eyes widened. “Mother of God! His heart is hammering so fast it will tear his chest asunder!”

      
Garnet nodded. “You're right about that, dearie. We must sit him down someplace quiet.”

      
By this time a crowd had begun to gather. The marquess bellowed at two footmen, “Get over here and carry him indoors at once!” Turning to the gawking spectators, he physically shoved the elegant assemblage back. “Clear the way here, quickly.”

      
As the servants carried Jason's unconscious body into the house, Rachel seized hold of a squire who lived nearby and said, “Send for the nearest physician. Your fastest horse and rider, please!”

      
Then Rachel picked up her skirt and dashed after Garnet, who was following Cargrave and the footmen carrying Jason. “What did you mean about recognizing the symptoms?”

      
“My father, dearie. He had a bad heart, took foxglove for it, but once he overdosed himself. A terrible mistake. Speeds up the heartbeat like mad.”

      
“But how could Jason have gotten hold of foxglove?” The instant she asked the question, Rachel gasped. “He's been poisoned!”

      
“Poisoned!” Garnet echoed in horror. “Good heavens, here? Who would—”

      
“Tis no matter now—all that is important is Jason. What can we do to save him?”

      
Garnet patted Rachel's arm and replied, “Never fear, dearie. Your betrothed is young and strong, not like my elderly father. If 'tis foxglove, there are ways to deal with it. Come along,” she said calmly as the duchess directed her servants to take Jason into a sitting room just off the ballroom.

      
Garnet took charge without anyone giving her leave to do so. Her no-nonsense practicality seemed to reassure everyone, even the imperious old marquess. “First of all, keep him sitting upright. There's a good chair—that one with the footstool. Place his feet upon it, just so,” she said, herself raising his legs and positioning them.

      
Rachel and Cargrave stood to the side, both frankly terrified by Jason's flushed face and gasping breath. At Garnet's command, Rachel loosened his stock and helped a footman remove his jacket and shirt studs. His face was still beet red, and he had begun to perspire fiercely.

      
“We must get him cool,” Garnet said. “Send for some of that ice on the buffet table, a large block of it. Bring a pick to chisel it into smaller pieces, and some linens to hold it. Also, I shall require a sharp knife and several large bowls.”