Fran Baker (9 page)

“Thank you,” she murmured, finding her voice at last. “It is . . . my lord . . . it’s the loveliest ring I’ve ever seen. Thank you!” She raised her vivid blue eyes, shimmering with pleasure, and a flame leapt into Stratford’s eyes in answer.

“No jewel could surpass your own loveliness, my beauty,” he said huskily. He leaned close and drew her into his arms.

She briefly saw the fiery passion in his face as he brought his lips warmly to hers. His kiss was ardently moist and Helen could not repress the shudder of fear that shook her slender frame.

Stratford instantly pulled back, frowning at her with such a dark scowl that Helen cried out, “I am—I am sorry, sir! I-ii-I was not expecting it!”

Some of the menace left his dark eyes, but the gelid gaze returned to them and Helen did not know which it was she dreaded the more.

“There is no need to apologize,” he said curtly.

Noting the creases marking either side of the viscount’s set mouth, Helen feared she had made him terribly angry. “But there is!” she protested in agitation. “I mean to be a . . . a dutiful wife, my lord.”

“Don’t you think, my dear, it’s time you called me by name?” he asked with a mocking curl of his lip.

“Please, my—Stratford—I did not mean to make you angry! I will not do so again, I promise,” she said, sounding like a contrite child.

Annoyance, impatience and resignation flitted in rapid succession across his lordship’s face. He finally responded flatly, “Do not be overmuch concerned, Helen. I’m all too often angry, usually without just reason. It is I who should beg pardon for having frightened you. Such was not my intention. And now, I believe it is time for me to take my leave of you.”

She put out a trembling hand to restrain him from rising and turned her face up. She closed he eyes and waited, her body rigid with tension. Her air of the martyr brought a fresh scowl as Stratford studied the long fringes of lashes dusting her delicate cheeks, the rosy lips that formed a heart of desire. He leaned forward. His lips grazed hers and he was standing.

“I’ll see you tonight, my love,” he said coolly, then left.

Having done what she could to help Mrs. Mosley in the kitchen, Rose now crossed the hallway on her way to her room. Wisps of brown locks peeped around the ruffled edge of her linen cap, and a light sprinkling of flour graced the front of her gown. Her cheek bore the imprint of her baking while upon the tip of her nose, a spot of white powder sat proudly.

She was about to turn up the stairs when she heard a door open and looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Baldwin coming out of the parlor. She smiled at him pleasantly and placed a foot upon the stair.

“One moment, Miss Lawrence,” he said, coming forward with a smile. He drew a large square of linen from his pocket. “You’ve been at work in the kitchen, I perceive.”

“What?” Her hand whisked to her cheek and returned lightly dusted with flour on the tips. “Oh,” she said, observing them, “I must look a frightful sight!”

“You look charming,” he countered, tilting her face up with his fingertips and dabbing gently at her cheek with his kerchief.

This agreeable scene was viewed with something less than enjoyment by Lord Stratford, who stood in the shadows of the hall watching them narrowly. Their apparent companionship further exacerbated his lordship’s already ruffled temper and when his cousin began so tenderly to attend to Miss Lawrence’s cheek, the viscount had reached his limit.

“Have you done, Baldwin?” he demanded crossly as he came forward.

Startled, Rose tried to pull from Daniel’s fingers, but he checked her by resolutely applying the linen to the tip of her nose. “In a moment, Colin,” he said, calmly removing the last of the flour from her face. Finally he stepped back. “There you are, Miss Ro—Miss Lawrence. All right and tidy.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. She was intensely aware of Stratford’s jaw, his eyes blazing beneath his drooping lids.

His lordship now strode to the door and, with a rueful smile at Rose, Baldwin joined him. All the way to Adderbury Inn, he was subjected to a series of the viscount’s animadversions to the impropriety of flirting with country spinsters who did not understand the rules of the game. Daniel wisely kept from responding, though he mentally raised his brows at his cousin’s vehement outpourings.

Rose had stood motionless until the door had fully closed. She then went down the narrow hall to the morning room from which Stratford had exited. Stepping through the doorway, she saw her sister standing staring out the window.

“Helen, what has occurred? The viscount—”

“Oh, la,” Helen broke in, sounding precisely like her cousin Amy, “is he not the most extravagant dear? Just look at the ring he has given me!” She spun from the window to exhibit her hand, continuing spiritedly, “Such generous manners and such address! He is forever saying the most flattering things. I vow and declare I am the most fortunate girl there ever was!”

Rose examined her sister’s face with a look of searching inquiry. “Lord Stratford did not look as if he’d been paying you flowery compliments, Helen. He wore a thunderous frown when I saw him.”

Remembering her cousin’s precept, Helen said blithely, “Oh, as a rich viscountess, I shan’t need to look for smiles from my
husband
.”

Her sister revealed none of her shocked dismay, but said quietly, “You need not go through with this. It’s not too late to cry off.”

“Do not be going into
that
again, I beg of you!” Helen returned, looking away from Rose’s steady gaze. “Indeed, you are becoming a regular Sour Peg, Rose, and you’d best take care not to become a positive nag!”

This airy speech had its effect. “Very well, Helen, I shan’t say another word on this subject, I promise you.”

Rose stared at her sister a moment more, then turned from the room.

Immediately, Helen threw herself onto the bare sofa to shed tears of self-pity. She felt alone, misunderstood, the magnanimity of her noble sacrifice unappreciated.

*****

Since the prospect of a bride frightened by his advances did not amuse him, Stratford returned to Appleton Cottage that evening determined to be patient, gentle and charming with Helen. His resolution was apparently rewarded for the young miss treated him to a display of artful coquetry to rival any seasoned lady about town. She greeted him with more animation than he had yet seen, twirling lightly in her soft pink gown to gaily introduce her sister Sarah and the curate to whom she had been happily wed these past six years.

Bowing to the young woman presented to him, Stratford instantly liked what he saw. Sarah Charville was dashingly pretty, though not, he thought, the equal of her younger sister. But she had a cheerful openness with a foundation of sense about her that he recognized and admired. He left her with one of his best smiles to greet her husband.

John Charville looked more like an overgrown schoolboy than a sober man of the cloth. His was a sunny countenance in a round face with juvenescent lines, but his gaze sized the viscount knowingly as they clasped hands. Though he had scandalized his valet by leaving him in London—Busick being convinced his lordship was incapable of dressing himself—Stratford had nonetheless managed to present a creditable appearance in his neat unostentatious evening dress. Charville approved the lack of ornamentation, later telling Sarah he had to own his lordship was no fop.

Stratford’s ready charm again captivated both of the Mrs. Lawrences as easily as it had the night before. Sarah, too, seemed taken with his lazy smile and gracious manners. If the viscount wondered at the absence of Miss Rose Lawrence, he did not remark upon it. Baldwin, however, was quietly asking Helen where her eldest sister might be when the lady in question made her entrance.

She wore her best gown for the occasion, a plain indigo kerseymere, the severity of which was softened by a touch of creamy lace at the collar and cuffs. Despite her careful tucking, soft brown tendrils escaped the confines of her laced cap to spill charmingly over her ears. Within the glow of the candlelight, she no longer looked like the plain spinster she professed to be.

In front of her stood a brightly pretty child with a mass of tumbling dark brown curls and a much smaller toddler wobbling on two short, stubby legs.

“I hope you will not mind,” Rose said with an apologetic smile, “but it did not seem quite fair to deny them a chance to meet our guests when Freddy and George have already done so.” She moved quickly forward, ignoring the disapproving glare from her sister-in-law, to present her niece and nephew to their visitors.

No other woman of the viscount’s acquaintance would have cared a button what the children thought fair, and Stratford looked warmly from Miss Anna Charville’s gray eyes to those of her aunt. He found Miss Lawrence regarding him with cool disapproval and redoubled his efforts to charm, swinging young Joseph Charville onto his knee. Though this action endeared him completely to Sarah, Rose remained distantly cool. She soon removed the children with barely a smile of appreciation for his lordship.

Throughout dinner there was no opportunity for the two to converse, Stratford having been placed to Susanna’s right where he soon fell victim to one of her ongoing monologues cataloguing her sufferings since the loss of her husband. He observed his cousin talking easily with Miss Lawrence at the far end of the table and was surprised at the annoyance he felt, but he put this down to the insufferable boredom of his own dinner partners.

Helen, in her attempts to please his lordship, called upon every flirtatious method she had ever seen her cousin Amelia employ, thereby quickly wearying him and distressing her sister Rose. Having long been the object of feminine wiles, Stratford began to wish the meal over midway through the second course. His air of impatience was noted by Rose and she fumed at his lordship’s obvious ennui. She had known how it would be when he met her family. But she had not suspected how much it would hurt her.

At last the interminable meal was finished. The ladies withdrew to the parlor and the gentlemen left to enjoy their port and snuff in peace. The port was quite passable and its effect was apparently soothing for even the viscount seemed restored to good humor when they rejoined the ladies.

Miss Lawrence was sitting in the far corner, her head bent over a small book. She did not look up as the men entered and was quite startled when she was addressed.

“And what fault do you find with my behavior this evening, Miss Lawrence?” Stratford inquired as he took a chair beside her.

Despite a sudden dryness in her mouth over this unexpected query, she managed a steady reply. “What possible fault could I find, my lord? You have been all that is charming and gracious.”

“Your eyes tell a different story. They are filled with disapproval each time they set upon me.”

“I do not disapprove of your actions tonight, my lord, whatever you think my eyes are saying.”

He studied her for a time, his lids half-closed. “Still,” he finally said, “you dislike me.”

“Of course I do not dislike you,” Rose said, glancing away in sudden confusion. His frankness disarmed her for it was not at all what she expected of the arrogant peer. When she was emboldened to look at the viscount once more, she found the cynical glaze returned to his gaze. She followed the direction of his cold stare and discovered he was looking directly at Helen. A spasm of anger shook her and she said in an undertone of disdain, “It is your intention toward my sister I dislike, my lord.”

The viscount focused that forbidding look upon her, the left of one heavy brow indicating his question.

“I dare say it is a lovely ring you’ve given my sister, Lord Stratford,” she said in a furious whisper, “but I do not believe it is sincere.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded with a quick frown.

“Only that neither you nor Helen will convince me that there is any love involved in this match. Doubtless, you have your reasons for wanting to marry my sister—”

“Oh, doubtless!”

“As she must have for accepting your offer. But there is nothing of the deeper feelings necessary for happiness together about either of you. To marry you would be the worst thing imaginable for Helen—”

“Thank you.”

“And for you! To continue with this marriage is a grave mistake for you both.”

“Thank you for the warning, Miss Lawrence,” Stratford said on a scathing note. “May I take leave to tell you that I stand in no need of your interference?”

“Of course you may, my lord, since it is obvious at any rate,” Rose responded tranquilly. Having vented her anger, she no longer wished to antagonize his lordship. Indeed, she felt quite sheepish for having spoken to him so bluntly. She held out her hand with a friendly smile. “I’m afraid my habits of speaking are as plain as my looks, but I truly meant no offense. Don’t let my disapproval of the match be taken as a sign of enmity. Let us remain friends, especially if we are soon to be relatives.”

The viscount had no choice but to take her outstretched hand. After a quick, firm shake, Miss Lawrence rose to join Mr. Baldwin and Esmond on the other side of the room. She had most certainly surprised his lordship, whose experience of disapproving relations had led him to expect a lengthy sermon to be rung over his head. As he moved toward his fiancée, he contemplated Miss Lawrence’s smile. It occurred to him that she was, perhaps, not so very plain after all.

Chapter 7

Appleton Cottage oppressed Rose. The notion of having to endure another day of Stratford’s company suffocated her. Helen had begged and Mama had virtually insisted that she be included in the picnic proposed for that afternoon. The stunning effect of the two shedding tears together over her willfulness had finally wrung from Rose a reluctant agreement to chaperone the excursion.

Following this trying scene, Rose helped Mrs. Mosley pack up a basket, then slipped quietly from the house. She felt the need of time to compose herself for the projected outing. She went purposefully for the stables and was soon perched happily in the loft playing with six little balls of fur nestled in the hay, naming each kitten and complimenting the mother on her excellent taste in babies.