On Bended Knee, page 20
part #6 of Wicked Worthingtons Series
Poll wasn't looking forward to her debut either. They were going to have to dig a bloody moat around Worthington House to cut down on the suitors.
A moat with a crocodile or three.
With a certain satisfaction Poll concluded that their eldest brother Daedalus would be in charge of fending off the flower-bearing multitudes. Hmm. Perhaps he ought to invest in a flower business?
The carriages halted before a grand and charming manor — or rather, the remains of one. Its tumbledown stateliness graced an arching swath of flat land along the river road.
Neither Attie nor Poll cared to notice the peeling wash on the window frames, or the moss on the slate roof shingles, or that the roof in one corner of the house slumped badly.
Worthingtons never judged a book by its cover.
The door opened and a woman stepped out with one hand up to shade her eyes from the bright day.
Attie would never admit to the depth of relief she felt at the sight of the stout country woman — oh, even better! — the hugely expectant woman who stared out at them. She turned to Poll in triumph "I win. Mrs. Oakes is —"
"Gorgeous," Poll breathed.
"What?" Attie spun back to the window. Attie scowled at the lady who had stepped from behind the motherly woman. "What a horrible trick!"
Poll ignored her, still blinking at the creature that Attie was dismally certain was the true Mrs. Oakes.
Attie, to whom cold calculation fit like a favorite pair of boots, said nothing more. So what if Mrs. Oakes was attractive?
Actually, very pretty in a completely not vain, not trying-too-hard sort of way. She reminded Attie of an illustration she'd seen of Aphrodite.
Well, her beauty did not matter. Attie wasn't about to lose another sibling, especially not Lysander.
Mrs. Oakes would never see her coming.
WHEN SHE SAW THE dusty grandeur of the two carriages, Gemma's first thought was that someone would shortly be sacked for getting their employers so exceedingly lost.
Then she recalled the letter — the one she'd neglected to mention to Mr. Worthington — and wondered desperately if it was too late to hide.
The footman aboard the first carriage leapt to the ground with alacrity to let down the steps and open the door.
A man disembarked. All Gemma saw first was a lean build and the top of his sleek hat. Then he straightened and Gemma felt her insides go as cold as a snow melt river.
The man was clearly a Worthington. His hair was a lighter brown, verging on reddish, but the nose, the jawline, even the way he stood was very much like Mr. Lysander Worthington.
Four brothers, he'd told her. Three sisters. With alarm, Gemma wondered if all the Worthington siblings meant to pile out of the conveyance onto her poorly maintained drive!
The other Mr. Worthington turned back to offer his hand to someone inside. A girl emerged, not much more than a child. She was flame-haired and freckled, caught in the grasp of that awkward gap between childhood charm and adult assurance — and she was still one of the most beautiful girls Gemma had ever seen.
The glare that the woman-child fixed on Gemma nearly took her back a few steps. Just in time she recalled that she was mistress of her own house. She stepped forward instead.
Then, bewilderingly, two men descended from the second, smaller, rather more gaudy conveyance — one tall and one, well, not.
The shorter one beamed at Gemma with open delight. The tall one —
"Sweet sheep on a hill," Jennie breathed beside her. "Look at that 'un! I'm mighty glad I've got my good frock on!"
Gemma was thankful that she'd changed from her old, stained smock, but not for the same reason.
All of them, from the beautiful man to the beautiful girl, had every ounce of their attention fixed upon her, Gemma, as if she held the secret answer to a sacred question.
"Where is my brother?" the girl demanded.
Oh. Well, it seemed that she did.
ONCE THEY HAD ALL been ushered politely into the manor, Button found himself alternately charmed and appalled by the shabby gentility of both the lady and her house. If he was not mistaken, the crumbling edges of the Palladian-style manor had driven its inhabitants to occupy only the center rooms!
It seemed that poor Lysander was actually in residence at Yew Manor. Furthermore, the stunning woman in the truly unfortunate gown was, in fact, some sort of local nurse. Button twitched with curiosity. Pollux, in Button's considered opinion, wasn't asking any of the interesting questions! Button assumed Lysander had a perfectly good reason to battle a sheep. He wanted to know if Lysander won! Also, how did Mrs. Oakes impart that luminous tint to her skin? Did Yorkshire have a good theater?
Were she and Lysander lovers?
In the cool shadowy parlor of the manor, he struggled to remain appropriately uninvolved in the conversation between Pollux and the charming widow. At a tug on his impeccable sleeve, Button blinked at the rather abundant woman who had pulled on his arm.
"My stars, a shearing shed?" He thought he must be mistaken, but as the woman explained in a hissing monologue in his ear, Button began to smile. Apparently, a surprise was in store for the Lady of the Dale and it was past time to set out. "Well, of course!"
Then his gaze slid to fix upon the charmingly appealing Mrs. Oakes. And the dress she was wearing. "But not just yet, I fear."
Then he turned to his little friend Miss Atalanta Worthington. "My dear, did you by chance pack the gown you were meant to wear tonight?"
Attie did not cease the deadly glare she'd been pummeling poor Mrs. Oakes with for the last several minutes, yet still managed to cast her reply back over one shoulder. "Of course. I keep my promises." Masterfully, she managed to expand the lance of her disgruntlement to include Pollux, who remained in quietly intense conversation with the delicious widow.
Button smiled angelically at Attie. "Excellent, my dear." He turned that same expression on Cabot, who — knowing him so well! — gazed back a bit warily.
"Cabot, please go fetch Miss Atalanta's bag. And mine. Oh yes, I shall need that as well."
Cabot glanced at Mrs. Oakes who, despite her many sterling attributes, did not perhaps look her best in such a dull shade. Then he shook his head at Button in an exasperated fashion even as he turned to fulfill Button's request. Good old Cabot.
Attie, who had finally allowed a thought to penetrate her vengeful fixation, stomped over to confront Button.
"It won't fit her. She's too fat."
"Tut-tut." Button smiled gently at Attie. "Accuracy, please."
Attie folded her arms indignantly over her still nearly flat bosom. "She'll never fit the bodice."
Button gave his darling, slightly homicidal young friend a comforting pat on the shoulder. These days he had to reach up to do so. "No need to worry, my dear Attie. I always build in a bit of letting-out for my young ladies." The bodice would be tight, however, marvelously so. Button smile broadened. He couldn't have planned it better if he tried.
Cabot reappeared with the requested luggage. Button clapped his hands together in glee.
"Oh, Mrs. Oakes?"
THE CARRIAGE HIT A pothole on the route that the dismayed driver had declared "not a road." Gemma lost her balance and lurched into Mr. Cabot's side.
The implausibly handsome dressmaker gently assisted Gemma upright on the seat again. Gemma knew nothing about the current fashions in London, but she would have bet her pony cart that no one in the great city was more stylish that her seat companion.
Except perhaps for the man seated across from her. Mr. Cabot's friend Mr. Button smiled at her warmly. He'd insisted on using the fine carriages, even though Gemma had offered up her pony cart.
He'd been cheerfully scandalized. "Oh, that would never do. When one wears Lementeur, one must make an entrance!"
Was that what she was wearing? It sounded a bit French and incredibly costly.
It wasn't her fault. The dapper fellow himself had stuffed her into it without regard to a word of her demure protest. If Gemma had any blushes left, she would redden at the memory of being at Mr. Button's mercy for the past half hour.
Miss Worthington had lounged on Gemma's bed during the ordeal, sprawled on her belly with her slipper-clad feet waving idly in the air. Her sharp eyes had missed nothing, Gemma was sure, but at some point the girl's lethal glare had eased into a mere curiosity.
On one hand, Gemma had been glad for the feminine company. On the other, the girl's adversarial attitude has left Gemma feeling somewhat besieged.
Mr. Button, however, was a dear man. A fashion tyrant and a persistent style bully, but a darling sort of bully. He had shoehorned her into a shimmering silk gown in a refreshing pale green, which she had to admit looked very fine against her sun-warmed complexion. The fact that Mr. Button had personally arranged her bosom inside the bodice had been shocking, yet somehow all right. A dressmaker was rather like a doctor, she thought. They did not carry tales about the people they helped.
Astonishingly, the fine gown possessed two very deep pockets hidden cleverly in the side seams. Gemma approved wholeheartedly.
Then Mr. Cabot had made free with her hair, curling it with an iron produced from somewhere and heated on her stove. He'd tumbled it all into a perfectly casual pile on top of her head that looked abundantly natural and simultaneously as if it had taken two hours and three maidservants to arrange.
Her mother's pearls were declared "dainty perfection" and replaced about her throat.
She'd not even had a moment to see herself in the tall mirror before Miss Worthington scrambled off the bed, grabbed Gemma's hand and dragged her out to the largest carriage.
Apparently, Jennie and Mr. Pollux Worthington had gone ahead in order to take the road slowly for Jennie's sake.
And after all that, Gemma still hadn't the faintest idea where they were going.
There was nothing up this hill. It was all rock-walled pastures and sheep, sheep, and more sheep. The only time she had ventured up here was during the shearing, where she spent the days making meals and toting water to the tireless men with the shears.
She couldn't even peek through the carriage windows, for Mr. Cabot and Mr. Button had pulled down all the shades. It was frustrating — and yet she could not deny the little thrill of suspense.
At last the carriage halted. Mr. Cabot disembarked and held out one hand to Gemma. Eagerly she followed him, only to find herself standing between the two carriages. Pollux Worthington was only just then helping an awkward Jennie Gosling down the steps.
Gemma ran to take her friend's elbow. Jennie looked more than a little green.
"Aye, and I'll be walking back down on me own feet, thank you!" Jennie turned to Gemma and examined her narrowly, then nodded in satisfaction. "Well! Those London laddies know what they're about, I'll say they do!"
Gemma shook her head with a small smile. "I feel silly in this dress."
Jennie patted Gemma's hand. "You look like t' lady you are."
Jennie's face was flushed yet her hands felt a little clammy. Gemma frowned. Then her attention was distracted when both carriages began to move. As they rattled rapidly away, Gemma's thoughts froze in shock.
"Zander!" It was Miss Atalanta, stepping forward from their group with a glad cry. Pollux Worthington put a hand on her arm to hold her back.
Lysander Worthington stood in front of a doorway made of blossoms. Even in his somewhat well-traveled coat and riding breeches, he looked like a lord welcoming guests to his manor — his rustic stone and rose-bedecked shearing shed manor.
It should've been ludicrous. It was not.
Lysander's somber face was alight with expectation and his intense gaze was fixed only upon her. As his eyes roamed over her, his jaw dropped and his lips parted slightly. Gemma felt his indrawn breath as if it was her own.
I feel beautiful in this dress.
They each stepped forward, unable to deny the magnetic pull between them.
Chapter 21
LYSANDER STARED AT THE elegant woman before him.
It's a sheep-shearing shed, not a ballroom. Dolt. This woman deserves a ballroom.
As they neared each other, Lysander reached out. He wasn't entirely conscious of the movement. All he knew was that if he did not touch her right now, this moment, he might as well not bother breathing anymore.
His bare fingers enveloped her cool slender hands, which were encased past the elbow in the finest of silk gloves. He didn't question the luxury of the gloves, or the lavishness of her gown. It seemed only right that she be clad in riches.
Beautiful Gemma, lovely, strong, smart, valiant and giving.
She held his hands. She smiled at him. He didn't deserve such regard but it warmed the old, cold places within him as nothing else ever had.
Then a ferocious red-haired projectile struck him from one side. The impact staggered him and pulled him away from Gemma. His heart raced with the shock of it but he kept his reason. Red hair. Skinny arms wrapped tight around him.
"Attie?" Lysander blinked down at his little sister in astonishment. "Where did you —?" His gaze rose to take in the carriages and the three men standing beside them.
Button? Why was he here? Cabot? Well, where Button went of course, but —
"Poll?"
Oh God. Oh no. Iris. They'd come for him because Iris was gone.
Pain swelled, starting at the center of him, tearing through his heart and burning red-hot and ice-cold through his entire body. He'd stayed too long. He had abandoned his family and now he would never see his mad, sweet loving mother again.
He stared his brother. He was barely aware that Gemma had gripped his hand tightly. He felt nothing but the loss exploding from within him, threatening to shatter him from the inside out.
"When did it happen?" Gemma asked Poll quietly
Poll blinked. "What?" Then, realization clearly dawned. "No, Zander. Iris is alive. Better yet, she is growing stronger every day." Poll grinned. "She sent us!"
The pain bled out of Lysander abruptly, sinking away into the purifying Yorkshire earth. The crushing sense of loss disappeared, but it left an awareness behind that Lysander was not yet ready to examine too closely.
"And we knew where you were, of course, from the letter."
Lysander blinked. Letter? Then he turned his gaze on Gemma, who met his gaze with no apology whatsoever.
"Well, but really," she murmured closely. "You did battle with a sheep! Hardly a sensible thing to do. I thought someone should know you were here."
Then they were surrounded. Exclamations were exclaimed. He was tentatively pummeled by a brotherly fist. Attie remained clasped to him like a limpet on a sea-washed rock. Then he looked for Gemma, who was smiling a little through anxious eyes. She began to step away, excusing herself from the reunion, polite and well-bred as always. Lysander kept one arm around Attie and made a long reach with the other to catch at Gemma's fingertips.
I need not choose.
He drew Gemma, smiling more broadly now, into the circle of flying questions that answered themselves and each other before Lysander ever spoke.
Of course. They would not expect words from him.
Gemma, however, did.
"Mr. Worthington, I have absolutely no notion of why we are all dressed up and standing on a hillside."
Lysander gazed at her warmly. The clever not-question. Poll and Button went quite still and stared at Gemma with a sort of embarrassed confusion. Cabot, who had been trying to peel Attie away from Lysander, swiveled his head around to peer at Gemma as well.
Gemma merely continued to gaze expectantly at him.
Attie lifted her head from where she'd tucked it into Lysander's cravat. "Zander made —"
Lysander calmly placed one hand over Attie's mouth. "Thank you, Attie. I can manage." He gazed back at Gemma. "We made a ball for you."
It was a simple version of events, true, but he managed to say all the words together in a sensible manner, even in the shock of visitors swarming around him.
Her beautiful eyes crinkled corners at the corners. Well done, the look said. "That sounds —"
"You're talking?" Attie interrupted, clawing his palm off her face and gaping up at him.
"Well, what else would he do, Miss Atalanta?" Cabot caught Attie by surprise and unwrapped her arms from around Lysander. "Bark?"
"Indeed, Cabot," Button said with pure delight rising in his eyes. "Indeed!"
Then the questions began to fly once more, but Lysander found himself the recipient this time. Part of him, the part that had expanded in the peace and clarity of the dales, began to shrink away again.
Gemma took his arm with a country woman's grip of her daintily gloved hands and steered him swiftly away.
"My apologies," she called back over her shoulder in a gaily unrepentant tone, "but Mr. Worthington owes me a ball and I intend to collect."
ONCE GEMMA AND LYSANDER had made their escape from the Worthington's clamor, Gemma slowed her determined pace and stared ahead in wonder. "My shearing shed looks as if a unicorn might emerge at any moment."
Lysander looked at his handiwork and Gemma saw a corner of his lips work into a wry curl. "Perhaps a better notion than a reality."
She took at his arm. "Don't you dare disparage my first ball! Show me everything."
He stopped her at the wildly fantastic rose archway. It looked like a thorny blooming portal had grown up overnight, constructed by the little folk from a lover's wish.
My wish. I didn't know I wished it until I saw it.
"For me?"
"Aye," said Jennie, who had come alongside them. "And for me, and all the daughters of the dale. I'll be dancing all night, just you watch me!"
"Come along, my flower!" Shepherd Gosling, in his best waistcoat with his bushy hair slicked down, grabbed Jennie's hand and led her beneath the archway. There, he laid a resounding smack on his wife's lips that brought a cheer from the growing crowd.
