Trapped at the Altar

“You mean Rolf put the fear of God in ’em,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe, but they are loyal to you, Ari. As is the entire valley. You should know that by now.”

She did, of course; she just hadn’t thought of the men accompanying them in quite that way. She had grown up with them and simply accepted them more as friends than as servants. She had, of course, always known they would protect her as Lord Daunt’s granddaughter, but she’d spent much of the time in the valley trying to evade that protection. Now she saw them in another light. She inclined her head in rueful acknowledgment and left the salon.

Tilly was in the bedchamber, hanging Ari’s new wardrobe in the armoire, filling the linen press and the dresser drawers with snowy, frothy lace and muslin shifts, silk fichus, and shawls. The new shoes were arrayed in a line against the wall.

Ari had grown accustomed over the last two weeks to the thought of all this finery and footwear, but she had never seen it amassed in this way before. “Lord, Tilly, when am I ever going to wear everything?”

“All in good time, I reckon, Miss Ari,” Tilly responded phlegmatically. “Once you’re at court, you’ll change your gown twice a day, or so I’m told.”

“By whom?” Ari perched on the corner of the bed, idly fingering a shawl of delicate Indian muslin. Such a prospect sounded quite outlandish. Like everyone else in the valley, she was accustomed to changing her linen weekly, but she wore her outer garments until they were sufficiently soiled to make laundering absolutely necessary.

“One of the maids who works with the lord and lady on the next floor. There’s three suites in the house, she tells me. She works for Lord Mallet and his lady, and along from them in the west wing is Sir Joshua and Lady Shipton. But we ’ave the biggest apartments, she tells me.” A note of proprietorial pride entered Tilly’s voice as she shook out the folds of a turquoise velvet cloak.

“Do you think you can manage the cooking, Tilly, as well as look after all this?” Ari gestured largely to the bedchamber and the mass of garments.

“I can manage for you and Sir Ivor, miss, and take care of you, but the men . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“If we hired two girls to help you, would that make it easier? Or should we hire a cook, just to take care of the kitchen?” Ari played idly with the fringe of the bed coverlet, as Tilly considered.

“I don’t want no cook but myself in my kitchen,” Tilly announced. “And neither is anyone goin’ to touch your clothes, Miss Ari, but me.”

“Then we’ll get you some help.” Ari looked up. “You shall make up your mind about who will suit you, Tilly. There are girls aplenty desperate for work out in the streets.”

“Oh, aye,” Tilly muttered. “I’ve seen ’em, too. Poor mites for the most part, don’t look strong enough to carry a scuttle of coals.”

“You’ll fatten them up,” Ari stated, getting off the bed. “Now, help me choose something to dazzle London with. Sir Ivor and I are going to the theatre.”

? ? ?

Ivor returned just before winter’s early dusk. It was a fair night but cold, with a hint of frost already in the air. The apartment, however, was well lit. He looked in the salon, but there was no sign of Ari there, although a fire burned brightly, creating pockets of warmth against the needling drafts. He turned to the bedchamber. That, too, was deserted.

“Ari? Where are you?”

“In here. I think it’s called my boudoir.” Her voice, filled with amusement, came from beyond the small door that led through the paneled wall of the bedchamber into the small parlor. He went through.

“So, what d’you think, husband?” Ariadne turned slowly for him, her turquoise skirts flowing around her, the black silk underskirt making a dramatic counterpoint. Black lace edged the low neckline. The seamstresses had done their work well, and her breasts rose in a seductive swell, creamy against the froth of black lace. Her dark curls threaded with pearls clustered around her face, gathered in an artless-looking knot on her nape.

“A veritable fashion plate,” Ivor said appreciatively. “How did Tilly learn to do your hair like that?”

“Lady Mallet’s maid. She and Tilly seem to have become friends since we arrived, and Lucy is very good with hair, so she did this and showed Tilly how to do it. It is elegant, isn’t it?” Ari looked with a degree of complacency at her image in the mirror of beaten silver above the mantel.

“Very.” Ivor hid a smile at Ari’s pleasure in her appearance, such a feminine sentiment, one that he was sure she had never really experienced before. “I must change my coat and cravat to be worthy of you.”

Ari followed him back to the bedchamber. “Did you have dinner somewhere?”

“A chop in a chophouse,” he responded, examining the contents of the armoire. “What of you?”

“A mutton pie from a pieman who came down the street. Tilly and I shared it. There wasn’t time to cook with all the unpacking.”

“Well, we’ll sup after the theatre.” Ivor tied a white lawn cravat at his throat before shrugging into his coat of midnight-blue velvet. The color accentuated the penetrating blue depths of his eyes, and Ari wondered why that amazing blue had seemed just a simple, integral part of Ivor over the years in the valley. The sensual power in their depths had not struck her at all.

“Is something wrong?” Ivor asked, disconcerted by her fixed gaze. “Is there a smudge on my cravat?”

“No . . . no, of course not.” She laughed, shaking her head in easy dismissal. “I was lost in thought for a moment. What is the play we’re going to see?”

“The Man of Mode, by George Etherege. It’s very popular, I understand, and very witty.” He inserted a diamond pin into his cravat and picked up Ari’s ermine-lined evening cloak, draping it over her shoulders. “Shall we go, madam wife?”

Ari had never ridden in a sedan chair before and stepped somewhat warily into the one waiting in the street. She recognized the pole men, despite their smart dark green liveries. Tom and Bill were brothers, both burly wrestlers in their free time, and they grinned at her as she acknowledged them cheerfully.

“Something a bit different, eh, Miss Ari?” Tom said as she settled on the narrow bench.

“Lady Chalfont,” Ivor hissed. “For God’s sake, man, try to remember.”

“Oh, aye, Sir Ivor, beggin’ your pardon, sir.” Somewhat abashed, Tom touched his forelock. “ ’Tis hard, though, seein’ as how we’ve known her from a little lass.”

“I know, but try to remember. It could be a matter of life and death, Tom.” Ivor looked at Ari. “Are you settled?”

She twitched at her skirts. “As much as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let’s go.” Ivor nodded at the two men, who bent and hoisted the poles onto their shoulders. Ari suppressed a little yelp of surprise as she rose in the air in the swaying chair. She sat rigidly still, clinging to the edge of the cushioned seat as the men started off. Ivor walked beside the chair, his cloak blowing open in the wind, his hand resting on the silver hilt of his dress sword.

The sounds of music, voices raised in laughter and anger, and the raucous cries of barrow boys reached them as they drew close to Covent Garden. Forgetting the instability of her position for a moment, Ari leaned forward to see more clearly as they turned into the grand piazza. Crowds gathered in the long colonnades, and light blazed from the open doors of Drury Lane Theatre. She didn’t think she’d seen so many people in one place before, spilling from taverns, intimately entwined behind pillars, brawling on the cobbles, and her eyes grew larger with every new sight.