Good God! He’d meant it! Every word he’d said. He truly hadn’t intended to marry the Princess Usha after all! Why, even though it was dark outside, did Maggie suddenly feel as if the sun were shining?
“Oh, I didn’t like the look of her, I didn’t,” Hill was saying. “Not the minute she walked in the door.
Darting
eyes,
she had. You can’t trust a heathen with darting eyes … .”
“Hill,” Maggie asked curiously, “when did you see the princess?”
“Why, not half an hour ago, when she and that interpreter of ‘er’s came callin’ in the house.”
Maggie sprang up from her seat beside the fire, dislodging Jerry, who’d curled up into her lap. “What?” she cried. “The princess was
here
? Princess Usha was
here
?”
“Heavens, yes,” Hill replied, looking more than a little surprised. “What are you shouting for? Do you want them to hear you all the way to Newcastle?”
“Does Jeremy know?” Maggie demanded. “Has anyone told Jeremy?”
“How could anyone tell the duke, when the duke boarded a train bound for Yorkshire hours ago?”
“Yorkshire
?” Maggie cried. “Jerry went to
Yorkshire
? Are you quite certain, Hill?”
“Yes, of course I’m certain,” Hill said irritably.
“But
why
?” Maggie exclaimed. “Did Jer—I mean, His Grace—say why he was going to Yorkshire? Did he … have some bad news from Rawlings Manor during the day, or something?”
“Well, Mr. Evers said the duke got a hand-delivered message this mornin’. I reckon it was from the Lady Edward. I wouldn’t doubt she finally got wind of you and him bein’ here at the town house all alone together—”
Maggie glared at her maid. “And I wonder how she would have got wind of
that,”
she said angrily.
Hill looked innocent.
“I
certainly wouldn’t know. That Mr. Evers, though. I wouldn’t put it past
him … .
But why
shouldn’t
His Grace pay a call on his aunt and uncle, I’d like to know?” Hill stomped over to the chair Maggie had just vacated and began to plump up its cushions. “It’s high time he did, if you ask me. If
my
nephew joined the army and went away to India for five years, then got himself engaged to a heathen who was all set to bring her seven-headed Buddhas back to the vicarage—”
“Hill,” Maggie interrupted. “Please. She isn’t a heathen.
She simply worships in a different manner than you and I—”
“I saw her!” Hill declared emphatically. “She’s a heathen! And all I’m saying is, if I were Lord and Lady Edward, I’d be right put out if my nephew didn’t stop to see me first thing on his return to England.”
“Yes,” Maggie murmured. “Yes, I suppose so. Only it’s just so strange! I saw him this morning, and he didn’t say a word … .” Her voice trailed off. Perhaps his decision to go to Yorkshire had been
because
of their conversation this morning. After all, Maggie hadn’t been exactly warm toward him.
But she’d certainly been
more
than warm to him during the night … surely that had to count for something! But maybe he didn’t see it that way. Maybe he’d misinterpreted her sarcastic remarks and teasing, mistook them for genuine when really, she’d only been trying to disguise her own unease and embarrassment. Maybe he’d left for Yorkshire convinced that she didn’t care for him. She was engaged to another man, was she not? And yet she’d given herself to
him … .
Oh, Lord. She shuddered. What kind of man would want to marry a woman who’d do something like
that
? Oh, he had seemed to enjoy their lovemaking well enough. She’d heard the cry he’d let out the night before, when he’d climaxed. That had not been the shout of a bored man. That had been the cry of a man who had found release after a period of interminable imprisonment.
But then he’d left.
Oh, what was the use? She wanted him. She might as well admit it. And if she had to become a duchess, and give up her painting, in order to have him, well, she would. Oh, Lord, what was happening to her? She had never in her life wanted anything more than her painting, and now …
Well, now she wanted Jeremy.
Right when he didn’t seem the least interested in her. Blinking sadly at the bed in which she’d enjoyed so much bliss the night before, Maggie started to sniffle. Just a little, but Hill, unfortunately, heard.
“Now, then!” she cried, coming out of Maggie’s dressing room, where she’d gone to run her mistress a hot bath. “What’s this?
I’m
the one with the head what’s pounding fit to bust. What are
you
crying about?”
“Nothing,” Maggie murmured, from behind her hands.
“
Something
’s the matter. What is it? You didn’t get a note from that Frenchman of yours, I’ll wager. Now, I’ve told you before, miss, just because a man doesn’t call
one
day, doesn’t mean the engagement’s off. Even
two
days isn’t enough to cause worry. Now,
three
days, if he’s not out of the country, then I’d say, yes, there’s reason for concern. But
one
day—”
“It isn’t that, Hill,” Maggie said, sniffling. Then she raised her head. What was she doing?
What was she doing?
Weeping, because the man she’d made love with the night before had fled to Yorkshire? Was she insane? She was no lovelorn governess, no simpering milkmaid. She was an artist! She would probably make love to dozens of men throughout her lifetime! She couldn’t burst into tears every time one of them decided to take a train to see his family the next day. Look at Berangère. Maggie had never seen Berangère cry, not ever, and Berangère had scores of lovers, some of whom she could not even remember a week later. Maggie was just going to have to harden herself to be more like Berangère, that was all.
But deep inside, Maggie knew that no matter how she tried, she’d never be like Berangère. She didn’t
want
scores of lovers. She couldn’t imagine making love with any man but Jeremy. Even the
thought
of doing so physically repulsed her. She wanted only one man, and he was on a train headed for Yorkshire. He might as well have gone back to India again.
A tap sounded at the door. Hill, muttering to herself, went to answer it. Maggie, still trying to rally her own spirits, heard only murmurs until Hill closed the door again and rejoined her by the bed.
“Well,” the older woman said, in her warmest voice. “
You
are quite popular tonight, Miss Margaret. You might
be interested to know that, according to Evers, Mr. de Veygoux is waiting downstairs to see you!”
Maggie suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “Oh, Hill, could you please send Mr. de Veygoux away? I’m really not feeling up to seeing him this evening.”
Hill sniffed. “I shall do no such thing. The man is your fiancé. You can’t send him away as if he were an unwanted suitor.”
“Oh, Hill,” Maggie said, and suddenly she was sobbing.
Hill took one look at her mistress and hurried away. When she came back, it was only a few moments later, and Maggie, ashamed of her tears, was trying to dry them on the back of her wrists. Hill would have none of that. She applied her own handkerchief to her mistress’s streaming eyes and cooed, “There, there, Miss Maggie, don’t you worry now, he’s gone away. Right doleful he looked too when I told ‘im you were ill. And with his nose all swollen up, and his eyes so bruised it’s a wonder to me he can see a’tall. Poor man. He brought you more roses.” Hill pointed to a bouquet she’d left on the bed. “Shall I put ’em in with the others?”
Maggie looked at the already overladen vase on her bedside table. “I suppose so,” she said miserably. “I do wish he’d stop. He must have spent a fortune on flowers already.”
“He said for me to tell you that these were for missing you at the gallery this afternoon. He’s right sorry about it, says he doesn’t know how it could have happened, and he hopes you’ll forgive him if he did anythin’ to upset you.” Hill began tucking the long-stemmed flowers in with the ones from the day before. “And that the repairs you did on the … landscapes, were they? Yes, the landscapes … were perfect, and that he’ll see you at ten sharp tomorrow to start hanging them. Now, speakin’ of tomorrow, I thought you might want to wear the white satin for your exhibition, so I’ll press it first thing in the morning. The problem is, there’s a button missing from the gloves that match it—how you can be so careless, I don’t know—so I’ll have to take a trip to Trumps to see if I can find one that matches. There.” Hill stood back and gazed at her arrangement. “That’s quite nice,
don’t you think? And they smell heavenly! So lovely to see a bit of color in winter, I always think.”
Maggie looked at the half-blown blossoms. “Yes,” she said, but she wasn’t thinking about flowers. She was thinking about Jeremy. “Isn’t it?”
Jeremy, throwing open the heavy double doors to the manor house, cursed irritably beneath his breath. The wind off the moor was biting and, what’s more, had garnered gale-like force in the two hours—
two hours—
it had taken him to get from the train station to his own front door. He’d conveniently forgotten, of course, what Yorkshire could be like in the dead of winter, particularly along the moors. He had had to hire a coach at three times the usual amount and then the damned thing had nearly blown over on the Post Road. The snow was so blinding that the coachman had almost refused to go on. Jeremy had to offer him another five pounds and half the contents of his whisky flask in order to convince him to drive on.
And now, standing in the Great Hall, snow dripping from his boots and shoulders, Jeremy cursed again, this time at having arrived too late to be welcomed by anyone. It had to be past ten o’clock, a time by which, in the country, everyone had either retired or passed out from too much drink, one of the few distractions available of a winter’s evening. Lord, he couldn’t even find someone to relieve him of his cloak!
Stomping across the flagstone floor, noting with disapproval that most of the candles in the chandeliers overhead had already been doused, Jeremy found a chair, upon which he promptly began to heap his sodden outer wraps. He was shivering uncontrollably by this time, and longed to find a fire, but he rather doubted any had been left going on the
main floor. He’d have to find Evers—
John
Evers, he reminded himself—and get him to send someone to his chamber to build up a good blaze. Lord, what a homecoming. He ought to have brought Peters with him. He ought to have gone straight to Herbert Park, and had it out with Sir Arthur then and there. He was certainly in a foul enough mood for it.
But, no. He was in just such a temper to have shot the old man, and that would never do. He’d never be able to convince Maggie to marry him after murdering her father.
It wasn’t until he’d begun unraveling his muffler that he noticed the flicker of a candle flame approaching him through the gloom of the massive Great Hall, and then he called out, gruffly, to its bearer. When the flame came close enough to illuminate the identity of the person carrying it, Jeremy saw that it was someone he didn’t recognize, a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, with a riotous halo of blond curls framing a pretty, only vaguely familiar face. Her dressing gown was remarkably rich for that of a servant, of ice-blue satin brocade, and there appeared to be rabbit-fur trim on her slippers. Jeremy made a mental note to speak with his uncle about how much they were paying the parlormaids these days. Surely not enough to purchase satin brocade dressing gowns.
Then the girl spoke, and Jeremy realized she couldn’t possibly be a parlormaid. His aunt would never hire anyone that rude.
“Who are
you
?” she demanded, in a voice dripping with suspicion.
Jeremy squinted at her. Her eyes were as frosty blue as her dressing gown. “I was just about to ask you the same question,” he said.
“I’m
Elizabeth Rawlings,” the girl replied primly. “I
live
here.”
“Well, I’m your cousin Jerry,” he said, after overcoming a momentary shock. The last time he’d seen Lizzie Rawlings, she’d stood no higher than his hip. Now the top of her curly-haired head reached almost to his shoulder. “And I live here, too. In fact, I
own
this house.”
She blinked at him. “You’re lying,” she said rudely. “My cousin Jerry’s in India.”
“No he isn’t,” Jeremy said. “He’s standing right in front of you. What are you doing out of bed, anyway? Does your mother know you still make a habit of wandering about the house in the dark? I thought she weaned you of that ten years ago, when they caught you after midnight in the kitchens, stuffing your face with the remains of your brother’s birthday cake.”
Lizzie’s bow-shaped mouth popped open, and her eyes went round as eggs. “Cousin Jerry?” she breathed. “It really
is
you!”
“Of course it is.” Jeremy threw his muffler down onto the chair. “Where is everybody, anyway? This place is like a tomb.”
Lizzie couldn’t stop staring at him. “Mamma is in bed. Mr. Parks told her she has to stay there until the baby is born, although she keeps getting up anyway. Papa is probably reading in his library. My sisters are all in bed, and I don’t know where my brothers are. Why is your skin such a funny color?”
Jeremy glared at her. “I am tan. It tends to happen near the equator. Why are you out of bed?”
“You needn’t speak to me,” Lizzie said indignantly, “as if I were a child. I happen to be fifteen years old. I can get out of bed if I want to.”
Jeremy snorted at that. “In order to meet some young swain, no doubt. Who is it? One of the footmen? I’ll have him sacked on the morrow.” He seized her by the arm and began steering her toward the curved double staircase that led up to an open gallery overlooking the Great Hall on three sides. “And don’t think I’m not going to tell your father.”
Lizzie pulled on her arm with surprising strength for a girl so slender. “Let go of me, you conceited buffoon,” she commanded. “I came down here in search of the book I’m reading.”
“Oh, certainly,” Jeremy sneered. “What’s it called?
The Young Girl’s Guide to Foolish Love Affairs
?
”
“I happen,” Lizzie said, through gritted teeth, “to be
reading
Letters on Education
, a treatise on women’s rights by Catharine McCauley, a contemporary of Mary Wollstonecraft who was much admired in her day for her eight-volume history of England.” On the word
England
, Lizzie managed to successfully rip her arm from his grasp, but only because Jeremy was too shocked to hold on any longer.
“Good God,” he exclaimed. “What are you reading
that
for?”
Lizzie primly tugged on the sleeves of her dressing gown, with all the fastidiousness of a cat. “Because, you ignoramus,” she said contemptuously, “I’m interested in the subject.”
Jeremy groaned. She was her mother’s daughter, all right, despite the blond hair. He couldn’t remember a time when his aunt hadn’t had her nose buried between the pages of some piece of similarly dry reading material. He wondered what on earth it must be like to be Lizzie Rawlings, clearly a bluestocking trapped in the body of a chorus girl, and felt vaguely sorry for all the men who were going to have the misfortune of falling in love with her.
“What,” thundered a deep voice, from the gallery overhead, “the devil is going on down there?”
Jeremy looked up, and saw the tall, dark figure of his uncle at the top of the stairs. “Oh, hello, Uncle Edward,” he said casually. “Sorry, were we disturbing you?”
“Jeremy?” He saw his uncle reach up and remove a pair of spectacles from the bridge of his nose. Good Lord! Jeremy nearly exclaimed. Edward Rawlings, farsighted? What other calamities had taken place in Jeremy’s absence?
“Yes, Uncle,” Jeremy called cheerfully. “It’s me. I was just attempting to discipline your eldest daughter, but apparently she thinks
I’m
the one in need of direction.”
“Jeremy!” However much Edward had aged in his nephew’s absence, he’d still managed to retain his customary athleticism, as exemplified by the alacrity with which he descended the stairs in order to wrap Jeremy in an enormous bear hug.
“Good Lord,” Jeremy cried, thoroughly embarrassed. His voice was muffled by the velvet of his uncle’s smoking
jacket. “If I’d known this was the kind of reception I’d receive, I’d never have left New Delhi.”
Edward, looking a bit surprised at his own emotional display over seeing his nephew again, abruptly released him, but retained a fond hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Welcome home, my boy,” he said gruffly. “We missed you.” Then, squinting, he added, “You look terrible. How about a whisky?”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Jeremy promptly replied. Then, as the two men started toward the staircase, Edward paused, and turned to pierce his daughter with a stern look as she crept toward the dining room doors, located in the center of the split between the twin curving staircases.
“Where do you think
you’re
going?” he demanded.
Lizzie tossed him an aggrieved glance over her shoulder, but didn’t break her stride. “To fetch my book, of course,” she said. “I left it at my place at dinner.”
“Well.” Edward cleared his throat disapprovingly. “Go and get it, and then get back to bed. And don’t let your mother hear about my letting you read at the dinner table, or she’ll have my hide.”
“Yes, Papa,” Lizzie said with a long-suffering sigh.
Turning back to Jeremy, Edward offered an apologetic smile. “They run a bit wild whenever their mother goes into her confinement. Pegeen’s been upstairs for only a day or two now, but I don’t think I’ve seen any of them since.”
“So number seven’s being a bit reticent?” Jeremy inquired with a grin.
“A bit, but I don’t imagine it will be long now.” Edward grinned back at his nephew as they began climbing the stairs to the second floor. “One look at you ought to be enough to shock your aunt into labor straightaway.”
“That bad, eh?” Jeremy reached up to stroke his jaw, which was covered with dark razor stubble. “Lizzie didn’t recognize me, though I can’t say I knew who she was, either.”
Edward studied him. “It’s the tan,” he said finally. “Not to mention the nose. You finally managed to goad somebody into breaking it for you, eh? Good job. I know how badly
you wanted to rid yourself of that straight one you inherited. Too bad, though.” They had reached the top of the stairs, and were just turning toward the library when Edward paused to quirk an eyebrow at him. “I was thinking of breaking it myself, as soon as you got the courage to show your face around here.”
Jeremy took a cautious step backward, remembering the mean fist his uncle swung. “If it’s about the Star of Jaipur, I can explain.”
“Can you?” Edward looked only mildly amused. “This ought to be interesting. I saw the retraction in this morning’s
Times
. So I take it there
isn’t
going to be a new Duchess of Rawlings any time soon?”
“I didn’t say
that
,” Jeremy said. “She just isn’t from India. She’s from considerably closer to home, actually.”
Edward Rawlings had been accused of being many things, but slow was not one of them.
“So
that’s
how it is,” he said shaking his head. “Pegeen told me you’d come home as soon as you heard about Maggie’s engagement, but I didn’t believe her.”
Jeremy grinned at him. “Hope you didn’t place any wagers on it.”
“As a matter of fact, I think I did. Damn me! I believe I owe the Rawlings Foundling Home a hundred pounds now.” Shaking his head with disgust, Edward started toward the library door. “Good God, Jerry. It’s been five years. Can’t you let the poor girl alone?”
Jeremy’s grin instantly vanished. “No, I can’t,” he said stiffly. “Any more than
you
can let my aunt alone, apparently.”
It was Edward’s turn to smile. “Touché,” he said, and turned the knob. Inside the library, Jeremy was relieved to see a roaring fire and a whisky decanter, already unstopped, set out on a sideboard. He immediately went to the fire and began to warm his hands, while Edward closed the door and poured out two generous drinks.
“Here you are,” he said, handing one of the glasses to Jeremy. “To your homecoming.”
“Thank you.” Jeremy tossed back most of the whisky in
a single gulp, feeling the fiery liquid immediately begin to warm his frozen extremities. He was not yet well enough that a night spent in torrid lovemaking, and a day spent on various modes of transportation, did not completely exhaust him. And now, knowing that he still had the difficult task of dealing with his aunt—not to mention winning over Maggie’s family—ahead of him, tiredness crept in, like the cold, to permeate his very bones.
His uncle very obligingly took his empty glass and refilled it.
“Well,” Edward said with a sigh, sinking down onto his green leather couch, where he’d apparently been reading the newspaper just minutes before, since a hastily folded
Times
lay on the floor beside his feet. “Let me see if I have this straight. You joined the Horse Guards, got shipped off to India, killed a lot of rebellious Bengals, got promoted, saved the queen’s ambassador to Bombay from an assassin’s bullet, got promoted, prevented the Palace of the Winds in Jaipur from being destroyed by marauding rebels, got awarded the Star of Jaipur—do stop me if I’ve left anything out … .”
“On the contrary,” Jeremy said, impressed in spite of himself. “You seem to have followed my military career to the minutest detail. Except for one minor point. The Star of Jaipur is actually a sapphire, not a princess.”
Edward seemed to accept this easily enough. “Ah. And that article in yesterday’s
Times
?”
“The princess seems to be having some trouble accepting my decision to take the sapphire instead of her.” He shrugged, as if to say
What’s a poor fellow to do?