‘Since no one has yet offered to introduce us, my lady,’ said a personable young man to Nicola, ‘then I must needs do it myself. I asked my brother to, but he has declined.’
‘And who is your brother, sir?’ As if she couldn’t have guessed.
‘Over there,’ he said, glancing with a certain relish across to where his elder brother lounged against a marble table laden with food. ‘Sir Fergus Melrose.’
Nicola followed his glance, relieved to have a genuine excuse to look at him so soon after her arrival. Then, seeing the message that awaited her, she wished she had not done. The business of the day is not yet over, he was telling her. You’ll not get rid of me so easily.
‘My name,’ the young man was saying, ‘is Muir. I expect he’s mentioned me.’ His merry brown eyes were revealing far more than his name—his admiration, for example, his interest in every detail of her appearance as well as in some that were hidden. In that respect, he was easier to read than his brother, more affable, more extrovert in his much-padded pink satin doublet that made her wonder how he managed to squeeze through doorways. The pleated frill below his belt was skimpy enough to reveal what older men kept politely concealed.
‘Master Melrose,’ said Nicola, averting her eyes from the pronounced bulge, ‘why did your brother refuse to introduce us? Would he not approve of us being acquainted?’
‘Apparently not. In fact, he was quite specific about the problem. He said I’d get under his feet. Wasn’t that discourteous of him?’ Like a watered-down version of the original, he was almost as tall, almost as dark, but not nearly as imposing as the brother he criticised; even without the gathers, Fergus’s shoulders were wide and robust, his chest deeper, his neck more muscled, his manner more dangerously mature, less boyish.
‘Extremely discourteous,’ Nicola agreed, bestowing on Muir her most charming smile as long as the two grey eyes glared at them from across the garden. ‘Surely he must have known we’d meet, somewhere?’
‘Not if he could help it, my lady. It was your brother who invited me here. Fergus is trying to persuade me to go back home to Scotland. I came here to the capital for a wee visit, but I didn’t think it would be quite so short.’
‘And what is the purpose of your short visit? Business?’
‘Er…not quite.’ His smile was mischievously rueful. ‘An affair of the heart, my lady.’ Clapping one hand to his heart was too dramatic for it to have been genuine. ‘I had to make myself scarce.’
‘I see. In some haste, I take it.’
‘In great haste,’ he agreed, grinning.
She felt the hostile glare still upon them both and assumed that the younger Melrose was not averse to queering the pitch of his elder brother by telling her of things that ought to have been private. Also, that in revealing his own penchant for non-serious affairs of the heart, he might in fact be offering her the chance to flirt with him and thereby to annoy the arrogant Fergus. With an air that exposed intentions unashamedly several stages ahead of hers, Muir Melrose wore his virility like one who had just discovered its purpose and was ready to put it to good use.
At once, she knew what she would do, that she would have to be careful, and that between them they could make Fergus Melrose’s ambition somewhat more difficult to achieve. It would not be hard to do and must surely be more fun than today’s worsening relationships.
‘Then you cannot go home soon, can you? Not immediately.’
‘It would be a great pity—’ he sighed ‘—now we’ve been introduced. Would you allow me to call on you, perhaps?’ When she purposely kept him waiting for an answer, he pleaded, gently, ‘For the summer months?’
‘Oh, not months,’ she said. ‘Weeks…days…’
‘My Lady Coldheart,’ he said, pulling a tragic face, ‘you cannot be serious. Are you so very hard to please, then?’
‘Alas, I am indeed, Master Melrose. My standards are high, you see, and my interest appallingly short-lived. I’m afraid I send men packing, as your brother may already have told you.’ Their laughter rang like a peal of bells across the sunset garden, and this time she refused to meet the grey eyes that watched the start of yet another impediment to the day’s plans. Then she told Master Melrose of last night’s fencing wager and the way she had dealt with it this morning and together they laughed again and went to look for food with an unspoken agreement already forming between them.
Lord and Lady Coldyngham’s grand and spacious home sat securely on the bend of the Thames in one of the most desirable and attractive stretches between the royal palaces of Savoy and Whitehall. Built around a central courtyard with stables and service buildings at one side, the house extended towards the river with large gardens and orchards and a private wharf where barges were moored. For Lady Charlotte’s thirtieth birthday, the green expanse of bowers and arbours had been hung with streamers of ivy and coloured ribbons, the lawns scattered with satin and velvet cushions while musicians played and small tables were piled with food, and flagons of wine were placed up to their necks in the stone channel of water that ran from the fountain.
So Nicola allowed Master Melrose to offer her the choicest and most succulent morsels of food that came with every accompaniment and garnish, saffron-dyed and disguised, moulded to look like fish or hedgehogs, even when they were not, decorated with feathers, gilded, pounded, pureed, glazed and spiced. Nothing was meant to look like what it was, or taste like it, come to that. For Lady Charlotte, it was a triumph of a meal; for Nicola, it was utterly tasteless, but not for the world would she have said so, nor would she have said why.
Meanwhile, there were other guests to talk to, most of whom she knew, mummers to watch at their antics, jugglers to admire, a jester to avoid if one could, and musicians to applaud for the way they incorporated the duet of tin whistle and tambourine. Nicola had brought presents for Roberta, whose name had been prepared for another boy in true Coldyngham fashion, and eight-year-old Louis, the elder by two-and-a-half years. She gave the tin whistle to Roberta and the tambourine to Louis, who marched solemnly away to show the guests how it was done, though later it was observed that Roberta was rattling noisily and Louis was tunefully piping.
They played tag and blind-man’s buff, and anything else to avoid having to speak to any group of which Sir Fergus was a part and, at last, Nicola gave her garland of flowers to Roberta to take to bed. Naturally, she had to part with the nosegay from her bodice for Louis, by which time she was sure no one would notice.
It grew dark and the music changed to dance rhythms, the river sparkled with reflections from torches, and the distant sounds of Thames oarsmen echoed on the night air as they took their last customers home by wherry. Mellowed by wine, the guests joined hands to snake their way through the plots and arbours, benches and trellises, singing the two-line refrain while male soloists sang the stanzas as the rest marked time on the spot. Then off they went again, lurching and laughing, unsure whose hand they held in the darkest shadows away from the torches.
Muir Melrose pulled at Nicola and headed purposefully away from the light. ‘This way,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
His flirting, Nicola thought, had gone far enough for one day. ‘No,’ she called. ‘No…er…this way.’ She pulled, bumping into someone.
‘Come on,’ Muir laughed. ‘We shall lose them if you—’
She shook off his hand to pick up her long skirts, which were in danger of being trampled, draping them up over one arm. But again her free hand was sought as she was nudged along the line of dancers and, to escape the singing jostling bodies, she went with him, expecting to join up again when she could see what she was doing. His hand tightened insistently over hers, and the noise of the dancers’ cries was cut off by a thick screen of darkness.
‘Master Melrose,’ she said, coldly, ‘we should be going the other way. Please…let go.’ She tried to free herself, but in the dark tunnel of foliage where only pin-pricks of light filtered, his arms closed quickly