The Black Cat (5 page)

She was more than passing certain her sudden fortune had a helping hand in this state of affairs. In this, she was correct, of course. She would have been astonished to learn, however, that her beauty was also fast becoming a byword. In truth, her mocking gypsy heart would have chuckled uproariously at the fashionable love sonnets that even now were issuing from the pens of every sprig worth his salt.

Her half mourning was proclaimed as more than “fitting” under the circumstances, though the “circumstances” were always whispered about under gloved hands. Where any lesser endowed individual would have been shunned for not donning black for the requisite period, Melinda's muted pinks and dusty lilacs were considered “all the crack” and eminently suitable.

Melinda herself, however, found them a sad trial, used as she was to gay canary yellows, saffrons, emerald greens aglitter with rich cerises, azure blues, and crystal whites. She bit her nails now, as she paced the room, waiting word from her betrothed. Try as she might, she could conjure up no mental image of him, for every time she drifted off into her trancelike world of spirits, the annoying image of her stranger of the mists arose to replace any alternate thought.

How provoking! And it was not as if the man were not insufferably overbearing! She wondered what the Earl of Camden would be like. Stuffy, no doubt, with a little mustache trimmed exactly so and elegantly gloved hands placed ever so properly behind his back in the bluff military manner she found hard to take. The English and their muted, understated mannerisms! Almost as though they were embarrassed at having any feeling at all. . . Heavens, she was doing it herself now: submerging her grief in a listless, lack luster stroll toward the herb gardens. She could hardly remember the last time she had cried with true abandon.

Oh yes. . . She did. Grandfather Fotheringham had rid himself, finally, of her cat. As if Aphrodite had been some morbid link to her spiritual past rather than an extension of her soul itself. And yet. . . yet he had been a wise man.

She'd sobbed unashamedly at his breakfast table. She remembered vividly how he had cast her an odd, secretive, knowing look and admonished her quietly never to fear. The spirits had a strange way of looking after their own. She wondered, not for the first time, if he was right.

Outdoors, the chill air was brisk enough to revive her lagging thoughts and cause a renewed briskness to creep into her step. She placed her hands firmly back into their gloves and then into her thin, feather-light muff. If she did not watch out, her fingernails would be chewed down to the bone and
that,
she knew, would be a social folly. Or would it? Her ridiculous fortune, she supposed, made
anything
forgivable.

Suddenly, her delightful, impossibly beautiful mouth curved into something very like her former gypsy smile. By George, she was hellishly bored and she would test the theory out. She'd
give
the little chittter chats something to exercise their tongues about! She didn't care a ha'penny for society's approval. And if Lord High and Mighty Camden should consider her an unfit bride, so be it.

With an irrepressible chuckle, the delectable Miss St. Jardine disappointed
several
waiting beaux by claiming a head cold. They would have been alternately surprised, disapproving, and downright outraged if they had subsequently caught sight of a swathe of petticoats ably shinnying a drainpipe and descending with ease onto one of the roofs of the servants' quarters. From there it was a mere matter of a jump, but Miss St. Jardine, though she had jumped worse in her time, cannily decided to make use of some of the creeping vines upon the manor walls. It was a small matter of moments before she was down, her brown velvet gloves slightly—ever so slightly—the worse for wear, but otherwise completely and
charmingly
intact.

“And where do you think you are off too, ma'am?”

“Jane!”

The abigail who had been assigned to properly chaperon her and attend to her needs looked grim. “It be a fit you be givin' me, ma'am, and I take leave to tell you that you scared me ‘alf out o' me senses!”

Miss St. Jardine, alight with mischief for a change, chuckled merrily.

“Poor Jane! I am a sore trial, am I not?”

The maid, who was exceedingly fond of her young mistress, gypsy blood or not, grudgingly agreed.

“Now don't take a pet, missy! You been brought up unconventional like! Just you be creepin' back up the backstairs and I'll see to it none is the wiser.” Melinda nodded briskly.

“Leastaways,” she added musingly, “I shall see to it that folks around here mind their tongues. Stop yer gawkin', Hawkins! You go mind yer vegytables for a change!” This last on a slightly fiercer note, for the under gardener's eyes were nigh on popping from his head. Obviously, he had managed an
excellent
view of the spectacle.

“Jane, I shall not retreat! I have a severe fit of the dismals, and if you do not wish me to altogether sink into a decline. . .”

The maid looked alarmed. “That I do not, missy! Still, his lor‘ship was most
particular
in his instructions. You were to be treated
exactly
like a lady, ma'am, and I reckon as ‘e'd turn in 'is grave if ‘e was to see yer climbin' in that 'umble-tumble way.”

“Fortunately, Jane, he shall
not
see me. Oh, do stop lecturing me! My mind is all set up, so you might just as well take yourself off to Mrs. Gantry in the kitchens. You go have a nice comfortable coze and I'll shake the cobwebs from my brain. I reckon I have had my fill with ladying for a while. I need to think and I cannot think whilst I am dressed up like a prissy little china doll receiving heaven knows how many ‘Ladies this' and ‘Lords that'.” She stopped for a moment to catch her breath.

The maid was looking a trifle uncertain, so Melinda pressed home her advantage. “Jane, I am mistress now. I am
ordering
you to go have a cup of tea! And do be a dear and see if there are any of those delicious French fancies left. I have a mind for a few when I return.”

Jane stared at her blankly, growing horror dawning on her pretty features. “Return?”

Miss St. Jardine stood her ground. “Return, Jane! Go on then! I am only taking Bosun for a spin.”

It was fortunate that Miss Jane Dantry knew nothing of horses, or her mouth would have gaped open even further and she might have fallen into a swoon merely to protect her mistress from such folly. Fortunately, she had never been one to hobnob with the grooms, and so she had no notion that Bosun was a large stallion, largely untamed and tolerated in the stables only for its nobility of birth and its potential for stud.

As for a sidesaddle . . . Well, the proud stallion would have scorned the impertinence.

Miss Melinda swung herself up with ease. Her table manners might still, at times, be frowned upon, but none in the stables could ever deny that this granddaughter of a marquis had a regular way with animals.

The cheery smile she bestowed on Smithers almost blinded him to the stark reality that it was Bosun, not Starlight, who bore her weight. True, she was sitting astride, but that did not weigh with Smithers, who knew little of etiquette and wished he knew even less. What mattered, after all, was that Miss Melinda was a bruising rider and a credit to his stables. Pity she was a mere wisp of a girl, but there, one could not have everything.

He cast a seasoned eye over her defiant bearing, then looked to the horse. “Not sure that be the correct beast for you, milady,” he mumbled, for he avoided, at most costs, the necessity of talking with the gentry.

“Nonsense, Smithers! He is the very thing for me on a beautiful spring day like this. Is it not true that Starlight has cast her shoe and Albany has his hands full with Dancer and Chance?” The head groom nodded, wondering where the wee lass came by her knowledge.

“Excellent, then, for there is no one to exercise Bosun and I feel certain that he can do with the gallop. Besides, the Viscount of Brinkley is interested in his purchase and I'd like to take him through his paces before making a decision.”

Smithers nodded. It was not his place to brangle with gentlefolk and like or not the little miss knew what she was doing. She had as shrewd a head on her shoulder, like the late marquis and her father before her and that was a fact.

A tear wet the stable hand's eye as he thought of Lord Henry. Mighty fond of him he'd been and now here was his daughter, right as a trivet and ready to take over control. Well, she had earned his respect, and if she wanted to take on the flighty beast, there was nought he would do to stop her. A trifle headstrong were the Fotheringhams and that was a fact, but he'd not change that for the world.

“Jane will have me scalp for this!”

“Jane is not coming.”

The old man nodded sagely. “Aye. Like as not, like as not.” Then he turned and made his way back to the warmth of the stalls. It was time for his morning pipe of tobacco and the hay needed tending.

Dewhurst Manor was near the gates of Richmond Park, so it was not so very unsurprising that Miss St. Jardine's unladylike gallop to the entrance went unremarked except by the most lowly of tradesmen, unlikely to cast much social slur upon her person.

Once in, she allowed her mood to subtly alter to that of the stallion, so that horse and rider were united as one. She gave Bosun his length and the great distances afforded him by the park were spanned in moments, the beast cantering so swiftly that Melinda was breathless with a wild, unstoppable excitement. There were so many paths to choose from, so many unroamed avenues, huge vistas of fields that seemed quite unattended but for the odd solitary rider seen here and there upon the horizon. To the left there was a bank of primroses and dandelions that Melinda found quite heavenly, but beyond that still there was a stream.

Melinda could just hear the tinkling of champagne glasses and the loud, unmistakable chink of china. She made a most unladylike face as she pulled Bosun up and veered off to the right. An al fresco picnic was not something she was wishful of encountering—especially in her defiant, cross-grained state.

The path she selected seemed satisfactorily solitary. How different from Hyde Park, where she had consistently refused to take out so much as a
tilbury
never mind a frisky animal yearning for exercise. The crowds there were perfectly amazing and had little, she knew, to do with an honest ride. Seen and be seen. Miss St. Jardine was only just entering that world, yet she was already heartily sick of it. St. Agnes's Eve was an aeon away. There was no respite, except on this green, green turf on this brilliant—almost summery—sunny day.

She muttered something of the sort to Bosun, who must have taken offence, for he reared his haunches and bucked wildly, quite out of keeping with Melinda's expectations. A breathless surge of anticipation coursed through her being as she strove to gain control of the strong, half-tamed beast.
Like me!
she thought defiantly as she clung on to the immense creature, clutching at the mane in a vain attempt not to lose all dignity and tumble in a heap to the ground. False hope!

The thud of hard earth against her ears came as a shock. Likewise, the familiar galloping of hooves coupled with an unmistakable neighing of horseflesh. Then there was the angry, biting tone of a gentleman directly above her. She closed her eyes and hoped that if she sank into a swoon it would go away. It did not.

“Are you mad? Are you quite, quite mad?”

The question was too pointless for her to vouchsafe an answer. She kept her eyes closed and determined, very hard, not to peek. All of a sudden her heart was hammering profoundly in her chest and it had nothing, she knew, to do with the fall.

She heard the thud of boots as the rider's feet slipped from the saddle and firmly onto the hard earth close to her cheek. Then a heavy step as she felt some magnificent presence tower over her assessingly. She managed a faint moan as her lips parted, but he was not deceived.

“I promised once to horsewhip you. Perhaps now is an excellent time.” The tone was grim and her eyes popped open at once. How
dared
he?

She caught a faint glimmer of amusement in the eyes before they were shuttered, once more, by a facade of possibly well deserved fury.

“Good. You are awake. I suspected the threat might act as a greater reviver than hartshorn!”

“You are a beast!”

“How very fitting, for you are a beauty!”

There seemed nothing to say to this sally, so Melinda sat up, brushed off her morning dress, and glared at the impeccable gentleman before her. He
would,
of course, be entirely immaculate, in a riding coat of deep blue trimmed with silver buttons. His doeskin breeches fitted more perfectly than Melinda could quite care to contemplate, so she looked up. Straight into eyes of flint.

“Do you care nothing for your livestock that you ride pell-mell across public gardens?” The tone was conversational, but the gypsy in her was not deceived. The words bit into her like the lash he had promised.

Melinda could think of no biting enough retort, so she said nothing, merely allowing her swath of dark hair to curl about her defiantly. He moved toward her and she stood up at once, grabbing hold of Bosun's saddle. Unfortunately, the animal was so large that, without a box or at least the willing hands of Smithers, she could not remount him without some considerable loss of dignity.

“So! You seek to run away. Possibly wise, for as I think I have mentioned once before, my temper is prodigious.”

“Indeed it is, sir! Faith, you are no more than a bully, for it is not as if I ride through Bond Street or even through your precious Hyde Park or Covent Gardens! I ride merely in a place respectably designated for such an activity, and if others are too hen hearted to give their mounts their head—well I, sir, am not!”

Her eyes glittered with a mixture of fury and tears. She had yearned, dreamed,
longed
for this moment, but now that it had come to pass, she wanted to do nothing more than flee to the wilds and sob her eyes out with the passion she was born to.

The gentleman was unyielding. “Beyond that bend there is a curricle that has lost its wheel. Two of my good friends are getting ready to allow a team of high-stepping grays test out their paces. Think, woman! This place may be quieter than some of the
other
London haunts, but it is not entirely uninhabited. Besides”—he eyed Bosun with a practiced eye—“that animal is too big for you. Your groom should have his head read, allowing you to mount it. And
astride!
I shall spare your blushes and say nothing on that head, but where, may I ask, are your servants? You are
surely
not jaunting about unattended?”

Melinda scowled. She was a gypsy born, unused to being fettered by society's odious constraints. A groom indeed! Why should she need a groom when she could fly swifter than the wind, bareback, upon Appaloosas from the West and Arabians from the East?

True enough, she had grown fond of the marquis and did not wish to allow disgrace to fall upon his name, but surely this was the outside of enough? A complete stranger to roundly berate her in a public place? Perhaps she should slap his face.

She lifted a delicate, slender hand to do just that but the earl was swifter and far stronger than she had given him credit for.

“Oh, no, no, no, my pretty!”

“Let me go!”

The earl might have done just that, but he suddenly found the little velvet gloved hand quite intoxicating, so he retained it smugly and chose to look into steaming, glowering eyes.

“You are not a gentleman, sir!”

“Then we are well matched, for
you,
if I recall, are not a lady!”

“Oh!” The outrage was voiced as a squeak. Melinda wrenched her hand from the stranger's grasp and turned to Bosun, who was mildly chewing the grass for all the world as though he had
not
just thrown his mistress off without a by-your-leave.

“No, don't go!” The words were genuine, which surprised Miss St. Jardine. She fumbled, for a moment, with the long, leather reins. Then she looked up. Her eyes were enormous pools of vivid blue in a perfect, expressive, adorable face.

“I have searched all of London for you!” The words were seductively soft. Melinda felt herself shiver from the mental caress. She blinked, then turned her nose up scornfully.

“Why? To dress me down in public?” She hoped her tone was suitably disdainful, despite the wistful hammering of her traitorous heart.

“This is hardly in public, my dear. When I wish to deliver a public set down, be assured I shall do so with more audience than one willful, disobedient stallion and an equally willful mistress!” The words were spoken more with amused irony than malice, but Melinda felt herself colouring nonetheless. How
could
she be discovered in this bumble bath by the very object of her spirit dreams?

Miss St. Jardine felt slightly faint with confusion. It did not help that the man towering above her was grinning widely and regarding her with a stare destined to upset even the
hardiest
maiden's composure. To cover her confusion, she allowed cold reason to intervene.

“I do believe I hear someone on the footpath!”

“Do
you? My point exactly! You can't go haring around the countryside on an oversize beast when half the population is taking a stroll through the gardens! It is neither wise nor comme il faut!”

“A year ago I would not have thought you cared a
jot
for such trifles! You appeared, to me, to be a
man,
not a lily-livered mouse talking about convention! Comme il faut, comme il faut! Was our little tryst in the storm
comme il faut?”

Miss St. Jardine spat out the words, for she was confused, overset, and more than a little angry. The cherished moment she had dreamed of all this tedious time in exile—nether gypsy queen nor lady born—was spoiled.

She'd imagined a reunion of sentiment, of surprise, of ecstasy. Not a dispassionate discourse on etiquette preceded by the undignified threat of a spanking. She wished she could bring herself to despise those twinkling dark eyes, but to her chagrin, she found that she could not. Scowling did not seem to help, so she gave it up with resignation and glared instead.

Lord Santana looked upon the woman who had haunted his every dream and smiled. Every
bit
as willful as he remembered, despite the subdued garb and the obvious accoutrements of a lady born. A puzzle, then, for he could have
sworn
she was a Romanie lass that night. Still, her accents had always been mystifyingly English. . . . He closed his eyes. Perhaps the very strength of his wishes was enough to allow a miracle such as this to come to pass. He answered her question.

“Comme il faut? Hardly
that,
you little witch, and you
know
it!”

Melinda, for once, was bereft of words. She opened her mouth to remonstrate, but her pretty little tongue seemed singularly uncooperative. She gaped at the gentleman before her.

Lord Guy Santana schooled his features so as not to reveal the ready light of laughter that threatened to creep across his lips and quite overset him. He was exultant at this small but obvious triumph. He had—he could see—the power to silence her.

All but her breathing, which was so quick and intense that it caused delicate mounds of creamy flesh to rise and fall in the most provocative of ways. He held himself tightly in check. The little vixen had her
own
powers. He must not forget that! His spirits soared at this chance meeting with the one woman who had moulded his desires for a twelve month at least.

And talking of desires. . . his body
ached
from them. He cursed under his breath and prayed, in a rather ungentlemanly manner, that the lady was suffering from the same discomforts. He suspected she was, for her morning dress, though delightful, seemed strangely tight across the front and the pulses in her neck were decidedly quickening. He grinned engagingly.

An answering gleam reluctantly sparkled in her eyes, though she closed her mouth firmly. She might have been mistaken for prim had the earl not had an intense, deep, and instinctive feel for the passions that lay very close to the surface with her.

He stretched out his hand and lightly caressed her neck. She did not move. A hoyden, a widgeon perhaps, but undeniably a lady. An adorable, utterly
unutterably
beautiful lady. The one decreed by destiny to be his. He remembered the words uttered dreamily on that cold, distant night.
“I, my lord, am your destiny.
”Had she felt it, too, then? To look at her trembling lips now, he supposed she had. He looked again. They were so soft, so undeniably pliant and sweet. . . .