The Perfect Bride (20 page)

He
must regain the control that had once been as unyielding as that deadly blade.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

What
was he doing at Gloucester Cathedral, weeping over an alabaster tomb, his hands
stroking the sculpted image of some medieval king?

Part
of Julian's mind knew he was dreaming, but the knowledge did not bring him
awake as it should have. Instead, and to his great horror, the stone image
began to lose its finely chiseled lines and dissolve into something softer,
more amorphous, rather...ghostly. The curling beard and long hair ruffled as if
in a breeze — although the air felt as still as death. Julian forced himself to
study the unappealing features. The king's hawk-like nose imparted an
avaricious air; the thin mouth and short chin lent a weakness that all his
royal finery could not dispel.

Even
as Julian registered those details, the figure rose from its resting place. The
tomb vanished. Now the ghostly king drew nearer.

As
if they had not done so for centuries, the king's eyes opened slowly, almost
painfully. A laugh slipped from those thin lips as he regarded a man — cowering
in the corner of the room. Recognition slammed into Julian. The cringing figure,
groveling as if the ghost controlled his very destiny, was Julian LeFevre.

He
tried to speak, to move, to do anything that might wrest control of his
nightmare from the apparition. But he was as weak as a babe before that eerie,
predatory stare. A feeling of impending dread seized him.

A
vile grin flitted across the king's scrawny lips, displaying blackened teeth
rotted as the grave. Slowly, the figure's arms evaporated into long, wispy
tendrils that floated across the room and wrapped around Julian like a vise.

He
heard himself plead for mercy, although he suspected the word meant little to
the creature who held him so lovingly. For that is what it was, he realized, a
kind of lethal loving. An unearthly breeze swirled through the chamber as
Julian felt his life's breath leave his chest. The wind's howling cry filled
the room as the king brought his thin lips to Julian's ear and whispered.

Julian's
shout of denial only made the ghost shake with laughter.  A bone-chilling sound
emerged from the rotted cavity that was the royal mouth. It was the most
unearthly noise Julian had ever heard.

When
he awoke, he discovered that the shriek came from his own trembling lips.

***

"Miss
Fitzhugh," Simon acknowledged gruffly.

"Lord
Sommersby," she replied politely, taking a plate and beginning to fill it
from the dishes on the sideboard. Was it his imagination, or did she look pale
this morning? "I trust your trip went well?"

Simon
felt about as awkward as a raw recruit tossed onto the battlefield with a new
Baker rifle and knuckle-bow bayonet. "Well enough, I suppose." He
hesitated. "I trust my cousin was an adequate host in my absence."

Color
infused her cheeks. "Mr. Thornton was most thoughtful," she replied.

"And
yet I do not find him here," Simon observed, striving for a casual tone. "He
must have departed rather suddenly." Damn him for a fool, anyway. He could
not resist trying to discover the damage he had wrought. Had Thornton hurt her
deeply — or merely angered her? He prayed it was the latter.

The
glint in her eyes reassured him. "I believe he had other
obligations," she replied evenly.

Simon
looked around the room. No one appeared to be listening to their conversation.
A brooding Sir Thomas had scarcely bothered to acknowledge anyone. Julian's
red-rimmed eyes bore a preoccupied and unhealthy look, as if he had spent the
night in some ungodly hell. Miss Biddle had given Simon a vague smile before
leaving the table to find a book in his library.

Simon
cleared his throat. For some reason, that simple act drew from Miss Fitzhugh a
startled look. "I would not wish to cause you embarrassment, madam,"
he began quietly, so as not to catch the attention of the others. "But if
my cousin gave you offense, I wish to know of it."

She
regarded him strangely. "You put me very much in mind of Mr. Thornton, my
lord."

Simon
swallowed hard and made a mental note to be more earl-like.

"But
that is neither here nor there," she added quickly. "In answer to
your question, he gave no offense. I am afraid that it was rather the other way
around."

Puzzled,
Simon frowned. "I am certain you could not offend my cousin. He is not — ”
Simon searched for a word that would do — “not the sensitive sort.”

"I
think you must not know Mr. Thornton very well," Miss Fitzhugh murmured,
pushing the food around on her plate.

Abruptly,
Sir Thomas scraped his chair back and strode decisively from the dining room.
In the same moment Julian lurched to his feet and departed, muttering darkly.
Finding himself alone with Miss Fitzhugh, Simon took a deep breath.

"I
can see that my cousin has distressed you," he said, acute awareness of
his dishonesty making his voice sound strained. "I must apologize on his
behalf — "

"I
found no fault with Mr. Thornton," she interjected. "Frankly, my
lord, I believe I frightened him away."

"Frightened
him?" He stared at her.

Amusement
lightened her expression. "I know that fear is a foreign concept to the
Thornton men, my lord, but I daresay that any gentleman would be scared out of
his wits if an avowed spinster suddenly beseeched him for kisses."

With
that heart-stopping statement, she undid him.

"I-I...do
not know what to say," he stammered.

"I
imagine there is nothing to say, my lord," she replied easily. "I
have been brooding about my folly, but I believe I have brooded enough. I think
you may safely lay your cousin's abrupt departure at my door, and I suppose I
should apologize, but in truth his absence comes as a relief."

"I
see." So much for vanity then.

Miss
Fitzhugh nodded. "It was silly of me to form an attachment for Mr.
Thornton. A woman of my age ought to know better. I suppose it proves that no
one is immune to the follies of one's imagination." She looked away.

Simon's
own imagination was running rampant. The severe bun in which she had imprisoned
her glorious hair, the high-necked frock that would have been more fitting in a
woman twice her age — all of these irritations only fueled an image of her
without those hindrances. He wondered whether she felt the awareness that
simmered in the space between them and begged for exploration.

Stop
it, he told himself sternly. It was Thornton she had liked, and Thornton was no
more.

Sommersby,
one the other hand, was an engaged peer of the realm who displayed only polite
rectitude toward his fiancée’s chaperon. Oh, there had been that strange
session in his study, when he had blurted out his concerns about his courtship
of Miss Biddle with embarrassing candor. But he had crossed no line. His
demeanor had been correct on every level.

It
was Thornton, a man of sufficient years to have long ago banished a younger
man's unwieldy passions, who had stared fixedly at the wardrobe in Miss
Fitzhugh's chamber that night order to avoid seeing the huge feather bed behind
her. It was Thornton who had forced himself to avoid noticing the soft white
lawn that peeked out from beneath her shawl, Thornton who had steeled himself
upon hearing of the "extensive liberties" Julian had taken that night
at Vauxhall.

And
it was Thornton who had wanted to make love to her until she no longer knew her
own name.

Thank
the gods the man had gone. He was a rogue and a liar — though to be sure he had
begun perfectly respectable, restrained in every way.

If
Thornton could turn from gentleman to rogue in as much time as it took to share
a kiss in the sea breeze, what might happen to his lordly cousin, who had been
trying unsuccessfully these last few minutes not to imagine making love to the fearless
Miss Fitzhugh here on the dining room table?

Simon
commanded his mind to produce the image of his future bride, a lovely young
lady with violet eyes and heart-shaped mouth made for a man's adoration.

Alas,
the notion of making love to Miss Biddle moved him not one whit. Miss Fitzhugh,
on the other hand, made his pulse race blindly.

As
the heat of desire inflamed his loins, Simon disciplined his wayward soul and forced
himself to swallow the coffee that tasted as bitter as loss.

***

"'Thus
times do shift, each thing his turn does hold;

New
things succeed, as former things grow old.'"

Felicity
pondered the poignant words delivered in Mr. Frakes's resonant tones. "How
sad."

Mr.
Frakes eyed her quizzically. "Sad? Why say you, Miss Biddle? Change is the
way of life."

"But
to think that the things we enjoy have such a fleeting existence — why cannot
the happy times last?"

"Miss
Biddle, what has you in such a melancholy state this morning? Surely you must
be looking forward to the new life that awaits you." He turned toward the
bookshelves. "To be a wife and then one day a mother must be every woman's
fondest wish."

Felicity
smiled wistfully. "Yes, but it is also a venture into the unknown, is it
not? One is never sure in leaving the familiarity of one’s present life that a
better future awaits."

"It
is difficult to leave what one knows for something one does not," he
agreed. "Yet there is the greatest reward in greeting the new with the
breathless fear and excitement that is the joy of living."

"That
is a beautiful sentiment, Mr. Frakes." Felicity clasped her hands and
fixed him with an admiring gaze. "You have a poet’s soul, sir."

He
flushed. "I should say rather that I have spent so many hours immersed in
books that I know very little of anything else, Miss Biddle."

Felicity
rose and took a step toward him. "Then perhaps there is very little else
worth knowing, Mr. Frakes."

Quickly,
he fumbled with the pages of the book in his hand. "I am sure Mr. Herrick
has something more cheerful for us to ponder," he said. "Ah, yes,
here it is."

He
read the lines aloud:

"`Gather
ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old
time is still a-flying,

And
this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow
will be dying.'"

"Oh,
dear." He frowned. "That is not what I had in mind. I will find
something else."

"I
wish you to know, Mr. Frakes," Felicity said quietly, moving closer, "that
sharing these times together has meant a great deal to me."

"'Fair
daffodils,’" he read loudly, "'we weep to see you haste away so
soon.'" He shook his head. "This will not do at all." With the
look of a desperate man, he leafed frantically through the pages.

Felicity's
smile grew sad as she toyed with the skirt of her sprigged muslin gown.
"You always seem to know how to touch my deepest thoughts, Mr. Frakes. I
do not know what I shall do without you."

"Pray,
do not say so, Miss Biddle." He looked alarmed. "You will have a rich
and full life as Lady Sommersby. You are deserving of the very best that fate
can bestow — "

"Have
you ever thought to marry, Mr. Frakes?" Felicity asked suddenly.

He
looked away. "I am but a scholar, Miss Biddle — a clerk, if you will, with
little income and no address.”

“Nonsense,
sir,” Felicity said. “Your discourse is all that is worthy. Why, I warrant that
no gentleman can match your speech, your erudition, your — ”

“A
family cannot live on words. I have nothing to offer a wife, Miss Biddle."
He turned away quickly, and as he did, the volume of poetry slipped from his
fingers.

So
close was Felicity that she caught the book before it hit the floor. "You
underestimate yourself," she said gently. "You have the gift of
sensitivity, of understanding what it is that touches the soul. Your position
in life makes no difference."

She
opened the book, holding it close to her face because she was not wearing her
spectacles. "Why, see here. The poet agrees.” She read: “`Night makes no
difference `twixt the Priest and Clerk; Joan as my Lady is as good i' the
dark.'"

Coloring,
she looked up at him. "Oh, dear. That is not quite appropriate. I did not
mean — "

"I
should hope not." He looked aghast.

"The
point, Mr. Frakes, is that a man's income and title are less important than the
riches of his heart and soul."

A
wistful smile crossed his lips. "I believe it is you, Miss Biddle, who
have the soul of a poet."

Felicity
blushed. "I do not flatter myself that I possess any talent. But I do find
I have a need to express myself in a way that others can only view as
odd."