Rendezvous by Amanda Quick
“You must suit yourself,” Harry replied with a shrug.
She shot him a swift, sidelong glance. “You do not mind that I do not plan to love you?”
“Not as long as you fulfill your responsibilities as my wife.”
Augusta shivered. “You are very cold, my lord. I had not realized. Indeed, based upon certain recent actions of yours, I had begun to hope you might be as reckless and hot-blooded as any Northumberland Ballinger.”
“No one is as reckless and hot-blooded as a Northumberland Ballinger,” Harry said. “Least of all myself.”
“Pity.” Augusta reached into her reticule and drew out the book she had brought along to read on the journey. She opened it on her lap and gazed pointedly down at the page.
“What is that you are reading?” Harry inquired softly.
“Your newest, my lord.” She did not deign to look up. “Observations on Livy’s History of Rome.”
“Rather dull fare for you, I should imagine.”
“Not at all, my lord. I have read some of your other books and I find them quite interesting.”
“You do?”
“Why, yes. If one overlooks the obvious flaw in all of them, that is,” she concluded smoothly.
“Flaw? What flaw is that, pray tell?” Harry was clearly outraged. “And who are you to point it out, may I ask? You are hardly a student of the classics, madam.”
“One does not have to be a classical scholar to notice the persistent flaw in your work, my lord.”
“Is that so? Why don’t you tell me just what that flaw is, then, my dear?” he ground out.
Augusta raised her brows and looked straight at him. She smiled sweetly. “The chief irritation I feel in reading your historical research, sir, is that, in every single one of your volumes, you have contrived to ignore the role and contribution of females.”
“Females?” Harry gave her a blank look. He recovered at once. “Females do not make history.”
“I have decided one gains that impression chiefly because history is written by males, such as yourself,” Augusta said. “For some reason male writers choose to pay no attention to female accomplishments. I noticed that particularly when I did research for the decor of Pompeia’s. It was very difficult to find the information I needed.”
“Good lord, I do not believe I am hearing this.” Harry groaned. It was too much. He was being taken to task by an overly emotional little baggage who read Scott and Byron. And then, in spite of himself, Harry started to smile. “Something tells me you are going to be an interesting addition to my household, madam.”
Graystone, the great house that reigned over Harry’s Dorset estates, was as solid and forbidding as the man himself. It was an imposing structure of classical Palladian proportions that loomed above impeccably maintained gardens. The last of the late afternoon sunlight was gleaming on the windows as the traveling coach rolled up the sweeping drive.
A flurry of activity erupted as the servants rushed out to handle the horses and greet their new lady.
Augusta gazed about eagerly as Harry assisted her down from the coach. This was to be her new home, she told herself over and over again. For some reason she could not yet seem to fully comprehend the change that had taken place in her life that morning. She was now the Countess of Graystone. Harry’s wife. These were her people.
She had a home of her own at last.
That thought was just sinking in when a small, dark-haired girl raced out of the open door and flew down the steps. She was dressed in a severely plain white muslin dress that did not boast a single flounce or ribbon.
“Papa. Papa, you are home. I am so glad.”
Harry’s expression softened into a smile of genuine affection as he bent down to greet his daughter. “I was wondering where you had got to, Meredith. Come and meet your new mother.”
Augusta held her breath, wondering what sort of welcome she was about to receive. “Hello, Meredith. I am very pleased to meet you.”
Meredith turned her head and looked at Augusta with intelligent, crystal gray eyes that could only have come from her father. She was a beautiful child, Augusta realized.
“You cannot be my mother,” Meredith explained with unshakable logic. “My mother is in heaven.”
“This is the lady who will take her place,” Harry said firmly. “You must call her Mama.”
Meredith studied Augusta carefully and then turned back to her father. “She is not as beautiful as Mama. I have seen the portrait in the gallery. Mama had golden hair and pretty blue eyes. I will not call this lady Mama.”
Augusta’s heart sank, but she summoned a smile as she saw Harry start to scowl in response to that observation. “I am sure I am not nearly as pretty as your mother, Meredith. If she was as pretty as you, she must have been very beautiful indeed. But perhaps you will find other things about me that you will like. In the meantime, why don’t you call me whatever you like? There is no need to call me Mama.”
Harry frowned at her. “Meredith is to show you the proper respect and she will do so.”
“I am certain she will.” Augusta smiled at the little girl, who was suddenly looking quite stricken. “But there are lots of respectful things she can call me, are there not, Meredith?”
“Yes, madam.” The child cast an uneasy glance at her father.
Harry’s brows rose repressively. “She will call you Mama and that is that. Now, then, Meredith, where is your Aunt Clarissa?”
A tall, rawboned woman dressed in a soberly cut, unadorned dress fashioned of slate-colored material appeared at the top of the steps. “I am here, Graystone. Welcome home.”
Clarissa Fleming descended the steps at a stately pace. She was a handsome woman in her mid-forties who carried herself with rigid dignity. She looked out on the world with remote, watchful gray eyes, as if fortifying herself for disappointment. Her graying hair was done up in a severe bun at the back of her head.
“Augusta, this is Miss Clarissa Fleming,” Harry said, completing the introductions swiftly. “I believe I may have mentioned her. She is a relative who has done me the favor of becoming Meredith’s governess.”
“Yes, of course.” Augusta managed another smile as she greeted the older woman, but inside she heaved an unhappy sigh. There was not going to be any welcoming warmth from this quarter, either.
“We received word of the wedding by messenger only this morning,” Clarissa said pointedly. “A rather hasty business, was it not? We were under the impression the date was some four months hence.”
“Circumstances changed abruptly,” Harry said without offering either apology or explanation. He smiled his cool, remote smile. “I am aware this all comes as something of a surprise. Nevertheless, I am certain you will make my bride welcome, will you not, Clarissa?”
Clarissa’s eyes were speculative as she surveyed Augusta. “But of course,” she said. “If you will follow me I will show you to your bedchamber. I imagine you will want to refresh yourself after your journey.”
“Thank you.” Augusta glanced at Harry and saw that he was already busy issuing orders to his staff. Meredith was at his side, her small hand tucked in his. Neither of them paid any attention as Augusta was led away.
“We understand,” Clarissa intoned as she started up the steps and into the vast marble hall, “that you are related to Lady Prudence Ballinger, the author of a number of useful schoolroom books for young ladies.”
“Lady Prudence was my aunt.”
“Ah, then you are one of the Hampshire Ballingers?” Clarissa asked with a touch of enthusiasm. “A fine family and one noted for its many intellectual members.”
“Actually,” Augusta said, tilting her chin proudly. “I am descended from a different branch of the family. The Northumberland side, to be precise.”
“I see,” said Clarissa. The hint of approval died in her eyes.
Much later that evening Harry sat alone in his bedchamber, a glass of brandy in one hand and a copy of Thucydides’ Th
This was definitely not how he had envisioned spending his first night under his own roof with his new wife.
He took a sip of the brandy and tried to concentrate on the book. It was hopeless. He closed the volume with a sharp snap and tossed it onto the end table.
He had told himself during the journey that he was going to make a subtle point about his self-control to Augusta. Now he wondered if he was being a bit too subtle.
She had as good as thrown down the gauntlet when she had flung the fact of his reckless lovemaking in Sally’s carriage in his face. As far as Harry was concerned, she had virtually challenged him to prove he was not a slave to his physical desire for her. He was not going to play Antony to her Cleopatra.
He could hardly blame Augusta for her assumptions, though. After the way he had seduced her in Sally’s carriage, she had every right to conclude that he could not keep his hands off of her. No woman was above using that sort of power. And in the hands of a bold, daring little chit like Augusta, such power was exceedingly dangerous.
Harry had therefore decided it would be best to take a stand early on in his marriage and make it clear he was not lacking in self-control. Begin as you mean to go on, he had told himself.
Last night when they had stopped at an inn, he had booked a separate chamber for Augusta, making some excuse about her being more comfortable with her maid. The truth was, he had not trusted himself to spend his wedding night on his own side of the bed.
Tonight he had forced himself to bid his wife an excruciatingly polite good night at the door of her bedchamber. He had deliberately not given her any indication of his intentions. He wondered if she was lying awake even now, waiting to see if he would come to her.
The uncertainty would do her good, he told himself. The woman was decidedly too headstrong and far too quick to issue a challenge, as that whole damn business involving the debt to Lovejoy proved. She had gotten into that dangerous situation precisely because she had been trying to demonstrate to Harry that she was not obliged to bow to his wishes.
Harry got up from his chair and stalked across the chamber to pour himself another glass of brandy. He had been far too lenient with Augusta thus far; that was the problem. Too indulgent by half. She was, after all, one of the Northumberland Ballingers. She needed a firm hand on the reins. He owed it to their future happiness to restrain her reckless streak.
But the more he thought about it tonight, the more Harry wondered if he was taking the right tact by staying out of his wife’s bedchamber.
He swallowed more brandy and contemplated the stirring heat in his loins.
There was another way of looking at his current situation, he decided on a flash of brandy-induced wisdom. If one were to be quite logical about this—and he did pride himself on his ability to think logically—one could see that he might do better to assert his privileges as a husband right from the start.
Yes, that reasoning was much more sound than his previous thoughts on the matter. It was not, after all, his self-control he needed to demonstrate, but rather his dominant role in the marriage. He was master in his own home.
Vastly more satisfied with this new line of logic, Harry set down his glass and went across the room to open his wife’s door.
He stood in the doorway and gazed into the deep shadows around the bed. “Augusta?”
There was no response.
Harry walked into the bedchamber and realized there was no one in the canopied bed. “Damnation, Augusta, where are you?”
When there was still no response, he swung around and saw that the door to the bedchamber was ajar. His insides clenched as he realized she was not in the room.
What trick was she up to tonight? he wondered as he strode toward the door and let himself out into the hall. If this was another one of her efforts to lead him in circles until he was dizzy, he would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms.
He stepped out into the hall and saw the ghostly figure. Garbed in a pale dressing gown that floated out behind her, candle in hand, Augusta was heading for the long picture gallery that fronted the house. Curious now, Harry decided to follow the wraith.
As he trailed softly behind her, Harry was aware of a sense of relief. He knew then that a part of him had secretly feared she had packed a bag and run off into the night. He should have known better, he told himself. Augusta was not the sort to run from anything.
He followed her into the long gallery and stood watching at the far end as she went slowly along the row of portraits. She paused at each picture, holding the taper high to study each face in its heavy gilt frame. Moonlight filtering in through the tall windows that lined the front of the gallery bathed her in a silvery glow, making her appear more of a ghost than ever.
Harry waited until she was examining the picture of his father before he started forward.
“I have been told I resemble him very closely,” he said quietly. “I have never found it much of a compliment.”
“Harry.” The flame flickered wildly as Augusta spun around, her hand at her throat. “Good grief. I did not know you were there. You gave me a terrible start.”
“My apologies. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, madam?”
“I was curious, my lord.”
“About my ancestors?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, my lord, I was just lying there in my bed thinking that they will be my ancestors, too, now, will they not? And I realized I did not know much about any of them.”
Harry folded his arms across his chest and propped one shoulder against the wall beneath his father’s stern face. “If I were you, I would not be in too much of a rush to claim this lot. There’s not a particularly pleasant soul among them, from all I’ve ever heard.”
“What about your father? He looks very strong and noble.” She peered up at the portrait.
“Perhaps he was when he sat for that painting. I only knew him as a bitter, angry man who was never able to deal with the fact that my mother ran off with an Italian count shortly after I was born.”
“Good heavens. How terrible. What happened?”
“She died in Italy. My father locked himself in his library with several bottles for a week when he got the news. He drank himself into a stupor. When he came out, he refused to allow her name to be uttered in this house.”
“I see.” Augusta slanted him a searching glance. “The earls of Graystone have certainly had rather poor luck with women, have they not?”
Harry shrugged. “The various countesses of Graystone have been notorious for their lack of virtue. My grandmother had more affairs than anyone could count.”
“Well, it is the fashion in Society, Harry. So many marriages are made for reasons of money and status rather than love that such things are no doubt bound to happen. People instinctively seek love, I believe. And when they do not find it in marriage, many go outside it.”
“Do not even think of going outside our marriage for whatever you may feel you are missing in our alliance, Augusta.”
She tossed her dark hair back over one shoulder and glowered at him. “Tell me honestly, my lord, were the various earls of Graystone any more virtuous than their countesses?”
“Probably not,” Harry admitted, remembering his grandfather’s string of passionate liaisons and his father’s endless parade of expensive mistresses. “But one tends to notice a lack of virtue more in a woman than in a man, don’t you think?”
Augusta was instantly outraged, just as he had guessed she would be. Harry watched the passionate light of battle leap into her eyes as she drew herself up for the skirmish. She held the taper in front of her as though it were a sword. The glow of the flame danced on her face, enhancing her high cheekbones and giving her an exotic allur
She looked like a small Greek goddess, Harry thought. A young Athena garbed for war, perhaps. The thought made him smile with anticipation and the smoldering fire in his groin that had been plaguing him all evening suddenly burned hotter.
“What a perfectly odious thing to say,” Augusta raged. “That is the sort of statement only an extremely arrogant, extremely obnoxious man would make. You should be ashamed of yourself, Graystone. I expected more even-handed logic and reason from you. You are supposed to be a classical scholar, after all. You will apologize for that silly, inane, totally unfair remark.”
“Will I?”
“Most certainly.”
“Perhaps I will do so. Later.”
“Now,” she retorted. “You will apologize now.”
“I doubt if I will have sufficient breath left to say anything at all, let alone apologize, after I have carried you back to your bedchamber, madam.”
He unfolded his arms and came away from the wall in a smooth, swift motion.
“Carried me back to my—Harry, what on earth do you think you are doing? Put me down at once.”
She struggled briefly as he picked her up in his arms. But by the time he had carried her down the hall to her bedchamber and deposited her beneath the canopy, she was no longer putting up even a token resistance.
“Oh, Harry,” she whispered in an aching voice. She put her arms around his neck as he came down beside her on the bed. “Are you going to make love to me?”
“Yes, my dear, I most certainly am. And this time,” he told her softly, “I shall try to do a better job of it. I am going to turn you from Athena, the beautiful warrior, into Aphrodite, the goddess of passion.”
“Harry. Dear God, Harry. Please, I cannot bear it. This is beyond anything.”
Harry lifted his head to watch Augusta as she approached her first delicious, shuddering climax in his arms. Her whole body was arched, tense as a drawn bow. Her hair was fanned out against the pillow in a dark cloud. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she twisted her hands in the white sheets.