A Model Marriage
A Regency Romance
For the two editors who helped me on this book:
Monica Harris, who bought it and who taught me so much
Carin Ritter, who edited it and is teaching me more
Thanks for everything.
One
“A curse on the head of whoever invented this dashed contrivance!” Antonia Locke tugged at her corset, trying to adjust the straps to make them more comfortable. Impossible, she discovered when they refused to move. Dropping to sit on the tufted chair in the bedchamber she shared with her sister, she sighed.
“Do not be cast down, sister dear,” murmured Mignon as she toyed with the front of her blue sprigged muslin gown, brushing the ribbons into a perfect pattern along her slender body. “Wearing a corset is worth the discomfort when you see the admiring eyes aimed in your direction.”
“Not in mine.” She rested her chin on her palm and watched her sister, who was older by a year, finish her toilette in preparation for Lord Carrier’s call.
“You have your admirers as well, although you seem loath to own to that.” She piled her brown hair up around her face and examined herself in the glass that was set by the wide bed they shared in the cramped room.
“Do I?”
“Reverend Mr. St. John always greets you with rare warmth.”
“He greets everyone warmly.”
“But not as he greets you. I swear, he lingers by the church door every Sunday in hopes of seeing you.”
“In hopes, you must own,” Antonia said with a smile, “that I will come to play music for the services, so he does not have to suffer through young Miss Gardener’s playing—although she has improved much of late.”
“Most likely because of the attentions of her teacher. I believe you could teach a donkey to play the pianoforte.”
“I was unable to teach you.”
Mignon laughed. “Which proves my assertion.” Turning back to the glass, she gathered her hair into place and asked, “How does this look?”
Antonia stood and took a ribbon from the table by the cheval glass. Tying it into a lazy bow, she draped it over her sister’s hair and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Mignon Locke epitomized all that was pretty. Her slender hands were as light as a country tune, and her hair did not resist, as Antonia’s did, any styling except falling into a rhapsody of curls. “Lord Carrier will be overmastered by your loveliness this evening, Mignon, not mine.”
“Antonia, you must not think of yourself as undesirable.” She winced and smiled as she pulled at the side of her gown. “Nor are you the only one who must suffer the indignities of a corset.”
“But you wear it to keep you up, not to hold you in.”
Mignon stepped away from the glass and pushed Antonia in front of it. “Look at yourself, Antonia. I may be more slender than you, but I would trade my very soul to have your thick, golden hair. Mine is a most common brown and does not have your wondrous curls.” Her smile softened. “And you know as well as I that what resides within means so much more than what lies without.”
“I know that.” Antonia turned away from her reflection to collect her pink muslin gown and draw it on. She did not enjoy primping in front of the glass like her sister did. In fact, she tried to avoid any glass.
True, she was not as round as Mrs. Raye, the lady who led the choir at church, but Antonia knew she never would be mistaken for one of the svelte creatures who populated the pages of Ackermann’s Repository. Her limbs were a bit too full, and her bosom, when pressed up stylishly by her corset, resembled a spacious shelf. No, she more closely took after one of Cruikshank’s caricatures.
But you have such a lovely face. How many times had she heard those words, which were meant to be comforting but somehow added to her dismay? Friends hurried to laud the fact that she had had the good fortune to inherit her late mother’s hair and features while they ignored that she might one day be as thick as Papa. The extra flesh that was accepted on a man as a sign of a successful life—and Papa had a reputation as the best schoolmaster in this part of England—would be denounced on a woman as overindulgence.
How she longed to be as lithe as Mignon! She knew it was want-witted to dream of such, for she had always been what Mama had called “pleasingly plump.” If she were so pleasing, then why did all the gentlemen come calling for Mignon?
She chided herself. Nothing would make her happier than to see her sister married well and happily. And Mignon should be wed first, for she was the elder. It was simply, as Lord Carrier called more frequently, that Antonia was haunted by the nightmare of spending the rest of her days alone on the shelf. She could imagine nothing worse.
“Oh, here is Lord Carrier!” Mignon exclaimed from near the small room’s sole window. “And, Antonia, he has brought his dear friend Mr. Lewis with him.”
“Mr. Lewis?” Her nose wrinkled. After all her silent grousing, she deserved to be burdened with such a caller. Worse than being left permanently on the shelf was having to endure the long silences whenever Ellis Lewis called. They had nothing in common save that his best friend was courting her sister. He did not even like music, which to Antonia made him beyond redemption. “Mignon, I had hoped to spend the evening with Papa.”
“Do not be skimble-skamble. Papa is lost in some textbook, and he will not wish to be disturbed. You know how he likes to have a quiet evening after his tutoring sessions with the McClain children.” Taking Antonia’s hands, she said, “I cannot receive Lord Carrier without you there to be a watchdog.”
“You will have Mr. Lewis.”
Mignon gasped in horror. “Antonia, to receive two gentlemen alone would cause talk throughout Extonbury. Do come with me.”
“I will.”
“And do be kind to Mr. Lewis, Antonia.”
“I shall.”
“And do say more than two words in a row to him.”
She smiled ruefully, wondering if Mignon could gauge her thoughts. “I shall endeavor to do my best, but it takes two to make a conversation.”
“Mayhap Lord Carrier made the same suggestion to his friend,” Mignon offered.
“We can only hope so.”
“Antonia, please …”
Giving her sister a swift hug, she said, “I was only funning you. You know I will have my most polished manners in place when we greet your beau.”
“Do you think the baron considers himself my beau?”
Dutifully, Antonia soothed her sister’s qualms and went down the stairs with Mignon to the small foyer that was walled in dark walnut. She said nothing as Mignon opened the door to usher in their visitors. When lean, lanky Lord Carrier stepped into the light from the lamp set on the table by the stairs, she gasped in unison with her sister. He was lathered with drying mud.
“What happened to you?” cried Mignon.
“We were nearly killed.” Lord Carrier pulled a handkerchief from beneath his ruined waistcoat, which once might have been red-striped but was now a dank brown. He dabbed futilely at the filth masking his face. “I must ask you to excuse me from our planned conversation this evening, Miss Locke.” He glanced at Antonia. “I had hoped to enjoy more of your music, Miss Antonia. Ellis is bereft at the idea of missing the opportunity to see you again.”
“I am sure,” Mignon said, glancing at Antonia.
Antonia knew silence was her best choice. Anything she said now would surely be inappropriate. Mr. Lewis was tone deaf, and he squirmed with boredom whenever she played the pianoforte. No doubt he was as grateful as she at the chance to put an early conclusion to this evening.
Lord Carrier gave Mignon a smile as he continued to clean his face. “You are the most gracious hostesses in the shire.”
“Mayhap you may call again soon.”
“As soon as possible.” He reached for Mignon’s hand, but paused and looked guiltily at Antonia. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “I trust Ellis and I may knock down your door Saturday next.”
“A whole week from now?” Mignon’s brown eyes dimmed. “It shall seem a lifetime, Lord Carrier.”
“I regret the delay as well.” Sighing, he gave up trying to get the mud off his face.
Just as well, Antonia decided. It was drying to a shade not so different from his hair. If he could pull off the mud without cracking it, he would have an excellent mold of his face. She struggled not to smile at the untoward thought. When Mignon flashed her a frown, she knew she had been unsuccessful at hiding her amusement.
“However,” Lord Carrier continued, “it will take most of the week to oversee the repairs on my carriage.”
“Did you upset it?” Antonia asked.
Mignon looked daggers at her as she hastened to say, “Antonia dear, you know that Lord Carrier is no lame-hand. You yourself remarked after our last drive how he drove with cautious skill.”
She recalled mentioning the caution, but not the skill, for, to own the truth, Lord Carrier drove no faster than she could walk.
Lord Carrier’s scowl flaked the drying mud off his cheeks. “It mattered little what my skills were when we were run off the road.”
“Oh, my!” cried Mignon. “Are you hurt? Should I send for the doctor?”
“We are filthy, and my carriage has one cracked axle. We shall be able to limp home, but I would trust it to go no farther.”
“What happened?”
“We were driving into Extonbury and were almost at the bridge. Suddenly, as if riding on the wings of a hellhound hag, a vehicle sped toward us. I had no choice but to pull to the side. A wheel caught in the mud at the edge of the water, and we went over.”
Antonia lowered her eyes. Dear God, if Mignon saw the amusement in them just now, her sister would be as mad as hops. But the thought of the proper Lord Carrier and the odious Mr. Lewis upended in the brook was hilarious.
“You are fortunate not to be injured,” Mignon said with sympathy.
“My carriage suffered greatly.” His voice softened as he added, “And I had just gotten new cushions for it, Miss Locke, so it would be more commodious for our next outing. Now they are ruined.”
“Who would do such a thing?” asked Antonia. “The residents of Extonbury are, without fail, cautious and courteous.”
Lord Carrier gaped at her as if he had forgotten she stood there. “There is one who is not.”
“Who?”
“If I find out, you may rest assured the moonling will rue this evening as much as I do.”
“You should go to the authorities,” came a deeper voice behind her.
Antonia smiled as Papa came out into the foyer, filling the small space beyond comfort. Nearly as rotund as he was tall, Papa wore a quizzing glass over his rumpled waistcoat. The finish had worn off from years of holding it to his eyes as he perused one book or another. His balding head shone more brightly between the few wisps of hair that once had been as dark as Mignon’s. With a bulbous face that could flash from laughter to fury in a single heartbeat, he was a man of strong passions, which his students learned quickly were best not aroused.
“I would have little to tell them, Mr. Locke,” Lord Carrier said, shifting from one foot to the other as a puddle of water formed beneath him. “It happened so swiftly, and it was quite dark.”
“You saw nothing?”
“Nothing, for the vehicle was being driven by a neck-or-nothing madman. I fear that we may not be his only victims before he is halted.”
Papa sighed, his full belly bouncing on the motion. “It is too bad that the old duke is not still alive. He surely would deal with this want-witted chap without delay.”
“Mayhap it was nothing but an accident,” Antonia said quietly. “Mayhap the vehicle was out of control. No one in Extonbury would drive with such a lack of common sense.”
“There was nothing common about this lack of sense,” argued Lord Carrier, his jutting chin warning that he did not intend to be induced to change his mind on this matter. “You cannot ignore the truth. A man who would drive another off the road and not pause to check if anyone was hurt might stop at nothing to satisfy himself.” His voice took on a decidedly melodramatic tone. “If this foolhardy fool is not stopped, someone shall be hurt.”
Patrick Fairchild turned his blue-wheeled phaeton at an impossible speed onto the narrow country lane. When it tilted up on two wheels, he stood and shifted to force it back onto all four. He roared with laughter as one wheel bounced into a chuckhole, threatening to send the vehicle to disaster.
“Isn’t this a tip-top spree?” he shouted over the thundering hoofs.
“Faster!” called Gordon Boswell, his best friend and coconspirator in their attempt last night to empty every bottle in the Drake’s Mistress tavern. Gordon’s red hair blew back from his ruddy face as he waved his hat high above his head. “Faster! There has to be more rum waiting for us in this backwater shire.” Lifting a bottle, he tilted it back. He cursed.
“What is amiss?” asked Patrick, holding out his hand. The dust off the road had dried his throat, and he was eager to remedy that. “That bottle is from Exton Park’s cellars, and it is one of our best.”
“No longer.” He held it upside down and caught the single drop that fell out. Licking off his finger, he groaned, “’Tis empty.” He tossed the bottle out of the carriage. It shattered against a tree. Sitting straighter, he gripped the bouncing side of the carriage. “Damn! Did you see that? I hit a tree at this speed.”
Patrick sat and draped an arm over his tie-mate’s shoulder. “Doubt you could do that sober.”
“Could try.”
“Not now, when you are overshot.”
“As you are.” Gordon bellowed with laughter. “You drive better foxed.”
“You don’t. I swear I shall not let you hold the reins again after that near disaster last night.”
“No one was hurt. Just a couple of the local bumpkins being sent for a bath.”
Patrick let the horse slow. “That was unfortunate.”
“For those two nickninnies. Next time they will know to clear the path for the one and only Duke of Exton.” Gordon doffed his hat toward his friend. “Your grace, you look a sight.”
Rubbing the whiskers on his chin, Patrick smiled. No wonder that saucy miss had winced when he gave her a lusty farewell kiss not more than an hour earlier. His smile faded. When he entered the tavern last night, he had suspected she—Blast! Had he forgotten her name already? Had he ever known it?—was the woman he was seeking. He had been wrong, he discovered, when he saw that beneath her simple smock she wore several layers of smallclothes to fight back the cool autumn nights. She had not been cold last night when he enjoyed her unsophisticated passions. But she was not the woman he needed to find.
He was beginning to wonder if such a woman even existed. He had searched diligently for more than two years. The search had not been without its rewards, for the lass last night was only the latest who had been willing to let him view her naked beauty and share a night of rapture.
But he had yet to find the woman he needed. He was not sure where else to look. He had sought in every theater in London and throughout the countryside. No seraglio had been overlooked, and he had expanded his quest into the homes of the Polite World, both above-and belowstairs. Although he had found many women eager to reveal to him what waited beneath their clothing, not one had been the woman he needed to find.
“Patrick!”
His friend’s irritating voice tore him from his depressing thoughts. With his head as heavy as if the Tower of London sat atop it, he wished Gordon would refrain from shouting.
“What is it?” he retorted.
Gordon looked at him, then burst into drunken laughter. Trying to speak, he could not.
Patrick sighed as he turned his attention back to the road. Surprised, he realized the road led down into the hamlet that had taken its name from his long-forgotten ancestor who had first claimed these lands. Extonbury was an anachronism, a throwback to a simpler time. He suspected good King Hal himself would have been right at home among the stone and wood houses. The church set among the golden oaks at one end of the tiny common area was even older, mayhap as ancient as the reign of the first King Henry. While London and the rest of the world had hurled themselves into the nineteenth century, this small village remained happily in the past. Tradition was of utmost importance here. Stifling tradition that dictated what each person’s role would be within the bounds of the village, a tradition that he had been happy to escape during his tour of the continent. Now it threatened to smother him again.
Thank goodness for Gordon Boswell! Patrick had invited his friend down from London simply to maintain an ironic perspective on the place where he had been born the only child of the previous Duke of Exton.
Since his arrival home, he had avoided the village, but it was too late to find another route. If he turned the carriage around, Gordon would ask questions he did not want to answer. His friend would be highly amused at a duke who was uncomfortable among his own tenants.
Steering the carriage at a decorous pace through the village in the hope he would not garner any attention on this quiet Sunday morning, he yawned. The fresh air was like a blanket, forcing him to recall how little sleep he had last night. If he could just find the woman he hunted for, then he could be done with this absurd quest and … a form crossing the green caught his eye, and he jerked back on the reins.
“What are you stopping for?” muttered Gordon as he pushed himself away from the dash. “There are lasses to be courted and wine to be drunk and—”
“Hold hard!” He looked back over his shoulder. Could it be? Right here in Extonbury? “It’s her!”
“Her? Who?” He squinted. “Blast and perdition, Patrick, have some sympathy on me! Tell me whom I am looking at.”
“Her!”
Ignoring Gordon’s grumbles, Patrick watched the woman walk toward the stone church. She wore a simple gown that emphasized the sultry curves of her body. She was just what he needed. He almost laughed aloud. If he had spoken those words, Gordon would lambaste him as an air-dreamer. Only Gordon knew how long Patrick had been seeking his ideal woman, but Gordon could not understand this obsession that had been born the moment Patrick first saw a Botticelli painting hanging in a doge’s palace in Italy.
For as long as he could remember, Patrick had dabbled with colors and paints. His pictures had gained him compliments from his mother and reluctant praise from his father, who considered painting an odd avocation for a future Duke of Exton. His grand tour of Italy after he completed his formal education confirmed what Patrick long had guessed. He wanted to emulate the great masters of centuries past. If he had not been called back to England by his father’s illness and death, he would have remained in Italy to study with those who had learned the skills of the Renaissance painters.
In London he had tried to put aside his painting and assume the duties his mother expected him to oversee, but living without his painting had been no more possible than existing without breathing. He must try, at least once, to create a painting in the mode of the great masters.
And he had … so far. The enormous canvas filled half of one wall of the master’s bedchamber at the Exton Park. Dozens of female figures were completed, each one a memory of a night or a week or a month of painting the woman for a few hours each day and letting her please him for a few more hours. But the center of the painting was empty, for he had not found the proper form to serve as his model of Venus. He wished to paint her reclining among her nude servants, who were sated with love’s pleasures as dawn arrived to gild their flesh with warm shades of rose.
This woman was just what he had envisioned. Her hair, hidden demurely beneath her straw bonnet, glittered in the sunlight as if with Midas’s touch. If freed from its sedate bun, it should flow over her shoulders and along the generous curves that were exactly what he needed for his Venus. And her face … blast! His drink-fuzzed eyes refused to focus enough to let him discover if her features were as perfect as her form.
He tossed the reins to Gordon. “Wait here.”
Gordon shouted after him, but Patrick paid him no mind. Leaping out of the phaeton, he nearly collapsed. He should have had swallowed a few bracing drafts before returning home. But who would have guessed that he would chance upon her in the Extonbury churchyard?
Getting his feet securely beneath him, he made the best speed he could to where the woman had almost reached the church. He climbed over the wall surrounding the graves in the churchyard. Weaving among the markers under the trees that were decorated in their fall best, he leaned on the cool stones to keep himself from falling. Blast! He should know better than to drink wibble. He should have imbibed only what came from Exton Park’s cellars.
“Miss?” he called, and flinched as his own voice pounded in his skull. He hoped the rum had not misled him. If she were not the woman he was seeking …
“Yes?” She slowed and looked back at him. “Did you call, sir?”
He smiled as he tugged at his coat that was wrinkled after its hours of lying on the rough floor in the room behind the tavern. Taking care where he put his feet, he concentrated on walking without stumbling to where the woman had paused.
He forgot all pretense as he stared at her. “It is you!”
“Pardon me?” she asked in a voice lovely enough for a goddess. And, bless her, she spoke softly!
“You are the one I have been looking for.”
“I beg your pardon?” She clasped her hands in front of her unadorned gown that was only a shade paler than her warmly colored skin. “Sir, I think you have mistaken me for another.”
“For the evening star.”
Her eyes widened, and his breath caught as it had when he first saw the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The color of her eyes was an incredible combination of storm gray and freshwater blue. His fingers itched to open his paints so he could recreate this splendid shade on canvas.
“Forgive me,” he hastened to add when she edged away a single step. “Forgive me, Miss …”
“Locke. Antonia Locke.”
Locke? The name was teasingly familiar, but he could not be bothered by an inkling of some half-remembered memory. Luxurious blond hair and those eyes and those voluptuous curves—she was perfect.
“Forgive me, Miss Locke.” He saw how uneasy she was when he continued to stare, but he could not help himself. After searching half of England, he had found the perfect model within a league of Exton Park. He must not make a muddle of this. “I should have started this conversation with a polite good morning, miss.” He reached to tip his hat to her. His fingers fumbled, tangling in his hair. Fudge! He had left his hat … where? Right now his brain was as muzzy as his eyes.
“Good morning.” She turned and reached for the church door.
He could not let her walk away. He had to find out more about this woman. “Wait a moment, miss. I must speak with you of a matter most urgent.”
“Sir, I cannot linger. I shall be late for church.”
“To perdition with church!”
She gasped. “Sir, watch your language. You are standing in the churchyard.”
“Miss Locke, I must speak with you of an urgent matter.”
“Are you in danger of dying?”
He stared at her, stunned at the unexpected question. Yes, he must look much the worse for his night of carousing, but he had not guessed he appeared ready to be put to bed with a shovel. “Of course not.”
“Then, sir, it can wait until I finish playing for the first service. If you will excuse me …”
He reached for her hand. “But I can’t, Miss Locke. I must speak with you now.”
Adroitly she stepped away. Blast the rum that slowed his reflexes. If he were more himself, she would not escape him with such ease.
“Miss Locke?” he called as she walked away, the swaying of her skirts holding his gaze.
She did not answer.
With another curse that should have sent a lightning bolt cutting right through him, he strode back to the carriage. Gordon sprawled across the seat. His snores threatened to drown the chiming of the church bell. Patrick winced at each peal, but shook his friend.
“Huh?” mumbled Gordon. Opening one eye only a slit, he asked, “What do you want, Patrick?”
“Wake up.”
“You are mad.” He burrowed back into the cushions.
Patrick reached to shake him again, then grinned. Walking around the carriage as quickly as he could, he pulled a bucket from the well in the middle of the green. He tipped it over Gordon.
His friend sputtered awake as the cold water struck him. “What in hell—?” He gulped when the church bell chimed again. “What in blazes are you doing?”
“Waking you up.” Patrick tossed the bucket back on the ground. “Come along.”
“Where?”
“We, my good friend, are about to become acquainted with our shortcomings and sins.” He tugged his friend out of the phaeton and brushed water off Gordon’s head. “We are going to church.”
“Have you lost all your senses?” Gordon wobbled. “We are over the mark. We spent last night with two ha’penny harlots. We reek of rum and—”
“Then it sounds as if we are ripe for a visit to church.” He grinned as he shoved his friend ahead of him toward the door. “And I haven’t lost my senses. I found the perfect model for my painting.”
“In church?”
“That was where she was headed, so that is where we are going.”
“But church?” He groaned. “All that music and incense and sermons and my aching head and—”
“It will all be worth it if she poses for me. And, after all, they say going to church is good for you.”
“Good for you mayhap, but do I need to suffer?”
“She is in there, and I cannot let her elude me.” His voice grew suddenly as somber as the pealing bells. “I swear I shall do anything I must to complete this painting. Anything at all.”
Two
Antonia groped for a chair at the back of the choir’s storage room. Dropping into it, she released the breath she had been holding. She should tell someone about the drunken man who had approached her in the churchyard, but who? Mr. St. John would be busy rereading his sermon one last time, and Mrs. Raye, the choirmistress, would be distressed beyond words if she were to hear of it.
Why had the man spoken to her so oddly? Mayhap it had been nothing more than the spirits that had suffused him with their pungent odor. It was a shame if such a good-looking man had succumbed to some weakness that clearly was assuaged only by rum.
She frowned. His clothing had been well and cleverly made of fine fabrics. He was no sot who had stumbled into the churchyard. Could a swell from London have wandered away from the main road and found himself lost in Extonbury? If so, she had offered him a poor welcome when he might have been coming to the church to get help.
She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling that was in dire need of painting. Chipped paint and water stains created strange patterns across it, but she found no answer waiting for her. Beyond the door, she heard the voices of the members of the small choir. Mr. Moore’s bass rumble and Miss Percy’s soprano twitter and all the other voices in between. They became silent, and she knew Mrs. Raye had entered the room. The choirmistress’s late husband had been a regimental sergeant in the king’s army, and she ran her choir with the same unbending precision.
She should go in and let Mrs. Raye know she was here. Shaking her head, she sighed.
“Are you unwell, Miss Locke?”
Antonia met Reverend Mr. St. John’s concerned smile. She smiled in return, wanting to soothe his anxiety. It was impossible to be grim in his company. His narrow face had a puppyish charm, and his brown hair fell across his forehead and into his eyes like a sheepdog’s.
“I am quite well, Mr. St. John,” she replied.
“Then could you be so good as to—” He glanced at his surplice, which was askew over his shoulders.
She came to her feet and chuckled as she helped him button up the back of his surplice as she did every Sunday she played the organ at the church. Although she was curious who assisted him when she was not here, she refrained from asking. Too many other questions taunted her. Questions of the identity of the drunk man who had tried to speak with her in front of the church. Questions of why she had caught his attention. Questions of what trouble he might cause in Extonbury.
“You are playing something new for us, I understand,” said Mr. St. John as he turned to check his appearance in the small glass by the stack of chairs.
“Yes.”
“Of your own composition?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
He faced her and smiled. “Do not be so embarrassed by God’s gifts, Miss Locke. You have been given this wonderful ability to create music out of nothing.”
Antonia was sure her face was afire, for she was surrounded by uncomfortable heat. “I appreciate you and your congregation allowing me to practice my small pieces in front of you.”
“Nonsense.” He started for the door, but paused when she called his name. “Yes?”
“Mr. St. John, I hesitate to mention this now.” She fidgeted with a piece of lace on the front of her gown.
“Speak up, if you wish, for I must not delay much longer, or the service shall be late starting.”
Antonia almost told him that the matter could wait. She must not. The man, who had been three sheets to the wind, might approach someone else with more disastrous results. “Mr. St. John, when I was coming into the church, I saw a man I did not recognize in the churchyard.”
“A stranger?”
“Yes.” She was not surprised that he was amazed. Few strangers found their way to Extonbury, as the village was surrounded on all sides by mountains better suited for sheep than for travel. “He spoke with me.”
“What did he want?”
Again she knew she was blushing. “I am not certain, Mr. St. John. His words were confusing. I believe he was quite altogethery, for he wobbled on every step he took and a most disagreeable odor emanated from him.”
“I see.” He scowled in concentration.
“He was well dressed, and he spoke politely enough.” She walked to where an old harpsichord sat, forgotten and dusty, in one corner of the room. Running her fingers along the wood that had warped from so many years of being unattended here in the storage room, she murmured, “He was tall, even taller than Mr. Moore. He was not so muscular that he looked out of place in his riding coat and breeches. His hair was as dark as ebony, and his eyes were nearly as black.”
“And his face?”
“He was quite handsome, I suppose, if one is drawn to a face that looks as if it were chiseled from cold granite.”
The minister came to stand in front of her. His gaze was as intense as when he gave sinners a dressing-down. “Miss Locke, did he have any scars or distinguishing marks?”
“No … no, wait!” She was astonished how easily she could recreate the stranger’s face in her mind. “He had what I thought was a cleft in his chin, but, as he came closer, I saw it was a small scar.”
“Oh, my!”
“Oh, my?” She watched Mr. St. John rush to the window. “What is amiss?”
The minister whirled to face her, his robes billowing out behind him like a miss’s gown. “I believe you have described the Duke of Exton.”
“The duke?” she gasped.
He nodded. “I heard mention that he was returning to Exton Park. The dowager duchess spoke to me of her anticipation of his arrival.”
“Did she speak with dread or delight?” She doubted if even a doting mother would be eager to welcome home such a son.
“Miss Locke!”
“Mr. St. John, do not chide me, when I can see dismay on your face.”
All emotion fled from his features, save for his eyes, which flicked again and again toward the window. “It is not proper to share tittle-tattle here in the church.” A knock sounded on the door. “I must go, Miss Locke. Thank you for mentioning this to me.”
“You’re welcome,” she said to his back, although she was not sure why he was grateful, when he seemed ready to ignore the whole incident in the churchyard. Mayhap she should as well.
But could that obnoxious man truly have been the Duke of Exton? So often she had heard Papa praising the old duke, lauding his wisdom, his foresight, his sense of justice. Papa had been devastated when the duke had turned up his toes almost four years earlier. For more than a week Papa had shut himself in his study and had not come out. Then, when he did appear, Papa had said nothing about the duke again until the night before, while speaking with Lord Carrier.
She shivered, even though the room retained the stuffiness it had gathered during the summer. If that man in the churchyard was the new duke, she hoped he would not remain in Extonbury long.
“Miss Locke, are you in there?”
Antonia smiled as Miss Percy bustled into the room. Miss Percy had long tended her aged father until his death last year. Now out of mourning, she made no secret of the fact that she was interested in a match. Only on-dits throughout the shire that suggested Antonia and the minister were about to announce their intentions any day now had kept Miss Percy from setting her cap on Mr. St. John. A tall, spare woman, she was what commonly was deemed handsome, for the features that would have been so attractive on a man were too strong on her face.
“I’m right here, Miss Percy,” Antonia said, hoping no remnants of her blush tinted her cheeks. She still suffered from that extraordinary warmth that had begun when the man—Dear God, could that brandy-face in the churchyard truly be the Duke of Exton?—first spoke with her.
“Mrs. Raye is looking for you. Will you come out to see her?”
“Of course.”
“She is all atwitter, as usual.” Miss Percy’s laugh was not cruel. “I wish she could enjoy our music on a Sunday and not despair that we shall humiliate ourselves, Mr. St. John, the church, and mayhap even the Prince Regent himself.”
Antonia grinned. “I shall calm her.”
“Please do. You are the only one she will heed when she is like this.”
In the other room Mrs. Raye had planted herself in the very middle like a rock in a sea of disarray. The choir members scurried about, gathering their music books and robes and generally acting as if they never had been part of the ensemble before that morning.
“You wanted me, Mrs. Raye?” Antonia asked as she eased through the singers to the choirmistress. She was sure there must be more than the usual dozen choir members in the room.
“Thank goodness, Miss Locke!” The short, round woman’s pudgy hands grasped Antonia’s arm. “I needed someone dependable to help me bring order to the chaos here. I asked myself which one of these empty heads could help me. Then I knew I must send for Miss Locke. I knew I could depend on you to help. You are so serene and quiet, mayhap you will inspire these magpies to silence.”
Antonia’s smile seemed frozen in place. Dependable and quiet were descriptions used more and more for her of late. Papa used them. Mignon had too. Even though she should accept the compliments as the accolades that they were intended to be, she wanted to be seen as someone other than “dependable, shy, pleasingly plump Antonia.” She wanted someone to see within her, to discover and appreciate the music that played through her soul, thrilling her with melodies that had no name or form, but were waiting for her to give them life.
Impossible. She was to everyone “dependable Antonia Locke,” someone who could be relied on to lend assistance and teach the youngsters in Extonbury to play the pianoforte.
“Mrs. Raye!” cried Miss Percy, rushing up. “You must see this.”
“I am quite—”
“You are not too busy to see this!”
The choirmistress flashed a frown at Miss Percy and a question in Antonia’s direction, but pushed her way through the prattling singers to the door leading into the sanctuary.
Miss Percy held her finger to her lips. Opening the heavy oak door only an inch, she pointed past it. “Look!”
Antonia, curious about what had unsettled Miss Percy so, peered over Mrs. Raye’s head. She saw nothing amiss. A handful of the pews had worshipers sitting in them. Most of the villagers who attended church came to the later service. Sunlight splashed through the single stained glass window to decorate the altar with a rainbow. Candles burned on the railing between the altar and the organ, their light flickering off the polished oak sounding board hanging over the altar.
Mrs. Raye’s breath hissed as she drew a deep breath. “What is he doing here?” The choirmistress trembled with so much indignation that for a moment Antonia believed Satan himself had entered the sanctuary.
“He?” Antonia asked.
“Don’t you see him there?” Mrs. Raye’s finger quivered as she forgot her manners and pointed directly at a pew right in front of the organ.
Antonia’s own breath caught in the center of her chest as she stared at two men who were sitting just beyond the light from the window and the candles. One man, who had red hair that glowed even in the dim light, she had never seen before. But the other … She could not mistake the man who had spoken to her in the churchyard. His black hair, tossed back so casually from his bronze forehead, was nearly lost in the shadows, and from the doorway she could not see the tiny scar that ruined the stern line of his chin. The stylish cut of his clothing and elegant boots should have warned her from the onset that he was a man of rank, even while he had been rank with the odor of rum.
“That is a most ungenerous attitude, Mrs. Raye. You know the church doors open for everyone.” Miss Percy chuckled. “And one rumor long whispered throughout the shire can now be silenced.”
“Which one?” Antonia asked before she could halt herself. Why should she care what was in the air about the duke?
“The church roof did not cave in when the new duke entered.” Miss Percy giggled again.
Mrs. Raye scowled and motioned for Miss Percy to take her place in line, so that the choir might enter at the proper time in the service. “That man is trouble, Miss Locke, if he can unsettle a woman’s brain when she does no more than repeat silly gossip about him. Of course, since she has left mourning behind, Miss Percy has been impossible.” She sniffed. “As if a duke would look at any of the women here in Extonbury, save to share his bed.”
“Mrs. Raye!”
“Do not admonish me, Miss Locke.” Both her chins rose in righteous pride. “I am speaking the truth before God. That man has ruined his own family’s name and the reputation of any woman, quality or not, who is buffle-headed enough to let him seduce her into his bed.” She patted Antonia’s arm. “Thank goodness you have more sense about you than to swoon at the very sight of the man.”
“He is well favored.” Again she wished she had silenced the words that had escaped too swiftly.
“Yes.” Mrs. Raye did not censure her as she had expected. Instead, she said in a voice as appreciative as Miss Percy’s, “And that has aided him in his conquests. You must own that he seems to have inherited the best from his father. The late duke also had that raven hair and stern face. This son is of a height with his father, who had such a commanding stance.” The choirmistress shook herself and said in her customary tones, “’Tis too bad that his father did not bequeath his common sense to the present duke.”
Antonia wanted to ask why Mrs. Raye had said that, but the choirmistress gave her a gentle shove out into the sanctuary. Almost tripping over her own feet, Antonia recovered quickly and went with what aplomb she had left to the organ that was set to the right of the altar. She smiled at young Jimmy Hernon, who had been pumping the pedals for quite a while if she were to judge by the perspiration beading his forehead.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she sat beside him. “I appreciate you getting the organ primed.”
“Yes, miss.” He jumped down and ran toward the back of the church like a prisoner making a bid for freedom.
She smiled as she watched him pull open the door at the back, then she turned to open the music book set between the keys and the stops on the organ. Her fingers froze as her gaze was caught by the duke’s. Wanting to look away, she could not as he leaned forward, folding his arms on the back of the pew in front of him. Her breath grew shallow as his fingers splayed across the oak in a stroke that seemed far too intimate when she was imprisoned by his ebony gaze. One corner of his lip curled in a smile that might have been meant to charm her or daunt her or both. It almost succeeded, but she tore her gaze away and stared at the music in front of her.
For the first time in the years since she had begun playing, the black dots were a jumbled cipher with no clue to unravel their meaning. Her heart thudded in her ears more loudly than the pedals under her feet she continued to pump more from force of habit than conscious thought.