Lois Menzel (14 page)

“Do you plan to undress here in front of me?” he challenged.

“You need not stay,” she fired back. “And don’t look so shocked. Tell me that you have never been in a lady’s boudoir. I know it is the custom in London for men to be present while a lady is still in her underdress. Pretend that is what is happening here.”

Finally free of the hooks, she stripped the gown from her shoulders and stepped out of it, then reached for her riding habit, which was lying on Celia’s bed. She had pulled it on and buttoned several buttons before he stepped up to her and took her none too gently by the shoulders.

“You are acting quite mad, you know,” he said. “What is it? Is it that Tony is so obviously in love? Must you admit at last that you cannot have him?”

Then, before he could stop her, she pulled her right arm free from his grasp and slapped him across the face with her open palm. “How dare you?” she raged. “How dare you say such things? You don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Oh, but I do. I know
exactly
how it feels to care for someone who is in love with someone else.”

And then without permission or warning, he pulled her close and kissed her full upon the mouth, silencing whatever she would have said next.

For one fleeting moment the old daydream flashed through her mind: John realizing he loved her; John sealing that love with a kiss. His touch was so much more than she had ever imagined—full of fire, demanding, possessive.

Then as he crushed her body against his and the kiss deepened, she came to her senses. This was not the fulfillment of a girlhood dream. This was John Hardy, practiced flirt and seducer. This was no kiss of love; this was a kiss of desire. She pushed him away, and when she looked up into his face she saw that she had hurt him, for his cheek was bright red where she had slapped it. “Don’t trifle with me, John. I am not one of your flirts. I cannot be what you want me to be.”

She snatched up her cloak and pushed past him without another word. Making her way through the corridors toward the back of the house, she hurried down a secondary stair to the kitchens. She had gone all the way to the stables before she realized that she had come away in her flimsy dancing slippers and left her riding boots behind. She ordered her horse saddled anyway and ignored the groom’s astonished face when he took her foot in his hand to put her up. Then she turned her horse into the shadowy lane and allowed him to pick his way home through the darkness.

Shortly before one o’clock, Celia noticed Ursula’s absence. When she asked if anyone knew where she was, Emily said she had seen her go upstairs earlier after leaving Mr. Hardy in the middle of a dance. Thinking Ursula might be ill, Celia excused herself and hurried upstairs. In her room she found Ursula’s dress on the floor, but no sign of Ursula.

When she returned to the party, Tony asked, “Did you find her?”

“No. I think she may have gone home.”

“John is gone, too. I have not seen him since before supper.”

“Do you think they could be together?”

“Possibly. If she went home, perhaps he escorted her.”

“She would be safe with him, Tony, would she not?” When he looked puzzled at her question, she went on. “What I mean is . . . he would not do anything . . . improper . . . or inappropriate?”

He frowned as if he considered the question ridiculous. “No. He would not. He is a gentleman, first and last.”

While Celia and Anthony were having this conversation, John Hardy was in his room, lying on top of his bed fully clothed with his hands folded behind his head, staring at the shadows cast by his fire upon the ceiling. In her room at the rectory, Ursula was also in bed, sobbing quietly into her pillows.

It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when Celia finally went to sleep. She was worried by Ursula’s sudden and unexplained departure, especially when she saw the riding boots that had been left behind. The same day before noon, she walked to the rectory to speak with Ursula herself. When she arrived there, Mrs. Browne told her that Ursula had gone riding, and she had no idea when she might return.

Disappointed, Celia left a note for her friend, telling her that she had called and that she needed to speak with her. When she arrived back at the Priory, she encountered Leech in the great hall. “Have you seen Mr. Graydon, Leech?”

“He is shooting, miss, with the other gentlemen.”

“Of course, they have gone. The weather is good.” It had rained almost continuously for the three days preceding the party, keeping the men at home. She should have guessed that they would be anxious to be gone now that the skies had cleared. “Is Lord Wexford downstairs?”

“He is in the salon, miss.”

Knowing that none of the other ladies would be down for some time yet, Celia went to the morning room to collect her knitting, and then crossed to the salon. She had slept through her regularly appointed time with Wexford; perhaps there was something she could do for him now.

When she came into the room, he was sitting in an armchair near the fire with his head leaning back and his eyes closed. Thinking he was asleep, she turned to go away again, but before she took even one step, he lifted his head and turned to face her.

“Who is it?”

“Celia. I am sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You are not disturbing me. Please, come in.”

“The sun is shining for the first day in four,” she said. “How should you like a walk in the gardens, with me as your guide?”

“The walk sounds excellent. My leg needs exercise. But let us make it the maze, and
I
will be
your
guide.”

“All right, but I warn you I don’t know my way out, so if we get lost, it will all be on your head.”

One of the footmen was sent running for Wexford’s coat and her pelisse, and they were soon on their way. They left the house by the front door, and then circled around the south side toward the rear. Once past the kitchen gardens, they let themselves through a wrought-iron gate in the stone wall surrounding the formal gardens to the west of the house. They slowly traversed several paths, ascended two shallow flights of stairs, and finally arrived at the entrance to the maze. Facing the wall of carefully clipped hedge, which extended a considerable distance in both directions, Celia said, “We are at the entrance. Now what?”

“Take us wherever you like. When we want to leave, I can tell you the way out.”

She regarded him skeptically. “How will you be able to do that?”

“Trust me, Celia,” he challenged.

“Very well, I will trust you. But tell me this: Why do I have the feeling that come dinnertime, we will be lost, and the entire household will be searching for us?”

“You have that feeling because you do not trust me.”

She glanced up at his face and saw that he was laughing at her. In the strong daylight she observed that the dark circles that had persisted beneath his eyes were now completely gone.

Taking his arm she led off boldly through the maze opening, turning left, then right, back and forth until she was hopelessly lost. Eventually they came to an arbor. It had been covered with vining roses that were dying, but it had a solid roof and a comfortable bench fitted with soft cushions.

“We have come to a lovely arbor,” she said, “Shall we sit?”

“Why not?”

She led him to the bench, then sat beside him and immediately took her knitting from the bag she carried on the opposite arm. When he heard the needles clicking, he reached over toward the sound, encountering the soft wool of an almost finished sock.

“What are you making?”

“Another sock for the children.”

“Is this your father’s wool? It feels amazingly soft.”

“It is very fine,” she agreed. “Emily . . . Emily Crowther is so skillful. You should see the beautiful work she does with it.”

“I should arrange to have some of this wool sent to Pierre,” he said.

“The man who brought you home?”

“Yes. Did I tell you he is a weaver?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, he is. And I think he is probably a good one, but the raw material he has to work with is of such inferior quality that he gets very little for the goods he produces. With wool like this, he could do much better.”

“Have you had any news of him since he brought you home?”

“No. But I did not expect to. He cannot write. And it won’t do me any good to write to him, either, for he cannot read.”

“We could certainly arrange to send him some wool,” Celia said. “We can send a letter along, and I am sure there must be someone, perhaps the village priest, who could read it to him.”

“I would like that. I have always wanted to repay him, but could never hit upon a way.”

“It is important to you. To pay debts.”

“Yes. Though sometimes it is not possible.”

“Where exactly did you say Pierre lives?”

“On the eastern edge of Louvain.”

“And remind me of his surname.”

“Amay. Pierre Amay.”

“I will write to my father tomorrow, and we will see what can be done.”

“You have not told me about the party last night.”

She smiled, remembering. “The food was delicious, the music heavenly, the company wonderfully agreeable—and Tony was most attentive.”

“In other words, you enjoyed yourself.”

“Yes, I did, except for . . .”

“Except for what?”

“Ursula left early, without explaining why. I went to call on her this morning, but she was not home. I admit I am a bit worried about her.”

“You must know that last night’s assembly was not one of Ursula’s favorite places to be. No doubt she left when she felt she’d had enough.”

Celia nodded her agreement. “I thought that, too, and perhaps you are right. But I will feel better when I have had a chance to talk with her.”

“I am sure you will see her tonight, and she will explain all. But tell me, what did you wear last night?”

“My gown was mint green, a color Tony especially likes with my hair. It had Brussels lace around the hem and overlaying the sleeves. I wore the pearls my father gave me for my eighteenth birthday, and Tony’s ring, of course.”

“I wish I could have seen you,” he said. Then, with a touch of frustration, he added, “I wish I
could
see you.”

Celia laid her knitting aside and turned toward him on the bench. “You will see me. Someday soon. I am sure of it.”

“You say your hair is dark with touches of red?”

“Yes.”

“How do you wear it?”

“Most often like I have it now. Feel it. I don’t mind.”

He accepted her offer. As he carefully reached toward where he thought her hair would be, she took his hand and placed it on her shining curls.

“It’s so soft, like the hair of an angel.”

She laughed. “And when have you ever felt the hair of an angel, my lord?”

He chuckled as well. “Never.” He had brought his other hand to the opposite side of her head and now lowered both hands to her shoulders. “And tell me about your neck, Miss Demming. Is it the neck of a swan?”

“Decide for yourself, sir.”

He raised his hands, one to each side of her neck, and she shivered at his touch. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. You are tickling me!”

“I’m sorry, but now I must know about the nose and chin, surely the most formidable aspects of any Briton.” His hands traced the sides of her neck to her chin. “Strong, without question formidable. Cheeks are round, soft.” He smiled. “Probably rosy. Forehead is broad and intelligent; brows, delicately arched; eyes, closed; lashes very long and soft. Ah! The nose, patrician—perfect. And the lips . . .” Her lips parted as his fingers brushed them, and he felt her shallow, quickened breath. “The lips . . . are entirely kissable.” His hands moved to cup her face, and he lowered his own mouth to hers.

When he touched her neck, Celia shivered. When his fingers came to her eyes, she closed them. By the time he brushed her lips, she was struggling for breath. By the time he kissed her, she was unable to think clearly. She gasped as his mouth took hers. His soft, mesmerizing words had clouded her brain. His lips, hungry and searching, made her go limp. She felt his arms reach around to steady her, felt him pull her close, felt her own lips offering themselves to him . . . and then suddenly she was on her feet, backing away from him, her eyes brimming, then overflowing with tears. She raised both hands to her mouth to cover it, trying to hold back the sobs she felt rising in her throat.

When she broke away so suddenly, his arms followed her. When she was beyond his reach, he slowly lowered them.

“Celia?” His only answer was her muffled sob from somewhere in the void before him.

Then, as she watched, he dropped his head into his hands as if he had a sudden and violent headache. “Oh, my God, what have I done?”

She turned suddenly and started to walk away. “Celia!” he called. “Don’t leave. You will get lost. Celia!”

Even as flustered as she was his words registered, and she stopped after she had turned only one corner.

Not knowing she had stopped, he shouted after her, “Go west, toward the sun, or right when you have a choice. Do you hear me? Only west or right.”

She heard, and she needed to hear no more. She walked straight to the first cross path and turned toward the sun. Her next choice was right, then right again, then west. Often she walked for some distance in what she was convinced was the wrong direction, but she stuck to the rule of west or right and discovered that the key to the maze was perfect. In a reasonable space of time, she found herself at the entrance. It was only when she arrived there that she realized she had stranded Wexford within.

She decided she would find one of the gardeners and send him to fetch his lordship, then wondered how she would explain having left him alone in the first place. Undecided what to do, she sat on a bench inside the entrance and struggled to calm herself.

Wexford sat where she had left him, with no thought at all for the maze or his inability to find his way out alone. Trying to take in what had happened, the only solution he could discover that was remotely acceptable was that he had gone completely mad. To have taken advantage of such a young girl while they were quite alone, and she was for the moment under his protection, was bad enough. But to have kissed a young woman who was promised to another, and, in fact, promised to his own brother, bordered on the insane.