Authors: Susan Carroll
Thus composed, she prepared to call out and alert the host
to his mistake: that this parlor was already occupied.
Before she could do so, she heard the man who had been
addressed as Lord Ravenel say, "Refreshments will not be necessary. I only
require the use of this room for but a few moments."
Gwenda heard Mr. Leatherbury's puzzled "Oh," then
could imagine his shrug as he added, "Very good, my lord." He bustled
out again, doubtless relieved to be able to attend to his more demanding
guests.
As the door clicked shut, Gwenda realized she had been left
alone with the stranger. She regarded with little relish the prospect of
limping out half-shod to announce her presence. But she was consumed with
curiosity as well. Why on earth would someone desire the use of a private parlor
for only a few moments? Before revealing herself, she cautiously risked a peek
at Lord Ravenel, who stood just inside the door, briskly stripping off his
gloves like a man marshaling himself for some grim and difficult task.
He certainly had to be one of the largest gentlemen she had
ever seen, and all of him solid muscle, she would have wagered. From the heels
of his gleaming Hessians to the crown of his glossy ebony hair, he stood well
over six feet. A navy-blue frock coat molded perfectly a most unyielding set of
broad shoulders. The cut of his immaculate cream-colored breeches and waistcoat
were plain, with nothing of the dandy about him; his neck was half strangled in
a stiff collar and a cravat tied with mathematical precision. But the starched neckcloth
appeared no more rigid than the cast of Ravenel's countenance. His features
were rough hewn, from the square cut of his jaw to the harsh planes of his
cheeks. Forbidding black eyebrows shadowed eyes as dark as the thick lashes
framing them.
Not in the least shy or timid, Gwenda yet felt reluctant to
point out to this formidable-looking man that the parlor was already occupied.
Her hesitation proved costly. The next she knew, the door opened a second time.
Her situation became more awkward when a waiter stood back to allow a lady to
enter. Gwenda judged the lady to be not much older than herself, but far more
elegantly gowned in corn-yellow satin, her fair ringlets wisping from beneath a
poke bonnet. The waiter discreetly retired as the beautiful young lady regarded
Ravenel through violet eyes gone wide with surprise.
"Lord Ravenel," she protested. "There was no
need for you to bespeak a private parlor. We are all going to dine outside. The
landlord has some tables arranged for our party beneath the trees. It will all
be most charm—"
"I know that, Miss Carruthers," Ravenel said,
sweeping her objections aside with a brusque motion of his hand. "But I
wanted the favor of a few moments alone with you before we part."
Just the right amount of blush filtered into Miss
Carruthers's cheeks to highlight her eyes. "That sounds most improper, my
lord," she said, dimpling with a tiny smile. "Perhaps I had best
summon my aunt."
No more improper than her own position, Gwenda thought,
mentally cursing the folly that had caused her to delay in speaking up. It
would be dreadfully embarrassing for her to pop out now, but she had no desire
to witness whatever sort of tryst was about to take place. And yet Ravenel's
dark eyes looked more impatient than amorous. Gwenda crouched farther back on
the settle, hoping that the lady might persuade him to leave, but his lordship
did not appear to be a persuadable sort of man.
"Of course I intend no impropriety," Ravenel said.
"And your aunt would be very much in the way. Now sit down. Please."
Even when Ravenel added "please," it still sounded
like a command. Gwenda heard the scrape of a chair and then a rustling of silk,
which told her that Miss Carruthers had complied.
"Oh, blast!" Gwenda whispered to herself. Now what
was she going to do?
Miss Carruthers said, "Surely, Lord Ravenel, whatever
you have to say to me could wait until we meet again in Brighton."
"No, it cannot. I feel I have waited too long
already."
Miss Carruthers's heavy sigh carried clearly to Gwenda's
ears. Squirming at the plight in which she found herself, Gwenda eyed the open
window through which Spotted Bert had vanished and wondered what her chances
were of clambering through it unnoticed. But after risking another peek around
the settle, she quickly abandoned any such notion. Miss Carruthers's chair was
drawn up in the far corner of the room, closest to the door. Although Ravenel
loomed over her, he did not look at the young lady. Rather, he seemed to be
staring out the window, an absent expression in his eyes as he mustered his
thoughts. Despite the discomforts of her situation, Gwenda could not help being
caught up by the picture that two of them made, somewhat like the hero and
heroine of her latest novel—Miss Carruthers, so angelically fair; Ravenel, so dangerously
dark. Except that the backdrop was all wrong. Gwenda would have opted for walls
of stone with rich Italian tapestries and velvet curtains of royal purple
fringed in gold. Miss Carruthers's blond hair should have cascaded down her
back instead of being arranged a la Sappho, and Gwenda would have rounded her
eyes, gotten rid of that catlike slant. As for Ravenel, he would appear to
better advantage in a crimson doublet, with a sword buckled at his waist His
hair should have flowed back from his brow in midnight waves rather than been
cropped into the severe Brutus cut so popular among the gentlemen.
Linking his hands behind his back, Ravenel drew himself up
to his full height. Gwenda thought her mama would greatly have approved of his
lordship's posture. The man looked as though he had been born with a ramrod
affixed to his spine. He said abruptly, "I see no reason to waste any more
time, Miss Carruthers. I have your father's permission to address you, and I am
sure you have been expecting me to do so."
Good heavens! Gwenda could scarcely credit her ears. The man
could not possibly intend to deliver a proposal of marriage, not here at an
inn.
But her own dismay was nothing compared to Miss
Carruthers's. Dropping her manner of placid gentility, she half started from
the chair, irritation and alarm chasing across her delicate features. "Oh
no. I—I wasn't expecting—Please, Lord Ravenel. Desmond,it is yet too
soon."
Desmond? Gwenda stifled the desire to shriek. She was not so
unreasonable as to expect to find men named Roderigo or Antonio outside the
pages of her books, but Desmond! How could his parents have been so utterly
unfeeling?
" It is not too soon," Ravenel snapped. "I
have received enough encouragement from you, Belinda, that I think I may make
bold to speak what is in my mind."
In his mind? What about his heart? Gwenda thought. She
realized she had been staring so long that, despite her concealment, she
marveled that they did not feel her eyes upon them. Both Ravenel and Miss
Carruthers were so caught up in their own drama that neither seemed to suspect
that they were not alone.
All the same, Gwenda drew farther behind the settle.
Resigning herself to the fact that she was now cornered until the end of this
painful little scene, she eased into a more comfortable position as Ravenel
launched into his proposal. He had a magnificent voice, deep and full-timbred.
But his delivery—Gwenda winced. He might have been addressing a meeting of
Parliament. She could almost picture his rigid stance, one hand resting upon
the lapel of his jacket. He detailed quite logically and clearly for Miss
Belinda Carruthers all of the advantages of becoming Lady Ravenel. These seemed
to consist chiefly of estates in Leicestershire, a house in town, and an income
of twenty thousand pounds a year. He was also prepared to generously overlook
Miss Carruthers's own lack of fortune.
Gwenda shifted on the settle, having to bite her tongue to
overcome the urge to interfere. Ravenel was doing it all wrong. Not that she was
insistent that a man go down upon one knee. But at least he ought to clasp Miss
Carruthers's hands between his own and forget all this rubbish about estates.
"In conclusion," his lordship said, "I
believe our similarities of tastes and interests make for the likelihood of us
achieving a most comfortable marriage."
Gwenda smothered a groan against her hand.
Ravenel added, almost as an afterthought, " It is only
for you, madam, to name the day that will make me the happiest of men."
A pause ensued at the end of his speech, which drew out to
such lengths that Gwenda could not forbear sneaking another look even if it
meant risking detection. Miss Carruthers appeared tormented with indecision,
her pretty face not so much flustered as gone hard with calculation. The only
thing Gwenda could liken the woman's expression to was when she saw her brother
Jack contemplating some desperate gamble.
"No!" Miss Carruthers finally blurted out.
"I¬I mean yes, I cannot " She flounced to her feet. "I mean I am
deeply sensible of the honor you do me."
Not half as sensible of it as he was, Gwenda thought wryly
as she noted Ravenel's brow furrowing with the weight of a heavy frown. Then
she realized her interest in the situation was causing her to lean too far
forward and pulled herself back.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "But am I to
understand that you are refusing my offer?"
"No!" Belinda cried. "What I truly feel is
that I cannot marry you, not—not at this time."
"My dear Belinda," he began again, but his growing
irritation robbed the endearment of any effect. "Do you wish to marry me
or not? A simple yes or no will suffice."
What a passionate attempt at persuasion that was, Gwenda
thought, rolling her eyes. How could Miss Carruthers possibly resist!
"If you would only wait until I come to Brighton,"
Belinda faltered. "Just give me a little more time "
"A little more time in Lord Smardon's company?"
Ravenel said. "I am not a complete fool, Belinda. I am fully aware that
the friend you intend to visit on the way to Brighton is the Earl of Smardon.
You are hoping to marry him, are you not? That is why you will not return a
round answer to my proposal?'
"Oh, no. I don't mean to marry anyone." Belinda's
voice dropped so low, Gwenda had to strain very hard in order to hear her.
"There is another reason for my reluctance. You see, I was once engaged to
a young officer, Colonel Adams of the Tenth Cavalry. He—he died fighting in
Spain. I fear I have not quite gotten over my Percival's death."
"Once engaged'?" Ravenel echoed. "You never mentioned
anything of the kind before."
With good reason, Gwenda thought cynically. There was a note
of insincerity in Belinda's voice that made the whole thing sound like a hum.
"I hope I am not the sort of lady who goes about
wearing her heart on her sleeve." Belinda's voice broke.
When Gwenda next peeked at the couple, she saw that
Belinda's eyelashes batted, fighting back the tears that made her eyes sparkle
like jewels. Appearing uncomfortable, Ravenel dredged up a linen handkerchief,
which he thrust at her. Gwenda wondered why the young lady's distress roused no
sympathy in her. Rather, she felt as though she had stumbled into the second
act of a very bad melodrama.
"Thank you, Lord Ravenel," Belinda said, dabbing
at her eyes with the linen. She gave a brave little sniff. "I am sure you
understand now why I wish you to give me more time."
"But—" Ravenel began.
"Pray don't distress me by saying more just now. I will
give you my answer in Brighton." Miss Carruthers managed to skirt past
him. She bolted through the parlor door, fairly closing it in his face when he
tried to follow.
Gwenda waited tensely for Ravenel's reaction. He did not
look like the sort to slap his forehead or tear his hair and lament. For a
moment he stared at the closed door, looking rather nonplussed. Then he
scowled, his eyes seeming to grow darker until Gwenda thought even the most
black-hearted villain she had ever created would have thought twice about
trifling with his lordship in his present mood. She half expected he would swear
and drive his fist against the door panel.
But although his jaw set in a hard, angry line, Ravenel
merely snatched up his gloves and put them on again with sharp, savage tugs.
Gwenda held her breath for fear he might yet take a notion to walk farther into
the parlor. When he reached for the door handle, she had to smother a sigh of
relief. She sank back, congratulating herself on escaping undetected, when she
heard a sharp bark. The next instant Bert jumped back through the window, his
muddied paws skidding on the wooden floor.
With an inward groan, Gwenda flattened herself against the
settle as Bert galloped over to where she sat. She shooed the dog frantically
with her hand, hissing, "Go away, Bertie." But Spotted Bert was
entirely impervious to such hints. He barked and wagged his tail as though he
had not seen her for a twelvemonth, then assaulted her hand with rough,
affectionate licks.
"What the deuce!" Gwenda heard Ravenel exclaim.
With a sinking heart, she listened to sound of his boots striding across the
room. She had not a chance to move so much as a muscle before his lordship was
bending over the settle and peering directly into her face.
"Hullo," she said with forced brightness as she
struggled to fend off Bert.
Never had she seen a man look more thunderstruck. Ravenel's
expression was exactly what she had been trying to achieve in her last book for
Count Armatello when he saw the ghost of his murdered sister rise up before
him.
Ravenel's astonishment quickly evaporated, his face
suffusing with a dull, angry red. Gwenda could see the storm brewing in those
brilliant black eyes and hastily sought for words of explanation and apology,
but before she could say another word, Bert began sniffing at Ravenel's sleeve.