Hayley Ann Solomon (6 page)

There was a moment’s silence as Fern suddenly recollected that pages were no longer the mode. In fact, she realized, they had disappeared almost entirely from society, though several more elderly noblemen still retained their services.

“Pages are not in vogue anymore!”

“I do not follow fashions. I set them.”

“You are going to make me a fashion?”

“Very possibly. It might be amusing. But first I shall teach you how to be a page. You will black my boots, choose out my garments, stitch anything that needs to be repaired, help me with my ablutions. . . .”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Never more, though naturally I shall spare a thought for your maidenly modesty. But the rest of my staff cannot be allowed to suspect you are not what you seem. Therefore, of course, you shall sleep on a pallet on the floor beside me. Otherwise, it will be the servants’ quarters and certain discovery.”

“How long do you propose this . . . preposterous scheme?”

“Not long. Only long enough for Warwick to cry off and for your parents to have no wherewithal to cry breach. I shouldn’t imagine the matter will take long. Warwick will hardly kick his heels at Evensides while the Reynolds scour the country for you.”

Fern looked thoughtful. “They won’t be able to make the search public, either, for fear of my reputation being damaged. Without a reputation, Warwick cannot be expected to uphold his pledge.”

“Precisely. So your sojourn as a page should not be long. It might prove edifying. Think of it as an adventure. You thirst for adventure, don’t you, Fern?”

Fern startled, for he read her mind acutely. What is more, he was gazing at her so closely that her heart stopped for a second, and it was nearly
she
who disgraced herself by reaching for
him.
Instead, she saved her dignity by regarding her boots—adorable Hessians, two sizes too small for her brother—and nodding.

“I do, though I am not sure that this adventure is going to have a happy conclusion. My father and mother will likely disown me.”

“Let us not grow gloomy. Besides, if that happens, I have a closet full of boots to shine!” With a private smile, Riccardo, Marquis of Warwick, tilted her chin in his hands. It surprised him, still, how her very touch made him shiver. He had not responded to a woman like this since he had been a green lad, years ago. And Fern felt it too. He knew it, by the manner in which her mouth opened, oh, so invitingly, and the way her fingers trembled fleetingly. At her throat, a little pulse danced backward and forward, barely detectable beneath her boyishly tied neckerchief.

“Trust me.”

“I want to, but I don’t see . . .”

“Just trust me. I would not for one minute permit this charade if I did not think a positive outcome possible. It is possible, in more ways than you know, but at the risk of sounding mysterious, I must ask you not to inquire further. Trust your instincts, Fern.”

“My instincts are to run!”

“Are they? Then they are at fault, for I mean you no harm.”

Miss Reynolds looked suddenly contrite. “I was funning. I feel safe with you, and though I cannot fathom what you may mean, I do trust you. I shall stay and be your page, though the notion is archaic, and I am certain your staff shall think it a very strange thing!”

“They might, but they are also devoted to me and perfectly used to my queer starts. You are just one of a string, you know!”

Fern wondered how many other young ladies had served as his page. Somehow, she felt a vicious stab of jealousy that caught her totally off guard. She was staggered by its intensity. And it was not Eric, Lord Sandford whom she loved, but the arrogant Lord Riccardo Warwick! She had never thought of herself as fickle—worse, wanton, for both men seemed to stir up unmaidenly desires—but she had to admit it must be possible. The thought was not encouraging, but it sent a flicker of triumph across Warwick’s countenance. It was a singular thing, he found, to read a lady’s thoughts.

His baser self suggested that now was the time to take her in his arms and reveal all. Surely, now that she was reaching these interesting conclusions, he should reap the benefits? They could return at once to Evensides and confirm their betrothal. Doubtless Sir Peter and Lady Reynolds would be too relieved to scold or place any bar to the ceremony.

But what of Fern? Her feelings were still new and tender. If she thought she’d been tricked or betrayed, she might set herself further against him. This time, the damage might be perfectly irrevocable. He had been high-handed in assuming her acceptance. He must pay the price. The charade must last its course. When the time was right, he would know it. Or he hoped he would!

He fought to maintain his composure, for Fern, her oval face framed prettily by her spectacles, presented the most frustrating, delightful, teasing, adorable, and perfectly annoying sight. He could not think, he could not curl out his paper, he could not read his estate reports, he could do nothing, in fact, except smell her sweet scent. It wafted through the carriage, canceling out the more masculine smells of tobacco and Spanish Madeira. His legs, encased in doeskin breeches that immaculately fitted his form, almost—almost—touched the scrubby fawn breeches of his companion. If he shifted but an inch . . . the warmth from Fern was devastating. He wondered if she felt the attraction, too, or if it was simply he who was going mad by small degrees.

“Here!” he said roughly, throwing her a carriage blanket.” Put this about your knees. It will keep out the draft.”

And my desires,
he thought but did not say.

Obediently, Fern covered herself modestly, from top to toe, so that only her Hessians peeked out from under the warm, soft kersymere. She was grateful for the blanket, though far too warm for its use. Warwick’s legs, nearly touching her own, were the purest torture. She had not expected that. She sank down even farther into the blanket, so that only her spectacles and cheekbones were visible. He noticed, with some small satisfaction, that they were flushed.

Lady Reynolds felt a trifle better after a day laid up with a bilious attack. It occurred to her, after taking her constitutionals, that she really ought to inquire after her tiresome daughter. Doubtless she was buried in some dreary chronicle or other, but she supposed it was her parental duty to intervene.

A quiet talk where she was brought to conceive the folly of her ways and the great generosity of Lord Warwick must be undertaken. Lady Reynolds sniffed at her smelling salts dramatically. Oh, to be beset with such children! Peter almost sent down from Oxford, and Fern behaving so peculiarly as to send away even the most ardent suitor! And it was no good blaming it all on the spectacles; everyone knew Fern could play the harp like an angel, yet she had chosen to make an abysmal mull of things.

Honestly! Anyone would think she
wanted
to be an old maid, rather than the Marchioness of Warwick. It was most provoking. Buoyed up with annoyance, Lady Reynolds rose effortlessly from the sofa to which she had now removed and marched down the long corridor to Sir Peter’s lesser-used wing. If the tiresome child was anywhere, it would be in the library.

The door was closed. Lady Reynolds pushed it open with a great thump of her cane. She was not old enough to use one, but everyone knew she had a poor constitution and failing nerves. The stick was a useful confirmation of this, and also a swift means of entering through stiff doors. Sometimes, she found, it took far too long to await the arrival of a footman.

Now she looked about her in irritation. The room was empty save for a sparrow that seemed to have made its way through one of the half-open windows. She shooed it away, then shut the window in displeasure. She disapproved of air; it was calamitous to the constitution. But where was Fern? Surely she could not have ridden off without a groom? Not with Lord Warwick still riding about the neighborhood?

What if they were to meet? What if she were wearing her awful, shabby, red velvet riding habit rather than the smart new blue one Lady Reynolds had specifically ordered up? What if Fern had discarded a bonnet and worn just a simple ribbon instead? She groaned.

After all her hard work! It had been a nightmare choosing just the correct evening gown for Fern. The stubborn girl had hated it, too. There was really no accounting for tastes. Now where was she? Lady Reynolds left the library smartly, her previous weakness no longer in evidence at all.

“Timothy!”

“Ma’am?” A footman glided up behind her.

“Where is Miss Fern?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, I don’t know. She has not been in to breakfast, nor lunch either.”

“Did she leave a note?”

“I believe so. It is on the mantel in your chamber. Mrs. Fidget bade me place it there as soon as she noticed it.”

“Which was?”

“This morning, ma’am, just after the milk was delivered in. I remember, because Cook was baking buns in the kitchen and the smell . . .”

“Thank you, Timothy. You may go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Contrite, the footman turned on his heel. He never could remember not to engage his betters in talk. The butler would give him a regular earwigging if he’d heard. Fortunately, Timothy rather thought he was otherwise engaged. The silver plate, laid out in splendid rows on the scullery table, all required polishing. Edgemont would be supervising for weeks!

Fern never got to hear Lady Reynolds’s screams, not her swoons, nor her absolute hysterics on reading the carefully penned note. She never got to see the household set on its ears, the maids in tears, or Sir Peter cursing in a preposterously ungentlemanly fashion. It was just as well, for she would have felt more guilty than she already did, her splendid resolve wavering at the magnificence of Lord Sandford’s London address, bordered everywhere with topiary gardens and a great, wide turning circle for the horses.

She was peculiarly silent as his lordship bade her alight from the chaise and hold the door open for him in the prescribed manner. It was comical, really, doing things the wrong way, alighting first, rather than last, helping rather than being helped. Fern would have enjoyed it, were she not certain of curious gazes cast her way both from the coachman and from the waiting servants lining the entrance to the illustrious residence.

Warwick marched up the stairs scowling. His staff bowed and curtsied as if on cue, which made him scowl all the more.

“Good afternoon. Have I not told you all a dozen times or more not to stand on ceremony with me?”

“But my lord! It is only fitting that we welcome you home. You have been away this age!”

“Nonsense! A week is not an age. Now disperse, all of you, or I shall be most displeased.”

At which Fern was amazed to see the household vanish almost completely into thin air. Warwick chuckled.

“A motley lot, but as loyal as blazes. They can’t bear seeing me angry. It is most dishonorable, I suppose, but the knowledge can be useful.”

“Like when you are trying to smuggle in a charlatan page?”

“Precisely. But after you are garbed, you shall be presented. And I doubt if anyone shall suspect an iota!”

“I wish I could share in your confidence.”

“You worry too much. Enjoy your adventure, Mistress Fern!”

“While my heart is sinking?”

“I shall fix it for you. But come, I shall take you through the vinery. It is a short and private way to my personal wing.”

He extended a hand. Fern hesitated a moment, but she was trembling so much, she felt in need of the support. His palm was warm, even through the glove, and strong. Fern felt that strange surge of headiness again. And suddenly, quite remarkably, she threw herself into her adventure, not caring anymore what the outcome might be.

“If we are seen it will look passing strange to your servants!”

“Oh, it would only be Anders the head gardener, and he is as blind as you are!”

“Well, that is a relief! Poor man! I wonder if he has ever been fitted for spectacles?”

“Miss Reynolds, can you please stop worrying about my household staff? I need to get you inside before we are noticed, and if you carry on like a regular jaw-me-dead we shall not make it to the first door!”

“The first? Are there many?”

“Yes, for this house was built as a fortress. It is very old, as you can tell, and the first Lord War—that is, the first . . . viscount . . . seemed to have a particular penchant for Gothic-style doors. There is one on each floor, then another slightly after to limit drafts. I don’t know if they do, but they are the bane of my servants’ lives! Each time they bring up a pitcher of hot water, they have to open and shut about seven doors. I think it is seven—it may be more. . . .”

“It is a wonder that they do not complain!”

“Oh, they do, most volubly.” Warwick grinned. “I take no notice, for it ensures my privacy! People think twice about knocking when there are seven oak doors to negotiate!”

“Crafty and cunning. I admire your spirit.”

“And I admire you.” There, it was said at last. Warwick, finding himself at the first door, opened it quickly and pushed Fern through, safe from prying eyes.

“Beg pardon?”

“I said I admire you, Fern. You cannot cut up at me for that!”

“No.” Fern was smiling. She had no idea why she was so curiously happy, or why she followed meekly while he snatched her hand and positively raced through a labyrinth of doors and bells—they all seemed to chime on opening, an interesting mechanism, but Fern was too breathless to explore, somehow.

Finally they were in his private suite. More elaborate than she had expected of a mere viscount, but tasteful and uncluttered. The centerpiece of the room was a huge tester bed, surrounded with drapes of soft vellum, quite different from the usual heavy brocades or velvet. Chocolate brown and silvers dominated the chamber, from the sterling silver finishes on the locks and door handles, to the silver candelabras, to the sparkling eighteenth century vases filled with peonies and roses.

The paneled walls were all brown, severe against the silver, but lightened by the chocolate chaise longue with floss squabs, the rosewood chests, the single Chippendale chair, and a host of books, all leather-bound, scattered invitingly on two beautifully wrought tables, the bases of both finished in silver.

“Oh!”

“You are pleased.”

“Yes, for my brother’s room sports nothing but guns, and Papa’s—on the odd occasion I have glimpsed it—is very spartan, save for a stuffed hog’s head.”

“Good God! I have not much to compete with, then!”

Fern laughed, though she was suddenly feeling tremendously shy in her scandalous circumstances. “I suppose not, though I still think I should like this room, even if I had seen the chamber of the regent himself.”

“Which I pray God you never will, for he is a likeable fellow, but definitely not to be trusted in the presence of a beautiful woman.”

“I am not beautiful.”

“You mistake the matter. Where can you have conceived such an addle-witted notion?”

“My spectacles . . .”

“Are adorable. They lend you distinction.”

Fern dropped her eyes. “You are quite the kindest man I have ever met.”

“I am not being kind, Fern. I am being selfish.”

“Selfish?”

“Yes, now black my boots for God’s sake, before I lose my admirable control.”

Bewildered, Fern did not understand the sudden change of tone or the darkening of his eyes. She did know, however, that it had been hours since she had thought longingly of Warwick. It had been hours, indeed, that she had watched the smooth line of
this
lord’s lips and hungered to be kissed, or to wrap her arms about his broad shoulders and trace out the dimple that appeared from time to time in his masculine chin—
When he laughs
, she thought. She wanted to make him laugh.

It was half
his
fault she had all these wanton notions—if he did not wear such close-fitting clothes, or was considerate enough to harbor a potbelly like the squire or a dozen other gentlemen of her acquaintance, she would not now be so . . . obsessed. He was watching her, she knew, from those dark, quizzical eyes of his. She must say something; she must not stand rooted to the floor like a silly clutter head!

“How do you black boots? I have never seen it done.”

The dimple definitely reappeared.

“I shall show you. In the Peninsular, I grew into the habit of doing it myself. There is a secret to it.”

“There is?”

He nodded solemnly. “Swear you will not tell another living soul, or my valet will have my head!”

“I swear.”

“It is champagne. You mix champagne with the boot black, and the shine is incomparable.”

“What a sinful waste!”

“Which is only to show what an ignorant young wisp of a thing you are, for my boots are the envy of all of London!”

“Now
that
is a patent falsehood, my lord! I have it on the best authority that the Marquis of Warwick’s are.”

“Bother the marquis. I shall ring for my housekeeper. She shall have you outfitted in no time; then you may commence with your duties.”

“Shining boots?”

“On second thought, no. Your ignorance is disturbing. You may interfere with many things, but not, I think, my neckerchief or my boots! My valet would have serious convulsions, and he is a decent sort of fellow. I would not wish such a tragic end for him.”

Fern giggled. Warwick regarded her sternly, but she was not deceived. She had grown used to the telltale dimple and the twinkle that illuminated those deep brown eyes.

“You shall read to me. A novel use for a page, but one that I would find pleasant. By the by, you
do
actually play the harp, do you not?”

“It is considered my greatest accomplishment!”

For some reason, Warwick started coughing most alarmingly. Fern stepped forward, but the moment passed quite quickly.

“Then the evening with the marquis was an aberration?”

Fern groaned. “Oh, do not remind me of it! I quite wished to sink! It was hideous! It was a wonder he did not flee there and then, rather than stay to kiss me on the balcony!”

“I am sure he found the latter more to his tastes.”

“Don’t let us talk of Warwick. It is an excruciating chapter for me, but I believe it has ended.”

Warwick, who had been on the point of summoning a footman, stopped in his tracks and regarded Fern with a curious, indefinable expression in those aristocratic eyes. “Ended?”

Fern nodded firmly. “I have been very foolish. I see, now, that Warwick must be consigned with the dance master and the beast.”

“You mean . . .”

“Calf love. I have had a lucky escape, for I am certain, if you had not rescued me, I would have landed up wedding him. My inclinations were exactly to
do
so, you see. I may not have had the resolve to resist, with Mama and Papa and his lordship himself all so implacable. . . .”

“But it would have been a mistake?”

“Assuredly. It
always
would have been. But I thought I had one advantage. I thought I loved him.”

“And now?”

“Now I know I don’t.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Fern shook her head, but her color was high again.

A glimmer of a smile crept onto Warwick’s lips. He thought—he hoped—he knew the answer to this riddle. Fern did not love Warwick, for she had transferred her affections to him. And a very good thing, too, he thought, for it was becoming harder and harder to play out the charade. Perhaps, if her feelings had undergone such a transformation, she would not long have to be his page. Fern, in the first bloom of womanhood, had felt the undeniable attraction between them but had not understood it. Now she was feeling that same attraction compounded by something deeper, something more intimate—friendship and trust. It was a powerful combination. He knew, for he felt it every bit as much as Fern, only it was revealed to him, whereas Fern was working from instincts alone. He wondered who was suffering the most and decided, ruefully, it was probably him.