Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Page 5

  She was beginning to recognize, however, that the Mallorens were careless enough of fashionable standards to do exactly as they pleased. How was she to deal with that?

  At least there were no children here, and the Walgraves were the last of them. There was another brother, she knew. Lord Cynric. He and his wife were in Canada, thank heavens. Enough was enough.

  Three days, she repeated silently in her head like a protective incantation as she turned and led the Walgraves toward the house.

  “You can’t imagine how relieved I am to have this journey done,” said Lady Elf. “I’m increasing, and it is proving tedious beyond belief.”

  Diana should have known it. Besotted and fertile, the lot of them. Perhaps it was their plan to dominate England by force of numbers!

  Except the marquess, who had made it clear that he didn’t intend to marry or sire children. That ensured her safety from the worst kind of folly, but for some reason it did not completely reassure …

  She pushed all thought of him from her mind. “Nausea?” she asked.

  “At unpredictable times. If I sometimes flee the company, just be grateful I escaped in time.”

  “Then it’s good of you to make the effort to be at the wedding.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t possibly miss a family wedding, could we?” she asked, flashing a smile at her husband

  “Of course not,” he said, though Diana had the feeling he didn’t entirely agree. Being a Malloren spouse was doubtless a demanding role.

  “We’ve been enjoying such a spurt of them,” Lady Elf said, and Diana remembered that she was a chatterer. “Weddings, I mean. And at least this one has been planned in a leisurely manner and is free of royalty.”

  Diana resisted the urge to ask. She’d learn the family gossip from Rosa. She couldn’t help wondering, however, whether Lady Elf had had to rush to the altar because of her increasing state.

  “And I’m delighted to visit the north,” Lady Elf added. No. Diana must remember that she was Lady Walgrave now. “It’s so lovely up here. All the wildflowers in the meadows. The hills. The vistas! If I could paint, I’d try to capture it. As it is, I plan to explore some industry while we’re here.”

  “Industry?” Diana feared that her mind had wandered and she’d lost the meaning.

  “Woolen mills. Cotton manufacturies. That sort of thing.”

  Diana blinked at her. A tour of Scotland was not unusual, but a tour of manufacturies?

  “It’s an interest of mine,” said Lady Elf, with what seemed to be a mischievous smile. “We’ll be traveling on with Bryght and Portia, for they want to see the Duke of Bridgewater’s aqueduct. And we all have an interest in the port at Liverpool.”

  Diana made some vague response, but she was beginning to wonder if this was all a dream. She’d had some nightmares about this meeting.

  It was not surprising that visitors from the south wished to see the famous aqueduct—she’d been present at its opening four years earlier herself—but the port at Liverpool? And manufacturies?

  She’d planned a house party for bored southerners looking down their long noses at the less luxurious north. Now she didn’t know what to expect. The marquess wanting to go down a lead mine, perhaps, or proposing a trip to dig in the peat bogs?

  She looked around. This was real, however, and she felt ready to run away to hide in the bogs herself for the next three days. Instead, she drew on a lifetime’s training, and concealed her uneasiness as she handed the massing of Mallorens over to her servants. It offered some respite, at least.

  She reviewed plans for the rest of the day.

  They’d all spend time now in their rooms recovering from the journey. Dinner next, but she’d already arranged the seating with herself and the marquess at opposite ends of the table. Afterward, music and cards, which should keep everyone occupied and allow her to stay out of his way.

  Tomorrow was the wedding. It was going to be all right—

  A sudden shriek filled the air. It bounced off the high ceiling, then ricocheted off marble walls and pillars to join new screams.

  Little Arthur was throwing a tantrum, the sort of uncontrollable, overtired tantrum that could not be silenced.

  Baby Francis, in his father’s arms, had decided to scream in red-faced sympathy. As Lord Bryght hastily dumped his son on one maid, and another scooped up the wriggling tantrum and hurried away, Diana resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears.

  The maids had disappeared with remarkable speed. Anxious and perhaps embarrassed parents hastened after. Echoes died and peace returned. With wry looks, the Walgraves headed up the stairs.

  True to his prediction, only the marquess and she remained.

  Diana turned to say something light before escaping, but paused when she saw his expression. “Are you all right, my lord?”

  The look of strain vanished, though he still seemed pale. “A slight headache, that is all,” he said, adding with a rueful smile, “The acoustics of this hall, however, are astonishing.”

  Diana found herself returning that smile, a smile which conveyed the notion that they were the only sane people in an insane world.

  Oh, but this was dangerous. She hastily made her escape, heading for the estate office, where no guest could pursue.

  It didn’t seem to help. That smile had seemed to spin a dangerous, silken thread between them, a thread that did not break even when she was safe, the door closed firmly behind her.

  Chapter 5

  They sat fourteen at table that night—the Malloren adults, Rosa, Diana, her mother, and some members of the household—and the marquess was where Diana had planned for him to be—at the opposite end of the table, at her mother’s right hand.

  All the same, that silken thread still held.

  She reminded herself not to even look at him, and concentrated on the men to either side of her—Lord Steen, and Lord Brand.

  The Mallorens were good company, and seemed to be on friendly terms with each other. Their spouses could hold their own. Conversation was often lively, and bounced across the table and even up and down it, rather than politely to neighbors only.

  The marquess was perhaps the quietest, though his occasional comments were witty. Diana, despite her intentions, found herself stealing glances at him even as she maintained her share of the light chatter around her.

  He was part of this family and yet not completely part. As the night wore on, she had the strange thought that he was more like a father than a brother to them, though he could not be many years older than Lord Bryght.

  She knew that the marquess’s mother had died when he was a child—the infamous mad one who’d murdered her newborn baby. And that his father had married again. She hadn’t known until Rosa told her before dinner, that father and stepmother had died within days of each other of sickness when the marquess was only nineteen. Or that the marquess held himself responsible for bringing the fever back to his home.

  Rosa said Brand believed his brother had some memory of the murder of his baby sister, for he’d been there at the time, and carried guilt over that, too. Even without that, nineteen was a difficult age to assume such huge responsibilities. Her own father had died suddenly when she was twenty-two, which had seemed young enough, and she’d had neither guilt nor siblings to worry about.

  Loving family and friends had tried to relieve Lord Rothgar of responsibility for the five youngsters. He’d stood firm, however, and kept them all under one roof. That was doubtless when he’d taken on the role of father. How else to manage?

  No wonder there was a challenging edge to Lord Bryght’s comments now and then. He must have been about sixteen—just the right age to be difficult in his grief.

  No wonder Lord Rothgar had been so protective of Lord Brand last year. She contemplated her sliver of artichoke pie, appetite fading. She and Rosa had drugged Lord Brand and abandoned him in a barn, even though they’d known he’d be violently ill afterward. It had mostly been her fault, too, for Rosa would ha
ve stayed to help him if she’d not been unwell herself from sharing the drugged drink.

  Lord Brand had forgiven them both, but had Lord Rothgar? She did not want his attentions, but she did not want his enmity, either.

  “Are you all right, Lady Arradale?” asked Lord Steen.

  Diana produced a smile and cut through the pastry. “Yes, of course, my lord. I was merely tracing an errant memory.” She ventured a question. “You must find being part of the Malloren family interesting.”

  His lips twitched. “Interesting enough to enjoy life in a secluded part of Devon.”

  She chuckled and moved on to other subjects, but she couldn’t stop both eyes and mind darting back to the marquess, drawn by the enigmatic puzzle he presented.

  He was elegant, effortlessly courteous, and, she thought, much loved. Yet something jarred.

  Eventually, she realized what it was.

  He was apart.

  By the time the ladies left the gentlemen to their relaxed drinking, she had the disconcerting feeling that the Marquess of Rothgar might be in many ways as isolated and alone as she. Perhaps that was the thread that ran between them, that both tugged and threatened at the same time.

  Over tea, Diana chatted to Elf and Rosa, and after a half hour of spicy, humorous gossip about London, Elf asked to be on first-name terms. Diana was beginning to feel that perhaps she had a new friend, and regretted that this visit would only last three days. She would have been happy if the men had lingered over brandy and snuff, but they joined the ladies quite quickly. She arranged card tables, and Lady Steen played the harp.

  After a while, Rosa took up music duty at the harpsichord, and Lord Brand joined her to play a duet. He did not have equal skill, but listening to the melded notes, seeing the bodies side by side, the occasional glances, Diana felt a deep quiver of envy.

  She had never realized how exact the phrase “speaking glances” truly was. She swallowed and looked away.

  Did her guests have everything they needed?

  Was the marquess still apart?

  Was he eyeing her darkly and plotting revenge?

  Of course he wasn’t. He was playing whist with Lord Bryght, Elf, and Lord Walgrave. Interestingly, Lord Walgrave was playing as the marquess’s partner, not his wife’s.

  Diana wandered over to watch, and being skilled at cards, soon saw that Lord Bryght and the marquess were players of extraordinary skill. No doubt their family knew never to let them partner each other.

  When the hand finished, the marquess looked up. “Do you wish to play, Lady Arradale?”

  As he began to rise and she demurred, Lord Walgrave rose. “Please, dear lady, rescue me. It’s like eating a chicken between three tigers.”

  His wife chuckled and turned to Diana. “Truly, it would be a kindness. He doesn’t have the lethal instinct.”

  Since Lord Walgrave had already moved away to speak to Lord Steen, it would be awkward to object. Diana took his seat across from the marquess.

  Another freak connection, or was there a conspiracy here? She shook off that thought. The adjoining rooms were her own doing, and nothing had contrived their solitary single status, or this partnering over cards.

  “I didn’t know whist could be so dangerous,” she remarked lightly as Elf dealt.

  “You haven’t asked what stakes we play for,” the marquess pointed out, eyes resting on her almost speculatively.

  Her shoulders twitched, and to counteract it, she sat up straighter. It occurred to her that this was the most intimate situation they had ever been in, sitting close and unavoidably face to face.

  “And what stakes do we play for, my lord?” she asked, fanning her hand and assessing her cards.

  “Love.”

  She looked up sharply.

  “Points,” Elf said simultaneously and in quite a different tone. “My brother doesn’t permit gambling within the family.”

  Diana looked only at him, the thread stretched taut. “Isn’t it dangerous to gamble with love, my lord—in a family?”

  “Or the safest place to do it. Appropriate, then,” he said, laying down a card, “that I play the ace of hearts.”

  Diana watched the cards instead of him, as everyone discarded low. “Not King of Hearts?” she asked lightly as she gathered their trick.

  “Perhaps that, too,” he said, playing the card.

  As she placed those cards in front of her, she looked straight at him. “Oh, do say you have the knave as well, my lord.”

  His lips twitched. “Whatever I have, I play low.”

  The play came toward her. There was no way he could know she held the queen, but when she played it—her only remaining heart—she felt as if he had forced the move. She was also aware during the rest of the hand of speculative interest from his brother and sister on either side.

  Plague take the man, he was flirting with her! Why? Whatever his reasons, plague take her own absurd reaction. She took the last trick and smiled calmly at him. “Our hand, love or not.”

  He gathered the cards and shuffled, long fingers deft within the froth of lace, one large ruby flashing in candlelight. Aware of staring at their beauty, of sudden curiosity about how they would feel in contact with her skin, she looked down at her own hands, glittering ring on every finger.

  He began to deal. “I do not insist on my rules in your house, Lady Arradale. If you would prefer to play for stakes …”

  She met his eyes, smiling calmly. “Not at all, my lord. The pleasure of the game is in the skill of it.”

  “My thought entirely, my lady,” he said as he picked up his hand. “And you play very skillfully indeed.”

  Heart suddenly pounding, Diana swallowed and fixed her attention firmly on her cards. Skillful or not, she was too sensible to play flirtatious games with him.

  Three days, though.

  Despite her new friendship with Elf, Diana wished the three days over.

  She and the marquess won decisively. They had the luck of the cards, but there was also a fine meshing of skills, almost an ability to read each other’s mind. She’d seen Elf and her brother exchanging more looks, and had wanted to protest, This is nothing. This is just good card play.

  She wasn’t sure that was true, however, so by the time she went up to bed, her nervousness about his bedchamber had reached the snapping point. It was just a room, and someone had to sleep in it, but still, as her maid stood waiting to undress her, she looked at the adjoining door, wishing she could see through it.

  On this side the door was gleaming mahogany inlaid with decorative woods. On the other side, she knew, it was sparkling white paint with flower decorations on the panels, and details picked out in gold.

  Beyond the door lay a lady’s bedchamber of the most flowery type. The colors were all white, pink, and gold, with shell-pink draperies swagged up by plaster cupids. It had been created for her mother and kept unchanged through the years, perhaps in memory of magical times.

  What was his reaction?

  Curiosity warred with caution, and curiosity won.

  After all, the marquess had been coming upstairs not far behind her. He could hardly have undressed already.

  She turned the key and knocked.

  After a moment, the door opened, and he stood there coatless. His cravat was still tied, his waistcoat still buttoned, and yet with the full sleeves of his shirt exposed, he seemed shockingly underdressed.

  And mildly, but forcefully, astonished.

  Diana swallowed and put on a hostess’s smile. “I hesitate to disturb you, my lord, but I did want to be sure you had everything you required.”

  His eyes rested on her a moment, then moved behind, where she knew he could see her bed, dark, solid, and masculine. He, on the other hand, was framed by white, pink, and gold. In dark gray waistcoat and breeches, and with that other essential darkness which surrounded him, he was truly midnight in lace.

  “The hospitality of Arradale is perfect as always, my lady.”

  Oh, perdit
ion. This had been folly and was now embarrassing, but to rush away and slam the door would make it more so. “We had to use every room, my lord. I hope you are not uncomfortable in such a feminine setting.”

  A brow rose. “I believe I have slept in such surroundings before.”

  Hades! Diana colored, and hurried into speech. “Your room was my mother’s, of course, before my father’s death. Doubtless I should have it redecorated in a more neutral style.”

  “Why not wait, and let your husband choose his setting?”

  Diana raised her chin. “You know I have as little intention as you of marrying.”

  “Ah, yes.” His eyes rested on hers. “In that case, you should certainly change the room, and your own as well.”

  “My own?” She turned and looked, as if something might suddenly be wrong with it.

  “Take possession of it for yourself. You are not your father. Stay there.”

  She turned back to see him order his valet to move the long cheval mirror in front of her. Suddenly Diana saw herself, standing in the ornate white doorway. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but she—trying yet again to be supremely feminine—was dressed in creamy white embroidered in pink, and wore gold and pearls. She matched his room, and contrasted as sharply with her own behind her as he did with his.

  “I don’t want a bedroom in pink and white,” she said to herself.

  “You have wealth and power. Your choices are infinite.” A simple gesture of his beautiful hand seemed to open doors all around her.

  She was still standing there, looking at herself in her inappropriate setting—lace against midnight—when he said, “Are your hostess’s instincts satisfied, Lady Arradale? I fear we will all be expected to rise early tomorrow to engage in prenuptial festivities.”

  She snapped her wits together. “Yes, of course. Good night, my lord.”

  He bowed. She was accustomed to bows, but she had the unnerving feeling that the Marquess of Rothgar had perfected every degree of bow. “Good night, Lady Arradale. Though your setting is dark, may your dreams be light.”