Lords of Desire (37 page)

“Shall I ring for more sandwiches?” Edith asked, picking up the cards from the table and placing them in a neat stack beside her saucer.

A feeling of unease skittered across Christobel’s consciousness. Wait a minute…“What about the other? Sir Edmund Blake, it says.”

“What about him?” Edith asked, busy neatening the stack of already-neat cards. “He’s a fine gentleman, charming and full of life. A baronet of some means, with a country house in Kent.”

Christobel could barely credit it, but Edith positively refused to meet her eyes.No, Edith wouldn’t dare. “Indeed? Single, I presume?”

“What good fortune that he is,” Edith said brightly.

“With whom were you hoping he would suit?” Christobel asked crisply, though her sister’s uncomfortable demeanor was answer enough. “Either of the Misses Allen, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” she answered with a shrug.

“Edith Hadley!” Christobel rose from the table, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. “Tell me you did not invite this Sir Edmund on my account, or I’ll get right back on that train and return to London at once.”

At last Edith met her gaze, her dark eyes flashing. “With no chaperone, and no home to return to? Of course you won’t.”

Christobel could only huff indignantly, so flummoxed was she by Edith’s impertinence.

“Sir Edmund went to Eton with Jasper. He’s a charming man, one with whom I’d like to get better acquainted. And if the thought did cross my mind that perhaps the two of you might suit, well, what of it?”

“I do not need you playing matchmaker on my behalf, Edith. I’ve told you so on more than one occasion.”

“And before now, I’ve always heeded your protestations. Can’t you at least allow meone attempt? Iam such a good matchmaker, after all. And where is Mrs. Gardner? I must have more sandwiches.”

“You’ve already eaten a plateful,” Christobel muttered, feeling churlish. “Besides, you’re looking rather plump, if you ask me.”

“And perhaps there’s good reason for that,” Edith shot back, a smile playing on her lips.

Realization dawned on Christobel at once. “Edith, dear! But I thought…after the last time…” Christobel trailed off miserably. Edith had already suffered two miscarriages, though the doctor had assured her that, physically, there was no reason she could not carry a child to term.

“I can’t help but try again. Anyway, the doctor said I’m perfectly well as long as I’m not vexed—”

“You wouldn’t dare use this to…to convince me to go along with your meddling,”

Christobel sputtered.

“But of course I would,” Edith answered with an angelic smile. “However could I resist?

Now please, sit back down and enjoy your tea. Ah, there’s Mrs. Gardner now with more sandwiches.”

The portly woman carried in a silver tiered tray laden with sandwiches and scones, then whisked away the empty one.

Christobel reached for a cucumber sandwich so thin you could almost see straight through it, then slumped back in her chair with a scowl. “I’ll never forgive you this, you know.”

“Of course you will. And you’ll be nice to Sir Edmund, else you might vex me.” Edith’s smile was triumphant. “And if a gentleman compliments you, you will smile sweetly and accept it graciously. You’ll hold your tongue, too, and keep your suffragist notions to yourself.”

“But you agree with—”

“Of course I do. Privately. But everyone knows that speaking of such things will not land you a husband. At least, not a suitable one.”

“Very well. Anything else?” Christobel asked tartly.

“Yes, try and be nice to John, too,” she added. “I need him in good humor if I’m to make a match for him. Lord knows he can be disagreeable enough without any help from you.”

Christobel merely glared at her in reply.

At the sound of footfalls, both women turned toward the doorway.

“There’s Mother,” Edith said, effectively ending the argument. “Shall we tell her my good news?”

At once Christobel’s ill temper was replaced by fear—fear for Edith’s health, her happiness. How badly she must want a baby, to risk heartbreak once more. Tears burned behind her eyelids, and she averted her gaze from her smiling sister to the window and the gray skies beyond.

It’s this blasted northern air,she thought, anger joining her fear, further fraying her nerves. She’d only been in Lancashire one day and already she longed for Surrey’s tidy green pastures and neat hedgerows, for the lazy, languid days so typical of Christobel’s youth.

Why ever hadn’t Edith stopped to consider what it would mean, living in the industrial north where everything moved far too briskly, where the winters were severe and unforgiving, where smokestacks belched and obscured the horizon?

“Christobel, dear, did you hear the news?” her mother called out cheerily. “We’ll take good care of her, won’t we?”

“Of course we will,” Christobel said, forcing her lips to form a smile. “But are you sure it’s prudent to host a house party at a time like this? I worry about you overtaxing yourself.”

“Don’t be silly,” Edith said with a smile. “The doctor says I’m the model of good health.

The other two times…well, it was just bad luck, nothing more.”

Christobel nodded silently, hoping that her sister was correct. Forcing away her misgivings, she hurried to Edith’s side, reaching for her hand and clasping it tightly in her own. “Still, I’ll make sure you get plenty of rest and pampering, beginning straightaway.

Sit, and let me pour you some more tea. Shall I pour for you, too, Mother?”

Her mother nodded. “That would be lovely, dear. Come, now, let’s all sit, and Edith can tell me about the guests.”

“Don’t fret, Edie,” Christobel whispered into her sister’s ear as she leaned over to pour the fragrant brew into the cup set before her. “I’ll behave; I promise.”

At the very least, she would try.

CHAPTER 2

John heaved a sigh as he turned the car into his cousin’s long drive. A cloud of dust billowed up around the vehicle, clouding his goggles and nearly making him choke.

Dust or no, he was excessively fond of his motorcar, a 1906 Darracq speedster that had set him back nearly three hundred pounds—well worth every quid, in his opinion.

In fact, at that very moment he longed to be racing his motor through the countryside, the scenery blurring like an impressionist painting as the wind whistled in his ears.

Instead, he was sedately motoring up Hadley Hall’s drive at a snail’s pace, the house looming larger as he approached. He’d promised Jasper and Edith he’d attend their annual autumn Saturday-to-Monday, as he always had.

And, as always, Jasper had convinced him to arrive early. His mother-and sister-in-law would be there helping Edith prepare for the guests, and Jasper had insisted that he’d go mad listening to the hens cluck about, if left to his own company. Indeed, Jasper was never content to suffer alone.

So, here he was—arriving several days early, as promised. The drive curved sharply to the left, toward the house. Dead ahead, beyond a roughly hewn fence, the lawn stretched out before him. There, beneath the drooping branches of a yew, a lone figure stood, shielding herself from the sun with a parasol. John’s hands gripped the wheel as he turned it.

Though he hadn’t been able to make out the woman’s face, he knew with certainty that it was Christobel Smyth standing there, the hem of her virginal white skirts aflutter in the breeze. Damn it all, but every inch of his traitorous body sensed her presence.

Lovely, intelligent, sweet-smelling Christobel, who never failed to make him feel like an ugly, clumsy oaf. If only she knew how he suffered, mentally undressing her while he chastised himself for doing so, for wanting a woman he could never have, who despised him and pitied him without even taking the pains to conceal it.

Insufferable, snobbish girl! And what a fool he was, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

A low growl of self-loathing rumbled from his throat as he pulled up in front of the great house and cut the motor.

At once Edith burst forth from the house, the housekeeper trailing behind her. “Mr.

Leyden!” she called out, waving gaily.

John removed his goggles and fixed a smile upon his cousin’s wife as he tugged off his thick leather driving gloves. “Good afternoon, Edith,” he called out in return, striving to sound more jovial than he felt. He tossed his gloves to the driver’s seat and made his way up Hadley Hall’s front steps, ever conscious of his limp.

Just then a pair of footmen appeared from the side of the house and saw to unstrapping his luggage from the back of the motorcar.

“You’re just in time for tea, Mr. Leyden,” Edith said, reaching for his elbow and allowing him to escort her back inside. “The weather is so lovely we thought to take it on the patio. I hope you won’t object.”

“Not at all,” he answered, wishing they could dispense with the pleasantries.

“And how was the drive over?” she pressed on.

“Splendid. Only managed to puncture one tire.”

Releasing Edith’s arm, he shrugged out of his Norfolk tweed duster coat and handed it to the housekeeper. “Might want to take it outside and beat it.”

“Of course, Mr. Leyden.” The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy, then disappeared with the garment folded across one arm.

John followed Edith out to the patio, where a wrought-iron table was laid for tea.

“Jasper went down to the train station to retrieve a parcel, but he should be home directly. Would you care to sit?” Edith asked, motioning toward the table. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to stretch your legs while we wait for him?”

“I think I’ll take a turn about the garden, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. In fact, Christobel is out there, ambling about aimlessly as she always does.

You might see if you can find her and fetch her back in time for tea.” Edith smiled sweetly at him, but John detected a hint of mischief in her eyes, as if she were enjoying a private joke.

“Very well,” he said, bowing sharply before turning and striding off in the opposite direction from where he’d seen Christobel standing beneath the tree.

Let them play their feminine games, whatever they were. He would not be an active participant.

Despite all efforts to the contrary, he found her not ten minutes later, sitting on the grass before the ornamental pond with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her chestnut hair was piled on her head beneath a large straw boater, but loose tendrils had escaped the arrangement and danced in the breeze, brushing against the lace of her high-necked collar.

How he longed to curl the silky hair around his finger, to brush his hand across her flushed cheek—and how he hated himself for such thoughts.

As if she sensed his presence, she turned, one hand raised to the brooch at her throat.

“You near enough frightened me half to death, Mr. Leyden,” she said, shaking her head.

“You might have called out a greeting or something, you know. A simple ‘good afternoon’ would have sufficed.”

“My apologies,” he said, his tongue suddenly thick and awkward.

She smiled then, her rose-colored lips curving upward. “You needn’t look so stricken,”

she said, tilting her head to one side. Her clear green eyes shone like polished glass beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “Now that you’re here, you might as well join me. Would you care to sit?”

“I was instructed to fetch you back to tea, should we cross paths.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended, as he often did in her company.

“And here I was, thinking you meant to be sociable. Come now, can’t you sit for a minute? Would it pain you so very much to simply sit and admire the way the afternoon sun plays upon the water’s surface? Just look—it’s lovely this time of day.”

Christobel fought the urge to roll her eyes as she watched Mr. Leyden stand there stiffly, considering her offer. Why she’d extended it in the first place, she had no idea.

But she had, and now he simply stood there watching her warily, his pale blue eyes narrowed in displeasure. Indignation washed over her. Was her company so very abhorrent to him?

“Very well,” he conceded at last. As solemn as a bishop, he made his way toward her, his gait slightly uneven. Despite that, she could not deny that Mr. Leyden was pleasant enough to look at.

He was tall, at least six feet, and broad of shoulder. The closely cropped hair beneath his bowler hat was as black as midnight, his pale blue eyes direct—piercing, even. His nose was slightly long, though not unpleasantly so, and his lips surprisingly full. If only the man would ever smile!

Christobel continued her examination as he lowered himself to the grass beside her—

rather gracefully, considering his height. He looked out of place in his somber black suit—well cut, though not terribly fashionable. Still, he was decidedly handsome, in a rough, fierce sort of way. Perhaps this Miss Bartlett would find him agreeable, particularly if she weren’t the vivacious sort herself.

She turned her attention back to the pond, watching a fat green frog hoist himself upon a lily pad where he sat puffing out his throat as he croaked loudly. A cocky, proud fellow, just like the man sitting beside her.

“There, now, Mr. Leyden.” Christobel favored him with a sunny smile. “This isn’t so terribly unpleasant now, is it?”

“I suppose not,” he answered, his gaze fixed on the pond.

“How is your family’s mill faring?” she asked, simply trying to make conversation. “Is business well these days?”

“Well enough, thank you.”

Would he say nothing unless prompted? At the very least he could comment upon the weather. Blast it, if only Edith hadn’t made her promise to be nice. “Do you find yourself quite occupied, then?” she asked lamely.

“To the contrary. Lately I’ve been less involved in the day-to-day operation of the mill.”

“Oh? And how do you occupy yourself, then? Have you taken up fishing and shooting?”

“I’ve mostly occupied myself with books, hoping to fill the gaps in my education. I’m well aware of my deficiencies, Miss Smyth,” he added somewhat coldly, plucking a blade of grass from the ground and twisting it between his fingers. Long, elegant fingers, she realized with a start. Why ever did that surprise her so?