Читать книгу A Rose At Midnight - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 11

Magnus straightened the pile of papers on his desk before answering the knock at his study door. “Come,” he said, leaning back in the tufted leather chair and watching as the slender woman entered. He smiled. “Miss Wembly.”

“My lord.”

“Please have a seat.” He indicated one of the two tapestry chairs situated in front of his massive desk.

She was dressed more soberly today, and Magnus was grateful her décolletage was more in keeping with convention. A modest fichu of starched lace frothed at her throat, crowning a simple gown of fawn muslin. He would not be distracted by that enticing swell of exposed breasts, at least. Yet, his mind savored the taunting memory even as the corners of his mouth drew down in disappointment.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” he stated without inflection. “I have completed my investigation of your application, and can inform you.” Here he paused, conscious that this was no way to propose to a woman. “Of my decision to accept you as my wife.”

She was silent. Stunned, probably, but she recovered quickly. “Th-thank you, my lord.”

She didn’t smile. He wanted to see her smile. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her a week ago, he had wondered what that gorgeous face would look like lit up with laughter. He had seen her angry, wary, prideful and bristling with indignation, but he had not seen a whisper of happiness on those striking features.

“Are you not pleased, Miss Wembly?” he drawled.

“Yes, I am, of course, my lord.”

“You seem as if I just asked you if you would stop stepping on my foot.”

A faltering smile, which was worse than her seriousness, appeared. “I apologize. I suppose I was simply surprised. I thought it would take longer.”

“I began the necessary inquiries when your application was first made. Other than your family history, everything I require has been completed, and after some preliminary investigation, I have decided not to pursue it. I really do not see the need to wait, as time is of the essence.”

Her mouth made a small O, but she said nothing.

“I have taken the liberty of applying for a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is an excellent friend. The dispensation will be granted posthaste, and we will be free to marry anytime after that. I would, of course, wish to have the ceremony soon so that we may begin our wedded life.”

His pulse quickened just thinking about the implications of those words. He could see she was reacting too, a little, by the pink tinge which spread up her neck to those delicate ears.

My God, he was like a randy youth hot after his first woman. In fact, his body was responding much as it had in his adolescence at the sight of a desirable female. He was grateful he was seated safely behind the desk.

Her next words offered another explanation for the pretty flush of color. “There are some arrangements I need to discuss, of course. Financial arrangements.”

Like ice water, those words killed his brewing desire. “Of course,” he said crisply. He withdrew a document from a stack of files. “You remember Mr. Caractacus Green, the solicitor handling this transaction? I have asked him to draw up an agreement by which all will be made clear to you. In addition, I am giving you a copy of my will, so that you will know exactly the settlement I have arranged for you and the child upon my death.”

“And if there is no child?”

His mouth tensed. “You will be given a generous annuity, which I have arranged with David, who will inherit the title. It is all explained here.” He proffered the document.

Slender hands reached out and took it from him. She perused it. “It does not mention a specific amount.”

Coldness settled in deeper. “No,” he said. “We can amend that if you prefer. I simply thought we would leave it open. I do not imagine there are any expenses I cannot afford. However, if you feel the need to have it stipulated clearly.”

“I do,” she nodded definitely. “What amount had you in mind?”

He laced his fingers in front of his chin, regarding her steadily for a moment. “You name a figure.”

She was startled, and he grinned maliciously. He wanted her off guard, uncertain.

His glee at forcing her to ask for a monetary amount was cut off when she named a figure no larger than one of his footman’s salaries. She sat unmoving under his glare, and only by her preternatural stillness could he detect the crucial nature of these proceedings. He didn’t understand it. Not yet. But, Lord, she did intrigue him.

He reached out his hand for the document. Taking up his quill, he inserted an addendum. “I’ll double it,” he stated as he scrawled the amount, still remarkably small to his way of thinking, on the contract.

When he raised his head, his heart stopped dead in his chest and his arm, halfway extended to return the document to her, suspended in midmotion. She was staring at him with the most exquisite expression, a mingling of joy and gratitude, with a sheen in her eyes as if there were tears building. He had not thought it possible for her to be lovelier than when she had hissed and spat at him like a cornered she-cat, but there it was.

After a long moment, her hand came up to take the document, and the spell was broken. He let out the breath that had caught in his throat and busied himself with shuffling papers while she read over the rest of the agreement and affixed her neat signature. He in turn impatiently scrawled his own name.

The deal was done.

“Now,” he began, “there are some details which we have to contend with. Namely, the disposition of your mother. I would prefer if she did not reside at Hawking Park. I am a private man, and my illness makes me more so.”

“About that,” she interrupted softly, “your illness, I mean, I was wondering.that is, I do not know.”

Something gentle made him save her from the discomfiture of her question. “Is it the nature of my illness you wish to know about?” She nodded. “I am afraid I cannot tell you that, Miss Wembly.” At her self-conscious glance downward, he explained, “I do not know for certain, nor do any of my physicians. My symptoms indicate a weak heart, but the weakness does not follow the usual course. It is generally agreed that it is an atypical disease of the heart. However, there is one aspect upon which there is complete agreement. The attacks are coming more frequently, more severely, and will in time result in my heart ceasing to function. Just as my father’s did. It is hereditary you see—a wretched curse. How lucky for you that you come from healthy stock and have nothing to worry about.”

There was a long, broad silence. She simply returned his regard with a strange look on her face and the unexpected desire to know her thoughts registered in his brain.

“I am so sorry,” she said at last.

God, there was true regret in her eyes! “There is nothing to be done about my condition. As for my most profound wish, you are providing it for me, so do not apologize.” His tone was harsh, and he immediately regretted it. “About my condition,” he continued, unable to disaffect the curtness in his voice, “there is one expectation we have not discussed. I hope it will not be a hardship for you, but I will wish you to attend me during the episodes of my illness.”

She blinked, seeming to be taken aback. “Attend you?”

“As a nurse. A companion, really, for there are servants to do the more onerous duties.” For an instant, her gaze melted into his, and he knew she understood. He himself had not anticipated the desire to have her close to him at his death, but it was there as a sudden, urgent need to not die alone. She nodded and said, “Of course.”

“Thank you. Now, are there any questions you have?”

“Yes. If my mother is not allowed at Hawking Park, where shall she live? I was hoping she would be provided a better home than the place where she presently resides.”

He considered her request for a moment. “There is my London house, which is quite spacious, and a staff of servants remain year round. Also, I have a lodge in the Cumbrian Lake district. It is a more than modest residence and also comes with an intact staff.”

“Someplace close, if you please,” she asked, biting her lip as if she hardly dared request more than was already being so generously offered.

“Hmm. Someplace close.” He thought for a moment. “I cannot think of a thing. Unless.”

“Yes?”

“Until something suitable can be agreed upon, or until my death, I will continue to make the suite at the Ordinary available to her.”

It was then it happened. The smile he had wished for, fulfilling the promise of all he had dreamt it would be. She clasped her hands together and nodded, as if speech failed her.

It certainly failed him. There was a long pause as he studied her unguarded delight. Recovering, he cleared his throat. “Very well, I will make the necessary arrangements.”

When they had signed the papers, he called in Mr. Green, whom he had kept waiting in the parlor, much to the solicitor’s obvious and abundant displeasure. The sourfaced man looked over the adjustments, giving Caroline a slow, disdainful perusal when, Magnus guessed, he came to the annotation about her allowance. Shifting his gaze to his client, Green opened his mouth and was about to say something. Magnus bestowed a quelling glare, stopping the objections before they were spoken. With a snort and a “Harumph!”, Green stuffed the papers into his portfolio.

“I shall see to these, my lord,” he said, darting one more disapproving glance toward the future countess before taking his leave.

Caroline visibly relaxed in his absence. Catching Magnus’s eye, she gave a sheepish smile. “He does not like me, I am afraid.”

But I do, Miss Wembly.

“He is merely looking out for my interests,” Magnus explained. “Come, I shall take you on a tour of the house. My brother said he would be arriving today, and with any luck he will be here in time to join us at luncheon.”

“Oh,” Caroline said, surprised.

“That is, if you do not have other plans?” He meant his tone to communicate she would certainly break any other commitments should that be the case.

“No, as a matter of fact I had nothing other than returning to the Barrister’s Ordinary to take luncheon with Mother.”

Pushing his chair away from his desk, he rose. “I will send a man to inform her you are spending the afternoon with me. Would that be acceptable?” Before she could agree or disagree, he came to take her elbow and proceed with her out into the corridor. “Would you care for tea now?”

“N-no,” she answered. “I am not hungry just yet.”

“Excellent. Then we shall start on this floor and work our way up.”

She stopped. “Up?”

He turned. Her eyes, those magnificent depths which had seemed indigo or violet or some indefinable color he had never witnessed before, were in fact a deep blue shot through with swirling gray, rather like a storm cloud. Thickly fringed with dark blond lashes, they possessed a haunted, otherworldly quality. She stared at him now, her features signaling mild alarm.

He chuckled. “I assure you, Miss Wembly, I am content to wait out the week until you are my wife, properly wed. The tour is not a ruse to compromise your sterling respectability.”

Those eyes he had just studied flashed blue fire. Ah, yes, they were nearly violet. “Are you mocking me, sir?”

“Not at all. Simply trying to reassure you I am not half the reprobate I am reputed to be. Have I not acted the gentleman thus far?”

She seemed unsure. “Yes,” she admitted.

“See? It is just that my circumstances defy propriety’s dictates. I haven’t the time to import my great-aunt, who is the reigning matriarch and acknowledged authority on the family history. Thus, I must do it myself. Besides,” he said, pausing as he gave her a lazy look, “it will give us time to become better acquainted.”

She regarded him for a moment, her face unmoving and unreadable. At last, she said, “Very well, my lord.”

They started in the huge, circular entryway with its twostory Palladian windows and Ionic columns. As they wandered, the earl kept up a running monologue of the history of the house.

“This is my mother’s salon, which you’ve seen. She used to gather with her friends here each day. They were all artists and musicians—Bohemian types. That is why there is no music room, it was incorporated as part of this one. Now, down here is the grand dining room. I rarely use it.” He paused, looking about. “Come to think of it, I have never used it.”

He showed her the other rooms: a smaller dining room, a cozy parlor, a large mirrored ballroom with so much leaded glass and gilt it made her dizzy. He introduced her to every servant they came across and even took her into the kitchens where his appearance was met with an enthusiastic reception from Mrs. Bronson, the cook.

“Mercy, aren’t you a love?” she cooed to Caroline, smiling and clasping her pudgy hands together. “It’s wonderful, we all say. What a lovely thing, the two of you meetin’ like that and decidin’ to marry right off. Oh, terrible romantic it is!”

Caroline’s eyes rounded and shot to Magnus. He merely grinned back at her and purred, “Yes, isn’t it?”

“Oh, heavens, you poor ducky, you’ve gone all pink. Well, of course she has, my lord, when an old woman rattles on at her, don’t ya know. All right, I’ll get back to my puddings. I hope you’re hungry, miss. I’m whipping up a rack of lamb.”

“For luncheon?” Caroline asked, her voice almost a whisper, having not yet recovered from her former shock at hearing how she and the earl were so enamored of each other.

Magnus beamed at the older woman. “Mrs. Bronson is a wonderful cook. She loves to spoil me.”

“Ah, be gone with ya.” Mrs. Bronson blushed, shooing them out of the kitchen. She could be heard fussing to the scullery maids as they headed down the corridor.

“My lord?”

“Magnus.”

She paused. “Pardon me?”

“Please call me Magnus. It is unseemly for you to be referring to me as ‘my lord’ all the time.”

“Yes, well,” she stammered. “I-I shall call you. Magnus.”

She was unsure of herself, a new facet to her he had not glimpsed before, and he enjoyed the girlish way her teeth worried at her bottom lip.

“I wish you had informed me you planned to put out the story that we were.ah.”

“In love,” he supplied.

“Yes, exactly.”

“My dear Miss Wembly—or may I call you Caroline? I think it would be best. Caroline, why else would we wish to marry in such a hurry if not for the sheer impatience of true love?”

The dripping sarcasm in his tone caused her to flinch, and in an instant of pure understanding he knew this was a woman who had always thought to marry for that most tender of emotions. Love. Magnus was not certain if he even believed it existed. It hardly mattered, having no relevance in his life. There was duty, there was need, there was pleasure. Love was not a part of any of it.

“I see,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I am not criticizing. I only wish you had told me. I was caught unawares.”

“You are correct, of course. You should have been prepared. I apologize.”

She seemed relieved, and even slightly amused. “Tell me, my lord—” She stopped. “Magnus,” she corrected with determination, “where did we meet?”

He laughed. “Don’t you recall? A mutual friend of ours in London presented us to one another at a small gathering.”

They ascended the grand staircase, Magnus pointing out various paintings and describing the painter, the subject, and the manner in which each was either obtained or commissioned. It was all too much for Caroline to take in, and she told him so.

“You are not expected to learn it at once, but I should like you to try to remember as much as you can. When the child is born, he shall wish to know these things.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I will not bother to show all the guest rooms. Your rooms, however, you must be anxious to see. Here we are.”

He swung open the double doors. They entered into a sitting room, elegant, plush, exquisitely furnished in shades of yellow and rose. “Beyond there is the bedroom, and a large dressing room which connects to my apartments. There is a water closet through there.”

She was openly gaping, which satisfied Magnus. For himself, he was having a difficult time acclimating himself to his surroundings. He hadn’t been in this part of the house in years. Since his mother’s death. And he had lied to Caroline. His rooms were not through the connecting dressing door. He had never taken his father’s place in the master’s chamber, but he would have to now, as was fitting. What an irony that it was only in death he found himself worthy to do so.

He had had the room redecorated when he had first decided to take a wife, so everything, from the plush carpet to the silk draperies to the last embroidered pillow, was new. As Caroline walked about, studying this aspect or that, he waited. At last, she swung toward him, almost knocking him senseless with another of her smiles. “It is beautiful, my lord.”

He felt his heart do something queer in his chest. “Magnus,” he corrected, his voice almost a croak. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, I am sorry. Magnus.”

He caught himself staring and said roughly, “Come. All Mrs. Bronson’s talk of lamb has stoked my appetite. You will want to see the nursery before we go.”

“Yes, yes of course,” she said, and for the first time, Magnus saw the spark of excitement in her eye. As she passed him, he caught her scent, a gentle hint of rose water mingled with musk. His body tightened slightly, and he smiled as they continued the tour.