Raven's Bride (11 page)

“Her cousin? Pah, he is nothing to me. A foolish young fop who I would spit on my sword as soon as look at him.”

Melcott despised his braggadocio. The squire was puffed up with wind like a bladder and, no doubt, a coward at heart, as all braggarts were. He doubted the squire would be capable of being his nephew’s equal, even when he had the benefit of surprise on his side. Men such as he thrived on terrorizing the weak and the helpless, and would flee any opponent who stood up to him. “He is a powerful man, and well-loved by the king.”

The squire snorted. “King’s friend or no, no man is powerful enough to withstand a dagger in the back on a dark night.”

“You had best not let him see your face. If you miscarry, it will be the worse for you.”

The squire barked out a short laugh. “A dead man cannot name his murderer.”

“If you are caught, you will hang for it,” Melcott said, his stomach tightening in anticipation. How he would love to see the squire swinging in the wind, his face purple, his tongue protruding, his fingers scrabbling at the cruel knot around his neck, as he gasped his last. Hanging was a punishment fit for godless lechers and evil plotters like the squire.

Squire Grantley showed his pointed teeth in an unpleasant grin. “Not when I have you to bear false witness and claim he struck the first blow.”

Melcott sucked his teeth and considered the matter carefully.

“Do we have a deal or not?” asked the squire, impatiently. “I get rid of the nephew. You get the land and the money. I get the girl. If I am taken, you bear witness for me that I was defending myself from an unprovoked attack. If you are suspected, I will do the same for you.”

Melcott nodded. The squire, satisfied, spat on his hand and offered it to him to shake. Melcott spat on his, and clasped the squire’s hand in his. He did not like to make a bargain with such an ungodly man, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and all sorts of vessels were made to fit His purpose, lowly worms and evil lechers alike. “We have a deal.”

“When shall I do the deed?”

“Tomorrow sennight,” Melcott said, “my niece and nephew are giving a ball. All the neighborhood will be there. One more man and one more horse in the midst of all that throng will never be noticed. Be ready.”

The squire bowed low in mockery and turned on his heel to go. “Tomorrow sennight then,” he called back over his shoulder, as he made his way down the alleyway, his boots slipping on the mud and filth beneath his feet. “I await it eagerly. By the time the day is out, you shall have inherited a landed estate, and I shall have a trim new mistress.”

Melcott watched him turn the corner and gave a grim chuckle. “No, you will not, you poor, credulous fool,” he muttered to himself, as he brought his cane down on the dirty cobblestones with a resounding thwack. He was well pleased with his day’s work. “You will be lying dead in a ditch, alongside my knave of a nephew, vilified for his murder. I will have a landed estate and little Anna as well.”

Chapter Six

Anna took her mother’s admonitions about Lord Ravensbourne to heart. There were no more dawn riding lessons with her cousin, no more picnics in the sun, no more walks around the grounds in the late afternoon, no more carriage rides to town. There were no more exchanges of dark looks, no more near kisses, no more touching of fingers and hands as if by accident.

She steeled herself to the look of disappointment on Lord Ravensbourne’s face whenever she declined another of his invitations. She braced herself for the disappointment she knew she would feel when the day came that he stopped calling. She knew in her heart it would be easier for her to deny him now than to wait until she had fallen even more deeply in love with him, so it would kill her to give him up.

Even though she knew what she was doing was right, at times she thought her heart would break.

Charlotte’s quick eyes soon noticed something was amiss between the pair of them. “Have you quarreled with my brother?” she asked one morning, as they sat in Charlotte’s chamber trimming Charlotte’s latest riding bonnet with green and yellow ribbons.

Anna wanted to throw herself on her cousin’s breast and confess how her heart ached for Lord Ravensbourne, how it was killing her by inches to show him a cold brow when he came to court her. But it would not be politic to confess her secrets to Charlotte and be enrolled in the lists as another of Lord Ravensbourne’s conquests. Charlotte would pity her, and she could not bear Charlotte’s pity.

No, she would not wear her bleeding heart on her sleeve. “No, we have not quarreled.”

“He had been as grumpy as an old bear in the last few days,” Charlotte said, as she deftly sewed another green streamer to her bonnet. “And you have been hiding in your house and not coming to visit us over much.”

Anna knotted a yellow ribbon into a rosette with steady fingers and was silent. It hurt too much to see Lord Ravensbourne, when she knew he could never be hers. Besides, it was easier to resist him when he was not standing there in front of her, his nearness making her burn with a longing she dared not name, his eyes begging her to give in to the fire that consumed her.

“You have been so sad and silent, too—quite unlike your usual self,” Charlotte said. “I do hope it is not on account of Tom. He is a sad rogue and cannot live without females to adore him wherever he goes. As long as you do not take anything he says seriously, he is a perfectly agreeable man.”

Anna’s heart died a little at Charlotte’s words. Her mother had been wise to warn her against a rake and a heartbreaker like her cousin. She stabbed her needle through her yellow ribbon and pricked her finger. Tears of pain filled her eyes, and she brushed them away unobtrusively with her sleeve.

“I am hoping the ball tomorrow will revive your spirits. And Tom’s as well. Georgina Perkins will be there in all her finery. She would be a good match for him, but I do not believe he likes her over much. He finds her plain and rather simple-minded.”

Anna felt her own spirits revive a trifle at this news. Maybe the ball would not be so unbearable if she did not have to watch her cousin make love to another woman in front of her eyes. He had been so attentive to her lately that he would almost certainly ask her to dance with him. Her heart felt giddy at the thought of being in Lord Ravensbourne’s arms, even for a moment, without having to feel the slightest pang of guilt.

Surely her mother would not take it amiss if she were to dance once with her cousin. “I
am
looking forward to the ball.” She suddenly felt more enthusiastic than she had for many days.

“Aphra Scott promised me she would attend as well. She is anxious to see Tom again. He paid rather a lot of attention to her when they met in London last season, and no doubt she would like to renew the acquaintance. She doesn’t have as much money as Georgina does,” Charlotte said, with a considered air, “but she comes from a very good family and she is particularly pretty. Tall and blond and striking. He could do worse than marry her.”

Anna hated Aphra at once. So, Lord Ravensbourne liked tall, blond women. What did it matter that she herself was short and dark? She was only his cousin. “You would like Aphra for a sister-in-law?”

“I think it would be best if he were to choose someone ridiculously rich, like Georgina, who has been mad in love with him for years,” Charlotte said, after a moment’s thought, “but he may prefer to choose someone from the court circles who is closely allied to the king. One can never have too many friends in court. I am expecting a small house party of some of Tom’s particular friends, and some of the more eligible females of my own acquaintance, to arrive this evening. The ball would be a perfect time for him to make his choice from among them.”

“You are anxious to marry your brother off.” She was proud of the small triumph she had over her voice—it hardly shook at all.

Charlotte shrugged. “He must marry some time and produce an heir, if he can, to inherit the estate, or it will revert to the crown on our Uncle Melcott’s death, as Uncle Melcott has no heirs.”

“And does Lord Ravensbourne agree with you? Does he intend to choose his bride at the ball?” She waited, hardly daring to breathe, for her cousin’s answer.

Charlotte shrugged her pretty shoulders. “I have high hopes he will see reason before the night is out.”

Anna brooded on Charlotte’s words for the rest of the day and far into the night. Charlotte did not see her as a possible wife for her brother, or she would never have discussed the possible candidates for his bride so cavalierly with her. After all, why should Charlotte ever consider her? She had neither of the essentials—a family tree traced back to William the Conqueror, or pots and pots of gold as a recompense for her lack of breeding.

Even more disturbing was the side of Lord Ravensbourne’s character that she had not seen, but which Charlotte had hinted at—that he made women fall in love with him to feed his own vanity, and that he had trifled with Aphra Scott before casting her aside. Those were not the actions of a trustworthy man.

She tossed and turned, this way and that, until the early hours of the morning. As the first birds were calling their early morning songs, she came to a decision. She could not bear to watch Lord Ravensbourne choose his wife at the ball. She would stay out of his way and steel herself to congratulate him when it was all over. Never, never would she confess to anyone, not even to herself, that she had fallen in love with him.

For if she did, she would also have to confess her folly—she had fallen in love with a man she could not trust.

He had been kind to her—she had no quarrel with him on that score. In many ways, he seemed to be a good man, though not overly Godly. But in matters of the heart, he was a wanton rogue. If she entrusted her heart to him, he would be sure to break it, and she had not another.

She woke late the next morning with a fiery headache and limbs that felt as heavy as the devil’s heart.

Her mother, noticing her paleness and the dark rings under her eyes, brewed her a cup of rosemary tea. She sipped the bitter brew obediently, but the pounding in her head didn’t abate.

As evening drew near, she laid the black silk dress Lord Ravensbourne had bought her out on her bed with a heavy heart. She had seldom felt less like dancing in her life. Wearily she went through the motions of getting dressed in her finery, doing up her hair, and even dusting her face with powder to hide the purple rings under her eyes.

Her mother eyed her anxiously. “We will not stay late,” she promised, as Anna dropped into a chair, already fading with fatigue. “We shall sneak away after supper, and no one will miss us.”

Anna was little cheered by the thought of her own insignificance.

The ball was just beginning as Anna and her mother entered the manor house. Anna’s eyes were drawn, as if by a magnet, to where Lord Ravensbourne stood with a group of his neighbors. He was easily the tallest of them and much the most handsome in her eyes. His long, brown hair fell in waves past his shoulders, and his aquiline nose gave him an austerely Grecian profile. She had not thought him handsome when she had first met him—indeed, she had considered him quite plain. But his was a beauty which came from his soul, and was not obvious to those who knew and loved him less well than she did.

She had never seen him so finely dressed before. His jacket was of a rich blue brocade, and his white linen shirt was frilled on the front and sleeves with touches of lace. His stockings fit his legs like a second skin, showing off his fine, muscular calves, and his shoes were made of the same rich blue brocade as his jacket. His Uncle Melcott standing next to him looked like a crow in severe black, untrimmed with any color save for the silver buckles on his shoes. Lord Ravensbourne, in his colorful finery and precious lace, looked like a bird flown down from paradise.

He turned and caught her watching him. After detaching himself from the others with a slight bow, he made his way through the crowd to her side, a dangerously wicked smile curving his lips. “You look beautiful tonight, Anna,” he said, his voice as husky as the wisps of smoke that twisted and twined from the wax candles towards the ceiling.

His nearness and the warmth in his tone heated her whole body to near boiling point. He had not been so close as this to her since they had ridden from Norwich together in the carriage. She inclined her head, wishing she could succumb to the temptation she heard in his voice, but knowing that she must not. “Thank you.”

“Will you dance with me?”

The moment had come sooner than she had dared to hope it would. Silently, she offered him her hand in acceptance. A thrill went through her at the touch of his fingers on hers, and her eyes sought his. The warmth and feeling she saw in them was enough to make her turn her head away in confusion.

“I was waiting for you to arrive,” he breathed in her ear as he led her into the throng of dancers, “so I could be the first to take hold of your hand and lead you out to dance.”

“There would have been plenty of time to dance with me later in the evening, if you so chose,” she said, guilt about the pleasure she was taking in his arms prickling the back of her spine and making her voice sound sharp to her ears. “I am hardly inundated with followers.”

“But I wanted to be the first.” His voice caressed her senses, and she fought against the magic he was weaving around her. “The one your eyes linger on when I cross the room, hoping I will ask you to dance again. The one you remember days later, when you want to relive the magic of the first dance of the first ball of the season.”