Opal
Published under Christine Stewart from the Little Gems Anthology 2005, released by Romance Writers of Australia Inc. and reprinted by permission.
18 June, 1790
Sir,
I hereby return to you the Trinket with which you most Foolishly sought to purchase
My Affections. As I have made clear to you, these are not for Sale.
Believe me,
Your most Obedient, Humble
Serena Bowcastle
..........
18 June, 1790
Madam,
Obedient? Humble? Those two Descriptors should never be linked with the name Serena
Bowcastle.
The Trinket, to which you refer so Carelessly and spurn so Heartlessly, is a symbol of
my Regard. Take it, and let this Gem Ôcontaining the wonders of the skies, sparkling
rainbows, fireworks and lightning, shifting and moving in its depths', recall to your
Senses those nights of skin and sighs and sweet breaths mingling that are firmly
imprinted on My Soul.
...If you need reminding, that is. If you do not, return the Trinket, and I will know
that your Memory is as sharp and clear as Mine.
So in all supplication believe me, Serena,
Your James
..........
19 June, 1790
Sir,
Those nights of which you write so fluently must have slipped from my Mind, just as
your Trinket (alas!) slipped from my Hand not ten minutes past, and found its way to
the bottom of the Lake. Thus, (alas, alack and woe is me!) I can neither return the
Trinket, nor keep it. And so your attempt to Entrap me by my actions in this regard has
failed.
Now this correspondence must cease. You engage in Folly of the worst kind to think to
cross Swords with Me.
Believe me, & co.
Serena
..........
20 June, 1790
Madam,
By quite a startling Coincidence, this very Morning I happened to set a team of my Men
to drag that very Lake, but though a Number of Interesting Artefacts were dredged from
those murky depths, the Trinket was not found.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered the Trinket secreted in a certain, hidden
compartment of a Certain Lady's Jewel Box.
I am delighted, therefore to reunite you with the Trinket, and indulge the fond hope
that Our Reunion must shortly follow.
So in all affection believe me, Serena,
Your most loving,
James
..........
21 June, 1790
How dare you bribe my servant to gain access to my chamber!
..........
22 June, 1790
Sir,
Your silence on this Subject leads me to infer that you are Guilty of the Crime with
which you are charged. Nay, more than that, you are guilty of Gross Duplicity and
Unfeeling Conduct towards a Lady who has no reason to think well of you, but on the
contrary, every reason to spurn your Advances.
Do you deny that this is the case?
S.
..........
23 June, 1790
Madam,
When I would speak, you bid me be silent. When I would be silent, you bid me speak. Dear
Lady, with all the will in the World to please you, I begin to fear that your Pleasure
is a thing quite beyond My Meagre Powers.
So in all regret, believe Me, etc.
James
..........
23 June, 1790
Sir,
The Pleasure of a Woman is a Mystery and a Delight, the more precious for being hard-won.
Just as the Opal in your Trinket absorbs the Light, then shatters and refracts it in a
Splendour of Colour to dazzle the beholder's senses, so, too, does a Woman, when pleased,
refract and return that pleasure Tenfold.
S.
..........
24 June, 1790
Madam,
But if the Gem, or Woman, is kept in a Darkened Room, away from Light and Warmth and
Touch, then there is nothing to fuel that brilliant Flash and Fire. Nothing, in fact,
to make the Gem, or Woman, more than Stone.
James
..........
25 June, 1790
My dear sir,
I am lost in Admiration for your Eloquence. And yet, your recent display of Irrational
Jealousy convinces me that between the Theory and the Practice there is a Chasm so Vast
as to be Unbridgeable. If you believed your words, you would set Me free. If you believed
them, there would be nothing but My Heart to constrain Me.
S.
..........
26 June, 1790
Serena,
Return to Me, My Dearest Love, and I will set you free.
J.
..........
26 June, 1790
Darling James!
We should begin Afresh as we mean to go on. Therefore, I will meet you precisely Half Way.
Your loving
S.
..........
26 June, 1790
My Dearest Heart,
You cannot have considered. I believe the Linen Press is located half way between your
apartments and Mine.
J.
..........
26 June, 1790
Sir,
Facetiousness was never a trait I admired in a man.
Serena
P.S. Come to me, then.
..........
26 June, 1790
Madam,
And if I come, as come I must, where will the Trinket be?
J.B.
..........
26 June, 1790
It will be here, My Dearest Husband, in the place next to my Heart.
S.B.
..........
Raising the Stakes
Richard Maitland rattled the dice-box and watched her out of the corner of his eye. There was something not quite right about the red-haired beauty.
With a flick of the wrist, he sent the ivories caracoling over the green baize. The little black dots added to the desired numbers and the pile of vowels at his elbow grew.
Richard sighed. He had not lost any sum worth counting since inheriting an obscenely large fortune the previous year. And now he was trapped holding the bank, weaving mysteries about an unknown red-head because he was so bored he could not even find the thrill in gaming his fortune away.
He had been trying to extricate himself from the proceedings in order to satisfy his curiosity about this oddly fascinating girl, but his good luck held as true now that he was rich as Croesus, as his bad luck had when he was merely well-to-pass. Consequently, the bank had amassed such a vast sum that none of those sitting at the Hazard table, nor anyone in the crowd of onlookers that had gathered around them, cared to raise a stake against it.
So he had to content himself with watching her.
This pastime was immensely pleasurable – her movements were quick, fluid and graceful – but it only served to increase his desire to know her, in every sense of the word.
Perhaps the lady felt his interest, for at last she came to stand opposite him, watching the play. With a strange delight, he realised that she was deliberately avoiding his eye. Finally, as if compelled against her will, the girl looked up and caught him staring.
He held her gaze with a challenging insolence he would not ordinarily have used towards a gently bred lady. She flushed a little, but did not look away. Rather, her gaze seemed to intensify. It was as if their surroundings had faded to nothing and only he and she and the dice-box in his hand existed. It was as if his every sense was heightened and had no other purpose than to perceive her.
For the first time in his far from spotless career, Richard Maitland felt himself actually tremble with desire.
Then the chair opposite him was vacated and the mysterious red-head sat down.
Suddenly, he knew what was wrong about her.
She was wearing a wig. And rather a bad one, too.
It was so obvious, Richard wondered that it had not dawned on him sooner. Her complexion was warm, unfashionably sun-kissed, perhaps, but dewy and flawless as bisque porcelain. It was a complexion he had never seen teamed with hair that particular shade of red. Her hazel eyes were accented by luxuriant lashes that were far too dark, and they regarded the world with an open innocence that sat as ill with the flamboyance of that flaming head as it did with her sinful surrounds.
This was, after all, a gaming hell. A very discreet, very select one, to be sure, but a place that no lady of Quality should even know existed, much less care to enter. Could that be the reason behind the wig? Surely, it was a poor disguise.
Regarding her with open interest, Richard drawled, "Would you care to throw against the bank, ma'am?"
She raised her brows. Her voice was like watered silk. "No, Mr Maitland. I will throw you for the bank."
"Ah!" said Richard. "Er, may one know the lady's name?"
Clearly, she had not expected this. For a second she looked flustered. "Does it matter?"
Interesting: the lady was not a facile liar. "Not in the slightest," said Richard politely. He paused. "I trust you are able to cover the stake, ma'am."
He watched the ripple in her throat as she swallowed. Her eyes never wavered from his. "Indeed," she answered calmly. "What sum have you there?"
He did not turn his head to count his winnings, did not want to break this strange connection between them. He smiled. "I think ten thousand should cover it."
There was a faint gasp, but Richard could not be sure that it came from her. "Ten thousand? Yes, I can cover it."
She waited expectantly and his smile broadened. "I do not wish to seem importunate, madam, but would you mind putting up your stake? I am sure your credit is above reproach but I make it a rule not to accept notes of hand from, er, incognitas."
This time, she flushed to the roots of her hair. Biting her lower lip, she opened her reticule and, note by note, coin by coin, deposited a pile of money onto the table.
It was not enough. It was not nearly enough.
Richard watched uncomfortably as she fumbled in her reticule. Staring at her bent head with the red riot of curls licking around it like ordered fire, he felt the stirrings of shame. He had wanted to provoke her into dropping her guard, he wanted to know everything she had ever dreamed of, but he had no wish to humiliate her in public.
"The bank it is," he said, pushing the dice towards her.
But a voice beside him blustered, "Here, no, I say! Ricky, my boy, where are your wits gone a-begging? Ain't enough of the ready there to cover a pony!"
The devil fly away with Monty Bingham, fumed Richard.
But before he could answer, the red-head said, "No, wait! I – I have this." And she produced, out of the delicate lace handkerchief that enfolded it, a ruby roughly the size of a pigeon's egg and placed it on the baize before her.
The ruby gleamed like blood on the deep green cloth. A collective gasp flew round the table.
Silently, Richard handed her the dice-box, praying that once, just this one time, he would lose.
She took it from him gingerly, careful not to brush his fingers with hers, and called a main. "Eight."
The dice turned up four-three. "Quatre-trey!" said the groom-porter. "Bets, ladies and gentlemen." But the call went unheeded. It seemed that no one breathed.
Unhurriedly, the red-head collected the dice. Giving Richard a long, considering look, she pushed a pearl-chip bracelet further up her arm, rattled the dice-box and threw.
And lost. The dice fell deuce-ace.
Any sound that might have broken from her was drowned in the sensation this latest instance of Maitland's fiendish luck had caused. But though she carried her head with that same proud grace he had first noticed about her, Richard could see that her lips were almost white and her fingers gripped the edge of the table as she stood.
In the general hubbub, he saw, rather than heard her thank him for the game. She turned and walked quickly away.
For once careless of good form and good manners, Richard pocketed the ruby, thrust his winnings at Monty, and with a hurried command to his startled friend to take over the bank, quit the table and strode after her.
Precious seconds were lost as acquaintances congratulated him and exclaimed at his good fortune. He brushed past the porter and dashed out into the street, searching for that flame-red hair, but the gleaming wet flag-way was empty.
Richard shivered and returned to the warm vestibule to fetch his cloak. As the porter handed him his hat, gloves and cane, he inquired which way the red-haired lady had gone, but the man had not noticed.
"Know the mort you mean, though, sir! Came in wearing a loo-mask, if you please! Told her we don't truck with the incognitas in Ôere, thank you very much! But she took it off and Lady Northcote vouched for her, so I let her go up." The porter winked. "Something particular you was wanting with her, sir?"
Richard found himself particularly wanting to smack the fellow in his leering mouth, but he curbed his temper and bade the porter a curt goodnight. At least here was a clue to her identity. He would call on Lady Northcote in the morning.
Helen Dartry made a valiant effort to still her chattering teeth as she waited for Richard Maitland to return to his house in Grosvenor Square. Though the walls surrounding the area steps sheltered her from the icy November wind, the place was dark, damp and miserably cold.
Unable to see his approach from her hiding place, the first Helen knew of his arrival was the scrape of his key in the lock. She hurried up the steps, but the heavy black door was just closing behind him as she hissed his name.
The door snapped shut. Helen bit her lip savagely, repressing the impulse to hurl herself against the panels. She tried tapping softly, but knew that he would be half way to his bedchamber by now. Close to despair, she rested her head on the brass knocker. There must be another way.
Suddenly, the door swung open. A hand shot out, grasped her by the collar of her opera cloak and hauled her inside.
His arms crushed her to him in the darkness. Hot breath in her ear formed words that were barely sound.
"You should not be here."
It was so unexpected, so ludicrous, that in her nervous state she almost laughed out loud. He had seen her wearing a harlot's wig in a gaming hell and here he was, preaching propriety.
"I had to come," she said. "I must get that ruby back."
She thought she heard him sigh. A cold, faceted stone was pressed into her hand. "Take it. It's yours."
Relief spread through her like warm treacle, adding to the heat that was building in her body from his closeness.
"Odd that you should have lost it," he breathed, his lips brushing her earlobe and hovering at her throat. "Rubies are supposed to be lucky for gamblers...and for lovers."
Helen froze. What bitter irony.
She moved away from the heat and fumbled for his hand, placing the ruby in his palm and closing his fingers around it. "I cannot take the ruby back. You won it in fair play."
She could not see him in the darkness, but she sensed his surprise.
Taking her elbow, Richard guided her to the library on her left. The room must have been prepared against his return, for it was well-lit and a fire burned in the grate.
He looked at the ruby in his hand and then at her. "Forgive my curiosity, Miss – er, madam, but if you did not come to retrieve the ruby, what did you come for?"
She felt herself blushing and took a deep breath. It was best done quickly. "I came to offer my – my services to you, to redeem the pledge."
"Indeed?" He turned from her to stoke the fire. Replacing the poker, he added harshly, "And what services would they be? Sewing samplers, perhaps? Painting watercolours?"
Helen pressed her hands together. "No, you do not understand–"
"Oh, I understand perfectly, ma'am! There is only one thing that you could do for me that would redeem your pledge before doomsday, and I thank you for the kind offer, but it is no ambition of mine to exploit the young and innocent!"
Tears of shame burned her eyes, but she lifted her head defiantly. "I may be young, but on what grounds you think me innocent, I have not the slightest notion, Mr Maitland. If you do not wish to accept my offer, so be it, but do me the courtesy of refraining from citing my supposed innocence as the reason, for you know nothing of the matter!"
He folded his arms. "Tell me, then!"
Goaded, she did as he commanded. "I went to that place tonight to make my fortune. I have considerable skill at cards, and I chose my targets carefully. I won a substantial sum, as you saw, but I knew it would not be enough to live on for more than a few months. I needed a honey-fall, Mr Maitland, and that was where you came in."
Helen waited. He said nothing, but stood frowning at her. "The ruby was a gift from my..." She swallowed. How that word stuck in her throat! "From my betrothed."
Putting a hand to her collarbone, she continued quietly, "Mr Maitland, I am exaggerating little when I say I would rather die than wed this man. When my father refused to listen to my objections to the match, I ran away. But as you rightly suggest, I have no skills that would earn me more than a pittance. I had thought to set up as a governess or a paid companion but those posts require references and of course I had none. When Papa found me and brought me home he saved me from a terrible fate, I realise that. But I still cannot go through with this marriage."
"So," said Richard, a hint of amusement in his tone, "you staked your betrothal gift to escape your betrothed."
She stared at him as the truth of this statement dawned on her. Even in the midst of her agitation, she could appreciate the absurdity of what she had done.
He added, "I suppose you did not consider that it would have been far simpler to have sold the ruby."
She shook her head. "It seemed dishonourable to pursue that course. And I was so sure that I would win, you see."
"What is your name?" asked Richard softly.
There was no reason to lie. "It is Helen. Helen Dartry."
She could tell from his expression that her name conveyed a great deal to him. Her family was an old and respected one.
"And let me understand this," said Richard. "You wish to exchange a respectable marriage with this man for a highly scandalous liaison with me." He looked at her searchingly. "Tell me, is it marriage or the man that you object to?"
Helen tilted her head. "I find my betrothed physically repulsive, mentally derelict and morally corrupt. So I suppose it must be the man."
She watched him standing there looking impossibly handsome and noble and her mouth went dry. In a husky voice, she said, "Will you tell me something in return?"
Slowly, he nodded, watching her.
Holding his gaze, she moved towards him and her heart was beating so frantically she thought it might explode. When they were a mere breath apart, she stopped and whispered, "Is it me you object to, or is it my proposition?"
Helen sensed the tautness in his body, and his voice, when he answered her, was ragged. "A gentleman does not..."
Reaching up, she traced the line of that uncompromising jaw. "But what if a lady were to...do this?" Deliberately, she placed one hand on his chest and kissed his lips.
It was as if she had opened the floodgates and the pent-up tide of his passion came bursting forth, overwhelming everything in its path. She did not resist, but allowed herself to be swept away like flotsam, until her blood sang and her skin tingled with the magic he was weaving with his mouth and hands all over her thrilling body.
Somehow, they were on the hearthrug and he took a handful of red curls and yanked, freeing the silky, black mass of her hair and burying his face in it. So he had known all along. Helen was glad that he had seen through her disguise.
She heard him murmuring something, over and over, like a mantra. "I love you, I love you, Helen, I love you."
She pulled away from him and sat up. "Don't say that! You cannot love me!"
Richard propped himself up on one elbow and looked interested. "Why can't I? It seems perfectly possible to me, for it has just happened. Marry me!"
"Marry you?" she gasped. "I barely know you!"
He drew her down to him and kissed her. "Admit it. If your feelings are half as strong as mine, you were lost before you even set foot in this house."
She could not deny it. Her eyes glowed. "One look was enough," she said softly. "But when you drawled at me in that odiously patronising way, I knew I had to have you, if only to torment you for the rest of your life."
"An admirable ambition!" he said cordially. "Please do!"
Helen began to laugh, but she sobered when she thought of the obstacles in their way. "Oh, Richard, don't! The ruby, my betrothal, Papa – you must see how impossible it would be."
He took her hand and ticked off each item with a kiss on a different fingertip. "You will return the ruby to your former betrothed, telling him that your engagement is at an end, I will send a notice to the papers announcing yours truly as a substitute, and your father will fall on my neck for taking his troublesome daughter off his hands while paying him handsomely for the privilege. Now," said Richard, dropping the ruby into her hand and pressing one last, lingering kiss on her burning lips, "You had better go, before I anticipate our wedding night."
This was madness – utter, glorious madness – but it felt like coming home. With unreasoning but unshakeable confidence that her future lay with Richard Maitland, Helen looked down at the winking gemstone in her hand.
Lucky for lovers, indeed.
