Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (31 page)

When their taste buds were sated, the more sedate members of the party drew together for games of backgammon and cards while the younger set turned to more lively pastimes like dancing on the grass, carriage rides, and lawn games. When the games began, only Lady Arbuthnott and Princess Soltana refused to leave their dark corner in one of the tents where chairs and cushions had been provided for those who found the ground uncomfortable.

Feeling it his duty to provide them with company, Hadrian headed in their direction the moment his many duties as host permitted him to. He was within five yards of their shelter when a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder.

“You do not escape me that easily, Lord Ramsbury. You promised to partner me for lawn tennis.”

Clarissa felt his start of surprise as well as saw it reflected in his expression when he turned to her. “Mrs. Willoughby. I had not seen you before.”

“I think I have received a needed setdown, but no matter.” Clarissa was not about to tell him that she had deliberately kept out of his way in order to pounce on him at such a moment. “Do not tell me that you will deny me for Princess Soltana?”

“No, of course not,” Hadrian answered but his head swung thoughtfully toward the two ladies with heads together inside the tent. “I only wished to pay my respects to your aunt and her companion.”

“Then you may do so at any time.” She tucked her arm through his to draw him away. “But if you do not hurry, we shall miss the beginning of the game.”

The game was a lively one, allowing Clarissa a chance to show off her skill and her neat figure. As if happy to oblige the appreciative male company, the breeze repeatedly tugged at the white cambric and muslin dress she wore, drawing it tightly against her body to reveal the outlines of her slim hips and shapely thighs. She might be a widow—and therefore used goods—but more than one gentleman found himself thinking of the advantages of courting an “experienced lady.”

Hadrian, equally lost in admiration of her, nearly missed several shots. By the time the game was done, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to get her alone so that he could tear away every finely embroidered inch of muslin and caress the woman beneath. As she came up to him, the laughter of triumph animating her beautiful face, he was struck hard by lust compounded by other more subtle emotions that came together to produce the effect very much like a kick in the stomach.

“We won!” she cried and encompassed him for a moment in the sketchiest of embraces. Her touch was like the caress of the wind, but it was enough to inflame his blood.

Sucking in a barely audible breath, he looked up past her head, as if he were a man who had suddenly remembered a very important appointment in a fardistant place. Then he saw vaguely, through passion-glazed eyes, a rider coming across the meadow. “Well, well,” he murmured, his expression growing grim.

Disconcerted by his reaction, Clarissa turned to follow his gaze and saw a young man riding toward them.

“It seems, Mrs. Willoughby, that your concern for my brother’s welfare was premature,” she heard Hadrian say beside her. “The prodigal has returned.”

The “unburial” took place at ten A.M.
the following morning. Lord Ramsbury’s guests left Wolfscote in a procession of open carriages draped in white, with greenery and bouquets of flowers adorning the swags. Lady Ramsbury and her daughters, who had arrived from London the night before, rode in the lead barouche while Lord Ramsbury and his brother rode beside them.

“It’s more like a country fair than a funeral procession,” declared Heloise, who shared her carriage with Clarissa and “Princess Soltana.” Other than the princess, who wore a heavy veil, the rest of the guests had dressed, as per their host’s request, in gay colors. They had brought with them bright spirits and a sense of adventure. “I do so enjoy a man with a sense of humor. Don’t you, Clarissa?”

“This is certainly a singular occasion,” she replied. “What do you suppose Lord Ramsbury has in mind?”

That question was answered a little later as the caravan wound its way through the countryside toward the Ramsbury crypt. The family mausoleum was located on a wooded slope just beyond a stand of trees which shielded the structure from the main house. As they rounded the final curve of the grassy track, Clarissa spied a miniature Greek temple with Tuscan portico and smooth columns set high in the curve of a hill.

Because the small chapel inside held only enough seats for a handful of the hundred and fifty guests, the brief ceremony was private, including only family members. In the meantime, guests waited in their carriages while Wolfscote’s servants handed out glasses of champagne in anticipation of a toast.

After no more than ten minutes, the Ramsbury family again appeared on the porch of the mausoleum. Hadrian, resplendent in dark-gray morning coat and new ankle-length striped trousers, escorted his mother. Though at a distance, the assembly could tell that she was smiling through her tears. Jane hung on Emory’s arm and the siblings were a study in opposites. Jane, too, was teary but radiant. Emory was dry-eyed, and the scowl on his face was just short of insolent. Saxona and Thordis assisted each other while the Bascombes walked arm in arm. There were a dozen others whom Clarissa did not recognize. Mr. Temple was included, and on his arm was a lovely young woman in modest dress.

Once the family exited the structure, a coffin was removed from the interior by four liveried footmen. It was brought out into the sunlight and set upon a prearranged pyre set by the artificial pond.

Finally Hadrian stepped forward and raised his hands for attention. His voice, rich and deep, carried through the morning air with the resounding timbre of a born orator.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family. Eighteen months ago many of you came here to observe the death of a man known as Hadrian Blackburne. Though there was no body to inter, the ritual of a burial took place. The news of my premature demise did not reach me until three months ago. I cannot strike from the hearts of my family the needless pain and sorrow they have suffered. But I can abolish the sad memorial to this happy mistake.”

He turned a fond gaze of his now-weeping mother. “Be of good cheer,
Maman.
Your son has come back from the grave.”

As he lifted a hand, four footmen moved in unison to strike a spark and set fire to the coffin pyre. Especially prepared, the kindling caught fire quickly and within seconds the beautiful wooden cabinet was caught up in the conflagration.

As if on cue a spontaneous cheer went up from the crowd, and then from cages secreted behind the crypt dozens of white pigeons were set free. Soaring and beating wings against the blue sky, they swooped and headed up and away from the delighted crowd. Relieved of the solemnity of the occasion, toasts were drunk by all parties. In many cases, gentlemen leaned out of their carriages to touch glasses with a neighbor.

Clarissa watched Hadrian with shining eyes as he accepted his mother’s embrace and then those of his sisters. Even Emory was disposed to shake hands. How hard it was for her to believe that this vigorous, vital man had been thought dead. He was so alive, more so than every other person she had ever known. And to think she might have missed knowing him, missed the chance to love him. How impossible a thought that was.

In that moment she knew that nothing else mattered. Despite the duplicities and deceptions yet to be unraveled, she wanted nothing more than to be a part of the rest of this man’s very precious life.

When he left the mausoleum, Hadrian came directly to her, though he had to pass several carriages of well-wishers before he reached her. Without even a glance at Princess Soltana, he took Clarissa’s hand and said, “Thank you for being here.”

“I am honored to be included,” Clarissa said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “I’ve never witnessed anything quite like it.”

His gaze poured its light into hers. “Then you are pleased by the small miracle of my return from the grave?”

“Yes.”

She had not thought she could be more happy, but then he smiled, and it was as though the sun had suddenly appeared from behind a dark cloud. “Now a life should not be squandered. I have big plans for mine, Mrs. Willoughby, big plans.”

He turned then and walked away, leaving her with the distinct feeling that his words had been a promise. She did not dare glance at her aunt and was thankful that Heloise made no direct comment on the scene which had just transpired.

In fact, Heloise made no comment at all until they were on their way back to Wolfscote. “Did you notice Mr. Temple’s intended, Clarie? Miss Barrie is her name. Sweet, very good manners, and so much in love with him. She will be the making of him, I know it!”

Clarissa regarded her aunt with a bemused expression. “How do you know so much about everyone’s affairs, Auntie?”

Heloise chuckled. “What else is there for me to do here but listen to gossip? Ramsbury has kept you so much to himself that his guests are beginning to grow jealous. When, dear niece, are you going to tell him?”

“Soon.” Clarissa lapsed again into a silence that lasted until they reached the house.

The ceremony was followed by a huge breakfast party. The gentlemen drank deep, reminded, despite the joy to the occasion, that mortality plagued them all. The ladies looked a little more kindly at one another; a few even attempted to mend strained friendships against the time when one judgment day would be theirs.

After the company had eaten and drunk their fill, they retired, as many as ten to a room, to rest and sleep before beginning the lengthy and elaborate preparations for the evening’s grand ball.

Emory waited until the upstairs hall was empty before approaching Princess Soltana’s door. A dozen times during the day he had tried to speak to her alone, but Hadrian or some other gentleman kept interfering. He and his brother had exchanged only a few words since his arrival the day before, and those were spoken in public. At least it had spared him the raking down that was sure to come when Hadrian got him alone. Meanwhile, it was as if the lady herself were deliberately trying to keep away from him. She had scarcely been in sight this day. When she was, she was invariably surrounded by other gentlemen.

He frowned as he thought about her. Something about her had changed, and it was not to his liking. He had caught sight of her as she entered the ballroom a little earlier and though her face remained chastely veiled that was not the part of her that attracted the attention of every gentleman this night. She was dressed in sheer layers of seafoam-green silk, the bodice of which had been cut so low over her high waistline that more than once a gentleman had drawn in a sharp breath when he caught sight of her. He knew that they were all thinking—and hoping for—that with the next movement her luscious bosom would spill out over the top.

As if to further provoke him, she had been flirting outrageously, especially with those notorious roués Sir Bloomsby and old Lord Kennan. He had even noticed Hadrian scowling at Kennan, who pawed her arm and squeezed her waist while they danced.

Gritting his teeth, he had decided to wait out her other suitors. To console himself, he had drunk a great deal. When he saw her slip from the ballroom as the rest of the company went into a midnight supper, he followed. When he realized that she was returning to her room, his courage increased. He had to see her. This might be his only opportunity to do so alone.

He knocked lightly upon her door and waited. When the rapping brought no response, he tried again. Impatient with her lack of response, he reached for the latch only to have the door move out from under his grasp. It opened a scant inch.

“Yes?”

Through the crack, Emory saw one eye peer out at him above a veil of seafoam green. “Princess Soltana? It is I, Emory,” he whispered and looked back over his shoulder for he thought he heard footfalls. The hall was empty. “I must speak with you.”

“Mr. Blackburne?” She sounded doubtful. “What do you want?”

“To see you, alone. It is of the utmost importance.”

Clarissa hesitated. She was worn through with the day’s strain. Between her exertions of the morning and afternoon under Hadrian’s eagle eye, she had barely been able to keep her wits together. Now all she wanted was to go to bed. “We will talk tomorrow.”

“It will be too late!” Emory’s voice sounded as desperate as he felt. “I should not have come back to England but I had to see you.”

If this speech was calculated to pique her curiosity, it succeeded. “Very well, but only for two minutes.” She opened the door enough to allow him to squeeze through.

She had doused her candles at the first knock in the hope that whoever had followed her would think she had gone to bed and so would leave her alone. Now, she decided, the darkness would prevent others from approaching while she entertained an unwelcome guest. Even so, she went to the window and drew open the drapes to allow in the moonlight. When she turned back to him, she folded her arms over her bosom. “Yes, Mr. Blackburne? What is the matter?”

Emory scowled at her unwelcoming tone. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

“I am not unhappy to see you. I only doubt the good sense of your insisting upon a secluded meeting.”

The rebuff surprised him. Princess Soltana had never been harsh with him before, nor had her lovely musical voice sounded so flat. “You’re in a prodigious pet,” he exclaimed lightly. “I did write to you. Did you not receive my letters?”

“I did,” Clarissa answered evenly. “The necessity of them and the fact that you left London so precipitously leads me to suspect that you are in some serious difficulty. You are, are you not?”

Emory flinched. “If I am, it is only because of you.”

“Me? How have I contributed to your troubles?”

He took a step toward her, wishing that he would see her expression. “I am in desperate straits because I love you!”

“This is sudden, Mr. Blackburne.”

He took another step toward her. “You must have guessed. I’ve been in love with you since the night of the Chetham Assembly.”

Clarissa considered how to rebuff this declaration without destroying his pride. How young and vulnerable he was. Why were the most vulnerable always drawn to her? “I am a stranger to you, Mr. Blackburne, a foreigner.”

“What does that matter?” Emory flung out a hand of dismissal. “We are destined to be together. When I held you in my arms while we danced, the feeling was so strong that I could not mistake it.”

Clarissa shook her head as a faint smile of sympathy touched her mouth. “That is just excitement, Emory. Any number of pretty women would invoke the same pleasurable response if you held them.”

He jerked as though she had struck him. “How can you speak like that to me? It is coarse and common.”

“If I shock you now, then I am certain to displease you in future. You see, we are not destined.”

“No!” Emory would not allow her to separate them by words, not until he had learned how right she would feel in his arms. He stepped forward, and when she thrust out her hands to halt him, he grasped her wrists and drew her closer. “You are only a little frightened by love. It is natural for you to be shy. I swear I will not hurt you. Only let me kiss you and you will see.”

“Emory, let go of me at once!” Clarissa knew she sounded like a nanny scolding a naughty child, but she could not abide the thought of tussling with Lord Ramsbury’s brother like a maid cornered behind the pantry door.

But Emory’s ardor was stronger than his sense of right. He pulled her roughly to him, caught her veiling in one hand to snatch it away, and brought his mouth down hard on hers as he locked her body close to his with an arm about her waist.

Clarissa stood perfectly still under his kiss. She felt his lips push against hers, seeking the entrance she denied him. And then his tongue flicked warmly over her primmed mouth. Part of her found the experience pleasant—he was, after all, a very handsome man—but she had no intention of encouraging him by weakness.

He leaned back from her after a few seconds, the moonlight revealing his handsome face racked with disappointment. “Don’t you like me?”

Clarissa turned swiftly away, wondering how much he had seen of her face. She felt flushed with embarrassment and anger, and the nervous tingling of fear. It would be too
too
horrible if he discovered her secret before she had a chance to tell his brother the truth.

“I like you, Emory,” she said as she groped in the shadows for her covering. “But I must come to the man I will marry as he would want his bride to be.” Lord! How many times had she delivered that speech to would-be suitors? This was ridiculous!

“What man? Are you to wed?”

The tone of his question reassured her a bit. If he had recognized her as Mrs. Willoughby, he would not now be quibbling over her allusion to an impending marriage. That was it!

She turned back to him, having found and donned the discarded veil. “I am promised to another.” She crossed her fingers as she improvised on the lie. “It was to increase my value to my future husband that I was allowed to see into your world. My manners, my speech, my dress have all been bettered by my visit.”