Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (7 page)

Their acquaintance was brief, but she had come to believe that gloom was not his normal state of mind. He had been deeply affected by the war, as every thinking, feeling man must have been, but he would recover, given time, and his lucky wife, whomever she was, would reap the benefit of being wed to a courageous, good-tempered and deeply moral man. Perhaps it was too soon for her to judge him thusly, but there were some things one knew from the first moment of meeting someone.

All too soon Arabella’s high, excited voice floated on the breeze as she and Conroy came back from an invigorating walk. Drake awakened, stretching and yawning widely, just as she and Lord Conroy approached.

It was time to leave. Before they did, though, Arabella insisted, with a saucy toss to her blonde curls, that they have a proper tea first, so they went back up to the house, consumed the rest of the basket of delicacies, and then packed up to go. They were rather later getting on the road than Lord Drake had anticipated. Dark clouds on the horizon gave an ominous hint that the weather was going to turn sometime in the evening hours, and they had best make haste if they were going to beat the rain.

But at least Lord Drake looked rested, True thought, gazing at him from her seat with her back to the horses. His eyes were the color of amber, clear and bright, and his conversation was as light and witty as even Arabella could wish.

Experiences were given, True reflected, as they trundled along the road back to Lea Park, to teach one about life. For instance, meeting Lord Drake had helped her understand what she had only guessed at before. To her the men who fought and died, or lived after risking their lives, were heroes. She had read every newspaper article, every dispatch she could find in her little village. But meeting the major-general had truly shown her what a price the survivors paid for living through a long and bitter war. Physical impairment was the least of Lord Drake’s wounds, True thought. The worst ones went deep into his soul, and cut up the peace of every waking moment.

And Lord Drake had hinted that even sleep did not “knit up the ravell’d sleave of care.” For him there were only nightmares and dreadful battlefields lurking in his slumber. How long could he expect to fight
this
battle, the battle of his conscience? She would send up a prayer every night, when she lay herself down to her peaceful sleep, in the hope that God would grant him serenity. At least the hour’s nap on the riverbank had been peaceful and seemed to have lessened his exhaustion.

The drive back was proving to be quieter than the ride out that morning. When they started the clouds were confined to the horizon, but soon the sky darkened. Minutes later, the driver gave a shout of alarm. One of the horses shied, and there were a few moments of stark terror as it appeared certain that they would upset as they careened toward the steep embankment at the edge of the road, bouncing and jouncing along the rutted surface. Lord Conroy put his arm around True, who clutched at the edge of the open carriage, and she felt some comfort in the steadiness of that gentleman, as Lord Drake did the same for Arabella. The skillful driver brought the carriage to a halt and leaped down with an oath, racing to the horses.

“Are you ladies all right?” Drake asked, concern etched in the grooves on his forehead.

True nodded though her heart pounded erratically, and Arabella gamely said, “I think we shall do, presently.” There was a sharp edge of fear in her voice, but no one could ever have accused Arabella of being cowardly, no matter that she liked to pretend to more delicate sensibilities in front of the gentlemen. True was relieved that at that moment Bella had not chosen to follow her mother’s dictates and appear the faint-hearted widgeon.

The viscount clambered down from the carriage and limped up to where the driver was checking the horses. “What is wrong, Burt? What happened?”

“Damned rabbit,” True heard the man complain. “Ran right across our path, and Dancer didna like it one bit; shied, she did, and now she’s turned up lame.” The driver swore and spat.

“Language, Burt. There are ladies present.” Drake’s admonishment was offered in an absentminded fashion as he thrust his hand through his gold-streaked curls.

True sympathized with his difficulty. They were still over fifteen miles from Lea Park, at least, and the day was darkening alarmingly, with the first few spits of rain leaving spots on the skirt of her dark blue muslin gown and a rumble of thunder in the distance ominously foretelling the immediate future. Even if they could find another horse to carry them onward it would take a while, and night and bad weather could easily catch up with them on the road.

He limped back to the carriage and with a worried frown said, “I am afraid Dancer is unable to do more than hobble along. Looking at the sky, it appears that we are in for some rain at the very least, and quite possibly a storm. Burt remembers an inn not very far up the road, and I think our best alternative is to put up for the night at the inn and finish our little journey in the morning. What say the rest of you?”

True was not surprised at his solution and nodded, but Arabella frowned and said, “Surely we could get another horse at this inn and continue.”

“We could get another horse, yes, but I am concerned about the weather.” He indicated the sky. “It is already starting. Did you not hear that thunder? I would not have you ladies getting a drenching in this open carriage.”

“Quite right, Drake, I concur. We would best be served by putting up for the night at this inn,” Conroy said. “I am sure you will agree, Miss Swinley, that it is far better to be prudent. It would not do to risk a downpour and have you get a chill.”

Put in that light, Arabella agreed. There would be no impropriety, she said frostily, with True as her chaperone.

It was a short walk to the inn. When they entered it was just starting to drizzle. Burt was to follow with the carriage and lame horse, and the groom was dispatched to Lea Park to take a message to the sure-to-be-anxious Ladies Swinley and Leathorne.

The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Lincoln, a rotund but neatly garbed woman with a snowy mob cap over equally white curls, welcomed them eagerly. She remembered Lord Drake from some past stop there, and was clearly overjoyed that she was to have the “Quality” staying the night. She showed Arabella and True to a small, clean room and left them with a basin of steaming hot water and towels. Lord Drake, she said, had ordered dinner in a private dining room. It would be served within the hour.

“This is just too bad,” Arabella said, swishing her hands around in the water. She peered at it. “It does not look very clean. And these towels! Not soft at all. I am sure there must be a better inn somewhere than this . . . this hole in the wall!” With a disparaging look on her face she glanced around at the tiny room that though neat was not of first quality.

“I think we should count ourselves lucky to have made it here before the weather turned. Come, let us clean up and go downstairs.” True was in no mood for any of her cousin’s nitpicking, since it could be laid at Bella’s door that they were stuck here. She had only been hungry for tea before they left Thorne House because she had just picked at her luncheon. If they had not stopped to have tea, they would not have been so late on the road, and would not have been stopped by their little accident and therefore would not have to put up at this inn overnight. So her cousin had really better not complain!

Dinner was not French cuisine, as they had eaten the night before at Lea Park, but it was very good English country cooking. Rabbit pie, mutton, and a roasted capon, with a ragout of vegetables, followed by apple pie, was gratefully consumed by all but Arabella, who just picked at the capon and ate a piece of bread and butter before pushing her plate away.

“Is anything wrong with the food, miss?” the landlady said with an alarmed glance at Arabella’s still-f plate.

“I am quite sure it is very well in its way,” Arabella said with a gentle smile, as she pushed it away. “But I have a very delicate palate. Mama says I have a true aristocrat’s constitution.”

The landlady looked offended, though she clearly did not understand what Arabella was talking about. True understood, and sighed with resignation. What it meant was that no matter how hungry she was, Arabella would not eat her fill in front of a potential suitor. She would pick and claim a bird-like appetite, because Lady Swinley had drilled it into her that true ladies were frail and never ate more than a few bites. Of course Lady Swinley herself was a robust trencherwoman, and she did not regulate Arabella’s eating as long as there were no gentlemen present.

Conroy nodded his approval, but Drake looked puzzled. True thought that he had probably, in his career, not spent a lot of time among
tonnish
ladies, for he had bought his colors at a young age and spent much time on the Peninsula, or he would have known that most young ladies claimed a poor appetite, and then feasted in private. Arabella was no different, though when she forgot herself she ate as any normal person. Her mother’s influence was spotty, at best. True hoped she would escape the woman’s influence before it became complete and Arabella became an unbearable snob and wholly false creature, governed by society’s expectations rather than her own good sense and strong nature.

“I cannot imagine why an aristocratic lady should have a poor appetite,” Drake said as the landlady, in hurt silence, directed one of her daughters as she cleared the table. “My mother eats quite well, and I have always thought she was very regal.”

Arabella, caught in the awkward position of seeming to impugn her would-be suitor’s mother, wisely remained silent. True bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the absurd mannerisms ladies were forced to assume by ridiculous social dictates. She was grateful that in her world a young lady was only expected to be neat, modest, and to refrain from “putting on airs,” as the local ladies of her father’s parish called it.

After dining, the foursome played cards for a while in front of the great, stone fireplace. Rain pattered against the windows, and the blaze made for a cozy atmosphere. True was entertained yet again by the lengths to which a very sharp-witted Arabella would go to appear suitably dim in front of Lord Drake. She was the picture of pretty confusion when, partnered with Drake, she “forgot” a trump card, or needed to have the rules explained one more time, ignoring the fact that Drake was trying very hard to restrain his growing irritation.

True, with no such need to appear the lackwit, triumphantly claimed a win at the end of the game, despite the distinctly inferior play of Lord Conroy, her partner.

“Very well, you two win. You had a sharp partner, Conroy,” Drake said with a nod to True as he threw down his cards in defeat. “I will be sure who
my
partner shall be next time!” He glanced over at Arabella after he said that, and by the look on his face True could tell he had just realized the insult that implied to his partner.

Arabella had felt it, too. Her eyes widened, and she pouted prettily. “That was not chivalrous, sir.”

“I say, Drake, that was too bad of you,” Conroy chimed in. He stood and bowed before Arabella. “Miss Swinley,
I
will be your partner next time we play at whist. If you like, I can give you lessons when we return to Lea Park.”

True groaned inwardly; Conroy, teach
her
to play? Arabella was a very clever girl, and could likely best Conroy in any game he chose to play. Her “game” was much deeper, and it was yet to be seen whether she would win with the stratagem she had laid out for herself. True did not think Lord Drake was one to be impressed by frailty or stupidity. He valued honesty, too, above all else. What would happen if he did fall in love with Arabella, marry her, and then find the woman he had been courting was not the woman he wed?

“I thank you, my lord,” Arabella said, prettily, to Conroy. “That was the speech of a true gentleman.”

“My apologies, Miss Swinley,” Drake said, his cheeks a deep red. “I meant no slight to your ability, I—”

“It is time we went up, True,” Arabella said, rising gracefully. “I am fatigued.”

Willingly, True rose. They ascended to their room, where Arabella dropped her façade of elegant simpleton.

“What is wrong with that man,” she fumed, regarding herself in the faded mirror and toying with one long ringlet. Though she had not been able to change her gown for the evening, she still looked elegant in a green carriage dress that brought out the color of her eyes. “I have never had a gentleman sneer at my intelligence in such an ungallant manner!”

“He did not mean it, Bella,” True said, holding up the two nightrails Mrs. Lincoln, the landlady, had provided for them. She picked the shorter of the two and laid out the longer one for her cousin. “He is a competitive gentleman, and he did not think before he spoke. He likes to win and expects anyone with whom he is partnered to make the same effort.”

“But he is not supposed to like to win over being partnered with me. I didn’t act like a simpering fool for nothing! He should have been charmed and felt protective toward me, as Lord Conroy did.
That
is how a true gentleman behaves.” She turned from the mirror. “And I suppose I have to wear that fright of a nightrail, that has been worn by who knows who? And we have to take care of ourselves?”

“Yes, we have to look after ourselves,” True said, letting down her hair and shaking it back over her shoulders. “It won’t hurt us, you know. I am quite used to it, not having a maid at home.” She picked up the brush from the vanity table.

“That is
you
,” Arabella returned scornfully. “A real lady does not even brush her own hair!” She swished her fingers around in the bowl of water provided for their ablutions. “And this is not hot! It has not been touched, I swan, since before we went down to dine!”

True, as fond of her cousin as she was, gritted her teeth as she brushed out her long, soft hair, untangling with her fingers the knots created by the day’s breeziness and a long carriage ride. Bella was at her worst when she was forced to put up with less than ideal conditions. True knew what was coming, and she also knew she was helpless to prevent it, cursed by her own liking for harmony. “Mrs. Lincoln only has one girl to take care of guests, her married daughter, and she has gone home to her family already.”