One Touch of Magic (8 page)

That had been very reassuring, after his recent disappointment when Lady Iverson had not given him the village project after Sir John’s death. He was a man, her husband’s colleague, and she was just a woman, albeit an intelligent one. She had known nothing about Vikings, about antiquarian work, until she married Sir John and he taught her. Yet she refused to give it over to him!

Emmeline had thought that was appalling. She had looked at him with wide, sympathetic eyes, and laid her little, white, soft hand on his sleeve. Those eyes, along with the ten thousand pounds of her dowry, convinced him to relinquish his bachelorhood.

So he had married her. And all was well, until their wedding trip to Scotland. He wanted to explore ancient castles and forts, and saw it as a perfect opportunity to teach his bride more about his work. Yet Emmeline saw no interest in marching through the heather to look at ruins. She spent all her time changing into the various elaborate gowns of her trousseau, and talking about the soirees they would have once they were settled into their own house in Bath.

Bath! Neville never wanted to live in Bath. He almost snorted aloud now, as he watched his wife slide jeweled combs into her elaborate coiffure. One would have thought she was going to the Court of St. James, not to supper at Lady Iverson’s hunting box home.

No, married life was not at all what he had hoped. Perhaps he should have married pretty little Mary Ann Bellweather, who looked at him with worshipful dark eyes. She seemed malleable to learn anything there was to know about history, but she did not have ten thousand pounds, as Emmeline did.

Not that the ten thousand would last long, with the amount Emmeline spent on clothes and jewels. There would soon be nothing left at all for his studies.

“Papa will be so pleased when I write to him that we have met a marquis!” she went on, giving her hair one last pat. “Perhaps once we have our house in Bath, Lord Ransome will come to a party there. A supper. No, a ball! I would be the envy of all my friends.”

“Emmeline!” Neville burst out. His hand crushed the cravat he was trying to tie. “I have told you several times I have no intention of living in Bath, at least not for many years. We must finish the work on the village; then there is that new find in Northumberland to be explored.”

Emmeline slapped her hand against the dressing table, rattling glass pots and bottles. The sparkle on her face faded as if it had never been there, and her pink lips flattened. “I do not want to hear another word about Vikings! I refuse to spend my whole life as I did our wedding trip, shivering in the wind while you go dig up some moldy old bits and pieces. When I married you, I thought . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she closed her eyes.

“What?” Neville said, frustrated beyond all belief. “What did you think?”

Emmeline shook her head. “Just that you would
know
people, people who are something in Society, with titles and all—like Lady Iverson. That we would have a fine home, where I could entertain, as I have always dreamed of doing. Instead, we’re here at an inn in this pokey old village, and you say we will never live in Bath! It is not what I expected.”

“Marriage is not what I expected, either,” Neville muttered, so low that Emmeline could not hear. His entire life was not what he expected. It was blighted by women—first by Sarah Iverson, who refused to yield him his rightful place at the Viking village, and now by his silly wife.

It was infuriating.

Emmeline, completely unconscious of his stewing thoughts, reached for her gloves, a new smile forming. “Well,” she said, “at least we have met a marquis. It is too bad he won’t be at supper tonight! I can hardly wait until the party at Ransome Hall.”

Miles sat at his desk in the library at Ransome Hall, reports and plans for the estate spread out before him. But he wasn’t really paying attention to any of that. He leaned back in his chair, watching the red-gold flames dance in the grate, sending light piercing into the dark corners of the vast room.

The map on the top of the pile detailed the corner where Lady Iverson’s village sat, with notes drawn up by the bailiff. He wrote about soil conditions, possible crops, spots where cottages could be built.

Cottages to house unfortunate ex-soldiers, like the Lieutenant O’Riley Miles had met in London, and their families. It was a grand plan, one that could combat unemployment and hunger, at least for a few. It was all that he could have wanted to accomplish.

But all he could see in his mind was Lady Iverson’s face as she showed him the village, the objects so carefully laid out and labeled. Her eyes shone like dark stars, and her wide, mobile, kiss-tempting mouth curved with delight. She loved those dusty fragments as most women loved gowns and jewels. Her tanned, capable little hands were tender as she touched them, and turned them over and over. It made him wonder, beyond all sense, how it would feel if she touched
him
like that, if she looked at him as she did old soapstone spindles.

What would it feel like, if she was to care for him even a quarter as much as she did her village? No man could ask for more, for it was very clear how much she
did
care about her work. It shone from her like an aura.

They had only known each other for a very short time, yet he liked her, felt drawn to her. How could he take away her work? That would be unconscionably caddish of him, and she would probably never speak to him again.

But how could he go against his conscience, when he knew how desperately good men needed the jobs his land could bring? He remembered the vast expanse of ropes and pits where she had been digging, stretching as far as the eye could see, across prime farmland.

Miles buried his face in his hands, pushing back his hair with his fingers. He did not know what to do. Battles and the rigors of camp life on the Peninsula had been simple compared to this. Simple, with no Lady Iverson there, with her dark eyes and bouncing curls to make him forget his duties. He knew what was expected of him there at all times, and what was the right thing to do.

He missed those days.

Miles laughed. No man in his right mind should ever prefer a dusty tent to the splendors of Ransome Hall, the advantages of a title! He must be
out
of his mind!

He reached for the tiny fragment of ancient chain mail that Lady Iverson gave him, and turned it in the firelight. What Viking warrior had once worn it? Had he been driven mad by a Norwegian woman’s flashing eyes? Had he sailed away in order to escape new and unwelcome emotions? Had he drifted out into the unknown waters?

For that was what Miles felt he was doing. Floating adrift into something he had never seen before.

Sarah examined the gowns laid out on her bed, trying to decide which one to wear at that night’s supper party at Ransome Hall. Usually, she just wore whichever gown her maid pressed, or the first one she came across in the wardrobe, but today she could not stop dithering like a young miss on her way to her first ball.

She held up one gown, then another, peering at her reflection in the looking glass. Each dress seemed duller and less fashionable than the last, all of them the grays and lilacs of half-mourning. She didn’t want a gown like one of Mrs. Hamilton’s fussy pink-and-white creations, but something with a bit more—more dash would be nice. Something with color and shine.

She found a cinnamon brown silk she had worn before John died, and draped it around her shoulders, over her chemise. It would be all right, if only it did not make her look so very
brown
all over! Brown eyes, brown hair, brown dress. Terrible.

Oh, nothing was right, she thought, and threw the gown down on top of all the others. She might as well just wear one of her old work dresses. Lord Ransome had already seen her looking like a ragamuffin in one of them, anyway.

That thought froze her in her agitated tracks. She stood still, and stared down at the gowns. Lord Ransome. Was he the reason she was in such a flurry over her attire? Did she want him to admire her in a fine gown, to forget he had seen her all dusty and dank?

“No,” she whispered, sitting down heavily on the nearest chair, which happened to be covered with more gowns and shawls. She had never dressed for men’s admiration—she could hardly afford to start now.

Lord Ransome needed to see her as a sensible, capable scholar, one whose work must be completed. That was all.

That was
all.

There was a quick knock at the door, and Mary Ann popped in without waiting to be summoned. She was already dressed for the party, in a pretty gown of pale pink muslin, her hair tied back with a bandeau of pink ribbons and seed pearls.

“Sarah, what do you think of these gloves? Do they make . . .” Her voice faded as she took in the heaps of discarded garments, the slippers scattered across the carpet. “You aren’t dressed yet!”

“I cannot decide what to wear,” Sarah answered faintly.

“What do you mean? You are always ready for parties and outings faster than any of us! Where is your maid?”

“She is in the kitchen, no doubt chattering with Rose and the cook. I saw no sense in calling her until I made up my mind.”

“Which you just cannot seem to do?” Mary Ann gave her a skeptical look, and walked over to the bed to begin sorting through the gowns. “I don’t see anything wrong with these.”

“They’re dull.”

“Hm. Perhaps, just a bit.” She threw Sarah a teasing glance over her shoulder. “But that never seemed to bother you before!”

Sarah laughed in spite of herself. “Mary Ann!”

Mary Ann reached to the bottom of the pile, and pulled out a gown. “This one isn’t dull at all. And it looks as if you have never worn it!”

“I haven’t.” Sarah regarded the gown with surprise. She had forgotten she owned it, and hadn’t even noticed it when she drew all the gowns out of the wardrobe. It was one of her black ones, purchased to wear to an historical lecture in Brighton when she had a flash of bold feeling, then abandoned on the day for a more staid gown when the boldness faded. It was made of a rich black velvet, so soft and deep that in certain lights it appeared purple or dark blue. The long, fitted sleeves were of sheer black tulle, tied at the wrists with black satin ribbon. More ribbon trimmed the low, rounded neckline.

Mary Ann held it against herself, stroking her hand over the fabric. “It is marvelous, Sarah. You
must
wear it.”

Sarah was sorely tempted. It was a gown made for someone totally unlike herself, someone daring and flirtatious, someone unafraid of the world and sure of her place in it. Not someone who always had to be sensible. Not someone who spent her days getting hot and dirty working under the sun.

“I shouldn’t wear black,” she said. “My year of deep mourning is over.”

“Who says you cannot still wear black?” Mary Ann argued. “And this is not just any dull old black, this is—beautiful. Oh, Sarah, you have to wear this one!”

Sarah looked from the black gown to the others still piled on the bed and chairs. They lay there in a jumble of brown and gray, just meant for a sensible lady antiquarian.

She made up her mind.

“Very well,” she said. “I will wear it.” She stood up, all her fluttering uncertainty gone now. She felt more like her levelheaded self—but a new levelheaded self, one who wore daring gowns. “Now, Mary Ann, be a dear and ring for my maid for me, so she can dress my hair. We will be late, and that would never do.”

The drive leading up to Ransome Hall was crowded with carriages when they turned into the gates and took their place in line, a vast array of equipages that held a myriad of guests. Sarah would not have thought there could be so many people in the neighborhood; they must have come from as far away as York, and maybe even London.

She pulled her fur-lined wrap closer about her shoulders, and watched Ransome Hall looming closer. Every window sparkled with welcoming golden light, and the front doors were thrown open to admit the visitors as they were disgorged from their carriages.

Beside her, Mary Ann craned her neck to take it all in, and clutched at Sarah’s arm in her excitement. Her young eyes sparkled, and she didn’t even seem to notice anymore Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton seated across from them. “Oh, Sarah, isn’t it marvelous! There are so many grand people. Mother would be so jealous if she could see us now.”

Mrs. Hamilton giggled behind her painted silk fan. “As would my friends in Bath, Miss Bellweather! I cannot wait to write to them and tell them all about my supper with a marquis.”

Her husband looked away from her, out the opposite window into the night. “You are hardly having supper with him by yourself, my dear. There are dozens of other people here. You needn’t call it
your
supper with the marquis.”

Mrs. Hamilton frowned at him. “Of course, I will not be alone with him, Neville! How can you say something so ridiculous? There will be many other people, perhaps even other titled people.” She turned to Sarah with one of her bright, brittle smiles. “Do
you
think there will be other titled people, Lady Iverson?”

Sarah made herself smile back. Mrs. Hamilton was not the easiest person to be around, it was true; she giggled, and plucked at her ruffles, and knew nothing about history. But Sarah could not help but feel a bit sorry for her. In the last few days, the strain between the newlywed Hamiltons had been all too obvious, and Sarah feared for their future. She also feared for Mr. Hamilton’s scholarly ability. Ever since their return from their wedding trip, he had been short-tempered and forgetful. More than once he had forgotten to label objects from the bakery he was excavating.

He had always been intense and serious, but now he seemed intense and—angry.

Sarah had considered talking to them, but then decided the whole thing was patently none of her business. The Hamiltons would just have to work out their difficulties on their own. But she had resolved to be kinder to Mrs. Hamilton, and she hoped Mary Ann would, too.

She glanced over at Mary Ann. Her sister watched the Hamiltons with a solemn look on her face, and Sarah couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Aside from a few glances and sighs, and references to a volume entitled
Miss Anderson’s Secret Love,
there had been no signs that her old infatuation had returned. Sarah wanted to keep it that way—she had quite enough to worry about without her sister’s romantic sensibilities causing trouble.