Elisabeth Fairchild (29 page)

Her remark brought a long look from Lord Beauford. She could feel his gaze studying the back of her head. Too overwrought to face him, she made her way to Boots’s side, where she stroked the horse’s gray-flecked ears and nose. This confusing gentleman who claimed he still wished to honor his promise of matrimony, had been very kind to see to Boots’s well-being. Despite his lies, he had always been kind and considerate, Duke or dustman, coachman or king.

For reasons she could not fathom, Nell felt like weeping. Without meeting Brampton Beauford’s eyes she said softly, “I should like to leave now.”

He offered her his arm.

She took it.

They were facing into the sun as they set out.

“Shall I put up the parasol?” he offered.

Nell was too rattled to comprehend he meant to shade her from the glare. “Do you think it looks as if it might come on to rain?” she asked, perplexed, for the sky was free of clouds.

Beau looked at her and not the sky. “Not a chance of it.” He shook his head sadly.

She felt as if she had missed something vital in what he had just said with regard to the parasol. Her eyes strayed to the furled object. Could it be, she wondered, that he too thought of nothing more in that moment than the last time they had been caught together beneath a single parasol? Was his passion for her honest and true, as he said? She did not like to think his affections for her, had been but a masquerade. What purpose was there in such deceit? He was not an unkind man. That much was evident on his handling of Boots, and Bandit, and in his relationship with his nieces and nephews. That much had been made clear to her in his letters.

As they reached the section of pathway that passed through the wooded area, he startled her, reaching out swiftlas if to catch a moth in the air above her heart. He stood looking at her, the ball of his lightly clasped fist before her.

“What is it?” she asked, for she had been aware of no insects in the air.

With the flair of a magician he turned the curled fist palm up. “I have captured here your a-a-anger toward me.”

“My anger?”

There was a moment of clarity for Nell, as he stood there, pretending to hold emotion captive. His eyes no longer evidenced admiration for her, only a sad and wistful longing. There was something so tragic in the loss of that admiration that she was jarred from her fruitless course to recognize a truth that startled her. She was as guilty of pretense as the Duke!

She was pretending that she no longer cared for him, pretending too, that she meant to go away and forget about him, when in truth her heart ached with denial and deception. Did she mean to deceive herself as well as him? She realized just how well she had played out her charade of indifference. He believed she had no feeling for him, and in believing, seemed prepared to abandon his pursuit of her!

Such acquiescence was not at all what she really wanted. She had good reason to be put out with his prevarication and masquerading, but did she mean to pay back such deception with more fruitless lies? Did she mean to push him away entirely for his transgressions?

She did not despise this man. She loved him, and yet pretended not to. What did she gain in such a lie?

Nell reached out to gently touch upon his curled fingers.

“Perhaps we had best kill it,” she said softly.

Pale blue eyes regarded her with wary reserve. “Will this anger die, do you think? It has been tenaciously strong.”

She smiled at him, bashfully, unsure now of how to behave, and dropped her hand.

Slowly he opened his fingers. Hesitantly he peered into his palm. “It is vanished.”

She blushed. “We must take care to see it has no reason to return.”

He laughed, as though a great weight had been lifted. “I could not agree with you more.”

They walked on again, in a thick companionable silence, until sunlight began to filter through the trees again as they came to the end of the wood.

“I think perhaps we should make u-use of the parasol, my lord,” she suggested softly, her voice very low. “Do you mind putting it up?” Her heart began to pound rather furiously. She could not look at him, could not believe what she suggested.

Up the parasol fluted, throwing them both into the cool grey of its shadow. His features flattened for an instant, but then he held the silvered handle out to her, squinting against the sun. He meant her to have the parasol to herself. That was not what Fanella had intended.

With only a fraction of a second’s hesitation, she reached out, as if to take it from him, and clasped her hand over his on the handle. He was not going to escape so easily.

Her touch stopped him. Pale blue eyes focused on her with bewildered uncertainty.

She blushed, but she did not pull her hand away. Gloved fingers warmed against glove. The warmth in his eyes, and in the curve of his lips seemed to increase exponentially with the heat of their hands.

He stepped beneath the shading canopy of the parasol, the dark pools in his eyes swelling. “In this light, you look. . .” he began, unable to find words. The admiration she had been missing peeped out at her.

She smiled. “I have alwys liked the way I look as reflected in your eyes, my lord.”

He froze, staring at her, searching her face. Hopeful, and yet not convinced he had reason to hope.

She tucked her hand firmly into the crook of his arm.

“You spoke earlier, of the need for a companion.”

“Yes?” He held his breath as he waited for her to go on.

Her voice fell to an uncertain whisper. “Do you think I might fill the position? I am, you know, quite desperately in love with you-- duke, or dustman, coachman or king.”

His eyes widened, and for several frozen seconds, he did not blink. At last his eyes shut, and remained shut, as though shutting out pain. “Dear God, Miss Quinby,” the words slid out of him like a sigh. “I did begin to think you did hate me.”

Nell felt a moment of panic. How foolish she had been. How close to complete disaster had she led her life?

“My faith, my trust in you, was dreadfully wounded.”

He winced. “Perhaps we may, in time, rebuild that faith.” As he spoke, a dangerously seductive sparkle lit the pale blue depths of his eyes, and he leaned down, dodging the pole of the parasol, to a point where their lips hovered no more than a breath’s width apart.

She thought he meant to kiss her. Her eyes shut, in anticipation of just that pleasure, but he hesitated, in order that he might ask, “Will you have me, Fanella Quinby?” His breath swept shakily over her lips, the words like impending rain, hot and moist.

He resisted kissing her for such an interminable length of time that Nell closed the gap between them herself, lightly touching her lips to his.

His mouth sought hers with the hunger of a starving man who tasted of something he had never hoped to taste again. She responded with no less hunger. So strong was her desire to be clasped in his arms, clasped to his heart, lip to lip, that she moaned with the beauty of it.

The gentle urgency of his mouth drew her closer, as if once returned to him, he had no intention of allowing anything to come between them. Her hair, her eyelids, the tip of her nose and ear, the tender curve of her neck, he kissed them all before proceeding to her mouth, which he explored with equal thoroughness. And when Nell thought she could be kissed no more, when her lips felt hot and full, and completely sated with kissing, she pulled away, and gazed deep into the portals of his soul, those incredibly pale, blue eyes, and the happiness she witnessed there, so filled her own heart with joy, that she was forced to look away, for fear of weeping with its power.

“My dear, Miss Quinby. . .”

Fanella blushed. “I think you must call me Nell, if we are to go on in such a manner.”

He smiled, and so sweet, so loving was his smile, that her gaze dropped yet again, this time to examine the remains of the buttoneer, drooping sadly from his coat. “I have crushed your flowers once again, my lord.” She fingered the crushed blooms.

“Brampton,” he said with gentle insistence. “I would hear my given name fall from these lips with whom I have been so free.”

“I have smashed your pinks, Brampton,” she obliged, his name strange and wonderful on her tongue.

“Not flat enough by far, to my way of thinking, ’Nella. You have yet to tell me you will marry me, my love.”

“I will marry you, Brampton,” she promised, her voice light with joy. “Duke or dustman, coachman or king.”

He pulled her close again, and the two of them set ceerfully to work flattening the pinks.

Epilogue

Lord Beauford paused in the grand entryway that graced the beautiful old house known as Storne, and looked about him at the headless walls with satisfaction. The old Duke’s hunting trophies were packed away in the attic, the areas they once adorned refurbished with fresh wall coverings, and a tasteful collection of paintings, tapestry and etchings. The new Duchess of Heste would find nothing to object to in her home.

“Your grace?”

Gates stood in the doorway to the library, a large parcel in his hands.

“Yes, Gates,” Beau smiled at his valet. Everything made him smile today.

“This just came, your grace.”

“More wedding plunder? Put it with the rest of the gifts in the little drawing room. I’m due at the church within the half hour.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but the messenger indicated that it comes from Mr. Tyrrwhit. He said it was to be opened before you left for the ceremony, if you please.”

Eyebrows raised, Beauford tore into the parcel. In it he found a spotless pair of gloves, an ivory-handled parasol, and an exquisite hat, all in matching dove gray, along with a card from the haberdasher where the articles had been purchased.

“I am of the opinion that the Duke of Heste requires a new hat today. Tell me, what does a husband hat look like? Best I could do. Regards, Chaz.”

Smiling broadly, Lord Beauford slipped his fingers into the butter soft gloves and hooked the parasol over his arm. The hat, he found to be a perfect fit.

Author Bio

Elisabeth Fairchild’s passion for history stems from her heritage: her mother a British war bride, her father a descendant of a U.S. Senator, Teutonic knights, and a Cherokee chief. The Fairchild name is ancient Anglo-Saxon, the family seat predated the Norman conquest, the coat of arms includes a knight’s helm and a griffin. As a child who loved books, Elisabeth fell in love with knights, ladies, winged creatures and Jane Austen’s works. At sixteen she was hired as a maid in a haunted 12th century castle. Currently, one foot firmly fixed in the past, Elisabeth explores castles, cathedrals and country houses from the viewpoint of a historical mentalist with old soul insight, a phenomenal floor-to-ceiling research library and an insatiable desire to understand women’s historical roles..

www.elisabethfairchild.com

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