by Dorothy Mack
“Not really,” admitted Lucy. “Slightly bored perhaps, though the scenery has become rather lovely in the last few hours — or it would be, if this torrential shower were not obscuring the view completely. I like the low, rolling hills and the vistas of Wiltshire.” With one white gloved hand, she rubbed a circular area in the window to clear away the fog created by their breathing and peered out hopefully. “I can barely see the edge of the road at the moment. Poor Joseph must be drenched by now.”
“I fear so, but the air is warm and we are less than five miles from our destination if Joseph’s last estimate was correct.”
“Thank goodness! I fear I am not the stuff of which good travellers are made. I am much too impatient to arrive at my destination.”
A look of concentration knitted his brows. “You have not, I think, visited Monteith Hall before, have you, Lucy?”
“No. Gemma invited me once when we were still at school, but Mother became ill and I had to return to London. I never went back to Miss Climpton’s.”
Lucy’s face had grown still and closed. He knew she was thinking of their mother’s death two years before and the shattering effect it had had on their father, and he spoke quickly to distract her. “What is Lady Gemma like?”
Enthusiasm replaced the unnatural gravity of his sister’s expression. “Oh, Gemma is a sweetheart! Lively, impulsive, always eager to be out and doing — in short —” on a tiny spurt of laughter — “all the things I’m not. And she is the loveliest girl imaginable.”
It was impossible for John to look at Lucy with the disinterested eye of a connoisseur, but he didn’t think it was merely his partiality that found her one of the loveliest girls imaginable. He tried to survey his sister’s features objectively as she recounted one of Lady Gemma’s pranks while they were at school together in Bath. He conceded that, being neither divinely fair in the English tradition nor fashionably dark, she was less likely to make an immediate impression than some other young ladies, but he considered her combination of rich chestnut-coloured hair and fair skin quite eye-catching. Nor was there any doubt in his mind that her large grey eyes, set under clearly defined dark brows and thickly fringed with preposterously long black lashes, could hold their own against those of any blue- or black-eyed beauty in the kingdom. Her face was a classic oval and her features regular though unspectacular. A shade taller than average, she carried her generously curved slimness with the unconscious dignity and grace of a young queen. Peering at his sister through half-closed lids, he concluded that, when animated as she was at present, Miss Lucinda Delevan was a match for the prettiest girls who were trotted off to Almack’s year after year to acquire husbands.
Loath though he was to admit it, this attractive animation of Lucy’s was rather the exception than the rule, however. His sister generally presented a quiet, composed appearance, and those beautiful eyes of hers had a disconcerting habit of scrutinizing people in a way that threatened to penetrate their most dearly held disguises. She deplored sham of any sort, and in her quiet, well-bred fashion, often without any words at all, was entirely capable of stripping a prospective suitor of all his protective colouring and reducing him to the bare bones of his character.
And here she was, already one-and-twenty, with no prospects of marriage before her at present and, seemingly, no concern for her future. Although the daughter of a wealthy banker had not possessed the social credentials to make it possible to obtain vouchers for Almack’s, Lucy had acted as their father’s hostess since their mother’s death and had led a fairly active social life following their period of mourning. Despite having his own rooms at Gray’s Inn, John kept in close contact with his family and was well aware that a number of men, several of them quite well-connected, had dangled after Lucy in the last year. He was aware too — from his father, not his sister — that she had refused no less than three offers during this period.
Once, when he had commented on the continued absence of a particularly persistent visitor to the big house in Hanover Square, Lucy had told him serenely that the gentleman in question would no longer be calling on them. In addition to being undeniably handsome, the young man, a scion of an ancient family once powerful in the land but now much reduced in material circumstances, had seemed to possess all the attributes of breeding, education, and address to make him acceptable to any lady, and he had appeared devoted to Lucy. When John had mentioned this, his sister had replied with perfect composure and no trace of regret that the gentleman had also been devoted to Mr. Delevan’s impressive fortune, and unfortunately for his hopes, this had been the greater devotion.
Watching the vivid face of the girl sitting across from him, her body swaying easily with every motion of the coach, John recalled the dismay that had spread through him on that occasion at his sheltered young sister’s recognition and calm acceptance of such a situation. It wasn’t cynicism precisely, and she evinced no bitterness that she should be sought after primarily for her material assets, but he was a bit chilled and uneasy at the casual way she had turned her back on a golden opportunity to lead the one kind of life for which a girl in her circumstances had been reared. He had come to the suitor’s defence with an awkward but honest appraisal of him as a man of honour and principle who would treat his wife with every consideration and who was evidently prepared to form a sincere attachment to Lucy. She had heard him out without interruption or contradiction but with a queer little smile on her lips that had vaguely disturbed him. When he had stumbled to a halt, she had said quite gently that she accepted the validity of everything he had argued and that perhaps, had she loved the man, she would not have dismissed his suit without giving it more serious consideration.
Brother and sister were bound by close ties of affection, but he had experienced all the embarrassment of a diffident young man where the deepest emotions were concerned. Lucy had taken pity on him with a swift change of subject. They had not again discussed her matrimonial prospects, and she continued to play the role of a young woman completely content with her lot, satisfied to remain her father’s hostess and companion. The one glimpse she had permitted him beneath the surface serenity, however, had destroyed her brother’s illusions of this score. Lucy had a great capacity for devotion to those she loved, and this potential would be stifled forever if, as he feared, the ranks of those eager to court her should gradually thin when it became generally known that the banker’s daughter looked with favour on none of her suitors. Unfortunately, short of playing matchmaker, the mere thought of which role filled him with horror, he had not been able to conceive of a single constructive action that might advance the cause of his sister’s eventual happiness.
Of course, thoughts of a sister’s — even a much-loved sister’s — future were not constantly uppermost in the mind of a young barrister struggling to carve a niche for himself in his chosen profession. No doubt his mind was straying to Lucy’s prospects today because of the recent and most unexpected conversation with their father that had resulted in his accompanying her on this journey — which reminded him that he had not been completely truthful with her when she had evidenced delight at his generosity in offering her his escort to Wiltshire.
With a smiling glance at Lucy, who had finished her story of her friend, he made a partial rectification of the omission.
“I did not tell you before, my dear, but I shan’t be leaving Monteith Hall immediately. I have been invited by the duke to remain for a visit.”
“John, how delightful! But why did you not mention it long since? There has been ample opportunity in the past two days, surely.”
After an almost imperceptible hesitation, her brother replied casually, “I had not finally decided that I could square it with my conscience to remain away from my work for more than a few days when we embarked on the trip. Distance has helped to persuade me that a break would be a good thing.”
Lucy accepted this explanation without question and repeated her pleasure in having her brother’s company for an extended per
iod. “We shall have such good times,” she declared enthusiastically. “Gemma was always the centre of activity at school.”
“Shall I like her?”
“You could not not like Gemma,” responded Lucy with conviction.
“She sounds a bit of a featherhead.”
This provocative remark drew, not the pointed defence he had expected, but a delicious gurgle of mirth from his sister. “I know it must seem so from what I’ve said,” she admitted readily. “Gemma can appear bird-witted at times, and I have the mortifying conviction that you will construe anything else I tell you about her in the same vein, but I promise you it is not so. The fault is mine for not being able to describe her accurately, to get to the essence of her. Ridiculous things just seem to happen when Gemma is around, though it isn’t at all her doing … most of the time,” she added in a conscientious attempt to be a scrupulous reporter.
John raised one brown eyebrow and said in polite accents, “I must accept your lucid explanation of the lady’s character and beg you to describe her appearance to me.”
But Lucy had noted the amusement he concealed imperfectly. She tossed her red-brown curls, setting the blue flowers adorning her straw bonnet stirring, and pressed her soft lips into a firm line.
The other eyebrow elevated at her negative response. “Are you also unequal to the task of describing the physical attributes of the ‘loveliest girl imaginable?’” he inquired, and added with mock concern, “Poor Papa! I wonder if he knows quite what a waste of money your expensive education was?”
Her lips twitched. “Wretch! But I believe I shall let you form your own impression of Gemma without any coloration from me.” She adopted a lofty manner. “Then we shall see whether or not I have set the case too high. He laughs best who laughs last.”
“That puts me in my place right enough. Lady Gemma has a staunch champion in her old schoolmate,” he said idly.
Lucy’s reaction to this remark was more serious than he could have anticipated. “Yes, odd as it must seem when one considers her obvious assets and her background, I have always felt rather protective of Gemma. Of course I am almost two years her senior,” she mused to herself, “and she is smallish and appears rather delicate, though she’s actually tough as whitleather. Perhaps that accounts for it.”
John ticked off on his fingers the attributes mentioned by his sister. “Small, tough, lively, impulsive, in need of protection. If you thought to increase my desire to make the acquaintance of your unusual friend, you have succeeded beyond your wildest imagination. You see me all eagerness for the honour.”
Lucy glanced at him sharply and doubted.
Little though she knew it, John’s drawled accents were contrived to conceal the truth of what he had just said. In talking with Lucy he had finally decided not to reveal, at least for the present, his exceedingly good reason for wishing to meet Lady Gemma Monteith.
The blunt fact of the matter was that his grace the Duke of Carlyle was extremely desirous of repairing his dissipated fortunes by arranging an advantageous marriage for his only daughter. Who better as candidate for her hand than the son of a man so anxious to see his children established among the hereditary aristocracy that he was prepared to disgorge an extortionate sum of money to accomplish this feat? Naturally these great designs would be impossible of accomplishment without the consent and cooperation of the children concerned. Lucy, John was aware, had tacitly recorded her disinclination to further her parent’s scheme by calmly turning away a succession of would-be suitors.
That left himself.
John glanced out the window at his sister’s bidding and agreed that the storm seemed to be tapering off. His frowning gaze remained fixed on the green vistas hazily revealed through the diminishing rainfall, but his thoughts were unrelated to the scenery. Mr. Delevan had been deeply disappointed in his only son’s refusal to spend his days in the fashion popular among the sprigs of the nobility, by devoting the larger share of his time and energy to the crucial question of the correct wardrobe in which to pursue various sporting and social activities that were pleasurable enough in small doses but, to him at least, insupportable as a way of life. The elder Delevan deplored his son’s decision to take up the law as a full-time pursuit, but he was a fond parent and allowed himself to be persuaded that, far from being dry and dusty, the law was an ever-changing, constantly fascinating subject to his son and offered a challenging arena in which to make a name for himself. As John had pointed out, he had inherited his sire’s driving energy and capacity for hard work and would be bored to extinction by the aimless life of a dilettante. Mr. Delevan had reluctantly abandoned his dream of supplying his son with the enormous largess required to cut a dash in society, comforted eventually by a growing sense of pride as John’s modest successes began to earn him the respect of his colleagues. This almost unacknowledged but unmistakable pride was John’s justification for having circumvented his father’s dearly held scheme.
But if the senior Delevan had had to abandon his dream of a life of gilded leisure for his heir, one result had been to make him cherish even more tenaciously that other dream of seeing his grandchildren firmly established among the aristocracy. His own wife had been of gentle birth but had harboured few social ambitions. Theirs had been a loving and harmonious marriage, the gentle Mrs. Delevan deferring in all public matters to her more forceful spouse. Over the years, the children gradually learned that their mother had her own methods of controlling her husband’s more extravagant starts, and John had no doubts that had she still been alive, her quiet influence would have been exerted for their benefit when it came time to choose a life partner.
However, she had not survived a brief, painful illness, and her death had left her husband bereft. In those first months, his state had been pitiable indeed. Fortunately his relations with his children were excellent, and with their support and affection he had gradually emerged from the depression that had left him bewildered and indecisive for the first time in his existence. He was only lately beginning to resemble his former self. John could not suppress a slight uneasiness at the way Mr. Delevan had come to depend so entirely on Lucy, almost putting her in her mother’s place, but on the other hand, he harboured a strong suspicion that this dependence made it easier for his sister to refuse the offers of men she could not care for.
Which situation left John as the logical vehicle for the consummation of his father’s hopes.
Women had never come very much in his way. There had been one or two brief intense spells of calf love while he was an undergraduate, but since embarking on his law career, John had neither time nor the inclination for courtship or even dalliance. His father, immersed in his own grief, had left him alone of late, not even inquiring eagerly about the eligible females he might be meeting, as had been his habit in the past whenever his son had spent any time in company with friends of his Cambridge years. Therefore, it had come as a complete shock when, after answering a summons to his father’s office at the bank, he had been presented to the Duke of Carlyle, and on the departure of that noble personage following ten minutes of general civilities, he had been informed that his parent was in the process of negotiating a marriage contract between his son and the duke’s daughter.
His first stunned disbelief mastered, he had been on the point of registering a categorical denial of any matrimonial interest in an unknown female, no matter what her lineage, when he had had the misfortune to look more closely at his own parent. The sight of his father alive with pleasurable expectancy and more like his old self than for the past two years had triggered an unexpected surge of pity and filial affection that had considerably toned down his subsequent response. He had retained enough sense of self-preservation to keep from agreeing to the marriage, but in the course of a lively interview that saw his father return to his old juggernaut-like form, he had admitted to having no prior attachment to any other lady that would preclude an alliance, and later agreed not to give his final refusal of the match without
first meeting the lady concerned. At least, this last was the sense of what he intended to convey, but upon later reflection, he could not overcome the sinking feeling that his parent had interpreted this rather loosely to mean that, unless he took Lady Gemma Monteith in instant and irremediable dislike, a marriage would assuredly take place. Presumably the young lady’s wishes in the matter were not to be consulted.
A sudden thought somewhat reversed the sense of creeping doom that had kept pace with the wheels bringing them to Monteith Hall. Perhaps the duke had no stronger hold on his daughter than Mr. Delevan on his son. A lively, unpredictable young woman answering to the description Lucy had given him might be well able to extricate herself from a proposed match that did not meet with her approval.
John Delevan’s worst enemy could not accuse him of being set up in his own conceit. He was aware of and grateful for a good brain, and equally aware and not overly concerned with the fact that his person did not resemble a Byronic hero or a figure of high romance. In fact, he decided with mounting cheerfulness, he was very probably the last man in the world to appeal to the sort of girl Lucy had described to him.
A glance across at his sister took in the presence of a half-rueful smile as she indicated the breaking cloud cover outside with a slightly smudged white gloved hand.
“I apprehend that this means I shall arrive at our destination in lonely splendour, after all,” she said with a resigned sigh.
“Well, yes, I think I shall ride this last bit if you would not object too strenuously,” replied her brother meekly. “I have been feeling rather queasy for the last mile or so. And if the sun should appear, it will dry my coat,” he added with happy inspiration.
Lucy sternly quelled a smile. “It is my firm conviction that you don’t know what it means to be queasy. You are the slyest thing in nature, John.”
“No, no, I protest. You do me a grave injustice,” he complained straight-faced as he replaced his modish hat at the correct angle and gathered up his gloves from the green corduroy seat preparatory to taking his departure. “Would you be so obliging as to pull the check rein, my dear sister?”
