Netherby Halls (3 page)

He followed her inside with mincing steps, his ennui
displayed by his expression and the use of his handkerchief
swishing before him.

Sassy’s gaze went to his bright yellow waistcoat and
then to his matching nearly as bright breeches. Turning away, she
bit back a giggle.

She found him right at her back as she turned to bid
him be comfortable. He stopped and touched a long strand of her
hair. “Lovely,” he whispered, “so like midnight. Quite alive with
shine.” He sighed heavily. “I could write an ode to your
hair … but,
egad
, your eyes!” He paused once more,
using this acquired affectation as though on a stage. “I have never
seen a shade quite as green … touched with aqua. Yes, I shall
write an ode to both your hair and your eyes.”

Sassy giggled and could not stop herself. “But what
of my face?”

“Dash it, Sassy … piquant and beautiful …”
He moved closer, and his voice lowered as he said, “Delectably
ripe.”

Sassy suddenly realized she should not have teased
with him. He had crossed the line, and she stiffened. “And here I
was thinking that the black of my mourning clothes made me look
dowdy.” One brow was raised with a warning.

“Black?
M
ournin
g
? Ah yes, to be
sure. So sorry about your father. Been in London. Shame and
all … shame … but, well, shall we be off now?” He
fidgeted uncomfortably.

Sassy looked to the three portmanteaus packed and
ready to go near the door. All her things, all her mother’s
things—not clothes but other very important things—had been stuffed
inside those bags. It was as though her whole life were now on the
move. “Yes, of course,” she said with a sigh. “We just need to put
my bags at the boot.”

“Is that all you have?” Sir John frowned over the
luggage.

“That is all,” she said. “And quite enough.”

“Yes, yes, of course … got what you need. Fine,
then … let me get you situated while the lad packs it up.
Can’t keep m’mother waiting. She is anxious to have you at
Tanderlay with her.” He took her elbow, but she gently withdrew
it.

“One moment, Sir John … I have some farewells to
make to my friends.”

“Friends?” He looked about, and dawning displayed
itself on his face. “Er … servants … I see …
friends.”

He moved about impatiently as Sassy kissed the people
she had grown up with and bade them be happy with the new vicar.
When she finally allowed him to lead her to the waiting carriage,
he released a relieved sigh; once again she smiled to herself.

As the carriage rumbled over the sandy driveway and
onto the paved road, Sassy made an attempt at conversation. “I
can’t imagine why you have left London in the height of the
season?”

“Er … one gets weary of parties …” he said
evasively.

She smiled, but suddenly she got a vision of him, and
it wasn’t what she was expecting. He was in his undergarments and
running out of a bedroom. Another man was shouting and waving a
gun … and a woman, naked, was pleading with her husband not to
shoot him, saying it meant nothing.

Sassy shook this off and turned to the window, once
again biting her lip. She had heard Sir John had a penchant for
women—young, old, married, widowed. Servants talked, and her
family’s servants weren’t above chatting about him within her
hearing. Apparently Sir John was, in his own estimation, ‘a ladies
man.’ Sassy repressed a giggle, for he was not that in her
opinion—
not at all!

And once again her thoughts drifted briefly to the
illusion of the man, the mesmerizing man who haunted her dreams.
How could she stop it? Was it part of her final transition? Was
that what was happening?

* * *

The Marquis of Dartmour wielded his new phaeton
through London’s traffic. He was, as he had been ever since he had
seen that exquisite creature in the village of Sutton, totally
distracted by a vision, albeit fading as the months passed by, that
repeated itself both day and night in his mind.

The thing was, he had experienced something that felt
as though it was taking place even as he looked into her eyes—those
compelling, beautiful eyes. It hadn’t come from him; he knew that.
But what then was the explanation?

He had experienced the event as though it had been
real. He had actually been in his bedroom with her, looking at her
as she lay on his bed—
naked
.

He had touched her skin and felt her tremble to his
touch. He had licked her nipples, felt them harden …
Bloody
hell,
he had felt her exquisite flesh beneath his fingers! It
was so much more than a dream. It had felt as though, when he
looked at her across the avenue—this was insane, absolutely insane
that he should think this—but it was as though he had been
transported in time, to a place where they belonged
together …

Madness—and yet, it haunted him.
S
he
haunted him.

What had triggered it?

She had,
of that he was certain. When those
speaking green eyes met and locked with his gaze, he’d lost himself
to a living dream. An explanation presented itself:
Magic
.
It could be nothing else.

He wasn’t an innocent young man capable of being
captivated by a lovely young woman to the point of being consumed
by a fantasy. That wasn’t what happened,
but what then
? He
didn’t have the answer, so he tried to forget it, forget her. But
then, without realizing it, his thoughts would stray, he would find
himself staring at a beauty, and that beauty was in his bed!

An illusion so strong, he had been unable to forget
it. This sort of thing never happened to him. He was a realistic
man, in control of everything he was and was not.

He had even given chase. At the time he’d thought he
would stop breathing if she escaped him. But she had rounded the
corner, and then suddenly Percy shouted his name at his back,
bringing him back to earth.

He had snapped out of it as though waking immediately
from a dream. All that now was a memory, and although it was
fading, he could not forget it.

He and his friend Percy had been visiting the
Dellesons, who were in turn visiting friends in the area. They had
returned to London that very day, but since that time he had
thought about her, dreamt about her—and she remained in his mind
like a haunting memory.

He came back to the present as a passing pretty
serving girl cast him a saucy smile and threw him a kiss. He tipped
his top hat to her and grinned rakishly, his eyes telling her if he
could stop and catch that kiss with his lips he would.

London reeked with the aromas of horses,
overpopulation, moneylenders, flashhouses, thieves, and vitality,
and he longed to return to his establishment in the country. He
sighed, for he was weary of the London scene, but at that moment he
had arrived at his club on St. James Street. He pulled his team
over to the curbing and handed the reins to his tiger, who jumped
off the back of the phaeton to take charge. “Walk ’em, lad,” he
instructed. “I shan’t be too long.”

The tasteful sign identified his club as
Watier’s
, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in all of
London.

He took wide, hard strides up its renowned steps to
find the door opened by a flunkey who received a gratuity for his
trouble. Inside, he gave his hat and cloak to another, and then the
marquis made his way to one of the card rooms.

He scanned the masculine and elegantly designed room
for the gentleman he sought, found him, and raised a brow as he
noticed his disheveled state.

“Percy,” he said quietly in way of greeting.

A pleasant-looking man turned and gave his dearest
friend a sour expression. “Hallo, Justin … you
here …?”

The marquis grinned to himself as he picked up the
empty brandy glass at Percy Lutterel’s elbow, gazed at it
meaningfully, and then replaced it hard on the table. “Drinking
deep, eh, lad?”

“Don’t read me any lectures, Justin. For one thing,
you only have one year on me, and for another … I won’t have
it.” Percy sank his chin onto his folded hands resting on the
table.

“You should know better. Me? Read you a lecture?
Don’t be a fool.”

“Eh? Then sit down and have a drink with me, ol’ boy.
A man needs his closest friend when he is being delivered to hell
in a cart.”

“Delivered to hell in a cart?” the marquis repeated
incredulously. “This is no time for you to moon on and on about a
wench!” The marquis pulled up a chair and straddled it.

“You wouldn’t understand,” moaned Percy as he sat up
and ran a hand through his fair mass of flaxen locks.

“No, I wouldn’t, because this is not the way to help
yourself!”

“Damnation, Justin … I’m not mooning over Miss
Delleson, and I’ll thank you not to refer to her as a wench. She
is … a goddess …”

The marquis’s opinion of Miss Delleson being very
different, he rolled his eyes as he exclaimed, “Good Lord!”

Mr. Lutterel grumbled, “Well, might as well get it
over with. Just what do you want, for I tell you to your face, I
won’t have you sitting there looking all superior over
me …”

The marquis resisted a laugh and managed to keep his
tone serious. “Heard you were in your cups these two days, and
thought I’d have a look-see.” He studied him a moment and added
baitingly, “Do you know how you appear? I cannot imagine you would
allow the Beau to observe your disheveled appearance unless you
were out of your mind with grief.”

“The Beau?” Mr. Lutterel pulled himself up with a
start. “Never say
he
is here?”

“No, as it happens he is still at Oatlands this week,
which is a fortunate circumstance for you. What would he think? No
doubt he would cut the connection.” Inwardly, the marquis was
grinning, though he kept a grim expression. His friend fancied
himself a man of fashion and was proud that Beau Brummell counted
him as part of his circle.

Percy, however, sank back onto his hands and sighed
heavily. “What does it matter? What does anything matter?”

Justin Dartmour, Eighth Marquis of the House of
Dartmour, threw up his hands and then leaned on the back of the
wooden chair he straddled.

Mr. Lutterel gazed at him wonderingly but kept silent
as the marquis lit into him. “I see. You have decided to give her
up. Poor spirited, Percy.”

“What? What’s that you say? Give her up? Hell and
fire, Justin, I have done no such thing. What a paltry thing to say
to me. And wait—who was it who said,
‘Forget the chit. Move
on.’
? You said that only last week!”

“As to that, it appears my excellent advice was for
naught, as apparently you have been unable to do so. I find that
you are attached more deeply than I suspected, but I tell you to
your head, this whimpering … ’tis disgusting!”

Percival Lutterel attempted to get to his feet but
was detained by the marquis’s firm clasp on his shoulder. “No, ol’
boy—don’t call me out. I should be forced to delope, and then you
would in all probability put a bullet through me—an act I am
persuaded would cause you as much pain as it would me.”

Percy’s eyes twinkled at the humor behind this, and
for a moment the marquis saw a return of his sunny smile. “You are
a despicable, Justin.” He shook his head slowly and pronounced, “A
dog.”

“So I am. Nevertheless, I believe I can help you in
your present plight,” the marquis offered on a serious note.

“Help me? ’Tis impossible. You read her note—she
means to marry Grey!” replied Percy, groaning.

“The devil is in it that she just might—if you allow
her to do so!” the marquis countered.

“Allow her? How in God’s name am I to prevent
her?”

“I have given it some thought, Percy, and I believe
the chit actually wrote you that note in the hopes you would follow
her to Bristol and somehow manage the affair—oust Lord Grey and win
over her mother.”

“Sounds pretty, Justin, but now I shall sound very
much like you and remind you that reality and fantasy rarely mix.
Besides, this doesn’t sound a bit like the advice you gave me last
week. Why the change of heart?”

“I haven’t had a change of heart, ol’ fellow. I
simply think a change of tactics is in order, as evidently you
don’t mean to forget the girl as I advised you to do.”

“You don’t understand!” Percy wailed.

“Oh, but I do. Lord Grey has title and more wealth
than you. Her mother wishes her to accept his hand, but does the
lady really wish it?”

“What does it matter? They won’t let me near
her.”

“That, my friend, is where I come in,” the marquis
said glibly.

“Eh, what mean you?”

“Mrs. Delleson has an eye for titles and money. Why
not dangle mine in front of her?”

“What the deuce?” Percy exclaimed.

“I shall accompany you to Bristol, where I am quite
certain you shall not be refused admittance while in my company.”
The marquis’s voice was dry.

A fog of brandy swirled in Percy’s mind, but some of
the marquis’s words made a clear path through the fog. “By
Jove … by Jove, I say!”

The marquis grinned. “Then it is settled, and we
leave for Bristol?”

“Hold a moment.” Percy’s gray eyes narrowed. “Why are
you doing this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You are my closest friend …
want you happy,” the marquis responded evasively.

“Gammon!” returned Percy on a snort.

“Don’t question my motives, Percy. I mean to help
you, whatever
they
might be,” the marquis said, his
expression suddenly grim.

“Do you know, for as long as I have known you,
through all we have been at over the years, you remain an
enigma.”

“Indeed, Percy. That is because I wish to be so. Be
ready at ten tomorrow morning, for I shall be prompt.” With that,
the marquis turned and made his way out of the club.