An Unconventional Courtship

by Dorothy Mack

  Cleone gulped in quantities of cool night air as they waited outside for Lady Pendleston’s carriage to pull up before the porte-cochère. She was just beginning to relax a bit when an incident occurred that rendered all previous discomforts insignificant.

  A link boy coming up to light some guests to their lodgings tripped and fell forward onto the carriageway. A pair of carriage horses, frightened by the torch, reared up suddenly. In the next instant, while onlookers gasped, a man shot out of the crowd and grabbed for the boy. Cleone stood in frozen terror, her eyes on raised hooves as they descended toward the pair rolling on the ground. Her lips formed the word “Jason,” but she didn’t know if she shrieked or whispered it. She heard nothing of the noise around her; none of her senses functioned except vision.

  In little more than the blink of an eyelid, the drama and the danger were past. The hooves struck the ground with a thud and a rattle of harness, but the bodies were no longer there. A couple of feet away, Jason got up and pulled the boy to his feet. A spontaneous cheer went up from the witnesses as normal movement and conversation resumed.

  Gratefully, Cleone accepted the sustaining arm that gripped her trembling figure about the waist. Her eyes left the large man now brushing himself off as he talked to the slight lad. In slow motion she turned and met her godmother’s understanding gaze. If Lady Pendleston’s pallor was anything to go by, she herself must look like a death’s-head. She drew in her first long breath and fought for control.

  “The carriage is here, my dear. It’s time to go home,” said Lady Pendleston at her elbow.

  CHAPTER 18

  There were no gold lights in Cleone’s sombre eyes as she entered the villa the following morning accompanied by Tilly, who carried a paper-wrapped parcel. There were, however, violet shadows under those eyes, testifying to a restless night. As she dismissed the maid with quiet thanks, Lady Pendleston’s butler approached from the back of the house.

  “Miss Latham…”

  “Later, please, Barrows.” Cleone ran up the stairs with the parcelled art supplies she had just purchased at Donaldson’s. They had been her justification for excusing herself from paying calls with her godmother and Emerald this morning. Last night’s events, culminating in the near accident and her simultaneous discovery that she was helplessly in love with Lord Altern, followed as they were by sleepless hours of tormented rationalizing, had taken their toll on her spirits and her disposition. It had been as much as she could manage to maintain a pleasant air at the breakfast table. Socializing with near strangers was an ordeal to be avoided.

  In her bedchamber, Cleone removed the wide-brimmed Leghorn straw hat and smoothed its pink ribbons in an absentminded gesture. The time for comfortable self-delusion was over. She could no longer think of Lord Altern as a vital, interesting person, even a friend whose company, though always desirable, could be dispensed with without leaving a gaping hole in her life. Last night while those lethal hooves hovered over his head, it had struck her like a coup de foudre that she did not wish to live in a world that didn’t contain Jason Vaughan. In the instant of anticipating his pain and her own, she had tasted despair.

  Her eyes fell on her hands fiddling with the ribbons of her hat and she tossed it carelessly on the bed before moving over to the window to stare out at the never-ending succession of incoming waves subsiding into the eternal pull back as the sea reclaimed its own. At this moment, her future took on a similar aspect of a never-ending succession of repetitive days without Jason, for nothing material had changed with the discovery of love. Her situation was what it had always been. Even if by some miracle Jason should wish to marry her, she could never desert her great-uncle in his fading years. The only difference love made was that she would no longer be able to do her duty with a light heart. She could only trust that the desolation she felt today would lighten with the passing of time.

  One thing was abundantly clear: she could not sit around feeling sorry for herself. She had long accepted that marriage was not for her, but it had never occurred to her that there would come a time when the reaffirmation of her decision would prove so difficult. Be that as it may, it was up to her carry on with what dignity she could muster. No more hiding in her room and no more evading social responsibilities. As it was, she had a sneaking suspicion that her godmother had guessed her secret. She could trust dear Godmama not to betray her, but her pride revolted at the idea of allowing Emerald to learn the truth.

  Cleone glanced at the clock and then the mirror. There wasn’t much she could do to disguise the shadows if questioned except to attribute her ruined looks to a headache and stick to her story. At least she could be waiting in the saloon for the others’ return, ready to show an interest in their activities. Bolstered for the moment by good intentions, she left the room and headed for the saloon, where she had left the book she had been reading yesterday.

  She had taken two steps into the room when she located her book balanced on a pale-grey thigh, held there by a strong brown hand beneath a claret-coloured coat sleeve. Surprise halted her in her tracks. This must be what Barrows had tried to tell her when she had returned from shopping earlier. While she scrambled around in her brain for an innocuous opening remark, Jason sensed her presence and got to his feet with a smile.

  “Miss Latham, I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I — I had no idea there was anyone here. Have you been waiting long, sir?”

  “I don’t really know,” he said with a little laugh, holding up the volume in his hand. “I discovered this novel, which seemed more promising than the Lady’s Magazine or La Belle Assemblée, and have quite lost track of the time. Is it yours?” He held it out, looking a bit puzzled when she took a half-step backward, her hands going behind her back.

  She was behaving like an awkward adolescent who had never before been in the company of a man, Cleone chided, exerting herself to appear relaxed. “That is Sense and Sensibility by Miss Austen, is it not? I read it several years ago when it first came out, so you are quite welcome to borrow it, sir. I think you are in for a treat.”

  “Thank you, I shall like to read it if I may.” He had been studying her while she spoke and now said with some concern, “Are you not well this morning, Miss Latham?”

  The delicate chin went up. “Perfectly well, thank you, sir, except for a slight headache, which kept me from paying calls with my cousin and your aunt this morning. I believe they do not mean to return before lunchtime.”

  The slow smile that always fascinated her spread over his features. “If that is intended as a hint to be on my way, Miss Latham, I do not plan to take it. I came hoping to see you.”

  “It — it isn’t seemly for me to entertain gentlemen without the vestige of a chaperone,” declared Cleone, mounting a feeble defence.

  “My prim, practical Miss Lathan, I find you supremely entertaining with or without chaperones, but if it will make you more comfortable, let me hasten to assure you that even among the severest arbiters of manners and morals, it is considered perfectly proper for a young woman to receive a proposal of marriage in privacy.”

  “Marriage!”

  Her shocked exclamation drove the teasing glint from his eyes and he stepped forward impatiently. “Why so dumbfounded? You’ve known how I feel about you. You are certainly not unaware that this has been in the cards since that last night at Bramble Hall.”

  “How can you stand there talking like this when for the past two weeks you and Lord Carberry have acted like two bulldogs fighting over a bone — and that bone named Emerald.” Chin outthrust, Cleone glared back at him, the very antithesis of a young woman receiving a flattering proposal.

  The incongruity seemed to strike Jason all at once, for he shook his head in a rueful gesture. “This is not the way I planned this scene. Forgive me, my dear, for assuming too much, but I believed you were aware of what I was doing.” His voice and eyes had gentled, and Cleone made no resistance when he took her hands and raised them to his li
ps. Indeed, she was still reeling from shock, her eyes huge and questioning, searching his face.

  He sighed. “I’ve felt like a man leading two lives these past weeks. All I wanted was to court you in form, but I knew that you would never allow it to be said that you stole your cousin’s suitor, so it seemed incumbent upon me to provide Emerald with a husband. Carberry was the perfect candidate, and he was certainly bowled over by her beauty, but to be frank, there is a type of man who values a woman more if it is seen that other men desire her. I judged Carberry to be of this ilk. In any case, he wasn’t really interested in acquiring a wife just yet, which probably accounts for the fact that your cousin never met him on the social rounds in London. I thought to speed his courtship along by providing some healthy competition, and I believe I have succeeded. I’d stake my fortune that having the Prince Regent distinguish her with his approval last night was the deciding factor. He will have swallowed the bait and hook by now. I believe we may safely trust your cousin to reel him in.”

  “You reduce courtship to the level of a sporting contest,” blurted Cleone, perturbed. “Poor Emerald!”

  “Don’t waste your pity on your cousin or Carberry, my darling. Both will be getting precisely what they most desire. And perhaps they’ll never know how little that is. If you must pity someone, pity me. My needs and demands are so much greater, and only one person on this earth can satisfy them.” He felt her withdrawal, and fear seized his soul and squeezed it. He released her hands, putting his under her chin to force her to look at him. “Please don’t tell me you could never love me, Cleone. Leave me some hope.”

  Tears started to her eyes at the depth of feeling she could see and hear, but she lowered her lids, shaking her head to the extent permitted by the hand holding her chin. “I cannot marry you, Jason. My uncle gave me a home when I needed it, and I cannot leave him now when he needs me. I’m sorry.”

  When no sound but his breathing broke the silence and no relaxation occurred in the pressure on her chin, she raised her eyes to meet the familiar unreadable expression in his. “Lord Brestwick is as hale an octogenarian as it has ever been my privilege to behold,” he said with deliberation, his fingers aware of the little wince she could not prevent. “He is good for another ten years yet, and I’m sure I wish him no harm. There are competent housekeepers in the realm who can make him comfortable, and we can spend some time at Bramble Hall every year if you should wish it.”

  “I cannot do it, Jason. I tried to tell you that day at Bramber Castle how matters stood with my family. Please don’t make it any harder for me by persisting.” She was crying in earnest now, and his hands gripped her shoulders.

  “Do you love me, Cleone?”

  “It doesn’t signify. I can’t marry you.”

  “Doesn’t signify!” he growled on a smothered explosion of vehemence. “Well, there is more than one way to discover the truth.”

  Before Cleone could react in any way, she was enfolded in a suffocating embrace and kissed with a ruthlessness that bore little resemblance to the seductive sweetness of the well-remembered first kiss at Bramble Hall. Her head was bent back at an uncomfortable angle, and her lips were ground against her teeth by the unrelenting pressure of his mouth. It was painful, but she recognized that her pain was a direct result of his. No thought of resistance crossed her mind. At some deep level she sought to assuage his suffering by the only means available, meeting his need unflinchingly and clinging to him with all the strength in her arms and hands pressed against his back. It was Jason who finally pulled back from the embrace, holding her pliant body away by a biting grip on her shoulders while he brought his ragged breathing under control. A wild light in the eyes that met hers drove Cleone’s lids downward. A burning shame suffused her whole body as a sense of her wantonness slowly sank into a mind still quivering with sensation.

  “They do say actions speak louder than words,” said Jason softly.

  “Don’t, please.” She made a helpless gesture of the shoulders under his fingers, unable to look at him in her deep shame.

  Slowly he removed his hands, gently smoothing her shoulders with his fingers before stepping back to bow formally. “Have no fear, my dear, I would not dream of upsetting you with further importunities. I shall not ask you again to marry me. Don’t bother to ring for Barrows; I’ll see myself out.”

  Still incapable of coherent speech, Cleone could only watch his departure with anguish in her eyes.

  Perhaps it was not altogether unfortunate that Lady Pendleston and Emerald returned home within ten minutes of Lord Altern’s departure. The sounds in the entrance hall forced her to heroic efforts to regain her composure. She rubbed at tearstained cheeks with a tongue-dampened fingertip and then pinched them furiously to drive away the pallor revealed by a furtive glance in the pier glass between the windows. She grabbed for the novel Jason had forgotten and established herself in a chair just as the door opened.

  “Did you have a nice morning?” she asked, producing a smile for her godmother, who entered first, pulling off her white net gloves.

  “Very pleasant, although poor Mrs. Dillingham very likely wishes she could cut my acquaintance totally while Emerald is visiting me. All the men present were clustered around your cousin, including Sir Robert Bedford. I believe Mrs. Dillingham has great hopes of Sir Robert for her daughter.”

  “But Elinor Dillingham is positively bran-faced,” objected Emerald.

  “I thought her rather attractive, apart from a few freckles, and she is both intelligent and conversable.”

  Emerald had removed her hat while her cousin spoke and now she stopped short at sight of her. “What ails you? You look terrible.”

  “I have the headache a trifle. If you will permit, Godmama, I believe I shall lie down on my bed for an hour or so. I really do not care for any lunch.”

  Lady Pendleston murmured sympathetically and insisted on having a restorative tisane sent up from the kitchen. Cleone thanked her, too grateful to be making her escape to quibble over headache remedies. She had achieved a breathing space, which she made the most of. No one who came in contact with her at the concert later that afternoon would have guessed from her pleasant demeanour that her life was in shreds. She was a little quieter than usual perhaps, but vivacity was not one of Cleone’s distinguishing traits. She had never sought to be the life and soul of the party, leaving that distinction to more lively girls, like her cousin. What it cost her to move through the ordinary activities with an appearance of serenity was her own private concern.

  The worst moment came on the day following Jason’s proposal when she was summoned to the drawing room from the studio, where she had been busying herself with minor clean-up chores. For once she gave no thought to whether she had eliminated the smell of paint from her person, her overriding concern being a determination to meet the earl with her former ease. Her mental preparations went for nought, however, for Jason was not among the morning visitors. Cleone attributed the hollow feeling inside her to relief that she would not be called upon to exert quite so much effort to appear normal. When one of the callers, a pert and pretty young miss with a coquettish manner, remarked on Lord Altern’s absence, she succeeded in disguising her interest in Lady Pendleston’s reply, although she was surprised to hear he had departed for London that morning to attend to a matter of business. It was necessary to reapply herself to her role shortly thereafter when a gentleman laughingly accused her of inattention to his conversational overtures.

  The following day was that of Cleone’s scheduled weekly visit to Bramble Hall to assist her great-uncle with his correspondence. She took special pains with her appearance to counteract the lingering shadows from sleeplessness, and set out directly after breakfast in Lady Pendleston’s carriage. She occupied the short journey in trying to invent a reason for curtailing her stay in Brighton that would satisfy her godmother and still leave Emerald on the scene to receive Lord Carberry’s attentions, an unproductive exercise she was forced to abandon wh
en they reached her destination. In accordance with the routine they had established, she reported directly to her great-uncle’s study so as not to be delayed by Isabella or Cecily, whom she would see later at lunch.

  Her uncle greeted her with the gruffness that masked his affection, and they began their work immediately, enabling Cleone to relax her guard against his penetrating observation. They were finishing up the accumulated correspondence two hours later when Lord Brestwick pushed his chair back from his cluttered desk and remarked genially, “Is that blue and white thing you’re wearing a new rig?”

  Cleone looked up from the table where she was writing. “Yes. Do you like it?”

  He grunted.

  The twinkle in her eyes grew. “I have several other new gowns too that I hope will meet with your approval.”

  “My approval! More to the point, do they meet with Altern’s approval?”

  Cleone froze, her fingers tightening on the pen. “What — what an odd thing to say, Uncle.” She forced herself to meet his eyes calmly.

  He snorted. “Don’t try to come the innocent over me, my girl, because you won’t succeed. I wasn’t born yesterday. Do you think I didn’t see which way the wind was blowing weeks ago when he was staying here?” As his great-niece sat motionless, staring at him from dark eyes in a suddenly pale face, he went on, “You’ve had better than a fortnight to bring him up to scratch. Hasn’t he popped the question yet? Where is that female wiliness all you women have when it comes to trapping a man? I’d think with the three of you concentrating on him and a trunkful of new clothes for ammunition you’d have landed the poor fool by now.”