Page 18 of Ondine
Warwick snatched her hand back suddenly, caught her shoulders, and drew her to rest against his chest. “Dear brother, ’tis my wife you mawl! Seek your own, if you must dally so!”
The words were spoken lightly. Ondine was somewhat surprised at the camaraderie between them, for it did seem also that Justin sorely wore upon Warwick’s patience.
Justin laughed. “Tell me, Warwick, where you found this lady, for alas, I would hunt the same grounds.”
“Why, the streets of London!” Ondine replied quickly, escaping her husband’s grasp to whirl around the table and keep its solid breadth between them.
For her life, she did not know what drove her to goad him so, yet it seemed that she had been given a chance to do mischief, and after his treatment of her, the sweet demon would not leave her soul.
She smiled sweetly at Justin. “’Tis quite true!
We met upon the streets and then and there chose to marry. ”
“An elopement?” Justin queried, enjoying himself tremendously. “How romantic.”
“Umm,” Warwick murmured, striding toward the table. Ondine moved quickly around another side.
“Oh, tremendously so!” Ondine declared, sweet irony dripping from her tongue. “I shall never know quite what . . . hit me that night. Yet your brother was a determined suitor, and I quickly realized I’d not escape him.”
Justin stared from Ondine to his brother, then laughed.
“Forgive me, sister-in-law, but I must say, well, I will be damned. My brother, you see, has lived his life the rage of beautiful women though I can’t say why; he’s quite the cold and distant rake, or has been of late—yet he’s eluded all the most determined heiresses of our good land.
And the greatest beauties. Are you, then, incredibly rich? ”
“Justin!” Warwick snapped.
“Not at all,” Ondine said sweetly.
“We must celebrate this event!” Justin proclaimed.
He strode across the room and opened a panel beneath a window seat that proved to hold elegant crystal goblets and flasks.
“Nothing so bleak as native ale,” he muttered.
He pulled his choice forth, balancing the goblets.
“The vintage of Aquitaine. I think! Rich and fruity wine, red like love’s sweet passion! ”
“Is passion red, then?” Ondine inquired innocently. Too innocently, perhaps. She had given her attention to Justin and had not noticed Warwick slipping up behind her.
His arms swept around her, his fingers spanning her waist, their tips hovering below her breasts as he pulled her taut to his hot, tense form, dipped his head, and whispered to her throat. “Very red . . . think of it, milady . . .”
“Warwick, cease!” Justin pleaded. “You draw my attention from the wine!”
Warwick did not release Ondine, and she began to repent her flippancy.
She could not speed from him again, for his hold was one of steel.
And she could not fight the sensation that was pressed into her by his warmth, causing her to tremble, to loathe him .
. . and to feel beguiled all the same. She seemed to become liquid at his touch.
Justin saved her, approaching them both with the goblets balanced precariously in his hands. Warwick reached for two, released her, then offered her one with a quick fire-gold gaze of warning that assured her he would follow her game, step by step.
She turned back to Justin. “Why is it, sir, that you—charming as you are, and more vulnerable as you pretend—have not fallen prey to one of these heiresses yourself?”
Justin chuckled, sipped his wine, then lifted his goblet to Warwick.
“I am not the earl, and though charming—I do mind my manners!—it seems that women, alas, do fall prey to his very aloofness. Ah . . . that which cannot be obtained! As it is, little sister, here’s to you! The best . . . with the beast!”
Warwick responded with a dry smile. “It runs in all our blood, Brother.”
“I suppose,” Justin agreed amiably. His gaze grew speculative over Ondine suddenly. “I’ve a mind our new countess would not be afraid of a beast—or aught else, for that matter.”
Ondine felt a sudden chill in the room as the brothers exchanged gazes. It was not anger between them; it was a thought that was passed and shared, and one from which she was excluded totally.
She had little time to think on it. There was a tap upon the doors. Warwick bid “Enter,” and Mathilda came in, followed by two maids and a lad, all bearing cutlery and great trays that exuded wonderful scents.
“Dinner, milord, as you requested,” Mathilda said simply. With a wave of her hand, the others moved, quickly setting a linen cloth, china plates, and silver knives and forks upon the table.
Warwick inclined his head toward Ondine. “My lady?”
He pulled out a chair and she swept into it.
As platters of eel and smoked sturgeon, boiled new potatoes, and garden greens were passed about, Warwick informed her that the girls were Nan and Lottie, the cook’s daughters; and the lad was Joseph, who doubled in the stable.
The three had pleasant smiles and an eagerness to serve that reminded Ondine of Warwick’s previous warning to her about the gentle handling of his people.
It amused her somewhat, for she did think of him as cold, indomitable, and forbidding—even at those times when he made her senses burn.
Yet surely he must be a fair and decent master, to create not only respect but happiness.
He was not always glacial steel, she thought, an inexplicable pain seeming to claw about her heart. She had heard him laugh so easily with Jake . . . and even in his taunts to her, his words were often laced with wit and wry humor.
When the meal was served, Mathilda ushered the servants out, then backed through the doors herself, drawing them closed.
Ondine tried to pay attention as Justin gave Warwick a quick accounting of household affairs in his absence, then quizzed him in return about the state of things in London.
Justin’s eyes fell quizzically upon Ondine once again, a hint of delighted interest in them as he asked, “And what does Charles think of your new countess, Warwick? If I know His Grace, he’s surely tossing with regret that he did not seduce her first! ”
“They have not met . . . yet,” Warwick replied, sipping his wine. He, too, stared at Ondine; she tried to smile, but the sound of her heart suddenly seemed to overwhelm her.
“Were she my wife,” Justin mused, “I’d take grave care to see that they not meet!”
The conversation then veered again, to matters in North Lambria. Ondine noted that both brothers grew serious as they discussed matters of business, and that Warwick seemed a little hard upon a man who was his brother.
Justin explained the matter to her, with the same use of wit against himself she had seen in his brother.
“I was expelled from His Majesty’s court—for dueling.
My brother decided that it was high time I avoid the company of the likes of Rochester and others, due to their influence upon my, er, weak character.
So, I am, alas, a man now under duress to prove my worth. ”
He didn’t seem to mind the rebuke, or the fraternal clamps set upon him. Ondine was certain that she would have sorely resented Warwick, but they were of the same blood; Warwick merely enjoyed the fortune of having been born the elder.
She smiled at Justin. “Do you find your brother a hard taskmaster?”
“The worst,” Justin replied cheerfully. “But then . . . he is the family legend. Ah, the fates of life! You see, I was but a child of ten when we so misfortunately waged war with the Dutch. Warwick was fifteen, but we Chathams rise to height quickly. He ran off and joined the Royal Navy beneath the Duke of York, and as luck would have it, he became a naval hero at sixteen. No one can best my brother with a sword, so I find it most comfortable to remain on his good side.”
“Justin,” Warwick interrupted impatiently, “’twas the present we were discussing. What of the horses?”
“Ah, but the foals are coming beautifully! Clinton was right about the breeding of those Arabians—we’ve the fleetest mounts upon four legs! They’ll do quite well for the races.” He turned to Ondine. “Have you been to Newmarket for the races? What sheer joy and excitement.”
“I daresay,” Warwick murmured, “had you avoided the races, you might have avoided the duel.”
Justin grimaced. “Had Charles but arranged a joust for me as he did for you and Hardgrave—” His voice broke off suddenly, pained, as if he had brought up something extremely unpleasant.
He had for Ondine. Her breath drew in sharply against her will, and her eyes were drawn to her husband’s at the head of the table.
Him! He had been one of the armor-laden knights on the field that day; on the day her life had gone from fantasy to nightmare.
Dear God, it was but just a trick of fate that they had not met before, that he hadn’t known her for .
. . the fugitive, daughter of a traitor, traitor herself.
She lowered her head quickly, hoping to hide the naked pain that had streaked to her eyes. Yet with her head bowed, she realized that Warwick had not even gazed her way. His attention had been on his brother, his features gone taut and severe.
Justin cleared his throat. “Dragon fares as well as ever, like as not to tear down his stall when you’re away. He’ll be eager for exercise.”
“He’ll get it,” Warwick replied, and the moment seemed to have past. “Tomorrow I’ll take him the stretch of the county, and he’ll regret that he was not left in peace.”