A Summer to Remember

Chapter 10

Lauren was not late for breakfast, as she had feared she would be. There was even time for her maid to do something to disguise the dampness of her hair after she had changed her clothes. She went down with Gwen and her aunt, both of whom called at her room first to tell her how favorably impressed they were with their welcome to Alvesley, and how well they liked Lord Ravensberg. And how happy they were for her, of course.

The whole family was assembled for breakfast, with the exception of the dowager, who always remained quietly in her own apartments for most of the morning before going out for her daily walk, the countess explained. The earl himself seated the ladies, placing Lauren to his right, Aunt Clara to his left.

“You went riding with Ravensberg this morning,” he observed to Lauren. “I saw you leave the stables.”

“Yes, my lord.” She smiled. “The early morning air was fresh and invigorating. We rode through the woods to the temple folly on the far bank of the lake. The view from there is quite splendid.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

“You have been on an outing already this morning?” Aunt Clara asked, all astonishment. “ You, Lauren? Riding?”

And swimming too, Lauren thought. How terribly mortified she would be if the earl had witnessed that too. But she had floated. Alone. And then she had lost her head—something a lady never did—and launched herself at Kit in her excitement. And he had kissed her. Or had she kissed him? But that possibility did not bear thinking of.

Gwen was laughing. “Lauren has never been an early riser,” she said. “And riding has never been her favorite form of exercise. I believe you are having a positive influence on her, Lord Ravensberg.”

“I do hope so. But perhaps, ma’am,” he replied, mischief in his eyes, “it was merely the effect of coercion. I threatened to haul her out of bed in person if she did not appear in the stables of her own volition.”

Lauren felt her cheeks flame.

“Kit!” his mother said reproachfully.

Aunt Clara laughed.

“That would do it,” Gwen said gleefully.

“The exercise has whipped a healthy glow into your complexion, Miss Edgeworth,” the earl told her. “Sydnam, will you be ready after breakfast to help me inspect the new roofs on the laborers’ cottages?”

“Certainly, sir,” his son replied.

Kit, Lauren noticed, was not invited to join them. Neither did he suggest it himself. Of course, Mr. Butler was his father’s steward. But even so . . .

The countess planned to call on her neighbors during the morning to deliver personal invitations to the festivities for her mother-in-law’s birthday.

“Kit will attend you this morning,” she said to her guests.

“But may I not be of some assistance to you, ma’am?” Lauren asked.

“That is extremely kind of you.” The countess looked approvingly at her. “Yes, thank you, Miss Edgeworth. It would certainly be appropriate for me to introduce Kit’s betrothed to the neighborhood. Lady Kilbourne, Lady Muir, would you care to accompany us too?”

It was decided that all four of the ladies would go visiting.

It was Sydnam Butler who introduced an awkward note into the discussion of the various morning plans. “Will you be calling at Lindsey Hall, Mother?” he asked. “Will you be taking an invitation there?”

“It is rather far,” she said. “I believe I will have a servant take over a card.”

“When all the other invitations are to be delivered in person?” Kit said. “It might be construed as something of a slight, might it not, Mother?”

“I daresay,” she said briskly, “they will not be able to attend anyway. Though of course an invitation must be sent. Now, I believe we ought—”

“I will ride over there and be your messenger,” Kit said. “It will give me something to do this morning.”

There was an awkward little silence.

“But I would like to come with you, Kit,” Lauren told him. “Can you wait until after we return? It would appear strange that I have been introduced everywhere else except Lindsey Hall.”

The earl cleared his throat but then, when everyone looked his way, appeared to have nothing to say.

“I do understand all the awkwardness of the present relations between Alvesley and Lindsey Hall,” Lauren assured the earl and countess. “I know what has happened, and I have explained it to Aunt Clara and Gwen. I really do believe that Kit and I should do our best to prevent any permanent estrangement. We should go together this afternoon. How the Duke of Bewcastle receives us and whether he and his family attend the birthday celebrations will be their decision.”

“Oh, my dear.” The countess sighed. “There is really no need for you to do this. The duke and his family can be very . . . Well, they do not take kindly to having their will crossed. This is entirely a problem for us to handle.”

“But I am to be one of your family, ma’am,” Lauren reminded her.

“It is certainly the right thing to do. I applaud your courage, Miss Edgeworth.” The earl was looking at her with considerable respect. “Ravensberg will wait for you.”

Kit, Lauren saw when she looked across the table at him, was regarding her with steady, unsmiling eyes.

The rest of the morning was busy, but it offered nothing beyond the range of Lauren’s experience. They called upon six families, three in the village, three in the country beyond it. Partly in fulfillment of her bargain with Kit, partly because it was second nature to her anyway, she made herself agreeable and charming. She was, of course, the focus of everyone’s curious attention as the affianced bride of Lord Ravensberg. She had her main reward when for a few moments as Mrs. Heath showed off her flower garden to Aunt Clara and Gwen before they returned to the barouche, she walked at the countess’s side.

“You are an extremely pleasant surprise,” the countess said.

Lauren looked inquiringly at her.

“We have heard very little that is good about Kit since his return to England last year,” his mother said. “We were quite dismayed when he came home two weeks ago and told us about you. We expected the worst, I must admit. It is an enormous relief to discover that he has chosen a perfectly charming lady.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Lauren flushed with pleasure. “But were you very disappointed? About Lady Freyja Bedwyn, I mean?”

“Redfield and the Duke of Bewcastle—both this man and his father before him—have always dreamed of an alliance between our two houses since our lands adjoin,” the countess explained. “Our eldest son died before he could marry Lady Freyja. Redfield thought a match with her would suit Kit. We both did. We were taken entirely by surprise when he came home with news of his betrothal to someone else. I cannot say I am entirely disappointed, especially after meeting you. I think you will do very well for my son. Perhaps you will be able to persuade him to settle down at last.” She sighed. “And to be happy again.”

There was no time for any further conversation together. Soon they were in the barouche and Aunt Clara was exclaiming over the beauty of Mrs. Heath’s garden.

Lauren was left to deal silently with her guilt. How were Kit’s parents going to feel when she broke off the engagement at the end of the summer? They were real people. They were not the heartless tyrants she had imagined when Kit had told his story in Vauxhall, but parents who wanted the best for their son. They wanted his happiness.

How could she have agreed to this deception? No—how could she have suggested it?

The need to confide in someone was suddenly almost overwhelming. She met Gwen’s eyes across the barouche. Gwen was smiling at her and looking happy—happy for her. She had been terribly hurt for Lauren’s sake by the events of last year. She felt disloyal, Lauren knew, for loving Lily and for feeling happy about her brother’s happiness. She thought now that Lauren had found her happily-ever-after.

But a bargain was a bargain, Lauren decided. She could not tell anyone the truth until this was all over.

Less than two hours later Lauren was sitting beside Kit in his curricle. It was a perfect summer afternoon, but Lauren, shielding her complexion beneath the shade of a parasol, was in no mood to enjoy it. She was uncomfortable for two particular reasons. She kept remembering the early morning with considerable embarrassment, and she was more nervous about the coming visit than she cared to admit.

Kit seemed disinclined to talk as he drove along the country lane at a pace that seemed far too recklessly fast to Lauren. But she would not reprove him. She just wished he would talk about the weather or some other safe topic. Had she actually been in the lake with him this morning in her shift while he had worn nothing at all above the waist? Could it possibly have been merely a dream? But no, her dreams had never been that bizarre. She twirled her parasol.

“I have realized,” he said without turning his head, “that it is a sign of emotion even when you are looking perfectly composed.”

“What is?” She looked blankly at him.

“You send your parasol for a spin,” he said, “and fan my cheek with the breeze it whips up. It is a sign of emotion. It betrays you.”

“How utterly foolish,” she said, holding her parasol quite still.

“Are you nervous?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then you should be,” he said.

An ancient wagon top-heavy with a load of hay was lumbering toward them. Kit deftly drew his curricle to the side of the road so that the hedgerow brushed alarmingly against the wheels, and grinned in acknowledgment of the farmer, who was bobbing his head and pulling respectfully at his forelock while his wrinkled face was wreathed in smiles. The horses did not reduce speed. Lauren slowly released her death grip on the handle of her parasol as they drew clear and had the narrow road to themselves again.

“There are six Bedwyns,” Kit continued just as if between two sentences he had not put both their lives at risk, “none or most of whom you may be about to meet. And not a one of them will be feeling kindly disposed to either of us. They are, in order of birth, Bewcastle himself, who succeeded his father to the title when he was just seventeen, Aidan, Rannulf, Freyja, Alleyne, and Morgan. Their mother was apparently a voracious reader of the history and literature of old Briton—hence their outlandish names. Bewcastle is Wulfric, though not many people outside his own family have ever called him that. We were all friends and playmates during our growing years except for Bewcastle, who was too superior, and Morgan, who was too young. Aidan is doing his bit in the Peninsula. The others are all at home this summer, I believe. They are all hellions, Lauren, regardless of gender. It has occurred to me since this morning that in agreeing to your offer to accompany me here I have perhaps agreed to feed the lamb to the wolves.”

It all sounded dreadfully alarming. But she had been taught that civility and gentility were the answer to all of life’s ills, that the outer demeanor was all-important, any inner uncertainties being something to be kept strictly to oneself.

“I am not afraid,” she said. “I came to Alvesley to help you establish yourself here on your own terms. It was part of our bargain. The attempt to mend the breach between your two families is necessary.”

They had turned off the narrow country road they had been following for several miles and were proceeding up a wide, straight avenue lined with elm trees toward an imposing stone mansion, which appeared to be a blend of so many architectural styles that it was impossible to label it with one word. Yet it was magnificent. It was Lindsey Hall, Lauren supposed. She ruthlessly ignored the queasiness in her stomach.

“It occurs to me,” Kit said, “that you are fulfilling your side of our bargain with single-minded devotion, Lauren. I am going to have to apply myself more diligently to mine. I will owe you some exhilarating adventure after this afternoon. And some grand passion.”

“I am not going swimming again today,” she said hastily. “Or kissing you again—ever.”

He chuckled. “Actually,” he said, “I had tree climbing in mind.”

Her mind exploded with alarm, but there was no time to pursue the matter. The avenue divided into two branches close to the house and circled about a large and magnificent flower garden with a marble fountain at its center. Water spouted thirty feet into the air, creating the impression of a million diamonds and an array of rainbows against the summer sunshine. Kit helped Lauren down before the front doors and relinquished his horses and curricle to the care of a groom, who had come running from the stables.

“The house is a hodgepodge of various architectural styles,” Kit explained as he rapped the knocker against the door. “All courtesy of generations of dukes and earls before them who extended and improved without pulling anything down. The great hall, as you will see, is pure Middle Ages.”

He was quite right, Lauren saw as soon as they stepped inside. The ceiling was oak-beamed, the plain walls hung with weapons and coats of arms and faded old banners. One huge fireplace dominated the wall opposite the door, and a massive oak table took up most of the central floor space.

“I will see if his grace is at home, m’lord,” the elderly butler said as he admitted them.

If the duke was at home, he certainly kept them waiting a long time. Of course, he might well refuse to see them even if he was here. But Lauren refused to feel apprehension. They had made this necessary courtesy call, and that was what mattered. Kit was silent. He stood inside the outer doors, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped at his back, looking rather grim.

There was a minstrel gallery at one end of the hall, with an intricately carved oak screen reaching from beneath the protruding balustrade of the balcony to the floor below. Lauren wandered closer so that she could more easily examine the details of the carving. And then a voice spoke from directly above her.

“Well,” it said—a deep man’s voice, pleasant enough and yet with some indefinable edge of unpleasantness too, “Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Ravensberg in person.”

Kit looked sharply upward while Lauren stayed where she was beneath the overhang of the gallery. “Ralf?” He nodded curtly.

It was Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, then? He spoke again. “A social call, Kit? Not the wisest thing you have ever done, old chap. Do yourself a favor and take yourself off back to your Friday-faced bride. You should suit each other. An alliance of the jilted, I understand.”

Lauren felt acutely uncomfortable and quite undecided whether to show herself or not.

“Pardon me,” Kit said, just as pleasantly as the invisible man, “but I have not been informed that you are master of Lindsey Hall or have any authority to give the orders here, Ralf. My business is with Bewcastle. I have come to present my betrothed to him since it appears we will be neighbors in the future.”

Lord Rannulf laughed softly. “Is the prospective bride cowering beneath my feet?” he asked. “I have lived at Lindsey Hall most of my life and have been embarrassed in just this way so many times one would think I would have learned by now to search beneath the gallery before unbuttoning my lips. Accept my apologies, ma’am. My quarrel is with Kit, not you.”

Lauren stepped away from the screen and looked upward. He was leaning nonchalantly on the balustrade, a great giant of a man with thick, unruly fair hair and strong, handsome features. He put her powerfully in mind of Viking warriors she had read about in her history books.

“Your apology is accepted, my lord,” she said. “It is always shocking, is it not, to be overheard being spiteful by the very person concerned? Especially when one reflects upon the fact that one does not know that person at all—has not even met her, in fact. But there are none of us who cannot benefit from lessons in discretion and kindness.”

He grinned appreciatively down at her. “Present me, Kit,” he commanded. “I do believe I have just been dealt a withering setdown by a lady who is going to remember in a moment that it is unladylike to address any remark to a gentleman to whom she has not been properly introduced.”

“Meet Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, Lauren,” Kit said, “who would not recognize good manners if they reared up and punched him in the nose. The Honorable Miss Edgeworth, Ralf. To whom you owe an apology.”

The giant continued to grin at her. “A beauty, by gad,” he said. “The Friday-faced remark was quite unjustified, ma’am, and would not have been uttered if I had set eyes on you first. My humblest, most abject apologies. But it would appear the master of Lindsey Hall is about to grant you an audience. Or, I suppose, to have you informed that he is from home. Which is it, Fleming?”

The butler ignored him. “Follow me, my lord,” he instructed Kit, bowing deferentially and turning to lead the way across the hall in the opposite direction from the gallery.

Lauren could hear Lord Rannulf’s soft chuckle as she took Kit’s arm. A very dangerous gentleman indeed, she thought. Kit had described him as a hellion—and all his brothers and sisters too.

One would not have guessed it from the scene that met her eyes in the drawing room. It was a huge, long room, and all its occupants were gathered at the far end of it. All were silent and absolutely still as Kit and Lauren progressed along the length of the room. Deliberately so, Lauren guessed. The size and splendor of the room itself seemed designed to awe guests, to reduce them to size and at the same time to a quivering mass of humble subservience. The tableau presented by its occupants was intended to complete the process. But Lauren was made of stern stuff. She looked about her instead of directing her eyes downward to the Persian carpet beneath her feet, as she suspected she was meant to do.

The Duke of Bewcastle—the man standing before the fireplace in the end wall must surely be he—was tall, forbiddingly dark, thin-lipped, and unmistakably haughty. There was no hint of a smile in his hooded eyes, no sign of welcome in his demeanor. A thin young girl, as dark in coloring as the duke, sat stiff and unsmiling to one side of him beside an older lady in black. At the duke’s other side, one ringed hand resting on the back of a sofa, stood a slender, dark young man, whose resemblance to the duke was unmistakable though he was extremely handsome and did have an expression on his face—one of cold mockery. It was matched by the lady who sat on the sofa. Lauren knew immediately that she must be looking at Lady Freyja Bedwyn, even though this first glance was a shock. Despite Kit’s warning about the family, she had somehow pictured a pale, pretty, timid, abject creature, who was powerless before the will of her brother.

Lady Freyja Bedwyn was wearing riding clothes, including boots, in the middle of the afternoon and in the drawing room. She was not at all pretty or dainty or softly feminine in demeanor. She wore her fair hair in a mass of loose, unruly curls about her shoulders and halfway down her back. She sat with one leg crossed over the other in a shockingly unladylike posture and was swinging the dangling foot while looking Lauren over from head to toe with narrow-eyed thoroughness.

Their progress down the room took only a few seconds, Lauren supposed. It seemed to take five minutes at the very least. His grace inclined his head when they were close.

“Ravensberg,” he said. His voice was soft and quite arctic in tone.

“Bewcastle?” Kit replied with his usual good humor. He might even, Lauren realized suddenly, be enjoying this reception his neighbors and erstwhile friends had obviously orchestrated for his discomfort. “I have the pleasure of presenting my betrothed, the Honorable Miss Lauren Edgeworth of Newbury Abbey. His grace, the Duke of Bewcastle, Lauren.”

Lauren found herself being regarded from a pair of keen, heavy-lidded silver eyes that had her thinking of wolves. A matter of association, perhaps? Had Kit not said that his given name was Wulfric?

“Miss Edgeworth,” he said in the same courteous, arctic tone as she curtsied. “May I present Lady Freyja Bedwyn, Lady Morgan with her governess, Miss Cowper, and Lord Alleyne.”

Yes, she had correctly identified Lady Freyja, Lauren saw as she curtsied to each of them and Lord Alleyne Bedwyn bowed to her, his eyes doing to her what his sister’s had just done, except that this time she felt as if garments were being stripped away with the progress of his eyes.

“We have come on an errand from my mother. She requests that all of you attend my grandmother’s birthday celebrations,” Kit said cheerfully. “Though we would be happy to have you put in an appearance any time before then too. A houseful of family guests will be arriving tomorrow, and we already have with us the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne and Lady Muir, her daughter.”

“Lady Redfield is kind,” his grace said. “Miss Edgeworth, have a seat. Miss Cowper, see to it that the tea tray is brought up.”

The governess got to her feet, curtsied without lifting her eyes to her employer, and hurried from the room.

Lauren took the chair indicated.

“Kilbourne,” Lady Freyja said, frowning, one long-nailed forefinger against her chin. “There is a familiarity. Ah, yes. Did not the present countess appear at Newbury under rather spectacular circumstances to prevent the earl from making a bigamous marriage?”

“In the nick of time, Free, I understand,” Lord Alleyne said with languid hauteur. “The wedding service had begun. The bride was already blushing.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” Lady Freyja said—and then looked arrested. “But the abandoned bride . . . Not you, Miss Edgeworth?” Malice gleamed in her eyes.

“You have been quite correctly informed in the matter,” Lauren said.

“But how unpardonably rude of me inadvertently to have reminded you of such a humiliation,” Lady Freyja said, still nonchalantly swinging her booted foot. “Do forgive me.”

It was just such mockery as this that Lauren had feared when she went to London. This was the first time she had actually to face it. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “We all speak rather too hastily on occasion.” She smiled and turned her attention to the duke. “I had time to admire the oak screen in the hall below, your grace. The carvings are remarkably well preserved. Are they original?”

For fifteen minutes, almost until the moment when they could decently take their leave, Lauren skillfully led the conversation, focusing it upon impersonal topics in which they could all participate, refusing to be cowed by the deliberate reluctance of the Bedwyns to allow the chilled atmosphere to warm by a single degree.

“Do you ride, Miss Edgeworth?” Lady Freyja asked suddenly in the very middle of a discussion on the merits of spending at least a part of the year in town.

“Of course,” Lauren said.

“To hounds?”

“No, I have never done so.”

“But you consider yourself an accomplished horsewoman?”

“It depends upon what you mean by accomplished,” Lauren said. “Of course I can—”

“Do you gallop across country?” Lady Freyja asked. “Do you jump hedges rather than find a gate to open? Do you risk your neck for the sheer thrill of feeling horseflesh between your thighs?”

One’s training as a lady could sometimes be a boon indeed. The vulgarity of those final words had been intended to shock, and they had succeeded. How could Lady Freyja speak so in the presence of gentlemen? And did she really ride astride? But not by even the flicker of an eyelid did Lauren display her intense discomfort.

“No,” she said, smiling. “In that sense I am afraid I am not at all accomplished.”

“Do you swim?”

“No.” This was not the time to boast of being able to float.

“Or play cricket?”

A gentleman’s sport? “No.”

“Or shoot?”

Gracious! “Indeed not.”

“Or fish?”

“I have never tried it.”

“Or play billiards?”

“No.”

“What do you do, Miss Edgeworth?” Lady Freyja asked, open contempt in both her voice and her eyes, having succeeded in making Lauren seem as dull and helpless as it was possible for a fellow human to be.

No one rushed to help out—not even Kit, who merely looked curiously at her. Everyone else focused upon her incredibly dull self with cold courtesy, except perhaps Miss Cowper, who looked anxious, as if she knew what it was like to be an object of Lady Freyja’s scorn.

“I have a number of the accomplishments expected of a lady of good ton,” Lauren said, looking Lady Freyja directly in the eye, “though I do not boast of genius in any one of them. I am adept at various kinds of needlework, I keep household accounts, I speak French and Italian as well as English, I sketch, play the pianoforte, sing, write letters that my family and acquaintances find legible and interesting and prompt, read books to improve my mind and conversation. Ah, and I have learned the difficult art of courtesy under all circumstances. In particular I always consider it my duty when at home to set my guests at their ease and to lead the conversation into topics that will neither embarrass them nor expose their ignorance.”

Lord Alleyne sat with pursed lips, his eyes alight with laughter, Lauren saw as she got to her feet to take her leave and the gentlemen followed suit.

“We will hope to see you all at Alvesley soon,” Kit said.

“It has been a pleasure, your grace,” Lauren said, addressing the duke. “Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

He inclined his head without taking his eyes from her. “The pleasure has been all mine, Miss Edgeworth,” he said.

Kit offered his arm and they walked the length of the drawing room again, both the silence and the eyes directed at their backs this time.

“A milk-and-water miss!” Lady Freyja said with unconcealed contempt almost before the drawing room doors had finished closing behind the departing guests. “Kit surely cannot be serious!”

Lord Alleyne chuckled. “But I believe the lady won the first round of hostilities, Free,” he said. “Quite resoundingly, in fact. She left you with your mouth gaping.”

“Nonsense!” she said crossly. “She will bore him silly within a month. Needlework, sketching, household accounts, French, Italian, singing—yawn, yawn! What can someone who looks as if she has just swallowed a prune and who sits oh-so-correctly, without touching the back of her chair, and who sips from her teacup as if she had never heard of such a thing as an honest-to-goodness thirst, and who converses on—on medieval screens, for the love of God—what can such a sorry creature have to offer Kit?”

“A word of advice, Freyja,” the duke said in the soft, pleasant voice that somehow succeeded in sending shivers of apprehension along the spines of most of the people who ever came within earshot of it. “It is always wise when one engages in any sport to look to one’s defenses and not set oneself up for an unnecessary hit.”

“I did not—” she began.

But even Lady Freyja was not proof against the haughtily raised eyebrows and steady silver gaze of his grace.

“And it is never worthy of a Bedwyn,” he concluded before vacating the fireplace and the room, “to wear the heart upon the sleeve.”

Freyja’s nostrils flared and her mouth opened. But she knew better than to fling defiance at her brother’s back. She waited until he had left before venting her fury upon a more vulnerable object.

“Do wipe that stupid grin off your face,” she commanded her younger brother, “or I may feel compelled to do it for you.”

Lord Alleyne presented her with an instant poker face that further incensed her.

“And you,” she said, stabbing a forefinger in the direction of her younger sister, “ought to be in the schoolroom. I cannot imagine what Wulf was thinking, to allow you down to receive visitors he ought not to have received at all.”

Miss Cowper rose to her feet in instant alarm.

“I daresay, Freyja,” Lady Morgan said placidly, not moving, “he expected to derive some satisfaction from watching Miss Edgeworth fall into a dither at the sight of so many sober, silent Bedwyns. I daresay he will be annoyed with Ralf for eluding the summons. But I do believe, with Alleyne and Wulf, that she is going to be a worthy foe. She did not collapse at all, did she? And Kit was laughing the whole while. I could see it in his eyes.”

“Lord Ravensberg to you,” Freyja said sharply.

“He told me,” Lady Morgan retorted, “when I was five years old and he carried me on his shoulders one day when I could not keep up to all of you, that I was to call him Kit. So you never mind, Freyja.”

She got to her feet and made a triumphant exit, Miss Cowper trotting along in her wake while Lord Alleyne chuckled again.

“Little spitfire,” he said. “She may outshine us all yet, Free.”