Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (16 page)

She was now faced with the last decisions—her Christmas baking and her elderberry wine. There was absolutely no reason to keep them, and they would be appreciated by some of the village people who were even more impoverished than she had been. On the other hand...

Rosie came in, Magpie in her arms. "Why are you scowling at the pudding, Mama?"

"I'm just wondering to whom we should give it, dear."

"Give away our pudding?" protested Rosie. Magpie hissed when he was squeezed too tightly.

"There's no point in taking it to Temple Knollis. I'm sure the cook there has baked dozens, all much better than this."

"But this is
ours!"
Rosie cried. "We stirred it. I made my wish! It's got a silver sixpence in it!" She burst into tears. Magpie slithered out of danger and ran away. Bastian came running.

"Mama wants to give away our Christmas pudding!" Rosie wailed.

Bastian didn't cry, but his eyes showed his hurt.

Judith knew when she was defeated. "No, no," she said. "We'll take it with us. And the cake. And the mincemeat."

The children cheered, and Judith found herself grinning. She, too, had longed to keep these things. They might be nothing at Temple Knollis, but they had been made with love, and paid for with sacrifices. If necessary they would have a secret Christmas feast in some corner of the great house.

"You have to take the wine, too," said Bastian. "You always have wine with Christmas dinner, and you said this year I could have a little."

Judith looked dubiously at the ten bottles of this year's vintage, and the one, opened, bottle of last. "Lord Charrington will have many wines, Bastian."

"But they won't be the same."

She gave in again, hoping the coach would hold all this.

"And what about the Christmas ribbons, Mama?" Bastian asked. "And the Chinese lantern."

All their little Christmas treasures. Judith swallowed. "They are gone, dearests. They really were falling apart, and we'll find new ones." Before they could protest, she hurried on, "We are starting a new life, and must accept that many things will be different. Perhaps Lord Charrington will have Christmas treasures of his own." She rather doubted it, which made her sad. He would have, in the future.

"When we arrive at Temple Knollis," she said firmly, "we will spend time making new decorations. As it is such a large house, I'm sure there will be lots to be done."

They weren't happy, but they accepted it. Judith sent them off to the Dog and Partridge to ask Mr. Hopgood how best to pack eleven bottles of wine.

Later, they were engaged to take tea at Hartwell, and Beth drove over in the carriage to collect them. Judith was very tempted to put on one of her new gowns, but she stuck to her resolution. She would change her dress when she changed her name.

She found she liked Beth Arden very much and desperately wished she could talk to her, but she couldn't see how to raise the subjects that concerned her. She herself was not sure which fretted at her most—the raising of boys, or different approaches to the marriage act.

As they alighted and the children ran ahead, Beth touched her hand. "You look very worried."

Judith pulled herself together. "Just nerves. Any marriage is nerve-racking, I suppose. This more than most."

"I think it will work out very well. You are both quite levelheaded people, not given to extremes."

Judith swallowed. "I suppose so." But she wondered if it wasn't just their backgrounds—his diplomatic training, and her years under Sebastian's control—which were keeping a lid on things. She sometimes felt the potential for extremes boiling up.

They were in the house and taking off their cloaks and bonnets. Beth said, "It would be a kindness to him, you know, if you would put off your mourning."

"I suppose so, but it seems symbolic to keep to my blacks until my wedding day." Beth didn't seem overly impressed by this explanation and so Judith added, "And of course the new gowns are so beautiful, and impractical, that I can't bear to wear them for work around the house. And though Leander wants me to be a lady of leisure, he doesn't realize how much there is to do in vacating a home, packing possessions, and preparing for a journey."

Beth laughed. "That is true, and not so long ago I would have felt much the same. It took me an age to grow accustomed to being casual with expensive things. My hands would tremble just to be handling some of the china. And we couldn't explain it to them. They've been surrounded by riches all their lives."

"Was your life really that simple before your marriage?"

"Oh, yes. Did you not know? I was a very ordinary teacher in a girls' school in Cheltenham."

"You make a wonderful marchioness."

"Do I? In the thick of London Society, I still feel like an impostor."

Feeling more at ease than ever before, they linked arms and went to join the gentlemen. Judith hugged to herself the fact that Beth Arden had transformed herself. She could do it, too.

They all ate together, but toward the end of the meal the children became restless, and so Judith gave them permission to play in the garden. "Bastian," she said, "you are to keep an eye on Rosie. And don't go near the horses without an adult."

When the children had left, Leander queried, "Not even
near
them, my dear? Do you think they'll be eaten?"

Judith felt foolish, and annoyed to be taken to task before others. "Horses have been known to bite."

"Not these. Lucien's are impeccably well-bred, just like him." He turned to his friend. "Aren't they?"

But the marquess said, "Don't bring me into it."

Beth diplomatically rose. "We are going to have tea in the garden room. Come when you've settled the issue."

As she and Judith left, Lucien laughed. "Trust Beth to make it look as if it's we men who are quarreling."

"Instead of me and my sweet bride." Leander gazed at the door through which the ladies had exited. "She's dangerously overprotective."

"She's had to care for the children alone," said Lucien. "She seems to be a very sensible woman. I'm sure she'll come around, especially when there are tutors and governesses to share the burden. For heaven's sake, I rarely saw my parents except at set hours, and I'm sure you were the same."

"That was certainly true of my father. I suspect that pattern won't please Judith, though. To tell the truth, I'm not sure it would please me either. I've grown to like having the creatures underfoot. What about you when you have children?"

As they rose from the table and headed for the garden room, Lucien considered. "I think I'll try to have more to do with them than my father. It could be, though, that I'm taking Nicholas as my example. Have you met his daughter, Arabel?"

"No. I've not seen Nicholas. He seems fixed in Somerset. I was going to visit when I finally get down to the West Country. But surely the child is not yet one. How does one 'meet' a baby?"

Lucien grinned. "In this case, one just does. She's a living advertisement for the infantry, and definitely one to be enjoyed to the full. Beth warns that not all children are such delights, but I'm determined that anything Nicholas can do, we can do, too."

"Somewhat rash," murmured Leander as they joined the ladies.

Judith found being with the Ardens intriguing. The conversation was always lively and amusing. Often the discussion became intellectual and political, but Judith was never entirely left out, for someone would explain or redirect.

Lucien and Beth had minds like twin blades—meeting, but often in sharp opposition. She was surprised to see that such disagreements didn't cause offense.

They were surprisingly well-read—Beth for a woman, and Lucien for a social creature—and often cited erudite support for their arguments. At one point Lucien leapt up to go and look for a book, bringing it back to triumphantly make his point. In Greek.

Leander briefly entered that discussion to question the translation, but he preferred anecdote to debate, and Judith was glad of it. She had no desire to live in a never-ending debating society. His anecdotes were invariably amusing, but often a little risqué.

At one point he broke into verse.
"The Grand Duke's been known/ When his passion's full blown,/To seek solace in any spare corner...
"He looked at Judith and broke off. "Ah, I promised no poetry, didn't I? Let me continue in prose."

His story about the state in which a certain grand duke and duchess had been found during a ball in St. Petersburg made her blush, as much at the hints it might give to their future as at the naughtiness of the tale. He must have noticed for he laughed and suggested a stroll in the gardens.

By the time Judith and Beth had put on their cloaks and bonnets the gentlemen, more hardy—or better clothed in their wool jackets—were already outside and strolling down toward the river. Judith wanted to ask Beth whether she ever had, or had even considered, doing such things behind an arras at a public affair, but didn't dare.

She decided she had best make it clear to Leander at the earliest opportunity that she would never agree to such a thing.

They walked along a laburnum path toward the river. Suddenly they heard raised voices. A tearstained Rosie hurtled toward them, and flung herself, wailing, at Judith.

She knelt to hold her. "What is it, love?"

"Bastian!" cried the girl, and a hundred horrible prospects flashed through Judith's mind. "He went to look at the horses, and Papa Leander's ever so cross, and Bastian's run away, and Papa Leander's shouting at him... I'm
scared!"She
broke into heartbreaking sobs.

Judith felt her heart break, too. The bubble had finally burst. She stood up, and pushed Rosie into Beth's arms. "Look after her."

"Judith..." said Beth. But Judith was already off at a run down the path toward the river.

She saw no sign of Lucien, but she could hear Leander shouting in the distance. He sounded furious. She picked up her skirts, and raced over the meadow toward the orchard.

She came upon Leander in the orchard, hands on hips. "Bastian," he was saying crisply to the air. "I do not expect to have to search you out. Come and face the music."

Everything was still. Poor Bastian must be terrified. Perhaps Leander had already hit him. And just because he wanted to look at the horses.

Judith marched forward, fighting tears, and pulled off the diamond. She arrived in front of Leander and held out the ring. "Take this, if you please. Our engagement is at an end."

He eyes flashed a dangerous yellow. "What the devil's the matter with you now?"

"How
dare
you swear at me!"

"You're enough to drive a saint to imprecation, believe me. Are you seriously objecting to me taking Bastian to task?"

"I'm objecting to you terrifying him!"

"I've done nothing to terrify him, though perhaps I ought to. Do you know what he did?"

"Yes! It was hardly a cardinal sin!"

"Oh, wasn't it? And I thought you were the protective mother. If I had the right, I probably would whip him, but that would bruise your tender sensibilities, wouldn't it?"

Judith pushed the ring into his clenched fist and turned away, throat aching. "Bastian, come here, my dear," she called out. "It's safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"I don't believe this," muttered Leander.

Not a leaf stirred.

Judith pressed her hands to her face. "Oh God, where could he be?"

"Doubtless he's sneaked off home."

Judith turned on him with an annihilating look. "You, sir, have a heart of stone!" She ran off to collect her daughter.

Leander leant against a tree and contemplated the ring in his palm. He really should feel that he'd had a lucky escape from Bedlam.

But he didn't.

Chapter 8

Judith retrieved Rosie and grimly accepted the offer of the Arden carriage to take her home. It was as much the Ardens' fault as hers that she had become entangled in this disaster. She found tears streaming down her face and angrily scrubbed them away. She hugged Rosie. It was not a loss. It was a lucky escape.