“Dashed if ever I saw such a scaly set-out!” Norman proclaimed, his indignant tone belied by the twinkle in his dark eyes. “What I went through! Soaked to the skin; fording raging floods; slogging through mud up to my knees; tossed onto my head when my blasted animal balked at a puddle he could have stepped over! I was forced to detour fifteen miles out of my way because two stupid bridges had been washed away! A lesser man would have given up, eh? But no, I persisted, got to the village, and sought out that cantankerous old midwife. I had to roust her out of a room where a lady was shrieking her head off because she—”
“My heavens!” said Lisette, her amusement giving way to consternation. “You never made Mrs. Rousell leave a confinement?”
Straddling a chair in the kitchen while he watched her prepare a breakfast tray for the invalid, he grinned. “I thought the same, but it turned out it was only her daughter, objecting to having her locks cut into a short style. Lord! And after all that misery, I arrived back here, bedraggled, bruised, battered, half frozen, and exhausted, bearing your beloved his vital draught, only to find you both cuddled up as snug as—”
“Norman!” Lisette exclaimed, blushing. “What a thing to say!”
“What a thing to see,” he countered, adding gruffly, “and never have I been more happy, I’ll allow. But after my heroic efforts, to come and find them all for naught, and the medicine no longer needed! Gad!”
Her cheeks hot, Lisette nonetheless met his eyes squarely. “It is needed. He is not out of danger, although this long sleep has worked wonders, I do believe.”
“You both slept the clock around.”
“Never look so smug, brother. You did, too, so Green tells me!”
He chuckled. “From sheer frustration, no doubt.”
“There is no cause. Justin is much improved, but we—we almost lost him, Norman. We still could, though we’ve a better chance with the medicine you brought. I will never be able to tell you how grateful—”
“Oh, pooh! Nonsense!” He stood and made for the door. “Do you mean to talk such fustian I’m off. Cannot bear it. May I look in on Strand?”
“For a minute or two only, if you please. I so dread lest the fever come back. Green says it could. And until the doctor has come, I’ll not rest easy.”
“Get away with you. What you mean is that you want to keep him all to yourself! If ever I saw such a pair of lovebirds!”
“Horrid boy!” she said, but she laughed and her eyes were sparkling as he had never seen them sparkle, for his remark was not so far removed from the truth. Lisette’s burgeoning affection for Strand had come to full flower during her desperate battle for his life. She knew now that her heart was for all time given to the husband she had married with such reluctance, and that knowledge lent her a glow and a tenderness that immeasurably heightened her beauty.
She had looked in on Strand the moment she awoke and had been elated to find his fever broken and his eyes clear again. He had been too weak to do more than lie and gaze at her, and she had quickly left Green alone to care for him. How much did he remember, she wondered. Would he speak now of his love for her? She knew beyond doubting that he loved her just as she loved him, but it would be so wonderful to hear him say it.…
Green came busily into the kitchen. Their shared vigil of terror had brought them to a closeness that would last through many years to come, and almost unconsciously the valet had slipped into the way of longtime retainers, his demeanour towards Lisette never less than respectful, yet containing the faintly proprietary tone that one might use to a beloved child. “I’ll take that, Mrs. Lisette,” he said, deftly appropriating the tray. “Just the gruel, eh? I’d thought I would bring up some tea later. Not too strong, mind, but you and the master might like to take a cup together, being as he’s feeling so spry today.”
Norman left the bedchamber as they entered. He said nothing, but threw an amused wink at his sister. When she walked in, she saw why. Strand was propped up by several pillows. He had been shaved, and his thick hair brushed into the careless style she had come to think very becoming. He was drawn and pale, his eyes sunk in deep hollows, and he lacked the strength to stretch out his hand to her as he tried to do, but Lisette’s blush was intensified by the awed look of worship in his eyes.
Stifling a smile, Green drew up her chair and placed the tray on the table beside it. “Here’s your lady come to give you a spot of breakfast, sir,” he said cheerily. “Do you see how much better our invalid looks, ma’am?”
“He does, indeed.” Lisette concentrated upon arranging a napkin across Strand’s chest. He did look stronger. Perhaps, when Green was gone, they would be able to talk a little.
The valet plumped up his master’s pillows, hovered about for a minute or two, then took himself off. Lisette began to wield the spoon, guiding it carefully to her husband’s lips, very aware of the fact that his adoring eyes never for a moment left her face.
He behaved dutifully for a while, but at last sighed and shook his head. She put down the bowl and lowered her lashes, waiting.
“Lisette,” Strand murmured.
“Yes, Justin?”
“I—I—want—I wish—I mean—er—what became of Garvey?”
With only a trace of wistfulness, she thought, So much for romance … Then, seeing his hand lift very slightly but fall back onto the coverlet, she took it up in her own vital clasp, and smiled, “Gone, I’m afraid, love.” The thin fingers tightened a little at the term of endearment, and his eyes were saying everything his lips apparently could not speak. She forced herself to be sensible and said, “Constable Short was no match for the likes of James Garvey, and when he went to the gaol yesterday morning, he found his prisoner flown. Even so, Garvey will have to leave England, I am assured. Grandmama has vowed to set about the word of his infamy, and I doubt he’ll ever dare show his face to the ton again.”
“Good,” said Strand.
Lisette restored his hand to the coverlet, but when she made to draw back, he clung to her fingers. With her heart beginning to beat faster, she looked down and again waited. He was still very ill, of course, but … “Justin,” she prompted in a shy little voice, “is—is there, that is, do you remember—anything?”
He made no answer. Looking up at length, she sighed. He had fallen asleep once more. Shaking her head, she gently disengaged her hand and bent to kiss him lightly on the brow. “Odious, odious man!” she murmured.
Strand smiled contentedly.
* * *
So long as Strand was within a stone’s throw of death’s door, weak as a kitten, and still racked by the effects of the fever and the head injury, his behaviour was exemplary. He never complained, always obeyed those who cared for him, and when he occasionally spoke, it was to utter such faint words of appreciation for their tender solicitude as touched their hearts. Within a very few days, however, he was on the mend and, like most energetic individuals, proved a dreadful patient. He demanded from Norman a complete inventory of the damage resulting from the storm, and then fretted and fumed because he was not allowed to get up and at least supervise the necessary repairs. He insisted that Best ride to the Hall as soon as the roads were passable and send a groom to Bolster’s lodgings in Town, or to Three Fields, to determine his lordship’s present state of health. He became exceedingly irate over his diet, terming it pap, or slops, and eventually threatening to hurl at Green’s head the next bowl of broth that was presented him. Green, nobody’s fool, had noted that with one person his master was meek to the point of slavishness, and mercilessly using that weapon, the valet murmured that he would speak to Mrs. Lisette in the matter, though it was by her orders that the food was prepared.
“Oh, never mind,” Strand grumbled, accepting the despised offering. “And that’s another thing—I want some help brought here. Send down a couple of housemaids from the Hall, and the cook. The roads must be safe by this time and there’s no reason why René cannot man the stove instead of you and Denise doing all the work. My poor wife must be damn near exhausted, fetching and carrying for me!”
Aware of the fiery René’s opinion of the tiny kitchen that had been installed at Silverings after the fire, Green glibly resorted to his infallible remedy and murmured that he would talk to Mrs. Lisette.
“You will do as I say!” snapped Strand irately. “My wife has enough to concern herself with and— Where is she, by the way?”
“She is with Dr. Bellows. He just arrived, sir.”
Strand groaned. “That old fidget? He’ll be reading her a fine Jeremiad, poor girl.” His eyes softened. He sighed, “I wonder she puts up with me, Oliver.”
“I—ah—venture to think madam does not find that task—er—entirely reprehensible,” murmured Green, his eyes twinkling.
“Do you, by God!” flashed Strand. “You impertinent scoundrel! Wait till I’m up out of this blasted bed! I’ll show you what’s reprehensible!”
* * *
“He must not get up yet,” decreed Dr. Bellows, accepting a refilling of his glass and knowing he should leave this beautiful lady and get to his patient. He ran a tidying hand over his thinning sandy hair and crossed his short legs as he observed that malaria did not thrive in England’s cold climate. “Does Strand only give his system time to repair and recover from its effects, he may well go thirty or forty years without another attack. I’ve known such cases. But I know your husband also. A walking volcano, ma’am! Always must be up and doing. It would surprise me did his man not have to tie him to the bed to keep him from wearing himself out before he’s had a chance to recuperate.”
Sitting opposite the small physician in the sunlit parlour, with Norman perched on the arm of the sofa beside her, Lisette said worriedly, “We shall contrive to keep him quiet, doctor. But he was so terribly ill. I never saw such a violence of fever and delirium, and I have often helped Nurse when one of the family was sick. If it should recur, Dr. Bellows … it—it will not…” She bit her lip, watching the doctor with an anxiety he thought enchanting, and that brought to mind the remarks of certain of his learned acquaintances, to the effect that the Strand marriage was solely one of convenience. When next he encountered those individuals, he would advise them with considerable vehemence that if Justin Strand had entered into a mariage de convenance he wished he might have undertaken such a liaison! Meanwhile, he said kindly, “Will not carry him off? I pray not, dear lady. Your husband’s problem—and it is a major one—is that he refuses to follow an ancient and wise Chinese maxim, ‘Exercise moderation in all things.’ You would be amazed at how nicely it works. Strand, however, has a boundless enthusiasm, a passionate interest in his people and estates, a driving need to be always changing something for the better. Admirable traits, but unless harnessed to a common-sense understanding of human frailty, well calculated to wear down health to the point—” He pursed his lips. “Strand, ma’am, has no patience with the simple needs of the body. He eats if the notion strikes him; he rises at dawn and works till all hours; he forces his physical form to keep pace with his plans and ambitions, and—” he shrugged and spread his stubby hands expressively—“it simply cannot be done.”
“I see,” said Lisette, her brows knit. “But if he did live at a—a somewhat less hectic pace? If he were—er—persuaded to be more moderate in his pursuits, could I then hope not to be an early widow?”
The doctor stood, took up her hand, and saluted it reverently. “My dear, with you at the helm, I predict Justin Strand will live to a ripe old age!”
* * *
Walking with her sister-in-law into the small saloon at Strand Hall, Rachel Leith’s lovely face reflected stark astonishment. She sat in the Sheraton chair next to the green brocade sofa and said in aghast tones, “Justin has left you again? I cannot credit it! I thought he must be ripe for Bedlam when I learned he had believed such evil of poor Bolster, but—”
“You must not forget that Strand was desperately ill at that time,” Lisette defended reproachfully.
Encouraged by this unexpected reaction, Rachel said, “Yes. And you saved his life, for which I shall never be able to thank you enough.” She reached out to squeeze Lisette’s hand affectionately. “Charity stays with Amanda now, and is having such a lovely time helping her choose her bride clothes. As for Bolster, he is in transports. I do not believe the dear man has come down to earth for weeks. Have you seen his idiocy?”
Lisette smiled and nodded. “He came to see us soon after we returned here. Strand was delighted, but was at first so humbly apologetic for having doubted his dearest friend that poor Jeremy was fairly appalled.”
“It was an appalling business.” A frown touching her eyes, Rachel lapsed into thoughtful silence.
“Yet—could have been so much worse.” Lisette hesitated, then said, “Rachel, who is Claude Sanguinet?” Her sister-in-law’s startled face turned to her, and she added, “Oh, I know he is a Frenchman of great wealth, to whom you were once betrothed, but that is all I know. How is he so powerful?”
All mirth was gone now from Rachel’s face. She said in an odd voice, “He is horrifyingly powerful. You know that Tristram helped me get away from that terrible … magnificent château near Dinan?”
“I know very little. But Justin once said you had been told not to speak of it. I saw Monsieur Sanguinet once. He did not look very terrible.”
“No.” Rachel’s hands gripped tightly and her wide eyes were fixed on events that only she could see. “But he is,” she half whispered. “He is a savage. A cruel madman. He befriended me at a time when we were in most desperate straits. I did not know … what he was really like. Few people do. But I am afraid. Someday—” She shivered and bowed her head. “I must not say more, but, as for me, if it had not been for Tristram…”
Dismayed, Lisette stammered, “Oh, my! I am terribly sorry. I had no idea it was so bad. I have upset you.”
“No, no!” Rachel looked up and smiled brightly. “Only, I try not to think of those times. They were bad—and yet, that was when I met my dear husband, so you see there were happy moments, too. Enough of that. Now you must tell me of my brother. If I know Justin, he has been a most intractable patient and quite driven you out of your senses.”
“Oh, dreadful,” Lisette agreed, laughing. “As soon as he began to get better, he was impossible!”
“Poor girl. You must be very glad he is gone away.”
Lisette looked down at her hands and managed a rather scratchy, “Yes.”
Rachel Leith was a most warm-hearted girl. She had always thought this beauty pretty-mannered and charming, but a shade too self-possessed. When her brother had fallen so desperately in love with her, she had encouraged his hopes outwardly, and inwardly had despaired of his chances of ever having his affections returned. Intrigued now, she said, “I can tell that you have had a dreadful time. Justin is so hopeless about resting, or taking care of himself. Even so, I would not have supposed him capable of being so unfeeling as to abandon you again, after you were so good as to nurse him day and night, when we all know you did not—” She caught her breath, her eyes horrified because of what she had almost said.
Looking up through a veil of tears, Lisette sniffed. “Did not care for him? Well, you are right. I did not—when I married him.” She dried her eyes, aware that Rachel had stiffened. “It was supposed to be a mariage de convenance,” she imparted miserably. “Is it not the height of stupidity for the bride of such a match to—to have fallen madly in love with her own husband?”
“No!” Rachel moved impulsively to hug her and say in her winning, eager way, “I think it wonderful, for Justin has been in love with you since first he set eyes on you.”
“So I—I thought. But ever since he was ill, he—he has not … not so much as … kissed me!” She raised tragic eyes and went on, “And now he has gone away again and I know Charity was not his Fair Paphian, but I cannot help but wonder if there is one after all.”
Stifling a smile at this naïve muddle, Rachel commiserated, “He is the outside of enough, and no mistaking! I wonder you do not leave him.”
“Leave him? How could I, when he is the dearest, kindest, most gallant, and unselfish man who ever lived?” Lisette’s lower lip trembled, and she added a forlorn, “Only, I do not think I can endure it, does he mean to be endlessly coming and … g-going like this.”
“The wretch! Did he say nothing? Did he leave no word at all?”
“Only this.” Lisette drew a very wrinkled note from her pocket and handed it over.
“‘Dear Ma’am,’” read Rachel aloud. She flashed an irked upward glance at her sister-in-law’s woeful countenance. “Typical! So very romantic! ‘Dear Ma’am, I am called away on a matter that must be completed with all possible speed. By your leave I shall call upon you next Thursday afternoon at three o’clock. Please receive a man who is—yours forever, Strand.’” She looked up and said with incredulity, “Call on you? Today? In his own house? Good God! Did Leith write me such a note I would have him put under restraint at once! Though I am glad to see my brother’s writing is improved. When he is ill his hand shakes so he can scarce form the words. And, do you know, dear, the ending is rather—”
She stopped as Fisher entered. He presented Lisette with a large, beribboned box, and at once trod his stately way from the room without uttering a word.
Intrigued, Rachel said, “Good gracious, how theatrical! Is there a card, love?”
Untying the pink velvet ribbons, Lisette said, “No. Perhaps it is inside, but— Oh! Rachel, look! Is it not exquisite?”
At first Rachel saw only a charmingly arranged posy of pink roses and maidenhair fern, but in the centre was a velvet cushion containing a large diamond set in an intricately wrought gold filigree pendant. Lisette jumped up, ran to take a small pair of scissors from a drawer, and began carefully to snip the stitches holding the chain in place. Rachel assisted then in fastening the chain about Lisette’s white throat, and clapped her hands when she finished. “Oh, you must see it! Here—in the mirror. It is adorable! I would not have thought Justin had the sense!”
Lisette admired her reflection, then ran eagerly back to the box. She found a note inside. Unfolding it with hands that trembled, she uttered a shocked little cry that brought Rachel hastening to read over her shoulder:
I saw a maid who set my soul to dreaming
Sweet, tender dreams of love that haunt me yet.
A girl with eyes like dusky velvet, seeming
To make my heart a shrine just for
Lisette.
Her hair a cloud of midnight, richly glowing.
Her voice a silvery peal I can’t forget.
Her lips curved in a smile, as if she’s knowing
Deep is the love I bear for my
Lisette.
I’ll gather all my courage and pursue her.
I’ll kiss away her sorrows and regret.
I’ll worship and adore and gently woo her,
And win myself an angel, named
Lisette.
Astounded, Rachel breathed, “Why, it is beautiful…”
“How dare he!” raged Lisette, tearing at the clasp of the pendant. “Oh, that wicked, wicked man! After all the pain and grief and suffering he has brought on us!” She was panting, so deep was her disgust and chagrin. “Rachel, help me! Help me get this wretched thing off!”
“Do not! Please, do not! You will break it. And I am sure Justin did not mean to offend. I—I do not understand. You said you loved him, yet—”
“This horrid diamond did not come from my husband! Garvey sent it, just as he sent the other poem! To think he would dare—” She succeeded in opening the clasp, tore the offending pendant from her throat, and hurled it across the room.
“Garvey?” Rachel echoed in bewilderment. “No, but—but this is Justin’s hand, dearest. Surely, you must know it.”
Shock drained the high colour from Lisette’s cheeks. She stared at Rachel blankly. Justin? Justin had not writ that poem. He could not have done so. Justin’s writing was atrocious. Would she ever forget that first dreadful note he had sent, telling her he was leaving her on her wedding night.… Like a physical blow, she thought, But he was ill that night! And Rachel said when he is ill his hand shakes so that he can scarce form the words!
Regarding her anxiously, Rachel held out the note Justin had written to say that he would call today. Numbly, Lisette looked from one to the other. The writing was identical! She gave a gasp, remembering the note Grandmama had received from Strand. Why ever had she failed to notice the difference in the writing? “My God!” she moaned. “It cannot be … it cannot…!” And to Rachel’s bewilderment she suddenly fled, in a most ill-mannered abandonment of her guest, flinging open the door and running down the corridor with a flutter of draperies and a rustle of the two letters she held.
Following at a less precipitous rate, vastly entertained, Rachel informed a bowl of chrysanthemums that while this household had never been of an exemplary nature, it had of late deteriorated into total insanity. She climbed the stairs, marvelling at the progression of events, gleefully anticipating sharing them with Tristram and Charity. But she hastened her steps when she heard sobs coming from Lisette’s bedchamber. Entering, she found her sister-in-law kneeling on the carpet, weeping over three letters spread before her. “Oh, my dear!” Rachel cried, running to kneel with her. “Whatever is it?”
“They are … the same!” sobbed Lisette, a glory shining through her tears. “Oh, Rachel … all this time, I thought him so … so unromantic. All this time I thought that wicked Garvey had writ my first poem! How I—I longed for Justin to speak such beautiful words! How I yearned over them … never dreaming my … my own beloved husband— Oh, Rachel!” And clasped in her sister-in-law’s arms, she dissolved into floods of happy tears.
* * *
Well before the appointed time, Lisette was seated in the drawing room, her hands clasped in her lap, her face pale with anticipation. She wore a new gown of pale orange velvet, the low square-cut neck edged with tiny scallops, the skirt falling in a slim, straight line from beneath the bodice, and the puff sleeves also edged with the embroidered scalloping. An orange velvet ribbon was bound through her glossy dark hair, and her only jewellery was the diamond pendant that had been joyously reclaimed (luckily intact) and reverently replaced about her throat. She was quite alone, for Rachel, overcome with wonder that her loved but prosaic brother should have hidden such a flair for the art of flirtation, had vowed she’d not stay like a marplot in a house where a man obviously meant to court his own wife. She had summoned up her carriage and her maids and been swept away, fairly beside herself with eagerness to share all this deliciousness with her husband.
The clock on the mantel suddenly chimed the hour. Lisette jumped. Strand had said three o’clock. Oh, how she longed to see him! How did he intend to “pursue and woo” her? Had he stayed away so as to make plans for—
Fisher swung the door open. “Mr. Justin Strand,” he announced, his face commendably enigmatic.
Lisette’s heart was pounding as though it must break through her ribs. She could not know how brightly her eyes shone, how charming was the blush on her smooth cheeks, how becomingly the orange gown flattered her slender loveliness. Strand, having schooled himself to walk steadily, checked on the threshold. He was elegant in a coat of blue superfine and pearl grey unmentionables. A sapphire gleamed amid the folds of his cravat, and if that cravat was somewhat less than the perfection Green had created, by reason of a nervous finger having been run around beneath his collar several times on the way here, Lisette saw only the worship in the deep blue eyes of the man she loved. She was not conscious of having stood, but suddenly Strand was clasping both her hands. Neither spoke for a moment, each drinking in the adored face opposite. Leaning to him, lips parted for his kiss, Lisette was a little taken aback when he bowed, and instead kissed her fingertips.
“How very kind in you to receive me, ma’am,” he said primly. And thought, This time I shall do the thing properly! This time, by God, I will woo her with such poise she will fairly fall into my arms! Waiting until she had sat down, he seated himself in a nearby chair, his eyes straying to the pendant that sparkled on her bosom.
Her fingers lifted to touch the gem. “Justin, it is so beautiful. Thank you,” she said breathlessly.
“I am most pleased it—er—pleases you.” He bit his lip in irritation. How clumsy. And he must be smooth and assured. But she looked so unspeakably lovely.… He knew he was staring, and blurted, “Have you been well? Er—not lonely, I hope?”
“As a matter of fact,” she said with a demure smile, “I have been a little lonely. My dear husband, you see … was away.”
Strand’s grip tightened on the arm of his chair. “He had much to do. What I mean is, if you’re going to talk of your husband when you receive a caller, ma’am, I must protest.”
His eyes danced. Meeting them, Lisette said softly, “There is no one else I had rather speak of.”
Again, one thin finger was passed nervously about Strand’s collar. He sprang up and took a turn about the room. Lisette smiled to note that quick imperative stride, and thought, How very dear he is … But he was obviously set on wooing her, and she must not spoil his plans. And so she said, “Justin…”
He turned to her and corrected with a twinkle, “Mr. Strand.”
“I did not know, Mr. Strand,” she said meekly, “that my own husband writ those magnificent verses for me.”
He marched up to frown into her face, his eyes a blue blaze. “Well, who in the devil,” he demanded, quite forgetting his romantic mission, “did you think wrote them?”
“Garvey,” she confessed.
“Garvey!” He sat beside her. “The deuce! Why should you suspect so revolting a thing?”
“Because I did not recognize your hand, my dear one. You had only ever written me one note, and that was when you were taken ill on the night we were wed. Your writing was atrocious, and I thought it your usual hand. I could only think the poem came from Garvey, and when I mentioned it, he did not deny it.”
“That damnable rogue,” he murmured and, mesmerized by her beauty, traced the curve of her dewy cheek with one finger.
“Yes,” she sighed, swaying towards him, her voice a caress. “Oh, Justin, your poem was so beautiful. If you did but know how I wept over it, believing it to have come from the—wrong gentleman.”
He stammered eagerly, “Do you mean it? I’m—I’m so wretched when it comes to—to putting my feelings— Well, I never can seem to say—”
“No. You do not say, dearest. Rather, you do. All the sweet, dear—” And she drew back, startled, as Strand gasped, “By George!” and sprang up, rushing to open the window that looked onto the rose garden. He glanced out, coughed twice, then proceeded to pour a glass of ratafia and carry it to his bewildered lady.
Lisette accepted the glass, wondering why he did not look at her, but instead scowled at the window.
The sweet notes of a violin arose in the strains of a gypsy love song, soon joined by mandolins and a soft chinking of castanets. Amused and delighted, she thought, In the middle of the afternoon? but said, “Oh, how lovely!”
Strand sat beside her, took the hand she held out and murmured an adoring, “Beloved, will you—”
His words were drowned as the musicians were augmented by a tenor who apparently deemed it vital he should be heard in Brighton. Strand’s lips tightened, but persisting, he dropped to one knee beside his love. “Lisette,” he said, “you know—”
She cupped a hand about her ear. “What?”
“Lisette!” he roared.
“Yes, dear,” she answered, a dimple peeping as the serenade increased in volume.
Strand whipped around to glare at the window and knocked over the glass of wine Lisette had just set down. “Blast and damnation!” swore the ardent lover.
Lisette clapped one hand over her twitching lips, but her mirthful eyes betrayed her.
Strand groaned and clutched his fair locks in frustration. “Dammit all! Why don’t they stop?”
Instead, a new note was added to the uproar: The deep, fierce barks of a large dog preparing to protect his property. The tenor’s stentorian tones became a shriek. Violin and mandolin were abruptly replaced by voices raised in alarm. Whether from determination or because of the speed of their departure, the castanets could be heard until they, the shouts and the barking faded into the distance.
Strand slanted a woebegone glance at his lady.
Lisette struggled but, overcome, leaned back, dissolving into helpless laughter.
“Wretched girl!” he expostulated. “And that abominable hound! No, how can you laugh so? You must know I shall have to pay those pseudo-serenaders three times the exorbitant price they demanded for that caterwauling, to say nothing of possible doctor bills!” But he was not proof against the ridiculous and, sitting at his wife’s feet, succumbed and laughed with her until they both were gasping for breath.
A tambourine sounded outside.
“Oh, no!” moaned Strand.
Brutus jumped in through the window, the considerably tattered instrument between his jaws. “Idiotic creature!” his master declared, standing. Brutus shook his prize enthusiastically. Astonished by the resultant clamour, he hurriedly dropped it, leapt back, then barked fiercely at it.
Strand took up the tambourine, tossed it into the garden, and ruthlessly closed the window on the pursuing dog. Returning to aid Lisette to her feet, he sighed, “You see how it is? I cannot even attempt to be the romantical type. Everything goes wrong.”
“Well,” she said helpfully, “how had you meant it to go?”
“Why, I would arrive, to find you awaiting me with maidenly blushes and bated breath.”
She nodded. “You did.”
He lifted her hand and kissed it, and still holding it, stepped closer. “And after some small talk, I would give the signal to the musicians (if you could call ’em that!) and they would play soft, sweet love songs, whilst I dropped to my knees and—er—did the pretty.”
Her lashes were lowered at this rather clumsy summation. “And what,” she murmured, “would you have said—had everything gone properly?”
He sighed. “All the beautiful and expressive things Leith says to—” He broke off, biting his lip and furious for having mentioned his rival. “God!” he gritted. “What a gudgeon I am!”
“Yes,” confirmed Lisette, smiling up at him, her eyes very tender. “A gudgeon indeed to speak such fustian, sir! What other wife has had more beautiful words said to her than you have written to me? What other husband would spend so many patient, caring hours with a troubled boy, as you did with Norman; or be kind to an awkward girl and help her move more graciously into young womanhood, as you did with Judith? No!” She placed soft fingers over his lips as he bent worshipfully towards her. “Let me finish, if you please. I think I know what you have heard, and so I will admit to you that as a young girl I built an altar in my heart to manliness and gallantry. I put a splendid soldier on a pedestal, endowed him with godlike qualities, and childishly fancied myself in love with my impossible creation. Until I grew up and was besieged by a fierce, brusque, demanding, and—altogether adorable gentleman. And then…” Her lashes swept down at last, concealing the glow in her great eyes, and a rosy blush swept up from her throat to warm her cheeks. “Then—I really fell in love,” she finished shyly. “Totally, and for all time, with my own—”
Strand’s control broke. He pulled her into an embrace that was fierce indeed. Lisette was kissed as he had never kissed her before, so that she was dizzied and exhilarated and trembling when he suddenly released her and stepped back. Holding her at arm’s length, he scanned her face intensely. “Are you sure, my dearest beloved? Are you perfectly sure you can endure me? I swear I will be as good a husband as I know how.”
“And you will never again doubt me or call out any man you suspect of admiring me?”
“Never!”
Caressing his still gaunt cheek, she said tenderly, “And you will try to be more restrained in your activities and not rush about wearing yourself to a shade even when you are not entirely well?”
“I will be a veritable sloth!”
“And should we…” she looked away, blushing, “should we be blessed with children, you will be patient with them and not fly into the boughs do they not achieve as much, or as rapidly, as you would have them do?”
The thought of her giving him children brought a dazed look to his eyes. Pulling her close once more, he breathed, “My dear blessing … I vow I will do none of those things.”
She laughed merrily. “Oh, what a Canterbury tale! You will do them all, and I shall constantly have to watch over and guard you from yourself. And—oh, my very dear, how I shall love that precious task!”
There was nothing for it, of course, but to kiss her again. Having done which, he said briskly, “Hurry and get your cloak. I am taking you on your long-delayed honeymoon! Never argue, wife. Denise knows exactly where we go and has already packed for you. Hurry now!”
Her eyes full of stars, Lisette answered, “Yes, Mr. Strand.”