Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(48)

After rising from her bath and drying herself with a length of toweling, she dressed in a dark chocolate-colored gown trimmed with cream corded silk. The color of it intensified the darkness of her eyes until they appeared almost black. A cream-colored sash was tied in a saucy bow at her side, while elaborately tucked and gathered sleeves tapered to her wrists. The hem was adorned with a band of the same corded silk that edged the bodice. Mira was pleased with her appearance, especially when she added the pearl-studded net to her hair as a finishing touch. It was important that she look her best today; if she was going to face the Berkeleys, she would confront them in a composed manner.

Mira felt a wild flutter of nervousness at the realization that finally she would see Rosalie again. Perhaps Rosalie might forgive her for what had happened five years ago; Mira hoped desperately that she would. Biting the tip of her finger absently, she sat on the edge of her bed, expelling a long sigh. What should I do when they’ve arrived here? she wondered anxiously. Send a note to their room? It would not be wise simply to appear before them without warning. Maybe she should wait for an opportunity to meet Rosalie alone while Berkeley was out hunting. One thing was certain—she would not go anywhere near the Berkeleys unless Alec was close by to watch out for her. There was no telling what Rand Berkeley might do to her, for although he was not an unjust man, he would never forgive or forget someone who had been instrumental in taking Rosalie away from him.

No pack of foxhounds in the country, not even the royal buckhounds in the Windsor kennels, could equal the Berkeley pack. The Berkeley hounds were bred for incredible speed and indomitable spirit. When it was made known that the pack was being brought for the last few days of the Sackville hunt, the hour of the hunt was delayed considerably, for the Berkeley pack would catch the fox far too quickly in the early-morning hours, later in the day the fox was faster, his belly less full than at daybreak, and therefore he would present more of a challenge to the hounds.

The Earl of Berkeley’s general philosophy was to avoid half-measures; he either committed himself fully to an interest or left it alone, and this attitude extended to his treatment of his animals. He demanded frequent and meticulous reports on their care and progress. Unlike the trainers at many notable kennels, those who managed the Berkeley foxhounds were not allowed to practice the traditional customs of bleeding the puppies before cubhunting started or giving them port. Their training was hardly unorthodox, merely conservative and practical. The puppies were walked often… in fact, many of the earl’s own tenants were paid to walk the spirited animals. Occasionally Berke-ey hounds were bred with the flawless Yarborough and Meynell blood, to keep the quality of their speed, endurance, and physical superiority consistent. In anticipation of the Sackville hunt, the hounds had been sent a day early and were already lodged in the kennels. The eagerly anticipated arrival of Lord and Lady Berkeley would occur in late morning, in plenty of time for them to move into their rooms and prepare for the dance that would be held this night for their benefit. Sackville and many of his guests were preparing in their own way for the appearance of the couple. Sackville was reading the past several issues of the Times and other papers in order to know the current political and financial news, for the Earl of Berkeley owned a fast-growing shipping business that would someday provide serious competition for the Dutch East Indies Company. The ladies were all gathering the latest bits of gossip to regale Lady Berkeley with, for she was extremely popular and had of late become a leading fashion figure. The way her hair was dressed and the style of her clothes were always copied down to the last detail, and the women were all eager to see the gowns that she would wear during the coming weekend.

As the preparations at Sackville Manor progressed, an enclosed carriage jostled along the poorly mended roads from Warwick to Hampshire. The livery of the servants and the coachwork were royal blue and crimson, colors which glowed richly against the muted landscape. Its sturdy six-inch-wide wheels plowed steadily through muddied tracks and miry byways. Four immaculately groomed black horses trotted gracefully over the country roads, pulling the vehicle at a sedate pace. Even the coachman was a noteworthy sight, dressed in plush clothes with shining gold buttons, his head ornamented with a flaxen wig and a low-brimmed bat. Two outriders and two grooms clad in equally splendorous finery completed the picture. The curtains at the windows of the carriage were discreetly drawn to afford the two occupants of the vehicle privacy. Privacy which they had made good use of.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Rosalie said, idly walking her fingers through the gold-tinged hair on her husband’s chest. “Because of you I’m abominably disheveled. My buttons are all undone and my hair is in ruins—and we’ll probably arrive at Sackville Manor any moment.”

Berkeley grinned, his aggressive masculine features temporarily softened in the aftermath of their passion. He was a strong-willed man with a fearsome temper, but Rosalie had learned over the course of their five-year marriage that in the few minutes just after they made love Berkeley was always in an agreeable and good-humored state of mind. At times like this he had agreed to many of her schemes and demands against his better judgment, unable to refuse her anything after he had been so magnificently satisfied. Rosalie sometimes found it privately amusing, for Rand Berkeley could intimidate the most powerful men in England… yet she alone had the power to wrap him around her little finger. And that is the way it should be, Rosalie thought contentedly, snuggling against his warm chest.