A Masked Deception (21 page)

On that night he had believed that she felt the same way. He remembered the way she had danced with him, as if she shared in perfect harmony the rhythm of his body, and the way she had clung to his arm as they walked to the rose garden, and the way her body had fitted itself to his of her own free will when he kissed her. He remembered that she had not pulled away from him when the kiss was over, but had nestled her head on his shoulder and had seemed contented to be held.

Brampton had felt desire rise in him as they had stood there. He had been about to tell her that he loved her, about to suggest that they abandon their guests to their own devices for a while and return to the house. He had wanted to take her to his own bed and make love to her.

It had seemed to him that it was a singularly inopportune time for her to faint! And why had she done so? Could tiredness after all the busy activity of the previous few weeks entirely explain it? Was it possible that she had been frightened by the passion she could feel developing in their relationship? Was she contented to let things remain as they always had been? And yet her manner in the bedroom after the doctor had seen her had seemed unusually tender.

When he had visited her the next day, Brampton had been nervous and unsure of himself. He did not know how he should behave. He had decided to take his cue from her. He had hoped desperately that she would smile at him, perhaps even hold out her arms to him, or at least show by her expression that she remembered the night before and wished to continue what they had started.

But there had been nothing. She had been lying on her back, the bedcovers drawn up under her arms, her hands clasped loosely over one another, her face with its usual expression of calm. Her eyes had watched him as he approached the bed, but there was nothing in them to encourage him. He had stood there formally, asking about her health, playing the heavy-handed lord and master by ordering her to remain in bed, leaving after five minutes, when he had really wanted to sit down beside her, draw her into his arms, and...

Brampton gave a loud exclamation of disgust and threw from him the third ruined neckcloth. Stevens patiently handed him another freshly laundered and freshly starched one and watched resignedly as his master proceeded to mangle that one too. He knew there was no point in offering to make the knot and arrange the folds himself. His lordship always insisted on dressing himself.

Brampton gave himself a mental shakedown. Earlier that afternoon he had been determined to force the issue. She was up again and looking well; their guests had left; they had an hour in which to be alone before they need think of dressing for dinner.

He decided to take her back to the rose garden, to see if he could rekindle that sympathy there had been between them there three evenings before. At least he must say something to her, find out if there was any chance that she could grow to love him.

Instead he had been like a nervous schoolboy, afraid to broach the subject uppermost in his mind, not knowing how to begin, terrified of being rejected or—worse—of having her placid eyes turn on him in incomprehension. He had prattled on about his plans for draining the marsh; how much less romantic could he get! The trouble was that she was such a damned good listener, so interested and sympathetic. Before he had known it, he had really warmed to his subject, and the time seemed totally wrong for trying to broach more personal matters.

So it still remained for this unseen barrier between his wife and himself to be broken down. Would the time ever be right? And he was planning to leave tomorrow for a few days in London.

* * *

Later that evening, the three ladies were alone in the blue salon. Lord Brampton and his brother were still in the dining room drinking their port. The dowager settled herself close to the fire she had requested, though it seemed to the other two ladies unnecessary on so warm a night. She was working at some needlepoint. Charlotte had wandered over to the pianoforte and was picking out a tune with one finger. Margaret followed her across the room and stood behind the piano bench.

“Do you wish me to bring some music, Lottie?” she asked.

Charlotte sighed and stopped playing. “No,” she said, “I do not wish to play.”

“Are you missing the company?”

“No, not really, Meg. I think it is time I returned to Mama and Papa.”

“Lottie! I thought you would be contented to live with Richard and me until—well, until you are settled for yourself.”

“I—I do not wish to sound ungrateful,” Charlotte said, pressing down the piano keys at random with the fingers of her right hand, “but I am homesick, Meg.”

Margaret looked at her sister in astonishment and felt a sharp stab of guilt. Lottie’s voice was so lifeless, so unhappy, so unlike her usual self! How long had she been this way? Had it happened only today as a result of the guests leaving? Or had something happened to cause the change? Margaret could not be at all certain of the answers to her own questions. She realized that almost ever since they had retired to the country she had been so busy with the entertainment of their guests and the organization of the fair, and she had been so wrapped up in her own unsatisfactory relationship with Richard, that she had almost totally neglected her sister. And the whole idea of the house party had been to entertain Lottie. Margaret had just naturally assumed that her normally exuberant sister was enjoying herself. She seemed to be a girl that just did not have problems.

Margaret sat down beside her sister on the bench and spoke quietly so that her mother-in-law would not overhear. “What is wrong, Lottie?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Charlotte said, attempting to smile. “I am just blue-deviled. I need a change of scene, Meg.”

“Is it Charles?”

“Charles?”

“Has he not come up to scratch, Lottie? He seems to favor your company so much that I must admit I had expected some declaration before now.”

“Charles?” Charlotte repeated, looking up, startled. “Oh, Meg, you are quite out there. Charles just likes my company because—well, just because. He is just a friend, Meg. We do not like each other in
that
way.”

Margaret felt even more guilty. Here was the little sister that she had always thought she knew inside out. “Are you bamming me?” she asked. “But, Lottie, there
is
someone, is there not?”

Charlotte resumed her absentminded effort to pick out a tune on the keyboard.

“Is it Mr. Northcott, Lottie?”

“Perhaps you could bring me some music, Meg.”

“Lottie, is it?”

“I don’t wish ever to talk about him. He is conceited and he is not a gentleman.”

“Mr. Northcott?”

Charlotte did not reply.

“What has he done, Lottie?” Margaret persisted. “Has he been bothering you? Has he been trying to make love to you?”

Charlotte put her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “He called me a flirt.”

“What? But why?”

“Because he is a horrid man and unmannerly and I hate him,” Charlotte said, leaping restlessly to her feet and crossing the room to the fireplace. “These are such lovely colors you are stitching into your picture, Lady Brampton,” she said with false heartiness to the dowager.

Margaret was left sitting on the piano bench. She was surprised and puzzled by the strange turn of events. She had thought that the early attraction between her sister and Devin Northcott had died a natural death a long while before. And she had been sure that there was a strong bond been Charlotte and Charles, though she had been a little puzzled by his slowness in coming to the point. She could not at the moment imagine what the very correct and very gentlemanly Mr. Northcott could possibly have done to deserve the outburst that Lottie had just indulged in. But one thing was startlingly clear: her sister was very much in love with her husband’s friend!

The Earl of Brampton left for London late the following morning. He planned to be away for three or four days. He spent the whole of his journey wishing that he had asked his wife to go with him, while realizing that he could not have done so without having caused a great upheaval. Charlotte would have had to come, too. Margaret was also wishing he had asked her to accompany him, though she too realized that she could not have gone.

Charlotte had agreed the night before to stay at Brampton Court until the earl returned. She did sit down in the morning, though, and write to her parents to tell them to expect her at home about one week later. She was mortally depressed. She had been so close to capturing her man on the night of the fair. She had experienced her first kiss on that night and she had loved it—and him! And then had come that stupid quarrel. She still blamed Devin. How dare he accuse her of being a flirt! How could he be so conceited and so stuffy—and so wrong!

Yet Charlotte knew that in reacting as she had, she had lost all chance of winning Devin. Was her pride worth so high a cost? He had been to the house only once since that night. He had come to dinner on the night before all the guests left. He had talked amiably to everyone, even that odious
flirt,
Susanne Kemp. But he had ignored her, if one discounted an infinitesimal and stiff bow in her direction when she had first entered the drawing room before dinner. She had made no effort to talk to him, either, but she had had a perfectly good reason. After all, he had insulted her.

The annoying thing was that she still loved him. Her first instinct had been to leave Hampshire as soon as she possibly could, to run home as far from Devin Northcott as she could get. But she had to confess to herself as she agreed to stay with Meg until his lordship came home, that she hoped something might happen in that time to patch up the quarrel.

Charles was restless. It was several weeks since he had last heard from his Juana. In that last letter, she had been confident that soon she would be on her way to England. She had written that she would inform him as soon as she arrived in Portsmouth. He had not had time to inform her that he was removing to the country, but he had left careful instructions at his mother’s home in London. As soon as a letter arrived there, a messenger was to post to Brampton Court with it. He was afraid that if he did not hear from Juana soon, he would have to make arrangements to rejoin his regiment in Spain. Then they would be in a tangle, with her traveling to England while he returned to Spain.

He was explaining this frustrating situation to Charlotte the morning after the earl had left for London. They were sitting at the edge of the lake half a mile distant from the house. Their horses were tethered to a tree nearby, grazing peacefully on the grass that was within their reach.

Margaret had felt a little guilty allowing the two young people to ride off together unchaperoned. But she was busy; she was sorting through all the household linen with Mrs. Foster. She was determined to use the days while Richard was away to do many of the tasks she had been intending to do ever since she had arrived. She wanted the time to pass quickly. She reassured herself, though, with the knowledge that there was no romance between Lottie and Charles.

Charles had a handful of stones and was skipping them across the water. “So you can see why I am getting worried,” he said to his companion. “I don’t know what I shall do.”

“I am sure you will hear from her soon,” Charlotte reassured him. “At least you know that she loves you, Charles. You are sure, are you not?”

“Oh, not a doubt of it,” he laughed. “She says I am the only one who will stand up to her. When she yells, I yell right back.”

“Goodness!” Charlotte commented. “Do you think it wise to marry?”

“There will never be a dull moment,” he said cheerfully. “I shall probably beat her daily, but you can be sure she will give as good as she gets.”

“Goodness!”

“And what about you, Charlotte, my love? I had great hopes for you when I saw you and Northcott slinking off into the greenery the other night. I was in eager expectation of an announcement before the evening was out. And then I saw you holding court to a veritable army of young sparks, Northcott nowhere in sight. And we have hardly seen him since. Can it be that Juana and I are not the only ones to have blazing rows?”

“He is just stuffy and insufferably high in the instep,” Charlotte said.

Charles raised his eyebrows and his throwing arm paused. “Strong words, my love. I take it you still love him, then?”

“I hate him!”

“Yes, quite. Can it be, Charlotte, that the oh-so-proper Mr. Northcott made
improper
advances? Did you send him way with a swollen cheek?”

“He accused me of flirting, Charles,” she said indignantly, “with you.”

“Indeed? I tell you what, Charlotte. He must be in love too. Jealousy and all that.”

Charlotte said nothing for a while. She absently counted the number of times each stone skipped across the water.

“Do you really think so, Charles?” she asked wistfully at last.

“Eh? Think what? Oh, Northcott? Yes, no doubt about it. You're quite a fetching little thing, you know. I might have fallen for you myself if I hadn’t already left my heart with a certain Spanish termagant.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” she asked doubtfully. “But listen, Charles, I really do need a plan.”