Almost Heaven (20 page)

Elizabeth prepared for another battle of wits – or witlessness, she thought with an inner smile – and dutifully followed the butler down a dark hall furnished in brown and into a very large study where the earl was seated in a maroon chair at a desk on her right.

“You wished to see –” she began as she stepped into his study, but something on the wall beside her brushed against her hair. Elizabeth turned her head, expecting to see a portrait hanging there, and instead found herself eye-to-fang with an enormous bear’s head. The little scream that tore from her was very real this time, although it owed to shock, not to fear.

“It’s quite dead,” the earl said in a voice of weary resignation, watching her back away from his most prized hunting trophy with her hand over her mouth.

Elizabeth recovered instantly, her gaze sweeping over the wall of hunting trophies, then she turned around.

“You may take your hand away from your mouth,” he stated. Elizabeth fixed him with another accusing glare, biting her lip to hide her smile. She would have dearly loved to hear how he had stalked that bear or where he had found that monstrous big boar, but she knew better than to ask. “Please, my lord,” she said instead, “tell me these poor creatures didn’t die at your hands.”

“I’m afraid they did. Or more correctly, at the point of my gun. Please sit down.” He nodded toward an overstuffed leather wingback chair in front of his desk, and Elizabeth settled into its enveloping comfort. “Tell me, if you will,” he inquired, his eyes softening as he gazed upon her upturned face, “in the event we were wed, how would you envision our lives together?”

Elizabeth hadn’t expected such a frontal attack and she both respected him for it and was disconcerted by it. Taking a long breath, she tried systematically to describe the sort of life she knew he’d probably loathe: “Naturally, we’d live in London,” she began, leaning forward in her chair in a pose of eager enthusiasm. “I do so adore the city and its amusements.”

His brows drew together at the mention of living in London. “What sort of amusements do you enjoy?”  

“Amusements?” Elizabeth said brightly, considering. “Balls and routs and the opera. I adore giving balls and attending them. In fact, I simply cannot bear to miss a ball. Why, during my season there were days I managed to make it to as many as fifteen different balls! And I adore gambling,” she added, trying to give him the impression that she would cost him a great deal more than the dowry she would bring. “I have dreadful luck, however, and am forever having to borrow money.”

“I see,” he said. “Is there anything else?” Elizabeth faltered, feeling she ought to think of more, his steady, speculative gaze was unnerving her. “What else matters in life,” she said with forced gaiety, “other than balls and gaming and sophisticated companions?”

His face had grown so thoughtful that Elizabeth sensed he was working up the courage to cry off, and she waited in expectant silence so as not to distract him. The moment he began to speak, she knew he was going to do it because his speech became awkward, as it seemed to do whenever he addressed her on matters he perceived to be important. “Lady . . . er . . .” he began lamely, running his fingers around his neckcloth.

“Cameron,” Elizabeth provided helpfully.

“Yes – Cameron,” he agreed, and he fell silent for a moment, regathering his thoughts. “Lady Cameron,” he began, “I am a simple country lord without any aspirations to spend the season in London and cut a dash among the
ton.
I go there as seldom as possible. I can see that disappoints you.”

Elizabeth nodded sadly.

“I greatly fear,” he said, flushing at the neck, “that we won’t suit, Lady . . . er . . .” He trailed off uneasily at his rudeness.

“Cameron,” Elizabeth provided, eager to have him complete his thought.

“Yes, of course. Cameron. I knew that. What I was trying to say was that . . . ah . . .”

“We won’t suit?” Elizabeth prodded helpfully.

“Exactly!” Misintepreting her last sentence as being her own thought instead of his, he sighed with relief and nodded emphatically. “I must say I’m happy to hear you agree with me.”

“Naturally, I regret that this is so,” Elizabeth added kindly, feeling that some sort of balm was due him for the emotional torment she’d put him through at the stream. “My uncle will be most disappointed also,” she continued. It was all she could do not to leap to her feet and put the quill in his hand as she added, “Would you like to write to him now and explain your decision?”

“Our
decision,” he corrected gallantly.

“Yes, but . . .” She hesitated, framing her answer carefully. “My uncle will be so very disappointed, and I-I shouldn’t like him to lay the blame at my door.” Sir Francis might well have blamed her in his inevitable letter to her uncle, and she didn’t dare risk having the earl do likewise. Uncle Julius was no fool, and she couldn’t risk his retribution if he realized she’d been deliberately discouraging her beaux and intentionally thwarting him.

“I see,” he said, observing her with disturbing concentration, then he picked up a quill and trimmed it. A sigh of relief escaped Elizabeth as she watched him write his note. “Now that that distasteful matter is out of the way, may I ask you something?” he said, shoving the note aside.

Elizabeth nodded happily.

“Why did you come here – that is, why did you agree to reconsider my proposal?”

The question alarmed and startled her. Now that she’d seen him she had only the dimmest, possibly even erroneous recollection of having spoken to him at a ball. Moreover, she couldn’t tell him she was in danger of being cut off by her uncle, for that whole explanation was too humiliating to bear mentioning.

He waited for her to reply, and when she seemed unable to give one he prompted, “Did I do or say something during our brief meetings the year before last to mislead you, perhaps, into believing I might yearn for the city life?”

“It’s hard to say,” Elizabeth said with absolute honesty.

”Lady Cameron, do you even remember our meeting?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Certainly,” Elizabeth replied, belatedly recalling a man who looked very like him being presented to her at Lady Markham’s. That was it! “We met at Lady Markham’s ball.”

His gaze never left her face. “We met in the park.”

“In the park?” Elizabeth repeated in sublime embarrassment.

“You had stopped to admire the flowers, and the young gentleman who was your escort that day introduced us.”

“I see,” Elizabeth replied. her gaze skating away from his.

“Would you care to know what we discussed that day and the next day when I escorted you back to the park?” Curiosity and embarrassment warred, and curiosity won out.

“Yes, I would.”

“Fishing.”

“F-Fishing?” Elizabeth gasped.

He nodded. “Within minutes after we were introduced I mentioned that I had not come to London for the Season, as you supposed, but that I was on my way to Scotland to do some fishing and was leaving London the very next day.”

An awful feeling of foreboding crept over Elizabeth as something stirred in her memory. “We had a charming chat,” he continued. “You spoke enthusiastically of a particularly challenging trout you were once able to land.”

Elizabeth’s face felt as hot as red coals as he continued, “We quite forgot the time and your poor escort as we shared fishing stories.”

He was quiet, waiting, and when Elizabeth couldn’t endure the damning silence anymore she said uneasily, “Was there . . . more?”

“Very little. I did not leave for Scotland the next day but stayed instead to call upon you. You abandoned the half-dozen young bucks who’d come to escort you to some sort of fancy soiree and chose instead to go for another impromptu walk in the park with me.”

Elizabeth swallowed audibly, unable to meet his eyes. “Would you like to know what we talked about that day?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

He chuckled but ignored her reply. “You professed to be somewhat weary of the social whirl and confessed to a longing to be in the country that day – which is why we went to the park. We had a charming time, I thought.”

When he fell silent, Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze and say with resignation, “And we talked of fishing?”

“No,” he said. “Of boar hunting.” Elizabeth closed her eyes in sublime shame. “You related an exciting tale of a wild boar your father had shot long ago, and of how you watched the hunt without permission – from the very tree below which the boar was ultimately felled. As I recall,” he finished kindly, “you told me that it was your impulsive cheer that revealed your hiding place to the hunters – and that caused you to be seriously reprimanded by your father.”

Elizabeth saw the twinkle lighting his eyes, and suddenly they both laughed.

“I remember your laugh, too,” he said, still smiling, “I thought it was the loveliest sound imaginable. So much so that between it and our delightful conversation I felt very much at ease in your company.” Realizing he’d just flattered her, he flushed, tugged at his neckcloth, and self-consciously looked away.

Seeing his discomfort, Elizabeth waited until he’d recovered his composure and was looking at her. “I remember you, too,” she said, tipping her head sideways when he started to turn his head and refusing to let him break their gaze. “I do,” she said quietly and honestly. “I had forgotten until just a moment ago.”

He looked gratified and puzzled as he leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Why did you choose to reconsider my proposal, when I scarcely made the merest impression on you?”

He was so nice, so kind, that Elizabeth felt she owed him a truthful answer. Moreover, she was rapidly revising her opinion of Lord Marchman’s acuity. Now that the possibility of romantic involvement had vanished, his speech had become incisive and his perception alarmingly astute.

“You might as well confide the whole of it to me, you know,” he urged, smiling as he read her thoughts. “I’m not quite the simpleton I’m sure I’ve seemed to be. It is only that I am not . . . er . . . comfortable around females in a courtship situation. Since I am not going to be your husband, however,” he said with only a twinge of regret, “perhaps we could be friends?”

Elizabeth knew instinctively that he would not mock her situation if she explained it, and that he would continue probing until she did. “It was my uncle’s decision,” she said with an embarrassed smile, trying to gloss matters over and still explain to him why he’d been put through this inconvenience. “My uncle has no children, you see, and he is most determined that is, concerned to see me well wed. He knew of those gentlemen who’d offered for me – and so my uncle that is to say . . .” Elizabeth trailed off helplessly. It was not so easy to explain as she’d hoped.

“Selected me?” the earl suggested. Elizabeth nodded. “Amazing. I distinctly recall hearing that you’d had several – no,
many
offers of marriage the Season we met. Yet your uncle chose me. I must say I’m flattered. And very surprised. Considering the substantial difference in our ages, not to mention our interests, I should have expected him to choose a younger man. I apologize for prying,” he said, studying her very closely.

Elizabeth almost bolted out of her chair in dismay when he asked bluntly, “Who
else
did he chose?”

Biting her lip, she looked away, unaware that Lord Marchman could see from her stricken expression that although the question embarrassed her, the answer distressed her terribly.

“Whoever he is, he must be even less suited to you than I, from the look on your face,” he said, watching her. “Shall I guess? Or shall I tell you frankly that an hour ago, when I returned, I overheard your aunt and your coachman laughing about something that occurred at the home of Sir Francis Belhaven. Is Belhaven the other man?” he asked gently.

The color drained from Elizabeth’s face, and it was answer enough.

“Damnation!” expostulated the earl, grimacing in revulsion. “The very thought of an innocent like yourself being offered to that old –”

“I’ve dissuaded him,” Elizabeth hastily assured him, but she was profoundly touched that the earl, who knew her so slightly, was angered on her behalf.

“You’re certain?”

“I think so.”

After a moment’s hesitation he nodded and leaned back in his chair, his disturbingly astute gaze on her face while a slow smile drifted across his own. “May I ask how you accomplished it?”

‘I’d truly rather you wouldn’t.”

Again he nodded, but his smile widened and his blue eyes lit with amusement. “Would I be far off the mark if I were to assume you used the same tactics on Marchman that I think you’ve used here?”

“I’m – not certain I understand your question,” Elizabeth replied warily, but his grin was innocuous, and she found herself having to bite her lip to stop from smiling back at him.

“Well, either the interest you exhibited in fishing two years ago was real, or it was your courteous way of putting me at ease and letting me talk about the things that interested me. If the former is true, then I can only assume your terror of fish yesterday isn’t quite . . . shall we say . . . as profound as you would have had me believe?”

They looked at each other, he with a knowing smile, Elizabeth with brimming laughter. “Perhaps it is not
quite
so profound, my lord.”

His eyes positively twinkled. “Would you care to make a try for that trout you cost me this morning? He’s still out there taunting me, you know.”

Elizabeth burst out laughing, and the earl joined her. When their laughter had died away Elizabeth looked across the desk at him, feeling as if they were truly friends. It would have been so lovely to sit by the stream without her slippers, waiting to test her own considerable skill with pole and line. On the other hand, she wanted neither to put him to the inconvenience of keeping them as house guests nor to risk that he might change his mind about their betrothal. “All things considered,” she said slowly, “I think it best if my aunt and I were on our way tomorrow to our last . . . to our destination.”

The next day dawned clear and fine with birds singing outside in the trees and sun shining gaily in an azure sky. Unfortunately, it was one of those days when solutions to the problems of the night before did
not
automatically present themselves, and as Lord Marchman handed Berta and her into their coach Elizabeth had still not resolved her dilemma. She could not remain here now that her task was accomplished; on the other hand, the prospect of arriving at Ian Thornton’s home in Scotland, nearly a fortnight before she was expected and with Berta instead of Lucinda, did not appeal to her at all. In order to confront
that
man, she wanted Lucinda with her – Lucinda, who cowered before no one and who would be able to advise Elizabeth when advice was needed. The obvious solution was therefore to proceed to the inn where Lucinda was to meet them and to remain there until she arrived. Uncle Julius, with typical reverence for a shilling and unswerving practicality, had worked out what he called a budget and had given her only enough extra money to cover emergencies. Elizabeth told herself this was an emergency and resolved to spend the money and worry about explanations later.

Aaron was still waiting for instruction as to where to go, and Elizabeth made up her mind. “To Carlington, Aaron,” she said. “We’ll wait for Lucinda at the inn there.”

Turning, she smiled with genuine affection at Lord Marchman and offered him her hand through the open window of the coach. “Thank you,” she said shyly but with great sincerity, “for being all the things you are, my lord.”

His face scarlet with pleasure at her compliment, John Marchman stepped back and watched her coach pull out of his drive. He watched it until the horses turned onto the road, then he slowly walked back toward the house and went into his study. Sitting down at his desk, he looked at the note he’d written her uncle and idly drummed his fingers upon his’ desk, recalling her disturbing answer when he asked if she’d dissuaded old Belhaven from pressing his suit. “I
think I have.”
she’d said. And then John made his decision.

Feeling rather like an absurd knight in shining armor rushing to save an unwilling damsel in the event of future distress, he took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote out a new message to her uncle. As it always happened the moment courtship was involved, Lord Marchman lost his ability to be articulate. His note read:

If Belhaven asks for her, please advise me of it. I think I want her first.

CHAPTER 11

Ian Thornton stood in the center of the large cottage in Scotland where he had been born. Now he used it as a hunting box, but it was much more than that to him. It was the place where he knew he could always find peace and reality; the one place where he could escape, for a while, the hectic pace of his life. With his hands thrust deep in his pockets he looked about him, seeing it again through the eyes of an adult. “Every time I come back it’s smaller than I remembered,” he told the ruddy-faced, middle-aged man who was trudging through the front doors with heavy sacks of provisions slung over his shoulder.

“Things always look bigger when yer little,” Jake said, unceremoniously dumping the sacks onto the dusty sideboard. “That’s the lot o’ it, ‘cept my gear,” he said. He pulled his pistol out of his belt and put it on the table. “I’ll put the horses away.”

Ian nodded absently, but his attention was on the cottage. An aching nostalgia swelled inside him as he remembered the years he’d lived here as a child. In his heart he heard his father’s deep voice and his mother’s answering laughter. To his right was the hearth where his mother had once prepared their meals before the arrival of their stove. At right angles to the hearth were the two tan high-backed chairs in which his parents had spent long, cozy evenings before the fire, talking in low voices so that Ian and his younger sister wouldn’t be disturbed in their bedrooms above. Across from that was a sofa upholstered in a sturdy tan and brown plaid.

It was all here, just as Ian remembered. Turning, he looked down at the dust-covered table beside him, and with a smile he reached out and touched the surface, his long fingers searching the surface for a specific set of scratches. It took several seconds of rubbing, but slowly they came into view-four clumsily formed letters: I.G.B.T. – his initials, scratched into the surface when he was a little over three years old. That piece of mischief had nearly gotten him a good shaking until his mother realized he’d been teaching himself his letters without her help.

His lessons had begun the next day, and when his mother’s considerable learning had been exhausted his father took over, teaching him geometry and physics and everything he’d learned at Eton and Cambridge. When Ian was fourteen, Jake Wiley had joined the household as a jack-of-all-trades, and from him Ian had learned firsthand of the sea, and ships, and mysterious lands on the other side of the world. Later he had gone with Jake to see them himself and to put his education to use.

He’d returned home three years afterward, eager to see his family, only to discover that a few days earlier they had died in a fire at an inn where they had gone to await his impending return. Even now Ian felt the wrenching loss of his mother and father, the proud man who had turned his back on his noble heritage and instead married the sister of a poor Scottish vicar. By his actions he had forfeited a dukedom . . . and had never given a blessed damn. Or so he said. The poignancy of being here after two long years was almost past bearing, and Ian tipped his head back, closing his eyes against the bittersweet ache of it. He saw his father grinning and shaking his hand as Ian prepared to depart on his first voyage with Jake. “Take care,” he had said. “Remember, no matter how far you go, we’ll always be with you.”

Ian had left that day, the impecunious son of a disowned English lord whose entire fortune was a small bag of gold his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday. Now, fourteen years later, there were fleets of ships flying Ian’s flag and carrying his cargo; mines filled with his silver and tin; warehouses loaded with precious goods that he owned. But it was land that had originally made him rich. A large parcel of barren-looking land that he’d won at cards from a colonial who swore the old mine there had gold in it. And it had. Gold that bought more mines, and ships, and palatial homes in Italy and India.