Free Yvonne Goes to York by M. C. Beaton Page A
Authors: M. C. Beaton
possible.’
‘Why? Did this Paul support the Revolution?’
‘He was neither for it nor against it, being of a gentle, retiring disposition. But I no longer had any dowry, you see, so naturally he had to find someone else.’
‘Jackanapes. Mercenary puppy,’ snapped the marquis .
‘But affairs are organized here in the same manner,’ said Yvonne. ‘Hardly ever does a man of any substance marry a penniless girl.’
‘And you accepted the situation just like that! Without complaint?’
‘Oh, I am of a practical turn of mind. I cried a great deal, of course, but,’ went on Yvonne with a certain amount of pride, ‘only when I was alone. I kept my dignity.’
‘But you said you had never been kissed! Such a sweet and tender love and no kisses.’
‘It is not the same in France,’ said Yvonne primly. ‘French girls are not so forward as English ones.’
She stopped to sniff a rose and he looked down at her, half exasperated, half amused. ‘Would you like me to kiss you?’ he asked abruptly.
Her eyes flew to meet his and she coloured faintly and then automatically veiled them with her long eyelashes, a coquettish gesture. ‘But why?’
The answer was, thought the marquis suddenly, ‘Because I think I might be a little in love with you,’ but he said aloud, ‘For amusement. Would you not like to have the experience?’
Those eyelashes raised. ‘Perhaps,’ she said slowly. ‘For it would not matter. After York I will not see you again. Yes, perhaps I will try.’ She turned her face up to his.
He cradled her face in his hands and gently kissed her on the mouth. Someone in the house had started to play the harp – Letty – and he felt suddenly as if the very angels were serenading them. Such innocence, he thought in a dazed way, such piercing sweetness near to pain. The sun was warm on his head and the scents of herbs and roses mingled with the scent from her hair. And then a black wave of passion seemed to crash across his brain and the next thing he knew, she was struggling free of his lips, looking up at him, wild-eyed and frightened.
‘I am so sorry,’ he said huskily. ‘I did not mean to frighten you.’ But she turned and ran away from him, through the flower-beds, and out of the gate.
Benjamin was riding to Grantham on a horse he had borrowed from the stables. In his pocket was a letter to Sir George Clarence. Feeling that the damage had been well and truly done, Benjamin thought that he may as well explain his folly to Sir George.
Dear Sir George [ he had written ], By the time you Receive this Letter, a scurrilous Rumour concerning you and my Mistress, Miss Pym, may have reached your ears. I was the Instigator of that Rumour. It was my belief you had a tendre for my Mistress and I was aiming to help the Course of True Love.
Alas! My Mistress found out what I had done and is in Tears and says she can Never see you again. What am I to do?
Pray accept the Apologies of one Grief-Stricken footman who remains Yr. Humble Servant, Benjamin Chubb.
Ps. On my return to London, you may Horsewhip me, as it please you,
Benjamin had laboured over a dictionary in the library to make sure his spelling was correct. At Grantham, he left the letter to be collected by the next-up mail coach and went into the tap of the Bull and Mouth to refresh himself with a pint of dog’s nose before returning to Hadley Hall.
The innkeeper recognized him and hailed him with surprise saying there had been no end of a to-do when those two gentlemen, Mr Smith and Mr Ashton, had found the party had gone.
‘So what did they do?’ asked Benjamin.
‘Hired a post-chaise and set off hell for leather,’ said the innkeeper.
Benjamin smiled. At least that would be some good news to take to Miss Pym. But then Miss Pym wouldask him what he had been doing in Grantham and he could not possibly tell her he had written to Sir George.
He sighed, feeling all the weight of a guilty conscience bearing down on him again.
‘Why? Did this Paul support the Revolution?’
‘He was neither for it nor against it, being of a gentle, retiring disposition. But I no longer had any dowry, you see, so naturally he had to find someone else.’
‘Jackanapes. Mercenary puppy,’ snapped the marquis .
‘But affairs are organized here in the same manner,’ said Yvonne. ‘Hardly ever does a man of any substance marry a penniless girl.’
‘And you accepted the situation just like that! Without complaint?’
‘Oh, I am of a practical turn of mind. I cried a great deal, of course, but,’ went on Yvonne with a certain amount of pride, ‘only when I was alone. I kept my dignity.’
‘But you said you had never been kissed! Such a sweet and tender love and no kisses.’
‘It is not the same in France,’ said Yvonne primly. ‘French girls are not so forward as English ones.’
She stopped to sniff a rose and he looked down at her, half exasperated, half amused. ‘Would you like me to kiss you?’ he asked abruptly.
Her eyes flew to meet his and she coloured faintly and then automatically veiled them with her long eyelashes, a coquettish gesture. ‘But why?’
The answer was, thought the marquis suddenly, ‘Because I think I might be a little in love with you,’ but he said aloud, ‘For amusement. Would you not like to have the experience?’
Those eyelashes raised. ‘Perhaps,’ she said slowly. ‘For it would not matter. After York I will not see you again. Yes, perhaps I will try.’ She turned her face up to his.
He cradled her face in his hands and gently kissed her on the mouth. Someone in the house had started to play the harp – Letty – and he felt suddenly as if the very angels were serenading them. Such innocence, he thought in a dazed way, such piercing sweetness near to pain. The sun was warm on his head and the scents of herbs and roses mingled with the scent from her hair. And then a black wave of passion seemed to crash across his brain and the next thing he knew, she was struggling free of his lips, looking up at him, wild-eyed and frightened.
‘I am so sorry,’ he said huskily. ‘I did not mean to frighten you.’ But she turned and ran away from him, through the flower-beds, and out of the gate.
Benjamin was riding to Grantham on a horse he had borrowed from the stables. In his pocket was a letter to Sir George Clarence. Feeling that the damage had been well and truly done, Benjamin thought that he may as well explain his folly to Sir George.
Dear Sir George [ he had written ], By the time you Receive this Letter, a scurrilous Rumour concerning you and my Mistress, Miss Pym, may have reached your ears. I was the Instigator of that Rumour. It was my belief you had a tendre for my Mistress and I was aiming to help the Course of True Love.
Alas! My Mistress found out what I had done and is in Tears and says she can Never see you again. What am I to do?
Pray accept the Apologies of one Grief-Stricken footman who remains Yr. Humble Servant, Benjamin Chubb.
Ps. On my return to London, you may Horsewhip me, as it please you,
Benjamin had laboured over a dictionary in the library to make sure his spelling was correct. At Grantham, he left the letter to be collected by the next-up mail coach and went into the tap of the Bull and Mouth to refresh himself with a pint of dog’s nose before returning to Hadley Hall.
The innkeeper recognized him and hailed him with surprise saying there had been no end of a to-do when those two gentlemen, Mr Smith and Mr Ashton, had found the party had gone.
‘So what did they do?’ asked Benjamin.
‘Hired a post-chaise and set off hell for leather,’ said the innkeeper.
Benjamin smiled. At least that would be some good news to take to Miss Pym. But then Miss Pym wouldask him what he had been doing in Grantham and he could not possibly tell her he had written to Sir George.
He sighed, feeling all the weight of a guilty conscience bearing down on him again.