The Earl’s Intended Wife Page 2

  ‘I should rest?’ He looked down at her frowningly. ‘But you said you were…’

  ‘Faint, yes, I know. It was a fib, but I do not expect you want Sir Richard to know you are not feeling quite yourself,’ she replied briskly. A maid popped her head out of the door as they passed and Hebe added, ‘A pitcher of lemonade, please, Maria, and two glasses.’ Major Beresford allowed himself to be directed through the door, stooping under a tangle of hanging climber and into the deep shade of a little paved area. A lionhead fountain burbled gently against the wall, and two fringed white hammocks hung companionably side by side.

  ‘There, lie down,’ Hebe ordered firmly, plumping up pillows. ‘If you drink at least one more glass of lemonade and then sleep for half an hour, you will feel somewhat better when you wake.’

  The Major was obviously unused to taking order from débutantes, but the novelty appeared to be sufficient to secure at least compliance. He sat on the hammock, long legs over the side, and watched her with the beginnings of a genuine smile catching at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I think you should take your coat off as well,’ she added. ‘You will sleep much better.’

  ‘I should imagine your mama will be out here any minute to see exactly what is going on!’ he retorted, making no effort to start unbuttoning the row of shining buttons.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Hebe said, curling up in the opposite hammock and setting it swinging to and fro. She pushed up the pillows behind her and looked at him. ‘Go on, take it off, we are quite safe for at least half an hour. Mama will enjoy talking to Sir Richard without me there and she will be delighted to think we are in the garden indulging in a little genteel flirtation.’

  ‘Is that what we are doing?’ He started to open the jacket, his eyes on her face.

  ‘Of course not! But you are exhausted, and you will be able to carry on with your business with the Commodore much more efficiently after a little rest. Here, give me that jacket and I will put it on this stool.’

  She looked at him critically as he poured the lemonade and tossed back half the glass in one gulp. In the white shirt Alex Beresford looked far less like a bird of prey, and not at all like a monk. She studied the line of his throat as he swallowed, the width of his shoulders as he lay back against the pile of pillows and the length of his legs, elegant in tight overall trousers and black boots as he swung them up into the hammock.

  He leaned out to put down the glass and met her gaze. ‘What told you I was tired? I did not think I was so easy to read.’

  ‘Your eyes, and the skin under them. And you hardly ate anything.’

  ‘And I was very rude to you.’ Hebe twinkled back as he pulled a sudden, rueful face. ‘You know, Miss Carlton, tired as I am, I think I would rather flirt than sleep.’

  She could see his lids were beginning to droop. ‘I never flirt, Major.’

  He opened his eyes at that and turned his head on the pillows. ‘What, never? You really are an extraordinary young lady, Miss Carlton.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Hebe corrected. ‘A very ordinary one.’ But his eyes were closed, the sweep of dark lashes feathering the skin. Alex Beresford was asleep.

  Chapter Two

  Hebe’s prediction of the amount of time she and Major Beresford would be left alone together proved accurate. She had noticed the hall clock standing at five past the hour as they passed it: when it chimed the half-hour she climbed carefully out of her hammock, filled up the major’s glass with lemonade and shook out his uniform jacket.

  It seemed a pity to wake him. He had fallen at once into a deep, still sleep. His long body lay with the utter relaxation she had noticed in cats, only the slight movement of his lids suggested that perhaps he was dreaming. Hebe had found him very relaxing to watch as she swung gently to and fro in her hammock, thinking of nothing very much except how pleasant it was in the warm shade with the sound of water and the scent of flowers.

  Hebe stretched out a tentative hand, hesitating about how to wake the Major. A lock of black hair had fallen across his forehead and her fingers hovered, almost stroked it back, then were snatched away. What was she thinking of? She touched his shoulder, only lightly, but instantly he was awake, his body tensed under her flattened fingers.

  Meeting the Major’s eyes, she realised that he truly was totally and immediately awake. Despite his strange surroundings he knew where he was without having to think about it, swinging his legs down and getting to his feet in one swift movement. Hebe handed him his jacket and he shrugged it on as the sound of voices from the hall reached them.

  ‘Here, take this.’ Hebe thrust the glass of lemonade into his hand, then propelled him firmly along one of the paths between the troughs of plants before taking her seat demurely on the stool. She picked up the piece of embroidery which she had carried out there that morning and began to ply her needle.

  ‘Hebe, dearest!’ Mrs Carlton emerged into the garden with just the slightest expression of anxiety on her pretty face. She had not realised how the time had sped by as she had sat chatting to the Commodore in the dining room. Had she perhaps been unwise to leave Hebe alone with a total stranger? It had seemed such a good idea on the spur of the moment… Her face relaxed at the sight of her stepdaughter, perfectly composed and, by some miracle, carrying on a charming, ladylike activity.

  ‘Are you feeling better, Hebe dearest?’ she cooed, fluttering over and allowing the Commodore a delightful picture of pretty maternal attention. ‘Where is the Major?’

  ‘Here, ma’am,’ Major Beresford rounded the corner, ducking under a bamboo. ‘I have been admiring your lovely garden: what a peaceful haven. Might I guess that yours is the designing hand here?’

  Behind his back Hebe raised her eyebrows. Unless flattery was second nature to him, Alex Beresford certainly appeared to have recovered from any fatigue he had been suffering. She waited in silent amusement to hear whether Mrs Carlton was going to accept his praise for the garden, which was already beautifully laid out and planted when they took the house.

  Her stepmother dodged the question with a pretty laugh. ‘You are flattering me, Major! Now, tell me: do you stay long on the island?’

  ‘Possibly two or three weeks, ma’am. I am bound for Gibraltar and must wait for a convenient ship.’

  ‘So you are not with your regiment then?’ Sara Carlton persisted.

  ‘No, ma’am. I have been in the Ionian islands, delivering dispatches.’

  Mrs Carlton was too busy calculating whether two or three weeks would allow her enough time to squeeze in at least one supper party and a small soirée to notice that it was most unusual for an army officer to be wandering around the Mediterranean detached from his regiment and delivering dispatches, a task normally fulfilled by the smaller vessels from the fleet. The fact that he was by himself she merely noted as being helpful: how much more likely it was that he would rely on others to entertain him if he was separated from his brother officers.

  Hebe, however, did mark the evasion, as, she could tell from the Commodore’s expressionless face, did he. Then she realised he must know exactly what Alex Beresford was about. Hebe would never speculate aloud about such matters, but her brain was busy with the puzzle. A detached officer, newly arrived from the Ionian islands and bone weary—the most likely explanation was that the Major was an intelligence officer. She regarded him with even more interest: what a fascinating role…

  ‘I must thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,’ the major was saying, bowing over Sara Carlton’s hand. ‘Miss Carlton.’ Hebe put down her embroidery and came to shake hands. ‘I do hope you will feel much more yourself soon.’

  ‘I feel better already; doubtless it was a little too much sun earlier,’ she replied composedly. ‘Thank you for your company just now.’

  Major Beresford regarded her quizzically, then smiled. ‘No, thank you, Miss Carlton.’

  Hebe felt warm inside. When he smiled like that, directly into her eyes, she could see neither the monk nor the hunting falcon, simply
a very attractive man who appeared to enjoy her company. And suddenly she felt a deep concern that he should continue to feel like that about her.

  The front door had no sooner closed behind the two officers before Sara Carlton turned a look of glowing approval on her stepdaughter. ‘My dear Hebe! I had not thought you could be so adroit in attaching the Major. Why, I declare the man is already half in love with you.’

  Hebe flushed. ‘I beg you will not talk so nonsensically, Mama. Major Beresford was merely acting as any gentleman would under the circumstances, and I most certainly was not trying to attach him in any way. No doubt he has already put out of his mind a rather ordinary young lady whom he was obliged to assist for a few minutes. Why should such a man pay me any attention?’

  This realistic appraisal was certainly enough to dampen Hebe’s own spirits, even as she spoke the words, but Mrs Carlton merely smiled indulgently and pushed her towards the stairs. ‘Have more confidence in yourself, Hebe. You are unused to having a success with gentlemen—largely as a result of your own attitude, I might say—but we have an excellent beginning to build upon here. Now, where is Maria?’ She continued to urge Hebe up the stairs. ‘We must review your wardrobe this minute while I consider the best way to approach this. Bother the girl—Maria!’

  Hebe perched on the edge of her bed, allowing the bustle created by Mrs Carlton and Maria turning out every gown she possessed to pass over her head. Mama had obviously decided, on the flimsiest of evidence, that Major Beresford was not only an eligible suitor—which he most certainly was—but was inclined by some miracle to favour her stepdaughter.

  Hebe, on the other hand, had a very realistic understanding of what sort of young lady was likely to attract extremely handsome, aristocratic, military officers. She thought that he might have been amused by her unconventional behaviour and grateful for the opportunity she had afforded him to rest, but could not believe that he would harbour any of the feelings that Mrs Carlton was intent on attributing to him. Which was a pity, but she was not going to delude herself. Men, in her experience, were quite likely to pour out their troubles of the heart to her as a good friend, but she had no expectation that she was going to cause anyone’s heart to ache in her own right.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mama,’ she said, suddenly aware that Mrs Carlton had been speaking to her for several minutes. Agreement was usually the wisest course.

  ‘Hebe, really! I declare you have not been listening to a word I have said.’ However, this familiar scold did not continue as usual. ‘It is a little early to be indulging in too many fond daydreams, my dear. The time to do that is when the gentleman concerned has been securely attached. No, this is the moment in our campaign for planning, then action. You will need three new gowns…’

  ‘Three?’ Hebe squeaked. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘And two—no, three pairs of new slippers, a gauze scarf, some long gloves…’ Mrs Carlton finally registered her stepdaughter’s surprise. ‘Why, I will start with an invitation to a soirée next Tuesday evening, and your primrose silk really will no longer do for best. Then I will suggest to Mrs Forrester that the Major should be invited to her ball in ten days’ time: she will be only too glad to add another new man to her list and for that we must make every push to present you at your best.’

  ‘And the third gown?’ Hebe enquired faintly.

  ‘Just a day dress, something suitable for the promenade, I think. Major Beresford must see you to advantage in every setting.’ She paused and looked fixedly at Hebe. ‘And your hair. This time you must allow Monsieur Faubert to do something with it. Perhaps a new crop?’

  ‘No!’ Hebe clapped her hands to the sides of her head as if to ward off the threatening scissors. The refugee French coiffeur might find a willing subject in her stepmother, but she had no intention of letting him near her with scissors and hot tongs. ‘No, Mama, I do not want to cut off my hair.’ It might be an unsatisfactory brown, but Hebe secretly thought the mass of unruly curls were her only beauty. Although who else was going to admire their romantic tumble when she only let them loose at night in the privacy of her own bedchamber, she could not say.

  ‘Oh, very well then.’ Mrs Carlton was not going to waste her energy on a fruitless battle. ‘Maria, please see that all of Miss Hebe’s gowns are well aired and pressed and that she has sufficient silk stockings.’

  As the maid began to gather up the gowns that had been tossed on to the bed, her brown eyes sparkling with vicarious excitement, Hebe said, ‘I suppose Major Beresford is unmarried, Mama.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, never say such a thing!’ Mrs Carlton hurried from the room, her face a picture of alarm. ‘Thank goodness Sir Richard gave us an up-to-date copy of the Peerage last month…’ Her voice could be heard faintly as she disappeared into her own room. ‘Here it is. Now…Abbotsford, Avery, Bottley, Brandon…’

  The little Maltese maid turned to Hebe, her arms full of muslins and Hebe’s two silk gowns. ‘Oh, Miss Hebe! You are going to marry that man who looks like a beautiful, fierce saint?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Hebe retorted firmly. Fierce saint, indeed!

  ‘Beresford,’ came the echo of Mrs Carlton’s voice, gaining in volume as she walked back along the landing, reading aloud as she came. ‘Here we are. George Beresford, third Earl of Tasborough, married Emilia… Has issue eldest son William, Viscount Broadwood, also Major the Honourable Alexander Hugh Beresford. The major is not married, thank goodness.’

  ‘He may have been since that was published,’ Hebe said repressively. ‘Or he may be affianced to be married.’

  ‘We must find out,’ Mrs Carlton said firmly. ‘Off you go, Maria. Now, be careful not to scorch anything.’

  ‘Well, I am certainly not going to ask him,’ Hebe said, jumping off the bed and walking to the window where she lingered, looking out longingly. What a beautiful day for a walk. A proper walk, not the sort of dawdling stroll, pausing every few moments to gaze into a shop or gossip with an acquaintance, which Mrs Carlton favoured.

  ‘Goodness, no, that would be fatal,’ Mrs Carlton agreed, shocked at the very thought. ‘I will ask Sir Richard to ascertain the position. In fact, I will write a note at once. The sooner we know where we stand, the better, for Major Beresford will be sure to call in the next day or two.’

  But three days passed without sight, or word, of the Major. Mrs Carlton was cast down, and inclined to be cross with Sir Richard who, when closely quizzed, would only say vaguely that he was sure Major Beresford was busy somewhere about the island.

  Hebe, who was not at all surprised, maintained an air of utter indifference, which infuriated her stepmother and hid a little ache of regret. It had been ridiculous to entertain any sort of hope that Alex Beresford would want to pursue their brief acquaintance, but she had foolishly allowed herself to be carried away by Sara Carlton’s enthusiasm and led into the sort of daydreams which could only end in disappointment.

  She felt she had some excuse, for the Major was, it had to be said, very attractive when he smiled. And it would utterly overthrow the conceit of every young lady of Hebe’s acquaintance if he showed any sign of interest in her, the Plain Jane of Valetta society.

  On the fourth morning after Sir Richard had brought the Major for luncheon Hebe slipped out of the house while Mrs Carlton was still propped up against her pillows, yawning over her morning chocolate and fretfully complaining that her curl papers had been twisted too tight the night before and she had hardly slept a wink.

  The Carlton ladies enjoyed a respectable competence thanks to the careful provision of Hebe’s late papa, who had received his fair share of naval prize money, and to Mrs Carlton’s own modest portion. But Mrs Carlton’s ideas of elegance, and the accompanying niceties of life which were essential to maintain that state, kept their budget under constant tension.

  Hebe had become an essential part of their domestic economy, for she found it both easy and enjoyable to hunt for bargains in the markets, barter over purchases and keep the household s
upplied at a cost that no servant would have bothered to achieve. Mrs Carlton might bewail the necessity of Hebe’s daily expeditions with her big basket, but she could not deny the quality and quantity of the food that graced their table, bringing a smile of satisfaction to Sir Richard’s face or earning a look of envy from less-adept hostesses when she gave a dinner.

  And Hebe, with her regrettable enthusiasm for making friends with anyone and everyone, was consequently an infallible source of the cheapest crochet lace work, the latest arrival of scented almond oil soap from the North African coast or the news of a wonderful dressmaker who could copy a London fashion plate at dagger-cheap prices.

  So her marketing trips were tolerated and Mrs Carlton shut her eyes to the fact that a simple trip to buy tomatoes, lemons and lamb cutlets and to place an order for fresh flowers could last most of the morning.

  That morning Hebe was early, for she was intent on fish for dinner. Sir Richard was coming and fish of any kind was his declared favourite dish. She made her way down through the streets, already busy, cutting confidently through back alleys and tiny squares and running lightly down the long flights of steps to emerge at last through the great encircling wall overlooking Barriera Wharf.

  She stopped there, as she always did, to look out over the blue of the Grand Harbour to the Three Cities, as the small towns on the opposite shore were so grandly known. The jumble of houses, walls, watchtowers and church towers, all in golden stone, glowed in the morning light, divided by the long fingers of water which penetrated deeply between them. In Dockyard Creek she could see the tops of the forest of masts that marked the English frigates and sloops clustered there, and across the water came the shrill call of a bosun’s whistle, cutting cleanly through the competing noises.