But since the night when she had roused from her fever and spoken so frankly, so openly, assuming that he had no care for her or for their child, even after he had poured out his heart to her, he had felt broken inside. He had tried to broach the impasse between them that afternoon in the garden, when she had finally seemed strong enough to discuss their future, but her relief at the interruption caused by Lazenby had been almost tangible. It made him believe that any conversation between them would lead inevitably to her departure from Hatherley. That he could not countenance, so he avoided her.
Ormiston knew this state of affairs could not persist indefinitely. With every passing day, Cecilia seemed to be gaining in energy and health. She was beginning to look better than ever, her hair glossy, her eyes bright, a spring in her step as she went about her business, her fresh, flowery scent beguiling. It was a torment to be in her presence, so he retreated by taking up painting again. He found himself glancing through the sketches that he had completed at Sawards, and it came to him: he could paint Cecilia from the drawings. She need not sit for him. The task so occupied him that he became more withdrawn than ever.
He did venture out to the local market town to order more paints and paper from a stationers there. As he came out of the shop, he bumped into Miss Bennett and Mrs. Baxter, two ladies of the town who considered themselves arbiters of taste and decorum in the county. He made his bow to them, but before he could slip away to the inn where his horse was quartered, they engaged him in conversation, asking after the viscountess and her dear brother and sister, inquiring whether any summer entertainments were planned at Hatherley, recalling the grand days when the marchioness had arranged picnics, country dances, and boating trips.
“We have not yet fixed on any such diversions. Lady Cecilia is still in mourning for her father, and the children are still settling into their routines.”
“I must say,” commented Mrs. Baxter, “her mourning does not seem to prevent her from racketing round the countryside with Daphne Selby. Not the most judicious of acquaintances in a young wife.”
The viscount stiffened. “Mrs. Selby is a good friend to my father and myself. She was also known to Mr. Marchmont, my wife's late father. It would be injudicious indeed for anyone to question such an acquaintance.” He bowed crisply and withdrew before any further comment could be made by either lady. Mrs. Baxter tossed her head and pronounced the viscount top-lofty, while Miss Bennett did her best to soothe her companion's ruffled feathers.
Ormiston rode home seething. He was not sure who angered him more, his wife for her rashness, Mrs. Selby for her reputation, or the biddies from town for their petty malice. Fortunately, the first person he encountered on his return was Reggie, who wheedled him into a bout with the foils, distracting the viscount from his temper. Then at dinner, vexation returned, for Dacre announced that he had accepted on behalf of the viscount and viscountess an invitation to a party at the Selbys' home for the following week.
“Is it wise to be seen too much at the Selbys'? We shall be tarred with the same brush, pronounced spendthrift and careless of our responsibilities, if we mix too much with them.”
“An evening in their company is hardly an endorsement of riotous living, and it will be a damn sight more lively than an evening at Mrs. Baxter's, with her tedious daughters and those insipid young men she seems to drag up from London drooping about in search of respectable wives. Daphne Selby knows how to keep her guests up to the mark. It will be amusing and her entertainments are never in the common way. No watered punch and stale cakes for her. It'll be champagne, turtle soup, and fire-eaters, at the very least.”
“It has been months since I've been to a lively party.” Cecilia rued her words as soon as she uttered them. Her eyes met Ormiston's and he raised his eyebrows, knowing as well as she that the last party she had been to, other than their own recent nuptials, had been the masked ball at the Ferrières' in Paris. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “Still, if you don't like it, we needn't go.”
Feeling like an ogre, Ormiston retracted swiftly, pronouncing himself ready for any frolic dreamt up by the vivacious Mrs. Selby. He said nothing to Cecilia about the deepening friendship, but he kept a more careful eye on her daily activities, and soon discovered that she disappeared regularly before breakfast. It had escaped his attention, since he no longer spent his nights with her. Then he went to her room early one morning, having spent a restless night longing for her, finally determined to settle things between them, only to find that she was out and had been since dawn. Dorcas's tone was carefully neutral, but he sensed that she could not understand how the rift between her mistress and himself had opened and deepened so drastically.
“She rides every morning, you say?”
“Yes, my lord. She is generally back in time to change before going down to breakfast.”
Like an actress arriving on cue, Cecilia appeared in the doorway. She wore an ancient, grass-stained riding habit and there was mud on her cheek. Her face was flushed and she was breathless with the rush of hurrying up from the stables. She stopped short as she saw Ormiston.
“My lord.”
“My lady.”
“You have been riding?”
“I go out most mornings. Phoebus needs the exercise.”
“Did you fall?”
“A slight tumble. Nothing to concern yourself over.”
“You take a groom with you.” His tone hovered between statement and query.
Cecilia was trapped. She did not take a groom with her, of course. She would not lie. First of all, it would be beneath her, and second, it would be easily found out if she did. But she should be accompanied, she supposed. She delayed her answer by dropping her gloves and crop on her dressing table, unpinning her hat, and fussing with her hair.
“I stay in Hatherley grounds. I don't see the need for a groom here. If I were travelling further afield, naturally I would ensure I was accompanied.” She looked pointedly at the steaming tub of water which awaited her. Ormiston came further into the room.
“I have seen you bathe before. Please, continue.” Ormiston settled himself in a chair.
Cecilia rolled her eyes and retreated behind a lacquered Chinese screen with Dorcas from whence various rustlings indicated that she was undressing. She emerged swathed in a towel and lowered herself carefully into the water so that barely a flash of skin was visible. Ormiston shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps pressing the issue now was unwise. He watched silently as Dorcas washed Cecilia's hair, dried it with a towel, and began combing it out. Once the worst tangles had been smoothed out, he rose.
“You may go, Dorcas. I will see to the rest of her ladyship's needs.” The maid grinned cheekily as she bobbed and left the room.
“I have a great deal to do this morning, Ormiston. If you wish to speak with me, perhaps we may arrange to meet later in the day.”
“I do not know that speaking is my main object.” His voice was deep and amused.
“Sir, what can you mean?”
“Oh, Cecilia, perhaps this is what I should have done six weeks since.” He leaned forward from Dorcas's stool and his tongue ran along the length of her collar bone and up the side of her neck. He shifted forward and took her mouth with his. They kissed softly, tenderly, and it was as though all the words they could not speak to one another were distilled in that kiss. All confusion and awkwardness between them dissolved. Cecilia turned in the water and they both stood so that she was twined about him, her soaking body pressed against his, his hands running freely about her waist and hips and back, her fingers laced in the thick darkness of his hair. Finally, the kiss gentled and they each took breath. He released her and picked up her towel, wrapping her in it. Then he picked her up out of the bath and laid her on the bed.
“I am drenched from head to foot, Cecilia.”
“You will have to change. Perhaps I might help.” She began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. He captured her hand and raised it above her head.
“First, we must speak.” He kissed her. “I wish nothing more than to give you pleasure, to take pleasure from you. But I cannot continue as we have been doing. I must know your intentions. Do you wish to stay at Hatherley or are you planning to return to Sawards and settle there?”
“What of the twelvemonth bargain?”
“I consider, Cecilia, that we are back where we started before I knew of the baby. At that time, my mind was clear. I wished to seal the marriage and attempt to live as man and wife. That is what I still wish. More ardently now, because we have already, however briefly, managed to live in harmony.”
“Why did you not say so? I thought you wished to be rid of me. I feared that you only wished to see whether I could produce an heir and then put me aside.” She sat up, confused, a little dazed. “Everything between us always seems so havey-cavey. We never seem to be frank with one another. We must try to be honest.” She winced and bit her lip. It was not yet time, she felt, to admit that she was busy practicing horseback tricks as she had as a girl of fifteen and sixteen.
“Yes, we must. And the truth is that I wish our marriage to stand, that I wish to be a good husband to you, that I wish that you felt the same as I do.” Ormiston did not study to avoid any mention of love, but still, he held back. He lay there, winding a lock of her hair about his finger, evading her gaze. “When you ride, you really must take a groom. You fell today, and it was nothing serious, but what if you were out and fell and were pinned beneath your horse, or your skull were damaged. We both know such things happen. I could not bear it if you were hurt. Not again.” He loosed her hair and stood up, the memory of his fears for her vivid, quenching any lust he had felt. He walked briskly to the window so that he need not meet her eyes. He did not want her to know how frightened he had been, how much he cared for her. He wanted her to be vulnerable to him, not to divulge to her his own lack of defense against her charms. All very well to speak of honesty, but he was not yet prepared for it.
Sitting swathed in her towel, Cecilia watched Ormiston's back. Neither of them was prepared to risk everything with the other. It might be a matter of time, or it might be that they never could trust one another, not after the way they had been married in the first place. She could not entirely dispel the suspicion that he was arrogant and self-centered; he could not fully believe that she was no longer an impressionable and unattractive child. There was undeniably lust. He was more beautiful to her eyes now than he had been at eighteen. He had filled out, his features had matured, and his travels had taught him to dress well and bear himself with ease. He was now like a finished gemstone, where at eighteen he had been rough, uncut. The warmth in the pit of her stomach increased as she thought of his hands on her body, of her wish to caress his body. Whatever secrets they each concealed from the other, at least they could enjoy their marriage bed. She slipped from the bed and stood behind him.
“Turn and let me see whether you must change your clothes.”
He smiled as he faced her. Water had marked his coat of superfine, his fine trousers, and his sateen waistcoat. She helped him out of his clothes, revelling in the scent of him, the smoothness of his skin, the neatness of his limbs, the contained strength of his arms. She let her towel fall and led him to their bed. For the moment, lust must suffice to bind them together. Surely, love would follow.
Fifteen
Everyone knew that Daphne Selby had planned something extraordinary for her grand party to mark the start of the shooting season. In past years, she had recreated Venice by the side of her ornamental lake and insisted that everyone come dressed for Carnival; she had found Egyptian dancers who had, to the delight of the gentlemen, gyrated about wearing immodest and diaphanous garments; she had presented a Jacobean masque; and she had directed a troupe of whooping natives from some corner of the lost colonies to replay the massacre of a pilgrim village. Her entertainments could not be considered tasteful, but they were widely acknowledged to be most authentically and convincingly carried out.
On arriving at the Selbys' mansion, guests were bidden to join a throng on the terrace. The crush was great, producing a swell of chatter and laughter, the whole gathering taut with anticipation, ready either to congratulate or to disapprove. Cecilia was flanked by Dacre and Ormiston, who protected her from the crowd. They fought their way through to a suitable vantage point, and Dacre then went in search of refreshment. In the press of bodies, it was easy, Ormiston found, to position himself so that Cecilia could lean back against him, providing him with access to certain sensitive curves without anyone observing his caresses. She looked up at him as his knee nudged her legs apart and he was able to make quite clear to her his interesting state. He leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
“Perhaps we should adjourn to a more secluded spot. I am sure we could find an unoccupied bedroom from where we might view this grand spectacle from above, in far greater comfort.”
Unfortunately, Lazenby appeared at the viscount's elbow, inhibiting Ormiston's more amorous inclinations. Almost immediately, there was a thundering sound, which Cecilia recognized as hooves on damp turf. In the distance, some eight or nine flickering torches appeared and accelerated as they approached the house, glowing orange and red against the darkness of the night. One after another, the riders swooped toward the house, first one, then the next, planting flaming lances into Lady Selby's turf. Once free of their torches, the riders began cantering steadily in the round until they had created a great circle, forming an instant arena for themselves. They whirled their horses around the ring, whooping and shrieking over the drum of the horses' feet. One after another, they stood in their saddles until all nine were upright as their horses evenly pounded around. The riders began a series of tricks, dropping and collecting handkerchiefs from the ground, riding in tandem and swapping from one horse to another, jumping from one side of their mounts to the other, somersaulting off their mounts and hopping back on as the horses steadily pounded around the circle. As a finale, they created a great pyramid, with four men standing on their saddles, supporting three more men who bore aloft a pair of curvaceous young women in breeches.
With every trick, the audience gasped, cheered, and applauded until the riders disappeared into the dark and the company returned indoors to exclaim over the display as they ate their supper before preparing for dancing and the next installment of Mrs. Selby's entertainment.
The squeeze of people was immense. Dacre was keen to use this occasion to introduce his son to as many of his neighbors as possible. This meant neither was at hand when the dancing started. Lazenby had stuck to Cecilia as feathers stick to felt and begged to lead her onto the floor for a country dance. She refused as prettily as she could, aware that being still in half-mourning, she certainly should not be dancing with anyone other than her husband. Lazenby's persistence put her out of charity with him, but she was careful to couch her denial in general terms. He inspired wariness and it had occurred to her that his appearance on the scene all too often coincided with moments of particular tension between Ormiston and herself.
“So what did you think of the Cossack riders?” enquired Lazenby.
“They were amusing, but nothing so very out of the way, I thought. I have seen such tricks before, although it did not take Cossack riders to perform them.”
“How blasé you are, Viscountess! I wish I might ride half so well. I'd have every eligible heiress swooning over me if I could bounce on and off my horse like India rubber.”
“I believe it is not so very difficult to learn such tricks. You must practice regularly, of course, and the less weight one carries the better. But I don't believe that heiresses are so susceptible, and certainly, their trustees would be far happier to see some skill which is less flashy but more lucrative.”
“Such cynical advice. How do you come to know so much about trick riding, my lady?”
“I know very little, other than what I was told by a groom we had at Sawards. He worked in a circus for a time after finishing his apprenticeship and before settling down on the estate.”
“Did he teach you any tricks?”
“He tried, but I was much too clumsy ever to master any of them.”
“I cannot believe it, Lady Cecilia.”
“Well, you may believe it.” Cecilia's eyes flashed with irritation, indicating her clear wish that Lazenby drop the subject. He was intrigued by her discomfort; it was always amusing to bait a friend. Especially when one had in mind a little set-down. He smiled as an idea began to form, the sort of idea which would certainly prove entertaining.
When Ormiston reappeared, Lazenby relinquished his spot at Lady Cecilia's side with good grace and wandered off to inspect what games of chance were already under way. The viscount noted his wife's exasperated expression.
“You seem a touch piqued by our friend Lazenby. Does he pester you?”
“ âPester' is too strong a word. He seems determined to challenge me where possible, as if he is wishing to put me to some test or trial.” Cecilia glanced provocatively at her husband. “If we lived in medieval times, I might believe he is sent by you to test my honor and probity.”
“If I wished to test what I know to be sound, I would be a fool indeed. But if I were such a fool, I hope I would do the testing myself, rather than through an unreliable proxy.” Ormiston raised his wife's hand to kiss it before continuing. “He is playing the same game with us both. He is forever presenting me with a prank or a wager and tries to make me feel foolish or cowardly for failing to take him up on his wilder suggestions. I believe he wishes to use us for his amusement because he is bored. It is petty maliceâif we stand firm against it and seem not to let it trouble us, he will soon give way and seek some other amusement.”
“You read his character most perceptively. I wish we could be done with him but he is your father's friend and we cannot deny him the house.”
“If I had known you felt so strongly, I would have made representations to my father before this. I thought he amused you, but now I find that he irks you, we can easily avoid him and discourage his visits.”
Cecilia was about to reveal to Ormiston the tale of Maria Melchett, who had been pursued by Lazenby and then had her reputation shredded for daring to refuse his advances. The next entertainment was announced, however, and the company fell silent. There followed a tumbling act accompanied by fire-eaters and sword swallowers. It seemed that Mrs. Selby had purchased the complete services of a Muscovite circus. Cecilia enjoyed these tumblers far more than the riders, for she gauged that their skill and dexterity was far greater than that of the horsemen, although the impact was inevitably less, being indoors and enacted under the light of numerous chandeliers.
Afterwards, Cecilia wound her way through the mass of people in the ballroom in an effort to find Mrs. Selby and pay her compliments. She found the lady with Lazenby and steeled herself for further teasing, which duly came. Smiling sweetly and intent on disarming the earl by refusing to rise to his barbs, she offered her compliments on the evening's excitements.
“So you preferred the tumblers to the riders, Lady Cecilia?”
“I did. Their entrance was less dramatic, but their contortions and tricks were far more demanding. They were very fine indeed.”
“That is not the last of our entertainments. I hope you will enjoy our finale as much, my dear. I am sorry to hear you did not think much of the riders. But perhaps their horseflesh was not to your taste.”
“By no means. They had excellent mounts, very well trained. There lay the greatest talent of the troupe.”
“You consider it is all in the horse, then, such riding?”
“By no means, Earl Lazenby. Of course you need a good horse, but it is the rider who performs, using the horse as a stage.” Invited to speak about horseflesh, Cecilia could not resist and was soon carried away by her enthusiasm. “You cannot have a slug of a pony, nor yet a flashy stallion for this sort of riding, but provided you have a middling piece of cattle, well-trained and able to canter steadily for the duration, it is up to the rider to make what he can of these stunts.”
“She sounds most knowledgeable, Mrs. Selbyâso much so, I'd hazard that our viscountess has practiced such tricks herself.”
“If I had ever done so, it would not do to admit it in public.” As soon as Cecilia uttered the words, she wished them unsaid. Lazenby immediately took them as confirmation that she was able to do such tricks, and she knew she would now have no peace from him. So it proved.
“But you might be prepared to admit to it before your friends, surely. A demonstration before a select group could do no harm.”
“If there were anything to acknowledge, perhaps there would be no harm in it. But I am an indifferent horsewoman.” Cecilia knew well enough this would not serve to quell Lazenby.
“Now there, Lady Cecilia, you are talking nonsense, as you well know.” Mrs. Selby robustly prevented her from quashing the subject. “Why, anyone who has seen you on horseback knows full well what a fine seat you have and what delicate hands. We have all of us at one time or another sought to make the most of our skill, and what is any different in this case?”
Disingenuous as Mrs. Selby's comment was, Cecilia strove to defuse it with grace. “Pranks practiced by young girls are one thing, Mrs. Selby, but when we marry, we put such nonsense behind us.”
“Which makes us much the poorer for it. I would give anything to see you ride to the best of your abilityâwhy, I'd even offer Jasper's next foal. What do you say to that?”
“A handsome offer, but I could not accept.”
“Whyever not? I tell you whatâlet us find Dacre and see what he has to say on this matter. He'll not turn down a chance at one of Jasper's offspring.”
Cecilia felt that to protest any further would be to make too much of this foolish plan. She was confident that Dacre and Ormiston would back her in withstanding any pressure to perform before a group. A foal from Mrs. Selby's prize stallion was certainly tempting bait, but she was well aware that the discretion of neither Mrs. Selby nor Lazenby could be relied on, and any display of her hidden talent was likely to be bruited around the county and even as far as London before a week was out. It was not a risk worth taking. Of course, she could weather any storm, but she could not help feeling that any escapade, however minor, would draw unnecessary attention to Ormiston and herself, not to mention bringing a certain reputation to her brother and sister. She did not wish to seem staid, but neither did she want to be known as an exhibitionist.
Naturally, Mrs. Selby was accosted by guests and by her master of ceremonies requiring further instructions, so her quest for Dacre was mercifully diverted. Cecilia also attempted to melt from Lazenby's side, but he held out his arm and tucked her hand firmly into the crook of his elbow.
“You shall not escape me, Lady Cecilia. We will find your menfolk and lay our plan before them. All will be well.”
Naturally, they found Dacre before they found Ormiston. Lazenby began by discussing the possible appearance and quality of Jasper's next crop of foals, setting Dacre to a wistful daydreaming of what he would do with his own collection of hunters and steeplechasers if he could infuse it with the blood of Jasper. Up came Mrs. Selby, who amplified on Jasper's antecedents, which included the Godolphin Arab, or so she claimed.
“We have three mares in foal to Jasper, and I've a mind to keep one of them and sell the other two. Would you be interested?”
“Naturally.”
“What if I were to say there was a way you could get one of the foals without spending a penny?” Mrs. Selby dangled her bait carefully.
“Now, how might that be? What can I have that you want so badly, Mrs. Selby?”
Daphne Selby was direct as ever. “Lady Cecilia was telling me how inferior my Cossack riders were. She herself has had training in this stunt riding, and I would give anythingâeven Jasper's next coltâto see her engage in some vaulting.”
“Good heavens! Where did you come by such tricks, puss?”
“You may remember our man Jem Anderton. He ran away when he was a lad and spent some years at Astley's Amphitheatre, where they had a resident band of stunt riders. But he had little success with me, I am afraid. Mrs. Selby has quite the wrong idea about my abilities in this area.”