Anne Barbour (8 page)

“What?” gasped Winifred, her violet eyes wide and astonished.

“I have been forced to reconsider my decision to let you proceed with your plans.” His voice sounded sententious in his own ears as he continued. “I feel the whole idea of putting on a play is giving your mind an unwholesome tenor, for I am inalterably opposed to your ludicrous idea of a career in the theater.”

“A career in the theater!” echoed Gerard in open admiration. “Really, Winifred? Do you plan to go to London? Why, you’ll take the place by storm!”

Harry, seeming to find no fault in this program, merely nodded his head in vigorous agreement. Simon groaned inwardly.

“Gerard, do try not to be such a booberkin,” said Jane severely. “If Winifred were to go on the stage, she’d be ruined.”

“Oh,” said Gerard. “Hadn’t thought of that. You sure?”

“Yes, she is sure,” interposed Simon. “As am I, so could we have no more discussion of the matter?”

Winifred leaped to her feet, her violet eyes glittering darkly. “But, it is my heart’s dearest wish! How can you be so cruel! I cannot believe my brother would set a ward over me who has so little regard for what I want to do!” She stamped a dainty foot. “I will go to London, you just see if I don’t, my Lord Tyrant, and I will put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

With a petulant rustle of her skirts, she turned on her heel and flounced from the room.

Simon followed her speculatively with his gaze. Curst, unmanageable chit, he thought. Concealing his anger, he turned to Jane.

“I am sure you will wish to see your brother and his friend to their rooms, Miss Burch. I must leave you now to return to my duties.”

He rose, and with a curt bow, moved swiftly from the room.

Oh, dear, thought Jane. His lordship may have demonstrated his abilities as a leader of men in the Peninsula and at Waterloo, but he had a great deal to learn about managing headstrong young females.

Her mind was busy as she shepherded her brother and Harry upstairs, after suggesting to Lord Stedford that he search out Winifred in an effort to soothe her sensibilities. Pleased with herself at seizing this opportunity to throw Winifred and the eligible viscount together, she made plans for another session with Lord Simon. Really, the man must be taken in hand if he were to come to terms with his obstreperous ward.

It was not until well after luncheon that she was able to beard his lordship in his den, for Simon was closeted for most of the day with Mr. Minster, the estate manager. His lordship must have been pleased with the outcome of his conversation, for his voice, when Jane once again scratched for admittance, was cordial as he bade her enter.

“Minster and I have been touring the estate,” he said, beckoning her into the room. “I have been happily surprised at what I have found so far. Selworth is an extraordinarily pleasant place. The house, in particular, is quite beautiful.”

“Yes,” replied Jane enthusiastically. “I’ve always loved it. It was built, I think, early in the last century.”

“By an early Timburton?”

“No, I believe it was built for a Lord Barrington, and it remained in his family until 1770 or so, when it was purchased by Winifred’s grandfather. Old Silas Timburton was a nabob, you know.”

“Yes, so Wilfred told me.”

“At any rate, it is said the architect had just returned from Italy, hence the lovely curving wings and the little courtyard beyond the entrance hall. It was Silas who added the north wing and the orangery. He must have been a man of taste, despite his association with the shop, for I think the new part as lovely as the old.”

They discussed the house and its environs for another few minutes, and Jane found herself enjoying the conversation. She concluded that when Lord Simon was not being managerial, he was a most pleasant companion—informed, intelligent, and endowed with a lively wit. He was also, she noted, very good to look at. His dark hair was once more brushed tidily, but the morning sun beaming through the long windows of the study, spackled it with bronze, and slanted across the strong line of his jaw. He had settled back casually in his chair, and she was struck by the utterly masculine assurance displayed in that lean, taut form. As he toyed first with his quizzing glass, and then with the papers stacked before him, she was shocked to discover herself becoming increasingly mesmerized with the lean strength in his fingers, and her thoughts flew back to the moment when they had lain against her breast.

She shook herself. She had come here for a reason, and she’d better get to it.

“It’s about Winifred,” she said, shifting in her chair.

“Of course, it is,” Simon replied with a sigh. Leaning back, he eyed her warily.

“As I told you earlier,” Jane began, “I am in complete agreement with your disapproval of her plans to become an actress.”

“You relieve my mind,” responded Simon dryly.

“However,” continued Jane as though he had not spoken, “I am not so sure it is wise to forbid her to put on this play.”

Simon frowned. “Oh?”

“It serves no purpose,” said Jane with some asperity, “to put her back up for no good reason.”

The frown became more pronounced. “I thought I had an excellent reason.”

“You mean the tenor of her mind?” Jane shifted in her chair and tapped the desk for emphasis. “Do you really think forbidding her to put on a play is going to sway her from her purpose? The only thing you will accomplish is to harden her resolve. Believe me, my lord, I know Winifred. She is stubborn as a pig, and unless you plan to barricade yourself here in this room with wads of cotton in your ears, she will make your life a living hell until you give in to her.”

The frown phased into a black scowl. “Do you really think,Miss Burch, that I will give in to the demands of a featherheaded, spoiled young miss scarcely out of the schoolroom? If she continues to treat me to tirades, I shall simply confine her to her room.”

Jane chuckled. “And when we have visitors? You cannot claim she is down with a putrid sore throat forever. Sooner or later she will have some contact with the outside world, at which time she will broadcast such an exaggerated tale of your cruel iniquity that there won’t be a single member of the county gentry willing to give you the time of day.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Simon. “You can’t—“

“I speak from experience,” said Jane calmly. “That’s what happened the one and only time Millicent attempted to restrain her from one of her starts.”

“Good God!” Simon was completely indifferent to the opinion of the neighbors, but what about his expected guest, Charles, the Earl of Wye? Winifred must be taught that she was no longer dealing with a shatter-brained stepmother. However, he most assuredly did not want Charles to arrive to find the household in chaos and himself immersed in a pitched battle with his intransigent ward.

“Very well,” he said stiffly. “I shall inform her that I have reconsidered my decision. Would you be so good as to find her and ask her to come see me?”

“Certainly,” said Jane, smiling in relief. “I believe she is with Lord Stedford.”

“Lord Stedford? Marcus?” The cold feeling returned to the pit of Simon’s stomach. “What the devil is she doing with him?”

“Why, ah . . .” Jane’s face was blank with bewilderment. “When we all left the Crimson Saloon, I suggested to him that he search her out in the rose bower. That’s where she usually goes to work off her temper.”

“I see,” returned Simon frigidly. “You did not think she could manage to work off her temper by herself?”

Jane was more than a little taken aback, and a small, cold hand closed about her heart. He was disturbed by Lord Stedford’s attraction to his ward. “Well—I—that is ...”

Simon gestured impatiently. “Never mind. Forgive my being so abrupt.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “To tell you the truth, Miss Burch, I am in the devil of a coil.”

Jane lifted her darkened brows. Were they normally that color? Simon wondered. They seemed formed of sable tips and were startling beneath the pale silver of her hair. He came to himself with a jerk. Lord, what had made him speak of his problems? He was not in the habit of discussing his personal affairs with strangers. He opened his mouth to utter a dismissal, and in some astonishment heard himself relate the circumstances that had led to his journey to Hampshire. Having been slightly acquainted with Wilfred, his tale of woe concerning Wilfred and his dying wish that he take over the responsibility for Selworth and for Winifred earned Jane’s ready sympathy. Simon omitted the ticking-clock aspect of his problem. For some reason he was reluctant to divulge to this engaging but exasperating female his necessity to get Winifred signed on the dotted line within the month, or the consequences of the failure thereof.

“I am a plain man, Miss Burch,” he concluded. “It is my most urgent wish to get Winifred married off so I can put Selworth on the market and return to my own home. I wish nothing more than to marry and settle down to life as a country squire. I have a great many plans for Ashwood, and I’m anxious to begin.”

“Of course,” said Jane, startled. “Will you be married soon?” she continued, immediately appalled at her own temerity, “Do you intend to bring your fiancée to Selworth for a visit?”

“As a matter of fact,” replied Simon stiffly, “I am not betrothed as yet.”

“Ah,” said Jane, her heart unaccountably lifting. Her glance fell to her lap again until, recalled abruptly to her Grand Design. “Winifred is a very beautiful girl, do you not think?” she asked innocently.

Lord Simon’s expression darkened. “You have the delicacy of a street thug, Miss Burch. I would like to choose my own wife, if you do not mind, and Winifred is probably the last woman in the world I would consider for such a position.”

“Oh,” said Jane, scarcely breathing.

“No. The woman I marry will be even-tempered and sensible. She will be a comfortable sort of person, and biddable,” Simon continued, warming to his subject, “yet capable of running a gentleman’s home.” And why I am telling you all this, you beautiful little witch, I have no idea, he concluded silently. Ump, thought Jane, feeling an odd heaviness in her heart, he certainly knows what he wants in a wife. If he doesn’t fancy Winifred—well-—good, then. She felt free to pair Winifred with the viscount. “I am so happy to hear you say that, my lord—about Winifred,” said Jane enthusiastically. “For, although I agree it doesn’t sound as though she would do for you, I think a good husband is just what Winifred needs.” She gazed at him, all wide-eyed eagerness, and Simon felt a stirring of unease. What was the little minx up to now?

“I wonder, Miss Burch, if we could dispense of ‘my lord”? And ‘Miss Burch,’ as well. Could we not, in the confines of the house, at least, be Simon and Jane?”

Jane stiffened. “Oh, no, my lord. That would not be proper.”

“You are quite right, of course. I am pleased to see you have an appreciation for the proprieties. Does this mean you plan to cease galloping hell for leather across the fields in shirt and breeches?”

Jane flushed and lifted her chin. “Touché, my lo—Simon. All right.  But only here in the house, of course.”

“Of course.”

The thudding of Jane’s heart sounded loud in her ears in the silence of the room. She became aware of a sudden sense of intimacy surrounding them. She rose quickly.

“I—I’ll just go and find Winifred,” she said, a little breathlessly.

“Good,” Simon returned, and it seemed to Jane that he must be displeased about something because his voice had become suddenly harsh. “One other thing, Mi—Jane. I intend to make it plain to Winifred that I do not intend to participate in her little project.”

Jane cast him a skeptical glance and hurried from the room.

A week or so later, Simon stood upon a podium erected at the far end of the Crimson Saloon, manuscript in hand, scowling furiously.

“No, no. Lord Simon,” caroled Winifred. “This is a light-hearted moment for Lysander. You must try to infuse your tone with joy.”

“Dam—’-dash it, I don’t feel joyous. I feel ridiculous. I cannot think why I am doing this.”

“Because you are so very kind, my lord.”

Like hell, thought Simon. It was that blasted Burch woman again. She had inveigled him into this without so much as drawing a deep breath. Why the devil was it that every time she sought him out, he found himself so lost in the mysterious depths of her moonlit eyes that he agreed to things that he would certainly never consider were he in his right mind? Somehow, he had momentarily lost control of the situation. It was a feeling he was wholly unused to and he did not like it above half. The wretched female must be part witch!

His attention was caught by Marc, who stood next to Winifred, his hand on her shoulder. That was another thing. Marc’s continued proximity to Winifred was making him extremely uneasy. They spent hours rehearsing scenes from the play, discussing how it should be produced, and wrangling over the casting. Look at the way she was flapping her lashes at him. In addition to all his other problems, it appeared that he was going to have to spend all his time—when he wasn’t making a fool of himself in laurel leaves and a short skirt—keeping Marc safe from that predatory goddess.

Dammit all to hell, anyway.

“Now,” continued Winifred, “since I have not yet found anyone to play Hermia, Jane will take on the role in this scene.”

Simon glanced at Jane. Dressed in a gown of jonquil muslin whose modest folds did little to conceal the lithe curves beneath them, she perched on the back of a nearby settee, watching the proceedings with barely concealed mirth. At the sound of her name, she hopped to her feet. “Ready,” she called.

“Good,” said Winifred. “Shall we start at the top of page five, where Lysander and Hermia speak together? Lord Simon, you are over there—between the chairs I set up. As you speak you will move to Jane. Jane, you are over here, seated on this ottoman.”

Moving in the direction indicated by Winifred’s pointed finger, Simon strode into the space cleared of furniture in the Crimson Saloon. Coming to an awkward halt before Jane, he recited stiffly, “ ‘How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?’ ”