The English Witch (15 page)

"How pleasant this has been. We haven't quarrelled once. I can't think how we've managed it."

"We've let our surroundings work their good upon us, I think. But I wouldn't worry overmuch about it. Once free of Nature's calming influence, I daresay we'll find something to dispute soon enough."

"I suspect you're right," he answered. It occurred to him that perhaps their relationship was a good deal safer when they
did
quarrel.

They returned to an anxious household. At Will's instigation, Edward had ordered horses saddled preparatory to searching for the missing pair. However, if he had it in mind to tax his cousin with keeping Miss Ashmore out so long, his wife's nudge must have distracted him. No one else scolded either, and Lord Arden could hardly make a scene. He had perforce to content himself with getting back into Miss Ashmore's good graces, while imagining diverse hideous tortures to which Basil should be subjected if this were a more reasonable world—like that, for instance, in which the first Duke of Thome had existed some centuries before.

Will soon found that he had best keep his mind entirely upon the former object, as Miss Ashmore's attention was not easily held. She was quite preoccupied and sometimes had to be asked the same question twice to be persuaded to answer at all. This circumstance was not encouraging. Lord Arden began to hate Basil desperately and the Osborne twins even more. Hadn't they sinned twice, after all: once in keeping him from Miss Ashmore, and again in boring him to distraction? Lord Arden began to consider the ugly possibility that he'd permanently alienated his Intended.

Fortunately for his lordship's spirits, which were sinking at an alarming rate, the group from Hartleigh Hall was engaged to dine that evening at Netherstone, home of Lord and Lady Dessing. In the course of that dinner, Miss Ashmore's behaviour gradually began to change.

She was less abstracted than she'd been. He had the good fortune to be seated at her left, a species of miracle, considering there were thirty at table. Will made the most of that advantage and he was soon rewarded with both smiles and humourous sallies from those sweetest of all lips.

He was also relieved to see that Trev was his usual self, flirting with all the females of the company by turns. He'd start on one and, as soon as that feminine heart was reduced to liquid state, would proceed on to the next. As there were at least half a dozen untried hearts to be worked upon, Basil was busy the entire evening.

When the gentlemen had consumed large quantities of port, they rejoined the ladies, and the marquess saw that Basil had reserved Lady Honoria Crofton-Ash, Dessing's daughter, for last. Well, if he could coax anything remotely resembling a natural smile onto the frigid countenance of that glacier-like creature, more power to him. Lord Arden did not believe Lady Honoria worth the effort. Priggish and haughty, entirely caught up in her own consequence, she held no charm for him, handsome as she was...and no charm, either, he suspected, for anyone else. After all, she'd be embarking upon her fifth Season in the spring, and for all her looks and all her Papa's money and consequence, she hadn't managed to find a husband.

At any rate, Basil's behaviour this evening showed that there was nothing to be concerned about there. He'd taken Miss Ashmore off this afternoon only to be provoking, and to prove what a prodigiously charming fellow he was—as he must demonstrate to every female in the county, apparently.

Let him be charming, the marquess thought as Miss Ashmore, who'd also glanced at the pair talking quietly in a corner of the room, turned back to him with a dazzling smile. Tonight Lord Arden did not envy the all-conquering Mr. Trevelyan his conquests. Not in the least.

His Intended did not seem to hear the offer, but Jess accepted readily, then went on to praise the local dressmaker who was taking in a gown for her. She complained about her London modiste whose careless work must now be repaired and ended by declaring she'd go to Madame Vernisse from now on. Look how beautifully she made Miss Ashmore's—

Here Will interrupted with the avowal that whatever Miss Ashmore wore must be beautiful, since she adorned her attire, rather than the other way round.

Basil did not even look up from his plate, being busily engaged in creating a work of art therein. He moved a bit of egg here, a sliver of ham there, and was evidently so engrossed in this aesthetic endeavour that he forgot to put any of it in his mouth.

Doubtless he was fretting over his singular lack of success with Lady Honouria last night, for she'd been as stiff and proper with him at the end of the evening as she had at the start. Well, it was about time
somebody
found him resistible, Alexandra thought morosely. He'd tricked her into admitting she wasn't in love with Lord Arden, said he wanted to help her, then let the marquess monopolise her the entire evening. Mr. Trevelyan obviously couldn't be bothered with her prob
lems when there was a roomful of ladies requiring his attention.

There was no help for her at all. It was either the marquess or Randolph, and no more delay, because Papa was coming—
good grief!
—this very afternoon. The recollection threw her into a panic, and she was so busy wracking her brains what to do next that she hardly noticed what she was doing now.

Which is to say she answered automatically what was said to her on the ride into the village and hadn't the presence of mind to think of a reasonable objection when Lord Arden insisted that Jess go on to the dressmaker by herself, to be met up with in another hour. Hardly had Jess been deposited at Mrs. Merrill's door and the horses put in motion again, when the marquess announced his intention of speaking to Sir Charles this very afternoon.

Alexandra's panic escalated. Stalling for time, she feigned bafflement about what the marquess might have to say to her father.

"Why, Miss Ashmore—Alexandra—surely it can come as no surprise to you," he said, with the tenderest of looks. "I'd thought I'd made my intentions perfectly plain. And I'd thought—or rather,
hoped—
that in some small way you might return those feelings."

She looked startled, and then she looked confused, and then she dropped her gaze to her hands which were tightly folded in her lap. She murmured that she had no business having feelings about anyone, as she was betrothed already. In halting sentences, she outlined the Burnham situation.

Lord Arden was, as she'd expected, speechless for a moment. She stole a glance at his face. His expression was composed, if rather tightly so, and the grey eyes seemed darker than usual, like cold slate, telling her he was angry. But whatever he felt, he held it in check, and only asked stiffly, "As to this betrothal—you say nothing of yourself, only of your Papa and this Mr. Burnham. Is it what you wish?"

With some hesitation, she admitted that it was not.

He seemed to relax a little. "Then dare I wonder whether there's any place for me in your wishes?"

She studied her hands again. She couldn't allow herself to
think about...such things, she said. In fact—well, she'd been dishonest to keep this matter from others, and yet...She couldn't continue, being covered in maidenly confusion, but not so much so that she couldn't manage another peek at his face. He was mulling it over, she could tell, and must have come to a satisfactory conclusion, for very soon he was smiling again, and the warm light was back in his eyes.

"It seems to me," he said, "that if you had told me from the first, you would have been saying here was no hope for me at all. But as you didn't—well, perhaps it was because you weren't wholly indifferent to me. Or do I presume too much?"

"It's quite impossible, my lord, to be indifferent to you—as, no doubt, scores of other ladies have demonstrated. Still, I suppose I should have told you. And yet," she looked up to meet his gaze, "it didn't seem so important. How could I think that I, or my family matters, were of any interest to you? That would be assuming that out of all the women you know, I would be anything special to you."

He was stymied. She barely hinted—though she did so tantalisingly enough—at caring for him, which implied that she'd been playing fast and loose with him all this time. Then, in the same breath, she claimed to be the one led on.
Damn Jessica for telling all those tales of his romantic conquests.
They had made Miss Ashmore think he was only amusing himself, and now, though he'd courted the woman all this time—two whole weeks, at least—it appeared he must begin all over again.

Meanwhile, she insisted she'd never believed his intentions were serious. She couldn't be expected to make up her mind on the spot whether she meant to have him, as she'd never permitted herself to think of him in that way. Besides which, she was already engaged, as she'd just told him, and she couldn't blame him in the least if he chose to forget this entire conversation. Certainly there were hundreds of women more deserving of the honour he so kindly offered.

The discussion went on for half an hour, until he finally convinced her that his suit was serious. As to speaking to her father, that—for now at least—was out of the question. Papa was sure to take alarm and ship her off to Yorkshire.

"He's very fixed on Randolph, and under great obligation to Mr. Burnham, and really—"

"And really," he interrupted impatiently, "his debts are the least of my concerns. The trivialities of the marriage settlement." He complained that she was bent on tormenting him.

She declared nothing could be farther from her mind, then looked as though she was about to weep. So he spoke more kindly, with a great deal of the sort of tender nonsense best calculated to soothe the tremulous flutterings of the fragile feminine heart.

***

Sir Charles arrived early in the afternoon in a state of high irritation. He had not liked to leave Westford so soon, as business with Henry Latham promised to be most satisfactory, but a letter from George Burnham had come to him there that drove everything else out of his head.

Nearly two days' journey in hot weather had only exacerbated his foul mood. Even Randolph had been provoking. The baronet had begun to speak of the Peloponnesian War, thinking to while away the weary hours with talk on Randolph's favourite subject, and got for his pains only a great, agonised groan.

The younger generation was going to the devil, and that was the long and short of it. His daughter was scheming with Clementina's nephew to foist this ridiculous secret betrothal nonsense upon her long-suffering Papa. Even Randolph—always such a steady chap—was in a fit of the dismals from the moment they left Westford. Well, Sir Charles would see about him, later. Right now, he had a few choice words for Clementina.

He could not say those words immediately, however, having only just arrived and been greeted by his host and hostess. Their warm welcome, along with the army of servants who appeared immediately to see to his comfort, the graciously appointed rooms allotted him, a hot bath, and a generous tray of refreshments provided for his delectation, helped control his impatience.

Nonetheless, he was determined to be in a temper, and when some hours later he was finally ushered into Lady Bertram's presence, he burst out without preamble, "I will not have it, Clementina!"

His countess sat perfectly straight in her chair and eyed him coldly as though he were a particularly hideous species of toad, then said with frigid composure, "Indeed?"

"How dare you?" he went on, undaunted by her haughty stare. "How dare you connive behind my back? How dare you attempt to bribe George Burnham?"

"Oh, do stop shouting, Charles. You'll have all the servants huddling by the door."

"I don't care a fiddle about the servants—"

"And
I
don't care to be shouted at. If you cannot behave yourself, you might as well leave." She gave him a dismissive wave.

"You needn't put on your high and mighty airs with me, Clementina," he retorted, but more quietly. "Though it's of a perfect piece with your interfering arrogance. You tried to bribe George Burnham. There's no use denying it."

"I," said Lady Bertram, with awful dignity, "deny nothing.”

"Then you did try!"

"You understand nothing. I did not attempt to bribe George Burnham. I offered to pay your debt to him—"

"To prevent the marriage."

"To pay the debt. I do not see what marriage has to do with it. A financial debt is one thing; a marriage is another. You seem to confuse the two."

"Never mind what confuses me. You had no business."

The countess maintained that she had every sort of business since her goddaughter was somehow mixed into his business affairs. "As she did not create your financial difficulties, I do not see why she is required to solve them for you."

There was obvious truth in what Lady Bertram said, and that truth rather piqued his conscience than otherwise. There
fore, Sir Charles grew more enraged. "But you could see your way well enough to plotting against me, could you not? You and your scheming nephew."

"I collect you are referring to Basil."

"Of course I'm referring to Basil."

"Then why do you come and pick a quarrel with me? If Basil has offended you, it is Basil you should speak with."

Sir Charles's head was beginning to ache. The woman jumped about from one topic to the next with no logic whatsoever. Sir Charles hated illogic. He hated non sequiturs, and at the moment, he was so little fond of Lady Bertram that he would have liked to choke her. He wondered now why he had bothered to confront her in the first place. He should have known he'd get nowhere. Still, George Burnham's letter had wounded his pride, and Sir Charles wanted to take it out on somebody. He glared at the countess, but forced himself into some semblance of composure.