Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “I fear there is.” And the Earl, evidently taking Christopher’s comment as an invitation to be relieved of burdensome social ignorance, proceeded to further enlighten him as to the various forms of proper aristocratic address, starting with a baron and progressing all the way up to a member of the Royal Family. “Now, if you ever were to meet Prinny—the Prince of Wales, I mean—you’d first address him as ‘Your Royal Highness,’ and after that, ‘sir.’ Of course,” the Earl added, laughing, “few people outside his intimate circle encounter Prinny face-to-face, but I did want to be thorough.”

  “It’s very good of you, sir.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Beck. I’m delighted to provide any assistance that I can—a friend of Gwendolyn’s is a friend of mine. Do you know how long you plan to remain in London?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, if you do stay on, I hope you’ll come to the wedding. I’m sure Gwendolyn would be delighted to have you there, as would I. It’s to be at St. George’s, in Hanover Square, you know, with a breakfast after.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Christopher was aware that his animosity toward the Earl, rather than subsiding, was intensifying. He wondered about that. It wasn’t as if the Earl had been haughty, or bellicose, or malicious. No, he seemed utterly sincere in his desire to be helpful. Still, Christopher wasn’t sorry when the quadrille was over and the Earl moved away.

  “Shall we try a cotillion next?” said the Duchess.

  Étienne de Montmorency stood and expressed a wish to be allowed to supplant Lady Almira at the piano, so that she might dance too.

  “How kind,” exclaimed Lady Almira, looking hopefully about her, and Christopher went to her and asked if she would care to dance with him. She agreed with flattering alacrity and he caught Gwendolyn’s smile of approval before she turned to the Earl and took his hand.

  Percy went again to Helen, who refused, saying, in the prideful manner of a child who has been given an important task, that Monsieur de Montmorency had asked her to turn the pages of the sheet-music for him, and so Percy returned to the Duchess, who said with a smile and a look of fond remembrance in her eyes:

  “My first dance with the Duke was a cotillion. How long ago that was, to be sure.” So deep was her drop into happy recollection that she failed to notice that Owen, with cunning unobtrusiveness, slipped out of the ballroom in search of much-needed replenishment—even Helen, on the alert for any opportunity to publicly mortify her brother, unaware of this, since she couldn’t read music and had to rely on Monsieur de Montmorency nodding his sleek head to notify her as to when she should turn a page.

  How kind he was, Helen thought with a sudden rush of gratitude, how nonjudgmental. He hadn’t said, You are unable to read music? Why, what a dunce! No, he had merely suggested (without any confusing French phrases) that a simple nod would do the trick nicely.

  She stared at the indecipherable black squiggles on the sheet music and abruptly had to fight back tears. This practice dance had turned out to be an utter failure. The stupid ribbon in her hair, the stupid perfume she’d had her maid run out and buy (just like Gwendolyn’s stupid perfume, along with the large bag of stupid sweets she told the maid to get), the stupid jewelry she’d put on.

  All useless.

  Francis hadn’t come, so what would have been the point of continuing to flirt with Christopher Beck? (If riding next to him on the way back from Richmond and squeezing up next to him on a sofa really had constituted flirting.) Luckily, Monsieur de Montmorency had come to her rescue yet again.

  Chapter 8

  Christopher stood in Hatchard’s bookshop and looked at the little stack of books he’d amassed and set on a table. Four of the five were volumes on contemporary theories of horse-rearing and breeding, which he thought Mauro della Valle would find of interest, if only to dispute their methods and ideas entirely. He smiled, picturing Mauro’s vehement and joyful denunciations. The fifth book was a new translation of Marco Polo’s Book of the Marvels of the World, a history of his colorful adventures in the Orient—a little gift for Gwendolyn.

  “Is your purchase complete, sir?” asked a clerk. “May I wrap these up for you?”

  Christopher thought for a moment. “Not just yet, thank you.” And he went to a section where fiction was housed. After looking at the various titles, he picked up Mrs. Stanhope’s The Bandit’s Bride.

  “An exciting new romance, just published,” said the clerk, who had come trailing up behind him. “Very popular with the young ladies, sir.”

  Just the sort of thing Diana enjoyed. Or used to. It would be a gesture, at any rate; it would be something. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”

  Inevitably he thought about Father. He hadn’t been one for pleasure-reading—too busy poring over newspapers and journals and the endless reports and correspondence he brought home with him. He did like birds, though, and had made sure the servants put out seeds and watering pans all year round. Maybe a book of illustrated plates?

  The obliging clerk found just such a volume for him. Birds of the British Isles and Their Ancient Domains.

  Christopher thanked him. His pleasure in the acquisition was brief, as it next occurred to him: what about Father’s new wife? What about Diana’s new husband? He ought to be looking for wedding-gifts. (And something for Gwendolyn, too, flashed the thought in his mind. A thought he found he didn’t particularly like.)

  Ought to.

  Ought to.

  He stood staring unseeingly at the stack of his books, wrestling with different imperatives, conflicting emotions.

  What should he do?

  He suddenly remembered a conversation he’d had years ago with Gwendolyn’s brother Hugo, when he’d been working for him in his shipbuilding business. Hugo had assigned him to the sawpit for the day—no doubt seeing in him the rage threatening to boil over after enduring another of Father’s protracted homilies.

  It had been a wise assignment. Six or seven hours toiling with saws and long, heavy wood planks had helped him calm down, and after, Hugo had taken him off to the Blue Dolphin and ordered large meals for them both. He’d confided in Hugo his deep ambivalence about going back to university, and finally—won over by Hugo’s easy, friendly kindness—had asked for his advice.

  I can’t tell you what to do, Hugo had said. It’s not my place. But—if it’s of any value to you, lad—my father used to say, Do what brings you the most peace. As a young man he’d been pressured to not pursue a career in science, and he said it was a tormenting time for him. But once he realized that doing anything else would have been the wrong choice for him, he said it was as if a stormy sky cleared away into bright sunshine.

  “Do what brings you the most peace,” murmured Christopher out loud, and then a little smile twisted his mouth. He didn’t know exactly what that was, but nonetheless he bought all the books and carried them back to the Albany. He’d have just enough time to change his clothing into something a little more formal and make his way to the Egremont townhouse. Yesterday, after the practice dance was over, Percy had galvanized everyone into forming a party to go to Vauxhall Gardens—where they could have supper en plein air and listen to an orchestra, stroll about, watch fireworks, and so on—and the Duchess had suggested they all meet early in the evening for a quick sherry before departing.

  In the entry-hall the porter gave him some letters and when Christopher got to his rooms he opened them and swiftly scanned their contents.

  A note from a Mrs. St. Pelham, who ran a charity to help impoverished former sailors and their families, thanking him for his recent and generous donation on behalf of his relation the late Dan Allum.

  A similar letter from the Reverend Arthur Broome, thanking him for his financial support of his nascent Society for the benefit of animals of all kinds.

  A card of invitation from Lady Jersey, to an evening-party on Friday. Included were vouchers to Almack’s, with his name written neatly at the top, and a warm little note from Lady Jersey. (Purkoy, she
added in a postscript, sent his regards.)

  Also, an invitation to join the Prince Regent at a fête at Carlton House, inscribed on a card so thick it was actually difficult to bend. Christopher looked again at the address: yes, there was his name, and correctly spelled. Not some curious mix-up evidently.

  Well, thanks to the Earl of Westenbury, Christopher thought wryly, if he went he would know how to properly address his host.

  Gwendolyn was the first one into the drawing-room. She settled into a comfortable armchair and smoothed down the soft white silk of her skirts. What a nice day it had been! The Earl had escorted her, and the Duchess of course, to the Royal Academy of Arts where there was an exhibition of the recent works of J. M. W. Turner that she’d been keen to see. (Lady Almira had a headache and had stayed behind, Francis was holed up in his room writing, and Helen, indifferent to art in any form, declared she would attend to her ailing mother.)

  The Duchess, whose own interest in art was limited to anything portraying a horse or the countryside, soon tired of promenading along the gallery and found a little knot of acquaintances with whom to converse, and so Gwendolyn and the Earl were able to wander along at their own pace. It had felt so much to Gwendolyn like that exciting time before they’d become engaged, when every meeting felt like the first one all over again, when the whole world seemed to stop when he smiled at her and she felt she could fall into his deep-green eyes and happily drown in their magical depths.

  They amiably debated the merits of Mr. Turner’s work—Gwendolyn plumping for his moody atmospheric style while the Earl found it a trifle overdramatic, but ultimately yielded to Gwendolyn’s arguments—and spent a merry hour or so playfully deciding which of his paintings they would like to have hanging in their drawing-room. Here again he gracefully gave way, leaving Gwendolyn to decide in favor of Crossing the Brook, Dort or Dordrecht: The Dort packet-boat from Rotterdam becalmed, and High Street, Oxford—this last because of its brilliant use of perspective.

  Altogether it had been a very enjoyable interlude and Gwendolyn found herself looking forward to the evening at Vauxhall with nothing but happy anticipation.

  Francis came in, very handsome and distinguished in his dark blue jacket, neatly tied neckcloth, and fawn-colored pantaloons. His expression was absorbed, ruminative, a little beatific. She said:

  “You look as if your essay’s coming along well.”

  He sat in a chair next to hers and stretched out his long legs. “It is. I’ve finished the first draft. Not half-bad, I think. Your suggestion about incorporating Kant’s theory of perception was very helpful. But I also got a letter today from Schlegel—he’s my philosophy tutor, you know. He’s asked me to help him organize this year’s colloquium on the latest thinking in science and religion. He doesn’t usually invite students, so it’s rather an honor.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely. I’m so pleased for you, Francis.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tyndale entered the drawing-room and announced the arrival of Mr. Christopher Beck. Christopher too looked very distinguished, Gwendolyn thought, dressed similarly to Francis in a dark jacket and pale breeches. She was glad he hadn’t cropped his hair as he’d jokingly threatened to do. Long hair suited him so well. And she liked how the candlelight picked out just a bit of midnight blue in its dark sheen. He said:

  “I’m early. I think I scandalized Tyndale. Shall I apologize for barging in on you like this, or brazen it out?”

  She laughed. “Brazen it out, by all means.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do. Hullo, Francis.”

  Francis blinked and came out of his happy dream of colloquiums. “Hullo, Christopher. What’s that you’re reading?”

  “It’s for Gwennie.” He held out a slim volume to her, its binding a rich burgundy leather embossed with raised gilt letters.

  “Marco Polo’s Book of the Marvels!” she exclaimed, opening it and glancing at some of the pages. “And how beautifully illustrated it is. Thank you, Christopher!”

  “I’m glad you like it. I hoped you would.”

  “Oh, I do! I’ve just finished reading Katherine’s latest book and it’s had me longing to hop on a ship and go adventuring somewhere, so this is perfect!”

  “Hop on a ship? Really?” It was Helen, whose tone was so odd that for a crazy instant Gwendolyn suspected her of wanting her to do just that, and disappear from London. Then Helen strode right past Francis, as if unaware of his very presence, and went up to Christopher. “Hullo, Mr. Beck. I say, how fine you look.”

  He gave a courtly little bow. “Thank you, Lady Helen. Are you looking forward to tonight’s expedition?”

  “Oh yes, now that you’re here. And do call me ‘Helen.’” Her voice had once again been softened, sweetened, through deliberate effort.

  Gwendolyn found herself staring at Christopher. How would he respond to such a coquettish reply? His pleasant expression didn’t change; he merely said in that same civil way:

  “I’ve never been to Vauxhall, so you and the others will have to be my guides.”

  “I’ll be your guide,” Helen answered loudly, and went a step closer to Christopher, putting her hand on the arm of his sleeve and gripping the fabric hard, as if to prevent his escape.

  Barely a foot of space lay between them.

  Gwendolyn saw on Christopher’s face a new expression, one she couldn’t entirely read. He was looking down at Helen with a strange kind of—it struck her as—almost—well, tenderness. It reminded her of the time Katherine had found an abandoned kitten and brought it home, cradling the poor little thing in her arms with that same look on her face.

  She caught her breath. Was Christopher coming to care for Helen?

  “I say, what’s going on? You two look like a pair of wax dummies.” Percy came briskly into the drawing-room, Tyndale trailing behind him with the subtly pained look of a conscientious butler whose quarry has outmaneuvered him.

  “Lieutenant Percy Penhallow,” Tyndale said sonorously.

  “No need to shout, man,” said Percy over his shoulder. “Everyone already knew I was here. Wasn’t there going to be sherry?”

  “At once, sir.”

  Percy came to a stop next to Helen. “Why the devil are you hanging on to Christopher like that? It’s dashed rude. You’ll wreck his sleeve.”

  Flushing red, Helen released her grip on Christopher and stepped away, just in time for a footman to come in with a tray, and the Duchess and Lady Almira to arrive in his wake.

  “I’m feeling vastly better, thank you, ma’am,” Lady Almira was saying, then added wistfully, “Though I should have liked a little company from time to time. It gets rather lonely being by yourself all day.”

  So much, Gwendolyn thought, for Helen taking care of her mother. She was surprised to observe in herself an impulse to say this sarcastic comment out loud, but firmly quashed it. What was the matter with her? She had been in such a good mood, and now this . . .

  She accepted from the footman a little crystal glass of sherry and felt like swallowing it all at once. She took a little sip and grimaced. She didn’t care for sherry in the first place. Why had she taken a glass? Wonderingly she watched as Percy tilted his own glass, drank it all down, and hailed the footman for another.

  Tyndale said, “The Earl of Westenbury, the Countess of Westenbury, and the Honorable Rupert Durant.”

  Gwendolyn jerked her gaze toward the entrance to the drawing-room. Good heavens, it was Julian and his mother! And his brother! She saw at once that Rupert’s hair was lighter than Julian’s, and that his eyes tended toward blue rather than green; he was handsome, but not as stunningly so as Julian was. Rupert’s features were by comparison a tiny bit coarse, his physique not quite as powerful. Standing next to his older brother, he gave the impression of being the product of a mold that, used a second time, hadn’t worked quite as well.

  As for the Countess, she was a slender, fragile-looking, middle-aged lady, whose elegant gown of dazzling white satin was dra
ped in fine white lace and embellished with whisper-soft ruffles from neck to hem; on her head was a gorgeously crafted turban made of shining white silk festooned with a full plume of curling white ostrich feathers, and she wore a lacy white shawl of so delicate a weave that it resembled a dainty spider’s web.

  She looks like a snow queen, thought Gwendolyn, like a beautiful snow queen out of a fairy tale, and without knowing why she turned her eyes to Christopher. He was also looking at the Countess. And on his face was an expression of unguarded surprise.

  As if involuntarily, Christopher half-turned to look at her.

  What? she wanted to ask him. What is it? But there was no time; the Countess was saying in a soft, sweet voice:

  “My dear Duchess, such a joy to make your acquaintance! I do hope you don’t mind that Rupert and I have ventured to join your party? We’ve just this afternoon arrived, and though I really ought to be resting after our long journey, I simply couldn’t wait to meet you all.” She swept the room with her gaze, pausing when her eyes fell on Gwendolyn. “And you must be my soon-to-be daughter! Julian has said many times how beautiful you are! I couldn’t mistake the gold of your pretty hair, or the lovely blue of your eyes. Indeed, I quite feel as if I know you already! Come and give me a kiss, my dear child!”

  Her voice was warm, she was smiling broadly. Oh, she was nice. A friendly, beautiful snow queen. Smiling too, Gwendolyn set her sherry glass aside, rose to her feet, and went quickly to the Countess, who presented a soft white cheek which Gwendolyn gently kissed.

  “How do you do, ma’am? I’m so pleased to meet you at last!”

  “As am I, my dear. Charming! Charming! We must have a long chat very soon, but first, I want you to meet my Rupert—and we must be introduced to these other delightful young people—”

  Between them, the Duchess and Julian made sure that everyone was soon introduced to everyone else. There was a cheerful hum of voices, and the footman circulated with his tray; Étienne de Montmorency arrived, greeting the Countess and Rupert with the cordiality of long acquaintance; Lady Almira, as she was talking animatedly to Percy, knocked over a potted plant and sent dirt scattering all over de Montmorency’s beautiful dark evening-shoes, which made Owen, coming in just then, snicker uncontrollably. The Duchess gave him a warning glance, and while Lady Almira, very flustered, was apologizing to de Montmorency, and the footman was rushing to clean up the mess, and Julian was tenderly escorting his mother to a comfortable chair, Gwendolyn paused in the midst of all this and looked for Christopher.