Anne Barbour (27 page)

“Ah, the goddess of the hunt.”

“Yes. I’m afraid I have not started my preparations yet, but a few gauzy draperies and some arrows should suffice. And a pasteboard crescent moon covered with glitter on a band around my head.”

James, who had stopped listening at the part about gauzy draperies, nodded, finding that his mouth had gone dry.

Pulling himself together, he managed to chat amiably and vacuously (although he suspected that he was babbling) as he bundled her into her gig and waved her off down the drive. However, watching her disappear into .the distance, he leaned against the jamb, feeling as spent as though he had just run the distance between Goodhurst and Whiteleaves.

Was this what love did to a man? Destroyed his ability to reason, and churned his emotions so that eventually he abandoned all the carefully constructed precepts of his life? This could not be happening to him! The whole idea of his falling in love at all was ludicrous, let alone with someone like Lady Hilary Merton, a slender witch with flaming hair and the insidious determination of a flood tide.

He clenched his fists against the unaccustomed feeling of helplessness that seemed to permeate his soul.

Clattering along the lane, Hilary tried to immerse herself in plans for James’s future. She was, of course, pleased that he had agreed to attend the ball. Now, she must consider how best to throw him together with the ladies on her list of prospective mates. It should not be difficult, she told herself. She would seat him next to Amanda Ffrench at dinner. Charlotte Ponsonby’s name would be placed before him for the first set of country dances and, the Widow Silcombe later. After that...

She became aware of a distinct sense of dissatisfaction in her musings. The cause, unfortunately, was not difficult to discern. She had absolutely no desire to pair James with any of these highly eligible females. In fact, if she were to be honest with herself, the only female with whom she wished James to spend the evening was herself.

She slumped over the reins. For the last several days she had attempted to define her feelings for the antiquary, and now she knew the answer had been lying in her heart all along, waiting for acknowledgment. She could, she now realized dismally, no longer escape from the fact that she was in love with James Wincanon.

Really, she thought with some irritation, for a woman who professed herself reluctant to marry, she had allowed her emotions to tumble her into an impossible bumble broth. For there was no question she had made the worst possible choice in the matter. James was arrogant. James was dictatorial. He was self-centered and opinionated. He was also intelligent—and witty—and considerate at the oddest times—and wholly compelling—and...

And the whole question was academic in the extreme, she told herself in a not-quite-successful attempt at briskness. For, James Wincanon was not in the market for a wife. He had made it clear that he preferred to be left alone. To be sure, he had kissed her— twice—but she had already ascertained that those pleasurable but inexplicable encounters had meant nothing to him.

He had agreed to attend the Halloween Ball. Surely, he had done so merely to please her, for he obviously had no real desire to don a costume and point a toe with the local gentry. Unless, of course, he had decided, as he had indicated before, that he wished to be a good neighbor while he resided at Goodhurst.

She looked up to see that she had come abreast of the tower. Unwilling to go home just yet, she halted the gig. Making her way to the stone dance, she sat down on the polished altar and continued her dismal reflections.

She had made a decision only a few weeks before to expunge James Wincanon from her life. She should have remained steadfast in her resolve. Now, here she was, sitting by herself in the forest like a disheartened troll, bemoaning her fate. She realized that her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Hilary!”

Hilary jumped at the sound of Dorcas’ voice and turned to see the old woman approaching from the edge of the clearing. Good heavens, did she not have a home of her own? Did she spend all her waking hours in the dance?

“Why do you sit, weeping?” continued Dorcas.

“I—I—”

Mercifully, Dorcas did not wait for an answer, but continued. “How fares the Roman?”

“He is still not well. But I’m sure your medicine will help,” Hilary added hastily.

“Mm, yes, although perhaps not enough. But you”—Dorcas returned to the matter at hand—”you are unhappy, little one.” She sat beside Hilary on the altar stone, her gaze penetrating but not unkind.

To her horror, Hilary felt more tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She raised a hand to wipe them away, but Dorcas lifted her own to intercept it.

“It is ever the way of a maid to weep for a man. And usually, quite uselessly, too.”

“Y—yes,” gulped Hilary in agreement. “I am being very silly, I know. But Old One!” she cried, to her astonishment abandoning all reserve. “I do love him.”

“And yet you despair. This is not wise.” The old woman sighed. “Young people always complicate their lives so. Love should not be an occasion for weeping.”

“Perhaps,” retorted Hilary, “but he considers me nothing more than a handy clerical assistant. That makes it a little difficult to rejoice.”

Dorcas’ lips twitched, but she said only, “Perhaps you’re taking too dim a view. At any rate, how do you know that he sees you merely as an unpaid clerk?”

Hilary uttered an unladylike snort. “Why, I have no idea, unless it’s because he orders me about like a serving wench and never says please or thank you.”

“A damning indictment, to be sure,” murmured Dorcas, the merest tremor in her voice. “And yet, he kisses you?”

Not pausing to wonder how the old lady had come by this information, Hilary tried for a casual insouciance in her reply. Waving an airy hand, she said, “Oh, but that meant nothing. Gentlemen, as you must know, are distressingly free with their kisses.”

“Even such a one as Mr. Wincanon? He does not seem the sort to indulge in such frivolities.”

“No, I don’t suppose he does, but— You see, other than the kissing, he has not shown any indication that he regards me at best as anything more than a friend for whom he holds a slight affection.”

“Do you think friendship cannot serve sometimes as a cloak for love?”

Hilary blinked back more tears. “Not in this case,” she said firmly.

“Or that friendship has already bloomed into love without the gentleman’s knowledge?”

Hilary could have laughed at the absurdity of Dorcas’ statement, if she were not already crying. “No, I don’t think so,” she whispered at length.

“But did not the advent of the Roman accomplish your purpose?”

“Purpose?”

“You prayed for success in your meeting with James Wincanon. Have you not become close to him because of the Roman’s presence in your lives?”

Hilary could no longer suppress her curiosity. “How is it that you know about—about the Roman?” she asked.

Dorcas brushed a few grains of—what was that? Wheat?—that clung to the dark fabric of her skirt. “I am old and I know many things. Was not the Roman the answer to your prayer?”

“Well—” replied Hilary doubtfully. “Yes, I suppose so—in a certain sense, but even my silly wish has turned to disaster.”

“Oh?” Dorcas’ silver brows rose.

“You see, Rufus does not thrive in our time. That is why we were trying to return him. Despite our efforts, he grows more ill every day, and if he doesn’t get back to his own time, we fear he will die.”

Dorcas grew thoughtful. “I see. I had not thought of that. Hmp. Do you plan to try again?”

Hilary sighed. “I don’t know.”

“I believe you should make another attempt, for next time you may well be more successful.” Dorcas shook a bony finger. “But no more trying to create lightning, daughter. Now, about James Wincanon, you are so sure he does not return your feelings for him?”

“Quite sure.” Hilary sniffed purposefully. “However, I’m sure I will survive.”

“Ah, little one,” breathed Dorcas. “You persist in surrounding yourself with darkness. You must look beyond the uncertainty of the present and into the sunlight of the future. For, there is light ahead for you. I know this.”

Lifting her head, Hilary gazed into the distance, trying to absorb the old woman’s words. They were sheer nonsense, of course, yet she found them oddly comforting. When she turned back to Dorcas, a few moments later, the old woman was gone.

Sighing, she moved to her gig and resumed her journey home.

Chapter Twenty-three

The remaining two days before the ball passed quickly. Robert professed himself delighted at his invitation, and even Rufus declared himself fit and ready for action.

Thus, on the evening of the event, James stood before the mirror in his chamber, donned in the royal, if somewhat moth-eaten robes of King Lear.

“Devil take it, Friske, what did you use on this beard? It feels like cement.” He swung about from the mirror to confront his valet. “I can barely open my mouth.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but none of the shops in the village carries theatrical glue, so I was forced to rely on a concoction made up for you by Cook. I believe it contains bone marrow—and possibly flour.”

“To say nothing of eye of newt and toe of frog, I suppose,” muttered James. He patted his long, white mustaches into place and settled a battered crown on his head. “There, am I presentable?”

Friske stepped back to survey his handiwork. “The very image of the tragic monarch, sir, if I may say so.” Pausing only to make a minor adjustment to his majesty’s cloak, he turned to answer a peremptory knock at the door. A fearsome figure stood there, swathed in animal skins and an assortment of brass necklets and chains.

“Good God, what are you got up as, Robert?”

“Attila the Hun,” was the terse answer. “Could you not tell?”

“I see merely an unidentified barbarian. You need a crown to give you that certain air of authority.” He touched his own circlet.

“Mm. It looks as though it’s been gnawed on by dogs.”

“It probably has. Where is Rufus?”

“Polishing his sword, I think. He’s rather keen on appearing in full military regalia for his first time in public. He’s grumbling over his missing helmet, though.”

“How is he feeling?”

“He seems quite chipper, actually. That potion the old lady gave him must be remarkably efficacious. He has his bad spells—and they’re getting more frequent, but right now he’s merry as a grig.”

“I suppose that’s good. I just hope this evening won’t be too much for him. Well, let’s be on our way, then.” He glanced out the window. “I see it’s clouding over. I shouldn’t wonder if it didn’t start sprinkling on the way to Whiteleaves.”

Gathering up his scepter, James accompanied Robert from the room. They were joined in the hall by Rufus, resplendent in blindingly polished armor and accoutrements.

“I must say I’m looking forward to this, James. I’ve always enjoyed dancing, and it will give me a chance to practice my English.”

“Dancing? I don’t recall reading much about Roman dancing. Except for the nude damsels at the orgies, of course.”

“I’ve never gone in for those things,” replied Rufus primly. “They cost a lot of money, you know. No, I’m talking about dancing at festivals and sometimes dinner parties. The British have some jolly traditional steps, you know. Maia’s family are hell on a barn floor at harvest.”

“You must demonstrate for me sometime,” said James as they mounted the carriage awaiting them in the drive. Tonight, though a full moon had been promised, the lane was rendered stygian by the clouds that lowered overhead. It had become necessary to light the carriage torches in their reflective holders.

On their arrival at Whiteleaves, some minutes later, they were greeted in the gold saloon by the Earl of Clarendon, garbed as an Egyptian pharaoh, and his daughter, the goddess, Diana. James caught his breath. Clothed in gossamer sprinkled with glitter, her red curls adorned with a crescent moon, she was pure witchery. Silver sandals flashed on her feet, and in her hand she carried a delicate bow and arrow. More arrows could be seen protruding from a small quiver slung over her shoulder.

“James!” she cried out in pleasure. ‘That is”—she swept a low bow—”your most august majesty.”

“Indeed, James,” boomed the earl, “you lend a certain cachet to the gathering. And these”—he turned to the other two gentlemen—”this must be Mr. Newhouse. You make a splendid Attila, sir, though I suspect that’s not much of a compliment. And Professor, you are magnificent! Welcome, all of you.”

Several guests were already present, and James observed that he was acquainted with most of them. He circulated about the chamber, greeting a Red Indian, a harem girl, a Venetian doge, and assorted pirates. He kept Rufus by his side, and the warrior beamed in genial incomprehension, accepting with alacrity the wines presented to him by passing footmen.

Some thirty couples sat down to dinner, and James was pleased to note that he had been seated next to Hilary.

It was not until much later, when the dancing had begun, however, that James was able to converse with her with any degree of privacy. He had gone to considerable lengths to insure that the dance she saved for him would be a waltz, and now, as he placed his hand on the small of her back, it seemed to him that he was gathering a creature of fire and cloud into his arms.

Hilary’s reflections as she stepped into his embrace were not quite so fanciful, as she was barely able to refrain from sneezing into the musty folds of James’s robes, and she experienced some difficulty in keeping his beard out of her mouth. However, these insignificant details fled from her mind when he placed his arm about her waist. Dear heaven, she could feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of her gown.

And he was so very close! She imagined she could feel his heart beating against her own. It seemed to her that their pulses combined to throb in rhythm with the music and their feet took on a magic of their own as they whirled about the floor.

“You make a beautiful goddess of the hunt,” he murmured. “Diana herself could look no more lovely in the moonlight.”