by Mary Balogh
"Ah," the marquess said, apparently intent on looking through the music. "I wonder Ernie did not first lock you in your room and pocket the key."
"I assured him that I would be quite safe," she said.
Lord Kenwood looked up from the music, one eyebrow raised, his eyes amused. "Did you indeed?" he asked. "Perhaps you would like to cross the room to the fireplace while you still may, Diana, and pick up the poker. It may be a little difficult to man the keyboard with it clutched in your hand, but you may very well need it if I decide to become amorous again."
She flushed, but her chin remained up and her eyes on his. "I wish to say something," she said.
His eyes were laughing. "Say on, my dear," he said. "We have a whole hour before it is the viscountess's turn to run through her scales."
"I am sorry," she said, "for what I said two days ago. I was at least as responsible for that. . . embrace as you were, and it was hypocrisy to blame you as I did afterward and cast scorn on your morality. It was not fair."
His eyes traveled lazily down her slim frame, the sprigged muslin dress hinting at the feminine curves that he knew all about. "Oh, but it was very fair," he said. "You were quite right, you know, Diana. I did maneuver you into my arms, and I had every intention of kissing you if the opportunity arose. I had every intention of taking more liberties if I had the chance. Unfortunately I did not have the chance."
"Well," she said after an uncomfortable pause, "well, perhaps we should leave it at that."
His eyes were laughing again. "And perhaps in future it would be unwise to allow Ernie to let you off the leash," he said. "I want you, Diana Ingram. And if Ernie has told you that I am a dangerous man, then perhaps you should listen. For when all is said and done, Ernie does know something of the world and its ways."
"But you have one weakness," she said, completing her journey to the pianoforte and seating herself on the bench. "I have discovered it on more than one occasion."
His eyes and that one raised eyebrow mocked her.
"You cannot continue an embrace when you know your victim to be unwilling," she said, stretching out a hand for the music. "There is something of the gentleman in you after all. I believe I am safe."
He grinned slowly at her as he handed over the music. "From me, perhaps, my dear," he said. "But from yourself, Diana? I count on your weakness too, you see. Your very prim and ladylike demeanor hides a very unprim and unladylike zest for passion, I have discovered—on more than one occasion. Am I not right? However, fascinating as this discussion is becoming, I do believe we should turn our attention to this music. Since you and I and the pianoforte all finished at different moments the last time we tried it, and since the concert is tonight, I think we should put what remains of our hour to musical use."
Diana compressed her lips. "Do you want to play?" she asked. "I believe you do better at it than I."
"Ah, but it does not consort with my image of indolent and, er, rakish man about town to be seen both playing an instrument and singing," he said. "One of the two I may perhaps live down. Both, never. You may play, Diana. Beginning now, if you please. And you will please note that I am standing quite decorously here and not approaching even one small step closer to the bench."
"I had noticed," she said, "and will continue to do so." She began to play the accompaniment.
''I believe we have it," the marquess said a little less than an hour later. "That is the third time in succession that all three of us have finished together. And we both remembered the expression this last time instead of bellowing out the whole piece as if it were a battle charge. My heart quite goes out to poor Kate."
"Poor Kate?" Diana got resolutely to her feet and closed the sheet of music. "She was very wise to reject the man when she did. She is laughing, you see, instead of crying, as she undoubtedly would have been had she allowed him to stay."
" 'Te he he,' does not sound like very sincere laughter to me, though," he said. "Indeed, Diana, I feel remarkably foolish singing those words. Don't you? It is false laughter, if ever I heard any. She wants him to stay. She wants to be persuaded."
"Phooey!" Diana said. "She saved herself from endless heartache."
The marquess, who had been leaning on one elbow on the pianoforte, pushed himself to an upright position and strolled toward the door. He flicked her chin with one finger as he passed. "She probably spent a cold and lonely old age wishing she had a little pleasure to look back upon," he said. "Prim virtue can be a cold bedfellow, Diana. I suppose you would not care to stroll outside with me?"
"I have promised my mother-in-law to help organize the program for tonight," Diana said.
"I did not think you would.'' He opened the door, bowed, and motioned for her to precede him from the room.
* * *
That afternoon turned out to be as sunny and warm as the days preceding. Which was just as well, the Countess of Rotherham told her guests, because though the Greek-style pavilion beside the river was well-kept and comfortably furnished, it would have been somewhat crowded if rain had forced all twenty of them inside.
As it was, they were all able to sit on blankets or cushions on the river bank, while only two footmen remained inside the pavilion, pouring the champagne ready for toasting Allan's birthday and preparing the picnic tea for later.
The countess was thoroughly enjoying herself, as she had told the earl the night before. No one seemed to be languishing with boredom. And the three matches she had set herself to make were progressing satisfactorily.
''Not that I claim credit for Barbara and Russell, of course, dearest," she had said. "They have been intended for each other from the cradle and have had an eye for each other for the past two years and more. But it is gratifying to see love blossom at our home."
Angela and Ernest, of course, had not yet declared their love for each other—but they would. Ernest, the dear boy, was something of a slow top. He had not allowed Angela to climb any of the staircases at the castle that morning, indeed! How else did he expect to get close enough to her for a little squeeze and a kiss? But it would happen. She would keep working on it.
Jack and dear Diana, of course, clearly fancied each other.
But that would take a little time. She was not worried. They were both people of strong character. Doubtless, Jack wanted a little more than a squeeze and a kiss, and Diana less. They would come to terms.
If only that idiotic Thomas did not spoil everything. The poor man was clearly at an age when he was panicking at the loss of his youth—all men went through that stage—and trying desperately to recapture it. But Diana was too sensible to listen to his foolishness.
"Dears," the countess said, clapping her hands for attention. They had finished toasting Allan with champagne, and it was too early to eat. "Time for some exercise. Rotherham and I, and Hannah and Joshua are going to stroll along the bank as befits our age. But you younger folk will wish to walk farther afield. If you cross the bridge, you can walk more deeply into the woods. The trees are well spaced. There is no serious danger of getting lost."
The earl chuckled. "Not unless you wish to do so, of course," he said.
Several of the company laughed.
"But remember," the countess said, "I want you all back here for tea within the hour. Ernest, dear, why do not you lead the way across the bridge? Take Angela on your arm."
And if he was not quick-witted enough when he got to the other side to lose his way among the trees with her, she thought, well then. Well, then she would have to find some other way to throw them together the next day. And the next.
Jack, she could see, was leaning against a tree, one booted foot resting against the trunk, his arms folded across his chest, joking and laughing with Claudia and Hannah, who were seated on a blanket before him. All very well, but did he know or care that Thomas had just strolled off with Diana? The countess shook her head in some exasperation. She would have to wait until later to do something about that situation. Unless he had the wit to do som
ething now, of course.
"Claudia," the countess said, "you and Clarence might as well stroll along with the rest of us. You too, if you please, Mrs. Wickenham. Do take my arm, and you shall tell me what you think of those grandchildren of ours. Jack, dear, you will not wish to be trapped with us older folk. Why do you not run along after the younger people?"
The marquess grinned. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to take you and Mrs. Wickenham on each of my arms, ma'am," he said. "But I am sure that one of the gentlemen would call me out for my greed in monopolizing two lovely ladies at once.''
Lady Knowles, who had got to her feet and was brushing her hands over her skirts, laughed. "No woman would ever be bowled over by your particular brand of flattery, Jack," she said, "if you did not have such a roguishly handsome face. And such naughty eyes," she added, wagging a finger at him.
He grinned and stayed standing against his tree. They had gone that way, he thought, turning his head and glancing off into the trees to his right. They had not crossed the river. Well—he straightened up and brushed a leaf from his shoulder and a twig from his sleeve—it was time to go after them. As it was, he would probably find Peabody down on one knee before her and kissing her hand.
* * *
Lord Crensford was beginning to despair of ever being free of Angela Wickenham. Certainly his mother would see to it that he squired her everywhere during the remainder of their stay at Rotherham Hall. London and freedom seemed a long way off both in time and space. He had a horrid and gloomy premonition that he would never reach either again.
The morning had been bad. Miss Wickenham had expressed a desire to see the castle again, and what Miss Wickenham desired she got, it seemed. It did not matter at all that Russell and Barbara were also bent on going there and that Michael or Lester or Allan might easily have been persuaded to escort Miss Wickenham. Oh, no, he had to be the victim.
"You know the place like the back of your hand, Ernest, dear," his mother had said. "You really must go along to show the others."
It would have been hopeless to argue that there really was nothing in the castle that was not obvious to the eye and that everyone had seen it before, anyway. It would have been hopeless to explain that he had been planning to invite Diana to look through the greenhouses with him. Her morning had been planned too. She was to practice for the evening concert—with Jack, of course.
She had told him when he had expressed his concern to her privately that it was quite all right. The marquess might be all that Ernest had said, and he might be obnoxious, but he was not dangerous. She could handle him quite well. If she only knew! And she had added that she was sorry she had begged him a few days earlier to stay close to her. He must not feel obliged to do so. He must enjoy himself
with companions of his choice.
And that left him with Angela Wickenham.
He glanced at her as they crossed the bridge, followed by four other couples. She was looking about her with bright enthusiasm and met his glance with that smile that always crinkled her nose.
She was extremely pretty, he had to admit that. A vast improvement on the way she had looked four years before. She looked perfectly harmless. If one did not know differently, one might think her a quite normal young lady. One would not realize that she could be such a little pest.
All she had been able to think of that morning was climbing. While Barbara had been content to stroll about the courtyard and around the castle on the arm of Russell, as any sedate young lady would, Miss Wickenham had darted from one tower to the other, and he had had to be quite firm with her so that she would not climb any of the spiral staircases. They were altogether too dangerous for such a little
and delicate young lady.
"But this one looks quite safe," she had said, coming to the final round tower and setting her foot on the bottom step, which was admittedly intact. "Do let us go up, my lord. You can go first if you like. And I will hold tightly to your hand if you wish. Please!"
"For the last time," he had said, thoroughly exasperated, "I will not take you back to your mama with a broken head. You can see quite well from down here. There is nothing whatsoever up there."
"But I wanted to see where that girl fell from," she had said, looking up at him with large dark eyes which might work on some men, but would certainly not on him. ''I want to know exactly how she must have felt just before she jumped."
"That is just a story Mama likes to think is true," he had said. "You aren't going up there anyway. I'm not going to have you share her fate."
She had turned sharply away from him and had kept her face averted for the rest of the time they had spent in the courtyard. Pouting, of course. Hoping he would give in. Just like a spoiled child. Wickenham probably did spoil her too. She was several years younger than Claudia. And he supposed it would be easy to spoil someone so small and dainty and pretty.
"The trees are beautiful here," she said now. "They are very old, are they not?" She stopped to touch the bark of an old oak tree, whose branches spread low to the ground.
Lord Crensford stopped politely at her side, his hands clasped behind him, while the other couples strolled on past.
Angela sighed. "I love trees," she said. "They reach so much closer to the sky than I can."
She finally moved—but not straight ahead as any normal young lady might be expected to do. She hitched her skirt to well above the ankles and began to move vertically. She started to climb the tree. The pestilential little hoyden!
"Hey!" Lord Crensford called. "Come down from there before you fall or get hurt."
She smiled cheekily down at him. "Make me come down," she said, and went on climbing.
Lord Crensford muttered a word that he would not normally say in a lady's presence and went after her. It must have been fifteen years since he last had climbed a tree. And a tight coat from Western's and tight pantaloons and Hessian boots were not quite the outfit one would choose to climb trees in if one had a choice.
Of course, he had no choice. The chit would fall and break a leg, and he would be blamed.
She was sitting on a stout branch, her back against the trunk, her knees drawn up against her, and her arms circling them when he finally came up to her. She was looking as comfortable as if she were sitting on a sofa in a private parlor. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed. She looked as if she felt perfect bliss.
"Don't you just love climbing?" she asked.
"It's my favorite activity," he said. "I have to sneak away from the house twice a day to shin up a couple of trees to satisfy my craving. I'm surprised you had not noticed."
She giggled merrily. "You are always so cross," she said. "One leaves the world and all its troubles behind when one climbs. I wish I could go on and on climbing right into the sky, right among the stars. Don't you?"
"It would be damp among the clouds," he said.
She laughed again. "There would be no clouds above my tree," she said. "Only endless and deep blue sky."
"How are you going to get down from here?" Lord Crensford asked, seating himself gingerly on the branch and feeling uncomfortably aware of empty air all about him. "That is what I would like to know. It is so easy to climb up, but not so easy to go down again. I suppose I will be expected to carry you."
She only laughed. "Don't you ever climb?" she asked. "I mean, do you never try to move beyond yourself? Don't you ever dream?"
"Only at night," he said firmly. "When I am asleep."
"What do you want of life?" she asked. "Are you happy as you are? Are you content for your life to remain the same for ever and ever?"
"Of course it won't stay the same," he said. What the deuce was he doing sitting on a tree branch poised above the ground, which looked dauntingly far away, discussing the direction his life was taking with a young lady who did not know how to behave with proper decorum? "I'll get older. I'll probably marry and set up my nursery. I'll probably lose some of my hair."
She set her cheek on
one knee and gazed at him. "I want to live," she said. "I want to be free to do anything that seems exciting. I want to be old enough so that people will not be constantly telling me that something is unseemly or dangerous. I want to go to London and attend all the splendid balls. I want to dance and dance. And I want six children.''
"I hope you plan to marry first," he said.
She laughed again, a bright infectious sound that was beginning to annoy Lord Crensford. She had no business sounding so happy when she had dragged him up this tree, knowing that he was responsible for her safety.
"Of course," she said.
"To the most handsome man in all England, I suppose," he said scornfully. "And don't tell me." He held up a hand and suddenly felt distinctly less safe. "He can be as poor as a church mouse as long as he is handsome."