Love's Tangle Read online

  It was nothing the woman actually said but in her company Elinor always felt a fraud. She guessed that Lady Frant was hoping her unwelcome guest would not be at Allingham for long and it was a hope she shared. The luxury of being served by an army of retainers was a guilty pleasure and living in splendor a delight; but she was bored. She was used to work, not shuffling her way through aimless hours, interspersed by the occasional walk, the occasional book or journal, the odd hour’s practice on the pianoforte. It was a dawdling life and she was desperate to feel useful once more.

  One evening, after enduring yet another silent meal, she decided to meet the challenge head on and turned to Lady Frant as they were leaving the table.

  “While I am here, your ladyship, I would like to be of some practical help at Allingham. I was wondering if there is anything I might do.”

  Celia Frant sniffed. “Hardly. The duke has a staff of over a hundred. There is even a new dairymaid hired in your place, I believe, so butter making is no longer an option.”

  “I was not thinking of butter making,” Elinor flushed. “But perhaps something in the house.”

  “Dusting? I think not, there are housemaids a plenty for that.”

  The willful misinterpretation of her words only strengthened Elinor’s resolution. “I was thinking there might be opportunities for fine sewing. I am generally believed to be an accomplished needlewoman.”

  “Like your mother, you mean.”

  The tone was derisive but Elinor refused to be silenced. “In fact, Lady Frant, my mother was a talented painter.”

  “If you say so, my dear.”

  “I have the proof. Did you ever see the miniatures she painted of herself and her lover?”

  Elinor intended to shock and she had. Celia’s face grew crimson. “You would be well advised never to allude to such immorality again. Such a shocking past should stay buried.”

  Elinor’s head was high. “I do not consider my past is shocking for I am certain I was conceived in love. No woman could paint with such tender feeling and not love the subject of her painting.”

  Lady Frant stalked to the door. “This conversation is improper in the extreme. Please never refer to such things again.” The door closed behind her with a sharp smack.

  Elinor knew she had gone too far. Celia Frant was deeply unhappy with her presence at Allingham and the disgraceful nature of her brother’s affair only added to the flames. She should have trod lightly and shown greater sensitivity to the older woman’s feelings. But she could not bring herself to like her and, though during the daylight hours they managed to avoid each other almost completely, the evenings were a trial for them both.

  ****

  Halfway through the week a diversion occurred to lighten her mind. The carrier from Steyning arrived, his cart crammed full with boxes of every shape and size but all fastened with fancy ribbons. It took three footmen to heave them up the steep steps to Elinor’s tower room.

  “Are these all for me?” she gasped, when one by one the men deposited their burdens.

  The youngest footman grinned. He was still young enough to enjoy getting presents himself. As soon as he left, she tore eagerly at the first box. Within minutes she was admiring a dress of eau de nil sarsnet flounced with French trimmings. She held it up against herself and danced around the room, the frills of the gown swaying and rustling to her movements. Then on to the next box and the next and the next. It was not long before the bed and floor were littered with gowns for every occasion along with matching pelisses, spencers, gloves, reticules made from the finest silk and even a velvet cape of forest green: everything indeed a young lady might need to make a splash in society.

  In the middle of this glorious havoc, there was a soft tap at the door and Alice entered. The grapevine had been busy in the servants’ quarters and, as soon as she heard the news, she had hurried to her mistress. In seconds she was as busy as Elinor, drawing from the remaining bandboxes shoes for walking and for dancing, for inclement weather and for good, along with poke bonnets sporting the brightest ribbons and charming confections of gauze masquerading as hats. One particular Norwich shawl sent her into ecstasies until Elinor rescued it from her frantic clasp. In the very last bandbox they uncovered a cache of silk stockings and three of the laciest nightgowns Elinor had ever seen. Their excited chatter ceased. They were kneeling on the floor facing each other and exchanged a look which bridged the gulf between mistress and maid. Such intimate items provoked the same thought in each young woman but it was Elinor who voiced it.

  “Who could have ordered such things?”

  “Lady Frant?” Alice suggested hopefully.

  “I would think it highly unlikely. But perhaps her lady’s maid?” She was desperate for there to be a respectable explanation.

  “More like it’s Mrs. Lucas. She’s probably been told to supply a wardrobe for you, Miss, now you’re Quality.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lucas,” Elinor agreed gratefully. If that were so, she had admirable taste and an amazing eye for style and fit.

  “How very thoughtful of her to have covered—well, just about everything.” She laughed uncertainly but then the morning dresses, the walking dresses, the evening apparel regained her attention and soon she and Alice were carefully hanging these precious acquisitions in the hitherto empty wardrobe. When at last her maid left, Elinor stood gazing at her new riches, entranced by the softly shimmering silks and satins. Even the simple muslins were of the finest weave and all chosen to compliment the dark hair and pale skin of her Irish ancestry.

  That evening she chose to wear the pale apricot figured silk with cream kid slippers and a fillet of tiny cream blossoms woven through her dark curls. As she entered the dining room, Celia Frant stared in surprise. She was accustomed to sitting down to dinner with a grey mouse and the girl who took her chair opposite looked complete to a shade, her hair dressed à la mode courtesy of Alice’s perusal of La Belle Assemblée. But rigid upbringing ensured that she ignored the transformation.

  Once more the duke made no appearance and by the evening’s slow end Elinor felt miserably deflated. The moment she had donned the exquisite gown and Alice had dressed her hair so beautifully, she had felt like the giddy girl she had never been. She had tripped down the tower stairs with happiness in her soul, longing to laugh and dance, to be lively and bright, to feel the warmth of male approval. Instead she had sat in cold silence with a woman who deplored her. Back in her room she took the flowers from her hair and bundled the dress sadly away.

  ****

  The next morning she could not be persuaded to step out in one of the smart walking dresses she and Alice had unpacked only yesterday. Instead she dressed herself in the familiar grey poplin and kept to her room. By two o’ clock she was thoroughly weary of the tower, of the Hall, of herself. She wandered over to the window and stared blankly out at the vista: the stables to one side, the rose garden to the other, and right before her acre upon acre of rolling green. The sound of a horse and carriage being driven hard came to her ears and in a minute a high perch phaeton appeared around the corner of the house, traveling at a spanking pace. It pulled to a rapid halt at the rear entrance. The duke had arrived. She watched him jump from the carriage, looking down on the scene from her turret like a princess waiting for rescue. At that moment, he looked up and grinned. He had read the fairy tale too. The grin decided her. She would beard him in his den. She gave him a while to settle and then made her way to his study.

  “Come in.” The tone was unpromising but his expression lightened when he looked up from his desk and saw her.

  Elinor walked a few paces into the room. “May I speak with you, Your Grace?”

  “You’re here, so by all means speak!”

  He waved his hand towards one of the easy chairs but she preferred to stay standing close to the door. She wasn’t at all sure how he would respond to her proposal.

  “How do you find your new life?” His question stopped her as she was about to begin the small
speech she had prepared.

  “That is why I have come.”

  “You are well, though, I take it.” He had risen from the chair but remained by his desk.

  “Perfectly well, but if I am to stay longer at the Hall, I need employment.”

  His eyebrows rose and she hoped he wouldn’t be tempted to tell her the position of dairymaid was now filled. But he said nothing and she went on, “I had thought of needlework but it appears you have all the seamstresses and embroiderers you could possibly need. But the library—I think it a room that would benefit from attention.”

  “You would know, of course,” he said lightly, “having already plundered its depths.”

  She flushed slightly but continued to push her point. “You would not mind if I began to catalogue the library contents?”

  “You will first have to equip yourself with a cache of feather dusters.”

  She relaxed. It looked as though the duke did not intend to over-rule her. “Mrs. Lucas has promised me as many as I need.”

  “You will need suitable clothes too. I hope you don’t mean to wear the gowns that arrived this week.”

  “How?...” she began to ask. “It was you that sent them?”

  The customary saturnine expression flitted across his face. “Who else?”

  She felt unbearably flustered, thinking of the silk stockings and the lace nightgowns. “I didn’t know,” she stammered. “I thought one of the female members of the household. They fitted so perfectly.”

  His smile this time was genuine. “Exactly!”

  She blushed bright red and then remembered her manners. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Should we not drop the title? Call me Gabriel—it is my name.”

  “Thank you, Gabriel,” she repeated. “It was most kind in you.”

  He had enjoyed putting her out of countenance but he had also gone out of his way to make her feel at home in a world which was new and strange to her. Instinctively she moved forward, meaning to clasp his hand in gratitude, at the same time as he began walking towards her. But when she was within a few feet of him, she came to an abrupt halt. It was as if there was a force field between them that neither could cross. His eyes rested on her—unwavering, penetrating, as though he could not wrench his gaze away. For what seemed an age he stood without moving and simply looked. She felt her skin gather heat until her whole body was aflame. A pain deep within dissolved her stomach to water; her legs, too, gradually lost all strength. And still he continued to look and she to bear his scrutiny, caught in a spell they could not break.

  She forced herself to speak, to take control of the situation. “I should leave you in peace. I will go to see Mrs. Lucas.”

  Her voice seemed to jerk him from the dream in which he walked. “Ask her for anything you wish.” Then as an afterthought, “And change that hideous dress!”

  She managed a brief smile before hurriedly escaping from the room.

  ****

  When she had gone, Gabriel remained motionless. His strategy wasn’t working. He had ridden more miles than he cared to remember this last week and stayed in hostelries that had no right to the name, all to ensure he saw as little as possible of Miss Milford. He’d hoped that by staying away he would weaken the pull she exerted. But the first time he’d come face to face with her in—what was it, seven days, eight days?—he’d been unable to keep his eyes from her. She wore her dowdy mouse costume but it hardly mattered. She was far too attractive and he was far too tempted.

  She wasn’t classically beautiful but her face entranced him, the cloud of dark hair framing the pale, pale skin and those misty green eyes, eyes that looked directly at him, deep into his soul, as though they would plunder his every secret. He liked her too—he liked her spirit and determination, liked that she wouldn’t be beaten. But liking and lust were a dangerous combination and he had no idea how to deal with it. He could not spend another week in fruitless wandering and the prospect of traveling to Brighton no longer enticed him: the same people, the same houses, the same social round. It was unbearably tedious but his erstwhile companions were awaiting his arrival and he supposed he must go. Just not yet. For the moment he would rather take his chance at Allingham, despite the dangers of living so close. At least she had found herself an occupation which would keep her busy and at a distance. He must do the same.

  ****

  Some days later when he passed the library, she was at work. If he had known she intended such an early start, he would have chosen a different route that morning. But she was already seated on the floor, several piles of books and papers at her elbow. Her skirts were spread around her and her hair tied back in loops across her ears. She looked demurely business-like but when she heard his step and looked up, her generous lips widened into a smile and her eyes danced with fun.

  “Have you any idea, Gabriel, how many books you possess on pig keeping?”

  Good manners prevented him from walking on and instead he hovered in the doorway. “No, tell me.”

  “So far, it is twenty-three and I’m still counting. You do keep pigs at Allingham?”

  “The home farm produces some excellent bacon so I imagine we do but I’m not personally into pig husbandry.”

  “One of your ancestors evidently was.”

  “One of yours too,” he reminded her.

  It seemed a good idea to stress their family connection but the mention of her changed station appeared to make her ill at ease. She smoothed her skirts and then fidgeted with a few strands of hair that had come loose.

  To cover her discomfort, he said in a rousing tone. “How long do you intend to immure yourself in this dark and dingy place?”

  She sat back on her knees. “It’s not at all dingy and I like the shadows. They’re restful.”

  “I have to break it to you that they’re not shadows but cobwebs. Look.” And he brushed one away which had been dangling dangerously close to her face. “I have an army of servants yet I also have cobwebs. But at least no spider.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Urgh. Is it on my face?”

  “No,” he laughed, “though you do have a very large smudge just here.” And he rubbed at her cheek with one finger. Her face was soft to his touch and her skin like the finest porcelain. He wanted to run his finger down her cheek into the small white hollow at the base of her neck. That would be the craziest thing yet. It was all very well to dally with high born ladies while their husbands drank and gambled the hours away, for they knew the stakes. They were natural courtesans. This girl, though, was as innocent as the month of May.

  She flopped down on the floor once more, secure in the knowledge cobwebs and their accompanying spiders had been banished.

  “I found these old maps, do look,” she invited him. “I couldn’t be sure but they appear to be of the Caribbean.” She patted the cushion beside her. “What do you think?”

  He had little option but to take the place she’d indicated. “Yes, they’re maps of the Caribbean. And this is one of the islands. Jamaica?”

  “Why would you have a map of Jamaica in your library?”

  “The Claremonts had a plantation there.”

  Her forehead wrinkled in surprise. “And do they still?”

  “No, it was sold when my parents died on the island.”

  She looked crestfallen but reached out to give his arm a squeeze. “I am so sorry, Gabriel, I knew they died young but I had no idea it happened so far away.”

  “How could you? But don’t distress yourself, it was long ago. I was no more than four years old.”

  “Then you didn’t travel with them?”

  “Jonathan and I were left behind at Allingham. Jamaica was far too unhealthy a place for young children, you understand.”

  “But your mother and father? Why did they make such a dangerous voyage?”

  “My father was supposed to go alone. There had been a good deal of unrest among the slaves and the overseers demanded someone with authority come out from England to
settle the disputes before they flared into outright rebellion.”

  “And your father volunteered?”

  Her words produced a scornful expression and when he spoke his tone was scathing. “I doubt there was much voluntary about it. My father had to make amends for his unwise marriage. I told you he eloped, didn’t I? So it fell to him rather than to his older brother to brave the oceans. The heir had to be preserved.”

  “And your mother? Surely it was not a place for a lady?”

  “It was not a place for either of them. They caught dengue fever and died within a sennight of each other. She refused to let her husband go alone. But that’s love for you.”

  There was a sourness in his voice that made her unsure how best to respond. Eventually she said, “That is a very sad story. You were only a small boy at the time, but I hope you have some memory of them still.”

  He said nothing. There were memories but he did not want to bring them to life and he steered the conversation back. “You should not bury yourself in this mausoleum all day.”

  “I don’t. I walk every morning and most afternoons. But what of you?”

  “What of me?”

  “You should not bury yourself either. You seem always to be at the bailiff’s office these days.”

  He pulled a wry face. “I’ve been trying to get to grips with estate management but Joffey isn’t the best mentor.”

  “The fact you are trying says much.”

  “Is it possible I’ve earned a special commendation? If so, it must be the first time in my life.”

  “Not as a boy? Was your tutor not encouraging?”

  “My tutor, our tutor, was thoroughly indifferent. But he could hardly be blamed—he had little say in our upbringing. Charles Claremont ruled all.”

  “That sounds forbidding but were you never happy at Allingham?” she asked shyly.

  “There were some lighter moments. The estate made a splendid playground with plenty of hideouts like the one I showed you. When Jonty and I managed to escape the iron hand of Uncle Charles, we roamed at will.”

  “It seems he was a very strict guardian.”