Fran Keighley Page 5

  My wife. That, as when he had called her Mrs. Lyndon during the journey, gave Amanda a quiver of pleasure. She was a married lady now.

  Carefully, Amanda rose, and successfully managed to cover the short distance from parlor to the bedchamber, moving with stately dignity, and aided by having to detour around various pieces of furniture which made it impossible to walk a straight line. Her maid joined her in only a moment, and assisted her to undress and don the prettiest of the nightdresses, and then took down Amanda's long dark hair and brushed it until it gleamed and crackled with electricity.

  Amanda snuggled in bed, too delightfully hazy to feel any fright, despite Lady Cordelia's terrifyingly obscure lecture yesterday evening. Lyndon was such very good company, so entertaining. Merely, Amanda felt shyly expectant when Lyndon came in, and smiling down at her, snuffed out the candle at bedside.

  Nothing in her ladyship's lecture or the scraps of information she'd ever heard prepared Amanda at all for what followed. That married people hugged and kissed, certainly, but Lyndon's kisses were far different from that brief salute in church. His hands explored most excitingly through and then under her thin nightdress.

  Possibly the most amazing part was her own response: she had been given to anticipate something distasteful, to which it was her duty to submit, only to find herself thrilling to those kisses and caresses. She moved to cooperate with the desires conveyed and instinctively understood, passionately eager to obey, welcoming and responding to his mounting passion with newly awakening needs of her own.

  The night was not restful; unused to sharing a bed, each roused easily, leading to further caresses and kisses and murmured endearments until once again their passions reached a crescendo.

  Amanda thrilled to more than passions. To be cuddled, praised, caressed-needed and loved-oh, how wonderful it was. How very wonderful.

  Ultimately they fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion, bodies intimately intertwined, to sleep snuggled together until far into the morning.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Lyndon stiffened with surprise, a pleased smile spreading over his face, as his bride stepped into the parlor and paused expectantly.

  "Now you do look something like," he declared appreciatively, gesturing for her to come further into the room and turn around.

  "You approve, sir?" Amanda inquired demurely.

  The blue frock was every bit as elegantly becoming now as at first inspection at the modiste's shop. The style flattered the gentle swell of her bosom and hip, while the shade enhanced the sapphire of her eyes, and his compliment put stars in those eyes. Too, Pym had proved quite as talented at arranging hair as Sally had promised. Amanda had seen for herself that she was in looks, but Lyndon's approbation was what counted. Oh, that he did truly think so.

  "I shall let Sally choose all my wives," he vowed, face grave though his eyes laughed at her, and flattered her. "She's done excellent well with you."

  Amanda opened her eyes at him. "You're starting a harem, sir? I pray that you won't mention it to your grandpapa upon this visit."

  "To please you this morning, anything," he vowed grandly, chuckling aloud. "And now, we'd best be off, or we'll roll in as they sit down to dinner. I have it timed nicely to arrive for tea. It is always excellent at Devonridge, I promise you."

  This journey was nothing like as lengthy as yesterday afternoon's, and with such a newly relaxed companionship with Lyndon, Amanda could have enjoyed it quite thoroughly, had it not been for constant awareness of their destination. She found herself simultaneously dreading reaching Devonridge, and wishing they might get there sooner, to have the ordeal behind them so they might proceed on to their new home. Sally and Lyndon had made enough comments about their imposing ducal grandsire and the relatives who lived at Devonridge with him, to give Amanda deep qualms about this meeting.

  Her expression must have shown her troubled feelings, for Lyndon's hand reached to clasp hers, and he slipped his arm about her waist to give her a comforting hug.

  "Never fear, love, they will approve of you. They're not too old or too prosy to lack an eye for an attractive female, and when it's such a very respectable female-"

  "Oh, Lyndon, pray do not muss my hair," Amanda begged. "Not now. And if you could be very good for just the short time we're there, please...?"

  "I shall be saintly," he promised, grinning, though the gleam in his eye was most unsaintly. "And I'll muss your hair later."

  "Yes, well, that will be quite convenient," she assured him. "Don't be so saintly that they don't know you or think you're sickening of a fever."

  * * *

  Amanda was aware, from Sally's casual remarks, and from Lady Cordelia's deep reverence, that Devonridge Court was a mansion of great size and antiquity, situated in extensive grounds, but even so she was surprised after the post chaise entered the gates.

  They drove and drove through the beautifully kept parklands, with wooded copses giving way to vistas of green velvet lawns, glittering ponds and streams, with drifts of golden daffodils and azure bluebells nodding in the afternoon breeze. How lovely, but were they never to reach the house?

  At last the ducal pile came into view, growing ever larger as they neared it. The edifice was of pale gray stone, huge and stately, more resembling a palace than any residence Amanda had ever known, and by contrast, Amanda herself felt smaller and more insignificant, and now it was her hand that shyly sought Lyndon's.

  To think that her son would one day be master of this establishment. Though doubtless, growing up familiar with it, he would not find it so overwhelmingly grand.

  When they finally entered the mansion itself, Amanda found that it was still more impressive indoors; nothing of vulgar display, but all of the first consequence, with large, nobly proportioned rooms and what seemed to be miles of corridors as they followed in the butler's wake.

  Lyndon conversed with Scatterwell quite casually, as old friends, but Amanda was exceedingly conscious of how loudly her footsteps seemed to ring out on the parquet flooring, and she wavered between the desire to tiptoe, and stepping out bravely despite the sound. Lyndon wasn't in the least inhibited by such considerations.

  The family, Scatterwell informed them, was in the small drawing room. Amanda shortly realized that it might be small by Devonridge standards, but was certainly larger than any she had hitherto visited. It seemed immense, and she was comforted by her new elegance and by Lyndon's arm under her quivering fingers. At least she was no longer dowdy and alone.

  Amanda could also be grateful for Lady Cordelia's strict training in the proprieties and the several London seasons that she had endured; they made correct behavior automatic so that, although she could never clearly recall what had been said during the first moments of this visit, she mechanically said and did the correct things.

  If Amanda appeared stiff, these new relatives-by-marriage doubtless interpreted it as stemming from her impeccable breeding and felt it to make her an even better spouse for their wild young kinsman.

  The entire resident family was gathered, both to meet the newest Mrs. Lyndon, and because it was very nearly time for tea, which they always took together.

  Head of the family, of course, was the duke. He was very nearly eighty now, a small, thin old gentleman but still quite hale and erect, with bristling tufted brows above frighteningly sharp blue eyes which seemed able to see through to one's innermost thoughts.

  Sir Henry Lyndon was portly, in his mid-fifties, obviously full of his own importance and that of his family. Lady Mathilda more closely resembled his sister than his wife, lending credence to the theory that long-married couples grow to look and sound alike. She was a stout, high-nosed matron, an ornate turban on her crimped iron gray curls.

  A second couple was slightly older than Amanda and Lyndon; the heavy, disapproving husband was the Honorable Humphrey Lyndon, and the indeterminate-looking young woman was his wife, Eulalia. Even at this moment, Amanda was struck by how difficult Eulalia wo
uld be to describe. Her coloring was so neutral as to be colorless, and her figure seemed quite shapeless, particularly as she was wrapped round with numerous shawls and scarves and sat huddled as if cold or unwell.

  The first Amanda could later remember clearly came when she found herself seated next to Lord Devonridge, daintily holding her tea cup, while his lordship surveyed her quite benignly.

  "Do you know, my dear, I believe that I used to know your mother," he told her. "Miss Katherine Richardson, was she not? And, to a lesser degree, your papa, as well."

  "Oh, sir, truly?" Amanda was unused to mention of her parents, other than clucking comments at their improvidence, marrying when neither had had more than a competence, and dying quite penniless, leaving an orphan daughter for relatives to raise.

  "Indeed so. Your mama was a fine young lady," he assured her. "Your name struck a memory as soon as young Sara broached it. Though I should have known, regardless. You have a great look of her, I may tell you. A beauty, as we all accounted her. She might have married where she pleased; your father was much envied when he won her. So you have been residing with the Drumms, Sara said. Ah, Lady Cordelia is a fine woman, no doubt, but cast quite into the shade by your mama, in their young days."

  Amanda was startled by the strong suggestion that Lady Cordelia might have been jealous, and might possibly resent the reminder of a daughter's resemblance. She would not have deliberately made Amanda a dowd, a drudge-would she? Could it be? Jealousy? Even after all these years?

  But no, Lady Cordelia was not gentle or doting with even her own offspring; her attention to them took the form of criticism.

  "I...I have only the barest memories of Mama, sir," Amanda responded hesitantly. "You must know that she died when I was little more than a child."

  "A beauty," he firmly assured her, his expression nostalgic. "Or, possibly not so much perfect beauty as that spark which is better than beauty. I can promise you, I was sorry to be old and already wed; perhaps, else, I should have been your papa; now what do you think of that? Instead, you have wed this rascally young grandson of mine and you are my granddaughter."

  "Which is very nearly the same thing, in the end," Amanda replied, finding herself warming to him and discovering him to be less intimidating than expected. Doubtless Lyndon's charm derived from him. "No, sir, I think this is best, for being your daughter would have made me Julian's aunt, and I believe being his wife will be by far more enjoyable."

  "Minx!" he said with a chuckle, giving her hand a pat while, behind the tea set, Lady Mathilda nodded approvingly. Her ladyship might disagree with the ability to enjoy being married to Julian Lyndon, but she eminently approved of the properness of a wife saying so, true or not.

  "I daresay you will find much to busy you at Highbriars," Lady Mathilda remarked, condescending to personally pass a plate of tiny but delicious sandwiches to Amanda. "I believe it to be sadly in need of refurbishing. Cousin Louisa, who was allowed to make it her home, was opposed to change. A sad failing of the old. Since her demise it has stood empty. Now to you will fall the duty of making it a home once more."

  "I shall like that," Amanda answered politely. It was preferable, truly, to moving into a house which was already outfitted to perfection but possibly not to her taste, for in this manner it would become more really her own. She would be the one to decide upon the furniture and its placement, the color and style of the hangings, the paintings, and small ornaments.

  "I should like a house all my own to refurbish." Eulalia spoke so unexpectedly yet with total lack of inflection that Amanda nearly jumped, and did look at her, puzzled, to try to discern how she meant the words. They were open to varied interpretation.

  Lady Mathilda completely disregarded her daughter-in-law, quite as if Eulalia had not spoken, continuing graciously, "I shall, of course, be most happy to give you all benefit of my experience and advice. Already, I have made lists to instruct you."

  Lyndon's brightly mocking glance briefly caught Amanda's eye; she carefully refused to look at him. It would be dangerous, she felt, to allow him to tickle her sense of the ridiculous. Tense as she was, she could too easily dissolve into nervous giggling, and utterly offend this pompous but well-meaning dowager. As she would be living nearby from now on, it was important to be upon terms with this family.

  "I daresay it will need considerable refurbishing," Lord Devonridge declared, struck by that fact. "Eh, well, I shan't give you advice, my dear; obviously you yourself have excellent taste. I shall give you this: my permission to tell the shops and workmen to apply to me for payment, and you may call upon the services of my Devonridge estate artisans here, if need be. There. How's that for a bride gift?" As if embarrassed by his generosity, he rounded ferociously upon Lyndon. "You mentioned a stop here on your way to Highbriars? You're never planning on taking your wife there at this hour? Most ineligible. You'll both stay here; time enough for her to see it tomorrow after a sound night's sleep."

  "As you say," Lyndon consented indifferently, studying the gleaming toe of his boot. "Aside from all else, I'm sure your chef is vastly superior to whoever does the cooking there. Mmm, there are servants?"

  "Of course, a skeleton staff," Uncle Henry said testily. "All that has been needed, of late years. Your wife will wish to make additions and alterations, of course. Of course." He appeared to emulate his father's way of repeating a phrase for emphasis.

  "The Red Room," the duke commanded, turning to Lady Mathilda. "Tell Scatterwell to have the Red Room in readiness for my grandson and his wife."

  * * *

  So it was that Amanda found herself spending the second night of her marriage in a sumptuously furnished, large bedchamber hung with deep red velvet curtains at the windows and a huge poster bed; a Persian carpet richly figured in crimson covered the floor.

  A fire crackled in the grate; Amanda gazed appreciatively at the leaping flames and glowing coals. Lady Cordelia had dismissed fires in bedrooms other than her own as a needless expense, except during the coldest weather, softening to both the constitution and the character, especially in the young. Waking to find the water in the ewer with a skim of ice, if not frozen solid, was commonplace. However, this was a ducal mansion.

  Lyndon glanced about, with a sardonic lift to his brows and a wry grin. "My word, how my stock has risen with marriage to you, my sweet," he said with light mockery. "You must know that in past I have been awarded a far less grand chamber. Of course, on past visits," he conceded, "I have generally been in disgrace. I do believe that this is the first time since my childhood I have not been."

  "See that you continue, then, sir." An undercurrent of laughter quivered in Amanda's voice, though she felt sympathy for him, the charming lad put to shame, and doubtless defiantly behaving even more wildly. "I find myself becoming vastly addicted to such ease; I should not care to be demoted."

  He strolled over to put his arms about her, and to kiss the nape of her neck. "I make no promises, love; nonetheless, I admit it is a pleasant change. I, too, could become addicted to being my grandpapa's fair-haired boy. Hmm, now I come to think on it, I did have quarters somewhat superior to my usual wont, last time, though none to match this. Amanda?" His hand moved to curve about her breast, caressing it gently but quite excitingly.

  "Lyndon, not now-we must change for dinner. Oh, later, love...my maid and your man-" Amanda said breathlessly, in a scandalized flurry of protests, despite her own desires that were rising to meet his. Then, at a discreet knock at the door, she gasped, "There, didn't I tell you? Yes, you may come in."

  More than ever now, Amanda felt glad of her maid and the shopping expedition with Sally; how could she have possibly dined in such a setting, in company so august, looking like a frump? In the svelte cream silk, hair freshly dressed, the simple pearls which had been her mother's at her neck and ears, Amanda felt prepared for the evening ahead.

  Manners, in the event, were far less formal than Amanda had feared might prevail. Although the dining room was huge to
accommodate banquets, with only these few members of the family present, leaves had been removed from the massive table to make it comfortably small. Too, rather than discoursing with strict propriety only with the person to one's either side, conversation was general, if somewhat odd.

  Lord Devonridge preferred anecdotes of his past, frequently rambling and obscure of point. Lady Mathilda made inquiries about members of the ton and was disposed to be somewhat insulted that marriage to even the black sheep of the Lyndon family should not have been celebrated with more grandeur. Sir Henry questioned Lyndon about the latest political happenings, despite Lyndon's obvious lack of interest in that subject. Humphrey silently ate his way through course after course, his wine glass refilled time beyond number. He volunteered no remarks and replied briefly and usually negatively, when addressed directly. Eulalia interpolated occasional remarks in her colorless voice that could hold only the surface meaning, or a variety of hidden significance.

  They were a strange pair, Amanda thought, trying not to speculate whether this silence of Humphrey's and Eulalia's comments stemmed from disdain of her. Or, possibly, from dislike of Lyndon and therefore disapproval of his marriage and whomever he wed?

  Matters hardly improved when the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy. Lady Mathilda's conversation left Society, and became instead a recital of all which Amanda would find necessary to do at Highbriars, and advice concerning where best to buy new furnishings.

  Amanda wondered, in alarm, whether Lady Mathilda meant to come over to supervise both the work on the house and the shopping, and she quietly determined to prevent that, but how? She was quite certain that her taste and her ladyship's would not agree.

  Lyndon could doubtless advise her on this, if he cared to do so. She thought that he would; he was unlikely to wish to have his aunt making free of his home. She only hoped that, rather than ridding them of Lady Mathilda, he would not choose to remedy the situation by returning to London by himself, and leaving her to suffer through it.