Authors: Masquerade
No. Phaedra drew firm rein on the forbidden
direction of her thoughts. No more questions. She sank back on her
heels, running her finger inside the collar of her jacket.
"I may well be obliged to walk home." She
sighed. "I should not have pushed Furlong so hard in this
heat."
Armande stood up and tethered both horses
firmly to a branch of a small apple tree, whose shade afforded the
animals some cool, sweet grass unscorched by the sun. As he stroked
Furlong's neck, he said, "You are a skilled horsewoman. It is a
shame to see you mounted on such an old slug."
"I have a great deal of affection for my old
slug!" But she could not help adding wistfully, "I sometimes wish
for a mare with a little more pepper in her step, but my
grandfather is not much of a judge of horseflesh. He and Ewan used
to have terrible rows over the expensive hunters Ewan wanted him to
buy. But he did manage to wring a few fine ones out of
Grandfather."
She tugged off her riding hat and stretched
out dreamily, flat on her back in the meager shade. "The last
hunter Grandfather bought was magnificent. He had the most showy
chestnut mane and extremely powerful hind quarters. It was a great
pity Ewan had to have been riding Brute the day he-"
She broke off, flushing at the waywardness of
her own tongue. She hardly ever mentioned her late husband to
Armande, let alone referring to the manner of his death. She
glanced up to find Armande eyeing her gravely.
"I suppose you feel I am a terrible,
heartless woman," she said. "That I could so mourn the loss of a
good horse and not spare one tear for my husband's broken
neck."
"No, I don't think you are terrible at
all."
Despite his reply, Phaedra felt driven by a
need to defend herself. "The accident was Ewan's own fault. He was
always careless with his horses, tearing about like a madman; even
over unfamiliar ground. He was out riding alone that morning and
decided to cut across some poor farmer's fields. He never checked
his pace when jumping that stone fence, never bothered worrying
what might be on the other side, that some field hand might have
been careless enough to leave his plow behind."
Her eyes shut tight as though a vision of the
accident might rise up before her. "Mercifully, Ewan must have died
at once. They say he never suffered, but Brute took the worst of
the blow, breaking his leg, gashing his side on the plow and it was
some time before anyone found them. It was all so strange."
"Strange? How?"
Armande's question startled her. He had been
quiet for so long, she had almost begun to wonder if he were even
listening. She opened her eyes to find his gaze intent.
"Well, I hardly know," she said slowly,
sitting up. "Perhaps ironic is what I really meant, that Ewan
should have been riding alone. Ewan hated solitude. Why, sometimes
he even sought out my company rather than be left alone."
"Your life with him was very unhappy, wasn't
it?"
"Pure hell," she said with a shaky laugh.
"Then I'm doubly glad he broke his neck."
Phaedra shivered. She had come close often to
thinking that herself; but the deathlike quiet with which Armande
gave voice to her guilty thought left her feeling cold.
She regretted ever having mentioned her late
husband. The mere sound of Ewan's name seemed to have cast a pall
over the bright summer's day she and Armande were sharing together.
And she had no idea how many more such days she might be
granted.
"The worst of those days are all behind me,"
she said, hugging her legs in close. "I am a free woman now."
"But you will marry again." Armande's voice
sounded strained. "I have noticed that one friend of your
grandfather's seems most devoted to you. I would imagine Mr.
Burnell could offer a woman a most secure future. "
Was this Armande's way of telling her that he
had no future to offer her himself? She had sensed that long ago,
and one glance at the sadness darkening his eyes was enough to
confirm it. She looked away again, not wanting to face that just
now.
"I shall never allow myself to be shackled by
the bonds of marriage again. I intend to be an independent woman
one day."
"I am sorry you feel that way," Armande said.
"Marriage was never meant to be like the misery you shared with
Grantham. If things were different, I would try to make you change
your mind.-" He broke off abruptly, standing and walking away from
where she sat. He stared out across the meadow.
"But what would you know of it?" she asked.
"You have never been married, have you?"
"No, I have never been that fortunate. But I
have the example of my mother and father to draw upon. There were
never two people who came closer to achieving perfect happiness in
this very imperfect world."
"Your parents were supposed to have died when
you were only a babe," she said gently.
For a moment he looked startled, then he
flung up one hand in the manner of a fencer acknowledging a hit.
"Piqued again!
Merci beaucoup
, madame, for the
reminder."
"I wasn't trying to be clever." She frowned
up at him. "I only hope you are not as careless in the presence of
others as you are with me."
"It was at your insistence, my dear, that I
abandoned my pose as the marquis."
"Only with me. I never meant for you to risk
exposure with anyone else. God knows what my grandfather would do
if he discovered you are an impostor. And there are many who would
take malicious delight in telling him. Hester, for one."
She had explained to Armande exactly what
Hester Searle was capable of, revealing how Hester had been the one
to lock her in the Gold room with Danby. She had apologized to
Armande for accusing him, but he had shrugged the matter aside as
being no longer of any importance, although he had expressed his
wish that he could rid Phaedra of the woman’s irksome presence.
Phaedra saw no way of doing so. She could
only beg him as she had before.
“Please, Armande. You have to take great care
around that horrid woman.”
"So you have warned me many times before. I
know full well how to protect myself, Phaedra." The hard planes of
his face softened with longing. "It is only with you that I have
ever been in any danger. I sometimes think I would sell my soul to
be able to tell you everything, hear you call me by my real
name."
"The price would be far too dear," she said.
She no longer wanted any confessions from him, fearful that she now
stood to lose as much from the revelation of his secrets as he. She
stood up briskly, shaking blades of grass from her skirts.
She forced a more cheerful inflection into
her voice. "Well, sir," she said, "since it was you who were so
ungallant as to make me race, if Furlong doesn't recover, I think
it only fair that you lend me your mount."
"If you think you could ride Nemesis,
milady."
"Pooh! My mother gave birth to me on the back
of a horse. I learned to ride before I could walk," she boasted.
"We Irish are famous for our horse sense."
"For your horse thieving, too-so I've
heard."
When Armande made comments like that, Phaedra
harbored no doubts as to the man's origin. The smug expression
settling upon his handsome features resembled nothing so much as
what she termed, ‘the Englishman's superior smirk.’
She scooped up a handful of water and flicked
it at him. Unruffled, he wiped the spray from his cheek with the
back of his hand, his desire for reprisal betrayed by the devilish
light that danced in his eyes.
"And of course," he drawled, "there is the
Irish lady's fondness for taking a swim."
But Phaedra, guessing his purpose, tore off
running across the meadow. She could hear Armande coming after her,
and she had no more chance of outdistancing him than Furlong would
have Nemesis.
Armande caught her roughly about the waist
and tumbled with her to the grass. They rolled over until they both
became entangled in her skirts, gasping with laughter. Armande
pinned her beneath his weight and swooped down to capture her lips,
the sweet, rough texture of his tongue mating with hers.
Breathless moments later, he drew back. He
entwined a lock of her hair until it formed a fiery ring about his
finger.
"Sorceress," he murmured. "Your name should
be Circe, luring a man into forgetting all he ever knew of his past
after being ensnared by your charms."
Phaedra's smile was tremulous. She wished she
did possess witchlike powers, to free Armande from whatever dark
motives had first swept him into her life-from those anguished
memories she feared would one day tear him from her. In the
innermost corner of her heart, she knew this idyll they shared
could not last. Phaedra flung her arms about his neck with a
fierceness akin to desperation, pulling his mouth down to meet
hers, heedless of the hot sun blazing down upon them.
This was her season, hers and Armande's, a
season of fire. But the frosts of autumn and the chilling winds of
winter could never be far behind.
The sun was much lower in the sky by the time
Phaedra and Armande rode back to the Heath; they shared a quiet
mood born of contentment, languorous with the afterglow of making
love. As the gates leading to the stable yard came into view,
Phaedra made one last effort to smooth back the wildly curling ends
of her hair. She feared she had sun burned her face. She wrinkled
her nose, wincing.
Her disheveled appearance alone would not
have been so bad, but somehow Armande contrived to appear as neat
as when they had set out, his white shirt once more buttoned
decorously to the top, his hair bound trimly in place. Phaedra
found this neatness disturbing; it galled her that the passion they
had shared this afternoon in the meadow had left no visible mark
upon Armande.
He glanced across at her and smiled. "It is
as well we are returning. It would seem you have a visitor."
He reined in, drawing Nemesis to a halt.
Phaedra did likewise with her gelding, staring in the direction
that Armande indicated. Another rider was just cantering into the
stable yard ahead of them, taking his sorrel mare at an easy loping
pace. Phaedra covered her eyes with one hand, squinting in the new
arrival's direction. But she did not need to be that close to
recognize the lazy grace with which the man rode his horse, or the
familiar tumble of black curls.
"It is Gilly," she said, her words coming out
in a joyful breath of excitement. "My cousin. You remember-"
"Aye, I remember him," Armande said dryly.
"Though it has been some time since I have had the pleasure of his
company."
"He's been in France," Phaedra began, then
stopped abruptly. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she
realized her mistake. Armande looked as though she had just kicked
him in the stomach. He quickly recovered, his features setting into
the mask of ice she had hoped to never see again.
"To France?" he repeated. "I see."
"You don't see at all. Armande, please, it is
not what you are thinking. Gilly left long before we ever-"
But Armande had already kicked Nemesis in the
sides. The stallion eagerly responded, charging off toward the
stables, leaving Phaedra in a choking cloud of dust.
Gritting her teeth, she whisked Furlong's
reins, following him. Even as she did, her heart chilled with
premonition. Their summer idyll was about to come to an end.
By the time Phaedra reached the stable yard,
Armande had dismounted and flung Nemesis's reins into the hands of
a waiting groom. She caught a glimpse of her lover's tight-lipped
expression before he turned on his heel and strode away.
"Armande, wait," she called desperately. "I
can explain." She slipped out of the saddle before Furlong came to
a complete halt. Her toe caught on the train of her riding habit,
sending her crashing to her knees, hands out flung to save herself.
But she barely noticed the stinging of her palms. Scrambling to her
feet, she started to run after Armande as he disappeared beneath
the archway which led back to the house.
But a wiry male arm caught her about the
waist, halting her roughly in midstride. "Here now, Fae." Gilly's
lilting voice sounded close to her ear. "Where would you be off to
in such a hurry you've no time to greet your own cousin?"
Phaedra struggled to pull free. "Please,
Gilly. I am glad you have returned, but let me go. I will come back
directly." "Directly, she says, and me gone on her own errand for
nigh a month. Nay, I'm thinking we'd best have a chat right now,
coz."
Phaedra detected a hard edge in Gilly's voice
she had never heard before. When he whipped her about to face him,
all thoughts of chasing after Armande were momentarily forgotten.
She stifled a gasp at the sight of the ugly bruises purpling one
side of her cousin's face. His lower lip was puffed and split, one
green eye fairly swollen shut. The other glared at her with no
trace of Gilly's customary roguish twinkle.
Phaedra's gaze shifted downward to where his
hands gripped her arms. His knuckles were raw.
"What on earth?" she breathed. He released
her and she gently touched his bruised jaw. He flinched.
"Curse it, Gilly. You've been fighting again.
Who the devil was it this time?"
"That doesn’t matter. The more important
question is-what the devil have you been writing while I was
gone?"
Phaedra offered him a blank stare. "Writing?
I don't under- stand."
Gilly started to speak, but glanced at the
stableboy who had come to take charge of Furlong, as though fearing
the lad showed far too much interest in their conversation. Seizing
Phaedra by the wrist, he hauled her into the stable itself, past
the horse stalls to the small tack room at the back. It was
completely deserted now, and Gilly rounded upon her.