Chapter Three

A discreet cough woke Ysella from sleep. She rolled over in bed, blinking in the bright daylight streaming in through her bedroom window, to see Martha, her maid, just stepping back from where she'd drawn aside the thick curtains.

"Good morning, Miss Ysella." Martha, a young woman perhaps five years older than Ysella, picked up a tray from the table near the window and approached the bed. "Your Mama asked me to make sure you was awake and to bring you breakfast."

Ysella sat up in bed, wondering why her stomach felt so unsettled. "Good morning, Martha." She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. "I'm not at all sure I can bring myself to eat anything. Just a cup of tea, perhaps."

Martha set the tray on its little legs across her mistress's knees. "I brought hot chocolate, Miss," she coaxed. "Your favorite."

Ysella eyed the contents of the tray—a silver cloche hid a plate that might contain scrambled eggs, another of her favorites, and several slices of toast occupied a toast rack. She had to eat something, or Mama would wonder what was wrong with her. Maybe just a small slice of toast.

Martha observed her nibbling the toast for a few moments and with a sigh, set her hands on her ample hips. "Are you sickening for something, Miss Ysella? Should I be telling your mother?"

Ysella set down the toast after only one bite and frowned up at her. Martha had been her maid for the last seven years, and knew her all too well. "If I tell you," she said, leaning forward across the breakfast tray. "You have to promise not to breathe a word of it to Mama. I want to wait a little before I mention anything to her. Until I properly know things. Until I'm certain ."

Martha leant forward a little as well. "If 'tis something bad, I might have to tell her. You know I might."

Ysella licked her lips. "It's not bad at all, so you don't need to worry. It's just private, and I want to share it with someone, just not Mama. Not yet." She frowned. "If Morvoren… I mean Lady Ormonde… were here, I'd tell her. But she's not. She's miles away at Ormonde and in a delicate condition so can't be told things that might excite her. So, I thought I could tell you, as you are quite the friend to me." She paused after that bit of flattery, biting her lip. "And I will tell Mama, I promise. Just not yet. For a while I'd like it to remain our secret. What do you say?"

Martha also frowned as though digesting this rather garbled announcement might have been difficult, but she was probably used to Ysella's tumbling thoughts and, after a moment's pause, she nodded, her expression grave but curious. "I promise, then."

Ysella, ignoring Martha's less than enthusiastic agreement, fought to suppress the smile that threatened to widen her mouth. "I think I'm in love."

Martha's expression gave nothing away. She regarded her mistress out of solemn gray eyes as though Ysella had just told her which gown she wanted to wear today. Most unsatisfying as reactions went. If only Morvoren were here. She 'd have reacted properly. Wouldn't she?

"Well?" Ysella almost snapped. "Don't you want to know who with? All the details?" Telling Morvoren about Captain Featherstone would be much more satisfying. What a letdown Martha was.

Martha sucked in her lips. "Will I know the gentleman?"

"Well, no," Ysella conceded, disappointed. Had Morvoren been with her last night at the Denby House ball, then she would have seen what a paragon the captain was and been suitably impressed at his interest in Ysella, and perhaps a teeny bit jealous at his good looks. Although maybe not that last bit—Morvoren was of the opinion Ysella's older brother Kit was the epitome of handsomeness and had told Ysella this on several occasions recently. Even though he was just ordinary Kit.

"Did you meet him last night, then?" Martha asked, her voice still sadly lacking the required response to Ysella's announcement. "At the ball?"

Ysella nodded, determined not to be discouraged. "The most handsome man there," she declared, clasping her hands against her chest. "An officer in the militia. A captain, no less. All the other young ladies clamored to dance with him, but he chose me first of all of them."

Martha, who must have been well aware of the etiquette required at society gatherings, wrinkled her nose. "I hope you didn't forget yourself, Miss, and dance more than once with him."

Ysella shook her head. "I'm not a ninny, Martha."

Martha's expression implied she hadn't believed her mistress, either about not dancing more than once with someone, or not being a ninny, but she held her tongue.

Ignoring this, Ysella sailed on. "Out of all the young ladies present, it was me he took into supper. I couldn't eat a thing. All the girls were watching me, jealous of his attentions, I'm sure."

Martha raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Are you sure you aren't so pleased with yourself because you think you got one over on the other young ladies? And confusing it with love?"

Ysella shook her head with vehemence. "Of course not. I know quite well that I'm in love. Why else would my heart be pounding in my chest all last night and still be doing it right now?" She pressed her hands against the pattering. "And I'm unable to eat. I know all the signs." She beamed. "I've read about them in books."

Martha snorted. "Books?" The word came out as though she had to force herself to spit it forth, as though a book were the worst possible thing in the world. A misleading, lying, downright dangerous object never to be consulted for advice.

"Yes, books," Ysella retorted with asperity. "You know I read a lot of books."

Martha nodded, her gaze sliding sideways to where Ysella's latest tome lay on the chaise longue by the window. Her fingers twitched as though she might be itching to tidy it.

"Leave it there, please," Ysella snapped, picking up the tray and holding it out to her maid. "I'm getting up. The captain is coming to call on me this morning so I need to be up and ready to receive him." She smiled. "In fact, I believe quite a few young gentlemen might be calling. Do you know what time it is?"

"Gone eleven, Miss." Martha took the tray and dumped it with a definite annoyed bang back onto the table, as Ysella swung her legs out of bed and stood up.

Ysella stretched. "With young gentlemen coming to call, I need to look my best. I think the gold day dress with the little puffed sleeves."

Martha went to the wardrobe and flung it open. Everything she was doing this morning seemed to be requiring loud noise. Maybe she didn't like being asked to keep a secret. Maybe she disapproved of Ysella's choice of beau even though she'd never set eyes on him.

Preparing for visitations by young admirers, something Ysella had never had to do before, took longer than her normal morning ablutions. Once she was dressed in her muslin petticoats, and the gorgeous gold dress Kit had commissioned for her from the Misses Sedgewick dressmakers shop in Marlborough, was hanging on the wardrobe door, Martha had to do Ysella's hair and makeup. The hair took the longest, as not only was Martha new to the style Ysella demanded, but Ysella had determined to be picky this morning.

"I don't think you quite have it right," she complained after Martha's third effort to get her curls arranged to her mistress's liking. "Look at the picture again." She wafted the ladies' fashion paper in front of her maid for the umpteenth time.

Martha huffed. "I'm doin' my best, Miss Ysella, workin' from just a drawing. 'Tisn't that easy to see how to get the effect you want." She unpinned Ysella's curls again. "One more try and that'll be my last. I'm a maid, not a miracle worker."

From anyone else Ysella would not have tolerated such a remark, but she and Martha understood one another tolerably well, and Ysella was fond of her. When at last, the fourth attempt had been completed and Ysella, pulling a face of slight dissatisfaction, agreed with Martha that nothing more could be achieved, Martha helped her on with her gown.

Ysella admired herself from all angles in the cheval mirror in the corner. Here and there, rich chestnut curls escaped in artful disarray to her shoulders and clustered around her brow. A sash of the same gold fabric as her gown held the curls in mock control, and the gown itself hung in perfect lines almost to the ground, allowing her gold slippers to peek out. The swell of Ysella's small breasts, pushed up and enhanced by her stays, emerged daringly at the low neckline of the gown.

Martha handed her a lace fichu. "'Tis morning, still, Miss Ysella. Best cover up a little."

With a frown, Ysella took the fichu and tucked it around her neckline to cover up her cleavage. Once Mama and Martha were not looking, that could go. Young men liked a girl's assets to be on display, and with a young man as handsome and popular as the captain, she was going to have to work hard to hold his attention.

She bit her lip. Supposing he didn't come? He'd been so attentive last night, so full of flattering words that had made her blush, but perhaps he did that with a different pretty young lady at every ball he went to. Perhaps she was no different than countless other young ladies he'd flattered. Perhaps he told each of them they were the belle of the ball and of the season. She crossed her fingers where Martha couldn't see them as her confidence in his arrival diminished. Last night had been like a fairytale dream, and with daylight, had been swept away.

By the time Ysella's toilette had been completed, and she descended the wide staircase to the drawing room, the tall clock in the hallway was striking the half hour after midday, and she was more than three quarters sure he wouldn't come and was off at this very moment trifling with some other young lady.

She found Mama seated on one of the brocade sofas in the drawing room, her sewing in her hands. "Ysella, my dear, you look particularly beautiful this morning. I trust you slept well after last night's excesses."

Ysella's polite curtsey provoked a raised eyebrow. The Dowager Lady Ormonde was probably not at all used to her daughter behaving so decorously. "Perfectly well, thank you, Mama." Which wasn't true at all, as she'd lain awake half the night thinking about the captain's handsome face and his warm touch on her hands and waist. The thought of it now brought heat to her cheeks, so she hastened across the room and looked out of the window while she fought for self-control. Mama mustn't guess how she felt. Not yet, at any rate.

The drawing room window looked out across the street at the little park opposite the house. Right now, in the middle of the day, the park was full of people taking advantage of the weather for an airing. A few tradesmen and hawkers hung about, and several carriages rattled along the cobbles.

Better not stay here too long, in case the captain arrived and thought she was watching out for him. Which of course she was. She mustn't look too keen—that would be awful. Her Wiltshire friend, Caroline Fairfield, had counselled her to maintain a discreet distance between herself and any possible suitor for fear of frightening them away. "It's bad enough having one's mama at one's shoulder the whole time," she'd said, when she visited Ormonde just before Ysella and Mama left for Town. "Indeed, it's a wonder young men attend any balls at all with the way all the mamas hang about like vultures waiting for their prey."

This had made Ysella laugh and Caro confide that she was heartily glad that at five and twenty she was no longer expected to parade herself in the marriage mart. "I think I shall much prefer to become an interesting maiden aunt to my four little nephews."

Ysella took a seat beside Mama, folding her hands in her lap.

An urge to confide all swept over her for a wild moment, and she struggled to keep her mouth closed. Instinct, and Mama's disapproving expression as she'd watched Ysella dance with the captain, warned her not to reveal the way she felt, despite the temptation. Mama had about her the air of someone who would not approve of a mere militia captain, son of a bishop or not, for her youngest daughter, especially not one as rakishly attractive as the captain.

They sat in silence for a long minute before inspiration seized Ysella. "Shall I play the piano for you?" Anything was better than having to get her own sewing out.

Mama brightened. "That would be lovely. Thank you, Ysella." She smiled. "I do miss having dear Morvoren read aloud to us. I've never heard anyone read with such vigor and expression. But some music would be delightful."

Ysella took the stool at the grand piano, lifted the lid and set her fingers to the keys. She was not a gifted musician, merely a capable one, so she stuck to the pieces she was best at, her fingers dancing across the ivory.

It was thus occupied that Captain Featherstone found her, when Forbes the butler showed him into the parlor twenty-five minutes later.

Ysella's fingers stopped mid-bar and color rushed to her cheeks. He'd come! Her heart leapt into her mouth and she rose from the piano stool, her legs suddenly weak at the knees. He was every bit as handsome as she remembered.

"Lady Ormonde," Featherstone said, taking Mama's hand and bowing over it as he brought it to his lips. "I must thank you for allowing me to call on you this morning."

Mama's eyes narrowed, but her reaction would have been imperceptible to anyone but Ysella, who knew her all too well. That was disapproval in them, for certain. However, Captain Featherstone was here, so it was already a fait accompli and Ysella was determined nothing would spoil his visit.

He turned towards her, a smile curving those eminently kissable lips, just as the heroes in all her books looked, which brought an even warmer glow to Ysella's cheeks. "Pray don't desist. I should love to hear you play."

Ysella wanted to frown, but resisted the impulse. This was not what she wanted to do. She wanted to sit and talk to him, but now she was caught and would have to waste his visit playing the silly piano. And if other young men came to call as well, as she was sure she'd invited them last night, she wouldn't have him to herself at all. Fingering her music, she scraped for excuses not to have to play.

Mama looked a touch smug. "Of course she'll play for you. Do sit down, Ysella, you look a little silly just standing there."

Ysella sat down with a thud on the piano stool. Thwarted. Bugger it . For a gently brought up young lady, she had an interesting vocabulary learnt in the stables at Ormonde Abbey. She'd never have said this forbidden phrase out loud in front of her mother, but inside her head she was wont to use it with alarming frequency. One day she was going to make a mistake and it would come popping out and shock everyone.

She began to play. But this time the proximity of the man who'd come specially to see her made her fingers clumsy and slow, and the music emanating from the piano grew steadily worse.

"Good heavens," Mama said at last, as Ysella paused to turn the page in her music after having had to restart a piece three times. "I believe you get worse with practice, child. Come and sit down instead, before Captain Featherstone runs away thanks to the assault on his ears."

Well, at least she'd got what she wanted. She needed to remember that trick.

Ysella took the seat closest to Featherstone and folded her hands demurely in her lap. Now all she had to do was get rid of Mama.

But luck didn't favor her today. The door opened and Forbes announced another of the young men she'd danced with last night. He seemed a little annoyed to find Featherstone already in residence, but settled with satisfaction onto one of the brocade chairs.

Shortly after this arrival, a second young man arrived, and then a third. Then Lieutenant Chatham turned up with Major Hamilton. Had Ysella truly invited all these young men to call on her today? What had she been thinking? Or had they just taken it upon themselves to call without invitation? Mama's smug expression grew more noticeable. No doubt she considered the number of young men arriving a reflection of Ysella's success at her first ball.

Within a short space of time eight young men occupied the drawing room and Mama, probably seeing safety in numbers, withdrew. Forbes brought in light refreshment and the young gentlemen appeared settled in for the foreseeable future.

A cough sounded at Ysella's right shoulder. She turned her head and almost bumped noses with Featherstone. "Miss Carlyon," he said, keeping his voice low. "Might I trouble you to take a turn around the garden?" He smiled. "It would be quite respectable, as I see your garden is probably visible at all times from the house."

Ysella's eyes widened. She glanced back at her erstwhile suitors who were engaged in a discussion of the merits of various racehorses, a subject they seemed to think would be fascinating for her to listen to. What would Mama say? The thought that she might greatly disapprove surfaced and even excited her, a hint of the forbidden proving more than attractive. But Mama was not here. And, as he said, it was quite a respectable thing to do. Surely it could do no harm.

She rose to her feet. "I would love to, Captain Featherstone."

Drawing her hand into the crook of his arm, he pushed open the double doors on to the terrace and led her out of the drawing room. The clamor of voices insisting their own particular horse was the best died away.

The garden at Ormonde House, which was not overly large, had been laid out by Ysella's grandfather over sixty years ago, and was a maze of graveled pathways in between neat flowerbeds. Perfect for a promenade with all decorum, although the knowledge that the summerhouse would bestow some privacy rested at the forefront of Ysella's racing mind. Could she but hope that the captain had suggested this walk because he desired a moment's privacy with her? Should she even be entertaining such a thought? Mama would not approve, which made Ysella all the keener to accomplish what had fast become her dearest wish.

Captain Featherstone heaved a deep sigh as they walked down the central path towards the end of the garden, where, of course, the summerhouse lurked. "I've been wanting to get you to myself ever since I arrived," he said, his voice low and husky.

Aha. She'd been right in her surmise.

Ysella's heart skipped several beats, or so it seemed to her. "You have?" To her embarrassment, her voice came out squeaky and high, but he seemed not to have noticed.

He nodded, and his free hand patted the hand she had tucked in his arm. "All I've been able to think about since last night is you."

A starburst went off in Ysella's head. "You-you have?" Could she believe her ears? Did he feel the same way about her as she did about him? Could it be love at first sight, just as in one of her books?

"How could I not have done? You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and I have to have you."

Was this a proposal? She'd never had one, unless she counted Archibald Hatherleigh's and she shouldn't really as she'd only been twelve and he'd been fourteen and home from Eton for the summer holidays. Not really a proposal to be taken seriously—she'd laughed in his face and told him she was never getting married because she preferred horses to boys.

Ysella stopped walking and stared up at her handsome beau. A last vestige of common sense remained to her. "But, we've only just met…"

"Don't you believe in love at first sight? The lightning strike of cupid's arrow in the heart?"

She swallowed. Surely his very soul must be in sympathy with hers. Having read rather too many romantic novels, of course she'd more than once dreamed of love striking like the proverbial lightning bolt, usually just after she'd finished the latest book and taken a passing fancy to its handsome hero. Last night she'd experienced a strong attraction for a man such as she'd never felt before, and today, all she'd dared to hope was that he'd be able to pay her a visit. But for him to say this to her? Weren't men renowned for not divulging what they felt? Especially not straightaway like this. Or so Morvoren had warned her. A tiny alarm bell of caution went off in her head, but she ignored it. Instead, she nodded. "I-I do."

"Then you'll understand. Tell me you feel the same way about me as I do about you, and I shall be content."

She glanced back at the blank windows of the house. Were the other young men still comparing notes on horses, or watching them, unseen? Or worse still, was Mama?

He smiled, that devastatingly charming smile.

She bit her bottom lip, reeling a little in shock. "I-I don't know what to say."

He gazed down into her eyes. "Tell me you don't love me, and I'll go and leave you in peace."

Was she being an idiot? She should tell him how she felt or she might lose him. A man as handsome as he was could have his pick of any society young lady. She swallowed. She certainly didn't want him to leave, which he well might if she wasn't careful with her reply. She licked her lips. "Captain Featherstone. I-I believe I do have feelings for you. Please don't go."

He caught her hands in his. In full view of the house. "Please call me Oliver. And may I call you Ysella? Such a lovely name. Like music on my lips."

Bearing in mind that he'd not objected to her execrable piano playing, this praise might not mean that much. The possibility that he might be tone deaf popped into Ysella's head.

However, she had more important things to deal with. She nodded, enthralled by the sound of her name. "You may. And I will." She paused. "Oliver."

At the top of the steps leading down from the terrace into the garden, Mama appeared, a determined air to her walk as she headed in their direction.

Casting a glance towards Mama, Oliver tightened his hold on her hands. "When can I see you again? Tell me I can, or I shall die."

Ysella had to think quickly. "Tomorrow. I shall go for a walk in the park at about this very time. I'll only have my maid with me, I hope."

Oliver released her hands and turned towards Mama. "Lady Ormonde. I've been admiring your splendid garden and was just about to take my leave, I'm afraid."

Mama fixed him with a gimlet stare as though, perish the thought, she could see right through his dissembling.

He swept Mama a flamboyant bow and then a smaller one to Ysella. "Miss Carlyon. Thank you so much for showing me the roses. It saddens me to have to bid you farewell."

He walked away, with a slight swagger to his step, as Mama docked beside Ysella with a harrumph. "I'm not sure I like the cut of that young man."

Ysella assumed her most innocent expression. "He seems perfectly pleasant to me." Hopefully, Mama wouldn't notice her warm cheeks and how flustered she was.