The Rambunctious Lady Royston (21 page)

Taking a deep, steadying breath, St. John crossed to a chair, disposed himself in it with magnificent grace (as Prinney said, you could tell if a man was or was not a gentleman by the way he arranged his coattails when he sat down), crossed one muscular leg over the other and said amiably, "Samantha. Dearest, dearest, Samantha, as I do so abominate scenes, I believe it would be prudent of you to dismiss your maid." He smiled, bowed his head a moment, then raised it to show a face chiseled in ice. "Now!"'

Daisy scurried from the room without a backward look for her mistress, and Samantha—who had remained mum-chance until now, for the hiccup hardly counted as speech—squared her shoulders and turned bravely, if a bit tipsily, toward her husband. "You frightened poor Daisy," she accused, feeling an attack to be the most prudent defense. "That was a shabby thing to do—too shabby by half, for an Earl. Bullying servants lends nothing to your consequence, Royston."

St. John ignored this obvious attempt at dissemblance, and waved a hand languidly to point out the failure of her thin cambric gown (the one she was just now clumsily attempting to secure about her shoulders) to hide the existence of breeches under its folds.

"It requires no great flight of the imagination to suppose you have been indulging yourself with one of your, er, 'queer-like takings,'" the Earl purred smoothly.

Samantha's chin came up and she retorted, "Don't you dare rattle me off in that high-nosed tone, Zachary. If you had but given me a moment I would have explained—eventually."

"Once you had thought up in that devious brain of yours some outrageous farradiddle that you, with your own ridiculous brand of logic, believed I would swallow whole, you mean," countered the Earl.

"It's no such thing!" Samantha lied swiftly. "There are times, dear husband, when you are nothing but a horrid prig." Her chin jutting out pugnaciously, she told him, "I was moped to death here, acting the proper lady while you shoveled manure or whatever in Kent—although I was quite odiously circumspect until today, I might add. So what if I rewarded myself by taking a small tour of the city?" Samantha was still slightly unsteady on her feet, but she was recovering rapidly.

"Oh? If I may be so bold, madam, where did this 'small tour' take you?" St. John asked, his smile making a slight reappearance.

"I traveled fairly widely, but I suppose you're most interested in my guided tour of a brewery this afternoon," she answered in a lower tone.

St. John's smile faded as he said stiffly, "At least you don't plague a man with a pack of humbug. However, your honesty would be more refreshing were it less incriminating."

"Is that so?" Samantha huffed back at him. "Well, it seems to me that you are behaving in a devilishly strait-laced way for a rakehell. Is this in aid of your new status as a husband, or are you just repenting in a hope of Heaven—now that you are aged and tottering on the brink of the grave?"

The Earl shook his head wearily as he heard his wife attack his age yet again. "Samantha, your constant reminders of my years are becoming redundant as well as being patently untrue. I believe it would be in your best interests to fortify yourself to the likelihood that I shall live forever."

Samantha—not down and by no stretch of credulity out—sneered back, "You may not be as ancient as I say but you are certainly behaving in a most Gothic way. Yes, that's what you are: Gothic, utterly Gothic!"

St. John laced his hands together and re-crossed his legs. "And what would a Gothic husband consider appropriate punishment for a wife who flaunts propriety—and, by the by, her own safety—by junketing about the city, touring breweries and committing all sorts of other equally depressing indiscretions, all while being more than a little bit on the go—or drunk, if you're unfamiliar with the expression?"

After further infuriating his wife by taking his time to mull over this question at his leisure, he snapped his fingers and announced, "I have it! Behave as a child, be punished as a child. What you need, child," he pronounced, his face taking on the narrow-eyed semblance of a leer, "is a good spanking!"

"Oh, no, you don't!" Samantha shrieked, and turned to flee, her dress slipping from her shoulders and the skirt tripping up her feet so that she was caught easily and hauled, protesting loudly, across Royston's knees.

What followed were five hearty smacks on Samantha's tightly-encased buttocks before St. John dumped her unceremoniously onto the rug, stood up, brushed his hands together in satisfaction, and made to leave the room.

Samantha rose up in a flaming fury and flung at him, "You blackhearted whelp of a she-hound, you'll rue the day you dared touch me! Never, I say, never, do that again!"

St. John halted, turned, and grinned, "All right, pet, I'll answer in the way you so obviously wish. I will not touch you again—or..."

"Or face the consequences," Samantha was so enraged as to reply. "My revenge may well terrify you. In fact," she told him menacingly, tears quivering on her lashes, "if I were you I would be afraid to put my head on my pillow tonight."

With that she turned smartly and plunked herself down in the chair just vacated by her husband, her unwilling wince of pain clearly observed by St. John. He stormed to the entrance to his room, muttered, "Welcome home!" between clenched teeth, and slammed the door behind him.

After he had gone, Samantha rose gingerly from the chair, moaned quietly, and ruefully rubbed at her bruised posterior. She paced the room for some time, experiencing a strong desire to murder St. John and indulging in wild fantasies that would suit her purpose. Mad as a baited bear was Samantha, and as she entertained thoughts of boiling oil and thumbscrews, the clock ticked on until a goodly time had passed.

As the hour struck, an evil smile curled about Samantha's lips and she went to the connecting door and listened for the even breathing that would tell her St. John was asleep. Once satisfied that he was, she tiptoed over to her washstand, ascertained that the pitcher was full to the brim with ice-cold water, and moved stealthily until she stood beside Royston's slumbering form.

She raised the pitcher—a lovely porcelain thing—and, with just a twist of her wrist, dumped the contents over St. John's head.

He yelped, spluttered, and sat upright shaking his wet head before he exploded in a round of curses that made Samantha's ears burn. When he had cleared one eye with a corner of the coverlet, he peered up at her and offered, "Your trick, I fancy, madam," and then—unbelievably—he smiled.

Samantha, her anger spent, relapsed into the ways of the female of the species, and began to murmur contrite apologies while she dabbed at the Earl's wet shoulders with the hem of her bedraggled gown.

"Where did you learn that particular piece of nastiness?" Zachary asked, as he slipped from the bed and began stripping off his sodden silk pajamas.

"Wally and I once did it to Izzy. She had snitched to Father that it was us who drew a rather revealing picture of the vicar on the outhouse door," she confessed, without a blush.

"Izzy, Wally, Sammy. Gad, what ridiculous names. Sound like nursery names for pet turtles or frogs or some other creatures good only for giving off bad odors and manufacturing slime."

Samantha flung a towel at him. "Oh, really?" she returned, not overly offended. "Did you never have a pet, then, that you so disparage the probable inhabitants of the Ardsley menagerie?"

"Of course I had pets: dogs and other normal animals. Except, that is," he admitted sheepishly, "for my pet pig."

As Samantha giggled he defended, "He was the runt of the litter, poor thing. I secreted him in my bedroom so he wouldn't be slaughtered. It would have worked, too," he reminisced, "if that damned chambermaid hadn't left the door ajar."

"What happened?" Samantha asked, her former animosity forgotten.

Zachary chuckled softly. "He escaped, naturally. Made his social debut at my grandmother's dinner party for Lord Clerwick, he did. Caused quite a stir with the local gentry, not to mention Grandmother."

Once she had stopped laughing, Samantha prompted, "And this pig's civilized name, Zachary?"

St. John averted his head and muttered sheepishly, "Pinky," whereupon Samantha shrieked, "Pinky Piglet!" and threw herself on her husband's damp neck.

He hoisted her into his arms, pressing her against his bare chest, and whirled her around once before moving in the direction of the bed.

"No, Zachary, it's all wet," Samantha protested to no avail, as the Earl plunked her unceremoniously on the center of the mattress and—with a war whoop that would have done a red Indian proud—joined her on the bed.

Much later they discussed Samantha's adventures, and she fetched him a packet of monogrammed, Irish linen handkerchiefs. She had found them to be such a bargain that she could not resist purchasing them from the rosy-faced woman hawking them on some street corner or other.

"How do you know they are truly Irish linen?" he gibed, knowing full well she had been taken in like any greenhorn.

Poking him in the ribs she answered, "It was easy. See the embroidered R? It's in green thread. It has to be Irish."

So diverted was St. John by his artless wife that he even relented so far as to say, when she belatedly promised (yet again) to strive to be better behaved in the future, "Don't let the niceties of manners discommode you from your fondest desires, if you're really set on them."

Instead of accepting this offering, Samantha bristled and shot back: "Niceties of manners, is it, Zachary? If I were a man, my actions would be considered nothing out of the ordinary."

Sitting up, the Earl replied testily, "But you are not a man."

"So what? I can do anything a man can do, or at least I could in a free society."

St. John clucked in mock sympathy. "Poor Sam! And would you also like to fight in wars and serve in Parliament and even smoke cigars?"

"I would!" she concurred vehemently, ready to do battle again until she caught sight of Wally's rumpled breeches at the foot of the bed. "Oh, Zachary," she wailed, reaching for him, "I never want to be a man. It is too altogether wonderful being a female. It's just my wretched, wretched tongue."

Gathering her into his arms (after deciding this discussion could be carried on more comfortably in Samantha's chambers and her dry bed), he moved towards the door, correcting her, "Not your wretched tongue, pet, but my tiresome temper."

It was the start of a friendly argument that was destined to last most of the night.

Samantha was happily ensconced in the sunny morning room, blissfully jamming flowers into a variety of vases—without once considering the color schemes of the rooms for which they were destined, or taking care to choose blooms that complimented each other in size and shade, or even arranging them in any semblance of symmetry or proportion. Instead, she was humming snatches of several tunes under her breath, stopping her work entirely more than once to stare off into space while an inane grin decorated her face, and otherwise generally making a fine muddle of a simple task she had once been able to accomplish with remarkable speed and pleasing results.

But this day was the morning after St. John's return to London, and for that reason Samantha's lapse was understandable (if not forgivable, at least not by the bruised and battered hot-house blooms that now resembled nothing more than Thomas Moore's pathetic "last rose of summer").

Just as Samantha was about to butcher yet another carnation by leaving it only a three-inch stem, Carstairs scratched discreetly at the door, entered, and announced—with barely-veiled distaste as he viewed her handiwork—that my lady's sister and aunt awaited her in the small salon.

Samantha wiped her hands on a towel and asked Carstairs to have "someone see to this mess I have made" (which he did gladly, affording a zealous housemaid a chance to display her artistic expertise and saving at least two dozen prize blooms from the dustbin). "Have tea sent in fifteen minutes, if you please, Carstairs," she tossed over her shoulder, as she tidied her mint-green striped morning gown and went off to join her relatives.

The first thing she noticed upon entering the room was that her aunt had come to nap, not to chat, for she was seated in a chair that could not be considered to be in the best position for conversation. If further proof was needed it could be found by watching her head, which was already beginning to nod towards her chest.

Due to Aunt Loretta's behavior—being neither unexpected nor unwelcome—Samantha chose not to disturb the woman by saying hello. Instead she went directly to her sister, holding out her hands in greeting.

Isabella's response owed more to the conditioned response of years of training than it did to joy at the sight of her so extraordinarily (if not perhaps even a wee bit nauseatingly) cheerful and happily married sister.

"Isabella?" Samantha puzzled, looking closely at her sister's pale cheeks and rather pinched mouth. "You're looking a little downpin, if you don't mind a bit of sisterly candor—born of concern, I assure you." Sitting herself down next to Isabella without relinquishing her grip on the icy hands, she went on, "Do you have a problem? Tell me what it is and I'll be more than happy to help you solve it."

"No one can help me," Isabella whispered, so quietly Samantha had to strain her ears to hear.

"I know what it is," Samantha guessed obligingly. "You've overspent your allowance. Well, that's no problem, now that your sister the Countess can advance you any amount you wish until quarter-day."

Isabella's china-blue eyes filled with tears and her full lower lip started in to trembling.

"No?" her sister marvelled. "Forget a loan; I'll make the funds a gift. There, now will you dry those silly tears?" Honestly, there were times when it was hard to remember that Isabella was the elder by almost eighteen months.

Samantha screwed up her face in thought for a moment and then declared triumphantly, "A man! It's something to do with a man, isn't it, Izzy? Oh, dear," she recalled suddenly, "say it isn't that scapegrace Lord Clarion who's been hanging at your skirts these weeks past."