Tallie's Knight

Enough of self-pity, she decided at last. There was a way out of this mess. It was the only possible solution. She knew it, had known it all along; she’d just been unable to face the thought until she’d explored every other option. But there were no other options. She would have to marry Lord d’Arenville.

Lord d’Arenville. Cold-eyed, cold-voiced, handsome Lord d’Arenville. A cold proud Icicle, who simply wanted a brood mare for his heirs. Not a wife. Not a loving companion. A vessel for his children. A sturdy vessel! Tallie’s mouth quivered and she bit down hard on her nails to stop herself weeping again.

There would be no love for Tallie now—the love she’d dreamed of all her life. But there would be security. And with the thought of sleeping in the village churchyard that night, security was suddenly more important than love—or, if not more important, certainly of more immediate significance.

No, there would be no Prince Charming for Tallie, no Black Knight galloping to her rescue, not even a dear, kind gentleman who was no one in particular. Nobody for Tallie to love, nobody who would love her in return. There was only Lord d’Arenville. Was it possible to love a statue? An Icicle?

Oh, there would be children, God willing, but children were different. You couldn’t help but love children. And they couldn’t help but love you back. Children were like puppies, loving, mischievous and endlessly thirsting for love.

Tallie knew. She’d thirsted all her life, ever since she’d turned six and had been sent away to school.

That was one thing she’d have to make clear to Lord d’Arenville from the start. She wouldn’t allow him to send her children away to school. Not until they were quite old—fourteen, fifteen, something like that. And she would write to them every week, and send them special treats sometimes to share with their chums. And they would come home for every holiday and term break. And bring any of their schoolfriends who couldn’t go to their own families. None of her children’s friends would spend Christmas after Christmas alone in an empty school, with no one but an elderly headmistress to keep her company.

Her children would know they were loved, know they were wanted, know that their mother, at least, cared about them.

And the love of her children would have to be enough for her, she decided. It was only the lucky ones, the golden ones of this world, who were loved for themselves, after all. Who found a partner to share secret dreams and foolish ideas with. Who found a man to cherish them. Cherish. Such a beautiful, magical word.

Tallie took a long, shaky breath, a sob catching in her throat as she did so. Such dreams were for silly girls. She scrubbed at her swollen eyes with a handkerchief. It was time to put her dreams and her girlhood away.

It was time to go to Lord d’Arenville and tell him she would marry him.

It was a chilly, withdrawn and much chagrined Lord d’Arenville who returned from the garden half an hour after he’d spoken with Laetitia. The house party had been an unmitigated disaster. And now his ego was severely dented by the news that a penniless girl could not bear the thought of marrying him. Part of him concurred with his cousin that he would like to drown Miss Thalia Robinson. Or strangle her slowly, taking her soft, creamy throat between his bare hands…But an innate sense of fair play told him it would be a gross miscarriage of justice if he allowed his cousin to turn Thalia Robinson out on the streets merely because she didn’t wish to wed him.

And he had been uncannily disturbed by the sound of someone weeping in the maze. Weeping as if their heart would break. Magnus hated it when women wept!

He’d taken a few steps into the maze and hovered there for some time, clenching and unclenching his fists, listening helplessly. Not knowing what to do. Knowing who it was, sobbing so piteously. Thalia Robinson.

He had told himself she’d brought it on herself, boasting to Laetitia of how she would spurn his offer. He’d told himself she deserved to be miserable, that the girl must be a cold-hearted little bitch. He’d made her an honourable offer—there was no need for her to publicly humiliate him. He, who had long been regarded as the finest prize on the marriage mart, hunted by matchmaking mamas and their daughters alike! Most girls would have been grateful for an offer from him, but not Miss Thalia Robinson. No. She planned to humiliate him—and so she was reaping what she had sown. Her regrets had come too late.

Magnus had told himself all these things, but they hadn’t helped—he just couldn’t bear the sound of a woman sobbing.

The part of him that didn’t want to strangle her had wanted to go into the maze and speak to her—and what a stupid idea that would have been! As if women ever made any sense when they were weeping. And as if he would know what to do anyway. He’d always managed to stop them crying by giving them some bauble or other, but then all the women he’d ever known had cried at him, not taken themselves into the middle of a maze on a damned cold day and sobbed their little hearts out in absolute solitude.

Magnus was sure he wouldn’t know how to deal with someone who wept like that.

‘Tish, I intend to withdraw my offer. She cannot refuse me if there is no offer, so you need not worry about any insult to the family pride. No one will know of it. I will speak to the girl before any irrevoc—’ He faltered for a moment, recalling those cheeky last words: make no irrevocable arrangements. Thalia Robinson had not realised she was sounding her own doom. ‘Before any irrevocable steps have been taken. Have her sent to me at once, if you please.’

‘But, Magnus—’

‘At once, Tish.’

‘Oh, very well. But it will make no diff—’

But Magnus had left. Laetitia pulled the bell cord to summon Brooks.

Magnus decided to receive Miss Robinson in the library. He would speak kindly to her, show her he bore her no grudge for her poor judgement. She would have no idea that she had, somehow, got under his skin. He would be casual, relaxed, indifferent. He would not receive her in formal dress, as a gentleman would normally do when receiving a lady’s answer to his proposal of marriage. His offhand manner would be conveyed by the silent message of his riding buckskins. It would appear to be a spur of the moment chat, the outcome of which held only lukewarm interest for him.

His brow furrowed as he tried to recall every detail of their previous conversation. A cold smile grew on his face as he realised he had not actually asked her to marry him. Not in so many words. He had spoken of an intention to organise a ceremony. Had used the conditional tense. Thank heavens. He might be able to fudge it. He would make Miss Robinson understand she was mistaken, that he’d made her no actual offer.

It was not an honourable solution, but it should smooth things over with Laetitia—enough to stop her throwing the wretched girl into the streets. And then he would get the hell out of this appalling house party and never have to set eyes on the blasted girl or his blasted cousin ever again!

He leant against a high, leather-covered writing desk, one leg crossed casually over the other, awaiting her entrance with an expression of bored indifference on his face. The whip snapped fast and furious against the glossy leather of his boot.

‘Lord d’Arenville?’

She’d entered the room so silently that Magnus was caught unaware. He stared, mesmerised, at the red-rimmed eyes which failed to meet his, the drooping mouth and the woebegone little face, and it was as if he could hear every choking sob again. With an effort, he gathered himself and began to speak, feeling dishonest and uncomfortable as he did so.

‘Miss Robinson, I gather from my cousin that you are under the mistaken impression that I off—’

‘Lord d’Arenville, I accept your offer of marriage,’ she said at the same time.

There was a long, tense moment of silence in the room.

What happens now? wondered Magnus. In all honour, he could not continue with his reluctant pretence that he had made no offer. There was no need—she had accepted him. So that was it. An offer had been made and was accepted. The rest was inevitable. Irrevocable. Ironic, that. She could call the wedding off, but there was no question that he could do the same. Lord d’Arenville was to wed Miss Thalia Robinson. Thalia Robinson, who looked more like a martyr going to the stake than a blushing bride.

The realisation was like a kick in the teeth. Until this moment he’d half believed that Laetitia was mistaken in saying the girl was going to refuse him. But this miserably bleak acceptance of his offer had convinced him as a thousand explanations could not.

It could not be said that Thalia Robinson actually preferred poverty to himself, but it would be clear to a blind man that it was a damned close race. The girl might be going to her execution, the face she was wearing. Magnus stared at the downcast face, the red-tipped nose, the resolute chin and the trembling lips and felt his anger rising. It had clearly taken a great deal of anguish and resolution for her to decide between abject poverty—or marriage to Lord d’Arenville.

Starvation and misery—or Lord d’Arenville!

The gutter—or Lord d’Arenville!

And finally, by a nose, or a whisker, or a hair’s breadth, Lord d’Arenville had won. Lucky Lord d’Arenville!

Lord d’Arenville was furious. He could not trust himself to speak another word to her. He bowed stiffly, turned and stalked out of the room. Tallie watched him leave, blinking in surprise.

‘Magnus, what—?’ Laetitia was standing in the hallway, speaking to the vicar. Her voice died as she saw the look on his face.

‘You may wish me happy!’ he snapped.

‘What?’

‘She has accepted me.’ He broke his whip in half and flung the pieces into a corner.

‘Oh, Magnus, how dreadf—’

‘I am ecstatic!’ he snarled. ‘The wedding will be in three weeks’ time. Make all the arrangements. Spare no expense.’ He laughed, a harsh, dry laugh. ‘Nothing is too good for my bride!’ He noticed the vicar, standing there, jaw agape and added, ‘You, there—Parson. Call the banns, if you please. I will return in three weeks for the ceremony.’

He stormed out of the door and headed for the stables. Laetitia trailed after him, pleading with him to slow down, to explain, but to no avail. Lord d’Arenville mounted his horse, and with no warning, no preparations and no baggage, set off for d’Arenville Hall, a good two days’ journey away.

Chapter Four

‘Blast and bother!’ Tallie glared at her reflection. She’d brought a mirror up from one of the salons and propped it against the wall. It told her what she had already suspected—that she was the worst seamstress in the world and that her wedding dress looked like a dog’s breakfast.

She tugged at the recalcitrant sleeves, pulling them this way and that in an effort to make them appear balanced. It was hopeless. One sleeve puffed beautifully whilst the other, which should have been an exact twin, sagged and drooped. She’d put the sleeve in and taken it out a half-dozen times and still it looked uneven—and slightly grubby from all the handling.

Tallie had no idea what arrangements had been made for her wedding. She’d tried several times to speak to her cousin, but Laetitia was still furious and had ordered Tallie to keep out of her sight or she would not be answerable for the consequences.

No one, not the servants, Laetitia nor Lord d’Arenville, had seemed to recall that the bride had not a penny to her name. Hopefully someone would remember the bride needed a suitable gown, but as the dreaded day grew closer Tallie decided she had better make alternative arrangements—just in case.

The attics contained dozens of trunks and bandboxes, filled with old dresses and ballgowns, relegated there over the years. She and the children had rummaged through them frequently, searching for dress-up materials. Tallie had found a lovely pale amber silk ballgown, hopelessly outmoded, with wide panniers and yards of ruching, but with enough good material left, when it was unpicked, to make a wedding frock. Using one of her old dresses as a pattern, she had cut and sewn it laboriously, wishing she had been more diligent in Miss Fisher’s sewing class.

In another trunk she had found an almost new pair of blue kid slippers, which only pinched her feet a little, and a stained pair of long white satin gloves. The stains were impossible to remove, so she’d dipped the gloves in coffee until they almost exactly matched the amber silk.

She smiled at her reflection and pirouetted several times. It was not so bad after all. Oh, the neckline was a trifle crooked, to be sure, but Tallie was convinced only the most critical would notice it. And if the gathers she had made at the back were slightly uneven, what did that signify? It was only obvious when she was motionless, so she would be sure to keep moving, and if she had to stand still for any reason she would keep her back to a wall.

She examined her reflection in the mirror again as she tugged on the long satin gloves. She had never worn anything so fine in her life. She frowned at the sleeves…A shawl! she realised in a sudden flash of brilliance. Laetitia’s spangled gauze scarf would hide the sleeves! It was not precisely a bridal mode, but perhaps observers would think it a new fashion. After all, she was wedding a man well-known for his elegance. Tallie’s mouth grew dry as she stared at her reflection.

She was not just wedding a man…she was wedding The Icicle. Tomorrow morning. And afterwards he would take her away from the children she loved so much—the only living creatures in the world who loved her. Tomorrow she would belong only to him, swear before God and witnesses to love, honour and obey him. A man she barely knew and certainly didn’t like. A cold man, who was famed for caring nothing for the feelings of others. Who wanted a wife he need not dance attendance on, a wife he could get with child and then abandon in rural fastness while he enjoyed himself in London, awaiting the birth of his heir…

Tallie shivered. What did it mean, get with child? She knew women bore children, of course, but how it came about she had no idea. She’d lived virtually her entire life in Miss Fisher’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen, and the subject had certainly never been on that prim spinster’s curriculum.

It had, however, been a subject of much speculation and whispering in the dormitories. But none of the various theories put forward by the Daughters of Gentlemen had convinced Tallie that any of her schoolfellows were more enlightened than she on the subject. Some had insisted that women carried a baby around in their stomach, for instance. Well, if that was so—how did they get the baby out? Cut it out? Vomit it?

In any case, how did a baby get in there in the first place? The man planted a seed in the woman? A seed? Babies didn’t grow from seeds! They did, Amanda Forrest had said. Her mother had told her so. Well, how did they plant the seed—swallow it? Tallie suspected it was an old wives’ tale—like that which said if you swallowed pumpkin seeds, pumpkin vines would grow out of your ears. Tallie had proven that one wrong by eating more than twenty pumpkin seeds—no hint of a vine had appeared from her ears, though she’d been a little anxious for a week or two!

No, Amanda hadn’t been sure how the seed was planted, but it was much the same as animals did, she believed. Tallie had scoffed at that one—animals planting seeds? Ridiculous.

One girl, Emmaline Pearce, had spoken ghoulishly of wedding nights and blood and screaming, but everyone had known Emmaline Pearce was a shockingly untruthful girl who made up all sorts of deliciously scary tales. Miss Fisher had forever been punishing her for it.

Get with child. Surely she had the right to be told how it was done. Had her mother lived, she could have explained, but all Tallie’s mother had left her was a few letters. And possibly—But there was no time to think on that…She had a wedding night to worry about first.

Tallie decided to ask Mrs Wilmot. She sought her out in the linen room and, with much beating around the bush, blurted out her question.

‘Lord love you, Miss Tallie.’ The housekeeper blushed. ‘I’m not the one you should ask about such matters. I’ve never been wed, my dear.’

‘But—’

‘All housekeepers are called Missus, dearie, whether they’re wed or not. But Wilmot is my maiden name.’ She patted Tallie on the hand. ‘You go ask your cousin, miss. She’ll set you right.’ The kindness shone so warmly from the elderly housekeeper’s face that Tallie didn’t have the heart to explain how very hostile Laetitia was.

Then she thought of the scullery maid, Maud, who was, according to rumour, no better than she ought to be. Surely Maud would know. But when Tallie asked her, Maud shrieked with laughter, tossed her apron over her face and ran from the room giggling, leaving Tallie red to the ears.

Finally she decided to approach her cousin about it.

Laetitia took one look at Tallie’s blushing embarrassment, and snapped impatiently, ‘Oh, God deliver me from puling virgins! Don’t look so mealy-mouthed, girl—I’ll tell you all you need to know about your wedding night.’ She pulled Tallie down beside her and whispered detailed instructions in her ear. After a moment she sat back and pushed Tallie away.

Horrified, but too mortified to ask questions, Tallie turned to leave, but as she reached the door Laetitia hissed after her, ‘Be sure you do not disgrace my cousin or your family. Remember, a lady endures it in silence—without moving or flinching. Do you hear me, girl?’ She turned back to her mirror, a knowing smile on her face.

They were the last words Laetitia spoke to her, and the more she thought about them, the more nervous Tallie became. Endure it? What was it? Endurance sounded most unpleasant…And in silence? Why would she wish to cry out? Or flinch…It sounded painful. She thought briefly of Emmaline Pearce, then shook her head.

‘Miss, miss, he’s arrived!’ Lucy, the maid, put her head around the door, her face lit with excitement. ‘Your betrothed, miss—Lord d’Arenville—he’s here!’

Tallie’s heart seemed to stop for a moment, and then began to beat in double time. He was here. She would be able to speak to him, then—about Italy—before the wedding. It was what she had been hoping for. In the three weeks since he had galloped off so intemperately, she’d kicked herself often for not having sorted out everything to her satisfaction. She had to speak with him, get the whole thing settled before the wedding, for afterwards there would be little likelihood of him agreeing to the demands of a woman who’d sworn in church to obey him.

‘I must see him at once.’ Tallie started towards the door.

‘Oh, miss, miss, you can’t! It’s bad luck, no matter how eager you are to see your handsome gentleman again!’ Lucy beamed in fond indulgence. The entire household had reacted to the news of Tallie’s wedding as if it was a fairy tale come true for her, and Tallie found she didn’t have the heart to disillusion them.

‘Bad luck? Why?’

Lucy gestured to Tallie’s gown. ‘For the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress, a’course.’ She looked more closely at the wedding dress, and, frowning, reached out to tug one sleeve into place. ‘Are you sure this—?’

‘Oh, never mind that,’ said Tallie. ‘I’ll change my dress, Lucy, since you say it’s so important, but will you please take a message to Lord d’Arenville and tell him I must speak to him as soon as possible? In private.’

Realising she was to be Cupid’s Messenger, Lucy beamed and said dramatically, ‘Of course I will, Miss Tallie. I’ll go straight away, and before you know it you’ll be reunited once more with Your Beloved.’ She sailed from the room.

Tallie giggled. Her Beloved? She giggled again, trying to imagine The Icicle involved in anything so human as a romantic assignation. It was simply not possible.

Having told the irritatingly coy maidservant he would meet Miss Robinson in the summerhouse in twenty minutes, Magnus found himself wondering why the girl wanted to speak to him so urgently. Something to do with her wedding finery, no doubt. He allowed himself a faint, cynical smile and felt in his pocket for the long oblong package. He was well ahead of her.

Magnus had ridden away from his last interview with his bride-to-be in a white-hot rage. He was still angry, but his rage had cooled to an icy implacability. Thalia Robinson would have to learn her place. If she wanted to be treated as a bride would wish to be treated she had better tread very lightly around him until she’d earned his forgiveness. He frowned and felt the package. He must make his motives for this gift very clear to her. He would not wish her to misunderstand him.

It had occurred to him a week before that she would very likely not possess any adequate jewellery. It was unthinkable that his bride wear cheap or shoddy jewellery at her wedding, so Magnus had looked through his late mother’s jewel case until he had found a very pretty rope of matched pearls, earrings, and a bracelet—just right for a young bride. Simple enough to look modest and maidenly, yet the rope was very long and the pearls priceless. They were the perfect betrothal gift—and would be bound to go with whatever she had decided to wear.

From the little he had seen of her clothing, Miss Robinson preferred an odd style of garment, but Laetitia’s taste was exquisite, and she would have ensured that his bride would not wear anything outrageous. And after they were married he’d supervise her wardrobe himself. The rest of his mother’s jewels he would present to her as and when she deserved it.

‘Lord d’Arenville?’

Magnus rose and turned quickly. He bowed slightly. ‘Miss Robinson.’ His eyes were cold, his patrician features impassive.

Tallie closed the door to the summerhouse behind her. Her heart was pounding as if she had been running and her hands felt clammy. She curtsied automatically, trying not to stare. Gracious, she’d forgotten how very handsome he was. It made it so much harder to remember how cold he was.

‘I was under the impression that you wished to converse with me, but perhaps you merely wished to see for yourself that I had returned.’ His tone was blighting.

‘Oh, no,’ Tallie responded instantly. ‘I believed Lucy when she told me you’d arrived. Lucy is a very truthful girl.’

He missed her irony. ‘Lucy?’

‘The maid.’ Tallie seated herself on a bench beside a wall.

Lord d’Arenville folded his arms, leaned against the wall and regarded her sardonically. He was looming again, Tallie thought resentfully, and obviously had no intention of making this any easier.

‘I wished to see you in private because there are things we need to have clear before the wedding,’ she said in a rush.

Have clear? His eyes narrowed. ‘Are there indeed?’

‘Yes. You left so suddenly I had no chance to talk to you about them.’

‘Well, I am here now,’ Magnus drawled.

‘Th…they are very important to me, and I could not agree to marry you unless we do so.’

‘I was under the impression that you had already agreed to marry me, madam,’ he said silkily.

‘Well, I did, yes, but we had not finished our discussion when you rushed out, and I only discovered later that you had gone to d’Arn…d’Anvil…’ She stumbled over the word in her nervousness.

‘D’Arenville Hall, madam. You had best learn the name, as it will be your home for the rest of your life.’

This veiled allusion to the rural imprisonment he planned for her threw Tallie into a temper. He did not know she had overheard him in the library that night, telling his cousin his plans for a bride and an heir. She recognised his threat.

‘It is not my home yet.’ Tallie bared her teeth in what she hoped would look like a smile. ‘And there are issues to resolve before I agree to make it so—several conditions, in fact.’

Conditions! Magnus was outraged. The chit was trying to blackmail him. Threatening to jilt him unless he agreed to her demands. The day before the wedding, when guests would be arriving at any moment. By God she had a cheek!