The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (4 page)

Beaumont stepped into the gazebo and seated himself in a wicker chair across from hers. “Do sit down, Miss O’Fal on. I came to see how you were doing.” He glanced fondly at his son. “It appears he’s taken to you.”

“He’s a fine little boy, and very bright. We shal get along fine.” He spoke to Peter. “Go feed your rabbits, son. I wish to speak to Miss O’Fal on alone.” After the boy left, fol owed by the faithful Cromwel , Evleen regarded Beaumont with questioning eyes. “I trust I have not done something wrong.”

“Of course not.” Beaumont leaned back in his chair and casual y stretched his long legs in front of him. How handsome he looked, so different from the men she had known in Ireland, whose Sunday best attire could not hold a candle to Beaumont’s elegant cutaway frock coat, perfectly tied cravat, breeches that fitted revealingly tight over his wel -muscled calves. And those polished Hessian boots! So very masculine, so very appealing . . .

Uh-oh, he’s been talking and I haven’t been listening.

He took a long moment to gaze at her. His lip quirked, as if he were amused, but she didn’t know why. “I find you an interesting woman, Miss O’Fal on.”

“Cal me Evleen. We’re not nearly so formal at home.”

“In that case, cal me Richard.”

She asked, “So why do you find me interesting when I’m only your poor Irish relative?”

“Because there’s something about you . . .” His forehead creased in a frown. “You surprise me.”

“In what way?”

“I would have thought a woman as attractive as you would be married by now.”

“We Irish don’t marry as young as you do in England.” Modesty prevented her from recounting the number of proposals she’d received over the years, al rejected. “When I do marry, if I ever do, it wil be to someone with whom I have fal en madly, passionately in love.”

“So you’ve never been in love?”

“Not yet.” She tipped her head quizzical y. “Didn’t you marry for love?”

“No, of course not.” At her look of surprise, he continued, “Many marriages are arranged in England, as was mine. Rank . . . family background . . . the size of the dowry are more important considerations than whether one has been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Actual y . . .” He paused, weighing his next words. “I became most fond of my first wife. Mil icent was a fine woman whom I greatly admired and respected.”

“What about Bettina?”

She feared she’d asked too bold a question, but he readily answered. “Bettina is the youngest daughter of the Duchess of Derbyshire. Vast fortune. One of England’s oldest families. Extremely generous dowry, of course. My mother’s cup runneth over.”

“But you don’t love her either?”

A half-smile crossed his face. “I was raised to believe honour and duty come first. Thus, for me, love has never been an option.”

How very sad, she thought, but decided not to say. They continued to chat, Beaumont showing no desire to leave. When his son returned, he arose reluctantly. “I have enjoyed our conversation. If you don’t mind, I shal come back from time to time in order to check on Peter’s progress.”

“I wouldn’t mind at al .” And she wouldn’t. Watching him stride away, she found herself admiring his broad shoulders and the easy grace with which he moved. Bettina was a lucky woman. Very lucky indeed.

In the days that fol owed, Evleen fel into a comfortable routine with Peter. She conducted his lessons in the classroom or, weather permitting, in the gazebo. Either way, Beaumont often joined them. Sometimes he sat quietly and listened; other times he joined in the discussions with a lively give-and-take of English history, or whatever was the topic, helping to answer his inquisitive son’s endless questions. Best of al , she discovered he had a deliciously subtle sense of humour, often revealed when the corners of his mouth quirked into an irresistible little grin.

She welcomed his visits, even looked forward to them with increasing anticipation. But the trouble was, Beaumont’s new-found attention to his son’s education did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the house. Evleen had hoped that in time she could make friends, but now their enmity was even more evident. She overheard Lady Beaumont and Lydia again one day as she stood outside the drawing room.

“There is something very strange about her,” Lady Beaumont was saying. “In fact, poor, dear Mil icent once mentioned her Irish side of the family possessed certain mystical powers. At the time, I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but now I’m beginning to wonder.” Lydia replied, “There’s something unpleasantly mysterious about al the Irish, what with their Celtic culture and those ancient Druids who, I understand, practised al sorts of strange, unholy rites – al quite unacceptable.”

“I cannot imagine why Richard spends so much time with her,” Lady Beaumont went on. “He claims he’s only interested in Peter’s lessons, but quite frankly I don’t trust the woman. What if she casts some sort of spel over him? Wel , she had best be careful. If she dares show the least sign of any so-cal ed magical powers, I shal send her packing, and I don’t care what Richard says.”

“At least he’l be married soon,” replied Lydia. “That should ease our minds.”

“And Bettina’s, too,” Lady Beaumont answered with a caustic laugh.

Evleen’s heart sank as she listened. How unfair! What had she done to deserve such hatred?

Her behaviour with Beaumont had been completely beyond reproach. Not only that, she had taken great pains to be pleasant and civil to these difficult women who were bound and determined to dislike her. As for her magic, she stood by her promise. Such a promise wasn’t easy, for often, when she was teaching Peter his lessons in the gazebo, she saw the black raven sitting on a nearby branch. It would stare down at her with a beckoning look in its eye, as if it were tel ing her that Merlin could hardly wait to reveal himself before her. So tempting! But she had refrained from rubbing the blue pebble. Mama had been very wise indeed to make her promise never to use her magic powers in disbelieving England.

But as much as she missed Merlin and his magic, a deeper sorrow lay heavy on her mind. For the first time in her life, she had fal en madly, passionately in love. Each night, she lay in her bed staring into the darkness, her anguished heart keeping her from sleep. She could see no way out of her constant misery, for the man she had fal en in love with was Lord Beaumont – a man she could never marry; a man hopelessly beyond her reach.

Late one afternoon, after Peter had left, Evleen remained in the gazebo to tidy up. She was pleased with the way the day had gone. Peter continued to be a delightful pupil who absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Also, on a personal note, she was wearing a new gown just completed by the seamstress. Made of a soft blue batiste, it had three satin bands of a darker blue circling the skirt and delicate white lace fril s decorating the bodice and sleeves. Never had she owned such a beautiful gown. With her auburn hair contrasting with the blue, she knew she looked her best.

She had almost finished putting the lesson books away when Beaumont appeared. “How did the lessons go today?”

“Very wel ,” she answered, her heart quickening at sight of him. She searched for something safe to say. “Have you noticed the sunset? It’s quite beautiful.” He came to stand beside her. Together they watched the setting sun paint puffy clouds with gorgeous streaks of pink and gold. Final y he remarked with a sigh, “It won’t be long now.”

“Your wedding?”

“My wedding,” he replied in a voice total y devoid of enthusiasm.

“You must be very happy.” What else could she say?

“Happy?” he responded sharply. “How can I be happy when I—?” Abruptly he turned to face her.

His hands gripped her shoulders, causing her to gasp in surprise. “Ah, Evleen, Evleen . . . the very thought of marrying Bettina is repugnant to me, not when I . . .” He drew a deep breath, seeming to attempt to control his emotions. “Do you know how beautiful you look in that blue dress?” Taken aback by his intensity, she sought to make light of it. “The seamstress did rather a good job, I thought. She—”

He gripped her shoulders even tighter. “I love you, Evleen,” he burst out, his voice breaking with emotion. “With al my heart I have fal en in love with you.” He swung her into the circle of his arms, claiming her lips as he crushed her to him. Stunned, her knees weak, she returned his kiss with a pent-up hunger that spoke of the endless nights she had lain awake imagining herself in his arms.

Final y, raising his mouth from hers, he gazed into her eyes. “I want to make love to you, my beautiful Evleen,” he said, his breath coming hard. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Day and night my thoughts are ful of you – your charming smile, your wit, your lovely Irish laugh, everything about you . . . Oh, God, I want you so much I—”

He seemed to catch himself. With an oath he thrust her away and strode to the other side of the gazebo. For a time, he stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the garden. She could hear his breathing return to normal as he slowly composed himself. Final y he turned. “You must forgive me. I had no right to touch you.”

“But I wanted you to,” she replied. “I, too—”

“No! Don’t say any more.” He regarded her with anguished eyes. “I am betrothed. Do you know what that means in England? It means the moment I asked for Bettina’s hand in marriage, my fate was sealed. I cannot simply change my mind. If I did, my family would be in complete disgrace. I, myself, would receive the cut direct.”

“What is that?”

“Just like it sounds. People would not speak to me. If they saw me coming, they would turn their backs.”

“How cruel.”

“Yes, it’s cruel, but that’s the way of it in our society. I could endure it if I had to, but I cannot have my family disgraced. More than that, it’s a matter of honour.” He laughed bitterly. “Oh, yes, I am a man of honour, if nothing else. I shal keep my word. Forget this ever happened, Evleen. It wil never happen again.” With an expression of grief, mixed with self-reproach, he abruptly left the gazebo and strode back to the mansion with determined steps.

Evleen sank into a chair, her knees so weak she could not stand. Her thoughts swirled between joy and sorrow. Joy because he loved her. Sorrow because theirs was a love that was utterly hopeless. What should she do now? She could go away, but where? She could never return to Ireland – the cottage had been sold, nothing was left for her there. She could seek a position as a governess somewhere. She hated the thought of it. Horror stories abounded concerning the abysmal treatment of governesses in some of the great mansions.

Worst of al , if she left, what would happen to Peter? The boy had been lagging in his studies before she came, no doubt stil grieving for his mother. But since her arrival, he had blossomed, showing a bril iance that must not be al owed to lie fal ow again.

That settled it. She would stay even if she must suffer the pain of constantly seeing Richard together with his new bride. For Peter’s sake, she would endure it.

“Ah, Miss O’Fal on, there you are!”

Algernon. A shudder of dislike ran through her. Cousin Algernon had remained at Chatfield Court the whole time she’d been there. Nobody could stand the man. The maids fled at the sight of him. Rumour had it that Lord Beaumont had chastised his cousin more than once, warning him to stop annoying the ladies as wel as the female servants. Obviously Algernon had ignored al admonitions. Evleen noted that the spark of lust stil gleamed in his eye, and the disgusting I-am-God’s-gift-to-women expression remained on his pasty face.

She scrambled to her feet and began col ecting books and papers. “Yes, here I am,” she answered, hardly bothering to conceal the dislike in her voice.

“Here, let me help you.” Algernon reached for the books in her arms, his hand “accidental y” brushing across her bosom.

She abruptly backed away. “I can manage for myself,” she snapped. “I’m not finished here. You had best go back to the house.”

“What a pity,” he replied in his oily voice. “I had thought we might go for a strol . It’s time we got better acquainted.”

Fury almost choked her. “I am much too busy for a strol .”

“Perhaps another time then.” Total y unfazed, Algernon bowed and walked away.

To calm herself, Evleen stood for a while looking out over the garden. It wasn’t long before she spied the raven, staring down at her from its perch in the nearby tree.
Merlin.
She longed to talk to him, especial y after a day like this. Wel , why not? She wasn’t going to perform any magic, only talk to the magician who had been her mentor since she was eight years old.

She reached to rub the blue pebble hidden beneath her bodice. Instantly the bearded old man appeared before her, his clasped hands nearly concealed by the flowing sleeves. “Why haven’t you cal ed for me?” he asked.

“I have missed you but I must never use my magic in England,” she answered frankly. “They would never understand.”

“What is troubling you, child?” asked Merlin. “I see unhappiness in your eyes.”

“It’s that odious Algernon,” she quickly replied. “I cannot stand the sight of him.” Merlin slowly shook his head. “It is true the man is odious, but you are quite capable of keeping him in his place. No, the cause of your unhappiness is not Algeron Kent, it’s Lord Beaumont with whom you’ve fal en in love.”

She knew better than to argue. “I should have known you knew. Then you are aware our love is hopeless.”

Merlin pondered a moment. “I could easily cast a spel over your Lord Beaumont, one that would make him decide to end his betrothal to Bettina and marry you.”

“No,” Evleen cried. “Richard is an honourable man. He would never forgive me if I resorted to such a cheap, shoddy trick. And besides, he would be an outcast and would receive the cut direct.