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Chapter Seven
Amaryllis, Countess of Devonport, only nibbled on her dinner. The servants were all very kind, and discreet. She had had a wonderful scented bath and rose petals were strewn about her chamber, in deference to her wedded state. Her maid, appointed by the earl himself, had had her gowns unpacked and pressed in record time, so that she had a considerable choice to agonize over when her bath was at an end and the time had come, at last, to change for dinner.
She chose something simple, a stark contrast to the grand confection she had been wearing earlier. It was a gown of pastel blue trimmed in silver and embroidered, at the hems, in a darker blue to match her eyes. Lady Hastings had been positively triumphant with the result, but Amaryllis felt strangely nervous and rather shy.
This was to be her first dinner alone with her husband and it was natural that she feel a constriction in her throat as she was led down the main staircase to the dining room below.
Stephen was waiting for her, equally tense, but when he saw his wife he smiled and she felt all that awkward shyness melting away. He seemed resolved to set her at ease, and by the second remove her eyes were shining and she was able to enjoy several of the absurd
on-dits
that were doing their rounds about town.
Between them, though, there was a tension, for it is not every night that is one's wedding night, and not every marriage that begins in such constrained circumstances such as theirs. So Amaryllis nibbled, despite the excellence of the meal, and Stephen poured her some negus, which whilst sweet and hot and somewhat spicy, soothed her nerves.
Presently, conversation faltered. The candles glittered about them, and Lord Redding was regarding his bride with a peculiar sensation of pride mingled with frustrated desire.
“Amaryllis, I . . .”
“Yes?” Amaryllis almost whispered, for she could tell Stephen's tone had changed and her heart was beating so loud she was afraid he would hear it. Indeed, he did, and he reached out and felt it for a moment, so Amaryllis thought she might faint from both embarrassment at her transparency and something more, much more.... Her eyes darkened, and Stephen groaned, for he was certainly not in control as he had planned to be.
He had planned to make a little speech about settling into the role, no hurry for heirs . . . gracious, he could not remember the half of it. Then suddenly, he no longer wished to. He pulled Amaryllis into his arms and kissed her the way he wanted to, the way he had resolved not to, the very way in which Amaryllis had tormented herself with forbidden dreams.
The candles had long burned down before he had finished exploring her delightful mouth, with those expressive curves that tilted so sweetly upward when she was not remembering to be shy.
He had long since pulled out all the diamond pins and the posy of snowdrops she had adopted with her simple evening gown. Her hair, as he imagined, was soft and fresh and sweet, unscented with powders but no less alluring for their lack. He twisted her hair about her, then pulled her toward him again so that she had no choice but to draw closer and laugh softly as he kissed her.
As the last flames flickered in the grate, he raised his brows expressively and asked her whether she wished to explore her own pretty bed or his own. Amaryllis swallowed hard, for she feared that if she threw herself at Stephen, the nature of their relationship would change forever.
She doubted whether she could hold on to her heart, steady her feelings, smile blithely as he became remote . . . then she stopped doubting as she saw the wry smile that twisted his features, almost as if he himself were hesitant, hanging anxiously upon her decision.
“Yours, Stephen,” she breathed.
His lordship nodded and lifted her gently from her formal seat. Her gown trailed the floor dramatically as he carried her up the stairs, past the marble sculptures of Venus and Andromedes, past the portraits of earls and countesses past, past several candelabras with wicks of varying lengths and luminous flames of orange gold, past everything, in fact, except the mahogany door to his own sumptuous chamber. This he opened with his elegant tasseled boot and closed, again, with a firm and feverish click.
That night, Lady Amaryllis Redding forgot all her troubled anxieties. Her ignorance was more than compensated for by Stephen's worldliness, and though she was still young and youthfully innocent, she nevertheless became countess in far more than just name.
The days that followed were probably the loveliest Amaryllis had ever experienced. The girls were back from their convenient holiday in London—not for the world would he have them anywhere near his home on his wedding night—and there were lively games and a great deal of truancy and much laughter. Time and time again Amaryllis thought what a good father he would be, for he was not too pompous to play hide-and-seek, or bob for apples, or remember what it was like to muddy one's clothes or pinch pies from the kitchen. He was a master of charades, and kept them in fits of laughter, save for the odd moments of tenderness.
Stephen still felt uncomfortable about these—he wished he could preserve the boundaries he had set, but every morning his resolve became less and by evening had evaporated completely, so that the new countess had not, as yet, had the pleasure of sleeping in her own pretty bed or waking to the chocolate her maid promised her each morning.
Instead, it was Stephen's bed that drew her, and Stephen's pot of hot coffee that scalded her tongue each new day and filled her heart with pride and secret delight.
In the mornings they would ride, or open letters together, or crack chestnuts or fish (though without any great measure of success, save for a single trout which Amaryllis swore had been her catch, and Stephen swore was his). In the afternoons, Amaryllis would play the flute, or the harpsichord, or stab at some needlework, which she hated but felt she really ought to improve upon. The earl laughed at this, and would more often than not throw the horrible thing away, but Amaryllis would always smilingly fetch it out of the bin. They would read together, for their tastes were remarkably similar, though Stephen found Pope too stern and Amaryllis found his penchant for Byron amusing, though she loved to hear his deep, velvety voice read certain passages aloud.
But she was still naturally shy, and she could feel the earl's restraint at times. She reminded herself firmly that she must not complain or grieve when this brief idyll came to an end, as it must.
The end came far quicker for her than she had imagined, for Stephen received two letters one morning, one from Lord Diggory, his best friend, and one from Lady Luttlow. It could not have been a worse juxtaposition, and when he excused himself shortly to peruse them in his study, Amaryllis felt a deep sense of foreboding that lasted the whole morning and a good part into the afternoon, too, despite a vigorous ride and several games of charades.
Stephen did not join them, though her eyes searched the horizons for him anxiously. She was too timid to enter his study uninvited, so she did not know that he sat there with a wry expression on his countenance, and his hands clasped bitterly across his brow. She did not know that he poured himself two glasses of brandy, nor that he scrawled and carefully franked two return missives.
Lady Luttlow, of course, was begging him to return to London “for it is so tedious without you, my dear,” but there were also veiled hints that if he did not immediately restore their previous amicable situation she might be forced to bestow her pleasures elsewhere. This note, heavily scented and underlined in purple ink, quickly found a place in his lordship's fire.
The second, however, stung, for it contained laughing jibes about being caught in a parson's mousetrap. There was even an enclosure from the
Gazette
about “a certain Lord R. who was in increasing danger of falling in love with his wife.” The
ton
apparently found the notion amusing and Stephen, who should have scorned both messages, fell instead into the trap of scorning himself.
He had been weak, and selfish, and oh, so stupid. He had not only
not
kept the distance between himself and his wife, he had been as eager to close it as she. As eager as a greenhorn! He could squirm when he thought how careless he had been, how quickly Amaryllis had got under his skin, undermined his resolve, made him husband in deed as well as name.
Well, that was not what he wanted! He wanted his freedom without constraints. He had been at
pains
to tell her so! Indeed, he had only chosen her because she was lonely and an antidote. He had never intended to marry a beauty that held him captivated by her every charm. She was bewitching and he simply refused to be bewitched. He had resolved long before the first stirrings of manhood that his would be a reasonable union, one founded on respect and integrity rather than love.
Love, he knew, could be suffocating. His mama had loved his father and had exposed herself cruelly to a multitude of unkindnesses. If she had not felt so passionate, she would never have been so hurt. Stephen shook his head. The gossips were right! He
was
in danger of falling in love with his wife! He would be a laughingstock if he did not do something drastic.
In this resolute state of mind, the earl sent his missives on to London and prepared himself for the trip back to his Mayfair residence.
He expected tears or pleas and hardened his heart. In essence, he received neither, for Amaryllis had been expecting such from the start. It made it no easier for her, though, but she resolutely nodded and smiled and agreed that of course he must return.
The girls pleaded with him to stay, but Amaryllis hushed them, and Stephen frowned, though in truth he had never spent a more delightful time than with these scamps and his own—had he but admitted it!—very dear wife.
Again, that terrible yearning for children like Vicky and Clem, to start a family with Amaryllis, to have a child of his own . . . he closed his eyes firmly to such wishful visions. Amaryllis was becoming more part of his dreams than his own flesh and blood. He was placing more importance on her presence as a mother than on dreams of the heir himself.
He was not a fatherly type. He didn't know why he had ever thought he was. Foolishness! When his heir was born, he would be brought up properly in the nursery and presented to him on such occasions as were appropriate. But something in his heart mocked him. He got up from the table abruptly and disappeared into the house. Two days later, he was gone.
Amaryllis determined not to be forlorn. She threw herself into her new home and family. She took to teaching the girls herself when they played truant, so in the end, they were not truant at all, and, indeed, they had learned more in the few months since Amaryllis's arrival than they had learned in a year of deportment classes.
The governess, a kindly woman, but pale and of ill health, was only too grateful to the new countess, so the regime remained unchallenged.
The Countess of Redding also took a keen interest in the stables and in the bloodstock of her nearest neighbor, Sir Hugh Finlay-Orb, an easygoing country gentleman who happened to share her passion for bloodstock. When she was not consulting Sir Hugh, she was doing the rounds of the district, for a positive heap of calling cards had arrived for her, and there was simply no end to the amount of invitations she received.
Amaryllis was still reserved in company, but there was no doubt that her new rank helped a great deal—it gave her confidence, and no one would have believed that the shy little mouse who had sat out most of the dances at Lady Coverford's ball was now the poised young lady who honored the neighborhood with her wit and occasional bright and dazzling smile.
At night, however. Amaryllis felt the loneliest, for without Stephen the residence seemed very large and cavernous, and though there was much to read in the library, and much to discover in the various drawing and music rooms, she could not settle her thoughts, or devote her attention to the well-cared-for tomes as she should.
She found herself staring out of windows, dreaming of those first magical nights of her marriage. Oh, if only Stephen felt the same way about her as she did about him!
But she must not be maudlin, nor should she complain. The situation had been plain to her from the outset, and she had no reason to regret matters now. She wondered, for the hundredth time, what Stephen was doing, and she blushed when she remembered that house on Honeydew Street. She stood up restlessly and took up her embroidery frame. If she concentrated on the complicated pattern, she would not be able to torment herself with improper—and decidedly unpleasant—thoughts.
Chapter Eight
Improper thoughts were exactly on Lord Redding's mind as he sent up his card to Lady Luttlow. It was a mere courtesy really, for he expected her to be within and he had already divested himself of his jacket and cane when she made her appearance. Very fetching it was, too, in a gown that could hardly be called modest, so low-cut as it was. Her skirts were dampened and Lord Redding noted that she had applied an alluring patch to her slightly rouged cheeks. Well, doubtless
she
thought it alluring. He did not, though he was not so unmannerly as to say so.
Indeed, he wanted no conversation at all, for Lady Luttlow's finest points lay not in speech, but in the seductiveness of her touch. Unfortunately, though she hovered close to him, in a manner he had always regarded as inviting, she also seemed desirous of verbal reassurances.
Perhaps she was threatened by his lordship's marriage, though such inconveniences were commonplace to the
demimonde
and should really have affected nothing at all. Perhaps the sight of Amaryllis in her wedding gown had come as a shock.
Lady Luttlow, who had come by her title by a scandalous marriage to the Baron Westenbury, who had thankfully not survived the Peninsular wars to know how many times he had been cuckolded, was annoyed. She had been perfectly reconciled to a simpering little wallflower becoming Stephen's bride. Indeed, she had laughed at the matter, for even those who are not admitted to the illustrious venues of the
haute ton
know something of what takes place within their hallowed walls.
Amaryllis, as far as she had been aware, was one of those unfortunate young ladies who simply did not “take.” For all her acceptable lineage, she was an antidote.
No one—
no one
—had said anything about her being an entrancing beauty with lashes that she, Eugenia Ponteforth Luttlow, would have personally killed for. She might have scratched Amaryllis's eyes out if she'd had the opportunity. Since she had not, she had spent the first weeks of this annoying marriage endeavoring to make the new countess a laughingstock. Now, she made her first grave mistake. She passed an uncomplimentary comment about Amaryllis to Stephen's face, never dreaming that he would be offended.
“How is your little wallflower? How terribly dreary for you to have to marry such a creature!” Lady Luttlow tittered seductively and fanned herself with an ivory creation topped with seven curling plumes in seven dashing colors. Stephen, who had been about to explore Lady Luttlow's scant bodice, now straightened himself up coldly.
“I will not have you speak that way of my wife.”
A trilling laugh greeted this comment.
“Oh, but how perfectly sweet! The . . .
countess
. . . has a gallant at her disposal. So medieval, don't you think?”
The earl, who had not missed the hesitation over “countess” nor the veiled hint that Amaryllis needed a defender, closed his eyes.
He was unused to such waves of anger as he was experiencing. It had obviously not for a moment struck Lady Luttlow that he might actually
like
his wife. That his paramour should feel patronizing was simply too much for him. Suddenly, he found her scent more than just overpowering—it was nauseating, and he could not help but notice the fine lines that creased her forehead and eyelids, but were penciled over in alabaster paint. None of these details had ever concerned him, but even her buxom advantages seemed to have lost their thrall.
Perhaps because he was comparing them with soft, shy, rounded curves . . . but he must not think thus! He opened his eyes and stood up coldly.
“My lady, I think you and I have reached the end of our acquaintance. You will find I am not ungenerous if you call upon my banker, Hargreaves and Fireston on the morrow.”
Lady Luttlow paled. Her veiled threats had been meant as a taunt, not to be taken at face value! Stephen was every courtesan's dream—generous, handsome and seasoned enough not to be a tiresome greenhorn. There was every advantage to maintaining the alliance,
The only other men on her horizon was Lord Fortesque, who no one—simply no one—could compare with Stephen, and Mr. Gregory Dacks, who was a skinflint. She seethed, but was careful enough not to show Stephen her extreme displeasure. Instead, she leaned over very calculatedly, so his view of her charms was really first-rate. She tried a childish giggle at his silly humor, but when that wouldn't fadge, she became cloyingly seductive so that Stephen had to literally hold her at arm's length, his masculine strength obvious with every tensed muscle.
This galvanized Lady Luttlow into even more panic at her loss. Unfortunately, it also caused her to forget that jealousy was not a particularly enticing trait. She fought to narrow the gap between them challengingly. Then, in a low voice, she spat out her fury.
“What? So leg-shackled to that . . . that . . . creature that you cannot see the advantages of experience over youth? It is not as if she is a diamond of the first water! Far from it! She failed to take this Season and if it were not for your intervention she would very likely be packed off to Bath with no more hope of a match than . . .”
“Than yourself?” Stephen's tone was smooth and belied his sudden desire to catch Lady Luttlow at her jeweled throat and throttle her. He did not, of course, but Eugenia was in no doubt about his restraint.
Seething at the insult, she threw a pot at Stephen. It was made of the finest porcelain from Sevres and inlaid with delicate colors that were gilded at the edges. It had been one of Stephen's presents: an expensive knickknack that now narrowly missed his head.
Stephen said nothing. He took up his jacket and cane and let himself quietly out the door. The next day, Lady Luttlow received a bracelet of diamonds from Rundell and Bridge. Though it sparkled deliciously upon her wrist, it afforded her no satisfaction at all. The Earl of Davenport was notoriously generous with his farewells. The bracelet—particularly its price—spoke not of conciliation, but of endings. Lady Luttlow slammed the door in the face of Mr. Gregory Dacks. She was so consumed with fury, she could hardly speak.
 
 
The only good thing about London was the rain. It matched Stephen's mood as he waved away his carriage and trudged the fashionable streets of Mayfair on foot. The fact that he was making a spectacle of himself seemed to have eluded him, for he was lost in a series of unpleasant thoughts and had the devil of a headache besides.
This, not unnaturally, was the result of several nights of fitful sleep and three decanters of smuggled port bought at a premium. None of these decoctions seemed to have helped in the slightest, hence the earl's desperate attempt to take the air. When his butler confronted him with a salver full of invitations, he waved him away testily, announcing that whilst the countess was not in residence, there was no reason for him to attend any functions whatsoever.
Naturally, such a strange start could not go unnoticed, especially as the butler's niece was a particular friend of the second under maid to Lady Charing, who was the greatest gossipmonger in all of England. Stephen found he could not go to so much as his tailor's without being quizzed most damnably, and as for his greatest friend, Lord Diggory, he was the worst of the lot.
So smitten with mirth was he that he soon found himself sporting a bloody nose, a fact that had Stephen shaken out of his daze of moroseness and apologizing profusely.
“Think nothing of it, Stephen! I've suffered worse than a bloody nose before, I assure you! Only . . . if your wife causes you to behave in such a manner, your feelings for her must be deeper than you would have the world think.”
“What if they are?” Stephen's tone was still fierce, despite his shock at his behavior. “Here, have my handkerchief—there is blood all over your lip.”
“Thanks. Precisely. What if they are? Is it really so terrible, Stephen, to be in love with your wife? She is a pretty little thing, if I recall, and she looked ravishing at your wedding.”
“Yes, I distinctly recall your ogling.”
“Then I am lucky to be alive, never mind sporting a bloody nose! She is fetching, Stephen, and now that she is out of her shell, she is lovelier yet.”
“And how would you know?”
“I don't. Not personally, so you can take that growl out of your tone, but Hugh Finlay-Orb thinks she is perfection itself and . . .”
“Hugh? What has
he
to say to it?”
“He is only your nearest neighbor, Stephen! It is natural they should meet! What is more, if her ladyship's eye for horseflesh is as unerring as Hugh thinks it is . . .”
“That's it! Confound it, I am going back to Devonport! Hugh Finlay-Orb indeed, jumped-up old popinjay!”
Lord Diggory laughed. “He is actually a pleasant chap . . .”
“Pleasant! He is a meddlesome, troublesome old geezer . . .”
“. . . Who you would like to pummel the living daylights out of! Stephen, go and mend things with your wife. I don't think society can bear much more of your tetchiness.”
“There is nothing wrong between me and my wife!”
“There is everything wrong, Stephen! You love her and you are too much of a gapseed to tell her so!”
“I've loved a hundred times before! It never lasts!”
“Stephen, you are not your father. Trust yourself. It will last.”
Then Lord Diggory, the earl's dearest and most trusted confidant, took himself off. He had said what he had come to say. He counted himself thankful that he had come off so lightly. In the greater scheme of things, a bloodied nose was better than pistols at dawn. In Stephen's current state, pistols were a decided possibility.
It was no more than a day later that Stephen was ready to make his journey home. He'd had much time to contemplate Lord Diggory's parting remarks to him, but in spite of everything, he fooled himself.
He simply was not—could not—be such a sapskull as to have fallen in love with his wife! He needed to take the upper hand, that was all. He would be stern but dignified. He would ignore her soft, appealing eyes and the whisper of the smile that lingered, so often, upon her lips.
He would endeavor to forget how sweet those lips were, for whilst Lady Luttlow had palled, there would surely be some equally ravishing creature to take his carnal fancy.
He would return to Devonport simply to inform Amaryllis that her conduct was displeasing to him. She was interfering with his stables, spoiling his wards, striking up unsuitable friendships with eligible gentlemen . . . oh, there was an endless list of complaints. All unreasonable, of course, but Lord Redding was not in a reasonable mood.
He was
still
not in a reasonable mood when he finally reached Devonport, and noticed that the cottagers had all been given a holiday, and that the children had set up games and shies, and that chestnuts from his avenues of trees were being cooked and conked with varying degrees of mirth and greed. There was laughter in the air, and though Stephen was cross, he was not so cross that he could not smile when he was saluted smartly by a small urchin on his estate, or stop when an old woman wanted to bless him.
It would have been churlish to refuse one of his own roasted chestnuts, or not to take a swing at the shy—and successfully, too, much to the applause of his cottagers. Nevertheless, his heart remained heavy, for it was unpleasant to have to scold, and he felt if he did not do so his whole world would soon be turned completely upside down.
He was just wondering what attitude he should take in his confrontation with Amaryllis—he did not want to crush her, merely resume his masterful control—when his heart almost missed a beat.
In an instant, all his well-prepared speeches flew out of his head. His anger was so absolute and devastating that he ground his nails into his palm. If he had not been wearing riding gloves, he would have done himself an injury.
There, at the top of his avenue, at the main entrance, at the very site where his own horses were meant to stop, was a fashionable barouche. It was painted in gold and emerald green and had cost no less than a small fortune.
He knew, for he had procured the item himself, from two of the best carriage makers in all the land. It was not the carriage he objected to—indeed, it was very fine and extremely well sprung—it was the owner. Unless he was mistaken, Lady Luttlow had had the audacity to darken the very doors of his estate.
BOOK: An Imperfect Proposal
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