Sherri Cobb South (11 page)

In his present state of mind, he was hardly surprised when he arrived at the Lavenham’s ball only to discover (by dint of a few discreet inquiries) that Lady Helen had already left. Biting back a curse, he danced once with his hostess’s homely daughter, escaped to the card room where he won fifty guineas at whist, and took his leave as soon as he could do so without attracting comment.

He returned to his own house to find it dark, save for a branched candelabrum on a side table in the foyer. He was aware of a pang of disappointment. Had he, perhaps, expected Lisette to wait up for him after all? How deucedly awkward that would have been, to find one’s wife awaiting one’s return from trysting with another woman—never mind how unsatisfactorily that proposed tryst had turned out. Picking up the candelabrum, he mounted the stairs to his bedchamber.

Upon reaching the second-floor corridor, however, he paused for a moment outside Lisette’s door. He turned the knob and opened the door, lifting the candelabrum to illuminate the darkened interior. The bed curtains were drawn back, revealing a slumbering Lisette swathed in crisp linen sheets. Her cropped and tumbled curls surrounded her head like a halo, and he thought what a waste it would have been, hiding them forever beneath a nun’s wimple.

Tearing his gaze away, he surveyed the room. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight of the saturated evening gown draped over a towel-covered chair, drying before the smoldering fire. He hoped he had not been unduly harsh with his young wife. Perhaps he should take her to the Exeter Exchange upon the morrow, just to show her he bore her no ill will; she had, as he recalled, expressed an interest in seeing the “damned raccoon” she had so nearly resembled. He made a mental note to keep her away from the duck pond, lest she have any more ideas about dampening her petticoats. Softly, so as not to wake her, he stepped back into the corridor and closed the door.

Chapter 8

She is a winsome wee thing...

This sweet wee wife o’ mine.

ROBERT BURNS,

My Wife’s a Winsome Wee Thing

The following morning, Sir Ethan and Lady Helen visited the Exeter Exchange, their twin sons having expressed somewhat vociferously an interest in seeing the animals housed in the menagerie. Alas, the outing could not be considered an unqualified success. Although she kept her hand tucked within the crook other husband’s arm as they strolled past the various cages, Lady Helen’s manner was distant, and her responses to her children’s effusions rather mechanical. Sir Ethan, for his part, was equally preoccupied. As recently as a fortnight earlier, he would have confided in his wife and solicited her opinion, but in view of her current aloofness, the timing hardly seemed appropriate.

In fact, he was not sorry when they encountered Lord Waverly and his countess, and the two parties blended into one. Lisette and the children greeted each other as old friends, and one dragged the others (it was not immediately apparent just who was dragging whom) off in search of raccoons. It said much for Sir Ethan’s state of mind that he did not object when Lord Waverly fell into step beside Lady Helen, and the two soon fell behind, allowing Sir Ethan to ponder his situation in relative privacy. He might have been less pleased, however, had he been privy to their conversation.

“Where were you?” Lady Helen chided, speaking softly lest her husband should hear. “I waited at the Lavenhams’ as long as I dared, but you never came.”

“Domestic difficulties,” replied Waverly, adding by way of explanation, “Lisette decided to dampen her petticoats. I daresay the carpet still squishes when one sets foot on it.”

“Oh, dear! Whatever possessed her to do such a thing?”

Lord Waverly’s left eyebrow rose. “Can you doubt it? You did, of course.”

“
I?
I never told her to do any such thing!”

“My dear Helen, no one need
tell
Lisette anything. One has only to put the idea into her head—which, I understand, you did by pointing Sophia Hutchins out to her.”

“Did I, indeed? If that was the case, I am sorry.”

“No harm done,” Waverly assured her, “only a slight delay. Tell me, do you plan to attend the Warrington musicale tomorrow evening? No convenient alcoves, alas, but while the guests are congregating in the music room, it should not be difficult to slip away to one of the bedchambers upstairs.”

Bedchambers?  Somehow Lady Helen had not thought of the assignation in such bald terms, A vaguely defined rendezvous in a velvet-curtained alcove was one thing; an emulation of the marital act with a man other than one’s husband was quite another. Still, the featured performer at the musicale was to be an Italian soprano of the type Sir Ethan particularly disliked. She need have no fear of his accompanying her, even if he had not already made plans to spend the evening in Green Street. “Supper,” indeed! She could hazard a guess at what had been on the menu!

“I shall be there,” she said resolutely.

Further discussion was rendered impossible as the three elder members of the party drew abreast of the three junior, who were peering into a cage containing, according to a small nameplate attached to the front of the cage,
Procyon lotor,
or common American raccoon. Heedless of the damage to her muslin walking dress, Lisette knelt beside the brothers Brundy, examining with great interest the funny, furry creature twitching its ringed tail as it stared back at her, its bright, inquisitive eyes framed by a band of black fur resembling a mask.

“Oh!” cried Lisette, spying her lord’s approach.
“This
is what you say I look like? But this is not like me at all!”

“On the contrary,” replied Lord Waverly. “The resemblance is even more marked than I imagined.”

“Pas du tout!
But I think you are teasing me,
oui?”

“What makes you think so?” asked Lord Waverly, extending a hand to raise his wife to her feet. Lisette reached up to take it, and Lady Helen, observing her laughing countenance and the smile lurking in Waverly’s eyes, was somewhat taken aback to find the earl and his young countess on such excellent terms. For the first time, it occurred to her that she and Lord Waverly were serving Lisette a very ill turn. On the other hand, she reflected, glancing at her oblivious husband, perhaps it was better for Lisette to discover the realities of a
ton
marriage early in her wedded life than to suffer a broken heart four years later.

* * * *

That afternoon, Lord Waverly received a visitor sent to him from the Employment Registry. This person, a middle-aged woman of stern visage (whose austere countenance, had the earl but known it, concealed a most tender heart), he bade be seated on a straight-backed and decidedly uncomfortable-looking chair.

“And your name is—?”

“Winters, my lord.”

“Your previous employer?”

“Lady Braxleigh.”

“And the reason for your termination?”

“Death, my lord.”

Cold blue eyes regarded her from underneath drooping eyelids. “Your employer’s, or your own?”

Winters, undeceived by the earl’s lazy mien, remained unfazed. “Lady Braxleigh’s, my lord. Had it been my own demise, I should, of course, have given two weeks’ notice.”

Waverly gave a grunt, which Winters correctly interpreted as an expression of satisfaction. “I trust they told you at the Employment Registry why you were being sent.”

“I was told you had need of a lady’s maid, my lord.”

“That much is true, but it tells only part of the story. I require an abigail to serve a very young lady. Since attaining sufficient age to be presented to Society, she has been rather, er, cloistered, and thus has no idea how to go on. I will, of course, teach her as best I can, but she will require a woman who can guide her taste in matters of dress.”

Winters inclined her head. “I see. Am I to understand this young lady is your daughter?”

The frosty look leveled at her would have quelled a lesser female. “She is my wife.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“No need,” he said, waving away her apology. “An honest mistake, as it happens.”

As if on cue, the door opened at that moment and Lisette entered the room in a swirl of primrose muslin.

“Ah!
Mille pardons,
milord. I thought you were alone.”

“Lisette, this is Winters. She is to serve as your dresser.”

“My lady,” said that woman, bobbing a curtsy.

“Bonjour,”
Lisette responded, offering her hand. “I am pleased to—
achoo!”

“Bless you,” Waverly responded. “Perhaps you had best go to your room and fetch a shawl.”

“But I have not at all the cold,” Lisette protested.

“Nevertheless, we should not want you to take a chill after last night’s, er, sudden rainstorm.”

“Très bien!
I will go at once,” said Lisette, and tripped lightly from the room.

“That charming child is Lady Waverly?” exclaimed Winters, after the door had closed behind her. “She is enchanting! Men will fall at her feet.”

“I had much rather they did not,” said the earl dampeningly.

“Unless you would have me put a bag over her head, my lord,” rejoined Winters, “I should like to see you try and stop them.”

* * * *

Alas, Waverly’s expectations proved to be well founded. Lisette continued to sneeze throughout the day, and her nose acquired a distinctly ruddy hue. Late that night, she rose somewhat unsteadily from her bed and padded barefoot into Lord Waverly’s bedchamber.

“I am sorry to wake you, milord,” she rasped, “but I fear I have after all
la grippe.”

Waverly awoke with a start, and rumbled for the flint and candle on his bedside table. Once lit, the feeble light revealed Lisette’s flushed cheeks and feverishly bright eyes.

“My poor child!” exclaimed the earl. “You should be in bed.”

He lingered only long enough to shrug on a frogged dressing gown before scooping up his countess (noting as he did so the unnatural warmth of her skin) and bearing her off to her bedchamber. After tucking her securely beneath the covers and stoking the fire smoldering in the grate, he rang for Winters and instructed her to procure a hot brick for her mistress’s bed, and to have the housekeeper prepare a saline draught. He then prevented her from carrying out either of these tasks by delivering a scathing condemnation of her neglect of her ladyship’s health, which he apparently expected her to have divined through some form of mental communication. To her credit, Winters neither denied his accusations nor turned in her notice. In fact, the sight of her employer tending to his young wife (“fussing over her like a hen with one chick,” she later confided to the housekeeper) planted a certain idea in her mind, one which raised the earl considerably in her estimation.

At first light, Waverly sent for a physician, who examined Lisette and sentenced her to spend the day in bed with nothing to eat but a little weak broth and a vile-smelling potion in a dark brown bottle which, he assured her, would soon have her feeling very much more the thing. One sip of this concoction was enough to make Lisette wrinkle her nose in distaste but, just as the doctor predicted, by evening her fever was gone and she felt sufficiently recovered to be bored with her confinement. Lord Waverly, stopping to check in on her before departing for the Warrington musicale, was made privy to the information that he was a cruel beast to go sauntering forth for an evening of pleasure while she was locked in her room without so much as a book to bear her company.

“Locked?” echoed Waverly in tones of shocked revulsion. “Surely not!”

“Well, no,” Lisette was forced to admit. “But I might as well be, for whenever I get up, you or Winters bundle me back off to bed as if I were a child!”

Lord Waverly, recalling the decidedly unchildlike contours of her feverish body in his arms, thought it wisest not to take the bait. “If you desire a book, I shall bring you one from the library. Tell me, do you like gothic novels?”

“No,” Lisette said crossly. “That is to say, I like them very well, but I do not want a book.”

“What do you want, then?”

A spark of mischief lit her sunken eyes. “Your company?”

Waverly glanced at the clock over the mantel. “I daresay I have time for a hand or two of piquet before I go.”

While Lisette wriggled happily into a more upright position. Lord Waverly went in search of a pack of cards. Having run one to earth, he sat down on the edge of the bed, shuffled the cards and invited his wife to cut, then dealt two sets of twelve cards onto the counterpane.

When Winters entered the room two hours later to check on her mistress, she was treated to the spectacle of Lord Waverly, in full evening dress, sitting Indian style on his wife’s bed, engaged with her in lively debate over the legality of her last play. At her entrance, the combatants ceased hostilities long enough to glance at the door and identify the intruder.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, I thought you were alone,” said Winters. “I was under the impression that his lordship meant to go out this evening.”

“Good God!” Waverly, suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, leaped off the bed. “It is past eleven already!”

“That is all right, Winters, it is time we were done,” Lisette assured her, then added with a smug smile, “Milord is angry with me because he is losing.”

“If I am angry with you, it is because you cheat,” retorted the earl, although the twinkle in his eyes robbed the words of their sting. “It is far too late to—that is, the Warrington’s musicale will be almost over by now, so if you would like to play another hand or two, we will.”

“I think not,” objected Winters. “Her ladyship should be in bed.”

“I am already in bed,” Lisette pointed out. “I have been in bed all day!”

“Yes, and you are much improved as a result,” said the earl. “Winters is quite right. It is wicked of me to keep you up so late.”

Smiling at Lisette’s huff of annoyance, Waverly plumped her pillows and drew the counterpane up to her chin. Then, obeying a sudden impulse, he bent and dropped a chaste kiss onto her forehead. As he bade her goodnight, he made the surprising discovery that, although the last two hours were by no means the wickedest he had ever spent in a lady’s bed, they nevertheless ranked among the most enjoyable.