by Lisa Berne
Percy laughed and put up a hand. “Cry peace, dear sister! It was said in jest. Although I do think Frank ought to spend a little more time with people, and a little less with his head in a book. It’s not healthy.”
“I think reading is a marvelous thing,” said Helen. “I do it as often as I can.”
Onto Gwendolyn’s face came a brief expression of surprise, but she said nothing. The talk turned to tomorrow’s outing, and Percy went over to the Duchess, neatly detached her from the little group of acquaintances with whom she was conversing, and brought her back to their own group as would a triumphant collector present his prize specimen.
“Cousin Judith says yes,” he announced, and when a slim pale-haired man of medium height and an appearance of supreme modish elegance joined them, introduced all round by the Earl as his longtime friend Étienne de Montmorency, he was invited also; he graciously accepted, and thus their party for tomorrow was declared complete.
Chapter 4
The sun shone warmly down upon the little expedition to Richmond. There had been, after all, a last-minute addition to their numbers: Lady Almira, scandalized by the idea of the Duchess overseeing such a large group of young people, had insisted on coming along, undeterred by Helen blurting out at the breakfast table:
“Oh, Mother, don’t! You know you hate riding.”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Almira, airily waving her hand in a dismissive gesture and accidentally knocking over the silver toast rack near her plate. “Oh, dear, I am so sorry,” she said to the footman who had immediately come to set things aright, and to Helen she went on, in a tone of virtuous conviction, “Nothing you can say will dissuade me! I know my duty!”
Helen rolled her eyes and said across the table to her brother, “Can’t you talk some sense into her?”
Owen, having left last night’s party with Percy and Christopher and decamped to parts unknown, was this morning decidedly wan and even paler than usual. He was staring down at the plate his mother had filled for him with something that looked like revulsion, and when Helen addressed him he only shrugged, his listless neutrality on the subject making her scowl at him.
The Duchess said, “That’s quite enough, Helen. Although,” she added fair-mindedly, “it’s true, Almira, that you’re not much of a rider.”
Lady Almira’s face drooped as might that of a child being harshly criticized. “Oh, ma’am, I only wished to be a help. Do let me join you. Please!”
“Now, now, don’t cry,” said the Duchess hastily. “There’s a pretty little mare in the stables, very docile, just the thing for you.”
Instantly Lady Almira brightened, and Helen began to roll her eyes again but checked herself as Francis just then came into the breakfast-room. He apologized to the Duchess for his lateness and explained that he had been deep into Milton’s treatise on the Reformation and so had lost track of time.
“How fascinating,” said Helen in a rather loud voice. “Do try one of those muffins, Gwendolyn and I think they’re very good.”
Francis nodded and went over to the sideboard, Helen following his tall form with her eyes and Gwendolyn wondering if she wanted to make sure he took a muffin. Which he didn’t, and returned to the table to eat his breakfast in peaceful self-contained silence, no doubt with his mind still fixed on the absorbing intricacies of the Reformation.
Now, as the group of riders made its way in a leisurely fashion along the Kingston Road, Gwendolyn, her horse side by side with the Earl’s, lifted her face to the sun and wondered if life could possibly be any better than this.
“Julian,” she said on a sudden impulse, “let’s get married very soon.”
He looked over at her and smiled, and her heart gave a huge happy leap within her breast. He answered: “A splendid idea.”
“Oh, hurray! I’m so glad you agree.”
“I do, my darling. But—can we?”
“Why not? What would stop us?”
“I imagine it takes a while to plan a wedding at St. George’s.”
“St. George’s? Oh, Julian, I was thinking that my grandfather could perform the ceremony in his church back home in Whitehaven.”
The Earl looked surprised. “I was assuming you’d prefer a wedding here in Town, with the usual breakfast to follow. Prinny wants to attend, you know, he told me so last week at a levée. He’s hoping, by the way, you’ll attend his next fête at Carlton House. He’s having the cards of invitation sent to the Duchess.”
“Well, that’s very nice,” said Gwendolyn, thinking suddenly about the fabled creaking corset and repressing an immature impulse to giggle.
“Nice?” He looked at her quizzically. “My darling girl, it’s rather in the nature of a signal honor.”
“Oh yes, to be sure,” Gwendolyn answered, but stuck to her point. “Julian, I care more about Grandpapa than about the Prince Regent. It would mean so much to me to have him perform the ceremony.”
“Would it, my darling? Then let’s do that, then.”
She beamed at him. “Thank you! You’ve made me very happy.”
“That,” he said, “is my sole aim in life,” and he looked so handsome as he smiled back that Gwendolyn wished they could get married tomorrow.
“Here again,” said Étienne de Montmorency, drawing his horse up alongside the Earl’s, “the two of you positively radiate le bonheur. As the poets say, you shine like candles in a dreary world.”
“My dear Étienne,” said the Earl, “even after all these years of friendship, I had no idea you were poetical.”
Étienne de Montmorency bowed slightly in his saddle. “You wound me, mon ami, as I am, en fait, interested in poetry along with a great many other things. By way of example, I wonder with sorrow in my heart why last week I felt obliged to bet a hundred guineas on a horse so plainly afflicted with spavin. I muse to myself, should Weston or Meyer create my next jacket? Too, I observe that some of the young gentlemen of notre groupe have on their faces the look of one who has recently consumed trop d’alcool, and also that la chère Lady Almira may fall off that plodding little mount of hers at any moment. And—” Here he looked directly at Gwendolyn. “I find myself a little curious, mademoiselle, about your friend Mr. Beck. He has not, I think, appeared previously in Society?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Étienne de Montmorency nodded as if in confirmation. “He has, just a trifle, a—how shall I put it?—a raw quality.”
“What does that mean?” Gwendolyn said, rather sharply.
“I have offended you, I perceive. Do forgive me.”
The Earl looked between them. “Come now, don’t let’s quarrel. Disagreements quite take the zest out of life, don’t you think? Mr. Beck is an old friend of Gwendolyn’s, that’s all there is to it.”
“Yes. That’s all there is to it.” Gwendolyn was emphatic. “Thank you, Julian.”
“He is, of course, a gentleman,” the Earl went on, now addressing de Montmorency. “He’s quite self-assured and speaks so well. Don’t you agree?”
“Mais oui,” answered de Montmorency, with, however, just the faintest edge of cynicism in his voice, and so the Earl turned to Gwendolyn, a hint of doubt now in his gold-flecked eyes, and said:
“He is, isn’t he, my darling?”
Gwendolyn felt her fingers tightening on the reins she had, heretofore, been holding loosely. “Oh, Julian, you’re not going to be absurdly snobbish, are you? Christopher’s father is perfectly respectable, I assure you.”
“Not a gentleman, eh bien,” said de Montmorency softly.
“He’s a very successful man of business,” Gwendolyn said, annoyed, the more so when de Montmorency lifted his shoulders and murmured:
“Trade.”
In that one little word nothing but disdain.
“My brother Hugo,” she said pointedly, “engages in trade, in case you weren’t aware, monsieur. He’s a shipbuilder. And the whole family couldn’t be prouder of him.”
“Oui, that is so,” replie
d de Montmorency, “but such is the esteem in which your family is held, mademoiselle, a Penhallow might be employed as a boot-black and remain firmly on its illustrious pedestal.”
“I really don’t see the difference, and besides—”
“What about Mr. Beck’s mother?” intervened the Earl, looking between them in a rather troubled way.
“I don’t know anything about her. She died a long time ago. The only other thing I know about Christopher’s family is that his uncle left him a great fortune.”
“Well, that’s a help then,” said the Earl more cheerfully. “Money compensates for a great many sins in this wicked world, doesn’t it? And he seems like quite a nice fellow. A bit raffish in his appearance, but perhaps, should the occasion arise, I might drop a hint as to how his man could correct that.”
Gwendolyn stared at him. She knew he meant well, but . . .
The Earl went on, “I remember what it was like when I first came to Town—how green I was. Lord, Étienne, but you saved me from many a gaffe.”
De Montmorency smiled. “One endeavors to pass on what little wisdom one has acquired. If I can be of any assistance to Mr. Beck, mademoiselle, be assured that I would be glad of the opportunity.”
Oh, she was just being prickly, Gwendolyn decided. Both Julian and de Montmorency simply wanted to be helpful. She nodded and smiled, and her fingers relaxed again on her reins.
“I daresay Mr. Beck’s going on the Town to find himself a wife,” said the Earl. “Perhaps we can be of use here. Who do we know, Étienne, who might be suitable? Lady Agatha’s oldest, perhaps?”
“A charming jeune femme,” agreed de Montmorency. “Also, perhaps, Miss Lowry-Corry? A relation of the Earl of Belmore, I believe.”
“Irish, isn’t she? Yes, I’ve met her. A very nice girl. From County Kildare. Beautiful country there.”
Gwendolyn looked ahead, to where Christopher rode next to Owen. That uneasy, prickly sort of feeling had come rushing back. Christopher was her friend, and the Earl and de Montmorency were making assumptions about him; it bothered her. She didn’t care for the way they were idly attempting to arrange his fate, almost as would two gods in Olympus play puppet-master to helpless humans below.
Or was she simply being oversensitive? And absurd herself? And . . . possibly even proprietary? Christopher didn’t belong to her, after all, and if in fact he was in search of a wife, he was certainly old enough to do that. He was a man now, full-grown, not the boy she had known back in Whitehaven.
Goodness gracious, Gwendolyn, she said firmly to herself, do snap out of it, you are being ridiculous. And she looked again at the Earl’s handsome face, very serene, very open in its expression; his intentions were, very obviously, good ones, an impression confirmed when he said, smiling at her:
“If I’ve been lucky enough to find the bride of my dreams, the least I can do is to be of service to your Mr. Beck.”
Gwendolyn nodded, smiled, and relaxed again.
The conversation divagated to the more general subject of the Earl of Belmore who, apparently, was renowned throughout County Kildare for his eccentric habit of wearing wigs dating back to the eighteenth century. De Montmorency recalled a memorable wig he had once come across in the attic of his family’s Parisian hôtel, well over a foot in height, with elaborate rolled curls at the peak meant to evoke waves, and upon which was attached a beautifully crafted miniature frigate, complete with masts, rigging, and sails.
“Wouldn’t one’s head hurt carrying all that about?” said Gwendolyn, trying to imagine herself so attired.
“My family is, je crains, a slave to fashion, and always has been,” replied de Montmorency lightly. “Whether it is a curse or a blessing I leave it to you to decide.”
“Well, it’s certainly been a blessing to me,” the Earl said. “I daresay I would have agreed to that puce jacket last week were it not for your timely intervention.”
De Montmorency shuddered ever so slightly. “My dear Julian, let us not speak of that ever again. Mademoiselle Penhallow, you laugh, but I assure you, had Julian presented himself to you in that monstruosité you may well have reconsidered the wisdom of affiancing yourself to such a man.”
Gwendolyn laughed again, and the Earl joined in. De Montmorency smiled, complimented Gwendolyn on the elegance of her riding-habit, wondered again about Weston or Meyer, expressed a hope that the weather would remain fine, and so the talk drifted on to other topics.
Helen FitzClarence drew a deep breath, urged her horse into a brief canter, and brought herself next to Francis, who sat with an easy, if slightly absent grace in his saddle. “Hullo again,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual.
He turned his golden head. “Oh, hullo.”
His voice was pleasant and polite, but to Helen it was the tone one would use to address anybody. Even a perfect stranger. Her heart sank a little, but she persisted. “I say, it’s—it’s a lovely day.”
“Yes.”
“It’s—well, it’s nice to see you again after all this time.”
“Thank you. You as well.”
Again that same pleasant civility. Helen’s heart sank some more and frantically she cast about for something else to say. “Gwendolyn and I have become great friends, you know. She—she’s my best friend, really.”
“Oh? That’s splendid.”
“I wouldn’t have come for the Season if it weren’t for her.”
“Indeed? And how are you enjoying your Season, Lady Helen?”
If only he sounded genuinely interested! “Helen. Do call me ‘Helen.’”
He smiled, very gently but impersonally, and responded, “Helen then. How are you enjoying your Season?”
“Much better now,” she answered without thinking, and could have bitten off her own tongue. But Francis only nodded. Oh, how handsome he was, with his golden hair and blue eyes, his tall straight form, those manly shoulders! She went on, laboring: “I’ve never forgotten your visits to Hathaway Park. I—I escaped my governess whenever I could to follow you—I mean, to follow the three of you about.”
He nodded again. “I remember Percy saying what a bruising rider you were.”
At last! Francis recalled something from that time. Perhaps she should jog his memory yet further. With what? She blurted out: “Do you remember me trying to pinch you?”
“Did you? Why?”
So much for his recollections. Oh, God, why did she have to bring up that particular anecdote? Was there anyone, ever, in the whole world who was as inept as she was? Time to talk about something else. Anything else. Milton’s treatise on the Reformation? She didn’t know who Milton was, she wasn’t even sure what a treatise was, and at breakfast had, nonetheless, said, How fascinating and then had broken out in an anguished sweat for fear that Francis would expect her to say something clever on the subject.
Distraught, she groped about in her mind for something else to say—not that Francis even seemed to notice she hadn’t responded to his casual questions.
“I—uh—it’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” she finally managed, before realizing she had already muttered this exact same boring stupid thing approximately two minutes ago.
“Yes,” said Francis, and she wondered if he even noticed.
Helen’s heart dropped to her toes.
For all she knew, it could just as well have dropped to the dirt roadway and been trampled by the horses’ hooves.
Which might, actually, give her some relief from how badly it was hurting.
Helen wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time in all these years, why Francis? He had shown up with Percy and Owen at Hathaway Park for a school holiday—the Lent Half, to be precise, in 1812. She hadn’t been looking forward to it at all—certainly not having Owen around, and certainly not friends of his whom she was sure would be just as repugnant. The last thing on her mind had been the idea of liking—in the romantic sense—one of Owen’s friends.
And yet, within minutes of meeting Francis she felt as if he
r entire world had been turned upside down. Her empty heart had been filled to the brim; life suddenly had purpose, meaning, hope. Happiness beckoned. Francis and Percy had, in those days, made a deliberate effort to have the exact same cut to their hair, and loved nothing better than pretending to be the other brother. But she had always known, from the very beginning, which was which. She didn’t know how she could. Nor did she know why Francis affected her the way he did.
It was just what had happened.
Love at first sight.
Inexplicable, indefinable, practically indescribable.
And she had never, ever wavered.
Percy rode next to the Duchess, together leading their little cavalcade to Richmond. They had chatted about the cracked heel from which her horse had recently recovered as well as canvassing the latest offerings at Tattersall’s, and Percy had inquired after the absent Duke’s health, as back in March he had (according to the Duchess in a tone of fond exasperation) attempted a fence too high for one of his superannuated years and been lucky to only break an ankle in his subsequent tumble; thank the heavens, his horse was all right, and in any event the Duke remained home at Hathaway Park recuperating, rejecting the light nourishing dishes suitable for an aged invalid, annoying his doctor by refusing to be bled, and altogether making a great nuisance of himself. She now assured Percy that the Duke was coming along splendidly despite his overall unreasonableness.
Percy smiled and made a suitable reply, though in fact he was at the same time thinking of the luscious Lady Tarrington whom he hoped to see tonight if her husband was, conveniently, elsewhere.
He hoped to do much more than merely see Wynda, of course.
Although, upon reflection, he did derive a great deal of pleasure from looking at her, as she was blessed with a breathtakingly ripe figure which included the most astounding pair of breasts imaginable.
There was less pleasure to be had in conversing with Wynda, as her Scottish brogue was liberally interspersed with mangled French phrases which sometimes made it either difficult to understand what she was saying, or required stern discipline to not burst out laughing. Also, she continually made a great deal out of the fact that she had once been in competition for the hand of the great Highlander chieftain Alasdair Penhallow, but as Percy had never met the man—literally a distant cousin—it was hardly the fascinating anecdote Wynda clearly thought it was.
