Amanda Scott (7 page)

“If she will come, ma’am,” Ramsbury said, still grinning. “Mama rarely stirs from Axbridge Park, you know. M’ father don’t like her to leave unless she travels with him.”

“Well, I shan’t invite him, but I must see what I can do. If that young Mr. Davies is to give more concerts at the Pump Room, as they say he is, she will like to hear him too. He is said to be very good. What do you think, Sybilla?”

When Sybilla confessed that she had not heard the highly acclaimed young pianist, Ramsbury said quickly, “I enjoy a good piano concert. Do you know when the fellow plays again, ma’am?”

Lady Lucretia stared at him. “Tomorrow, I believe, but I shan’t go, for I never cared much for the piano. Prefer a good harp, or a string quartet instead. Not that I don’t enjoy your playing, Sybilla dear,” she added with a regal nod. “You play most tolerably, most tolerably indeed.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sybilla replied absently, her gaze fixed upon Ramsbury. “When did you begin caring about pianists?” she demanded when he returned her look with one of limpid innocence.

“Will you go with me?” he inquired.

“I have other plans,” she replied firmly.

“Nonsense,” said Lady Lucretia. “A lady never has plans, my dear, that conflict with her husband’s wishes.”

“Much you would know about that,” Ramsbury said with a wry twist of his lips. “Father still rants regularly on the subject of your filial disobedience in the matter of husbands, aunt.”

Lady Lucretia’s bearing became more regal than ever. “There was nothing filial about it, sir. Dearest Papa never required me to marry. Only Axbridge desired it after Papa went aloft, but I never heeded Axbridge’s megrims. All temper and no substance.”

Ramsbury swallowed visibly. “You’re a braver soul than I ever have been, Aunt Lucretia.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she retorted. “You are not so obedient either, if Jane writes the truth of the matter, and I’ve never yet had cause to doubt her.”

Clearly having no wish to enter into a debate with her on that subject, Ramsbury turned back to Sybilla. “Will you go?” he asked more gently. “I am persuaded that you would enjoy such a concert above all things.”

She looked steadily back at him for a long moment before she said quietly, “I should very much like to hear Mr. Davies play.”

“That’s settled then,” he said, his satisfaction clear. Had she not known him better, she would have thought he had worried that she would refuse him. Knowing him as she did, however, she was certain that that was nonsense. Had she refused, and had he really wished to go, he would merely have asked someone else.

The rest of the evening passed quickly, for Lady Lucretia enjoyed three-handed whist and they were happy to oblige her. When she declared that she had played enough, Ramsbury escorted Sybilla home, bowing formally on her doorstep when her father’s porter opened the door, and making no effort either to detain her or to follow her inside. Twenty minutes later, alone with Gladys Medlicott in her own bedchamber, she found herself wondering about his motives.

Bath was scarcely his milieu, after all. He preferred the hustle and bustle of London, not to mention its clubs and gaming rooms, Tattersall’s, the fencing rooms, Cribb’s Parlor, and any number of its other amenities that catered to masculine tastes. Carefully, she refused to allow her thoughts to dwell upon Lady Mandeville and her ilk.

“If you will sit, m’lady, I will brush out your hair,” Medlicott said quietly after she had shaken the skirt of Sybilla’s nightdress into place. She turned toward the wardrobe to hang up the green gown.

Obediently, Sybilla sat on the dressing chair and regarded her face in the looking glass. The glow from the lamps flanking it set her hair afire, gilded her cheeks, and set lights dancing in her eyes. She wondered if Ramsbury still thought her beautiful. Not that it mattered, of course, as Lady Lucretia would be the first to tell her. She shook her head at that thought. Even Lady Lucretia would not say such a stupid thing. She knew perfectly well that a young woman’s looks were nearly as important as her fortune was to her social success.

It took Medlicott but a short time to brush out the flaming tresses and plait them for her. Then, bidding her good night, the woman left her to her reflections. Sybilla climbed into bed and lay back against her down-filled pillows.

Why was he still in Bath? He had been entirely pleasant to her and had said no more about the marchioness’s money. Did that mean he had had second thoughts and now believed her, or did it simply mean he had no wish for further confrontation? With a sigh, she decided it was most likely the latter. Having told her that he knew what she had done and that he wanted her to stop, he no doubt thought he had ended the matter.

Her eyes narrowed at a new thought. Above all, Ramsbury enjoyed a challenge. He rode the most mettlesome horses, sparred with the best amateur pugilists, gambled for the highest stakes, and dangled after the most beautiful women. Was it possible that she had presented him with a new challenge, once his impulsive journey to Bath had put him in mind of the fact that she dared to reject him? Had he perhaps decided to remind her in return of his many undeniable charms, in an effort to bring her to heel?

She did not much care for the idea, but it occurred to her that she had her own reasons for playing the hand out with him. If he stayed in Bath, he must soon recognize for himself how wrong he had been to accuse her. She wanted his apology, and in the meantime, she decided, she was perfectly content to be courted, if that was his design.

She would go with him to the concert, and indeed, anywhere else he wished to take her, and if he continued to treat her as an amiable acquaintance, she would flirt with him and tantalize him, as only she knew how to do. If she could not wrap the Earl of Ramsbury around her little finger, she did not know herself. On this last, most pleasant reflection, she fell asleep and did not waken until the chambermaid arrived with her chocolate the following morning.

The day passed slowly, but there were chores to see to, callers to greet, and preparations to be made for the evening. Ramsbury was announced at last, and Sybilla descended the stairs to greet him, her head held high, her demeanor cool enough to conceal the jumping nerves beneath the surface.

His mouth twisted into a wry grin when he saw her. “Very fetching, madam. Do you now intend the populace to think you on the verge of entering a convent?”

She chuckled, relaxing, as she released her black Venetian velvet skirt, allowing it to swirl in graceful folds about her legs. “How very knowing you are, sir, in the matter of women’s dress, but I doubt a canonical robe has any look of the convent about it. The bosom is too low and the sleeves too elaborate.”

The sleeves of finely plaited French lawn were fashionably elaborate, indeed, with their cuffs and edgings of silver lace. And down the front, a flat lawn border, edged on each side with small silver pea buttons and laced across with silver cord, extended from her bosom to her feet. Her hair was piled atop her head and held in place with a pearl comb. White kid gloves matched her silver-buckled shoes.

“You look delightful,” he said, after allowing himself a long look at her. “Have you a cloak?”

She was looking at him in turn, thinking how splendid he looked in his tight, cream-colored pantaloons and dark form-hugging coat. His snowy neckcloth was stiffly starched, and a diamond pin gleamed from its folds, but it was his broad shoulders and muscular thighs that set her mind to wandering. Color flooded her cheeks when he repeated his question.

“Cloak? I’m sorry, I wasn’t attending. I haven’t got one. This gown will keep me warm enough in the carriage.”

“And will no doubt suffocate you in the pump room,” he added, grinning at her, “but it will serve you right if you are chilly later.” For a moment she feared he would ask her what she had been thinking, but he didn’t. Instead, he guided her out the door and down the steps to the carriage. Inside the landau, she was conscious of his nearness in a way that she could not remember having been for many months, and even when they were seated in the Pump Room, amidst a crowd of others, she was more aware of him than of anyone else. She knew people were looking at them, speculating about them, but the knowledge didn’t bother her. She was accustomed to being looked at and speculated about.

Once the music started, she settled back in her chair and gave her attention to the pianist, deciding at once that he was very good. When the interval came, she glanced about her in dismay, realizing that the music had put her into a near trance.

Ramsbury smiled at her. “You don’t change, Syb. I might as well have been sitting alone for all the heed you paid me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling back. “ ’Tis the music. He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”

“Very fine. Do nod at old Lady Atterbury, won’t you, before she takes it into her head to visit with us. I had no idea I would meet so many of my mother’s friends in Bath. They seem to have migrated here en masse.”

Sybilla nodded obediently at the lady in question, then looked at Ramsbury, twinkling. “Lady Lucretia is right. Your mama would love it here.”

He grimaced. “Particularly if my esteemed father were to remain at Axbridge. You would be glad to see her, I know.”

He said it casually, but she saw the dawning awareness in his eyes as he remembered what had brought him to Bath. Quickly, she said, “She quite dotes on the theater, I know, so perhaps she will come if your aunt invites her to see Mr. Coates.”

“Perhaps,” he said brusquely, getting to his feet. “No doubt you would like a glass of sherry before Davies continues.”

“Thank you,” she said. When he returned she was conversing with an acquaintance, but she turned at once to greet him, glad to see him smiling again. “That was quick, sir, but Mr. Davies is coming back, so we must sit down again at once.”

When the concert was done, they did not linger to chat with anyone but made their way to the carriage. It was much colder out, and Sybilla shivered when Ramsbury climbed in behind her.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I told you, you ought to have a wrap,” he said. “After the heat of that room, ’tis no wonder you are chilled, no matter how heavy that velvet is.”

“You were right,” she said, snuggling up against him, “but I daresay you are warm enough for two.” She felt him stiffen briefly, but then he relaxed, and when his arm went around her shoulders, she allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction, knowing he could not see it.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much, thank you. It was a wonderful concert, Ned. Thank you for taking me.”

“My pleasure,” he said. His voice seemed lower in his throat, and she recognized the tone. A moment later, she was unsurprised when the hand on her shoulder began stroking the velvet of her gown.

She sighed deeply and snuggled closer. “I do fit here so nicely,” she said. “I’d forgotten.”

“I like this dress,” he said.

“You can’t even see it now,” she said.

“I don’t need to see it,” he retorted, letting his fingers drift from velvet to the soft skin between the gown and her neck.

His touch sent shock waves through her and she trembled, suddenly realizing that there were pitfalls ahead that she had not considered when she had made her little plan. She had thought only of the effect she knew she would have on him, not on what he was capable of doing to her. And she had forgotten, too, that being her husband, he did not have to play by the same rules as her other gentleman escorts.

It was madness. She knew she ought to make him stop, and that she could do so simply by straightening where she sat. But somehow she could not. She had forgotten how his slightest touch made her body sing. How, she wondered, could she ever have forgotten such a thing as that?

By the time they reached the Royal Crescent, his hand had moved down toward the lacy edging of her bodice, and she did not know whether she was glad or sorry when the carriage stopped.

She had meant to invite him in, using the pretext that they had not had much chance to talk privately, but now she did not know if that would be altogether wise. However, Ramsbury, after pausing briefly to speak to his tiger, took the decision out of her hands by following her into the house.

He handed his hat to the porter. “Have someone bring wine to the library, will you?” he said.

When the porter had gone to do his bidding, Sybilla looked at the earl. “Giving orders, sir?”

He smiled. “Not going to send me back out into the cold without a bracer, are you? Not after having got me so warm. Let’s go upstairs.” There was a wealth of meaning in his voice, and Sybilla began to wonder again what she had got herself into.

“I can still throw you out of the house, Ned,” she said sweetly, surprising herself.

“To be sure, you can,” he agreed, smiling down at her. “Do you want to?”

B
ITING HER LOWER LIP,
Sybilla shook her head in response to Ramsbury’s question. She knew she would do better to send him on his way, but she could not seem to do so. Conscious only of the warmth in his eyes and a lessening of the odd sense of loneliness that had for so long been her constant companion, she made no demur when he took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and guided her upstairs to the library, where they were welcomed by candlelight from a number of gilded wall sconces, the glow casting golden highlights and dancing shadows onto the peach-colored walls. The only sound was the sharp snap-crack of a spark from the embers of the dying fire.

Once inside the door, Ramsbury paused, glancing down at her ruefully. “Perhaps you would have preferred to go into the drawing room instead,” he said.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “The pianoforte is there. Were you not inspired by Mr. Davies’s excellent performance?”

Sybilla shook her head again, chuckling. “I am neither so puffed up in my own esteem nor so accomplished a musician as to try to emulate what we heard tonight; however, I suppose I ought at least to thank you for considering my wishes for once.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, releasing her arm and moving away toward the fireplace. Taking a log from the wood basket on the hearth, he knelt to set it gently on the grate, prodded the coals with the poker, then stood back to admire his handiwork. The hot embers glowed hungrily, then sparked, and flames began immediately to flicker at the base of the log.