Chapter 21
Elf drove a weary Chantal to distraction trying to choose exactly the right outfit for her crucial meeting. What represented the real Lady Elfled Malloren?
She was tempted by her remaining safe gowns, the pales and pastels with pretty little prints. At least they were safe, and perhaps that’s how Fort thought of her. After all, apart from that one encounter at Lord Coalport’s villa, he’d never seen her in her new wardrobe.
Her new clothes, however, were more true to her now. But not a grand gown. That would be inappropriate, besides being unnecessarily uncomfortable during hours of waiting.
“Milady! Why don’t you want to dress for your bed?”
“Don’t question me, Chantal. I have my reasons.”
Not the amber again. She didn’t want waspish.
The cream with black-and-gold design?
The dusky red print?
The clear blue just edged with embroidered flowers?
In the end she settled on the green-and-cream stripe. It was cut in a rather plain form with closed bodice but skirt open over a leaf-green quilted petticoat that took the place of hoops. It was the sort of thing she’d wear for an ordinary day, and green, they said, was the color of hope.
Once into it, she sent Chantal off to bed and sat on a chaise in front of the window, praying for an early dawn.
But the earth and sun cannot be hurried, and in late December, the sun will not rise before eight, not even at the command of a Malloren.
In the end, she slept until the glow of sun on her eyes awoke her.
She blinked gritty lids, then saw Fort lounging on the padded window seat in front of her. He was dressed casually in buff breeches, long fawn waistcoat, and dark brown coat—what he’d wear for a casual day on one of his estates.
“It’s a long time since I’ve watched morning,” he said, turning his head to look at the golden sky. “A humbling experience.”
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I thought you were just the sort to seek your bed with the dawn.”
“Only in my wild younger days.” He looked back, unreadable. “Do you want to put this off?”
Again, that sounded ominous. “No. But I’m going to have a drink of water. Do you want some?”
“No, thank you.” As she walked over to the carafe and glass, he added, “I’ve cheated, in fact, and had breakfast.”
As she returned to the chaise, he added, “With Rothgar.”
Elf sat. “I thought he wasn’t going to interfere.”
“Perhaps he can’t resist. Perhaps he didn’t interfere.”
Elf didn’t believe it for a moment. “What did you talk about?”
He thought. “About the situation in Portugal and in the West Indies. About the king’s art purchases from Italy, and some of my own. Oh, and we discussed suitable disposition of the worthy Roman senators who stand in the hall of Walgrave House. Unless, of course, you have an attachment to them.”
Elf was startled by the switch in direction, then cautiously hopeful. “No. No attachment.” She studied him as if he were a conundrum. “Did he ask about wine and spirits?”
Now he was puzzled. “No. Though I gather you have interests in a vineyard in Portugal.”
“Probably. I wouldn’t know. I have enough to do with silk.”
“He did explain more about your family’s business concerns. It’s an intriguing notion. I have Victor to think of.”
Elf couldn’t stand this inconsequential talk any longer. “What of Lady Lydia?”
“I don’t think she’d care for trade.”
“You know what I mean!”
He looked at her for a moment, and she held her breath. “She’s too young,” he said, “and I’m not inclined to wait.”
She needed more than that. “Surely you would wait if you thought her the woman for you.”
“I suppose I would. Tell me, what is most important to you these days?”
“What?”
You, she thought.
“Elf, we hardly know each other.” That devastating teasing humor shaped his eyes. “What if you love glee singers and braised heart?”
“You don’t like glee singers and braised heart?”
“Can’t abide them.”
“I’ll give them up for you.”
“Ah,” he said, mock-melancholy. “But then I’d have to bear the burden of having deprived you of things you hold so dear.”
“I don’t hold them dear.”
“Then tell me what you do.”
You, she thought again, but she saw she’d have to answer the overt question.
“My family, of course. My work.” She knew this might be a problem. He had used to be a conventional man. “My involvement in the family business is very important to me. It’s challenging and exciting.”
He didn’t faint with horror, so she kept going. “I’m still training with pistols and knives, and generally go about armed. I like the feeling of not being entirely dependent on others for my safety.”
Still no obvious dismay.
“I’m funding a pamphlet about ways of avoiding unwanted pregnancy. It will be passed around discreetly. The problem is that so many women can’t read, so we’ve done it with illustrations, but—”
“Schools next, I assume,” he said. “Does all this have Rothgar’s approval?”
“Do you care?”
“Not particularly. I’m just curious.”
“Yes, it does. Though if it didn’t, I’d still be doing it. In fact, Sappho’s handling the pamphlet.”
“Then Rothgar must approve, I suppose.”
“You can’t really think they are like that.”
“No.” His smile was rueful. “I started going there just to annoy my father. I did so many things simply to annoy my father. Then, after, I went seeking a means to injure Rothgar. I think she knew. She never tried to stop my visits, but I never encountered him there. In time, almost accidentally, I learned to enjoy good music and poetry, and to appreciate clever women. I have a lowering feeling that I was deliberately educated.”
Elf didn’t know what to say, for he was almost certainly correct.
“Almshouses,” he said. “I visited Mistress Cutlow.”
“Oh, yes. If we’re to dig over all the old coals . . .” She drained her forgotten glass of water. “When you arranged to pay her a crown a week, was it simple kindness or a move against me?”
He thought about it, looking out at the brightening garden. “It’s hard for me to understand my mental processes back then. Probably a bit of both.” He looked back. “You had forgotten her.”
“I admit it. And so,” she said, tossing the challenge back at him, “what is important to you these days?”
He moved to face her directly, the sun gilding the rim of his tied-back hair.
“My family. Chastity and Verity seem to be well settled, so there’s only Victor of my siblings.
He seems to be less marked by our childhood than the rest of us and should do well.
There are any number of family dependents, though. ”
“Everyone has those.”
“True, but to look after them requires money, as does catching up on all the work on the estates that Father neglected. The amounts he spent on royal gifts alone are enough to turn my hair gray.” He looked at her. “A frugal wife with mercantile interests would not come amiss.”
Her heart fluttered up to panic speed. “Frugal? I’m a Malloren.” Then she bit her lip, wondering if she’d leaped too far ahead.
He didn’t pounce on it. “I assume that your portion is grand enough to support your extravagances. Are you saying you won’t make me rich?”
She couldn’t stand it. “Are you saying you want me to marry you?”
Silence. Was he going to say no?
Then he smiled, but wryly. “No man likes to set himself up for disaster, least of all me. I confess, I’m still afraid .
. .” But he slipped off the window seat onto one knee.
“My dearest Elf, after long and careful consideration I have come to see that you are the only woman who can make my life complete. Will you accept my hand in marriage?”
She placed her hand in his, steadier now they had come to the point. But she frowned. “You almost sound reluctant.”
“Do I? I’m sorry.” He kissed her hand, but lightly, and looked into her eyes.
“I’m nervous. Frightened, even. You are, after all, a Malloren, and I’ve learned to expect stings.
But you are everything I want in a wife.
I knew that when I found myself thinking of ways to turn Lydia into you.
But I knew I had to untangle myself before I could make a clear-headed decision.
If you don’t marry me, I doubt I’ll marry elsewhere. ”
“That’s hardly a fair weapon!”
“I hoped we were beyond weapons.”
Flushing with shame, Elf slid down to the floor and into his arms. “You’re right. I think I’m nervous, too. We’ve been squabbling far longer than we’ve been talking rationally. I keep waiting for the answering sting. When did you first think . . .”
And sitting there in the brightening day they relived their encounters, the bitter and the sweet.
“You know,” he said at last, arm comfortably around her, their backs settled against the chaise, “you still haven’t answered my proposal.”
Elf dug in her pocket. “Give me your left hand.”
He did so, brows raised, and she slid the wasp ring onto his third finger. “Now you are mine, Monsieur Le Comte.”
With a laugh, he captured her left hand, pulled a ring out of his pocket, and slid it onto her finger. “Will you make everything into a contest?”
“Oh, probably.” Elf gazed through tears at a beautiful emerald. “I knew I was right to wear green. For hope.” She looked up at him. “I love you quite desperately, Fort, but this frightens me. I am a Malloren and I’ve come to like being in control of my life.”
“The warning is duly noted. I won’t beat you for insubordination.”
“No, you won’t.”
He laughed and kissed her lips. “Elf, the war is over. I love you, and I love you strong, bold, active, and even chattering. We can find a way.”
Then they were kissing as they had never kissed before, with wondering hesitancy and knowing familiarity. And, like the glow of the sun, with the added savor of leisure, of lifetimes, of security.
Eventually, the sun full up, they drew apart. Elf wanted more and she was sure he did, too. She was equally sure they would wait.
“Can it be soon?” she asked.
“Today would be nice.”
She leaned laughing on his chest. “We’d need a Special License.”
“I have one.”
She looked up at him. “Overconfident, perhaps?”