Page 17 of Fool for Love

“What sort of a plan?”

  “Men are fundamentally foolish and easily driven in the proper direction.” Esme dismissed the thought of Sebastian, who had ignored her explicit demand that he return to the Continent.

  “I remember that your friend Lady Perwinkle wooed her husband, but I cannot woo Darby. It wouldn’t change the situation.”

  “No,” Esme said with a dreamy expression in her eyes. “You may not be able to woo him, but we can think of something. Just give me a moment.”

  Henrietta waited.

  Esme chewed on her lip. “The thing is,” she said, “Darby is a born rescuer. Do you know what I mean? He never paid any attention to his little stepsisters—well, who would?—but when they were orphaned he instantly brought them into his household.”

  “Did he have any other choice?”

  “Yes, certainly. There are various aunts and uncles who on the face of it would have provided a better home for the girls than would a single man living the rackety bachelor life in London. But Darby would not allow it.”

  “I don’t see how he can rescue me,” Henrietta objected.

  “The only way a man can be forced to marry a woman is if he has ruined her reputation. So Darby has to ruin your reputation.”

  “But everyone knows, and even so—why would he want to save my reputation when everyone knows I can’t bear a child? The two things are connected!”

  Esme shrugged. “Not really. Of course, everyone will be scandalized at the idea that you behaved indiscreetly with him, and by that I mean that you bedded him, Henrietta. But as long as you marry with extraordinary speed, it will be a nine days’ wonder, and nothing more.”

  Henrietta swallowed. “How am I going to get him to—to bed me?” she whispered. “Another kiss, perhaps.”

  “Oh, we don’t have to go as far as that,” Esme said to Henrietta’s great relief. “We simply have to arrange for your reputation to be ruined, if you see what I mean. Then Darby will step in and rescue you!” She smiled brilliantly.

  “How on earth are we going to do that? I’ve heard of reputations ruined by indiscreet behavior, or evidence of some sort, but—”

  “We’ll present evidence,” Esme said patiently. “Believe me, there’s often very little connection between evidence and truth. If we present evidence that you and Darby spent the night together to Mrs. Colby, for example, she’ll have the two of you married off before you even turn around, and it won’t matter a smidgen to her that you are endangered by the whole childbearing issue. The important thing to her is that scandal is tied up in neat packages.”

  “I just don’t see what could be offered as evidence, under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, a letter,” Esme said carelessly, “a letter or a poem should do it. A poem would add an elegant rather Darby-ish touch, really.”

  Henrietta’s eyes widened, and Esme caught the slight movement. “He wrote you!”

  “No.”

  “But you have something, don’t you? Something we could use as evidence?”

  “Well…”

  “What is it?” Esme demanded.

  “It’s embarrassing,” Henrietta admitted.

  “How embarrassing can it be? I just confessed to you the whole tale of my seamy past!”

  Henrietta had to admit the truth of that statement. “I wrote myself a letter,” she said. “From Darby, if you understand.”

  “You wrote yourself a letter? Why didn’t you write a letter to Darby if you were in an epistolary mood?”

  “I think I’d had too much champagne. I was thinking about love letters that friends of mine had received. And I—well, I’m unlikely to receive any love letters, am I?”

  Esme’s eyes grew misty. “That’s so sad.”

  “So I wrote one to myself!” Henrietta said brightly, before her friend could collapse in another fit of tears. “And believe me, it’s better than any man could write me.”

  Esme, caught on the cusp of weeping, chuckled instead. “Isn’t that the truth? I’ve received hundreds of letters, myself, and not a one of them worth the paper they were written on.” Except perhaps that note she had upstairs under her pillow, the one written by the gardener. Which had not a word of love on it.

  “I consider my letter to be a model of its type,” Henrietta said, laughing as well. “I even quote poetry—”

  “Who? Shakespeare?”

  “John Donne.”

  “Donne’s love sonnets? I am glad that I rusticated near you! I wouldn’t have thought there was a soul in Limpley Stoke who had read Donne’s early poems.”

  “Well, I have.”

  “And I’m quite certain that Darby has read them as well. I hope you did it properly and referenced a night you spent together?”

  A blush edged Henrietta’s cheeks. “I did.”

  “Good! This should be easy. We’ll launch the plan at my dinner, naturally. The important thing is the guests, and where they sit.”

  She sat for a moment in silence.

  “I’ll invite the Cables,” she said finally.

  “Myrtle Cable?” Henrietta asked in disbelief. “You must be joking! Even my stepmother, who is the sweetest woman in the world, won’t have her to an intimate meal. Every other word she says is a biblical passage, haven’t you noticed?”

  “Perfect,” Esme said with satisfaction. “And I’ll have the vicar too. We have a shortage of men, since Helene is returning tomorrow. As the head of the family, Darby will be at one end of the table, and that leaves you with no partner. The vicar can escort your stepmother. And he will surely frown on illicit goings-on within the parish.”

  “I doubt it,” Henrietta said. “He’s not the interfering sort of vicar.”

  “Pity,” Esme said. “Still, I’m sure Mrs. Cable will more than make up for his reticence. As for the letter, Carola will be particularly useful. Now here’s what we’ll do…”

  23

  An Island, a Nymph, and Thou

  There was the menu to plan. The chef had requested yet another conference, as he was unable to obtain sufficient trout, and the menu would have to be changed. She needed to discuss precedence with the butler, and dinner cards with the housekeeper. Why on earth had she asked even one guest to the house? She was supposed to be in retirement, not giving supper parties. But it was too late. Fired by loneliness in the first month after Miles’s funeral, she had asked Carola to visit just as soon as the initial mourning period of six months was over.

  Esme sighed and lay back on her bed again, looking at the list of guests. Perhaps there was time for just a short nap. After all, Carola wasn’t arriving until tomorrow.

  Her brain was so slow. She couldn’t seem to think what to do about the fact that she’d received a note from Rees Holland, Helene’s loathed husband. Darby must have invited him to stay, and that was a disaster, because Helene was arriving any moment. If Helene didn’t want to stay at the house due to Darby’s presence, Esme could just imagine how she’d feel when Rees himself made an appearance.

  Perhaps she should wander down to the apple orchard. Marquess Bonnington was exquisitely aware of the intricacies of personalities and precedence. He was certainly the best person to consult about such matters. Unless he was busy digging a ditch, she thought with a drowsy chuckle.

  He wasn’t. Esme found the hut without any problem. It seemed snug enough, a little one-room structure at the very bottom of the gardens. It was made of rough-hewn wood, and smoke was wisping out of a little crooked chimney. She almost didn’t knock. Lord knows, the mistress of the house was not supposed to visit a gardener in his home. It simply wasn’t done.

  An image of Sebastian’s censorious face before he became a gardener flashed across her mind, and she pushed open the door without knocking.

  He was sprawled on a rough bench to the side of the fire, head propped up on his arm, reading. The image of him caught in her mind: the comfort, and the ease in his long body. The intentness with which he was reading. The happiness that seemed to cling around
him.

  “A bucolic scene,” she said mockingly.

  He looked up and didn’t instantly leap to his feet. Instead he sighed and put his book down, and then swung his feet to the floor in a leisurely sort of way. The proper marquess was well and truly gone, Esme thought with wonder.

  With a broad-shouldered gardener on his feet, the hut was suddenly much smaller. She managed to stop herself from drifting forward to touch his chest and see if it was as muscled as it appeared in a work shirt.

  “Esme. What a delightful surprise.”

  “What are you reading?” she asked, abandoning the idea of questioning him about precedence. Instead she strolled over to the bench and sat down. She would have reached for his book but there was no way around her stomach.

  “The Odyssey,” he said, adding another log to the fire.

  “My God, Homer? Why on earth are you reading that old stuff?”

  “It’s not old stuff—merely the tale of a man trying to come home. But he keeps getting waylaid by strumpets.”

  She cast him a needle-eyed glance. Could he possibly mean the innuendo that she read into that phrase? No. That would verge on rudeness, and Marquess Bonnington was never rude.

  “Strumpets?” she asked. “It’s Odysseus, isn’t it? Doesn’t his ship run into a Cyclops? My impression was that the Cyclops was a one-eyed—and very male—monster.”

  “True enough. But I happen to be reading about the time he spent trapped on an island as the slave of the nymph Calypso.” He didn’t even look at her, just gazed into the fire. He put his arm up on the mantelpiece and Esme feasted on the strength of that arm. God, but he was beautiful.

  “What was he doing on the island?” she asked, giving herself a short silent lecture on the sins of lust.

  “Oh, it appears he was a slave to the nymph,” Sebastian said dreamily. He looked at her now, and those eyes were absolutely wicked. “Obeyed her every command. And I gather from Homer that she relished his presence in bed. One can only imagine…”

  “Yes,” Esme said thoughtfully. “Lucky Calypso.”

  “Or lucky Odysseus. After all, she was his mistress, and he didn’t have to worry about anything. His only task was to fulfill Calypso’s wishes.” His voice was threaded with laughter and something else. Something rougher and altogether more disturbing than laughter.

  “Well, I’d better go now,” she said brightly, standing up. “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable and I can see—”

  He stepped in front of her and the words died on her lips. “Is there anything you would command, mistress?”

  Esme’s mouth was dry. This beautiful barbarian was offering himself to her. One hand, rough with physical labor, touched her cheek with a caress as gentle as an evening breeze. Then he moved back and propped a shoulder against the wall and just waited.

  “Sebastian—” she started, and stopped.

  He turned and opened the door. It was dark outside. Inside the hut was all glowing warmth. The firelight threw licks of golden light around the rough-hewn walls and danced over the table, a bed in the corner, that bench, one chair. The huge body leaning against the wall.

  Her finger seemed to rise of its own volition and trace the pattern of firelight on his chest.

  Her breath caught. He felt like liquid gold under her fingertips.

  “I must go!”

  “I’ll walk you to your door,” he said serenely.

  He touched her arm just as she turned to enter the house.

  “Whatever you desire, nymph.”

  24

  In Which Mrs. Cable Receives

  an Invitation to Dinner

  Mrs. Cable was having a lovely morning. She thought it was truly scandalous of Lady Rawlings to host a dinner party so soon after Lord Rawlings’s death. As she reminded her bosom friend Mrs. Pidcock, Esme Rawlings was barely through her first mourning period. “When Mr. Cable dies,” she assured Mrs. Pidcock, “I shall mourn for a decent period of time, and so I have assured him. I think I have a small reputation in the village for understanding propriety. Two years in black, I will be, and without a thought for hosting entertainments such as this.”

  Mrs. Pidcock had her own ideas about what Mrs. Cable would do when her husband expired. Probably dance a jig on his grave. But there was no arguing with Myrtle’s sense of proper duty. She would dance in black ribbons, no doubt about it.

  Naturally, Mrs. Cable’s outrage was not sufficient to prevent her accepting Lady Rawlings’s invitation. “I shall attend the dinner,” she assured Mrs. Pidcock, “if only to verify that our dear Henrietta has not fallen prey to the wiles of that Mr. Darby. The man’s up to no good, if you ask me. I’ll feel more comfortable when she’s five years older, and that’s a fact.”

  Mrs. Pidcock didn’t share her anxiety. She had a hard-headed sense that no man would marry just for a pretty face when an heir could not result.

  “Lady Henrietta has a good head on her shoulders,” Mrs. Pidcock said. “She won’t succumb to some fribble from London.”

  “But everyone says he’s desperate for money. And you know Henrietta is remarkably well endowed in that respect.”

  “He’s not so desperate that he’d marry a wife sure to leave him a widower. I know that man’s a peacock. George is beside himself, muttering about Darby’s lace cuffs. But he is not a fool. True, it was unfortunate that he kissed Henrietta in the village, where anyone might see. But now that Lady Holkham had informed him of the situation, I have no belief that he will continue his suit.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Cable said. “And Henrietta did say that he was wooing Lucy Aiken.”

  “Well, there you are then. Lady Henrietta is such a good-natured girl that she probably smoothed the way for Lucy—and you know, dear, I do believe that Lucy would love to marry just such a fribble as Mr. Darby.”

  Mrs. Cable was almost convinced. But she was still overjoyed to have a chance to keep an eye on Darby.

  25

  Lady Rawlings Receives Guests

  “I can hardly believe it! You look so splendidly—maternal!” Carola Perwinkle cried. With her short golden curls and pointed little face, she looked a perfect cherub.

  Esme laughed. “It’s a good thing that I am so fond of you,” she said, returning her kiss. She held out her hands to Carola’s sweet-faced, quiet husband, Lord Perwinkle. “And how are you, sir? It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  He kissed her hand. “I gather that I have you to thank for Carola’s return to my household, madam. May I say how very, very grateful I am?”

  For all he was overabsorbed in fishing, and not very talkative, Tuppy Perwinkle had charming blue eyes. No wonder Carola was so in love with him. “It was my pleasure, sir,” she said, dimpling at him.

  Carola broke in, giggling. “I think it was his pleasure!”

  Tuppy rolled his eyes. “I can’t keep this baggage from making indiscreet remarks, Lady Rawlings. You must forgive us.”

  “Please, do call me Esme,” she said. “Your wife and I are very old friends, you know.”

  “It would be an honor,” he said.

  “Go away, Tuppy, do,” his wife said. “I must speak to Esme. Why don’t you make certain that our bags are all removed to our chamber?”

  Esme caught the smile he sent Carola and surprised herself by a deep flash of jealousy. There was something so enticing in the way their eyes met, and his held such a potent blend of love and attraction and lust. She swallowed down an attack of self-pity.

  Carola dropped next to her on the settee as if such looks from her husband were not out of the ordinary, and stared at Esme’s stomach.

  Esme looked too. She was wearing a fashionable mourning gown of plain white satin cloth, trimmed around the bosom and sleeves with black lace points. Even though the gown looked entrancing when she chose the pattern, there was no getting around the fact that satin seemed to magnify her stomach. Sitting next to Carola, her stomach looked like a sparkling, shimmering mound claimin
g attention.

  “Where on earth did that come from?” Carola said in a wondering voice.

  Esme laughed. “If you don’t know yet, I’m going to leave it up to your husband to explain.”

  “I didn’t mean that! I meant that I just saw you a mere six months ago, and you were as thin as a—as a twig!” Carola said. “It was I who was whinging about my figure, do you remember?” Her eyes wandered up to Esme’s bodice line.

  “If I recall correctly, you thought your bosom was too large. Well, wait until you’re carrying a child.”

  Carola blushed and leaned closer. “I have the most wonderful news—I am!”

  “Oh, Carola,” Esme said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m so very happy for you, and for Tuppy as well.”

  “He doesn’t know yet.” Carola had a cat-in-the-cream type of smile. “I was only certain myself a few days ago, and I’m waiting for just the right moment to tell him. Perhaps after our next fight.”

  “Are you still fighting? I thought all was sunlight and roses now.”

  Carola shrugged. “How can anyone live with a man and not argue with him? The first quarrel we had after I moved back in the house, I was devastated. Terrified, really. I thought he might up and leave, or ask me to leave, and I simply wouldn’t be able to bear it.” Her voice trailed off.

  Esme pressed her hand. “What happened?”

  A smile teased the corner of Carola’s mouth. “He had stamped off to the stables, and I was rushing about my sitting room, not really doing anything, but trying not to think. Because I was afraid that if I thought about it, I would have to leave him, you understand.”

  Esme nodded.

  “Well, he came to me,” she said simply. “We”—she lowered her voice—“we ended up making love in the sitting room—have you ever heard of such an outrageous thing?”

  Esme bit back a smile. “Yes,” she said gravely.

  “I suppose we weren’t the first couple in the world to make love there, but it was a revelation to me.” Her eyes were soft even thinking of it. “I think I conceived this child that very day.” Her hand drifted over her perfectly flat stomach.