Margaret Moore (19 page)

“I thought you would be pleased by that.”

“Why should I be pleased? I am like a circus performer to them, or a freak, Handsome Playwright from London, Intimate Friend of the King. Nothing more. To be sure, they waited until they saw me, but I daresay they were predisposed to be excited by my addition to their rude and rustic circle.”

“They were not the only ones being rude,” she noted coolly. “Or perhaps I should say, impudent. And not all of the men disliked you.”

His behavior had really been too outrageous for her to forgive him quickly, no matter that his explanation for his behavior was not without merit, or how attractive he was or how close they were in the confines of their coach.

“Oh, no. Some clearly have hopes of a connection with the court through me, so they were polite enough. And your Mr. Assey, despite his numbing choice of color for his clothes, seemed gentlemanly. There is also the charming Mr. Sedgemore. He is so very keen to be our friend—or yours, at any rate.”

“At least he did not entertain us by listing the latest adulteries among the courtiers.”

“That is what they wanted to hear,” Richard replied. “I have never yet encountered a person in England who doesn’t want to hear the gossip of the court, and you cannot deny that they were all fascinated.”

“No, I cannot—but it was as much the way you spoke as what you were saying.”

“As I said, a performance.”

She regarded him steadily. “Richard, you confirmed their worst expectations of you. Why? Why could you not have made them see that there is more to you than the worldly playwright?”

He turned to stare out the window at the night sky. “Perhaps there is no more to me than the worldly playwright,” he said, once more taking refuge in mockery and scorn for others’ opinions.

“I do not believe that.”

“Very well. I could have played the cavalier soldier for them.”

“There is no need to
play
anything for them. You should just be yourself.”

“That was Richard Blythe, Elissa—a man who performs, whether for a room full of country landowners and merchants, or the king, or the audience in the theater.”

Her brow furrowed. “Are you performing now?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“When you make love with me, are you performing then, too? Is every move choreographed like a court masque? Do you quote lines you have written and rehearsed? How many times? With how many women?”

“Elissa, I—”

The coach jolted to a stop, and before he could say anything, she had shoved her way past him and disembarked without waiting for him to get out first.

He sat in the coach and watched her march inside. The driver gave him a puzzled look, which he ignored as he left the vehicle and entered the house, his pace quickening with every step.

He did not go to the bedchamber. Instead, he turned toward Elissa’s closet off the withdrawing room. Then he did what he had to do.

Richard’s sigh was both tired and winsome as he rode along the country lane the next morning.

This road was very much as he remembered it, unlike so many things. He thought of the times he had walked this way, sometimes at night, seeking the solace of the quiet darkness, more often in the daylight, when he could look out over the ripening fields, or watch the flocks of sheep.

The natural beauty of the countryside had been a balm to him, a balm sorely lacking after
he had left home, for nothing he had ever seen in London or Europe surpassed the natural beauty of the land surrounding Blythe Hall.

He was tired because he had been up all night and winsome because, after much contemplation, he had come to the conclusion that he had erred. He should have been less the cavalier courtier, and more the nobleman who deserved his family estate.

He was also sorry he had not gone to Elissa and apologized sooner, with words and actions, instead of spending the night as he had. He would find her before he took Will riding, and he would make the best apology he could.

Humming to himself, he began to consider what he would say and do. It would not be choreography, as she had charged, he thought with a smile, but it was very pleasant and arousing to imagine how he would begin, whether with a kiss to her hand, or her cheek. Perhaps her lips, depending on the look in her charming eyes—

Suddenly, his horse shied, and as he struggled to control it, Antonia Norbert appeared like some sort of demonic spirit, shoving her way through the bushes that bordered the lane. Her large and unfortunately ugly hat was slightly askew and bits of greenery clung to her apparel.

Rather revealing apparel it was, too, for day-wear. Her cloak was too small and gaped most
amazingly, showing the gown beneath, as well as quite a bit of her bosom.

She smiled broadly, not a bit nonplussed as he struggled to calm his mount, and her eyes fluttered in a manner he supposed was intended to be alluring. “Oh, Lord Dovercourt! What a surprise!”

Truly, the boldest whore in the most notorious brothel behind Covent Garden was subtlety itself compared to her. “Tell me, do you often lie in ambush for unsuspecting travelers?”

She giggled. Loudly. “Oh, my lord, you are so droll!”

“What are you doing out here all by yourself? Surely a lovely lady like you is taking a great risk.”

More giggles, and Richard couldn’t suppress a shudder as she eyed him coyly. “You would come to my rescue, wouldn’t you, Lord Dovercourt? We hear you are quite the swordsman.”

“I keep my sword sheathed unless I am in imminent danger of death,” he replied, falling into the tone he used to banter with the ladies of the court. “Otherwise, I might do myself an injury.”

She sauntered closer, her hips swaying, and Richard was very glad he was on his horse. “That is not what we hear. Owston is not so very out of the way that we don’t hear news
from London. You are said to be a very great swordsman, and a duelist, too.”

“In my youth, perhaps.”

“But surely you retain the skill,” she murmured slyly.

“Such skills as I possess will be for my family’s benefit.”

“How noble of you!”

“If you will excuse me, I really must be getting home. I am late to take Will riding. Good day.”

He didn’t wait for her to say another word, or—heaven forbid!—giggle again, but rode on.

Antonia shrieked.

As much as he wanted to get home, he couldn’t help twisting in his saddle to look back over his shoulder.

Antonia was bent over, holding her ankle. “I fear I have sprained it,” she cried piteously. “It hurts to walk on it.”

Looking ahead at the road, he wished courtesy did not demand he offer assistance. He would rather kick his horse into a gallop as if a horde of screaming barbarians were chasing him. Zounds, he almost wished that would happen—anything rather than have to deal with the obviously lustful Antonia.

Unfortunately, courtesy did demand that he offer assistance, so he stopped scowling and dismounted.

“Oh, dear, I am so clumsy,” she declared.

“No doubt the road is to blame,” he replied flatly.

“What shall we do?”

“You must ride my horse and I shall take you home.”

“I could ride behind you,” she suggested eagerly. “After all, it is a long way to my father’s manor.”

Richard smiled wanly and wished he knew the fastest way there. Undoubtedly she would suggest the longest, most circuitous route. “I have been riding some time already, and my horse is fatigued. Two riders would be too much. I shall walk.”

Antonia opened her mouth to protest, took a good look at Richard’s face, then wisely shut it.

“Come and I shall help you mount.”

“I… I fear I cannot. It pains me to walk.”

Barely refraining from rolling his eyes, Richard went to her. “Lean on my shoulder, then.”

Antonia threw her rather beefy arm about his shoulder, which made her cloak fall open all the more, perhaps coincidentally.

Her breasts really were amazing, Richard was forced to conclude. Some men would surely consider the opportunity to toy with them worth any amount of trouble.

He, however, had seen too many breasts to be impressed, and the finest of all belonged to his wife.

“Well?” Antonia sighed, her breath hot on his ear.

Putting his arm around her waist, he helped her to his horse. “I fear my foot is too swollen to put in the stirrup,” she observed.

The last time he had felt this trapped, he reflected, was when he had been commanded to marry. That had turned out better than he had anticipated; he feared no similar good could come from Antonia’s behavior.

“Then I shall lift you,” he said, managing not to grit his teeth. “Put your hands on my shoulders and let us hope the horse stands still.”

Antonia emitted a little squeal as he lifted her, her breasts brushing his chin. The horse shifted and she nearly fell, but with great determination, Richard got her safely aboard.

Panting slightly from the effort, he took his horse’s rein.

“We go straight along this road until we come to a fork, then turn left,” Antonia commanded.

Richard nodded and started to walk.

“I’m so sorry to be such trouble,” she murmured. “I don’t know how I came to do that!”

“We all stumble occasionally.”

“But my dancing teacher says he’s never known anyone who dances as good as me.”

Since his back was to her, Richard permitted himself a scowl at her ungrammatical speech.

“Do you dance, Sir Richard?”

“Rarely.”

“You must know all the court dances.”

Elissa had been right. He never should have talked so much about the court. Now look where that had landed him. “I was not at court so very often.”

“You are too modest, I’m sure.”

“Is this the fork?”

“Yes. Go to the left—the left!” she repeated as Richard headed to the right.

“Are you quite sure?” he asked, turning back to regard her skeptically.

“I should think I know where my own father’s house is!” she declared. Then she got that sly look in her small eyes. “I do believe you are up to no good, Lord Dovercourt!”

That was enough for Richard. “My dear young woman, I assure you my intentions are totally honorable, even if yours are not.”

“My lord!” she protested.

“I have been pursued by women often enough to know all the tricks. You could strip naked and I wouldn’t dally with you, and I don’t think your ankle is twisted at all.”

“I… I… you …” Her reddening face crumpled, and he suddenly realized she was going to cry. She started to dismount. “My ankle
is
twisted!” she declared, “and I think you’re a loathsome beast to think I could be so deceitful!”

She winced as she stood on the ground, glaring at him.

Richard sighed. She was better at this game than he had thought. Unfortunately, she seemed to have forgotten which ankle was the twisted one.

No doubt if he abandoned her here, she would tell everyone what a callous, hardhearted blackguard he was. While that did not trouble him in the least, he knew it would upset Elissa.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, trying to sound contrite. “I have been too long among theater folk, I fear. Allow me to assist you back onto my horse, and then we will go to the left.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Antonia said regally as he approached her.

Again, and trying to keep as much distance between them as possible, he helped her onto his horse.

Will stomped into Elissa’s closet, an expression between a pout and a scowl on his face as he flopped onto the stool she used to reach the highest shelves.

Elissa blinked her heavy eyelids. She had almost nodded off over the accounts. Of course, if one lay awake until the small hours of the morning tensely anticipating the arrival of one’s husband who never came to bed, fatigue was bound to result.

She had tossed and turned all night not just waiting for him, but also thinking about what
had happened. To be sure, he had upset her with his behavior, but she had lashed out at him with dismay and frustration, then disembarked from the coach like a petulant child.

As she had contemplated their brief married life together, she had quickly come to the conclusion that no matter how he acted when he was with other people, he was not acting when he was alone with her.

That was a very flattering notion. Indeed, she didn’t think there was a better or more sincere compliment that Richard Blythe could pay. It only remained for her to try to make amends.

But first, her son needed her. “What’s the matter?”

Will crossed his arms. “He’s not going riding with me.”

“Richard?” she asked stupidly, although she knew that had to be to whom he referred. Then a horrible feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Richard is not here?”

Will shook his head. “He’s gone riding already, without me.”

“Perhaps he had an important errand.”

Will’s expression was skeptical, as well it should be.

“We shall simply have to ask him where he went when he returns,” she said. In the meantime, she would not allow herself to speculate as to her husband’s mysterious absence.

“When?”

Elissa took refuge from her son’s eyes by looking at her account books. “When what, dear?”

“When will he get back?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth, but unless Richard took it into his head to return to London in a fit of pique …

Surely not!

“He promised we would go riding every morning that it was fine, and it’s very fine today.”

Elissa raised her eyes to regard her disgruntled child. “Did he
promise?”

“He said he would!”

“That is not the same thing as a promise, dear.”

“Bloody hell, it is, too!”

Elissa stared at her son, whose face suddenly—and quite rightly—flushed with shame. “William James Longbourne, we do not use such language in this house!”

Shamefaced still, he nodded.

“Where did you ever hear that coarse expression?” she demanded. It was not from the servants, and most certainly not from her.

Will’s lips trembled as he tried not to cry.

She rose and came around her desk. She squatted down and took his shoulders gently in her hands. “Will, where did you hear that expression?” she asked quietly.