Valerie King (10 page)

“If you will wait, Ginny, I should like a little company at least as far as your room.”

“I should like that.” Her uneasiness was obvious, especially after talk of pirates.

Lucy walked swiftly into William’s bedchamber and did not hesitate to tuck him in tightly and to blow out the candle. She thanked him again for the useful dagger, then returned to give both Violet and Hyacinth another kiss good night.

Blowing out their candles as well, and with her gifts in hand, she ventured into the hall with Eugenia. She was a little surprised that the older girl slipped her hand in hers. She gave it a comforting squeeze.

“I am not frightened,” Eugenia stated firmly. “Not in the least.”

“Well I am,” Lucy said. “These long dark halls at Aldershaw have frightened me since I was a child. But you give me courage, Ginny, indeed you do!”

“Well, maybe I am a little frightened, too.”

“Who would not be?”

After seeing Eugenia safely to bed and saying good night, Lucy turned in the direction of her room intent on retiring to the quiet of her bedchamber. After reaching her door, however, she remembered the interesting novel she had been reading and decided to return to the armory to retrieve it. With all her gifts in hand, she made her way down the east staircase and afterward the central stairs to the ground floor.

As she entered the hall leading to the armory, she was surprised to find that most of the candles had been extinguished. She wondered what was going forward.

Upon reaching the back entrance hall, Lucy heard in the distance the sound of a lovely melody plucked on the harp, a Bach piece perhaps. Lady Sandifort, it would seem, had decided to relieve her boredom with a little music.

She listened for a minute or so. The performance was quite perfect and not an unhappy way to enjoy the last remnants of an evening. She thought it one of the most intriguing things in the world that someone of Lady Sandifort’s unfortunate temper could also play the harp like an angel. Mr. Frome, with whom she conversed often, would offer the circumstance as an example of one of the great paradoxes of human nature, that not even the vilest creature was wholly bad.

With a sigh of something very near to contentment, she entered the armory, surprised to find that but a handful of candles remained lit and that Robert was quite alone in the chamber. He sat where she had left him, in the corner before the chessboard, the pieces still in play. Apparently he was contemplating his next move.

“I did not expect everyone to be retired,” she said. She drew close to the board, staring down at it. The pieces from above combined with the black and white squares to form an unusual pattern. “Though I know where at least one member of the party is, for I believe I am hearing Lady Sandifort at the harp.”

He glanced up at her. “Yes. She grew fatigued watching my game with Henry.”

“She plays exquisitely.”

He leaned back and glanced at the empty doorway. Faint strains could still be heard. “Indeed, she does. I believe her musical expertise to be her finest quality.” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “Perhaps her only quality.”

“And the others? Was everyone fatigued from watching you play chess?”

At that he smiled. “Hetty had reasons of her own for seeking her bedchamber. She said she had a letter to write. George awoke, after which he and Rosamunde began to quarrel. I suggested to my brother that he might be more comfortable elsewhere.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Precisely so. He was as mad as fire when he left and Rosamunde dabbed at her cheeks for a full minute before running from the room as well.”

“The twins?”

At that he smiled. “I believe they felt it absolutely necessary to examine once more the gowns that the dressmaker sent today.”

“A necessity, indeed! And what of Henry?”

“He is being the best of brothers and is presently searching the cellars for a bottle of very old brandy.” His gaze fell to her hands. “What do you have there?”

“Your youngest siblings and your niece each made a present for me. Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.” He smiled and slung an arm about the back of the chair, turning more fully toward her.

“Violet embroidered this sampler for me. Is it not precious?”

He fingered the letters and looked up at her. “I believe she has grown very fond of you. All the children have.”

“And I am fond of them. They are darlings and I must say Miss Gunville has cared for them exceedingly well. What a treasure she is to serve as both nurse and governess.”

“Indeed, she is. We are very fortunate.”

“Now, this handsomely carved dagger is a gift from a young man who, I believe, will one day see a very fine military career, if I do not mistake the matter. He says he likes the notion of the army, but if he were to join the navy he could go aboard a ship next year.”

Robert chuckled, turning the dagger over in his hands. “Well, perhaps not next year, though I must say he does seem to be full of ambition, even for one so young, but then his father—” he broke off and cleared his throat.

“You need not think you will embarrass me,” she said, keeping her voice very low. “Only a simpleton could fail to see that his features belong to a different fold entirely.”

He sighed.

“Did your father know about his wife? Did he ever have any understanding of her character?”

He shrugged. “He would never have admitted as much. He loved her quite to the end, you know.”

“I would have supposed no less of him. He had his faults as we all do, but disloyalty was not among them.”

A speculative light entered his eye. “That is very kindly said.”

She met his gaze and, of all the absurd starts, felt her heart give pause. She had been so busy of late that she had rarely been alone with Robert, as she was in this moment. And though the last kisses they had exchanged—more than a month past now—had fallen deeply into her memory, for some reason she was put forcefully in mind of them. She found it difficult to breathe and quite stupidly could think of nothing to say. A strange sort of dizziness descended over her.

“You look very pretty tonight,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers strongly. He seemed to give himself a shake and looked back at the gifts in her hands. “What else do you have there?”

Lucy looked down at the remaining two gifts and blinked at least twice before saying, “Hyacinth made this kerchief. Is it not beautiful? Look at the workmanship. Rosamunde has been teaching her to crochet.”

He settled the dagger and the sampler on the table beside the chessboard, then took the kerchief in hand. “Rosamunde, indeed! What an oddity she is, for she rarely makes a push to do anything, but I can see she must have taken some pains with Hyacinth.” He ran his fingers over the lacy edging. “Hyacinth takes after Hetty in her skill, I believe.”

“And your mother?”

“Yes,” he smiled suddenly and his smile did more to brighten her heart than anything. “Mama was used to enjoy all forms of needlework. She always had her sewing bag beside her chair. As a child I would play with her scissors, beneath her strict supervision, of course. She had several pair, one with handles like peacocks. How odd to remember such a thing. Hetty has them now, I believe.”

“You are fortunate to have such memories. I was too young to recall anything of my mother.”

“Then I am very sorry for you, Lucy.”

There was such genuine compassion in his eyes that again her heart paused. She felt suddenly in danger, but of what she was not certain. Swallowing very hard, she showed him the last gift, the pair of soft gloves. “Eugenia embroidered the Ls. She said she chose yellow because of the color of my hair.”

He looked at her hair and reached up to touch a ringlet that dangled to her shoulder. “
Like golden wheat of summer’s light, her hair danced round in moonbeams bright
.”

“Robert, do not tell me you wrote these words!”

“No, of course not,” he returned, laughing, releasing the lock of hair. “Henry showed me his latest poems, of which there are quite enough for a volume or two. He has been writing and writing in recent weeks.”

“Robert!” Henry’s voice called suddenly from the doorway. “Do you know where the key to the buttery is? So you have returned, Lucy. Will you have some brandy with Robert and me?”

“I should like that.”

“Is the key not on the hook just inside Finkley’s door?” Robert called back.

“Of course! What was I thinking?” Henry whirled around. His footsteps could be heard echoing down the hall.

“I think he is an excellent poet,” Lucy said.

“He has some talent, yes. But just how much is not so easily ascertained.”

“But he should be encouraged, do you not think so?”

He fingered the gloves Eugenia had embroidered and placed both the kerchief and the gloves beside the dagger and the sampler. He chuckled. “I think that were you to encourage him, he could be very successful, indeed, perhaps at anything he chose to pursue.”

“What an odd thing to say, Robert,” she cried, tilting her head. “But very sweet.”

“There is something I would say to you, Lucy,” he said, rising to his feet. “I wished to thank you for the interest you have taken in the children. You have been very attentive and gentle with them. They have all blossomed since your arrival. We all speak of it.”

Lucy did not know what to say at first. She found herself rather dumbfounded. “If this is truly how you feel, then I am flattered and rather pleased, although I do not know that I agree with you entirely. It has not escaped my notice that you are quite involved in their lives as well. I admire that very much. They have need of you and you do not withhold yourself from them. Yes, Robert, I admire this very much in you.” He was now staring at her so strangely that she could not imagine what he was thinking.

Robert looked down at her and felt each of the words she spoke sink into his mind and fill him with the most extraordinary and wholly unforeseen pleasure. Yes, he did pay a fair amount of attention to his youngest siblings, but he had never done so in order to gain anyone’s praise. That Lucy chose in this moment to express her admiration of him worked strongly on his heart. The very deep, passionate kisses they had shared more than a month past seemed to steal into his awareness with the force of a sudden gunshot. The desire he had felt for her at that time fairly swept over him as he continued to look into her eyes. “Lucy,” he murmured.

Was she aware that she had just taken a step toward him and now stood so close to him that she was barely a breath away? And what was that light in her eye, barely visible in the dim candlelight? And how did his arm find her waist so easily, so quickly?

He touched her cheek with his hand. “Darling Lucy,” he murmured. “You have made my home bearable these past several weeks.”

“Robert,” she whispered, turning her face to his so that her lips were within a few inches’ reach. He slid his hand behind her neck and very softly settled his lips on hers.

Time stilled and then stopped. He found himself lost in another place entirely, one made up of faint light, mist, and wonder. He was enchanted. How had this happened to him, that a woman with whom he frequently quarreled should suddenly feel heavenly in his arms?

He deepened the kiss and, as before, she responded, parting her lips and moaning so softly that her voice sounded just like a dove’s coo. He drew her tightly to him that he might feel the length of her pressed to him. He wondered what sort of wife Lucy would make and whether or not she would take delight in his bed. He kissed her fiercely and another coo and yet another warbled from her throat. What was she feeling? he wondered. Was she as lost in faint light, mist, and wonder as he?

Lucy could not credit Robert was kissing her again. A month had passed, but was it really a month or perhaps only a fleeting second since he had last embraced her so passionately? In all her long acquaintance with him, this is what surprised her about Robert: that he was capable of such powerful feeling and expression.

Somewhere in her mind she knew she should not be allowing him to kiss her, yet not for the world would she willingly or purposefully end such a kiss, not when she could no longer feel her feet or even her legs. She was floating blissfully in a state of perfection and desire so wondrous that she wished Robert would go on kissing her forever.

He drew back and looked into her eyes. “Lucy,” he whispered, but he was frowning.

“Robert!” Henry’s voice called from the depths of the house.

“Good God. Henry,” he said, closing his eyes and releasing her at the same time. In a loud voice he called back, “What is it, Brother?” He seemed to be pained.

Lucy backed away and picked up the gifts that Robert had settled on the table by the chessboard. She turned away from him and moved to her chair where she had been reading her novel. She sat down almost blindly.

Henry appeared in the doorway holding a bottle in hand. “You will not credit what I have found! I believe it may be thirty years old.”

Lucy glanced at him. “That is very old indeed.”

“Yes, indeed!” he returned gleefully. “And now we are to discover whether it is any good.”

Lucy stood up suddenly. “I beg you will forgive me, Henry, but I fear I have the headache. You must excuse me, but I believe I should retire.”

He frowned and appeared quite concerned. “Of course. I am very sorry you must go. Do you need a doctor?”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, ’tis only the headache. It will pass.”

“What is this?” Lady Sandifort called out, addressing Henry. “Did I hear you say thirty-year-old brandy?”

“Yes, my lady. Will you join us?”

“With pleasure. I am sorry you are feeling unwell, Lucy. I hope your head is better in the morning.” She approached Lucy and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then swept past her.

Lucy’s nostrils were filled with the scent of roses, which Lady Sandifort wore heavily. She bid good night to Robert, then walked quickly from the armory. Just as she reached the stairs, however, she heard running steps behind her. Robert caught her arm.

“I am so sorry. I have made you uncomfortable and all because you offered me a very sweet compliment. I vow I do not know how I could have lost my head. I should never have kissed you. It will not happen again.”

Lucy’s throat felt very tight. Why did he not wish it to happen again? “Good night,” she said, her throat beginning to ache. She turned and walked slowly up the stairs. She felt rather than saw that he remained at the bottom step watching her go. When she was halfway, she heard his footsteps fading down the hall as he returned to the armory.

Later, Lucy lay in bed. She had never known her heart to feel so heavy. She did not understand what had just happened, how it was she had let Robert kiss her again. Worse, however, was how wonderful the kiss had been, how utterly transported she had felt, as though kissing Robert had the ability to make her feel that she was no longer at Aldershaw but in some magical place that belonged only to them, almost like the sweetest of dreams from which she never wanted to awaken.

She had found it utterly impossible to remain in the drawing room once Henry returned. She was feeling far too much, her senses were completely overwhelmed, and she did not know how she could have sustained a meaningful conversation with anyone under such circumstances. Yet so much was left unsaid that surely needed to be said, only why did Robert follow her and make such a hurtful statement? Why should he not have kissed her? Why? Why did he not desire to kiss her again?