The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “That,” Deirdre managed in a choked undertone to Caro, “is my incorrigible brother.”

  Caro turned away to exchange a few words with a young acquaintance who hailed her by name and Rathbourne, without loss of stride, steered Deirdre purposefully to her brother and his two companions. As the Earl made the introductions, she was conscious of a silent message which seemed to be transmitted from Rathbourne to the woman at Armand’s side, before the lady’s name fully registered on her mind.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Dewinters,” she heard her own voice intone with smooth politeness.

  By exercising the greatest presence of mind, she forced her attention to the fair-haired stranger whom she judged to be in his late twenties. His smile was friendly, but his eyes were frankly curious as she made her curtsy. Anthony Cavanaugh, as she remembered, was cousin to the Earl and heir to the title and estates until such time as Rathbourne should secure the succession by siring a son.

  Conversation became general, and although Deirdre participated at one level of consciousness, another part of her brain was avidly taking in every detail of the woman who had captured the hearts of at least two of the men at her side.

  Maria Dewinters was strikingly beautiful with a ripe sensuality which any redblooded male would recognize, so Deirdre mused with uncharacteristic petulance, from a mile off. Her hair was glossy and coal black, and swept off her face in a severe chignon, emphasizing her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. Her gown was of scarlet satin, the perfect foil for the glow of her olive complexion. She was like some exotic bloom transplanted to an English country garden, and by comparison, Deirdre felt like a wilting wallflower, fading to oblivion in the bright blaze of the sun.

  If she had not been so much on edge, Deirdre would have admired the masterly way Rathbourne detached Mrs. Dewinters from Armand’s side with a few adroit moves to take a careless but determined leave of them. She noted with some unease Armand’s tight expression. He had never acquired that virtue which the English extolled above all others—the capacity to be a good loser. He was so thoroughly French, ready to take offense at the least provocation.

  Anthony Cavanaugh, “Tony” to his friends as he told Deirdre with a twinkle, had nothing of the Cavanaugh fire about him in either coloring or personality. So unaffected were his manners and so genuine his interest, that Deirdre soon found herself warming to the gentleman. It did not take Cavanaugh long, however, to sense the tension that stretched taut between brother and sister, and he took a celeric leave of them with the excuse that he wished to try his luck in the card room.

  Deirdre lost no time in giving Armand the sharp edge of her tongue.

  “Are you tired of living?” she asked without preamble. “It was bad enough to barge in here uninvited, but what were you thinking of to bring that woman with you?”

  Armand’s eyes, alight with mischief, glinted down at her. “You are far off, Dee, if you think that I would dare such a thing. In the first place, I have my card of invitation here in my pocket, and in the second, I chanced to meet Maria on the stairs with Tony, so don’t for pity’s sake flay me with that tongue of yours when I have conducted myself with the utmost circumspection. I thought my presence at parties and so on was to be part of our bargain?”

  “Rathbourne invited you?”

  “That goes without saying, although I believe it is his mother’s name that is on the card.”

  “I don’t like it. What is he up to?”

  “Playing cat and mouse, I don’t doubt. From what I know of him, it’s in character. Don’t let it trouble you, I can take care of myself.”

  Armand’s eye was caught by the slender figure of a girl with a mane of auburn hair which blazed to gold under the flickering lights of the crystal chandelier. As if sensing his eyes upon her, she glanced over her shoulder to look in his direction.

  “Who is that angelic creature with the glorious hair?” he asked Deirdre in a hushed tone, his voice threaded with wonder.

  Deirdre smiled. She had no high opinion of male constancy, but that Armand’s interest had been piqued so soon after Mrs. Dewinters’s departure, and by a chit of a girl so different from the one he professed to love, she found oddly comforting. She extended a hand in invitation to the girl who held Armand’s steady gaze and Caro, seeing the gesture, moved to join them.

  “Lady Caro, permit me to introduce the black sheep of my family, my brother, Armand St. Jean. Armand, this is Lady Caroline Cavanaugh,” then she added with a touch of sly humor, “the Earl of Rathbourne’s sister.”

  Armand appeared to be struck dumb as his mind made the connection, but he recovered himself quickly, nor did the light in his eyes dim. An interest in the sister of the man he detested was out of the question, but as a connoisseur of women, he could admire, even if it was only from a distance, and Lady Caro was worth a few blighting looks from her top lofty brother.

  Deirdre might not have existed for all the notice Armand and Caro paid to her. They had eyes only for each other, and she carefully wiped the smirk from her lips as she listened to them make a stab at conversation then fall into a bemused silence. If she weren’t such a cynic, she might almost believe that she was witness to a bad case of love at first sight. Deirdre knew a sudden prick of disquietude. Rathbourne would no more tolerate her brother’s interest in his sister than he would in his mistress. But the evidence of Armand’s fickleness eased her fears a little. That he was still too young to form a lasting attachment was very obvious and some small consolation. Nevertheless, she had no wish to see Lady Caro fall under her brother’s spell. That infatuation she would soon nip in the bud should circumstances warrant it.

  Without conscious thought, she did a quick scan of the crowd, her eyes finally coming to rest when she spied Rathbourne. His back was against a window embrasure, his head bent in earnest conversation with Mrs. Dewinters, who reclined with stunning effect against the gold cushioned seats. They were oblivious to everyone but each other, as were the couple at her side, and for an unguarded moment, Deirdre could almost imagine that she was envious of the intimacy that a woman might share with a man.

  It was a fleeting thought, easily suppressed. She had only to bring to mind her mother’s humiliation at the hands of her stepfather to give her thoughts a different direction. Men of that stamp, and she included Rathbourne and Armand in their number, for all their charm and address, were to be avoided like poison. She had meant what she had told the Earl about marriage. It was a snare to entrap women and she meant to avoid it. She would be no man’s chattel to be cherished or abused at his whim. Better to die an old maid than have the pride crushed out of her as she had seen happen to her mother.

  Some childhood memory fluttered at the edges of her consciousness, but it was gone before she could grasp it fully. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Mrs. Dewinters stretch one dainty hand to lay it against Rathbourne’s sleeve in a proprietary gesture. The Earl looked up at that moment and caught her unwary glance. Deirdre gave him her back.

  Another hour into the party, and Deirdre had the worst headache she could ever remember. If it had not been for the fact that her brother insisted on lingering, she would have taken her leave of the Cavanaughs at the first opportunity. But she stuck to Armand like a limpet, and for once, he was content to permit it. She soon saw the reason why. Lady Caro, shepherded by her formidable mama who had yet to say more than two words to Deirdre, was doing her duty by making herself known to everyone present. As for Armand’s second string, Mrs. Dewinters, Rathbourne monopolized that lady’s society to the exclusion of all but the most persistent of intruders. Armand, however, had elected to give his rival a wide berth for the evening, to his sister’s heartfelt relief.

  She was quietly disposed in one of the window alcoves, reflecting on all that had transpired in the course of the evening, and having sent Armand to procure a glass of iced lemonade, when she saw him return with the Dewinters woman hanging on his arm. Deirdre’s nerves were strained to breaking point, but a frantic survey
of the room assured her that her host was elsewhere and in ignorance of this latest poaching on his preserves.

  Mrs. Dewinters, Deirdre soon discovered, was not of pure English stock, which did not surprise her, but a Spanish hybrid, a hothouse variety by the looks of her, whose English mother had met and married her father when she was convalescing in Spain, the dry climate proving the perfect antidote to the constant lung infections which had so plagued the lady in the pervasive, freezing dampness of English winters. It was this circumstance which explained Mrs. Dewinters’s command of the language and her proclivity for everything English, so she said. Dewinters, a stage name, had been her mother’s maiden name.

  In the course of the evening, Deirdre had taken the measure of the woman who had attracted the covert attention of every female in the room. It was with barely concealed amusement that she watched as Mrs. Dewinters returned the compliment. Those dark, flashing eyes swept Deirdre with veiled insolence as they made an overt inventory of every asset or lack of them which Deirdre possessed, and Deirdre conjectured that if questioned under oath, Mrs. Dewinters would be able to give an accurate account of every stray freckle, every refurbished bow and ruffle, every wilted rosebud which adorned her person. She must have passed muster, Deirdre reflected, for a spark of respect gleamed in the depths of her dark eyes. It was the latent hostility which Deirdre was at a loss to understand.

  “Armand had told me so little about his unmarried sister, Miss Fenton—may I call you Deirdre?—and what little he imparted led me to expect…something different. You are much older than I had imagined.” Her red lips pouted with studied effect as a child who has been denied a longed-for treat.

  Deirdre was not slow to match exactly the glacial politeness of the other’s tone. “You have the advantage of me, Mrs. Dewinters—may I call you Maria?—for no words of my brother could ever have prepared me for meeting you…in the flesh.” She allowed her eyes to flick suggestively to the low décolletage of the actress’s bodice. No wonder Rathbourne’s head had been inclined so assiduously as he conversed with the lady throughout most of the evening. Even from her vantage point, Deirdre could detect the shadow of one dark, thrusting nipple as it rose to peak the soft satin of its flimsy confinement, and she wondered by what law of gravity the near bosomless bodice remained in place.

  Mrs. Dewinters batted her long, curly eyelashes as she absorbed the shock of Deirdre’s riposte. It did not seem likely that a demure English miss would have the will or the wit to engage in this dangerous sport of thrust and parry. A test was in order.

  “Nor did Armand inform me that his sister was in the style of a veritable…Amazon. How I envy you your inches.”

  Deirdre acknowledged the hit with the ghost of a smile and immediately lunged with wit honed to rapier sharpness. “Thank you. It is very handsome of you to say so. But pray, just stay as you are. More of you could by no means be considered…an improvement.”

  The two women eyed each other with appreciative enjoyment. It had now become a game, a match which one must eventually cede to the other.

  “And witty too?” Mrs. Dewinters exclaimed, her eyebrows elevating a trifle, as she smiled archly up at Armand. “Why did you not tell me, querido, that your sister is…a wag?”

  An old maid, a giant, and now a quizz, thought Deirdre with growing admiration. Mrs. Dewinters was proving to be a worthy opponent.

  She smiled with real pleasure. “We wags are used to cutting our adversaries down to size, but in your case”—her eyes swept over all fifty-eight inches of the actress’s diminutive form—“I’ll be merciful and forgo the pleasure.”

  Armand became restive. Why the ladies had taken it into their heads to spar with each other like two boxers feeling each other out before a match was beyond his comprehension, but it made him dashed uncomfortable. When Tony Cavanaugh saluted him from across the room, he made his excuses and escaped with unashamed alacrity.

  “A charming boy,” mused Mrs. Dewinters as she watched Armand’s retreating back. She cocked a mischievous eyebrow at Deirdre. “He tells me you’ve been more in the style of a mother than a sister to him. I hope he accords you the respect your rank and years prescribe?”

  “Certainly,” said Deirdre smoothly. “I have no complaints about my brother. But his devotion is based on more than duty. I’ve no doubt that you’ve noticed, Armand is partial to…older, more experienced women.”

  She thought for a moment she had gone too far, then the Spanish beauty threw back her head and trilled with laughter. Deirdre soon joined in.

  “Now I know what Rathbourne sees in you,” confided Mrs. Dewinters. “You are not just another pretty face as I had at first supposed. For an English girl, you are quite out of the ordinary. If I can’t win Gareth, I won’t be too unhappy to see him go to you. But I warn you now, you will need all your wits about you, for this is one contest I have no intention of losing.”

  “Contest?” Deirdre repeated, although she was perfectly sure she had taken the actress’s meaning.

  Mrs. Dewinters bent a deprecating smile on Deirdre. “Have I been too blunt for you? I don’t mean to give offense, now that I find I like you. But why dissemble? I intend to fight you for him. We are well matched as we have just proved. Shall we shake hands on it before we come out fighting, a quaint English custom which the gentlemen observe, as I collect.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I don’t know what Rathbourne has told you,” Deirdre said in clipped accents, “but you are mistaken if you think I have any claim on the Earl.”

  “He hasn’t told me anything.” Mrs. Dewinters looked faintly surprised. “There was no need to. D’you think I haven’t been aware of the two of you slanting glances at each other all evening? I came here tonight with only one purpose in mind—to uncover the identity of Gareth’s new interest. And now I know who she is.”

  “I assure you, Maria, I owe the honor of my invitation to my aunt. Lady Fenton. She and the Earl, although of only recent acquaintance, seem to have taken a fancy to each other.”

  “Balderdash. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I am almost certain that Gareth cherishes a tendre for you. And knowing Gareth, he won’t be content to admire from a distance. Do you mean to resist him? I should warn you that his charm is irresistible when he puts his mind to it, as no one knows better than I.”

  Deirdre couldn’t help the complacent smile which tugged at her lips. “All it takes is a little practice. It’s not as difficult as you seem to think. I’d be happy to give you a few pointers, should the occasion ever arise.”

  Mrs. Dewinters gave Deirdre a questioning look. After an interval, she spoke with something akin to pity in her voice.

  “I think I understand. You are hoping for marriage. Naturally, a girl in your position must be adverse to what Gareth offers. I have no such scruples. I am content to take whatever I can get.”

  Deirdre, who a moment before had begun to wilt under the suffocating heat of the crowded rooms, felt a slow chill begin to seep to the marrow of her bones. An unfamiliar emotion, somewhere between pain and anger, held her in its grip.

  “And what of my brother, Armand?” she asked quietly.

  “Armand?”

  “Doesn’t Rathbourne object?”

  “Object to what?” a soft baritone interrupted at Deirdre’s ear.

  She started violently at the sound of the Earl’s voice. The length of his arm touched hers briefly and she flinched from the contact. Bright laughter flashed in his eyes. He turned his gaze upon Mrs. Dewinters.

  “Object to what?” he repeated.

  Deirdre felt suddenly tired. She couldn’t find the necessary stamina to continue fencing in such exalted company. She might be able to fend off one at a time, but together, Maria Dewinters and Gareth Cavanaugh would make mincemeat of her. She took the coward’s way out.

  “I see my aunt signaling. I must go. Perhaps we shall meet again, Mrs. Dewinters, I mean, Maria.”

  “I should like nothing better. Have Armand bring
you to see me some afternoon soon.” Deirdre did not doubt the sincerity of the invitation.

  “Thank you, I should like that,” she returned with equal candor.

  Deirdre found the Earl’s clasp firm on her elbow. “Permit me to escort you to your aunt.”

  As soon as they were out of earshot of Mrs. Dewinters, he turned a smiling face upon her, but his tawny eyes had lightened to an alarming amber, a sure sign that his temper was up.

  “If I find you within a mile of Maria Dewinters’s house,” he drawled softly in her ear, “I shall make damn sure that you are packed off to that farm of yours in Henley. And save me the air of injured innocence,” he went on with maddening arrogance as Deirdre opened her mouth to answer him, “for I know that you know perfectly well what I find objectionable.”

  “How dare you take that tone with me? You are not my keeper. And what possible objection could there be in calling on a lady I met under your own roof?”

  “Maria is not here tonight by invitation,” he said with asperity. “Short of throwing her out, there was nothing to be done but tolerate her presence with as much grace as possible. Don’t think to make a particular friend of her, I warn you. The damage to my consequence is negligible, but association with Maria could ruin you. Her crowd is one that you should avoid, as far as possible.”

  “But I really like her,” protested Deirdre. “And furthermore, my brother will accompany me.” She strove, without much success, to keep her voice down. “If Armand agrees to take me…”

  He cut her off in mid-sentence. “I have not the slightest confidence in your brother. It doesn’t surprise me that he would encourage you in this folly.”

  He propelled her firmly out of the saloon and down the long corridor to the ladies’ cloakroom. For one wild moment, Deirdre thought that the Earl meant to fetch her wrap and throw her out on the street, but he swept past the open door with its frankly curious upstairs maid in attendance and half dragged her round a corner to an insignificant saloon at the foot of a short flight of stairs. He pushed her over the threshold, shut the door firmly behind him, and stood with his back to it, effectively barring her way.