The Rambunctious Lady Royston (19 page)

"Whatever it is," Sir Edward, Isabella's escort for the evening, said sadly, "I'll bet we missed it." Then he looked about and noticed that no one else in the vicinity seemed to be in on the joke. "You know what it is: they're castaway, that's what," he offered as explanation. "Porter's out of lemonade, and they was forced to drink what they could get. Poor bas—er, blokes, we'd best get them off home."

Zachary was back in full command of his senses by now, but Sir Edward's remark had set Samantha off into another paroxysm of giggles. Pushing his wife down on the stairs, the Earl endeavored to explain. He told them of their exploration of the gallery, and then recited the message on the sign they had read—the message that had so unhinged even the sophisticated Earl.

"Attention!" it pleaded. "Gentlemen are respectfully entreated not to throw stone bottles over the rail, as this practice has been found to cause inconvenience to those in the pit."

As he finished, Samantha repeated the word
inconvenience
, adding, "I should certainly think so!" and immediately went off into fresh gales of laughter. Zachary, presented with Isabella's plainly uncomprehending features and Sir Edward's patently disbelieving face, sat down next to his wife and chuckled along with her. It was not everyone whose imagination could appreciate the ridiculous.

"Oh, Samantha, my most incorrigible sweetheart, you make me laugh as I haven't laughed since I was a boy. But come now," he admonished, rising to his feet and pulling her up with him, "if we are discovered here, Isabella and her solemn swain won't be the only ones thinking we're deep in our cups—along with those that would call us Bedlamites. Let us return to our seats and see if the farce measures up to our standards for successful comedy."

It didn't. And when those in the pit—the lords and the porters and the shop boys and the half-pay soldiers—began to make their dissatisfaction known, the rest of the theatre-goers were treated to rare fine displays of street manners: the versatility of week-old garbage in the hands of marksmen; samplings of the sounds produced by assorted rattles, horns, and whistles; and, inevitably, the speed with which those with disparate tastes in theatre can allow their arguments to degenerate into an every- man-for-himself melee.

While pickpockets in the crowd did a whopping business, a few enterprising fellows commandeered the wares of the many orange girls in the crowd and began pelting the actors—with remarkable accuracy.

In the boxes, fine ladies shrieked and fainted into the arms of their escorts, and more than one outburst of strong feminine hysterics added to the general din. The royal party was long gone, the Regent leaving quietly at the first hint of trouble (and before the crowd recalled that he was not one of their favorites), but the crowd in the gallery were still present to a man. They stomped their feet and called encouragement to the combatants in the pit. Bits of food, wads of paper, and one or two wooden benches sailed past as they crashed into the pit—as did several of those "inconvenient" stone bottles.

Zachary, believing his party to be secure in their box, had decided to wait out the crush of people, who were all trying to escape at once. Thus was Samantha able to look her fill at London theatre in one of its less than shining hours.

She loved every minute of it—until her hiccups returned that is, whereupon she turned to Zachary and politely inquired if he was ready to—
hic
—leave.

All in all, an enjoyable evening.

The following day St. John received a message from the steward of his estate in Kent, requesting his presence as soon as possible to discuss some problems of drainage and other pressing estate business concerning some of the tenants.

St. John was a model landowner—knowledgeable about his holdings and a conscientious landlord—so there was not a moment's indecision as to whether or not he would travel to Kent the following day. The only problem he could foresee was Samantha's reaction when he told her he wanted to travel alone, although he honestly doubted she would wish to miss a single day of her exciting Season.

He was wrong. "But what will I do with you miles away in Kent, Zachary?" Samantha argued, as soon as she heard his news. When he seemed unimpressed by the possibility of her being bored while surrounded by her adoring admirers, she (in her usual forthright fashion) went on doggedly, "If I appear happy in town, it is because I know you are here too—to talk with me and, and everything. If you are in Kent, then I'll be happy in Kent. Now do you understand?" she challenged him. He might pooh-pooh her declarations of love, but he should understand the appeal of what she thought of as their very close friendship.

The Earl would have been inhuman not to have been pleased with her flattering disclosure, but he saw this short separation as a good chance for Samantha to be alone with her feelings—to see if she would, in reality, be as lost without him as she professed she would be.

Before he left the next morning he and Samantha shared the breakfast table, he pretending to read the newspaper and she absently shredding a slice of toast as she stared off into space.

St. John had done his best to arrange to have Samantha amply occupied while he was gone, hoping she could be kept much too busy to indulge that nose for mischief that twitched so dangerously whenever she found herself at loose ends.

To this end he began a recital as to which of the invitations now reposing on his desk he felt suitable entertainments for Samantha, her sister, and Aunt Loretta, who would act as chaperon. "Not that I put much faith in your aunt's abilities in that direction. I never met such a somnolent creature in my life. Every time I try to hold a conversation with her, she falls asleep in my face."

Samantha, carefully keeping her face expressionless, replied, "Perhaps you should take steps to endeavor not to be such a dead bore."

"Minx," Zachary smiled, and—reaching out to smite her playfully on the side of her nose with one long finger—continued, "In all seriousness, Sam, you owe it to Isabella to keep her out and about in Society more than your aunt is willing to do. Left to herself, Isabella would never venture anywhere. I begin to think she's a victim of unrequited love."

"Isabella?" Samantha scoffed. "Don't be silly. She has yet to meet a single man fit to clean her boots. It's so vexing," she added candidly. "Now that Society has somehow decided that I am all the crack, the dratted bucks and dandies are always hanging about me like flies. I felt sure at first that Isabella could not help but benefit from being constantly in my company, with so many scores of eligible bachelors, but of the few that have paid her any attention, none have impressed her. There are times I think I made a mistake when I wished to be an original. It really is more tedious than enjoyable, especially if Isabella refuses to gain from it."

Tipping back negligently in his chair, St. John admonished, "I wouldn't be so offhand about my popularity if I were you, m'dear. One swallow does not make a summer, so they say, and Society can just as abruptly drop you as it picked you up in the first place."

At once Samantha bristled. "You know I wasn't bragging, Zachary. I was merely making a comment. I do not, as you think, have such a swelled-up head that I believe myself to be the finest thing to come along since the discovery of fire." At St. John's snicker of amusement she warned him, "Don't laugh. Except to be seen with the 'parasol lady,' I can see no reason for all this attention I'm receiving."

"Is that right, Samantha?" said Zachary, mocking her agitated tone. "Do you then not think part of the reason could be that you're an incorrigible flirt?"

Because it is extremely difficult to carry on a two-person conversation when one of the persons has slammed down her napkin, stuck out her tongue in fury, and stomped heavily from the room, St. John returned to his newspaper until it was time to leave.

Samantha's temper cooled sufficiently (when her irrepressible sense of humor surfaced) for her to descend to the foyer, just in time to be thoroughly kissed farewell by her devastatingly handsome husband.

"I'll miss you, puss," he whispered hoarsely in her ear, holding her close in his embrace while Carstairs stood patiently by, holding his hat, gloves, and silver-handled whip.

"Pooh!" Samantha scoffed, in a curiously trembling voice. "You will do nothing of the sort. Once closeted with your steward you'll be so involved in plans for draining off bogs and re-thatching laborers' cottages, you'll not give your poor, lonely wife another thought."

St. John reached behind his back to disengage Samantha's clinging arms and, retaining his firm grasp on her hands, he lifted them together to his lips to press a kiss in each of her palms. "There's no need for you to miss more than those few engagements I would rather you did not attend without my escort. There's plenty to keep you and Isabella occupied until I return. All I ask, Samantha, is that you be good."

Samantha was having a mighty struggle within herself to keep from breaking down and bawling like a puling infant. Taking a shuddering great breath, she pinned a comically pained expression on her face as she complained, "Ho-hum, Zachary. What else could I be, with that deadly dull itinerary you have laid out for me?"

Zachary looked at her for a long moment, then muttered darkly under his breath, "I cannot imagine. But if there's a way, I am sure you'll find it." Before she could begin to argue the point, he planted a hard, swift kiss on her parted lips and went out through the open doorway to mount his curricle and spring his team, without once looking back at the figure staring after him from the doorway.

Samantha watched until he drove out of the Square before turning to slowly mount the stairs that led to their chambers. In Zachary's dressing room, she located the dressing gown he had worn that morning and—clutching it to her breast so that she could smell that special mixture of tobacco and cologne that was peculiar to her husband—climbed upon his wide bed to curl herself into a tight little bundle of confusion and pain.

Zachary refused to take her declarations of love seriously. Now he was going off by himself, when he could so easily have taken her along. Perhaps she was becoming a bore; an immature girl had scant chance of holding the interest of a man with the experience of a Zachary St. John.

Or perhaps she embarrassed him, what with her impulsive actions and bizarre—yes, she told herself, bizarre— affectations, like those idiotic parasols. Good lord, even she doubted she could take such a zany creature seriously!

Lying on the bed all the rest of that morning, Samantha decided it was time she grew up and took on a more sober outlook on life. Once she had proved herself to be worthy of his regard, Zachary might come to return her love. It wasn't an easy task she set herself, but she felt the prize of Zachary's love to be worth any cost.

At the same time Samantha was vowing to take steps to "civilize" herself, St. John was bowling happily along the roadway, a smile hovering about his lips as he thought of his enchanting child bride. "Never change, infant. Just promise to go on forever being my very own silly, sweet Sam, and I'll be the most envied man in the world. And the luckiest." He shook his head slightly and allowed himself a rueful grin. "I must be demented, talking to people who aren't here, and—worse yet—talking to myself." He shook his head again and spoke aloud one more time. "And they say marriage has a stabilizing influence on a man! Obviously anyone who believes that has never met my Sam!"

For three days, Samantha's behavior was a model of circumspection. For three days she kept her social engagements limited to At Homes, tea parties, and musicales during the daytime, and only the tamest, the most innocuous of amusements were graced by her presence after dark. For three days. Three endless, boring, insipid days.

And two nights.

The fateful third evening was devoted to Lady Mallory's premiere musical evening. The gathering was masterfully designed by that distinguished lady to serve as a fitting showcase for her daughter Sybil's extraordinary expertise on both the spinet and the harp. Also—since the dear child would not dream of disappointing her audience—Miss Sybil might further be persuaded to render a few songs whilst some other willing debutante (no doubt hand-picked by Lady Mallory for her unprepossessing appearance) accompanied her on the keyboard (since Miss Sybil's short and somewhat pudgy figure appeared taller and less plump when standing before an object even more squat and wide than herself).

Samantha, who had not been informed that Miss Sybil was to be the sole (and interminable) performer, had promptly taken up a seat near the front of the room, and was perforce unable to make a discreet withdrawal for the eternity it took Miss Sybil to painfully plod through her mundane repertoire on the spinet.

The girl's assault on the harp was just as determined, just as lengthy, and—as if it were possible—twice as painful to the listener. Somewhere in the house, Samantha smiled to herself, there is a kitchen cat writhing in extreme ear pain, and if the dogs outside on the street do not soon set up a howling chorus, it won't be for lack of inducement.

When at long last Miss Sybil's rendition of "Greensleeves" wound down (not before Samantha's lifelong affection for the ancient song was, alas, blighted forever-more), Samantha breathed a sigh of relief and turned in her seat to observe Miss Sybil's effect on the rest of the politely applauding audience. She winked across the room at Isabella, who was just then wearing the wide-eyed, blankly-staring face of an infantryman who has stood in close proximity to one too many cannons.

Aunt Loretta, who could conceivably have napped through the sacking of Rome, was at last located—stuck on a Sheraton sofa, partially tucked behind an unsightly clump of hothouse greenery that was wilting nearly as fast as the gentlemen's starched collars in the stifling atmosphere of stale air and overheated bodies. With her head tilted attentively toward the cleared area of the room where Miss Sybil had lately paraded her talents, Aunt Loretta looked the picture of attentiveness—that is, until one peeked under her childish fringe of curled bang and saw that the woman was, as a boxing enthusiast might say, out for the count.