Midnight Bride (14 page)

In the
library
at the manor, Hartley stared at the door he had just closed, anger in his eyes and in his bearing. Dunstan was leaving. After the man's coolness at breakfast that morning, Hartley had been certain that something had gone wrong. And the constant suggestions and innuendos by that young friend of Charles's had kept him from being able to delve more deeply into the matter himself. Hartley threw himself into a large comfortable chair and considered the situation.

For a few minutes he simply stared into space, his fingers rubbing the fob he wore. Had Charles seen him at that moment he would have agreed with his mother and sister's view of the man. Hartley's pale blue eyes were narrowed to slits; his mouth shaped in a snarl. He was still concentrating minutes later when the bell for luncheon called them to the small salon.

To Hartley's delight, Elizabeth
Beckworth's
eyes grew wide as he walked into the salon. She turned to her brother. Before she could ask him the question that trembled on her lips, Charles walked across to her. "Elizabeth, have you had a chance to renew your acquaintance with Mr. Hartley? He has agreed to stay on for a few days to keep me company." He turned to his cousin, who stood beside his sister, bending to kiss her cheek. "A guest adds spice to any gathering, don't you agree, Cousin Louisa?" He looked at his sister as if pleading with her to hold her tongue. Not pleased to have a limit on his visit, Hartley nevertheless kept his expression pleasant.

"A handsome man is always welcome," Louisa said, dropping her eyes coquettishly. "I was beginning to wonder if I had bored all your friends at dinner last evening."

"You, boring?
Never! You are one of the most fascinating ladies of my acquaintance," Hartley said with a bright smile. He came up beside her and held out his arm. "Will you be my luncheon partner, my lady?" Louisa
Beckworth
fluttered her eyelashes at him in much the same way she had at her long-deceased husband. She took his arm, allowing him to lead her into the dining room.

Elizabeth and Charles, used to their cousin's flirtations, simply smiled and followed a little way behind.
"Thank you for not making a fuss about Hartley's presence, Elizabeth," Charles said so quietly the others could not hear.

"Would it have done any good?"

"No."

"That's what I thought. How do you plan to entertain him?"

Before Charles had time to answer, they were in the dining room with the others. Because good manners demanded they pay attention to the others, the brother and sister did not have a chance to talk alone for some time. Elizabeth was the gracious hostess, a fact for which Charles was profoundly grateful. His sister, when she decided to be rude, was quite formidable.

Louisa was in her element. Her two "children" and a handsome gentleman who was not above flirting with her made her day complete. As Elizabeth watched her cousin with the younger man, she felt guilty. Louisa had given up so much when she had agreed to retire to the manor with her four years earlier.

Because of her cousin, Elizabeth had been accepted by the society of the county. She sighed, remembering what the cost had been. Louisa did love parties and flirting. She would grow wistful when others in the neighborhood packed up to return to London, but she never said a word. Left
a childless widow when she was barely thirty, she had spent her life caring for Elizabeth and Charles, selling her own estate to be a resident on theirs because their father had convinced her she was necessary to them; she did so want to be needed. Just when Louisa had been making plans to return to a more social existence in Bath, Jack had deserted her little girl. Since then she had been Elizabeth's constant companion and defender.

Watching her flirt with Hartley, Elizabeth could not deny Louisa her amusement. She held back the sharp remarks she had ready for Charles and did her best to ignore her unwelcome visitor.

Over the next few days she was very successful. She saw Hartley at meals and with Charles, but he seemed to recognize that Elizabeth preferred to be alone. After her stepmother's stories and the scandal that had
awaited
when she returned home, she had expected him to be endowed with horns and a forked tail, instead he proved to be pleasant. He provided interesting tidbits of gossip to enliven the evenings, never grumbled that he was bored. And he was always willing to visit the tenants with Louisa or play a hand of whist with her in the evenings for penny stakes more often than not. But even though Elizabeth admitted his good manners, she could not forget his reputation or the way he had taken advantage of Susan.

One afternoon as she rode across country with Charles, leaving their guest to take a nap, she asked curiously, "How did you and Hartley become friends?"

Charles looked at her sharply, not really wishing to admit the truth. "What does it matter?"

"Is it something you are ashamed of?"

"Yes."

"I knew there was something not quite right. You have been avoiding him whenever you could. Why don't you ask him to leave?" Elizabeth pulled her horse to a halt, forcing Charles to do the same. She turned to look at him. "Well, are you going to tell me you want him to stay?"

"It is not the thing to do." Her brother avoided her eyes, turning to survey the fields on the horizon. "Besides, he amuses Louisa." And, he admitted to himself, as long as Hartley was at the manor the man could not hope to collect on that piece of paper Charles had signed.

"Come, now, Charles. You can think of a better excuse than that." Elizabeth said sardonically. "Why does he want to stay? What could be of interest to him here? We have no gambling."

"Every time I go looking for him, he is with Louisa. Maybe she is the one who should explain," her brother said in a teasing voice.

Elizabeth glared at him and spurred her horse into a gallop, the rich azure blue veil on her riding hat trailing behind her like a war banner. Charles followed for a while and then passed her, heading back toward the manor. When she reached the stables, he was waiting to hand her down. "Charles, try to get him to leave. He is already the subject of rumors in the area. Servants, no matter how well trained, do talk to their friends on other estates. And you know how your mama feels about him. If she hears that he is visiting you here . . ." She let her voice trail off suggestively.

"Then my hopes for a commission are forever gone." She nodded and headed toward the house. Charles stood and watched her until she disappeared.

"Damn!" Charles slammed his hand against the side of the barn.

"Something wrong, sir?" asked a groom who was hurrying forward to take the reins of the horses from him.

"No.
Nothing."
Charles handed him the reins and plunged off toward the house, taking the familiar route through the kitchen.

No sooner had Elizabeth entered the front entry hall than Jeffries appeared. "Your mail, Miss
Beckworth
," he said quietly.

"I will take it upstairs with me. Was there anything for anyone else?" Every day she hoped Hartley would receive a message recalling him to town.

"Only for Mrs.
Beckworth
and your brother."
Jeffries stood quietly waiting for further orders.

"Send my maid up to me, please," Elizabeth said as she looked at the letters from Amelia and her stepmother. There was an unfamiliar handwriting on one that puzzled her. "Oh, tell her I will want a bath," she added as she headed up the stairs, turning the letter over to see if she recognized the seal.

As usual her maid had already anticipated her desires; Miller had the tub ready. Elizabeth gratefully disrobed and climbed into the copper tub, shivering for a moment in the cool air. Miller quickly poured another bucket of hot water in, waiting for the sigh of satisfaction her mistress always gave when the water was exactly right.

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warm water soothe her. Then she reached out a hand. "Hand me my mail, Miller." She quickly opened her stepmother's letter, noting that once again it began with an invitation and a command. "She wants me to come to London now or at least to Brighton for the summer, Miller. Do you think she will ever give up?"

Her maid, if she had been asked her opinion, would have agreed with Lady
Ramsburg
. Miss
Beckworth
needed more people around her. Miller did not want to be the maid of a crotchety maiden lady all her life. When she had taken the position as lady's maid to her mistress, she had envisioned dressing her for all the famous
ton
parties, of being sought after for her unique way of curling her mistress's hair. For the First Season it had been everything she had dreamed it would be. One mother had begged her to take charge of her less-than-beautiful swan, but by then Miller had grown accustomed to her mistress. Had the questions been asked during the last four years, the answer might have been different. She still had hopes. She noticed Elizabeth shiver and added another bucket of hot water. She turned to ring for more.

"Well, we will not be seeing Lord and Lady
Ravenwood
for a time," Elizabeth said, her voice disappointed. "He feels that they must be in Brighton for the summer."

"Brighton seems a popular place." Miller laid out her mistress's clothing on the bed, then hearing a scratching at the door, hastened toward it and admitted a maid with two more buckets of hot water. They added the hot water to the bath, putting towels around the floor to catch the overflow.

Finished with her letter from her friend, Elizabeth handed it to Miller and broke the seal on the third, the mysterious letter she had been deliberately saving for last. As she read the signature, her face flushed. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the letter into the bath water.

Her maid noted her reaction, stepping close to the tub with a towel. "You have been in there long enough, Miss
Beckworth
. The skin of a prune is not becoming to a lady."

For once Elizabeth did not take exception to her maid's tone of voice. She stepped from the tub and allowed Miller to wrap her in the towel. Without stopping for further clothing, she walked to the chaise, the letter still in her hand. It was from the Viscount Dunstan—"your Robert" as he signed himself. He simply reminded her that his offer of marriage stood, that he did not plan to accept her refusal as final, that he hoped she remembered him with as much fondness as he remembered her.

Remember him? She could not forget him. Every night her dreams were filled with a handsome, sleepy face, warm lips, long brown legs, a broad, brown, muscular chest, and blue, blue eyes. She blushed once more as she thought of how wanton those dreams had grown. Not even during her engagement to Jack had she awakened reaching for someone beside her in her bed. Resolutely she put down the letter, resisting the impulse to run her finger over his signature one more time.
"Your Robert" indeed.

A few evenings later Hartley watched the ladies leave, his eyes narrowed dangerously. Finally he turned to Charles. "I am very disappointed in you. I hope you have not forgotten the note you signed, my friend," the older man said quietly, a hint of steel evident in his voice.