Salt Hendon Omnibus 01 to 03 Page 12

  “I don’t know why you couldn’t come last night,” she said pettishly, mood suddenly changing, and speaking as loudly as before, needing to be heard over the shouts of the players offering each other encouragement. She remained firmly in front of the third spectator box and was pleased when Salt’s attention returned to her. “Ron would’ve settled much quicker had you been there. And poor little Merry was crying and asking for you too; you know how attached she is to her brother. They only have each other… And us. They look on you as their papa. Well, why wouldn’t they, when their own dear papa is in heaven? How do I tell two little children that are dependent on you it was too much to ask for their Uncle Salt to come when they are ill?”

  “Diana, I…”

  She dropped her powdered head then lifted it, tears on the end of her darkened lashes. “Of course, I have no right to question you, to even wonder what could be so important that you could not even send a response to my note, nor should I assume that you care above the ordinary what happens to my children—”

  “Now, Diana, you are being unreasonable,” Salt interrupted, annoyed, hands lightly on her bare shoulders. “You know very well I look upon Ron and Merry as my own. No one means more to me than St. John’s children, and nothing would’ve kept me from Ron’s sickbed had he been truly taken ill—”

  “Nothing and no one?” Diana St. John asked hopefully, smiling up at him. “How Ron and Merry would dearly love to hear their Uncle Salt tell them so! They’re here today, y’know. I couldn’t keep Ron away from your Royal Tennis tournament. Dr. Barlow said it would be all right for him to attend, but we must keep him well rugged up. Are you certain—nothing and no one?”

  “Nothing and no one,” he repeated, the tension easing in his neck and limbs knowing Ron was not in any danger, and pleased Diana had brought the children along for the day. “Now, will you allow me to remove you from this Court before one or both of us are maimed or mutilated by your brother’s heroic displays with a tennis racket?”

  A loud shout of “Hurray!” went up near Salt’s ear, and he turned to see Sir Antony and Tom Allenby beaming from ear to ear and clapping each other on the back. After shaking hands with their dejected opponents, the winning twosome came across the court toward Salt and Diana St. John. But Tom bounded ahead of Sir Antony, and such was his excitement that he completely ignored the Earl and his cousin to throw back the netting of the third box and lean over the barrier, saying, excited as any ten-year-old schoolboy,

  “Jane! Jane? Did you see my final shot? Didn’t Sir Antony play brilliantly? He’s a crack at placing the ball. None better. Just knows how to tip it over the net, or to up the ball over the service penthouse so it drops in such a way that the fellows on the other side can’t get a racket to it! If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t have won!”

  “Now, Tom Allenby, that’s a stretch of the truth, if ever I heard one,” Sir Antony responded with a good-natured laugh, a nod at his sister and cousin, and a hand on the barrier because he was still out of breath and feeling as if all his muscles had been pummeled at once. “You played some fine tactical shots yourself that I couldn’t have managed, and you served the winning point. I say we make a fine team, wouldn’t you, my lady?”

  “Oh, none better,” Jane responded with a smile at the two victors, coming to stand at the barrier, not a glance at the couple less than a foot away. Yet the flush to her cheeks and the fact she did not acknowledge her husband or his cousin was indication enough to Salt that she had overheard every word. This was confirmed when she said with a cheeky smile at her stepbrother, “Although, I’m afraid my view was partially obstructed for those shots that were on the chase one yard line. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it, Sir Antony, the line closest the wall?”

  “How good of you to remember my monologue on the King of games that is Royal Tennis, my lady. Most female eyes glaze over when I offer too much detail,” Sir Antony said with a smile of approval, and not able to help himself because he was annoyed with his sister’s theatrics in monopolizing the Earl’s time, added most undiplomatically, “Though I’m not surprised you were denied part of the action, what with m’sister and Salt’s large carcass blocking the view.”

  “Perhaps I shall do what you suggested in the first place, Sir Antony, and watch the next game from the Dedans penthouse gallery?” Jane responded pleasantly, resisting a glance at her husband. “There is a clear view straight up the court from there.”

  “That’s a splendid idea, Jane,” Tom agreed. “You’ll see it all from there. The next game should prove a real corker too,” he added, speaking without thinking through his thoughts, the only bad habit Jane was certain her stepbrother had inherited from his mother, “because Lord Church is up against his lordship, and Art assured me it’s the game to watch because they are evenly matched. Despite what Art overheard Lord Church boasting to the other fellows: That today he has the Earl at a distinct advantage because it wasn’t his wedding night last night!”

  Sir Antony laughed with embarrassment at Pascoe Church’s smug belief that the bridal night had sapped his rival’s strength. But Diana St. John, who felt she had done all she could for the moment to make the Countess of Salt Hendon uncomfortably aware of her and her children’s cemented place in the Earl’s affections, kept her mouth firmly shut on the topic of her cousin’s marriage. In fact she kept her expression so tightly under control no one would have guessed that inside her head she was screaming her anger.

  No sooner had she arrived at the Grosvenor Square mansion than Sir Antony had pounced on his sister, informing her bluntly that Salt had been married the day before and that she wasn’t to make a fuss. She had replied with a smile of superiority that this was old news and to leave her to her misery. She had then flounced off to the Royal Tennis Court, only for her brother to follow up his warning by forcing upon her an introduction to the new Countess of Salt Hendon in front of a dozen athletic noblemen, who, to a man, were paying homage to the Countess’s beauty, as if Aphrodite incarnate had deigned to descend amongst them.

  That the creature was just as beautiful and self-effacing as Diana St. John remembered was no real surprise—the Despard woman had forewarned her of that—but seeing this for herself threatened the return of her sick headache of the night before. Years of experience hiding her true feelings from the world enabled her to suffer the indignity of making her curtsy to her cousin’s new wife. Despite spending the previous night weeping buckets of bitter tears over the Earl’s marriage, today she was cunning enough to wear a mask of supreme indifference.

  Her campaign to have the new Countess of Salt Hendon disgraced and disowned before the Earl had impregnated his bride had begun in earnest, and she would be relentless in its execution.

  So, as she had done when first introduced, Diana St. John silently curtsied to rank and retreated to the spectator boxes. Once ensconced with her friends, she continued weaving her web of rumor and counter-rumor. The female crème de la crème of polite society were only too eager to soak up malicious whispers about an unknown girl from the country who’d had the effrontery to usurp them and marry one of their own. The Earl of Salt Hendon was not only the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom, but was a prime piece of unfettered male vigor, the likes of which had not been seen since a French chit had captured the heart of that hardened libertine the Duke of Roxton in the ’40s.

  Sir Antony smiled sweetly as his meddlesome sister flounced off, and said to the Earl, “Well, you’d best prove Pascoe wrong, Salt, because I have a ten pound wager saying you’ll trounce him within half an hour.”

  “Half an hour? Why should I take that long?” Salt murmured in response, distracted by the sight of his bride dressed in one of the many new gowns he’d had ordered made for her, and that now crammed her closet to bursting.

  He was thinking how ravishingly pretty she presented in a very feminine sacque-back gown of pale green and pink silk, the tight sleeves showcasing her long, slim arms. And he approved of her elegant hair
style. Gone were the coils of unfashionable braids. Her waist-length hair was piled softly atop her head, and secured with pearl-headed pins and threaded with matching ribbons, the remainder allowed to cascade about her shoulders in long soft ringlets. But he was mystified as to why she had ruined the effect of the low square-cut neckline of the embroidered bodice that should have flattered her small round breasts, by the wearing of a gossamer fichu bunched awkwardly over her left breast. Surely she only had to ask and her maid would have arranged such a useless article of feminine clothing to better advantage? And then he noticed the square of white linen tucked into the neckline; it appeared to be some sort of makeshift bandage…

  Slow to respond to Sir Antony’s assertion, he finally added with a frown, “So Pascoe Church is confident of trouncing me?”

  “Not exactly trouncing, my lord,” Tom admitted, looking to Sir Antony.

  “Beating you, certainly, dear fellow,” Sir Antony said cheerfully, one glance at Jane and his best friend confirming that he and Tom should make themselves scarce, to allow the couple a moment of privacy. “But I know you’ll prove Pascoe wrong. I don’t want to lose ten pounds. So, Tom, let’s get ourselves cleaned up and repair to the Gentleman’s Box to await our next match. And I could do with some refreshment. I’m parched.”

  “What have you done to yourself?” Salt demanded of Jane in an undervoice, Sir Antony and Tom barely out of earshot.

  He put out a hand to lift the fichu to inspect the bandage but Jane backed away from the barrier and resumed her seat on a maroon velvet cushion. The barrier was no deterrent to Salt, who simply vaulted over the low wall and sat down beside her on the bench. He tried again to lift the fichu but she pushed his hand away.

  “I… I like it. It’s all the rage.”

  “Nonsense. It’s hideous, and a crime to hide such beautiful breasts. Take it off.”

  Jane blushed in spite of herself at his unguarded compliment, but she did not remove the fichu. “No, my lord. I will not.”

  “My lord?” He put up his brows. “Well, my lady, I shall remove it for you.”

  At that Jane did look up at him. “No. Please. I am more comfortable with it on.”

  Salt frowned at her distress. “What is it?” he asked gently. “Why do you have a bandage hidden under that fichu?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she whispered, not meeting his gaze and in a telltale sign of her distress, blotches of color stained her white throat strawberry. “Please. You’ve a tennis match on now and you’re wanted.”

  “If you’ve hurt yourself I have a right to know,” he said gruffly. “What if someone enquires and I can’t answer them? Won’t I look the uncaring brute?”

  “They already have asked,” she admitted, eyes lowered to her lap, on the resized sapphire and diamond wedding band that now fit her long finger perfectly. “I was clumsy with a tea dish and scalded myself. That will suffice.”

  “What truly happened?” he asked, ignoring the loud bantering at his back to get a move on or Pascoe Church would win by default.

  “It doesn’t matter. It couldn’t be helped. Please go.”

  “They can wait. Now show me.”

  She shook her head, a hand to the bunched up layers of gossamer silk to stop him removing it.

  “It’s not a request,” he stated brusquely.

  Slowly, with a sigh of defeat, she dropped her hand into her lap. This time when he went to touch her she did not flinch, but she wouldn’t look at him either. He unwound the layers of light silk and let the fichu slide to the floor, exposing the lovely rise of her white breasts in the low-cut embroidered bodice, and the makeshift bandage that was tucked into the neckline covering her left breast. He gently lifted the bandage and his intake of breath was audible.

  What had been the unblemished pale pink wash of her nipple now glowed red like veal. A cursory glance suggested a nasty burn. If he’d had his eyeglasses to make a closer inspection he was sure he’d see that the wash of red across her breast was actually a series of tiny red bumps, resembling a painful grazing. In fact, it was a graze; he knew at once its origin and he felt his face grow hot. He silently replaced the bandage, scooped up the fichu and put the gossamer layers of silk back around Jane’s bare shoulders. He then went down on bended knee before her to better arrange its fall, so that it draped evenly. Crossing the two lengths of delicate material over her breasts, he tied the ends at the small of her back, tucking the excess into the lacings of her bodice. Satisfied that this arrangement was more the fashion amongst ladies of his acquaintance, he remained on his haunches before her and took hold of her hands.

  “Jane, look at me,” he coaxed, but when she continued to stare at her hands in his, he lifted her chin with the crook of a finger. Still she kept her eyes downcast. Her cheeks were apple red and she appeared every bit the blushing bride on the morning after the night before. It increased his discomfort and concern enough for him to say abruptly, “I should’ve had the decency to shave. I’m sorry. It was unthinking of me—Do you have ointment? Good,” he said with relief at her quick nod. “Did I—did I hurt you when I—not the rash. When I—God, I’m blathering like an idiot!” he said brusquely and got up off his haunches, a hand to his thick chestnut hair as he turned to look out across the tennis court without seeing any of it. He sat down beside her. “I mean—I mean when I—when we—”

  “I know what you mean,” she interrupted, quietly. “Yes, but only for the briefest of moments,” she confessed at his quick intake of breath, adding with a frankness he found inimitable to her, “It’s just that we have only made love the once—in truth it was twice in the summerhouse, but just the one time, if you understand my meaning. And it’s been four years, so even though making love is quite wonderful, I’d forgotten that the first few moments are-are awkward, and as you are a large man it is only natural—Oh dear! Now I’m the one blathering. Please forgive me…”

  Jane was up off the bench, face burning with mortification for having the barefaced cheek to comment aloud on the laudable size of his equipage. What must he think of her? They should not be discussing what happened in the bedchamber between man and wife in the wide-open spaces of a tennis court inhabited by upwards of twenty guests. She felt foolish and gauche for confessing to a moment’s anxiety. What she should have said was that making love with him last night had been just as wondrous and fulfilling as in the summerhouse, but she could not. No doubt it was perfectly acceptable for his mistresses to point out his size, and to heap praises on his technique and stamina as a lover, but not something he would want to hear from a wife with all the cumulative experience of two nights!

  The silence dragged, and when she had the courage to look at him his intense frown told her that he had a disgust of such frankness. Her humiliation was complete when one of the footmen came up to the barrier to remind his lordship that Pascoe Church was waiting and the Earl abruptly changed the subject.

  “Andrews went out of his way not to implicate you in Lady St. John’s late night note,” he said conversationally. “But I believe I have you to thank for allowing me an undisturbed sleep?”

  This did make her smile. “So you aren’t angry at us for not waking you?”

  “Angry? No, I’m grateful, particularly with this tournament today,” he admitted. “Diana is just an overprotective mother. Which isn’t a bad thing, but it can be tiresome at times. As you no doubt saw through the netting, she is apt to over-dramatize the situation where her children are concerned. But she means well.”

  Means well? Jane had to wonder, recalling the effect Diana St. John’s strong perfume in the cold anteroom the day before. Was she being foolish to suppose the woman had stage-managed the scene outside the Gallery box knowing she sat behind the netting? She wished with all her heart that Salt was right and that there was no harm in his cousin, but there was something about Diana St. John that made her wary and fearful, and these feelings could not be shaken off so readily.

  “There’s a dinner after the
tournament,” Salt was saying. “It’s a bit of an ordeal, if you’re not used to sitting through thirty courses and political chit-chat. After that, there’s a recital. If you don’t feel up to it, if you’d prefer to retire early, I’ll make your excuses and Diana can step in and—”

  “No,” she said firmly and smiled. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”

  He lightly pressed her hand, then turned to the court and put up a hand to Pascoe Church, who was swinging his hickory racket about in thin air, as if ready to conquer the entire fraternity of assembled tennis players. He looked back at Jane. “They’re calling me for the match. Will you be all right sitting here alone?”

  “Yes. Perfectly. Now go,” she assured him and watched as he vaulted back over the barrier and jogged across the court.

  From the start it was a fast-paced, go-for-the-throat match, with both men equally talented tennis players. The small solid ball was hit hard and fast and was spun in all directions, with the peculiar hazard of the tambour and the angle of wall and floor offering exciting placement options that kept Jane on the edge of her velvet cushion, in anticipation of where the ball would land next. Salt was superior in anticipating the ball’s drop, and being taller and longer-limbed than his opponent was able to stretch his racket and get to the ball more often. But Pascoe Church was lighter and faster on his feet and bounced about the court on his toes, reminding Jane of a rooster chased by a determined fox.

  There was plenty of vocal support for both players coming from the Gallery, and Jane soon found herself clapping and cheering along with the rest of the noble spectators. At interval, it was time for the players to change sides and take a few moments of rest before resuming the game. Footmen brought the players hot towels and refreshments, and lackeys ran about with cloths tied to the ends of long poles to wipe the tiled floor dry of sweat.