The Luckless Elopement

by Dorothy Mack

  THE LUCKLESS ELOPEMENT

  Dorothy Mack

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  ALSO BY DOROTHY MACK

  CHAPTER 1

  A percipient eye would need less than two seconds to unmask Lord Ellerby’s studied calm for the pose it was. He looked relaxed in the black and white evening attire that so became his well-set-up figure, and he was holding up his end of a light conversation with the younger of his two companions, but his eyes betrayed him. Their anxious expression as they strayed repeatedly to the silent woman sitting opposite belied the pleasant smile he kept on his lips. One hand crept up to twitch the elegant arrangement of his neckcloth as he glanced involuntarily out of the carriage window. Still another two blocks to go to Berkeley Square.

  “Does your silence indicate disagreement, Gregory? Can it be that you found something to admire after all in Amanda Westcott’s vulgar display of the major part of the family jewels on her opulent person?”

  Lord Ellerby’s head swung back toward the speaker. “What? Amanda Westcott? Lord, no, Vicky! The woman glittered like an opera dancer. No taste at all.”

  His companion heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank heavens! For a moment, I feared I’d been guilty of disparaging a dear friend of yours. I’m relieved to find myself acquitted of such a breach of etiquette.”

  The light mockery in his fiancée’s voice was not lost upon Lord Ellerby, who sent her a beseeching look as a restrained snort issued from the other corner.

  She ignored him and turned to the older woman, asking sweetly, “Did you say something, Aunt Honoria?” When a determined silence greeted this question: “No? You really should consult a doctor about this persistent throat trouble of yours,” she continued in tones that dripped solicitude.

  A strangled gasp from the man brought her inquiring gaze back to his face, but the horses had come clattering to a halt. It was with heartfelt relief that Lord Ellerby assisted the ladies down from the carriage and escorted them to their front door. For the first time in their five-month acquaintance, he was not reluctant to bid his betrothed good night; in fact, he was dangerously close to the unthinkable heresy of questioning the perfection of his goddess as he accepted the cool, slim hand she extended and raised it to his lips. Frank blue eyes searched hers but derived no comfort from the gleam of amusement that persisted in dwelling in the brown depths. If any criticism were possible of such a glorious creature as Vicky — and of course it wasn’t, he reminded himself loyally — it would only be that she found so many situations in life fit subjects for amusement rather than concern. Lord Ellerby stifled a sigh as he bade a punctilious adieu to Lady Honoria, whose face was set in rigid lines of disapproval as she disappeared within the confines of the stone mansion.

  Vicky treated him to a charming little grimace that revealed her awareness of the scene about to be enacted before following her aunt inside. Lord Ellerby remained on the step for a moment or two, his face reflecting an inner disturbance; then he settled the silk hat on crisp curls and headed slowly back the way they had come, dismissing the carriage with a wave of his hand. Perhaps the brisk night air would clear his head and enable him to sort out his muddled thoughts.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he should be the happiest man in London at present; certainly he was the most fortunate. Hadn’t his determined siege of the hitherto impregnable fortress resulted, against all the odds, in his betrothal to the most desirable girl in the world? His steps kept pace with his thoughts as he recalled his first glimpse of Victoria Seymour. It was at a full-dress ball, and she had been resplendent in a gown of gold satin whose dull sheen had been eclipsed by the wealth of shining gold hair swept high on her head in an elaborate style that allowed two provocative curls to caress one smooth ivory shoulder. Her beauty and grace had reduced every other woman in the place to a nonentity. Naturally such a vision had been constantly surrounded by admiring swains. It had taken the better part of the evening to wangle an introduction to this golden goddess, but he had managed it and, though in danger of being rendered tongue-tied in her presence, retained enough address to secure permission to call on her before being edged aside by jealous members of her court.

  That had been the beginning. He had adored her on sight, and longer acquaintance had only confirmed his instantaneous impression that here was a creature totally unlike the rest of her sex, as far removed from the ordinary run of females in personality and intelligence as she was in beauty. He had pursued her with a single-minded intensity of purpose that had made him a byword in the clubs, where the betting at first had run heavily against his chances. The sympathy and warnings of his friends had meant no more to him than the sly laughter of acquaintances, and in the end he had triumphed. The night Vicky had finally accepted his proposal (his fourth, actually) had been the happiest of his life. He knew she didn’t return his love — she had always been perfectly open about the quality of her feeling for him — but he had been convinced that they would grow closer together as they came to know each other better and shared more of life’s experiences. He thought his passionate eloquence on the subject had persuaded her of the inevitability of a true union of their hearts and minds.

  Then what had gone wrong? How had he failed? What had happened or not happened in the two months of their engagement that forced him to the admission that he and Vicky were no closer today than on the evening of their betrothal? They had certainly shared a number of experiences, enjoyed each other’s company, and respected each other’s differences. This much he felt entitled to claim, but it would be self-deceiving to assert that he was any nearer to understanding Vicky’s mind and her heart in their essentials than on the night he met her. She had consistently refused to set a date for their marriage, teasing him laughingly for his impatience. The closest she ever approached to earnestness was early in their engagement, when she had reminded him soberly that since they would spend the rest of their lives together after marriage, it was essential to be certain the decision was the right one. In a twinkling she was laughing again, brushing aside his fervent assurances that heaven had ordained this decision. Since then, he had discovered that beneath her seeming openness, her willingness to discuss any topic under the sun, there dwelt depths to his fiancée that were impenetrable to his insight. As an iceberg’s tremendous mass was only hinted at by the part above water, so it was with Vicky, her surface smile not really indicative of what was underneath.

  This would not have taken on the character of a problem had he not come to suspect with a sinking heart that this was the way she preferred to keep matters. She had shied away from any reference to her father’s death two years before, yet it was well known that the two had been mutually devoted. Neither had the slightest reference to that earlier tragedy, the death of her fiancé in the Peninsular fighting, ever passed her lips, though he had related his entire past history to her. His footsteps lagged, then nearly stopped as with furrowed brow and compressed lips he pondered Vicky’s steadfast avoidance of any serious mood in their infrequent private conversations.

  Of course that was only one side of the coin; the other was that never in his life could he remember laughing so wholeheartedly with another person, not even during schooldays. His steps recovered their rhythmic pace, even approached jauntiness. Vicky was a grand companion: her golden laughter wa
s a musical treat, and her lovely face alight with mirth and a hint of mischief was an unending delight to his eyes. Was it foolish and carping of him to wish on occasion that she might fail to discover a diverting side to everything? She even found the six weeks’ difference in their ages a source of amusement, twitting him with seeking a mother figure, in the Prince Regent’s invariable style. He had been vastly relieved last month to attain his twenty-fifth birthday and parity with his beloved. The crease between his brows appeared again as honesty compelled him to admit that, too often to ignore, he detected something in Vicky’s manner toward him that brought this parity into question. Her behaviour was scarcely that of a girl about to entrust her life into her husband’s keeping. What he had regarded as charming individuality at the beginning of their acquaintance was now taking on an aspect of determined independence.

  This was not so surprising, really, when one considered that her father had left her sole mistress of a large fortune, unencumbered by any of the usual restrictions that bound feminine inheritors. However, he could not help wondering if she would act thus were he her senior by several years. His well-cut mouth twisted momentarily as he acknowledged the wry thought that he must be one of a tiny minority of persons who actually wished themselves older, but obviously he could not wish Vicky younger, since she would not then be the same shining creature who had so enchanted him.

  What had Vicky been like as a young girl of seventeen or eighteen? Lovely, of course — that went without saying; less assured perhaps? The novelty of the idea so intrigued Lord Ellerby that he walked right past the entrance to his lodgings. The realisation didn’t dawn until he came to the corner and took his bearings, at which point his lordship made a supreme effort to jettison all thoughts of his capricious fiancée as he retraced his steps. Tomorrow might just yield a new approach to solving the riddle that was Vicky.

  Miss Victoria Seymour smiled a bright thank-you and goodnight to the elderly man who opened the door for the ladies. The smile slipped a notch as she turned away from him to ascend the curving staircase, and her slim shoulders beneath the attractive brown velvet evening cloak sagged perceptibly. As the older woman attained the first-floor landing, a whisper of taffeta charted her course and drew the reluctant gaze of the younger upward. Lord Ellerby would have been comforted to see that the perpetual amusement had fled the brown eyes, succeeded by a weary sombreness at great variance with her mood of moments before. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, Aunt Honoria would elect to bottle up her spleen until morning, when presumably she would have the additional benefits of a night’s repose to restore and increase the energy at her disposal for dressing down her errant niece. Unconsciously, her ears were following the rustling sounds. When these proceeded into the small drawing room at the front of the house, the forlorn hope that she would be permitted to retire temporarily unscathed died aborning. After an instant’s hesitation she resumed her ascent, deliberately straightening her shoulders and erasing all signs of weariness from her features.

  It was an elegant, composed young woman who entered the pleasant sitting room seconds later to confront her wrathful relative. She closed the door behind her gently and stood with her back to it, watching her aunt’s efforts to divest herself of her outer garments. That these were impeded by her heightened emotional state was perfectly apparent to the younger woman. When the angry jabbing motions of the elder’s fingers only succeeded in knotting the ties of the black cloak, Miss Seymour cast her gloves onto a table and hastened to her aunt’s assistance.

  Lady Honoria warded her off with an out-flung hand. “You may think me in my dotage, but I trust I am still capable of untying a knot,” she snapped, proceeding to do just that. She drew herself up to her full height as she draped the garment over the back of the nearest chair and regarded her niece balefully.

  The amusement that so disconcerted Lord Ellerby leaped into Miss Seymour’s eyes as she riposted with reassuring promptness, “Don’t be nonsensical, Aunt. Nobody I know is further from her dotage than yourself. However, I do think you are tired. You may read me a lecture in the morning just as well as now — and in greater comfort,” she added coaxingly, as her aunt shifted her weight from one leg to the other to ease her aching feet in tight satin pumps.

  Lady Honoria, however, was not to be seduced into bowing to the demands of the body. Her already straight spine stiffened further.

  “Don’t try to evade the issue, miss. There isn’t the remotest possibility that I shall be able to close my eyes until I have discovered whether your current behaviour arises from ignorance of the consequences or a perverse desire to ruin yourself once and for all.”

  “Now, Aunt, do you not think you are exaggerating the significance of what was no more than a minor incident after all? What did I do but refuse to dance with a man? And since Harcourt is known everywhere for his propensity for leering at and squeezing defenceless girls at every opportunity, my refusal was excusable, surely?”

  “Since when have you been a defenceless girl?”

  Lady Honoria was unable to resist this irrelevant shaft, though she was not to be long diverted from her purpose. “If you had simply excused yourself from dancing, I would have nothing further to say. These matters can be handled delicately. But no, you must point up your refusal by immediately accepting another bid and flaunting yourself all over the dance floor in the most conspicuous fashion possible, with no concern for Lord Harcourt’s sensibilities.”

  “If the man possessed any sensibility, I wouldn’t have done it. Can you deny that he’s an offensive, ill-mannered, insensitive lout?”

  “That’s beside the point,” declared Lady Honoria, refusing to be drawn into a discussion of Harcourt’s virtues or lack of same. “His mother is all sensibility, and she was standing not ten feet away when you publicly spurned her son and whirled off with Tommy Granville. You are as aware as I that Lady Harcourt and Mrs. Granville detest each other. It was madness to compound your offense by allowing Tommy to bring you over to talk with his mother when the dance ended. Lady Harcourt never took her eyes off you, and she is not one to forgive such an affront to her pride. Mark my words, she’ll initiate a whispering campaign that will harm your reputation.”

  “Just because I preferred another man as partner to her odious son?” Vicky asked sceptically. “Then there are countless girls whom she must include in her reputation-blackening, for not even the most man-hungry creature amongst the debs cares to subject herself to Harcourt’s sly advances. A girl would have to be at her last prayers indeed to submit to him. Believe me, Aunt, you are blowing the incident out of all proportion.” She had discarded her cloak and was perched on the arm of a blue sofa, idly swinging one slim sandaled foot, her expression polite but unconcerned.

  Lady Honoria, staring at the serene face of her niece, drew an exasperated breath. “If it were only one incident, I would not be standing here at this moment remonstrating with you. I hope you do not imagine me incapable of squelching any rumours set about by Lavinia Harcourt,” she said haughtily, an abrupt volte-face that made nonsense of the fears she had expressed earlier and brought a faint smile to the lips of the younger woman. Ignoring this, Lady Honoria continued without pause, “It was less than a sennight ago that you were observed in conversation with Hector Greenbough on Bond Street in the afternoon, without even your maid to lend you countenance.”

  A gurgle of laughter escaped Vicky at this pronouncement. “You are not going to tell me poor Hector is a danger to my reputation, are you? A more harmless creature never walked the earth, let alone the streets of London.”

  “Walking the streets of London alone is what I am talking about,” retorted her aunt. “And I do not wish to hear again that your advanced age protects you from criticism on that score. I would not care to walk about the streets unattended myself at my advanced age.”

  “I am not a green girl any longer, Aunt,” Vicky said mildly. “When I was first out, I bowed to all the conventions governing the behaviour of young girls
, though even then I found it vastly tedious to conform to such nonsensical restrictions … but heavens, that was eight years ago! A woman of five-and-twenty is scarcely in the same category as a girl of seventeen, even if she is still unmarried.”

  “She is if she looks like you,” replied Lady Honoria with decided grimness.

  “Why, Aunt! I declare you are making me blush,” simpered Vicky, casting her eyes down in pretended confusion.

  Lady Honoria was neither amused nor deterred. “You may spare your blushes,” she said coldly. “You are perfectly well aware that you are getting yourself talked about by your … I can only call it reckless behaviour of late.” Suddenly, all the irritation disappeared from her manner, and she directed a look of real concern at her niece. “What is it, Vicky? What is troubling you lately?”

  The girl on the sofa had ceased swinging her leg. She sat in a graceful attitude, her hands lying motionless in her lap. “Why, nothing, Aunt. What could be troubling me? Am I not the girl who has everything? Am I not known widely as an Incomparable who also possesses the twin advantages of fortune and birth? Am I not betrothed — at long last — to a man admired by all the Ton for his good looks, breeding, and character?”

  The words were lightly spoken, but an undercurrent of something disturbing reached Lady Honoria’s ears. She pursed her lips and continued to study the bland countenance of her niece. “Nevertheless, I am considerably past seven and cut my wisdoms years ago,” she went on slowly, “and I know that this reckless gaiety of yours just lately is assumed. Can you not trust me with the truth, my child? Who else if not me?”

  In the face of an unwavering scrutiny from a pair of wise eyes regarding her with affectionate concern, Vicky averted her gaze at last and got to her feet. She wandered over to the fireplace and moved the portrait of her father that hung over the mantel a hair to the left. Without turning, she said in a voice devoid of all emotion, “I don’t think I can go through with it, Aunt.”