At the juncture of two hallways and the stairs Lord Marchman turned and looked at Berta and Elizabeth. “Would you care for refreshment, or would you rather go straight to bed?”
Elizabeth wanted a rest, and she particularly wanted to spend as little time in his company as was possible. “The latter, if you please.”
“In that case,” he said with a sweeping gesture of his arm toward the staircase, “let’s go.”
Berta let out a gasp of indignant outrage at what she perceived to be a clear indication that he was no better than Sir Francis. “Now see here, milord! I’ve been putting her to bed for nigh onto two score, and I don’t need help from the likes of you!” And then, as if she realized her true station, she ruined the whole magnificent effect by curtsying and adding in a servile whisper, “if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Mind? No, I—” It finally occurred to John Marchman what she thought, and he colored up clear to the roots of his hair. “I—I only meant to show you how,” he began, and then he leaned his head back and briefly closed his eyes as if praying for deliverance from his own tongue. “How to find the way,” he finished with a gusty sigh of relief.
Elizabeth was secretly touched by his sincerity and his awkwardness, and were the situation less threatening, she would have gone out of her way to put him at his ease.
* * *
Reluctantly opening her eyes, Elizabeth rolled over onto her back. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, and a faint smile teased the corners of her lips as she stretched and thought back on the previous night’s meal. Lord Marchman had turned out to be as endearing, awkward, and eager to please as he’d seemed upon their arrival.
Berta bustled in, still managing to look like a maid despite her stylish puce gown. “That man,” she announced huffily, referring to their host, “can’t put two words together without losing his meaning!” Obviously she’d expected better of the quality during the time she was allowed to mix with them.
“He’s afraid of us, I think,” Elizabeth replied, climbing out of bed. “Do you know the time? He desired me to accompany him fishing this morning at seven.”
“Half past ten,” Berta replied, opening drawers and turning toward Elizabeth for her decision as to which gown to wear. “He waited until a few minutes ago, then went off without you. He was carrying two poles. Said you could join him when you arose.”
“In that case, I think I’ll wear the pink muslin,” she decided with a mischievous smile.
The Earl of Marchman could scarcely believe his eyes when he finally saw his intended making her way toward him. Decked out in a frothy pink gown with an equally frothy pink parasol and a delicate pink bonnet, she came tripping across the bank. Amazed at the vagaries of the female mind, he quickly turned his attention back to the grandfather trout he’d been trying to catch for five years. Ever so gently he jiggled his pole, trying to entice or else annoy the wily old fish into taking his fly. The giant fish swam around his hook as if he knew it might be a trick and then he suddenly charged it, nearly jerking the pole out of John’s hands. The fish hurtled out of the water, breaking the surface in a tremendous, thrilling arch at the same moment John’s intended bride deliberately chose to let out a piercing shriek: “Snake!”
Startled, John jerked his head in her direction and saw her charging at him as if Lucifer himself was on her heels, screaming, “Snake! Snake! Snnnaaaake!” And in that instant his concentration was broken; he let his line go slack, and the fish dislodged the hook, exactly as Elizabeth had hoped.
“I saw a snake,” she lied, panting and stopping just short of the arms he’d stretched out to catch her—or strangle her, Elizabeth thought, smothering a smile. She stole a quick searching glance at the water, hoping for a glimpse of the magnificent trout he’d nearly caught, her hands itching to hold the pole and try her own luck.
Lord Marchman’s disgruntled question snapped her attention back to him. “Would you like to fish, or would you rather sit and watch for a bit, until you recover from your flight from the serpent?”
Elizabeth looked around in feigned shock. “Goodness, sir, I don’t fish!”
“Do you sit?” he asked with what might have been sarcasm.
Elizabeth lowered her lashes to hide her smile at the mounting impatience in his voice. “Of course I sit,” she proudly told him. “Sitting is an excessively ladylike occupation, but fishing, in my opinion, is not. I shall adore watching you do it, however.”
For the next two hours she sat on the boulder beside him, complaining about its hardness, the brightness of the sun and the dampness of the air, and when she ran out of matters to complain about she proceeded to completely spoil his morning by chattering his ears off about every inane topic she could think of while occasionally tossing rocks into the stream to scare off his fish.
When at last he finally hooked one, despite Elizabeth’s best efforts to prevent it, she scrambled to her feet and backed up a step. “You—you’re hurting it!” she cried as he pulled the hook from its mouth.
“Hurting what? The fish?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yes!”
“Nonsense,” said he, looking at her as if she was daft, then he tossed the fish on the bank.
“It can’t breathe, I tell you!” she wailed, her eyes fixed on the flapping fish.
“It doesn’t need to breathe,” he retorted. “We’re going to eat it for lunch.”
“I certainly won’t!” she cried, managing to look at him as if he were a cold-blooded murderer.
“Lady Cameron,” he said sternly, “am I to believe you’ve never eaten fish?”
“Well, of course I have.”
“And where do you think the fish you’ve eaten came from?” he continued with irate logic.
“It came from a nice tidy package wrapped in paper,” Elizabeth announced with a vacuous look. “They come in nice, tidy paper wrapping.”
“Well, they weren’t born in that tidy paper,” he replied, and Elizabeth had a dreadful time hiding her admiration for his patience as well as for the firm tone he was finally taking with her. He was not, as she had originally thought, a fool or a namby-pamby. “Before that,” he persisted, “where was the fish? How did that fish get to the market in the first place?”
Elizabeth gave her head a haughty toss, glanced sympathetically at the flapping fish, then gazed at him with haughty condemnation in her eyes. “I assume they used nets or something, but I’m perfectly certain they didn’t do it this way.”
“What way?” he demanded.
“The way you have—sneaking up on it in its own little watery home, tricking it by covering up your hook with that poor fuzzy thing, and then jerking the poor fish away from its family and tossing it on the bank to die. It’s quite inhumane!” she said, and she gave her skirts an irate twitch.
Lord Marchman stared at her in frowning disbelief, then be shook his head as if trying to clear it. A few minutes later he escorted her home.
Elizabeth made him carry the basket containing the fish on the opposite side from where she walked. And when that didn’t seem to discomfit the poor man she insisted he hold his arm straight out—to keep the basket even further from her person.
She was not at all surprised when Lord Marchman excused himself until supper, nor when he remained moody and thoughtful throughout their uncomfortable meal. She covered the silence, however, by chattering earnestly about the difference between French and English fashions and the importance of using only the best kid for gloves, and then she regaled him with detailed descriptions of every gown she could remember seeing. By the end of the meal Lord Marchman looked dazed and angry; Elizabeth was a little hoarse and very encouraged.
“I think,” Berta remarked with a proud little smile when she was seated alone in the drawing room beside Elizabeth, “he’s having second thoughts about proposing, milady.”
“I think he was silently contemplating the easiest way to murder me at dinner,” Elizabeth said, chuckling. She was about to say more
when the butler interrupted them to announce that Lord Marchman wished to have a private word with Lady Cameron in his study.
Elizabeth prepared for another battle of wits—or witlessness, she thought with an inner smile—and dutifully followed the butler down a dark hall furnished in brown and into a very large study where the earl was seated in a maroon chair at a desk on her right.
“You wished to see—” she began as she stepped into his study, but something on the wall beside her brushed against her hair. Elizabeth turned her head, expecting to see a portrait hanging there, and instead found herself eye-to-fang with an enormous bear’s head. The little scream that tore from her was very real this time, although it owed to shock, not to fear.
“It’s quite dead,” the earl said in a voice of weary resignation, watching her back away from his most prized hunting trophy with her hand over her mouth.
Elizabeth recovered instantly, her gaze sweeping over the wall of hunting trophies, then she turned around.
“You may take your hand away from your mouth,” he stated. Elizabeth fixed him with another accusing glare, biting her lip to hide her smile. She would have dearly loved to hear how he had stalked that bear or where he had found that monstrous-big boar, but she knew better than to ask. “Please, my lord,” she said instead, “tell me these poor creatures didn’t die at your hands.”
“I’m afraid they did. Or more correctly, at the point of my gun. Please sit down.” He nodded toward an overstuffed leather wingback chair in front of his desk, and Elizabeth settled into its enveloping comfort. “Tell me, if you will,” he inquired, his eyes softening as he gazed upon her upturned face, “in the event we were wed, how would you envision our lives together?”
Elizabeth hadn’t expected such a frontal attack, and she both respected him for it and was disconcerted by it. Taking a long breath, she tried systematically to describe the sort of life she knew he’d probably loathe: “Naturally, we’d live in London,” she began, leaning forward in her chair in a pose of eager enthusiasm. “I do so adore the city and its amusements.”
His brows drew together at the mention of living in London. “What sort of amusements do you enjoy?”
“Amusements?” Elizabeth said brightly, considering. “Balls and routs and the opera. I adore giving balls and attending them. In fact, I simply cannot bear to miss a ball. Why, during my season there were days I managed to make it to as many as fifteen different balls! And I adore gambling,” she added, trying to give him the impression that she would cost him a great deal more than the dowry she would bring. “I have dreadful luck, however, and am forever having to borrow money.”
“I see,” he said. “Is there anything else?”
Elizabeth faltered, feeling she ought to think of more, but his steady, speculative gaze was unnerving her. “What else matters in life,” she said with forced gaiety, “other than balls and gaming and sophisticated companions?”
His face had grown so thoughtful that Elizabeth sensed he was working up the courage to cry off, and she waited in expectant silence so as not to distract him. The moment he began to speak, she knew he was going to do it because his speech became awkward, as it seemed to do whenever he addressed her on matters he perceived to be important. “Lady . . . er . . .” he began lamely, running his fingers around his neckcloth.
“Cameron,” Elizabeth provided helpfully.
“Yes—Cameron,” he agreed, and he fell silent for a moment, regathering his thoughts. “Lady Cameron,” he began, “I am a simple country lord without any aspirations to spend the season in London and cut a dash among the ton. I go there as seldom as possible. I can see that disappoints you.”
Elizabeth nodded sadly.
“I greatly fear,” he said, flushing at the neck, “that we won’t suit, Lady . . . er . . .” He trailed off uneasily at his rudeness.
“Cameron,” Elizabeth provided, eager to have him complete his thought.
“Yes, of course. Cameron. I knew that. What I was trying to say was that . . . ah . . .”
“We won’t suit?” Elizabeth prodded helpfully.
“Exactly!” Misintepreting her last sentence as being her own thought instead of his, he sighed with relief and nodded emphatically. “I must say I’m happy to hear you agree with me.”
“Naturally, I regret that this is so,” Elizabeth added kindly, feeling that some sort of balm was due him for the emotional torment she’d put him through at the stream. “My uncle will be most disappointed also,” she continued. It was all she could do not to leap to her feet and put the quill in his hand as she added, “Would you like to write to him now and explain your decision?”
“Our decision,” he corrected gallantly.
“Yes, but . . .” She hesitated, framing her answer carefully. “My uncle will be so very disappointed, and I—I shouldn’t like him to lay the blame at my door.” Sir Francis might well have blamed her in his inevitable letter to her uncle, and she didn’t dare risk having the earl do likewise. Uncle Julius was no fool, and she couldn’t risk his retribution if he realized she’d been deliberately discouraging her beaux and intentionally thwarting him.
“I see,” he said, observing her with disturbing concentration, then he picked up a quill and trimmed it. A sigh of relief escaped Elizabeth as she watched him write his note. “Now that that distasteful matter is out of the way, may I ask you something?” he said, shoving the note aside.
Elizabeth nodded happily.
“Why did you come here—that is, why did you agree to reconsider my proposal?”
The question alarmed and startled her. Now that she’d seen him she had only the dimmest, possibly even erroneous recollection of having spoken to him at a ball. Moreover, she couldn’t tell him she was in danger of being cut off by her uncle, for that whole explanation was too humiliating to bear mentioning.
He waited for her to reply, and when she seemed unable to give one he prompted, “Did I do or say something during our brief meetings the year before last to mislead you, perhaps, into believing I might yearn for the city life?”
“It’s hard to say,” Elizabeth said with absolute honesty.
“Lady Cameron, do you even remember our meeting?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Certainly,” Elizabeth replied, belatedly recalling a man who looked very like him being presented to her at Lady Markham’s. That was it! “We met at Lady Markham’s ball.”
His gaze never left her face. “We met in the park.”
“In the park?” Elizabeth repeated in sublime embarrassment.
“You had stopped to admire the flowers, and the young gentleman who was your escort that day introduced us.”
“I see,” Elizabeth replied, her gaze skating away from his.
“Would you care to know what we discussed that day and the next day when I escorted you back to the park?” Curiosity and embarrassment warred, and curiosity won out. “Yes, I would.”
“Fishing.”
“F-Fishing?” Elizabeth gasped.
He nodded. “Within minutes after we were introduced I mentioned that I had not come to London for the Season, as you supposed, but that I was on my way to Scotland to do some fishing and was leaving London the very next day.”
An awful feeling of foreboding crept over Elizabeth as something stirred in her memory. “We had a charming chat,” he continued. “You spoke enthusiastically of a particularly challenging trout you were once able to land.”
Elizabeth’s face felt as hot as red coals as he continued, “We quite forgot the time and your poor escort as we shared fishing stories.”
He was quiet, waiting, and when Elizabeth couldn’t endure the damning silence anymore she said uneasily, “Was there . . . more?”
“Very little. I did not leave for Scotland the next day but stayed instead to call upon you. You abandoned the halfdozen young bucks who’d come to escort you to some sort of fancy soiree and chose instead to go for another impromptu walk in the park with me.”
Elizabeth
swallowed audibly, unable to meet his eyes.
“Would you like to know what we talked about that day?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
He chuckled but ignored her reply. “You professed to be somewhat weary of the social whirl and confessed to a longing to be in the country that day—which is why we went to the park. We had a charming time, I thought.”
When he fell silent, Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze and say with resignation, “And we talked of fishing?”
“No,” he said. “Of boar hunting.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes in sublime shame.
“You related an exciting tale of a wild boar your father had shot long ago, and of how you watched the hunt— without permission—from the very tree below which the boar was ultimately felled. As I recall,” be finished kindly, “you told me that it was your impulsive cheer that revealed your hiding place to the hunters—and that caused you to be seriously reprimanded by your father.”
Elizabeth saw the twinkle lighting his eyes, and suddenly they both laughed.
“I remember your laugh, too,” he said, still smiling, “I thought it was the loveliest sound imaginable. So much so that between it and our delightful conversation I felt very’ much at ease in your company.” Realizing he’d just flattered her, he flushed, tugged at his neckcloth, and self-consciously looked away.
Seeing his discomfort, Elizabeth waited until he’d recovered his composure and was looking at her. “I remember you, too,” she said, tipping her head sideways when he started to turn his head and refusing to let him break their gaze. “I do,” she said quietly and honestly. “I had forgotten until just a moment ago.”
He looked gratified and puzzled as he leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Why did you choose to reconsider my proposal, when I scarcely made the merest impression on you?”
He was so nice, so kind, that Elizabeth felt she owed him a truthful answer. Moreover, she was rapidly revising her opinion of Lord Marchman’s acuity. Now that the possibility of romantic involvement had vanished, his speech had become incisive and his perception alarmingly astute.