He waved and started to ride. The light was coming. Boston was about to burst into activity.
It suddenly seemed urgent that he head for home as quickly as he could.
He wanted to stand upon his own acres, feel the breeze from the James River. God, how he loved that land. The land had always been his mistress, his heart’s desire. He smiled ruefully, though, thinking that he envied Frederick his son. Perhaps it was time that he married, for Cameron Hall needed heirs. And he craved a son who would learn to love the land as he did.
Maybe it was not his sudden interest in an heir that led his thoughts, he warned himself ruefully. Maybe it was the memory of Lady Sterling. She, who carried within her soul the passion of this very night, all the fire and the tempest and the spark of raw excitement that seemed so very necessary to him.
Pausing beneath a streetlamp, he smiled. He remembered the girl she had been. Passionate, aristocratic, haunting even then. She had been so young, but already those emerald eyes had carried a dazzle and a fury to match. She’d had a soft, vixen’s laughter, and a will of steel. It had been years since he had first seen her, but tonight he could remember the encounter vividly. He’d been so furious, and she’d been so very indignant, calling him boy, and assuring him after his first warning that she was Lady Amanda Sterling, and that no one ever spanked her.
No one had previously, he told her, but the situation was about to be rectified. She had warned him imperiously that her father would have him lashed, but he didn’t care. She had so very nearly killed them both, he had still been tense and frightened because she had so nearly been crushed.
He had paddled her good and hard, but she had cried out only once, and when he had released her, she had promised him that he would die very slowly and rot, she would see to it. He had offered to tell her father about the entire event himself, and she walked off furiously, her eyes flashing, her chin in the air.
But she had never told her father about the occasion. She would have gotten into trouble as well as he, Eric was certain.
She had changed. The lady had definitely grown.
Take care, friend, he warned himself. She was becoming a fascination. And this was a dangerous time to find oneself falling beneath the spell of Lady Sterling. Very soon it could come to war.
No. It would not come to war. No one wanted war.
It did not matter. For the time he was going home. He would make inquiries about Lord Sterling’s daughter—she had not seen the last of him. If Tarryton meant to marry the Duchess of Owenfield, he had best forget his interest in Amanda Sterling. And if it were all bald rumor, then Tarryton had best be prepared to fight for the lady, for Eric did indeed plan to have her.
Tension filled him as he nudged the stallion back into motion. Repercussions were sure to come, swift and serious. There had been a tea party that night, and the guests were destined to pay. Where were men of good reason? There was an answer to this new trauma, surely, there must be an answer.
And yet, as he rode toward his room by the common to gather his things for the long ride home to Virginia, Eric felt a new rustle upon the winter wind.
As he reined in on the stallion, he felt it all around him. He knew that the events of the night had forever changed him, and that there were things he could not deny.
There was that movement, a whisper on the wind. And the whisper grew louder…the whisper of war.
Eric rode on, unaware that his next meeting with Lord Sterling’s daughter would indeed cause him as much turbulence as the dangerous deeds of the night.
III
Tidewater Virginia
June 1774
There had never been a more beautiful summer’s night, Amanda was convinced of it. Oriental lanterns had been lavishly strewn about the estate in all shades of soft colors. The breeze was soft and cool for the season, the flowers were all in full bloom, and the magnolias were casting their delightful scent upon the air. Summer was hot, but not tonight. Tonight everything was peaceful and beautiful and the sea breeze whispered gently.
There was no hint of dissent or trouble to mar the night, she thought, and then she was annoyed with the very thought, just as she was nearly sick to death of the continual talk of separation from the Crown. Had the men of Virginia, of the colonies, forgotten that the dear motherland had come to their defense against the French and Indians in the horrible war? Taxes had paid for that defense. They could not expect the Englishmen at home to cover their expenses here! The people of the colonies had opposed the Stamp Act, and that had been repealed.
Now they were fighting over tea. Ever since that night when the Bostonians had decided to dump endless chests of English tea into Boston Harbor, people talked of nothing but tea. And to punish the citizens for the act, the British had closed the port of Boston. And Virginia—so far away from Boston—was becoming embroiled in the whole matter. Tension was a constant emotion among the people, something almost tangible in the air.
Amanda did not want to be interested in politics, but she had a keen, sharp mind and she knew all the basics of the current problem simply because it seemed that everyone was beginning to speak of it. And of course, she had been in Boston on the very night when the tea had been dumped, and everyone always wanted to know her opinion of what had happened. She could never say that she didn’t give a damn about the tea—Damien’s involvement in the matter worried her. When she thought of her cousin, it was with irritation for the trouble he seemed bent on causing her. And when she became irritated with Damien, she became further irritated because she was forced to remember Lord Cameron. The audacity of the man! He had involved her in something that smelled despicably of treason, and he had never given her a chance to protest. He had set his hands upon her and ordered her about, and despite her outrage, she’d had to go along with him because of Damien. She didn’t know what he was involved in, but she was afraid.
She shivered and looked down at her hands. Cameron could have turned Damien in as well as the young printer. But he hadn’t. And so they all shared a filthy little secret. The thought of it made her grow warm and tremble, but she inhaled quickly and gained control of herself. She hadn’t seen the man in these many months. Pray God, she would never see him again. And when Damien came tonight, she would warn her foolish cousin to keep his nose clean—and out of politics. She would take care to keep silent on the subject tonight. Her father disapproved of her knowledge of it, and tonight she would strive to please him with her silence—except when she spoke discreetly with Damien!
Nigel Sterling had taught her often enough that a woman’s place was to be beautiful and soothing, a wife of virtue would be a notable woman adept at the finer arts who was also able to manage her husband’s estates.
But he was wrong, in a way. For men all about, in all phases of life, were appealing to their wives and sisters and mothers to help boycott tea. Ladies were forming societies where they worked on homespun materials and garments and where they drank home-grown herbal teas. Their opinions and assistance were proving frightfully important.
“No more tea!” she whispered aloud. On this night, this magic night, when the future might well dangle before her in glazed and golden magnificence, she would curb her thoughts. This was her night. Robert had said that he needed to talk to her, that he needed to see her alone when they had met so briefly at tea earlier in the week—with her father present.
It was her night, a beautiful night, and she didn’t want to think about politics, or the frightfully willful Bostonians, or even the foolish things being done by the Virginia House of Burgesses—and she especially did not want to worry about Damien or the dark and fierce Lord Cameron who had been so terribly rude and outrageous.
From the second-floor balcony of Sterling Hall she gazed down on the drive. She felt the kiss of the soft breeze and inhaled the subtle scent of the flowers. She was delighted. It was a perfect night. The musicians would soon be warming up in the gallery above the dance hall, the guests would arrive, and men and women in the height of elegance would swirl to the dances. Beautiful women would arrive in velvets and silks and satins and brocades, their hair powdered, their faces, perhaps, adorned with tiny hearts or moons, drawn in with a kohl pencil or made of velvet or silk patches. Their hair would be high, their bodices would be daringly low, and their conversation would be light and musical. Handsome men would arrive too. And they, too, would be dressed in the height of fashion. They would wear silk or satin knee breeches, fine hose, silver-buckled shoes, and elegant shirts all cuffed and collared in lace. It was her first week home from visiting her aunt in South Carolina, her first party of the summer season, and it was going to be a magical night.
