The Mysterious Heir (18 page)

“Morgan,” Elizabeth said firmly, “does that mean that if I were not virtuous you would tell me? That is ridiculous. Why do men think that a maiden lady has no idea of life? We may not ‘do' things, precisely, but we do think about them, I assure you.”

He laughed with delight. “My dear. Now I am even more penitent. I had no idea that I was entertaining a ‘maiden lady.'”

“Are you hinting,” Elizabeth said with a great show of icy aplomb, “that I am not a lady?”

When his laughter had subsided, he studied her intently. “Always the right word, always the right touch. My dear, you are a surgeon to the soul. Now, why do you poker up when I pay you a compliment? Had I said such a thing to Isabel, she would have laughed up and down the scale and then said a smug little ‘thank you.' I may not,” he said, “have gotten an heir as yet, but I begin to think I have a great deal to thank my fictitious heir, James Everett Courtney, for. I begin to think that I stand greatly in his debt.”

But seeing her downcast eyes, he straightened and said in a bantering tone, “I go too far, too fast, in one day, and you are quite right to sit in disapproving silence. But what else can you do, poor lady? I shall have to buy you a fan, so that you can tap me smartly and cry, ‘Oh, la, sir!' when I presume. That is how they do it in London, you know.”

He rose, stretched his long body and picked up his stick, and then offered Elizabeth his other arm.

“It has grown very late. And though we are at Lyonshall, we ought to return to the main part of it. It is strange, but I feel much lighter in spirit now than when I came racing like a jehu to this spot. As if I have left off a large burden. I only hope it is not too heavy for your slight frame.”

“But I have only heard it, I did not live it,” Elizabeth reasoned, rising to stand with him and wishing to allay his fears, although she knew with a certainty that she would relive his story again and again and suffer for him anew each time in the late nights of her life. “And it is only right that friends should share their burdens.”

“Are we friends, then?” he asked, looking at her lips. “Close friends?” he breathed.

“We are at Lyonshall,” she answered nervously, stepping back a pace, half-wishing him to catch her up in his arms again, while the other half-more sensibly knew they ought to be leaving.

“Do not worry.” He sighed. “I remember that, at least. And if a gentleman accosted you this side of the pond, it would be tantamount to a declaration. Then Anthony would doubtless pop out from behind a tree and wish to start discussing a settlement, and Bev, at his side, would want to know the exact makeup of the bridal party.”

Elizabeth laughed as they turned to stroll back to where the phaeton and horses were tethered. “Oh, never fear. You are quite safe in that respect. Anthony believes me to be ancient, far beyond the age where such things are even possible. And I, at least, well know that your thoughts do not turn in that direction. It would be,” she added as he helped her up to her seat, “a wonder if they did, after your sad experience.”

He stood for a moment, looking at her with an unreadable expression, and then said softly, “Once, when I was young, I stole into one of our farmers' orchards, climbed up into the boughs of a prized tree, and gorged myself with apples all the day. When I got home, I suffered not only the pangs of remorse at my father's lecture but also the pains of the most colossal stomachache I had ever had. But, you know,” he said with a slight smile, “I still eat apples. In fact,” he added as he turned to enter the phaeton, “I am very partial to them still.”

Elizabeth colored slightly and sought light words to dispel
her embarrassment. She did not want to seem to be an ambitious female on the catch for a husband, although his words raised some impossible hopes in her breast. Sensibly, she shook them away, and said instead with a little grin, “Apple tarts, no doubt, are your favorites.”

“Of course,” he said, stifling a sudden laugh. “So much more exciting than humble pies.”

“And so much cheaper,” she added, delighted with the result of her daring as he threw back his head and roared with appreciation.

They joked and laughed all the way back to the long drive of Lyonshall. This time, he let the horses choose their own pace, so that by the time the long white drive was in sight, the sun slanted sharply and a faint glow of sunset lit the western sky. A lone figure paced the drive.

“Bev,” the Earl called, “I cannot understand why you spend so much of your time in my drive. Isn't your room to your taste?”

“Much you care,” the exquisite young man complained. “You're always off somewhere on some jaunt or other, leaving me to play deputy. Devil take it, Morgan, you've left me in the lurch again. Have someone stable your cattle, and then take over your duties as host. A fine thing to invite me here for a vacation, and then have me work my poor brain to the bone.”

The Earl halted his equipage and gave the reins to a stableboy as he dismounted. His friend absently helped Elizabeth down, and then, without even greeting her, wheeled upon the Earl again.

“I come back from a pleasant trip to Town with young Anthony and find the place at sixes and sevens. And who's to order things? Aye, Lady Isabel would, if she could, but I wouldn't have that. So it's me that has to make the decisions. And with all the to-ing and fro-ing, I have half a mind to leave on the moment. London's quieter, I vow.”

“Whatever has you in such a pother, Bev?” the Earl asked as he and Elizabeth made their way back to the house.

“Oh, nothing much,” his friend said with a show of burlesque dismissal. “Only that one of your guests has
decamped, and I don't wonder if he don't have half your silver in his satchel. And no sooner does his dust die down then another guest shows up at the door. I can't stop the one from going, and I can't tell the other not to stay. But pay it no mind, Morgan, pay it no mind.”

“No, why should I,”—the Earl smiled—“when you have so ably taken care of things?”

He turned and took Elizabeth's hand. “I'll have to go and closet myself with this tiresome fellow and discover just what he's on about. But I shall see you at dinner.”

He bowed slightly over her hand and gave her a confidential smile that sent her wits wandering, then turned and motioned to Lord Beverly.

“Come along, old dear, and have it out with me.”

“About time,” Lord Beverly grumbled, and began to follow him, and then stopped, hesitated, and turned.

“Oh, hello, Elizabeth. I didn't see you there,” he said, before sketching a bow and turning to accompany his host.

10

Although it was but an ordinary Thursday evening, Elizabeth took an extraordinary amount of time dressing for dinner. She was in an unusually festive mood and felt unconscionably light and giddy as she went back and forth in her room, from the closet to the pier mirror, from the mirror to the wardrobe once again. She had not fussed so over her appearance, nor felt such an anticipatory tingling of her senses, since she had been twelve and her mother and aunt had agreed to have some of the neighborhood children in to celebrate her birthday.

A small warning voice reminded her that at that time her anticipation of the birthday festivities had far outstripped her enjoyment of what had turned out to be only a simple tea party. And a party, moreover, marked by embarrassment and disappointment. For the village girls, in their unaccustomed finery, had been struck dumb by what seemed to them to be a sudden elevation in their social state. They had concentrated so hard on which spoons to use and how to hold their teacups that they were mute with their efforts. And the squire's young daughter had seemed bored and uncomfortable among such an ill-bred crew and her every glance around her host's sparse parlor had eloquently showed how meager she thought their facilities to be.

But Elizabeth was not in any mood to heed small warning voices. For her head was full of a different, distant music, the echoes of hearty masculine laughter and the tones of a rich warm male voice.

She finally settled on a pale apricot silk with puffed sleeves
and a discreetly daring neckline. As she checked once again in her mirror, she felt satisfied with her choice. For she saw that the color sparked the golden tones in her eyes and highlighted the sunny glints of her hair. She could not know that her eyes would have glistened and her color been just as high even if she had worn the mud-hued bombazine that she ordinarily wore in the shop. For it was not the dress but the voice she still heard that accounted for her high good looks this evening.

She did not know who the new guest was at Lyonshall, nor did she much care. So long as Anthony was still in residence, she little minded who else had decided to decamp. Although, she mused as she reached for a soft salmon-hued shawl to drape over her shoulders before she left her room, she would miss Lord Beverly if he were to go. But then she recalled that it had been Lord Beverly who had announced another guest's departure, and stifling an uncharacteristic giggle that had welled up at her own foolishness, she stepped lightly out of her room to go down to dinner.

She paused at the entrance to the dining room and looked about her with dismay. For she had been so long primping and posturing and mooning before her mirror that the other guests were all at table as she arrived. Her guilty gaze flew to the head of the table, but the long admiring look her host gave to her, along with a slow smile, chased all other thought of her tardiness from her mind.

“But here she is now,” the Earl said gently. “Elizabeth, let me make you known to our new guest, Lord Kingston. Lord Kingston, our delightful non-cousin, Elizabeth DeLisle.”

“Please,” a deep voice insisted, “if we begin as ‘Lord,' Lord knows where it will end. A simple ‘Harry' will do, if you please. Your servant, Miss DeLisle.”

Elizabeth made her curtsy and took her place at the table under cover of the company's laughter at Lord Kingston's adroit use of words.

As he was seated across the table from her, Elizabeth could not help noticing how well the new guest's way of speaking matched his mode of dress. For he was complete to a stand, the perfect gentleman of fashion. He was neither so much of a
peacock as Lord Beverly, nor as discreetly dressed as the Earl. But everything about him bespoke the man of the mode. He was tall and well built, with a pair of wide shoulders. Every detail of him matched. The tone of his fair hair, which was swept from off a pale high forehead, was echoed in his cornsilk patterned waistcoat and biscuit pantaloons. The pale blue of his eyes was echoed in the blue of his tight-fitting jacket. Only the black silk sling that held his left arm found no counterpart in his dress that Elizabeth could see. But she guessed that his boots would be of the same color and glossy finish.

As the first course was served and removed, and Elizabeth listened to his deep amused tones dominate the dinner conversation, she understood that the glossy finish that no doubt enhanced his boots echoed his entire personality. There was nothing to dislike in him. And so it was odd, she thought, as she laughed politely at the end of some light anecdote he was telling about his travels to Lyonshall, that she did not care for him at all.

Anthony hung upon his every word, and Lord Beverly, who had been trying and failing to catch his young friend's attention, finally stopped and attacked his plate of fish with a disgust that simple plaice surely did not merit. Lady Isabel seemed as entranced as Anthony, but she sometimes stopped her fluttering laughter and did not resume it until she had seen her host join in. Owen simply sat and ate stolidly as was his wont, no more impressed with this glittering new guest than he was by his dish of snap beans, which he also studiously ignored.

When, somewhere between the service of the breast of capon and the fillet of beef, Elizabeth looked to see Cousin Richard's reactions to the new guest, she realized with some guilt that he was not at the table at all and she had never noticed. She ducked her head, but not before she felt the Earl's eyes upon her and saw the little smile he gave her when he saw her gaping at the empty chair.

“It is too bad,” the Earl said then, “that you come upon us when our company is so diminished, Harry. My cousin Richard had sudden business in London, which called him
away from us this morning. But he will return,” he added with an amused nod in Elizabeth's direction.

“Most ungallant, Morgan,” Lord Kingston commented, “to apologize for a missing guest when you have such lovely company still with you.” And he turned his light blue eyes to gaze first at Elizabeth and then toward Lady Isabel before raising his glass to them in a silent toast.

Lord Beverly bridled and opened his mouth to sputter something in defensive indignation, but his host waved him down and drawled slowly, “But, Harry, that is my charm. I leave gallantry to such town beaus as yourself. It is my very boorishness which makes me unique.”

“Then I might do well to change my tactics”—Lord Kingston smiled, lightening his tone to take rancor from the conversation—“if it would net me two such enchanting ladies at my own table.”

Lady Isabel tittered happily, and Elizabeth permitted herself a weak smile, while all the while she longed, as she had not since she was twelve at that long-ago tea party, to stick out her tongue.