A Perfect Likeness (15 page)

He bowed. “Good afternoon, Aunt. Miss St. Charles.”

Bryony managed a slight nod of her head, and the duchess extended a lace-mittened hand. “Good afternoon, Sebastian. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Miss St. Charles kindly consented to receive me if I called...”

The duchess clearly did not like his choice of words, for she rose to her feet and pretended for a moment to inspect again the mountain of letters that had resulted from Bryony’s labors. “Well, I had not yet completed the day’s tuition,” she said coolly, “but no doubt Miss St. Charles considers that she has done sufficient to earn a little respite.”

Sebastian glanced at the pile of papers and raised an eyebrow. “No doubt she does,” he murmured.

“Since you have chosen to call so late in the afternoon, I presume that you intend to dine with us.”

“If that is an invitation, then I accept.”

“For Petra too? Has Delphine whisked her away somewhere?”

“No, Petra is in Falmouth at the moment. She’s returning either very late tonight or very early tomorrow morning, to see me before I leave for Town.”

The duchess went to the door. “Well, I trust you do not imagine that dinner here will be very French, for when Felix is away I prefer good, plain English food.”

“I do remember, Aunt.”

“Do you? I think sometimes, Sebastian, that you choose very carefully what you will remember and what you will deliberately ignore.” With a withering glance at Bryony, she swept out.

For a moment there was an awkward silence, and then he smiled. “I am sure that you have had more than enough of being cooped inside, Miss St. Charles. Shall we walk in the gardens?”

“I should like that.” She accepted the arm he offered and they left the solar.

The Cornish air, she thought, must be the most perfumed on earth. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment as they walked toward the fountains. How warm it was, and filled with the fragrance of roses, honeysuckle, herbs, and sea freshness. She even thought she could detect a hint of the distant moors, with their heather and gorse. It was very different from the air at Liskillen, which in her memory was heady with the scent of oak leaves from the woods where it had so often been her pleasure to ride. And where she had made those ill-fated but innocent meetings with Anthony Carmichael.

“You seem pensive, Miss St. Charles,” said Sebastian, pausing as they reached the first fountain. The sunlight danced upon the playing water, and the air was noticeably cooler.

“I was thinking about Liskillen.”

“And no doubt wishing you were there instead of here.”

“Yes.”

“How unflatteringly honest you are.”

“Would you have believed me if I’d denied it?”

“Probably not.”

She wondered suddenly about his estate in Worcestershire. “Do you ever wish you were at Sheringham Hall, Sir Sebastian?”

“Frequently.”

“What is it like there?”

“It isn’t at all like Polwithiel, for to begin with it’s far inland, right on the northern slopes of the Cotswold Hills. The house itself is Elizabethan, half-timbered and rambling, and it’s approached by an avenue of fine lime trees. The views over the Vale of Evesham are very beautiful, especially in the spring when the orchards are in full blossom.”

“You love it very much, don’t you?”

“Yes, Miss St. Charles, I do, and when you go there you will understand why.”

She looked away. “I only hope I am worthy of it.”

“Why should you not be?”

“Oh, perhaps because I am not blue-blooded enough.” She held his gaze then. “Perhaps Delphine would have been more suitable for you after all, Sir Sebastian.”

He searched her face for a moment. “Perhaps, and then again perhaps not. To be honest, I have never felt the desire to find out, any more than she has. Who told you of this, Miss St. Charles? Felix, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

“How very rattle-tongued he is, especially on those things of which he knows very little.”

“He seemed to know a great deal.”

“No doubt, but the truth is that he does not. He’s never been party to my innermost thoughts, even though we were brought up together. I didn’t like him as a boy; I like him even less as a man.”

“The feeling appears to be mutual.”

He smiled then. “It is. My mother and his may have been sisters, but Felix always resented the fact that when I was orphaned I came here to Polwithiel instead of being sent away to one of my Sheringham relatives. He regarded me as an interloper and did his damnedest to make my life a misery.”

“Did he succeed?”

The smile broadened. “Only in the very beginning, but I soon gained the measure of him. He is a vain, prideful braggart, and it’s very simple to ruffle his fine feathers.”

“I noticed that at dinner the other night.”

“His lack of humor and his sense of his own importance is very provocative. But let’s leave such a disagreeable subject and find something more pleasant to talk of.”

“Lady Petra, perhaps?” she said quickly, unable to help herself.

“Petra? If you wish.”

“She is an old friend of yours, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“And what of her husband, the earl? Is he an old friend too?”

“Lowndes? Hardly.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“If you knew Lowndes, you would not need to ask. He isn’t exactly a jewel in society’s crown.”

“But he must have something to commend him,” she persisted, “for Lady Petra chose to marry him, didn’t she?”

“He had Tremont to commend him, and that is all.”

“How unkind you are to him, for perhaps he has hidden virtues.”

“His only virtue is that he stays well away from her for the most part. He certainly does not deserve a woman like Petra.”

“Does
anyone
deserve a woman like Petra?” she replied shortly, walking on down the path. Well, she had provoked the conversation, and she had not received the indifferent response she had been subconsciously seeking. She was the end in fools, to so desperately want more than was being offered, more than a loveless marriage of convenience, but each time she was with him she knew that possessing his name was not enough, she wanted his heart as well.

They had reached the end of the gardens now, and beyond the final flowerbeds the park swept down toward the estuary, the lie of the land drawing the eye toward the folly. A fishing fleet was making its way home, the sails brown, red, and white against the azure water. Perhaps it was the Polwithiel fleet, which had been coming in at about this time the day before, when she had been with Felix.

But thoughts of Felix passed swiftly, barely touching her; it was her feeling for Sebastian which absorbed her, feeling which in a very short time had come perilously close to love. But how could she possibly
love
him? She should despise him!

He glanced at her as she gazed at the estuary. “Is something wrong, Miss St. Charles?”

Wrong? Yes, everything’s wrong, I’m falling in love with you and I don’t want to! I want to
hate
you, so that when you show your true colors, the pain will not be so great. She turned to him. Should she tell him she knew about Petra? Would it be better if there was at least that much honesty between them? But even as the thought entered her head, she suddenly looked beyond him and froze, for Petra herself was approaching. She looked enchanting in a cream muslin gown adorned with tiny pink satin bows, and a Gypsy hat tied on with a pink gauze scarf which fluttered prettily behind her. A gossamer-light shawl, knotted at the ends, was draped over her slender arms, and she was a breathtaking picture of stylish elegance, but with just the right touch of country freshness. Bryony’s confession died on her lips.

Seeing her glance behind him, Sebastian turned, a quick smile on his lips as he saw his mistress. “Petra! I thought Falmouth town would still have you clasped tight to its bosom.” He took her hand and drew it to his lips.

“How could I stay away?” she said lightly, her eyes flickering a little as she inclined her head to Bryony. “Besides, I grew tired of counting the packets sailing in and then sailing out again. It was very tedious sport. So, here I am again.”

Yes, thought Bryony, here you are again, come to make certain that your lover and his future wife do not get on too famously.

Petra smiled a little, running her fingertips over a spray of red roses. “The duchess said something about dinner—”

“Good, plain
English
fare,” he said, mimicking his aunt’s voice perfectly. “But I am sure we will enjoy it in spite of that.”

“We?” Petra’s smile became a little self-conscious and she gave a slight laugh. “Oh dear.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, it’s a little awkward, you see. I’ve made other dinner arrangements for us tonight.”

“I’m sure your chef, temperamental as he is, will not decide to end it all if you cancel your orders, and join us at Polwithiel instead.”

“It isn’t Jacques I’m concerned about, it’s my other guests. Oh, it was supposed to be a surprise, but now I shall have to tell you and spoil it all. You’ll never guess whom I just happened to see in Falmouth—Ozzie Rodale.”

“Good God! I thought he was in New York!”

“So he was. He just arrived in Falmouth this morning. Tomorrow he’s off up to Scotland to settle some family business, so you see he won’t be here for very long and I just
knew
you’d adore to dine with him. He’s traveling with two other gentlemen, and I’ve invited them to dine with us at Tremont tonight and then they can continue their journey to Scotland in the morning. He’s so looking forward to seeing you again, Sebastian.” She laughed again. “He says that he hasn’t found anyone in America he can be as rude to as he is to you.”

“That I can well believe,” said Sebastian with a smile.

“What shall you do?” asked Petra lightly.

“I’ve already agreed to dine here—”

“Oh, I’m sure that can be changed,” she said quickly, “for Miss St. Charles could join us all at Tremont instead. Is that not a capital idea?”

He looked at Bryony. “Would that be agreeable to you, Miss St. Charles?”

Bryony looked at him for a long moment. “Thank you, Sir Sebastian, but I am sure that you and Mr. Rodale have much to talk about and that my presence would merely hinder things.”

“On the contrary, we would be delighted to have you join us.”

“I would prefer not to,” she replied coldly, inclining her head to them both and then walking away up the path toward the house. She held her head high, but she was fighting back the tears.

If the sun was bright and cheerful over the next two weeks, Bryony’s existence at Polwithiel was not. Her feelings for Sebastian made her desperately unhappy, and her troubles were greatly added to by the duchess’s determination to be as strict and unbending as possible with her tuition. Instruction of one sort or another took up the whole day and sometimes the evenings too.

Bryony was beginning to think that the words “etiquette” and “ladylike conduct” were the only ones in the English language, but she bore everything as stoically as possible, obeying the duchess’s every command and not being guilty of anything which could even remotely be described as willful or blameworthy. She was determined to succeed, both for Liskillen’s sake and because the last thing she intended to be was a “millstone.” When she became Lady Sheringham, she wanted to be a credit to Sebastian Sheringham, whether he cared about her or not.

There were few opportunities to relax, the duchess saw to that, but even so harsh a tutor had to relent on occasion, and at those times Bryony sought Delphine’s company. Delphine was bitterly sorry for having been the cause of so much difficulty on the first evening, and now went to great lengths to make up for it. Their friendship became closer each time they were together, and at last Delphine told her side of what had happened the previous summer when the duchess had attempted to bring off the match between her and Sebastian.

Delphine said she had not wanted the match at all, her heart having been already given to the highly unsuitable Toby Lampeter. She was not at all interested in Sebastian, thinking of him as a brother, and she had been heartbroken when Felix had found out about her love for Toby and had dispatched her back to Polwithiel in disgrace. Toby had added to the heartbreak by only too willingly abiding by Felix’s command that he should not have any contact with his sister.

Since her return to Cornwall, she had not had one letter from him. Bryony had sympathized with her, for heartbreak was a thing she was beginning to understand only too well. She was tempted to tell Delphine the truth about her feelings for Sebastian, but somehow she couldn’t. By keeping them secret she could pretend that they did not exist; if Delphine knew, that would no longer be possible.

Since the afternoon in the gardens, Petra had not called at Polwithiel at all, but one day as Bryony and Delphine took tea in the solar, she was announced.

She came in wearing a bright crimson riding habit, a little black beaver hat resting at a rakish angle on her dark red hair. Bryony regarded her with loathing, for one thing she had discovered since their last meeting was that Ozzie Rodale and his companions had not arrived at Tremont as Petra had said they would. She had gone to elaborate lengths to pretend that they surely must come, but in the end she and Sebastian had dined alone. Bryony doubted if Petra had even seen Mr. Rodale, a gentleman so safely away on the other side of the Atlantic that he wasn’t likely ever to accidentally disprove her story.

No, the whole thing was a charade to get Sebastian away from Polwithiel, for Petra had known full well that Bryony’s reaction to being invited would be to refuse. It had all gone just as Petra had wished, and she and Sebastian had been cozily alone on his last night before returning to London....

Petra knew nothing of Bryony’s dark thoughts.
“
My dears,” she said breezily, “you don’t
know
how delighted I am to find you at home, for I’m simply dying of
ennui
all by myself. Delphine, darling, you look absolutely divine. I loathe you for wearing that shade of lime so effortlessly. It always makes me look like a corpse. Ah, Miss St. Charles, I trust that you are not missing the Emerald Isle too much?”