Candice Hern (21 page)

"Even so," Penelope said, "I could swear there was something else distracting her. Do you think Beatrice has found a lover and not told us about it?"

"I don't think so," Marianne said. "She really is too busy with young Emily. I believe that girl is a bit willful and demanding. Poor Beatrice was probably exhausted, not distracted."

"Perhaps. We shall quiz her when we return. In the meantime," Penelope said as she nudged Marianne in the ribs, "we will entertain ourselves with the details of
your
love affair."

Marianne sincerely hoped there would be details worth repeating.

Sherwood stood behind Marianne's chair and bent his head close to hers to speak in her ear. There was no mistaking the look in the young man's eyes. He was planning their assignation.

Adam stifled a groan and turned away.

The guests had gathered in the main drawing room after supper. Several of the ladies had taken turns on the pianoforte, including Marianne, who had acquitted herself nicely with a Nicolini air. Others had sung, including Clarissa, who had a clear, sweet voice. She was obviously uncomfortable singing before an audience, but Mrs. Leighton-Blair insisted she do so, just as she had done during Adam's visit to their estate in Wiltshire. Clarissa's singing was pretty and enjoyable, even if not particularly accomplished. Her mother no doubt recognized it as her one true talent, and determined to showcase it whenever possible. Though now that Clarissa was betrothed, Adam thought, the woman could have allowed the girl a respite.

She was more composed when her friend Jane Stillman joined her in a duet of "Roses and Woodbines So Sweetly That Bloom." She was entirely at ease by the time Sherwood, who had a surprisingly fine voice, joined her in "The Moon-Beam Plays on Yonder Grove."

But the entertainment had come to an end, and Lady Presteign had announced her intention to retire for the evening. Following her lead, the other ladies rose and prepared to quit the room. Marianne smiled up at Sherwood and he stepped around to the front of her chair and offered his arm. Good Lord, was he bold enough to escort her to her bedchamber and follow her inside, for everyone to see? Surely not. His stiff-rumped sister would never countenance such a thing.

Adam wondered how he could legitimately absent himself from his own bedchamber so he would not be tempted to listen to what went on in the one next door. Should he go for a long walk? Should he hole up in the library with a book? A game of cards would be a welcome distraction.

Yes, a game of cards. That's what he wanted. And perhaps a steaming bowl of rum punch.

"I say, Sherwood, since the ladies are leaving us, how about a few hands of cards for the gentlemen?" The words were out before Adam had time to consider them. He had wished for some obligation that kept Sherwood out of Marianne's bed. It just occurred to him that perhaps he could create one.

"Capital idea," Gerald Leighton-Blair said, and rubbed his hands together.

His wife sent him a sharp look, which he ignored. Apparently Clarissa's father was happy for an excuse to stay away from his wife's bed. With so many guests, each of the married couples had been obliged to share a bed, something they probably seldom did in their own homes with their separate chambers and suites of rooms.

Would Adam and Clarissa keep separate rooms? He rather hoped they would not, but suspected she might feel otherwise.

"Yes, Sherwood, let's have some cards," Lord Havering said. "I do hate to make an early night of it. No need to keep country hours so close to town, eh?"

Some of the other gentlemen voiced their approval and Sherwood, who did not look at all pleased, was stuck. As host, he could hardly deny his guests' wishes.

He managed a polite smile. "Then cards it shall be." He signaled to his butler. "Hibbert, have the Green Room set up with tables for cards, and make sure the fire is built up."

The gentleman bade the ladies good night. Adam kissed Clarissa's ungloved hand and she actually returned a bright smile without flinching at his touch. Perhaps she was becoming accustomed to him at last. He bowed over her mother's hand as well.

"I do hope you will not be up until all hours," she said. "Lord Julian has promised an excursion to Box Hill tomorrow. Mr. Leighton-Blair will need his rest."

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

She nodded and took her daughter by the arm and left the drawing room. She had not noticed, or so Adam hoped, that he had agreed to nothing more than the fact that her husband needed his rest. He made no promises about late hours. In fact, Adam hoped to make it as late an evening as possible.

He watched Sherwood speaking softly to Marianne and then turned to find Rochdale at his side.

"You are a raving idiot, Cazenove, as evidenced by that self-satisfied grin. You cannot hope to postpone the inevitable forever. He's going to have her."

"But perhaps not tonight, if I can help it."

"But tomorrow, or some other night. He
will
have her. Get over it, old boy."

Adam winced. Rochdale, with his no-nonsense attitude, always had the ability to make Adam feel like a fool. "You are right, of course. But I did not plan this, I assure you. It was pure impulse. I saw them whispering, and I simply could not help myself."

"Well I, for one, do not appreciate this deuced impulse of yours. I have a lady waiting, too."

The gentlemen were herded by Sherwood into the Green Room, an elegant though masculine room with dark green walls and gleaming woodwork. A fire blazed in the grate and candles burned bright on every surface. Three tables had been set up and chairs arranged round them. Several wine decanters and rows of glasses lined a sideboard. It was not nearly enough for what Adam had in mind.

"I have heard," he said, "that you make a very fine punch, Sherwood."

Since most men were proud of their own special punch recipes, it was not too wide a shot, and it hit its mark.

Sherwood puffed up with pride and said, "I am honored to know my punch has found a measure of fame. I do indeed have an excellent recipe. The best you have ever tasted, I promise you."

"Is it your father's recipe, boy?" Leighton-Blair asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Then I can testify to its excellence," Leighton-Blair said. "Warminster always served the best rum punch I ever had."

"Then we must have some, Sherwood," Sir Neville Kenyon said. "For until you have proved otherwise, I will have to consider my own recipe superior. I propose we have a taste so we can properly judge."

"Done," Sherwood said. He asked a footman to bring the punch bowl as well as rum, brandy, lemons, sugar, and nutmeg.

"You had better bring enough for several bowls," Lord Havering said. "It will take more than one to determine its superiority."

Bless you, Havering, you silly pup.

There was nothing like a good, strong rum punch to get a man well and truly drunk before he knew what hit him.

Decks of cards were placed on the tables, and the men began to arrange themselves about the room. Sherwood passed around a box of Spanish cigarillos and poured wine for those who wanted it. By the time the footman returned with a large blue and white porcelain punch bowl, the room with thick with sweet smoke and rowdy laughter.

It had all the makings of a very long night.

Adam smiled and took a seat.

* * *

It was a good thing she'd been given the largest bedchamber. It gave Marianne lots of room to pace. And wait.

Now that the thing was finally going to happen, she wished they could get on with it. The waiting only made it worse.

Julian had whispered in her ear that he hoped she would allow him to visit her later. She had agreed, and they had shared a warm look of anticipation. Then Adam had spoiled everything by calling for cards. Did he not know how anxious she was for this evening with Julian to happen?

Of course he knew. He was the one who'd told her to relax. How could she relax when she had no idea when, or even if, Julian was coming? How long would their card games last?

Knowing Julian would not be able to come to her right away, Marianne had taken advantage of the added time to prepare for him. She had donned her prettiest pink silk nightgown and matching silk wrapper. She had taken her hair down and brushed it until it shone. She did not braid it. There was nothing seductive about a thick, matronly plait hanging down one's back. She knew that much, at least, and not to wear a cap. Julian would want to see her hair loose, and so she let it fall straight and thick past her shoulders.

She had dabbed a drop of her favorite tuberose fragrance behind each ear and on her wrists. Not too much. She did not want to overpower him with scent. Just enough to be tantalizing. She hoped.

All the steps of preparation had worked to calm her nerves. But then the waiting began, and anxiety returned in full force. Would he find her desirable? Would he love her slowly and tenderly and not so roughly as he'd kissed her? Would she have the courage to ask for gentleness if he did not? Would he touch her in ways David never had? Would his body be different from David's? Would her body respond to his lovemaking as it ought? Would it be as wonderful and exciting as Penelope said?

Her nerves had reached a fevered pitch when a soft knock sounded at the door. She had not expected him so soon. She took a deep breath and opened the door, only to find a maid holding a tray.

"Beg pardon, ma'am. I am Ginny, Her Grace of Hertford's maid. She asked me to bring this to you."

The tray held a small cordial glass filled with a dark liquid and a larger wine glass filled with bright red wine.

"There is a note, too," Ginny said, and held out the tray.

Marianne took the tray, keeping it balanced so as not to slosh the liquid. "Thank Her Grace for me, Ginny."

"Yes, ma'am. Good night, ma'am."

Marianne closed the door and took the tray over to the nightstand where she could more easily read by the light of the candle. She unfolded the note, written in Wilhelmina's oddly childish scrawl.

Here are too importent items for yor speshel nite. The first is a aprikot cordial that Hertford taught me to make. Drink it all before Lord Julian arrives, and you will be relacts and reddy for him. The claret is laced with juniper juse. Drink it afterwerds to protect yorself from any unexpected developmint.

Enjoy yorself!

- W

She was such a dear. How very thoughtful. She knew Marianne was nervous, and wanted to help, bless her kind heart. And she had not, in fact, thought of protection. She still assumed conception was unlikely, but she appreciated the insurance against it nonetheless.

Marianne took a sip of the cordial, and almost lost her footing. It was extremely potent. Good heavens, her insides were on fire! It was a good thing she had not tossed back the entire glassful in one swallow. She would have collapsed in a dead heap on the floor, and wouldn't that have been a nice way for Julian to find her?

She took tiny sips until she grew accustomed to its warm, tingly path down her throat. It was not long before she discovered she enjoyed that fiery tingle. Its warmth spread through her body, making her feel loose and languorous.

Thank you, Wilhelmina
.

Marianne thought she might actually be able to relax and enjoy whatever Julian did.

She looked over at the bed, where it would all happen. It was a grand, stately bed with a huge canopy and heavy curtains — a bed meant for something more regal and important than plain Mrs. Nesbitt. It had grown chilly last night and she had pulled the bed-curtains closed, feeling very cozy and warm.

How would it feel to be cocooned in that dark warmth with Julian?

She wandered over to a pier glass and studied herself in the mirror. The pink silk clung to every curve, leaving little to the imagination. What would Julian think of her body? It was not as firm as it once was, but still slender. Her breasts and hips had grown more womanly, more curvaceous. But he was younger than Marianne. Would he think she looked too old? Not fresh enough?

Lord, she was going to work herself up into another frenzy of anxiety. It did not matter what he thought of her body. She could not change it, after all. He would have to accept her as she was, and that was that.

Several hours later, she had ceased to care what Julian thought of her. Damn Adam for keeping him busy and making her wait.

* * *

Adam chuckled softly as he surveyed the state of the formerly elegant Green Room. It looked like something Hogarth might have painted, one of those lesson paintings about the evils of excess.

Chairs were scattered about in disarray, two of them overturned. Bits of clothing were draped over various pieces of furniture — a neckcloth here, a waistcoat there – and a fine bottle green coat dangled from a wall sconce. Playing cards were scattered about willy-nilly. The men had ceased playing hours ago, when those remaining had been too foxed to see the spots on the cards. Empty wine and punch glasses littered every table. More than one had tipped over with its contents spilled across the table and onto the floor. One was broken at the stem. Another was shattered in the fire grate. Butts of cigarillos dotted table tops, were strewn about the floor, floated in punch glasses, and even bobbed in the overflowing chamber pots.

The punch bowl sat drained, but for the dregs, on the center table, surrounded by empty rum and brandy bottles, a bowl of crushed lemons, an overturned sugar bowl with its bits and chunks scattered about — the sugar tongs were under the table — and a fine silver nutmeg grater with its nut falling out.

It had been an uproarious evening, especially after the third bowl of punch, by which time Sherwood's precise recipe had been ignored, and anything and everything was flung into the bowl.

Leighton-Blair was sprawled on a sofa, snoring loudly. Young Lord Havering was passed out in a chair, his head on the table. Rochdale and Tolliver had left hours ago, obviously more interested in assignations upstairs than a rowdy drinking party. Adam had a vague memory of Ingleby sneaking off to some lady's room as well. Had he mentioned the lady's name? Adam could not recall. Stillman, Kenyon, and Troutbeck had also left at some point, though Adam wasn't sure when. He'd been too busy making sure Sherwood imbibed more than his share.