A Prior Attachment (Dorothy Mack Regency Romances)

by Dorothy Mack

  CHAPTER 10

  Lucy was admitted by Miss Penderbury, the duchess’s long-time dresser, who immediately returned to her mistress, whose hair she was in the process of arranging for the evening.

  “Do sit down, Lucy,” said the duchess with a smile, and the girl sank onto a sea-blue velvet chair near the dressing table. While her grace complimented her guest on her appearance, Lucy was watching the dresser’s clever fingers brushing the raven locks, which contained no trace of grey. Tonight her grace was wearing a gown of a deep-rose silk that was flattering to her rich colouring and petite figure. Almost, one was deceived into believing her as young as her daughter. Lucy returned the compliment with alacrity and they chatted about fabrics for a minute or two while Miss Penderbury fussed over the exact placement of two diamond-studded hair ornaments. The duchess bore this indecision with patience for another minute, then said briskly, “That is perfect, Penderbury, thank you. That will be all for now. Miss Delevan will help me drape my shawl, won’t you, my dear?”

  “Of course, ma’am,” said Lucy, responding to the hint of mischief in the other’s smile and averting her eyes from the suspicious glare of the dresser, who, without uttering a word, managed to convey her disapproval of any curtailment of her mistress’s routine. Lucy made a hasty comment on the hair clips to cover the dignified exit of the abigail.

  “She terrifies me, but she is a positive genius with my unmanageable hair,” confided the duchess in a stage whisper as the door closed behind Miss Penderbury.

  Lucy smiled in sympathy and waited for her hostess to state the reason for the summons. She seemed to be in no hurry to come to the point, though it now lacked only five minutes until dinnertime.

  “I was very much impressed with the quality of your watercolour sketch, my dear child, and apart from its obvious technical merit, you seemed to have expressed some of my own feeling for that charming little temple.”

  Lucy glowed with pleasure. “You must allow me to make you a present of it, your grace.”

  “Oh, Lucy, I did not bring you here to beg for your painting. What must you think of me!”

  Her young friend smiled. “Why, what could I think but that you are a woman of refined artistic discrimination. Please,” she repeated as her hostess chuckled softly, “it would give me great pleasure if you would accept it.”

  “Well, then, it will give me equal pleasure to possess it. Thank you, Lucy.” The temporary animation that had taken years from the duchess’s face and highlighted the resemblance to her daughter faded suddenly, and she half-turned her face away to fidget with some mother-of-pearl-backed brushes on the dressing table. The silence was becoming a bit uncomfortable for her guest when she squared her shoulders and placed her fluttering fingers in her lap.

  “Lucy, why did you pick today to go off on a painting expedition?” Without waiting for a reply, she went on, “Am I correct in supposing that this is the first time you have done so during your visit?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am. I have made some sketches in the gardens, but this was the first day I thought I might spare two or three hours to paint.” As she strove to speak matter-of-factly, Lucy was miserably conscious of being subjected to a prolonged examination from fine dark eyes.

  “I still cannot help wondering whether you went off by yourself today because you were desirous of painting or to escape the atmosphere of this place.” When this invitation produced no comment from the young girl, who was no longer meeting her eyes, her grace leaned toward her and said earnestly, “Lucy, what happened yesterday afternoon? A mere fall from a horse could never account for Gemma’s mood today, especially since it was Coralee who fell. Either my daughter is very unhappy or she is in a black rage, which she is at pains to conceal. But concealment is foreign to Gemma’s nature, which is frank and open to a fault. And not the most insensitive creature alive could remain as insensible as Coralee would have us believe she is to the way Gemma is avoiding her. It is too ludicrous!”

  “Your grace,” said Lucy gently, hoping to curb the agitation that was visibly causing her hostess’s breathing rate to increase, “have you asked Gemma what happened yesterday?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me.” Swift contrition leapt into the dark eyes. “Oh, Lucy, forgive me, my dear child. My concern to try to do something to alleviate this awkward situation must be my excuse for placing you in such a horrid position. Naturally you feel you cannot betray a confidence.” She jumped up from the dressing-table bench and began pulling out drawers, presumably searching for a scarf. Tact and sympathy kept Lucy from drawing her attention to the rose shawl reposing on the corner of the bed. When she had located a gauzy white length spangled with silver, the duchess straightened and presented a tightly controlled countenance to her guest.

  “Shall we go down together?”

  “Let me help you with that, ma’am.” Lucy took the scarf and arranged it around her hostess’s shoulders, wishing that it were in her power to arrange the evening ahead of them to her grace’s satisfaction. “It will most likely blow over in a day or two,” she predicted in a desire to ease the worry that was gnawing at the duchess. “Gemma is not one to bear a grudge.”

  “Thank you, Lucy. I hope you are correct. You have confirmed what I already suspected: that Coralee has wounded Gemma in some way. Well, what can’t be cured must be endured, after all.” She raised her head to a proud angle and flashed a gallant smile at the tall girl by her side. “Meanwhile, shall you and I try to charm this gathering tonight with our own inimitable wit, sparkle, and intelligence?”

  Whatever may have been the true spirit behind this confident, almost swaggering statement from the generally retiring duchess, her challenge proved doubly successful, initially in bolstering Lucy’s determination not to fail her gallant hostess, and finally, in its result.

  Certainly the dinner-table conversation was vastly easier than might have been expected, and it would not be overstating the case to attribute this to the concerted efforts of these two ladies, with the unobtrusive assistance of Mr. Delevan, whose social sense never failed. If the more observant among those present noted that Lady Gemma’s twin dimples remained in hiding, at least she was careful to maintain enough of a share in the conversation to avoid drawing unwelcome attention to herself.

  When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after a brief interval in the dining room, the duchess was ready with a suggestion that Coralee, who prided herself on her cardplaying, might like to challenge her uncle to a game or two of piquet while the rest of the company played speculation or some such round game; or, if that programme did not appeal and the gentlemen were determined to desert the ladies for billiards, then the latter would entertain one another by reading aloud while they sewed. Having cleverly established an atmosphere of free choice, she retired from the short discussion that followed.

  Her son being the only gentleman ranged on the side of billiards and her niece fearful of being abandoned to the dreariness of exclusively female society, the question was quickly resolved in favour of piquet and parlour games. The long anxious day finally ended on a note of improvement, though nearly everyone was more than willing to retire at an earlier hour than usual. The duchess, by instructing Stansmere to bring in the tea tray a full half-hour ahead of schedule, had been instrumental in this decision too.

  Thanks in part to the duchess’s adroit manipulations, no open breach or even an articulated drawing up of sides ever took place, but there was one consequence of the racing incident she was powerless to prevent. After breakfast the following morning, the duke requested an interview with his daughter in his study. His bland manner gave no hint of the nature of the upcoming conversation, but a well-developed sense of self-preservation prompted Gemma to present a guarded countenance to her parent when she joined him in his sanctum.

  The duke wasted no time on amenities. “I do not know the cause or nature of your silly quarrel with your cousin, young woman, nor do I wish to,” he began, “but you are to remember that she is your gues
t and cease this ridiculous sending-to-Coventry behaviour that has succeeded in setting the whole household by its ears. Is that clear?”

  No flicker of emotion crossed his daughter’s face as she returned his stare. “Very clear,” she replied softly. “Did my cousin complain of my behaviour?”

  “Your attitude was plain for all to see, but do not think your cousin has squeaked beef on you or tried to lay all the blame for the quarrel in your dish. When I asked her last night if something had happened, she admitted you two had had a falling out but made it clear that she bore you no ill will for your share in the misunderstanding.”

  “Generous of her,” murmured Gemma with a tiny smile.

  “Yes, it is, and I expect you to do no less!”

  Again that queer little smile trembled on her lips. “But it is so much easier for the victor to be generous than the vanquished, do you not agree?”

  If Gemma hoped by this enigmatic reply to incite some curiosity on the part of her father to probe the history of the so-called quarrel, she was doomed to disappointment. Boredom was the only emotion evident in the duke’s voice. “At the risk of sounding redundant, may I repeat that I take no interest whatever in feminine dagger-drawing, but I will not have my house made uncomfortable for my guests. I trust I shall have no occasion to remind you of this again.” Light-blue eyes challenged dark-brown ones that did not waver.

  “Is there anything else you wished to say to me, Papa?” inquired Gemma politely.

  “Nothing at the moment.”

  The duke stood behind his desk and watched his daughter’s petite figure go quietly out of the room. Not until she had closed the door behind her did he seat himself and reach for his ledgers.

  His Grace of Carlyle was not quite finished with announcements for the day, however, as the members of the household discovered at lunchtime. They had all enjoyed a cold repast that was crowned by a delectable fresh-fruit tart when the duke delayed his son’s imminent departure from the table.

  “Stay a minute please, Gresham.” His grace was at his most benevolent as he circled the table with a broad smile. “I was about to announce to everyone that, since we have among us a young lady who will celebrate her eighteenth birthday in a fortnight, her aunt and I have decided to hold a waltzing ball in her honour so that we may all rejoice with her on this happy occasion.”

  Lucy, who sat beside the duchess, noticed that the fork in the latter’s hand paused midway to her mouth, then slowly descended to her plate, but her main attention was concentrated on Gemma, though covertly. There was nothing to be seen in that quarter, however. The duke’s daughter, after the briefest glance in her father’s direction at the beginning of his speech, continued to eat her way through a generous portion of the tart.

  Coralee, who had been staring wide-eyed at her uncle, found her tongue at last. “Oh, Uncle Ernest, thank you,” she squealed ecstatically; then, overwhelmed by the inadequacy of the response, she jumped out of her chair and cast her arms about the duke’s neck, almost upsetting his balance in his chair as she hugged him exuberantly. “Thank you, thank you, Uncle!”

  “There, there, puss,” he said fondly, setting her upright as he disentangled her arms from about his neck. “If you promise you won’t strangle me, I’ll tell you that the gown I owe you had best be a ball gown, something to catch the eyes of all the young bucks in the county.”

  “Oh, famous!” Coralee clasped her hands together to contain her delight. “Can we go to Bath today?”

  “It is too late to dash off to Bath today, my child,” put in Lady Sophronia repressively. “Besides, the weather looks threatening again. We’ll discuss it later with your aunt.”

  “Yes, of course, Mama,” submitted Coralee, subsiding back into her chair.

  “And I suppose you have nothing to wear either, Daughter?” queried the duke, smiling at his offspring.

  “Oh, yes, Papa. I have the white dress we bought for the Ellman twins’ ball in May, which I have worn only once.” Gemma returned her eyes to her plate, where the tart had almost disappeared.

  The duchess spoke for the first time. “You will need new gloves, Gemma, and your silver-beaded evening reticule is not quite right for that gown. Lucy may require something also. Have you a ball dress with you, my dear?”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am. When John’s valet arrived last week, he brought some of my things with him. I had not expected such a social summer when I arrived, so had not packed as much as I would need.”

  “Can’t take the rackety pace, Lucy?” put in the duke slyly.

  “Oh, I’ll stay the course, sir, never fear,” she promised, experimenting with one of Coralee’s provocative flicks of long eyelashes.

  “I have every confidence that you will, and that you’ll break a few hearts along the way too,” her host returned gallantly.

  When the ladies meandered toward the blue saloon later in the afternoon, the upcoming ball was, quite naturally, the chief topic of conversation. It was the first opportunity to pursue it also. The duchess had been closeted with her husband for an hour after lunch, and Lady Gemma had excused herself to run an errand for her mother to one of the tenant cottages. Nothing less than a natural disaster was allowed to interfere with Lady Sophronia’s afternoon rest, and she had demanded her daughter’s attendance.

  Lucy, with no demands on her and the sky too unpromising to chance another painting session, decided to put in some practice time at the pianoforte. After a thoroughly enjoyable two hours, she retired to her room to change her plain cambric dress for one of her favourite light muslins in a becoming shade of lavender. She spent rather a long time fussing over her hair which wasn’t behaving as well as it might, for it seemed imperative to atone for the untidy appearance she had presented at tea the previous day. By the time she was satisfied that her shining curls were confined in place and her dress was neat and uncreased, she was the last of the women to enter the saloon.

  “You look charmingly, my dear,” said her grace, smiling at the girl who came over to sit beside her.

  “After yesterday, ma’am, anything would be an improvement.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say quite that,” demurred the duchess. “Yesterday you were most attractively rumpled and deliciously flustered but none the less appealing than this cool, pristine Lucy of today. A woman should have as many facets as a jewel.”

  “Like Cleopatra’s infinite variety, Mama?”

  “Do not mock Shakespeare, dearest. He knew it is a decided advantage in a female to be able to keep the gentlemen intrigued and unsure of what next she will be or do.”

  “It strikes me as a lot of posing,” declared Lady Sophronia. “One must remain true to oneself above everything.”

  “Cannot one be true to oneself and still have infinite variety, aunt? How disappointing. I think I should like to be mysterious and enigmatic.”

  “Whereas generally you are as transparent as glass.” Coralee laughed and forestalled any comeback from her cousin by turning to Lucy to inform her that they had decided to go shopping in Bath on the following day.

  Stansmere appeared in the doorway at that moment to announce the gentlemen from the manor. The male residents of the hall arrived shortly thereafter to swell the ranks as the tea tray and sherry were brought in. As might be expected, the visitors received the news of the scheduled waltzing ball with pleasure.

  “Well, that should prove the highlight of the summer season,” said Captain Godwin, beaming at the duchess. “You will have all the local hostesses gnashing their teeth in chagrin, ma’am.”

  “Do you know, we have never waltzed together, George!” Gemma, having impulsively articulated her thoughts, looked a little conscious as all eyes turned toward her, but Captain Godwin was equal to the occasion.

  “A situation we shall certainly remedy a fortnight hence, this provincial island having at last succumbed to the wicked temptations of the Continent.” His smiling glance passed on to the golden-haired girl gazing at him with inviting pursed
lips. “And may I be the first to solicit the guest of honour as my partner for supper on the occasion of her birthday ball?”

  “I think you would take advantage of your advance knowledge to steal a march on the other gentlemen in the neighbourhood, sir, but it is far too early to commit myself,” declared Coralee, tossing her curls. “Imagine if we were to quarrel before the ball. It would quite take away our appetites to be compelled to endure each other’s company at supper. No, you may ask me again on the day of the ball if you like.”

  “You may depend upon it,” replied George, accepting her decision with a courtly bow.

  Lucy, noting the flash of dismay that had leapt into Gemma’s eyes before she bent her head to retie her sash, introduced a new topic by mentioning the proposed shopping expedition to Bath. The gentlemen revealed that they too had made plans to go into Bath on the morrow.

  At this juncture John addressed his hostess privately. After a short conversation, she announced that the shopping party was to be entertained by him at lunch at the York House after their morning exertions.

  “I’ll be delighted to include you both,” said John to Malcolm and George. “And Major Barton, of course, if you are all free.”

  Malcolm thought they were already committed to an early luncheon appointment, but George promised to try to stop at the York while the party from Monteith Hall was there.

  “I dare not speak for Major Barton, though. He is undergoing a course of the hot baths in the hope that they will be of benefit to his arm. The treatments started today, which is why he is not here with us.”

  The elder ladies were moved to express their hopes that the famous waters would do the trick in restoring the use of his arm.