by Dorothy Mack
“A thousand apologies, Lady Gemma,” he replied solemnly, acknowledging the hit with an exaggerated bow. “As a barrister, I should never be guilty of imprecise interpretation, but I beg you will not heap ashes on my bowed head.”
“How nonsensical you are!” She chuckled and resumed her strolling pace along the curving walk. “Ah, here is Mama’s favourite, the Belle de Crécy. Isn’t this a perfectly beautiful specimen?”
“Perfectly beautiful,” he agreed.
Something in his look, which wasn’t directed at the rose, caused the rich colour in her cheeks to deepen. “You did not even look at it,” she scolded, then continued to babble in sudden embarrassment. “I suspect you are a fraud, sir. It strikes me that your interest in our lovely garden is merely assumed.”
“No, no, I protest! It is you who are mistaken this time.” Mr. Delevan exhibited a wounded expression. “My interest in all the lovely things in your garden is quite sincere.”
There was nothing but friendly raillery to be heard in his voice, but Lady Gemma found herself hurrying into speech. “Mr. Delevan, may I speak to you quite plainly?”
“Yes, of course.” He was all polite encouragement, but the bright-blue eyes engaging hers were now neutral in expression.
She resisted a cowardly urge to look away and faced him, a small valiant figure reflecting an unconscious dignity. “Mr. Delevan, my mother told me yesterday that my father wishes me to … to marry you.” She paused expectantly, but he remained silent in the wake of such unexpected frankness. “Is it true?”
He ignored her question for the moment, posing one of his own. “Has your father spoken on this subject to you?”
“No, he has not!”
Mr. Delevan looked faintly perturbed but did not speak, and Lady Gemma’s impatience burst forth. “You have not answered my question, sir.”
“Yes, it is my understanding that your father would like you to marry me,” he replied, meeting her anxious gaze with honest eyes.
She expelled a pent-up breath. “Mr. Delevan, I am so very sorry, but there can be no question of our marrying. I am promised to another.”
The smallest of frowns appeared between his brows. “Does your father know this?” he asked quietly.
“He chooses not to, but he is well aware of the attachment between George and me,” she exclaimed in some bitterness. “This is an intolerable situation!”
“It is rather awkward to be sure. However, you must not distress yourself, Lady Gemma. I would not dream of pressing an unwelcome suit upon you.”
“You are too kind, sir,” she broke in, almost stuttering in her eagerness to thank him. “Of course, I knew that a brother of Lucy’s must be understanding. This is an unpleasant surprise for you too, and I most earnestly beg your pardon.”
“You must not,” he said firmly. “It is rather for me to apologize for being the instrument, however unwitting, that has caused you distress. Naturally, I shall make my excuses and return to London straightaway.”
At this suggestion, the girl facing him on the garden path lost some of her rich colour and her fingers twisted around one another in mute agitation. “I have no right to ask you to remain under the circumstances, sir,” she said in a low voice, staring fixedly at a lovely yellow rose bush, “but Papa will be so angry with me.” She closed her lips tight against any further cowardly utterance and squared her shoulders as if to accept a burden.
The man watching her laughed out unexpectedly, drawing startled brown eyes to his. “That we cannot allow,” he declared in a remarkably light-hearted tone for one who had just lost a well-connected bride. “If it is your wish, I will stay — on one condition.”
“And that is?” A slight wariness manifested itself in her manner.
“That you cease to treat me with that touch of reserve I remarked from the moment I mentioned my name,” he said, and smiled at her. “I should like us to be friends.”
“Done!” She responded instantly to the invitation in that infectious smile. Her spirits rebounded and she stuck out her hand in the time-honoured gesture of agreement.
Mr. Delevan accepted the small hand with alacrity and gently squeezed her fingers. “It’s a bargain,” he promised.
Unfortunately, the person against whom this tacit alliance had been formed came upon them at just the moment when they stood close together clasping hands.
“Gemma, my dear child, your mother wishes a word with you,” boomed the duke in jovial accents. “I will take over your duties as guide for the time being.”
Mr. Delevan didn’t turn a hair at this unexpected interruption, but the duke’s daughter jumped back, dropping his hand as though it were red-hot. She blushed furiously in mingled annoyance and discomfiture and took herself off before she could further betray her agitation. The fact that her departure under the circumstances might be construed as flight could only be deplored, not avoided.
CHAPTER 5
Two hours later, Mr. Delevan’s unhurried progress across the first-floor gallery was arrested by a chorus of notes coming from the music room, though chorus was rather too flattering a word for the eager but not entirely harmonious sounds masquerading as music, he decided, altering his course to approach the open door. The air of preoccupation, or perhaps indecision, that had rendered him nearly oblivious to his surroundings just a moment before vanished, to be replaced by a look of keen enjoyment as he stepped into the room and absorbed the scene at the pianoforte.
Visually, the two girls engrossed in the music they were attempting to produce presented a picture that would charm anyone whose appreciation of feminine beauty and appeal had not absolutely atrophied. Lucy, cool and serene in a gown of lavender with a white collar, was seated at the instrument, intent on getting a phrase correct. Lady Gemma, with her hand on her friend’s shoulder as she peered at the music, was a vibrant creature in deep pink.
“No, no, that’s too high, Lucy. Cannot you play it in a lower key?”
“If I do, the low part then becomes too difficult for female voices. Try it again, Gemma.” Her fingers ran over the keys as she sang the phrase in question. “There! You can do it if you get a running start,” she said coaxingly, then winced in exaggerated pain at her partner’s croaking rendition. Stifling a giggle, she suggested that the aspiring singer might be more successful if she came at the phrase full-voiced. “Try it once more.”
“What I really need is a ladder to reach that high note,” her friend muttered darkly, “but this will have to do.” She seized a spindly legged gilt chair and dragged it over to the pianoforte. Lucy watched in laughing disbelief as the raven-haired girl proceeded to climb on top of the seat.
“Now, let’s try it again,” Lady Gemma proposed, “from the beginning.”
Lucy shook her head, still laughing, but obediently struck the opening bars.
Musically speaking, the duet that ensued was not likely to gain a place for the performers on the professional stage, John Delevan opined in his role as uninvited music critic, but they were certainly enjoying themselves mightily. Lucy’s voice, well-trained and true, had not the power to reach the back of the room and was rather drowned by Lady Gemma’s strong performance in the lower registers. The latter tended to go off pitch and crack entirely on the higher notes, but mindful of Lucy’s advice, she was making a determined assault on the difficult part. As she gathered strength for the key test, she forgot her somewhat precarious position atop the delicate chair seat, removing the balancing hand from its curved back in order to throw her whole body into the effort.
“She’s going to fall,” Mr. Delevan told himself with fatalistic calm, and he moved forward purposefully, just in time to catch his hostess as she teetered off the chair.
For a second the three figures were motionless, as though taking part in a tableau. John was unaware that Lucy had ceased playing, though he had heard her gasp as her friend fell. He stood looking down at the unruffled bundle of femininity in his arms, an odd little smile on his lips. He was watche
d in turn by his sister with a sharpened interest that escaped his notice, since his vision was wholly filled by two velvety brown eyes that stared solemnly up at him, then blinked.
“I missed my note,” said Lady Gemma sadly.
A crack of laughter broke from Mr. Delevan, and he set his delicious burden on her feet with a reluctance he could only pray had gone unnoticed. For another instant, he kept a steadying arm around her shoulders until she could regain her balance.
“Dearest Gemma,” cooed a somewhat breathless voice from the doorway, “Uncle Ernest said I was to come straight up to the music room, but I’ll go away again if I am de trop.”
Three heads turned as one to the figure poised in the entrance. She withstood their scrutiny with the smiling self-possession of one confident of her appeal. Indeed, the extravagantly high-crowned silk bonnet setting off her golden curls to admiration could not have been carried off by any female the least bit insecure in her own estimation, so daring were its lines.
Lady Gemma rallied first. “Hallo, Coralee. Sorry not to be downstairs to greet you, but I didn’t hear your arrival.” The words were welcoming, but Mr. Delevan was quick to note that neither Lady Gemma’s expression nor her voice carried any notable degree of warmth.
A tinkling laugh brought his attention back to the vision in the doorway. “Small wonder you didn’t hear our arrival. The noises I heard as I came up the stairs would have drowned a hunt,” declared Coralee, gliding into the room under three pairs of eyes. For a second or two, her attention was concentrated on the glove she was drawing carefully from her hand, and the three pairs of eyes followed the action, avoiding one another’s glance. When the newcomer looked up again, her audience’s attention was riveted to her. Flashing a smile from one bemused face to another, she arrived at her cousin last of all.
“Now, Gemma dear, you must introduce me to your fiancé,” she commanded playfully, slanting a glance at Mr. Delevan’s uncommunicative face. “What a naughty girl to keep such delightful tidings to yourself! Mama will be thrilled for you.”
“What maggot have you got in your head now, Coralee?” demanded her red-faced victim, finding her voice at last. “I am not betrothed to Mr. Delevan.”
“Not betrothed?” The golden-haired girl looked from her cousin to Mr. Delevan in patent bewilderment. “But when I arrived just now, you were in his arms. I mean… Oh, I do beg your pardon, and yours, sir, for being such a goose as to misunderstand.” She cast her eyes down, the picture of pretty confusion.
Mr. Delevan, taking in his sister’s expressionless countenance and Lady Gemma’s seething speechlessness, intervened. “The unromantic truth is that you happened along just after I had the good fortune to be able to prevent Lady Gemma from suffering a fall, but you must not tease yourself, ma’am. It was a natural mistake under the circumstances. Alas, I cannot claim the honour of being Lady Gemma’s fiancé.”
The new arrival directed a pitying look at her cousin. “You poor thing,” she gushed. “How fortunate this gentleman was on the spot to catch you.” She cast her large blue eyes around the room as if seeking the source of danger. “What did you fall from, Gemma dear?”
“A chair,” her cousin replied shortly.
The blonde’s exquisite eyebrows elevated a trifle. “A chair?” she echoed in puzzlement.
“I was reaching for something.” Lady Gemma pinned her cousin with a stare that dared her to continue the subject, and after a crackling instant, the latter shrugged and turned her attention to Mr. Delevan, making good use of long silky lashes as she pointed a decidedly flirtatious glance at that gentleman. “You must think me a positive ninny to jump to conclusions like that, Mr.—?” She turned an inquiring look on Lady Gemma.
“This is my friend, Miss Delevan, and her brother, Mr. Delevan. My cousin, Miss Fairmont,” said this young lady, performing the introductions in a perfunctory manner, having, if Mr. Delevan were asked his impression, her work cut out for her to swallow her spleen.
“I am persuaded this has to be Lucy!” Miss Fairmont turned her battery of charm on the other girl present. “Gemma was forever rattling on about her friend Lucy. You must know that we have all been longing to make the acquaintance of such a paragon.”
Lucy extended her fingers to meet those of Gemma’s cousin, wondering in some amusement how, from such a flattering description, she could possibly be left with the idea that all and sundry had been bored to extinction by tales of herself. “I shall try to live up to my advance notice,” she returned coolly, with a smile as wide as Miss Fairmont’s.
The latter then directed her attention to Mr. Delevan once more, fixing his eyes with her beautiful blue ones as she declared her pleasure in the acquaintance in such melting terms that any gentleman so regarded might be forgiven for imagining he had made a conquest. Mr. Delevan, unimpressionable by nature, felt no inclination to preen himself but was so obliging as to return the compliment by gazing at Miss Fairmont with frank admiration and responding with his most elegant bow as he retained her hand just enough longer than the time permitted by good manners to justify the look of triumph she flicked at her cousin.
Lady Gemma had her temper well in hand by now, but Mr. Delevan was beginning to recognize her moods and he was in no doubt that the little smile adorning her lips at present contained a measure of contempt for the susceptibility of the male of the species to feminine wiles. He smiled inwardly as he made a mental wager with himself that the little brunette would scorn to employ those feminine wiles that were an integral part of her cousin’s arsenal. He had not come to any conclusion yet as to whether or not she was conscious of the weapons she herself possessed in abundance. Those eyes, for instance… When he had unhooked her from the hedge yesterday, the first sight of those heavily lashed, deep-brown eyes full of mischief and warmth had affected him like a blow over the heart. And her very lack of artifice was a potent attraction in itself, at least to a man like himself, who had never had the time, or perhaps the inclination, to peel away the layers of conventions, tricks, and posturings like so many leaves of an artichoke to get to the heart of any woman whose surface attracted him. He had always suspected that, unlike the artichoke, the results might prove indigestible in many cases.
After an acquaintance of less than five minutes, he was willing to postulate that Miss Coralee Fairmont might have been designed to prove his theory. She was a raving beauty at first glance. There was no denying that an impartial eye chancing upon the three young women exchanging somewhat stilted pleasantries would tend to linger longest on Miss Fairmont by virtue of exquisite sculpturing and delicate colouring. In stature, she was between Lady Gemma’s fairy proportions and Lucy’s tall, generously curved womanliness, being of moderate height with a nicely rounded figure and delicate wrists and ankles. There was only one word for the modelling of her features: perfection. Nose, eyes, lips, cheekbones — all were beautifully crafted individually and had been assembled by a master artist in a countenance whose planes would be lovely fifty years hence, though he would not dare vouch for her expression. She had treated them to a succession of appealing poses — gaiety, bewilderment, blushing confusion, invitation — but at one point the sly malice had almost peeked through, and it would not be a feat beyond comprehension to picture those lovely features compressed into petulance, or those melting blue eyes chilling to ice chips. When Lady Gemma was upset or unhappy, her heart-shaped face lost the sparkling vitality that was its most essential characteristic, rendering her almost plain, but it was impossible to conceive of her entirely devoid of warmth.
Mr. Delevan had remained somewhat outside the girls’ chatter during the past few minutes, but now he was drawn in by Miss Fairmont, who apologized charmingly for monopolizing the conversation. “As a matter of fact, Uncle Ernest expressly desired me to tell you that tea will be served in the blue saloon directly.”
At this point, Lady Gemma recollected her manners and declared that she, for one, must immediately descend to the saloon to welcome her aunt, b
ut the others were free to drift in later if they desired to make any repairs to their appearance. “And you will no doubt wish to put off your bonnet, Coralee, delectable though it is. Your usual room is ready for you. Would you like me to show you the way?”
Miss Fairmont declined an escort, and the group disbanded for the moment.
The rest of the day passed quite pleasantly, although Mr. Delevan had no reason to alter his first impression that the cousins were something less than devoted to each other despite the nostalgic rendition of several incidents from their shared childhood that was indulged in by Miss Fairmont’s formidable parent during tea and dinner.
Mr. Delevan found Lady Sophronia Fairmont to be a handsome woman of majestic though well-corseted proportions, whose regal graciousness must have been the result of her upbringing as the only daughter of a duke. Certainly her marriage to a plain mister, no matter how wealthy, would not have endowed her with a commanding manner only lightly disguised by a thin overlay of feminine reticence on those occasions when she ran headlong across one of her brother’s decisions. Fairer in colouring than he, she had inherited the family tendency toward the aquiline, being the possessor of a haughty Roman nose that, mercifully, had not descended to her daughter. For that blessing at least, the long-deceased Mr. Fairmont must be allocated the credit. After a few hours in Lady Sophronia’s dominant presence, Mr. Delevan was convinced that marrying the duke’s daughter had been the last independent decision the late Mr. Fairmont had been permitted to make.
Lady Sophronia was the apotheosis of graciousness to the Delevans. She treated her sister-in-law with an affectionate condescension not quite untinged by the contempt in which persons who contend that all life’s vicissitudes can be mastered by an unrelenting resolution hold those unfortunates who cannot always muster the requisite degree of resolution. She inquired after the state of the duchess’s health, promised at a more convenient moment to reveal the ingredients of a new tonic guaranteed to bolster shaky nerves, and dismissed her hostess from her consideration except to compliment her on her cook’s way with a salmon mousse. Her attention alternated from interrogating her brother on the status of tenant families known to her from her youth to monitoring the conversation among the young people.
